#I thought I was reading a mini fic on here and then HEN SHOWED UP

[mag7dumbies]

911 owes me money god

[1kook]

new parent syndrome

— kim namjoon x (f) reader

SUMMARY You love Namjoon, honest. But you love your daughter Hyejoo even more— it’s not a controversial sentiment when you know he’s the same way! —and going back to a regular adult life sans kids absolutely sucks. (Or so you thought.) WARNINGS dilf!joon, dreamy husband joon, loving parents au, jimin is also a dad, bathtub sexy times, exhibitionism 😳 kinda sorta, tiny praise kink, joon calls her wifey TT, fingering, cunninglingus, doggy style, it’s kinda cheesy n romantic /.\, unprotected sex, …. impreg kink RATINGS m (18+) WC 9.5k 

NOTES writing parent fics is harder than i thought :/ i had this idea last week n was like yes, lets write this fic that absolutely no one asked for... except me! <3 so here we are, fantasizing about dreamy dad joon.... as always i have to thank rumu ( @kigurumu​ ) who is kind enough to edit these n b like that don't make no sense -_- anyway lemme know what u think !! enjoy !!

No matter how hard you try, the letter f refuses to fit itself into Hyejoo’s phonemic understanding. She’s a growing toddler so it’s only normal that there are sounds she still can’t pronounce, words she doesn’t quite get. But her inability to say food or family or friends, which are undoubtedly the three most important things in her three year-old world right now, is definitely a setback you didn’t see coming. 

Your worrywart husband has taken matters into his own hands, using the power of Google and about twelve parenting books to create an extensive, one-hour-a-day, mini lesson to try and increase her pronunciation skills. Of course, Hyejoo already attends daycare in the mornings while you and Namjoon are off at work, and gets sufficient learning done there. So she can’t exactly sit through Joon’s lectures, no matter how pretty he tries to decorate her flashcards. She’s still tiny— she’s still your baby, and you want her to enjoy the last of her daycare years before you’re forced to submit her to the worst twelve years of her life (also known as compulsory education). 

But as you’ve mentioned before, Namjoon doesn’t quite feel the same way. 

“She can’t sound out the letter,” he mopes in bed that night. He’s laying down beside you, face smushed against your thigh. The lamp on your side of the bed is the only thing on, casting a faint golden hue on his cheeks.

This conversation has occurred a variety of times these past few weeks, and you’ve just about ran out of every comforting reassurance possible. You settle on stroking a hand through his hair. There are emails to respond to and clients to check in with, but there’s also a huffy husband in bed beside you who quite pitifully crawls up into your arms. 

It’s with his face between your boobs that he speaks again. “What if she’s getting made fun of at school? Or her teachers think she’s dumb?” You roll your eyes. “My baby is not dumb, __,” he says, as if you don’t know. “Her IQ came back above average when I took her to the development specialist that one time, remember?” You have half the mind to tell him an IQ test on a three year old isn’t exactly valid, but there’s already enough stacked on his plate. Finding out he wasted a hundred bucks for an invalid test would just be the cherry on top of all his worries. 

Water clings to the very tips of his hair, remnants of his bath with Hyejoo. Namjoon is getting older now, nothing like the dashing grad student you had met what feels like a lifetime ago. There’s bags under his eyes, bags that surpass any all-nighter-pulling college student’s, induced by none other than the sheer power of becoming a parent. And still, he retains his beauty, looks like a doll with his skin so dewy from his skincare routine, lips puffy and red and kissable. 

He looks up, and you take the opportunity to place a kiss on his lips, his familiar scent making you melt into his arms. When he pulls away, there’s still a subtle furrow between his brows. 

“Hyejoo is fine,” you reassure him, carding his brown hair out of his face. He leans into the touch, eyes falling shut. “Our girl is the smartest three year-old out there,” you huff, feeling the slightest bit annoyed that he could even insinuate otherwise. “And if she was having problems at school, you know I would be the first one in there, fighting all the other moms.” 

Namjoon relents, face falling back into its haven between your tits. “Okay,” he mumbles, muffled from the way his plush lips drag against the soft skin over your sternum. 

The subject of Namjoon’s worries is in the other room sound asleep, not the least bit concerned with measly letters and sounds. It’s really only Namjoon who is, his stack of letter flashcards glaring at you from on top of the dresser. “Your mother hen is showing,” you tease as he slips beneath the covers, leaning over you to flick off your lamp. Just like everything else in your house, his t-shirt smells like him. It’s a natural, woodsy scent that floods your nostrils and makes your toes curl when he comes so close. 

Namjoon snorts as he settles beside you, beefy arm pillowing your head as he pulls you close. “I’m not a mother hen,” he says, hand on your waist, the tantalizing expanse of his neck before your eyes. “I’m the rooster— the cock,” he snickers, and you reward his terrible attempt at a joke with a pinch to his side that has him retreating to the other end of the bed. 

Hyejoo’s best friend in the entire world— or, as she says, her best pren in the entire world —is none other than Park Yerin from daycare. As the universe would have it, Park Yerin is also the one and only daughter of your college philosophy seat neighbor, Park Jimin. 

Crossing paths with him later down the road was not something you could ever anticipate, especially when you and Jimin were never that close in college to begin with. It was the only class you had with him in all four years, one where you had quietly acknowledged his charisma and occasionally shared homework answers, before never speaking to him again. You could have greeted him on campus, as you often crossed paths. But Park Jimin was a walking friendship magnet who seemed to bring with him a parade of followers everywhere he went, and approaching him required three layers of strategic planning if you wanted to catch him alone. 

So bumping into him at the entrance of Hyejoo’s daycare six years later comes as a bit of a shock. You had never pegged him as the type to settle down so quickly— you don’t mean to label him, but there were certain college stereotypes that he fit like a glove —but there he was, carrying the tiny love of his life who’s currently dressed in a bright pink Minnie Mouse dress. 

Unsurprisingly, just like her father, Park Yerin has the same enthralling personality that makes everyone in the three to four year-old daycare class want to be her friend, and your sweet little Hyejoo is not exempt. 

Long story short, out of all the kids at Sunny Side Daycare, Yerin is Hyejoo’s favorite, and Hyejoo is Yerin’s favorite. 

So now it’s been a little over a year since the two girls have established their friendship, which means it’s been a little over a year of acquainting yourself with Jimin again. He’s a house husband, something you never expected, and he loves his daughter like no other. Some afternoons after daycare are spent with Jimin and Yerin at the nearest coffee shop, watching the girls haphazardly scribble over every piece of paper they can get their hands on while the two of you catch up. 

Overall, you’re happy Hyejoo can have a friend like Yerin, and secretly, you're also happy you can finally befriend a fellow parent as nice and put together as Jimin. On top of that, Namjoon’s liked him on the few occasions he’s met him; the two have even gone out for drinks. 

However, befriending Jimin and Yerin comes at a cost, and that cost is seeing your little girl grow up.  

It’s your turn to mope. 

“Yerin asked her to sleepover,” you groan, sadly patting in your skincare routine the next night. Namjoon is somewhere behind you, his naked back glaring at you through the reflection of your vanity mirror. He’s so broad and big, sleep shorts clinging to his waist as he lotions up his body post-shower. There’s a thin gold chain around his neck that glints everytime he moves around, biceps flexing and bulging in plain view until he finally slips his shirt on. There was a time in your life where his back could not go more than two days unscathed, your rabid (read: horny) claw marks painting rosy trails down his spine. These days, you can barely remember the last time he’s held your hand. 

“Who?” he asks once he’s settled beneath the covers with whatever book he’s reading now and his thick-rimmed reading glasses. 

“Who else,” you say, tugging your night robe closer to your chest as if it’ll prevent your heart from breaking anymore than it already was. “Hyejoo’s first sleepover,” you sigh. 

You take it harder than you imagined. In the back of your mind, you’ve always known your little girl was growing up— hello, you were literally watching her grow more and more inches every single day —but you had convinced yourself she would stay your baby for a little while longer. As much as you wanted her to see and learn about the world, you selfishly wanted to keep her home too. She was your baby, your only one at that.

At least Namjoon feels the same way. “Absolutely not,” he squawks, abruptly slamming his book shut. He’s usually really meticulous about lining up his fancy bookmark right on the line he left off on, so his sudden carelessness tells you all you need to know about how he feels. 

You sit down beside him, hand over his. “It’s Yerin’s birthday,” you inform him in what you hope is a comforting tone; unbeknownst to him, you’re trying to reassure yourself as well. “And Jimin said he and his wife are gonna be there the whole night.” You trust Jimin, you really do. If there’s anyone who’s more in love with their kid than you and Namjoon, it’s Jimin. He would never let anything happen to his Yerin, and by extension, he would never let anything happen to your Hyejoo. He’s a good dad. 

Namjoon rubs at his eyes. In the span of two minutes, he’s aged about five years. “No,” he sighs softly, squeezing your hand tightly. “Once she starts going to sleepovers she’ll start wearing makeup and getting into relationships and having her heart broken—�� 

A kiss is enough to silence him when he gets like this, his warm breath fanning across your bottom lip when you pull away. “She just wants to wear tutus and sing Baby Shark right now,” you murmur, hand creeping up over his chest. His heart is beating fast as hell beneath his t-shirt, feels like it’ll burst straight out of his chest if you don’t calm him down. 

He’s the bigger worrier out of the two of you, has a classic case of paranoid parent syndrome. 

It’s no secret that Namjoon has a big brain; he’s an educated man with a respectable job. For every problem he encounters, he can procure a variety of solutions with different approaches. He’s always prepared and part of you thinks he’s a huge reason you managed to survive those first few weeks as a mom. Unlike you, who had attended a whopping two mommy classes in preparation for your upcoming child, Namjoon had studied up on parenting. A lot. He had read books and reviewed scientific studies, had learned about development on the chemistry level and the social level, did all he could until he was confident in his own dad abilities. 

But, for every solution Namjoon can find, there are always twenty-eight other factors to worry about. 

“What if she has an allergic reaction and Jimin doesn’t know what to do,” he pales, death grip on your hand. His matching wedding band digs into your skin and you have to wrestle his hand away before he accidentally breaks your finger. He nearly broke your neck once when you were in college, had almost sent you to the ER mid-thrust because he had underestimated his own strength while trying to choke you.

“Hyejoo doesn’t have any allergies,” you remind him, giving up on your awkward half-seated position as you clamber over him. His thighs are full beneath you, tense up as you move over him and he manhandles you into his chest. 

He’s not done. “What if she asks Jimin for a fizzy drink and he can’t understand her?” His eyes are owlish beneath his glasses, covered in what you can only describe as a visible sheen of absolute terror. “What if he thinks she’s saying ‘pissy’ not ‘fizzy,’ __— what then?” It’s amazing, really, how a man who graduated cum laude can hypothesize this many disasters pertaining to a four year-old’s sleepover. 

In the other room, Hyejoo calls for you, so you gladly take the opportunity to remove yourself from Namjoon and his spiraling thoughts. “Look,” you say, tightening the sash of your robe as you get back up. “I’m gonna go tell her that she can go to Yerin’s sleepover tomorrow,” you tell him, giving him exactly three seconds to groan dramatically, before continuing, “and you figure out how to turn that big brain off by the time I come back.” 

Luckily, the cause of Hyejoo’s sudden wake up is a tiny bug bite she got from playing outside that just won’t stop itching. “Mommy, it hurts,” she whines, digging her nails into the tiny red mark by her knee. 

“Uh huh, lemme see,” you order, turning on her bedside lamp to illuminate the space. Her room is the prettiest shade of yellow, fitting for a ball of sunshine such as herself. “Were you playing by the flowerbeds?” You ask, running a finger over the mark a little too weird looking to simply be another mosquito bite. 

She knows she’s not supposed to play near the flowers— the bugs like her a little too much. It’s with a hesitant little nod that she confesses to it. You give her a pointed look. “You’re not supposed to play too close to the flowers,” you remind her, a tiny scolding for now. 

With a sniffle she responds, “not by the plowers.” 

A little bit of anti-itch cream has her settling, and by the time you return to your bedroom, Namjoon is out cold. 

“How old is Yerin turning?” Namjoon asks her at the door, heartbreak clearly painting his features as you help Hyejoo into her shoes. 

“Pour,” she beams, her tiny hand held up to show four stubby fingers. She has Namjoon’s pretty smile, an honest look in her eyes that makes you want to put her in your pocket and never let her go. Alas, Yerin’s sleepover party starts at five and Hyejoo has been trying to leave since noon. 

“Pour,” Namjoon repeats, shooting you a pointed look as if to say see. He had fought the decision up until the end, had even tried to tactically convince your daughter to stay home by getting a head start on preparing her favorite food. And well. She said no. So now the two of you are stuck having dinosaur chicken nuggets for dinner without her. 

She’s got her little travel bag on now, tiny feet stuffed into her ladybug rain boots because it had rained last night and she’s awfully addicted to jumping in muddy puddles. She’s absolutely adorable, your little girl, and you think Namjoon might’ve let out a tiny sob earlier. (Or maybe it was you.)

Namjoon joins you at the front door. “Be good,” he warns her. His eyes are suspiciously wet, but you don’t say anything because yours are too. You’re both crouched in front of her, her big eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you without a care in the world. Mixing your self-assured personality with Namjoon’s (mostly) composed attitude was quite possibly the worst genetic crossover to ever happen; Hyejoo doesn’t even seem remotely bothered by the fact she’s spending her first night away from home. Meanwhile, you and Namjoon are on the verge of a joint breakdown. 

Anyway, Namjoon gives in first. “Love you forever, princess,” he tells her, their ritual expression, and kisses her forehead. 

She accepts it and then, in an unexpected turn of events, surges forward to hug him around the neck. “Love you pporever, daddy,” she repeats, and your heart feels so painfully full at the sight, like you just unlocked a new life achievement from seeing your daughter and her father be so cute together. You don’t get to coo at them for long, because then she’s giving you a warm hug as well, the same phrase muttered in your ear. 

It’s the hardest thing about parenting. 

Seeing your kid slowly broaden their horizons, meeting new people and learning new things. Leaving home. (Granted, she’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon but even that feels like an eternity away to the dramatic parents you and Namjoon have become.) The second goodbye on Jimin’s doorstep isn’t any easier, especially when Hyejoo tugs on your arm and asks you to “say night to daddy please” for her, and your heart breaks just a little more. Jimin flashes you an understanding smile but all you want to do is punch him in the nose for ever telling Yerin what a sleepover is. 

You get home and Namjoon is in a calmer state by now, some old sitcom he hates playing on the TV. Usually, this time of day is reserved for his daily phonemic lessons with Hyejoo, drilling the f sound into her tiny brain, so you guess this is his preferred method of coping in its place: torturing himself with some boring television show. 

“Hey,” he says, and you crawl into his lap with a sad sniffle. “Shh,” he soothes, hand on the back of your head as he guides you into his chest. You’re actually crying now, which is super embarrassing in itself considering you scolded Namjoon for this exact behavior last night. He doesn’t mention it as he pats your back, stupid sitcom paused in favor of soothing you with the deep vibrations of his voice. “Hye’s gonna be back tomorrow, baby.”

“I want her back now,” you huff, vaguely aware of how childish and silly you sound. The tables have turned, and you find yourself wishing you had the same emotional fortitude as Namjoon now. All those parenting books have clearly amounted for something. Somehow, you will the feeling back into your body and pull away from his chest. You must look a mess because he doesn’t even try to hide the amusement on his face. “This is the worst day of my life.” 

Namjoon laughs, deep and hearty, with his eyes squeezing shut from the force. “Come on, wifey, those chicken nuggets aren’t gonna eat themselves.”

It’s quite possibly the most boring evening you’ve had in years. 

(The internet calls it new parent syndrome, where you’re so undeniably in love with your first child and the parenting experience that the rest of the world is put on pause.)

You love Namjoon, honest. But you love your daughter Hyejoo even more— it’s not a controversial sentiment when you know he’s the same way! —and going back to a regular adult life sans kids absolutely sucks. (Or so you thought.)

Kids are prone to asking weirdly philosophical questions, a fact that had greatly delighted you when Hyejoo first started speaking. Who am I? What’s money? Why not? It could get annoying sometimes, trying to answer all of Hyejoo’s curiosities. But as you begin on your second batch of dinosaur chicken nuggets, all you can think about is how Jimin gets to answer them tonight. 

Anyway, seven rolls around and you and Namjoon are bored. You can only watch so many episodes of Seinfield before you get tired of feigning interest, so you retire from the living room for the night. “I’m gonna take a bath,” you tell him, but he’s as brain dead as you by now. 

A second later, “lemme join.” 

It’s been a while since the two of you have squeezed into the bathtub together, usually assigning each other days to individually join Hyejoo. So it’s really not either of your faults when you realize a second too late how small the space is. One on each end, feet bumping into each other with every movement, it’s like trying to squeeze two feet into one shoe. You try to readjust yourself, but the bath flooring is slippery and you nearly take away Namjoon’s procreative abilities with a mighty kick. 

To make a long story short, you end up pressed against his chest, Namjoon’s thick thighs framing you as you relax into the steaming water. Instinctively, he reaches for Hyejoo’s bottle of baby shampoo that sits on the tub’s ledge and only catches himself just as the first droplet is meeting his palm. “Oh, fuck,” he sighs, quickly closing the lid before he can waste any more precious product. “Shit, I’m so sad.”

You snort, sinking farther back into his chest. He’s warm and soft in all the right ways, the hot water making him slippery. “What did we even do before Hyejoo?” you ask, reaching into the deepest crevices of your mind for answers. Namjoon’s hand comes around, fingers sprawled out over your knee, the one you have propped up and breaking the water’s surface 

He makes a rather vague sound, something like I don’t know, as he lolls forward, forehead on your shoulder. “Go on dates,” he responds eventually. “Fuck like crazy.” 

You roll your eyes. “Besides that,” you chide, pinching the back of his palm. “Don’t we have any hobbies? Any interests?” He doesn’t answer, which is all the answer you need. Why didn’t you get into puzzle solving back when it was a trend? “Is this what our life has become? Crying in a bathtub at seven pm because our emotional support child isn’t here?”

“Our only child,” he corrects. Namjoon tries to placate your looming existential crisis with a kiss to your shoulder, lips against wet skin, that he trails up to your neck. “And what’s wrong with going on dates and fucking?” he murmurs, hands around your stomach. “That’s how we got here,” he teases, and you’re not sure if it’s the warm water or the way his voice is like melted chocolate dripping down your body, but you become all too aware of his presence at that moment. Particularly, of the plush lips mindlessly kissing your shoulder, the wet smack of their motions. 

Another kiss, this time right below your ear. It has your head rolling to the side, exposing more skin for him to kiss up on. There’s still that overwhelming cloud of worry in the back of your mind, but it’s gradually nudged away by Namjoon’s warm hands on your skin. Sensing your weakening resolve, Namjoon strikes again. A hand slips down over your stomach, brushes over your belly button and finds itself between your thighs. “You used to love date nights, baby,” he says, the pad of his pointer finger grazing your clit. 

It’s been so long since you and Namjoon have been alone like this, months since you’ve been able to touch him beyond a simple make out session, a halfhearted grope beneath the sheets. Your daughter, as much as you loved her, made intimacy impossible for the two of you. She was always around, always looking for one or the both of you, so there was never time to even think about getting frisky. 

Only now, with his finger circling your clit, do you realize the blessing in disguise that was your daughter’s first slumber party away from home. 

His finger nudges your clit, flicks it teasingly. “Why don’t you let me take care of you, hm?” he hums, the hand that had been soothingly stroking the inside of your thigh coming up to rub at your breasts. 

“Yes, please,” you whine. Resting your head on his shoulder leaves Namjoon with a clear view down your front, lips kissing and sucking along your neck. His huge hand palms your breast, massaging the sensitive skin. You hadn’t realized how sore you’d been until now, his nimble fingers pressing deliciously into the skin. If your nipples weren’t already hard before, they certainly were now. 

He traps one pearled nipple between two fingers, the sudden pinch making you hiss. “Easy, now,” he chuckles, his low tenor paired with his wandering hands making your eyes roll back. 

Namjoon liked to use a higher tone around the house. He read somewhere that children prefer lighter, sweeter tones, so the last few years have been spent listening to him lighten the tone of his voice for the sake of your daughter. The deeper, growlier voice that had first made you fall in love with him became a rarity in your household, reserved for quiet nights in the living room or long drives where Hyejoo was asleep in the backseat. Only then does he unleash the gravelly qualities of his voice. 

Then, and apparently, now. 

His doll-like lips press against your jaw, suck lightly enough to make your body tingle. “Do you remember how it was the first time?” he says suddenly, his hot breath against your neck. 

Namjoon’s got your clit trapped between two wandering fingers, has your pussy twitching with the vibrations of his voice alone. And for some reason, he’s trying to reminisce about your first time sleeping together. 

“N- Not really,” you confess, subtly reaching down. You cover his palm with yours, hoping your touch will encourage him to carry on with his actions. It doesn’t. It just leaves both your hands hovering over your pussy, your thighs instinctively closing in on them to keep him there. Namjoon responds to that, releasing the breast he had been gently massaging in order to pry your legs apart. He does it so easily, despite the way your legs feel tight as hell, and the fact makes you whimper. 

Once he’s got his hands back between your thighs— this time, he uses one hand to carefully part your quivering lips, the other one gingerly pressing down against your clit to draw the most heavenly sensations out of you —Namjoon feels the need to dive into a recap of your first fuck. “You were so cute,” he laughs, and you don’t know if you should take offense. Well, considering you're married and have a kid now, it’s probably too late to say anything anyway. His hand suddenly switches gears, three fingers joining together to begin caressing them over your throbbing clit. “Kept talking to me so politely, even when you were creaming my cock.”

You scoff, but it gets cancelled out by the moan he draws out of you. “D- Didn’t know you that well,” you remind him, your thighs twitching. You desperately want to buck forward into his giving hands, want to feel the true power of those long, pretty fingers on your cunt. 

Behind you, Namjoon’s cock grows thick, his breathing a slow and steady pace by your ear. You can already imagine how heavy he is, the vein that runs along the underside and throbs with each new bit of stimulus he receives. Normally you would reach back and try to offer him the same helping hand he gives you, but your thighs feel wobbly already. Your libido has been dormant for so long that even just the barest flick of his thumb has you dissolving into his arms like this is your first time. 

It’s as if Namjoon’s sensing your inner battle, a muffled laugh against the side of your neck. “This is about you,” he reminds you. As much as you want to protest, a sudden hard rub against your quivering lips has you gasping for breath. “Give me a kiss,” he commands softly, nudging his nose against the side of your face. It takes a second for you to ground yourself, draw yourself away from your building pleasure, to turn toward his waiting lips. 

Namjoon kisses you slowly, like he’s taking his time with you. For the first time in a long time, he truly can. He doesn’t have to worry about a certain someone waking up in the middle of the night or walking in or anything along those lines, lips molding against yours. Plush as always, the faint taste of dinosaur chicken nuggets clinging to his lips. It makes you laugh a little, drawing away with an airy giggle. Namjoon smiles at your reaction, murmuring a soft, “what is it?”

You shake your head, eyes fluttering shut as he continues his circular motions against your clit. “Nothing,” you pant, finally getting in your first thrust against his fingers. “I just really need you,” you say instead, pushing his hand harder down against you. 

You’re feeling a little antsy, having been deprived of this sensation for so long. Namjoon knows this, which is why he very purposely slows down. “There’s no rush,” he smirks, placing a kiss against your chin. “How do you want it, baby?”

The inside of your brain is a scrambled mess, filled with fantasies and ideas that have been plaguing you for months. There’s so much you want to do, want to try, but it’s like your brain completely blanks out when he asks. It’s just as you’re beginning to formulate a thought that you’re interrupted by the sound of your ringtone in the other room. Your husband’s arms tighten around you. “Don’t go,” he says quietly, the tip of his nose running along your neck. It’s so tempting to stay here, to let yourself go in his arms and chase the pleasure you’ve been craving for so long. 

But the endless possibilities of who exactly could be calling wins over. Was it work? Was it your parents? Jimin?

It is with a heavy sigh that you reach for Namjoon’s hand, slowly pushing him away from your cunt. “I’m sorry, honey,” you frown, standing up out of the tub. Your legs really do feel like jelly, and you nearly slip and crack your skull on the porcelain edge. Luckily, Namjoon is there to steady you with two secure hands on your waist. “I’ll make it quick,” you reassure him, dropping a kiss on his pouty lips as you fasten a towel around your body. 

The phone is just starting up its final ring when you reach it. It’s Jimin, and you’re torn between being thankful that you’re getting word on Hyejoo and full blown panic from the fact Jimin is calling you while Hyejoo is in his care. The unease has you accepting the call without a second more to waste. “Hello?” you say, hand tightening on the front of your towel. Stray water droplets trace ticklish trails down the backs of your thighs.

“__?” comes Jimin’s sweet voice. It’s normally soothing, but right now it has every hair on your body standing on end. Before you can even respond, Jimin is jumping headfirst into a whirlwind of a conversation. “Sorry for calling so late, but I just wanted to check in on you, babe. I know you were really panicked about Hye’s first night away from home, but don’t worry! Me and the missus are doing everything we can to make sure she’s fine.”

His confidence reassures you, lessens the weight that had been sitting on your chest all afternoon. But at the same time, you find yourself wanting to throttle him. 

Your gorgeous, sexy hunk of a husband is sitting in the other room, cock at full mast and ready to pleasure you to the moon and back, and here you are listening to Jimin brag about how good of a caretaker he is. You were definitely going to make Jimin pay for this. 

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, toying with a stray thread on your towel. “Really,” you drawl, and you can practically see Jimin’s ego swell over the line. 

“Yup,” Jimin agrees, and by the sounds of it, doesn’t seem like he’s hoping to end this call anytime soon. You want to shoulder part of the blame; you had been extra sad and mopey when you dropped your daughter off. On top of being a good dad, Jimin was also a good friend. It was only naturally he wanted to reassure you when he could. 

Still, the memory of Namjoon’s wet chest was calling out to you. 

“The girls are playing princess in the living room with the missus right now,” Jimin chats on. “New dresses and everything— the Yerin Birthday Special —and they asked me to be their handsome prince!” You sincerely cannot wait for the day you get to introduce Jimin to your right fist. 

“That’s great,” you offer, not that he’s really listening. He’s too busy talking about Yerin (and making sure to include Hyejoo in for your sake) and how amazing it is to watch your kids grow up before your very eyes. And while you agree with the sentiment, you really wish he had called you and told you this earlier, when you were at the peak of your motherly meltdown. Not now with Namjoon waiting for you in the bathtub. Was the water even warm anymore? 

The mind blowing orgasm practically slips from your fingertips the longer Jimin talks. “Anyway! Enough about them. I’m thinking of trying out that blueberry bread recipe that aired on TV last night. You know, the one they had that actress make.”

You’ve just about resigned yourself to listening to Jimin talk about his love for pastries for the next thirty minutes when something brushes up behind you. “What the fu—“

He’s so tall and broad, practically covers your entire frame when he stands so close. And his smile is so pretty when he aims it your way. “Sh,” Namjoon murmurs, gesturing towards your phone.  

“__?” Jimin calls. “Everything alright?” 

Namjoon nods eagerly, the hands on your waist properly positioning you in front of him. It’s with a shudder running down your spine that you respond. “I’m fine,” you tell Jimin, letting go of the front of your towel when Namjoon abruptly pushes you over. The white comforter infused with both of your scents comes all too close, your elbow barely managing to reach out in time to catch you.  

Wide eyed, you turn to throw Namjoon a scandalized look over your shoulder. He meets you with a close-mouthed smile, the dimples in his cheeks making themselves known. His chest is drier now, the smooth planes covered in a thin dewy glow and a spattering of droplets he missed. There’s a towel around his waist that’s barely doing its job, especially when you catch sight of the erection tenting beneath it. 

“As I was saying,” Jimin rambles on. Namjoon nods towards the device, refusing to move again until you finally turn back around to finish your conversation with Jimin. “That actress fucked it up so bad. They really give anyone with a pretty face screen time these days, huh? At least I know how to properly preheat an oven.”

You nod. “You do make the best cookies in town,” you respond, a ball of anticipation building in your throat from the mere fact Namjoon is standing behind you. 

It’s completely warranted once you feel two cold fingers trail up the back of your thigh, your towel gradually pushed up to drape around your waist. The air in your room is a little chilly, and the goosebumps that raise on your skin are partly due to that, as well as the ghostlike touch of Namjoon’s fingers. “Pretty,” he murmurs, so deep and gravelly it has you shuddering.  

Two fingers dance along your skin, and you subconsciously jolt away when they meet the tender skin around your pussy. By your ear, Jimin says, “if I completely fuck it up, we’ll just pretend this conversation never happened. Deal?”

Using your own body against you, Namjoon lets one finger dip just the smallest bit into your quivering hole. You clench up, thighs trembling when he eventually pulls it back out and traces your own wetness over your folds. “Perfect,” you bite out, clutching at the sheets beneath you as Namjoon reaches for your forgotten clit. It’s still so sensitive from your little fun in the bath, and it takes every ounce of strength in you to hold back the whiny gasp in your throat. 

Behind you, Namjoon suddenly presses in close. One hand on your hip, he gently encourages you onto the bed. Your knees sink into the mattress, one less strain on your legs. “Good girl,” he praises quietly, rewarding your behavior with a finger sinking into your cunt. 

“Joo—“ you almost slip, burying your face into the sheets just in time. 

A devastatingly slow pace, his finger just barely moving in and out of you. The bulk of your pleasure is coming from that bundle of nerves towards your front, but the teasing gesture isn’t appreciated anyway. When he leans over you, breath against your neck, you feel the length of his cock against your thigh. “He’s asking you a question,” Namjoon whispers, “answer him, baby.”

You nod, eyes rolling to the back of your head when he presses himself closer. Jimin hasn’t even noticed your lack of participation, mindlessly humming a song. The sounds of a running sink highlight his vocals. “Oh, absolutely,” you babble. “I wouldn’t tell a soul.” 

“Ha!” Jimin scoffs. “I knew I could always count on you, Miss __,” he snarks playfully. 

The hand toying with your clit comes around your waist, fingers stroking against your folds from this new angle. A silent moan has you writhing forward, unconsciously away from him as Jimin babbles on the other end of the line. He’s none the wiser to the lewd acts happening on the line, listening to the sound of his own voice. Namjoon lands a mean little bite against your shoulder, plunging his finger deeper inside of your clenching hole. 

Paired with his teasing fingers, it’s nearly impossible to withhold your moans, biting your lip until it stings. “Fuck, fuck,” you whimper against the sheets, holding your phone as far away as possible from your mouth as a litany of curse words spill from your lips. Namjoon chuckles at your dramatics, not like he has his fingers deep inside of you right now or anything. 

“So cute,” he hums, removing his hand from your clit to snatch your towel away. It gives way too easily, messily thrown over the edge of the bed. With your back completely exposed now, Namjoon wastes no time trailing a line of kisses up your spine, finishing off with an especially wet and hard one behind your ear. “Hang up now.”

His permission sets your body on edge, drawing your phone close again. Jimin is talking about dinner or something, you don’t even know. Not an ounce of remorse fills you when you clear your throat and hurriedly announce, “I have to—“ Namjoon’s cock, finally uncovered by his towel, presses against your folds and you nearly lose it. “—I have to go now, Jimin,” you say, leveling your breathing as best as you can. 

“Wait, what the fuck?” Jimin says, thrown off by your sudden departure. 

The mushroom tip of his cock kisses your clit. “Fuck— I really have to go.” And you hang up, chucking the phone off to the side hastily. With your hands both freed, you scramble onto your back, meeting the amused gaze of your husband behind you. “Fuck me, now.”

Namjoon laughs, reaching for the towel barely clinging onto his waist. One suave swoop later and it joins yours on the floor. “You did good,” he praises, lowering himself between your spread thighs. You roll your eyes, grabby hands reaching for his hips until he’s sitting snugly against you, cock resting over your throbbing cunt. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you snap, the tight feeling in your tummy growing with every second that passes. Namjoon isn’t as unaffected as he pretends to be, a pearly bead of cum appearing at the tip of his engorged cock. “Just fuck me now.”

He raises a brow. “Missionary?” As if it’s the first time. 

“Is there something wrong with it?” you ask anyway, self-consciously reaching an arm over yourself to cover your naked breasts. They’ve pebbled over just from his stare alone. 

Namjoon hesitates, the hand on your hip drawing slow circles with his thumb. Eventually, he responds with a halfhearted shrug. “It’s not the best.” This is news to you, and you find yourself sitting up at the sudden bomb he’s dropped. 

He’s still hard as rock between you, his dick laying almost artfully against your slit. You really just want to throw aside all reservations and begin grinding against him, penetration be damned, but now Namjoon’s got that thoughtful quirk to his lips. The one that usually accompanies any big brained idea, so you settle down, nudging him with your thigh until he’s looking at you again. “Penny for your thoughts?” What you really want to say is please fuck me like I’m just another cum rag of yours and make it hurt, but alas. 

Namjoon sits back on his haunches. “I read somewhere that on your hands and knees is the best way to get pregnant.” You choke on your own tongue, face ablaze from his forward statement. Meanwhile, Namjoon is looking as relaxed as ever. 

You hadn’t really discussed children after Hyejoo. The wordless agreement had been that sure, you were both down for another kid sometime in the future. But the exact date had sort of been murky. Hyejoo is three now, and you heard from another mom that it’s difficult for children with wide age gaps to get along. You don’t want her growing up being far removed from another sibling. 

But also, now?

It’s like Namjoon knows your thoughts before you even do. “Alright, wifey, say no more,” he says, leaning down to place a kiss against your lips. “I’ll get the condom, alright?”

And then he’s stepping off the bed, every muscle of his toned body flexing as he swaggers over towards the dresser. He’s a walking dream, the physical embodiment of all your crazy sex fantasies, and he wants to fuck a baby into you. Your pussy says yes, but your rationality is still on the fence. 

You roll onto your side, head propped into your open palm. “You want another baby?” you ask tentatively. Namjoon shrugs, carefully opening the new box of condoms you had bought half a year ago. 

“It wouldn’t hurt to have another kid,” he answers, procuring a tiny foil packet from the box and returning to his spot between your legs. It’s like staring at a marble statue from this angle, the defined planes of his chest and abdomen, the gorgeous slope of his nose, the sharp angles of his face. You really lucked out. 

Your decision comes just as he’s easing the rubber over the tip of his cock, the swollen head just barely enveloped. You place a hand against his wrist, earning his attention. “Take it off,” you mumble, and you swear on your entire life he swells another inch. 

“Oh, baby,” he groans, hastily throwing the condom somewhere across the room. He rolls over you, bulging arms sweeping you up into his embrace, lips capturing yours in a sloppy kiss. You whimper, letting his tongue push itself past your lips. When he pulls away, it’s with a wet pop and glistening lips. They’re so puffy now, flushed a nice rosy color, that makes him look even more handsome when he smiles down at you. “Gonna look so pretty all pregnant,” he beams, placing a chaste kiss against you one last time before he’s hurriedly rolling you onto your stomach. 

You hide your bashful expression against the sheets, suddenly feeling very shy before him. But then Namjoon’s cock is running along your lips and you’re left a shivering mess. “Please just fuck me,” you beg hoarsely, and Namjoon obeys. 

“Whatever you want, wifey,” he teases, and before you can call him out for his cheesiness, he’s pressing his thumb into your aching hole once more. “Is this okay?” he asks, somberly for the first time in what seems like forever. 

“I’m okay,” you confess, a little shyly now that you know his true motives.  

Namjoon chuckles, quickly removing his finger from inside of you to give your ass one soothing pat. “Going in,” he warns you, and finally, you’re rewarded for all your struggles. It’s only as his mushroom head squeezes in that you realize you could have done with a bit more stretching, but that thought fades away the more and more he pushes in. “Fuck,” he groans, the low intonation of his voice making your toes curl.

If it’s not his voice, it’s the sheer length of his cock inside of you. The girth makes your spine tingle, has you muffling a pitiful whimper into the comforter beneath you. “Relax for me,” he directs, and then suddenly he’s placing a palm against your back, pushing you further down. “Hips up.” 

You groan. The normally soft fabric of the blanket feels like hell on your sensitive breasts. “I’m trying,” you whine, pushing back onto him in an effort to familiarize yourself with his cock again. It’s been so long since he’s been inside of you like this, since he’s filled you so well, that your body acts a little stupid now. He hasn’t even begun thrusting and you already feel like you’ll cum just from this.  

The angle is different than your usual style, has him moving along every inch of you as he sinks in. Two big hands grab at your waist, manhandling you closer to him until you’re just like he wants you to be. “There we go,” he sighs, and with him motionless, you finally relax. It’s about a two second pause before he begins to draw himself back out. “How do you want it?” he grunts, but it’s lost beneath the moan that escapes you. It’s the same question he asked you in the tub, right before Jimin called, except this time you have an answer. 

“Fast,” you gasp, the pain from the stretch finally, finally, melting away as your body grows accustomed to his presence inside of you. “Do it fast, please.”

Namjoon does as he’s told, waiting until he’s pulled out until the tip to satisfy your requests. And then he’s off. 

Your body isn’t as young as it once was, left a little worn from the entire child-bearing process. Sometimes you wonder how exactly you and Namjoon would fuck until sunrise before, how your sex drive was so high that it allowed such a thing to happen. Admittedly, there’s currently a stiffness inside of you that has been there for a while now, and you barely remember how you got rid of it before. Apparently, this is how.

Namjoon’s hard cock rams into you once, makes you release the most embarrassingly loud moan at the sudden intrusion, and it’s like all those months of tension that built up in your body are melted away. His cock pushes past your folds, creating a lewd squelching sound that would otherwise leave you mortified to learn it came from your body. You shudder, desperately pushing your ass back against him in a feeble attempt to feel it again. 

“Still so fucking tight for me,” he growls, snapping his hips forwards. His skin slaps against yours, leaves you feeling tender from the brutal movements of his body. But at the same time, it feels absolutely terrific. 

Your lips are still coated in your own wetness, have him noisily moving in and out. “J- Joon,” you whimper softly, but you doubt he hears it over the sound of his own labored breathing. “More.”

He responds with a sudden piston inside of you that has the tip of his cock nearly kissing your cervix. “More?” he huffs, the hand on your back pressing down until you fear you’ll become one with the mattress. “You want more?” You nod hurriedly, somehow managing to stretch a hand down between you to toy with your clit. The brush of your own fingers has you bucking back onto him in surprise.

Wordlessly, he speeds up his pace, thrusting his hips into your velvety walls at a faster speed than before. It’s a weird sensation, a sort of ticklish feeling m that makes you tremble with each roll forward. You can’t say the two of you have done it in this position a lot, always preferring the more romantic missionary position to anything else, but this experience was quickly making you an avid believer of its validity as a top tier sex position. 

You swirl your pointer finger around your clit, trying to sync up your shaky touch with his steady thrusts. It’s useless, because every time you feel like you’ve gotten into the same groove, Namjoon one ups you by hauling you back against him. “Oh, f- fuck,” you sob, clawing at the sheets beneath you. 

Namjoon groans, momentarily pausing his rapid thrusts to roll his buried cock against you. “Come on, baby,” he husks, the hilt of his cock kissing your folds. 

There’s a lot of built up sexual tension inside of you, months on top of months of nothingness. Not to mention that little scene in the bathtub just now. So you’re not really surprised that your orgasm rears its head so early, curling up tightly in your stomach the longer Namjoon fucks you. He’s back to thrusting now, shallow little movements that make you see stars every time his cock glides inside of you. “Joon, I'm gonna...” you rasp out pitifully, grinding back against him. 

“Whenever you want,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss against your shoulder. It’s sweet, but on top of that, it has him pushing in further than before, finally pressed against that sensitive spot inside of you that makes your entire body lock up. You sob, thighs quivering when he reaches an arm around you. It’s almost romantic how your hands meet, his fingers covering yours as he guides them over your clit slowly. “Give it to me, baby,” he croons, lips pressed securely against your neck. He leaves soft kisses there, smooches really, that make you melt. 

Another shallow buck of his hips forward and you’re cumming, breaths picking up until they accumulate into a choked wail against the sheets. “Fuck— oh, fuck,” you cry, your thighs spasming from the force of your first satisfying orgasm in months. Namjoon holds you through it, slowly thrusting inside of you until he’s drawn out your entire orgasm.

The new added pleasure makes his movements sound even wetter, dirtier even. “That’s it,” he purrs, pushing himself back up to his full height behind you. You feel absolutely boneless beneath him, laying limply against the mattress as Namjoon repositions your hips for himself. “Can I finish like this, sweetheart?” he asks anyway, thumbs drawing a soothing pattern along your hip. 

You can barely catch your breath, so you settle on a halfhearted nod that has him huffing out a laugh. 

For some reason, Namjoon fucks you harder once he knows you’ve had your fill. Like he’s trying to draw another orgasm out of you, but is also the least bit concerned with you. Honestly, it works. He moves fast and hard, like he has no regard for your pleasure, and for some reason that turns you on more than it should. It’s this weird fantasy of yours, to be mistreated by a man as respectful as Namjoon, and you find yourself weirdly fulfilling it now as he fucks his cock into you. 

His fingers dig into your skin, wildly bucking into you as he chases his own high, and it’s embarrassing how quickly a second one builds up for you. You moan at one particular thrust, body sensitive all over. “Oh,” you whimper, “Namjoon.”

He grunts, your cries fueling him on as he continues his mad race to the end. “Gonna cum with me again?” he pants, his quick pace rocking you forward. You nod, using your killer grip on the sheets to ground yourself as you weakly attempt to meet his thrusts. “Aren’t you the sweetest,” he hums, and doesn’t let you respond as he continues to jackhammer his way into your pussy at a bruising pace. 

It takes a few more thrusts, and one whiny cry of his name— “come on, Joonie,” you whimper, turning to throw him a teary-eyed gaze over your shoulder; he shudders at the sight —until Namjoon is finally tipped over the edge, shooting his pleasure deep into you on the next thrust. It’s warm, paints your walls and threatens to spill out when he finally pulls out. 

But Namjoon has read up, using those big strong arms of his to keep you from collapsing onto your tummy as he scrambles around for something to keep your hips up. “It sticks better this way,” he says, a sheen of sweat against his temples when he flops down beside you. 

“What sticks better,” you groan, the achy feeling of just having your world rocked quickly settling into your bones. 

Namjoon leans forward and places a kiss against your lips, as if saying here, for all your hard work. “You know... it,” he shrugs, hands behind his head as he prepares himself to supervise your post-sex nap, just to make sure you don’t accidentally move around and let his cum leak out. “You did good, wifey,” he praises with another smooch. “Maybe we should let Hyejoo sleep over at Jimin’s more.”

Hyejoo’s return is the highlight of the year. 

You pick her up around noon, and your heart nearly grows ten sizes when you see her come running down Jimin’s front steps and into your arms. “Hi, mommy,” she beams, the same smile as Namjoon. And just like Namjoon, you can’t stop yourself from covering her face in tiny kisses. She says they tickle and squirms and squeals in your embrace. 

Jimin’s at the door with this weirdly blank look on his face. “Hey, Jimin,” you call out, helping Hyejoo load her bag into the backseat.

“Hey…” he greets, just as Hyejoo frantically begins calling for you to buckle her in. “Um, __,” Jimin says, but you’re a little busy securing the tiny love of your life into her booster seat, so you just throw him a quick glance to let him know you’re listening. Kinda. “There’s something I have to tell you—“

“I wanna see daddy!” Hyejoo babbles from the backseat, wildly waving her hands around as you finally close the door on her. With it shut, her loud voice is drowned out and you’re left raising a brow at Jimin as you round the front of the car. 

“What’s up?” you ask. 

Jimin comes down the steps, awkwardly hovering by the front of your car. “Um, when we were on the phone—“ Hyejoo knocks her tiny hands against the window, gesturing for you to hurry up. You flash Jimin an apologetic frown at the interruption. “Well, you see. She kinda heard us— well, me—” 

Another flurry of knocks, and you can’t wait to relay to Namjoon how excited your daughter had been to see him again. It’ll boost his ego, not that he really needs it to be any bigger. “That’s fine,” you tell Jimin, swinging your door open. Immediately, Hyejoo’s high-pitched voice fills the space between you and Jimin. “You know I don’t mind talking to the missus,” you joke, nudging his side. “She’s my friend too, ya know.”

“Gotta show daddy something!” Hyejoo shouts from the backseat, has this big smile on her face that makes you smile as well. 

Beside you, Jimin is quickly falling apart. “No, well—” you drop down into your seat “it wasn’t her who heard—“ You shut the door, lowering the window to thank Jimin one more time. Hyejoo beats you to it.

“Bye, Mr. Jimin!” she says, tiny legs kicking around all wildly in her excitement. You shake your head with a grin, waving goodbye to Jimin one last time as you pull out of his driveway. 

“Daddy!” Hyejoo shrieks upon entering your home. Her tiny overnight bag is tossed down at the entryway, ladybug rain boots haphazardly kicked towards the general direction of the shoe closet. Namjoon had been upstairs in his study when you left, but he now comes bounding down the steps at the sound of your daughter’s voice. He cries out a dopey, “princess”, as he scoops her up in his big arms. He does a twirl and everything, so dramatic. But it makes Hyejoo giggle like crazy. 

She allows one big fat kiss against her chubby cheeks before she’s shushing him with the news of her announcement. “Daddy, look,” she beams, holding his face between her tiny hands. “I can say the f sound now!”

Namjoon has been avidly working towards this ability for months now. Namjoon, who has spent nights reading every page of every child development book possible, who has spent hours decorating pretty flashcards for her, who has sectioned off time from his busy schedule everyday just to go over lessons with her. Well, Namjoon looks over the goddamn moon at the news. 

“Let’s hear it, honey,” you urge, stepping in when his happiness renders him incapable of speech. So he just nods along, looks like a bobblehead doll beside you. 

And with both of her proud, sometimes overprotective, parents standing before her, Hyejoo puts on a big grin and says, “fuck.”

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[aspenflower17]

Finding You (Part Four of ??)

Hewwo! I am back with another update on my Finding You fic! If you didn’t catch my last mini update (link here), I was having some trouble getting what I wanted onto the page. BUT, I have now figured it out (and have even made the barebone plans for the other brother’s version of this story!).

If you’re just joining us, here is the link for Part One. I would recommend starting there if you want to read this fic (which I would like very much).

Anywho, this update is of a normal length (for me). We’re also jumping forward in time. I realized the first line of this update might seem like a continuation of the scene we had had last with Mc, but it’s not :)

Tag for the peeps: @simpingforsatan and @naimena. (If you want to be on this list, just ask in a comment below!)

F!Mc / Satan

Word Count: 2284 (story under the cut)

Trigger Warnings: None that I can think of

Mc closed the letter, trying to contain her excitement.

“Well, what does it say?”

“Lord Diavolo is specifically asking if I’d consider bringing my show to the Devildom. He has offered the castle as free lodging for as long as I am in the Devildom, which has no expiration!”

“That’s incredible Mc! You’ve never shown in the Devildom have you?”

“Not yet. I went when I was a child, and I really enjoyed it there. After MoMA I was thinking of reaching out to ask if they’d be interested, but then they put the exchange program on hold due to Gabriel’s behavior down there…”

“I still can’t believe he’d act that way.”

“Oh I can. He’s so radicalized I’m surprised he was allowed down there at all.”

“Still…”

“We all know how you feel about Gabriel, Abihail,” Mc teased.

“No! I don’t… I… No!”

Mc raised her eyebrows, but let the topic drop, “The question now is if they’ll let me go down.”

“I’m sure Simeon would be more than happy to let you go down. Luke may not be as… enthusiastic, but he should be proud his little sister was invited to show in the Devildom.”

“They’re not who I’m worried about. I have to go through Michael.”

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. He knows how responsible you are. Consider how many times he’s allowed you down to the human realm for a show.”

Mc tried to match Abihail’s excitement, but Michael had gotten weird after Gabriel’s behavior in the Devildom. She reasoned it must have been because he had been the one to send him to the Devildom for the exchange program, though he had acted differently ever since she had gotten back to the Celestial Realm from that trip as a child.

She started reading the books he had recommended, very grateful he had included notes on what he called “trigger warnings” explaining that he knew angels were more sensitive to certain subjects. The books inspired her to become a polymath, though she didn’t learn the term until she was older. Her real expertise was in the arts, painting, drawing, photography, sculpting, poetry, and music among her most recognized accomplishments. She was also skilled in conversation and had at least a basic understanding of most academic subjects, excelling in some.

It was Simeon who suggested she hold her first art show. The show was such a success, Mc found herself inundated with offers from various other angels to showcase her work, some offering to bring her art to the human realm. Such was the environment Mc grew up in, and grow up fast she did. An angel’s physical and mental age were dependent on the angel’s understanding of various things, their age not getting much past what would be considered a human’s prime. Mc was voracious in her learning, and as such, she found herself quickly reaching the maturity she would stay at for the rest of her existence. Luke, not to be shown up by his little sister, also started growing at a crazy rate. In the end, they both ended up reaching maturity at the same time. Once she reached it, she started having shows in the human realm, finding the understanding of humans to be better than a lot of angels at times. Her fellow brothers and sisters were certainly great, but many of them didn’t seem to try to better themselves, and so she found herself drowning in their mundane chatter much of the time. It actually spurred most of the art they loved so much. She had found herself researching the Devildom more and more, wondering what S would think about certain subjects, or how he would react to her art. He had suggested many art books for her to look through, most of them showing he had a great understanding of art; what would he think of her new piece? Did he like classical music? What kind of poetry did he prefer to read? She came back to the list he’d written her many times, trying her best to understand the man who had believed in her enough as a child to expand her world. It made her feel less lonely, a problem that seemed was always going to plague her. It was nice to have another supporter, as she wasn’t getting much support from Michael, though she wasn’t dependent on it.

Though he never outwardly said it, she almost felt like Michael had never approved of her art, unless it was of a landscape or something else just as tame. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand art either, having gone with her to many other art shows and was able to intelligently speak on the art he saw there. It wouldn’t have bugged her as much as it did had he not interjected himself into her life after that trip as much as he had. She’d read many books as she could find trying to understand what was going on with him, causing her to research many different psychological phenomena, but none of it seemed correct. The closest she could find was a very mild form of Mother Hen Syndrome, though even that didn’t seem to accurately describe what was going on. She had never tried to breach the subject of going to the Devildom with Michael, even after he was put in charge of travel between Realms.

When she’d found out about Gabriel’s stunt in the Devildom, she’d figured her chance of going to the Devildom was gone. The exchange program being put on hold confirmed her theory, and even her shows in the human realm were greatly reduced. Though it had been awhile, she had never tried to push to get her shows back, as she knew pushing with Michael rarely worked out the way she wanted it to. Now that she’d been invited down there however, it would be rude to refuse wouldn’t it?

“Why don’t we go and ask him right now? He may have even received a letter from Lord Diavolo himself.” Abihail’s voice brought her out of her thoughts.

“That might make it so he has to warm up to the idea. Let him come to the conclusion himself…”

“I don’t know. I think it’ll be harder for him to say no if he knows that you want to go.”

“I want ideas on bargaining should he say no though. Never go into battle unprepared.”

“You really feel like this is going to be a battle?” Abihail asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes. You also should stop questioning me all the time.:

“Well, I think the best idea to counter if he says no is inviting him to come with you. That way he can make sure the “reputation of the Celestial Realm remains untainted” or at least helps repair any damage that’s been done.”

“Hmmm… That’s the final bargaining chip then.”

”Honestly, I think it’s the only one you’ll need.”

“Oh no, I’ll need more. Let’s see, why would I want to go?”

“Just be honest. You need more material for inspiration. That’s why you want to go right?”

“Oh, that’s true… Good idea,” Mc complimented, hoping it wasn’t obvious that wasn’t exactly why she wanted to go. It was her cover story when anyone caught her researching the Devildom. It definitely wasn’t for a change of pace or a certain blonde demon who had given her the best life advice she’d ever received. Who had taught her mediocrity wasn’t the only way to live. Nope. Definitely not that.

“Well, there we go. I think you’re set.”

“Nope. I need at least one more bargaining chip.”

“Ugh, what about that Luke goes with you?”

“That’s… Not a terrible idea.”

“Of course it’s not. Will you go talk with Michael now?”

“How serendipitous. I was looking to speak with you Mc,” Michael’s voice came from behind the conversing angels.

“You really need to stop sneaking up on me like that,” Mc exclaimed, her hand over her heart.

“Ah, but it’s so entertaining. Oh, don't look at me like that Mc. Anyways, I do need to talk to you if you’re available.”

“I am,” Mc said, getting up and dusting off her skirt. Abihail gave her a huge thumbs up when Michael’s back was turned.

When the pair was far enough from other people, Michael began speaking without ceremony, “I don’t approve of you going to the Devildom.”

“I figured you wouldn’t. I do want to go though. I need fresh inspiration for my art, and I would like to experience the culture of the Devildom.”

“Why would you want to go down there though?”

“Besides the reasons I already listed? I would like to see where Simeon and Luke spent time through the eyes of an adult. I did enjoy my time there as a child, and I would like to return.”

“Do I need to remind you of the danger you were in last time?”

“I would like to counter that point by reminding you I am an adult now. My powers have fully manifested at this point, and I can fly just as well as anyone else. I have studied multiple different cultures, including the Devildom, which is more than Luke did when he first went down.”

“You allowed a demon to guide you to who knows where.”

“As a child. If you don’t trust me, I am not opposed to Luke joining me down there.”

“I’m still not convinced. I’m just trying to help you make the best decision.”

“I feel, in light of whatever problems Gabriel caused down there, this might help international relations. It seems rude to decline the ruler of the Devildom when I’ve had so many shows in the Human Realm and none in the Devildom, partially because I wasn’t sure if they wanted my work to be shown down there. Now that I have an express invitation to showcase my work, I feel I should take it,” Mc glanced over to Michael’s face and saw it start to harden, and sensing a no on his lips, she pulled out her trump card, “If it makes you feel better, you can definitely come too. That way, you can rest assured that the Celestial Realm is being represented in a positive light.”

The abrupt change in Michael’s face almost made Mc start celebrating. She had him with that last part, she knew she did.

“You wouldn’t be opposed to me joining you?”

“Not if relations between the Devildom are as strained as I’ve been led to believe.”

“Hmmm.. I will need to discuss it with Father, considering my many duties, but… that could work.”

Mc allowed herself a smile, though she really wanted to shout in triumph, “Thank you Michael. I think this will be the next step in my artistic journey.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why do I always end up back here?” Luke whined, as he watched out the window.

Mc didn’t give him a response. His denial of how much he actually enjoyed the Devildom was always entertaining to her. She knew he was in almost consistent contact with Barbatos, who she had found out was Diavolo’s butler.

She herself was too excited to talk much in case she let slip just how much she wanted to be down here. Lord Diavolo had been more than welcoming when she had explained she’d have to bring two more in her entourage, allowing them to join her in the castle.

The Devildom seemed much as she remembered it. The neon of all the signs, glowing in the eternal dusk sent her hands into a sketching frenzy, poetry filling the next page or two only to find more sketches further down.

Michael seemed nervous however. Once they had stepped from the portal into the twilight, he had been on edge. Seeing the Nightmare’s that were pulling the carriage that had been sent to deliver them to the castle had certainly frightened him. Mc had only pulled out her camera and started taking photos of them, hoping she had figured out her settings properly. He had been fidgeting the whole carriage ride, the view of the castle only making things worse.

Finally, Mc couldn’t take it anymore, “Michael, are you alright?”

“Heh, of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Simeon was kind of like this when we first came down to the Devildom for the exchange program,” Luke offered.

“He was?” Michael asked, a tad desperately.

“Yeah. He kept muttering about seeing Lucifer and the others again.”

Michael seemed to take comfort in the knowledge and the rest of the trip up to the castle gates was fairly quiet. Mc really couldn’t understand the fervor that seemed to grip some of the angels when they talked about Lucifer, “Maybe I’ll understand after this trip,” she thought idly, another strain of poetry coming to mind.

“Mc, we’re almost there. You should probably put your notebook and pencils away,” Luke offered.

The first mote of apprehension pricked Mc, her notebook quickly put in her pack, “Does my hair look okay?”

“Yes.”

“Does mine?”

“Yes Michael.”

“You didn’t even look.”

Luke raised his head to look at Michael, “Like I thought. Impeccable.”

“He’s not in a very good mood is he?” Michael whispered to Mc, causing her to giggle.

The carriage came to a stop, and the door opened, revealing an imposing figure in red and a shorter figure in black with green accents. Michael let out an audible breath, and got up from his seat to head towards the door.

“I was right. He’s worried about seeing Lucifer again.”

Mc decided to leave the discussion for a later time, as she wanted her head clear for this meeting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 5

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Second Chance at Forever - Chapter 13

Chapter 13 of this year’s entry for the @dwsecretsanta, my present to @wordsintimeandspace!  Beta’d by the always-kind @stupidsatsuma​.  Thank you!

@doctorroseprompts​ and @timepetalscollective​ as an AU fic

General warnings for: alcohol use, cursing, discussions of sexual activities

Masterlist

AO3

Summary

Once upon a time, a boy and girl met at a bar and fell in love - until he ghosted her.

Five years later Rose Tyler’s best friend Mickey is getting married, and arranges a dinner for her to meet the groomsman she’ll be walking with - unaware that the two already know each other.

John Noble’s not sure how his friend and mentee managed to connive with the Universe to bring the One Who Got Away back into his life; all he knows it carefully built and maintained walls are crashing to the ground with no warning.

Rose sighed, hooking her leg higher on John’s thigh.  Their simple goodbye kiss had once again turned into a full-on snog against the front door. The closer Martha and Mickey’s wedding drew, the harder it was for them to keep their hands to themselves.  He was essentially moved in, though there were a few boxes still stacked in corners waiting to be unpacked.

“You’ve gotta go,” she mumbled, tilting her head to give him better access to her neck.  He was due at a restaurant for Mickey’s stag night in twenty minutes, and the bridal party would be knocking at her door any moment.

“I’m good.”  He sucked at her pulse point, making her hips jerk into the nice bulge he had going.  “Why don’t we go back to bed instead?”

“Sto-op,” she grumbled, pushing futilely at his shoulders, both pleased and annoyed that he knew she wasn’t very serious.  “One more week.”

After three continuous nights sleeping in the same bed they’d started cheating on the rules; by now the agreement had been revised to an ‘everything but’ technicality, with all else being fair game.

Ignoring her he skimmed his fingertips up her leg and between her thighs, finding her knickers just as a knock came from the other side of the door.

“Shit,” Rose whined, and this time when she pushed him away he took a step back, letting her leg drop.  “Right, you need to go now.”

“Fine,” John grumbled, pecking her lips one last time before physically moving her out of the way and opening the door.  “Good evening ladies, have a good time.”  He stepped out, letting Tish, Martha, and Shonara in to find Rose still leaning against the wall, breathing deeply.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Martha snickered.  “D’you want us to come back in an hour?”

Rose straightened up, fixing the skirt of her dress and shutting the door behind them.  “No, no, come on in.  It’s fine.”  Shaking her head to clear it, she showed them where to leave their coats before guiding them into the sitting room where everything was ready.  “Welcome to stage 1!”

The coffee table was covered in snacks, everything from mini quiche and pigs in blankets to pretzels and popcorn.  Four of Rose’s largest wine glasses stood ready, a bottle of red next to them with a bottle of white in an ice bucket.  “Sit, sit!  What do we want to start?”

“Red,” Tish said firmly.  “I don’t think we need all this food though; tonight is about drinking!”

Rose began pouring as the other women took plates and started sampling.  “I have it on good authority that if you eat first, you can drink more.”

Martha nodded in agreement, accepting her wine with thanks.  “It’s true.  Getting some meat is a very important part of the drinking process.”

Over the previous six months Rose had gotten to know Martha as a charming, sweet, tough, brilliant, classy girl, which was why it took a moment for the double entendre to process.  Choking on her own glass of wine, she almost fell off the couch in surprise.

“Martha!”

The woman burst out laughing, tears filling her eyes as she watched Rose flounder.  “Sorry, sorry!  I couldn’t resist,” she cracked up.  “You walked right into that one.”

Tish and Shonara got it then, snickering into their own glasses.  “So does that mean you’re no longer sexually vegan?” Tish teased, wagging her eyebrows.

Rose took a long sip of her wine to buy herself some time, unsure of how much to share.

“Your secrets are safe with us,” Martha promised, seemingly reading her mind.  “It’s a hen do.  If we can’t talk about our sex lives tonight, when can we?”

“We can all share,” Shonara offered with a wink.  “For instance, Leo will just be having whiskey at dinner tonight; he’s already eaten.”

After a moment the four women all howled with laughter, Tish high-fiving her sister-in-law.  “Very nice!”

“Your turn,” Martha prompted her sister, elbowing her.

Tish sighed dramatically.  “All right, all right.  I’m not ‘going steady’ with anyone at the moment, but… I’ve been having a lot of takeaway.”

Rose wolf whistled as they clapped, Tish bowing.  “All right, I suppose I’ll go… um, okay-” she tried to think of the right analogy for what they’d been doing- “so, no longer ‘vegan’, I’ll admit that, but… we’re not ready to wrap the sausage just yet.”

“Get it, girl!” Shonara high-fived her as Rose blushed, the other two cheering.  “Right, bride, your turn.”

Martha bit her lip, tucking hair out of her face.  “Okay, um, cone of silence, right?”  The other three nodded vigorously, drinking their wine as they waited.  “So, keeping with the theme… starting with our wedding night, we will be… keeping the sausage unwrapped.”

The room was silent as they processed this.  Rose stared at the blushing bride, mind whirling.  “That’s awesome,” she finally choked.  “Oh my God, that’s wonderful!”  Tish and Shonara broke out of their stupor then, squealing as all three tackled the now-laughing woman of the night.  They all squished onto the couch then, hugging and laughing.

“When was this decided?” Tish demanded, one arm wrapped around her sister’s neck.

“We had a scare right after we got engaged, and we were both surprised that we were disappointed when it wasn’t true.  Started talking, and… with where my career is, now’s actually a really good time, so we’re going to go for it.” Martha beamed.  “So, in some ways it is one of my last weeks of freedom.  Between now and the end of our honeymoon is my last chance to pig out on lunch meat and sushi and coffee and alcohol – once we’re back we’re both going on a clean eating kick, try to get as healthy as possible.  And Mickey’s so sweet, he’s already promised to give up everything I have to, suffer with me so to speak.”

“He’s going to be a wonderful dad,” Rose said sincerely, already picturing it.  “Feel free to borrow Tony any time to practice.”

“And Keisha,” Shonara cut in.  “Any time.  Really.  Please. I’m begging, actually.”

“Stop, you’ll scare her,” Rose scolded, whacking her arm.  “Shush!”

Martha leaned forward to see Rose, smirking.  “And, once baby Smith-Jones is here, you should feel free to borrow them at any time for ‘practice’.”

Rose scowled, instinctively shuddering.  “Um, no.  Babysit, yes, absolutely.  But don’t- don’t even put that into the universe yet.  Ugh.”

“Yeah, Martha, be nice,” Tish teased.  “You’re not the only one getting some serious meat after your wedding.”

“Tish!”

John walked up to the restaurant perfectly on time, meeting the other three at the door as they approached from the other side.

“Hey,” he greeted them, returning their fist-bumps and just managing not to roll his eyes.  He was easily twenty years older than all of them, and while that wasn’t an age difference he noticed with Rose, it was clear these three were still the in cocky invincible stage of young adulthood, a stage he wasn’t sure he’d ever even gone through.

“Thanks for coming man,” Mickey grinned, seeming genuine enough.  Then he snickered.  “Sorry the girls broke up… whatever it was.”

This time John did roll his eyes, hiding it by opening the door.  “We don’t want to lose our reservation.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey smirked on his way past.  “Whatever you say.”

Following them in, John prayed for patience.

They were seated quickly, and he took a moment to appreciate the restaurant.  Mickey had wanted a nice steak and whiskey dinner followed by drinks at a bar, so they’d come to one of the better steakhouses in London.  It had an old-time feel to it, dark colors and lots of wood and leather.  It had been a gentleman’s club back in the day, but had been a restaurant now for more than thirty years.  The clientele was still mostly skewed towards men, especially for business meetings over a meal.

John’s father and grandfather had brought him when he graduated first uni and then medical school, and he had fond memories of the place.

The conversation was, thankfully, of higher quality than he’d initially feared.  A healthy debate on football teams took them through to the entrée, but John was the only one to notice when Mickey merely picked at the steak he’d been eagerly anticipating.

“Is it not right?  For as expensive as it is, you should send it back if it’s not,” he murmured, not wanting to draw the attention of Leo and Jake.

“No, it’s good.  Great,” Mickey replied lowly.  “I’m just… it’s starting to feel real, now.”

John looked down at his perfect steak with regret, before sliding back from his chair.  “Come with me.”

He led the younger man through the restaurant to the back patio.  It was deserted, being early December, but it wasn’t too cold and gave them some privacy.  “What’s going on?  Are you having doubts?”

Mickey stared at his shoes, hands shoved deep in his pockets.  “I’m from an Estate.  The only reason I escaped that life was the Tylers took me and Gran with them, supported me going to school.  Martha is… Martha is better.  She’s a doctor, she does real good.  She’s beautiful, smart, funny.  Kind.  She’s way out of my league.”

“Do you love her?” John asked, and Mickey’s smile at the thought said everything even before the words came out.

“More than anything.”

John nodded, crossing his arms and staring across the patio at the wall for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.  “What do you know about Rose and I? As a couple, I mean.”

Mickey’s head jerked up, brow furrowing before he shrugged.  “Not much. Martha knows more, I think, but she won’t tell me.  ‘Cone of silence’, sort of thing, or so she said.”

“We met five and a half years ago,” he started slowly.  “In a bar.  It was… she was perfect.  Everything I’d ever wanted in a partner, when I bothered to think of such a thing at all.”

“But?”

John snorted.  “But I’m twenty years older than her.  I’m her parents age.  I realized I was falling in love, that I could genuinely see myself with this girl, this woman, forever.”

“What did you do?”

“Panicked.  Ran like hell.  Disappeared from her life overnight.  I stood her up for a date, and didn’t see her again until that dinner we all had back at the start of summer.”  Glancing down at the ground, he scuffed the toe of his shoe on a crack in the cement.  “I knew she was too good for me, too young, that I was too old and damaged.  That she’d wake up one morning and see the truth, and be horrified.”

“How’d that work out for you?”  Mickey was staring at him intently, and he met his eye evenly.

“It was the worst mistake I ever made.  I will never stop being grateful to get another chance, and stop mourning the five years we lost.  I know it’s terrifying, but she chose you, Mickey.  And I’ve had to listen to her- Martha, I mean- talk about you for the last three years, and she knows you.  Warts and all.  She thinks you’re worth it.  At the end of the day, it’s her choice who she spends her life with, isn’t it?  Who the fuck are you to choose for her?  If you genuinely believe she’s that smart and wise, you need to trust her opinion. That’s the secret of women, Mickey, and you need to learn it sooner or later.  She will always be smarter than you, in the ways that really matter.  Just go with it.”

Mickey nodded slowly, a half-smile appearing briefly.  “That’s… that’s exactly what Pete said,” he admitted.  “The Tylers, they’re the only family I’ve got.  That never bothered me, until I saw how close Martha’s family is.  I’ve never had that, not really.”

John clapped his hand on Mickey’s shoulder, grinning.  “You’re looking at this all wrong, son.  You may never have had that before, but a week from today you’ll have it for the rest of your life.  So long as you don’t let your fears overcome you.”

A weight had seemingly lifted off Mickey’s shoulders, and John turned to back inside before realizing he wasn’t being followed.  “What?”

“Martha wants a baby,” he blurted.  “I mean, I do too, but… she wants it now.  Soon.  Get pregnant immediately.”

“Okay.”  John crossed his arms, just watching the other man begin to pace.

“What if I’m no good?” Mickey finally blurted after a dozen turns around the small space.  “My dad left when I was a baby.  All I’ve ever had is Pete.  What if I screw the kid up?  I’m not ready!”

“Listen to me, son,” John started, stopping him with his hands on his shoulders.  “First, breathe.  Second – it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!”

“No, listen to me,” John insisted.  “What kids need, more than anything, is stability.  They need love and attention.  Right?  Being there, day in and day out, teaching them, playing with them, just spending time with them, that’s enough.  There’s always more, and some of it will come naturally, but that’s the biggest part.  That, and loving their mother.  I’ve seen you two together, for years, and I’ve heard even more stories.  As long as you stay a team, you put your relationship first, you will- do a great job.”  He almost said ‘kill it’, but given the topic it didn’t seem appropriate.  “All right?”

Mickey sighed, nodding slowly.  “Yeah.  Yeah, okay.”

“Now, two more things then we’ll go back in if you’re ready.  One – you will never be ready to be a parent.  I’m done my fair share of time in the obstetrics ward, and I’ve met men becoming fathers for the third and fourth time who were still scared shitless.  Just accept it.”

“Okay,” he said, though he didn’t look convinced.  “What’s two?”

“Talk to Martha.  Not today, or even tomorrow, but the sooner the better.  Do it before the wedding, so you go in on the same page.  What you decide doesn’t matter nearly as much as you deciding together.  Got it?”

“Got it.”

John waited until Mickey moved towards the door, following him inside.  When the other man turned towards the restrooms, John sought out their waiter, who happened to be standing nearby.  “Hi,” he started, waiting for the man to acknowledge him, “had a bit of nervous-groom syndrome; can we get out steaks reheated?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

When Mickey returned he was his usual cheery self, talking and joking as they finished their meals.  The bar offered whiskey sampler flights, and ever the teacher, John fell easily into lecture mode as he educated the younger men on the finer points.

Once the bill was settled they headed out onto the street, starting up the sidewalk with no particular destination in mind.  “Right, what’s next?” demanded the groom, throwing his arm around Jake’s neck and pulling him down to give him a noogie.

“Well,” the best man drawled, fighting him off with a laugh, “I was thinking… strip club?  Buy a shag?”

“No,” Mickey said firmly, stopping dead, “not a chance in hell.  I do actually want to get married.  I love Martha.  I don’t need to see other women in their knickers.”

Leo and John nodded in agreement, the younger man adding, “Shonara would kill me.”

“Rose would help.”

“All right, all right, was just a suggestion,” Jake protested, holding his hands up in peace.  “Don’t get your pants in a twist.  What’s your idea?”

Mickey shook his head, raising his arm and stepping to the curb.  “Taxi!”

As soon as they pulled up to the club John started laughing, shaking his head fondly as he climbed out of the cab.

“What?” Mickey asked, falling into step with him as Jake and Leo walked ahead, debating the cheapest way to get drunk.

“This is where Rose and I met,” he explained.  “I haven’t been back since.”

“D’you want to go somewhere else?”

John shook his head, holding the door for him.  They were there early enough the cover hadn’t started yet, and plenty of empty tables.  “Nah, no problem.  A year ago? Maybe.  Besides, tonight’s about you.”

They claimed a table for six, John buying the first round of tequila shots.  When they arrived they held the shot glasses up, and he gave a quick toast.

“To Mickey and Martha!”

The shots were thrown back, just as the DJ got started.  The three younger men immediately jumped up, heading to the dance floor.

“Coming?” Mickey shouted, but John shook his head.

“I’ll hold the table!”  It was a good enough excuse; it was hardly his type of music, and not his definition of dancing.  He wouldn’t mind if Rose was there, but had no interest in basically dry-humping a stranger.

Mickey gave him a thumbs up before disappearing onto the floor.  Leaning back in his seat John ordered a beer from the waitress, lingering over it as he watched the dancers writhe to the so-called music.

About an hour after they arrived all the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he glanced towards the door to see Rose, Martha, Tish, and Shonara come in, laughing.  An involuntary smile crossed his face at the sight, partially at Martha in her tiara and sash but mostly at Rose.

She must have sensed his gaze, because she scanned the club until their eyes met.  A beaming smile spread across her face, drawing an identical from his own, and started his way.  The other women pulled her back, talking, and he waited impatiently to see what she would do.

They stumbled into the club howling with laughter, linked together arm in arm.  Shonara’s portion of the evening had been laser tag, and it was a smashing success.  Rose had felt like a secret agent in a movie, dressed for clubbing in a tiny dress and sky-high heels, sneaking around shooting lasers at her friends.  Martha had won as was only right, but they’d given her a fight for the title.

Tish’s suggestion was, naturally, drinking and dancing, though everyone was fully on board.  Rose didn’t miss the irony of the selected venue being where she had originally met John, and no sooner had the thought crossed her mind that her skin prickled.  Peering around the dark room, she spotted him sitting at a table by himself.

Grinning, she started in his direction before someone grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“Where are you going?” Tish shouted, and Rose leaned closer to be heard.

“The guys are here with a table.  Let’s join them.”

Shonara shook her head.  “No, no, no!  We’re supposed to be celebrating!  Dance with strangers, let them buy us drinks,” she protested.

Martha was eyeing the dance floor, face lighting.  “Do what you want; I’m going to go dance with my fiancé.”  And she disappeared into the crowd.

Rose looked at the two women before glancing over her shoulder at John.  “Yeah… sorry.”  Not sorry at all, she spun on her heel and sauntered towards where her boyfriend was sitting.  “Hi!”

“Hey, babe,” he said in her ear, pulling her onto his lap instead of letting her take the seat next to him.  “How’s your night going?”

“Great,” she enthused, playing with his tie, “better now.”  She shifted, angling herself better across his thighs, and drawing out of him a ragged moan she heard over the eardrum-shattering volume of the club.  “And what have you been up to?” Rose teased, refreshingly unworried about what had him aroused.

His arms were wrapped around her waist to support her, but he tightened them to bring her side closer into his chest.  “Thinking about the last time I was here.”

“Something good then?”

Before he could answer Tish appeared, smiling.  “Hi, lovebirds.  I can hold the table for a bit if you want to go dance.”

“Yes,” Rose decided, sliding off his lap and heading for the dance floor, dragging him by the hand.  “Thanks!”

She wormed her way through the crowd until they were in deep, none of their friends nearby.  Turning her back to John she pulled him against her, settling his hands on her hips as she began to dance.  It didn’t take long for his hips to fall into rhythm with hers as they grinded to the techno-pop. Rose lost herself in the beat, her senses overwhelmed by the crowd and the music but mostly the man behind her.

Despite her concerns he seemed to be enjoying himself, fingers rubbing circles in her skin through her dress as he pulled her tighter against him.  As much as she loved feeling him against her bum she eventually shifted, wrapping her arms around his neck as they moved.  He took advantage of the new position, capturing her lips in a searing kiss that left her breathless when they finally parted.

John’s arms kept them pressed together, palms blatantly cupping her bum, but in the dark club she doubted anyone would care if they could even see.  Time seemed to flow strangely, both flying past and yet dragging.  She was ready to crawl out of her skin and into his by the time she glanced at the table, only to see everyone else gathered around it talking.

Tapping his arm she nodded in the table’s direction, and his face soured before nodding.  They maneuvered their way there, Rose biting her lip all the while to keep from smiling as he kept her carefully in front of him.

“Hey,” she greeted the rest of the party, noticing Leo held two coats.  “You leaving?”

“Yeah, got to relieve grandma,” Shonara said apologetically, giving her a hug.  “Tonight was a blast, though.”

“It really was!”

Rose eyed Martha and Mickey, who seemed lost in each other, and wasn’t surprised when Martha leaned in and whispered to him, only for her oldest friend to jump up like he’d been scalded.  “Right!  We should go, early morning with wedding… stuff, thanks for tonight, see you later!”

Mickey practically ran out of the club, Martha laughing as she paused to say goodbye.

“Have fun,” Rose snickered in her ear as they hugged, and the bride smiled widely.

“Oh, I will.”

She disappeared in a whirlwind, leaving Rose, John, Jake, and Tish to stand around.

“We paid the bill,” Tish said, “so… if you want to go-”

John firmly pressed his hips against her bum, his vote clear, and Rose didn’t hesitate to accept the exit strategy.

“I think we will, thanks.  Tonight was a blast.”

He kept her close in front of him on the way out, and Rose managed to keep a lid on her laughter until they were settled in a cab.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, frowning, as his hand settled on her thigh and slipped just beneath the hem of her dress.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” she teased, kissing his cheek.  “I don’t think you were fooling anyone.”  Her palm settled high on his thigh, making him jump.

John shrugged, and in the darkness of the cab she heard the fabric rustle more than saw the movement.  “I don’t care, honestly.  Pretty sure a couple near us on the dance floor were, uh, doing a bit more dancing than dancing.”

“Oh, they were,” Rose drawled, deliberately crossing her legs so the hem of her dress rode up even higher.  “In case you were wondering, that’s too exhibitionist-y for me.”

“‘Too exhibitionist-y���?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.  “Implies you don’t mind a little.”

They pulled up at their flat then, and Rose opened the door before smiling at him over her shoulder.  “Oh, you’ll see.”

She walked into the lift just as he caught up to her, and they slid closed as her laugh turned to a moan.

[ellawritesficssometimes]

Ouija Board Mishaps (Day 6 Week of Hetalia, One-shot

A/N: I wrote this when I was sick and took too much NyQuil xD 

Stay tuned for tomorrow. I’ll have a more romantic fic planned.

@weekofhetalia 

Arthur’s POV:

It was a late Friday night, and against my will, my friends had invited themselves over, as per usual. Correction, I invited my younger neighbors Matthew and Alfred over, otherwise known as the twins, while the frog (Francis) came on his own free will, but certainly not mine. Francis was a senior in high school like myself, whereas the twins were both juniors.

Since October was the peak of anything paranormal, I decided to put an end to the mystery surrounding the hauntings occurring in my home. My family has a history of having the Sight, which means we’re able to communicate with spirits. However, the spirit haunting my family refused to show itself, – or should I say herself? – so we were forced to put up with its shenanigans. I grew up with these hauntings, whether it being misplaced socks, random knocks on the walls, or footsteps in rooms where no one alive was in.

But not anymore. I wouldn’t put up with it for any longer.

Impulsive, young, and stubborn as I’ve always been, I bought a Ouija board from Toys’ R US the other day, thinking I would finally be able to make contact with this spirit and get rid of it. Alistair, my older brother and guardian, was gone for the weekend, so this would have been the perfect opportunity for me to prove my worth as a spiritual communicator.

My god, words cannot explain how badly I fucked up.

Regardless, I didn’t know that at the time. My pride often got in the way of me thinking rationally.

Anyway, the four of us were sitting in the basement’s lounge, decked in comfortable sweatshirts and sweatpants.

Even Francis was wearing a white hoodie that obnoxiously read “I love Paris” on the front of it. He was wearing silk pajama pants though, so I suppose his fashion sense still carried with him wherever he went. Unfortunately, fashion sense didn’t necessarily equate to class.

Francis, seemingly out of nowhere, had procured an entire bottle of wine, taking swigs of it as he draped his hairy arms over the loveseat like he owned it. Alfred and Matthew were sharing the two-person couch, each fiddling with a 3DS in their hands.

Meanwhile, I was sitting cross-legged on the ground, setting up the Ouija board and lighting several candles.

“You still plan to go through with this?” Francis asked me, slurring slightly.

I reached out to confiscate the bottle of wine from him. “All right, you’ve had enough of that,” I grunted, ignoring Francis’s protests. “It’s my house, you cold-blooded tart. I can’t have the cops coming over to arrest you.”

“Ah, oui,” Francis mumbled and then proceeded to lower his voice to snidely insult me in French.

I padded over to the mini-kitchen in my basement, placing the half-empty wine bottle in the fridge.

Alfred looked up from his 3DS, his face paling despite the determined expression he held. “M-man, I thought you were just kidding about using that thing!” he exclaimed.

“No, you ninny,” I rolled my eyes. “Have I ever joked about something like this? I’m tired of this spirit messing with me. It’s not exactly a friendly one either,” I trailed off ominously.

Matthew closed his 3DS, only to yelp when Alfred clutched his right arm for dear life. The latter had always been unreasonably terrified of the supernatural. “What do you mean by, ‘not friendly’”? he asked softly, violet eyes blinking not in fear but rather, curiosity.

I patted the ground, inviting my friends +1 to sit in a circle in front of the Ouija board resting on the carpet. I needed them close so that I could explain everything properly.

Once the lights were dimmed slightly and I had my mobile’s flash pressed under my chin, I began my performance. I spoke slowly, knowing that Alfred was slow to pick up on things, but also in the spookiest voice I could muster. Francis and Matthew were both unfazed, taking more amusement in how much Alfred was trembling.

I chuckled lowly, allowing a satisfied smirk to creep onto my face. “Rumour has it that 70 years ago, three siblings moved into this house after migrating here from Russia. There was a brother and two sisters. The youngest sister was mentally ill, but refused to get help. Her siblings agreed with this, probably because they knew she would be institutionalized for the rest of her life if she was turned in to the authorities. The mentally ill sibling’s name was Natalia. Weirdly enough, the records only show her name if you google the murders.”

“MURDERS?!” Alfred spluttered.

“Muahahaha! Yes, murders! Your ignorant two-celled brain heard me right!” I snickered. Perhaps I was getting a bit too immersed in the story. I had always been quite the shit-disturber.

“Natalia was obsessed with her older brother; you could even say it was a fixation. When she heard that her brother had found a spouse, she completely lost her marbles. Things took a turn for the worse when the brother admitted to Natalia that he was engaged, and that she wasn’t invited to the wedding…”

Matthew elbowed Francis. “This sounds like a soap opera you would watch,” he commented.

Francis absently nodded his head, waiting for me to continue with wide sapphire eyes.

Alfred was full-out whimpering at this point.

“Now, you see, for you guys to understand why things happened the way they did, you need to know that Natalia suffered from religious delusions. She saw her brother as some sort of God, an icon if you will. And for him to be marrying someone unworthy was utterly preposterous to her. Enraged, Natalia began to break things in a fit of uncontrollable anger – there’s a dent over there by that wall where she supposedly threw a knife!”

I paused, pointing towards the dent I had actually made myself when I was younger. I had thrown an overcooked scone at my brother’s head, angry at him for insulting my culinary skills – not that he was any better mind you.

“When her sister tried to stop her, Natalia stabbed her to death. Soon, Natalia had lost all sense of reality. Her brother couldn’t hold her back, as she didn’t realize what she was doing – she was just that furious. She ended up killing her brother too before slitting her own throat, horrified when she realized what she had done.

“And that my friends, is the haunting tale of Natalia A. To this day, she still resides in this house. If you listen closely at night, you can even hear the sounds of her scraping a knife against the walls, taunting those brave enough to confront her.”

“Really?” Matthew whispered to me.

“Of course not,” I mouthed back, smirking. I was enjoying Alfred’s reaction far too much to back out now.

Francis cooed at Alfred, rubbing circles into his back before looking up to glare at me. “Nice going, you imbecile. You scared le poor diabetic fils. If his blood pressure spikes, his death will be on your hands!”

“He’ll be fine,” I shrugged, indifferent.

Alfred had already cupped both hands over his ears. “Nope, nope to the infinity. I’m not doing this right now. I betcha anything it was Communism that killed them, stupid Ruskies. This is just a made-up folktale,” he rambled to himself.

“It’s real, Alfred,” I countered, reaching for my phone. “I’ll pull up the records if I have to.”

“Screw this, I’m hungry. Not today, Satan. Not today.” Shrugging off Francis, Alfred stood up and walked into the mini-kitchen. He began pawing his way through the freezer, pulling out leftover cheesecake.

The remaining three of us sighed, going back to the story.

“So…” Francis drawled, looking uneasy for once. “You want to make contact with this Natalia…why?”

“Yeah,” Matthew chimed in, which was unusual for him. He only spoke when it was absolutely necessary; often enough it was to stop us from doing something reckless and stupid. Wait…

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, you said so yourself, she murdered people… her siblings no less…” Matthew mumbled.

“Relax,” I reassured them. “I’m a spiritual communicator. I’ve got complete control over this situation. All we’ll be doing is speaking to her. If things get weird, I can always just end the conversation.”

Francis and Matthew didn’t look very assured, but they didn’t offer any further protest either. They were more intrigued than anything else.

Before I could get to explaining the rules of the board, the microwave beeped.

“What the hell?!” I spluttered, turning. “Alfred, did you just microwave a cheesecake?”

“Y-yeah! It makes it soft! I’m nervous, okay? I need something in my stomach if we’re going through with this!”

“It’s cream cheese! It’s already soft, are you daft?! That’s it, I’m cutting you off from drinking any more Mountain Dew. That sugar is eroding at any remaining common sense you have!” I stormed into the kitchen.

Alfred wailed as I poured an entire two litres of Mountain Dew down the sink. It fizzled as I did so; what in the bloody hell did they put in these soft drinks? Poison? Carcinogens? Radioactive material?

“Angleterre, you have no right to criticize him on what food he eats,” Francis chided, unwelcomed to interrupt. “Just yesterday you made scones that were hard enough to be used as a murder weapon.”

“I still have those you know,” I huffed, dragging Alfred back into the lounge like a mother hen. The American sobbed, placing a lumpy spoonful of cheesecake into his mouth. “Don’t make me use them,” I warned.

Francis raised his hands in surrender, knowing full-well that my threat bore some reality to it.

“All right,” I sighed, grabbing a remote from a nearby coffee table. I dimmed the lights further so that the ring of candles around us were the only light sources in the room. “Let’s go over the instructions, shall we?”

Alfred grabbed the remote, flicking on the lights again. “Dude, no. First, I can’t see my cheesecake, and secondly, no again! You’re giving the ghost chick an advantage if we can’t see her sneak up on us.”

“Fine,” I sighed. I compromised by turning off half the lights. “Happy?”

“No, but this cheesecake is hella satisfying.”

“Can I have a bite?” Francis asked.

“Dude, no. Get your own.”

“HELLO! If you morons are done with your squabbling, I’d like to get on with this.”

Silence.

I cleared my throat. “All right, how this works is simple. We all place our fingers on the planchette and let the spirit guide our hands to spell out letters or to answer yes or no questions on the board. If any of you fools even dare to move your hands as a prank, so help me god. The most important rule to stand by is to NEVER take your hand off the planchette unless or until we break off communication. If you do that, you are susceptible to getting possessed. I’ll repeat myself again: keep your hand on the planchette at all times if you do decide to participate. Don’t ever pull away your hand unless communication is officially broken off with the spirit.”

Silence, again. For once, my friends weren’t arguing.

“If at any time things get unsafe, we must move the planchette to the end of the board where it spells out goodbye; that will break off communication and prevent us from being possessed if the spirit is malicious. Are we all clear?”

Everyone nodded their heads.

“Right, then let’s get started.”

“Wait,” Alfred reached out to pull down my hood. “Stop trying to look like a thug.”

“I’m not trying to look like a thug! I come from a line of druids, damn you! I’m just trying to honour my heritage!” I blurted out.

“You look like a pasty snowflake at best…”

“SCREW YOU AND YOUR HIGH CHOLESTEROL!”

Francis laughed, snapchatting this entire fiasco.

Alfred furrowed his brows. “What does that even mean?”

“GUYS! FOCUS!” Matthew raised his voice, a very odd occurrence. “Just apologize, and get over with it. If we’re going to be doing this, we need to be on each other’s side in the event that something goes wrong.”

Matthew was right.

Alfred sighed, speaking through puckered lips. “I’m sorry you’re so sensitive, Artie. It must be because I’m two inches taller than you and you’re trying to overcompensate for somethin’…”

“What kind of bloody apology is that?!”

WHACK!

Francis whacked the back of my head while Matthew whacked Alfred’s. I hadn’t even done anything wrong!

After ushering out real apologies, we all moved our hands onto the planchette. Unfortunately, my hand was stuck between the frog’s and Alfred’s.

Alfred grabbed my free hand with his. “No homo,” he muttered to me. “I just want to protect ya.”

Bullshit. The yank was scared.

“We’re both bi-sexual,” I hissed with a whisper. “And what did I say about using derogatory sayings like that!? Tsk, idiot.”

Cue another pointless argument.

Eventually, we all settled down and began with the ritual.

I instructed everyone to move the planchette in a few circles around the board before asking the first question.

“Is anyone there?” I inquired. “I assure you we mean no harm.”

The planchette began to move towards the top right of the board, where Yes was spelled out in bold black letters.

“I swear if one of you twats are faking this!” I growled in warning.

“Dude, I’m not doing anything!” Alfred panicked.

“Mon dieu, did it just get colder in here?”

Matthew’s shoulders slumped. “Well, it was a nice life while it lasted. A bit more boring than I would have liked it to be, but I can’t complain.”

The planchette stopped, hovering over the Yes section of the board.

I cleared my throat. “Hello, nice to meet you. Can you spell out your name?”

The planchette began to move.

N

A

T

I stopped the spirit right there. “Natalia, is this Natalia A.?”

The planchette moved to Yes again.

“Oh man! Oh man! Oh man!” Alfred rambled. “We’re all going to die! I’m never going to be able to lose my virginity! I’m going to die a loser, like, like Artie!”

“It’s still not too late,” Francis purred.

“SHUT UP!” I exploded. “Do not break the ritual.”

“Natalia, is it? Tell me. Why do you steal my socks… or trip people when they’re least expecting it? Is that fun for you?”

The planchette moved into the space between Yes and No. I took that as a maybe.

“Do you not like my family living here? Is that it?”

Yes.

“What do you want from us?”

The planchette began to spell out something.

D

I

“DUDE IT BETTER NOT BE SPELLING WHAT I THINK IT IS!”

E

Well fuck.

“Hey, chick-ghost-dudette?” Alfred piped in. “Putting aside you murdering us for a quick second, can you tell me what Artie hides under his bed? It’s really weird how embarrassed he gets when I poke around there.”

Y

A

O

I

“It’s lying!” I cried out, blushing profusely.

I didn’t even bother to acknowledge Francis’s smug all-knowing expression.

“Do ya really want to murder us, though? Like, I get it. You’ve been dead for a while, probs haven’t seen any action,” Alfred continued.

“Are you insane?!” I snapped. “You’re only provoking it, don’t you realize-!”

BANG!

The ceiling above us thudded, prompting everyone to scream and jump a little.

Everyone but Alfred knew not to take their hands off the planchette.

I realized this when it was already too late. “Alfred, don’t!”

Alfred yelped, only to fall onto his back, twitching.

“What do we do?!” Francis screeched.

“Don’t let go, we still have to say goodbye!” I instructed.

Matthew grabbed the remote with his free hand, turning the lights back on. I really wish he hadn’t. Alfred was frothing at the mouth, a single tear of blood streaking down his right cheek as he continued to convulse uncontrollably.

“Big…brother…” Alfred gasped in a voice several higher octaves than his own.

“Where…are…youuuuuuuu…?”

How could things go this wrong, this fast?

“It was a pleasure, Natalia. But I really ought to let you go now,” I pressed, struggling along with Francis and Matthew to move the planchette towards the bottom of the board, where the word Goodbye was spelt out.

But, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t move the planchette. It was like something was pushing against us – much stronger in strength no less.

“It’s not working!” I screamed.

Francis and Matthew joined my screaming when the Ouija board was thrust into the air. We all let go, paralyzed in fear as we watched it slam into the wall opposite of us.

Matthew was the first to crouch by Alfred. “Alfred, Alfred! Wake up! Fight back, damn it!” he sobbed, slapping at Alfred’s cheeks.

“This is your fault!” Francis accused, jabbing an index finger at me. “You should have tutored him better in English. Maybe then he’d actually know how to follow instructions!”

“As if arguing is going to help with anything! Crap! I think I have a Bible upstairs! We’ll have to perform an exorcism!” I shouted.

Matthew leapt back when Alfred began to laugh hysterically, sitting up abruptly. A cryptic smirk was on his face as he licked his lips, tasting his own blood.

I reluctantly present to you, Natfred.

“A-Alfred,” I asked. “You in there, lad?”

“Alfred is gone,” Natfred laughed in a cold, feminine voice. The lights flickered.

“And soon you will all be too. I must find a suitable body for my brother. Then we can live happily ever after! But first, I’m going to need to spill a lot of blood. My, my, you’re all so young. It’ll make killing you a lot harder. Especially that one,” (she? He? It?) pointed to Francis. “I don’t usually like killing one of my own.”

“What do you mean by that?” Francis quivered as we all began to back away from Natfred, intending to run up the staircase at a moment’s opportunity.

“Are you not a woman?” Natfred asked.

“Oui, oui I am!” Francis pleaded. “Si vous plait, have mercy!”

“He’s lying,” Matthew and I both retorted.

“Some friends you are!”

“You had no problem throwing us under the bus!”

“What is this then, a gathering of homosexuals?” Natfred remarked. “It would make a lot of sense. This one– Natfred pointed at me -  really likes shipping his fictional characters. It’s insufferable. For years, I’ve had to watch him lament about this ‘doctor’. And here I thought I was crazy.”

“DOCTOR WHO IS GREAT, YOU DEMONIC SHE-HEATHEN!” I raged.

“Arthur, not the best time,” Matthew snapped, being the closest one to the staircase.

Francis, however, gave us both a look, communicating the universal sign for ‘I’ll act as a distraction and then we run for our fucking lives’.

Matthew and I nodded our heads in assent.  

“Tell me, ah, Natalia, who is it do you think is the gayest of us all?” Francis asked.

Natfred narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Since you’ve passed, it’s been medically proven that gays are amongs the strongest of humans. You want a strong body for your brother, oui?” Francis lied through his teeth. I was beginning to question just how drunk he was. What was he on about now?

“Oh, how interesting. If that’s the case, it’s definitely him,” Natfred pointed at me, again.

“WHAT, WHY ME?” I whined.

Natfred glared, as if what she had just concluded was obvious. “I just do.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Enough, this is such a bore,” Natfred drawled. “You’ll all be far more interesting once I hang the losing bodies as trophies. I’ve been wanting to re-decorate this place.”

Natfred then held out its (I decided on the pronoun, don’t get cheeky with me) right hand, snapping its fingers. A ghostly butcher knife, one that had seen better days and still had blood on it, popped into view.

“Who wants to die first?” Natfred waggled the butcher knife.

“RETREAT!” Francis bellowed, prompting all three of us to turn on our heels and run up the basement’s staircase – the literal devil was on our heels.

Natfred hissed, sprinting forward only to have the basement’s door slammed in its face. Francis and I held the door shut while Matthew grabbed several chairs for us to block the entrance with. Unfortunately, Natfred possessed Alfred’s near inhuman strength as well.

“Why run if you’re just going to die anyway? Face death like a man, you scoundrels!” It hissed, throwing an immense amount of weight against the other side of the door.

“NOW!” Matthew barked as Francis and I leapt out of the way and began piling chairs and tables against the basement door.

Not a second later, Natfred headbutted the door, splinters and dust flying everywhere as it poked its head into view. Its eyes were no longer cerulean under the spectacles it wore, but rather a strange gray-blue. We were losing Alfred more and more by the minute.

“Hide!” I shrieked.

“We can’t just leave him there!” Matthew begged. “How do we get this demon out of him? You said you have a Bible, where the heck is it?!”

“Can’t we just sacrifice Arthur? Let’s do a group vote, non?”

“Ugh! We don’t have time for this!”

I grabbed Matthew by the arm and began tugging him along with Francis towards our storage room. Meanwhile, Natfred was continuing to break through the door. We needed to find a good hiding spot where I could think and come up with a proper plan of attack.

“Over here!” I whispered, opening the door of the cupboard that lay underneath the staircase leading to the third floor. Yes, it was a real life Harry Potter room, moving on.

I closed the door and slid down on the floor. Matthew was the only one not out of breath to pull out his phone, illuminating the small space.

“Well, Monsieur spiritual communicator,” Francis spoke using air quotes, nervously pacing back and forth. His sanity was clearly not all there. “What now? How are we going to escape this alive after this massive fuck-up of yours? Mon dieu, never mind. I’ve already given up. Maybe if I surrender, she’ll let me drink some wine first.”

“NO!” Matthew and I cried out, grabbing both of Francis’s wrists before he could leave the room and give our location away.

“Get your priorities straight, will you?” I snapped. “And stop thinking so negatively. I’ll get us out of this.”

“How?!”

“I don’t know, just give me a minute to think!”

“We may not have a minute!” Matthew warned, wincing at the sound of a chair being thrown against a wall.

Natfred was free.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Natfred taunted.

“Okay!!” I clasped my forehead with one hand. “I think I got it…”

I had to pause again as the sound of knives scraping against each other echoed across the house.

Natfred had found Alistair’s knife collection.

“I’ll be the one to distract Natalia this time. While I do that, Matthew, I need you grab the Ouija board and planchette. Francis, you grab the Bible on the table by the front door; if I somehow fail at distracting Natalia, it’s your job to make sure she doesn’t notice what Matthew’s doing.”

“What exactly am I doing?” Matthew asked, lips quivering.

“Move the planchette towards goodbye. You’ll be cutting off our communication with her,” I explained. “We’re still in session, and will be until that happens. Does everyone understand the plan?”

I received two “oui’s” in response.

“All right,” I straightened my posture. “Let’s save that moronic tosser. On my lead, 1…2…3… Go!”

I thrust open the cupboard’s door, sprinting ahead to give Francis and Matthew some space and time to sneak by while I acted as a distraction.

I found Natfred sharpening two knives in the kitchen. When it spotted me walking into view from the hallway, it grinned widely, murderous in its intent. It wasn’t the aloof, goofy grin I was used to seeing on Alfred – this image would likely haunt me for the rest of my life, which could very well only be the next ten minutes if my plan wasn’t successful.

“Succumbed to your fate, have you?” Natfred mused. “Although, I was kinda hoping for the other two. You might not be strong enough for my brother to possess.”

“Oh,” I quirked a brow, my strong tone contradicting how much my knees were trembling. “And what makes you think your brother would want to come back and live with you? You murdered him, remember?”

Natfred faltered. “I-It was an accident! He knows that! I’m sure he’ll forgive me! He always does!”

“Hmmm yeah, I don’t think so,” I responded, stepping to the side to block Natfred’s view of Matthew and Francis sneaking into the living room. “I think he’d be pretty pissed off. I mean, he had his whole life set right out for him. He was going to get married, and you just had to ruin that, didn’t you? Why? Because you were selfish. You wanted your brother for yourself, and when you couldn’t have him, you threw a tantrum like a rotten five-year-old child. If you really cared about your brother, you would let him rest in peace, wherever he ended up.”

I needed to make Natalia furious; to confuse her just as much.

Natfred’s eyes glowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” it shrieked. “My brother deserved better than that… than that bitch! Now I have the chance to give him a better life. I’ll do anything to make that happen! He was a King! He deserved more!”

Natfred’s eyes briefly flickered to its original cerulean hue.

Behind me, Matthew stepped out of the basement, planchette and Ouija board in hand. He ducked, hiding from sight by using the living room couch to his advantage. Francis sat next to him, holding a Bible for likely the first time in his life as he prayed.

Both were successful in their part of the plan; it was time for me to follow through as well. It was my fault we had ended up in a situation like this. It was time to take some damn responsibility.

“You’re overcompensating,” I hummed without missing a beat. Alfred was still in there, I just knew it.

“No, you’re a brat. A petty brat who’s trying to rationalize the impossible. You’re a stone-cold murderer. You don’t deserve even the body you’re occupying now. You know why? Because Alfred is stronger than you’ll ever be. He knows what compassion is, what it is to truly love someone. But you’ll never feel that because you’re a psychopath without any capacity for emotions. You never loved your brother. You tainted his life with your filthy greed!”

“SHUT UP!” Natfred screeched. “I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

I yelped when Natfred threw a knife at me. Luckily, I ducked to the side. The knife had crashed into the living room window, sending glass flying everywhere.

Natfred continued to throw knives at me, but somehow, I was able to dodge them all. It then proceeded to throw a blender and toaster at me.

“Jesus Christ!” I swore in the heat of the moment. “Are you trying to kill me?! Oh…”

Tragically, all good luck must come to an end.

Natfred pinned me against the counter. “It’s time for you to die,” it hissed, grabbing me by the collar of the shirt.

I hovered over the ground by two feet. “Alfred,” I wheezed. “I know you’re in there. It’s me, Arthur. Fight back, damn you! I know you’re stronger than this! Y-you can’t die! You were right. There’s so many things we never got to do together! I miss you, you dumbass. I want to do stupid things and grow old together, arguing and whatnot. You’re my best friend, so you better fucking come back already!”

“Alfred is gone, I told you that!”

“LET HIM GO!”

CRASH!

Natfred let go of me, falling forward as a Bible smacked into its back. “YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS!”

Well, that was one way to repel a demon with a Bible.

“Francis, you tart. What in the bloody hell are you doing!” I gasped, backing away as Natfred whipped around to glare at Francis.

“Protecting you!” Francis answered, wavering slightly. “Only I can bully you and get away with it!”

Francis everyone.

“You were supposed to use the Bible to repel her figuratively, not literally!”

“It wasn’t working!” Francis shrugged as I joined him by his side. “I had no choice. She was about to kill you.”

I shrugged. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

“GUYS! IT’S READY!” Matthew shrieked.

Francis and I both exchanged wide-eyed looks before sprinting into the living room, crouching next to Matthew in front of the Ouija board.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING NOW!?” Natfred bellowed, but it was already too late.

We circled the planchette on the board before finally placing it on Goodbye.

“GOODBYE!” Francis, Matthew and I all shrieked.

Natfred collapsed to the ground, twitching once more.

“Aha!” I cried out in triumph. “I hope you rot in hell, right where you belong. You will no longer haunt this house. I revoke any invitation for you to come back. Let this board seal you for eternity!”

Natfred looked up at the ceiling with blank eyes. “Brother, I am sorry,” it wheezed. “Perhaps another day we will be reunited. I will find you, mark my words…”

Natfred made a cliché ‘bleh’ sound before falling still.

I didn’t have time to let out a breath of relief as I had received smacks to both cheeks.

“YOU’RE AN IDIOT!” Matthew and Francis shrieked before crouching over the remains of Natfred, ahem, Alfred.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I bowed my head. “Let’s see if he’s okay. You can lecture me later.”

Matthew pressed his ear to Alfred’s chest. “He’s breathing.”

“Unnngh, burgers,” Alfred muttered to himself.

“Oui, he’s definitely alive,” Francis sighed.

I looked around the living room, petrified by what I saw. The fridge was hanging on a hinge alone with several cabinets, not to mention the many broken plates, dents in the walls, and ruined kitchen appliances.

“Bollocks, Alistair is going to kill me.”

I received another two smacks to the head. “At least Alfred’s okay, though,” I pouted.

Speaking of the previous devil.

Alfred sat up with a groan, eyes widening at the trashed room before him. “Dudes, did we have a killer party or something? What the heck happened in here?”

Matthew and Francis facepalmed while I burst out into tears, bringing Alfred into a hug. “Yeah! Sure! Whatever! We did that! Oh, how I missed you and your idiocy!”

“Yo, are you drunk? Why are you crying? Man, I’m hungry.”

“Screw it, I’m taking a nap,” Matthew declared, slumping against the couch.

“I’ll join you,” Francis offered.

Next thing I knew, Alfred shoved me off him and stood up. He ignored the unhinged fridge door and reached straight up for the freezer, pulling out an ice-cream sandwich.

“I’m going home to microwave this, peace suckas.”

I deadpanned.

Perhaps we should have left him possessed, after all.

-The end

[theclaravoyant]

Sounds Like a Song [Bobbi Ann] - part 2

AN ~ Sounds like a Song was a surprisingly popular fic, even I fell in love with it more than I thought I would! so have some more of Bobbi Ann and her beautiful family :D Bobbi meets her Uncles & Daisy has a chat with Grandpa Phil

Read below or on AO3

Sounds Like a Song - Ch. 2

Daisy feels almost as bouncy as her daughter as they all pack into the SUV for the ride back to base. Fortunately, she has Bobbi Ann sitting (or often, not-so-sitting) on her lap to keep her still. The others try not to make a show of not asking her about the missing years, and she appreciates the effort, even if it’s just a bad coat of paint. She likes that to some extent, they can pick up where they left off. She hasn’t had that kind of permanency in her life very much and she feels a lump in her throat when she lingers on the thought of it for too long.

Fortunately, she has plenty to keep her occupied.

Bobbi Ann tries to climb onto Elena’s lap, but when Daisy restrains her, settles for an attempt at booping her nose instead.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Elena,” Elena says, and smiles, and glances at Daisy. “I can be your Aunty too, if you want.”

“Aunty Lena,” Bobbi Ann repeats (sort of). She prods Elena’s arm. “Why are you brown? Are you from Mexico?”

Daisy grimaces, and mouths ‘sorry’, but Elena shrugs it off.

“I’m from Colombia,” she explains, “which is a bit like Mexico, but it’s different.”

“Do you speak Mexican there then?”

“No,” Elena says. “We speak Spanish, which the same language as Mexico, but Mexican isn’t a language.”

“Oh. Cool. Can you say something in Spanish now?” “Si.”

Bobbi Ann stares, perplexed, and Elena laughs.

“It means ‘yes’,” she explains. “You can also say ‘me IIamo Bobbi’. It means ‘my name is Bobbi.’” She points at herself. “Me IIamo Elena.”

Bobbi, mimicking her, points to her own chest. “Me yah-mo Bobbi.”

“Very good! Now you can also say – ‘her name is Bobbi’. Ella es IIamada Bobbi.”

Bobbi-Ann points at her namesake. “Ella es yah-ma-da Bobbi.” She points at Daisy, too. “Ella es IIamada Daisy?”

“Bueno!” Elena beams, and then her expression turns smug. “And we even have another word for Daisy, too. Margarita.”

“Are you serious?” Daisy’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

“I told you, you should learn Spanish,” Elena teases.

“What’s a Margarita?” Bobbi Ann wonders.

“It’s an adult drink, sweetie,” Jemma explains, as if she’s sharing a secret. “You wouldn’t like it I don’t think.” She pulls a face like she’s just eaten a lemon, and Bobbi Ann giggles and mimics her.

The impromptu amateur Spanish lessons continue until they reach the hangar, and Daisy can smell it and see it and it’s like she’s fallen back into a dream she once had. Her fingers linger on the handle as she stares out at the expanse of grey, dotted with cars and cargo and personnel, because to most of the people in this place it is a day like any other day. But not to all. There are a special few waiting for her, and all of a sudden the promise of seeing them again makes her heart ache.

In the end, Bobbi Ann pushes the door open and climbs off her mother’s lap, and Daisy has no choice but to follow her and insist that she not wander too far. Elena and Jemma and Bobbi and May get out too, but they linger around the car for a while, and wait for Daisy to greet her welcome wagon.

Fitz. Coulson. Mack.

She can hardly breathe, can hardly believe they’re there in front of her. Tears rush to choke her up and she falls into Coulson’s arms first, and when she closes her eyes it’s like she’s the person she was before for a moment. Tougher in some ways, softer in others. Safer. Home.

“It’s a pleasure to have you, Daisy,” Coulson says as they finally part. “However long you stay.”

She nods and moves on, to where Fitz is standing, watching her with an expression so full of love and longing it’s almost painful to look at. It says I can’t find the words to tell you how glad I am you’re here, and when he hugs her, she can finally breathe again. It’s a solid, grounded, welcoming hug that says all the things Fitz can’t seem to find the words for.

“Missed you,” he manages at last, with tears on his face.

“Missed you too,” she replies, and she must be crying too by the time she turns to Mack. By now, Bobbi Ann has apparently made quite a comfortable home in his gigantic arms. They’re so different in size it’s almost comical.

“Welcome back, Tremors,” Mack greets with a smile. “I know you’re not back back, but it’s good enough for me.”

“It’s good to see you,” she assures him, and offers a fist-bump, which he meets with his free hand. “Where’s Hunter?”

“He drew the short straw. Errand run for the kid.” Mack’s soft smile says that he thought Hunter had volunteered himself. The gratitude of her near-weeping greeting party tells Daisy a similar story.

“What a softie,” she croons. “I hope he gets pop tarts.”

“I hope he manages to stop himself buying out an entire store,” Mack remarks, rolling his eyes at his friend’s good-natured but at times bizarre antics. “Now, this little critter tells me she belongs to you?”

“Bobbi Ann. And, yeah. She’s Lincoln’s.”

“Oh.”

Bobbi’s tapping Mack’s arm now, so he lets her down to the ground and she runs to meet her other new family members under the guidance of her swarm of aunts. They leave Mack and Daisy behind for a moment, and he watches her face fall a little.

“Hey, good on you,” he says. “It’s tough, trying to go it alone. Unless –“

“Nope.” Daisy sighs. “Still alone. Just me and her.”

“She loves you a lot.”

Daisy smiles softly, as Bobbi Ann looks back through the crowd as if to check on her.

“Yeah, she does.”

-

“So,” Daisy says, smiling as she scans the familiar contents of Coulson’s office. “How’s Grandpa Phil?”

“Getting old,” he says with a laugh. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his collar askew from where he’s been sitting on the floor playing with Bobbi-Ann. She’s just disappeared with Aunty Jemma to go play with Uncle Fitz in the lab, and finally Daisy gets a chance to speak with Coulson alone.

“You did good with this kid, Daisy. She’s a promising little one. Bobbi Ann. For Antoine, right? What a name. Though I’m sure she’ll live up to it.”

“Yeah, alright, Mamma Hen,” Daisy cajoles. “In fairness, you’re kinda the one who taught me how to parent best so…some of the credit has to go to you, actually.”

Coulson shakes his head.

“You’re her mother,” he says, as though he still can’t quite believe it. “You’re her whole world.”

And maybe it’s because he’s already so far gone, so far in love with the role he’s adopted as everyone’s resident dad, but Daisy feels a pull she hasn’t got in three years. She takes out her phone and turns to that old photo, where her flushed and sweaty three-years-younger self is holding a tiny infant.

Look at this, it’s mine, I made it.  

“I’ll print you a copy, if you like,” she offers, and Coulson wordlessly takes the phone and finds a seat, staring in awe. In his eyes, Daisy suddenly sees every family he’s ever missed out on. Every child he never got to have. Every paternal instinct he’s bestowed upon her, extends to this child as if they are blood, even stronger than that.

“I’m proud of you, Daisy,” he says.

In all honesty, she has to go have a bit of a cry after that. So many feelings are piling up on her that she retreats to the plane, for want of a better place – for a place that’s hers – and lets some of the weight of them fall off her shoulders. When she’s ready, she heads to the lab and, just as she’d expected, it puts the smile back on her face.

Bobbi Ann is making her way between tables, her concentration intense, but torn between the controller in her hand and the model of Lola hovering in front of her. As she scampers up to Daisy, mini-Lola almost flies into a wall, but she weaves around her mother and scampers down the hall enthusiastically.

“Don’t get lost!” Daisy calls, twisting so that her gaze follows her daughter until she’s out of sight.

“She won’t, I gave her a watch,” Fitz explains. “Like Elena’s. Told her how it works and everything. Don’t worry, it’s one of the prototypes, before all the booby traps and what have you.”

He paused for a moment and leans back to check the bench-top.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “It’s a prototype. Definitely.”

Fitz blows air out of his cheeks and puts his hands on the small of his back. The image is only augmented by the screamingly eccentric three-layered glasses that sit atop his head, for seeing detail – or in this case, for furthering the amusement of a small child. Daisy laughs.

“You know, I had Hunter pegged for the crazy hermit uncle but nope, it’s you.” She doesn’t know why she’d ever expected anything different, to be honest.

“I’d be honoured to share the title,” Fitz says, taking off the glasses and running a hand through his hair. He sighs and takes a seat, as if Bobbi Ann’s knocked the wind out of him. “That child is remarkable.”

Daisy feels her chest physically inflate, and remembers what she’d called Coulson earlier. Mother hen. She’s more of a mother lion, most of the time, but then, people don’t often approach her with such ego-inflating praise.

“Speaking of remarkable,” she says, after a few seconds of silent gloating, “Jemma showed me a pretty remarkable rock earlier today.”

Fitz shrugs modestly. “It’s not that big.”

“I didn’t say big, I said, holy shit my best friends are engaged.” She bats his shoulder. “You popped the question?”

Fitz grins like he’s thinking of a memory as well as of her.

“Yeah. Although, Jemma hinted pretty strongly first. I think she thought I’d be better at it, I just needed a bit of a kick in the pants to actually get on with it.”

“And was she right?”

“Of course.” He grins even wider now, because in acknowledging Jemma’s correctness about him being better at something, he’s also calling himself the same. “Roses, chocolates, the whole kit and caboodle. Under the stars, of course.”

And then he snaps out of the memory, and all of his attention is on Daisy.

“Please come,” he says, his tone urgent all of a sudden. “We haven’t set a date yet, but we really want you there. Please come.”

She thinks of life and normalcy and super powers and living underground, and of setting foot on the Bus with a cardboard box full of everything she owned in the world, and she smiles.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she assures him.

A crashing sound outside the door alerts them to another presence – a presence soon identified by the voice that follows.

“Alright, I’m back!”

Daisy and Fitz share a glance. Hunter.

“Where is the mini-Johnson? Where is that little lightning bug?”

He sees Daisy through the glass of the lab doors, his head and – along with it – his attention turning like a distracted dog. He bursts into the lab, beaming, and a shopping bag swings from each arm as he embraces her tightly so tightly she yelps in surprise.

“I got pop tarts,” he says. “And popcorn. And a little birdie tells me you’re a Red Vines girl, but I got Twizzlers too, just in case.”

“Did you get any actual food?” Daisy wonders.

“Why? Do you care?”

Daisy laughs as Hunter checks the bags as if he can’t remember if indeed he did buy anything that Jemma wouldn’t pull a face at.

“Oh! There’s eggs in that one. And spinach. See?”

They’re barely visible under a heap of Little Debbie snack cakes and Daisy rolls her eyes, but feels her heart warm.

“I’ll take it,” she says, and takes the bag from him too, and the three of them head for the kitchen. Bobbi Ann appears, with Lola tucked under her arm, and runs up to Daisy enthusiastically. Daisy lifts her, kisses her on the nose and places her on the counter.

“We’ve summoned her,” Hunter whispers to Fitz dramatically as Bobbi investigates the bags, and finds the Little Debbie. “The Johnson family in their natural habitat.”