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1kook · 4 years ago

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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.”

#bangtanhq #networkbangtan #namjoon smut #kim namjoon smut #namjoon fic #kim namjoon fic #knj fic #bts fic #bts smut #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x reader smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x reader smut #mine

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ruki--mukami · 2 years ago

Note

"ok, uhm.." they sat next to him and took a deep breath before starting.

"I'm a girl. Or maybe I'm not. The first time I breathed in that thought, I felt like I was far too old to be redifining myself, so I coughed it out like a stale cigaratte. after a long night of bad desicions, looked at my reflection and told myself, you're wrong. that night, I put on the prettiest dress I had and went out dancing. 'til I realized I was only skirting around my deepest fears. You see, everytime someone calls me "she", my stomach turns and my skin feels thick. Like someone raised a panic alarm in my brain. And with every "her" that gets hurled my way, I get turned around. I'm not lost, just.. never seem to have the right map. But see, I'm not trapped in a body I hate, just, wrapped in words that don't relate to the way skin feels on my bones. Or, the way that I only feel like home, when no one knows exactly where it is I am, so.. maybe I'm a man. Except I don't think thats right. Theres never been a fight like bar brawls through my veins telling myself I need to change. "him".. feels like a synonymous with someone else. "He", a chorus unto itself, and "him" just fits too loosely. so, maybe I'm not. Either, I mean. I go online to see, do you realize no one is buying this? Do you realize, I'm not selling myself short anymore? Because the first time I opened up the door to the possibility of being myself, I found a treasure map I left for myself back when I was a kid. When the only thing I was scared of loosing, was my sense of self. You see, I never thought we were speaking the same language, untill someone said "they" instead. So tell me I'm wrong, tell me I'm broken. Tell me I must hate myself so much to be the way I am. And I will tell you, I never knew what it was like to fly until I let myself breathe in. Finally found my map, you know? X marks the spot."

(this is not my poem, its from this short film! But I loved it so much and I'm nonbinary myself so I wanted Ruki's reaction to it.)

"How eloquently worded of you to compose such an emotionally-driven masterpiece. You've truly learned so much despite your short time alive, including things about yourself, too. It's a beautiful poem, my dear."

Not quite moved to the point of tears, although steadily approaching an all-encompassing bittersweet wave of sentiment, Ruki's steel-blues traveled from the paper to his child's face, gazing into their eyes before assuming a gentle closed-eye smile to signal that the poem satisfied him with a parental sense of accomplishment that any father should feel after witnessing that the one who lived and treaded an unforgiving world has finally obtained acceptance.

"Well, message aside, I do hope the point of the assignment was to write in free verse... Otherwise, I'm certain you will be docked some points for not maintaining . Kidding, of course. It's wonderful."

Stronger than what any poetry can express, the Vampire enclosed his arms around them, hugging his child tight enough to reach their once troubled heart. A heart fogged with the uncertainty of never being seen the same way they saw themselves, neither male nor female.

"Rather than criticism, I know full well that you seek an audience instead. People who will hear what you have to say, and see you for you. Not because you're trying to sell them a story they'll buy, but because you wish to be acknowledged. If you've finally learned to breathe before flying, then all your father to help you spread those wings and soar to new, unforeseen heights. Surely your teacher and classmates will understand—because we all live under the same sky."

Releasing his child from the embrace, Ruki placed both hands upon their shoulders in reassurance.

"Truth be told, there honestly may have been a time when I couldn't accept such a notion. My past self from eons ago in a world that was very much binary might have argued that people should just accept their birth sex as their identity. That's because I, myself, am what people would label cisgender as you have already surmised. Not to mention that I was raised to essentially become the head of my own household and family someday, given my aristocratic parents. Well, I say to hell with that."

As deeply engraved to the Vampire as those ancient ideologies were, happiness reigned supreme. Happiness for his family, for his children, forevermore.

"No matter what you identify as, I will always love and support you."

#diabolik lovers #ruki mukami #mukami ruki #ask #react #diabolik lovers rp #(( it's a very beautiful message. thank you for sharing it with me as well as others!! ))

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masterwords · 3 years ago

Text

Sleep's Open Window

Summary: Hotch was in a car accident at work and spends the entirety of Penelope's Murder Mystery Halloween Party on the couch with Madame Bouvier. He's had worse nights. (This is a little sad but it is mostly soft and fluff with a very sweet and hopeful ending.)

Warnings: Hotch's injuries are minor, just enough to keep him sitting in one place...a little alcohol, past abuse/case-related and Hotch...this is hurt/comfort and very very heavy on the comfort.

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 4.8k

Notes: Because the world needs more Madame Bouvier. This is a gift for my darling @hogwartstoalexandria. It got a little out of hand and might have also planted the seeds of at least two more stories about these new friends...but alas. I love you very much and I hope it's everything you wanted it to be. <3

Read on AO3: Sleep's Open Window

“Is it really a black-tie affair?” Aaron asked, shifting his hips to try and regain feeling in his legs. He'd been in one position too long. Derek had already made flippant comments about bed sores which gave him cause to inspect every bare inch of Aaron's flesh with undue intensity, as if three days were long enough for that. He was getting antsy, he just wanted Aaron back. Derek adjusted the lay of his tie and tidied his collar, barely listening.

“Guess so...” he muttered, leaning forward to inspect his mustache, noting the shocking eruption of silver. “Do I look okay?”

“Incredible.”

Derek turned around and smiled at the man lying there in one of his t-shirts because they were softer; he loved the way they draped around his thin frame and didn't get twisted up while he slept, so he claimed; Derek thought it was just him being overly sentimental. He didn't just want Derek's shirts, he wanted whatever shirt had been most recently discarded, unwashed and still smelling of sandalwood and vetiver, of the spiced delights that were so entirely Derek. Whatever it was, the soft tawny shade, the worn old v-neck that exposed the points of his collar bone, it was undeniably good. “You really want me to stuff you into one of these?”

“You said you weren't going to go if I didn't.” Aaron's voice was low, his speech carefully monotone so it didn't betray the pain that crept its way up his spine, tripping along wires so delicate. “I don't want you to miss it.”

“I said that I couldn't leave you alone just to go party,” Derek reminded him, sitting on the edge of the bed and scooting his legs slightly for more room. He patted Aaron's knee through layers of blankets, rubbed up and down his thigh. “I also said Penelope didn't expect me to come after what happened.”

What happened. A truck, a silver Toyota something or other (Spencer would tell you it was actually a white Chevrolet, but Aaron didn't believe it, he swore it was a Toyota) came flying out of nowhere to ram he and Cruz as they pursued a suspect down a stretch of rain drenched road in downtown D.C. The grill of the truck was tattooed on their SUV, the two vehicles became one in a horrific screech of twisting metal and shattering glass. Aaron was hyper aware of every movement in his body, every disc of vertebrae that shifted and compressed, every muscle that screamed as ligaments and tendons stretched to their limits and tore, every shard of glass embedding itself in his skin.

“Does she even want me there?” Aaron asked, blinking himself out of the memory. Every single time he closed his eyes, there was the sheet of rain on the windshield, the dripping glass settling against the dashboard, Cruz's thick, wet breaths as he called out to make sure Aaron was okay. In this case, they both figured, okay was relative...would they both survive? Yes. In fact, everyone survived the horrific ordeal, and the unsub was headed off by the local LEOs so aside from the lingering injury, the day had ultimately been a success. It still haunted him, the crush, the pain that trickled in slowly as the events unfolded in his mind.

“Don't be silly. Of course she does. You comin' or not?”

His back protested the movement, but he slid himself over the edge of the bed, feet flat on the plush carpet beneath. He wiggled his toes, set himself for a moment before allowing Derek to pull him up to standing; not even his immense pride could overcome his inability to perform this task on his own. A few days, they'd assured him, just a few days to get beyond the shock of the impact. He was impatient. Derek braced his lower back with one hand and eased him upright, it was so gentle and slow, he didn't force him to move faster than he was able and though Aaron doubted the truthfulness in the statement, Derek assured him that he was doing most of the work himself. He was only guiding and supporting. In this way, he could stand, and supported almost entirely against the other man he could put one foot in front of the other in some Mary Shelley mockery of walking and accomplish tasks. Getting into the suit felt wrong, it pulled and squeezed him in ways he wasn't prepared for, and he almost threw in the towel except for the expectant twinkle in Derek's eye. He was glad to see Aaron upright, to see him moving and taking interest in something other than sleeping for the first time in days. As Derek buttoned up his shirt and knotted his tie for him, Aaron pushed his fingertips to his thumbs, both hands working through mindless exercises to help regain strength, help fix damaged nerve endings.

“Did you tell her I was coming?”

Frustrated, Derek took Aaron's face in his hands, cupped his jaw and ran both thumbs along his treacherous lips.

“Stop. If you don't want to come, you don't have to. I'll still go. I'll leave you here alone. Just stop tryin' to get me to make the decision for you.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm just concerned that she won't want to see me. You know how she is when these things happen...”

He rode in the ambulance against his will. If Cruz hadn't been in the car with him, he would have talked his way out of it, and maybe it would have been a mistake, but he hated ambulance rides. Four hours in the county ER, an MRI without sedation that drove him to the brink of madness with panic at the noise, and a list of prescriptions and therapy appointments that made his head spin. The only question he thought to ask was how much work he'd have to miss, the answer to which he'd demanded be altered numerous times. “Six to eight weeks for a back injury like this,” one doctor told him as he finally consented to removing the cervical collar that made his chin itch and he scoffed...three, he could talk them down to three. “At least two weeks for a concussion this severe,” another had said, and he nodded, it wouldn't be a problem. “The stitches in your arms and hands should dissolve around days 10 to 14.” By the end of the day, he was settled on a maximum of three weeks come hell or high water.

Until Derek walked in and assured him that no matter what his plans were, he was there to foil every one of them. “How long, doc?” he'd asked, knowing full well Aaron had already been through this. He was on all of the paperwork; he had every right to ask and had all of the required privileges to get the answer. “Six to eight weeks, minimum. His back injury is not severe, but it can be dangerous. It has the potential, in a physical job like his, to worsen to the point that surgical intervention is required. If you follow my treatment plan, that's unlikely to happen.” Aaron sighed, throwing his bandaged arm over his face.

“You got it.”

“Traitor,” Aaron whispered when the doctor left, discharge papers in process. “I'm going to put Spencer on as my proxy. He wouldn't betray me like this.” Derek just smiled and sat beside him patiently waiting to take him home where the conversation would be revisited a number of times over the next six to eight weeks.

The first three days had been solid bed rest, and as much as he was inclined to fight it, his body wouldn't allow it. He couldn't bend at the waist, couldn't stand on his own for any length of time, every movement sent his back into such a spasm that tears instantly sprang to his eyes. He cried more over this back injury that they assured him wasn't severe than he had over what Foyet did to him, and maybe it was his age or maybe it was the fact that he couldn't sleep without Derek poking some kind of prescription sedative down his throat but after three days it was getting old. Jack was two hundred miles away with Jessica, a reprieve she'd begged for, so he didn't have to watch his father in recovery. It was taking a toll on the kid as he got older, and Aaron was glad for her foresight. He missed them both and did his best to follow doctor's orders to speed things along.

The prospect of Penelope's Halloween Murder Mystery Party normally would have repelled him, but it sounded like an escape that he needed even if it meant simply going and sitting on her couch and watching the party swirl around him. At least it was a change of scenery, and maybe if he was lucky, a distraction.

“Don't you get enough murder at work?” Derek asked as she opened the door and he looked her up and down in her slinky black dress that hurt his eyes. The sequins dazzled him, dancing in the flicker of the hall light and she did a dramatic turn, grinning for him without dignifying his question with an answer. Aaron leaned against him, he'd tried to walk on his own so he wouldn't worry her, but it was getting more difficult the longer they stood there, the longer his muscles were called to action. Instinctively, Derek slipped his arm around Aaron's waist and pressed his fingers into his hip, holding him tight and in place. As reassuring as it was protective at the sight of people inside, he didn't know, a room full of strange faces that he knew, on some level, wouldn't be threats but there was always that chance.

“It's good to see you, sir,” she whispered to Aaron, trying to focus on his face and not look at the gauze wrapped around his hands or the way he stood rigid and pinched. “I'm glad you came. I made you a spot...”

That didn't please him, but Derek pulled him inside anyway. “She made you a spot,” Derek repeated, a whisper against his ear. “Be nice.”

“I am nice.”

The couch was set with pillows and a blanket, and as sweet as it was, he could feel everyone's eyes on him; he wanted nothing more than to reverse time and decide not to come. Too late, he was in no condition to make a run for it, or even a slow walk of it, so he let Derek ease him down into the couch and fuss over where to put the pillows to support the ache in his back. They did their best, really, there wasn't much they could do. Sitting was agony, laying only moderately helped and he had no intention of doing that in the middle of a Halloween party. There wasn't much to be done. He watched as Penelope pulled Derek around the room, introducing him to all of her friends, it was worlds colliding and the knowing look in all of their eyes suggested that she spent a significant amount of time talking about Derek to everyone she knew. There was a throbbing at his temples, and he pressed his palm there briefly, relishing the brief release that the pressure gave. Occasionally she pulled friends to him, introduced him, gushed over him and then moved on. He found himself lost in a trance, dazzled by the way she floated around the room, her easy smile, the way everyone was cared for as if they were the guest of honor.

“I know you,” came a voice from behind him, but his neck was far too stiff to turn around, so he froze, sucked in a breath. “You do remember me don'tcha sweetheart?”

“I'm uh...” he started, blinking as the person made their way around the edge of the couch into his line of sight. He knew he looked stupid, staring at her like he was, but his mouth wouldn't work. His mind raced, piecing together brief moments in time, sheets of rain and glittering lights, a raven, a skull, her radiant smile and her kindness.

“He was in a car accident, Estelle,” Penelope said, handing Aaron a mug of tea. He held it between his palms, let it rest against his thigh and thanked her quietly. “He might need a refresher.”

“No...” he whispered, blinking owlishly up at them both. He had a dazed look about him that made Penelope uncomfortable. “I'm sorry, no, I just realized how rude it was of me not to ask your first name when we met.”

Penelope and Madame Bouvier...Estelle...laughed at that, and Penelope made her exit, beckoned from the kitchen to open another bottle of wine.

“You never came back for that palm reading,” she said, patting him on the leg after sitting a comfortable distance away from him. He found the proximity enchanting, stretched himself in order to hear her over the din of the music and chattering voices around them. “I thought for sure I'd see you again. I'm not usually wrong about people.” He nodded, sipping the hot tea slowly. It warmed him through in such a way that he felt relaxed, truly relaxed, and he extended his bandaged hand to her shamefully.

“I'm afraid now isn't a good time.”

“Well, you've got two, don't you?” She slid a little closer, as if called by some invisible force to be near him, to speak clearly and a little louder than she normally would. He froze momentarily, feeling a distinctly unnerving vulnerability, though it didn't make him as uncomfortable as he was simply confused.

He set the tea down and held his other hand up a little sheepishly, it was stitched and bandaged as well, just slightly less. Where his left hand was covered in thick gauze and mostly useless, the right just had skin colored adhesive bandages covering most of his palm. Still, she took both of his hands in hers and ran her thumbs along the bandages, closing her eyes and counting the stitches she could feel beneath. “Oh, honey,” she whispered. “Another time I suppose. I'm a patient woman.”

Both of them seemed to miss the game starting, deep in conversation, his hands still inexplicably nestled in hers. Aaron lost track of what he said moment after saying it; he found it easy to talk with Estelle. Too easy. The painkillers coursing through his system didn't help, everything felt surreal. When the first couple of people came by to ask Estelle questions, make small talk, they realized the game had begun and whispered quietly among themselves. An alliance was formed, and though Derek had forbidden him to do anything that would get him excited or stressed out, he decided that this wasn't violating any rules. He'd be observing from the couch, sitting quietly, not really involved just being friendly...if there was a little competition involved, it was mostly unintentional. There was no rule against friendliness.

There was, however, one very distinct rule that everyone do their own sleuthing and perhaps the two of them were breaking that one just a little.

“CHEATING!” Penelope cried as she caught him nodding covertly toward the person they'd both deduced to be the killer. “A profiler helping a psychic! CHEATING! DEREK! THEY'RE CHEATING!” She was laughing more than anything, though, lost in the hysterics of the ridiculous string of words flying out of her mouth. In truth, she was glad he was participating, overjoyed at the devious smile on his face...she just didn't love that they were so good at it. Aaron just shrugged innocently when Derek glanced his way.

“You can't do that to her,” Derek said, sitting down beside Aaron who fell so quickly into his embrace, like he'd been waiting all night for such a thing. He rested his cheek against Derek's shoulder, weary and ready to sleep. “She's gonna have an aneurysm.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I was bored. Estelle helped.”

“You two seem like you're getting on pretty well...” Aaron nodded, cheek sliding along the slick fabric of Derek's suit, and he smiled.

“She's nice.”

They sat, long after Derek got up and moved back into the crush of the party. Estelle was rather done with the entire thing, opting to stay on the couch and visit with Aaron who looked like he could use some company. The further the night moved, the more uncomfortable he got; his entire lower body was wracked with pain. It was creeping through the fog of the drugs, and he either needed to sleep or ask Derek to slip him another dose, neither of which he was particularly keen on. Estelle watched and waited, thinking he might ask if he could move, lie down, get comfortable. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to make a sound, she took it upon herself to offer.

“Lie down,” she said, patting her thigh with a smile. “I don't bite...unless you want me to. This couch is plenty big for the both of us, even if you are a gentle giant.”

She reached out and helped him shift into place, stiff movements that to a healthy body would have been effortless and mindless but seemed to exhaust him. She thought back to the night they'd first met, how trim and athletic he seemed, and to see him like this...she understood why Penelope doted on him, why she kept bringing him tea and offering her heating pads or ice packs, anything to ease the discomfort he wouldn't vocalize. She eased him down until his cheek rested against her thigh and he was suddenly and completely engulfed in her intoxicating scent. How he hadn't picked it up before, he wasn't sure, but he was drowning in it now. Bergamot, spiced with warm patchouli, crisp clary sage and something else he couldn't quite place. It was sweet and floral, right at the tip of his tongue but it eluded him. Before he could place it, her hand was in his hair, fingers tripping delicately through the unruly mop. Derek had, to his credit, attempted to tame it but there was nothing he could do.

“Penelope thinks the world of you,” she said, watching the way Penelope and Derek set up the next game and poured more drinks. He was attached to her hip, his arms draped around her, lavishing her with attention. Aaron noted, with some sadness, that Derek had been nursing the same glass of deep red wine all night. He had to drive, he couldn't let go, couldn't have fun.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, his eyes fluttering closed as a spasm took him by surprise. He clenched his fists at his sides and his breathing, though he tried to disguise it, became labored and slow, adam's apple bobbing up and down as he gulped down waves of nausea that accompanied the pain. Fingers brushed delicate lines up and down his cheek, to his jaw and back to his temple, the slow and steady rhythm drawing him in easily. He focused there, tried to ignore the rest.

“I've known her a long time, and in all those years no one has ever been good enough for Derek Morgan...believe me, honey, I tried and tried to get her to set us up...” Her voice trailed off wistfully and he frowned, it didn't make sense. Her words floated through his mind unfounded and unconnected to reality. Of course Penelope wouldn't say anything, he was her boss, it wasn't fair. He opened his mouth to say as much but found himself wracked again with the pain as it coursed up and down his spine. “No use in arguing, what's done is done. She was right, you know...you're good for him.”

“That can't be right,” he finally managed through clenched teeth, and she chuckled, went back to rubbing his head, slow methodical movements until he slowly emerged from the spasm.

“When was the last time you slept?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject. She wouldn't indulge his self-deprecation.

“I'm sleeping...” he argued, a little indignantly. Maybe it was medicated, but he was sleeping. She laughed.

“They got you on all sorts of pills huh sweetie? For the pain, for the sleeping, for everything?” He shrugged and let his eyes drift shut again, lulled by the dance of her fingers against his scalp. The lights were starting to hurt his head. “Well, I hope it's all helping. I know that beefcake of yours is doin' his best, I'm glad I could help out a little tonight so he could cut loose...”

Aaron frowned, didn't care for the insinuation that he needed babysitting and she noted the change in his features and laughed again; he was too serious, needed to lighten up. Her laugh, like her scent, was intoxicating and he could feel it light up his insides with warmth. “Cool down now, I didn't mean anything by it, just an observation. That man...he doesn't let you out of his sight very often, you know that? Every place he stands, he makes sure he puts eyes on you. He hasn't been anywhere he couldn't see you.”

“Chamomile...” he whispered, a dreamy smile drifting over his face.

“What's that now?”

“You smell like...chamomile...”

He fell asleep after that, and while Derek kept a keen eye on them, Estelle assured him that he should continue having a good time until he was ready to leave. She didn't need to go anywhere; she was having a great time where she was. Aaron woke occasionally and blinked up at her with the oddest sensation that as she touched his head, she was touching his dreams and he wanted so badly to keep them good for her. To keep them sweet, but they always slipped away from him. His coin collection came to him, gleaming treasure pulled from beneath his bed in its secret hiding place. A binder full of tiny plastic pouches for him to seal away his precious coins, detailing and cataloging them in his very best, neatest handwriting. Some of them were worth a lot of money, lucky finds, while others were only interesting to him...his father had rolled his eyes and called him sentimental. “The point is that the coins are worth something,” he'd muttered, flipping through the pages Aaron had proudly displayed for him. “What's this one here for?” “It's from the year I was born,” he'd replied triumphantly, and his father scoffed. There were pennies with strange dents or odd stains, quarters that had been scarred by use and were worthless except to him. The dream, save for his father's grunting at times, began happily and boyish but turned on him...he was crying, face a sticky mess of salty tears as his father handed over his entire collection to the owner of a local pawn shop. If they'd needed the money he would gladly have handed over ever last coin but that wasn't it, and even as a boy he knew it was only spite. The shop owner tried to talk him out of it. “It's worth more to the kid than it is me, Arthur,” he begged, at least that's how it went in the dream. Aaron was crying so hard he couldn't remember how it went in reality and it didn't matter much, this couldn't be any worse. The dream felt fuzzy and surreal, softer than shadow. “I can give ya fifty bucks but that's stretchin' it.” And when his father told him not to bother, just to take it, he bit into his lip and tried to stifle the rest of the flood of tears. “Dump it all in the cash register, it's money ain't it?” He couldn't remember what he'd done to deserve it, must've been something bad. Atrocious.

He tried to turn over, to pull himself out of the dream and felt Estelle's hand on his forehead. It was warm, soft, and he was reminded that he was grown and living his own life, and even if his back hurt enough to take his breath away...he was here. Not there.

Estelle rubbed her thumb over the worry lines, smoothed them from between his brow, lulled him back under with soft humming. He could feel the vibrations in the couch beneath him, it sounded bluesy and rich but hopeful, some magic that he couldn't understand was keeping him just out of reach. Maybe it was Estelle, maybe it was the concussion, he had no way of knowing but he couldn't fight it. When he surfaced again, he was in Mary Bidwell's living room, one year ago. He stood in the shadows listening to her, absorbing her grief, her anger, her desperation...the intense love she had for a son who was a monster. She was talking about horrors: trunks and fireplace pokers, his thoughts became deafening. He shouldn't have been thinking them, he knew that...but she talked about how much blood there was, and he knew he should be thinking two, three steps ahead...this is a case, it isn't personal...but his thoughts were consumed by only one thing: why hadn't his mother loved him enough to do what Mary Bidwell had done? It plagued him for weeks after, that little inkling that he chalked up to greed, that he somehow deserved more than he'd gotten. Didn't he have enough? But the dream, in the dream she looked at him and she smiled, and she acknowledged his thought with a wink. It startled him.

He slept sound through the rest of the party, Derek crouched before him every so often just to see. He couldn't believe it. Aaron could smell his breath, warm with rich red wine and something spiced, Garcia's snickerdoodles probably.

At home, just before sunrise, they settled into bed. Aaron couldn't close his eyes again and Derek was exhausted and irritated. He'd slept so easily at the party and with tears of frustration in his eyes he asked Derek to just give him a pill so they could stop...he didn't want it but he also didn't want a fight. He spoke nonsense, mumbled about dreams that felt so far away and Estelle's shop, he felt he knew it inside and out which was funny, he'd only been there twice but it was as if the dusty old trinkets and apothecary jars and crumbling bones were a part of him now. “She told me she had something for my back...” he mumbled, and Derek groaned and told him to shut up, begged him to keep the words to himself.

They slept until lunch time, until coffee seemed wrong but they both needed it. Derek was woken by a knock on the door, and he padded down the hallway and peered out onto the empty front porch to find only a small package. Just a little box wrapped in wrinkled, soft brown paper with a sprig of dried chamomile taped to the top. He frowned, looked down the street both directions and saw no one, not a postal truck, not someone walking their dog...it was silent.

“This came for you,” Derek said, dropping the box onto the table in front of Aaron as he stared lost into the abyss of his coffee cup. He frowned and sniffed the flower, knew it instantly and tore at the paper with careful fingers. Inside was a small card that said, “Happy Birthday” sitting atop a mason jar that read “Derek Morgan will know what to do with this” and as he lifted it out to open the lid and breathe in the scent of eucalyptus and camphor, his eyes lighted on something small that had been nestled beneath the salve for his back. A clear plastic cube that would fit into his palm, nearly hidden in the mess of crumpled newspaper scraps. Navy blue crushed velvet, worn at the edges, cradled a coin that Aaron could scarcely believe he was holding in his hands.

“That a penny in a box?” Derek asked, setting a mug of hot coffee at his own spot. Aaron turned the box over in his fingers reverently.

“This is a 1944 steel Lincoln Wheat Penny...” he whispered, like saying it too loud might make it disappear, prove that this, too, was a dream. He couldn't remember ever mentioning it to her, or anyone, but here it was as if manifested by his dream itself. The desire of a young boy for whom the world still held wonder and joy.

“Huh. So... it's a penny in a box? Cool...”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #mortch #criminal minds fanfiction #madame bouvier #hotchocolate #kindred apricots

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kinsurou · 4 years ago

Text

Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned

Pairings: Dabi x Reader

Word count: 6.8k

Warnings: Smut, Incubus!Dabi, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, slight hypnosis, horror elements, sex in a church.

Ever since you were a child, something about that church always got under your skin. Being inside that old building always left a fallacious sentiment. No matter the days, months, or years that were spent performing church service with your whole family.

Every time your younger self would attempt saying something about it to an adult, they would always brush off the child pulling on the ends of their shirt with trembling hands and wobbly pouts.

In the eyes of the adults, you were just a child with plenty of imagination.

And your nana's words never helped either.

For "Nothing bad can ever linger in the house of God."

That was back when you were 18. It was the last time you mentioned anything about that eerie feeling. As well as the last time you stepped inside that church, much to your parent's disappointment.

Now...Five years later, you faced the same house where you grew up, while carrying a suitcase in hand. And a huge, resentful scowl twisting your sceptical face.

Your parents had begged you to come home for the holidays. The same parents who didn't hesitate when they turned their backs on their daughter, after she tore the rosary off her neck.

Had it not been for your nana's decaying health, you would have never come back in the first place. But the elder woman could leave this world any moment now, and she begged to see her granddaughter one more time.

Having dinner with a bunch of people who did nothing but judge your every move was detestable. From your clothes, to your hair, to your studies, everything seemed wrong in their judgemental, hypocrite eyes. It became downright awkward, when you did not keep your thoughts to yourself.

No longer were you the little girl they could carelessly brush off. But that didn't mean you were the golden child either. And frankly, you wouldn't have it any other way.

The only thing you wish could actually change, were the everlasting tremors you felt each time you passed by that old church. Three blocks away from your parent's home. The same church you could watch every single night, through the window of your childhood room.

Just gazing at that building was enough to feel those tremors all over again. You thought the feeling would disappear as you grew older. That maybe, just maybe, your family's words were true.

If only they knew how wrong they truly were...

That night, as you laid in bed, something bizarre happened. You were used to fall asleep at midnight, allowing the soothing melody of the crickets to lure you into a peaceful slumber.But this specific night, something was off. You had fallen asleep at the same time as always, but not to the regular, dreamless night.

But to someone calling out for you. A deep, raspy voice, kept calling your name, and although unable to comprehend the language, somehow, you could understand what it wanted.

Come to me...

The instant your eyes stirred open, a thick and heavy fog made its way deep inside your head, clouding each and every of your thoughts. Except for that urge to follow the voice.

With stupor glazed eyes and a mindless stare, you peeled the blankets off your body and rose up from the bed. No one noticed you walking to the front door, for they were all resting deeply.

Hurry...

The front door was easily opened. This neighborhood was one of the quietest and safest places around, so the need to lock the house at night was unnecessary.

Each step led you down a certain path. You were uncertain where, but that voice most certainly did, as it guided you through the dark and empty streets without much of a struggle.

Had anyone seen you outside this late at night, with an empty look in those usually bright eyes, they would have thought you were just sleepwalking and ended up outside.

Not even the aching in your feet, from stepping over sticks and stones was enough to wake you up. Whatever hold that voice had in your mind was stronger than the feeling of stone digging under your bare feet.

You couldn't even tell how much time had passed, but eventually you reached the place where this voice kept dragging you to. Away from the comfort of you plush, albeit small bed.

An old door with elegant, yet subtle carvings all over its surface, currently blocked the path that lead towards the alluring hum, demanding your presence.

With the strength of your whole body, the door opened effortlessly, allowing you to step inside.

Come.

The moment you stumbled inside, the voice calling out, had a drastic change. The most prominent of them all, was the clarity behind each and every word.

This time, you were able to understand it all.

Come closer, little one...

Once again, your legs moved on their own. Following after the strong, magnetic like feeling that kept on pulling you forwards, like a moth entranced by a radiant flame.

Something changed through your surroundings in an instant. The door slammed itself closed with a tremendous force, rattling the whole building with overwhelming magnitude.

You didn't know what did it, but that chain of events created an uproar, startling you out of that trance, and immediately dissipated the foggy sensation deeply fixated inside your head.

And once your head became clear, nothing but worry began swirling inside your head, accompanied by that very same quivers that went down your spine ever since you turned 18.

Because, you were standing right in front of an all too familiar altar, one inside the very same church that you've come to despise over the years.

Worry began brewing inside you at an exorbitant rate. That horrible sensation of something dark and hostile lurking around the corridors began increasing by the second. Bile threatening to crawl its way up your throat the more you stayed in place.

You had to leave this place, now.

Or at least that was the idea, but no matter how much you tried to open those vast doors trapping you inside, neither of them budged in the slightest. How in the world did they get locked in the first place? The priest had always made it clear that the church's doors should always remain open.

This wasn't normal, at all.

Neither this, or the sudden heath drapped over your back that sent chills down your body, could be considered normal.

"Took you long enough."

The same deep, raspy voice from before, was coming from behind, Sending chill through your body. There was no doubt in your head, that whoever kept calling out for you, and the person standing behind you, were one and the same individual.

"Why don't you turn around, so I can finally see that pretty face of yours?"

A slim hand made its way up your shoulder. Long, sharp claws toyed around with the thin strap of your tank top, making their way under the thin fabric to drag themselves over the soft skin of your shoulder.

Even if you wanted to follow said command, it was nearly impossible to do so when your whole body was frozen in fright.

Carefully, your head turned to the side, just enough to take a small glimpse of this...man? Slowly, your body turned around, and you finally saw the one responsible of bringing you here.

A man stood before you, or at least, you thought he was a human male at first. Had it not been for the long pair of horns on his head, slightly angled down before circling all the way to the back of his skull.

That was just one of the few things about him that caught your eye.

The second thing, was that despite the cold, harsh breeze inside the building, his chest was bare from any clothing, and the only thing that covered this man's psyche was a pair of black, leather pants.

Even his feet were bare, which by the way, also presented the same sharp, black claws as the ones on his hands.

But if that wasn't enough, the last thing you noticed was his scars.

Nearly his whole body was covered with charred skin, holding on to his body by the metallic stitches that retained everything together. A knot could be felt in your stomach when you saw his face.

Those very same scars and stitches, were also over the lower half of his face, and right under his eyes as well. That mesmerizing pair of teal colored eyes of his, that you could almost swear glowed in the dark, calling out for your soul.

He slowly advanced towards you with a long stride, but for every step he took forward, you took one backwards, trying to maintain as much distance between you and him as possible.

Or at least, that was the idea.

Which came crashing down when you felt that cursed door stopping you from going anywhere. He just smirked lazily when he saw the fear inside your eyes, as you turned to glare nervously at the dreaded piece of wood.

"Going somewhere, little one?" One of his hands came up to play with a lock of your hair. When his knuckles brushed against your cheek, some kind of energy racked your head momentarily. It was like an electric shock that sent your brain into a haze. Almost like an instinct, your head tried leaning towards his hand, yearning for more that feeling.

He took a sharp breath and closed his eyes. Judging by his behaviour, he felt something similar. And when he opened them again, you could have sworn his pupils had turned into slits.

"Who would have thought, that after all this time," His eyes wandered all over your body. "You would be coming back? Must be my lucky day."

The same fog that dragged you all the way here came back with force, slowly clouding all of your thoughts like it did before.

It wasn't until he leaned towards your much smaller frame, that you were able to snap out of it. Especially when you felt his breathing ghost over your neck. Blissfully inhaling your scent.

His hum of approval was all the answer you received. But his words were what made you feel real panic.

"You smell so good, so much different from other humans." One of his hands rested on your hip, just above the fabric covering your body. "You'll be a perfect vessel."

...Vessel...?

He pushed himself closer, trapping you against the door. And started kissing softly at the skin all over the side of your neck, before leaving a trail down your collarbone, causing another surge of electricity to rattle your body from head to toe.

The feeling of sharp fangs grazing your skin startled you. Frantically, your eyes went all over the place, eventually landing back on the man...no, on the creature in front of you, purring, nipping and peppering your chest with his lips.

That same feeling of dread triggered your fight or flight instincts. And with shaky arms you mustered as much of your strength, pushing the demon away with a shriek. And before he had a chance to lay his hands on you one more time, you had already escaped from him.

Even he was caught off guard by the push, staggering back with surprised eyes, that slowly became darker. Like those of a starved animal, ready to pounce on his next meal.

In the meantime, you had escaped towards the back of the church. Running away and hoping to find another way out of this damned place.

"I always knew there was something wrong about this place! But did anyone ever listen?! Noooo!" Even as a mere whisper, your voice echoed through the halls. You had to cover your mouth in order to hold back a yelp, when something was violently slammed against the walls.

Tears began filling your eyes as soon as you heard an approaching pair of footsteps. His voice kept getting louder the closer he got.

"Thought I scared you off for good. But you're a big girl now, aren't you?!"

He shouted bitterly, footsteps becoming erratic.

Somehow you managed to avoid him, and ran all the way back to one of the utility closets at the back of the halls. Carefully, you opened the first door that came into view and hid inside the small space.

Hiding between cleaning supplies was never a good idea, but you had no other choice, unless allowing this thing to slaughter you was one of them.

Teardrops became dangerously close to spill when you heard his voice getting closer. The louder his footsteps became, the longer you tried to hold in your breath from the absolute terror you felt.

"I've been watching you for a long time, y'know?" His voice was different this time, calmer, confident, but his frustration was still evident. "Ever since you turned into a grown woman. I could tell there was something different about you!"

Something was once again thrown into a wall, a loud crack could be heard from the wood of whatever he had thrown this time.

"And when you took off that fucking rosary?! I could feel it, I just knew you had something special!"

His footsteps became louder, a warning of just how close he came to your hiding spot. You've never felt this terrified in your life, watching his shadow become bigger the closer he got...But then, he just walked past the door, without even bothering to look back.

When he walked around the corner, you opened the door with care, afraid that the slightest of creaks could alert him of your presence.

And then, you dashed back towards the main entrance.

The fear rushing through your veins kept pushing you, telling you to hurry up and get out of this place. And as soon as you were out of this building you would go to your parent's house to take your stuff and never come back again. All those years you were right, but nobody bothered to listen.

Much to your dismay, the main doors didn't budge in the slightest. Out of frustration, your fist slammed against the wood, the sound echoed loudly all around the place. And your blood went cold when you heard him approaching.

Hiding in the same place as before was not an option, and in a desperate measure, you ran toward the altar at the front, pulling the cloth and crouching down to hide underneath.

It was such a small spot, that you had to pull your knees close to your chest in order to fit in. Your whole body trembled with fear. More so when his presence could be felt as soon as he came into the main halls.

"Where are you, little one? I promise you won't get hurt." The tone of his voice was not reassuring.

You may have turned your back on the church all those years ago. But in that moment, you couldn't help praying to God for your safety. So with your eyes closed and hands intertwined together. You began chanting the very same prayer, strictly inculcated in your family for generations.

Our Father,

Who art in heavan,

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come,

Thy will be done on earth

as it is in Heavan

Give us this day our daily bread,

And forgive our trespasses

as we forgive those

Who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil.

"Amen/Amen."

Your whole body broke into a cold swear. And when you felt a cold breeze brush against your trembling body, the thought of opening your eyes made your heart pound harshly against your ribcage, so harshly, it could be heard resonating through the small space you were currently hiding in.

Slowly, slowly turning sideways. The sight in front of you drew out a blood curling scream. The pristine cloth of the altar had been pulled to the side.

And he was crouching down in front of you, with a deep, desperate hunger in those feral eyes of his, completely engulfed into nothing but pitch-black. The feral grin on his face sealing your fate in an instant.

"God can't help you now."

You were dragged out from under the altar by the ankle. Struggling, kicking, and begging for him to release you, but each and every word fell on deaf, pointed ears as his body hovered above yours, trapping you between the carpeted floor and his lean body.

Upon closer inspection, it was clear something was wrong with him. The patches of non-burned skin looked sickly pale, like he hadn't been able to eat, or sleep for a long time...Were demons able of sleep in the first place?

"Please...Don't hurt me..." He ignored your pleading whimpers, observing with half-closed eyes as you became closer to burst into tears. The moment the small, salty droplets ran down the corners of your eyes, he leaned down, and kissed them away with a softness that left you paralyzed.

No longer was he behaving as the same creature slamming pews against the walls in a fit of rage. It was almost like a switch had been flipped, and somebody completely different had taken his place.

"You really think, that I'd do something to hurt my precious vessel?" His palm caressed the side of your face. The touch of his skin was electrifying against your own, sending goosebumps through your whole body.

"I'm not going to hurt you, so just relax your pretty little body, and allow your master to take care of you."

He leaned down once again, this time whispering in your ear with that mesmerizing voice of his.

"The name's Dabi, you better remember that name when it's time to worship you master's cock." He growled eagerly into your ear.

All those year he could only watch from afar. Now that you were back, Dabi finally had you right where he wanted you.

He would not let this chance go to waste.

Once again, Dabi started out by kissing your neck, and he had to admit, those gasps were like heavenly music to his ears, as ironic as it sounded.

His black claws started to become longer, and sharper. They made quick work of your shirt, dragging themselves all over the fabric and tearing the thin cotton tank top to nothing but shreds, causing the cold air inside the church to hit your nipples with full force. Even during the hottest time of the year, the inside of the building always felt cold.

Dabi ignored your shivering. Kissing and nipping all the way down from your neck, to the skin of your chest, leaving a small trail of bites on his path. His lips reached down the plush skin of your belly. The cold inside the building could barely be felt from the warmth he made you feel.

Panic overtook your senses when his hands went to the hem of your shorts, finger hooking into the fabric as he attempted to pull them down.

"W-Wait!" You yelled out with hesitation, afraid that your words could end up with a raging demon bringing your demise. But it would probably be worse if he found out on his own, right?

"I'm not...I'm not a virgin!" He stopped immediately, and for a minute you saw your life pass before your eyes.

A low, sarcastic laughter was the only thing he answered with. When you looked at him, Dabi's shoulders were shaking, and he couldn't stop laughing.

"You think that's the only thing demons care about?" You gasped once again, when the remains of your clothes were suddenly torn to shred for the second time, leaving you completely bare to the creature kneeling before you, who took in the sight of your every curve with a famished glint in his eyes.

"Virgins are overrated. Innocence? Purity? Tch." He scoffed in mockery. "Wanna know a secret, little one? Sometimes, the people who claim to be the purest, are actually the worst of them all."

He pulled your legs apart, chest grumbling in satisfaction at the sight of your bare sex present before him. And when your hands went down to attempt covering you body, he just growled, trapping them both by the wrist. Claws digging slightly into the skin, just enough to leave small traces of pain.

"Don't you ever, hide yourself from your master." He growled, slowly releasing your hands, and when you made no other attempts to hide yourself, he retook his proper place in between those exquisite legs.

"And don't think acting all shy will let you off so easily. I can tell just by your scent, just how many people you've laid under the sheets with. I must say, you have experience."

Dabi had to say, that watching your face flushing that harshly, was a sight he'd treasure for all of his eternal life.

Dabi spent centuries trapped inside this damn church, without a single chance to satiate his hunger. Watching people come and go inside the building to confess their sins, hoping the act would save them from the hellfire awaiting for them.

He could say, this was a nice change of scenario.

"Do you need a sin for your next confessional?" The warmth of his breath fanned over your core, and the high pitched squeak coming out through parted lips did nothing but increase his appetite. "'Cause I've got a few in mind I'd like to try with you."

As ironic as it sounded, Dabi almost wanted to thank the heavens. Given that your scent was already addicting, but the moment he dived down, finally getting a taste of your body? He became addicted it.

Addicted enough, to begin devouring you with nothing but pure desperation. Drawing out a breathless moan from you. Nothing but overwhelming pleasure shot through your body from every stroke of that forked tongue against your soaked folds.

"You taste so good." He pulled away for a second, watching your eyes closed shut, the dark flush across your cheeks and the way your breathing came out in heavy puffs of air. "Even better than the finest of wines."

Your arms wouldn't stop roaming, looking for something, anything to cling on of dear life as Dabi continued lapping your glistening core, with nothing but pure vigor in those long, sensual strokes.

And you only hoped it wouldn't anger the demon when you pulled on his hair. As terrified -and aroused- as you felt, the desperation to grab on to something for dear life was stronger than self restrain.

Dabi's reaction was far from expected. His strokes became fiercer, the soft muscle pushing its way inside. Savoring the taste of those velvet walls that coated his jaw with their sweet essence.

Centuries had passed since the last time he fed, and now that he had the chance, Dabi would not let such an exquisite meal go to waste.

You couldn't understand, why did it felt so different from other times? something about the way he devoured you, was too different from your previous partners. It was so good, so addicting, and you couldn't get enough of it.

Your hips buckled against him, a warm feeling began crawling all over your body the more he kept his head in between your legs. And when his thumb went to caress your clit, that feeling began getting stronger.

"Ah!...Dabi, please...!" Your hips buckled against his face, and were quickly brought down by his hands, and a snarl that froze you in place.

"You're interrupting my meal, little one. Stay still, and maybe your master will be generous enough to let you cum."

As soon as you went quiet, Dabi continued where he left off. Each slurp just kept making even warmer on the inside. And when he pulled away to suckle on your swollen clit. It felt like an explosion, nothing but one of the sharpest bursts of pleasure ran through your lower regions, shortly followed by a loud scream and your back arching from the sweet release.

"You're such a filthy little thing." Dabi wiped his chin with the back of his hand. A satisfied grin on his face as he waited for you to regain your breath. "But this was just an appetizer. Now, get ready for the main course."

Everything around was like a blurr, the only thing you recognized was the silhouette of the demon before you. Something felt different around him. That feeling that brought terror upon you disappeared, and when you finally looked at him with clarity, something was different.

That sick complexion of his was gone. Pale skin regaining a healthy looking color, and his eyes became clear from that feral like state.

You didn't have time to ask, as he took you by the wrists, tugging you slightly without much of an effort. And positioned you both in a way, that he was laying down on the floor, while your sat down on his lap.

Looking down between your bodies -When did he take his pants off?!-, the sight of his erect member was definitely a sight to remember...

For starters, his head was modestly pointed, followed by a trail of ridges all the way to the base, and not just that...It was huge.

You may not be a virgin. But how the hell was that going to fit in?

"Like what you see?" Even his attitude had changed, now he wouldn't stop teasing, at the same time he took a hold of your hips. His hands dragged your body back and forth, grinding your lower lips against him with leisurely gestures. The friction, along with how sensitive you were from your previous orgasm, turned you into a whiny mess for the second time that night.

"I'm going to ruin you so bad. Nobody, and i mean NOBODY, will ever be able to satisfy you. Not like your master."

Slowly, he lifted up your hips, before pulling you back down, slamming his girth deep inside your throbbing cunt until the base of his length was pressing against your clit.

You screamed in bewilderment. Amazed by the way Dabi made you feel as he buried himself deeply inside of you. The way your insides stretched, adjusting themselves to his size, and the friction from every ridge of his girth was absolutely marvelous. It was like a fire consuming you from the inside. It was hot, so hot that it could burn, and you wanted more.

"What's wrong, little one?" Dabi grunted in satisfaction, loving the dazed look in your eyes from the slightest of movements. His hands guiding your hips back and forth with a quick pace. "Enjoying your master's cock?"

"Ah!...Y-Yes!...I love my master's c-cock!" You yelled out, leaning forward to rest your hands on his chest, head tilted back with pure euphoria on your face as Dabi had his way with your body.

He had to admit it, you really were perfect. And there'd be no way he'd let you walk away once he was done with you.

"Then prove it, show me how much you love to be fucked by your master! Worship his cock like your life depended on it!"

Obeying his every command, you began moving on top of him. When Dabi said he'd ruin you, he was serious. Nothing you've ever done before came remotely close to what he made you feel in that moment.

Each and every of his thrusts was powerful enough to make you see stars. With every thrust, his head brushed against the deepest corners of your sloppy insides, easily kissing your womb.

A part of you felt ashamed of your actions. You were riding a demon's cock in the very same place where your parents got married. The very same place where they baptized you.

Many sins were committed during your life, but this? This was definitely a sentence to hell.

"Oh...Oh God!" Your eyes widened in bliss, wandering all around the walls of the church. In the midst of it all, you realized Dabi had positioned you both, in a way that you sat right in front of the statue of the lord. It almost made it seem as if the lord himself, was judging your actions with nothing but a disgraceful eye.

Dabi let out one of the darkest chuckles you've ever heard. Dark enough to make every hair in your body stand.

"God won't hear you now, little one. But the devil will"

In the blink of an eye, he was sitting up. Embracing your waist with a deathly grip. His already rough pace became downright barbaric, so much that it started hurting, but it hurt so fucking good.

The feeling of another climax rattled your thoughts. Everything around you became a blur from the upcoming high. Dabi felt it, and knew he had to get it done fast, it was the perfect chance, and there was no way he would let it go to waste.

"You're getting close, little one. Aren't you?" He pulled your body closer to him, into the suffocating waves of heat. Your wrapped your own arms around his heck, and held him closer to yourself, running your nails along his scalp in the process, which made him purr in enjoyment.

For a minute, you could have sworn you saw something akin to a blue flame coming to life around him. "Do it my pet, come for your master. And lend your soul to me."

His mouth latched on your neck, tongue running circles around the soft skin, looking for a certain spot. And when he found just the right place, his fangs bit down harshly. Right at the same time your climax overtook your senses.

All you could do was scream as you felt him tear on the skin with those sharp fangs of his. A warm, sticky sensation ran down your shoulder all the way to your chest. Followed by a scorching pain.

The smell of copper and smoke became intoxicating as Dabi's body trembled, and then he let out an earth shaking roar as he came. Filling your womb with rope after rope of scalding, hot cum.

Exhaustion took over your limp, shaking body. As much as you tried to move, even attempting to lift a finger was considered impossible.

Dabi planted a small, tender kiss on the spot where he sunk his fangs less than a minute ago. During that time, your sweat covered bodies clung to eachother's, still yearning for much craved contact, all while trying to catch your breath.

When he pulled away, Dabi admired his work as the bite he left on your neck glowed brightly, before dying down and leaving behind a beautiful, burgundy mark.

Finally, after so many years trapped in this goddamn place, he finally had a vessel. Now, he could leave once and for all.

Dabi carefully pulled away, watching his seed run down your shaky legs with every little throb of that delicious, little hole of yours. If claiming a vessel wasn't that draining to begin with, he'd definitely fuck you again.

"You, are perfect." He carried your passed out self in his arms. Taking you all the way to one of the pews, where he laid you down softly on the wooden surface. One of his hands brushed a loose strand of hair back into its proper place. "I'll see you soon, little one."

Taking one last look at his sleeping vessel, Dabi turned on his feet and walked to the church's entrance. As soon as he got closer, the door opened gracefully on its own.

For the first time in centuries, he was finally able to leave his prison. And with a deep breath of relief and a serene smile, Dabi walked away from the church, disappearing into the dark depths of the night.

......

"...W...up....Wa...ke...Wake up.." Someone kept calling out your name.

Slowly, your eyelids stirred open, and the first thing you saw was a black cassock coming into view, accompanied by the worried face of a middle-aged man you've known since childhood.

What was father August doing in your room?

"Thank god, you're finally awake. What are you doing sleeping in the church?"

Wait...Church?

Your eyes widened in an instant. Father August's words made the memories from last night come back abruptly. The voice, being locked inside the church....And Dabi.

You got up from the pew where you had fallen asleep, and looked around frantically before looking down at your body. All of your clothes were unscathed. But you could have sworn they were torn to nothing but rags after Dabi tore them apart with those big, black claws of his.

Dabi...Where was he?

Thinking about him made you realize something. For the first time, the church no longer felt cold. It had a warm, welcoming feeling to it. Had this sensation been here all those years ago, you'd probably still be on good terms with your family.

"Are you feeling unwell? You seem pale."

"Y-Yeah..." You looked all around the church. The pews that had been slammed into the wall, broken into pieces, were good as new. And the altar at the front, where its cloth had been carelessly thrown to the side when Dabi found you hiding, was also untouched.

"Was it just a dream?" You asked to yourself. Remembering everything the demon did to you, yet not a single part of your body felt sore. In fact, you felt better than ever. So full of energy.

"What are you talking about? Are you having night terrors again?"

Oh shit, Father August was still here.

"N-No! Everything's fine, father!" You reassured the older man that stood straight in front of you. "I must have sleep walked all the way here! Remember I used to do that when I was a kid? ahahaha..."

No way you would tell him about what happened last night....If it ever happened in the first place.

He was kind enough to walk you home. To say your parents were worried was putting it lightly. They were terrified when your mother went to wake you up and found the bed empty. It was strange, watching how worried they were about you, when they never bothered to call you for a long time.

A tired sigh left your lips once you finally went inside your bedroom. It was barely morning and the whole house was already in chaos.

"Right, today we're going to see Grandma." The suitcase was pulled on top of the mattress with ease. Good thing you preferred to travel lightly. "Better get changed now."

From the small arrangement of clothes, you picked out a white sundress. Then you pulled out the hair dryer as well and turned back to the mirror so you could fix the bird nest in your head, also called hair.

When you saw th reflection in the mirror, your whole body became stiff.

There was a strange mark on your neck. A deep shade of burgundy adorned your skin in the shape of a small flame, running down all the way to the collarbone...Right in the spot where he bit you last night.

The dryer fell out of your hands with a loud clank as you stood in front of the mirror, watching this...thing on your neck with pure horror.Why didn't anyone say anything when you came in with this mark covering a good portion of your skin?!

Your thoughts were interrupted when your mother barged inside the room with a worried look on her face. And you were quick to cover the mark before she could see it.

"What happened? I heard something falling?" She looked at you in worry.

"N-Nothing! The dryer just slipped from my hands!" But she wasn't satisfied by that answer, and squinted in disdain when she saw the way you hid from her prying eyes.

"What are you hiding? Don't tell me you actually got that tattoo?!" She approached with an angry pace to take a closer look at your neck.

"I told you, it's nothing!" But she didn't listen, pulling your hand away from your neck by force. Your eyes closed shut, expecting her to start yelling just like that time you got your ears pierced again.

"Why are you grabbing your neck? Does it hurt?"

"You can't see it?" You asked quietly. But she just gave you a look.

"See what?"

So...they couldn't see the mark on your neck?

..........

Three weeks later, you finally came back to your precious apartment, away from your family, and that cursed church. But also away from an answer.

What happened that night? Did something even happen at all? Or was it just your brain playing tricks on you?

Groaning in frustration, you decided to forget about everything and kept walking back home, carrying a bunch of groceries to restock the fridge. Besides, tonight was Taco Tuesday, and you were eager to start preparing your meal.

When you got inside the building's main hall, you could see the landlord talking with someone at the lobby, but their back was facing you, so at the moment, it was impossible to see their face.

The moment the old lady saw you walk inside, her face lit up with joy as she waved at you, and made a gesture to come closer.

"Good afternoon dear! How did your little visit go?" She was always a curious woman, but never meant it in a bad way. There was nobody in the apartment complex who didn't love Miss Yuki.

"Good afternoon Yuki! And well, you already know how it went. It's always the same after all..." You grumbled, not really feeling like going into detail about what happened.

Then you turned sideways to see her guest. A dark haired male just stood there, watching the interaction between the older woman and you with a lazy smile.

He was wearing a pair of ripped, dark jeans. Black military boots, and a white T-shirt underneath a leather jacket. One of his most prominent features was those teal eyes of his.

Somehow....He seemed familiar.

"Oh how rude of me! My memory's not what it used to be!" Yuki clapped her hands together, embarrassed that she just ignored her guest in favor of talking to you.

"This is Touya! He just moved into the apartment right next to yours! I was just about to take him to his new home, but I need to take Mochi to the vet. Would you please be a darling and show him the way for me?"

"Ah, that naughty cat? again?" You laughed sarcastically. That cat of hers always seemed to get into trouble for something. "Don't worry Yuki, I'll take him off your hands!"

"You're such a sweetie! Now, here are your keys, Touya. Please let us know if there's anything you need help with!" She handed Touya the set of keys, and swiftly walked inside her home.

Turning back to Touya, you greeted him with a sheepish smile, ignoring the burning sensation at the side of your neck.

"So, I guess we're neighbors. Welcome to out little community. Just let me put this in my fridge and I'll give you a tour!"

"Ah, yeah. Thank you for the help." ...Even his voice was familiar.

You walked together to the second floor. On the way there, Touya mentioned how her was starting anew. Away from everything, and everyone. In a way, he was just like you.

"Well, this is my place!" You beamed, juggling with the set of keys and the bags in had. Touya had offered to help, but you refused. After you finally unlocked the door with a victorious hum, you pushed it open with your hips, walked inside and turned back to face your new neighbor.

Who's face, for some reason, became dead serious the moment you looked him in the eye.

"Please come in. I'll prepare some coffe!" As cheerful as you were. The smile slowly, slowly disappeared when you saw the way Touya was staring at you.

There was a dangerous smirk on his face, and an all to familiar glint in his eyes...

He quickly stepped forward, and stood in front of you with a proximity, that allowed you to feel the heat of his whole body. He trapped your chin in between his fingers, and licked his lips with an evident hunger in those blue orbs.

"W-What are you doing?" The nerves were such, that you didn't notice when the bags of groceries fell from your hands, and the carton of milk spilling all over the floor, creating a puddle besides your feet.

"Remember what I told you last time?" From the corner of your eye, you could see those same horns from that night, slowly starting to come out. Your heart pounded against your chest. And the burning sensation in your neck became unbearable the moment his eyes became engulfed in black.

"I told you I'd see you again...Little one."

With those last words, your door was quickly slammed shut.

@hawks-senseis @honeytama @savagetrickster @unbreakableeiji @wakaoujisenhime @fanfic-me-up @natsuosfairy @shoutogepi @gr0vndz3ro

#mha imagines #bnha imagine #bnha imagines #dabi smut #bnha dabi #bnha smut #mha smut #touya smut #dabi is touya #dabi x reader

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btsxmalereaders · 4 years ago

Text

1:31 AM

Pairing: Im Jaebeom x male reader

Genre: angst

☆ Requested

Word Count: 2,08k

🎵 잘 지내야해 1:31 AM

[I am always drowned in the thoughts of you. I get exhausted from crying, but I look for traces of you again...]

The patter of the rain hitting the window has been the only thing that has set the gloomy place for the last couple of hours.

The catheter placed with an uncomfortable sticky tape on the back of your hand feels heavier and heavier. Your eyelids shutting even when you try to keep them open. You're tired despite only spending all the time laying on that stretcher.

Some nurses come from time to time to make sure you're comfortable and you only nod tightly to the questions they make; a routine that you don't have the energy to hate.

Of course, not all days are like this. Sometimes you wake up in a good mood and the personnel would take you out to the small garden behind the hospital, pulling your wheelchair since you're still weak, but it is still something. You would smile and take the sun on good days like those, and if a familiar visited, they would bring you your painting tools for you to clear your head and have a good time.

But you haven't had good days, lately.

Your friends called you constantly and, when you had enough energy to respond, you tried to put your best smile for them.

You didn't see it as a bad thing, though. They didn't need to know that you were going through thick.

But there was someone you couldn't lie to.

"The receptionist told me 'You can see your fiancé now.'" Jaebeom says as he walks towards you, placing a cute bouquet of flowers on the small table next to you. He looks stunning and always walks in with the hugest smile on his face to greet you. Probably to lift up your mood, too. "Was that an insinuation?"

You can't help but giggle at that, "Maybe. But also they wouldn't let you in if I said you were only my boyfriend. And I don't want to keep this lie."

"Then I better hurry up, right?" He smiles, placing a kiss on your forehead and dragging the chair next to you, taking seat as he grabs your hand tightly. "As soon as you are discharged, I'll put a ring on your finger. I promise."

You keep the big smile to him and cup his cheek with your free hand, being careful because of the catheter. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you so much more," He murmurs. His semblance suddenly changing. "We've been really busy with the tour now that it is starting soon, I'm sorry. I wish I could see you everyday."

"It's okay, love. I understand."

A silence sets in after that. Jaebeom closes his eyes and enjoys your touch for a moment while you observe him in detail; every mole, every mark on his skin, his warm breath against your wrist and his grip on your hand, as if he would never want to let you go.

When he opens his eyes again they're full of tears. You don't even recall when was the last time you've seen him cry.

"Why are you crying? What's wrong?" You ask, sliding your thumb across his cheek to erase every trace of tears falling down.

"I'm sorry," Jaebeom softly whispers. "I hate that I can't do anything else for you."

You sigh, bringing him closer and moving a little, making a space for him to cuddle with you. "Come here. Don't cry."

He does as told, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, calming his nervousness with heavy breaths. It breaks your heart to see him like this.

Your boyfriend gets to calm himself as minutes pass by, with the help of your hand tracing circles on his back, and sweet words whispered to his ears.

You two get to talk properly afterwards, telling each other about how your days have been, although Jeobeom did most of the talk and you only listened, occasionally commenting about it and also asking about your friends.

"As usual, the boys send you greetings and hugs, but only I get to do that, right?" He chuckles, kissing your forehead for the nth time and making you blush. "They might even pop up at the videocall tonight since we'll be rehearsing."

"That's good, don't tell them I said this, but I actually miss seeing their faces and hearing their voices everyday."

Jaebeom laughs at that. "No wonder why I see Bambam sending you voice notes all the time."

A nurse comes back a moment later to let you know that the visiting hours is now over, so Jaebeom stands up and kisses you goodbye, "Don't forget that-"

"-we have a date. For dinner at half past eight. As we do almost every night. Of course I won't forget."

He smiles at you and kisses you again. "And that I love you."

"I love you too." You murmur with a smile and see him walk out of the room.

The nurse changes the serum, as usual, and you only stare at her, not knowing if you should ask...

"Is everything alright, ____?" She asks.

You've known her for a while now, it's almost as if you two were friends, but still, you were still undecided about something that has been in the back of your head for a couple of days.

"Noona, could you do something for me?"

GOT7's tour was about to kick off two weeks after that visit, although it wasn't the last one. Jaebeom did make sure to visit you whenever he could; after rehearsing or even skipping his time to have meals to rush in to the hospital -thing that you obviously scolded him for, but he promised he would get something in his way back-. He also made sure to show you clips of the rehearsals and some videos with messages from the boys for you, which you truly loved.

However, even if that lifted your spirits, it wasn't enough to make you feel better from the terrible days you've had. Not only you couldn't move and hang out as you did weeks ago, but you were feeling so weak that most of the time you would spend it sleeping. In one of Jaebeom's visit you two were talking until you fell asleep, and next thing you know he was saying goodbye again with a worried expression on his face.

And the worst thing is that you didn't have to be a genius to know the reason why. The disguised words you heard from your doctor were enough confirmation for you to know what was about to come.

And you definitely weren't ready for it.

"So? You got good news for me?" You ask the nurse once you see her entering the room.

She tilts her head and sees the hope shining in your eyes, despite looking so small and weak. "Yes. I talked with the doctors and they gave the authorization."

And that was enough for you to feel happy for the rest of the day.

"Are you sure you are okay?"

Unlike other days, today you have woken up happy and eager to go out. You suppose it is normal because you have anxiously waited for this day to come

You nod as an answer and the nurses carefully help you to get ready.

To say you were nervous was an understatement. You weren't even sure how did the idea come to mind, but you were really determined to do it. And as you get in the van, you quickly send a message to Jinyoung to let him know that you were on your way there.

You've thoroughly planned all this; after all, it was a surprise for Jaebeom.

Of course he couldn't believe his eyes. He froze in his place while the boys almost ran to hug you; Jinyoung pushing the chair behind you and telling them to be careful, but you were too happy to even care about the bone crushing hugs you were receiving. It was all you wanted.

Jaebeom walks slowly to you and gives you a hug when they're done, letting out a sigh he didn't even know he was holding.

"Really? H-how did you even- Are you okay?" He asks, concerned, to which you laugh and nod.

"I'm good, hyungie. The doctor allowed it and I've been wanting to see you out of the hospital." You murmur, holding his hands. "And what kind of boyfriend and ahgase I'd be if I didn't attend your first concert of this new tour?"

They all seem very happy because they haven't seen you in a long time, so it's not surprising that everyone is around you all the time in backstage, asking you lots of questions and updating you on everything that happened since the last time they saw you, although no big news since you're used to chat and videocall them quite often.

While they are fascinated to have you there, Jaebeom seems to be more quiet and with a worried expression, indecipherable. You wonder if he knows or at least suspects about the reason behind it.

The concert finally starts and after more worried looks from your boyfriend, you decide to see from the first row the entire show. Even Yugyeom got you a lightstick for you to cheer them up, and Jaebeom stressed that whatever you needed you could ask anyone from the staff.

It goes pretty well, and you didn't feel uncomfortable or bad at all, but that didn't stop your boyfriend from making sure you were indeed okay every time he could; approaching the side of the stage right where you stayed and nodding in your direction from time to time, and the fans close to you were respectful and careful with your space.

Jaebeom gets somewhat sentimental while performing some songs, and when he stares back at you, you know it. He knows it.

So the first thing he does when the concert is over and gets to backstage is kneel in front of you and cry on your lap.

The boys don't understand the situation, but they leave you two alone for a moment, thinking that maybe their leader was too emotional tonight.

"What are you hiding from me? What have the doctors said?" He gets to babble while the tears are covering his face.

You're hurt from seeing him crumble like this in front of you, so you cry too, holding his hands and tracing circles on their back, trying to calm him down.

"Nothing you don't already know," You say. "You've seen me. I'm not doing well, and... I just had this feeling, I had to see you again, one last t-"

"No." He stops you. The lump on his throat making it harder to speak. "Don't say that. Please."

"Hyung, I'm sorry." You murmur, now caressing his back and placing a kiss on his head. "Please forgive me."

Before going back to the hospital, you say goodbye to your friends, who seem to now be understanding of the situation, but being too shocked to even say anything about it. They hug you more and try to lift the mood making lighthearted jokes that genuinely make you laugh.

Jaebeom doesn't want to separate from you anytime; he's either holding your hand or leaving kisses all over your face, letting you sleep on over his chest on your way back and whispering words to your ears.

"I'll come to see you again later today, alright?" He promises as you lay on the bed and get comfortable. "Sleep for now. I'll be here when you wake up."

He kisses you with so much love, not knowing it was the last time he would do it.

He didn't expect to receive that heartbreaking call that soon.

Just when he was getting ready to see you, he received the news, and he couldn't stop crying and shaking for a long moment. His friends were there, trying to calm him and themselves down; hurt by hearing they've just lost you and feeling so wrecked and weak.

Naturally, the next shows were postponed, which raised suspicions and fear among the fans, who saw you just a few hours ago.

Jaebeom has never felt this empty and pained.

A part of him ruthlessly ripped away.

He can’t believe it,

That when he opens his eyes you won't be next to him.

Even if those memories make it hard on him,

It’s on his head again.

Even if he clears out all those memories,

He will always be drowned in the thoughts of you.

#kpop x male reader #kpop imagines #kpop x reader #got7 x male reader #requested #got7 male reader #drabbles #got7 scenarios #jaebeom #jaebeom x male reader #jaebeom x reader

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elizabeethan · 4 years ago

Text

Spaces Between Us Chapter 13: You & I

The hardships of real life separated them six years ago, and Emma has been struggling to put that fact behind her ever since. But then, only after she’s convinced herself that she’s moved on and that her new life is enough, Killian Jones comes back.

A Captain Swan Modern AU

Complete

As my grandma used to say,"theyah." (she meant "there" and she would brush her hands together, but she had a very heavy a Maine accent)

Thank you to everyone who read this, and to everyone who commented, left kudos, liked it, reblogged it, sent flails.... you're the best!!

Thank you, as usual, to my beta and friend @the-darkdragonfly, and to @donteattheappleshook and @xhookswenchx for listening to my ramblings and helping me figure out the plot to this <3

Read the Rest

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

~~~~

His warm fingers tickle her awake, dancing delicately over the skin of her waist and making her giggle before she hisses at the bright sunlight stinging her eyes. “It’s too early for all that.”

“No it isn’t,” he argues, kissing a hot trail down her neck until his lips reach her breast. She swears she was wearing a shirt when she went to bed… “We’ve got to get up soon anyway.”

“Then why are you initiating what you're initiating?”

“I can be quick.”

She snorts, reaching her fingers into his thick hair and letting out an appreciative sound as he flicks his tongue over her nipple. “I’m sure you can.”

“Let me do my work in peace, please,” he chastises playfully as he drags his mouth down her stomach, tucking his fingers into the hem of her underwear and tugging them down her thighs.

“If you insist,” she sighs, letting her head fall back against the pillow and grounding herself as she scratches her fingers against his scalp.

He certainly does take his work seriously, succeeding in his promise to be quick and getting her ready for him in just a matter of minutes. She pulls on his hair a bit harder and he lifts his head, looking up at her with shiny lips and a glint in his eyes before he wipes his chin and crawls up her body slowly, peppering kisses along the way. “Already?” he asks when he reaches her ear, and she giggles.

“You promised to be quick, I thought you’d be pleased to know that you delivered.”

“Oh, I’m very pleased. If there’s one thing parenthood has taught me, it's how to get my lady love off in a jiffy.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, though the sound is cut off quickly when he plunges himself into her, nearly to the hilt before he pulls back out and slides in again, slowly this time. She groans in appreciation for the way he stretches her, hitting everywhere just right as he sets a steady pace.

“I love you,” he whispers against the shell of her ear, tracing his tongue over the sensitive skin just below. “So much.”

“I love you, too,” she whispers back breathlessly, then with a moan, “don’t stop.”

“You like it like this?” he asks, biting her skin and pushing into her at just the right angle.

She whimpers and nods, her nails clawing at his back. She’s so close already, his mouth bringing her halfway there before they’d even started, and when he reaches his fingers between them where she needs him the most, she cries out again.

“There,” she begs, her legs shaking as she holds him in place. “Oh, fuck, right there.”

When he whispers, “come for me,” with his tone commanding and gentle, there's little she can do but obey him.

He’s heavy on top of her, her chest heaving beneath him, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She loves being here with him more than just about anything. The way he kisses her cheek over and over while they catch their breath makes her heart flutter more.

“You don’t actually have to go, right?” she asks jokingly as she runs her fingers up and down his back. “You’re actually just going to work? Won’t Will be mad if you miss a day, Mr. Mechanic?”

With a laugh and another kiss to her cheek at the charming nickname she gave him when his friend hired him to work in his garage, he answers, “I bloody well better go. I promised Ruby I’d be there and I certainly don't want to be on her bad side.” She giggles, though he continues, “and I want to watch that bastard get exactly what he deserves.”

She nods, letting out a long, steady breath. Walsh’s trial is today, and while Killian isn’t allowed to testify because of his relationship with the victim-- her-- Ruby has a lot to say about that evening. At first, there was talk of Killian being unfit to serve and having made irresponsible choices because of his emotional connection with Emma. But after Ruby’s accounts of that night and the body camera footage, it was clear that he acted as appropriately as he ever has. Walsh shot first, and the sheriff responded using non-lethal force. And besides, Killian left the force on his own accord, anyway.

At first, she was almost angry that he’d lived. Part of her wanted the surgeons to let him die; another part of her wanted Killian to have taken a better shot. But he was shot himself, so the fact that he got him in the shoulder was pretty damn good. Plus, Walsh will never be able to fully use his arm again.

And… he’s probably going to jail for a long time. Which would be cool, considering the amount of times he’s been beaten up already.

“There’s too much going on in there,” he murmurs, kissing her temple. “Tell me what you’re thinking?”

With a shrug, she says, “just thinking about what happened. It’s been a long eight months.”

He hums. “Aye, it has. Hasn’t been so bad, though.”

“No,” she agrees softly. “But I’ll be glad when this whole trial thing is over. Maybe we can finally leave this place.”

“Are you implying that you aren’t a fan of my apartment?” he asks through feigned offence. “I find it to be quite quaint.”

“Oh, it’s quaint,” she giggles. “I just feel bad making Henry sleep in a closet.”

“It’s not a closet! I pay extra for two bedrooms!”

With a soft smile, she cups his cheek in her palm and says, “I’m sorry, my love, but that is a walk-in closet.”

He rolls his eyes, then rolls off of her and offers her his hand to hoist her off the bed. “Soon we can get him a nice big bedroom, promise. Once the trial’s over, there’s nothing holding us here.”

It’s true. While they haven’t fully talked about where they’ll end up when all is said and done, Walsh signed the divorce papers from his cell a few weeks ago. And with the pre-nup null and void, Emma took her half of his fortune and donated it to an organization that supports victims of domestic violence and their children.

“Henry’s appointment is at ten, right?”

“Yeah,” she nods. Starting him up with Archie has been a blessing. Emma had a lot of fears that he would handle the transitions with difficulty, but with Dr. Hopper’s help, he’s been well adjusted, and she couldn’t be prouder.

They struggled with how to tell him about his father, but she never wants to lie to him. They moved out of their old house with haste, grabbing everything they could as quickly as possible so that Emma wouldn’t have to be there for a second longer than she had to. And while Henry was confused, he didn’t seem overly upset. He enjoyed living with the sheriff for a few days, even creating a comfortable nook for Abby, before they sat him down and told him everything.

When Emma told her son that the man who’s been in his life all along isn’t actually his father, she thought he would be upset. In reality, though, he simply shrugged and asked if Killian’s house had macaroni and cheese.

When Emma told her son who his real father is, a few days after they moved in with him for both safety and stability, he cheered and gave Killian the biggest hug she’s ever seen him give anyone.

She still can’t think about that day without crying.

“So Sherrie is actually my dad?”

Emma nods. “Yes, baby. I’m sorry that this is so confusing.”

He ignores her sentiment and asks, “and I can call him daddy?”

“You can call him anything you want.”

Turning towards Killian, he asks again, “can I call you daddy?”

The look on his face is so heartbreaking that Emma’s tears flow freely. Killian looks up at his son, meeting his eyes with glassy ones, and nods. “I’d love that.”

“Have you got one as well?” he asks, shaking her from her memories as she wipes away a rogue tear.

“Wednesday. You’re okay to watch Henry in the morning, right?”

“It’s not exactly babysitting, Swan,” he reminds her gently, and she grins at the name he uses and the fact that it’s finally her name again.

“I know, but…”

“Go and see Ingrid on Wednesday, love. I’m glad you’re still finding it beneficial to talk with her.”

Honestly, finding a therapist who happens to have experience working with victims of domestic violence in this small town was a surprise to Emma, but she’s found her work with Ingrid to be invaluable. While she’s known all along that what happened wasn’t her fault, and that she shouldn’t feel guilty about what she and her son went through for all those years, it’s been helpful to hear that from a professional as well. Ingrid reminded her that, while the physical abuse happened only near the end of their relationship, Emma was being emotionally abused the entire time she knew Walsh. She was trapped from the moment she met him, little by little being gaslighted until she believed that she would have nothing if she left him. As hard as it was for her to see how toxic he was at first, it was even harder to imagine leaving when she thought he had so much power over her.

The guilt that came with finding out she put herself and her child through that for nothing was unmatched. Her feelings and thoughts about herself as a mother, about how she failed to protect her son, are something she’s been battling for months and will likely never be able to fully let go of. Finding out that Killian is Henry’s father gave her the freedom to leave, but it also gave her the most traumatic experience of her life and brought endless feelings of self-hatred, and that’s something she’s been working on coming to terms with, slowly but surely.

“Alright,” she agrees, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips as she walks past him towards the bathroom.

“I’ll go give him his nebulizer while you get ready.”

Stopping short in her path to the shower, she turns to him and smiles. “I love you.”

Returning her smile with his own, he says, “I love you, too, Swan.”

In eight months, he’s become more of a father than Walsh was Henry’s entire life.

~~~~

As he watches Walsh being escorted into the courtroom, donning his orange jumpsuit and shackles, Killian is reminded of the last time he saw the man who almost took everything from him. It was months ago, once he was finally transferred to the Storybrooke Sheriff’s Department’s jail cell. He was still clearly favoring his left arm, his right shoulder completely out of commission as a result of Killian’s rather good shot, and he felt a sick sense of accomplishment seeing the monster struggling to get comfortable on the firm cot with the sling wrapped around him.

“Need something?” he’d asked, although he wasn’t too chuffed to give the bastard anything that would take away his obvious malaise.

He scoffed and responded, “yeah, my pain meds would be nice. Are you always in the business of torture?”

“Aye,” Killian responded without thinking, then he stood up and walked to Walsh’s cell, keys in hand. “I suppose I am. But I really only focus on torturing the absolute most wretched inmates. Like you.”

Walsh shook his head and laughed, but Killian didn’t miss the look of fear in his eyes as he inserted the key and swung the cell door open, shutting it behind him. “Talk about protect and serve.”

Killian hummed in response and nodded as well as he moved to stand over Walsh’s cot, staring down into his eyes with anger, the strength of which he won’t ever feel again. “The fact is, mate, I couldn’t care less about my duties as the sheriff. Not when the safety and happiness of my son and the woman I love are on the line.” Walsh laughed once more and rolled his eyes, so Killian moved quickly to thrust his open hand down upon his neck, pressing just hard enough to make the animal’s eye pop from his head. “You threatened them. You tried to kill her. You neglected the child you thought was yours for his entire life. You are garbage; a waste of oxygen. Trust me when I tell you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that you never live to see the light of day. You will never take a breath outside of a barbed wire fence. You will never eat anything but the slop they feed you. You will never experience pleasure for as long as you live. And I promise you, you will live for decades in an iron cage, right where you belong.”

He was quiet for a moment as his cheeks started to turn red and his eyes grew wider, before he finally gruffed, “I can’t breathe.”

“Perfect,” Killian responded. “Then you know exactly how she felt. Count yourself lucky that I’m not going to try and shoot you again.”

He released his forceful grip, shoving Walsh down onto the cot as he took in a forceful breath, before he turned and locked the cell, walking back to his desk and collecting his things. When his shift ended, Killian Jones walked out of the Storybrooke Sheriff’s Department precinct for the final time.

~~~~

Henry’s birthday is definitely cause for celebration. He’s turning six. It’s the first time Killian will be able to celebrate his son’s birthday. He’s finally with his Emma, with nothing stopping them from being happy together. There’s a lot for his family to be happy about.

“Daddy!” Henry calls as he sprints at full speed towards his father. “Daddy, can I have cake yet?”

“No, not yet. You haven’t even touched your lunch. And don’t let your mother see you running wild like that.”

His more intensive therapies have been working as well as they can, but they know they have to be careful to avoid another serious attack-- one that might not end as well as the last had. Killian only just became a part of his son’s life. He doesn’t intend to lose him.

“But it’s my birthday,” he complains, rolling his eyes and giving him a look that could rival his mother’s.

“Your birthday isn’t until Monday.”

“Well, it’s my tarty.”

“Your party.”

“I think I wanna ask mommy.”

Killian chuckles. “If mommy doesn’t tell you to wait until after lunch, I’ll give you five dollars.”

His eyes light up and widen immediately, cloudy gray perfectly complimenting the black pupils as he turns from him and runs straight for the door. He watches from the deck as Henry begs and pleads with his mother, giving her his best bambi eyes, before he sees her nod, the lad jumping for joy and shrinking excitedly. He runs towards the sliding door and pounds his fists against it, shouting through the glass, “you owe me five dollars!”

With a sigh, Killian brushes past his son, ruffling his hair just a bit, before he wraps both arms around Emma’s waist, pulling her in for a hug from behind. “You really got me there, Swan.”

“Did I?” she asks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She leans back into his chest, turning her head so that she can press a soft kiss to his jaw. “No? Are you telling me our son didn’t inform you of my poorly-made offer?”

With a giggle, she answers, “of course he did. That’s what you get for trying to negotiate with our six year old.”

He squeezes her a bit tighter, reveling in their loneliness in the kitchen. “He’s still five,” he reminds her, content to never let him grow up.

“Yes,” she hums. “And what a big difference the two days will make.”

He pushes his lips against her cheek and says, “I’m afraid he’s getting too old. We’ll have to return him soon.”

“And what,” she laughs, “trade him in for a newer model?”

“Aye, that’s the price of fatherhood most men aren’t willing to pay. But I’m not like those other men.”

She doesn’t need to be facing him for him to know that she rolls her eyes. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

“--ly in love with you,” he corrects. She does spin around now, turning to face him and burying her face in his neck as her arms hold him in her iron grip. “What is it?” he whispers into her hair more seriously.

“Nothing,” she responds softly. “I’m just… happy. It still surprises me sometimes. That we’re here and celebrating our son’s birthday together; that nothing’s stopping us.”

“Aye, love, me too,” he agrees, running his hands up and down along the contours of her spine. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“You won’t ever have to,” she reminds him with a smile as she pulls away just enough to look at him. “We won.”

He grins down at her, running his thumb along her cheek as he holds her jaw with his palm. With her ex-husband being found guilty on all charges, his life sentence without the possibility for parole means they’ll never be apart again. “Yes, my love,” he says, leaning down to kiss her chastely. “Let’s simply avoid the scorned husbands and attempts on both of our lives in the future, aye?”

She agrees with a nod. “Yes, that sounds like a good plan. Fucking idiot got exactly what he deserved, though.”

He laughs and says, “as eloquently put as always. I couldn’t agree more.”

As it turns out, the prosecution lawyer was very experienced and was able to use Walsh’s statements of intent to kill his wife, as well as the loaded gun pointed directly at her and at the sheriff, to prove two counts of attempted second degree murder, plus assault with a deadly weapon, plus domestic violence, plus election fraud, plus embezzelment. Suffice it to say, Walsh won’t be seeing much daylight for quite some time.

Of course, the honorable man in Killian almost thought that sending his mistress’s husband to jail for life as a means to be with her was taking the cheap way out, but he got over those feelings very quickly. It’s not about Killian being with Emma, after all. Not really.

As their son laughs raucously on the swing set with his cousin, he sees exactly what it’s about.

“I suppose we should do the cake,” Emma finally sighs, lifting her head

“I suppose,” he concedes, squeezing her tighter in his hold and pressing a kiss to her temple.

~~~~

The afternoon rolls into evening, everyone finding a lawn chair or chaise lounge to relax in as David starts a fire and Mary Margaret prepares for an outdoor movie. Honestly, Killian’s son is spoiled with the grandeur of his sixth birthday party, with the giant white screen and the projector displaying The Good Dinosaur for all the children to enjoy.

Emma sighs happily as she leans back against Killian’s chest, taking his wrists in her hands and pulling his arms around her middle. She feels warm against him as the fire heats her skin and her sweatshirt, and he can’t get enough of the feeling of the weight of her body pressed to his own.

“I love you,” she finally whispers into the dark as the movie starts, the sounds enough to drown out her voice so that only Killian can hear.

“I love you, too,” he agrees softly, sentimentally, squeezing her just a bit tighter. “More than just about anything.”

“Just about?”

He hums out a laugh and nods. “I’m afraid I love our son just a tiny bit more than you. That’s normal, right?”

“Yes,” she agrees softly, turning to face him and pressing a kiss to his neck. “I’m afraid I love our kids more than you, too.”

He smiles and laughs lightly against her, returning her soft kiss with one of his own as he sighs and looks on at their son happily enjoying his special day. “Wait,” he says as it finally dawns on him; the specific wording she chose and the coy smile she dons through a giggle. “Kids?”

She hums in agreement, nodding against his chest and pulling his arms tighter around herself until his palm is pressed to her stomach. “I found out this morning.”

“Emma,” he breathes, unable to comprehend her meaning.

“I was thinking if it’s a boy, we could name him after your brother. At least his middle name. Thoughts?”

“Emma,” he tries again, separating his arms and pulling away only far enough to help her turn towards him. “Are you…”

“Shh,” she insists, pressing her finger to his lips and grinning at him and she turns to face him head on. Then she whispers, “it’s a secret. I’m pregnant.”

He can’t breathe, a shocked sound coming out of his mouth as he leans towards her and captures her lips in his. She grins against him, holding onto the neck of his sweatshirt to pull him impossibly closer to herself. “You’re sure?”

“I’ll call the doctor on Monday to make an appointment, but I took three tests. All positive.”

“Fuck,” he breathes almost silently, trying hard not to alert those around them of their shift in mood but finding it near impossible. “Fuck, I love you. I thought…”

She shakes her head, cradling the back of his neck in her hands as she answers his silent question. “I probably never would’ve been ready,” she explains. They’ve talked about it in passing, and she’s insisted that her last pregnancy was difficult and that she’s still recovering from the trauma she’s endured and is therefore unable to consider the possibility of having another child. “If I had a say, I probably would’ve kept putting it off,” she whispers. “But… surprise.” She shrugs and grins at him.

He kisses her, because he can think of no other way to express his feelings towards her than to show her what she means to him. There are no words to tell her exactly what she’s given him, not just now, but every second he’s known her. No words, except, “marry me.”

She giggles breathlessly, the air escaping her lips hitting the tip of his nose as she gasps, “what?”

With a grin, he responds more seriously, “marry me. Please.” He clears his throat and tries again. “Emma Swan-- love of my life, mother of my children-- will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“You’re serious?” she breathes softly, careful not to alert the other parents present of the sudden shift between them. “You know I just got divorced, like, two months ago.”

“Aye, but I should've asked you to marry me seven years ago. The divorce is merely semantics.”

She laughs breathlessly again, disbelievingly, and nods her head before pulling him close to her. “Yes,” she whispers against him before pressing a passionate, if not also chaste, kiss to his lips. He can tell that she wants to deepen it, perhaps she wants to take him inside and show him how excited she is, but they're at their son’s birthday party and they have to keep things G-Rated. PG; nothing higher. “Yes,” she says again. Then once more, “yes, I’ll marry you.”

Andrew Liam Jones was born seven months later. He was monitored closely throughout Emma’s pregnancy to ensure proper development of his lungs, and when he was born, he screamed like a banshee to alert his parents of his healthy arrival. He weighed seven pounds, three ounces, and was twenty-one inches long. His big brother, newly renamed Henry David Jones following an amendment to his birth certificate, refused to leave the baby’s side until he fell asleep, needing to be carried out of the maternity suite by his uncle while his parents took in the bliss and terror of having a new life to care for.

Emma and Killian were married two months after the arrival of their second child, the small ceremony taking place on the secluded, rocky beach in Storybrooke, Maine. At first, Killian wanted to remove his family from the hellish town that nearly stole his life away from him, but she disagreed. This was where they were reunited. This was where they found each other again. This was where she found herself again. It’s where her children were born and raised. So, when she finds a beautiful, blue victorian style home on the outskirts of town and cries at how perfect it is for their family, at how close she would be to her sister, they place an offer. And they win.

They won when they found each other again and they know that they will never lose at anything ever again so long as they have each other.

~~~~

Tagging: @courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx @itsfridaysomewhere @alexa-fangirl-forever @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @rapunzelsghosts @spaceconveyor

#captain swan #captain swan fanfic #cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan au #spaces between us #spaces ff #cs fluff #cs smut

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honeyrites · 4 years ago

Text

Welcome Home - Feren

(x reader)

AN: I had planned to post this to Wattpad at first, so the cover/picture might seem a bit strange for tumblr. The reader is Thranduil’s daughter, the princess of Mirkwood. I swear I don’t usually write Feren nearly as submissive as he is here.

WARNINGS: fluff, mentions of war and ptsd

WORD COUNT: 2,081

The trees in the woodland realm are constantly changing structure to ward off any intruders; because of this, the elves are forced to frequently remap the landscape. The elites of the Mirkwood military were scheduled to spend two weeks in the forest to accomplish this task. While this shift in paths typically only occurred every few years, a group of dwarves working to reclaim the Kingdom of Erebor were being particularly aggressive this time. The trees were shifting far more frequently, and with the threat of war growing each and every day, the elves needed a reliable way to track the area. They were forced to accomplish this task in the dead of winter, over a much longer period of time than had been hoped, for the woods had grown afraid, and so had the soldiers.

Commander Feren returned with his troops two months after they were expected to arrive, with perfectly designed maps fit to serve their king. While the men did ache to return home, they spared no expense in accomplishing their goal; they knew the next battle would be soon and it relied on them alone. There was no room for error, and every opportunity for it as well. Despite the fact that they'd met all of Thranduil's relentless and merciless demands, when the commander returned with a positive scouting report and everything that had he asked, all he received was a nod from the king, who accepted his work as adequate. So, the soldiers- tired, frozen, nearly traumatized, and deeply disappointed soldiers- went to drink. Save for old Commander Feren, who was going immediately to bed.

The commander sat close to the fire, staring into the void. He kept a light blanket around his shoulders and his mind clear of any thoughts; the mission was over- he should have been relieved, but still the ellon remained too exhausted to appreciate the moment's sentiment. The room was silent save for all but the crackle of flames, and occasional crunching of snow outside (a sound that would have driven Feren half-mad if he weren't so tired). It was truly a pitiful sight.

The creaking of his bedroom door brought him out his state of half conscious thought. He reacted slowly to the sound, it barely processed in his mind that anyone had entered. Feren turned to look, but he felt the warmth on his face rapidly fleeting, and found he had to turn back to the fire to recover it. A breeze blew in from the recently open door, causing Feren to gasp involuntarily and shake more violently. His mind had completely dismissed the fact that someone had entered, it focused once more on the seemingly impossible task of escaping the cold.

"Starlight?" A soft voice called from the other side of the room. He finally turned to see the princess searching for him. His quick movement caught her eye, she smiled warmly before approaching. Feren saw his love in her usual lilac nightgown, which didn't cover nearly enough skin to keep her warm on such a night. It must be later than I thought... Feren pondered.

The elleth brought a comforter, which was thrown over her forearm and a mug in each hand, one of which she offered to Feren before settling down with him. She straddled his lap, quickly replacing the sad blanket around his shoulders with a thick comforter. She pulled him in for a quick kiss, one of which Feren wished lasted much longer, but was very grateful for her presence nonetheless.

"I missed you," he blurted out, desperate for her attention, despite the fact that he had it in its entirety. YN smiled and pressed their foreheads together.

"I missed you, too." She kissed him softly. "But, before we talk, you must first drink your hot chocolate," she commanded of him. Feren did as told, but cringed at the unexpectedly strong taste of liquor. YN laughed at his reaction and commented, "Galion made this, what were you expecting?". Feren was overwhelmed with joy and he showed it proudly, what a nice surprise it was for an angel to offer him comfort from the cage he'd been trapped in for months. The dark, unforgiving winter that had overtaken Feren's being had become a part of him he thought he could never rid of, but YN chased it away in a matter of seconds.

She set her cup down next to them, "So, tell me about the trip. How did it go?" Her voice was eager and her smile was kind, she wanted to understand his troubles and somehow open up the boy. Feren's small smile fell. He shrugged slightly and looked away, attempting to avoid her gaze, but she quickly followed. He found he didn't have the words to respond to that question, despite his best efforts. Feren opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but closed it again once he felt tears well in his eyes. Feren had kept it together for ten weeks, he'd valiantly led his hopeless soldiers for months on end without wavering (externally). He thought his worries were over when the mission ended. He certainly didn't think the mere mention of the situation would bring him straight to tears, but he was glad it was in front of his lady when it did.

The ellon wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. "I don't know..." were the only words he could quietly let escape between sobs. He felt the weakest he had in his life, like a child crying to his mother. He wanted desperately to stop breaking down, but YN knew it would only get worse if he fought it. She ran her fingers through his hair slowly and soothingly, gaining control of every nerve in his body as she did so. YN kissed her meleth's forehead, she knew he was ashamed of himself and had no reason to be. "I'm sorry, my angel, I'm sorry you were out there for so long..." she whispered, knowing all the commander needed was somebody to empathize with him. There were no casualties reported or any major incidents; on paper it looked as though all was well, but the princess knew her ellon must have suffered greatly to have returned with such fantastic results. "It's over now, I promise... hey, starlight?" She lifted his chin so she could look him seriously in his eyes. Feren looked back at her like a scared puppy, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. She leaned in close and spoke quietly on his lips, "I love you," while wiping the tears from his eyes. Feren smiled, finally done with feeling lost. "I love you," he whispered, voice breaking slightly.

YN peppered soft, gentle kisses all over the soldier's face. He inhaled a shaky breath, feeling better than he had in ages. He pondered how she could so quickly recover his being, which had been in pain for what seemed like an eternity.

"I can't pretend like I know what it was like to be stuck out there for so long... but, I can say a few things are for certain," she stayed as close as she had before, nose to nose with one arm around Feren's neck and the other still tracing his skull. The male couldn't even blink; he was too lost in the maiden's eyes, voice, and touch. "one, you're here now. With me. Safe from all harm," she pointed to the window, momentarily diverting his attention before continuing, "...two, you see that? That's the world, and it is way - way out there. Far from us," he laughed as she kissed him again. "...three, I love you. And four, I will always be here when you return." The last affirmation, once again brought the male to tears, but for a very different reason than the last.

She pulled the blanket further up on Feren's shoulders, leaning in for another kiss, when the door opened. It was Legolas. Feren's room was the third largest in the kingdom, the pair couldn't easily be spotted from the doorway. "Feren, I-" the prince began as he entered the grand estate. Luckily, the ellon's ears were sharp, he quickly located the two before interrupting himself. "-will come again at a later date!" With that, he turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had come. The soldier and the princess were both sent into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the prince's reaction.

YN sighed happily, "At least we no longer have to tell him we're together,". Feren took a sip of hot chocolate before responding "but is this really how we wanted him to find out?"

"Ridiculous question, because he knows now regardless of how we planned to tell him." He wanted to respond with a witty retort, but found himself lost again in his lady's eyes. YN chuckled at Feren's severely submissive state, his attention was completely on her, waiting for her next move. They sat in silence for a few moments before either one spoke up, appreciating sounds and smell of the fire, as well as the other's presence.

"Come on," YN stood up before offering a hand to her meleth. Feren did not want to leave. He was content to go to bed, but his mind resisted any movement that would separate him from the state they were just in. Feren's mind, which had known nothing but peril for too long, was not ready to be moved from the only place it deemed safe. Like an animal born in a cage, he was convinced everything beyond their small space was unsafe. Even if they were going to bed, what if the cold returned? Who's to say the fireside with her isn't the only truly safe place on Middle-Earth? Feren cringed at the delusional thoughts that raced through his head; he knew they were hallucinations.

"Bed?" His voice was much gentler than he had intended it to be. The male cleared his throat to distract from that fact.

"No." YN stated clearly before walking off into the darkness. Feren stood, he could still see her pulling at the hem of her dress, but was only a shadow when the fabric hit the floor. "Bath."

"Let me wash your hair, starlight." YN moved so she sat behind Feren.

"Absolutely not!" He joked, and turned around to look at her. "You have spoiled me enough already, you move."

She smiled sweetly at him, knowing the soldier was more likely to follow her instructions if she did. He was going to do as she said anyway, but YN knew he'd feel less guilty doing so if she proved he was no burden to her. Feren rolled his eyes and reluctantly sunk back in the water. Their breaths were slow and relaxed, both partners perfectly content with where they were. The air smelled of sweet vanilla, as the few candles that surrounded the large bath gave off a dim light. YN ran a hairbrush through the soldier's auburn locks slowly. She was determined to enjoy every minute of their time together. She began to massage his scalp once more, earning a quick response. "Stop that." Feren stated plainly, knowing the playful elleth was determined to pamper him, and his words were powerless against her relentless will. He was right, of course, YN giggled quietly. "You know, commander," he opened his eyes slowly, knowing she'd be peering over his laying body. "Hm?" Feren hummed, challenging her. "I think you forget that I am not one of your soldiers. I am the princess- and unfortunately for everyone- I will continue to do as I please. And if what I please is washing your hair with lavender, then that's just what I'll do, regardless of your pointless protests... and I certainly won't hesitate to point out the fact that you look like you're enjoying yourself thoroughly." All the male could do was smile in response. He was soon too lost in the feeling of her hands in his hair and the warm water to care for anything else.

#the hobbit #lord of the rings #feren x reader #feren #mirkwood #thranduil #legolas #the desolation of smaug #botfa

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zarathelonewolf · 3 years ago

Text

Tenko took a seat on a bench close to the green area.

It was his break, and he decided where to spend it. He was tired of the chaos of the dining room, big and noisy, full of other former criminals that just wouldn't stop picking fights over the most fickle things.

He himself was convinced that, if he'd let them get to his head, all the progress made in the Program to control his urges to use Decay maliciously would be lost.

He often found it hard to concentrate and suppress his anger when someone argued with him because he was occupying their seat, since it was an incredibly usual argument that just didn't make sense. No one in that room held any authority over which seat anyone should occupy; the only people that could theoretically be considered the owners of the seats were the government and the Heroes responsible for the Villain's reintroduction in society.

He was also tired of the "you looked at me funny" argument, that had sparked a fight between him and other ex-Villains on more than two times. So what, he looked at everybody "funny"; no one was ever spared from the ever-tired and sick-of-that-crap face and stare that he wore. No one. Did those guys really consider themselves so special?

(Now that he thought of it, he did make an exception for his acquaintances, though he rarely could cover his tiredness)

He didn't really like how he felt when they made him angry, especially if he started reacting violently. He hadn't been keen on those feelings from... quite some time.

Three years before joining the Reintegration Program, he'd told himself that he'd have tried this "getting better" thing; so he used one of the three calls he had been given authorization for back at the Rehab, to see if it really helped him... If it really got him somewhere worth it.

If he could really be a hero, still.

He'd called and he'd made that choice.

So why was it still hard now, three years later?

Many of those responsible of his Reintegration had told him he'd made good progress, much more than what they thought he would have carried. And yet, there were sometimes when he just... snapped.

Whisper Punch, who was his Supervisor, had always told him that while he could have certainly got better in time and through effort, many things would have been extremely hard to heal and change.

-Being hard on yourself again?

Speak of the devil, and she shall appear. Although, to be honest, Tenko didn't really like to think of her as a devil.

Whisper Punch sat close to him on the bench, but she didn't touch him in any way: he was grateful for that; the only one that had ever followed him in the green area (or anywhere, really) had been Whiptail, and she was very touchy, always clinging at his arm (he looked like the brother she had lost, same red eyes, same disheveled hair...).

Whisper Punch, or Whispy as he'd grown used to call her, looked very tired. The scar she had on her left eye looked more prominent because of the pallor of her skin, while the one she had under her ear was covered by her (unfortunately untidy, this time... she must have stopped a dogfight in the dining room) short black hair.

Her eyes stayed locked onto the giant tree at the center of the circular space, surrounded by a small green field just as round.

It was a tree with a Quirk: gigantic, so much that it could almost be seen from outside the gargantuan walls of The Building, it had also been gifted by Nature with glowy purple leaves and flowers. No one had actually thought it would have become so big, or shiny; it had appearantly got in that state in just a year, making the locals and the ones charged with the Program very worried, although in the end everyone had grown affectionate to it.

Tenko saw it differently: he wasn't emotionally attached to it, but hypnotised, instead. He almost felt like a voice could come out of it anytime, and tell him eery but wise words. He got that hunch everytime he looked at the being. Sometimes he stared at his thick, extremely black wood and felt like it could have swallowed the light of the day, just like a black hole in space.

It weirded him out, but it also made him think and feel... something, many thoughts he couldn't describe.

So he never stared at it long. It would have made those sentiments of curiosity and dread much worse.

(Little did Tenko know, the tree truly could talk...)

-Something's troubling you. - said Whispy, still staring at the tree.

Isn't it always, he wanted to tell her, but he nodded and hummed affirmatively instead.

-What is it? Do you want to tell me? Also, break is almost over, did you eat something?

Yes, he had eaten something... Not much, but he could worry about that during dinner break.

He muffled yes, again.

-So yes, you've eaten, and yes, you want to share the issue?

-Y... yeah.

- OK then. Shoot.

-...

After a while, Tenko started explaining, trying to relax his posture and let it all go as he spoke.

-Why are they always so noisy? Don't they want to get out of the Program as soon as possible? Do they actually not care that much?

Understanding who he was talking about, and seemingly thinking about the other former Villains involved in the Reintegration, Whisper Punch answered.

-Some of them don't care, although if you're referring to the former brawlers like Rappa, I'll have to disagree. It's not that they wouldn't want out of these walls: they live to fight and spite people, and even if it really does stop them from getting back in society, they won't renounce dogfighting.

-Then why enroll in the Program at all?!

-Well... Maybe they want to see familiar faces that came here, or some of them actually have positive motivations but keep falling into bad habits.

-Just like I do, sometimes...

-What do you mean, Tenko?

-I... I sometimes feel like I'm acting as Shigaraki. When I react to the provocations, I mean, and threaten to Decay them. Am I not falling into bad habits as well?

-Maybe, but it is also true that you, and some others, try to be better than your past as Villains. The fact you're recognizing that you still make mistakes, is another testament to your progress.

-Huh...

-Anything else?

After that question, she finally turned to him. She made eye contact with her grey eyes: they had a very bright glint of blue in them, and had vertical pupils; the pupil of the left eye, cut by the scar, was white instead of black.

She wasn't giving him the calculating and fierce stare she gave Villains while she fought them in the streets, from behind her visor and mask, or the cold stare she gave to ex-Villains of the building when they jumped at each other.

Her stare had always been somewhat quiet and patient when she spoke to him.

She had made a promise to Midoriya, after all.

-I scratch myself again, at times...-he told Whisper Punch, with a small sigh.

- You do? Have you told the specialists?

He quickly nodded to make the worried lightnings in her eyes calmed down, and kept talking.

-They said to keep the gloves on, so that I don't Decay anyone; I also still need to sleep with the lighter ones, last time I tried not doing it I decayed one of the trinkets Shuichi had attached to the bunk bed and he got mad...

Shuichi and Dabi (the Todoroki elder brother preferred being called his villain name most of the time) had entered the program earlier than him, almost as soon as it had been started. They had hugged him as soon as they'd seen him being assigned to their room, alongside another Villain, Panthera.

She had many feline features, was way older than any of them, and didn't like being talked to. Even though she slept in one of the bunk beds of the same room, above Dabi's, she had never socialized much with them.

Whiptail, who had been member of her same gang AND her girlfriend, had been sent to another room, on another corridor, so Panthera was pissed.

The two had opposite opinions on him: Panthera couldn't stand him, for some unknown reason, but she had explained immediately that Whiptail had lost her brother when she was young and that she was now adoring him because he looked similar.

Also, Rappa slept in the room on the opposite wall, and he snored so loudly that the ones he shared the room with had tremendous insomnia, and Tenko's group did too. Whenever he thought about poor Atsuhiko sharing his room with that erculean brawler, he didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

Compress had been the last former member of the LOV to be captured. After the true defeat of All For One, he'd gone gallivanting around for half a year until he had let himself get captured. He had been sent to the same Rehab structure as Tenko and the others.

Atsuhiko had seen Shuichi choose to leave the Rehab to try the Program, while Dabi had been sent in it as a precaution because The Building could fair a lot better with his continuous attempts to burn his way out to freedom. Dabi had begrudgingly decided to enroll the Program too.

Atsuhiko, as Tenko remembered clearly, had been conflicted: he wanted to follow the other two, but he also wished to stay with Tenko. In the beginning, Tenko had been so angry the former Mr Compress had been considering the Program; he knew about the new laws, and that society was really changing for the better, but receiving help from Midoriya and defeating his former Sensei hadn't really been enough to get him out of the feelings of denial, so that he could finally start to hope.

Then he'd seen, heard, watched the new generation of Heroes (hell even the older Pros) hold speeches to embed change in society, and they also inspired the government to finally change things. The new HPSC was born, the laws on Quirks became less strict, counseling got better and there was no precise ranking system for the Pro Heroes anymore.

He had finally started to hope, six years after the defeat of his former Sensei; so he had finally forgiven Atsuhiko, and let him go: the LOV... they didn't have to get dragged down by his uncertainty to move on from his time as Shigaraki, they could change for the better if they wanted to.

And in the end, he had followed them: nine years later AFO's death, but STILL... he had seen them again and walked with them on the path towards betterment.

It had been a total of eleven years, and he now found himself sitting on that bench with an underground Pro Hero, Whisper Punch, as Supervisor, working towards a positive change of character.

Eleven years since he'd last seen Toga.

-How is Toga doing?

The question asked by Tenko made Whisper Punch almost jump. It had been somewhat sudden.

She, nevertheless, answered, after a minute of silence and a light sigh.

-She is very better. The counseling she is receiving is helping her, and she will soon be able to hold 80% control of the attraction towards blood given by her Quirk. She is getting better on a psychological standpoint too. She doesn't have heavy bags under her eyes anymore.

Tenko felt good hearing that...

-She's also receiving visits from Midoriya.

... And he almost choked on his own breath at that revelation.

-What?!

-She is, honest!

He thought...

-I thought he'd be squeamish about it?!

-He does feel embarrassed at times, Toga's still a bit touchy, but not as much as before.

Woah, Midoriya really was a goody two shoes wasn't he?

But Tenko just couldn't bring himself to hate him anymore, not for that.

Not when the boy's spirit had got him out of AFO's control.

So he was really starting to feel better.

... The bell suddenly rang. It was time to return inside.

-Well-concluded Whisper Punch, standing up alongside him, - It seems break is over. Today you have no lessons, statements, or psych evaluation seats, do you? Your day is completely free, go rest in your quarters. Oh, and if you meet Whiptail on the way and she's being too insistent, you can signal me. I'll see you soon for the field trip.

At the single thought of the field trip, another bit of his sense of heaviness faded away.

Once every month, the members of the Program would take part in small trips over the mountains or panoramic sights, separated in three main groups. They were all heavily guarded, but the times of Tartarus had passed: the field trips were some of the best parts of the Program, and one of the few instances in which pretty much no one argued over anything.

Before he turned back into the building, Tenko looked at Whisper Punch and asked her about one of his neverending doubts:

-Is it really okay if I keep the coat?

It was draped over his shoulders as he asked, the coat in question: he'd used it as Shigaraki, and it was one of the few things he had insisted to bring with him from the Rehab. Many specialists of the Program had objected, but after being assigned to Whisper Punch, she'd asked them to hold their dread and let him take it and wear it.

The coat had a history, and it was a reminder.

The past never died, so Shigaraki wouldn't have died either: Tenko would change from his Shigaraki persona of course, but he would have still needed to bring it with him, to let it accompany him on his journey.

He didn't want Shigaraki to feel left behind, to not be seen as part of the journey; he was his past self and it was from his past self that he had to heal.

So he'd carry Shigaraki with him, and show him how he changed... and how possible it was to hope in a better future.

Shigaraki needed to see it as much as Tenko needed to feel it.

But reminding himself of why he still carried the coat on his shoulders wasn't enough...

So Tenko waited until Whisper Punch told him that it was a good choice, and only then he said goodbye, only then he returned to his room.

Shuichi still smiled brightly, Dabi was still being a brat and Panthera was still gloomy when he came back, and as they chatted (Panthera kept sulking the whole time), he remembered the question he had actually wanted to ask the whole time, and had forgotten to inquire to his Supervisor:

"Can I go to Toshinori's tomb, when the anniversary comes?"

For his grandma's adoptive son, his adoptive uncle, had died last year.

He reminded himself to ask her, at dinner.

#bnha #shigaraki tomura/shimura tenko #shigaraki tomura/shimura tenko belongs to horikoshi #bnha belongs to Kohei Horikoshi and it is not my property #this fanart and this fanfiction are part of the BNHA AU RESOLVE #BNHA-RESOLVE is my Canon Rewrite and What-If #my inspiration is owed to Horikoshi's outstanding work #I in no way claim the original franchise #but I am claiming my ideas for this AU #I still owe you Hori ❤️#Whisper Punch #Whisper Punch is my OC #do not steal her

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wafflewarriors · 4 years ago

Text

A Rewrite of History

Chapter 8—Skin

So… shapeshifters.

As if you didn’t have enough trust issues.

Now, not only did you have to worry about every angel or demon sent to spy on you…

...but now you had to worry about a slimy, homicidal, lying monster that could pretend to be literally anyone.

Great.

You sighed, dragging your fingers along your scalp as you brainstormed. How could you do this and get out in one piece?

Becky calls Sam because she’s worried about her brother Zach, who’s been accused of a murder he didn’t commit. And, well, the only way to stop that would be to tail the shapeshifter before it even gets to the couples.

An impossible task.

To make matters worse, you were going to have to intervene. Right when the shapeshifter comes to torture Emily with her boyfriend’s face. And if you were caught, it would just be another thing to add to the piling concrete evidence that you were a monster in the Winchester’s eyes.

You rubbed at your temple. Your anxiety really was through the roof lately. Always on edge and lightheaded.Though, there’s only so many nutrients one can get from a peanut butter sandwich.

You underlined their names on your notepad, Zach and Emily, tracing over the line. Then you gained the will to start up your car and drive off to stalk the poor couple.

///

Time ticked by slowly as you sat and waited outside the victim's home.

To be completely honest, you weren’t sure what to expect. All the monsters you’ve hunted so far had a valid reason to be what they were. Ghosts? They were hardwired to act in violent patterns. Wendigos? They were just feral animals. Demons? They were twisted, broken souls who lash out and wreak havoc. But only after decades upon centuries of endless torture.

But a shapeshifter? A shapeshifter has its own conscience. Even if it was horribly skewed from a life of resentment and shame.

You shook your head. Sentiment. The sentiment always gets to you. This isn’t a human. This is a monster. Do the job.

After staring blankly at the house for what felt like hours, a shadow moved. Your heart picked up, and you tried to look for any other movement. Nothing.

You sighed. How did your life even come to this? You popped open your car door, slinking out of your seat as quietly as you could. It would be much easier if the shapeshifter didn't know you were coming.

You tread lightly up to the house, up their driveway, and peeked in windows. Just as you were about to admit it was your paranoia talking, something in the house shuddered.

Welp. Guess you hadn’t imagined it.

The front door was open. You let yourself in.

The house was dangerously quiet. The lights were deceivingly warm. Then you heard whimpering. Silver knife in hand, you tiptoed in their hallway, watching the source's door like a hawk.

This is the dumbest thing you've ever done.

Throwing out your invasive thoughts, you prepared to cave the door in and stab the monster in the heart. If it had been your choice, you'd shoot it, but you didn’t have any silver bullets on hand.

You kicked the door in, sweeping your weapon through the room, but there was only the victim. Her breathing was labored, and you weren't dumb enough to try and help her before you ganked the shapeshifter.

You tried to signal that you were on her side, but she just sobbed into her gag.

"No, 'honey, I'm home'?" a male voice called.

You froze. Shapeshifter.

The shadow in the hallway crept up until his figure was visible, and his eyes were glowing. "Oh… but you're not him. You're a hunter, aren't you?" he said. "Here to slay me, little girl?"

"I'm here to make sure you don't hurt any more families."

"I'm sure you are." He smiled. "Are you going to come and stab me, then?"

"Considering it."

"You're afraid," he sneered. "You're a poor excuse for a hunter. You're inexperienced." He grinned and started walking forward. "Stab me, little hunter. Do your worst."

You charged, swinging at him with your knife, but he dodged the move. He kneed you in the stomach, stealing your breath. When you fell on all fours, he stepped down on your hand with the knife. "That was a stupid move."

The last thing you saw was the toe of his shoe.

///

You woke up, sick to your stomach.

Waking up feeling gross wasn't that abnormal, but it wasn’t usually this intense. You could tolerate a little hunger or thirst, or some smarting, but this was something else entirely.

Some kind of tarp was draped over you, but you didn’t have the energy to throw it off.

Your shoulders ached, arms pulled taut above you with no give.

You just tried to breathe through the pain.

A sawing noise came from your left. Through the ringing in your ears, someone was talking. Two someones. It clicked: you were in the sewers, and that sawing noise was Dean breaking from his ropes. Distantly, you wondered for how long. Guess that didn't matter now, though.

"...didn't just look like you. He was you," Sam said. "Or he was becoming you."

You were completely still. If they found you, you were dead… but if they left you, they'd kill the shapeshifter and you'd be left to rot. Both options sucked.

"What'd'ya mean?"

"I don't know, it was like he was downloading your thoughts and memories."

You had to get out. But there was nothing to saw your hands against like Dean had. Just smooth metal and rope burns on your wrists.

"You mean like the Vulcan Mind Meld?"

"Yeah, something like that." Sam paused. "Maybe that's why he didn't just kill us."

Dean must have stumbled out of his ropes, because now his voice was traveling. "Maybe he needs to keep us live… for the psychic connection."

"Hands." Sam was being untied. "Yeah. Come on, we gotta go. He's probably at Rebecca's already."

"Wait," Dean said with a long pause. "The shapeshifter turned into that girl, right? So wouldn't that mean she's still down here?"

Your stomach dropped.

"I guess. Or he just removed her when he took us. For all we know she could be in a ditch," Sam said. "And honestly? Good riddance."

You weren’t sure if you were rooting for them to leave you or stay. Both options were bad.

"Or…" Dean said slowly. "She's just being quiet because she's afraid of us finding her."

Yeah, that about summed it up.

You listened to footsteps, deadly still and holding your breath. The footsteps stilled in front of you and you steeled yourself for the reveal.

The tarp was tossed away, and you stared fearfully into the bright green eyes of Dean freaking Winchester. Your mind was churning, working in fight or flight mode, but you could do neither. You were screwed.

The only thing that could save you now was the angels, and they didn't seem to be concerned enough to step in anytime soon.

"Well, hi," Dean said with a smile. It was smug and absolutely intended to be intimidating.

You stared, and that sick feeling in your stomach only deepened. Something told you that it probably wasn't just the anxiety making you sick, but you pushed it away. That could wait. Right now, you had other things to worry about.

Like, say, the Winchesters.

And torture.

Dean raised an eyebrow to his brother, who walked around to get a look at you. "You know, if we had left you, the shapeshifter would have come back. Or worse—wouldn't have come back."

"I'm aware," you said, finding it difficult to hold eye contact with them. The look in their eyes was overwhelming.

They smiled at each other, clearly amused at your situation.

You gained the courage to snap, "You going to kill me or what?" There was no trying to get it through their thick skulls that you weren’t the enemy here. Plus, maybe if the angels really believed you were in danger, they'd rescue you.

Dean shrugged. "That's up to you. I kind of want to hear your end of the story."

You frowned. "Really?" Maybe there's hope here. Maybe you really can form an alliance—

"Nah, I'm just kidding. I don't want to hear what you have to say." Dean admitted.

You scowled. "I didn't kill Jessica." They were giving you time to explain yourself, so of course you were going to use it.

"You were the only one there, and Sam saw you."

"I was there to save her. Figures you'd think I can just put someone on the ceiling and set them on fire."

"I wouldn't be too sure. Looks like you made a handy dandy flame thrower out there. Who's to say you aren't the thing our Dad has been hunting?"

"I wasn't even alive when your mother died. I'm telling you: I. Am. Human." You thrust your hand out, showing them the burns. "See? Scar tissue. I'm a human being—"

"How do you know that? How did you know about our mother?" Dean demanded. Of course he'd focus on that comment. It was like talking to a brick wall.

"It's not like it's a secret. It was written all over your father's journal," you lied.

Sam squinted. "Who are you?"

You let your head fall back onto the pole. Just kill me already. "Someone who just wants to go home."

"Boohoo for you," Dean spat.

"At least you're able to look for your family."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

You yanked at your ropes, and the Winchester's tensed. But you were still held tight. "We don't have time for this. Either you kill me right now, or you take me with you. Does the name Rebecca ring any bells?"

They scowled, but it got them moving. Dean nodded to Sam. "We'll come back for her."

You twisted to look at them as they walked away. "What?! No! Wait! But I can help! Just untie me and I can help!"

"Not a chance," Dean said. "See, I don't trust stalkers." And he walked away.

"Please," you said. "Please... I... please I don't… I don't feel right." Your voice echoed. Pipes dripped in reply.

They had already left you.

Your mind ran. Your breaths were shallow, biting back the nausea that threatened to overtake you. You blinked, slow and long, feeling off. You had to get out. Whatever acid trip you were on, you needed out of the ropes and out of the sewer.

If you had a little slack… you might be able to gnaw at the rope and loosen it. But that would mean dislocating your shoulder.

You braced yourself, getting ready to pull your arm out of your socket, but you chickened out. The anticipation was making your heartbeat like a drum against your chest. You can’t do that. You can't, your anxiety told you. It'll hurt. You don't know what you're doing. You've never done this. It's going to hurt.

But your logical side argued back. All it takes is one motion. One swift second and you could break yourself free, with the downside of shoulder problems. You don't want to be down here, tied up and defenseless. A dislocated shoulder won't hurt you—but the Winchesters and a shapeshifter definitely will. Do it.

You were pretty sure you were going to have a panic attack if you kept thinking about this. You took a breath, and swiftly yanked.

The pain was blinding. Your vision went white and you screamed. You panted heavily, riding through the wave of agony before it became a constant excruciating burn.

You reached your mouth for the rope on your good arm—since you could reach it now—and tugged at it with your teeth. It was old rope, and it tasted like dust. You pulled just enough for the loop around your hand to loosen, and it was free. You then worked the rope away from your neck and abdomen and, lastly, untied the rope around your dislocated arm.

You stood up too fast and saw a sea of grey. The jostling of your arm had you stumbling onto your knees and vomiting what little bile was in your stomach. Gross.

The shapeshifter would be back soon with… Emily, was it? Or was it Becky? Rebecca. You were losing your focus.

You also didn't know how to reset a dislocated shoulder. Just looking at it was making you queasy. The bone was pointed upward, your shoulder flattened. It was bruising and swelling, and god it hurt. It looked so unnatural you thought you might puke again.

You didn't though. You steadied yourself, knowing what was ahead of you: you were going to have to relocate it yourself.

You had no choice. Nobody to run to. Everyone that you knew was your enemy.

You braced your back against a metal pole, grabbing your arm with your good one. You pulled it straight forward, not yanking, but attempting to guide it back in. You cried as it popped back into place.

You wiped away a few stray tears with your good hand.

You then worked on a temporary sling with the rope that had been used to tie you up. It turned out kind of sucky and awkward, as you only had one hand available, but it was enough to keep the arm steady against your chest.

Your arm still freaking hurt.

You peered around, squinting at the shiny pile in the corner of the room. It had a tarp over it, but it must have shifted and revealed it's contents. You walked over, marveling at the mass of silver weapons just lying around.

"You keep it here? Just lying around? For anyone to take?" You grabbed a gun loaded with silver bullets (which was probably the Winchester’s, now that you thought about it), and your silver knife as a token of your survival.

Now to get the hell out of here, you thought.

"That could be my catchphrase," you muttered. Your chest was still heaving, in pain and in adrenaline. What a nightmare.

You ran, biting your tongue as the motion shook your arm. But there was no time to care, and definitely no time to pity yourself.

Somewhere behind you, there were echoing footsteps.

"Cas," you said softly. Shakily. "Cas, if you're out there, please come and get me. I know we're not on the best terms… but my arm, I got a bum arm and I'm in trouble—please—"

There was no reply.

You huffed. Typical. You took one more turn through the sewers, and you saw light.

The footsteps grew louder and as did your heart. You reached for the grating, working at the screws to try and pry the thing open. It took effort though. It hurt your fingers to strain like this, twisting each screw until they clattered noisily onto the tile. You grimaced each time, taking little glances to see if the footsteps matched a shadow.

As you worked on the last screw, you watched you—not actually you, shapeshifter-you—march your way. It was like looking into a fun house mirror. Except not so fun.

You pushed the grating away, shoving your frame through the entry. You rolled, struggling to get on your feet so you could run off.

A hand grabbed for your feet but you managed to stumble back, knife raised in front of you with your bad arm.

The shapeshifter crawled into the light like it was normal to walk on all fours. He mimicked your terrified look, then smirked at you. "Are we back here again? You know you'll never win." You watched as he drew closer, tensing.

When he was just five feet in front of you, you said, "No." And he paused. You whipped out the gun with your good arm, shooting him right in the chest. He floundered at first, but then crumbled into a motionless heap.

"I don't make the same mistakes twice."

The shapeshifter was dead. You stared at your face—its face—as you swayed and the world dipped with it, your mind snuffed out like a candle.

You were caught by two sturdy arms.

///

Tags: @rosaren2498 , @pillowjj , @busy-bee-angel-misska , @elle-r , @dagnylokisdottir , @omg-we-really-doo , @millieccino , @rycbar-221b

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virtuesmh · 6 years ago

Text

Adlock Songfic - Sweater Weather

All I am is a man

I want the world in my hands

As always, Sherlock Holmes' mind was restless. Even in the midst of 'vacation', it was urgent to keep his thoughts flowing, mostly by using strangers around him as experiment objects. He wouldn't want a jam in the machine inside his head, would he?

I hate the beach

But I stand in California with my toes in the sand

Unlike London's chilly weather, California's weather surprised his body's axiom. Then, his eyes stung in the bright sun, a horrible tan had colored his pale skin, from arms, torso, to legs. He clenched a handful of sand and watched it fall tediously through the gaps between his fingers.

Use the sleeves of my sweater

Let's have an adventure

He had heard the last sentence and it successfully hooked him across the world. Meaningless words, yet when spoken by a particular person, turned into an effective charm.

Head in the clouds but my gravity's centered

Touch my neck and I'll touch yours

You in those little high-waist shorts

Before his head could wander further, a sudden pressure weighted his thigh. Sherlock opened his eyes, revealing Irene Adler herself, seated beside him, one hand on him and the other holding a glass of Moscow Mule on rocks.

A slight smile slipped into his lips, mirroring hers.

"Didn't bother getting me one?" He asked.

She knows what I think about

And what I think about

"This is yours, dear," She replied, a tad melodious, "I finished mine when you're . . daydreaming."

Sherlock snickered under his breath. His observation frenzy immediately stopped, a more effective focus-gatherer had come. His fast deductions and crippling anxiety would perish in the presence of its queen. His fingers were still wrapped around the cold glass as he glanced to Irene, who had her eyes on the mouthful ocean waves.

Before his mind could tell him what to do, a forcing need pulled him closer to her. Irene turned behind and froze bewildered, yet she didn't move an inch nor looked away. Before their skin could make the slightest brush, Sherlock breathed in sharply and pulled away. Stern and harshness had returned to its place as he gulped the pleasurable beverage down his throat, sending relief to his dried lips and thirst. Yet, it didn't, and nothing ever did answer his questions about the woman and their confusing, out-of-the-world reverie.

One love, two mouths

Then, the sandy beaches, blue oceans and limitless horizon turned into a different sphere.

The bright sun was hidden behind thick, moody clouds. Cold breeze rushed up their spines, signing an imminent winter.

Sherlock shrugged his coat tighter as he left his hotel room. He rushed out of the elevator towards the lobby and stuck his hand out to hail a cab.

Along the ride, Sherlock's heart thumped unfamiliarly. Luckily, the side of city wasn't too crowded as no traffic jam occured, the opposite of London's bright, red lights.

Vast buildings changed into narrower ones, and gradually into green trees and meadows. Orange and pink clashed into the skies' soft blue as the sun slowly dropped low. An almost impossible giddiness rose within Sherlock as a familiar entrance came into hindsight.

The cab drifted right and dropped the detective off in the concrete pavement. Sherlock went on with his walk.

He paced on a stone path, leading to a well-remembered destination, the last lodge on the rows of residences, just by the lake.

One love, one house

Soon, he arrived. He halted just by the doorstep and wrapped his fingers around the doorknob tightly. With the other hand, he gave two gentle knocks before entering.

By reflex, he took off his shoes, remembering the last time he didn't, the woman wasn't too pleased. His coat was hung by the door and he was already sprawled on the long couch.

"Hullo!" A voice called from the kitchen.

A grin made its ghostly way into Sherlock's lips as Irene strolled from the kitchen, her long, raven hair tousled in a bun with a few strands falling messily.

An appealing aroma filled in the air and Irene stood silent, while Sherlock knew exactly what she wanted to hear.

"Smells brilliant. I expect it will be a wonderful new year's dinner with-" He breathed deeply, his eyes gleaming in thoughts, "Shrimp scampi with pasta, fried Serrano ham along with fried olive, and-"

He inhaled sharply once more, though this time, he was absolutely uncalled for. In realization, the smile on his lips grew wider and he clapped his hands together.

"Bless cinnamon buns!" He laughed, "How did you even know?"

"Says the man who never accepts complementary food, except anything related to it," Irene said pleasantly, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"I have flaws, woman," Sherlock said, lowering his tone on a particular word.

"I got you another book," he added.

Sherlock pulled a thick novel from his clasp and put it on a drawer on his left.

"Thank you, dear," Irene shortly said before disappearing into the bathroom.

With that, Sherlock was left in silence. It gave him no other choice but to wander in the depths of his mind. Invisible information was being presented in an unfathomable speed, hands rested in a prayer, eyes flickering behind shut lids.

No shirt, no blouse

Suddenly, a creak awakened his consciousness. His eyes gradually opened as the water tap stopped running, the bathroom door was slowly opened, steam-coated glass revealed the woman herself, putting on a show through a simple walk to her bedroom. Soon, she stepped out and joined him in the living room. Her wet hair was wrapped with towel and her toned body was hugged a silk purple nightgown.

The points of his lips quirked into a smirk as she sat beside him, legs resting on his lap.

"You don't mind, do you?" She said as she undid the towel wrapped on her wavy, raven hair.

"Oh, I insist."

A fit of chuckle went out from Irene's lips,

"Mr Holmes, you are terrible in disguising sentiment."

Just us, you find out

Sherlock's eyebrows rose to his hairline and a frown formed on his expressionless face,

"I've often been informed I don't feel any."

"But we both know it's not quite true, isn't it?"

"How would we know?" He said with a low hiss, emphasizing the rare use of we.

"Look at where you are now and your decisions for the past two years, look around and make a deduction!" She said, her tone rising in every word. Her thin, rosy lips were shut tightly, the insides bitten hardly, probably wounded and bleeding by then.

Sherlock's heart sunk as he noticed a different glint behind her eyes and a strange tremor racing down her fingers. A familiar yet unknown feeling started filling his chest, disheveling his breathing and pulse.

Irene closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. She fixed her posture and regained control of herself. Bravery, accompanied with a hidden timidness brought back her reserve; a puzzle Sherlock Holmes had never been able to solve.

Nothing that wouldn't wanna tell you about, no

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Why do you stay, Sherlock?"

Irene crossed her legs with her arms stretched around them. Sherlock noticed the sudden defensive shift, only making his thoughts run faster and harder to comprehend.

"You need protection from . . past vices."

"I can protect myself," She said with pride, thick in her tone.

"I know."

"Then why?"

"I-"

His lips parted to speak, yet for once, he was baffled. The rocketing atoms inside his head turned out to be fear of the unsolved, for his head was speechless and empty in such dire situation. His breath hitched and became sharper, as if his lungs were overrun by poisonous emotions, taking over the throne of himself.

"I won't leave," Irene suddenly said. Sherlock snapped his head to her, gazing confusedly.

"I won't leave, even when your reason isn't the same as mine."

A weak smile entered her face. She rose from her seat and walked towards the kitchen. Her muscles stiffened as they struggled to walk away. Her fingers clawed against one another in her balled, whitened knuckles.

Sherlock immediately tailed behind, assisting to set up their dinner. This time, it carried a different vibe. Sherlock's lips trembled silently, the childish annoyance which usually happened was nowhere to be found. Irene's mocking and little games wasn't conducted too, not even her mischievous zeal surfaced.

Whether they wanted to admit or not, big chances it would probably be their very last dinner. From time to time, domestic life washed away fear of the end. Suddenly, just then, reality would slap hardly and dragged them down, begging for time to go slower and the moon to forget falling away into morning.

Despite the heaviness of their hearts, not a hint of truthful pain came upon their faces. Sherlock and Irene chatted joyously as they dawned on dinner.

Hours passed by unlikely to their prayers. When the clock struck 11, Sherlock offered his hand to lead her into their last waltz. Another half an hour was spent in warmth and comfort as their cab drove from the country side to metropolitan downtown.

Cause it's too cold

For you here, and now

The two swayed close as man in megaphone started the new year countdown. Everyone around started cheering in foreign languages they didn't fathom, either correct numbers or drunk, slurred words. Yet Sherlock and Irene put no matter to their surroundings, as if the world itself was made for them only, everyone else was simply irrelevant.

Suddenly, Sherlock circled his arms around her waist. Irene narrowed her eyebrows in confusion, staring into the man's in hope for answers. Even though, she played along. Maybe there was someone suspicious preying on them, or a danger Sherlock had reckoned before her.

Above all probability, sentiment was placed at the very bottom. Irene learnt from her mistake, playing feelings with the detective would turn out just to be delayed disappointment. Yet what she let slip, sentiment wasn't just a reason in her demeanor, but also the things in her unconsciousness; the heaviness to part ways and the chains to stay close to the other, when all she had been doing for her whole life was running away. Sherlock Holmes had turned out to be the anchor she never knew would accept.

5 . . 4

Not a word escaped from Sherlock's mouth. Instead, he pressed his forehead against hers. The bridges of their noses met, breath hitching, pupils dilated, hearts beating rapidly as if they were barging through flesh and ribs. Irene's fingers were clutched tightly to his coat and she lifted her chin high to meet his gaze, as she could initially reach his chest.

"Is there another vatican cameo?" She asked.

A tender smile grew on Sherlock's lips as he shook his head.

"No, we're safe and sound. Just, bear with me."

So let me hold

Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

3 . . 2

Though they had winter coats up to their necks, with snow falling on top of their heads and Budapest in its coldest state, quiver had struck Irene's lips. The former smile on Sherlock's mouth lifted into an amused grin as his hands moved down to reach hers. Their fingers were entangled tightly, Sherlock's radiating warmth into Irene's.

1, Happy New Year!

Fireworks launched high to the dark skies. Everyone around them cheered, some were dancing, some lifted the bottoms of their cold pints, ready to drink themselves off in the special night.

Yet the two chose to stay silent, communicating through the deep gaze and smiles they shared. It was a decision they had chosen without doubt nor the shortest argument; to start the first chapter of a new year together, in the presence, commitment, and fidelity of each other. Slowly, Sherlock lowered his head to her ears, lips parting to whisper:

"Happy New Year, love."

But before he could back away, Irene's palms cupped his jaw, holding them in place as she brushed her lips against him. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise before gaining sense of reality again and deepened the caress.

Sherlock Holmes with his posture crooked to reach Irene Adler on her tip toes, people who knew them would drool in disbelief.

It was bizarre enough for hints of domestic growing between them for the past two years. New habits picked up from each other, late night confessions and soothing Sherlock when he got anxious over John and Mrs Hudson over countries, or when Irene would feel a cold blade behind her neck and relive Karachi over again.

Or the subtle panic when the other gets sick, or the fear when they bend over time. Of course, bickering, childish or serious, would occur over the months.

Yet, there they were, the posh boy and the dominatrix, falling deep in their own story about love, their quills were up and ready to write new chapters. However improbable, tedious, malingering, or devilish, they were to face life together, and that was enough.

Finally, the two parted away with mischief and dissatisfied longing in the look they shared.

"Is that your answer, Mr Holmes?"

"Apparently so," He murmured, a tint of light red coloring his cheeks as his eyes wandered around in embarrassment.

"Glad to know we're on the same page," Irene said with a grin as Sherlock dove his head, letting all the sentiment he had dammed for years into a tender caress on her lips.

#oneshot #sherlock aesthetic #sherlock x irene #bbc sherlock #fanfic #fanfiction #the adlock yacht #adlock #irene adler #new year

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livia-lebeau · 7 years ago

Text

we are what we are, don't need no excuses

To say Livia was annoyed as she walked into the lavish apartment her ex-husband leased would be the understatement of the century, though it was still new. There was plenty of time for him to get under her skin. She didn't knock. Three hundred fucking years and there wasn't much she hadn't seen. The curtains were drawn which was ridiculous. The tales of the sun burning the skin of vampires was merely fiction to make the mortals feel safe from those that would hunt them. They were sensitive to the sun, certainly. A bit more than humans, but it was nothing that would kill them. Though knowing Gus, and she did know him well, he'd act as though the tiniest bit of color on his skin was fatal. No vampires had more to worry about than the sun, but since the apartment was in his name, she had no fear walking through the door. Pesky humans and the invitation rules that could kill their betters. Luckily, most humans still thought garlic and crosses would keep the big bads away. The smell of blood was almost overwhelming, but not surprising. A young woman sprawled on the dining room table. She wasn't dead yet, but her heartbeat slowed with every labored breath. The little human was scared. She prayed to some god Livia was certain didn't exist.

Livia advanced towards the table. "Shhh," she whispered. Her fangs extended. She could easily finish the girl off, but knowing Gus, the terrified girl was likely the mayor's daughter and soon enough the entire goddamn country would be looking for her. Livia bit into the tender skin of her own wrist, letting her blood flow freely into the girl's mouth. She listened past the pitiful cries to the girl's heartbeat. It was stronger and the marks on her neck disappeared. Livia pulled back her wrist and swiftly leaned over the table and grabbed the girl by the neck. She stared into her eyes as her pupils dilated. "When I count to five, you will walk out the door and forget this place and anything occurred. You will go home like nothing happened." Her words were calm, almost soothing.

"Please -" the girl began to beg, not realizing the mercy Livia extended.

The brunette ignored her. "You feel will tired and sick, but you'll think it's a hangover. You really should be more careful of the bars you frequent. Avoid the blonds with devilish smiles; they're nothing but trouble."

"I just -"

"One..."

The girl began to cry, tears running down her face.

"Two..."

She struggled against Livia's grip.

"Three..."

She whimpered, prepared now for the inevitable death she would face.

"Four..."

The girl blinked away her tears.

"Five..." Livia finished, releasing the girl's neck.

Her tears ceased. She sat up on the oak table then pushed herself off and walked out the door.

"Spoilsport," a voice said from the kitchen.

Livia turned to face him, a scowl on her face. A look Gus was no doubt accustomed to receiving. "Mayor's daughter?" she asked.

Gus shrugged. "Better. Governor's." He held up a wine glass filled almost to the brim with thick, warm, delicious blood. "O positive; your favorite."

She took the glass from him, and took a sip, letting the metallic tasting liquid coat her throat. Exquisite, but nothing worth exposure over. Livia closed her eyes for a moment. She traveled quickly, so it had been two days since she enjoyed something fresh. She placed the glass on a coaster and sat down on one of Gus' impractical and uncomfortable chairs."In trouble. Come quick. Not a booty call," Livia said, repeating verbatim the text message he'd sent her thirty-six hours before. "What, pray tell, is a booty call?" She raised an eyebrow, waiting for his explanation.

He grinned, clearly amused by himself. "A colloquialism young people use, darling, for calling one over for sex."

Livia rolled her eyes. "Did you really have me travel a thousand fucking miles for you to -"

"Witches are trying to kill us!" Gus quickly said.

She stopped, and not a single emotion betrayed her face. He used the word 'us' as if they hadn't been estranged for the better part of the last two decades. The fact that she even gave him her cell phone number was kindness in and of itself. "What did you do?" she demanded.

"Why do you always assume I did something?" he demanded in return.

Liv stood from her seat, advancing towards him until she had him pinned against the wall. "Because I'm your wife, asshole."

Many thoughts ran through Gus' mind - the most prominent being: how the fuck did they always end up in this exact position? But there was no time for his mind to wander where this could so easily lead; they were dying after all. He placed his hands on her hips, turning her so her back was now to the wall, his forearm against her neck. "I killed some witches, darling," he said bluntly.

"That doesn't explain why they are trying to kill me." She pushed him off her.

Gus shrugged. "Afraid of retaliation?" he mused, turning from her to his liquor cart. He poured of scotch and held out a glass towards her.

Livia shook her head, picking up her glass of blood and taking another sip. While their tolerance for alcohol rivaled any tried and true alcoholic, she did not think it was wise to lose their heads before their apparent doom. Retaliation? Part of Livia was flattered that their lessers still uttered tales of their destruction throughout Europe. Once, she reveled in it all - when she was younger and the wounds still fresh. "They overestimate my feelings for you."

Her words stung, but Gus learned long ago that he could not always take Liv at face value. She wouldn't have shown up if she didn't care. "Well, you can tell them all about it while they're killing me."

She rolled her eyes then wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth with her thumb. "How exactly do you know of their plans?"

"I don't exactly. Just whispers of a weapon and the full moon."

Always the full moon. Witches were so predictable that way. Livia sat down again and propped her feet up on the coffee table then folded her arms. "Plan of attack?"

Gus shrugged. "Kill everyone?"

Her mouth hung open. "You brought me here, and you don't even have a fucking plan?" Of course, he didn't. Because she was his plan. Liv wanted to slap him. Rip his beating heart out of his chest and watch as he withered away. She'd save the witches the trouble of killing him, and maybe they'd spare her in return.

He sighed. "Do you still have the ring I gave you?" He paused for a moment. "The other ring."

Part of her wanted to be difficult and say she threw it in the ocean, but she long suspected that sentiment was not behind the gift, so she didn't. She pulled up the white gold chain that was around her neck, revealing two rings - the diamond-encrusted gold band he'd given her shortly after Octavia's birth and the even older gold ring with wording even she couldn't read. He told her it was a declaration of love, and at the time she didn't believe him.

"One of us should be immune to their tricks," Gus told her. His gaze was caught on the other ring, though. He quickly looked away. They didn't talk about Octavia, or at least Gus learned long ago not to bring her up. Sometimes, it surprised him how fresh it all felt. The pang of loss was rarer now; he'd shed his humanity before Liv did. He figured that was why Liv always left; he was the constant reminder of everything she'd ever lost.

Livia stared at her husband, sometimes ex-husband depending on the day and her mood. Words uttered centuries ago played in her head. There's no world for me without you in it. "So, you go in front, and I go in the back?" she asked. Gus the distraction while she picked off puny witches. He was old, so he had a fighting chance. The older ones were always harder to kill.

Gus nodded. "We'll leave when the sun sets."

She finished her glass of blood then swung her feet down from the table and stood. "Where are the weapons?"

The two rode in silence. A small arsenal in their trunk, but Gus knew the greatest weapon he possessed was sitting in the passenger's seat. Many days she hated him. He knew that. She'd begrudgingly accepted his marriage proposal. If her father hadn't lost his fortune, she'd have been some other man's wife. The thought made him sick. The moment Gus saw her, rebuffing his brother and any other suitor who came her way - he knew. Livia LeBeau would be his wife. Maybe she would have been happier had Gus not been such a selfish bastard. But they were happy, truly happy even if it was fleeting and gone too soon.

"Do you remember that coven in the seventies?" Livia asked, breaking the silence.

Gus glanced at her and smiled. "Which seventies?"

She leaned her head against the window, the cool glass against her cool skin. "Eighteen," she replied.

He didn't. At some point, their enemies just blurred together in his mind. The enemies they made from the destruction they caused were always more dangerous than those looking to make a name for themselves. There was passion in revenge. Revenge fueled even the weakest of creatures. "I remember you scandalized half of Europe of those gowns of yours."

Livia bit her lip to keep from laughing. Instead, she frowned playfully. She sat up straight. "Not in Paris."

Gus smile, looking from Livia then back to the road. "We should go back there," he suggested. "After this, we should go back to Paris. Spend all day in bed and paint the town red all night." He reached over and took her hand, bringing it to his lips.

"Paris," Livia repeated. Though she did not say what they were both thinking: if we live.

Gus stopped half a mile from the church. It was better if they finished on feet. Quieter, though no doubt the witches would be prepared. "Liv," Gus said once they'd both gotten out the car, and he'd tucked a few knives into his pockets.

She turned to him. "Hm?"

He walked towards her until he was inches away. He wrapped her arms around her waist and pulled her close. Gus pressed his lips against hers. When they parted neither spoke. They didn't want to say what it was, a potential goodbye.

Livia placed her hand on his cheek and pressed her forehead against his for a moment. She never wanted to be this. A monster. He made that decision for her, and for years she hated him for it. But three hundred years and Livia could not imagine a life without him. The pain, the happiness, the sorrow, and oh the fights. It was worth it.

The pair separated - Gus taking the obvious route while Liv went around the back. She always hated swamps. Too many alligators and snakes, not that either could hurt her. Once she was close enough, she listened. They were still chanting. Whatever weapon they were creating, they hadn't accomplished it yet. Screams. Gus was inside. He was struggling, but so were they. The witches standing guard left their post. Liv made her way inside. Three dead witches already, but Gus was crumpled on the floor. He was losing. Dying. Livia ran quickly, snapping the necks of two that were standing guard.

Three of the witches turned to face Livia, chanting some Latin she'd never bothered to learn. The words did nothing. No searing pain or great shows of strength. The little trinket Gus had given her worked.

Livia laughed then a devilish smile crossed her lips as she made her way from one witch to another, snapping their pretty little necks. Maybe they would live after all. But the last witch - she was tricky. More powerful than the others. She continued chanting. The altar glowing. There was something protecting her. Something Livia could not pass. Then her eyes fell upon the cross. She ripped it from the wall and hurled it at the witch. It pierced her side and she fell to the floor. Whatever shielded her from Livia broke, and Liv advanced towards her. She grabbed the woman by the neck, lifting her with one hand. With her other hand, she tore out the witch's heart, dropping it and the woman on the floor. The blood was intoxicating, and if Livia's own heart could beat, she knew it would be racing. Gus brought this out in her. The best and the worst.

Bellowing wails broke Liv from her trance. Her eyes no longer affixed on the blood dripping from the now dead witch. She almost didn't believe her eyes. The altar ceased its glowing, and a tiny bundle wiggled on the table. She knew that cry. Livia'd walked the earth for three hundred years. She'd long forgotten her mother's face and her father's voice, but not hers. Three hundred years, and it could be another three hundred more and Livia would never forget the three months and eleven days she'd spent with that little girl. She glanced around the room. Gus was barely stirring, and normally she might help him up. Instead, she walked slowly to the altar, wiping her bloody hands on her shirt. As Livia lifted the baby, her cries ceased.

"Octavia," Livia whispered.

#/#//#///#////#/////#livia x gus #freewriting #verse: vampire au

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