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shibaraki · 9 months

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THE ARSONIST’S LULLABY ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: the theory is everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. a symbolic, younger version of the self that can still be saved.

dabi comes home with what seems to be a sleeping four year old in his arms and the look of a man who has just seen a ghost.

tags: GN reader, reader is a civilian, sorta established relationship (dabi is paranoid and allergic to labels), accidental child acquisition, angst and fluff, pre LOV (like right before), alludes to past canon child abuse, dissociation, family feels (dabi shithead big brother tendencies)

wc: 8K

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t,” Dabi hushed you frantically, far more frayed than you’ve ever seen him. Affronted, you open the door wider all the same, allowing him inside.

He’s careful with his movements as he kicks off his boots and ducks into the living room. The lump bundled in his jacket does not stir. Dabi lowers to a crouch and settles a young child on the sofa cushions. You note the deliberate care in which he slides his arms out from beneath the boy's body.

The coat lapels have slipped to reveal a child that can surely be no older than four years old. Waxen skin, full cheeks and a wind bitten nose. Most notable is the red hair, thick and fanning across the decorative pillow in undefined waves.

You feel inclined to tiptoe as you approach. Navigating the short space cautiously, knowing where to set your feet; avoiding the creaky floorboards you’ve long since memorised. Dabi lets out a shuddering breath and slumps back against the coffee table. Not once does he look at you even as you enter his vision.

Knelt at Dabi’s side, you evaluate the things laid out before you. The air remains tepid. There are no remnants of smoke clinging to his clothes. Your gaze sweeps over his body. He isn’t running hot, and the sutures aren’t weeping. Not a blood stain nor a burn mark to be seen. He is simply frozen, staring down at the boy.

The child, too, is unscathed. Under a thin T-shirt his small chest rises and falls. He wears an expression that can only be described as tranquil; part of this disturbs you, and tempts you to poke the kid, if only to make sure he isn’t a doll.

You brush your knuckles along his jaw. The kid runs cold but he’s warmer than expected after being rushed through the late evening streets without sleeves. No shoes on his feet either. Odd, considering his socks are clean.

There are a million questions clamouring in your head that you lose the opportunity to ask—that all lead to a single, heartbreaking answer—because the little boy stirs at your touch. His eyelids scrunch together as if to protest his own consciousness, then gradually open, irises as blue as early spring periwinkles peeking through slits.

Nausea grips you. A dark amalgamation of anger, anxiety, confusion and jealousy knotted itself deep in your gut. Those eyes—eyes just like Dabi’s, staring back at you, head tilting with a blank expression.

You take far too long to notice that he’s stopped breathing. Stuck in place, likely frightened to be somewhere unfamiliar, crowded by people he does not know. “Hi there sweetheart,” you say, willing yourself to smile reassuringly. “I know this must be scary for you but I promise you’re safe. We won’t hurt you”.

At that the little boy puffs up. “I’m not scared!”

Dabi scoffs. He hasn’t looked in the boy's direction since he woke up; you nudge his side, brow furrowed in disapproval. “Good. 'Cause you've got nothing to be scared of,” you tell him, glare softening as it slides back to the couch. “Do you think you could tell us your name?”

The silence is oppressive. You’re stared at as if you were a battle to be conquered. You sigh, “Alright. You don’t need to tell me. Stranger danger, right?”

Oddly enough, the boy doesn’t appear disturbed about his surroundings at all. You’d prepared yourself for tears, or some wailing. Instead he casually pushed himself upright into a sitting position and stretched his short arms high over his head, as if waking from a routine nap.

You draw air through your teeth, gasping as his shirt lifts with the stretch and reveals his belly. Dabi’s jaw winds at the sight. The air around you expands, thick with ephemeral warmth. He’s considerate to keep it there, boiling violently under his skin. His reaction nags at your conscience, and you want to grab him when he stands to walk away, but you’ve no choice but to prioritise the situation in front of you.

There are burns around the child’s midsection. Mottled pink and swollen. He rejects your touch as you reach out to examine him further. “You’re hurt, kiddo. We can help. Let me—”

“No!” he yells. You startle at the genuine heartbreak in his voice. He scrambles down and shoves past you. Rabbit footed, he sprints to the bathroom and slams the door. You strain to listen, relieved that he does not turn the lock, and debate going after him. Something about that childlike anger is deeply familiar.

Ice crawls through your chest; it’s a dread that lingers in your periphery yet evades perception the longer you try to put a finger on it. You throw another glance down the hallway as you stride toward the genkan. “Dabi,” you call firmly. His hands, bloodied with the runoff dirt and ash, continue scrubbing at the sole of his boot in an almost mechanical fashion. “Touya,” you try again, quieter, exercising caution when wielding that name. And his movement stutters. “You can’t just—go! Not now. He’s badly burned. Where did you even find him?”

You’re patient as he exhales a harsh breath; seems to grapple with his thoughts, a distant look in his eyes. Seeing him so unsettled is scaring you. “Does it really matter? He’ll probably be gone soon,” he mutters. A wave of defensiveness on behalf of the poor child bubbles to the surface. But before you can argue, he is tugging his cleaned boots on with sudden force.

Dabi stomps to settle the heel and pulls open your front door. It rattles on the hinges. A cold evening breeze billows into the apartment and bites at your bare arms. “I’ll be back later. Just pretend he’s not here,” he grunts. “He won’t notice the difference”.

“Wait, baby—!”

And he’s gone again.

You smother the frustrated yell that follows into your hands. There’s a faint sense of abandonment on the fringes, creeping in and forming a lump in your throat. Dabi always had to run first. You rub at your eyes until the sting disappears and exhale until all the air in your lungs is gone, taking with it your frustrations.

Somehow the hallway stretches that much longer. This time you press weight onto the old floorboards and hear them creak, making your presence known as you approach. There’s no noise behind the bathroom door. Your fingers curl around the handle but a gut feeling begs that you pause.

The soft knock of your knuckles to the frame echoes through the apartment. “It’s me,” you say. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, little guy. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in pain”.

Your ears prick at the quiet movement inside the bathroom. The latch clicks as the handle turns and you move away as much as the narrow space can afford, the front of your sweater bunched up in your fist; it mirrors the child’s own stance, shifting in place gripping his shirt.

Now under the cheap flickering light you notice an uneven patch of white in his hair. There is something uncomfortably broken about him that you can’t place. A dissonance between his outline and the world, as though he were a pencil drawing in a watercolour canvas.

“M’not little,” he insists with a stomp, looking like he might cry. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m a baby”.

“Alright. You’re not a baby, you’re a big kid,” you settle on your knees in front of him, lowering your voice in a way a child might consider more ‘grown up’, “But I still have to make sure you don’t need a doctor. So is it okay if I ask about the marks on your tummy?”

This time his reaction is far more subdued. Exhausted from his earlier anger, maybe. Or resigned to the fact that you will not let the injuries go. He jerked his shoulders and crossed both arms, staring down at his feet.

“Has someone been hurting you—did they do that to you?”

The kid huffs, indignant. “No,” he mumbles with a pout. Your eyes follow his fingers where they begin to anxiously clench and unclench. “My quirk”.

The admission is clearly difficult for him, like he has to force the words out of his mouth. You unfold your legs from beneath you and dip to try to meet his eyes, “Your quirk hurts you?”

“Not all the time!” there’s that flash of emotion again, racketing through him like thunder. If he were a kitten you think all the hair on his body would be on end. “If—if I train more I bet it wouldn’t,” he sniffs. “But father told me I can’t do that anymore”.

“Oh,” you’re taken aback at the mention of another father figure. You feel a growing dislike for the unknown man. “Well that’s kinda silly. How will you ever learn to use it safely if you don’t practice?”

Finally, the boy’s glassy eyes snap up and meet your own. He’s practically glowing; awestruck, as though you’d turned his entire worldview on its head with just a few words. “Right, right?” he begins to bounce on the balls of his feet. “I’m gonna be the bestest, strongest hero. Better than All Might!”

Your thoughts stall, reaction delayed. Only Dabi would bring home a kid who loves heroes—that is if they’re related at all. You find it hard to believe. Those eyes do not lie.

“That right?” you let yourself be influenced by his enthusiasm and mirror his grin. Whatever Dabi did or did not omit it’s not the kids fault. “Well, I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. How about that?”

“Yeah! You’ll see!” your heart clenches at the sight of his little leg stomping excitedly as he rubs at his eyes. A hiccup wracks his body. Telegraphing your movements you rest a hand at his back, rubbing back and forth to calm him. Such an extreme response to such a simple praise.

After some gentle cajoling you manage to get him to sit on a stool in the kitchen with some apple juice that you miraculously had in the fridge. Your eyes linger on the glass in his hands as you apply the medicated cream to his stomach, barely big enough to hold it.

You exhale, fingers pausing by his waist. The sight is hard to swallow. The tissue is smooth to touch and irregularly shaped, as though the scar had outgrew the initial wound. Even as you reached the inflamed sections he hadn’t so much as flinched; again you're reminded of Dabi, his impassive expression perched on the edge of your bathtub, skin swelling around his sutures, a merry scarlet waterfall weeping from the exposed wounds.

“Where did that man go?” he asks, pulling you from your reverie.

“Ah, he needed to go get something,” the lie is unconvincing even to your own ears. Discomfited, you clear your throat and add, “You can call him Dabi when he’s back”.

You search for his discarded shirt while he tests the name with his own voice. Small mouth shaped around the syllables, da-bi, and spitting it out quick again, dabi. “That’s right. Dabi. You like his name?” the kid staunchly shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. He pushes it back with both of his hands.

“S’dumb,” he says. The bluntness makes you laugh.

“I bet your name is cooler, right?” that catches his attention. He nods once with a firm hum. “You wanna tell me it now?”

Your efforts seemed to fall flat. The child would not tell you his name; during the numerous attempts in the hours that followed, you got the sense that he couldn’t tell you. And he would get this odd look about him, as if it was you asking that was confusing to him. As if you should already know.

Far more concerning to you is that he never asks to go home. Not once does he mention his mother or father of his own volition. After countless questions you can discern that his knowledge is strangely limited. He seems frozen in time, with no real memory of how Dabi found him.

The hours pass uninterrupted when your curiosity veers away from his circumstances and closer to him. To things he loves, and the like. You carry him on your hip, surprisingly light, and settle him back on the couch as he rambled about Caped Kid and Supertoon and the old All Might animated shorts that you forgot even existed. He kicks his feet along the cushions excitedly when you find some pirated clips online for him to watch.

By the time Dabi comes home the kid has fallen asleep, right back where he first left him. Your arms cross over your chest, the earlier anger rising once more, but something about his expression wills you to temper it.

Dabi is wet through. Soaked to the bone, clothes hanging on his frame. Black streaks are running down his cheeks, and despite your disappointment you hastily tug your sleeve over your hand as you start forward, bringing it up to dab away the dye before it seeps into his sutures.

It’s a relief that he doesn’t flinch away. Not even as his gaze drifts to the TV, which has automatically started up another All Might clip. No vitriol comes. A warm, savoury smell fills your senses and you notice that he’s carrying a plastic bag.

“Brought food,” he rasps. You look back up and meet his eyes, unnerved at how far away he sounds.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Casting a final glance to the young boy on your couch—laying suspiciously still—you wrap fingers around Dabi’s cold wrist and coax him into the kitchen. He sets the food on the counter and in letting go the plastic handle is left upright, misshapen from the responsive heat of his quirk.

He inhales, readying himself to speak, but you gently interrupt, “I think you should shower first. Change into something comfortable. I’ll… I’ll serve the food”.

Dabi sighs but slinks away to the bathroom at your suggestion. You watch him bristle and glare halfheartedly at the head peeking up from behind the couch cushions and the boy shrinks back. Not a moment later the door slams and he flinches, chubby fingers clutching tight to the upholstery.

“Is Dabi mad?” the small voice asks. Sullen in a way that draws you closer to comfort him. Your hand comes to rest on the crown of his head, petting him now that he’ll let you.

“No, no,” you demurred. “Well. Maybe he is, but he’s just having a lot of uh, big feelings”.

“Big feelings,” the boy nods. Then he peers up at you searchingly, “…Is he melting?”

Having expected him to ask literally anything but that, you give a soft laugh. “Dabi isn’t melting. It’s the colour in his hair. He painted it and if it gets wet it washes out, like you saw”.

“Oh”.

The kid is calmer now, no longer ready to bury himself between the cushions. “He brought food back. Smells like curry,” you tell him. “Want some?”

Returning to the kitchen after an enthusiastic ‘yes’—pushed out between a big yawn—you unwrap the takeout boxes and begin to portion them. Dabi finished his shower, dressed in the loose fitted sweatpants and t-shirt you kept for the nights he felt comfortable enough to stay, and accepted the plate you put in his hands.

Together, you eat around the kotatsu in relative silence filled only by the limited ramblings of the child Dabi brought home. He’s the type to express things with his entire body, the type that cannot sit still, and you find yourself shooting Dabi the odd furtive glance, worried he might snap, almost daring him to try.

But Dabi does not snap. He doesn’t look at either of you. You note the tension in his shoulders, winding tighter with every mention of the word ‘hero’, and how his fist clenches and uncurls, knuckles white where the blood recedes. He keeps his head down, forearm curled protectively around the food on his plate as he eats, and doesn’t say a word.

You’ve never met anyone else who can so readily act as though they’re unfeeling. The embodiment of feigned indifference. Dabi was so confident in his detachment, with the scathing comments, comfort in violence and purposefully unapproachable demeanour, but you knew what lie underneath; you can tell when it’s an act and when it’s real, and right now he’s never been more transparent.

The boy starts to droop into his food some time during the next Caped Kid episode. Your hand shoots out to cup his chin when his head wobbles on his shoulders, close to using the rice as a pillow. “He’s all tuckered out again,” you comment aloud, licking your thumb to wipe at the sauce around his mouth. “Can you take the—?”

Dabi is already standing, stacking the plates atop one another without so much as trying to be quiet. You roll your eyes to the ceiling, seeking strength, and tuck the little boy to your front, hoisting him back up into the couch. He stirs and blinks around the room as though seeing for the first time.

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep,” you whisper. He yawns, jaw stretching around such a tiny squeak that you can’t help but to kiss his hair.

Dabi is standing at the sink, back turned to the dirty dishes and leant against the counter. Your eyes meet, but you pointedly look away and say nothing as you step forward to gather the empty takeout boxes and throw them out.

He speaks, if only to fill the silence, “I shouldn’t have walked out”.

It’s the closest to an apology you’ll probably ever get. “Y’think?” you hesitated for a long minute, speaking only as you sensed his presence at your back. “Actually, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Really, your relationship with Dabi has always been chimerical in nature. Some strange patchwork attempt at being human. You fucked, kissed one another at the door, shared parts of your lives that you wished you never had. Labels only drove him away, like identifying the thing you’d woven together would bring it to actuality, make it corporeal, ridding you of plausible deniability.

It was never a question why he brought the kid here. This is where you play house, after all. Dabi’s shoebox apartment was empty, simply a place to go when he wasn’t out doing who knows what, like a waiting room. A space between spaces. Yours was far more appropriate for a child, and you’d thought that maybe—he chose to trust you enough, to finally ask for help, rather than doing it out of convenience.

Heat soaks through your shirt as his mottled, slender hand settles on your waist. You turn on your heel to face him directly, resolve weakening at the careful squeeze of his fingers. You sigh, palms brushing featherlight up the uneven flesh along his forearms and follow as he retreated backward to lower onto the nearby breakfast stool.

“I was hit with a quirk on my way back”.

“What?” your inner conflict falters. Concern superseding your anger you cup his jaw to tip his head back and side to side to get a good look at him. “When? Are you hurt?”

Dabi snorts, relaxed by your gentle countenance and fretting. “Not now. Earlier. Some middle schooler without a handle on her quirk yet. Quit fussin’, I’m fine,” he continues and shakes free of your hands, so you settle them on his shoulders. He walks his fingers behind your knees, cupping the back of your thighs, uncharacteristically restless.

“It’s where the…“ his jaw clenched and he pressed his forehead hard to your stomach, burrowing into the fabric. Anticipation grips your lungs when he doesn’t immediately explain.

“Talk to me baby,” you run your fingers through his hair and they come away stained black. “How did—what does the quirk do?”

“Fuck, I hardly had time to ask about specifics. The stupid kid knocked into me and suddenly I had my arms full,” Dabi’s snarling dwindles. He licks his lips, hesitant, and casts his eyes to the narrow space between your bodies. Quieter this time, “It’s where he came from”.

You register his words. The realisation slides through you with sharp clarity. It swells in you, all encompassing and painful, like love and heartbreak at the same time. “He’s not yours, is he?” you say, reminiscent of a whisper. “He’s you”.

“My inner child. Some pseudo bullshit like that,” Dabi supplies, as though the distinction was important. He looks up, the column of his throat pressed to your sternum, and your chest loosens a little, some of the fear ebbing. “Did you seriously think I knocked someone up?”

“Plausibly, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Not that,” he scoffs. “Either way, I don’t know how long we’re stuck with him”.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s a burden,” you frowned. Dabi’s eyes squint, and he makes a low, dubious noise. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”

“Didn’t want you to know,” he shrugs. It shouldn’t sting the way it does. This is hardly the first time Dabi kept something from you. “Thought I could make the kid keep his mouth shut about my family”.

Inwardly you think he needn’t worry about that. They were as secretive and stubborn as each other, in that respect. Hell, it took Dabi three years to give up his name and that was only because he’d been delirious at the time.

“But you left anyway”.

“He woke up,” Dabi says, like that was enough explanation. You give a commiserate nod, cradling his rough jaw, because maybe it is. “Needed to blow off some steam. Figured I might look for the twerp that caused all this but she’d probably run if she saw me again”.

“Don’t tell me you scared the poor girl shitless?”

“Alright. I won’t tell you,” he snorted, biting at the heel of your hand when you mutter his name disapprovingly.

“So we just wait for him to go?” you brush the remaining skin between his eye and his cheek with your thumb, following the curve of his sutures. “Maybe it is psychological then. Make your inner child happy and the quirk might cancel out sooner”.

There’s something dark in Dabi’s expression when his mouth pulls wide into a smarmy grin, eyes burning as his fingers dig into your thighs. “Looking to rehabilitate me, sweetheart?”

You soon put that to rest, guiding him into a kiss. His grip falls slack, and then returns, more needy than dangerous. Dabi’s lips pressed back, insisted, softer than you thought possible. “Course not,” you murmur, admiring the resentful flush on his face as you draw back. “Maybe I like you as you are. Just a little”.

“Bad taste,” he breathes. His nose scrunches the way it always does when he’s feeling too much, and you kiss that too. You recognise Dabi’s flaws for what they are, and you’ve given yourself to him knowingly. Even so, in the confines of your mind, you do wish he might’ve had the chance to be something better.

This inner child incident could be a small step. You don’t expect his perspective on society will change; he could learn compassion and forgive himself for whatever led him here. But what exactly is an inner child?

The theory goes that everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. A symbolic, younger version of the self that can be talked to, supported, and guided—that can still be saved.

Dabi informs you with great reluctance that this little Touya was probably closer to five years old, and stuck in the time right after his first brother was born. You never knew he had siblings.

“Did something significant happen around that time?” you worry at your bottom lip, glancing out toward the living room, shrouded in darkness now that the TV has switched to standby. “Do you remember what you wanted most, from before?”

You hear your name. You’re startled by the intensity in Dabi’s stare, unyielding and sharp. A primitive part of you wants to shrink back from it. “Don’t push it,” he says.

It was on the tip of your tongue to remark something equally catty. Instead you swallow them. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you muttered. Through trial and error you’ve already memorised the ley lines that make up Dabi’s boundaries and know well enough that prying too far into his past, or encroaching on his future plans, is a hard no-no.

“We’re going to need a cover story for him if he’s here longer than a day,” you continue, a smile creeping in alongside your teasing inflection. “Guess you’re a dad—”

“Not a chance in hell,” Dabi grimaces, skin taut around his scars. “If it comes to it, say he’s my nephew”.

“You’re no fun,” you concede. “Fine. Uncle Dabi”.

The discussion leads nowhere in the end. Dabi is unwilling to delve any further into his childhood and you know a losing battle when you see one. You turn your attention to the sleeping arrangements, and decide that it would be best to roll out your spare futons in the living room, just in case something happens.

And Dabi, despite his objections, despite puttering around with pillows under each arm and cursing under his breath, throws them down and sprawls out across the blankets. You feel his stare as you move Touya—as you’ve taken to calling him in your head—from his resting place to the space between your bodies.

Touya isn’t yet the light sleeper you know Dabi to be. His eyes shift behind closed lids and his lips curl in momentary discomfort but he doesn’t wake. “Does he have to sleep there?” Dabi all but sneers when Touya curls into your warm chest, much the way he would like to.

“Aw. Don’t be jealous,” you pillow Touya’s head on your shoulder and reach across to take Dabi’s hand, entwining your fingers through stubborn means. “He’s just a baby”.

A fresh wave of heat ripples around your hands and Dabi’s grip is solid, as though you’ve been soldered together. “He’s not a baby. He’s already five,” he mutters with a faraway look in his eyes, indifferent to the callousness in his words.

Your palms kiss and you aim for a lighthearted tone, “Stop being a dick. You’ll have me to yourself again soon enough”.

Dabi grunts and some of the tension is relieved from the atmosphere, his face thrown into stark relief by the sliver of moonlight flooding through your curtains. Not for the first time, you wonder if he feels the after aches of childhood—if the hollow inside him felt that much deeper now that Touya was out here, safe in your arms—and suddenly holding his hand is not enough.

You entangle your legs and distract yourself with the feel of his boney ankle. Some things are better left unknown, you reason. A mantra that encompasses your relationship. Better not pick and prod. You’ve done quite enough of it already, more than you’re entitled to. Sometimes you worry that one day you’ll unravel the wrong thread and he’ll never stop bleeding.

Touya clutches tighter to your shirt. Kicks a tiny foot against your pelvis in protest of the movement, surprisingly hard. Dabi snickers at your restrained groan. “Guess you’ve always been a restless sleeper”.

“That's what you get for giving him my spot,” Dabi says, the beginnings of a smile in his voice. “Was worse when I was a kid”.

“Clearly. A fly could sneeze and wake you up,” you remove the heel from your stomach and let it tangle with the blankets. Touya suddenly flips onto his back, arm cast out toward Dabi, not far from smacking him in the face. “Atleast he feels safe, I suppose”.

The night settles, your apartment alongside it. Walls quietly groan as the wind picks up a fraction. “We should take him somewhere tomorrow,” you think aloud, staring at the hairline fracture in the ceiling. “The arcade, maybe”.

“Now why the fuck would we do that?” Dabi’s voice is lower, muffled, and a quick sidelong glance confirms that his mouth is half squashed into the pillow, fatigue starting to weigh on him. “Don’t even have clothes for him”.

“Kano-san might let us borrow some,” you offer tiredly. Though your neighbour's four children were all over five years old you had no doubt she kept hand-me-downs. “It’s not fair to just keep him holed up til he disappears”.

“I refuse…” Dabi mumbled. You snort, resting your chin on Touya’s crown, swaddled by warmth. Shadows creep in and blur the edges of your vision. You’re gently coaxed into sleep, final thoughts being the hope that Dabi would still be there tomorrow.

What you receive is far more. Where soft moonlight once drifted in through the cracks, harsh sun is striking through the dim room, right against your closed eyes. You flinch away from it, turning into your pillow. Half-awake, you aren’t quite in and not quite outside yourself, but you are conscious enough to hear Dabi laugh at your displeasure.

The weight in your arms is gone. Pawing at the yawning emptiness, you abruptly sit up and whip your eyes around the room. They land on Dabi, who is laid on his back and surrendering to his current predicament. He pointedly avoids acknowledging it.

Time stretches thinly as you take in the scene. At some point in the night, Touya had made his way over to Dabi and laid himself on top of him. Chubby cheek squished to Dabi’s sternum, lashes fluttering as he dreams. Fleeting, you consider that he may be trying to crawl right back into him.

“G’morning,” you sigh, blood rushing to your limbs as you contort and stretch. Unable to resist, you shuffle across the futon and press yourself to Dabi’s side, nuzzling into his shoulder. You tilt your head up to find Dabi looking down at you. “Kiss?”

“Your breath stinks,” but he kisses you anyway. His own is hardly better. You nip at his lip, licking over the faint sting and drawing back before he can reciprocate.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” his hands gesture toward the lump on his chest, “until this shit happened”.

“Now he’s taken my spot”. You could point out that Dabi had every opportunity to move the boy through the night, or however long he’d been there, but didn't. “Though it makes sense he’d want to be near you”.

“He doesn’t want anything. He’s not real,” Dabi drawls. He’s betrayed by the arm that supports Touya from beneath as he sits up exceedingly slowly, the other holding the back of his head. Dabi pivots the small figure into his lap, acting like a cradle.

Limbs akimbo, Touya lies on his back, mouth open and ribs expanding with each breath. His clothes are askew. Shirt ridden up his round belly, loose pants bunched up at the knees. To your relief the burn marks look no worse than the day before.

“Even though his body isn’t suited to his quirk, he still…” your voice is but a murmur as you sit up to trace a fingertip over the swell of his pink cheek. “He’s a very brave little boy”

Dabi held the toddler delicately in his arms, a fraction away from his body, and paled whenever he stirred a little. You see how his pupils soften, tension seeping from his shoulders bit by bit. “Or maybe he’s just stupid," he rasps.

“Well, many heroes are both of those things,” you offer, mouth curling as you hold Dabi’s half lidded gaze. His mouth presses thin so as not to give you the satisfaction of making him smile. When your attention returns to Touya an unfamiliar quietude comes over you.

“Last night,” he starts. “I left because I thought it would be harder”.

You pause, peering up from the little boy curled in his lap. “To what?”

“Not to hurt him,” he says, quietly. “Or you”.

Then Touya sputters a first, clean breath, breaking into a drawn out sob that drags you from processing what that could mean. Dabi grows tense and your hand flutters across Touya, rubbing over his chest as you coo and hush. The louder he cries the stronger the tremor in Dabi’s hand becomes.

“There there, little guy. We’re right here,” you slip an arm around Dabi’s back, and suddenly your murmurings begin to soothe Touya’s distress. Red rimmed eyes squint up at you. “Did you have a nightmare, buddy?”

“Heroes—” Touya eventually hiccups and jolts. Frustrated he hits himself, face twisted in devastating anger. “Heroes don’t—have nightmares!”

You move to still his fists but Dabi beats you to it, fingers circling a pair of wrists and holding them firmly. “They will if I have anything to say about it,” he says.

“Really, Dabi,” you admonish, pursing your lips at him. He wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out in response. Muffled giggling fills the room and you realise it’s coming from the bundle in his lap.

Dabi looks as if he’s been struck. A finger pokes at the skin above his puckered cheek. “Dabi made an ugly face,” Touya grins.

“Oh yeah?” Dabi growls and leans forward, spine bending uncomfortably just to get into the boy’s personal space. “Well I’ve got bad news for you, kid”.

Whatever the desired effect, Touya’s chime-like laughter only doubles, and while watching their interaction you feel warmth ignite behind your breastbone.

Not long after, you return from Kano-san’s upstairs apartment with a cotton sweater, discoloured patches sewn onto the elbows, and a pair of pants. They’re size five yet too big for Touya, so you roll them to the ankle. “How’s that?” you ask, getting to your feet. “It’s not itchy on your burns, is it?”

Touya wriggles. You’ve come to learn that he really can’t sit still, especially when you’re fussing. “No,” he says, flapping the sleeves that fall over his hands, silently asking that you roll those up too. “Where are we going? I want to train!”

“No training inside. You’re going to set off my fire alarm,” you reply, absentminded as your fingers gently fold back the shirtsleeves to his wrist. “And we’re going to the arcades first. You can beat Dabi at all the games”.

“Yeah!”

“Fat chance,” Dabi calls from the bathroom. Light footsteps echo through the hallway and his voice grows louder. “We’re not going anywhere near Musutafu,” he adds, shucking on his dried black coat over a plain t-shirt and jeans that may as well have been painted on his legs. He pulls something out from his pocket and throws it, “Put that on him to be safe”.

You catch the lump one handed, bringing it down to inspect it. A beanie hat. “Is that really necessary?” you murmur, releasing your grasp when Touya decides he wants the hat for himself and stretches it haphazardly over his head.

Dabi rounds the couch and hooks his chin over your shoulder, watching the kid struggle. “Can’t have him being recognised…” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching at a thought that suddenly crosses his mind. “Or maybe we should. Hey, kid,” Touya’s head whirls around the room in search of Dabi, vision blocked by the beanie; he pushes it up above his eyebrows, periwinkle eyes peeking beneath.

“Wanna go to my old house and scare someone?”

Touya’s lips thin and his nose crinkles, managing to look down at Dabi despite being so much shorter. “Heroes aren’t ‘posed to scare people,” he argued.

“Whatever. This guy isn’t good,” Dabi huffs, wincing at the click in his knees as he crouches in front of the boy to fix the hat seam, and Touya positively preens under Dabi’s direct attention. “This guy hurts people. Hurts his family. Probably deserves it, right?”

You watch in disbelief as Touya hums and begins to consider it. “Okay that’s enough,” you circle and coax them toward the genkan. “We aren’t scaring anyone. We are going to the arcade and we’re not going to cause trouble. Yes?”

Dabi and Touya share a long, knowing look. You can’t say you’re unhappy that they’re connecting—they’re unbearably cute when standing side by side, dithering as you slip on your shoes. “Yes?” you repeat yourself with more emphasis.

They nod in tandem.

“Good. Now who is holding my hand?”

Daylight feeds in through the sparse grey clouds, upper wind guiding them east where they darken, likely raining over another part of the city. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. A couple smile at you as they pass. It is rare for anyone to glance your way when Dabi’s at your side; he knows the image he projects and he likes it that way. But today, with Touya in the middle holding one of each hand, you paint a far lovelier picture.

You think you must look like a family, on the outside. It’s nothing you ever imagined for yourself. Especially not with Dabi, who was seemingly hell bent on getting himself arrested, or killed, in his spare time—not that you knew the finer details, but you weren’t dense.

“I can feel your street cred depleting,” you quietly tease as you stop at a pedestrian crossing, bridging the gap while Touya is preoccupied with counting down until the red man turns green. “Uncle Dabi”.

Dabi’s upper lip curls and he lurches half a step, as if to attack you, and you pull away laughing.

Your neighbourhood doesn’t see much in the way of funding, or heroes, and that truth is reflected in the surroundings. Buildings half constructed, shutters down, people lingering on the streets. Touya presses a hairsbreadth closer to Dabi, sensing how eyes turn to him, and you catch the way Dabi squeezes his small hand in response.

“Scared?”

Touya straightens, “No!”

Dabi snorts, “Thought not”.

The arcade isn’t far. Well beyond its years, an old musk clings to the carpets despite the open windows. Light bulbs flicker here and there. You can taste electricity buzzing in the air. The machines are outdated, but they work. High pitched, quick paced music paces from all directions. If you had to, you'd describe it as the embodiment of sensory overload.

As luck would have it Touya recognises most of the games, having been released around his time. He steps on your shoes to watch raptly while you try to win him a prize on the claw machines, and he kneels at your feet to steal any ticket away before you can grab them.

He frees himself of your grip the moment he spots Crimson Fighter. You sidle up beside Dabi as if to shield from it all. His knuckles brush the back of your hand and you smile to yourself. So starved for affection yet so intensely humiliated by it—that and the fact that he cannot seem to let Touya out of his sight, only a few feet away.

You loosely entwine your fingers and he relaxes. “Not gonna play another round with him?”

“Why don’t you?”

In that instant you hear the repeated call of your name. Touya bounces from left to right, waving you over. “Look at me! Come watch!” he beams. “Look at me, I can win!”

Dabi’s fingers flex, tighten, digging crescent moons into your knuckles. You shoot him a worried glance but the light in his eyes has dimmed once again, and you tug him over towards Touya like a kite on a string, keeping him tethered until he returns from whatever memory he’s lost in.

“I’m looking, I'm looking,” you titter, standing behind him and tilting to watch the screen. Dabi’s presence lingers. Your heart pangs when Touya stands on the tips of his toes to reach the controls. He picks the Endeavor avatar and the game opens up onto a floating platform, All Might standing at the other end.

“Fight!” Touya whispers in sync with the narrator, mashing all the buttons without direction or strategy. He clicks and clicks and clicks until Endeavor’s quirk bar is maxed out and he releases; pixelated flames burst across the screen, doing significant damage to All Might but not enough—and too much to himself. The Endeavor avatar drops to his knees, overcome by dehydration and exhaustion, defeated by his own flame.

Apparently brought back to the present, Dabi laughs.

“No…” Touya’s eyes grow round in disbelief and then harden. He kicks the machine with as much force as he can muster. Before he can do it again you’ve wrapped an arm under his armpits and herded him outside. “Let go!”

“Absolutely not,” you grasp his elbows and settle on your haunches. Touya turns his head away from you in dramatic fashion. “That isn’t okay. These games belong to someone else. They’re not yours to damage”.

“Shouldn’t’a picked Endeavor,” Dabi remarks.

Your neck aches as it snaps up to glare at him. “Not helping,” you hiss through gritted teeth. He puts his hands up in a show of surrender and you inhale until your lungs feel tight. Exhale.

Touya has fallen suspiciously quiet, chin tucked to his chest, and thankfully nobody inside noticed his brief outburst. “Hey,” gently, you run your palms along his shoulders. “Talk to me, kiddo. I promise you’re not in big trouble”.

Your ears pick up fragmented parts of his mumbling, “Lost… M’weak… Endeavor… stronger… not ‘posed to lose”. Something about his reaction is both fragile and momentous, and with Dabi nearby your instincts are telling you to tread carefully.

“Hey, listen to me. I don’t know much but I do know you’re not weak,” you begin to smooth down his sweater, and fiddle with the seam of his beanie while you talk—fretting, admittedly, and determined to wipe the heartbreak off his face. “You’re the strongest little dude I know”.

Touya sniffs, unconvinced. He waddles further into your embrace and you take it as a win “Gotta be stronger than All Might”.

“One day you could be,” you reason, gathering him against your front and hoisting him up as his legs wrap around your waist. A firm body stands behind you. Dabi is closer than anticipated and you falter, meeting his half lidded eyes. Reality stomps over the little charade you’ve created—recalling that the boy in your arms, so desperate to reach the pinnacle of heroics, will one day be Dabi, the self proclaimed villain.

“Y’know, even All Might didn’t become the number one hero until he was thirty,” you tuck a wayward curl back into Touya’s beanie and use your sleeve to wipe his damp cheeks. “He had to learn to control his quirk and get through hero school, just like you will. It takes time”.

“R—really…?” you’d be remiss not to notice the hope in his voice as he fists at his sweater, stretching the fabric further. “But I need to be strong now,” he insists thickly, a fresh round of tears at his waterline.

Dabi steps closer as more people pass by, nudging you into a dead end alley. There’s heat emanating from his skin, making ripples in the air. You hold his gaze with purpose, turning until Touya is once again enveloped by your bodies, and the boy instinctively reaches for his adult counterpart.

“You are strong,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to Touya’s temple. “Wanna know what Dabi and I were talking about while you were sleeping this morning?”

Touya’s mouth quivers, sneaking a furtive glance. He nods. You narrow your eyes at Dabi, try to tell him that this could be it, and he relents, accepting the weight as it is passed to him.

Touya settles in his arms. “We…” Dabi’s jaw ticks. There’s a depression in his cheek where the inner flesh is held between teeth. “We said that you’re brave”.

You circle your arms around his middle, around Touya, and rest your cheek on his shoulder. Touya blinks in awe. “Brave?”

“Brave for trying so hard to reach your goal,” Dabi continues. The harsh edge to his voice has puttered out into melancholy. “Even when it hurts. Especially then”.

“I am?”

“You are,” you murmur, cradling the back of Touya’s head. There’s an odd sheen to his skin. Translucent almost. Your heart jolts. Conflicting emotions swell in your chest, leaving you torn. “I heard heroes have that in spades”.

Eyes bright and wide, undoubtedly that of a child, Touya looks at Dabi, and Dabi looks back. “You’d be one of the good ones, kid,” he rasps. It comes like pulling teeth but he means it, and Touya must know—the quirk must hear the sincerity, because the little boy beams and the air tastes sharp. He lights up, eyes first, like dusk catching on stained glass windows, robin egg blue overcast with shades of pink, heat suffusing through his bones until—

Your fingers enclose around the limp fabric of Touya’s beanie. Dabi shudders an exhale. The patched sweater falls limp over his crossed arms.

“That… worked?”

Dabi’s mouth opens and closes, lips shaping around words he doesn’t know how to say. You cannot read his expression at all. You yourself can hardly register Touya’s absence, left like a bruise that you just know is going to start aching the second the adrenaline wears off.

“I guess it did,” he finally agrees, quietly. Not quite whispered, but his voice carried no strength. Through the discomfit cuts an abrupt, shrill beep. Dabi swallows, and after pulling out his phone his expression sours.

“Who is it?”

“An associate,” he says, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Another blatant cover that you know better than to peel back. “…He wants me to meet his new colleagues. He thinks I’ll work well with them”.

“Do you need to go now, or…?” your skin prickles with unease, leaning into him as close and psychics would allow, not wanting to part with him.

“Think you’ll miss him?” Dabi asks instead, bordering on hesitation. Your head tilts at the sudden change in topic. His gaze dips low to avoid yours. You rest your hand over his chest. His heart beats against your palm, hard and steady. You wonder what, if anything, Touya’s time here might’ve changed.

“I don’t have to,” you tell him, choosing your words carefully. “He’s right in here”.

Dabi hums in that way he often does when he thinks you’re being ridiculous. Your thumb moves back and forth, shifting the fabric of his shirt. “…He deserved better,” you say, heedless of the cold determination setting into Dabi’s bones. And later, despite being the truth, you would come to regret voicing it.

He looks back at the message on his phone, typing out a reply with his screen tilted away from prying eyes. “You’re right,” he mutters.

“He did”.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #dabi x reader #todoroki touya x reader

1K notes · View notes

pennyellee · 21 days

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 - 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐭

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings:minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, religious references, mentiones of physical violence, loss of blood, incision wound, suicide attempt, strong language, consented sexual intercourse, oral sex, fingering, handjob, emotional distress, remorse, verbal confrontation, emotional manipulation, suicidal ideation, bargaining, ... (if i forgot smth, pls i'm so sorrryy)

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 11,6K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

author's note: is at the end of the chapter! 🫧🩵

m.list CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER IX

lítost (n.) a state of agony and torment by a sudden sight of one’s misery

She could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, the soft rustle of wind making her hair dance. The scent of fresh blooms filled the air. She buried her feet into the warm sand and smelled the summer heat mixed with the salty ocean. It was as if time stood still, frozen in a moment of perfect happiness.

She relished the sensation of sand between her toes, the soft grains shifting beneath her feet with each step she took. As she gazed out at the endless expanse of the ocean, the horizon stretched out before her like a canvas painted with shades of blue and gold. The waves lapped gently against the shore, a rhythmic lullaby that echoed the beating of her heart.

She slowly returned to the porch of a quaint cottage, the soft glow of sunset casting a warm embrace around her. Y/N could hear the front door to open when she carefully slumped down to one of the armchairs in the cosy living room.

“I’m home!”

His footsteps were steady and purposeful as he crossed the threshold, his presence filling the room with a sense of familiarity that tugged at the edges of Y/N’s consciousness.

“Hey, beautiful,” he greeted, his voice like a soft melody that danced through the air, sending shivers down her spine. He moved closer, his features slowly coming into focus as he stepped into the light.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she met his gaze, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. His eyes were dark and intense, but filled with a warmth that made her pulse quicken with anticipation.

“How was your day?” she asked standing up again to greet him, her voice barely above a whisper as she took in his rugged appearance, the faint stubble lining his jaw, the way his hair fell effortlessly across his forehead.

“Been better, -”

“-hurried home to you, love,” he replied, his voice low and husky as he reached out to take her hand in his. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through her veins, igniting a fire deep within her soul. She feels such a strong connection to him, not stopping to think why.

Y/N’s eyes wandered around the room, overlooking the family portraits on a wall full of memories. Her fingers enveloped his dark soft hair, playing with them. As she caressed his hair, a sense of comfort washed over her, as if she had done this a thousand times before. The warmth of his hand in hers felt familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “And how is my sunshine?”

Y/N’s heart fluttered at the endearment, a warmth spreading through her chest at his words. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her eyes soft with affection as she smiled up at him.

“Missed you,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. His lips curved into a tender smile, his eyes glowing with adoration as he leaned in to press another kiss to her forehead.

“Did you?” he teased her.

Y/N felt her cheeks flush at his teasing tone, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she nodded in response.

“Of course, -” she replied, her voice filled with genuine affection. “You know I always miss you when you’re not home.”

He grinned at her words, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Well, we better fix that, love,” he said, his voice laced with warmth as he leaned in to press a lingering kiss to her lips. Y/N melted into his embrace, her heart fluttering with joy as she wrapped her arms around him, savouring the feeling of his lips against hers.

“Good enough?” He asked, his tone playful.

“Maybe a tiny bit more,” she murmured, her voice filled with love. A mischievous glint danced in his eyes as he pulled back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Is that so?” he teased again, his voice husky with desire. Without waiting for her response, he captured her lips in another searing kiss, his hands trailing down her sides, igniting a fire deep within her.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she melted into his embrace, her fingers tangling in his hair as she deepened the kiss, losing herself in the intensity of their passion. In that moment, there was nothing else in the world but the two of them, their bodies pressed together in a perfect symphony of desire and longing.

“Seems like I can’t get enough of you, love,” he moaned to the kiss, his hand already travelling past her underwear to coat his fingers with her juices. The nearest wall served as a support column for her once she wrapped one of her legs around his waist, working on his suit pants.

With each touch, each caress, she felt herself slipping deeper into the abyss of desire, her body humming with pleasure as his fingers expertly explored her most intimate places. She gasped as he skilfully teased her, sending shivers of ecstasy coursing through her veins.

Hiking the hem of her dress up, the nearest table collided with her upper body, her hand spread over the width of the wood, gripping the edge forcefully. Within her, a fire burned bright, consuming her with a fervour she had never known before, as she surrendered herself completely.

“Such a pretty ass, -” slapping the soft skin with his palm he lowered to taste the juices she produced. Y/N’s free hand reached to press his head to her heat, moving her hips slightly to the rhythm of his tongue.

The feeling of his warm breath against her skin, the flick of his tongue, sent her spiralling into ecstasy. Her hand gripped the edge of the table tighter, her knuckles turning white as she surrendered herself completely to the pleasure. She arched her back, pushing herself closer to him, craving more of his touch, more of his intoxicating taste.

With each flick of his tongue, she felt herself getting closer and closer to the edge, the fire within her burning brighter with each passing moment. Before she could release with a loud moan he slapped the other cheek, turning her over while he straightened himself behind her, chuckling at her frustration once he did so. With a hunger that bordered on desperation, he positioned himself, his hands roaming over her curves as he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear.

“Is my baby needy?” a soft whimper came out of her, she nodded, her heart pounding in her chest as she craved more of his touch, more of his intoxicating presence.

“Yes, -” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath as she pressed her hips back against him, desperate for the connection she knew only he could provide.

With a swift movement, he entered her from behind, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from her lips. The sensation of him filling her, stretching her in all the right ways, sent waves of addiction coursing through her body. His movements slow and deliberate as he fills her completely. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she felt him moving inside her, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing over her.

“Fuck!” She had to curse out loud, biting her lip. The room was filled with loud moans and groans, the audible skin to skin contact as he raised the tempo, his hand pressing her head to the table.

As he moved in perfect harmony, Y/N felt a sense of bliss wash over her, her body trembling with pleasure as she surrendered herself completely to the moment. With each thrust, she felt herself teetering on the edge of ecstasy, her senses heightened by the raw intensity of their desire.

“You’re such a good girl, -”

She tightened around him, her nails digging into the wooden surface of the table. His groans became louder with each snap of his hips to her welcoming heat and Y/N could not help but bite down her lip, painful yelp filled with the backdrop of pleasure leaving her mouth as he continued to hit all the right places.

A primal growl resonated as he buried himself deeper inside her, feeling her walls clenching around him, urging him closer to the brink.

With one final thrust, they both reached the pinnacle of their desire, their bodies exploding in a symphony of ecstasy. Y/N’s back arched, a guttural cry escaping her lips as waves of orgasm washed over her, engulfing her in a whirlwind of bliss.

He groaned loudly, his release echoing hers as he emptied himself inside of her, their connection deepening with each pulsating wave of pleasure.

As they slowly came down from their euphoric high, Y/N’s breaths came in ragged gasps, her body still trembling with aftershocks. She turned to him, her eyes glazed with satisfaction, a lazy smile playing on her lips.

“A bath, shall we?” Y/N’s head twitched to the side, thinking why this trivial sentence sounds way too familiar. Shaking it off she pressed her damaged lips to his with a pleased hum as agreement.

Time seemed to slow as Yoongi lunged forward, reaching out to stop her, but it was too late. The blade sliced through her skin, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as pain seared through her, her vision swimming with darkness. She felt Yoongi’s hands on her throat, his panicked voice calling out, but it was too distant, as if coming from a faraway place.

“Seokjin?!!” he shouted; his voice raw with desperation.

He cradled her in his arms, his hands trembling as he pressed against the wound, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood.

The sound of loud footsteps echoed in the corridor as others rushed forward to reach the doctor, their expressions a mix of horror and disbelief. But amidst the chaos, Y/N’s empty gaze remained fixed on Yoongi, her eyes still burning with flames.

“Stay with me, baby. Don’t leave me please.” Yoongi whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. He pressed his lips to her forehead, willing her to hold on, to fight for her life.

But as he looked down at her pale, lifeless face, he knew that the road ahead would be long and fraught with challenges. For now, all he could do was pray that she would survive, that she would find the strength to forgive him, and that they would someday find their way back to each other.

“Please don’t take her away from me, my Lord.”

Yoongi prayed that it was not too late to save her from the darkness that threatened to consume them both.

One thing remained clear in Yoongi’s mind: he would do whatever it took to save her, to make amends for the pain he had caused, and to prove to her that his love was worth fighting for.

Yoongi’s voice cut through the turmoil, his words a desperate plea for forgiveness. He begged for her to forgive him, to give him another chance to make things right. No more secrets, no more lies. No more pain. He was willing to rebuild their relationship from the ground up, on a foundation of honesty and trust.

The metallic scent of blood mingled with the tang of fear, thickening the air with a palpable sense of impending doom. He ripped one of his sleeves a while ago, pressing the roughly crumpled fabric to the wound, praying that Seokjin is near, or that anyone heard him scream frantically enough to relay the message.

“You can’t leave me, baby, please. I promise we’ll work everything through.”

He kissed and caressed her hair with his free hand that was covered with her blood. Tears blurred his vision as his hand trembled at the sight. A blood he never wished to shed.

“Please, Y/N, you have to forgive me.” The weight of his actions pressed down on him like a leaden blanket, suffocating him with the weight of his mistakes.

“Fucking goddammit, Yoongi!”

Y/N set the plates on the table, pouring the hot water into a kettle of green tea as he joined her at the table. They exchanged smiles, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the kitchen and the windows providing a magnificent view of the sea.

“I’ve been thinking, -” she said with a smile on her face while she set the seaweed salad down in front of him. He hummed in response, reading today’s paper.

“About opening my own practice.” He nodded, sipping his tea thoughtfully.

“Thought you wanted to wait until the babe arrives?”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat at his words, her mind spinning with confusion. A baby? What baby was he talking about? Her mouth seemed to work without the help of her mind. As if she was a mere observer, not the main character.

“I know. I know. But I can’t shake the feeling that now is the right time. I want to create something for myself too. Daddy's successful, why shouldn’t Mommy be successful too?”

Lifting his eyes from the paper, he reached across the table, his touch gentle as he took her hand.

“Opening a practice is a big step, especially with a baby on the way.”

She knew this was going to be hard, but she was determined to build herself a name too. And help those who can’t help themselves.

But as she looked into his eyes, she noticed a subtle yet unmistakable change. A faint scar marred his eye, tracing from above his eyebrow to his cheekbone. Y/N was certain it wasn’t there before.

“How are you feeling? Can you feel the babe moving?” he asked, his eyes softening with concern as he gently brushed his hand against her stomach. Y/N gulped down, trying to shush all the thoughts that echoed in her mind.

“He’s been active today,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly as she placed her hand on her growing stomach, feeling the gentle flutter of movement beneath her palm. “I think he’s just as eager to be with his Daddy as I am.”

The man’s eyes widened with surprise at her words, his expression softening with emotion as he took in the sight of her. And in that moment, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the room with hues of pink and gold, Y/N felt a sense of peace wash over her.

She cradled her swollen belly with tenderness, feeling the gentle flutter of life within. The promise of new beginnings and the joy of impending motherhood enveloped her in a cocoon of love and warmth.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that settled in the pit of her stomach. Something doesn’t feel right, and she can’t help but wonder what he’s hiding.

The door slammed wide open, Seokjin’s voice was soar, his breathing frantic from running. His expression grave as he took in the scene before him.

Seokjin wasted no time, his training kicking in as he rushed to Y/N’s side, his hands moving with practised efficiency as he assessed her injuries. Yoongi watched in silent desperation, his heart pounding in his chest as he prayed for Seokjin to work his magic and save the woman he loved.

“You have to save her, Seokjin-hyung,-” Seokjin never saw Yoongi in a condition like this since his parents died and never thought he would ever again.

“She would lose too much blood if we attempted to transport her now, but I need my shit, Yoongi,” his tone was urgent and commanding as he took charge of the situation. “Get me my briefcase, hot water and towels, -”

As Seokjin worked to staunch the flow of blood, Yoongi hovered nearby, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s face as he whispered words of encouragement and prayer. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, of facing a future without her by his side.

“Yoongi, snap out of it and get it! I left it in the sunroom,” Seokjin left in hurry once a distant cry of his leader echoed at the first floor. He was sure that everyone outside of the celebrating banquet room heard it.

Yoongi nodded in a mixture of desperation and determination, scrambling to his feet as he absorbed Seokjin’s instructions. His mind raced as he mentally registered each item Seokjin urgently needed. In the tumultuous atmosphere, Yoongi rushed out of the room, his steps echoing in the corridor as he desperately sought the necessary supplies.

“What happened Yoongi?” Hoseok rose from his seat in the sunroom walking towards the dishevelled state of his friend. Yoongi did not even register him as he frantically searched for Seokjin’s briefcase. Reaching out to get it with his bloodied hands his ears miffily caught the younger Miss Wang’s anxious voice.

“Whose blood it is, Kkangpae Min?”

She couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that something was amiss. The scar on his eye screamed volumes to her, yet her mind could not put things together and decipher what it wanted to tell her and why she does not recall that her husband had a scar like that. Where would a businessman come to get hurt this way? She couldn’t shake the feeling that her husband’s explanation didn’t quite add up. She stared at the scar on his face, her thoughts swirling with confusion and doubt.

“What do you mean, baby? I’ve always had it.” Said he, setting down the hat from his head, running his finger through the dark locks, pushing them back from his face.

But try as she might, she couldn’t recall ever seeing that scar before. It wasn’t just a minor detail that had slipped her mind—it was as if her memory had been rewritten, leaving her with a sense of disorientation and unease.

“Always?” she echoed, her voice barely a whisper as she struggled to comprehend what he was saying. Following him to his office where he lifted the briefcase to put it on the table while she slumped down next to the unlit fireplace.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the scar as if searching for answers.

He reached out, gently taking her hand in his, his touch a comforting anchor in the midst of her confusion, and she did not understand why the scar evokes so many feelings inside her, yet his touch calms her.

“You traced it with your fingers when we first made love, baby, I can assure it has been there for a very long time.” She tried to grasp onto the fragments of memory, to recall the moment he spoke of, but it eluded her like a fading dream.

“I want to remember,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the tumult of her thoughts, “it feels so... significant.”

“Memories can be elusive, maybe it’s because of the accident?” he murmured, his voice soothing.

“An accident?”

“You are fucking lucky she did it with a stupid letter opener, it seems like it did not manage to do as big of a damage as a regular knife would.”

His brow furrowed with concentration, his hands moving with practised precision as he worked to staunch the flow of blood and assess the extent of her injuries.

“She scraped over her artery, not much but enough to slow the blood flow to her brain. I need to close the wound as soon as possible.”

Seokjin’s words hit Yoongi like a physical blow, sending a shiver of fear down his spine. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on him as he realised the severity of Y/N’s injuries. The thought of her life hanging in the balance sent a wave of panic coursing through him, but he forced himself to focus, to push aside his fear and uncertainty.

“She did not reach her windpipe, nor did she cut herself deep enough, thank God for that Yoongi.”

He never fell out of God’s grace, and he hoped he wouldn't do so now. His hand intertwined with hers as he whispered words of love and hope into the stillness of the room. Minutes felt like hours as the doctor carefully disinfected the wound to reduce the risk of infection. The stitches are precise.

“Why is she not awake, Seokjin?” He asked carefully, awaiting the worst. Seokjin’s expression softened briefly as he glanced up from his work, meeting Yoongi’s anxious gaze with empathy in his eyes.

“She lost quite some blood, Yoongi.”

“I understand-,” Yoongi murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he squeezed Y/N’s hand tighter, as if to anchor her to this world. “But she’s strong, Seokjin-hyung. She’ll pull through this, right?” Seokjin offered a small nod of agreement, his eyes reflecting a mixture of empathy and determination. If only he had been more attentive, more willing to listen and understand, perhaps they wouldn’t be facing this crisis now.

“I should have done more,” Yoongi murmured, his voice heavy with remorse.

“You know, this would probably never happen if you would let me ease her mind in the beginning.”

The warm water cascaded over their bodies. He was holding her and her naked body in a tight embrace. The flickering candlelight casting a soft glow upon their entwined forms.

His hands roamed over Y/N’s skin, she arched her back in response, a soft moan escaping her lips as he trailed kisses along her neck, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His touch sends shivers of pleasure coursing through her veins.

She moaned softly against his lips as he teased her, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her whole body. Y/N reached between them, her hand finding his manhood, firm and ready for her touch. She grasped him firmly, feeling his arousal pulse beneath her fingertips.

“Fuck, love, —” he moaned loudly, a raw expression of his pleasure and desire as she brought him closer to the edge. She followed the rhythm he settled for, stroking his manhood.

Y/N first felt the warm stream of his ejaculation before she heard his throaty moan of her name and then she could feel his fingers deeper in her than before, moving faster until she saw the stars too.

So, is this how love feels?

Her fingers slowly traced the faded scar from a wound on her neck she couldn’t quite remember when it appeared on her body nor how it came to that. Closing her eyes, trying to recall and dig up any memory that would help her and ease her confusion turned out unfruitful.

“Good night, Dove-” Her eyes snapped open hearing his voice. She felt his lips press into her cheek, one hand caressing her belly. Y/N’s lenses took in the change of surroundings. She’s in bed that feels like home as if she was sleeping in it for years. Clutching the silk duvet she looked at him. The scar is still present on his face, calling to her. He looked so calm, at peace, falling asleep with a smile on his face.

Dove. The word echoed in her mind, stirring up fragmented memories that danced just beyond her reach. It was a name she couldn’t recall ever being called before, yet it felt right, as if it belonged to her in ways she couldn’t comprehend.

Everything around her felt right yet so wrong at the same time. The soft crackling of fire, soft wind blowing outside and the symphony the crickets created. It was nighttime. A day went by, and she could not remember what she was doing for all the hours after breakfast.

Her hands slipped down to caress her belly with a stranger inside. Her hand slowly moved to cover his. Holding it felt somehow right, even though her mind was saying otherwise. The only thing that was wrong yet felt right was her helplessness, her indecisiveness, her unawareness. She was a prisoner of her mind and her body. This life felt surreal, sweet, and endearing, musing to her to live it without doubt. But doubts she had. Is this what her mind thought life would be? The more she thought about it, the more she felt like this projection is what her sound heart and mind longed for. This is what she wanted.

Love, happiness, and-

“Why do you call me that?” She asked suddenly, leaving her mind to speak to him. His eyes fluttered open to lovingly gaze at her. He pulled his hand from under hers, gently took it to intertwine their fingers together.

“What do you mean?” with a gentle smile playing on his lips, he whispered. The flickering firelight danced across their intertwined hands, casting shadows that seemed to whisper untold stories and shared moments.

“Why do you call me Dove?” She searched his eyes for answers.

“Because you brought peace to my heart, -”

“-and my world.”

His gaze held hers, a depth of emotion swirling within those familiar eyes that she couldn’t quite place. The doubts and uncertainties that had clouded her mind seemed to fade away, replaced by a deep sense of trust and acceptance. At least, for now.

“Are you satisfied now? Hm?” The widow’s steps and words were aimed at the man she loathes. Her brother is laying at the sanitorium’s metal beds, a fractured skull and internal bleeding to be treated. They fear he might have been admitted far too late as Doctor Kim’s priority was the lady of the house.

They are to relieve pressure on the brain caused by the fractured skull and to stop the internal bleeding. They did not tell his older sister anything else. It was a horrific picture of her brother’s head being immobilised to prevent further injury, a trepanation has been done to prevent severe head trauma, his face swollen from all the hits he took from his leader. All for the Kkangpae’s selfish act of desire for his loved one to obey.

She stopped in front of the man whose face was puffy and eyes bright red from all the tears he shredded for his loved one. Now he cries. Daiyu’s mind could not understand the notorious man Min Yoongi is. Nor any of the men of Min Clan. Their women are weeping, yet the reason is not what they assume it is. They weep because of them. Because of the pain they brought upon them. The pain they’ll never admit that ever was there.

“You ruined us all, Yoongi.” No honorific for a man that has done so much damage to her family. He stood there without looking her in the eye and quietly apologising for his doings.

“Missus Park,-” he attempted to raise his voice above the line so she could hear him.

“My mother gave me up to your clan during the first war and after years I made my peace with that, -” he listened to her, standing there like he was the victim.

“Yet you were cocky enough to ask for more?” Her words are laced with bitterness and anger, fuelled by the injustice she feels at the hands of the Min Clan. She vows to never forgive him for the harm he has wrought.

“And yet again my mother gave up Y/N too. But that’s not quite right, hm?” The widow’s heart remains hardened, her anger burning bright as she refuses to grant him absolution for his sins.

“You think you and the rest of your hooligans are clever? Abducting women and forcing them to elope.” A heavy silence descends upon the room, broken only by the muffled sounds of distant footsteps echoing through the hotel corridor. Yoongi is letting her relieve her anger on him. He deserves it.

“Missus Park, I think you’d rather be at your brother’s side, don’t you think?” A smooth low voice echoes right beside her. She turned slowly to face the source, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. Standing there, with an air of quiet confidence, was a man she recognized all too well – Kim Taehyung, a trusted associate of the Min Clan.

“You.” She said with venom in her voice. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she regarded him, his presence only adding to the tension in the room. She knew all too well the power and influence he wielded, and she braced herself for whatever he had to say.

“Hyung, go inside, she might wake up any moment now. She’s been through a lot; you should make sure she’s taken care of-”

“How dare you say that!” Daiyu’s voice got an octave higher when she accused the consigliere.

“This is not the time or place for your interference, Missus Park.” Taehyung said, his voice calm but tinged with a hint of warning.

“We all have been through a lot because of you!”

“What on earth you did to make Xiaoli love you so blindly, -” Taehyung’s lips curved into a faint smirk, but there was a hardness in his eyes that belied his demeanour. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving hers. But she refused to be intimidated. She knew that Taehyung’s influence over Xiaoli was a dangerous one and her mind was bothered numerous times.

“Your mother was not as smart as the clans perceived her after all.” The widow’s jaw clenched with anger as Kim Taehyung’s words cut through the air.

“You dare speak of my mother?” she spat, her voice trembling with fury. “You and your ilk have no right to claim any semblance of intelligence. You prey on the vulnerable and the innocent, twisting their minds and hearts to serve your own selfish desires-”

“The nature of our private affairs are not something you have the right to be noisy about, Missus Park.” His tone dripped with disdain as he stared at the widow with cold indifference. Daiyu’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she struggled to contain her anger.

“You and your clan have caused nothing but pain and suffering, and yet you have the audacity to stand here and lecture me about privacy?”

Taehyung’s smirk widened; his eyes gleaming with amusement at her outburst. He took another step closer, invading her personal space with an air of arrogance that made her skin crawl.

“We operate by our own rules, Missus Park,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “And if you value your brother’s life, you will do well to remember that.”

“This is far from being over. Once my brother recovers, I’m taking them both and Xiaoli to America.”

“Is that so?” he replied, his tone laced with scepticism. Taehyung’s expression darkened at her words, his jaw tightening with barely concealed rage. For a moment, it seemed as though he might lash out in anger, but then he seemed to regain control of himself, his features smoothing into a mask of icy calm.

“You’re welcome to take your brother and go to the far far land but my fiancé and Buin will stay put, end of the discussion, Missus Park. Or do I need to take any precautions — how’s your son?”

She knew all too well the lengths to which the Min Clan would go to protect their interests, and the thought of her son being caught in the crossfire filled her with a sense of dread.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she spat, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. “You wouldn’t lay a hand on my son.”

“Oh, of course not, we’re not child-killers, Missus Park. But you wouldn’t want me to make sure they take him away as you’re clearly unstable to raise a child.” Taehyung’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting with malice as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear.

“You all are fucking monsters.” She spit his way and with a flick of fear in her eyes she turns away to storm down the hallways back to the waiting car that will take her to the sanitorium.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, lending an eerie atmosphere to the hushed conversation that unfolded.

Yoongi’s brow furrowed with concern as he glanced at Y/N, her delicate features softened in sleep. He was holding her small hand in his large one, refusing to leave her side.

“Hyung, do you think she could be pregnant?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, mindful of the gravity of their discussion. Seokjin and Namjoon exchanged a solemn glance, their expressions reflecting the weight of Yoongi’s question.

The older man did not want his brother to be in more pain than he already is.

“It’s certainly possible, —” Seokjin replied softly, his gaze shifting to Y/N’s still form.

“—yet, it’s way too soon to tell.” Namjoon nodded in agreement, his eyes lingering on Y/N with a mixture of concern and hope.

“Her health and recovery must remain our primary focus.”

A sense of apprehension settled over Yoongi as the reality of their situation sank in. The prospect of impending fatherhood filled him with both excitement and trepidation. His hand possessively slipped under the duvet, caressing her belly with a tender touch. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to her hand, a silent vow of love and protection that lingered in the quiet of the room.

He was determined to never fail her again.

Y/N found herself drifting into a state of peaceful slumber, the gentle rhythm of his breathing lulling her into a sense of security she hadn’t known before. A feeling that was for a long time foreign.

Yet, even as sleep beckoned her towards its welcoming arms, a nagging sense of unease lingered at the edge of her consciousness. It was as though a faint whisper echoed through the chambers of her mind.

Images flickered in the darkness, fleeting glimpses of faces and places she couldn’t quite place. It was like trying to catch hold of smoke, the harder she tried to grasp onto them, the more they slipped through her fingers.

And then, amidst the chaos of her mind, a single image emerged from the depths of her subconscious—a flash of silver amidst the darkness, a glimmer of recognition that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through her veins.

As Y/N’s dreams began to swirl with fragments of memories she herself did not recognise, she found herself waking with a start, the remnants of a haunting nightmare still lingering in her mind. The boundaries between reality and illusion blurring in the hazy mist of slumber. Beside her, the man stirred, his gaze filled with concern as he noticed the tension in her features.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice soft yet filled with a quiet intensity that spoke volumes.

“It was just a bad dream-” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression understanding as he reached out to gently brush away the stray strands of hair that clung to her face. “Nightmares are just the mind’s way of processing the chaos of the world,” he said, his words carrying a weight of wisdom born from years of introspection. “-the unwanted reality we dare not to accept,” he slowly caressed her cheek.

“Sometimes, facing our fears head-on is the only way to conquer them.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice steady despite the lingering unease that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness. “It feels like the nightmares are trying to tell me something, -”

“Perhaps they are,” he said, his tone tinged with a hint of curiosity.

“What do you mean?” She asked, shrinking her eyebrows.

“Wake up, little Dove.”

“I don’t want to wake up, Yoongi. I’m wide awake.” Her words proceeded her mind once she uttered them.

Yoongi. Only now she realised that she never uttered his name out loud this whole time. His name is Yoongi. She recognises him now, but this man is not the one she married.

This man is the one the other will never be.

“Are you?”

The warmth of the bed was replaced by the sterile chill of a sanitised room, the soft breathing beside her now replaced by the distant sound of metal clinking against itself.

Her eyes fluttered open to meet the gaze of Seokjin, the doctor who had been overseeing her treatment. There was a sombreness in his eyes, a depth of understanding that spoke of the gravity of the situation.

Her initial reaction wasn’t one of shock or panic but rather a stoic silence whilst she looked around the room. Just yet. That was giving the young doctor a hunch that her mind is stronger than anyone ever thought it is.

“Y/N,-” he began, his voice gentle yet firm. He carefully placed the file he was holding in his hand back to the nightstand next to the bed. Seokjin didn’t want to trigger her. He needed her to be as calm as possible.

“What did you do to me?” A hoarse broken voice laced with pain echoed in the room. It was barely heard and the immense pain on the side of her throat got her head spinning. The sight of Yoongi’s rage-filled eyes flooded back to her mind, the desperation of her attempt to protect Kai from his wrath. She instinctively reached up to touch the bandages that now adorned her neck, wincing.

“You mean, what did you do to yourself?” he replied softly, his words heavy with implication.

Y/N felt a wave of nausea wash over her as the reality of her actions sunk in. The realisation that she had tried to take her own life filled her with a sense of profound despair.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “There was no stopping him. He would have—” it was hard to swallow, it was harder to breathe, painful to speak and just like countless times before, it was harder to see through the tears.

“Is Kai alive?” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. Seokjin met her gaze with a solemn nod, Y/N felt a sliver of hope pierce through the darkness that had consumed her. Perhaps, amidst the chaos, there was still a chance for redemption, for healing.

“He’s going to make a full recovery in a few weeks,” he said softly, his words a balm to her wounded spirit.

“But you need to heal too—”

Tears welled in her eyes as she nodded in silent agreement, the weight of her own pain pressing down upon her like a burden too heavy to bear.

“Little birdie sang that you promised to make a snowman with a certain little man.” The little boy was a reminder of the love and happiness that still existed in her life despite the darkness that surrounded her.

“Can I sleep some more?”

Before she managed to drift back to sleep, Seokjin quietly went about checking her vitals, his experienced hands moving with precision as he monitored her condition. With a deep sigh, he made a mental note to bring her iron pills to help replenish the blood she had lost. Looking at her bandaged neck, he couldn’t shake the feeling that her academic background would totally exclude the possibility that this petite woman wouldn’t know how to kill herself with that one swipe of a letter opener if she aimed correctly. And that made Seokjin suspicious of the young Buin’s intentions and endorsed him into believing that after all, the girl still has some fire to burn and will to live. She just needed good guidance, he thought.

“How is she?” The Kkangpae rushed to approach him once he closed the door to his office. It was very hard to convince him to leave her side. She was asleep for a while and Seokjin did not advise on waking her up anytime soon until she woke up herself. With conflicting emotions, he turned to face his dishevelled form.

“She wants to sleep some more, otherwise she’s stable, but—” Seokjin replied, his voice tinged with weariness.

“—she’s lost a significant amount of blood so I’m going to have her take iron pills—”

The Kkangpae’s brow furrowed in worry, his gaze flickering back to the closed door behind Seokjin.

“I want to see her,” he said, his voice tinged with desperation when he interrupted his Hyung.

Seokjin hesitated for a moment, weighing the risks of disturbing Y/N’s rest against the Kkangpae’s obvious concern. Ultimately, he decided to trust his instincts.

“We need to talk first, Yoongi.” Seokjin said firmly. The Kkangpae nodded reluctantly, his shoulders slumping with defeat. Not happy with Seokjin’s stalling. Nonetheless, Seokjin could sense the tension radiating off him, the weight of guilt and fear pressing down on his shoulders.

“You pushed her way too far, Yoongi—” the doctor begins, slumping down to the low cushion sofa looking at the faded yet evident scraped puddle of blood on the wooden floor.

“I want you to consider me helping her.”

Yoongi’s blood ran cold at the mention of such a drastic measure to be taken. He knew of the doctor practising such methods and he knew of them being successful once two living and walking examples were among them.

“We’ve talked about this Seokjin, and I declined your offer. She doesn’t need it.”

Seokjin’s gaze hardened, his eyes locking onto Yoongi's with unwavering intensity.

“Are you ever going to accept the truth Yoongi? She is suffering here!” Yoongi’s jaw tightened; his fists clenched at his sides as he fought to control the rising tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He knew that Seokjin was right. But he was also still the selfish man he was before.

“She’s my responsibility, Seokjin,” Yoongi said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll find another way to help her. I won’t let you do this to her unless it will be absolutely necessary.”

Seokjin’s expression softened, a flicker of empathy shining in his eyes as he reached out to place a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder. “I know you love her, Yoongi,” he said gently. “But sometimes, loving means making difficult decisions for the greater good.”

Yoongi couldn’t continue to bury his head in the sand, hoping that Y/N’s pain and suffering would simply disappear on its own and perhaps the moment she heals she’ll be capable of falling in love with him just like he did.

“Just how long can you go without your love being reciprocated?”

Seokjin’s question echoed in Yoongi’s mind, a painful reminder of the unrequited love that had tormented him for so long.

He couldn’t bear the thought of robbing her of her identity, of erasing the very essence of who she was. The essence he loved her for. But now, faced with the prospect of losing her altogether, Yoongi couldn’t bear the thought of erasing the very qualities that had drawn him to her in the first place. He loved her for her fire, for the strength and passion that burned within her.

He wanted to keep her flame alive.

How ironic, isn’t it?

Waking up again felt even worse than the first time. The dizziness remained and a strong feeling of fatigue only reminded her of what she had called upon herself. The bed seemed to mock her with its warmth, the pillow unyielding beneath her. It was a bit firmer for some reason and a heartbeat echoed in her ears.

Her hand went up the sheets until another hand fell upon hers. The bed was not warmer, the pillow was not firmer and the heartbeat she hears isn’t hers. The fingers, adorned with cold metal rings that now laid on top of her smaller hand squeezed hers in firmer grip. What was supposed to be a comforting touch seemed like shackles to Y/N.

Y/N gulped down, trying to not slap his hand right away just like she wanted to. The pit in her stomach was larger and larger. She did not know what to expect from him. Is he going to punish her? Is he mad? Does he have the right to be mad? Of course not. But for what is to come, Y/N would rather him mad and angry.

“I am so sorry, little Dove.”

His voice shattered her thoughts and Y/N’s eyes stayed wide open, just staring up front. He was holding her laying form on his chest and she could feel his other hand caressing her back. He held her way too close, as if trying to mend what he had broken with his other hand.

“I thought I was going lose you,” he choked out, confessing, his grip tightening. She pulled away with swift movement, sitting up to confront him and look down on his half laying form.

“You’ve almost killed him, and the only remorse you feel is for me?!”

Her weak voice trembled with a mixture of anger and disbelief, her eyes flashing with hurt as she confronted him. Her vocal cords were not as damaged, yet her throat was too sore for her voice to be heard fully. The weight of his actions hung heavy in the air, suffocating the space between them. Guilt etching lines on his face as he met her accusing gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

“The words you said before, back home, got to me, and I lost control. I did not mean for any of this, Dove. I am genuinely sorry,” he finally managed to utter, his voice thick with regret. His eyes pleaded for her understanding, begging for forgiveness in the face of his unforgivable mistake.

Despite the hurt and betrayal, she felt a small part of her longed to believe him, to believe that he was capable of change. But she knew very well that the Yoongi starring in her dreams is a completely different man. The scars of his actions ran deep, leaving behind wounds that could not be easily healed.

“You crushed his skull, Yoongi,” she said with a stone-cold anger, her voice laced with an icy fury that sent shivers down his spine. He messed up.

“And I shall do everything to redeem myself. I love you, baby-” He knew he had to make things right, to earn back her trust and repair the damage he had done. How could he earn something back if it was never there?

“You don’t love me, Yoongi. You love the idea of having me under your control!” Each syllable drips with bitterness and resentment. He lifted himself on his elbows to look closer to her teary eyes. They reflected so much pain and sorrow.

“You know that’s not true. I’ll do anything for you.” He insisted, his voice trembling with sincerity as he reached out to gently wipe away her tears whence she slapped his hand off.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she spat, her voice sharp with venom. She stood up, putting distance between them, but he refused to let her go. The weight of his actions had left her wounded, her trust shattered beyond repair. She could no longer bear the false promises and empty gestures that had become their relationship.

“Did I have to reach the edge of despair for you to wake up?” Her words cut through the silence, echoing with the pain of her betrayal.

“I was scared of losing you,” His voice trailed off, the weight of her accusation hitting him like a ton of bricks. He struggled to find the right words to express the depth of his fear and regret, knowing that no apology could ever fully erase the pain he had caused.

“You never had me to begin with.” She said, her voice filled with finality. But he wouldn’t accept it. The ancient melody, the notes that echoed in the silence, screamed, full of wounds that will never heal.

“Promise me you’ll never do that again, love. Hurt me, not yourself.” He pleaded again trying to reach her, his voice breaking with emotion as he reached out to grasp her trembling hands, hoping against hope that she would find it in her heart to forgive him, to give their love another chance. He cannot let her words get to him again.

“Again?!-” she retorted, her voice laced with disbelief and incredulity. She wondered if he’s even worthy of her pretending. Her hands went to hit his chest, pushing him away from her.

“-You think there’s going to be fucking again, Yoongi?!” Her words were sharp, cutting through the air with the finality of a verdict. A flying cup shattered right next to his head. He did not even register when she took it into her hands and threw it at him, missing him just by a few inches.

“I’ll do anything to have you by my side. Dove, I beg you.” Min Yoongi pleaded, his voice breaking again. On his knees, Min Yoongi bowed his head in remorse.

“You’ll never change, Yoongi.” The weight of disappointment was evident in her words as she turned away, unable to bear the sight of him at that moment. But the selfish side of Min Yoongi wouldn’t let her do that.

He grabbed her by her waist and pulled her close, not leaving an inch between them.

“I can’t fucking live without you-” his voice cracked, raw with desperation and longing, tears welled up in his eyes, begging for her to understand the depth of his love.

“-without those arms,” he continued, his voice softening with the memories of their intimacy.

“-full cheeks-”

“-lips,” he whispered, each word a plea for her to see the love and longing in his eyes.

“Yoongi, I cannot do this anymore.”

Yoongi felt his heart drop like a heavy weight in his chest. He collapsed onto his knees before her, his arms wrapping desperately around her delicate frame.

“I’m so tired of the pain in my chest,” she admitted, her voice trembling with vulnerability.

He had pushed her too far, hurt her too deeply, and now he stood on the precipice of losing her forever.

“I was ready to die—”

“I’m so fucking sorry, Dove” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the tumult of emotions raging inside him. Y/N glanced at his trembling hands and thought about his words for a second. Contemplating his sincerity.

It was his eyes this time that cried. The endearment sounds different coming from this version of Yoongi. It felt so distant from the Yoongi she had once met in her dreams. The man he’ll never be.

“I can make it better. Just let me in and I’ll show you how happy we can be.” Min Yoongi promised, his eyes filled with sincerity. He’s haunted by the knowledge that he just might have let the love of his life slip through his fingers.

“You’re really that delusional, aren’t you?” Y/N questioned; her voice laced with disbelief.

“Aren’t we all? -” Min Yoongi replied, his voice tinged with resignation. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make things right. Please, give me another chance.”

Y/N remained silent; her expression guarded as she wrestled with her own emotions. Her mind swirled with thoughts and even when she tried to say something, an inaudible cry of frustration, sadness and anger was heard.

Min Yoongi slumped down to his knees, holding her small hands in his. Looking at her with hope in his eyes.

“I beg you.” He pleaded once more for her forgiveness. His eyes searched hers, hoping to find even the smallest glimmer of something that would tell him that he’ll manage to woo her right this time.

If she could walk away, she would do it right now. But this isn’t her que to leave the scene. Just not yet. Be patient.

“Your beloved God shall decide upon your fate, Yoongi-”

“Upon the fate of us,” she continued to preach.

“What do you—”

“Should God spare his life, I’ll consider forgiving you,” she interrupted, her voice firm.

“Then let it be so,” he said, his voice filled with determination and hope.

Y/N was clutching the delicate cup of tea in her hands whilst her eyes remained fixed on the outside surroundings of the hotel. Riling herself up was something she was told to seize. Yet, there she stands, ready to run outside any minute.

“He’s trying, you know,” Xiaoli said softly, following Y/N’s gaze. “In his own way, he’s trying to make things right.”

The sight was both heart-warming and heartbreaking, a glimpse of the man he used to be and the man he could still be.

“Well, he certainly knows how to evoke emotional damage.” Y/N sighed, her eyes lingering on Yoongi’s figure adorned in a warm coat. His hands were covered with leather gloves that protected him from the frostbiting cold snow.

“People can heal.”

“Some wounds run too deep to heal completely,” Y/N glanced at Xiaoli, her eyes searching for understanding that she will most likely never find.

“Love has a way of healing even the deepest wounds-” Xiaoli reached out, placing a comforting hand on Y/N’s arm. Y/N scoffed, her eyes never leaving the Kkangpae and her little brother Bo Cheng. Building a snowman. It was a picture of normalcy; his current actions were mocking the magnitude of his power and acts he performed to obtain it.

Min Yoongi was on top of the world. One day, the prime minister of Japan expresses his gratitude for clearing the Yakuza clan and unburdening the country, the other, he’s powerless when the woman he chose to be his companion throughout life, and what’s after, paints the floor red with her own blood.

“Relax, Y/N Buin.” The other voice echoed from the other side of the room. She was clutching the cup way too tightly, making her knuckles go white. She hated when people called her Buin. It did not evoke power in Y/N, rather the opposite. It was a reminder that she is the lady of this clan because Yoongi forced her into this position.

The room felt heavy with tension, each word from Xiaoli pulling at the raw edges of her emotions. The far away sound of Bo Cheng’s laughter when he threw a large snowball Yoongi’s way.

“You did not see him that day,” Y/N finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with pain and regret.

“The darkness in him consumed him.”

“I saw him after that—”

“-He’s trying to make amends now,” Xiaoli said gently, her hand tightening around Y/N’s.

“I wish I could believe that he’s capable of change, Xiaoli.” The rustle of newspaper reminded her of the other presence in the room. The consigliere silently worked at the table, overviewing contracts Y/N daren’t deem anything but legal. The other man present in the room was now folding the said newspapers, standing up and walking in the direction where Xiaoli and Y/N stood by the large window.

“Never in my entire fucking life I have thought that I will see Min fucking Yoongi build a snowman-” Hoseok spat out jokingly, his disbelief evident. There was even a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Y/N’s grip on the teacup relaxed slightly, but her gaze remained fixed on the scene outside the whole time.

“He just might be able to change, we all do-” he began, leaning down to her height level, admiring the velvet rose pins holding her hair in an updo.

“for lov—”

“Jiě jie! Have you seen the snowman we built?!” Y/N’s eyes brightened at the sound of Bo Cheng’s voice. The change in her expression was immediate.

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle, “Yes, dear. It’s marvellous.”

Bo Cheng’s delighted laughter echoed across the snowy expanse as he ran back outside to Yoongi, pulling him towards their creation.

Hoseok, witnessing Y/N’s transformation, teased, “See? He’s not all bad. Look at how happy he makes your brother.”

“One snowman doesn’t erase the past, Hoseok.”

Hoseok laughed, conceding with a nod, “Fair enough, Y/N. Fair enough.”

“What about two?” Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. But the daunting feeling never left her as she watched him and her little brother.

“Is he asleep?” She asked quietly, trying to restrain her voice as much as possible. The best was not to overload the muscles of her throat at all. She talks very little but thinks a lot. That certainly is not the best situation for someone like Y/N.

Her mind takes her to places. To those she visited and those she is yet to see. The “Yoongi” comes back to her in dreams from time to time, and Y/N’s mind cannot grapple with why it is happening so. What is the cosmos trying to show her?

“He is usually stubborn to go to sleep if it’s not for Ma reading him a story-” The younger sister began to rely upon her never-ending gratitude to her beloved leader. Safe to say, she shifted her loyalty without having to pledge it first.

“-thank you, Kkangpae Min, you’re marvellous with children.” Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes at Xiaoli. Not like she was cautious to not get caught doing so, Xiaoli did see her doing so, poking her elbow to express her gratitude to Yoongi too.

“What?” Y/N asked her. Xiaoli was easier to manipulate, easier to forget, and easier to forgive. Y/N wasn’t, she would let him feel the chasm in between them before she made her move to wrap him around her finger.

“Aren’t you grateful for such a caring husband?”

The loud silence echoed in the room, making everyone uncomfortable. Y/N closed her eyes and sighed very loudly. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Xiaoli-” Y/N has begun only for Xiaoli to not let her speak.

“No, Y/N, he’s at least trying. You never did-” her younger sister interrupted her instantly. Y/N looked into Yoongi’s eyes, for the first time since he crossed the door threshold after he put Bo Cheng to bed. She did not know what she was looking for, yet she expected him to speak up.

“Xiaoli-” she attempted again but this time it was Yoongi who interrupted her.

“Mrs. Wang, I appreciate your concern, but me and Y/N shall resolve our marital issues without your guidance.”

Yoongi’s voice was calm, but there was a firmness to it that made the room go still. Xiaoli’s eyes widened slightly, surprised by his assertiveness. Y/N’s gaze locked onto his again, searching for a hint of what he was thinking. She raised her brows at his diplomatic words to her sister.

Not wanting to admit it, Y/N enjoyed the guilt in Xiaoli’s eyes. Yet it was Yoongi she apologised to and not her.

“Well, I would say that is our cue to leave those two alone, love,” Taehyung murmured all the way from across the office where he was still seated. The room was quiet enough that everyone heard him.

“I meant well.” Was the last thing Y/N heard before Xiaoli and Taehyung got too far away for them to hear anything.

Yoongi took a deep breath, breaking the silence.

“She can be a lot, the sister of yours.”

Y/N chuckled softly, wiping away a stray tear. They sat down by the fireplace.

They always do. He reached out, taking her hand.

“How was your day?” He said gently. For the past week, she wasn’t avoiding him - she was avoiding the talks he wished to have with her to reconcile.

“Jimin told me you went to visit Kai today.”

Y/N’s eyes widened momentarily before she looked away, her grip tightening around the fabric of her dress. Yoongi’s thumb gently stroked the back of her hand, a gesture meant to be comforting, but it only intensified the whirlwind of emotions inside her.

“Seokjin says he is getting better slowly.” She hesitated to talk, biting her lip. Kai was a sore subject between them, yet Yoongi realised that’s where his only chance of a life with her lay. He agreed upon her terms of forgiving him, seizing any opportunity to keep her by his side.

“And so do you, but I would love to hear that from you, Dove.”

“It still pains me to talk, and I get dizzy if I stand for too long.” Yoongi’s heart ached as he heard her soft confession. He knew all too well what her condition was and that he was the sole reason for it.

There wasn’t a day, an hour where he did not think about what he could have done differently with her. Maybe if he told her the truth at the very beginning, she’d let him woo her. But he’ll never know that. The damage was done, and he’ll have to build their relationship from scratch.

Yoongi hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching Y/N’s face for any sign of pain or discomfort.

“I’m sorry, Dove,” he whispered, his voice filled with regret. “I hate seeing you like this.”

Y/N gave him a weak smile. It wasn’t a warm smile, it was not genuine, and it certainly did not reflect the emotion Y/N was holding in.

“Then why lead me to this state?” Yoongi’s eyes filled with guilt, his grip on her hand tightening. For the first time, Yoongi rethought all the decisions he had made since he settled his eyes on her. There wasn’t a day he did not think about what would be different if he would’ve been honest with her. Would she fall in love with him?

“We don’t have time for that, Hyung.” The voice of his right-hand man echoed in his mind. He listened to him, and here they are. Broken.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Dove—” Yoongi’s tears threatened to fall as he watched the woman he loved struggle with the pain he had caused.

“And that there is way too much damage done, but I burn for you, and I always will.” She only listened to him, there was no need to answer.

“I will wait for you until you are ready.”

“We had a deal.” Her eyes slowly flattered open upon hearing his low baritone voice. She gulped down carefully, wincing at the still evident pain in her throat. She squinted her eyes at the change of lighting. She was wondering whether he would pay her visit. Several weeks passed and here he is. Kim Namjoon in his full glory, ready to get on her nerves.

“Where’s Yoongi?” Looking at the empty side of the bed she asked, not minding his words. He sneaked late in the night, thinking she was dead asleep and left her room too early in the morning. She has let him do that. It will only help her in the future.

“We had a deal,” Namjoon repeated, his voice firm and unwavering as he was seated in the armchair next to her bed, his gaze fixed on her with a mixture of concern and disappointment.

“And we still have a deal, don’t we?” She asked rather mockingly, her tone laced with sarcasm, pulling herself up to sit on the bed. Her eyes still not used to the lighting she blindly reached to a glass of water that was on the nightstand to ease her throat of the uncomfortable dryness burning inside.

“You attempted to kill yourself. I’d count that as violating our deal,” he stated bluntly. Y/N’s jaw clenched as she listened to Namjoon's accusation, a surge of defensiveness rising within her. The man and his tactics irked her.

She knew she had pushed the boundaries of their agreement, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Not to him at least.

“It was a moment of weakness, okay? I’ve had enough at that point.” Namjoon’s gaze remained steady, unmoved by her protestations. As if he saw right through her.

“Do you want us to throw you into a mental house? Is that what you’re trying to do?”

Y/N’s grip tightened around the glass of water as she fought to control the rising tide of anger within her.

“You all would have to throw yourself in first.”

She refused to back down, refused to let him belittle her struggles or dictate her fate. Y/N’s grip tightened around the glass of water, her knuckles turning white with tension as she fought to control the rising tide of anger within her. Namjoon’s words felt like a slap in the face, a harsh reminder of her own vulnerability and the consequences of her actions.

He chuckled at her response. The sound grating on her nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

“As I said, it was a moment of weakness, there was no different means to stop him—”

“Maybe if you didn’t provoke him before, he wouldn’t do it, Y/N.”

“I did not provoke him. I did not ask for any of this,” she spat, her voice trembling with fury. Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest as she glared at Namjoon. She wanted to throw the glass at him so badly.

“Yet here we are.”

“Here we are indeed,” she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And whose fault is that, Namjoon? Certainly not mine.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightened at her defiance, his gaze hardening as he met her eyes with unwavering intensity.

“You’re just like him, Y/N,” he muttered darkly. “Stubborn. Refusing to see reason. Refusing to accept help. We had a deal goddammit—”

“With all due respect, Namjoon. I do not trust you nor your intentions to actually send me over to America once the time is up.” He had expected her defiance, but her lack of trust cut deeper than he cared to admit. He did not know why in detail. But it was for the greater good that the Buin and Kkangpae will be a power role model couple for their clan.

“You don’t trust me?” he repeated, his voice low and tinged with disbelief. Ridiculous.

“Trust is earned, Namjoon,” she retorted, her voice unwavering despite the tremor in her heart. “And you haven't exactly given me a reason to trust you.” His frustration was simmering beneath the surface.

“Aight.” He said after some time of thinking.

“What do you want?” He asked, intrigued about what would make her trust him. Y/N’s gaze narrowed; her expression guarded as she considered Namjoon’s question.

“Assurances.”

“Name it.”

“I want Xiaoli, Kai, Daiyu and her son out of here. Somewhere overseas. Unharmed and not to be bothered again.” His expression conflicted as he weighed the implications of her request. The smirk on his face was still present.

“Xiaoli is betrothed to Taehyung, and she is so of her own volition. You yourself gave them your blessing, Buin.” Y/N’s tongue clicked unsatisfied with his words.

“Give her the courtesy and at least give her the chance to decide, without your influence.” He knew she had a point, even if he was reluctant to admit it. The power dynamics within their world were complex, and he had grown accustomed to wielding his influence with impunity. The holy seven always did so.

“Fine,” he conceded, his tone grudging. “I’ll make sure Xiaoli has a chance to make her own decisions. But you’re pushing your luck, Yoongi may not—,”

“He will agree.” She stated resolutely. Namjoon’s eyebrows rose slightly at Y/N’s bold assertion, surprised by her unwavering confidence.

“Very well,” Namjoon replied, his voice tinged with resignation. “I’ll speak to Yoongi and I’ll arrange for them to sail away once Kai is well enough to travel, but only if you promise to uphold your end of the deal and it’s new conditions”

“What conditions?” She asked, utterly confused. This was about him earning her trust. But of course, Kim Namjoon would somehow manage to manipulate his way through.

“Forgive him, Y/N. That’s what I’m asking for. It’s been weeks since Kai can stand on his own feet. Talk, walk, eat, everything. Why’d you still not uphold your side of the deal?”

A weighty silence enveloping the room as Y/N processed his words. The idea of forgiving Yoongi felt like an impossible task, a betrayal of everything she had endured at his hands. She could not find a word that would describe what she feels now.

“Holding onto anger and bitterness will only continue to weigh you down. Death would be redemption, yet you are still here, living and breathing by God’s will and doing.”

I N T E R L O G U E

“When is he planning to do it?” She spoke softly, her words laced with urgency and caution.

“I don’t know-” she murmured, swallowing the lump in her throat. “But I can’t bear the thought of Bo Cheng witnessing such a horror.”

Daiyu’s eyes darted around the dimly lit corridor, wary of lurking shadows and prying ears.

“We must leave this place, Y/N,” she urged, her voice a breathless whisper.

“I can’t-” Y/N’s voice caught in her throat, her gaze dropping to the floor as a wave of despair washed over her.

“—not yet, at least.” Daiyu placed a gentle hand on Y/N’s shoulder.

“But you will-” Y/N took a shaky breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Daiyu’s gaze hardened.

“-And you’ll take Bo Cheng with you. Even Ma if we will be clever enough.”

“Xiaoli?” she inquired cautiously.

“Xiaoli doesn’t share our sentiments. Taking her against her will would make me no better than them.” Daiyu nodded, understanding the complexity of Y/N’s feelings towards Xiaoli.

“He won’t let us all go,” said Daiyu, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. In normal circumstances, he would never give a green pass to anyone from inside of their clan. Especially, to the closer circle. But the circumstances were not normal. And as he spoke himself numerous times at this point. He will do everything to keep her by his side.

“He will. If I promise to stay.”

“But that’s-”

“It’s not my time yet, Daiyu—” she interrupted her quickly.

“But it will come.”

©pennyellee. please do not repost

author's note: this took me longer than I thought, mainly coz of life getting in my way, but nonetheless, chapter 8 is here. So far, this is the most I'm sceptical about chapter so yeah, nervous to put it out. Yoongi's got a taste of his own medicine to some degree and maybe finally he'll start to see things differently. Do you believe Yoongi can change for her? Hmm? We will see. Enjoy the chapter. Thank you for reading and continuing to read the story 𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡

PS: I hope you don't hate Xiaoli entirely coz I have a filler one-shot mapped out in my head 𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡

shout-out to Bex, the queen @chaoticpuff17, for beta another chapter!

Love you all!! ♥

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not an expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction. Nor in this case, I'm a medical professional.

let's be friends chummers 🫧♡ ︎

lots of love, p.

PPS: accounts highlighted cannot be tagged, so if you want to be in the tag list, please make sure you have it allowed in your settings. 𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡

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fatuismooches · 2 years

Note

Hello! I’d like to make another request if possible. I really loved how you did the Harbingers taking care of their sick s/o headcanons. Can I have headcanons with all the Harbingers comforting their s/o when they are crying? I know Pulcinella is supposed to be platonic, so maybe he can go into doting grandpa mode.

♡ 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 ♡

synopsis: When you're crying and upset, the first person you go to is none other than the one you love most. And of course, they never fail to deliver their love for you.

includes: all harbingers (platonic pulcinella) w/ gn! reader

notes: Ah yes, hurt and comfort, my favorite trope. I hope this makes everyone feel slightly better, whether you're having a good or bad day, you got this! <3

Disclaimer: Just so I don’t get repetitive, I just want to say that if another person made you cry, all of the Harbingers would have no problems doing some really… bad things to them. Since that’s out of the way, let’s continue.

Pierro:

Pierro would spend a normal day with you. You may ask why this is so special, but being the lover of the First Harbinger, who carries heavy burdens from Khaenri’ah, means you often don’t have “normal” days together. But when you’re this sad and crying, he has to make an exception. He would let himself sleep in with you, hold you close to him as you tell him everything and anything that’s been bothering you. (Despite his responsibilities, he still yearns to be updated on your life.) Pierro carries you to the bath and the two of you spend some time enjoying each other’s presence. He helps to dress you, and he cooks breakfast himself, which is eaten in peaceful silence. A long walk is taken through Snezhnaya and he lets you cling to his arm, despite the occasional looks of the other Fatui grunts. The two of you would walk through the forests and snow, and the town and markets of the frozen country. This kind of stuff might seem so bare and boring to outsiders, but you know that his time is the most precious gift you can receive from him, and you would want nothing else for comfort.

Capitano:

The one who is sincerely trying his best out of everyone and trying every method possible to cheer you up. Drops anything that he’s doing and while Capitano isn’t sure what to do, he knows his chest hurts more terribly than any battle wound when you’re sad. He is very protective of you, and wants nothing more than to destroy anything that’s causing you pain. And so, he thinks about what you do whenever you think he’s sad, and decides to spread his arms out to the side like you do when you want a hug. And of course you take the bait and practically launch yourself at him, but he catches you with ease. (When you teach this man how to hug and hold you properly, it is HEAVENLY. No better feeling than Capitano holding you snug on his lap with one arm while the other does whatever else he needs to do. Him one handedly holding you to his chest while the other is swinging a greatsword battling people. Yup.)

Tries every domestic thing in the book you gave him a while ago but kind of fails. When he cooks he chops up the ingredients disproportionately. When he picks flowers himself for you, the stems are half broken because he squeezed them too hard. When he reads stories to you and tries to give the characters different voices for you, you start laughing so hard your head hurts again. Capitano starts to feel bad, that your lover is someone whose only great strength is battle and leading others into war. But when all you do is smile at him and thank him, tugging on his arm to lay down with you, he can’t help but feel like he’s becoming more worthy of you.

Columbina:

The first thing is does is pull you into her lap and strokes your gently, humming a soft lullaby over your sniffles, in an effort to help you take a nap. Columbina knows you must be exhausted from so many tears, so she wants you to rest and just take a break from everything. She’ll be by your side the entire time. Also, any song requests are available for her during this time. She would sing for you however long you want even if her voice goes hoarse.

I don’t know why but I feel like she likes fluffy/soft and silky things. So the two of you would definitely be wrapped up in the softest blankets and pillows, even some plushies here and there. Columbina tends to place her head on the crook of your neck and just kiss the tears away (lots of back hugs.) Her words are quiet and soft-spoken but you can clearly hear them when she’s so close to your ear. Also, lots of looking up new hair styles so you can do whatever you want with her hair.

Dottore:

That ever-present smirk of his fades a bit when he sees you cry. Out of everyone, he is the most dumb-founded, because the emotion is not very familiar to him, and since he’s never seen you like this before, he has no data or experiences to help him know what to do. Yes, he had seen people cry before… cry in fear when they saw him. So he just stands there and lets you cry into his chest, a vial of unknown liquid in one hand while the other one is placed very hesitantly and awkwardly on the top of your head.

If this was anyone else, he would laugh in their face about their problems, but when it comes to you? You got his utmost attention. When Dottore comforts you, he first follows the very basics of comforting - just listening to what you have to say. He had grown accustomed to your physical touch, and in fact, secretly welcomed it since it made you feel better. Dottore is more of a logical person rather than an emotional one, so he won’t baby you or use too many honeyed words. Instead, he’d use more facts, solutions, and things you haven’t thought of before. The most verbal affection you’ll get is something along the lines of not letting fools rile you up, that you’re his partner for a reason (but that’s a lot coming from Dottore.) Makes it a mental note to make a clone follow you around from now on so your day would go more smoothly. Also the kind of guy to make his clones play card/board games with you and let you win on purpose. Would make you a hot cup of tea, his coat draped over you, while you watch him go about his experiments and such. Also the guy who would simultaneously be down to help you get revenge on anyone if you wished.

Pulcinella:

The grandpa who takes one look at you and beckons you to follow him for some tea and sweets. Makes you sit down next to him and lets you cry to your heart’s content. Depending on your personality, he already has a hundred ways to make you feel better. (After all, I headcanon that the Harbingers tend to rant to him about anything and he gives them advice/consolation. Papanella’s hugs are really nice, to be honest, it feels like you’re really hugging someone who cares about you.) This might be random - but you know those memes where grandparents always make you lots of food when you go over to their house? Well… that’s Pulcinella since I think that it would be cute.

He would distract you from whatever’s bothering you with a new story of course. Somehow, no matter how many times he tells you stories, he always has a new one. He’s also the one who would also gently urge you to confront your problems. Nonetheless, he’s very comforting and if you asked him he’d help you with whatever you’re dealing with. Pulcinella also forces the other Harbingers to cheer you up too.

Scaramouche:

Who does he have to kill? Pretty much the first thing that goes through Scaramouche’s mind when he sees tears roll down your face. If you reassure that this is not the case, he is not sure what to do afterwards. Whenever Kunikuzushi showed emotions, he was seen as week, vulnerable and received no comfort, so he kept it inside him. So now when he sees you crying so freely in front of him, he doesn’t know what to do. At first he is gruff in his words, telling you simply not to cry, that you don’t need to worry over dumb things when you have him, but of course this does not do much to relieve you of your sadness. So he sighs and places his hat on you since Scaramouche knows how much you like it.

A habit I think he picked up from when he was Kunikuzushi, is that he went to different scenic places to just pass the time and escape from sheer loneliness. He would tentatively hold your hand and lead you to one of these places nearby, and just sit with you. He wouldn’t say anything much because he didn’t want to say anything he didn’t mean to. And the two of you would just watch the sun turn into the moon. The golden sky transform into a starry night. Scaramouche would wordlessly keep an arm around you. Your life was too short to be sad, anyway.

Arlecchino:

Yet another Harbinger who has no experience comforting someone who they actually care about. But that cold mask of her breaks for a split second when she sees you cry. Every time one of the orphans cried, she kind of just looked at them and ordered another Fatui agent to take care of them. Physical nor verbal affection are her forte, so Arlecchino would rather show you how much she cares. She’d carry you to her shared room with you, lay you down and pull up the blankets. She’d move her office temporarily into the room so she could still work but in actuality she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, holding your hand while you tell her what happened. Arlecchino spoon feeds you, wipes any crumbs away with a tissue. When you fall asleep, she very carefully holds you to her chest and whispers words of love you’ll be hard-pressed to hear while you’re conscious.

La Signora:

It is a bit melancholic for La Signora - she never had the chance to wipe away her past lover’s tears, but now that she has the ability to finally do so for you, she feels a sense of bittersweetness. But she is very confident in herself, and she would like you to feel the same, so she would not hesitant with her honeyed verbal affirmation. She traces over every inch of your body, pointing out all the perfections and beauty she sees within you. She tells you how lucky she is to have someone like you in her life, after everything she’s been through. Rosalyne hums an old Mondstadt song and asks you mundane questions (Do these shoes match this hairpiece? Does this color go with that one?) Has her moths perch on your shoulder and smother you with warmth.

Pantalone:

Oh boy, he is just so sweet <3. Pantalone’s hugs are definitely the warmest; you feel bundled up not only in his fluffy coat but also in his genuine comfort and care for you, black locks tickling your cheek. He’s another one who's keen on pampering you, only that he can do it more easily. He has access to all the funding and bank reserves. Nothing is unattainable. And his workload is different from the other Harbingers - he can sit you on his lap, listening to your woes and worries while repeatedly signing his signature on documents for the whole day. When it comes to you, Pantalone has a great amount of patience. He has all the tissues ready for you and will hold onto every word you utter, so he can refute it later.

I think that he is big on self-care, especially for you, so when you’re upset he just wants to help you look and feel amazing again while murmuring words of consolation and love. This means that he will adoringly wash and comb your hair while carefully listening to anything you have to say, whether it’s a loud rant or hushed words of sadness. Helps you slip into the comfiest night clothes. Reads you any story you desire in that velvety voice of his. Is very fond of calling you a variety of pet names, like “my love” or “darling”, anything romantic really. Pantalone really hates seeing you cry. It’s one of the only times you would see him without a smile and a creased forehead.

Sandrone:

When Sandrone sees you crying, a burst of… unfamiliar emotion she rarely feels erupts in her chest, completely contrary to what she usually feels after working with puppets all day. Why? She was worried. How? She was upset. Who? She was angry that she couldn’t protect you. Her Automation quickly scoops you up and places you on her lap, letting you curl into your lover’s chest. Swiftly moves you to her private room and lets you cry into her shoulder for as long as you want, silently rubbing your back. (Many wonder if Sandrone’s feet ever touch the floor, always perched atop her robot’s hand. If only they could see how tender she was with you.)

She is intelligent in the most complex engineering, but when it comes to properly comforting you, she is at a loss. But she really does try her best. I feel as though she would implement nondeadly and rather cute features in her robots just to make you smile. (Pull the robot’s finger and a bouquet of flowers comes out! It tips its hat at you and some confetti comes out!) Sandrone would take you out for some fresh air to clear your head. Also provides quality entertainment. What is it, you ask? If you find watching her prototype model Automatons fight to the death, then you’ll surely have a joyous time. (You can’t help but laugh regardless. I’m now thinking about you placing bets on which robot wins with the other Fatui, but you always win because your lover tells you who's going to win before…)

Childe:

Childe would immediately pull you into his tight embrace, with no hesitation. He’s used to the sniveling and tears of his younger siblings, so as soon as he sees your crumpled face he knows exactly what to do. No matter how much you wet his clothes, Childe won’t let you go until you ask him to. He amps the pampering up to the maximum. Blanket cocoons/burritos are an absolute must. He cooks food himself so you could have the warm feeling of home cooking surrounding you. He would literally do all of the household tasks, not allowing you to lift a finger. He’d want to help bathe you, wash your hair, scrape away the grime from the day, gently worship your body by pressing affirmative kisses, and tell you how amazing you are, and how much you mean to him.

Childe is a really good listener and takes what you say very seriously if you’re willing to tell him. If it is a problem he can fix, you can bet he’s going to have some agents solve it, and even take care of it himself if anything. If you want to stay silent, he won’t pressure you, but his touch lets you know that he’s always here for you. Honestly, he probably spoils you more intensely for a few days because he knows that when you cry, you don’t magically wake up the next day fine again. Without fail, Childe would ask you how you’re feeling, monitoring your emotions and feelings. When you’re sad, he is too. How can he ever focus when his love is hurting? Also takes advantage of all possible cuddling positions.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin x reader #fatui x reader #capitano x reader #dottore x reader #scaramouche x reader #pantalone x reader #pierro x reader #childe x reader #columbina x reader #arlecchino x reader #la signora x reader #sandrone x reader #il dottore x reader #fatui harbingers x reader #fatui harbingers #capitano genshin #genshin dottore

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queenofallimagines · 4 months

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Omg hello!! I just read your devotee headcanons(they were all amazing I loved them) for the brothers and I just wanted to ask if you could do one for guardian angel simeon???in my religion we believe that every person has a guardian angel so imagine how funny it would be when you come down to the devildom and simeon is like :o it's you!!

Certainly beloved!💕 I think this one might be the longest😭

Simeon:

- unlike the others, notices right off the bat

- He’s been assigned to you since before birth like come on he could recognize you by just an eyelash

- Will be slightly hurt if you don’t recognize him

- “You don’t remember me?🥺 but I sing you a lullaby when you were 2”

- Sir…. Please be serious, that’s like 3 seconds of memory

- Will passive aggressively push for you to move in with him in purgatory hall

- Lucifer is exhausted because he’s always there

- “You act like you LIVE here. Go back to YOUR dorms!”

- “Bold of you to think I would leave MY precious, amazing human here will all of you unsupervised”

- He’s not about to stop being clingy neither

- Sharing old stories at student coy meetings like you have got to stop him before he gets out a photo album 😭

- Scolds you like a parent

- “I know you’re now doing what you shouldn’t be”

- Luke is your honorary baby brother

- Will ask Luke to watch you like he’s tall enough to reach the microwave

- “Luke I’ll be back in a minute make sure they don’t have any more sweets”

- Like you’re literally grown💀please tell him to back off a little or this will get worse

- When he realizes he’s falling for you in a way Guardian Angels shouldn’t. He panics

- This the same shit Lilith did

- And he got demoted for just AGREEING with Lucifer about the war

- Hides it like he’s gonna take it to the grave, especially from Luke

- You notice he starts avoiding you a little and will lie through his teeth that he’s just feeling a little under the weather

- Lucifer peeped game though, and he’s like yeah absolutely NOT

- he’s not letting anything else happen to any more of his Family

- Will lock your ass up until he gets Simeon alone to have a talk with him

- Like you now have a curfew 😭

- Listen…. He would tear apart the entire exchange program over lesson 16,,,,

- Like y know how Diavolo said Simeon is the ONE person he doesn’t want to piss off?

- Yeah it’s like inconsolable now

- In any timeline any life any dimension he will feel you’re endanger

- In like Bible canon they really can’t help unless god gives them the okay so they’re often times forced to watch the one they were bound to protect suffer

- But this is the devildom and he don’t really got eyes down here. So who’s to stop him from coming to your aid??

- Even though you’re “technically” okay he’s still like not having it

- As soon as it happens he feels a sharp cold pain throughout his entire body and drops whatever he’s holding

- Struggling to remember how to breathe all he can think about is sprinting to the house of lamentation

- Busts open the doors to see you in mammon arms, and it’s like his whole world shatters

- He hears belphie laughing, and he’s never felt rage like this before

- Lucifer is fighting for his LIFE because he’s having to balance feeling grief, shock,rage, and also try to keep his brothers from going off the deep end so he’s like frozen

- Can’t think fast enough to stop Simeon from unleashing some divine punishment on this spoiled brat

- Lucifer does snatch him up because he will literally kill him in cold blood right there if he doesn’t reason with him

- Almost snaps back on Lucifer before you show up again for the intermission

- Shaking and crying with relief

- You’re gonna make him literally faint MC please😭

- Like don’t the angels use a LOT of magic to keep their emotions in check so they don’t go crazy like demons do?

- They’re having to suppress every emotion ever and dull those

- So he’s got like a couple of eons of just raw feelings pent-up beating his ass all at once

- When you explain the reveal he’s like REALLY about to throw up

- Lucifer and everyone are like feeling relief and are glad you’re okay

- Almost wants to break mammon arms for holding you and barely letting anyone else get near you

- But he’s frozen in shock too

- Lucifer side eying Simon like,,,,, me too bro, but he has NO idea how to talk to him about that?

- Settles for holding you as tight as possible and whispering a prayer into your hair for protection

- Teaches you to use your angel powers

- But doubles down on his over protectiveness

- Helicopter angel now

- Which doesn’t really mesh well with Lucifer’s attachment anxiety

- will come pick you up at random ass times and whisk you away for no reason

- Like the exam is in a month why are you studying devildom history now???

- Causing Lucifer to freak the fuck out when he does his randomly scheduled MC room check-ups

- Doesn’t even think to text you before hyperventilating

- Luckily enough, the first time you come back with Simeon attached at the hip

- Him and Lucifer have gotten into it a few times over this

- Dia is forced to call a student council meeting without you present

- You and Luke think the meeting is tomorrow and are making snacks

- he’s like okay Simeon you can’t keep doing this

- And he goes OFF

- Like this is HIS fault for not watching and protecting you

- Like if this is supposed to be for human angels and demons to coexist you’re doing a shit job

- Almost single-handedly shuts down the program by saying he will take you home and make sure they never get near you ever again

- Lucifer feeling so much guilt he can’t breathe is trying to be in his best behavior and be rational, but Simeon is relentless

- He’s talking out the side of his neck until he snaps back on some “you’re literally following in Lilith’s footsteps! Do you not think that the celestial real won’t also deal out a punishment for MC? You falling from grace isn’t the only thing on the line here.”

- OOP

- It’s suddenly crickets

- Even Barbados is like 😦🫢

- He can’t even deny those allegations so he’s just like glaring at him

- Solomon steps in bc WOW this is getting crazy

- Reasons with him that because you have a pact with all of them now they CANT hurt you and you’re training under him as a sorcerer so you’ll be fully equipped to defend yourself from anything

- Simeon relents at least sitting back down in his chair

- Explains there really nobody best as a candidate for representing the three realms than you being a part of all three of them

- (Lilith when she died wasn’t an angel or a demon but something in between so in my head MC has always been all three; human demon and angel and that’s why they’re extra immune to demon magic)

- Simeon agreeing to chill out a little bit swearing if anything else ever happens to you, he wouldn’t hesitate to target whoever’s directly responsible

- Imagine how awkward the actual meeting is tomorrow 😭

- You’re having a great morning and everyone holding they breath

- Barbados my beloved is the only one who’s got enough sense and acting skills to act like nothing happened

- When you stop lord Doavolo mid-sentence to ask what the FUCK is up with these rancid vibes

- Barbatos kindly informs you that it’s the stress from a new school event that diavolo has yet to announce

- “It happens annually (lie) and it’s usually very exhausting to put together. Perhaps you can alleviate some of that for us.”

- Everyone subtlety lets out the breath they were holding seeing you so excited to help out

- Barbatos stirring the pot a little more ALSO suggests you run the maid bunny café

- Suddenly everyone forgets what the elephant in the room was and is now talking over each other

- There was no school event btw LMAO so they just had to make one up and then take three weeks to prepare for it.

- Great way to lift the spirits though✨

#my writing #x black reader #obey me #obey me x black reader #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me shall we date Simeon #obey me simeon #simeon x reader #om! simeon #obey me x reader #simeon x mc #omswd simeon #slight angst #just for a little spice 💅🏿

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 11 months

Text

London Experiences.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

blurb masterlist is here.

authors note - don’t ask me why this idea randomly came into my head because even i don’t have a reason 🤷‍♀️

word count - 2.7k

in which, whilst walking around the streets of london with your fiancé harry and two year old daughter mila whose currently getting her molars growing in, things appear to be going swell until a fan asks for a photo and your little one has to be disturbed.

Having a day off between shows always meant that during that day you got to relax and have a chill day.

But that wasn’t possible when you had a two-year-old who couldn’t stay at home and cuddle on the sofa, no, she always had to do something, whether that was colouring, playing with her toys or acting cheeky towards you and her father.

A couple of nights ago, your two year old Mila had been showing signs of teething, which meant that her molars would soon be growing in, that meant sleepless nights would soon be flowing through your London townhouse.

And the first sleepless night took place last night although it wasn’t until early evening that she started feeling the growing pains.

It really picked up last night when Harry was on stage, and you were sitting in his dressing room, trying to soothe the painful cries of your little one.

You sit nervously in your fiancé dressing room at Wembley, the sound of his electrifying performance of Kiwi echoing faintly through the walls. The room is filled with the faint scent of excitement and the remnants of his cologne.

Mila, sits in your lap, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. Her teething pains have taken hold, and no matter what you do, her cries seem to intensify.

You try to comfort her, rocking her gently and singing soft lullabies.

“Shhh, sweetheart, it's okay. Mama's here," you whisper, your voice filled with love and concern. But Mila's tiny face scrunches up even more, her cries reaching new heights. It breaks your heart to see her in such distress.

Mila's cries grow louder, and through her tears, she manages to utter a few words.

“Gums... hurt," she sniffles, her voice filled with pain.

Desperate to ease her discomfort, you remember the frozen teething toy you placed in the mini fridge earlier. You gently place Mila on the sofa, assuring her you'll be back in a moment. Rushing to the fridge, you retrieve the cold toy, hoping it will bring her some relief.

Returning to the sofa, you find Mila still crying, her big teary eyes searching for you. You quickly hand her the teething toy, the coldness soothing her tender gums. She clutches it tightly, her cries lessening slightly. You sigh with a mix of relief and exhaustion, sitting back down on the sofa, cradling your daughter in your arms.

Time seems to blur as Mila's cries persist. The adrenaline that propelled Harry through his performance gradually dissipates as he enters the dressing room, his face still flushed with the euphoria of the stage.

He freezes in his tracks when he sees the two of you, his brows furrowing in concern.

He strides over, his steps purposeful yet gentle.

"What's the matter, love?" he asks, his voice filled with worry. His presence alone brings a sense of calm, and Mila's watery eyes lock onto him. She stretches her tiny arms out towards him, her silent plea for comfort.

You smile weakly at Harry, grateful for his arrival. "She's been teething all night. Her gums are really bothering her," you explain, your voice filled with exhaustion and a touch of frustration.

Harry's gaze softens as he sits down next to you on the sofa. "Hey, little one," he coos, his voice like honey. Mila's tears slowly subside as she reaches for him, her tiny fingers grasping his sequin jacket. Harry adjusts his position, making room for her on his lap.

He takes the frozen teething toy from Mila's hands and examines it.

"Do your gums hurt, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.

Mila nods, her eyes still shimmering with tears. "Hurts," she mumbles, her voice small and vulnerable.

Harry's heart melts at her words, and he cradles her gently. "I know it hurts, darling. But Daddy's here now, and I'm going to make it better, okay?" he whispers, his voice filled with reassurance.

As Mila begins to suckle on the toy, her cries become intermittent, her pain slowly fading away. Harry continues to rock her back and forth, his soothing touch and loving presence bringing her the solace she craves.

"You're such a good dad, Harry," you say softly, your eyes welling up with tears of gratitude. "She always calms down when you're around."

A total daddy girl.

Whenever Mila was sick, she always seeked the comfort of her father, she always needed to be near him, as according to her two year old brain she gave the best cuddles and always requested to be with him and sometimes you could join in on the cuddle as well.

Harry's eyes meet yours, a-tender smile tugging at his lips.

“She knows I'll always be here for her, just like I'll always be here for you," he whispers, his voice filled with unwavering devotion.

You lean into Harry's side, feeling the weight of his love and support. The room falls into a comfortable silence as Mila snuggles against her father, finding solace in his presence.

After a while, Harry breaks the silence, his voice soft and filled with affection. "You're such a strong girl, m’l’angel. Daddy is so proud of you," he murmurs, gently stroking her hair.

Mila looks up at Harry, her eyes still watery but now filled with a glimmer of contentment. "Love dada," she says in her sweet, innocent voice.

Harry's heart swells with love as he replies, "I love you too, my little angel. Always and forever."

The teething hadn’t stopped there either.

All through the night you and Harry were up tending for her needs at your London townhouse, so much so that it got to around two in the morning and her pitiful sobs hadn’t eased so Harry scooped her up from her crib and brought her into your room and into the bed where the three of you snuggled up and tried to get as much sleep as you possibly could.

Gosh darn her teeth for letting her molars make an appearance.

It was a good thing that Harry didn’t have a show that evening because that means you didn’t have to do much during the day.

That was until Mila woke up from her slumber this morning and requested that she wanted to walk around London like you usually did when Harry had to be at Wembley early.

So here the three of you were, As you stroll hand in hand with your fiancé, down the enchanting streets of London, a sense of joy fills the air. The city pulses with energy, its rich history blending harmoniously with the vibrant present.

To cover up the bags that covered both your eyes and the ones of your lover, you both wore a pair of sunglasses, and the whole family wore a different coloured pleasing hoodie that Mila had chosen for you.

Whilst Harry wore a vibrant green, you had been told to wear a custom light blue hoodie, and then Mila chose for herself to wear a red one.

Harry cradles your two-year-old daughter in his arms, her tiny frame nestled against his chest as she peacefully slumbers. It was her idea to come on the walk, not that you and Harry were complaining because you liked going on family walks around the city you were in, and although London had been your home for the last few years you still got excited walking round its streets.

Her sleep had been far too affected last night for her to be able to stay awake during the day, so after your lunch in a small cage, she request Harry carry her and that was when her eyes closed and her soft breaths create a gentle rhythm, a sweet lullaby amidst the bustling sounds of the city.

You push the empty stroller along the cobblestone streets, its wheels gliding effortlessly over the pavement. The sun casts a warm glow, casting golden rays upon your path, illuminating the love that surrounds your little family.

"So, love, what do you think we should do for the rest of the day?" he asks, his voice laced with anticipation. "We've got this rare opportunity to explore, and I want to make the most of it."

You ponder for a moment, knowing that Harry's presence draws attention wherever he goes. “Well, how about we go for a wander? Maybe Mila will sleep a bit longer, and we can enjoy the city without interruptions."

Harry grins, his dimples deepening. "That sounds perfect. A leisurely stroll with you and our little snoozing beauty. Let's see where the day takes us.”

As you walk hand in hand, the warm sun envelops you both in a gentle embrace. You remark on the pleasant weather, how it seems to smile upon your special day together.

"Quite lucky with the weather today, aren't we?" you remark, casting a glance at Harry's attire—a casual hoodie that shields his iconic features.

You could tell that he was getting a bit sweaty due to the shine his nose currently inhabited.

He chuckles, running a hand through his unruly curls. "Ah, yes, the trusty hoodie. A necessary accessory for me when I want to go incognito."

You playfully nudge his side, a teasing smile on your lips. "Hiding from the paparazzi, are we? I guess it's the price of fame, huh?"

Harry grins, his green eyes twinkling. "Well, a little anonymity never hurt anyone. Plus, it lets me enjoy moments like this without attracting too much attention."

As you amble through the streets, you engage in light-hearted banter, pointing out interesting shops and admiring the architectural wonders of the city. Harry shares stories of past adventures and playful anecdotes from his career, his animated gestures drawing laughter from both of you.

From time to time, you steal glances at one another, your love for Harry growing with every step. The world around you seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, hand in hand, exploring the hidden corners of London.

As you wander, the hours pass in a blissful haze. The bustling city feels like your own private haven, and your daughter continues to sleep soundly, undisturbed by the vibrant energy around her.

Harry leans in closer, his voice filled with contentment. "You know, love, days like these make me appreciate the beauty of simplicity. Just us, our daughter, and the world at our feet."

You nod, a soft smile gracing your lips. "Absolutely, Harry. It's these precious moments that remind us of what truly matters—love, family, and the joy of being together."

As you continue your leisurely walk through the bustling streets of London, a fan suddenly recognizes Harry and excitedly approaches the three of you.

You notice Harry's hesitance, knowing his desire to protect your daughter's privacy. Mila slumbers peacefully in his arms, unaware of the moment unfolding around her.

The fan's face lights up, a mix of joy and anticipation. "Harry, I'm such a huge fan! Could I please take a photo with you?"

There was always one.

Harry's gaze flickers to Mila, concern etched across his features. He glances at you, silently conveying his reservations. You understand his worry but also empathize with the fan's excitement.

Gently, you attempt to take Mila from Harry's arms, hoping to offer him the freedom to take the photo. However, as she wakes up and realizes she's no longer cradled against her father, she begins to cry, reaching out for him.

"Shh, sweetie," you whisper, your voice filled with reassurance. "Daddy just needs to take a quick photo, and then he'll be right back with us."

Mila's eyes well up with tears as she stretches her tiny arms back towards Harry. It breaks your heart to see her upset, but you know that sometimes, moments like these require compromise.

Harry's expression reflects his internal struggle. He wants to comfort Mila, to ensure her happiness, but he also understands the significance of connecting with his fans.

Kneeling down beside Mila, Harry gently brushes his fingers against her cheek. "It's okay, angel. Daddy will be right here. Just one quick photo, and then we'll be back together, I promise."

You take a deep breath, understanding the weight of the situation. "Mila, sweetheart, Daddy loves you so much. He wants to make everyone happy, just like he makes us happy. Can you be brave for a little while longer?"

Mila's cries begin to subside, and she looks at you with tear-filled eyes. Her small fingers reach out to touch Harry's face, as if seeking his reassurance. You exchange a glance with Harry, silently conveying the depth of your shared love and understanding.

With a hesitant nod, Harry turns back to the fan, who has been patiently waiting. A warm smile graces his lips as he poses for the photo, the fan beaming with delight. The moment is captured, a memory forever etched in their hearts.

As the fan thanks Harry and bids farewell, he returns to your side, scooping Mila back into his arms. She clings to him, her cries gradually fading away.

"You did so well, angel," Harry whispers, pressing a tender kiss to Mila's forehead. "I'm so proud of you."

You wrap your arm around Harry, offering support and comfort. The trio resumes their walk, Mila finding solace in the warmth of her father's embrace.

When the fan departes, you notice that Harry's usual radiant smile is somewhat subdued. His thoughts are consumed by Mila, his primary concern being her well-being. The encounter with the fan requesting a photo weighs heavily on his mind.

As fate would have it, the fan, oblivious to Harry's internal struggle, approaches once again, this time sheepishly asking if they can retake the photo. Excitement shines in their eyes, unaware of the impact their previous request had on Mila.

Harry's brows furrow slightly, his patience wearing thin. He takes a deep breath, his voice tinged with a hint of agitation. "I'm sorry, but I don't think we can take another photo. My daughter is still quite upset, and I don't really want to upset her again."

The fan's enthusiasm falters, a mix of disappointment and understanding crossing their face. They quickly apologised, realising the unintended consequences of their request.

You place a reassuring hand on Harry's arm, silently communicating your support. It's clear to you that his priority lies in protecting Mila's well-being, even if it means disappointing a fan.

Harry turns to the fan, his voice filled with sincerity. "I appreciate your understanding. It's just important for me to prioritise my daughter's comfort. Thank you for being considerate."

The fan, humbled by Harry's response, nods appreciatively. "Of course, I completely understand. Family always comes first. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me."

With a warm smile, Harry bids the fan farewell, his focus now fully directed towards Mila. As the fan walks away, you feel a mixture of relief and pride in Harry's unwavering commitment to his daughter's happiness.

As you continue your journey through the streets, the weight of the encounter gradually lifts, replaced by a renewed sense of peace. Harry's smile slowly returns, genuine and heartfelt, as he immerses himself in the joy of simply being together with you and Mila.

You intertwine your fingers with Harry's, offering him reassurance and gratitude for his unwavering dedication to your family. Together, you create an unbreakable bond, built on love, trust, and the unwavering protection of the precious moments you share.

As the day winds down and the sun begins to set, casting a warm glow across the city, you find yourselves seeking solace in a nearby park. Harry sits on a bench, Mila cradled in his arms, while you settle beside him.

Mila's teary eyes gradually dry, and she gazes up at her father, a sense of adoration and security radiating from her. Harry's attention is fully devoted to her, and a soft smile graces his lips as he brushes his thumb against her cheek.

In this tranquil moment, amidst the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city, you realise that the true measure of a father's love lies not in the number of photos taken or the adoration of fans, but in the quiet, intimate moments where he selflessly puts his child's happiness above all else. And in that realisation , your love for Harry deepens, knowing that he will always protect and cherish your family with unwavering devotion.

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alwaysmicado · 5 months

Text

never felt so loved

2.5k | Joel Miller x f!reader | one-shot

post-outbreak, established relationship, pregnancy Summary: Your new life in Jackson and progressing pregnancy bring forth fears that haunt your days and nights. Joel finds a way to show you just how loved you are. A/N: This story can be read alone or as a continuation of keep you warm. Being vulnerable is hard. Stay safe, guys, and take care of yourselves. 🤍 masterlist

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.” - Hermann Hesse

The rain outside beats against the windowpane, a steady drumming that matches the rhythm of your pounding headache. Wrapped in one of Joel’s flannels on the couch, you sniffle and shiver, feeling the weight of exhaustion in every bone. You silently stare out of the window, your thoughts racing, your body frozen. Raindrops race down the glass, merging with the icy landscape beyond.

The darkness outside mirrors the tumult within.

Six months pregnant, your body carries not only the physical weight but also the emotional burdens of impending motherhood. The cold seeps through the glass, and you pull the flannel tighter around yourself, as if its soft embrace could ward off the chill that penetrates your core.

Thoughts swirl like the eddying raindrops outside, each one a concern, a fear. What if something happens to him out there? What if he never comes back home to you? The world beyond your window is unforgiving, especially in the darkness of the night. The snow on the ground, pristine and serene, belies the dangers that lurk beneath its frozen surface.

Every creak of the house and gust of wind outside becomes a harbinger of imagined dangers. You glance at the clock, the ticking seconds stretching into an eternity, marking the hours until Joel’s return from patrol.

Your hand absentmindedly rests on your belly, as if seeking reassurance from the life growing within. A soft kick, a reminder of the shared vulnerability, momentarily eases your anxious thoughts. But it’s fleeting, and the worry creeps back in, tightening its grip on your heart.

“I can’t do this without your dad,” you whisper, wiping away a tear that is finding its way down your cold cheek. “I can’t.”

As your eyes begin to grow heavy after hours of silent vigil, the door creaks open, and Joel steps inside, a gust of cold air trailing him. His concerned eyes meet yours, sensing the tension in the room.

“What’re you doin’ up, darlin’?” he asks, a gruff tenderness in his voice that makes you feel a little warmer despite the chills. He removes his wet gloves, coat, and boots before crouching down beside you, gently caressing your cheek and looking into your bleary eyes.

You force a smile, an attempt to mask the turmoil raging inside.

“Couldn’t sleep. Just watching the rain,” you reply, your words a delicate dance around the truth. You don’t want to burden him with your fears, especially as he is carrying the weight of protecting both you and your unborn child.

Joel, perceptive as ever, narrows his eyes but doesn’t press further. Instead, he wraps you in a warm embrace, his presence a comforting shield against the cold that has you shivering. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go to bed and get some rest,” he suggests, leading you to the bedroom.

Underneath the cozy layers of blankets, Joel falls into a peaceful slumber, his rhythmic breathing a lullaby. But for you, the night refuses to offer solace. The worries that were momentarily hushed by his return now clamor louder, echoing in the stillness of the room.

You steal glances at Joel, his features softened in sleep, the worry lines smoothed away. Love swells in your chest, a bittersweet ache. How you wish you could shield him from the dangers that lurk outside, how you wish you could banish the anxious thoughts that dance in the shadows.

You were never this scared before you met him. Not for yourself, not for anyone.

As the night wears on, you press closer to Joel, seeking the comforting warmth that radiates from his slumbering form. As you nestle beside him, your gaze traverses the rugged contours of his face, etched with the marks of a life lived amidst challenges. Your fingertips trace a tender path across his sleeping features, the touch delicate and affectionate, trying to memorize every line and wrinkle.

In the hushed darkness, your mind races, contemplating the uncertainties of your future here in Jackson.

The walls of your existence, once enclosing only you and Joel, now bear witness to the laughter and camaraderie of a community rebuilding. For Joel, this is a return to familiarity, a reunion with his brother Tommy and the comforting cadence of a bustling town.

For you, however, it’s a departure from the solitude and intimacy that has defined your relationship for the past two years.

As Joel immerses himself in the pulse of Jackson, contributing to patrols and engaging with neighbors, you are left grappling with the familiar contours of loneliness settling in, accentuated by the struggle of your changing body and the emotional tumult of impending motherhood.

The battle you are facing is not against tangible foes but against the intangible specters of fear and uncertainty. The fear of losing Joel, the fear of bringing an innocent child into this unsteady world, the fear of being a bad mother, the fear of being alone again.

You never truly grasped the depth of your loneliness until Joel entered your life, and the realization that you can sense him drifting away now, even as he lies beside you, his heartbeat beneath your palm, stirs a poignant surge of tears in your eyes.

Frequently, you grapple with feelings of guilt for harboring these thoughts, yearning for nothing more than to witness Joel’s happiness. And he is happy here in Jackson, you can feel it.

You just cannot seem to shake the looming sense of dread that grips your heart, leaving you adrift in a sea of questioning, unsure of where you truly belong anymore.

In a soft whisper, almost imperceptible, you plead, “Please don’t go,” as though the words might linger in his dreams and anchor him to your side.

The next morning, anxiety tightens your chest as Joel readies himself for patrol, a shadow of worry growing inside you with each passing second. Ever attuned to your emotions, Joel senses your unease as he observes you standing in front of the stove, waiting for the water to boil.

He sets down his backpack to approach you from behind, his warm presence enveloping you. Softly, his lips press against your neck in a tender kiss, while his hands find their way to your belly, caressing it with a gentle, comforting touch.

In this quiet intimacy, his voice murmurs sweet words, a whispered symphony resonating against the nape of your neck.

“Look at me, darlin’,” he implores.

You turn around to gaze into his sincere eyes, his calloused yet gentle hand cradling your cheek, his soothing voice weaving a reassurance that lingers in the air.

“You’re gonna be alright, my love,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing away the traces of unease etched on your face. “I’ll be back before you know it.” Joel’s eyes linger on yours for a few seconds longer before he places a soft kiss on your lips, grabs his backpack, and leaves.

As the day unfolds, you seek purpose in routine, venturing outside for a breath of fresh air. However, the weight of anxiety proves too overwhelming, prompting a swift return home.

Simple tasks, like eating, washing your hair, or talking to your neighbors, morph into arduous challenges. Each passing minute feels like an eternity in the hollow spaces left behind by Joel’s absence.

Later, as the moon casts its silver glow over Jackson, Joel returns from patrol to find you, not nestled in the warmth of your shared bed, but cowering in the embrace of the shower’s relentless cascade. Your sobs, like a haunting melody, echo in the confined space, unveiling the unbearable weight of your struggle.

Through the half-open bathroom door, Joel’s gaze falls upon you, and for a few seconds, he simply stands in silent observation. Heartbreak paints his features as he witnesses your tears, and a profound sense of awe washes over him at the sight of your now prominently rounded belly. He hasn’t seen your naked body since you two arrived in Jackson a month ago, despite engaging in moments of physical passion with you a few times.

The pronounced swell of your growing belly, an undeniable testament to the life burgeoning within, has become a wellspring of anxiety for you. Seeking solace, you’ve chosen to conceal it beneath loose clothing. The fabric transforms into a shield, a buffer against the reality of your imminent future. It’s a subtle act of self-preservation, a way to momentarily distance yourself from the profound changes and uncertainties that come with carrying a child.

Joel steps into the bathroom, his voice a soothing balm in the woeful symphony of your distress. He slowly approaches the tub, lowering himself on his knees. “Darlin’, what happened?” he murmurs, his hand reaching out to gently stroke your back. The intimacy of the moment reveals itself in the vulnerability of your trembling frame and the cascade of tears that mirror the relentless stream of water.

You struggle to put your fears into words. The anxieties about becoming a mother, the overwhelming sense of isolation, and the fear of losing the solitude that once defined your relationship—your world—intertwine in the knot of your emotions.

“I just feel so lost, Joel,” you finally admit, your voice a fragile whisper. “I’m scared of what’s coming, scared I won’t be enough, that I am not enough.” Amidst tears and heartache, your attempts to articulate your emotions are punctuated by hiccups, the involuntary spasms adding a raw and visceral layer to your words.

Joel’s warm eyes soften with an emotion that transcends words as he gently guides you out of the tub, wrapping you in a soft towel, his touch a manifestation of the love that has weathered storms and stood resilient against the trials of a broken world.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulls you close, the strength of his embrace offering a sanctuary against the tempest within. His thumb gently traces the curve of your belly, a silent acknowledgment of the life you created together.

“You’re more than enough,” Joel assures you, his words a steady cadence in the otherwise silent room. “You’re gonna be an amazin’ mother. Our child is gonna know nothin’ but love and warmth, darlin’.”

“Thank you, Joel,” you sniffle before getting up to put on your clothes. Joel watches in silence as you bend and stretch, tracing the contours of your body with his eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. You’re the most beautiful creature he has ever encountered. Inside and out.

You let him see you, vulnerable and exposed, finding comfort in the familiar connection you share.

But your fears, like tendrils, persist, and the specter of anxiety continues its haunting presence, casting shadows on your nights. You hold back, reluctant to unburden your heart completely, fearing the weight of your worries on Joel’s shoulders. And yet, Joel knows you. He knows you’re scared and he senses your need for support, for reassurance, for love.

As he watches you navigate the tumultuous waves of fear and sadness before finally succumbing to sleep, a profound ache settles in his chest. Your vulnerability tugs at his heartstrings, and an unspoken promise forms within him – a promise never to be the source of your pain. Unbeknownst to you, he burdens himself with your fears, and a quiet determination ignites in his thoughts.

He silently vows to be the fortress that shields you from the storms, the anchor that steadies you in turbulent seas. Your happiness becomes his mission, and he swears to dispel the shadows that threaten to dim the light in your eyes.

With a resolve that mirrors the steadfastness that has defined his character, he decides to show you the depth of his commitment. Seeking guidance from Maria, a beacon of warmth in the community, he embarks on a journey to learn a skill that defies the stereotypes of his rugged exterior – knitting.

Weeks pass, marked by the rhythmic clicking of needles, an intimate symphony played when the world around him is hushed. In the stillness of the night, while you’re lost in the embrace of dreams or during the quiet moments of his patrols, Joel’s hands weave a tapestry of love with each carefully placed stitch.

The blanket he creates, an act of devotion whispered in the language of stitches and yarn, becomes a tangible expression of his unwavering commitment to you and your unborn child.

Recognizing the shadows that linger in your heart, Joel makes an effort to weave moments of warmth into the fabric of your days. Despite the demands of Jackson and his duties, he deliberately carves out pockets of time to be with you, bridging the distance that has settled between you. Inviting you to properly meet his little brother becomes an extension of this effort, a gesture to include you in the layers of his life and reaffirm the unity of your shared journey.

One day, with the soft blanket cradled in his arms, Joel walks home to you as fast as his bad knees will allow. The living room, bathed in the gentle glow of twilight, becomes a canvas for his heartfelt gesture. He hands you the blanket, the colors a mosaic of warmth, and his eyes carry the weight of unspoken emotions.

“I made this for you and our little one,” he says softly, watching in awe as a confused but genuine smile forms on your lips. How he has missed this sight. “A blanket to keep you warm and remind you how much I love you.”

As you run your fingers over the intricate stitches, a warmth blossoms within you, dispelling the chill that clung to the corners of your heart.

“I never thought knittin’ would be so much fun, but I guess you’re never too old to learn new things… especially for the people you love.”

In the silence that follows, the weight of your existence lifts, replaced by the assurance that you are not alone.

“You learned to knit for me,” you murmur, your voice shaky with a mix of disbelief and gratitude.

You’ve never felt so loved.

Joel’s heart skips a beat when you look up to meet his gaze with your watery eyes. He can see the spark he fell in love with all this time ago. That beautiful spark that led him to believe in life again after living in darkness for almost two decades.

You always talk about how Joel saved you, but he knows the truth. It’s you who saved him.

With the blanket wrapped around your shoulders, he pulls you close, kissing your temple and running his hands along your back. “You are my world,” he murmurs. “And I’ll be right here, protectin’ you and our little one. You’re not alone, darlin’, remember that.”

“I love you, Joel,” you whisper as you bury your head in his chest.

---

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glitterp0prhaps0dy · 2 months

Text

Heartbreak part 2

WARNING: I DID NOT PROOF READ THIS, IF THERES ANY SPELLING MISTAKES OR GRAMMER MISTAKES JUST IGNORE IT I WROTE HALF OF IT DURING SCHOOL.

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John Dory burst from Branch's bunker, a whirl of emotions etched on the faces of those left inside. Floyd's expression was tinged with worry, Bruce wore a mask of confusion, and Clay seemed nothing short of irritated. Branch broke the tense silence with a blunt, "What the actual fuck just happened?

Seated on a beanbag, Floyd shifted, glancing at his brothers. "He looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, not at all himself," he said, his concern palpable as he exchanged a meaningful look with Bruce. "I'm going to check on him. We can't let him wander off when he's this upset," Floyd declared.

Floyd grasped his wooden cane and painstakingly rose from the beanbag. He made his way to the bunker's elevator, pulled the lever, and ascended, leaving the bunker.

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John Dory burst through Rhonda's door, slamming it shut as he collapsed to the floor, his breaths coming in heavy gasps and sweat beading his forehead.

Gathering his strength, he pulled himself up using the countertop for support and staggered toward the loft. Once there, he climbed into his bed and reached under his pillow for something concealed there—a blue plushie. This wasn't just any toy; it was a Flopper Hopper, distinguished by its large green button eyes and long, fuzzy ears, though one ear was notably damaged, missing its latter half.

Clutching the plushie tightly, John curled into a fetal position and began to cry, his tears soaking into the soft fabric of the doll.

John's eyes wandered upwards, resting on the tapestry of memories plastered across his ceiling. Among the snapshots capturing his wild escapades on the Neverglade trail, one photo held his gaze longer than the others. It wasn't just any picture—it was a heartfelt reminder of a different kind of adventure.

Centered amidst the chaos of his thrilling journey memories, this particular photo was more personal, more intimate. It featured a woman with hair that flowed like a cascade of deep, reddish-pink sunset, her skin aglow with a yellow sparkle that seemed to light up the room. Cradled in her arms was a baby, a tiny mirror of her luminosity but with hair the color of the deepest sea green, tinged with teal.

This picture, unlike the others, spoke of a journey not across wild landscapes but through the

realms of love and connection. The striking visual contrast between the woman and the baby, with their shared glittery skin and uniquely colored hair, painted a vivid image of familial bonds and the beauty of heritage. It was a precious, frozen moment that John cherished, a beacon of warmth and love amidst his adventurous exploits.

This photo was John's sole keepsake of them together, the singular testament to their intertwined lives. Clutching the child's doll, he felt the weight of memories it carried. Beneath his glove, hidden from the world, lay his ring—a silent vow, a whisper of a life once promised. These items were more than mere objects; they were the guardians of his regrets, the symbols of the heartbreaking truth that he would never see them again.

As tears streamed down his face, soaking into the fabric of the doll, John's whispered apologies filled the quiet of the room. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't protect you, I failed you both," he repeated, his voice a broken melody of sorrow and guilt. Each word was a testament to his pain, a sorrowful lullaby that spoke of loss, love, and the unbearable weight of his remorse.

The persistent knocking at the door seemed to dissolve into the void of John Dory's grief, his ears deaf to anything beyond the echoes of his own sorrow. When Floyd received no response, driven by concern and impatience, he decided to take matters into his own hands. With a determined push, the door swung open, and he entered the armadillo bus, his presence unannounced

Navigating the stairs proved a challenge, his cane a necessary but cumbersome companion that made the ascent more difficult than usual. However, Floyd's resolve was unwavering. As he entered, he paused, scanning the space with a keen eye. It didn't take long for the muffled sounds of John's despair to guide him towards the loft.

Spotting John, Floyd hastened his pace, an urgency fueled by concern propelling him forward. The ladder to the loft posed another hurdle, but Floyd navigated it with a clumsy determination, mindful of the limited space. John's form occupied most of the loft, leaving Floyd to awkwardly balance on the ladder, his presence now impossible to ignore.

Floyd's heart ached as he witnessed the depth of John's sorrow. With every fiber of his being urging him to offer some solace, he carefully navigated the tight space of the loft, settling near John yet ensuring he respected his need for personal space. In the dim light, Floyd's presence was a silent beacon of empathy and understanding.

"John," Floyd's voice was a soft murmur, a gentle breeze in the stifling air of grief. "I'm here for you." His words floated in the space between them, an offer of support, laden with unspoken promises of companionship through the storm of sorrow.

The loft was cramped, but at that moment, it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to this intimate setting of raw emotions. Floyd, sensitive to John's need for space yet eager to offer comfort, extended a tentative hand but paused, letting it hover in the air for a moment. He wanted to bridge the gap between them, to offer a touch that said everything words could not, but he also understood the sanctity of personal grief. He waited, allowing John to dictate the terms of their interaction.

As the silence stretched on, Floyd remained a steadfast presence, his heart silently breaking for his brother. "If you need anything—a glass of water, or someone to just sit with you—I'm here," he offered softly, his words laced with the warmth of genuine concern.

And so, Floyd waited, a quiet guardian in the night, ready to provide comfort or companionship, to listen or to share the silence. In the loft that night, amidst tears and whispered apologies, the foundation of their friendship deepened, grounded in the understanding that sometimes, just being present is the most profound support one can offer.

John continued to sob into the plushie, his emotions spilling over. Slowly, he rolled over to face Floyd, revealing eyes swollen and red from crying, with tear tracks marking his cheeks. As their gazes met, a fresh wave of tears surged, amplifying John's cries in a heart-wrenching crescendo of grief.

Floyd, moved by the sight of his brother's pain, reached out to pat John on the back, his expression etched with concern. "I couldn't save them. I couldn't protect them. I'm so sorry... I'm so, so sorry," John's voice broke with each word, a confession of his deepest regret.

Floyd, initially puzzled by John's words, followed his gaze to the collage of photos adorning the ceiling above the loft. His eyes settled on the photograph of the woman and the baby, a realization dawning on him. With a heavy heart, he whispered, "Oh... John, I'm so sorry," now understanding the depth of John's loss and the source of his profound sorrow.

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i hope you guys like it :D i have alot of ideas for this au! feel free to give feedback or ask questions

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aealzx · 8 months

Text

Some OCs I had the urge to design/draw.

Euridice is the one with the long hair, and that's just a new(ish) outfit for Trance.

#my art #oc #cephorim #loft #lullabies of frozen tears #character design #trance #euridice

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thatmooncake · 1 year

Text

Okay here’s my unnamed sleep-deprived songfic about singing Moon a lullaby - enjoy!

It’s late at night.

Still early by your standards, but you’re cuddled up with a Sun plush in your arms and pretending to sleep nonetheless.

Unfortunately for you, the long creature propped up at the end of your bed isn’t buying it.

He blinks once, and then again. A stream of red flickers into your vision momentarily as you realise you forgot to keep your eyes closed, and the jig is up.

Moon huffs, prickly and uncertain, swooping closer to tuck you in more tightly, as though that might help still you whether through magically delivering you to dreamland in a comfy cozy nest of a duvet or simply cutting your life short.

You snort as his fingers brush tentatively past your neck as he’s smoothing the duvet, and he flinches back with a squeaky sound as though he’s just pressed them to a hot stove.

“Moon?” You venture blearily. His eyes narrow, but his hands are clasped as he hears you out.

And you go for it.

“Sing me a lullaby.”

The tiniest rasping wheeze escapes him for a moment, then he clamps his hands over his mouth as though to silence the sound.

“Voice box is broken.” He rattles, and you don’t have the heart to sit back up and ruin the tight burrito he’s wrapped you into over the course of several attempts, but now you’re curious.

And being curious is not conducive to getting a good night’s sleep.

“It doesn’t need to be-“

“Shh!” He hisses, jerking forward suddenly like a Jack-in-the-box someone wound up too tightly.

You shuffle back at that, arms bursting out of the now decidedly spilled bed burrito, and you catch him stiffening up, mouth twitching as you grab blindly for the Sun plush you nearly dropped, failing to tear your eyes from the unwavering flash of red.

The room is every bit as still and silent as Moon seems to want it to be for a few short seconds, but you’re staring each other down now, and the air is still caught in your throat.

“Okay, no lullabies tonight, that’s fine by me.” You blurt out, finding your breath just in time to hear the scrapey sound escape him like a little choked gasp, and look up to see him still frozen in mid motion, his eyes flickering between your face, your body, the foot of the bed, and then to the door.

You reach up towards him just a fraction, but the words aren’t coming.

“Alright, well,” You feel around for a sentence you can string together, landing on another idea. “What if I do the singing?”

He looks at you with an unreadable expression.

Then he slouches back ever so slightly from where he was just poised to grab you, gently taking one of his wrists in the other hand and sitting in an almost …attentive way.

He doesn’t say a word, but offers a raspy squeak of support in your general direction instead.

You’re slightly unnerved for an altogether different reason now.

“Okay, just …” You suck in another breath. “Don’t expect too much.”

And it hits you at this moment how you can’t seem to remember a single lullaby off the top of your head. Reaching through the hazy recesses of your mind, finding one you don’t feel embarrassed to start singing out of the blue feels like an even harder ask, and you feel a new level of sympathy for Moon start to kick in.

How did he do this?

With that in mind, you abruptly settle on a song that embarrassingly came to you as you broke eye contact and the pattern on his clothes became apparent, uncomfortably humming and mumbling the first few words, impressed to find him still watching and waiting for more.

“Hmmhm hmhmm little star …”

He hasn’t stopped leaning forward yet, but the softest whirr escapes him as he picks up the barely audible tune.

“How I wonder what you are …”

Then you start to find your voice, the words soft but at least fully formed and enunciated now, and when you dare to look back at your audience of one again you notice him padding back ever so softly towards the little spot he’s claimed for himself at the foot of the bed, no longer staring you down and poised like a gargoyle but now flattening down the sheets around him as though that was his true reason for returning to his perch.

“Up above the world so high …”

And you hear the faintest, softest, tuneful buzz start to sound from his direction as he does so.

“Like a diamond in the sky …”

It sounds halfway between a tune you don’t think you’ve ever caught the sound of before, and what you’re certain is some sort of purr.

Was Moon purring?

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star …”

You keep going, determined to hear more of the sound before he catches himself. And he spins like a little lost puppy at the end of the bedsheets, circling a couple of times before curling up in a neat lunar lump.

“How I wonder what you are …”

You almost stop then - you’re running out of song, and you’ve never seen him settle down in a spot so quickly, if at all while he’s been watching you. But he’s trying to find the tune himself now, voice cracked and whispery at first. Then he’s humming.

Then he’s purring.

A silky, crackly sound emerges as he softly begins to fill in the blanks.

“When the blazing sun …is gone …”

You hope you don’t slip up on the new words, but Moon doesn’t seem to mind, and you find yourself cozying back down to where you’d once been - duvet not as tightly wrapped around you, but the warmth and the cuddle of the Sun plush still inviting as ever, and the pillow silky soft as you had been hoping for.

“When he …nothing shines upon …”

And you notice at some point that his words are slowing. He’s humming once more. Or perhaps you are.

“Then you show your little light …Twinkle, twinkle, through the night …”

The flicker of red from the foot of the bed dims fractionally, and your eyes begin to close to the sound of soft snuffles and whirring, and a half-dazed tune you both seem to be making up at this point.

The tiniest shimmer of blue light fades on the the duvet as your eyes close, and the Moon purrs:

“Good night, little star.”

#fablewrites #fnaf #moondrop #moondrop x reader #fnaf daycare attendant #daycare attendant x reader #can be read as platonic or romantic #mostly sleep deprived #writing?#what?

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milknhonies · 4 months

Text

A Lesson In Service

Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: In 1880 you are hired as the governess of Lord Dalgliesh's children. When you meet your employer after months of already being in his employment you feel a strange change in your position. It's terrible when we discover the people we are expected to trust are as wicked and evil as the devil

Pairing: Lord!Henry Dalgliesh x Governess!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Indimidation, Drugging, Implied infidelity, implied sex trafficking/solicitating, Implied sexual abuse, manipulation, blackmail, Victorian era period typical sexism.

Word Count: 8.5k

Author Notes: My dream cast is Henry Cavill as Lord Henry Dalgliesh. Colin Firth as Colin Fowler. Cillian Murphy as Cillian Walsh. Ben Barnes as Benjamin Byrnes. Natalie Viscuso as Natalia Naclerio Tom Hiddleston as Tom Ransome. Smut is next chapter.

Inspiring Song: “How many miles to Babylon.” child's lullaby

London, England 1888, Saturday 14th January. 18:45pm.

A loud crack of thunder rattled the windows to the study where a man sat back cradling a glass of scotch.

Henry Dalgliesh was most incredibly not a kind or purely generous gentleman. Long ago he’d learnt to accept the rude whispers about his behaviour, he believed being bothered by comments made by those lower than he in title was pointless prattle to even hear. Thank God for his large fortune, physical attractiveness and major title that allowed him to spend, whore, drink, gamble, and travel to wherever he dared to venture.

A shine of lightening defined the shadows of his chiselled jaw, his presence was forever intimidating. A wicked smirk laced across his devious face; he raised his scotch and toasted the frozen grin of his past wife’s portrait over the fireplace. Her painted golden locks shining as bright as they did when cascaded over their marriage bed, and her casket.

The late lady Natalia Dalgliesh or rather Naclerio, the unfaithful wench, had often accused him of being a cold and a selfish monster. He chuckled to himself at the memory of her tears along with her cruel tone. She was right. But what of she? At constant, a needy bitch in heat? A nymphomaniac? For her, was he not enough? Henry truly had tried with Natalia, at least for a time he forced himself to be what she had envisioned.

He huffed and set his drink aside on his desk.

Sweet Natalia, goodness was she a darling piece. She obviously used her own innocent beauty to gain the attention of anything that could mount her. Henry did wonder, where did he go wrong? Was his size not to her desire? Was her appetite craving another type of bodily position he did not know? How was he not satisfactory? She should’ve known better than to marry him knowing full well he was not a man of pure affections.

In the end however he would forever remember her vile speech about how she had never loved him not that he cared- and that he was not even the legitimate father of their two darling children. Just like now he experienced a swirl of nausea in the pit of his stomach and a burning headache to his temple.

He lifted the scotch and pelted it at the painting, glass and alcohol splattered across her face down her neck and into her bosom he ever so missed. Her expression mocked him, that smile, the same lips that tricked him into losing fifteen years of valuable time.

He hated her.

Henry bit his lip and snarled, “Good riddance, you selfish cunt...you should count yourself lucky...Lucky it wasn’t my own hand that ended you.” Tears filled his eyes. His bottom lip trembled.

And sometimes, he missed her.

A whole year had went by. The four seasons changing back into the one that began his torment. Little Marianne and Michael, his beloved children had been sorely neglected for so long he knew it was time to return home. After the exposure of their false parentage, he felt an agony in even them knowing that their faces were of no spawn of his, Henry admitted he needed to man up and care for what his stupid wife left behind.

Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.

He buried his face into his hands and sighed, before plucking up the unopened envelope by his desk.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 01:30 pm.

On a canvas was a very artistic image of a charcoal vase of flowers. Leaves and petals shaded in nothing but strategic black strokes. You were delicately scraping the black drawing charcoal across the white papers when the intruding house keeper Mrs Sharpe simmered inside the children’s nursery.

The wrinkled prude sneered distinctively towards the you and you lessons to the two children, sitting on either side of you. Her dark greying hair appeared a little to tightly pinned today. Her thin lips slightly redder than normal...your eyes tried not to strain at the possibility of rogue on her cheeks. You forced a kind grin at her arrival.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mrs Sharpe scowled, “I’m to inform you that you are required downstairs to the masters’ study immediately. He has just officially arrived and desires the attention of all new staff in his study, now,” her lips tightened whilst looking you up and down, “Oh! And do...I pray- make yourself a little presentable.”

The callously spoken crone tapped her cheek in reference to the black marks covering your face and rolled her eyes in annoyance as she spun sharply around to leave.

Your forced grin fell once the elder woman noisily stalked out of the room with her keys rattling away on the hip of her chain.

Rubbing your hands clean on your art apron you then turned and smiled to the two younglings in your care.

A pair of twins aged eight years old with dark reddish hair and similar features. The boy beheld blue eyes while his sister gained a pair of hazel.

“Well, my little darlings, I suppose our lesson in art must be placed on wait until tomorrow? I shall see you at supper and tomorrow we shall continue our art lesson but with watercolours instead.” You smiled at an excited Michael who unpinned the scribbly mess and Mary, who perched over her own work of rose sketching. Black smudges covered little Mickey’s hand who had given up his attempt of drawing daffodils and went by a creative approach of squiggly lines and stick figures of those in the household.

Nanny Nettle who sat in the corner of the room, polishing the children’s shoes chuckled, “Sharpe doesn’t make no move to hide her ill feelings towards you.”

You sighed, shrugged and looked to the elderly scots woman with a look of despair written across your face, “Mrs Nettle, I don’t understand,” You started to pack up the art equipment into a small supply chest and carried the box of art equipment to the children’s bookshelf, putting them away. Michael folded his picture to his chest while his sister placed her art on her miniature duchess.

While you folded the canvas stands the woman with her twinkling milky eyes observed you with an amused curl in her lip.

“I have been governess here for most of the winter and this spring, but Mrs Sharpe still treats me like a unwanted pest- I have done naught but share my kindness, my patience and my help around the estate: I mean really? What have I done to upset her so?” You approached the nanny and sat at her feet wiping your face with the corner of your apron of any black marks.

The children went and washed their small hands in the basin and hung their aprons on a wall hook.

“What have you done to offend her, lass?” Nanny Nettle grinned and shook her head, pausing her polishing she reassuringly patted the young woman’s cheek.

“I gather it be that she didn’t have a say in your employment to the household dear. That cow likes having everything under her control,” She cackled suddenly, “O’ course, it also don’t help that her nephew Thomas, that footmen who likes to smoke in the barn, can’t seem to keep his eyes off your chest when you waddle pass, acting like a drooling dog he does.”

You gawked and quickly fled to Mary’s side, holding her ears, if you had another hand you would’ve covered Mickey’s too.

You softly hissed with a flushed face, “Please Mrs Nettle, I must request you keep a decorum of respectful language in front of the children. And furthermore,” you flushed, “I don’t appreciate your jesting since I’ve never seen Mr Ransome acting so beastly as that. He is a gentleman.”

The older woman chuckled at your sweet innocent alarm and shrugged, “Alright, I’m merely explain’ why that housekeeper

‘Hoity Toity’ has it out for you, dear.”

You sighed and released the confused Mary who was very curious about why her Nanny compared her father’s footman to a puppy. In the end of her mind boggling, the girl went to sit on her bed and play with her doll she had come to name Antoinette.

The Nanny pointed her wrinkled finger at the door and then jabbed it back at the you, “Best be off downstairs Governess, the master don’t like to be kept waiting. He’s not known for his patience, lord knows I couldn’t teach it to him.”

Breath hitching, you nodded vigorously and hung the apron on the hook before you fled outside the nursery, down the hall to the stair case. You hurriedly descended the stairs while you prayed desperately that the Earl of Jersey did not take the same disliking to you that housekeeper Sharpe had. Fixing your hair into what you deemed suitable, you skated passed the kitchens.

It was honestly a miracle you had this position. You were a newly officialised governess just starting out in your first family, becoming employed on your first letter of recommendation written as a favour by a friend of your late father, Lord Colin Fowler. You desperately vowed to help the children grow fruitfully and improve intelligence majorly. Your wages were above the average at fifty pounds a year, including the free house boarding and food.

You knew there would be a time and day where you would need to ask or at least thank your employer for his generosity. You had worried that when you would meet him, he would see you for what you really were...a country mouse with only the capacity to teach what little you knew in the arts and literature.

Biting your lip, you decided all you wanted in this world was acceptance. And you truly needed the lord of the estate to accept you; Your father’s debt rested heavily on your shoulders at the moment. Your mother died a few days after the birth of your little sister Odette, and your father was a tremendously poor loser in gambling poker. He’d left you and Odette with a cough that killed him along with no money or respectable station in society.

At only a young age of eighteen, you’d been forced to leave the quiet life of the pastures in the south for the employment of the east. Boarding the ship out to this island was the most scary thing you had to partake. And in fact you had casted your bowls over the sides of the rocking boat more than twice.

Your twelve year old sister Odette was thankfully now in the custody of the kind and charitable Lord Fowler who only required a monthly fee to care for her which you were utterly grateful for. It was unfortunate though that even after the auctioning of your family cottage and small farm, plus your exuberant wages was still not enough to entirely pay the debts Mr Y/L/N left. If you were not so frugal with the expenses of books and dresses you owned, you wouldn’t be getting by and that terrified you.

‘Do not fall front you silly girl’, you mentally scolded, ‘if you muck up it’ll be Odette to pay for it.’

Reaching the closed door of the Earl’s study, you stood frozen and hesitated from twisting the door handle. Mentally and physically prepping yourself, you straightened your back and held your head high- but not too high to present too confident in a man’s presence, let alone an Earl.

Quickly you checked your hair again and the hairpins that secured it down in the ‘appropriate style’. Your hands you then noticed trembled, ‘goodness why am I so nervous!?’ your shaky fingers pressed down on your dark navy skirt.

You bit your lip and self-assuredly nodded, finally lifting your hand up to the wood and serving three slight taps. The door opened wide, behind it was Mr Cillian Walsh, the house’s head butler and supposedly personal keeper to the Lord Dalgliesh.

The butler gave you a grand smile, he was one of the most friendliest of the staff here in Radier

Manor. He was the one to first welcome you when you had gotten off the boat many moons ago. And Cillian was extremely helpful and kind, especially when it came to the children. He was the one to inform the little dears of their father’s planned return.

“Miss Y/N, do come in,” he whispered and fondly winked, “His lordship is eager to meet you.”

He stepped aside and bowed his head a little to you. Stepping into the study for the first time, you noticed another young man waiting inside. He clearly was another new employee of the household.

And in front of him was an extremely handsome male.

You had seen his painting in the drawing room but it was nothing compared to his true form. The Earl was sitting behind his large desk and when you walked into the room you witnessed him rise at your entrance. Y/N’s eyes widened. The painting depicted him with an image of late forties but now you gathered his age to be somewhere in his middle thirties or early forties. The painter had drastically aged him. His chiselled jawline and thin lips romanticised his face along with his soft brown curls falling like gentle swirls down his cheek.

What the painting hadn’t entailed too was his height. By god he would have put Goliath to shame giant. You had never met such a broad and tall man in your life. Your eyes widened as he slowly bowed his head to you respectfully.

Snugly fitted to his muscular frame was a black waistcoat that matched his deep blue eyes. It wasn’t hard to say you felt a tickle of attraction to this man. On his left hand a gold band entrapped his finger.

‘That’s right, he was a married man’.

You swallowed quietly and moved to stand beside the younger stranger with a leaner appearance, and dashing mid length Jett black hair.

The Earls gaze was dominating. His aura intensely intimidating. And it was all pinned directly onto you...poor thing. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as the Earl’s eyes paused in front of you.

You kept your eyes low under his cool regard and fought to stand still and not fidget.

“Good day, it is my desire to formally welcome you both to Radier Manor despite the unfortunate obvious that one of you has been in my care for a few months already,” your employer said glancing your way while he stepped forward from behind his desk, “As I am sure you must already know, I am Henry Dalgliesh, the Earl of Jersey.”

Cillian gestured his white gloves hand to you while clearing his throat, “My lord, this is Miss Y/N

Y/L/N, the new governess.”

You curtsied too low and before it was too late you almost tripped yourself onto his shoes when his heavy hand caught your shoulder. A rush of blood dusted your face from nervous embarrassment. You wobbled back onto your feet and softly apologised for your clumsiness, eyes staring at his shoes.

Unseen by you, Henry smirked. Holding his palm out to you, you gently laid her own clammy own into his hand. He bent his head, his eyes set on your heated face while his oh so very soft lips pressed against the hot skin of your fingers, “Miss Y/L/N, It is a pleasure to make your official acquaintance after all this time.”

His facial expression was unreadable, only that he appeared to be kind and polite…

‘Oh goodness, he smells divine, like baked biscuits!’

The butler cleared his throat again, “and here Sir, is Mr Benjamin Byrnes, the secretary from Wimbledon.”

Cillian continued to inform the master about his benefits for this particular Secretary but you were too distracted by the Earls penetrating eyes that had refused to stop staring you down. Your heart pounded against your chest, you felt like you body was being dragged towards him despite being completely still and unmoving. Your eyes locked for a painfully wonderful eternity.

You exhaled gratefully when the Cillian led you and the secretary out of the study after Henry shook Benjamin’s hand and allowed the you both to remain employment. You felt weak and tired by your first encounter. After all you never expected to experience such an debilitating presence.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 18:30 pm.

That night Lord Henry didn’t make his appearance at supper, he was too busy under some account, which sourly upset the children who missed their father greatly.

And when said that they were upset, they were very, very disappointed. The twins had become woeful and unpleasantly behaved, deciding to ignore their food and gossip about what their father had done while he was away.

Marianne was mature and stated confidently that he was a business man perform business duties, when asked what duties they were she was unable to answer.

Michael on the other hand was a wild imagination. He was certain that his father had been away fighting criminals and bringing justice to the realm. He stabbed his mutton and exclaimed it was how he believed his father ran a sword through wicked men.

As Cillian passed with a tray to take to the masters study he paused and pinched Michaels cheek, before commanding the boy eat his dinner lest it turned totally cold.

After dinner concluded Nanny Nettle took them back to the nursery to ready for bed...

But as you were making your way down to the servant quarters where your room laid, you were nearly knocked over by a hurling body that flung itself back when it collided with your strong body.

You rubbed your belly with a light groan and looked dow at the floor and baring witness to one of your students.

Michael’s shirt front had a large wet spot. His red face was scrunched up, puffy crying eyes spilled tears and down his nose and chin was a trail of snot and drool. His little fists clenched and unclenched while he continued to wipe his face on his soaked sleeves. He was crying loudly.

Shockingly he stood up and collided into you but this time clung to you and held up his hands in silent pleas. Between tears he was clearly crying out sentences that were incoherent. You carefully pieced together what was wrong when you managed to hear, “Papa”.

Sighing you bent onto your knees and cupped under his armpits and lifted him up onto your hip and held him close, rocking him softly. He reminded you in that moment of your sister Odette who cried when your father died. You patted his back, he was a baby missing his parents. You rocked him as he clung to your shoulders.

The little boy sobbed into your neck and held onto you like you were a life anchor.

“O’Mickey dear, hush now, hush,” You gently cooed as you walked him to the nursery which conveniently was just down the hallway.

Your heels clicked to the thudding of the nursemaids’ feet just as she called around the corner “Michael! Where are you, Lad!? There you are!” She puffed, following her was Marianne who also looked to have been crying with the red hue of her eyes.

You turned to Mrs Nettle and smiled sadly, “I think someone won’t be letting go anytime soon,” just as you said this, Michael tightened his grasp on her blouse and shoved his head deeper into your neck, “Shall I put the children to bed?”

The Nanny looked slightly shocked at the offer, her grey brows raised and jaw dropped before sputtering “O’ course lass, I’ll get their nightclothes.”

As she tried to walk pass you into their bedroom, you reached out and touched her hunching shoulder. You knew the children needed a female figure who was frankly a lot younger than Mrs Nettle, sixty five years younger perhaps.

“Please Mrs Nettle, I can manage. Come Marianne, time for bed,” You held out a hand to the girl that tilted her head and bit her lip, reaching out to grab at your hand.

After bidding the Nanny a good night the three of you went inside.

Closing the door behind them, you softly sighed and brushed through Michael’s auburn curls with your fingers trying to sooth him a little more as his crying dialled down to sniffles. Slowly you sat on his bed, Marianne sat on hers across you both.

“Mary darling,” you gentle asked, rubbing her brothers back, “Could you please fetch yours and your brother’s night clothes?”

“Yes Miss Y/L/N,” She sniffled and smiled sweetly before hurrying off to the draws and closet.

Eventually you detached little Michael from your body and laid him down on the mattress. You quickly undressed the boy and soothingly brushed his wet cheeks with your thumbs. When

Marianne came back with the clothes, you made it your sole duty to ready them for bedtime.

The two hadn’t seen their father in over a year is what you had heard through the staff and on the day of lord Henry’ return he is ‘too busy’ for them?

You beckoned Marianne closer, you slipped off Marianne’s skirts and slipped over her head her long white nightgown. Marianne mumbled as she tugged her night dress on, “Pap- I mean Father, he did not want to wish us a good night and,” she choked, her little lips started to wobble, “Mrs

Sharpe smacked Michael across the cheek when he would not obey to leave.”

You gasped and brought her into your arms. While holding her close, you heard her ask on the brink of a sob, “Does he not really love us?”

‘What kind of man would act such a way ’, you grumbled to yourself, ‘and here I thought he was a very good looking man inside as he was outside. He’s unkindly neglectful of the family who missed and love him dearly.’

Then you sighed, ‘maybe he’s an extremely important man concerning business matters. He does after all own land on which now is booming with tourists.’

“I am sure your father loves you dearly Marianne,” you cooed and rubbed her back as she hiccuped.

Buttoning up his night shirt and wiping his wet face with his sleeve cuff, Michael had calmed down completely.

Turning her around to undo her braids, Marianne asked, “Miss Y/L/N? Can you…can you please sing to me and Mickey?”

Your fingers froze in Marianne’s hair. Such a request was endearing to you but was it too intimate? The girl turned around and forced herself into a hug between you . It was Marianne’s teary eyes that forced you to cave in.

“I can Mary,” you assured and pinched her shoulder playfully, “After you’re in bed.”

A bright grin returned to the little girls face. She and Michael eagerly clambered into their beds, diving beneath the covers.

You tucked the blankets of both their beds and made sure their sheets rested up to their chins. Then you laid Antoinette the dolly beside Mary on her pillow and picked up a toy solider off the floor, setting it on the bed side table next to little Michael. The two children gazed up to you awaiting their lullaby from their governess.

Carefully you knelt onto the floor and turned down the kerosene lamp on their shared bedside draw. Humming first and slowly slipping into song, you sang…

“How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten.” They smiled and gasped lightly, happy and content.

“Can I get there by candle-light? Yes and back again.”

The little ones nuzzled into their pillows and smiled at you after sneaking a glance at each other almost as though they were keeping a secret with one another.

“If your heels are nimble and light, three more miles and ten, you may get there by candle-light there and back again.” You kissed each of their foreheads and tapped their noses softly.

“King and Queen of Cantelon, How many miles to Babylon?”

You stood and went to the curtains and drew them open, up in the night sky was a full moon shining down on them.

“Eight and eight, and another eight. Will I get there by candle-light?”

Coming back to the children, kneeling next to them you noticed Michaels mouth open wide and yawn silently. His eyes shut lose and his yawn lift his lips softly parted. Exhaustion took him first.

“If your horse be sprite and good and your spurs be bright.”

You continued to the last line of the diddy as you observed Marianne’s lashes fluttering down.

“How many soldiers there have been? More than yee dare come and see."

You laid your hands over both their belly's and rubbed small circles into them.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three more miles and ten. Can I get there by candle-light? Yes and back again."

Their chests lifted up and down with the steady slumber they fell into.

You whispered the final line, "Yes and back agaaiiinn."

It was such a sweet sight. You knew deep in your heart you loved them, for such little bodies they had such big hearts. From the moment you arrived they had been nothing but joyful creatures and to see them distraught so terribly by their father and housekeeper broke your heart. You smiled and rose from the floor to kiss both of their little foreheads again. Each softly moaned in their sleep and turned their heads into the pillows away from your sweet kisses.

Turning the kerosene down completely, You walked out of the nursery into the door way and carefully closed the door behind you. You prayed it wasn’t too loud to wake them up.

The sound of movement caught your attention away from the nursery, your eyes viewed a slight shadow moving through a door way at the end of the hall. For a moment you clenched the front of your blouse in fear of any ghosts.

‘Must be a servant cleaning one last room.’

You had no fear and no knowledge of any existing dangers. You decided to not worry, after all you were clearly safe and just needed to go to bed. You were tired from a day of work and meeting the formidable master of the manor.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 18:56 pm.

You retreated to the quiet sanctuary of your room. Located on the same floor as the laundry parlour but its door was opposite the wall. You were still grateful for your given room, since it was bigger than your own cottage one on the farm you sold off, not only that but the bed mattress was so comfortable that most morning you’d lay there and pray it was Sunday so you didn’t have to rise up and sleep in until the afternoon church service in town. In fact the only issue with your room was the lack of warmth with no fireplace.

Stripping down to nakedness you ripped over your head your cotton nightgown before unpinning your hair. Placing each pin onto the duchess and scratching your scalp you sighed and preceded to slink into your bed. You shut your eyes preparing for the world of being governess another day. Though after turning and tossing beneath the covers that provided the tiniest of warmth for another hour, you huffed and flung the sheets away. Sleep just wasn’t an option tonight.

It was like an itch as your mind trailed off in recalling all the activities of the day and vaguely came to remember the meeting with his lordship. O’ how he had kissed your hand in his study. The odd sensation of butterflies returned to your belly. Your thumb rubbed over the spot where his lips had touched.

‘Did he kiss every young ladies hand like that? Surely not? I should perhaps be offended by such impropriety...what would his wife have thought? He should still be in mourning, as should I...o’ he is a Earl after all...and he’s paying you plenty good, don’t be ungrateful over a light kiss on your hand.’

It was scandalous if thought long and hard about. But maybe that’s how lord’s greeted women of any standing.

You giggled to yourself as you imagined a scene of that wrinkly dragon Mrs Sharpe getting her paws kissed by the Earl. You imagined he would be very displeased doing so while the old beastly woman would salivate! What a lark!

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 22:13 pm.

Knowing you were never going to sleep any time soon, your stomach made a faint murmur.

You believed that Mr Mikkelsen the cook wouldn’t mind if you went into the kitchen and snuck out a warm glass of milk and one of his sweet baked treats, surely that would aid this sleepless night? You rose from the bed with a sigh. Covering yourself with a wrapper that laid on the bar at the foot of the bed.

Making your way out of your room and through the halls that lead to the kitchen, your bare feet padded quietly across the carpet of the sitting room. You graciously were thankful for the moonlight that lit up the home through the unclosed curtains.

Your eyes casted to the wall above the unlit fireplace. His painting hung large and proud. The artwork held no candle to his true masculine beauty but might resemble his figure in another ten years. The moon truly reflected the blue eyes that lay on the canvas; they seemed to watch your every movement and with the stern frown brushed on his lips he didn’t look very pleased with your late awakening.

You tried not to think to hardly on your imagination.

Tiptoeing across the main entrance hall you sighed, finally you’d arrived. The wooden door was inches away from your fingertips, awaiting the moment you’d push it open; but something wasn’t right… Since a prickling sensation that trailed from the top of your skull, down your spine and through your legs suddenly sparked.

“Is it regular that you would wander about your employers home alone in the dark at night? Or is it just mine that’s so much more intriguing?”

Biting back a squeal of fright, you wheeled around to find that behind you was the Earl who had caught you attempting to sneak in the kitchen. His form was relaxed against the stair rail as he glared you down like a naughty child with arms folded across his chest similar to that of a displeased parent. Lord Henry body was basking in nothing but the light of the moon. His coat and cravat were long gone, his dark blue banyan draped over his shoulders and tied around his waist.

His height frightened you and made you feel inexplicitly tiny as a mouse.

This was your second meeting and now you realised how much you possibly looked like a dirty

thief.

You bit your lip and wrapped your arms around yourself nervously. It suddenly was obvious how immodest you appeared in your night garments, wandering about the house. You felt your breath quicken.

‘God, please don’t let him sack me’, you prayed.

You were already beyond humiliated and flustered at the extreme inappropriateness of being alone with the Earl in nothing but both your night wardrobe, you just couldn’t figure out how to politely flee back to your own room without walking around him.

You stammered “M-my Lord, please forgive me I had trouble sleeping an-and thought to get a glass of warm milk.” ‘Honesty is the best policy!’ your face screwed up into an embarrassed contortion, “Please do pardon and excuse my intrusion, I shall make way and return to my room immediately.”

You lifted a hand to your face and shielded your eyes away from Henry. Making movement to step around his tall form, you took your chance to escape, alas it was all in vain as the Earl’s large hand shot out and stole at your wrist. A high gasp drop from your parted lips. His grip not to rough but stern and strong. He was not making any notion to harm you, just to stop you from leaving his presence.

His warm liquid voice dripped out into your ears “Miss Y/L/N, please wait,” He pleaded in voice, his sapphire eyes mourned “I beg you not to leave under my sudden arrival.”

You bit your lip at the sight of his face- the hardness of his features fell away, replaced by a soft graceful smike as he quietly murmured, “It is not the first time one has found themselves awake in the night within search of Chef Mikkelsen’s delicious biscuits. Will you not sit for a moment with me?” he opened the kitchen door and gestured for you to enter.

You felt a gigantic wave of relief. Though the effects of shock were still attached to your body when all you could reply with was a scared hum.

Henry ventured into the pantry. You ventured around the table in the middle of the kitchen and looked around the spices that hung above the windows.

When his lordship came out with a tin box and two tea saucers, he noticed how his governess was standing in the middle of the kitchen looking rather…lost.

Clearing his throat he gathered your attention, “Miss Y/L/N please, do sit,” gesturing towards the chairs at the kitchen table, and graciously you sat in the chair when he dragged one out.

Laying the tin of biscuits down and placing the saucers in front of you, he fled to the cool room and collected a jug of milk. The stove unfortunately had been put out hours ago and the attempt to reheat it would take longer than desired.

He sighed, “I’m afraid only cold milk is available Miss Y/L/N.” He poured the ivory liquid into a rose painted china tea cup.

“Thank you nonetheless sir,” you politely smiled and accepted the cup into your hand. Laying your lips on the cup, you took a slight sip of the milk.

Your eyes widened, ‘this milk is phenomenon!’ Taking another small sip you hummed happily,

“Your milk must be sweeter here one the Island.”

It was lighter than cream but contained a watery consistency. Something edged the final flavour, it was eerily sweet like sugar or honey. The milk might’ve been cold to the lips but it was surprisingly warm in your belly.

Sitting down in front of you the Lord’s eyes were wide, “You haven’t tasted our milk? After all this time?” he jokingly gasped.

You shook your head. The past many weeks was too hectic for you to simply sit down and have a cup of tea or a glass of milk. You were too concerned for Odette’s wellbeing and support along with the Dalgliesh children’s education.

Your afternoons were busied with the planning of the next day. And even for the past three Sundays, you had caught sleep in bed and made sure your room was tidy and that you were ready for Mrs Sharpe intruding as she was known to do so well.

The callous woman carried all the house keys on a large ring, so despite locking your door, your privacy would still be breeched. Henry threw his head back and laughed.

Your glanced between him and the kitchen door. He was so loud! What if someone saw you like this with him ? It would be the island scandal!

It didn’t matter...

For a man possibly ten to twenty years older than you, he was very charming and boyish; his smile made suddenly made you swoon. You grinned stupidly.

Lord Henry finally settled himself and paused, swallowing down a biscuit, and glanced over at you.

“Will you not have some of the biscuits? They’re sublime,” His long fingers hooked around the edge of the tin and held it out to her.

You shook your head again with all your meek sweetness, “Oh no, my lord, you enjoy it.”

You felt you had overstepped your place and should be humble when it came to his offers.

However a little growl from your middle betrayed your motives.

The Earl let loose another hearty laugh and stole a biscuit to give to you. Biscuit in hand reached out towards you.

Still you refused the offer knowing you should’ve removed yourself from that improper and intimate scenery, you whined “No, my lord, please I ca-“

The Earl smirked and shoved the treat into your talking lips, which caused you to stop midsentence and avoid not choking on the sweet biscuit. A light gag escaped you.

The crumbs rubbed rough on your throat and you wanted to be mad at the Lord but knew not to step that boundary, ‘you got yourself into this mess stupid girl.’

“You’ll come to learn soon that I don’t take to hearing the word ‘No’ kindly Miss Y/L/N.” He flashed her a smile filled with bright whites, proud of his actions.

‘He’s rude and childish!’

A great prickling of hairs on the back of your neck rose up, something was telling you to be afraid of Henry. ‘But he only force fed you a biscuit calm down- if anything be grateful.’

“Now drink the rest of your milk, dear,” he said, pushing the cup up to your crumb covered lips.

You instantly sat back and away from his long claw like fingers, you now just wanted to go back to bed. Sculling down the sweet milk and hastily standing, you moved the chair back into place and waddled over to the sink.

You spoke respectfully but a slight tremble ran through your hands, “I should- um, I think it best I bid you a good night, my lord.”

‘Something is definitely not right, I shouldn’t be here…goodness Y/N don’t be such a scaredy cat!’ you chided yourself. Shaking your head slightly you told yourself firmly, ‘everyone knows full well that the gentry are an odd lot from time to time. He is just being friendly.’

Henry stood to attention and caught you again by the wrist before you could even lay the dishes into the sink. He had excellent aim for wrists it would appear. Providing you his uneasy smirk, he dragged you back in front of him. A single digit cupped your chin and wiped up to your parted gasping lips. Moving his finger away, he deliberately showed you the white spill of sweetness he’d caught on the corner of your mouth. His long tongue flicked out and licked up the drip before completely sucking his finger in front of you.

You gasped. ‘Too friendly, for a man of his standing; is he…with me? No, he can’t be flirting. Great scot girl, get a hold of yourself. Act not like the impute girls of your age, be a mature woman! Goodness! Why would he ever think like that? The man just lost his beloved wife a year ago.’

His hand holding your arm released and dug into the pocket of his over-night coat.

He tutted you softly “Come with me, I have an urgency to question and acquaint myself better with you.”

A hand twirled around your back and softly shoved you forward and guided you into the dark cold drawing room.

‘Is he escorting me back to my living space?’

Suddenly, he froze, his palm left your back and gestured to the lounge. You glanced behind back and up to your employer “Sir?”

“Sit,” he sharply directed followed by a lengthy spaced cough, “Please Miss Y/L/N,” he added “I desire to inquire about the children.”

You blinked under his intense stare, slowly you sat down in the lounge. You slowly drawled, “The children, my lord?”

Sitting down across from you, the Earl rubbed his hands, his brows raised followed by a light chuckle, “Yes Miss Y/L/N, the ones I am paying you to educate?” his fingers laced together.

….Marianne and Michael. So now he showed his care and interest of them?

You flushed and uneasily smiled, you felt like an utter fool, “Of course, my lord. They are doing exceptionally well. They have taken a joy to writing their own stories, they’ve demonstrated great imaginations.”

He didn’t seem too interested in what his children enjoyed that was obvious from his bodily reaction lacking any bright eyes or head perks. “I see...” He bit his lip and sighed, his face lifted to the fireplace. He looked at his portrait and snidely snickered to himself.

Scratching his chin he looked back to you, “Tell me, Miss Y/L/N, are you very tired?”

“Actually, my lord, I-“

“Miss Y/L/N. I have a few brief questions regarding the children, if you do not mind.” He asked as he lit some of the candles with a box of matched from the desk draws.

‘The children, not his children? For a lord he should learn how to speak correctly.’

You gripped the top of your wrapper collar with icy hands and uneasily shuffled. You just wanted to go to bed and sleep, but Henry pursued you further more even after you asked if they might continue the conversation at breakfast in the morning.

He release a wicked chuckled that bewildered you. ‘He’s mad!’

The Earl tossed a leg over one of his knees, he sat back and relaxed, “Now, now, I would prefer to keep this frank, quick and confidential between two adults…”

He turned his head away briefly before he leant forward into your face, his hot breath blew down on your cheeks and eyes as he tilted his head.

His dark eyes turned hot and frightening, he purred, “Do you fear me, Miss Y/L/N?”

As expected if not planned, You lurched back and gasped. Your cheeks heated up. The blue light of the moon shown on his profile. He looked like a painting of Lucifer you’d seen in a children’s bible. His mesmerising features were both terrifying and attractive to you.

You shook your head, trying to stand up straight and tall. You felt silly and embarrassed in yourself for being so flushed.

‘Except…Why would he ask me that? Does he want me to know my place, have I overstepped my glass standings too openly?’ you truly hadn’t meant to upset him enough to try and upset you in return.

“I don’t understand, my lord,” you nervously huffed, “I believed we were talking about Miss

Marianne and Mr Michael?”

You turned your head to the side away from his eyes that squinted and lips that frowned. He moved forward, resting his hands either side of your arms on the lounge. His body heat surrounded you, his banyan and your wrapper folded against each other. Silk against cotton brushing softly.

“S-sir, you come too close, please sit back.”

Henry leant into your ear and hissed in a threatening tone, “Perhaps you will learn to tolerate my ways in time, Miss Y/L/N, as my children learn from you.”

Now you were properly scared. Your chest heaved up and down. He might’ve just as well told you that he was going to throw you down the grand stair case. You were petrified and paralysed.

“Indeed but I beg you to remain civil, I am- I am most happy to inform you of their accomplishments.”

Henry smugly smiled and hummed, leaning away from your unprepared body. He clapped his hands lightly and licked his teeth. He was a hungry looking man, a man looking to conquer in war.

“Yes, I suppose you’re correct Governess,” he continued in his cheerier tone, “We must discuss the children, Miss Y/L/N. Please do tell me of their achievements in your lessons? Do they work hard? I want to hear your curriculum and methods of teaching since you seem to have difficulty understanding respect of your superiors.”

‘Difficulty understanding respect of my superiors?!’

You tightly swallowed and faced him. You wanted to bluntly tell him he was a terrible father and a rude man. Instead, you submissively answered every question he asked. Most questions he asked related to their French lessons, dancing, mathematics and literature.

“Où avez-vous appris à parler français?” Where did you learn to speak French? He asked suddenly in French. It caught you off guard his snap in transition to the language.

You curled your lips in and politely replied, “Mon père m’a appris” my father taught me.

He smirked and his brows raised, he slowly nodded, “Par exemple, un enseignant?” was he a teacher?

You smiled and shook your head. A small flush came to your cheeks

“Il devient marchand et propriétaire terrien.” He was a merchant and landowner, you gently explained. Your father was a travelling man and left he farm and cottage to you and your mother while he was away. And when your mother died, you took care of little Odette and father remained to work a little more in England instead of sailing off for months to India and China.

You felt your mouth grow incredibly dry and your lips numb. Your vision became spotty and the room swayed. You tried to stand to your feet and almost fell over onto him again like you had this morning.

“Je m’excuse,” you weakly slurred, “je suis fatiguée.” Excuse me, I am very tired.

You needed to go to bed. It was far too late for this meeting in the night that could wait till the morning.

Just before you could tell him any of this, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You fell ungracefully to the floor and weakly collapsed.

The earl smiled while whispering ‘timber’ with a tiny whistle and left you to fall hard, but winced at the loud thud. Your wrapper tie became loose and fell away to reveal your scantily clad night gown.

You were still awake. Unable to move unable to understand what was happening. Why your body would not rise and why you were just so incredibly tired. The last thing you saw was the earls looming shadowing silhouette and his deep voice humming a familiar tune.

"How many miles to Babylon..." He smiled and cocked his head to the side as he watched your poor confused gaze flutter shut.

With your eyes closed and your lips parted and your arms perfectly lain above your head, he believe you were a grand depiction of a goddess offering her life to a sacrifice.

He dug into the pocket of his banyan again, while this time he pulled out a tiny vial the size of his thumb. Henry hummed the merry lullaby as he twirled it around his fingers. It was just too easy to slip it into something as milk.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three more miles and ten. Can I get there by candle-light?" He smirked, "No and ne'er again."

He believed it to be remarkable that you would fall unconscious so easily under the influence of his drug induced milk. He worried you would cease sipping after your exclamation on the sweetness.

While poor little you was trusting him to be a gentleman…but it was part of that old scally-wag Colin Fowler’s plan, sending the girl here to be his governess.

London, England 1888, Saturday 14th January. 19:03pm.

Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.

He buried his face into his hands and sighed, before plucking up the unopened envelope by his desk. From the side of his desk Henry ripped open a draw and collected a letter pen. Cutting the mail open, he plucked out the parchment and glued his eyes to the words that lay before him.

My dear friend Henry Dalgliesh,

It has been over a year since your dear Natalia passed and from our last meeting you had asked whether I could provide you one of my girls for your taste in desire. I wonderfully inform you that I have discovered something much more exceedingly pleasurable in the realm of succulent kittens, consider it a gift for the favour I owed you.

I have come across two young ladies from a small farm down south, they’re virgins and as pure as snow they come. Their names are Y/N and Odette Y/L/N from Bristol. Little Odette, I will be keeping under my hand for a few more years as the dear is not ripe yet only eleven or twelve I believe; the cusp of womanhood my friend, but her older sister; a true English rose is perfect for the reaping. After the misfortune of their father’s death whom was a gambling friend of mine, the girls are in a river of debt.

For every month I will expect a “payment” from Y/N to “support her sister” despite us both knowing I don’t really need anything to care for the little dear. I suggest you use the debt against her.

Do teach the girl some manners Henry, she’s polite and innocent but completely lacking in true submission. Make her cry, beg, squeal- break her, bend her, fuck her; whatever you do, don’t kill her. Henry, do not waste my gift, use her as you want and give her back when you’re finished. I have sent her your way as a governess for your children. She should be there in a week. Sincerely,

Lord C.F.

Henry sat back and proceeded to scrunch up the news into a ball of paper, casting it into the fire. He watched the flames engulf and swallow down the evidence of his ever interesting desire. He smirked and looked back up to the painting of Natalia and laughed at her face.

“I look forward to a nice new toy darling, don’t you?” Henry threw his feet up onto his desk and folded his hands behind his head, “I am sure you do, bloody harlot.” His eyes gleamed yellow as hellfire in the reflection of the burning letter.

Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9Th April. 22:28 pm.

“That worked rather well, bit too quickly for my liking though, however extremely effective,” He muttered to himself as he pocketed it back and bent onto one knee to hover above you.

His eyes travelled your the lines of your form that he was observing from the moment he discovered your shy presence around the estates home.

He slid closer, pressing his nose to your forehead to inhale the sweet scent or your hair and skin. His eyes fluttered as his lips gasped, his cock twitched. He caressed your soft cheek with his knuckled. His eyes scanning down to your entrapped bosom.

‘I wonder if she would taste better than she smells.’

With a solidary eye to the open area down through the drawing room into the dining room, he sighed and drew you closer. If anyone caught him, he would kill them. His hand softly rubbed your forehead, which cause you to react in a subtle moan.

‘Could she be as innocent as she seemed? Is this a mistake? Should I still do this?’ Henry dared ask himself. His eyes narrowed and he consi-

- Wait… Excuse me? Hello, reader, are you holding onto hope he’s gracious and kind? It’s because you think those are Henry’ thoughts don’t you? Well, I’m afraid you’re dearly mistaken. You see, it isn’t one of those stories....romance, no; here we feed on lust, blood and blackmail. Now that’s been cleared up, back to the story, where were we? He scares you, he drugs you, ah yes here we are-

Henry tucked his hands and arms beneath your fragile body and lifted you up onto his hip, his lust pressing harshly into your waist. He blew out the candle and fled. You were his prize being glided to the forbidden room, the room he considered very special indeed.....

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

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