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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

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Body Shots (Pierre Gasly)

Inspired by (and beta read) by the amazing @limp-wrist-max thank you Mea!

Masterlist

Word count: 3.5k

Recommended song: “Lucky You” by Sim Dane

Vacationing in Milan had its perks. Fine dining, luxury stores that were prime for window shopping, and the proximity to your best friend, to name a few.

When you'd touched down in Milan you had had no intentions of visiting Pierre. You had just finished your exams for your summer class and had a week before the next semester started up, so you had simply booked the cheapest ticket and boarded a plane.

The intent had been to have some good wine, good food and unwind. Pierre saw your Instagram story minutes after you posted it and recognized the bakery you stopped at for lunch. And once he found out you were only a few minutes away from that weekend's grand prix, he had ideas that didn't involve you reading a novel all day.

Pierre had insisted that a last minute cancelation by a family friend had left a paddock pass unclaimed and had suggested you take it.

"You're my best friend, it'll be fun to have you experience a weekend through my eyes for once instead of sitting in the stands. Come visit me."

Something in the inflection of his voice made the simple request rub you raw. He missed you. It had been months since your last get together and you couldn't blame him. The last year had been rough for him and he rarely had anyone physically at his side to help him through it.

Inviting you instead of one of his parents was about more than your current proximity to the track. He hadn't missed a beat in asking you, not hesitating to consider anyone else being with him this weekend.

Your stomach had turned as you climbed in a cab Sunday morning, not out of fear of something going wrong but because of the nagging feeling that something was about to change.

You'd known Pierre since you were kids. Your brother had raced in karting before pursuing another dream, but in the few short years you'd hung around European tracks you had managed to forge a bond with one of your brother's rivals. That friendship carried on regardless of the distance that separated you, kept alive by visits in the off season and once a year trips to the racetrack at Silverstone.

Pierre met you at the gates and you had barely seen him since.

A decent qualifying session saw the Frenchman start P10 on Sunday's race. He didn't hide the fact that he was disappointed, but come time for his final meeting with the team you'd never guess he was anything but ecstatic.

You had to be conscious about your mouth hanging open when Pierre stepped into the garage in his fireproofs with his suit half undone. The tuft of blond hair peeking through his backwards cap floats on an invisible breeze and he bounces on his toes. His brow furrows when he is handed a data sheet, listening intently to what the engineer points out.

Butterflies riot in your stomach when Pierre catches you staring and winks. You pray he writes the blush on your cheeks off as the heat and he must, because he raises his eyebrows and flexes a bit.

You laugh to cover the way you want to do nothing but strip him out of that tight fitted white shirt. Your crush was getting out of hand. Pierre's shameless, friendly flirting only escalated matters.

You told yourself it was nothing. He was like this with every girl he met, making a fool of himself to earn a laugh. You were no different, except maybe that you were a constant where most other women only got to enjoy his playful personality for a short time.

You're treated to a few long minutes of watching Pierre prep to climb into the car before he's heading out on track to line up at the grid.

The race starts off fine, Pierre's pace is better than expected. One of the Haas's breaks down at the pit entry and Pierre's strategist decides to bring him in for a fresh set of tires. A kiss seems like the proper reward for their stroke of brilliance, which affords Pierre the advantage when the pits close soon after.

Restarting on lap 28 is nail biting. Hamilton, Stroll, and Pierre make up the podium places. The entire garage gasps when Stroll goes wide at turn four. Hamilton serves his penalty and Pierre inherits the lead. Sainz jumps on the opportunity to attack.

Pierre defends brilliantly until the final lap. The team erupts when he crosses the line first, bringing home the win.

Red, white and green confetti sticks to his skin as he sprays the champagne over all of you. In the heat of it all, Pierre sits on that top step and shakes his head. You already know that the photos of him being snapped from all angles will be gorgeous, the sun shining down on the first French grand prix winner in decades.

A legend in the minds of his people and in yours.

You could scarcely believe it yourself. Your best friend had finally, after years of being pushed down, won a grand prix at the temple of speed. Red Bull had been wrong, just as you'd insisted when Pierre cried over losing his seat and his friend in one weekend. But god, did Pierre rise above it all.

Pierre catches your gaze just before he leaves the podium. A lifetime of emotion swirls around him like an enigma, begging you to find out what it was hiding. Your wave is barely more than a lift of your hand but Pierre notes it nonetheless, tipping his trophy in your direction.

You wait patiently on the sidelines as Pierre poses for pictures with his team on and off the track. His attention constantly falls on you, his grin widening each time he sees you tucked under the arm of an enthusiastic mechanic or crew member. Alpha Tauri was a family and you were an honorary member thanks to your connection to their driver.

An action packed hour of cameras passes before Pierre is able to break away. As soon as he's given the go ahead he passes his trophy off and marching to you. You're both practically running by the time you meet in the middle. You crash into him and he lifts you off your feet in a crushing hug.

"You did it," you whisper, overwhelmed by his success now that you've gotten the chance to celebrate with him. "I'm so proud of you."

Pierre laughs as he sets you on your feet. His smile is wider than you've ever seen it and you're sure his cheeks must be sore.

"Wish they allowed us to bring a friend up there," Pierre says softly, a smile melting into a sly smirk. "Seeing you doused in champagne is an image I wouldn't forget."

You shake your head, caught up in his ceaseless flirting. He had no idea that his honeyed words and gentle touches lit something inside of you, rattling your brain and making it impossible to form a coherent sentence. Instead you snatch the black and gold Pirelli cap off his head and place it on your own, earning you a peal of laughter.

"Looks better on you anyway." Pierre runs a hand through his sweaty, champagne doused hair, leaving bits sticking up at odd angles.

Someone calls Pierre's name, far enough away that there's no rush. Pierre's hands remain planted on your waist and yours stay wrapped around his neck. By the way his bright blue eyes bore into yours, you swear he's thinking the same thing you are.

"Thank you for believing in me," he murmurs, gaze falling to your lips.

"I knew it was just a matter of time," you tell him, inching up on your tiptoes. Tempted by his win, you want to ruin the best friendship you've ever had. You want to discover if the lips you spend far too much time dreaming about felt as soft as they looked. You want to know how it feels to be lost in Pierre, newly minted race winner, and find out just how he dealt with the adrenaline and euphoria of his incredible drive.

"Well done mate!"

Max Verstappen startles the two of you apart. You take a healthy step back and drop your gaze to the ground to hide your burning cheeks.

"Thanks." Pierre accepts the Dutchman's embrace and claps him on the back. "Sucks I didn't get to fight you for it."

"There will be more chances in the future. And I didn't expect to see you here, that's a nice surprise." Max knocks you with his shoulder, tipping you off balance. On instinct you latch onto Pierre's arm to steady yourself. You wait a heartbeat too long to remove your hand and both of you find anywhere to look but each other.

"So where's the party?" You ask, searching for a distraction from the way your palm still burns.

"Definitely not at Red Bull." Max shudders and you laugh because that's what you do when someone is being over dramatic. It rings hollow in your ears.

"I hear there's a few guys with adjoining rooms at the hotel who bought plenty of booze," Pierre says. "You and Dan wanna come by?"

"Is that really a question?" Max grins, already typing out a text as Pierre feeds him the details.

**********

"You should do body shots," Max suggests, which earns a roaring laugh from Daniel and a half hearted one from Pierre.

"I don't think so," Pierre says, "there's no one here I trust enough to let that happen."

"Not even your best friend?" Max gestures to you and shoots you a wink when Pierre glances over. "I think she's trustworthy."

"No thanks." Pierre holds up his plastic cup and salutes Max before draining it to the dregs.

Pierre's immediate refusal hurt more than it probably should have. You hadn't expected him to jump at the offer but having him shut the idea down so thoroughly hadn't been what you wanted either.

Max notes your pouty lower lip and speaks on your behalf. "Come on mate," Max insists. "You just won your first prix, live a little! It's not like you've got anything to lose, she's your best friend."

"That's exactly why-"

"Shut up, it would be fun! Wouldn't it?" Max says this last bit to you, a wild grin on his face.

Max expects you to turn red and object. That was his end goal. But what the Dutchman hadn't counted on was how drunk you already were on Pierre. On his smile. On his bright blue eyes, swirling in the aftermath of his unlikely triumph. And mostly on the not-so-sneaky way he glances at you every few minutes.

"Let's do it."

Pierre blinks, searching your face for any sign of distress. "Wait, are you serious?"

"Yeah, why not?" You shrug, suddenly fearing that you'd read him wrong and he really was against this whole thing. "Unless you don't want to-"

"Get the vodka," Pierre interrupts, nodding to Max though his stare remains pinned on you. Pierre latches onto your wrist and drags you around the room until he finds a table long and sturdy enough for his liking.

"This a good height for you?"

The coffee table is low enough that you'd have to kneel. Luckily getting on your knees isn't something you'd mind doing for Pierre. You lick your lips without thinking. Pierre's pupils blow wide, black swallowing the swirling oceans of blue.

"Sure," is all you manage.

"Good." Apparently neither of you were able to focus on speech. You work together to clear the empty plastic cups and used napkins from the surface. Your hands brush when you both reach for the last cup and you just catch the way Pierre's breath hitches.

You and Pierre have danced this dance since you were teenagers. Each of you knows the steps by heart. The only difference is tonight neither of you were poised to bow out before the final lift.

"Beep beep, bitches!" You yank your hand away when Max's shout reaches you. Pierre's hand lingers in front of him, outstretched as if your palm remained grazing his thumb.

Max holds the bottle of vodka over his head as he wades through the crowd. "You're all about to be very, very entertained."

"Where's your chaperone?" You ask Max, searching for Daniel in the low lighting. You press your palm to your thigh, dissipating Pierre's lingering heat.

The Dutchman waves you off. "Went to get us more drinks. Pierre, isn't it kinda hard to do body shots if you're still fully clothed?"

"Who says I'm the one getting undressed?"

Max's grin dimples his flushed cheeks. "I mean you can ask her to take her shirt off in front of all these people if you want to."

"No," Pierre responds quickly. "Fine. I'll do it."

When Pierre strips off his shirt he gets more than a few whistles from men and women alike. That tended to happen when someone was built like a Greek fucking god, you supposed. Whoever voted for People Magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive" and decided on Michael B. Jordan had clearly never laid eyes on Pierre, with his bronzed skin, endless expanses of muscle, and brilliant cheshire grin.

Michael B. Jordan who?

Pierre hands the team branded shirt off and lays out on the table. He pillows an arm under his head, bare bicep flexed as he gets comfortable. Leaning in to kiss along the hard muscle was out of the question, however tempting it was.

Pierre looks up expectantly. "You coming?"

Holy shit, this was actually happening.

"Yeah, I'm coming." You sink to your knees and Pierre laughs.

"Up here." He pats his thigh with his free hand and beacons you forward. "Please."

Screw it, you've already thrown your friendship out the window. This night ended either in heartbreak or awkwardness, might as well get your money's worth.

A few whoops break out above the music. The bassline isn't the only thing thundering in your chest as you straddle Pierre's thighs, hands braced on his chest.

"Okay?" Pierre whispers for your ears only. You nod with what you hope is a charming smile.

"Alright move," Max says, shooing you back until you're resting on your haunches. Max flicks the cap off the bottle and you grab it to take a long sip.

Max gapes at you and you wipe a hand over your mouth. "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies."

Pierre's thighs tense beneath you in response to your bold declaration. Dozens of Pierre's friends and team members gather around. For all you care, Pierre is the only person in the room.

"Last chance to back out," Max warns. You're too busy tracking the drop of liquid that falls from the neck of the bottle to splash onto the crease of Pierre's abs to bother responding.

"Pour it out." Pierre's chest sinks with his demand, doing nothing but sparking your imagination, creating images of him heaving beneath you. You'd sell your soul to recreate the way you're currently poised above Pierre's hips with a little less clothing and no audience.

Max gives up hope on you replying and dribbles the alcohol up Pierre's abdomen, stopping just below his pecks.

"Have at 'er-"

Your tongue is on Pierre's skin before Max has finished his sentence. You feel the muscle tense beneath your tongue, going rigid at the first contact. The burn of the vodka doesn't even register as you lap it up, catching the drips that fall over his sides.

You aren't sure either of you is breathing. Salty sweat mingles with the sharpness of the alcohol, an afterthought barely worth mentioning.

Blame the liquid courage or blame the high from Pierre's win, but you were confident Pierre was enjoying this just as much as you.

Planting a hand on Pierre's hip, you steal a glance up at him to find him locked on you. You take that as permission to continue, dragging your tongue flat up his stomach and continuing well past where the vodka had been poured. Up between his pecks, over the curve of his throat that bobs beneath your tongue, over his chin until you meet his lips, already parted and waiting.

Neither of you pay the shouts cresting around you any heed. You've both waited too long for this, endured too many almosts and what ifs to let the opportunity slip through your fingers. Your sticky hands cradle Pierre's face, angling it in a way that's to your liking so you can explore more of his mouth. He tastes like whiskey and mint, the juxtaposition of hot and cold scattering your thoughts. One of Pierre's hands finds the nape of your neck when you gasp for air, refusing to let you end the moment.

And it's pure, unending bliss that floods your veins when he nips at your lower lip, swollen and surely reddened from his kiss. His thumb sweeps across the back of your neck while you both fight to catch the breath currently evading you.

Daydreams didn't hold a candle to the real thing. One taste and you were addicted, craving as much as Pierre was willing to give.

"Hey," he murmurs, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a stupidly gorgeous smile.

"That was nice," you tease, tangling your fingers in the silky blond strands of his hair. "I wouldn't be opposed to doing it again."

"Me too. Maybe somewhere where it's just us though. I wouldn't want to scandalize my team any further." You manage to steal another sweet peck before Max hauls you off Pierre.

"Fucking finally," Daniel says, clapping when you're upright again. "Do you know how long I've been trying to orchestrate this? The two of you really are dumber than a box of rocks. I can't believe all it took was Max suggesting body shots to get you two to kiss."

The arm that wraps around your waist feels right. Pierre hasn't hugged you like this before, with his chin resting on your shoulder and his nose nuzzling your neck, but it already feels like home.

Pierre ignores Max completely in favor of pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. "Why don't we go back to my room? I'll pour more alcohol on myself if that's what it takes to convince you."

You're just about to take him up on the offer when one of his team members taps his shoulder. He glances at them impatiently, which the man thankfully doesn't take personally.

"They want some photos with you holding your trophy," he explains, handing a shirt and the star shaped interpretation of the Italian flag to Pierre. "It will only take a few minutes, they promised not to keep you long."

Of course everyone knew exactly where your minds were. Sanity had long since left the premises, tangled up in crisp white sheets. Pierre's entire team and half the Red Bull garage had seen what had gone down while the prix winner was sprawled on that coffee table. There would be no chance of denying it in the morning.

And while you'd never imagined that the first time you'd kiss your best friend would be directly preceded by licking copious amounts of shitty liquor off his super-heated skin, now that you'd experienced it any other way seems forgettable.

Pierre sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I mean, I already have my trophy, but…" your stomach lurches when you realize he means you. Pierre catches the way your mouth hangs open and he shoots you a grin before accepting the real trophy.

"You carry it," he says, not giving you much of a choice as he thrusts it into your hands. "I'm occupied."

You're about to point out that his hands are, in fact, free and that the more likely reason for insisting you carry the trophy was his usual post-race laziness when he slings an arm around your shoulders and tucks you tight to his side.

"Is this okay?" Pierre asks when you involuntarily stiffen. God, it was more than okay, it was perfect, it had just caught you by surprise. You'd only kissed him a handful of minutes ago and Pierre was already wrapped around your finger, smitten as if you'd been a couple for years.

"Yeah no, it's perfect. Simply lovely," you say quickly, stumbling over your words.

"Can I kiss you again?"

Your answer comes in the form of a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. You prop the trophy on your hip and smile up at your race winner.

"You don't have to ask that ever again. My answer is always yes."

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly oneshot #pierre gasly x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 rpf #f1 #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #f1 rpf

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imagine-it-to-be-true · 3 years

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Fix You - Caius Volturi x FemOC Three Shot: Part 2

Hey guys! So, originally, this story was supposed to be a One-shot. But because of the overwhelming amount of requests I’ve received (thank you so much sweeties, by the way), I’ve decided to make it into a three parter. This is part 2, and the first part can be found on my blog. I’m not sure when I get around to writing part 3 as uni starts back up today, but I’ll try my best not to keep you in suspense for too long. This part is more centred around chaos than romance. Nothing belongs to me (including the GIF) Also, warnings: violence, blood, death.

Andromeda’s POV

The sensations were weird. First, I had been in a lot of pain around my stomach region. I could hardly breathe, let alone express my pain to the handsome-yet-creepy, blonde stranger taking care of me. Though I’m sure he knew. I mean, even I knew I was dying, and he was helpless to save me, so I didn’t bother speaking. I could see the concern in his eyes and hear his sweet whisperings as he stroked my cheeks and wiped away my tears. But these little comforts were not enough to stop the hurt. Then, when I saw him holding a huge syringe, it sent me into panic mode. I never liked needles, not to mention ones which were about to inject unfamiliar liquids into me. But he reassured me it would help, which calmed me down. Not like I could defend myself in that moment anyways. I guess it couldn’t hurt me more. It turned out he was right. After a few minutes, I noticed the pain slowly going away. Maybe it wasn’t the liquid, but the fast-approaching release of death, I wasn’t sure. My cries began to slow, and I could feel more pleasant sensations, such as the pale man stroking my hand with his thumb, gently massaging circles into it. Then, he asked,

“What is your name, omorfiá mou?”

Gasping for air, I attempted to speak,

“Andromeda,” came my whispered reply. With my half-opened eyes, I was able to see his perfect lips draw up in a smile. Focusing on his features, I didn’t even realize that my pain was entirely gone, and I was feeling rather loopy. I watched the man bend down closer to me, brushing my hair back and running his ice-cold knuckles down the side of my neck. Suddenly I felt a sense of vulnerability. I felt his cool breath hitting my ear as he whispered,

“Do not be afraid. You will live forever. You are mine now, and I will never let anything hurt you again.” I was confused and fear began to resurface. I had gotten away from one creep, only to be taken by another. This man scared me to my core. But before I could dwell on my thoughts, I saw him quickly lean down towards my neck, as if he was about to kiss me. That was not what happened.

Indeed, I momentarily felt his cool lips touch the sensitive skin of my neck. But then a sharp pain erupted. Whatever it was that he injected into me was definitely helping. I was aching again, though differently this time. It was a dull, electrifying, fiery sensation, which immediately spread from my neck to my brain, and all the way down to the tips of my toes. My body was on fire, but it was not as intense. If one were to be scratched over and over and over again, pain would increase. This was what I was going through. It was continuous and that was making it worse. An hour had passed, then two, then I lost count. I couldn’t see anything anymore, my vision clouded. Yet I could still hear him. He never seemed to leave. Others would come and go. Time would pass and I would feel needles in my arms. I assume he kept injecting me with whatever it was, which managed my pain; probably morphine. I learned his name was Caius from others who had come in and spoken to him. Caius. What an unusual name. But it fit him.

He had injected so much morphine into me that the dull burning sensation eventually stopped. That, or perhaps I adjusted to it. I could not tell how much time had passed, but by now, it had been a while, for sure. I had given up. If it were not for his constant voice, and feeling of his icy hands touching my own, I would have believed I passed on. But eventually, my vision slowly began to return. I hadn’t felt injections in hours, and no pain returned, which was strange.

The entire time I lay there, presumably dying, I thought of my life. Who would miss me? I had no parents. Both died in a car crash when I was 12. I was in the back seat and miraculously survived. Given no time to adjust to the tragedy, I was immediately placed in a foster home in New Haven, where I experienced endless amounts of bullying. But as with all foster children, my stay was temporary. For the next five years, I bounced from one home to the next. This made me reserved, quiet, and untrusting. I was socially awkward and had very few friends. My main comforts came from the company of animals. Truthfully, I got used to this solitary existence, finding that I expressed myself better through storytelling than the spoken word. In fact, my unfortunate childhood did not impact my standing at school. I was always a good student, and this landed me a fully paid scholarship to NYU where I completed a double degree in journalism and history. The lack of family and friends allowed me to dedicate all my time to my studies and work, which was conducting research for my professor. Then, after graduating, I decided to make a drastic change and start fresh with a move to Europe. For the last two years, I had spent my time travelling several countries and writing articles on historical artifacts, buildings, and churches. I sold my stories to networks as a freelance historical journalist, living alone and moving often from place to place. In fact, Volterra was my last stop in Europe before I planned to relocate to Egypt and focus on Pharaonic history there. Not many of Volterra’s tourists knew about the building I had been photographing, which was off the main street and down an alleyway. It was not glamorous, but historic, which drove me to it. That is where I was and what I was doing when I was suddenly grabbed and dragged into a dark alleyway.

My life had been flashing before my eyes over and over again. I wanted to live. To do better. To be better. I was sick of being alone. So, when my vision began returning, I was filled with motivation to live. Really live. Finally, I could focus my eyes. I stared up at what appeared to be a bed canopy. It was velvet, and dark red in color. To my right, I could sense the smell of burning candles. It was so prominent that it made my nose burn. My hands were balled into fists, grasping the cotton sheets and I could see that I ripped holes in them. How much pain was I in that I ripped a bedsheet with my bare hands? I then noticed something strange. I was not breathing. Since when was I not breathing? This frightened me immensely, and I bolted into an upright sitting position. As I did, the bed violently shook. The canopy swayed as if it would collapse at any second. Did I do this? I’m a weak little girl who couldn’t even fight off a drunk man in an alleyway, how was I doing all this? I heard a sound to my left and immediately snapped my head towards the source. It was a young woman – girl more like it – that I did not recognize. She had strange red eyes, much like my rescuer. But she frightened me more than him. There was a certain evil surrounding her, I could sense it. How, I did not know. All I knew was that she did not wish me well.

“Hello, Andromeda.” She spoke coolly.

I looked at her, suspicion and confusion painted over my face.

“H-how do you know my name?”

“Master Caius told me.”

‘Master?’ that sounded strange. Not something a girl would call a man. What was this, a sex trafficking operation? Before I could speak, she continued.

“He has been by your side. He will return any minute now. He went out hunting for you.” She spoke like an information-giving robot: just spewing facts, unmoving, her expression unchanging.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Hunting… that’s not necessary. I- I don’t eat meat.” Her expression finally changed. Her smirk transformed into a creepy smile, and she let out a laugh.

“Believe me, dear girl. It is not exactly meat he will be returning with.” She turned on her heels and stormed out of the room. Two guards opened the bedroom door for her and shut it as she left. So, they have my room guarded. I guess they aren’t going to let me leave.

I was not in a hurry; I needed to see Caius. Thank him. And ask him how he was able to fix me. Was I remembering correctly that he bit me?! What a strange thing to do. I looked down on my stomach, which was completely injury-free. Then, I reached my hand to the back of my neck, trying to feel any bitemarks there. Nothing. What the hell? I did not understand. I had a lot of questions and needed answers, the most pressing of which was why my throat was on fire. I would have asked the girl, but something in me yelled to keep my distance from her; that she was dangerous. Slowly, I stood up from the bed, noticing that the white dress I had on when I was shot was no longer on me. Instead, I wore a soft, white nightgown, with lace on the collar. It seemed like a typical garment from Tudor England, or something. It was unlike anything I had seen in any mall or shop. Come to think of it, the entire room had a historic, gothic feel to it. The décor resembled a royal palace.

My feet hit the marble floor and I began walking around the room, making my way to the bookshelf. There, a massive assortment of books awaited. However, they were not the typical books one would find in a normal home. These were all historic and ancient. I picked up a copy of the Iliad. Looking at the bindings, I could tell the book was old. More interestingly, it was still written in Homeric Greek – not a language many would be able to read. Whoever this belongs to was most definitely smart.

Suddenly, I felt the burning in my throat worsen. The sensation intensified to the point where I was nearly panicking. Ready to run for the doors and ask the guards for help, I heard footsteps approaching.

The door swung open, and the man… Caius walked in. No longer dying, I could properly admire his features. He looked perfect, truly. Not a single flaw on his face or skin. His nearly white, blonde hair carefully combed back behind his ears. He moved towards where I was sat in an armchair and knelt in front of me. Immediately, I was filled with a calmness. It was like I was home. I cannot describe it completely, but it was as if all problems were erased, and I was safe. This was the second time I managed to judge a person based on feelings, all within the last few minutes. First with the young woman from earlier, and now Caius. Before he could speak, the feeling was gone, and replaced once again with unease and danger, as I watched the young woman reappear, dragging a man by his wrist. Behind her, the guards entered the room and stood on either side of the man. I could feel that he was not dangerous, as the fear was practically radiating off him. The woman stepped behind him and gave him a push towards me.

“Dinner,” she stated coldly. I looked from her to the frightened man, to Caius. I could see annoyance on his face, as he turned to her and spoke.

“Must you, Jane? Do you not know of patience?”

“Forgive me, Master Caius. You were not one to show patience often, and I do learn from you.” She stated simply.

When Caius turned to me, I was grasping my throat, which was burning almost unbearably. “What is happening?!” I choked out.

“I know this will not make sense to you right now, and I will explain everything, I promise. But the only thing that will stop the ache is if you drink blood. You need to drink this man’s blood.” Caius whispered to me, out of earshot of the poor man.

I froze and looked at him with wide eyes, face in complete and utter shock.

“WHAT?! What did you just say?!” I exclaimed, not believing what I heard.

He sighed and leaned in once again, whispering. “In order to save your life from your injuries, I was forced to turn you into a vampire. You need blood, and you need it now. Trust me.” He tried again.

“I WILL NOT! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!” Hastily standing, I pushed him away. My intention was to give him a normal, hard push so that he gets the message. But nothing prepared me for what happened. When I pushed him, he went flying across the room and hitting a marble column, which shattered on impact. Immediately, the room was filled with noise and dust as the column went crashing down around him. I pushed myself into the corner of the room and watched in terror. That impact would have killed an elephant. Yet Caius, simply rose, brushing dust off his blazer and pants. The evil woman – Jane as he called her – appeared emotionless as she turned her attention from Caius to me.

“Fine. More for us then,” she said. What followed, was simply too much for me to handle.

First, I heard Caius yelling, “Jane, NO!” In one swift motion, she tore the frightened man’s throat with her teeth. Blood gushed out from the wound, spilling all over the white marble floor. I screamed in terror. But what was even more terrifying than the poor man’s death, was the smell of his blood. It was driving me crazy. It was like nothing I had ever experienced it. I craved it. Needed it. And was so close to taking it all for myself. But with any remaining strength I had left, I stopped myself. This was not me. I was a vegetarian because I cared for the well-being of animals. There was not a thing in the world which would force me to do anything to harm another living soul. So, I curled up in a ball in my corner and rocked back and forth, trying to focus my senses on anything other than the delicious smell of blood.

“I will deal with you later. Take him and leave, now!” I heard Caius’ voice. “You are not to come here again; you are not to see her! Now go!”

“Yes, Master Caius.” I heard her disgusting, venomous voice once again as she left. The doors closed and the room was filled with silence.

I momentarily thought Caius left too, but then I felt the sensation of safety return to me.

“How did I do that?” I ask with a shaking voice.

“You are a new vampire. For the first few weeks, you will be stronger than the rest of us. This will pass, and you will adjust.” He said gently.

I continued hugging my knees and rocking. Caius continued.

“This is not how a newborn should experience the first moments. But Andromeda…” he hesitated, “You need to feed. If you do not, it will only get worse. Your awareness will seize to function, and you will eventually kill more than you would have otherwise.”

With no response from me, Caius reached for my hands, placing his own over them. This woke a rage inside of me. I grasped his wrists and pushed him backwards. His back hit the wall, not as hard this time. I began speaking.

“You did this to me. You made me this… this… monster. This is on you. You should have let me die. Now, because of your selfish need for heroism, I will murder countless others.”

We both rose to our feet. He gently approached me again, saying my name, but I held my hand up to block him. “Get out. I don’t ever want to see you again. I hate you.”

With that, I pushed him towards the direction of the door. He paused,

“Andromeda-”

“GET OUT!” I picked up a glass vase and threw it in his direction, and he finally left. I sat down on the cold marble tiles, pressing my back against the wall, and screamed in agony.

#caius volturi #caius #twilight #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #volturi #volturi imagine #oneshot requests #oneshots #vampire #love #romance #hurt comfort #jane volturi

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blindingdutchy · 3 years

Text

lamentation | FOUR

{peter parker x fem!reader AU}

based on All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven

SERIES MASTERLIST

word count: 3,907

warnings: angst, talk of death/tragedy, a little fluff

18+!!! minors stay away

At school the following week you were more than a little embarrassed. Peter Parker had seen you outside of school twice, and both times you'd been a crying, hysterical mess. Granted, you were a hysterical mess all the time anymore, but you usually kept that very well suppressed. Then along came Peter, and suddenly there was another person outside of your family who knew just how messed up you were.

He didn't mention it, which you were thankful for. You could see that he was concerned, though, with the way his eyes seemed to linger on you during every silence. His worry and pity only made you more resentful of the things you had shown him.

You'd shown up to school the morning after he showed up in your room, and you weren't at all surprised to see him lingering by your locker with an antsy jitter as he rocked back and forth on his feet. What had surprised you, though, was the fact that once he saw you were present he simply nodded at you and walked away. Was that his idea of a truce? An understanding?

Whatever it was, you had been thankful for it. The last thing you had wanted that morning was to talk to Peter, knowing he'd certainly want to talk about the events of the night, and you were relieved to get a little break from his constant presence. He still sat by you in classes, but he didn't pester with you his usual chatter, nor did he follow you to your locker even once.

The trend had continued for most of the week, and you had to admit you were starting to feel a little more isolated without his overbearing company. It was strange--you almost, emphasis on almost, missed him. You'd grown used to ignoring his borderline stalker-like tendencies, and now without him around to ignore, you felt lonely. Lonelier than you already had been, anyways.

At home, things were just as cold and distant. Your mother was in a slump again following your outburst at dinner, and you were beating yourself up over it endlessly. She'd been doing good, finally, and you'd just had to have gone and ruined all of her progress.

She'd been holed up in her bedroom ever since that evening. Not even your father was able to get her to let him in, and in turn he was banished to the sofa night after night. As such, you were feeling the ice from your mother and your father alike. You couldn't blame him, really, because the sofa was definitely not the most comfortable for sleeping.

It felt a little like your life was falling apart all over again since your birthday. The childish, bitter part of you wanted to blame Peter, because it would have been so easy to blame the only thing that had changed in your life, but you knew better. It was you. You were the cause for everything that was going wrong, and you didn't know how to stop it.

Why couldn't you just be better? The whole world was moving on, making progress, and yet you were stagnant. You didn't understand why you couldn't let go of all the heavy things holding you down, holding you back, but you just couldn't. Grieving her wasn't getting easier, and you didn't know how to try and make that change.

"Are you alright?"

Startled by the sudden return of Peter's voice, you jumped in your seat and blinked at him in surprise. It had been such a long week of near radio silence from him that you were shocked to be acknowledged by him, despite the fact that you'd been sitting beside him for the entirety of your Speech class. You'd almost started to wonder if maybe he was ignoring you, though you didn't exactly try to talk to him either.

Quietly, you mumbled, "Not really, but that's normal these days."

It was only then that you realized class was over, students packing up and filing out of the classroom eagerly in anticipation of the weekend. You'd been far more spaced out than you had thought--it felt like just moments ago you were sitting down and waiting for class to begin. You awkwardly began to pack up your untouched classwork and Peter did the same, neither of you quite sure what to say to the other.

Ever since she died, you had an uncanny ability to make any and every situation uncomfortable without really trying. It started with your inability to contain your emotions in response to the thousands of condolences you received over those first few days, and then the more you secluded yourself it only got worse. People looked at you strangely and whispered when they thought you couldn't hear them. They thought you were a ticking time bomb, and in a sense they were correct.

Maybe that was the reason you weren't quite as adamant about pushing Peter away as you were others. He didn't look at you that way, nor did he whisper hushed words about you that would surely make your ears burn when you overheard. Both times that he had seen you in a horrible state, he'd only looked at you with concern and worry. Not once had you seen him give you those all too familiar apprehensive stares, and you were grateful for it.

Realizing you were moving at a strangely slow pace, and Peter was anxiously waiting for you to finish, you cleared your throat and muttered, "Do you want to start the project tomorrow? Or tonight, if you're not busy."

"Um," Peter stammered, not bothering to hide his surprise at your offer, "sure. Tonight is fine if--if that's okay with you."

The two of you stared at each other in silence for a moment, neither of you quite comfortable with the sudden change in atmosphere. Zipping your backpack, you stated, "Yeah, great."

"Great!" Peter echoed, and you both turned and hurried away from each other in discomfort.

When you told your father that Peter Parker was coming over that night you weren't entirely sure what to expect. The reaction you received, however was so far off your radar it scared you a little. He'd nearly wept with joy, kissing your cheek and saying he was proud of you for making friends again, to which you retorted Peter wasn't your friend.

He could tell it was a lie, despite the fact that under normal circumstances Peter definitely wouldn't have been considered a friend. For you, now and after everything you'd been through, he was the closest thing you had to a friend, though. So, you resisted the urge to fight your father on the premise and let him run off to boast to your mother about it.

Even if you felt like you weren't making progress, it couldn't hurt to let your parents think that you were. You were trying, anyways, so you didn't feel quite as guilty about letting them read too much into things. You just hoped that they didn't get their hopes up too high, because there was still time for you to mess things up like you always did.

You spent the afternoon cleaning your room and wallowing in your anxiety. The project was something you were dreading starting, mostly because you knew it would bring up all sorts of negative memories and emotions for you, but also because you feared what Peter would think of you. Would he judge you for your opinions? Would he think you were bitter and ridiculous?

For awhile you contemplated all the ways you could try and lie to appease him, thinking of ways to keep your composure well enough to debate on behalf of superheroes. In the end, though, you knew it was impossible. Arguing against the Avengers was going to be hard enough in itself, let alone trying to pretend you were in favor of them. Was it too late to ask for an alternate assignment?

Peter Parker: hey i'm on my way

Peter Parker: if that's okay. if you're busy that's fine too

It was definitely too late to ask for an alternate assignment, and as you typed out your response you decided it was time for you to finally start trying to do better. You'd wished for things to be easier, to be better, for so long, yet you'd never put in any of the work to make it happen. It was time for that to change. You were going to do the project, fight your stance to Peter, and try your best to not ruin his opinion of you completely in the process.

You: yeah that's fine

You: my mom says you can stay for dinner

You: if you want... if not that's cool you probably have other things to do

Okay, you were definitely biting off more than you could chew. Reading over your awkward texts to Peter made you cringe in a bad way, and you felt nauseous with embarrassment. It was so, so unbelievably hard trying to be approachable after you'd spent the past year pushing everyone away. The fear of him rejecting you was sending shockwaves through your entire body, tingling your skin all the way to the tips of your toes.

To your relief, Peter responded to let you know he was okay with staying for dinner, and informed you that he was on his way. You shot off a remark about using the door this time, and then promptly threw your phone away in shame. What if he thought you were being rude instead of joking? Or worse, what if he knew you were joking and thought it was stupid? Socializing was a real drain on your energy.

By the time Peter arrived with a timid knock on your bedroom door, followed by your mother's coo, "Oh, honey, just go on in. She's never doing anything," you had successfully stressed yourself into oblivion. You were so consumed by your thoughts you almost didn't notice her throwing open your door with a beaming grin, but the sound of Peter's uncomfortable laughter snapped you out of your daze.

"Uh, hi." you squeaked, suddenly extremely self conscious of your bedroom. He'd seen it before, obviously, but this time it was actually swathed in lamp light and the evening sun. "You can sit."

Peter stood in silence, studying your room with an indecipherable look on his face for a long moment. "It's nice in here." he finally stated, dropping his backpack and letting that easy grin slip across his lips for the first time in the past week. It was incredibly relieving to see it, and you even found yourself relaxing a little.

He sat on the edge of your bed and both of you turned to your mother curiously as she continued to stand in your doorway with a tearful smile. Jumping in shock, she gasped, "Oh, right, right. I'll just be downstairs if you need anything. It was lovely to meet you, Peter."

With one last lingering gaze, your mother backed out of the room and shut the door. That was how you knew this was a special occasion in her eyes--what sane mother would ever shut her teenage daughter in a bedroom with a teenage boy willingly? It had been a long while since you'd genuinely felt embarrassed, but you couldn't help but to groan and cover your face at the whole situation.

Peter, however, seemed thoroughly amused by everything. "Your mom is a lot like my Aunt May." he mused, twinkling brown eyes trailing over every inch of your room, "Your room is huge. I think I could fit my entire bedroom in here three times and still have extra space."

"I used to share it with my sister."

He paled at your statement and stuttered, "Oh, shit, I'm so--I'm so sorry. I didn't know--"

"Peter, it's fine." you interrupted his frantic apology, and for what felt like the first time ever, you meant it.

It was fine. You didn't feel angry or bitter about the reminder of her disappearance from your life, and it was strange to you. You liked it, though, and it felt nice to talk about her without being bogged down by thousands of horrible thoughts and feelings.

Relaxing only slightly at your reassurance, Peter looked at you wearily as if he expected you to start crying or lash out at him. To his, and your own, surprise you gave a small smile. That still felt wrong; it didn't come very naturally to you anymore, but Peter seemed mesmerized by it none the less.

The sight of your permanent frown disappearing from your face gave him the confidence to move on from the uncomfortable topic, it seemed, because he grinned back and moved to unzip his backpack. "Okay, so, first thing's first--have you read the outline for the project? It's ridiculously broad and I've been struggling to think of any ideas to make our speech unique." he rambled, rifling through the crumpled mess of papers he retrieved from his bag until he finally found what he was looking for.

You slid your smooth, unwrinkled copy across the bed and asked, "Shouldn't we start with which stance we're taking?"

Peter blinked at you, and you tensed in preparation for the argument that was about to ensue. "What do you mean? I thought it was just a given that we were arguing in favor of the Avengers?" he questioned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, "I mean, I'm pretty sure everyone is going to."

"I wanted to argue in opposition, actually." you muttered, pursing your lips. "That could be what makes ours stand out, you know?"

His lips opened and closed like a fish for a few moments as he clearly struggled to formulate words, but eventually he sputtered, "Is that the only reason why? I don't know if I can argue against myself, considering I kind of am an Avenger."

You chewed at the inside of your cheek, already wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Letting Peter into your space, into your life, was already hard enough--adding conflict into the mix only made your heart rate pick up and your hands start to sweat. "I don't agree with the Avengers, no, but I have reasons. So, maybe you feel weird arguing against yourself, but I feel just as weird arguing in favor of something I don't agree with." you finally explained, and Peter's eyes widened incredulously.

"Why don't you like the Avengers?"

You nearly scoffed at the way he posed the question, as if he were asking you why you weren't a fan of a specific sports team. "I don't agree with them, there's a difference." you stated bluntly.

Peter wiped his palms on his jeans tensely, just as you did the same, and repeated, "Why, though? What's not to agree with? They--they've saved the world over and over again, isn't that impossible to not agree with?"

"At what cost, though?" you retorted, "Have you paid any mind to all the things they've destroyed? How many lives they've ended, or destroyed, in the midst of their heroic deeds?"

He seemed to get riled up by the bitter way you spat out the word heroic and scoffed, "Okay, but that doesn't just happen with the Avengers. The police do all of that and more on a much more frequent basis."

You raised your eyebrows challengingly, though you had to admit it was a fair counter argument. Clicking your tongue, you rebutted, "That's true, but at least sometimes there are consequences for that! With people like the Avengers there are no consequences. There's no justice, no opposition, nothing! They can do whatever they want, whenever they want, no matter who gets hurt in the process."

Peter stood from your bed abruptly, raking a hand through his hair and pacing around your room with red cheeks. You could tell very well that he was trying to control his temper, though he was about as intimidating as a mouse, and you took deep breathes yourself. The last thing you wanted to do was to make him angry with you, but you weren't willing to back down about how you felt.

Inhaling slowly, he turned to you once again and said, "There are consequences. Don't you remember the Sokovia Accords? That whole fiasco was because of people who felt like you do."

The Sokovia Accords were a sham in your eyes. You remembered well when they had come about, and it seemed that they had changed nothing. For awhile most of the Avengers had gone off the grid, choosing to be international fugitives rather than sign, until the world needed them again. When Thanos had tried to wipe out half of all life in the universe they'd all come out of the woodwork again to save the day, and afterward it seemed as if all was forgotten.

There was no punishment for Captain America, Black Widow, none of them. They stopped another world ending event, causing plenty of damage in the process, and in turn were regarded as godly heroes once again. You sometimes wondered if the Accords were even a thing anymore.

"They felt that way for good reason!" you snapped before clearing your throat and trying to calm down again, "The Avengers have caused just as much devastation as they've prevented, maybe even more."

Peter jumped at your loud tone and snapped back, "What would you even know about it? I see it first hand every time, remember, so I know what happens! What do you know?"

"They killed my sister, did you know that?" you shouted, and he froze in place with wide eyes and parted lips, "Yeah, you know what happens, right? Well then you should know that I know damn well the damage the Avengers can do."

He sat back down on your bed wordlessly, watching you hesitantly as you tugged at a loose thread on your blanket anxiously. "I didn't know that, (Y/N)," he sighed, "I'm really sorry."

You didn't say anything for a long while, not trusting your voice to come out steady as you tried to hold back tears and also keep your temper in line. Talking about your sister's death wasn't something you really did, mostly because you knew it would cause you to break down. It hurt too much to think of it, let alone speak the words out loud.

But, as Peter continued to watch you as if expecting you to explode, you tried your best, "It was my fault. If it weren't for me we wouldn't have been at the park, and she--and she wouldn't have had to wait for me."

Peter reached out and gripped your hand firmly in his, causing you to momentarily short circuit in shock. You internally battled the conflicting urges to pull away or cling to him, but eventually you relaxed into the contact. Gently grasping his hand back, you let out a shaky breathe you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

It was grounding having his hand in yours. You didn't feel like you were at risk of drifting away into the void like you usually did; with his hand touching you, it felt as if you had a secure connection to the world again. It was a feeling you never wanted to lose again.

"It wasn't your fault, (Y/N)," he soothed, but you shook your head stubbornly.

Your eyes burned as you continued, "It was! She wanted to go shopping but I begged her to come to the park with me instead. I wanted to take some photos, and she'd argued with me for so long until she finally caved. A little bit after we got there we heard this really loud explosion, and I just--I just froze, and I..."

The words seemed to lodge in your throat, and your voice came out hoarse as you forced them out, "I froze staring up at Iron Man blasting some alien through the air, so stupidly shocked I didn't notice the building collapsing until she pushed me out of the way. I tried to grab her, but it was too late! A bunch of bricks hit her and--"

"Hey, hey, you don't have to tell me." Peter hushed you, gripping your hand tighter and scooting so close to you that his leg was pressed up against yours. Somehow the increased contact and warmth caused you to break, and suddenly you were crying in front of Peter Parker for the third time. You were three for three on crying in his presence, a thought that made you cry harder in embarrassment.

He didn't seem to care at all, though, as he took you by surprise and hugged you. "He just flew right by us. He didn't even stop when I screamed for help." you croaked, clutching Peter's shirt tightly in your fists as he held you, "I hate them. I hate them so much because it should be their fault, but I just keep blaming myself!"

You really hoped your mother wasn't eavesdropping, because she'd surely have wanted to talk to you about everything later. In all the time that had passed since your sister's death, you hadn't once retold the events of that day. You'd never spoken a single word about it, not even to the police who questioned you following the incident.

No matter how hard your parents had urged you to talk about it, or your therapist, you hadn't ever budged. It was your burden to bear, and you had never felt the desire or the strength to impart that load unto anyone else. Peter somehow broke down all of your walls without even trying, though, and it felt like a breathe of fresh air to finally get it all off of your chest.

There was no explanation for why he seemed to get you to do all the things you swore you never would without a word. It made no sense at all, and it scared you a lot, but you liked it. You craved the connection he gave you. Already, after such a short amount of time, you needed it. It would surely have crushed you if he decided not to care.

As your crying slowly subsided, Peter rubbed your back timidly and comforted, "It wasn't your fault, (Y/N), I mean it. It was just a freak thing, and you couldn't have done anything to stop it--sometimes bad things just happen, and they're inevitable."

"But, if I had just--"

He cut you off, "No, no buts. It wasn't your fault and you couldn't have prevented it. Trust me, I know exactly how you feel, okay? It wasn't my fault, and it wasn't your fault either."

You wanted to ask him how he could possibly know what you felt, or what he meant by saying it wasn't his fault, but it wasn't the right time. Pulling away and wiping your eyes, you sniffled, "I really need to stop crying in front of you. You're like an onion, you know? I just can't stop crying when you're around me."

Peter laughed loudly at your weak joke, and you couldn't fight back the quiet giggle the escaped your lips too. You hadn't laughed, genuinely laughed, in so long. "I like your laugh," he breathed, and your stomach erupted in the strangest fluttery sensation, "I like it a lot. You should never stop laughing."

SERIEST TAGLIST {ask to be added}:

@msmimimerton @zendayasfwb @sweet-symphony

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maybe-itll-be-someday · 3 years

Text

How Far We’ll Go

Thank you, as always, to the immeasurably wonderful @jetaime-jespere for her support, friendship, and beta of this chapter.

I am a better writer with every word because of you.

Read on AO3.

Chapter 16

By the time flowers bloom from small buds aided by the warmth of spring, they celebrate Jack's seventh birthday at a local park and she stops monopolizing Aaron’s every thought.

The passing months had dulled the persistent ache in his chest - the one that had set him on edge after the wedding, traces of her perfume in his nose and her taste on his tongue. He had pressed his phone to his ear, a blush of a mark that she had drawn on the base of his collarbone, with absolutely no clue as to what he wanted to say. He just wants to hear her voice and ask her why.

Aaron tries for three days, her new number practically burned into his keypad as he dials the same thirteen digits over and over again. The night on that balcony was a sliver of hope, a small flicker that ignited a flame he had thought had long gone out. But the flame is extinguished as fast as it starts, doused by the never-ending dial tone in his ear and dozens of unreturned calls.

She never answers and he decides that he isn’t going to spend his life waiting for a phone call that would never come.

Aaron perfects a routine that avoids anything too reminiscent of her. He gets the strength to clear the expired creamer in his fridge he's conveniently forgotten about, tossing the shampoo bottle that's been nearly empty for months, and gifts the cat mug to Garcia who was none the wiser as to its previous owner. He starts to drink coffee at the office instead of at home and drives to and from work in a route that avoids the park they used to train at and the cafe where he first realized that his feelings had morphed into something soft and sweet, like the lemon curd pancakes that she used to order.

Now, he and Jack eat waffles on Sundays.

She meets Mark through a friend, being pushed into a conversation by their mutual connection, who insisted that they would get along. Emily resents the introduction, but feigns interest and agrees because she's lonely and for once, she doesn't want to think about the way the rough edges of brick pressed into her back as he drilled into her, as desperate and erratic as she felt.

Mark is surprisingly engaging, witty and smart as he talks about his work in corporate law, specializing in mergers and acquisitions. He's incredibly normal - filling his days with visiting his parents on the weekends and running when he can squeeze it into his calendar. His eyes light up when he talks about how he enjoys kayaking in the mornings and Emily is jealous of the seemingly simple life he lived. She finds herself drawn to the light he exudes because all she's known is shadows, secrets lurking with threats of unravelling the composure she's carefully built. He's bright and unscathed, and she wants a taste of what that's like.

When he slips her his number, soft and sweet into her palm, she blushes.

She tries to ignore that his eyes aren't the shade of brown that she wants and promises to call him.

Mark is sweet and persistent, insisting on seeing her again. She's hesitant at first, her breath hitching when he asks if she wants to get dinner the following Saturday, if she wasn't travelling for work. He has a very minimal understanding of what she did and for that, she's grateful, avoiding having to relive memories she isn’t interested in sharing.

She realizes that she'll probably never be truly honest with him, but says yes anyways.

He's easy to read. He's nervous, evident by the constant tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves, unconsciously fidgeting the small buttons between his fingers. He tries to impress her with his knowledge of wine, but quickly admits that he really didn't know the difference between wines aside from being red and white. She laughs and orders a Merlot that she loves and asks him what it’s like to be a corporate lawyer.

The conversation flows easily as does the wine, swapping book recommendations and Mark insisting that she would love hiking and that he would take her sometime. When the wine blurs her vision slightly, he kisses her and they end up back at her apartment, their clothes strewn across the living room as he touches her nervously as if she was made of glass. He's clumsy and unsure, fumbling with the zipper of the black dress she wore and spends a while attempting to unhook her bra. He finishes before she does and she barely gets anywhere, the coil in her abdomen tight with no relief in sight.

She slips into her shower when he falls asleep, muscles taut and tense, a stalled release still deep in her. She turns her shower head to the highest pressure and lets the warm water beat on her skin as she stroked herself, chasing the release that she needed after months of large piles of paperwork and being pulled away on one case after another.

Emily thinks of him, the veins on his forearms that formed ridges underneath his skin, thick and bulging as his fingers stretched her open. How he had curled right there and flicked just like this and it isn't long until she's toppling over the edge with the well-worn memories of him seared into the back of her eyelids.

She slips into bed next to Mark when her muscles are looser, the warm shower and orgasm dissipating the remaining tension she's been carrying around for weeks. She stiffens when she realizes that all the covers are pulled over around him, leaving no warmth on her side of the bed and she fights the annoyance that flashes through her and the subsequent pang in her chest.

She hated it when they hogged the covers.

The next morning, he makes her breakfast of eggs that he had run to the store to get while she was asleep.

Mark’s in her kitchen, using the only pan that she owns because she really doesn't cook aside from easy mixes she could throw together quickly, and makes her slightly overdone scrambled eggs and apologizes for falling asleep last night and wants to see her again. He's still nervous, fidgeting with last night's clothes that he had thrown on in an attempt to look decent, and she doesn't have the heart to say no .

Mark is uncomplicated and distracting and she wants to be distracted.

He smiles wide and drops a kiss on her lips before saying that he had plans with his sister and would call her later.

The eggs are left untouched on the counter.

She makes chocolate chip pancakes instead.

He meets a museum curator named Beth when he volunteers to chaperone Jack’s field trip. He had snuck away from the rest of the group, choosing to wander over to the classical art section as the kids ran mayhem in the dinosaur exhibit downstairs. His ears were starting to ring from the loud, high-pitched conversations about the stegosaurus and figures that a break would save his sanity.

He’s staring at a painting that is adorned with broad strokes of red. It’s an abstract piece of work, the lines fluid and dancing across the canvas. The movement reminds him of waves of red fabric, draped across ivory thighs and falling with every thrust of his hips.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A light voice chimes, shattering the memory and suddenly reminding him where he is. He turns to the sound of the voice and his breath is slightly knocked out of his chest.

A pair of dark brown eyes are staring up on him, accompanied by a bright smile and deep dimples. Long brunette locks cascading like waves down her shoulder, a lightness to her that he doesn’t think he’s seen before. She radiates light.

He isn’t used to it - his entire life had somehow been shaded in different layers of darkness. His father’s calloused knuckles, Haley and his divorce, Haley’s death, Emily’s sudden departure after a taste of what his life could’ve been like. Things that brought him light were usually ripped away, torn from his hands at the seams. He’s used to lurking in the darkness.

“It’s gorgeous.” He says and she smiles.

Later, with her number saved into his phone and promises to call if he wanted to come back for a private art tour, Aaron wonders if she can help shine a light on the darkness that was determined to follow him around.

Emily doesn’t know what’s wrong.

She doesn’t know why her temper flares ever so slightly when his soft palm flexes over her knee. Why when she feels the slenderness of his fingers against her thigh, her first instinct is to pull away.

Her temper flares when he leaves his clothes in the bathroom like a child, the mirror covered in streaks from his fingerprints. She savors being alone at night, glad to not have his cold toes accidentally brush against her calf and his annoying habit of monopolizing the covers on his side.

On nights where she’s alone, grateful for his absence, she tips whiskey into an empty glass and savors the burn of the alcohol.

She used to hate dark liquor.

Now, she doesn’t know what she’d do without it.

There’s something about Beth that Aaron can’t quite place.

She’s kind and sweet. She’s smart and passionate about art. Her entire being lights up, her expression animated as she talks to him about the difference between the key differences between Greek and Roman art styles. She drinks tea and loves pop music and brings a smile to his face when she pulls on his hand to dance with him in the middle of her living room on a rare Friday night when Jack is with Jessica while Katy Perry is playing in the background.

Beth makes him smile and for a split second when her lips are on his, he forgets the hole in his chest that he’s gotten better at hiding with time.

It still doesn’t stop his dreams to be filled with memories of her, of maple syrup and of cups of coffee that grew cold on his kitchen island in favor of playing pirates with Jack, or of mornings spent watching the soft morning light dance on crumpled sheets and gentle curves.

Beth is uncomplicated and distracting, and he wants to be distracted.

On a quiet Sunday, he brings her to the cafe that he once frequented. His memories of the place had dulled, now blurred by the passage of time. He wants to make new memories - those untouched by the memory of lemon curd pancakes and their bikes sitting on the rack in front. He holds Beth’s hand loosely in his and guides her through an old routine still embedded in his muscles.

A sting of familiarity hits him, seeing Beth read a menu he thinks once upon a time he could have recited front and back. She orders french toast and a chai tea, which he points out is actually translated to tea tea. He expects her to roll her eyes and sarcastically reply, but instead Beth just smiles and giggles.

He ignores the pang in his chest when he realizes who he really expected that reaction from.

“Is the food okay?” Beth asks out of the blue, snapping Aaron out of his reverie.

“Oh yeah.” He pushes a piece of bacon to the side, suddenly losing all of his appetite. “Just not as hungry as I thought I was.”

Maybe there were just some places where she would always haunt him.

When he drops her off at her house, she wraps her arms around his waist and gives him a soft peck.

He catches a whiff of her shampoo and he realizes what it was that he couldn’t place.

Her hair smells like oranges.

He swallows the lump in his throat and promises to call her.

He buys a bundle of oranges before he goes home, determined to rewire his brain to prefer orange to lavender.

By the time the leaves start to fall, he’s forgotten what lavender smells like.

By the time the leaves start to fall, she feels like she’s simply going through the motions.

She floats through it all - a seemingly mindless blur of passing days. She floats through her days with Mark, her cases with Interpol, and her life in London.

Until one day, she sinks.

She loses someone on her team after a year of being their unit chief.

Peters was one of her younger agents. He had a degree from Oxford, an extensive background in linguistics, and had just recently proposed to his long-time girlfriend. He had just turned 31 a few weeks before they lost him.

She doesn’t lose him to another job opportunity or some notion of his that he wanted a normal life outside of days spent travelling to far off countries in pursuit of evil. She loses him to an unsub, a pistol pointed straight at his chest as a man with evil laced in every fiber of his being unloaded four bullets point blank.

She can still recount, moment by moment, how her carefully crafted plan had fallen apart so grandly. They had to lure the unsub into an abandoned warehouse by the river Seine to help the Police Nationale arrest him the moment he stepped one foot past the door.

The unsub, a terrorist from an old cell that Interpol had believed to have broken apart years ago, had lured them into a trap. The cell had gone underground, instead of completely disbanding, and fell off of the Interpol radar. They had resurfaced in recent years and they were on track to arrest the right-hand man of their leader.

If only she had known that while she was concocting a plan, they were already concocting their revenge.

Peters had ended up trapped, the only body in that warehouse as her team scrambled to escape while she was at the command center down the street, ordering whoever was around to get her team out .

She had heard the shots, her heart faltering in her chest when she realizes what those four cracks in the air meant. A moment too reminiscent of that day outside the bank.

Emily doesn’t let her team see her falter. She was their leader and a fearless one at that, and she was determined to keep a stony facade as she delivered the news to his family that he had died in action.

She thinks the sound of his fiancee’s wail at the news that her future husband had died would haunt her for the rest of her life.

“He was a great agent, and it was an honor to have him on our team.” She said, as his fiancee’s face crumbled into tears as his family came around to grab the last of his belongings. She had made a point to clear the desk herself, forcing herself to touch all the things he will never use again and pack them all in a neat box.

Forcing herself to relieve the consequences of her actions over and over again, so that she would never forget how one decision could alter the course of someone’s life.

She wonders how many decisions she’s made that ruined someone else’s life.

Peters’ death weighs over her like a stormcloud, the anger and disappointment that brews under her skin seeps into her judgement. Her temper is on a short fuse, mistakes that she would normally let pass now needled with a fine point that she knows is unnecessary. She’s hard on her team, and even harder on herself, in an attempt to grasp some semblance of control after the tragedy had shaken their foundation.

It doesn’t help that her office overlooks her team’s desks and every time she glances up, her heart catches in her throat when she sees the new agent is at his desk, empty of the framed picture he kept of his fiancee and the pictures of his family he tacked on his cube wall.

She’s no stranger to the nightmares that start haunting her after his death.

She wakes up in a cold sweat most nights, and on the nights that she’s with Mark, she tries to drown herself in wine to blur the dreams so she didn’t startle him with her nightmares.

It only lasts two weeks before the dreams get too intense even with the aid of an extra glass of wine at dinner and Mark insists that she start seeing a counselor. Clyde insists on it too, when she comes into his office with dark circles under her eyes and the heaviness of Peters’ death still clouding her.

He gives her a mandatory two weeks off to try and process his death, ordering her to see an Interpol-approved therapist in London, but the lack of work is more detrimental to her than she anticipated.

Without the menial tasks and challenge of work to keep her occupied, her mind immediately floods to replaying Peters’ death in excruciating detail. How she was powerless at the center of it all, the ice that flooded her veins at the cracks in the air, how she was the one who found his body, a pool of dark red beading underneath the bullet hole in his neck.

She spirals in the silence of her apartment, the vast emptiness of the space that is permeated with loneliness and darkness.

Her phone is pressed against her ear before she can think twice about it, not wanting to back out of a decision that she knew was treading a dangerous line.

There was a chance that he wouldn’t pick up, maybe a twisted form of revenge for letting his calls go ignored, unwilling to provide him with the answers he craved after that night.

He could’ve just let the phone ring, ignoring her call the same way she had done all those months ago. She honestly doesn’t know if she could handle him not answering, despite him having a completely valid reason to.

But he doesn’t. He sounds surprised when he answers, cautiously greeting her.

“Emily? Is everything alright?” Relief floods her at the sound of his voice and she lets out a soft sob at her name passing through his lips.

"You told me to tell you if I was having a bad day." She says, the tears clear in her voice. "I'm having a really bad day, Aaron."

She sinks, but Aaron is the lighthouse that guides her out of the darkness.

He listens as she blabbers, managing to get the full story in between tears and soft sobs. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t press for information and instead lets her tell her story at her pace. He makes soft soothing noises while she’s crying and when the sobs dwindle down to soft sniffles, he speaks.

“You did your best, Emily. That's all we can do.” He says. “The rest is part of the job.”

“Who told you that? She sounds wise.” She teases, his words immediately sparking a memory of a shared moment they had in a different lifetime.

“She is.” Aaron’s voice is soft, tone lowered like he was speaking information that needed to be confidential and she can almost see the way his eyes would shift, tucking his chest away from the door.

Another secret, just one more to keep between them.

“His fiancee, Aaron. I don’t think I will ever forget the way that she sounded. The love of her life died.” He understands the implication of her words. It reminds her, too much, of that day at the bank. How she could hear her own curdling screams in Jeanette’s, aware of the hole that opened up in her world the moment that Peters’ blood pooled on that abandoned warehouse floor.

She lived that horror for a brief moment in the ruins of the explosion, searching for him in the rubble.

“She’ll find love again.” He says. “I did.”

Emily doesn’t know if he was referring to her, or the new girl that Penelope had hinted to, but she takes those words and tucks them away to be saved on a day she needed it most, taking its spot right next to Jack’s drawing of the three of them and his old Georgetown shirt. She replays the memory of her old words, when she stares out into the bullpen and straightens out her blazer before walking into her first briefing back.

The rest is part of the job.

They start to exchange calls. He starts, calling her one random Tuesday morning as his confidence was fortified by the alcohol in his blood. He was sitting in his hotel room in the Los Angeles heat, a cheap motel that was the only accommodation they could find on such short notice. The air is hot and sticky, the unusual humidity in Southern California causing beads of sweat to form on his neck.

He calls her, skin damp and his chest thick with old wounds resurfacing at the desperation in Mrs. Payton’s voice at his presence at the precinct instead of out in the streets looking for a little girl who was around Jack’s age when he was taken by Foyet.

They had successfully saved Phoebe but he knew all too well how wrong it could have all gone.

He thinks of Haley. He knew that she loved as fiercely as Mrs. Payton, who lashed out at him in the elevator. She was desperate to do anything to save her child.

He knew that Haley’s last sacrifice was the same - done in desperation to save Jack.

The thirteen digits are still embedded in his fingers and he plugs it into his phone the same way that he did that night.

Except this time, she answers.

She stays on the phone with him as long as she can, before she’s whisked away to a series of bureaucratic meetings where her attendance is mandatory. She listens when he talks about the case and doesn’t have to ask him how he feels about it.

She inherently knows which parts of a case would brush too closely to his scars.

“You won, Aaron. You saved her. Don’t kill yourself thinking of what could have happened, because it didn’t.”

He wonders why her words are the salve that soothes the hollow ache in his chest.

The next time he calls her, he doesn’t have any problems to talk through. Instead, he calls with a wordless urge that he’s worked hard to suppress, letting the need for her pour out of his being in a flood. He knows about Mark, a casual detail that Garcia had let slip after one too many margaritas during a team dinner.

But part of him doesn’t care.

“Hi.” He says, a small smile on his face when she answers, breathing his name out in a way that triggers a forgotten memory of soft morning light that broke through his window, the day barely beginning and him already occupied with tracing the length of her spine with his fingers.

He had been without her for so long. He thinks he’d have her anyway she’d take him.

“Did your meeting go well?”

He was an addict, and she was his vice.

He craves the way syllables roll off her tongue, the lilt of her laugh when he narrates Jack’s adventure at the water park, accidentally sliding head first on his back on one of the larger slides. His heart skips over itself when her number flashes across the screen, even when he presses ‘ignore’ when Beth eyes his phone at dinner.

“Work?” She asks sweetly and Aaron is unsure if she’s oblivious or giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Just a friend. I’ll call her back later.” Her eyebrows quirk at his response, but she lets it pass and instead brings up the new art exhibit that was coming to her museum.

Emily is the first one to ask about Beth and he’s stunned into silence, unaware that he had given her any information about his current relationship.

“Garcia told me.” She explains and her tone softens at her next words. “You can talk about her, you know.”

So he does. He tells her about how they met, stumbling awkwardly through asking her on a date that he’s pretty sure he really didn’t end up asking anything, and Emily laughs. She tells him about Mark, and the companies that he consulted for, and how he took her hiking and it was a complete disaster. Aaron listens in amusement when she tells him about all the statistics for killers in remote places and how maybe hiking wasn’t going to be her thing.

Despite the subtle ache in his chest when she mentions Mark, he thinks that the comfort she brought him by hearing her stories outweighs the pain.

Emily calls him when she gets stranded in the rain, frustrated and with no one to talk to. She calls him and he smiles and tells her to duck into a coffee shop to wait out the downpour and that he’d keep her company. He calls her when he’s reading a book and wants to talk to someone about it, because he doesn’t think that Beth would understand The Wisdom of Psychopaths .

She listens to his theories and recommends a book to him, and suggests that maybe they exchange opinions over email. He wakes up to a lengthy email from her the next day, a breakdown of all her favorite quotes from the book and links to articles she thought he’d find relevant to the topic.

They learn how to be friends again.

She’s not stupid.

She can see the way his eyes lit up when his phone rang, his attention always curiously piqued towards the smartphone he kept face down on the table. He never answered her calls, at least not while he was with her.

It was hard not to know her, when some of Jack’s favorite stories included Emily and he retold them so many times she thinks she could recite them from memory. She knows of the emails Jack would write to her, always tugging on Aaron’s sleeve to hurry up whatever he was doing and help him turn on the computer because Emmy was waiting .

But Aaron never mentioned her. She got clipped answers, saying that she was a colleague at the BAU before she moved to London. She hadn’t found it weird, not at first, until her name started flashing across Aaron’s screen more times than she could count.

He always pressed ‘ignore’, but she had a sneaking suspicion that his early mornings were dedicated to her. He would always slip out of bed, at least an hour or two before she would, and she would awaken to his laugh muffled in the living room.

“Hey, I gotta go.” He would say to whoever was on the phone, and stand up to greet her with a kiss.

It wasn’t until recently, on an early Sunday morning, that she heard a small snippet of what he was hiding from her as she stood in his doorway.

“Come on, Em. You know that the only album that’s worth listening to is the White album.”

Beth didn’t even know that he listened to the Beatles.

She’s not stupid.

Syllables tumble out of his mouth, entangled in the dull ecstasy that he was accustomed to after almost a year of being with Beth. He was lost in the snapping movement of his hips, unaware of the words that were slipping from his lips as he teetered on the edge of a release.

She stiffens as he collapses on top of her, a last moan leaving his lips. His sweat is still breaking on his skin when she twists her head away from him in disgust. She pulls away from underneath him, pushing him off with anger.

“Are you okay?” He asks, the sudden change in her demeanor too apparent in the harsh way her hands collide with his chest.

“Do you even know what you just said?” Beth says, her tone biting and unforgiving as she snatches her clothes from the floor, an anger that he’s never synonymized to her suddenly etched into her every feature. Aaron reaches out, wrapping a tender grip around her wrist and she pulls away like his touch radiated with the heat of the sun.

“Beth, I don’t understand.” Aaron says, watching her pull on her clothes and collecting her belongings. She had been prepping for this conversation, for the inevitable break to ten months of companionship. She just didn’t expect it to happen like this.

“Beth, please talk to me.” He pleads, stepping closer to her and stopping her hand from picking up her purse in the chair in the corner.

“Do you know what you said, Aaron?” She asks, the deathly calm in her voice reminiscent of scorned women he’s become familiar with after a long career at the FBI.

“You said her name.”

He doesn’t have to ask who she’s referring to.

He steps back and lets her collect the last of her belongings, her body language stiff and curled as she throws her clothes back on. He doesn’t know if there are any words, if he could say sorry enough times to rectify his mistake.

But he also knows that this relationship would always come to its end.

He knew that before he asked her out for the first time.

“I don’t think you’ll be happy with anyone that isn’t her. Stop lying to yourself, Aaron.” Beth says, before slamming his apartment door shut and walking out of his life.

He pours himself a whiskey, fishing out an unfinished bottle he thought he’d stop relying on. He lets Beth’s words echo in his head.

I don’t think you’ll be happy with anyone that isn’t her.

Maybe he’d always live with an Emily-shaped hole in his heart, the same way that Haley had.

He would never have his first love again. The sweet, light kind of love that was untouched by the harsh grip of reality. Of broken trust, of crumbling marriages, and of psychopathic serial killers.

He doesn’t think that he’d be happy with anyone as long as Emily was on this Earth.

He realizes that he probably wouldn’t have his last love again either.

And that was something he had to learn to live with.

The nightmares start shortly after Beth breaks up with him.

He’s lived a life made for nightmares, so he isn’t surprised when more than one relentlessly steals his sleep and slowly, his sanity.

Some nights, he’s back to being a small child lurking behind the mustard walls of their corridor, listening to the smack of his father’s fist against his mother’s flesh.

Other nights, he relives Haley’s death in excruciating detail. Every moment was still sharp, constructing perfect reenactments of finding Haley’s body in their old den, the crush of Foyet’s bones underneath his knuckles, and Jack helping him on the case.

He tries to save her, but he’s always too late.

Most nights, it’s about Jack. Some variation of him losing Jack - either to someone who had taken him, or an unidentifiable unsub he’s sure he’s seen before but forgotten, that snatched him from his grasp and dragged him towards the shadows. Old crime scenes reconstructed with snippets of his memories, concocting nightmares that starved him of rest.

It isn’t long before the lack of sleep catches up to him. On top of the horrendous amount of paperwork that he had taken on since Strauss had passed, he knew that he was heading right towards burn out. Exhaustion was almost a regular feeling now - never able to shake the sleep that chased him. He was almost sure his diet was solely cups of coffee and a granola bar when he remembered to eat, his attention unevenly split between work and Jack.

He’s startled out of a nightmare when the unsub points a gun at Jack, and he shoots up from his fitful nap on his uncomfortable office couch with a mild ache in his chest and a panic when he’s not in his apartment. There was an open file in his lap, an unfinished report that he had meant to finish before he got home, still incomplete with pen marks staining the edges of the paper.

He would deal with that later, when he had taken something for the headache that was currently thundering around between his temples.

Aaron clumsily reaches for his phone, dialing Jessica’s number while his heart gallops in his chest, a dull ache creeping in when the phone rings for a second longer than normal.

“Hey Jessica, it’s me. I’m sorry, I dozed off. Is everything alright?”

He doesn’t really register the words he’s saying, a throb of pain shooting in his stomach that passes in an instant. Jessica pauses and Aaron assumes that’s the end of her sentence, his neck muscles tightening with a tension he was sure was caused by the couch.

“Ok. And Jack’s alright?”

Jessica confirms that yes he is alright and yes , she listened to his instructions this time and didn’t feed him dinosaur nuggets.

“Great. I should be there in about half an hour, ok?”

He apologizes again, because this isn’t the first time in the last two months that he’s accidentally missed Jack’s pick up time because of work. His chest is tight and his head spins slightly when he stands, but he’s quick to dismiss it when an Amber Alert comes through his phone.

There was no rest for the weary.

She calls him the following Thursday, wanting to ask him about the book he had just recommended.

Her call goes to voicemail and she doesn’t suspect a thing, knowing that his workload has nearly doubled since Strauss died. He had called her well into the night on his timezone, searching for company as she was on her lunch break. She had been pleasantly surprised by the call, being regaled with tales of Jack in between her file appraisals and his complaints about the mountain of paperwork the Director dropped on his desk.

But when she still hears the monotone voice of his pre-recorded greeting when she tries to call later in the day, she begins to worry.

It was unlike him to not shoot her a text that he was busy, promising to contact her at a more convenient time.

There’s a dark pit that grows in her stomach with each passing hour that he doesn’t call.

Dave is the one who breaks the news to her.

A bolt of fear passes through her when she sees Dave’s name flash across the screen.

No.

She answers on the second ring, a breathless hello as Dave greets her, a heaviness in his voice that she notes in an instant.

“Dave, what’s wrong?” She asks, not bothering to beat around the bush.

“It’s Aaron.”

He gives her a rundown of their morning, her heart in her throat as Dave relays the details. Aaron had collapsed during a briefing and they rushed him to the hospital. Internal bleeding, thought to be caused by old wounds inflicted by Foyet’s knife that were reopened.

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“Which hospital?” She prompts, already creating a to-do list in her head of all the things that she needed to make sure were buttoned up before she got on a plane.

“Emily, that’s insane.” Dave says, probably already aware of what she was planning to do and she knows. She knows that it’s crazy.

But she’s suddenly reminded of that day at the bank, when he offered himself as the sacrificial lamb to save lives.

It was that uncontrollable itch that rattled underneath her skin, tearing at the fibers in her muscles as she struggled in Morgan’s strong grip while he walked right into her greatest fear.

She needed to be with him and nothing was going to stop her from doing just that.

“Text me which hospital or I’m going to call Penelope and find out for myself.” She hangs up the phone, ending Dave’s protest mid-sentence.

She books the next flight out.

She can’t explain to him why she has to leave, why she books the first flight that she could despite the absurd amount of money it had cost and the two or more layovers she would have to contend with. She doesn’t even tell Clyde in person, opting to call him and explain instead of taking the time to head to his office, knowing that every second here was another one wasted without him.

“Aaron? Your ex?” Mark asks in disbelief, following her around her apartment as she pulls out her suitcase. He’s pacing behind her, begging for attention but all she can focus on is the panic in Dave’s voice, laced in a pessimism when he relayed the details of Aaron’s condition.

“Mark, I need to go.” She says stiffly, shoving clothes as quickly as she can into her suitcase. There was one seat on a flight that left in two hours - there was no chance that she was going to miss it.

“You’re on the phone with him all the time. His son calls you in the middle of the night. For Christ’s sake, you’re leaving in two hours to fly all the way back to the States .” Mark almost yells and she flinches, absorbing the anger in his voice. She deserved this. She didn’t deserve the understanding, gentle Mark that she had known for all of their relationship.

She was wondering how much he could take before she broke him too.

“Emily, if you leave, I’m not coming back.”

There is a finality in his tone, the end of a sentence she thinks that she shouldn’t have written in the first place.

At his ultimatum, her eyes widen at the realization that she’s shielded from herself for so long. A truth that she had attempted to put into a cardboard box, shoved in the back of her closet, only to be revisited as a taste of light in her darkest of moments.

There was going to be no one like them. No one who would feel as close to home as they felt to her - the safety that Aaron’s arms provide, the pure joy that radiates from Jack, how complete she felt when she was with them.

Doyle had made her afraid, so afraid of losing them that she thought she would sever the connection before someone else had the chance to. At least she could wrap her mind around it, prepare herself for the brutal blow that threatened to tear out her insides at the simple thought of losing them. She could live apart from them if she knew that it was for their own safety.

But there could be any number of things that could take them away from her. It could be an accident, an unsub, or old scars that burst after years of dormancy. She would rather be there with them than 3,000 miles away.

She’d go as far as she needed to.

“Goodbye, Mark.”

She lets the front door close behind her, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she focuses on only one thing.

Going back home.

#hotchniss #aaron x emily #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #ckbwrites

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10kiaoi · 4 years

Photo

For the 007 Fest Anon prompts: Magical realism

Scav hunt item #55: Create art using a prompt from the MI6Cafe Weekly Art Prompts + “Mayday”

Notes: Unbetaed as always. Canon typical violence.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday-!"

The city is caught in a deluge when he arrives.

Traffic is backed up for miles, vehicle after vehicle trapped in complete frustrating gridlock.

He's walked the two miles to his destination, leaving behind an irate cab driver with a generous tip for his trouble.

Along the way, a young nymph looking to be no more than 10 summers old, offers a flower garland weaved of fresh white Heather from the shelter of a narrow porch. He eyes the fresh cut hanging over the front door.

He purchases two, to the girl's cheery delight.

----

“We've lost three engines! Requesting immediate vectors to the nearest airfield! Mayday, mayday, mayday! Shit, Number 4's go-"

----

One mile in, he stumbles across a heavily flooded street.

Earsplittingly loud lighting cracks overhead, an occasional flash that lights the street up.

The flood waters are ice cold. With the water level at thigh height, his wellies do nothing to keep them from gushing around his equally frozen feet. He resigns himself to a hot bath later.

Here, no cars are able to pass through at all.

Despite the hazards, there are people out and about in front of their buildings. There are merchants desperately hauling their merchandise to higher ground, attempting to salvage what they can from the havoc. Some are putting up brightly coloured banners and decorative displays. At every door, a stalk of white Heather hangs, children gleefully arranging whole seashells in intriguing patterns around them.

The mood, though dampened by the terrible weather, borders on festive.

There are neighbours exchanging sweet breads, a friendly trade of roasted poultry, a shared fish or two in covered dishes to shield the food from the downpour.

Their joy is a distant consideration in comparison to his inner disquiet.

An elderly man catches sight of him standing and staring openly at the activities. He glances down to his hand, to the two Heather garlands cradled protectively. The old man tuts reprovingly and wades through the waters towards him.

"Shells," the old man tuts as he offers two perfect clam shells, canine tail wagging, "Intention means nothing without it."

He crosses the street, with his gifts in hand.

----

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! We've lost all four engines- Christ, we're not going to make it back to land-!"

----

He hears the adolescents well before he sees them.

In a deserted street, dull with old street lamps and filthy storefronts, the hooded teens giggle with cruel delight as they rip down fabric banners and shatter the crystal glass figurines of various marine creatures. The lovely shells and stalks of white Heather meet the same dismal fate.

Amidst their destruction, one of the teens happens to look up, forked tongue flickering out to taste the wind. Their eyes drop to his arms and they elbow their companions. The group sneers, wisely backing off momentarily and not doing anything as foolish as engage him in a fight.

Given his state of mind, it is more than likely that the teens will not come out the other end of the fight unscathed despite the protection of armoured scales.

"The sea witch's a fucking sham anyways!" the kid yells over their retreating backs, "ya'll nuts for believing that shit!"

When the last teen disappears round the street corner, he sighs, taking the moment to sweep the glass shards to the side with his foot instead of leaving them in the middle of the pavement for some poor sod to injure themselves on later. The rising waters will take care of the mess soon enough anyways.

The glint of light on glass draws his eye to the ledge, where several pristine figures lie untouched. He is irrepressibly drawn to one in particular- a carving not of an animal but a floating feather caressed by an invisible wind.

His eyes surveys the street warily for a moment. The glass feather slips unnoticed into the depths of his jacket.

In the distance, the sea churns with rage.

----

"Mayday, mayday, may-"

----

There is little else he can do but scour the shores, buffeted by strong gusts and blinded by sea spray.

The boats are all docked away, no skipper daring enough to take on the sea in her volatility. The worst of the storm is miles away from land, but its effects are felt all the same.

A set of files arrives in his email courtesy of Q Branch and Tanner- maps and coordinates and prediction models, all of which he studies intensively in the comfort of his temporary safe house. The glass feather sits prominently besides his laptop, a silent but steadfast companion to his activities.

It, along with the Heather garlands and clam shells, bear witness to him smashing his ceramic mug in a fit of fury.

The lone image glares accusingly at him from his laptop screen, a low quality shot worsened by the movement of the camera it was shot with.

The object is a blurry mess, details rendered indistinct by the rolling waves and heavy rainfall. But enough of the form remains for the item to be identified- its implications are what trigger his episode of temper.

A lone tail fin, ripped from its place at the rear of an aircraft, is a death sentence.

----

He's on his fifth bottle, drowning his sorrows with a vengeance. Outside, the deluge lets up a little into a light patter against the balcony.

The helplessness weighs heavily like an albatross around his neck.

Squeals waft up from the street below, a pod of local mers grasping the opportunity the flood waters present and taking the chance to explore streets they have never traversed before. Their melodious cries of astonishment and wonder, once music to his ears, prove too much for the dark cloud hanging over him.

He throws back his head against the couch and guzzles down more bitter ale.

----

He comes to in his tiled bathroom, curled over the toilet seat with acidic sick stinking up his nose. It's no gentle thing, he wakes up with a jerk, disorientated and without memory of how he has gotten to the bathroom in the first place. Adrenaline rushes through his veins.

With the fog in his head clearing up, he notices the rattling coming from his balcony, accompanied by quiet curses.

He gets up, hand curling around the walther under his arm. He creeps towards the source of the commotion, feet as light as a cat's paws. Whatever and whomever the intruder is, he's of no mood to be gracious.

The rattling pauses, an indignant squawk of frustration follows it.

It speaks volumes of his training, both military and 00 that he does not drop his piece from shock.

There on his balcony, his Quartermaster scowls angrily at the offending lock while looking like a drowned rat.

In his chest, his heart leaps.

His movement draws Q's attention and it's then he's hollered at to "open the bloody doors before I kick them down!"

There's no word vast enough, deep enough to encompass the depth of his emotions as he swiftly undoes the lock and throws the double doors open. Heather and shells are sent flying but all he cares for is pulling Q into a bone crushing embrace.

----

The rain picks up, droplets soaking through the cotton of his shirt. The front is already soaked through, thoroughly pressed against a sopping wet Quartermaster as he is.

He pulls them inside, away from the storm, away from the windows. Disbelief and hope war within his chest as he studies Q with an anxious eye, warm towels in his hand to replace soaked clothes.

He says nothing of the massive bruising on Q's torso, a large swath that belies the extent of physical trauma its owner has gone through.

Belatedly, he registers the noticeable lack of glasses, the raw scrapes and bruising over pale cheeks and knuckles.

The hulking set of white wings tipped with black and dusty grey.

"Albatross," he breathes reverently.

He'd assumed from Q's presence in the tunnels of Q Branch, the way he draws comfort from his underground haven, that his Quartermaster is a member of an underground species of sorts- a Null even, rare as truly non-magical folk are amongst the general population. The personnel file certainly hasn’t provided much insight either given their propensity for obfuscation when executive members of staff are involved.

"Yes, well, turns out I was just a late bloomer" Q sniffs, squinting at a dust speck on the wall through the conspicuous lack of glasses, "you're not on the water all the time either."

Bond smiles indulgently though offers no contest.

With his parents and kin long gone, there was simply no incentive to remain near his family’s seat of power all the time. The murky depths of the loch holds no interest, lacking in the thrill and constant entertainment cities like London offer. Besides-

First M, a hawk, now Q, an albatross - he's always been drawn to the sky much more than his peers.

He feels out Q's wings carefully, stretching one out to examine the feathers and bone. The appendage trembles under his tentative scrutiny, morphing into a full body shiver that goes right down to Q's toes. The first wing passes muster, so he moves on to the other.

Q yelps loudly as his fingers prod a particular sore spot.

It has him relaxing his fingers immediately, though he does not cease supporting the injured wing.

"I don't think it's broken," Q whimpers, fingers twisting anxiously.

Like a dam, Q's hard won composure crumbles. "Couldn't get them out," Q sobs, "They were too far forward, I barely got myself out-" The frantic babble dies away into hitched sobs.

He croons lightly in response, a soothing rumble he's heard mers sing to their fry. He runs his fingers through mussed curls, letting the grief and guilt run its course.

The kit he has isn't stocked for treating winged individuals or traumatised ones for that matter, but he's a witch- he'll make the best with what he has. He'll get them both home.

---

In the distance, the sea finally calms.

#00q #007 fest #007 fest 2020 #teambondvillains #james bond #007 #quartermaster #art by op #fanfics #hms 00q

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hoe-doroki · 4 years

Text

impetus

A part of the ‘A Spare Heart’ series.

pairing: eventual Shouto x Reader later in the series

wc: 2.1k

genre: friendship

warnings: consensual use of Brainwashing and...subspace vibes?

summary: Ever since Shinsou found out what your quirk was, the two of you have been each other’s best friends and confidantes. But when he turns a casual training session into a tease over your supposed crush on someone in your class, that trust might just break.

a/n: It’s helpful, though not necessary, to have read Hollow Victory before this one, or at least its second chapter in order to understand the reader’s quirk. There are also references to an unpublished, upcoming story.

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

It was the wilderness of the U.A. campus, the part of the woods where you couldn’t even see the tall buildings, hear the constant explosions from the training grounds. You were walking around aimlessly, doing figure eights through the trees, touching your fingers through some of the low hanging branches, rocking a few steps up on your tip toes and then falling back to rock on your heels. It was drifting, completely meaningless as you focused on the subtle feeling of cutting through the air with every step, how your arms so gently swung in tandem with your legs—all the things you never usually thought about while walking.

“Now raise one foot to walk over the tree root. Okay, walk the same path again.”

Your body went where you were told, your toe lifting just over the gnarly root bursting through the grass, blond on top from where a lawn mower had nicked it. But still, it brought the big tree that was shading you water and security in the ground, no matter how many times its top was shaved off by mechanized blades.

“Walk it exactly ten times.”

Your body continued on the same path, just wide and winding enough not to be dizzying as Shinsou controlled your movements. It was nice to be completely out of control, for someone else to take the mechanisms of your body making all the decisions while your core kept you breathing, your heart beating. It was a shame people feared Shinsou’s quirk, avoiding any question he asked them with suspicious silence. There was nothing more freeing for you than this. And he got to work on the nuances of his quirk.

“You know, I feel I should tell you that I’m the reason Midoriya and them found out about you.”

It took a few seconds for his words to register as something other than a command. They pulled you out of your mindless, almost meditative space. You probably would have given a soft “Hmm?” if you could have, but, of course, you couldn’t speak.

“Technically, Google is what told them about you, but I’m the one who told them they should do it. Even though any idiot should be able to Google something.”

The path he had laid for you had you conveniently facing almost entirely away from him. You couldn’t move your neck or even your eyes, so as you walked, they stayed perfectly forward, in line with your spine and your chest and the heels of your slightly turned out feet. So you couldn’t see his body language or even if he was looking at you.

“So I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I guess. Even though all that I knew I found from the internet, I shouldn’t have told them anything. It wasn’t my business. Keep walking, but you can speak.”

The sudden control over your jaw, tongue, lips didn’t feel any different than the lack of it had felt a moment before. From past experience, you knew that if you’d been fighting the control, you would have just felt a distinct drop in tension from those areas, but you hadn’t been fighting. “Have you been thinking about this since July?”

“I guess so. I thought about it a bit while you were gone over summer break.”

“I wish you would have told me,” you said, also wishing your eyebrows could curl up in sympathy, but your face was fully blank except for your lips. Not that he was probably looking at you anyway.

“Because I’m not mad. Telling them to Google me isn’t exactly a betrayal.”

“I know, so I didn’t feel especially bad but still. It’s better for you to know.”

“I agree. Thanks for telling me.”

“Close your eyes and walk the same path.”

Your eyes shut instantly, but it felt like you’d lost control of your limbs—ridiculous since you weren’t controlling them in the first place. But there was a spilling of your equilibrium, your center of gravity swaying from side to side as your body suddenly forgot the path it had wrought for the last few minutes.

“Freeze!” Shinsou yelled suddenly and your whole body stiffened, just as your lifted right toes tapped something hard on the ground. “Open your eyes.”

Your slightly downward gaze spotted your slightly elevated foot just about to tip over the root cutting through your path. You’d been about to eat shit.

“Put your foot down and stand tall.”

You did, you shoulders rolled back in slightly better posture than you usually took. You’d learned good posture in the ballet classes your parents had put you in as a youth, but, as you were in the middle of your teenage years, you’d taken on the slump that all your peers adopted, the adolescent hunch of lackadaisy. Even though the fellow teenagers you were surrounded by were the most passionate people you’d ever met.

Shinsou stepped into your line of sight, an awkward smile on his face. “I guess that one didn’t work.”

You tried to speak, but his command to freeze must have canceled out his previous command enabling your speech. Then, all at once, you felt the hold on your tongue, the commanded posture release and your shoulders slumped. You were back to yourself again.

“Seems that walking with your eyes closed can’t work when you need your eyes to walk,” you said.

Shinsou shrugged. “It’s good to know. Ready to start again?”

You shook out your limbs a little. Nothing felt too stiff, since even with Shinsou brainwashing you, you would still walk with your normal gait unless he directed otherwise. But still, a little wiggle felt good, and when you were done, you stepped over the root you’d almost tripped over and nodded at him. “Yes.”

At your response, you felt Shinsou take gentle hold over your body again and he told you to walk the same path as before. Your body did, taking up the figure eight around the trees once again. It seemed that since your brain still knew what the path was, it didn’t matter that he’d dropped control of you in between commands. You felt yourself relaxing again, falling easier into the meditative place this practice took you to every time you and Shinsou did it. You heard birds chirping, leaves rustling, and wind whistling. Aside from the path ahead, there was nothing else to think about.

“Go confess your love to Todoroki-san.”

Your relaxation broke in an instant as suddenly all corners of your body flexed and failed against Shinsou’s hold on you. A scream of refute pealed from your mind, but it failed to make it past your lips as that old tension locked your jaw back up again. Your body began walking mechanically toward the 2-A dorms. You had no idea if that’s where Todoroki really was, but it must have been your subconscious’s assumption, as it was the first guess off the top of your head as well. But God, you hoped he was at the gym or the library…anywhere but where your footsteps were taking you.

Suddenly, the connection broke. The remains of your ended scream bled off your lips as a breathy “No!” squeezed out of your tense vocal folds. You spun around toward Shinsou, whose shoulders bounced up and down a couple times in a silent laugh that he was obviously trying to hide on his face. Then he put his hands up in an expression of false apology.

“Hey, you don’t think I’d actually make you do that, would you?”

“I’m not sure,” you growled. “Maybe it’s your idea of a funny joke.”

“No, this is my idea of a funny joke,” Shinsou corrected. “No harm, no foul.”

But as your face grew hot, you could feel the harm. Why had he even thought of that as something to do? Where was the comedy? What was the joke?

“I have every right to use my quirk on you now. Maybe you’ll feel some shame.”

“I’m sure I would feel ashamed,” Shinsou agreed. “But this was just practice, in case I really need to do this some day.”

You squinted at him. “Is that supposed to be a joke too?”

Shinsou seemed to catch onto your bewilderment and his head tilted to the side a crude imitation of sympathy on his face. “What, did you think I didn’t know?”

“What exactly do you think you know?” you asked, knowing exactly what he thought he knew. “I’m not in love with Todoroki-kun.”

“Well, maybe not love, but you certainly like him a lot, yes? C’mon, Y/N-chan, this isn’t news,” he said. “You talk about him…not infrequently.”

“He’s one of my best friends,” you explained, your heart beating quickly. You weren’t sure if it was remnants of the panic Shinsou’s command had sent through your mind latently hitting your bloodstream or what, but the heat in your face was spreading down your neck rapidly. “Of course I talk about him.”

You really didn’t understand Shinsou’s angle here. You probably talked about him with Todoroki as much as you talked about Todoroki to him, and Todoroki had never leveled this kind of accusation on you before. Not that you could imagine him doing so. But still, even if you imbued him with a feeling of truthfulness or if Shinsou brainwashed him the way he’d just done to you, you couldn’t imagine that kind of trash falling out of Todoroki’s mouth.

“You…” Shinsou blinked. “You don’t know. Or you’re in denial?”

“Look, as the person who’s kind of the expert on feelings here, hear me when I say this,” you started, referencing your quirk. “It’s possible for you to intuit a feeling that I’m unaware that I’m feeling. But it’s not likely. If I don’t know that I’m feeling it—as a person pretty goddamn in touch with my emotions—then it’s probably not there.”

Shinsou’s heavy lids were hanging tensely over his eyes. They were as squinted as ever, but there was a pinch to them as he continued to size you up. “Says the girl who had a childhood where kids teased you about being able to make people fall in love with her. The girl who had people run away from her, scared that she would do just that. Might that also be a girl who would be scared to fall in love with someone for real?”

The muscles around your lips tightened. “Sounds like you might be projecting a bit, Shinsou-kun.”

“Or empathizing,” he stated. “I thought that’s what we did for each other.”

If you refuted that line, then this would feel like a real fight. A breakup between friends. And your friendship was not what you were trying to stake this argument on, so you took a breath before you could tell him to eff right off or something similarly stupid, trying to get back a bit of that zen energy you’d felt while he’d been commanding your body to walk in lazy circles.

“Okay. I admit that I wouldn’t want to fall in love here,” you said. “Japan isn’t permanent for me, and I don’t think anyone I’ve met here would be willing to leave. So having anything more serious than a fling would be stupid.”

“So…you want to have a fling with Todoroki-san?”

“No!” you exclaimed. “That would be stupid too!”

“Fine!” Shinsou agreed, hands up. “I didn’t think so. But just…sometimes the things we want are what make us honest,” he said and he must have been thinking about his dream of being a hero. “And sometimes the things we want blind us to the thing next to it.”

You frowned, the profundity Shinsou had tried to create in the statement pissing you off a bit. His words were simple enough obvious even, so it almost felt like an insult for him to say them like they never would have occurred to you.

Still, you were suddenly aware of a light simmering in your body, new and uncomfortable. Unnamable. When warming a pot of water, the water might be boiling for minutes before you noticed the soft popping, the light roiling of the bubbles. But once you heard it, the sound was going to stay in your ears, urging you to action. It was telling you to dump in the noodles, pour the water over a tea bag, lower the temperature on the stove. The bubbling was the indication, but you had to be the impetus. Otherwise, all that potential would take its time bubbling away, disappearing slowly into vapors you’d never see, and, eventually, you’d be left with no water at all.

#bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #todoroki x reader #shouto x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #shoto x reader #shoto todorki x reader #a spare heart #bnha imagine #bnha imagines #bnha fanfic #bnha fic #mha x reader #mha fanfic #mha fanfiction #mha fic

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op-peccatori · 4 years

Text

If My Heart Was a House (M) | IkeVamp Vincent

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Pairing: Vincent van Gogh/Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit/18+/NSFW

Summary: Vincent has discovered a new way to bond for the two of you, as excited parents to be. It involves a lot of paint and a lot of adoration.

Word Count: 2208

a/n: This may contain themes and elements you might be uncomfortable with, so please read the tags carefully! (it should be safe to use non-toxic, water based pigments for belly painting, even better if it’s FDA approved body paint, but please consult a doctor if you ever want to try it)

Another experiment in writing. Let me know what you think! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧Title taken from the song by Owl City!

Warnings/Tags: explicit sexual content, pregnancy, pregnancy sex, vaginal sex, oral sex, might be ooc because I haven’t done Vincent’s route!

With a comforting heat emanating from the hearth, and the curtains drawn tight over the windows, it almost feels like you’re hidden away from the outside world. It always does, when you’re in here with him.

You’re lounging on the sofa, back pressed against two ridiculously fluffy pillows, cheek smushed against one palm. The sash of your wrap-dress is undone, both sides pushed away from your front, baring your skin to your husband’s focused gaze.

Soft bristles dip into more paint, silver this time, before they meet soft skin. You had just awoken from your nap, unable to pinpoint when you had fallen asleep, to see Vincent smiling up at you, still sweeping his paintbrush across your skin. He’s positioned between your legs on his stool, palette in hand, sans shirt with his paint-splattered apron tied around his torso and loose trousers hanging low on his hips.

“Nearly done, mijn schatje,” he murmurs, flaxen bangs mussed from your hands and his own creating the visual of a wild, darling angel. Your eyes are drawn to the jut of his collarbone, to his well-toned arms. There’s a smudge of blue paint on his cheek, and above his left brow.

You hum and close your eyes, sighing softly at the ticklish sensation you haven’t quite gotten used to, casting your thoughts out and away from the low, hypnotic buzzing in your skin.

“Take your time. It feels nice.” ‘A little too nice,’ you think, but keep that to yourself. The backs of his hands have brushed the underside of your breasts exactly nine times, and you might be going a little crazy here.

Skilful fingers, the paintbrush a medium for his magic, dot another cluster of stars onto midnight blue, concentrated around your belly button and spreading out into curlings tendrils. A galaxy depicted on a canvas that could only have come from the gods, and blessed is he who gets to be the one to fill it.

Sky blue eyes, bright with reverence, fixate on the curve of your rounding belly. His heart, swollen with love, throbs insistently. Vincent has been living life with a constant hum in his veins, and not just the hungry kind. No, this is a delirious sort of happiness, of sunshine between his ribs; being with you, watching new life grow within you. His wife. A creation he had a part in, so wondrous that it leaves him humbled and so grateful he could fall to your feet and weep.

He’s going to be a papa.

Vincent doesn’t quite know what to do with such strong emotions, ones that seem to remain at high tide so often.

A little over eighteen weeks and it still embarrasses you a little, at first, when he touches you with quivering fingers, wanting to explore all the way your body changes, softens and yet, strengthens. He has been there for every little thing, from holding your hair back while you heave in the bathroom, to prenatal visits and to helping you with chores. In the early mornings—now that the nausea has been abating—when the first few glimmers of sunlight spill through the windows and Vincent is blinking awake, smiling at the warmth of you in his arms, hand curled over your striped belly tenderly.

The force of his own ardor scares him, sometimes.

With love having forced the door open, others seem to have walked in along with it. There’s jealousy, and greed. Possessiveness, and an endless want. Vincent has always been protective of you, but lately, just having you out of his sight leaves him anxious. He hasn’t said a word about it, but he knows you’ve noticed. It’s for him to work on, and so he will.

It’s also a bit thrilling, to be so overwhelmed after being so...muted, in some ways. To have someone in his life who draws out the good and the bad. He revels in the constant waves of emotions because he has you to share them with.

He catches your eyes on him before you close them again, the curve of your mouth tensing, your free hand curling into itself. Head tilting slightly, he sets his brush and palette down on the floor, reaching for a washcloth as you shift slightly, feigning a doze.

Vincent cleans his hands, watching the minute movements of your eyes beneath their lids, the goosebumps on your skin.

Slender fingers settle on your knees; you don’t open your eyes, but he catches the way your breath quickens.

‘Ah.’

A smile teases at the corner of his mouth.

“I know you’re awake,” Vincent says softly, palms flittering over your thighs. The air between you two changes; it’s like flipping a switch. Lips parting, you finally look at him and his pulse begins to race. There’s a request in your eyes, a need, and something primal within him rises to answer it at once.

He’s leaning over you within seconds, your hands in his hair, his own cradling your head as he presses his lips to yours. He’s careful, but you won’t have any of that, sweeping your tongue into his mouth demandingly as you shed any pretence of sleep.

“I tried to be patient.” Your smile is sheepish as your hands settle on his shoulders before sliding down his broad back, the tip of your tongue running over the stud in his ear, then the cuff, teasing and testing. It makes him shiver, makes his gums ache, and he clamps down on his self-control.

“I know, darling,” he assures you, kissing both corners of your mouth before he slides off your body, sinking to his knees. Undoing the ties of your underwear, he clicks his tongue softly. “But you were supposed to tell me if you needed something.”

“It was fine! I knew I could wait,” you mumble, picking at stray threads of the sofa.

“Mhm, this doesn’t look fine to me. I’ve neglected you. Allow me to acquit myself?” An entreaty. A delicate trail of kisses up your inner thigh. He inhales deeply, your heady scent going straight to his groin, the groan he lets out making you squirm.

“...You don’t have to make up for anything.” Mouth pursed, brows furrowed—you look adorable. His patience is endless and his affection for you is etched in every inch of his being. It allows him to read every move you make, makes him smile at the very thought of your fussing; the unmistakable desire in your expression, though, leaves his pants feeling a tad bit tighter. He has, after all, made it his mission to understand not just your mind but your body as well.

“Alright. Then, will you let me take care of you?” Vincent beseeches you, and you don’t possess the power to resist that, not when you’ve been thinking about this for hours.

With your nod, hands curl around the backs of your thighs. He hoists them over his shoulders and dives in with fervour, the immediate taste of your arousal rich on his tongue. His mind nearly melts at the way you keen, writhing under the clever ministrations of his mouth; his nose presses into your tiny bundle of nerves, his fingers slide in with ease. The cry of his name echoes in the room, punctuated by the loud, slurping sounds coming from between your legs.

He feels a little lightheaded, drunk off your taste alone, and fights to keep his fangs retracted.

Vincent will never get enough of you coming undone on his tongue, your thighs trembling with the aftershocks as you suck in quick, shallow breaths. He revels in the sight of you drenched, your body lax, watching him, silently asking him—we’re not done, are we? It thrills him to know you’re just as eager for him, as he is to lose himself in your warmth. That he isn’t alone in this insatiable longing, this constant craving for closeness.

He struggles a little with the tie of his apron, his mind focused on your face as he licks at the wetness coating his mouth. You reach for him and he meets you with a toe-curling kiss, throwing his apron to the side, smiling at the slide of your palm from his chest to the waistband of his pants.

“Are you sure, ___?” he asks, tucking your hair behind your ears, cradling your cheeks, studying your expression worriedly as if expecting you to throw him off, or for your unborn child to interrupt with a fluttering kick.

“Vincent,” you begin, admittedly huffy and more than ready for him. “I don’t think you realize how stimulating body painting can be. I’m losing my mind here. Just a little.”

“Perhaps we can try it the other way around next time.” You would have to take the time to think about that once you’re a little less occupied. His musing is cut short when you tug at his waistband, eyes slanted pleadingly as if begging for a treat. “Oh, sorry! Okay sweetheart, how do you want to do it?”

You take a moment to gauge the state of your body as he slides his pants off, kicking them to the floor before sliding your robe the rest of the way off. And then you push him onto his back, him going down a willing devotee, climbing onto him carefully, mouth quirked up with a sly grin.

“Perfect,” he breathes, smiling broadly. Unbeknownst to him, it still flusters you a little. It’s a warm sunny day wrapped up in plush lips and a devastating dimple, and it’s lethal to your heart. And hormones. “Here, careful!”

With a steady grip on your hips, Vincent helps you sink onto his length slowly. You look at him, eyes half-lidded, watching the way the thick vein on his neck tenses, his fingers digging into your soft skin before he relaxes them with visible effort, pale lashes fluttering as he gasps at the feeling of your heat engulfing him.

With a languid roll of your hips, your head tipping back, you set a steady pace. His length is heavy and straining in you, his abdomen taut. He begins to thrust into you, dragging short, ragged moans from you with each slow slide.

‘Gentle. Gentle. Gentle,’ he reminds himself over and over again. He palms a breast, thumb running over a pebbled nipple, tugging at it lightly, gritting his teeth at the low, pained sound it rips from you—the way it makes your walls flutter around him. Your steady rhythm falters, your hips coming down harder and Vincent does not feel in control. You do that to him. It’s an inebriating rush, a heat in his belly, beckoning to parts of him hidden even from him.

“It’s okay,” you gasp, palms splayed across his abdomen. “It’s okay, please, I just need—harder. Please.”

The sound that leaves him is a cross between a groan and a cry, as he loosens the reins and thrusts deeper, spurred on by your loud moans. You look otherworldly, with your hair a wild mess and your eyes so dark he could feel them dragging him in. The clusters of stars, blue and pink and silver, a tiny part of the universe on your skin, made full by him. He hadn’t quite anticipated the effect it would have on him, that it would rob him of coherence and control.

Your hand slides down his navel, running up his skin and coarse blond curls until it meets your flesh and rubs quick, tight circles. He holds on to you as your sex convulses around him, clutching him tight as you come hard, jaw slack.

Even in a daze, you protest softly when he pulls you off him, pulling you down to rest next to him on the sofa. He curls around your back, one arm cushioning your head while the other hikes your leg up, entering you smoothly once more.

Your shoulders relax, back arching as he thrusts swiftly, a few solid strokes and then spills himself within you, his breath warm against the damp skin of your nape. You lie boneless, mind made mush, until he stirs and props himself up on an elbow.

“Are you okay, ___?”

You turn slightly, indolent, to see him peering down at you in concern. Furrowed brows smoothen when you reach up to swipe damp bangs away from his forehead, the lines of his face relaxing once more. A chaste kiss and you share a small smile as he nuzzles your cheek.

“I’m...perfect. You?”

His hand comes to rest on your rounded abdomen, caressing the painted skin tenderly. “Me too. Are you hungry?”

You want to say no, but the knowing smile playing across his lips makes you sigh and nod instead. “A little, yes.”

“Good. Then let’s-”

The rest of his words are cut off by a loud knock at the door. You both turn to face the door in slight trepidation, an exasperated groan building in your throat.

“Broer! ___! I’ve brought you some water. And Sebastian says dinner’s ready. Are you two done painting?” There’s a short pause, and another—hesitant, perhaps—knock. “Broer?”

Well. Perhaps there is one other who is just as excited about this as the two of you.

#ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire vincent #ikevamp vincent #tw: pregnancy #ikevam #ikevam vincent #ikemen vampire fanfiction #is theo the first child in this relationship???#yes #yes he is #queue are my sunshine

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secret-rendezvous1d · 3 years

Note

how about an alex first christmas home with his wife or gf? if your uncomfortable writing this prompt i completely understand

Hello, hi!

Welcome to Blogmas 2020. A couple of days later than I promised, and I apologise for that, but here we are.

Hopefully, the idea of how Blogmas 2020 is planned out will become a little clearer than how my very poor explanations explained it, haha.

Many more blurbs, many more chats and a lot more festivities to come; my inbox will be open all through December this year for blurb prompts for Blogmas so don’t feel afraid to pop in a prompt to get written for tis year; all I can say is that if you’re asking for a lengthy prompt, I’m not the right person right now, haha.

I’m welcoming absolutely anything for this year; any AU, any characters, any ideas.

Reblog, like, comment and share your thoughts with me. Please let me know what you think because feedback is always appreciated on here; much more appreciated now given that I’ve not written a lot in a long while. Please let me know what you think.

Enjoy!

A song to listen to throughout the second scene; Bing Crosby, I’ll Be Home For Christmas

“Look at the size of those toms,” Alex gushed in awe, rushing from his place at the kitchen cabinet, where the kettle was whistling on the stove, to grab the woven basket full of fresh garden vegetables from his wife’s arms, saving a couple of apples and pears from becoming bruised by the floor. “They’re massive.”

“There’s something in the soil, I think,” YN teased, wiping her soil-covered fingertips on the pink and white polka-dot apron tied around her waist. Traces of wet mud and dry soil clinging to the material, tiny specks falling to the floor but nothing bad enough that couldn’t be sweeped with the brush and pan. “You should see some of the runners growing in the corner. Nice and long, they are. Perfect for dinner tomorrow eve.”

“How are the potatoes coming along?”

“They’re good, I was going to dig them and the carrots up tonight before the nighttimes cold comes in,” she said softly, standing beside her husband as he unpacked the fruit and placed them in the empty fruit bowl. The kettle coming to a gentle boil, soon being warm enough for them to make a warm cup of tea to drink by the fire to warm themselves up.

The vegetables left in the basket - varying from cabbage and cauliflower to Brussels sprouts and onions - needed a good brush down and a wash under water but looked good enough to enjoy as part of their meal the next day. A meal that would be enjoyed by her parents, Alex’s parents and a couple of good friends who hadn’t had time to make it back home for Christmas, missing the last train out of London for a few days and unable to find a kind-hearted soul to take them two hours up north. It was also a meal that YN had been panicking over for almost the entire month of December… her first time cooking a Christmas dinner and she wanted it to be as perfect as possible to end a year that needed some cheer.

With the war coming to an end, for a second time, she felt safe and happy. Much safer and much happier than the last time a war was declared to have finished.

Maybe it was the fact that the four-year long terror of air raid sirens and bombings and unexpected blackouts had come to its end; maybe it was the fact that Britain had won the war and there was no more fear to live by; maybe it was the fact that her husband had been one of the lucky ones to come home safe and sound, able to celebrate Christmas as normal without worry that he was going to be called back to fight in the trenches and on the frontline; maybe it was the fact that everything was slowly going back to how it had been and life was on track to getting better.

“Dad’s always saying they taste and cook the best after a night in the cold,” Alex shrugged, taking a bite of an apple and feeling the juice trickle down his chin, something that YN’s thumb caught and wiped away, “I’ll go and dig them up tomorrow morning.”

“I wanted to start peeling and cutting them now,” she frowned, looking at him with furrowed brows, “go dig them up for now, please, darling?”

He mirrored her expression and folded his arms, half-bitten apple still in his hand, a smile toying his lips.

“Do I have to? It’s getting cold out there, I’ve got no jumper on and I’ve just put the kettle on,” he playfully whined, pouting his lips.

Her own eyebrows furrowed deeper on her browline, a silent plea for him to do what she said because she was stressing enough and didn’t want to be panicking so early tomorrow morning. All along he was going to do what she asked him to do, no word of a lie, but he found pure enjoyment in giving her the idea he had no intentions of helping. He placed his half-eaten apple on the kitchen counter and took a step towards her.

“Alright, as long as you do me the best cup of tea possible.”

“Of course, aren’t all my cups of tea the best?” To which he nodded and she grinned, squeezing his cheek and leaving a blush pink behind on his cheekbone, “I love you.”

“I love you the most,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to her cold forehead, reaching around her to grab the basket and tuck it under his arm, “I’ll have a look at these nice, long runners you’ve been speaking so highly about, too.”

“Mum called earlier. She’s grown some strawberries and rhubarb and said she was making a pie for our dessert tomorrow. I told her that with how hard you’ve been working with the garden, on all the veggies, we won’t need a pudding to eat because we’ll be so full of Christmas dinner,” Alex chuckled, peering over the newspaper in his hands to catch a glimpse of a smile on her lips, eyes still trained to the book she was reading in the gentle, almost, silence.

The radio crackled quietly in the background of the living room, playing a Christmas song that had a frequent place on the station they had programmed to work properly. Adding a sense of merriment to the room they were sat in; tinsel hanging on a scarce Christmas tree, with ornaments made from paper and cardboard, and Christmas cards on the windowsill from family and friends. There wasn’t much they could do but it was enough for them.

“Your mum makes a good pie though,” YN admitted, placing her finger between the pages she’d gotten to, “she didn’t have to do that though. She’s already done a lot for me this year and the last four so tomorrow is, kind of, all about giving back to her and your dad and my parents, too.”

Alex’s family had been a huge constant in her life during the wartime.

His mother had been non-stop on the phone with her about new gardening tips that her friends had told her about and seeds to share amongst themselves to grow a healthy batch of fruits to bake with - because they baked, a lot, and his mother had sent her back home with a brain full of new treats to bake and recipes to try out - and they took care of a flower patch in the front garden of Alex’s home, which seemed to pass the time. His father had been just as helpful to her, whenever he wasn’t in factories or working in machinery, coming by to put shelves up for her or to fix a hole in the roof that had begun to leak. Always popping by with a loaf of bread from the bakery and a tin of meat, that YN would put together as a sandwich and they’d eat until he knew his wife would be questioning his whereabouts. They allowed her to stay when she was feeling lonely, always looked out for her during the raids and insisted she stayed with them to wait it out, always insisting that she stayed with them until Alex was home so she wasn’t suffering with loneliness or panicking when blackouts occurred.

It had always been his mother cooking a Christmas dinner, promising she didn’t have to do anything but sit at the dining table and enjoy a healthy meal with family, with no worrying or getting upset that her own husband wasn’t there to enjoy the family festivities.

So it felt surreal when YN saw Alex dressed in his uniform, on the train station platform with a bag swung over his shoulder, in and amongst crowds of reunited families, knowing that they were about to have their life back on track. A Christmas together.

“My dad’s made a good sherry for us to have. Mum said he’s been working on it for almost a year now. Growing currants in the front garden and chasing kids away when he saw them picking at his bushes as they passed,” Yn giggled softly, because the image of her father chasing active youths down a street was rather amusing to her, reaching for her bookmark to keep her place in the book resting on her lap, “she says she’s barely seen him because he spends his time at the allotments, with his friends.”

Alex snuffled a laugh and folded his paper up, setting it on the floor beside the crackling fireplace.

“We should get an allotment. Could build a shed there to hide in when it rains, have you come and sit and watch me dig the veggies up, let you grow some flowers there. We’d be the best there,” he grinned, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “what do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea, baby.”

“Christmases only get better from here,” he stood to his feet and wiggled his fingers in her direction, “let’s have a dance.”

She smiled shyly and stood to her feet, toes all toasty and warm from the fire, reaching for his hands as he twirled her under his arm and let her dress, all dark green and red (which she insisted was her most Christmas-y dress in her wardrobe) billow out at the knees. With the occasional step on his bare toes, and a trip over his own feet, they managed to move themselves around the room with such an elegant sway to their hips as the gentle voice of Bing Crosby filled the room, with the ever so delightful song that YN imagined must have felt so personal to so many around Britain. And she couldn’t help but think of how many others were dancing, singing and crying as the tune filled merry homes, both happy and sad.

And she didn’t want to let her mind wander to the agonising pain of not having a loved one, let alone a husband, arrive home safe for Christmas… but it was planted there and she never ever wanted an experience so heartbreaking.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he hummed and it was in that moment that he felt a dribble of tears against his neck, his feet coming to a stop as the music carried on behind them, “hey now. No crying, we said. This is a happy end to the year, eh? A happy one.”

“I know but,” she choked on a tear and pulled away to look at him, “I’m so lucky you came home to me. To us. But, some women, they never got to say goodbye to their husbands, their brothers, their fathers and grandfathers. They never got to see them for Christmas this year, last year and the years before that. They never knew what was coming,” she whispered with a hushed voice that felt like if she spoke too loud, she’d have the entire country hearing her, as if the music was bad enough to bring out the emotions.

“I promised you, didn’t I, baby?”

She nodded softly and his thumbs wiped away her tears, collecting moisture on the tips of his pads, their eyes locking for a brief second.

“I promised you I’d make it back to you and I did, safe and sound,” he held her face in his hands and brushed the tip of his nose to hers, his warm breath flushing over her face as she sniffled and sobbed, “I’m never leaving you again. Never ever. I promise, no selfish bastard is going to keep us apart, not even for Christmas.”

#alex!au #harry styles imagines #harry styles blurbs #harry styles prompts

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corinthbayrpg · 3 years

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NAME. Helena ‘Lenny’ Romeijnders AGE & BIRTH DATE. 37 & March 14, 1984 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Werewolf OCCUPATION. Fire Chief FACE CLAIM. Lauren German

BIOGRAPHY

Some days, Helena wishes her life began the way that the world did; with a bang. Instead, she was born in Amsterdam, under blue skies and in a home that was warm. The first born in the Romeijnders family, followed by Sander four years later— she took the role of eldest seriously, elbowing a brother who tugged at long flaxen locks and forming escape plans as she stood up on the tips of her toes when he’d gotten them into trouble, life was sweet for them. As a child, Helena was clever, with blue eyes eager to observe, to see the world around them and find her place in it. She was a protector, more level headed than Sander, with his knees always skinned and his eyes mischievous— level headed and practical.

She did well in school, stubborn and stuck up, but successful. Helena became Lenny, dropping the syllables for something shorter, easier to spit between teeth where delicate syllables did not. She grew confident, loyalty ribboned through her like the marrow in her bones and she took care of her friends, her brother, and Andrea, who was five when Lenny was fifteen. She was a child with wide, scared eyes, who needed extra care and extra attention. There was only so much that she could do— at eighteen she left home, leaving for school in Rotterdam. Despite being only an hour away, her parents urged her to cut ties, to distance herself just a little bit and to relax. For the first time in her life, Lenny closed the door to her responsibilities and as she studied, she began to come into herself.

There was freedom in being alone for the first time, to not have her phone ring and have it be Sander, needing to be bailed out, or her mother begging her to look after Andrea after school. She made friends, a difficult feat at first, then something easier. Finding her stride came as she left her teenaged years, she found a streak of selfishness that she liked. She forgot herself when her hands furled around the slender wrists of other women, when they tumbled into cotton beds and tangled there— a new fixation budded, she formed relationships that stole her attention from her studies, that had her ignoring the buzz of her phone. She supposed she was happier this way, without tiredness and worry for Andrea and Sander, with her only pressing obligations being the deadlines for school.

Things happened quickly, after that. A few years spent at university passed, and then she was called out from a lecture, her name echoing over the tinny loudspeaker as she collected her belongings and sat nervously in the dean’s office as he explained the situation at home. Sander was gone, her parents were frantic, and Andrea— she was alone. Lenny recalled the quiet girl, the shell-shocked baby who had taken a year to confidently speak aloud and she withdrew from her studies a semester shy of graduation, from a life that she had forged and loved, to return to the Romeijnders family home.

Returning home was like stepping into the crater left after a bomb blast. Her parents were worried, Andrea answered only to Andy now and whatever sweetness that lay in her had been replaced by something wicked. She acted out, caused trouble and harm simply for the sake of causing it, and Lenny watched, brows knit in concern as the younger girl shed childhood to become something more malicious. She wasn’t a parent, it wasn’t her role; but as oldest sister she changed her place as someone who could hold her hand to someone who would bail her out of trouble. Lenny picked her up after school, or from school, murmuring excuses in the principal’s office, or lying through her teeth about potential forms of discipline that would be used to resolve bad behaviours.

She got a job as a cashier and life stretched on dully, each day with the faded vignette of the day prior, unremarkable. A year passed and she barely noticed, the promise of returning to her studies felt further away as another slipped by. Lenny took to nature, running for hours through the woods, making her way through trails and over small brooks, staying out later and later— finding any excuse to for quiet before she retuned back to the chaos at home. Andy had pulled the fire alarm, Andy had gotten into a fight, it fell like a mantra between the constant insistence from her mother that she’d seen Sander in the market today, or that she swore she saw the back of his jacket. Another year passed. Whatever she knew of her brother had fallen away, his room remained closed, her mother hopeful. Andy turned fifteen as she turned twenty-five and the other girl got louder, worse even, and Lenny spent more and more time in the darkness of the woods.

Of that night, she only recalls bits and pieces. Fragments cling to her memory; a low snarl, bright yellow eyes. There are no wolves in those woods, she had told herself as she continued her run, ignoring the howls that pierced through the dark of the evening. She remembers how a shiver had raked its nails down the notches of her spine and she had been afraid. There was pain, and it latched itself with curved teeth into her forearm, and then, as she wrestled herself away, it disappeared how it had come, suddenly.

A month passed and feeling sat uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. She found herself watching the sky, fixating on the movement of the stars, on the way that the moon waned and began to fatten, before it hung over Amsterdam, over the forests that she returned to, full bellied and bright. The first night of her existence as a wolf was soaked in blood. Other wolves circled her, watching as she writhed under the birth of her first transformation. Tears tracked on her cheeks as bones broke and skin tore, whatever had been girlish and soft was replaced by a creature engineered for slaughter. Other wolves, they circled her when at last, she tipped her head up and said her first words in wolfsong.

It was after that night, that she knew that she too, had to leave. The pack stayed with her until dawn, wrapping her shivering form in a blanket of itchy wool, whispering to her as she sat in shock, that she would be alright. She’d become something monstrous over the course of a month, a result of an accident. Whatever place Lenny had at home, it would have to be abandoned for a world that beckoned darkly, with promise of other species that defied everything she knew of the normal and the natural, one that was dangerous and all encompassing. Her family would be alright, she decided, leaving a note that she tucked into Andy’s furled fist as she slept before packing her belongings to follow the pack.

Twelve years pass in a daze. Europe is beautiful, full of wonder and she finds pieces of herself again, growing from something young to someone stronger— more self assured. In her chest, anger boils and steams when she thinks of a brother who had left them behind, who had found the world to be more worthwhile than their family. With this emotion, comes guilt, washing like a tide: she hates him for it but she too had followed in Sander’s footsteps, casting Andy aside for the open playground of Europe. Lipstick smears on her mouth, blonde hair grows longer and her face stays unchanged for a long time, time for Lenny stands still and she is a wolf, part of a collective and no longer an individual, until she too out grows that. Shedding the pack, she roams alone, a strategist and a soldier, happy in her own company and the company of those who are fleeting.

Lenny cycled through life, wild and reckless for some years, violent and righteous in others but now, she finds herself padding into Corinth Bay, following rumours and names of parts of herself that had been left behind. If the Romeijnders siblings are formed of head, heart and brawn, Helena is all three and she seeks to find and piece together what remains of her family. This is her duty, her Sisyphean task, and it is a quiet life and comfort that she wishes to languish in now. There’s a home in the town that she’s beginning to fill with possessions and a job at the fire station that she goes to daily. The break in her nomadic lifestyle feels like it’s doing her good, but she’s struggling to loosen white knuckles from the reins of control.

She is neither angry, indignant, nor embittered— but she is empowered. Strength is her forte, Helena possesses it in spades; they say that none will fight as valiantly as a cornered dog but they have also never seen a woman with a loyalty as ingrained as hers.

PERSONALITY

+ selfless, loyal, softhearted - assertive, lascivious, critical

PLAYED BY SAM. EST. She/Her.

#sam

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fullsunalicia · 4 years

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i found you by chance, read your entire masterlist in one sitting and i've been smitten with your writing ever since!🥺 may i request a doyoung installment of your demigod series if you don't mind? they're just so lovely🥺 stay safe and healthy❣

archnemesis — KDY

doyoung and you have been at each other’s throat for more years than you can count. the constant bickering and his know-it-all behavior makes you want to burst from anger, but maybe the tension can be released ... otherwise.

son of athena!doyoung x daughter of poseidon!reader

oh bubs! i’m smitten with you too, thank you for being so kind! i hope you stay healthy, too - have you eaten yet? if not, go eat rn! stay healthy and take care of yourself <3 now, enjoy some demigod doyoung!

The stories speak of fated lovers. What they didn’t mention was that you were also able to inherit the hate towards another demigod just because their godly parent is a bitch towards yours.

Though, that isn’t the only reason you despise Kim Doyoung.

The man was born to get on your nerves. No matter what, you guys made it a competition to be better than the other. Grades, reputation,... You name it, you’ve fought about it. All of that is heightened because of that dispute from aeons ago, where Athens fell into Athena’s hands just because she planted some stupid olive tree.

Yes, you and your father are still salty about that.

You are never ever going to like Kim Doyoung.

❀ ❀ ❀

“I hate this university so much,” you cuss as you wrap your bath robe tighter and hide behind Taeyong. He’s not exactly broad enough to cover you, but you’d still like to maintain atleast a little bit of your dignity. You’re already annoyed - the loud alarm blaring doesn’t make it any better.

Taeyong intertwines your hands and pulls you along. The halls are filled with people who are as enraged as you, but also lots of people who are too stoned to care. Some look neutral. Some laugh at you, the girl who was in the middle of showering when the fire alarm went off. “Would you rather burn?” Taeyong sighs, eyes fixed on the exit. Neither of you thought about bringing a jacket, and you both dread the snowy weather that’s waiting outside.

Well, it’s going to be worse for you. Sopping wet from head to toe, you’re leaving behind the path back to your dorm with pools of water. It’s running down your back and clings to your cheeks, frozen there the second Taeyong and you step out.

You’d rather die than look anyone in the eye right now.

The problem is that this university is filled with mortals. No matter how many of them had the sight, you weren’t allowed to use your powers in public. You’re unable to wring yourself out, making you fall victim to the freezing wind blowing iceflowers on your wet skin.

Someone behind you snorts rather loudly. “You should’ve stayed in the dorm, idiot.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, or what you imagine would it feel like if you had glass shards stuck in your ear. Doyoung bows over your shoulder to smirk at you, unfazed by your harsh push. He stumbles, but sadly doesn’t fall.

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart, you stupid know-it-all?” you hiss at him. Doyoung is wrapped in a thick coat, protected from the snow falling from the skies as the temperature drops lower and lower. Truth be told, he’s very handsome. You can’t deny that. It’s his personality that ruins it all.

A long time ago, long before you entered college, you and Doyoung had been in the same class in highschool. Your relationship back then had been a little bit better than now, but the hate had taken root there. His arrogance. The glance in his eyes that made you think he was looking down on you.

Doyoung is his mother’s pride and joy, the poster child. The sharp tongue. Emotionless eyes, aside from that slither of smugness. He’s perfect. And that’s what annoys the hell out of you.

He is born to bow before the rules. You live to break them. You aren’t meant to be contained or held down by something as stupid as that. The ocean waves live in your veins and empower you. Free as the flowing water, and just as harsh. The problem with Doyoung and you is that you’re just like your parents. Where he is careful, you are ignorant. Doyoung thinks about his actions, you rush into it headfirst.

Both of you are the spark to set ablaze the other’s fury. It made the lifes of your poor friends a nightmare, especially when you’re drunk and loose-lipped, and the only thing Doyoung has to say about that is: “Just as disappointing as her father.”

Because of that, he ended up with a busted lip once or twice.

“That’s why I told you to stay inside. It would’ve saved you the lung infection you’re about to catch. I suppose your singular braincell can’t get that.”

You don’t react to his jab. It’s too cold for that, and your teeth are chattering too much to deliver a harsh comment anyways. Taeyong beside you is quiet, offering you his arm as you wrap your own around it and roll your eyes. “I would’ve been written up, you asshole,” you mumble. With that, you bury your face in Taeyong’s side. You wish you were in your warm room. Surrounded by the scent of the ocean breeze, and the soft music that’s heard through the walls whenever Taeyong practices. It’s friday, for god’s sake.

Someone drapes a jacket over you. Disoriented, you raise your head to scold Taeyong - he can’t give you his jacket, if he gets sick he’s going to miss his competition... But it’s not Taeyong’s. His eyes are wide and shocked.

You turn back around to check for the annoying smartass, but he’s already walking away from you towards his friends.

Jacketless.

❀ ❀ ❀

You don’t see Doyoung for days after. Normally, you’d be glad to be free of his annoying existence. After that move in the snow, you’re not entirely sure if you never want to see him again, or pin him against a wall to question him.

There was no reason for him to be ... “kind”. If Kim Doyoung is even able to do that. Why would he? He enjoys your suffering as much as you enjoy his. On any other day, he would’ve left you to freeze to death. So what possessed him to do that?

The sound of water crashing on the shore snaps you out of your thoughts. You don’t particularly enjoy skinny dipping, but once in a while, you like to just sit down in the water and listen to the ocean’s stories. The waves whisper, heard only by those who are willing and able to listen. They don’t speak any language of the world, but you still understand them - the sound of the hidden world beneath the waterline, deep in the waters, never to be explored by someone who doesn’t belong there. Both death and life are found in the middle of the ocean’s treasures - corals, sirens, those who’s ships crash against the jagged stone and sink to the ground, never to be seen again. The secret of a naiad. The first cry of a mermaid. Two boats passing in the night.

You hear it all. You know it all. As a princess of the waves, the key to all those locks is in your heart, given to you by your father. The water will always bend to your will. The earth shakes below your feet to support your anger and release it. You are (y/n), daughter of Poseidon. You are as unraveling and uncontrollable as the freshwater rivers, mysterious like the depths of the sea. Your crown is made of salt and sapphire, not metal that will rust.

Being close to your father’s realm makes you calm. It’s like returning home after a long day, the warmth of the water like a blanket around your body. Thankfully, you’re not soaked or drenched. You will never be prisoner of the sea.

You want to know what goes in Doyoung’s head. Rarely is he ever helpful towards you. There was a time in highschool where you had thought you could put your differences aside, but it’s just not possible. Doyoung is married to his pride and his pride alone, cloaking himself in it so nobody gets close. He’s intelligent and cunning. There is no reason for him to tip his hand and aid you, when all he ever does is make life hard for you.

But once in a blue moon, Doyoung’s eyes are as calm as the ocean at night. No bitterness, no snarled arguments. It’s just him, focussed on the task at hand, quiet and in his own world. He reminds you of the mermaids then, who watch over the sea to save the drowning ships. He’s not malicious. He’s just a man with his own goals.

Waiting for you on the shore are your belongings, and a jacket that was never yours. It’s time you return it.

❀ ❀ ❀

Doyoung looks unfazed when you hand him back the jacket. You clear your throat, embarrassed. How the hell do you force yourself to be kind to the rival you’ve been terrorising for several years now? “Uhm, thanks, I guess,” you mumble and turn away to leave.

You’re not ready to throw away all of your habits yet.

The choice is taken out of your hands when Doyoung tugs you back. His grip isn’t firm, just kind of clinical. Touching you only for the sake that you’d know he didn’t want the conversation to end. It makes you uneasy. The two of you aren’t supposed to converse so calmly. At this point, Doyoung should be digging his claws inside of you like an angry cat, hooked deep inside you and leave you to rot. Spark the fighting spirit in you. The part of you that creates destructive hurricanes and deadly whirlpools.

But his eyes are unfathomable. “You’re not sick, are you? We were staying outside for a pretty long time. I didn’t see you get back inside.”

You want to hiss at him - what’s it to you? - but the sound is lodged in your throat. There was no mean undertone, no teasing lilt. Just ... curiosity.

You shake your head. Your voice hadn’t returned yet; you’re waiting for the situation to explode, for the hatred to return to his eyes. Shouldn’t you force his hand away? What is wrong with you?

Doyoung drops his hand. For once in your life, you desperately wish to be able to look into his head. To read that brilliant mind that forges thousands of strategies, aware of every possibility given. No matter how much you dislike him, there’s no point denying the utter intelligence this man possesses. He’s clever, with the consuming wish to know anything and everything. You look into his eyes, but there’s nothing - Doyoung is smart enough not to let anything show. He’s not like you. Still waters run deep.

Doyoung feels like the lowest point of the ocean. All the secrets buried there. The knowledge that would never reach another’s eyes. Mysterious. Dangerous.

Fingertips brush your hand. Maybe you imagined it. You don’t know if believing your senses, is the correct decision to take right now. Doyoung’s eyes shape emotion again, the silent caution of someone who didn’t want to overstep boundaries. But he never does that with you. Why would he now? “Keep to warm drinks,” he says, not an order, but advice. He folds his jacket in his hands. Have his eyes always looked like those of an owl? Or is that just an exaggeration on your part, because his mother is often connected with that animal? “Stretch if you have to. It would be unwise for you to catch a cold during exam season.”

With that, Doyoung steps inside and closes the door, to both you and the unknown world you had just been unwillingly dragged in. The one where children of Athena and Poseidon didn’t jump at each others throat because they breathe the same air.

The one where you feel like you’re in highschool again, wondering if Doyoung and you can be something entirely different than an archnemesis to the other.

❀ ❀ ❀

You’re not childish. You’re really not.

But maybe this situation is just too much temptation. Sprawled across several books, Doyoung rests his head on his arms and is deep in slumber. His black hair is curled, weirdly, a strange sight to behold. It’s not like he’s very stylish. It must be his friends’ influence. He almost looks pretty. You’re not childish, but there’s just something so funny about grabbing a pen and ruining Doyoung’s stunning features.

Your friends roll their eyes at you as you silently step closer to Doyoung. They want nothing to do with your shenanigans, and they’re honestly too tired to stop another brawl. The entire day had been spent studying, since final exams are drawing close and everyone feels like dying from the stress. It seems like not even a child of Athena is excluded from that. Doyoung’s brows are furrowed, even in his sleep. Shoulders tense, his hands forming fists before relaxing again - he doesn’t even let himself rest while he’s off to dreamland. Though this shouldn’t suprise you. Doyoung always flings himself into unreasonable amounts of work, no matter how much his health deteriorates because of that.

Despite hating him, you know a lot about the man who looks more bunny than human. In the many years of rivalry, you picked up a fact or two about him. His memorization skills, for example. You always hated how he was never plagued by blackouts during exams, while you suffered from panic in the few classes you struggled in. He always triumphed over you with a few points just because of that. Another thing is his fear from animals. You once used your powers on him, young and reckless, exceptionally blind to the threat that you could pose to him as a ruler child, daughter of one of the big three in Olympus. He hadn’t flinched from being caged underwater. The second Doyoung sees a large dog though, he’s as far away from the scene as possible.

It’s a very rare occasion, but you’ve also seen Doyoung cry before. In middle school, alone on a bench, surrounded by parents accompanying their children to school. Athena is sworn to chastity. That means that her children aren’t conceived - they’re living, breathing ideas, born in the same strange way their mother was. In the mortal world, they were known as ‘adopted’. And because Athena didn’t give away her virginity to have Doyoung, it means there’s no father in the picture. It’s just him and his big brother. On that day, he had cried because he was fully aware he was alone. You saw it in the way he clutched his books tight; knowledge ties him to his mother, earns him appreciation. No olympian parent would ever be there for their child all of the time. They are gods, bound to the nightsky. They exist to rule over the world and keep the balance. They are the fear instilled in you as tsunamis wreck entire cities. They are the wonder and awe in your eyes at the sight of purple thunderstorms darken blue skies, clawing it open with white lightning. They’re not here to play mommy and daddy.

That day was the only day in your life where you had willingly sat down next to Doyoung and held his hand until he calmed down. You sat there for a long time, clinging to each other, before you promised to never speak to anyone about this ever. Now came the second time where you slid into the seat next to him without being forced.

Doyoung is deep in slumber. Not a single reaction is coaxed out of him as you poke his cheek, and then pinch it. His lashes are really long; the thought fills you with envy. How come every single boy you know has nicer lasher than you?

With a sigh, you put a hand to his shoulder and shake him gently. He’s warm below your touch. Doyoung doesn’t rouse. “Hey,” you say, though it’s not loud. You’re still in a library. Then: “Hey, Doyoung.”

Your idea of drawing on his face is long forgotten when his eyelids finally flutter open. He looks unbelievably tired. Like a zombie, his gaze is dazed as he lets it wander over his surroundings, before finally settling on you. Thankfully, he doesn’t give you the evil side eye. You think he’s too exhausted to actually do that now. You shift in your seat. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

The man drowsily reaches for his phone to check the time. Out of instinct, he narrows his eyes because of the bright light, and you fight back a snicker before he can glare at you. “This morning,” he mumbles, sleep lacing his melodious voice.

“Doyoung, it’s 9pm.”

“Your point?”

You sigh. You’d rather not do this right now. But you also can’t will yourself to stand up and leave, when he looks so ... wrecked. You want to help. “C’mon,” you murmur. “Grab your stuff, let’s get you some ramen. My treat.”

Doyoung looks at you like you’ve grown another head. Impatiently, you start drumming your fingers on the table. Is he always this ungrateful?

Nonetheless, he gathers his stuff, and you help him stuff the heavy books into his bagpack. Maybe you’re possessed. Yeah, maybe. That’s the only explanation you can muster for your behavior right now. But that still doesn’t explain why Doyoung had been kind to you after the fire alarm. Perhaps whatever possessed you had possessed him first?

You always knew those water spirits were real. Your father is a damn liar.

Doyoung lets himself be tugged out of the library by you, his body still heavy from the slumberparty he threw for himself while studying. The feeling of his fingers between yours doesn’t feel so bad. So what? You’re holding his hand because you hate him that much.. You’re just treating him like a child because he can’t walk alone, that’s all...

Neither of you let go once.

❀ ❀ ❀

“Are you hiding shit from me?”

Confused, you look out of your room to meet Taeyong’s gaze, who’s only halfway stepped out of his own to address you. A smirk is painted on his beautiful face, rather unusual for someone as kind as Lee Taeyong. You only see that kind of expression on his face when he’s punching someone in the face, or dancing in a competition. Son of Ares and all. That anger is fuel to a whole lot of good things in his life, not only fights. (Though not even Taeyong can resist the urge that was passed on to him by his father. You’ve seen the way his eyes light up when he lands a particularly good uppercut.)

“Now what is that supposed to mean?” You return to your messy room. Exams are finally over, and it looks like a bomb exploded inside your sleeping chambers as you’ve been busy studying in the past few weeks. You never even thought about tidying up because you were so concentrated on cramming a semester’s worth of information inside your head. This degree in marine biology wasn’t going to earn itself. Now, several weeks later, you finally had the time and right headspace to get your room back to its’ usual outlook.

It rustles in the room beside you. Taeyong is rearranging his furniture. “Are you out of your mind, or why are you on good terms with Kim Doyoung? I don’t like seeing you guys get along. It honestly scares me. It feels like there’s some kind of dubious peace treaty going on and it’s going to explode in my face when I get accostumed to it.”

Oh. A pink blush settles on your face as you slam your drawers shut, the embarrassment pooling in your stomach. You’ve never been good at hiding things from your best friend; Taeyong knew you too well. “I don’t know,” you tell him. Something in his room falls over. “I guess we just stopped after he lent me his jacket. Though I must admit it’s getting pretty weird. This is a betrayal to myself.”

“Are you joking? I was tired of getting in the middle of your brawls all the time.”

“Don’t lie!” You throw a book against the wall that borders to Taeyong’s room. He giggles, fully aware that he was caught lying red-handed. “I know how much you enjoyed playfighting with that dumbass. You were only disappointed that it was denying you of a real fight. You damn Ares children and your knack to fuck shit up.”

“Hey, blame it on the genes.” He wanders in your room without knocking. Taeyong isn’t very cuddly, but for once, he’s the one initiating the skinship. He hugs you tightly, thin frame fitting around yours to press you against his body. “I’m glad,” he mumbles, voice wiped clean of its’ joking tone. “Seriously. You’re not your parents. There’s no reason to not get along. If I can do it with him, why can’t you?”

Maybe what you have with Doyoung is a little different to what Taeyong and Doyoung have. But Taeyong doesn’t need to know that. And especially not Doyoung. It’s a wellkept secret that has been blooming inside you since you watched him slurp up some cup ramen, the gratitude in his eyes waking something up in your heart.

After that, he had never once looked down on you. No disrespect. No provoking comments. Only mindless chatter, and the occasional stare you caught the other doing once in a while.

[07:25pm] k. doyoung: meet me at the quad

Taeyong snickers as he reads the message over your shoulder. “So you’ve been hiding something from me,” he accuses you, and you realize that your secret isn’t as wellkept as you thought. You want to argue, but Taeyong shuts you up with a wink and leaves the room. Hmph. You return your attention to your phone.

[07:26pm] (y/n): be there in a minute.

Maybe your room can wait.

The walk from the dorm to the quad isn’t far, maybe a five-minute-walk if you weren’t rushing. It’s a little early in the evening, but still really cold, which is why you wrap your jacket around yourself tighter and pick up speed. Doyoung is waiting for you patiently, hands buried deep into his pockets.

You still have to get accostumed to the sight of him smiling at you. And to holding his arm willingly. And the wish to stand on your tippy toes and kiss him...

“Why’d you call me?”

Doyoung starts walking. Even though you already wrapped your arm around his, he uncoils them so he can interlock your fingers and stuff them into his jacket pocket. “I thought about something,” he drawls out. As always, he cloaks his voice to not expose his true feelings. Another Athena habit. You wonder if he’s even aware of it. “This rivalry thing is getting kinda old, don’t you think?”

“Are you finally admitting defeat?” You grip his fingers tighter. They’re warm in yours, and the laugh you manage to coax out of him makes you feel light. “I knew if I just continued fighting bravely, I’d win. This is for Athens, wise boy.”

Doyoung holds you closer. He seems really undecisive with what he wants to do: despite him already changing the positon of your hands, he lets go to wrap an arm around your waist and pin you against his side. The second he lowers his head to lean his forehead against yours, you feel dizzy. “Never, seaweed brain. I was actually thinking something entirely different...”

You feel breathless. “What exactly?”

“How about I show you?”

Doyoung’s lips feel as soft as they look like; his kiss feels like a caress, so sensual and loving you could do this for hours. Your hands find his hair, tugging slightly to get him closer. You even tug an appreciative, very quiet moan out of him by doing that. When he finally leans way, your lips are swollen, his are forming a grin. He’s awfully smug. Though, you guess he has every right to after making your heart pound as quickly as the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings.

His gaze is self-satisfied, but also full of adoration. Longing. The same gaze he sometimes has after reading a particularly good book. The taste of his favorite cake. Who knew enemies made such good lovers...

“So?” Doyoung cradles your face in his hands, fingers moving to tuck strands of your hair behind your ear. Careful, like you were porcelain. Expensive. Precious to him. “Do you agree with me or what?”

“I think I need to be shown again.”

He doesn’t stop you from getting a second taste.

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dawnrider · 4 years

Text

Since most of the votes were for the Modern AU, I bring to you, the spicy part so far of a college AU I’ve been writing off and on for a long time. I promise there’s more plot and emotional development before this... but I’m guessing y’all don’t care about that right now. XD Had to split it into 2 parts since it was long.

1 | 2 |

Spitfire:

I'm not sure what woke me, exactly, but I was suddenly wide awake. Judging by the darkness, it was the middle of the night. My hands shifted restlessly under my pillow for a moment before I realized that I could feel someone watching me. Not the best feeling to wake up to in the middle of the night in your apartment alone... A soft noise, maybe a rustle of clothing, drew my attention and I nearly screamed. Standing near the window, the moon not quite reaching him, was Yash.

I had never seen him look so intimidating before. While nothing about him was outwardly antagonistic or aggressive, he loomed over me in a way he'd never done. “Yash?” I whispered. “What are you doing here?” I pulled the blanket in my hands closer, somehow feeling like it was protecting me from him. Despite the fact that he was hanging back in the shadows, I could easily see that it was him. No one else filled a room the way he did. No one made me fight a constant quiver in my knees the way he did. I wasn't even standing and I could feel my patellas twitching. He still hadn't responded to my question and it was making me even more nervous than I was already. How the hell had he gotten into my apartment? "Yash?" I tried again.

"I... had to see you," he murmured. There was a growling tone to his voice I was unfamiliar with. Was he sick? He stepped into the light from the window and I felt my head tilt in confusion of its own volition. He looked different somehow. The phrase “animal attraction” quickly came to mind and I found myself lowering the blanket and slipping from the bed. The wood floor was chilly under my toes, sending a shiver up through the soles of my feet. But as he drew closer, I realized the chill wasn't causing the shiver at all.

His eyes, usually a pale brown, absolutely glowed golden in the moonlight. His hair, which I had always considered blond was clearly a platinum silver. Most startling was the way his eye teeth seemed longer than was normal... or even slightly abnormal for a human being. I mean, mine were a little lengthy. I had repeatedly discovered this the hard way when I used to bite the inside of my lip in the same place consistently. Yash's were nearly deadly looking. He seemed to be breathing through his mouth deliberately and I couldn't tell why until he took a deep breath through his nose and winced. "Geez, do I smell bad?" I half-joked in a weak whisper. He barely reacted at first, closing his eyes. I didn't have time to react myself when he suddenly grabbed my arms, pulling me against his chest. "Are you alright?" I questioned him, when I really felt the question should have been going the other direction.

"I have never smelled something so delicious in my entire life." I froze at his words. Was he serious? Was he seriously playing some kind of prank on me? The whole sneaking into my apartment in the dead of night thing, the looming in the darkness and barely speaking, looking at me like he wanted to devour me... Was this supposed to be some sort of Halloween, vampire, scare the crap out of Kagome thing? If it was, it wasn't funny anymore.

"That's sweet, I suppose. You still haven't told me what you're doing here... in my room... in the middle of the night.

"Don't you feel it?" I gave him a blank look. "I'm drawn to you, Kagome. I know you're drawn to me." I couldn't deny that and he seemed to know what I wasn't saying. "You're it," he growled. I flinched and I heard what sounded like a whimper in response. "Don't be afraid of me, Kagome. I would never hurt you."

"I-I know that," I whispered uncertainly. I did know it, but I wasn't sure why he felt like he needed to tell me that. The reason came in the form of a rough kiss I most definitely hadn't expected. Despite the way I had felt about him for several years, never in a million years did I think he would ever return my feelings. But again, maybe he didn't and this was some strange prank. The way he was kissing me certainly didn't imply that he was joking. His lips were firm and insistent, urging me into kissing him back with equal enthusiasm. When his kiss changed from a firm but relatively chaste one to fierce and open-mouthed, I followed right along without a thought. His tongue traced mine carefully at first, then with more confidence when I didn't pull away.

I found myself reciprocating until I brushed one of those deadly looking incisors with my tongue and felt a sting of pain. So not just "deadly looking," actually dangerous. Yash flinched himself, clearly stunned by the taste of my blood in his mouth. It took him several moments to pull away, his tongue tracing his own teeth and then his lips. He seemed more focused than before, his eyes really taking me in. “Kagome? Shit, I'm sorry,” he growled, stepping back and switching on the floor lamp I had next to the armchair in the corner. The light made him look normal again, the same Yash I had known for years. I stood frozen, watching him, as he went to my bed, pulling the blanket I had been gripping earlier up and around my shoulders. “I shouldn't be here,” he told me. I started to protest but stopped when he spoke again. “But I can't leave now. I... I need to explain.”

“I should think so. How the hell did you get into my apartment?” I asked again. He looked sheepish before pointing to the window. I raised an eyebrow. “I live on the third floor Yash,” I said in a tone that attempted to remind him I was expecting a truthful explanation.

“It's a brick building. These help,” he muttered, slowly presenting me with fingers clad in blunt but very tough looking nails. Looking from his hands to his face, I frowned, taking one hand in my own to study it. The tips were not sharp, but certainly could do damage if applied properly. I'd always admired how strong his hands looked. Hands that could fix things, solve problems, protect things. The nails were real. It took me several moments to realize that they in fact grew like any normal fingernail, just thicker and tougher. I looked into his face again and saw the nervousness in his eyes. Why was he afraid of me? He was the one with the claws. As I stared, the way I had seen him in the moonlight seemed to become clearer, the way I usually saw him fading as I distinguished the features I normally didn't notice. The fangs were back and his eyes looked more like molten gold than light brown. Why had it never occurred to me that his eye color wasn't really normal? His hair, almost platinum blonde in my previous opinion, was clearly silver. The last thing I noticed was the pair of animal ears twitching in agitation on top of his head. I felt the stretch of shock on my face.

Yash's fingers gently curled around my wrist as my hands went numb and almost dropped from where they had been holding his. “Yash...” I whispered, completely baffled.

“Don't be afraid, Kagome. I won't hurt you,” he repeated. He seemed so sure that I was going to be afraid of him, that I was going to start screaming at any moment. Alright, maybe letting out a little scream had entered my mind for a moment, but it wasn't there now. I felt the shock slowly wear off to be replaced with faint wonder. “You needed to know the truth,” he murmured, stepping closer. His steps were light and as non-threatening as he could manage.

“Shippo too?” I whispered. A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

“Not exactly. He's... He's a full-blood. A fox.” I frowned for a moment before tilting my head in confusion. “Youkai. The English word Demon doesn't quite fit, but it's the best translation.” Nodding slowly, I started to sit, squeaking when Yash caught my elbows. He steered me back a few more feet so I actually landed on the bed. He knelt in front of me, staring up into my face plaintively. “My mother was human, my father an inuyoukai. A dog demon. My given name is Inuyasha.”

I fought the quirk of a smile. Not completely unfamiliar with my parents' native language, I guessed the translation of his name. “Dog forest spirit? A bit literal.” A tiny hopeful smile twitched his lips. “Then how is...”

“I saved Shippo from a couple of weather youkai a long time ago. He was too young to protect himself and they had just killed his father. Runt's been following me around ever since.” The fact that he had taken my best friend under his protection made me smile, my heart warming even more to him. My head was spinning a little but his warm hands on my arm and knee kept me grounded somehow.

“Why... why share this with me?” I wondered aloud.

His eyes dropped a moment before looking back at me with the quiet determination of a man with a goal in mind. “I know you think I've never paid you much attention, that I didn't notice you.” I froze, my eyes widening in embarrassment. “I've always been very aware of you. I noticed you even before you became friends with Shippo.” Trying not to panic, I held my breath. “Kagome, you don't have to be afraid. Your interest has always been welcome,” he whispered, leaning closer and toying with the blanket that draped across my arm. Was he reading my mind? “I wanted Shippo to become friends with you to make sure you were safe and... You seemed so alone then.” His voice had remained a soft comforting murmur, almost hypnotic in its tone. “Then you were all he could talk about, the best friend he could ask for.”

He was referring to when I'd first arrived at school. I hadn't known anyone, my family lived nearly five hundred miles away and my roommate at the time was an antisocial, angry girl who eventually tried to kill an ex-boyfriend at home over a school vacation. Needless to say I hadn't been upset she didn't come back to school after Fall Break. Shippo had bumped into me shortly before Thanksgiving, a surprising and welcome friendly face. He was a little younger than me, but he'd been accelerated through school since he was so brilliant.

“The letters and emails from you when you were in Brazil... They weren't for Ship, were they?” I asked suddenly, putting things together. There was no reason Shippo would have needed to hear from his older brother so often and certainly not for him to have read every single one to me unless they were for me to hear what was going on. He gave a small sheepish smirk, but nodded to affirm my assumption. “Why didn't you... approach me?”

His eyes glowed faintly in the bright light of the nearly full moon and I saw some strange emotion in them. “I'm not a risk-taker.” I knew he didn't mean that he wasn't a thrill seeker. The man had bungee jumped, sky dived, base jumped, cave dived and swam with sharks. He wasn't afraid of anything. Except me apparently. “Shippo never told you about my ex, did he?” he said quietly. No he hadn't and I was a little afraid to hear it now. I shook my head and bit my lip. I had assumed he'd dated a lot. He was intelligent and extremely good looking and I'd seen at least a few girls throw themselves in his path in hopes of getting his attention. “It was a long time ago. Long story short, we met at a time when things were really rough between humans and youkai. There were a lot more youkai then than there are now, at least out in the open.” Stretching up to his full height, I felt my awe of him return for a brief moment. He was tall, broad and almost otherworldly in his appearance. I found that my feelings for him hadn't changed at all.

He looked to me for permission before sitting next to me on the bed. I curled my legs under me, tucking the blanket more tightly around my shoulders. “Go on.”

~~~~~~

“Holy types, priestesses and monks, tended to destroy first, ask questions later. Which, considering the way youkai were then, was a completely fair way to handle themselves.” Her eyes widened slightly at my easy acceptance of such brutality. “More than once I almost got my ass fried until I learned the hard way that getting purified didn't mean I was dust like a normal youkai.”

“You become human...” I nodded, a grim smile on my mouth, pleased that Kagome was so quick to understand. “But your...”

“Youki. My youkai blood...” I supplied.

“Youki then. It comes back obviously.” Again I nodded. “Well that's lucky.”

My face must have displayed open shock at her easy words. “Lucky?” I choked out, staring for a few moments. “I... I guess I never thought of it that way.”

Kagome let out a small laugh. “Why not? A full-blooded youkai would be purified and die whereas you can survive a purification attack. That's pretty neat.”

“Neat?” My head tilted in surprise at the word. That definitely wouldn't have been the description I would have chosen. What I would like to choose in that moment was to kiss Kagome again. The soft, playful smile on her lips made me hunger to capture them with my own all over again. Of course, I knew I wanted a lot more than just a kiss. I wanted a lot more than just a moment too. “Kagome,” I purred, tugging her against me and pressing my lips to hers. She accepted my kiss without complaint, her soft mouth moving against mine in a way that left no room for doubt that she wanted me too. It was almost more than my beast could handle, forcing me to pull away to calm myself. I had been explaining something to her, something important. Damn if I could remember what it was.

“You were telling me about mikos and youkai,” she reminded me gently, her voice reflecting her slightly aroused state. It was a continuous struggle, but I managed not to go in for another kiss.

“Right. The first time I was purified, it was a miko named Kikyo.”

“Wait, Kikyo of Shikon no Tama fame?” I jumped. Kagome knew of her? Obviously the stories were written in history books but I had never anticipated that Kagome would remember those stories. I nodded. “Wow. I mean... wow! You're the half demon they talk about. My family comes from the Sunset Shrine in Tokyo, the same Shinto shrine that was built to replace the one from the warring states period.” She chuckled softly. “Small world.”

Having read the stories enough times myself to know them by heart, I knew what they said about me. What I was curious to know was what Kagome's interpretation was. “Pretty conniving and diabolical.”

Kagome scoffed. “I don't know which stories you've been reading, but the way my grandfather has always told it, Kikyo lost her life and the love of her life the day the jewel disappeared.” I couldn't miss the moment her face changed as she realized more completely that the person she was talking about was right in front of her. “I'm sorry, I...” I shook my head.

“It was, obviously, a very long time ago.”

“More than five hundred years a long time ago.” Her mouth twisted in a motion that told me she wanted to ask something. “The hanyou in the story... he was pinned to a tree in the forest forever. Obviously you disappeared and they just had to end the story.”

If only that were the truth. “No, I was pinned for almost five hundred years.” Kagome's mouth dropped open. I smiled a little. “I didn't know what woke me until a few years ago. I was in the woods somewhere, woods surrounded by buildings that were so obviously not of my time.”

Kagome's face became sympathetic. “That must have been very disconcerting.”

“More than a little. I stayed in those woods as long as I could stand and then started prowling the city at night, listening to what I could, watching humans live their lives. Eventually I knew I would have to find a way to blend in.” I shook my head. “An old man found me in the woods that very night. He was obviously as surprised to find me there as I was to see him. But not for the reason I expected. He said he had never expected me to wake up and that his family had been guarding the land around where I was imprisoned for hundreds of years.” I looked Kagome over. “He told me that he knew of a miko who could help me hide my features, and brought me to her to learn the illusion you normally see.”

“He... he was never frightened of you?”

I laughed. “No, which confused me more than anything. I asked him why he wasn't.” I took a deep breath. “He told me that he knew that my life had been stolen from me by a trick and he smiled at me strangely. 'I believe your new life was born only two months ago. Wait for her, she will find you.' It was the oddest thing anyone had ever said to me, and I didn't understand what he meant until a few years ago.” Nothing I could do or say would make the next part of my story less weird or creepy sounding, so I plunged on. “He helped me get acclimated in the city before leaving me on my own in the forest. He never told me his name, or how he knew what had happened, but I had a feeling I would see him again eventually.”

“When did you find Shippo?”

“A couple years later. I guess it would have been... 1987? I ventured into the woods a lot to clear my head. I would go further out from the city to find quiet and one day I found the Thunder Brothers, as they liked to call themselves, about to kill a fox youkai kit. He was only... three or four.”

Kagome gaped at me. “Shippo is only a few years older than me? When you were talking about finding him, I thought for sure he was... Wow. So them accelerating him through school isn't completely off.”

“He's just puny, so it's easier to explain him as younger than he really is.” Kagome pushed my arm playfully. “He'll hit his next growth spurt soon and then there'll be no living with him.”

Kagome mused over what I had told her so far. “So you learned all about the modern world in a few years, put yourself through school and what? How did you end up here?”

That's where it got creepy. “The man who helped me told me that the city was taking my forest and making it a public park, so I couldn't live there anymore. His family was moving, he said, across the ocean. His son had died and his daughter-in-law had gotten a job offer in California to teach Japanese to high school kids.”

“Huh, my mom teaches Japanese at the University of...” Kagome's face widened again in shock as she slowly turned to face me more fully. “My grandfather helped you. He knew that you were there the whole time.” I could only nod. “What year did you wake up, Inuyasha?” she whispered. “What month?”

“September of 1985.”

Kagome simply blinked at me for a long moment. “That's... that's when I was born.”

“I know.”

TBC

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#Dawnrider Fanfiction #InuKag-Week #Desire #Modern AU #Spitfire #Stay Tuned

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theprincesslibrary · 3 years

Text

1. Handsome stranger

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Rating: Explicit Relationships: Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters Characters: Thancred Waters, Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV) Summary:When she thought back on it, it boiled down to two things: - He was handsome - She had needs

Ul'dah was exhausting. It wasn't just the sizzling heat or the deadly court intrigues: Ul'dah the restless never slept. At first, she had been amazed by the glamour and the opulence of the commercial hub, but after two weeks in the city, she was starting to get motion sickness. The perpetual noise and bustling activity of its streets made her feel like she had been trapped in a beehive, and the contrast between the abundance of the city-state and the desolation of the surrounding desert was dizzying to the point of nausea. She missed the trees, the open space... Ul'dah was by no mean small, but it was crowded. Everywhere she went, she almost stepped on someone else's toe. Literally. In the forest, she could be alone for days, lost in her own world with no one to interrupt her daydreaming. In Ul'dah even the quietness of her mind was lost to her, stolen by the overwhelming noise of the jewel city. She missed the eeriness of the Black Shroud, its shadows, and its otherworldly atmosphere. Hell, she even missed the constant threat of the woodwrath.

The city wasn't all bad, of course. The melting pot of civilization made for some amazing food. And the baths... Gods, the luxury of city plumbing. She didn't consider herself to be shallow or high maintenance, but after a moon in the wilderness of Eastern Thanalan, a rose-scented bath had been a necessity. The people of Camp Drybone had been lovely, but the place smelled like sweat and desperation. Not a scent she liked lingering on her skin.

Still, Ul'dah wasn't for her, she'd be gone by morning. But before that, she wished to indulge in some recreations: it was after all what the city was famous for. She didn't care much for the arena, or the gambling halls, but she'd gladly partake in some form of tumbling. A girl could only play with herself for so long. And it had been a long time since someone had touched her outside a fight. A. Very. Long. Time.

Scanning the room, she studied her prospects. The barmaid was cute. They had flirted a few times, but she had the feeling the girl, as curious as she might be, wasn't there just yet. The rest of the patrons were either passed out in a corner or on their way out to throw up in the back alley. Then, there was him: tall, ash-blond hair, tattoos... He was sitting two stools down from her, nursing a cold drink. She had seen him a few times around the city. He wasn't the only handsome man, but somehow he was the only one she had truly noticed, and she was pretty sure he had noticed her too. Whether their unspoken attraction would lead to more than a few appreciative looks was yet to be determined.

She signaled the barmaid and made a small head motion in the stranger’s direction. The brunette smiled in return, then nodded: girl’s code for "not an asshole". She ordered another drink and studied his profile. He was handsome. The hard line of his jaw and his chiseled features made him look sculptural, like a forgotten deity. Judging by the sand still attached to his boots, he hadn’t been in the city for more than a few hours. He had the stance of a warrior - all taut muscles and tanned skin - his calloused fingers only seemed to confirm her intuition.

She wondered how those hands would feel on her, on the most sensitive parts of her body…

"Didn't your parents teach you it's rude to stare?" he finally asked. "Didn't yours warn you against talking to strangers?"

When he turned his head to face her, his smile was as wicked as she expected. His eyes swept down her body and back up to her face, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"I guess we'll have to get better acquainted then."

Within minutes, they were up on the second floor, and he had her pinned against a wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms looped around his neck. His kiss wasn't tentative or shy. It was deep and dirty: he was claiming her mouth as if he were laying claim to her whole body, marking her as his own if only for one night. Time stopped around them, as they stood against the wall, tangled with each other. He tasted like the desert, like cheap alcohol and sand, yet she couldn't wait to get drunk on him. It didn't matter that they were in a public place, or that some drunkard could stumble down the hall. All that mattered was his mouth on hers and his hands on her body.

She buried her hands into his hair and his mouth drifted down her throat, sending chills down through her. She arched under his touch, her skin tingling with lust as her hips pushed against his, delighted to feel him hard and thick against her core. She let out a lustful moan when he nipped at the sensitive spot near her clavicle.

"Gods." She whispered. "Not a god." He shot back. "This would be the part when you tell me your name then." "Why, will you scream it?" "Can you make me?"

He pulled back and huffed at her challenge. She had been making the most indecent noises just a few seconds ago. But if challenging him meant he'd try even harder to please her... well, she'd be winning either way.

"You're lucky I'm a gentleman and was taught how to behave in public."

She arched a brow.

"This is you behaving? Hate to break it to you pretty boy, but you’re failing at that." "Trust me, if I wasn't," he leaned in closer, stopping short of their mouths touching, "your pants would be down by your ankles, and my cock would be so deep inside you, we'd both see stars."

The image sent a shot of electricity through her body. She was down for that. In fact, many parts of her were craving just that. She might have forced him to make good on his words, had they not been interrupted by the inn's foul-mouthed patrons: drunk shouts erupted downstairs, bringing them back to the corridor and its lack of privacy. Gracefully, she disentangled herself from him and slid down the wall.

"Well then, let's see what you can do."

She barely had time to close the door before he removed his shirt and tossed it in a corner of her room. His pants were hanging low, and she got an eyeful of those side muscles near his hips: the adonis belt. Adonis, the name fitted him.

"Thancred." He said, forcing her to look up, and grinning at the obvious effort it took her to tear her gaze from his body. "Excuse me?" "My name. I'd rather you pray to me than the twelve when I make you come."

She half laughed, half snorted, and crossed her arm over her chest.

"Arrogance isn't as sexy as you think it is."

He didn't reply, simply kicked off his boots and removed the rest of his clothing, exposing even more of his body to her hungry gaze. He was naked, yet she was the one feeling vulnerable. Maybe it was the way the dim light coming out of the window cast shadows on his face, or maybe it was the glint in his eyes, but in that instant, he looked intimidating, slightly dangerous, and all the more enticing.

She licked her lips while she studied him. Her eyes stopped on his erection, her mouth watering at the thought of all the wicked things she could do to make him scream. Her stare traveled back to his face, and she noticed his teasing grin had morphed into a wolfish smile.

"Take off your clothes." He demanded.

She wasn't one to be submissive in the bedroom, but she'd be lying if she said his commanding tone didn't arouse her. She would comply, but at her own pace.

Her attire was lighter than what she was used to. The scorching sun of the Thanalan desert had forced her to adapt her gear and even in the comfort of the city, the heat could be unbearable, almost paralyzing. Still, she was fully clothed, and her shirt had oh so many of those tiny buttons. She took her time undoing them one by one, reveling in the tension that filled the room. She all but stopped her task when he circled the base of his cock, her throat going dry as she watched his hand move from tip to base and back up. A bead of liquid glistened at the tip, and she had to refrain herself from licking her lips once more. He was teasing her just as she was teasing him, and there was something extremely erotic about watching him pleasure himself, knowing she was the one to elicit that need. Her shirt finally fell on the ground, and he let out a low, appreciative, hum at the lack of binding.

"Take off the rest." He ordered.

She did so without delay, and he was on her before the remaining of her clothes even touched the ground. With one swift motion, he lifted her off the floor and she instinctively wrapped her legs around him. He carried her over to the bed, dropped her without much regard, and then he was on her again, crowding her, stealing her air. Everything in the room disappeared and she could only focus on him and how good he felt pressed against her, how he invaded all her senses. Her hands explored the expanse of his back, marveling at the sensation of his muscles rippling and flexing under his skin. His body was perfect even in its tiniest flaws. Like hers, his skin wasn't without scars: some were simple nicks, others looked like old wounds. She traced them with the tips of her fingers, making him shudder under her touch.

Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers and breathed heavily. When he opened his eyes again, she could barely see the brown in them.

"Huh huh," he chided her. Taking her hands, he placed them above her head. "No distraction. I’m supposed to make you scream, my honor is at stake after all. But where should I start ?"

She huffed at his fake wondering, but her laugh was caught short when his mouth captured one of her breasts, his tongue swirling around the hardened nipple. He kept kissing his way down her body, sucking and nipping, exploring every inch of skin. She watched him as he traced the scar near her navel with his tongue, and her toes curled as an unexpected shot of pleasure rolled through her. Who would have thought something that almost killed would come to bring her so much pleasure? But it seemed he had a talent for making her whimper with need. Her back arched off the bed as he went lower still, and he chuckled against her skin at her eagerness. By the time he started nibbling her upper thigh, she was breathless and wanting, a litany of yes pouring from her mouth. And then it all stopped.

His warmth left her completely as he sat back on his heels, hovering over her like a predator. Still dazed, she propped herself on her elbows and glared at him. The corner of his lips twitched, repressing a smile.

"If looks could kill," he joked. "You’re a fucking tease."

Her breathing was ragged, and she didn't know if it was from frustration, anger, bliss, or a mix of all three. His gaze traveled down her body, mapping down every curve, every dip as if he was studying a battlefield.

"I could do a great many things to you", he mused as his hand circled the base of his length once more.

He stroked himself slowly, languorously, his eyes drinking every inch of her: the intensity of his inky gaze almost a caress on her skin. Heat pooled at her core and she clenched her thighs together in a desperate attempt to alleviate her needs.

"No" he stopped her, "show me."

Her cheeks flushed a deep red, but she obeyed once more, spreading her legs wide for his enjoyment. She might have felt some degree of shame at her willingness to comply had she not been this wound up, but all she could feel in that moment was want and need.

His gaze dipped to her core, and she quivered in anticipation as he licked his lips. His free hand reached out to her, and she flopped back on the bed, unable to hold herself anymore, as he parted her folds, sliding one finger into her heat.

"You're so fucking wet. I bet I could fuck you right now. You'd like that, would you?"

She nodded in agreement, unable to utter a sound. His hand stilled.

"Say it." "Yes". She gasped. "Good girl".

She looked down at him, his smile was pure sin as he added another finger to his ministrations. The pressure increased, he hooked his fingers slightly, and a strangled sound came out of her as her hips lifted off the bed. And then he stopped again.

"I could do that, but I would need some encouragement. ‘Please Thancred’; ‘More Thancred’… I’m not picky, anything will do." "I'm going to murder you."

Her voice came out breathy, needy, there was barely any bite to her words. She could almost feel his satisfied smile in the heavy air of the room.

"Not what I had in mind". "I swear on the twelve..."

Then his mouth was on her. Her chest heaved as he lapped greedily at her core from cunt to clit, burying his nose in her damp curls. She felt electric under his touch, her whole body vibrating with a hungry need. His hands were hooked on her outer thighs, keeping her open to him. She reached for his head, pressing him closer, grinding against his mouth. Her head thrashed from side to side as he pulled her clit into his mouth. The tension inside her finally snapped and she cried out to the twelve as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her.

Once her breathing slowed, she propped herself on her elbows once more, but this time there was no frustration or anger in her eyes. Her whole body flushed at the sight of him resting against her thigh, a wicked smile plastered on his face while he licked his fingers clean off her. She couldn't resist the irrepressible urge to kiss that satisfied smile off his face. She reached out to him and forced him up for a kiss. She was drunk on him; intoxicated by the scent of her arousal still lingering on his lips.

The kiss slowed, becoming more intimate. She wasn't devouring him anymore instead, she wanted to savor him. It was like getting to know him. Her lips moved under his slowly, seductively. She traced the contour of his mouth with her tongue and he opened to her, allowing her to explore his mouth leisurely. She was still breathless, pleasure coursing through her veins, but her body ached for more: more of him, more of them. She pushed him off of her, and onto his back, then lifted herself to straddle him. For a while she did nothing more, just stared at him: it was her turn to toy with him and she would enjoy every second of it.

She lowered herself to him, kissed the corner of his mouth, licked his neck, bite his nipple... he growled in response, the noise resonating through her whole body. Placing her hands on the hard planes of his chest, she started rubbing her wetness against his length, her whole body singing with pleasure, enjoying every little noise she got out of him. He was giving her full reign over his body, letting her use him as an instrument to reach her own pleasure and it was intoxicating. She felt powerful, in control.

When she was satisfied, certain to have teased him more than enough, she lifted her hips and grabbed the base of his cock to position him at her entrance. They growled in unison as she lowered herself onto him, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed deep inside her. He slid his hands up to her side and held her there, anchoring her to him. She started rocking her hips against him, slowly, languorously, reveling in the exquisite feeling of him stretching her. Her pace picked up, and his followed, until they moved in sync to a rhythm of their own. His grip tightened on her hips, and she felt him tense under her.

"Gods, you feel amazing."

The rumble of his voice sent goosebumps racing over her. She liked his praise; liked the groan coming out of his mouth; liked the sight of him beneath her. He was the one figuratively pinned down, and it was exhilarating. She tightened around him, her head spinning, and then she broke apart, shattering into a million pieces. She was still coming, her body shaking with pleasure, when he flipped them over, and rose to his knees, lifting her hips off the bed. He moved inside her with long hard thrusts, wanting to drag her orgasm, to hear her pleas and prayers for more. And she prayed until she couldn't bear it anymore. Lust consumed her as hips moved against hers, each thrust deeper, harder. There was no more bet, no more game, just an irrepressible need for their body to melt together, for their hearts to beats like one. With one last thrust, he came, his body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside her.

He collapsed next to her, his breathing as erratic as hers as they both stared at the ceiling in blissful silence. For a long time, neither of them moved. They were content, deliciously exhausted.

"This didn't go exactly as I planned." He finally said. "You were supposed to scream my name; maybe even pray to me."

She rolled to the side and propped herself on her elbow. In the dim light of the room, his body seemed to glow; she knew it was most likely the thin layer of sweat on his skin, but lying naked in her bed, with that infuriating smile on his face, he truly looked divine.

"I'm an atheist." "I'm not much of a preacher, but maybe I should try to convert you. To save your soul of course."

#Thancred Waters #wolcred #FFXIV #ffxiv fic #wolnpc #fan fiction #My writing #Final Fantasy XIV

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shortstackum · 3 years

Note

The Creatures do work like cleaning to earn money, there's a shop near the very bottom so they can buy stuff

Phineas actually takes care of the whales and other marine life, meanwhile Aurla tries to kill them

Spooky's and Eyth's magic seems to make people stop aging or at least stop aging at a certain age, which explains why Spooky is still 12, 15 years later

Speaking of magic involving Spooky and Eyth, they were brought back to life by the ssme thing (along with Taker), that thing being one of the specimen 1s, that being Jeli

The Demon child was a child that was murdered in the kid's hospital and was brought back by Jeli as a demon, although it seemd she's trying to resist the magic that's trying to make her evil by hiding in a mirror

Some of the kill counts for Specimens are inaccurate as those a few were actually caused by the 1s (E.i, Bab, Jasper, Chomper..)

Phineas / Fin really liked marine life, mainly dolphins, Jeli got an idea and used his magic to make him go wild, causing him to operate on himself, everyone thinks he did it for his love of dolphins but Fin was just mind controlled

Lines' body ends at the end of his torso

Lines' speech tends to get distorted (backwards speech, random muting, glitching)

Paina was AI for sunshine academy but got out via Spec.1 magic, yet she can still be developed further

Subject 5s are named 5 as they are the 5th Specimen 3s, the others died either in testing, having to be exterminated or they just. Dissapeared

Lisa and Bab tend to get along very well due to their shyness

Bekka likes to blast music just to make everyone mad lol

Jaime has honks own dimension, it sometimes goes to it to see how everything is going (the dimension being an abandoned theme park)

They let other Specimens, monsters, dolls and unknowns in to play, although xe makes them leave after a while, claiming that staying for too long is risky

Hooky was a runaway and went to the mansion for security, didn't work out as planned for her

Parry isn't just red, xey can be green and blue too

When Parry has a host, xey are asleep and someone enters xem, the host will have trouble knowing where the person is, only when under xey're control or when xey are awake can the host know exactly where they are

Parry and Stanely are like roommates, they get along sometimes but they fight and annoy each other a lot

Stanely also has a furry coat

When first encountering Parry, xey were a greenhouse, xey kept trying to scare him and lock doors but he just kept pulling through, xey tried getting him attacked by ferocious plants and only let him have a scythe but he still lived, Parry got angry and tried xeir last trick was to turn into a mansion and hang him, and it worked

In some of the crates, Aurla has some things like files, or just random papers, in others there's some beach toys, in others theres drawings Bab made for him, that's another reason he doesn't get on the crates, he doesn't wanna accidentally break them

Lines can travel via electricity (through telephone poles, computers, wires.. obv he can't leave the mansion tho)

Taker and White Face are one of the biggest frenemies, they usually only get along when trying to harm others and most of the time they just argue

Tirsiak used to be extremely cold and mean to everyone besides Kanerek, he wanted nothing to do with anyone fearing they'd hurt him or he'd get attached only to lose them, but after a while of basically forced friendship activities he warmed up to Bab first and then slowly to everyone, hes still a prick but he's doing better

The ones made their own mansion, they only took in monsters that were similar to the creatures from Spooky's or made their own

They were created as back up and to challenge the others. They represent what the originals (reffering to the ones in Spooky's) don't wanna be and their trauma. The ones liked to joke and call some of them coincidences and calk them rip offs

Lisa is welsh and has a bit of an accent

None of the hospital monsters have forgiven Eyth for what xey did, it affected them all and Eyth takes it as a joke, xey constantly make fun of the monsters for being "petty"

Bekka and Jon are the only ones fluent in Japanese but their accent shows sometimes

Bekka has a lot of medical and biology based knowledge but is still a complete dumbass when it comes to almost anything else

Lisa hasn't and never will forgive her ex husband for shooting her. Hell she's happy that he's probably dead

Lisa has frequent aches and pains all around her body

Bekka REALLY likes chocolate

Tirsiak is very good at archery and hunting, as apposed to Kanerek who's pretty mediocre

Tirsiak used a spell to give himself antlers and appear more masc

Tirsiak had died in the past but never realized, his necklace kept him somewhat alive and is what gives him his powers

Bab sometimes cleans his sword, he's dissapointed in himself that it got a bit rusty as that sword used to belong to his dad

Aurla can talk to marine creatures and loves to take care of the landsharks

Jasper was interested in how humans made food so he'd often steal recipe books and try making things himself and when he got to the mansion, Otto helped him out

Jasper doesn't like being viewed as a fast food worker or manager, he just wanted to protect his kin from constantly being used as food

Spooper sees Lisa as his mom because his old parents were abusive and Lisa is the mother he never got to have

This makes Lisa very happy

Kal is like an older brother to Spooper

Bekka's hands are black due to frostbite

Noah is very good at reading people, mainly because of his own experience. He's very good at telling if you're lying, sad, happy, sketchy..

Noah had to be bumped down to a hospital patient due to an incident and Bekka was his nurse

Noah usually has to change his bandages, he thinks he looks hideous but most people think otherwise (especially Jon)

Tirsiak used to be very cold and aggressive towards everyone as stated before, his best friend had died thanks to Ben in the past and he lost his tribe and family. He trusted no one

Once he learned how to speak english better he would learn to cuss out and shoo most people away. He only trusted Kanerek

Bab always tried to be his friend but was regularly pushed away even if all Tirsiak wanted deep down was a friend again, he was just afraid of losing everything again so if there was nothing to love there was hardly anything to lose.

It took a long time of lectures but one day he noticed Bab didn't seem to get the hint. Actually it never seemed like they did. Tirsiak gave in and let Bab just hang around, Tirsiak was surprised to find that he somewhat enjoyed Bab's presence.

He started to be less of an ass, he let Bab just hang out with him.

Maybe having friends again wouldn't be a huge risk?

He decided to be a bit nicer, he's still harsh and agressive but makes an effort to make friends and be nice

He found that he really liked Hooky and Ringu, at first he merely thought they were attractive but now he really does love them

Tirsiak learned english via the others teaching him and him repeating what others said. That's where he got his voice lines from, he stole them from Kanerek (and she ended up changing hers)

Lisa knows sign language

Bab's mom was trying to contact him in the afterlife via the cult and the cult tbought she was mother. One day her grasp and connection was slipping and she told thet cult that Bab was the new mother

Despite this, Bab never planned to be a mother, but then came the landsharks

Bab doesn't mind being their mother figure

Lisa sometimes gets carried away and will write their thoughts or make random doodles on notes made for chases

Lisa likes to listen to music while drawing, Bekka will let her borrow her MP3 and headphones when they're hanging out

Lisa has tourretes and autism and often hums and twitches

They'll flail their hands and tip toe as a happiness stim

Jasper has major sensory issues and the slightest High pitch, weird looking thing, anything that feels uncomfortable, or smells bad or extremely strong it'll will drive him off the walls

Lisa was taken away from the hospital while trying to hide from GLA and when she reunited with the hospital monsters, whenever they sense a GLA is coming they get hostile and if Lisa is over, Bekka won't let go of her until they're gone

The dolls sometimes disobey Spooky and GLA because of how bitter they are about what happened

Hooky tends to drown her sorrows in alcohol and it's become a regular thing for her

Because of how GLA treated him, whenever Charles feels any negative emotion coming on he'll go to sleep, it often results in nightmares but the emotions most of the time go away and he feels better when he wakes up

Frenzy has tried helping them but Husker knows all too well that there's no helping them

Clicky doesn't regret killing her dad, she always knew he was a bad man

She also just doesn't care

She never cared if her mom was unwell, she never cared if her friends were hurt. Sure she has some sympathy for the mansion residents but not much

Clicky likes waking people up with her constant clicking

She can detach herself from walls and walk freely, not very easily but she can still do it

Hooky, despite it being part of the reason she's in the doll, treasures hooks and many slim sharp objects

Although she also has an interest for anchors and morning stars

Frenzy often bakes small things like cookies and cupcakes for people and shares it's recipes with Jasper and Otto

Otto, despite seeming like he'd be a dumbass, does have common sense

He takes no shit from White Face, constantly triea to tell off Tirsiak for being a dumbass, gives Lisa the rudest reassurance and just ignores Spooper and Kal

He's friends with Jasper but even he admits that Jasper isn't very bright

Otto can swim and is warerproof

The pizza he gives you is poisoned, but it usually fails or takes a long ass while to kick in no matter how many times he's tried different poisons

Otto is aware of the whole FNAF thing and hates being seen as some FNAF rip off and being called the names of the animatronics from FNAF

Otto used to be a cook before he died and was stuffed inside of Otto The Otter

Spooper will sometimes change his costume to sort of socialize and copy others (dressing in all black because of Bekka, wolf outfit because of Tirsiak, face paint for Jaime..)

Hooky is drunk when he chases you

Husker is emotionally detached and has no desire to be attached to anyone, it just knows they exist and pays no mind to them

Jaime doesn't like scaring people and admits that she wishes she didn't look so ugly

WF used to be bullied to a breaking point

She gets overly attached and easily falls in love with whoever even tolerates her

She is aware people can die from her game but she just wants literally any fun even if it's for a short while

She loves to wear dresses and likes to appear femminine, and HER is unsurprisingly her favorite form to take

WF constantly picks on everyone due to her past, shyer and weaker people are often her main victims

She loves teasing Lisa all the time and is often super rude to them even though deep down, WF does care about Lisa a little

Bekka has a room saved for Lisa for whenever they come over to visit to the hospital

They love watching movies together and hanging out

They're also super comfortable with each other and will fall asleep together

The deformity wing in the hospital is a psychological torture chamber Eyth made

Some of the residents have tried exploring it but either got lost or got scared and ran out

Lector loves to make sure things are spotless and perfect, if it's body bag gets even the smallest stain it'll be pissed

Taker has a collection of stuffed toys but doesn't tell anyone

He thinks they're cute

Bab found out and hasn't said a word about it to anyone

Bab also thinks plushies are cute and will often help him in his collecting

Taker is surprisingly a good babysitter, the kids adore him

It loves to get into mischief with whoever it's supposed to be babysitting and pull pranks

Tirsiak has a stuffed toy of a wolf that Hooky made for it

It treasures it dearly and doesn't let anyone touch it

It even sleeps with the toy

There's a sewed on heart on it too

Sleeping with it reminds him of Hooky

Ringu and Hooky love cuddling Tirsiak because he's fuzzy and Tirsiak and Ringu Love cuddling Hooky because soft

Ringu is also cuddle material to them

Hooky is good at knitting and making plushies

If anyone tries flirting with the creatures it often times leaves them confused or angry or both

The most common one to take the flirt and possibly flirt back is White Face

Bab used to have a girlfriend but they broke up because her gf was an asshole to others

Fleshy is very good at reading people, they're even better than Noah

Kat can too but is too apathetic to care

Kat forces a smiley face and a good attitude when Fleshy is soon about to chase them to give the victim a false sense of hope

Fleshy often has to calm down or stop Kat from being overly angry

Fleshy can hear the other souls but is also capable of tuning them out

Kat is the spirit of a GLA who was used for testing and nya killed Fleshy out of rage

Kat is capable of giving souls and bodies to fleshy but doesn't want to because xe doesn't care

Kat fucking hates other cats, hell xey hate almost everything

Fleshy on the other hand loves everything but doesn't love some organisms enough to let them live

Fleshy loves to cause trouble and is a general nuisance

Bekka hates wearing pink

Ben loves making and trying on outfits and will willingly wear dresses and anything embarrassing

Goop can be mixed with other substances but it makes him uncomfortable

Goop boils and heats up when he's mad

Two and Three are capable of reproducing asexually, but choose not to because they know not a lot of people wanna deal with mini S3s

Lines is quick to anger and violence

Her body is electrical when she's angry

Yeah

That's gotta hurt

Lisa has dyspraxia and autism

Bekka has ADHD

Whoa. (゜o゜;

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takakuyaku-archive · 3 years

Text

THE NIGHT is quiet... so much time had been leading up to this moment. Years of thinking, contemplating; batteling an unnatural fear that he had been running from since the day he decided to leave the nest. His destination unclear, but he knew that day he would fly and fly with whatever he had on his back. With whatever he could carry in his small 13 year old arms. The threat of his parents getting a hold of him, hurting him and blaming him for his siblings mistakes, his own mistakes, it’s been following him and filling him with irrational dread.

And with that came restless nights where he contemplates what it would be like to return the favor. To wring his mothers throat the same way she did when his little brother got hurt from running just a tad bit too fast. Or leaving his father with the same black eye after he did poorly in a recital he had practiced months for nonstop with him only to arrive to it with a sore throat and puberty trying to hit at the most inappropriate moment. He’s been wanting to return those favors. A pair that he’s hesitated on only because of the fear they instilled in him for so long.

“A new year... should come with new changes.”

HE MUTTERS to himself as he continues to tap at the edge of his building with the tip of his talon. Tapping in a series of patterns that could only be deduced as some form of morsecode. A trick he picked up in his adolescence to communicate with his group of thieves, but now? It’s his way of coping, willing himself to rid of this burden over his head. Remembering this trauma and having to witness his sibling’s trauma as well. The multitude of times where he knew something wasn’t right about himself, but constantly dismissed by his parents like it were okay to be the way he is. He wants retribution in his own right and now that Tartarus no longer holds him prisoner he has that chance.

His wings extend outwards and he whispers to himself where each and every feather he has scattered in Japan to start coming back. Trying to sense the right feather his pupils dilate and then round out multiple times before finally forcing himself off the building he was on. Soaring into the sky and heading back to his hometown. Back to his old home he hasn’t seen in 32 years and not a single thing has changed. As he stops in front of the building his body actually reacts. His heart races and for a moment he looks confused and presses his hand to his chest. Is he sick? He can’t be fucking up right now.

HE TAKES a deep breath before raking his nails against the door with a knock behind it. Stepping backwards from the front door expecting silence, until he felt footsteps and he shoots up to perch on the roof. Hidden away as golden eyes search for the man who was at their door. An elder with cleanly cut blonde hair, tired eyes and pale complextion. Long, large red wings extend from their back and they weren’t pleased by this supposed trick being played. At least, that’s what he thinks. He turns to go back indoors and by the time he does Takami finds himself coming in through his old bedroom window. Turning to be more discreet until he makes eye contact with his mother. A woman with a mix of black and red hair, striking red eyes with shaking pale hands gripping onto one of Takumi’s old toys he obsessed with as a child.

Her gold wings flex and tighten around her in fear. Her eyes widen and she stares at him as he looks back, tilting his head and shooting his feather forward to force the bedroom door to lock. She flinches and looks back, turning her head quickly to look at him again before dropping the plush from her hand and reaching for him. “T-Taku—“ “Don’t touch me.” He cuts her off and slaps her hands away before grabbing her by the throat to pin her to the ground. His heart is beating faster. Interesting.

THE OLD woman shakes in fear and opens her mouth to scream but he uses his feather to silence her. He shakes his head, wanting to have dragged this out, put them through the same pain and torture they put him and his siblings through, but his anger bubbles and boils and with no hesitation he takes his longest blade to stab into her chest where her heart it. A gasp escapes her and he can see the light leave her eyes with tears stinging the corners of them. But he didn’t care. He continues to stab at her body angrily multiple times until his hands were coated with blood. Gritting his teeth he looms and spits at her corpse. “You get no pity from me.” He spat out like venom as he looks towards the door, pulling his feather out and allowing the man from earlier to barge in as he had been banging against the door trying to barge in.

He sees the display, stumbling forward and drawing his own feather blade while his eyes bounce around the room to allow this scene to register in his head. “TAKUMI WHAT HAVE YOU D—“ he doesn’t wait and lunges forward. With the same feather blade he goes to strike but his father brings up his own blade to try and block him. Holding his ground and struggling which brought a sick twisted grin to Takumi’s face. A challenge he wasn’t expecting? This should be FUN! He slides the feather blade from the clash that held them in position, twisting it around to try and slash at him but his father continues to block and back away. His wings open to be bigger and be glares back at him.

“Do you really think this will solve anything?!”

“Why yes. Yes I do. I think it’s well deserved closure between us. To think I almost pitied you.”

HE CRACKS a bigger smile that couldn’t be concealed no matter how hard he tries. A burst of maniacal laughter coming out as he continues to fight blade to blade with his father. Precious items crashing and shattering to the ground as he goes toe to toe with him and makes an attempt on his life.

“Forgive me for not maintaning perfect composure since truth be told, why would I EVER pity a monster like you?”

He recalls his feathers from around the building and they start shooting in and going into a circular pattern around his father. For once the man looks scattered and Takumi catches him off guard. Forcing him to bang against the wall with his family’s portrait just barely hanging on. An image of his parents with his siblings, they couldn’t be much older than 6? 7? His memory fails there, but his focus is on his cornered father. Tip of his blade pointed at his throat as he stares him down.

“I should leave you to rot with this pain. No limbs, no tongue, no eyes, only the memory and the constant reminder of your biggest failure.”

HE GESTURES to himself with a cocky smile before he strikes to cut the hand away that held a feather blade on his father’s body. The old man falling to his knees to scream and try to grip the nub left behind.

“No, no, that’s not part of the script. You... don’t get to make noise.”

He launches forward to grab his father by the hair and slam his head back to the wall. Using his blade to shove down his mouth until it goes as far as it possibly could. Listening to him choke and struggle, attempting to push and shove Takumi away, but he wouldn’t allow it. He wanted to see this man suffer and struggle and the more blood that fell on him, the more this man convulses and chokes, the more pleasure and serotonin filled his mind with the greatest release he hasn’t felt in years. This looming presence is finally gone and his life leaves his eyes. He lets the body fall against him and he hushes him, using two fingers to close his eyes.

“Rest well and... Happy New Year, Father”

HE RELEASES him and stands, brushing himself down and going into his parent’s bathroom to shower, taking his father’s loose clothing to wear as replacements to his bloodied ones before leaving the scene for good.

Pleased and finally feeling more free than he has ever been.

#[ let's reminisce shall we? ;; drabbles ]#tw blood #tw gore #tw character death #tw violence #tw child abuse mention #tw abuse mention #tw torture #tw dismemberment #[ casually leaves here... ]

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justkindaoverhereobsessing · 4 years

Text

the stars always make me laugh (4/4)

Now complete! Here is chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, and the epilogue.

A year to the day after Ziva departs D.C. to return to Paris and reunite with her family, her newfound contentment is shaken by an unexpected loss. Tony and Tali are right where they belong—safely by her side—but she still finds herself feeling drawn to reflect on the past. She might just be able to use this new grief to bring peace to old wounds, renewing hope along the way for a future with her family... but only if she can find a way to let go of what haunts her.

Written as a combined response to two different challenge prompts; also available for reading on ff.net (chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4) and AO3 (chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4). This is the last chapter; tomorrow, I’ll post a short epilogue.

_________________________

January 12th, 2021, eveningtime

They spend the afternoon at an informal wake at Gibbs' house. Everyone they know and love is there, and it's cathartic to catch up with their adoptive family—despite the heavy occasion. The children, mostly too young to really understand what's going on, play together exuberantly as the hours pass. Tali is overjoyed to spend time with her "cousins," Victoria, Morgan, and Johnny.

As the afternoon wears on and people start to leave, though, Tali is still going strong. She'll certainly crash once they get her in bed, but for now, she has let the busy day hype her into new levels of excitement.

She's restlessly bouncing as they strap her into their rental car after saying their goodbyes, and Tony and Ziva pause before getting in themselves, looking at each other.

"She's practically vibrating. Exactly how many of Abby's Ducky cookies did she eat?"

"More than she needed, that is for sure."

"Do you think we should take her somewhere before we go back to the hotel? She needs to get the rest of her energy out or she's going to turn into a hellion tonight once she starts fighting sleep."

"Yes… I think we should," Ziva agrees, pinching the bridge of her nose to hide her reluctant amusement; through the back seat window, Tali can be seen puffing up her cheeks and squishing them with her hands to make what she calls "pooty booty noises."

Tony is most certainly to blame for that one.

_________________________

They end up at Anacostia Park, exactly where Ari parked and used a rifle to fire into Abby's lab; neither Tony nor Ziva mentions that. After fifteen years, it's time to make new memories here.

They aim for a playground near Pennsylvania Avenue Bridge, but Tali finds something that she wants to play with far more… mud. Today's sun has dried up most of what was left behind by yesterday's rain, but there are distinctly wet patches left in the shadier areas.

Tali is still dressed up for the funeral, and her parents' first impulse is to stop her from destroying it… but they exchange glances and decide without needing to discuss it that Tali will be fine. She'll grow out of the dress sooner or later anyway, and, well… life is short.

They give her the go ahead then, and with a gleeful expression on her face, she immediately squishes her feet in. It takes her only minutes to be covered in goo from head to toe.

As she plays, Tony and Ziva find a drier spot to sit themselves; it's still strangely warm for January, and it's pleasant to lounge on the winter-yellow grass.

At first, they're side-by-side, but between jet lag and several days of heavy emotion, Ziva is worn out. Eventually, she moves to lay on her back, her head resting against one of Tony's outstretched legs. They talk about inconsequential things, simply decompressing.

There's something wonderful about being here again, now happily married and openly affectionate; this is the first time they've been in Washington together since Ziva resigned from NCIS almost eight years ago. Having Tali here, her zest for life as visible as the navy yard across the river, is proof of something hopeful: even the most painful losses and changes can result in beauty. If not for everything her parents went through together, Tali would not exist.

She is and always will be a saving grace, a light at the end of the tunnel, a reason to hope.

Tali makes everything worth it.

_________________________

When the sun starts to set, the David-DiNozzos are still in the park, but things are quieter now. Tali, finally exhausted, is curled up with her parents, nestled under Ziva's left arm and snoring softly. Her parents have fallen into companionable silence, too.

With her free hand, Ziva idly plays with the soft dirt under the grass, letting fine particles sift through the cracks between her fingers as she grabs a handful and releases it. Tony mimics her movements, making her smile; his fingers, however, drift through her hair rather than the earth underneath them. She glances up to see him watching her, contentment written across his features.

"Can I tell you something?" he murmurs, his voice soft to avoid waking Tali.

"Of course."

"I love you."

Ziva smiles at him involuntarily—just as she always does when he says those words.

"I love you, too."

_________________________

The sunset turns out to be an exceptionally brilliant one, its oranges and pinks dancing on the slow-moving river below so that the whole world is lit up as the sun fades away. Ziva watches it with heavy eyes, starting to feel the pull of drowsiness urging her to join Tali in sleep. It's safe to rest with Tony watching over them.

As she drifts off, though, something catches her gaze. In the shade of a tree near the water, backlit by the sunset behind him, someone is watching. The sight should be alarming—the man appears to be staring right at them—but Ziva only feels the familiar warmth of unexpectedly seeing an old friend.

There's a reason for that. Everything about the man—his pose, his silhouette topped by the shape of a safari fedora, even his small stature—is reminiscent of how Ducky looked in the autopsy doorway when he found her on her darkest night. It has to be a coincidence; Ziva knows that Ducky is gone. The resemblance is so striking, though, that for the briefest moment, she thinks it might actually be her old friend.

Then he turns, dying sunlight illuminating his shadowed face. Ziva must be imagining him, but…

It is Ducky.

He meets Ziva's eye and smiles kindly at her; once he has her attention, he starts to speak, his lips moving soundlessly, and she can somehow understand what he's saying: 'Let go, Ziva. Tell him.'

Shouldn't she know by now to listen to him?

Maybe she'd been right when Ducky died, thinking that he wanted to tell her something—or maybe his memory is only inspiring the inevitable conclusion that she has long avoided. Either way, she understands the message: it's time to let Tony help carry her burdens.

She gives the image of her friend a slight nod, smiling faintly; she can feel his approval. Tipping his hat and winking at her, Ducky offers one last smile before turning away to face the sunset.

Then Ziva blinks, and he's gone.

She closes her eyes for a moment, saying a final goodbye before looking up at her husband again.

"Tony?"

"Mm?"

"If you are ready to listen, I…"

"I'm always ready, Ziva." His hand in her hair moves to rest on her cheek.

Ziva nods, appreciative. "Then I think I am ready to talk about some things that I have kept to myself for far too long. I need… I need to let go."

Tony seems to understand; he goes back to running his fingers through her hair. "I'm listening, sweet cheeks."

She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and starts to speak.

_________________________

Ziva talks until the sun is gone and the stars are visible; it's getting colder, but she doesn't notice the dropping temperature until Tony shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over Tali. He doesn't say a word, though; he only listens, letting Ziva say what she needs to say.

She begins with Somalia, not going into detail but no longer shying away from the truth. Even a decade later, it's painful to talk about, but when each successive word hurts less than the one before it, she starts to realize that there's more she needs to get out:

The first Tali, gone too soon.

Ari, who she still mourns despite who he became.

Sahar, and the search that drove Ziva to desolation, restless and lonely.

With every old scar she gives a name to, she breathes easier, and by the time she falls silent, she feels… empty; the loud chaos of a mind brimming with ancient pain and constant anxiety has gone quiet. It feels like... absolution, perhaps. Even in death, Ducky has reminded her to trust, to let herself live freely without succumbing to fear.

For a year now, Ziva has been with her family, taking happiness one day at a time—because it has always been in the back of her mind that this, too, will soon be ripped away from her. Now she understands how that fearful conviction is a product of every haunting memory that she's kept guarded. It's time to change that.

She's ready to let go, or at least begin to—and when she finishes her tales of old heartbreak, Tony still looks at her the way he always has. There's no pity, no fear, no discomfort... In his eyes, she sees only love.

It's freeing.

When they eventually pack up to leave the park, Ziva abandons burdens of bygone grief to patches of dead grass and a chilly night sky.

She's ready to look forward.

#ncis fanfiction #tiva #tivali #tony dinozzo #ziva david #ducky mallard #cynthia writes stuff too

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