#The cards from those three events are so fucking good

[xiomeebo]

I really want to talk more about my blorbos but damn I cannot find the correct words to express how much i love them

[ta-bajna-cerna-okybaca]

Now that I finally got to play TWST diasomnia chapter 1 myself, I'm gonna need everyone who said Malleus was a baby throwing a tantrum for no reason to pay me 2000 dollars each

[crookedteethed]

18+ loss of virginity, mentions of non-con, brief smut descriptions

⋆ ★ Thinking about how the Rafe's would take your virginity. <3

Season One Rafe would so take your V card at one of the kook parties, or maybe even in the secluded rec room at the Country Club during Midsummer's. Either way, I can see you losing your virginity to him in a public place. Somewhere where his friends are too, so after he fucks you, he can immediately boost about it.

Ugh, I could see it now, his stupid hair slicked back, his suit bluer than ever, and that silly smile on his face whispering into Topper's ear: 

"Guess who I just had face down ass up on the pool table in the rec room." (Bonus points if you're the hottest girl on the island everyone's been trying to touch.) 

He'd nag you about having sex with him, especially if you'd been talking to one another for months (Not dating. Talking.) 

He would make pass after pass at you every time you'd make out with each other: His hand would sometimes snake its way underneath your skirt, and he'd press on your clothed mound with his thick fingers, or he would (very childishly) start popping you in the back with your bra strap to try to get you to take it off. He'd stopped when you went braless.

When telling season one Rafe that you were a virgin, you almost saw an uncontrollable smile creep onto his face--it's just something having ownership over ones very FIRST sexual interaction (This would be a recurring theme for him in each season.). 

But with that being said, this man would not go soft on you. 

Season Two Rafe, he's got a lot of shit on his plate: he wants to get in the good graces with his father, those stupid pouges have his gold, and he suspects that something could be wrong with him, but no one wants to listen to him. The last thing he needs is a girlfriend that won't put out.

In season two, Rafe knew you were a virgin, and he knew you'd been waiting until you had at least been together for a few months--which, surprisingly, he was okay with--as long as you two could do oral on each other--which you did. 

But one day, a violent fight between Rafe and his father broke out on a date night. 

You'd offer to reschedule the reservations you made for dinner--reschedule the whole day, but to your dismay, Rafe still wanted to go for it. 

It wasn't until after dinner when you were both sitting outside of Tanny Hill in Rafe's truck, that Rafe got himself worked up going over the events from earlier with Ward. 

It wasn't until you both were inside his house that he started complaining about other things--more evidently about you and your stupid virginity saving.

Nonetheless, you just let the boy rant because he was mad; it didn't stop you from your heavy make-out session on his bed later that night.

Something was particularly rough about this make-out session; every time he went to kiss your lips, his hand would wrap around your throat, and every time you protested, his other hand would cover your mouth. 

In the moment, it only felt right to Rafe to overpower you completely, hiking up your dress and pulling down your panties to your knees, along with his slacks and his briefs. 

He cooed you when you cried--as if he weren't the one inflicting your pain, he held you tight when you tried to push him away, and he'll whisper in your ear, "How could you hold out on me with such good pussy like this." every time you told him 'no."

You would almost lose your virginity to Season Three Rafe in a heated moment of vulnerability. 

Rafe would open up to you about his troubles, which ultimately led to him telling you about the bad things he's done to the pouges—to his sister—in the past and how bad he felt. 

And there was something so attractive about THEE kook king breaking down his exterior just for you. 

When the moment got heated with a shared passionate kiss, as Rafe lips left a wet trail down your neck, you moaned, "Rafe, I'm a virgin." and then he stopped. 

Rafe knew he wanted to take your virginity, but he didn't want to make any more brash decisions; he wanted your first time to be special. 

A month or so later, he takes you with him on a business trip to  Guadeloupe--he doesn't tell you what type of business he's doing; all you know is that when he's done, you can have him all to yourself. 

And fuck is he so charming. 

He rents a condo for you two, takes you shopping, and takes you to fancy dinners.

After being out all day, you'd come back to the condo with a trail of roses leading to the bedroom (very cheesy, but he's doing his best). 

Now, don't get me wrong. Just because season three Rafe did take the liberty of making your first-time special doesn't mean he will go all soft on you. 

He does let your cunt adjust to his length for a few slow strokes--until he's completely wrecking your shit--I'm talking about his tip kissing your cervix and him making you squirt for the first time.

[hannie-dul-set]

STAR STUDDED BAGGAGE [3].

SYNOPSIS. the saying “never meet your idols” exists for a reason. you just didn’t expect the reason to be because said idols would end up declaring that you’re their alleged lover from a past life (past lives, rather). now you have three big celebrities vying for your attention, and it’s not as dreamlike as you imagined it to be.

PAIRINGS. choi yeonjun, choi soobin, choi beomgyu x female! reader. GENRES. reincarnation! au, celebrity! au (soloist! yeonjun, actor! soobin, rock band member! beomgyu), slight college! au, slight historical! au, rom-com, angst, reverse harem woohoo. WARNINGS. swearing, talks about stalking, talks about death, data privacy violations, so much emotional whiplash yummy, a very long conversation, google dependent historical information. WORD COUNT. 6.3k.

NOTE. this chapter finally made its way out hell 😭😭😭 per usual, please let me know your thoughts on the chapter! a single comment on ao3 inspired me to finish this, so ur feedback really means a lot! enjoy<3

MASTERLIST | NEXT >

CHAPTER 3 — can we go back to being parasocial?

IF SOMEONE HEARS YOUR SUMMARY OF THE EVENTS THAT UNFOLDED WITHIN THE PAST FEW DAYS, they may accuse you of lying. Delusional, even. You’d think the same had you not been the center of it all— yet the proof is in your pockets. Your phone. In the album Choi Yeonjun failed to sign, stuffed inside your bag at the last minute before you left your apartment earlier.

The summary. Right. Yes.

“Can they stop sharing that video of Yeonjun excessively flirting with a fan?! I’m going to kill myself if I see it one more time.”

You were lucky enough to nab a fansign slot. But instead of getting Choi Yeonjun’s signature, you ended up getting a kiss of a hand instead, along with a scrawl of numbers on your album that you’re far too terrified to try to dial.

“Hey, send me our photo with Soobin the other day,” nudges Huening from beside you. “I’m gonna print it out and put it in a locket and use it as a family heirloom.”

You bumped into one of your favorite actors, Choi Soobin, in the middle of a late night convenience store run with your friends to fuel your group all nighter, stained his shirt with your ice cream, and got a photo with him in the process.

“By the way, have you called the business card yet? What are you gonna do with your broken phone screen?”

And Choi Beomgyu may or may not have professed his undying love for you, asked for your hand in marriage, and started crying in front of you in less than ten fucking minutes.

“She’s zoned out.”

The problem is, you can’t even bask in the delightful absurdity of it all because one common thread from all those three separate instances has been keeping you up for nights. It’s clawing at your brain, lingering in the back of your mind like an incessant stalker— which, mind you, is not a pleasant feeling when the very causes of such disturbance were once the bringers of joy and all things good in your otherwise meaningless life as a cog in the capitalist machinery that is society.

“Hello? Are you awake?”

Said problem being the fact that you’re pretty sure they all called you by your name at one point.

How the fuck do they know your name?

“I deleted Twitter. I Airdropped it to you. No, I have not called it yet. Now please let me think in peace.”

Crazy. This is all too crazy. In the first place, what are the odds that you bump into three celebrities within one week’s time? Is this some sort of prank, or something? Are those three filming a hidden camera show together? No, no. That couldn’t be because there’s no fucking way a company is sane enough to stage a risky hidden camera prank during a fansign knowing full well how obsessive and insane fans can get. You’re lucky your face wasn’t caught in any of the videos circulating online— video of you and Choi Yeonjun, mostly him, acting out a fucking sageuk. You’re lucky you haven’t been doxxed yet.

“Finish your sandwich,” Taehyun clicks his tongue, nudging your food closer to you, and you sigh heavily. Maybe you’re just wrong, you think, taking a bite from the bread. Maybe this is just a misunderstanding. Maybe you’re just overthinking.

You eat your lunch and steal some wet wipes from Gaeul in between. Right. It’s not like you’re ever gonna bump into them again. You live in, as cliche as it sounds, two different worlds after all. You’re just gonna watch their dramas, listen to their music, enjoy their performances, and that’s it that’s it that’s it.

“Prof Jang sent a message. Class is canceled.”

But still—

“Woohoo! Let’s go to the new dessert shop that opened downtown.”

Choi Beomgyu’s voice saying I love you, Choi Soobin’s cologne wafting in the air you were breathing in, and Choi Yeonjun’s lips pressed against your skin.

How can a sane person just forget about all of that?!

“Why do you look like you’re fantasizing about perverted shit?” Woohyun slaps you in the face with a reality check. This is fucking stupid.

“I’m not fantasizing,” you grunt, because they were events that actually fucking happened— they weren’t birthed from your brain’s insanity. “Anyway, dessert? Where is it?” You ignore your burning face, hoping that your friends decide to ignore it too, but Gaeul has her eyes narrowed at you. Crap. She didn’t recognize that it’s you in the videos right? Holy fucking hell, you’d rather die.

“Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

Oh. Well. That’s— that’s something. A good something because she hasn’t suspected you yet, moitioning instead to your cracked phone that has been buzzing under your notice because you’ve been thinking way too fucking much.

You check the caller ID, but it’s an unknown number, and it doesn’t match the business card you got from your run in with the alleged Choi Beomgyu. “Hello?” you answer, and a voice you don’t recognize says your name and asks if it’s you. “Yes, this is her. Who’s this?”

Another item added to the weird as fuck things that happened to your this week. You excuse yourself from your friends, and with knitted brows, you listen to the stranger at the other end of the line. “You met Choi Soobin the other day at a 7-Eleven in Gangnam, right?” The fuck? Did someone see you that day? Is this a stalker? “This is his manager. Lee Byeongho. I would like to speak with you regarding a certain matter.”

Now, hold the fucking phone.

“Is everything alright?”

You respond to Huening’s concern with a stiff smile before turning away from them. “Did I do something wrong?” you fuss into the call. “I didn’t post any of the photos from that day. I never talked about it online either, and I’m pretty sure my friends haven’t either. Wait. Wait a minute. How did you get my number?”

“Yes, it was difficult to obtain knowing only your first name and university.” That doesn’t answer your question. That just gave you more questions. “But, no. You aren’t in trouble. Actually...I called because you’re the only one who can help us— help Soobin— get out of trouble.”

Your face scrunches up.

“I’m at your campus right now. Parking lot. Do you mind meeting me for a moment?”

Just what did you get yourself into?

“You haven’t finished your food. Where are you going?”

“Somewhere,” you reply, quickly snatching your half-eaten sandwich from the table as your friends follow your swift movements with matching looks of confusion. “I’ll be right back. It’s nothing, don’t worry.” However, you are quite worried. You’re pretty sure Lee Manager, or whatever, is committing some data privacy crimes against you, but the one thing you want at the moment is answers. Your brain is about to explode from all the fucking questions and confusion. There’s a sliver of hope that meeting up with this sketchy guy can answer a few of them. You’d take that chance to air out your head.

There’s a black van in the parking lot. It’s the first thing you noticed because one of its doors are open, and there’s a familiar looking guy waiting just in front of the exposed seats. 

He notices you approaching. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says. What’s with men you’re meeting for the first time treating you with familiarity? You’re going to rip your hair out and throw yourself into moving traffic.

“Sure, but can you get to the point?” you stiffly say. “I’m a little busy. I still have classes in a bit.”

“Of course, I’m sorry. This whole situation must’ve come off as a shock to you.” Great, now you’re feeling bad. Soobin’s manager (allegedly) looks like he’s been through a whole lot as well. “Anyway. You are a fan of Choi Soobin, correct?”

“Well,” you blink. “Yes.”

“How about the dramas Kang Jaehee has written and directed?” he follows up. “Are you a fan of those as well?”

Your brows furrow. “I guess?” Peach Tree. That Summer. Mogi. Those are the titles that come right at the top of your head. “What does that have to do anything with me?” Manager Lee spares you a look of pity. You feel like this meet-up is just set out to making you even more fucking confused.

“I sincerely apologize. I didn’t want to drag you into this either, but I’m afraid you’re the only option I have,” says Manager Lee despondently. “Since...since you are a fan of Soobin, and I assume that means you also care about his career, so—”

He pauses. Like he’s practicing the next set of words he’s about to say inside his head.

“—do you mind meeting up with him to convince him to take the lead role for Kang Jaehee’s upcoming drama?”

But nothing could’ve prepared you for that.

What.

What the fuck?

“Mr Manager. Sir,” you start, appalled beyond comprehension. “I’d appreciate it if you start making a bit more sense.” 

“Trust me, I can’t believe I’m doing this either.”

You’re speechless. Your mouth is hanging open with no words coming out because, again, what the fuck? Manager Lee looks just as defeated as you, as if he weren’t the one who had just presented that ridiculous proposal. You are, quite frankly, at a discernible loss. 

Manager Lee lets out a sigh and digs a hand into his pocket. “I’m afraid this is all the time I have today. But please contact me once you’ve made a decision.” Another business card acquired. This is just dandy. “I am really hoping for your cooperation, miss. I’m sure you’re aware of Soobin’s inactivity lately, and my intention of approaching you today is simply in order to help my star’s career. Please consider the favor positively, and we will compensate you as much as my authority can allow.”

With that, you’re left with another laminated piece of paper in your hands. Gosh. This is a headache. When you get back to your friends, they notice the distress you’re in, further justifying a visit to the new dessert store, and seeing how your soul has completely left your body, you’re dragged along with them with ease.

“Hey, pick one. My treat,” says Woohyun. You let out a grunt and point at a random pastry on display. Next thing you know, you’re seated in between Huening and Gaeul at the store you don’t even know the name of. 

Huening is force feeding you an eclair. “Eat.” Your scowl disappears when you allow the eclair entry into your mouth. “Seriously, what’s going on with you? Who did you meet earlier?” 

Seeing as you show absolutely no intentions of telling them, they refuse to question you about it further. Good on them, because there’s no way in hell you’re spilling your predicament. Not until you find out exactly what kind of situation you’re in, at the very least. The two business cards feel like they’re weighing your pockets down, a constant reminder of their existence along with the scrawl Yeonjun left behind.  

“I know exactly how to make you feel better.”

The declaration comes from Gaeul, who slides her phone over to you, and when you look down to see what exactly her miracle medicine is to make you feel less manic, you hack out a cough upon seeing Choi Yeonjun’s face on her phone screen. “The hell is wrong with you?” asks Taehyun from across, giving you some water to push down the eclair lodged in your throat. “I know you like him, but even that is an overreaction.”

Jesus, you’re close to losing it. When you’ve avoided choking to death, Gaeul puts an airpod into your ear, and you hear Yeonjun reading out some comments. “Choi Yeonjun, you look really happy lately, did something good happen? someone asked,” he says while having snacks of his own. “First of all, why are you calling me Choi Yeonjun? It’s like you’re putting a wall between us. I don’t like it.”

Gaeul makes a noise of some sort and had you not been subjected to this week’s insanities, you might have reacted the same way too. Instead, you simply listen to his live in caution, feigning disinterest as you watch him nibble on some pretzels and churros through the screen, continuing to answer the slew of questions in the comments.

“Anyway, you’re right! Something good did happen.” Yeonjun hums while picking out a pretzel from the paper bag, rustling noise and a lively tune filling the audio for a moment— a short moment, right before he continues speaking. “That’s because I finally met the love of my life.”

Taehyun has to give you his water again.

“Oh? Oho, what’s with the exclamation points?” he laughs. “Did I meet them the other day? Hmm...that’s a secret. You’re curious? You think it might be you? Well, let’s see. Should I describe her?”

“God, he’s so fucking messy,” says Gaeul from beside you. “This is why I like him. How many calls is he getting for his manager and company this time?”

“What’s going on? Why is she so startled?”

“Yeonjun’s talking about his apparent soulmate, I don’t know. Wanna listen?”

“Didn’t he get in trouble for doing the same thing last time too?”

Now, you’re not one to give a shit about his love life, and you like to stay out of that side of celebrity gossip as much as you can, but Choi Yeonjun himself is droning on about the love of his life right now. You can’t not hear about it even if you want to. However, as much as you want to let things come into one ear and out through the other, you can’t. Because— wait. Wait. His description is eerily familiar. His description is making you double take and second guess what you’re fucking hearing.

“Sounds a lot like you,” Taehyun remarks without much thought, right after Choi Yeonjun says that the girl he likes has a bit of an attitude, but he likes that about her.

Huening lets out a snort. “Yeah, that’s definitely you. Why don’t you go in a wedding dress the next time you attend a fansign? Who knows, you might have a shot.”

You snap them a dirty look. Fuck. This is making your head spin. For the second time, Choi Yeonjun’s tendency of putting himself into headlines and the trending searches for doing something insane is giving you nothing but stress.

“I did give her my number, but she hasn’t messaged me yet, so I’m quite hurt.”

Number. Hold on a fucking second.

“The comments are going crazy.”

You grab your bag from underneath you, dropping it down to your lap.

“Hey, if you’re watching this, pl—eeeeease contact me. Kim Noona thinks I have a phone addiction now because I’ve been dying waiting for your call.”

You quickly get up from your seat.

“Yo, where are you going this time?”

“I need a minute,” you announce, eyes scanning the store for a quiet place alone while hugging your bag to your chest. There’s nowhere. Looks like you have to get out. 

“Damn, we were just joking. As if you have a chance with a celebrity like him.”

Huening’s joke is ignored and you quickly leave outside the doors, making a sharp turn around the corner, slipping through the passersby downtown until you find an empty alley. Your heart is racing. Your heart is racing like crazy and you may be reaching right now. You may be acting crazy, but what Choi Beomgyu said during the interview with Yeong-Il the other day is echoing in your mind, and— in conjunction with everything else that had happened— you’re starting to think that maybe he wasn’t joking.

Your cracked phone screen greets you when you take it out of your pocket. On your other hand is the first business card you got this week.

“Who’s this?”

“Hello. Good day.” You tell them your name, the events that led up to you receiving this number, with the hope that maybe you’re finally on to something. “I’d like to talk about the compensation for my broken phone.”

Whatever that something is, you’re gonna get to the bottom of it.

*

It’s already beyond closing time at Kwiyeomdongmoim Cafe (a mouthful, you know), yet your pink apron is still neatly tied around your waist as you pace back and forth, to and fro, in circles inside the breakroom. The time is half-past nine in the evening. You should’ve clocked out thirty minutes ago, but you’re still waiting. 

The knock on the door signified the end of your wait. You turn to see your boss’s head popping in through the half-open crack. 

“Three guys are waiting for you,” informs Seokmin. “They all seem handsome. Are they your suitors?”

When you ditched your friends at the still unnamed dessert store the other day, you did it to make a few calls. Three, to be exact. Today is the culmination of those calls, which is why you’ve been erratically nervous the entire freaking day. Choi Soobin, Choi Beomyu, and Choi Yeonjun’s managers all answered respectively when you called all the sketchy numbers you got and made some negotiations (apparently, the mess on your album is Yeonjun’s number, but he got his phone confiscated after that livestream). 

“As if,” you say, walking up to the door leading back into the cafe. Suitors, more like stalkers. Fans stalking their idols is common, but the other way around is a pretty fresh idea. “Anyway, thanks, Kyeom. Thank you for letting me use the store for a while.” Because this is the only private place you can think of outside of your own home— and there’s no way in hell you’re letting them in there when you don’t even know how they managed to get hold of your personal information.

“We’re closed anyway.” Seokmin smiles and makes way for you to pass by. “Go ahead and do your thing. Do you want me to stay inside or keep watch?” 

“You can stay inside, it’s alright.” 

He nods. “Call me when you’re done. Scream if you need backup. I can handle all of them.”

You laugh and thank him once more, a pat on his arm before you decide to peek out the door first as a precautionary measure. From your spot, you can see three thoroughly covered men in windbreakers, caps, and masks sitting on three separate tables in the store. The blinds have already been rolled down, so you can’t see anything outside, but there doesn’t appear to be any cameras around, so you take it as a safe sign to finally leave your hiding spot.

The moment you do, the break room door creaks, and all three pairs of eyes immediately fall on you. 

They stand up. They call out your name in unison.

Holy shit.

And when they do, they all look at each other with a sudden flash of hostility in the air.

Um. Well. How are you supposed to do this? “H—hello,” you manage to squeak out, prompting their attention once more. Soobin takes off his cap and removes his mask, the other two following suit, and oh my god. Oh my god. You suck in a deep breath. Today, you are not a fan. You are an interrogator. This is not a fansign. This is an interrogation. 

“I— uh, I asked your managers if I can meet you all to—today for a specific reason.” Wow. Good job. Your hands are shaking and you can’t look up from the floor or else you’d start losing your mind. “But—but, before that— would...would you like some drinks…?”

Interrogation paused. You need to get your shit together first.

“Please enjoy.”

With the help of your boss (because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and you dropped the first one you made), you managed to whip up four iced teas and settle all three of them into one table at the very back of the store. You send a stiff smile at Seokmin after he placed all the drinks on the table.

God, you owe him so much— especially when he’s being unreasonably glared at by the three men sitting with you right now. Choi Beomgyu to your left, Choi Soobin to your right, Choi Yeonjun directly across from you and holy fuck, you have yet to look at them properly yet for your own safety. They haven’t been talking to each other either, simply sitting and waiting for you to speak. You’re pretty sure they know each other though, at least by name, being in the same industry and all. 

To say that the tension in the air is suffocation would be an understatement. How...how do you start this? The fuck should you say first?

“You know, I was really happy when Kim Noona told me you called.”

Apparently you don’t have to start it. Choi Yeonjun does it for you.

“But why are these two crashing our date?”

And that’s when things also start to get messy.

“Date?” Choi Soobin interjects. He sounds offended. Why does he sound offended. “What are you talking about?”

Choi Yeonjun doesn’t get a chance to make his case. Because Choi Beomgyu from your left suddenly snatches one of your hands from the table, prompting you to look at one of them for the first time tonight, and your eyes fly wide open. “I’d...like to apologize for the other day. I was just overtaken by my emotions. I hope you weren’t too freaked out.”

You are quite freaked out because holy shit, this is too much maybe. Not maybe. Yes. This is too much. Too. Much.“Hey, why are you holding her hand?!” you hear Choi Soobin exclaim from your other side. Choi Beomgyu’s soft expression suddenly disappears into a glare and a sneer the moment he shifts his gaze.

“You’re holding her hand too!”

“Why can’t I?!”

“Hey, this isn’t fair! One of you switch with me—”

Dizzy. You’re feeling dizzy. Your head is spinning and you’re suffocating from the heat emanating from your very face. Whatever they’re arguing about isn’t even reaching your ears anymore. You’re getting lightheaded and your sweaty hands start slipping out from the two’s weirdly tender hold on your hands because your body is physically breaking down.

“Shut up! Oh my god, my head—”

Your vision actually starts spinning for a second so you quickly bring the bottom of your palms to your temples, elbows on the table to balance yourself, only to be wobbled and shaken because the three suddenly jolted off their seats in panic.

“Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine, just please—for the love of god— sit down and shut up.”

They sit down and shut up. You massage your temples in silence. You remove your hands from your face and, after sucking in a deep breath and releasing it thereafter, feel your heartbeat settling into a normal rate. As normal as it can get in this situation.

“Whew. Okay. I think I’m ready. Let’s get down to business.” Finally, you’re the one steering the conversation. You give each of them a once over as quickly as possible because now you know that prolonged eye contact will only hurt you. You settle with looking at the gaps between each of them. That’s fine. You’re fine. “Choi Soobin, Choi Yeonjun, Choi Beomgyu.”

It’s like three bulbs just lit up in succession. Your brain is starting to hurt.

“A—as I was saying, you three are some of South Korea’s biggest celebrities and although I am, in fact, a big fan of all three of you—” Why is Choi Soobin growing pink. Why the fuck is he blushing. “—that— that does not make me fail to recognize the amount of weird shit that’s been happening lately, and I think I need answers.”

They are still sitting down and shutting up. They listen to instructions well, at the very least.

“First, how the fuck did all three of you know my name without any prior introduction. Second—”

The words get clamped in your throat. It’s lodged in there very tightly because you make the mistake of looking one of them in the eye, only to notice that all three of them are looking at you with the same expression. An expression you can only describe as longing.

And your face starts burning.

“Se— second, why…why do you all keep looking at me like I’m an ex you want to get back together with…?”

Maybe you asked the wrong question.

Because for some reason they all look sad now. Really sad. Really fucking sad and it’s making your stomach clench and nerves all numb and funky because making three big celebrities all sad simultaneously is a bragging right at one end of the spectrum, and a national crime at the other.

It’s Choi Soobin who cracks the silence. “I…I had a feeling when I saw you again for the first time at the store.” Again? “Do you not remember me?”

Your face furrows. “No…? Did we ever meet before you became an actor?”

Hurt. The look of sadness has now spiraled into hurt and one might think you just stabbed and twisted a knife into his fucking gut.  “How—how about me?” Your attention turns to Choi Yeonjun who isn’t looking any better. It’s like his entire world view was just proven to be wrong and why does it feel like you’re the one to blame. 

What else can you do but shake your head in denial? Now he looks like he’d just been told he’s adopted!

“You’re…you’re joking,” he tries to laugh it off, but it only comes off as strained and shaky, then, in one fell swoop— desperate. “R—right…?”

“Great!”

Before you start feeling even shittier, Choi Beomgyu finally decides to join in. 

“And here I thought her forgetting about me was the worst case scenario.” His tone is bitter. There’s a snap in his words. “I didn’t think there’d be other bastards in the same situation as me. God fucking damn it.”

There’s a moment of silence. You watch as realization hits the other while you’re still left in the dark. Choi Yeonjun juts his seat closer. Choi Soobin tries to reach a hesitant arm to your direction, but you’re  tugged to the other side by Choi Beomgyu, who’s suddenly a little too, too close.

“Hey.”

Your hands are clamped together. 

“I meant it when I said I love you. I do. I have loved you four hundred years ago and I still love you now, and if whatever god or deity decides to make you meet you for the third time, I’ll still love you then.”

Beomgyu’s holding both of them in between his in a firm grip.

“Second life is about you. Blue Spring is about you. You’re the person I’ve been waiting for from the beginning of this life until the last.”

Now, if this situation wasn’t crazy, your heart would be skipping a beat right now.

But it is crazy. This is fucking insane. And you look around to see that there’s a weird look of sympathy and understanding in the other Choi’s eyes, clearly not recognizing the visceral insanity of this situation, which fills you with a swallowing lump of existential dread. You pry your hands out of Beomgyu’s grasp (you swear you can hear glass breaking), and slowly turn to Choi Yeonjun and say, with a very hesitant, very cautious, “Y...you too…?”

The look on his face says it all. And then you swivel over to Choi Soobin.

“And you?” 

“I’ve lo—”

“No!” you snap. “Don’t finish that sentence. Please. Oh my god.”

You see Seokmin popping his head out from the corner, mouthing an are you okay? and you shakily bring up a weak thumbs up. “Well, isn’t this interesting,” you hear Choi Yeonjun say, which feels like a slap in the face because what exactly is interesting about this. “Here I thought I was special.”

“Get off your high horse,” retorts Choi Soobin, a sneer in his voice. You double take. Choi Soobin is supposed to be sweet and gentle and kind. Who is this man? “Whatever kind of past you had with her doesn’t mean anything. I met her first. I met her at the end of King Danjong’s rule.”

“Ha!” Choi Yeonjun starts. “We got married under King Taejong. I’ve loved her before any of you did.”

Now, what the fuck?

Choi Soobin’s face pales and he chokes over his words. “M—married?”

There’s a smug grin on Choi Yeonjun’s face. He leans back against the chair with his arms crossed in victory. “You heard that correctly. Married. Pack up your bags. Unless you want me to tell you everything we did on our we—”

“Shut up, shut up, I don’t want to hear it!”

Marriage. King Danjong. King Taejong. Second life. The gears are churning inside your head. You don’t like the direction where the gears are pointing.

“What about you?”

Choi Yeonjun raises the question and the attention is now on Choi Beomgyu. He’s been quiet. The other two wait for him to say his piece— a feigned air of disdain and arrogance but there’s an unconcealable undertone of nervousness underneath it all. Your iced teas have been left untouched. Choi Beomgyu simply scoffs and presses his crossed arms against his chest.

“I have no reason to tell you any of that. This is between me and her.”

And at your mention, you receive the undivided attention of three pairs of eyes once more. Your heart rattles. God fucking damn it. Listen, you’re an avid consumer of the entertainment industry. You’ve watched a good amount of dramas and have read a good amount of manhwas to surmise a conclusion with the bits and pieces of stray information being tossed back and forth between the three. And it’s all ridiculous. But you have nothing else to work with unless they come spilling their guts themselves.

“So,” you clear your throat. “Are you three, like…a couple…hundred years old…?”

They all look offended. 

“No!”

Well, maybe you’re wrong about that part. But after a very long, convoluted discussion, the “facts” (if you can even call it that), are finally laid down on your feet.

They say you’ve all met before. Separately, in three separate lifetimes, with this one allegedly being your fourth unless there were lives in between that they can’t remember. One thing for certain is that the three of them remember the life they had while loving you— and they loved you very much apparently because those feelings and memories got carried over even after they got reborn into the present day.

The problem is, you don’t have the same symptoms. You don’t remember anything about your past lives. Hell, you can’t even remember anything in this life before you hit two years old. 

You slump in your seat. The table rattles. They get up from their chairs and come circling around you in concern.

“Are— are you okay, do you need to lie down? You could rest in my van for a while and—”

You swat Choi Yeonjun’s hand away before it could land on your shoulder. You’ve now got your hands on your face in stress, and peeking through you see Choi Soobin on your right, crouching down and looking up at you with furrowed brows and big, sad eyes. On your left is Choi Beomgyu, half-seated on the chair. You let out a very long, very anguished and muffled groan. This is too much. “If— if what you guys are saying is true,” you say. “What does it matter?”

There’s a tense pause in the air. 

“What do you mean…?”

You spring up from your seat and turn around, Choi Yeonjun in front of you. 

“I mean what does it all matter? King Sejeong, Joseon era, or whatever— I don’t care about all of that. We’re in the twenty-first century right now. I’m neither your lover nor your wife. I’m just a fan of your dramas and music and performances and that's it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t really want to see their faces right now. You let a huff of air slip past your lips, turning back around to collect the untouched glasses of drinks on the table.

“Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet me and explain. I hope it’s all settled. Thanks for clearing everything up today. You can now all leave.”

It’s Choi Yeonjun who races after you when you make your firm and quick strides to the counter. He cuts off your path. “I—I don’t understand,” he chokes out. You make the mistake of meeting his gaze and see the threat of tears glazing his eyes. “What—what do you mean?”

Admittedly, that hurled a giant pang against your ribcage, knocking the air out of your chest, but you move forward. You brush past him, setting the glasses back on the counter, and— after a moment’s pause— you turn around, a heavy weight on your shoulders. It’s like gravity is trying to suck you deep into the mantle. “What I’m trying to say is we should all just get over what happened all those hundreds of years ago and live our lives in the present. I mean, I don’t know any of you. Don’t you think it’s unhealthy to keep clinging onto the past, especially when you guys are nothing but strangers to me in this life?”

Dead silence. You don’t dare look at any of them in the face. You try and retreat to the break room as quickly as you can, hands fumbling to untie your apron along the way, but you stumble over your steps, screeching to a halt the moment you hear someone say—

“Do you think it’s that easy?”

You could hear your heart in your eardrums. 

It takes all the strength in your body for you to look back, to see the pained expression on Choi Beomgyu’s face standing the farthest away from you out of the three. “Do you think I put my name out there so that it’d be easier for you to find me, wrote all those songs about you in the hopes that I could see you again if you’re someone I can just easily forget?”

Your throat tightens. It’s like you’re swallowing a boulder.

“If you wanted me to forget about you, you shouldn’t have died right in front of me then. You shouldn’t have told me you loved me right before you went cold in my arms if you wanted me to fucking forget.”

Oh.

Oh, god.

Choi Yeonjun and Choi Soobin don’t look any better. It hits you that you might have been more than a little bit unfair.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know your history. You don’t know what the fuck happened between you and them throughout those years that made them feel so strongly about you. But it must be harder for those who remember than for those who forgot.

It’s not like they chose to live in the present with half of their souls stuck in the past, either. You’ve been acting awfully unfair.

“I was being insensitive. I’m so sorry,” you exhale. Your knees feel like they’re about to buckle. Your head is spinning in circles. “But to be honest, this is all still very overwhelming, and I’m having a hard time comprehending and making sense of everything. It doesn’t feel real.” You try to take a step closer, but your legs give in. Choi Yeonjun quickly rushes to balance you back on your feet.

“Don’t push yourself,” he says, softly. You can’t look at him. God, these guys really know how to bring your guilt all the way home.

“Thanks, um, anyway—” You breathe in. Shit, you can’t believe you’re considering this. “Again, I really can’t and won’t be able to understand the magnitude of your— well, uh— feelings, since I really don’t remember anything. But how about…I spend some time with each of you individually, and maybe…maybe it can help in jogging back my memories?”

The atmosphere shifts. Ah. This feels like a fucking trap.

“You— you mean it?”

To be honest, you’d much rather just not deal with any of this, just stay at home and continue living your life with these three men as persons you only know behind the screen. But those looks in their eyes— hopeful and melancholic— make you feel your organs are being rearranged every five seconds, and you’d feel bad leaving them with the pain of this conversation especially after they poured out their hearts to you.

You can’t deny the joy and escape they’ve given you for the past couple of years you’ve spent as their fan. Maybe entertaining this unreality is the least you can do.

“I mean, well,” you start, clearing your throat. “Choi Beomgyu, you still need to pay for my phone. Choi Soobin, your manager wanted me to talk to you about something, and Choi Yeonjun—”

You look at the guy who still has one arm pressed against your back, two hands in a firm grip on your shoulders. He’s looking at you and batting his eyes expectantly. You let out a sigh and set yourself loose.

“I need to discuss something with you soon, too.” As in, please stop vaguely mentioning me in your live streams because I fear I might find an angry mob in front of my house. “I think I have all your contact information anyway.”

There aren’t any more reactions coming from them. This seems like the best possible solution for all of you. You sigh again. This has been an emotionally draining evening. You can’t wait to get some fucking rest.

“I’ll be in touch with you or your managers soon. For now, let’s call it a day.”

STAR STUDDED BAGGAGE. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Private Dances [3]

Club!Blue Jones X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info • series masterlist •

A/N: A massive thank you to the amazing @midgardian-witch for being so wonderful and proofreading this nonsense AND for hyping me up AND saving my ass with switching tenses (why am I like this?) Another huge thank you to the epic @lonelyisamyw-0love for tipping my ko-fi, this series is especially for them💚

Warnings: overuse of italics, sub!Blue, there's some power dynamics in here because reader is a dancer (but like Blue is so lovesick), swearing, oral (f! receiving), Blue being a little shit, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

There are 5 main ‘stars’ in the club: Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal. Crystal is usually the favourite but is currently in Blue’s bad books for reasons unknown to the reader. Reader is a backup dancer that Blue has named Lion.

Word Count: 3329

A Great View of the Hall

This was going to be a problem. 

Scratch that. 

More than a problem.

You stare at the half open garment bag hanging on the back of your door as if your glare could fix a hole in time and space. 

Blue held stupidly lavish events every three months or so, a big excuse to close the club to all save those who were ready to pay big bucks. And boy, were there a lot of clients willing to throw their cash around. 

Shows, and food, and gambling, and drinks, and everything dialed up to fucking eleven. 

All the staff’s outfits were new, usually fitting some theme that Blue had chosen on a whim, and none of the dancers ever got to see what they were going to be wearing until it was literally time to get dressed. Not that that was a problem. That was normal. Routine. The same as always. 

The problem was your outfit. Your dress. It was fucking blue.

There was only one unspoken rule every time he threw these fucking events, and that was that the main stars: Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal, were the only ones in blue. Not you. 

Gorski must have given you the wrong dress. There must have been some kind of mistake. You shake your head, trying to shake yourself free of the vice like grip of anxiety that was taking hold of your heart. 

Simple fix. Simple. 

You grab the garment bag, zip it back up and leave your small room to find the Madam. She was, unsurprisingly, busy. Helping others fix their costumes, all a dark purple, directing others into position on the floor or stage behind the scenes. The doors had already opened for the ‘exclusive’ guest, the party ramping up into full swing. 

She tuts when she sees you, “What are you doing? You’re not ready?” 

“I was given the wrong dress.” You swallow, seeing some of your fellow back up dancers out of the corner of your eye in their wine purple corsets and short frilly shirts.

Gorski frowns at you, unimpressed. “Not another one.” She mutters under her breath, almost too quiet for you to hear. “Let me see.” 

You hold the bag out to her and she tuts again, not even bothering to open it. “Here,” she flips white paper card tied around the hanger's neck, ‘Lion’. “This one’s yours.” 

“No, it’s-”

“Mr Jones oversaw your clothing. I am not having any more arguments about outfits today.” She says, her voice clipped. She only ever used ‘Mr Jones’ when she was stressed and pissed. She turns to raise her voice curtly to another dancer before looking back at you. “Any other problems?” 

Despite the pause she gave you it was clear she would only accept one answer.

You manage to bite your tongue and shake your head.

“Good.” She dismisses you with a wave of her hand, waiting until you are nearly out of the backstage rooms for her to call after you, “and hurry up!”

. 

The dress is long, almost trailing on the floor, with a slit on the left side that ends just before the fullest part of your hip. There is an ornate chain holding both sides together at your upper thigh, a tiny golden lion dangles from the chain, it’s just enough to keep the dress from exposing you while you walk.  Which is a small blessing as there is no way you can wear any underwear without it being on show. 

You growl deep in your throat, your mind replaying snippets of your last encounter with Blue. His arms around your waist as he practically sobs into your stomach. 

This must be some kind of twisted punishment, a way to put you on show in front of everyone. It wasn’t like you could outwardly disobey him in front of clients and his goons, there was no way you would be able to wrap your fingers around his throat, squeeze, and make him crumble. 

You check your makeup in the small mirror and adjust the dress. It’s a bright, royal blue, with a plunging neckline and small over the shoulder straps. The material is soft, comfortable even. And you hate it. Hate that part of you likes it. Hate that he picked it. 

Hate, hate, hate it. 

At least you could maybe blend in with the ‘stars’, they’d be in the exact same dress and colour. 

. 

Somehow you manage not to scream profanities the second you walk into the club. The music is loud, the stage occupied while others serve drinks to the patrons, seated and watching. There are some talking in booths, girls in their lap pretending to be interested in their conversation, while others gamble with dancers on their arms, egging them on. 

All of them are in the same dark purple. Which isn’t surprising. 

The problem is Trixie, the first star you spot. Her dress is shorter, the neckline a queen ann cut, and the colour is a dark navy. You see Peach next, her dress the same as Trixie, then Songbird and Sweetie Pie. All of them dressed in mirror images of each other. You stand out sorer than a thumb. 

Exactly what you would like to not do. 

The realisation makes you freeze, the anxiety from before growing monstrously and taking root, fixing you to the floor. You’re going to be sick, you’re going to-

“Ah, Lion.” Blue grins wickedly as he snakes his hand around your hip and pulls you close to his side. “I was looking all over for you.” 

You glare at him. If looks could kill he’d already have bullet holes in his chest. 

He chuckles at your stare. “Feisty as ever,” he brushes the tips of his fingers along your jaw, pressing softly against your chin to tilt your head to the side so he can place a soft kiss to your cheek. “Behave.” He whispers, his breath hot against your skin. 

The underlying threat is there, clear as night: or else. 

You plaster the fakest smile on your face, practically a sneer, and his grin widens. 

“Oh, much better Lion, much better.” He nuzzles into your neck for a second, the briefest touch as he breathes deeply and sighs contentedly. 

You stiffen as a flush of heat runs along your skin from where he touched you, racing downwards. 

“Come, I’m just speaking with some old friends,” he guides you to the table, slightly secluded from the main hustle and bustle, but still with a good view of the stage. He keeps his arm around you, his fingers playing with the little lion on the chain.

Somehow you manage to resist the urge to slap his hand away. 

There are three other men seated, two you recognise as regular patrons of the club. Highrollers, dangerous. The third you’re not familiar with, but his suit is sharp and his eyes are vicious. 

To your surprise there are no other dancers at the table, no one doing their best to fawn over any of these men. You swallow, the anxiety sharp as it cuts in deeper. 

Each of them has their own guards, a far distance away but obvious to spot and surely ready to snap into action at a moment's notice. 

This was all very, very not good. 

Still, you manage a polite, and pretend sincere, smile as Blue introduces you to them. Astonishingly, all three stand to greet you, take your hand as you offer it to them (Blue subtly flicks your arm to remind you, whispering a brief ‘manners’ into your ear) and kiss the back of it. 

Blue keeps an oddly reassuring hold on your side, only letting go to push your chair in for you when you sit. The place where his hand rested is oddly cold without his touch. 

He sat as close to you as he physically could, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he continued to talk with the other men. 

After a few minutes his hand began to wander, moving slightly to stroke your upper arm absentmindedly and seemingly not noticing the little shiver that ran through you at his touch. 

You wish you were paying more attention to the conversation going around you, wished you could. 

His touch was more than distracting, maddening. The infuriating way he drags the back of his thumbnail over your skin in a lazy stroke. The stupid little smile that was plastered to his face whenever he nods to the conversation, his eyes glittering. He must know what he’s doing. He had to. 

You gave him little sideways glares, doing your best not to completely scowl at him. Frustration burned hot along your veins and you clenched your hands into fists under the table, pressing them into the edge of your seat. 

A waiter came to deliver fresh drinks, moving quietly and quickly as he places the glasses down in front of Blue and his ‘friends’.

“What do you want, Lion?” Blue’s velvet soft voice caught you irritatingly off guard. He smiled when you didn’t answer straight away, enjoying the little dance of confusion on your face. “To drink?” He leans towards you, still smiling. 

“I…” you swallowed, unsure of how to answer, if this was really some twisted game he was playing. 

His grin widens, seemingly appraising you for a moment before he  looked up to the waiter. “Lion’ll have something sweet, just like she is.” 

You were going to hit him. 

One of the men chuckled, he had dark eyes and a full beard and was sitting directly to your right. “Sweet is she?” He leaned slightly closer to you, placing his elbow on the table. “How sweet?” 

He gave you a sugary smile that perhaps could have been charming in another situation. 

Blue’s gentle touch on your arm tightened, pulling you towards him a fraction. 

The other man chuckled politely at his reaction, “What? You can’t expect me not to want a taste. You’re practically flaunting her to us.” He gestures as he speaks, his hand a hair's breadth away from touching your cheek. 

He’s lucky in that respect because you’re pretty sure he would have lost a finger or two if he’d actually made contact. 

“Am I?” Blue smiles, all teeth. 

The man chuckles lightly, but swallows, a hint of uncertainty in his voice the next time he speaks. Subtle, but there. “Well… yes.”

Blue waits for a moment, just letting the others' words hang in the air. He blinks twice, shaking his head a minute amount. Such a little gesture shouldn’t feel so… vicious. 

Your stomach twists, a feeling that had started to fade into your memory. You’d forgotten how dangerous he was. With all the things he’d let you do, the power he’d let you have over him, it had become so easy to fall into that false sense of security. 

You lean slightly into Blue, resting your head on his shoulder and threading your fingers through his, forcing him to loosen the grip on your shoulder. 

He looks down at your face, his eyelashes practically kissing his cheeks. There’s an oddly soft expression that passes over his eyes. There for a moment before it’s gone. 

He looks back to the other man, his tone lighter this time. “What’s wrong with a little showing off?” 

It’s almost as if the whole club breathes a collective sigh of relief.

“Nothing.” 

All four go back to their conversation as if nothing had transpired. 

The waiter brings you a bright pink cocktail that’s too sweet. But you slip at it anyway to save the poor man from Blue’s ire.

.

You attempt to slip away during Trixie’s big performance, while Blue is saying polite goodbyes to the gentleman at the table as he sends them off with other girls.

But he keeps your hand firmly in his the whole time. 

It’s only then that you notice someone at the far side of the club, their gaze on you like a sense of creeping dread. It’s Crystal.

At first you think she’s scowling at Blue, until realisation dawns that it is in fact you that she is looking at. 

The expression is so fierce that at first you can’t take notice of anything else. It’s only later that you realise she was wearing a dark purple dress.

“Trying to escape?” Blue’s voice makes you jump. He’s leaning close, his lips practically touching your ear and grinning. 

You frown at him. “Trying to.” You look back to the side of the club, Crystal is gone.

He laughs. “Silly little Lion.” 

“Careful.” 

He bites his lips together, still smiling, clearly overly amused by your reaction. “And why would I want to be careful, hmm?” He brushes his fingers along your jaw. “Maybe I want your claws to come out?” 

There’s a light flush to his cheeks that isn’t from the alcohol, his eyes dark and pupils dilated. 

He lets you look over him for a moment before he squeezes your hand and places it in the crook of his arm. “Come.” 

He glances at one of his guards, gesturing with his head and practically communicating telepathically before he guides you across the room and down the corridor to his office. 

It’s cooler once you’re out from the sea of people in the club, quieter, even though you can still hear the echoing bass of the music. 

You’re not sure why you let him lead you; why you walk in step with him without question. The idea of it alone should be enough to get under your skin. 

“Why am I wearing this dress Blue?” 

“You can take it off if you prefer.” He purrs.

You glare at him. “That’s not what I mean.” 

“What do you mean then?” He raises his eyebrows at you, practically giddy with glee. 

“The colour-”

“Do you not like your dress?” He fakes a look of disappointment, “I’m hurt, Lion.” 

You pinch his inner elbow and he laughs as he flinches a little in surprise. He squeezes your hand tighter in the crook of his arm. 

“You know what I mean, Blue.” 

“I do.” He opens his office door with a little flourish before he ushers you inside. 

“It’s not-” You gasp as he grabs your biceps, pushing your back up against the door and using the force of the push to shut it. 

He kisses you roughly, groaning as he presses himself close to you but breaks it before you even get a chance to react. “You drive me insane, Lion.” He mutters against your mouth. “Insane.” 

He strokes your cheek softly, resting his forehead against yours. “Can’t think about anything if you’re not near me.” He presses his lips to yours again, soft and sweet before trailing down along your jaw and to your neck. 

You shiver, jumping under his touch as he licks and kisses, lightly scrapes his teeth over your skin. 

When you react he groans softly, rubbing the heavily outline of his erection against your thigh. 

Your breathing hitches, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. Your body reacts without your permission, pressing closer and craving more of his touch. 

He leaves a gentle kiss on your collar bone before he sinks to his knees, looking up at you through his long lashes. “Want to take care of you, Lion…” He waits a moment, watching your face intently, seemingly measuring the seconds via the rise and fall of your chest. “Want to make you feel good.” 

Painfully slowly he runs his hands up your calves, pushing up your dress as he goes. 

You swallow as you watch him, how he gazes up at you looking so soft and pliant. Part of you wants to stop him, to force him back and regain control. But another deeper part recognises his submission, realises that the control is already all yours. 

He kisses the side of your left knee, pressing close as he drags your dress higher and higher, the smooth scrape of the fabric leaves goosebumps in its wake. 

He gasps softly as he finally lifts it over your hips, revealing you completely to him. Languidly he runs the very tip of his forefinger down the centre of your mons until he brushes your clit. 

He seems mesmerised for a second as your body jolts under his touch.

You bite into your bottom lip to stop yourself from making a sound, but still your rapid breathing echoes loudly in your head. 

Blue shuffles forward, closing his eyes as he licks a board, flat trail through your folds. He moans loudly, his eyebrows pinched together as he tastes you. Heat pools and twists in his belly, spiralling downwards to his throbbing cock as his movements get bolder. 

He presses his tongue deeper, just teasing your entrance as his licks grow firmer, sinking down to the very edge of your core before working his way back up to your clit. 

Your muscles tense, legs weakening as your body starts to fight your mind for complete control. 

“Blue…” You mutter, your voice strained and desperate.

He groans loudly, doubling down on his efforts as he keeps lapping at you desperately. 

The sound of his zipper being opened barely registers to your ears as he fumbled with it, pulling his cock free in a rush and hastily jerking himself in time with his licks. 

You moan quietly, unable to stop yourself as you grab hold of the back of his head and press him closer. Your hips buck, grinding against his warm, wet and eager mouth. 

Blue whines, his eyes rolling back as you take hold of him. His breathing hitches and he gasps once, a weak Lion escaping his lips in a needy, desperate plea before he swirls his tongue around your clit, sucking it into his mouth before doing back to those long, long licks. 

He buries himself between your thighs, single minded in his need for your pleasure as he rocks and moves with you, his fist a blur on his own length. 

You dig your fingers of one hand into the wood of the door, the other into his short hair, rolling your hips to chase the delicious friction of his sinful mouth. Heat coils tightly in your stomach, your thighs start to shake as he moans and licks, smearing your wetness all over his face. 

This time the moan that leaves you is loud and wrecked, pleasure pulling at every part of you and overriding any other possible thought. 

You tense, shaking as you come, your head thrown back and pressing against the door. 

Blue whines as your sweet release hits his tongue, as your muscles squeeze and quake and flutter on his tongue. 

He jerks his wrist twice, watching your face eagerly as you cry out, and comes a second later, spurting hot thick ropes all over the carpet and office door. Some splashes onto your calves.

He slows his hand in time with the gentle rock of your hips, only pulling his mouth away when you slump back and your grip on his hair lessens. 

He stares up at you with large, dark eyes. The entirety of his lower face shining with your slick. 

Your breathing calms, your heartbeat slowly returning to normal as you keep your eyes closed. 

Blue breathes deeply, glancing down briefly and noticing the drops of his release on your legs. He tuts and leans forward, darting his tongue out to lick your skin clean while simultaneously not giving a damn about the mess on the door. 

You let out a little yelp of surprise as his warm tongue touches your skin, but he places a soothing hand on your thigh, stroking soft circles as he works. 

You’re not sure what to expect when he stands, but it certainly isn’t the soft kiss he gives you while stroking your cheeks with his hands. 

“Come to bed with me, Lion.” He mutters, his voice soft and eyes closed. 

Thank you for reading!

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[edensremains]

consequences 2

↳summary: aftermath of consequences!

↳LALALALALALALALALALALALALALA Vox in pain

Vox only realized after three weeks that you really weren’t coming back.

He’d spent those first few days watching the city cameras for any sign of you without any luck, the last time he was able to see you being you walking away from him and out of his life for the foreseeable future. He didn’t think how permanent that might be, not that he was able to think much at all after you’d walked out on him.

He figured you’d take a few days to settle with things, get comfortable with the idea of going public, and they’d move past the entire hypnosis thing with a chat and everything would be fine. Like it always was.

Three weeks without his love.

The one that he could tell was just a pretty little lost thing when you’d first arrived in the Pride ring, having teleported to the wrong ring and found yourself wandering the streets unsure of what to do with the turn of events while your energy was depleted, back when you were fresh to it all. Stunned by their appearance, Vox had nearly tripped over his own feet trying to rush over and introduce himself. Who the fuck knew there was a new Ars Goetia in Hell? This could make a good story, his station could be the first to break the news in all of Hell! A diamond in the rough that could be cultivated by his hand for his brand, all depending on if he played his cards right.

You’d been so, so sweet to him back then. So much, in fact, he’d forgotten all about his goal of making you a sensation and instead let you talk his ear off while the two of you walked to the V tower, Vox having extended his help after hearing your story for the reason of later redeeming a favor in exchange for your temporary stay, while you regained your energy. A multitude of possibilities crossed his mind as he walked alongside his new acquaintance.

He remember how you’d fluttered around the tower at first, trying to earn your stay by fumbling with the cleaning and keeping things tidy and in order when you could spot anything that wasn’t already pristine. Usually after one of Valentino’s tantrums, you’d be quick to sweep up the shattered glass from a bottle and have the spilled wine cleaned up before the demons assigned to it could even get the mop.

He’d admit, it felt nice having almost-royalty play housekeep to you after a long day of dealing with the Vee’s stressing him the hell out the entire day with their shenanigans. You’d do what you could while waiting for him to come home like a sweet thing so the two of you could continue your chat, and you could ask him how his day went and offer some insight about what to do when Velvette was seconds away from sparking another outrage with her commentary on an Overlord that would get their underlings all up in a frenzy.

Sometimes he’d take that advice, and be baffled when it actually worked out in his favor. When the agreed week and a half was up and you were ready to go, he’d asked you to stay on impulse after a particularly successful day, thanks to you. You’d asked if he was redeeming his favor, and he’d said he wasn’t but he’d make it worth your time if you just stayed a little longer. And he did, feeding you tidbits of the rings he knew about and who ruled over what territory in this ring, which you jotted down enthusiastically. Something about a mentor, who he’d later come to despise for wrenching you out of his hands for some stupid fucking trip to a ring where you’d stay for an extended amount of time and leave him pacing and yearning like a fool head over heels. Like one of those bitches on a leash being strung along helplessly, some simp in love that he certainly wasn’t.

Back then, when the third week had passed after he asked you to stay yet again, you’d said you really must be on your way before their mentor, Lucian, began to worry. He remembers the jolt of displeasure, the rising feeling of wanting to just reach out and drag you back into his office for a little longer so you could tell him all about whatever it is you were fixated on that day once more, filling his senses with nothing but your voice. So instead, he’d decided to redeem his favor for a date.

And what a fucking time he had. By the end of it, he was sure he NEEDED to have you either in his arms or his bed by the end of the night.

Neither had happened of course, because you’d excused yourself the moment the two of you were done at dinner to fix yourself up, and he remembers the odd feeling of anxiety that you’d come back and see right through his facade, and call him out on just how eager he was to have you around him for just a moment longer than he should. Instead, you two walked home together hand in hand with your quiet giggling and his quick remarks, and he watched you go back into the guest room with a dopey smile on his face, a lingering imprint of a lipstick stain on his screen.

It was a sweet dream come true.

And now, he’d finally woken up.

It was like the night after getting shit-faced or come down from a good high, the sudden awareness that you felt like shit and probably looked like shit too. It was bad when even Val came to him about it, asking where you’d gone and why the hell his screen was going through error after error whenever you were brought up, slow pixels overtaking his expression before he could force it back down.

Dealing with Valentino and Velvette was a headache, interviews and hosting his regular shows was a fucking drag and he’d put a bullet through his wires if he had to see another surveillance screen devoid of your presence. How the fuck were you avoiding all his cameras? What the hell were you doing, either holed up somewhere like a mole or were you flying above them? Were you still even in the ring? It boggled his brain and made his circuits itch, suddenly having you withheld from his reach after your time together. Did two years not mean shit anymore?

Being outed publicly to being with two notorious Overlords couldn’t be that bad, could it? There’s enough attention that comes with being an Ars Goetia anyways, whatever the hell was going on in high society. Whatever it is, his partner was off the fucking map and he was losing his shit.

What the fuck are you even supposed to do first? He’d done everything he could, reached out to every unfortunate soul under contract, had eyes and ears everywhere for even a sighting of an owl-like demon, but nothing ever came up. The facial recognition system never came up with anything when he was powered down and unable to stare at the multitude of screens for a passing glimpse of the one he’d called his for the last two years.

It only bit him in the ass now to have asked so little about their mentor. All he had was a name, absolutely nothing else. Was he an Ars Goetia as well, or hired by one to guide you? What ring was he in? What did he do when you were gone? Where did he come from, where did he stay?

In a way, he liked having you all to himself.

He realized far too late he didn’t like sharing. It grated his nerves to hear you being brought up across the airwaves, even if he was the one who pushed you out into the light as his own, the commentary and speculation’s made him want to claw everything in sight when they’d gotten something wrong or a little too right. He didn’t want to hear about the person that you spent so much time with, the one that he’d never met but knew would take away the one thing he held so tightly at night, claws digging into your sides with arms wrapped crushingly around you before you’d make a small noise of complaint and he’d force himself to ease up or risk waking you fully. He hardly ever powered down at night when the two of you were new to your relationship, instead choosing to run out of battery in the middle of the day rather than miss a moment of his one and only in blissful slumber after helping to preen your feathers for the night.

He’d fucked himself over, giving you a name for yourself and having that be the thing that tore you from his grasp. He’d always known where you were, where you’d be, where you’d go, when you’d be home, all the time as if on schedule. Suddenly having you so far, it reminded him of the times you’d be away on those trips of yours , still full of anticipation he’d see them again soon.

As more weeks passed by, he was sure it was over.

And what could he do with that?

Swallowing thickly, he’d reclined in his seat in front of the wall of monitors. He’d sent out a last ditch request and had his underlings scope out anyone by the name of Lucian that belonged to the high society of Hell in this ring currently. The result? This Lucian must be a goddamn hermit, or you had been lying to him.

That was out of the question. You had never lied to him before, you’d never had a reason to, he made sure of that. So this Lucian must be with you, if he had to guess, the one keeping you under wraps. Or worse, taken advantage of his love in this delicate time and kept you for his own like he’s real fucking sure he’d wantedtodoallalon—

He sat there and let out a long sigh.

Every time he thought about you, he only wishes you’d just turned to look at him when he’d turned on that hypnotic swirl on his screen a second time as you were walking out of his life.

He could have sat you down and they could have talked about things. He could have forced himself to apologize when he turned off the hypnosis after making sure they weren’t going to leave him right then and there. They could still be together, if you’d just looked at him.

When did you stop doing that?

Was it all really just because of the announcement?

He couldn’t help but think maybe you’d wanted to leave him. How else could it have been so easy to disappear out of his life like this? Did you have a plan, or force yourself to figure it out when he’d made them lose their will?

He silently cursed at himself, the least he could have done was take down that stupid fucking broadcast that ruined everything for him. A simple broadcast or you. He’d never weighed it against each other, never believing you leaving was ever in the question.

They’d hardly ever argue, you and him had an understanding about each other, or so he had thought you two did. He thinks he could have changed if you’d asked him, but he knows he wasn’t listening to you that day, too amped up on the elation of Hell finally knowing he’d managed to snag an Ars Goetia for himself, one that wasn’t like the rest of these pricks that tried to undermine everything he’d built at every turn the second they could. One that never made him think he could lose it all with one misstep, until he did.

He’s sure he could make things right if he saw you again. Mend what he broke so carelessly in his excitement.

You’d come back to him, or he’d find you. It was only a matter of time. And when that time came…

He could tell you all about this period of his life when he reunited with you, like talking about a bad dream when you were back into the safety of someone’s arms, all warm and content, basking in your presence and the scent of your skin.

So he’d wait.

And look at these feeds without wavering until he saw the familiar sight of your feathery figure again.

Till death do the two of you part, and you both are already dead, so where did you think you were going?

The sound of an alert hits his screen and he jolts up, eyes wide as his screen hones on on a figure, the facial recognition system having zoomed in on the one he had been desperately waiting to see all these weeks.

There you were.

[delopsia]

love all the older rhett this older bob that but do you know what i really really reallyyyy want? older rhett and older bob at the same time

Every gear in my head just came to a screeching halt, Jesus christ.

Oh, to be the controversially younger s/o of Admiral Robert Floyd and Pro Bullrider Rhett Abbott 😔✌ could you IMAGINE?

The whispers that follow as you mosey into the Hard Deck in some cute little outfit that breaks every Navy regulation imaginable, intentionally too short to get under Bobby's skin. Nobody's got the slightest clue who you are, where you came from, or who your heart might belong to, but oh, they're trying to get your attention. For a moment, the bar is loud.

But then you're walking right up to Admiral Floyd and planting yourself in his big, warm lap, and the room deflates. Scandalized whispers and wide eyes eating up the way your fingers comb through the whisps of gray in his hair. Bob knows what they're all thinking, and yet all he cares about is showing you off. This pretty thing snuggled up in his lap, playing with his hair while his big hand rubs up and down your thigh.

Oh, but that's not the end of it because there's an arena a few miles away hosting the PBR that night, and everyone is going. It's the one new, fun event of the year, and it's got the attention of the whole town. Eyes are already on you after your stunt at the bar. Even as you settle down in the bleachers, you can feel those nameless pilots paying attention to your every move.

Then Rhett fucking Abbott, rough and tumble cowboy who's been making headlines for his looks all season, comes bursting out of the chute. Rides some beast of a bull to his eight seconds, disappears for a few rides, then reappears up in the stands. Him and his salt and pepper scruff, kissing up on you and Bobby, big hands squeezing your hip and Bob's lithe waist.

Ugh, it's all over a local news outlet the next morning, and both men are so damn well established that nobody can do a damn thing about it. It would take three to pick up Bob's workload, and not one of those bull riders has been able to match Rhett's latest records. And they know it.

But they're so good with you. Protective but not overly so, the power lies in your hands, and they're more than content to fall into the places you need them to. Whether that be shouldering forward to have a word with someone who's been bugging you at the bar or sitting back and watching over you as you handle it yourself.

Sometimes, they struggle to keep up with your terms and references, but they do try their best to make up for the age gap. It makes for an interesting dynamic; their biggest worry is accidentally alienating you, which ends in countless movie nights so that you can understand each other's jokes. Introducing Rhett to modern applications and begging Bob to quit with the highly technical terms. Neither you nor Rhett understand what he's saying, and if he explains, it only gets worse.

Bob spoils you rotten; he's got more money than he knows what to do with, and you get whatever your pretty little heart wants. You haven't paid for a damn thing in years; you've tried, but even if you slip past the detection of one, you're caught in the crosshairs of the other.

On his long days, he'll send you and Rhett off shopping with his card, and you two always get up to something. It's been three months since Rhett sent that video of your pretty hips rolling against Rhett's new boots, biting at his thigh, whispering something that sounded like a plea for Bob to come home early.

Sometimes, he winds up with lewd photos of you riding Rhett in your new lingerie. Then there was that one time you two got an old Polaroid camera, stuffed the photos into a cute box, and sent it to his work to be delivered to him at his desk. That one ended in you and Rhett both limping, but it was so, so worth it. You're already working on your second batch of photos.

Rhett isn't as financially well-off, can't buy you all the bells and whistles, but he kisses you half to death and whispers the prettiest praises in your ears. He's snuggling you when you're both missing Bobby, and he's leaving you sweet messages while he's on a rodeo circuit, mailing small things that remind him of you and Bob. A hand-carved figurine of three running horses, hand-knit blankets from small-town shops.

Drives you two damn near mad with all those photos of his hard cock straining against his jeans, grunts your names over and over and over as he gets himself off to the sight of you and Bobby on his screen.

He loves making you two ride him. Whispering about how, "Want this ol' cowboy to teach ya how to ride, hm?" and making you work for it until your thighs are shivering. Draws you down to fall into his chest as he fucks up into you, too damn strong for his own good.

If you happen to be gone, then your phone never shuts up. They're a mess. One minute, you're rolling your eyes at a POV video of Rhett chasing Bob around the backyard for stealing his popsicle. The next, you're praying nobody overhears hears the secondary video of Rhett railing Bobby into the mattress, muttering about how "this coulda been you, but you're so far away, babydoll."

Its when you're together all at once, that you fully wear each other out. You would think they'd tire easily, but they could go for hours if they want to.

Sometimes they'll take turns with you, pumping you full of their cum and stepping back to let the other play with you for a while. At some point you have to tap out, batting their fingers away when they try to push it back into your spent pussy. It always ends in a need to change the sheets, because they make such a damn mess.

They're equally willing to let you take full control. Sitting on their knees at the foot of the bed, letting you haul them around by their hair and content to follow your every order. The sight of such powerful men at their most vulnerable is something else entirely.

But the best times are when you wake up snuggled between their big, warm bodies. Two pairs of blue eyes smiling fondly at the sight of you yawning, nuzzling into Rhett's broad chest, pulling Bob's arm tighter around you, asking for a few more minutes.

They both love you to death and will show you off as much as you'll allow of them. If you want to perch yourself on their arms for a big-title navy event or a PBR after-party, then that's what you'll get to do. But if you'd prefer to stay home, then they'll move heaven and earth to make sure they can share that with you, too. Regardless of the differences and the gaps between your ages, you'll be wrapped up in these two old men for a long, long time.

[coallise]

Zestial and Carmilla, "All I want" (Ellie Goulding cover) gives great fluff inspiration. Lyrics of: "'Cause you brought out the best of me, A part of me I'd never seen, You took my soul and wiped it clean, Our love was made for movie screens."

I would personally call this bittersweet love song than fluff but I had fun listening to it. You got good taste annon

Memories

Carmilla leaned back in her chair, the radio on and playing a soft song. She had a glass of wine on the table. She was debating whether to drink it or not. The night was almost perfect, but she did not know what it could be missing.

“Thou looks like thee wants a dance,” Zestial offered. Carmilla smiled, she had no clue when he arrived but did not care. She fit easily in his arms as they started a waltz. Carmilla found herself remembering past dances.

Their first one, when she was a fresh overlord at her first ball. She had been mostly standing on the sidelines when Zestial offered her a dance.

“Are you sure your dance card can squeeze in another?” Carmilla had asked, gesturing to the ladies and men who he had danced with previously and those who wanted a dance next.

“Nay, I am sure I have a slot open for thee, after all, an overlord should dance at her first ball,” Zestial swept her on the dance floor. They danced for three songs back to back.

Out of the memory, Zestial twirled her and Carmilla found herself in a different memory. Carmilla was finally secure enough in her position to start bringing her daughters to events. The three of them took turns dancing with Zestial, taking over his entire dance card.

The first night they spent an extermination together was also the first night they spent the night together. It hadn’t been planned, but the meeting they had together went long so they all stayed at her mansion.

“What is on your mind, old friend?” Zestial asked, bringing her out of her memory.

“Just remembering all the dances we had together,” Carmilla let her head fall on his shoulder.

“There have been many. Thou hardly lets me dance with anyone else,” Zestial joked, knowing that he enjoyed dancing with her just as much.

“You’re just such a good dancer, I feel like every dance cleanses my soul from sin and I’m in heaven,” Carmilla did not know where the poetic bit came but it was true.

“Then we must dance more, if I shall get thou into heaven with just dancing,” Zestial kissed her head.

“Fuck heaven, I’m happy right here.”

[ladamedusoif]

Snowflakes (Javier Peña x F!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 6

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist. FYI: I'm having so much trouble with taglists at the moment that I'm not going to use them for now - if you want to keep updated, follow @ladameecrit and turn on notifications.

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2091

Warnings: Reader is a colleague of Javi’s; set sometime around the events of Narcos S1; non-canon; no use of Y/N; no physical description of reader; alcohol consumption; smoking; references to sex work; swearing; references to Christmas but more often to ‘holiday season’; reader has a large family; fluff; minor angst; heavy making out; implied smut; Javi is a softie really

Summary: With the holidays approaching, you volunteer to stay on and work at the embassy in Colombia so that other colleagues can take time off and head back to the US to spend time with family. It’s just you, mountains of paperwork - and Javier “Where’s Your Festive Spirit?” Peña.

Winding down for the holidays in the embassy in Bogotá isn’t exactly how it was when you were based in D.C. That being said, even narcotics kingpins - and the people tasked with trying to topple their empires - eased off a little around the festive season. It’s three days before Christmas Eve, and the embassy offices are abuzz with colleagues exchanging cards and well-wishes before many of them depart for some much-needed time with family back in the US.

You’ve volunteered to stay put and let others, especially those with kids or older parents, get home. You come from a large family and - while you’ll miss them - you know your absence won’t be felt quite so keenly. 

The strains of “White Christmas” float through the office as you sort out stacks of paperwork in preparation for the (hopefully) quieter days ahead, humming along to yourself. 

Javier Peña sidles into the room, cigarette dangling from his lower lip and body poured into those stupidly tight jeans and shirt as per usual, and lets out a groan. 

“Ironic we’ve got Bing fuckin’ Crosby dreaming of a white Christmas, while we’re here trying to put a stop to a different kind of snow.”

You roll your eyes and exhale. “C’mon, Javi. Where’s your festive spirit?”

He swivels and gives you that hooded stare you feel is more of a practiced defence mechanism than anything else. 

“Don’t have it. Don’t need it. Just want to get some work done when it’s quieter. When are you leaving, anyway?”

You put on your best and brightest smile. “I’m not. I volunteered to stay over the holidays, too. Now, when are we planning on making some popcorn garlands and drinking eggnog?”

You hold your wide-eyed, innocent expression for just long enough to spark panic in Javi’s eyes, before collapsing in giggles.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, man! Fuck. But I do have holiday sweaters and I’m not afraid to wear them.”

Javi rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and leaves.

You know all about Javier Peña and his reputation. Grumpy lothario with a moral compass painted in shades of grey. Supposedly fucked every hooker in Colombia by now, and a few embassy staffers for good measure. Sullen, snarky, and the definition of an asshole. 

You don’t buy it. 

Okay, he’s not exactly subtle about the way he checks out pretty much everything in a skirt, though he has his limits. And his knowledge of local brothels is just too good to be entirely based on police intelligence reports, though you suspect at least some of the stories are heavily embellished if not entirely made up. 

There’s just something about him that tells you he’s not the grumpy asshole people think he is - or, maybe, that he wants people to think he is. It’s like that stare: it’s a way of keeping you at arm’s length. It’s the same as the puppy dog eyes he pulls out when he’s trying to get something he wants. You’re a good agent - you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t - and you can’t resist the allure of cracking a puzzling case. Especially if it’s the colleague currently sitting sullenly at his desk, plume of cigarette smoke rising above his head, while he rifles through surveillance photographs.

The embassy is much quieter now, the day before Christmas Eve, and the usual background noise of phones and chatter has been replaced by the sound of your typewriter, the scratch of Javi’s Parker ballpoint pen against a yellow legal pad, and his occasional frustrated grunt or exhalation. 

He hasn’t said a word about the bright green sweater decorated with a glittery Christmas tree that you’ve worn to work, though you’ve noticed him sneaking occasional glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. Eventually you decide to call his bluff.

“I think you’re jealous of this sweatshirt, Javi. Let me know your size and I can get you one for next year.”

He looks over at you and shakes his head with irritation. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” But you swear you detect a little smile flashing across his lips.

On Christmas Eve, you don your brightest holiday sweater and pack a tin of homemade sugar cookies into your work bag. It promises to be quiet - most Colombians will be with family, preparing to attend midnight Mass and come together for dinner afterwards. You aren’t even sure if Javi will be in the office. 

He’s there, of course, already leafing through files with his feet up on the desk when you arrive. He does a little salute in acknowledgement - more of a hello than you think you’ve ever got from him, you muse.

He looks up again at the sound of your cookie tin hitting your desk, and mutters something under his breath. 

“Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said, that better not contain popcorn for making garlands.”

You grin, take the lid off the tin, and cross to his desk to show him the cookies. “I didn’t think you’d be much good at that, so I made cookies instead.”

Javi cannot disguise the interest in his eyes as his gaze moves from the cookies to your face. 

“I don’t like eggnog.”

You shrug. “Don’t have eggnog, so we’re good. There’s coffee. Or, as I suspect, there’s that bottle of whiskey you’ve got in your desk drawer?”

You raise your other hand. Javi groans when he realises you’re holding two holiday-themed mugs, dangling expectantly, but he’s clearly fighting a laugh as he bends down and opens his desk drawer to retrieve a bottle of Johnnie Walker.

“Fuck it.”

It seems that sugar cookies, Scotch, and an empty office are the key to cracking the mystery that is Javier Peña. He’s more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, stretching back in his chair with his feet up as you sit on the edge of his desk.

The alcohol has emboldened you a little. “I don’t buy it.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t buy what?”

“You not having any holiday spirit. I think you just don’t want to let it show.”

“Fuck, not this again.” He’s smiling, though, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He exhales and sips his drink. 

“Holidays were my mom’s thing. Never felt the same after she passed.” 

“I’m sorry, Javi, I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

He brushes away your apology with a wave of his hand. “No need to say sorry. They’re not bad memories. That’s the fuckin’ problem, they’re all too good.” He chuckles to himself, as if he’s reliving Christmases past. “She loved it, all of it. The food, the lights, the music. Dancing with my pop on Christmas Eve with the record player on - fuckin’ embarrassing, when you’re a kid.”

He laughs at the memory and you can’t help but join in, saying nothing in case he’ll close himself off again.

“She had this little ornament that was like a snowglobe, or something, with a little plastic snowman inside, and she used to shake it every day and watch all the fake snow falling. Don’t get a lot of snow in Laredo, so it must have seemed…exotic.”

“Never had a white Christmas?”

He shakes his head and takes another sip of whiskey. “Not that I recall. Just one day in February when I was, what - fourteen? Fifteen? And I came home from school and she was standing in the yard, staring up into the sky and watching those snowflakes fall like a little kid.”

You let the memory linger for a couple of moments, before silently reaching for the cookie tin and offering it to him.

After another hour or so of work - albeit at a decidedly relaxed pace - you dig out your final Christmas Eve surprise: a portable cassette player, and a mix tape you’ve made of your favourite holiday songs. As the opening bars of “Sleigh Ride” by the Ronettes ring out, Javi sighs and stares at you.

“That better not have any Bing fuckin’ Crosby on it. Or Sinatra.”

You chuckle as you bob your head in time to the music, swaying in your office chair. “Don’t worry, Javi, I wouldn’t force that on you. Who knows, we might even have the same taste in holiday tunes?”

He grins and shakes his head, but you smile with satisfaction when you notice his foot starting to keep time. 

No holiday spirit, my ass.

The next track is your favourite: “Christmas Wrapping”, by the Waitresses. You stand up from the desk and dance your way over to the filing cabinets, shimmying a little as you put away some completed paperwork and looking over your shoulder just in time to catch Javi nodding along to the music.

He looks up as you extend your hand towards him. 

“I know you want to, Javi. I could see that Rio Grande boot tapping from across the room.”

He stands up. He extinguishes his cigarette. He stares at you like you’ve come from another planet.

And then he takes your hand and starts to dance with you, right there in the middle of the office: his moves a little reserved and awkward at first, but his body language becoming more open, more relaxed, as the song progresses. 

By the time Patty Donahue is recounting how she’s turned down all of her Christmas Eve invitations, Javi’s broad hands are around your waist, yours resting on his shoulders, both giggling at the bizarre holiday party you’ve created for yourselves. He suddenly twirls you around and you throw your head back and laugh out loud.

He pulls you back in as the song reaches the final, repeated chorus. You lean in and whisper in his ear.

“I knew you weren’t a grinch, Javier Peña.”

His laugh is low and warm, resonating through his broad chest, and it sends a spark through you as your eyes meet.

He tastes of whiskey and tobacco, of sugar cookies and coffee, and he holds you close as you deepen the kiss and move backwards towards your desk. Your last few manila folders of paperwork hit the floor as he eases you up onto the edge of the table, your hands already starting to unbutton his shirt as his long, thick fingers work their way under your sweater and find the soft, sensitive skin of your breasts. 

You sit up a little so you can take the sweatshirt off, hastily discarding it before reaching for Javi’s belt buckle. 

“We probably shouldn’t be doing this,” you murmur as he undoes your jeans and encourages you to raise your hips just enough to pull them down.

“You don’t want to?” he asks, breath warm and heavy against your neck.

“I want to.”

“Good,” and he moves his mouth to your nipple as you whine with pleasure. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

You’re gone when he wakes up the next morning, the sheets on your side of the bed already turning cold in the grey light of a Christmas morning. He sits up and reaches for his cigarettes before dialling your number.

No answer. 

He had planned to go into the office one way or another. No point hanging around at home on his own when he could be getting some work done, right?

And maybe you’d be there, too.

The embassy is completely silent as Javi makes his way to the office, flicking on the lights and realising that all the evidence of yesterday’s festivities has been cleared away. Your desk is neat and tidy as ever.

It’s like nothing happened. 

There is one change, though: a little red gift box on Javi’s desk, topped with a bright green bow. The tag reads simply:

Merry Christmas, Agent Peña.

He raises an eyebrow and opens the box, reaching in to retrieve the gift within.

The fake snow glitters inside the cheap, plastic snowglobe as he holds it up to the light. 

[deardolli3]

your blog is so cool! could you maybe do some erwin romantic or dadwin headcanons? thank you! 💫

erwin smith relationship hcs

a/n: hi lovie!! im sooo late to this but ofc!! thank you for requesting and ill be more active, i promise, so please request 🩵

• erwin is literally perfect when it comes to having a poker face, like lady gaga wrote the song cause she saw this man😭 you can never tell what he’s feeling but he can read you like a book, just by the way you spoke to him, or the way your eyes shine a different way.

• hes good at reading emotions but bad at comforting you (sorry but!!) and you could be like crying and hes just like

”there there…” 😟😕🙁 while rubbing your back and sighing deeply.

• he strikes me as one of those always on vacation to tropical ass countries guy. like with those hawaiian print shirts unbuttoned and swim pants on, he is so ready to sit on a beach chair while you do god knows what.

• never the type to get drunk and be flirty but he does get tipsy and tries to find you immediately because he wants to talk to you and maybe even dance a little

• take him to family events, THIS MAN GETS DOWNN!! all your aunties and family members can be on him and hes just like “why thank you, yes yes i know. oh wow is that for me?” 😁 and yes he can work them hips

• he doesn’t talk around people alot but with you its a straight yappathon with whatever the hell is on his mind and the topic changes within like two sentences😭

• he tans so easily its INSANE. like okay white boy my culture is not ur costume!!😣

• always always always remembers details about you, “why are you hanging out with her tonight i thought WE hated her?” and you gotta give him the new lore cause he not so secretively loves gossip. like okay boy what else you lurking around for😢

• omg he is so fucking funny when hes not trying to be😭 like shit goes down and he says something stupid and everyone’s laughing while hes sighing deeply wondering why they never laugh when he’s trying to be funny.

• sleeps like a rock, like a literal rock next to you, and he won’t ever budge. but if he hears any sudden movement or you hug him he jolts up and looks you dead in the eye like he just got shot😣 fucking dramatic ass LMAOA.

• if you have any kids best believe they’re very well mannered. OMG he goes hunting or fishing or whatever with them and he looks so fine like phewww…

• ladies… this man is not kinky please😭😭 vanilla sex or just no freakiness at all unless you initiate it.

• dates will always be dinner dates, and always so well though out and planned well. he either takes you shopping with all them carrrds or feeds you pasta and lobster. OR he takes you to run errands with him or go fishing/hunting/to a shooting range.

• in terms of pda, he always has a hand around your waist, but the most he can do is kiss you on the forehead to say goodbye or wrap a arm around your shoulder as you walk. and YES, he knows the sidewalk rule so you best be on the right damn side away from the cars.

• this man can bbq but not cook… he was literally trained to be a father/husband😭 you guys definitely have those backyard/patio bbqs.

• never ever wants you to overwork yourself, HELL YOU DONT EVEN NEEDD A JOB WHILE YOURE WITH HIM!! he just needs you to sit at home and look pretty for him when he comes back at night.

• definitely a business man in the modern day world, i would say a sergeant but maybe he retired from that position.

• he would want around three kids!! but whatever you want of course. he loves his kids endlessly and will literally kill for them. they have to learn how to protect themselves, they have to learn how to haggle with people, they have to learn to not be taken advantage of or treated as stupid, and they will pull the “do you know who my father is?” card when someone threatens them😭

• if you ever watched the notebook!! he would literally renovate a whole house for you or build you one and grow old together <33 he would build it however you want it, with a balcony, with a marble kitchen, etc, anything his love wants.

• and yes, he loves unconditionally even if he doesn’t show it so much through words, he will do it through his actions. he’ll get you anything you need even if you don’t ask, from a cup of water to a fucking car. HE WOULD EVEN BUILDDD A CAR FOR YOU??

• he loves you so so so much, and he literally cannot lose you😣 he would die for you, kill for you. he would bathe you in stars and swirl you onto the moon if you wanted, anything that’s possible? he’ll do for you.

HE LOVES YOU!!

— aaaa i hope you liked this!! 🩵

[firedragon1321]

Okay it's time for me to rant about Digimon again because. Because. I want to talk about this-

These two clowns (affectionate) tried to fight giant monsters with their bare hands. Which is how they ended up getting strangled. Tai thought it was a good idea to poke Shellmon. With no sense of critical thinking, he decided it was the best idea. Matt was trying to save TK, with no regard to his own safety. He could die right there and who cares, right?

I'd argue these two were actually at their worst when the digivolution occurred.

Tai: Reckless idiot moron, angers monster with unga bunga tactics, could have put the rest of the group at risk if he and Agumon didn't sneak a snack earlier

Matt: Also reckless idiot moron, puts TK's safety above his own life, was perfectly ready to die for his brother, sees himself as disposable as long as TK is safe

Not only is this a perfect example of their flaws, but this behavior also leads directly into both SkullGreymon and Matt's fall to Cherrymon.

With SkullGreymon, I feel like Tai wasn't just taking known data (partner in danger, Digimon must be fed, etc.) and executing it at random. I feel like he was trying to recreate the events that led to Greymon. Other than feeding Agumon too much, what does he do? He runs up to the giant monster and yells at it.

In desperation, Tai does what he knows has worked in the past. He's willing to face certain death trying to unlock the Ultimate level. By now, he understands that digivolution helps protect the group, and he's putting all the weight on his shoulders.

But the crests rely on personal growth to work. Tai isn't growing. He's not ready. He's lost and confused and doesn't know anything except he's the only one with a crest. Result? SkullGreymon.

Matt had plenty of stupid moments similar to this (i.e.- putting all the weight on himself and throwing himself into danger, though he's more focused on TK only rather than the whole group). I think the reason most of those moments didn't result in dark digivolution is because Matt is more introspective. He's more likely to ruminate over something for a million years instead of taking action. Which leads me to Cherrymon.

Cherrymon plays with Matt's insecurities. He's already worried that TK is spending more time with Tai (and the rest of the group, though Cherrymon focuses it on just Tai). TK's recent victory in Puppetmon's gun game proves he can protect himself. Between this and his growing connections to others, Matt feels useless. He's made his entire existence about protecting TK- the very thing that created Gaurumon to start with.

I always wondered why there was never a dark digivolution after this. Because I am a fucking nerd, I did some research and BlackMetalGarurumon wasn't actually released yet. It was on a card that would come out three months after this episode aired. So let me introduce to you-

SkullMammothmon digivolves from WereGarurumon, existed when this episode aired, and is a "skull" Digimon as a nice thematic bonus. Imagine if Matt came riding back to the group on this big guy! The SkullGreymon parallels! The Tai and Matt parallels! The wasted potential!

Anyway...

I love how Tai and Matt are both idiots who would readily give up their lives to protect others. But they're also so different. Tai does stupid things for the sake of the entire group. Matt does stupid things because he sits on his personal issues too long. Tai does the first thing that comes to his head, whether or not it's actually a good idea. Matt will suffer from behind-the-scenes angst and not tell anyone ever. Unlocking Greymon/Garurumon stems from their issues, just as they unlocked the Ultimate level through their strengths.

[alolanrain]

I’m really rethinking the TA!Au because it has actually gotten a lot darker then I originally intended, it’s one of the reason’s why I haven’t really written anything is because I’m actually planning out a full series that will stay contingent, and I’ve decided to make a whole new au instead. ’ve mentioned it before but I’m naming the new verse is named Traveling Teacher!au. I’m also cringing how I’ve type au so far.

This is also almost a 180 turn from it too.

Traveling teacher!au is where Ash actually goes to therapy, i’m not joking, and after he’s deemed ready by his therapist. Ash will be leading the International Leagues new mandated Buddy System. Where respected trainer’s slightly older between the ages of 17 and up will be there for support during trainings and battle. They won’t ever actually battle someone else, during “support time” but instead give advice on certain techniques that the professors deems right. Like all the Pokémon are loved dearly and they form a unique strong bond. Or as we know it, main characters basically.

Professors and or both an Officer Jenny and Nurse Joy together have to judge the team and deem everyone of at least three basic things. What makes it hard is that each region have different rules to apply to the buddy system and you legally have to meet each regions standard or else you are disqualified. The only reason Ash’s entire project he worked his blood sweat and tears into actually became a world wide thing is because, if he hadn’t been the luckiest motherfucker in the whole wide fucking world, so many well know people joined and public spread it with praise and pure delight of all ages. Anyone seventeen and above can join and freely offer good, qualified and respected advice. To many young children have died in almost every tragic event Ash has been in. Let alone his friends when they first come to face is Ash’s personal hell.

Yet they somehow an bare the trauma and laugh at their good times instead. Looking forward and accepting help when they can’t. They also go for the position of a version of a “shiny” trainer. Getting that iconic silver/golden sparkle over their picture on their legal trainer card. There’s other smaller requirements but’s it’s so easy to be re-qualified. Behind the scenes though? There’s so much more.

He had to convince a slew of fucking people this was a good idea and had to defend himself again and again at every step. It made him vicious in debates and arguments. Every INL member hates dealing with him when he’s mad because Ash is usually fucking right. He was already contracted as a “regional inspector” when crime rises rabidly through the entire nation. He’s widely considered to be fluent in fucking Evil Teams now. He has his moments, he’s not perfect at all but he’s trying. So far, his last break was by choice and not by the mental abuse of dying over and over again.

So… progress, somewhat.

Now that he no longer has to defend what was basically his fucking baby for so fucking long, he’s being sent to Alola for a trial run.

They don’t have a league in the island region. Choosing to go back to their religion, practices and ways of life after Unova had briefly colonized their islands. Before the INLwas established way back in time. It was going to be fought over by Paldea and those two had major beef between each other. quick Pokemon history recap in au. It was going to get dangerous real quick for the entire world of some people didn’t step the fuck in.

No one quite remembers how the INL was created, each region has it written it down in their history differently, but their here know and everything has genuinely been good… mostly because their in human disguises. They where distant and relatively cordial to each region and their own. Regardless they cared, especially since humans can be a danger to Pokemon it’s better to lead them then fight them.

Ash has made that very clear them in the years he’s been alive and cognitive enough to start blaming the legendaries who, for no reason, loses their shit just to lose it and nothing else. He’s had screaming matches and arguments with them to get their shirt together. Their led by the ear by Ash to make social engagement with the public. Both as INL members and as regulars “people”.

He may or may not caught having dinner with Kanto board member Gia Lu and KoKe Kahekili from specifically Melemele, Alola. Stirring the pot of rumors and gossip off what they have going on.

There’s obviously so much more but I’ll stop here for know.

[ugh-yoongi]

the dogs of war | ksj

pairing: seokjin x reader

genre: politician au, lite enemies to lovers; crack, fluff

warnings: use of US political positions & terms, swearing, bickering, alcohol, a lot of bad jokes, unedited because i think i've kept these requests waiting long enough. if there's anything glaringly bad, though, lmk.

wordcount: 2.3k

had a few seokjin requests in my inbox from the valentine's day drabbles, so i decided to combine them into one fic:

bare — as they get undressed, the sender gently places a soft, tender kiss against the receiver’s bare shoulder.

"i really don't know if this is a yes."

"you need to stop doing that." / "do what?" / "that little eye thing you do when i walk into the room."

You’re not even sure what this gala is for.

The hospital? No, the last one (two?) had been for the hospital. Needed pretty, important people to dress up in pretty, expensive clothes to raise money for their new wing (board members’ salaries). You know it’s not for the police union, because you wouldn’t be caught dead at one of those, and you’re almost certain the gala for the animal shelter was the one you’d shown up late to last week.

So, yeah—you’re stumped.

Not that it really matters. You’ve fulfilled the requirements and paid the ticket price. Poured yourself into a dress that is, admittedly, a size too small; a dress you will probably have to cut yourself out of later on. Got your hair and makeup and nails done real nice. Rented jewelry three times your annual salary. There isn’t a person in this place that has taken dress pretty, look prettier more seriously than you.

Well, until.

“You need to stop doing that.”

You roll your eyes. Pluck a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and down it in one go. “Stop doing what?”

“That little eye thing you do when I walk into the room,” Seokjin answers, crooked fingers moving to work at his stupid bowtie. “You can’t possibly expect to be the best-looking person in every room, especially when we’re forced to attend the same events.”

You huff. Privately, because you’d be better off dying than letting Seokjin know he’s successful at getting under your skin. “I can and I do.”

“Well, we all have a tragic flaw.”

“What’s yours, then?”

“Let me rephrase: most of us have a tragic flaw. Not me, though.”

There’s still forty minutes until dinner. Forty minutes until you will once again be forced to sit next to Seokjin and watch as he effortlessly charms the entire table. Watch as people foolishly trip over themselves to get on his good side, laughing at his stupid jokes, complimenting his perfectly-styled hair and his flawless skin and his suits that cost far too much money for a person who claims to be a socialist.

“I’m voting no on your most recent proposal, by the way. Figured I’d get that out of the way early.”

Seokjin sputters, chokes on a hors d'oeuvre someone had probably bent over backwards to hand-deliver to him on a little plate. “What? Why? I specifically wrote in all those stupid provisions you requested.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Fuck you,” he whispers, “I spent months—”

“That’s politics, baby.”

“You’re gonna be the only one,” he accuses, borderline seething, as if you don’t already know this. “Min Yoongi and Jung Hoseok are finally on board, so you’re gonna be the lone dissenter. Might be really embarrassing for you.”

“It won’t be,” you assure him. You might be petty and spiteful (you are in politics, after all) but you’re not an idiot (you are in politics, after all, so maybe that’s not true). “Section nine, subsection twelve. That’s my get out of jail free card.”

“That’s the proposed redistricting map. The one you wanted.”

You offer up a smile, pinch at Seokjin’s cheek. “Exactly, and you spelled one of my town’s names wrong. Therefore, I cannot, in good conscience, vote for it. What would my constituents say?”

“You’re tanking this entire thing over a typo? I’ll call Namjoon right now and have him fix it.”

“The Namjoon that’s currently at the open bar going shot-for-shot with Jimin? Looks a little green? Good luck. At least I hired a Chief of Staff who can hold their liquor.”

Steam practically pours out of his ears. He certainly looks to be on the verge of a mental break, what with the angry flush that’s taken over his entire upper body. “Have you forgotten we’re on the same side here? What happened to party loyalty?”

“Oh, Seokjinnie,” you intone, “there’s no loyalty in gerrymandering.”

He scoffs. Grabs so forcefully at his own flute of champagne that he knocks the poor waiter completely off-center. Now he has no flutes of champagne and the floor has ten.

If looks could kill, this would be your funeral instead of whatever this gala is for.

As luck would have it, you do get seated next to Seokjin.

He’s usually the life of the party. Is usually cracking jokes left and right, wrapping every laterally-important person around his finger. He’s always the first person everyone looks to for a reaction—if he laughs, it’s all good; if his jaw clenches, everyone treads lightly. Either his phone or his checkbook is always out, but tonight there’s nothing more than the proverbial storm cloud over his head.

“I worked on that for months,” he tells you for the fifth time in the span of an hour. “I cannot believe you.”

You take a delicate bite of your dinner. Smile for the camera that leaves stars behind your eyes when the flash goes off. “Uh-huh.”

“This is just so typical,” he continues, seemingly uncaring who can hear him. “I bend over backwards to give you whatever you want, and you stab me in the back the first chance you get. You’re no better than the Roman senate.”

“You want me to start calling you Seok-julius? I’ll be honest, it sounds pretty bad, but if that’s what you’re into...”

“Fuck you,” he says again. “You’re a traitor of the highest degree.”

Jimin shoots you a concerned look. You respond with a roll of your eyes and mime throwing back a drink. Jimin responds with an eye-roll of his own, jerking his head in Namjoon’s direction, then he nods. Him, too, he mouths, then promptly turns his attention back to the older woman beside him whose husband is the head of some important committee. Thank god Jimin’s here to do all your schmoozing for you (and that he can hold his liquor).

“You’re the worst.”

“Okay, Seokjin.”

“I’m getting another drink. Do you want anything?” You stare at him in disbelief, blinking slowly. “I don’t know if that’s a yes.”

“It definitely isn’t. Haven’t you drank enough?”

“No,” comes his immediate response. “My current level of inebriation is disproportionate to the amount of suffering you have bestowed upon me this evening.”

“I don’t know if that’s true. Your eyes are all glassy and your face is really red. I’ve certainly retaken the lead in the best-looking contest—”

“You are insufferable.” Then, because the alcohol has loosened his lips and he can’t seem to help himself, he says, “You are always the best-looking person in any room. Fuck, I need another drink. Namjoonie, get me another drink, please. I regret to inform you I am, in fact, too drunk to leave this table.”

Inexplicably, Namjoon looks at you. Looks like a deer in headlights, but turns to you nonetheless, and you feel your jaw drop. “No,” you tell him, “I’m not dealing with him. He’s your chief.”

“But it’s your fault he’s this drunk,” Namjoon argues, because he’s a shithead who majored in pre-law in undergrad. “He won’t make it to the big speech, at this rate.”

“What are you, five? Then take him home,” you hiss. This is rapidly spiraling out of control. Seokjin, at Level Zero Inebriation, would never compliment you, so he must be very far gone to concede the best-looking title to you.

It makes your stomach hurt.

Jimin’s still busy charming the pants off the committee wife. Min Yoongi and Jung Hoseok are deep in conversation and only loyal to one another, so they’ll be no help. You could probably wrestle Seokjin’s phone out of his hands to call one of his lesser staff members, perhaps his driver, but he’d almost certainly cause a scene. Start squawking at you in that tone of his that’s liable to break sound barriers, and that’s the last thing you need.

So, with all the decorum you can muster, you shove the last forkful of risotto in your mouth and fire off a text to your own driver.

Ten minutes, comes the response.

You show the text to Jimin, who merely nods and tells you good luck. You hate that you’re going to need it.

You don’t know how much Seokjin weighs, but you’re certain eighty-percent of it is in his shoulders.

Thankfully Jungkook, your driver, is much more buff and far less considerate than you are, because he’d just thrown Seokjin over his shoulder and deposited him on your couch, uncaring of his protests and warnings of impending vomit.

“Not my house, not my problem,” was his response.

“Wow, rude,” was yours.

Before anything else, you fetch a bucket and a sleeve of crackers. “Eat up,” you tell Seokjin, who unsurprisingly gives you the finger in turn. “Very mature. Don’t forget you’re only here as the result of your own actions.”

Seokjin mimics you under his breath, and you have half a mind to dump a glass of water on him. But he looks so… helpless. Simultaneously green in the face and pale, looking far from the man with the million-dollar skincare routine; suit rumpled, jacket thrown carelessly over the arm of the couch, shoes untied but still on his feet. You don’t have any pets because you’re never home and are woefully inept of taking care of anything, but something about Seokjin in this moment kicks some long-forgotten nurturing gene into high gear.

So you fetch some water and a blanket. Busy yourself making coffee, because it’s not even nine p.m. and you’re usually never home before midnight, let alone tucked into bed. And those stupid gala entrees are small, so you rummage through your kitchen for something to snack on.

“Did you make enough coffee for two?” you hear from the living room.

“Yeah,” you call back. “How do you take it?”

“Preferably not from my sworn enemy’s kitchen, but I suppose I’ll have to make an exception.”

“I’m gonna spit in it,” you tell him. An overexaggerated gag comes from his direction.

“Never mind. Can I take a shower?”

If you thought getting him out of the car and in the front door had been difficult, it’s nothing compared to helping him into the shower.

Which you shouldn’t even be doing, considering he’s insistent on not showering in his briefs but also isn’t capable of undressing himself, so it all feels clandestine. Now the two of you are crammed in the bathroom attached to the guest room—the one with the bog standard shampoo and conditioner and body wash, because you don’t trust Seokjin not to pour all your expensive stuff down the drain out of spite.

“Help me help you,” you beg, righting him for the nth time. It’s those goddamn shoulders of his. He’s too top-heavy; makes him susceptible to tipping over sideways into the wall.

“Can’t,” he responds. Barely manages to pop the button on his suit pants before he tips into the wall again.

A frustrated groan escapes you. You’ll never get him into the shower at this rate, and you really want to eat that snack. Not to mention the coffee’s going to get all bitter and gross if you leave it in the carafe too long. “You’re really inconveniencing me, you know that?”

“Sorry.”

You huff, turn him forcefully so he’s facing you. Start working at the buttons of his dress shirt. Tom Ford. Black silk. Probably cost a fortune, because it’s also been perfectly tailored to accentuate his waist, which is… not great for your mental well-being. Doesn’t help that his heady cologne is still stubbornly clinging onto the fabric.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” he answers. “I say a lot of things. Don’t usually mean most of them, no.”

“Definitely a politician, then.”

He sighs. Tips his head back, puts that horrible neck on full display. You cover your whimper with a cough. “I thought it best not to fight the inevitable,” he says. “I’m charming. People want to give me things. Might as well use my powers for good.”

“Yeah, sure,” you reply distractedly. Only three buttons left. Thank god he’s wearing an undershirt. “Makes sense.”

“Well, I try to. Hard to do that when someone votes against the proposals I’ve spent months drafting.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, turn around, I think your shirt’s caught on something in the back.”

Seokjin obliges. Blocks your view of your bathroom with his giant shoulders. You’re so glad he can’t see the look on your face, because it’s already pretty pathetic, but then he says, “I did mean what I said, though. About you.” He clears his throat, the flush creeping up his neck again. “Being pretty.”

Your hands tremble as you get his shirt unstuck. As you untuck it from his pants and push it off his shoulders. As you fold it carefully and place it on the counter. As you see a scar on his shoulder and trace your fingers over it. “What’s this from?”

“Assassination attempt,” Seokjin deadpans.

“Can’t imagine why anyone would want to murder you.”

“Me neither.” Then, quieter: “Got it when I fell out of a tree.”

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen.”

You snort your laughter, feeling a little brave with Seokjin’s back to you. “You really think I’m pretty?” you ask, and when he nods again, you throw caution to the wind entirely.

Press onto the tips of your toes. Press a soft kiss to the scar on Seokjin’s shoulder. Smile again at the soft gasp that escapes him, the way he tips over again and expects to bang into the wall, except you’ve turned him all around so there’s nothing to catch him. He tries grabbing onto the shower curtain but it’s hopeless, so he goes toppling into the tub.

“You’re really falling for me, huh?” you ask, extending your hand to help him up. He’s groaning in pain, but he takes it anyway, pulling you in with him. Can’t say you didn’t expect it. Seokjin’s a shithead before he’s anything else.

His arms snake around your waist immediately. “If I say yes, will you change your vote on my proposal?”

“I guess we’ll see.”

[sloth-babied]

Love Will Find a Way

Sam Obisanya x reader

Summary: After a year of trying to get over Sam Obisanya, Colin insists you attend a speed dating event with him. 

And would you look at that, Sam’s here too. 

Contains: Drinking, light angst, and fluff. No use of y/n.

Word count: 2.8k

Notes: The fact that there aren't a numerous amount of fics about Sam is actually a crime so I had to step in.

Enjoy!

“Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life,” Colin reads the pink chalk-written words on a wooden A-frame sign in front of the restaurant. He turns to you, pursing his lip while nodding as if he were impressed. 

You simply smile and nod, indulging your friend who suggested you come here with him.

You observe the room once you two enter—the quintessential red and pink balloons at every corner of the room, including pink lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Red and pink decor are set all around the place with a banner hanging maliciously over the seating area:

FOR SINGLES READY FOR LOVE

You sigh before you continue to look around. There’s a lot of older people here; people in their mid-forties and up. Makes sense. Those around your age usually rely on dating apps, but there are a few exceptions which, you guess, is a relief. 

You’re able to identify two other young people and realize one of them is Isaac. And the other is…oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck.

You grab Colin’s bicep, hoping to reroute your plans. “You know what, actually I think I change my mind—”

“Wait, is that Isaac and Sam?” He notices, raising his damn hand excitedly. “Isaac! Sam!” Colin places his fists on his hips, shaking his head. “Who knew they’d be here?”

You give him a hardened stare before offering the other two footballers a disingenuous smile as they walk your way, drinks in hand.

Naturally your eyes drift to Sam and you can’t resist admiring his outfit for the night. A black turtleneck and brown khakis.

This is going to be a long night.

“Wild seein’ you here, innit?” Isaac says.

Colin nods fervently. “Yeah, weird coincidence.”

Sam gestures his drink in your direction. “What brings you here?

Oh, god, he’s talking to you.

You scratch the back of your neck nervously. “Colin was nice enough to invite me,” you tell him, though ‘nice’ is not the word you would honestly use. ‘Cruel’ sounds more accurate, but you digress.

Sam smiles thoughtfully, though he can’t say he doesn’t feel as awkward as you. “I’m sure you’ll find a match. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

You ignore Isaac and Colin glancing at each other, gripping the strap of your tote bag just a tad bit tighter. “And to you, also,” you shoot him a finger-gun with your free hand. “ As well. Too.”

You’re insufferable, but Sam chortles anyway, thank goodness for that.

“Finally got Sam off Bantr.” Isaac pats Sam’s back.

Sam shakes his head. “I deleted my account a long time ago.”

And you know why. It’s hard to think about Sam’s relationship with Rebecca without feeling a little jealous…okay, a lot.

Sam sips his punch. “Isaac suggested I come here, so here I am.”

Ding, ding, ding!

You all turn your heads to a woman holding a call bell in her hand. “The event begins in five minutes!”

And so the night begins.

Each date feels prolonged despite being on a three-minute timer. Many people who are much older than you discuss topics beyond your time or too early in your longevity to experience. And when you meet people around your age, well, let's say a severe lack of chemistry is the only thing that comes into mind.

Admittedly, you debated pregaming before Colin picked you up. You decided against it until you saw Sam here, therefore during the five-minute break, you mumble, "Eh, what the hell?" to yourself before sneaking off to the bar, ordering a shot of tequila before you and Sam meet.

Liquid courage.

Sam greets you with a pursed smile, waving his questionnaire card (cutely) and taking a seat in front of you. "Hi."

“Hey.” You smile back a bit more enthused than usual. Less nervous. More loose.

“So how are your dates going?” Sam wiggles his eyebrows.

You lean forward closer to him, balancing a pen between two fingers. “Hmm. Oh, see that guy over there?”

Sam’s head stealthily turns to the man you point at—slick back gray hair with a salt and pepper beard. 

“Apparently, he owns 0.5% of West Ham.” 

Sam looks back at you, leaning closer. “Dealbreaker?”

You nod exaggeratedly, leaning away. “Very much so, Sam. You know I’m ride-or-die for Richmond.”

He pats his chest, smiling playfully. “I’m flattered.”

From two different areas of the room, Colin and Isaac are seated with their respective dates. Colin and Issac narrow their eyes on you and Sam, shushing their poor dates whenever they attempt to speak.

When you feel your neck practically burning, you swivel your stool, catching them do a questionable job at pretending they weren’t just hyper-focused on you and Sam.

Colin mouths fake words to his very confused date who will certainly write him off later. Isaac looks upward, chin on his palm, eyes squinted, and mouth parted as if he were in deep thought.

“Okay…” You murmur to yourself before facing Sam again. “How about you, huh? Meet anyone you fancy yet?”

He offers a sigh, tilting his head towards his previous date. “See that woman over there?”

You discreetly look to the left and see an elderly woman speaking with her date, a man fortunately around her age. They seem to be hitting it off.

Sam shakes his head, feigning a disappointed sigh. “I thought we had something.”

“Another older white woman stolen from you, man. You gonna take that?” You tilt your upper body towards the perhaps soon-to-be couple before sipping your ice water.

Sam’s shoulders bounce, chuckling. He turns to them. “Yes, I am.”

You also turn, feeling envious from the sight. You observe the woman’s incredibly pink face and the subtle red on the olive-skinned man’s cheeks. Mutually smitten.

You and Sam face each other in unison, both of your hands below the table as you lean your torsos against the round table. Sam’s hands clasp beneath the surface while yours continue to fiddle with your pen.

Colin hides behind his questionnaire paper below his eyes—espionage still at work—and Isaac ignores his date once again, enthralled by your date as if it were a movie. 

If only there were popcorn, he thinks.

Sam says your name, but you’re stuck in his trance, buzzed and hypnotized. His voice swims around the atmosphere he tends to unintentionally create whenever you speak to him.

Then you remember what occurred a year ago; you remember the reason why you slightly furthered yourself from him in hopes of moving on. Frankly, it didn’t work very well.

Isaac’s brows furrow even deeper than usual, and he looks over at Colin who shrugs at him, sharing the same concern as you back away from Sam. You sober your deluded mind with another drink of water, reminding yourself that Sam is just…Sam. He’s naturally kind, charming, and genuine. He gets along with everyone. You’re not special.

You hold your questionnaire out, smiling tightly. “What am I doing? We’re supposed to be asking each other questions. Uh, okay, let’s see.” You scan your sheet. “What’s your dream career?” You ask hastily. You awkwardly laugh at yourself. “That’s a stupid question.”

Sam repeats your name, but you’re too lost rambling about the stupid questions in your hand.

“Where are you from originally?” You cower behind the paper. “Know that, too. Uhm, okay, let’s see. Oh! Here, if you were an animal, what would you be—”

Sam says your name louder and places his hand on yours, lowering the paper from your face.

“A goldfish. If I were an animal, I’d be a goldfish,” he answers.

You peer down at your hands. “The ten-second memory thing Coach Lasso told you about.”

He slowly pulls his hand off yours, but it sits close by. He nods. “Exactly. There are certain things I want to forget; things I cannot change. But there are things that I can change.”

Things he can change? Where is he going with this?

He continues. “Last year when you asked me—”

Ding, ding, ding, you both hear, jumping at the sound of the call bell. Chairs scrape the red-checkered floor and the sound of shoes patter all around you. Time to go.

“See ya, Sam,” you hurry to your next date who just so happens to be the captain of the Richmond football team. “Isaac, hey.”

He simply shakes his head. 

Four more rounds pass until the host of the speed dating event gives out the last announcement.

“Alright, everyone! Whoever you scored most with is your match. Say ‘hi’ to your potential partner! And give yourselves a round of applause for putting yourself out there tonight!”

Two pairs of hands clap with her, hands belonging to Colin and Isaac. You refrain from rolling your eyes at them when the bartender approaches you.

“What can I get you?”

“Uh, a Jack and Coke please.” You face her before turning around again.

You observe Sam speaking with one of the organizers of the event. The organizer reluctantly hands Sam his score sheet with a confused expression on her face. He nearly catches you staring until you turn back to the counter.

“One Jack and Coke.” The bartender sets down your drink, but not without noticing you eyeing Sam. She smirks, wiping down a glass cup with a cloth that was previously on her shoulder. (Classic bartender move.) “Obisanya your match?”

You study the small sheet in your hand, analyzing the scores and the contact information of someone already on your phone.

“Oi! How the hell did you match with me?” You hear Isaac stomp behind you. 

You smile mischievously, gesturing your head toward him. 

The bartender nods, pouting her lower lip before finding another customer, and you use the counter to spin yourself around to your distressed friend.

“Maybe we’re soulmates,” you suggest facetiously, lifting your drink towards him.

Truth is, you might have taken a peek at his questionnaire sheet when he kept exchanging looks with Colin. His disappointment earlier combined with Colin’s invasive questions about your date with Sam after you got through all your sessions helped piece things together.

Plus, Colin’s insistence that you come to this event in the first place. 

“Get in line.” He stands with his arms crossed next to Issac.

Isaac sits and harshly waves his sheet. “Why copy my sheet when your real match is-”

Colin clears his throat, poking his elbow against Isaac’s arms.

“Somewhere in this room,” Isaac finishes.

The only one in this room who piqued your interest was Sam. Towards the end, there were potential candidates. However, neither was Sam Obisanya.

You scoff, sipping your drink. “Nice save, Lindsey Lohan. I’ve seen Parent Trap enough times to know what’s going on here.”

You wonder why they’d want to pull something like this, especially after you told them that Sam turned you down. Pestering Sam to go on a stupid date with you is not something you would ever do, nor something a normal person should do, period.

God, you hope Sam doesn’t think you did this on purpose.

Isaac continues to eye you disapprovingly before his gazes shifts upwards to a new presence behind you, this presence being none other than Sam leaning his side against the counter. And now you’re sitting between him and the other two sneaky bastards.

“Sam! Who’d you match with?” Colin reaches in front of you and snatches Sam’s score sheet. He frowns. “No one?”

Isaac yanks the sheet from Colin’s hand. “What? How’s that even possible?”

Sam plucks his sheet back from Isaac, stuffing it in his back pocket. “If it’s alright with you two, I’d like to discuss something with them.” He looks down at you. “Alone.”

Your cheeks burn up, easily. Is it the whiskey? Is it Sam? Either way, you’re taking another sip. 

Isaac gets up immediately, rapidly nodding alongside Colin, saying, “Yeah, ‘course, bruv,” before the two footballers leave, whispering to each other. 

You place your drink down and fold your arms on the counter as Sam sits beside you. 

His sweet smile doesn’t cease. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you respond sheepishly. You take a third sip before speaking again. “So no one, huh?”

Sam shakes his head. “Thought I maybe had a chance with her,” he jokes.

You find the elderly lady from earlier matched with the elderly man. He leans on his cane with one hand and his other hand snakes around his date’s arm, hooking it with his. 

Maybe speed dates work after all. 

“Who’d you match with?” He asks curiously. You hand him your sheet. “Isaac? How did that happen? Wasn’t he just glaring at you the whole date?” 

“Pretty much, yeah.” You laugh, placing the paper back on counter.

Wait a second. Sam was watching you?

You try not to look too much into it.

He reaches for his earlobe, lightly tugging at it. “There was something I wanted to tell you before our date ended.”

Oh, god. Is he going to admit how uncomfortable you make him? Is he ending your friendship right now? Yeah, you added some distance between the two of you, but in your defense, you had no intentions of actually ending your relationship.

He speaks a little louder. “Last year, you told me you liked me. Romantically.”

Fuck, you despise the recap.

“And I told you I didn’t feel the same way.”

You clasp your hand around your glass, however Sam stops you, hand on yours.

“Let me finish. Please.”

You dubiously comply, releasing your hand from the cup and nod, letting him continue with whatever gut-wrenching news is going to wreck you for the next few months.

Your head faces his direction, but you stare off at nothing in particular.

He continues. “I was telling the truth when I said I didn’t feel the same way. But as time passed, the more we got to know each other and the more things in my love life started to unravel, I started to fall in love.”

You furrow your brows, meeting your eyes with his. 

“With you,” he adds. “And I understand if you don’t feel the same way anymore. But I just…wanted to tell you how I felt.”

What the hell is happening? This is a prank, right? 

You take a look behind you, wondering if perhaps there was someone beside or behind you who he was confessing his feelings to instead.

Nope, just you. You’re barely tipsy, so there’s no way you’re misunderstanding him. 

You remain quiet, not quite sure what to say. The expression on your face worries him and he calls your name.

You softly shake your head. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” 

Now it’s Sam’s turn to internally freak out. He glances at your drink, wondering if he could ask for a gulp.

“Uh…” Sam tugs at his earlobe again and chuckles nervously. “I like you?”

Maybe two sips, he thinks. Three? No, no, that’s irresponsible, he decides.

“Can I have a glass of water please?” He raises his palm at the bartender, politely ordering to fill the silence.

You grab his wrist and lower his hand on the counter, sliding your hand over his, adding, “Make that two,” to his order, because there is absolutely no way you’re getting drunk after what he just told you.

Sam looks away from the bartender and he takes notice of your hands. His ears warm up.

“Definitely wanna be sober for this,” you tell him quietly, and the edges of his lips curve upward. Hesitantly, he entwines his fingers through yours like they belong there.

“Two waters.” The bartender drops off your drinks, glancing at your hands. She raises her brows before leaving you alone.

Sam uncombs his fingers from yours, getting up from his chair. He moves closer to you and spins you by the backrest of your chair, so your body faces him. Then he cups your face. “I don’t know if they allow PDA here, but may I kiss you?”

You gently hold on to his wrists. “They host speed dates every week. I’m sure one kiss is fine.”

He giggles, moving his face closer to yours, murmuring, “One kiss?”

You flicker your gaze between his eyes and mouth. “Or two.” You shrug. “But yes. You may.”

Sam licks his lips before sinking them into yours, and his eyes and yours instinctively shut. You inhale deeply through your nose, breathing in the person you didn’t know would expect to eventually reciprocate your feelings.

His lips are so soft, pillowy against your own. He massages his lips on yours, enveloping himself deeper against you by tilting his head. You feel lightheaded—a delightful combination of his kissing skills and the faded work of the alcohol you ingested earlier. 

Your daydreams do not serve the real thing.

You’re the first to pull away, catching your breath. “Seriously though, how didn’t you match with anybody?”

Sam smiles proudly and pecks your lips. “I asked one of the event-coordinators not to score my sheet. Told her I changed my mind.”

You stand, removing his hands from your face without letting go. “Good.”

From a distance, Colin and Isaac sit at a table, gazing at the other couple like before.

Isaac holds his plastic cup out, smirking. “Too easy, man.”

Colin clinks his cup against Isaac’s. “Too easy.”

[spacedustmantis]

*cough cough* *pulling up notes* *squinting at notes* *realising i don't have bad vision* *unsquinting at the notes* *reading the notes*

how does the life series work in the FUCK I FORGOT THE AU NAME THIS WAS ALLL FOR NAUGHT

i am so glad you asked!!

alright so. the series of events goes like this:

one day grian, as he so often does, gets bored

in his defense immortality gets boring quick and he's been doing this for a While

so, he descends onto a random planet, one that in grian's opinion could do with a little entertainment. he draws up the rules of this game he's planning, pays a carefully selected bunch of cold-hearted, skilled, desperate-for-money workers and has them build a huge fucking arena, kidnap the planet's best fighters, and work on this project full time once it gets rolling

amongst the workers are a few incredibly talented medics, people who, with the right tech, could bring you back from death's door

grian personally installs chips into every contestant's brain that activate as soon as the person is not yet dead, but good as, and then put the body in a temporary stasis, so that it may be transported beneath the arena and the medics can do their work to send them back up fully restored so they can join the fray once more

the whole event is recorded via multiple cameras following around every contestant, edited down into a thrilling reality tv show, and broadcasted weekly for a good few years, which is how long it takes for the game to come to its conclusion

naturally there are a few quirks to this game

every contestant originally gets three lives, three times they get to enjoy the experience of dying, but soon enough a few of them figure out how to hack the chips. they can't seem to alter their function whatsoever, but they do figure out how to change the number of lives the chip grants you, and they also figure out that if the system clocks too many (or too few) lives granted overall in comparison to how many deaths there have been in total, it sends alarm bells ringing. and so there is an underground life trading ring that forms about seven months into the fight

somewhere in the arena there is whispered to be a strange stone statue that, if you play your cards right, bestows gifts to those who complete the tasks it gives them

there is an illness spreading through the arena, like a common cold, just much more destructive. it is known as "red fever" to some, to others it's simply "the bloodlust"

occasionally, caused by apparently nothing at all except coincidence, or some weird glitch in the system, or what certain people might call fate, two contestants get bound together on a metaphysical level. they share pain and wounds and death. they share all the bad, and none of the good

the overarching story roughly follows 3rd life (mostly bc that season works best as a mechs style retelling), with monopoly mountain and dogwarts as the two main factions that crystallize after a few months, but small story elements of each season are dotted around the plot, like one man who managed to defeat all his enemies by taking advantage of the secret keepers boons and playing dirty, or a woman who ran in solitude with only the company of her wolves and who against all odds was the last one standing - until the man she was bound to blew himself up, and her with it.

ultimately two people survive (these people are not grian and scar, but are played by them on stage). and then one person survives. and then the winner of the life game throws himself off of a cliff

of course, grian is not the biggest fan of watching as other people slaughter each other while he sits and does nothing, so naturally he joins the fight. no one knows or would even guess that the scrawny guy who maybe likes explosions a touch too much could be the same individual as The Spectator, the mysterious figure who is behind running the Life Game, not even the staff that has been hired to set it all up. grian, alongside committing murder, also keeps an eye on the game's development as well as the numbers the show gets online.

after a few months he runs into joel, whom he knows is one of the fan favorites, and sticks with him for a while. after joel dies his final death - shot through the heart by scott - he mechanizes him, and, after discovering that mechanizing joel also mechanized the man he was bound to, takes him and etho back to the xisuma to join the crew.

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 13/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

He knocks again, then stands back to wait. What the hell are they doing in there? he wonders, shifting the six pack of beer he brought to the other arm. Poker night is every Thursday—it’s not like they aren’t expecting him. 

The night is cool and crisp, the clear indigo sky speckled with pinpricks of starlight. Trillions of miles traveled across the universe over thousands of years, just to be overpowered by skyscrapers and streetlights and the haze of the industrial revolution. He tips his face up and locates the Big Dipper, the North Star, Cassiopeia. It makes him at once feel insignificant—a speck on a rock in a pile in a quarry—and extraordinary. How many events throughout the history of time had to happen in precisely the way they did in order to bring him to this moment? It feels like destiny, which is both a comfort and a burden. 

Finally, the door pops open and he’s greeted by a tall blond man with thick glasses. 

“The party has arrived!” the man says jovially, standing aside to allow him entry. “Jeff’s here!” he hollers, and voices of the other two call out greetings from a nearby room. 

“I’ve been standing out there for ten minutes,” Jeff chides gently. “I thought you’d kicked me out of the coven.”

They enter a small dining room with a circular table surrounded by four chairs, two of them occupied.

“We were out back smoking a cigar,” the blond man explains as he takes his seat. “Cuban, the real deal.”

“And you didn’t wait for me?” Jeff asks, exaggerating his level of offense as he sits in the remaining chair. 

“Come on, man, we know Diana would have your balls if she smelled cigar smoke on you,” one of the other men says. He’s older than the other two, with wiry salt and pepper hair. 

“You’re not wrong,” Jeff agrees, cracking open a bottle of beer. “Let’s get this show on the road; who’s dealing?”

The third man, mahogany-skinned and handsome, shuffles the cards artfully, making a show of bridges and cascades as he smirks to himself. 

“Mike thinks he’s hot shit with his little card tricks,” the blond man says bitingly. “Just deal the things already, Mike. Jeff has a curfew.”

“Fuck off, Simon,” Mike shoots back. “I’m perfecting my craft.”

“Women are attracted to money, not junior high magic tricks,” Simon says, nudging the third man with his elbow. 

“I like magic tricks,” the third man comments self-consciously, and the other three laugh. 

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Mike says, shaking his head. “You always gotta be the weird one, don’t you, Frank?”

“Yeah, well, you won’t be laughing when I clean house,” Frank grumbles, and Mike finally deals out the deck. 

Frank does, in fact, clean house. They don’t play with real money, just chips, but that doesn’t hamper each man’s desire to win, nor his disappointment when Frank scoops up the lion’s share of the pile and begins stacking them enthusiastically. 

Simon checks his watch, then sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I gotta head out in a half hour or so,” he says. “Marcy didn’t want me to stay too late.”

“Well, I guess Jeff isn’t the only one with a curfew,” Mike teases, and Simon shakes his head with a smile. 

“It’s not that, it’s just hard for her to get up with the baby at night right now, so I’ve been taking all that on.”

“Is she okay?” Jeff asks, his mind immediately going to the kinds of things that can cost you a sister. 

“Yeah, she’s fine, just tired. She’s, uh—she’s pregnant again, actually,” Simon offers, and all the eyebrows at the table shoot up to their hairlines. 

“No shit,” Frank says carefully. “Is that good news or bad news?”

“Surprising news,” Simon says. “But ultimately good. We didn’t really plan to have two this close together, but I guess fate had other ideas.”

“Congratulations,” Jeff offers, extending his hand. “That’s great.”

“Can’t say I miss those days,” Frank remarks, still stacking his chips. “Up at 3:00 am trying to get a baby back to sleep when you have to be up for work at 6:00? No thank you. I’m glad mine are all grown.”

“Thanks, Frank, that’s really kind of you to say,” Simon says, rolling his eyes. 

“I always miss my kids when they’re at Jenny’s,” Mike says sadly. “Being a dad is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“Hey now, I love my kids,” Frank defends. “I’m just saying, waking up in the middle of the night fucking sucks.”

Jeff watches the exchange, unable to take part. He can relate to overbearing spouses and the perils of the working world, but he has nothing to offer on the subject of fatherhood. 

“I actually need to head out too,” he says as he stands and retrieves what remains of his beer. “Wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to my balls.”

“Send our best to the warden,” Frank quips, earning him a warning look. 

He leaves them, a peel of laughter fading as he pulls the door closed behind himself and makes his way to his car. 

It does bother him a little, the way they talk about Diana. At the same time, what they say about her isn’t untrue. She is a little bit controlling, but not without due cause. He’s made mistakes in the past, ones he can never fully set right, and ones that justify Diana’s desire to know where he is and with whom. He promised her that he would do whatever it takes to make it up to her, and that has included checking in regularly and being home by midnight. Of course, his friends don’t know that, because he’s never told them. He’s too ashamed. So he accepts their cheap shots at his wife, and then drives home to her so he can prove again and again that she is the only one he wants to come home to. 

He slinks into the house quietly, shushing Frenchie’s barks as he enters through the laundry room. He walks towards the back of the house to let her outside, and is startled by Diana’s voice as he passes through the kitchen. 

“You’re late.”

He jumps a little, bringing his hand to his chest as he pulls the sliding glass door open and Frenchie slips out. 

“Jesus, you scared me,” he admits, though that was fairly obvious by his reaction. 

Diana is perched at the kitchen island wearing a silk nightgown, a glass of water on the counter before her. He looks at the time on the microwave display and then back to her pinched expression. 

“By four minutes, Diana,” he defends, indignant. 

She pulls in a deep breath, straightening her posture. 

“Where were you?” she asks. 

“At Frank’s, for poker night. Same as every Thursday. There was an accident on the turnpike,” he tells her, and his gut twists at the disbelieving look on her face. He steps closer, laying his hand over the top of hers on the countertop. “Diana—”

She pulls her hand out from under his and stands, walking to the sliding glass door to let Frenchie back in. 

“I believe you, Jeff. But call next time, okay?” she says tersely, and he nods. 

He lies awake in bed, and by Diana’s breathing, he can tell she is awake too. He feels guilty, but also angry that he feels guilty when he didn’t do anything wrong. He knows that he deserves this, knows he’s lying in a bed of his own making, but he still hates knowing that it will never go away. Six years later and she’s still watching him like a hawk. He thought it would get better over time, but it hasn’t. 

And then there’s Simon and his new baby. He was surprised by the pang of jealousy that lit up in his chest upon hearing the news, a sensation he’s never experienced before. He’s always considered he and Diana to be childfree by choice, but looking back, he doesn’t really recall weighing in on that decision. Diana never wanted to be a mother, and he wanted to be with Diana, and so it was simply part of the deal. Now, at nearly 39 years old, he suddenly wonders if being a father would suit him.

“Did you always know that you didn’t want children?” he asks out loud, and Diana’s breathing pauses briefly. 

“Where did that come from?” she questions.

“Marcy is pregnant again, and I was just thinking—”

A blustering sigh. 

“Jeff, are we really going to do this right now?” she asks, annoyed. 

“Do what?” he counters, equally irritated by her dismissiveness. 

Diana rolls to her side to face him, propping her head up on a fist. 

“Can you really see yourself giving up poker night, and sleeping in, and playing basketball on the weekend?” she asks, her tone shifting to something lighter. 

“I mean…I don’t think I’d have to give up all those things. Not forever, anyway,” he says. 

“Imagine walking into the office to find your rare book collection in tatters on the floor, covered in drool,” she teases, and he smiles. 

“That would be less than ideal,” he agrees. 

“Imagine having to stay quiet when we make love,” she continues, sliding her hand across his belly. 

“I’m not even sure that’s possible,” he says, now grinning. 

She hitches her leg up over his hip, straddling him, then peels the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders, revealing her breasts. 

“These are, and always will be, exclusively for you,” she says in a syrupy voice, then leans forward and brushes her lips over his. “Help me fall asleep, Jeff,” she whispers. 

Her nightgown finds its way to the floor, as do his boxers. She sits astride him, grinding with her eyes locked on his. She’s possessive, maybe a little desperate, though he’s not sure why. 

“That’s it,” she encourages him, her hands planted on his chest. Her eyes slide closed, her mouth falling open. “Yes, Fox,” she murmurs. 

When she collapses against his chest he rubs wide circles over her back, and his mind instantly returns to its wandering state. 

“What did you say about a fox?” he asks, and she stiffens. 

“What?” she asks breathlessly, her face tucked against his neck. 

“You said something about a fox, during—”

“I’m relatively certain I said ‘fuck.’ Sorry to offend your delicate senses,” she says somewhat defensively, rolling off of him. 

He turns toward her, laying a reassuring hand on her bare hip. 

“I’m not offended, Diana, I was just wondering—”

“Goodnight, Jeff. I have work in the morning, I need to get to sleep, if you don’t mind,” she says in a clipped tone. 

“Okay,” he acquiesces. “Goodnight.”

He waits for her to turn her face towards his so he can kiss her goodnight, but she keeps her back to him. He presses his lips to the curve of her shoulder, lingering there as a confusing mix of emotions swirl around in his chest. 

The life he has. The life he sometimes thinks he might want. The discrepancy between the two. He wonders why now, all of a sudden, he’s peeking over the fence at possibly greener grasses. Why the life he’s been content with for years suddenly doesn’t feel like enough. 

The rush of the waves fills his ears, calming him. A gull calls out, its shriek carried away on the wind as his toes sink into the sun-warm sand. He spies a child further down the shore, a boy with dirty blond hair building something with a shovel and a bucket. There is a feeling of recognition, a sense of knowing, though he cannot recall the child’s name, nor their relationship to one another. 

A strong wave pushes up beyond the waterline, sweeping across the child’s half-finished project and washing it into an indecipherable mound. The child’s shoulders slump, defeated, so he approaches and calls out to him.

“Oh, hey, buddy. That’s okay, you can build it again.”

He kneels down beside the boy and touches the child’s cheek, brushing an errant grain of sand from his downy skin. There’s something in the child’s eyes, something familiar that makes him feel a swell of affection and protectiveness. 

“Just start again,” he tells the child, reassuringly. 

He jolts awake, his heart racing. Frenchie stands from her bed on the floor, alerted by his sudden movement, and watches him for an indication of what’s next. 

“It’s okay, Frenchie,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands over his face. 

The night is still in full swing, only inky darkness peeking in around the blinds. He looks over at Diana’s sleeping form, her back still turned to him and her breathing even. It feels like only minutes have passed since he fell asleep. 

Wired from adrenaline, he stares at the ceiling and waits for the potential of sleep to return to him. His dream has mostly faded, and he grasps at snippets. The beach, he remembers the beach. 

Just start again.

Tagging @today-in-fic