#just snip and paste like i usually do

[cosmicfruits]

All of my Underswap sprites (and some art) that ive made because i like remaking aus and they're all so COOL

Chara and Frisk, Chara is 8 and Frisk is 14, all sprites in this art style's heights are based off of chara

Any effort I make to put Undyne in the original Undertale artstyle fails because of her clothes and face

tbh its hard to put alot of the sprites into the undertale artstyle

get shrunk idiot

muffet gets a whole walk cycle (i haven't made her in the other art style yet)

she has a tray now

"I'd sell you some nice tumeric cookies... but, fuhuhuhu... I'm allergic. Try next door."

ref of the humans

Muffet !!! shes wearing a sweater because Snowdens cold as balls

the UI in Underswap is pink

[januaryembrs]

hot chocolate!

(last one i promise)

reader & spencer who aren’t exactly enemies but they’re def not friends but reader always double checks if spencer’s fbi vest is secured correctly which in return makes spencer check her over as well and they’re always like ‘stop checking up on me and worry about your own safety’ and it just happens every single time and they swear up and down that they dislike eachother deeply (they need to make out)

BANE OF MY EXISTENCE | Spencer Reid x reader

description: Spencer hates you, and you hate him, until it comes to protecting each other in the field

length: 0.7k

His fingers wound through the back of your vest as you made a move to dart past him, trailing after Hotch as you loaded your glock. 

You felt a yank at your neck, his obnoxiously long arms giving you a firm tug back with little to no effort, all but making you stumble backwards as he forced you to stop, and his fingers were at your hip, adjusting the strap before you could ask him just exactly what he was doing. 

“Wha- Reid, let go, my vest is fine,” You snapped, huffing when he ignored you, in the interest of fixing your belt, his brow turned down into a frown. 

“Don’t come crying to me when you get shot in abdomen and suddenly you’re bleeding out, and you lay there and thinking, dang if only the smart FBI would have told me to adjust my kevlar, and I’ll be right there to point and laugh and say I told you so,” He huffed, his fingers making light work of the fiddly strap, tightening it until he couldn’t see a single inch of your shirt to the point he heard your breathing constrict, but he thought he’d rather you be a little uncomfortable than shot. 

“I mean, if I’m laying bleeding out I won’t really have much to say other than, Reid, get medical, I think they hit something serious, please don’t come to my funeral, you were insufferable enough when I was living,” You said, allowing your body to be tugged back as he started on the other side, because there was no use fighting it when he got in those moods when he always needed to be right. 

He paused, his brain catching up to your words and he drew in a silent breath, wondering if the other side of your jacket needed tightening even more, or better yet, if there was any way Hotch would make you stay in the car as back up. 

Spencer yanked the strap with a vendetta, ignoring the way you whined it was too tight, and his lips pursed together. 

“Would you relax, I was clearly kidding,” You said, thinking his mood had come from your teasing, because you seemed to know exactly what to say to push every one of his buttons, “What I would probably be thinking however is if you’ll be able to flag down a medic with your shoelaces untied,”

His gaze snapped to his converse, and sure enough the double knot he relied on seemed to have failed him, and his strings were hazard material as they dragged along the pavement, already mucky where they’d probably been undone for hours. 

“Make sure you do them before we move in, I’m not carrying your bone head out of there if we start taking hits and you trip over your own feet,” You snipped, and he finally released you, immediately leaning down to fix his own issues, completely missing the way your eyes trailed down to make sure he did the loops tight enough because you were being serious when you said it would loathe you to be the one to carry him away from the danger, though probably not in the way he thought. 

He huffed, standing back to his full height and giving his feet a wiggle in their shoes to make sure they were comfortable, and he looked back at you where you were watching him carefully, catching the split second where something close to worry pooled in your eyes. 

It snapped back into your usual cold demeanour when you realised he was looking straight at you, and you whirled you keep your back to him, inspecting your loaded gun some more as a way to busy yourself. 

“Try not to miss, it doesn’t look good on the reports when I have to save your ass twice,” Spencer snarked, and he practically heard the scoff before you even gave it. 

“That was one time, Reid, and it was only cause I couldn’t see past your stupid fluffy hair. You’re a cop, Reid, not a poodle, you don't need that much volume,” You snapped back, the two of you squabbling the entire walk to the building, until Hotch separated you for the sake of his growing headache. 

He just wished you two would talk things out before he seriously considered Emily’s proposition of locking you in the broom closet together.

[godslino]

IN BLOOM | jisung first date series. second chance lovers.

pairing: jisung x fem!reader word count: 13.2k genre: childhood friends au, angst, fluff, songwriter!jisung, florist!reader warnings: swearing, minor character death, grief/loss (nothing to do with any of the members!) summary: it's february. the tulips are in bloom. jisung is back.

chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin · · · ♡ series masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡

a/n: *taps mic* hello?? is this thing on?? oh good. yes. hi. hello! it's been a while, as most of you can tell. thank you all SO MUCH for sticking around. if you've been reading my asks you'll know that march and april were rough months for me personally. shout out to my anons and mutuals who kept my spirits high and made my days brighter. uhhh, this was originally supposed to be a stand alone fic but i figured hey, what the hell, and made it into jisung's first date chapter. it's pretty heavy stuff. lots of feelings, lots of love. i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it! again, thank you so much for waiting for me. i'll be back soon with more updates! all the love <3

also thank you kenzie for being such a light during all of this. i hope all my screaming in your messages was worth it!

“All of these had to be pulled.” Hyunjin huffs, dropping a few crates just past the doorway. 

“Again?” you ask, hands on your hips as you stare at yet another wasted supply. “I don’t understand, they sold so well last year.”

Hyunjin gives you a sad smile. “It’ll pick up eventually, don’t worry. I mean the holidays just finished and business usually slows down in the months after anyways.”

He’s being sincere, you know that. But there’s a part of you that also knows it’s a lot more than just the usual ebb and flow of sales. He’s being nice for your sake.

“Maybe we could try coming up with other ideas?” he suggests, because Hyunjin is nothing if not kind. Always willing, always finding a way.

He moves past you to grab a fresh pair of gloves. The ones he’s wearing are dirty, pollen-stained and ripped at the edges. 

“You’ve always been really good at basket arrangements. We could try to make some for Valentine's Day. Different sizes, maybe? The big ones will probably do well for online orders since they’re more optimal for things like office deliveries and stuff like that.”

You hum in approval. “True. I mean, I was kind of worried we would have to skip out on deliveries this year since we don’t have the manpower to handle all of that, but I think Jeongin’s been looking to pick up hours around here again. He said something about his program giving them a month of independent study, so he’ll be home for a bit.” you say, scribbling down a reminder in your notebook. “I could ask him to help with driving the truck in his free time?”

Hyunjin lights up– he always does when Jeongin is mentioned. 

It’s been a lot quieter ever since he left for college. There were so many tears and so many hugs that were met with countless 'you guys are dramatic's in return. But it’s hard to not feel sad when people leave town; when they decide the borders lined with apple trees and rice fields aren’t enough to stop their dreams from blooming into more than what’s capable of being pursued here.

That, unsurprisingly, is something you know all too well.

“Can’t believe he’s driving.” Hyunjin laments as he wipes his floral scissors with a rag. “I used to spend my days changing his diapers and spoon feeding him redbulls– but now? Driving? My baby is all grown up.” he fake sniffles. “By the way, I’m gonna take my fifteen after I’m done snipping these tulips.”

You snort, bending down to take the crates of wilted flowers to the back for disposal. Hyunjin moves to help but you shake him off.

“Sounds good. Also, don’t let Innie hear you say that. I’m about a thousand percent sure he has the strength needed to throw you into the dumpster with one arm now.”

“My baby would never do that to me!” Hyunjin calls out as you round the corner, bumping open the back door with your hip. 

February brings a lot of rain in Jeju. Today is no different; fat drops landing on your head as soon as you stumble out into the alley behind the shop. Footsteps heavy on wet brick, you curse under your breath as you run as fast as you can to the dumpster.

There’s still a few supply boxes from yesterday’s shipment laying around. You meant to bring them in, but you were so exhausted that it slipped your mind while you struggled to make sure everything inside the shop was figured out.

Scrambling, you haul them in one by one, shoes squeaking against the floor as you alternate in and out, soggy cardboard pressed against the front of your apron. 

Hyunjin’s on break. A necessary one at that. You can’t bother him, especially not when he’s done enough by taking on more responsibility both as a physical worker and a newly actualized business partner recently. A few stacks of boxes and wet hair seem like a fair trade off for what he’s had to sacrifice in the past year now.

“Idiot,” you mumble, cursing yourself for carelessness. Your slip ups have been more frequent lately, evident in the way you constantly forget things and can’t seem to push away the haziness clouding your mind. 

If it weren’t for the timing of it all, you’d blame it on the weather. The gloominess. The overcast skies probably have some sort of hand in your lack of clarity. Shrouded.

But it’s February. And in Jeju— it rains.

By the time you make it back inside, you’re drenched. 

“You look like you just got dunked in a pool.” 

You frown, ringing your hair out into the trash bin by the door. It’ll definitely take time to dry off, both your hair and your clothes are soaked through.

Hyunjin watches with an amused look, arms crossed as he leans his back against the counter.

“Might as well have. It’s insane out there.” you sigh. “How was your break?”

You look up to find that his face has gone unreadable.

“Yeah, about that…” Hyunjin trails off, voice suddenly smaller than before.

“Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah it’s just–” Hyunjin chews at his bottom lip.

You push past him into the supply room to switch out your apron just as he says, “Do you mind if I leave a little early today?”

You scoff, turning to face him. “Hwang Hyunjin,” you scold, lips twitching when he visibly startles at your tone, “You don’t have to ask me that. We’re partners now, remember? We run this place.” 

He shifts on his feet, still unsure.

“Besides,” you huff, tying a knot behind your back, “We were friends way before that, too. You don’t have to be all proper with me. Of course you can leave early. It’s slow today, I can take care of it.”

Hyunjin sighs after contemplating for a second. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, though?” 

When he stares at you for a moment too long, you know the real reason for his hesitation. It makes something twist deep in your gut.

Guilt, maybe, amongst other things.

“Of course.” you shrug, doing your best to seem nonchalant. 

Hyunjin’s ability to read people is kind of intense, a little scary at times. You happen to be one of his favorite subjects in that regard.

“Have fun. Tell Minah I said hi.”

He pales, sputtering around words as he struggles to say something. It’s cute, his plump lips opening and closing, eyes wild.

“I’m not going to see her! I’m–it’s just a movie! How did you—God, you’re so annoying. I should’ve made you trim the tulips. Hah!”

You giggle. “It’s funny that you think I wouldn’t know, especially with the way you love to actually make yourself look busy whenever she stops by to say hi.”

“I am busy.” he mumbles, looking away. “I just emphasize it a lot more when she’s here.”

“Sure,” you roll your eyes, “Let’s go with that.”

He whines a couple more times, trails after you around the shop and laughs when you swat him away with a rolled up newspaper that’s used for wrapping vases.

It’s loud. Easy. Hyunjin is a gentle reminder that normalcy still exists in your day to day, even if it’s hard to find. 

When he finally decides to leave, he lingers for a moment, triple checks that you’ll be okay. You roll your eyes for what feels like the millionth time today, but deep down you’re grateful. 

“Love you,” he says, one foot out the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

You shake your head, ignoring him. “Love you too.” 

And then he’s gone, a skip in his step as he heads down the sidewalk, leaving you with nothing but freshly-trimmed tulips and the sound of rain. 

“Herb snips, shears, tape…” you mumble, scanning the supply shelf. 

There’s not much to do in-shop right now. Almost all the arrangements have been tended to by Hyunjin already, his specialty being his keen eye. That’s why he handles the appeal of the shop, leaving you to figure out all the logistics. Learning it all was easier said than done.

In reality, it was never your intention to take over the shop at all. 

“When I die,” your grandma would always say, ignoring the way you groaned and begged her to stop bringing it up, “Sell this place. Use the money for something worthwhile. A trip to Greece, maybe?”

“Nana,” you would scold, glaring at her where she stood next to you, trimming a batch of roses.

Wrinkled hands that still held all the skill of youth. Fingers moving at a speed others could only ever dream of having– you included.

Your grandma handled flowers with the same amount of care she did everything else. It’s no wonder that when they grew they would lean in her direction, drawn to her like they would be the sun. 

“I’m not selling this place. It’s too special, too important. A vacation only lasts so long, Nana. This is forever.”

She would smile, turn petals over in her hand. Sometimes the marigolds would match the glow in her eyes, a testament to the belief you harbored as a child that she had the ability to sprout blossoms from her fingertips.

“The one thing you shouldn’t do, my dear, is rely on forever. Because that, too, is uncertain.”

You wish you hadn’t been so hard headed. Wish that you would’ve believed her, taken the time to listen, cherished the moment a little bit longer instead of relying on the promise of tomorrow.

I’m sorry for your loss.

Your grandmother was a wonderful woman.

She’ll be with you in your heart, forever.

Oh, what a lie forever is.

The shop stays empty for the rest of the day. There were a few passersby, all of whom simply stopped to scan the arrangements along the windows before giving a polite nod and carrying on their way. 

Realistically, the shop has no problem with attracting customers. It’s a sight to behold: mid-floor to ceiling windows with various displays, hanging baskets of winding greenery, countless arrangements that fill the shelves and add a pop of color, and a wide assortment of flowers for each season. 

The real issue lies in your inability to sell. Most people regard the place as being good for nothing more than window shopping and the usual photo-op.

Business has slowed since your Grandma passed; since you took over as the sole owner and were suddenly face to face with the task of making decisions in the shop’s best interest– both integrity wise and from a business standpoint.

“I know, I know,” you say around the pen cap between your teeth, “You used to be the brains around here, not me. I’m not creative enough for all of this, you know? No matter how much I try to be.”

You look up from where your notebook lays open, dozens of scribbles for arrangement ideas and planning. The picture on the wall stares at you, unmoving, eyes as bright as marigolds.

“Don’t give me that look.” 

She stares. A gaze that holds all the answers while also saying nothing at all.

“Ugh.” you groan, leaning your palms on the desk.

You allow your head to hang forward, defeated, exhaustion flooding your bones. 

Just as you’re about to speak again, to complain about yet another thing that probably has her rolling around in her grave, the bell at the front counter dings.

The clock on the desk reads 6:55pm, five minutes until close. You hadn’t even heard anyone come in.

“Be right there!” you call out, rushing to grab your apron from where you’d thrown it on one of the chairs. 

In your haste, the box of seed packets you’d been inventorying goes tumbling to the floor.

“Fuck,” you mutter, bending down to pick everything up. One more thing to add to the list today. 

Off-kilter. Disoriented. Exhausted. 

You sniffle a few times, blinking against the sting behind your eyes as you stand up to put the box back in its place.

One deep breath, a shake of your shoulders. Just enough to chase it all away until later. 

“Sorry about that,” you say cheerily, pushing past the hanging beads that separate the front of the shop from the back. “How can I help you?”

There’s a stranger, his back turned, attention focused on a batch of tulips. Freshly cut. White, blue, purple.

You realize, belatedly, that you’d forgotten to grab your apron in your haste to clean up the seed packets. Another slip up. Nana always prided herself in her apron, wore it like a badge of honor, raised you to do the same.

Just as you spin around to grab it, the stranger says, “It’s okay. I just, um, I wanted to say hi.”

You freeze. There’s a long moment where his voice rings loud in your ears, reverberates against the walls of your brain until it travels through your blood, the feeling like wildfire in your veins until it settles deep in the pit of your stomach. 

Slowly, you turn, heart clamoring in your chest, threatening to stop altogether as soon as you come face to face with the one person you never thought you’d see again.

Because there, at the front of the store, is Jisung.

Jisung, with wide eyes and parted lips. Jisung, with hair that still curls at the ends and falls in shags around his face. Jisung, broader, more actualized, now grown into his features but still undeniably soft around the edges. Jisung, with thick framed glasses pushed up his nose and silver hoops dangling from his ears. 

A stranger. But undoubtedly Jisung. 

“You look…nice.” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with his free hand.

Three words is all it takes. Ice turns to fire. The blood that had drained from your face returns with the blaze of a thousand suns, anger burning your throat. 

You reach forward, grab the remote for the neon Open sign and click the power button. Jisung watches in confusion.

“The shop is closed.” you manage on a shaky breath.

Jisung sighs, something heavy. “Listen, I’m—”

“The shop–” you try again, louder, “–is closed.” 

Jisung stares. His eyes are still the same velvety brown; big and round and just as you remember. 

There was once a time where the sight of Jisung in your Grandma’s shop made your heart sing. A soft tune, the thrum of a thousand harps, a song only for him.

His heart-shaped smile as he helped her hammer some of the shelves onto the wall. The sound of his laughter whenever you’d enter a sneezing fit from accidentally rubbing your face with a gloved hand. His rosy cheeks, burnt from the wind whipping past his face as he ran on foot to make sure you were okay the one time an angry customer smashed a vase on the floor and you called him crying.

But now, seeing him here, a stranger in a body you once knew like the back of your hand— it feels wrong. 

“I…” he trails off, registering the way your fists are clenched at your sides. 

“Okay,” he resigns, licking his lips. “I, uh– have a good night.”

He gives you one last look, bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth, and then slips out the door. You watch his retreating figure through the glass panel, dark gray skies muting the sound of your rattling heart.

It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. Jisung is back.

And in Jeju– it rains.

There’s an apple tree in the middle of town where Jisung told you he loved you for the first and last time. 

Off the corner, a few minutes down the road from where your houses stand a mere five hundred feet away from one another.

Your grandparents were farmers. Your grandma started her floral business a few years before you were born, a dream she always had that your grandpa urged her to pursue once he decided to sell the animals to a younger, more capable couple that could take care of them. 

Jisung’s parents, new residents on the island, looking to settle down and start a family. 

That’s how it happens. Yours and Jisung’s story, two authors of the same book, destined since the start.

Jisung was born on the same night your mother left you at your grandparents’ doorstep. One note, an apology, is all you’ve ever known about her. Your grandma never cared to indulge you. You’re glad in a way. She provided more than enough love to make sure you never felt an absence in her wake. 

The townspeople used to say you and Jisung were soulmates. Something about the heavens knowing he would need a friend, hence why you were delivered that night. From that moment on, the two of you were inseparable. 

Attached at the hip, you and Jisung grew up together. First steps, first birthdays, firsts for everything under the sun.

Jisung was there in the morning to walk with you to school and he was there at night when the two of you tucked into bed, sleepovers a regular occurrence, both of you counting the pale green stick-on stars dotting his ceiling until you fell asleep. 

Jisung was always around. He held your hand and walked with you to the nurse’s office the first time you got stung by a bee. He wiped your eyes when the boy you liked told you he only ever saw you as a friend, your first rejection. He sat with you under the stars the night your grandpa died, your face tucked into his neck as you stained the collar of his shirt with tears until you were too tired to cry. In the years that followed, he took care of you and your grandma like the two of you were his own. 

Jisung, for lack of a better word, was your first forever.

“You could come with me, you know.” 

Under the stars, real ones that time, Jisung had turned to you and offered the world. 

The air was cold. The apple tree was bare.

“It’ll be fun. We’ll be together, we’ll experience new things. I can do music and you can study all that history stuff you like to learn about. You know, nerdy things.”

“They’re not nerdy things, Ji. Don’t you know everything we have now is because of what’s happened before us?” you’d asked. “Doesn’t it make you wonder? Learning about the past helps us better understand the present, and ultimately the future.”

Jisung had hummed softly, an agreement. “I don’t care about the future, though.” he’d said. “I care about right now. You, me, this.” 

When you turned to look at him, he propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at you from above as the moon casted a halo around his head. 

“I love you,” he whispered, “And I want you to come with me.”

Jisung, with all the stars in his eyes and a heart full of dreams. Jisung, with the world at his fingertips and the ambition to make it his own. 

You, with all your hopes stuffed tight into a suitcase and chained to a boulder, thrown into the ocean. Sinking and sinking until it hit the bottom.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

Images of marigolds flashed behind your eyes when you closed them, a tear rolling down your cheek. Jisung’s mouth was soft when he kissed it away, salt on his lips. Burning. 

“But I can’t.” you choked. 

Under the apple tree, Jisung told you he loved you for the first and last time. He promised that the distance would be no match for him, that he would traverse oceans to find his way back. He promised forever.

It was February. The tulips were in bloom. Jisung left to pursue his dreams with a guitar on his back and your heart in his hands. Your understanding of forever was shot at point blank. The bullet passed clean through you. 

And in Jeju– it rained.

“I think you should talk to him.”

The sun is out today. Perfect weather for another field harvest. The distributor had called you early in the morning to ask if you’d be willing to accept a drop off even though it’s the weekend. You’d agreed, calling in your most reliable help for the job.

“And I think you’re not helping.” you huff, snipping the head off another hyacinth.

“Agreed,” Hyunjin parrots from beside you, currently in the middle of putting together an arrangement, “This guy sounds like a total dick.”

Chan sighs from behind the two of you, his knees knocking against the legs of the desk when he swivels back and forth in the chair. 

Besides Hyunjin and Jeongin, both of whom moved into town after you’d already graduated, and of course, Jisung– Chan is your oldest friend. 

Chan was also a neighbor of yours. Three years older than you and Jisung, he was the one who acted as a role model for the two of you when growing up. Nowadays he helps his parents run the largest orange grove on the island during the day and DJs one of the clubs in the tourism hub at night. 

“Jisung’s not a dick, he’s just–”

“An asshole.” you finish, smirking when Hyunjin cackles. 

Chan sighs. Again. “Yeah okay, I’ll give you that one.”

“Listen, I know I’ve never met him, but isn’t it weird that he just, like, showed up?” Hyunjin asks, setting down his scissors. You continue trimming the hyacinths, listening halfheartedly.

“I mean, think about it. Dude disappears to pursue music, right? He’s gone for what– three years?”

“Four.” you correct.

“God, even worse.” he grimaces.

“But yeah, okay, four years. And then boom! He just strolls in through the front door without so much as a word during the time he was gone? No letters, no phone calls, not even a damn visit. Nothing! All so he can pop up and go ‘oh, you look nice’? Come on.” he scoffs, crossing his arms.

You wince, caught off guard because you’ve never really heard it phrased as bluntly as Hyunjin put it just then. It’s no surprise that he’s annoyed, having only just heard the full story thirty minutes ago. He’d been shocked, partly because you never told him and also because he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Okay, yes, he was wrong for that. But isn’t part of you even just the least bit curious as to why?” 

You pause mid-snip, mulling Chan’s words over in your head.

The most frustrating part about it all is that you are curious. You wish you weren’t, though. Not when you’ve spent the past four years trying to convince yourself that you don’t need to know what Jisung’s been up to, don’t need to know if he’s been okay since he clearly held no concern for you in that regard anyways.

“What?” you ask when you realize that both boys are staring at you. 

“Well?” Hyunjin pushes. “Are you?”

You shrug. “No, not really.” 

There’s a total of five seconds that pass before Hyunjin is stomping over and hauling Chan up out of his chair, pushing him towards the front door as he protests.

“Out! Out, out, out, we have important business matters to discuss.”

“But we were supposed to get lunch—!”

“We’re taking a rain check!” Hyunjin fights back, shoving him out of the shop before he has a chance to answer. He drops the shade to cover the glass, Chan’s sad figure left alone on the other side.

You gape at him. “What was that for?”

Hyunjin scoffs. “You think you’re convincing? Think again.” 

He hops up on to the counter and gestures for you to do the same. When you do, he pulls you closer, grabs your hand in his, and pushes your head down until it’s resting on his shoulder. 

“Tell me the truth now,” he says, soft. “I know there’s more to it.”

Hyunjin’s warm to the touch. The heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt, igniting the skin of your cheek until you feel like you’re standing too close to the sun. A star. Hyunjin is a light in your tunnel.

“I am curious,” you start, “About him, I mean. I’ve– I don’t know. It’s been so long. I tried to pretend I didn’t care when I saw him, but the minute I looked into his eyes it was like I was eighteen again. Eighteen and happy and looking at someone that I always thought would be there, you know?” 

Hyunjin hums but doesn’t say anything. He squeezes your hand once, a signal to keep going. 

“I’m scared, though. Part of me doesn’t want to know.”

Hyunjin takes a deep breath. “What are you scared of?”

Through the gaps in the beads you can see into your office, the picture of your Grandma hanging on the wall. She stares at you, unblinking. 

“What if he tells me that it’s true?” you ask, lifting your head to look up at him. “What if he says that I was right, that he didn’t care? That he left and didn’t want to call because it no longer mattered to him? That he loves his life there and only came back to clear his own conscience?” 

“Oh honey,” Hyunjin soothes, pulling you into his chest. You hadn’t realized you were crying, that the anger and fear had bubbled over until there were tears falling down your cheeks, wetting the fabric of Hyunjin’s sweater. 

He lets you cry for a while. It’s nothing new; Hyunjin has seen you break down countless times. He’s been there through the worst of it, held your hand even in the aftermath. He’s picked you up off the floor more times than you can count, has grounded you when you felt like the world was gonna open up beneath you and swallow you whole. Salt of the earth, returning you to its core.

Once you’ve quieted into nothing more than shallow breaths and a few scattered hiccups, Hyunjin speaks again.

“Can you be honest with me?”

You nod, the hair stuck to your cheek with tears rubbing against his shoulder. 

“Do you love him?”

It nearly knocks the wind out of you. This concept, so foreign to you now, shoved to the back of your mind to make room for the things that matter most. Hospital visits, labor cuts, wage increases— none of it left any room for love, let alone the thought of someone else. Especially someone as all-consuming as Jisung.

Slowly, you inhale, breath shaking on the exhale. Hyunjin squeezes your hand to remind you that he’s there.

“I don’t think I ever stopped, Hyune.”

The silence stretches thin. The realization is dizzying. Years of suppressed emotions, of telling yourself and everyone around you that it wasn’t a big deal. The sad eyes of the townspeople whenever they’d see you sitting beneath the apple tree. The gentle touch of your grandma’s hand when she’d find you on the front steps alone, staring at the stars. The soft hum of the radio in the shop, set to a playlist of all the songs he’s written, the only reminder that somewhere out there he was doing well.

The final crack in the dam, its water pushing until it gives way.

“Then you owe it to yourself,” Hyunjin says. “You owe it to your heart to get an answer. Free yourself from this pain, love. Don’t let yourself suffer forever.”

Forever. That word again. No matter how many times you’ve tried to escape it, it always comes back.

“It’s gonna hurt.” he sighs, tightening his grip when you sniffle. “It’s gonna hurt so fucking bad, babe. But you can take it. You’ve got people who love you enough to stand in front of you and soften the blow from time to time. But you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

He hops down from the counter and moves to stand in front of you, right between your legs. Placing both hands on your shoulders, he pushes until you’re sitting with your back straight and lifts your chin. 

“You deserve an answer.” he says, with conviction this time. “Okay?”

He lets his thumb swipe beneath your eyes, smiles softly. Unconditional— that’s what he is. Hyunjin burns brighter than any star in your sky, the heat wrapping its arms around you like it’s too scared to let go, to watch you freeze and die out like so many others. 

“I don’t deserve you, though.” you say, laughing wetly when he rolls his eyes.

“Shut up,” he chuckles, pulling you in for a hug, “You deserve everything and more.”

When Jisung comes into the shop two days later, you’re ready for it. 

Chan had talked to him. No surprise, really, not when he’s been letting him crash in his spare room ever since he figured out that he was holed up in one of the hotels out in the tourism hub. 

If there’s one thing about Chan, it’s that he’d rip the shirt off his back to clothe anyone in need. Housing a friend is nothing, especially when that friend is Jisung.

“I don’t know how much of a consolation this is,” he’d said nervously, watching as you regarded him with an expectant look, “But he’s pretty cut up about you not wanting to see him. Which, I know, is stupid. He is the one who fucked up. But I just– I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like this, I guess.”

It’s not a consolation, not really. Knowing that Jisung is struggling is far from anything you want to hear. 

Sure, there’s anger present. Anyone would be stupid to not feel the least bit frustrated with what’s happened. Years lost, time stripped away. But you’ve long since come to terms with it, the anger turning to sadness in the meantime.

“Also, he leaves tomorrow.” Chan smiled sadly. “He really wants to talk to you before then.”

Hyunjin left early again today to give the two of you space. Not before making a show of his own though, threatening to incite violence with his arms that are supposedly ‘shredded’ from years of lifting boxes filled with petunias. 

The shop is slow again, not many sales nor a lot of foot traffic. Usually when the sun is out there’s more to do; people to see, smiles to give. But there’s nothing, just the chirping of birds and the sound of cars rolling by. 

Maybe the world knows that this is what you need. The calm before the storm. 

Five minutes until close. You’ve spent most of the day pacing back and forth. Waiting. Anticipating. 

Chan had said Jisung planned on stopping by, trying again. You’d told him that was okay, and his eyes lit up. Too much hope, maybe, that something might come of this. 

You’re seated in the back office, staring at marigold colored irises when the front door opens. You hear it this time, ears fine tuned, waiting. 

Slowly, you stand, make your way to the front. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you pull back the beaded curtain and Jisung’s figure comes into view. 

He looks the same as he did the other day: curled hair, thick glasses, parted lips. His sweater, fluffy and striped, hangs off of his shoulders in a way that boxes off his tapered waist, one that you know is hidden beneath all the layers. The sleeves are way too long judging by the way it curls over his fingers. 

“Hi.” he breathes out, watching as you step into full view.

You blink. “Hi, Jisung.”

His name feels weird on your tongue. Bitter. It’s been years since you uttered it, forbidding yourself from the luxury out of fear that it would make his absence more real. Talking about him in the past tense always scared you off before you could even get the chance. 

“How– How’ve you been?” he chews on the inside of his lip.

You want to scold him, tell him to stop the habit just like you always would in the past. He’d make a joke then, tell you to kiss him so that he had something else to do instead. You would laugh, feign disgust, but in the back of your mind you’d wanted it more than anything. 

You’d waited for it, the day you could kiss him without warning and melt into his touch as he kissed you back. Another stupid bet on forever; the belief that you had all the time in the world for things to get to that point.

“I’ve been better.” you say, taking a deep breath. “What about you?”

Good, you think. He’s been good. He looks good. He doesn’t need this place.

“Me too.” he says instead. “I’ve been better.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Silence fills the room, heavy on both your chests. The anticipation feels like it might kill you before anything else does. 

“I’m sorry that–”

“Is that all you came here to say?” you cut him off.

“What?” he asks, confused. “No, I– no.”

“What, then? What is it you want to say, Jisung?” your voice is firm. He winces when his name leaves your mouth. “Because, honestly, I’ve waited all this time to hear literally anything from you, and if all that comes out of this is that you’ve ‘been better’ I might actually lose my fucking mind.”

The words tumble out faster than you intend. You can’t help it, not with the way anxiety has been bubbling over in your chest since the moment you woke up this morning. You could barely sleep last night, not when you were playing out every possible scenario in your head, the anticipation of it all making your sheets feel scratchy against your skin and the lumps in your pillow more discernible. 

“No, no, of course I wouldn’t do that.” he says quickly. “It's just that I didn’t know where to start. I don’t know how much you’ll allow me to say, what the boundary is here. I didn’t want to just barge in and demand you listen to me. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything. Not after what I did.”

What I did, his voice rings loud in your ears. He’s aware of it, of the pain he caused. 

He takes a step forward, and then another, again and again until he’s right up against the front counter, an arm’s length away. 

Your breath catches then, when you see him up close for the first time in four years, see the way he’s grown and changed with your own eyes. 

Stubble dotting his chin, laugh lines around his mouth, the dip and curve of the bow above his lips that you always loved. Brown eyes, soil and stardust. 

“Tell me what your conditions are,” he says quietly, “And I’ll give you every explanation I have.”

The sincerity on his face is blinding. Your stomach twists at the thought of hearing what he has to say, that same fear brewing in the pit of it. You take a deep breath, feel the phantom ghost of a hand squeezing yours and a crescent moon eye smile. 

“I waited four years for you.” you say.

“I know.”

“I trusted that you’d be back. That you would keep in touch during the time you were gone.”

“I–” his voice cracks. “I know.”

“You lied to me.”

Jisung tips his head back then. Swallows down a lump in his throat. Blinks rapidly at the ceiling, veins of ivy crawling along the expanse of it.

“I know.”

“So you owe me everything. I deserve that. I deserve answers.”

When he brings his head down to look at you, it’s unreadable. A mix of emotions that you aren’t familiar enough with anymore to decipher. Fear, guilt, sorrow. Hope, too. Maybe.

You stare at him head on, fully letting your eyes meet for the first time in what feels like an eternity. He holds your gaze, unwavering. Determined. The sight makes your heart clench. 

“Okay,” he says after a beat of silence. “Okay. I can do that.”

Despite the ever-growing mountain of things to address, you decide that the first thing you want to hear from Jisung is about his time in Seoul. 

You’re only human, after all.

Best friends from the start– you can’t stop yourself from wondering what life has been like for him. Jisung’s always been good at storytelling, animated in his features and gestures to the point that you’d be rolling around and clutching your stomach from laughter. It’s one of the things you missed the most, just talking and being present in one another’s lives.

The two of you end up at one of the diners down the road. The owners, an elderly couple, coo as soon as they catch sight of you.

“My flower girl,” the old lady, Mrs. Kim, greets.

“Mrs. Kim,” you beam, moving in for a hug. When you pull away, Jisung is behind you, hands clasped behind his back and feet together like he has his tail between his legs.

“Halmeoni,” you say, gesturing at him, “Do you remember Jisungie?” 

His eyes go wide at the nickname, and you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck, avoiding his gaze and instead watching as Mrs. Kim blinks in surprise.

“Oh! Oh my goodness, our Jisungie? Honey! Honey, look, Jisung is here! Oh you crazy boy,” she scolds, rushing forward to hit his shoulder and pull him in for a hug. “Where have you been? It’s been ages!” 

Jisung lets out an oof! as her body slams into him, all of his anxiousness dissolving into laughter as he hugs her back. 

“Hi Mrs. Kim, how have you been?” 

“Me?” she asks, pulling him away to hold at arm’s length, “Nevermind about me! I’m old! How have you been?”

Good, you think again, a mimic of earlier. Jisungs eyes flit over to yours for the smallest of moments before he answers.

“Better,” he says. “I’m doing better.”

Once both Mr. and Mrs. Kim are done doting over the both of you, they seat you by the window.

The island is always beautiful on sunny days: trees swaying, golden rays painting the rooftops in hues of pink and orange, the indigo shimmer of the ocean off in the distance.

“So,” you say, catching Jisung’s attention, “Tell me about Seoul.”

He hums. “It’s busy. Stinks. Lots of people.”

“Dream come true, yeah?” you joke, taking a sip of your water.

Jisung chuckles. “You could say that, I guess.”

“I mean, it was yours.”

“It was.” he sighs, looking down at the table. “I don’t know. It’s nice. I met good people, made even better connections. I live in this one bedroom studio apartment just outside of Itaewon, so I’m close to where all the foreigners hang out. I’ve learned a lot, gained a lot of inspiration for my music.”

You follow along, staring at him intently. His mouth, still heart-shaped, twitches when he catches you in the act.

You clear your throat, glancing away. “Yeah, I’ve– uh, I’ve heard some of your songs.”

He raises his eyebrows, almost like he hadn’t expected you to say that. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I hear them on the radio sometimes.” A lie. “It usually takes me a second to realize that it’s you.” Another lie. “But they’re good, you’re doing well.”

Pink dusts the tops of Jisung’s cheeks as he turns back to the window, clearing his throat.

He looks younger like this, like he’s still the same boy who would sit across from you all those years ago. Cherry-stained lips and a smile so bright it put the sun to shame.

He talks a bit more about his music, about how he’s with a good company that gives him creative freedom and enough support to pursue more if he desires.

His eyes light up when he tells you about his studio, a small room on the fifth floor of a building in the middle of the city where he does all of his writing. It’s equipped with an entire soundboard, full of instruments that he says he’s been able to get signed by artists that come in and out. Most notably, his guitar, the same one he left with. 

Slowly, like a flower blossoming, petals opening one by one, you feel yourself falling back into step with him.

Everything is so familiar: the curve of his smile, the tilt in his voice when he gets excited, the rumble of laughter when he recounts an embarrassing run-in with an A-list celebrity in the company’s cafeteria. He shares stories that fill your heart as the two of you fill your stomachs.

But with the ease comes something more, something you recognize as longing. You hadn’t realized how much you longed to be there through this part of his life, how you wished you’d been the one to answer a video call as he showed off his apartment the first day he moved in, his company badge when it was newly issued, every moment of happiness that you’d been absent for just as much as he was absent for yours.

He seems to share the same sentiment then, when he sets down his fork and stares at his empty plate. 

“You run the shop now,” he says, “How’s that been?”

You purse your lips, nodding your head slowly. You knew this conversation would happen, that it was coming.

“It’s good, I guess. Been almost a year now since, uh, it was left to me.” you shrug. “I’m not alone though, Hyunjin is a big help. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Jisung noticeably bristles. Eyebrows pulled together, staring more intently at a crumb on his plate. It looks like there’s a lot he wants to say, like he can’t find the words to say them.

So, naturally, you do it for him. 

“I assume Chan told you so I wouldn’t have to, by the way.”

He looks up then, as if he wasn’t expecting you to address the very obvious elephant in the room.

“He did, yes.” Jisung says after a while. His voice is quiet, gentle, like he’s walking on eggshells. “I– I didn’t know how to bring it up. I assume you’ve heard it all already but– I really, really am sorry to hear about Nana.”

The way her name sounds coming out of his mouth turns your mind to static.

Suddenly you’re in the hospital again, monitors beeping, hands as soft as petals cradled in your own and wishing that you could bury your face in a familiar neck as you cried and watched the marigolds wilt. 

“I don’t need an apology for that.” you croak, blinking back tears. Jisung is somewhere in your periphery, your vision blurry around the edges.

“It wasn’t sad. Her life, I mean. It was full. Of love. Of light. She left this place happy. That’s what she told me, at least.”

You take a deep breath. “So don’t be sorry about it.”

Jisung sniffles, and the sound shoots straight through your chest. 

“I know. I just– I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should’ve been. I had no idea that–”

“Nobody did, Jisung. Don’t punish yourself for that.”

He sees it then, when you finally meet his eyes, the acceptance. You’ve come to terms with things a long time ago, have fought tooth and nail to come out on the other side of all the guilt and resentment and grief alive. Scathed, but alive nonetheless.

“You’re right.” he sighs, wiping at his eyes quickly. “She’d probably yell at me for saying that.”

You laugh, suddenly, the noise startling him. Jisung looks at you like you’re crazy.

“I think she has a lot more to yell at you for than being sorry that she died.”

The bluntness punches a chuckle out of him, and you giggle at the thought.

Your grandmother was always such an outspoken person. She always said what was on her mind, speaking it loud. There’s no doubt that if she was here she’d be berating Jisung, smacking him upside the head before pulling him into a hug and cooking his favorite meal. Tough love, but still, love.

“She would’ve loved to be able to see you.” you say once your laughter dies out, the air a bit lighter between the two of you. “She always wondered if you’d grow your hair out without her around to nag you about keeping it short.” 

He reaches up to run a hand through his curls, the strands falling around his face in a way that has your heart stammering in your chest.

“Well, clearly I don’t know how to listen.”

“No, you don’t.”

Jisung smiles softly. “Maybe I’ll cut it now. You know, since I’m here. And because I know she’d want me to.”

You watch him carefully, searching his eyes. For what, you don’t know. All that’s in them are stars. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “You’re here.”

By the time the two of you leave the diner, stomachs full and enough bags of extra side dishes hanging off of your arms to last you at least two weeks, courtesy of Mrs. Kim, the sun is almost fully set. 

The ocean is calm, the evening breeze just barely brushing the surface of the tide. Jisung walks in step with you down the street, one side of his face cast in a glow from the sun’s fading rays. 

“Do you think you’d maybe want to stop by the arcade that Old Man Park runs? Just for a little?”

You snort. “Why? So I can embarrass you?”

“Hey!” he puts a hand on his chest, offended. “I’ll have you know that I let you win all those times.”

“How do you let someone win after spending hours practicing while I worked at the shop?”

“I was being nice!”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t believe me?” he grins. You try not to look, afraid of how bad your blood pressure might spike from the sight. 

“I’ll have you know that I’m one of the best Kart Rider players in the PC Bang scene back in Seoul.”

“Jisung,” you scold, “That’s a computer game. These are coin-ops. There’s way more skill needed.”

“No there isn’t!”

He knocks his shoulder against yours, tucking his chin to his chest to hide his smile when you try to fight back.

It’s easy. Nice. There’s a soft melody echoing in the dust-covered chambers of your heart. You still know all the chords.

Old Man Park’s arcade is a few doors down from the shop. You stop there to drop off the food, spare a glance in the mirror hanging in your office to fix your hair.

Your grandma’s picture stares at you from the other wall, eyes bright.

“Love you,” you say, kissing the skin of your fingertips and pressing it gently against the frame.

Jisung is toeing at a few rocks on the sidewalk when you walk back out. He doesn’t see you, too busy with his eyes casted down at the concrete, hands shoved into his pockets. 

It’s still hard to believe that he’s here. Flesh and bone. For a long time it felt like he was nothing but a distant dream, someone who only existed in the memories that you kept locked deep within your heart, the key somewhere on the streets of Seoul.

“Ready?” you ask.

He looks up, his glasses moving when his cheeks round into a smile.

Something passes across his face– a myriad of emotions in just a fraction of a second. Hesitantly, he holds out his hand. Long, delicate fingers.

You stare at it, swallowing roughly around the butterfly wings flapping inside your throat. 

The one thing you shouldn’t do, my dear, is rely on forever. Because that, too, is uncertain.

Forever isn’t promised. But even then, there are things you know for sure:

It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. Jisung is here. Living, breathing, in the flesh. 

So you take his hand, watch as relief floods his features, and let yourself feel.

The wind in your hair, the calluses on Jisung’s palms, and the warmth radiating out of the smile that threatens to split his face into two.

And with that certainty, the two of you start walking. A silent agreement to focus on the now.

You. Him. This.

“God, I can’t believe everything is only one coin.”

You laugh, watching as the multi-colored lights cast a glow on Jisung’s face. 

“Stop acting like you don’t remember this place.”

“I don’t!” he argues, smiling. “We stopped coming here, what, in middle school? Once Chan hyung started driving? We would always ask him to take us to the other one out in the big town!”

Chan’s first car was an old Camry with leather seats and enough room for the three of you to pile into after school. Used, but still with enough juice to satisfy three young kids who felt like they were on top of the world.

You used to sit in the back, the wind whipping your hair every which way while yours and Jisung’s hands lay side by side in the middle seat, pinkies brushing but neither of you willing to take it further. 

“Oh, shit!” Jisung gasps, letting go of your hand as he runs up to the space invaders machine. 

“Here we go,” you sigh, following after him. He’s like a kid in a candy store, face filled with innocent wonder and joy.

“Aren’t there, like, I don’t know– things better than this in Seoul?” you ask as he shoves a coin into the game.

Jisung turns to look at you with a devilish grin. “Obviously,” he says, “But I can’t beat anyone’s high score over there. Here though? Ha! This place is ancient. I can finally be at the top of the leaderboard in something.”

“We’ll see about that.” you mumble, the noise of the game booting up drowning you out. 

Jisung sticks his tongue out when he focuses really hard on things. It’s cute, the way the end of it sits between his lips, spit-slick and parted just a little bit.

He’s glowing, probably because of the lights, hues of red and green and blue flashing across his face. But then again, Jisung has always shined brighter than anything. 

The game beeps to signal that he has one life left. He grunts a few times, his fingers tapping the buttons madly as his other hand handles the joystick in a frenzy of movements.

When it ends, he groans, throws his hands up in defeat.. 

You shake your own head knowingly, watching his eyes bug out of their sockets as soon as the leaderboard appears on the screen, the 8-bit letters blinking at him. 

“You’re joking.” he laughs in disbelief, turning to stare at you. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

There, on the screen, is your name. The highest score. Jeongin and Hyunjin’s names sit just below you, respectively.

“What was that again about finally being able to be at the top?” you mock him, smirking.

“Since when did you get good at this?”

You shrug. “Had to find something to do in my free time.”

“No,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Nuh-uh. No way. This is not happening. I will beat you.” he holds out his hand for another coin, to which you roll your eyes and place one in his palm. 

“You might as well give up now. We’ll be here all night.”

“In your dreams.” he scoffs, assuming his position as another round loads onto the screen.  

Jisung has always been competitive. It’s one of his more hidden characteristics. 

It persists still, you realize, as you watch him burn through the styrofoam cup of coins that Old Man Park had given the two of you. Free of charge for old time’s sake.

Fort-five minutes. All he’s managed to do is bump Hyunjin down to fourth.

“Ugh!” he groans, kicking the machine lightly with his foot. 

“Look at you throwing a tantrum.”

“I’m not throwing a tantrum.” he pouts. You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay fine. I’m throwing a tantrum.” 

“Thought so.”

“Can you blame me?” he asks. “This is, like, our first date. And I’m sucking. Hard.”

“Our–” you stop, eyes wide. Jisung mimics you, almost like he didn’t mean to say what he did. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Your mind goes blank. But the world doesn’t end. Time keeps moving. Jisung is still here.

“I didn’t–”

“I like the sound of that.” you say quickly. “Of this being our first date, I mean.’

He smiles. Slow and sweet like molasses. Blinding.

“And the fact that you suck.”

The moment is shattered, his resulting whine echoing throughout the arcade.

“Come on you big baby,” you laugh, grabbing his hand. “I know a game you can beat me at.”

He lets himself be pulled, pretending that he’s upset, but you can see the smile tugging at his lips when you lace your fingers together.

The feeling is still new, this ease you have with him. The wounds you sported all those years are still healing, some more fresh than others. But with each laugh that comes out of Jisung’s mouth and shared glance, every note that your heart sings, you can feel them beginning to fade. A balm to soothe the burn.

The Pac-Man game is situated in the back corner of the arcade, right next to the jukebox. It used to be your favorite, because Jisung would always use his own coins to play songs for you while you tried to score higher than twenty-five thousand points. 

When you get there, he frowns. “The only game you think I can beat you at is Pac-Man?” 

“I don’t think,” you say, grabbing a coin before shoving the cup into his chest. “I know.”

The game boots up instantly, and you smile softly to yourself when Jisung moves wordlessly behind you, slips a coin into the jukebox.

“Play something good, Jisungie.”

He freezes. Out of the corner of your eye you watch him stare at you for a long moment. And then he smiles. Stardust.

“You got it.”

In a matter of seconds, Lovers In A Dangerous Time by Bruce Cockburn rings throughout the arcade, the speakers on the ceiling fighting past the static.

An old song. The same one your grandparents would dance to in the mornings, eggs on the stove and love in the air.

Your grandma used to say it was written for them, because when they fell in love the war was at its peak and she didn’t know if he’d ever come home. 

After he passed, she still played it, except those times it was Jisung who twirled her around and painted a smile on her face as you watched from the same spot you grew up in. Always there.

Jisung, Jisung, Jisung. 

When the game starts, you try your best. It’s hard. You’ve always been terrible at anything involving quick decisions. Focusing on everything at once isn’t easy for you, that much is still true. 

“Shit.” you mumble, the top right corner of the screen reading ten thousand points as the ghosts run into you.

Jisung lets out a low whistle. “Harsh.”

“You wanna go back to space invaders and waste the last of our money?” you raise an eyebrow. 

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Go ahead.” he says, holding the cup out for you to take another coin. 

You try a couple more times, failing each and every one. You can tell that Jisung is growing more and more amused with every attempt, and the smugness radiating off of him is starting to rub you the wrong way.

“If you’re so good,” you say after a particularly sad attempt, turning to glare at him. Jisung has his lips pulled tight to stop himself from laughing. “Then why don’t you try?”

He chuckles then. “I’d rather help you, if you’ll let me.”

“How are you supposed to do that? We only have one coin left.”

Jisung doesn’t say anything. He puts the cup down, the last coin held between his fingers. You watch as he slips it into the machine, move to get out of his way once he’s done, but he stops you by grabbing your hand and spinning you back around, his fingers placed over yours on the joystick. 

With your back flush against his front, caged in by his arms on either side, Jisung takes a deep breath.

“This okay?” he asks right next to your ear, the curls on the side of his head brushing your cheek when he leans down to get a better look at the screen.

Warm. He’s so warm. The material of his sweater only worsens the heat, and the faint scent of vanilla makes your head swim.

It’s more than okay. Great, even. It’s Jisung. Everything and more.

“Yeah,” you say, letting him control your hands as he flicks the joystick. “It’s okay.”

The hair against your cheek moves when he smiles. “Good.” he says, and then hits the start button.

The game begins but you’re barely processing what’s happening, too aware of the feeling of his body pressed against yours. 

A firm chest, different from what’s observable on the outside, what with the fluffiness of his sweater and soft features. His arms too, encasing you, the bulge and flex of his biceps every time he moves.

It’s all so intoxicating, so much so that you don’t even realize you’ve beaten the highest score in the system by the time he loses his last life. 

“What?” you blink. “What the hell?!”

You laugh, spinning to face Jisung who’s grinning from ear to ear. In your excitement, you jump, flinging your arms around his neck. He’s surprised, but catches you nonetheless, circling his arms around your waist.

“Holy shit how’d you do that!” you squeal while he swings you around, feet off the ground.

“Magic, I guess.” he chuckles. 

The closeness of his voice brings you crashing back down, suddenly aware of what position you’re both in. You pull back quickly, clear your throat, and watch as his face falls from the loss of contact.

It’s been a long time since you hugged Jisung. The thought transports you to that day four years ago, standing under the apple tree, the future uncertain. Forever promised.

Things are different now.

“Sorry,” he backtracks. “I didn’t– um, I wasn’t trying to–”

You cut him off by throwing yourself at him for a second time. Intentional. Breathless. Tired of running and acting like it’s not the thing you want most in the entire world.

Jisung doesn’t react until he feels your face against the skin of his neck. On instinct, he hugs tight, hands around your waist, breathing in the smell of your hair.

“Hi.” you whisper against him. 

One word. Simple. However the weight of it sends a chill down his spine. It feels like home. 

He tightens his hold. A silent understanding. The two of you never had much of a need for words anyways. 

“Hi.” he whispers back.

The apple tree is much bigger now.

Long, thick branches, a wide trunk, a slight tilt in its shape.

It’s bare. The season is long gone. But it’s okay, because it means that the view of the stars isn’t blocked when you and Jisung lay beneath it.

It’s the same but it isn’t. There’s gaps– periods of time where the two of you grew separately. There are moments and memories tucked away that neither of you know about, whole lives to discover. 

But even so, it feels right. His arm wrapped around you, your head on his chest. The stars and the moon. You and Jisung.

It’s nice. Perfect, even. But there’s a conversation that needs to be had. One that can’t be put off any longer.

“Ji.”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Jisung shifts beneath you, tightening his hold. The grass is damp. Neither of you care, too caught up in each other to stress about whether or not it’ll stain.

“Of course.”

“Am I ever gonna see you again?”

He takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

“You said that last time.”

“I know.”

“So what makes this different?” you ask, sitting up. He watches you carefully, eyes trained on every movement like he’s scared you’ll get up and run away.

When he realizes you’re waiting for an answer, he sits up too, pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. 

He doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly reaches into his pocket. Silently, he hands whatever he grabbed to you. A guitar pick.

It’s white, a marbled design. Golden flecks infused into the lines. There, on the front, is a singular marigold. When you flip it over, you’re met with a tulip. 

“Do you remember that one time, when you called me crying at midnight because Nana told you that she didn’t know if she’d be able to afford school in the city?”

You nod silently, still turning the guitar pick over in your hand. 

It was one of those nights where the rain was relentless. Monsoon season always tagged on to the tail end of the school year, bringing with it a more intense gloominess than usual. 

You’d been angry. Stressed. Irritated that other kids at school were making plans to go to the mainland for college and you were stuck helping your grandmother trim foliage and wrap vases in newspaper.

“You told me that you couldn’t do it anymore.” Jisung whispered, staring up at the sky. “That you were tired of being here. That you needed to get out.”

You remember. Jisung had walked through the rain to show up at your window. Had climbed in with muddy shoes and sat on the floor of your room with you until the downpour stopped and your tears dried.

“And I said that I would make it happen, that I would invent a way to live amongst the stars so you could be as far from here as possible.”

“So what?” you ask, looking at him. “Did you finally do it, then? Is that why you came back?”

“Don’t be like that.”

“No, Jisung, I’m gonna fucking be like that.” you scoff, rising to your feet. 

There’s a fire in your veins, stoked until the embers are burning hot against your throat. Too good to be true. You should’ve known that there was no explanation left for him to give.

Jisung scrambles to his feet. “It wasn’t like I wanted to–”

“Oh like hell you did.” you say, turning to face him. “Four years, Jisung. I waited four years and you just– you come back and decide to tell me about some make-believe bullshit to save yourself and feel less guilty about the fact that you left.”

“It wasn’t make-believe to me,” he argues. “It was real. Everything I said was real. I left and I tried for years to make something of myself so I could come back here and get you.”

“Oh so it’s my fault? I made you leave, is that it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“So then say something else!” you yell. The stars rumble, threatening to fall out of the sky. “Say something else, then, Jisung. Why didn’t you call? Huh?”

“Because I–” he stops, licks his lips. “God. Fuck. I couldn’t face you if I had nothing to show for myself, okay? It wasn’t fair to you for me to leave you behind just so I could fail.”

“Ha!” you laugh, running a hand through your hair in disbelief. “So you decided to go radio silent instead? Decided to not only leave me alone but let me suffer and wonder about where you were because that’s so much better than telling me that you were struggling, right? Great choice, Jisung. Really.”

He blinks a few times, watching as you pace back and forth in the grass. 

Anger bubbles deep in your gut. This whole time, he knew. It was a conscious decision. Jisung deliberately didn’t contact you because he chose not to.

“Did you ever even love me?”

The words tumble out before you can stop them. Jisung’s entire body goes rigid, his face falling and eyes hardening within a fraction of a second.

“Watch what you say.” he says, his voice low in his chest.

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d just be honest.”

“I’m trying.” he pleads. His eyes are glossy. Big and round behind his glasses. Illuminated by the moon. 

“I fucked up, okay? I prioritized myself and the way I felt over you and fucked everything up. But I tried. I tried so fucking hard. And I’m sorry it took me so long but I wanted– no–  I needed to make sure that I had everything figured out before I came back. I promised I would.”

“No, Jisung, you promised me that–”

“I’m not talking about you.” he says then, taking a deep breath. “You weren’t the only one I made promises to back then.”

Before you have a chance to speak, Jisung says, “I promised her. I told her I’d get you out of here. That I’d give you a life that you deserved, because she knew she couldn’t.”

You drop to your knees when the first sob hits, the force of it racking your body so hard you feel like you’re drowning. Jisung catches you on the fall, holds you up, lets you bury your face into his neck like he had so many times before.

“She told me you believed in forever. She wanted me to give that to you. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Jisung lets you cry. He holds you through the storm, your wails as loud as thunder and tears as heavy as rain. Four years in the making; the sky and the earth colliding until the dirt and layers of sediment give way to the molten core that’s been hiding beneath the surface all along.

Pain. Grief. All of it pent up and leading to this moment. 

“You should’ve told me.” you cry, beating a fist into Jisung’s chest. “You idiot. You fucking idiot. You should’ve told me.” 

Jisung pulls you in closer, takes each hit as long as it means that it’ll soften the blow on your heart. He whispers apologies in your ear, runs a hand through your hair. 

When it quiets again, the worst of the storm gone, he shifts so that your head is in his lap, his legs crossed and tucked beneath him. A few stray tears wet the fabric of his jeans, your eyes focused on the field of flowers across the street.

“I won’t ask you to come with me.” he says after a long while, when your breathing has evened out. “I know that things are different. You have a life here that you’ve made for yourself, responsibilities to bear as well.”

He pauses to push a few strands of hair out of your face. His fingers are gentle against the skin of your cheek.

“But I promise it’ll be different. I spent too long away from you, was too selfish for my own good. I won’t disappear again. I’ll call every day. I’ll visit. You’ll get every part of me that I kept away from you all this time, and I’ll get every part of you in return.”

Your heart thrums. The thought of having what you’ve wanted for so long. Of having Jisung.

“And when you’re ready, when you feel like you can’t do it anymore, there’ll be a place for you.”

His voice is firm. Confident. More sure than he’s ever sounded before in his life.

When you turn to face him, he’s already staring back. Jisung, with all the stars in his eyes and a heart full of dreams. Jisung, with the world at his fingertips and the offer to make it yours.

Under the apple tree, Jisung leans down and kisses you for the first time. Twenty four years in the making, soft and slow, his lips a perfect fit against yours. A starboy and his flower girl. His glow is so bright it makes blossoms sprout from her fingertips.

Soft curls tickle your eyelids when he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. You reach up to run a hand through them, smiling softly when he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“I love you.” you say first this time. 

He reaches out a hand, closes it over your fist that’s still clutching the guitar pick. A marigold and a tulip, both working together to make a perfect harmony. 

“I love you, too.” Jisung whispers back. “Forever.”

Jisung stops by the shop early to say goodbye.

There’s less tears this time, less of a reason to be sad. But still, when he wraps his arms around you, vanilla filling your nose and curls against your face, you feel your composure crumble.

“Every day.” he says, repeating the same thing he did all night. “I promise. Morning and night. Also at lunch. Oh, and on your days off. Matter of fact, you can call when you’re on the toilet too.”

The last part earns him an elbow to the ribs, his laughter bubbling up and out of his throat as he tries to dodge any and all subsequent attacks.

He kisses you stupid before he goes, Chan rolling his eyes from his car out front. You flip him off blindly, Jisung’s lips still attached to yours, earning a loud honk in response.

When he leaves, the shop is quiet, the only sound being the buzzing of your phone as Jisung blows it up with text messages the second the car pulls away.

You’re too busy replying, giggling to yourself when a slew of cute emoticons start appearing one by one, that you nearly fall over out of your chair when Hyunjin bursts through the door.

“Jesus Christ Hyune, did you have to–”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, breathless. 

“Uh,” you blink, glancing round. “Working?”

“Is Jisung not on a damn plane right now?”

“I mean he’s on his way to the airport. Chan is–”

“Chan hyung told me that Jisung wanted you to go with him.” Hyunjin says, brow furrowed.

You sigh. “He didn’t want me to go with him. Well, okay, he did. But I told him I can’t just pick up and leave. He knows that. Nana left this place to me and–”

“You are so stupid.” Hyunjin sighs. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. You stand up, crossing your arms as you walk closer to the counter. 

“Come on. We have to go.”

“Go where, Hyunjin? I’m not leaving to–”

He cuts you off, places an envelope on the wooden surface. “And I am not letting you stay here and pretend that this is what you want.”

“What is that?” 

“A plane ticket.” he says, pushing it towards you. “To Seoul.”

Your mouth opens and closes, lost for words. Hyunjin is already moving around the counter, pushing past you with an expression the most serious you’ve ever seen on him.

“Hyunjin I– I can’t– where did you even…?”

“Chan hyung has a friend.” he mumbles as he begins pulling stuff out of the office. Your planning notebook, your apron, the picture of your grandma off the wall. All of it thrown into a small box he managed to snag from somewhere off to the side.

“His name is Seungmin or something. Met him out in the tourist hub. Dude’s super rich with tons of miles and apparently owed Chan for a drunken night where he needed to be escorted to his hotel. So thanks to him, you’re leaving.” he explains as he grabs the box with both hands and starts walking towards the door.

“Wait.” you stop him, watching as he turns to regard you with a look that says his patience is running thin. 

“I told you I can’t leave, Hyunjin. This place is where I need to be.”

He huffs, places the box on the ground in front of him. His hair falls in waves around his face, a shimmery dark brown beneath the rays of the sun poking into the room. 

“Can you be honest with me?” he asks. 

You nod, slowly. 

“Do you love him?”

Hyunjin watches you with careful eyes. Reads you like a book, something he’s always been good at. You don’t doubt that it’s written on your face. Star-kissed cheeks and eyes as bright as marigolds. 

“So much that it hurts, Hyune.”

Hyunjin smiles, eyes watery. “Then you deserve to go. You deserve your chance to be free. Don’t worry about this place, I’ll take care of it.”

The familiar sting of tears sits behind your eyes. Your heart swells full of love for this friend, this light, this beacon of unconditional love in the shape of your best friend.

“I don’t have clothes.” you manage to say around the lump in your throat.

Hyunjin shakes his head, tears spilling down the bridge of his nose. 

“I’ll send them to you.”

“There’s a lot to do around here for just one person. What if you need me?”

“I’ll manage.” 

You round the corner quickly, throwing yourself into his chest. He catches you with ease, wraps his arms around your body as the both of you cry into each other.

“I’ll miss you.” you say weakly.

Hyunjin’s throat bobs against the top of your head. “I’ll always be here in our little corner of the world.”

The two of you stay like that for a while. Hyunjin’s warmth seeps into your skin, lights you ablaze. By the time he pulls away, his hands on your shoulders, you feel like you’re floating. Unreal.

“I don’t have a way to get there.” you say quickly, glancing at the clock. 

Jisung’s plane leaves soon. The airport, the only one on the island, is a thirty minute drive. You’re at a disadvantage the more time you spend not moving. 

“Don’t worry,” Hyunjin chuckles. “I’ve got that taken care of.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he means when you’re cut off by the sound of honking from outside. Confused, you run to the door, your jaw dropping as soon as you realize who’s waiting for you.

“Hurry up people we don’t have all day!” Jeongin calls, his upper body hanging out of the window. He’s parked outside in a beat-up truck, arms waving wildly when he spots you.

“Innie!” you scream, pushing through the door to run at him. He jumps out of the truck just in time for you to barrel into his chest, laughter loud in your ears as he spins you around. 

“You’re here! Oh my god I thought you weren’t coming for another two weeks.” you say in disbelief once he puts you down.

He looks older, more sophisticated. His hair is rusted and falls past his ears, the ends just barely touching his shoulders. 

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “I figured I’d show up earlier. You know, see you before you leave, catch up with my parents, help Hyunjin break into your house. The usual.”

“Help Hyunjin break into my what–” you say, but you stop when your eyes fall on the small suitcase in the backseat. Your own bag, the one that’s been sitting in your closet untouched for years now.

“For the last time,” Hyunjin says from behind you, carrying the box in his arms. “It’s not breaking and entering if I have a key. Which, by the way, I told you would come in handy one day.”

He sets the box down next to the luggage and dusts his hands on his pants. When he turns to face you, he’s smiling, eyes disappearing into crescent moons.

With tears threatening to spill once again, you stare at the both of them, your heart bursting at the seams. “I love you guys.”

Jeongin grimaces, opts for getting back in the driver’s seat as you laugh. Hyunjin rolls his eyes and ushers you inside of the truck.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it.” he says. “Right now, you have a plane to catch.”

The airport is crowded. 

There are tons of people everywhere, some saying hello and some saying goodbye. Hyunjin explained the gate system to you before you left him and Jeongin on the curb, and you keep glancing down at your ticket to make sure none of the information has changed in the past thirty seconds since you last looked. 

Thankfully, your gate isn’t far. With twenty minutes to go until boarding, you can feel the sweat building up beneath the hand that’s curled around your suitcase handle. 

It’s scary thinking about the fact that this is it. That you’re finally leaving. 

It’s bittersweet, too. There’s an excitement in the pit of your stomach as well as a feeling of dread in your chest, both of them meeting in the middle somewhere. 

You let your eyes scan the crowd, searching for wavy hair and thick-rimmed glasses. However, the first thing you see is the familiar neck of a guitar, strapped right on to a back that you would know and recognize anywhere without warning.

Jisung is seated near the gate, his eyebrows furrowed and lips set in a pout as he glares down at his phone. You realize that he’s probably wondering why you won’t answer, why all of his emoticons are going ignored. 

Quietly, you come up behind him, reach into your pocket, and say, “Excuse me? I think you dropped this.”

Jisung startles, his eyes falling on to the guitar pick being held out in your hand. Slowly, he lets his gaze follow upwards, wide-eyed and shocked.

“What– what are you doing here?” he asks. 

You place the pick in his hand. “I'm on my way to Seoul. There’s a guy there that I’ve been trying to find for a while.” you say. 

Jisung catches on quickly. “Oh, really?” he asks, moving over so you can sit beside him. “This guy must be pretty great if you’re leaving for the mainland.”

The rain starts hitting the tarmac outside right as you sit down. “Hm, yeah. He is. He really likes the stars. He says that he found a way for me to live in them, too.” 

He laughs, the sound making your stomach flip. “Sounds like you’re excited.”

You nod. “I am. He promised me that we’d do a lot together, experience new things. Apparently he’s gonna write songs and I’m gonna be a nerd.”

Jisung snorts and reaches across to link his hand with yours.

“He’s really lucky.” he says, leaning over to plant a kiss on your lips.

You smile into it. “So am I.” you whisper into his mouth, your heart stuffed to the brim with flower petals. 

And when Jisung smiles back, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek and give you another kiss with the force of a thousand suns, you feel the key you’d been searching for finally click into place. 

Salt of the earth. Soil and stardust. A boy who glows so bright that his girl sprouts blossoms from her fingertips. 

Forever isn’t promised. But then again, with Jisung by your side, there are things you know for certain:

It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. In Jeju– it rains.

And no matter what, despite all odds, you and Jisung will always find your way back to each other in the place where marigolds grow.

[tags: @skzstarnet @snowyquokka @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @drhsthl @strwbrrychannie @shays-library @giuliadesu @iknowyouknowminho @linocz @pynchkilledme @jisunglyricist @itsgghowitsgg @alician87 @skzms @meloncremesoda @ilychee08 @allaboutsan @legally-lixs @stayceebs97 @candyquokka @chans1aptop @liknws @realrintaro @beeracha @vxllxnsworld @feelikecinderella @caitxx1 @lilac13 @sebastianswhore13 @classiclitandmemes @hyunverse @linosazuna @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @bubbly-moon @cookiesandcreammy ]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three for One 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you're used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what's on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: Right, this was supposed to be a drabble series but it morphed and not I'm fucked.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me &lt;3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

It's the most special time of year! Mistletoe, jingle bells, and holiday cheer! Oh, and hot chocolate. Lots of that.

You hide your thermos under the desk and grab the crystal bottle again, giving a test spritz to the air. Your job isn't very complicated. All you do is say hi and chat about the perfume. Your manager says the job is selling but you don't like to see it that way.

You smile at a family of five as they veer towards the toy section. You don't think the six year old would be into an eau de parfum. It's understandable.

While you spend your hours wandering around expensive makeups and scents, you're filled with a certain hint of longing. For what you're paid to push the merchandise, you can't afford any of it yourself. Well, you've never been very materialistic.

You spin around and see a gentlemen approaching, though he doesn't seem to see you. He looks past you, almost through you. You stop in place and put on your best smile, fixing the red band around your head.

"Hello, sir, would you like to try some Gucci?" You offer and spray the nozzle at him.

He skids to a stop and recoils as if he's been slapped. He holds out his arm as he looks down at his coat, little droplets seeping into the fabric. He takes a whiff, his short mustache wiggling under his nose, and he scoffs as he tries to shake off the cologne.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He snips.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You just go around spray people with that horseshit?"

"Well, sir, with respect, I don't like that sort of language.

"And I don't like being drenched in dog piss," he blusters, "point me to the goddamn trimmers."

"Um, what kind? Nail trimmers? Pet trimmers? Garden trimmers?"

"What the fuck do you think?" He points to his own face.

You hold your smile. There's always that one customer who's having a bad day. Whatever's got him so upset must be worse than dealing with him.

"Personal care," you point to the far corner, "right over there, sir."

"Ugh," he stomps and storms off.

"I hope your day gets better," you call after him, "oh, did you want a store coupon--"

He ignores you as he waves you off over his shoulder. You watch him turn towards men's grooming and you shrug, rocking slightly. You try not to let them get to you. As jolly as you find this time of year, a lot of people don't feel the same.

You shrug off the encounter. You still have a few hours ahead of you and it's starting to bustle with customers. You help a couple find the home wares while keeping the boundary of cosmetics firm. Lucille, the manager, doesn't like you leaving your zone.

You approach a woman looking at the Prada selection and get her checked out with a new fragrance, specially gift-wrapped by yours truly. She leaves happy, a small victory for the day. You celebrate but not too much.

You come around the counter just as you see that man strutting back up. He has an item in his hand and ignores you as he passes. Still you smile at him.

"Annoying," he mutters under his breath.

"Need help finding anything else, sir?" You ask his heels.

He stops and you see the way his spine stiffens. Oh no, you shouldn't have said anything. He slowly turns to face you.

"You can shut up," he marches up to you and grabs the bottle from your hands, "shut." He sprays you in the face, "up." He squirts you several more times before shoving the vial against your chest, "stupid little girl."

You take the bottle, blinking as you use your cuff to wipe the perfume away from your eyes. He continues on his path as you stand dumbfounded, drenched in Gucci cologne. It's hard to breathe through the heavy scent and you can't help but cough.

What a jerk. Just because he's having a bad day, doesn't mean everyone needs to.

Slowly you grow accustomed to the smell of yourself. It’s not too unusual. You go nose blind about halfway through your shift once you spray a few too many samples. You keep your distance from customers, offering them a spritz but trying not to crowd them with the vapors of cologne rippling off of you.

You yawn as the afterwork rush floods in and you make another round, smiling at Sofia as she peeks over at you. She’s with another customer at the counter, ringing them up as she gabs. You spin at the display at the center of the crossway that runs through the beauty department and stagger back before another can run you over.

You apologise to the tall man as he skids to a stop on his soles. You can tell he’s in a hurry by the way he grips his briefcase and squares his jaw. He wears a long dark wool coat as flecks of snow melt into his thick beard.

“Oh, sorry, I er, wasn’t–” He clears his throat, collecting himself, “I… didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay, sir,” you assure him, “would you like to try the new scent?”

You hold up the onyx bottle but don’t spray him. You don’t need another dousing. He looks at the silver letters on the side then at you. The furrow in his brow lightens as his blue eyes swim.

“No thanks, but er, you think you could help me find something?”

“Of course,” you chime and lower the bottle, “are you looking for a gift for someone special?”

He nods, “my mother-in-law is on her way into town, I need a present. Maybe perfume?”

His tone is tinted with frustration as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. He lets out a long sigh. He’s one of those shoppers; the last minute scrambler. You grasp the vial in one hand and tug at the front of your thick red sweater, you’re starting to get a bit toasty in the crowded store.

“How old is she?” You ask.

“Um,” he clamps his lips together and thinks, “hmmm, probably seventy-something? I’m sorry, I guess I should know that.”

“That’s okay, I… I would suggest some Liz Taylor,” you turn on your heel and wave him after you as you head off, “it’s a classic. Not so much a me scent but the older crowd likes it. Oh, and it’s on special so your wallet won’t hate it, either.”

You stop by the Diamonds display as you face him again. He follows at a pace and stops before the shelf, perusing the gold caps and crystal caps. He considers the rack in deep thought.

“Here,” you set down your bottle on a nearby table of seasonal decorations and take one from the display. You slip out a strip of cardstock and spray it with the sampler, “this one is gardenia. That was her favourite scent. It’s probably the least pungent.”

You offer him the sample and he eyes it. He slowly bends and sniffs the end of the paper. He wiggles his nose. It makes you sneeze too. As much as you’re a fan of the classic actress, her scents are dated.

“Smells like her,” he grumbles under his breath, “sure, I’ll take that.”

“Great,” you declare and trade the sampler for a boxed bottle, then retrieve your disposed Gucci vial, “would you like me to check you out, sir?”

“Is it faster?” 

“I can be fast,” you promise him, “this way.”

You go around the sparkling counters and he meets you across the till. You type in your log in, taking several tries to get your passcode right. The man places his briefcase on the counter,a hand resting on the edge.

“You know a lot about this stuff?” He prompts.

“Yeah, I guess,” you smile as you scan the perfume and tap the special offer on the screen, “kinda part of the job.”

“Hmm” he hums again, in that thoughtful manner. You look at him but he’s not looking at your face, “that’s a nice sweater.”

You look down at the red wool speckled with pearls. It’s new and one of your favourites already. You can’t help a little wiggle of your shoulders, “thanks!”

“Very… cheerful,” he muses as he takes out his wallet, “wish I could say the same of what awaits me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, it’s that time of year, I guess,” you push the debit machine towards him and he taps his credit card, “I’m sure your mother-in-law will love the perfume.” The transaction approves and the receipt prompts, “would you like an email?”

“Nah, that’s fine,” he tucks his credit card away.

“Would you like it gift-wrapped?” You offer, “it’s free?”

He hovers his hand over his briefcase as he considers it. His eyes meet yours and his cheek dimples, “alright, yeah, that’s… that’s perfect. Thank you.”

“No problem,” you beam back at him, “let me just get some tissue paper…”

You murmur to yourself as you grab some gold tissue paper and a white gift bag with a Christmas tree embossed into the side. You carefully line up the small box on the paper and begin your intensive work. You're a master wrapper, you used to work at the wrapping station in the mall.

“What about you?” He asks before the silence can stretch too far, “you seeing family for the holidays? When you’re not working?”

“Um,” you smile as you look up, “I’m just hanging out with my dog. I bought him a bone.”

“A dog,” he nods, “your family live out of town?”

Usually, you ask the questions. It’s easier that way. It deflects the attention from you. It’s why you like the job; you can hear all about others and not have to think about yourself.

“Yeah, something like that,” you slip the wrapped box into the bag and fluff the tissue paper.

“Eh!” The loud exclamation makes you jump as the man merely turns his head, a tic in his jaw. His eyes narrow as another customer approaches, strutting with hands in his jacket pocket as he calls out, “Barber, what the hell?”

Your customer shifts towards the man, heels squeaking on the floor, “Hugh.”

“Don’t Hugh me, asshole,” the other man retorts, “you said you were busy? What’s the matter, you lose too much money last time?”

“Suzette is in town. Family dinner,” the man, Barber, drones dully.

“Ah, ditched for the old crone, I get it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, wouldn’t you know it, poker night was canceled, something about not enough seats,” the man counters sharply.

“Next week,” the first man growls.

“Hey, you,” the man in the russet coat snaps his fingers in your direction, “you got some of that Acqua di Gio. That dumb girl over there said you’re sold out.”

Your brows pop up and you swallow tightly. He’s another type. The arrogant demander. He doesn’t hear no. He’ll ask everyone the same question in hope of getting a different answer.

“We are out of stock, sir, but I could order it in for you,” you suggest.

“Order in? I can just go on Amazon, thanks for nothing,” he chops his hand at you dismissively.

“Hey,” the other man nudges his chest, “be nice. She’s working.”

“What? I’m here to spend money and they got shit all–”

“It’s December,” the other man reproaches before he turns back to you, “sorry, my friend is a jerk.” He accepts the gift bag as you hold it out, “thank you. You saved me.”

“No problem, but er, I was gonna say,” you turn to the other man, “sir, I have some samples of the Armani. I could give you those while you wait for the order.”

“Samples?” He echoes, “how many?”

“Let me have a look,” you back up and go to the drawer at the back of the checkout.

“I gotta get going, miss,” the first man waves his hand as you peek over your shoulder, “have a happy holiday.”

“You too,” you chirp back and find the last few tubes of Armani. You claim them and prance back to meet the new customer at the counter, “I have five.” You lay out your wares, “if I order in a bottle it’ll be in just before Christmas.”

“Two weeks?” He puffs.

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s the earliest I can do. It’s the last day I can guarantee delivery before Christmas.”

“Talk, talk, talk, order it,” he snaps.

“Right, let me just…” you open the shop and search up the scent. You add it to the cart and proceed. “Alright, got that, did you want it shipped for pick up here or to your address.”

“Here, they can never fucking find my house,” he sniffs.

“Great, so when it arrives, we’ll give you a call. You’ll also get an email to confirm.”

“What’s going on here?” He points at you suddenly. You look down again at your sweater but don’t see anything amiss. You flinch as he reaches to pinch one of the pearls, “what is this?”

“Oh, I… my sweater,” you raise your head, swallowing down the insult. It’s cute!

“Huh, Walmart clearance, huh,” he scoffs, “alright, how much are you robbing me for?”

He reaches into his coat as you hit total. You read out the final amount but he doesn’t pull out a card; he hands you cash. You count the bills, twice over, then give him his change. He looms with impatient huffs.

“Here’s your receipt,” you hand him the strip of paper. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Mmm,” he pokes his tongue into his cheek as he shoves the receipt into his pocket, “actually, while I’m here, I’d like a new sweater. You can help me and I’ll show you what real quality is.”

You almost laugh. Not spitefully, it’s just a bit silly. He’s competing with you, a perfume pusher.

“Well, sir, I can point you towards men’s fashion but I’m not able to leave this department, I’m sorry,” you give a sheepish smile.

“Oh no, good girl wouldn’t want to break the rules,” he rolls his eyes, “goody goody and her precious little smile.” He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, “my shit better be in by Christmas.”

He twists and strides away. You watch him go but not for long as you’re quickly distracted by a customer looking at the Britney Spears collection. Those are easy sellers.

[d0youc0py]

Even when he wasn’t working his mask seem to haunt him. He wanted to be here with you- but every time he looked in the mirror he was pulled away. Red bumps littered his jaw and some even around his hairline. He had always struggled with acne, having the acne scars to prove it, but it seemed to be getting worse. He’d been in a hotter climate this last mission, the sweat and not being able to air out his face was taking its toll.

He felt so unattractive. He quickly figured out when you feel ugly- you act ugly.

“Sweetheart, open up.” Simon sighed, his hand knocking at the door to emphasize. You two had just gone out on your first date since he’s been back and he snipped at you the whole time.

“Fuck off!”

Ouch.

“Sweetheart.” He started again. The bedroom door finally swung open. His body tensed at your teary face.

“I don’t know what happened to you while you were out there, and god knows you won’t tell me, but you have no right to take it out on me. I’ve been waiting for you to come home for the past three weeks and what am I greeted with? Hostility. It’s like I can’t do anything right.” You sputtered, glaring up at him. His hand instinctively went up to wipe the tears away from your face. He had never been the best at comforting people, but he would do anything to get your tears to stop.

“You’re right.” He admitted. The glare left your face. He was usually much more stubborn- unless he knew he in the was wrong. You softened. “It has nothin to do with work, at least not in the way you think.” His hand went up to rub his jaw but he quickly stopped himself. “I just haven’t been feeling”- He paused. He brought his hand up and motioned to his jaw, turning his head to the side.

“Si.” You murmured. You had noticed a little flare in his skin, but you didn’t really process it. He was always so handsome in your eyes. Your fingers reached up and traced along his cheekbone. “I understand.”

“Shouldn’t take it out on you though, yeah?” He affirmed.

“No you shouldn’t, but I understand now.” You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his chin. “You’re so handsome, you know.” You mumbled down his neck. He flushed, clearing his throat. “Do you want some help with it?” You offered.

His metabolism wasn’t what it use to be. Luckily the physical activity of his job kept away any unwanted pounds. That was until he was forced to go on medical leave and spend three months ‘taking it easy.’

He would be completely lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed it though. Being home with you had been heaven- but a bit of hell on his waistline. He noticed it a bit, but he honestly didn’t think anyone else would. He was rudely awoken when he arrived back at base only to have Soap and Gaz poke fun at him. He knew it was all in good fun, but his first thoughts were about you. Had you noticed? If you did, how did you feel about it? He hushed his own thoughts figuring he would loose the weight out on the field. That was his second rude awakening. He had shed a few pounds, but a few stubborn ones remained poking out over his belt.

“How does Y/N feel about their new pillow?” Soap hummed, plopping down next to him. It had been like this for the past month.

“Sleeps like a rock.” Price grumbled.

“Didn’t know you knew what that was Cap.”

“Soap fuck off.” Ghost growled from across the aisle. “Fucking hell.”

The plane was quiet for a while after that.

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was never one to be insecure, but this was striking a cord. He remembers being younger and overhearing his mother gossiping in the kitchen about the neighbors.

“Alice has gained so much weight. She’s just gotten married too! Couldn’t imagine already letting myself go like that.”

Letting himself go.

That’s what it was. He didn’t want you- or anyone to think that he had ‘let himself go.’ That it was no longer important to him if you had found him attractive. That the two of you had been married for a little over a year so he could just give up. He shook himself out of his thoughts again.

•••••••••

He couldn’t even get through the door by the time you were on him.

“Welcome Home.” You smiled, pressing kisses to anywhere you could reach. He chuckled, leaning into you. He placed one arm under your bottom lifting you up to him. He dropped his duffle bag at the door kicking the door closed behind him.

“I missed you.” He murmured kissing you back just as desperate. He plopped down on the couch, settling you tightly in his lap. All was right in the world till your hands started to wander.

“You get hurt again?” You questioned after he flinched. Your hands went to pull up his shirt to inspect the damage. He stopped you. “John?” You questioned softly. He tangled his hands with yours.

“You know I have a tendency to be a bit old fashioned.” He started. You pressed your brows together.

“John I’ve seen you naked before.”

“No, love.” He chuckled. “I’ve gained a bit of weight and back in my day that was more scandalous than adultery”-

“You know I don’t care about that.” You interjected.

“I know, that’s what makes this whole thing ridiculous. It’s just something I’ve found out about myself, something that I need to work through.” He sighed, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“Does this mean I can’t touch you?” You mumbled, fiddling with his shirt collar. He quickly shook his head.

“Course not.” He whispered.

“Johnny, you’re being too loud.”

That sentence had been replaying in his head like a broken record. You didn’t mean anything by it. You were just keeping him in check. Yet he could feel your embarrassment. The heat rising to your cheeks. The panic in your voice. The way you gave total strangers an apologetic smile when they turned your way. He had always been a naturally loud talker. Growing up with five siblings in a small two bedroom apartment was to thank for that. The fact that he had been around explosives for the past eight years didn’t help either.

“Johnny?” You tapped his arm. His eyes fled from the small paper bowl of ice cream to you. “You okay? You’ve been so quiet since we’ve left the restaurant.”

He couldn’t stop a dry chuckle. He grabbed the small bowl, shoving a spoonful in his mouth.

“ ‘m fine.” He mumbled. You sighed leaning across the table gripping his hand with yours.

“Jo.” You pressed again, flashing him your undeniable puppy eyes. He gave your hand a small squeeze.

“Sorry for the way I was at the restaurant.” He grumbled.

“What?” You asked, leaning forward again.

“I said, I’m sorry for the way I was at the restaurant.” He repeated. Your brows furrowed. Suddenly it hit you. Your hand left his and clamped over your mouth.

“No, no, no, Johnny.” You said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. Well I did- but”- You cut yourself off. You rubbed your forehead. Your hands reached out again tangling yours and his together. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad. That wasn’t my intention. I just know you sometimes forget your own volume.”

He gave you a small smile, pressing a kiss to your knuckle.

“I know Bonnie. I just don’t like embarrassing you.”

“We’re just so different in that way Jo. My parents were so strict about how loud I was- especially in public. It’s just a stupid habit I have, but I should never expect you to follow it.” You smiled softly. He smiled back at you, the sparkle returning to his blue eyes.

“I should still work on it though. Don’t want to blow your eardrums out, then we’ll both be shouty.” He chuckled.

“You hate it when I do this don’t you?” You hummed.

“I’m still not use to it.” He sighed, using his thumb to run small circles against your hip. He shivered as your fingers traced over another long stretch mark on his back. He mumbled something and pulled you closer, your body almost completely buried underneath his.

It was no secret Konig was tall. Along with that height came stretch marks. Mostly on his lower back and calves, some even under his arms. Some had faded, a small ridge in his skin to show they were still there. Others were a deeper pink- more noticeable.

“Everybody has them Konnie.” You mumbled, pressing a kiss under his jaw.

“I know.” He purred out as you massaged a small kink out of his back. Truth be told he didn’t really care about them either- until the locker room. That’s when he noticed how excessive his seemed. He had carried that feeling for a while, it wasn’t until he met you did he become more comfortable with it. You had showed him your stretch marks and he saw how pretty they looked on you. He slowly began to figure out that if he thought they looked nice on you, then you probably felt the same way about his. He still tenses when you touch them, his eyes darting to yours for any sign of insincerity. He’s always met with love and want. Just the thought of it causes a flutter in his stomach.

[gyomei]

one kiss away from losing you ☆ nanami kento.

THIS JUST IN . . . nanami kento has been caught booking a hotel room with a mystery person. we couldn't capture a clear photo of the person, but it's definitely someone not in the royal family's caliber. who could it be? ( 2.1k words )

・CONTENT: minors, ageless & blank blogs do not interact ! afab!reader (she/they), reader is referred to as love or my love, prince!nanami kento, secret romance, light angst, smut content: pleasure dom!nanami, cunnilingus, fingering, multiple orgasms, praise, not proofread.

・SIDE NOTE: while writing this, i thought of the song, like i'm gonna lose you by meghan trainor featuring john legend. and honestly, that's the entire vibe for this fic.

A SECRET ROMANCE BREWING? NANAMI KENTO CAUGHT WITH A MYSTERY BEAUTY!

By Gojo Satoru | Sunday, May 5, 2024 | 01:30 PM EST

While the past few months have been a bit lackluster when it comes to the Nanami’s, this week I’m happy to report something very enticing to our readers’ eyes. Just two days ago, the young prince, Nanami Kento, was seen entering the extravagant hotel, the Renaissance, with a hand clutching onto his forearm. Not dressed in his usual pristine attire, I nearly missed him, but I’d  recognized those bulking arms and stark blonde hairs from anywhere. (It was also his signature round glasses that gave him away.) 

The mystery beauty by his side, however, was able to keep a much more discrete profile. With a hoodie on, they kept their heads down as they entered the beautiful hotel. With some dignity and honor, I had left the two alone to enjoy their time together (and because the prince is quick on his toes), but it’s no doubt what they’re going to do. Nanami Kento is regularly discussed as a man that goes by the books. Rarely shed in any negative light— minus the rumors that he’s a stuck up snob and thinks highly of himself— people have been speculating when this clean streak of his would come to an end. I’m just happy I’m the one to document it. 

For more news on the world of the royals, rich and famous, please subscribe to our newsletters or download our app through Gyomei Plays for a discounted price of $0.15/month. Get sizzling news on not just the Nanami family, but hear on what Duchess Maki is up to and about her solitary confinement after murdering the majority of her family after the passing of her late twin Zenin Mai, or snoop into rising Indie artist, Geto Suguru, and how his new album is turning out. I hope to bring you more tantalizing articles very soon. (Hopefully unveiling the mystery partner of ex-goody-too-shoes Nanami Kento.)

—

MAY 3, 2024

Nanami Kento has never been in love before. Has never allowed himself to. He knew that this life he was born into wouldn’t allow for it. Keeping his heart chained and locked, he couldn’t quite understand just how you managed to find the key. And his mind couldn’t wrap around the idea of just how easily he had given in to you. 

Is it because of your glistening smile that your eyes and lips that you did when he first met you? A simple waitress that was doing their job in the fancy restaurant that his parents had reserved a table for. His parents had requested for the best and in return, had gotten you. The dark bags under your eyes was enough evidence of your exhaustion, yet you kept such a relaxed yet kind tone even when his parents were snipping at you. They could never be satisfied. 

Is it your voice and how you carried such a melodic laugh? He had made a comment about one of the choices on the menu, making a snide remark about oysters and just how he couldn’t escape them. It was under his breath. Truthfully, he didn’t expect you to hear it, but you did and you had let out the cutest laugh with a subtle snort at the end that led his parents to grimace. However, the two corners of his lips had curved upwards and he started showing more interest.

Is it because even in dim lighting, you still managed to shine? That while he broke his internal promise with himself as he got to know you, no matter where the two of you went, you managed to be the center of attention is his mind? From renting out places for the day to spend time with you to booking hotel rooms to enjoy the night in each other’s arms, he’s come to memorize every course of your body. He’s memorized every curve and every angle that he needs to put you in for the light to hit just right to continue to make you flourish. 

Even in moments like this, where he’s checked the both of you in and has led you upstairs. Making a few wrong turns before arriving at the room and hastily opening the door, where he gently pushes you on the bed and captures you with the length of his body. He switches on the bed lamp because he wants to see you. He wants to look into your eyes as he breaks his promise over and over again, falling deeper for someone that he knows that in the end, he’ll have to let go.

—

No matter how habitual it is, you find yourself giggling into the gentle and feathery kisses Nanami places on your lips. And no matter how habitual your giggling is, Nanami can’t help but peer down at you every time you do so. The way your nose would scrunch together as your small laughs make his heart race. From small pecks to elicit more sounds to swallowing them up and dragging a moan out of you instead. One hand that caresses your face while the next holds onto your waist, traveling down to unbutton your pants. Loosening its grasp, Nanami dips his hands between the hem of your pants and underwear, feeling your bare skin against the palm of his hands. Your stomach tenses with anticipation as you continue to kiss him back.

Your hands tangle into his blonde locks, squirming underneath Nanami as he nears your core. Yet, he stops right as he’s a mere centimeter away, dragging his hand out and gripping onto the fabric of your bottoms. You whine despite his tugging against your clothes, wanting the touch of his fingers against your cunt— to feel his thick digits stretch your tight walls. Just the thought alone has your arousal seeping through the crotch of your underwear as your hips forcibly rise above the sheets as Nanami pulls off the tight-fitted pants. 

“God,” he huffs. “As much as I love these on you, I hate the trouble I’m going through to remove them.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re not as strong as you look, big boy,” you jest, gently jabbing at his chest; his still clothed chest that vibrates as he chuckles. And while he might say your smile is glistening, his is your entire world. Such a stoic man portrayed by the media, you consider every chance you get to make him smile a blessing. Just as hard as Nanami’s falling hard for you, you’re trapped in the clutches of how strong your love for him is as well. You yearn for him just as much as he does— if not more. 

It’s not because of his socioeconomic status within society. It’s because of his brown eyes that are like a hot cup of coffee. Piping hot as just one sip will rejuvenate every bone in your body, giving you the energy to keep going. When you stare into them, it’s as if your lifespan has extended exponentially. He’s given you life. That itself is all the power that you need.

So attentive and genuine with each and every action he makes. You don’t care about the price tag listed upon every gift he’s given you, but the practicality and meaning each of them have. He’s listened to you, followed all of your “pointless” ramblings about the things you like and dislike. He’s shown interest in all of your hobbies and quirks, and in return you do the same. And whether or not you both end up liking it, you both enjoy the quality time spent together. Because who knows how long this will last.

“You’re right,” Nanami chuckles in agreement. “I’m always weak when it comes to you.”

You shutter before whispering, “I hate how you can make something so corny sound so seductive.”

With yet another chuckle, he leans down; his lips ghost yours. “I try.”

—

You’ve come to realize that Nanami is a relentless man. Two strong hands that have your legs pinned up and pressed to your chest. A painful and compromising position, your muscles ache as your pussy is exposed all for Nanami to inspect. Brown eyes that seem captivated and mesmerized by how your juices have clung to your folds, making your cunt shine like porcelain. You crane your head to look down at him, gnawing on your bottom lip as you watch his thumb press down on your clit.

Your heart beat rises, pattering heavily against your chest as you watch the man dip lower to taste your pussy. A chaste kiss planted before his tongue teases and prods at your hole. A hum that reverberates against his chest as he instantaneously decides— delectable. His lips that pucker around your clit, sucking on your dark nub as your mouth falls open and your head falls back. Your toes curl as you feel Nanami knead at the skin of your thighs while simultaneously eating away at you. His eyes have fluttered shut to further savor your taste. 

His tongue explores your caverns and you pulsate around the feeling, closing your eyes shut to engrave this moment in your soul. You mewl and whine, calling out his name in such prosody.  Your hands travel to tangle themselves in his blonde hair, tugging at them as your pleasure grows stronger. Nanami grunts at the pain you cause. 

Eyes opening, you peer down at Nanami, watching how his muscles flex and contract as he holds you down. How he has his face buried between your legs as he laps up your pussy with an insatiable need. He barely comes to a stop before one of his hands leaves the comfortable position of holding you up to slot in between your lips. Two thick digits that glide in between your folds, collecting your juices before prodding right at your entrance. You clench needily as you wait in anticipation for the stretch they’re going to give you. Mewling out his name “Kento” in such a way before your grip on his hair tightens. You don’t have to say anything else. The tone in your voice is all that he needs to decipher what you want— you want more. And Nanami Kento is always too willing to give you whatever you want. He’d give you the world. 

Two knuckles deep into your pussy, the juices of your cunt seeping into the fabric that Nanami feels bad for the maid that’ll be left to clean up their sex-induced mess. You squirm in his hold, back slightly arching despite the hold he has on you with one arm. His fingers thrust in and out of your sex, unrelenting as he’s determined to bring you to yet another orgasm. Such a messy process unbefitting for a prince, but the lust tinting his eyes lets you know there’s no going back from this. 

“Kento,” you cry out, feeling his fingers curl inside you. Your swollen clit is still in the mouth of a dragon as he claws at the insides of your walls. “‘S too much! Please— please!”

Your words say one thing while your body says another. Your hands push him closer to your mound despite your squirming, an internal battle that you’re having with yourself. And sometimes he’s convinced himself that only he knows just what you need. He breaks away for a moment, lust-blown eyes with your slick coating the bottom half of his face. Nanami says, “it’s okay. I know you can take it. I know you take whatever I give you.”

His voice dips, becoming deeper than it already is. It has your stomach coiling as you feel that familiar heat as your nails dig into his scalp. Against your pussy, he breathes, “Fuck.”

“‘M g’nna— I’m—” 

Nanami coos, silencing you as your lips tremble. “Shhh… It’s okay, love. I got you.”

Your mouth goes dry, only able to croak out a few undecipherable noises before you’re cumming against his tongue. Nanami laps up your taste, cleaning you up with the pink muscle inside his mouth. When you come down from your high, your voice trembles as you mutter, “Kento, I love you.”

His heart pounds against his chest. While not the first time you’ve said this, it still elicits this reaction. He stammers, not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he does, too. He’s just got too much. “As do I, my love.”

—

“Y’feel so good,” Nanami breathes in the crevice of your neck, hips thrusting back and forth as your moans and whines fuel the room. “You always feel so good.”

His once perfectly kempt is now messy, hanging over as he rises from the crook of your neck. A hand comes up to caress your face as his brown eyes meet yours, staring at each other with such heavy longing. “Gosh, you’re so beautiful.” Your eyes crinkle, welling up with tears that threaten to spill. You can’t quite identify the reason for them. Are they for this overwhelming amount of love or is it for the fear of the future? “So are you, my prince.”

・SIDE NOTE: nanami as a prince ? hicks & sniffles in one breath, goes feral and bat shit crazy in the next. im not well.

[pursuitseternal]

“Bites in the Night:” a series of Astarion x Reader drabbles from the days on the road…

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Part 1: “Go back to sleep, darling…”

Astarion x Fem!Reader | M | 1.4K of Romance

Summary: you’ve been fed on before, but you cannot deny how much you are the one who now hungers for it…

CW: consensual biting, blood kink, flirtation, a bit… angsty? First kiss

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No more bites in the night, he had promised. True to his word, Astarion always waited for your invitation now. Just a little offer thrown his way with increasing frequency. You can feed on me tonight.

You can’t help it, how addicting it is, waking with just that little ache in your body, watching the way he smiles at you, knowingly, as you sit and eat whatever breakfast your other companions had thrown together. It makes a pool of heat settle in your belly, as if you are the one now full to bursting and yet not sated. As if you are the one cursed with eternal hunger.

He always fights so beautifully those days after he drinks of your blood, almost dancing as he pounces and stalks and rips out throats like the true predator he is. You can almost feel it after, however, the expenditure of the limited power you grant him each time he feeds.

Soon, those ashen pools would settle beneath his eyes again, his movements slowing the longer into the day you journey.

The same happens today, that lethargy visible as the sun begins to set. So tonight, as you make camp, you find a reason to hesitate by Astarion’s tent. He is busy setting up the colored canvas of his structure. You see his hands are shaking as he bends down to tie and fasten the tether to the stake in the ground.

“I’m… gathering firewood,” you stop shy of his crouching body.

His head snaps as he looks up at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “And?” he snips. Perhaps the efforts he expended today took a greater toll on him that the grey in his skin even tells you. He sneers, clearly exasperated and annoyed. “I’m busy if you’re asking for my commonly-sought-for and usually riveting company.”

“No,” you force a easy laugh. “No I’m capable on my own, thank you.”

That earns another, deeper furrow of his brows, his fist clutching around the handle of his hammer now. “Then what do you want?” he purrs.

“You… didn’t happen to notice if there was anything that looked promising on the way here?”

Standing slowly, his face quirks into that familiar smirk, those brows now canting as he looks down at you. Crimson eyes flicker over your face, finally resting on the lingering marks of his fangs from last night. “Oh, I never stray my gaze far from the most promising things, but as for firewood? No.” He cocks his head, eyes heavy lidded as he scans your whole form now. “No, I was perhaps too… distracted to search my surroundings for something so mundane.”

You shrug. “Nevermind then,” you toss casually, ignoring the way your heart is rapping against your ribs.

“I… don’t think you wish me to nevermind,” he comments with equal indifference. Even as he slides one step into your path. “What did you really wish to say, darling?”

The words bubble from your throat before you can make them seem dispassionate. “You can feed on me tonight.”

His smirk tweaks just a hint higher. “I was hoping you would offer, darling…” He leans back, as if he is out of your way. “See you tonight, even if you won’t see me, my sweet.” You push past him, your hand accidentally brushing past his own arm, the chill of his body sending a little shiver through your frame. “Good luck,” he purrs as you enter into the brush and trees at the edge of camp.

Your evening passes with little event. Your pulse never slows, even as you lay in your bedroll, the soft crackle of fire unsuccessful at lulling you into any sleep deeper than a soft breathing with sweat-covered thoughts that grip your mind and body. Not dreams. No, you lay on your side in semi-consciousness, facing towards the dying embers of the fire. That’s how you hear the almost imperceptible tread of a foot in the dirt.

It’s slight, just a soft rustle and a gentle scuttle in the dirt beside you. But then you feel his breath, cold on your neck. Easily mistaken for a night breeze, except you have waited to feel it all night.

For a man who drips with sex, his very voice meant to make you tremble with need, he does not creep too close. His hand rests on your shoulder with uncertainty. The other gently sweeps back the stray strands of your hair from your neck.

His touch is reserved, hesitant, only brushing your body where necessary. Beneath that shell of seduction, you feel the self-doubt, the nerves worn to a shred from 200 years of abuse. And for as much as you long to turn and wrap your arms around him and his suffering soul, you fight the urge. You shut your eyes tighter, counting the second of your every inhale and exhale to make them sound sleepy.

Then comes his bite. That delicious puncture of your skin that hurts for a second, quickly tenderly cared for with soft laps of his tongue as he drinks from you. You try not to twitch, try not to lean your body against him as he crouches. He must think himself so stealthy, and you wouldn’t want to take that from your rogue.

All too soon he withdraws, but you feel the mass of his body lingering. You can almost hear his head twist as he observes you. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he whispers. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me…”

“How…?” you begin, shifting in your bed to look up at him. His hair luminous in the starlight, his skin as pale as the moon.

That smirk only widens, a trickle of your blood runs from the elevated corner of his lips. “Please,” he gives a little chuckle, bending down to whisper right into the curves of your ear, “two-hundred years, and I know the dance of a sleeping heart… and the beat of one who just can’t get enough of me being so near them.”

You turn your head, looking right into those crimson eyes, now glowing a bit with his renewed strength.

“Next time you wish to do this again awake, you have but to ask, darling…” his lips purse as he finishes his words. But you notice that ripple of hesitation again. “I’m eager for any and all your suggestions, my dear.”

Now you hesitate, your eyes flicker between the way his long, dexterous fingers rest on his bent knee to the way his lips still are stained with your blood. You breathe, “Will you…” You swallow, unable to get the last words from your dry throat.

“Yes?” he encourages you, his voice barely more than a rasp.

“Will you… kiss me?” You feel your stomach drop in horror at your boldness.

But your daring earns you a smile that flashes his brilliant white teeth at you. “I thought you would never ask, darling…” he purrs, lowering his mouth once more. It is quick, well, quicker than you would like. His lips press softly on yours, the coppery taste of your blood touching your tongue. He begins to withdraw, but you aren’t done, your heart races again. Your hand flies into his silver hair, holding gently at the base of his neck, trying to hang on for one more moment. You feel his muscles soften, relaxing as he feels your want. That you invite him closer. His own hand moves similarly, tenderly lifting your chin, his lips beginning to move almost imperceptibly between yours.

You taste yourself more on his mouth, the slow languorous way he works into yours, sharing that flavor bit by bit.

Until he pulls back. You let him. Careful not to push, or tug him. Not to break his trust, for as much as he begs you for yours.

“So much for no more bites in the night,” he laughs quietly. “I… do like that, you know. It is ever so much more fun when you are awake.”

You say nothing. No coherent words can form on your tongue or in your mind. So instead you nod, you smile, your hand trying to grab the twisted blanket to fit back around you.

But his pale hands reach for it first. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he repeats, quieter than before as he pulls the woolen wrap to cover your body.

You feel sleep tugging you under at last, the soft throb of your neck almost as sweet as the ghost of his kiss on your lips.

And as you close your eyes, you breathe, almost feeling that powerful, glowing gaze watching you from his tent. Watching over you until the light of dawn.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

My other Astarion x Reader fics:

“The Rogue You Were:” part 1–Welcome me (NSFW)

“The Rogue You Were:” part 2-Cleanse me (NSFW)

“Just A Drop:” drabble as he turns Tav

[oddballwriter]

hello! Could i please request a one shot where Steven and Marc know about Jake's existence and they have been trying to get used to him and get to know him, and during a mission where they need help they found out Jake has been having like a long term relationship with the reader (who is Sekhmet's avatar)

And Steven its totally freaking out but also crushing on her but Marc its like "wtf how long has this been going on?"

Unexpected Addition

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Part Two

Summary: Life with a new addition is a bit tricky, but Steven and Marc are getting the hang of having Jake around. But what they don't expect is that Jake has a bit of a life of his own, including a love. Which sort of adds another addition. 

Warnings: The boys are fighting. Steven being a love sick puppy. Marc is kind of a dick in this not gonna lie. Mentions of some factors of D.I.D. . It's mentioned that Jake told reader about Marc's past, to a degree. There's some arguing about you and Jake being a thing for so long and kind of referenced that you and Jake technically overlap with Marc and Layla by a hair.

This fic is actually more of Steven just having a big stinkin' crush on you and Jake and Marc yelling at each other.  

Author’s Snip: I feel like this is good but not completely on the mark. Anon, if you want to throw me another scenario that's Jake centric with this idea/world then feel free. Just give me a sign.

Notes: I semi-proof read this so if there's weird grammar and shit just ignore it.  

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

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Jake was a surprise. Well, in the logic of common D.I.D. systems not really, but in the sense that neither Steven nor Marc knew he was there. It felt like a bit of a privacy breach to think that Jake's just watched everything go down from the shadows only to leave as soon as he came, and it was a bit unnerving to know that Jake was more off the hinges. But it's not like they could really do anything about him. Jake's a part of the system, whether they like it or not.

Jake honestly wasn't that much of a change up though. He usually did his own things and kept in his lane for the most part. Even if his tactics were more... forceful than Marc and Steven's were. Otherwise Jake would be something of an allusive one. He didn't seem to do much but they had a hunch that there was more than just Jake Lockley, the third alter, cabbie by daylight, and system parachute and low key Khonshu's hitman. And there was.

Because there was you.

Marc and Steven found out about you because they were on a mission that Khonshu demanded that they do. And it turns out Sekhmet had the same idea for you.

It wasn't like the two were in on it and it was a ruse to get you to meet the others. It was genuinely just an "Oops, did know you were gonna get it." sort of thing.

"Jake? Wasn't expecting a surprise team up with you. Usually boyfriends surprise their girlfriends flowers." you laugh under your breath as you try to not catch any unwanted attention. You didn't need anymore than the " Excuse me?" from Marc to know that it wasn't Jake you've bumped into. "I'll explain once we get this done. Just follow my lead for now." you say as you move on with what you were planning on doing.

"Okay... so..." you roll out trying to think of what to say after having just handled the mission, and now sitting at an empty park bench in your regular clothes, "My name is Y/N. What's yours?" you settle on as you lift your hand for a handshake, trying your best to have a non-nervous smile. "How do you know about Jake?" Marc asked, ignoring your polite gesture of formality.

"Marc. That is so rude. She's trying to be nice." Steven scolded from the puddle at his feet.

"Me and Jake are... together." you mumble out. "How?" Marc demanded. He looked so angry and menacing while he interrogated you. You've seen a lot of mean looking guys but when it's the face of someone you recognize as your boyfriend, you felt a bit trapped by the tense energy. You barely squeak out "I met him a while back.".

"Marc, if you just let me explain without making a scene it'll all make sense." you quickly speak out before he almost interrupts you, "How do you know my name. You were acting like you didn't know it a seco-".

Marc violently twitches before the tense scowl on his face disappears and is replaced with a softer worried expression after a second less violent twitch.

He looks at you, he sees that you looks a bit frightened, and then he speaks, with a British accent "I'm sorry about that... that-that wasn't me. I didn't switch us." he says, "Must have been-" he tries to say before you speak. "Steven, right?" you ask in a soft voice. He's caught a bit off guard that you said his name. He points to himself with a "Me?" and nods "Yeah.".

You stare at each other for a bit before you speak up. "Jake hasn't told you about me, I know. He just barely started being known to you guys and he didn't want to rush anything. I understood that and did my best to stay clear so that I wouldn't shock you two but I knew that there would be a fumble at some point." you explain.

Steven listens intently till you're done. It was either that or listening to Marc and Jake yell at each other in the reflection of the puddles.

"I only know about you guys because he wanted me to be ready when the time came for him to think that it was a good time for us to actually meet. I didn't mean to throw any of you through a loop like that. It's just been a while since I've seen him and I got excited." you apologize as you explain more.

"It's okay , love. It's just that we hardly know anything about Jake and finding out something so personal was a bit jarring." Steven says. You feel a little flutter at being called "love" for a second before Steven speaks again. He subconsciously touched your hand. "And I'm sincerely sorry about Marc's behavior. You were being courteous and he was acting like you were a danger when you were making it clear that your and Jake had some type of acquaintance." he apologized.

"It's okay." you comment. "Jake told me that Marc would be a bit... apprehensive about me. That's just how he is." you add.

"And me?" Steven questions with a bit of curiosity to what Jake might have said about him. "He said that if I meet you then you might be a bit flighty. Said that you were easy to spook." you say in a bit of a laugh.

Steven got to see more of you after that. You would spend some time to get to know each other more, which Jake approved of. He thought it was nice to see the two parts of his life that he kept separate finally meet. It was kind of like having cats meet for the first time where you watch them interact and then get comfortable with each other.

Steven, admittedly, and a bit too obviously, took a huge liking towards you. And you the same. You were fascinated with the other. He liked hearing about what you did as the avatar of Sekhmet and what that entailed for you both in mission and personal life. Along with what you just did in your regular civilian life. As for you, you were amazed to see a person who acted, talked, and even moved so differently than the person you usually associated his face and body with.

Unfortunately, you and Marc weren't taking to each other too nicely. Well, you were still perfectly friendly towards him any time you saw him. It was Marc who wasn't very enchanted by you.

Matter of fact, he and Jake were still at it with each other.

"How long has this been a thing?" Marc asked with the same demanding voice he did to you. "Three years." Jake answered in a nonchalant tone. "Three years?!" Marc repeated, unpleasantly surprised by the answer. Jake scoffed "Didn't she say we've known each other for a while?" Jake mentioned.

"So you've just been seeing this random woman for three years behind our back-? Behind Layla's back?" Marc fumbled out with anger. "You," Jake interrupted, "- Sent divorce papers to Layla. Not me." Jake clarified. "Not to mention. She was your wife. You made it very clear to Steven that she was off limits and I already knew that she was off limits. So sorry I went and found my own woman instead of hitting up yours." Jake quipped.

"Yeah and now it seems like Steven likes yours too." Marc said making his own quip.

"Good!" Jake bursted, "At least he's courteous enough to treat her with some respect and get to know her.". Marc would have spoken again but just beat him to it. "You're acting like I was going to hide you from each other forever. I would have had you two meet at some point once you were used to me. You three just met earlier then I would have liked." Jake explained.

"Did she know about Layla?" Marc asked. "Of course I told her about Layla! I was open and honest about my situation and what that would spell out for our relationship." Jake answered with an emphasis on the words open and honest. "How much did you tell her about us?" Marc demanded again before Jake exploded.

"Everything!" Jake barked. "I told her fucking everything I could! I told her about you. About Steven. Layla. Our condition. Everything about us, she knows. I wanted her to be ready for when you cross paths. I told her how to behave and what to watch out for so that she wouldn't startle either of you. And you know what? She did! She was going to explain everything to you if you would just let her fucking speak instead of grill her like that." Jake lectured.

Listening to the two fight was something that Steven would usually ignore. It seemed like arguing while getting to know each other was a thing in the system. Usually Steven would intervene if it was getting too bad or he was brought into it. But neither of those caught his attention because he was busy paying attention to you. Again.

"You look so different." you say almost out of the blue. "Excuse me." Steven spoke. "You look so different from Jake even though it's the same body." you remark.

"You have such different eyes. Yours are all doe eyed and round. Jake has a resting angry face. It's so weird." you smile. "And you smile different too. Jake only smiles a little and with the corner of his mouth, so it looks like a smirk. You smile with your cheeks." you add.

Steven flustered and felt shy under your gaze. The way you were talking didn't speak ill of neither him or Jake. You were speaking in admiration at what made them so different.

"You also don't have the little paperboy hat or gel." you point out as you look at the curls on his head. "Jake usually wears a little bit of gel to slick back some of his hair. I sometimes forget just how curly it is." you say as you gently reach to play with a few little curls. Steven honestly felt like he should be coughing up wings by now with the amount of butterflies he had going in his stomach and chest as you touched him. Even if it was just to admire him for a moment.

He did feel a bit guilty for enjoying your words and affirmation a little too much. He wasn't entirely sure if Jake would act the same as Marc did when he accidentally made contact with Layla. But then again, he hasn't had Jake barging in and being defensive about you. It felt weird to think about it this way but at least Jake was, seemingly, sharing. That or he's too focused on Marc when he's not the one fronting.

Steven did wish that Marc was nicer to you and more open to meeting you. You were very sweet and treated them nicely.

Maybe Marc would get to see you look at him and complement all the details about him like his eyes and his smile. You could get to know him and what he likes and how that contrasts with you. maybe you two could get used to fighting together in the cases that you bump into each other again.

[fatuismooches]

Hello! If your requests are open, may I request Akademiya Dottore and Reader where the reader helped design his hair? Like, cut his hair and get him to have the curtain bangs and mullet he has now? I apologize if this is confusing.

Being Zandik’s lover in the Akademiya also meant being a dutiful roommate and his part-time caretaker, because if it weren’t for you, there would be many more occurrences where he skipped meals and lost dozens of hours of sleep. Let’s just say, you were a very persistent person when it came to your boyfriend’s health.

At the very least, he did keep himself presentable. But once he came to terms that you were genuinely trying to help, he left the buying of products like lotion, soap, and shampoo to you, so he wouldn’t have to leave the dorm to purchase such items. This was actually a good thing because you could make him smell however you wanted! Though you don’t want to think about the time you found out he used a 9 in 1 shampoo. (It was banned from the dorm immediately.)

One of the other things you did for Zandik was cutting his hair. Many of his haircuts were done by you, he found it convenient since he could continue to read while you snipped-snipped his locks away. You normally kept it short, so it wouldn’t get in the way of whatever illegal or legal things he wanted to do. But this time, you wondered how long his hair could grow if you didn’t intervene.

And oh, did it grow.

His blue hair was now a little bit past his shoulders, fluffy and curly thanks to your brushing. (The first few times, he had chased you away, but gave in when he found out he liked the feeling of his hair being combed.) Zandik didn’t bother questioning why you let his hair reach this length, he didn’t care much about his appearance unless it was bothering him personally. Until now.

“[Name], give me a haircut,” Zandik’s annoyed voice broke the silence of the room, his notes lying abandoned on the desk as he gave you a vexed look, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear. You giggled, pushing away your homework that was definitely due the next day in favor of your lover.

“Oh? You’re not enjoying the long hair anymore?”

“It’s grown to be inconvenient,” he muttered. “It’s so long, sometimes blood gets matted in it.” You had to hold back a snicker at that complaint. As to why Zandik simply didn’t tie it up, well, for some reason, he doesn’t like doing that. Oh, but you do wonder how he managed to get blood in his hair. Usually, he’s more careful than that with his subjects. Guess it was indeed time for a haircut. “And these bangs, they get in the way of my eyes. It’s hindering my research,” he huffed. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll cut it,” you chuckled. You just wished you had some sort of device that could capture his current look forever. It was just so adorable to see Zandik with a mop of fluffy long hair.

After you had set up the area with a towel and a mirror, you got your scissors and comb ready (unfortunately Tevyat didn’t have any better tools.) Zandik already had his attention placed on a hefty ancient book, and you began to move the scissors to a tuff of hair.

Snip. The fluff ball flew down to the floor. And that was when you paused. All of this hair was really going to be gone soon. Which was a shame, considering it was really growing on you. But then an idea popped into your head.

“Hey Zandik,” you said, propping your arms on his shoulders, “What if I gave you a different haircut?” A few seconds of silence passed and you couldn’t contain a grin as Zandik’s red eyes flicked up from his book to stare at you through the mirror you had placed in front of you two.

“Is this why you didn’t bother cutting my hair for so long? I don’t recall being asked to be part of your little experiment.”

“Well, it’s not like you were that much of an unwilling participant. If you truly hated it, you would have made me cut it a long time ago, no?” Zandik scoffed and you took it as a sign it wasn’t a flat-out no.

“Come on! You’ve had that same haircut for years, it’s time to spice things up a bit,” you insisted. “It’ll look so good, promise,” you pouted, going as far as to press your cheek against his scowling face. He let out a sigh but you already knew he was going to agree. It’s the intuition you got from years of dealing with him.

“Fine. Do as you like,” he grumbled, giving you authority over the direction his hair would be now, as he returned his attention to the book. “As long as it is something decent.” You silently cheered. 

You had a faint vision of what you wanted, but you had to be cautious of the snip-snipping. Maybe you should start with the bangs first. Instead of the hair falling on his forehead, you wanted to clear that area and make two long bangs to the side of his face instead. Convenient, Zandik’s favorite, and pretty too, your favorite! And so you got to work, clipping and cutting around. But it seemed like your human experiment was more interested than you gave him credit for. 

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” Zandik let out a discontented noise but allowed you to proceed. You found it amusing how his eyes were flickering up to you every now and then to assess your progress. And soon enough, you had done it! Two long, blue locks of hair now bordered your boyfriend’s face, parted from the middle of his forehead. Even Zandik seemed to be satisfied with your work.

But still… it felt like there was something missing. It needed a little something else, to make it a bit unique. Perhaps if you just changed the length of one… you brought the scissors closer to snip off a piece of hair before a hand suddenly grabbed yours.

“Is it not fine this way?” Of course now he has to intervene.

“Well, it is, but… I just think it’ll look better if I just cut one a little bit.”

“I’ve never seen anyone with two differing lengths of bangs,” he frowned. “I remember asking you to present to me a decent haircut, not an outlandish one.”

“That’s because you barely go anywhere besides the dorm, Akademiya, or deep in the forest and desert,” you refuted. “It’s very stylish nowadays!” He didn’t seem much persuaded. “I’ve been cutting your hair for this long, I know what I’m doing, Zandik!”

“You’ve been doing the same haircut for years, I don’t see how that equates to knowledge or experience with other haircuts, [Name],” he rolled his eyes at you. Harmless bickering like this was normal during your Akademiya days.

“Alright, if it looks bad, I will give myself the same uneven cut. Then we’ll be even,” you whined, practically begging for him to give in. “This is very important to your long-time partner, Zandik!” You had a vision and it must be realized!

Before Zandik could let another insult roll off his tongue you made sure to throw your arms around him dramatically and bury your face in his neck, whining out another ‘please’. He stiffened at the sudden contact and you could feel the heat slowly emitting from his body, before he quickly announced his permission.

“Fine then, get on with it idiot.” He could not meet your eyes, but through the mirror, you could see his very slightly flustered face. He still had a hard time accepting physical affection without giving you a few choice words.

“I will!” With no hesitation, you snipped one of his bangs, and now, one curl of hair hovered over his shoulder while the other rested comfortably on his upper chest. And it looked… really good. 

“I told you, Zandik. You need to listen to your assistant more often,” you puffed your chest out proudly. Indeed, you didn’t know much about hair, but he didn’t need to know that, and you turned out to be right anyway!

“It’s passable at best,” he remarked, but you had already translated his sour words to that of regular language: it meant that he liked it. Hopefully, now that he’d seen your expertise, the rest of the haircut would go smoothly.

Only that it was the opposite.

“I don’t like how that looks.”

“I’m just parting your hair…”

“Part it the other way.”

“I thought you didn’t care about this,” you heartily laughed and complied with his demands. “You seem more interested in this than me.” Seeing the mad scholar so into what hairstyle he was getting was rather amusing. 

“I’m only doing this because I cannot afford for you to mess up, since you want to be so complicated with mere hair. And I don’t need the other scholars talking about me more than they already do.” Zandik wasn’t even trying to fake his keen attention now, the book long discarded on the table. Ah, you did love doing such domestic things with your murderous boyfriend.

It was hard to shave the side of his head, but with your boyfriend’s guidance (who was honestly better with scissors than you for… obvious reasons) you managed to get that part done. And at last, came the hair to the back of his head, which you shaped up easily. The locks of hair rested at the back of his neck and tickled his shoulders. It was long, just as you liked it, but not too long that it would be annoying. And so the haircut was done, with lots of blue locks now lying on the floor surrounding you. Zandik looked like a very different person now, more mature, you think.

“Well, how do you like it? I did quite well, I know,” you hummed running your fingers through his newly formatted locks.

“It’s adequate,” he replied dryly. But it seems like your content smile and gentle hands on him brought out something a bit nicer. “Not bad, indeed.”

“I’m glad you like it, love,” you pecked his forehead before you pulled away, stretching out your body. You didn’t realize how sore you were from all of that until after it was done. And now your body was crying to just collapse in the soft bed and go to sleep. Oh, your homework? Eh… your homework could wait for the morning. You’d just let Zandik do it for you. Speaking of Zandik… it looks like he was already preparing to start getting back into his research and notes again. 

“Zandik, I know you’re not thinking of going back to work now,” you sighed. “You’ve been sitting down for hours.” He simply shrugged as if it was no big deal.

“It doesn’t bother me. And I’m busy. During our last expedition, I discovered that…” Out of nowhere, he began to go off into a tangent about something he learned, which you still listened to, because you did enjoy his mini-lectures, but the new haircut especially made him look extra alluring. It was really a good look on him… and now his voice was making you want to fall asleep even more.

“Mhm, that seems quite interesting… but you’ve been pulling all-nighters this whole week. I didn’t forget how you fell asleep in the middle of dismantling a Ruin Drake during that same expedition,” you smiled, a little bit threateningly.

“It was only for a few minutes-”

“And also,” you interrupted. “I do not want to be woken up in the middle of the night during one of your loud eureka moments again, Zandik,” you stated firmly, “Especially not after I just broke my back standing up for so long. Bed. Now. And I will hold your arm hostage if you don’t come.” Normally there would be a long back and forth between the two of you, but it seemed that even Zandik lacked the normal energy to keep up the banter. 

And so with enough pulling and tugging, the two of you landed in the bed with utter darkness around. Should you have cleaned up the tufts of hair lying on the towel you placed? Yes, but cuddles and sleep came first. And for someone who moaned and whined about getting into bed with you, after years of being together, Zandik was awfully touchy when it came down to it (in a discreet way, which wasn’t very discreet though.)

Speaking of indiscreetness, your mind was brought to a certain someone who seemed to gain some interest in Zandik a while ago. “Say, Zandik, you should let me know if Sohreh has something nice to say about your new hairstyle,” you teased. “I’m sure she’ll love it.” Zandik let out an immediate groan of annoyance.

“Don’t get me started on that girl,” he clicked his tongue in irritation. “I don’t know how much longer I can handle her.” You thought the whole situation was funny, Zandik thought it was horribly annoying.

“Aww, don’t say that… I’m sure she’ll leave you be eventually,” you giggled, tightening your arms around him while your lover just hmph-ed in response.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to sleep? Cease this nonsense and rest already.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m doing that now, Mr. Popular,” you rolled your eyes mockingly. “Good night, Zandik,” your tone turned softer at that last statement, as you pressed a kiss to his chest before fluttering your eyes shut.

“Yes, good night, [Name],” the scientist returned the farewell in an unusually soft tone as well, only after you were fast asleep though.

The two lovers had a rather restful sleep that night.

[nonomives]

What kind of jobs would Mob!Dolly take? Like is it just assassnations and spy missions or would they be up for something like body-guarding and ambushing?

Chucks this at u

Okioki so Dolly's main job is assassinations, she's the so called janitor that cleans up the mess, snips off the loose ends, covers the nasty work. Got a loose tongue? She shuts you up with a death sentence. Know a little bit too much? You'll know you'll be dead before dawn.

As much as Wally's gang is well known among the streets, they can still get in trouble with the law if any solid evidence ties directly back to them. So it's Dolly's job to make sure that doesnt happen.

One of her main advantage is the fact that she cant easily be traced back to the mob. Who would think a blind person would be involved with them? Usually, nobody. Thats why she hasnt been caught yet. That and the fact that she is completely cut off from her past life, where most people assumes she's dead especially after a freak incident that made it in the news. This way, it helps her carry out her tasks a lot easier because her targets would be caught off guard. There's rumors of her maybe existing, but thats just rumors. Nothing more.

That being said, no. I dont think she would be doing any body-guarding bc that would take away her anonimity, thus putting her at a disadvantage. Ambushing can still work, but if theyre meaning to keep a person alive, she'll only act as support for someone else, and only from the shadows.

She works best when she isnt seen with any of the mob members, especially with the boss. If she ever does stick around, she makes sure its in private away from prying eyes or if not, she's in disguise. She def gets creative with her disguises, mainly to mess with Howdy (its one of the few times she gets to talk with "family" lol, let the girl have her fun--).

Sorry this is a bit of a long post but hope this answers your question!

[anincompletelist]

happy wednesday! :D

HELLO I know I have missed at least the last one (if not two) rounds of tags but I have the brain space to share today so THANK YOU @onthewaytosomewhere @welcometololaland @littlemisskittentoes @kiwiana-writes

@suseagull04 @msmarvelouswinchester @priincebutt @itsmaybitheway

@thinkof-england @thedramasummer @nocoastposts @agostobuwan for the lovely tags! I am very much looking forward to reading through all of these this afternoon! <33333

today's snip is a bit longer, so I'll slip it under the cut! I *think* this is the first time I've debuted this guy so.... enjoy? kdjhfkjhsgkfhjg

hope you're all well! xx

+

“So… I guess you’ve probably seen the news,” Alex says from the doorway, more so to his shuffling feet than to Henry himself. 

“I usually try to actively avoid watching the news,” Henry tells him. “You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“Right. The, uh, Claremont-Diaz-for-2040-thing?” 

“Ah, yes,” Henry nods, his fingers twitching where they’re tucked underneath his crossed arms. “Your dream come true. Your parents must be so proud.” 

Alex’s face twists up into an odd half-grimace, half-smile, a divot between his brows as he surveys his wringing hands. “Anyway. I was kind of hoping that…” 

“If you’re looking for some kind of endorsement or political favor I’m afraid I’m not involved in any of that anymore.” 

His gaze finally snaps to Henry, shaking his head. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t— I just…” 

He sighs, dropping his hands, lifting one to drag through his curls, much longer than Henry remembers and a little silver with age. He’s always been able to tell when Alex was overthinking, even if they were never close. That much, at least, hasn’t changed. 

“I was wondering if I could live with you. For a little while. Here,” Alex says finally. 

Henry blinks. “Sorry?” 

“I was wondering,” Alex huffs, his eyes rolling briefly, “if I could live with you.” 

It doesn’t make any sense. Alex is a well known politician back in New York, the primary presidential candidate for the upcoming election. Henry presumes he could likely stay just about anywhere he’d like, and he has an exceedingly difficult time believing that that place is in the foothills of Finland with the ex-prince he’d made very clear on several occasions he, quite emphatically, disliked. 

The damage control hadn’t worked, because Henry was damaged enough for the both of them. The avoiding was better. He’d thought he could be rid of Alex for good. Could finally put to rest the feelings he’d had in his youth, shove them under the years that have built up between them since then and pretend they never existed in the first place.

Staring into his wide, hopeful, bottomless brown eyes, the same fire in them from years past, Henry thinks he really should have known better. 

“I’m sorry,” Henry murmurs, his throat tight, “it sounds like you’re asking me if you could live here.” 

Alex only shrugs. “Well, I mean. It should, probably. Since that’s what I’m doing.”

+

no pressure, of course, and OPEN TAG!

@wordsofhoneydew @firenati0n @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @affectionatelyrs

@cha-melodius @anchoredarchangel @rmd-writes @read-and-write-

@magicandarchery @happiness-of-the-pursuit @getmehighonmagic @junebugclaremontdiaz

@bigassbowlingballhead @eusuntgratie @inexplicablymine @whimsymanaged

(here's hoping the tags work friends jshdkjshgkfhjg <333)

xx

[heysweetheart-writes]

Welcome to Sentences Sunday!

I am ALIVE! I've had a dreadful cold for like a week and a bit and I'm finally getting better. I'm really sorry about all the tags I missed this past week!

I managed to produce a couple of words for this Holy Sunday of our Lord for you guys! Thank you so much to @kiwiana-writes @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @suseagull04 & @bigassbowlingballhead for the tags!

This is a very random snippet from the neighbours!au that just appeared to me from a conversation I was having with @brokenpartsmightfit about Henry's musical taste. We might not be able to write but damn we can produce an a+ playlist in no time.

Without further ado, this is unchecked, unedited, just something ranom that came to me while I was walking my dog. Enjoy Bea embarassing Henry in front of Alex and and forgive any errors!

“Remember that summer you discovered What’s up? by 4 Non Blondes?” Bea asks much to his embarrassment and Henry just groans and covers his face because he knows there’s no way she’s going to stop. “So the five of us are driving down to our dad’s house in Wales and the song comes up on the radio. Henry looked like he just discovered Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. He asks if anyone knows the song, I tell him and dad has the terrible idea of informing him he actually has the album up in Llwynywormwood. He wouldn’t listen to anything else that summer. It was a nightmare.”  “I can’t believe you even remember that. You never said anything.”  “You were thirteen years old! I wouldn’t have dared! I had to stop Philip sneaking into your room to break the CD while you were in the shower once! Eventually dad got you an mp3 player when he went into the city to do the food shop. I swear it was the first and last time Pip didn’t complain about not getting a present when someone else did.”

Tags under the cut!

I’m tagging both people I want to see what they’re up to and people I’m hoping will see this snip: @read-and-write- @theprinceandagcd @orchidscript @daisymae-12 @cricketnationrise @pridepages @clottedcreamfudge @anincompletelist @myheartalivewrites @three-drink-amy @zwiazdziarka @callumsmitchells @priincebutt @notspecialbabe @firenati0n @tailsbeth-writes @onward--upward @getmehighonmagic @ninzied @nocoastposts @wordsofhoneydew @14carrotghoul @eusuntgratie @onthewaytosomewhere (this isn't watermelon sugar but you've tagged me this past few games so consider it a tag back!) @brokenpartsmightfit @cha-melodius @itsmaybitheway @sparklepocalypse as usual, sorry if you posted and I missed it and if you don't want to be tagged, let me know!

[itsmebytch001]

The Final Straw:

Note: You ever see Mommy Dearest? That's Diana 100%

As like every Friday afternoon in the billowing NYC winter Aaron would escort you to the designated Deli round 11th street trecking through the snow in your giant furry coat wait with you for about half an hour before Diana turned up and then wave you goodbye as you both dissapeard round the corner. Then when he was lone he would tidy the house, catch up on his mechanics and catch up with Miles, but once the quite set in and Aaron was remined how alone he was in the house he would usually go out night walking until early hours once his hands went blue, but this weekend was different.

With each passing weak you seemed more and more reluctant to go see Diana, you would cry and beg not to go, lock your bedroom door only for Aaron to pick the lock rather than kick it down, last week he literally had to carry you to the Deli as you refused to walk, and it wasn't like Aaron was unaware to Diana's antics, but whenever he asked you...

Aaron: "Baby, why don't you wanna go to your Moms?"

Y/n: "I don't want to talk about it I just can't go"

Aaron: "I cant go to the court-"

Y/n: "I am so sick of court I hate it there why can't I just stay here!"

Aaron: "Because that's not how it works, but if she's hurting you" He tried to place a hand on your shoulder only for you to shove it off.

Y/n: "She's not hurting me, I just don't wanna talk about it"

Even your Auntie Rio could not pry whatever was happening out of you even with all the bribary of new clothes shopping wasn't enough and so reluctanlty Aaron handed you over to Diana every Friday afternoon.

Meanwhile, while Aaron re- re organised his record collection, you were being pressed onto the floor by your own mother as she squashed your face onto the carpet she pulled out a pair of scissors and while your face met the soft ground and you cried and screamed for her to get off you felt the blunt end of the blade on your neck and she began to snip taking off a large clump of your hair as you thrashed under your Mother.

Diana: "You think your so pretty? So pretty, you think your gorgeous you stupid ungrateful little bitch!" She screamed lifting your head only to slap it back onto the carpet floor.

Y/n: "Please Mommy stop!"

Diana: "I Put up with you all weekend, and you come back and every week!" She again slammed you head into the carpeted floor.

Diana: "And I make you pretty, I do your hair I make you beautiful and you throw it all away!" She's crying, you can feel her tears hit your face as she continues to snip.

Diana: "You wanna look like your father?!"

Y/n: "NO! MOMMY NO!" Diana: "WE'LL SEE HOW PRETTY YOU ARE MATCHING THE BALD BASTARD!"

Y/n: "NOOO!" You screached out as you slipped out from under her, making a run for it down the hall and turning the door knob.

Diana: "GET BACK HERE YOUNG LADY!"

oh no oh no oh no

Just as the front door opens you feel her hand whisk past your head and you bolt down the hallway and out of the building, and as soon as you found yourself outside you knew you should have picked up your coat before dashing out, or at least put on more than your Pyjamas, onlookers observed you treking it back through the snow with no shoes on and with your hands under your armpits for warmth, it was so cold that your tears were freezing in the wind, you only got two blocks away before you heard police sirens, you froze on the spot only to turn to your right and see a familair face looking back at you in the darkness.

Jeff: "...Y/n?"

Y/n: "Oh...hey Uncle Jeff"

Jeff: "What are you doing ou- ARE YOU WEARING SHOES?!"

Y/n: "No..I didn't have time to put them on"

Jeff: "oh god Get in the car Y/n"

Y/n: "...I am in trouble?"

Jeff: "No No of course not just get in the car"

Y/n: "Can I sit in the front?"

Jeff: "Yes now come on in the car before you get frost bite"

And so once he opened the door you sat with your Uncle in the front of the police cruiser, wrapped in his winter coat like a baby in a blanket, you and Uncle Jeff never had a fantastic relationship so the drive was awfully awkward, though you did feel fancy fir being able to sit in the front of a police cruiser. As he drove in the direction of Diana's building your breathing became quick as your heart banged against your chest.

Y/n: "You can't take be back, I can't go back"

Jeff: "I'm not taking you back sweetie this is just the way back home"

Y/n: "...are you sure?"

Jeff: "Yes baby"

Jeff: "Did she cut your hair?"

Y/n: "No...I did"

Now, you never covered for your Mom out of love, only out the fear of how she may react, and what might happen to her if you really let the truth be told about how unhinged she could truly be.

Jeff: "Uh huh, you sure about that?"

Y/n: "Yeah, I used her scissors though"

Jeff: "Why did you only cut off one pig tail then? Is that a new trend, like a half n half look?"

why must he try and be funny, Just go on with it.

Y/n:" yes...This is a trend"

Jeff: "Y/n...You know you can tell us anything?"

Y/n: "I know"

Once you finally made it to Uncle Jeff's house where Miles was already asleep Rio was hysterically warming you up, making you tea, turning up the heating and pouring you a boiling hot bath that stinged to climb inside. And while you sat in the boiling bath your Auntie Rio cupped hot water in her hands and poured it onto your back in silence tutting to herself as she looked over your slightly bruised left cheek and half cut hair while Jeff in the next room called your father.

Calling Aaron Davis

Ring

Ring

Aaron: "Hello?"

Jeff: "Hey, uh so, Y/n's here"

Aaron: "What? Why isn't she at her Mom's?"

Jeff: "Well, uh we found her down her street barefoot"

Aaron: "What?! I-Jesus, oh my God okay, she she okay?"

Jeff: "Rio's got her in the bath...She's gone really quite I think she's in shock"

Aaron: "Okay, Okay I'll be over in ten"

And once Aaron got to the Morales home he saw you asleep curled up on the couch wearing a giant adult top. He sat next to you and rubbed your back lightly not wanting to wake you he whispered over to Jefferson.

Aaron: "What the fuck happened?!"

Jeff: "I don't know, I just found her wandering"

Rio: "I could not pry it out of here, I tried but she would not talk"

Aaron: "I can't...what happened to her hair?" He lightly pulled your hair to see half of it simply gone.

Jeff: "She said she did it, said it was a trend"

Rio: "I dout that, look at her"

Aaron: "It was Diana, this the type of thing she would do...I can't hand her over next week I won't"

Jeff: "Maybe File for emergency full custody, this will be enough to demand it"

Aaron: "Yeah...yeah" He mumbled stroking your head.

Aaron: "Ya'll mind if we sleepover, I don't wanna wake her"

Rio: "Of course" She nodded as she and Jeff made themselves back to their bedroom and Arron sprawled himself on the couch next to you, taking off his jacket and placing in on top of you.

Requets are open!

[wrightingdungeon]

Dear Diary

Evelyn and George, I love them so much.

ANGST! GET YOUR ANGST HERE!

POV Evelyn’s Diary - shes 19/20 RN - WILL HAVE TIME SKIPS - None of this is cannon beside pop pop blowing up - BTW George still blows himself up oop - Imagine getting snips of her Diary not the whole book - Im not sorry for how I end this - fight me

I did make a kinda sequel right here featuring Alex a lot more angst over here "The Past Reborn"

Today is Spring, 8, 1965.

While working in the clinic today, a miner came in, but he wasn't like the other miners. He almost dropped his cap taking it off while trying to introduce himself. His name is George, and he came in for an injury on his hand. The rope he was holding had slipped from his grip, causing a severe rope burn across his palm.

He apologized for tracking coal dust into the clinic, which no miner has ever apologized for before. I don't think their mothers explained how hard it is to get coal dust out of the bed sheets, but it's my job, so I shouldn't complain much. I just hope George will be okay. I told him he should inform his foreman that it's doctor's orders he not work until his hand heals completely.

Today is Spring, 12, 1965

The doctor was out of town today, having a call outside of town. The clinic ran as usual, although I had to tell some people to return tomorrow to see the doctor. Despite a few cases, today was a good day. Mr. George came back, and his hand has healed phenomenally. It still has a bit more healing to do, but it doesn't look like it will leave a bad scar.

I must admit, when I was holding his hand and inspecting his burn, I couldn't help but feel light-headed. George is not a bad-looking man, and his smile is so kind, His miner's cap always tosses his brown hair, and his eyes always have a twinkle in them. I’m afraid I’m a horrid nurse, feeling these things for someone in my care.

Today is Spring, 20, 1965.

George came by the clinic today. His hand looked better, but that wasn't the reason he came. He brought me a bundle of tulips, thanking me for all the care I had given him. I'm looking at them in my window right now, and I can't help but smile. He is such a kind man. I can't quite figure out how he knew what flowers I fancy, but does that matter? They are so beautiful.

I am sad, though, because George's hand has healed fully, and now he has no reason to come to the clinic. I should be happy—he's healed, and I did my job—but my heart aches knowing I won't see his smile or his twinkling eyes again. Like I said, I must be a horrid nurse.

Today is Summer, 4, 1965

I saw George again today. I was at the market shopping for dinner when I reached for a leek, and my hand touched his. His laughter is much more boisterous than his voice, which was a pleasant surprise. It's nice discovering things about him—he is like a book I don't want to put down.

He offered to cook me dinner as a proper thank you for helping him. I should have said no, but I said yes. Now, I'm sitting here, terrified to go to his home. I've never had anyone other than my mother cook for me. My heart is fluttering.

Today is Summer, 13, 1965

I have heard the number thirteen is unlucky, but I believe it to be lucky. This evening, I heard a knock at my door. It was George, dressed nicely with his hair neatly fixed. He handed me flowers and asked me out to a gridball game.

What do I wear? I want to impress George. I haven't been on a date before.

The date went so well! George's team won, and he was so happy. We got sorbet afterward to celebrate, and George took my hand in his as we walked. I really do believe the number thirteen is lucky.

Today is Summer, 28, 1965

It has been two weeks of me and George going steady, and it feels like a dream. When George finishes his shift in the mines, he comes to the clinic and walks me home. He is such a gentleman, nothing like the other miners I have met. Tonight was just magical. As George walked me to the door, I could tell something was off. His hands sweat when he is nervous, and I swear they were dripping.

He looked at me, his face as red as a beet, and asked if he could kiss me. His lips are soft and warm. It's embarrassing to admit, but his mouth does taste like cigarettes. Oh, I think I am in love, and I don't know what to do.

Today is Winter, 20, 1965

I can't believe it… George asked me out again today. He took me to the cliff to watch the sunset. He was sweating again and refused to look at me. When I asked him what was wrong, he just caged up further. I thought he was breaking up with me, but then he grabbed me as I got up to leave. His words fumbled over each other, and he almost fell over as he rushed to his knee.

George proposed to me. He told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever met and that he couldn't stop thinking about me since he burned his hand with that rope. I'm so excited—I'm going to be George's wife soon. I just wish Mother was still with me so she could see this.

Today is Fall, 14, 1970

I can't sleep. George had an accident today at the mines. It was terrible; they had to rush him to the city. The doctor sent me home, saying I was a wreck. I can't stop crying, picturing him covered in blood and bruises on the operating table. Someone said he dropped dynamite. Please, Yoba, don't take my George. After losing my parents, he's all I have. I can't bear to be alone again. He's my everything—the love of my life. The house feels empty without him. Every corner holds memories of him, and I can't imagine life without him. Yoba, you've always answered my prayers. Please, I was so alone after Mother and Father passed, please don't take him from me as well.

Today is Spring, 2, 1971

They finally allowed George to come home from the hospital, albeit in a wheelchair. But that doesn't matter to me. What matters is that he's home and on the mend. It's a new chapter for both of us, one filled with challenges and uncertainties. Sometimes, George can be a bit rude, but I can see the fear in his eyes.

I made a promise to stand by him no matter what: for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. And I intend to keep that promise. I'll be there for George, caring for him and cherishing our time together, no matter what lies ahead.

Today is Winter, 2, 1976

This is a happy day! Me and George weren't sure I could become pregnant, but I am! We are so excited to see our child. George has been working in the nursery non-stop, making sure he can care for our baby, not allowing that wheelchair to stop him. I have decided on two names: Clara for a daughter and Coy for a son. I don't care what we have; I know they will be perfect.

Today is Summer, 10, 1977

Clara is perfect. With George's rich brown hair and my green eyes, she's a sight to behold. Despite her small stature, her eyes hold the same glimmer of curiosity as her father's. I know she will cause all kinds of trouble as she grows up just like her father.

As I watch George cradle her with such gentleness, his protective gaze never leaving her, and the tears of love that well up in his eyes as he whispers soothing words to her, I'm reminded once again of how blessed I am to have him by my side. In moments like these, it's crystal clear that I've married the most wonderful man.

Today is Summer, 13, 2000

I knew the number thirteen was lucky. Today, our grandson Alex was born. As I held him in my arms, I couldn't help but notice how much he resembled his mother, right down to the tiny button nose that mirrored hers when she was born. George was worried about Clara, complaining that everyone was here to see just Alex and not his baby girl. He has always been such a good father; he will be the best grandfather as well.

Looking at my family as it has grown, I’ve gone from an empty home after my parents passed, to a husband, a daughter, and now a son-in-law and a beautiful grandson. I love my family dearly and can't wait for the years ahead of us.

Fall, 16, 2004 This page is heavily tear stained

We took Alex for the day taking him to the fair as Clara wanted him to experience it. I can't believe we got lucky enough to have Alex… George's scream echoes in my mind… Did he scream with that pain when he was blown up?

We thought the phone call was Clara telling us that they would be late picking up Alex. The phone call shattered our hopes—it was the Zuzu Highway Patrol delivering the tragic news. Clara and her husband are gone… Victims of a drunk driver on the wrong side of the road. They didn't survive.

But we have Alex…. We have to tell our four-year-old grandson he can't go home anymore… He can't see his Mother or Father ever again

Yoba, why didn't you shield them?

[pouralaura]

reflection

a small helping of psychosexual fluff featuring my Tav (Eris) and the devil she knows.

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

tags: femdom, roleplay, degradation, very light genderplay, oral sex, mention of pegging, the usual light foot stuff you know me for

Eris had worn her hair much longer when she was younger. Blue locks hung down past her shoulder blades at one time; she'd pull it up into a messy bun or plait it when active. Pain in the ass to maintain, honestly. On her twenty-seventh birthday she’d cut it into a wavy pixie. It suits her, she thinks. Easy, no fuss. Painless in the bath, too – long hair she’d have to tie up to use the boudoir’s vast, gaudy pool, but now she leans her head back comfortably against Raphael’s damp bicep, his arm laid out casually behind her, and doesn’t worry about getting her short hair wet. 

It's verging on too long, now, though. Tickles the nape of her neck in the worst way. Needs to be cut every two months or so, which is annoying, but at least it doesn’t take long to snip back into shape. She’ll do it when she returns to Baldur’s Gate tomorrow after finishing up her weekend stay at the House of Hope.

Eris pecks Raphael on the cheek – cherishing the ensuing slight upward quirk of his mouth – and climbs out of the pool, grabbing a soft towel from nearby to dry off. She’ll spend an hour or two curled up with a book while he lounges and casually carries out some revisioning work.

He pays her no mind as she busies herself with redressing, choosing to spread his other arm along the rim of the pool and lean his head back into a tasseled pillow, eyes closing in contentment. Satisfied as a cat; regal as a king.

Eris doesn't reach for her own tunic. Instead she pulls Raphael’s crisp, clean white shirt from the neat pile of their clothing on the plush chair next to the wardrobe and slides her arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up halfway and wearing nothing underneath. He likes this look on her, of course – what manner of man wouldn’t enjoy seeing his lover in his clothing? A mark of possession; a claim; a deed of ownership. Not that Raphael would ever assume to own her, of course; she’s long refused his offer to make her his consort, and estimates said offer isn’t up for review for at least another few years (lest he incur her wrath).

Something pushes her to pick up and don his doublet, too. With an ego the size of his, certainly he’ll delight in seeing both layers on her form. It's not just for him, either; Raphael’s overwhelming scent, sweet and smoldering, always stirs her – not that she's trying to be a fucking weirdo about it, but it is what it is – and she pulls the thick material closer, inhaling him.

The sloshing sounds of the water alert her to the man's presence nearing her, and Eris soon feels the heated press of his body at her back.

“Well, well. I have to commend you on your choice of attire.”

She leans her head back against his shoulder and smiles. “Perhaps you're rubbing off on me.”

“Oh, I have before, and I will again.” The double meaning in Raphael’s words is clear as he presses his naked hips against her rear and inclines his head to mouth at her neck, moving the high collars on the shirt and doublet out of the way. “I can be very persuasive.”

“Don’t I know it, with that sinful voice of yours. What was the line, again – oh, I remember –”

Eris turns in the devil’s arms to face him. 

“The mouse smiled brightly; it outfoxed the cat!” She pitches her voice a bit lower for the next line, remembering Raphael’s seductive, lilting delivery from their first meeting. “Then down came the claw; and that, love –” 

She leans in to kiss him lightly on the mouth, but he grips her hips with a bit more enthusiasm than she'd been expecting and groans softly at the press of her lips, opening his own underneath them. Eager tongue meets eager tongue and it's clear Eris’s earlier hypothesis on his opinion was well-founded.

“Ohhh,” she purrs as they part. “Do I make a fine enough Archdevil Supreme, devil mine?”

“Second only to the real thing,” he rumbles, sliding a hand beneath his unbuttoned white shirt inside the doublet she now wears to shamelessly grope at her breast.

“Haarlep will be terribly disappointed to hear that.”

“Haarlep isn't here. And what a gift that is.”

“Shall I continue, then? Model the rest of your handsome ensemble?”

“If you must,” he grouses, but his eyes are alight with interest. She knows that look very well.

Eris turns away from him as she slides his trousers on. Of slighter stature than her lover, she finds the waist too large and the legs too long, as expected – but a clean snap of Raphael’s fingers from behind her heralds a quick cinch around her hips and a loss of excess fabric around her ankles. (She’ll remember that the next time she needs something of hers hemmed.)

“How do I look?” she asks slyly, and turns back to find him flushed.

Ah. Well-founded, indeed. Terribly, terribly correct, she was. Marvelous.

“Put on your boots,” he demands. “Complete the picture.”

Eris does exactly that, stepping over to lean against the wardrobe behind her to pull each boot on rather than balance precariously on one foot – as the waves of arousal and tension emanating from him are palpable enough to nearly knock her over. When finished, she straightens and spreads her arms wide in an obscenely Raphael-like gesture of welcome.

“Well?”

For all the words the devil has at his disposal, all seem to fail him now. He still holds his head high, mighty like a king, but the deepening flush spreading down his neck and into the wiry hairs on his chest says more than any words would regardless. His cock had already been stirring against her when he’d pressed his hips to hers before; now it’s full and hard and heavy as he looks Eris up and down.

With forced steadiness, haughty tone more than a little patronizing despite his clear interest, he finally says, “It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror, my dear. Besides the obvious differences.”

Eris smiles, and now she's the one resembling the satisfied cat. “Perhaps another touch, I think –”

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

Victory.

Eris steps lightly, purposefully over to the ornate bed. Her voice is low again when she speaks after a moment. Smooth. Just like his.

“Then, come here…little mouse.”

As if hypnotized, Raphael comes to her slowly and deliberately. His pretty cock bobs thickly between his legs, flushed nearly as red as his cheeks. Upon reaching her, the devil says nothing, filling the silence with his shallow breaths and hesitant eye contact. Eris reaches out to touch his face, brushing fingertips softly, dangerously over his handsome jawline.

“Tell me how you'll indulge me today.”

Her lover takes a deep breath before responding, only the slightest of wavers discernible in a tone rough with arousal.

“I am yours…Archdevil Supreme.”

Eris’s heart thuds in her chest. 

“Get on your knees.”

And he obeys.

Despite having only just donned Raphael’s attire, Eris lets him undress her again now, noting only the smallest of tremors in his strong, elegant hands. He begins with her boots, pulling each one off gently and placing it to the side. She’d foregone footwraps in the interest of simplicity, so her feet are bared to him quickly – true to form, he lifts each one to his face, breathing in and out, heavy cock beginning to leak between his thighs onto the ornate rug beneath him. Presses his open mouth to each arch in turn, moistening her skin and lapping up the condensing droplets, salty and heady.

But as much as Eris loves to watch him fall apart underneath her heel, now’s not the time. She flexes her foot in his grasp, pushes her sole against his striking nose just hard enough that his head falls back. Sneers.

“There are better uses for your mouth, I think, than chasing your own sick cravings. Perhaps we ought to stuff it with cock.”

She’s not harnessed up right now; isn’t equipped with her pretty polished leather phallus her dangerous darling often desires so dearly; but this isn’t about fucking him. It’s about him worshiping her – as him. A narcissist’s fantasy. A perverse, masturbatory scene. The very flavor of deviance her handsome devil adores.

(She'll put her lovely faux cock down his throat another time, though.)

“Continue undressing me, and then we’ll discuss the terms of our agreement.”

Raphael scrambles to heed her request, unbuttoning his own trousers and pulling them eagerly down over the curves of Eris’s hips. Helps her step out of them so she’s wearing nothing below the waist. So he can see her pretty pink sex.

Bared, she studies him. His eyes are wide, pupils blown as he stares back. Hands clenched into tight fists on his knees. Beautiful cock so hard, so wanting, so desirous of himself and of her in tandem.

“Open.”

Eris slides two fingers onto Raphael’s tongue, pressing further and further back into his throat as he moans around them. Slips the other hand underneath his chin; makes him look up at her while she leisurely explores the inside of his wet mouth.

“A devil’s plaything, aren’t you? So obedient for me, sweet mouse.”

She leans back against the bed and brings her fingertips to her dripping slit, parting her delicate lips for him to see. Traces around her entrance with his saliva, thick between her digits.

“Suck me, girl.”

His mouth is between her legs faster than she can blink. So willing and pliant and needy and serving.

She hoists a knee up onto the bed to give him easier access, and to see his every move more clearly. Watches him reach for his cock. Buries a hand in his hair and yanks his head back. He whines. It’s indecent.

“What makes you think you can attend to your own pleasure? Did I grant you permission?”

“No, Your Grace,” he breathes, face shiny with her slick. “Accept my apologies.”

“Pathetic,” she sneers. “Tell me you won’t touch your cock again.”

“I won't touch my cock again.”

Rare that she can get him to obey so easily. So eagerly. He brats for her, as she does for him. It's how they’ve operated from the beginning – he likes a challenge, likes a fight. 

But, up against himself (in a manner of speaking)? 

Different.

Fascinating.

“Get back to work.”

For Eris, there is nothing like watching her devil chase his indulgence. She thrives on being the one he chooses to delight in; for all the years he's lived, he says, there is no sweeter nectar than that which drips from her honeyed cunt. His self-possessed hunger is unforgiving, and what use would she have, anyway, for forgiveness?

The act of giving oral pleasure is, by nature, a generous thing. But this is not how Raphael usually approaches it. He usually eats at Eris greedily, harsh tongue licking and savoring deeply. Pushes her, overstimulates her to the point of ache, nearly to the point of pain. Usually clutches at her soft hips and pulls her closer still, holds her in place for a sloppy and rampant feast. Usually makes a selfless act into a selfish one, making her pleasure an afterthought even when she’s the one riding his face and he's groaning, whimpering in delight beneath her, trapped so willingly between her thighs.

But now – now, with his own sex-laced tone painting his blue cherry’s words; with his own affectation and mannerism adorning her every move – Raphael is reverent with every stroke of his wicked tongue.

And the comparison, the juxtaposition, is fucked up. There’s a sick sort of pleasure in her gut, a depraved thrill at being worthy of the highest worship only when she’s playing as him. It’s demeaning and debasing for both of them: for him to be so plainly an egomaniac; for her to feel – to be – less than him, less than how he sees himself.

They’re both terribly pathetic, aren’t they?

The thought makes her shiver as the tension builds low in her belly, spurred on by Raphael’s loud and unrestrained sucks and licks at her core. She won’t be long. 

(Never is. But then again, neither is he.)

“Don’t you dare come before I do.” Threat is evident in her tone. She doesn’t expect he’ll last, even with her warning. 

And he doesn’t. Last, that is. Raphael shudders and pauses his ministrations briefly to spill onto the rug between them with a low groan, lips framing a single word, and the sight of him giving in sends a hot throb of arousal through Eris’s every godsdamned nerve. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, because he drags two fingers through his release, through the fibers of the carpet, and brings them to join his mouth at the apex of her legs. Slides them inside, lifting a bare thigh with his other hand to rest on his shoulder for leverage, and looks worshipfully up at her with a mouthful of her cunt as he carries her the rest of the way to her end and she comes on his tongue with a soft cry.

She knows his feelings for her match hers for him. She’s not stupid. The two of them wouldn’t be as they are if anything were different.

The single word on his lips was her name – as it always is – and she’d be an idiot to acknowledge it. He – they both – are too proud to speak of love, too stubborn to admit pride as a greater weakness than emotion.

This is enough, though, she thinks, as they curl into bed after another quick dip in the bath, after what feels like a thousand kisses she presses to his mouth. Raphael with furrowed brow, a draft and quill pen on his lap, spectacles on the tip of his nose; Eris with that book she’d promised herself earlier, too-long hair mussed in her usual style tickling the devil’s bare skin where her head rests on his shoulder.

This is enough for them.

[thegingerwrites]

De-aged Obi-Wan ficlet, inspired by this gorgeous art of Pada-Wan

Anakin stares. He is utterly and completely awestruck by the sight before him. He must look like a kid again, with wide eyes and his mouth fallen open. Barely controlling a panicked urge to laugh, Anakin thinks that he isn’t the only one. He can’t help it now though. This is too much. 

His hair is long. That’s the first thing Anakin notices about him. His master’s hair is often fairly long, reaching down to touch his shoulders at the back. On long missions, it can get longer, unruly, but he always makes himself cut it before it grows long enough to tie back. 

Now, his hair easily reaches his shoulders on all sides. It frames his face with soft waves that Anakin aches to touch, run his fingers through and push back behind his ears. Is it redder now, somehow? Did his hair grow blonder over time and as white hairs began to gather at the temples? 

Anyway, looking at his master’s hair is much safer than looking at his face—soft and smooth, beardless and entirely unlined. His master’s lips are a gentle petal-pink, a dangerous thought that Anakin forces from his mind the instant it occurs to him. It isn’t safe to think that kind of thing about his master, especially when he looks like this. 

But looking elsewhere isn’t any better. His robes are structured to be broad across the shoulders, trying to make him look bigger there, stronger and more certain. All it does is accentuate just how small his master’s waist is. If Anakin placed his hands there, he bets his fingertips would touch. 

The Sith holocron must have changed Obi-Wan, made him younger. But just how young is anyone’s guess. Anakin thinks, briefly bordering panic once again, that they must be almost the same age now. Obi-Wan is about the same height as he always is, just slimmer, his muscles less developed and his movements willowy. 

They are almost the same age now. The fact does not help Anakin as he continues to stare, continues to look his fill at his young and beautiful master. 

“We have to go back,” Anakin says, still looking at Obi-Wan. 

Obi-Wan’s brow furrows, creating lines on his forehead that will one day become permanent. “We can’t—the entrance is blocked. Even if we could get past it, the whole cave system is likely unstable.”

But they need that holocron. They need to get Obi-Wan back to himself again. There is no way his master can be allowed to go on looking like that. Stars, all he’s doing is standing there, worrying his bottom lip—perhaps a normal tick for him, but one that is usually hidden by his beard—and the way it makes his perfect, soft pink lips go shiny with spit is indecent. Everything about him is obscene. 

Anakin takes a moment and decides on his orders. “Snips, see if you can scan the cave system. Rex, gather the men and get ready to excavate the entrance.”

“Anakin, there’s no need. I’m fine and we have to think of our mission here. I’ll comm the Council and have them start working on a solution. By the time we return to Coruscant, I’ll be myself again.” He frowns and thinks for a moment. “Though I suppose I feel rather like myself right now.”

Obi-Wan looks like he’s contemplating the benefits of remaining eighteen or nineteen for an extended period of time and Anakin has to put a stop to that line of thought right now. 

“You’ll be a liability,” Anakin insists. “Your body isn’t the same as your older self. You won’t be as good in a fight.”

Obi-Wan crosses his arms and fixes him with a look that Anakin can only describe as petulant. Kriff, was his master a brat at this age? Anakin wants to bite his young master’s pretty bottom lip. “It will take some getting used to, I grant you, but I’m hardly defenseless.”

No, not defenseless, but Anakin is prepared to fight the entire galaxy to keep anyone else from seeing his master like this. It’s like he doesn’t know what he looks like, the thoughts people are going to have about him, the thoughts Anakin is currently struggling with. 

But he does have a point. They were never meant to get so derailed by the ruins of the Sith temple. Their mission awaits.

“Fine,” Anakin says. Then he shrugs off his cloak and holds it out to Obi-Wan. “At least wear this.”

Maybe if Anakin obscures his master’s irresistible little waist and gets him to pull the hood up, he won’t have to fend off any unwanted eyes. Unwanted by Anakin, that is. Obi-Wan is Anakin’s master. No one gets to look at him or think about him the way Anakin is currently doing. 

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes but accepts the cloak and oh, no, Anakin has made a terrible mistake. The cloak is too big and it swallows Obi-Wan’s smaller frame. The sleeves are too long and there is too much fabric gathered up around his shoulders. His face peers out above the mass of brown fabric and he looks so adorable that Anakin can hardly stand it. 

“I’m going to go check on Ahsoka,” Anakin declares. There is no way they are leaving here without that karking holocron. “And you’re coming with me.”