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clarawatson · 3 years

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It Only Takes A Taste (3)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x [Fem]!Reader (GN pronouns, fem coded stuff, but I’m not sure where this is going as a larger work so we’ll say Fem!reader to be safe) Summary: Jack comes for dinner, I guess. W/C: 2345 Warnings: none yet! A/N: this one got a little long, oopsies. AO3 Where am I in this series? 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

The bed had been so warm and comfortable you hadn't wanted to get out, but the thought of seeing Aaron again made your heart grow three sizes. You'd been texting back and forth for the last couple of days, just small awkward stuff. He likes to text emojis. He's precious. Of course he's precious.

He comes in as you're serving your first customer of the night—a sobbing thirty-year-old man who can't even order his pie without spluttering in tears. Is it favouritism to get excited by Aaron turning up? Yes. Is it worth it? Yes.

"Hello," you smile. There's a hundred things you could have called him, but he's too cute and your brain doesn't want to work.

"Hi," he grins back. "Can I have a coffee, please. Here."

"Yes you can." Aaron splits his bill between the counter and the tip jar. "How was your day, Aaron?"

"Boring paperwork. Couldn't concentrate."

Concern furrows your eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"

"Huh? No! I kept thinking about seeing you." There's that sunshine smile again. You might even match it yourself. He points to the cake that's still in the display tin. He's in earlier in the night than usual, so there's a lot more range to choose from. "Is that carrot cake?"

"Sure is. Do you want some?"

"Please."

You serve him a slice and let the coffee machine splutter and fight with you. He stabs his cake with his fork and looks like he has an out of body experience the moment the cream cheese icing hits his tongue. That's a face you want to see again under different circumstances.

"Joe?"

"Me! And Joe's recipe. I sort of mixed it together and prayed."

"Then mark me a religious man." Aaron smiles. You can't held but smile back at him.

"It's a bit early for you to be in," you say. It's not an issue, just means you got the earlier shift. Finishing at 1am instead of 7am. Plus, Aaron looks nice in the daytime. Very nice. The afternoon light suits him.

"Didn't have a case," he shrugs.

You've googled him since getting his business card. “Supervisory Agent Aaron Hotchner, Section Chief of the BAU”. The fuck did that even mean? BAU was the Behavioural Analysis Unit, which was still mainly a mystery, but you think it’s maybe just an over-glorified way of saying ‘they look inside people’s heads and hope for the best’. He’s got a handful of news reports that you’ve practically memorised.

Okay, that’s a little obsessive. Don’t admit that to him.

He wasn’t the ‘untouched by darkness’ that you’d thought of him before, his work face held all the darkness his smile did not. You hoped you never had to see the serious man who stood before the cameras.

“How’s Rita?” Aaron asks. He’s cut the top off his carrot cake, saving it for later. He looks at it longingly every now and then, then he scoops just a little bit of the cream cheese and lets it rest on his tongue.

“She’s good. Restless. She’s happy for the due date to arrive.” She’d also asked you to be the baby’s godparent. Rather forcefully, actually, it had felt a bit strange. That was the only reason you hadn’t jumped at the opportunity. You’d do anything for Rita, but saying yes in that instant would had felt strange. Almost… wrong, maybe.

Aaron knows you’re thinking about it. He puts his fork down and shifts in his chair, waiting for you to continue. He doesn’t fill the silence between the two of you. You think about telling him, but then Lola’s bustling through the door and grabbing her apron.

“Hot stuff, when can I go for a smoke break?” is the first thing Lola says to you. She pulls chewing gum out of her mouth (yes, pulls. She sticks her fingers in her mouth and pulls it out as far as it will go without snapping) and Aaron moves his cake around his plate a bit. Does he not like it? Don’t be silly, he asked for it. Requested it. Whatever. You put his three cookies into a plastic bag and slide it across the counter to him.

“Lola you only just came in.”

“But I want to know,” she whines like she’s a teenager with an after school job, not a thirty-five-year-old woman who works at the diner full time. “Hey, Rita’s been acting weird, right? Is that a pregnancy thing, or?” Lola rubbed her nose on the back of her wrist and sniffs. An action you’re all too familiar with by now, and of course she was doing illegal substances in the bathroom before she started her shift when there’s a legitimate federal agent in the diner.

“Oh,” Lola says as she looks at Aaron. She looks at you, raises her eyebrows, and nods like she’s impressed. “I take back telling Rita she was a liar." Even without knowing the context of Rita and Lola's conversation, you know Rita had told Lola how pretty/handsome/gorgeous Aaron is. "I’m going to go clean some tables.”

She grabs the cleaning supplies and heads out into the dining area. The door swings open, banging against one of the booths, and you’re immensely glad Lola doesn’t scream 'watch it’ at them. A curly haired blonde woman (gorgeous, mind you) touches Aaron’s shoulder and he sits up straight, smiling, and your heart plummets a little bit. Just the tiniest amount.

“Jack insisted we switch over here before I go to parent/teacher interviews.” As if on queue, a well mannered, sandy-haired boy sits next to Aaron and grins too much like Aaron. Aaron’s son. You can put two and two together. Profiler or not.

“How was school?” Aaron asks. Jack shrugs.

“It was school.” He learnt that from his dad, there’s no question.

“Well, in that case. Jack, this is my friend Y/n. Y/n, this is Jack.” Jack extends a hand to shake in greeting and looks really shy about it. You shake it quickly so he doesn’t feel like a kid who’s been roped into doing adult things. There’s a pile of colouring-in pages Joe’s printed off at the local library beneath a cup of crayons that Jack’s eyeing off.

You grab a sheet and a crayon, raising an eyebrow in invitation as you turn around to Jack.

“Yes please,” he says, grin growing across his face. “Thank-you.”

“You’re welcome. Wonderful manners.” Jack grins even bigger and you think he, too, might combust just like his dad. Stardust! That’s the movie you were thinking of. When Yvaine sees Tristan she shines, literally, the star inside of her just can’t be contained. That’s Aaron and Jack, and the way they look when they smile.

Aaron’s sister-in-law looks at you with a cocked head, like a curious cat. Like she’s waiting to pounce. But… curiously pounce. Like she's sussing you out. She extends a hand in greeting.

“Jess. Aaron’s talked about you.”

There’s no response but to look sheepish. This seems to greatly please Jess, who smiles softly and rubs the back of Aaron’s head affectionately. They have a long history together, it’s too familial to be just a relationship born through marriage.

“I’ll see you later then, Rockstar,” Jess says.

“Bye,” Aaron and Jack say together. Aaron rests his cheek on his hand, watching you as Lola hands you three orders she’s taken while you’ve been talking to Aaron. Jack leans over and whispers to Aaron about his homework (it’s a whisper that belongs on a stage) as you wrestle with the coffee machine.

It’s been grinding it’s way down to not working for a while now. Ever since you met Aaron, actually. Joe’s said he’s going to fix it, or get a new one, but everyone’s in a state of non-commital until Rita has her baby.You’ve got no idea why, it’s just the way things are. Good luck, maybe? Or luck in general?

Somehow you get Aaron talking about Shakespeare. It might have been Jack’s doing, to be completely honest, but one moment you’re trying to make the froth… well, froth… and the next you're listening to Aaron talk animatedly about Othello. Jack's young enough to not think his Dad's passion is embarrassing.

"Have you watched Othello?" Jack asks, a question that Aaron's neglected to ask you. "I'm not old enough to yet."

"I haven't seen that one yet, but I've seen Much Ado About Nothing."

"Is that the one with the olive gardens?" Jack asks. Aaron frowns, eyes searching for the answer in that big beautiful minds tonight.

"Yes," he says finally. "That was the one with the olive trees."

Jack giggles. "There was kissing in that movie."

"Lots of it," Aaron agrees. You're not sure you're talking about the same film, but it's cute to see the two of them interact.

"With the guy who plays Lockhart in the second Harry Potter movie?" You ask. Jack laughs just like his father. It's all light and mirth. He nods in confirmation.

"His name is Kenneth," Jack says like he's familiar with him. When Aaron smiles, you know Jack's his whole world.

It’s not long before Aaron realised he’d brought Jack in without asking if he wanted anything. The afternoon rush had died down, leaving you in the space between out-of-work and dinner. You make the most chocolate-y hot chocolate you can for Jack when Aaron says he can have one. Well, Jack says the best bit is the froth, so it’s more child-size-hot-chocolate-in-an-adult-mug-full-of-froth. Jack loves it. He slurps at the chocolate, which leaves a giant frothy mustache over his top lip that won’t go away no matter how much he licks at it.

When he’s done you let him come around to the kitchen to wash his face, because no amount of wet napkins is going to fix that mess. Jack can’t reach the sink, so you fashion a step out of old milk and bread crates. Joe gives him cake batter to taste before realising that he actually has no idea who Jack is. Aaron watches from the kitchen door with a smile on his face. You don’t catch it until Jack jumps off the crates and takes your hand, leading you back out. Aaron’s fingers brush your hand as you pass him. Electricity sparks between the two of you that's completely unavoidable. The two of you recoil involuntarily.

Aaron gives you a small smile of apology. You give exactly the same one back. Lola legitimately gasps like she too felt the electricity between the two of you. Surely that was just something that happened in movies? Or in books? That’s not a real thing, right? But Aaron brushes past you again, as if he’s making sure as well, and it’s there again. Only it’s like your whole arm becomes pins and needles, not just a quick lightning spark.

If it’s like that every time you’re with him, your not sure you could even go beyond lusting after him and giving him coffee and meals every now and then. Aaron drops his gaze, then follows Jack to the front of the counter.

They stay for dinner (because Jack insists, he wants the nachos) but the rush comes early and there’s really not much time to talk to them, so you almost miss them leaving. Almost. You’re serving the angry couple at table three (are they angry at you, or each other? Who knows, you don’t, but they’re taking it out on you) when Jack taps your hip.

He’s very patient as you finish the order (somehow you figure out what they want between the curse words) and bend down to him. He hands you a folded piece of paper.

“This is for you,” he says. “I did it.” You’re about to unfold it, but he insists that it belongs in your apron pocket until you can look at it with no rush. That’s a kid who knows what it’s like to have a very busy parent. So you tuck it away safely and mess with his hair, which makes him grin from ear to ear.

“See you later!” Jack yells as he runs to Aaron, who’s waving goodbye with a doggy bag full of Jack’s unfinished dinner.and his keys between his fingers.

“I’ll see you later,” he mouths as the noise in the diner starts to rise. Without thinking you blow him a kiss, which he catches effortlessly and kisses the fist closed around it before slipping out.

When you get to the kitchen Lola’s already in the midst of teasing you.

“You like him,” she says with all the confidence in the world. There’s not point denying her, so you just nod. It’s met by a chorus of ‘ooo’s which, to be honest, you really didn’t need. It made the diner feel far too small.

When everything dies down you remember the paper Jack had given you. You wipe the milk and spaghetti sauce off the counter, then make sure it’s dry, and unfold Jack’s page. It’s the generic colouring page Joe’s printed out, but Jack’s tried to make the generic waitress look like you. Well, you if you had purple hair and green skin. It’s a start, you guess, there’s an apology from Aaron on the back. Makes it worth it.

You move a couple of postcards on the corkboard aside and put Jack’s picture there instead. Joe pretends not to notice, but when Lola goes out the back with one of her customers, Joe comes round the front and presses a finger to the page.

“Good kid,” Joe says. He nods a couple of times then turns to you. “You know he and his dad come as a package, right? You fuck up one, you fuck up both.” Joe’s first wife had three kids that weren’t biologically his. He’s still mad at himself for not taking the kids seriously and only turning up for their mom.

“I know,” you say.

Joe strokes your cheek as he passes and kisses your forehead. It’s all the praise you need.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#It Only Takes a Taste #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #Diner!AU

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jenuminous · 5 years

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erode

na jaemin | 6.6k ↬ that summer night’s almost gone, but you’re still going to be here, right? maybe he should’ve started realizing when he got nosebleeds every now and then. maybe if you could’ve handled everything much better, maybe. maybe he would’ve stayed longer, or happier. ↬ song x

angst, fluff, short enemies to lovers! au ↬ terminally ill! jaemin x fem! reader ↬ descriptions of illness, blood, death, and... uh angsty stuff.

Surely, the summer heat was deadly. Squinting your eyes from the directed sunlight, you decided to turn your back towards it completely (as if that would help). Blinking your eyes a few time to get used to the shade of your hand, you realized; the boy was staring at you again. Unlike his friends who were energetically running on the grass field, he was sitting on the bench — positioned at the very edge of the field, behind a fence wall — sipping onto his daily pitch black Americano (you weren’t even sure if it was Americano at all).

Despite the hatred of his attention, Jaemin never failed to engross you, his snickering smile flashing when your eyes met.

Na Jaemin, that senior boy who was coaching the junior soccer team with you due to the teacher’s recommendation for this season. It wasn’t your first time this season to encounter Jaemin; you had several classes with him since freshman years, and this year wasn’t much different.

What a teacher’s pet, you thought to yourself, comparing yourself who ran around to three of the gym teachers just to get this role.

Whenever you met his eyes, he always had that cheeky, innocent smile beaming right away — which, most of the girls swooned — while you gagged in reply. Weirdo. If anyone asked you to list who Jaemin was, you would. Just that it wasn’t in the most delightful way. Some of your friends called you immature, keeping that childish jealous ongoing but you had proper reasons why you didn’t really find fond of him; well, you had three, to be exact.

One, he flirts around with everyone too much and too well. Sure, he can be just a sweet boy in the inside but it wasn’t just your type (I mean, not everyone can be friends with everyone, you always reasoned with a shrug).

“I got it,”

“I’m not as weak as you see,”

Second, he’d just show up randomly and finish all your jobs, always there to get the compliments and titles while you just had to stand there, biting your lips to hide your emotions and idiotically smile. It wasn’t you who had less of the required skills, it was just him who was over expectation for everything. And that wasn’t fair. (Fine, I’m jealous, you would admit sheepishly among your friends as they eyes dreamily over to Jaemin who was walking with his group of friends during lunch.)

“You really don’t like the sun, huh?”

“It’s something called cooling down. I’ve been running around unlike someone.”

“I mean the kids can do the running themselves. I thought we only needed to shout and show off some skills on the spot.”

Last but not least, three, the way he made everything sound so easy.

“I’m sorry that I don’t have as much leadership as you,” You hoped that your glare explained your annoyance pretty well by now. Jaemin should’ve known by now, how much both of them didn’t go along despite being the coaches of the same team. You were just thankful by how the kids followed both of you equally, or else you would’ve decided to drop out of this team, leaving everything to Jaemin (and that wouldn’t really be a nice reputation). Irritatingly enough, despite you keeping lists of reasons why I hate you 101, Jaemin always snuck up to you with his same greasy smile (and your relationship didn’t seem to get any better or even getting to anywhere).

“Would you like something to drink?”

It didn’t take you a while to recognize that voice. He was standing there again with a wide grin, and you still couldn’t establish whether he was just being naive or if he was just here to irritate you more. You always believed that it was the second option without a doubt.

“What is all that?”

In his hands, there were at least 5 different kinds of drinks, all of them sweating cold from the unexpected summer heat. Thank god none of them seemed to be toxic as his coffee, you thought for yourself as you examined the cans one by one. Wasting a good 10 bucks on the vending machine, you thought for yourself.

“I have my own water bottle too, you know.” Your head turned away swiftly as you resumed organizing the reservation of the fields next week (because somehow the juniors and seniors always get into a fight for who’s going to get the south or north field for practice). It was the nicest way you would decline him, and you weren’t lying either. Ignoring his presence you scooped up your backpack as you walk past him, only to let Jaemin follow you behind. Often these days, you’d start finding the resemblance between Jaemin and a puppy; the way his eyes gleamed by just looking at him, the energetic smiles, and how he would constantly follow you around. That was it, nothing more or nothing less.

“Yeah, I know but everyone needs something sweet. Especially after working out,” Jaemin stood in front of you, blocking your ways of escape, eager to make you choose one of the offers. You always detested how Jaemin always had a point, recalling how much of a try-hard he was during debate class. Without looking much deeply, you just took one of the cans, figuring out you picked one of your least favorites. Must be destined to hate him, you thought for yourself as you opened up the drink with the fresh, clicking sound as you hear gentle sizzles. You sighed gently at his gleaming eyes of expectations, circling the can in your hands before proceeding an awkward conversation.

“Alright then, thanks.”

“Do you walk this way?”

“Why do you ask?” The cherry flavored pop melted in a sizzle on your tongue, itching your throat a little. “I don’t know. I just wanted to spend more time with you.”

You halted halfway before chugging down the rest of the drink in confusion. Maybe the cherry flavored pop wasn’t bad as it was before. Or it was he who did something with it. You were assured it was most likely the second option.

Again, he was standing over there, waiting for you at your locker. Maybe next time you should use your friend’s locker to stack your heavy textbooks in. And like any other days, despite your ignorance, he kept on following you from behind. You spun around, just to realize how close he was following behind, swallowing nervously at the sudden distance.

“Why the hell are you following me?”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“Why do you think?” At your retort, Jaemin shrugged nonchalantly, contrasting from his furrowed eyebrows in confusion while still looking at you. You also hated this expression of his.

“I don’t know, must be a reason why I’m asking,”

“Well then, your answer is everything.”

“Well then, I’m willing to change that.” Never have once Jaemin ever lost against you verbally and you loathed to admit it, only making huff in exasperation.

“Prove me then,” at your words Jaemin just smiled cheeky, holding your hand as he unlocked your phone without hesitation, clicking onto several number keypads. He seemed to be very used to doing this kind of actions, unlike you who stared back at him with confusion.

“What was that for?”

“My phone number?” Retrieving your phone from him, Jaemin only smiled widely as he saved your phone number, the spreading smile only adding suspiciousness to you. Unlikely your concern, you let out an airy laugh as you fixed his name to something more simple (Jaemin quite complained that you took out the heart emoji).

“You know that you just added one more reason to hate you, right?”

“Sure, but I’ll make you scratch that out later.”

Soccer seasons has been officially over, yet Jaemin has still been texting you, calling you, always somehow finding you in those large hallways (not that you hated it). You didn’t really need someone to call out how much you've become closer with Jaemin. Just by the history of contacts, everyone could tell (obviously, the recent was always Na Jaemin’s).

The number of times Jaemin visited your house (or the other way around) was more frequent compared to your friends, and it became too natural to find the odds of it. Maybe you could find a few odds; him hugging you out of nowhere, him always cooking you something simple or fancy (there was no in-between), how all of a sudden you realized you have piles of his hoodies in your closet. You’d wear them often to school, only buying a look from Jaemin (his eyebrow raised up and mouth opened in astonishment).

[Are you going to take him to prom?] At Donghyuck’s question scribbled on the scrap paper, you couldn’t help but scoff at it. Lucky that it was a sub today, who was on his phone, too indifferent about the projects you were assigned.

[take who? isn’t this too early to talk about prom]

[who else? plus the tickets are on sale]

Feeling an instant burn across your face as you hurriedly scrunched the paper into a ball, glaring at Donghyuck who had a cheeky smile on. And Donghyuck was right; as soon as you arrived at the cafeteria with him, there was a big poster with ‘take your prom tickets!’ in big bold letters so that everyone — not only the graduating years — could see. By the sharp pain by your ribs, you turn to glare Donghyuck, the skirmish detained as soon as your eyes caught Jaemin walking down the stairs with Jeno.

“Fuck you, Lee Donghyuck.”

“You’ll thank me later though,”

You felt a sudden tug when Jaemin met your eyes, his signature smile gradually blooming as he walked up towards you. His footsteps were taken in slow motions, your mind instantly drawing him in a suit, gradually waltzing you around the dance floor.

Must be going mad, you thought to yourself, snapping out as soon as Jaemin started a lively conversation.

“So, are you gonna go?” Jaemin was eyeing the poster from time to time, and he swallowed nervously. What was this supposed to mean? You thought with another dizzy feeling zapping across your mind, keeping you hard to track where the conversation was going. You studied the crowd formed around the poster, familiar faces already purchasing with delighted faces.

“I don’t know. Maybe not with a partner I guess,”

It was true. You were planning on just going with Donghyuck, Jeno and maybe Jaemin for the prom, just as a group of friends. There was a mixture of relief and concern in Jaemin’s face, but you couldn’t guess which side he was leaning more to.

“Do you have a partner yet?” It was a brisk question to stop the awkward silence held between, but there was a strange feeling inside your heart while asking, your heart sinking down a little when you see an unknown smile — a smile you’ve never seen on him before — on his face as he takes his own time in his imaginations.

“I don’t know. Y/n, what’s your plan this weekend?”

“What?”

“It’s just that, well, do you want to go out with me this Wednesday?”

Jaemin woke up in the middle of that night, covered in cold sweat as he tried to push away the nightmare he has been dreaming. His hand automatically made its way, groping to his neck, massaging gently as he coughed continuously towards his elbow.

No blood.

There was a glimpse of a smile, then it withered away quickly. Jaemin hated how he relieved on these signs of no symptoms, how he is filled with sparks of joy with something that should be normal to everyone else.

Maybe, maybe I’m getting better.

Looking around the deadly silent room, Jaemin realized he has fallen asleep for quite a time when it was only supposed to be a short nap. His eyes tumbled around to find his water bottle, realizing his mother have already taken to wash it for tomorrow.

Fuck.

Jaemin swore as he tumbled out of his bed. Hitting flat against the cold tiles was harsher than his knowledge, couldn’t help but wince at the buzzing pain as he tried to get up. But something was off. It was way off. Jaemin blinked as his mind went blank, hands stumbling to find support from his bed.

Wait, how did I walk again?

Jaemin tried to laugh it off and try again, just to authenticate that he couldn’t feel his legs completely. He felt icy cold chills traveling on his arms, letting Jaemin shiver.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. No, this, this shouldn’t be happening, this can’t, it’s unfair. It’s too soon.

All he wanted to do was to drink water to soothe his throat. Not to realize this. Fear crippled over him from his toe to his head, the shivers from earlier hitting back again, stimulating his heart to thump faster. Stifled from the sudden panic, Jaemin covered his eyes with his shaking arm, facing towards the ceiling as he swallowed thick. The tranquil silence swallowed him whole.

Everything was just so sudden, he thought he was alright.

Everyone thought he was gonna be alright.

We’ll try our best with helping him.

Maybe it was a better choice to give up on school and focus more on his recovery. No, scratch that out, Jaemin snapped to himself, clenching his hands into a fist. He met you, and there’s nothing better than that.

That’s what kept him breathing, kept him pushing through, kept his flame of will to stay alive burning.

But was he still sure about this?

Before Jaemin could fall deeper into the rabbit hole, the buzzing sound clicked Jaemin’s eyes. He knew it was you. Just by the buzz, he could feel it was you, realizing how much you meant to him now. It’s not too late, right? Jaemin locked his jaws as he forced his arms to push him to the drawer when he noticed the flash on his phone with a gentle buzz. His breath was shaky but he swallowed them down as he answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Jaemin? I’m sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night, I just,”

He didn’t realize the enchantment held in your voice until now. In the corner of his mind, Jaemin wondered how much sweeter you would sound when he’s at his death sentence. No, Jaemin shook his head, he didn’t want to draw out his death already — especially with you being the witness of it all.

“Jaemin?”

“Sorry y/n, it’s okay to call me anytime, I’m always here for you.” Jaemin always hushed you first when he needed it the most. Even he knew it best. “I was awake a while ago. Are you okay?”

With choosing you, he’d gladly sacrificed himself.

She didn’t need to bear all this with me, right?

Never did you consider choosing clothes a struggle; as a matter of fact, you always thought it was a waste of time to spend at least an hour in front of the same mirror with the same you, until today. Right, he’s coming to pick me up, with the ticking time to 6, you bustled yourself, combing your hair one last time until you figured out you liked yourself in a ponytail better. Though you weren’t used to yourself wearing the simple, black dress you neglected in the corner of your closet, there wasn’t much time for you to regret and go change now.

“I’ll be before 10!” Shutting the door behind (though you still heard the leaks of your mother’s nag), it took you a moment to realize who you’ve just collided into. From the sudden aroma of clean perfume, you realized Jaemin — who wore a simple white t-shirt tucked under his black slacks and a checked, warm gray jacket on top — already standing in front of the door (more like half-hugging you), his eyes also widened by your sudden appearance. Blinking his widened eyes several times, he softened into a wide grin. You’ve been seeing that grin every day, but you would never get used to the tinkling ringing deep inside your heart, itching and your breathing hitching silently. Both of you kept the silence for a while, carving him in the back of your mind.

“Shall we go?” At the dry cough of Jaemin, you lifted your eyes to meet his adoring eyes, nodding with a shy smile. The process of smiling now happened so naturally, his presence lightening you up every time. Strolling side-by-side down the night aisle was breathtaking; the golden street lamps blinking as they light up for their night shift, along with vases of roses hanging, the awkward laughs blooming as your shoulders met time to time.

Dinner wasn’t as fancy; with seeing all the famous restaurants fully packed and reserved, the two of you just decided to eat at a classic burger place where there seemed to have the least waiting time. The atmosphere was cozy and dim, quite romantic by the combination of the soft antique designs. Surfing through the menus one by one, with the fancy ingredients and specialties for each and every burger, you found yourself returning back to the regular ones, which seemed least challenging. Leveling your eyes up, you gazed upon Jaemin’s blank expression, where he seemed to have been paused on the same page for ages, readied to be oiled again.

“Did you decide on what you’re going to eat?”

Silence. Still no budging.

“Jaemin?” As if a curse was broken, Jaemin snapped out of his own world, an apologetic smile appearing as he folded the menu back into its original form.

“I’m sorry, what were you talking about again?” Ignoring what something wasn’t right was hard, but you maintained a smile as you did the same as Jaemin.

“Just about what you wanted to eat? I thought I’d go with the regular burger set,”

“I’d go with that too,”

“You sure?”

“Anything of your choice is going to be delicious anyways,” Jaemin smoothly lowered the menu from your face, pushing them to the side, making it easier for the server to take them away. Jaemin had this weird enchantment on him, how he made you smile anytime unable to resist. The conversation flowed nonstop, the topics shifting from today’s class to favorite movies, which did a good job on distracted your rumbling hunger until the ordered food came out.

The food was cooked much better than your expectation, not too salty for the body but just right to satisfy your taste buds and your hunger. Time swirled deftly, the night sky coating itself with glitters of stars (which sadly could be seen through squinted eyes). Both of you laughed your way through the night, having each other company, warmth spreading without direct contact with each other.

Then there was the sudden quench of the laughter, and Jaemin blinked slowly a couple of times, staring blankly at the burger which barely had two bites left to be finished. It was the same motion he made while ordering, and unknown worries started flowing in your veins.

“Jaemin? Are you alright?” At your question, Jaemin shot his attention back up, oblivious of having his cup of water right beneath his elbow, allowing the liquid to puddle on the table within seconds.

“Shit, sorry Y/n, can you please pass me some napkins?”

“Fuck, Jaemin, you’re—”

You’ve never seen such panic in one’s eyes, as Jaemin briskly put a finger below his nose, where a stream of watery red liquid oozing its way down.

He knew what was happening.

Everything seemed to be fine until Jaemin has to sprint to the washroom, leaving you behind with some splatter of blood on the table, mixing with the leftover of water.

It’s been at least two days since Jaemin decided not to come to school, pick up your calls, or inform you with anything to reassure you as he always did. Was he really that sick? Then why would he force himself for a date? Questions after questions only complicated your mind, the answer unwilling to show up to you. With a groan, both you and the grade beside you startled by how loud you slammed the locker door, your eyes widened in surprise, lost to reason the sudden action. Sorry, you gently slip an apology as you left the area swiftly.

It was truly coincident of meeting Jeno by the prom ticket booth (as you two don’t have any classes overlapping), but it didn’t seem to be coincident of Jeno trying to avoid you after a short hi, as he crossed out Jaemin’s name off the list.

“Jeno,” Something seemed to be keeping you back when calling his name — maybe you weren’t really ready to hear the truth about Jaemin, that he actually didn’t like the “date” and everything was just your imagination, or somewhat similar to that theory. “I know this is awkward and all but, you really need to tell me. What’s, what’s up with Jaemin? He hasn’t been picking up calls, or texts, he hasn’t even been showing up to any of his classes—”

Jeno stopped as he looked at you with somewhat pity in his eyes that you couldn’t interpret with your upset, intricate mind. Biting his lower lips, Jeno faced completely to you, letting you notice how tall he was compared to you.

“You really don’t know?”

“Why would I ask you if I knew?”

Again, Jeno hesitates but he doesn’t break the eye-contact, he was probably studying you before releasing the news you desperately needed to hear. At this point, whichever scenarios he had wouldn’t surprise you — at least that was what you prepared since just now. There seemed to be something unease by the constant sighs and rubbing the back of his neck, the repetition of shutting his eyes tight before proceeding. Jeno took you by your wrist as he led you outside, deciding there were too many ears in the school. Now, without intention, Jeno was walking you home just as how Jaemin would usually do, and how he was supposed to be here too.

“Jaemin’s sick.” Jeno spat his words nonchalantly at your doorway as if it was equivalent to goodbye.

“Those weren’t concise at all, thank you. Of course, he’s sick,”

“No, not that sick. Jaemin—he’s terminally ill, he has leukemia, y/n.”

One, two, and three.

It didn’t take you long enough until Jeno’s words hit you. He has leukemia, you cursed how Jeno’s words completed the puzzle perfectly within just seconds, your brain connecting his symptoms to the illness in disinclination. You hated that yourself you knew well about it for doing a project about it during one of your elections, you hated that Jaemin was also there listening to you presenting it. There was a reason why he didn’t run, there was a reason why—

This wasn’t something you were expecting.

Feeling your hands trembling at the sudden woe, you couldn’t bear looking at Jeno anymore. You shut the door tight behind you without a thank you or see you tomorrow.

“Y/n! I heard you were worried for me,”

Somehow the cheerfulness in his voice seemed a lot more dead, his brightness slowly submerging down the darkness like the sunset behind. It was only 6 when Jaemin decided to finally show up, his features stained by the palette of the afternoon. His skin still glowed majestically, how you never thought orange would fit him this perfectly, the color of peach partially layered on top of his features. In his usual a plain graphic t-shirt and jeans, combining with a casual jean jacket thrown on top, he looked so fine, so normal, so healthy to compare him to Jeno’s words. His voice even sounded soothing than ever, always containing that potential that no other can hold.

How could he possibly suffer? How did he still act so…… usual?

You didn’t know why there was this tingling feeling of urge to hug him, and it was hard to ignore, watching him getting closer to you. You didn’t know how to swallow this situation, with his sweet smile still on him, his warmth spreading to your cheeks as he gently wiped the transparent liquids. You had so much to ask, so much to talk, yet there was a limited time.

“Y/n, don’t cry, what happened?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what? Are you fucking kidding me, Jaemin? How long did you plan on hiding it to me? That you’re sick, that you’re fucking sick that it’s going to kill you—”

“Y/n, what—”

“—leukemia, and you refused to take further treatment from the beginning.”

Jaemin froze at the words forming from your mouth, how his smile became tighter, eyes hanging low. It was once in a few million that you heard Jaemin’s silence after your snapping, only earning you a laugh as you tried to act strong, wiping off the tears. The fear he has kept deep within was revealed sooner than his expectations, and Jaemin felt his heart sinking in despair and guilt at your raised voice, his hand lost by the sudden disconnection.

He’s lost. Completely. He had nothing to grasp on anymore.

You didn’t know why this hurt you so much; how your chest heaved up and down from the sudden gush of words shooting towards Jaemin. Why wasn’t he saying anything? It would’ve been much better if he actually tried to fight back, proving you wrong like every time. That would’ve at least made you breathe more sufficiently.

“Fuck you, Na Jaemin.”

“Y/n, I need you to give me time to explain, please,”

“Why would I care about listening when it’s going to be too late anyway?” You could feel fear engulfing you up, experiencing your fingers trembling at the sudden darkness spread in front of you. You couldn’t stop your lips from forming hatred, how you refused to meet his eyes, rubbing harshly on both of your eyes to wipe off the hurt sliding down your cheeks, unable to catch them falling down to the floor.

“I hate you more than I ever will, more than freshmen or soccer season.”

“Y/n,” Jaemin swallowed thick, straightening his spine as his eyes observed your tears falling, eyelashes fluttering in sorrow.

He couldn’t catch you in his arms anymore, could he?

He wanted to persevere through all this — he did it so well until now, right? — But then there was you. No matter how much he tried keeping up to you extravagantly, he always found himself being useless, empty compared to you, especially his life able to sear with the wind any moment.

You deserved the world not given by the timeless one, but someone who would endure the time longer. And with that fact, Jaemin’s world tumbled down completely, crashing down brick over brick, shattering into dust.

No matter how much you tried your puffed eyes didn’t seem to be calming down, only proving how much your heart was given to Jaemin. The night was getting deeper and your insomnia was a terrible helper for the night, only allowing you to toss and turn, the groan getting a shout from Donghyuck who was downstairs getting his usual night snacks.

You didn’t hate him; how could you?

By the time you’ve given up on sleeping, your screen lightened with a familiar name. With your fingers automatically swiped to the right, the timer popped up as you could hear the hesitating silence from the opposite.

“Hello?”

It took both of you a while to let someone — which was you — to break the silence. Again, silence. The only difference was that you heard coughs ringing faintly in the background. The courage you’ve build up decayed so suddenly by his weak voice, making you unsure of what you could do.

“If you’re not gonna say anything I’m just gonna hang up. Good night, Jaemin.”

“Y/n,” Jaemin’s voice was hoarse, deep. You could figure out that he hasn’t been sleeping ever since, but you couldn’t measure how much tears and emotions he shed soundlessly and alone, that no one would be able to tell that he was broken. His voice was always so mesmerizing, catching your attention, sinking your heart down the basement. The crickets were crying, probably a warm cheer that everything’s going to be alright, wow. How much you hated crickets too now. You didn’t answer but didn’t hang up either, indicating that your silence was your signal of a nod.

“I know you hate me,”

“Then why did you call me?”

Jaemin paused, and you did too. You hated yourself for coming out this strong, but Jaemin didn’t say anything about it. He was too soft, too warm-hearted for you. Maybe that was the reason why you loved and hated him at the same time.

There was a short inhale, a holding of breath, then exhale.

“I know it’s kind of late, but would you go to prom with me?” Jaemin was looking up from his bed, fidgeting at the prom ticket that was given from Jeno (who came by after the fight and kind of resolved things), swallowing nervously at the continued silence. You were too; his sudden confession malfunctioning your mind as you retracted his words, how the question rolled out from his mouth and melted into your ears.

“I’m sorry, I know this is the worst timing but I don’t think I’d ever get a chance to ask you out again,”

Please don’t say that. You bit your lips at Jaemin’s words, the indifference in his voice only saddening you more but you couldn’t gripe about it.

“Jaemin,” your voice came out weak but firm, just enough to hold the fragile pieces together.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to, I, I just, everything’s just so sudden, and I— yes.”

“Yes?” There was a slight crack in Jaemin’s voice, and you felt your face burning, coloring in red. With the sudden burst of confessions, you weren’t quite sure where this was headed to. But it wasn’t a dangerous feeling at all.

Gosh, how did we end up here?

“I-I want to go to prom with you, Jaemin.”

You felt your heart and nerves melting away at Jaemin’s chuckle. His laughter lulled against your ears, soothing you through the darkening hour.

You missed him so much.

And because of him, you think you started to understand what it means by your heart feeling sick in love.

You still couldn’t get over how lovestruck Jaemin’s expression was when he came to pick you up, his choice was a simple, classic black suit, the white dress shirt being the only color standing out.

The flow of your icy cerulean dress was silkier than your expectations, waves of wrinkles calmly forming whenever you twisted and turned even by the slightest. The dress didn’t fit too tightly but wasn’t very loosely designed either, just enough for you to breathe and move around adequately. It was an exceeding choice for a dress you shop last week, lucky enough to find this deal when the prom dress sale season was likely over.

The prom was loud, expressions between excitement and sadness. Despite many happening during the event, there seemed to be a bubble just for the two of you, discreetly listening as your voices overlapped the stack of sounds.

“Y/n,” Jaemin’s voice rang in your ears softly, as he closened the distance almost with a hug. The rest of your hair swinging down was brushing against his cheeks softly, only adding a sprinkle of giggles to him. You hummed a reply, your breath taken away as you heard your heartbeat drumming along with his beneath the loud party music, how strangely everything starts to muffle and fade away, his voice clipping straight to you. “Want to run away?”

“What? After making me spend 10 bucks for this?” Jaemin just chuckled along with you, shaking his head gently in an unbelievable manner. Tucking your messy hair behind your ears, he gently kissed your fluttering eyelids, smiling sweetly enough to stir you around. Without a doubt, you felt your heart melting, how your lips dried instantly with a feeling of a huge lump barring you to breathe or speak properly.

“Why not? I’ll pay you back later,”

“Take me then,” You knew Jaemin didn’t need to hear those words. Just by your awestruck eyes and grin was enough to motivate him with his plan, the soft giggles, and cheap thrills shared among each other just like one. Jaemin always had a habit of never letting go, his grip only there to tighten the bond and nothing less from there. With your heels hooked on your fingers, you never knew you loved running bare feet in a dress.

Almost sliding down the small cliff of the south field, both of you closened the space by fidgeting, the sound of astonishments flowing when your shoulders met. You felt like your chest was about to burst, not only because you’ve been running as if your life depended, but with excitement and adrenaline, unknown fluttering stirring your stomach to release the butterflies. Gathering your breaths with airy laughs in-between, both of you were busy drowning into each other’s eyes, each holding different galaxies and constellations, gleaming brilliantly under the silver moonlight.

“You’re beautiful,” Jaemin lets out another heavy breath, following your eyes full of shyness, his warm hand caressing your cold cheeks of the chilly summer night. You couldn’t ignore the storm of affection in you, how every gentle touch of him on your skin made your heart react violently, racing back and forth from here to the moon. His doe eyes gleamed brightly under the silver moonlight, only adding more sincerity in every movement shared between you. Jaemin always had a habit of speaking through his eyes, how the slightest movement held thousands of words and emotions, and how you always loved studying him like that, the intimacy and heat between the two of you shared intense than ever. Sliding up your hands to his cheeks, you contributed with closening the distance, the felt of electric dancing around when your lips met, melting to each other’s so softly. You couldn’t ignore this ecstasy, how you quenched it by deepening the kiss ever so, both of your life depending on this perpetual night.

“I love you, Jaemin, I really do.” The words fell out from your lips so naturally, the urge to give him your heart rushing down your blood.

“I love you more, since the beginning.” You couldn’t ignore the sorrow in jaemin’s voice, as if, as if he saw the future ahead of you; and you feared that your nightmares were to come true.

“The summer night’s almost gone, but you’re still going to be here, right?” Snuggling against his shoulder, you knew what you spat was a stupid question. A question which you had the answer both realistic and ideal. Jaemin looked at you with his starry eyes, how you knew they would still glow for you even though it’s clouded with sorrow.

You hated how he didn’t say anything more, even when that was what you expected.

You didn’t want this to happen. He’s not, he’s not sick, he looks so healthy, blending in so well with the others, how his smile illuminated amongst everyone else’s. His warmth still lingering against your lips and neck, his arm sliding to surround your hips, hand gently squeezing your forearm.

“Don’t go, at least tell me you’re not going, please,” with the flowing emotions you buried your face against Jaemin’s chest, how you didn’t want to show your weak side in front of him, but how ironically you were in his arms, shaking hands tightly grasping the hem of his jacket.

Jaemin’s answer was simple. With a lulling hum, he dived back to your lips, burying his fingers into your hair, spending the night with each other’s warmth.

The call was short. No, you cut it short.

Before you could get anywhere, anywhere near the hospital room or wherever Jaemin was, Jeno was there to stop you; his strong, muscular arms instantly wrapping around. No matter how you squirmed and begged that you needed to see him, Jeno didn’t budge.

“Move, Jeno.”

“He’s gone, y/n.”

You don’t have to tell me that again. You don’t need to kill me twice.

“He didn’t want you to see him like that, I’m so sorry, I really should’ve just called you—”

“Shut up, I just want to see him— Jeno, please,”

Tell me; lie to my fucking face that he’s alright.

You punched Jeno’s chest with all your might — you wanted to — but it softened as soon as you tried slamming it down on him. Your lips quivered no matter how hard you held your emotions back in, legs trembling as your head spun lightly from the lack of oxygen you were supplying to your own body, but the grip on Jeno’s forearm tightened more. And he said nothing. He didn’t yelp away as he would usually do, instead, he would tighten back his grip on you.

How? How did Jaemin really leave? He was fine just yesterday, what’s with a day to take his breath away? Tell me, Jeno. How are you so calm when all of this is happening?

The silence was a disguised scream, how you constantly questioned Jeno when you knew the answer.

“I know everything’s sudden, and it’s— yeah,”

You felt a sudden tremble in Jeno’s voice too, the unbearable emotions about to flow but he had to keep it in. At least in front of you.

“Jaemin left you something.”

Without anything more, Jeno slid something into your hand, a pure white envelope that only resembles Jaemin’s hoodie you used to wear around during movie nights. You utterly despised your head for automatically relating everything with Jaemin, who you felt would hug you right now in his arms, saying it was just a surprise. But no. No, he wouldn’t this time. You wanted to throw up, you wanted these emotions gone. You wanted this day to be over, no, you wanted the time to reverse. Everything he left was turning bitterly sour, too sweet for you to handle.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jeno repeated several times.

That was it. That was the limit you yourself could hold. With a small roll of a tear, a waterfall of emotions broke free from your walls, crumbling and tearing you down completely. You tried to stop it, but you didn’t want it to stop.

It’s all your fault for making me fall in love with you, Na Jaemin. Making that stupid smile, always taking care of me, calling me during those nights, always picking up the phone when it’s 4 am and I couldn’t sleep.

It’s your fault to make me love everything I hate about you.

The messages were melted in the tears, your lips bit between the teeth to avoid any of the sounds to flow out, disturbing the hospital. The sound of papers crumbling took your attention, the purely white envelope wrinkled and soaked under your tears. The envelope was thick, tightly sealed, and on the cover, there was a scribble of saying ‘For y/n’. With your trembling hands, you ripped opened the entrance, the unsure feelings overwhelming you.

In the envelope, there was a neatly folded stack of papers and a 10 dollar bill.

#nct dream #nct scenarios #nct dream scenarios #jaemin #jaemin scenarios #nct angst #nct fluff #nct dream angst #nct dream fluff #jaemin angst #jaemin fluff #jaemin x reader

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brinker-hadley · 6 years

Text

Voyeur

“Oh Vegeta… fuck!”

She was splayed out for him, legs spread wide open. His face was buried in her blue mound, lapping at her, teasing her. She moaned again and turned her head to watch herself from the vanity mirror. She could be so vain sometimes but, he couldn’t blame her. The sight was enthralling.

“You like that? You like watching?” he asked, moving his lips against her, the sound of his voice muffled against her folds.

“Mmm… I want to watch you… I want to watch you with a cock in your mouth.”

His attentions abruptly stopped.

“What did you just say?” he demanded, raising his head up between her knees.

“Too far?” Bulma shrugged sheepishly.

“You think?!”

“Oh, don’t be like that!” She tried to pull his head back down to her, but he was having none of it. “It was just dirty talk.”

“That’s a little too dirty for my taste,” he said, shifting out of bed and stepping back into his shorts. The mood was officially dead.

“What’s the big deal? You’ve watched me with another woman before.”

Yes, he had and the thought of it was almost enough to get his hard on going again. A few years ago, she’d told him how she was curious what the touch of another woman might feel like and he had been all too willing to accommodate her exploration, so long as he was given a front row seat. But this… this was a bridge too far.

“That’s different,” he grumbled, fully aware of his own hypocrisy.

“No, it’s not. And besides, it wouldn’t exactly be uncharted territory for you.”

She was aware of his own same sex dalliances in his youth. There were no secrets between them, but that wasn’t the point. His objection to the idea was not the act itself but specifically who’s cock he suspected his wife had imagined in his mouth.

“The answer is no.”

“I haven’t even asked a question yet!”

“You don’t need to. I already know what it’s going to be and I’m not fucking Raditz again! You can forget it!”

“Fine! You don’t have to get so defensive.”

“…”

“But, hypothetically, if you were to be with another man…”

“Gods damn it! I fucking knew it!”

“Come on, Vegeta! You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it since he was wished back.”

Of all the Saiyans they could have wished back to life to perform the Super Saiyan God ritual, it had to be Raditz. The worst part about the whole thing was that he’d been the one to suggest it. They didn’t have many options and Raditz was pure of heart, in his own way… a purely meat-headed idiot, but the rules were murky. If he himself had passed the test, the standards were obviously low.

After the whole debacle with Beerus, Raditz had come to stay at Capsule Corp. It was only right that he offer the man a place to stay, considering he was the closest thing to an actual friend as Vegeta ever had. They had been very close as children, but their relationship took on an additional dimension as they got older. They’d experimented on each other as teenagers and fooled around a few times as adults, though it had never developed into anything serious.

Since returning to the realm of the living, Raditz had wasted no time falling back into a life of hedonism and seemingly had a new bed partner, both men and women, for every day of the week. He’d also made it abundantly clear, through his typically crude innuendo, that he expected history to repeat itself between the two of them. As much as it galled him, Vegeta couldn’t deny that having him around again had brought on a certain sense of… nostalgia. But, whatever inclinations he may have had, the fact remained that he was very happily married. As adventurous and easily excitable as his wife was, having another man in their bed, specifically Raditz, was a can of worms Vegeta was not about to open.

“I know all about the things you used to do to each other,” Bulma draped herself across his back as he sat on the edge of the bed, drawing circles on his chest with her fingertips. “I got so wet when you told me. I just want to see it for myself.”

“You know me better than that, woman. I would sooner rip his throat out with my teeth than invite a rival male into my bedroom. You have mated yourself to an alpha, not some sniveling, cuckold, pantywaist.”

“Cuckold? I’m not the one blowing him in this scenario. You are.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Hey,” she said, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his head back to look her in the eye. “Have I ever given you cause to think I want any man but you?”

“He’s a… conventionally attractive man. It would be only natural for you to…”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” She slid around and straddled his hips, settling herself into his lap. “I have no desire to be with Raditz, in any context, under any circumstances, no matter how ‘conventionally attractive’ he may be.”

“There were rules when we had Launch over, right?” she asked, waiting for his nod of confirmation.

“You didn’t participate. You just watched and touched yourself.” She could feel his groin stir at the memory. “Did you feel like you’d been cuckolded then?”

“No”

“Did you want to have sex with Launch?”

“No”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t care about her. She was a prop. I wanted to watch you receive pleasure that I couldn’t give you.”

Bulma quirked a brow and tilted her head, as if to say, ‘Do you get it now, idiot.’

“Look, if you say no, then it’s no, and I won’t mention it again.” She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “But if you think you might like to suck Raditz’ dick, that is something I would very. much. like. to watch,” she said, punctuating her words by grinding herself against him through the fabric of his shorts.

Vegeta growled and gripped her hips, pushing himself closer to her heat. It was useless to fight her. What Bulma wanted, Bulma got. Always. He couldn’t find cause to deny her, or himself, any longer.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand and texted an unambiguous invitation to the devise Bulma had recently purchased for Raditz. Three dots appeared on the screen followed by an eggplant emoji. Vegeta rolled his eyes. Predictably, the moron had picked up on the worst aspects of Earth culture in record time.

Bulma sidled off his lap and slipped into a short silk robe, knotting it at the waist. A knock sounded at the door a few moments later and Vegeta got up to open it. There Raditz stood, wearing an infuriating, shit eating grin.

“I knew it was only a matter of time,” he said pushing past Vegeta into the bedroom. He took a look around the spacious master suite before his eyes settled on Bulma.

“I was hoping you’d be here too. It’s been a long time since Vegeta and I had an Eiffel Tower. That’s what you call it on this planet, right? We used to call it a Geminon finger trap. I remember this one time… aakkk.” Raditz was unable to finish his thought as Vegeta’s fingers wrapped firmly around his throat, crushing his windpipe.

“This is between you and me. You don’t touch her. You don’t look at her. You don’t think about her. Do you understand?”

“Yeath,” Raditz sputtered.

“Good,” he said, removing his had and allowing the other man to breath again. “Now take your pants off.”

Raditz obeyed without another word. His track pants pooled on the floor and Vegeta discarded his shorts next to them. He looked to Bulma. Her eyes were glassy and her pupils dilated. She’d sat herself in one of the tufted chairs in the corner, behind Raditz’ back. Her hand dove into the front of her robe to gently kneed one of her breasts. She lifted one long leg onto the arm of the chair, exposing her center to Vegeta, and the smell of her arousal flooded the room.

Raditz still seemed unsure of the rules of engagement and wanted to avoid reigniting Vegeta’s wrath. Instead, Vegeta took the lead and roughly pushed his lips against the other man’s, forcing his tongue past inhumanly sharp teeth. He tasted like beer and smoke and his stubbled upper lip rubbed against his own. It was familiar but so very different from what he was used to. Rough hands roamed his body, down to the orbs of his ass, and pushed his hips forward. He could feel Raditz girth against his lower abdomen and his own cock swelled in recognition.

Vegeta shoved Raditz towards the bed, laying and positioning him to give Bulma an unobstructed view. He looked to her again. Her breathing was labored and her lips slightly parted. She ran one finger around her clit in slow, deliberate circles, never taking her eyes off of him.

He leaned over Raditz, placing one knee on either side of his massive muscled thighs. His cock stood up straight against his belly, begging for attention. Vegeta leaned down and licked it once, from base to tip, earning a moan from the other man. He took it in his hand and couldn’t hold back a groan of his own as he felt the flesh pulse. He remembered how Raditz liked this, low and slow. He took the head in his mouth, lightly licking underneath and savoring the taste he thought he’d long forgotten. Raditz shuddered and pushed his hips off the bed, in a silent plea for more. Vegeta let the shaft into his mouth and continued to run his tongue along the underside. His hand fisted and stroked at the base as his head bobbed up and down.

A whimper sounded from the corner of the room and Vegeta opened his eyes to watch his wife’s reaction to the scene. She rubbed herself more forcefully. Two fingers had disappeared into her wet depths. She fucked herself, in and out, in time with his own movements.

He removed his hand, relaxed and allowed Raditz to sink all the way down his throat, sucking as he went.

“Fuck,” a deep rumble came from above him and a hand wove into his hair.

“Oh god,” Bulma’s head tiled back as she quickened the pace of her hand.

Vegeta cupped the sack that hung around his chin and picked up the pace incrementally when he felt it tighten. He was close. He reached under the body beneath him and worked a saliva slicked finger into Raditz tight anal passage. He pushed past the outer ring of muscle and pressed against the bundle of nerves he found inside. The reaction was instantaneous.

“Oh shit!” Raditz’s arched off the bed and pushed Vegeta’s head down until the tip of his cock hit the back of his throat. Warm, salty fluid spurted into his mouth and he swallowed, humming a husky growl, sending reverberations all the way down Raditz’ stem.

A high keening sob pierced through the lusty haze and Vegeta looked up just in time to see Bulma gasp and thrash in her chair. Her whole body vibrated with pleasure just as the last waves of Raditz orgasm faded out. He let the limp and spent flesh slip from his lips and waited for Bulma to finish before lifting himself off of the other man.

Raditz was quick to recover and wrapped his hand around Vegeta’s rock hard length. The sensation of the calloused palm and thick fingers sent a shock through his lower half, but he batted the hand away. He was on the bleeding edge of desire and there was only one thing that would satiate him in his current state. He needed to be inside his women, right the fuck now. Nothing and no one else would do.

“Get out,” Vegeta ordered gruffly as Bulma closed her robe again.

“You sure?” Raditz asked, still panting from his release and eager to return the favor.

“I’m sure.”

He shrugged and collected his pants, stepping back into them on his way out.

“Thank you Raditz,” Bulma called after him.

“Any time, Princess,” he said as he swung the door closed.

Vegeta waited until they were alone again before turning to his wife. He leaned into her, surrounding her, placing one brawny arm on each side of her as she lazed in her overstuffed chair.

“Are you satisfied now, you vulgar wench?”

“Not yet,” she said, leaning in for a kiss and nearly coming again when she tasted the act she had just witnessed on his lips.

He tore her robe from her body and lifted her from the chair to wrap her legs around him, one hand on each of her plump cheeks. He fell backwards onto the bed, covering himself with her. The smooth skin of her legs rubbed against his as she ground herself over him. The flat expanse of her soft belly melted into the ridged planes of his torso, and the cushion of her breasts pushed just under his chin.

She rose above him and took him in hand, guiding him to her opening. When she sunk down onto him, he felt every dip and twist of her warm, wet hollow. His gaze fell to the joining of their hips and he looked on, like a deviant voyeur, as his cock disappeared and reappeared from inside of her. The sight, the sound, the feel of it was something he could never quench his thirst for.

The rhythm she set was steady and unhurried. On any other night he would let her have her way, but on this night, he had been pushed to the limits of his self-restraint and was teetering on the verge of frantic desire. He lifted her off of his now slicked shaft and flipped her onto her belly. He pressed her body to his and savored the feel of her beneath him, totally pliant and submissive to his touch. He pushed inside again and set a punishing pace, testing the boundaries of what her fragile human body was capable of withstanding. Her deepened moans and the slap of her rear pushing back against him let him know she was needy for even more. He reached around her front to play with her clit and she melted for him. Her walls constricted almost painfully, but he fucked her through it, refusing to let up until she was reduced to a puddle below him. When he finally felt her go limp he roared a primal scream and erupted into her, riding a wave of unrestrained ecstasy until the force of it became untenable. He collapsed on top of her, allowing himself a few more moments of contact before rolling over to his side.

“Wow,” she panted as she wrapped her limbs around him. “You obviously had even more fun putting on that little show than I did watching it.”

“It was okay,” was the closest he would ever come to admitting he got off on giving a blow job to his former underling. “But you know he’s going to be insufferable after this.”

“Raditz? Oh, he’s not that bad.”

A buzzing noise alerted Vegeta to in incoming message as his phone lit up on the night stand. He picked it up and unlocked the screen.

“Oh for god’s sake!”

“What?”

“Raditz has apparently discovered Snap filters.”

Bulma took the devise from his hands and laughed at the moving image on the screen, a dancing hotdog gyrating against a now very familiar turgid member.

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sad-trash-writing · 7 years

Note

if ur accepting promps skimmons and trick or treating? teenagers au?

Sorry this is super late for Halloween… Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AO3 Link

The minute hand on the clock ticked closer and closer to the end of class. Daisy had given up any pretense of listening to the teacher try to answer their dumb questions on trigonometry. Daisy didn’t pay attention to a word of the lesson, but she was sure she could ask questions later.

The paper spiders hanging on a strand of garland draped over the clock danced in the slight draft of the room, seeming to mock Daisy as the minute hand slowly crept towards the 12. Daisy’s eyes glazed over and the numbers started to blur. So close, but so far away.

Her best friend, Jemma, sat next to her, scratching away at her notebook, to jot down every word the teacher said. Daisy snorted and rolled her eyes fondly. At least Daisy could borrow Jemma’s very detailed notes later.

Finally, the minute hand reached its target and the final bell sounded. Daisy was out of her chair before the bell had even stopped ringing and heading to the door. Today was Halloween and they had tomorrow off school for ‘teacher conferences’ (which was really code for 'sleep off your candy-hangover’ day) and Daisy had a date with her pajamas and Netflix.

She was halfway to her locker when she heard someone calling her name.

“Daisy! Wait up!” Jemma’s voice rang through the crowded hall.

Daisy paused and let a cluster of freshman push past her while Jemma jogged up the hall.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry? Big plans for Halloween?” Jemma probed once she caught up.

“The biggest.” Daisy smirked. “Me, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and Stranger Things Season 2.”

Jemma’s face fell. “You’re not going trick-or-treating?”

“Uh…no?”

“Why not?”

Daisy shrugged. “I’ve never been before, why start now? My Halloween tradition was always to sneak a scary movie from Blockbuster past the nuns.”

Jemma gaped. “You have to experience trick-or-treating. It’s a rite of passage!”

“Aren’t we a little old for that now?” Daisy asked.

Jemma shook her head. “We’re sophomores. This is one of the last years we can get away with it before Halloween devolves into contests of who can be the mostly scantily clad.”

Daisy didn’t know what to say. For years, she was gutted when the nuns wouldn’t allow trick-or-treating, but lately, Daisy resigned herself to it. It was just one more part of a 'normal childhood’ that Daisy missed out on, even after getting out of the orphanage.

But now, Jemma was standing in front of her, wide-eyed, insisting that she needed to experience it.

How could she say no?

“I…I don’t even have a costume,” Daisy tried.

“Come to my house. We have a giant box full of old costumes from other Halloweens,” Jemma countered.

The hopeful look in her eyes was too much.

Daisy sighed. “Fine. Just let me call Coulson to let him know I’m going out.” “Great!” Jemma replied with a grin and jogged off to put her books in her locker.

Daisy quickly tapped out a text to her adopted dad that she was going trick-or-treating. She expected something snarky or confused from him but she got a series of happy emojis and thumbs up. Also followed by a few cat face emojis, which Daisy assumed were accidental.

She smiled and agreed to be home before 11, before meeting Jemma at her locker and walking towards the bus stop.

“So, why do you care so much about Halloween?” Daisy asked, while they waited for the bus. “It doesn’t seem like something you’d be into, with all the ghosts and monsters and such.”

“Oh, I think it’s fascinating,” Jemma replied. “The whole history and psychology of Halloween is a doctoral dissertation waiting to happen. If I wasn’t going into biology, I would have already written it.”

“Dude, we’re sixteen and you’re already thinking about doctorates? I haven’t planned past the history test on Monday,” Daisy responded.

“It’s never too early to start preparing.” Jemma shrugged.

Daisy just rolled her eyes, but didn’t respond because the bus had pulled up.

On the ride to Jemma’s house, Jemma regaled Daisy with stories of past Halloweens trick-or-treating with her neighbors in England and interspersed insights on the psychology of fear and intentionally getting scared.

Daisy was far less interested in the later stories, but she listened fondly anyway. Jemma’s passion about things most people would find boring or gross was one of the things Daisy loved about her. Some people were put off by it (like Kara, when she found out her cat died of cancer and Jemma asked if she could dissect the body), but Daisy found it weirdly adorable.

They pulled up to Jemma’s stop and scrambled off the bus. Jemma led the way, still talking about how excited she was about her costume and brainstorming ideas for Daisy’s.

They briefly said hello to Jemma’s parents when they reached her house and headed directly for the attic. Jemma clambered up into the dark space and dropped a massive cardboard box down for Daisy to catch, which she did with great difficulty.

They dragged the box into Jemma’s room and started tugging things out. Among the plastic weapons, there were tangled piles of cheap fabric in various colors. Jemma insisted most of them were her parents’ costumes or things that friends and neighbors had given them.

After nearly an hour tearing through the box and making fun of the older costume choices, Jemma decided on one for Daisy. Daisy rolled her eyes, but went to try it on anyway.

She came out of the bathroom in and blue and red spandex dress with a large red and yellow ’S’ across the chest and a red cape Velcroed to the shoulders. The costume was clearly made before the TV show aired and was just a feminine version of the Superman suit with a tiny skirt. Daisy tugged on the skirt, trying to get it to cover more of her legs.

The glee on Jemma’s face made Daisy forget her discomfort with the costume.

“I’m not really big on superheroes,” Daisy protested weakly.

“Are you serious? You’re totally a superhero!” Jemma argued. The way she said it made Daisy think she was referring more to Daisy’s life story than just the costume. Daisy flushed slightly and fidgeted with the costume more.

After a bit more ogling and Jemma showing Daisy how to strap on the boot covers, Daisy changed back into normal clothes and headed downstairs for dinner. While they were eating, Daisy noticed the decorations covering nearly every surface of their home in spiders and ghosts. Halloween was clearly big for the Simmonses.

As the sun crept down towards the horizon, they cleaned up dinner and went their separate ways to get dressed. Jemma’s parents were apparently going to a Halloween party tonight so they had to get into costume as well. Daisy changed back into the Supergirl costume and waited for Jemma to come back downstairs.

When she did, Jemma was wearing a long, black Victorian dress and her hair was pulled up into a rough bun and powdered gray.

“What do you think?” Jemma asked, spinning around to show off the outfit. “Looks great! I loved the Woman in Black movie,” Daisy replied.

Jemma frowned. “I’m Marie Curie, not the woman in black.”

She brandished a printed out X-Ray of an arm to make her point.

“I knew that,” Daisy defended.

Jemma rolled her eyes and handed Daisy a small, hollow plastic pumpkin with a handle on it.

“What the hell is this?” Daisy asked.

“It’s for candy.”

Daisy blinked at the tiny pumpkin basket. “This is ridiculous.”

Jemma just shrugged and waved the one she had shaped like a tiny cauldron.

“We didn’t have any other options.”

She led the way out the door and Daisy trailed after her. It was barely dark and some of Jemma’s neighbors were busy dragging out fire pits and lawn chairs. Some of the tinier kids were walking around holding their parents’ hands and clutching similar baskets to the one Daisy had in her hands.

Daisy tried to shoot Jemma a withering look, but Jemma had already started marching down the street and Daisy had to jog to catch up with her.

Jemma confidently marched up to the front door of her next door neighbors house and rang the doorbell. Daisy trailed slightly behind her, still not sure of this whole situation.

The door opened and a dark-haired, middle-aged woman stood behind it. A wide smile lit up her face when her eyes landed on Jemma.

“Jemma! I wasn’t sure you’d be trick-or-treating this year,” the woman said.

“It’s tradition! Plus, I had to introduce my friend, Daisy to it,” Jemma responded.

Daisy awkwardly waggled her fingers in a slight wave as the woman’s attention turned to her.

“How nice to see kids your age doing wholesome things still,” the woman sighed. “Anyway, I bet you want your treats now.”

The woman grabbed a giant bowl from just inside the door piled high with full-size candy bars. Daisy perked up. She knew free stuff was involved with trick-or-treating, but she did know it would be this easy or this good.

Jemma chatted with her neighbor for a few more minutes before a small cluster of toddlers ambled up behind them, already chanting 'trick-or-treat,’ while their put-upon parents trailed behind.

Jemma led the way next door, where a group of kids was already lined up at the door. When the door swung open, they all shouted 'trick-or-treat’ in unison while the couple in the house fawned exaggeratedly over all their costumes. Once the crowd cleared, Jemma and Daisy could sidle up.

“Trick or treat!” Jemma said as a greeting, with all the gusto of the 11-year-olds that had just left.

The couple at the door smiled, dropped a candy bar in each of their buckets, and made small talk for awhile, before heading back inside.

They continued down the road and knocked on the door of every house they passed. Most gave out fun-sized chocolates, some had cheap, little toys. One house had the audacity to hand out airplane-issued bags of pretzels, which Daisy scowled at and Jemma politely accepted.

They reached the end of the street and turned back towards Jemma’s house. Daisy’s feet were starting to hurt and her legs were freezing. Daisy think she would be jealous of Jemma’s costume, but Jemma was at least fully covered and protected from the autumn chill.

Daisy watched as Jemma rooted through her tiny bucket of candy and picked out the things she didn’t like to pass over to Daisy’s bucket. Daisy smiled fondly.

“Hey, Jemma?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks,” Daisy said.

Jemma blinked at her. “It was just an Almond Joy, no need to sound so sappy.”

“No, not for the candy. For all of tonight,” Daisy clarified. “It felt nice to act like a normal kid for a night.”

Jemma smiled. “Of course. Anytime you need someone to make you feel normal by parading you around to get free candy from strangers, you know who to call.”

Daisy snorted and shoved Jemma gently with her shoulder. Jemma slipped her arm around Daisy’s and they wandered home arm in arm, through the swarm of tiny ghosts and monsters.

#skimmons #bioquake #jemma simmons/daisy johnson #halloween au #trick or treating #aosficnet2

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willreadforbooze · 5 years

Text

Hello fellow boozie readers!

Sam’s Update:

I just had The Best time at the beach with my friends celebrating Parker and I’s 30th birthdays. THE BEST. But I also didn’t read much, was busy drinking my face off. I want to give a HUGE shout out to our Chief Instagram Officer (CIO) and Master Beach Week Planner Extraordinaire. She planned the best trip and I couldn’t have done it without her. It’s also Medieval-a-thon!!! Check my TBR here.

What Sam finished this week:

Medieval-a-thon Sword: The Heartwood Crown by Matt Mikalatos: THIS BOOK WAS DELIGHTFUL. Stand by for my drunk review. I loved book one, here’s my review of The Crescent Stone.

What Sam’s reading now:

Medieval-a-thon Cape: Kingdom of the Blazing Phoenix by Julie C. Dao: This is the follow up to Forest of a Thousand Lanterns. I suppose I’m almost done but /shrug emoji/ don’t care so don’t know.

Medieval-a-thon Crown: The Dragon Republic by R.F. Kuang: You guys I cannot even tell you how happy I was when I was approved for this on Netgalley. I’d forgotten how much I like the writing style. But I’m only 15% through or so.

Ginny’s Update:

Happy Belated Fourth Of July! We all went to the beach this weekend and now I need like three full days to sleep. Surprisingly not as much reading at the beach as I was expecting. Still, I managed to finish a couple of things.

Currently Reading

A Gentleman Never Keeps Score by Cat Sebastian: I really enjoy Cat Sebastians books. This one is good so far. Hartley Sedgewick worked his way into society and then was ostracized when his relationship with his godfather came to light. Sam is a ex-fighter current bar-owner and a free black man in Europe. They both try so hard to help people and (insert cheesy voice here) end up helping each other

Finished

Becoming by Michelle Obama: Man, Michelle Obama is so freaking great. And boy did this book make me super nostalgic. I’m not going to argue that Obama’s time in office was perfect, but man I miss having a group in charge where the biggest public scandal was the President wearing a tan suit. Even outside the presidency, Michelle Obama sounds like a force to be reckoned with. Her work in Chicago with various non-profits and the way she cares about the people around her were great. 5/5

The Unlikely Escape of Uriah Heep by H.G. Parry: Welp, I wrote a review of this so give it enough time and eventually you’ll get to see it. Preview, I enjoyed this but boy did I feel like I was missing some literature history.

The Luminous Dead by Caitlin Starling: This book was incredibly interesting. Gyre lives on a planet thats good for mining and nothing else. She takes a desperate case that leads her deep under the planets surface only to find out she’s basically on a suicide mission with only one team member on the surface to help keep her alive. Also the cave does really weird things to people. I’m pretty sure I”m going to write a review once I’ve had more time to think.

Crazy Cupid Love by Amanda Heger: Man, I picked this up cause it ended up on some list somewhere but it wasn’t super my jam. First off, there’s a lot of cupids which means there’s definitely some consent issues in this book. I did like the mystery but the foreshadowing was a little bit much. and dear god, the epilogue. I get it, thanks for not needing a sequel but literally every character in teh book ends up perfectly partnered up. It was weird. 3/5

Minda’s Update:

Did not end up getting much reading done, but had so much fun celebrating Sam’s 30th!

What Minda is reading now:

Tiger Queen by Annie Sullivan – About half way in thanks to some poolside/beachside reading! Liking so far though some weird decisions from our heroine.

Gravemaidens by Kelly Coon – No further on this 🤷🏻‍♀️

Linz’s Update:

Editor’s Note: Linz was also at the beach. Linz planned the whole trip. Linz is queen. No wrap-up for her.

Until next time, we remain forever drunkenly yours,

Sam, Melinda, Linz, and Ginny

Weekly Wrap-Up: July 1-8, 2019 Hello fellow boozie readers! Sam's Update: I just had The Best time at the beach with my friends celebrating Parker and I's 30th birthdays.

#Wrap Up

0 notes

3one3 · 7 years

Text

The Sequel - 848

10 Kisses

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Can you stop stuffing the melon in for a second and make a nice face?”

“I guess.”

“Say cheeeeeese.”

“Omnomnomnomcheese.”

“Child.”

“Lemme see the picture.”

“Eh?”

“Boat life suits you, Prinzessin. You look amazing. No joking. Look at your eyes!”

I actually thought he looks better than me, Christina mused about her selfie. She was sitting between André’s legs on a lounger, having a post-dive snack, and she wanted a picture because she thought her hair probably looked pretty great. It was half-dry and fully salty, which made for some amazing texture. She felt like she’d achieved by accident that which stylists and girls the world over spend hours of frustration trying to create with tools, techniques, and product combinations. Her partner stopped eating his fruit long enough to “nom” at her neck for the camera instead of just smiling, which was the expression she was asking for. The resulting shot was much sweeter than one with matching smiles would have been. His hair was fully dry and also fully salty, and fully crazy. He trimmed his beard a little that morning, as promised. He’d been in the sun enough to glow. His non-existent lips looked really sexy on her skin, and also somehow endearing. She didn’t even really look at her own image until he pointed out her eyes, which did look pretty special despite the sun. The rest of her upper body looked pretty amazing in a black halter-top bikini too, the player thought as he continued viewing the photo over her shoulder. It was definitely his favorite bathing suit top of all the many he’d seen her wear in recent days.

“You look very in love with me, yeah?” she smirked.

“Yeah, very.” André smooched her cheek and went back to his fruit salad. “Do you know that Mausi is feeding grapes to the dogs right now?”

“They can have grapes,” the rider shrugged. She looked up from her phone to check on their son, who was sitting on a towel not far from the lounger with his bucket of Animal Planet plastic sea creatures. There was an Orca, Hammerhead and Great White sharks, a dolphin, Baleen, Humpback, and Blue whales, plus pink coral and some rocks. Christina filled the clear plastic container with water for him so he could put the toys in there and make them “swim”. As long as Spencer and Lucky were eating grapes, not whales, then everything was fine.

“Should we bring them ashore with us so they can piss on dry land for a change?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure we can bring them into shops and stuff but what would we do with them when we go to the spa?”

“Send them for a walk with Mausi and Espen.”

The rider shrugged and went back to editing her picture for Instagram. Espen was sound asleep on the next chaise lounge, so there was no asking her how she felt about that idea. The whole family was heading to St. Tropez for some afternoon exploring, and then Mom and Dad had a spa appointment for differing treatments and some manicure and pedicure action ahead of dinner for two at a very old, very French estate a bit away from the water. They’d had nearly all their meals with an ocean view for days- even longer for Christina- so André wanted a different atmosphere to go with his Provencal cuisine. And it had to be cuisine. He wanted to take his girl somewhere truly special, and to make it an occasion. There was no particular reason for that desire, other than habit. When they lived in London, an “occasion” happened about every week. The restaurant he picked was once a favorite of Brigitte Bardot. He didn’t know the significance of the name when he read it on the website, but it rang some bells when he Googled it. His dining companion had definitely talked of her before, he was sure.

“Mommy!”

“What?” she asked absently while selecting the proper heart emoji for her post. Lukas shouted her name exactly half the time he said it, so there was no reason to think anything was wrong with him.

“Up.” He wanted to sit on the lounger. It was just tall enough to put him off. He probably could have managed to climb up there, but sometimes he showed a remarkable sense of self-preservation and avoided iffy endeavors. Christina wished he would embrace that impulse more often when his questionable idea involved becoming filthy. Those chances, he always took. She posted the picture and leaned over to give him a lift. He had a shark to give her. “Here, Mommy. For you.”

“Thank you, Munchkin. What is this?”

“It’s a shark,” André stage-whispered behind her.

“Shark!” his son smiled. It was unclear whether he knew the answer or needed the reminder.

“How do sharks swim?” André asked. Lukas held his hands together like a fin on top of his head. His mom congratulated him on getting it right, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Spencer hopped up onto the lounger next to him to see if he was missing anything. The little boy gave him a kiss just like the one he’d just received. Spencer licked his face in return. “I should stop eating this. We’re having lunch in town.”

“First we have to get to town. We should tell Captain Theo we’re ready to get going, no?” the bronzed woman in the bikini suggested. “They need to put these chairs away and stuff. It takes a little while to get this stupid boat moving.”

“Aren’t we close enough to the port that we can just use the motor to get there?”

“I dunno. I’ll go ask. Who wants to go steer the boat?” she asked in her Lukas-only voice, which delighted her tiny blonde. He held his hands up, wanting to be carried to the bridge. He’s so smart to know he can’t walk there on his own, she thought. He’s used to going to the fly bridge to steer. He can’t do the stairs yet. I actually meant the inside-bridge, down the hall. He could manage that. It would take 10 minutes, but, still. Anyway. “Up you get.” Lukas got a hug before he was installed on her hip for the short walk inside. Her phone rang while she was gone. It was Natasha. André decided to answer it for her.

“Hello, Chris’ phone.”

“André?”

“Speaking.”

“Heyyyy!”

“Hey,” he smiled. “How are you? Is Eden being a lazy bitch?”

“I’m great! And yes, he is. He’s got the whole family waiting on him. How are you all? How is the boat?” Natasha was genuinely excited to talk to him, and he was kind of happy to talk to her too. He missed the Hazards.

“We’re pretty well. The boat is a blessing. Don’t tell Chris, but I thank her dad every day,” the BVB man sniggered. “This is the best wedding present in the history of wedding presents. We’re having so much fun, and Lukas can do more things now and enjoy it more now that he’s a little older than the first time.”

“She sent me a blog post the other night about how she was staying on the boat during the horse show. Whoever wrote it thought it was the most fab and glam thing to ever happen to horse showing,” Natasha laughed back. “It was almost like a gossip piece, but with admiration. Naturally Chris hated it. She sent it to me with a comment like, “Ugh can I live?” There was a great picture of her sitting on a sun lounger in breeches and boots and a bikini top, and a sun hat over her face. I think it’s from an ad.”

“The promoter for the official after party in Monte Carlo set it up for their Instagram, as like the invite to the party. She didn’t really want to do it but I think Juan talked her into it. We get to go to the party for free now or something. You guys should come!” For real, Chris would love it, André thought after the light bulb went on. “What are you doing next week? Bring the kids to Monte Carlo! We have plenty of room, and the kids would love the jumping. We can get an extra chair for Eden’s foot.”

“That sounds like fun but we have plans. Chris made the same pitch. I tried to figure out how to at least stop there for a night, but we’ll be in Ibiza with Thorgan and Marie. I was actually just calling to tell her that we’ll be there long enough to make it so we can’t come to the show and short enough that I won’t still be there for the concert she wants to go to.” The Belgian woman sounded disappointed and sympathetic, and the guy on the other end of the line felt disappointed to, and sympathetic in a different kind of way. She never gets to have real fun with her friends, he thought, meaning Christina. Other girls go away with their girlfriends all the time. Now Chris doesn’t even get to see her best girlfriend. Forget taking holidays together. This is probably half the reason she’s still so close to Juan. He knew that last thought was probably deliberately naive. Living in paradise made it easy to ignore reality though. “Is she around, or is she teaching Lukas how to snorkel or something?”

“Yeah, she’s right here. Hang on.” André handed the iPhone in the Givenchy star case off to a confused looking rider when she returned from her trip to see the captain. “Nat,” he supplied.

The rider put her tiny-swim-trunk-wearing little passenger down to resume playing with his toys, and then hurried excitedly toward the front of the boat to chat with her friend. It was the first non-work call taken in days, and she was clearly delighted about it. Georgina appeared a half-minute later to collect the dishes and forks from snack time and let everyone know that they’d be getting underway soon, on motor power, as the player suspected. Lilly XO couldn’t travel anywhere fast on her engines, by design, but they didn’t have far to go. Using engine power meant nothing needed to be packed up and secured, including the loungers, or any nannies sleeping on them.

“Daddy, take this one,” Lukas ordered as soon as he got back to his plastic cylinder of floating sea creatures. He plucked the dolphin out and held it out for his father- an invitation to come play with him. The big Schü moved down to the small Schü’s towel and sat Indian-style so he could reach into the container with his dolphin and chase Lukas’ killer whale.

“How many kisses have you given Mommy today?” he asked, harkening back to a conversation that had on Monday on the way to the harbor in Cannes. André instructed his son to kiss Christina 10 times per day, because 10 was the highest he could count. Usually he couldn’t even remember past 7, so it was still a bit of a stretch. I want to see if he remembers that we talked about this. Firstly, Prinzessin needs Mausi kisses the way I need Prinzessin kisses. I’m pretty sure she lights up a little every single time he gives her an unprompted kiss. Secondly, Mama said to give him long term projects or goals just to see if he’s able to remember it day to day, or like, have it in the back of his mind. He looks like he’s thinking it over, the player laughed inside while he studied the little boy, who was squinting into the water with concentration and no longer moving his whale around.

“Four.” Lukas held up three fingers with a great sense of surety. His dad helped him unfold another finger to get the correct amount.

“So you need to give her 6 more. How many fingers is 6?”

“One?” He opened his palm all the way and appeared less certain about that quantity than the first.

“What comes after four? One, two, three, four...”

“Five!”

“So how many fingers is 6?”

“This?” Lukas added the pointer from his right hand to the 5 digits from the left, and André congratulated him and gave him a high-five.

“What do you have to do 6 more times?” I should just verify he still knows what we’re talking about here.

“Kiss Mommy. You kiss Mommy too. How many?”

“I’m trying to kiss Mommy more than 10 times. I’m trying to kiss her a number you don’t even know yet.”

“What kind?”

“A big number!”

“Mommy!” Lukas let go of his black and white whale as soon as Christina reappeared, and ran to her with his arms up so that she might pick him up.

“Whatsammatter?” she questioned, glancing from child to husband with furrowed brows.

“Kiss.” Her son stuck his face out to smooch her cheek as he arrived at the necessary height. She got two kisses in close succession, and then he stopped to hold out his fingers and check with Daddy, who counted and held up the rest of the fingers to get to 6. Christina got all of the affection she was owed.

“What is this about?” she laughed.

“None of your business,” André replied, shaking his head.

“Mkay. Are we moving?” The second furrowing of her brows was accompanied by a glance to her right, toward the water. She heard the terribly inorganic sound of the twin motors.

“No but the engines are running. We’re leaving momentarily.”

“I invited Nat to Monaco and Ibiza but she can’t come.” Her questioning expression turned into a turned-over-lip pout, and though comical, it pulled on her partner’s heartstrings. Her inability to prevent her Marc Jacobs sandals from rubbing holes between her toes no matter what tape and Band-Aid solutions she trialed didn’t garner much sympathy. Things relating to her friendships did. He felt responsible for pulling the girls apart.

“Isn’t she going to be available when the season starts and Eden still can’t play but the rest of his brothers are playing and thus not available for vacations? Maybe you two could do something then,” he suggested.

“I’ll be in Tokyo, hopefully.”

André nodded and then asked Lukas to come back and play with him. He didn’t want to discuss the Olympics unless Christina expressly invited a conversation, and even then, he would follow her lead in terms of parameters. The prospect of saying the wrong thing, or asking the wrong question, and kicking off World War III was real, and terrifying. Things didn’t feel so fragile between them anymore that he needed to worry about every word, but if anything was worthy of caution it was the Olympic games. Even just his nod inspired second-guessing. He worried she would think he forgot about the Olympics because it wasn’t important to him and he didn’t care that it was important to her, or that he assumed she wouldn’t make the team. The star rider didn’t seem bothered. She lay on the lounger and reapplied sunscreen on her face.

I’ve been a professional athlete for more years of my life than not, and I still think it’s kind of weird that that girl- that one over there trying to get sun cream out of her eye- could not only be an Olympian but also a medal winner, he thought. The Olympics are different. It’s not like winning a World Cup. There are actually people who don’t care about football. Almost everyone loves the Olympics, and watches, or follows the story lines. People get overly nationalistic about it, even. There are way more people in the world who get to be Olympians than get to play in a World Cup, and most of them are completely unknown outside of their sports. Everyone hears about the top people in the popular sports though. They become characters in a two-week soap opera. I can’t put Chris in that context. I just don’t see it. I don’t think I could know someone like that. It’s weird. It’s weird to think it’s going to be my wife. Maybe it’s because I don’t really see in her the qualities I think I see in other top people. She doesn’t have an enormous personality like them. I think they only wear athletic clothes and look so out of place and awkward in regular clothes. She’s just...a regular person. Of course she has the qualities of a successful athlete- she is tough, determined, dedicated, does everything to get better, needs to win...but there is just something...I don’t know. It’s going to be so weird to watch this unfold. And I’m so nervous for her, but I can’t say that.

“Babe, can you find a napkin or something to dip in my water? I got sunscreen in my eye and it stings.”

“Yes, Prinzessin.” I rest my case.

Several hours later, after shopping, sightseeing, massaging, leg treatments, nail polish, and a lovely dinner, Christina brought up the only other topic André didn’t want to talk about. They went for a stroll along the 500m long jetty separating the two sections of the port from the gulf. It was a beautiful walk, he thought, until she changed the subject. There was a nice breeze that picked up the little pieces of hair that had come loose from her fishtail braid. There was enough light to see that her eyes had turned a particularly tropical blue, set off by the canary yellow little two-tiered silk shift she had on. Her colorful Hermès bangles made a pleasing jangle sound when their hands, linked together casually, swayed between them. Her cork wedges were tall enough that he could smell the perfume on her neck. Not a single other human marred the view or privacy.

“I just...I want to let you know that...I did have a really great week with him, and everything did seem to come together the right way with riding and stuff, and yeah, I did wonder a little bit if it was because of him, but now I’m sure it’s not,” she explained after she asked if it was okay to talk about the Spaniard for a minute.

“Oh?” Andre’s response was flat and borderline disinterested, but she knew it was just irritation.

“Yeah,” she nodded, squeezing his hand a little. “I still feel...normal,” the rider added with extra emphasis. “I don’t revert to doom and gloom every time I have nothing specific to think about like I used to. I don’t have this constant feeling like something is off, or missing. I think, like...my conscience is relaxed...or something. It’s hard to explain.” Her eyes stayed mostly on her Tiffany blue toe nails as they walked along the concrete with calm water and boats of all shapes and sizes on one side and slightly more active-looking seas on the other. There was a storm approaching, a few hours away yet, and the water foretold it as much as the clouds moving quickly by the moon. That was the primary reason Lilly XO was docked in port instead of moored offshore. Before that conversation, she’d been thinking about how it only took 6 years to “train” André to shorten his walk alongside her, and slow it when she wore heels.

“Okay.” He was still somewhat noncommittal about her testimony, mostly because he was trying to figure out how to take it. Is she telling me this because it’s true, or because she feels guilty and wants me to think Juan and I are equals or something? Why would you bring this up now, after such a wonderful evening?

“I’m trying to tell you you make me happy, idiot,” Christina tutted. “You could at least smile.”

“Is that really what you’re trying to say though?” he asked quickly in response to her lighthearted ribbing. “A few days on the boat together and all of a sudden the Happy Place thing is in effect again? Is that even real? Everything is easy on vacation.”

“No it isn’t! We’ve had vacation together and it has not been easy. And yes, that is really what I’m trying to say, and yes it’s real. Babe,” the expat snorted through her nose, frustration building. “I’m telling you I’m happy. Can’t you...react better?”

“I’m happy you’re happy, Prinzessin.” André let go of her hand to put his arm around her shoulders instead, which felt impersonal to her. He didn’t really do shoulders. He did arm-around-the-neck-to-pull-you-close. “I just don’t understand what’s different except that you were alone in horse show paradise with Juan long enough to get over the things that have troubled you, and we’ve avoided all difficult conversations long enough to maybe get over the things that have troubled us. It doesn’t make me feel good that you needed someone else. I accept that, but it isn’t satisfying.”

“Well I can’t do anything about that, and I don’t see it that way anyway.”

“I know.” A top-of-the-head kiss did little to change how either of them felt. Christina thought she was telling her husband something that would please him, and reassure him. All André heard was that his ex-teammate fixed everything- that he had the magic healing power to repair his girl’s soul or something similar and set everything right for her so that she could be happy in the various avenues of her life.

They got back to the beginning of the quay, where the empty street joined the packed street. The one that snaked around the edge of the old basin was lined with quaint, charming little cafes with patrons spilling outside in front of the pastel building fronts. There was a kind of Old World feeling about the area that the footballer really enjoyed. He was going to suggest they pick a random establishment to check out and grab one less glass of wine, or a cocktail, but by the time he got to the end of the walk he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted anymore. Lilly XO was back the other way. They’d already walked past her. She was tied up adjacent to the quay because it was the only place she fit. Unlike the other ports they visited, St. Tropez was hosting more sailboats than superyachts. Most of them were much smaller than Christina’s. He stopped them both to avoid a rogue and likely intoxicated scooter driver, and then lingered in indecision about which way to go- onward, toward a nightcap, or back from whence he came, to wind down onboard.

“Do you want to keep walking?” his wife asked when his standing still became weird and awkward.

“I dunno. Do you want a drink or something, or should we head back?”

“I would like a drink, but only if you’re gonna be charming and flirty, and not quiet and pensive.” Christina winked up at him and stepped out from under his arm to right the dainty chain on which her purse hung from her shoulder. Much to her disappointment, she didn’t receive a return wink, or even a smile. Her face fell. “Please, boyfriend. I want to have fun with you. I have been having fun with you. Don’t think too hard. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“You’re so funny.”

“You’re so handsome.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“That is patently untrue.”

“Give it your best shot.”

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limpblotter · 7 years

Text

Fly me to the Moon

[Previously…] A/N: IM text and second to last part! xD Summary: It's Christmas Time and Johan discovers the joys of instant messenger and unexpected surprises (Ft. Johnson Fam) WordCount: 3313 Taggies: @hell-yes-puns-and-ships Warning: Panic attack/ Depressing thoughts

“Bow have you seen my watch?” Dre grumbled, rubbing his empty wrist as he crossed the large, open kitchen. He gently placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder and kissed the side of her face. “I just had it…”

“You mean this one?” She motioned to a black Rolex watch sitting on the counter right next to her cup of coffee. “Or that one.” She pointed, across the kitchen to the living room where another expensive watch sat folded neatly on the coffee table. “Or--”

“No it's the gold one, the one I wear for my ‘Drop em like it's hot’ meetings.” Dre smiled cockly, Rainbow arched an eyebrow not sure what he was talking about. “For the meetings where I drop some big news, big news mean a big watch. I gotta assert my dominance in that room.”

“Because your CEO title means nothing if you’re not waving around big, shiny things on your wrist?” She shook her head, sometimes her husband made her wonder what she got herself into. “The point is you leave your watches around all over the house I’m surprised you haven’t lost any until now.”

“No see, that watch is my lunch watch, swap it out when I’m going on lunch outs with the crew. Can’t flash anything too nice but I can’t be watchless.” He scoffed as pointed to the other one across the room. “That's my, I’m reading don’t bother me watch.” Dre nodded, then motioned to his empty wrist. “I need my ‘Drop em like it’s hot’ watch.”

After a moment of silence Rainbow shook her head and pulled the only conclusion she could think of. “Did you leave it in the bathroom?”

A lightbulb went off in Dre’s head and he pointed at the hallway. “And this is why I married you, we are a team.” He kissed her cheek and bounced up the stairs to retrieve his watch. There were few things in his life which he thought were sacred. His kicks, his watches, and his personal space. Which was why when he bought and designed the house, he had in mind an oasis like master bedroom. Far away from most of the rooms, a little corner of his personal space. So imagine his outrage when he found his master on suite bathroom was crowded with his children and his not-so-welcomed brother in-law. “What are you doing in my bathroom?!”

Junior popped his head out of the many bodies crowding around the vanity and smiled. “Uncle Johan is signing up for facebook and we’re helping him get the best quality profile picture around.” He gave his father an ‘ok’ sign before diving back in. Andre stood there, somewhat bewildered before shaking his head.

“No, no why does it have to be my in bathroom!?” He yelled, another child coming out from the herd and placed her small hand on her hip. Andre casted his eyes down to the youngest daughter of his family.

“Zoey said that the best lightening comes from bathrooms and your bathroom has the best lightening.” Diane shrugged a bit. “Zoey is on a roll in here, you do.not. Want to get in. We’ll call when we’re done.” She smiled and went back to the hustle and bustle. “No, we need the light in your eyes--wait! And, fluff his hair a little. Ok now hold the phone like, yes!” Zoey’s voice was high and cheerful. “I think we did it…” She pulled away and noticed her father was standing there with his arms wide open in exasperation. “Oh hey daddy.” Zoey smirked, still beaming from her handy work.

“Does anyone mind telling me why the four of you are crowded around in my bathroom like there is a concert going on?” Dre got a glimpse of Johan who wordlessly, walked out of the bathroom and climbed on his bed with his sandals still on. “WOAH WOAH now, not the shoes, JOHAN.” He yelled at him and usually Johan would prattle about something but...he was quiet his eyes glued to his phone more than usual. “...O-K, what’s wrong with him, wait no he’s quiet I don’t want to know.” Dre motioned his children away and retrieved the watch in question from the bathroom. When he returned they were all huddled behind Johan, looking over his shoulder at his phone. “No Dre. Don’t ask. It's not worth it…”

“Why isn’t he accepting the friend request yet?” Junior frowned, “you think he’s not online yet?”

“No way, I checked his facebook he made a status this morning.” Zoey had thoroughly stalked the guy in question. Johan came back doe eyed and with a sudden interest in social media. Of course she needed the details. “...maybe he’s blinded by how amazing you look with the flower crown filter.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t like you.” Diana crossed her arms and felt a nudge from her twin brother.

“Excuse her, uncle Johan, someone didn’t have their cereal this morning.” He mumbled, “I told you’d be cranky if you didn’t eat first.”

Clearly all his children were invested so Dre was swayed, he was going to pry and pray it wasn’t something he’d regret. “Alright, what are you all talking about?”

“Dad, Johan is trying to slid into the DMs with the guy he met in New York” Andre Jr. wiggled his eyebrow gaining only facepalms and groans from his siblings. “What?”

“What he is trying to say in a less...cringey way, is Johan likes a guy and he doesn’t know how to go about social media flirting.” Zoey smiled, “so we helped him out.”

“Social Media….flirting? Uh huh.” Dre shook his head and his children felt a lecture coming. “You know back in my day, we didn’t ‘slide’ into anyone’s Ims.”

“DMs.”

“Whatever” Dre held up his hand, ignoring the fact he was corrected in the slang. “If you liked someone you called them, wrote them letters, took them out on dates. And you did not date someone you didn’t visit. Long distance only worked when you’re dating someone who’s going out to war or if you’re starring in a B rated Hallmark romcom movie.”

His children exchanged looks, “that's not how romance works now dad. You can date anyone anywhere in the world with a click.”

“HA” Dre sarcastically laughed and clapped his hands together. “I’d hardly call that romantic.”

“Oh coming from the guy who got mom a blender for their anniversary?” Andre Junior shook his head disapprovingly.

Dre dramatically placed a hand to his chest and backed off a bit, “your mother had been dropping hints she was into juicing, my gift was thoughtful and expensive! I am plenty romantic.” There was a silence that came over his children and he felt nothing but judgment. “Don’t you have to be at school, BEAT IT” He shoo’d them out of his room until the only person who remained in his room wasn’t even someone he was legally required to take care of. Dre had some choice words for his annoying brother in-law but something about Johan’s face stopped him. He jumped a bit when Johan suddenly gasped.

“...he’s talking to me... “ Suddenly Johan’s entire world muted and the only thing that mattered was this Facebook messenger.

[[Usnavi De La Vega: You have a facebook? … You just got a facebook.

Johan Johnson: Yeah I figure I’d try out this government monitored boobytrap that everyone seems to be a part of.

Usnavi De La Vega: jaja! ]]

Johan arched his eyebrow, was that a typo? He didn’t look into it too long, he noticed there were dots blinking at the bottom of his screen indicating that Usnavi was still typing.

[[Usnavi De La Vega: well as long as you have nothing to hide I think the government doesn’t give two shits lol, btw nice picture. You have a snapchat too?

Johan Johnson: blame my niece, she decided if I was going to leap into social media I was going into the deep end. She signed me up for Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat and this thing called Tinder.

Usnavi De La Vega: Tinder ?? Isn’t that the hook up app or something? Swipe left or right, I don’t know what the kids use these days.

Johan Johnson: AH. Lol I won’t be using that one then…

Usnavi De La Vega: What government controlled dating apps is where you draw the line? I’m sure the government is very curious who you’d swipe right for.]]

He didn’t respond, his eyes might have been reading too far between the black and white typings of their conversation...But he would like to believe Usnavi sounded a little jealous. He frowned when suddenly another message came up and it was the end of their brief conversation.

[[Usnavi De La Vega: Sorry I got to help Sonny pack. He’s leaving for Cali in the morning *eyeroll emoji* I have half the mind to not send his ass anywhere...anyway, I’ll hit you up later, ok?

Johan Johnson: Later :) ]]

Johan groaned a bit, laying back on the bed with the phone on his chest. He felt his heart bang against his ribs. Any harder and his phone would have been bouncing on top of his chest. The bed dipped a little as Dre took a seat at the edge of his own bed. “So, hispanic guy huh?”

“Dominican” Johan beamed with a trance like smile.

“You know they have a lot of Afo-Carribean heritage in the Dominican Republic.” He smiled but then mildly wondered if he was confusing them with Haiti. “How do you plan on making it work with him being across the country, hm?” Dre was still mildly proving his point that long distance wasn’t healthy or very stable. There were very few exceptions. Johan didn’t answer right away, “like do you even know him?”

Suddenly his brother in-law sat up right and nodded. “He’s a store owner, he has money but is really careful...he’s really careful about everything actually. And yet, I can tell there is something in his eyes excitement and ….”

“I mean family facts, history, possibly any transmitted diseases.”

“Are you implying he has an STD?” Johan rolled his eyes, “He’s been on his own for a while, his parents died in...huh, December actually.” His voice trailed off.

“Wow…” Dre also sounded a little softer. “Must be rough. At least he has other family right? Hispanics got em’ big families like we do.” Dre nudged him a little with a comforting smile, but the facts began to pile up on Johan. Usnavi didn’t have much other family from what he remembered from their conversations. Usnavi’s parents died around this time, then his beloved abuela Claudia, his cousin was traveling away for the first time, and all his friends had moved out of the neighborhood. He was… alone. “I love the eggnog Puerto Ricans make, you think he’d have the recipe for that?”

“...Dre...would it be crazy…” Johan couldn’t fathom what Usnavi had to be feeling right now. However there was a chance, a sliver of a chance Usnavi was alone and sad...Johan couldn’t bear that idea. “If I go to him?”

Hallmark movie and there was a good chance Johan would be absent for Christmas. No commenting on their economic spending or having his mother relentlessly flirt. Dre turned and placed his hand on Johan’s shoulder. “Brother, this might be only time I call you this by the way, you care about him? You go. Right now. Immediately, I’ll even book you a flight.”

Dre was walking around with his head high after that. He did a good damn thing this morning and his kids had the nerve to call him ‘unromantic’. HA. Later around the dinner table, Bow mentioned how Johan wasn’t joining them for dinner and hasn’t been around the whole day. So Dre dropped his bombshell.

“...what you’re meaning to tell me is you let my little brother, run off to New York by himself? During the holidays?! DRE” Bow stood up from the chair. “This was going to be our Christmas a family! I had a stocking picked out and everything.” She stormed for her phone while Dre’s kids gave him disapproving looks again.

“Way to ruin Christmas dad…” Diana sighed, picking at her food.

“Like, really” Zoey began, “Johan just got social media and how he’s flying across the country to see him? Talk about Creepy af, dad, you’ve practically ruined all of uncle Johan’s chances”

Had he?

Winter was a hard time. The cold in the city felt a lot heavier when the store was empty. It was too cold for too many people to walk on by. Most people ran into stores to hide from the merciless winds. The snow gathered along the sides of the sidewalks like small mountains, coating cars in their parking spaces. Usnavi was usually a little somber this time of year. His parents died this time of year so he had the reason. Usually though, he had Sonny who would light candles with him and binge watch Christmas movies. Benny and Nina use to pop in and drop off the Rosario’s famed Coquito. Abuela Claudia would conduct secret Santa at her place while Daniela somehow always got Carla or Vanessa as her Santa…

The barrio changed. Abuela was gone, her stoop filled with snow and her apartment now housing a new family. Daniela and Carla made it a tradition to spend Christmas with Vanessa who was downtown, living around all the Christmas decorations and the tree. Benny and Nina had a small family now, no doubt they were spending it together. Of course Usnavi got invitations to go...but...why would he? He was just a guest, in a house, a guest in a family. A sad face that probably wouldn’t get much joy out partaking in someone’s happy family.

Usnavi slugged on his jacket and hat. He gazed over his store one more time, keeping his mind busy from the clawing void that was just waiting to get to him while he was alone. Reluctantly he started to pull the grate down and locked up for the night. He rubbed his hands together and felt his phone go off. For a second, he thought it might have been Johan. He felt bad for leaving him hanging. Once he helped Sonny back and saw him off he messaged him back. The message remained sent, not even read so … “Heh…” He mused at the idea of Johan struggling with social media, even going so far to humoring his ego with the idea Johan got it for him. To his slight discouragement it was Sonny who texted him a picture of him and Pete at a dinner by the beach.

The text read, 'He surprised me with dinner, the weather here is bomb cuz!! You need to fly out so we can all hang on this playa.’

Usnavi replied, having a snarky comment in mind...then he deleted it and responded with, ‘Enjoy it kid, you deserve it.’

Sonny was a good kid…why did he have to spend another sad holiday with Usnavi. He deserved to be where he wanted to be.

He tucked his phone away and made the quiet hike back to his apartment nearby. The city was a snowy ghost town. No doubt people were warm with family, getting ready for the holidays. He imagined families coming home from sightseeing or last minute shopping… He passed abuela Claudia’s stoop and the memories forced themselves into his mind. Unwillingly he recalled childhood memories, hazy from years gone by, of waiting up in Claudia’s house. His parents sneaking around for deals on Christmas presents. Usnavi only a kid helping set up the tree and candles. Celebrating Noche Buena by the time his parents got home, music playing, hugs and kisses…

It was almost painful for him to walk into his bleek and now empty apartment. Nothing waited for him here, not a soul or a cheer. He sloppily kicked off his shoes and coat. Making a beeline to the fridge he pulled out a green beer bottle and cracked it open. His phone buzzed again and once again his stomach did flips wondering if it was…

No. It was Benny, asking if Usnavi wanted come for the Rosario’s Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow. He didn’t want to but out of coursey he responded as vaguely as possible.

‘I’ll see how it goes with the store.’ Ben: ‘K man, you know the fam would luv 2 have u. Stop working so dam hard, it's xmas.’

Ha.

Like that was an excuse. His parents worked through many holidays, Christmas too...but by nightfall they made it back just to light candles with Usnavi. Speaking of which...his eyes scanned the room for a tall red candle, the one with the Virgin Mary sticker on it. A candle so traditional that he was sure his parents and grandparents used the same one. He lit the candle and carefully walked it over to the closed window sill. “Otra Navidad…” He smiled placing it down watching the flickering flame dance on it's small wick. “...miss you guys…”his lower lip trembled. He bit his lip to try and keep it still but if it wasn’t one thing it was another, his eyes started to ache with bitter tears.

“Fuck.” He hissed, he should be over it by now. Every Christmas he felt this weight on his shoulders...his parents broke their asses every damn Christmas to get what they could to fill the tree. Every damn holiday day in and day out until the day they died. Working so hard just to put something under the tree for him, to give him something they didn’t have. Now he had the money, money he wished he had years ago when the people he loved still walked on the Earth. Now he could give his parents a vacation to Dominican Republic, a relief from the store… If only he hadn’t been too late.

If he worked harder. If he had made something of himself sooner. If he wasn’t such a failure of a son. His parents will never know, they died leaving Usnavi debts and worries, they died probably upset...Upset they were leaving their son behind with so much unfinished work. So much to carry, they weren’t here to see he was still managing. Abuela wasn’t here to see he was still going...He was too late.

Usnavi felt his lungs twist cutting off his breathing. His heart beating slow but hard against his chest, like it was trying to punch a hole out of his chest. His eyes widened when he realized he couldn’t breathe….he couldn’t! His body shook as he slowly fell to his knees, hard sobs breaking through his crumpling frame. He tried to calm his panic, calm the screams in his head that reminded him his parents and abuela died fully aware Usnavi was struggling. Died before Usnavi could do something for them, something they deserved.

Desperate to relieve himself he slumped forward and pressed his head against the cold, wood floor and forced himself to take shallow breathes.

Knock knock

His head snapped up so fast he felt the air trapped joints crack along his neck. He crawled across the floor, all the while forcing himself to take purposeful breaths.

Knock, Knock

Usnavi grabbed the doorknob and willed himself to his feet, leaning against the door. He ran his hand over his face covering the tear trails as best he could, then opened the door. “Who---” His eyes widened, he looked up at a slightly flushed and incredibly cold looking Johan. His jacket was barely warm enough for the winter they were experiencing at the East Coast. Johan’s eyes held Usnavi in a silent stare, he assisted him thoroughly and his face fell a bit.

“Usnavi, are you ok?”

Usnavi opened his mouth. “No” He wailed.

#crossover fic #crossover fanfic #crossover au #Johan x Usnavi #Johsnavi #Josnavi #johsnavi fic #johsnavi fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #boys loving boys #In The Heights #blackish #usnavi #usnavi de la vega #johan johnson #wee bit angst #90% fluff

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bellarkefanfiction · 7 years

Text

Soft Shock

written by: Annie | @clarkescrusade

prompt: “Can I please have a college/uni au of this: "my best friend just called me to ask what color he should wear to prom and I was like “um?? idk??” and he was goes “well we have to match, so like what color is ur dress??” but he never asked me to go so I was kinda confused so I told him “hey, yeah since when are we going to prom?” and the line goes silent for a bit and he very quietly whispers “shit. I forgot to ask u” " by @vangohing

word count: 3197

If Clarke was smarter she probably would have noticed with the first text.

Bell:

You like these flowers?

Clarke stared at the blurry picture of the corsage with confusion on and off the whole day, unsure what it meant. The entirety of her fifteen minute break at the art supplies store was spent wondering not only for what purpose Bellamy could possibly need a corsage, but also why he needed her opinion on it.

“What does this mean,” she asked Raven, as soon as she entered the swinging door of the break room. Clarke held her arm straight out, the phone grasped tightly in her palm.

Raven snorted after grazing her eyes over the message. She moved to the beaten down fridge and grabbed out a Coke, popping the top and taking a long drink before responding, “You expect me to decipher your and Blake’s neverending shit storm of a relationship? I’m a genius, but not even I can do that.”

“You’re useless.”

“No,” Raven replied. “Worrying about that text is useless. It’s probably nothing.”

The weekend passed quickly and silently, and Clarke tucked away the weird message without much more of a thought, or at least she tried her hardest to. She responded with a simple ‘looks nice’ and hoped that did the trick. The thumbs up emoji he sent in response did nothing to help her confusion.

It was weird, not hearing more from Bellamy. After the brief conversation he seemingly disappeared for the weekend. Clarke had an essay due on Monday for AP European History so it was fine, but usually he would have texted asking if she wanted to meet at the library to do it together. Or messaged her about how stupidly restricting their prompt was. Anything but radio silence.

By the time Monday finally rolled around, Clarke was more than ready to climb her way out of the weekend essay hole she had been residing in. She saw Raven briefly in the hallway, but she only gave a quick wave as she needed to talk to Mr. Sinclair before class. Which meant a few minutes later, Clarke was in her front row spot in AP Euro and there was Bellamy, thick-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose as he was lost in some book.

“Hey, Bell,” Clarke said.

He looked up from his book, tucking the bookmark within as his cheeks flushed briefly. “How was your weekend?”

There was something off that Clarke couldn’t put her finger on. “Fine, mostly just worked on the essay,” she said, eyeing his profile. He turned his head toward her, sending a soft smile. God, how could she even for a second think something was wrong between them. This was Bellamy and Clarke, the two of them– they were always going to be strong. Ever since Clarke had stood up for Octavia on the swingset in elementary school when some older boys were making fun of her and Bellamy had looked at her like she hung the moon, they were bonded for life.

“Did you see Raven this morning?” Bellamy asked.

Clarke’s eyebrows met in the middle. “Yea, but she was in a rush… why?”

“She’s asking Wells to prom today,” he replied through a crooked smile.

“You’re kidding me!” Clarke said. “He’s been planning his promposal for months, and he’s going to get upstaged.”

“Ignoring the fact that I can’t believe you just dropped the word promposal casually into a conversation, when was he going to ask?”

“Sometime this week, I think,” Clarke tried, but suddenly she couldn’t remember what he had said the last time they talked.

Bellamy shifted in his seat, running a hand through his hair. “We should all go together. You’re cool with Raven and Wells, right?”

Confusion set heavily over Clarke. “What do you mean? Of course I’m fine with it. You know I’m way over whatever that awkward thing between Wells and I was freshman year.”

“Not that,” Bellamy said. “I meant for the actual-”

“Phones away, class,” Mr. Pike said, interrupting the conversation.

Bellamy’s eyes widened in desperation, the words caught in his throat, before relaxing and sheepishly turning back front. Clarke wasn’t sure what was going on with Bellamy, but it was starting to get weird. Whatever it was, she was sure it would pass.

Except it didn’t, well it did for a little while. The rest of the week flew by normally. Raven had beaten Wells to the punch by asking him to prom on Monday, which Wells counteracted by asking her on Wednesday anyways. He had already planned it all out with Sinclair, the whole thing going down during her Autoshop class; Raven laughed so hard at the whole thing she was almost crying by the end of it (Clarke witnessed it in an Instagram video Jasper posted: #wellven #getontheirlevel).

All the strangeness with whatever Clarke had thought was going on with her and Bellamy seemed to vanish, totally forgotten. It was nice to slip back into normalcy, joking texts and after school study sessions.

“Are you excited about prom?” he whispered, one afternoon in their favorite corner of the local library.

Clarke looked up from her book, pen poised between her lips and eyebrows scrunched together. She saw that he had been looking at some text from Wells on his phone, though she couldn’t quite make out what it said.

“Um… why would I be?” she responded, hesitantly. At this point her plans consisted of staying home to eat chinese food and having a Harry Potter marathon. She had assumed Bellamy would join her. That was how they had spent Homecoming earlier that year, albeit Lord of the Rings as opposed to Harry Potter.

There really wasn’t any hope of anyone asking her, and that was fine. After the disaster of Junior prom (Lexa ditched her for some elite LaCrosse camp/banquet/something-or-other and didn’t let her know until she had been sitting in her dress for an hour in the living room, her mom worriedly popping in every few minutes to check what was happening. Bellamy had showed up when he found out, decked in an old suit, holding up flowers he had ripped from the garden and a smile that held no pity– it actually turned out alright), she wasn’t sure the school dance thing was her scene.

Out of nowhere, though, Bellamy’s face completely fell. “Oh, um… I don’t know. I just thought– it doesn’t matter.”

They lapsed back into an uncomfortable silence, Bellamy’s eyes purposefully pointed away from her. Clarke kept glancing up from the pages, trying to figure out the reason behind his overly composed face and whether she was missing something. Obviously she was, but she couldn’t figure out what.

The next day she asked Monty and Raven about it after school as they laid around in her room, doing homework. “It was really weird,” she said, working her bottom lip between her teeth. “Do you think it means anything?”

Raven flopped down on the bed between Clarke and Monty, the three of them laying across it sideways. She sighed. “Do you think maybe he wants to ask you?”

“Why would he ask me?” Clarke asked. A warm, anxious feeling settled in her gut. “He’s never asked me before.”

“You two did go together last year,” Monty pointed out.

Clarke rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t exactly under normal circumstances! And, he didn’t even ask me– he just came as my pity date.”

“He came ‘cause he’s your best friend and he felt bad,” Raven said. “That’s different than pity.”

“Whatever, semantics.”

“You two also went to Homecoming together,” Monty said.

Clarke raised herself up onto her elbow. “No, we didn’t. We stayed home and watched movies and ate chinese food and fell asleep on the couch.”

“Ok, you still spent Homecoming together,” he remedied, flopping back down onto the bed.

The room went silent for a moment, the three of them staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars Bellamy, Clarke, and her dad had stuck up the year she had gotten into astronomy. The three of them had hung a thick blanket over the window to block out all the light, laying down on her carpet to examine the constellations they had created. The memory made her breath hitch for a moment. She had felt so safe then.

“Is it so hard to believe that Blake would want to ask you?” Raven asked.

Clarke shrugged, not sure how to answer. Monty sighed exasperatedly.

“Not to diminish all of your problems, but I’m not even sure if Miller is going to ask me. Do I have to ask him? Guys, dating a dude is so hard sometimes, how am I supposed to know this stuff?”

Raven chucked first, then the other two followed suit. Any residual tension melted on the spot. Clarke felt lighter, and the whole prom situation dissipated. If something happened, it would happen, but she decided to stop thinking about it.

Bell:

O said the first attempt was horrible and I had to give it another go. What do you think about this one?

Clarke was still asleep when the text came through. She woke up Saturday morning around 10 and noticed the blinking light of a notification. Lazily swiping open her phone, another picture of a corsage awaited her, this was a bit more delicate, a bit more classic. It was a step up, but a step up for what?

It looks nice! She texted back. What in the world was going on, Clarke wondered, her brain still moving at half speed so early in the morning. Why did he keep sending her pictures of corsages?

The thought dawned on her all at once… prom. He was asking her about corsages because of prom. Something sticky and uncomfortable seemed to latch onto her bones. Who was he taking to prom? Clarke hadn’t heard anything about it, but maybe he had just forgotten to mention it because he assumed someone else would tell her. She wasn’t sure why the thought of him in that suit from last year and the wild flowers felt so hers, but for a moment her heart clenched at the idea of someone else getting to experience it.

Clarke:

Is Bellamy taking someone to prom?

Raven:

Trust me, you’d know before me. Try asking O.

Clarke finally sat up in her bed, the dull light coming through her blinds leaving her feeling too hot in her sweatshirt. She went to the bathroom, stopping briefly to look at her mess of hair and the sleep in the corner of her eyes. Before flopping back on her bed, she wiped it away.

Clarke:

I know you’re probably busy with your dance comp but… do you know who Bell’s taking to prom?

The answer didn’t come through for several hours. Clarke was stocking the paintbrush aisle when the familiar vibration of her phone went off in her back pocket. She scrambled for the phone, nearly forgetting about the brushes.

Octavia:

Duh. No need to be secretive about it.

The Blakes were weird, Clarke decided. She tried to think about who he could have asked, but the only person she could remotely imagine was Gina or possibly Harper. She knew Harper and Monroe had already agreed to go together, though, so that took away that option. Raven and Wells were already going together, too. Murphy wouldn’t be caught dead going to the dance. The only person that could possibly leave was Gina.

Clarke wasn’t entirely sure why that set her stomach in such tight knots.

Knots that would barely leave the rest of the weekend. The more she tried to not think about the whole situation, the more the knots seemed to remind her they were there. She wished she was oblivious to the whole thing, then at least she wouldn’t have to think about it and what her feelings in relation to it meant.

For once, Clarke arrived to AP Euro before Bellamy. She sat down in her seat, unreasonably tired. He came in a few minutes later, yawning and pushing his glasses back up his nose. A warmth spread through her chest that was familiar and new all at the same time.

“Good weekend?” she asked.

He slumped into his seat, smiling smally over at her. “As good as a weekend can be when you’re stuck in a hotel primarily filled with overly enthusiastic teenage girls.”

“I fail to see the part of that scenario that sucks,” Clarke joked.

He rolled his eyes. “Besides Octavia’s stuff, everyone else was trash.”

She laughed. “You would think that.”

He shrugged. “S’true.”

Clarke nodded along, struck again by how much he loved his sister. The warmth in her chest seemed to grow. Her mouth perched open briefly, ready to say something she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. “So, um… Gina?”

Bellamy was slow to respond, hindered by some mixture of confusion, sleep deprivation, and thought. “What about her?”

“I just think it’s cool, the two of you,” Clarke said, stumbling over her words in a way that was far from the nonchalant, cool air she had been hoping for.

“I’m not sure what I did to warrant that, but thanks I guess? We’re friends.” His face looked adorably pained as he tried to figure out what Clarke was talking about.

“I wasn’t trying to imply.” But the rest of the words were stuck in her throat. She was glad when Mr. Pike came in and took over, silencing whatever jumble of a thought would have fallen from her lips.

Things had never been this complicated with Bellamy before. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Through puberty there had been a handful of strange moments. Like the chunk of time where all they did was fight with one another. Or when they were both struggling with their sexualities. Or when Clarke had, for the briefest of moments, been incapable of not staring at Bellamy’s developing muscles when he started working out to impress Roma.

But for the most part, their relationship was pretty straightforward. They were just Bellamy and Clarke, best friends, partners. Now, though, Clarke was starting to wonder what that really meant. Whether there wasn’t something else, a current, running below all of that. Was she just jealous because he suddenly wasn’t only hers or was there something more to it? Honestly, Clarke was pretty sure she was shit at feelings. She certainly didn’t want to bring the whole thing up to Raven just to have her tell her again what a mess Bellamy and Clarke were.

The school week came and went. Miller finally asked Monty to prom, which seemed to take a huge weight off of Monty’s shoulders. On Friday the final text came through.

Bell:

What color should I wear to prom?

The strange sudden warmth and anxiety that had been warring inside of Clarke all week seemed to vanish, replaced by something entirely new. It was red hot and scalding. It was angry and frustrated. Why did Bellamy have to ask her all these questions when he should be asking his own date? Clarke started to type before deciding that digital words couldn’t possibly say what she wanted. She hit the call button and tapped her fingers against her thigh anxiously.

“Hello?” he answered, a little surprised.

“Why aren’t you asking Gina?” she spat out with much more venom than intended.

“What?”

“Why would I know what color you should wear?”

The line went dead, the only sound Clarke’s ferocious breathing in contrast to Bellamy’s long, slow breaths.

“Well, we have to match?” he started slowly. “So, what color is your dress? You could just send me a picture if you want.”

Clarke’s mouth dropped open, trying to decipher what he had just said. He wanted to know what the color of her dress was but she wasn’t going to prom, he would know that. The only reason he would want to know her dress color would be…

“Bell,” she began slowly, stewing over the words before breathing them out. “Do you think we’re going to prom together?”

A huff of a breath released over the phone. Then there was no sound at all, and then, “Shit, shit.”

“What’s happening?”

“I forgot to actually ask you, didn’t I?”

A laugh of relief bubbled up. He wasn’t taking Gina to prom, he had wanted to take her, the idiot had just forgotten to ask her in the first place. Clarke hung up the phone, grabbing her keys from the saucer by the door, and drove the five minutes over to his house.

Her fist knocked harshly against the door. He appeared after only a few seconds, sheepishly looking at her through the curly hair that fell over his forehead and into his eyes.

“You idiot,” Clarke began, a rush of something warm and sweet and intoxicating filling every crevice of her being.

He sighed. “Please don’t make fun of me. I’m really upset. I planned out the perfect way to ask you and everything,” he rambled. “I knew last year was horrible and I wanted to make it up to you so you’d have a good experience so at first I thought about writing it out in stars on your ceiling but then I worried that might be kinda stalker-ish so instead I–”

Clarke stepped forward, grasping onto the sides of his face and rubbing her right thumb over his cheek. The words caught in his throat. She dragged his face up so he was looking into her eyes and not at the ground before surging forward to kiss him sweetly.

His body stiffened underneath her palms at first, but then he grabbed right back. His right hand grasped at her waist, his left tangling into her hair. Their lips moved together. It felt almost like they had done this before, but in a way that reassured her no one knew her the way he did. She wanted to push and pull with him forever, she thought briefly. This amazing man who wanted to make everything in her life as perfect as he could manage.

“The fact that I forgot to ask you to prom explains why you said you weren’t excited about it,” he breathed out as they finally separated their lips, foreheads leaning against each other. Clarke was pretty sure if she still didn’t feel the weight of him against her in some way she would have thought the whole thing was a dream, vanishing away like dust. “And Wells and you must not be talking a lot as of late because he was under the impression we were going together, too.”

“We’ve both been busy…” she trailed off, thinking about that text she had half seen when Bellamy and her were studying. “I thought you were going with Gina,” she admitted.

“I want to go with you,” he replied, tucking hair behind her ear. “Always with you.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke whispered conspiratorially, “do you want to go to prom with me?”

“Fuck you,” he said without heat. “You beat me to it.”

“Do you mind?”

He shook his head, leaning forward and pecking her forehead, her nose, her cheeks.

“Not at all.”

#bellarke fanfiction #bffnet #a: clarkescrusade #title: soft shock #oneshots #high school au #wellven #fluff #friends to lovers #prompts

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grrlwonder-archive · 7 years

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RULES. repost, don’t reblog. tag ten. TAGGED. the bae @magicxecustos TAGGING. @perfectforayear, @thirdwcnder, @theredwonder, @yallneedahero, @favdream, @thegreatunxter, @notbctmcn, @twerpzilla, @illuminatedflight, @xmarksthescott, @futuresuper, @canary-noir, @cacciatriice

BASICS.

FULL NAME. stephanie alice bellinger NICKNAME. steph, stephie, stephers, eggplant wonder AGE. 22 (verse dependent) BIRTHDAY. august 17 ETHNIC GROUP. caucasian NATIONALITY. american LANGUAGE / S. english, swahili, basic spanish & french SEXUAL ORIENTATION. heterosexual, bicurious ROMANTIC ORIENTATION. panromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS. single (verse dependent) CLASS. lower HOME TOWN / AREA. gotham city, new jersey, usa CURRENT HOME. an apartment in the city with a rather lousy landlord PROFESSION. law school student

PHYSICAL.

HAIR. honey blonde with golden reflects, about mid-back in general length EYES. generally described as blue, though they tend to look teal in certain lighting. too round to be almond shaped, too wide to be considered round. bright & almost child-like, but they’re often narrowed in suspicion NOSE. once it was cute & button-y, now it’s a little too long & wide. it has suffered too many fractures, most visible one the bridge now FACE. round with rather chubby cheeks, a pointy chin, wide forehead, & slight widow’s peak LIPS. full & a little round. if she’s not wearing only chapstick, she has on a deep, almost burgundy shade of lipstick, or a bright red lipstick. they tend to be chapped from picking & biting at them COMPLEXION. fair, but she tends to tan easily during the summer BLEMISHES. there are a few scars from missions gone wrong, one faded one from when she had chickenpox and picked at when she was five SCARS. her entire body is littered with soft, faded scars. from knife to bullet wounds. there’s a particularly nasty knife slash that goes across her chest; it starts on the middle and ends just short of her left nipple. TATTOOS. when her daughter turned 1y/o she used a fake a id to get the outline of a star on purple on her right shoulder blade HEIGHT. 5′5″ WEIGHT. 129 lbs / 58.5 kg BUILD. slender, small waist & wide hips, well toned FEATURES. tends looks fairly average from an outside perspective, especially because she tends to slouch a little as to not attract too much attention ALLERGIES. USUAL HAIR STYLE. down, doing its thing, or up into ponytail or braids USUAL FACE LOOK. serene & approchable USUAL CLOTHING. she wears a lot of muted colors & denim. the occasional leather jacket is a must, along w/ her staple military-green jacket

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S. major abandonment issues. failure. the sound of drills. scalpels, needles, & other medical equipment ASPIRATION / S. to do & inspire good on others. prove to the world that your background doesn’t define you POSITIVE TRAITS. witty, chatty, friendly, approachable, upbeat, resilient, persistent NEGATIVE TRAITS. sarcastic, quick-tempered, vengeful, cynical, stubborn MBTI. enfp-a the campaigner ZODIAC. leo TEMPEREMENT. sanguine SOUL TYPE / S. hunter, caregiver, helper all at 17 ANIMALS. eagle VICE HABIT / S. social drinker, former smoker FAITH. agnostic GHOSTS? was one once AFTERLIFE? been there, done that REINCARNATION? don’t wanna find out yet ALIENS? one is her best firend POLITICAL ALIGNMENT. fairly liberal. anarchic, even ECONOMIC PREFERENCE. indifferent SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION. shrug emoji EDUCATION LEVEL. high school diploma, law student

FAMILY.

FATHER. arthur brown MOTHER. crystal agnes bellinger SIBLINGS. none EXTENDED FAMILY. not in too much contact with her aunts & uncles, grandparents are deceased. cassandra cain is considered an surrogate sister NAME MEANING / S. stephanie: french origin, crown. alice: english origin, of noble kin HISTORICAL CONNECTION ? none

FAVOURITES.

BOOK. the adventures of alice in wonderland MOVIE. none 5 SONGS. one girl revolution - superchick, don’t hurt yourself - beyoncé, royal jelly - deap vally, cool girl - tove lo, uprising - muse DEITY. - HOLIDAY. new years MONTH. - SEASON. fall PLACE. the top of wayne tower WEATHER. as long as it’s not too hot or cold, she’s okay with whatever SOUND. the laughter of children by the closest playground SCENT / S. sweet / candy TASTE / S. warm mashed potatoes with gravy FEEL / S. silk, cotton, warmth ANIMAL / S. cats NUMBER. - COLOUR. eggplant

EXTRA.

TALENTS. playing the piano. great marksman. quick learner BAD AT. handling abandonment & rejection. thinking before talking TURN ONS. suits!! confidence. intellect TURN OFFS. disregards for others. cockiness. HOBBIES. doodling. training. reading TROPES. action girl. the chick. girly bruiser AESTHETIC TAGS. cityscape, bruises, neon, bats, shadows, denim, leather GPOY QUOTES. “believe you can and you’re already halfway there.” – theodore roosevelt

FC INFO.

MAIN FC / S. gigi hadid ALT FC / S. nicola peltz OLDER FC / S. margot robbie & charlize theron YOUNGER FC / S. - VOICE CLAIM / S. -

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1. if you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about? A1. action movie all the way. it would feature the batman: eternal story w/ some major changes regarding steph’s involvement; mainly i would mingle in some of preboot history. occasional flashbacks to stephanie’s god awful childhood to provide background on why she’s so angry at arthur. crystal wouldn’t disappear by the end of it.

Q2. what would their soundtrack / score sound like? A2. a healthy mix of soundtrack music especially composed for the movie & some post-punk, rock, hip hop to add to the atmosphere of gotham

Q3. why did you start writing this character? A3. i’ve said it many times before, i was always fascinated by the idea of there ever being a girl robin in the comics that i had never heard of. when i learnt she was batgirl, by heart-eyes levels went off the roof. the more i read about steph, further i liked & identified with her. whens entered roleplaying she seemed like a nice fit for me to grasp as i continued to get more involved in comics. i didn’t plan to fall so much in love with her character, but after writing her for 4 yrs, i’ve become practically a one woman stephanie brown defense squad

Q4. what first attracted you to this character? A4. two words: girl. wonder

Q5. describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5. she tends to speak & act without thinking, mostly in the heat of the moment. while sometimes it is blessing, some others she has ended up severely damaging other people & her relationships with them. this has made her be a little more guarded with her feelings, evading to even say the good things.

Q6. what do you have in common with your muse? A6. i also tend to put my foot in my mouth, though it takes me far more to realize i’ve done it. i try to keep an optimistic look at things too, but inside i’m cynical as they come. i can also be just as hardheaded tbh

Q7. how does your muse feel about you? A7. i think she likes me--most of the time. when i’m not putting her thru needless pain & suffering just cuz it’s entertaining for me.

Q8. what characters does your muse have interesting interactions with? A8. goddamn--well, there’s a lot of people i’ve interacted w/ over the years, so it’s hard to pick & choose. there’s definitely a lot of people i loved interacting w/ that now are sadly gone, & there’s nothing i can do about that. but anyways, let’s see if i can do this

there’s cass, who is as close as it gets to having a sibling for steph. they’re always Up to Something; either between them or against each other. when things get low for one, they’re always for each because they know what it’s like to be seen by others (& amongst the bats themselves) as potential trouble. they’re truly the epitome of the term hetero life partners.

then there’s tim. they have had their ups & downs, but they’re finally at a stable place where they can call each other close friends once more. joint patrols are only made awkward by the fact they are naturally awkward people. (also the earth 3 threads are 👌👌 certified gold)

on the other hand we have tim who is both a blessing & the bane of steph’s existence. everything is made 10x worse by the fact that they there’s a major lack of communication & repressed feelings between them. but hey, even if they took one step forward & two steps back, there has been some progress made.

we also have kon who is slowly but surely becoming one of steph’s favorite people. he’s alway down for some shenanigans. he’s for steph to be around, and he’s definitely made up for the time he had her flying unwillingly.

lately addison & steph have had some super interesting interactions. steph sees a lot of herself from back in her spoiler days in the young vigilante, beyond the obvious physical similarities. she wants to help her reach her potential in a more consistent manner than she had herself--now if only addy would let her know wtf is going on, that would help.

this is getting super long so i’m just gonna quickly mention sheri, tim, kuvira, kory & scott (im prolly missing a few people but this is too long already forgive me. basically, if ur tagged in this thing ilu ok 💖)

Q9. what gives you inspiration to write your muse? A9. i guess seeing the people above & just people i want to interact w/ really brings out my muse. reading & re-reading comics definitely does help too; i constantly have this nagging feeling to fix where dc fucks steph up tbh

Q10. how long did this take you to complete? A10. i dunno--like 2-3 hrs?? i drafted this & came back to it a couple of times lmao

#*let the puzzlement fit the crime. ❪ m; hc ❫#*kiss me sexy batman. ❪ ooc ❫#electroqueueperang #long post --

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topmixtrends · 6 years

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This week on Dear Television: Phillip Maciak, Jane Hu, and Aaron Bady get drunk, ride the subway, and take the microphone from a spoken-word poet in order to tell you about Amazon’s new series, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. There are some spoilers below, so if you don’t want to get arrested, don’t say the f-word on stage.

Perfect Manhattan

by Phil Maciak

Dear television,

The other day, Aaron (who will join us below) tweeted this: “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is way better than you guys are admitting.” I don’t have data to support his claim, but it had also occurred to me that the critical community was a little less excited about this new series from Amy Sherman-Palladino than I might have expected. It got great reviews, of course, but the buzz seemed a little less buzzy maybe than I would have thought. Part of this may have to do with the fact that the pilot was already old when the show appeared. (This, to me, is the most annoying aspect of the Amazon system: that their early pilots don’t generate excitement so much as create a condition where viewers can essentially forget about a show months before they ever actually see it.) And part of this is probably a result of its debut in the midst of year-end-list mania. The hottest take I can possibly imagine—and, mind you, I don’t necessarily agree with this take, but I want to consider it—is that the response to this very very good show has been slow because it’s possible (possible as in it could possibly be the case) that Mrs. Maisel is better than Gilmore Girls. And, if that were true, it would be a very hard thing to say out loud.

I have no idea why I am saying all this. It is not in my self-interest to do so. Especially because what I really want to say is that I’m crazy for The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I think it is a perfect vehicle for Sherman-Palladino’s rhythmic, ratatat dialogue; it has half a dozen spectacular performances in it (I mean, Rachel Brosnahan especially, but all the leads minus the guy who plays Joel and plus Kevin Pollak and Luke Kirby as Lenny Bruce); it looks and sounds great; and, beyond all of that, it feels like it’s really just clearing its throat to begin. The eight-episode series is a masterpiece of pacing, and not just because it moves briskly forward, but because that briskness occasionally speeds up or goes in slow-motion. There are a few montages that feel like dance numbers, and the show builds to Midge’s first two stand-up sets in such a way that they seem to take place in the split-second after Wile E. Coyote runs off a cliff, but before he drops. The show is pleasant and warm-hearted and funny, but I don’t think I expected it to be as dizzily thrilling as it is.

Here’s the thing about Mrs. Maisel, though: it’s perfect. I don’t even mean that in a strictly evaluative way. Like, I don’t think it’s the best show of the year (hey, The Leftovers!). What I mean is that perfection is a compositional quality and aspiration of the show. Its arguments, as Aaron has also tweeted, are “symphonic,” its visual aesthetic is flawless, the casting is so sharp it feels like Harry Potter for Jewish American character actors, the stand-up sets are exactly as solid and charming as they are diegetically supposed to be, everybody says either the perfectly right thing or the perfectly wrong thing, its complications are precisely calibrated, its surprises are precisely spring-loaded, its best jokes all have call-backs, and Midge Maisel’s ankles are always the same circumference. There’s nothing messy or ragged or loose or baggy about this show. And that makes it good, but that also makes it a very particular type of show.

Gilmore Girls, for instance, was not perfect in this way. Neither was The Leftovers. Neither was Friday Night Lights. Frasier was perfect. So was Breaking Bad, and so was The West Wing. In other words, perfect and not-perfect are aesthetic categories here. Perfect shows do what they’re supposed to do; not-perfect shows do what they’re going to do. Not-perfect shows can be better than perfect shows and vice versa, but it’s a risk to do either. There were moments when The Leftovers did something so seemingly ill-advised that it could have derailed the whole series. But, in the—frequent—case that The Leftovers pulled it off, the show was transcendent. On the other hand, the perfect shows operate at such great heights and require such high-wire execution that, when they falter, it’s very very noticeable. Gilmore Girls was a long, meandering, free-associative, sometimes rapturous monologue; Mrs. Maisel is a tight ten.

The other thing, though, is that Mrs. Maisel is a perfect show about perfection. (Just as Gilmore Girls was an aimless show interested in the redemptive and recuperative power of its own aimlessness.) It’s about the (often-stereotyped) cultural pressures surrounding domestic and professional perfection in a mid-century Jewish American family, it’s about the laborious grind of seamless gender performance, the dress that needs pearls, the office that needs quiet, the marriage that needs children. And even when Midge cuts loose, when she goes out drunk in a housecoat, she remains perfect. Her improvised set becomes something so good, so what we need now, that the season transforms into one long training montage of Midge and Susie perfecting her act. A show about the oppressive weight of feminine perfection at midcentury becomes a show about the obsessive quest for artistic perfection. Swap out the punchlines for crystal meth, and Midge Maisel is the one who knocks.

So I guess my question is: does that make Mrs. Maisel easier to appreciate but harder to love? Are the internets not exploding the way we think they should because Amy Sherman-Palladino’s new show is a tailored Chanel suit rather than a care-worn hoodie, an immaculate macaron rather than your sixth cup of coffee on the day?

[Lenny Bruce Shrug Emoji],

Phil.

Late Style

by Jane Hu

Dear Television,

I had planned to write this drunk at my local bar (a la Midge), but then remembered my local bar doesn’t have WiFi so am now typing this (beer in hand) on my giant red couch. It looks kind of sort of like this:

It’s funny. When I had loosely proposed that we Dear TV The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, I had no clue that I’d find it so… impossible to write about. So impossible, in fact, that it almost begs the magical ease found in a bottle of red and a loose nightgown to make it feel like I’m not really writing at all. Writing is work, and watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is, in many ways, all about play.

My relationship to Maisel is inevitably shadowed by my history with Amy Sherman-Palladino’s first TV series, Gilmore Girls—a show I religiously followed from elementary school to the end of high school. It was a show, in other words, very much associated with those years in which the balance between work and play is continuously being renegotiated. This was moreover thematized by the very content of Gilmore Girls, in which Rory Gilmore seemingly reflected my own bildung. Except, you know, richer and hotter and whiter. But that was beside the point. The point was that I had found an aspirational portrait of how a young woman might be. And on network television no less!

We did, in fact, see Rory study a lot on Gilmore Girls. But she played more. And while my 14-year-old brain believably converted Rory’s lifestyle into a blueprint for acceptance at Yale, I had no fantasies that what I was doing when I watched Rory live her life was anything but play. Looking back, it was a complex form of identification—the kind of imaginative or bad-faith identification that often happens when engaging with fiction, though recent reactions to “Cat Person” suggest that many are only just learning this. In most ways, I was nothing like Rory. In other ways, she was the closest thing to me on television. Perhaps it’s less of a problem for those who see themselves more directly reflected in popular culture, but I forgive myself any childhood Rory cathexis that adamantly ignored (as the show often did itself) the class and racial privileges that made Rory’s flourishing possible.

The Gilmore Girls reboot was considered a hostile disaster. Rory is (was?) insufferable. But the reboot was perhaps not so much a disaster at all if we understand it as an allegory for the show’s own contemporary impossibility. Everything is falling apart in Rory’s life in 2016; she is the paragon of promise unfulfilled, privilege unrewarded. Yet, it seems hard to imagine a television drama today in which someone like Rory continues to rise, not just because Rory doesn’t work in the political climate of 2016 liberal TV dramas, but because Rory simply doesn’t work as an adult. To logically follow Rory’s arc from Stars Hollow to post-Yale is to get, well, something pretty close to what we got in the reboot. It might have left a bad taste in many a fan’s mouths, but I also can’t think of a more satisfyingly anti-climatic ending for a show that I always believed to be more realist than not. The Gilmore Girls reboot works because we see Rory struggling to work.

Enter Midge Maisel, who, as Phil explains above, comes to us already perfect. While the Gilmore Girls reboot falteringly plays out the irrelevance of its own initial premise, Maisel, writes Phil, “is a perfect show about perfection.” This is made perhaps all the more problematic given that comedy—and representations of stand-up comedians especially—is often about conflict. Jerry Seinfeld and Louis CK couldn’t make it through a day in New York without causing a scene. “In Maisel,” writes Lili Loofbourow, “Sherman-Palladino creates a comic out of thin air — and introduces her to you first as the stand-up comic’s greatest natural enemy: the fussy, perfectionist, rich, and happy homemaker.” Always there with another twist of the conventional knife, Sherman-Palladino also makes our homemaker surprisingly and effectively funny.

What do you do with an un-problem like Midge Maisel? Well, as with Maria Von Trapp, you let her sing. Rachel Brosnahan is not only already perfect, but, as Loofbourow writes, “brimming with enthusiasm already” as well. Part of what makes writing about The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel so difficult, I suspect, is because watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is so aggressively… comfortable. Phil is right: this isn’t The Leftovers. It’s a whitewashed 1960s musical redone in a coral palette, if Sherman-Palladino’s reuse of “I Enjoy Being A Girl” is any evidence. Even more than the utopia that was Stars Hollow, Midge’s historical New York City might as well be itself a neon Broadway fantasy.

Part of me suspects that an Amy Sherman-Palladino show today works best if it’s somewhat historical only because none of the classic “contemporary” ASP worlds (Stars Hollow or, the town of Bunheads, which is coyingly titled “Paradise”) feel remotely plausible in 2017. Sherman-Palladino had to go period vintage in order to keep her world from not seeming too white. But, of course, Maisel’s 1958 New York City is contextualized not just through its “historical” textures and set dressing, but in how it tropes on an already fantastical aesthetic landscape of the postwar American musical: The King and I (1956), South Pacific (1958), Flower Drum Song (1961).

As with Gilmore Girls’ Lauren Graham and Bunheads’ Sutton Foster before her, Brosnahan is impeccably cast as Sherman-Palladino’s archetypal Adult Brunette With An Early Mid-Life Crisis. And their triangulation (you could honestly play ASP bingo with these three characters) was also a kind of late revelation for adult me. It’s not that I hadn’t already processed that Lorelai is as much—if not more—the protagonist of Gilmore Girls than Rory, but Maisel makes this unmistakably clear. In Bunheads, Foster’s character is much more firmly the protagonist than the Rory avatars of Sasha Torres and Ginny Thompson (the latter who reappears as Midge’s best friend Imogene). But in Maisel, the specter of Rory is entirely erased.

Instead, what we get are two young children—a boy and a girl—who barely register on the show as sentient beings. Children are not work in Maisel. They don’t even really occur in terms of playtime. Midge’s attachment to both—if indeed we can call it that—seems founded solely on the fact that they provide material for her stand-up bits or as excuses to score her husband a better open mic time slot. We don’t know if Midge’s daughter is going to Yale; we do know that she has a giant forehead. I’m not sure what future seasons hold, but in this one, Rory’s presence must be erased in order to make life possible again for Midge. Maisel is, in many ways, Gilmore Girls backwards: Midge begins life by presumably doing everything right, and Lorelei begins by doing everything wrong. Except, it seems, Rory. Lorelei’s second chances—her missed childhood—are inextricable from Rory’s perfect successes, which are, in turn, inextricable from the fact that Lorelei is a working single mom. Midge’s second chance—her “revivifying fall,” as Loofbourow puts it—is conceivable insofar as her children and more importantly childcare don’t factor into her life. Rory, as the Gilmore Girls reboot suggests, represents an impossible aspiration—a figure that doesn’t so much embody futurity as balk it.

Revelations of how Maisel diverges from Gilmore Girls also lead me to give Joel some airtime. Has Sherman-Palladino ever featured such a male lunkhead to play the romantic partner of one of her heroines? Dean was a lunkhead, yes. Christopher was pretty bad. Luke’s grumpiness wasn’t always charming. And similar to the twist ending of Maisel’s pilot, Sutton Foster’s new husband dies at the end of the Bunheads pilot. Against all these male romantic leads that one could at least plausibly ship, Joel is so exaggeratedly bad that he becomes an almost unrealistic character. I get that the show plays up the contradictions in their union, but I’m pointing out the extremes of Joel’s unlikability partly because I wonder if he becomes the apology for all that is so perfect in Maisel.

So it was a surprise to me that in the show’s finale, my favorite scene (perhaps of the entire season) revolved not around Midge, but Joel. You probably know what I’m talking about: Joel arrives at the Gaslight with a hunch that Midge will be performing. He’s already drunk when he sees his comedy hero Lenny Bruce introduce his wife who, unbeknownst to him during their separation, has been honing—yes, perfecting—her set. Flask in hand, Joel takes swigs while witnessing Midge tell some particularly lacerating jokes at the mercy of their private life. In the middle of her performance: some hecklers. Midge shuts it down all rather effortlessly, but Joel has an ax to grind, so he follows the hecklers out where he proceeds to beat them up—presumably in defense of Midge’s honor, but also, of course, because Joel is mad at Midge. He tells the hecklers, “She’s good!” And then again, to himself, stumbling away, “She’s good.” This is my favorite scene! In the angry repetition of “she’s good” partly expected from Joel, while nonetheless also disappointing, we get the first glimmers of his redemption too. Because “she’s good” means two things here: 1) “she’s good, so don’t insult my wife,” but also 2) “she’s good; she’s really good; she’s better than me,” that is the culminating revelation Maisel has been building to all season. When I started watching Maisel, my partner noted in an early episode: “I can’t wait for Joel to see her perform.” In season two, me neither.

I’ve got to get a job,

Jane

Not-Perfect Manhattan

by Aaron Bady

Dear Television,

Like Jane, I’m finding it strangely hard to write about a show that I found easy to love. “This show is perfect!” was my first thought; my second, which took me longer, was “But why?” Though now that I think about it—and since Phil has entered it into the permanent record—let me note that after observing that the show is, like, totally great, I went on to tweet, “Also, why aren’t we talking about how The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is in subterranean battle with Woody Allen?”

So let me start there. I haven’t watched anything by Woody Allen since 2014—the year you could no longer live in denial—but I found it really hard to watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and not think about the times when I did, when the drop of a hat could launch me into arguing about the cavernous gap between the good ones and the bad ones, when I’d watch the new one as soon as it came out, and when I even put forward my argument that Vicki Cristina Barcelona is a great movie (which no one ever bought). I used to have thoughts about Woody Allen’s movies. I used to live in a world where having thoughts about Woody Allen’s movies was a normal thing to do. Woody Allen was an Important Filmmaker That You Had to Know About (and I did!).

It seems like a long time ago. Dylan Farrow’s op-ed was not that long ago, really, only February of 2014, but the fact that we can use phrases like “post-Weinstein” to describe the historical epoch that opened up… wait, that was only 2 months ago? It seems like so much longer ago. And that says something about the strange temporality of this moment, how rapidly even the past seems to be changing. That’s important, that this has been retroactive movement: it’s not just that the present is changing, such that the future will be different than the past. No, the “new” revelations—precisely because they are never quite as new as they seem—force a destructive re-evaluation of the past. What is the family sitcom without Bill Cosby? What is indie cinema without Weinstein? What is stand-up comedy and cinema without Woody Allen? What is the present of culture without the things that used to be the past?

Of course, the irony is that Woody Allen isn’t in the past; he’s in the present, still a presence in American cinema, and not just as an abstract example or historical influence. He still makes films, he still gets financing for them, and actors still fight to appear in them. Allen is going to keep doing what he does until the day he drops dead, and the industry will keep letting him. Amazon gave Allen a lot more money and leeway for Wonder Wheel than they gave Amy Sherman-Palladino for Maisel, as a few people have caustically observed. Before she was cast to play Midge in Maisel, for example, Rachel Brosnahan played “Ellie” in four episodes of Allen’s Crisis in Six Scenes.

More to the point, Woody Allen is a presence for Amy Sherman-Palladino. There were three references to Annie Hall in Gilmore Girls, because Sherman-Palladino is a big fan; “I would worship at the altar of Woody Allen,” she once said; of her creative process, elsewhere, she once described having “Woody Allen going on in the background, that it’s, somehow, it’s music to me.” They are, perhaps, the two Great American Auteurs of patter.

Woody Allen has been playing in my background, as well; my reaction, too, was that we were watching “Gilmore Girls Banter Meets Vintage Woody Allen, With a Feminist Twist.” And it’s a shame, in a way, that I’ve already mentioned his name so many times (in a post ostensibly about The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel). It’s a shame because it changes the frame for appreciation, makes it hard to describe the things that this show is doing. If I try to talk about how Sherman-Palladino orchestrates combative conversations between multiple characters—or how her fight scenes are “symphonic”—am I comparing Midge telling her parents that Joel has left to Gilmore Girls or to one of Woody Allen’s “four people talking at once, spiraling out of control”? When I try to describe how the camera moves, or how the city is portrayed—or the jazzy set-piece tone poems that link it all together—I find myself reaching for Allen as a point of comparison, placing her in relation to the Great Works of the past.

Woody Allen is an obvious point of comparison, of course, for several reasons. They both enjoy long, conversational shots, letting scenes filled with rapid-fire dialogue also stretch out and breathe. What Phil called the “imperfection” of Gilmore Girls also describes a pleasure of the Woody Allen oeuvre; in their sloppy proliferation, you could watch them like a TV show’s many episodes, different but united by a recognizable voice. And, of course, I find myself thinking about Woody Allen because Maisel is a period piece about a Jewish comedian in mid-century New York, a show in love with a grand old city of the past—like so many of Allen’s movies—but also the scene of Allen’s own comedic bildung. Though he didn’t actually start doing stand-up until the early sixties, Woody Allen could almost be a character in the show, like Lenny Bruce; here he is, for example, performing at The Gaslight Café in 1962. Like Bruce and Maisel, Allen was of the generation of comedians that went beyond mere jokes and schtick and built a character out of a coherent personality, when comedians performed alongside folk artists and beat poets and took on that burden to expose yourself and tell the truth.

The irony of all this, of course, is that The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is a show about Woody Allen’s milieu, but with no Woody Allen in it. The culture gives up its icons slowly and with great reluctance, locked into old critical habits and traditional patterns of appreciation; even me, as the last paragraph shows, with my refusal to not frame Sherman-Palladino’s show in relation to Allen. But Maisel is not shackled to the past, and neither is this show, and I think that’s why it works. If the similarities force the comparison, the differences emphasize the contrast: In her stunningly total confidence and omni-competence, there is perhaps no comedian that Maisel resembles less than Allen. There is some Joan Rivers in her performance—and Brosnahan clearly learned a lot about delivery from Rivers—but the core of the character is something very different than the neurotic, compulsive, inadequate nebbish that Allen rendered more effectively (and insistently) than any other artist. Annie Hall is built on that one joke about the eggs and the chicken, and the lesson that our inner worlds are mysterious and unknowable, that since we bumble through life without plan or purpose, we must get what we can get while we can. Indeed, Allen’s entire oeuvre is arguably built on the self-centered urgency of demanding that since there is no God—and life has no meaning—the only truth is that the heart wants what it wants. Who are we to question it?

The answer is: Maisel questions it. Maisel calls bullshit on her husband’s attraction to an unexceptional woman and sees it for what it is, an egotism too weak to be honest with itself. Joel turns out to be more decent, and more nuanced, than a typical Woody Allen character, but his boringly predictable fling with his secretary is exactly as boring and cliched as it appears. There is no deeper meaning, or underlying mystery to be unearthed. Joel is just what he seems to be, and what Abe Weissman identifies him as from the start: a weak man who needs a powerful woman to build him up, and who resents her for it. What’s difficult about the world is not that we can’t know it; what’s difficult is that we’d prefer not to. This is the truth that Allen rarely told.

The thing about Maisel is that life is hard but not mysterious; it’s painful, but not cruel or tragic. Life is filled with challenges and opportunities, and you work hard to make the best of it, with whatever materials you have to hand. If you suffer, you also love. It is what it is. And as it was in Gilmore Girls, patter is not a mask for the soul’s absence, but a load-bearing wall, the closed door to the break-room where you can rest from the incredible labor of being an adult by shooting the shit with your friends. And while Allen once declared that “comics are childlike” (and “I’m more at home with kids because I don’t trust adults”), Maisel’s hilarious disregard for its children helps clarify how central that work of adult self-making is to the show: she has always known what she wanted, and still does; she doesn’t hide behind the unknowability of the human heart, she explores it. She grew up, a long time ago.

A career suicide set takes down an icon,

Aaron

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