#I’ve been listening to my money don’t jiggle half the time

[thewestern]

Chapter 15

Jiggle the knob. You have to fuc-king jig-gle it.  

I am jiggling it. 

No, you’re j-j-j-erking it. It’s not some homeless guy you met under the highway. He’s not gonna share the rest of the ham sandwich he found in the dumpster in exchange for you grating the cheese off his dick. It’s a door knob. You have to Jiggle It. 

Hey Thadeus, guess what? 

What, Louisa?

I’m about to Jiggle this rusty old key in your fucking eye socket … fuuuck, dude. This was supposed to be my day off.

 Our Day Off, Lu. That’s just it — your selfishness. It’s limit does not exist. And that’s just as a twin sister, to say nothing of your fucking tending bar. Maybe if you weren’t such a [whispers] c-u-n-t to the customers, we could make some real money. Maybe then we wouldn’t have to take the extra shift from the first. 

Maybe blow me, Thad, you chode. 

Parked across the street from the green awning, over the gentle purr of his lithium-ion battery-powered engine, Billy could hear every word of this invective volleying, as if it were taking place in the backseat. Sometimes when people cursed a lot — such as Ari on Entourage or Hank on Californication, two of Billy’s favorite premium cable television anti-heroes — it could be kind of hilarious. You know, like if they knew creative swear words or how to incorporate clever puns into their insults and stuff. But this seemed more scary than anything. Borderline abusive, actually.

You know at the time I thought it was harsh but maybe mom was right when she said you were a mistake. 

Oh really … we’re twins, you twat. 

I know. That’s why I wish I was never born, only so that you wouldn’t have ever been born either. You make life worth not living. 

Well, I wish you could terminate one half of a pregnancy. Then I would travel back in time and drive mom to the clinic and pay the hundred and twenty-five dollars or whatever it cost back then to abort you.

Oh yeah? Because with you I bet she’d say, why bother with all the paperwork, when I’ve got a hand mirror right here, and there’s a closet full of perfectly good coat hangers. 

What if we were Chinese, and we were born under the One Child Policy? They probably would have put you up for adoption. Wait, you’re the girl, so it definitely would have been you, by fucking default. You’d have been sent to live with a couple in Paramus, New Jersey, who tried for years to get pregnant but couldn’t because the husband grew up downriver from a cat food factory. They’d name you Jennifer. You’d be their little China doll and they’d spoil you rotten. But they’d never love you. Not really. Not like they would have their own flesh and blood.

Listen, you creep. I don’t know what blood type we are, but you better hope you don’t ever need a life-saving plasma transplant because I will let the cancer eat away at your bone marrow until you fucking die slow. Bitch ass.

Jesus. Them two were mean, man. No doubt about it. But also, so fantastical with their dueling barbs as to render them mostly harmless. At least by Billy’s estimation. Hildy on the other hand didn’t have to resort to any profanity-laced threats of incurring bodily harm upon one’s unborn person to hurt his or her feelings. That’s not to say she couldn’t be passive-aggressive, which she could — with the best of them. Whatever she did say, however, you could be sure that she meant it. And that was the worst part. 

It goes without saying though that while Hildy practiced nonviolence in her campaigns against Billy’s self-esteem, the Jackson twins were willing to defend themselves by any means necessary. When she finally got the door to lock (thanks to some subtle jiggling, although she’d just as soon die than admit as such), Lulu raised her hand in the air and snapped her fingers repeatedly, creating a diversion that she used to then throw the keys at Thad, aiming for his groin. Somewhat haphazardly he blocked them by lifting his right leg, scrunching up into a standing fetal, and countered by bludgeoning her with his backpack whilst hopping on one foot like a defensive flamingo. Absorbing the off-balance blows, she readied to perform the fatality maneuver — every time … he started, she finished — a behind-the-leg, scorpion kick to his upper shin, buckling his knee just shy of hyper-extension. 

Argh, Full-blown AIDS, he shouted, thus signaling his submission as he crumbled unto the sidewalk of New Frontier.  

But right back up he sprung. And, with that out of their system, they carried on down the block as if nothing happened, walking right past Billy to their car. It was a hand-me-down minivan that their mother and father had previously used primarily as a means to promote the family orthodontistry practice. (Also they would take it out on weekends and holidays to the Less Fortunate neighborhoods, where they’d offer up orthodontic services on a pro bono basis. A nice gesture, albeit ill-conceived.) And damnit if there wasn’t a big old fucking incisor impacted right on the roof, crowned by a bracket fashioned out of aluminum foil and coat hangers, that which twins never bothered to have removed. 

  Billy waited for them to disappear around the corner before himself flipping another bitch and pulling around to the curb beside the front entrance. With the press of a button, the drivers’-side door flapped open, like a hydraulic wing. Billy suddenly regretted how difficult it was to subtly exit out of a vertically-hinged door, especially when it was attached to a canary yellow sport coupe. Stepping onto the curb, he could see how in all that commotion, the quarrelsome twosome had left the keys just sitting there, right beneath the chalk sign which today read: Our intent is for all your delight. 

Funnily enough, almost this exact scenario had played itself out once before. Although in that instance circumstances had been the reverse, in that it was Thadeus who’d flung the keys at Louisa, a short time after which a presumably homeless person happened upon them, entered the bar and beelined for the cash register, the key to which was situated there on the very same ring. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, this crime of utmost convenience was committed on what was among the slowest Monday’s in recent memory. The take, therefore, was less than fifty dollars in small bills. Probably feeling a little put out, before absconding with the paltry sum, he or she used the bar as a bathroom. And not the bathroom part either. 

It had to have been Hank who discovered the burglar’s fecal calling card there on the parquet floor. But then wouldn’t you believe he wasn’t all that upset? Not the first time, he said somehow wistfully, as if reminiscing about a past instance of a similar nature. Suppose then this was just an occupational bio-hazard. Another day in the bar business. Obviously, he left the mess for Thadeus and Louisa to clean up. You can only imagine how bitterly they argued over the how, the where and especially the who, when it came time to dispose of the turd. Hank didn’t fire them though, or really even offer much reproach. For crying out loud he let them keep their closing privileges. That was the kind of guy Hank was. Accepting of all shenanigans.   

Billy, though, might could have tested his patience. Experienced as he was in causing mischief, he knew better than to do … whatever he was going to do — he still hadn’t decided — on a downtown avenue, beneath the street lamps as they refracted off his highlighter-coloured, cry for help-of a motor vehicle. So he pulled it around the corner and ducked back down the alley. 

The greatest trick this car ever pulled was parking itself, which it proceeded to do between the dumpster and a brick wall. To interpret this as a testament to the benevolent sophistication of Artificial Intelligence and its potential myriad of positive applications for aiding humanity, or a demonic sign of the coming singularity, is your prerogative entirely. In either case, Billy didn’t have near enough room to open his driver’s side door. (Because it hinged open vertically, one could not crack it open and shimmy out like a regular schmuck. It required room enough to fully spread its wings. Before you fault the manufacturer for this, a rather obvious design flaw, consider that the typical driver of a car that costs more than your average three bed, two bath, in a great neighborhood with good schools, isn’t squeezing into many tight spots between two gigantic fucking pickups, because somehow it’s the single empty space in the entire Pacific Ocean-sized parking lot of the Save-a-Load. It’s called, Valet.)   

Just as soon as he was through hoisting himself out through the moonroof and sliding down the hood, Billy approached the back door with a privileged sense of calm — as if he owned the place, which according to his mother he bloody well would, pending board approval. There were five keys on the chain, and none of them were working. It occurred to Billy how he didn’t have much experience with analog locks. True, his parents weren’t around a lot when he got home from school, but you don’t qualify as a latchkey kid when your house has retinal scanner-enabled entry. And of course it goes without saying that his car’s ignition was push-button. On the whole, keys were very not swag at all. 

Readying to resort to his most time-honoured practice — quitting … just giving up — Billy remembered all the way back to five minutes before. You have to jiggle the handle. You fucking twat. 

###

Ask yourself. What would Billy do? Not as a Craft Beer Explorer, so much. As an individual. In this instance, a highly fucking suspicious one. Well, recall that crime comes down to motive. So what does he want? Right now he wants someone else (his mom) not to do something, which is hardly wanting anything at all. Suppose then, in the grander scheme of things, that he wants to become a successful beer executive and to carry on his family legacy. But does he want that, or does his mother want that? Or does he want his mother to want that. Or does he just want her to want something — anything — on his behalf. 

Now that we’re clear on his intentions, what are his available options? Counterintelligence, obviously, comes to mind. Corporate espionage. Gather, or better yet manufacture incriminating evidence against the New Frontier Brewing Company, and use it to sabotage the acquisition. Realistically, without Yayo-L standing by to help him hack the mainframe, he wouldn’t be likely to find a smoking gun among their electronic records, even if he knew what he was looking for, which he did not. Ah, but what about the art of sabotage, in and of itself … couldn’t he skip straight to that? Contaminate the beer with a foreign agent to somehow interfere with the fermentation. Again, he wasn’t fully up to speed on the microbiology of beer making. (Even the macro was beyond his tenuous grasp.) Perhaps that would be covered in his rotational leadership program, but then the whole point here was to avoid that bullshit straight away. There was always acting out of spite. That he had in spades. Take a dump on the floor? Who says no? 

All This was synchronized swimming laps around Billy’s head. Sometimes it was all he could do to tread water, try not to get kicked. The physical space was likewise pitch dark. Rather than flick the switch, Billy used the LED screen on his cell phone as a torch to light his way, slaloming between the tall metal tanks, hopscotching over hoses. Guided by only the faint blue glow, floating in all that darkness, he was like the captain of a deep-sea submersible, exploring the uncharted leagues along the ocean floor, searching for long lost shipwrecks and cataloguing new species of aquatic life forms.

All that was on the the Mick’s stark workstation was his marble composition notebook. Billy shined his light on the dog-eared page, faintly illuminating a vivid sketch of a man on a buffalo being chased off a cliff by a rocket ridden by … Doctor Ezekiel Lupustein. A big bad omen. Billy hated that fucking mutt. He would haunt him for all his days.

Entering the sanctum of Hank’s office, preserved in amber ale, for the first time in this particular breaking and entering, Billy felt like he was actually intruding on something. He was someone who had spent most of his upbringing in places that lacked a certain hospitality, to human life forms. Prep school, around his mother. And whereas these hallowed places, like the great halls of the Wolffenhaus, were intermittently occupied … this office, was a room that to him had seemed Lived In.  He could tell by all the cool shit there was everywhere. Like the furniture. Oriental rugs, a leather sofa, lamps galore. Items that had been walked, sat and turned on, many times over. 

 And books. A voluminous library with what figured to be many dozens of them. Dense biographies of Real Men of Genius. Such as Lyndon Johnson. The odd reference book about metallurgy. And of course, a robust stack of Hank’s favorite genre, Prepositional Phrase Adventure Porn. Into Thin Air, Into the Wild, Around the World in Eighty Days, In Harm’s Way, In the Heart of the Sea, (Twenty Thousand Leagues) Under the Sea, Between a Rock and a Hard Place, On Horseback Through Asia Minor, Through the Looking Glass. 

Kitty used to tease Hank about all his things. How he made his adult male doll house. A magnanimous man cave. He said, poke fun all you want, Kitty dear, but these things and this place are who I am. She thought better than to say so aloud, but what a sad thing that was to hear. 

Just like behind the bar, the office walls were covered almost every inch over. Although mostly by photographs. Also a mounted plastic fish that sang a song when you pressed a button, which Billy did instinctually.

Take me to the river, dip me in the water (Washing me down, washing me)

Billy fixated on one of a man he did not know to be Hank — khaki-clad, head-to-toe — standing in a row of what appeared to be tribesmen, all holding spears and shields. Then he inspected the various commendations, citations, honorary degrees, etcetera. Displayed most prominently among them was a plaque inscribed to John Henry W. O'Sullivan the distinguished recipient of the Randolph Scott Award for Innovation in Brewing as so recognized by the North American Master Brewers Labor Association. Somewhere, in the distance, the Mick stuck his tongue out and made a fart noise. 

Wasn’t much art to speak of, unless you count framed concert posters. Hank surely did. Winterland Arena, Nassau Coliseum, Avalon Ballroom, Wembley Empire Pool, King’s Beach Bowl, literally the Great Pyramids, in mother fucking Egypt. Souvenirs from faraway fantasy lands, were these illustrated relics from the bygone times of Kings, Emperors, Warlocks and Pharaohs. Only one painting without any accompanying copy. A lithographic portrait of Sadaam Hussein. Crude oil on canvas. You could expect that Billy didn’t much keep up with current events, but everybody knew Uncle Sadaam. He saw the video of him getting hung online. Like, bruh. See an opp in a spider hole. Catch a case in a tribunal. He want the glock. We got the noose. Neck go pop. Off your head top. 

Oh, cool, a ship in a bottle. There on the executive desk. Here was your classic old wooden ship with the full square rigging. Billy was once sent away as a teenager on a four-week Experiential Outdoor Education and Immersive Behavioural Optimization Expedition to the Caribbean, the first of several attempts at correctional recreation made on his behalf. The Bahamas was tight, but having to learn all those gay knots and eat canned pasta was whack as fhuck, dude. 

Having some sailing experience under his needlepoint belt, Billy took note of how this ship in a bottle wasn’t running triumphantly downwind, though. It was tilted at an acute angle, but it wasn’t sailing on a reach either — no, the masts were down. Was it capsizing? The water was white. For a fact, it wasn’t water at all; it was ice. The ensign was a Union Jack and the name on the stern read: ENDURANCE. Huh. Billy couldn’t make withdrawals from his trust until he turned thirty-five, and if he made it, he looked forward most to buying a Super Yacht, or at the very least a speed boat like the ones in Bad Boys II. BIG PIMPIN’, he would christen the goodship. Best part of getting a boat is you get to name it, he reckoned.

Then there was a shitload of other random ass shit. A totem pole in one corner. A grossvater clock catty-corner to that, which Hank never bothered to wound. (The time was currently set to quarter past eleven, actually only thirteen minutes slow, numbers which are not symbolic in any way, you can rest assured.) He kept a vintage milk crate filled of some of his favorite rock specimens he’d collected on various hikes. Chairs were set out in contradiction more than invitation — a royal blue plastic-molded seat he stole from the football stadium before it was imploded in a controlled demolition, an eames lounge chair notably sans ottoman, a set of two bean bags, a vintage wicker wheelchair and a t-bar, which was a primitive form of ski lift. (Somewhere in a faraway storage unit Hank had a one-hundred percent authentic electric chair. To be perfectly clear, he came by it organically. Insofar as he hadn’t sought it out or anything. And he only very briefly considered setting it out in the bar before he thought the better. He wasn’t one of those death perverts who collected blood relics and other assorted pain paraphernalia to put on public display.)  Right by the door there was a human skeleton — like they had in science class — with a crown of fake roses. (They looked and felt plastic, but they smelled real.) Kitty and the Mick got him that for his sixtieth. She grave dug it out from the janitor’s closet at West Middle, and he brought it back to life with a couple coats of spray paint, appropriately bone white. This specimen dated back to a simpler time when they used actual human tissue in classrooms, to Show the Children how exactly the knee bone connected to the shin bone. (Via what are called articulations, surfaces wherein two bones meet, the patellofemoral and the tibiofemoral in the knee joint.) Those were the days. Back in the present, some knuckleheaded smartasses had doodled tattoos all over it with permanent marker. The words Thug Life was written across the lower rib cage. A teardrop fell down the cheekbone. A monarch butterfly took flight from off the coccyx. In fairness to those kids though, they had no clue that Casey Bones, as Hank got to calling him, used to be a real living person, who very generously donated his or her body to Science, back in an era when that wouldn’t have been nearly as common a thing to do. (Long before it was a decision you could make at the Department of Motor Vehicles.) They probably had no idea then that they were desecrating that charitable person’s remains with these, their entirely coincidental symbols of life, death and rebirth. 

Beyond the cheap thrill of trespassing on someone’s property, as well as apparently their whole personality, nothing here was quite sustaining Billy’s interest. To be honest he was getting fairly bored. His phone phantom buzzed on his right hip. Out of habit he opened the Brick Blaster app before quickly closing it, something he did routinely — in important meetings, at the movies, one time while getting his ass et. It wasn’t easy to lose focus like that, in the act of committing a class-three felony, nor while reaching third base on a bend-over triple. But that was Billy. Always off someplace else, adrift in the tide pool of his own fucking head. 

On the way out he opened the mini fridge. Doing hoodrat stuff always made him thirsty. Hopefully there was a sparkling water in there or something. Damn. Just half a turkey sandwich, and two-thirds a six pack of Wolffenbeir Native. Or, Natty Dub, as it had been colloquialized by Billy and other like doofuses.

Taking a hard right out Hank’s door led him into the taproom proper. Billy could see a switch along the wall, marked by a little black tape label with embossed white letters which read: THE WALL of LIGHT. You already know he flicked that shit, and sure enough, son-a’-bitch lit up like the Fourth of Ju-ly. Red and green lights Hank hung for Christmas, blue and whites he hung for Hanukkah, despite the Mick’s repeated insistings how very much that he did not care, those paper lanterns for Chinese New Year … and for some pagan holiday for worshipping the occult, that neon likeness Doctor Lupustein — Billy could swear he stalked him — flashing red the color of hellfire ember. 

Although for once Billy’s animated nemesis wasn’t the center of attention. Not on THE WALL of LIGHT, at least. Like a nervous system, all of the bulbs and their corresponding circuitry seemed to lead to the middle top of the wall. There, the reason he came all this way was revealed unto him. Bertha, the prize bison head. Billy knew now. He was going to steal it. 

###

Billy was what you would call a Bad Kid. Objectively speaking. But, he didn’t do drugs. He didn’t even drink beer, it bears repeating. And he wasn’t a bully, not like a lot of his peers — rich pricks. For that he deserves some recognition from this board. Sure he liked to talk tough, but that boy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Still, by any measure, Billy was a Bad Kid. Or what you would call one. So, why? Because. Billy stole. 

Now your typical thief, Billy wasn’t. In so far as his crimes weren’t borne of necessity. Without the mean old Kraut Wilhelm I, Billy’s Grossvater, around to piss vinegar in his kids’ milk, this next generation of Wolffenbeir spawn had been spoiled rotten, almost as a matter of policy. One of familial diplomacy: Hard-earned entitlements by way of unilateral appeasement. Anything he ever wanted he could have. (Except that which he wanted most of all  — a boat … for now.) Usually in forty-eight hours or less. (And this was before two-day shipping.) All this is to say that Billy didn’t Have to Steal. He Wanted to Steal. Baby, he Needed to Steal. So Steal he Did. 

 Pre-school was his first score. Snuck away during nap time and cleaned out every last one of them cubbies. While he was able to nab the odd knapsack and lunchbox, mostly, it was an art heist. Finger paintings, macaroni pictures, hand turkeys. Damned if he didn’t get away with it, too, burying the loot in the sandbox, taking it home piece by piece throughout the remainder of the school year. 

Ms. Huey, his frizzly red-headed teacher, was beside herself. She hadn’t for a moment considered that one of her students could be capable of such an act, fearing surely it had to have been the work of a local pedophile. You can imagine then, when she expressed as such, the police were called in to investigate. They dusted off every inch of that classroom for fingerprints with which to cross-reference via the sex offender registry. Sure enough there was a hit, with Ms. Huey’s fiance, Geoff. It goes without saying that she was devastated to discover she’d been betrothed to a criminal pervert, who let the record reflect had courted her under false pretenses, and an assumed name, presumably because her job could afford him tangential and therefore untraceable access to a wellspring of toddlers. 

At least she hadn’t walked down the aisle to an awaiting Geoff (his real name, if you can believe it, was Jeff … now, this doesn’t apply to you pederasts, but pro tip to everybody else out there using aliases for non sexually-violent offenses, don’t just change the spelling of your name, and certainly don’t swap it out for something more conspicuous, like fucking Geoff … now there’s a guy who touches kids), before he could be perp walked out of their shared apartment in front seemingly the entire complex. That they had not recovered the stolen goods among his otherwise highly incriminating belongings, however, the proper authorities were not the least bit concerned, since they had quite obviously ID’d the culprit positively, and apprehended him peaceably.   

All the while, no one ever suspected Billy. It was the perfect crime. 

So perfect in fact, that Billy may well have peaked, prematurely. Thereafter, his lopsided record of W’s to L’s indicated he wasn’t a very good thief. He wasn’t a bad one either, necessarily. Not sloppy by any means. Really his was a problem of regression to the mean. You see, when it comes down to it, grand larceny is a numbers game. Any snatch and grab man that’s worth a shit will tell you you’re going to take a pinch, sooner rather than later. So you pick your spots. But that was just it for Billy. He had a different calculus. A high-volume shooter, you could call him. To be clear, it was not that he was trying to get caught, as if he had some kind of complex. You wouldn’t say he was compulsive about it, in that way. More … prolific. And with regard to consequences, it wasn’t that he didn’t care. Sure, he affected an air that he didn’t care, about anything, but it was painfully obvious to anyone paying attention that he cared —  desperately so — about every little thing. 

Perhaps it was partly because those consequences didn’t bear down upon him with anywheres near the severity as they would for your average hoodlum or hopper. To that end, Hildy spent much of Billy’s childhood into young adulthood covering his ass. For his benefit, certainly, but also for hers. Being a young and ambitious female executive within the chauvinistic corporate hierarchy that pervaded the Wolffenbeir Company, as it had been meticulously erected by its patriarch, Wilhelm I, Hildy’s career prospects were tenuous enough as it was. If somehow it was made widely known that her meteoric professional ascent as a working mother had come at the expense of her increasingly delinquent son, well, that would’ve reflected quite poorly on her wouldn’t it.

Mercifully for her sake then that criminals are territorial by their very nature, and Billy was no different. So it stands to reason how for many of his subsequent crimes, he returned to the scene of his original sin. The Canaan Country Day School. The ideal staging ground for an aspiring thief, this petri dish of deteriorating privilege. Those little human bacteria were isolated and cultured from pre-K all the way on through Twelve, although Billy only made it to Eleven. 

Though it ended thusly, just woefully short of completion, Billy made the most of his prep school tenure, rest assured. He robbed that place fucking blind. Offender on repeat. And he took big scores, too. For example like, at the start of every academic year, when it was often required that students of a certain grade level purchase a specific school supply, Billy took that as a personal challenge. In fourth grade it was recorders. He stole an entire symphony orchestra’s-worth on the eve of the big recital. Poor kids had to hum My Heart Will Go On. 

Thereafter, the middle school — or rather, Lower School, as the Canaanites insisted on calling it — mandated that students begin using three-ring binders to organize their assignments. Preliminary training for the diligent work that is Wealth Management, for the children of parents whose estates were to be meticulously stewarded through a convoluted network of byzantine financial instruments deployed in the name of charitable trusts, itemizing contributions only to worthy grantees such as the City Ballet or the Common Sense Institute for Economic Policymaking, or perhaps, say, the Canaan Country Day endowment fund, that which exceeded the GDP of some developing nations. So important a lesson indeed, that these parents — and acting executors of their family foundations — could not be bothered to pick up said binders or other learning implements on behalf of their brood at the local big box outlet. So that the binders were issued, included as part of the goods and services expense in their tuition, to each rising middle schooler, emblazoned with the Canaan Country Day motto: Values ​​​​ad vitam impletum (Values for a life fulfilled), or teaching the upper crust’s moldy fucking scraps how to hold on for dear life to the rest of what’s theirs.

But, before the all-important binders were to be distributed on the first day of sixth grade, Billy jimmied the door to the supply closet where they were stored, and lined them one by one, up, down and across the cloistered hallway, painstakingly popping open the flimsy metal claws to fashion them into bear traps for the pre-pubescent.

Come high school (beg your pardon, Upper School … fucking ugh), the nonlinear nature of polynomial algebra necessitated the ubiquitous use of sophisticated graphing calculators. Nevermind how he was a year-and-change behind, mired in eighth-grade-level pre-algebra. Billy resented the implication. However, by now you can bet the administration had picked up on the forensic patterns of his still-developing criminal mind, which by contrast were quite linear indeed. Which is to say, the heat was on; they had a Bolo out on Billy. Not subtle with their tails, either. These were obvious hall monitor types. With their snitch asses. They were working in shifts, in his khaki cargo pocket, coming and going in and out of every class. But somehow though, Slick Billy shook his tail, if only for a moment. That was all it took. In the span of a second period, every last calculator up and vanished from Mr. Kuntz’s advanced placement trigonometry classroom, using as a diversion one of his interminable lectures on the myriad practical applications of creating statistical models for means testing entitlements. Twenty-three calculators were taken in total, summing to a street market value of just a shade under two thousand dollars, the legal threshold constituting Grand Theft according to state law. (Again, Billy wasn’t a Master Thief by any measure, but he had his moments.) They were recovered on the first day of the following semester, stacked neatly on the headmaster’s desk, each bearing a numeric signature of sorts. Billy’s five-digit calling card: 80085. 

While the Canaan Country Day School was secular (godless, even), they did accept indulgences to pay for pupils’ past and future sins, as you might expect, in the form of in-kind donations. Ever the shrewd businesswoman, rather than pay an adjusted-rate premium for Billy’s a la carte offenses, Hildy negotiated a proto-subscription service model with the aforementioned headmaster, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Judd. In addition to providing a welcome stream of recurring revenue to the school’s general fund, the agreed-upon payment structure called for financing a semi-annual facilities upgrade. Before Billy could do long division, he was attending classes and participating in extracurricular activities on a completely renovated campus of state-of-the-art learning spaces, named almost exclusively for his familial ancestors and other figures of significance to the Wolffenbeir Company. up to and including the much-heralded dedication of the Doctor Lupustein Infirmary. To the utter delight of the assembled faculty and student body, Billy notwithstanding, the wolf himself, in the plush, attended the ribbon-cutting ceremony, with a trio of his sexy nurse practitioners in tow. 

Thereafter, running out of immediate relatives and beloved mascots (it should be noted how she refused to commemorate her Grossvater, Wilhelm I — joke’s on her though … Big Will would have burned that mother down and pissed on the ashes before suffering the disgrace of association with such a Rat Ship, as he referred to CCD), Hildy resorted to namesaking Conservative Women of Consequence whom she admired from throughout history. The Margaret Thatcher Dining Hall. The Shirley Temple Center for the Performing Arts. The Ayn Rand Endowed Teaching Chair. The Nancy Reagan Head of the Class Scholarship, given to that year’s Top-performing female student, pending results of comprehensive drug tests and an astrological reading. 

All this in lieu of expulsion, for which Billy would have been a prime candidate.  Not for nothing, but it was an outcome he would have vastly preferred to his rigorous program of deferred discipline, in favor of rigorous rehabilitation. As per his mother’s agreement, Billy was required to undergo an intense battery of one-on-one counseling sessioins, as well as additional Nature-based experiential therapy for troubled youths. (The latter was the reason for Billy having to earn his basic seamanship, as well as a full suite of other basic skills suitable for survival on land.) Headmeister Lieutenant Colonel Judd, you see, was a firm believer in the character-enriching properties of the Great Outdoors, drawing on his own personal crucible in the highlands of the Korean Peninsula, and later the flood planes of the Mekong Delta. Of course, if you could only line these ungrateful tenderfooted faggots on the business end of a Chinese-made AK-47, they’d fall right in line with a hop-to, lamented the Lieutenant Colonel. But, begrudgingly, he would settle for at least getting them outside, away from their perverted music videos. Marxist-Leninist indoctrination propaganda films, the lot of them. (Every afternoon he would watch Total Request Live and seeth, fantasizing about ripping out host Carson Daly’s polished nails, one by fucking one.) 

As for Billy’s shrinks, the diagnostic consensus was that here was your garden variety case of kleptomania, mostly benign. There was although some clinical disagreement among them therein — he was treated by a rotation of psychiatrist specialists over the years … the top docs in their respective fields, all — as to whether he also exhibited any symptomatic comorbidities, such as an elevated risk for substance abuse, latent homosexuality or perhaps even psychopathic tendencies. Now it was true that he lied, compulsively. Even Billy would admit that. But he only intentionally misled insofar as it enabled him to steal things. It wasn’t as if he was out here burning ants or drowning cats. Quite the contrary. Like his late grandfather, Wilhelm II — The Deuce, Billy-boy was a big-time softie for all the animal kingdom’s many multi-legged subjects. (There was one exception. He never did get along with man’s best friend. Obviously, there was Lupustein, M.D., his nemesis. Fucking doggy doctor, specializing in sniffing dudes’ dongs. Also he was aggravated by the constant mood swings of his mother’s manic depressive terriers. But to be honest, he couldn’t truly hate those two slobberpusses. Really, Billy only resented how they seemed to always take her side.) For a fact, when the day came to dissect bullfrogs in tenth-grade biology, he intercepted the shipment of live specimens and laid a plague upon his teacher Mrs. Toebbe’s hatchback, the one with the Darwin fish decal on the bumper. To be clear, no amphibians were injured in the making of this caper. The Canaan School stood on the grounds of a would otherwise-be wetland preserve and wildlife refuge, so this toad load thrived upon their stay of execution and subsequent release. (Yes, you are correct in assuming that these organisms are typically pre-euthanized and embalmed before being bulk-ordered and shipped off to classrooms for to be descecrated by teenagers. However, the Lieutenant Colonel pulled rank to intervene in Mrs. Toebbe’s lesson planning, insisting that if her students were to observe life in such a state, that they themselves see it drain from their subjects’ bulging eyes.)   

Despite his many trespasses, this delicate arrangement Hildy had made to shield her son from any repercussions whatsoever was holding up quite sturdily. Billy was a ball hair away from finishing his penultimate, third year. (A note on style. CCD didn’t go by grade numbers, like eleventh. There were no juniors, or sophomores or seniors or freshman, for that matter. Billy was a Third Year.) From there he could coast on through to graduation. (Commencement, in Canaan parlance.) Smooth sailing to the finish. That was until … he crossed a line so bold, his transgression, even his all-powerful mother could not erase. 

###

Without its tradition, the Canaan Country Day School would be but a husk of itself. In all his litany of larcenies, running up a rap sheet the length of the Condoleezza Rice Football Field and back, Billy had still yet to run afoul of the school’s ritual customs to an extent that which would narcissistically wound its stratospheric sense of institutionalized self-importance. Partly because Lt. Col.  Judd took great pains to prevent such occurrence. As the school year in question drew to its conclusion, the Lieutenant Colonel was preparing to unveil a bronze bust of the Canaan founding headmaster, his administrative mentor and father, Doctor J. Jerome Judd — a groundbreaking figure in the fields of preparatory education as well as eugenic theory, although this tribute would serve to emphasize the former. Several weeks preceding the ceremony, Judd the Younger spent bolstering his tactical defensive postures against Billy, the teenage insurgent. No expense would be spared, up to and including the subcontracting of a comprehensive risk assessment, to be drafted at exorbitant cost by a counterterrorism analyst from the Perlmutter Agency.  

Whosever fuckup was culpable for the binder debacle or the calculator calamity, this time, the Lieutenant Colonel wasn’t taking any chances. The evening before it was to be unveiled at the all-school assembly, he himself supervised the delivery, had it encased in bulletproof glass, and installed a laser tripwire alarm system, courtesy of the good people at ​​Karakuchi, Ltd., a high-ranking executive of which was the parent of a Canaan first-year. So help him god, if Billy or some other poor soul so much as set foot in the Ann Coulter Common Room, hell itself would descend upon them. 

The following morning, after making an excruciatingly lengthy speech covering a bevy of topics — scholarship and virtue, respect for one’s elders, the moral cowardice of guerilla warfare and others — Lieutenant Colonel Judd removed the velvet cover revealing to all his late father’s likeness ... fully caked in clown makeup. 

Billy styled the black and white countenance after one popularized by the rap duo Insane Clown Posse. During that time he was experimenting with Juggaloism. Juggal is the term of endearment with which ICP refers to their devoted fans, and they themselves and one another. Billy was more a casual Jugallo, though. Not a credentialed Jugallo for Lyfe. Which is to say he’d never had the pleasure of attending the Gathering (of the Juggalos), their annual pilgrimaje. However he was a one-time completist of the rap rock-slash-nu metal genre, and he had transformed the Canaan Country Day commemoration of its founder, Doctor J. Jerome Judd, into his own commemoration of the co-founder of the Insane Clown Posse, Violent J. 

(Some years after Billy’s rap palette matured to the extent it did, an infomercial for the Gathering of the Juggalos was parodied on the very same sketch comedy show that Doctor Lupustein made his much-heralded debut in primetime. It was very funny, and for a time the Juggalos became a kind of collective cultural punchline, especially among new media types, many of whom sent their Reporters out on Assignment, inland from their respective coasts to Cover the now-infamous music festival. From these hillbilly safaris, they brought back more low-brow fodder, masquerading as some socio-cultural taxonomy. Ironically cataloguing their various customs. What they drank, for example — Faygo, a budget-friendly brand of soft drink distributed exclusively to the Midwestern market. Their mating rituals — bartering beads or other goods in exchange for the baring of one's breasts, which are often also festively painted.] Their iconography — the Hatchetman, a silhouette of a running man with dreadlocks bearing a hatchet, is the trademarked logo of Psychopathic Records, and a symbol many Juggalos have tattooed on their person. Their terms of endearment — colloquially, Jugaloos and Jugalettes refer to one another as Ninja. This is because Joe Bruce and Joe Ulster, the Christian names of ICP frontmen Shaggy 2 Dope and the aforementioned Violent J, respectively, grew up dirt poor in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan. To entertain themselves, they watched television. Professional wrestling and horror movies were obviously their most profound influences. But, also, Kung Fu films. In popular folklore, the Ninja, or shinobi, was a peasant warrior whom the higher class Samurai warrior looked down upon for employing tactics they deemed to be dishonourable. Stealth assassinations, spying, sabotage, general sneakiness. But the ninjas weren’t concerned with anyone’s concept of honour. Perhaps as testament to their poor upbringing, these outcasts were concerned only with one thing — survival. And this their special set of skills, made them exceedingly difficult to kill. Jugallos, or Ninjas, likewise, live forever.    

Their war cry —

Although it wasn't all fun and games. You see they also documented a troubling pattern of harassment against female ICP fans [Juggalettes]. Okay, lookit. This is not to in any way excuse that kind of behavior [here it comes …], which is incorrigible [ … bu bu bu], But [Flex Bomb!] the notion that women being mistreated is somehow endemic to this tiny subgenre of a subgenre … well that’s just crazy, man. Ask yourself this. What about Grateful Dead shows? All about peace and love, right? Well, why don’t you ask Mary Ellen Moffet how the fairer sex faired on Shakedown Street, where the love wasn’t always so peaceful. The point is that The Genre of music — however fucking silly — has got nothing to do with it. At every fest, concert, rave, recital, drum circle, jamboree … you name it … wherever music is performed and judgment-impairing substances are served … you can bet that women are probably being taken advantage of if not outright abused. Pointing the finger at these mostly harmless hillbillies because they wear funny facepaint doesn’t make the rest of us any less ugly. 

Around about that same time the FBI officially classified the Juggalos as a criminal street gang. With backing from the ACLU, ICP, Inc. strenuously objected to this characterization of their fanbase, going so far as to file suit against the federal government, albeit unsuccessfully. Spurned by the courts, ninjas took to the streets, staging a hundred-or-so Hatchetman March on Washington. 

Whether or not the increased law enforcement scrutiny served to prevent any crimes from being committed, it no doubt resulted in many otherwise law-abiding juggalos being targeted and harassed by dragnet investigations and baseless accusations. 

Five or so years later, Donald Trump got himself elected president. 

Not so funny now, is it?) 

To this day, nobody knows how Billy did it. Shucking and jiving his way like Catherine Zeta-Jones through all them lasers. Then again, as far as the other students were concerned, well, none of them much cared. You might suppose he would have been lauded by his classmates as a crusader — sort of a combination of Robin Hood and Ferris Bueller — sticking it to the curmudgeonly principle. But it wasn’t like that. Not even close. For a fact, everybody thought that Billy — the Insane Class Clown — was weird. Whenever he pulled off one of his big scores, they collectively rolled their eyes. Mostly they were worried about getting into a good college. Canaan Country Day fostered a highly competitive environment. They didn’t have time for Billy’s shenanigans. So while he would have relished in their tacit approval, or perhaps even having a partner in crime, as all the best stick-up men do, Billy was left to work alone.

The Lieutenant Colonel on the other hand was very curious indeed about how Billy had thwarted him for the last time, so help him god. Worse than the crime itself, Billy had also managed to lock the bulletproof encasing in such a way that nobody could get the damn thing out and wipe the grease paint off. For hours on end, he enhanced interrogated him. But Billy wouldn’t budge. This despite the Lieutenant Colonel pulling out all the stops. Intermittently he’d leave the room. (Canaan did not yet have a dedicated interrogation space, so he resorted to retrofitting the maintenance shed.) When he returned with the sweet old Mrs. Huey to play good cop to his bad Lieutenant Colonel, Billy still kept his cool. So Judd put him on ice. He left him there alone from fourth through sixth period, playing at full volume a selection of his favorite music, courtesy of the Margaritaville station on satellite radio. Still, Billy wouldn’t say a word. Judd was beginning to begrudgingly respect his adversary’s resolve. The boy had sand. He would know, having himself withstood an all-inclusive stay in a beach-front villa at the Hanoi Hilton. Then, in that exact moment that the Lieutenant Colonel was starting to admire his fortitude, without breaking eye contact, Billy farted, audibly and olfactorily. At this, the old fart finally went fucking ballistic. How’d you do it? You little pinko commie pissant! You’re not worthy of a Canaan Cadet! (The school had no military affiliation, he just liked calling the kids that. Cadets.) You disgust me! You’re scum! 

It went on like this for some time, until finally, like an old dog barking at the wind, the Lieutenant Colonel wore himself down. Billy, for his part, still hadn’t fucking blinked. So Judd returned his gaze with as much contempt as he could muster and asked one final question. The rhetorical type, that better not come with some smartass answer. He said, son, what do you have to say to yourself? Billy looked down in repose as if to truly consider this condescending query. Then he answered.

Whoop whoop.

What did you say to me, maggot? 

Whoop whoop. 

Are you whooping? 

Whoop whoop. 

God damnit, boy, stop whooping at me!

Whoop whoop, Ninja.

You will address me as Lieutenant Colonel!

Whoop whoop. [With these latest whoops, Billy gave a mocking salute.] .

Don’t play games with me, Mister Wolff.  

WHOOP WHOOP!

Stop it, I said! You stop it this instant! 

WHOOP WHOOP!!

This is your final warning! Cease whooping at once!

WHOOP WHOOP!!!

Nihilo sanctum estne?

Billy stopped. Suddenly his expression was sorrowful, as if he meant to convey, here is where it ends. I will fight no more forever. 

Now the Lieutenant Colonel paused, satisfied with himself. He knew the boy would break. They all do.

Do I have your unconditional surrender then? Go on. I want to hear you say it. I, Billy Wolff, am a gutless little worm, and I hereby submit. 

Billy leaned across the desk ever so slightly and whispered: 

Whoop. Whoop.

Expelled! Wilhelm Wolff the Third, I expel thee! 

#novls of tumblr #grateful dead #insane clown possee

[vicious-vixxxen]

SugarDaddy!Enji X SugarBaby!Male Reader <3

Not entirely sure where this came from, but couldn’t help myself once it started :3 nothing crazy, and kinda short, so apologies for that, but I hope you guys enjoy it! Prompt fills should be out later this month: In the midst of a move, so slow going getting fills, out, but hopefully soon <3 thanks for the patience, and the continued support. Much love to you guys! Enjoy :3  Sugar Daddy!Enji x Sugar Baby!Male Reader

 (Sort of, kind of, it is but also not entirely the focus)

“What would you do without me, dad,” Fuyumi sighed, though her smile was palpable, even if Enji couldn’t see it- as she’d stepped behind him to lint roll his dinner jacket. Enji adjusting his watch, and catching the time, puffing his chest up a bit as he shooed his daughter back, and glanced at himself in the full length mirror once more, briefly. Enji would lie down and accept the sweet, bitter kiss from the grim reaper, before he ever told his daughter just where he’d found his date from. But, and as hard as it was to so much as admit it, Enji did know when to wave the white flag of defeat, and after three hours of trying to pick his own outfit, he’d shuffled off to her room and mumbled the bare minimum about having a date from an app tonight. Fuyumi had freaked out for all of ten minutes, before growing startlingly serious, and rifling through his closet for articles of clothing Enji had no idea were even there. And now...well, he looked more presentable than he had in ages. Granted, his wardrobe consisted of his hero suit ninety nine percent of the time, but still. Bidding Fuyumi goodbye was a whole other ordeal, but soon enough, Enji found himself- or rather, his driver, pulling up along the curb of the restaurant he’d asked you to. Not even a moment to gather himself, or suck in a few lungful's of crisp evening air, before his eyes landed on you. Your dazzling smile so bright, Enji had to keep himself from squinting, as you hurried over, and without so much as a hello first, threw your arms over the hero’s broad shoulders, and brought him down into a tight, warm hug. Enji squeezed back awkwardly, though your cologne was mouthwatering, and the feel of someone wanting to be in his arms almost made the older man dizzy, as he pulled back, and smoothed out the front of his jacket. Just to busy his hands, as you eyed him up, and your smile grew softer. More intimate. “It’s so nice to meet, finally. In person.” You laughed, gesturing for Enji to follow you to the front door, as there was already a man waiting to escort you back to your table. Well, Enji thought. Here goes nothing. 

“You’re nervous,” you pointed out quietly- gently, reaching across the table to lay one of your hands over Enji’s much larger one: meeting the older man's gaze as he stopped jiggling his leg, and focused his full attention on you. “Observant,” Enji huffed, though not unkindly, as he took a deep breath, and reached up with his free hand to tug at the neck of his sweater. Cheeks flush, both from the heat within himself, and his nerves. You were much more...handsome? Pretty? Drop dead gorgeous?- than your profile pictures had given you credit for, and even then you were one of the most beautiful specimens he’d ever laid his eyes on, so that was really saying something. “I try to be,” you laughed, bringing your other hand around to sip at your champagne, before laying your glass-chilled hand over the other covering Enji’s, to clasp them on either side- just holding his hand, and smiling. Awkwardness creeping back up Enji’s neck as his throat worked around the words he couldn’t quite find. “I could talk, if you’d like? And you can interject whenever you’d like. No pressure to, if you’re not ready. I could probably talk enough for the both of us.” You we’re trying to cut the man some slack, bless his big confused heart. Your online chats hadn’t divulged much, though you did get the gist from Enji. Bad relationship with his children. Not too close to anyone of his own age. He was lonely. And so were you. You were also broke as fuck, but all thoughts of monetary value flew out the window the second you hugged the man when you’d arrived. Seen the restaurant he’d asked you to; and the private balcony dinner he’d arranged. Enji was trying so hard, and it made your heart beat a little too fast. Your smile almost too bright.  “That...would be preferable, thank you,” Enji replied gruffly- though he cleared his throat after like he’d done it by accident. It only made you smile wider “Of course. A very considerate daddy you are,” you teased, referencing the website you met on jokingly- or at least, half jokingly- though the way Enji’s blush deepened had you stuttering around your first few sentences- glancing down suddenly as Enji turned his hand palm upward- holding your hands in return, as you laughed, suddenly, and began speaking smoothly. Squeezing the man’s hands in silent thanks, as he listened intently to you rambling on about your life. Where you went to school, what instrument you played, your favorite movies, and books. He really /listened/, grunting every so often to show you he was- and even interjecting with questions every so often; Enji really wanted to know about you. He wanted to listen. You’d never quite had anyone like that before. Not even close friends who cared enough to really listen to you. Your chest felt tight suddenly as you began touching on your most recent life happenings. Pausing slowly, voice getting quiet as you held Enji’s gaze, you lifted the older man’s hand to press a kiss to his palm. Snickering into it as Enji’s flames burst across his face at the contact. “Ah-Ahem. What uh...what’s that for?” He questioned, voice husky as he turned away slightly. Embarrassed at his flames for the first time since he was a pre-teen. “Just thanks, for listening,” you admitted with a shrug, kissing his palm again, even softer this time. Enji turned then, pure honesty in his gaze as he gathered his courage to speak clearly, “I could listen to you speak...for hours, if I’m being honest. You have..a lovely voice.” “Ah,” You nodded, your cheeks just as flushed as the hero’s as you swirled your champagne in its glass gently. Missing completely the way Enji’s face fell, and he withdrew his hands from atop the table, and back into his lap. The rest of the night went pretty much the same, though you noticed Enji seemed slightly more reserved, and gruff than before. Still just as attentive, still nearly mute, just more...withdrawn. Less open then he’d become as you spoke. It wasn’t until the date had come to an end, and he was escorting you out of the restaurant, and to the car he’d called to take you home, did you realize why. “Here you go.” Enji spoke quietly, yet clearly, crowding you in slightly so the valet couldn’t see the wad of cash he was holding out to you. Crisp bills neatly folded into a money clip, engraved with Enji’s initials. “Oh.” You’d almost forgotten by this point that this was sort of part of it. Or...well, it was the whole point, really. Or had been. “That’s….quite a lot of money,” You thought aloud, frowning at the way Enji’s brows drew down tightly, and he thumped the money into your chest gently. “I apologize for the evening. Please, just take it. It’s triple the amount we originally spoke of. Compensation for the poor company I’ve been.” You froze, staring between Enji’s eyes, that wouldn’t meet your own, and the cash being held out to you, Enji’s grip so tight on it his knuckles were white. /Oh/. So that’s what he thought. Earlier in the evening, your reaction to his sincerity, he’d read into it wrong. ….Sweet old man. “Silly daddy,” You sighed, smiling despite the situation- reaching up to tug out one solitary bill from the stack, before pressing Enji’s fist back into his own chest with one hand- the other snaking up and around the man’s neck, to ease him down to your level gently. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a more wonderful time with anyone before in my whole life. You listened, and saw me. And only me. For hours. I don’t think I can properly describe how absolutely wonderful that was. Truly. Silly,” You laughed again, watching the way Enji’s shoulders hunched, and tensed, a myriad of emotions flitting across his face, before he settled on bewilderment it seemed. The tiniest flames danced across his cheeks as you leaned up on your toes, brushing noses briefly, before capturing Enji’s lips in a soft, chaste kiss. Hand carding up and into the soft hair at the nape of Enji’s neck, scraping your nails through his scalp gently as your lips began to move against one another. Unsure, and hesitant, before that quickly melted away, leaving only the deepest desire, and want. A soft, needy noise leaving your mouth, that Enji swallowed up happily. Panting into your face as he pulled away, breath a wash of champagne, and the chocolate cake you’d both had for dessert. “Tip...for your driver,” You breathed, slightly dazed as you fell back into the car, feet firmly on the ground now- tapping your pocket where you’d slid the bill from the stack he’d held out to you at first. “I...should get going. But if I don’t have a text from you with the details of our next date when I get home, i’ll be one very disappointed boy,” You admitted quietly, cupping Enji’s cheek briefly- thumb sliding across his plump bottom lip, before you opened the back door of the car, and slid in. Wishing Enji a goodnight, before the door was shut, and you were being driven off towards home. Enji checked the time briefly as you pulled away, and once more when he finally was able to get his legs working again- nearly an hour had passed, in which he’d tried and failed multiple times to collect himself. Had that really just happened? The feel of his lips twisting up into a smile felt strange, and foreign for the pro hero. And as he walked home, to allow himself a chance to breathe finally, he began to laugh. Cupping his own face, and touching his lips, an incredulous laugh bubbled from deep within him as he threw his head back and allowed it to overtake him. Smiling in a way he hadn’t in...so, so long. Pulling his phone out, he immediately began texting you, checking your schedule for the next night, before suggesting going to a play. A quiet, private balcony just for the two of you. Close seats. Beautiful music. He could watch your reactions under the bright stage lights. It sounded fantastic. A text from Fuyumi chimed into his phone as he was nearly home, and still smiling like a love struck teenager. So? How was it!?-FT Enji sighed heavily, catching himself in a nearby shop window- looking too happy to be real, and recalling your words from earlier. Wonderful.-ET It was wonderful, Fuyumi.-ET

#bnha x reader #bnha x male reader #bnha x y/n #mha x reader #mha x male reader #mha x y/n #enji todoroki x male reader #enji todoroki x reader #enji todoroki x y/n #endeavor x reader #endeavor x male reader #endeavor x y/n #endeavor #enji todoroki #viciousvixxxen

[chubbology]

Overindulged

prompt: feeder boyfriend quits his job and balloons as fat as his feedee/feeder girlfriend

He drove his sleek BMW up his driveway and into the middle garage just as dusk settled into night. He’d stayed overtime at work again, and to make it up to his girlfriend, three dozen fresh assorted donuts sat in the passenger seat.

Sure enough, immediately upon opening the back door with his stack of boxes, he heard her voice: “Late.”

“It’s the end of the month,” he said. “What do you expect? Brought you something though, so don’t be mad. Come in here.”

He set the boxes down on the granite island, then waited, sucking in a breath. His pupils dilated as his favorite person in the world waddled through the wide archway leading into the kitchen. After giving him a pout, she pulled the boxes toward her with arms that hung, at their heaviest, over half a foot with fat.

She was a beautiful, enormous woman. He had met her on a plane three years ago on a business trip to Paris. She’d pulled him into conversation like a warm whirlpool, and he’d listened in awe to her life story: miserable wife of a banker to a happily divorced entrepreneur, flying first class on her own dime.

With a smug, knowing smile, she talked about how she used to be skinny for her ex’s sake and now was free. He couldn’t help but let his gaze roam over her blatantly overweight body. Thighs pressing firm on either armrest of the wide seat, bust prominent and heavy, belly button deep and visible through her dress.

Bad news is, she’d concluded, I just settled a messy lawsuit that lost me my career and nearly bankrupted me. But she shrugged, as if such was life. I’m taking my last-hurrah vacation until I have no choice but to eat tiny, unsatisfying meals again.

He decided that couldn’t come to pass, so he spent as much time with her outside his business obligations as he could, taking her to meal after meal, falling in love as she ate to her heart’s content and shamelessly talked about how she’d rather fallen in love with gaining weight. It titillated and empowered her. By the end of their two week stay in Paris, she was twelve pounds bigger and he had invited her to live with him for a while as she looked for a new career path. She accepted.

Three years later, she’d found her calling without having to leave his luxurious, spacious home. Doing what she loved.

She was almost four hundred and fifty pounds now, last he was updated. She always wore leggings that clung to every lump and bulge of cellulite, and she liked to tease him by wearing crop tops, letting her massive belly and side rolls hang out and wobble as they pleased.

He watched with soft eyes as she stuffed herself with four jelly-filled doughnuts. Between bites she said, “These long hours at your soulless job are no good. My fans want to see more of you.” More eating. “The last time you fed me on camera was weeks ago!”

She gave him an imploring look as she ate a fifth doughnut. Boston creme. Her face, once conventionally pretty, now had a sexy overindulged look. She’d lost her jawline to additional chins and neck fat, and her round, fatty cheeks quivered as she chewed. Even before she finished the fifth doughnut, she picked up a sixth. “And don’t think they haven’t noticed that little tummy you have now.”

“What?” He looked down at himself, blushing at how his tie sat out a bit on slightly stretched white buttons.

Before he could say anything, she pushed a chocolate doughnut in his hand. “I know people willing to pay a pretty petty to see you chunk out.” She smirked. “Pop a couple of those buttons.”

He laughed dismissively, but as he ate the doughnut, he contemplated the press of his new chub against his shirt. His pants felt a little tight in the ass, too, now that he thought about it. What if? he thought.

Suddenly, he found himself admitting: “I’ve been thinking of quitting.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I want to spend more time with you,” he explained. He hadn’t meant to talk about it now, but here he was. Out of nervousness, he pulled one of the boxes toward himself and picked another doughnut, this one caving in under its sprinkles. He took a heavenly bite. “I have plenty of money saved and invested to take care of both of us for a long time. I just don’t see why I…”

She waddled over to his side of the island and took his free hand. “You know I’d support you.” Then she pulled him closer, into a smiling kiss. “I’ll support you real good.”

*

Before his two week notice even ended, he was eight pounds heavier, and he relished how his coworkers’ eyes lingered on his burgeoning waistline. Soon, his tummy was pushing over his pants. His chest felt thicker. He felt his ass spread wider when he sat down. He ate desserts all the time, and his girlfriend lavished him with attention (food) at every opportunity when he was home, encouraging him to eat in amounts he’d never let himself eat before. She started filming - with his consent, as always - the development of his chubbing up. Her fans loved him even more than they already did, compliments coming in faster than he could read them.

One month into being an unemployed man, she stuffed him on camera until one of his shirt buttons popped off. The experience was more of a revelation for him than even becoming officially overweight; that night, after she went to sleep, he got out of bed, squeezed into an old pair of slacks that barely fit him, then gorged himself in the kitchen until he gasped at the relief of his ass seam tearing open, unable to accommodate his butt, which everyone online said was growing gorgeously fat. His heart fluttered just thinking about it, and he hoped his ass kept growing.

It did.

“I admit, I never thought you’d be this much of a pear,” his girlfriend told him, six months into his steady ballooning. They were admiring his progress in the large bathroom mirror. He may have looked small relative to his partner’s morbid obesity, but somehow, they were both more fascinated with his growth at the moment. She outlined his bottom heavy figure with her hands. Fat had indeed stored most eagerly in his ass, thighs, and hips. His belly drooped soft and wide.

“I love it,” she said. “Love everything about you.” But then something else came into her expression. “Except how you’ve stopped picking up after yourself.”

He swallowed, and said honestly, “Sorry. I know I’m getting lazier.”

“We’ll have to hire a maid.” She grinned wickedly. “Or do two pigs deserve to roll in their sty?”

*

A year into living on his passive income and her subscribers, the couple had not yet hired any cleaning services, and his country club house was...well. Not trashed, but messy and disorganized. She blamed the five pounds she’d lost over the past month on having to constantly throw his trash away. She punished him by making him stand while drinking a whole liter of full-sugar soda. Since he’d developed a strong distaste for any physical effort as he sunk deeper into obesity, he grumbled the whole time. When he finally fell back on the couch, she sat too. Together, they took up most of it. But while she looked perfectly composed, he was panting raggedly, slightly sweaty, a food stain on his pants.

“Look.” She reached out and held his chubby wrist. “I can tell that the fatter you get, the more your natural inclination is to be a pig.” She spoke with total matter-of-factness. As if the emergence of his inner pig was unsurprising and inevitable. “It’s not uncommon in men - that urge to oink and eat as a way of life. But we share this space. I help pay off this house. Please throw away your take out containers.”

Then she added, at his long-suffering sigh, “I’ll reward you.”

He met her gaze. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

*

This time, there were no cameras. There was just her, sitting on one side of their king bed and him on the other, breathing heavy, taking her reward one bite at a time.

Everywhere in their bed were containers and packages and napkins and soda bottles. He had eaten mexican and noodles and burgers and fries. He’d eaten candy bars and sundaes and milkshakes and chunky cookies. He was so full he could feel the skin of his belly stretching. He could practically feel the skin of his thighs stretching, as if they were filling up heavier with fat right then, as he was determinedly overfed. He swallowed another bite of greasy cheeseburger.

“Keep going. I can tell you're slowing down, but I’ll have none of that yet. I want to see progress from you.”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you want to feel the ecstasy of squeezing through a doorframe or are you going to plateau at being just fat?”

He let out a breathy moan as he ate another bite of the cheeseburger. His girlfriend knew him too well. She knew he liked the new challenges being big was causing him. She knew it turned him on that he sat so much fatter in his own car, belly pressing against everything, ass barely fitting at all. She knew his hands had begun cupping his hips as a half-unconscious habit, admiring his own width.

He liked how his thighs had to push past each other, jiggling every time. He even liked when he accidentally bumped into things, because it was a hot reminder that he wasn’t the same. He was like her now. He was fat. He was a pig. He wanted to eat and get so big he could barely even waddle. He wanted to squeeze through doorways. He wanted to get stuck.

“I want everything,” he said. And she smiled, temporarily pleased.

*

Thank you to the reader who commissioned this work!

I'd love to write more. Check me out <3 etsy.com/shop/Chubbology

#weight gain #fic #female feeder #male gainer

[baepsaetan]

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) - Jungkook

Summary: You miss him so much, but it seems like getting to spend time with Jungkook is going to take a Christmas miracle.

Ao3 Link: here 

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader, side Namgi

Length: 17.6k

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Warnings: Suspicions of cheating, misunderstandings, panic attack, suggestive content, swearing

A/N: Oooof I am finally done my Secret Santa fic for @thebtswritersclub​ and only - *checks calendar* - too late. So sorry this is so late @jjeongukkie​! It got so much longer than I had planned, and while I had a lot of fun writing it, I did not plan it quite well enough to finish in a timely fashion. Still, I hope you’re able to enjoy a last blast of Christmas vibes and fluff and angst as you slide into 2021! Thank you for your patience, and I hope you have an awesome new year! 

I always appreciate all likes, reblogs and comments! If you enjoy reading this, send me an ask! Happy belated New Year to everyone! 

---

“You’re not coming home now?”

Even as you say it, you’re vaguely surprised you manage to get the words out. Your lips are numb with shock and disappointment, and Jungkook’s wince on the screen of your phone just makes the feeling even more jarring. More painful.

“I’m sorry,” he says, half pleading and half desperate. “It’s just, this project is so important, and we need to have it ready for rollout…”

Throat tight, the fingers of your free hand pushing into your thigh, you adjust the phone with your other before saying thickly, “You said it would be a few hours in the morning, Jungkook. It’s – it’s Christmas."

"I know, I know, I just..."

He’s still speaking, quick and anxious words about necessity and pressure, and while you’re listening, you’re thinking about the cute lingerie sitting next to you on the bed. You'd been planning a little gift for him when he got home, and when he'd surprised you with a Facetime request, you'd pulled them out of the drawer, thinking it might be a fun little tease to give him a flash of the red and black set. Now, though...

"Hey, Y/N, I'm sorry. Really." Biting at his lip, Jungkook somehow manages to look a bit pitiful, even with the dress shirt he's wearing, ironed to sharp definition. The collar of the black shirt is open, sans a tie – he’d mentioned this morning no one cared about perfect business attire while working over Christmas – and the bare curve of his collarbone just adds to the disjointed clash of his clean outfit compared to his dejected expression.

The look has your throat closing even more, and you try to force a smile. You're well aware of how stressful the new position has been for your long time boyfriend, seen the casualties of the job; late night arrivals at the apartment, distracted eyes while making and eating dinner, forehead creased with frustration every time his phone vibrates, fatigue that throws him into sleep before you and he have really even had any time to talk together. He's also been hitting the gym almost religiously lately, another outlet for stress, and while you love Jungkook's enthusiasm for staying active, two sessions a day, every day, is excessive for him. It also eats into what little opportunity is left for you two to spend time with each other.

But he's doing his best. You know that. You're sure of it. And he promised it would get better, soon.

Soon. So, you swallow the disappointment, and the thing that’s more dangerous, simmering below it and too perilously close to anger. You hitch on a smile, and hope it doesn't look quite as forced as it feels. "I get it, Kookie. I'm just sorry you have to work for so long. Will you be back in time for dinner?"

He hesitates, teeth still sawing into his lower lip as he jiggles his head indecisively and the camera frame shifts a bit. "I'm not sure but – probably?" Your expression must sink just as much as your stomach does, despite your best efforts, because Jungkook immediately grimaces, his hands making desperate little waves of abortive denial. "I mean, I will. For sure. I'll be home, okay?"

When he flashes a thumbs up, deliberately and extravagantly enthusiastic, you can't help but smile, just a tentative lift of your lips. "Just – I love you, Kookie. I hope we get to spend some of Christmas together."

"We will! Promise." Both hands are up now, clenched into eager fists under his chin, and he really couldn't look more earnest if he tried.

The smile comes a bit easier now, and you nod, feeling some of that enthusiasm reaching through the screen. "Okay." Taking a deep breath, you try to redirect the conversation, too painfully aware that sulking isn't going to help at all. "Have you eaten lunch yet? Don't miss it just for your stupid boss!"

His grin is a small, toothy thing. "Nah, I haven't. I –"

"Jungkook!"

"I was saving room for when I got home!"

"Hah! You think there's going to be food on the table for you?" This bickering is so much easier than anything else that you might say, and you fall into it with something like relief.

His eyebrows fall, nose scrunching dramatically. "On the table? Y/N, that's so unsanitary."

"So unsanitary...?"

At your puzzled look, the grossed out expression whirls away, replaced with a smirk that's so abruptly suggestive that you find your breath catching. The way his voice drops, becoming a low hum, just concentrates the effect. "I was saving room for you, of course. But I'm not gonna eat you out on the table, baby."

You huff in scornful incredulity, but it can't take back the fact that you almost choked a second ago. It also doesn't really hide the way your cheeks have heated up into a patchy red, and besides, Jungkook knows you too well. If anything, his smirk just gets even sharper, and he adds playfully, "Unless you have it on your wish list. Then I might consider it."

Fucking around with Jungkook on any surface is absolutely on your wish list, but you're too proud and currently too annoyed to tell him that. "With my luck, it would break trying to hold up your inflated ego."

"My inflated muscles, you mean," he says, and flexes. Which is just so obnoxious, and also the long sleeve hides his arms too well to be truly impressive.

"Do that again when you get home," you order imperiously, and immediately he bows his head.

"You got it, boss," he agrees, and it's that easy, sudden switch, that flexibility, that's at least part of the reason you love him so much. Jungkook is what you need him to be; he's always been comfortable with that role, and your flighty ass needs him in so many different ways. He's never failed you in that respect. Well – not much. You need him with you right now, after all.

Want, you remind yourself sternly. You want him, that's all.

Abruptly he stiffens, turns slightly. You hear someone speaking off camera, high and strained, and Jungkook replies in a confident voice, talking about something you don't have enough information on to fully understand. They have a short conversation before Jungkook says, "I'll be over in a moment, okay?"

Then he's turning back to you, the by now familiar crease back between his eyes. "I've got to go now, Y/N. I'll get out of here as quickly as I can, okay?"

"Okay. Love you, Kookie. And try to eat something."

He nods, curter now, already turning away from the camera. "See you soon."

And you're left with a call ended screen and no reciprocal "love you". The flicker of warmth that had been blooming in your stomach wilts until there's nothing but a cold tightness left. For a few minutes you scroll aimlessly through your apps and messages, fingers restless for something the phone can't give. There are too many Merry Christmas posts, too many pics of friends and family having a good time together with gifts and food, and it grows the hurt in your gut. You and Jungkook had decided not to travel to any of your families' gatherings, to save some money this year after a big and expensive move, but that had been with the assumption that you would be able to take comfort in each other. Now...

Before too long, you give up, toss the phone aside. It lands next to the lingerie, and for the time being you leave them both alone, suddenly anxious to get away from the remote device and the painful reminder both. Your apartment isn't large, and it only takes you a few steps to leave the bedroom and head to the kitchen. You spend several moments milling around there, but you've already prepped everything for dinner tonight; the only thing left to do is the dishes from this morning's simple breakfast, eaten long after Jungkook had already bolted his and left. You clean them with desultory effort, trying not to remember that you and your boyfriend had planned to make something fancy together. The restless feeling doesn't leave with the dishes done, and you check, doublecheck and triplecheck everything before you're even halfway to feeling like this part of the apartment might not need anything else.

The living room, attached to the kitchen, has been decorated with reckless abandon. You've got at least an ounce of beauty aesthetic in your bones, and so does Jungkook, but for some reason when put together it equals a pound of ugly. The tinsel – red, gold, silver, and green – is flung about the room over pretty much any surface that will support it, along with red and green lights. The Christmas decorations are a hideous mash up of whatever you and Kookie have scrounged together from your families or garage sales or cheap outlet malls, plus a few modest clay additions of your own making. Several of the larger succulents and other plants are bowed morosely under the weight of ambitious ornaments, and the cactus on the windowsill looks positively garish with a star perched jauntily on its crown.

And you love it all so much.

Remembering the absolutely wild hour or so that you and Jungkook spent together decorating the apartment – such a rare and precious moment, since you moved here – makes your eyes start prickling with unbidden tears. Jungkook's staggering workload hadn't been so bad, while you were working; acting as a long distance design consultant for a large collection of homegrown companies tended to keep you busy, and you hadn't noticed his absence in a way that demanded you address it. Now, though, with Christmas an enforced break, since none of your suppliers or other contacts will reply to emails, your loneliness curls itself up in your chest, all barbs and agitation. You’re beginning to suspect that maybe the long absences have hurt you more than you thought.

One of your projects is on the coffee table, the spread of files and print outs of possible designs covering the worn surface. You've always preferred working with physical copies for the initial stages, moving to a tablet for more detailed work. You fling yourself onto the couch, telling yourself you might as well do something productive and hoping it might provide a distraction. That lasts for about half an hour, but it's a constant fight to keep your thoughts on the papers in front of you. The unhappiness is curdling your concentration, and more and more you're aware of a simmering resentment, sharp and insistent under your sadness.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. There'd been so little conflict about moving when Jungkook got the job offer. You were already working remotely, and while the pay increase at Jungkook's new company wasn't that much, it was the promise of what could come that made it nearly impossible to turn down. Saying goodbye to your family hadn't been an issue; you were already living in a different city than them, settled there after university. It had been harder for your boyfriend, but not impossible, and despite both of you leaving friends behind, you'd left with excitement. Hope. The future opening up before you two, together.

With a sigh, you shove the papers away. Leave the living room and take shelter on your bed. Send and reply to some Christmas messages. Make a face at the snap Jin sends you, a little blurry, his flushed cheeks matching the red reindeer antler headband he's wearing. He's holding the gifts you sent several weeks ago, an adorable pair of windup salt and pepper shakers shaped like teddy bears that can walk across the table, along with a few duck-shaped strainers. The caption makes you snort. I'm bearly making it without you, sis. I'm like a duck out of water. The next snap is clearer, of him and his two roommates, Jimin and Hoseok, all making heart signs. Thanks for the gifts! Hope you have a Merry Christmas!

He's in the same city as your parents, and you know he spent yesterday with them. Looks like he's having a great time with his roommates, too. Before the affection can sour, you save the photo and put your phone down again.

Kitchen, living room, bedroom. A discontented circuit you don't know how to break yourself out of. It feels so dumb to be making yourself even more miserable like this. You should phone one of the few friends who aren't with their families, or maybe your parents – hell, you could even phone Jin, he and his roommates would be sure to talk with you for an hour or two. But the thought of admitting you're alone, Jungkook having chosen work over spending the holiday with you, has your shame rising to scalding levels. The mere prospect of hearing and seeing everyone happy while you’re alone is another hurt, one that makes you curl up more tightly on the bed, clutching his pillow to your chest like it could fill up the hollowness settled in your lungs. Just like all of the sheets, it has his scent, light and flowery and soft, and it inspires an aching, cloying feeling that isn't really close enough to comfort, but you hold it tighter anyways.

The day drags on like that, swamps of self-pity drained by bursts of frantic activity. You clean up a bit more, work on a project, watch some TV. And then the rush of drowning loneliness fills up your lungs again and you're reduced to more aimless pining.

By three, with no texts from Jungkook and the need to start cooking soon looming large on the horizon, you send him a message. Hey. Gonna be home soon?

About half an hour later, you add a ? that still gets no immediate reply, and agitated tension has you wondering if you should call him. But what if you interrupt something? Get him in trouble? Worrying the thoughts ragged in your head, you resolve to give it just a little more time. Hell, for all you know, maybe he’s on his way home now.

At around four, your phone starts vibrating. Not a Facetime request, this time, but the name that pops up is welcome all the same. You answer almost breathlessly. "Hey Kookie!"

"Hey Y/N."

Right away you know this isn't the kind of phone call you were hoping for. Jungkook's voice is gravelly and tired, more like a bruise than a sound. Your shoulders slump, and you can't find it in yourself to say anything.

Your boyfriend tentatively breaks the silence a moment later. "Y/N, I'm sorry. Things are spilling over and I'm not going to be able to leave for awhile longer."

"..."

"Y/N? Are you -"

"How much longer?"

You can practically hear the wince. "I'm not sure yet."

"Jungkook..." But once again, the words catch in your throat, trapped by just how ungrateful and immature you feel.

"Look, Y/N, I was thinking. Maybe, if I come home too late, we can move dinner to tomorrow? I'm definitely going to be home all day, so we can have a nice breakfast and dinner and maybe open our presents and..." There's nothing in the quiet between you two. Certainly not your agreement. "I know I messed up and that this isn't fair to you, Y/N, and I'm sorry. Maybe – couldn't we just... reset? Start Christmas for real tomorrow?"

"Reset?" you repeat. "Like – what, like one of your video games?" The swampy depression is bubbling now, surging with the outrage that's been building all day.

"No, that's not -"

"We can't just reset, Jungkook. This isn't a level you get to just do over!"

"I know that, that isn't what I meant, you're -"

"I've been waiting here all day, Jungkook! By myself! Just waiting here for you! Do you get how bad that makes me feel?"

Jungkook sounds choked when he replies, though it's hard to tell if it's from guilt or anger. "I know I've made you wait, and I'm sorry. But the project -"

"I don't care about the fucking project! You should have told them to fuck off when they asked you to work!" You're full on shouting now, eyes stinging with tears, the sound tearing from your throat. "This has been the worst Christmas I've ever had, and you just want me to forget about it?"

His voice doesn't get louder. If anything, it gets quieter, smaller, coiling in on itself into a tight mass. "Do you think I'm having a good time? I've been working since 8:00 on Christmas day! It's not like I asked to come in, and they barely gave me a choice! I'm the junior here, do you think they would have been okay with me shrugging today off?"

"Today? Today?" Your laugh sounds too cruel, even to your own ears. "It hasn't just been today, Jungkook! This is just – more of the same! More ditching me – ditching us – for work. For some stupid reason I thought that you might consider Christmas an important enough day to knock it off for just one fucking second. But I guess not."

"I'm doing this for us! For – I told you how much work it was going to be! I thought you'd be okay with it!"

"And I thought there might be a tiny little exception made for Christmas. I guess we were both wrong!" you spit furiously.

There's a pause, heavy with the sound of both of your staggered breathing. You're too angry to regret what you've said – or at least, to acknowledge how much you regret it – and the bewildered hurt is travelling straight to your head, leaving you dazed and disconnected. Could Jungkook really have thought you were okay with what's been happening? Okay with being left alone for what feels like months now? How can you be listening to his tense exhales and still not understand the person on the other end of this call?

"I'm sorry, Y/N." Too polite, too gentle by far. Where the hell did he get off sounding like that? You know that's Jungkook – that he's far more likely to shutdown during an argument, to close off – but it leaves you clashing against air. No opposing force to clamp down on your own anger.

Heaving in a sharp exhale, shaking your head even though he can't see it, you say, "Do what you want, Jungkook. I'm not making the dinner if you're not leaving right now."

"Y/N..."

"Merry Christmas." You hang up.

It feels horrible. The phone is a dead weight in your hand, the anger an even heavier weight in your heart. You make a fractured noise, a frustrated scream that quickly trails into a barely checked sob. If you felt bad before talking to Jungkook, it's nothing compared to the mix of self-recriminations and resentment assaulting you now. He was just - why did he have to - why couldn't he -

Why did I have to say that to him?

You know Jungkook. How hard working he is, how dedicated, how keenly he wants to do well in front of and for others. He isn't working late because he doesn't want to see you; you're sure of that. It's just an inability to say no to his superiors. And... and you really haven't told him how unhappy you are with how often he's away.

But still. Couldn't he figure it out? Did you need to spell out your misery for him to get it? Is that really what your relationship amounts to?

Another aggravated exhale parts your lips, and you start pacing faster, needing the release. The next few hours stretch in front of you with wretched promise. What do you do now? Just wait by yourself until he gets home? Have to see his ashamed, hurt, averted eyes, the way he would creep into the apartment with a shield set between you and him? And then what? Go to bed with that block between you two, wake up and somehow try to pretend it doesn't exist tomorrow?

The tears flow down your cheeks despite your hands’ furious attempts to press them away and there's no way to stop them once they've begun. You cry, the way people often cry when they’re lonely, like silence is their only companion and they're afraid of scaring even that friend away. Quietly, then, no longer trying to hold the tears back but unable to give voice to the magnitude of your pain, either. The wet, soft sobbing quickly sends you back to bed, where you curl up once again, struggling for some kind of self-control.

God, you just miss him so much. Not today, not now, not – it's a void of the little things. The snicker when you berate him for being messy. His warm, gentle hands on your neck after a day hunched over a project, massaging out the pain. A little giggle as you watch a Ghibli film together. The shoving matches when you're out shopping and competing for who can get the most stuff on the list. The quick kisses and the slow kisses and the deep, hungry kisses that always lead to you waking up in his arms the next day, far later into the morning than usual.

You miss him so much, and you just pushed him away even more.

With a muffled sob you push your face further into the pillow, hating how pitiful this is, how much you're struggling to get your emotions under control. This is so – it's ridiculous, that's what it is. Childish. It's not as if you've lost Jungkook forever, and you haven't lost all of the things you love about him, either. It's not like you never goof off anymore, or cuddle, or talk. It's just – it's just that everything has been so much more frantic, hurried, and stressful since the move. It seems like there's never a moment where you can just sit together and love each other and think of nothing else.

The anger, remorse and dejection feed off each other, first growing and prolonging the wrenching feeling choking your throat, and you cry until time doesn’t mean much anymore. The grief is so horribly thick it’s like you can’t even breathe through it, let alone do anything but lie in bed. It goes on and on and – and then exhaustion overtakes your convulsive crying. Eventually, without ever actually being filled, the hollow ache contracts into a hard pit, the tears all forced out. Nothing else, though. The guilt and resentment and sadness are still there, dulled to a grey, insubstantial mass.

But at least you can think a bit. Listlessly, with all the colours drained out of it, but you can do more than sob. Wiping at your clogged nose and tear-streaked face, you find you can actually breathe, something of an improvement. You sit up, gently set the pillow back on Jungkook's side of the bed, giving the soft material one last swipe, trying to rid it of the wet evidence of your meltdown. No luck there, but it'll probably be dry before your boyfriend gets home.

If he gets home.

The bitterness of that thought is too tired to summon more tears from the hole in your heart or your head. You shake it away, more because you're just too drained to cling to the heavy emotion than because of some angelic impulse to forgive.

You know you have to do something. Anything. Literally anything will be better than just sitting here, waiting for Jungkook to come in, getting pricklier with each passing minute. With the Christmas dinner off the table, you suppose you could just pick up something to eat. Fast-food or something... have it ready for him to heat up when he was done work... like you're some trophy girlfriend.

Once again you need to stop yourself, biting back the wave of resentment. God, this isn't doing you any good, and it's so, so unfair to Jungkook. Yeah, maybe he shouldn't have agreed to work on Christmas. Maybe he should have been more sensitive to how far you've been drifting apart because of his long work hours. But at the same time, yelling at him over the phone wasn't the answer, either. He's probably having as bad of a time as you are, and with no private room to cry in, either. He'll be totally repressing the argument now, shoving it into a locker and subconsciously telling himself he's to blame, that he's a horrible boyfriend. Trying to listen to his coworkers and do his work with those harsh criticisms running low and dark through his head. That's how Jungkook is. He takes everything onto himself, especially if you give it to him.

Running your hands through your hair at the thought, pity clenching your chest, you abruptly get up. You and Jungkook definitely need to talk, and soon. But – but there's no reason to close out this shitty day with an even more horrible evening of strained silence and brittle rebuttals. Neither of you are particularly good at apologizing, even though you're both great at feeling guilty. You just don't have the words for it. So, unless you do something – make some gesture – this is just going to stretch into an awful, prolonged fight that isn't a fight at all, both of you retreating from each other.

It's unbearable. You can't stand it. So… you're going to do something about it.

Resolved, as resolved as you can be, you change out of your PJs. The weather's been quite warm, with no snow to speak of, so it's not like you need to bundle up much. After a moment of hesitation, you choose to snag the ugly Christmas sweater. It's got a comically drawn pink bunny on the front, absurdly muscular, with a red Santa hat settled firmly between its ears, and a myriad of red and green patterns crammed into the background. It was the rabbit's expression and the accompanying phrase that had got Jungkook to laughing until he was doubled over when he'd seen it at the mall last year. A challenging, almost intimidating grin is plastered on the rabbit's face, with the words This Bun Don't Want None in cheerfully bedazzled white underneath. Your boyfriend had quite literally begged to get two and wear them to the upcoming Christmas party, and he'd been too imploring for you to say no.

Slipping it on, with the accompanying memory of his hysterical amusement, crinkled nose, and bunny grin every time he caught a glimpse of you at the party, is the closest you've felt to peace in the last few hours.

You throw on some dark jeans and apply your makeup with a thoroughness that's a little much, given that you're not going anywhere for long. You don't care; it feels good to dim the red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks your breakdown has gifted you, to cover it over with something prettier. Finishing with the last of the mascara, you grab your transit pass and head out, closing the door behind you with a finality that could almost be a goodbye.

The air outside is cool, a relief compared to the stuffy apartment, at least for now. You inhale deeply, the mild cold burning your sinuses and clearing your clogged head a bit. In a while, you might regret not having a warmer layer on, but for now it’s a relief to begin to walk, to stretch both your legs and your mind from the cramped defensiveness the apartment had been inspiring. This is – this is a good idea. You’re positive about it now, and can feel your shoulders loosening, steps becoming brisker.

If Jungkook can’t come to you – well, you’ll just go to him. At least for now.

Your building isn't too far from Jungkook's work; you only have a short train ride and a shorter bus ahead of you, according to your phone. You’ve been to his work three times before, but always in your shared car, and you walk with eyes fixed on your screen, calculating the time schedules. Part of you wants to text him, send a little olive branch to smooth the way and let him know you’re coming, but a larger part longs for something romantic and cute to happen today. Fast-food might not quite cut it, but surely a surprise visit might? You won’t stay long, won’t interrupt his work, but just to see his face, confused and then quietly grateful and loudly gleeful when he realizes why you’ve come –

It seems like that shouldn’t be too much to ask.

The trip flies by; you're too anxious in your own head to notice much outside of it, and besides, there aren't many people out and about today. Probably busy celebrating with their families.

You bite your lip at the thought, and violently yank your attention away.

At this rate, you should sign up for a game of Olympic tag. Surely nothing can run as agilely as you've been doing, avoiding every uncomfortable idea.

Jungkook's work is downtown, and there are tons of fast-food options nearby. You pick a smaller chain, KTown Fried Chicken, that both you and Jungkook enjoy. It's hard to convince yourself the cashier isn't judging you at least a little bit for your weird presence on Christmas night. Or maybe she's just eyeing the sweater. That’s another possibility.

With only one other person in line, the food comes quickly, and then you're on your way. Somewhere between stepping off the bus and smiling awkwardly at the girl behind the counter, it occurred to you that you didn't know when Jungkook was actually leaving work. He obviously didn't pack up right away after your argument – he would have made it home before you left – but that doesn't mean he isn't going to be heading home some time soon.

What if you show up and he's not there? What if he shows up and you're not there? What would he think? It is entirely too much to ask your wrung out brain to decide if it would be hilarious, infuriating, or some kind of karmic justice, but you do know that you'd rather just catch him at work with this peace offering. Much simpler that way, so you hurry your steps, snugging your sweater a little tighter around your frame as you do so.

You make it to the imposing office building of Projeck at around six, which is, as it happens, when two of Jungkook’s coworkers are leaving the building. Jungkook talks about them quite a bit – actually, gushes might be a better word – and you’d met them at the office Christmas party a couple of weeks ago. Namjoon, a tall, elegant man with blonde hair currently dressed in a black turtleneck, is one of the lead game designers, and he holds the door open for Yoongi, an audio engineer. The older of the two, in an oversized, comfy hoodie markedly at odds with his companion’s attire, slouches through with a tired smile of thanks.

Both had made a good impression on you at the party (it helped that they were obviously fond of Jungkook and appreciative of his talents) and you’re a little relieved to see them. Solved the awkwardness of trying to get into the building without letting Jungkook know you were here. Both pause at the sight of you, confusion creasing their features, before a grin flashes across Namjoon’s face.

“Hey, Y/N! Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” offers Yoongi as well, shoving his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he’s wearing. His eyes are on your chest, a little furrow across his brow, and it takes you a second to realize it’s the bunny again. After a moment his lips quirk, quiet amusement in the expression, and it makes it easier for you to reply brightly.

“Hey Namjoon, Yoongi. Merry Christmas! Are you heading home?” The prospect makes you a little excited. If they’re leaving, surely Jungkook won’t be far behind?

“Yup,” Namjoon agrees easily. His head tilts a little, scouring over you quizzically, before his gaze finds the bag in your hand. “Are you bringing something for Kookie?”

“Yeah… He, uh, was working so late I thought it might be nice to surprise him with some food.” You say it more like a confession, shoulders tight with the knowledge that this is making you sound way better than you actually are.

Namjoon whistles, eyes widening. “Wow, that’s really nice of you.”

“I mean, I haven’t done much today so –”

“He’s not here.” Yoongi states it so bluntly that it takes you a second to process what he said.

“…not here?” you ask, dismayed.

“Nah.” As your stunned eyes fall on him, giving him your full attention, he shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. He left like… twenty minutes ago?”

“He did?” Namjoon demands, and Yoongi just shrugs again.

Clutching at the paper bag that suddenly feels pathetic and cheap, a stupid idea, you say weakly, “Oh.” You don’t know what else to say, and both of the men’s expressions are soft with a sympathy that doesn’t make you feel any less stupid. “I guess… I’ll go home, then.”

Shifting again, a movement that has him brushing briefly against Namjoon, Yoongi trails a hand up to his ear. “Uh, I don’t think he was going home? Or at least, not right away?”

"What do you mean?" Maybe he'd mentioned he was stopping to pick up dinner, too? Maybe the fast-food you're lugging around is even more useless than you'd thought? Why hadn't you texted him? Why hadn't you -

"He was asking me about the fastest way to get to, uh, the Golden Closet Gallery. I think he was dropping by there first."

"Did - did he say why?"

"Meeting someone? Maybe? I dunno, he's been quiet almost all day, and he rushed away pretty quick."

You stare at him, tired and confused and more than a little guilty at the mention of Jungkook’s withdrawn state. What are you supposed to make of all this? You know about the Golden Closet Gallery – of course you do. You and he went a couple times, early on after your move here, both of you taking a lot of enjoyment from the art displays. But – it couldn't be open now, could it? And even if it were, why would he be going? Who could he possibly be meeting? Was he trying to take a late tour to calm down? Something else entirely? And – it didn't even matter. It wasn't as though you could reach him in a timely manner.

You were just going to have to go back home, and – you weren’t sure. Certainly not eat. The thought of trying to swallow any food right now, with your stomach tearing itself into pieces of shivering disappointment, is too much. Maybe Jungkook would already be at the apartment by the time you got there. Maybe you two could just – sit together. Just be together.

You’re not sure what’s sadder; how much happiness that simple picture gives you, or how sad you are that it makes you happy.

Trying to straighten your crumpled expression, you smile. "Well – thank you for letting me know. Guess I get all of this for myself." Your laugh as you heft the fast-food bag is a small and lost thing. "Sorry to keep you guys. I hope you have a good night!"

You've just begun to turn away, aching to end the conversation before you start bawling in front of these two men, when Namjoon clears his throat, his gaze shifting to Yoongi for a moment. The other man jerks a shoulder, bobs his head, and Namjoon looks back at you. You shuffle a little, desperate to be away but not wanting to be rude to two of the few people at this company who actually seem to be lessening Jungkook's stress.

"Did you take the bus to get here? We could give you a ride if you wanted."

Your throat tightens, and you're already shaking your head before you've even thoroughly processed the offer. "No, thanks, I don't want to take you out of your way."

"Well, if you wanted to drop by the Gallery and see if Kookie is there, it wouldn't be out of our way at all. We live pretty close by." Yoongi nods in agreement, his round face scrunching reassuringly with something that's not – quite – a smile.

When you waver, Namjoon says with studied nonchalance, "Even if he's not there, Yoongi and I don't have any plans for tonight. We don't mind dropping you off."

Still, the thought of inconveniencing them because of your stupid planning – not to mention that you don't know them that well – makes awkward turmoil roil in your stomach. Reading your reluctant expression and apparently hesitant to press you, Namjoon relents. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“Y/N. Come on. We’ll save you a lot of time, and I’m sure Jungkookie would be mad if we didn’t give you the ride. He already throws stuff at me when he thinks I’m not looking; I don’t want him to start chucking shit that actually hurts.” Yoongi’s eyebrow is lifted, an inviting gesture accompanied by a smile with just a hint of gums, and you can’t help but respond, a rueful chuckle that slips out at the picture his comment puts in your head.

Jungkook had mentioned there were a few people he liked to mess around with at work, but somehow it hadn’t crossed your mind that the quiet and slightly intimidating man would be one of his targets.

It decides you.

With a sharp dip of your head, you assent. "Okay, okay. Yeah, sure, and thank you guys. It means a lot to me, and, umm, if you need gas money or something..."

Namjoon throws back his head and utters a loud, barking laugh while Yoongi chuckles. "The company doesn't pay us enough, sure, but I think we can afford to cover this trip, Y/N. Besides, Jungkook's been working overtime so often, I feel like we practically owe you for stealing him so much."

That leaves a sour taste in your mouth that you're quick to swallow. Grinning weakly, you follow the two to their car, a compact grey Honda that's seen better days. Namjoon tries to insist you take shotgun next to Yoongi, but you're far too flustered at the thought of taking his spot and practically dive into the backseat. The first few minutes are a little strained, the fast-food bag on your lap rustling every time you move. Namjoon shuffles through a bunch of Christmas songs on his phone and Yoongi hums to them under his breath, seemingly unperturbed every time his companion switches mid-note.

Eventually, though, Namjoon finds a song he likes enough to leave on, and you find yourself drawn into a relaxed talk with them. Yoongi throws in a comment here and there, and together the two of them are so – easy. They add teasing remarks about each other without pausing for breath, Yoongi praises an arching plotline Namjoon had finished storyboarding today, and when a particularly loud Christmas jangle comes on, Namjoon's already changing it before Yoongi has time to huff in displeasure. You know they're roommates – more than that Jungkook hasn't said – and there's something uplifting about listening to their comfortable conversation.

They don't leave you out of it, either. You talk about your home city. You talk about how you met Jungkook in university, when you both arrived late to a morning Intro to Computer Animation course and were locked out of the classroom as a result. (You'd whispered furiously at each other about who should knock first until another hectic student had come charging up, bleary with sleep, and literally ran into the door when it failed to open. That had pretty much dissolved the tension between you two.) On a wave of laughter from that story, you tentatively ask how the job has been for Jungkook so far.

He's always so keen to hide his stress, so anxious not to talk about it and burden you. It seems like these two coworkers might be a good way to get a better picture, rather than the stitched together portrait you've gotten from the late nights and short, hesitant answers he gives you. At the thought, you pull out your phone to see if he’s sent you anything, but you have no texts.

The laughter dwindles, and you hear Yoongi rattling the spit in his mouth loudly enough to be heard over the music as he makes a lane change. In the other seat, Namjoon runs a hand through his blonde hair. Their silence immediately winds you up, and your hand, holding the phone, falls to the side. Had Jungkook not been telling you something? Was it worse than the late hours? Was –

"This isn't a great company," Yoongi states flatly, when it becomes obvious Namjoon is still groping for something more tactful to say. "They make you feel like you owe them your finger bones just because they pay a bit above average, and if those aren't showing from hitting the keyboards enough, you're some kind of failure."

"Yeah..." Namjoon sighs. "They tried that with me, but Yoongi's been there for several years, he's the best they've got in the audio department, and he made it clear that if I left, he would too. So they pulled back a little. Jungkook, though..."

"He doesn't say no. I've told him to – told him I'll throw in for him – but he's really afraid he's gonna get tossed. Can't blame him. People get fired too easily at Projeck." His voice is disinterested, but Yoongi makes another lane change, too abruptly this time, and that, plus his tight grip on the steering wheel, is a hint that he’s not quite as untouched as he sounds.

You press your back into the seat, trying to give yourself a semblance of a spine as your whole body threatens to fold. You'd had an inkling that Jungkook was maybe conceding too easily to upper management, but it sounds like he's having way more than a little pressure to work late put on him. This – actually this sounds toxic. Crippling. And Jungkook hadn't said anything about it.

And you barely asked.

Gnawing on your cheek, you lapse into silence, struggling for something to say.

Namjoon looks back, brows pulling together at whatever he sees on your face. "He's trying to get ahead of his workload, Y/N," he says gently. "I know after today he doesn't plan on going in until after New Years. He said he really wants to spend time with you."

"He was literally moping all over the office today," Yoongi adds. "Was surprised he didn't break his computer screen, he was sighing on it so much."

They're trying to make you feel better, reassure you that Jungkook had missed you and hated being separated on today of all days. They are accomplishing the exact opposite of what they intend, but that's not their fault. After all, they don't know what you'd said to Jungkook over the phone. Part of you wonders if they'd even have been willing to give you a ride if they did know. You're pretty sure you wouldn't have been if you were them.

You might also have tried to run yourself over on the way out of the parking lot, if you were them.

Before you can pull anything resembling words from the mire of rabid guilt curdling in your throat, the car pulls into the Gallery's small parking lot. It's almost surprising to find that there are two other vehicles already parked, and with the way the night is going, it's even more surprising that you recognize one of them as Jungkook's.

"He's here!" you cry out, relief and something heavier saturating your voice.

With a pleased exclamation, Namjoon gestures excitedly, smashing his hand into the roof of the car with a loud thud in the process.

"If you fucking dent my car..." Yoongi begins, but their mild bickering slips by you.

Your eyes are straining for some sign of Jungkook. The parking lot is empty of people, and the big sign above the building isn't lit up. However, it looks like there are some lights on in the Gallery, spilling out into the dimly lit lot, and as you fix your anxious gaze on the interior through the wide glass windows, you think you see the dim form of at least one person moving inside.

He’s here. You’re literally lightheaded with the joy of that certainty. This day has stretched out with excruciating discord, but now, everything is drawing tighter, shorter, focusing into a promise of reprieve. Finally, finally, something’s going right. The blissful expectation of getting to see Jungkook is almost enough for you to forget about everything else. For this moment, you think you’d forego everything Christmas – the gifts, the dinner, the decorations, everything – just to press your face against his chest and feel him holding you.

Hand on the door handle, you keep yourself from leaping out and dashing to the building only with difficulty. “Thank you so much for driving me. I almost can’t believe we caught him.”

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” Namjoon replies. “Escaping from Projeck before eight was our miracle – looks like this gets to be yours.”

The three of you chuckle at that, and then you’re opening the door. “I’ll let Jungkook know you helped me. Maybe he’ll stop throwing things.”

“And maybe Santa exists,” Yoongi grumbles, but there’s no annoyance in his rasping voice. “’Sides, that’s not what I want from him. Tell him to think about what we’ve said, ‘kay?”

Assuming he means saying no to the boss more, you nod, emotional with how lucky both you and Jungkook are to have run into such kind people. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t really cover the gratitude their thoughtfulness has inspired in you, and on top of everything else you’ve been through today, it’s almost enough to set you to crying again.

Namjoon seems to sense you’re at a loss for words; at any rate, he fills in the space. “If things change for the better in the new year, we’ll see more of you, Y/N. In the meantime, take care! I hope you and Jungkook have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!”

Your voice comes out husky with gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you. I – Hope you both have a Merry Christmas, too! And a Happy New Year!”

Then you’re out of the car, shutting the door carefully behind you, your jaw tight to keep back the ridiculous tears. Yoongi and Namjoon wave, you wave back, and then Yoongi pulls away, leaving you standing and waving in the parking lot until the car turns and is gone. You take a couple of deep breaths, a smile easing the urge to cry. The excitement hasn’t dimmed at all, and, clutching the fast-food bag tightly, you pivot towards the Gallery, little shivers of anticipation darting under your skin.    

You practically run to the doors, and nearly commit the same mistake that student had, years ago, when they don’t open at your touch. The thought of smacking into them and announcing your presence to Jungkook that way has a low laugh bubbling in your throat. Yanking yourself to a halt, you try pulling and pushing on the doors, to no avail; they’re locked. You give them one last jerk, just to be sure, but they remain stubbornly shut. It’s not enough of a deterrent to dampen your spirits, though you find yourself bouncing impatiently on the soles of your feet, unable to get rid of the fizzy energy coursing through your veins.

You’re okay to wait outside until Jungkook comes out – it’s still not that cold out, and how much longer could he really be? – but nonetheless you start heading to the right, circling around the building, peering into the windows on the off-chance you can catch sight of your boyfriend and get his attention. The lights are off in some of the areas, but a few are flooded in a soft glow, and you skim your eyes over all that you can see. The more you look, the more confused you are about why Jungkook would be here. There are no other customers that you can see, so clearly, it’s not some sort of special Christmas showing. You literally can’t think of another reason he might be here. And hadn’t Yoongi said he was meeting someone?

It’s a mystery you can’t solve yourself, and you keep up your roaming examination. Most of the building has glass walls, except for an area near the back, and you can see inside fairly easily, where the lights are on. The Gallery is pretty typical, all open spaces and white, dismantlable walls, the better to more starkly exhibit the art pieces scattered across the wooden floors. There are paintings and sculptures, a few more abstract works, little plaques beside most of them –

But no Jungkook.

Lips pursued, you make your way further around, until you’re on the other side of the building, ears keen for any sound of a door opening. Wouldn’t that just be typical? While you’re wandering around out here, he comes out and leaves…

You should text him. A surprise visit is one thing, but at this point you being outside is going to be surprise enough. With that thought in mind, you begin fumbling in your pockets, awkwardly cradling the fast-food in one hand as you search for your phone. Not in your back jean pockets. A horrified panic starts building, and by the time you’ve clawed all the lint out of your sweater’s pockets, you’re certain. You don’t have it.

A memory, stilted and strained, of your hand falling to your side when you’d been talking about Jungkook’s stress in Yoongi’s car. In your anguish, it suddenly becomes clear to you; you’d dropped it. Forgotten to pick it up again. It was in the car!

For a second, you think that’s going to be the breaking point. The straw on the camel’s back. Your frustration peaks, eyes stinging, hands balled into fists as your excitement is drowned in self-reproach and an overwhelming sense of despair. Why were you so stupid? Fighting with Jungkook, sulking around the apartment, this dumb idea to get fast-food that’s definitely cold by now, and now – now this. You start walking again, barely looking, just planning to get to the front of the building and maybe collapse on the pavement. The crushing unhappiness doesn’t let up. Were you cursed? Was the world out to get you? Had you kicked a puppy in a past life? Why did you end up –

Your raging internal soliloquy is interrupted by movement within the Gallery. Someone is moving inside. Someone tall and muscular, with his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, long, shaggy black hair tucked behind his ears as he lounges against one of the white walls. He’s partially turned; you can only see half of his face, and even that not perfectly because of the narrow angle, but the sharp definition of his jaw is obvious, even from here. There’s something rectangular leaning against the wall next to him, wrapped in brown packaging paper, but you barely notice it. He’s talking to someone equally as tall, their back turned to you, but you barely register them.

Jungkook. It’s Jungkook!

It is not an exaggeration to say that for a second you doubt your eyes. Everything has just been so, so shitty today that you’d almost believe he’s a hologram or a figment of your imagination before buying that your flesh and blood boyfriend is standing some twenty feet away and that all it will take to end this horrible experience will be to catch his attention.

The person he’s talking to must say something funny, because his nose crinkles, lips rising as he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s just a giggle, quickly stifled, but it’s also a needle; the second you see that laugh, your bubble of disbelief pops with a force that’s almost audible. You can’t hear him, but at the same time, you can, fully aware of the way his snicker of amusement started out low and then pitched higher in tandem with his head being thrown back. The sound that isn’t a sound but a memory and a gift and a promise altogether gives rise to something hot and aching in your chest.

“Jungkook,” you say, barely aware of the name slipping between your tingling lips. There’s a rushing sensation in your ears, through your veins, like your blood has just remembered that it’s alive and is eager to prove it. The misery of moments and minutes and hours ago doesn’t disappear, but the sight of your boyfriend is enough to lift you out of it, to buoy you above the churning waves and set you, heart alight, in the clouds.    

“Jungkook!” you call, a shout this time, and start waving. He doesn’t hear or notice you, attention fixed on the man he’s with. You still don’t recognize whoever it is, but then again, with his back to you all you can see is the vibrantly patterned orange shirt stretching over his shoulders and a fluffy bit of brown hair. However, whatever he’s saying has sobered Jungkook; from what you can see of his face, his lips have tightened, and he shakes his head now and again.  

Who the hell is that, anyways? More vigorous gestures still don’t pull Jungkook’s gaze away from the other person. You know that any second now he’s going to look over and see you, break into a silly, bemused grin, rush over to the window, if only you could just– You’re about to tap on the glass when whoever it is abruptly steps closer to Jungkook. From what you can see, the guy’s large hands are moving passionately, persuasively, and a moment later he grabs Jungkook’s wrist, other hand rising up towards his face. You can’t quite tell what’s happening, except that Jungkook doesn’t shake him off or push him away. Doesn’t push him away, even when he leans closer, their faces inches apart, and the way they’re standing, you still don’t know who it is.  

Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind that his personal space is being invaded. There’s an attempt at a scowl on his lips, but you can tell it’s fake, a laugh on the verge of breaking through. You realize your hand is still raised to knock on the window, and let it fall. Brows pulling together, you try to make sense of what you’re seeing. The other man leans in even more, and when their lips are about to touch you wrench your eyes away.

For a long moment you stare at the pavement at your feet, mouth moving silently, like you’re searching for a word that fits what you just saw happen. It couldn’t be what you thought. Any second now, a reasonable explanation is going to come to mind. You’re going to find some frame of reference that makes this understandable. There’s going to be something that changes your point of view, makes reality into fiction. Because this can’t be true. This can’t be happening.

Jungkook could not have just kissed someone else in an empty art gallery while he thought you were waiting for him at home.  

Except that’s exactly what happened. You feel yourself change. You’re not a person anymore, not a human; you’re a wound, red and open and weeping. With a strangled sob, you suddenly find your feet moving to match your reeling thoughts, and you stagger away from the warmly lit building. The disbelief is like novocaine, numbing the screaming pain of the betrayal, but it’s not strong enough to force your gaze back through the window. Back to your boyfriend and whoever he’s with. Who knows what they’re doing now?  

Stopping yourself from crumpling to your knees and curling into a ball takes almost all of your strength, and you can’t keep yourself from doubling over slightly, one hand across your middle as you stumble blindly down the sidewalk and away from the Gallery. You press on your eyes to keep back the tears, cover your mouth to stifle the high, anguished gasps you’re making, but it does little to fool anyone, least of all yourself. Each sob rips from somewhere deep inside you, opens up the injury even further, until it feels like you might very well be tearing your chest apart.

He couldn’t have. He just– he couldn’t have. You can’t reconcile what you saw with what you know, but how can they be two different things? How can your boyfriend – loving, loyal, protective – exist in the same place as that man who hadn’t mentioned he was meeting anyone, who snuck around on Christmas day to see someone else? How can Jungkook be a cheater? How? How?

How could I not have known?

Bewildered, you scrabble through your memories like they’re a pack of spilled cards, struggling to piece them together, to pick them up and put them in order after they’ve fluttered to the ground in a chaos of white and black and red. At first you can’t find a hint. Can’t find a reason. There’s warmth and laughter and closeness in your memories together, with only spots of friction and hurt. What could the memory of you throwing tinsel around Jungkook’s neck and him parading around the living room teach you about this moment? What could the recollection of Jungkook’s arms wrapped around your shaking form when you’d received news of your grandmother’s passing tell you that you should have already known? What could the shadow of his quiet admiration as you showed him your most recent design reveal to your befuddled mind?

Was the staying late the only clue? The only ace card that trumped every other moment together? Or had there been others? Did you confuse his withdrawal from you as stress when it was really guilt? Had the silence been resentment? Boredom? Was he really going to the gym? Or into someone else’s arms? Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong?

Is this your fault?

You don’t know what to do, and as your steps slow, tears still going strong, you realize you barely know where you are. It’s fully dark now, and people are passing infrequently, with the streetlights only vaguely reassuring as they spill over faces. You haven’t taken any side streets, just followed this main road passed gas stations and boutiques, offices and fast-food joints, so you’re not lost, exactly. But you don’t have your phone. How are you supposed to get home?

Home. Suddenly the ache is more real. Present. Demanding. How are you supposed to go home when you thought home was Jungkook?

What do you say to him? What can you say? The thought of facing him has you trembling with something approaching nausea. Or maybe it’s the cold. It’s late enough now that the temperature is dropping, your heaving breath misting from your mouth, and you hadn’t planned to be out so late. The sweater is doing nothing to keep you warm. The sweater…

“Oh, God…” you mumble, your fingers digging into the tacky material, creasing the bunny that had made Jungkook so happy. “What do I do?”

What do I do?

---

With a grunt, Jungkook shoves Taehyung away using a hand against his stomach, the other man’s breath spilling across his face as he huffs in surprise. The push is strong enough to send Taehyung staggering back several paces, and he nearly trips and falls. Even as he catches himself, Jungkook is regretting the violence of the motion. It’s just – he’s feeling so vulnerable right now, so strained, and his friend acting like a clown doesn’t help matters.

Rubbing at his stomach, the other man complains reproachfully, “I was just trying to show you what to do!”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing at his face. “I don’t remember saying I needed help with how to make out,” he points out.

Taehyung throws up his hands. “You’ve missed the point!” he exclaims in disgust. “Didn’t you see the concern in my eyes? The tenderness? Dude, I was stroking your face. That’s how it’s done!”  

He snorts but the irritation is already fading, replaced by the amusement he’d had when Tae first started his shenanigans. Jungkook shakes his head, clearing his hair from his eyes, and relents a little. “Do you really think I should do it like that?” A beat. “Well, I mean, not like that. Better.”

With a grand gesture at their surroundings, Taehyung ignores the insult (or misses it, it’s hard to tell with Tae sometimes) and tells him, “You’re already doing better. You’ve got her a painting from an artist she loves.” He stops, points to himself. “Courtesy of your friendly neighbourhood art dealer, who sacrificed his Christmas night and drove all this way to make sure you got it. Plus, there’s the big news – she’s going to lose her mind when you tell her. Anyways, yeah, Koo, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna forgive you, even if you don’t use my sweet moves.”

“But I still don’t know what to say.” Jungkook hates how whiny his voice sounds, how uncertain. At the same time, it feels… good, to admit how he hasn’t got a clue how to make up with you. Or– That isn’t quite right. He does know, somewhere in his gut, in the palms of his hands, in the way his lips ache to skim along your skin. It’s just turning that feeling into words that’s struck him dumb.

“Dude, say what’s in your heart.” There is no one in the world but Taehyung who could say that earnestly and not sound like a weirdo, yet there the other man is, mouth set solemnly, somehow almost making sense. “You love her, you’re sorry for what’s happened, you want to hear her opinion, you’re working to make it better… Koo, you’ve told me all of that in the last half an hour. Now you just need to say it to her.”

“But what if…” He can’t even put it into words, the fear and uncertainty and guilt. Is he asking too much of you? Does he even deserve to ask anything? And what if… what if…

Reading him like a book, Taehyung smiles, simple and brilliant. “She’s going to forgive you. You’ve already forgiven her, so what else is there? Just the getting it done.” Still Jungkook hesitates, and his childhood friend says, a little more gently, “You’re a good person, Koo. I know that, and she does too. Talk to her. You won’t regret it.”

He hangs his head, slowly running his fingers against each other, exploring their lines like they might lead him to the courage he’s searching for. The call with you this afternoon had – shaken him. Although Jungkook had been aware – painfully so – that the two of you weren’t spending enough time together, he hadn’t realized how much it was harming you, and your anger had been both shocking and hurtful. Work had just sucked, so much, and to have you yelling at him…

But after the initial defensive reaction, he couldn’t get the thought of you sitting alone out of his head. It was never his intention to leave you for the whole day, but when he broached the subject of leaving with the boss, the look he got on his face, the way he said, “Well, of course, since I assume you’re done everything you were assigned,” had just been…

You still shouldn’t have left her. Jungkook knows that, knows equally that he didn’t have all that much of a choice if he didn’t want to get fired. It was the balancing act between those understandings that had his shoulders hunched, his cheek fair game to be chewed on. He was working on changing the situation – Namjoon and Yoongi were helping – but what if you thought it wasn’t fast enough? What if you decided you had enough? How can he bear to face you with that possibility on the horizon?

Taehyung gives him space, just hums under his breath and wanders a little, examining the various pieces on display. The Golden Closet Gallery isn’t one of his usual haunts – he tends to deal with artists further up north – but he’d come at Jungkook’s hesitant request, with an alacrity that still has Jungkook wondering what he’d done to deserve such a friend.  

He’d had his eye on your favourite local artist’s website, and when the painting went on sale, he’d known he had to get it. However, Projeck employees didn’t get paid until the 20th, and by the time he had enough money to comfortably purchase it, the artist wasn’t available on short notice and wouldn’t have been around to give it to him until after New Year’s Eve. Taehyung is well known in the community, though, and the painter had had no qualms letting him deal with establishing the price and then handing the piece over. It was practically a miracle, even if Tae had only been able to slip away from his family on Christmas afternoon.

Eventually, with Taehyung’s deep baritone hum a soothing presence, Jungkook tamps his fear down. Gets it to a manageable level. At the end of the day – Taehyung is right. He loves you, more than anything, more than he thought he could love anyone. That’s enough. It has to be enough.

He looks up, clears his throat. “Thanks, TaeTae,” Jungkook says quietly. “I really couldn’t have done this without you.”

His friend beams. “Nah, you couldn’t have. But what else are friends for, right?”

“I’ll get you an early release copy of Urban Anonymous. I think you’ll like it,” he promises. “But in the meantime… I think I’ve got someone to, uh, speak my heart to.” For half a second Jungkook thinks he’s about to die from the sheer cringe of saying that, a blush flooding across his cheeks, but at the same time – it feels kinda good to say. Goofily so, and very embarrassing, but still.

If anything, Taehyung’s beam intensifies. “Then my job here is done! I should hit the road anyways, I wanna get back home. I promised my parents I’d make them something nice for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Sure you don’t wanna stay over?” Glancing out the window, taking in how dark it is, Jungkook feels bad to be sending Taehyung out on the road at this time.

The other man snickers. “And get in the way of a beautiful thing? Nah. Besides, you know I like driving at night, and it’s only a little over three hours. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so…” Jungkook snags the painting off of the floor, and together they walk through the Gallery, to the doors Taehyung had locked behind them when they entered. He unlocks them now, and they leave the aesthetically pleasing space, spilling out into the chilly night air. As Taehyung locks up, Jungkook glances around, breathing in deeply. Now that he’s resolved himself, he actually feels – a little better. Steadier, as though his world isn’t about to jerk out from underneath his feet.

Their cars are parked together, and once there Taehyung flings himself at Jungkook – scrupulously avoiding hitting into the painting, of course – and they hug, Jungkook staggering under the weight of his friend. The fond affection is a fluffy, sleepy thing, and, with one hand wrapped around Taehyung’s shoulders, Jungkook repeats, “Thank you, TaeTae.” It’s not eloquent, but with Taehyung, it’s enough.

They break apart, and Taehyung is grinning, a wide, boxy affair that has the nostalgia and warmth growing. “I’ve missed you, Koo. I’m glad we got to meet up. Tell Y/N that I miss her too, okay? And that I wish her a Merry Christmas.”

“We’ll have to get together again soon; Y/N will be disappointed she missed you. Although I know she loved your blue hair, so she’ll probably be sad you changed it.” It had even surprised Jungkook a bit when Tae had first ducked out of his car. The blue had just been so… riveting, and compared to that, the darker tone really changes how he looks. Not to mention that Tae went with a curlier style this time around.

Taehyung runs a hand through his fluffy brown locks before shrugging. “I got bored. Besides, I haven’t had brown in, what? Five years? It was a nice change.”

“It’s a good look. Almost as good as mine,” Jungkook teases, and Taehyung laughs in his deep, rolling way. “Okay. Merry Christmas, TaeTae. And have a Happy New Year! Don’t drive into a ditch, but if you do, call me.”

“I’ll get you to drag the car out by yourself,” Taehyung agrees amiably. “You look like you could manage it these days, and it’d save me the cost of the tow-truck.”

He gives Jungkook’s upper arm a cheerful poke, whistles in exaggerated admiration and then dodges Jungkook’s swipe at him. “See you soon, Koo! I’ll send you a text when I get home. Hopefully you’ll be too busy to read it until tomorrow.” And with a wicked little giggle, he gets into his car.

“Bye, Tae! See you! Thank you!” Jungkook waves until the other man has pulled away, blasting an R&B version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and then he gets into his own car. Being with Tae is like inhaling a warmer version of helium, all uplift and expansion. It suddenly occurs to Jungkook, with a little jolt, that he’s excited to get home.

No matter how scared he is, scared of the future and scared of the conversation ahead, picturing you, thinking of walking into the apartment and seeing your face, is enough to drive a sharp spike of joy through his trepidation. You are the best thing in his life, and even with this fight, even with the hurt still nestled against his ribs, he wouldn’t have drawn it any other way.

It’s as he’s starting the car that he realizes he got a text from Namjoon and didn’t notice. Hey Jungkookie. Can you let Y/N know we have her phone? She left it in the car.

He stares at the words, waiting for the moment when they’ll make sense. When sense is not forthcoming despite scrambling his brains for what it could mean, Jungkook types out a reply, his fingers sweaty with sudden anxiety.  

what car? you saw Y/N today?

…Yeah? We dropped her off at the Gallery. Did she not mention it?

at the gallery?? when?

His heart is in his throat, the unease ricocheting to unprecedented levels, and Jungkook shoves open the car door, begins looking desperately around like you two could have possibly missed each other in the empty lot. When his phone vibrates thirty seconds later, he almost drops it in his haste to unlock it.

Thirty minutes ago. Around there. Is she not there? Is everything okay?

Jungkook rips his eyes from the screen to the empty parking lot and back to the screen, a bewildered trek that gives him no hints, and he doesn’t know the answer.

---

When you finally get back to the apartment, your hurt has become a cramped, flattened pressure at the back of your throat, and every breath scrapes painfully on the way out. It’s taken you close to two hours to get back. The first person you’d asked for directions had given you the wrong bus number, and while you’d realized it eventually, you’d been going the wrong way for a significant period of time.

Usually, you and Jungkook laugh at how bad your sense of direction is, but this is just more humiliation to stoke an already raging fire of shame. Your steps literally drag – you almost trip on your way up the stairs – and your fingers are tingling, almost numb. It’s gotten progressively colder as the night wore on, and by now the icy feeling has sunk deep into your bones, passed the hard exterior until its wrapped around the marrow.

You’d thought about checking into a hotel. You at least hadn’t forgotten or lost your credit card. There was something tempting about postponing the moment when you had to see Jungkook. But at the same time… If you didn’t answer your phone and didn’t come back, he might worry (would he worry?) and worse, he might get other people involved. What if he talked to Namjoon and Yoongi? Or phoned your parents or brother? You can’t stand the thought of having to explain to them what happened without any preparation – without even knowing what happened yourself.

So here you are, facing the door, empty-handed. You’d thrown out the fast-food at the first trashcan you’d come to after deciding to return. Would Jungkook be home by now? Had he finished with – was he done? Or was he still out there, still… You have to say it eventually, you try to tell yourself firmly, but your whole being cringes from making that acknowledgement, from putting it into syllables that might somehow trap it in reality. It’s not something you can manage tonight. You really don’t know what will be worse, him being inside or not, but you can’t just stand outside forever.

Forcing the key to the lock is no harder than flinging yourself off a cliff, and you approach it with the same amount of dry-mouth apprehension. Your hands are shaking so bad it’s hard to get them to align, but when you finally do, the click of the key sliding in is too loud, like its announcing that you’ve slunk back in shame to all of the apartment building inhabitants. A ridiculous notion, but you flinch anyways, heart seizing as your stiff fingers fumble with the little jiggle required to get the door to open. It takes you three attempts, your anxiety growing, and when you finally manage it, you’re so strung out with tension that you don’t hesitate. You just fling the door open and stumble through.

Straight into Jungkook.

For just a second, it feels like the magnetism you learned about in school. For just a second you fall into him like there’s nothing else in the world more natural than falling, and for just a second you press against his chest and feel dizzy with the light, clean scent that surrounds you. For just a second, as he catches your weight and closes his arms around you, calling your name with a voice of choked relief, you let yourself forget.

For just a second.

And then reality floods back in, a tainted torrent of regret and grief, strewn with rage and humiliation that drifts just below the surface. Though you’re so unsteady you can barely see, your lungs blocked and battling to heave in enough air just to keep breathing, you struggle to get away from him.

“Let go of me,” you say, dry and curt, and when his arms only tighten – more, you suspect, to keep you from pitching over than in denial of your demand – your efforts become harsher, more violent. Without room you can’t get any momentum to really push away from him, but your motions are frantic with the desire to do just that. There’s a panicked, screaming need to get away from him, to get enough space, like he’s the reason your lungs are crumpling in on themselves. “Let go, Jungkook!” you cry, your voice spiking up into shrillness, shattering the syllables of his name.

Like he’s been electrified, Jungkook jerks, his arms flying open. Instantly, let loose, you scramble away, down the entrance hallway. Just as off balance as he’d feared, you nearly trip over something long and cumbersome leaning against the wall that you’re too distraught to look at, and you have to windmill to catch your balance. A moment later you slam your shoulder into the corner of the wall as you try to take the turn too sharply. “Y/N, please, stop!” you hear, and wish you hadn’t. Barely registering the sharp throb in your shoulder, you catch yourself and keep going. Seconds later you’re in the bedroom, and you slam the door shut.

It doesn’t have a lock. Putting your back to the door, your air rattling hollowly out of your mouth – too fast, too shallow, but you can’t seem to calm down – you slide down the solid surface. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your forehead against them, eyes tightly closed, still gasping. Your eyes are aching, but you can’t cry against the immense pressure of overwhelming panic. There’s just a stinging sensation and a pulsing rigidity in your face, like each and every muscle there has chosen to stage a personal rebellion at the exact same time.

I can’t, I can’t, oh God, please, I can’t do this I can’t look at him I can’t I –

“Y/N?” Jungkook sounds like he’s directly on the other side of the door, but he makes no attempt to open it. “Baby, please, are you okay?”

His voice is so raw with worry that it’s red. The colour blooms across your closed eyelids, swathes of crimson and scarlet, and you imagine that it’s blood, trickling from the wound inside of you. You can barely tell where your back ends and the door begins, like any moment you might slide through it, or maybe through the floor, or through the ground, or maybe you’re already there, floating in nothing, and the red breaks into jagged pieces of black and orange and you still can’t breathe.

“Y/N? Can you talk to me? Just – say something, okay? Just so I know you’re okay.”

You can’t even manage that. Even if you wanted to. Even if he deserved to know. Throat moving convulsively, you choke out a sob but nothing else comes after. Just wheezing breaths, and you think you’re shaking but you’re somewhere outside of your skin so it’s hard to tell.

“Okay, okay. I’m – I’m gonna be here, okay? Right here. If you need me, I’m here.” Even through the hazy distortion swamping you, Jungkook’s clear, resonant voice comes through. Maybe it’s the concern, too heavy to be swept away by the raging panic. Maybe it’s the compassion, too anchored in you to be broken away by the tremendous pressure.

Or maybe you just know Jungkook’s voice so well that even your disassociation can’t make it unfamiliar to you.

“You’re doing good, Y/N. I’m still here. Just on the other side of this door.” A pause, a deep chasm of silence, and then he continues. “I think it’s a panic attack. I know it’s scary, but it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”  

Later, you will be both annoyed and touched that Jungkook realized you were having a panic attack before you did. You’ve had a few throughout university, but none within the past year or two, and in the moment, you’d been too overwhelmed to identify what’s going on. The insight is helpful though, something to cling to and repeat to yourself. A grounding. It’s a panic attack. You’re going to be okay.  

Jungkook keeps talking, slow and steady. Nothing serious. Just words. You lean on his voice just as hard as you’re leaning on the door, and, slowly but surely, in a stretch of time that doesn’t mean anything to you, the constrictive bands across your chest loosen. You sink back into yourself. The tips of your fingers make sense again.

And you start crying.

“Y/N? How’re you feeling?”

Funny. Now, with your throat something other than a fist and pain, you still struggle to say anything. This is a softer kind of crying, not quite quiet, with little, hiccupping gasps as the tears run down your face. Possible to speak through. You just don’t know what to say to the man who just talked you, with kindness and compassion, through a panic attack. Who cheated on you. Your fingertips might make sense, but nothing else does.

“I – Y/N, baby, I get that you’re upset, but I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.” So anguished. Why did he have to sound like that? What right did he have?

You don’t know if it’s outrage or bewilderment or grief or pity that has you answering. Is it possible to have all of them in your mouth, gritty across your tongue? At any rate, your tone is as washed out as you feel, fatigued and grey. “I saw, Jungkook,” you whisper to your knees.

There’s silence on the other side of the door. Denial? Guilt? His reply is sluggish, thick with confusion. “You saw what?”

That makes you laugh – or not really, though the tortured sound was supposed to be one. “I was there. At the Golden Closet Gallery.” Will he really keep pretending after he knows you were there? Could he really be that brazen? The Jungkook you know couldn’t. There’s no way he could carry a lie like that, holding it effortlessly in the face of the truth. The Jungkook you know would blush, shuffle, collapse like a house of cards. He’s really not good at lying.

The answer isn’t a lie, but it confuses you all the same. “I know you were. Namjoon texted me to say he’d dropped you off, but – Where did you go? I – I drove around for like an hour trying to find you, and I couldn’t and when I got home you weren’t here…” The stream of words dies out like Jungkook can’t quite find any more to say, or maybe he’s embarrassed to say them.

When your reply isn’t forthcoming, confusion churning up anything you might spit out, he continues, more subdued. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you after what you just went through, I just– Are– How are you feeling? Was it – did something happen while you were getting here? Is that what took so long?” Another pause that you can’t fill, that stretches on and on as you try to understand what he’s talking about. How he can apologize for that and not the actual offense.  

Abruptly his voice bursts out. “Why won’t you talk to me!?” Tighter and more uncertain than you’ve heard tonight. Maybe more afraid than you’ve ever heard him.

It rips at your heart, and you realize in a swell of furious sorrow that you can’t stand to hear him sound like that. With a sudden, unstable surge, you get to your feet. Immediately your vision falters a bit, and you stagger, but catch yourself before you fall, clinging to the doorknob. You take a deep breath, fighting away the residual nausea and light-headedness. It clears within a few seconds, and your hand tightens on the knob as you take a deep breath. You can’t just leave him standing out there. You can’t just leave this incomprehensible thing hanging in the frame between your two lives.

You open the door. Slowly. Reluctantly. But you open it.

His long black hair is a wild mess, pushed back from his forehead, strands sticking up here and there. Even as you inch the door open, he runs his hand through it, ruffling it even further. His shirt is wrinkled, only partially tucked in, one sleeve rolled to bare his forearm, the other slipped down almost all the way. With his jaw so tense it’s a wonder he’s not cracking his teeth, Jungkook stares at you, lips set and pale. He doesn’t look like someone who committed a betrayal only hours before; if anything, the anguished panes of his face speak to a betrayal committed against him.

You’re so, so tired. Too tired to grasp at the outrage that wisps at the edge of your consciousness. Sniffling to clear your throat, you wipe at your face, trying make yourself a little less pitiful. “I was at the Gallery, Jungkook. I saw you,” you repeat because it’s still so hard to think of anything to say. When his expression doesn’t change – unless his eyebrows furrow, just a little, in innocent perplexity – you exhale. “I saw you with that guy. I saw you…”

“That guy? Who do you–” Jungkook breaks off, examines you more closely, like you’ve given him something to be concerned about. “Are you talking about Taehyung?”

The name is startling in its sheer unexpectedness. What the hell did Jungkook’s best friend have to do with any of this? “Taehyung? No, I’m not talking about Taehyung. I’m talking about that guy you were with tonight, in the Gallery. The guy you–” The words catch, but only for a second. You push them through with a surge of vehement exasperation for the blank expression he’s wearing. “The guy you kissed!”

In another place, the nonplused spasm across his face would have been hilarious. As it is, it just heightens your frustration, and the way he starts sputtering does absolutely nothing to reduce it. Even when he finally gets himself together and manages to talk, your aggravation is here to stay.

Right next to your mortification, as it happens.

“I didn’t– Y/N, that guy at the Gallery was Tae! Could you not tell it was him? I know he has brown hair now, but…” Jungkook shakes his head, flipping his own hair back. The tension seems to have slipped from his jaw, at least a little, and it might very well have crept into yours. “Is that– Is that what this whole thing has been about? You thought I did something with some random guy?” His lips twitch, and it doesn’t seem like he can decide if he wants to smile or scowl, and you feel the beginning of a flush heating up your face.

“It was Taehyung! And I didn’t kiss him. I mean, he tried to kiss me but it was just to–” Abruptly there’s a wash of faint scarlet crawling up his cheeks – cheeks that are rounder than they were a second ago, as he looks down and away, gaze slipping from you for the first time since you opened the door.

“Just to what?” you demand, the challenge extra belligerent to make up for the belated shock of suspended relief that hangs like smoke over your head. Too intangible for you to catch with your hands right now, though present enough to burn your throat with its sooty possibility.

He’s still looking at the ground, the blush becoming more prominent, and he begins to shift, the rustle of his dress pants loud in the fraught silence. “Um,” Jungkook begins awkwardly, head ticking to the side the way it always does when he regrets saying something or doubts his ability to do something. “It’s just, uh… he was helping me.”

“Helping you.”

Jungkook winces at your deadpan echo. “Yeah. I, um, asked him to…” Hands drumming on his thighs, drawing your attention for a second before you snap back to his flushed face, Jungkook bounces on the balls of his feet. “Uh… This is totally not how I planned this,” he mumbles, before hauling his gaze up to meet your own. “Hold on for a sec, okay? I just want to grab something.” For all that he’s definitely lightened a bit, the request is tinged with urgent appeal, his eyes scouring your face hesitantly like he’s afraid you’re going to retreat back to the room the moment he loses sight of you.

You’re not entirely sure that isn’t going to happen, but there have been so many emotional upheavals today you’ve just about exhausted your ability to feel more defensiveness. The more Jungkook speaks – the longer you’re in his presence – the more the sheer impossibility of what you’d believed is sinking in. He’s just – he’s Jungkook. Such a focal point of light and energy, such a reserve of easily offered comfort in a form so much more substantial than words. Somehow – maybe because of his prolonged absences, maybe because of your staggeringly challenging day – you’d managed to forget just what he is, but it’s in front of you now, demanding to be seen and acknowledged against the backdrop of what you’d thought. What had seemed so possible, even an hour ago, suddenly seems ridiculous when set next to the quiet solidity of him, of everything he is.

Wiping again at eyes that haven’t ceased watering yet, you nod.

He hurries away, down the short hallway and back towards the front entrance. You hear a thump, a muttered curse, a short dragging noise, and then Jungkook rounds the corner, hefting a rectangular object covered in brown paper. When you examine it more closely, you’re pretty sure it’s what you almost fell over when you ran inside. By the time he’s standing in front of you, the unwieldy item put on the ground and balanced against his knee, you’re pretty sure you know what it is by the shape and packaging alone.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re beginning to make connections. About Taehyung and the art gallery and the thing on the ground in front of you.

Jungkook just speeds up the process. “I was gonna wrap it in something nicer,” he offers apologetically, “but I was… Baby, I was so scared when Namjoon said you should have been at the gallery and I couldn’t find you and you weren’t at home. I thought – hell, I didn’t know what to think. That you got kidnapped or something.” He laughs, that shaky sound of amusement reserved for disasters that are absurd to imagine until they actually happen, and you shift, the heat crowding your face growing.

With a slight roll of his shoulders, he nudges the brown-wrapped object. “Anyways… Tae was helping me get this. For, um, you. Because I thought you might like it.” When you make no move to grab it, his eyebrows knit together. “Y/N? I swear, I didn’t do anything with anyone else. I wouldn’t do anything with–”

“I know.” You cut him off, unable to bear the imploring tone. It’s impossible to meet his beseeching gaze with the burden of your stupidity weighing on you, and you keep your eyes on your fingers. “I know you didn’t. Jungkook, I’m…” The winded feeling is still lingering, a hollowness in your lungs, and you have to inhale deeply just to remind yourself you can. Your anger at being abandoned by Jungkook for work died out so long ago it might as well be a relic, and with the betrayed grief swept so thoroughly out of your stomach, you’re left feeling strangely empty of anything but guilt.

“I’m so sorry. I – God, I’m so stupid. I saw you two and I thought – I assumed…” All of the logic that had founded your incorrect assumption is trickling through your grasping fingers, and you don’t know how to explain in a way that makes sense. In a way that justifies how you’d leapt to conclusions.

“I’m sorry,” you continue unevenly. “I just…”

“It’s okay.” When you keep staring down, Jungkook moves closer, reaches out, tentatively puts his arm around you. Light enough that you could break away if you wanted to. You don’t. You absolutely don’t.

The contact feels like an anchor, pulling you ever closer to reality. Making the trembling relief that much more real. The embarrassment, too. “Really Y/N, it’s – I know today has been…” After a moment he sighs, faint and low, shaking his head. “Today has sucked so bad, and Christmas isn’t supposed to be like this. I get why you thought what you did. After everything that’s been happening, after I’ve – I haven’t been around.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” is your whispered protest, still unable to look at him. “I should have just talked to you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would have saved us both a bit of panic. But Y/N…” He waits, waits longer, until you’re forced to bring your eyes up. Meeting the dark softness of his gaze summons up more guilt, more regret – but also a clear, undeniable relief. Light at the end of a pitch black tunnel. You’re not out of the darkness, but with those sympathetic eyes on you, you have a sense of striving. Like taking a step, and then another, is possible. And might just be worth it.

“Y/N, baby, it’s not all your fault. It’s on me too.” His arms are resting lightly on your shoulders, fingers gently rubbing across the nape of your neck. “I haven’t talked with you enough. Kept just pushing it off, pretending it’s okay.” When he laughs softly, his breath tickles your face. “Not quite okay, hey?”

Your strained giggle isn’t heartfelt, and it fades quickly. “In the car, when Namjoon and Yoongi gave me a ride, they said – It seems like work has really, really sucked. More than I thought it did.” You lean back, just a bit, his arms a steady support against your back, and search his face. He’s biting his cheek, little lines skittering across his forehead. This close, the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced, his skin sallower than it should be. He looks tired, but he doesn’t look away from you.

“Jungkook,” you say quietly. “How bad is it?”

Something flickers behind his eyes, a shadow of his normal reserve. You can feel the tightness in his body, the slight tremor that suggests he’s about to move away. The protective distance he clings to when he doesn’t want to worry you rears up – and you kill it with your hand, trembling only slightly as you tenderly trace your fingers along his temple, down his cheekbone, to cup the strong lines of his jaw. “Please, Jungkook. Tell me.”

The admission comes, fast and breathless, like he needs to get the words out before his teeth clench over them. “Bad. It’s bad. I hate it there.”

“Oh. I–” This is a different kind of pain from most of what you’ve been feeling today. More selfless, an anguish that extends and expands outward instead of curling up. “I’m so sorry. Kookie, I didn’t know. I should have but–”

“I didn’t tell you. How could you know?”

“I should have,” you insist.

His mouth quirks, a flash of teeth showing in mild amusement. “You can’t expect me to know you’re upset, but you should know when I am? I don’t think it works that way, babe.” When your mouth opens to object, Jungkook pulls you to his chest, cutting off your protest. You sink into his embrace, boneless and aching and grateful for the support, and if the gift’s hard frame weren’t digging into your leg, it would almost be perfect.

Perfect enough.

Pressing your face against his shirt, you feel him kiss the top of your head, arms still wrapped firmly around your shoulders. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispers.

“I’m glad you told me about work,” you mumble into his chest, reluctant to draw away. “If I told you to quit today, would you?” You’re not really joking, even though you know what the immediate answer has to be. You don’t have enough savings for one of you to quit without any other prospects lined up.

“Actually…” There’s something restrained in his voice, teetering on the edge of anxiety, or maybe excitement.

Shock has you looking up, resisting the comforting pull of his warmth for a moment. “You did!?”

“Oh, uh, no,” Jungkook says hurriedly, biting at his lower lip. Far from pleasure, the reassurance has disappointment funneling into your heart, funds be damned. To say that Jungkook’s job was the mother of all evils would probably be both unfair and exaggerated, but if it’s making him (and you) as miserable as he says...

“It sounds really bad, Jungkook. Killing yourself trying to please a bunch of jerks isn’t worth it.”

“You’re right.” He’s smiling now, smiling completely, showing off his teeth. “I don’t know if I can keep working for them for much longer, but… Ah, I was so scared to talk about this, and here you are, making it easy!” In his excitement, he’s playing with your hair, hands restless as they dance around. For once, the mystery isn’t extended. “Namjoon wants to break off. Start a new company, one that’s not an absolute dumpster fire to work for. He’s got several other people lined up who are happy to go, and Yoongi, obviously, and he asked me if I would join, too!”

“Is that why they gave me a ride?” Even as you demand it, you can feel yourself picking up on Jungkook’s energy. Not too much – the exhaustion sucking at your bones won’t allow it – but still, the lightness in your chest is a far cry from the sodden despair that’s taken up space there for most of the day.

Your boyfriend jiggles his head back and forth. “I dunno. Maybe. But I think mostly they did it because they’re pretty nice people.” He sounds a bit awed as he continues. “We can’t start for a couple more months – Namjoon said something about getting funding from some rich guy, Bang Sihyuk – but I still can’t believe they want me to come along. I mean, some of the people are, like, the best there are, Y/N.” You can almost see stars shining in his eyes.

Your response is firm, albeit playful. “So, it makes perfect sense that they’re having you join! Kookie, you’re gonna fit in so well, because you’re one of the best, too.” And honestly, you’re not even just shovelling empty praise; Jungkook is a truly talented artist in his medium.

His smile grows, eyes thinning with happiness. “And – you’re okay with it? There aren’t any guarantees that it will work out, with it being a new company.”

The trials of the day – mostly made from your own mind, though no less difficult for all of that – pass through your head. The loneliness and anger and sadness. All of it dimmed if not gone entirely, simply because here you are in his arms, speaking to each other instead of covering your hurt up. “Jungkook, one of the few guarantees I have of anything is that I love you, and you love me. If you’ll be happy working with Namjoon, with moving companies, then that’s all I need to hear.”

With a low hum, Jungkook sweeps you into another hug, and you’re glad to give up what space is between you two. Enfolded in his arms, listening to his steady heartbeat, is about the securest place you can imagine being. “I love you,” he says, voice thick with the truth of what he’s saying.

“I love you, too. Thank you. Thank you so much for everything.”

“I haven’t even given you your presents yet. Here –” And you’re breaking apart again – although not really, because you can still feel the connection as a thin warmth snuggled beneath your ribs – and Jungkook bends down, picks up the item sandwiched between you two. “Feel up to opening it?”

“The mystery gift that almost broke our relationship? Yeah, I’m up to it.”

Nose scrunching, he hands it over, and in your haste to see what’s inside, you make short work of the brown packaging. You can’t honestly say you’re surprised with the first glimpse of the mahogany frame – you expected a painting – but as more of the brown rips away, you feel shivery awe cascading down your spine. Once the painting is completely uncovered, you clutch it with sweaty palms, well aware of how precious a gift you’ve been given. You’d recognize the style anywhere.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, “oh my God, Jungkook, this is one of Ayeong’s, isn’t it? You – you actually got one of her paintings!?”

The quality is unmistakable. It’s a detailed piece, zoomed in on a small, dilapidated house. Almost everything about the house is bleak; the colours are all dull greys, blacks and browns, the porch is crumbling, and the shutters over the windows are chipped and cracked in places. However, right in the center of the house, taking up a good portion of the painting, is a door flung wide open, and the inside is flooded with warm colours and details in stark contrast with the exterior. There are people inside, crowded around the entrance, laughing and vibrant, and they dominate the doorway with their collective presence. One person, the only one who is looking outward, has her hand raised in greeting, as though inviting the viewers in.

“It’s called Homecoming.”

Soft and reverent, the name feels like an echo, a reverberation of your hopes and fears, and against a suddenly blurry vision, you smile. “It’s beautiful! It’s so, so beautiful. Thank you, Jungkook.”

“Do you feel like opening the rest of our presents? Or should we wait until tomorrow? We can grab your phone in the morning, too.”

Your fatigue drags at you, overwhelming even your hunger, but you try to rally, lifting your chin up. “What do you want to do? Do you want to open a present?”

His head tilts as he looks you over, a quick assessment. “I don’t have to. It’ll be nice to look forward to it later.” You’re absolutely positive he’s saying that for your sake, and it makes you just that closer to crying in gratitude for what’s in front of you.

Swallowing hard, you suggest, “How about tomorrow, then? We can…” You pause, scrambling for the memory, and then grin tiredly. “We can reset. Start over tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s laugh washes over you in cozy tides of amusement. “Now there’s a great idea. Whoever thought of it is a genius.”

With a chuckle, you carefully set the painting to the side, planning on figuring out where to put it tomorrow. As soon as it leaves your hands, Jungkook is there again, claiming the free territory. His grip firm and warm, he asks you, “Do you wanna eat? Or maybe nap for a bit?”

Your panic attacks always leave you drained, and the fact that Jungkook remembers is just another fond ache to add to the collection in your chest. “Nap,” you reply gratefully. “But… do you wanna lie down with me? Just for a bit?”

He couldn’t have looked any more solemn, or any more beautiful, if he’d tried. Squeezing your hand, he says, “I’d lie with you forever, if I could get away with it.” A second later the somber façade breaks apart, leaving a blush and a squirming, quietly giggly Jungkook.

With a snort, you pull him along with you, into the bedroom, a tightness across your chest that has everything to do with just how much you love the man next to you. “Now I know you were with Taehyung.” That makes you remember, and as you both walk to the bed, you glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Are you going to tell me what Taehyung almost kissing you had to do with helping you out?”

As expected, his blush grows, painting his cheeks with a pale pink, but he surprises you by pulling you closer. With a hand under your chin, the other arm wrapped around your waist, he tilts your head up. Meeting your eyes with a tenderness that floods you with reassurance, he brushes a thumb along your lips, leaving a tingling trail. When it comes, his voice is hoarser than before, firmer. “He was trying to teach me something I already know.”

And then his mouth is on yours, steady and certain. Your lips soften against him, and time becomes languid, moving by the count of each breath that flutters against your lips. Jungkook isn’t demanding, not tonight; he kisses you sweetly, gently, conveying everything that he hasn’t managed to put into words. His body has a gravitational pull all its own, drawing you closer, and you skim your hands against his back, relishing the powerful certainty of his shoulders and the intimate confidence of his mouth on yours.

A second later, he sweeps you off your feet, and you gasp in surprise, breaking off the kiss. Jungkook places you on the bed, stands looking down at you with unmasked adoration. You open your arms, a wordless invitation that unwittingly bares the front of your top. His eyes fix on it, and if anything, they soften.

“I like your sweater,” he comments quietly, and as you laugh, he climbs onto the bed with you.

You take off the sweater in question, and your jeans and bra, easy and unhesitant in his presence. He follows suit, and then grabs your pajamas, placed as they always are at the foot of the bed. You wiggle into them, and for his part, Jungkook just throws on a pair of loose pants. The feeling of familiarity sinks into your system like a sigh of contentment, and when he pulls you against his chest, you snuggle into the embrace.

Wrapped in his arms, the smooth warmth of his skin pressed against your cheek, you let the drowsy bliss sweep over your body, and you relax, sinking against the sheets even as you curl closer to him.

Jungkook’s voice ripples against your mind, a soothing undercurrent taking you closer to sleep. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

“Merry Christmas,” you mumble. With one last faltering effort, you say, “Jungkook?”

“Hmm?” You feel the inquiring murmur just as much as you hear it, a smooth hum on your cheek.    

“Thank you for coming home.”

#thebtswritersclub #networkbangtan #jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts fic #bts fanfiction #my fic

[babeyvenus]

The Wolf Among Us

Bigby x OC

Summary: Sonya Blaze, A.K.A. Hell Rider, is a half fable, half mundy girl who comes to Fabletown to learn more about her side of the folktales. She works alongside Sheriff Bigby Wolf's as his newest partner and together they strive to find out who's behind the unexpected murders in Fabletown.

TW: Mentions of death, gore/blood, alcohol, smoking drugs, sex implications, suicide, guns and ofc language.

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Chapter 9: The Open Arms

Bigby pulls out a cigarette and lights it as he walks into the lobby of the Open Arms hotel. He looked around the gross lobby, trashed and almost like a ghost town. Bigby glances at a soda machine and scoffs at it. 'This shit will kill ya.', he thought as he took a puff out of his cigarette then stomped it.

He tapped the bell to get the attention of whoever was behind the front desk. Behind the desk, he hears a door open and footsteps approaching the front. “Want it by the hour or for the whole night?”, he heard a familiar female voice ask. She leaned over the desk to get a better look then she gasped.

Bigby’s eyes widened as he realized who it was. “Beauty.”, Bigby said, shocked.

Beauty pushes the gate up so he could see her better. “I work here, okay? I work the front desk. It’s to help pay rent. So now you know. I know I should’ve told somebody….But Beast would lose his mind if you knew. Beast is a proud man, Bigby. He wants to do right by me, and he….he just couldn’t handle it if he knew I had to do this so we don’t get evicted.”

As much as he didn’t care, he responded, “Well, your secret’s safe with me, alright? Let’s not make a big thing of it.”, Bigby said, shaking his head.

“Thanks, Bigby. And thanks for covering for me last time, too.”, She said. “So….what are you doing here?” Bigby pulls out the key from his pocket and shows it to her. “Oh….you have a key.” she said, shocked.

Before she came to conclusions, he addressed it quickly, “Someone else was murdered last night.” Her shoulders slumped. “I heard.”, Beauty said, frowning.

“The victim was someone who worked at the Pudding and Pie, Lily. She come around here ever?”, Bigby asked her. “Oh! Oh, yes. The, uh, the troll. I did see her. I mean, you know, we never really spoke, but she came off a tad intimidating.”, Beauty replied.

“Ever see Lily with someone here? Maybe on a job?”, he asked her. “Sometimes, but nobody I’ve recognized. I haven’t worked here that long, though.” Beauty replied. "How about a room register? Or someone named Mr Smith?“

"That’s all we get are Smith’s, Jones’s or Johnson’s. I think the last ones are jokes.”, Beauty said, with a shudder.

“Have you seen Sonya here? Or maybe somebody glamoured as her?”, Bigby asked. “You know, it’s funny. I did see someone who I thought looked a lot like her, but she didn’t say anything when she saw me, even though she knew I saw her. I just assumed it wasn’t her and went about my business.”, Beauty shrugged.

“Ever meet a girl named Faith, or just maybe hear that name?”, he asked her. “I might have. I don’t know.”, Beauty said, as she shakes her head. “By the end of the night, it’s kind of a blur with all the names. Tara, Brandy, Amber, Heather.”, she listed. “….sorry.”

“I talked to Tweedledee earlier today. He mentioned you in passing. Do you know him….or his brother?”, Bigby asked her, crossing his arms. “I took out a loan for backpay. It was like our third notice, and ever since then those annoying freaks have been pestering me for the money plus interest.”, she grumbled.

“Why take out a loan with those two?", Bigby asked her. She hesitantly mutters. "It was from the Crooked Man.”

“Beauty….”, Bigby said with shock and concern. “You don’t know how desperate I was, Bigby! I had nowhere else to go!”, she said, angrily. “Look, if this ever happens again….come to me, Sonya or Snow first, alright?”, Bigby said. Beauty looked down in sadness and replied. “I tried.”

Must’ve been another thing that was pushed back. Bigby shook his head. “That won’t happen again.”

He starts to head up the stairs but Beauty stops him. “Wait. It’ll be better if anyone sees you that they at least see you with me, so they know I didn’t let you just wander around by yourself.” She said as she walked out from behind the desk, and led him. She walked past Bigby and said. “Just five minutes? Please?”

“We’ll see Beauty.”, Bigby said as he followed her up the stairs. “Just be ready to act like I’m trying to kick you out.”, she warned him. “That won’t be hard.”, he mutters.

“Listen, Bigby, I assume you’ll be filling some kind of an official report or something, which is fine, it’s just that, I was wondering, if….I need to be in it?”, Beauty asks nervously. “Trust me, the less I have to write down, the better.”, Bigby replied. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Beauty said, smiling a bit in relief. “Well, here we are. Which one was it?”

Bigby looks down the hall. There was two doors on the right and two on the left and one down at the very end. His ears twitch to the sounds of loud moans and bed squeaks. He tried his best to ignore it as he passed the rooms and stormed to 207.

He knocked on the door but there was no response. He tried to open it but it was also locked. “You have keys to these rooms?”, he asked, turning to Beauty. “I thought you had a key.”, Beauty said.

He shook his head. “Not to this one.”

“Hold on, Bigby, I can’t just let you go into any room you want. Seriously, what if someone found out? I could get into a lot of trouble.”, Beauty said in a worried tone.

“You have to let me in there. This is the room. 207.”

“But I–”

“This is the room Lily was in.”, Bigby emphasizes. “Fine.”, Beauty said and pulled out her master key, jiggling it in the handle but it didn’t open. “Well that’s weird. This key is supposed to open every room in the building. But it’s not working.”, she said.

“Beauty?!”

“Ah, shit.”, Bigby mutters as he and Beauty turn around to see Beast at the other end of the hall. “Beast.” Beauty said, shocked that he found her. "Bigby? How could you do this to me?“ Beast asked, devastated. “H-Hold on-”, Bigby started.

"No, sweetie, no, wait a minute!” Beauty exclaimed.

“How could you do this? We’ve been together through everything! I took care of you! I lov-”

“It’s not what you think! Please!” Beauty pleads to Beast. “You’re cheating on me! With him?!” Beast exclaims, frantically, pointing at Bigby. “No! No, Beast. I promise! I’m not.” She said as Beast walks up to her. “I’m helping him! That’s all!”

“I’ll bet!” Beast growls, angrily, as his eyes turn red. “I’m sure you help each other just great! I know what this place is!"

"Beast, trust me, this is the last thing I want right now. This is not the way to handle things.”, Bigby said, holding his hand out. “What do you know? You don’t have anybody!”, Beast shouted, making Bigby frown. “What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s my wife!”

“Beast, listen to me, there’s nothing going on!”, Beauty screams, getting in front of Beast but he ignores her and charges at Bigby, grabbing him by the collar. “Bastard! I guess I finally see you for who you are!”, Beast roars. Beauty pulls on his arm. “Stop! Stop this!”

“You told me you hadn’t seen her! You fucking liar! Then you got your partner involved and made her lie for you!”, Beast fusses.

“Will you listen to your wife? Just calm down and–”, Bigby starts to explain but Beast shoves him away, changing into his form. Beast throws a punch at Bigby but he dodges and moves out of the way.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”, Beauty yelled at Beast, angrily. Bigby glares at Beast, who started to change his form as well. “You aren’t even listening to me!”, Beauty shouts at Beast as he swings at Bigby. Bigby grabs Beast’s wrist and throws him against the wall on the right, creating a hole.

“Stop!” Beauty shouts as Bigby grabs Beast by the shirt collar and throws him against the other wall. “Leave him be! This is my fault!”, Beauty pleads to Bigby, pushing him away. Beast roars and grabs onto the pipe from the exposed wall and pulls it out. “Beast, no! You don’t understand!”, Beauty screams. Beast tries to swing it at Bigby, knocking him to the side of the wall.

Beast tried to press the pipe against Bigby’s neck. Bigby raised his claw and poked them into Beast’s eyes, making him scream out in pain. Beast let go of the pipe and backed away a few feet to wipe at his eyes but Bigby tackled him into the ground and punched him.

"Bigby, no! Don’t hurt him!“, Beauty pleads, pulling at Bigby. He stops but Beast grabs a nearby bottle and smacks Bigby off of him. Bigby shakes his head as Beast gets up. "You ruined everything! She’s my fucking wife!”, Beast yells before Bigby shoulder charges him into the 207 door and knocks the door down.

Bigby pants heavily and looked at the scene before him and calmed down. “Shit, Bigby.”, Beast said as Bigby changes back to normal and walks deeper into the room.

“What have you done?!”, Beauty shouts at Beast, who wipes the blood off his eyes and scans the room, too. “W-What is this?”, he asked in shock. “Look what you did to the door!”, Beauty fusses at Beast. “Stand back. Y-You don’t want to see this.”, Beast warns her, trying to block her way.

In the room, candles were set up on tables seemingly blown out recently, a bed that was covered in skulls and blood. Bigby stared at the bed in shock then held his hand out to the couple. “Beauty, stay in the hall.”

“What? Why? What’s going on?”, she asked and walked in the room and saw the bed. “Oh my God!”, she looked away in fear. “Don’t touch anything.”, Bigby says.

“Is this…? Is this…?”

“Lily met her client here, Mr Smith, whoever he is.”, Bigby informed.

“And then…”

“Must’ve happened right here.”, Bigby said, crossing his arms. “Last night?”, Beauty asked. “Yeah.”, he nodded. “I was on shift last night!”, Beauty said, eyes wide. “On shift?”, Beast asked worriedly. “Beauty… you’re not…”

“I’m not a prostitute, you idiot! I work the front desk!”, Beauty growled. “Do you remember who rented this room last night?”, Bigby asked her.

“I don’t think anyone did, not last night. Maybe they have it long term? I don’t know! How am I supposed to know?", she asked, feeling jumbled. "It just seemed like a totally normal night. How is that even possible? There’s so much blood!”, she said as she looked at the bed.

“Just...Go lock the front door. Keep people out of the hallway. I need you to be sure no one comes in here. This is a crime scene. Okay?”, Bigby said to Beast. Beauty turned to him and said. “Just do what he says. I’ll explain later….okay?”

“Bigby, what kind of a person could do something like this?”, Beauty asked him. “That’s exactly what I’m about to find out.”, Bigby says as he looks at the bedside table to see with a built-in cassette player. “Do all these rooms have the same clocks, with a built-in cassette player?”, Bigby asked Beauty.

“I think so, yes.”, Beauty says with a nod.

He looks and sees a smaller table off in the corner next to a dresser in the back of the room. On the small table was a candle and a book. He walked over to the table and looked at the book. It was a black book titled Ghost Rider.

He read a page about the origin of the first Ghost RIder, snorting at the story all up until Sonya’s story, coming up as the next Ghost RIder. “Sonya Terrence…dead father, found out about the first Ghost Rider and named herself after him.” He saw pictures of her on her bike, her being engulfed in fire, etc.

“What is that?”, Beauty asked him. “It’s a book about Sonya. Or, rather her story.”, Bigby says, flipping to another page, seeing her as teen, standing beside a hospital bed in tears and talking to a sickly pale man in black. A sticky note was attached to this image. Grim Reaper? Mephisto?

“The whole book is about her?”, Beauty asked Bigby. “Pretty much...”, he said, flipping to the next page. He saw a picture of Sonya holding a skull in her hands while her entire head was on fire. He could only make out her own skull. Was she speaking to ghosts? Who’s skull is she holding…?

“Why is she on fire?”, Beauty asked him, looking over his shoulder. “I’d assume that’s her power.”, he says, closing the book. He looked over at the dresser and saw an ashtray with a cigarette butt in it. He picks up the cigarette and sniffs it.

“It’s a Huff and Puff.”, he says, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you were the only one that smoked that crap brand.”, Beauty said. Not appreciating her bashing on the brand he smokes, he replies. “Apparently not.” And sets the cigarette back down in the ashtray.

He noticed a bottle of wine next to the tray. “He brought wine.”, he says, picking it up. “Classy.”, Beauty said, rolling her eyes..

Right next to the bottle was a cassette tape. Bigby picked it up and saw a label on it. “For My Arrival”, it said. He put it in his pocket and looked around the room to see that a closet was cracked open. He goes to open it, seeing a black robe with chains wrapped around it, hanging from a hanger with a scythe leaning on the closet wall. It was ragged and dusty looking.

“Someone’s been rough with this dress, it’s torn.”, Bigby said, picking at a sleeve. "Oh no! She must’ve been wearing it! He killed her and then….he took it back off–!“, Beauty rambles, panicking until Bigby shakes his head. “No. There’s no blood. It must’ve been torn some other time.”

The thought just makes him angry. He looks over the dress and hums. “What is it?”, Beauty asked him. “This Mr. Smith was trying to correlate his fantasies with her story.”, Bigby says. “It kinda makes sense.”, she said. “I guess he wanted to get the details right but couldn’t do it completely."

Bigby walks over to the tarnished bed and says, “Looks like she was lying down when she was killed. Some of the skulls are on the floor…”

“How do you know that?”, Beauty asked. "Just look at it. The body had to have been dragged off the foot of the bed, there.“, he said, pointing. ”The body? God! You could say she. Poor girl. I just can’t even imagine….“ Beauty complained, making Bigby roll his eyes. He huffed looking at the bed. "What? What are you thinking?”, she asked.

“Its like he’s doing her theme. She never exactly had an ending to her story since according to her, it just happened a few years ago. I’ve never met the previous hell rider. Crane had mentioned her dad was also a ghost rider, didn’t say he got sick and died.”, Bigby said, shaking his head.

"Poor girl...“, Beauty said. "It actually fits. He’s acting out scenes from the book. That poor girl….she couldn’t have known…..She probably just needed the money. She could have been….anyone. How did she wind up here?”

“It sounds like there was a series of choices involved. I’m sure she would’ve done things differently if she knew where things were headed.”, Bigby said. Bigby looked over at the cassette player and went to put the cassette in, and pressed the play button. It had a piano chord for a little while until beats came on afterward. He hadn't heard the song but thought it was a weird choice for a place like this.

“Bigby, this, I think I heard this music. Last night. It was playing really loudly for awhile, then stopped in the middle. I didn’t think twice about it, at the time, I mean you hear all kinds of things around here and I guess I’ve already gotten used to blocking them out.”, Beauty said, shrugging.

“Could have covered up the sound of the murder. It is kinda loud.”, he said, picking up a skull. He held it in his hands for a moment. “It's a prop.” Beauty’s eyes widened a bit. “How can you tell?” He looked at her. “From what we’ve seen so far, he doesn’t seem like the type to clean out multiple skulls. Plus, real skulls are heavier.”

“Oh, God. This creep put that girl in a reaper robe and recreated his fantasy only to kill her… who could be that obsessed with death…?”, Beauty asked.

“Are you almost finished? I don’t want to be here any longer.”, Beauty said, hugging herself. “Yeah…”, he said but something caught his eye. He noticed a small envelope. He picked it up, walked over to the dresser and opened it up.

He pulls out a picture. It was a picture of Sonya leaning on her bike and looking at her phone. He set the picture down on the dresser and pulled out another one. “Are those pictures of the dead girl?", Beauty asked, walking up to him.

Bigby shook his head. "Not exactly.”, he mutters, looking over another one.

“How do you know?”, she asked.

Bigby pointed at the picture he pulled out. “Snow's in this one.” It was a picture of Sonya and Snow discussing something in the Woodlands lobby. “Oh no. Bigby….this kind of stalking, it doesn’t just stop by itself. Trust me, I know about this, first hand. He’ll keep trying to get closer and closer.”, Beauty said.

“His stand in for Sonya is gone now, so…”, Bigby trailed off, reaching in the envelope. “The next step closer...”, Beauty mumbled to herself. Bigby pulls out another picture, the next made his heart drop. He looked between the picture and the bed. “What is it?”, Beauty asked him, seeing the horror on his face.

In the picture, Lily, glamoured to look like Sonya, was laying on a bed in the black tattered robe, her eyes closed. The man hovering above the glamoured Sonya, his left hand caressing her cheek while his right hand was up inside of the robe between her legs and smiling fondly was…

“It’s Crane.”, Bigby said in disgust.

However, watching through the Magic Mirror, Crane saw the entire investigation at the Open Arms. He clenched his fist, walked over to the Magic Lamp, raised it to slam it down on the Mirror, shattering the Magic Mirror.

#poc oc #my oc #bigby wolf #twau bigby #bigby x reader #big bad wolf #bigby imagine #sheriff bigby #bigby wolf fanfic #bigby wolf imagine #bigby wolf x chubby reader #bigby wolf x reader #bigby x black reader #black oc

[captainjimothycarter]

Prompt- Peggy is royalty (steggy)

This is so not what you asked for, but this just hit me and I ran with it.

--

“Peggy?”

The name slipped from Steve’s lips in a worried tone, hearing the heavy thumping past her apartment door. He frowned at the frame, watching the silver number three jiggle and fall to the carpeted floor with a heavy thunk. 

What the hell was she doing in there? She’s normally much quieter than this, almost to the point Steve forgot that his new neighbor of a year now was even home half the time.

She’d moved in practically overnight, with nothing but a backpack thrown over her shoulder and a smile on her red lips. Over time the apartment filled with furniture and knickknacks to make the small place home.  She was easygoing and laughed everything off. 

They’d first met when he was carrying too much at once, boxes stacked on top of each other and trying to balance his small frame as he carried them to his front door. He hadn’t seen her, all he saw were a pair of white flats that were suddenly coated in pizza sauce when they’d collided. He heard her fall before he fell himself, the weight of the boxes toppling over and his groceries for the week were spilled over the floor.

He’d apologized, despite it hadn’t been his fault, even offered to take her shoes to the dry cleaners because those looked expensive but she said no and laughed it off. That laugh, the sound of church bells ringing in the distance made him relax and believe everything wasn’t so bad as it seems. It didn’t mean he wasn’t embarrassed, trying to salvage what he could. She’d helped him clean up and give him more than enough money to replace his groceries five times over, apologizing once again.

Then they just...kept running into each other, pausing in the hall to chat or wait for one another on the elevator.

When the lights had gone out during a storm, Peggy was knocking on his door with a generator in hand. When he questioned it, she said she noticed how he had to use an oxygen machine sometimes and wanted him to use it in case the power didn’t come back on. She had spent the night on the couch despite his insistence she should take the bed. They’d both slept on the couch that night, Peggy’s head in his lap.

It was fond touches like that, little gestures that made him think okay something was there. Could be there. If only either of them reached out and grasp it. He was trying to work up the courage to ask her for a date but as of late, these last few weeks, Peggy had been withdrawn, rarely came out of her apartment, and seemed to push Steve away at every opportunity.

It worried him simply because that wasn’t Peggy.

Another thunk hitting the door drew the blonde from his thoughts. This time it defiantly sounded like a body hitting the frame. He had no weapon on him, no means to defend himself but the portrait he’d spent hours painting down at the rec center. 

Peggy could be in trouble.

That terrifying thought alone caused him to shoulder the door open, hurting his frail shoulder more than the door. He stumbled through and took in the torn apart apartment. The few pictures she’d bought off of him had been ripped from the walls, her furniture turned over, drawer contents emptied, and the trail just continued to her bedroom where the sounds were coming from now.

Stepping over a painted scene of a meadow that he’d done for her, Steve slowly followed the trail into the bedroom. 

A grunt was heard and a body came stumbling towards him. Steve didn’t hesitate, taking the thick, framed painting and slamming it on the guy’s head. The force cartoonishly rips the canvas in the middle and made the taller, broader man stumble. It was enough of a shock for Peggy, bruised and bloodied to knock the man out by swinging the bat at the man’s head.

Steve’s eyes widened as he watched the body slump to the floor, looking up at her. Her hair was a frazzled mess, matted and stuck to a gash on her forehead. Her lip was split open and her eye blackened. There were rising bruises around her neck where someone had choked her and a few on her arms. The blouse and jeans she wore were splattered with blood, a sinking feeling telling Steve that most of that was not her own.

“Is he...is he…?” He didn’t know if he could finish that statement. He didn’t want to know.

“No, just knocked out. I didn’t hit him nearly as hard as I possibly could,” Peggy panted, lowering the bat to sag into the wall. “He’ll wake up in a few hours with the worst headache in history and a reminder to leave me the hell alone.”

Nodding his head as if this all made sense and this was a normal occurrence, Steve could feel the shock running through his system. His mouth opened to question her when she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him down the hall to throw them both into the bathroom. She jammed the shower chair against the frame and turned back to him, barely able to make him out amongst the dimly lit bathroom. The only light came from the frog nightlight over the sink.

“What the-the hell is going on?!” Steve stuttered, scrambling to stand up.

“Sit down!” She ordered, Steve instantly dropped back down. “And lay low for a minute. Hush.” 

She pressed her ear to the door, her breath held. Whatever she was listening for, she didn’t find. Steve watched as she slid down the wall, taking in a deep breath that barely contained the emotions.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t....want you to get involved, but now that they’ve seen you...they’ll involve you. I wanted to protect you.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper and Steve swore he had heard again but at this point, his ears were ringing and he was starting to feel nauseous.

“Whose out to get you? What’s going on? Pegs, seriously. I deserve to know if I’m involved now. Are you with the mafia?”

The question made Peggy laugh, laughing until she started to cry. Despite how he should be angry, Steve dragged himself over to her and laid her head on his shoulder. She held onto his small frame and cried for a solid few minutes.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized yet again. “I don’t have much time to explain before they realize we’re in here, but I’ll explain as much as I can, okay? Those guys...the one you saw me beat up - he’s from an organization named HYDRA. No, they’re not the mafia or the mob or whatever you want to call it. They’re royalty.”

Steve’s head bobbed as if this made sense. As if he knew it all along. “And...they’re after you because you stole the family jewels?”

“No, doofus. They’re after me because they and my family have had a long-lasting history that spans generations. They’re after me because I left. I’m not...Peggy from England who moved to America for a new start. I...I’m royalty, Steven.”

“Uh-huh. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, laying Steve low to the cold floor seconds before a bullet shattered the small window above them. 

“You have to believe me, Steven,” Peggy whispered, holding tightly to his collard shirt. “I know it sounds far fetched and trust me, the more details I go into the more far fetched it will sound, but you must trust me. I have to keep you safe. I have been completely selfish and I apologize for that - you were not meant to be involved. You had a nice life.”

Any questions Steve had were lost and he had plenty of them. She spoke to him, at him, stuck in another memory, another lifetime. She sounded almost whimsical and distant in her tone, the way her hands clung to him soothingly rubbed at his jawline. 

“Okay,” he swallowed, flinching when another bullet buried itself into the wall. “How do we get out of here? Only way out is through that door.”

He followed Peggy’s eyes to the laundry chute and his heart dropped. “Oh no,” he groaned. “No.”

“You want to face Brock Rumlow out there - fella is one of the sharpest shooters I’ve met. Or do you want to go down the long slide like the child in you wants to?”

She had a point, but he could remember as a child going down the slide and getting stuck for hours. It terrified him. His answer was chosen for him when the bathroom door started to shake on its hinges. 

Forcing Steve up to crawl, Peggy ran to the door, putting her full weight into it. She waved her hand at Steve, teeth-gritting when it bulged against her. “Go! I’ll be right there.”

Throwing open the chute, he threw one last look at Peggy, desperate, worried before jumping down. His last look of her nearly blinded him in bright, white light, and the sound of a male voice screaming.

--

Changing into ‘borrowed’ clothes is not how Steve saw his day going. The ball cap was far too big for him and kept sliding over his eyes. The black button-up smelled funky and the jeans were twice his size, he had to roll the pants legs up twice to get his feet free and hold them up with his hand. 

Yet, Peggy insisted this would help them escape. A change of clothes and keeping their head down. She found clothes amongst the masses around them, a simple sundress that someone was too lazy to even take the tags off of. She hid her hair under a blue, silk scarf, pulling sunglasses out from the lost and found box. They made quite the pair but somehow Peggy looked better. 

Steve watched as she pulled a backpack from behind a false wall, and grabbed at his hand. “Have you been preparing for this?!”

“Since I first arrived, yes. Questions later, Steven.”

The sun was starting to set, painting Brooklyn in a warm glow of orange and pink with the fluffiest white clouds anyone could’ve painted. Nothing looked real. Nothing felt real. He felt like he was walking in a waking dream at this point. His feet lead him wherever Peggy tugged him through, keeping up just because of the hand she held. 

As promised, he kept his head down and eyes on the ground, which was fine because he couldn’t see his feet in these pants. He felt disgusting like he needed ten baths just to feel himself again.

Ten baths and questions answered.

What the hell was going on? She said she was royalty. She had knocked out a man. She knew the people she was fighting and yet convinced that he had lived a normal life? She spoke as if she knew him, knew some part of him that he had yet to even know. 

The sky was hidden behind the thick wave of clouds, blocking out the night sky and making everything seem more dreary than it was. Brooklyn even felt more dreary than normal, the mass of people was gone, still some on the street but not nearly as much. People avoided them and he could hear Peggy mumbling to herself in something that didn’t sound like any language he’s heard of.

“Where are we going?” He finally asked after the unkempt turn down some alleyway. He stumbled over a loose brick and cursed as his knee bashed into the wall.

Peggy easily hoisted him onto his feet and led him down the long, cool path. “Safehouse.” She sounded uncertain and he didn’t like that. 

“Seriously. Where? Because I feel like we’ve walked all of Brooklyn at this point.” Peggy shot him a look that instantly shut him up, sighing. “I’m just frustrated, okay?! I know nothing and now my life is in danger because-because you’re, what, a princess supposedly who didn’t wanna play royalty?!”

She stopped them to let him go, letting him fall back into the wall. Maybe it was the play of the street lamps but her eyes suddenly looked older. Not just by years but decades, like she’s lived a thousand lives in his simple one.

“You have no idea what my life has been like,” Peggy hissed, pointing a finger at Steve’s thin chest. “The sacrifices I’ve had to make, the choices I’ve done, the people, my people who suffered because of it. Because I tried to do the right thing. I lost my brother to these men’s cruelty, Steven, and yes, yes I know this isn’t fair to you at all, but you…” 

Her eyes had turned almost golden in the light and in a blink, they were gone. She took in a sharp breath and scrubbed at her face, shaking her head. “Let’s go,” she continued. “A few more blocks, then we can rest.”

--

They were two more blocks over when a crowd of people passed through them, separating them. Steve stumbled through it, losing sight of Peggy. He heard it before he saw it. He felt it. Everything was in slow motion - the bullet expertly cutting through the air, missing every person but its target. 

Peggy. 

She wordlessly fell to the ground, bleeding from her shoulder. The bullet hadn’t passed through but it did nothing to help the gushing of blood. She gritted her teeth and touched the wound, pulling away to see the red staining her fingertips. 

No scream. No sound of pain. No falling apart as any other human would. 

The people around them didn’t react - they still walked around the pair, obvious to the bleeding woman on the street. Did they not see what the hell he was seeing?

“Peggy!” Steve shoved a man out of the way to get to her, kneeling to cradle her. “We have to get out of here. They’re going to keep firing.”

She grunted as she staggered to her feet, throwing herself to grip at the light post. Steve swore her eyes turned gold again as he took her good arm and threw it over his shoulder. His one hand tried to do the best to use the ripped end of his shirt to press against the bleeding wound as he walked with her.

“This way.” 

Her voice sounded weak and frail, a thousand miles away. Older than what she was herself.

She leads him towards a hotel, the name lost on him as he stumbled through the revolving door with a bleeding woman sagging against him. The only person to have some valid reaction was the single receptionist. Her eyes widened at the sight of a pale woman leaning onto a scrawnier blonde, standing up instantly with a phone in hand.

Peggy reached across to put a hand on the receiver, shaking her head. She said something and maybe it was the shock, but this time Steve knew it wasn’t in English. Something in the back of his mind, that tiny voice that has always been there since he was a child translated for him, Arrow Suite. 

The woman silently nodded, hitting a button on her keyboard and handing Steve a golden key card with the instruction to tap it once to open their door. 

Getting up to the suites was hard enough, Peggy losing strength with each step of the way. By the time they were inside of a large hotel with grand windows, spread out furniture, even a kitchen, and living room, she was barely conscious.

Sitting her on the bed, Steve rushed to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom and tugged her dress down, apologizing the entire time. He didn’t expect this to greet him.

Scars. Peggy’s back was littered with scars, thick scars that laid in no simple pattern, crossing over one another. Some looking older than others. Larger scars stood out from the rest, burn marks that mirrored each other perfectly. His fingers had brushed over them and she hissed, jerking away from the touch.

“Don’t...don’t do that. Get...get the bullet out of me. I can...heal it on my own. The copper - it’s taking my strength.”

He wanted to question it, but at this point, he’d do anything Peggy said to keep her alive. Giving her a towel to bite on, he got to work pulling the bullet out with a pair of tweezers and rubbing alcohol. Sure enough, a copper bullet fell to the bed and he batted it away, thinking it must’ve still been hot to burn his hand as he did so.

Peggy groaned as she laid a hand over the sluggishly bleeding wound, a bright, white light coming from her fingertips. Steve had to look away, reminded of the light he’s seen earlier. 

“I think…” Peggy sighed, tongue darting out to run over her dry lips. “You deserve an explanation. C-Call room service for me, please?”

--

Taking the coffee cup from Steve, Peggy downed the sludge inside in two minutes flat while he picked at his plate. She stood up slowly to pull the rest of her clothes off, in the time it took dinner to arrive Steve had shed his clothes and taken a hot shower. She was used to her nudity but as he looked up at her, holding tightly close the robe, something about her wasn’t human.

She just didn’t look human in her skin. He should be embarrassed about seeing her naked and some part of him was, but he was more annoyed and frustrated. Embarrassment can come later.

She strolled closer to him until they were a foot apart and raised her arms as if to make some grand speech before they dropped. Her mouth opened and closed and all at once, she had wings.

Bright, white wings. Pure. A golden hue around them as she turned around for Steve to see they had come from the very spots that had been burned. She turned back to him, the food falling from his plate as he struggled to place what he was seeing. He touched them, stroking over the tips, and shaking his head.

“What...I…” Why wasn’t he so much shocked by this?

“You know,” Peggy whispered, kneeling so they were level. She shuddered at his touch, taking his hand to pull it away. “You know what I am, Steven. Some part of you always has, hasn’t it? Some voice in the back of your head tells you this.

“I am not human, the people on the earth consider me an angel. The closest to texts I could find classify me as an Aasimar.  We are a civilization that is vast and well beyond these simple mortal’s lives. I am...one of the Fallen. The scars you saw? Burn marks? Those are scars of my pasts, marking me for my sins. The smaller ones are from the time I spent in HYDRA’S hold, being tortured for who I am, for the information I hold. I spent thousands of years in their company. Thousands. 

“And all to save you.”

Her lips twitched, her warm, brown eyes now turning a shade of gold. Steve swallowed, feeling as Peggy had said, he knew this. This was repeated history and yet, he didn’t know this. 

“I don’t understand. How. Who are you? What’s going on? How did you get here? HYDRA? - What?” 

A small laugh escaped her throat, a hand coming to tussle his hair. For his sake, she wrapped herself up in a soft robe and sat in the chair across from him to give them some distance.

“Once upon a time, Steven, you and I were bonded. Soulmates. You bore my mark and I bore yours. We lived hundreds of lives together, we spend decades together, learning to love one another. We grew up as children, to teenagers who got in far too much trouble, to sturdy adults. You were to become my partner, to rule beside me. Until the day you were cruelty ripped from my arms.

It was our ceremony. You were to become my husband, my partner. We were to be placed on the throne and take over my father and mother. You looked so handsome, you always did. We were steps away from touching and…” Her throat closed up, but she pressed on. “You were killed. A bullet had pierced your heart. The only mercy I had was that your death was a quick one.

War broke out a week later.”

“With...HYDRA?” Steve murmured, feeling a shiver run down his spine. He laid a hand over his chest, where he knew a puckered scar laid. It was always tender to touch. “How did you become a Fallen? Get captured? You said your brother…? And...how am I here? How are you here?”

The questions just made her smile again, shaking her curls. “Little one, there is time, shush.”

“Yes, with HYDRA. My brother insisted on leading the first charge. I insisted on going but I was forbidden. I was forbidden without my soulmate to rule the kingdom as well. My brother, Michael, was killed in battle. The first killed amongst thousands. They put his body on a stake, where others could see it. He did not get the mercy of a slow death. 

I left that very night, I snuck out from our kingdom and trekked to HYDRA’S walls where my brother laid, decaying. It was foolish to think I could do something but I was so caught up in a rage, with the loss of you, the loss of my brother, far too much. I killed their leader that night. Schmidt choked to death on his own blood, a rod made of copper burning him from the inside out.

I was captured. I was tortured. I was made to watch as HYDRA invaded my kingdom and killed my mother and father and killed anyone who defied them, who rose up against them. I singlehandedly destroyed my kingdom with my actions. 

Time had passed and my bond with you never faded as one should when their partner dies. It was the only thing that gave me the strength to leave. To fight my way out. I did the only thing I could do. I burned my own wings off. I disguised myself as a human with what limited powers I still possessed. I found a way to earth and...found you. 

I tried to keep my distance, but I couldn’t. I was drawn to you. I still am. You know me, you know this because you’ve lived it. You were reborn as a creature of this earth but you still possess the knowledge of your other lives. I had hoped that upon seeing me you’d remember everything, but I am not that lucky. I wanted to keep you safe but I couldn’t. I failed even in that.”

Her head hung and Steve found himself drawn to her, kneeling between her legs. His nimble fingers cupped her cheek and pressed their foreheads together. She was right - he didn’t remember. Yet he had some feeling that he did. It was locked away inside of him, the key thrown away. He couldn’t explain the complicated emotions inside of him, the guilt on her face felt like a copper rod was in his stomach right now.

“I want to.” It was the only thing he could think to say, pressing their lips together.

A shiver ran down Steve’s spine at the touch of her lips to his. More than a shiver, his nerves were on fire. A trail of them spreading out in open flames in all directions. Burning from the top of his head to the souls of his feet. His shoulders ached the worst, muscles twitching, nerves searing in white-hot pain.

He couldn’t even scream, Peggy held him close and kissed him again. She was speaking to him, trying to calm him down. He couldn’t hear it, his ears were roaring.

Then all at once, it stopped. He laid against her, panting hard, feeling weak all over. His eyes slowly opened to feel a pair of wings on his back. They were just like hers - bright white. Smaller, but they felt like home when he touched them.

He remembered. He remembered Peggy, their life planned together before either was even born. He remembered going to school with her, stealing sweets from the kitchen, sparring with Michael, decades and decades of reading in the library.

He remembered the nervous feeling of the ceremony, his last sight was of Peggy before he just woke up one day, here, in Brooklyn. None the wiser.

“Steven? Are you…?” Steve pulled away and shakingly got to his feet, flexing the wings slowly with a shaken grin. She looked up at him with a fierce amount of pride that made his heart melt. 

“I remember,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “And we’re going to get our kingdom back, Pegs. HYDRA will fall, I promise you that.”

#Steggy #StevePeggy #Steggy Prompt #Royal AU #Wing AU #Fantasy AU #Modern Royal AU #Nonny Prompt #A long one

[hplovefat]

Tracked down a classic

The Waist Lines

Tuesday, 30 December 2014

A Fattening Study

This one's inspired by a real-life actual overeating experiment.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dAQr77QMJiw

However, I changed it up so that the participants had to gain way more weight in a longer period of time.

“First of all I want to thank you all for coming. We realize that we are asking for quite a bit of sacrifice on your part, but we want to ensure you that it’s going towards a great study. When I call your name please take your binder. It will contain nutrition guidelines and general information you need to follow for the next nine months.” Said a slender grad student in a lab coat. He’s trying to calm anyone down with cold feet meanwhile the only thing keeping me in this building is the money. “Get paid to eat” that was the subject line of the email my roommate sent me for the application to be apart of this study. Little did I know that it was a study on obesity and that applicants have to agree to gain weight every month in order to get the paycheck. Not only that but I have to be poked and prodded by doctors checking my overall health. But living in the city is expensive and working as a barista paid jack squat. “Thomas?” The grad student called my name. I walked up to the Doctor McDreamy wannabe and received a binder with my name on it. Inside were some general guidelines on nutrition so participants wouldn’t need a coronary bypass, a credit card with our monthly allowance for groceries, and also some rules for the study. For my body type I needed to eat at least 3000 calories a day, just to start off with! I skipped to the back of the binder and was horrified to see by month eight I wouldn’t be allowed to eat less than 9000 calories a day. “I’m going to have to buy maternity clothes.” I muttered under my breath. A man beside me laughed. He must have heard me. I tried not to blush with embarrassment as his name was being called, “Axl?”

“That’s me.” He lightly replied. Axl was slender, as were all the participants for the study. One of the requirements was to be no higher than 11% body fat if you were a man and no higher than 18% body fat if you were a woman. All twenty participants had the same slender frame, including myself. My beer loving roommate Joey wanted to earn some extra cash doing these crazy experiments, but his gut got him rejected from this one, so of course he sends it to me. I looked down at my flat stomach, “I’m going to get a gut like Joey’s aren’t I?” I thought to myself. It sent a shiver down my spine. Axl comes back with his binder, “Hey, I’m Axl. You look nervous.”

“Oh… maybe a little. I really need the money, but I’ve always watched what I’ve ate, y’know?” I replied.

Axl smiled, “It’s alright. The way I see it, even if they kick you out half way that’s still a lot of money. And how hard can it be to shed a few pounds?”

“So what’s your reason for doing this?” I asked.

“I’m a little short for cash too, but also I just broke up with my gym freak of a boyfriend. I need to let go a little. Despite what he thinks my life shouldn’t revolve around my six pack.”

The grad student gave out the last binder to a tiny woman with the narrowest face I have ever seen. “Alright that’s everyone! Thanks so much again. You’ll notice that your monthly allowance for food is probably higher than you expected, but trust me you will go through it quickly. I hope your appetites are good because your nine month journey starts now.” With that, the participants started leaving the building. Some lifted up their shirts, jokingly saying goodbye to their abs. Do people think this is funny? “I think you need to lighten up.” Axl said to me as we leave the building. “It’s going to be a little disturbing, but it’s just getting fat. Is that really a big deal?”

“I guess not.” I replied, unsure of myself.

“Let’s go grocery shopping together, shake off some of the nerves and I’ll give you a ride home.” Sure beats taking the bus, I thought.

“That actually sounds great. Thank you.”

That afternoon Axl and I got our own grocery carts and filled them to the brim with what we had to eat. Our guidelines suggested chicken breasts and coconut milk, but Axl filled his cart with donuts and pastries. I threw in some butter tarts into my cart too, a secret indulgence of mine, but now I was free to eat the entire box. Axl dropped me off in front of my apartment. My arms weighed down by the bags upon bags of high calorie food I needed to eat that week. I squeezed my way through to the front door, my roommate Joey waiting for me. “So how was your first day man?! You look fatter already.”

“I haven’t started yet you knob.” I laughed, “I have to eat all this by next Monday.” Joey took a glimpse upon the mountain of food I was storing away in our kitchen.

“Aw man, I can’t wait to compare beer guts with you!”

I made tortellini that night with the heaviest cream sauce I could find at the grocery store. I had to eat the entire pot to make my quota for that day. As I shoved the last morsel into my mouth I could see Joey staring at me with the utmost delight. He thought this was hilarious. His skinny roommate Thomas was going to get as fat he was. I put my hand over my bloated stomach and tried not to think too much of it.

One week into the experiment and I could feel a difference. I could not remember what it was like to not be bloated. In order to meet my daily calorie intake, I had to gorge myself with a huge breakfast of pancakes and sausage immediately followed by my shifts at the café. Joey all the while laughing everyday at the feasts I have to prepare for myself as he sits on the couch drinking beer. I know for a fact he’s sneaking into my groceries, picking out bacon and pastries for himself. After my shift at work I went down to the grocery store to restock. “Hi there stranger.” It was Axl. “Need to stock up again eh?”

“I do. I didn’t think it was possible, but I ate everything in my cart last week.” I looked up at Axl. His face was fuller. You could even see button down shirt straining on his build. “Wow you’re really taking this seriously, you’ve filled out a little since I last saw you.”

“Ha!” He replied, “Believe me it wasn’t easy. Listen, you don’t have to stock up at the grocery store every week, there’s more than enough money in our allowance to eat out.”

“Is it allowed?”

“Of course silly! Me and a few other participants from the study are getting pizza and beer tonight, you should join us. Getting down those last few bites is a lot easier with help.”

“That sounds amazing, I could really use a break from my roommate.”

That night I met Axl and few of the other participants at a bar downtown. Everyone seemed to have a story about their first week. One guy named Andrew said he ate so much the first day he puked. Another girl named Jessie was doing this to get back at her ex who said she wasn’t curvy enough. It seemed the one thing in common with everyone is that they were enjoying this gluttonous time. The beer felt bottomless and it felt like our group ordered one of everything off the menu. I scarfed down as much pizza as I could, but I was bloated beyond belief from the beer. Axl and Andrew looked at me and then looked at my final slice. They immediately ran over to me. Andrew held my bloated stomach and Axl lifted the pizza off the plate. “C’mon you can do it.” yelled Axl. “We believe in you!” joked Andrew. It might have been the fact I was piss drunk, but I was excited for this help. I slowly but surely swallowed bite by bite of the pizza Axl fed me as the rest of the group cheered on. After the last bite there was a loud “huzzah” from the group and I rest my hands on my stomach. My face was red and sweaty from the endeavor. I just ate an entire large pizza by myself. “Thomas just doubled his quota today everybody!” screamed a drunken Jessie. Another loud “huzzah” came from our group. Double? I thought. If I keep to my quota I should already be gaining quite of bit of weight. I unbuttoned my jeans and looked forward to the next month.

A month goes by and I meet up with the rest of the group at the research building to get our monthly checkup. Joey insisted he come with me to my first weigh in. Axl finally got to meet him today after a month of me ranting about my drunken roommate. I change into skintight boxer-briefs for the weigh in and body fat test. I walk into the room and Joey’s face lights up with a horrible grin. “What?” I ask.

“Dude look at that!” he points to my stomach. It had been protruding more and more over the past month, but I didn’t think it was that bad. I started to pat my newfound gut, shaking it up and down. “As least it’s not as big as yours.” I lifted up Joey’s shirt his furry beer belly flopped down over the waist of his jeans. “You’ve been stealing my food haven’t you? You’ve definitely gotten chubbier too.” Axl then walks in, just finished with his checkup. “Are we comparing bellies?” Axl lifted up the front his shirt revealing a soft paunch. The outlines of a six pack were faded and his pecs were softer too. “I gained 21 pounds this month. Doctor says that’s the highest of all the participants so far.”

“My god!” I exclaimed. “Is that normal?”

“The first month is supposed to be a little extreme. And it looks like you’re not far behind me buddy.” Axl patted the top of my belly and watched it jiggle. The doctor walked and Axl, Joey and I pull down our shirts. “Alright Thomas, first thing I’m going to do is weigh you. You’re friends can stay as long as you don’t mind the company.”

“No way I’m missing this.” Replied Joey. The doctor and I both look at him. “They can stay. I don’t mind.”

I hopped on the scale and I could sense the doctor observing my paunch and my ass for signs of weight distribution. “At the beginning of the experiment you were 160 pounds, today you are… 179. Very interesting.” Joey and Axl burst out laughing. “I’ve gained almost twenty pounds? In a month…” I responded. “Yes.” The doctor replied, “You and another young lad are tied for second for rapid weight gain.”

“Number one being me.” Axl boasted patting his stomach.

“You realize that you will have to increase your daily calorie intake…” The doctor exclaimed as he began to measure my waist, “both of you.” Pointing to me and Axl. “As for you.” Looking at Joey, “You should consider switching to light beer.”

The three of us walked to the lobby to pick up our paychecks. Joey left leaving Axl and I waiting in line with the other participants who had just gotten out of their examinations. “My boobs have gotten so big.” One girl exclaimed. “I can’t even button my slacks.” Said another guy. I picked up my check and I’m immediately bombarded with invites to go out and eat. I couldn’t resist the company of these people and Axl was buying.

For my second examination, I had to schedule the day after everyone else’s due to a work emergency. I didn’t get to see Axl or the rest of the expanding gang. This month I was forced to eat no less than 4000 calories a day. Apparently I had no trouble because I managed to get up to 193 pounds. I had gained over 30 pounds since the experiment started and I wasn’t even halfway done. A portion of this month’s paycheck had to go into buying new clothes. None of my pants could button and the black polo I wore to work was riding up. If I wasn’t wearing an apron people would see the underside of my gut. When it comes to any humiliating aspect of this process, naturally Joey wants to come along. Joey took the doctor’s advice to heart this month. He switched to light beer. He’s just as drunk, but not getting any fatter. Good for Joey… I guess. I squeezed my ass into a pair of 34’s lifting up my paunch in order to get better a view of the button. Joey waited outside the changing room with his devilish smirk, holding my bags of medium to large shirts and enjoying himself a little too much. “Did you say those are 34’s?” asked Joey.

“Yeah.” I replied, “But there a little snug, I think I’ll go up a size, maybe some room to grow.”

“That’s kinda funny.” Joey smirked, “Because 34’s are what I wear buddy. You’re just as big as me!”

“There’s no way.” I replied.

“Wanna bet?” Joey pulled me to the change room mirror. He lifted up his shirt and gestured for me to lift up mine. Low and behold, my gut was almost as big as Joey’s beer belly. His was remarkably more furry, but the size was undeniably close. “You’re still a little bigger.” I exclaimed.

“Yeah maybe, but you’re catching up pretty quick tubby.” He replied patting my gut.

After I got home, I quickly changed into my comfortable size clothes and headed to the grocery store. I found it harder and harder to follow the nutrition plan while still consuming enough calories. I had to resort to donuts and bacon and other super fatty, sugary goods on top of the chicken breasts and potatoes just to make the quota. I pushed my overloaded cart to the checkout aisle when a familiar face walked up to me. “Hey man I haven’t seen you in a couple weeks.” Axl was behind me with his cart. He gut protruded a little more, but he didn’t look much bigger. “How was your checkup? Any big changes?” I asked.

“I only gained 11 pounds this month. I had a little bit of a cold. Slowed down my eating. But look at you, you’ve got a proper gut there!”

I could feel myself blushing, “Yeah I know. I had to buy new clothes today.”

“Oh my god. I need to get some new jeans stat.” Axl lifted the front part of his shirt to reveal that his jeans were only done up to the second button. The rest strained to support his belly. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Listen, you should come by my place. I’ll cook dinner and we can catch up.”

I took up on Axl’s offer and went over to his apartment for what I imagine to be a feast of a dinner. The second I walked in the door he threw me a beer. Axl laid out a platter of meat and cheese and told me to dive in while he was cooking the pasta. I stuffed myself with almost every bite of the fettuccini. “I feel like I’m going to burst. I can’t possibly eat anymore.” I exclaimed. Axl, put down his fork finishing off his meal. Axl’s pants had become completely unbuttoned during the meal to make room for his bloated stomach. “C’mon, we’re almost at our quota. Here, let me help you.” Axl hoisted himself out of his seat and waddled towards me. He bent down and unbuttoned my new jeans. “There. Now you have some room.” I felt the zipper sliding down from the pressure of my bloated gut. Axl then grabbed the last forkful of pasta and lifted it up to my mouth. With a great amount of strength I swallowed the last morsel and sighed with relief. Axl and I sat on his couch watching TV burping and letting the meal settle. I headed home around midnight that night. When I got through the front door I turned on the light and to my surprise Joey was sitting on the couch. “Oh hey.” He says with a muffled tone, “I thought you were spending the night at Axl’s.” Joey was shirtless his mouth, chest, and beer gut covered in crumbs and smears of chocolate. “You’re eating my food? Joey, the reason I bought this stuff is because it’s all super high in calories in fat. I need it for my diet.”

“I dunno. It seems like you’re doing pretty well without it.” He responded pointing and my unbuttoned jeans.

“Yes. Axl stuffed me with pasta tonight. Now move over.” I collapsed on the couch beside Joey, my medium black t-shirt riding up over my navel. I took an éclair out of the box and started scarfing it down. “I thought you said you were stuffed?” asked Joey. “I said I was stuffed… about an hour ago. I’m hungry all the time now.” Joey looked at his gut and than looked at mine. For the first time since the experiment started, Joey’s smirk faded away. “Dang dude. You’re… you’re going to get fat.”

“I know.” I swallowed the last bite of the éclair and immediately grabbed another from the box, “believe me dude I know.”

Third month’s examination was more intense than the first two. Blood tests and fitness tests were included. I had to wear track shorts and an under armor shirt I hadn’t worn since the experiment began. I wheezed running on the treadmill as the doctor waited eagerly to check my vitals. He could not stop staring at my belly, which hung on my waist, the underside exposed by the tight shirt. After being poked and prodded I was given a towel and was told I could wait in the lobby for my paycheck. Joey was waiting outside wearing the same sweatpants for the past week. A lot of his pants barely close ever since I started letting him eat from my groceries. He handed me a hoodie to cover up my protruding belly, but it gets swiped away from Axl who just got out of his physical. “Hold on there buddy don’t cover up just yet, I haven’t got a chance to look at you yet!” Axl pushed my shirt up towards my softening pecs to expose my gut fully. He cupped the bottom and started chuckling. “Great process buddy! Where are you at now?”

“I broke 200. Doc says I’m overweight now.” I replied.

“Ha! I broke 200 last month, but good for you it means you’re still qualified for the money! A couple girls and one guy dropped out. Couldn’t handle embracing the lack of vanity I guess.” All the participants were getting just as fat as I was. Girls’ breasts and hips were bulging out of their sides, stomachs protruding out of their shirts, while the guys’ paunches were turning into solid beer guts. “Just gotta keep thinking about that paycheck I guess.” I exclaimed.

“Yeah the money’s great, but I’m loving this.” Axl lifted his sweatshirt to reveal his belly, pushing it out to emphasize its roundness. It hung over his the waistband of his tight sweatpants. This month I spent a lot of time with Axl. I would go over to his place for meals or he would come visit mine. We go out to eat with the other participants or sometimes just with each other. No matter what, however, Axl would always end up feeding me after I felt like I was going to pop. I never had to do the same for him. Axl had a ferocious appetite and it was rubbing off on me.

Two months later into the experiment and even though I had to buy bigger clothes again, I was really enjoying my time with Axl. My weight gain had steadied putting me at around 215 pounds at my last examination. Axl who was a couple inches taller than me weighed in at 234 pounds. No matter how many times we compared guts his was always bigger. It felt like I was never going to catch up. Joey and I got to the examination early. It was evident that we both had gotten noticeably bigger as we squeezed through the turnstile doors. I changed into my boxer briefs and waited for the doctor to arrive. I sat in the chair and let my belly sit on my lap. Joey sat across from me, eyes glaring. “See something you like?” I asked.

“Dude, you’re really fat now. Like… it’s not even the gut anymore. Your face is rounder and by God your thighs are getting enormous. I think you’re bigger than me now.”

“Joey, I let you eat my food. You must have gained 20 pounds since I started.” I got up and felt my gut shake. I pointed to my protruding belly. “This is a desperate attempt to get some cash. This however…” I lifted up Joey’s shirt. “This is from being a total pig.”

“Vent all you want dude.” Joey replied pulling his shirt down over his furry beer gut, “That’s not going to change the fact that we are the same height, but I weigh only 215 pounds when you clearly weight more than that.” The doctor walked in with his morning coffee. “Hello Thomas. You’re making quite some progress. It’s not a race you know.” I looked down and my swollen pudge hanging over the waistband of my boxerbriefs and laughed uncomfortably. Joey smirked as I got on the scale. “229 pounds.” Said the doctor. “Told ya you were bigger than me.” Joey exclaimed. I had gained almost 70 pounds since this experiment had started. I changed into my sweat pants and a large hoodie and was about to leave when Axl popped his head into the doctor’s office door, “Hey! Sorry are you done, I was little late to my physical today.” I smiled and nodded as I let Axl into the room.

“You can stay if you like.” Axl said as he started stripping into his underwear. “I’m not shy.” Axl stood in the doctor’s office with nothing but skin-tight boxer briefs. He must’ve had them when the experiment started because they barely covered his ass.. The doctor gestured him to hop on the scale. “230 pounds.” Everyone’s expression dropped. “I lost weight?” Axl asked.

“It appears so.” The Doctor replied, “Have you been consuming enough calories?”

“And then some.” Axl responded, “Just ask Thomas.”

“Believe me he’s been eating just as much as me.” I replied.

“This happens a lot, especially with young men. Your metabolism has kicked into overdrive and it makes it harder to put on weight. Unfortunately, this is an overeating and obesity experiment and it requires all participants to gain a steady amount of weight for nine months. If you plateau we’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“C’mon doc!”  I exclaimed. “Look at him. Feel the size of his gut, look how big his ass has gotten and his second chin is coming in. He’s gained a ton of weight and now you’re kicking him out ‘cause he had bad month?”

“Axl has been on our watch for the most rapid body fat percentage increase… If he gains weight this month… we can keep him in the experiment.” Axl and I sighed with relief. There’s no way I could continue on without my encourager. “Thanks buddy.” said Axl as he put his jeans and t-shirt on. “Don’t mention it. And don’t worry we’re going to help each other. I going to get you busting out of those jeans before this month is over.” That night Axl came over to my apartment. We ordered a mountain of thai food and then I stuffed him full of donuts that I swiped out of Joey’s hands. There was one more donut left. “Thanks Thomas, but I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.”

I bent down and unbuttoned Axl’s jeans and watched the force of his swollen gut push down the fly. “There. Now you have more room.” We both smiled as I lifted the last donut to his mouth. That night Joey, Axl and I passed out on my futon.

A month of almost daily encouragement later, I took Axl out for a large, heavy breakfast before our weigh in, just to be safe. The diner beside the research building had great pancakes and waffles. We ate like pigs, but I made a special effort to stuff Axl. The button on his jeans haven’t been able to close for the past week, as I had promised. As we were about to leave we bumped into Andrew and Jessie, “Hey guys! We haven’t seen you in a while. You got… big” They said as they were getting up from their table. They both had gotten noticeably fatter, Jessie with her wide hips and double chin and Andrew with his ball belly, but it was true, no one could compare to Axl and I. We walked into the research building together. Joey was waiting on bench outside the doctor’s office. “Where were you guys? I’ve been waiting.”

“Sorry Joey, we got breakfast for one final stuffing session.” I replied.

“And you didn’t invite me?” He asked.

“I don’t think you need any more big breakfasts pal.” I poked Joey’s beer belly that was pushing out of his extra large plaid shirt. “You’re not even getting paid.” Joey sucked in his gut the best he could and tried to adjust his shirt out of embarrassment. Andrew, Jessie, Axl, and I decided we would do our weigh ins together this time. Even Joey wanted in on the action. We walked into the doctor’s office and stripped. A big “woof” came from everyone when I took of my shirt. I did a quick truffle shuffle, my newest and now most common party trick. The doctor walked in slightly shocked by the small group of half naked fat people in his office. Axl was the first to get up on the scale. Everyone gave his gut a slap for good luck. “248 pounds.” Said the doctor. Axl cheered and immediately gave me a hug. I our bellies pressed together and I could feel my breakfast coming up so I pushed him aside so we could get to my turn. “251 pounds.” Said the doctor. For the first time in six months I was heavier than Axl..Joey walked over to me like a proud father. “Look at that monster! I remember when this one freaked out when we had the same size jeans. Now look.” He shoved his gut up against mine. Mine was definitely larger and I got love handles and a bigger ass to boot. After everyone was done getting examined – Joey weighed in at 230 pounds – I changed into my jeans. They were a stretched out size 38. I squeezed the button close and let my belly flop over the waist. I looked at myself in the mirror. I grabbed my gut and shook it up and down. I was able to lift the entire thing with my hands. I turned to look at my love handles that had become more prominent as well as my beefier thighs and ass. Axl stepped beside me and started to do similar things. “Yep, They’re real.” He joked. He gave my gut a good slap and left the doctor’s office. I put my sweater on and looked at myself in the mirror again. When I pictured myself fat and I imagined something more horrifying than what I saw in front of me. I thought it was going to be gross, but I liked my larger frame. I like how soft my man boobs felt, I liked the way my gut protruded out of everything I owned. I walked into the lobby letting my gut relax, showing off what I had accomplished in the past 6 months. I was surprised to see a mountain of pizza boxes. The researchers decided to give us a little extra thanks this month. For the next two hours I watched 15 overfed, overstuffed participants pig out on pizza. I was forced to unbutton my jeans and have everyone come up to me asking if they could feel my gut.

The final three months of the experiment were not easy. Axl and I had to eat up to 10,000 calories a day. Luckily we had each other to help. Joey grew out a scraggly beard, went back to regular beer and took up the same eating habits I had. He was constantly trying to best Axl in eating contests, but would always lose. The pigging out really impacted is waistline. Joey was fatter than ever and he didn’t even get paid for it. For the final examination the participants were encouraged to wear the clothes they wore on the first day. I waddled into the building jeans unbuttoned and below my ass. The shirt I wore on my first day barely covered my navel and would roll up underneath my supple man boobs. Joey was behind me wearing track pants and a t-shirt that barely covered his huge, furry gut. “Let me take a look you… one last time.” He told me.

“I’m not going to be able to lose the weight over night Joey. You’re going to be seeing this for quite a while.” Joey grabbed my gut and started rubbing it.

“I know dude, but I just feels like yesterday that this monster was just a little guy and now look at it!”

I lifted Joey’s shirt. “Yours isn’t bad either pal.” Joey looked down and started lifting his beer belly up and down, feeling the weight. Axl then walked in wearing the same jeans that were not completely unbuttoned and rided below his ass. He also wore a button down shirt that only buttoned in the middle exposing his massive gut. All the participants wore similar things, exposing all the places they gained weight. It was clear everyone was obese as the experiment entailed. Axl came up to me, gave me a kiss, and immediately started lifting my gut up and down. “You’re looking good Thomas. Still nervous?”

“Nah. You look good too buddy.”

“Hey lover boys!” yelled Joey from the doctor’s office. “Research guy is waiting for ya.” I hopped on the scale. While I waited for the numbers to adjust I noticed the grad student who handed me my binder on the first day was weighing me. His face was fuller though and he had a small gut protruding out of his button down shirt. “Gained a little weight too eh?” I asked jokingly.

“Yeah, a little. You folks have been rubbing off on me.” The numbers finally stopped.

“Thomas your final weight is, 304 pounds.”

“I broke 300?!”

“First one today. You proud of yourself?” The grad student asked.

I smiled and hopped off the scale. After some more tests I found out I had tripled my body fat percentage as well. I looked at myself in the mirror as I pulled up my impossibly tight jeans. I had become a genuine fat ass. It was Axl’s turn to get on the scale.”Axl your final weight is 315 pounds.”

“I put on 150 pounds?”

“Yep. Heaviest so far.” Exclaimed the grad student.

Axl started to chuckle, his belly shaking simultaneously. Afterwards everyone moved into the lobby for a few photos. Everyone was laughing and comparing bellies. The grad student got up and started to make a speech. “I want to thank everyone here again. I’m so glad you were able to treat this entire process with a great sense of humor. And to show my support I will confess that I’ve gained 20 pounds as well.” The grad student lifted his shirt to show off his paunch and the entire group cheered. He pulled down his shirt and continued to speak. “I also have some good news for anyone who is interested. I know some of you are eager to hit the gym and to shed these extra pounds, but the lab is offering an extended research participant contract to anyone in this study who is obese, which luckily is all of you.” Everyone looked at each other puzzled. “You would continue to get paid and all you would have to do is maintain or gain weight for the next year. Any takers?” Axl’s hand shot straight up. Mine quickly followed.

[goodgodbean]

East to West - Calum

Hey guys! It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything for tumblr, but I had a daydream about this and decided to write it! Let me know what you guys think! I hope you enjoy it!

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Masterlist

Part 2

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Synopsis: Calum gets a drawing done by a psychic of his soulmate and hires a P.I. to try and find her. 

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Pluto - Part 1

The paper used to be thick and heavy, but that was before it was stuffed into back pockets and backpacks. It was textured and crisp before it was folded neatly, thrown crumpled into the trash, then picked out again and flattened. The pencil marks used to be able to be seen below the inked outline, but a gentle touch on the picture for years had worn it away. 

It was Ashton’s idea. A stupid trend he’d seen on Tiktok. He brought it up to Calum jokingly one day when Calum was wistfully watching Ashton with his girlfriend. It was only 30 American dollars to have a supposed Psychic draw Calum’s soulmate. In his defense, he was drunk when he purchased the drawing and payed extra to have the original copy be sent to him. 

As if it was the other person in the room Calum stared at the drawing laying on his coffee table. Some days he swore it blinked back at him when he stared too long. He photocopied the original about 3 hours ago and it sat under the original. 

“You’re looking for this person?”

“yeah - i mean - its a drawing” The man that sat across from Calum nodded his head. Perhaps he spent time with the emotionally unstable often. 

“Do you know anything about her?” The sentence seemed gentler than any spoken previously. God. Did this guy really think Calum was unhinged?

“I got a psychic to draw my supposed soulmate. I don’t know if she even exists -“ Calum looks up to the man. He has dark almost black hair that was long - but not too long. He had brown eyes that were dark - but not too dark. He dressed nicely but nothing exactly stood out about him. Nothing stood out about him at all. His nose was perhaps a little crooked, but it could’ve just been shadows. 

The man smiled. He knew the star must’ve had just too much money on his hands and not enough friends to become so desperate. There wasn’t exactly another explanation to hiring a Private Investigator to investigate a drawing of a woman who might not even exist. The man figured he would try a few recourses, half-ass it, say he couldn’t find the woman, and then collect his substantial cheque. 

The man reaches for the original copy, but Calum quickly intercepted him. “No-no, please. Take this one.” Calum hands him the photocopy. 

The man nods an empty promise and leaves with the photocopy tucked in his back pocket, not unlike how Calum tucks the original. 

Across the nation in a little apartment in New York City, she waters her plants. She presses kisses to her fingertips and then brushes her hands across the leaves of the basil. Her little windowsill garden is a fraction of what she wishes she could have, but it settles her needs for herbs and to keep something alive other than herself and her cat, Mischief. 

Gently she plucks a leaf off the basil plant and chews a little of it. Becca drifts across the dull cement floors to the kitchen, where her pesto was sitting in the food processor. She washes the rest of the leaf off before dropping it into the the mixture. She pinches a little bit more pepper into the mixture and then blends again. 

“Missy! Food!” Becca jiggles the food bucket and portions out some and dumps it into the food bowl. The white and black cat prowls into the kitchen to eat as the landline rings. Becca leaves the food on the table and lifts the phone from the wall hook. 

“Hello?” The problem with the old landline that came with the apartment was that it didn’t come with caller ID.

“Hey! Becca?” A male voice echos across the old line. The voice brings a smile to Becca’s face, and blocking out the noise of Mischief eating and the blender, she responds. 

“Hey Benny! How are you? How’s your mom?” Becca leans against the wall next to the hook and curls her fingers into the cord. 

Benny, on the other side, chuckles, “She’s doing good! Missing her favorite daughter, of course!” The blender stops. 

“You can’t say that Benny! Emily is a great daughter! And - that’s not even counting that I’m not actually related!” The thought of Benny and Emily’s mom makes her smile though. Something about the woman was like the mom she’s never had. When Benny and her broke up, it hurt more to think that his mom wouldn’t be in her life anymore. 

“She’s a brat. But never mind that. I’m calling for a reason.” Benny, who moved to Los Angeles, always seemed to have a reason to call her. It’s become an inside joke to Becca that he just calls to talk because he misses home. When it was announced that Benny was going to move across the country to California, it seemed like a good time to end their relationship. There wasn’t anything exactly wrong with the relationship, but it felt more like a place holder than an epic romance that Becca dreams of.

“Oh?” Becca quirks a brow, even though he couldn’t see her. 

“I made friends with this guy -“ 

“A special friend?” Becca pinches her lips together to try not to laugh. 

“Ha-fucking-ha.” Becca could feel the eye roll through the phone. “No, he’s a private investigator and got hired by this - like singer dude. Or he’s in a band? I’m not too sure.” Benny’s voice begins to fade as he drifts into thought.

“Okay, okay your point?” Becca tries to bring him back to reality. He starts rambling, but Becca becomes distracted as her apartment door handle rattles. Her roommate and good friend basically falls through the door carrying about 15 grocery bags. Mischief spooks and hisses at her when she tumbles in. Becca silently laughs as Charlotte catches her eye and rolls hers. Char makes a big show of glaring at the cat and hissing back at him. Benny is still talking on the line as Becca and Char mouth a short conversation. 

Pointing to the phone, Becca mouths “Benny” in response to Char’s last question. Charlotte nods and begins to bustle around the kitchen. Becca finally tunes back into the phone just time to hear “-and the drawing? It looks just. like. you.”

“What?” 

“I know right! It’s crazy! You might be this guys soulmate! I know we were never really meant to be but…wow. Will you remember me when your famous?” Benny rambles on, Becca hanging onto his metaphorical coat tails, trying to keep up. 

“What?”

“Oh, your in shock! I totally understand,” He sounds sympathetic over the line, “But I haven’t told my friend about you yet. Do you want me to?”

“No-no-no what is going on? I missed it.” Becca watches Char move around the kitchen, putting away groceries. 

He talked slow and over pronounced every word as he explained again what had happened, “This guy- this musician, Calum Hood, hired my friend, the P.I., to find this girl he has a picture of. The guy apparently went to like a psychic to draw a picture of his soulmate. I saw the copy - it looks just like you.”

“Calum Hood has a picture of me?” Becca asks confused. This makes Char pop her head up from behind the fridge to watch Becca on the phone - as if she could listen to what Benny was saying. 

“Yeah -well -not a picture per-say. Its a drawing. By a psychic.” Becca’s mouth drops into an O shape. Her eyes lock with Char’s who is still standing in the open fridge. 

“I’m gonna call you back.” Is all that Becca can manage to say while staring down Char. 

“NO - no. Wait! Do you want me to tell my friend about you? I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to…” Becca could tell over the phone how eager Benny is to say something to his friend. She could feel his excited jitters, sure that Becca is going to say yes. 

“No, not yet. Bye” Becca hangs up the phone in a daze, not waiting for a response, and slowly sits at the kitchen table. 

Char closes the fridge door and sits across from Becca. She leans her elbows on the table and tilts her head before asking, “What was that about?”

“It was Benny.” Becca tries to brush it off. 

“Why was Benny talking about Calum Hood? Thought he was the mildly-depressing-coffee-house music type.” Char pushes on, trying to squeeze the details out of her. 

“No, I’m going to go to bed, I think.” Becca stands and makes her way across the small living area to her bedroom and locks herself inside. 

Charlotte sat at the table staring at the bedroom door and then at the half finished basil pesto and then at the clock that reads 6:00pm.

#calum hood #calum #calum 5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos #luke 5sos #5sos smut #ashton irwin #ashton #masterlist #ashton 5sos #ashton imagine #5sos imagine #luke hemmings #blurb #luke imagine #fluff #luke #luke hemming imagines #luke hemming #michael clifford #micheal clifford #michael imagine #5SOS Michael #michael smut #five seconds of summer #fanfiction #famous #fanfic

[illfoandillfie]

Interloper

Request:  Sorry if this is a weird request but can you do a thing where the reader is apart of Queen and after a concert Roger, Brian and John just pass her around like she’s just holes to fuck but when they’re done they’re all super soft and sweet (and Reader’s maybe a little snarky)

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Brian May x John Deacon x Reader

Warnings: Big Ol’ Smut-fest - 18+!, Hate fucking (kind of?), oral sex (m receiving), degradation, facial, handjob, unprotected sex, anal, light spanking, orgasm delay, choking, nipple play, tit fucking (blink and you’ll miss it), free use,dom/sub dynamics (sub!reader)

Words: 5990

A/N: I seem to have gotten myself a reputation for writing group sex and honestly i love that for me. (Is it my brand?) Anyway, I hope the anon who requested this enjoys it!

Taglist: @laedymoon  @somekind-ofcheese @dtfrogertaylor @ezmina98  @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @bowiequeen

The stadium was darker now than it had been when you left the stage. It was quieter too, no longer drowned in the noise of the music or the crowd. They’d been wild, making you feel truly welcome on the stage for the first time since the tour started a week earlier. You sighed and dropped what remained of your cigarette next to your previous one, grinding it under the heal of your boot. If you were lucky the boys would have already headed off to the afterparty, left you to get changed in peace and make your way there in your own time. It was part of why you stayed behind, hidden in the wings as you watched the last of the crowd drift out and roadies pack up the instruments and dismantle the lighting rig. You’d needed a smoke anyway, and to try and burn every second of the show into your long-term memory, so it was the perfect excuse. Although, you would have done anything to avoid the rude comments and criticism that were sure to be hurled in your direction had you headed backstage straight away. Because that’s all you’d been getting lately. Not from Freddie, though if anyone had a right to bitch and moan it was him since you were playing second vocalist. Brian’s attitude you could also understand since they had you on guitar for a couple of songs too, but John and Roger had absolutely no right to treat you as appallingly as they had been. You thought it was out of some stupid sense of band loyalty but Freddie insisted it was because they missed shagging you. Maybe you were both right.  

Your footsteps echoed off the walls as you made the solitary journey back to the dressing rooms to change into something a little less stage worthy but no less eye-catching, praying you’d find it empty. You were almost there when you heard voices coming from the other end of the corridor. It had to be them on their way out. With a deep breath you squared your shoulders and held your head high and kept walking right at them. Roger whacked into your shoulder as he passed you, with far too much force for it to be an accident.  “Watch it arsehole,” you spat at his back.  He flicked the V at you.  “Out of the way,” Brian snarled as he shoved past you, followed by a snickering John. You ignored them as best you could, continuing on your way. Clearly the phenomenal show had done nothing to change their minds. If anything, they were more aggro now, having seen the audience, their fans, embrace you wholeheartedly. Freddie was a few steps behind them, flashing you an apologetic look as he reached you, but you waved him off.  “It’s fine,”  “Their being right cocks and you know it.”  “Yeah but I don’t know how to get them to stop. I’ve tried explaining, I’ve tried reasoning, I’ve tried being a bitch, I’m giving up. Clearly it doesn't matter to them that we used to get on so well, so I’m done trying.”  “They need a good stern talking to. Sit them down like naughty schoolboys and yell for a bit.”  You laughed, “Yeah, maybe."  “All I know is It's getting boring, this winging.”  “For me two Fred. But they can’t keep it up for the whole tour, that’s bloody months. They’ll have to get sick of it soon.  His shrug was disheartening but he didn’t have a chance to say much more as Brian called for him to hurry up.  “Do you want me to wait for you?”   “Nah, you go ahead,”  He nodded, leaving you with a squeeze of your shoulder. You took your time getting changed into a short tight dress, sequins around the hem to catch the light, perfect for a party and, bonus, not stinking of your sweat, before grabbing your stuff and heading out to the car.  

The party was in full swing when you got there, music blaring and drinks flowing. You rolled your eyes at the sight of Brian chatting up a woman almost young enough to be his daughter and skirted around them on your way to the bar. You were two shots in, starting to wonder which of the people making eyes at you would be worth your time, when you felt a hand on your waist. Turning your head just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye you realised who it was, cutting him off before he could utter whichever godawful pickup line he was about to use.  “Fuck off Roger, I’m not who you’re looking for.”  His hand slipped away from you, “Oh for fucks sake, it’s you.” He was slurring just enough to notice, “Thought you’d be off slutting it up by now.”  “Isn’t that your job?”  “Pretty rich coming from someone who blew her way to the top. At least I fucking worked for it.”  “You know I worked for it too,”  “Sure, worked at suppressing your gag reflex.”  “God I am so fucking sick of this shit. How many times do I have to tell you none of it was my fucking idea? Freddie was the one who set up the meeting with the record company and they were the ones who thought it’d be a good idea to stick me on the album. I didn’t volunteer for this. Believe me, if I had shagged myself into a record contract I wouldn’t be hanging around with you pricks. I’d be releasing my own album with my own songs.”  “You used to like our pricks. Couldn’t get enough of them.”  “Jesus, Freddie was right.”  “About what?”  “Nothing. Sod off would you? There’s a guy over there who looks hung and easy and your scaring him off,”  “Not me, love, your atrocious singing’s done that already.”  “You’re such a wanker.”  “Bitch,”  “Cunt,”  “Now now children. Meant to be a party.” Freddie said, tapping on the bar for another drink.  “It’s fine Fred, I’m...”  “Don’t you dare say you’re going. This is your party too and it’s much too early for a cohost to leave,” he turned towards Roger, “pull your head in Rog, just for one night.”  “Can’t believe you’d take her side in all this, she’s a fucking bitch,”  “Used that one already Rog, getting sloppy.”  “Oh enough already. I’m sick of the constant bickering. Where are Bri and Deaky we need to have a band meeting, upstairs, now.”  “Christ, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”  “Just find them.” 

Freddie charmed the key to a function room out of the bartender’s hands and the two of you made your way upstairs. You both fell silent as you waited in the dimly lit room. There were a number of large round tables covered in white table clothes, each surrounded by chairs. Some of them were still laid out with cutlery and half-drunk jugs of water, left overs from whichever event had finished before your party started, the staff called away to help man the bar and offer appetisers to everyone downstairs before they could finish tidying up.  “Wonder what was going on in here?” you asked as you sat in one of the chairs  “Wedding reception?” Freddie ventured, halfheartedly.  You both fell silent, not entirely sure what else to say. He’d listened to you whine about the other three enough times to know everything you were thinking and you could tell his patience was wearing thin. It took the others about twenty minutes before they joined you, grumbling the whole time.  “C’mon Fred, what’s this about? Ruined my shot with Tabitha just now,”  “Tabitha? That’s a cat’s name,”  “Shut up Deacy,”  Roger laughed as he dropped into a spare seat, already pushed out from a table.  “Shut up all of you.” Fred said loud enough to make them pause.  John turned away from Brian, looking for a place to sit, when his eyes fell on you, the grin sliding off his face, “What’s she doing here? Thought this was a band meeting?”  “It is,”  “She’s not part of the fucking band Fred,”  “On this tour she is.”  “No way,” Brian half shouted, “If that interloper is here then I’m going,”  “Brian, fucking hell, just stop for two seconds.” Freddie stepped in front of the door to block Brian’s path, and looked over to you. For a moment you thought he was going to try and appease Brian by throwing you out but instead he just said, “give them a right bollocking,” before darting out the door and slamming it shut. All four of you were frozen until you heard the unmistakable sound of the lock and then Brian was at the door, jiggling the knob and yelling, “let us the fuck out of here Mercury, or I swear to God.”  “Not until you sort your shit out.” Freddie yelled back, “I’m off to have another drink, I’ll be back in a few hours and I expect you all to be friends by the time I return.” 

“This is all your fault,” Roger pointed at you, catching the attention of the other two, “You shouldn’t even be here,”  “And why not?”  “Because you’re not part of Queen.”   “You heard Freddie, I am for this tour.”  Your statement was met with scoffs of derision and rolled eyes.  “Jesus, what is your problem?” You turned your back on Brian to glare at John and Roger, waiting for someone to answer. John was the first to speak, surprising you. His resentment had always been a bit quieter than the other two, whispered comments and underhanded criticisms rather than outright name calling. If anyone had been taking bets you would have placed your money on Brian throwing the first stone.   “Our problem is you. Just turned up one day and started singing”  “And playing guitar,” Brian chimed in.  “Yes, exactly,” John continued, pointing at Brian to emphasise his point, “And we had to change shit to accommodate you.”  “It was okay for a song or two but a whole album?” Brian scoffed, “And then we were told you were joining us on tour! Is it gonna happen again with the next album? It’s like your trying to worm your way into a permanent place in this band and we don’t like it.”  “Groupie’s aren’t meant to be on the fucking stage with the band they whore around for.” That was Roger.  “Jesus fucking Christ,” you got to your feet, unable to sit still any longer, “You’re acting like fucking children. You know full fucking well I didn’t organise this and if you really have that much of a problem you can take it up with any of the execs. It was all their idea. Easy way to get my name out there since I’m already acquainted with you.” You paused for a moment to take a breath, “Freddie was fucking right about you. You’re not upset with my performance. You know damn well I can sing and obviously everyone else thinks I’m good enough to be here. No, the real reason you’re all pissed off is that I don't fuck you anymore.” the longer you spoke the louder you got, feeding off the stunned looks the boys were giving each other, “You’re threatened by me because I used to be your groupie and now I’m standing in your spotlight. You’re mad that I’m getting the same sort of attention you used to get from me. Bet you get a little jealous every time you see me with some other guy. Maybe I should take it as a bit of a compliment though, since apparently no one else can suck or fuck as well as me.”  Minutes passed in almost silence, the only sound you huffing as the rage at weeks of mistreatment was released. You caught your breath, and still no one talked. The silence felt like it was closing in on you, pressing against your ears as you waited for one of them to say something in return. When none of them did you brought your hands to your hips and stared them all down, “Nothing to say? Guess that means I’m right. So I’ll make you a deal.”  “A deal?” Brian was trying to act unimpressed but there was curiosity in his tone.  “Tonight. I’ll give you tonight like I used to before you all turned into giant fucking arseholes. And in return you stop bitching about me being here. I’m not going anywhere so either you can accept my offer and be nice to me for the rest of this tour, or you can spend the next couple of months being petty dickheads. No skin off my nose what you choose. Either way I walk away from this one step closer to releasing my own music.”  “What do you mean tonight?” Roger asked, leaning forward in his seat.  “I mean that for the rest of the night I’m yours. You can share me around, do whatever you want with me, treat me like your own personal slut. And then tomorrow you’ll be nice to me. You’ll complement my singing instead of picking apart my performance. You’ll keep your rude comments and name calling to yourselves. And you’ll accept that I’m playing with you until we get told otherwise. Deal?  The three of them looked at each other. Clearly that was the last thing they’d expected you to say.  “Well? Are you in? Because if not I’m happy to try breaking down the door instead.”  “Knees. Now.”  “Jeez, alright Rog,” you rolled your eyes at his sudden shift, “d’you want me to call you Sir as well, or will my silent obedience suffice?”  “God she’s got a mouth on her,” John said, stalking towards where you stood in the middle of them all, “think it needs to be filled.”  “You always did like my mouth, didn’t y-” you were cut off by the way he grabbed your face in one hand, fingers and thumb pressing into your cheeks.  “Bitch has got an attitude problem,” he announced to the other two before lowering his voice and speaking directly to you again, “Now kneel like you were told to, so we can fuck it out of you.”  You nodded as much as you could, cheeks aching under his firm grip. He held you for a moment longer, staring at you as if he were daring you to talk back again, before he let you go. You fell to your knees instantly, looking up at him as he undressed methodically. You would have helped him tug his pants off except that Roger moved to kneel behind you, holding your wrists firmly behind your back while he leaned into your ear.  “You can call me Sir if you like. Daddy works too, know you get wet just saying it. Whatever you choose I hope you’ll remember to keep being good for us, love. We’re gonna use you every single way we can think of tonight. Show you how frustrated we’ve been with this whole situation.” The hand he wasn’t using to pin your wrists moved over your body, making you breakout in goosebumps as he teased your nipples through the fabric of your dress.  “Remind us what your safeword is,” John said, stepping closer as he lazily stroked his dick.  “Saxophone,”  “Saxophone. Good. Now open wide,” he tapped the tip of his cock against your lips and you took him in. Roger’s grip on your wrists tightened as your hand twitched, your instinct to wrap your fingers around John’s cock trying to take over. Instead you had to content yourself with bobbing down his length, pressing your tongue to the underside as you adjusted to him.  “Good girl,” he cooed softly, “gonna deepthroat me like a proper whore.”  You hum caught him off guard and he bucked his hips into you. The gag you made in response ruined any chance you’d had of taking your time to adjust, sending John into a frenzy and encouraging him to make you gag again and again. Before you knew it, he was holding your head steady as he fucked your throat, unrelentingly. Between John’s grunts and Roger’s hand, still toying with your breasts, you were completely oblivious to Brian. So, Roger releasing your hands and Brian yanking one of them up over your head, was a complete surprise. You placed the other against John’s thigh as Brian nudged your open palm with his semi-hard cock, rubbing himself against you until you closed your hand around him. Your position made it difficult to jerk him off properly, but you could feel him getting harder as he rutted into your hand. Roger took advantage of his now free hands, trailing both down your body and onto your thighs before dragging them slowly up and under the skirt of your dress. You could feel the sequins around your hem scratching lightly over your skin as the material was pushed to bunch up around your waist. You jerked your head back, releasing John with a pop as Roger rubbed your clit over your underwear. He stopped too soon, making you whine, and instead placed a hand on the back of your head.  “Thought you said we could do whatever we want with you. Don’t recall anyone saying you could stop,” he pushed your head forward again until you were once again gagging around John, “now this was your idea so you’re gonna be a good whore and take what we give you.” He gripped your hair and pulled you back before shoving you down again, all the while talking in your ear, “John wants you to swallow so you’re gonna swallow. If we want you to beg, you’ll beg. Whatever we give you, you will take and you will thank us for it. We’re going to use every inch of you. We don’t care how prettily you sing for everyone or how much money you make for the execs. We only care about how well you take our cocks, understand?”  You had no hope of responding as John resumed thrusting into your mouth but Roger didn’t seem to mind, more concerned with feeling you up. 

John’s hands replaced Roger’s on your head, his grip tightening as his orgasm drew closer. Each jerk of his hips had you gagging, mascara ringing your eyes where tears had clung to your eyelashes and been blinked off. He came with a string of grunted curses, filling your mouth, and ordered you to swallow before he let go of you, streaks of bright lipstick left in your wake. Brian gave you the few seconds it took for him to move in front of you and kick off his pants before he was grabbing your hair and pulling your mouth to his cock. With both hands free you clung to his legs, creating small, crescent shaped indents on the back of his thighs. You only noticed Roger’s absence when John, sunk to his knees beside you, his fingers taking up where Roger’s had been, prying your underwear away from you for long enough to shove his hand inside and run his fingers along your slit, pausing at your clit to rub it softly.  “God you’re fucking soaked,” he laughed, “Don’t know why I’m surprised. You came up with this little plan way too quickly for it to be spur of the moment. I think you’ve missed being our fuck toy. Probably been looking for an excuse to present yourself to us like this. I think you like being used by us and I think you missed having your holes full of us. Missed how we taste, how we make you feel,” his fingers pressed harder against your clit briefly before shifting back to the softer touch, “I think the spotlight of the stage can’t compare to the rush you feel knowing you’ve been a perfect whore for us.”  You whined around Brian earning a panted laugh from him,  “That’s right, slut,” he said from above you, “keep making those sounds. Know you want me to cum in your mouth. And all it does is prove us right.”  John pushed a finger into you, and another of your whines was muffled by Brian, burying his cock in your throat, holding you with your nose pressed into his pubic hair. A shiver ran through your body as your dress was unzipped, falling open to expose your bare back. Your chest tightened, screaming for air, and you frantically tapped on Brian’s thigh. He let you go, reeling backwards with a final gag as he slipped from your mouth and you were free to gasp for air.   “F-fuck,” you managed to choke out as your dress was unceremoniously pushed off your shoulders and down your arms. Brian was still in front of you, hand sliding up and down his shaft as he readjusted his other hand in your hair, pulling your head up a little higher.  “Close your eyes and open your mouth,” he growled, holding you still. The last thing you saw before you shut your eyes was his hand speed up, working himself to release his load over your face. Some of it landed on your tongue but more splattered over your cheek and chin.   Brian chuckled as he ran two of his impossibly long fingers over your chin, pushing the cum up to your lips. You dutifully sucked on his fingers but a loud bark of laughter distracted both you and Brian. 

“What the fuck are you doing carrying lube around in your jacket, Rog?” John was collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles.  “What? Thought that girl with the big arse might show up again tonight, wanted to be prepared.”  “You’ve been wearing the jacket all day, how long has it been in there?”  “Not that long, Crystal got it for me after the show. But y’know,” he pushed on your back between the shoulder blades until you fell forward onto your hands, “you wanna make fun of me, you won’t get to fuck her arse.” He brought his hand down onto your backside, making you jump. You felt your dress being pushed up to your waist, and your underwear being slipped down your legs until they were tangled around your knees. There was a brief pause as you heard him unzip is his pants. The next thing you expected to hear was him popping open the lube, but instead he eased into your cunt. He went slow but it made your breath catch in your throat all the same. Once he was buried in you as deep as he could go he began to pull out again, almost all the way before he snapped his hips forward, driving back into you hard.  “Oh, fuck,” you gasped, letting yourself collapse on your arms, resting your head against them. You could feel the last of Brian’s cum smearing across your cheek and onto your arm as Roger continued his slow pace. You’d almost forgotten about the lube until you head him flick open the tube. It was cold against you when he squirted a generous amount over your arse, carefully using his fingers to begin stretching you out. You moaned, the combination of his fingers and his cock pushing you steadily closer to orgasm. But not fast enough. You moved your arm, slipping it under your body with the idea of rubbing your clit until you came.  “Would one of you stop her?”  John grabbed your arm and pulled it back before you could get your fingers where you wanted them.   “No, please, I need more,” you whined, shifting your other arm out from under your head. Brian grabbed that one, both of them pinning your wrists out in front of you.  “Please let me touch,” you said into the carpet, trying to wriggle free of their grip. Roger brought the hand that wasn’t occupied down on you again, drawing a yelp from you.  “Told you we were gonna show you how frustrated we’ve been. So you don’t get to cum that easily. If you’re good you’ll be rewarded.”  He picked up his pace, rolling his hips into you faster, making you cry out though he wasn’t angled quite right to hit your g-spot. Without warning he pulled his fingers from your arse and you found yourself being yanked up, Roger’s hand wrapping around your throat to hold you against his chest. You could hear Brian laughing as your eyes fluttered shut and you moaned, only for Roger to squeeze your throat and cut it off. For a moment you floated there, willing Roger to just make you cum, but the sound of a chair being dropped in front of you brought you back to the room. John sat down and leaned forward to grab your tits, tugging on your nipples until you winced.   “Y’know, going bra-less was completely unnecessary in that dress. Just more proof you wanted to whore around for us.” He said as he used his hold on your nipples to pull you away from Roger’s chest. Roger’s hand remained tight on your throat as John slid his cock between your breasts, using his grip and the motion of Roger’s thrusts into you, to push them up and down his shaft.  “She likes it when you call her a whore. Fuckin’ squeezes her cunt.”  “Is that right, huh? You want to be our pretty cumslut that badly? Good. We’re gonna cover you in it. Gonna fill you so full of spunk you won’t be able to move without it dripping down your legs. And you’re going to beg for it, aren’t you? Go on, beg roger to cum in your pussy.”  “Pl-ease, Roger, please cu-m in my pussy.”  “More,” Roger growled as he rammed into you again and again, rapidly heading towards his climax.  “Pl-please cum in me Rog. I nee-ed it. Want, want to fee-l you fi-ll my pussy.”  Roger slammed into you twice more, hard, holding himself balls deep in you as he hit his release, grunting, voice strained as he told you what a good whore you were. 

You whined as his softening cock slipped out of you and he moved aside. But you didn’t have time to miss the feeling of being filled too much before Brian was placing his arms under your shoulders and lifting you to your feet. John stood and pushed your dress and panties from you completely, leaving you naked. You let them pull you around, barely able to concentrate on anything other than the ache between your legs and the tight coil in your stomach that felt like it could spring loose at any moment. John pushed himself onto one of the tables, legs dangling over the edge as Brian lifted you up too. You were unceremoniously dumped on John’s lap, his hands pulling you until you were lined up with his cock. He swatted at your thigh. You squeaked and sunk down onto him, rocking against him.  “Where’d that lube go?”  There was some shuffling noises from somewhere behind you followed by a triumphant, “aha!” and then John was grabbing your hips to stop you as Brian came closer. When he spoke he was right behind you, his breath on your ear sending a shiver down your spine.  “Since Rog was so good as to stretch you out for me, shouldn’t have any problems taking my cock,” he turned and spoke over his shoulder, “Thanks Rog.”  “Yeah yeah, whatever,” Roger said, voice distorted by the cigarette between his lips.  You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around John’s neck as Brian spread your cheeks and began easing himself into you. John teased you the entire time, rolling your nipples between his fingers as he told you how hot you sounded whimpering like you were. By the time Brian was fully sheathed inside you, you were panting against John’s shoulder, desperate for one of them to move properly. You squirmed between them, trying to encourage them to fuck you but neither was having it.   Brian slapped your thigh, “Hold still. You’ll get to cum once you’ve proved you can be a good slut for us.”  “I will. I am. I promise I’ll be the best slut you’ve ever had, please just fuck me.” You whined, lifting your head up so they could all hear you properly.  A chorus of laughter followed, even as you continued to beg. You were cut off mid word as Brian pulled back and plunged into you again, starting slow but rapidly picking up speed. John leaned back on one hand, his other resting on your hip, letting you rock forward on his cock with every one of Brian’s thrusts. It was by no means the first time you’d ridden John or the first time you’d let Brian in your back entrance, but you’d never had them both at the same time before. You were left completely breathless, feeling fuller than you ever had in your life. Brian was in your ear, breath coming hard as he semi-coherently grunted his thoughts about how fucking tight you felt and how much he’d missed fucking you like this. His hands were all over you, trying to find the best way to hold you as John did the same, occasionally knocking each other out of the way. The closer to the edge he drew, the tighter John held you, pushing himself to sit up a little more so he could grip you with both hands. It was intoxicating, feeling both of them practically fighting over where they could touch you, hold you, the almost innocent skin to skin contact making you burn up. Your own moans were rising in pitch as Brian slammed into you repeatedly, each thrust making your clit drag against John’s pubic bone. You shook as you finally came, feeling Brian still behind you, shooting ropes of cum into you as he groaned in your ear. John dropped his head to your shoulder as you clenched around him, swearing as he came.   “Shit,” he gasped as his orgasm subsided, “Was planning to cum on your tits. Pussy just felt too good though.” 

You could feel the mix of his and yours and Roger’s cum dripping down the inside of your thigh as John gingerly helped you off the table.   “Does that mean she’s ready for me again?” Roger asked, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back. You whimpered as he spun you round, pushing you to bend over the table. He wasted no time, plunging into your arse as you balled up the crisp white tablecloth in your fists.  “Like you best like this, a fucked out whore, all placid and obedient. No more snarky fucking comments. Just holes begging to be filled.”  You cried out as his fingers found your clit, relentlessly determined to push you over the edge again. Cum dripped out of you with every shift of your hips, little drops hitting the floor between your feet. All you could do was whine and moan as Roger ruthlessly used you, gasping and groaning himself.  “Attagirl,” Roger gently cooed when you came, shaking. He slapped your arse again as he drew closer to the edge, leaning his whole body weight on you as he fell over it. He removed himself from you and helped you to stand, catching you when your legs began to give out. You were gently lowered to the floor where you lay down, arms spread wide, breathing deeply.  “You look good like this,” Brian said, kneeling beside your head, “Makeup all smudged, sweaty and dripping. You look used.���  “You laughed softly as he lifted your head and shoulders, propping you up so you could lean against his knees.  Roger reached out to brush a sweaty strand of hair from your face, “Are you okay?”  “Yeah,” you cleared your throat to make your voice stronger, “Especially since you’re all being nice to me again.”  “Sorry we were such pricks, promise you won’t hear another bad word from us. Unless it’s well deserved.”  Before you could respond John was dropping beside you, a jug of water in one hand and a handful of paper napkins in the other.  “Sorry, door’s still locked so we can’t actually get to the bathroom or anything. But I found these on one of the tables, if you wanted to clean up.”  You thanked him, dipping the corner of one napkin in the water and taking it straight to your face, scrubbing to remove the remnants of Brian’s cum from your cheek.  “Hang on, love, missed a spot,” Roger said, taking the napkin from you and swiping at your chin. You could tell he was trying to be as gentle as possible, smiling at you when you thanked him. Brian’s fingers found their way to your arms, trailing soft, calming lines up and down your skin as you relax into him. John did a similar thing over the calf he’d knelt beside, although it felt less deliberate than Brian’s movements.   “Do you want some help cleaning up the rest of it?” John asks, pointing vaguely between your legs, cheeks still slightly flushed from the exertions of the previous few hours.  “Jeeze Deaky, give her a chance to recover before you try and get started on round...what are we up to?”  “Bugger off, that’s not what I meant,” John says, shoving Roger slightly. He turned to you, “I swear it wasn’t. You just look tired.”  “I know, John,” you reassure him, “but I think I’d rather do it myself. Sensitive and all that.”  Brian dipped his head down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, “None of us have said it yet but you were wonderful. Firstly, for suggesting it and also for taking it all so well.”  “Y’know it’s a bit of a shame you didn’t add to the mess, Brian. Could have had all three of you leaking out of me.”   “There’s still time,” Roger said, grinning mischievously at you, “technically you did promise us the rest of the night, and if I’ve gotta hold my tongue around you for months then I’d like to get as much use out of you as I can.”  “He’s right, you did say all night. And I’m certain we could find plenty of other ways to keep you busy.”  “Are you guys serious?” you said as you tilted your head back to look up at Brian, “You really wanna go again? Now?”  “Don’t worry, we’ll need a bit of time to recover first.”  “Perhaps,” John said, leaning in slightly, “Once we get out of this room, we can take you back to the hotel and figure out what else to do with you. Personally I’d like to see your tits painted with cum, but I’m sure the other two have ideas of their own.”  “Might have to stuff your panties into your cunt to stop any more from dripping out of you.” Roger said, voice low and rough, making you clench your thighs together.  “I guess I did say all night,” you said, trying not to sound too excited, “but this means I get to write a song on the next album.”  “Don’t push it, love. Just because we’re being nice doesn’t mean we’re over it.” 

By the time Freddie remembered to come and get you the four of you had redressed and cleaned up the mess you’d made. He’d opened the door to find you sitting around talking and laughing.  “Well this is different,” his voice drew your attention, “Thought I’d come back and find at least some evidence of a fight. But instead, no yelling, no broken chairs, no black eyes.”  “We came to an agreement,” you said shrugging, “They’re going to play nice from now on.”  “Y/N you common hussy, you fucked them all didn’t you? You know that’s not the sort of bollocking I meant.” 

#queen smut #queen imagine #queen fanfic #roger taylor smut #brian may smut #john deacon smut #roger taylor x reader #brian may x reader #john deacon x reader #my writing #im sorry its so late!!!! #but i hope its worth the wait

[queensofrap]

Cardi B in the March 2019 issue of Harper’s BAZAAR. QUEEN.

Cardi B Opens Up About Her "Rags to Riches" Cinderella Story

When Cardi B visits her favorite nail salon in the Bronx, she enters through a raggedy hallway covered with a rug emblazoned with the image of a $100 bill. The salon, which overlooks a bustling avenue of pizza shops, sports-gear superstores, and boutiques with weaves in 70 colors, is a temple to money, excess, and sexiness, symbolized in the application of nails that look like diamond-encrusted Buck knives. Portraits of two icons of pulchritude hang on the walls—namely, Marilyn Monroe and the very 2019 version of Marilyn: Cardi. 

With a posse that includes her dad, her half-sister, her half-brother, and two Drogosize bodyguards whose names I don’t catch but imagine to be Bulwark and Spear, Cardi, 26, heads toward a private side room. She surrenders her hands and feet to Jenny Bui, her sharp-tongued nail tech of more than half a decade, even back when she didn’t have the money to move out of this borough.

A tiny, makeup-less sprite in magenta leggings and a playful Moschino sweatshirt, Cardi talks about where she’s at today. On one hand, she says, “I feel like my life is a fairy tale and I’m a princess—rags to riches, people trying to sabotage,” she says. But she also complains fervently about being over the fairy-tale life and wanting peace and quiet. “Before, I cared about everything—relationship, gossip. Now I don’t feel like I have the time to please people,” she explains. “I don’t care about anything anymore—just my career and my kid.” What about money, the thing she raps about caring for quite a bit? “Well, I care about my career because of my money,” Cardi says, giving me a “c’mon, stupid” face.

“Before,” in this context, means before the tectonic shifts that have taken place in Cardi’s life in the past year: that she became a global superstar; relocated from New York to Atlanta to live with the charismatic rapper Offset, her new husband; gave birth to an unplanned but much loved daughter, Kulture Kiari, in July; then, five months later, after the drip-drip-drip of rumors about Offset’s infidelity, announced on Instagram that the marriage was over.

Today Cardi tells me that Offset has been to her apartment, but they haven’t seen each other and are “not really” talking, which is a bit hard to believe after she shows me videos of her gurgling baby on her iPhone and happens to scroll past a photo of Offset with a time stamp reading today. When I ask her if she’s getting back with Offset, I can almost hear her curious entourage, who have arranged themselves on sofas on the perimeter of the room, lean forward to catch the answer. For a moment, the only sound is Bui engaging in some hard-hat-level sanding and scraping of the star’s three-inch nails. Then Cardi says both, “I don’t think so,” and “Who knows? You never know, you can never tell,” neither of which is exactly a definitive answer.

I’ve interviewed dozens of pop stars, and Cardi, despite the massive entourage and the bear-claw-like nails, seems the most normal. She’s not the most down-to-earth or the most perfect, and she’s definitely not the least into social media, but she knows who she is and where she came from, and has somehow managed to keep expressing genuine emotions in the face of blockbuster success. And while her emotions can sometimes seem out of control, who hasn’t been there? We might not have screamed and thrown a shoe at Nicki Minaj at a Harper’s Bazaar event this past September (in retribution, Cardi has said, for various slights from Minaj, including liking a negative comment about her parenting skills), or allegedly ordered an attack on two female bartenders at a strip club visited by Offset (a judge issued orders of protection in December for the accusers), but we’ve all been mad as hell. And the unbearable cuteness and sexiness of Cardi, a raunchy L.O.L. doll, quickly erases those moments, drowning them in adorable high jinks.  

Leaving aside the fake nails and boob implants, with Cardi the artifice is in the artwork. In the space of less than a year, her music, videos, and fashion have made her a star of Lady Gaga proportions. She releases hit after hit; following last summer’s “I Like It,” the first Latin trap song to rise to number one on the Billboard Hot 100, with “Money,” a song, unsurprisingly, about money. In the video, she wears gorgeous clothes (she’s got “10 different looks and my looks all kill,” she raps), including outfits referencing Thierry Mugler, a gold bikini inspired by 1990s Lil’ Kim’s, and a custom Christian Cowan bodysuit fabricated from dozens of actual watches. She’s a post-Kardashian American superstar, a master of selfies, belfies, late-night Instagram videos, and all other manner of self-promotion— and also a creative genius. In 2019, no one needs to pick.  

Raised in the Bronx, Cardi was the naturally rebellious daughter of a Trinidadian-born cashier mother and a Dominican Republic–born cabdriver father. Her mother was strict. Nevertheless she joined the notorious Bloods gang, moved out of her mother’s home and in with a boyfriend and, finding herself broke, took a job as a cashier at a grocery store. To build a nest egg, she became a stripper. To build a bigger nest egg, she became a hot girl on social media. In 2015, she was cast as a lovable loudmouth on the VH1 reality show Love & Hip Hop: New York, then began releasing her own mixtapes. Her debut single, “Bodak Yellow,” went to the top of the charts, and it took her only one album to achieve escape velocity: Invasion of Privacy, arguably the best debut album from a female rapper since Lil’ Kim’s 1996 Hard Core. 

It’s an intense time for Cardi, now one of the biggest rappers—and one of the most famous women in the world—caring for an infant and dealing with a semi-estranged husband. Her answer is to be as real as she can. As much as she may imagine herself as a princess, she talks about admiring Meghan Markle for becoming a real one. “She must just be like, ‘Who am I?’” Cardi says, referring to Markle’s having to live by the royal family’s rules. Not being able to be herself would be the worst punishment for Cardi. 

Up and down, joy and pain, sunshine and rain—we’ve experienced all her days on her social media channels, where she posts close-up, emotional videos like an Instagram mime. She’s not your typical grasping celebrity, and doesn’t get off on endless adulation. “I work with somebody who gives me compliments all day, and I’m like, ‘Oh, my gosh, can you just stop?’” she says.   

Cardi’s fans have been so protective of her that when Offset broke in to her set at a concert, walking onstage with a $15,000 rolling floral display made of 2,000 roses that read TAKE ME BACK CARDI, they exploded on social media with anger over a man who refused to take a woman’s “no” at face value. (A backstage video showing one of Cardi’s reps escorting Offset to the stage did little to dim the outrage.)  

I ask if any family or friends influenced her decision to leave Offset. “No, I decided on my own,” she declares, looking me straight in the eye. “Nobody makes my decisions about my life but me.” Before they broke up, Offset begged Cardi to see a therapist. “I didn’t want to go to marriage counseling,” she says, in a firm tone of voice. “He suggested it, but it’s like, ‘I don’t want to go.’ There’s no counselor or nothing that could make me change my mind.”

Like many women who’ve experienced heartache and alleged infidelity, she seems caught between wanting to stay and leave. As Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in Eat Pray Love, Offset is “[her] lighthouse and [her] albatross in equal measure.” But Cardi also knows that dating new guys might be bizarre. “I have a kid, and I’m also famous,” she says quietly. “So I can’t just sleep with anybody. People talk. You know, if I date somebody in the industry, that’s another person in the industry. If I date somebody who is not in the industry, he might not understand my lifestyle.” Since the breakup, she’s been getting a ton of messages from guys but ignoring them. “It’s like, ‘Bro, why would you want to holler at me right away? You’re weird.’ If you think Imma automatically hop onto you after a marriage, that just means you think I’m a sleaze. And I’m not. I have a kid—I have to show an example.”

Bui, who has been listening intently to our interview while crafting Cardi’s nails, waves a hand and then interjects, “You’re so old-fashioned!”

“Jenny, just because I’m out there and very sexual doesn’t mean that I have to be whorish,” says Cardi. “I like to have sex. That doesn’t mean I have to have it with everybody.” She pauses, then adds, “Not that I judge women who want to have sex with the world.”

Done with her rant, Cardi turns her attention to her nails. “Damn, that’s sharp,” she says to Bui, whistling a little under her breath. “The polish will make them less sharp, right? Because we can’t forget about the baby.” Ignoring her, Bui says only, “Don’t move.”

Throughout our conversation, Cardi has been jiggling her leg up and down like a schoolkid. I ask her how long she’s had that habit. “Forever, and you know what? People always talk shit about it, but now it’s like, ‘Ha ha,’ because when I do it my daughter likes it,” she says.    

Despite the indelible image of Cardi breast-feeding in the “Money” video, wearing a black gown open at the bodice, she isn’t breast-feeding Kulture, whom she’s nicknamed KK. “It was too hard,” she explains. In fact, she spent most of the time after the baby was born in a haze of postpartum depression. “I thought I was going to avoid it,” Cardi says. “When I gave birth, the doctor told me about postpartum, and I was like, ‘Well, I’m doing good right now, I don’t think that’s going to happen.’ But out of nowhere, the world was heavy on my shoulders.”

Realizing that taking KK with her on the tour bus was unrealistic but unable to bear leaving her at home, Cardi dropped out of a lucrative tour with Bruno Mars. She started feeling better a couple of months after the baby was born, she says, and her mother has been helping out; Cardi hasn’t hired professional help because she isn’t sure she can trust anyone outside her family.

As a new mom, Cardi is still experiencing aches and pains. “For some reason, I still don’t feel like my body’s the same,” she says. “I feel like I don’t have my balance right yet. When it comes to heels, I’m not as good at walking anymore. I feel like I’m holding a weight on me. I don’t know why because I’m skinnier than I’ve ever been. But there’s an energy I haven’t gotten back yet that I had before I was pregnant. It’s just the weirdest thing.”

The baby is starting to help Cardi balance her emotions, though. “Sometimes I’ll see something online and it’ll piss me off, and then my baby will start crying or something, and it’s like, ‘You know what? I’ve got to deal with the milk. Forget this.’” She’s thinking about pulling back a little from social media. “I’ve noticed that every time you respond, you just make things worse, so I’m over it. I’m just over it. I really don’t need it, and sometimes it just brings chaos to my brain.” She adds, “I can stay off social media. I’ve been trying.” For months after KK was born, Cardi didn’t put pictures of her on social media, and certainly didn’t sell any to the tabloids. She says Offset wanted to put a picture up, but she was unsure.  

“As soon as she was born, one month in he was like, ‘She’s so beautiful. Watch how people gonna go crazy.’ ’Cause a lot of people were saying mean stuff, like that we don’t post her because she’s ugly. He was like, ‘I’m about to post my baby right now.’ But then we were very concerned because we were getting a lot of threats, so he said, ‘The world don’t even deserve to see her.’” Eventually Cardi wanted to put a photo up because “it’s really annoying and we don’t have a life. We have to hide her all the time. I can’t go to L.A. or Miami and walk down the beach with my baby. I want to go shopping with my baby. I want to take a stroll with my baby. Sometimes I feel bad for her because all she knows is the house.” But can’t you put on a baseball cap? I ask. Will people still recognize you? “Yeah,” she says. “It’s my nose.” 

Bui applies a final coat of purple paint on Cardi’s nails—a brief discussion ensues about whether the shade is the exact “baby purple” Cardi has requested—and then she talks about needing to get home to go to sleep. “I’ve got a big meeting in the morning in Boston,” Cardi says, nodding slowly. “Lots of money in Boston.” She begins horsing around with her six-year-old half-brother, ribbing him for being rebellious the way she used to be. “He’s a child of the corn!” she wails. “He’s just like me.” (Her half-sister adds, “Like you, sharp but sweet.”) Bui says she thought that when Cardi hit it big, she wouldn’t see her in the salon again. “I told her, ‘You’re going to forget about me,’ ” Bui says. “And she said, ‘Never.’”

#cardi b #harper's bazaar #rap #rapper #hiphop #hip hop #female rap #2019 #march #female rapper #fashion

[jawnjendes]

no one can replace me | shawn mendes

university au SUMMER, shawn x goth gf/oc

masterlist | playlist

**let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist

Days off were meant for sleeping in and being comfortably lazy. I slept until 2PM, far later than I ever slept before, and I felt anything but comfortable. The only productive thing I did was move myself from the bed to the couch in the living room, taking the massive comforter with me. Shawn wasn't home, so I was able to binge as much Grey's Anatomy in order to fill the void in my chest as I could. I really thought I would be able to sleep off the void…

I was lying on my side, a dead look on my face, but I was still invested in a particularly emotional episode. As sad as it was to see Jo Karev's life fall to pieces, it felt almost cathartic to cry over that than my own crap. I cried a lot these days, it was very unlike me. However, I still made sure to keep it private. I didn't want my boyfriend worrying about me anymore than he already did.

It was after 5 o’clock when I heard the lock on the front door jiggle, indicating that Shawn was home. I quickly grabbed the remote and switched to some 90s cartoon. The swift movement of reaching for the remote on the table was a deep contrast compared to how I’ve been all day, so it left me winded and fatigued. Although, the fatigue wasn’t just from moving or the cuts on my belly. I couldn’t even sit up to greet my boyfriend.

Shawn seemed unfazed by my potato state as his footsteps were constant through the apartment. His steps got closer, and I saw him standing by me from my peripherals. Wordlessly, Shawn placed a black gift back on the coffee table, directly in front of my line of vision.

The bag was shiny, and had purple tissue paper sticking out of the top. Just the sight of it caused my brows to knit together.

“Why…?” I asked, my voice unnaturally soft.

“It’s a peace offering,” Shawn explained, “and it’s also an anniversary gift. Come on, sit up.”

I didn’t need the help anymore, but Shawn still went to my side and supported my waist as I sat up straight. Then, I leaned over and grabbed the gift bag, pulling out the tissue. Inside was a red box with the white Nintendo Switch logo on. I pulled it out and discovered a pro controller, and my mouth fell open. This was the limited edition, white controller with the Princess Zelda design. I was rendered speechless.

“We hit six months a couple of weeks ago,” Shawn explained. “I think you were in surgery, so we missed it. And I know you love Zelda, and I know you’ve mentioned this controller before.”

“How many oversized bears did you have to fight to get this?” I finally asked.

Shawn laughed. “Well, it was the last one at EB Games. I saw one guy looking at it when I walked in, so I snatched it when he wasn’t looking.”

A small smile creeped up on my face as I stared at the controller in wonder. It was a sweet gesture, given the absolute bullshit that happened yesterday. “Thank you. I can’t wait to use it.” Then I placed the box back on the table. “I have something for you too.”

“You do?” Shawn smiled, pleasantly surprised.

I nodded and got up from the couch. I felt bad about how our sixth month was spent, even if it was all out of our control. Obviously, there was no time to get him a gift like what he had gotten me, but I did have something in mind. I didn’t think we would still be here for this to happen.

I found my black, tattered wallet and went back out to the living room. As cliche and cheesy as it was, I had to say a few words before presenting the thing. “I’m not gonna lie, my pessimistic ass and my mile high walls made me think we wouldn’t make it this far.”

“Good start,” Shawn replied, mildly amused.

“But,” I continued, “I’m glad I was proved wrong, so uh…” I unzipped my wallet and poked around through one of the credit card pockets.

“You’re giving me money?”

“Shut up.”

It took a minute to get the tiny item out of the tight pocket, but I got it. I presented Shawn with a red guitar pick. The label on it had scratched off long ago, but that’s okay. It wasn’t about the condition of the pick.

“A long time ago, I saw Rise Against in concert,” I told him. “It was… honestly, probably one of the happiest days of my life. I went with my cousin, and she convinced me to mosh our way to the barriers. We did, and I got hit in the face on the way, but we made it to the front. I had a nosebleed, and the lead singer noticed that. He actually saw blood all over my face, and he gave me his pick.” I paused. “That pick means a lot to me, and you mean a lot to me, so I figured I should put those two things together.”

Shawn was looking at the pick in the palm of his hand as he listened to my story. The smile on his face only grew with every word, and he was beaming when he finally met my eyes. Then, he stood up, towering over me with open arms.

“I love it, and I love you.” He gently cupped my face and pulled me in for a kiss.

Feeling his lips against mine brought back certain feelings I hadn’t felt in a hot minute. My arms went around his middle, gently scrunching up the back of his t-shirt and feeling the skin underneath. Shawn smiled against my lips.

“Mm, so we’re celebrating our anniversary today?” I asked when we broke apart.

“I guess we are,” he replied, twirling a strand of my hair between his fingers. “What do you wanna do?”

“Quiet night in?” I suggested, wiggling my eyebrows.

He thought about it. “Well… we spend a lot of time between these walls. How about a movie?”

That threw me off a little bit. Shawn never said no to spending the night together between the sheets. But he was right though, we needed to get out of this apartment. “Yeah, we can do a movie.”

~

As much of a homebody as I am, it felt nice to leave the apartment for a little bit. It felt good to doll myself up for a date night. I missed carving out my eyebrows and wearing black eyeshadow. I missed wearing my long, black cardigan and combat boots.

Shawn and I went to the theatre downtown and caught the newest Disney film, on his choosing. That was only because the last time we went to the movies, I made the choice. The last time we went to the movies was also when I started feeling pain, but I didn’t want to bring that up.

I stayed away from literally every food offered at the theatre, and not just because of my mandatory diet. Shawn didn’t eat anything either, so I wasn’t alone. That gave us more time to cuddle on the fancy reclining seats in the theatre. It was pretty much what we would do at home, except we were bound by society’s rules to stay quiet for the duration of the movie.

It was a lovely time. Going to the movies was the one thing to get us out of our heads for a little bit. We didn’t have to talk, we could just be with each other. The mood was light and sweet, and it followed us back into the car.

But, you know… light and dark. Things are always balanced.

Shawn turned on the radio as soon as he roared the car to life. Of course, of fucking course, the Halsey song of my nightmares (as opposed to Nightmare, which is a bop) was in the middle of playing. Things within me turned in a second, and everything lost its color. Half of me wanted to punch the radio into silence, and the other half wanted me to curl up in a ball and let the void take me away. Luca’s words came out of the tiny box in my mind and circled around me.

“I probably know you better than Shawn does. And you hate that, huh?”

My breathing went short again, and I could only hear that directly in my ears. I squeezed my hands into fists, trying to bring myself back to Earth.

“You’re not singing,” Shawn pointed out. “I thought you loved this song.”

I wanted to talk, wanted to explain. But we just had a good evening, and I didn’t want to cry all over it. When did I become such an emotional mess?

I shook my head in response.

He glanced at me every so often, but he kept his eyes on the road. “No, you don’t like this song?” he asked.

Once again, I shook my head.

“Okay, I’ll change it.”

The song stopped, and then Shawn reached for my hand. My mood kept on. My legs felt numb, and my hands felt tingly and weird. I walked carefully when we got back to the apartment, like I was going to dismember myself and collapse. I followed Shawn’s steps, bringing all the grey with me.

“I know you’re a quiet person,” he said as we entered the bedroom, “but this is just weird. Are you okay?”

This would be something I’d take up with Callie, but I was no longer her patient. That was on my own doing, so I couldn’t be mad. There were a lot of feelings built up in my chest, and I couldn’t name a majority of them. That was why I needed Callie.

I also needed to bring my spirit back into my body. Without thinking, I slammed the palm of my hand on the bedroom door. The loud smack! startled Shawn, but the sting caused me to make a face and ground me once again.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I felt like I was floating…”

He was just as speechless. “Uh… do you - should I…?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I told him, my eyes still staring off into space. “I mean, I do, but… I don’t.”

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

“No?”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, let’s start there.”

We sat at the foot of the bed. Shawn gave me an expectant look, but I was still silent for a moment. Perhaps I was just overreacting and being a little too dramatic.

“I had a conversation with Luca,” I started, suddenly hesitant. “Nothing bad, just… I don’t know.”

“What did he do?” Shawn asked. “I know you said not to worry, but I’m a little worried.”

I explained the inexplicably off putting conversation I had with Luca, rubbing my hands together sporadically. It was probably confusing without know our entire history, but that was a whole other spiel. They say talking it out helps, but I just felt like I was getting crazier by the second. I felt like I was just overreacting.

“Listen,” Shawn said when I finished rambling, “I don’t love that he knows you so well either. I definitely don’t love what most of your relationship consisted of. But you’ve known each other for a couple of years, much longer than you and I have known each other. He’s just trying to get to you.”

“I know. He loves to challenge me. Normally, I don’t care, and I’m used to it, but this one fucked me up.”

Shawn nodded. “Is that why you slept most of the day?”

“Was it that obvious?”

“I can tell when you’re sleep deprived now. Like, you wear a lot of black, but you look… comfortable and at peace with it. When you're tired, or sad... you look like the world ended."

He held his hand open on my lap, and I laced our fingers together. Was this a weird situation? Was it weird to talk about your ex to your current person?

“Can I tell you something?” Shawn asked after a minute.

“Yeah.” I had to stop myself from sounding too eager. At this point, I’d give anything to not talk about me and my shit anymore. I think I was thinking too hard about this whole thing.

He shifted a little bit, the way one does when they’re about to drop some scalding tea. “When I was seventeen, I dated this girl. Well, I thought I was dating her. She asked me to be her boyfriend, but the only time we spent together was in the backseat of her car, or at her house when her parents weren’t home. She really didn’t want much from me, apart from the obvious.”

“She was playing you,” I replied.

“And I one hundred percent knew it,” Shawn added with a chuckle. “But I really liked her, so I let her do what she wanted. I guess you could say that’s one reason why I was never in a serious, stable relationship until now. It’s like you say, I couldn’t trust anyone.”

That was certainly a side of Shawn I hadn’t heard of. He told me he didn’t have much experience with his love life. Then, I found out he slept around much like I did. Now, I found out he had his own version of Luca. Why was I labeled the mysterious one?

“How come you never told me this before?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “We all have things we don’t talk about. I’m sure there’s still things you haven’t told me.”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s true.”

“So just know, you’re not the only one with a toxic ex. I know how you feel.”

At least he doesn’t work with his ex. At least his anxiety wasn’t intensified to the point of isolation and self destruction. Plus, it was easier for Shawn to open up than it was for me. His heart was in the right place, though. His big, warm heart made my stone cold one beat a little faster, I knew that much.

"You know how powerless you are being with someone like that," I said without realizing what I was doing.

"Yeah," he said. "You know they're not good for you, they only want you at their convenience, but you'd do anything for them."

Oof, he really does know.

"But," he added, "it feels so much better when you're finally free of them. And it feels fucking great to be in a much better place than they are. Realizing you deserve better is like waking up from a bad dream."

"It's like coming up for fresh air."

Shawn looked at me, eyes sparkling. He now held my hand in both of his. "Meeting you was like coming up for fresh air."

I smiled, and placed my one free hand over his. "I know that quote is from Grey's, you can't fool me."

"Hey, can I not relate heavily to the words of Derek Shepherd?" he said with a laugh.

He wasn't wrong. I related a lot of lyrics from his own songs, but I could tell him that another time.

_____

taglist: @normalcyisoverrated-beyou @mendesromano @ilsolee @1-800-khalid-mendussy 

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes x oc #shawn x oc #shawn x goth gf #its a filler chapter lulz #soz if its a bit boring #things will definitely steam up a bit in the next coming chapters #also theres 2 chapters left in this series lmao oops

[asamisaht0]

A Series of Firsts

Here’s my piece for the Zutara Exchange! @zutaraexchange

My giftee is @beealexageek I hope you like it! I combined “pregnant”, “first kiss”, and a tiny bit of “wedding” for the prompts.

Wordcount: 2k

Pairing: Zuko/Katara 

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808570

The first time Zuko kissed Katara -or, technically, Katara kissed him- they were in an alley behind some seedy Earth Kingdom bar. They were tipsy, too close, and still teenagers. Katara still held her cup in her hand, though she had long since lost interest in its contents. Zuko was just beginning to realize the full weight of being Fire Lord and he had desperately needed a break. Uncle Iroh, in typical Uncle Iroh fashion, had conveniently (almost too conveniently) invited the whole gang back to the earth kingdom for the grand re-opening of the Jasmine Dragon the week later. Something about a brand new tea recipe. Whatever. They managed to escape the group and ended up at a bar, watching the Earth Kingdom locals entertain themselves now that they were free of Fire Nation rule. They each had had a drink, maybe two, and Katara suddenly decided the bar was too stuffy. “I can’t breathe in here. Let’s go outside?” she had said. Something along those lines. They decided to loiter in the alley behind the bar, because it was close but secluded. 

Katara took one more sip of her drink, mostly because Zuko had paid for it and she didn’t want to waste his money. He seemed to sense that, and scoffed. “Don’t worry about it. The Fire Nation has more money than we’ll ever need.” His words seemed a little more slurred than usual. Maybe it was just the background noise. “Still. I appreciate it, Zuko. Thanks for everything.” She didn’t quite know what she meant by that. What did “everything” encompass? Thanks for helping Aang save the world? Thanks for turning the Fire Nation back into a respectable entity? Thanks for taking a literal lightning bolt to the chest for her? Somehow, “thanks” just didn’t seem like enough. He smiled. Their eyes met. He looked back down. Zuko sighed and brushed his hand through his hair. Katara was confused. “What’s wrong?”

Zuko looked back up at her, then frowned at the contents of his cup. “I just- um. I really want to kiss you right now.” She blinked. “So….what’s stopping you?” she meant to think, but somehow ended up saying it out loud. Oh well. His eyes shot back up. His head kind of tilted, like when a dog hears a noise they don’t quite understand. Katara’s brain took about .002 seconds to make up its mind. She lifted up on her toes and kissed Zuko before either of them could change their minds. Later, she’d say something poetic like “he tasted like smoke and spices” or whatever. But right now? He tasted like the bottom of whatever barrell their drinks came out of.

The first time Zuko realized he was in love with Katara, she was teaching him how to pack snow into the holes of his igloo to help keep the warmth in. “No, Zuko,” she had said. “You can’t just start a fire inside a house made of ice that’s literally the opposite of productive right now,” she had said. They were in the Southern Water Tribe, solidifying arrangements for Katara to be the official ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe and hold a seat on Zuko’s council.

Honestly, Zuko would have done anything if it meant he got to see Katara every day. The idea of her actually living in the palace made him downright giddy. Giddy enough that he was willing to spend nights in a house made of literal ice in order to ensure he got to spend more time with Karara.

She turned around to make sure he was comprehending her lessons. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. “Zuko, what did I just say?” she asked, but her tone was way less condescending than her words. He coughed to buy time. “You, um. You said I can’t make a fire here.” She chuckled. “You realize you’re going to freeze tonight if you don’t make this work?” Zuko had not, in fact, realized that yet. He ran a hand through his hair. “So I’m just supposed to survive for an extended period of time in here by myself? Without my bending?” He hoped he sounded as incredulous as he felt. Apparently not, because she was laughing even harder now. "You wouldn't have to fight to survive if you'd just listen to me. Here, do it yourself." She gave him a handful of snow. He took it, and it immediately melted.

He wrinkled his nose.

“I think I might die if I have to stay in here alone tonight.”

“You know what?” she said, freezing the snow back. “I think you’re right. I’ll stay in here with you,”

Zuko’s breath hitched.

“-Just to make sure you survive the night. Would that be alright?” He could hear her smile in her voice. Of course that would be alright. That would be amazing. That would be-

“Perfect! Please! Yes- I.” he stumbled. “I don’t want to die tonight.” He still wasn’t completely convinced that he wouldn’t die, but if he did, he wanted to make sure it was by her side.

The first time Zuko told Katara he loved her, they were watching the fireworks on the first anniversary of the war’s ending. There was a huge festival in their honor, and it was the first time Katara had been surrounded by all of her closest friends in a very long time. The sun had just set, and the cool summer night was a relief from the sweltering heat Katara had endured for most of the day. She supposed she should start getting used to the heat. Just in case. They were alone for the first time that day, atop some hill Zuko knew about that awarded them the best view in the city, he’d said. She’d never admit it, but he was right. They could see the city capital for miles and miles. She could see each individual light from each house. The Fire Nation looked nothing less than gorgeous. The fireworks were just starting, and Zuko took it upon himself to name every type and how they were made. Katara honestly couldn’t care less, but she was happy just to hear him talk about something he enjoyed.

A particularly large firework burst, and spread beautiful orange lights over the sky. They could hear the crowd’s reaction far below them. Katara really, really wished this moment would last forever.

“Zuko, this is amazing. I love it!”

His hand found hers in the dark. He squeezed it.

“I love you, Katara.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “I love you, too Zuko.”

The first time (yes, there were multiples) Zuko asked Katara to marry him, they were out by the turtleduck pond, watching the new baby turtleducks learn how to swim. It was a spring morning, and the breeze brought with it the scent of freshly-bloomed fire lilies. Katara was playing with the turtleducks, giving them gentle waves to splash in. Zuko had been drowning in work just a half hour before, Katara had had to drag him out of his office for a much-needed break. Zuko was leaning against the big tree in the garden, and Katara was leaning against him.

She was a well-seasoned ambassador for the Southern Water Tribe, and had managed to negotiate peace and trade not only between the Fire Nation and her tribe, but the Northern Water Tribe as well. She had carved out a place for herself on the Fire Nation council, and Zuko supported her through it all. She, honestly, felt at home here.

“I could honestly stay here forever,” she mused aloud.

Zuko grabbed her hand, stroking the back of it idly with his thumb.

“How would you like to?” he almost whispered.

She craned her neck to look at him. “What do you mean? I live here already.”

“No, like... forever forever. How would you like a permanent home in the palace?”

Katara narrowed her eyes. “Zuko, are- are you asking me-”

“Yes! I mean, yeah, I suppose so.”

“You suppose you’re proposing to me.” she deadpanned.

He cleared his throat. “Katara, I’ve loved you for years. I wish I could say I’ve loved you since we met but we both know that isn’t the case.” Katara chuckled.

He took another deep breath. “It would be my honor to ask you to be my wife.”

Katara felt her heart fill, and couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face.

“Yes, Zuko. I’ll marry you. But you know your mother will be upset that she missed the proposal.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess we’ll have to make sure she’s here next time.”

The first time Zuko and Katara kissed on their wedding day- way, way before they were supposed to- they were giggling like children, hiding from the prying eyes of the fire sages and Katara's ladies in waiting. It was still early morning; the sun hadn't risen yet. The palace was already bustling with servants preparing for the ceremony. Zuko should have been tired, but he wasn't. He was too excited. They met up in Zuko’s office, having judged it the last place anyone would look for them today of all days. Zuko got there first, and sat on his desk, idly playing with his hands. There were so, so many things that could go wrong today. He ran through a mental checklist of everything he needed to do. He was on his third run-through when the doorknob jiggled slightly, and Katara slipped in the door as quietly as she could.

They met eyes, and burst into quiet laughter. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Zuko said.

“I’m sneaking around my own palace.” He felt like a teenager all over again.

“You know the fire sages wouldn’t approve. It gOeS AgAinSt TrAdiTiOn” she said, mocking the ancient Fire Sages’ voices. That only made them both laugh even harder.

“Everything about this goes against tradition!” He grabbed her waist as he said that, bringing them closer. “That’s part of what makes it so great.”

He tilted her chin up for a kiss. The first of many, on this special day. They locked eyes for a moment.

“Honestly, you’ve been my wife for a long, long time. This just makes it official.”

She snorted. “It was official to me when you took that lightning all those years ago.”

The first time Katara realized she was pregnant, she was sitting at a long, long dinner table in between her husband and an old Fire Nation nobleman with a long, silver beard. She remembered his beard specifically, because the sight of a small crumb that had gotten trapped in the wispy hairs suddenly made Katara very, very nauseous. She excused herself politely, the picture of an ever-graceful Fire Lady. Ursa taught her well. Katara held her posture perfectly all the way until she rounded the corner and was out of eyesight- then she all but sprinted to the bathroom. Her handmaids shared a look with each other.

After Katara cleaned herself up, she looked at herself in the mirror for a long, long time. She thinks, deep down, she’s known for a while now. Being a healer, she had become very in tune with the details of her own body. She’s been noticing a change for weeks, at least. But she guessed it was finally time to acknowledge it. She knew her handmaids were probably wondering why she hadn’t asked for her monthly supplies yet. She’d better tell Zuko before the rumor spread faster than any of his flames would.

She waited until the night. They were in bed, but not asleep. Zuko was writing something down on a scroll, and the small candle he lit cast his face in a warm glow.

“So what are you writing? Is it names?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Names? What? No, it’s-”

“Well you should start.”

“Start what?”

She smirked. “Start thinking about names.” “Names for what? Katara, I don’t un-” his mouth closed. Then opened again. Then closed.

She smiled. “I’m pregnant, Zuko.”

His face lit up. Zuko flung his arms around his wife, and she swears she hadn’t seen him smile this wide since their wedding day.

Katara took everything in, reveling in just how she ended up here. If you had told her at 14 that she’d be the Fire Lady, and carry the Fire Lord’s child, she would have definitely written them off as insane. But right now, in this moment, she couldn’t be happier with how her life turned out.

#zutara #zutara exchange #zutaraexchange #beealexageek #my writing #fanfic #a:tla

[breakingsomething]

two sets of twins walk into a bar

so this is another thing i’ve had the idea for for a while, but never wrote until now! i hope you all appreciate my extremely clever title djfgdhjgfhbj it’s not funny but let me have this ok

trigger warnings: none i don’t think? just the usual stuff of getting beat up, all that jazz

the man had one goal in his mind, and if he had to kill to achieve it, he would.

he hadn’t killed one of his own before. there had been others- a couple randomers who had gotten in his way, the man who had seen him glitch and somehow caught it on video- but their deaths meant nothing to him anymore. he wondered if it would feel any different to end the life of one who was connected to him. he didn’t think it would, and why would it matter anyway? it wasn’t like that would stop him. he had one job he needed done tonight. only one job, then this whole ordeal would be over and he could start planning for the future.

the cold air brought him out of his thoughts. he pushed his hands further into the pockets of his long, dark coat and glanced up at the sky. it was pitch black, with hardly any stars to be seen. the street was dead silent, nothing to be heard but the wind and the rustling of a crisps packet blowing across the wet pavement. a ginger cat scurried under a car as he passed, sensing something malicious about the man passing by. he stopped under a streetlight, and looked at the house in front of him. how ordinary it looked. light blue, with a dark brown door and five visible windows, two of which were glowing brightly. if the man smiled anymore, he would have. instead he jiggled the lock on the white fence open and briskly walked up the path to the door. he could faintly hear the sound of a tv blaring inside, and a very familiar voice shouting something he couldn’t make out. but he didn’t stop to listen. he firmly knocked, the times, and waited for a response.

he didn’t get one immediately. he huffed out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair, turning slightly to face the dark street, lit only by the few streetlamps that were still operational. he hoped no one was around to see what was happening; it would certainly look odd for a random man wearing a black coat to be standing outside a house in this neighbourhood so late at night. it didn’t matter. if anyone saw, he could get someone to wipe their memory. he sighed and turned back to the door before knocking again, this time with more urgency. a dog barked somewhere down the street. there was no answer from within the house.

he knew they were there. he had heard one of them inside moments before, he could even still hear the tv. frustrated, he rapped the door so hard that his knuckles hurt and backed up onto the step below. if they didn’t answer this time, he was going to break the fucking door down, and damn the witnesses.

luckily, he heard a crash from inside, along with some mild cursing, and a moment later a young man threw the door open, breathing heavily. he had the same face as the man standing before him, but with a few differences; this man had slightly more stubble on his face, and his black hair was somehow wilder than his own. he was wearing a striped blue shirt and a pair of tan khakis, and he was staring at the man with a curious expression on his face. that wasn’t the expression he had been expecting- he had expected fear, panic, or shock at the very least. he couldn’t have been more surprised when the man smiled at him and spoke. 

“oh, uh, hello! sorry i didn’t hear you knock, i’m making dinner for me and my brother and we’re very noisy people, i had the tv up quite loud and the radio on in the kitchen, plus it’s so very late at night and i wasn’t expecting anyone to be coming to the door at this hour- hey, do i know you?”

he was almost speechless, though he certainly didn’t let it show on his face. this man really hadn’t recognised his own face? good god, he was dimmer than he had thought. he cleared his throat and was about to speak when the other man beat him to it.

“wait! oh, oh, i do know you! you’re the mayor of that town where that actor was murdered recently, right?” he babbled. “you died! i saw you die, me and my brother, we were watching, trying to get information, you see, we recorded everything too! that thing you did with the mirror- that was so amazing, do you think you could do something like that again? we didn’t get a very good shot of that, my brother, he does all the camera work, he was very tired, what do you think? you could get on jim news!”

dark waited until jim had finished speaking. he was so fascinated by the sheer stupidity of this man, he was almost entranced by the man’s constant movements. with every word he spoke he was shifting his position, twirling his hands and playing with his hair, bouncing from foot to foot. normally dark would have taken this as a sign of nervousness, but he could tell that this man didn’t seem to fear him at all, which pissed him off greatly. by the time jim had finished rambling, dark was furious, and in awe. how had someone like this and someone like himself come from the same place?

“i’m not sure what to say,” dark drawled. he feels another emotion bubble in his chest; amusement. “i really thought it would take a lot more persuasion that that to get you to talk. evidently-” dark smirked, pulling all the emotion from inside of him and concentrating it into his fingers “-you are a lot stupider than i gave you credit for.”

he suddenly thrust his arm forward as though he was going to punch jim. glowing curls of red and blue snaked around his arm, and the pure energy threw jim back into the house and slammed him against the wall, pinning him there. dark stepped inside, holding his arm slightly in the air, and cracked his neck, allowing his aura to return and cast his body in black and white with shadows of colour surrounding him. he kept his eyes on the man, and was slightly irked to see that he still didn’t look afraid.

dark stepped toward him, not breaking eye contact. he wanted to see the fear when it eventually came to jim’s face. “all i want from you is your camera, and the footage that was on it.” he said dryly, as though this was an everyday thing he did. jim’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. he said nothing.

fury rose in dark. the man always talked so much, why would he be quiet now? “i demand you answer me!”

there was a loud commotion upstairs, and another man peeked his head around the top of the staircase, looking terrified. dark had forgotten about the other jim, the one who had the camera. he looks at him, and was pleased to see that this jim is afraid. he stood on the stairs, unsure of what to do, looking down at the scene below him with fear in his eyes.

“run, jim!” the jim dark had pinned suddenly yelled, and began fighting to free himself from his restraints. “get out of here! grab the stuff and run, get out-!”

dark didn’t give him the chance. with his other hand, he threw a bolt of power at the staircase, destroying almost half of it, and sending the jim flying down the stairs. the loudmouthed reporter cried out, flailing his arms in an attempt to get to his brother. dark simply flicked his wrist, and the cameraman rose from his crumpled heap on the floor. his body shook, and he can barely raise his head to look at them.

“go get the things i ordered.” dark instructed. the jim had no choice but to obey, the red and blue shadows of dark’s power almost dragging him clumsily back up the stairs.

dark turned his head to the reporter, and was delighted to see fear on his face, along with anger, and resignation. “leave my brother alone, demon,” said the jim, spitting the last word out with venom. his body trembled, and dark reveled in it.

“once i have what i asked for.” dark said, and he grinned at the furious reporter, who glared at him as though it could melt right through him. neither of them moved.

they heard the other one making his way downstairs, helped along by the strings of energy that yank him over the gaping hole in the staircase and push him towards dark and his brother. he was carrying his camera, and four small cards. dark leaned over to inspect them. in an instant he could tell that these were the correct ones. the corner of his mouth twitched in a real smile as he realised that this was all he needed, that he could leave and be done with this. he rolled his shoulders and casually lowered his arms, dropping the loudmouthed jim to the floor with a thud and releasing the other one from his strings of energy. dark looks at the brothers- the reporter curled up on the floor, clutching his chest where dark’s power had been focused, and the cameraman, who had backed up against the wall next to his brother- and laughed for the first time in so long. he felt more powerful than he had in years, and almost wished the brothers had resisted more so he could stay longer. 

“now, wait just a second,” the reporter stammers, and the smile disappeared from dark’s face as he was once again overwhelmed by how stupid this creature was. did he not understand that dark had just saved his life? the man falters at dark’s stare, but raised a hand as though as a peace offering. “look, i get that- that you don’t want these videos out, which really, i don’t understand, this could make you a lot of money if you agreed to let me use them-”

dark didn’t wait to hear any more. he crushed the camera and the four cards with his aura that had risen up behind him and overshadowed the twins. the look on their faces filled him with sick joy.

“i gather that none of you will say a thing about what you saw at the manor.” dark said calmly. he smiled softly, though this was not a real smile, at the men cowering below him. “if you do, if i ever see a scrap of that footage surface at any point…” he turned to the door and began to leave. “...i will make sure to raise hell on any poor soul who is unfortunate enough to carry the name jim for the rest of eternity.” 

and with that, he was completely gone.

the jims stayed where they were in stunned silence for a moment. then cameraman jim fell down next to his brother, waving his hands in front of his face in a flurry of questions.

“i’m fine, jim,” jim said, pulling his twin into a tight hug. for a moment they held each other, the open door letting in the cold air of the night.

finally, jim spoke, an edge of cheer in his voice. “well jim, i suppose it’s a good thing that guy didn’t ask for the backup copies of the footage we made, isn’t it?” his brother pulls away with a huge grin on his face, and jim smiles back at him, despite the chill and the hole in their staircase. “that could have made for a disaster.”

#and thus who killed markiplier was born #fhgdgfh this is so dumb please enjoy it #markiplier #darkiplier #the jim twins #who killed markiplier #boop writes

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Man to Man

Author: Eggnogged & The_Reverend

Year: 2010

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Dean Learner/Todd Rivers

"Come on, sweetheart, a bit more enthusiasm? Fucking fake it if you have to, Christ. Good thing you've got some nice tits because you won't be getting anywhere in this business on your acting chops alone." The girl had been okay with the threesome. She’d taken Dean’s matter-of-fact bossy attitude in stride, she had only looked mildly annoyed when Dean had slapped her arse and told her to get on her knees. But that? That clearly strikes a nerve. Even Todd winces, his mouth stretching in a clear ‘yikes’ expression as the girl, a young aspiring actress whose name he doesn’t even know, stands up from between them, slaps Dean hard across the face, makes a quick grab for her discarded clothes, and walks out of the door, her high heels clacking loudly on the hardwood floor of Dean’s home office cum lounge. Dean looks unperturbed, just smirks a bit at Todd and rolls his eyes, as though this is the sort of thing that happens to him all the time. Which it probably does. Todd realizes he’s still got his own cock in his hand and quickly releases it, feeling a bit awkward. This is a new development in what’s becoming a regular tryst in Dean’s home, and now that the girl’s gone, it might not be deemed appropriate to keep on jerking off. But then Dean shoves his smoldering cigar between his teeth to free both of his hands, one of which lands on a huge television remote to unmute the porno that's been playing on the large television, the other goes to his groin naturally, to fondle his still spit-slick cock. So Todd takes up his own once again, following Dean’s lead and turning to face the television. Dean shrugs. "Fuck her," he says after he's removed the cigar again. It smokes unchecked in the hand not on his dick. "Well, not anymore." "That's why the skin business is so successful, Todd, manic fucking birds like that, can't take a bit of criticism. It's no wonder I'm in a multi-million dollar industry. Look at her," He points to the screen and Todd realizes he'd been watching Dean the whole time. There’s a blonde with big, red lips getting fucked between her enormous tits and she's moaning like a cock on her chest is what she always wanted as a little girl, rather than a pony. Dean continues, "She knows how to take it. Criticism, I mean. She isn't gonna be offended if you tell her faster, wetter, bit more ball fondling. She isn't gonna get up and strop off as long as there's a dick left standing, you know what I mean?" Todd nods but he's only half listening. His gaze had abandoned Dean's perfect woman not long after landing on her, and now they're cut painfully to the side, watching as Dean alternates rhythm, stroking himself between his open fly. Both of them are half undressed, shirts open where the girl had giggled over the curls on Dean's chest, and had pinched at Todd's sensitive nipples. But somehow, where Todd feels disheveled and awkward, Dean looks a treat, pressed and wrinkled in all the right places, long and lean, thick and hard. And warm, so warm even though they're not quite touching, close enough for Todd to smell Dean's aftershave. “You need a thick skin if you want to make it in this business, she’s going to learn that pretty sharpish – she’ll come crawling back soon enough. They all do, in the end. You can take yourself as seriously as you like, talk about your ‘art’ and your ‘career’, but in the end it’s all about sex, Todd. These projects of Garth’s, they’re good, nice for your public image. But they don’t bring in the money. Fucking, on the other hand! Fucking always brings in the money.” It surprises him, this comfortable monologue, not that Dean's ever been anything but comfortable talking about sex. Todd knows too well that Dean can describe, with graphic if not exactly poetic detail, every nipple, arse and snatch of his acquaintance. “Yeah,” Todd says, and turns his head just a fraction, so he can take in Dean’s wet lips, swollen from kissing that girl, and the way the muscles of his forearm move under his smooth skin as he jerks himself off, an image a million times more appealing than any porno in the world. Dean doesn’t seem to notice where Todd’s attention is focused, his eyes still on the Technicolor pink flesh jiggling on the screen. “I’ve told you before, Todd, if you’re ever in need of more work, all you gotta do is ask. I’m sure I can find a place for you in one of my productions.” Dean turns to glance at Todd as he says it, and it’s too late to look away, too late to pretend he hasn’t been staring. But Dean just smirks, undaunted, and raises an eyebrow. He moves his arm to give Todd a clear view of his cock, angling his hips just so, putting on a bit of a show. “Of course, that might not be to your tastes. That’s alright. I’ve been considering branching out. I hear there’s a big market at the moment for upscale gay porno.” Dean turns his gaze back to the screen, not waiting to see how his comment lands, just keeps his hand moving steadily in an easy, practiced rhythm, and takes a long drag off of his fat cigar, his lips wrapped tightly around the end of it. He has to know the images that the gesture immediately conjures in Todd’s brain, it has to be deliberate. Todd licks his lips and his mouth suddenly feels very dry. It seems useless to try to be covert about it now. But even as he feels himself flush and look away, and back again when it's invited (and because he just can't not look), he's surprised by this easy acceptance. Fear of looking another man in the eye or not, Dean's a ladies' man through and through. Todd expected name-calling, red-faced accusations, being tossed out on his arse should his eyes wander from the girl's tits to Dean's cock for too long. It's why he agreed to this little party, why this isn't their first, why he's so hard he can't think straight. All for Dean, whos’s stroking himself like an offering, not like he's actually trying to get off, and sucking on his cigar like he can't get his fill and letting the smoke drift lazily from the sides of his mouth where he smiles around it. "Or have I got it wrong?" Dean asks, cigar in hand again, but Todd can tell from the smirk that he knows he hasn't. "Dean," Todd says even though he doesn't really know what he's going to say, and it doesn't matter once Dean settles a little deeper into the sofa cushions beside him, stretches and spreads those endlessly long legs invitingly. He isn't looking at Todd, he's watching his dick where he fondles it easily, teasingly, a show, and when Todd thinks he's going to burst with wanting, Dean finally cuts his eyes over and smiles. "Don't you want to finish what she started?" ______ It isn't like this is Dean's first blowie from a bloke, though those encounters usually don't extend past the casting couch, young kids he doesn't plan to hire anyway. It's a little more delicate when he knows he's got to turn around and work with them the next day. But he has always wondered about Todd's full-lipped mouth, pouty like a woman's, like it was made for sucking cock. He reckoned from the first scene they'd shot with Madeleine Wool and Todd together that the guy might be a bum jockey, but he hadn't really been sure until the first of their little group activities, feeling Todd's heavy-lidded eyes more on him than the girl they were both fucking. And even if the girls have always done their best to get Dean off, brought their finest work to the table, their determined seductions never get Dean going like the barely concealed lust in Todd's hungry, secretive gaze. It’s that desire that gets him. Dean is not an idiot, he knows that most of the girls who throw themselves at him do it because of his status. Todd, however, Todd clearly doesn’t give a shit about Dean’s money. He’s not trying to get a part in one of Dean’s productions, he’s not trying to get one of his books published, he’s not doing it to get to some other celebrity of Dean’s entourage. He’s doing it because he loves cock, pure and simple. There’s something attractive about that kind of honest desire, and Dean is not above encouraging it, or even using it to get off. It’s gratifying, the way Todd nearly swallows his own tongue at Dean’s invitation and he watches Todd’s eyes flick back and forth between his face and his crotch, where Dean’s fondling himself lightly, not enough to get off but just enough to keep Todd interested and remind him of what’s on offer. “Dean…” Todd repeats, choking on the word. He looks hesitant and disbelieving and eager all at once, and Dean is put in mind of a dog being presented with a juicy steak, eyeing its master like it can’t believe it’s actually going to be allowed to eat it. “Well, don’t you? Because it would only take me two minutes to get another girl who can get the job done, if you’d rather just sit there and stare at my dick.” That’s all it takes for Todd to scramble off of the sofa and onto his knees. There’s something a bit pathetic about his eagerness, but something quite satisfying about it, too. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, will you? Because my career—” That’s cute, the way he asks it. Naïve. Todd should know that most men will say anything if it means they might get a blow job out of it. No, Dean probably won’t tell anyone about it, but it’s nice knowing he could. Knowledge is power, and Dean likes power. “You have my word, Todd, but fucking get on with it.” ______ Todd’s head is a bit swimmy and he’s sure he’s sweating, kneeling between Dean’s spread legs, and with permission no less. He swallows, keeps his gaze down lest Dean spook from the intimacy and deny him after all. But oh, there’s plenty to look at down here. He can’t help but run his hands along the expensive fabric of Dean’s trousers, to feel the warmth of him beneath them. He tugs at the material, meaning to pull them down a little more and Dean lifts his hips a bit to accommodate, until Dean’s naked to his upper thigh. Dean has amazing legs, Todd’s always appreciated that, and they’re as good or better up close, dotted with dark hairs, hot where the insides of his thighs, his knees, nudge at Todd’s sides. There's a smear of red lipstick halfway up Dean's shaft and Todd frowns at it, but tries to put it out of his mind. It’s too good, being surrounded like this, by Dean, the feel, the smell (expensive cologne, cigars, and a hint of ladies’ perfume) and—Todd thinks as he licks his lips and watches the way Dean strokes himself lazily—the taste. Oh God, if anyone knew just how much he wanted this, that he was doing it, on his knees for Dean Fucking Learner… Well, honestly, it’s not like he’d be the first. "Are we getting on with this sometime soon or have I got to fish out another VHS? You haven’t got to fall in love with it, Rivers, just put it in that rosy little mouth and suck it, alright?” Todd gives him a withering look and Dean just smiles. "Go on," the bastard says, "don't pretend you won't even if I insult you, not like that bird. I could call you a queer if I want, a cocksucker. Cause you are one, aren't you, Todd? Why don't you earn it already." It's not that Dean's words don't sting, and it's not that Todd doesn't want to prove him wrong (at least about walking out), it's just that he's not sure he'll ever have the chance again. So he motions Dean's hand away with a nod of his head, buries his fingers in the warm, pressed fabric of Dean's tailored shirt, and licks his (rosy, he thinks) lips. Dean’s cock waves heavy and low and Todd only has to raise up a little to slide his lips over the head, teasing slowly and sucking luxuriantly, pleasure as vengeance. Dean coos something appreciative that might be "nice form" but Todd can hardly hear it for the rush of blood in his head, loud in his ears, and fucking aching in his cock. It's worse (better) still when warm fingers touch his face, surprising him. "Bit more," Dean says softly, "there's a lad." His fingers leave Todd's face to wrap around his erection, offering Todd more, and Todd follows those fingers defiantly, past that line of lipstick, taking Dean in suddenly and deeply. Dean hisses sharply. He tastes slightly of expensive champagne and strawberries and Todd knows it's from the girl, so he sucks more wetly, backs off enough to swallow, trying to rinse the taste away, wanting only the taste of Dean. The weight and the thickness are perfect on his tongue, filling his mouth, and Todd hums, feeling drunk on the sensation. He fucking loves this, craves it, and Dean is right, of course, he’s a queer, a cocksucker – and a bloody good one, at that. ______ The kid's mouth is better than he thought, and there's nothing like a queer for sucking cock. You can’t buy that kind of genuine enthusiasm, and Lord knows he’s tried. On the television screen, the big-breasted girl is on her knees too, her mouth similarly occupied. Dean takes a second to admire the angle of the shot – it was one of his best hiring decisions, getting that particular cameraman – before reaching between the sofa cushions to grab the remote control. The music and the moans coming out of the speakers are bit distracting, so Dean mutes the porno again. The wet sucking noises that Todd is making around his cock suddenly seem amplified tenfold in the silent room and it sounds filthier and grittier than any porn soundtrack. Dean slides his fingers into Todd’s carefully coiffed hair, gripping tightly enough to pull at Todd’s scalp, and the lad moans loudly around Dean’s cock, his eyes snapping up to meet Dean’s gaze. He’s pretty enough, young Rivers, with his full lips and his shiny hair, and he’s popular on set, the girls like him. They might not like him as much if they saw him now, like this, on his knees with his mouth full and his eyes glazed over. But then, maybe they’d like him all the more for it – it certainly makes for a pleasing visual. Dean tightens his grip in Todd’s hair to make him moan again, barely managing to suppress a groan of his own at the resulting vibrations. He smiles, his lips parted, and shifts his hips up a bit, driving his cock a bit deeper into Todd’s mouth. Todd just takes it, greedy and eager, swallowing around him, and fuck, it’s been too long since Dean’s had head like this – he almost regrets all those threesomes, all those wasted opportunities with ditzy girls who were worried about smearing their lipstick when he could’ve had Todd, who deepthroats like he was born to do it. “My, you’re a natural, Todd,” Dean says, a bit breathless, a bit dizzy. “Never mind the –ah, there! Fuck. Never mind the acting, sucking cock is clearly your true calling.” ______ Todd wishes he wasn’t so fucking turned on by the praise but he is, so much, reveling in each word of encouragement, each twitch of Dean’s thigh under his clammy fingers, each ripple of Dean’s smooth stomach. Todd aches to touch himself, but he won’t allow himself the relief, not yet. He wants to make this the best blow job of Dean’s entire life. He wants to make sure that each time Dean looks at him from now on, he’ll remember this moment, remember how hard Todd made him come. He pulls back a bit so he can suck on the head of Dean’s erection again, swirling his tongue to taste the pre-come there and eliciting a stuttered gasp from Dean. Emboldened by the sound and the increasingly erratic rhythm of Dean’s breathing, Todd reaches a hand in between Dean’s legs to cup his balls, rolling them gently between his fingers and Dean gasps, grips Todd’s hair tighter, rolls his hips and pushes Todd’s head down hard to take him deep again. Todd goes willingly, with a moan and what little smile he can manage with a mouth so full, slides his free hand back to Dean’s arse, plenty of room to get at it the way Dean’s lifting his hips to fuck his face now. It’s just this side of brutal and Todd loves it like this, with his mouth full one second, nose pressed into pubic hair, and near empty the next, cheeks hollowed out, and again, with Dean’s fingers tight in his hair, directing the pace. This is so much more than he expected. So much better. The sounds Dean’s making throb like a bassline in his groin, and Todd wonders if could come just from the invisible caress of them if they did this long enough. So he’s almost sorry when Deans starts swearing breathlessly, aimlessly, “Jesus fuck, Todd, cunting Christ,” then seems to stop breathing altogether, cants his hips up hard enough to bump Todd’s nose a little too hard and Todd’s eyes water. He’s blinking and swallowing and groaning around Dean as Dean comes so deep in his throat Todd doesn’t even taste it. A shame, he thinks. ________ There’s funny shapes behind his eyes he’s got them closed so tight, and yet all Dean can see is the perfect vision of Todd’s mouth sliding down his shaft. He hasn’t come like that since… well since that hummer he got at the racetrack during a test run, but that had ended in tragedy and so it probably didn’t count. Apart from that, though, not since before he got into the business, when he was still a hopeful young buck, too optimistic and too trusting. When he comes down from the high of it, it’s to the slightly uncomfortable sensation of Todd backing his mouth off of him, sucking at Dean’s head one last time, to taste him, Dean thinks, even as he hisses at the contact to over-sensitive skin. The girls never linger that way. Dean’s still got a hand in Todd’s hair and there are fingers stroking hot against his backside when Todd sits back and looks up at him, half guilty, all need, mouth swollen and red at the corners. In spite of that, Dean can’t help but feel like the kid got the better of him, making him come so hard, carry on so foolishly. He smiles a little, then moves one hand to Todd’s mouth to trace those plump red lips. “You loved, that, didn’t you? This must be getting you so hard, Todd, the proverbial oaken staff, eh? You must be soaking your knickers wanting it. Maybe next time we’ll invite that Monkey Boy you liked so much.” Todd backs away as if he’s been burned, eyes narrowing, “How the fuck do you—” “I can assure you, Todd, if anything worth knowing happens on set, it finds its way to my ears sooner or later.” Dean had been holding on to that bit of information for a while now, about the time he’d caught a glimpse of the Monkey Boy and Todd sucking face, with their hands in each other’s hair and down each other’s trousers behind Dean’s garage. One never knows when these tidbits of information will come in handy, and it was worth keeping that one to pull it out now, if only to extinguish the smug glint in Todd’s eyes. Now that he feels like he’s back in charge, Dean feels better about leaning back against the sofa and pulling his trousers up, tucking himself in. Todd’s looking at him like he’s not sure whether he should be angry about how Dean is toying with him, or further aroused by the prospect of a repeat performance. “You’re a fucking rat bastard, Dean, you know that,” Todd says in a tight voice, pushing himself to his feet. The former, then. Todd’s even beginning to pull his trousers up, like he’s actually intending to walk out of the room with a throbbing erection concealed in his pants, and Dean feels something a bit like regret. A bit like pity. So instead of laughing, he grabs Todd’s wrist and gives it a slight tug. “Oh, don’t sulk, Rivers. We’re friends, aren’t we?” “Are we?” “Of course we are. Let’s not let a little blow job between mates ruin a long-lasting friendship. Sit down.” Todd’s still frowning, but it’s easy enough to guide him back to the sofa so they’re sitting side by side, thighs touching. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes anymore, fixating instead on the television, watching it with a blank expression. Dean knows that this scene involves two girls in schoolgirl outfits, but he’s not really paying attention to that. He’s seen it all before. But he’s never seen Todd quite like this, with his lips parted and his hands twitching by his sides, his cock heavy and damp with precome against his stomach. He looks on the verge of self-combustion but he’s waiting for… what? For permission? For Dean to blow him in return? Dean’s not willing to reciprocate quite to that extent, but he can and does take Todd’s hand, clammy and tense, and direct it to Todd’s straining erection, encouraging, dictating the rhythm. Todd’s eyes slide shut with a groan that’s almost a sob, his head falling forward. “That’s it, that’ll make you feel better,” Dean says softly, withdraws his hand and rests it instead against Todd’s thigh, a little offering. Dean leans back against the cushions, returning his attention to the porno on screen. He turns the volume back up so he has something else to focus on other than the sounds of Todd wanking off next to him, and gives Todd’s thigh a little pat and a slow, steady rub with his thumb. _________ Dean’s hand on Todd’s thigh burns like fire and feels heavy and huge with his eyes closed, concentrating on that little contact. They’ve touched more than this while fucking one of Dean’s girls but somehow this, that hand so near his dick—harder than he’s ever been in his life, he’s sure of it—is so much more intimate than a shared fuck, than passing glittering, smug grins over a smooth shoulder and blonde hair. “I feel sorry for you, Todd, that I don’t suck cock,” Dean says in that soft tone of his that goes a little deeper than his usual speaking voice and Todd can’t help but lean into it. “Not to say I haven’t before, mind.” The hand on his thigh inches higher, teasing, tickling lightly and Todd’s so close. “You don’t get to where I am in this business…” So goddamned close that a moan catches in his throat and he throws his head back as Dean’s long fingers squeeze at his thigh. “…without a bit of spunk on your face now and then.” That clinches it. Todd’s orgasm hits him like a wave and he’s shouting, undignified and unrestrained as he comes over his own hand, stomach and shirt, with such a flood of relief it’s like being caught from a near deathfall and yet falling anyway, all at once. The girl on screen is shouting too, a couple of octaves higher but it still makes Todd feel a bit foolish as he tries to catch his breath and Dean pats his leg again, sort of friendly and says, “See? That’s the medicine. Feeling better already, aren’t we?” Todd turns to him, head lolling on the couch, mouth dry and useless, to see Dean smiling and smoking that damned cigar once again, looking smug and energetic and fucking perfect. He tries to give Dean a disgusted look but it feel more like adoration and Dean just winks at him, nudges Todd’s shoulder with his own. “I’m feeling like a drink, Todd. How ‘bout you? Gin? Whiskey? Or maybe after that, you’re more in the mood for a cocktail.” He laughs at his own joke, sounding pleased, and with that he stands, adjusts himself somewhat elaborately in his trousers, then practically dances off to the bar to fix them both a drink. “Just a beer, thanks.” Todd hates that he watches that pinstriped arse as he tucks himself away. As a consolation, he pulls the handkerchief from Dean’s coat to clean the ejaculate from his stomach and shirt, then stuffs it back into Dean’s coat pocket before Dean comes back with their drinks. Then, really, it’s like any other time they’ve sat on Dean’s sofa sharing drinks, watching porn or discussing business. Still, even the beer he’s gulping can’t quite erase the sense memory of having just had Dean’s cock in his mouth. For Dean, though, it seems to be business as usual. Todd is only half-listening as Dean gives director’s commentary on the film that’s still strobing garishly on the television screen. He tries to ignore the sick feeling growing in his stomach. When he finally gathers up the courage to leave, Dean accompanies him to the door and leans against the door jamb, watching Todd put his coat on. Dean’s shirt is still open and there’s lipstick smeared near his collarbone, but he seems unaffected, perfectly at ease. Clearly it takes more than a one-off blow job from a male colleague to ruffle Dean Fucking Learner. That’s it, then, Todd thinks, that’s the end of that – but as he’s about to walk out the door Dean surprises him with a touch on the shoulder and a quirked smile. “Drop by next weekend, Rivers. Maybe I’ll have someone here that’s more to your tastes, next time. Maybe we’ll make it into a little party.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dean.” But just looking at him there, all long and lean, with his lazy smile and his dark, knowing eyes, Todd already knows he’ll be there. “Well, you know where I live, should you change your mind. See you tomorrow, Todd.”

#the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #boosh #darkplace #garth marenghi's darkplace #dean learner #todd rivers #dean learner/todd rivers

[twogirlsandapage]

I Can’t.

Genre: Fluff, angst

Word Count: 1004

~Xanny

A candle, an engagement ring, and a broken promise.

“You are going to propose to him?” May asks, helping me scatter rose petals over the bed and the floor of the bedroom.

“Yeah? Is there something wrong with that?” She shakes her head, letting a giggle slip.

“It’s just not… traditional, you know?” She throws the last of the petals to the floor and picks up a candle to light it.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for so long, May. I really love this man, and at this point I just want to marry him.”

“Well, I guess I should get out of here, he’s calling you now,” She says, slinging her backpack over her shoulder, tossing me my phone. I wave a goodbye as I slide the screen to answer the call.

“I left my keys up there so I can’t get in,” Yoongi says.

“May is heading down now, so she can let you in,” I chuckle, fumbling with the ring box nervously.

“Alright baby, I’m heading up now,” He blows a kiss through the phone, hanging up. I feel my heart pound against my chest, stomach feeling like it’s made its way to my throat. I hear him jiggle the doorknob, my hand quickly flying to open the door. I open the door, greeted by an exhausted Yoongi.

“I’ve already ordered our food, just waiting for it to come,” I say.

He throws his jacket over the couch, “I’m gonna go change.” As he starts heading to the bedroom, I quickly stop him in his tracks.

“J-Just let me go in there first,” I stutter, shuffling to our bedroom and closing the door. I climb onto the bed, crossing my legs and holding open the ring box. “You can come in now.”

Yoongi swings the door open, eyes widening in awe. “What is all this?”

“Min Yoongi, I’ve known you for almost half of my lifetime. No distance, no circumstance can make my love for you go astray. I’m tired of not having your surname, so, will you marry me?”

The smell of the hot Summer encases the beach, the waves hitting the shore beautifully. She runs through the water, waves crashing at her legs as she smiles at me.

“Be careful, these waves look aggressive,” I say, slinging the pen in my hand behind my ear.

“Come over here! Work can wait!” She giggles. I let out a sigh, dropping the notebook onto my chair. I meet her at the shore, taking her hand and waddling into the water.

“Holy shit, this is cold!” I yelp, earning a laugh from her.

“Don’t be a pussy, Yoongs!” She pushes me underneath the water, quickly bringing myself back up to her.

“Oh, you’re so gonna get it now!”

As the breeze of the cold Autumn air blows through her hair, I snap a few pictures.

“How do they look?” She asks, running over to see the pictures. I go through the ones I’ve taken just moments before, a laugh caught in my throat.

“Uh, good? Your hair pretty much consumed your face.” I scroll through some more, looking at the pictures I took of her near the lake. The water compliments her eyes beautifully, her bright smile adding the right touch that the picture needed. I gaze deeply at the picture, her features pulling a smile from my lips.

“What? Are they bad?” She asks, peering over my shoulder.

“No, I just… I’m so in love with you.”

Winter pushes itself into our apartment, the sealed windows still dripping with a cold breeze. I finish packing my suitcase, shoving my plane ticket into the front pocket.

“Do you really have to leave?” She asks, wrapped in a blanket on our couch.

“Yes, my love. This is our first world tour, you should be excited for us!” I reply, seating myself beside her. She leans her head on my shoulder, a small sniffle escaping her blanket-nest.

“It’s just… you’re gonna be gone for so long. I don’t know if I can go that long without seeing you.”

“Listen. I love you, so very much. I’ll fly you out to wherever we are, whenever you want, just say the word.” She sits up, making her way into my lap.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude on your guys’ work time…”

“Don’t. You are my everything, I’d drop this tour in a heartbeat for you, but I need to make money somehow.”

“Just promise me you won’t do anything I wouldn’t,” She says, the last few words fading out.

“Hey, you really think I’d do something like that?”

“If you know you won’t, just promise,” She says, cupping my cheeks in her hand.

“Fine. I promise.”

“I can’t.”

“W-What? What do you mean ‘you can’t’? Yoongi, I-”

“I just can’t! You told me not to do anything you wouldn’t do, and…” He says, eyes looking down at his feet. As I piece his words together, it clicks in my head.

“Don’t tell me you-. Please tell me you didn’t hook up with someone, Yoongi. I know you’re better than that. You promised me…” Tears cloud my vision, my hand snapping the ring box closed.

“Y/N, I love you. It didn’t mean anything to me, and it’s been eating me alive ever since.”

“Huh. Funny how you think about how you have been feeling, not giving a second thought on how the fuck I would feel about all of this,” I say, my words interrupted by a knock at the front door.

“I bet it’s our food, I’ll go get it,” Yoongi says, quickly turning around and walking out the door. I wipe the tears from my face, getting up from the bed and extinguishing the flames of the candles. I pull some clothes from (what used to be) our closet, shoving them into an empty backpack. Yoongi returns to the bedroom, setting the takeout on the bed.

“What are you doing?” He asks, panic riddling his voice.

“I can’t stay here. I can’t be here, with you, right now.” He inches towards me, arms open wide. I push his hands away, seeing a frown form on his face.

“Don’t. I just can’t stop thinking about the other person you held in those arms. The other person you kissed with the same lips that you’ve been kissing me with for all of these years. I love you, Yoongi. But, I can’t stay here and be with you like nothing happened. I just can’t.” I zip the bag up, throwing it over my shoulder. I hear his footsteps follow me to the door, grabbing my hand at the last second.

“Please. Just. Stay.”

#bts #bangtan boys #bangtan sonyeondan #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #bts imagine #bts scenarios #bts reactions #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #namjoon #rm #seokjin #jin #yoongi #suga #hoseok #j hope #jimin #taehyung #v #jungkook

[imgonnabeyourbubblegumwitch]

Writing Request for @ victoryfroststarlight 

I hope this is okay! I didn’t accurately predict how hard it would be to write characters I didn’t know really well, so I’m sorry it took so long. I hope I got these guys right-ish? 

How the road trip was put forward as a suggestion and got carried through as a motion was now lost to memory. It almost didn’t matter: it would be Easter they blamed. Lucien was too quiet for it to be plausible; Clover could be frustrating but he tended to go along with the flow of whatever everyone else was doing rather than coming up with anything new so he also got the protection of implausibility. And no one was brave enough to weather one of Vermillion’s cool stares. If he had been icy or fierce it probably would have been easier but the pure dismissiveness in his eyes had the power to shut down at thirty paces. Some people were closed books. Vermillion was a glued shut book in a closed library in a deserted town.

So it was Easter’s fault they were in the parking lot of a cheap motel, searching their bags, wallets and the car itself for every crumpled note or forgotten coin they could get their hands on.

“How could you forget money?” Clover demanded. He was no longer searching but leaning over the passenger headrest, arms wrapped around the leather.

“Because you remembered,” Vermillion snapped. He was staring at the window at the motel. It was a stark contrast to the one across the road which was softly lit, flowers blooming in neat beds, paint fresh as a daisy. A quick assessment of the state of their funds had led them to pull into the other parking lot, the parking lot for the one with a raccoon rifling through the bins and a rusting car with a broken window taking up three spaces.

Vermillion wasn’t glaring yet, but his clenched jaw said it was probably coming soon.

“I think we’re almost at fifty dollars,” Lucien said, gently but firmly cutting into the impending argument. He shrank back as all eyes turned onto him, shrugged self-consciously.

“It should be enough for a room.”

“Here?” Easter asked.

“Where did you think?” Clover asked, impatient and irritated because he was impatient. “I don’t think the other place would take us.”

“It’s a bit –“ Easter paused, trying to find the right words.

Vermillion rolled his eyes. Outside the window a can rolled across the cracked tarmac like a tumbleweed.

“It’s the home of a serial killer,” Vermillion supplied. “And we’re all going to die.”

“Okay well I’ve needed the bathroom for the last hour so I’m prepared to chance it.”

Vermillion stared at Clover, opened his mouth to answer and then realised he didn’t have the words so went back to staring out the window instead.

“Do you think it’s sanitary?” Easter asked.

Vermillion barely managed to suppress a scoff.

“It’s only a night,” Lucien said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Right?”

He looked at the others for confirmation. Vermillion didn’t deign to drag his gaze away from the middle distance beyond the glass. Clover shrugged, beginning to jiggle with impatience, his vote clear. Easter sighed.

“Alright,” Lucien said, taking the lack of response for enthusiastic assent for the sake of everybody remaining relatively calm and not biting each other’s heads off. “Shall I go see if they have any rooms?”

He glanced around, waiting for someone to argue. No one did.

“I’ll come with you!” Clover exclaimed, he didn’t give Lucien the chance to assent or object, just hopped out the car.

The wait was only short but stuck in a car with Vermillion any length of time was likely to elongate and stretch. Easter tried to make conversation, but it fell on deaf ears. He gave up and stared out, towards the bleak entrance, litter collecting by the porch and overflowing from a bin. Finally, Lucien came out, a key dangling from his fingers.

“Clover?” Easter asked.

“Has he been murdered already?” Vermillion put in.

“No of course not. Talked the girl behind the desk into using a staff restroom.”

“We could drive off and leave him,” Vermillion mused.

Lucien sighed but didn’t grace that with an answer.

Clover came bounding out to the car half a minute later, good humour apparently restored. He glanced at the others, slowly collecting bags.

“So,” he said. “Did Lucien tell you about our small problem.”

He glanced at Lucien who shrugged.

“I thought I’d let you tell them.”

“Tell us what?” Easter demanded.

“Yeah,” Vermillion added unexpectedly. His voice was quieter but more precise than Easter’s. “Tell us what?”

Lucien glanced at Clover.

“There’s only one room left,” Clover admitted. “But –“

Vermillion stared at Clover and Lucien and then promptly dropped his bag back into the car and made to get back in.

“Vermillion!” Clover complained.

“I’m not sharing a room with you three,” Vermillion said.

“Well if you’ve got a better plan-?”

Vermillion shrugged sharply.

“Different motel.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Clover pointed out. “With almost no money. That we found this place was a miracle.”

Vermillion didn’t answer that.

“Sleep in the car then,” Clover said, giving up. “The rest of us are going in.”

Easter was looking at the crackling sign. The colours flickered uncertainly.

“Aren’t we?” Clover said, a little more deliberately this time.

Easter moved his gaze onto the litter strewn floor, nose crinkled.

“I guess,” he said.

“Lucien?”

Lucien nodded. He wouldn’t disagree. He never disagreed, not if that had even the slightest chance of upsetting someone.

“Right then,” Clover said cheerily. “Off we go.”

Vermillion gave a glare that was pure venom, but he snatched up his bag and slammed the car door shut.

“That’s the spirit,” Clover said. There was no irony in his voice.

The carpet was worn and threadbare, grime collected in the corners where a token run of a hoover hadn’t reached. Easter was stepping fastidiously which seemed to both amuse and annoy Vermillion.

“Just because you grew up in a lovely mansion with servants and silver spoons,” Vermillion muttered.

“You know that’s not true –“ Easter said but Vermillion wasn’t listening. Of the four of them he was least concerned about the state of the motel and only really seemed to object to the fact there was only one room. He was first in once Lucien had unlocked the door, shouldering past the others to get in and immediately claiming a bed by throwing his bags on it and himself down immediately after. He threw an arm over his eyes and did his best to ignore the rest of them.

They ignored him.

“At least there are two beds,” Clover said.

“There’s four of us,” Easter said slowly.

“I’m sure we can sort something out,” Clover said. “And at least it’s warm.”

Easter sighed but he shrugged, nodded. The room was old, tired. There were cigarette burns on the bedside tables, one of the net curtains was torn and the curtains didn’t close properly. But it wasn’t noticeably filthy.

Lucien was peering in the closet.

“There’s spare blankets,” he said. “And some pillows.”

“I’m not sharing,” Vermillion said, without looking up.

“There’s four of us and two beds,” Clover said. “Do the maths.”

Vermillion did not answer.

“I don’t mind sleeping in the armchair,” Lucien said quietly. “Then you and Easter can have the other bed.”

The three of them eyed the armchairs. Neither looked comfy.

“It’s only for one night,” Lucien said.

Clover was watching Vermillion.

“He should just –“

“I don’t mind,” Lucien insisted quickly. “Really.”

Clover sighed but gave in.

“Whatever,” he said. “I guess it’s only one night.”

Vermillion stayed entirely still while the others went about collecting pillows and spare blankets. Easter helped Lucien try to make the armchair a little more habitable, but there wasn’t much that could be done even with more bedding.

Easter took the right side of the free bed. Clover settled down on the left.

“It’s just one night,” Clover muttered, mostly to himself, and shut out the light.

“Easter,” he muttered, less than five minutes later. “Stop kicking me.”

“Sorry,” Easter hissed back. The bed moved, Easter’s elbow collided with his nose. Clover cried out.

“Sorry,” Easter said, ruefully. “This bed isn’t all that big.”

“Just stop wriggling,” Clover told him, teeth gritted through the pain. He was fighting back the urge to sneeze.

Easter lay still for about a minute and then he was shifting again.

Clover reached out and slammed his hand against the light switch.

“That’s it!” he said.

Easter looked at him with big, mournful eyes. Clover sniffed, absolutely not falling for it.

“Are there any pillows left?”

Lucien, curled awkwardly between two armchairs, head resting on the arm of one, legs crooked into the seat of the other, cracked open an eye.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Easter keeps kicking me!” Clover exclaimed. Then he realised that maybe his situation was better than Lucien’s nonetheless.

“I think there was a cushion in the cupboard.”

Clover snatched it up. Vermillion hadn’t moved, was only using two of his four pillows. Clover stole the spare two as he passed.

Vermillion finally sat up then.

“Hey!” he protested. “What are you doing?”

“It’s that or I get into bed with you,” Clover snapped. “After all you don’t seem to have a problem staying still.”

Vermillion rolled his eyes, but held his hands up, in a peace offering.

“Whatever,” he said and sank back down again, stretching out on the bed.

Clover used the cushion and two pillows to build a wall between him and Easter. It wasn’t a sturdy wall but it might save his knees and shins.

“I’ll try and keep still,” Easter promised.

Clover didn’t believe a word. He shut out the light.  

Barely five minutes had gone by before he was scrambling for it again.

There had been a crack, followed by a dull thump. A slightly dazed Lucien gazed up at them both from the floor.  

“Ow,” he offered.

He held up the broken chair leg.

“I think I broke it,” he added, a little lamely and more than a little redundantly given the chair was slumping towards the floor.

“Vermillion you have to let him sleep with you now.”

Vermillion sat up with a glare.

“It’s hardly my fault he broke the chair,” he said.

“It’s alright –“ Lucien began to say.

“No,” Clover said. “Easter tell him.”

Easter blinked in the bright light, disorientated and muddled.

“Yeah,” he agreed vaguely. “What Clover said.”

Vermillion rolled over with a furious huff of breath. Lucien wrapped a blanket around himself and tiptoed slowly across the room, like he was walking to the gallows. He lay down on the edge of the bed.

“Right,” Clover mumbled. “Night.”

He switched off the light.

Vermillion’s scream jerked Easter awake. Clover was next, coming to consciousness on the tail end of the cry and in time to have something soft and heavy fall on his face. He shouted, and lashed out and got a mouthful of cotton and his fist connecting with the side of Easter’s head. He shoved the pillow off of him and stared over to the other two trying to make out their shapes in the grainy dark.

“Are you being murdered?” Easter asked into the dark as clumsy fingers sought the light switch.  

“What good would asking that do if we were?” came Vermillion’s cool reply. Lucien hit the light switch just after Easter found his and after a brief flash of electric light which illuminated Vermillion sitting scrunched in the very corner of the bed, the room went back into darkness.

“What,” Clover said with faux patience that didn’t match the fact he had to force the words out around a clenched jaw, “is going on?”

Easter hit the lights.

Lucien was huddled in one corner of the bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin. Vermillion was huddled in the other, knees to his chest.

“There was a spider,” Vermillion commented, cool as ever even if he was noticeably hiding. “It crawled across my face.”

Lucien suddenly, shot up throwing the blanket off of him and tripping in his haste.

“I think I felt it!”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Clover muttered.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” Easter soothed.

Vermillion gave him a look that could freeze lava.

“Nope,” he said, clambering out of bed.

“I am not going to sleep until that spider is gone,” he told them.  

Clover pinched the bridge of his nose. Easter sighed and got up, began shaking out blankets.

“Don’t do that!” Lucien yelped.

He shrugged when Easter turned to look at him.

“You’ll send it flying.”

Easter sighed again but repeated the exercise with more care. As he was picking up the duvet something black and hairy scuttled across the bed.

“Oh,” Easter said. “That’s quite big.”

“I wouldn’t have cared if it was a speck of a thing,” Vermillion snapped.

“Right,” Easter said, with more trepidation this time. “Has anyone got a cup or something?”

Lucien scuttled into the bathroom, giving the bed a very wide berth. He returned with a plastic cup and then went to sit on the bed with Clover.

Easter pulled back the duvet slowly, cup at the ready. Vermillion watched from near the door. The covers inched back. Slowly, slowly, there! Easter pounced forward slamming the cup down over the spider.

Then he looked up, one hand still pressing the cup to the sheet.

“Uh?”

Clover groaned.

“There’s probably some paper around somewhere,” he said.

“Well hurry,” Easter said. “I think it’s getting mad.”

“So?” Vermillion said. “It’s not radioactive.”

But he stayed near the door. Grumbling Clover got up and he and Lucien began to search the room.

Clover eventually reached past Vermillion and ripped the laminated information guide off the back of the door and handed it to Easter. With more care than a heart surgeon Easter inched the cup up a fraction of a centimetre and slowly slid the sheet underneath.

Stage two of the operation complete, Easter let out a sigh. He dragged the spider to the end of the bed on the sheet and got a hand under it.

“Someone needs to open the window.”

Lucien was nearest and he undid the latch and shoved. The window squeaked, stuck. Easter gave him a look. Lucien shoved again but the window wasn’t going anywhere. Easter squared his shoulders and shrugged, walking carefully to the window like he was holding radioactive waste. The cup just about fit through the window.

Easter cautiously slid the cup through the gap and then dropped it. There was a distant clatter. Easter turned, rubbing his hands.

“Well that’s done.”

Lucien reached out to close the window.

“It’s stuck.”

“It can’t be,” Clover said. “Try harder.”

Lucien did, then Easter grabbed at the latch too and tried to put his weight behind it. The window was going nowhere.

“Great,” Clover muttered.

“Not even warm anymore,” Vermillion pointed out, happy to get back into bed now the spider was gone. “I knew I should have slept in the car.”

“Feel free to go,” Clover answered.

Vermillion sniffed and rolled over. Lucien returned to bed

“Please,” Clover said, “please can we get some sleep now?”

He didn’t know if he was appealing to the others or a higher power. He woke half an hour later when a tap exploded over Easter in the bathroom. Turning the light on would probably have distributed them less, but Easter was determined not to wake them and he wandered around the room in the dim light seeping through the crack in the bathroom doorway. He crashed into the desk and by the time he’d found his bag and was searching through for a new shirt everyone else was awake.

Easter settled back down but not long later the wind whistling into the room distracted them all. After that it was a bang in the room next door followed by a screaming match. Clover held a pillow over his face and, when that didn’t shut out the noise, screamed into it.

When the screaming match finally settled down and peace had resumed Vermillion rolled over and knocked the remote off the night stand. It fell, somehow managing to land on a button and the TV burst into life, scaring them all. At some point one of them, and Clover didn’t even know or care who it was, got up and put on a jacket, the rustling of fabric and the sound of the zip loud in the dead of night. At some point Easter and Lucien swapped beds. That was a relief because Lucien slept still as the dead.

Things settled. The room was still. The room was quiet. The wind had died down to a whispered lull that was almost soothing. Clover managed to drop off, Vermillion was long gone. Just as Easter was slipping into unconscious a wailing sound split through the night.

“You’ve got the be kidding me!” Clover yelled.

“Oh hey the police have finally come for you,” Vermillion said. It was half-hearted and he was too tired to aim it at anyone in particular.

The sound of an engine cut off and the siren shortly after. The sounds of feet in the corridor, urgent voices. No one knocked on their door so surely, finally, it would be safe to sleep.

This time Easter was the first to drop off, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. Clover was next, his soft snores filling the room. Lucien’s breathing evened out next.

Vermillion stared at the ceiling. It was no longer an expanse of darkness but was now a grainy grey. Dawn was coming, yellowish through the thin orange curtains.

Vermillion yawned expansively and punched the pillow back into shape. Sleep had to come now. This was his last chance.

Last to sleep, first to wake. It could only be about an hour later. His eyes felt like sand, his limbs like lead. If he lay still enough, maybe he could con himself into falling back asleep –

“Oh god!”

Easter’s shout woke the rest of them. Clover shot up, staring around blearily as he brandished a lamp he’d grabbed. Lucien sat up slightly more slowly, and scrambled for the lights.

“What on earth?” Clover asked, putting the lamp back down when he took note of the lack of a murderer in the room.

“Something just bit me,” Easter said. “Do you think it was a bed bug? Do you think it was a rat? No it’s that spider. It’s back for revenge.”

The prospect of that had Vermillion rapidly out of bed.

“Officially the worst night’s sleep ever,” he said grumpily.

No one disagreed.

They got their things together in dreary, sleep deprived silence. They hadn’t had enough for breakfast so, on top of everything else, stomachs were groaning as they packed what little they’d taken out. Vermillion was too tired for sarcasm, Easter kept yawning so wide it was a surprise it was a surprise his jaw didn’t unhinge. As they were stuffing things into the car, in dreary, sleep deprived silence, Lucien suddenly stopped. Clover glanced at him, but probably wouldn’t have commented if Lucien hadn’t looked so shifty.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Lucien said quickly. “Nothing.”

“What?” Clover said, with more weight.

Lucien pulled a very rueful face and extracted a wad of notes from a compartment in his bag.

“Emergency cash,” he said. “I forgot I had this.”

They looked as one at the pretty, perfect motel across the street. And then as one they exploded into complaints. Vermillion was the only one who stayed cool. His sunglasses on against the glare of the day he just folded his arms and said, finally and firmly:

“I’m never road tripping with any of you again.”

#@ victoryfroststarlight #victoryfroststarlight #requests #writing request