Momentum
It was hard at first. John thought he knew exactly what to do - he'd read enough gainer stories, followed enough fat guys on twitter for years. All it would take was the decision to dive headfirst into gaining and he'd be as big as any of them in no time at all.
Once a day, every day, he'd eat something that would add at least a thousand calories to his diet. He'd barely even notice. A tub of ice cream, a pot of double cream, a whole cake, a second dinner - all very doable, all easily passing that thousand calorie threshold. Once that got easy, he'd start upping his intake - supplementing it with gainer shakes, or trips to fast food restaurants between meals.
It turns out that your average 12 stone man isn't really built to suddenly, rapidly increase the amount of calories he's taking in. Especially when most of those excess calories were dairy. He spent most evenings clutching his flat stomach as it churned with acid. Each evening he'd vomit it all back up, or have to miss meals, or feel nauseous the next day - constant signals from his body to stop.
He actually lost six pounds that first month. Maybe gaining wasn't meant for him. He watched enviously as his mates the same age succumbed to middle aged spread as they hit their mid-thirties, lamenting how lucky he was to still have his twenty year old metabolism as they patted beer bellies they couldn't shift.
John went back to his old diet, gained back those lost six pounds, and accepted he was just always going to be the skinny one in the group. He kept up a few old habits of course - still bought some of the ice cream flavours he'd discovered for the occasionally treat, kept up cooking with butter and cream where he'd found out how much they improved certain recipes, always made sure there were a few beers in the fridge for those nights when he fancied it. Nothing mad though, nothing that would cause any weight gain, just a few treats. You've got to enjoy life, haven't you?
John looked in amazement at the scales. A stone. An actual, whole stone. 14 pounds. On his body! He started noticing things - the tiniest pinch when he buttoned up his jeans, the slightest blur of softness on his stomach. It was nothing really, nothing anyone would notice, but it was there - solid proof that he could gain weight. He'd just pushed himself too far before, he realised with a laugh. Slow and steady and all that.
All those little habits became regular. Dessert every other night, then every night. Cooking with butter and cream no matter the recipe. A couple of six packs of beer a week. Nothing too intense, not that many calories, but it all started adding up, bit by bit.
Fancy coming for an Indian? the text read.
John's fingers hovered. The answer was obvious - thanks, I've just eaten, I'll join you at the pub after if you're going. But… his fingers traced that new curve of his gut, inching slowly bigger by the month. Not enough to be visible in most clothes really, not enough to be called fat, but there, sure enough. Was he really full? He could eat, couldn't he? What's a curry and a couple of naans?
You off to the Raj? he texted back. What time?
That old familiar feeling, of a stomach overly stuffed, too much food and beer. But different this time. The pain was there. The pressure. But there was a certain enjoyment to it. A pleasure. Warm, rather than acidic; heavy, rather than sharp. And god but didn't his gut look round? He stood in profile in the mirror, holding it almost like a pregnancy announcement. How long until it was always this size, he wondered? How long until it was bigger?
A second dinner became a weekly occurrence, then spread to two times a week, three times, four. After all, he'd proven to himself he had the capacity - why not? Eventually if he hadn't had four meals a day topped off with ice cream he'd be ravenous, his stomach biting at him in retaliation for his neglect.
He crossed 200 pounds. 210. 220. Clothes were bought, grown into, outgrown, and the cycle repeated. The general increase in size that had come before gave way to true signs of fatness. Soft pockets of fat at his chest, his arse rounding out, chubby cheeks, a real, honest to god, gut. It was happening. It was really fucking happening.
His mate Sam, the largest of the group, reached over and slapped John's baby gut after he took his coat off one night at the pub. "Fucking hell mate!" he said. "Never thought I'd see you with one of these!" There were some jeers, some belly pats, some comments - "At least you're not making us look bad anymore." "Welcome to the club, mate."
John looked around as he downed half of his first pint. How much more weight until he was the biggest there? None of them were that big, really, even Sam. Just a load of ex-rugby players with some overdeveloped beer guts. Another 30 or 40 pounds maybe? 18 stone? It sounded good, didn't it? And it would take, what? Six months at his current rate? A nice place to stop for a bit, enjoy his weight and new status as the big guy of the group.
He downed the rest of his drink and went to the bar for his next. "What we eating tonight then lads?" he asked them all, thinking back to the burger and chips he'd had just before coming.
It was all a lot easier with a definite goal in mind, he thought to himself a few weeks later, as he finished a tub of ice cream and placed it down next to four empty beer bottles. The sizes of snacks crept up, until they were meals in and of themselves, and he'd find himself convincing himself he was hungry almost as soon as he'd finished eating. He started stashing snacks everywhere that he couldn't reasonably expect a meal - the passenger seat of his car became reserved for a small mound of chocolate bars, the bottom drawer of his desk at work was filled with crisps and cereal bars.
His mates fell silent as he walked up to them a few months later, the next time he saw them, and he grinned smugly as he saw that, yes, he'd definitely become the fattest there. A couple of them even looked like they'd lost weight, the stupid pricks - didn't they know how good this felt? He put his pint and packet of pork scratchings down, and maneuvered himself down into his seat.
"Jesus Christ John," Sam said softly. "Are you… I mean… Is everything okay?"
John slapped the top of his gut and beamed. "Just enjoying life mate!" he replied, laughing. He tried to listen in as the others murmured around him, doing their best to not be too obvious.
"He wasn't that big last time, was he?" "Definitely not, he was smaller than me." "What's it been, four months? Three?" "He's not ill, do you reckon?" "Must be four stone, at least?"
Okay, so he knew he'd overshot his target and weighed in at 20 stone and change that morning, and yes, how fast it had piled on had shocked even himself, but really, it was all so hot, he was hardly about to complain. In fact, he'd made the decision that 285 felt a little small, really. Why not push for 300, when he was already so close anyway? Then he'd be satisfied, he knew.
"Mate," Sam whispered to him quietly, leaning in. "You've got a little uhh…" He gestured to his face. John took a finger and wiped the corner of his mouth.
"Cheers mate," John said, licking his finger. "Just a bit of cream." He spent the night making jokes about how fat he was getting, and eventually everyone else relaxed a little, content that he at least seemed happy with his shocking weight gain. Underneath his gut, his cock was rock hard.
300 pounds, it turned out, also felt a little small. Or at least, that's what John told himself a couple of months later as he saw 316 flashing on the scales. Maybe just a little bit more - a few more pounds and then he'd stop, once and for all.
But god, did it feel hot. Eating became its own erotic experience. It wasn't merely that he couldn't cum anymore without being completely, painfully stuffed (that point had long since come and gone), he now wondered why he would want to at all. Hook-ups became as much about being fed as they were about the sex. He didn't care who they were - if they had food and were willing to feed him, he'd take them.
John's body became unrecognisable. He was far beyond mere beer belly or dad bod now, his gut was now a globe that spanned out in every direction, wrapping around into thick cushions at his back, draped in inches of fat on top of the firm ball, before cascading off, a surprisingly cold apron of flesh that was slowly threatening to cover his ever shrinking cock. His tits sagged to the side and joined up to his back fat nestled in his armpit. His face, long-since fully rounded, began to elongate, his cheeks and chins sagging into new shapes.
John panted a little as he stood naked in his bathroom, doing his best to push his gut in with one hand as he peered over the top of it to see the scale read 363. "Right," he told the walls of the bathroom. "That's it, I'm stopping there." He struggled to lean down to pick the scales up, sliding them away to the side of the cabinet before straining to stand. "I only bloody wanted to be bigger than Sam."
Food, however, still tasted as good as it had before. And every meal he tried to scale back, every snack he tried to forgo, left him ravenous - each day he'd just end up gorging on more food than he tried to cut back on.
370. 380. 390.
His body began to feel alien. Every joint began to feel crowded, flesh filling the space before he could fully bend his elbow or knee. His arms sat awkwardly by his sides, pushed out by sloping tits. Manspreading became the default, as his thighs met all the way down to his knees which themselves began to inflate out, pillowy and soft.
400. 410. 420.
The gym, he decided. If dieting was out of the question (and there was no doubt at this point that dieting was very much out of the question), he could always exercise. He drove to a nearby gym, asked about personal trainers. Put down more money than one of his mortgage payments for their premium membership for a year, as much to force himself to commit as for the actual services.
His feet ached. His knees grinded. His lungs burned. Sweat poured off of him in quantities that he didn't know people could sweat - and he considered himself to be quite the expert on sweating these days.
Fuck it, he thought to himself after the first session, his circus tent of a t-shirt practically see-through, clinging to every roll of his body, showing off each crevice and valley. It wasn't that much money, really. He could afford to wave goodbye to it, if it meant never having to do that again. What did he have such a good salary for, if not to waste it on shit he'd never use? He'd have only spent it on food anyway.
430. 440. 450.
"My weight's plateaued recently, actually," he told Sam proudly over a pint.
Sam gave an encouraging smile. "That's great mate," he said, in the same tone he'd speak to a child or elderly relative. "Really great."
"Yeah," John said, opening one of the bags of nuts on the table in front of them. "I only put on like five pounds last month."
"Fuck," Sam said quietly, his face draining of colour. "Five pounds last- John, mate, that's still over a pound a week. What are you… how quickly were you packing it on before?"
John shrugged, and pointed to the rugby match on the TV in the corner of the pub, trying to change the topic. At least Sam had put on some weight himself recently - it blunted to criticism just a little.
"I'm over twenty stone now," Sam confessed later, his breath reeking of beer as he leant in close. "I don't know how I'm going to stop," he continued, his words slurring. He leant back and pulled his t-shirt up to reveal his hairy gut beginning to fill his lap and he slapped it. "Look at this thing!" he said loudly enough that people at other tables looked over and laughed. He began to rub it in slow, wide circles, and John could see the outline of his dick growing down the inside of his trousers. He leant back in, lowered his voice once more. "It's kind of fucking hot, isn't it?" he asked, punctuating with a burp. "That's why you've gotten so fat, right? You find it hot too?"
Forty five minutes later, Sam clumsily lined up his cock with one of the folds on John's gut, and slid it inside, grunting as he did so. Both of them held a kebab in one hand, and ate them as Sam's gut and John's whole body shook and quivered with Sam's thrusts, bits of meat and salad and sauce falling down onto their bodies.
"I can't stop," Sam moaned, as his thrusts became more erratic. "I keep on trying to lose weight but I just gain more and more." He spasmed and yelled out, one hand shoving the last of the kebab into his mouth, the other gripping one of his love handles hard, his fingers sinking in to the growing ball of fat.
"That's the thing about momentum," John said as he licked the last of the sauce off his fingers. "Once you get started, it just gets harder and harder to stop."
Sam slid off of John's body and John looked down at himself, surveying his acres of flesh. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to put on just a little more weight, he thought to himself. After all, Sam needed someone to set a good example.
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Double ‘Taine || Part One
Pairing: Fontaine x Black Fem!Reader
Warnings: canon typical violence, use of the n word, aave use etc.
Word count: 4.4k
A/N: This is going to be a fun lil series! Not sure how many chapters just yet, but I hope y’all enjoy the story. Please comment, like, and reblog! :)
It was a gorgeous Memphis night. The weather was perfect and your life was going pretty well. You didn't have too many complaints. The aroma of apples and pumpkin always wafted through the air of your apartment around this time of year. Mrs. Towner, who lives two units down the hall from you, was always the culprit. Her grandson lived with her and loved baked goods and Halloween. You couldn't blame him; Halloween was one of your favorite holidays too, and it was only four weeks away. It was simply something about the smell of pumpkin and the crunch of fallen leaves under your boots that made your heart warm and made you feel like everything was going to be okay.
You were currently in your luxury apartment, venturing back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, setting the table for four. While you were busy setting up the apartment for your guests, your boyfriend, Fontaine, was out picking up dinner. You usually cooked, but Slick suggested earlier this week that he was craving Indian food, and you hadn't had it in a long time, so you ordered it and sent Fontaine to pick it up from the best spot downtown. Thursdays turned into dinner dates with Yo-Yo and Slick Charles.
You met Yo-Yo about four years ago. She strutted straight into your law firm, carrying the brightest smile and one of the sharpest minds you'd ever seen. You two hit it off right away. You supported her with everything she needed, and she is now a paralegal with your firm.
About six months in, she finally introduced you to her eccentric boyfriend, Slick Charles, who never failed to make you bust out laughing, and her other roommate, Fontaine, who you instantly took a fancy to. Your firm had become quite busy, and Yo-Yo stressed to you that Fontaine was going through a difficult time, so it took another half a year before the two of you started dating. Now you were in the best relationship you'd ever been in, and you couldn't be happier.
Sure, Fontaine kept a lot of things bottled up, and it was like pulling teeth to get him to talk about them, but you wouldn't trade him for anything. You loved that man.
Actually, you had the impression that all three of them were hiding some information from you. You didn't know much about their past because they didn't tell you much. They told you that they had moved to Memphis from the Glen and that they had no plans of returning home. That was pretty much it.
You had an inkling there was a lot more to the story, but you never pushed that button. If they wanted you to know, you would know.
As soon as you had the apartment set up to your liking, you poured yourself a glass of Stella Rosa's Moscato D’Asti and relaxed on the couch, waiting for your beloved to return.
The door knob was twisted twice before there was a heavy knock on the door. You hurriedly downed the rest of your wine and dashed over to the entrance, figuring Fontaine could use help opening the door since he had the food in his hands.
“Hey baby,” you greeted as you opened the door and saw that he didn’t have the food, but instead two large bags and a backpack. “Did you forget your keys?”
He didn't answer you; instead, he gave you a pointed look and strolled into the apartment. You scratched your forehead because you didn't know what the fuck was going on. You could've sworn he left 20 minutes ago with different clothes on….and why didn't he have the food?
He lingered in the living room, glancing around the apartment as if it were his first time seeing it. You shut the door and took timid steps toward him. Your eyes widened as you tried, but failed, not to gawk at him. When did he have time to change?
After what appeared to be him assessing the room, his gaze finally settled on you, and he looked you up and down.
“Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
You scoffed as you threw up your hands,“You were supposed to go get the food…”
“…Oh…” he said, tone revealing that he didn’t give a single fuck about dinner.
“Yeah, oh,” you rolled your eyes at him and he just shrugged his shoulders at you.
What the fuck was his problem?
He stood there with his back against the wall. In a defensive position. As if he knew shit was about to hit the fan. Bags still in his hands, and an orange backpack still on his back.
“Fontaine, is everything alright?” you asked, taking a cautious step towards him.
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
He gave you another pointed look and you raised your hands.
“It’s just…you’re acting weird and you look pissed the fuck off right now, babe. Please tell me what’s going on?”
He uncrossed his arms and started to speak, but the jingle of keys and the opening of the front door stopped you both in your tracks.
In walked Fontaine with dinner in his hands.
WHAT IN THE ENTIRE FUCK?
Fontaine took one look at the both of you before slamming the door shut and fixing you with a chilling look.
“Baby, back away from him.”
“Man, I ain’t gon’ hurt her.” Fontaine number two huffed, rolling his eyes at Fontaine number one.
You took a cautious step back anyway. The tone of your boyfriend’s voice was more than enough to have you on edge.
Your boyfriend placed the food on the dining room table and shoved you behind him as he faced the other Fontaine.
Or at least that’s who he looked like…
Who was this guy? And why did he look just like your man? You thought you were seeing double.
The apartment was deafeningly silent. Those two didn't utter a single word as they sized each other up.
Those two may have been comfortable standing there in silence, but you weren't. You wanted to know just what in the fuck was going on.
“Umm,” you blurted, breaking the silence, “I thought you said your brother was dead? And that he was younger than you?”
You thought that maybe the other man was his twin or something. Obviously they had to be related.
“He is,” your boyfriend replied, taking his eyes off of the other man for a brief moment to glance back at you.
“Then who the fuck is this?” you pressed, gesturing wildly at the Fontaine lookalike.
“Nobody.”
“Nigga, I’m you,” Fontaine number two said.
“I ain’t tryna hear that.”
“Well, you gon’ hear it tonight, nigga.”
They went back and forth with each other, bickering for what felt like an eternity until you couldn't take it anymore.
“Fontaine!”
They both turned to look at you.
“Somebody better open they fuckin’ mouth right now and start explainin’ before I start swingin!!” you threatened.
While your boyfriend heaved a sigh of aggravation, the Fontaine lookalike smirked at you with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“Where that nigga Slick at?” The lookalike asked, ignoring you.
“You came all the way to Memphis for Slick?” Fontaine questioned, tone heavy with irritation.
“That nigga knocked me out and duck taped me to a fuckin’ chair!”
What the fuck? Why would Slick do something like that?
“Yeah, for a reason.”
And your boyfriend knew about this shit all along? What else was he keeping from you?
“I got somethin’ for his ass!”
“Wait a minute—why would Slick tape you to a chair?” you asked the lookalike, taking a step closer to him.
“Ask yo boyfriend,” he quipped.
“I will, but first tell me who you are,” you demanded, staring him right in his face. His hair, his deep brown eyes, the golds in his mouth was all too familiar. This man was the spitting image of your boyfriend.
But how?
“I’m Fontaine,” he finally said, looking you in the eyes, silently daring you to disagree with him.
“That’s impossible,” you chuckled nervously as you backed away from him because clearly he was out of his mind, “There can’t be two Fontaines.”
“Baby,” your boyfriend sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “He’s tellin’ the truth.”
“We’re both clones,” the lookalike admitted.
Your boyfriend's shoulders stiffened so much that you worried they'd become stuck.
You were about to accuse them both of fucking with you, but the pained look on their faces was enough to convince you that they were being serious.
You plopped down on the couch, head in your hands, trying to make sense of what was being said, but your chest felt tight and you couldn't quite catch your breath.
So…clones were real.
Your boyfriend was a clone and your boyfriend also had a clone.
So there were two Fontaines.
Were there more than two Fontaines?
Who did this to them?
With each passing second, a new question flooded your thoughts.
What happened to the original Fontaine?
Who else was the government cloning?
What other states and cities were they operating from?
Was Fontaine safe?
Were you safe?
Shit really hit the fan once Yo-Yo and Slick arrived.
You had to confiscate Fontaine number two's gun after he pulled it out on Slick twice. Then you had to hold him back because he charged the retired pimp with such ferocity. Your boyfriend definitely had his temperamental ways, but this Fontaine was a bit more volatile.
Thankfully, Yo-Yo was there because Fontaine number one and Slick Charles were useless. They didn’t even try to help diffuse the situation.
After a half-hour of squabbling, everyone calmed down and sat down to eat dinner.
“So, y’all niggas couldn’t have included me on the plan?” Fontaine number two asked the others at the table.
You sat between both Fontaines, gulping your wine as you willed yourself not to freak out anymore than necessary. Yo-Yo and Slick Charles sat across from you.
“Hell no! We ain’t have time to break it down for your hotheaded ass,” Slick Charles said.
Fontaine number two shot Slick Charles with such a hard glare that you worried you'd have to hold him back again.
“Uh, I’mma just eat my samosa before Fontaine number two beats my mothafuckin’ ass,” Slick Charles grumbled before shoving his mouth with more food.
You nodded, “I think that’s a good idea, Slick.”
“How’d you find us anyway?” Yo-Yo asked.
“Biddy.”
“Biddy?!” The three of them murmured.
You couldn’t do anything but eat your food and drink your wine as you watched the four of them converse. You felt like a stranger in your own fucking home.
“I gave that pink bitch a hundred bucks and she told me y’all moved to Memphis.”
You didn’t even bother to ask who Biddy was because you knew you wouldn’t get a straight answer. The rest of the evening went pretty much like that. As the four of them caught up, you tried to make sense of the information at your disposal. You eventually tuned them out because you were becoming irritated.
After a while, Fontaine number two asked where the bathroom was, and you got up to show him the way.
Surprisingly, he thanked you before closing the bathroom door, and you retreated to the kitchen, searching for more wine. You needed more booze to deal with this fucked-up situation, and unfortunately, the wine you already had just wasn't cutting it. You scoured the refrigerator and cabinets but came up empty.
With a heavy sigh, you leaned against the kitchen island and went over the events of the last hour or so. You still found it difficult to comprehend the gobsmacking fact that the love of your life was a clone.
It all made sense now why your boyfriend was so guarded. Look at all the shit he’s been through. Still, you couldn't help but feel a heavy pang of hurt because the three of them kept this from you. They were the closest people to you. You've grown to love them so much, and they couldn't even bring you into the loop.
You strolled back into the dining room and observed the three of them crowded together, talking in hushed voices.
Slick Charles spotted you approaching and motioned for the other two to stop chatting.
“And just what are y’all over there whisperin’ about?” you asked, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing important, baby.”
“Just discussin’ the weather.”
The three of them lied through their teeth and went back to eating as if they just weren't having a private conversation. It took all your might not to lash out at them in frustration. At the very least, Yo-Yo looked guilty. You knew she wanted to tell you more, but her loyalty to Fontaine surpassed her loyalty to you.
“Right,” you scoffed at them as you grabbed your purse off the counter. “I’ll be back.”
“Where you goin’, Y/N?” your boyfriend asked as he stood up.
“To the liquor store,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Mind if I slide with you?” Fontaine number two asked as he ambled down the hallway.
“No, I don’t mind.”
“Nah,” Fontaine number one shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I’m goin’ anyway, nigga.” Fontaine number two retorted as he stood next to you.
You shot your partner a sidelong glance before turning around and heading outside. Fontaine number two was right behind you.
“Y/N,” Slick Charles called after you. “Bring me back some vodka and orange juice please!”
Fontaine number two slammed the door shut before you had a chance to respond, and you fought back a chuckle. That dude was obsessed with orange juice.
Together with your boyfriend's carbon copy, you made your way silently to the parking garage.
“Oh shit,” he exclaimed as he watched you open the car door to your silver Genesis. “You drive a G90?!”
“Yes,” you chuckled as he gawked at your car, his brown eyes briefly flashing with childlike admiration. Just like your Fontaine when he first saw it. The man truly did love his cars. It only made sense that his doppelgänger would too.
“This is a nice ass ride,” he complimented, caressing the car door with his fingers as he walked around the vehicle.
“You wanna drive?”
“You for real?”
“Yeah, the other you drives it all the time.”
You tossed him the keys before walking over to the passenger side and hopping in.
He excitedly clambered into the car, gently closing the door, before cranking up and taking the opportunity to look around.
After marveling at and feeling the smooth cream interior for several seconds, his gaze ultimately settled on you.
You paid close attention to his features. He may have been a clone, but now that you were actually looking at him, you could tell he wasn't your boyfriend.
Your Fontaine always looked at you as if he knew you inside and out, which he did, but this Fontaine solely looked at you as if he wanted to have a chance to get to know you that well. Everything else about the two was remarkably identical. This was a peculiar yet intriguing situation.
You were going to ask him what he was staring at when he blurted, “Y’all fucked in here yet?”
“Fontaine!” you gasped, whacking his arm in admonishment.
You couldn't believe he would ask you something like that, but then again, your Fontaine wasn't one to shy away from asking questions. No matter how invasive they were.
“What? I know me, aight? Ain’t no way in hell I’d pass up fuckin’ my fine ass girlfriend in this sweet ass car.”
The compliment was not lost on you, but you chose not to react to it.
You remained silent, blinking at him in disbelief, until he raised his eyebrows impatiently, still waiting for you to answer.
“Yes, nigga,” you muttered, “we’ve fucked in here before.”
“How many times?”
“Why do you care?”
He said nothing, just stared at you with an amused expression.
“Four times, damn! Can we go now?”
For a split second, his eyes darkened with a burning desire. He didn't say anything, but it was clear he wanted to be the one to partake in a fifth time.
Under his piercing gaze, you squirmed in your seat. You knew that was a thought you wouldn’t be able to come back from, so you cleared your throat and turned to stare out the window.
You heard him let out a puff of amusement before he put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot.
“What type of shit you do for work?” he asked once y’all were out on the open road and out of the parking garage.
“I’m a lawyer,” you said proudly before pointing to the upcoming street. “Make a left at the next light.”
“What kind of lawyer?” he questioned as he turned left.
“Corporate.”
“Mmm, smart and pretty.”
And that's pretty much how the trip to and from the liquor store went. You two getting to know each other. Surprisingly, the lookalike was easy to talk to. He reminded you too much of your man. You were going to start getting whiplash. You didn't ask him about his life back in the Glen. You wanted your boyfriend to trust you with that information.
You both walked back into the apartment carrying bags of booze. Fontaine number one, Yo-Yo, and Slick Charles were still conversing at the dinner table.
As a peace offering, Fontaine number two handed Slick Charles his vodka and orange juice. At least he was trying, you thought.
You five settled on the couch with your drinks and watched the first two Bad Boys flicks. Yo-Yo fell asleep against Slick Charles halfway through the second film.
You were once again seated between your boyfriend and his duplicate. Your feet eventually wound across your man's lap, and he rubbed soothing circles into your ankles.
After twenty minutes, Yo-Yo began to snore, so Slick decided to call it a night, waking her up and helping her to her feet. They were really sweet to each other when they wanted to be.
"Baby, I'mma walk them out," your boyfriend stated as he pecked your lips before strolling to the front door. "I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder before shutting the door, leaving you alone with Fontaine number two.
Your brow furrowed in confusion. He never walked them all the way out. Then it dawned on you that he wanted to have another private conversation with them when you were not around.
You slumped on the couch, tucking your foot beneath you as you grumbled in frustration.
“Aye, you good?” Fontaine asked as he took his eyes off the tv screen to glance over at you.
“I’m good,” you lied as you turned to look at him. “You ready for bed?”
“You gon’ let me sleep here?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice.
“Well, duh Fontaine,” you huffed. “Unless you got some other friends in Memphis that I don’t know about?”
What did he think? That you were going to toss his ass out with nowhere to go?
“I don’t think yo boyfriend gon’ be cool with that.”
“I don’t give a fuck what the other you has to say at the moment,” you sneered, “do you want to stay here or not?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then it’s settled,” you dismissed..
“Can we finish the movie first? This one is my favorite,” he nodded towards the tv.
“Sure.”
Fontaine wandered back into the apartment about fifteen minutes later, scoffing at the two of you laughing on the couch.
“And where is this nigga stayin’, Y/N?” he blurted, attitude rancid as fuck.
“Here with us,” you said brightly, stating the obvious. The credits began to roll so you grabbed the remote to turn off the tv.
“Oh, hell nah,” he complained as he rolled his eyes at the both of you. “Why he gotta stay here with us?”
“Where else is he supposed to stay? With Slick and Yo-Yo?” You folded your arms against your chest, kissing your teeth in annoyance. Fontaine number one and Fontaine number two were going to have to get along sooner or later. This hostility shit between them wasn’t going to fly.
“He can stay at—“
“—Just let him stay, baby,” you interrupted, throwing up your hands as you stood up from the couch.
What was the goddamn problem? It made sense that everybody should stick together. Maybe only to you.
“Aight, fine,” he grunted, stomping off into the kitchen.
“Dramatic ass nigga,” Fontaine number two mumbled under his breath as he stood up too.
You shook your head at him in amusement, fighting back a giggle. This situation was so bizarre that you had to take it lightly or else you'd lose your fucking mind. He shrugged at you and scooped up his bags. You motioned for him to follow you into the guest room down the hall.
You helped him with unpacking and began hanging his clothes in the closet. You chuckled to yourself since his wardrobe was identical to your Fontaine's. The two men were obviously quite the same, but there were one or two physical variances that you chose to keep to yourself.
“Why you bein’ so nice to me?” he blurted, taking a small step towards you.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” you replied, eyes narrowing as you leaned back against one of the closet doors.
He took another step towards you, pausing to look you up and down before fixing his gaze on your face.
“I ain’t him, you know?”
But you kind of are, you thought.
“You think I’m only bein’ nice to you because you share the same face as my boyfriend?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders.
You sighed deeply and looked out the window, gaze focusing on the shining full moon. "I'm bein’ nice to you because you're a human being who's been through a lot of unfair shit." You turned your attention back to him, eyes locking with his. "I think a little kindness is the least you deserve, don't you?"
He didn't respond, taken aback by your kind words, and after several seconds of stillness, he nodded his head so slowly you'd have missed it if you hadn't already been staring at him.
Of course, this Fontaine had trust issues as well. You couldn’t really blame him. He was keeping it together much better than you would have been in his shoes.
“Alright,” you sighed, taking one last look around the room before smiling softly at him, “anything else you need before I go to bed?”
“Yeah,” he nodded as he plopped down on the bed, “can I get my gun back?”
Hmm, you thought. You didn’t see why not. Slick Charles was gone and the situation seemed diffused for the time being.
As you approached him, you carefully removed the weapon from your waistband, holding it in your palm.
You held out your hand to him, and he reached out to take it, but you pulled it closer to your chest and said, “As long as you promise to keep it away unless our lives are in danger.”
“Aight.” he agreed, reaching for the gun again, but you tightened your grip on the steel.
“I’m serious, Fontaine.”
He rose slowly, towering over you while peering down into your eyes. You took a much-needed step back since you could hear every breath he took and smell the sweet tang of his cologne.
The corners of his mouth turned up in a sly smirk as you took a step back from him. He cleared his throat and gave you a look, indicating that he was being serious.
“I promise,” he whispered, reaching for the firearm for a third time and this time you let him take it.
After ensuring that Fontaine number two was settled in, you closed his bedroom door and shuffled around the apartment, switching off all the lights and checking that the entrance and windows were locked.
You entered the bedroom you shared with your boyfriend and gently closed the door behind you. Fontaine was already in bed, pretending to be sleeping.
“So, what? You gonna pretend like today ain’t happen?” you asked, folding your arms over your chest in annoyance.
“Y/N,” Fontaine groaned, pulling a pillow over his head to drown out your voice.
“Don’t ‘Y/N’ me, ‘Taine! We have to discuss this,” you walked over to your dresser and began to undress, pulling a drawer open to grab a set of pajamas.
“I ain’t in the mood to talk about this shit, aight?”
“Were you ever goin’ to tell me about all this wild shit that happened to you?”
He tightened his grip on the pillow, pressing it down even further over his head, ignoring you.
You tossed your clothes in the hamper and finished buttoning your pajama blouse before marching over to the bed, flipping back the covers, and snatching the pillow off his head.
“Fontaine!”
“What?!” he fumed, sitting up as he glared at you wildly.
“You can’t ignore this! Not this time. Why didn’t you tell me this happened to you?”
“What was a nigga supposed to say?! Hey baby by the way I was made in a fuckin’ tube,” he scoffed then shook his head.
“Wait, so you think me findin’ out about you bein’ a clone would make me love you any less?” you asked, your frustration dissipating as you noticed the petrified look in his deep brown eyes.
“You don’t get it…”
“Then explain it to me,” you urged.
“Nah. I’m goin’ to sleep,” he said, turning his back to you and settling under the covers.
You weren't sure how much more of this you could take. You were used to Fontaine shutting down amid difficult conversations, which you understood to some degree, but it was becoming painfully obvious to you that he didn't trust you at all. Most likely, he never did. It's unfair to you because you've never given him a reason not to trust you.
What’s a relationship without trust?
You switched off the lamp on your bedside table, let out a deep breath, and slid beneath the covers. It took some time, but Fontaine's soft snores eventually lulled you to sleep.
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