#started recording these!! someone Probably would be down to watch me fuck around in fa

[chronogroove]

wips from today

#started recording these!! someone Probably would be down to watch me fuck around in fa #also. these r all tablet drawings!!!! so im feeling pretty okay with them #gh.. watching these just making me hyper aware of how bad i get proportions #transform tool my Savior

[okaybutlikeimagine]

ok by i cannot stop thinking about billy just losing his fucking mind to dream on by aerosmith. like his dad just went too far or he found out about him and steve and now hes tearing his room apart like a mad man, throwing records and smashing bottles and shit. and its not even just like angry hes like /crying/ like he cannot even for a second know peace and happiness and this has been on my mind for MONTHS

TW: physical abuse, blood, homophobic slurs ((f-slur)), verbal abuse, mental breakdown, cussing

Honey, ever since i got this i haven’t been able to stop thinking about it either ohmyGOD???? This is legitimately a PEAK Billy “i’m absolutely sick of all of this and i need out NOW” Hargrove anthem!! God if i could direct this i would but unfortunately i’m bound to words on my silly little blog so i hope this will do, love. ♥ (@venomdean)

Because it’s absolutely explosive. I kind of hate to think about it, but I feel like Billy is like a landmine. He’s a pot always threatening to boil over. He’s on constant vibrate just about ready to pop. He’s always on the edge of going absolutely feral because the only certain thing he’s felt for years and years is pain.

And you’re right- on both accounts. Neil finds out… and he goes too far.

Because Neil has been hearing all around town that Billy has been running around with “that Harrington boy”. You know, the son of that really influential family, the boy who “has all the opportunities in the world” but “seems to be amounting to nothing… what a shame. You know, his parents couldn’t even pay a school to take him. What a pity. I knew it would happen though...”

And Neil just hoped it wasn’t true. He hears it every time he goes to the grocery store. The voices follow him down the aisles, either from mothers who whisper about how “That’s Neil Hargrove. His son is that curly haired one I told you about. The different one.” or from teens who hiss about how “That’s Billy’s dad. Wonder if he knows his son is probably a fa-”

And one day Billy comes home happy. And i’d encourage you to really think about that and just enjoy it for as long as you can because Billy is happy. So happy he’s beaming. He feels like he’s glowing from the inside. He forgets that anyone other than Steve even exists. For a second he forgets his own existence, he’s so enamored and infatuated and near obsessed, really. Because he spent the whole afternoon with the boy, which isn’t necessarily a rare occurrence but it’s always an exceptional one, and today was especially joyful because something about their mutual existence just felt so…. So good. Yeah they had sex in the camaro like the teenagers they are and then again in Hansen’s field because it’s fucking massive and Hansen’s away on some trip and they blasted hippie music and fucked in a field of flowers and pretended like they were at Woodstock just existing in the skin of the other like they were made for it. Like they were made to share each other’s bodies and they were finally completing their infinite and perpetual task. And Billy would never be able to say these words or perhaps even string them together but it’s about the feeling.

Because that’s just the feeling he has. The nameless feeling.

And they fucked and they thought about smoking and they thought about drinking but they stayed high on each other and that was enough. They were laying there among the daisies happier than anything else in existence and Billy’s not even sure why. But they laid there and Billy felt the sun lay a large blanket of the softest warmth right over him and he absolutely reveled in it, allowing his hand to grace Steve’s fingers and then he rolled over to lay his head on Steve’s shoulder and he can’t believe he does that without feeling like a stupid fucking sissy but… but Steve’s always there. Always always always there. Stronger than he looks and warm and supportive and there. And Steve started to curl some of Billy’s hair around his finger and Billy pretended to bite at him like he was irritated and Steve whispered something about love and you and me and California and after graduation… i should have enough money by then. Let’s do it. Just you and me.

And Billy’s whole world froze. Froze in warmth, incubated in love, goddamn teeming with adoration as he got up on his elbows and evaluated Steve’s face just to be sure it wasn’t a joke and saw that it wasn’t and absolutely 100% beamed. Because the words and Steve’s eyes and the warmth of the sun on his back painted, stroke by stroke, the image of the two of them in California. On the beach. In the soft sand. Enjoying the sunlight. Playing in the waves. Billy teaching Steve how to surf, Billy dragging Steve under the boardwalk, Billy and Steve getting sticky with popsicles and soft serve and fresh watermelon and strawberries, Billy rollerskating hand in hand with Steve just like he used to watch all those couples do back when he was 9 years old and questioning everything. Billy and Steve existing freely. Openly and honestly. It can only have gotten better. He’s sure of it. It can only get better from this stupid hick town. He knows it.

He needs it.

And so they make out some more and the rest of the afternoon is a whirlwind up until he’s got Steve pressed up against the Camaro making out with him on that backroad and then again in front of Steve’s house and he’s letting his skin light up over every little promise of you and me in California… that Steve whispers into his skin, his ears, his mouth...

He feels fucking invincable.

He walks into his house with a forcefield. A smile he never sports. A bounce in his step he never maintains. Goddamn happiness. Not even just confidence, it’s pure bliss on his face and not even Neil’s ugly mug can ruin it. Not even Neil storming down the hall, electricity following his path, can ruin it. Not even Neil scowling, glaring daggers, lip snarled, teeth bared, can ruin it. Not even whatever gross, growling worlds Neil is spitting his way can ruin it.

Billy is blissed out on the future and the idea of pure bliss with a boy he thinks he knows he loves that he doesn’t feel it until even moments after. He doesn’t see it til it’s over. He doesn’t know it til he can’t defend himself. He doesn’t care until he does.

It’s a mistake.

When Billy thinks back on it afterwards, after everything, he heaves and hisses and snarls at his past, blissed out self. He wants to punch himself in the face for such a mistake. This is a lesson he learned years ago. Back when it all first started. Back when he was so young.

But current Billy is blissed all the way up until his world flashes black. Until his ears ring. Until his hand flies to his face of its own accord to press at the pain to get it to stop. Second nature.

“You stupid fucking homo.”

And Billy’s vision bleeds red. It’s anger, it’s rage, it’s betrayal. His vision tunnels with vitriol. With scorn. Fight or flight kicks in and every smart part of Billy is yelling run but the dumber, closer, stronger parts say fuck him fuck him fuck him I don’t deserve this.

So his fist swings, rearing back and surging forward. Animalistic nature.

He thinks he makes purchase, but if he’s honest, the rest is a too quick blur. A mess of motion. Someone presses fast-forward on his VHS tape. The moments bleed together.

It’s a montage of angered words. Words beyond anger. Words that poison his system. Words like “homo” and “fag” and “disgrace” and “military school” and Billy checks in right there because-

“You’re going to military school, you worthless piece of shit.”

Billy spits in the man’s face. Longtime craving.

And then the world blacks out again. It’s blurrier now. His face is warm. There’s liquid gushing out. His wrist is sore and the ground is being taken out from beneath him and he realizes he’s being grabbed and pulled and then dragged because his body is feeling weak. Call it a mix of everything.

And he’s being dragged to his room and the world shatters when they cross the threshold because this place is the only place in this damn house he feels somewhat safe in. And he feels himself hit the ground heavily, right in front of his mirror. Feels himself being pulled up to be seated. Hears a rustling. Hears a weirdly familiar sound his mind can’t process. Sees something metal in the mirror before his hair is being grabbed and pulled taught and then there’s slack and the pressure is gone and-

“How could you fucking do this to me?”

More hair pulling, more growling, more yelling, some spit.

“You’ve been running around with that prissy boy. How long, huh?”

Then there’s slack and-

“Everyone talks about you two. Disgusting.”

Pulling pulling pulling pulling… something tickling his arms.

“Saw you two… outside his house, huh? You’re a disgrace.”

Wetness. Billy’s face is wet. His eyes burn. His throat burns. There’s slack again.

“You’re going to military school. Tomorrow. You’re out of here.”

Pulling and sawing and yanking and slack. Over and over and over and over-

“Hope I never see you again, you fag.”

Billy sobs. It wrenches through his chest. Pulling and slack, pulling and slack, over and over and-

It stops. Billy’s weak. His body is shutting down. It must be. It feels like it. The vision in the mirror is blurry but he knows the damage that’s been done. He can tell. He can feel. There’s nothing touching his shoulders anymore. Nothing against his neck. Something tickles down his arms. He shakes, weakly moving his hand to swipe the feeling away from his arms and grabs at tufts of hair.

There’s that ugly fucking mug, right in his face. It’s a strange look he wears. Billy’s vision is blurred. His lip snarls upward. Instinct.

“Where did I go wrong?”

The words are whispered in his face on hot breath. They hang in the air between them.

Billy shatters.

The door shuts loudly. Another door shuts after that. A car starts. Billy’s still sitting on the floor.

His muscles in his legs begin to contract, and then his arms. His vision clears and sharpens. He pushes himself up off the floor, avoids looking in the mirror, walks up next to it to his stereo, moves to turn on the radio…. Auto-pilot.

Music fills the room. Lilts through the air. Cuts through the humidity of the once cool night. The altercation warmed everything up. Must have.

There’s the sound of a keyboard and the plucking of a guitar. A familiar rhythm. It flows out of his stereo and through the room like it has a life of its own. It’s a spectral kind of presence, slinking out of the speakers, lurking in the corners, filling up the forgotten spaces with its haunting rhythm. Billy turns the music up louder. Stands in front of the stereo. Lets the music consume his space. Exist with him until they can’t co-habitate.

The chord gets more complicated. The chord runs. Billy’s feet feel like they’re going to betray him and let him fall through the floor. His head feels like it’s in another realm. A mirrored realm of darkness and vines… a world teeming with threats that wouldn’t think twice of making attempts on his life.

He sways in place.

When the voice starts his feet move. They betray his thoughts but they don’t compromise his balance, necessarily. He’s moving backwards.

Every time that I look in the mirror….

He can’t.

All these lines on my face getting clearer…

He knows he can’t. Not if he wants to keep his sanity. His breath gets shorter. His head is dizzy just from moving, even though he’s slow. Maybe it’s because he’s going backwards.

The past is gone

His head betrays him now. Swings itself over the edge- looks over to the left.. Billy’s eyes take a second to focus but it’s only an instant after that before his hands shoot up to his head. Grab at tiny curls. Grab at randomly long tufts. Grab at whatever they can reach which is almost nothing.

He’s shaking. His hand is shaking as his fingers grasp with a kind of desperation Billy has never known but is suddenly wracking his body in a way that overwhelms every piece of him until he’s nothing but fingers grasping for what should be where they’re reaching but is nowhere to be seen. He can’t see anything but himself in the mirror. The world blacks out but him and the mirror. His feet are still moving him somewhere. He’s looking at the mirror at an awkward angle.

He hits the couch in his room. His fingers clench and unclench. He flops down onto it.

It went by like dusk to dawn...

Clenching and unclenching until his fingers get sore and he slams his hands onto the couch to stop thinking about it but how can he when his… his reflection...

Isn’t that the way?

He’s grabbing at his blanket beneath him harshly. He fists it and his mouth opens in a grimace and his eyebrows furrow so hard his head hurts and his lip shakes and…

Everybody’s got their dues in life to pay~…

The voice is rising and the music is rising and the specter fills up the space with something passively threatening, something that gently nudges Billy’s shoulders, something that presses at Billy’s head, something present.

Billy’s fisting hard at the blanket. His fingers are sore. He pulls at it. His finger slips into a moth hold or two. The voice reaches the top, along with the guitar and then they both topple over the peak and there’s the sound of a rip and something under Billy gives out. He pulls harder, hearing more tears, fingers dipping into the rips he’s created in his blanket.

I know nobody knows… where it comes and where it goes

Billy looks down at his fists tearing his blanket and they stop, pull away… thoughtless. His hands shake to do something, maybe grab at his aching head and they do, he does- no, they do, his hands do, but they feel uneven tufts of curls and it’s a jolt. His brain shocks itself. He pulls his hands away with a cry because what is this. He’s become alien to himself. He sees the mirror in front of him but he’s not sure who he sees in it. It’s not him.

I know it’s everybody’s sin…. You’ve got to lose to know, how to win…

The music is with him. Towering over him. The presence is daunting. Feels like it’s challenging him to something as a separate chord climbs and falls as soon as it starts. The spectre falls down. Settles with him. Next to him. He stands. He’s unsettled. Nothing in the mirror is right nothing is right nothing is right. He shoves the flat part of his knuckles on his thumbs into his eyes to fix it, fix something, fix this image that doesn’t feel right. Fix this creature he doesn’t recognize. His mind is swimming.

He walks around the room. He’s not sure if this is easier or harder than before, but he still stumbles.

Half my life’s in books’ written pages… Lived and learned from fools and from sages…

He tucks his chin into his chest, his knuckles still pressed to his eyes, the world black and scattered with the spots he’s pressing into them. His stomach is twitching with sobs that meet up in his throat and push out of his mouth. They’re small. That same droning chord is persistent, rising and filling up into the room, aiming to devour him in something. Drown him.

You know it’s true-

The end grows into a growl and takes with it a feeling that’s animalistic. The specter grows feral. Billy opens his eyes.

His chest heaves. His eyes burn as they water. His mouth twists up in misery. Because he sees it. There. At his feet. Under his boots. He’s fucking stepping on it.

All the things…

His hair. In curly tufts on the ground beneath his feet and in front of them.

Come back to you…

He’s stepping on it.

He looks up and he recognizes his face now and he… he…. He’s….

He’s distraught.

And he rounds on absolutely anything he can reach. Whatever is in arm’s distance behind him and it happens to be his lamp and he grabs it and he throws it with all his might to the ground and-

Sing with me, sing for the year-

-and it shatters. His mind is racing and he has no thoughts past the music. The presence is dark. It’s a shadow. It’s all around him. It’s in his vision.

-sing for the laughter and sing for the tear...

He’s swinging. His eyes are blurry from his own hot tears and they sear his cheeks as he grabs at whatever he can- vaguely registers the necks of bottles and the grooves of records against his palm and beneath his fingertips as he hashes through the world around him, trying to tear through the shadows consuming him and the tears are flooding everything out and he’s just swinging and smashing and-

Sing with me, it’s just for today… maybe tomorrow the good lord will take you away~

He’s swinging and crashing and smashing like he’s being challenged. Threatened.. Whatever exists in this room with him is menacing. Malevolent. Feeding off his pain. Sipping it through his tears. He punches the wall and then the drums hit and they stop and the guitar is back and-

“Billy?”

It’s a voice. Billy’s sure it’s his own somehow. Sure it’s the song somehow. Sure it’s this presence somehow, whatever is it, floating through the chords of the song like a friend seeking a kill.

“B-Billy? I… Uhm…. Please stop.”

It’s small. Feminine. Familiar. Shaking.

“Please don’t hur-.... You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Maxine.

Billy strides to the door and throws it open. The violent thud it makes as the knob hits the wall fills something in Billy’s chest. It springs more tears in his eyes. His chest is sobbing.

“Billy?”

There’s something Billy can’t place in Max’s eyes. If his mind were even a tad clearer he thinks he’d recognize it… categorize it under worry or concern or care or even something deeper...

But the guitar chord hits a high note and the shadow specter of the music seeps into his mind and he’s a husk.

The chorus picks up again, singing about singing and Billy is standing there looking at this tiny red head standing in his way and she’s blurred by his tears and-

“Billy, what are you doing-”

“Mind your damn business, Maxine.”

“What happened-?”

“Mind your business.”

The music is rising. It fills Billy’s throat.

“Did… did he-? Do…?”

“Do what?” Billy spits down at Max, leaning over her, invading her space. Max’s eyes flood with fear and it makes Billy step back. The shadows of the song step away. He sees through the blur to find the girl.

“Do that?” She asks, voice small and soft and shaking and weak. Eyes filling with tears of their own and it fills Billy’s gut with bile and he’s so sick of it. So sick of everything. Thinks he might be sick. So fucking done. Broken. Feral.

Maybe tomorrow the good lord will take you away~

Billy’s eyes are filling. He glares as hard as he can while his eyelids are all mushy and swollen.

“Get out of my way, Maxine.”

She’s cowering.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Just get out of my way.” He growls and takes his arm and shoves and she stumbles back and the music is building and then he’s storming down the hallway, punching the walls and cracking every picture frame he passes and the voice is following him, sounding just as loud to him in the hallway as it did to him in his room as it chants-

Dream on… dream on… dream on… dream yourself a dream come true~

And he throws pillows off the couch and shatters a lamp on the ground with a shove and his blurry eyes search fervently for what he wants as the guitar wails and runs down and-

Dream on… dream on…. Dream on… dream until your dream come through~

And the guitar gets darker and he’s got it. Grabs it off the mantle. Looks as steadily as he can with shaking and blurry eyes at this thing in his hands. This picture frame... with their stupid family in it. This stupid thing they call family to convince others. It never convinced him. He’s not sure how it could have convinced anyone. His tears are so hot on his face they feel like they’re boiling and his nose is leaking and his saliva is runny and his chest is heaving and he’s-

“Billy?”

He’s thunder. He’s lightning and he’s rain. The music followed him down the hallway and follows him with heavier footsteps back up as the voice screams on with-

Dream on… dream on… dream on… dream on…

And each chant sees Billy taking the frame in his hands and slamming the corner of it into the wall of the hallway as he walks, goes back to his room, ignores Max as she cries to him some kind of garbled nonsense and the music is filling his shoes like a dark puddle and his eyes are drowned.

And the voice that was once singing is now screeching into the air, into the corners of his room, into the darkest parts and Billy looks at the stupid faces of these stupid people he’s been forced to love and thinks of how the only happiness in his life is going to be taken away from him and probably has been permanently taken away now because he’s fucking hideous with bruises and almost no hair and he’s wailing. Deep from his chest, right alongside the voice from the stereo, hurling the picture frame at his mirror blindly as he screams and hitting his target and hearing a loud crack as it shatters and he’s just screaming. Everything inside of him rising and bubbling and boiling over and over and over some more and he’s sure his body will never settle. He’ll never know peace. His mind and his body and his heart will never rest like it did this afternoon in that field with the warm sun and the blue sky and a love underneath him that was all his own for once for fucking once in his miserable life and he opens his eyes and he’s disgusted he’s a disgrace, he’s bruised and bloody and nearly bald and his fingers and knuckles are bruised and bleeding and in that cracked mirror is the most miserable version of himself and he can’t bear to look.

Sing with me-

He grabs the mirror.

Sing for the year-

He throws it to the ground. It covers his fallen hair.

Sing for the laughter-

He stomps it with his boot. Hot tears stain the toes of his shoe.

Sing for the tear-

He reaches for his bedsheets. He needs to take a few steps to get there.

Sing with me-

He tears at them, ripping all the way down. As far as he can.

Just for today.

His chest heaves. He rounds on his makeshift vanity. Swings his arms violently until it’s all on the ground as his feet, discarded and broken and cracked.

Maybe tomorrow the good lord will take you away-

He looks up from the ground. Up to Max, who’s hugging the door frame and shaking, watching with horror or what Billy thinks must be the equivalent. Something equivalent to it. The music and it’s guitar and the specter it’s conjured up is still rising, expanding, residing in every space of the room, pushing Billy out of the space and he’s struggling, fighting, mind getting so nervous and worried as it looks at Max that it needs to look away, needs to distract.

The song repeats itself as he reaches and throws and rips and tears everything in sight. Posters, picture frames, books, cassettes. He steps on everything, smashes everything, tears pour out and out and out, his mind is running and racing and throbbing in pain in hurt in worry in all of its unease and he picks up a hand weight and rounds towards the window and chucks it as hard as he can and-

The sound of the shattering of the window breaks everything. Breaks any resolve still left within him. Lets the shadow and spectre of the music out and into the night as the room is pitched into a bitter and unforgiving chill. Let’s all of Billy’s breath out of his lungs as he heaves and heaves and heaves like he’s going to hurl. He stands there, looking at the window, pictures something faint and distant and at one time hopeful in his mind before he turns around to Max and it’s just music now, the last of the words have been sung, and he mutters a dark and languid and miserable:

“Don’t wait up for me.”

And then he strides to the window and steps on the small table he has in front of it and jumps out and walks into the unfriendly night, a storm. More than a husk. Once again a human. At least, feeling something closer to human.

And then it’s just Max. She rushes to the window, the music turning into a haunting kind of alarm that doesn’t seem alert or at all worried or hurried or serious. A lazy alarm that warns you of an error in the system. She stands in front of the broken window, exposed to the cold, cutting her hand on the glass in her hurry to watch after Billy, watch as he leaves, watch as he stomps his way out of their house and out to the street and down the street and she’s crying. Her mind is spinning. Her face is heavy with tears and sorrow and fear. Her heaving subsides slowly as the music does.

She’s alone in this house. Truly alone. Not even the presence of Billy lingers like usual.

And then she runs to the phone to do the only thing she can think of- she dodges the carnage strewn across their house and runs to the phone and calls the only person she can think to call. The only person she thinks will for sure be able to help him from doing something crazy like leaving with nothing but the clothes on his back and whatever random cash he carries in his pocket.

Another song starts up slowly. The phone picks up.

“Jim Hopper speaking.”

#so maybe i made myself sad w/ this #harringrove #cw blood #cw abuse #cw swearing #cw cussing #cw homophobic slurs #how does one tag necessary things #steve harrington #billy hargrove #neil hargrove #max mayfield #angst #ask #music #k let's tag those again shall we #abuse #swearing #cussing #homophobic slurs #violence #aggression #blood #maybe i was up last night at 5am crying over this #who's to say??? #lemme know if i need to tag anything else #bc apparently i can't be trusted to tag things #i guess i've never been able to though #I HOPE THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED I'M SORRY #also sorry that he's still kind of angry??

[onlycags]

Someone to Share it With | Çağlar Söyüncü

Word Count: 2,659

Warnings: angst, oral sex (male receiving), unprotected sex

A/N: I wanted to write something about the FA Cup win yesterday but I wanted to make it angsty. Shoutout to @sammisze for all her angsty suggestions, as always xx

- - -

You couldn’t believe it.

Ben scored to put Chelsea at a draw with Leicester and you watched, dumbstruck, as the thought of going into overtime sunk in. Luckily, you were able to breathe easily when the goal was ruled offsides, but there was still a few more minutes to play.

Words couldn’t describe how you felt when the final whistle blew and Leicester were crowned FA Cup champions for the first time in club history. You cheered along with the rest of the crowd, laughing and hugging with the Leicester wives and girlfriends while you waited for your friend.

It was a sight to behold, watching the boys celebrate on the pitch, laughing and hugging and crying with one another as the reality of the win set in. You watched Çağlar run a hand through his hair; Youri and Wes Morgan yelling and hugging; Rodgers and Vardy hugging and crying. Through it all, you tried to commit every moment to memory, knowing this day would be something you’d never forget.

“I’m so proud of you!” You screamed, running into Çağlar’s arms when you were finally able to get to him. He was still wet from the rain and sweat after exerting himself on the pitch, but you didn’t care. You clung to him, burying your face in his chest as he hugged you back fiercely.

“Thank you,” he murmured, so low you almost didn’t hear him. He pressed a kiss into your hair before sighing into your neck, pretending for a moment that this hug was more than it was.

Çağlar went back to the changing room with the rest of his teammates, just as ecstatic and amped up as they were - even if he didn’t really show it. Madders and some of the other boys started pulling out their phones, recording the epic after-party moments in the changing room while Çağlar sat in the back, taking it all in. He didn’t mind, though. Observing was more his speed anyway - he’d taken all the pictures and lifted the cup, feeling as fulfilled as he could in a win like this. His phone buzzed with an incoming text that brought a smile to his face.

You: Congrats again! I’ll be waiting at home if you want to celebrate later :)

He ignored any sexual thoughts he had regarding the wording of your text, knowing it wasn’t like that between the two of you as he typed out a response.

Çağlar: We might go out - I will let you know.

He had every intention of dragging you out with him if that’s what ended up happening. Of course, he was excited to celebrate this historic win with his teammates, but Çağlar couldn’t help feeling a little forlorn as he watched Albrighton pick up his kids and kiss his wife - even Madders with his pregnant girlfriend made Çağlar jealous. Çağlar felt someone sit down next to him, a smile on face when he saw who it was. “We did it!” Cengiz shouted above all the ruckus, looping an arm around Çağlar’s shoulders and pulling him in for a side hug.

“We did,” Çağlar confirmed, nodding stoically.

***

The party on the bus that took them to the designated pub was wild; everyone was drinking and dancing and singing, still ecstatic from the win. When they finally got to the pub, Çağlar was one of the last ones off the bus, checking his phone for any messages from you.

“What’re you doing checking your phone, Cags?” Madders slurred, catching the action before Çağlar stuffed his phone in his back pocket and tried to play it off.

“Nothing,” he said, trying to drop the subject but Madders wasn’t having it.

“Waiting for a text from her?” He asked, smirking knowingly and Çağlar knew he’d been caught.

“None of your business.”

“Why isn’t she here with you?” James pressed, eyeing Çağlar. “Did she turn you down?”

“Not exactly. She didn’t ask and I didn’t offer.” Çağlar paused, hating admitting that out loud. “She just said she’d be waiting for me when I got home.”

James snorted, rolling his eyes. “She’ll probably be asleep when you get back.” He slung an arm around Çağlar’s shoulders, trying not to trip as the two of them walked into the pub. “I say we find you a girl to help take your mind off her - besides, if she wanted you, I think she would’ve made a move already, especially after your goal on Tuesday.” James paused, looking around the pub. “And you haven’t tried to sleep with her either, which tells me you might not want her the way you think you do.”

Çağlar couldn’t tell what was worse: that he was actually seriously considering the relationship advice being given to him by a drunken Madders, or that said relationship advice was making sense. He finally spotted Cengiz at the bar, excited to see his best friend. “Madders thinks I need to get laid,” is the first thing he says as he takes the empty barstool next to the other Turkish international.

“Madders might be right,” Cengiz agrees, taking a sip of his beer. “You’ve been pining after her for months but haven’t made a move; she doesn’t come out to celebrate this win with you, and now you’re sulking. If you’re not gonna go home right now and confess your feelings, I think you should bring home a girl tonight - one of us needs to get laid because of this win.”

Çağlar laughs, finally able to flag down the bartender and order. “Maybe. Have you seen anyone here yet?”

Cengiz nods in the direction of a group of girls huddled around James Justin, Harvey Barnes and Madders. They’re all talking and laughing, but Çağlar knows that all three men are in relationships and won’t be doing anything more than coming home to their girlfriends at the end of the night. “Hey! Cags!” Madders shouts, motioning to Çağlar. “Come join us!”

Reluctantly, Çağlar gets up from the barstool, patting Cengiz on the shoulder and gets a few encouraging words in Turkish before he joins his other teammates.

Madders introduces him to all the girls and one of them catches Çağlar’s eye. She looks a little like you - or, at least, he’s convinced himself that she looks a little like you - and she shows more interest in him than he feels like you ever have. When she puts a hand on his arm, his heart starts to race and he relaxes into her touch. It’s been a long time since he’s felt anything for a girl that wasn’t you and Çağlar can’t believe he’s actually going to take this girl home.

The two of them talk and laugh over a round, and when Çağlar asks her if she’d like to come home with him, she immediately smiles and nods. James gives him a thumbs-up as he heads out of the pub with the girl on his arm, and Çağlar tries to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach that wishes he was taking you home instead.

***

The Uber back to his place is filled with sexual tension. The girl has her hand on his thigh, getting dangerously close to his dick with each word she whispers in his ear. Çağlar knows he needs to get out of his head but he can’t stop overthinking.

Until she kisses him.

The moment she does, Çağlar focuses on nothing else except how good it feels to kiss someone. It’s been years since he’s kissed anyone, and if he’s honest, he wishes he was kissing you, but that doesn’t matter now. Right now, he’s going to go home and have meaningless victory sex with someone he’s never going to see again.

~ ~ ~

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa waiting up for Çağlar until you hear the front door open. Your stomach dips as you get up, and you find yourself hoping you manage to get the courage to do what you’ve been planning to do since the moment you got here.

You’re still in his jersey, the ‘Söyüncü 4’ feeling like it’s burning into your skin as you make your way to the foyer. When you get there, though, the sight in front of you is nothing like you’d imagined.

Çağlar has his hands on another girl’s waist, kissing her like his life depends on it. Her hands are all over him - on his arms, in his hair, everywhere - and she’s making sounds you never would have thought he would be into. “I want you,” she says in a throaty whisper, her hands reaching for the buttons on his white shirt as she trails kisses down his neck.

Time stops for both of you when Çağlar’s gaze connects with yours. He takes in the maroon jersey that’s a few sizes too big and the way your eyes start to fill with tears tell him he’s fucked up. His blood runs cold and he reaches for the girl’s hands, stopping her.

You take a deep breath in, trying to steady yourself when you feel anything but. You know that Çağlar’s trying to talk to you, but you don’t care, focusing on grabbing your purse and putting on your shoes, desperate to get out of the house and away from all of this so you can cry in peace.

“YN, wait,” Çağlar says, his hand catching your upper arm before you can sidestep him and escape.

“Congrats on the win,” is all you’re able to say before you’re shrugging out of his grasp and reaching for the door. As it closes behind you, you hear the two of them talking about something but you don’t care.

It’s not a far walk from his place to yours and you need time to clear your head. You cross your arms and shiver, realizing it got even colder since the sun set, but there’s no going back now. Somewhere in the background, you hear the sounds of a girl yelling, but you tune it out. Tears spring to your eyes again, but this time you let them fall.

“Wait!” You hear Çağlar call out but you ignore it, thinking it’s for the other girl. You feel a hand on your shoulder and you turn, coming face-to-face with Çağlar. “I’m sorry,” he says, his expression tortured.

“It’s okay,” you reply, trying to put on a smile you’re not feeling. “Go celebrate with the girl you brought home - you deserve it.”

“No.” Çağlar shakes his head vehemently. “I only want to celebrate with you.”

That makes you laugh and you roll your eyes. “Funny, because it sure doesn’t feel like it, Çağlar.”

“It’s true!” He sputters, trying to figure out how to get you to believe him. “I only brought her home because I didn’t think you wanted me like that.”

“Oh.” Your face falls and you realize your mistake. “Guess I should’ve tried harder, then.” You take a deep breath in, resigned. “It’s okay, though - I don’t want some other girl’s sloppy seconds.”

Çağlar feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, regretting all his actions over the last few hours since the cup win, his heart in his throat as he watches you walk away. “YN!” You hear him call after you, but you keep walking. “Please - talk to me!”

“What is there to talk about, Çağlar?!” You shout, turning back to look at him. “You wanna celebrate? Go celebrate!”

“Not without you!” Çağlar looks upset as he walks towards you. “One kiss,” he whispers, looking down at you with a pleading expression on his face. “If one kiss doesn’t convince you that I want you too, then we can forget this ever happened. Please, YN. Let me prove it to you.”

You weigh your options, finally giving in. “Fine,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Kiss me.”

Çağlar’s eyes search yours and he steps back. “You clearly don’t want this - I’m not gonna bother you again.” He turns, starting the walk back to his house.

“Damnit, Söyüncü!” You shout, stomping your foot as you race after him. It’s your turn to make him turn around, and before you can overthink it, you press your body against his and tangle your fingers in his hair as you drag him down for a kiss.

It takes a second for Çağlar to respond, but the moment he does, the kiss turns heated. His hands are on your waist, sliding down to cup your bum and press you closer to him. You can feel his growing erection and you groan into the kiss, Çağlar swallowing the sound and running his tongue over your bottom lip. “Take me home,” You whimper when the kiss breaks, your fingers clutching his shoulders.

Without another word, Çağlar takes your hand in his and leads you back to his place. The two of you laugh and kiss in-between steps, barely making it to the door before your shirt is on the floor. “Fuck,” he curses in Turkish when he sees the lacy bra you’re wearing, his hand sliding up your back to unclasp it. “So beautiful.”

You arch your back and whimper when Çağlar runs his thumbs over your nipples, your hands burying in his hair when he bends down and presses kisses to the top of your tits. “Please, Çağlar!” You beg, barely able to form words when he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth.

It isn’t long after that and Çağlar is laying you down on his bed, trailing kisses down your torso as his hands work the button and zipper of your jeans before he pulls them down your legs. You reach for his hair, pulling it out of the bobble and giving him a grin when you finally get to run your fingers through it. “You played so good today,” you murmur, sitting up on your elbows so you can drink him in. “You should get a reward.”

Çağlar’s eyes darken as he looks at you, smirking. “What did you have in mind…?”

You get down on your knees, running your tongue up his shaft as you look up at him. Your name is on his lips as you take him fully in your mouth, gagging on his length as you work him over. His fingers are in your hair, the pricks of pain in your scalp adding to the sensation.

“I don’t wanna cum yet,” he groans, pulling you off his dick. “Wanna be inside you for that.”

You stare up at him, spit and pre-cum dripping down your chin. “Then get inside me already, Çağlar.”

Without another word, Çağlar laid you back on the bed, lining his cock up with your already-dripping entrance. Your eyes were locked with his as he slid into you, and you knew everything was going to change. “Çağlar!” You whimper, your nails raking down the lion inked on his back as he starts thrusting inside you, picking up the pace as his orgasm builds. His hand comes between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and he’s rewarded when your walls start to clench around his cock. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and you feel his cum coat your inner walls to trigger your own orgasm.

Both of you are breathing heavily when he rolls off of you and you immediately press yourself against his side, slinging your leg over his hips. “That was…” you trail off, pressing a kiss to the fading ink on his chest.

“Yeah,” Çağlar replies, holding you tighter against him.

When you’ve caught your breath, you move to get up, starting to look for your clothes. “What are you doing?” He asks, sitting up.

“I...I was just gonna go,” you answer, stopping in your tracks. “Is… is that not okay?”

“Kalmak. Lütfen.” Stay. Please. When you give him a questioning look, he continues, “We’ll deal with the consequences in the morning - right now, I just want to wake up next to you.”

#cags originals

[ibelieveinahappilyeverafter]

i’m not the villain i appear to be (but i’ll play one for you)

Ha, so, it’s 3 AM and I really don’t have an excuse for this piece beyond the fact I’ve been listening to this song the entire time I was writing the piece - and, for the record, I wrote, proofed, and am now posting this drabble all within the past couple of hours. It was also roughly inspired by the video linked and an AU me and my girlfriend @cheshire-kas did for some RPs, so, uh... Enjoy! I hope!

(In case the link doesn’t work above, here it is in full: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRpiBvwKX6c) 

              ��                                             ⁂

Summary: Danny Fenton, twenty-four-year-old detective, hadn’t been expecting for art thieves to actually show up during the biggest and busiest night and event of the museum he was tasked to watched. He also hadn’t expected to end up flirting with one of the thieves, but, well... accidents happened. 

Fandom: Danny Phantom

Relationship: Danny Fenton | Danny Phantom/Ghost Writer | Andrew Riter 

Characters: Danny Fenton | Danny Phantom, Ghost Writer | Andrew Riter 

Rating: Teen Audiences

Word Count: 2,368

                Check out my writing commission information here!                      Pledge to my Patreon to get exclusive content!

                                                            ⁂

                 i’m not the villain i appear to be (but i’ll play one for you)

                                                             ⁂

Halfway through trying to smother a laugh into his drink without spilling anything onto his suit, Danny felt his amusement start to drain out of him when he saw Sam’s smile, a twisted little smirk, go from wry amusement to sour annoyance. She paired the twist in expression with a soft, “Heads up.” Danny, unfortunately, didn’t even get a chance to brace himself before he realized what Sam’s warning meant.

“Fenton!” The cheerful, and loud, cry of his last name was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the harsh slap to Danny’s back that was no doubt supposed to be a ‘friendly greeting.’ “Glad you could make it out here tonight!” 

“Of course, Mr. Basco,” Danny said through gritted teeth and the ‘media smile’ Sam had helped him master because if you’re going to be a detective, Danny, then you need to know how to tell the media to go fuck themselves with a smile. Danny could almost imagine the pride in Sam’s expression when he glanced at her to share a suffering look of commiseration. “I kind of have to ask, though… Do you really think they’ll try something tonight?” 

The smile he was given, something cold and sharp and devoid of all empathy for human life, had Danny struggling to keep his own smile as he felt the art director’s hand squeeze his shoulder tight enough to leave bruises, “Danny, my boy, let me give you some advice. You’re pretty new to this game, aren’t you?”

“I, uh, yes? Sir?” Danny stumbled over his words, wincing even before the grip tightened. “I think my record already speaks for itself, however.” 

“Oh, of course!” Basco’s grin widened and it was nothing good. “The youngest detective we’ve had in quite some time, if I’m not mistaken. So much prestige and you’re only twenty-four! No, no, my boy, your qualifications speak for themselves, but, well… How many cases like this have you dealt with?” 

Buying himself time by taking a sip of his drink, which was supposed to be some expensive champagne that actually tasted awful, Danny looked around the museum he had been tasked to guard for the night. The art museum was a smaller one in their city and focused on sculptures more than paintings, but it was well-known in its own right. 

The director, Martin Basco, was also well known. Danny didn’t have any specific cases or evidence against him, but it wasn’t exactly a secret that some of the museum’s pieces came to be there through less-than-legal means. That was a fight for another day, though, and the fight Danny was supposed to be focused on had him there for a different reason. 

“I can’t say I’ve dealt with art thieves before, sir, but I just can’t imagine that they would try to steal something during a gala this size.” Danny kept his smile in place, even as Sam, dressed to the nines in a black and silver sequined dress that attracted more attention than some of the exhibits, did nothing to hide a laugh of her own. Basco, on his end, did nothing to hide his scowl. 

“And here’s where the advice comes in… Those who steal art do it for many reasons, but the largest reason is, without a doubt, for the recognition.” Well… He hated to admit it, but Basco had a point there, at least. 

If someone became desperate or crazed enough for money and hit a low enough point then they robbed a bank, but turning into a master art thief? No… A person didn’t do that for money; at least, they didn’t only do it for money. Recognition was as good a reason as any to become an art thief. 

“Mark my words, Fenton, this gala is nothing more than a beacon and those art thieves will be here tonight and will do everything in their power to filch more of my money-” 

“Your art, you mean, don’t you?” Sam asked ‘politely’ with a smile colder than ice itself. Danny was all too happy to slip away as Basco fumbled with an answer, Sam smiling as if she was about to throw him a noose rather than a life raft. It at least bought Danny the time he wanted to check on everything. 

While his department wouldn’t usually send an entire squad of police officers and a couple of detectives, Martin Basco was a big man with a big name and even bigger pockets. In their time of budget cuts and losses, they couldn’t afford to anger one of their largest donors - although that didn’t mean Danny had to play nice all night. 

Besides, it was unlikely anything would actually happen. The gala that they were at was a yearly event that was one of the biggest events in town, and half of the town itself usually showed up to dress up for a night out while acting like they had more money than they actually did. It usually ended in a few drunken brawls and fights, but that was no doubt all Danny would be dealing with that night. 

Danny was halfway through contemplating an excuse that would let him leave early so he could get back to his apartment and do something useful, like catching up on his backed up shows, when someone clipped his shoulder with enough force to knock him straight into the back of someone else, glass slipping out of his hand just slow enough that all Danny could do was swear about it. 

Slamming his eyes shut instinctively and ready for the sound of shattering glass, Danny instead heard a soft laugh. Eyes snapping open, Danny stared at the man he had bumped into - a man with much better reflexes as he had Danny’s dropped glass in hand, perfectly intact without a crack in sight.

“Careful there,” the man laughed again, his voice deeper than Danny would have expected, but his smile softening it by leaps and bounds. “Although, maybe a pile of broken glass would be a better sight than some of the sculptures around here.” 

Danny couldn’t have stopped his laugh even if he had wanted to, sound tumbling out of him as he inspected the man from his pressed suit and crisp purple undershirt to his scruffy goatee that looked surprisingly good; Danny had a feeling the man’s smile had something to do with it. Well, that and the fact that, unlike Danny, the man in front of him looked good in his suit. 

“You know, most people at least pretend to like the art until they’re out of here,” Danny finally managed, delighted at the warm, amused smile he was given in return. 

“I always rather thought there was little point to art without some sort of controversy. I take it by your reaction that you’re not here simply to admire the art?” As he was asked, Danny’s glass of hideously awful champagne was pressed back into his hand, the man’s hand slow to withdraw as fingers lingered against his own for a moment too long. “Or do you have a personal stake in the opinion of tonight’s pieces?” 

Danny gathered himself together as best he could, resorting to his only trick of taking a drink to scramble for something coherent and semi-intelligent to say. “Would you believe me if I said the answer to both of those questions were yes?” 

“I’m not in the habit of believing strangers I just ran into, but I might make an exception for you,” the other teased, a smile half-hidden behind a raised hand. Danny glanced around as unsuspiciously as possible, trying to make sure Sam wasn’t anywhere nearby. She would never let him live it down, otherwise. 

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty good at being the exception to things,” Danny beamed when he was sure the coast was clear. “Detective Danny Fenton. It’s a pleasure to meet someone with quick enough reflexes to save me from making an idiot of myself.” 

“Andrew Riter,” the man - Andrew - introduced himself with a wider smile. “Detective, though… That’s not something I would have expected.” 

Danny gave him a mock grimace along with a long, dramatic sigh, “Let me guess. I look too young and act too clumsy?” 

“Well, while you do appear rather young for a Detective, that wasn’t quite what I was thinking,” Andrew said softly, Danny feeling something like a shiver crawl down his spine. “A detective at a place like this, though… Something interesting I should know about?” 

“I wish,” Danny snorted out a laugh that was probably a touch too loud. He tried to turn it into a cough halfway through, but judging by Andrew’s wide smile, it probably hadn’t worked too well. “I mean, well… The art director here, Martin Basco? He thinks that there’s a chance of one of the sculptures being stolen tonight.” 

“Really?” Andrew blinked, looking caught off guard as he looked around the bustling building. Dozens of people lined the halls in their fanciest of outfits and the lighting was bright and left very few shadows to skulk around in. “I would think a night like this would be the worst time to conduct art theft.” 

“See! That’s what I said!” Danny threw his arms up, wincing as some of his drink splashed over the rim of the glass to land on his wrist. Quickly lowering his arms, and attempting to shake off the spill, Danny prayed to whatever God was out there that he wasn’t red in the face when he cleared his throat. “But, yeah. He thinks two popular art thieves are going to hit this place tonight and so that’s why I’m stuck here.” 

Danny looked away as he shook his arm as if that would dry his sleeve, jumping when hands darker than his own caught his wrist before gently patting at the spot with what looked like a cloth napkin. It was a gesture that had Danny feeling like his heart was trying to flutter its way out of his chest while also diving straight down into his stomach. 

“Well,” Andrew said softly, looking up through the fringe of his hair, as dark and untamed as Danny’s own, to meet his gaze with a smile. “Let me guess… You’d rather be watching the next season of your favorite show?” 

It took Danny a couple of tries to speak past his dry throat, but he finally managed a weak, “Next episode, thanks. I’m not enough of a heathen to be behind by an entire season.” 

Andrew laughed, a response on the tip of his tongue before it died under the sudden screaming alarms that rang throughout the building, Danny swearing as he jerked his arm back and dropped his hand down to the gun hidden under his suit jacket. 

“Get behind me,” Danny tried to shout over the noise, head jerking towards the sudden sound of a woman’s dramatic shriek and was it really the time for dramatic screaming? 

“It’s been stolen!” The cry carried over the room and Danny groaned as he resisted the urge to look anywhere near where Basco had been. He already knew he was never going to live the night down no matter what was stolen – not that the lady had bothered to scream that out.

In the seconds that passed before the building descended into absolute chaos, Danny paused as he felt his wrist grabbed. A look back to Andrew showed the man biting his lip, looking nervous as he moved forward enough to be heard over the sound of alarms, “Running off to save the day, Detective?” 

“Always seems to happen at the worst moments,” Danny managed, letting himself get distracted just enough to take a step closer to Andrew himself. “Hey, it’s going to be okay, alright? My job is to keep people safe, after all, and, well… We have a conversation to finish, so I’ll definitely be back soon.” 

Andrew blinked at that, looking caught off guard before he was laughing which, alright. Laughing during all of the alarms and screaming was kind of weird, but Danny wasn’t much better himself considering he was practically flirting during the mess. Ready to pull away again, Danny paused as Andrew crossed the rest of the distance between them, hands on both of Danny’s wrists. It was overwhelmingly ridiculous how conscious Danny was of the bands of warmth around his wrists. 

“Detective Danny Fenton,” Andrew said softly, Danny somehow able to hear nothing but him as he leaned just a bit closer. “I have to say… I almost wish it wasn’t you on this case.” 

Danny blinked, staring at Andrew in confusion before sucking in a sharp breath at the same moment he felt his arms pushed around his back and cold, familiar steel snapping around his wrists in place of the warmth that had been there. “You-!” 

“Me,” Andrew damn near purred, innocence and sweetness gone from his gaze as placed a kiss on Danny’s cheek and this utter fucking bastard art thief-! “Au revoir, mon cher. Until next time, hm?” 

Danny didn’t even get a step forward before Andrew was off and disappearing into the crowd, laughing loudly and freely and blowing a kiss over his shoulder at him. 

“Danny!” Sam’s shout of his name was the only warning Danny had before she crashed into his back, Danny just barely keeping them from hitting the floor before he felt Sam’s hands around the handcuffs keeping him trapped. “Oh- Danny, what- What happened?” Danny looked back at her, confused and worried and with Basco quickly making his way over with a look that could only be called furious. “Are these your handcuffs?” 

“Not sure, but probably,” Danny managed, looking back to the direction Andrew had gone. “But I found one of our art thieves.” 

“Apparently,” Sam laughed, a half-wild sound that was as amused as it was concerned. “I take it something happened if you’re smiling like that, though?” 

“You could say that,” Danny said, laughing himself as he felt the smile Sam had pointed out growing. “I found our art thief, yeah, but… I also found a lead. 

Andrew Riter, huh? 

This was going to be fun.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #ghost writer #ghostwriter #iambic prose #my writing #original #@ google what do i do when i accidentally take the idea of an rp me and my gf did #and obsessivly write a drabble for it in one sitting??

[maknaesdancersrappers]

on the first day of kinkmas, my lover did to me:

[ a n g r y s e x ]

>TAEYONG

>warning/s: face fucking, unprotected sex

a/n: when i was at the sleepover, my friend told me about how he and the girl he’s seeing gets off at hating on a person and we were laughing so hard because it’s technically hate/angry sex right?? Just not towards each other lol anD ALSO THIS TEACHER WAS BASED OFF A REAL PROF I HAD BACK IN COLLEGE THAT COST ME A “Failure due to absences” MARK ON MY RECORDS i was that chicken towards him and i feel like most of this was just me shitting on him huhuhu if soMEONE FROM MY SCHOOL RECOGNIZES WHO THIS IS IM GONNA-- pls dont spread it around if u kno who this prof is huhuhuhuhu im probably //already// on his hitlist

-

Everyone hated at least one teacher they had come across in school; you met yours during Junior year in college. Mr. Chon was your Writing for Film elective professor and you’ve heard all the stories about how strict and uptight he was. You had blockmates who had him as a prof last semester and they always talked about how every meeting with him was living hell. You weren’t happy at the news, especially since he wasn’t even the prof you signed up for in the beginning.

There was only one class for the elective and you were able to get into the list before the final enrollment date, but because more people signed up for it and the registrar is absolute shit; you, along with other people, have been transferred to a new class--with the strictest, terror prof known in school.

You tried to appeal to the registrar for you to move back, but they put the blame on the Department of Comm for the class list and in the end, you weren’t allowed to move.

The first meeting with Mr. Chon was terrifying. Everyone in the room felt like they couldn’t breathe; so quiet that you could hear a pin drop and the air conditioning system sounded deafening. This elective was comprised mostly of Comm students and there were only a few of you that weren’t; one of which was your seatmate, Lee Taeyong, a dance major.

Before Mr. Chon entered the room, the two of you promised to help each other since your free time matched one another’s and neither of you wanted to do this alone. His friends ditched him last minute when he enrolled, opting for another elective he didn’t have the prerequisite of.

The first couple of classes with Mr. Chon was bearable. He made you guys watch highly rated films from his favorite directors during class and series like ‘Lost’ and ‘Designated Survivor’ for weekend homework. When it came to the first assignment, which was to pitch film ideas, it was all easy going aside from the one slip up majority of the class, with you included, of not printing it out in the specific format he made clear on the first day.

Strike one.

But when the time came to start working on the final project, as it is a full script for a film, the stress of it all came piling up. Mr. Chon gave out assignments to create character sheets, a lesson he never gave on, and expected you to submit a properly written one from research alone.

But before you can even create character sheets, he had to choose and approve a logline from the ones you’ve submitted beforehand. You tried to be nice and formal in your emails to him, always ending the message with a “Thank you and God bless.”

His replies sounded harsh despite the lack of words that would support that description. He had reprimanded you for submitting an edited version of the logline you presented in class, saying that no matter how good it was, if it was not submitted properly the day he had expected to receive it on a printed paper, he had expected you to revise all off them.

Strike two.

So you apologized for your mistake and made new loglines; and luckily he had chosen one that suited his taste. When it came to creating a character sheet, you were reprimanded for the format and given an example on how to make a proper one. However, you didn’t quite understand the file he had sent and took your chance into making minor changes to your previous submission, taking into account the little information you’ve understood from the text.

Strike three.

He reprimanded you (AGAIN), through email, for the ‘pathetic’ edit you’ve made. Ordering you to personally consult him after class or through scheduled one-on-one meetings in the Comm office where two other assistants can be witnesses to the whole ordeal.

This was indeed disadvantageous to you because while your classmates had the freedom to consult him 24/7 through email, you had to wait for class--one you had once a week--before you can even officially start anything, and that’s IF he approves anything.

At this point, you gave up; on him, the class, and your grade. It might be too late to officially drop out of class, but you can use up all your allowed absences until he’s failed you for it.

You were upset at your decision but it was the best sounding option you had, even Taeyong agreed to it because he couldn’t even get his loglines approved. You agreed to accompany him when he had his one-on-one consultation for his third revision of loglines and nearly half an hour later, he practically stormed out of the office while violently whispering to you that he was joining your little ‘boycott’ of the subject after Mr. Chon told him to revise everything again in the most passive aggressive manner.

Both of you had three allowed absences before your final grades would be considered FA (Failure due to Absences) and the two of you spent the supposed class hours together instead to ease each other of the anxiety of it all.

“I hate him.” You snarled, throwing your head back to gulp the can of beer Taeyong had offered you. “It wasn’t even fair to begin with!”

It was the last allowed absence you had for class. The thought of it made you cry, thinking how it would tarnish your records and disappoint your parents if they find out.

Taeyong wipes your tear with his thumb. You had oddly gotten close with Taeyong because of the elective; working together to do your assignments, consulting one another for suggestions, and especially sharing mutual hate for the class. It was maybe a month and a half already, but it’s as if you and Taeyong had been friends since freshman year.

“We both enrolled and paid on time for the original class and prof, why were we the ones moved?” You sniffed, silently thanking Taeyong for inviting you to his dorm so you could vent out your feelings to someone who understands the situation.

“I know. But the system sucks, what can a couple of students do against them?” He sighs, rubbing his eyes in frustration; probably wanting to cry as well with how his voice shook. He was his organization’s vice president and he had plans to run as president the next year, but with an FA grade, he doubts he can even make the minimum CQPA to run as treasurer. “Ah, hyung would be so disappointed if I don’t take his spot as org president.”

You glance at the wall clock as you take another gulp of beer, “T-there’s like 30 minutes before class actually starts… should we just go?”

Taeyong snaps his attention towards you, “Are you crazy? And what will we say for ditching class for two meetings? We don’t have anything to present to him. He might as well give us an ‘F’ as fat as him if we show up empty handed.”

You hated how he was right; Mr. Chon would probably eat you alive in front of class for doing so. “Yeah, w-we shouldn’t. We need to commit to this stupid idea of ours.”

A phone begins to ring and Taeyong stands up to answer the call outside.

You let your gaze wander around the room, noting how clean and organized it was. You vaguely remember him telling you how he always cleaned up after his roommate, but he took no offence to it, rather enjoying the act of tidying up as a stress reliever or time killer.

As you finish off your beer, you receive a notification for a new email from no other than Mr. Chon, reminding you of the consequences if you don’t show up to class and the way he had worded it so condescendingly made your blood boil, and on top of that had it CC’d to both assistants AND the chairperson of the department, you just felt utter rage from embarrassment.

You put your phone down before you could even reply with the most improper and vulgar message you can think of. At the same time, you hear the front door slam and Taeyong is stalking into the room; face red and nostrils flared.

Before you could even ask, he’s screaming in frustration: “Our president found out that I’m purposefully failing a class and is demanding me to attend it! He even went as far as threatening to take me off my position as vice president!”

“Then make him go through the class and let’s see how he deals with Mr. Chon, who, by the way, just emailed us. He’s reminding us of the consequences and you know what’s worse? He had copies of the email sent to both assistants and the chairperson of the department! Like, was that even necessary?”

“What the hell?” He checks his phone immediately, scowling when he finds the email. “What is his problem?! Does he get off of our misery or something? I’ve never dealt with this kind of prof before! He doesn’t even fucking teach!”

You don’t really know Taeyong long enough to think formulate this opinion, but you’ve never seen him so angry and honestly, he looked hot.

Maybe he caught how you looked at him, but one second he’s ready to spit out more hate, instead he slams his lips over yours, grabbing the sides of your face with his hands after dropping his phone to the floor.

It caught you off guard; making you stumble back a few steps at how he met your lips, your hands flying to grasp the cloth of his shirt around his waist. He steadies you against him, slipping his fingers over your nape as his tongue licks your bottom lip.

When you part your lips to make way for him, he wastes no time slipping the wet muscle into your mouth and exploring the warm cavern. You both moan at the contact of your tongues, tasting each other of the beers and mints you previously had.

“Fuck,” He gasps in between kisses, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You look so hot when you’re angry.” You guide his hand over your chest.

“Yeah?” Taeyong squeezes your breast, moving his lips onto your jaw. He slides his thigh between your legs and rubs it over your crotch, hurriedly.

Stifling a moan, you stretch your neck out to give him more access and thread your fingers through his hair as you grind yourself on him.

He brings his mouth over yours again after slipping his hands under your shirt to get a better feel of your boobs, pressing his thumbs over your nipples until they were pert to his touch. He helps you out of your blouse, using the moment your lips are separated to unhook your bra. While he shrugs out of his own shirt, you fall to your knees and begin to to unzip his pants.

Once you were able to push his pants down and free his cock out of his briefs, you engulf most of his length as best as you can, tightening a grip on the few centimeters with one hand.

Taeyong cusses above you, moaning low as he combs your head back.

A ringtone erupts from below you and you fish out his phone out of his pants, handing it to him before resuming your previous act. “Answer it.”

He swallows hard as he obeys your request, not even giving the caller ID a glance before picking it up. “Hello?”

You watch him through your lashes, continuing to lick the underside of his cock.

“Wha-Calm down! I’ve made up mind! I’m not going to class and it’s way too late now.” He shouts into his phone, catching you by surprise.

You meant to pull away but his hand pushes you back down his cock, forcing the tip all the way to the back of your throat. You thank your ability to control your gag reflex and let yourself get used to the feeling; hollowing out your cheeks as he thrusts into your mouth.

“Shit, li-listen, I’m n-not going to beg Mr. Chon to let me back in class! I--what? So what if I’m with a girl-- I didn’t-- Prez, you’re being ridiculous!” He growls, pushing you away and kicking his pants completely off in anger. “You can’t just kick me off the team! I’m--”

You rise up from the floor, wiping the spit that dribbled down your chin. Warily, you watched Taeyong huff at his phone, ready to throw it to the ground but glances at you.

In a beat, he’s turning you around and pinning you against the back of an armchair; making quick work of your jeans and pushing them down your ankles with his foot once he got it past your knees.

“Did he threaten to kick you off the team?” You quietly ask, breathing rapidly as Taeyong cards his fingers through your pussy.

“He already has. He’s so abusive with his power! He was only elected president because he has connections to sponsors.” He grumbles behind you, “He also keeps reusing past choreo for new pieces! No one has the guts to call him out for it. I even made the fucking mistake of trying to befriend him because now I just get pushed around by him!”

You reach behind you to guide his cock into your pussy, “Let it out, Taeyong. If you’re really off the team, you’re not his lacke--”

You’re cut-off with a gasp as Taeyong surges forward, penetrating into you.

“I’m not his lackey!” He hisses, clawing your hips for support as he thrusts his hips repeatedly. “I’m the fucking vice president of the dance team!”

“What kind of president pushes around the VP like that then? Are you sure you were elected as vice president and not his lackey?”

“Stop calling me that!” He yells, snapping his hips harder into yours and eliciting a high shriek from you.

You bend over the armchair, grabbing at the pillows to anchor yourself against the force Taeyong was going at. You can feel your walls already accommodating his girth as they pushed in and out of you. Your lower abdomen tightens as your legs start to quiver in excitement; your orgasm is coming faster than you anticipated.

“T-Tae, I’m going to-- I’m really, really close--”

He grunts, moving you to the couch while still pounding into you. He only pulls you off of his dick to spin you around so you would be facing him and sits down, wasting no time as he hooks his fingers around your thighs to have you sit on his lap.

“You know,” He starts, guiding his cock back into your awaiting entrance, “That goddamn class is the reason why our president is so harsh on me. I was either going to practices late or leaving early to work on our stupid assignments.”

“Ugh, the root of all our problems is because of that goddamn class! It’s still unfair how we were transferred to Mr. Chon’s class.” You adjusted your legs so you could carry your weight as you begin to ride him.

“Don’t even mention that asshole! He keeps bragging about how he wrote scripts for indie films and how he was mentored by great, award-winning scriptwriters, but he never bothered actually teaching us shit.” He punctuates his complaint with a hard thrust upwards.

You moan out loud, dragging the sound until your head is situated on the crook of his neck. “Do that again.”

He obeys--multiple times; each with an insult towards your professor.

“Aah, I’m comi--!” Taeyong pulls you in for a kiss, drowning out your cries of pleasure as he holds your hips down for him to drive his cock into with a more calculated force.

You come with your toes curled and head thrown back in a silent cry while Taeyong thumbs furious circles over your clit and chases after his own high.

“In me, in me.” You chant, still shaking from your release.

Taeyong moans, “Shit, really?”

After confirming with a nod, he shoots his load into you; sensing immense warmth overcome your belly as you help him ride it out. When you take his cock out and proceed to sit back down on his lap, you can already feel it drip out of you.

“I can’t believe I got off for being so pissed.” Taeyong breathes, covering his eyes with his palm. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“Not at all.” You clamber off of him, dropping your weight to the space beside him. “I liked it and I guess… sort of needed it, too.”

He turns his head towards you and snorts, “We deserved it after that hell of an elective. We’ll be weakshits to those who stayed, but whatever, yeah?”

“I value my sanity, thank you.” You laugh and he joins you. “The only thing good that came out of this was you.”

Taeyong’s lips twitched into a smile, “Yeah. We wouldn’t have met if not for that damned class. If we didn’t help each other out with Chon’s assignments…”

“We would have died way earlier.”

He chuckles, “Yeah, but, uhm, no, not just that… what I mean is that I wouldn’t have gotten to know you and,”

You blink at him, “And?”

“I can’t do this with my dick out, [Y/N]. Hold on.”

“Your dick is fine--it’s amazing, in fact.” You grab his shoulders when he tried to get up, “Taeyong, I like you.”

Taeyong bursts out laughing, “We’re really confessing in the nude?”

“Think of it this way: if you feel the same way, it’s so much easier to get down to business.” You cock a brow at him and he shrugs with puckered lips.

“Then, I like you, too.” He says, twisting his torso to face you and dragging his thumb across your lower lip, “So, round two?”

Snorting, you cup his face and pull him in for a kiss, “How about we exclude shitty profs and abusive friends?”

Taeyong hoists you up in his arms, carrying you so that either of your legs were secured over his hips. He starts to walk away from the couch, grinning at you as you squealed in surprise at his action, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

-

a/n: this feels so rushed because of my internet situation ;A;

#nct smut #taeyong smut #kinkmas2018

[cameronlsummers]

1. From the Files of Spook House – #055:  The Elevator Game

Hand to God, I really wish he hadn't done it, but Manny knew someone who worked in the hotel.  I wish we hadn't decided to rent a room there or use that fucking glass elevator.  I mean, we only knew about the Game because of that youtube video of that poor girl about what happened at the Cecil Hotel in L.A.  We should have known.

We'd all been through our fair share of weird shit.  I figured that we would be fine.

Let me back up.

We were – are – the Spook House Group.  Or, when Ronnie and our Fearless Leader are fighting and she moves out for a week or two, Tom insists on calling us the “Spook House Boys.”  I don't say anything about it.  It feels needlessly exclusionary.  I mean, just because Tom fucking Knight is having blue balls, all non-male candidates are excluded?

It's the 21st century.  Get over it.

But we are the Spook House Group.  And this was the Elevator Game Test.

The Hotel at 43rd and Broadway was the site.  It's built around a huge central atrium that puts vaporwave music in mind.  A lot of big leafy plants and some fountains, and down on the bottom there are tables and a carpeted area that look like the world's most upscale food court, tiles done in dark rich browns and deep red accents.  There's a tiered fountain in the middle that looked like it was made in imitation of Spanish Mission architecture.  Its spacial vocabulary was a postmodern imitation of the Country Club Plaza – world's best high-rent strip mall, – which was a corporate bastardization of Seville, itself an imitation of Roman architecture done with the Arabic and Gothic alphabets on baroque stationary.

Copy of a copy of a copy.  The mannequin in Jean Baudrillard's grave was spinning.

In the middle of this atrium is a bank of three glass elevators. You need an elevator with at least ten stories for the Elevator Game. That's the first requirement.

The second is a Participant or Player.  I insisted on the term “Operator” for our internal terminology, because whoever yells the loudest about such things tends to get their way and I preferred it's sound.  So the second requirement was the Operator, me:  Jules Ng Miller.

No non-player was allowed on the elevator, so we were doing it at 4 AM, an hour after the last bar in Westport closed and all the out-of-town visitors had holed up in their rooms.

To play the game you start at the first floor and ride the elevator to the following floors in the following order without exiting it until the end.

Fourth.  Second.  Sixth.  Second.  Tenth.  Fifth.

At the fifth floor (according to “the lore,” by which I mean “the internet,” and more specifically, I mean “the Korean-language page we got this information from and plugged into Google Translate”) a “beautiful young woman” will get on the elevator.  You're not supposed to look at her or speak to her, or else she might “keep you forever.”

I know.  I cringed, too.

At this point, you press “1” and one of two things happen.  If the elevator descends, you get off at the first floor and walk away. If, instead, it ascends, you get out and walk around: at this point, you're supposedly in another world.  To get back, you return to the exact same elevator and punch in the order in reverse.  You've got to leave so that the woman isn't there when you return.

I'm the subject.  The Operator. With me here are Tom Knight (Fearless Leader; Camera 1, 5th floor,) Veronica “Ronnie” Wagner (Second-in-Command; Camera 2, 1st and 2nd floor,) Manuel “Manny” Rojas (Off-duty paramedic; Camera 3, 4th and 6th Floor,) and Franklin “Frankie” Fallon (resident skeptic; Camera 4, 10th floor.)  Veronica and Manny move between the different floors as I move up and down using the stairs.  The idea is that someone can see me every time I stop and I give a sign that everything is okay.  We record it so that there's a record of the whole thing.

It's just some dumb internet shit, but it's tied up with that whole thing that happened in L.A. a couple years back.  I'm kind of haunted by it, but I don't really show it to the others.  Tom would make fun of me, and the other two would feel awkward.  That girl could have been my cousin.  Maybe not a sister.  I never knew my family, so I guess I've just got this phantom limb thing when it comes to people who vaguely resemble me.

She was supposedly doing this thing before she disappeared, only to be found a month later in the water tower on top of the Cecil Hotel.

I began to wonder if this was a race thing as we were about to start.

I mean, we had drawn straws, but they had just conveniently chosen the guy who looked most like the person in the video.  The random element didn't really help me get away from that.

“You okay?” Veronica asked, pointing the camera at me.

I looked at her, at the projecting lens of the camera, then back at her.  She was watching me through the range-finder, and the whole thing was honestly a bit alienating.  She wasn't paying attention to me but to an image of me, an electronic simulacrum created out of bits and pixels.

Ronnie worked in a call center, and could turn on the charm when she had to.  She never did when she didn't have to, though.  I could understand that:  she had to dress up in slacks and a blouse for work, she had to raise the pitch of her voice, she had to smile. When she was with us she dressed in jeans and a tank top under a flannel shirt, she spoke in a husky voice, and she never smiled. Manny and Tom worked in health care, but if I had to pick one of us for surgeon material, it would be Veronica Elma Wagner.

“Just nerves,” I said.

She paused.

“Makes sense.  You think anything is going to happen?”

I shook my head as the door opened.

“No.  Just feels like bad luck,” I said as I stepped in.

“What do you mean?” she asked, adjusting the focus.

No way to back out of it, now, though.  I hit “4.”

“Like I'm making fun of a dead person.”

Part of me was gratified that she looked up at me as the door slid shut.

I took out my phone and hit record on it before sticking it in my breast pocket, lens exposed.  I turned to look out the window, mugging the camera Manny was holding like I was on “The Office.” After a second, I gave a tired “thumbs up,” signaling “all clear.”

Manny didn't live in the house anymore.  His room had become my room, and he had washed his hands of things for almost six months, but he still worked with Tom and was eventually dragged back in.  I liked him.  We weren't friends, or anything, but he was just magnetic: handsome, reliable, charming.  Good to have around.  I felt bad that he was spending a late night with a bunch of assholes like the Spook House Group.

Once the doors opened, I waited a second and then hit “2.”

Veronica had just gotten into position, having run up from the first floor.  The door dinged open, and I gave her the “all clear.”

When the door closed, I hit “6.”

Third…

Fourth...

As I passed Tom on the fifth floor, I flipped him the double bird. I could see the son of a bitch just laughing.

He was getting a kick out of this.  He was such a juvenile piece of shit.  I don't get why Owen kept putting him in charge of these tests.  Probably just the shouting.  Tom could argue for hours over minutiae and there was no getting him to shut up about it.  Force of personality, my ass.  He'd known the other three since high school, and I got the feeling that he'd just eroded them, worn them down until they didn't have the will to put a stop to it.

It must have to do with his height, I figured.  Even Veronica had an inch or two on him, and he was the type who would never really pack on that much muscle or fat, so he had the personality of a bantam rooster on speed.  All twitchy and looking to establish dominance.

That's unfair.  It's also true.

Unlike the rest of us, Tom hadn't been scarred by the weird shit.  He'd been empowered by it.  He'd become convinced of his own importance, deriving meaning from it.  Then it had slipped from his life, retreating from it like some woodland creature running away from the light of a forest clearing.  He wanted it back, and didn't understand how traumatized the rest of us were.

Our worst moment mapped on to his best, and he couldn't put himself in our shoes.  He was all about this.  That's why he was leader, I imagine.  He wanted it.  He wanted it, bad.

I lowered my hands and looked at Manny just getting in to position as the door dinged and opened to the sixth floor.  I raised my hand and gave a shaky thumbs up.

The silence was getting to me.  Elevators were stressful places.  It was a machine whose sole purpose was to get you from one place to another, and I spent all day, every day, driving.

The door closed.  I hit “2.”

Wave to Ronnie there.

Up to “10.”

This was the longest period of largely unobserved travel.  I shouldn't have been nervous about it.  The eyes of my housemates – well, housemates and Manny – were bothersome when present, but I just felt anxious when they weren't watching.  There was no winning, really.  There was no way to get comfortable.

Maybe I could get off.  Maybe I could trade with somebody.

No...no...we had drawn straws.  That was the protocol.

I gave Frankie a thumbs up at “10.”

The big, blonde ex-goth waved back at 10.  He was how I knew the rest of these people:  we had worked at the same pizzeria for a long period, and I had moved in just after I left in the most spectacular fashion.  He had jumped ship shortly after in solidarity, switching over to manning the grill over at the Westport Flea Market, where he was stoked about the fact that he worked in the same building as the former site of Bob's Bizarre Bazaar, a shop operated by Kansas City's most famous serial killer, Bob Berdella.  I wonder if the serial killer fascination was what had led to him being a goth kid, if it has been nascent in the good Catholic school boy he had once been.  Had he been watching Silence of the Lambs in the wilds of the Southwestern Suburbs, thinking about Ed Gein while biking around the cul-de-sac?  Or had it been an outgrowth of that subculture?  A perverse fascination that he had developed after the torn ACL moved him from football to theater?

I guess I'll never know.

He waved back.

Absentmindedly, I hit “5.”

The elevator descended.

When the door opened, I turned sharply away, looking out the window at Tom, who was narrating something into his camera.  Someone else had gotten on the elevator.  Tom grinned and gave me the thumbs up.

The beautiful young woman from the internet had stepped on.

Ꚛ

Tom spoke low, directly into the microphone:  “Young, Asian woman getting on the elevator...”

He squinted.  “I think? I can't tell her age…Wait!  Shit, that's because she's far away, not because she's – ”

He trailed off.

“She looks pretty well-dressed?  Like put-together?  The sort of clothes you would wear to a job interview.  Like...one of those dresses that's worn over a shirt, leaving only the collar and sleeves out.  She's got a white shirt on.”

The walkie-talkie he had in his breast pocket crackled, and Manny spoke.

“Shirt or blouse?”

“What's the difference?”

“How loose is it?” Manny asked.

“I don't know!  It's pretty far away.”

“Let's just call it a blouse.”

“Okay, fine,” Tom said.  “Blouse, then.  She also looks like she's got some panty-hose on.”

“Also, the dress you're talking about is a jumper,” Manny said.

“How do you know so much about women's clothing?” Tom asked.

“Hey, I've got hobbies you don't know about.  I don't hang out with you guys all the time.”

“I think he means that he just pays attention,” Veronica said.

“Yeah, Manny's pretty observant,” Frankie added.

“Shut up!  This isn't important,” Tom said, and waved, gesturing to Jules for continue.

Slowly, Jules swallowed and shook his head.

“He's refusing to continue.  I can't believe it,” Tom said.

“Hey, we've got confirmation.  Lady just appeared out of nowhere, right?” Frankie said.  “Can't we just call this one?”

“I...I think? She might have?”

“Were you not paying attention?” Veronica asked, barely hiding her exasperation.

“I'm going to call him,” Tom said.

He ignored the walkie-talkie for a moment and pulled out his phone, hit the contact information for Jules, and raised it to his ear.

Jules pulled out his phone, looked at it, and sighed.  It was a visible, dramatic sigh.  He looked over at Tom, made direct eye contact, and touched something on the screen.  It went to voicemail.

“Son of a bitch didn't accept my call!” Tom complained.

He almost missed the woman say something.  Almost missed Jules go rigid and fight the urge to look at her.

Jules reached over and hit “1.”

The elevator didn't move.  Its lights flickered.  Tom wrinkled his nose as an unpleasant smell assaulted his senses.  An electric buzz seemed to emanate from it.

There was a pained screeching noise as the elevator shot up to the tenth floor far faster than it should have.  Jules fell down, but the woman remained standing.

“Fuck!” someone shouted.

“What –?” someone else began

After a moment, Frankie spoke: “Uh...guys, the elevator is full of smoke.”

The elevator began to slowly slide down toward the first floor. There was an uncomfortable ratcheting noise that accompanied it down.

“I'm only seeing one silhouette,” Manny said at the sixth.

“First floor,” Tom said.

“How do you know it's…?” Frankie asked.

“First floor,” Veronica said, backing Tom up.

“Right,” Manny said.

Tom broke down the tripod, pulling the camera free after a second and began to head for the first floor, taking the stairs down. Veronica was already ahead of him, but he figured he would be second to reach –

Manny passed him, carrying his camera by the tripod, and Tom cursed under his waning breath.

In the lobby, Veronica was filming the woman from behind a planter, peeking the lens of the camera out around the planter.  Manny was crouched next to her behind the same planter, completely hidden from the woman's view.

Tom walked right past them, and began to film the woman, walking around her slowly and steadily.  Her black jumper dress was worn over a cream-colored blouse, all of which fit well enough that someone more knowledgeable than Tom would assume that it had been tailored to fit her.  She was about as tall as Tom was, with most of her height in her legs.  The cold white smoke around her feet began to dissipate, revealing that she was wearing flats.  Tom wondered if Manny would want to explain the difference to him.

She noticed the movement, and turned to look at him.

“What was that about?” she asked.  “Do you know?”

She had a pronounced accent, but spoke confidently and clearly. English might not be her first language, but she had been speaking it long enough to have a firm command of the language, Tom assumed.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Tom said, training his camera on her.

She looked at him, down at the camera, then back up at him.

“You're filming me?” she asked, confused and dismayed.

“You bet your ass.  Our friend just disappeared and you stepped out of the elevator he was in.  So unless the Elevator Game is some elaborate gender-swap ritual and you're Jules – in which case, you look a lot better as a girl than as a guy, I mean, just saying – then – ”

Veronica, having set down her camera, stepped in and cut Tom off.

“Tom?  Shut up.  How many times do we have to tell you to be more careful?”

Tom turned to look at her, uncomprehenidng.

She stepped between Tom and the woman, almost blocking his view with the camera lens.  Tom tried to correct, Veronica grimaced at him, and then used one finger to push the camera away to not record the woman.

“I'm sorry about him,” she said.  “He was never the same after he stopped huffing glue, you know?”

“I never – !” Tom began to protest.

Manny took Tom by the shoulders and pulled him back a step.

The woman nodded slowly, and her posture relaxed.  Veronica took a step closer, but didn't invade her personal space.

“If you could return our friend,” Veronica said, “we would be very grateful.”

The woman cocked her head to the side.

“Your friend?  Oh!  The man from the elevator.  He slipped away, I won't be able to find him.”

Veronica slumped slightly.

“Oh.  Right.  Sorry to bother you.”

“It's okay,” the woman said.  “I'm just a bit turned around. I think I got into a liminality without realizing it.”

“Liminality?”

“Liminality.  Heterotopos.  Thin place.”

Veronica nodded slowly.

“A place that is part of two or more spaces.  A...crosshatch?”

“I think I understand.”

The woman looked at Veronica appraisingly.  Her large, dark eyes put Veronica in mind of a cenote, an unexpected yawning well in the surface of the earth.

“You seem like you might,” was all the woman said.

“Can I ask who you are?” Veronica asked.

“Forgive me,” the woman said.  “I don't really give out my real name lightly.  To explain myself simply, I'm a...hmm...a traveler, a seeker.”

She reached into a pocket sewn into the side of her dress, and pulled out something that looked like a cigarette case: aluminum-shiny, with an embossed bit of cursive text on it – “CABIN FILTERS” – and opened it up.  She pulled a business card out of it, on which was written:

Ms. 5

SEANCES * CARTOMANCY * PALMISTRY

KC-0057-665-93

“Is this a phone number?”

“What?  Of course it is.”

“What are you searching for?” Tom asked, cutting in.

“Something I don't think I can find here,” she said regretfully.

“You're being awful evasive,” Tom muttered.

“And you're prying,” the woman said, an oddly satisfied smile on her face.  “So in the Prisoner's Dilemma of politeness, let us both defect.”

Tom blinked.

“...What?”

“I must get back to my search.  This is a dead end.”

Franklin rounded his corner and raised his camera just as the woman climbed back aboard the elevator.  She bent down, studied the panel, and held down two buttons while pressing a series of others  in a particular sequence.

She looked back at the group.  Frankie zoomed in on her face.

“Be seeing you,” she said with a smile.

The door closed.  The lights flickered.  A strange, pungent smell wafted in cold waves from the elevator doors before the car rose with a pained shriek.

“What the hell is that?” Tom said, coughing.

“I don't know,” Veronica said, waving the air in front of her face.

“Kind of like...it smells like how it would smell if cinnamon could rot,” Manny said.

“Seriously, what the hell was that?” Tom asked.

Veronica sighed.

“The first confirmed incident in like...a decade?”

“Guys?” Franklin said, holding his nose.

“What?” Tom said.

“Where's Jules?”

A moment of silence followed.

“Fuck,” Tom said, quietly.

#kansas city gothic #comeback city #rough draft #original content #my writing #Kansas City

[aion-rsa]

Sarah Phelps interview: Agatha Christie is Always Asking ‘Are You Paying Attention?’

https://ift.tt/2AFepOB

‘You ordinary bitch!’ snarls Sarah Phelps, ‘put your cheap knickers on and get out of my house!’ The interview hasn’t taken a strange turn; she’s laughing down the phone, quoting along with memorable lines from her BBC One Agatha Christie adaptations. 

‘Oh, it brings me so much joy. It’s like The Witness for the Prosecution’s Romaine screaming in court ‘You fucking men! You fucking men!’ and then hissing at Mayhew like a cat!’ One of Phelps’ friends downloaded Andrea Riseborough’s hiss in that scene to use as her text message alert. ‘I get such a thrill out of it.’ 

Phelps’ screenwriting is built on thrill. There’s the all-out thrill of the story she’s telling plus the tiny power-jolts of thrill she injects into dialogue. It’s for us, but also, for her. ‘I’m the audience, me.’ If she’s laughing or crying while writing, she feels she’s getting it right. 

Obsessed, joy, buzz and pleasure are words she repeats again and again talking about television, hers and other people’s. Her current TV obsession is Michaela Coel’s I May Destroy You. ‘It’s outstanding. Outstanding. I love the layers and the complexity. It’s not didactic, it’s dynamic. It’s about friendship and how the fuck we live.’

Phelps is an exhilarating interviewee. She doesn’t answer in sentences or paragraphs but detonates her thoughts – a locomotive gathering speed. Lists of questions and synonyms spill out, culminating in unarguable conclusions. She finds Agatha Christie clever, sly, cloaked, watchful, veiled, secretive. Christie’s books are brutal, violent, horrible, subversive, seditious. ‘She is not dicking around.’

Reviews of Phelps’ Christie adaptations, both from critics and viewers, fixate on her language. One described the dialogue in 2019 two-parter The Pale Horse as ‘so Phelpsian it stuck out like a sore thumb.’ What does Phelps think that adjective means? 

‘Probably that someone’s done a swear,’ she laughs. In that review’s case, she’s spot-on. The quote cited is Rita Tushingham calling the devil ‘old hairy bollocks with his goat hooves’ – a treat, surely, to any ear. More seriously, she hopes that Phelpsian means ‘robust’. 

‘I don’t like to think that it’s just because it’s sweary or somebody says ‘bollocks’, but there’s a twist in it somewhere. It’s kind of really ugly but elegant at the same time.’ In The Pale Horse, there’s a line describing Rufus Sewell’s character as ‘a broken, sweaty ape’ and that gave her a buzz. It’s now her Twitter bio, preceded by the legend ‘Screenwriter. Pervert. BBC Monster’, the last two inspired by choice online criticism received when her Christie adaptations aired. 

In the last five years, Phelps has adapted five Agatha Christie stories for BBC One – And Then There Were None, The Witness For The Prosecution, Ordeal By Innocence, The ABC Murders and The Pale Horse. Before And Then There Were None, she’d never read Christie, having been put off by the popular take that her world was all toffs and whist-playing vicars – tea party murder mysteries wrapped cosily in a twinset and pearls. 

Instead, what Phelps found in Christie was brutal, flinty-eyed judgment. She sees Christie as an observer, a recorder of pre- and post-war Englishness. ‘In The ABC Murders, she is very, very aware that there is something really unpleasant going on in England in the 1930s. She actively references the talk about foreigners and the hostility. She doesn’t make that her leading thing, she’s just absorbing it and always saying ‘Are you paying attention? I am writing about this, are you paying attention?’ 

Paying attention to Christie has been Phelps’ mission since And Then There Were None left her reeling. It’s the story of a group of seemingly unconnected characters summoned to a remote island where, one by one, they’re killed off according to the lines of a children’s poem. When Phelps read it, she felt existential menace. ‘This was what it was like to be standing on the edge of the world with a catastrophe rushing towards you. Here’s this unblinking, remorseless God who’s going to end your life because of the things that you’ve done.’

That’s what underpins Christie’s portrait of the English national character, she says, ‘the things that we’ve done and how we try desperately hard not to be caught.’ She describes it a preoccupation of Christie’s, and the connecting theme of her adaptations. 

‘How do we hide the things we’ve done so nobody calls us to account? How do I keep my nice life and not get caught for the terrible things that I’ve done? How do I carry on being this civilised English person? How do I carry on enjoying my life? How do I carry on with my power and my wealth? How do I avoid accountability? What will we do to retain our power?’

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Phelps has a theory, based on Christie’s experience as a dispensing chemist in the Voluntary Aid Detachment during the First World War, that ‘she saw the world in a really quantum way – a grain here, a grain there, you can barely see it but it makes what was known entirely unknown.’ The bounds forward in medicine that Christie witnessed would have revealed how tiny, invisible specks of dirt under a fingernail could mean the difference between life and death, and, thinks Phelps, her imagination would have been duly nurtured by that understanding.

‘I always imagine her measuring out the infinitesimal grains of pharmaceuticals, and beyond that lies the whole smashed landscape of what we thought we knew.’ Phelps takes a rare pause and, less rare, laughs at herself. ‘Of course, I could be totally talking out of my arse.’

She has another theory, based on the 1944 Broadway production of And Then There Were None. Christie was asked by a producer to make the bloodbath ending cheerier for a war-stricken audience, says Phelps. Christie did as asked, allowing two of the characters who die in the novel – Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard – to survive and swan off together into the sunset. 

‘She went ‘you want a happy ending? Okay, a child murderer who shows absolutely no remorse and a mass murderer. You want them to have a romantic, happy ending? That’s what you want? That’s what you want out of my book. Okay, you can have it. After that, her books change.’

‘I always feel that there’s a judgment from Christie about what people want, that they will forget the sin really easily to pander to their own sense of contentment. She feels like she’s scrutinising the reader. There’s always a tussle between the book that Agatha Christie wants to write and the book she knows that people want to read.’

Some see Phelps as a Christie revisionist, adding darkness, sexing up the stories and dimming down the lights, kicking in social commentary with a stiletto heeled boot. To a certain viewer, she’s a sweary witch hell-bent on destroying the thoroughgoing loveliness of good old-fashioned British stories. About murder. And serial killers. And hangings and poisonings and child death and adulterers and bludgeonings. Stories about the hell of motherhood and, to quote Phelps, ‘the quotidian savagery of marriage.’ 

Her adaptations are less revisionist than archaeological, I suggest. Over the decades, Christie’s writing has been built over with layers of fame and opinion and industry, and Phelps has been scraping that away to reach the bones. She likes the image. From the novels and short stories, those bones have called out to her, drawing attention to themselves through ‘absences, little things that don’t quite make sense, little misdirections, odd little details.’ 

Such as? ‘In Ordeal by Innocence. You’re reading it and you suddenly come across something really, really strange and wonder what the hell it’s doing there.’ Among all the bumbling policemen failing to notice things, a character fantasises about seeing his mother after a car crash with her hair lying in a puddle of oil on the Great North Road. The violence of the image exploded into Phelps’ head.

‘That’s why I had no problem with changing the killer in Ordeal By Innocence.’ It’s the story of a murdered philanthropist who’d adopted a number of children to raise in her stately home. The book’s original killer, says Phelps, made no sense. ‘By the time I’d got to where [spoiler] walked in and brained her, it makes so much sense I didn’t think anything of it. It just felt like that was what the book was telling me to do.’

‘What really killed this woman? What killed this mother? Why is this woman trying to be the perfect mother? Why is this story being told in the 1950s, where everything is supposed to be about bunting and celebration?’ Phelps took all the violence of the time and used it to tell the story she thought Christie really wanted to tell. 

To do that, Phelps first had to get Christie’s characters talking to her. And when they started talking, she was often surprised – and thrilled – by what they said. Mayhew’s wife, a character she invented for The Witness for the Prosecution, screaming ‘you don’t want to be loved, you want to be forgiven!’ was one surprise. Another was Monica Dolan’s character in that adaptation being marched off to her death with the gentle protest ‘Not today, thank you, it’s not convenient.’ There was Jack, one of the grown-up adopted children in Ordeal By Innocence telling his father ‘I am your plague and I’m coming for you.’ All surprises, says Phelps. All thrills. 

She imagines every detail of her characters, inside and out. Costume, posture, fears…

‘What is somebody doing when you can’t see them? What do they dream about? What wakes them up in 4 o clock in the morning absolutely cold with sweat? What is the thing that they don’t want anyone to ever find out about? What is the sole burning flame in their life, what would happen if it got extinguished? Do they expect a blow to fall and where do they expect that blow? Do they think they’re going to make old bones? A character like Bill Sykes [Phelps wrote the 2007 BBC adaptation of Oliver Twist], does he think he’s going to live much past the age of 30? Does he know that it’s coming for him? How does he hold himself, is he braced at every single moment for the charge that’s going to take him out? Has he got eyes in the back of his head? This woman, where does she think her danger is? How long did it take her to put on that smile to face the world so no-one knows that she’s about to go stark staring mad? All the time you’re thinking about that, all the time. And it’s only then that they can talk to me.’

She stops momentarily, laughing at her outpouring. ‘That sounds nuts! That sounds nuts!’ Then she keeps going.

‘You want these people to talk to you, you want to unpeel them from preconception and see their humanity and understand why they’ve done what they’ve done. Because if they’re just doing it because they’ve always done it since the book was published, then you’re not really adapting the book are you?’ 

‘We all think we know who Hercule Poirot is’, she says of her 2018 version of The ABC Murders starring John Malkovich as the Belgian detective, ‘but his character has got to be a mystery. Otherwise, it’s just another Poirot isn’t it? And what’s the bloody point in doing that?’ 

Agatha Christie’s The ABC Murders is streaming now in the UK on Acorn TV

The post Sarah Phelps interview: Agatha Christie is Always Asking ‘Are You Paying Attention?’ appeared first on Den of Geek.

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