#I actually paid attention to the pattern so it would look nice on the dress | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

star-lemonade · 3 years

Text

The Altar

Ateez San x Reader

Genre: smut, candy shop au

Cw: smut, San likes it when you say his name

Rating: R

Word count: 5 k

Thanks to @yutasgalaxy for giving feedback. I changed a lot since you read it xD

“You should really go there.”

Your friend’s voice still rang in your ears. These words had been said to you so often lately. Your friend had heard good things about it, although you suspected it was first-hand experience. You felt frustrated about the lack of men in your life. It was hard to meet someone new and the few times you had actually met a nice guy, they had not been interested in you. Afterwards you felt the drought in your bed even more than usual. Maybe it was time. Time to go there. The Candy Shop.

You went to the address your friend provided. That was the first unusual thing. When you had looked for it online, you had not been able to find an address. How could there be a place that can not be found on the internet? The building was as mundane as a grey house between other grey houses could be. The entrance did not look like a shop either. The window next to the door was small and drapes obscured the view inside. Only the “open” sign at the door indicated that this was the right place.

You opened the door, and a bell announced your entrance to the empty room. It was a small space for a store, and it was filled to the brim with boxes. Boxes on shelves, boxes on the floor, in giant box towers, boxes hanging in nets from the ceiling. The oddest thing was their color; all of the boxes were the same warm grey. No writing. No pictures. How did anyone know what was inside the boxes? Maybe I’m wrong here? You turned to leave.

“Oh, there you are.”

The voice came from behind you and it sounded familiar. The woman looked exactly how you remembered her, Ms Lee, who had been your homeroom teacher in middle school. She wore a tie-dye tank top that showed off her wrinkly arms.

“Ms Lee?”

She smiled like a proud mother, not something you wanted to see in a sex toy shop. Her smile had always been an attractive feature of her. You could see why she had been the most popular widow at the school.

“No, dear. I’m the Owner.”

Even her voice sounded the same. At least you thought she sounded like Ms Lee. On the other hand it had been years since you had see her.

“Oh, excuse me.”

You could have sworn that she was your old teacher, but she was not. Good. Imagine running into your old teacher in a shop like this. Awkward.

“Ehm, I’m looking for something.”

There was no point in feeling embarrassed now. You had already entered the sex shop, but you still felt your face burn. If you act awkward, it will just be more embarrassing. Get it together! You were about to elaborate further when she said:

“Of course. I think I have just the thing. Follow me.”

How could the owner sound so confident, when you had not given her any information? She turned around and walked to the counter in the back of the shop, and you followed. Surprisingly the counter was not made out of boxes stacked on top of each other but from wood.

“Wait here, please.”

The Owner went behind the counter and left through a door. The side room too seemed to be filled with boxes, as much as you could see of it. You still wondered how she knew what was in each box. Did they all have the same things inside? Maybe there had been a shipment of something, and now it clogged up the place? She returned with a smile on her face.

“Here.”

She held the thing out for you, and without thinking, you took it from her. Why did you do that?

“A walking stick?”

The long wooden stick was knobbly and looked like it had been a small tree that someone debarked. It was not carved but it had grown relatively straight. The surface was polished and waxed, shining in the dim light of the shop.

“Yes. You should go and have a picnic.”

You stared at the stick and back to her incredulously. This must be a joke.

“But-”

“No problem,” The Owner waved you off. “That’s on the house. Have fun.”

She smiled before leaving through the door behind the counter. The lock clicked into place you were alone with your stick.

“...should I stick this in my butt or what?”

You shouted after her but the Owner did not return. Reluctantly, you left and went home.

That night you had a dream about your childhood house where your parents used to live. It was small and cozy in a tiny town near the mountains.

The mountains.

Yes, you missed going up the hidden paths to the tops of the small mountains. The forest that covered them had been your place to play when you had lived there. You had spent the years of your childhood running around in the undergrowth. In your dream the sun was shining from a bright blue sky that only came in autumn. You walked up the mountain as you had done many times. It was not clear to you if this was a memory or not but you almost felt the sun burn on your face. You reached the top of the mountain in what felt like a record time. Here stood a bench that overlooked the valley and your hometown. It was beautiful.

When you woke up, the dream had left a hole in you. You yarned for the home, that was not your home any more. You decided that you would go there.

Today. Now.

You got dressed, packed an overnight bag and ate a big breakfast. The ride to the town would take two hours, but you did not know if you would be able to return to your apartment in time. Hiking was exhausting and maybe you would be too tired to drive back to the city.

You grabbed the walking stick and went to your car. The drive was familiar. You had done it lots of times. Today the time flew and you found yourself pulling into the parking lot of the only supermarket of your hometown.

Maybe I should get some food? I will be hungry when I’m up there. You looked at the mountain that barely classified as one. Today the air was humid and mist hung over the forest beyond the town limits. Thegrey sky looked about ready to release more on the land. You did not really pay attention to what you bought. The old man at the counter looked up and smiled. You paid and left the store.

The parking lot where the hiking paths started was empty. It had just rained and most people had stayed at home. You packed the food and drinks into your backpack.

The path was slippery and your shoes sank a few centimeters with every step. This made the hike much harder and slower than you had expected. You knew the path well, even after all this time, your body moved on its own now. Pulling one foot out of the mud and planting it further up the path. Repeat with the other foot. In the forest you saw some trees that had fallen over. This was always the case of course but they were different from last time you had been here.

Some time later you found yourself at a bench, and stopped there to drink something. The next part would be a bit steeper so you pulled out the walking stick.

The ground was wet and the path was getting muddier the higher up you went. Maybe I should take a short cut to the top? If you went straight through the trees here, you would be there faster than following the path. You were impatient today and turned left into the forest.

The ground here was less muddy but you had to step more carefully. Holes in the ground could be hidden by dead leaves and small plants. Breaking your ankle in the middle of the forest did not sound like a good idea. The forest smelled of the herbs that grew all over the place. You considered picking some of them, but you were not sure which ones were really eatable. Ahead the trees grew less dense.

In the glade you saw something and walked closer to check it out. It was a slab of stone that was overgrown by moss and vines. You examined the stone closer and you noticed the top was smooth and the sides were covered in patterns. It was not an ordinary stone; It was an altar.

The altar of a forgotten deity. Lost in the forest and being consumed by nature without the care of the believers.

I don’t believe in gods, but it feels like I should pay my respects. You never know.

You set your backpack down next to the altar and picked up a stick that was lying on the ground. The moss grew mostly on the sides which would not be easy to clean but the top should be easier. You used the stick to scrape off the vines and grime that had accumulated there. It did not come off well but at least the altar looked a bit better than before. You drank some water from your bottle and looked into your backpack.

Maybe I should leave some offerings too?

You picked up a leaf and used it as a makeshift plate for the rice. The red apple and one of the little desserts would have to do.

“Have a good day.”

You returned to the car without having been to the top. It was still light outside so you decided to drive back to your apartment. You felt exhausted but you really wanted to sleep in your own bed.

When you arrived the sun had set and you were about to fall asleep. You fell into your bed and passed out, sleeping like the proverbial stone.

The next day was Sunday which was good. No work. No need to get out of bed either.

You showered, made yourself a quick breakfast and got back under your warm blanket. Sunday morning was the perfect time to do nothing. You turned on the tv and continued to watch the drama you had started the prior week.

The couple got together in this episode and it made you feel so single. Seeing them kiss on screen made you miss kissing. Yeah, just kissing. What a lie. You paused the video. Maybe I should watch some porn instead? It still bugged you that your trip to the Candy Shop had been so fruitless. Why did you get a walking stick? The stick. You had not taken it with you. It was probably still next to the altar in the forest. Ah, well, my dildo will have to do. Getting off with it was nice, but it was not the same as having sex with a guy. For a moment you thought about the pretty male lead in the drama. How nice it would be to run your hands over his face and body. Sadly, this was not very realistic. I will go on tinder on Monday.

“Is it too much to ask for a cute, caring boyfriend to have hot sex with?”

You groaned and looked at the ceiling as if that was where your fate would be decided. It did not answer.

“That’s your wish‽”

You almost jumped out of bed. The voice came from your right, the side of the bed that had just been empty. It was not anymore. The man blended into the white sheets with his white clothing. Your heart hammered in your chest.

“What the fuck?!” You shouted. “How did you get in here? Who are you? Get out!”

You backed away. There was no bed left behind you. You fell over backwards but did not hit the ground. Your hand was caught in an iron grip.

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

The man pulled you back into the bed. It brought you close to him. He had long hair that was tied at the top of his head. Something you expected to see in a historical drama not in your bedroom. He had a stunningly beautiful face. Intense eyes, full lips and a sharp jawline.

Why are all hot guys psychos?

“Let go!”

“You will fall again.”

His voice was so gentle it made your heart skip a beat. It was familiar, like a deja vu. This was not someone you had met before, but it still seemed like you knew him. Get it together, the guy broke into your house, don’t be lulled in by his looks.

“How did you get in here?”

You did not know what to do. He held your wrists in his hands, but you backed away as far as possible. Was he going to do something to you?

“I followed you. Yesterday.”

He said it as if it was the normal thing in the world. You stared at him, open mouthed. He had been here since yesterday? Your blood turned to ice. His grip was still holding your wrists. If he had not you would have fallen out of bed now.

“You cleaned the altar so nicely it woke me up from my sleep. It’s been ages since anyone left an offering there.”

The altar. How did he know about that? There had been no one there aside from you.

“Let me go and leave.”

He stared into your eyes. Nothing was hidden from that stare. You wanted to look away but could not. As if hypnotized you stared into his eyes. They were not brown as you had assumed, but a very dark green, like the pine trees at night.

“That’s not what you wished for.”

He kissed one of your hands. His lips were soft but the gesture sent a shiver down your spine. Some part of you was responding to his touch while your higher reasoning was screaming to get away.

“Who are you?”

Your voice was only a whisper, but in the quiet room it was as loud as a scream. He looked at you, reading your face like a book. You did not know if it would be better to show your fear or hide it. What would make him leave?

“I am the mountain.”

He puffed out his chest a bit as he said that. The mountain. What kind of name was that? You had known everyone who had lived in your hometown and no one was called San. Maybe he was a tourist who happened to be in the forest? Then it struck you. The altar. The mountain, San. This man was not a man at all. He was the god of the mountain and you had brought him to your home. That’s what you get from being nice, an uninvited guest. Great.

“And I decided to grant your wish.”

You were not ready to process any new information, but here he was, talking. Was it even possible that this man was the god of the mountain? No one had seen you in the forest. You had been alone yesterday evening and just now when you had made breakfast, the door had still been locked. So unless he broke into your apartment just now… no, you had not heard or seen anything out of the ordinary.

“You doubt me.”

San was clearly disappointed in your lack of faith. He stared at you, waiting for you to explain yourself. You had every right to be suspicious of some random dude who claimed to be a god.

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly and looked around your bedroom. The little pout on his face made him look cuter and less scary, but he was still plenty scary. He let go of your hands and left the room. Maybe I should run for it. You sprang from the bed and in a few steps you were at the bedroom door. Where you almost ran into San. He was both taller and shorter than you had expected. Just like the mountain. His legs were longer than usual for someone his height.

“Here.”

In his hand was the basil plant you had bought a few days ago. It did not look too hot. The leaves had started to hang down and some were already crumpeling.

“Yeah, I should throw it out...”

San was appalled.

“But it’s still alive!! Look!”

He stared at the plant and it became healthy again. With your mouth open you stared at the plant. Its leaves were full and beautifully green again. The smell of basil filled the room.

“So you believe me now?”

The smug smile on his face was almost too much. You nodded reluctantly. San brought the plant back to the kitchen, while you sank down on the bed. There is a deity in my apartment. San sat down on the bed next to you.

“So, what was my wish?”

What dumb shit have I wished for? A smile so mischievous it made the hairs in your neck stand appeared on his face. He leaned closer and whispered in your ear:

“Hot sex.”

Oh fuck. The reason why you had gone to the Candy Shop had been to get something nice for you. It had been so long since you had been with someone. Sex with a good looking guy sounded so good. San was here and he was offering to give you what you wanted. But wait.

“Didn’t I say “a cute boyfriend”?”

San pursed his lips. “Technically, you did. ‘Cute and caring’”

“So, then where is my boyfriend?”

You pushed your jaw forward in a defiant manner. If you were going to get your wish, it had to be the right one. There was no way he could just make a guy appear out of thin air, could he?

“Am I not cute?”

The fake outrage in his voice was indeed cute, but hell would freeze over before you would admit that.

“What? Are you saying you will be my boyfriend?”

He stared at you and you stared back. It was totally absurd. San could not seriously mean he would be your boyfriend, right?

“Yes.”

You honestly did not have a comeback to that. San had said it like he meant it. I guess he didn’t have to make someone appear out of thin air after all. He is already here.

“Can I change my wish?”

You did not look at him, but you could feel his eyes on you. It had been a mistake, actually several mistakes. You should not have gone to the mountain, or cleaned the altar.

“Do you dislike me this much?”

San sounded almost hurt. What had he expected? That you would just lay down and spread your legs?

“You just showed up here, unannounced. What am I supposed to-“

You stopped yourself. Maybe it was not a good idea to yell a god. It was unclear what he could do besides making plants grow and looking good. San shifted beside you and when you looked at him, he lay on your bed.

“What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

He looked up at you. In that position, one arm probed up holding his head, he reminded you of the old timey rich people lounging on chairs.

“Why do you want to grant me a wish anyways?”

He hesitated. You had asked a sensitive question.

“I am in your debt.”

“Then make me rich and rest peacefully that you have settled your debt.”

You turned more towards him. He pressed his lips together into a thin line. You had to be careful now with your tone. One wrong word now could have bad consequences, so you just looked at him.

“I can’t do that.”

He pressed the words out and avoided your eyes. The fabric of the sheets was suddenly much more interesting. You wondered if he was telling the truth. Why was he insisting on this stupid wish you had made.

“What is in it for you? If you tell me honestly, I will consider it.”

His eyes flickered to your face before studying the sheets again.

“I can leave the mountain.”

He told the bed. “No one believes in me anymore...”

You wondered what the consequences of that were, but now was not the time to ask. So if he played house with you he could stay out here, instead of being alone in the forest. You were sick of being alone too. All the times you had felt lonely, may come to an end now, if you just said yes to San.

“If I said yes, what would happen?”

He tried to hide his relief, his hope, but failed. A smile appeared on his face. San sat up and his eyes sparkeled with delight and mischief.

“I would grant the more pressing part of your wish first.”

You wrinkled your brows. The more pressing part? He leaned closer and whispered in a velvety voice.

“You want to be licked, to ride on a big cock and be pounded until you come. That's the pressing part.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Yes, that was exactly what you wanted. In that order. He looked into your eyes. The more you looked at him the more beautiful he became. Just this once you did not want to overthink everything.

“So, what do you say?”

“What will happen after that?” You could feel his breath on your neck. His lips brushed over your skin. You swallowed audibly.

“I will do anything you want me to do.”

To make his point he kissed your neck. Gently sucking on the sensitive skin there. You move your head to grant him better access. His lips on you made your head spin already. Who would it be if they were somewhere else?

“Okay.”

You sighed and bit your lips. It was time to embrace this weird situation and be bold.

“Eat me out, San.”

He groaned against your skin, when you said his name. His lips landed on yours and he wasted no time. His tongue begged for entrance, sliding over your lips. You were not sure what you had expected, but you were surprised by how normal his mouth felt. San was warm and smelled of the forest after rain.

Your hands buried themselves in his long hair. You thought about untying it but it would be better to wait a bit longer. His Hands slipped under the hem of your pajama pants and between your legs. You gasped as his fingers touched your clit and slipped into you briefly.

“Apparently I will have to do a bit more to get you riled up, my love.”

San smirked at you and positioned himself between your legs. He made sure that he had your attention before he untied the fastings of his jacket. He did not wear anything under it so you had an unobscured view of his body; and what a nice body it was. The way his upper body tempered towards his waist was breathtaking. You wanted to touch him, ran your hands over his body. Right now was not the time though.

He pulled down your pants and kissed your thighs. San did not waste time and went straight to the point. He sucked and licked your clit, slowly circling it before flicking it with his tongue. You grabbed his hair and he smirked against your skin. His tongue moved down, ran around your entrance and dipped in briefly before moving up again. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your moan quietly. You wanted to close your eyes and concentrate on the feeling of tongue flicking against you, but you also wanted to see him. He slowed the pace down and licked your clit. You felt his fingers circling your entrance before pushing in. The two fingers barely met any resistance and after a few more slow movements he pulled out.

He kissed the inside of your thighs and you groaned. That was not where you wanted his mouth to be.

“How about you ride me now?”

He looked up at you expectantly. If you did not know better, you would have thought he was giving you puppy eyes.

“You’re pretty eager.”

It was only half a joke. You raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I am.”

Damn. I guess the immortal god of the mountain is not so selfless after all.

“Lie down.”

He was about to take off the jacket but you stopped him.

“Keep it.”

The way it revealed his chest and abs without being completely shirtless looked very sexy. San lay down on his back and you straddled his hips. The tent in his pants made it very evident how much he wanted this. You ran your hands over his chest and loved how his skin felt. It still seemed surreal that he was there, in your bed. Like a dream. But it was not a dream. He felt as solid and real as one could get. You leaned down to kiss his neck. It was so graceful. This close to him you could see the faint freckles on neck, that made him even prettier. You lightly sucked on the spot midway down his neck. He sighed and goosebumps appeared on his soft skin. You looked at his face to see him looking back at you.

“You’re very pretty.”

There was a part you wanted to make a joke out of it a la “you need to get your eyes checked” but you didn’t. It did not sound like a joke.

“You too, Mr Mountain.”

He smiled at the nickname. His hair was not as neat as earlier. You had tucked on it, while he had eaten you out and now some parts of the hair stood out more. Not many hairs had come loose completely though.

“Can I untie your hair?”

He reached for the tie and released it. How could he look any more stunning? With his long hair spilling over the pillow. He smirked up at you. It was very annoying that San knew how much he affected you.

“Are you motivated enough to ride me now?”

Yes, you were very motivated now. You pulled down his pants. It was going to be very fast, judging by his girth. You aligned yourself above him and let yourself sink down on him. The stretch made you gasp. His hands came to rest on your hips. You could still move freely, so it felt like he needed something to hold on to. You gingerly rocked your hips and heard San sigh beneath you. His fingers pressed into your hips. Moving your hips was the only thing you wanted to do now. You felt so full and so close already. Maybe him between your legs earlier was the cause of that. You leaned back and the changed angle made him press against your g spot. Every move sent waves of pleasure through your body.

San sat up and looked into your eyes. A light blush had appeared on his face. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he closed the distance. The kiss made your heart flutter and clench around him. He kissed down your neck to your chest. Your hand flew to his hair when he took one nipple in his mouth. He sucked and circled it with his tongue.

“Say my name.”

It sounded like a plea. His mouth was on the other nipple now while his hand came up to continue. You moved your hips as much as possible with him sitting up. The light biting and twisting of the nipples send electric shocks to your core.

“Oh, San.”

It felt a bit odd to say that but San hummed against your chest, doubling his efforts. Your hand grabbed his hair tighter and you rock your hips fast. So close. He bit down a bit harder at just the right moment to make the wave of pleasure came crashing down. Without realizing it you muttered his name over and over.

A few more movements and your hips came to a hold. San wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead. You sank against him and he held you. Your breathing calmed down as you enjoyed being held. He was still inside you and it felt so intimate that you wanted to lighten the mood with humor.

“So, am I going to birth a tree now?”

San chuckled and kissed your shoulder.

“That’s not how that works.”

You smiled against his shoulder as his hands rubbed your back.

After a quick shower, you and San returned to your bedroom. You put on a t-shirt and sweatpants. San lay on the bed waiting for you. When you looked he spread his arms, waiting for you to fall into his arms. You could not help yourself but smile. He really was cute. You sank into his arms and he kissed the top of your head.

“What you wanna do now?”

You asked his chest. It was nice and warm in his arms. Would it be rude to fall asleep now? Your eyelids felt so heavy, it was hard to keep them open. You were not sure if he ever answered because you drifted off to sleep so fast.

And that is how you got yourself a boyfriend that had been a minor god for some time. The plants in your house never withered and from time to time you would visit your town. The altar was still there, in the middle of the forest, slowly being assimilated by nature, but San always went back to the city with you.

For that one person who forgot, 'San' literally means mountain in Korean XD

I'm willing to write some more episodes in this universe, so if you have a request (idk San meeting your friends for the first time or something like this), send me an ask :))

#candyshop #ksmutclub #8makes1teamnet #Wkcnet #noonasinnetwork #Ateez Fanfic #San Fanfic #Ateez smut #San smut #Kpop Fanfic #Kpop X Reader #Ateez X Reader #san X Reader #Star Writing

186 notes · View notes

thran-duils · 3 years

Text

Lost in Zero Gravity (P.2)

Title: Lost in Zero Gravity (Part Two) Summary: Fem!Reader x Mob Boss!Tony Stark x Mob Boss!Steve Rogers. Reader is a call girl who runs high end parties. She catches the attention of Tony Stark who invites her back to his room with his friend. She might have performed too well because she becomes their new favorite play toy and they don’t like to share. Words: 3,072 Warnings (for the fic in entirety): Smut, prostitution, infidelity, angst, domestic violence, stalking, possessive behavior Author’s Note: Song inspo for this fic

Part One || Part Three || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

“You must have made a really good first impression,” Tatiana commented, blowing out a ring of smoke. Her charcoal lined eyes creased with her pleased smile.

You shrugged, “I was just working.”

“Don’t try to be modest now. It’s not becoming on you,” she laughed in response.

She had called you into her office to tell you that you had been specifically requested for an assignment. It seemed Tony and Steve’s mob were going to be taking a vacation and they wanted you available. You were not one to turn down a paid vacation, especially if they were going to be there. As dangerous as they were, they had been a good fuck and Tony had made sure to get you off. That was far more than probably eighty percent of the people you had been with since you started working the service.

You hated the smell of the cigarette smoke and it was always the hovering stench in her office. She was going to kill herself far too young and maybe shave a few years off your life in return for however she made you stand in here. You adored her, there was no doubt about that. But you wished she would kick the habit.

“Where are they going?” you asked, feigning that you were contemplating about refusing the assignment.

“Riviera Maya.” You narrowed your eyes and she said, “It’s in Mexico.”

An inclusive resort no doubt. It could be fun. Maybe you could ask someone to travel with you so you would not be completely alone when they were not wanting to bed you. Or maybe not… some time alone might do you well.

Tatiana added, “Wives are going to be there though.”

“So, why am I gonna be there?” you asked honestly.

Tatiana snorted, “Oh, stellina.” She took another deep inhale exhaling as she said, “There are so many things there to keep the spouses occupied. They’re rarely together except for dinner. It’s just for appearances.”

Rich people’s lives sounded exhausting.

“You just need to be out in the open, keeping yourself available for them whenever they have an opportunity to slip away and have some fun with you. Otherwise, just keep yourself occupied with the beach and nice drinks. I know you hate suntanning but there are shops to poke around in. I know you like shopping.”

“That I do.”

“Maybe they’ll give you extra.”

“I don’t want to go around trying to get greedy.”

Tatiana smirked at that. “That’s my girl. I trained you well.”

<><><>

Pushing your sunglasses up onto your head, you hopped up onto one of the barstools on the bar you had just walked by and circled back to. You had yet to see either Tony or Steve and you had been here since yesterday. The place was relaxing and the room was great. You had basically sunk into the bed, having one of the best nights of sleep you had had in a long while without any noise from Elisha in her room along your wall back home. Leaning over the counter, you asked for a strawberry lemonade.

“Strawberry lemonade? It’s a party, dollface.”

You recognized that voice and you straightened back up, turning your head to look in his direction.

Steve was standing there, leaning on the counter. He was a sight for sore eyes. He was only in swim trunks, aviator glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. That did not hide the fact you knew his eyes were running unabashedly over your body. Your stomach fluttered at the sight of him, thinking of how he handled you last time.

“I bought this specifically for this vacation,” you said, hopping down from the stool and turning around for him to let him see the whole suit. When you turned back around, he was grinning. “It looks good right?”

He nodded, “You look damn sexy.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“My wife is here,” Steve said, and you frowned instantly at this immediate change in conversation. Was he trying to kill the mood so quickly? He said, “I know. She’s got her little masseuse guy here to keep her entertained, so I should be able to have my own fun. But I’m trying to be good.”

Picking up on his hint, you sauntered towards him. Your hand came up, resting on his chest. “Why do you have to be good if she isn’t being good?”

“I had to hold it in until she ran off,” he told you.

You pulled his sunglasses down to see his eyes, keeping them on the bridge of his nose. You smiled when you were able to actually meet his gaze.

“Well, when do you get to not be good?”

“Right now,” he said and you smiled in response. “It’s why I came and found you. I saw you yesterday. Wandering around. Took everything in me to not come up to you. Looked like you found yourself a nice little boyfriend though?”

“He was trying really hard but no… no dice for that guy,” you told him.

You pushed his glasses back up and your arms wrapped around his neck. He grinned back at you, his fingers tracing along your exposed back.

“I’m assuming you’re liking what you’re seeing?”

“Very much,” he murmured, his fingers playing with the hem of your suit.

You nuzzled your nose to his. “Hmm. So we know where this is going?”

<><><>

You stood in front of the mirror, completely bare. Steve had brought you back to their villa. Tony’s wife was gone, off to a spa treatment. The room had a wide door open to the patio overlooking the ocean. There was a hot tub and pool on the patio and although you wanted to indulge, you refrained. You got undressed for them instead, waiting for them to get antsy enough to take charge. It did not take long as you predicted.

Tony came up from behind you, nude as well. His hands ran across your breasts, cupping.

“Don’t you look marvelous…” he murmured, his fingers tweaking at your erect nipples. You bucked ever so slightly, and he smirked. His nose came to nuzzle into the nape of your neck. “I knew I chose right… a perfect gem.”

“You still seem to like what you’re seeing?”

He chuckled, one hand snaking down to toy with the top of your sex.

“You’re gonna look even better underneath that mirror.”

You turned in his arms, your forehead pressing against his. “A man that likes to review his work. I don’t know if I should be worried.”

“I didn’t get to where I am by being a half ass.”

Steve was at your other side and he enveloped you to him. To both of them, you asked, “Any critiques?”

“Loaded question,” Steve chuckled. “I mean, the biggest is you haven’t sunk one of your holes on either of us. I mean, it’s been a whole five minutes. What’s the hold up?”

“Sorry, I was enjoying the company.”

He kissed the tip of your nose lightly, “And I’m sorry for being so charismatic.”

“I’m assuming you can’t multitask then? Be charismatic and fuck me at the same time?”

A low growl left his mouth now, “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Not at fucking all,” he told you pulling you over to the bed.

Steve was looking upwards, and you knew he was taking in the sight of you hovering over him as you sunk onto his length in the ceiling mirror. His eyes were swimming with arousal and you hoped to always be the cause for that.

<><><>

“Y/N, you got a gift,” Wendy said, pointing at the table as you walked into the brothel’s kitchen. You had come in to get a drink but smiled seeing the bouquet and gift.

“Really?” you asked, letting your backpack fall from your shoulder and along with your carry-on drop to the ground. You had just gotten back from Mexico; that was quick if it was from who you thought it was. Upon seeing the flowers, you knew your assumption had been correct. They had asked you what your favorite flowers were and even though that was extremely obvious why they were asking, you had told them all the same.

The bouquet was large and there was a nice heart balloon in the center. You smiled, leaning in and smelling the flowers deeply.

“Where’d you get those from?” Elisha asked, coming into the kitchen. You shrugged, smiling sheepishly, and she rolled her eyes, giving a little laugh, “I know exactly where those came from.”

“There’s also this,” you said picking up the gift bag from beside it, waving it at her.

“That’s dangerous,” Elisha commented, grabbing the bloody mary that Wendy had made her. They must have had a rough night.

You shrugged again, opening the bag. Your lips curled into a smile as you pulled out a bright blue teddy. “Cute,” you giggled. Elisha and Wendy shook their heads, taking a drink. You held it up against your body and asked, “Think they want me to wear it for next time?”

“I don’t think they bought it for shits and giggles,” Wendy snorted. “How was the trip?”

“It was nice.”

“Good to hear it. You should relish in this.”

“Oh, I am,” you said, putting the teddy back into the bag. You thought of the extra money that Steve had tucked into your bag, remembering that you should tuck that away. It was smarter to not spend all the money that was thrown at you. That is what fools did; you needed to think ahead.

<><><>

The dress was loose and casual, perfect for the saloon they had asked you to meet them at. They had sent a car for you and met you at the curbside. When you got out, you looked around, cocking an eyebrow at the sight of them dressed in nice, pressed jackets. You were going into a dive bar, what were they doing?

Tony took your arm, Steve trailing behind. “Hmm, a sun pattern,” Tony commented, his fingers pulling at the fabric of your dress.

You gripped his arm, smiling. “I like to be a shining beacon in people’s lives.”

Tony chuckled in response, his grip tightening on your waist. The bouncer did not ask for your IDs; they must know them. It was dimly lit, packed. There were dancers on the stage and your eyes were drawn to their movements. The woman dancing had curves to die for.

“Where we going?” you asked as they led you through the bar. Your eyes ran around the tables the further you went in. Did they have a reservation?

“For the real party, sweetheart,” Tony told you, his lips brushing your ear. You shivered at the touch.

It was dark back here and you tensed. Tony felt it, a light chuckle leaving his lips. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I got you.”

Two men were standing in front of a door and they opened it when they saw the three of you approaching. There was a table with a group of other men, looking like they were waiting for the three of you. There were a handful of other women sitting around the perimeter of the room behind the players. They made brief eye contact with you, sizing you up quickly before averting their eyes again.

“Took you fucking long enough,” one of them drawled at Tony and Steve.

“Sorry, we were waiting for our lucky dame,” Tony returned.

Tony kissed your hand as you sat, before he turned away and sat in his chair. Steve’s hand grazed you affectionately, before he sat down as well.

You sat quietly, watching them play. It was poker, that much you knew. It was intense, the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. They were taking this seriously and you surmised they were gambling a bunch of money.

Steve was staring across the table at the first man who had spoken to them when they walked in, his eyes narrowed. The other man was not flinching but something must have been a tell for Steve because he pushed chips forward.

“Well, senator… I’m gonna raise you,” Steve commented.

Your heart stopped a bit, hearing him call him that. Your eyes narrowed at the man across the table. You did not pay attention to politics but the way the man’s face scrunched at Steve’s tone… you knew he had to be one. A senator. What had you let them drag you into?

The man chewed on his lip before throwing his cards down on the table without showing what they were.

Steve’s mouth broke into a wide grin and he held out his hands.

“Fuck you, Rogers,” the man snarled before getting up from the table. He buttoned his suit jacket, leaving the room without a second glance.

“Sore loser,” Steve commented, much to the amusement of the other men at the table to your surprise. You thought they would be more angry about losing the money they had but maybe the man had been a common enemy.

They gathered up the chips, tossing them into a bag. Tony’s hand snaked around your waist.

“Wanna spend this?” Tony asked, grinning broadly, holding the bag up to you as he guided you towards the door. You giggled and he kissed your cheek. “Steve’s treated us. But especially you, baby.”

<><><>

Pulling your dress back on over your head, you straightened it, making sure it was covering your ass. It was short and you did not need to be flashing anyone on the sidewalk.

“You sure you don’t want me to order you a cab…?” the man asked from behind you, taking a long drag on his joint. He was still lying in bed, watching you get dressed.

Confidently, you turned around, fluffing your hair. You shook your head, “It’s not too far. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re a tough cookie,” he said, shooting you a smile.

“I try to be,” you said winking at him, grabbing your purse.

You left his place quickly, heading back to the brothel. It was not a lie, it was not far.

The distance did not matter though when it came to what was waiting for you outside.

A hand closed around your arm, yanking you into an alley. You screamed but another hand slapped across your mouth as you were slammed up against the wall. Your heart was pounding, your eyes wide in fear staring at your assailant.

Your fear melted away to a mixture of anger and disgust. You would recognize those hazel eyes anywhere. You had stared into them far too many times as he towered over you, beating you into submission. You had run away from them far too many times, locking yourself in the bedroom until he got tired of trying to beat the door down.

Garnering strength from a place you did not know existed, you shoved him away, much to his surprise. He did not expect you to fight back, and he stumbled back.

“Have you been fucking following me?” you demanded, your chest heaving.

“Just interested to see what you’ve been doing since you ran off. Looks like you are visiting a bunch of men,” Jared sneered at you, getting back on his game and closing the space between you. Your fists clenched by your sides and he noticed, smirking. “You gonna hit me?”

“No,” you spat.

“So, what’s got you leaving someone’s apartment this time of night, baby?”

“That is none of your business.”

He shoved you back into the wall and you winced against the cement scratching at your skin. You swallowed it though, clenching your jaw, glaring at him. You were acting far braver than you felt. Jared always had the power to make you feel small and weak and it seemed just his presence had that same power. You felt just as helpless as you did a year and a half ago. He was frightening; you knew what violence he could unleash.

“What’s this?” Jared asked, yanking at your purse.

“Nothing, it’s my purse!” you said, your hands closing around it to try to yank it back from him.

“Looks pretty expensive, Y/N… Marc Jacobs? What have you been up to?”

He gave another hard yank, and the chain broke and you hissed against the pressure against your shoulder as it snapped away from you. You reached for it and he shoved you back again, harder this time and you let out a pained noise. Your eyes searched the buildings that surrounded you, hoping someone would be looking out the windows and be able to come to help you. It looked like no such luck.

He yanked out the hundreds the man you had just left had given you.

His eyes were dark, glowering at you. “Where’d you get this?”

“From work!”

His backhand was swift, knocking you off balance. But he was there to catch your falling momentum only to slam you up against the wall for the third time, his forearm pressed into your throat. You gasped, trying to breathe.

“You left me to spread your legs all over the city?”

“What are you talking about?” you exclaimed pitifully, trying to deny it. Your hands clawed at his arm and he only pressed in harder, making you gasp more desperately.

“I saw you go into that building with that man. Yes, I was following you! And you come back out with all this money? I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were a worthless slut.”

Tears pricked at your eyes and he growled, “You always did cry too soon for my liking.”

Your purse fell to the ground and his other hand reached up between your legs. You tried to fight him, and he socked you this time. Your head knocked against the wall and you saw stars.

Jared pushed away and you crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. You squeezed your eyes tightly, trying to gain back some sense of balance.

“Hey!” you heard someone shout from far off.

All you could see was Jared’s shoes coming in and out of your vision. You felt a sharp pain in your stomach making you lose all your breath before his shoes were gone. You blinked again before losing consciousness as you saw a new pair of shoes come into your line of sight.

~~~

Tags: coconutqueen21

#steve rogers x reader #tony stark x reader #stony x reader #stony smut #marvel fic #my shit

206 notes · View notes

an-annyeoing-writer · 3 years

Text

vulnerability. – chap. 3.

Story info:

Pair: Byun Baekhyun x Reader

Rating: +18 for mentions of s*x and violence (future chapters)

Genre: angst, smut

Chapter info:

Release date: 29th July 2021

Word count: 4 219

Warnings: none

Vulnerability Masterlist || Fanfiction Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Taglist:

@shesdreaminginoverdose @mybiasdashboard @marimsun @byuns-asscheeks @multi–kpop–fanfics @vunv @making-me-blush @skittlez-area512 @bloopbloopkai @byuns-asscheeks @baekyeonoreo @devotedexolnhottest @mingxia-nikki04 @velvetjongin @ssssssul (won't let me tag you T_T) @nemi-mei @buttercupbbh

Please, always comment on the newest chapter if you wish to be added to/removed from the taglist. I will be also checking the tags, so if you’re shy – feel free to leave a note this way.

Previous (Chap. 2.)

Chap. 3.

The tension that appeared the moment you received the phone call from Baekhyun did not dissolve with time. In fact, the opposite happened – it grew as the time passed, and as Saturday came closer and closer. Finally, once your Friday to Saturday night shift came to an end and you stumbled into your flat around 4 in the morning, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep easily. Yet, you forced a whole cup of green tea into yourself in an attempt to soothe your nerves before sleep. Your alarm was set for noon, and you were supposed to meet at 3 PM.

You woke up feeling energized, but you knew this pattern all too well already – the tiredness would come and hit you with its whole power the day after, and you’d spend Sunday sluggish and drained. But that was okay, because Sunday didn’t matter half as much as Saturday did.

You felt a small urge to dress up; even more, actually, you felt a need to pay attention to details rather than looking fine at the first glance. Some common sense hyped up by years of watching other people and reading stories – a thorough shower, shaving, paying attention to not only what you wore outside, but also your undergarments. You lacked things that could be considered “sexy”, but – let’s face it – you didn’t think it mattered much; not after what you’d found out so far. Yet, it would be a shame if your panties had a hole in them. Wearing something neutral, but fresh was your best bet. Every few minutes, you kept reminding yourself – you don’t even know what will happen, you don’t even know if anything will happen at all. There was no reason to think that he’ll want you to undress in the first place, you said it yourself that you’re not ready for sex.

But then, it still helped you gather confidence that you definitely needed at a moment like that. Details allowed one less thing to worry about, and a better ability to focus on others, and so, you made sure the details were worked out well, and that you didn’t overdress, either; a beige shirt and jeans, all wrapped up with sneakers and another knitted cardigan of yours – neutral and polite, maybe a bit school-ish, but these were the things you mostly wore on daily basis, and you felt that going in the other direction – of tight pants, mini-skirts and see-through shirts – would not be appreciated. Your hair was pulled up into a loose bun, nothing like the ones you admired in YT tutorials, but the best you could do on your own. Maybe it was the age difference that made you feel obliged to show respect rather than expose yourself. You trusted your instinct on that, and so far, nothing happened yet to prove it wrong. The weather was starting to get warmer; these days were particularly sunny and dry, so you felt at ease without an extra jacket. It couldn’t get that bad in the evening, and you put faith in your cardigan.

Baekhyun must have thought similarly.

You stood in the bar’s entry, looking up at him for a moment; he leaned back into his usual couch, not aware of your presence just yet. He was wearing a black button-up and jeans as well, something he still looked pretty well put-together in, but not too formal – similar to your own thought process, noticeably.

You inhaled deeply, and took your time to exhale the air – until you felt ready to walk up to him.

“Hi there” he spoke as you approached his couch; as expected, he was there alone today.

“Hi there” you replied with a slight nod and a smile; your voice was quiet, as quiet as it could be without trembling in anticipation.

“You want to drink something before we go?”

You considered it for a second, and then nodded again. Baekhyun moved a bit to the side, encouraging you to join him on the couch, and you took the offer with gratitude.

“Beer? I don’t want to get you drunk, but we may sit here for a bit just to relax.”

“You can tell I need it?”

“Yes. I can tell. Your shoulders are very tense. May I?”

His hand reached to your shoulder and you nodded slightly, a bit unsure what you agreed to just yet.

He suddenly squeezed your muscle, and you whimpered. He kneaded it, and you found the tension dissolving gradually as he went on. Even with only one hand and unfavorable position, he managed to find some of the spots that required touch; that touch was welcome, slight pain coming along with it was desired for the best outcome. You didn’t notice when Baekhyun must have given the bartender some sort of a sign, but the man soon came with a beer and water that he put on the nearby table. That was when Baekhyun’s movement slowly ceased, cautiously letting go of your shoulders. You felt as if you were in a different body, the tension in your body almost gone, just as the one in your mind – the moments of physical interaction were enough to chase some of your worries away.

“You don’t drink?” You reached towards the table – it was closer to you than to him – and took the two glasses, handing him the water and keeping the beer for yourself.

“Not before,” he explained curtly, which you accepted without further questioning.

“So… what are we gonna do?” you asked carefully, sipping the beer through a metal straw, trying to give off a casual vibe despite focusing deeply on what you were about to hear.

“Depends. On how much will you allow me to do.” Baekhyun focused his gaze on something in the crowd; you felt as though it was his habit to avoid a direct gaze in an attempt to sound collected. “I had the idea of showing you some things. Just so you feel it out a little. It’s not final, but it may help the both of us figure out how we feel about it. Like a free trial, you see my point?” You nodded, but didn’t say anything, so after a moment he continued. “I won’t introduce you to everything, and it won’t last as long as usual sessions, either. I’ll talk to you a bit beforehand so we figure out some basic things. It shouldn’t make you uncomfortable. I won’t be trying anything beyond your comfort zone.”

“So, no deals a’la Fifty shades?” you felt silly the moment these words left your mouth. Baekhyun laughed awkwardly.

“No, it won’t be necessary. If you want to draw a comparison to that, I definitely won’t be dumping the whole scheme on you when you don’t even know what it’s like.”

And you won’t fuck me first thing in the plot, you added in your thoughts.

“There are a few things that I may ask you here, so that we have those out of the way,” he spoke; his tone lowered a little. “I need you to tell me if you have any illnesses or old injures that could influence your physical capacity.”

You thought for a bit; the answer was important, but you couldn’t recall much.

“I don’t think there’s anything important.”

“Is there anything unimportant?” His gaze pierced through you as he caught on your wording.

“Uh… I’m taking pills for my thyroid, but it’s nothing very dramatic” you explained. “Nothing else that I know of.”

Baekhyun nodded slowly.

“Fair. Next question, is there anything you’re particularly scared of? Phobias, or things you’re scared of in general, anything overly triggering that you want to avoid at all costs?” You already revealed some of these during your first conversation. But now you felt more at ease, and you thought you could be more detailed without sounding overwhelming.

“I’m… scared of fire. And hate my hair being pulled. I don’t know, why. I can’t explain it. It’s just…”

“It’s alright. You don’t need to explain yourself to me” Baekhyun looked at you with his eyebrows slightly furrowed. “You sound like it would stress you out to share. You don’t need to be afraid of that. You don’t owe me anything, keep that in mind. It’s not supposed to feel like an obligation.”

“I-I know.”

“I’m scared of heights, by the way.” You stared at him in confusion. “Hm? Just thought it’s fair to share if you did.”

“Oh.”

“Chill out.” He nudged your glass with his hand to urge you to drink some more of the beer you managed to forget about by then. It was halfway through – you didn’t want to leave the glass with some of it still inside, although it managed to make you feel just a bit sick already.

His own drink was at around the same level too, and as you finished yours, he drank the remaining water in one go as well.

You weren’t the best at handling alcohol, and even the small amounts made you a bit weak in the knees. But you felt sober enough as the two of you finally got up; Baekhyun paid for your drinks and you left the bar.

The weather was nice, as expected. Going out into the sunlight again startled you, somehow; you felt as though a lot of time had already passed. But no, it was still the same afternoon.

It was true that Baekhyun lived nearby. His apartment was in a different direction than your place, though, and you estimated it would take around twenty minutes to get from one place to the other. You knew this area, although not too well – there were only some tenement houses, but no stores or academic buildings that could gain your attention or regular presence. It was on the more expensive side, although not a place a well off office worker wouldn’t afford; just maybe not suitable for a student. The tenement houses were old, but well-kept, and you knew that the apartments were way bigger than in a place like yours.

Opening the door for you, Baekhyun invited you into the dark hallway of his apartment. There were no lights, as every wall had doors to other rooms: two to the left, one at the end of the corridor, and two more to the right, perfectly symmetric.

“Kitchen, my office, bathroom, my bedroom, and the living room,” the man told you, starting from the left. One glance into the living room on the right made you realize just how big the rooms were; enormous, in your honest opinion, with the area of something around a classroom at school, but with ceilings that reached far up, almost twice higher than in your own place. Heavy curtains hung from the top of the tall windows like limp branches of a willow tree, giving the most dramatic effect, and – likely – gathering tons of dust throughout their lifetime. Wooden, carved furniture added to the effect, and you, in all your sincerity, would not dare to ask how much such a set cost, although it would be a lie to say that you weren’t curious. Wooden panels on the floor were already worn and grey, giving you a thought that the interiors were kept in this particular shape for long years before Baekhyun began to reside in there.

“That’s huge,” you only uttered. Your eyes rested on a painting in the middle of a wall on the left side of the room, above an eclectic-green, velvet couch, in front of which was a wooden coffee table, and which gave a perfect sight into an old TV on the side of the room, as it was one of the old-styled, small models that would be hard to look at from the distance between one wall and the other. The painting looked old, but you wondered from the distance, whether it was not just printed in good quality, with all the details of lights, people and nature making it look like a piece of national heritage rather than a small private property. It portrayed a battle scene coming to an end, warriors in shining armor stained with blood resting upon trees and a small pond of pinkish water, at either sunset or sunrise – you weren’t sure.

“You like it?” He caught your stare and followed it, giving himself a few seconds to adore the painting as well, as though he hadn’t looked at it enough despite living here.

“It’s too violent,” you decided after a moment. “But it’s nice to look at.”

“It’s not that violent in itself, I think. But it does conjure the thought of it.”

He left the living room with you still in the doorframe, staying to look at the painting just for a few more seconds. When you turned around, he was entering the kitchen – this room also looked old, but less well kept; it was cleaned up perfectly, however the furniture was shabby, with the surfaces often partly rubbed off and grey; this room simply screamed for renovation. But you felt way more at ease with the fact that it looked similar to yours – the one that was over twenty years old when you moved with and you had no way of changing it without getting in trouble with the landlord. And not like you’d want to do it at all, since you’d move out right after your studies anyway. The only difference was that you tried to make your apartment look a bit warmer with colorful lights and other cheap ornaments here and there, while Baekhyun’s kitchen was just left as it was, as though he gave up on it the moment he moved in.

“Hungry?”

“Not much.” You were still full of the freshly consumed beer.

Out of the fridge, Baekhyun took a bag of half-eaten potato chips. You stared at him with your eyebrow raised as he ate a few of these, and then extended the bag towards you, to which you only shook your head and he put the bag back in the fridge. He caught your look.

“Food moths,” he explained. You slowly nodded in understanding. That’d be a useful tip if you ever got those. The summer was slowly coming; soon, your small apartment would also be filled with bugs, and fruit flies, mosquitos, and sciarids because you kept a few plants in (discovering that sciarids and fruit flies were not the same thing was an important step in achieving perfect harmony in your adulthood).

You sat awkwardly by the table, observing him as he reached for the bag he must have left on the counter before he went to pick you up, and took out leftovers – probably from work – putting them back in the fridge.

“You worked today?” you asked.

“Yeah, just an average thing, a strategic meeting with co-workers. My working hours are not regular, so I didn’t really know I was gonna be out today.”

Once he was done, he sat by the table as well, and you leaned a bit forward, resting your chin on top of your hand.

“You could have postponed it with me, you must be tired,” you said.

“Don’t worry, I’d rather have a chance to relax with you.”

That didn’t sound as innocent as he probably tried to make it, and he looked over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t scare you with the choice of words. You only laughed awkwardly.

“Anyway. Since, as I said, I don’t want to intimidate you, I think we’ll stay in the living room since you seemed content with that,” he spoke casually.

“So, no playroom?” you uttered. Baekhyun choked on the chip in his mouth.

“I don’t own such a place. I just usually use the bedroom. Or the bathroom,” he explained.

“Or the office?” you felt bold enough to suggest, giving him a small smirk.

“No, I assure you the office is for what offices usually are.”

You smiled innocently as Baekhyun stared at you, probably trying to mask sudden shyness.

“Either way,” he cleared his throat. “I told you some about what I want to do, but you haven’t told me if there’s anything you’re interested in trying out. I assume you did see some things, so… Is there anything that you’ve been particularly interested in?”

The harmless way in which he phrased the question absolutely didn’t change the fact that he was, basically, asking what kind of porn you watch.

“I uh… I like watching different things, just out of curiosity, but I’m not really sure if there’s anything I like particularly more than other things… I suppose bondage is the biggest basic.” You tried, you really tried to sound neutral, but your voice trembled a little. “But I’m not really sure, to be honest. I’m quite open-minded, I suppose…” You felt silly; how could you not be able to answer the most basic question – what do you like? But Baekhyun seemed to understand that very well, as he only nodded slowly.

“What about, let’s say, pet play?” You blushed slightly. “You know what I’m talking about? I feel like a lot of young women start from there.” It took you a moment to realize that you, too, were a young woman. “Behavioral training. Humiliation. Regression. A bit of pain, if suitable. Trying out a few things to see how you respond. What do you think?”

“I think it may be fun” you said slowly. “Does it have something to do with the…?” you motioned your neck, hoping he’ll get the cue. You remembered the collars the other people wore – they were the main reason you got interested in the first place, after all. Baekhyun smiled, catching on your observation.

“Sometimes, but not necessarily. It’s just a thing I like. Do you?”

“…I may,” you answered carefully.

“Gotcha. We may try it out. You know, everyone is different. The collars are different too. I usually order them after I’m sure the person’s gonna stay, and when I know what type will be the most suitable for them. I can’t do that for you yet, but I have some spare items.”

“Do you have the ones of people who you’re not with anymore?” you asked, out of pure curiosity.

Baekhyun was silent for a moment.

“I do. But I’d rather not use them. They’re there for memory, not for use.”

“Gotcha. I was just curious,” you quickly explained.

“Do you have a safe-word?” Baekhyun’s gaze rested on you.

“…Not really. Never needed one,” you uttered sheepishly.

“You have anything on your mind?”

“Um, the… thing with lights? The red light, yellow and green?” you proposed carefully.

“That’s a good one. Tell me how you understand them.”

“So, the green one means everything’s alright, the yellow is when we need to slow down, and the red stops the scene,” you recited, as if you were reading from a book.

“That’s right. It’s easy to remember, so we can go with that.” You bit on your lips to prevent yourself from getting too excited with the apparent praise; it wasn’t anything big, of course – but you felt as though it was a praise in itself, being acknowledged for saying something right. “Another thing is that I need you to know a few rules, before we start.” You were all ears. “First, I don’t want you to be reluctant for the fun of it. Whether you want to be a brat later or not, today we’re just trying things out and I don’t want to mistake your attitude with actual discomfort, do you understand?” You nodded slowly, memorizing the words and waiting for him to continue. “Second. No pain that I will impose on you will be a matter of punishment, unless I specify so. If you don’t enjoy it, you need to tell me so. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop right away, unless – of course – you use the safe-word. However, I still expect honesty. During, as well as after the scene, when we review it. Do you understand?” The breaks in between the points gave you enough time to acknowledge the information and encode it in your memory. You nodded once again. “And for the last. Do you trust me?”

The tone made you look up at him, finally focusing on his person rather than the words alone.

“I do,” you finally decided; knowing very well what this answer would lead to.

Baekhyun’s eyes sparkled as he smiled at you warmly.

“Well then, shall we start?”

* * *

You stand in the middle of the room, the cardigan and shoes are off, your feet feel cold against the floor despite socks wrapped around them comfortingly.

Don’t move a finger, you’ve been told, and so, you stare at the painting before you, the warrior in the front staring at you back with contempt you haven’t noticed before.

Your breath trembles in anticipation as you try to hear sounds from other rooms – you do hear some shuffling, but nothing that you can figure out for sure. He must be in his bedroom, you think. What is he preparing? Which tools out of many that you’ve seen on the screen of your phone all these nights that, despite spending perfect eight hours in bed, did not end in getting perfect eight hours of sleep?

Your arm itches, but you fight the urge to scratch it; be obedient, he said.

Steps echo in the corridor and you hold your breath. Your head snaps to the side the moment you hear him enter the room again.

“Eyes down,” he commands without sparing you a glance; you haven’t had enough time to see what he brought, but you instantly obey his words. “Don’t look at me unless I allow you to.” His voice is stern, and it makes your stomach clench nervously. But it’s not a bad sensation, not at all – you grow excited. “Down. On your knees.”

You try to comply, but he still scoffs at your apparent sluggishness. You almost fall over as you let your knees bend and you finally kneel down as well as you can, eyes facing down as well, although you feel awkward as you do so.

“On your toes,” Baekhyun commands; something small but hard hits your heels, startling you, and your head whips around to see a wooden pointing stick. You swallow the gasp of surprise at the sight.

You fix your posture, your toes instantly begin to cramp; that’s uncomfortable, and your toes aren’t too flexible, it seems.

“Straighten your back. You’re slouching.”

The task turns out almost impossible to do, the whole weight lands on your toes and you frown in discomfort.

“Is it necessary…?”

“Look at me.” It feels unnatural to do so now, but you oblige, turning your head to the side where he stands. “What’s wrong?”

“My toes hurt,” you admit quietly. Baekhyun watches you for a moment.

“Straighten them. Kneel as you did before.” You bite your lips and nod, uttering a small thank you that you find suitable enough as the position gets a bit more comfortable. “Back. Straighten.”

You automatically snap back into the position. But it does feel a bit silly – like something your teachers would say, don’t slouch! A laughter comes out at the comparison, but you attempt to stifle it.

Apparently, not well enough.

The pointer hits the nape of your neck; not too hard, but the message gets through.

Baekhyun stands in front of you and, most likely, stares you down – you can’t tell; your gaze is fixated on his lacquered shoes. The shoes then move, kicking the middle of your thighs.

“Spread.”

You feel a bit awkward as you oblige this command; you only glance down to make sure your pants aren’t ripped – you never know. To your relief, they’re not. Then you try to glance forward – but, what’s in front of you, makes you more shy than anything, so you just fix your gaze on his knees instead.

“You’re slouching again.”

“Pets often do,” you note before you manage to bite your tongue; you do remember your conversation from before – wasn’t it what he was aiming for? You thought so at first. But the words were not thought through at all; you just felt a need to say something, anything, just like you’d talk back to a teacher when they became too annoying in their remarks.

You hold your breath as Baekhyun crouches down to your level.

You feel his eyes on you, and you unwittingly tremble under his gaze, forcing yourself to look even lower, not daring to break the rule. The seconds seem to last hours as he doesn’t speak a word – and he doesn’t have to. You feel intimidated.

“You want to be a pet?”

He stands up; he’s right in front of you, if you so much as leaned forward a little bit, your forehead would touch his thigh. You slightly crave the touch; but not enough to move, not when you grow petrified. The question is rhetorical. You wait for him to finish the thought.

“Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Without waiting for your reaction, he steps behind you. You hear shuffling in what had to be a box placed behind your back; you see nothing.

But you hear the harsh, recognizable clink of metal and your stomach drops.

* * *

Please, reblog if you enjoyed, it'll help me a bunch!

Author's note: Hello, have you missed me??? I'm sorry it took so long to upload, it's hard to find time among exams I had in June, and now my (first) new job! The next chapter is already being written, so hopefully, won't take that long. Remember to reblog if you liked, and I'll be really happy to hear what you have to say about this so far. Stay safe!

Next (Chapter 4.)

#exowritersnet #kdiarynet #bbh-net #exosnet #exo baekhyun #exo bbh #bbh x reader #bbh #exo #byun baekhyun #exo fanfiction #baekhyun fanfiction #exo x reader #baekhyun x reader #vg: vulnerability #vg: exo #vg: baekhyun #vg: series

64 notes · View notes

cosmicsierra · 3 years

Text

Springtime - Professor Obi-Wan Kenobi x afab Reader

pairing: professor!obi-wan kenobi x afab!reader

word count: 1.2k :)

warnings: mature!! 18+ professor and student romance, smut? kind of? sexual tension

preview: In reality, Obi-wan wasn’t worried about whether or not his lesson made sense, it was simply a review of the week before. He knew that you were staring at him all class. He knew you had no idea what the lesson was about. He was being bold and shameless, trying to get you to admit what he knew.

notes: pls take this, i couldn’t stop thinking about professor obi and i needed to break and write slight smut to take some thirst out of my obi-wan longfic. slow burns killll me

masterlist

Diligent clicks from students frantically typing echoed off of the vast walls of the university’s tiered lecture room. You closed your eyes and put your elbows up on the desk. Settling your head in your hands, you ran one hand through your hair and sighed quietly. Your keyboard was the only silent one; every other student in the class was typing in an alarmed frenzy.

You, however, could only focus on the professor.

Usually, that would be a normal and productive habit of a university student of your level, but you weren’t focusing on his words, no. It was a warmer spring day. The lecture room class was being held in didn’t have the luxury of air conditioning, so the hot air snuck in through the windows and consumed the room. You, already dressed for spring weather, were in a knee length floral dress with a turtleneck underneath. Not only were you overthinking the turtleneck part now, but also you noticed your Professor must have been overthinking his outfit choice.

Professor Kenobi, always known for being well put together and gracing the room with a well energized presence (except for when he spent the night grading essays), was now brushing locks of strawberry blonde hair from his forehead. He wore a button up shirt with a simple vest and tie, but the sleeves of his button up have been progressively rolled up throughout class. You jiggled your leg.

His arms. Every time he reached toward the whiteboard to write out another big concept or a learning target about god knows what, the rolled up sleeves of his button up revealed a little more muscle. His muscles moved as he pressed into the marker to craft words in a beautiful cursive on the plain whiteboard. You wished you could pay attention to the content in class, but Professor Kenobi was absolutely killing you.

Before you knew it, students were standing from their seats and leaving the humid classroom as soon as they could. Some rushed off to their next class, and others lingered to chat with friends. Quickly snapping back to reality, you folded up your laptop and went to shove it into your bag. Swinging your school back over your shoulder, you stood up and walked down the tiered levels to exit the room, but you were stopped by Professor Kenobi’s voice. He usually conversed with you after class, as you genuinely did care about the content and wrote really well crafted papers for his class. However, you thought that the professor would want to get out of the class quickly, evident of his rolled up sleeves and slightly sweaty forehead.

“You’re just going to head out then? I assume you’re not a fan of this either.” Professor Kenobi chuckled and gestured to the windows.

You smiled. “I like it quite a lot, actually. It’s refreshing.” You pulled at the hem of your dress and fanned it out a bit, to show him that you did indeed enjoy the warmth. His gaze briefly held onto the hem of your dress. You couldn’t tell whether he was admiring the pattern, or if he was admiring you. Blushing, you gently let the dress fall back to normal and instead put your hand on your school bag.

“If you enjoy it so much, how come you are flushed?” Professor Kenobi smirked at you, teasing you. Your mouth dropped a bit. You swore he knew. He had to. There’s no way he hadn’t felt your eyes on his forearm all class. Jeeze, you needed to go and touch some grass. “Anyway, why don’t we head to my office to discuss your most recent paper. You made some pretty big revelations that I’d like to discuss.” His smirk turned into a smile, almost as if he suddenly remembered his role as a professor. You nodded. “It’s also air conditioned in my office,” he spoke, “so you shouldn’t be so flushed once we get in there.”

He turned to the lecture table to grab his own leather book bag. He swung it over his shoulder and it rested nicely on his hip. The strap was worn from so many uses carrying class materials all over campus. Holding the door open for you, he gestured for you to leave the room first. He propped the door open behind himself with a wooden doorstop.

Finding himself catching his gaze on your figure in the dress, he tried to focus on the vast stained glass windows in the hall as you two walked.

He spoke again, purposefully avoiding eye contact, “How was today’s lecture? Do you think the class was engaged? Did you feel engaged?”

Your heart dropped. Here he is asking you about the lecture, and all you paid attention to the whole class was his forearms. Hands starting to feel clammy, you stuttered out, “It seemed like the class was pretty focused. Everyone was taking notes.” You smiled up toward him, trying to hide your nervousness. You knew that being a college professor could be overwhelming, and that when students didn’t engage in class it became exhausting. You hopped he wasn’t falling into a phase of burnout, he was truly a wonderful professor.

He finally caught your gaze, finally stopping in front of his office door and unlocking the door, his eyes on you. “What did you think about the topic of logical fallacies?” In reality, Obi-wan wasn’t worried about whether or not his lesson made sense, it was simply a review of the week before. He knew that you were staring at him all class. He knew you had no idea what the lesson was about. He was being bold and shameless, trying to get you to admit what he knew.

You put your arms behind your back, and he gestured you into his office. It was neat, like always, only the stain from the outline of a coffee mug on his light desk, and a leather bound book, sitting open. You took your normal seat in front of his desk. He shut the door.

With your back to him, you answered, “With all due respect Professor Kenobi-”

“Please, call me Obi-Wan.” He interrupted. He smoothly walked over to his desk and sat in his chair. His elbow propped up on the desk, he leaned into his arm.

You gulped. “Okay, Obi-Wan, I had trouble focusing in class because of the humidity and heat in the room.” You were the one beginning to get sweaty, now.

At your words, a smirk formed on Obi-Wan’s face. Leaning ever so slightly closer, he looked into your eyes. “Is that so? Didn’t you just tell me you enjoyed this weather?” He had you now. Out of all of the teasing and his little quips, this was the first time you were at a loss for words.

Reaching over his desk and taking your chin gently between his first finger and thumb, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Or were you enjoying that the heat was making me so bothered in class?” You swore you had stopped breathing at this point. His hands were soft on your chin. Feeling an all too familiar sensation between your legs, you squeezed your legs together tighter.

“Darling,” his voice dripped like honey, “you don’t need to hide it. I know.” His opposite hand reached underneath the desk and gently laid in your knee. You slowly relaxed the muscles in your thigh.

You’re definitely changing your major to English, now.

#obiwan x reader #obi wan kenobi #professor obi wan #star wars x reader #i cant even explain #i need to go touch some grass pls #professor au #obi wan kenobi x reader #student reader #my thirst knows no bounds #obi wan smut

185 notes · View notes

midearthwritings · 3 years

Text

Aren't We Just Terrified?

Three brothers who actually were two brothers and a sister.

Words Count : 1,997

Pairing : Fíli, Kili & Transgender!Dwarven!Reader

Warning : Angst

Author's Note : In this one, the reader is MTF transgender. So I kind of hesitated to write and post it because I didn't know if people would like it. But I actually am quite satisfied with what I did so yeah, give me feedback?

Now, this was different. It gave you a certain freedom that breeches didn't allow. You liked it. The feeling at least. Because when you looked closer, it wasn't very aesthetically pleasing at the moment. Perhaps it was because of your hair? With a flick of your wrist, you brushed off the idea. It wasn't about the looks, right now. No, it was about how it felt.

For weeks, the dress had been laying under your bed, securely. You had been waiting for the right moment to try it on. It wasnt that easy to have time for yourself when you were royalty. Between your duties, and your two brothers who were glued to you like honey to a bear's teeth, you were never alone. Not that you were complaining, no. You loved your brothers and your education, despite being tiring, was important to you.

Your patience had paid off. So here you were, in the privacy of your bedchambers, twirling in one of your mother's dress.

Deep inside, you knew you looked a little bit silly —just a little bit—, doing random movements to see how the fabric reacted to your body. But it was worth it. Because for every shift of your arm, every tentative jump you took, it felt good. It felt right.

But little did you know that your peace wouldn't last, and you would have to cut your exploring escapade short.

You were in the middle of another timid twirl when the wooden door flew open.

"Can you, please, tell Fíli that using a bow doesn't- What are you doing?"

Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around yourself, in a weak attempt to hide the clothing. Trapped. Trapped like a rabbit in a hunting party. No, worse. You had been caught, like a thief trying to steal from the King.

"Brothers!" You exclaimed, your voice shaking. "I will explain!"

What was there to say, really? The sight before them spoke by itself, your words would be useless.

Time stopped, as they both stayed still, staring at you. So, silently, you waited. You had done it for weeks, only to try on a dress. And yet, the five, or less, minutes you waited for your brothers to speak up felt like forever.

Then, suddenly, Kili shook his head in a slow, oh so very slow, disapproving gesture.

"No. This is not good."

His words resonated in your bedchambers, cutting the air like a sword cut the skin of its enemies, and breaking your heart in a billion pieces. Your fingers clutched the fabric of your mother's dress. Desperately, you looked at your eldest brother, pleading him to say something, anything. Fíli's silence was deafening.

Slowly, he narrowed his eyes. From head to toe, he scrutinized you. You felt naked under their judgemental gazes. And really, if you had had to choose, you would have rather been nude than living this situation. Because it was not supposed to happen. They were not supposed to come home from training this early, and much less walk in on you in woman garments.

When finally—finally— Fíli chose to speak up, you wished he hadn't. You wished he would've stayed quiet.

"It is not. At all." He said, earning an agreeing nod from Kili.

The world crumbled around you, the furnitures dancing in the room as you started to feel dizzy. Suffocating. You were suffocating. Yet, you stayed still.

Fíli was the first to turn around and leave, soon followed by your other brother. The door fell loudly behind them, its sound bouncing on the walls, echoing in your ears.

Slowly, you turned around, facing the mirror again. And through the tears, you looked at your blurry reflection. It looked ridiculously broken and lost. They had been right. It was not good, not good at all. Dis' dress was too tight for you, despite you not being as muscular as your siblings. The only part of the clothing that was too big was the upper part, where breasts were supposed to fill it.

Lips trembling, you grabbed the hem of the garment and brought it over your head to take it off. It fell to the floor in a soft thud, the deep blue fabric spreading like an enraged sea at your feet. Your eyes locked with those of the person in the mirror. It was a familiar figure, yet you felt like you didn't know who it was. Those broad shoulders and flat chest were someone else's. Not yours. You brought your hand to your face, following the stranger's sharp jawline with your fingertips. Droplets dampened your skin as warm tears slipped between your cheek and your palm.

All you had wanted was to feel beautiful for once, in that manly body of yours. And now, the two people you loved most on Earth would look upon you with disgust, instead of the adoring eyes they used to give you. You were sure that, soon, your mother as well as your uncle, would hate you too. Maybe they will be so disgusted that they'd ask you to leave. You will be very alone, in this world you knew nothing of.

At that thought, your tears doubled and a broken sob escaped your lips.

What stirred you out of your thoughts was the door opening again, and voices. In the mirror, you could see your brothers, arms busy with various items. Your eyes met Kili's and he smiled.

"Ah you undressed already." He pointed out. "Perfect. We had a bit of trouble finding the ones mom wore during her pregnancies but... Are you crying?"

You spun on your heels, facing them. Your brows furrowed in confusion. What was all this about? Kili punched the blonde Dwarf's arm and whispered loudly :

"I told you she would not like the green one!"

"You liar!" Fíli exclaimed, punching back. "I had picked the red one but you said green would suit her best!"

I told you she would not...

Green would suit her..

She... Her..

These two innocent words echoed in your brain, getting louder and louder.

"I do not understand.." You croaked sadly, bringing your brother's attention back on you.

They stepped forward.

"Well," the archer began. "Fili does not want to admit that it was me who wanted to pick the red dress for you."

You shook your head, completely lost.

"No..I mean. Do you not hate me? Are you not disgusted?"

The two princes looked at each other, now as confused as you.

"Why would we?" They asked at the same time.

"You said...And..the way you looked at me...You left...I thought..."

Your tears were stronger now, as you babbled nonsense. The confusion was overwhelming, and had they not dropped what they were holding to come hug you, you would've collapsed onto the floor. Instead, the descent was slow and gentle.

Reassuring hands were everywhere. Caressing your hair lovingly, rubbing your arms, drawing soothing patterns on your back.

"We could never hate you, Kidhuzel." Fíli whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"We said it was not good because..." Kili explained, reaching out behind the three of you to grab the discarded dress on the floor. "Blue clearly is not your color, Muhudel. Plus, it is a dress mom used to wear before she met our father. It is too small for your frame. You need something that fits."

You nodded timidly and looked up at your brothers, offering them a shy smile. One of them—you didn't notice which one— reached up to wipe your tears with his thumb.

"But I was trying on a dress and I am a-"

"A woman." The crown heir interrupted. "You are a woman. Listen to me, Mizimelûh. I have seen you grow up into a strong person. But never, before today, had I seen your eyes scintillating with such happiness."

"He speaks the truth." Kili added, tilting your chin up so you would look at him. "You never liked the way you look. Because it is not who you are. It is nothing to be ashamed of. The Gods made a little mistake when creating you and they put you in the wrong body."

The earlier heartache was now forgotten, replaced with comforting warmth, expanding throughout your limbs. You smiled, ignoring the pounding pain in your head caused by your crying. Timidly, you reached down and took the green fabric between your fingers. No matter who was it that choose the color, he had been right. It was a deep green, like the leaves covering large trees in forests. Yet, it looked softer, more welcoming, than the raging blue one. It was also larger than the other, which would make it appear nice and fitting instead of ridiculously too tight. And although the breasts problem remained, you found yourself wondering how it would look.

Above your head, you couldn't see, but your two brothers were looking at each others with the biggest smile planted on their face. They had been suspecting this for a while, but they had waited. Because after all, happiness takes its sweet time, doesn't it?

"How about you try it on?" The eldest spoke up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"And then, we will add a few more things, and style your hair so it looks really, really good. Is that alright?" Kili added.

You nodded eagerly and the three of you stood up. The dress was pushed past your head, falling on your body delicately.

After that, a strange procession, of which you were the center, took place.

Behind you, there was Kili, taking off the clasps that secured the few braids you wore. You felt his fingers working in your hair. And when you peaked in the mirror, you could see his tongue poking out, sign of how focused he was. It surprised you sometimes, how talented and gentle he was with other people's hair, when he couldn't even take care of his own.

In front of you, Fíli was tugging at the fabric, this or that way, clicking his tongue when he wasn't satisfied with what he was doing. And when he was done torturing the poor clothing, he grabbed a pouch and emptied it on the floor. You looked at all the precious jewels and accessories that were discarded at your feet.

"Did you ask mother before taking her belongings?" You asked.

"You know us." Kili's voice rose from behind. "We did not, of course. But she will not mind at all when she sees how beautiful her daughter is, wearing them."

Fili hummed approvingly from where he was and you bit your lip at the appellation. Yes, you definitely liked it.

It took them a bit more time, many doing and undoing, and an infinite amount of unsatisfied groans before they finally stood in front of you, side by side.

"How does it look...?" You questioned, nervously fidgeting with your fingers.

"Why don't you turn around and see by yourself?" The blonde suggested.

And so you did. Shakily, you took in the sight of the new person in the mirror. The change was astonishing. Oh, your face still had some hard features. But the attention was taken away by the smartly placed jewels. Your hair had been tucked into a braid crown around your hair, decorated with smaller braids and clasps that were worn by women. A belt piqued with gemstones was circling your waist, hiding your large hips, and making the dress look less like a tube. And Fíli, intelligent dwarf that he was, had put the upper part in place with pins, therefore getting rid of the empty space.

Your eldest brother's arm circled your middle, and Kili's chin rested on your shoulder.

"What do you think about it?" The latter asked with a bright smile.

And when the mirror showed you how happy you looked altogether, you knew it was right. Slowly, you nodded at their reflection and in a soft murmur you said :

"It's good. Perfect."

-----

Translation :

Kidhuzel→ (the) Gold of Gold

Muhudel→ Blessing of Blessings

Mizimelûh→ Jewel of all jewels

#the hobbit #the hobbit imagine #fili #fili x you #fili x y/n #fili x reader #fili and kili #kili imagine #kili x y/n #kili x you #kili x reader #sons of durin

150 notes · View notes

night-unfurls-its-splendour · 3 years

Text

The Critique of Manners Part VI

~Or~

An Attempt at an Objective Review of Emma (2009)... VOLUME TWO

Haha, bitches you didn't think I could wait a whole week did you? Nah, not me. and guys, I added to it--all total, it's 9,023 words now. this half of the review is 5,214. HOW DO I HAVE SO MANY WORDS FOR THIS THING? I'm not gonna split it into a third part, because I don't need to for picture limit purposes, but buckle in.

If you didn't catch it, read part 1 here

Here it is, the stunning conclusion to my Emma Adaptation Review series (but this isn't really the end because I plan on doing some rankings later). In this half of my review of BBC'S Emma (2009) we'll discuss Costumes and all the very specific things that I love about this version, and some things I don't like, and some things I'm here to defend.

Let's dive in!

Costumes

Generally I liked these costumes pretty well. They were designed and facilitated by Rosalind Ebbutt, also known for her work on PBS’s Victoria and Vanity Fair (1998). And her work is, as her filmography would suggest, by turns, great and so-so.

These costumes are definitely in line with the adaptation’s general aesthetic: warm pinks and golds, with mints emeralds and blues to cool it off a little, are the order of the day. I really appreciate that every character has a definite color palette. The tradeoff is that this adaptation is the WORST EVER offender for the Jane Fairfax Blue™ trope.

Daywear

Emma’s daywear is full of warm and muted colors. Salmon and magenta are commonly seen. I love that most of Emma’s daywear consists of sleeveless or short-sleeved gowns with wide-sleeved linen blouses underneath. It’s not a commonly seen aesthetic so it feels light and fresh. My favorite of Emma’s daywear dresses is the pale yellow with purple floral print.

There’s one other in particular that I love.

Emma’s blue, sleeveless dress. I love this because of HOW OBVIOUSLY it’s a reference to this portrait of Charlotte, Princess of Wales. I mean...

I’M NOT IMAGINING THIS, RIGHT? WHY DOES NO ONE TALK ABOUT THIS? This is a REAL dress. They still have this exact gown of Princess Charlotte’s. It’s on display. It’s faded, but it’s the same dress.

Harriet has a fresh and innocent green, white and purple color scheme with healthy doses of peach and pink showing. I particularly like her white and purple floral print dress.

Mrs. Weston’s color palette varies, but leans heavily on tans and purples, which is very flattering, I must say, to Johdi May’s coloring and is really refreshing for Mrs. Weston who seems to get stuck in pinks and yellows a lot. No idea what’s going on with the laced-front dress though? This doesn’t quite read as authentic to me, but I do like that her first dress seems to be an apron-front.

I know I already said that this is the worst Jane Fairfax Blue™ offender, but guys I can’t stress it enough. WE ARE 5/5 ON DAYWEAR HERE. LOOK AT THAT. (Also of note, Jane 5 is one of Gwyneth Paltrow’s dresses from the '96 Emma.)

Mrs. Elton seems, at all times, to be wearing some form of pink, but I think I’m right in saying that the white day dress with the rose patterned bodice under the yellow and pink spencer is one of Jane’s dresses from P&P ’80. Can anyone confirm that? They did sneak in some Mrs. Elton Orange™ though, for Box Hill, and it’s worth noting that Mrs. Elton is the only lady who’s appropriately dressed on that occasion.

Isabella gets some understated day gowns that are very nice and also VERY “Jane Austen” in the sense that I feel like Jane Austen herself might have worn them.

Miss Bates, unfortunately is slapped with brown at just about every turn, but at least her “Nice” day outfit has some subtle leaf patterns, which is refreshing. Also Mrs. Goddard has a slappin’ cap. Love that.

Also, Harriet’s Grecian costume for the painting (upper right hand corner). What can I say, but that I love it. I love that it hints at the neoclassical influences on Regency fashion too. This is my favorite interpretation of the painting too.

Evening Wear

You know what I love about this version? It’s the first version of Emma where her gown for the Crown in Ball isn’t WHITE. I know, I know white was fashionable, but it’s just… it’s nice for not EVERY gown in a ball scene to be plain white friggin muslin and also, it’s not one she’s ever worn before, which is great.

Harriet does have only white evening gowns but that’s okay. My only complaint is that, specifically on her Crown Inn dress and in a lot of her costumes in general, the waistline seems just a little low. Hmm. I really like the pale blue pattern on her first evening dress though.

Mrs. Weston though. Woo. Look at those. She has a dark chartreuse gown with black lace trim that any other version would have put on Mrs. Elton, so you know from the dark tones that she’s a bitch. Not so with Emma '09, and that’s good. And her teal dinner number is a favorite of mine. I never paid much attention to her green and gold ball gown but it has some really beautiful, subtle leaf or maybe peacock feather patterns on it and I love that. My only problem is that there seem to be some fit issues. She’s got muffin top way too often. Her orange evening dress is a bit of a dud though, firstly, because it has long sleeves (which is an evening gown no-no) and the fabric slaps a bit too much of sari fabric for my tastes.

Jane, not only is put in blue with both of her evening gowns (although one is so pale it borders on white), ONE of them is another Emma ’96 repeat and not only that, it’s one of Jane Fairfax’s dresses in that film! Perhaps that’s enough to make it an homage, and I have to say, I think Laura Pyper wore it better.

Miss Bates only has one evening wear ensemble, but at least it’s cream and not brown.

Mrs. Elton’s gowns are surprisingly understated, and yet still seem to be annoyingly fussy and, what’s better? They’re not sickly green. One of them is actually a very pleasant mint.

Outerwear

Outerwear is roundly pretty great here. Emma’s primary choice of color for spencers is emerald/evergreen and one of them is Elizabeth’s Bennet’s from the 1995 P&P (though to be honest, I think Jennifer Ehle filled it out better.) I do love Mrs. Elton’s pink and yellow number with the slashed sleeves. Jane Fairfax’s only spencer is, you guessed it, blue, but her friend Miss Campbell has a rather fun mauve one.

There’s no shortage of pelisses and redingotes either. Harriet can be seen in one borrowed from Elinor Dashwood in the '08 S&S, Mrs. Weston has a rather fabulous purple one which she wears with the most delicious looking hat I’ve ever seen.

Emma has two. The first one is a great magenta number with military braiding (and I think she wears with it one of the brown slouch hats that Kate Beckinsale wore in the same role) and while the other pelisse is brown, they had the sense not to make her wear a hat with it that was also brown. Instead, they gave her a contrasting color. Good on ya, Rosalind!

Speaking of hats, I don't often single them out for commentary, but I want to here because… the hat authenticity is… kinda spotty. Let me show you.

Okay first of all, Emma may be a teenager in this pic on the upper left, but she is not dressed formally enough for her sister’s wedding (which is what’s going on in this scene) but at least her hat is pretty good. You can see the ribbons are on the inside of the hat here, which is as it should be… but she never wears this hat again. At any point in the series. Instead, we next see her in the one on the upper right and ye gads this is atrocious. WHY IS HER HAT NOT PINNED ON? IT’S SLIDING DOWN THE BACK OF HER HEAD. SOMONE FIX IT. PLEASE. But wait, there’s more. This kills me because these bottom two are so similar to the one she wore earlier (the correct one) but crappier looking. Jeez.

This is not a hat. It’s a peanut. You know who doesn’t have this problem? Harriet. She only has one sun hat but at least it’s correct.

I also wanna touch briefly on this ^ costume continuity issue.

WTF is this? She’s in the hall, her ribbon is contoured to the line of her dress; she goes into the drawing room and… it isn’t anymore? Wha happun?

I took more menswear screencaps for this version than any other version. And that’s because the men just have more outfits that are, y’know, different from each other.

Mr. Knightley is as understated as ever, but I wanna highlight the first pic there and why I love it. This is Knightley’s first appearance in the series and it’s the perfect establishing shot that shows the viewer everything they need to know about Emma and Knightley’s relationship and how it has always been. He sort of materializes, out of focus in the background, but Emma immediately knows he’s there. And to accentuate how much Knightley is part of her home and scenery, his clothes (similar shades of pale tan, white and minty green to the wall behind him) almost camouflage him and make him seem at one with the moulding.

He also has a rather lovely blue evening waistcoat that I WISH I could have gotten better shot of (although I do believe it’s also worn by Henry Crawford in the '07 Mansfield Park, so for further reading…)

Mr. Weston finally gets to wear clothes that aren’t all brown! He only has ONE brown outfit. He gets PATTERNED waistcoats, one of them a rather spiffing blue and brown striped number. And he wears TROUSERS! Because he’s a gentleman, and he’s not that old and trousers are worn by fashionable gentlemen in this period!

You know who else gets to wear trousers and at least one fun waistcoat? Mr. Woodhouse. Check out that lovely Sunday Best™ waistcoat. The red striped one. That’s delightful.

John Knightley’s evening wear intrigues me. That’s a double-breasted jacket, and you know I’m not totally sure that’s very authentic for evening-wear of this period, but it is different. Unfortunately he also has a flared top hat and that is definitely not on for this period.

One of my favorite things about this version is that they don’t dress Mr. Elton as a clergyman all the time. Yes, he may be the vicar, but he’s also allowed to dress like a fashionable, handsome young man. So I’m really happy that he gets to flex his fashion muscles here.

And speaking of fashionable young men, FINALLY frank gets to be COLORFUL and his trousers are even tight enough. Both he AND Elton are often seen wearing TWO waistcoats, as I would expect them to, and even though Frank’s a dandy, he knows that flashiness is gauche so his pops of color are bright, but not in your face. His green and red waistcoats are always worn under more muted colors, and I just love it.

The only problems are… what’s with the turned-down waistcoat collars? There’s no precedent for this, in fact I think it’s directly contradictory to the style at the time, and also it makes the cravats look a bit unruly.

A Critique of Manners

A lot has been said about the manners in this adaption. Like, the actual manners, body language and facial expressions, specifically vis-à-vis Romola Garai.

And, oh yeah, there’s a lot to pick at here, but first I’d like to talk about the facial expressions.

I'm mostly gonna be talking out of my ass here, but this is my take, so if anyone can make a better argument against my points, I am listening, because I don't really like talking out of my ass and I like to be informed. That said...

I tend to be lenient on the… exaggerated facial expressions because, something I’ve noticed reading Austen’s works through the last several months is that Austen is very descriptive when it comes to facial expressions and I just find it hard to believe that people in the Regency Era never made exaggerated expressions like this.

I’ve heard a lot about how Garai’s Emma is not dignified or lady-like. But let’s think about the context of Emma Woodhouse – she’s never been in society. She’s only had a governess to teach her, and we know Emma’s always been sort of averse to being told what she can and can’t do. Emma is the highest ranking woman in her social circle (barring Isabella’s occasional presence). Emma doesn’t have to be ladylike. At 21, she’s already her local Lady Catherine. She puts a lot of stock in her position in society but, as Mrs. Elton will be the first to hypocritically point out, she’s very poorly behaved. I'd be very curious to see what would happen if Emma went to London for the season. Probably, she'd be seen, comparatively, as a country bumpkin. Can you imagine how she might get on in a sea of accomplished young ladies? She can barely handle having ONE rival with any kind of grace.

Austen never describes bodily movements of the kind we’re looking at when we watch adaptations, so why not have Emma’s body-language be un-ladylike in the conventional sense of the time? I’m not saying this to excuse the absolutely inexcusable (Frank’s head in her lap, kneeling on the sofa backwards etc.), but while Emma’s mannerisms aren’t exactly ladylike for her time, they’re not overtly masculine either (which was one of my biggest problem with Death Comes to Pemberly for example.)

Yes, there’s an ideal for manners. But we know real people didn’t always follow those ideals. In dancing for example, many dancing guidebooks of the day were full of repeated instructions not to be too loud or rambunctious when dancing. What this tells us is that people were doing just that, and probably quite a bit, too. I think that, while taking societal strictures into account, we shouldn’t totally discount the idea that people in the Regency weren’t really that different from us, and young people especially.

Now I’ve already mentioned some of the inexcusable aspects of interaction in this adaptation and they’re so notorious at this point, I don’t think that I really need to go over them much here. Although I will say: is it ridiculous to have Frank Churchill put his head in Emma’s lap? Yes. Did it make me more viscerally uncomfortable with the situation on Box Hill than any other version? Yes.

I was like, 14 when I watched this the first time. This was an effective way to telegraph to young people like me that Emma is being extremely inappropriate here in a way that no other version really managed to, even when I watched them when I was older and understood the period more. I’m far more acquainted with Regency manners than I was then, but to be honest – if they had been accurate with the manners here, when I was 14 I would not have understood what the big deal was. Is there merit in circumventing historical accuracy in favor of reaching a less-informed but still-interested audience? Yes, I think so. There were three other versions of this, at that point, that did this scene with more or less pristine manners. Not every version has to follow the manners of the time to-the-letter to be good. That’s my feeling on the matter.

There are things that do really bother me though. Like the idea that Harriet Smith doesn’t know how to spoon soup, for instance. As I said in my review for the Miramax version, table manners are pretty basic, there’s no reason Mrs. Goddard wouldn’t have taught Harriet this. It does provide a good moment to show Emma tacitly coaching Harriet and showing the trajectory in which this relationship will go, but personally I don’t think it was necessary—there are plenty of other ways that could be done.

Also: kids at the dinner table? I know this is part of building the familial atmosphere but it really does annoy me, because apart from building the familial atmosphere (which they do very well and frequently in other ways) it really didn’t need to happen, and it doesn’t add anything.

The Heart of Highbury

So, as I’ve hinted at throughout this review, the bread and butter of this adaptation of Emma is emotion. This version goes hard and heavy on showingthe relationships – Emma’s relationships with Mrs. Weston, Mr. Knightley, her father, her sister, her brother-in-law, Miss Bates; Jane’s relationship with Frank; Frank’s relationship with his father; The John Knightleys’ home life – and it illustrates things that can be surmised from just reading the story, but really draws your attention to them in ways that other adaptations just don’t.

It does this from the very beginning with the prologue which explains in detail (not just in quick exposition between characters) how Jane and Frank were separated from their families at young ages. We know now, from psychological study, that being taken away from their primary caretakers during their formative years is one of the most psychologically traumatizing things for a child. This is deeply important context which is explained in detail by the narrator in 2-3 large pages (in my Barnes & Noble anthology) in the book.

In the featurette on the houses, they talk particularly about Hartfield and the Woodhouses being the heart of Highbury and how they particularly wanted it to feel homey because Hartfield is Emma’s house and they wanted the audience to feel why everyone is so drawn to it, and to Emma; to me that is what they did with the whole adaptation in microcosm.

I usually talk a bit about the dancing and I'm going to here as well because this is maybe the most special dance scene in any Austen for me. Of course I'm going to link to Tea with Cassiane as usual because she knows what she's talking about and I don't. But I wanna add some comments. She gives this a pretty low rating in spite of a generally favorable commentary because of two big oopsies, the circle dance formation is one, and the other is I believe, an issue with the style of dance not matching the tune in Emma's dance with Knightley. Throwing out any objective technical analysis though, this is my favorite Ball in any Austen and it all comes down to the cornerstone of this adaptation--emotion.

All of the songs and dances were original compositions and choreography made for this adaptation. So they're not period per se, but the tunes at least are representative of how Regency dance music should sound. These dances are upbeat, and lively and, damn they look like fun. Everyone is excited here and it makes me understand why dancing was such a big thing. Best of all that excitement adds to the emotional charge of the scene. "The Ship's Cook" is the most fast paced dance and I'm glad they made this the dance where Elton snubs Harriet because it really hits for me just what Harriet would be missing out on if Knightley wasn't so fucking aptly named. In all other versions you get the insult, but the dance that's taking place is usually a Baroque walker so it doesn't seem terribly like she's missing out on much. Here, this is like not getting picked for kickball-- not only is it a slight that no one wants you on their team, but you miss out on even playing the game. Harriet looks so lonely, and her feeling of being out of place rolls off of Louise Dylan so forcefully it chokes me up just thinking about it because I've been there, man. I feel this shit. *dabs eyes*. Ahem. So, yes, when Knightley engages her for the dance the excitement the viewer feels is that much more forceful and Harriet's exuberantly starting to jump in when the timing is off and Knightley gently pulling her back, it just hits me in the feels center, guys. (I wanna take a moment to give a shout out to every camp counselor who ever partnered with me for any game at summer camp.) Emma's reaction too, is gold. Her genuine relief at Knightley swooping in is one of those great reminders that Emma is Harriet's friend, and she does care about her.

Finally on the dancing front, I wanna talk about Emma's dance with Knightley and why I prefer it to the one in the 2020 version. I already talked about this a bit in the 2020 review, so I'm gonna try and keep it brief. That shouldn't be too hard, because I'm probably mostly going to repeat a lot of what I've already said about Emma and Knightley in this version as a whole.

The big thing everyone loves about the Crown Inn dance in the 2020 is the yearning, the sexual tension, the quivering touches etc. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE all of those things but... not all the time. Not in everything, and definitely not in Emma. Because Emma, to me, isn't about repressed sexuality or heated tension or seething passion. Emma and Knightley are the opposite of that, to me, really. One of my mutuals put it best, I think: "Emma and Knightley are more suited to stolen glances than hot touches."

In Part 1 I talked about how Knightley is Emma's comfort object. When Emma is out of sorts, Knightley re-centers her. It helps set up, and puts emphasis on, the crisis of the story in the last act--Emma not knowing what she has until [she thinks] she's lost it. Emma and Knightley are Friends to Lovers done as it should be. She is already so comfortable with him she doesn't even realize her own feelings. She just feels right with Knightley and that's what this dance is here to show you--a foreshadowing of matrimonial harmony.

The dance itself, of course, is always up to interpretation, because Austen never describes how it goes, just that Knightley asks Emma to dance and Knightley doesn't dance (barring charitable causes). If you prefer the sexual tension take, if that, to you is an improvement on Austen's story and gives you what you've always felt was missing, I'm glad that there is a version now that gives you what you've been looking for, but for me, I think the 09 approach hits closer their dynamic in the book.

Now do I do think the Emphasis on emotion maybe went a little too earnest in some places in this adaptation? Maybe. Just a little.

In my last review (1972) I went on a rather lengthy tirade about the scene where they turn Emma’s appeals to Harriet to exert herself and move on following Mr. Elton’s marriage into Emma guilting Harriet into thinking she’s a bad friend for being heartbroken and then throwing her into the situation most likely to rub salt in that particular wound.

In this version, while I love the emphasis they put on the stress Emma puts on her own guilt for being the reason for Harriet’s situation in the first place, I think it’s maybe a little too… much.

That’s the only way I can put it. I know I’ve just said that I think there should be a bit more expressiveness in period drama, but this doesn’t quite match the way I read it (Emma’s a bit less desperate in Austen’s prose. Very dedicated to helping Harriet feel better, but just a skosh more composed). I think she’s even crying in this scene.

While we’re here let’s go over to Box Hill ONE. MORE. TIME.

First of all, this is where this screenplay shines, in my opinion. This is the big turning point in the story and as such, should be a touchstone for the judgment of any adaptation. This sequence in the 2009 version is a perfect crystallization of everything I love about this version—namely that this is the version that, to me, most feels like someone read the book thoroughly, paid attention to what Austen was describing and then actually tried to convey it on screen. A lot of other versions sort of feel (to me), like the director glanced at the page and said “here’s what I want to convey in my version”. Insofar as making a piece of art goes, that’s good. Directors are artists as much as painters are and movies are their canvass, but it’s seldom that you find a director who honestly wants to hit as close to the author intent as possible and this Box Hill sequence makes me feel like that’s what Jim O’Hanlon was going for. I have the book open next to me as I write this and it’s shocking to me how minutely the atmosphere described in the book is conveyed here. Most of all, the fact that Emma’s insulting Miss Bates is not the only thing faux pas she makes here. Box Hill as a whole is a disaster, and it’s largely because of Frank.

“When they all sat down it was better; to [Emma’s] taste, a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. To amuse her, and to be agreeable in her eyes, seemed to be all that he cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, and not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted excessively.” They were laying themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she expected. She laughed because she was disappointed…” --Emma, Chapter 43

Most other versions rush through Frank’s “excessive” flirting with Emma (Right in front of Jane) to get to “Three Things Very Dull Indeed” as fast as possible, and yes that’s the crowning horror of Box Hill, but there’s a very intricate setting here, too, and this version has the time to lay back and let it all unfold in the oppressive discomfort of an English summer day.

Even better than all of that though is Knightley confronting Emma after it all goes down. This treatment is neither plaintive, nor aggressive as it was in ‘96 and ‘97 respectively. I’ve already extolled the virtues of Johnny Flynn’s Box Hill rebuke, but for a change I’m not going to zero in on Miller’s performance which is, at least as good as Flynn’s, but on Romola Garai’s, which I find superior to Anya Taylor Joy’s. Specifically, her reaction once she’s alone.

ATJ in the 2020 version immediately breaks down sobbing and it’s hard for me to feel that she’s sobbing for “anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern” or that there’s much self-reflection going on there. To me it rather just feels like she’s crying because she got shouted at. The theatrics of it, to me, feel childish and self-centered.

I don’t feel that with Garai’s performance.

“She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck . . . How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in anyone she valued! And how to suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!

Time did not compose her…” --Emma, Chapter 43

Of course one can make the case that Emma's reaction should be a bit childish because Emma is an immature character, but that's the thing--I can agree with you anywhere else in this story but this is Emma's maturing moment. This is her turning point as a character. It's where we should see her reactions shift from the same childish denial we're used to seeing when Knightley scolds her, because this is different. It's not the usual brushing off of big brother Knightley, this is a young woman reacting to an esteemed friend pointing out how abhorrently inappropriate she's been and her having to admit that to herself.

I didn't really want to drag comparisons to the 2020 film into this, not on this scale at least, but this just jumped out at me the last time I watched the new film and I have to express it somewhere.

What I see in Garai’s performance is desolation and mortification. That shocked tearfulness of knowing you’ve been justly reproached for wrongdoing, but being too frozen in a pretense of composure to actually cry about it until you’re quite sure that no one will see you. And especially when it’s someone you esteem rebuking you, the horror of them leaving before you can admit that they’re right. There’s so much more depth here, I think, and I can’t even quite express what it makes me feel.

The aspect of time not composing her is another thing that they decided to put stress on in this version. Emma looks fucked up in the following scenes. When she goes to see Miss Bates, she clearly either hasn’t slept or has slept very badly. I feel like this is maybe an anticlimactic conclusion to this section but I’m afraid I’m very close to reaching incoherence, so I’m just gonna leave it here.

My absolute favoritest thing about this version though—something that sets it apart from ALL other versions and even adaptations of other Austen stories—is the inclusion of the post-confession conversation.

This is something of a trope in Austen books but it very rarely finds its way into adaptations: confessions of love are out of the way, the hero and heroine settle into an easy an comfortable conversation, glowing with happiness as they explain and laugh over their actions and misinterpretations of each other’s choices. It happens in Pride and Prejudice, in Persuasion, and yes, in Emma. This is the only Austen adaptation, that I've seen, to include this kind of conversation in any kind of detail. The 1995 Pride and Prejudice alludes to the corresponding scene in it its source material, but the lines pulled from it get tossed into the confession scene itself and then it flies through to get to the obligatory wedding—a side effect of rushing through endings, a convention I’m rather tired of.

Emma (2009) takes its time with this, as with all other aspects of this adaptation. For a version that’s so full of energy, its pacing is extremely laid back and comfortable, without dragging. When you hear the gentle musical swell and Emma and Knightley have their kiss (this whole confession sequence is so sweet and wonderful in its own right), you expect that to be it. But no, we cut to them, the picture of contented happiness, sitting together on a bench overlooking Hartfield’s garden, just talking and enjoying being together, with no teasing, no pretense. If Jane Austen stories emphasize anything, it’s the importance of communication in relationships, and I think that’s maybe why she made it a point in almost every story to show her characters communicating their feelings in words, even after all the conflict has been resolved. This is my favorite scene in the whole series (In case it being my header image didn’t make that obvious.)

This is followed rather promptly by a cut to the next day, with Emma bursting in to Donwell in hysterics about how they can’t be married because she won’t leave her father alone.

This is one of those maybe over-the-top choices that a lot of people don’t like, but guys, it was so funny to me when I was fourteen and it still makes me laugh. It might seem outlandish, but to me it’s just the emphasis on personal relationships and emotion coming through again and it always makes me smile.

Final Thoughts

It’s hard for me to give a proper round up of my feelings for this section because I think I’ve poured just about all of my feelings on each aspect into its dedicated sections.

At the end of the day, the only thing that really disappoints me about this version is the number of missed opportunities there are here. One of my favorite parts of reading Austen is when I run across a line in dialogue or narrative that just… slaps. But they never make it into the adaptations. Emma is full of them and I just wish that Sandy Welch could have taken an opportunity to slip a few of them in.

In summary, I think this is a wonderful, heartfelt adaptation aimed at getting to the emotional heart of a story that often gets caught up in the Mean Girl-ness of its main character than the coming of age story that it is. It's one of my favorite period dramas because it's one of the few that really captures the spirit of the source material as it's always felt to me. There's really only two other period dramas that I esteem on the same level as this, and they're North & South (2004) and Jane Eyre (2011) and it's for the same reasons; because they impact me deeply on an emotional level--which is what art is supposed to do--because of how well it captures the essence of the story that I know and love.

So did I succeed in a more objective review of Emma 2009? I' feel like probably not. But I tried my best. It’s so hard to be objective about something that makes you as happy as this adaptation makes me.

Ribbon Rating: Most Agreeable (83 Ribbons)

Tone: 10

Casting: 9

Acting: 9

Scripting: 7

Pacing: 10

Cinematography: 7

Setting: 9

Costumes: 6

Music: 8

Book Accuracy: 8

#emma 2009 #emma woodhouse #mr. knightley #jane austen #jane austen emma #romola garai #jonny lee miller #period dramas #regency

40 notes · View notes

snow-leopard-7772point0 · 4 years

Text

I'll Change My Crown, from Light to Dark

The akuma landed on Marinette's windowsill, the girl not even noticing as she sat in the tattered remnants of her designs. Luckily she had dropped off most of her completed works the day before to be delivered to the appropriate patrons, though everything she had yet to send off was ripped, cut, burned, there wasn't a scrap of cloth that was usable for anything but as a guide for buying more. Her sketchbook was in shreds on the floor, paper scattered like confetti over the remaining slivers of all her hard work.

The akuma danced in place. It's master was urging it to go forward, to possess the girl, but… there were so many objects to choose from! Should it just possess the entire room? The sewing machine? One little scrap of fabric? A piece of paper? What about her emotions? This butterfly had made some of the strongest akumas to date, though the strength behind her feelings was astromically larger than any other person they had targeted. The little insect itself was slightly afraid to act as a bridge for her. It finally flew forward, choosing the scraps of the dress the girl had been making herself for the Wayne gala.

Marinette froze when her emotions intensified, hearing Hawkmoth cooing in her ear. "Greetings, Mistress Hawthorne. They all accuse you of being the bully, of being a liar, never paying attention to the proof you give them. They destroyed your designs, your livelihood, and expect to get away scott free. I'm giving you the ability to turn all your ruined dreams into hawthorn bushes that force people to see the truth, whether they can accept it or not. No more hiding behind lies or masks, everyone will have to be honest and pay for their crimes. All I ask in return is for Ladybug and Chat Noir's Miraculous."

"I refuse, Hawkmoth "

The villain froze for a second. Only one other person had ever resisted him so easily, and that was due to her love for Ladybug. Nothing about Marinette Dupain-Cheng screamed that she truly cared for the heroes, so why would she resist? He was giving her the perfect way to get revenge! If he didn't fear that it would give the heroes a clue to his identity, he wouldn't have even asked for the Miraculous for this offence! "Why do you refuse? Imagine how great it will feel, trapping them in their castle with your thorns until the truth comes out!"

"Oh, make no mistake, revenge will be divine. But I'm already looking at little to no sleep for the foreseeable future so that I can press charges against them, email all my patrons whose clothes were destroyed about the delay, buy all the fabric to remake their outfits, and get my own dress together for the Wayne gala. Luckily I'm not starting completely over with it, their mindless destruction gave me an idea for my dress, but there is still much to do. I have no time to become an akuma, I have to get to work immediately, and it will be tomorrow before my classmates are all in the same place again."

"What… what if I didn't ask for the Miraculous in return, and you miss a few days of school to get everything completed?

"While missing school may become a necessity before everything is over and done with, I still have much to do. It would take far too long to force the truth out of Lila Rossi, and I am uncertain if Ladybug's Miracle Cure would erase any progress I made on designing as an akuma. You seem like a reasonable businessman, I'm sure you understand."

"Ah, yes, I do, actually. Cut me some slack here, I've been trying to akumatize you for over a year now! What kind of cloth are you cut from?"

"A different kind from my classmates. I refuse to stoop to their level. Besides, I have pride in the fact that I am not helpless, and the costumes I see akumatized people in are atrocious. Please have a nice day, but I do need to get to work."

"I-very well then. Good luck. Please at least make your classmates suffer."

Marinette's smirk alone was fuel to create a fear-based akuma. "They'll pay. But on my terms." The purple butterfly left her dress, and Marinette caught herself as she slumped to the floor. Resisting Hawkmoth had taken much more out of her than she had anticipated.

⏳

Gabriel rose from the underground room, surprising Nathalie. "Sir, surely she didn't-"

"No, Nathalie, she didn't loose. She didn't even accept my offer. I even offered to not require the Miraculous this time, but she still refused. Her mental strength is highly admirable, especially when her guard is at its lowest. She would be a great asset to us."

"In what manner?"

"Any way I can get her. She is one of the best designers I have seen in a long time, especially at her age. I caught a glimpse of her revenge plan when my akuma possessed her and it was astoundingly terrible, and she is kind and independent enough to make an amazing daughter."

"Sir, kidnapping is illegal."

"I don't have to kidnap her, I'll throw Adrien at her." Gabriel started to wave his hand in dismissal, then noticed the look on Nathalie's face.

"Sir, I think you should watch the rest of this." Nathalie walked forward, bringing up the video from earlier. Gabriel had only watched a second of it before rushing to his butterflies, it was easy to recognize the girl's room by her designs. He'd been gunning for her since she lied to him to help keep Adrien in school and made the feathered hat. Her spirit and dedication let him know that she could be a great ally or terrible enemy. She didn't (yet) have the money or power to come after Gabriel Agreste on her own, but he was certain that the girl was being considered for a Miraculous. He knew she didn't already have one, she hadn't responded to Miracle Queen, after all, but several of her classmates had used one. He actually paid attention to the video this time, watching all the way through. The first people seen on camera were the blogger girl and Lila Rossi, several other classmates cropping up through the video. He didn't notice Timebreaker, Evilillstrator, or the Bourgeois girl, though he did see his own son halfway through the recording, happily cutting at a gown that had been carefully beaded with a hawthorn pattern with a pair of scissors, cutting off the beads and chunks of fabric.

Gabriel's frown deepened. "Cut all ties to Lila Rossi immediately. We will be making a public apology, telling the public that we did not know of her abhorrent tendencies, nor did we expect her to pull Adrien into her schemes. Adrien will be appropriately punished, and we will offer Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng compensation for the destruction of her property, along with a small team of designers that will know to make every stitch to her preference, no matter their opinion on the piece."

"Of course, sir. How would you like to make your statement to the public?"

"Call that news anchor, Najda Chamack, and ask her to come here. I will speak to her in person as soon as she is available. I also want the apology posted to every social media outlet we use, including our official website."

"Sir, is this not overkill? This isn't Audrey Bourgeois."

Gabriel glared at Nathalie. "No, she is not. She designs for more famous people than Audrey does. She is the main designer for the Wayne gala this year. Jagged Stone, Clara Nightingale, Tsurugi Tomoe, even the Wayne's commissioned her work. All of her designs are paid for in a split payment plan, the money for the materials is required upfront while the rest of the payment can wait until after the person received their design to make sure it is what they want. That means there will very likely be several highly influential individuals and families gunning for us because of Rossi and my son."

Nathalie paled. She hadn't imagined that the small girl who stumbled and stuttered every time she saw her would have that kind of power backing her. Everyone knew that the girl had Jagged Stone backing her, MDC was his main designer for everything and anyone who personally met the girl and the rocker knew who MDC was, especially since they were supposed to have their identity reveal at the Wayne gala. Jagged Stone by himself would be bad and the company would take a hit, though she was positive Marinette would stop him before he went too far. But with so many others working with Jagged… Gabriel (the company) would not survive.

"I will get everything arranged." Nathalie quickly left the office.

⏳

Marinette's first order of business was to email all of the clients affected by her classmates's actions. She informed them that they did not need to worry, as she was suing all the students for the costs of what they destroyed- not just materials, but labor as well, and would be buying new material for their clothes out of her own pocket until she got retribution. She also informed them that their orders would come in slightly later than planned, though not by much. Clara, Jagged, Kagami and her mother, and the Wayne's all responded to her email with assurances that things happened and to take her time. Bruce Wayne offered to delay the gala so that she would have plenty of time to rectify the situation, though she was quick to assure him that it was not necessary.

Her next order of business was cleanup. She collected every scrap of fabric big enough to make so much as a small patch or strip and sat them in a small box next to where her personal dress was. Everything else was collected and thrown in the trash. She dug out her receipts for all the fabrics destroyed, including the fabrics for projects intended for her classmates. She quickly pulled up the video Alya had posted, writing down who destroyed what. She matched the fabrics to the people, then calculated the time she would have spent on each piece. She reviewed the video one more time, noticing that none of the art students, including Chloè, were in the video. Though it was to be expected. The whole class knew how important all art was to the art students; those students would have stopped them if they were in the know. Chloè was not only in the art club, but also still exiled from the class, though her relationship with Marinette had gone from bully to ally. They still weren't friends, but they stuck together against most of the class, only Nathaniel and Alix leaving them alone. The class may have had five braincells in the entire room, Chloè, Marinette, Alix, and Nathaniel each having one all to themselves while the rest of the class, including Madame Bustier, shared the other one, but they used that one braincell to know who could be brought in on a scheme like this.

Marinette had just finished calculating who she would she for what and was on her way to buy fabrics when her phone rang. She grabbed it as she opened her hatch, activating her recording app as she answered. "Hello?"

"Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng, it has come to my attention that Adrien Agreste and Lila Rossi have vandalized your property. Lila Rossi has already been terminated and Adrien will face suitable punishment for his actions. I wish for you to come by the manor at your earliest convenience for us to discuss payment."

"If you're free now, I was just about to head out."

"Of course. I'll send a car for you."

"Merci, Monsieur Agreste." Marinette pocketed her phone and made copies of the expenses each of her classmates would be charged. She had no way of knowing where, exactly, Gabriel Agreste stood, but she refused to leave anything to chance. The original, along with the receipts, was stored in her diary box while one copy was left on her desk and another found its home in her purse. She stopped by the kitchen to inform her parents that she was headed to the Agreste Manor and would explain later before walking out to wait on the car.

⏳

Adrien was smiling after school. He had never realized how freeing it was to tear clothes apart, especially clothes made by someone who refused to listen to him. Marinette deserved everything she got, plus some. He wondered what of hers he could destroy next.

He was surprised when he returned home to see his father glaring at him from in front of the stairwell. "We need to have a talk, son." The designer's voice promised pain. "About your friends and actions today."

Adrien stared at his father, confused. "Why? What happened?"

Gabriel growled. "Nathalie."

"Sir?"

"Show him the video, then leave us to our discussion."

"Yes sir." Nathalie quickly pulled up the video of the class destroying Marinette's designs and held the tablet out to Adrien before taking her leave.

Adrien watched the video, unable to understand what had angered his father. "Do you understand what you have done?" Gabriel demanded.

Adrien shrugged. "I got payback. She wouldn't listen to me when I told her to lay low, so I decided to help the class teach her a lesson."

Gabriel coldly glared at his son. "You have cost me over a thousand dollars just in the hours that girl put into her work. That does not include the cost of the materials, deformation of private property, or potential unlawful entry and vandalism charges. How do you know that Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng is not currently an akuma gunning for your head? Or that her clients aren't going to press charges? Her clientele could ruin your entire class, your entire school, with a single phone call."

Adrien scoffed. "She doesn't have that many big clients. Just Jagged Stone. And Marinette can't get akumatized. She's too stubborn to listen to anyone."

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Adrien, I'll tell you this as your classmate is revealing it in less than a month. Marinette Dupain-Cheng has been taking the world of fashion by storm while using her initials, MDC. Only certain celebrities and rich people know who she is, mainly people she has worked or designed for. Jagged Stone is the first and main one, yes. But Clara Nightingale has been using her more and more. MDC is the main designer for the Wayne gala, not only Monsieur Stone and Mademoiselle Nightingale commissioning her, but the Tsurugi family and the Wayne family, along with several friends and supporters of the four families. Aubrey Bourgeois supports her, perhaps even more than she supports me, and I have admired several of her pieces done for contests."

Blood began to drain from Adrien's face, though Gabriel doubted that the boy fully understood anything yet. "Her mother's best friend is Najda Chamack, and Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng babysits her child. Her uncle is a famous chef who loves his family dearly, especially since his great niece learned Mandarin to be able to talk to him and help him with his French. Alix Kubdel is friends with Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng, and also comes from a respectable family- as well as Chloè Bourgeois becoming her ally after she helped with her mother. Not to mention that the Dupain-Cheng family is not hurting for money, as they are the best and most popular bakery in Paris. They get orders from all over the city, plus serve at almost every party that has edible food. You attacked the livelihood of one of the most powerful children in Paris. Not only that, but you destroyed the property of some of the most prolific people in the world." Adrien's face had lost all traces of blood, though Gabriel did not expect it to be from shame. No, his son was afraid because he had been caught. "You will not return to school until Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng has revealed herself as MDC to the world, nor will you have access to any of your social media, messages, or phone. You may return to being homeschooled. I shall have to reassess the situation at a later date. If I do allow you to return to school, it will not be François-DuPont. You will drop contact with your current classmates. You are dismissed." Gabriel turned from his son, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

⏳

Marinette was escorted straight to Gabriel's office upon arrival. The man shook her hand before gesturing for her to take a seat. "Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng, my assistant showed me the video of what your classmates did. My sincerest apologies. I assure you that my son is currently being punished and Mademoiselle Rossi's contract has been terminated. I also wanted to offer you compensation for your loss as well as a team of designers that will follow your instructions to the last stitch."

Marinette eyed the elder Agreste. "What do you want in return?"

Gabriel blinked at the girl. He knew she was smart, though he hadn't expected her to ask that. "For this? Nothing. My son deserves every lawsuit you draw up. I remember what it was like when I was first starting my company; something like this would have been devistating."

"Well, Monsieur, covering everything will not be necessary. I have already calculated the damages each student did and how much they owe for it. I am not holding you responsible for the actions of any of my classmates, not even Agreste or Rossi. I'm sure you have paid your son for working for you," Marinette felt viciously victorious when he nodded, "in which case he should be able to pay for damages himself. The same holds true for Rossi; she was a contract model for your company and was paid as such. They should both be able to afford my work- custom or not."

"Might I see what you've drawn up? I heard from Aubrey that you have a tendency to undercharge for your work, and, as you just said, my son and former employee should be able to afford your work. The beaded dress my son ruined, for example, should cost twenty-five hundred dollars, bare minimum. I would charge much more than that, especially with how much work is put behind hand-beading." Marinette could do nothing but gape at her childhood idol. She had been expecting a bribe, a threat, something to try to protect his son.

She pulled the paper out of her purse when he raised an eyebrow, pulling the video up on her phone. "Césaire was stupid enough to put her phone in the corner where I could track everyone's movements, and I can figure everything out if I can get Markov. I figured out who destroyed what and calculated what they owe from there. I don't know who picked the lock to the upper floors, or to my room, though my money's on either Césaire or Rossi. Césaire's obsessed with being a great reporter while Rossi is a liar and a thief. Harleprè, Lavaillant, Bruel, Couffaine, and Lahiffe owe the least, they didn't do much. They just ripped a few pages out of my sketchbook. Raincompx, le Chein, Césaire, Rossi, Agreste, and Kantè did the most damage, and so will face the bigger lawsuits. I have already contacted my clients and informed them of the slight delay. Your team of designers, while most appreciated, will not be necessary. It shouldn't take me more than a few days to recreate the Wayne's suits and send them off, I sent the dresses yesterday. Jagged and Clara will both be in Paris next week and can stop by my house to pick up their outfits and have a final fitting. I can easily deliver the Tsurugi chensogams to their home. That covered everyone that had their outfits for the gala destroyed. I had finished the majority of them yesterday and done the final checks before sending them off. I was supposed to send the Wayne suits off today, though that plan was foiled. I was lucky that I went ahead and finished my commissions rather than more personal projects. Most of what got destroyed were projects my classmates requested of me rather than important works."

"Are you positive you don't want help? At least on your beaded dress?"

Marinette pulled up pictures of what she had. "I have several different scraps of colors, most of them either on the darker end of the spectrum or metalic, from the works they destroyed. I'm going to use those scraps from my other works to make a pair of wings on the back of the dress, the colors getting darker the further down they go and metalic fabrics making the outline of the wings."

Gabriel considered the dress. "You'll look like a fallen angel. I hope you're still planning on charging my son the full amount for the dress."

"Most definitely. There will be some alterations I make besides the wings, putting some pieces back together, cutting or tearing others, partially rebeading sections, I have some work to put in. Your son added to my work load when it was already full, he personally destroyed not only my dress but Jagged and Penny's outfits as well. Might I know what punishment he is suffering?"

"So you can plan revenge accordingly?" Gabriel questioned. He sighed at her innocent expression. "He will no longer attend François-DuPont. He will basically be under house arrest for everything except shoots until after the gala. I am undecided as to whether he shall go to another school or be permanently homeschooled. He is not allowed any contact with his former classmates nor access to social media or his phone. So if you wish to strike, do it right after a photo shoot. You can do it before or during as long as you don't ruin the clothes on display."

Marinette's grin was pure evil. "Don't worry, Monsieur Agreste. I have too much respect for the work designers put into their work to be so crass. Will Agreste still practice fencing with Kagami?"

"I shall allow it on a trial basis."

"Very well. It was nice meeting with you, Monsieur Agreste, but I must take my leave. I have too much to do before I traumatize, I mean get payback, I mean revenge, wait, no, deal with my classmates after the gala. But before I go… You wouldn't happen to know anyone that would be able to teach me how to, how should I phrase this… I guess basically be an Ice Queen?"

Gabriel smirked. "Actually, my nephew, Felix Graham de Vanily, will be at the gala. He's a model from England, and many consider him an Ice King. He'd be a great teacher." And perhaps potential mate to bring you into the family. I wonder how many love akumas it would take to get you two together… perhaps Adrien needs a good influence his age around the Manor…

Marinette slightly felt as though she had signed her future away, though that was ridiculous so she simply thanked Gabriel before leaving.

⏳

The next few days flew by in a rush of designing and lawyers. The lawyers her parents got were more than willing to come to the bakery and talk to Marinette as she sewed, especially since she had eyeballed them and given them all scarves and beanies the next time they were there. Marinette didn't bother to pay attention in Bustier's class, electing to nap instead. She was awake for Mendeleiev's classes, though. She liked her dragon-like teacher as the woman actually taught her students. She managed to finish her clients' clothes with time to spare, having gotten so used to designing for Jagged, Penny, and Clara that very few adjustments needed to be made. A couple Wayne suits had come back with notes on where they needed to be adjusted and how, and those were shipped back out that same day. Her own dress took until the last minute, Marinette completely finishing it, including adjustments, the day before she was set to leave for the gala. She would be staying with Jagged and Penny in the Wayne Manor for the two weeks she was to be there, a week before the gala and a week after. Her classmates's parents were horrified to hear what their children had done, making sure the kids paid every penny of what Marinette was suing for without even going to court. Alix and Nathaniel had nearly gotten in trouble with their families, though Marinette was quick to personally visit and explain things. Apparently the other families had contacted the Kurtzburg's and Kubdel's about the scandal with the children, no one noticing that some of the children weren't involved.

She already had her traveling designing kit packed so that she could make sure the Wayne's outfits all fit properly. Chloè and Kagami were traveling with her, determined to make sure their former rival was well taken care of while their parents took care of the hotel. Jagged was fuming beside Marinette whole they rode through Gotham, the girl talking to her friends.

"So, Mari-hime, you told me that you would explain what was going on if Adrien refused to before we left."

Marinette gave Kagami a highly stressed smile. "I think watching the video would explain things better. I didn't want you to get akumatized because of me while we were in Paris."

"So you knew Adrien would refuse to tell me what crime he committed against you. What video?"

Marinette pulled it up on her tablet. "For the record, I simply suspected that he would keep his mouth shut. Though Monsieur Agreste is making sure that his interactions with anyone besides himself, Madame Sancouer, and his bodyguard are highly limited." She passed Kagami the tablet, Chloè leaning over to watch it with her.

The Japanese girl dropped the tablet in her lap as she watched, clenching her fists so hard that her palms bled. "How- how dare that baka! They all have no honor! They should meet my blade!"

"Kagami. Calm down. I have it handled. I want you and Chloè to teach me how to be a vengeful Ice Queen while we're here. Monsieur Agreste suggested talking to his nephew for lessons as well. By the time I'm back in Paris, I don't want our classmates to be able to recognize me. I already have some revenge planned, the wheels for those are already in motion. I messaged the Césaire and Lahiffe families to inform the entire family that I will be unable to babysit for them for the foreseeable future. Ambassador Rossi has a request in her inbox to visit the school while we are gone, as Rossi's classmates would love to hear about what it's like to be an ambassador. The le Chein family was sent a list of tutors for their son's failing grades, unfortunately all those tutors work at the same time as mandatory swim practice. I sent Luka a copy of the video, so Kitty Section is about to loose their lead guitarist so that he can learn under my dear uncle. Agreste will be facing a startling amount of bad luck for a good chunk of time whilst loosing all of his beloved friends. By the time I am finished, even Hawkmoth won't want to work with them."

Chloè stared at her friend. "Did you really just say 'whilst?' Who hurt you? I just want to talk."

Jagged continued to sulk. "She won't even let me send my rockin followers after those bloody rats. She's only letting me steal away a new guitarist!"

"Because I have everything planned out. And Agreste will become even more isolated once we return. No matter what I say, Kagami is going to duel him to the, figurative, death before informing him of her distaste for him and his actions."

Kagami mock glared at Marinette. "So what if I do? He deserves it. He deserves much worse. But how will he become more isolated? I will still be sparring with him twice a week."

"A person is more isolated surrounded by people that don't care about them than all on their own. Yes, you will physically be there. But your obvious emotional distance will leave him more isolated than him being stuck in his room all day."

Chloè stared at her new friend. "Where was all this evil cunningness when I was your bully?"

Marinette smirked. "I had a wake-up call. Césaire, ironically, taught me that it's okay to stand up for myself, and Hawkmoth helped release a part of me I had blocked out."

"What? Were you akumatized? How did I not know?" Chloè demanded.

Marinette waved her hand dismissively. "It was a few days before we actually became friends, and he didn't manage to akumatize me. He possessed my dress, but I refused to work with him. Apparently he's wanted to akumatize me for a while, but I'm good at forcing myself to calm down."

"What was he going to call you?" Chloè was highly excited to finally have someone who knew what it was like to fully resist Hawkmoth. Not calm down before the butterfly reached them, not resist for a second before giving in, but fully resist the man.

"Mistress Hawthorne." Marinette laughed. "I was going to have the ability to turn my ruined dreams into hawthorn bushes that would trap everyone in their castle and force them to see the truth." Marinette had to stop, she was laughing so hard. "I told him no, and he was so shocked that he only argued for a second before wishing me luck with revenge!"

Jagged continued to sulk through the teens laughter, refusing to give in. He wanted to crush those bloody teens. No one gets away with hurting his niece.

⏳

As soon as she arrived at the manor and had her bags unpacked, Marinette began tracking down the Wayne's, one by one, and dragging them back to her room with their suits or dresses, forcing them to put them on so that she could fully alter them to her preference. Dick was scared of the tiny Asian girl that slung him over her shoulder before grabbing his suit and forcing him to come with her when he hesitated and then worked silently, ignoring his attempts at friendship. He was so scared of her that he sprinted the other direction the first time he saw Kagami. Jason and Bruce both wanted to adopt the girl- she blended in perfectly with their family, and Jason had witnessed both, the girl's kidnapping of his brother and Dick running away from Kagami. He had to respect someone who could instill more fear than Demon Spawn himself, and Bruce wanted to cultivate that talent until he got a Nightingale. Damian and Cass both respected the girl for her professionalism and silence (and word of her traumatizing Dick had already spread through the manor). Tim instantly fell in love with the girl, as she asked him if he wanted coffee or tea while they were doing his fitting, as he looked dead on his feet (he did not choose both or cry tears of joy, and no one can prove to Alfred that he did). Selina purred at the amount of pure chaos she could feel pouring off of the girl, even with her suppressing it while she worked. She needed a kitten. Bruce already had his litter, it was her turn. Kor'i bounced in place the whole time, trying not to inturupt the girl as she adjusted her glorious creation.

Jagged disappeared with Bruce after his fitting, explaining to the billionaire what Marinette had been going through, even showing him the video of her work getting destroyed, before asking for his help to get revenge. He explained Marinette's known plans, and the rocker and vigilante began planning around hers, using their collective contacts and knowledge to open the class's wounds even deeper.

Dinner that night was chaos. Jason, Selina, Bruce, and Jagged were in a constant argument, with Penny occasionally interjecting, that abruptly cut off any time Marinette drew near, she was only able to catch the words adoption and revenge, Kagami and Cass spent their time in silence, eyeing each other. Chloè didn't breathe while swapping between berating Dick and Tim for their fashion choices and interigating them about Gotham and its foreign student transfer policies. Damian scowled at everyone the entire time from his seat next to Marinette. Marinette did her best to emulate him, not noticing Dick slowly sliding his chair further and further away from her.

Damian decided he liked tolerated Marinette five days into her stay. Dick had been complaining to him and Jason about how much Asian girls scared him and Kor'i wanting them to live with them. Marinette had somehow heard his complaints and came storming up to them, cussing Dick out in a mixture of French, Mandarin, Arabic, Italian, and English. Damian did not know why that caused a blush to creep up his face, though he admired the way her accent curled around the words, making everything seem like a language all of its own.

Jason chuckled when she walked off. "That. That was the art of cussing at its finest. I'm getting Alfed and we're going to go teach my new little sister how to shoot guns. Angel's my favorite, you can all suck it." Jason walked off in the same direction the girl had left in. It didn't take but forty-two minutes for the sound of gunfire to echo around the house.

⏳

The night before the gala, the women in Wayne Manor gathered in Marinette's room. The night was spent coaching her on how to act and reveal her identity, both on the carpet and during the gala.

"Don't fret so much, kit." Selina advised. "You are a queen, act as such. Keep you head up and keep your cool. They'll all be tripping over themselves to speak to you, and you don't give them the time of day." Chloè nodded her agreement, even as Kagami objected.

"You're approachable and professional at the same time. Just let people see both sides of you."

The women continued to argue, Marinette finally escaping to talk to Alfred. She spent the night under his tutelage, learning all she could about presentation. The man finally ushered her off to bed. "You have a long day tomorrow. You will need sleep to get through it."

⏳

Once arriving at the gala, Marinette kept her head high as she glided down the carpet, the press quickly stopping her to ask if she was a new Wayne and what happened to her dress. "No." She offered a small smile to them. "I'm the designer MDC. The Wayne's hired me to design their suits, and were kind enough to offer their home to me and my aunt and uncle, even letting two of my best friends, Tsurugi Kagami and Chloè Bourgeois, spend the majority of their time with me at the Manor. My parents live in France, where I will be returning to in a weeks time. My room was broken into a few weeks ago, and some of my classmates ruined the outfits I had in there, including my dress. I decided to take what they did to my dress and use it as proof that nothing will bring me down. Excuse me, I need to go. I do not wish to keep my companions waiting." Marinette offered them a small bow before leaving them, giving the press a good look at the drooping angel wings sewn on the back of her dress.

"Angel," One of the reporters breathed, leading to a frenzy. MDC was announced to the world that night as Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Angel of Gotham.

⌛

Finding her group was easy, and it was almost just as easy to spot Felix, Gabriel's nephew. She grabbed Damian by his forearm, the boy too startled by her random action to react, and drug him over to the boy she assumed was Felix.

She tapped.the boy on his shoulder. "Excuse me, are you Felix?"

The boy gave a hesitant nod. "Great! I want the two of you to teach me as much as you can about being a vengeful Ice Queen."

Felix raised one eyebrow, looking between the girl and the scowling boy. "What do we get out of it?"

"You get to live with the knowledge that I am going to use your teachings to traumatize idiotic classmates and I can keep the girls from making passes at you, as you are already occupied with entertaining a lady."

The boys both quickly gave their consent, refusing to let the girl leave their side for even a moment the entirety of the gala. They were appeased enough with the girl that her lessons continued throughout the following week, the boys enchanted enough with her to seriously consider following her to Paris and watching her strike like a coiled viper.

⌛

When Marinette returned to school, she had changed. Not just in personality, no, she changed everything. Her personality (at school), her hairstyle, her clothes, everything was redone to fit who she had become. Flowy black pants, a black sleeveless top held up by a ribbon that wrapped around her neck, a red leather jacket loosley hung on her frame, and black boots could be seen under the pants.. Her gaze was frozen as it swept over the class. She was unsurprised to see Adrien sitting in his usual seat, Gabriel had informed her of his decision to place Adrien back in Bustier's class for the time being so that Marinette could teach him a lesson. Alix and Nathaniel had transfered out of the class as soon as they had learned of what the students had done, moving to Madame Mendeleiev's class. Chloè was also leaving, though she was transferring to Gotham after the week was up. She wanted that week to be able to watch the havoc Marinette would wreck on the class. Kagami had already decided to join the class, and Marinette spotted her in Nathaniel's old seat. She was not expecting to see Felix frowning next to Kagami, nor Damian smirking at the back of the blond's head. Thanks to those very boys, though, it was amazingly easy to hide her surprise. A smirk crawled its way across her face, even as she stepped far enough into the room that everyone could see her. She had timed her entrance perfectly. As soon as the class went to explode with praises and questions, the bell rang, Madame Bustier walking in and asking them to all take their seats. Marinette made sure her steps were conscice enough to make it seem as though she was gliding up the rows, refusing to shoot her classmates so much as a glance.

Lila walked into the room moments later, late, her gaze zeroing in on Felix. "Felibear! It's so nice to see you again!" She squealed, rushing up the steps.

Felix stopped her with a cold glare. "Do I know you?"

Alya glared at the blond. "How could you ask your girlfriend if you know her? Especially since everyone knows you transfered to François-DuPont for her!"

Felix looked scandalized. "I did no such thing! I came here on request of my uncle. There are very few people here that I know from previous endeavors."

Lila burst out into tears. "H-how could you treat me like this? At least my Damiboo didn't do this!"

"Damiboo?" Marinette asked. Clearly Bustier wasn't going to stop the girl.

"Oh, I forgot you weren't here!" A sly grin crawled across Lila's face. "I suppose Damiboo didn't speak to you the whole time you were in Gotham, otherwise you would have known I used to date Damian Wayne!" The girl boasted.

Marinette looked at the horrified expression on her deskmate's face, and began her countdown. "I would never date a harlot like you!" He burst out, unable to stop himself. The class turned to stare at him, then realized that he had been just ahead of Marinette when the Wayne's and Jagged Stone arrived at the gala.

A slow smirk crawled across Marinette's lips, erasing the smile she had given her friends. "Do tell, Lila. I would love to hear all about your relationship with the Wayne's. Or about you dating Felix here. Oh! What about your relationship with my uncle? Save any of his cats lately? Let's not forget Clara Nightingale! Since she steals her music and dance moves from you, perhaps we could get a preview for her next video?"

Adrien frowned at Marinette. She seemed… different. "Mari, don't be so mean! Your supposed to be our everyday Ladybug, the better-"

"Agreste, if example is the next word to come out of your mouth I will steal Chloè's six inch stiletto right off of her foot and shove it down your throat while I laugh at your struggles." Adrien's mouth snapped shut as he paled, the class staring at Marinette in shock.

"Marinette! That was uncalled for!" Madame Bustier frowned at the girl. Perhaps letting her go to Gotham was a mistake.

"Really, Madame Bustier? From where I'm sitting, it was perfectly called for. Agreste is not going to use my emotions to manipulate me into being the perfect placemat anymore. You are not going to manipulate me into being the perfect victim. I will no longer tolerate this class's treatment of me. Four people in this room have the authority to call me by a nickname. They know who they are. Four people have the ability to ask something of me. None of them were the ones that destroyed my sketchbook or commissions. None of them told me that I always have to be the better person and set an example for my classmates. I refuse to allow myself to be used any longer."

Alya glared at her friend as the rest of the class stared at the noirette in shock or turned their head away from her in shame. "Girl, what are you talking about? First you want us to pay you a while bunch of money, and now you don't want to do anything for us?"

Damian started to retort himself, stopped by Marinette's hand on his arm. Her voice was frosted fire when she commanded the room. "Everyone in this room, excluding my four friends and our teacher, had a hand I destroying commissions for the Wayne gala, requests from all of you, and my sketchbook. That is why you were sued for damages. Some of you paid more than others because Alya was gracious enough to post a video she had taken of what you did on her blog that allowed me to see who destroyed what. That allowed me to see exactly who has hell to pay." The dangerous smirk several of her classmates had noticed danced across her face yet again, like a sword would dance in the hands of Robin.

Adrien scoffed. "you're just a baker's daughter. What could you possibly do?" He paled not long after the words flew out of his mouth, remembering what his father had told him.

"You look like you just remembered that I am not just a baker's daughter. Why don't you share with the class?" Marinette offered up one of her customary sunshine smiles, though Adrien was not fooled this time, quickly yelling the class exactly what his father had told him.

Lila blanched. Forget the Agreste's and that stupid reporter, she should have set her sights on Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Marinette smiled down at the class, her court sitting in the back two rows with her. Chloè had kicked Felix out of his seat next to Kagami, and Felix had nudged Marinette into the middle of the bench, sandwiching her between Damian and himself.

Her blue eyes were frigid as she glared down upon her kingdom. The time for the Queen of Light was over- Darkness had come for her, and she welcomed them with open arms. Her crown darkened, from gold and diamonds to silver and onyx, and her reign had only begun.

#I'll Change My Crown From Light to Dark #Daminette #Felinette #Felidaminette #Félix Graham de Vanily #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Salt #Bashing #Miraculous Ladybug #MLB #mlb #MDC #Gotham #Wayne Gala #Clara Nightingale #Jagged Stone

1K notes · View notes

csykora · 3 years

Text

A thought about meaningful change

I don’t want to distract from the most recent thing Benn did. I’m going to be talking about several different things, and some might seem smaller than others: I know. I’m not saying that the newest thing isn’t important enough on its own or that everything’s on the same level. But I think patterns can be useful.

(I have also made myself sick with nerves a couple times so I’m posting this as is: sorry for typos, and while I’ll stand behind my ideas there may be some sentences that are a little long or awkwardly worded).

Back in 2015, Jame Benn and Tyler Seguin were doing a radio interview.

Some of you might be thinking, “You want to talk about THIS, AGAIN?” Yes. More of you are probably thinking, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Yeah, that’s what I want to talk about.

cw for discussions of sexual harassment, incest, homophobia, bullying, misogyny and transmisogyny, transphobia

So during this interview, one of the radio hosts asked Benn if he and his brother were ever road roommates. Benn said no, and the host commented that Henrik and Daniel Sedin probably roomed together.

“Well yeah…that’s the Sedins,” Seguin said.

“Who knows what else they do together?" Benn said. Everyone laughed.

“Seriously,” Seguin said.

"Dude, it's creepy," the radio hosts said, "In fact, it's a good example to future brothers in the NHL on how not to do things." Then they reassured Benn, “In no way am I implying that you have a Sedin-type vibe going about you.”

Benn and Seguin laughed. The conversation continued, calling the Sedins creepy for wearing similar facial hair, leaving nearby and spending too much time together.

When asked pointblank, “Are the Sedins weird?” Benn answered, “I don’t know. I can’t say.”

To finish the sentence he didn’t: he was implying that the Sedin brothers fuck each other.

Now, these were shock jockeys. They were almost certainly hoping Benn and Seguin would say something homophobic. That said, even shock jockeys pre-screen an interview. They’re not going to invite just anyone on the air and try this with them, because all it takes is someone saying, “I don’t know what you mean,” or “No, I actually respect Dan and Henke a lot as my colleagues” to ruin that set up. If a shock jockey thinks you’re a mark, you’ve probably said something off-air that made them think you’re a mark. And if they dug a pit in front of him, Benn is still the one who decided to stick his dick in it and make things overtly sexual.

After, the Stars stated that Benn had “reached out” the Sedins to apologize. Seguin did not reach out but was “included” in whatever Benn wrote or said. Neither of them gave a public explanation or apology. As far as I can tell the Sedins never commented on whether they received that message, what sort of apology it was, or whether they accepted it. Henrik Sedin’s only comment was, “I think it says more about them than it does about us.”

Ways that homophobia is working here:

-the idea that two men having any degree of physical or emotional closeness, even family members, is suspicious.

-Benn roomed with his brother. Course he did. The hosts spell out what he was afraid of: that the other men in the room might think he had the wrong vibe. He was so afraid of them thinking he had unmanly vulnerabilities like liking his own brother that he misrepresented the situation and pushed someone else forward.

-the idea that a man having any relationship to another man’s physical body or appearance, is suspicious.

Dressing or looking too similar to another man—which means you’ve paid attention to how another man’s body looks in order to copy him, like you’re trying to take ownership of his body, which = fucking him—is a really common accusation. Gay men are seen as lusting after and trying to copy other men’s real masculinity for themselves (but of course never quite succeeding). A man thinking that another man who he knows or suspects to be gay looks too similar to him, and so must have been watching and ‘copying’ him, is a common spark for homophobic attacks.

-the idea that any of this could have been a joke depends on the idea that two men having sex is wacky and unrealistic. Imagine if that happened, wouldn’t that be weird.

Now, someone might say, “It’s not that gay sex is wacky, it’s that the incest that is!” First, incest accounts for a lot of childhood sexual abuse, so I wouldn’t say it’s wacky either. And while it’s true that people can say awful things to different gender twins as well out of a combination of gender prejudices, in this case there were also homophobic ideas about men and masculinity at play.

Ways that power is working here:

-People forgot this fast. It was treated as settled because the Stars said it was settled. People gave “kudos” to Benn “doing the right thing” afterward, or for seeming to realize what was happening and not saying yes to the final question.

I would argue that “I don’t know, I can’t say” is somehow a worse answer to a yes-or-no question, because it means that either you want to say yes but you’re scared of the consequences, or you sincerely don’t know what to say. All he had to do was say “No.” After he said “I don’t know,” Seguin continued and said, “They are weird.” If Benn had said, “No, actually they’ve been professional when I’ve worked with them and I won’t comment any more on their personal life,” Sequin might have noticed, and Benn might have encouraged him to change his behavior. Not saying “no” was a direct, demonstrable failure to show any kind of leadership.

-This counts as workplace sexual harassment. I’m not saying a case should have been pursued: that should have been at least partly up to the Sedins (although there should also be workplace rules about what is and isn’t acceptable without the victims having to ask for it). But that’s a word we can use for this, this could have been counted as that. Sexual harassment are actions based on a person’s gender, assigned sex, sexual activity, or other qualities related to sex, not just sexual attraction. I worry that often, conflicted feelings about putting people into the category of “Sexual Harasser” lead people to think that actions “aren’t bad enough” to be sexual harassment when they definitionally can be. In other lines of work, if you talk about your coworkers fucking their twins in the office, there are rules about that: at the very least, you’ll be getting a bunch of trainings and be moved to a part of the office where you won’t see them again.

In the NHL, it seems frighteningly clear that people don’t have recourse for sexual harassment. This was discussed and handled as a “childish insult”, not harassment against two coworkers/employees. Often, there’s a logic that something is just an insult, not a ‘real’ threat, because the person who did it couldn’t possibly be sexually attracted to the person they did it to.

-In 2015 Eric and Jordan Staal were living in identical houses outside Raleigh and ‘playing’ together every night. Seems super suspicious. Unless beefy Canadian boys’ behavior is normal, and European masculinity always has to be questioned as being softer-spoken, slimmer, more intellectual, scared of heavy hitting. There are a lot of reasons you might not call Eric Staal gay—maybe you know he’s bigger than you, more successful on Team Canada than you, more popular with the other Team Canada guys than you. Or maybe you just don’t look at him and think he could be gay. Or both. Eric is positioned so you’d have to punch up at him: Benn tried to position himself closer to that kind of social standing, by pushing someone else who already doesn’t quite fit in further out. This isn’t directly in the words, so I’m not all-out accusing them of xenophobia: what I mean is that it’s always worth asking if and how and why feminization is applied to Those Other People.

There’s the eating out thing. Which he sent to teammate Jason Demers, commenting “I feel like your (sic) the kind of guy who would”.

How misogyny is working here:

-the idea that this could have been funny or interesting or worth saying at all depends on the idea that vulvas are weird. Imagine if someone willing touched a cis woman with anything but their dick. Gosh.

-There’s no good explanation for what ‘the kind of guy who would’ was meant to mean. No one says, ‘Hey, do you do this widely mocked sex act? I don’t, but I think you would, and that’s cool and doesn’t affect your masculinity at all, bro, life is a rich tapestry.’

How power is working here:

-This counts as sexual harassment again. Even if asking a coworker (or really more like someone you shift-manage or who reports to you) ‘how do you fuck your partner?’ wasn’t, saying ‘you seem like you would do ___’ is. Again, I’m not saying that Demers has to feel that way about it, but he should have had options.

-Demers was also in a new relationship at the time, so this could be harassment to both him and his partner, who had no recourse when someone her partner has to work with/for comments on her body.

-I don’t think it was intended as sexual harassment. But there’s not really a nice explanation of what he meant to say. It seems like it was intended as an insult or a ‘warning’: ‘this is the way men are allowed and no allowed to be in our group, do you know your place?’

Around that time, the Stars shared a video of Benn, Seguin, and Valeri Nichushkin. Each were supposed to say a couple lines, including their name. Valeri pronounced his nickname ‘Vall’, with a native Russian accent, more like “Wall” in English. Each time Benn and Seguin laughed and questions him and the producer cut. After a couple takes Benn said, “I thought your name was ‘Val.’”

Sequin physically turned away from Nichushkin and laughed. Nichushkin, not understanding the comment, and not laughing, turned to Benn for an explanation, but Benn only turned toward Seguin, both continuing to laugh.

It was part of a pattern of comments from observers: “If Tyler Seguin and Jamie Benn are having a laugh in the locker room, Nichushkin can only guess what’s so funny.” They themselves commented on how “His English is really not good at all…A lot of times we find him just sitting there.” “(In) normal conversations, he doesn’t really know what’s going on.”

I’ll give them credit—they said they felt pity and “try to help” too. I just can’t find any examples of them doing it, compared to teammates like Sharp or Spezza who can more concretely describe spending time with him.

Nichushkin chose to burn contract time in the KHL rather than Dallas before being bought out, expressing that he no longer felt like he “belonged in the NHL.” He felt that the Stars didn’t “trust” in him, was “nervous” in the locker room, and said his family worried for his mental health because of the culture.

“There is a bit of it because I want to be part of the conversation when someone says something,” Nichushkin said. “But I don’t have enough words I know so I can join in.”

-Is it the worst xenophobia in the world? Nah. It’s not free from xenophobia, when the only joke is that someone speaks differently than you. It’s not Benn joking about his own misunderstanding to invite Nichushkin in. I often point to Tripp Tracy, who asks players to teach him words in their language and then sets up jokes about his accent so they can deliver the punchline and laugh with him.

-Is it bullying? It kind of came off like it, to make a joke about someone you know can’t understand. At least it was unnecessary, and unkind. It’s just reminding someone they don’t belong.

-It’s unimpressive. It’s deflecting. Oh, he doesn’t know what’s going on? What did you do to tell to him? My family communicate through a mix of finger-signing, Scrabble tiles, and interpretive dance: I guarantee you, if you can’t communicate concepts like “we’re going to get dinner now, you’re welcome here, we’re having fun!”, you’re not trying. Which is fine, I guess, you don’t have to talk to people, unless it’s like, your job to work with your teammates.

Wanting to ban trans*feminine athletes from competition is based on a complete misunderstanding of math, medicine, and athletics; it’s unnecessary, unethical, and unkind.

It’s an unsurprising continuation of the ideas that there’s a line between men and women and transgressing it is suspicious, that women are gross, that people who are different are shocking and funny, that social pressure can and should be used to remind people who are different that they don’t belong.

It’s a fascist use of power, which I don’t say to mean that “He is A Fascist in every sense,” but that those beliesf express a desire and a comfort with using power to control other people’s bodies, and which bodies have access to certain spaces, to maintain “purity”.

I’m not saying that anyone should have looked at any of these things and easily decided in that moment, “That’s it, he’s shouldn’t have a platform or power over other players, he’s irredeemable.” You might look at a couple of them and think, “That’s not even a problem at all.” I’ll agree to disagree on some of them, but my point is about a pattern of how this dude uses the power he’s given.

I have a phrase, or more a series of words I sometimes yell when I’m talking about subjects like this—“STRUCK A TIM HORTONS.” I shout this in commemoration of the time that Ryan O’Reilly got drunk and drove his pickup into the wall of a small town Ontario Timmies.

“Struck a Tim Hortons” is a very good phrase to read in a police report. And, also, I’m an ACoA. I’ve experienced impaired driving, I’m terrified to shaking of it, and I know that other people have experienced much worse consequences. This isn’t a perfect metaphor (it’s not an example of prejudice or violence against a class of people, etc) but my point is that I try to hold it in my heart because that’s one case where I know what it’s like to really, really want something to just be NBD. Where part of me wants to just think it was a funny mistake so I don’t have to really think about the serious implications of it, and part of me super doesn’t. I have an instinct to resolve those feelings, to come down and decide that it’s either insignificant enough that I don’t have to think about it, or significant enough that I can hate him and then also stop thinking about it, and then I can have the relief of feeling just one feeling at a time.

I don’t think it’s bad to feel conflicted learning something about someone. I think it’s important.

But the problem is that if one thing isn’t significant enough, and we decide to keep thinking someone is fundamentally Good, we often toss that thing out. So when another thing happens, we only look at the new thing, trying to decide: is this enough? And that next thing might not be enough either. So we can go on and on, until you add up to a lot of things that have each done some harm, but none of them have been enough to change how we see and talk about someone.

Now I, personally, decided that the Timmies wasn’t so bad that ROR couldn’t ever make it up to me. But I didn’t decide to feel fine about it: I tried to just put a pin in how conflicted I felt. It’s been years, and over the years I think his actions have showed meaningful change. He hasn’t struck a Starbucks, a Dunkin, or even a Caribou. There’s a pattern.

I think a lot of people who don’t really like the things Benn says or does or believes have given him a lot of chances to make up for them, because they don’t want him to really mean those things. By which I really mean that I know there are a lot of women and queer fans who liked the guy. I get it (I don’t actually get it get it, but I mean I can try to understand people coming from a very different place than I do about him).

I’ve read a lot of ways that people who are themselves vulnerable in our society try to empathize with him by imagining him as vulnerable too--he’s also experienced fatphobia, homophobia, he wasn’t expected to succeed, etc! I think that’s a wonderfully human instinct. But often I think people have more empathy for those experiences than he expresses for himself--he agrees that it was Bad to be fat and he’s Worked Hard to fit into the masculine norm, he agrees that it’s Bad to be close with another man and works to avoid it--and certainly more than he has showed in his actions toward others. If you’re going to say I hate him for saying that, I don’t--I want him and everyone in our society not to feel and do this shit!

I see a lot of people starting from the idea he is a good leader trying really hard to spin his choices as a smart strategy when he plays dumb with media, when he doesn’t give specific action plans or give public statements or apologies. (I actually agree with the first one, I think it is a strategy for him to avoid transparency and not do a part of his job that he doesn’t want to do.) It just…it seems like a lot of work to reach a pre-determined goal. It’s okay to like someone and for them to still not be good at their jobs! When I say I think a guy’s not a good leader, that’s not always the same as saying he’s a bad person. And if we keep on promoting a guy as a good leader because we like them regardless of their demonstrated leadership skills…that’s how we end up with a lot of shitty policies in the NHL.

Over the years he has consistently avoided stepping up to his captaincy and using his personal power to say things like, “No,” “Tyler, cut it out,” “This is what I’m going to do to fix a problem,” or “I believe in…” anything, really.

I really, really want to ask people to be mad as hell and advocate for the NHL to improve its code of conduct and harassment processes. I do. But I’m also tired. I don’t think, if I did ask you that, it would work. I don’t have an argument for why you should be mad at someone who’s mad at my existence. I’m not trying. I just want to encourage you, if you’re feeling the tug of feelings and just want to be able to simplify someone’s behavior and love them in simple terms, to put a pin in the more complicated parts, and remember them the next time, and look for patterns.

79 notes · View notes

suzumenokakimono · 3 years

Text

I was here first I

Pairing: Namjoon / Jimin x reader,

Genre: AU, smut, fluff, angst, roommates to lovers, fwb, friends to lovers

Word count: 7k

Summary: Jimin was your roommate, best friend and in love with you so bad it wasn’t even funny. His friends knew this all along and were surely surprised you’ve never noticed. But you didn’t. You were oblivious as the Earth was round. Now, Jimin decided it was time to finally confess to you. He asked one of his closest friends, Namjoon, to help him. But what if you end up liking Namjoon instead of Jimin?

A/N: English is not my native language. I do not apologize.

Masterlist | Chapters: One | Two | Three (incoming)

-------

First ring of the doorbell found you in your bed, still in sweatpants, oversized T-Shirt of your favorite band and a face mask covering your face. You looked up, for a moment, scared you’re late and didn’t calculate properly the time you needed for your preparations. But no. You still had a good 30 minutes before scheduled leaving. You had no intentions on going out even a minute earlier. Plus, your company would have never left without you. Being late was not a problem in this situation.

You got back to scrolling through Twitter when you heard a ring for the second time.

“Y/N! Can you let him in?!”

This time it was your roommate, screaming from the bathroom. He’d been taking a shower for the past 30 minutes, getting ready for tonight. He’d gotten pretty excited and you didn’t know why. But you did know that person standing on the other side of your apartment door, was his friend that was supposed to join you tonight. You’d never met him before, even though they’d been working together and both had known each other for quite some time. You’d just heard some stuff about him and he seemed nice.

You really didn’t want to move from your cozy bed but that annoying sound was going around your apartment and making you crazy. Also, that guy was still ringing the doorbell.

“FINE!”

Lazily you left your room, kicked the door to the bathroom, probably scaring the shit out of your roommate and opened the front door.

“Come in. Jimin is still in the bathroom, making himself pretty. His room is over there.”, you pointed towards the door behind you.

“Thanks.”

Your nose was inside your phone all the time, you didn’t pay any attention to the guest. You heard his response but didn’t put a mind to it. You just noticed he came inside. He seemed tall or at least that was how he looked like while he was passing by you. By the time you realized you should say something more and be at least a little less rude, he was gone in Jimin’s room. When you turned around, the door was already closed. You shrugged your shoulders, thinking you would have time to talk to him later, so you went back to your room, while still being stuck to your phone. Passing by the bathroom you didn’t hear any water running so you assumed Jimin was done with the shower. This meant you still had time.

When your door closed and you were safely covered by your warm comforter, Jimin ran out from the bathroom, shirtless in his sweatpants and still with wet hair. It was not that he was shy next to you or something, but this time he wanted you to see him when he was ready. And he was doing everything to manage to do that on time. Because he was always late. Everywhere. All the time. And for the first time he cared so much he wanted to be ready on time.

He got to his room and immediately went straight to his closet.

“Where is that black T-shirt…”, he was mumbling to himself.

“Hello, to you too.”

Jimin jumped in place, hitting harshly to a shelf. Grabbing his head with his arms he looked outside the closet.

“Fuck, Namjoon. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Y/N let me in”, Namjoon chuckled to himself.

He was sitting on the bed and reading a comic book.

“So you met her?”, Jimin’s face immediately brightened up after hearing your name.

“I can hardly say that. I think she was too invested in something on her phone.”

“But you saw her? What do you think of her?”, Jimin was persistent in talking about you.

“Black face mask really outlined her eyes.”

“She’s probably picking up some cute outfit right now. I must look perfect tonight…”, Jimin already stopped listening and got back to rummage through his clothes.

Namjoon smiled to himself. This evening was kinda special for Jimin.

For the past three years that you’d been friends with him and you for two years that you’d been living together, he’d been madly in love with you. So madly, he had no idea what to do with it. How to confess to you, what move should he make. How to tell you how he felt about you. All his other friends, with Namjoon on top, were pretty puzzled about this. Jimin was always a good looking guy, with a hairstyle on top and nice clothes. He never complained about the lack of female company. Or confidence. So why was it so hard when it was coming to you?

You were his friend and he was definitely scared of losing you. He’d met you at a party and probably 5 minutes later he’d developed his crush on you. He’d taken your number, with the intention of asking you out later. But you’d written him first and started to send him memes and cute pics of cats from the internet. He’d thought that was adorable but pretty fast realized you were treating him like just a friend. Which had been fine at the beginning! You hadn’t been anything serious so he couldn’t have been mad at himself about this. But the more you’d been spending time together the more he was liking you not just like a friend. When you’d been looking for a place to live, because your earlier roommate had been moving out and you couldn’t have afforded the place on your own and he’d offered you a room at his apartment, he’d been already madly in love with you. He’d known that this was not the best idea, given his feelings towards you. But at the same time, he’d wanted to have you close to himself.

Two years later, you were close friends, he was dying inside to be with you and finally decided enough is enough. Or actually Namjoon did. He was the one who had convinced Jimin that he should confess to you. From the beginning Jimin was scared that after doing so, he would find out you didn’t reciprocate his feelings, they would become a problem and you both would drift apart. But Namjoon had pointed out that otherwise it was going to be worse. Especially if you found someone else, not knowing about Jimin’s affection.

So Jimin was gathering all his strength and confidence to organize this evening. The whole idea was to go out with you to a bar or a club and use alcohol courage to finally ask you out. Namjoon was supposed to be a cover for this whole scheme. You weren’t supposed to realize what was going on, until Jimin smoothly swooped in and confessed. Simple as that!

“You think you’ll manage to do it tonight?”, Namjoon asked, while Jimin disappeared in his closet again. He put a comic book on a desk, remembering he has to finish it later.

“I have to”, Jimin sounded pretty serious.

“In case something was going wrong, we should have a sign or a code.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you decide not to do it, we should have a plan B to back up without her knowing what was going on.”

Jimin closed his closet, while wearing a simple, black T-shirt. It wasn’t a fancy or an expensive one but he knew you liked him in it. You’d told him that once, when you’d been both buzzed a little and had been watching some show on Netflix. He didn’t remember what show that was or what alcohol you’d been drinking, but he didn’t forget your words.

“I have to do it”, Jimin repeated himself.

Namjoon didn’t get back to the topic. He knew Jimin was right. But he also knew what his role that night was. He wanted to help his friend. Not only, so he confessed to you, but also if anything went wrong and he needed to evacuate Jimin or you. Jimin was known for being dramatic. Any outcome of the night might have been pretty big.

Jimin finally got ready. After finding his special T-shirt, he matched it with some tight black jeans and leather boots. He came out of the room to look for a jacket and Namjoon followed him to the hall. It was his first time at your place and he started to actually look around. At that very moment you left your room and came right across to him. You looked so much different than before. You were wearing a pretty, black short dress, with a pink flower pattern. You’d put on matching makeup, added some earrings. Your hair was tied up in a messy ponytail and you were just picking up some shoes. Jimin saw you, but he just took a quick look. He knew how good you can look so even though he liked your outfit very much, he wasn’t staring, he was preparing for leaving as well.

But Namjoon froze in place and was tracing your every move. He didn’t believe he’d actually ignored you before. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. And while you were trying on a pair of shoes, you noticed that. You noticed him. You knew Jimin’s friend was supposed to join you tonight, you’d opened the door for him, but hadn’t paid any attention. And now you noticed this tall guy standing in your hall and staring at you, with his mouth open, still in a weird shock.

He was wearing a long green jacket and a white T-shirt with a random print on it. Dark jeans and black heavy boots were making his legs look even longer and slimmer than they really were. He also wore a beanie, which was more as a fashion statement, because it was not cold outside. He looked good. You couldn't have called him handsome straight away, not ugly as well. He was definitely different than the other guys. And his eyes. He was staring at you without any embarrassment. You liked those brown eyes.

Jimin snatched both of you to reality by dropping his keys to the floor. You blinked a few times and realized you stopped in place and forgot what you were actually doing. You looked at Namjoon again but he broke eye contact and was helping your roommate. That also helped you to gather yourself and finally chose some shoes. Jimin picked up his keys and let you out first. He gestured to Namjoon to do the same, but before he left, he grabbed Jimin’s arm and pulled him behind the door.

“Is… is that Y/N?”, he asked quietly, to make sure you didn’t hear him.

“Yes...Who else? You’ve already seen her...”

Jimin looked at him like he was doubting his big brain was still there and working. He eyed him up and down with unspoken questions and followed you, leaving his friend in the hall. At that moment Namjoon started to doubt that including him in tonight’s plan was a good idea. After all, he was supposed to help Jimin to hook him up with you, not snatched his three-years-old crush right in front of his nose.

Thirty minutes later you ended up in a newly opened club in the city. The moment you arrived, you found your table, which had been reserved a few days earlier just in case and ordered the first round of drinks. Jimin wasn’t waiting for anyone and finished his before you even started yours and ordered another one. You had trouble catching up and at some point Namjoon’s hand covered your drink, just to stop you from drinking that fast. Jimin was not stopping himself at any point though.

He was nervous. You’d noticed that pretty quickly but wasn’t able to connect the dots. There was no reason for him to act like that. At least you couldn't have thought of any. The drinking though was not an issue, it was actually a normal part of the evening. He absorbed alcohol like water or at least that was what he was telling everyone. He liked drinking and had never said no, convincing people around him he had a strong head and alcohol didn’t affect him much. You would be the first person to destroy that image, vividly remembering in what kind of state he’d used to be after all those occasions. And as always alcohol did help him to relax and become fun and chatty him. He was touching your hands, arms, knee and even tacking your hair behind your ear when you both were laughing. You were feeling comfortable around him. You knew how flirty he can be, how touchy he was even without alcohol. You’d gotten used to that and had to admit you liked that. It was somehow flattering, even if it didn’t mean anything.

With his fourth drink Jimin started to talk. Like a lot. He was talking about you, him, how you’d been living together, he even mentioned how you’d both met. When this topic had come out, you started to laugh remembering that party

“You came with your friends and started to drink right away!”, you pointed at him, while telling the story. “I don’t know how much you had drank but you fell from your chair like three times before the evening even started for good!”

This memory always made you laugh. You were absolutely astonished how a guy like him could have fallen from any sitting surface, without even a drop of alcohol. His relationship with chairs was truly very complicated.

While you were still laughing, you turned around to Namjoon to tell him everything about that, so you missed Jimin’s face expression. He was sitting on your other side the whole time and quietly listening to how you had fun. He wasn’t drinking that much and that fast like the two of you, but didn’t want to fallout from the party as well. He needed to stay more sober, though. Just in case he had to play his wingman role. When you’d started your story you put your hand on his wrist that was on a table, with his drink. You were not sure why you’d done that. Alcohol started to talk through you which had always made you a little touchy and more brave. Not Jimin level though. You wanted some kind of physical contact with him. At first he looked at your hands, still listening to you. Then he looked at you, the same way as he did in your apartment. With those beautiful, brown eyes, going right straight through you. Your temporary courage made you not froze and silenced but your heart definitely skipped a bit and you felt a heat coming straight to your face. There was something at his gaze that you liked so much. You felt a little sparkle between you two and were getting excited. Things like that rarely happened to you and you really wanted to know where this was going.

For a moment you forgot you were not alone there. You stopped babbling, cleared your throat and got back to Jimin. You wanted to drag him to the whole story-telling but he somehow had stepped back. He moved a little further from you on his seat and looked like he had completely lost his attention to what had been happening next to him. He wasn’t smiling as wide as before. He was also looking away, at the bar, people on a dance floor, somewhere else. You pulled out your hand to him but he moved away and got up from his seat, hiding that with an excuse of going for another drink. Before you even had said anything he left your table not looking back.

What the hell had just happened?

“Did I say something wrong?”, you turned to Namjoon once again.

“No. Absolutely not.”, he shook his head and looked at you. “Jimin is… he has something on his mind. You don’t need to worry about that.”

His words didn’t help you much though. You started to recreate all that had happened when you’d come to the club, somehow thinking it was your fault. Namjoon saw that, he saw your face expression.

“Y/N! Don’t.”, he finished his drink in one sip. “Please, don’t torment yourself with this. Let’s get you another drink, shall we?”

Saying last words he grabbed your hand and smiled at you. He had probably the most charming smile you had ever seen. He was smiling with this whole face, his full lips and dark eyes. And you noticed how cute dimples showed up on his cheeks. His smile was really contagious.

You nodded at his proposition, feeling being under his spell, not being able to answer him this time and wanted to get up to the bar but he stopped you.

“I’ll bring it to you. Same as before?”

You thanked him and sat back in your place. Him leaving your table had snapped you from the effect he had on you. You’d barely just met but you were starting to like him. He was getting cuter each minute you were spending together. You weren’t sure he felt the same way, though. He was Jimin’s friend and technically he’d come with him, not with you. When you’d first heard he’d invited someone to this evening, you hadn’t been convinced to this idea. Meeting new people was always stressful and you just wanted to have fun after a long week at work and not dealing with some random dude that you’d barely known. Thankfully, that dude, was a lot different than you’d suspected.

Namjoon disappeared among the crowd, same as Jimin had before. For a moment you were left alone and you started to look around, checking to see if you could find your roommate, who you were still worried about. However, he was nowhere to be found. Namjoon had told you not to think about that, but you couldn't help it. He was not just your roommate but a friend after all.

Before you started your coming train of thoughts on what might had happened that had upset Jimin, Namjoon came back with your drinks. When he was putting glasses he accidentally spilled some on the table and on your dress. He immediately pulled out his hands like was trying to stop it from spilling any further, which was of course pointless.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry!”

“That’s fine”, you chuckled. “There won’t be any stain, no worries”.

Namjoon didn’t look convinced. You smiled at him, took your drink and took a big sip, showing how much you didn’t care about the dress. He smiled back and did the same.

Since you were left with Namjoon alone, he took the responsibility to talk with you, to entertain you. And, because both of you were getting pretty drunk already, it wasn’t that hard. You didn’t know each other, so he started asking tons of questions about you. About your life, job, where had you lived before and why the hell had you agreed to live with Jimin in the first place. He also listened to everything you were saying, which made you feel more comfortable around him pretty quickly. For the whole time he was also looking straight into your eyes. He was paying his full attention to you. He didn’t look bored or anything. He really was enjoying this conversation with you.

He was also providing more drinks. You were getting more and more dizzy. At some point you excused yourself and went to the bathroom. On your way back you thought you saw Jimin and stopped in place. You narrowed your eyes to have a better focus. The world really started to spin around and you needed a moment. But you were not wrong. That was indeed Jimin. He was standing close to the bar, on the side that was not visible from your table. And he was talking to a girl. His arm was around her waist and while you were lurking at them, her hand landed on his neck to keep him close. They were definitely flirting. All this time you were worried he was upset and he’d just wanted to find someone and get laid!

You knew Jimin was popular with the girls. You’d always known that. Girls liked him for his look, his smile, his flirty side which he wasn’t able to turn off even with you. He wasn’t a fuckboy, at least you’d never noticed anything. Bringing home stranger women was not his thing. It had happened a few times, since you’d been living together but at some point he’d just stopped doing that. You guessed he wanted to try again. Maybe going out brought up some memories and he’d found himself in a women’s company again, without any effort.

When you got back to your table Namjoon was waiting with fresh drinks and you already knew you had to ask him to stop buying them. Otherwise you would end up under the table and no one wanted to see that.

“I just saw Jimin. He’s talking… well, at this point probably making out with some girl”.

When Namjoon heard that, his eyes went wide open.

“He what? A-are you sure? You sure that was Jimin?”, he started to look for his friend.

“It’s hard not to recognize that butt of his”, you laughed to yourself from your brilliant joke. Jimin’s butt was indeed something.

“But… Jimin was…”

“Was what?”

Namjoon immediately bit his tongue. He couldn't have told you what Jimin was supposed to do. You were not supposed to know until he finally confessed to you! But for some reason he’d seemed to abandon the whole plan. Why the hell was he making out with some other girl? That didn’t make any sense. Like him leaving the table without any explanation. Had he changed his mind? Had he noticed how Namjoon was looking at you? Had… no, that was impossible. He would have never stepped down after noticing his friend liked you. He’d been in love with you for too long.

Namjoon got lost in his thoughts and didn’t notice how you sat closer to him. His consciousness was just coming back to him. He felt your thigh right next to his. You accidentally knocked him with your elbow when you were fixing your dress in your boobs area, at this point not caring much who was watching. And Namjoon was watching.

You looked at him with a question in your eyes and he froze, for a moment being scared you might had noticed and had read his mind, which he was pretty sure you could. You looked so pretty. He was damn sure it was all written on his face, how much he liked looking at you, how he actually liked you and probably everyone had already known what thoughts were storming into his mind. He shifted nervously in his seat, starting to sweat a little. He looked at the bar, like was making sure Jimin was really there, though he didn’t see him at all. When he maintained eye contact with you again, he licked his lips, making a decision in a brain of his.

“Nothing. Good that he’s having fun.”

You snored at that and took a sip of your fresh drink, totally forgetting about your previous statement, enjoying sweet and cold beverage.

“Y/N, do you wanna dance?”

He surprised you with his offer. He surprised himself, to be honest. But he was sure, if he spent a little more on wondering should he do it, he would had never done that. You didn’t hesitate for a second. You nodded and at the moment he smiled at you one more time with the most sincere smile. You felt yet again how your face was turning red under his gaze and was thanking for your makeup and dark lights in the room. He took your hand in his and guided you to the dance floor, making small steps so both of you wouldn’t fall into anyone. It was full of people but you found an empty spot for yourselves, a little in the back. You felt his arms around you immediately, dragging you close to him. You were surprised by his bold action again, but you didn’t mind. You wanted him to touch you, to hug you. And also do the same to him. You could only imagine how it would have been to lean your head on his chest, to smell his scent, maybe feel his heartbeat.

And at that moment, like if the universe had heard your thoughts, music changed and a slow song started to play. Before your clouded mind realized what was happening, Namjoon put his arms around you and pulled you even closer to him. Dream was coming true and you felt another heat wave hitting your body but you didn’t want to show him that. Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck and shyly looked up into his eyes. As before, he was looking right at you. It seemed like he wanted to look only at you, all the time. Maybe it was alcohol talking but you noticed his gaze was shifting from your eyes to your lips. And then back again. He hugged you tighter, you felt how his fingers were drawing circles on your back, which made you shiver despite the heat in the club. He parted his lips and took a deep breath. He looked like he was having an inner fight with himself and was actually losing. He got nervous and you felt how he tightened his fist on the back of your dress. To soothe his struggle you reached out to his hair that was pointing out under his beanie and started to play with some on his neck. It seemed to work. He looked at you again with those eyes that you liked so much from the very first moment you saw him and leaned to you. A kiss was soft, gentle and very quick. When your lips met your breath hitched, you dug your fingers into his neck, nervousness taking control under your body. He leaned back a little but didn’t move away, keeping his forehead right against yours, eyes closed. You grabbed his arm and hummed, more to yourself because you were damn sure he didn’t hear that. But maybe he felt that. Or maybe he was in the same state of mind as you were, because a moment later he kissed you again but this time much deeper. You felt his hand on your neck, holding you close to him. Other hand still on your back, making sure you would stay there with him. His tongue started poking on your lower lip, asking for permission. And you gave it to him. He opened your lips with his, you felt his tongue on yours. He tasted like his drink, a little sour and sweet at the same time. You smiled to yourself, liking that taste.

When he pulled away, he grabbed your hand from his neck and took to his chest. You felt how fast his heart was beating, giving he must had been pretty nervous about this. If the light was brighter he was pretty sure you would had noticed his dilated pupils, full of desire for you, for more.

But instead of that you saw how his gaze changed in just one second. From soft and blissful to scared and maybe even panicked. He realized what just had happened, what he had done and immediately got scared. He wanted that, for a second that even had sounded like a good idea. He was also convinced you wanted to kiss him. The way you had been looking at him… He broke an eye contact, embarrassed of himself and looked around, making sure nobody actually had seen what you were doing, which felt extremely stupid at a place like this. Though he was thinking only about one person there. He dropped your hand and stepped back, keeping a safe distance from you. He closed his eyes and mouthed something to himself. You hadn’t heard him and wanted to ask what was wrong when you felt someone’s presence next to yourselves.

Jimin put his hand on your arm, which made you jump in place and turned you to him. His face was close to yours and you had no doubt he hadn’t stopped drinking after leaving you and Namjoon. His breath smelled like an alcohol and he was slightly swaying in place.

“I was looking for you.”

“You were the one that left”, you pointed out. Jimin smiled at you with that cute smile when his eyes were completely disappearing, changing into two thin lines. He liked when you were sassy and all smart ass. He thought it was cute.

“Can I talk with Namjoon?”, he asked.

You looked at a guy in front of you, still frozen in place. You wanted to get back to what you started, to kissing and dancing, and touching. You really liked that and was getting the impression Namjoon had too. But he was avoiding eye contact, probably for the first time this evening so you just nodded at your roommate and left the two of them.

You got back to your table and took your unfinished drink, still dizzy after what happened between you and Namjoon. You were just wondering, why had he stopped so abruptly. He’d been the one that asked you to dance and kissed you. So, did he like you or not? Still being on a cloud nine, you were taking sip after sip of your drink, thinking about Namjoon and his full lips on yours.

Meanwhile, Jimin turned his friend around, so you wouldn’t be able to guess what they were talking about. Namjoon felt his sweat coming down his back. He had screwed up, hadn’t he? He knew that. He was feeling like a kid caught by his parent on doing something he’d been specifically told not to do. Jimin was surely about to put him into place and he had nothing to defend himself. Nothing than that he was drunk, stupid and liked a girl his friend was in love with. Extremely poor excuse.

“I need you to take Y/N home.”

“Listen…”, Namjoon started to talk at the same time, trying to put back in time what was coming but he quickly realized what he’d been asked to do. “Wait-what?”, and his drunken ass didn’t understand the request the way he should.

“Change of plans. Y/N is pretty drunk anyway. I don’t want her to go home alone. Go with her, make sure she’s safe.”

“But… you…she”, Namjoon was completely lost.

“We’ll talk later. I…”, he brushed his hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “I just don’t want her to get into any trouble. She can do stupid things while drunk.”

With that Jimin left, taking a quick look at you. Namjoon stood on a dance floor, not sure how to understand what just had happened. Had Jimin seen him kissing you? Why had he left you earlier without any explanation and then had asked him to take you home? And why had he been making out with another girl? Nothing of that made any sense. Especially the kiss. Everybody had been kissing not a person they should! Kissing you had been an impulse and even though he’d enjoyed that very much, he knew it had been a mistake. He’d wanted to do that. And hell, he was pretty sure you’d wanted too. He had to quickly calm himself, before more something would happen.

Still, he decided to do as he’d been asked to. He got back to you. Your drink was gone already and he realized Jimin had been right about you being drunk. Maybe even a little too drunk. So he helped you leave the table, making sure you wouldn’t spill his own unfinished drink. You slipped your hand under his jacket and wrapped your arm around his waist. Your head first landed on his shoulder and then slid off to his neck. He felt your hot breath on his skin and his mind was going places. He was tempted to hug you, to pull you closer to him. He was getting sure he was too drunk as well. Alcohol in his blood was starting to take control over him, telling to take you home, but not yours. To kiss you again, but not on the lips. To touch you, but not on your hand or back. He felt dizzy and barely called a cab. He helped you to get into the car, then he sat on the other side. He took a deep breath and leaned his head on the back. He needed to get you home safely and forget about everything.

But you didn’t give him a chance. At this state you’d forgotten what embarrassment was, your shy ass had been put into silence and brave version of you had gone out the surface. Once again your lips were dangerously close to his neck and it was starting to drive him crazy. It was like you’d known where his weak spot was. It made him groan deep in his throat and cursed any god that had ever existed for allowing this. Each passing second you were getting more and more irresistible to him.

He gently cupped your cheek and turned to you.

“...Y/N”, his voice was hoarse and he couldn’t help it.

He wanted to ask you to stop. To chill for a moment, move to the side, so he could start breathing and thinking straight again. He wanted simply to put you into bed, make sure you fell asleep and do the same at his place. And maybe take a long, cold shower. But he did not do such a thing.

A little shyly, a little not sure what he was doing, he found your lips again. You immediately reciprocate the kiss, deepening it and pulling him to you. He was so confused yet again was getting so aroused, he lost control. You grabbed his T-shirt with your fist and moaned quietly when his hand traveled from your face to your waist. His touch was gentle and carrying but you knew he was able to hold you in place like that, right where he wanted. You didn’t want to stay behind, so you left his T-shirt and slid your hand down and found his inner thigh, dangerously close to his dick. When you squeezed a little, you felt his muscles tense but he didn’t push you away. He wanted you to touch him everywhere, all night. He was sure he had not only lost his control but also mind. He absolutely loved kissing you.

He pulled away for a second or two, to catch a breath and to look at you. You were difficult to restrain in that moment as you were following his lips, hungry for more. He chuckled quietly to himself, holding your face in his hands. You looked so damn cute. He wanted to devour you whole, give everything that you’d wanted and needed, and see how that was making you to fall apart. Car stopping right in front of your building snapped him from his fantasies, which were getting more and more bold. He paid without even looking at the money and almost pushed you outside.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were kissing like crazy, with tongue, teeth and hands all over your bodies. You tried to open the door but Namjoon pinned you to it and didn’t want to let go. Capturing your lips again, he bit your lower lip, enjoying your little moans you were making. He decided there and then this was his favorite sound ever. He took your keys and blindly guided them to the lock, kissing down your neck, which made a small moan coming out of your throat, again. He chuckled at how easy that had been and how much he liked making you do that.

You almost had fallen to the floor when the door got open but he caught you just in time, pulling you close to him. He kicked the door behind him and you almost dragged him to your bedroom to pull him with you on the bed. You both fell to your sheet, making one pillow fall on the floor. The moment you felt his body weight on you, his lips found your neck. You turned your head to side to give him more access and hissed when you felt his teeth on your skin. His hands started to wander and one slid down, right under your dress and landed on your thigh, quickly finding your hip. He was trailing over your skin with his fingers, playing with the hem of your panties, teasing you and waiting for your reaction. He slid his hand under the material on your hip, keeping his thumb close to the place you wanted him the most. You felt the slightest pressure of his finger, which made a shiver go down your spine and then he took it away, making you wine. He smiled to himself, while his lips were on yours but didn’t say anything. Moving his hand lower, he grabbed your thigh and urged you to wrap your leg around his waist. You did that, adding the other one and hooking them on your ankles. With you holding him tight close to you, he started to grind his clothed cock right into you. You felt his hard length pressing on your pussy, a little painful with his pants still on. He moaned into your ear, that little friction giving him a relief but not satisfaction. He was fully hard and barely thinking. Cute sounds that you were making when his dick was brushing on your clit were driving him crazy. He was breathing loud, breathing down your neck, holding you by your waist to stop you from moving your hips. You were so eager for him to fuck you, you couldn't stay in place. You took off his beanie, threw it on the floor and tugged his hair a little. This made him grunt down in his throat and his hand moved from your hip up, right to the underside of your breast. But he didn’t touch you there. His thumb started to trace from one side to another, barely brushing it making you crazy. Your panties were all wet from your arousal, after all that friction of his cock and you just wanted him to finally take them off.

You attempted to grab him by his wrist and put his hand on your breast when you realized his hips slowed down his pace. The rising pleasure disappeared and you waited for him to do something, but instead of that he laid down, still pressed into you, not moving his body or his hand.

“Wait… Y/N… Slow down… I need to… slow down…”

He was barely able to speak, his voice hoarse and his throat felt really dry. He kissed your neck one last time and stopped for a second, hiding his face in the pillow. He was so hard, it was almost painful. He had no idea how on Earth he was able to stop and think about something else than fucking you with so little blood in his brain. With all his strength that left, he pulled himself on his arms and moved back. Immediately your hands were on him, dragging him back, tagging on his shirt, trying to take it off, asking not to stop. He sat on his heels and hid his face in his hand. What the fuck he was doing?

He felt how the bed shifted in your place. You were kneeling in front of him, still trying to get him back to you. Moving his hands away he saw you right there, he felt your lips on his, on his neck, how you started to touch him. You slid your hands down his body, straight to his hard cock. You started to palm him right then and there through his pants which drew a low moan from him. It felt so good. For a moment he let you do this. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the feeling of your gentle touch on him. His face was hidden in your hair, your scent overwhelmed him completely. He felt how you tugged his T-shirt from his pants, how your hands were roaming on his chest and sliding down his stomach. You unzipped him and wanted to take him in your hand but he grabbed your wrist and stopped you. He sighed heavily, it was still not too late.

He attempted to leave the bed, gather himself and take that last drop of dignity that had been left with him. But you didn’t want him to leave. When he was standing up you hold your hands behind you and unbuttoned your dress. You let it slip off your shoulders and fall down without any restrain, gathering around your hips. When Namjoon looked at you he choked on his breath and nearly tripped. You were naked from your waist up. You didn’t wear any bra because it hadn’t fit the dress. And now Namjoon was looking at your bare breasts and couldn’t believe his eyes. He felt his cock twitch at a sight, still hidden in his unzipped pants. You were so fucking sexy he had no idea how the hell he was supposed to just leave you like this. With his mouth agape, he was looking at how you crawled to him, how the dress pulled down your knees when you reached the edge of the bed and took his hands in yours. You wanted to put them on you, to feel him on your hot skin.

‘Y/N, don’t take this the wrong way…”, he whispered to your ear.

Namjoon took a deep breath. He had made up his mind. His hands landed on your shoulders and he gently, but firmly pushed you on the bed. With you starting to touch him again, was really hard but he managed to fully pull you back and lay you down. He took your dress and smoothly slid it down your legs and took it off. You were just in your panties, laying on the bed and waiting for his next move. You put up your hands above your head, stretching, trying to expose your body to him, show him that it was all for him. You yawned and tried to hide it with your hand but Namjoon noticed that. You were starting to get sleepy because of the all alcohol and he wanted to use that to his advantage.

He put your dress on the back of a chair that was standing close to the bed. He looked back at you. You were so god damn beautiful. He was sure in a normal situation he would have never let you go, never left you and spent the whole night tangled in the bed sheets, making all neighbors jealous and restless. But everything was so fucked up. He was wondering if you even were going to remember this evening. It would have been better if not. But on some level, on a very selfish one, he wanted you to. He wanted you to come after him, maybe while being less drunk and try again. Would he be able to resist you? He was willing to find out.

But in that moment he had to leave before Jimin came back. He adjusted himself, still being hard and zipped his pants, feeling uncomfortable. He grabbed your comforter and covered you with it. You’d been already half asleep which made everything much easier. You still trying to act horny and needy was the sexiest image ever that would live in his mind for the rest of his life. Before quietly leaving your room, he took his beanie off the floor and closed the door behind him. He needed a shower. A long, cold shower to sober up and collect his thoughts. Too much had happened and he was on the brink of the edge.

By the time he was going down the corridor in your building he’d gotten a text message. At first he thought you’d woken up and was looking for him, which would have been catastrophic. He had no idea how long he could have resisted you in this state. He was sure he would just run back to your apartment, remembering how you had looked right before he’d left. But it wasn’t you. He had to look closely to make sure he’d seen the name correctly. Things got so fucked up.

Jimin [00:35]: Thanks, Joon. I really appreciate your help. We’ll talk tomorrow.

雀

#bts #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagine #bangtan #bangtan smut #bangtan x reader #bangtan imagine #namjoon #kim namjoon #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon imagine #jimin #park jimin #jimin smut #jimin x reader #jimin imagine

103 notes · View notes

thora-jane · 3 years

Text

Twin-Way Mirror Pt. 1 (Weasley Twins/Reader Love Triangle)

Series Summary: You've been friends with the Weasley twins since your first train to Hogwarts, but as the three of you start your 6th year, you start to question if your feelings go beyond friendship.

Summary for Pt 1: as Summer draws to a close, some old friends come to take you off to the Quidditch World Cup

Warnings: none, I don't think. Maybe some tension between you and your parents.

Word count: 2,200

female!reader, 2nd person POV

Summer Holidays were special, you supposed, what with everyone taking a break from classes and unwinding for a couple months. You personally hadn’t been as big of a fan since you started Hogwarts. You were a Muggleborn, and Hogwarts was the first time you felt you actually understood school. You had been a horrible student in muggle school and consistently got terrible marks, but at Hogwarts? You were the brightest witch of your year. Even before your first day of classes, you had poured over every book cover to cover, examined your wand and robes for hours on end, and it took everything inside you not to start making potions.

Summer holidays were just the months in between. The time when you would lie to all your muggle friends about your new school (a private school, meant to reform students doing poorly in the academics department), and hold your breath amidst the tension of your muggle parents heavily encouraging you to continue to study muggle subjects and go to a muggle university after you graduate (“Come now, (y/n), you can’t possibly think you can just live out your life as a witch, do you?”).

A silver lining to all of this were the letters you would get from your friends. Once the sun had gone down and you could release your pet owl, Eros, with a letter or two strapped to his foot. In the morning, he would fly back with a letter or package before falling asleep in his cage. The letters would be from a few different friends every once in a while; Angelina would write to you about the latest news in Quidditch, always assuring you that this would be the year you make it onto the team, Hermione would send you newspaper clippings as your parents didn’t want you subscribing to a wizard newspaper, even Oliver would write and tell you about how his summers were going since he knew you didn’t see your friends much. And of course, there were the letters from the Weasleys.

You were in the same year as the twins, Fred and George, but no one could ever be friends with just a few of the Weasleys, it was always all or nothing. Ginny would write to you about quidditch (also assuring you you’d make the team, though you never did), Mr. Weasely would write and ask for common muggle objects, or with a whole laundry list of questions about muggle life, Mrs. Weasely would write asking you if you were being taken care of, sending you recipes and craft patterns, knowing how much you loved to cook and work with yarn, even Ron and Percy would write you, though mostly because Mrs. Weasley made them. Percy never let on as he scribbled about ministry business, but almost all of Ron’s consisted of “How are you, I am fine, mum wants me to write you. The twins miss you. xoxo Sorry, that was Fred and George.”

Ah, the Twins. Their letters were always your favorite, filled with page-long jokes or stories of their epic pranks and escapades, sometimes with a chocolate frog or some other sweet taped to the inside of the letter. Of course, when they mentioned making a line of pranking sweets, you were a bit hesitant to eat some of the things they sent. But you always seemed to walk away from the experience with all your teeth and toes, so you figured you wouldn’t get pranked unless they were there in person.

You kept all the letters and souvenirs and clippings sent, and even hung some up on your bedroom wall. Of course, none of the letters sent to you went unanswered, there would be days on end when you would write and craft responses to them, especially when one of the twins sent you a letter. You always closed out their responses assuring them that the three of you would see eachother again soon, and that next term would arrive before they knew it.

Granted, when you said this, you didn’t expect anyone to show up on your doorstep one day.

You were up in your room, writing out a response to George’s most recent letter and scrounging around for one of the candybars you had bought for him after finally convincing him to try muggle candy. It was then that you heard the doorbell ring. You paid it no attention, and chalked it all up to one of your mum’s friends stopping by for a coffee.

This of course, was not the case. You heard a few different voices, besides your mum, one or two of them belonged to who you assumed were women, but the others sounded much deeper. Then you heard thumping footsteps coming up the stairs and down the hall. The next thing you knew, there was a loud pounding on the door.

Then there was silence.

You weren’t quite sure who was there, but you hadn’t heard anything from your parents about company. And if there was one thing you’ve learned at Hogwarts, in these past few years especially, is that you always need to be on your toes.

You drew your wand out from your tied back hair and, holding it at the ready, opened up the door.

You weren’t quite sure who you were expecting, but not a second later two messes of red and black hair came flying towards you as Harry and Ron yanked you into a half-hug, half-tackle.

“(y/n)!” Harry laughed, moving your hand holding your wand so it didn’t stab him in the face, “the look on your face!”

Ron almost snorted, “Bloody hell, the twins would have paid galleons to see that!”

It took you a moment to recover your breath, but once the two boys stepped back from their hug, you managed to stutter out a question.

“Why are...uh...what are you doing here? And where are the twins?” You turned to Ron, who had walked over to your desk and started looking up at all the letters tapped to the wall, he started talking, but you could tell he was much more absorbed in all the papers and pictures and doodles.

“We’re here to pick you up, you’re all packed, aren’t you? The cup is in a few days and-say, were you going to eat this?” he interrupted himself, holding up one of the candy bars.

You walked past your bed and yanked a pillow out from Harry, who had seemed to make himself comfortable before you hit him with a pillow, then did the same to Ron.

“No, you may not eat that, that isn’t for you. And what cup? What do you mean all packed?” You tossed the pillow back onto your bed, and it landed on Harry’s face with an ‘oof’ before you pulled your trunk out of the closet and started tossing some of your cleaner and folded laundry in there, “Ronald I have no clue what you’re talking about. Harry, what does he mean?”

Although neither of you were in the Weasely family, you and Harry treated each other like siblings. Maybe not close friends, but the two of you were close enough that talking to him wasn’t too difficult.

“The Quidditch World Cup. Ron, didn’t you tell her?” He sat back up on your bed, looking over at Ron with his brow furrowed, “Your mum had you write her about it the other day, yeah?”

Ron smacked himself in the head, “I knew I was forgetting something! (Y/n), Dad got enough tickets to the Quidditch World Cup and you’re coming with us. Now, mum thought I wrote you and you’re supposed to be packed for school too, we’re taking all your stuff to the burrow and dropping you off at the Hogwarts express with the rest of us.”

“You’re only just now telling me?!” You tried not to shriek as you started packing faster, racking through your brain for all the things you’d need. You hadn’t gotten the list of books yet this year, but you intended on going before the year started. After running to the closet again and tossing your school uniform into the trunk, you ran over to the desk and shoved Ron aside to grab your box of letter writing things and some of the magical books you thought might be useful this year. While hastily stacking the boxes and books into your trunk, you ordered Ron and Harry from over your shoulder, “Ron, my potions kit should be under the bed. Harry, run to the bathroom and grab the small bag with butterflies on it, it should have my toothbrush, soap, shampoo, makeup -bathroom stuff. Well?”

The two boys nodded, a little intimidated at the speed you were packing. As Harry Ran to the bathroom, you turned to Ron.

“Do you remember the extra thing on the list this year? Fourth years and up needed…?”

“Don’t remind me. Fourth years and up need dress robes. I hate mine, they’re bloody awful,” he sighed, looking morose as he handed you your cauldron full of potion tools, “I’ll look like an old lady in them. What about you?”

You ran over to the closet, rifling through the jumpers and other clothes, tossing a Mrs.-Weasley-Handmade-Jumper into the trunk, “My mum took me out to get a dress a few days back, it should be...ah yes, here it is,” You pulled out a dress with see-through billowy sleeves and a skirt that went almost to the floor when you wore it, “You think this is good enough?” He raised his eyebrows, nodding.

“It looks nice,” You could tell he wasn’t too interested and agreed only to be polite, but you appreciate the sentiment as you carefully tucked it into your trunk. Harry came back and tossed the bag to you and you added it to your trunk before closing the lid and placing Eros’s cage on top. Sticking your wand back into your hair and slinging your yarn bag over your shoulder, you looked back at the two boys.

“Where are the twins? I thought they would have wanted to come pick me up?”

Ron tossed you the candy bars on your desk before walking to the other side of the trunk and helping you lift it, “Well, mum needed Hermione and Harry to help us get to a muggle house, and I tagged along. They wanted to come, but mum said she wanted to make a good impression on your parents and the last time they picked someone up from a muggle house dad had to go to at least a dozen ministry hearings.”

You chuckled, remembering how back in their third year they stole the car to pick up Harry from his aunt and uncle’s, “That sounds about right, Harry, could you get the door?”

Harry picked up Eros’s cage and held the door wide open as you and Ron waddled the trunk out of your room, stopping as you got to the edge of the stairs.

Your mum, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley turned at the sound of you making your way down the hall. The two witches waved, their faces lighting up as you greeted them, then Mrs. Weasley pulled out her wand and waved it gently, “Let me help you with that, dearie,” She smiled as your trunk delicately floated down the stairs.

“(y/n), Mrs. Weasely and Miss-” She looked over at Hermione for a second, before Hermione answered. “Granger,” She smiled politely.

“Yes, Miss Granger just explained to me that their family was going to take you to a...Wizard Football match?” She smiled a little, puzzled by the own words coming out of her mouth, “they offered to have you stay at their house,” She glanced at your trunk and the wide grin on your face, “I take it you’re interested in going?”

You nodded vigorously before pausing, “Is...Is that alright with you?”

She smiled, though it looked a bit forced, “Yes, yes it is. Just make sure you brush up on your real school subjects, please. And do mind your manners.”

You practically squealed, your hands shaking excitedly as you ran to grab your normal shoes (school shoes and dress shoes had been packed in the trunk).

Mrs. Weasely thanked your mum again and the boys and Hermione helped carry your trunk out to the car. Once you had all settled in and started to drive off, Mrs. Weasley looked at you through the rearview mirror.

“Your mum seems like a wonderful lady, but she isn’t too fond of magic, is she?” She asked gently, and you noticed the whole car go a bit quiet.

“No, she isn’t. I think she’d rather I focus more on traditional muggle subjects than magic,” You answered shyly, looking down at the yarn in your bag.

“Ah well, I wouldn’t fret too much over that, dearie. Muggles can be like that sometimes, but she’ll come around,” She offered a smile through the mirror again. Before you knew it, you were back to talking with your younger friends, excitedly asking about their summers as the five of you made your trip back to the burrow.

#fred and george #george x y/n #george x you #george x reader #fred x reader #fred x y/n #fred x you #fred weasly x reader #george wealsey x reader #fred weasley #george weasley #hogwarts #books & libraries

66 notes · View notes

whatareyousearchingfordean · 4 years

Text

Happiness Continues

Part 3: 8 Weeks Pregnant

Summary: Jensen and his wife get their first glimpse of their growing baby.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 2.6K+

Warnings: Language, brief descriptions of internal ultrasound, pregnancy related emotions

Author’s Note: This part is a little shorter than the others, but that doesn’t mean it won’t leave its impact on the story. Thanks again to @emoryhemsworth for giving this a once over, love you babes. As always, I love to hear what you all thought. Reactions, theories, or just plain flailing, I love it all xoxo Alex

“Brb crying,” @emoryhemsworth

Catch up with the series masterlist and then check out Alexandra’s Library for more by yours truly!

There was absolutely nothing glamorous about being pregnant. Y/n now stood by that statement and if anyone tried to convince her otherwise, well, she might just stab them with a fork. That’s where she was at this point. Granted, she was still in her first trimester, but she was adamant about it sucking.

First of all, the baby wouldn’t let her eat a thing. She had figured out how to control the smells quickly. They still tended to make her stomach churn, but at least she could stave off the actual vomiting. Mostly, it was anytime there was a strong scent in her general vicinity; anything distinct enough for her to detect what it was could trigger something. Unfortunately for her, that included her husband’s cologne, a scent that happened to be both of their favorites. That was awkward when he walked out of their bedroom one morning all pressed and ready to go for the day, coming to hug his wife goodbye only to have her cringe and run away to the bathroom to lose the contents of her stomach.

For the past three weeks, though, she had been living on a diet of ginger ale, peppermint tea, and sugar-free hard candies. Her stomach would turn out just about anything else and, to be honest, its preferences for what it could handle changed daily and Y/n had given up trying. Every meal was a new adventure for her and the baby. Her hours of scouring the internet for something, anything, for her to eat were wasted. Their baby did not care for anything.

Hiding her symptoms was becoming increasingly easier, though. With it still being so early, and not having even seen a doctor yet, both her and Jensen were wary to tell anyone. Call them superstitious, but they didn’t want to jinx anything just yet. Besides, it was kind of nice basking in the news just the two of them. It reminded them of the start of their relationship, only this secret wouldn’t end in a fist to a jaw... hopefully. As far as they knew, no one was suspicious of anything in both their friends and family as well as coworkers in her office.

Y/n stood in their bedroom, the dawn light peering in through the curtains as she examined herself in the mirror. Lately, she had been sleeping like a cat, but today her anxiety was in full force. The woman had tossed and turned all night, finally deciding to crawl out of bed and jump into the shower when the sun first made its appearance over the horizon. It was no use trying to sleep anymore.

As she stood there, turned to one side, she ran a hand over her lower abdomen. If she cocked her head just right, she could have sworn she noticed the start of what would ultimately be a massive balloon in the middle of her stomach. Though, to be fair, she could also be imagining it. The mind sees what it wants to, right?

The sound of the sheets ruffling had her snapping her head around to her husband who still lay in bed. He stretched out his long limbs, the longer locks on the top of his head mussed from his night’s sleep. He blinked a few times as he woke, quick to take in the looming figure of his wife at the foot of the bed. A smirk graced his features as his eyes traveled up her bare legs, noticing all she had on was a pair of panties.

“Mmm, I’ll take this wake up call any day.” His voice was husky with sleep. His wife rolled her eyes but climbed up on the bed anyway, crawling into his waiting arms and laying against his bare chest.

Y/n sighed as she nuzzled into him, “I can barely go ten minutes without being either exhausted or needing to vomit, so unless you have some sort of The Exorcist fetish I don’t know about, then I’m gonna have to decline.”

“Ugh, god,” Jensen scrunched up his nose, pushing his wife away from him as he climbed from the bed. She laughed, chasing after him into their master bathroom. Y/n slipped her arms around his waist, pulling his back against her bare chest and placing a kiss between his shoulder blades. The pressure against her sore breasts was uncomfortable right now, but not unbearable. This one was her new least favorite symptom of pregnancy.

“You nervous about today?” He whispered, grabbing her hands with his own and threading their fingers together.

Y/n let out a huff of air, the action sending goosebumps across Jensen’s skin. Of course, he had picked up on her anxiety. “Yeah, and excited. I don’t know this kind of makes it all real, you know?”

“I do.” He pulled her hand up and kissed the back of her knuckles before releasing her. He turned around in her arms to lean in and press his lips against hers. Y/n leaned into her husband, taking full advantage of having him close to her.

Jensen pulled away, running his tongue over the swell of his lower lip and cocking his head. “Why do you taste like a bag of Warheads?”

“Oh, I woke up to my stomach rolling and the only thing I had within reach was the sour candies I bought last week. It actually helped a lot.” Y/n smiled sheepishly. If she thought about it long enough, she had eaten plenty of those candies to quell her stomach enough before she could even sit up in bed so it shouldn’t be surprising her husband could still taste them on her.

“I’m not gonna lie, I kind of like it.” He flashed her a grin that was all teeth before lunging to kiss her again. His wife laughed, shaking her head at all the boyish charm she had fallen in love with shining through so early in the morning. “Alright, I need to shower. Go, make yourself some tea, and try to eat something real for me.”

Y/n scrunched up her nose as he smiled at her. She didn’t want to eat, her already flimsy stomach on overdrive today, but for her husband, she would try, muttering an exaggerated ‘all right’ as he started the shower. The woman trudged her way back out to the bedroom, finishing getting dressed for the day in her comfiest sweats, before retreating to the kitchen to make herself some tea and buttered toast. It had been a week since she had tried toast, not willing to touch the stuff after the incident, so she hoped it was a safe bet.

As the kettle came to a boil and the toaster did its magic, Y/n looked out the large window onto their courtyard. The rising sun was casting elegant patterns against the white stucco of their house and dancing along the surface of the pool.

Y/n had scheduled the first appointment of the day with her doctor because she knew that she would be up early anyway. They still had time before they needed to leave their house, which Jensen would use to his advantage, taking extra time in the shower and getting dressed. Y/n on the other hand had already done that, so now she was trying to figure out something to occupy her mind until her husband made an appearance in the kitchen. When it seemed her breakfast was not going to make a reappearance, at least for now, she decided to put on some coffee for him and started the pan to make him an omelet.

Y/n was slipping the eggs onto a plate when Jensen made his appearance in the kitchen.

“You didn’t have to make me breakfast, I know how your stomach has been.” Jensen came up to her side and put his hand on the small of her back.

“I’m surprisingly okay this morning. Must be some sort of anxiety override.” She laughed as he kissed her cheek. Y/n grabbed him a fork as he turned to pour himself a cup of coffee. She slid the plate across the island as he sat down across from her.

“I was thinking,” Y/n spoke up from behind her mug of tea, “I mean, I know it’s still far too early, but I don’t want to find out the sex.”

“No?” Jensen quirked a brow at her, his mouth full of his breakfast, muffling the word on his tongue.

“There are few mysteries left in this world most days, and I just think this is one that would be exciting.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you aren’t wrong. Who cares about our baby’s genitals anyway?”

Y/n pursed her lips and bit back the emotion already bubbling up in her, instead, allowing herself to feel excited for now, “Then it’s settled.”

Jensen looked up at her then, a smile cracking on his face. He shook his head at the giddiness over taking his wife. With everything that she had been through lately, it was refreshing to see her truly smile again. He had missed that smile.

Jensen cleaned up the mess from her making his breakfast and the two were out the door to the doctor. The office was located in St. David’s North Austin Medical Center, over thirty minutes northeast of their home, depending on traffic. Y/n had been seeing Dr. Garcia as her gynecologist for years now, and she loved the woman and the attention she paid her patients.

The couple made their way inside the familiar building, checking in at the desk and waiting in the lobby for them to be called back. When the nurse came from them, she took Y/n’s weight, vitals, and asked the usual questions before giving her a cup for a urine sample. Once Y/n returned from the bathroom the nurse instructed her to get undressed from the waist down and cover herself with the provided blanket.

The room was silent as they waited for the doctor, neither of them quite sure what to say at the moment. There were too many questions that could only be answered by the doctor. Y/n had her eyes trained on the machine to her left when a knock came from the door before it opened. Jensen squeezed her hand as Dr. Garcia came in, a smile on her face.

“Y/n, it has been a while since I’ve seen you in here,” She noted as she pulled up her chart on the computer.

“Uh, yeah, that’s kind of why we are here now.” Y/n admitted, a sheepish smile on her face.

“Well, the urine sample you provided us confirms pregnancy.” Dr. Garcia continued to examine her chart, hitting some buttons in silence. “Looks based on the information provided, you are about eight weeks along now, which will give us an expected due date of February twenty-third, all of which I will confirm after an ultrasound. Tell me a little bit about how you are feeling.”

Y/n went into detail about her symptoms the past few weeks and the doctor gave her basic information on necessary diet changes as well as a prescription for a prenatal vitamin. She also handed over pamphlets to get the couple started.

“I’m going to do a vaginal ultrasound since the fetus is still small, take a few pictures, listen to the heartbeat, and then we will get you guys out here.” Y/n nodded, laying back on the exam table as the doctor pulled up the ultrasound machine and pulled up the footrest. She helped Y/n put her feet up in position.

“You’ll feel pressure,” Dr. Garcia talked Y/n through what she was doing, though it didn’t make the action any less uncomfortable. Jensen moved to stand near her head, never letting go of his grip on her hand. Both of them watched the screen with bated breath as the doctor searched for what was growing inside her. “Ah, there we go,”

A black spot made its way onto the otherwise white screen, in the center a small white bean-shaped figure. “That’s it?” Jensen asked, leaning in for a closer look.

“That’s it, and the little blip in the center there is its heartbeat.” Dr. Garcia pointed on the screen before taking a snapshot and starting her measurements. She hit a few more buttons and the rhythmic whoosh of the baby’s heart could be heard like a siren in the small room.

Jensen let out a small huff of air before he brushed away the hairs on Y/n’s forehead and placed a kiss there, his lips lingering for a second against her skin. There was no point in trying to hold back the tears anymore. The longer she stared at the screen, the more the realization of the fact that she had a tiny human growing inside of her began to take hold in her brain. Sure, she had known for a few weeks now, but not being able to see it on her body, finally having visual and audio proof had broken the dam in her head.

“I’ll print this picture and be right back. You can get dressed now.” Dr. Garcia smiled at the equally teary-eyed couple. Y/n finally broke her gaze from the computer to look up at her husband, her hand coming up to cup his jaw.

“Oh, Jay,” She sighed as she wiped away the tear that had fallen down his cheek with her thumb.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” He breathed out, staring at his beautiful wife below him. There had been nights he dreamed about starting a family, the woman always a blurry figure in his mind. Now, with the actual woman staring back at him, he felt like his chest might explode. He loved her more than his own life, and he didn’t think it was possible to love a person more, but seeing this ultrasound had changed all that. There was enough room in his heart for someone else, and that was his child.

****

Jensen dropped Y/n off at home before meeting Steve at the studio to work on their second album. His wife wanted to take a nap after not having gotten much sleep the night before, and he was more than happy to oblige her. If he was being honest, he would do anything for her right now as he continued to ride the high from their doctor’s appointment.

Y/n curled up on the couch with the television playing a soft jazz radio station and she fell asleep with ease. Most days, it felt like she slept better anywhere but her bed if her husband was not curled up next to her. The large king-sized mattress just felt too empty without him.

She woke up a few hours later, the sun now low in the sky. Y/n checked the time before cursing to herself and jumping out of the warm blanket she was curled up in. The trash would be coming their way soon, and in the excitement of the morning, she had forgotten to put it out. Slipping on a pair of sandals, she headed to the garage to grab the cans and drag them down the driveway. She pulled them to the end of the drive, making sure they would not be in her husband’s way when he returned.

Y/n pushed the recycling can to the side and something caught her eye. She squatted down, taking in the handful of used cigarette butts that were just barely visible against the stone of their driveway. A frown pursed her lips and she brushed the trash into the street before returning inside to find something to make for dinner.

Part 4: 12 Weeks Pregnant

Forevers: @22sarah08 @akshi8278 @anathewierdo @atc74 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @callmekda @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @ellewritesfix05 @emoryhemsworth @flamencodiva @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @janicho88 @jensengirl83 @katehuntington @lyarr24 @malfoysqueen14 @mrsjenniferwinchester @msmarvelouswinchester @polina-93 @sleepylunarwolf @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan @smol-and-grumpy @superfanficnatural @supraveng @talesmaniac89 @tranquility-or-chaos @waywardbeanie @winchest09

Happiness Continues: @ashleyrose0117 @austin-winchester67 @deanmonandnegansbitch @deans-baby-momma @death-unbecomes-you @dvnmbabe @harryhook-lover @hoboal87 @itsdesiree86 @let-me-luve-you @lunarmoon8 @onethirstyunicorn @parinarain @rebelemilu @smoothdogsgirl @spnfamily-j2 @stoneyggirl @squirrelnotsam @traceyaudette @winqhster @zpandaqueen

190 notes · View notes

callmecallmecrazy · 3 years

Text

Keeping Up with Old Friends

*****

Well, it’s another odd one. Somewhere between preppy and stodgy, old-fashioned man I guess? This is actually brand spanking new! If it hadn’t been for Covid, this would have been the fastest story I’d ever written!

*****

“Josh? Is that you?” Henley saw his old college pal, the wannabe hipster with a scruffy beard and flannel button downs ordering coffee at a Starbucks. Except, scruffy Josh was smooth shaved with a gentle part in his hair and dressed in a tight fitting lime green polo, creased khakis, and polished loafers. And the Josh he knew would never order from Starbucks or any corporate chain for that matter. But the tiny polo logo on his chest suggested that had definitely changed.

“Henley! Hey man,” his voice was still the same chipper and little high pitched. Henley met his friend in a hug, noticing that his formerly thin arms had a plethora of veins bulging up over visible muscles. For someone who claimed to hate pretension, he sure had gone full tilt.

“Surprised to see you here,” Henley half-joked while teasingly pressing on the polo player on Josh’s shirt.

“Ha! Yeah man, turns out they have some good stuff! Plus, it’s close to work.”

“Where are you working now?”

“Hemplebaum Inc.” The big smile he offered was met by a wide eyed stare from Henley. Josh was a film and lighting guy. Last they’d talked, he’d been working on some plays downtown. Certainly not at “evil corporation incorporated”.

“What happened to the plays?”

“Ya know, I wanted a change.” Josh shoved his hands into his pockets. “Plus, the money sucks. I didn’t want to share a studio my whole life.” “Aren’t they, like, totally evil?” Josh frowned, his face taking on an overly broad and exaggerated look. Had his head grown?

“Hey man, they’re cool. I got headhunted by a department chief. I’m not one of those office drones filling foreclosures and manipulating bank accounts.” In response to Henley’s increasingly horrified look, Josh shrugged and laughed. “I don’t think they do that stuff anymore either.”

He glanced at his watch, a shiny rolex, and then back at Henley. “Hey man, great seeing you. Maybe we’ll hang out sometime? I gotta get back to the office!” Henley watched Josh walk out, noticing how well he filled out those khakis. His buttocks had developed a shelf like quality, curving the pants out awkwardly as he walked away.

“That was so strange,” Henley said aloud. But people change. Josh seemed happy and healthy. Maybe he always wanted to be a frat boy after all? Henley got his coffee, black, and took the train downtown. As he sipped on the scalding coffee, Henley did think about some of what Josh said. Downtown was prohibitively expensive. Henley paid in time what he couldn't afford in rent having to ride in everyday. Sure, he loved life down here but he really couldn’t enjoy it as much as he’d like. But then, Henley could never handle being some corporate drone.

-----

“Josh? Is that you?” The big man standing in front of the drink counter, picking up a gigantic fuzzy looking drink, didn’t physically resemble Josh at all. He was big, the Navy blazer he wore couldn’t hide the broad shoulders and his green and blue rep tie had a hard time lying flat over his bulging pecs. And his hair, last time well groomed but still with a youthful length, was sheared down into a practically flat bit of black hair, shiny and parted. The face was still the same, even though the hair made his face look extremely square.

The man looked back at Henley confused for a moment before a tinge of understanding glittered in his eyes.

“Henley Tator,” his voice was slower and deeper. While Henley went in for a hug, Josh replied with a one armed side hug and pat on the back. He practically grimaced when Henley went full hug.

“Josh! Man, it’s been awhile.” “Yes Henley, I’ve been very busy at work. And please, call me Joshua, it’s more professional.”

“Wow, still at Hemplebaum?”

“Yes, moving up the ladder. What about you, Henley?”

“Oh ya know, I’m still at the art funding startup. It’s hard but I enjoy it.”

“Pay well?” “Ha, you know it doesn’t.” “I can tell,” Joshua eyed Henley’s tattered jeans and waffle shirt with distaste. Henley was taken aback by the outright disdain.

“Well, I’m passionate about it.” Joshua just nodded. “You’re looking good. Gym time is really paying off.” “Yes,” Joshua’s stern demeanor dropped a touch, there a bit more levity in his voice suddenly. “There’s a corporate gym and it’s free and they even give you an hour a day to use it - paid!” He was practically giddy as he talked. Henley relaxed a bit. This was the Josh he knew, chirpy and friendly though not exceptionally outgoing. And honestly, Josh had always been the kind of guy who dove head first into anything. It really wasn’t shocking that he’d treat his job the same way he’d treated edibles, EDM, and frisbee golf.

“You still doing frisbee golf? Since you’ve got the bod now,” Henley playfully slapped one of Joshua’s broad shoulders and was shocked at how firm the muscle was.

“I’ve been doing a lot of golf! I play with several of my coworkers and even some of the junior partners. I’m getting my handicap down too.”

“Oh, you’re playing real golf?”

“Yes, it’s very enjoyable. And great for business bonding. Chance for men to talk about work, wives, sports. Say, you watch the game last weekend?” That was wholly unlike Josh. But again, he was probably throwing himself into the corporate world.

“Nah, man, I’m not into basketball.”

“It’s football season.” He replied so directly and sincerely Henley almost fell over. “I know not everyone is into the NFL, but I assumed you would at least watch your alma mater. And our Bulls are having a great season. 4-0 in conference play.” Joshua kept talking about football as Henley stared deep into his eyes. Was this really Josh? The guy hadn’t even known what sport a touchdown was part of.

“Anyway, Henley, it’s been great catching up. Maybe we can grab some beers and watch a game sometime. I need to return to the office.” Joshua checked his watch, flashing the shiny gold in front of Henley. As the muscleman walked out, Henley couldn’t help but notice the incredibly large derriere. The vents on his suit jacket hung awkwardly over the luscious rump and it jiggled every so slight as he walked. A stunning contrast to the hard muscle covering the rest of his body.

“Yeah, great to see you Josh-ua,” he forced out the last syllable. It made sense to do it. This was not the Josh he knew. This was apparently Joshua, his friend? Henley grabbed his coffee, black, and tried to sip on it on the train. It was a little too hot for him and he was stuck holding it between his hands awkwardly for the whole ride.

-----

“Josh? Is that you? I mean, Joshua?” Henley had avoided the coffee shop since their last encounter. He told himself it was all in his head, but everything about these encounters creeped him out. Joshua seemed like a totally different person. He wasn’t sure if it was steroids, the growth seemed extremely quick, or perhaps just the makeover itself made him look different. But he was finally caffeine deprived enough to step in, and there was Joshua. Or at least a Joshua facsimile standing next to another man.

This Joshua wore a tight fitting suit, seemingly straining at both the broad shoulders and around the crotch. It was exceptionally subdued, a rather pale black color with a white button down shirt and blue and green rep tie. His hair was the same, but his face had undergone a change. His jaw, formerly a little pointed and sharp, spread wide and hung low, giving his face a square, lantern shape. He stood ramrod straight, sipping from his milky looking drink. The man next to Joshua was older, but otherwise nearly identical. He was thicker around the middle, but any gut he might have was hidden by the extremely high rise of his pants, sitting above his belly button just under the rib cage. His tie was black and grey with a subtle windowpane pattern.

The man stared at Henley for a moment before tapping Joshua on the shoulder.

“John Howard,” his voice was slow and deep. “I believe this boy is trying to get your attention.” The younger man turned to look at Henley and then a faint bit of recognition crossed his face.

“Henley Tator,” the voice was practically monotone, low and deep. He took a few powerful steps forward and offered a large, rough hand. Confused, Henley accepted it and the grip practically shattered his bones.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Joshua turned to face the older man. “This is a friend from college. Henley Tator. Henley, this is my boss.” He gestured robotically between the two. Amplebottom offered his hand and it was the same rough shake.

“Nice to meet you….,” Henley sort of trailed off, hoping to get a first name.

“And to you, Henley,” he put a very strange emphasis on the words, as though he had never said them before. Henley turned back to his old friend.

“So, Joshua,...” he was cut off by a cough from Amplebottom.

“Please call me John Howard,” Joshua said curtly. “Mr. Amplebottom thinks I would be better suited professionally as John Howard.” The way he spoke, extremely even in both rhythm and pitch, was unnerving. Henley could make out some of Josh’s features in the hulking face before him. An upturned nose and naturally thin eyebrows over wide eyes resembled the Josh he knew. But the rest of the face clearly belonged to this corporate meathead named John Howard.

“Okay, John-”

“John Howard.”

“John Howard. So, how is work?”

“I am very happy at Hemplebaum. I was recently put in charge of development acquisitions under Mr. Amplebottom. He has been a great advisor in my career.”

“That’s great. Glad to hear you’re doing good!”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom has assigned me to a downtown acquisition project.”

“Acquisition?”

“Correct, we have a potential development on 520 Porter and need to remove the building.”

“Huh, okay. So what building are you removing?”

“Currently the future site of Hemple Housing Porter is occupied by the Cherub Theatre.” “Cherub Theatre? You used to work there? You wanna tear it down?”

“It is an eyesore. And it occupies a lot with high economic potential. It is better suited for development.”

“Josh-,”

“John Howard.”

“What the hell happened to you?” The wide eyes suddenly narrowed sharply and almost seemed to sink back into his skull a little.

“I’m offended by your tone, Henley. And honestly,” he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves while disgustingly eyeing Henley’s dirty clothes up and down. “I grew up. You could do with some growing.”

“You’ve grown into a soulless jerk. We used to mock those fucking money obsessed frat boys back in college.” “I just bought a house out in Chester. Right next door to Chadwick Statton. You remember Chadwick?” “Oh my god, he was that Kappa Kappa Kappa asshole.”

“The KKK joke is stale. Besides, it’s very difficult to purchase a home in that neighborhood. I was fortunate to golf with him and he gave me an in with the Board. Plus, I’m working on my country club application. The application fee is $50,000. Could you afford that?” “Jesus Christ! Fifty k just to fucking apply? You’re insane.”

“And you, Henley, are a child. But if you ever decide to grow up,” he reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a thick black card and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

“John Howard,” Mr. Amplebottom suddenly interrupted the discussion. John Howard stiffened up and faced his boss. “I’m glad you had this chance to catch up with your fraternity brother, but we have wasted time. I assume you’ll stay late to make it up?” “Of course, Mr. Amplebottom.” They turned to leave. Henley got a good look at the pair. Despite the broad shoulders and bulging pectorals, both had a distinctly pear shaped body, with wide hips and massive butts that shook just a touch as they walked. Henley laughed to himself, realizing Amplebottom really lived up to his name.

Henley grabbed the card from his pocket and examined it. It was a thick card stock and slightly textured. The Hemplebaum logo was obnoxiously large in one corner. Right in the middle was John Howard Johnson, Associate. Henley was quite sure he was going mad. That was absolutely not his last name in college! Had he changed his entire fucking name to fit in with these people? Golfing with Chad, obeying his boss like some braindead goon, destroying his old workplace to build, what? Multi-use condos? Like there isn’t enough of that? The Cherub is a relic, in a good way. Had Josh been putting on the entire time he was in college? Was this who he truly was? No, no this name changing was a deeper sign. Maybe a psychotic break?

It occurred to him that standing in a Starbucks staring at a business card as people queued up around him made him look insane. And he had to get to work anyway. This whole thing had become so ridiculous he’d just ignore it. He ordered his coffee, adding a heavy dose of cream, and went downtown.

-----

“John Howard? Is that you?”

“You’ve reached Hemblebaum Inc acquisitions division. How may I direct your call?” Damn, his card didn’t even list a direct number. Henley had tossed the card around his apartment for a while, even starting to dial once or twice. But then he’d ask himself why exactly he was doing this. John Howard, whoever he was, wasn’t Henley’s old friend. He wouldn’t have even spoken to Henley back in the day. But theoretically this man was Josh or had been Josh. And Henley couldn’t shake him from his mind.

“May I speak with John Howard Johnson?” Henley’s voice cracked a touch as he spurt out the words.

“I’ll transfer you to his desk,” replied the chipper female voice. The line filled with static and then began ringing. After a few rings, he was bumped back to the secretary.

“Would you like me to give Mr. Johnson a message on your behalf?” “Oh, uh, no thank you.”

“If this is a private matter, I can forward you to his personal mailbox.”

“Sure.”

“One moment.” There wasn’t any ring, just straight to the mailbox. He could practically see the stodgy man who produced the recording.

“You have reached the desk of John Howard Johnson. Leave a message and I will respond.” Damn, he was so terse and humorless. And what exactly was he going to say? The words came out of his mouth before he could think about them.

“Hey, John Howard. This is Henley Tator, from college. I was thinking about what you said when you gave me your card. So, call me back?” He left his number and hung up. What on earth had he been thinking? I mean, the growing up thing had crossed his mind. His two bedroom apartment was rough to afford even with two roommates. It would be nice to have his own place. And his clothes could use an update from his student days. Of course, he wondered exactly how long he’d be waiting for a call back, which gave him far too much time to ponder his plans.

------

“This is Henley,” he wouldn’t normally answer the phone for an unknown number, but since he had no idea when John Howard would call, or from what number, Henley snagged the phone every time it rang. Sure, he’d fielded a few calls from telemarketers, but he was going to get to the bottom of this. Hardy Boy or something or other.

“Hello Henley, this is John Howard Johnson, I am returning your call from 2:15.” Damn, he was a total stiff. He was probably sitting at his desk, feet flat on the floor, back ramrod straight staring straight ahead.

“Hey John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley, how may I assist you?” Straight to the point.

“Well, you know I was thinking about what you said at Starbucks. About growing up and stuff.”

“Yes, you are quite childish.” “Can you help?”

“Of course, I think an interview with Mr. Amplebottom would be a delightful way to have a new start. I shall arrange an 8:00 a.m. appointment tomorrow. He’ll be expecting you. Check in at the lobby by 7:45. Oh, and please find more suitable attire. This is a professional work environment.” “Great, well, that’s a lot more than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Umm, no idea.”

“You asked for help, I am providing it. Is something wrong?”

“No, no, no. Thank you so much! I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll see Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, John Howard.”

“You are welcome, Henley.” Click. Well, that was brisk. But a development. Now of course, he’d need to find clothes. I mean, he had a suit, just the one, in navy blue, and it got pulled out once a year or so for weddings. A dab of cologne would top it off. He didn’t want to be suspicious. Of course, as far as he could tell, the only person who thought something was amiss was him.

-----

“This is Henley,” he replied to the officer checking name at the front desk. He was a private security guard, bulky and bull necked with biceps that practically shredded his sleeves. The stern faced man checked a list carefully.

“First name?”

“Henley.” The officer stared at him.

“Henley Henley?”

“No, Henley Tator.” He could sense the guard sighing internally. Henley was such an odd name, it usually was more than enough information for people to locate him. But, judging by John Howard, this was probably an extremely by-the-books business.

“39th floor. Please give your name to the secretary and she’ll let you in. Tator, Henley. Less confusion.” The man curtly directed him towards the elevator and returned to his post by the door.

Everything about the lobby, the elevator and the entry way on floor 39 was the same: wood, dark, overbearing. Harsh fluorescent lighting easily guided the path. The whole place was like a time capsule, the height of early 60s style. This might as well have been a set for the early seasons of Mad Men.

The sharp ping of the elevator signalled his arrival and after a quick check-in, he was led across a sea of cubicles towards a large office in the corner. Despite the early time, the office was already alive. He caught glimpses of suited men at some desks and a trio of buff suits standing by a water cooler.

Amplebottom’s office continued the trend. It was big with large windows along the wall. He had a gigantic wooden desk with an equally large chair that seemed twice as wide as normal. Which made sense given his butt. He glanced up as Henley entered but did not stand.

“Henley Tator,” the way he said his name was so peculiar. He spoke so slowly that emphasis ended up on the wrong syllables, making the words sound foreign to Henley himself.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley walked over in front of the desk and offered his hand. Amblebottom leaned forward and shook it. He’d prepared himself for the vice grip and felt the muscles in his forearm swell as he clenched back. Once that was over, Henley pulled back a chair and began to sit.

“Before you sit down,” his thick words poured molasses over Henley’s movements. He found himself standing upright and looking at Amplebottom. The man was a practically a hypermasculine parody, low brow, big nose, wide jaw with a gigantic cleft chin. A touch of receding hair over the temples added more dignity than age. His clothing was similar to the other day, pale black suit and subtle tie.

“John Howard setup this interview. I am unsure how you can contribute to Hemplebaum.” Henley stood uncomfortably as Amplebottom stared at him. He took a dry swallow and stared into the big man’s eyes. They were a strange grey color, cold and severe and almost lifeless. He also found it hard to look away, they were enrapturing. “What do you expect from me?” Henley was almost sure he saw the grey eyes flash.

“I guess, umm, I was just hoping for a job?”

“That sounds very convincing, son,” the droll response unnerved Henley more.

“I want to try something new. More grown-up.”

“Hemplebaum isn’t some urban start up with billiards and soy milk. This is a very demanding corporation. I expect my employees to be eager and dedicated.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley found himself nodding in response. He spread his legs a little wider and clasped his hands behind his back. It was more comfortable than just letting them hang and it prevented fidgeting.

“This job can also be very rewarding. Acquisitions works on a baseline salary plus commission incentives and bonuses.”

“How much could I make?” Henley honesty hadn’t thought about the actual financial potential of the job. Sure, he’d casually looked up the cost of homes in Chester, but he hadn’t really considered the salary.

“As a Junior Associate, you’d start with a baseline of 100 plus three percent commission with incentives quarterly based on goals and projects. Do well, and you can quickly move up.”

“Shit, seriously?”

“I am always serious Henley.”

“No, sorry, Sir,” he tacked on the honorific quickly. The financial prospects were huge! “That’s more than twice what I make now.”

“Yes, the corporate world has perks.”

“I’d like a job as a Junior Associate, Mr. Amplebottom.” That caused the bigger man to smile.

“Are you willing to dedicate yourself to your job, Henley? We do not tolerate slackers.”

“Yessir!”

“Well, I think, based on John Howard’s recommendation, that I can give you a test run.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“However, there will be a few adjustments required. Your suit is fine, the sneakers are not. And ties are mandatory with a collared shirt. Human resources will give you a rundown of our policies. I’m assuming you probably won’t have work appropriate clothing. The company can offer you a corporate card to get yourself setup. You’ll receive automatic payroll deductions to pay it back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“I appreciate this new eagerness from you. I assure you, if you work hard, you’ll find Hemplebaum the most rewarding place.”

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he said confidently to the guard. The officer, a gruff man with visible tattoos on his hulking forearms, gave him a once over and checked his name off a list. He said nothing as Henley headed inside towards the elevator. The glass walls of the elevator gave him a great chance to reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

The employee handbook was massive. Something like 200 pages of rules, regulations, and suggestions mixed in with corporate speak and industry jargon. While HR had gone over some basics of the position, personnel forms, and whatnot, the only section he’d read closely was on wardrobe since Amblebottom specifically mentioned it. It wasn’t terribly confusing since it included not just general recommendations but pictures, stores, and tiers of items towards “building a man’s wardrobe.”

Henley followed the basic directions and found the elegant, tiny menswear shop the manual recommended. Upon hearing that he had recently gained employment at Hemplebaum, the elder employee immediately went to work, selecting an array of khakis and polos to start. Henley had resisted the creased pleats but to his dismay the shopkeeper insisted. He had successfully rebuffed the notion that he needed new underwear. He was an adult, he could make private decisions on his own. The man also said he’d begin working on a basic suit. Henley referred to it as “black” and was politely informed that the color was “charcoal” and black suits were only for funerals.

Which is how he found himself, smooth faced from new toiletries, in a salmon polo and crisp khakis, waiting on the elevator. He had a minor flashback to when he first ran into John Howard. Joshua. Josh. Whoever he was now. Their outfits were similar, but Henley took a moment as he brushed a lock of hair from his eyes to remind himself that he was just playing pretend. He was figuring something out. Capitalist finery was required. Although his mind had already started calculating exactly when he could get his own apartment.

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he answered as the office desk rang. He’d quickly been put into a cubicle and signed into a company website to begin training. Usual stuff, safety procedures, privacy policies and intellectual property, then lots and lots of company information, acquisition and retail training, even negotiating for beginners. He had been expecting to find a diversity or harassment training, but the program, like seemingly everything else here, was highly structured and old-fashioned. It was probably deeper in the training. He’d swiped his new ID card when he got up for the bathroom or to get some water, the program seemed on a timer because if he dallied or got distracted the pages would time out and he’d have to start again. On the plus side, it made the day pass extremely quickly.

“Henley Tator,” he recognized that stoic bass. “This is John Howard Johnson.”

“Hey, John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley. I will be going to the cafeteria for lunch in 15 minutes. If you are hungry, you are welcome to come along.”

“Sure thing, John Howard! Thanks! I am getting hun-.”

“Please meet by the elevator in ten minutes.” John Howard was not a chatter. Never had been. But it gave him something to look forward to so he rushed to finish a basic finances video quiz narrated by a corporate casting finance bro in a tasteful suit talking about “life at the club” and “the importance of appearances.” Finally, he badged out of his computer for lunch.

By the elevators, in an impossibly rigid stance, legs apart, hands straight at his side, face forward, was John Howard. The square faced muscle man was packed into a charcoal suit and shiny dress shoes. Henley noticed the colorful tie had been replaced with a more muted one with barely noticeable muted black stripes.

“Henley Tator,” he offered his rough hand and Henley accepted.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said, half mocking but also happy to see a semi-familiar face.

“The cafeteria is on Floor 15,” John Howard said briskly as they stepped in.

“So, having a good day?”

“My day is doing well, thank you. How is your day?”

“Good, lots of new information. Guess I need a lot of training.”

“The gym is on the fifth floor. It is a good source of weight training.”

“Oh awesome! Yeah, man you look great. I definitely should hit that up.”

“I am happy to show you. I workout an hour before work each day and one hour afterwards.”

“Holy crap dude! And you live out in Chester? How do you find time to sleep.”

“A good night’s sleep is important for muscle growth. I try not to waste time on silly things.”

Henley had built a small salad for himself and grabbed some water. John Howard had taken the platter, a slab of meat in gravy, potatoes, and greens. Combined with what appeared to be a frothy glass of milk. He sat the two down at a table with two other men. One was a stoic, stern faced man who looked like he could be John Howard’s brother. The other was a much flashier man with smooth blonde hair and a plaid bowtie.

“Henley, this is Bert Anderson, accounting,” he gestured to his clone. “And this is-” he was cut off by the flashier man.

“Rotterham Casper Cornelius Southard, call me Rip. Accounts. So, J.H. mentioned you were his old college bro? Bet you got up to some mischief back in the day, eh?” he gave John Howard a playful punch, and he did not react.

“I prefer John Howard.”

“I know you do, J.H.”

“So, you’re both in accounting?” Henley asked. Bert shook his head while Rip laughed.

“No, Bert here is a number cruncher. I manage accounts. Management, keeping clients happy. Happy-hours, bars, strippers, the works. I’m the fun one.” “I’m sure your wife does not approve.”

“She approves of that pool boy I hired for her. She approves of our second home in Mayfield Valley. She can approve of my dalliances.” Henley mostly stayed silent as they talked about work, wives, and sports.

-----

“Take a seat, Henley,” Mr. Amplebottom gestured to one of the extra wide chairs before his desk. Henley hardly took up half, but he wondered if they were wide enough for Amblebottom’s ample bottom.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” Henley hadn’t seen much of his boss the past week, but he’d found himself thinking more and more fondly of his boss. The training videos included a lot of stuff on professional behavior, and while a lot of it seemed like a pathetically antiquated throwback to worse times, it wouldn’t hurt to adopt some of the culture. At least while he was here.

“Just doing a check-in, seeing how it’s going.” Amplebottom made constant eye contact. Those grey eyes were engaging, sort of hard to look away from.

“It’s good, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Enjoying the training?”

“It’s very informative.”

“Glad to hear it. I take my employees personal development very personally. I want you to think of me as a mentor.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, let me give you some advice.”

“Yes sir.”

“I appreciate the fraternity makeover. Really, it’s a classic look. But it doesn’t say corporate. It doesn’t say rising star. It doesn’t say money. Does that make sense?”

“Umm, I guess so.” “Page 183 in the handbook. Suggestions for the transition between fraternal life and entering the corporate world.”

“I wasn’t in a fraternity,” Henley laughed.

“I was under the impression that was how you know John Howard. That you were one of his Kappa Alpha Sigma brothers?” “I, umm, no. And I don’t think… John Howard was either?”

“You should work on speaking directly. These umms and pauses don’t project confidence.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, you’re dismissed.”

“Thank you sir.”

One his way out, Henley took a moment to swing by John Howard’s desk. Partially just to wish his fellow worker a good weekend, but also because that fraternity question bobbed around his head.

“John Howard?” The stalwart man seated perfectly straight rotated his chair to face Henley. Henley noticed that he sat on an extra wide chair and seemed to fill it well. All those hours in the gym seemed to harden every muscle on his body except his butt.

“Henley Tator, do you need something?”

“Just wanted to say have a good weekend.” “Enjoy your weekend as well Henley. If you’re feeling comfortable, I can show you the company gym Monday. I workout at 7 am and 7 pm everyday.”

“Yeah, that would be great- wow you’re here a long time!”

“I take a lot of pride in my position at Hemplebaum. I hope to become a division partner. Legacy membership at Rolling Acres is five hundred grand. And that’s my place.” Henley pondered the man before him. Honestly, there was a lot to like about John Howard. He was honest, straightforward, and hardworking. But there was something callous, cold, and privileged about him.

“Hey, John Howard. Were you in a fraternity?”

“Kappa Alpha Sigma, you know that Henley.” Did he know? He looked like a K-Sig, the kind of former athlete who came to party hard and maybe pass a class or two.

“Anyway, enjoy your weekend. I need to finish up. Good night.” John Howard turned back towards his desk without another word, leaving Henley to shrug and walk to the tube and head home.

-----

Page 183 started with three pictures: a polo and khaki sporting college student, a man in trousers and blazer, and finally an old and noticeably thicker man in a conservative suit. Then it talked about the foundations of a man's future and his wardrobe.

“The navy blazer is a classic item that works for semi formal occasions and casual office places. Even as a man transitions to daily suits, the navy blazer will always have a place at a garden party or fraternity alumni event.”

“Ties and bowties are a delightful way to add color to an outfit. It is important to view the event and location when making a selection. Bow ties in particular are more flamboyant in a workplace and should be considered carefully. Business attire defaults to long ties, and more conservative workplaces require more conservative choices. Consider emulating the attire of your superiors.”

“Supports should be practical and supportive. Belts are fine for casual outings; however, braces are more desirable for suiting, both for support and style as it allows a more traditional and flattering cut. Similarly, undergarments should provide support and coverage. A traditional undershirt with sleeves is ideal, as it provides sweat protection. Briefs are the most appropriate underwear choice, as it provides support without being extraneous. It is also compatible with tennis for those who participate in sport.”

This had to have been the third comment someone had about his choice of underwear. It seemed a deeply intrusive thing for a company to comment on. But a lot of other sections are good information. It explained why men like Bert and John Howard wore ties and Rip, in a more colorful position, had the flashier bowtie. He took some basic notes and decided he’d hit up that menswear shop. They had a company account, he could probably just tack it on to his previous bill.

-----

“Henley Tator,” he said simply. The guard, the same one as every other day, checked the list and let him in. Uncharacteristically, the guard spoke to him.

“Early start?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the gym.”

“Ah, good choice. I’ve been lifting since my football days,” the guard said while flexing a bicep. It strained the fabric of his shirt so much there was a tiny tear at the sleeve.

“Ah damn, gonna have to size up. Sorry, please don’t report me.” He suddenly seemed mildly afraid.

“Report you?”

“Some of the guys here are real sticklers about manners. They don’t like cursing.” “No, man, we’re cool. You look great! Not sure I’d want to be that big honestly.”

“Hey, once you start, you never wanna stop.”

Henley wanted to stop. John Howard was already changed and waiting on him, so Henley rushed to change and hit the floor. The next hour was a diabolic hell. John Howard started with squats. Henley got a good look at his friend's monstrous calves and steel cut quads, surprisingly pale but doubted John Howard wore short pants much. The most shocking feature was watching that jiggly ass clench and thrust with each repetition. Hard muscle lurked underneath the jelly-like layer. And it went on and on. Big lifts, slow lifts, legs, legs, legs, he was deeply certain he would never be able to walk again. John Howard had to help him strip down and lumber into a shower stall.

He took his time rinsing off, rubbing the corporate provided products into his aching muscles and letting the hot water relax him. Leaning against a wall, still gasping for breath, he let himself drift off for a bit.

“You alright, Henley?” John Howard asked, cracking the curtain.

“Just, just finishing up,” he said, turning off the water and grabbing his towel. In the locker room, he saw John Howard's muscled glory in more detail, the ravenous cuts of his back rippled as he walked. He was thick from below his pecs down to his butt, no real waistline, and most of that part of his back was covered in cotton fabric. His legs were bare below the butt, the garganuan thighs popping through the pristine white cotton of the briefs.

While Henley got ready, John Howard went to a mirror and began applying white shaving cream to his practically smooth face, treating every exposed piece of chin and neck to the cream and razor. Slipping back on his underwear, Henley donned a white undershirt and pulled up some pleated khakis. Out of his locker came a white button down shirt which he began hastily buttoning. John Howard was finishing his face with aftershave and examining himself in the mirror. As he approached the lockers, Henley got a frontal look at him. He hadn’t realized how high waisted these briefs were from the back. His bellybutton was completely hidden, practically cartoonish.

Henley went to the mirror and began combing and styling his hair, working in product and brushing a part in. His hair was getting trained for it, the strands beginning to grow a part on the right side naturally. It looked pretty good like this. More corporate that he had preferred, but it was a classic style for a reason.

As he returned to his locker, John Howard was pulling some trousers up his legs, hoisting them up with a pair of silk braces. Everything about John Howard was just so big nowadays, his proportions practically Marvel comic level, that he hadn’t realized how high waisted his pants had become. No one wore them like that nowadays. At least no one who wasn’t LARPing or Mr. Amplebottom. John Howard reminded Henley of Mr. Amplebottom, a lot. The book said to copy your bosses outfits. John Howard had taken that to heart.

Henley fashioned the gold and green tie around his neck before slipping into a navy blazer with prominent buttons. John Howard walked towards the mirror again as he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt and adorned them with cufflinks.

“Nice man,” Henley admired.

“Thank you,” John Howard was almost bashful as he showed them to Henley. He noted the onix black button had the letters J.H.J cut into them.

“Are they monogrammed?”

“Yes! It’s very popular at the club. And they were suggested by the haberdashery.” “Haberdashery? Wow, that sounds so English.”

“These are made in America. All the clothes recommended by Hemplebaum are.” John Howard seemed agitated by the suggestion. “I just meant the word.”

“I don’t want people to think I’m un American.” The stern response caused Henley to stay silent as the pair continued dressing.

-----

Henley was honestly looking forward to his weekly review meeting with Mr. Amplebottom. He was starting to get in the swing of this whole corporate thing. And the tantalizing prospect of his first paycheck was right around the corner. That wasn’t the only corporate benefit he was enjoying. His clothes were tight. Quite tight. At first he’d thought something was snagged, but the small strain on the buttons of his shirt was unmistakable. As he pulled up his pants this morning, he’d heard a slight tear as a few seams in the rear snapped. He’d have to get some things let out. Or maybe new ones altogether.

The growth had bothered him a bit at first, it seemed to come out of nowhere. But John Howard explained it was just the result of an effective workout and diet plan. On John Howard’s suggestion, he’d dropped the salads and switched to the daily platter, a fuller meal for growth. And the workouts meant he was exhausted everyday after work and went right to bed. Which kind of went against his reason for working here in the first place. Wait, why was he working here again? To make money. He wanted to enjoy more of life downtown. Wasn’t it something about John Howard?

“Take a seat Henley.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Henley gratefully replied. He plopped himself into the cushioned chair and did his best to keep his back tall and straight. The men around here had impeccable posture, at least the ones in acquisitions. Rip certainly knew how to relax. Which gave him an idea for after the meeting.

“How has work been proceeding?”

“Very good, sir. The trainings have been very helpful and I am eager to begin assisting with projects.”

“Good. I am pleased with the energy you’ve devoted to your job.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“I’ve decided to assign you to the Hemple Housing Porter project under John Howard Johnson.” “I look forward to it.” “Very good. We’ve acquired the property, but there is still concern about ‘historical value.’ You will be tasked with pricing and selling anything valuable inside.” “Yes sir… is that the Cherub theatre?” Henley got a touch concerned.

“We refer to projects by our goals. But the Theatre currently sits there. Is that going to be a problem, Henley?” His grey eyes seemed to flash.

“No, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Good. You never struck me as the theatre type anyway, Henley. I assumed you were into sport.”

“Not really Sir.”

“That surprises me. Since you are friends with John Howard, you must have attended many football games with him. And that sport is your preferred leisure activity.” The words came out like a metronome, even paced and simple. But they stuck in Henley’s mind. What else would he and John Howard have done together? He was clearly obsessed with sports and his fraternity. And Henley was enjoying the gym, which was truly just another sport.

“Now,” Mr. Amplebottom continued. “You will be working with some old men from assets and banking. Really conservative types. You should try speaking slower. That will deepen your voice and give you more presence.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” the words spilled out in nearly double the time. His tongue felt heavy as he spoke and every syllable seemed to require extra effort to spit out.

“Very good, Henley, with practice you will also be able to use a deeper, more masculine tone. That will be very helpful in business.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, just one last thing, Henley,” there was a venomous glint in his eyes as he stumbled over Henley’s name. “Henley is a very peculiar name. Unique. It sets you apart when you should fit in, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” “In business, you know how important it is to give the right impression. The men in these industries tend to be very old-fashioned. And so much of this business is based on rubbing elbows and social connections. You have to give yourself every possible advantage.”

“Yes, yes Sir.”

“I know you want my advice. I am a good mentor.”

“Yes Sir. You are a good mentor.”

“Professionally, I think you should introduce yourself as Henderson.” Henley’s brain practically exploded.

“Yes Sir,” he muttered weakly.

“Try it on me.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” More brain explosions. It felt partially like getting hit in the head and partially like taking really good meds. “Slower.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” A glitter bomb went off in his brain. It felt like magic.

“Very good, Henderson.” Hearing someone else say it, as though it always had been, made the magical glitter settle on his brain, covering it in an ashy fog. “Well, I figure you might want this before you go for the weekend.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a large printed piece of paper. He handed it over to Henderson who grabbed it eagerly. Upon seeing the amount of money on his check, Henderson’s pupils practically morphed into dollar signs.

“Associates get more than double that.” More dollar signs flashed before his eyes. “And it’s a fairly simple promotion. Good work is always rewarded.”

“Yes Sir! Thank you sir!” The first set of words rushed out of his mouth. He calmed himself and regained his slow speaking tempo. He glanced down at the check and realized it said Henderson Tator.

“I don’t think I can deposit this.” “You’ll use the company banking system from now on. You’ll find it has much better rewards for higher income brackets. We have built in direct deposit. But I wanted to see the look on your face the first time.”

John Howard was hard on work when Henderson knocked.

“Henley Tator,” monotoned his deep voice. Henderson had a flashback to Starbucks and a similar conversation, but now the shoe was on the other foot.

“Please call me Henderson, John Howard,” his thick, slow voice drawled out. “It is more professional.

“I agree, Henderson,” Henderson could have sworn a tiny smile crept onto the corners of John Howard’s mouth. But the stoic man’s face returned to it’s sculpted indifference immediately. “What can I do for you?”

“I was considering asking Rip for some... herbals, for the weekend and wondered if you cared to partake. Maybe watch a game?” Henderson had a distinct memory of two dudes chilling out to some cheap weed and beer while watching Reefer Madness and laughing their asses off. John Howard's face was not amused.

“No, Henderson. You know I do not partake in such things.” “What? You went through a whole rasta-ganja phase in college…”

“I did not,” John Howard was visibly angry even if his voice maintained its impressive monotone. “I do not approve of illicit substances or behavior and I do not appreciate your slander.” “Woah, calm down, big guy,” not that John Howard wasn’t calm. But Henderson knew that one punch from the dude would knock him silly. “I was just thinking back to our college days….”

“Yes, I remember Chadwick forcing us to try the stuff during Hell Week. As I recall, you disliked it even more than I did.”

“What? What does Chad have to do with this?” “The only time I ever tried marjiuana,” his voice gained a hushed tone as he said the word. “Was for a fraternity induction. And if you continued to use it, I was unaware. If you would like to watch the game and enjoy some beer or liquid that would be fine. But I will not associate with drug users.” Henderson was taken aback. This man, well maybe not this man, but this dude he might have been at one point spent nearly a semester acting like some sort of stoner God.

“I’m sorry, John Howard.”

“If you are still interested in watching the game and having a beer, I would not be opposed.”

“Yeah, totally!” Henderson swallowed awkwardly after he spoke. Those words felt wrong. But either way, he’d spend a little more time with Josh Howard and figure out what was going on.

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said at the gate. The officer was the same as before, but there were a few subtle differences. His tight uniform now had full length sleeves and he wore a cap on his even more masculine face. “Good morning, Mr. Tator,” the man’s deep voice spoke slowly and severely. His face had not a glimpse of recognition. That was fine by Henderson because he was actually quite tired. He’d ended up in Chester Saturday, bringing a small batch of beer to a football party. It was very strange to him, meeting several of John Howard’s neighbors, though Chadwick was mercifully absent. He had a great time, watching, drinking, and shooting the breeze. The evening went on far later than he anticipated and despite the offer of a guest room, he had taken a late night Uber back into town. Newfound interest in football meant he had spent Sunday watching football, drinking beer, and ordering pizza. And now he was meeting John Howard for a workout with a beer hangover on a Monday.

The workout was much better this week. He found himself making great strides in his max lifts which made him exceptionally proud. John Howard gave his butt a big swat after they finished cleaning up and he felt his rump shudder within his pants. His pants had gotten so much tighter and when he looked in the mirror, the back of his sportcoat practically lay flat from the shelf on his behind. As he admired his form in the mirror, Henderson couldn’t help but brush the smooth shaved line of his prominent jaw. It really stood out nowadays.

“Miss a spot?” John Howard asked, assuming Henderson was rubbing stray hairs.

“Hey John Howard, why is working out making my jaw bigger?” John Howard stared at him curiously and shook his head.

“I don’t think I understand.” “Since, I’ve been working out with you, my face just seems bigger. My jaw and chin in particular.” “Maybe losing some baby fat? Or maybe your improved posture is making your face look different?” Henderson couldn’t explain it. He examined the reflection a few seconds more, sure that something was amiss. But he didn’t have an idea better than John Howard’s so he let it pass and went into the office.

Henderson’s job required calls, lots of calls. Calls to landowners, historical groups, insurance companies, auctioneers, all with their own opinions and interests. Henderson wasn’t actually supposed to do any research, simply talk to the right people to get appropriate evaluations and transportation. He found himself mimicking John Howard’s voice, deep, slow, and disinterested. It wasn’t exciting work, but the progress was slow and consistent. Museums wanted some old posters, there was a buyer in Argentina for the chandelier, and several vintage stores wanted furniture pieces. A few calls were less productive, with upset protestors yelled at him. He’d tried being sympathetic at first, but quickly found that being stern and direct got them off the line quicker so he could return to work.

His days soon blended together. Morning workouts, work, lunch, work, home, sleep, repeat. He sometimes worried that he was missing out on stuff, his old friends called or texted but he rarely responded anymore. It always seemed to happen at an inconvenient time. Eventually, he joined John Howard for his evening workout as well, the results were great, even if he’d had to go up a size or two. Walking around with pecs straining a dress shirt felt incredible, like a huge dose of testosterone had been injected into him. Strangely, his buttocks were growing considerably, in strength and size. But it accumulated a soft layer of fat that spread across, making him even wider. He’d asked John Howard about it once, and he simply told him a big butt was better than a big gut. And Henderson had to agree. None of the men here had big guts. Mr. Amplebottom had a huge butt. And Henderson wanted to be like Mr. Amplebottom as much as possible. More and more, Henderson felt extremely grateful towards his superior. Not only had he hired an unqualified applicant, but he had acted like a mentor and guide and coach. He gave Henderson more and more advice, about standing, walking, talking, and each time he came back eager to learn more.

“Stand tall, Henderson. Head up, don’t slouch. Keep your hands at your side. And don’t fidget.”

“A deeper voice commands attention better. Be direct. Contain emotions, you are better suited to appear calm and in control at all times. There is no need to appear energetic or excited.”

“Wide steps, heel to toe. Legs apart.”

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said calmly as he buzzed in. It was old hat by now. The security guard was probably the same one as before. Henderson paid less attention nowadays to things like that. He had noticed that the security uniform had slowly been replaced with something more formal. The man wore a coat and bowtie along with his cap, looking halfway between a mobster and the world's most muscular butler.

“Good morning, Mr. Tator,” he intoned back as he let him inside. Henderson felt the weight of his body as he walked, his chest stuck out and helped keep his chin up. The broad shoulders made him feel like he took up the entire doorway. And his big wide stride made his butt and crotch kind of wiggle as he walked. He could feel the fabric of his pants tighten around his balls and release, then tighten on the other side. It was mildly arousing.

As he walked in, he greeted a few of his fellow coworkers as he walked to his desk. Moments after sitting down, he received a call to head to Mr. Amplebottom’s office.

He stood at attention in front of the desk, legs apart, arms slack at his side, and staring directly into the grey eyes of his supervisor. Amplebottom seemed to examine his employee for a moment before directing him to sit. Henderson did, his increasingly wide and plump bottom expanding out, consuming nearly 3/4ths of the extra wide seat. He bagged his pants as he sat, causing the crotch of his pants to ride up and give him a large moose knuckle.

“The last sales were processed by accounts payable. You did a good job getting every last dollar out of that disgusting building.” “Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom,” came the monotonous reply.

“How do you feel about the Theatre?”

“The Hemple Housing Porter project will be very profitable.” “Yes, but how about the Cherub Theatre. It’s an old building.” “The lot is better suited for new development.” “Do you like theatre, Henderson.” “No Sir, I was never interested in art.” “More of a sports fellow?” “Yes Sir, I love football.” “Bet you were a big ole lineman back in the day, huh?” “No, I never played.” “I’m pretty shocked,” Amplebottom smirked. “So, no hard feelings about tearing down a 100 year old Theatre.” “No Sir. The development will be very profitable for Hempelbaum.”

“Good man,” Amplebottom kept his eyes focused on Henderson, maintaining steady eye contact. “Well, looks like you’ve earned your first commission check.” He pushed a small piece of paper forward to Henderson, who picked it up. His eyes bulged and dollar signs flashed before his eyes.

“Holy crap!” “Don’t swear Henderson, it’s unbecoming.” “My apologies Mr. Amplebottom. I wasn’t expecting this.” “Three percent commission can be an awful lot when you do a good job. And your percentage goes up with promotions. And good work like this makes me think you’ll be getting on very soon.”

Henderson thanked Mr. Amplebottom profusely and headed straight to John Howard’s desk.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said in a deep, slow voice.

“Henderson Tator, what can I do for you?”

“I got my first commission check,” he said, flashing it for John Howard to see.

“Congratulations. It feels nice to receive appropriate compensation. Men like us work hard, we deserve to make money.”

“It feels great. I could get a down payment on a house.” “Or you could apply for a membership at Rolling Acres Country Club.”

“Oh, no offense, John Howard, but I don’t think I’m country club material.”

“I think you’d like it, Henderson. It’s very nice, and a good way to make connections with other successful men.” John Howard flicked his wrists and displayed a set of ostentatious cufflinks engraved with the country club logo, a laurel wreath surrounding a tree with “Rolling Acres” written over it.

“That seems flashy for you.” “I was accepted as a legacy member. They only let legacy members purchase them.”

“They’re very shiny.” “Yes, too much for the office normally. But I was very excited. Oswald Laurence Carrington IV called personally to inform me. It’s very rare to get a call specifically from the Director of the Board.”

“I’m happy for you,” Henderson said simply.

“Come golfing this weekend. I know you will enjoy it. I can bring guests now!” John Howard’s voice was still precise but there was just the subtle hint of mirth that made Henderson smile slightly.

“Fine, what do I need to wear? I’m sure they have a dress code.” “Meet at my home before. I will have appropriate clothing.”

-----

Henderson had thought a lot about Chester since his last time out here. The spacious green lawns, gigantic homes, and expensive cars cleaned daily should have disgusted him or at least made his eyes roll. Nowadays, he couldn’t help but imagine what life must be like out here. There weren’t music festivals or concerts, but there weren’t smelly people vomiting on the sidewalk or polluting cabs on every corner honking loudly. John Howard’s elegant home had a room dedicated for watching football. It wasn’t even the media room, he said there was a room with a movie projector on the second floor! This was just his man cave, except it was a sunlit, high-ceilinged game room. It was bigger than the apartment Henderson was currently living in alone. He’d kicked out his roommates a month back. They smoked too much weed, it made him dizzy, and he could easily afford the rent on his own nowadays.

John Howard answered the door dressed exactly as he went to work. Henderson had expected something more casual- he’d worn khakis and a pink polo himself. Instead, his bulkier counterpart was embarrassed by his attire and insisted he put on one of his old suits. Henderson thought about protesting, but instead allowed himself to be turned into a Ken doll clone of his coworker, the only difference being the subtle patterns on the tie. He asked John Howard if they were golfing like this, and he insisted they would be changing at the club. Henderson wouldn’t imagine most people showed up dressed like this, but whatever made John Howard comfortable.

Henderson was glad he’d been made to change. After they got past the gate and into the main clubhouse, every man he passed had a tie on. Some of the younger lads were dressed in polo and khakis, but the acne and baby fat on their faces made him happy to not be confused with them. They checked in and “Legacy John Howard Johnson” entered his guests name and they headed to the lockers to change. John Howard handed him a pair of black trousers made of a stretchy and breathable material.

“You sure this one is mine?” “They’re identical.” “Oh, I’m not sure I’ll fit.” “I’m certain we’re the same size, Henderson.” Which they were apparently. Henderson was shocked as the pants expanded over his thighs, showing off the thick trunks he’d developed and the amble jiggly buttocks that pressed generously backwards. They sat a little higher on his waist than he was comfortable with, but he didn’t want the pants to sag on the ground. John Howard handed him a white sport polo with the clubs logo on the left breast. Then he added a black golf cap. Henderson had been afraid he might be wearing jodhpurs and knee socks, so the mainstream outfit was relieving. They tidied up in the mirror, and seeing the two of them side by side, dressed exactly the same, Henderson had a bit of a shock realizing how much he looked like John Howard. His body had filled out tremendously, broad shoulders and baseball like biceps, a thick but strong core, that overly wide ass that led into legs and calves formed by deadlifts and deep squats. The biggest thing was his face. He really could swear that his face had been almost heart shaped, but now there was a distinctly square shape to the thing. His longish ivy league haircut gave him a more youthful appearance than his coworker, but otherwise he might have been a son or young brother.

As they walked out onto the course, golf bags strapped across their backs, Henderson could see a tall figure in the distance, seeming to greet them with a small wave. John Howard returned the small gesture.

“Who’s that?” “Chadwick Stratton. I invited him to play with us?” “You invited Chad?” “Chadwick, yes. He’s been a friend since my fraternity days. You know that Henderson. I thought you would get on quite well. Besides, he’s on good terms with many important people. No one is a better connection.” Chadwick was in stretchy salmon colored pants and a white polo exactly like the ones they were wearing. He had a ballcap on with their college logo on the front. Locks of blonde hair spilled under the brim.

“Hey bro,” Chadwick shook John Howard’s hand and pulled him in for a pat on the back. For his part, John Howard tensed up but did not resist. “Damn, you’re getting thicker all the time.” He groped John Howard’s shoulders aggressively.

“Henderson, this is Chadwick Stratton. Chadwick, this is Henderson Tator. We work together in acquisitions at Hemplebaum. He also attended college with us.” Chadwick grabbed Henderson into a similar handshake to hug and Henderson felt a strange repulsion in his stomach.

“You look familiar. Were you a brother?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Henderson replied.

“What fraternity were you in?” “I wasn’t.” “A big bro like you? Damn, we missed you. Would have loved to see you on our intramural teams. Bruiser like you can definitely rough some people up huh?” He laughed playfully and punched Henderson solidly in the chest. It didn’t hurt. “Well, let’s play.” “Are we taking the cart?” Henderson asked, pointing to a line of white, polished golf carts.

“Nah,” Chadwick reached out and gave both John Howard and Henderson hard butt slaps. “Figure you two fatasses need some cardio!” He laughed barkingly and John Howard laughed along. “Kidding, bro. I know dudes like you are all about that max lift. But I still got abs and the ladies love ‘em!” He pulled up the bottom of his shirt showing off the solid, smooth abdominals carved into his tiny waist.

Chadwick was extremely friendly and a little physical. Upon learning that Henderson had never golfed, Chadwick took it upon himself to teach him everything he could, resulting in him saddling up behind him to correct stance and form, but also jokingly pressing his crotch into Henderson’s butt and thrusting. The boys all laughed at the inappropriate horseplay.

Henderson had a hard time hating Chadwick. Taking away all the pomp of politics and social structure, Chadwick turned into an incredibly friendly alpha. The kind of guy who would be quarterback, homecoming king, and fraternity president (all things he learned Chadwick had been). And Henderson was just another one of his bros, dressed in expensive clothes, spending a morning on the course talking about work and finances and spouses. He could remember specific events, Chadwick being horrible during the election season when he was campaigning for a fraternity brothers father, taunting an LGBT students group, and pissing on Tara Kissimmee’s car. But his brain was giving each of these events a little different interpretation now: he was working hard to get Senator Mulligan elected, taunting the gay kids had been meant as a harmless prank, and he was drunk out of his mind with Tara and she never pressed charges so it wasn’t that big a deal. Chadwick was just being a drunken frat- fraternity brother like everyone expected.

“Wife’s pregnant with the third. I got started early!” He bragged while grabbing his crotch. “Chrissy Collop was always into you.” “Yup! Her dad’s super rich, he’s president of the C-Group, that big currency trading operation. Old, old money. But how about you?” Chadwick got a mischievous glint in his eyes as he hand reached towards John Howard’s crotch and gave it a hard smack. John Howard yelped as he grabbed his balls.

“Nut check!” Chadwick busted out laughing. “But seriously, bro, getting those fellas ready? Almost breeding season, boys,” he whispered to John Howard’s balls. Henderson was kind of disturbed but John Howard was laughing and so he joined in too.

“What does that mean?”

“J.H. is getting married. Missy Dorianger.”

“Congratulations!” Henderson said happily.

“Thank you. We’re finishing some final details. Her Mother is very specific. Sometimes she acts as though I’m unworthy.” “Missy can’t do better.” “She is a perfectly suitable spouse. I am very pleased with the situation.” “Can’t wait til we can throw that bachelor party!”

“We’ll do something at the club. I have no desire to watch you stagger around Vegas and hold your head while you vomit.” “It’s your party bro! I’d be holding your hair for once,” Chadwick laughed. John Howard rolled his eyes as he set up his shot and launched the ball. He let out a whistle of appreciation.

“Good shot,” Chadwick and Henderson said simultaneously. John Howard suppressed a grin.

“Henderson, I know it’s late notice but I hope you can at least attend the wedding. The club has strict guest limits and I’m running out of passes for nonmembers for the bachelor party.” “Thank you John Howard. I’m sure I can make it.” “And if you get your membership before, you can enjoy all the fun!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and snagged at his nipple that pressed out firmly from the polo. The boys laughed and continued playing.

The locker room at the clubhouse was a lively place stocked with bathing supplies and also booze. Henderson intended on just showering up and getting dressed, but John Howard and Chadwick were both sitting in their briefs (Chadwicks a traditional cut, John Howard's extremely high waisted to fit over his enormous rump) and undershirts removing the cork from a glass bottle and pouring three full glasses of amber liquid.

“Bourbon,” Chadwick said shortly as he handed Henderson a glass before taking a deep swig of his own. Henderson was very confused about what to do. He was standing in a towel while his two golf buddies relaxed in their unmentionables sipping on a bourbon that probably cost more than those obnoxious club cufflinks John Howard has. He didn’t want to upset his new friends, and the financial connections they represented, so he pulled on his grey Hanes Boxer briefs (his growing buttocks had necessitated so many new underwear purchases that he was desperately searching for cheaper brands) and white undershirt and sat down. Taking a big swig of the liquid, he did his best to relax, leaning back in the chair and spreading his legs as his friends chatted.

“You’re getting pretty good at the trap shot,” Chadwick toasted John Howard.

“You’re still better,” John Howard was already refilling his drink happily.

“Always gonna be, dude,” Chadwick laughed again. “But keep trying. I enjoy competition.” He held out his cup which John Howard dutifully refilled. “Man, I’m glad you’re here, J.H.. I miss having some bros. This club is great, but too many of the brothers moved away. But at least I got you two!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and encouraged him to finish up as another round needed to be poured. Despite his increasingly sturdy frame, Henderson hadn’t been drinking much lately. He hadn’t been much other than working, but the alcohol was working its way through his golf dehydrated body quickly.

The trio continued chatting until John Howard excused himself to the toilet, leaving Henderson alone with a man he once thought of as detestable. But this afternoon was fun. He got a small knot in his stomach as Chadwick turned to him with a viperous grin.

“Henley? Henley Tator?” Chadwick suddenly said, dropping his voice low. Henderson was confused for a moment. He hadn’t thought of himself as Henley in a while. It was almost shocking. But then he cautiously nodded yes.

“Please, call me Henderson, Chadwick.” “Oh, I will, Henderson,” he emphasized the name. “You look good. I was pretty sure I recognized you, though you look a lot better now. Hemplebaum’s done wonders for you.” “Thank you, Chadwick. I am very happy working at Hemplebaum Incorporated.” Chadwick nodded and smiled as the robotic words left Henderson’s mouth.

“I like having fraternity brothers around. It’s a real lifetime bond, ya know?” He took another deep swig. “Something that really defines a man. Who he is. Who he’s going to be.” He seemed to stare at Henderson curiously. For his part, Henderson had no idea what to say, and so stayed silent. “If I’d known this is who you were going to be, I’d have made sure you were my brother. Of course, I knew Henley. Not Henderson. Not big strapping Henderson.”

“Yes,” Henderson stirred his glass and sat there. Chadwick was slurring slightly, but Henderson wondered if he'd be able to stand up. This drink was strong and Chadwick was pouring him a third.

“Now, Henderson. What do you think Henderson was like in college?”

“I’m Henderson.” “Yeah, but in college you weren’t. I just wonder what you wish you had done?”

“I wish I’d gone to football games. I love football.” “Fuck yes dude. Big guy like you played in high school,” it wasn’t a question.

“I’d want to have a group of men to watch sports with.” “Yup, every game we had a part at the house.” Henderson stared at him with glassy eyes. He was confused. It seemed like Chadwick wanted him to say something but he could only shrug.

“Would have been nice.” “I hope you apply for membership. The club would be a good fit for you.”

“I really enjoyed myself. It’s very expensive. I was kind of looking into getting a new apartment.” “Where are you living nowadays?” “I have a two bedroom downtown. It’s a heap, but I live alone.” “Thought about buying a house?” “I can’t afford a house in the city.” “What about in Chester?”

“What?! No, I haven’t, I mean, I don’t need a mansion,” Henderson sputtered as he spoke despite training himself to not.

“Not yet, but once you get a wife and some kids, plus Chester is right next to Rolling Acres.” “I’m not sure it’s right for me.” “It’s right for Henderson. For football playing, fraternity brother, corporate shark Henderson,” Chadwick smiled and let out a tiny burp as he finished another drink. Henderson blushed, though it was hard to tell through his liquor flushed face.

“It’s hard to buy a house in Chester.” “I can set you up.” “Really?” The idea was setting itself in Henderson’s mind. Far from feeling like a fresh fantasy, it embedded itself deep inside, as though it had always been there, as though he’d always wanted to buy a giant mansion in a gated neighborhood with an expensive country club. It was always the goal. It’s why he did what he did.

“I always support my Kappa Sigma Alpha brothers.” He poured two more drinks and raised his glass in a toast.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick said and stared at Henderson. Henderson hesitated, but his mind wanted it so bad. He wanted Chadwick to like him, to be his brother, to go back and be a total frat boy in college.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick smiled and the two chugged down their drinks. John Howard showed up a moment later and plopped down while pouring himself another, though he was several behind now.

“What did I miss?” The other two smirked and poured another round and the three K-Sig brothers passed another toast to their fraternity.

-----

Henderson woke up naked with a gigantic erection on the softest white sheets he’d ever felt. HIs head throbbed like never before. A glass of water and several ibuprofen sat next to the bed and he swallowed both without hesitation. Looking around, he admired the pristine cleanliness and order of the room. He was pretty sure where he must be, even if he’d never seen John Howard’s guest room before.

A white cotton robe laid over an old wooden chair, but no other clothes were about. Wrapping the fabric tightly around himself, he opened the door and peered down an equally clean and quiet hallway. He ducked back in the bedroom, helping himself to the toiletries in the attached bath before heading downstairs. John Howard was dressed similarly, though the half closure of his robe meant that Henderson could see the waistband of his briefs. He smiled weakly at Henderson and offered him a cup of coffee which he accepted happily.

“Where are my clothes?” Henderson croaked after a strong sip.

“Washing machine. You vomited all over your suit.”

“Your suit, sorry man.”

“Quite fine Henderson,” John Howard let out a quiet laugh. “Haven’t had a night like that in years. Reminded me of our fraternity days.” Our fraternity days. Henderson went to protest but found his brain muddled. They had talked about it a lot last night, keggers, hell week, initiation, rush, all kinds of random details of fraternity life flooded his brain. The memories seemed like his mostly, though they had a dreamy quality that he attributed to the hangover.

“Remember that party where Van Boegearden vomited after his keg stand? And then he insisted on drinking it up again?” Henderson laughed hoarsely and John Howard joined in. “He’s a congressman now,” John Howard added.

“Good, good. Always knew he’d do well in politics.” They both took large sips of their coffee. John Howard was reading a paper but also had ESPN on, reviewing yesterday's college football.

“We missed the game!” Henderson moaned.

“We watched the game, Henderson. At the club.” “Oh God. They’re never going to let me join now!” “I wouldn’t be so sure. Oswald V seemed quite amused by you.” “Which one is that again?”

“Son of the Board Chairman. I’d commit that to memory.” “I have now. Well, so long as he was amused. Hopefully he can appreciate old fraternity brothers getting together.” “We’ll have to do it again soon.” “Hopefully often once I’m a Rolling acres member.” “I’m glad you’re going to apply,” John Howard smiled.

“I belong at a place like Rolling Acres,” Henderson said with a new confidence.

“Men like us need places like Rolling Acres,” John Howard replied.

“I’m going to have to call a cab,” Henderson said looking at the clock.

“I can take you.” “It’s quite a drive into town.” “I slept through church,” John Howard said, yawning. “And I’m not feeling up to a workout today. Besides, I thought I might take you around Chester first. There are a few lovely homes for sale you might want to see.” “That would be delightful!” The two men turned their attention back to the TV and their coffees, nursing the kind of hangovers they swore they’d never get again but always did.

-----

Henderson strode into the building swiftly, impossibly perfect posture, dressed in a charcoal suit and tie that he borrowed again from John Howard. He noticed there was a new guard at the gate when he gave his name.

“Fine weather, Henderson?” the young guard, a redhead with a trace of a tattoo on his neck asked. Henderson was appalled. He’d ended up spending most of Sunday at the club, enjoying dinner at the men’s grill. At the club, the staff spoke using honorifics and only used questions relative to their service. He was deeply annoyed that this young guard spoke. However, he buried that feeling as he hustled to the elevator. He had a busy morning ahead.

After his workout, a grueling leg day that left him wobbly but his calves looked tremendous, Henderson asked Mr. Amplebottom’s secretary for a meeting, and his 9 a.m. was open. So it was that he found himself standing before his boss's beautiful desk, arms at his side, staring into his eyes.

“What can I do for you, Henderson?” Henderson had been trying to find the words to be concise but found that impossible.

“I want every piece of advice you can give me.”

“Why is that?” Mr. Amplebottom was suppressing a smug smile though Henderson didn’t notice.

“I want to be just like you. And John Howard. And the men at Rolling Acres.” “Enjoy the club?” “Immensely. I belong there. And here at Hemplebaum. I want to become a partner. I want to move out to Chester, in a house, not in some rubbish apartment in this squalid town,” he cast a disgusted look out the skyline of the window. “I want money.” That was low, deep and felt like a great truth awoke inside him. Mr. Amplebottom smiled.

“So, Henderson, are you willing to fully commit yourself to Hemplebaum?” “I am sir,” he replied like a soldier.

“Excellent. Well, I may say this suit is a good start.” “I’m borrowing it from John Howard.” “Yes, a good start. You should get a dozen I think, at least. Plus a few formal ones for special occasions. Many ties and shoes. New supports as well, you do look much better with your trousers at your proper waist.” “Thank you Sir.”

“A haircut. I’m quite surprised you’ve stuck with the ivy league so long. You are much better suited to something short. Like mine and John Howard’s. The part is a classic. But I can set you up with my barber.”

“Yes Sir.” “Now, there is a rather large change that I believe is a necessity for your continued progression at Hemplebaum as well as your new social circle.” “What is that sir?” “Tator. Just a gross, common name. You agree?” Henderson snapped back confirmation even though it made his head spin. “Personally, I’ve always been very fond of alliterative names. It’s a nice mnemonic device socially. And it looks so great monogrammed.” “You want me to change my last name? To something with an H?” Henderson asked, slightly confused.

“Well, I thought you wanted to. To succeed.” “Yes Sir.” “So you want to change your name? To what?” “I don’t know Sir.” “So you want my help, is that what you are saying?” The words were coming so fast and his eyes so enticing that Henderson nodded.

“Yes Sir, please tell me what my name should be.” Amplebottom leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing in the moment even though Henderson had no idea why.

“This is my favorite part.” Henderson didn’t say anything. His boss clearly didn’t want him to. And he’d just asked for help so there was no need to say anything. “It’s a great moment, when you realize you want to be whatever I want you to be. I was wrong about you Henderson. I did not think you’d make it. But here you are, willing and able. And looking much better with the muscles.” He reached into a drawer in his desk and produced something that looked like a ring box. Ceremoniously, he pulled it open before Henderson’s eyes. Inside were two silver and black cufflinks. LIghtly engraved in the black was three vertical lines and one horizontal connecting them all.

“Henderson Harold Hearst. H.H.H. Classic, but preppy, which seems to be the direction you’re taking. Though I believe you should at least be a Junior. Yes, Henderson Harold Hearst, Jr.” Amplebottom suddenly got a concerned look in his eyes and made even more intense contact with Henderson. “You’ll insist on being called Henderson. No nicknames or shortening it. Certainly, not Henry. Tell them it was Grandmama’s maiden name. A fitting tribute.” Amplebottom seemed deeply satisfied as he leaned back in his chair a bit. His jacket fell a touch to the side, and Henderson caught a glimpse of his black silk bracer. He eyed the waist of the trousers, noting the lack of wrinkles and the perfect transition from charcoal wool to starched, cotton white. Nothing was ever out of place on his supervisor, it was probably easier when you had such a boring wardrobe, each piece fit together without thinking.

-----

Henderson had set up an appointment at Winston and Co. right after his meeting with Amplebottom. They booked him for a half day on Saturday, which seemed like a very long appointment but they had assured him that this would be a one time appointment to get a permanent account situated. His palpable excitement made his workouts and work days fly by. He’d reworn the suit he borrowed from John Howard three times. It was remarkable how it made him feel, strong, manly, and also kind of plain. He’d talk shop with other men in his department, bland conversations about work and sports and home, that he found uninteresting but comforting. There existed very little variety among the men at acquisitions. No one ever brought up a thoughtful or challenging conversation, the most confrontational it ever got was between rival football teams.

And so it was that Henderson showed at exactly at 8 a.m. in front of the delightfully antiquated haberdashery (as John Howard had called it) for the full treatment. He was greeted studiously by an old man with silver hair and thick black glasses who introduced himself as Art Sebert and insisted on calling Henderson “Mr. Hearst.” That name made his blood jump and boil. He’d thought the concept awkward only days ago, but found himself spouting off the name with such a simple, natural cadence he might as well have been born with it.

Forced to strip down in a rather spacious dressing room fitted with a few chairs and mirrors, Art had offered him coffee which he happily accepted after adding some cream and milk. His personal fears around nudity had decreased in the corporate locker room but it still took him a minute to feel comfortable letting Art assess his bare form. But he measured every inch with such quiet professionalism that Henderson soon became quite comfortable. Art rattled off small measurements as he worked, informing Henderson that he’d need custom clothing for life. Henderson found his brain startled by that information, but an honest assessment in the mirror showed how true that statement was. He simply wasn’t built like a normal person anymore. His neck was thick and his shoulders cartoonishly broad. The jutting chest gave him a permanently puffed up vibe. Uninterested in cardio, his thick rib cage continued straight down into hard abs. And then the true shock, his sumptuous round booty. It looked unreal, not only were his hips and buttocks wide and strong, but somehow there was a gelatinous layer on top that wiggled and shook whenever he moved. It was a shockingly feminine touch on an otherwise hyper masculine body. Henderson loved his butt. It reminded him of being a lineman in high school, it was just like John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s. Ridiculous but masculine and prominent, it took up space, like a man should.

“Alright, Mr. Hearst, give these a try,” he handed Henderson two carefully folded white objects. The first was an undershirt, quite stiff and recently pressed. He pulled it on with little problem, the starchy material felt soft enough on his skin and he appreciated how there wasn’t any excess pulling or snugness. Even better, it actually reached past his belly button, which was further than his current shirts were doing, but still seemed undesirable. The next item was a comically cut pair of briefs, again seemingly starched and pressed, blindly white with a simple waistband with a thin blue line running halfway through. Henderson’s mind mounted a short-lived protest that didn’t even exit his mouth. He’d known it was coming, it was in the book, from his boss, even at the club. It was just another way he was going to fit in with the others. It was deceptively erotic, something overly personal but seemingly inconsequential that he was giving up to fit in. He pulled the cotton fabric up his body, watching the white fabric stretch perfectly across his rump. He attempted to leave the underpants lying low, just above his hip bones, but Art stepped up and dutifully pulled them higher, keeping the undershirt tucked in as they stretched over the belly button, up the stomach, before settling just below his rib cage. He looked like a strange sort of sausage stuffed into a bleached white packaging. There was something about, so uniform and simple, that Henderson couldn’t stop himself from smiling broadly at his reflection.

It went significantly faster after that. Art offered him a range of trousers of slightly different fits, making marks and eyeing alterations, seemingly finding the best base. An overly starched, white button down slipped over his upper body. Henderson let it hang open as he sat in his skivvies and shirt, drinking a whiskey the store offered, as a suitable pair of trousers were whipped up for the day. Half an hour later, he was being ordered to button up his shirt, as silky black dress socks were pulled on his feet and the wool fabric of the pants began their climb. Higher, much higher than his old pants, even seemingly than the borrowed ones, these custom trousers rose up until the very top of the pants rested just millimeters below the briefs. The pants were already designed for braces, completely lacking belt loops, and Art adjusted them precisely, ensuring that his pants would sit at this exact height forevermore. Henderson recognized something was being pushed out, some bits of color or variance in his lifestyle and perhaps personality as he allowed himself to be dressed like a doll, clothing cut and shaped so he wouldn’t even have an option on how to wear it, let alone what to wear. It was a deeply comforting thought.

The process was repeated with the coat, explaining why he had been required to book hours of time with a salesman and tailor. But they assured him, everything would be perfect afterwards. All his measurements would be on file, new pieces would be created on a strict schedule to ensure he had neither too few nor too many pieces. He enjoyed another libation as he waited, the old fashioned television in the room had been flipped on to college football and he delighted in sitting back and watching. Not that he really sat back as it were, the stiff shirt and exact cut of his trousers seemed to keep him upright and tall, legs planted firmly on the ground, the crotch of his pants pulled tight into a prominent moose knuckle, head staring almost directly forward. Henderson sort of laughed to himself about it, feeling slightly robotic, and enjoying the rigid pose. It reminded him of John Howard. And he liked John Howard. He liked being like John Howard.

The cut of the jacket was phenomenal, even with a thick waist, his broad shoulders and bulging pecs required a fantastic V shape that made him look thick and strong and almost debonair, in a sort of boring way. Art selected a beautiful silk tie, completely generic and tasteful, and made it taut around the neck. He stepped back, admiring his work and checking the length of the cut of small sections as Henderson stood, militaristically straight posture, arms at his side, staring straight ahead. Once everything seemed to be in order, he instructed Henderson to remove the tie, jacket, and oxford shirt. He’d continue working as another man offered him a pair of house slippers and escorting him into a room that looked like an old-timey barbershop with two chairs.

The wall had four pictures on it of generic hairstyles, each numbered. His barber pointed at number one and told him he would receive that cut unless he did not approve. Henderson felt nothing and simply nodded. The shearing began, his back and sides thinned and trimmed and the edges shaved smooth. The top was reduced and thinned repeatedly, clumps of hair falling lazily to the floor. Each time, the barber seemed to be examining something on his head, but he said nothing to Henderson, who was silent in turn. Finally, apparently satisfied, he squirted a greasy clump of goo into his hands and began working through Henderson’s much thinner hair before combing it aggressively. The final look should have been shocking, but Henderson seemed to have accepted it already. His hair was now dark, short, and combed and parted within an inch of his life. The product gave his hair of bright sheen that was the only notable trait on the otherwise generic hairstyle. It was an exact replica of John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s and almost every man in acquisitions. It was perfect.

The only thing left was a hot shave, which left his skin buttery smooth, and tingly once the aftershave was applied. The barber briskly informed that all the items would be added to his order, so he’d have everything he needed to maintain his appearance. Henderson thanked him shortly and was directed back to the dressing room. The slippers were removed and a highly polished pair of black oxfords were slipped onto his feet. He was redressed in shirt, tie, and jacket and Art began applying a few small touches. First, his french cuffs were closed with shiny silver cufflinks, square, with a delightful HHH cut in them. A white handkerchief was tucked into his breast pocket and folded ever so carefully so that the monogrammed HHH was just visible over the jacket. A dab of cologne followed, smelling woody, leathery, and astringent. They informed him he could leave today with undergarments, ties, and grooming products, and to return in three days to pick up a large order, twelves suits, twenty four shirts, plus two speciality suits (one in seersucker and a formal black) in addition to a tuxedo. He shook hands with the salesmen who had helped him, feeling quite pleased with the whole experience.

-----

“Heart, Henderson,” he said curtly to the well dressed guard at the gate. Henderson noticed that he was far less chatty than last time. In fact, the security officer barely seemed to register Henderson as a person, and more as an item line to check off. He marched dutifully to the elevator. Henderson admired himself in the mirror as he waited. Quite frankly, he embodied everything a man should be: big, strong, soon to be rich. Those commission checks had added up quite quickly, combined with incentives and the fact that Amplebottom had been hinting that he would be moving up to Associate very soon, so Henderson was feeling mighty pleased with himself, and honestly a bit haughty, as he slipped how hands up and down the tasteful braces holding up his trousers. Despite the fact that his clothing hardly moved an inch in any given direction, he still unconsciously attempted to pull up his pants and underwear, making sure everything was in place. It was a big day after all.

Mr. Amplebottom took John Howard and Henderson out to a large lunch in a company car that was clean as a whistle and beyond luxurious. As they stepped out of the Partner elevator, they were greeted by a strapping man in a full chauffeur outfit, cap, gloves, and jodhpurs. He greeted the men properly before taking Amplebottom’s keys and practically running to fetch his car. He held the door open militantly as each man entered. Henderson stopped to give him a good look, there was something familiar about him. Henderson realized this was the old door man from his side, although the corporate makeover and more servile uniform gave him a less threatening appearance, and his empty obedience was a far better look than the military scowl and tattoos that were once visible.

The car took them downtown. Amplebottom had made casual conversation about work but the atmosphere in the car was mildly tense. Henderson had never been invited to something like this and he wanted to make a good impression. John Howard seemed rather himself, upright and professional, nary a mention of personal life unless questioned.

They exited the car and Amplebottom led them into a high rise building with black reflective glass covering the outside, making it look kind of like a supervillain’s lair. They rode the elevator up, stopping at the 6th floor. Unfinished with not even a desk or chair in site, they ambled over to the window and looked out. They weren’t high enough to have a great view of the city, but they did overlook one particularly small building below. Police had cordoned off a section as a throng of protestors with signs seemed to be confronting them. Behind the police, by the building, were construction workers.

“I thought you’d want to see the results of your hard work,” Amplebottom said slyly. John Howard and Henderson stared down curiously as the protestors seemed to get louder. He hadn’t been here in so long, Henderson was unsure what he was looking at. The chintzy building was old and surrounded by expensive real estate. His mind began wondering how much the lot was worth and who could possibly own it when John Howard spoke.

“Cherub Theatre,” his voice was different than usual, quicker and lighter. Amplebottom smiled.

“The future site of Hemple Housing Porter,” he gloated. “And it’s all thanks to you.” John Howard seemed uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. Henderson just looked quietly. Then something happened. The entire building shook and collapsed.

“Well, it wasn’t very grand, I admit. But that’s the start!” Ample said happily. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two envelopes and handed one to each of the men. Henderson opened his tenderly, wondering what awaited him. It was a very formal letter, on thick paper, declaring his promotion to Associate with a new salary of 400k a year, four percent commission, and a new set of company perks. Henderson practically came inside his briefs and when he looked at Amplebottom he was holding out his hand. Henderson accepted the firm handshake happily.

“Wow,” John Howard spoke quietly as he read the letter.

“Surprised?” “Yes, I, thank you, Sir!” John Howard’s momentary trepidation was gone, replaced with a beaming smile and he shook both their hands with the energy of a toddler on redbull.

“You’re a little young, to be honest. But I think you’ve demonstrated a dedication and promise that will benefit Hemplebaum for years to come. And Hemplebaum rewards good employees, Junior Partner John Howard Johnson.” Amplebottom emphasized the last bit so Henderson understood. J.H. had just moved into a whole new income bracket. A whole new way of seeing the world. There had been some trepidation, some fear, as he had looked at the theatre, but now all he saw were profit margins.

“I'm starving. There’s a great steakhouse nearby. I say we get some prime rib and bourbon and have a toast.” The three fatasses business men strutted out of the building, richer and more content than ever before.

-----

Things had progressed really well for Henderson. He was now a member in good standing at Rolling Acres Country Club, which meant he’d been bumped up from guest to groomsman at John Howard’s oversized wedding. Apparently, everyone and their dog walker’s best friend had been invited, so long as their net worth was greater than John Howard’s. Which is how Henderson found himself, sitting in an auxiliary dressing room with the rest of the groom’s party, in nothing but their skivvies getting toasted hours before the ceremony. John Howard himself was maintaining a pretty stoic demeanor, but several of the groomsmen were going whole hog.

“Just brilliant, J.H.,” Rip patted John Howard on the shoulder again, his eyes were slightly unfocused.

“Careful, you’ll be unconscious before the ceremony,” came a stern warning for their co-worker Bert.

“Imma juss wishing my buddy all the damn- happiness in the world! Hopefully, your marriage is happier than mine!” Rip sat down clearly woozy. Rumor around the club was that his wife did not “approve of his dalliances” like he had hoped. He’d recently spent some time warning the college boys about the value of pre-nups.

“Have some water, Rip,” Chadwick said, forcing a tall glass of sparkling water into his hands. Even though it was John Howard’s day, Chadwick did a great job of ensuring he was generally at the center of things. He’d been the best man, the bachelor party planner, the one who got everyone to relive fraternity induction by sitting around half naked drinking whiskey straight on a saturday afternoon. There was something deeply fraternal about the thing. Henderson could recall himself and a few dozen other young freshmen in a similar situation as their pledge master and rush chair had guided them through a vow committing them to the fraternity.

“I’m ready for another, not you Rip. You’re sitting this one out,” came a highly affected male voice. It belonged to Oswald V, practically a guest of honor. John Howard had been absolutely beside himself when Oz had agreed to be a groomsman. Henderson was happy for him. J.H. was definitely a social climber and at Rolling Acres he could not do any better. For his part, Oz was charming and congenial, born into a life of socializing and money, he had all the natural airs of an heir apparent.

“So, I got the bridesmaid situation worked out,” Chadwick leaned into John Howard and Henderson. “Missy was insisting on Kitty Bell being third, but I got her to swing her down the line and swap in Millie Cashon. Oz doesn’t like her, but fuck him, he’s married. So, Henderson, I got you set up with the hot one. And the single one.” Henderson looked bashfully at the floor as the other two stared at him.

“Oh, okay,” he sort of shrugged.

“Listen, Huck,” Chadwick had taken to calling Henderson “Huck” because apparently all men needed a nickname among brothers. “This took a LOT of work on my part. I’m not saying you have to marry her, but if you don’t get to at least second, I will consider you a waste. Also, I owe Missy a doubles game of tennis now,” John Howard looked horrified at the prospect. “So, J.H. is gonna have to slip into some tiny white shorts and I’m gonna deal with a ticked off aristocrat. So have some fun!” Chadwick slapped Henderson’s shoulder in a paternal fashion as he returned to keeping up the fun in the room. John Howard and Henderson made awkward eye contact for a minute.

“Sorry,” Henderson said sheepishly.

“She’s hot,” J.H. appraised. “Dad’s not worth too much, but he does have some great boats. Might as well make the most of it.” He tipped his glass up to Henderson who met it solidly, producing a harsh click in the room.

“Here’s to J.H.!” Rip was attempting to make a toast, seemingly recovered from his drunken daze.

“To J.H.-John Howard!” Henderson polished off his drink and happily accepted a refill. Without John Howard he never would have gotten a job at Hemplebaum, he’d never been sitting in this room, drinking liquor that cost more than a cable bill, planning on making an offer on a home in Chester, and planning on how to get into Kitty Bell’s dress tonight. Cheers to J.H. indeed.

#callmecrazy #preppy #mental transformation #suit #nosex

125 notes · View notes

fascination-street-writing · 4 years

Text

Be With Me Tonight | Guido Mista x F!Reader

Regret is a sickening temptation - and you have ruined everything.

Content Warnings: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content (Oral & Implied), Implied Past Attempted Sexual Assault, Potentially Dubious Consent, & Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics (Past & Present)

You said you would do your own makeup. And yet, here you sit on a thrifted barstool – never mind the tweed upholstery that digs into the underside of your skirt-clad thighs, when you paid less for the stool than you would a loaf of bread – and flinch as your sister nearly prods your iris with the mascara wand clutched in her tremoring hand. She smells of hair spray and counterfeit perfume. You look to the mirror that hangs above the vanity.

“You really should change before we go,” she tells you while returning the wand to its tube. Fingers toil through your hair: she scrutinizes your appearance as though you are a porcelain doll and she your maker. You suppose that, in a way, she is. “You won’t catch anyone’s attention dressed like that.”

The reflection of your cherry-red lips mimics the frown upon your face. “Maybe I don’t want to ‘catch anyone’s attention,’” you retort. “I’m not even ready to start dating again.”

She groans. “You’re not still caught up on that perdente, are you?”

You do not have to bite back a quip because you do not have one. Instead, you bite your stained lips and look away. Though the relationship with your most recent ex had ended on mutual terms, the separation stings nonetheless.

“You know, you’ve always had bad taste in men,” your sister continues. Varnish to a wall, she rubs powder across your cheekbones. “First there was that pervertito when you were fifteen, and now a convicted murderer.”

“Can you stop?” you demand, clenching your fist. “He’s not a murderer. It was self-defense.”

“Regardless of what you think, he still killed three men. I can’t believe the landlord hasn’t changed our locks yet. I asked him almost a year ago now, ever since he was released from prison,” your sister insists, ignoring your plea. “You should’ve asked for his key back.”

“He has a name, you know.” Guido Mista – a name that once tasted like honey on your tongue, now bitter as cigarette smoke.

And your sister refuses to speak it, for she hates the taste of cigarettes. A hum dies on her lips. Her smirk bequeaths to you an urgency to cower in shame; however, the distressed look in her eyes tells you how much she fears for your welfare.

As if she has anything to genuinely be afraid of.

Guido Mista has, for most of your life, been something of an extended acquaintance to you. His is a recognizable presence in crowded hallways; after all, who else amongst the student body could muster the same courage to break the dress-code by donning a purple beanie cap atop their head? You will admit to him that you look forward to the days when a teacher confiscates his cap because it means that you get to admire his rich chocolate curls all day long from your seat at the back of the classroom. He will chuckle in response and press a sloppy kiss to your cheek while running his calloused fingers over the sides of your belly, drinking in the laughter that bubbles through you, as if you are the fountain of ever-lasting love itself.

But it was not always this way. Before Mista came a boy whose name you will etch from memory in time – remembered as a boyfriend, but never as a partner.

At your locker, he leans over you, waiting for you to stack your textbooks away. You are fifteen, and he asks you to join him behind the bleachers of the gymnasium. No more than a pet tethered by a chain, you follow him blindly to where his companions wait. You know their pubescent faces but you seldom speak to them. Their names do not matter anymore, either.

In a school dress, pitted against three boys who surpass you in height – you never stood a chance.

The squealing of the gymnasium doors and the slamming of the lock is not enough to stop them. It did little more than encourage your perpetrators to wedge you between their clothed bodies as they fist your hair and tug at the skirt that your father has only just purchased for you after you spilled grape juice over the previous one. You spot the purple beanie over your boyfriend’s blazer-clad shoulder and cry out to him – to Guido Mista.

His cap has fallen from his head, and they beat him until he gasps for air and spews bile from his throat. But he never begs them to stop because it keeps them from attacking you again. He can hardly put up a fight when every attempt to stand is quelled by the diving of a loafer-clad foot into the pit of his stomach Your boyfriend grabs him by those beautiful curls and ushers his face against the waxed floors. The glint of a pocketknife catches your eye.

The school-bell blares. The boy who had held you back throws you to the ground. The pocketknife clamors with you, just beyond the grasp of the tips of your fingers. Your ex-boyfriend (for you no longer consider him as anything more) and his boyish companions dust off their blazers, straighten their ties, and hurry off for their next round of classes. They leave you with your unsettled clothes and a boy with a broken nose.

Clutching the rungs of the bleachers, Mista pulls his body upwards: a buoy in the sea, and you the only vessel on the horizon. You press his discarded beanie – which you cannot help but to notice smells comfortingly so of cedarwood – to his nose. Red blossoms seep into the delicate threads. “Are you okay?” he asks you with a cough and a grimace for, as you will come to discover, he has cracked a rib.

“Yes.” Compared to his injuries, you cleared the scuffle relatively unscathed. Mista had stepped in before anything beyond the tearing of your uniform could happen. And yet, his concern is of you and not for his own well-being. “Thank you.”

He flashes you a lopsided grin. You are glad to see that, though laced with the blood that seeps into his mouth, he has not lost any teeth. His repose is infectious, and his ease illuminates your own composure. You help him to stand and together you walk to the nurse’s office, his arm slung over your shoulders and yours around his waist. Your attackers are expelled; their testimony of falsified innocence could not hold a candle to security footage, or a pocketknife engraved with damning initials. Despite everything, you make a new friend. The two of you will become lovers at sixteen – utterly inseparable.

Until the very end.

You prefer sweeter cocktails, but you accept the gin and tonic from your sister and lift it to your lips anyways. The relief of the ice pooling in the cavities of your mouth is a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the nightclub. Too many bodies, too much sweat – too many different smells, and suddenly your mind whirls. You place the emptied glass atop a table and only then do you realize that you never juiced the translucent lime wedge curled around the rim.

The circle of women whom you find yourself dancing with are strangers; you sway as though you have all known each other for a lifetime. You do not understand the words of the American pop song that resonates from the wall speakers, but it does not matter; after all, even an illiterate man can read rhythm. Across the dancefloor, your sister drags two men with her towards the restroom.

A pelvis presses against your backend – or perhaps, it is your backend that leans into the nook of the clubber swaying behind you. A pair of hands falls to your hips, though you take the lead in rocking side-to-side to Laura Branigan’s cadence. Over the sound of music, the woman to your left suggests that you all swap cellphone numbers. The woman to your right agrees with a drunken nod of her head and, giddy with excitement, clasps your hand. The woman directly across from you offers to order a round of shots to commemorate this newfound comradery. Instead of a tray filled with cinnamon whiskey, she returns with an olive-toned man clad in orange leopard print pants and a blue cross-patterned sweater that exposes his midriff.

“Hey, ladies,” the woman calls out to your circle. The lights ripple across her flushed skin like water. “This is Mista.”

You freeze, your hips suspended mid-beat. Your dance partner pouts and pulls away. Mista does not look to you, and you are grateful . . . Until his coffee-colored eyes do fall to your face after a hiccup jostles your chest. His brows furrow, gaze darting between you and the man behind you. Before his steadily parting lips can utter your name against the clapping of the bass, you are gone because you are not ready.

The winter breeze makes you shiver. The nightly chill is preferable to the sweltering sanctuary behind you, where only moments ago you bobbed along to pop songs and impulsively contemplated friendship with intoxicated patrons who will not remember you in the morning.

The green dial of your cellphone flashes and reflects upon scattered puddles. You text your sister and tell her that you are going home – don’t wait up. Your affinity for clubbing has gone sour.

“I thought that was you.”

Your heart races quickly, so much that it might burst from the nook between your breasts and land on the ground before his white boots. “Yeah, it’s me,” you say. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too. So, what’ve you been up to?”

“Just stuff. And things.”

Mista laughs. “Stuff and things?”

“Y’know, work,” you tell him with a nod. “More work.”

“Me too.” You fidget with your purse. “I saw your sister – or, the back of her head, actually. How’s she doin’?”

“She’s good.”

“Good.”

A man stumbles through the door. He reeks of cheap bourbon and rye. You and Mista step aside and watch the man as he struggles to walk away from the club. The scene has created a lull to your painfully cumbrous conversation; you reap the opportunity, for it becomes your self-proclaimed cue to leave. You open your mouth to bid Mista adieu. The taste of your own lipstick leaves you sputtering.

“Hey, so uh, are you busy?” he suddenly asks, cutting you off. You have always believed that he could read minds. In this moment, it is as if he knows your intent – as if shuffling in your heels and tightening the grasp on your purse were not telltale signs of your discomfort.

“Not really,” you insist. “I was about to head home.”

“Cool, cool. I was just wondering because you left something behind at my apartment. I’ve been meaning to give it back, but I didn’t think it’d be right to just show up at your doorstep or something.”

“It hasn’t stopped you before,” you chide.

“I know, I know. I just figured it’d make sense to stop at my place, since it’s on the way.”

It gnaws at you – the voice in your head that tells you to leave him be, here and now. It will not do you any good, stepping back into walls once sacred to you. He stares at you, wide-eyed, and gages your reaction. Dark curls poke out from beneath the rim of his cap. You wonder if he still uses that cedarwood shampoo.

It would not do you any good to go with him. The prospect of sipping a glass of wine whilst soaking in a warm bath beckons you home. There is little trouble that you can muster with an idle night, for the night is still young and you have not given up. Though the moon has reached its peak, you cannot surrender. You have made your choice.

“Sure.”

But you never intended to make the right one.

You were sure to slip on a set of shoes before stepping outside. Through the hallway, down the elevator, across the lobby, and onto the street you wander with little more than the glow of streetlamps and passing headlights to guide your way through the dark. You find him in the alley between your apartment building and the next. The stink of a prison cell has imprinted itself onto his skin.

He slips a single nickel-plated key into your hand. “Your sister probably wouldn’t appreciate me having this,” he says.

“You can keep it. I’ll tell her you forgot it.” When he does not accept the return, you reach out and tuck the key into the pocket of his cargo pants. “Just so you have something to remember me by.”

The look in his eyes – the sheen of gloss that coats his irises – churns your stomach. In that moment, Mista reminds you of a dog scorned by his owner. In a way, that is exactly what he is. “You still have that sweater I sent you, right?”

Mustard-yellow, and one of your favorites. And one of Mista’s, too. You had sent it to him during his second week in holding. “Yeah.”

“Keep that, too.” A revolver rests in inside the waistband of his pants. It is a new addition to his appearance. It does not unsettle you, because you know that this man who killed three mobsters without hesitation would never hurt you. “Mista, I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” he sighs, kicking at a discarded soda can that had drifted from a nearby trashcan. “But it’s for the best.”

“It is.” The soda can rolls your way. You stop it with the sole of your foot; it crinkles beneath your weight. “Maybe one day, after you’re tired of working for that Bucciarati, we can pick up where we left off.”

“I’d like that.”

You smile. “Me too . . . Well, I should get going before my sister realizes I’m gone.” In your final moments together – before a pair of lovers once again becomes two separate beings – you embrace. Face buried into the crook of his neck, you speak: “You’re a good person, Mista. No matter what happened between you and those men or whatever does happen, you will always be good.”

He clutches you tighter.

“Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let this job get to you. And please, stai al sicuro, amore: stay safe.”

Back in your bedroom, you shed your clothes and don a mismatched set pajamas. Ever the optimist, you retire for the night with a heart not yet ready to be broken.

And an inescapable evocation of loneliness.

You are shocked to see the stack of hastily packed cardboard boxes. The words fragile or giunca are crudely scribbled with black marker across each one. All that remains is a worn couch with springs that poke into your skin and a square television, which sits on a box labeled libri e altra spazzatura – books and other trash.

The uniform pinholes in the barren walls are a reminder that imitators of your face, frozen in time, used to adorn the room.

“You’re moving?” you ask Mista as he tosses his hat aside and runs a hand through his hair.

He stops and looks to the boxes. “Yeah, actually,” he confirms. “The rent’s too damn high to afford on my own. I’m moving in with some coworkers.”

“You mean other gang members?” You do not miss the way he bites his lip in response. You regret your words as soon as they leave you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“N-no, it’s okay – you’re right anyways.” He trails off. “So that guy you were with. He your boyfriend or something?”

You struggle to recall your dance partner. “Oh, no,” you insist, caught between a scoff and a laugh. “I don’t even know his name.”

Something flashes behind his eyes. He hides the smile that creeps on his face behind the back of his hand, though he does not speak. Not another word is spoken.

It does not sit well with you, the silence that manifests in the still of the room. You are a trespasser – but so is he, for this realm no longer belongs to him, either. “Um, where’s this thing I left behind?” you finally ask; your voice echoes through the emptied space. It makes you shiver.

Mista disappears past the threshold of the bedroom that you once shared – you wonder if he still uses the cream-colored sheets you bought for him as opposed to his preferred navy blue – and returns with a shirt: it is your mustard-yellow sweater. It is wrinkled and smells just like him and something new (gunpowder, perhaps). The dried drool marks tell you that he sleeps with it bundled in his arms. “Here,” he says, holding it out to you.

You do not move to take it. “I gave it to you,” you remind him. A crushed soda can is under your foot and again, you are back in the alley saying farewell to your love. “I want you to keep it.”

But there is no alleyway – only a vacant apartment suite. He does not wish to return it; in a hasty, split-second decision back at the nightclub, he wagered his ownership over what has become his most cherished possession. Just for the chance that you might say yes.

Just for the chance to spend one last night with you.

He rolls his wrist, extending his arm further. “No. It’s for the best.”

And so, you pluck it from his grasp and tuck it inside of your purse – the final harvest from the tree, to be seeded and planted elsewhere. “I’d better get going,” you tell him. “I wish you all the best. It was good seeing you again. Really good . . .”

The doorknob hovers under your palm. “Wait,” Mista suddenly calls. You stop. He rubs the back of his neck. “Would you like to stay for a bit?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s late.” Your tongue betrays your heart. It is treason within your very soul. “Besides, it’s probably for the best if I go.”

Your reverberation of his words makes him wince. More than anything, you want to drop your purse and climb into his arms – to feel his warmth again. You need to leave. Yet, you step away from the door and take a seat upon the flattened cushions of the couch. You still remember where to sit to avoid the broken springs. “Unless, I mean . . . I guess if you really wouldn’t mind.”

Mista perks up. You mirror his grin. He takes the spot beside you, careful to leave a considerable amount of distance between your bodies. He reaches for the remote. The reception has not improved – it remains fuzzy, pixelated, and colorless.

“I’d offer a boardgame, but . . .” He gestures to the boxes; you get the hint. The channels flash by. “Any preferences?”

“I’m fine with a cooking show,” you tell him. “Or a movie.”

He settles for the latter. At some point, you leave Mista to fetch two drinks from the kitchen. The refrigerator is nearly empty, save for a few bottles of water. When you return with your beverages, you find that he has fallen asleep. You leave him be and watch the reminder of the movie with nothing more than his heavy breathing and the voices of the actors to keep you company.

You turn the television off once the end credits begin. Mista has not moved. If not for the heaving of his chest, he might have been a dead man. Without a clock on the wall, you cannot tell the time. Prediction is all you have – and so, you predict that it is just after midnight. Regardless, you have overstayed your welcome. It is time to leave.

Your fingers brush across his arm as you lean over his hunched form to rouse him from his slumber. You would hate to leave without saying goodbye. “Mista . . . “ you coo; your speech slurs and it is only then that you realize your own exhaustion. “I’m gonna go home, ‘kay?”

He stirs beneath you. Eyes puffy from sleep, he ogles at your figure. You hover over him, your breath close enough to ghost his cheeks. His long, dark lashes twitch when you breathe too sharply – when he parts his legs for you to slide in between them so that he might capture your lips with his own. One hand to the base of your neck, the other to your waist: he pulls you flush to his body, caging you with arms that feel unfamiliar. More muscle, you suppose.

You press against his chest and detach. His grip loosens, although only enough for you to raise the back of your hand to puckered lips to wipe the saliva from your face. He has already lost you – once more and it will become a life sentence.

“Mista,” you warn, turning your head away to resist his second kiss. The twinges of early love bloom again in the core of your belly. You want him. But you cannot have him. “We can’t.”

Your lipstick stains his mouth. It makes him look undeniably pretty.

“One night,” he pleads – yet his hands leave your body. “I know what you said, about waiting until I’m finished with Passione. But that was easier said than done. I can’t leave them; not now, maybe not ever. They’re mia famiglia. And so are you.”

Your head falls limply. “You can’t have us both.”

“Why not?” He speaks your name when you hesitate to answer. A finger hooks beneath your chin, tipping your head so that you must meet his gaze. “Why not, cara?”

He demands a truth that you have never professed. Not to him, nor your sister – and never to yourself. “I’m scared, Mista,” you finally admit. Confession weighs you down in his grasp. “Because I know the day will come when you won’t come back. It’d be better if I’m not around for it.”

A faint smile, laced with sorrow, etches upon his face. “Do you have that little faith in me?” he asks.

Faith? It was never for the lack thereof. You trust Mista with every fiber of your being because he saved you. And it was not just you – he took the lives of three men to protect the virtue of a woman whom he had never met because she could have been you. She was almost you. That night, when he had heard that woman’s screams and saw the man crouched over her bruised form, Mista felt as though his body had projected itself back into the gymnasium of the school you once attended together. Only this time, he knew how to put up a fight. He acted in the way that the constraints of boyhood had once held him back from.

No, you do not place your mistrust on Mista – you place it in the souls of every man and woman that poses a threat to his safety. The fact that you do not know how to convey this to him mystifies you. Actions are far easier than words, and so you press your lips to his once more. You feed off his touch alone.

You recline against the backing of the couch, hands pressed flat against the cushions. keening into Mista’s palms as he slides your skirt down – past your thighs, past your knees, and past your ankles. Your panties follow suit. His mouth presses against your slick folds; as touch starved as you have become, it takes little more than his kisses to stir your core. As if commanded by muscle memory, your legs coil around his shoulders and yank him closer the moment his tongue slips past your heat. He groans against you, low and gravely. It makes you gasp when his teeth graze over your hardened nub. When he brings his finger to join his tongue, you find that you are unable to stop your hips from rocking against his lips. A second finger coaxes you, and then a third – you come undone in his mouth, heaving for air.

You cry out his name in prayer. Mista pulls away, letting your legs fall back down. The spasm of your thighs turns your abdomen to jelly. You cannot move. You draw him in for another kiss, savoring the taste of your balm that coats his skin. He mutters his desires and you nod, eager to feel him fill you again. He hoists you into his arms and carries you to the bedroom.

It fills you with gratification to see that the rumpled sheets and folded pillows beneath you are in fact the color of sweet cream.

Soft snores leave Mista’s lips. He sleeps on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, and the other tucked beneath your head. Unlike your lover, you are wide-awake. You stare at the browning wallpaper of the bedroom wall, willing yourself to believe that the stagnant flowers are truly billowing against the wind in a field elsewhere.

You toss the duvet from your body and stand, careful not to wake him. The mattress breathes in the absence of your weight. In the darkness, you collect your discarded clothing and don your clubbing attire. You cast one final look to the sleeping dark-eyed boy before clicking the heavy door shut behind you.

A tiny voice cries out – a child from the next apartment suite perhaps, startled by nightmares no doubt. Though, as your ears strain and listen, it almost seems as though the child is calling your name. It is a ludicrous idea. Still, it unsettles you, for there is something familiar in its tone. You tighten your grasp on your purse, readjust your heels, and leave.

Regret is a sickening temptation – and you have ruined everything.

| 4291 Words | Masterlist |

#guido mista x reader #mista x reader #guido mista #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader #vento aureo

157 notes · View notes