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taexual · 8 months

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sleepwalking ● 1 | jjk

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers / fluff / angst / smut (in later chapters)

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, SLOW BURN

words: 7.5k

chapter 1 ► when i open my eyes to the future, i can hear you say my name

There was virtually not a single person left on the entire fourth floor of the company building, despite it being a Monday afternoon. Normally, two other managers worked in offices adjacent to yours, so the noise in the hallways never settled below a pleasant hum: producers, promoters, and publicists – the three cursed Ps – shuffled in and out, heels clicking urgently against the marble floor.

This funeral silence was unusual, but you knew it was only a calm before the storm.

Rated Riot were going on their first-ever European tour in two days to promote their sophomore album – named aptly, “ready, set, RIOT” – and today was the final day of meetings. Evidently, the executives at Jett Records assumed that the band deserved to have a whole floor to themselves, so everyone else got a half-day, leaving you and the Floor Administrator, Rue, all by yourselves until the band got here.

This unsettling silence was exactly why you heard them arrive as soon as the door of the building opened four floors below. Rated Riot lived up to their name by making themselves heard before they were seen.

As soon as the sharp ding! of the elevator reached you in your office—your door was always open on meeting days, because the four members of one of the most promising rock bands in the world at the moment lacked any sense of direction—you could immediately feel the atmosphere lighten, the previous silence long gone.

“Rue! The apple of my eye!” Hoseok, the drummer and the de facto mood setter of Rated Riot, exclaimed as you listened to the familiar sounds of the band as they exited the elevator and, based on the repeated clicking of shoes in the lobby, momentarily got disoriented.

“Always looking good, Rue!” Jungkook, the vocalist, as well as the new Golden Boy of Jett Records followed after.

“Good to see you again,” Taehyung, the always well-mannered bassist, said. Silence followed and you assumed he shook Rue’s hand.

“Hello,” Yoongi, who was, technically, the guitarist of the band, but, really, played any instrument he could get his hands on, was the last to speak. He’d always been very well-spoken in songwriting, but quieter and more careful in most everyday conversations.

“Welcome, guys,” Rue greeted them. You couldn’t see any of them from where your office was located, but you’ve been in a similar situation countless times before and you could imagine what was happening without needing to witness it first-hand.

Rue would stand up from her seat and point her right hand down the hallway, reminding them—yet again—that they needed to walk down the hall and take a right turn. The members of Rated Riot, in turn, would walk down the hall. At least one of the four of them would turn left instead, causing a pause as the group gathered back together, exchanging confused glances. Then, they would turn back to Rue—who would still be standing there, her right hand extended like a helpful Statue of Liberty. They’d laugh at themselves, nod at Rue, and take the correct turn.

If things were going well, they’d find your office on first try—they’d just need to find the open door and peer inside; your desk was right in front. More often than not, however, they stumbled around, knocking and chuckling to themselves as they continuously interrupted the offices of everyone else, but you.

They were special. Not just because they looked like loose ducklings, separated from the Mother Duck, whenever they entered the company building, but also because, in spite of their own lack of coordination, they still managed to get things done.

And they brightened the day of everyone they came across. Which was almost ironic—as you realised by watching the four of them enter your office—considering the effortless rockstar aura that surrounded them.

Jungkook walked in first. That was typical because he usually did: sometimes because he was the only one who remembered where your office was, but usually because the other members offered him as a sacrificial lamb when they went knocking around every office on the floor in search of yours.

He was dressed in all-black—always—adorned with silver chains and necklaces that often gave you a start when you looked up, because he had a very specific way of entering the room: he seemed to make sure to position himself in just a way that the light, coming in from the window behind you, always reflected off his jewellery and momentarily blinded you.

Sure enough, you blinked, cringing into yourself as the brightness hit your eyes, and when you opened them again, he was already grinning.

“Hi,” he said and the rest of the members followed in after him—a brighter palette of colours.

Even Yoongi, who was the only one who could have given Jungkook a run for his money if you had to count which one had more black items of clothing in their closet, was wearing a beige, loosely buttoned shirt.

Despite that, however, you could tell they were rock artists as soon as you looked at them—all tattoos, piercings, intense eye make-up behind sunglasses, and old band tees—and you stood up, excited to let them know that, finally, every last loose thread had been found and tightened. They’d get to introduce their artistry on a different continent, and you’d make sure it’d go smoothly.

“We’re leaving for Prague tomorrow morning,” you told them once the five of you settled down at the round table in the back of your office. “So, if you were planning a going away party, I strongly advise against it.”

“We weren’t,” Yoongi said, lifting his glass of lemon water—there was a jug on the table—and giving you a reassuring look. “This is the strongest drink I’m having tonight.”

“Thanks,” you said paradoxically enough, but being grateful when the members of the band you managed didn’t get drunk before an important day was part of the job. “I’d also appreciate it if—”

“Hold on a second, though,” Jungkook interrupted—you’d been anticipating it. “I’m going to a gig tonight, Reconnaissance are in town again. And there’s obviously an after-party—”

Despite Reconnaissance being, arguably, one of the most popular rock bands in the world right now, you were definite when you cut him off, “No.”

“—so, I—wait. No?” he paused. “I never miss their shows, you know that. And I don’t get drunk easily. You know that, too.”

“That’s why you drink so much,” you rebutted. The rest of the band members got their phones out, knowing well enough at this point that this would take a while. “And then I have to come get you out of trouble.”

“You absolutely do not have to do that,” Jungkook insisted. “We’ve been through this.”

“Have we?” you argued. “Because I keep telling you it’s my job to keep you from passing out in a dirty bar bathroom, but you don’t care enough to hear me.”

“Well, you’re not very convincing. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll wake up again.”

You were used to having this conversation with him—you’ve argued about this way before he became a singer and you ended up as his manager. And yet, the lax way he said this made you clench your fists.

Despite being mostly introverted, Jungkook did enjoy getting drinks with friends: even if said friends enjoyed his celebrity status more than they enjoyed the drinks.

“And if you don’t?” you threatened. “Rated Riot’s vocalist gets his stomach pumped. A catchy headline.”

“Yeah, man,” Hoseok interjected, putting his phone screen down on the table and crossing his arms. “Doesn’t go well with the vibe we’re going for. Don’t get your stomach pumped.”

“Fine, I—”

“What he meant was, don’t drink so much that you’d need your stomach pumped,” you clarified because Jungkook moonlighted as a Loophole Finder.

“I never have!” he insisted. “Seriously, you treat me like I’m still nineteen. Have some faith.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the other members of the group look up from their phones. The band had only formed a few years ago, so you were the only person in this room who knew what Jungkook was like when he was nineteen. You never spoke about it – that was likely why everyone was so curious.

In any case, Jungkook was wrong. You did have faith—that’s why you spent so many of your off-duty nights driving down deserted streets to pick him up after his asshole friends convinced him it was a good idea to try the biker bar on the outskirts of town, and he’d gotten in an altercation with a burly redneck that was twice his size.

There was no time for that now, not when he was supposed to be on stage in Prague in three days.

“Well,” Taehyung spoke up. “I was thinking of going to the show as well. Not so much the after-party, I have better plans. But, uh, I could come, after all.”

You appreciated the offer, but you knew that these better plans involved him spending time with his girlfriend, Luna, who was going to join him for a few weeks of the European tour, but after that, the two of them were going to be apart for several months.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, not trying very much to hide the hopeful undertones in your voice. Jungkook’s friends felt intimidated by all the members of Rated Riot; they’d be on their best behaviour if Taehyung was there.

“No, I think it might be fun,” Taehyung said. You exhaled quietly and he could sense your gratitude without words. He turned to his younger bandmate. “Should we go together?”

Jungkook groaned and mumbled under his breath, “not if I have to third-wheel again.”

“When have you ever third-wheeled anyone?” you asked rhetorically, but he was already opening his mouth to reply. Quickly, you added, “be careful, is what I’m saying, okay? I am complaining about having to pick you up from all kinds of holes, but if you need me to bring NDAs, I will bring them. So, ask.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but chose to stay quiet. He knew better now – the one time he did not make anyone sign a non-disclosure agreement after an impromptu, drunken busking session in New York, pictures of him, half-dressed and giving a lap dance to a random, equally as drunk, groupie, were on every rock page on Instagram. Accompanied with detailed retellings of how it came to happen, of course; all of them more ridiculous than the next. Your personal favourite story was that he was recruiting members for a sex cult.

“We’ll call you,” Taehyung gave you a nod, “if we have to.”

“Perfect,” you said, glancing at Jungkook again, even though expecting him to confirm that he, too, would call you if he had to, was wishful thinking.

Every time you reminded him how he needed to start going out with a less destructive crowd, he’d treat his phone like a poisonous snake – and he’d been doing that even before you became his manager. His friends seemed to get their pleasure fix from watching you arrive and rip him a new one, so they were the ones who called you most of the time, always laughing into their phones like true accomplices.

It was funny how Jungkook was the only one who passed out or got so wasted, he ended up on a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. His friends always walked away unscathed and, usually, only called you by the time they were back in their bedrooms – “when we left, he was ordering mint and honey daiquiris, you should probably go over there and check up on him.”

It was like they loved pushing him into danger and purposefully bringing the two of you together again, and Jungkook either didn’t realise or didn’t care anymore. It’s been a while, after all.

You and Jungkook had been broken up for almost two years when you got the unbelievable offer to manage an up-and-coming rock band. This was over two years ago now and you were only twenty-four back then. Up until that point, you had worked as an assistant manager for various indie artists, so that offer was massive.

You figured the downside that your ex-boyfriend happened to be in this particular band was worth it, considering the huge leap in your career you’d make by accepting this job.

And, for the most part (excluding the first two months that were pure chaos of repressed feelings), you and Jungkook both made this work, drawing a strict line between your relationship before Rated Riot (back when he still had your phone number saved as “❌”) and after he met you again as Rated Riot’s new manager (ironically, now your name on his phone was “❌❌❌”).

You’ve managed Rated Riot for almost exactly two years now, and if you’d asked the band – which you wouldn’t, partially out of humbleness, but also because you were scared – you’d know that they loved working with you as much as you loved working with them. So, in the end, it all really had been worth it.

“Check your emails for the descriptive itineraries,” you continued smoothly enough. The guys at the table put their phones down and returned their attention to you. “Now, who else is coming with us?”

Technically, the band wasn’t supposed to bring anyone – the label was explicitly clear about that. They wanted the first European tour to go “without a hitch” (meaning, without distractions), but you held a more liberal view here.

You didn’t think loved ones coming on the road were a distraction; if anything, they were a firm support mechanism that made touring easier for the artists.

“I know Luna’s staying until the Barcelona show, yeah?” you asked, double-checking the notes on your laptop.

Taehyung nodded, a small smile on his lips at the mention of the girl. “She flies out the next day, yeah.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Well, Sid and Jude are coming,” Jungkook spoke up and, after seeing your eyes roll back, added, quieter, “and Minjun isn’t sure.”

The three musketeer-wannabes – Sid, Jude, and Minjun – were on speed dial on your work and personal phones, because if Rated Riot had a performance and the vocalist wasn’t there, it was likely those three who were to blame. They were the only ones who knew Jungkook longer than you did, and they seemed to take pride in the fact that they had successfully been causing you headaches for seven years now.

“Sid and Jude,” you repeated, “aren’t worried they’ll lose their jobs if they travel to Europe abruptly?”

“No, they’re cool,” Jungkook shrugged, not catching the mockery in your voice. “I’ll text Minjun right now. Maybe he’ll come when we’re in Poland…”

“I needed confirmation by last week,” you reminded him. “At the latest.”

He glanced at you from his phone and then went back to texting. “So, why’d you ask now?”

“To double-check,” you said. “They’re going to have to book the hotels themselves. Or sleep on the street. Honestly, I don’t really—”

“So, uh,” Yoongi interrupted before another argument could begin, “how many hotels this time?”

“Prague, Amsterdam, and Paris. And, depending on flight time, maybe two nights in London,” you said with an apologetic smile. “Bring your favourite blankets. We’re living on buses for the next three months.”

None of them minded – if anything, you could see a little glitter in their eyes as they listened to you. Being on the road and having to sleep on the tour bus every night was an experience they’d missed. They hadn’t gone on an actual tour in almost a year – as someone who thrived on live performances, they had obviously missed this.

Really, you’ve missed it, too. Rated Riot may have been a riot to look after as their manager – pun fully intended – especially on tour, but they were your riot to deal with.

You liked your job and the challenges that came with it, because, in the end, you overcame most of them: starting with your previous relationship with Jungkook (no one in the band had a problem with it, and the label miraculously seemed not to know about it) and ending with your relatively young age (Jungkook was the only one who had a problem with you being his age, but he had a problem with almost everything).

Hopefully, one day you’d manage to overcome the challenge that was getting Jungkook to open his eyes and realise that the people he surrounded himself with were more groupies than his friends. But all in due time.

“If you have questions,” you said as the meeting approached its’ conclusion, “go right ahead.”

“Wake-up calls,” Yoongi said. “Any possibility of arranging those?”

You smiled – this had been traditional practice ever since you started to work with them.

“I’ll call,” you said and then remembered a particularly frustrating way in which this had backfired. You added, “and keep you on the phone until you’re out of bed.”

Back when you were an assistant manager to a different band, this had been your main task. And, you supposed, if Rated Riot had assistant managers, they’d be the ones making wake-up calls, too – however, the band had only started to live up to their potential now. Before you booked the European tour for them, Jett Records thought they barely needed one manager to begin with.

You’ve made it this far. If the tour went well, maybe you’d get to expand your team as the band gained popularity.

Jungkook felt giddy the whole night. The Reconnaissance show with Taehyung and Luna was a lot of fun, as expected—he’d seen the band five times before tonight, and they never failed to let him down.

When he arrived at the after-party, he was nearly vibrating with excitement—on top of everything, he was going on tour tomorrow and he knew he might lose his mind over it—and this was usually the time when he tended to get reckless.

He did drink a little too much to retain a completely sober mind, but he stayed true to his word and did not wander anywhere or caused any—serious—trouble. You would have said that’s because Sid and Jude weren’t with him, but Jungkook was convinced it was because he simply had great self-control when he put his mind to it.

The only place he went to after the party was his family’s house, so he could say goodbye to his grandma. She probably wouldn’t even hear him—and if she would, then she probably wouldn’t recognise him—but he couldn’t leave to Europe without saying goodbye to her.

He thought he’d take his Katana to the house, but then remembered immediately the last time he got on his motorcycle drunk – his grandma had, literally, smacked him on the back with a rolling pin, yelling about how careless he was. She didn’t say that she hit him out of concern for his safety—that was obvious—and, instead, she focused on how hard he’d worked on restoring the bike after he’d bought it; his first purchase with the money that he made off Rated Riot’s music.

“Don’t you want it to last?” she had said then. She’d been the only person who believed he could bring the bike to life, despite it not having a single properly functioning part, least of all the engine. “You worked so hard on it. Do you want to wreck it in one night?”

Tonight, however, everyone in the house was asleep when he arrived. It was quiet, so he tried to be silent as he went up the stairs to her room—and then knocked over a picture frame after his feet fumbled on the carpet in the hallway. But no one went out to check who was making the noise—which was dangerous, he realised for a brief, semi-sober second; but the house had security, so he figured they were safe from outsiders—and he gently lowered the handle on his grandma’s door, peering inside.

The room was painted in blue hues from the night light next to the bed where his grandma was sleeping. He approached—really trying to be quiet this time—and carefully pulled her comforter up, so she wouldn’t get cold, even though the room felt warm.

It was always warm here and Jungkook had to bite his lip when he realised how much he missed sitting here as a child while dozens of his cousins ran around the house and wreaked loud, childish havoc. How much he missed his grandma reading him books—never children’s stories, he always insisted she read him the thickest, most boring books he could find on her shelves, just so he could stay in her room longer, listening to her soothing voice and feeling her comforting warmth.

Sniffling quietly, he leaned closer to her and brushed a strand of white hair from her face, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, unaware of his presence.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised in a whisper as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She didn’t wake. “We will talk again then.”

He knew he’d keep this promise even if she didn’t hear it, even if she didn’t remember. But leaving her room felt painful and he was far less excited now. The alcohol had begun to wear off and heaviness settled in his chest instead. This happened sometimes when he was left alone with his thoughts, especially after he visited his grandma.

He'd come back, he knew he would. But as he glanced at his grandma’s sleeping frame one more time—remembering how she hadn’t called him by his name in months; not one glint of recognition in her eyes when she’d see him—he wondered if he’d have anyone to come back to.

Surprising exactly no one, Jungkook was the only one who did not answer your wake-up call the next morning. Having foreseen this, you’d already called Hoseok, Yoongi and Taehyung – in that order, because the first two took the longest to wake up, and by that time, Taehyung was already awake on his own – and only then attempted to reach the one remaining member.

Fifteen minutes later, you were already dressed and ready to drive over to his house and personally wake him up with an icy bath in bed. And just then, your phone rang – his name as the caller’s ID.

“Look who—”

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook’s groggy voice cut you off before you could greet him with the appropriate sarcastic remark. “I’m awake. Halfway in the shower.”

“I don’t hear running water.”

He responded with a groan first, then shuffling. You waited patiently, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you unlocked the door of your apartment. Finally, you could hear the water start running on the other end of the call.

“Happy?” Jungkook asked, always the brightest of all rays of sunshine in the morning.

“Ecstatic,” you replied, equally as enthusiastically. “Sending a car to pick you up in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I can drive myself—”

“No driving when you’re hungover,” you said, not for the first time. “In fact, don’t even go near your Katana.”

He considered several ways to respond to you; first and foremost, defending his beloved, navy-coloured Suzuki Katana with a matte coating, custom-made leather seat covers, golden rims, purring engine, and—anyway. He ended up choosing to respond with a question, “how do you know I’m hungover?”

“I’ve known you for almost ten years,” you replied. “If you go out drinking the night before, you’ll wake up hungover.”

“Well, how do you know I drank that much last ni—?”

“Listen,” you cut him off, hoisting your suitcases over the threshold of your front door. You fixed your phone against your cheek and continued, “how about you take that shower, and we’ll resume this nice little Q&A at the airport?”

“No,” he replied and, in a purposefully exaggerated breathy voice said, “I simply can’t stop talking to you.”

“Hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughed as he listened to the beep, indicating the end of the call. Putting his phone on the side of the sink, he took his shirt off and was about to continue undressing when his phone vibrated and nearly fell off the sink.

Scrambling to catch it, he smacked it against the cupboard and exhaled in relief when he saw that the screen hadn’t cracked. He was expecting a text from you – a threat, in case he’d go back to bed – but it was actually Sid, asking for the time of his flight.

His friends were taking a separate flight out to Prague – they weren’t happy about it and neither was he, but at least they’d get to hang out in Europe eventually – and, obviously, they wanted to know what time they’d meet up and where.

He double-checked the itinerary you’d emailed him, got confused about the time zone difference and texted Sid back.

“Gonna be there the day before the show,” his text said, “jetlag. Sleep. Maybe beer? Catch u there.”

Sid was, of course, delighted to hear the mention of beer and Jungkook snickered to himself before he resumed undressing for his shower—knowing from experience that you wouldn’t be above shipping him to Prague in the cargo section on the plane if he was late to the airport.

As it turned out, for the first time in his life, Jungkook was so terribly jet-lagged, that he did not feel like doing anything – not even drinking with friends – but sleeping.

He slept through the whole layover in Paris – and, consequently, through Taehyung and Luna’s stories about the 5 minutes they got to spend in front of the Eiffel Tower before rushing back to the airport (never mind that it was about 2 AM) – as well as the flight to Prague.

He only woke up on the bus ride to the hotel when he felt something nudging his lips and opened his eyes to find an open bottle of Coca-Cola in your hands as you held it by his face.

“Did you just—” he started to say, but his voice sounded brittle, more a croak than a voice, really. He cleared his throat and tried again, “did you just wake me up by making me sniff soda?”

“It worked,” you replied, nudging the bottle at him again. “Drink. You need sugar. You didn’t eat anything on the plane here.”

“I had that bagel on the flight to Paris,” he mumbled, but sat up properly and took the bottle from you.

“That was a croissant,” you clarified. It was almost cute to see him barely awake. “And I warned you about flying with a hangover. You did this to yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he replied after taking a big gulp of coke. “Not sure which day it is, but other than that, I’m perfect. Do you have anything for headaches?”

Snickering, you nodded. “Yeah, give me a second.”

You went to fetch your carry-on bag and returned with ibuprofen, which allowed him to go back to sleep until you arrived at the hotel. The other members were also in and out of slumber, but that was their own fault. You and the other girls on this tour, which, really, only meant Luna— Taehyung’s girlfriend—and Maggie—the tour photographer—had planned ahead and taken sleeping pills as soon as the plane took off. Meanwhile, every man on this trip thought too much of himself.

By the time you arrived to the hotel and checked in, it was already lunchtime. If this had been your first time travelling with Rated Riot, you would have been beyond surprised to see what effect food had on them: they looked like they'd just returned from the most refreshing vacation in the Caribbean. Lively conversation and cheerful laughter echoed around the table – no one would have guessed that they’d just spent over 13 hours on airplanes. Their recovery was nearly always miraculous.

And, naturally, since they were feeling better, they wanted to do something as soon as the first rehearsal was over. You had far too many things to do before the show tomorrow, so you couldn’t babysit them – again, an assistant manager would have been life-saving – but you knew you’d still have to keep an eye on them.

Taehyung and Luna went sightseeing, but they were the sort who kept you updated on their adventures through pictures, which you were endlessly grateful for. There was never a reason to worry here; if you were a teacher who had to pretend not to have a favourite student, Taehyung would be the student you were pretending about.

Yoongi and Hoseok, initially, went to a record store together, but then split up – one of them returned to the hotel for a nap, and the other one went café-hopping. Those two were also fine – they usually took some members of the crew with them anyway, so you knew that in the worst-case scenario, you’d still have several people you could call to reach them.

Now Jungkook was going to meet up with Sid and Jude, both of whom had, most unfortunately, successfully landed in Prague. The Diabolical Duo would take him out drinking, you had no doubt about it – and this was where you’d have to step in with another warning. You weren’t the angry mother, dragging her children by their ears, but you felt it necessary to remind Jungkook of what was at stake if he allowed his friends to be their usual, obnoxious selves tonight.

However, you didn’t want to ask, so you had to figure out where to find them yourself. You didn’t even have to use the seven years that you’ve known them to deduce two logical, universal-for-all-assholes things: one, Jungkook’s friends wouldn’t be nearly tired enough not to want to drink. Two, they’d be too jet-lagged to look for their usual hole-in-the-wall spot that sold drinks. Therefore, they’d have to settle for the bar of the hotel.

And when you exited the elevator on the ground floor later that night, your assumption was confirmed – you could hear their laughter from where you were standing in the lobby.

You’d texted Jungkook as you arrived, hoping he’d leave his friends and come see you at the back of the bar for a minute, but unfortunately, Sid and Jude noticed you and waved you over with loud cheers.

Embarrassed as the people in booths around you began to turn to look, you swallowed and walked towards the front where Jungkook and his friends were sitting by the bar.

“Wow, it’s been so long!” Jude exclaimed as you approached. In your opinion, it wasn’t nearly long enough, but you only lifted the corners of your lips and did not comment.

“Jungkook, a moment?” you said instead.

“Let’s get you a drink!” Sid suggested as though you hadn’t spoken and extended a hand, clicking his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey! Can we get some Margaritas here?”

You cringed watching this, but, again, restrained yourself. They could behave like pricks all they wanted; it wasn’t their reputation that you had to protect. Someone else would, hopefully, teach them a lesson.

“Sure,” Jungkook said to you, sliding off the stool. He seemed sober enough to walk without any sort of waddling or stand without swaying, but you could tell by the relaxation behind his eyes, that he was already tipsy.

His friends patted him on the back and whistled as he followed you to a quieter spot in the back of the bar. He shook his head at them—but had a grin on his face, and for that alone you wanted to punch him.

“Can I count on you to take it easy?” you asked, once the two of you were out of earshot. “Not because you’ll make my job much harder if you don’t, but because you have a rehearsal tomorrow at eight, and that’s hard with the jet lag alone, but add a hangover into the mix, and—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but you’ve heard this song many times before. It was one of his top hits. “I’m actually tired, so I might have a few and then go straight to bed.”

“Okay,” you said, choosing to believe him, because that was easier than making him sign a contract, swearing not to wake up in a dumpster. “Can you text me when you’re back in your room? So I know you’re not lost somewhere in Prague with Dumb and Dumber.”

His lip twitched in an almost-smile at the nickname, but he resisted – a loyal friend, even if they didn’t deserve it – and gave you a nod.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll text you. And I won’t get lost.”

“Okay—” you started to say and then squinted your eyes at him, realizing. “I meant don’t go wandering the city streets while drunk.”

He snorted and placed a hand on your left shoulder. Gazing into your eyes, he enunciated very dramatically, “I will not get into trouble. Promise.”

You pursed your lips. “You’d better not.”

“I realise what that would mean, believe it or not,” he said, straightening. “Tomorrow is an important day. I’d never do anything to ruin it.”

“I know,” you said. “I trust you to make smart choices. I don’t trust them.”

You pointed at the twosome by the bar – both of them watching you like you were the entertainment of the night – and Jungkook turned to look. Sid and Jude both immediately waved at him. Jungkook waved back and, when he looked at you again, he was smiling softly.

Clearly, he genuinely enjoyed hanging out with those two. You’d never believe that there was anything about them that was bearable—let alone enjoyable—so Jungkook’s weird attachment to them had to come from some sort of weird destructive force inside of him.

“I’ll keep them in check,” he said and then, possibly prompted by the skeptical frown on your face, he felt the need to explain, “they help me relax. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be shaking from anxiety all the time. Kind of like you are.”

He winked as he said that last part, grinning at his own wit, but you rolled your eyes in response.

“Goodnight,” you said then. “Don’t forget to text me.”

“Are you going to stay up late waiting for my text?” his tone was humorous and it stopped you from leaving.

“Hopefully not,” you said, ignoring the flirty comment that was obviously meant to rattle your composure. “But it’d do you well to remember that I can make life very difficult for you if you disobey me.”

He lifted his eyebrows at this, but did not lose the grin. “Oh? Will I get punished if I—”

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” you said again—louder—and turned away.

You glanced over your shoulder when you reached the archway leading to the lobby and caught him watching you leave—he was still beaming, but he composed himself and nodded when he caught your eye. You nodded back.

Maybe he really would be fine tonight.

And, truly, Jungkook had meant what he’d said – he couldn’t wait for tomorrow and there was nothing he’d do to ruin that. Not even if the smirking faces of his friends prompted him to laugh as soon as he returned to his seat by the bar.

“What do you want, assholes?” he asked, punching Jude on the shoulder as he walked past his friends. As soon as he sat down, leaving Sid in the middle, he took a big gulp of the beer he’d left waiting; only his third one tonight.

“We don’t want anything,” Jude said, still smirking. “What did she want? Another moral how you’re not being a good boy?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “No—”

“I was always curious,” Sid interrupted. “Was she like that when you dated, too? You know, always in charge?”

Even before you and Jungkook had settled into a steady enough rhythm of working with each other, neither of you spoke to others about your relationship. Not while you were dating, and not after you broke up. So, all your friends—real friends and whoever the hell Sid and Jude were—essentially knew nothing of your relationship.

And there was nothing he’d tell them now.

It’s been four years since you broke up—plenty of time to move on. Not to mention, you were both (trying to be) professionals. There was no point to bring back the past; there never had been.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jungkook teased, managing to keep the banter going without revealing how the question irked something inside him.

“I would. That’s why I asked,” Sid replied, laughing haughtily. A few heads turned his way. Sid sounded very much like an entitled heir—or an elephant high on helium—when he laughed, especially when there was nothing funny going on. “I mean, you never talked about her to us. Was it getting rid of her that made you who you are today?”

Jude snorted, slapping Sid on the back in a half-supportive, half-warning manner. Jungkook knew that the level of your patience for his friends ranged from Sid (no patience) to Jude (case-by-case), to Minjun (bearable)—and he could see why.

“I didn’t get rid of her,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We broke up and moved on. Did you hear from Minjun?”

Sid laughed again—even louder than before; the glasses behind the bar seemed to clatter.

“Look at him, trying to change the topic!” he wheezed, looking at Jude over his shoulder.

“Leave him be, man,” Jude said and nodded at Jungkook. “So many girls around us and this dumbass is still hung up on your ex, huh?”

Jungkook finished his beer and held the liquid behind his cheeks for a second before swallowing. He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted his empty glass, indicating a refill.

“I don’t think I’m the one who’s hung up,” Sid said with a very knowing look in his eye.

Jungkook looked at him and raised his eyebrows—surprised and momentarily distracted from his drink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you come to her as soon as she calls, like a puppy,” Sid replied. “So, you tell me.”

“I have to come when she calls,” Jungkook defended. “She’s my manager.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Jude said, slapping Sid on the back of the head this time. “She’s his manager.”

Jungkook suddenly found himself smiling when he realised that you’d probably consider this the reason why Sid acted the way he did sometimes – permanent brain damage from Jude’s incessant slaps.

“Well, then someone,” Sid said, angrily accentuating the word—the anger was clearly directed at Jude, but the pronoun at Jungkook, “has a fucking crush on their manager.”

“I don’t have a crush—”

Sid spoke over him, “I bet you could never get her to go out with you again.”

Jungkook saw the bartender approach to pour him a drink and he heard Jude scoffing, but he could only blink, taken aback by what sounded like an accusation. “Why—why would I even—why—”

“Oh, see, see?!” Sid screeched, turning to Jude with a triumphant expression. Jude gave him a pitiful look—and looked about ready to give him a black eye, too. “He knows I’m right, it’s why he’s stuttering!”

“Dude,” Jude said slowly. “You are yelling.”

Jungkook cleared his throat, nodding at the bartender as a thank-you and then bringing his refilled glass to his lips. “And I’m not stuttering.”

“You so are, my man,” Sid taunted, patting Jungkook on the shoulder with so much force, the beer nearly spilled from the glass and from his mouth. “Your ass is so whipped, you’re going to be singing at her wedding to some random producer.”

Suddenly hyper-aware that there were several producers on tour with them right now, Jungkook put his drink down and straightened in his seat.

“I’m not fucking singing at weddings,” he said.

“Not yet,” Sid pointed out, grinning. He knew he'd gotten under his skin.

“Okay, come on now,” Jude interjected, leaning back in his seat to be able to see Jungkook. “You promised you’d sing at my wedding.”

“As if anyone would ever marry you,” came Sid’s snide.

“You shut the fuck up,” Jude snarled, but there was no malice behind his bark. “I have more chances of marrying someone than he has of marrying his manager.”

“He—oh, fuck!” Sid was about to argue, but then burst into laughter—so loud and thunderous again, that the bartender was forced to glance over at the security guards by the entrance to the bar. “That’s good! You’re so right!”

“Both of you are fucking idiots,” Jungkook spoke. The edges of his vision were red. “I could get her to go out with me again if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Sid nodded, wiping invisible tears from his eyes. “Big talk.”

“Jungkook, no offense, my dude,” Jude said, leaning forwards this time. “Let him have this one. Sid may be dumber than box of rocks, but he’s got a point here. Forget about her.”

Another insinuation that had Jungkook throwing his head back in frustration.

“There’s nothing to forget!” he groaned. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I just fucking told you I moved on.”

“So why are you getting all riled up, then?” Sid smirked, more and more satisfied with each curse that he provoked out of him.

Jungkook felt even angrier, because he was getting riled up, but he had a good reason for it. He enjoyed banter as much as the next person, but he did not enjoy mockery at his own expense—especially not the kind that involved you.

He snapped back, “because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His friends snickered at this – convinced that his irritation only proved the point they were both making – and Jungkook clenched his jaw, annoyed.

“If anything,” he added sharply as he picked his beer up—as if that could somehow distance him from this conversation, “it’s her who’s still hung up on me.”

That was a cheap, childish defence, and everyone by the bar knew it.

“Yeah, right!” Sid cried out, but resisted from laughing again. “We’ve heard her yell at you more times than we can count. You fucking wish she was still hung up on you.”

“Okay, to be fair, Sid can probably only count to five,” Jude added—Sid finally punched him on the shoulder—as he toyed with the paper umbrella on his fourth cocktail; the Margaritas they’d ordered were long gone. “But he’s right, you know? You’d never get her to go out with you again.”

There was pity in Jude’s voice—as if he felt sorry that Jungkook lived in denial, chasing after you and convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before you’d come back to him.

This made Jungkook’s temper vile, his face red, hot, and angry. He slammed his beer back on the table, forcing some of it to spill. “Yes, I fucking would!”

Sid was hiccupping as he laughed.

“Okay, okay, listen—let’s make a proper bet,” he managed. He picked up a napkin from the bar top, then looked around for something to write on it with—not finding anything, he stood up from his seat and leaned over the bar, grabbing a pen before the bartender could notice. “$1000 says you can’t get her to go on a date with you again.”

He glanced at Jude for approval—Jude shrugged.

“I’d suggest $500,” he said. “We don’t want to rob him blind.”

Jungkook’s face remained stoic, prideful.

“Fine with me. But you have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into,” he bit.

“Oh, that’s right, he’s been awfully cocky about the whole thing, hasn’t he?” Sid spoke, addressing his rhetorical question at the bar. He wrote something on the napkin and then lifted it to show the number “4000” to Jungkook. “How about this: Jude and I each pay you $2000 if you win. But if you lose, you give us your Katana.”

Jungkook lifted his eyebrows, the sudden mention of his bike catching him off-guard. Sid came from old money, he could afford fifteen brand-new motorcycles with the change he found in his suitcase, probably.

“How is that fair?” he asked. “Do you even know how much a Suzuki costs these days? It’s not $4000, I can tell you that much.”

“Why should you care?” Sid asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You were so confident about winning the bet just a second ago. Scared you’ll lose after all?”

In his defence, Jungkook did hesitate for half a moment. But there was a shit-eating grin on Sid’s mouth that he wanted to wipe off more than anything else, and he downed the rest of his beer in one big gulp—a showcase of his determination.

“Not at all,” he said then. He wasn’t sure if he was lying as he said this, but he had no time to figure that out. He extended his hand at Sid. “Get your money ready.”

Here, he was putting up a front – this wasn’t about the money at all. It was more a thing of pride; they were teasing him, purposefully making fun of him—and he wanted to prove them wrong, regardless if they were actually wrong.

Smirking, Sid shook his hand—cementing the bet between all three of them, as Jude was busy finishing off his cocktail—and was about to say something when Jungkook jumped off his stool.

“Have to go now,” he said, always a show-off with his overly creative comebacks when he was tipsy. “My horoscope predicts a date and a big fortune in my near future. Got to prepare.”

chapter title credits: sleep token, “rain”

special shout-out & thank you to @eleni-cherie who delivered the much-appreciated kicks in the ass, so that i would keep writing. the odds were really against me, so if it weren't for you & our in-depth fanfic discussions, i definitely wouldn't even be writing this note right now, let alone finally starting this story 💜

prev ○ next | | | masterlist

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts reactions #bts x reader #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts rockstar au #bts scenarios #jungkook rockstar au #jungkook reaction #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fanfic

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hollytoshaw · 30 days

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singer!y/n | harry lewis

summary: singer!y/n & wroetoshaw are the internet's fave couple (fem reader)

a/n: love love love singer x youtuber au my fave. also the song 'golden hour' mentioned in my head is the kacey musgraves one so if you need to imagine something listen to that!

requests: pls keep sending them in but don't send other blogs the same ones cos then we'll all be doing the same things xxx

rest of my work hereeee : masterlist

y/n_username posted a photo!

liked by ksi and 950,201 others! y/n_username last night on the graham norton show! had so much fun. also performed a new single from the album so go watch now!!!🎤💘

taliamar just amazing🤭 ↳ y/n_username love love love you

faithlouiseak omg she famous famous ↳ y/n_username hahaha stop

wroetoshaw prettiest girl in the world ↳ y/n_username loveeee youuuu

w2slover3 omg her live performance of golden hour was amazing

ksi goat

sidemenfan neeed to watch asap

y/n's album features in sidemen guess the song

- y/n_username posted a photo!

liked by reneerap & 940,204 others! y/n_username so excited to announce i'm going on tour!!!! here are the dates for my european tour. tickets go on sale on friday. supporting act is the one and only talia mar <333

taliamar I'M SO EXCITED

freyanightingale my girls!!!!!

wroetoshaw can't wait x

r0sielewis OMG POPSTAR

faithlouiseak my bff is an icon>>>

geenelly slay

sidemanxfan i need tickets

harryxlewisfan selling my house if it means i can get y/n tickets

w2slover imagine if harry goes on tour with her

ynharryfan talia x y/n i'm in love

y/n_username posted a photo!

liked by wroetoshaw & 840,204 others! y/n_username back home with my boys before tour begins <3 tagged: wroetoshaw-

taliamar so cute

faithlouiseak so gorg babe

freyanightingale herrrrrb

wroetoshaw love you my girl

sidemanxfan omg tour is nearly starting

harryxlewisfan so wholesome

w2slover how are we gonna survive without a month of y/n & harry content ↳ y/n_username he'll defo be at all her shows!!!

ynharryfan harry in the third pic>>>

EUROPEAN TOUR nov 04-nov27

tour day 1! - london, uk

y/n_username posted a photo!

liked by taliamar and 982,029 others! y/n_username tour day one complete!!!! london you were incredible. ty taliamar for being the best supporting act ever. also big thank you to my biggest supporter for coming along with us, i love you lots wroetoshaw! see you in two days berlin!!!! tagged wroetoshaw ,taliamar

sidemanfan4 ur so pretty 😍😍😍

calfreezy sick first show mate

callux loved it

wroetoshaw sounded a bit off key sometimes xxx

r0sielewis was amazing thank u for inviting me!!! 😭

w2slover I CAN'T wait for your concert

sidemenw2s2 omg harry being there to support her????

w2sluvy/n i was in the crowd and could see harry filming her for the whole concert??? so cute

tour day 2 - berlin, germany

y/n_username posted a photo!

liked by ksi and 832,029 others! y/n_username day 2 of the tour complete! berlin you were amazing. i love love love being in germany and this show made me love it even more. thanks to all that came out to support. next stop paris!!!

sidemanfan4 😍😍😍

wroetoshaw so fit

w2slover when she gave a shoutout to harry>>>

sidemenw2s2 i saw harry backstage omg!!!!

w2sluvy/n such a slay outfit

faithlouiseak you look insaneeee

taliamar such a good show babe

tour day 3 - paris, france

y/n_username posted a photo!

liked by wroetoshaw and 982,029 others! y/n_username day off tour to explore paris!!! can't wait for the show tonight, see you all there xxx tagged wroetoshaw

sidemanfan4 mum and dad

calfreezy give me a free ticket

wroetoshaw fit geeza in the last pic

r0sielewis miss you both sm xxx

w2slover omg exploring paris together so cute

sidemenw2s2 such wholesome babes

w2sluvy/n love my parents

y/n_username posted a photo!

liked by ksi and 832,029 others! y/n_username PARIS you were amazing!!! big kisses to everyone that came to support. love love love performing in france, french fans you are amazing. and taliamar smashed it again, best support act i could ask for! tagged taliamar

sidemanfan4 i just know harry's jel of her back up dancers

wroetoshaw best outfit so far

w2slover did anyone see the papparazi pics of harry and y/n???

sidemenw2s2 the pics of them cuddling walking round paris omg

w2sluvy/n such a slay outfit

faithlouiseak i love ur face

taliamar best show so far!!!!

#w2s #wroetoshaw #w2s x reader #harry wroetoshaw #harry lewis #harry w2s #sidemen #w2s fic #w2s imagine #wroetoshaw imagine #wroetoshaw oneshot #hollytoshaw #chris md #arthurtv #sidemen x reader

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 1 year

Photo

BLOG DIRECTORY AND ABOUT - Check Read More!

this is a fanart blog! I’m not affiliated with Moulinsart or anything official, and I don’t make any money from this blog. It’s entirely for laughs, even when the posts aren’t funny. I try and keep the content on this blog safe for work, there will be swearing and mild injuries every now and then. Let me know if you want anything tagged.

pronouns are he/they. I’m British Chinese, and I’m an animator. I will always leave asks on for this blog, but I might not be able to reply to all of them! I will try my best to respond to as many as I can.

I know a lot of right wing weirdos use Tintin imagery to push their shitty politics so if you’re one of those people kindly fuck off! I’ve also seen people repost my art to other platforms, if you want to share my stuff outside Tumblr please ask first, wait for explicit permission and link back to my blog.

I also never post anything shipping Haddock and Tintin together romantically. I have the tag blacklisted too, I don’t mind interacting with people who ship this but I’m just not interested in interacting with the pairing as I find it super uncomfortable.

Instagram (@professorcalculusstanacc)

Animation

Comics

My Stories

French Translation of My Comics by ironiebd

Post-Canon Characters - Where Are They Now?

- Archibald Haddock

- Chang

- Tintin

- Martine Vandezande

- Zorrino

The ProfessorCalculusStanAccount Post-Canon Timeline (in chronological order):

- St Benezet’s Basement

Tintin and Chang go undercover in a Catholic boy’s college to investigate a series of student disappearances.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- The Golden Palm

Tintin goes undercover at a film festival disguised as Hollywood starlet Marlene Katz to fight off the mob.

(X) (X)

- Call of the Songbird

On a backstage tour of the Museum of Art and History, Tintin steals an ancient Chinese whistle to return it to its place of origin after Chang laments how European museums are full of stolen artefacts.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- The Beast of Loch Broom

After falling out with Tintin, Captain Haddock decides to take Chang under his wing to go monster hunting at a loch he used to visit on childhood holidays.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- The Gypsum Maw

Tintin is sent by his editor to interview a caver who is stuck in an unregulated cave.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- White Boy Goes Dancing

tintin finally goes to the club with chang

(X) (X) (X)

- The House of Glass

Calculus is the judge of an international flower show where the plant used to make Rajaijah madness juice is on display.

(X)

- Tintin Takes the Tube

During the London Blitz, Tintin, Chang and Haddock go to check on Chang’s uncle in Limehouse. Haddock uncovers a Nazi plot in some London Underground service tunnels.

(X)

- Unnamed Area 51 story

Chang and Tintin have a midlife crisis and decide to break into Area 51 after a bunch of alien sightings flood the tabloids, and get into trouble with the US government.

(X)

- The Goddamn Moustache Saga

Haddock really fucking hates Tintin’s new look. Bullying ensues

(X) (X)

#Fanart #animation #2d animation #gif #gifset #professor calculus #cuthbert calculus #captain haddock #archibald haddock #tintin #Adventures of Tintin #pinned post

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gainingfiction · 5 months

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Heavily Used

Summary: This is a bit experimental (or weird), and maybe a bit predictable, but I had fun writing it. This is a story about an important relationship in a fat guy’s life, and the risk of taking things for granted. It’s also a story about coping (or not coping) with change.

Hope you enjoy!

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I can only handle so much. It’s one thing to be taken for granted, that’s something we all have to live with. It’s just the total lack of acknowledgment, or even awareness that I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. I swear, one of these days, I’m just gonna snap and call it quits.

A little bit about me: I’m stylish, polished, and pretty easy on the eyes, if I do say so myself. Born in Poland, but my background is Swedish—I’m European, at heart. The name is Anders, but no one actually calls me that. I’m not super high-maintenance, once you figure me out, but everyone needs a little attention from time to time. Some tending.

Especially living with Max.

I’ve known Max for a while, and he’s not a bad guy. He can be a little rough sometimes, and maybe a little careless, but it doesn’t come from a bad place. I think it’s just a lack of self-awareness. And let’s be honest, that’s a common problem among pretty-boy jocks.

The trouble with Max is that he’s not the pretty-boy I once knew. He’s changed… he’s grown. I mean, he’s literally grown. Grown by about a hundred pounds, if I had to guess, and counting. Over the course of our time together, I’ve gotten pretty familiar with his ass, and I’ll admit, it’s a great one. But, boy, he’s got a lot more ass for me to handle these days.

It’s not insurmountable, not yet at least. But I’m worried it’s getting there.

It started out simply enough, the innocent midnight snacks and occasional takeout treats. No problem, right? Twunks can afford to indulge a little, especially a hot commodity like Max. But then, you get comfortable. You settle into a routine, you let yourself go. That’s the thing about creatures of beauty: one minute you’re the hottest guy in town, trim and toned, with a golden tan and handsome face and perfect, silky hair. The sort of guy who only seems to exist in a Hollywood version of reality. But then, inevitably, something happens. Sometimes tastes change, or maybe you’re the one doing the changing.

I won’t deny, I’m not in the same shape I was when I entered Max’s life for the first time. Any long-term relationship comes with the normal wear-and-tear. Max, though, has taken it to a whole new level.

The little snacks become big snacks. The extra meals go from “occasional” to “frequent” to “everyday”. Gluttony takes over. A 32-inch waist becomes a 36-inch waist becomes a 40-inch waist; size-small shirts are discarded in the back of the closet, soon joined by ill-fitting mediums, and then by larges, stretched out of shape by a gut that won’t stop getting bigger. Max used to flit around the apartment like a bird; now he lumbers like an elephant, heavy footfalls and a slow, waddling gait. His own warning system—you can hear him coming.

On paper, I know I should be trying to help lighten the load. And it’s not like I’m totally unappreciated; there are days when he comes home from work, legs tired and arms loaded down with takeout, and I can tell he’s genuinely happy to have me. But it doesn’t last long. Once dinner’s over, I’m back to being ignored while he sits on the couch, gorging himself in front of the TV, until he comes around again to stuff his face at the next meal. Which, to be fair, is pretty often these days.

It sounds cruel, the way I talk about his escalating weight, his increasingly-indecent greed. I’m not trying to be mean. I just wish he’d consider how it might affect me. I have to live with him, and he’s starting to cramp my style. But it’s not like I can say anything. I just have to sit there in silence, while he eats and eats, grows and grows, piling on pound after excess pound. And the way he eats, moaning and licking and slurping… it’s downright pornographic.

250 starts to feel like a lowball as the months go by. He’s pushing me to my limits without even realizing it. I’ve never had to deal with a guy this fat before, a guy whose big, round bubble butt would hang over the side of even the most substantial chair. And I, personally, am not “substantial”. I’m pretty thin; it’s just how I was made. I thought Max was made that way, too.

I start trying to make my frustration known, but like I said, I can’t just come right out and say something. So I try a little subtlety; a small groan every now and then when he throws himself down at the dinner table for another round of hedonism. If he notices, he doesn’t care. He just keeps upping the ante.

And upping just about everything else: his pants size, his portion sizes, the size of his monster-truck ass and thunder thighs. They press together whenever he sits down, now, lard against blubber. Not like in the old days when his legs were lithe and lean. His moobs bulge against every tank top, his pudgy arms pack his sleeves, his love handles blossom over the top of every waistband like ripening tropical fruit.

In occasional moments of self-pity, I hazard a guess: how much does my man weigh now? 275 pounds? 300? Is he even trying to do something about it? Clearly not. He never works out anymore, unless you count working up a sweat over a third (or fourth, or fifth) slice of cheesecake. I honestly wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, just to spite me. Or test me. But I know that’s crazy—like I said, sometimes I truly doubt he even thinks about what it’s like for me.

But the problem is getting harder to ignore; he really throws his weight around these days. He heaves himself up off the couch. He rests a hand on the front of his bulging belly, barely restrained by some poor, threadbare top, back arching forward from the strain of it all (he’s not a tall guy, which makes his increasingly S-shaped silhouette even more pronounced). He trudges from the living room to the kitchen and drops himself in front of the table like an anvil. When he sits down, his ass, spilling out of some indecent pair of jean shorts, spreads out like lava blanketing some hapless Roman hamlet.

Some nights, I strain underneath him, feeling absolutely crushed by his sheer weight, boundless mass bearing down on me with the force of gravity. How big is he now? I wonder, as I listen to him moan and groan with pleasure. 325? 350? Could he really have gained over 200 pounds? How could he not realize what he’s doing to himself—what he’s doing to me?

He’s just so oblivious. I don’t even recognize him anymore. I’ve been starting to make noises about how uncomfortable I am, how much I’m struggling with his extra weight. But, as always, it falls on deaf ears. His tight little butt has become a pair of vast, ponderous globes, his abs and lats and obliques are encased in a spare tire that belongs on an 18-wheeler, his tits bulge out and dangle towards his armpits. And he just. Keeps. Going.

Keeps eating. Keeps gaining. Keeps expanding.

Things reach a boiling point before dinner one night. I can see him piling up the table, unboxing some outrageous quantity of food for his secret nightly mukbang. Well, secret except for the consequences, which anyone with eyes could notice. “There’s a man who likes his food” would be such a trite, vapid observation that it doesn’t even need saying. He doesn’t just “like” his food, he lives for his food. Food is practically a part of Max’s identity at this point.

He’s starting to lower his colossal ass to sit, and I can tell this is it. Tonight’s the night. Fuck it, I’m done. He’s well past 350 pounds, and that’s too much weight for me to handle.

Maybe he’ll appreciate me more when I’m not around. Hejdå, Max, it was nice knowing you! At least, it used to be.

Max sat on the floor, rolls of fat still wobbling from the jarring motion of his fall. His chair had been complaining for a while now—squeaking and groaning every time he sat down—but he hadn’t expected it to actually break. What a load of bullshit! He wasn’t even that fat!

He looked around at the splintered wood, soreness radiating across his ass—and not in a fun, post-fucking kind of way. At least his buttocks were nicely-padded. When he was bony, a slip on the ice hurt like all hell.

He was glad he was alone, or this would have been super embarrassing. At least no one was around to see him smash that chair like a pro-wrestler in a grudge match. He knew he’d been overdoing it, but this wasn’t his fault. How could it be, surely he wasn’t that big? Just a little out of shape, in need of a few good workouts to shed some winter weight. It was just the cheap IKEA furniture he bought.

With a grunt, he started the process of heaving his monumental form to a stand. As he started to gather his momentum, he glanced at the ruined seat and frowned. He actually liked that chair. It was pretty comfortable.

At least, it used to be.

(Author’s Note: don’t forget to rotate your dining chairs!)

#weight gain #male weight gain #gay #wg story #weight gain story #realistic gain #gaining fiction #belly #bhm #chub

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headfullofpresley · 8 months

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

Pairing: Elvis Presley x reader

Word count: 3,8K

Series summary: Elvis has worked hard to become the successful adult movie director that he is today and all that hard work is paying off by how well the public reacts to his work and how much money is coming into his bank account, despite the fact that porn is still very much illegal. Working in the adult industry is not something you saw yourself doing despite coming from a place where it always has been out in the open, but you soon find yourself swept up and away by a certain American director and right into the heart of the porn industry. The only question that remains is... will you sink, or will you swim?

Chapter summary: Working on his newest and what he believes his biggest project yet, Elvis flies to Amsterdam to shoot most of it. Everything is going well until he's forced to fire his leading actress on the spot and there's a stop being put to his work. But as he wanders into a cafe for a much needed drink in the bustling city, faith seems to be on his side.

Warnings: porn director!Elvis, European!reader, set in the year 1970 (so some details may be a little off?), obvious mentions of sex/porn etc, mentions of prostitution, Elvis giving reader a lowkey foot rub in public (honestly, he's going to be into feet in this series bc i'm feral), mentions of soft drugs, alcohol consumption.

A/N: hi! this idea was born from an ai but mostly from The Deuce (definitely watch it!), where i took most inspiration from. i'm super excited about this series, and honestly it's giving me a lot of inspiration to write in general again! this is going to be a short series- i'm thinking around 5 parts, but we shall see, hm? no smut in this part, but obvi there will be in future parts, as well as some darker topics. hope y'all enjoy! ❤

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Who ever said Hollywood was a jungle has obviously never set foot in New York City.

They’ve obviously never experienced what a real concrete jungle is like and they definitely don’t know that the Golden Age of Hollywood has seen its best days. Directors were feeling pressures from the outside – from the public that wanted something different, something more than those cringy movie kisses. The smaller movie theaters were starting to ID their customers because their movies weren’t so family friendly anymore. Establishments that specialized in peep shows were popping out of the ground like weeds. Burlesque clubs were turning into proper stripclubs and people would rather spend their money on naked girls dancing in their faces than on overpriced cocktails at supper clubs.

They didn’t know that the world was changing.

They didn’t know that even though adult entertainment was far from legal, it was one of the most produced and exported and imported products in the country.

They didn’t know. But Elvis Presley did.

Having made his start as a director ten years ago when he was in his early twenties and was nothing but a naive Southern boy from Memphis, he crawled and clawed his way through shitty jobs in New York. From parking cars, to serving drinks in sketchy bars to being a bodyguard at a massage parlor and driving around hookers to their appointments… He’s seen it all, and he’s done it all.

He worked hard to get where he currently was – being one of the most famous porn directors in New York. Everyone knew who he was and everyone respected him. Times Square was home to countless of peep shows, stripclubs and whatnot and you’ll bump into a prostitute every five steps. Elvis never used their services but he was friendly with them, greeting them as if he had known them forever. Which in some girls’ cases, was true.

Most of those girls were looking for a way out, wanting to get off the streets and into the safety of a movie studio, but Elvis has learned from a previous mistake where he hired a girl who had a pimp and the leech tried to get him to pay them more than the other actors. Since then, Elvis stuck to actors and actors only.

The director was doing good for himself, owning his own studio and brand under the name of “Presley Productions”, and living in a spacious apartment in the city, yet he still wanted more.

He wanted to make a movie so good, it would get international attention. He wanted it to be so good that theaters wouldn’t stop showing it and he wanted it to be so damn good that it would get him a shiny, gold award on his shelf.

And whenever Elvis had his mind set on something, he made sure to accomplish whatever it was that he wanted to accomplish.

It would only be a matter of time before Hollywood would get whiff of his work, and who he was, and for him to open up a second studio there. Elvis didn’t believe in “Hollywood first, the world later” though – he was going to knock everyone off their feet, from the housewives in California to the business men in Hong Kong, all at the same time.

The script he had written for his newest movie had been done for months now and all there was left to do was the casting. The process went fairly simple and easy – his main actress was Annette Haven and she was a gorgeous brown eyed brunette, but for some reason he couldn’t get used to her.

Granted, he wasn’t the one playing in the movie and her co-star seemed to have no issues with her, so perhaps he figured he was just being too picky because he was so passionate about this project. Annette was friendly during the first few weeks of filming but as they got to Amsterdam, the sex capital of the world, to shoot most of the movie, her behavior started to change.

She was cranky on set, pranced around like she was the Queen and was late for filming almost every single day. To put it mildly, she was getting on Elvis’s nerves and when she showed up high as a kite one afternoon, the director was done with this girl.

He never was a tiran on set and always made sure everyone was doing okay, but right now it was like a bomb exploded and everyone watched and were awkwardly rooted to their places as Elvis had a go at the main actress and fired her on the spot.

“Take the rest of the day off. We’ll figure things out tomorrow,” he announced to the other actors and the crew. He gave them a bitter smile before he turned around and walked out of the studio they rented, angry and annoyed at the fact he lost a full day of filming, his leading actress and money.

He needed a goddamn drink.

Amsterdam was a crowded, bustling city and in some ways, it was much like New York but it was different in so many ways too. People were a little more laid back here (and he figured the many coffee shops where one definitely was not drinking coffee but getting high at instead had something to do with that) and instead of running into a lady of the night on a street corner, they were placed behind windows in certain areas. The Red Light District, for example. It was crowded with tourists and while there was a long canal outstretched in the middle of the district, there were shops, bars, coffee shops and sexual tinted business lined up on the sides, drawing people’s attention left and right. The infamous windows were located in the alley ways, the red lights that were on indicating a girl was working at the time. While he was definitely no stranger to sex workers and what the normal citizen would call “wildness of it all”, it was like he had stepped into a different world, yet it felt a little bit like home too.

Spotting a typical Dutch brown cafe on a corner, he stepped inside and was welcomed by the loud rumbles of laughter of men shooting pool and sitting at the tables and the bar and the smell of cigarette smoke and beer. Nobody aside from the waitress even spared him a glance as he sat at a table near the window and the second he looked at the girl that came up to him to take his order, a smirk spread across his face. In the middle of August, it was only natural for the girl to be wearing a pair of shorts and he was glad this place didn’t set any strict dress codes for their employees, because Good Lord, those legs looked like they went on for days. He noticed the red heeled sandals she wore on her feet and her fresh pedicure on her toes, drawing him in even more. The way that black little apron was tied around her waist did things to him and as his eyes shamelessly moved further up and noticed the size of her breasts that were filling up the tight top she was wearing, he could only think two things – first, he needed to get his hands on those things. And second, she would be perfect for the movie he was shooting out here.

Annette Haven who?

“Hallo?!” You spoke again, waving your hand in front of the dark haired man that just sat down by the window when he didn’t respond to you the first time. Instead, he was shamelessly checking you out from head to toe and working in a bar in the Red Light District, you were used to it but it still got you a little annoyed at times. At least some men tried to hide it and most men actually spoke, with actual words. As he excused himself in English and scanned the crowd for a second, you realised he wasn’t Dutch and decided to cut him some slack.

Perhaps he really was a creep, but your boss wouldn’t be too happy if a customer walked out without being served.

Happened before, because while other waitresses accepted the bold and creepy men that came to drink almost every single day, your mother had always taught you to stand up for yourself and to not take any shit from anyone.

Besides, this was 1970. What did men expect? For you to drape yourself over their laps and beg them to take you? Absolutely not.

“A beer’s just fine, honey,”

You bit your tongue to ignore the pet name and flashed the American a smile, looking him in the eye. “Anything else? Something to eat maybe?”

Elvis grinned and shook his head, watching you walk away to get his drink. You were a very pretty girl with a very pretty body and he realised he was going to amp up his charm if he wanted to see what was underneath.

And he definitely wanted to see what was underneath.

“There you go,” you said as you came back over to his table and put his beer down in front of him. Before you could make your escape once more, Elvis spoke up.

“You know, your English is pretty good,”

At this, you almost scoffed as you stood up straight and looked at him with a hand on your hip. These Americans were always so full of themselves.

“Thanks. It’s only a language spoken in countries all over the world,” you smiled sarcastically and Elvis grinned in amusement as he leaned his arms on the edge of the table, quirking an eyebrow.

Feisty. He was intrigued.

“I been to Germany back in the day and believe me, they definitely didn’t sound as pretty as you,”

You raised your eyebrows a little at the odd compliment. Didn’t sound as pretty? That was the first time you ever heard something like that. This guy looked exactly what you imagined a pimp to look like – gold rings adorning his fingers, dressed up nicely in a velvet crushed jacket despite the heat outside – yet he used the word “pretty”, instead of something vulgar like most customers did when they’d try to flirt with you.

You knew you had probably judged him too quickly and although you were intrigued by him the same way he was by you, you weren’t going to make it easy on him.

“Let me tell you a secret,” you whispered as you leaned down and closer to him a little, looking straight into his eyes, which you noticed were very blue and very pretty. “You’re not in Germany anymore, sir,”

Elvis let out a laugh as you gave his shoulder a playful pat and raised his glass, a sly smirk settling on his features.

“You got that right, honey,”

As you walked away, he didn’t fail to notice the playful smile you threw his way as you looked over your shoulder.

Elvis wasn’t planning on spending half the day in this particular cafe, but for some reason, he was already on his third beer and he just couldn’t leave.

He could say it was because he needed to clear his mind and think of a solution to fix the problem about not having a lead actress anymore, but the little voice in his head told him he was looking right at that exact solution.

You.

He knew it would be risky – you were just a waitress and you probably had never set foot on a movie set in your entire life, let alone an adult movie set, but he couldn’t stop imagining you in front of the camera, in all kinds of positions.

As he watched you move around the place, serving customers, it was almost like he was watching a movie right now. The way you moved so effortlessly on those little heels, the way you avoided customers that were a little too handsy and the way you were laughing with local customers who you’d probably served many times before.

The sound of your laugh was like music to his ears and he wondered how you’d sound while you were being fucked with those gorgeous long legs dangling in the air. Just imagining you moaning in pleasure had a shiver run down his spine.

And while you had pretended you didn’t like Elvis at all and he was just another annoying American tourist, you couldn’t help yourself from glancing into his direction every so often and making your way to his table to ask if he needed anything else.

When you did just that after talking to some locals at the bar, he looked at you and smiled.

“Sit down,” he told you as he nodded to the empty seat across from him as he leaned back in his seat. “Doesn’t the old man give you a break?”

You chuckled softly as he nodded to an older looking, grumpy man in the corner behind the bar. Your boss. He barely did any of the work and just sipped on his beer, watching his waitresses work their asses off.

For a shitty pay, too.

“Hardly,” you admitted honestly with a soft chuckle, noticing that your boss wasn’t paying any attention to you so you sat down opposite the dark haired man that had his eye on you the entire time. “So, what brought you to Amsterdam?”

Elvis was pleasantly surprised as you asked him that. Not only would it give him the chance to keep you at his table longer, but now was also the moment where he would have to tell you what he did. And find out your reaction to it.

So, he just came clean right away. In one way, it was a good test to see how open-minded the Europeans really were.

And if you were a full blown, crazed feminist.

God… please don’t be a fullblown crazed feminist, he prayed mentally.

“I’m here to make a porno.”

A silence lingered between you two, but it only lasted for about three seconds. You nodded your head and chuckled in an amused but friendly manner.

“Are you an actor?”

Thank God.

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head a little as he took a sip of his beer, licking his lips. “I’m the director of the movie,”

You leaned your arms on the table and sat on the edge of your seat, crossing your legs under the table as you swung your foot back and forth a little. Elvis looked at the way your breasts were pressed against your arms for a second before looking back at your face, an excited twinkle in his eyes.

“And why are you not directing your movie right now?” You wondered aloud, tilting your head a little.

“Well,” he let out a laugh as he tapped one of his rings against his glass for a second, looking at you. “My leading actress wasn’t as fit for the role as I thought.”

“Or maybe you aren’t as good as a director as you think you are,” you teased with a grin on your face.

At that, Elvis just looked at you with a raised eyebrow. He could tell you were pulling his tail, but perhaps far in the back of his mind… he wondered if that could be the truth. He decided not to let his insecurities get to him though, not right now, and when he felt your swaying foot hit his leg under the table, he reached a hand down and grabbed your ankle. You widened your eyes a little and stared at him as he gave you a cocky grin and removed your shoe, dropping the red heel to the floor before he put your foot in his lap.

You looked around nervously to see if your boss caught onto you slacking yet, but he was still busy with the locals at the bar. Elvis ran his hand down from your ankle to your foot and pressed his thumb against your sole, making you turn back to him and bite your tongue to hold back a small gasp.

While you certainly never let customers touch you, right now you weren’t trying to get away. Nor could you muster up a smart remark to throw at his head. You’d been on your feet all day, wearing those heels, and the little massage he suddenly decided to give you wasn’t entirely unwelcomed.

“I am a great director, sweetheart, trust me..” he grinned as he looked you in the eye, a kind but mischievous gleam in his blue orbs. This man definitely was bold and for the first time in your waitressing “career”, you were enjoying the attention of a customer. And a tourist, at that. “Some people just can’t resist the many coffee shops in the city,”

You chuckled, nodding your head as you tried to focus on the conversation and not his large hand rubbing your foot under the table.

“Ha! Bet she was A-American,” you mentally slapped yourself for the stutter (and the lame reply) but if he noticed it, he didn’t mention it. Instead he just grinned and caressed his short nails across the arch of your foot a little.

“Who said she was American?”

“Well, if she was Dutch, she could’ve.. resisted the tempting clouds of weed,” you countered back with a small, playful grin on your face.

He laughed as he cocked his eyebrow, his eyes staring intently into yours as he found your pressure point and pushed his thumb into it, making you nearly moan out loud right there in the middle of your work place.

You managed to save yourself with a small groan.

“Think you can do better?”

At this point, your face was flushed and he realised he was slowly breaking through that sarcastic façade of yours. Then again, he wasn’t exactly playing fair with the way he was shamelessly giving you a foot rub and while you had genuinely peaked his interest, he was a little desperate too.

He wanted to finish his movie and make sure it was good. It had to be perfect. And he didn’t want to get a professional actress now that he had laid eyes on you.

Porn wasn’t a strange concept to you despite never having been in a porno yourself. You lived in a city where sex was out in the open for everyone to see and consume and while porn was illegal here as much as it was in the States, it was tolerated. Perhaps it wasn’t such a strange idea for you to dip your toes into the world of adult entertainment.

“I know I can do better,” you said confidently, looking over at your boss who looked your way and you quickly pulled your foot out of Elvis’ grip, slipping it back into your heel. “Just tell me when and where,”

Elvis let out a hearty laugh as he widened his eyes at you a little. This had been easier than he expected – you were offering yourself for the job and while that was certainly surprising, he wasn’t complaining at all. You were perfect for this movie and the fact that you were inexperienced in the industry might even be better for the storyline.

After all, the lead girl was supposed to be a little naive and a whole lot of innocent.

You quickly urged him for a phone number and address when you noticed the sour face of your boss staring at you from behind the bar and Elvis quickly scribbled his contact information down on the back of a paper coaster as he realised he didn’t have any business cards on him at the moment. You grasped it from the table and shoved it in your pocket, getting up from your seat.

“Hold up,” he said after he paid for his drinks and you were about to walk off to the bar to get back to work. You felt him grabbing your wrist and you turned around, looking at him as your heartbeat sped up a little. “I didn’t get your name..”

“It’s Y/N,” You told him, gently pulling your arm out of his grip. You wouldn’t mind holding onto him a little longer but you felt your boss’ eyes burning in the back of your head.

“I’m Elvis. Elvis Presley.”

You nodded and flashed him a smile, tapping the back pocket of your shorts where you had put the coaster in. He grinned and nodded, slowly leaving the cafe, hoping you’d call him and go through with this.

A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to work in a shitty place like this.

You watched him go and the entire time your boss was giving you an earful about work ethics as you stood behind the bar, you barely heard the words coming out of his mouth. Quite frankly, you just weren’t paid enough to deal with this. You liked your co-workers but that’s all they were – co-workers. They didn’t pay your bills and neither did your shitty monthly pay that your boss gave you.

You wanted a change. No, you needed a change.

And maybe it was a naive and stupid thing to do, but for some reason, you had trusted that stupid American tourist.

Maybe he wasn’t even a director at all, but the longer your boss went on and on about your behavior, you decided it was worth the risk.

“You know what,” you interrupted him loudly, pulling your apron off and throwing it at his face. “I quit!”

Your boss threw a string of profanities to your head as you opened the cash register and grasped the amount of money he still owed you. He was too slow, and too fat, to stop you and before he could get to you, you were already halfway out the door. Though ofcourse, you didn’t leave without theatrically flipping him off.

You ran down the street, squirming your way through the crowd, and into a phone booth. Closing the door behind you, you fished the coaster out of your pocket and rang the number. You were connected to Elvis’ hotel and then put through to his room after several minutes. As soon as you heard his voice on the other side of the line, you inhaled a sharp breath of air and clenched the phone against your ear.

How bad could the porn industry really be?

The fact that you were a virgin didn’t strike you as a problem. Nobody had to know, did they? You were sure you’d be able to mask it.

Even from the director.

You stared at the people walking by the phone booth and leaned against the glass wall, your next words rolling off your tongue determinedly.

“When do I start?”

taglist: @powerofelvis @breadsquash @generoustreemystic @ab4eva @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @notstefaniepresley @ellie-24 @dollksj @webbedwebs @re3kin @wivette @eliseinmemphis @18lkpeters @rosepresley @ccab @whatstruthgottodowithit @dkayfixates

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footballmanageraddict · 4 months

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Christmas FM Experiment | FC Santa Claus | Part 4: Rudolph Red-Nosed Reindeer Crowned Best Player In The World

#ChristmasFMExperiment #FCSantaClaus Part 4: Rudolph Red-Nosed Reindeer Crowned Best Player In The World. The rise of @FCSantaClaus sees them dominate domestically and the @europacnfleague. And Comet and Rudolph share 152 goals in 2026. #FM24 Read here:

FC Santa Claus’ domination had extended from Finland into Europe as they won their maiden domestic title and topped the Europa Conference League league phase at a canter. But manager Kris Kringle wasn’t satisfied with that and wanted to take the club to new heights. The level of player we’re talking about was proven by striker Rudolph Red-Nosed Reindeer winning Best FIFA Men’s Player and World…

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matthewtkachuk · 8 months

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one day all my love will come back to me

Spending a mid-degree gap year in the guest bedroom of your best friend who you’ve been in love with for ages seems to be a recipe for disaster until a hook up with a player from a visiting team threatens to change your future forever

pairing: nathan mackinnon x reader; brayden point x reader

warnings: creative liberties taken with the 2021-2022 regular season schedule and the availability/contributions of Brayden Point during the 2022 playoffs, typical angst associated with a love triangle with a hint of unrequited love, sexual themes (not quite smut but more than implied) and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc.)

word count: 10.9k

a/n: surprise @senditcolton i'm your summer exchange fic writer! i'm so so so sooooo sorry this is late, @wyattjohnston and i were having a hot girl european summer and it's not an excuse but a bit of an explanation. when i saw you had written brayden point twice in your players list, i knew it was time to dust off this fic idea i had last year and do her proper justice. i hope you like it!!! shout out to demi for the many "replace c with C" suggestions on google docs and @thomasschabot for the other suggestions. ok i'll shut up now, enjoy!!

The Avs are up by one with thirty seconds to go and you’re pretty sure you’re going to puke. It’s a good thing everyone is far too focused on the action going on at ice level to question why your gaze keeps bouncing between the good guys and a certain forward on the other team. It’s such a strange feeling—you want with your entire being for your boys to hoist the Cup, but there’s a small part of you that never wants to see the boy on the other team you care for so deeply, so upset. He was right, you both crossed the line past hooking up a long time ago.

“You look hot.”

In any other circumstance, those words from Nate would have your heart going into overdrive. As it stands, your heart is already pumping at a rate you fear is not healthy while you lie on a trampoline with your niece’s sprinkler set up beneath it. For every bitter complaint you’ve ever had about a Canadian winter, the opposing heat waves might just be slightly worse.

“A/C’s broken,” you say like that explains everything.

Nate hums in response like maybe it does before pulling himself up beside you.

Somehow the air around you feels even hotter, precipitation building at your hairline. You fuss for a minute, wiping away the sweat before dramatically slapping your hands down on the trampoline in protest.

Nate ignores you, choosing to instead cheerfully proclaim “This is nice!”

“What do you want?” you ask in response. There are layers to your grumpiness, but for now you can pretend it’s all related to the unbearable heat.

“Can’t a guy visit his best friend?”

You can feel his eyes on you, but you keep yours closed. “Not when it's 34 degrees out and humid as hell and he has to leave his air conditioned mansion to do so.”

“I saw your story and I was coming to invite you to my air conditioned mansion.”

“Is Sidney home?” Your tone is so much more nonchalant than you feel. It doesn’t matter that the aforementioned man went from Nate’s childhood hero to mentor to near-brother; it will never not be weird to have but one degree of separation from the man who’s name is on your town’s welcome sign.

Nate laughs like he can read your mind, but you still don’t glance over at him. You don’t need to, not really. The image of him beside you comes all too easily to your inner mind. His hair’s got a wave from the humidity, his nose tinged red from the hot sun, and his chest golden and chiseled and harlequin romance novel cover-esque—

“You know one day you’re going to have to get used to being around guys who made it to the show. Hell, I'm a guy who made it to the show.”

Finally you turn to look at him and he’s somehow even more beautiful than you’d just imagined. “That’s different Nate. You’re….you.”

He smiles at you and it’s brighter than the damn sun causing you so many problems today. “And Sid’s just Sid. And the guys in Denver are just the guys in Denver.”

His words have your nose scrunching and you promptly go back to laying flat on your back. “Don’t remind me.” There’s silence for a beat or two and then you continue, “Speaking of, are you sure it’s still okay—“

Nate doesn’t let you finish this time. “Yes, I’m sure it’s okay for you to hang around my apartment in Denver while you take a year off from school to figure out what you want to do.”

“Thanks Nate,” you reply and he hums in response. Abruptly you sit up, sliding a little from the slick trampoline surface. “Your A/C offer still standing too?”

He grins this time and you’re damn near blinded. “For you? Always.”

Sidney—Sid waves at you both from his kitchen when you pull up to Nate’s but that’s as far as it goes. Nate makes a joke about banana bread that you don’t quite get, mood souring considerably when you wonder aloud if he thinks Sidney will bring some over.

It’s all forgotten when the cold air hits you as you enter the lake house.

The summer passes by quickly without too much incident—just the nagging of your mother about your future and your own tiptoeing around the feelings you have for your friend.

On one of your and Nate’s last nights before leaving for Denver, your niece pulls him aside and sternly instructs him to bring home the Cup for her.

He laughs, but there’s something in his eye that says he means it when he says he will. That intensity doesn’t waiver, even as his gaze slides toward you. It has you thinking about a future by his side, celebrating those moments with him in a way so much greater than you do now.

The thought doesn’t leave you as you kiss your family goodbye, trying desperately to not let any tears shed at the thought of no longer being a small distance away. Nate’s constant near proximity and the promise of more of it takes away the sting a little, but you fall into your sister’s embrace that little bit more all the same.

Even as you do a final check of your things—two large suitcases, a carry-on and a backpack to house everything you’ll need for the next year—you think about it, of what it would be like to do this every year. What it would be like to pack with the intention of unpacking your things beside Nate’s in his closet. It’s silly, but sometimes you still feel like you’re fifteen years old, realizing you’re in love with your best friend as he goes away to the same hockey school as his idol.

Two flights full of self doubt and Nate sleeping on your shoulder later you’re convinced spending your impromptu gap year at his place is a bad idea. But then he’s smiling and ‘welcome home’-ing you and you step through the door.

Unemployment and a mid-twenties life crisis isn’t so bad from the guest bedroom of a lavish semi-detached in the suburbs of Denver. The bed’s softer than the one in your childhood bedroom. Bigger too. And the closet leading into the attached en-suite has no business being the size it is.

There are downsides of course. You are still unemployed and in the middle of a life crisis. Nathan is woefully unaware of your feelings and likely to never reciprocate. His teammates look at you like they know, though. And there’s the whole banning of any food that brings any modicum of enjoyment that you’re not entirely sure is serious or not.

The teammates that come around are kind to you when you’re around them enough to let them be. A small part of it is the intimidation of them being professional hockey players but they’re good guys and you’ve met many of them before. Really, it’s something more akin to the inherent uncomfortability of your predicament. It’s Nate’s house and you’re free-loading.

Of course he would argue differently if you voiced your thoughts and hang ups but that’s precisely why you don’t.

Nate may have never caught onto your feelings for him, but he’s not an oblivious person. That’s probably how you end up in the family box, being personally invited to brunch with the Better Halves by the best-half-in-charge herself, Mel Landeskog.

You find yourself nodding despite the anxiety of the possibility of making new friends, certain it’s less of an invitation and more of a demand.

She tells you as much, pressing a mimosa into your hand when you arrive at a cute restaurant and a table full of beautiful, predominantly blonde women. If Nate’s teammates were intimidating on a personal level, their wives and girlfriends are a whole other level. Never in your life have you been so surrounded by a group of women so put together—every outfit perfectly on point, every head of hair treated to an expensive blowout, every foundation shade perfectly matched or worse, no makeup needed.

It has you self-conscious, despite having spent ages picking out something to wear and trying to tame your hair into something presentable. The mimosa helps, and so do the compliments from Ashley Kadri. Little by little you open up, and by the end of brunch you have a killer buzz and a dozen new instagram followers and numbers in your phone.

When Nate picks you up, the bubbles have gone to your head. You spend the entire ride back to his place with the back of your head pressed to the passenger side window so that you can grin stupidly at his side profile.

“The girls are great,” you tell him with a silly giggle. His returning smile reeks of satisfaction of a job well done, but you don’t focus on it. “We’re gonna get dinner this week too!”

Although Mel takes you under her wing, it’s Heidy, Cale’s girlfriend who you instantly click with.

She’s every bit as beautiful and kind as the rest of them, but you connect with her on a different level. It’s almost like you’ve known her as long as you’ve known Nate. She shares your love of Taylor Swift and gets your jokes and is more than happy to let you bounce future career plans off her.

You can tell the girls have questions about your relationship with Nate, and truthfully they can get in line behind you. Sometimes, when you’re not careful, it almost feels like you’re not alone in how you feel. Sometimes it feels like you’re high school sweethearts, playing house on the precipice of a greater future.

Nate doesn’t help it himself though. It’s you he calls on long road trips, you he pulls into a giant hug outside the locker room before driving you both home after a game. You who is invited to WAG functions as a connection to him—both informally in a social context and more formally and broadly. Things like charity toy drives and the family box at games. A part of you fears the possibility of playoffs—especially with odds so clearly in the Avs favor—and what it would mean to be so publicly claimed as Nate’s while privately remaining the way you always have been.

It’s Heidy who you confide in. She’s always there to offer her ear, her shoulder, her opinion. And, although she encourages you to share your feelings, she also knows when to back off and let you do it when and if you’re ready.

You don’t think you’ll ever be ready.

With Christmas comes the Better Halves Christmas Tree Auction. It’s Mel’s favorite charity event of the season, she tells you gleefully.

“Every event is her favorite,” Suzanna says behind her back later.

Designated Favorite Human of the Avalanche Children is usually your favorite title, but it means you have one kid hanging off of you when the girls drop the bomb on you.

“So what are you thinking for your WAG tree?”

It’s an innocent enough question, especially when you think it’s aimed at one of the aforementioned WAGs in the family box. Only when there is no response do you look up and realize it’s meant for you instead.

“Sorry, what?”

“Your…Tree,” someone says slowly and you shake your head.

Your tone and words are almost as flustered as you are. “No I heard you. I’m just—What do you—Why are you asking me?”

“Well, Nate said…”

It all comes clear. Yet again, you’re expected to play the part. At great personal cost, mind you. It’s a mindfuck and a half, having to do all the things that you do for a man you love when it doesn’t mean anything.

Your thoughts are invaded with a tempestuous mixture of Nate and your relationship or lack thereof and yet another public acknowledgement.

Truly, you wonder if the others in the box pity you or laugh behind your back.

“C’mon,” Heidy says later, when the final buzzer sounds, cementing another win. “I’ll drive you home.”

“Nate’s,” you correct weakly.

She nods and repeats his name, grabbing your arm and leading you away.

You’re stewing in silence when Nate comes home.

“You okay?” he questions upon finding you in the living room, lit up only by the light filtering in through the large bay window.

The twitch of your eye is the only indication you’ve heard and recognized his words for a long moment. You can practically hear the gears whirring in his head, can feel the moment he’s about to speak again.

Not wanting to give him the opportunity, you ask, “Why?” His brows furrow and his head tits and so you continue. “Why did you say I would do your Better Half tree?”

“It’s for charity…You love charity work.” Nate visibly relaxes and you understand why. He’s not wrong, engaging in charity work has been a big part of why you’re not wallowing in self pity, but this isn’t just simple ‘charity work’ and you tell him as much.

“I love toy drives and helping at the soup kitchen and adoption events at the ASPCA. This is different, this is your WAG tree. It means something. It’s in your name, like I’m—I’m—“ you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“Everything you mentioned you do in my name.” He doesn’t seem to get it, frustrating you further.

“It’s not the same, Nate! All those other things I do as part of the larger group. It’s all facilitated by your team and your teammates ‘Better Halves.’ Their wives and girlfriends. They’ve all made me feel welcome, but I'm not one of them. This implies that I am one of them, but I’m not your girlfriend and certainly not your wife.”

“You basically are.” The phrase has your heart jumping into your throat. Of every daydream or fantasy you’ve ever allowed yourself to slip into, you never dreamed this would be how it all went down—“Without actually being my wife or girlfriend.”

“Right.” Your voice is short and clipped, masking the hurt quickly overtaking you. You won’t cry—you’re stronger than that. So strong in fact, that you lay down a firm boundary. “I won’t do it. Get Sidney to do it or something.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, pausing and then asking, “We’re good, right?”

“Yep.” You feign nonchalance and then wish him a good night.

The pillow holds all your tears and secrets.

The incident sticks with you, despite your many attempts to shake it off. Even Heidy can’t help. She tries anyway.

You’re not his.

But you are. You’re his and you have been for years now. Since he was leaving for school. Maybe even many years before that. Regardless of the true beginning, it doesn’t quite matter. What really matters is this: you’re not sure it will ever have an ending, but you’re almost certain if it does, it won’t be the one you want.

You’re his but he’s not yours.

Part of him is, sure, but you share that part with the other residents of Cole Harbour. The other part with the team and his teammates and their families, with the fans and the haters alike. The part you so desperately want to be yours has belonged to many a woman, but never to you.

It was a lot easier to live in the space between his childhood best friend and everything more when you were separated the majority of the year. A summer chock full of other things to do and focus your attention on to keep the longing at bay and enough distance for the rest of the year to forget how it feels to have him near without really having him.

One of Heidy’s distraction schemes involves hitting up downtown Denver a few nights later.

“But it’s Thursday,” you say when she shows up at Nate’s dressed up like she’s ready to hit the bar.

“I have tomorrow off and you don’t have a job, so,” she replies.

You frown, “Ouch.” She throws a look your way as if to not take it so personally and continues perusing your closet. “I’m not really feeling up to going out tonight.”

“Too damn bad,” she replies. “You can’t just sit here and wallow for the rest of your life.”

“Watch me,” you retort but start to get up anyway.

She smirks and tosses some clothes at you. “Get dressed and do something with your hair. I’ll do your makeup.”

“Where are you guys going all dressed up?” Nate questions when he spots the two of you in the foyer.

“Out.” Heidy is curt, a consequence of her not only being a good friend to you, but also her own awareness of his behavior.

His brows knit together but he soldiers on, “Do you want company?”

“Nope!” She’s much more cheerful now that she’s handed you your coat and bundled herself up. “Don’t wait up!”

Heidy drags you out to Cale’s car, where the man himself sits waiting. You instantly feel bad—between your protesting and actual time spent getting ready, he’d been sitting a while.

“Have you been here the whole time?” you ask as you get in the backseat. He shrugs with a rosy smile as Heidy pushes you in further and takes a seat beside you. After pressing a quick kiss to her boyfriend’s cheek over the center console, of course.

Cale doesn’t stick around after dropping you both off—a wave, a ‘be safe’, and ‘call me when you’re ready to go home’ and he’s gone.

You’re terrible company admittedly, mouth set in a deep frown that doesn’t crack even as you sip your drink. Heidy does most of the talking at first, blabbing away about everything and nothing. Until she sighs, slaps her hand down on the bar top and says, “You need to deal with this. Either you need to resolve things with Nate or you need to get over it, distract yourself with something or someone else.”

You nearly choke on the last of your drink. “Gee, Heidy, could you be any more subtle?”

“I’m worried about you.” She’s so earnest it tugs at your heart.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try. Really.”

She smiles, relaxing into the seat at the bar top.

Just then, the bartender sets another drink in front of you.

“I didn’t order another,” you state politely, attempting to hand back the drink.

The bartender shakes his head, motioning to the table in the corner as he speaks. “From someone at that table.”

It’s a group of athletic men, but only one is looking your way. He’s all intense eyes framed by intense eyebrows, but the look on his face doesn’t match the intensity. It’s…intriguing to say the least. Soft but confident, and definitely interested.

It’s not until one of the other men at the table elbows him that you realize they’re the team playing the Avs tomorrow night.

Quickly you spin back around and whisper to your friend, “Someone from the Tampa Bay Lightning just bought me a drink.”

Her eyes widen and she herself turns around quickly to get a glimpse of your admirer across the bar. You grab at her arm and bring her back to face the bar top.

“Heidy!” you hiss.

“Sorry!” she replies, “What are you going to do?”

You think about it for a second before throwing caution to the wind. Putting on your flirtiest smile, you turn around a lot more gracefully this time. Raising the gifted drink, you tilt it in a ‘Cheers’ motion before wrapping your lips around the straw for a sip. He responds with an identical gesture, although with an amber colored beer bottle instead.

Satisfied, you resume your earlier position while Heidy speaks.

“When I said you needed a distraction that is not what I meant!”

You roll your eyes. “It’s a drink, not a marriage proposal. Relax.”

She does, until you pull her out to the dance floor with eyes only for the man across the bar. Lucky for you—and less lucky for Heidy’s resting heart rate and blood pressure—he’s got eyes for you, too.

It only takes half a song for him to approach and introduce himself. “I’m Brayden.”

You smile and reciprocate, waiting a beat for Heidy to speak too, but she just tilts her nose up. An elbow to her side doesn’t get her speaking and so you introduce her, too.

One of Brayden’s eyebrows raise and you find yourself momentarily mesmerized by the action before quickly explaining, “Big Avalanche fans.”

He nods slowly once, then shrugs. “Maybe I can change that.”

“Doubtful,” she says under her breath, but if you heard it, you imagine Brayden did too.

She doesn’t thaw any, even as the song changes. Nor does she get the hint to take herself elsewhere and so you rather pointedly ask if she can go get you both another round.

Heidy isn’t even able to get out whatever she was ready to grumble before Brayden is offering, pausing to ask what Heidy is drinking. She begrudgingly tells him and he disappears.

“Seriously? You could have any guy here and that’s who you go for?” she asks.

You shrug, “He’s the one I want.”

She softens at your earnest tone. “Okay.”

“Call Cale,” you tell her. “Go curl up on the couch and watch TV together or whatever you would have done if you weren’t worrying about me.”

“I don’t know…”

“Go. I’ll be fine. And I’ll text you if I need you,” you confirm.

She sighs. “I’m waiting for my drink first.”

You laugh and pull her into a side hug. “Love you.”

True to her word, she finishes the drink Brayden brings her—even managing a ‘thank you!’—before slipping off into the crowd and, you imagine, into her boyfriend’s car.

Brayden looks a little concerned at her rapid exit. “Did I do something to make her leave?”

“Besides playing for the wrong team? Nah.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but the concern fades when you wrap your arms around his neck.

It’s all but gone when you press your lips to his.

You dance for another few songs and another drink before your inhibitions are just low enough to drag him in the direction of the bathrooms.

The men’s is empty when you enter, and so you flip the lock on the door and press yourself against him.

He reciprocates, crowding you against the door with his mouth hot on yours.

Your whole body lights up at his touch, coming alive beneath his fingertips. There are no thoughts of Nate or the predicament you’ve found yourself in, just Brayden.

His hands are curved around your jaw, and your leg is wrapped around his waist when he pulls away. “Wait...wait.”

“You don’t want…?” You’re not drunk, just a little bit more sensitive to rejection than you usually would be.

“No that’s—That’s not it at all. I want you, like, really want you.” He kisses you, and as good as his touch feels, being wanted feels that extra bit more. “Not like this. Not here.”

Truthfully, you’ve never been the kind of girl who lets someone hit and quit in a bar bathroom before. Or anywhere really. A part of you that you thought was long buried stirs inside of you and you realize for the first time in a long time you’re feeling something for a man who isn’t your best friend.

Your best friend. Shit. “I have a kind of odd living situation right now, my place isn’t an option.”

“Your parents?”

You bark out a laugh that he immediately covers with his mouth. “No, they’re back in Canada.”

“Your husband? Your boyfriend?” He’s joking, but you can’t help but get the sense there’s an ounce of worry that he’s right. It’s such an inconceivable notion that Nate could ever be either to you that you laugh again.

“No, I just live with a friend who probably won’t be understanding about a strange man in their house.”

Brayden visibly relaxes, pauses, and then says, “I have a hotel room…you’ll have to be quiet though.”

“I can be quiet,” you reply, barely hiding your smirk.

You try your best, really give it your best effort, but no one has ever touched you like he does.

Nate doesn’t cross your mind once.

You sneak out early in the morning, determined to not have a semi-public walk of shame in front of an entire hockey team. It’s almost a success until you run into his captain in the lobby. Feeling your face grow hot, you give him a little nod and escape to the waiting Uber. You can only hope he doesn’t get too much shit, telling him as much using the newest number in your phone.

You’re not nearly as lucky, facing the firing squad that is Nate as you slip into the entryway. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see your best friend awaiting your arrival, if the several messages that popped up when you’d finally opened your phone to send the aforementioned text to Brayden were any indication.

“Where have you been?” he asks and you have to keep from rolling your eyes.

“Out,” you say, calling back to Heidy’s response last night but he doesn’t accept it as easily coming from you.

“All night?” he continues the interrogation.

“I crashed at Heidy’s last night, what’s with the fifth degree, Dad?”

He looks like he was waiting for this moment as he replies, “No you didn’t, I talked to Cale.”

This time you do roll your eyes. “It’s none of your business, Nate.”

“It is my business if you’re under my roof,” he says, doing his best impression of your father for real this time.

You know it’s not his intention, but your stomach drops all the same. The old feeling of guilt and shame and failure floods your veins, and you can tell he notices.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just worried and you didn’t answer my messages.”

“I know,” you say but the words taste bitter in your mouth. “I’m going to go get some more sleep. See you later.”

He repeats the words back at you, but you’re more focused on the buzzing phone in your pocket.

Safe in Nate’s guest bedroom, you slip into something more comfortable, get beneath the covers and open your messages.

Bar Guy 💙🤍: Got fined

Bar Guy 💙🤍: Probably going to get chirped for a month

Bar Guy 💙🤍: Worth it though

You: I would tell you I’m sorry but I’m not

Bar Guy 💙🤍: Me either

If you thought that was the beginning and the end of Brayden you would be sorely mistaken.

Long distance flirting becomes a long distance hook up becomes him flying you out to see him. Any time you protested the latter, you’d find a non-refundable ticket in your email and a ‘please’ in your text messages.

Fall fades into Winter and Bar Guy 💙🤍 turns to Brayden turns to B 💙. As your feelings for him grow, you find thoughts of Nate as anything other than someone-you-grew-up-with fade.

You come clean about the ‘friend you live with’ being Nathan MacKinnon before the first time you fly down to see him, worried that your lie by omission might be a dealbreaker. Brayden only laughs, he figured Heidy’s hostility was more than just motivated by more than sports team loyalty.

The thing about Brayden is he never makes you feel bad about Nate. He is understanding and gracious, never demanding, never unreasonable. A small part of you sometimes thinks about how if the roles were reversed, you don’t think Nate would be quite the same.

Initially unsupportive and apprehensive, Heidy comes around, although her persistence turns from telling Nate how you feel to telling Nate about Brayden. You don’t do either, and she keeps your secrets.

Nate being selected for the All Star Game in Vegas while Brayden isn’t brings a unique opportunity for a week straight in hot, sunny Florida. The chill of Denver isn’t quite as biting as back home, but you’re excited to escape it all the same.

He doesn’t ask you to join him in Vegas, but you do wonder if he thought he didn’t need to.

It doesn’t matter either way, when an errant high stick in overtime breaks his nose and dashes his All Star dreams.

Your first thought upon seeing him bloody and disoriented on the ice is that there is no way you can go to Florida.

It probably looks much worse than it is, the girls try to reassure you in the box, but you’re not convinced.

Nate’s reassurances later don’t do much either. Not with his face puffy and bruised and some dried blood on his chin.

It’s not until he assures you that his mom and sister will be coming down to Denver since they had the time off anyway that you decide for sure you will go.

The day you leave for the airport, his pathetic form on the couch is almost enough to have you last minute cancelling on Brayden.

Nate all but demands you don’t miss out on his account, asking that you ‘be safe’ and ‘have fun’.

In return you hit him with a ‘thanks Dad’ and ‘take it easy’ despite knowing just by virtue of who he is as a person he will be doing the exact opposite.

Thoughts of Nate, broken and bruised, haunt you the entire journey. They don’t fade until you’re in Brayden’s arms. Even then, it’s a dull ache that you do your best to ignore.

Evidently you don’t do a very good job of hiding it, or maybe Brayden just knows you better than you think, because he catches on before you’ve even reached his place.

“You okay?” he asks, gently squeezing your knee where his hand rests.

Turning to look at his side profile, so earnest and sweet, you don’t even think of lying.

“I’m worried about Nate.”

“I get that,” he says and you wonder if he truly does. “I’m glad you’re here with me though.”

Smiling at him, you are too, and so you try to push down the guilt and focus your attention on the man you’re with.

You check on Nate periodically throughout the week, never getting much more than a thumbs up emoji, but at least you know he’s alive.

Brayden wines and dines and, well, you know the rest of the rhyme.

By the time the week is up, you don’t want to leave. It’s strange how meeting one person can change things so drastically. Before Brayden, you would never have dreamed of spending a week with another man when Nate was injured and possibly may have needed you.

It also puts things into perspective for you.

Really emphasizes how much additional emotional labor you put in—and were expected to—in your relationship with Nate. The lines and boundaries had long since blurred, and it took dedicating your time and energy to another man to see it.

If Nate notices the way you pull back even further when you return, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Falling for Brayden is easy. It’s a gentle float down to the ground, landing among a field of flowers to catch your fall. A stark contrast to the free fall of being pushed from an airplane at 10,000 feet by Nate.

Where Nate’s sharp edges have cut you time and time and time again, Brayden’s curves wrap around you and hold you tight.

When you’re not physically with him, you’re texting and calling, and when you’re not doing that you’re thinking about him.

Neither of you make any move to define the relationship further, but it doesn’t sting like the years of being strung along by Nate did. It’s probably because while no words have been exchanged to that effect, Brayden lets you feel how much he cares for you.

You’re nearly found out late in the regular season.

Something about Tampa has started to feel familiar and safe—you try not to think about exactly why that is—and so, despite the knowledge that the boys are in town, too, you’re not as careful as you should be.

There’s an ice cream spot near Brayden’s that you’ve taken to frequenting. As a consequence, it’s also near the arena.

Because it’s so close, you decide to walk there, teasing him the whole way about how one ice cream cone won’t derail his nutrition plan. He’s arguing back, but you know it’s in vain because his sweet tooth and the lilt of your voice will win in the end.

Your hands naturally brush as a result of your close proximity and you take the opportunity to link your pinkies. He smiles softly and you walk in silence for a minute until he breaks it.

“You really won’t let me give you my jersey?” It’s a question that has come up before, but every time it does you wonder if it’s a little bit more serious of an ask than the last.

“I’d rather die. Maybe if you were a better hockey player,” you tease, jumping back to avoid his grasp.

He gasps playfully, thick eyebrows raising with his wide eyes. “Take that back right now.” He takes a step closer to you but you dodge his advances, sliding to the other side of the bench.

“Sorry baby, you know I bleed blue and maroon. Wouldn’t be caught dead in traitor blue.” Not to mention you’d never ever hear the end of it from the boys if someone saw you in it.

He fakes left and you fall for it, giggling madly as he wraps you up in his arms and scrapes his beard against your cheek. “What about just for me?” he asks, kissing your neck once and then nipping at it with his teeth before pulling back to look into your eyes. “In my bed with nothing else on?”

It’s like the already beautiful temperature rises even higher when he presses his mouth to yours. You give in quickly, pressing onto the tips of your toes to get even closer. It turns dirty quickly, his tongue in your mouth and his fingers buried deep in your hair.

And then a familiar voice calls your name.

You pull from Brayden like you’ve been burnt, a look of pure panic crossing your face as you realize you know the body attached to the voice.

It’s JT and he looks like been standing there long enough to figure out what’s going on.

“JT—“ you start to explain, but pause. There is no easy, simple explanation. There are months and months, hell years and years, of backstory and layers to even get to this point.

“I thought—“ He appears to change his mind, stopping his thought mid sentence and switching to a question. “What’s going on here?”

“Brayden and I are, well, we’re.” It’s a struggle to explain what you are to one of Nate’s teammates when you haven’t had this conversation in full with the man beside you. Finally, you land on “We’re together.”

You don’t look over at Brayden to see his reaction.

“How long?” is the natural follow up.

It’s another tough question, but you decide to go with the first time you met and slept together. “Before Christmas.”

“Does Nate know?” he asks. The wild look in your eyes must give you away because he signs and says your name. “You have to tell him.”

You get that, really you do. But at the same time it’s your business what you do and who you do it with, not Nate’s. At the same time, you know it would be a really shit thing for him to find out through someone who isn’t you.

Beyond that, you’re pretty sure right before playoffs isn’t the right time to have that conversation and you tell JT as much. “I know, I will. After the season I’ll tell everyone.”

JT looks less than convinced.

“You know Nate, it wouldn’t do anyone any good while the season is still going on. Please, you can’t tell him.”

JT might be as aware as you are of who Nate is as a person, and he’s certainly more aware of who Nate is as a hockey player and so he agrees despite his clear hesitance. “Promise me, after the season.”

“I promise.”

When he’s gone, Brayden finally speaks up. “You want to go public with us?”

You worry you’ve said the wrong thing, starting to babble about how you’re sorry the conversation didn’t occur privately first, and how you don’t need to go public if it’s not something he wants to do when he silences you with a kiss.

“I want to tell everyone,” he says earnestly and you kiss him again.

JT thankfully keeps his word.

Nate doesn’t watch any other team in the playoffs.

It makes trying to catch Brayden’s games tough, sneaking out to sports bars, watching games on your phone in Nate’s guest room, even flying out to watch a couple home games during the run.

The only supportive merch you sport is a necklace with his number, and on occasion a little blue and white lacy number under your clothes. You’re not offered a WAG jacket—whether that’s due to Brayden knowing well enough you don’t want to be that public or because your reaction to the style of jacket itself was less than positive.

In the back of your mind you recognize there’s a chance it could come down to the teams of the boys you care for most; one Eastern Conference, one Western Conference.

Selfishly, when the first round between the Bolts and the Leafs goes to seven, part of you hopes for it to end right there. Most of you is glad they push through.

On Colorado’s side of the playoff bracket, they absolutely rip through everyone who stands in their way.

You are offered a jacket with Nate’s name and number in glitter, but you turn it down in favor of a lucky baseball cap, though you do accept an unpersonalized crop from Madison.

Some of the girls decide to travel for the away games. You have to turn them down because there are already tickets with your name on them to see Brayden. There’s no way you can—or would—miss any Avs home games, and so instead you end up being one of a handful of supporters in the likes of Toronto, Miami and New York.

It’s a difficult balancing act as the playoffs progress in both teams’ favor.

And then your worst nightmare comes true. The quest for the Cup comes down to your… whatever Brayden is to you and to Nate and the team you’ve supported since he was drafted and all the other people who have come to feel like family.

Whispering to Brayden in the dark of night before the Finals begin, you tell him, “You know I support you, but…”

“It’s okay,” he whispers back, even though he has no reason to match your tone all alone in his home in Tampa. “I get it. As long as you still like me, you can like them a little bit more.”

You giggle, “It’s got nothing to do with liking you, you dolt.”

“Bolt,” he corrects, and even though you can’t see him you know he’s smiling.

“Oh my God, shut up.” You don’t mean it literally but he’s quiet for a second too long. “No matter what happens I’m proud of you.”

For two people who have never properly defined nor publicized their relationship, it might be too heavy of a moment, but his quiet thank you is laced with emotion.

“Go to bed,” you say after another few beats of silence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The first two games are in Colorado, and the boys take both at home.

“Ain’t over til it’s over,” is both of your boys’ philosophy after the first two.

Nate is positively buzzing, especially after so decisively winning the second, but still cautious—very aware of how quickly a 2-0 lead can turn into the end of the line and empty hands.

Brayden is also cautious, and this isn’t his first or even second rodeo at the Cup final in as many years. You try to kiss it better in a random hallway in the bowels of Ball Arena.

Finally accepting the Better Halves’ invitation to travel to road games, you have a good seat to Tampa taking back some momentum in game three before promptly handing it back to Colorado.

You die and come back to life a dozen times in game four as Brayden and his team hold on.

Game five is to be played back in Tampa, and you spend the night before the game in Brayden’s bed instead of the hotel Nate has paid for. “Good luck,” you whisper against his lips early in the morning before you leave to meet the girls for breakfast.

“You don’t mean that,” he teases, stretching out in such a way that has you considering skipping breakfast—certain teasing and interrogation be damned.

“Good luck to you,” you amend, kissing him once more. “Your team can rot.”

His laughter rings in your ears as you leave.

Mel corners you after breakfast, a familiar offending piece of clothing in her hands. “This could be it,” she explains, offering you the jean jacket.

If it were any year previous, you might have worn it. If you didn’t have Brayden, you might have worn it. If Nate had offered it to you himself alongside a confession, you might have worn it.

None of these things are true, and so you decline. “I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

Her smile has a twinge of sadness and understanding as she replies, “Okay.”

Sitting alongside the girls in the box with your cropped sweater hiding the 21 necklace around your neck, you’ve never felt more torn.

Brayden’s captain nets one early in the first, and you’re not sure you breathe again until Nate’s powerplay evens the score early in the second. There’s an undercurrent of excitement in the box alongside the nervous energy. Midway through the second, Arturri tips it in and Amalie Arena is silent.

It stays like that for the rest of the period until you excuse yourself to grab a drink at intermission. Standing in the long drink line, you spot a little girl in a Point jersey and your stomach twists as you think about how no matter which way this ends, someone you care for will be hurt.

That feeling doesn’t leave as you sit through a scoreless third period. The arena gets loud with Bolts fans throughout, celebrating every blocked shot and turnover. That intensity picks up in the dying seconds of the game as Brayden picks off the puck in the defensive zone.

He rushes up the ice flanked by his linemates, but is momentarily stopped by Cale.

He gets his stick back on the puck and your nails dig into the leather arm of the box seat. Suzanna grabs your hand, assuming it’s worry for her boyfriend and his teammates and you let her think that and hold your hand.

Three seconds.

Two seconds.

He shoots right as the buzzer sounds and Darcy gloves it down like there was never a question of him stopping it.

The entire box explodes in a chorus of cheers—there’s shouting, swearing, crying, laughter and you’re right in the middle of them all. Your boys are Stanley Cup Champions.

Someone grabs you, and then someone else joins in and suddenly you’re in the middle of a dog pile. “They fucking did it!”

You’re so fucking excited, incredibly proud and honestly a little weepy about your favorite people finally getting their hands on their childhood dream. But, a bigger part of the organ in your chest than you want to admit aches for the downturn of Brayden’s head as he skates back to the bench.

An attendant appears and wrangles the rowdy bunch down to the ice. You’ve got Linnea Landeskog in your arms and a giant grin on your face as your feet touch the ice.

“Down please,” she politely states while trying to wriggle out of your grasp. The second she’s down she’s running at her daddy who sweeps her up in his arms.

And then Nate’s on you in a way that you used to long for when you were younger. He’s red and sweaty and out of breath but none of these things stop him from hauling you up into his arms and spinning you until you smack at his chest, demanding to be let down much like Linnea only minutes ago.

He stops spinning but he doesn’t let go, staring up at you with a look he’s never given you before. You’re so caught up in the excitement of it all you barely notice, grabbing his cheeks and shouting in his face, “You fucking did it!”

“We fucking did,” he says like he can’t believe this moment is happening—whether that’s due to you in his arms or the Cup that will now bear his name no one can really say. He kind of looks like he’s about to do something stupid, leaning in ever so slightly, and so you finally succeed at leaving his arms, slipping slightly as you reach the ice once again. Brayden is watching from across the ice, a sad look on his face that you just want to kiss off. You don’t though, just pat Nate on the back once and continue moving, throwing yourself at Cale, then Burky, then Mikko.

It’s a blur of celebrations and photos with the Cup—you even let Linnea convince you to take a photo with her and the Cup, her mom remarking that it looks good on you. When you pull from your photo pose, you give her a questioning look. “A baby and a cup,” she smirks, blatantly looking over at Nate who seems to agree.

You laugh nervously—last year that was all you wanted, the boys to win and Nate to want you in that way. Now? Now you can picture it still, you just picture it with someone else.

Finally, you’re able to sneak away and Brayden has the same idea, telling you to meet him in a closet by the locker room. No words are exchanged as he pulls you in by your hips and kisses you like he needs it to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him and you mean it.

A crinkle forms between his eyes. “No you’re not.”

You kiss him again once, “I’m not sorry the boys won tonight, but I am sorry it was against you.”

“There’s always next year.” It’s far more flippant than you had anticipated, really you thought you’d be dealing with an upset Brayden and that might have broken your heart.

“I thought you’d be more upset.”

“Can’t win ‘em all,” he says and you give him a look to be serious. “So what, we didn’t win the Cup this season. I got you, didn’t I?”

“Fuck off, dont be stupid.” Your cheeks are hot and your eyes are wild.

“I mean it. I’d take you over the Cup nine times out of ten.”

“What about the other one?”

“Need to win another one for us to put our future babies in.”

“Awfully presumptuous for a hook up.”

“This is so much more than a hook up.”

“Yeah,” you admit, sinking deeply into another kiss.

“Besides,” he pauses, “Already got two rings.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay I gotta go. Will you come get me later?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid to ask, like he’d go into the pits of hell itself for you without hesitation. “Of course. Now go. Celebrate. I’ll see you later.”

You slip out first, making sure the coast is clear and go find the others. A Stanley Cup Champion hat is placed upon your head and a bottle of champagne in your hand. There’s a celebration in the visitor locker room and then the party moves to a local bar.

Someone shells out the money for a few bottles of vintage Dom Perignon that you indulge in, but mostly you just relish in the happiness of everyone around you. If you’re honest, you spend a fair amount of time avoiding Nate who has a serious look every time you catch him staring.

Shortly before midnight, you slip out of the bar and into Brayden’s waiting car. The bubbly must have gone to your head, because you forgo any verbal greeting in favor of launching yourself over the center console to press your lips to his.

He pulls away and very somberly states, “I can’t take you seriously in that sweater.”

Looking down, you spot the Avalanche crop and laugh as you pull it off and toss it in the back. “Better?”

He hums, fingertip tracing the chain around your neck from your clavicle down between your breasts to reveal his number on the pendant. “Much.”

You sink back into another kiss before remembering where you are, who you’re with and what you’re doing meanwhile the bar you just left is crawling with people you’re not quite ready to come clean to just yet.

“Take me home, Bray,” you say as you relax back into the passenger seat.

You don’t have the power to bring your lover the Stanley Cup your friends were just drinking out of. All you have to offer is yourself, but he accepts it with as much gratitude as your best friend accepted the Cup earlier.

Later, he looks like he wants to ask you to stay, and you think you look like you want him to.

In the end, it doesn’t matter as you fall asleep next to him and somehow make it back to your hotel room in the morning with no one the wiser.

Nate spends a few more weeks in Denver after the win, celebrating with the guys and riding the high of winning it all. You only spend a couple days and then move out of his house and back into your parents.

You don’t tell him about Brayden, content to let Nate enjoy his successes.

As a consequence, you don’t see much of him in July or August. Even when you’re both home, he’s busy with all his other friends and his family, and you’re busy with your niece and deciding on what to do in the fall. You’ve determined the best course of action is to finish your degree and then apply to a masters program in order to change your career path.

The choice, then, is where to do so. You can stay at home, commute an hour each way into the city—supported by your hometown friends and your family. Or you can make the shift to Denver for real, with your found family and with Nate. Or…

The University of Tampa Bay has an excellent program. You know from your time visiting Brayden through the season that the university is right around the corner from Amalie Arena and Brayden’s. It’s awfully presumptuous, but you find yourself daydreaming about the possibility much like you used to daydream about a future in Denver.

Of course, there’s an entire continent of possibilities, hell an entire world of possibilities, but these are the three most attractive options.

There are many discussions to be had, and choices to be made. You don’t want to do either until you’ve had a chance to speak to Brayden in person, but just as Nate’s had a busy summer, so too has he.

He messages you every morning before and after working out while you’re still asleep. Every conversation eventually devolves into some combination of ‘I miss you’ and ‘when can I see you?’

You do manage to spend a few days with him in the Rockies mid-July that fly by far too quickly. Every time you leave Brayden it gets harder and the implications of it all have your stomach in knots when the thought crosses your mind.

It all comes to a head spectacularly the day before Nate’s day with the Cup. You’re at Nate’s, helping to prepare for the post-parade celebration when you’re called away by his sister. She wants your help deciding on which photos to display—it’s a mixture of past and present alongside an elementary school assignment two decades old wherein Nate declared his future profession would be ‘Stanley Cup Champion.’

You’re smiling, lost in the memories when Nate comes crashing into the room you’re in. There’s an indiscernible look on his face, but it reads somewhere between anger, frustration and hurt. The look on your face betrays your confusion, and it only deepens when you see your phone in his hands.

“What are you doing with my phone?” you ask.

His jaw ticks. “Thought it was mine.”

It doesn’t really do anything for your confusion. If anything, it deepens it. “What’s your problem Nate?”

“This! This is my problem.” He finally cracks, shoving your phone in your face to reveal messages from Brayden—under the contact name of the letter B and a heart—wondering when you plan on making the trip to Calgary to see him. Your stomach drops and your heart feels like it’s at risk of falling right out your chest. It was always going to come out, but especially as you crossed the line between sharing body heat with Brayden and sharing your secrets, hopes and dreams.

That being said, it is a shit way for your relationship to come to light for sure, but you can’t help but feel your friend is overreacting. Sarah is looking between the two of you, panicked and frozen like she doesn’t know what to do.

“I think your mom could use some help in the backyard, Sar,” you say gently, and she gladly takes the opportunity to flee. Once she’s gone, you turn on Nate. “I’m sorry that you found out this way, but you had no right to come in here like that. Poor Sarah looked terrified!”

He looks at you incredulously. Now that his sister is out of ear shot, he appears to have allowed himself to lean into his emotions a little more. “I have no right? What about you? Hooking up with some random guy in Calgary? Is that where you’ve been running off to these past few months?”

You know that this is probably the least important part of his rant, but you feel the need to clarify. “He’s not just some guy, Nate. His name is Brayden. And for the record, no. I wasn’t in Calgary, I was in Tampa.

He looks confused in addition to enraged, and so you put the pieces together for him. “I’ve been seeing Brayden Point.”

“You’ve been sleeping with the enemy?”

“Are you joking?”

This is not your friend Nate. This is some angry being inhabiting the body of your friend Nate.

He doesn’t back down. “It was between us and them in the final, pretty sure that qualifies as the enemy!” He pauses for a second and then continues, “How long have you been sleeping with him? During the final? Were you rooting for him instead?”

“Nate—“

“No, don’t Nate me. I bet you were, I bet you wanted them to win, him to win. I bet you were sitting there in the family box, using tickets I paid for, against me the whole time.”

“That’s not fair!” you try to interject, despite the tiny grain of truth to his words. It would be untrue to say some small part of you wanted Brayden to succeed, but your loyalties have always been with Nate and his team.

“Don’t bother. I wouldn’t trust a thing you said right now. Not after this. Not when you know.”

“Know what?” you question.

“How I feel! About you. And me.” The blurred edges start to come into focus. He’s been acting like a man scorned, because in his eyes he is one.

Unable to form any coherent thought, you repeat yourself from earlier. “Are you joking?”

He’s less angry now, slipping further into the hurt brewing under the surface. “It’s always been us. Since we were kids. And now you’re messing around with some guy on another team. I can't believe you!”

The tears start to pool at your waterline, but you’re too stubborn to let them fall. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? You string me along for years and years and years, expecting me to play the part of your girlfriend without being your girlfriend and to wait around for you to figure it out. I am sorry you found out like this, but I’m not sorry about him. I’m not sorry about Brayden.”

He flinches at the sound of Brayden’s name, the anger clouding his eyes even further. “You want him so bad, why don’t you go to him right now?”

“Nate—“ You’re not sure he knows what he’s saying, what the implications of all he’s said really are. What it would mean if you left for Calgary this afternoon. What it would be like if you weren’t there tomorrow to join in his celebrations.

“Go.” When you don’t move he speaks again. “Get out of here.”

He hasn’t raised his fists or even his voice, but you do as he suggests. Calmly, begging the tears not to fall, you walk right out of his house and get in your car and you drive.

Brayden picks up when you call while driving, and there’s a ticket in your inbox before you’ve even made it home.

A short layover in Toronto—and with nothing but the clothes on your back and a small carry- on—later, you’re sinking into Brayden’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but you shake your head where it’s buried in his chest.

“Thank you,” you say, leaving hundreds of words unspoken in your gratitude.

The kiss he pressed to your lips and the way he says ‘Anything for you’ tells you that he understands.

He’s got his own place in an affluent suburb of the city, and you’re grateful for the fact that you won’t have to see anyone else with your puffy, bloodshot eyes.

The last time you’d cried this hard, it had been over the loss of your childhood dog. Nate had been there then, flying in after a late game to hold you while you cried. Maybe you had misunderstood his feelings for you, missed the signs he thought he had laid out so clearly. Maybe that would have mattered a year ago.

It doesn’t, now.

Not when Brayden’s arms feel like home. His warm gaze feels like the sun. His kiss and his touch feel like heaven on earth. His love feels like everything you’ve ever wanted.

Your world nearly stopped in Nate’s living room, but it resumed spinning here in Brayden’s bedroom.

You’re curled up on his chest while he soothingly runs a hand along your spine when you tell him. “I love you.”

His hand stills on the middle of your back, but you don’t panic. Your mind and heart are clear and in unison. He doesn’t make you wait long, cupping the back of your head and tilting your head back ever so slightly so that your eyes meet.

“Yeah?” he asks like maybe he needs the validation.

“Yeah,” you reply, giving it to him.

The grin on his face might be worth everything you’ve been through.

You squeal as he flips the both of you, ending in a position where his arms bracket either side of your head in order to keep from crushing you with his full weight.

“I love you,” he repeats, kissing every inch of your exposed skin.

Tangling your fingertips in the hair at the nape of his neck, you say it again and again and again. It’s a chant and a ritual, told between sighs and moans and whimpers. He strips you of your clothes, taking you apart piece by piece and then putting them all back together.

It is intimate and sweet as he takes you to the highest peak, hearts and limbs and minds all intertwined. There is no doubt, no insecurity, no hesitation. All of the love you have to give is reflected back at you. You and Brayden are two sides of the same coin, destiny and fate and all the good forces in the world have brought the two of you together.

That’s why when, in the dark of his room later, you say yes when he asks you to move in.

Despite the apparent suddenness, your family is more than supportive of you and Brayden. Though that may be because he charmed the pants off all of them the following week when returning to your childhood bedroom to pack your things.

Your niece is delighted when she learns that Brayden’s “job is hockey!” as she so sweetly declares, requesting he win her a Cup too.

It reminds you of Nate and how you haven’t heard from him. You don’t reach out either.

Your time in Calgary is short, punctuated by the bittersweet news that although many of your credits will transfer over, you’re not able to start college classes at the University of Tampa until the second semester.

“Now you can come with me on all my road games,” Brayden says when you tell him.

“Fat chance.”

Training camp sneaks up on you both and before you know it, you’re making the permanent move into Brayden’s bedroom and his life, publicly this time.

The Tampa WAGs are sweet and welcoming, but you find yourself missing the Colorado Better Halves. That’s probably why you agree to dinner with Heidy the first time in the season that the Avs are in town.

You make plans to meet at a cute spot downtown near the arena.

The minute you spot Nate waiting outside, you start to turn around. Not so much as an Instagram like since the day before his day with the Cup and now he’s at one of your favorite restaurants in Tampa like everything is okay?

“Wait,” he says and for some reason you do, pausing mid turn. “I’m sorry.”

That’s enough to have you turning back around to look him in the eye as you scold him. “Really? I haven’t heard a word from you in months and that’s what you have to say?”

“I know,” he says.

“You were really shitty Nate! You knew how I felt and apparently felt the same way, but you just took advantage of me and my feelings for you for years! And then, you made me feel like trash for falling for someone else.”

“I know,” he says again.

“Can you say literally anything other than I know?” you say exasperatedly.

“I—“ he starts and stops with the look you give him. “I don’t have a good explanation for the first bit. You’re right, I’ve been taking you for granted for a long time. I don’t know, I guess I was just scared to lose you if we ever crossed that line.”

“I get that,” you reply. “Why do you think I never said anything either? I’m less mad about that and more mad about you being a giant asshole about me meeting someone.”

He nods. “I know. I was jealous and hurt and I lashed out and hurt you too. I never meant for it to get like this, but the longer it took for me to reach out and apologize the harder it seemed. I am really sorry, and I’m happy you found someone who treats you the way you deserve.”

It’s a sincere apology and one you’re certain he means. Beyond that, you just miss your best friend and so you throw yourself at him in a big hug. He’s startled, but very quickly wraps his arms around you too.

“Things aren’t magically okay, you really hurt me, but you’re my best friend and I’ve missed you so much. There’s been a million times where something happened and I wanted to tell you about it, but couldn’t.”

“You’re my best friend,” he says.

Nate scores a goal during the second period of the game but it’s not enough for the Avalanche.

Brayden comes home the clear winner to find you curled up in his bed. First he undresses and then he slips into bed beside you.

“Glad you made up with Nate,” he says, tucking his head into the crook of your neck and wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Glad you won,” you reply, feeling the way his lips curve in a smile against your neck and knowing he’s about to say something stupid and cringe.

“In more ways than one, baby,” he laughs, caging you in with his arm as you struggle to get away from him and his bad jokes. “In more ways than one.”

Despite the way you playfully try to escape his clutches, the truth is you feel like you’re the real winner.

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl x reader #nathan mackinnon fic #brayden point fic #shelb writes

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dungeon-meshi-tournament · 2 months

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Now that the Seaworthiest Ship in the Dungeon Tournament is finished, I'll make a funny comments post probably either Thursday or Saturday (busy week) and take a weeklong break afterwards. If staff haven't nuked my account for being a trans woman, I'll run a new tournament after that.

I hit 1000 followers on this blog during the preparation of the tournament that just finished. As I've announced, I have a plan for a tournament to celebrate it. It will be the Favourite Anything in the Series Tournament.

The idea is as follows: You guys submit stuff you like from the series, I put it all in a giant bracket, and then I run a tournament with that bracket to determine the ultimate favourite thing from the series. You can submit anything you like: Characters, monsters, dishes, outfits, ships, scenes, or anything else. You can submit as many things as you like. You can submit a picture along with your favourite anything if you like, and if you don't I'll just pick out a nice picture for you.

Update: Submissions close Sunday February 25th, 10am Central European Time. I'll ignore anything submitted after that.

Update: Submissions are now CLOSED. Any submissions made from now on will be ignored.

Things submitted so far:

Mayjack Chils Speculative biology Chapter 87 Chapter 95 Elf Senshi Warm Succubus milk Laios' autism Veggie scraps conversation Bath scene Marcille undoing her hair Senshi's Golem gardens Senshi's pantyshots Farcille Golem Chilchuck being divorced Fluffy Falin / Dragon Falin Italian Marcille Halfling Senshi Laios' creature drawings Izutsumi's sleep review Izutsumi and Yaad Laios' dog impression Young Senshi Senshi of Izganda Marcille's failgirl violence Kuro Namari's leg obsession Chapter covers Daydream Hour Izutsumi (Izutsumi) Senshi's mithril cooking knife Fullertom Chils Chimera Falin Chilchuck with a Fish-man head Falin's fangs Chilchuck's future plans Mithrun slapping Kabru Thistle's hairstyles Ambrosia Dungeon master Marcille Chimera Laios Laios' ultimate monster Chilchuck and Senshi's friendship Falin beating a monster with her staff Laios the Murderer Kabru's eject button Handsome Senshi The party asking everyone to help eat Falin Izutsumi being cat-like Theme of life, death, and consumpton Final chapter Falin's soul dragon Winged Lion Frog suits Mithrun getting manhandled Senshi's cooking equipment Marcille walks right into that Kabru's eyes Chapter 72 cover Mithrun of the House of Kerensil Thistle's diary of poems Inutade Fleki & Lycion Kabru's flustered face Daltian clan Mithrun's teleportation Chilchuck braiding Marcille's hair Laios consuming the Winged Lion Kabru loving drama Baby Delgal and Thistle Moe Thistle Chapter 47 cover Baby Kabru Marcille leaning on Laios' corpse Race swap panels Winged Lion eating desires "They let me milk a Minotaur!" "Now just keep that to yourself" Tallman Mithrun "That's not normal, Laios" Senshi's cooking explanations Laios being a good boy Studio Trigger anime Chapter 88 Characterisation / Character dynamics Falin's staff Senshi's journal Hippogriff soup scene Senshi's favourite food Changeling race swap Chilchuck making Izutsumi's backpack Half-foot union Kabru's goal Marcille and Chilchuck's matching purses Namari of Kahka Brud Leed Laios and Senshi's situationship Living armour biology Ogre designs Dungeon rabbit Winged Lion being cunty Touden party catching frozen Falin Marcille getting dressed for a cold day Marcille Donato Marcille's Dungeon rabbit dance Basilisk biology Elf queen and dwarf king communicating Marcille face Marcille covered in blood Namari's arms Demon's relation to desires Izutsumi and Marcille in the Golden Kingdom Laios liking elf ears Izutsumi drawings Healthy lifestyle advice Shapeshifter copies Izutsumi and Laios in the sauna Chilchuck's faithfulness proven by Bicorn Izutsumi comforting Marcille Chapter 47 cover Let's take iboprofen together panel Izutsumi Marcille's breakdance Chapter 65 cover Manipulative girlfriend Kabru Friends' reaction to the series Picky eater Izutsumi Kabru taking care of Mithrun Chapter 60 cover Kiki getting caught sneaking in Laios' reaction to sashimi Laios eating the Winged Lion's desire Kabru & Mithrun shapeshifter scene Otta's thing for Half-foot women Marcille's bird familiars Falin's dragon bulge Kabru deciding to murder Laios Thistle being carried like a backpack Izutsumi's heart attack Blushes Walking mushroom Medieval manuscript stylisation Chilchuck Tims Unicorn Eyes of the magician Food shots "What kind of person is he?" Orc sweat Ogre Marcille Marcille's love of seagood Stoned Fleki Pipi Mithrun and Cithis' friendship Dragon designs Chapter 73 cover Expression artstyle Demon breaking free Chilchuck & his daughters Halloween costumes Exorcism sorbet Marcille's pouty face Falin, Marcille, and Namari's outfit swaps Laios' dream page 1 Laios' dream page 2 Laios' dream page 3 Fullertom and Packpatty preparing to woo Laios Laios riding Kelpie Falin eating Chimera Kaka & Kiki going to gnome festival Chilchuck beating up Laios Senshi bread scene Reactions to Laios' funeral wishes Mermaid Dryad

Bloody Dungeon Lord Marcille Elf queen Demon grape form Laios' monster cape Golden Kingdom Falin with her eyes open Izutsumi diving into soup Persisting injuries Frog shoes Pattadol's crush on Marcille Marcille and familiars' POV split Marcille's hairstyles Yaad hugging Thistle Laios holding Falin's skull Elf queen lounging Laios and Marcille's relationship Union man Chilchuck Mithrun crying over purpose Laios' euphoric face Dragon kitchen page Unforgivable Dungeon Meshi Chilchuck's freakouts "That makes us more serious about this than you" Falin and caterpillar Chilchuck dating sim "Don't worry, we'll manage somehow" Chilchuck's grey hairs Werewolf monster tidbits Falin's birth comic Falin eating rabbit curry Mandrake-plucking dogs Marcilel jostling Laios' head with her staff Treasure insect sandwich Undine fight Nutritional value charts Laios caressing Big bat bones Horror Spread pages Winged Lion "Go in the dark" image We just fed her an emoji Falin feeding her soul dragon Characters in modern clothing Kiki's crush on Namari Kiki teasing Namari

Senshi squinting Gnome vs Elf magic Demon eating Mithrun's desires Zon's son Chapter 44 cover Touden sibling dog naming fights

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #favourite anything from the series tournament #announcement

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its-avalon-08 · 3 months

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lando norris x reader

themes- enemies to lovers flirty interactions female Formula1 driver

Chapter 1 - Girl in Red Bull

The fluorescent lights of the Red Bull garage buzzed, casting a sterile sheen over the gleaming RB19. Max Verstappen lounged beside it, headphones on, humming along to some Dutch techno unseen by the flurry of mechanics flitting about. Then, the doors whooshed open, and the air shifted. All eyes, including Max's, snapped to Y/N L/N, striding in like a storm in crimson Red Bull overalls.

"Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," Max drawled, a smirk playing on his lips.

Y/N met his gaze, her own lips curling into a smile that wouldn't be out of place on a panther. "Someone had to show you how it's done, Pretty Boy," she retorted, flicking a stray lock of auburn hair from her eyes.

Their banter crackled in the air, an old, familiar electricity. Ever since kindergarten, Y/N and Lando had been locked in a perpetual competition – academics, karting, anything involving a scoreboard. They pushed each other, fueled by a rivalry that was just this side of flirtatious. But when it came to the big leagues, the prestigious racing academies, only Lando got the golden ticket. "Girls don't belong in Formula One," the scouts had scoffed, leaving Y/N fuming but undeterred.

She'd vanished abroad, leaving whispers of her meteoric rise through the European junior championships. Now, here she was, a Red Bull rookie, Max's teammate, and Lando's worst nightmare.

Lando Norris, meanwhile, had just arrived, an entourage of cameramen and PR people trailing him like confetti. He spotted Y/N and froze, his signature grin faltering for a split second.

"Y/N?" he breathed, disbelief in his voice.

"The one and only," she confirmed, raising an eyebrow. "Surprised the paparazzi didn't give you the memo?"

A smile slowly bloomed on Lando's face. "Red Bull, huh? Never saw that coming."

"Neither did I," Y/N admitted, a ghost of a smile flitting across her own lips. "But sometimes, life throws you a curveball. Or, in this case, a whole racetrack."

Max, forgotten between them, watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. He knew their history, the competitive fire they ignited in each other. Now, that fire was about to engulf the entire paddock.

As the garage doors sealed shut, the hum of the RB19 seemed to rise, a low thrumming promise of what was to come. The 2024 season was about to begin, and the battle lines were drawn. Not just between teams, not just between drivers, but between a past laced with rivalry and a future pregnant with possibilities. Red lights, racing hearts – let the games begin.

#max verstappen imagines #lando norris #formula one #charles leclerc #carlos sainz #f1 imagine #cute #enemies to lovers #lando norris smut #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #mclaren

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thepythakorean · 3 months

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parallels between the boy and the heron and this painting, plus general analysis

Arnold Bocklin, Island of the Dead. 1880

i want to preface this by saying i am by no means an art history nerd, i just happen to know some stuff about the background of this painting in particular.

as soon as mahito is sucked into the tower floor he is standing at the shore of an island surrounded by an endless ocean. he is dwarfed by a large set of golden gates that say something like "those who seek my knowledge shall perish" and an even taller forest of cypress trees. these features all frame a white dolmen (primitive tomb usually made of giant rocks stacked like below) that beckons to him.

this scene immediately struck me since it has so many of the visual elements of the painting. mahito is even framed in the foreground to be so very small approaching these giant, daunting structures just like the boat heading for the island in the painting. besides the tombs, the cypress trees are also traditionally associated with mourning and death at least in europe/the mediterranean. other ghibli movies have lavish european aesthetics tied to characters (howl, yubaba, etc.) but it feels particularly intimate here given that mahito's great granduncle, the creator and ruler of this world, is apparently european and can only pass on his role to a direct descendant. (btw not saying the gaudy european decor signature of howl and yubaba aren't important to their characterization, it def is! i'm just saying it stood out to me in this movie especially.) the cliffs full of stone entrance passageways are prominent later in the movie as himi takes mahito through the parakeet's domain, and interestingly, in the delivery room where natsuko is, there is another dolmen behind her (can't find pics since the movie hasn't been uploaded yet urgh).

the backstory to the painting continues to parallel to the events of the story! so there's 5 versions of this painting. the first three versions were painted in a cemetery close to bocklin's residence which was also full of white headstones and sculptures, and cypress trees. one of his infant children, one of many children he lost, was buried there. the one i posted above is the first/second-- while bocklin was working on the first, a the soon-to-be wife of a politician visited his studio, saw the wip, and commissioned her own version with the added white figure and coffin to commemorate her first husband who had just died of diphtheria. already somewhat similar to how mahito's mother died in the hospital fire (well. she died from the fire but presumably she was there because she was sick) and when his father shortly remarried. these were also added to the initial wip and stuck in later versions of the painting. bocklin later wrote to her, "you will be able to dream yourself into the world of dark shadows". the movie is also very dreamlike-- it's a fantasy world filled with strange creatures, alternate versions of people he knows, and passages that seem to alter the fabric of time and space. people also seem to forget about it as soon as they leave even after spending long periods of time in it like a dream. the painting is also very dreamlike, but why? the warm lighting, maybe not in the version i posted but in a couple others, may explain it, but the island itself resembles the curtains and stage of a theater (referencing the audio clip below the description). even if it doesn't look EXACTLY like that to you, it's definitely a too-perfect little scene in a nebulous expanse of space. this theatrical quality is also shown in the movie by the parakeet uprising side plot as well as the scene when himi and mahito collapse in front of the delivery room-- the curtain falls directly in front of the viewer over them as though a stageplay just ended. oh and a friend mentioned to me how this is a classic hero's journey plot and mirrors orpheus in the underworld. island of the dead has also directly inspired NUMEROUS other works of art, including other paintings, stage productions, and symphonic poems. apparently the painting was so popular many people in berlin hung prints of it in their homes (i do too)! as i stated above though, a lot of the visual elements in the painting were already traditional symbols relating to death so i don't want to 100% conclude that miyazaki was directly inspired by this painting, he may have just also resonated with those symbols independent of bocklin which i still think is awesome.

the first time we see himi also reminded me of the painting. she's wearing a white dress and standing at the bow of a small wooden boat, and though her intentions are to save the warawara from the pelicans, she inevitably kills some of them too. visually and thematically she's like the white figure at the front of the rowboat in the painting. she acts as a guide for mahito (analogous to the rower? he traveled to this world of his own volition but needed a guide) for a good part of the movie and is a collage of life and death. she is a younger but kind of omniscient version of his dead mother; she's known all along she is mahito's mother but is about to be born into the world by the end of the movie and accepts her fate happily. she can control fire which envelops her like how she died in the real world, but is harmless to the touch unless she directs it as a weapon, and as we see with the warawara and pelicans it helps creation but also destroys much like fire's role in the natural world. natsuko, though a separate person from himi, is still connected as a sibling, and we see her wandering into the forest at the beginning of the movie while wearing white like himi, back turned to mahito, and that is what prompts him to first enter the tower. the strange nature of her character that doesn't adhere to a proper time or space parallels the way the white figure completely stands out in the painting, at least the ones with darker lighting. another crazy parallel surrounding fire and wwii between the painting and the movie is that the fourth version of this painting was destroyed during wwii due to bombing, again like how mahito's mother's hospital was presumably set on fire by bombing during the war.

the looming effects of war alluded to throughout the movie eventually tie into its resolution, when mahito accepts his new family that he initially rejected, his own imperfect being, and the fact that one must seek out love to be happy in this bitch of a world. his great granduncle is confused as to why mahito wouldn't want to recreate his own world like him. why would you want to return to the world that killed your mother and rejects you as a person? the world that forces your people to die in war and will eventually drop the deadliest weapon mankind has ever seen even a century from now onto your home? you can make everything perfect here! he's created something of a "paradise" himself, full of lush tropical plants, parakeets, and strange insects (some of them looked like the bugs from nausicaa, another fantastical world of lush nature which is also threatened by war. interesting), almost like a garden of eden, and it so happens to be at the very top of the tower. funnily enough, bocklin also painted this several years later:

Arnold Bocklin, Island of Life. 1888

i don't know much about this one so idk if it's an explicit companion piece to the island of the dead but it certainly looks like it. the similarities are now less apparent to the movie if there are any, it's much less lush but there are exotic plants and uh birds and stuff. this is definitely more likely a case of shared inspiration from the symbols themselves rather than movie directly looking at the painting. anyway clearly the promise of a perfect paradise isn't real, as this is interrupted by a war of his own unwitting creation, the uprising of the parakeets he wanted to breed in a paradise that literally bring about the end of the world. no world will ever be perfect when left long enough to its own devices. life finds a way! plus, this world was created through so much death (the construction workers in hazardous conditions, the way the tower keeps spiriting people away. btw in the english sub mahito's dad calls the whole ordeal a "disappearance" but he says "kamikakushi" in japanese which means "hidden by god" in reference to people who mysteriously disappeared as if from supernatural circumstances and yes that's the word they used in the japanese title of spirited away!!!) and is on the verge of collapsing from reality every three days just because of some building blocks?? the real world may be on fire but it'll go out/burn less badly someday, and at least it won't completely disappear in a snap, not in an easily imagined timescale for a human anyway. it's up to you to make the best of it, and this is what mahito decides. there are also visual allusions to other ghibli movies about the constantly present threat or consequences of war. the only other landmark aside from the island mahito lands on is a line of ships which kiriko later tells him are all fake. it immediately reminded me of the stream of planes in porco rosso which were the souls of dead fighter pilots moving on. the shadow people in the swamp were also reminiscent of those in the train in spirited away, which are never explained to my knowledge but the given that spirited away's characters are largely spirits and the way souls are so similarly designed in this movie makes me feel that they were also souls of people in spirited away.

through this imagined otherworld, there is also the blurring of lines between life and death, reality and imagination. himi plus her dyad with natsuko (they're sisters AND they look exactly the same AND both are mother figures to mahito) are great examples of this. mahito's mother is gone, he knew this and set foot into the world anyway. he rejected natsuko as his new mother but in going through the struggles of the tower he comes to accept familial love for her and even keeps confusing "natsuko" and "mom" while reaching out to her in the delivery room. a family is made up of different people but inevitably you will see each other in each person. in the delivery room scene we see the paper hanging from the ceiling lash out to attack and stick to mahito like tape, it even leaves red marks on him. this is one of the best scenes in the movie to me because of its visual contrast to him rushing to save his mother in the fire. in the fire scene, the real world around him is blurred and distorted and at times so is mahito and especially his mother. the fire doesn't seem to burn him or his clothes (i could be remembering that wrong tho) and the scene cuts off before it shows him possibly going in further. in the delivery room, everything is drawn with clean lineart, no stylization. there is no mistaking the reality of this situation even though this world is conjured, the dawning realization upon mahito that this person is his mother is so visceral that he actively fights through the paper literally snapping its jaws and natsuko spitting her hatred towards him. when mahito is ready to leave the tower, himi leaves through a separate door to be born as his mother sometime in the past though she is not a warawara and knows what has happened/will happen, an exception that further demonstrates the nonlinear nature of time and space in the movie.

after coming out of the tower, the heron tells mahito he should forget everything that happened in there. even his grandmother seemed to have forgotten the whole year she spent in there (it seems like tower time reflects irl time judging by the events of the movie). anything that comes out doesn't just disappear, it transforms into a real-life counterpart as we saw with the pelicans leaving as they were (presumably minus the ability to speak) and the parakeets going from big bloodthirsty things to regular parakeets. so mahito can't just forget, especially because he comes out changed from his experiences in there, not just himself personally but also his changed relationships with natsuko and the heron, and also his little souvenirs. then the movie abruptly ends with mahito narrating that they left for tokyo again shortly after the war ended. i like to think that this was a hopeful ending where mahito maintained that character development and was able to welcome natsuko and his new sibling into his family while being able to seek more friends and family in the future. i've seen other analyses talking about how this movie was semi-autobiographical for miyazaki and i can see it, how events early in his life shaped his personality and how he had to fight to find beauty in a world that otherwise treated him poorly, so i'm glad he ended the movie on that note, although in less words. pretty similar to how spirited away ended, although there was arguably more loss involved, but still hopeful, and that's what i find so powerful about this movie. and like this movie, spirited away involves a dyad between yubaba and zeniba as a device for the hardships and beauty of life, how they're not so discreet at times. as a last kindasorta tie-in to bocklin's work, i'll point again to the island of life which was created after the island of the dead, plus a composition directly inspired by the island of the dead, a symphonic poem with the same title written by sergei rachmaninoff. the last time i listened to this was in high school and it's like. 20 minutes long so i'm too impatient to give it a relisten now but from my vague recollection plus some quick searches it's a very somber piece that escalates into emotional climaxes yet still contains warmer tones, and goes back to the same "rowing" motif at the end. it weaves together evocations of life and death in one piece, also illustrating how the two really are so closely connected.

tl;dr, this was me the entire movie because miyazaki SEEMS to be heavily inspired by this one symbolist painting i happen to like a lot:

also also here's a self portrait of bocklin:

yes, all of his paintings are that cool.

#i'm so excited about this painting!!#there's so many freaking similarities in not just the painting itself but its conception #the boy and the heron #kimitachi wa do ikiru ka #how do you live #studio ghibli #hiyao miyazaki #arnold bocklin #island of the dead #isle of the dead #tweet

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