#but it’s dark and it doesn’t paint Edward in an entirely positive light because at first William can only think of him as an absent father | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plasticnightmaredoll · 3 years

Photo

So, this is a drabble I’ve been sitting on for a little while, mostly because I wrote it while in a “mood” and thus it’s kind of personal. However, I do still like it and want to share it.

It does involve Erron Black and Cassie Cage from “Mortal Kombat,” so if you’re familiar with them then kudos, I suppose. If not, then it’s no a big deal. You don’t need to know all about them to understand what’s going on in this drabble.

I didn’t tag this writing with anything Mortal Kombat related because it’s kind of...bashing BlackCage (Erron Black x Cassie Cage) and doesn’t paint Cassie Cage in the best light. I don’t want the drama and bullshit that could result so I am keeping the MK tags far away from this drabble.

Now, this fic DOES involve Arkham Knight Riddler, so it’s a crossover, and I am 100% ok with tagging him and Scarecrow (Yes, he’s in it, too, sort of). Neither of them are portrayed in a way that would piss people off.

Now, the fic is very personal to me and technically it’s a self-insert, but I refrained from using my real name or my alias, and has just referred to myself with pronouns. Why? Because I’m kind of shy and weird like that. Plus, it’s super personal and emotional to me, this drabble, and I just don’t feel comfortable directly attaching my name -- or even my alias -- to it right now.

This isn’t on AO3 for the reasons I’ve already mentioned, and I am honestly ok with any feedback on this, be it positive or negative. Seriously, if you have thoughts, then share. If you happen to be a BlackCage fan and/or Cassie Cage then feel free to send me hate -- no anon hate, though, as I have turned off anonymous asks.

I will warn you now, the drabble deals with self-esteem issues, and the ending, if you are familiar with Scarecrow (and if you’re reading this, I sure hope you are), the ending is kind of.....dark. Nothing actually happens but it is heavily implied someone is in for a traumatizing time.

Volunteer

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” she said, sounding as defeated and drained as she looked. “I tried my best yet I still only managed to be in the friend zone. He said it’s not that I’m not good enough, but that he had liked her for a while and she finally said ‘yes’ to going out with him so…”

“What does this girl look like?” Edward asked, displeased with the situation.

“Hang on.”

Edward had to admit he wasn’t shocked by this news. From the start, he knew Erron Black was that type of guy, one of those dim-witted pretty boys who had no sense or reason. However, Edward didn’t say anything to her as she was an adult and could make decisions on her own -- even if they were the wrong ones. Besides, she was so smitten by Erron that Edward suspected she wouldn’t have listened to or believed his warnings anyway.

She searched on her phone and found the (infamous) girl’s Instagram profile and then handed it to Edward. Looking through Cassie Cage’s photos, frowning, shaking his head, he found himself unimpressed. This was the woman that got Erron’s attention? Honestly? She was a spoiled, bratty, self-centered blonde with the IQ of a donut!

Clearly.

Although, seeing as how Erron’s IQ was clearly no higher than that of Cassie Cage, Edward figured birds of a feather flocked together...one dodo for another.

“Ugh, I’ve seen enough,” Edward said, handing her back her phone. “She’s a social media brat who has fluff for brains and probably uses her looks to get what she wants. There’s no way she’s actually an intelligent, fascinating person. Anyone who takes that many ridiculous selfies is, without a doubt, an idiot.”

Edward noticed she didn’t appear to be relieved by his words, so he quickly thought of something else to add, hoping it would provide some sort of window to clarity that she desperately needed for this situation.

“So, this Cassie fits society’s shallow and pointless standards of beauty,” Edward said. “She’s an absolute bore, I tell you! She’s got a pretty face and an attitude, probably only is successful because she’s relied on her parents for everything.”

She still looked upset, and maybe even more so.

Ok, Edward, think! thought the criminal genius, chewing on his lower lip as his anxiousness grew. There’s got to be a way to get this through to her. This is a waste of her time!

“I mean...I wouldn’t want to spend time with her,” Edward said, placing a hand on his chest. “I’d probably lose my mind after listening to whatever pointless drivel would inevitably spill forth from her mouth. As for her looks, well, let’s be realistic here: they won’t last, and then what? She’ll be stranded with her own deflated ego and nowhere to go.”

Edward could tell that she was nearly crying now much to his dismay, and she kept her head down to hide the tears gathering under her lashes. This was absurd, he thought. Why did she feel so hurt by a guy who was a complete moron and a girl who looked like every other blonde girl out there? It was a waste of time, energy, thought, and emotion to dwell on such people. Why couldn’t she see that?

“I understand what you said,” she said, sniffling. “I agree with a lot of it but...it still hurts, maybe more so now that I realize how much of a bimbo Cassie is. And Erron chose her? I’m not blonde...is that what he wants?” She gripped her phone tightly. “Do I need to start acting like an obnoxious brat, taking selfies and posting them online for attention?” The grip was now threatening to crack the protective outer case of the phone. “I did all I could to be a good friend to him, was there for him, listened to him, treated him well….and yet, I’m still not good enough to earn his...his love? He waited a long time for Cassie...well, I’ve waited even longer to stop being rejected because I’m not good enough!”

Not wanting her to injure herself, he reached out and placed a hand over hers, watching her fingers loosen around her phone.

“I don’t feel good enough,” she said softly, finally crying. “I’ve never been good enough. I don’t know why...I don’t know...I try and I try but it’s never enough...”

Edward watched her sob quietly to herself, unsure of what to do but his internal panic was growing worse. This wasn’t exactly his area of expertise, and he still thought she was wasting energy on two idiots. However, there was nothing he could do about that, not right now, not when she was still overwhelmed by emotion.

So, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling a little awkward doing it but it was all he could think of at the time.

“It’s going to be alright,” Edward told her. “I promise.”

A few weeks later….

Edward was typing away at his computer as she sat at a table nearby working on one of her custom dolls. With her headphones on, she drowned out the world around her, entirely focused on painting the face of the doll. Because of this, she didn’t notice him get up from his chair to “greet” the ignorant Neanderthal standing outside under the security camera mounted on top of the main door.

Edward opened the door to see a worried Erron Black standing outside.

“What do you want?” Edward asked in an exasperated tone.

“Have you heard from her?” Erron asked. “She hasn’t responded to my texts or calls, and it’s really botherin’ me. I wanna know if she’s a’right.”

Edward crossed his arms, sighing in annoyance.

“Yes, I have seen her and spoken to her,” Edward said. “And it’s her right to ignore you if she chooses to.”

“I...I know that but…” Erron rubbed the back of his neck. “I...I want to speak to her...there’s somethin’ I got to say. I...I just...I need to see her and talk to her, face to face.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Edward demanded. “No, you can’t speak to her. You’ve done enough damage to her psychological state with your puny, insignificant brain.”

Erron looked taken aback but said nothing as guilt consumed him further. As much as he hated Edward’s callous words, the cowboy wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.

“Now, run along, Little Cowboy,” Edward said. “Go back to your vapid Selfie Queen where you belong.”

With that, Edward closed the door in Erron’s face, smirking triumphantly. Why that idiot thought he could just walk on back with his tail between his legs and beg for forgiveness, Edward had no idea. Then again the other man was too selfish to realize the error of his ways, so it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise he tried that.

As Edward made his way back to his computer, he suddenly got an idea; a beautiful, incredible, ingenious, devious idea. Taking his phone out of his pants pocket, he searched for and dialed the number he had in mind for this situation.

“Hello, Crane,” Edward said, smiling wickedly to himself.

“Ah, Edward,” said Jonathan, who was fully expecting to be hit with Edward’s ego. “I am surprised to hear from you. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve got something, or rather someone for you.”

“Oh?”

“You said you were working on a new variation of that fear toxin of yours, am I correct?”

“Yes, and it’s nearly ready. Perhaps just another day more and it will be finished.”

“Great! Then I have a candidate you can test it on.”

“Oh, yes, do tell. I am always looking for ‘volunteers,’ as you know.”

Edward gave Erron’s name and description to Jonathan, his smile turning into a malicious grin as he did so. As much as Edward wanted to teach the dumb cowboy a lesson himself, he also thought it wasn’t worth the effort and Scarecrow loved having ‘volunteers’ for his silly little gas...

“I will have my men apprehend him right away,” said Jonathan.

“Just don’t leave any permanent damage,” Edward said. “Otherwise...have at it.”

“I would never do such a terrible thing,” Jonathan said, chuckling darkly. “I take good care of all of my ‘volunteers.’”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Before I go, may I ask why you are recommending this man to me? Is he one of your henchmen? Did he steal from you? Fail to complete a job?”

Now this caught Edward off guard. How was he going to explain this? He couldn’t even fully explain his feelings about this -- about her -- to himself. Yet, he didn’t want to deny Jonathan an answer, either. It was a perfectly valid, logical, albeit nosey question.

“This man, he…” Edward began, his words catching in his throat for a moment. “He, um...he...damaged something...something very valuable to me. And...and as much as I want to discipline him myself, he is too far beneath me for me to waste any of my precious time dealing with him further.”

“Ah, I see,” said Jonathan. “I must be going now, but thank you, Edward. You are too generous.”

With that, Edward hung up and made his way over to her, lightly tapping her shoulder. Turning around, she smiled up at him and removed her headphones.

“Hi, Eddie,” she said. “Did you need something?”

“No, no,” he said with a charming smile. “I just wanted to get a closer look at what you’re working on. It looks impressive so far.”

“Really?” she looked delighted, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. “It’s not done yet but...thank you! You have given me a little confidence boost.”

“And you deserve it,” Edward said, patting her shoulder. “I look forward to the final result.”

Back at his desk, Edward continued working on code for upgrades to the Riddlerbots, humming to himself contentedly. Maybe what he did was a bit much, but the cowboy needed to be put in his place. Men like Erron -- people like Erron -- always did. Besides, she would forget about the fool in time. Edward was certain of this because that was the nature of things: you forget about what no longer has any meaning or purpose in your life, and seeing as how she wasn’t at all interested in conversing with Erron anymore...well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out the conclusion.

“Just dance,” she sang softly to herself. “Gonna be okay, da da doo-doo-mmm...”

Edward nodded to himself upon hearing her, smiling.

Yes, it’s going to be ok, My Dear, he thought. It’s all going to be ok…

-----------------

And that’s the drabble....Now, think of this: Riddler could fuck Erron Black up. I mean, he has a goddamn robot army. And Riddler is a criminal genius -- well, even without the “criminal” part, he’s still a genius. Erron is....he’s not. No offense but he’s not.

In this drabble, Eddie is aware of all of this, but -- and this is where the self-insert part comes in so forgive me -- he does have strong feels for myself (which sounds weird but, like I said, this is a self-insert type of thing and I self-ship with this Riddler so......), as I’m the only friend he’s got (only friend he’s probably ever had, really). So, he’s very protective.

I can see Arkham Knight Riddler being this way if he actually cared for someone. They’d be special to him for a lot of reasons and he wouldn’t want them to be hurt. He’d be devastated because he cares for them, they care for him...it’s the last the he’d want, for them to be hurt in any way.

And we know Riddler isn’t above getting revenge, and this is personal.

Yes, I know Batman pissing him off and humiliating him over and over is personal, but I think this sort of situation would be even heavier for AK Riddler for the reasons I already mentioned.

Some idiot dared to make his one and only friend, the only person who has been both kind and respectful towards him despite his flaws, feel awful about themselves and for no good fucking reason?

A guy who reminds Eddie of the bullies he had to deal with growing up (I do think AK Riddler was bullied growing up -- it seems to be implied, and with how poor his social skills are, I think he would have sadly been a target for bullies in school)?

A guy who is so beneath both Eddie and his dear friend, that said guy doesn’t deserve to walk away from this without paying a price?

But Edward isn’t a master of mental torture like Scarecrow is, and we know Scarecrow’s fear toxin makes people hallucinate terrible, terrifying things, including their worst fears and possibly any traumas they have endured in life. Erron Black didn’t have the best childhood based on his intros with other MK characters. It seems like he grew up in an abusive household, has trouble being open with anyone, has trouble forming serious relationships, chases cheap thrills over and over like he’s filling some sort of void....

Something tells me Erron wouldn’t have a good time under the influencer of Scarecrow’s toxin, and while Eddie doesn’t know about Erron’s unpleasant childhood, he...also doesn’t and wouldn’t care because, AGAIN, of the reasons I have already mentioned. In Eddie’s mind, he’s getting revenge for his only friend, the only person he actually cares for, and he’s getting it in a very fucked up kind of way.

Phew...that was a real fucking ramble. I apologize but I have a lot of feelings about this drabble and its subject matter.....

And let’s be fucking REAL, Bitches: Erron should be glad we’re dealing with Arkhamverse Riddler and not Telltale Riddler. If it were Telltale Riddler.....omfg Erron would probably beg for the fear toxin.

Because Telltale Riddler doesn’t fuck around.

#riddler #arkham knight riddler #edward nigma #scarecrow #jonathan crane #edward nygma #self-insert #self-shipping #tw: implied mental torture

18 notes · View notes

redevenir · 4 years

Text

living alike (pt. i)

joshua x reader

wc : ~ 3800

a/n : It all started with @tearsofsyrup ‘s suggestion for the made-up title fic game and here i am... So thank you! I took the liberty to use the title again, hopefully it’s ok with you? Otherwise just tell me! I have said it before, but I think shua and dark au... it is the thing, you know. Which is why I strongly encourage you to read paradigm shift (apocalypse au) as well as you hide; i’ll seek (both sexy titles by the way) and to check on these two writers’ other work because they’re excellent.

« I feel entirely dehumanised by the sun now and wish for fog, snow, rain, humanity. » from a letter to Edward Sackville-West, Virginia Woolf.

The soft clunks of water droping from the leaking sink behind you make your hair stand on end. You should be used to it by now, but you aren’t. Like everything else, it makes you uncomfortable. You wanted nothing more than to be buried deep in the swamps of the Administration. Hidden. Except you were a little frog on a desert, except everyone has seen you, and will remember your face. Hiding is no longer an option for you, the only way out is to disappear.

You take one last look at your ransacked room. You break a window for good measure, and head out, living the door open.

The soft thuds of rain against the cars’ glasses. Tight heart, empty lungs, he is the silent audience of an artificial show. A shadow wandering around the streets, the ghost of a ghost. Counting his footsteps. Counting the people on the sidewalk. Counting the cars. Counting the officials around the Prefecture. Thirty more steps to go. Joshua takes a deep breathe into his scarf. It seems no one is paying attention to him. Grey car, blue car. His hands are soaked, buried deep inside the pockets of his rain coat. Nothing can protect him from the summer rains. He takes a brief look above the ground, checks out the position of the sun, goes back to his feet. He needs to move faster. He cannot afford to be out during office hours. Twenty steps. He spots the door to his place and restrains himself from going faster. One excruciating step at a time. All around him, people move, people go from places to places. They listen to the speeches, they read the speeches, they learn the speeches, they believe the speeches. It is already hard for Joshua to breathe, let alone act. A small field mouse trapped in a gigantic machine. There is no room here for him, he feels it, fears because of it. Knows that in an instant everything could spin around him. Field mice are preys. There are so many predators around him, it is only a matter of time. Light turns green, the cars stop. He goes his way. Unsure, uneasy. Five steps. He reaches his door, doesn’t look back, and goes down the stair to his tiny underground studio.

Once he’s inside, finally, he lets out an exhale he didn’t notice he was holding. Double locks his door, puts the chair against it, and turns the light on. Here, underground, there is no sun light to warm up the air. He crosses the only room as he gets undressed, leaving his soggy coat for the clamminess of his quarter, and rummages through his clothes to find a change, replaying his stroll of the day. Nothing new. They are still agitated. Until they calm down there is no need to contact anyone, he decides. He reheats some unsavory stew for the fifth time this week, cleans up his plate, and crashes on the single bed, hoping for time to pass quickly.

He spends an agitated day, running after sleep, running from his thoughts. Even though he never sleeps well, there is always a part of him which foolishly hopes for a good rest. Remembering the kind of sleep he relished as kid, when he didn’t have to think about falling asleep. When laying down in bed was enough to dive deep in a warm unconsciousness, full of foolproof dreams. No matter where his drowsy mind takes him, he feels overwhelmed, on the edge of being assaulted. Faceless and formless assailants gathering in the dark to slaughter him.

Rising up, he picks a bottle of drinking water, ignores the remnants of the garbage stew, plans his wandering for tonight. He never follows the same path twice, in case someone might notice him. He puts on his parka which hasn’t dried, shivers when it brushes against his neck. There is nothing to do about it. Most of the time, Joshua tries to ignore his apartment. It is a disgusting place, filthy the minute he finishes to clean up. It is never warm, nor dry, nor hot. He never sees the light of day, never feels a breeze, for there are no windows down there. It is the best he can afford this close of the Great Palace. A miserable rat hole, nothing close to a nice burrow. It is the price to pay for a night cashier to get involved in bigger schemes. His eyes are priceless now that he has sold their sight. It is the only comfort he has found in doing so. The thrill of being useful – for whom? He has no right to know. But every morning after his shift, he goes out for his stroll, looking for anything out of the ordinary, and when there is, he reports it. One of them comes to the shop every week. Usually, though, Joshua tells nothing to his contact. Things do not change that often. But recently there has been movement. Why, he does not know, but they’ve been agitated, walking faster. Even though no one, of course, will tell him why, he knows something has happened. Something bad enough to be noticeable, bad enough that there has been no announcement on TV.

This is life now, he knows. Waiting and waiting and waiting for something which might never come. Joshua hesitates, then goes out without looking back. Maybe today, he’ll see something worth reporting. It’s raining as usual, but the sun is still up, somewhere behind the gray sky. The street lamps are not lighten yet. As usual, he goes right, then waits for the traffic lights to let him cross. He could not live closer to the supermarket, yet the path still bothers him – the ugliness of the streets, the noises of the city, the sickening smell of corruption and silent violence. He goes his way to the store, spends his night registering meaningless shop lists for night owls craving sugar or salt. His curved lips draw an empty smile to every customer while his mind goes through various scenarios of what might bother the authorities. He has no clue. What could indeed bother them? He is as ignorant when his shift ends as he was when it began. It is not a life. He could find out more, if he were a bit more audacious. But any step out of his supposed way is a risk he might pay with his life. Maybe, walking around the Palace’s streets is enough for now.

He puts his hands deeper in his pockets and waits for the lights to turn green. From the corner of his eyes, he notices a figure running in his direction. They storm before him, and throw themselves on the road. The sound of the car hitting your body is horrifying.

You spend an eternity drowning. Lungs full of mud, every living minute is a suffocation. The crushing weight of an undisturbed blackwater river is grinding your bones into mush, entangled between the roots of indifferent trees. You barely see the light, on the rare moments you emerge from your drowning, vision blurred by silt burning your eyes. You fight and you fight, and every new moon, every new tide brings you a new death.

In flashes you see faces, and you try to remember who pushed you into the river. A thin string of lost rooms and half forgotten conversations torments you, sending you in every direction. You lose yourself into a labyrinth of bewildered and electrifying memories. You try to scream for help but the dark water suffocates you more.

You cease to fight.

You let yourself flow, descending quietly in the abyss, a faint contentment when you touch the ground. An unusual corpse for shellfish and crustaceans to feast on. The soft pulse of your heart clawing his way out of your defeated chest. Far above you, you feel the lazy current going its way, ignoring you. There, cocooned in a silence older than a lifetime, it is easier for memories to come back to you. Faint lights above the school’s playground, burnt smells from the overcooked plum jam, a terrifying voice on the intercom freezing you to the core. You remember the pointy hat of the master, the piles of administrative sheets in his warm office, its walls painted of a deep, ancient red. You remember his whispers in your ears, which you tried so hard to ignore. His discreet threats disguised as indecent offers. Your remember going for his grocery shopping every four days, in the late hours of the quiet city. You remember knocking one of the piles over, and reading them against your best will. A pale breeze of rage brushes your cheek, unable to harm you.

You remember taking it with you, the vivid proof of the crime, on a hasty decision. You remember destroying your dorm. You remember the streets.

The moment you wake up you immediately regret it.

Every inch of your body is aching a thousand burn. You cannot open your eyes, the throb in your head makes you nauseous. Your throat is parched, and the feeble whine you manage to cry out is a pain in itself. Miles away you feel movement, in the distance you hear a voice filled with concerned, asking you words which you can’t separate from each other. It seems a worried litany of disquiet. Suddenly you feel cold and wet on you forehead, a divine relief to the pounding. The voice comes closer and takes your hand. You feel your hand. You have a hand. Panic rushes through your body like it never felt it, you try to move away, to get out, how can it touch you, what is touching you when you can’t even feel yourself?

Weirdly the voice seems to understand. It becomes quieter, soothing almost, ushering things you don’t understand, but it appeases you nonetheless. You feel it close to your hear, you feel its breathe against you. You’re sensitive and it has you tensed immediately, but it doesn’t last for long. A few seconds, the promise of safety. You pass out again.

The next time you wake up, everything is much clearer. You manage to open your eyes despite the soreness of your head. What you see when you do has you freezing up again, afraid you might have lost part of your sight. It is all black and gray. Gray ceiling above your head, a worrisome pattern of cracks. Gray walls, empty of any embellishment. Even the duvet cover is a dirty white. You try to straighten yourself, leaning on your elbow. It has you wincing but it is worth it. You take in your surrounding, even in the darkness of the unlit room. Someone has put your right leg into a splint of fortune, and did the same to your right elbow. You hold your breathe a minute, until you are assured to be alone. Nothing about it is familiar. There is a strong smell of menthol ointment that might come from you – the scent is overwhelming, and you cannot be sure. Your attempt to sit properly ends up worsening the piercing pain in your brain, and you resolve to wait until someone brings you water or food. Without any indication of the passing of time, you lose all notion of it, examining each clue of the room. You have never come here, and it makes you uneasy. You are facing the door and it reassures you a bit, whoever comes here will not have you at their mercy. At last, you hear the creaking of a key into its hole, which makes your heart racing. The door opens behind you in a squeak.

The man is tall, his shoulders wide as he bends a bit to come inside. The youth of his face strikes you the most. He might not be older than you are – and you are rare. The both of you belong to the last generation of children – it is also why, now that all of you are grown-ups, the officials are monitoring each and every one of you carefully. The last trace of unpredictability in the country. And, well, looking at the current situation, maybe they are right. It takes him a while to notice you, and you quietly observe him locking the door, putting a chair against it. Breathing, eyes closed, he relaxes before you. When he turns around, you see him immediately checking on the mattress – checking on you. And his face lightens up when he sees you facing him, rushing to you.

« Oh! You’re up! Are you okay? Do you need anything? Water? Hungry? Space? He chuckles. Take your time, he adds with a smile. » He exudes relief. Your throat hurts too much, so you mimic drinking and he’s on it, handing you a full glass of water. Then you point at him.

It is not going well. Your convalescence is endless. Your are weak and shattered to unclean pieces and every morning he comes back from work wondering if you will still be in this coma or if he’ll have to dispose of your body. In retrospect, it was a mistake, but even though he thinks it over again and again he does not see any other outcome. He would never have left you there to rot. What if you weren’t doomed to die? Suicide is forbidden by law. You are suffering enough as it is, despite Joshua’s best efforts to take care of you, he cannot even imagine the tortures the officials would have given you, had they been the ones to find you.

Yet here you are, at the end of a frustrating shift and a lousy stroll. Sitting up in his bed, watching him coming back. An unmatched joy floods through his body as he comes to you, taking a good look at your conscious face. A belligerent stranger, eyes empty and circled of mauve. Clearly distressed and looking weak. Joshua thinks that you being awake is a wonder, he remembers the poor bag of raggedy bones and torn flesh you were when you arrived. When he brought you to his basement. The clothes he has given you hide most of your skin, but he knows your body looks just like your face. A battlefield of bruises and scars and a timestamp to the day you met. For weeks, he has imagined what your first words would be, were you to wake up. What you would do, what your voice would sound like. He would fall asleep to the sound of your haunting rattles next to him, praying they wouldn’t stop before his wake. Nonetheless he has outdone himself. He has brought you back to life. You look bad, but you’re looking at him and he can’ t help but smile in satisfaction. When you point your finger at him, two things hit him.

You can’t talk and you haven’t lived with him for the past week. You know nothing. You don’t know him. He feels foolish to realize it just now. He sits down by your side, filling up an another glass for you. Ponders a bit – in your place, what would be his priorities ? But you’ve thrown yourself under a car and he never has, so he has no fucking clue.

« All right then I’m Joshua. I live here, obviously. Alone. Well, not anymore, since you’ve been there for a while now – the surprise in your eyes aggrieves him. I work at a supermarket down the grand avenue. I brought you here after you… You know. Wait, do you remember what happened to you? You answer him a simple nod. Okay, then, this car hit you, and, well, I brought you back here. You forget your soar throat but he doesn’t need to hear you to read the only word on your lips.

«Well… I know, I know, we are not supposed to interfere but… His eyes roam you, looking for all the mending he has done you. His voice is only a whisper when he finishes his sentence. How could I leave you there? » You clear your throat with pain. Clearly, the water did you do good. Joshua looks up eagerly, to see what you might say first.

«Who else knows I’m here? » Your words are a cold shower. You don’t trust him one bit. He tries to reassure himself, of course you don’t, you’ve just met him.

« Only this one guy – you scoff. I’m serious! There was barely anyone that day and, the driver died, I believe. I didn’t stay to check on him. But, turns out, something else happened that day and we managed to… slip through the cracks, I guess. »

«What? What happened? » He picks his words carefully.

« Someone bombed the Blue Palace. » You remain silent at first. Eyes closed, you take a deep breathe, then another one, until you look at him again, your facial expressions are still too knew you for him to read them. So he asks you. «What? What? »

« You’re saying someone fired a bomb on the Blue Palace? Quick, the shadow of a smile crosses your face. You close your eyes once again, licking your lips as if it’ll help you collect your thoughts. A bomb. On a palace. A bomb. On the exact day I had an accident? He hums in agreement. You lay back on the wall – he hadn’t even noticed how you had bent yourself closer to him, eager for news. Who did it? »

« I don’t know. »

«Wait, you’re saying someone attacked the blues and they haven’t been caught? »

« I don’t know, that’s what I’m saying. You may have not noticed yet, he gives a brief look around him. But I have no TV here. All I know is that they haven’t made any announcement about it. But if you ask me… » He bites his lips, unsure how much he can tell you yet. You give him a short moment, expecting him to go on. You let out a sigh when he doesn’t.

« Listen, Joshua – that’s it, right? From what I see, you could be sentenced to death as much as I do. I have spent hours in the dark, waiting for someone to show up. I don’t care if you did it, I don’t care if you work for the Palace, but please give me something. I need to know. » He comes closer to you.

« I think they have no idea who did it. They’ve been on the lookout for weeks. If they knew, there is no way someone could hide from them that long. He stays quiet, letting you register the information. And I didn’t do it, I swear. »

« I’ve been there... for weeks? » There is no use in lying to you but he hears the miserable realization in your tone and his heart aches too.

« Seven, to be precise. You’ve been really sick, you know. I patched you up as good as I could, and goodness! That DK guy knows a thing or two but even he can’t put a splint on your ribs. You say nothing. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I think it’s better to tell you right now. You… Said things when you were sick, he says. You work, hm, worked for the governor. You were his maid or something. You did his groceries. I have seen you before. » He is not asking.

« That’s right. » You ignore the elephant in the room that is the question on the tip of Joshua’s tongue. Maybe it is too soon. Maybe he doesn’t need to know now. Maybe your action was self-explanatory enough, and the details don’t matter. For today, Joshua decides he won’t push you.

« Who’s that guy you mentioned? » The way you don’t miss a word he says reassures Joshua – at least your head is fine.

« DK? He’s… Well, I don’t know much about him, I give him my reports. » You frown.

« What reports? You need to make report at a grocery shop? »

« I… Joshua shifts. It is going too fast to his liking. You should take it slow, and so should he. He wished to get to know you, and to make both of your comfortable before diving into such matters. He takes a deep breathe. I… Watch the Palace. Well, no, he stutters, I, hm, well, I go for walks around the Palace. Every day. Well, I work night shifts, so, after that, I go for walks. Every morning. And, hm, once a week, more or less, someone comes to the supermarket, and if I’ve seen something interesting I tell them. Usually it’s DK but sometimes someone else comes. I asked him for help when I saw how sick you were. » You chew the inside of your lips for a while and just when you’re about to speak again you close your mouth right away. This goes on for a few minutes, until you hum in acknowledgment. The silence between the two of you is only broken when Joshua hears your stomach grumble and jumps on his feet. « You should have said something! Of course you’re hungry! » He walks the few steps separating him from the cooking area of his quarter – he decided long ago he could not give the name kitchen to it. Kitchens were warm and full of promises. This was neither, just enough to eat some tasteless soups. He swears to himself he feels you watching him as he fumbles in his cupboard. When he turns back to ask if the soup is indeed fine for you, he notices the life back on your cheeks.

You eat dinner together for the first time. It is not quite lively but it is comforting and Joshua pretends he doesn’t notice the few quiet tears on your cheeks as you savor it. You fall asleep shortly after and as usual he lies down by your side, replaying his day.

No one can ever find out about you, he realizes. Not the officials, not his contact. He is playing a wild card which could backfire in so many wrong ways. The easiest way out would be to run away from the city, but it would involve so many people just to get you out, not to mention he has no idea of what he might find there. Joshua is dubious, but even he somehow believes the Palace’s tales. Maybe it is just a desert outside. Then what? What good would it do to them, to die of ignorance on foreign lands ? How much better would it be, to make all this vain efforts, when you might as well be sentenced to a much quicker death, without the discomfort of plotting an escape? Even if it is miserable, and he has even less room that before, Joshua still finds it better to sleep in his own bed. He is good at keeping secrets anyway.

Times passes slowly.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #angisccsw #joshua scenarios #joshua imagines #hjs #my writings #living alike

37 notes · View notes

rumours-spiral · 4 years

Text

for five more minutes

part 1- we’re six

note: this is part one of a multi-part series detailing the lives of the queens in their second lives. we’re not really given much information about their reincarnation, or of the ladies in waiting, so my adaptations may differ to yours. i will be updating as regularly as possible. i don’t love this part- it’s mainly just to set the world up, so the chapters should be getting more interesting soon. please feel free to give feedback!

word count: 3373

warnings: there’s a sort of panic attack, but it doesn’t go into much detail. please be safe <3

Catherine of Aragon woke with a gasp.

Her hand flew to her chest, above her heart. It ached faintly.

The room she was in was dark, save for a low-burning candle behind what appeared to be a pillar. She frowned. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep for. And she didn’t know who the uncovered black mass of hair on the floor (and indeed the head to which it was attached) belonged to. Apprehension flared in her stomach for a moment before she chided herself for being childish, reminding herself of who she was. She cleared her throat.

“Who are you?” The question came out shakier than she had intended, and her voice was gravelly, as though she hadn’t used it in a while. She frowned harder at that, wondering once again how long she had been asleep for.

“Excuse me?” She called out again, and she flinched when the sleeping girl shot up suddenly into a sitting position. Her head snapped towards Catherine, and a beaming smile lit up her face. “My lady!” She breathed, and it was in Spanish, and Catherine had only a minute to consider this response before she was being wrapped in a hug.

“Maria?” She whispered, disbelief colouring her voice. It sounded like Maria, certainly- the accent, the tone, the cadence of her voice. But the woman currently in her arms looked nothing like her. The hair was black and curly where it should have been brunette and straight, and her skin was of a dark brown.

“Yes, yes, my lady, it’s me,” she confirmed as she pulled away from her mistress and stared into her eyes. Catherine stared back and- by God, she found the same gleam of happiness, the same look of adoration. Tears welled in her own eyes and she brought her old friend into a bone crushing hug despite the awkward angle, laughing in something nearing hysteria as she did. “Oh, I’ve missed you, dear Catherine.”

The aforementioned woman’s happiness was dampened at that, and confusion took up its place. She parted from her friend after a moment, and looked down at the raised (was that stone?) platform she was still sitting on. She appeared to be in a chapel. Though it appeared to be dilapidated, the knowledge comforted her slightly.

“Maria, what do you mean?” Maria’s own smile slipped off her face at the question, and a sadness Catherine didn’t like at all welled in her eyes. “Maria? I don’t understand.” She sat up straighter and took the standing girl’s hand. A tear rolled down Maria’s cheek.

“You don’t remember, my lady?” She asked quietly. She sighed at the answer she already knew Catherine would give, and she sat on the same platform as her friend. “You died.”

Catherine stopped breathing at that. And then it all came flooding back too quickly- the weeks of a constant pain in her heart, the friend that sat beside her now rushing into her bedchambers and locking the door. The two days they spent there, and at the end Catherine’s eyes closing for the last time in her arms. Tears she didn’t even know she was crying dripped onto her lap, and she looked up at her lady in waiting again. She opened her mouth to say something, but whatever she was going to say was forgotten immediately at what Maria was wearing. Catherine felt the incredible urge to laugh; Maria was wearing an ill-fitting, black- well, piece of fabric on her torso, and on her legs were trousers.

“What on earth are you wearing?”

---------------------------------

Anne Boleyn woke silently.

Her lips were still moving in the Lord’s Prayer, but no sound came out, and she opened her eyes in confusion when she noticed what she was doing. And that confusion only grew when she took in her surroundings.

The curtains on the other side of the room were merely folds of fabric, minimalistic in material quality and the strangest shade of purple she had ever seen. They appeared to be thin, doing very little to halt the sunlight streaming in. The bed she was in was minimalistic, also- it had no drapes and no supports that reached several feet in the air. Its sheets were thin and plainly coloured, and the pillows beneath her head and the duvet resting on top of her weren’t stuffed with feathers. There were no wooden beams or stone bricks to be seen anywhere, and the walls were light pink, of all colours! There was no fireplace, no table where one could take their breakfast. Only a long desk made of a material that didn’t seem to be wood, a bookcase filled with odd-looking books, and a black rectangle on the wall. Was that to be some type of painting? And where were the candles? How was one to see at night? She frowned and moved to sit up. And she almost passed out.

A white-hot pain lashed across her neck and her entire torso ached, and she fell back to the bed immediately. Tears gathered in her eyes at the pain, and they flowed at the memory of the day that came rushing back- of the sheer blindfold, the rough wood beneath her cheek. She lied there, paralysed by pain and utter confusion. What was going on? Was this heaven?

It wasn’t God who walked through the door, but a woman with mid-length blonde hair. Anne wanted to scramble back, to move, but couldn’t for risk of blacking out. The woman was wearing the strangest clothes she had ever seen, and her hair was uncovered, and Anne’s confusion and fear was building so heavily that she could hardly breathe.

The woman paused instantly when she saw Anne staring at her. A small, cautious smile spread across her face, but her eyes lit up in a way that Anne would have recognised if she were more stable. She cleared her throat softly, stepping into the room fully and closing the door behind her. “My lady?” she asked.

Anne didn’t want to speak. She was sure it would hurt her throat even more, and she wasn’t even certain if she was still on Earth. The woman seemed to realise her reluctance, as she approached the bed slowly and stopped a couple metres away from its foot. “I’ve waited days for you to wake, Anne,” the blonde continued. She looked as though she wanted to come so much closer, but she stayed a distance from Anne. She found herself grateful.

“I’m Margaret Lee. Maggie.” Anne’s eyes widened even more at that, recognition flooding her face; a heavy distrust replaced it after a second as she took in ‘Maggie’ again. Maggie had brown hair. She had brown eyes. This wasn’t Maggie.

Where was Maggie? Her friend had been with her there on that scaffold, had listened to her final words. Her eyes flicked about the room as if she would find her hiding somewhere, but she didn’t. The woman who claimed to be her stepped forward even slower than she had approached earlier. “Truly, Anne. I received your prayer book,” she said, and she latched onto the hope that sparked in Anne’s eyes. It had been Anne’s final gift to her. She still looked distrustful, however, and Maggie recalled easily the words she had read every night for the rest of her life. She could even recall Anne’s regal handwriting, how she had dotted her I’s and looped her letters.

“’Remember me when you do pray, that hope doth lead from day to day.’”

Tears sprang into Anne’s eyes again at the words, and she opened her mouth as though to speak. She couldn’t bear to, but Maggie saw her own name mouthed and Anne’s hand twitch toward her, and she ran to her lady’s side. She knelt at next to her, reaching a hand to cover hers.

---------------------------------

Jane Seymour woke numb.

She hadn’t realised she was awake, honestly.

The last two weeks of her life had been so hazy and painful, each day melting into the next, and ultimately welding into her own private version of hell. In fact, she had only noticed her consciousness because of the absence of pain. That was odd.

Where was Henry? Did he know she was healed? She felt exhausted and still fairly poorly, but it was so much better than before. Perhaps the fever had broken. Her next thought was of her son. Her son! Edward! Oh, did she miss him. She craved him more than she had craved anything else, and that primal need is why she opened her eyes.

The room she was in was… strange.

It was so different to anything she had ever seen. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was her son, and her Henry. And where were her ladies? Her physicians? She hadn’t even any guards, and she didn’t recognise wherever she was. She frowned, ignoring the deep pain that resonated in her stomach as she sat up in the covers. It worsened when she stood from the bed. Upon reflection, she would realise that the haze of the illness was very much still there. She had discarded every sign screaming at her that this was wrong too easily, that this wasn’t her world. That the weakness and grief deep in her bones meant that something was very wrong.

She almost collapsed when she stood on shaky legs, but she had to find Edward. She hadn’t even held him yet- she should like to feed him herself, the wet nurses be damned. The bed had no posts or drapes, so she leaned on a tiny dresser that stood beside it. Henry would be so pleased with her, his only wife to provide an heir! Her vision went black in the corners, and she almost didn’t notice someone enter her chambers. Whatever the person was holding was promptly dropped, as they rushed to Jane, supporting her and lowering her back onto the bed. Jane hadn’t the strength to refuse, and her past mission was forgotten instantly. She lied down passively, but in the illness that had blurred her sight, she recognised the spun gold of the hair (albeit much shorter than it should have been) that belonged to the person. She smiled up at the figure.

Jane reached a hand up to cup her lady’s cheek, and she stopped instantly in her efforts to tuck her back in.

“Joan,” she breathed, before the exhaustion pulled down her eyelids, and she fell back to sleep.

---------------------------------

Anna of Cleves woke peacefully.

Her eyes drifted open slowly. She took in her surroundings with a mild surprise, but was mostly shocked to still be alive. The sharp pain in her abdomen had grown so painful, and the physicians all said she was to die. She had even written her will- maybe this was the afterlife. If it was, whoever governed it certainly had odd taste in furnishings. Tired of the sublime, she sat up cautiously, weary still of that pain and its dull presence.

“Excuse me?” she called out. She wasn’t sure who she would end up summoning, but the silence bored her already. There wasn’t even a book beside her. Within seconds, a woman with a peculiar complexion ran into the room, wearing even stranger clothes.

Her skin and eyes were of a dark brown, and her hair was the purest black she had ever seen. She was pretty though, and she had an excitement in her eyes that made Anna like her instantly. She gave her a kind smile, next asking her who she was.

“I’m Bessie,” she said simply. “Elizabeth Blount?” Anna’s smile loosened slightly as she cocked her head at the woman. She had opened her mouth to speak, but something glinted in the corner of her eye; upon turning her head, she found that it was a mirror. The clearest, largest mirror she had ever seen. And in the middle of it, sat up in a mess of blankets and pillows, was a woman with an even darker complexion, and black hair that stuck up at all angles. That wasn’t Anna.

Her mouth was still open, and Bessie let out a snort. “I pulled about the same face when I saw myself,” she said as she walked over to Anna, as if this were a perfectly normal thing. As if they both weren’t completely different to how they should have been. Anna still stared at herself, and raised a hand to touch her face, to see if the woman was truly her. The reflection moved in synch.

“What?” was all she could say in reply. She ripped her gaze away from the mirror to look at the other woman, who had a grin on her face. That was definitely Bessie- a woman of no help at all. Another snort escaped Bessie, ending their impromptu staring competition, and she looked at them both in the mirror.

“To be frank? You died,” she said bluntly, and Anna wasn’t really surprised. She was more anxious to know why she was here, and why she was in the body of a completely different person. She rolled her eyes at Bessie, and at the statement. Bessie mockingly rolled her eyes in retort and turned to look at Anna directly. “Someone brought us all back. A man and a woman- Lucy and Toby.” Anna’s stare sobered at that.

“Back? What do you mean, back? And who is ‘us’?” Panic edged into her voice the longer her sentence grew, and Bessie had to place a hand on her arm to ground her.

“Calm down, Anna,” she said, not unkindly. “Me and three other ladies in waiting- Maria, Maggie, and Joan. We all live together, in this flat.” Anna looked at her as though she were mad, and she almost definitely didn’t know who most of those women were, but Bessie persisted.

“We were brought back a couple years ago. Lucy and Toby help us out, but they don’t live here. And, um,” and now Bessie hesitated. How on earth was she meant to word this?

“They… brought all of Henry’s wives back.”

Anna almost laughed, but the look of complete sincerity on Bessie’s face made her pause. “You- you’re joking, surely?”

A serious look was her only reply.

“Boleyn? Seymour? Parr?” She asked with growing disbelief. “Back?”

The look remained on Bessie’s face, and Anna stared down at her lap. “All of you,” she clarified. “I don’t know how Toby and Lucy did it. I don’t even think they know how they did it. But we’re here.”

---------------------------------

Katherine Howard woke crying.

She felt the wetness on her cheeks, and wiped it away without much thought in her sleep-drunk mind. She wondered what time it was, mostly. It was odd that a servant hadn’t been in to rouse her- sunlight could be seen even from behind her eyelids, and since it was the dead of winter, it must have been late. Her brow furrowed when she didn’t feel Henry beside her. Had they woken him but left her? It seemed that they had left breakfast for her, however, as she smelt something warm from across the room. She opened her eyes only to see that these were not her apartments. And there was a woman sitting across the small room, hunched over a foreign object with a steaming bowl on her lap.

Katherine moved to stand immediately, upset that she had been so vulnerable before someone who didn’t even look familiar, but a razor-sharp pain left her falling backwards to slam her back into the bed’s headboard. She didn’t see the woman’s head snap up to look at her, too consumed in her agony to even open her eyes. But she flinched violently when she felt a hand on her arm- she didn’t know who was touching her, she didn’t recognise the woman, she didn’t recognise this place-

The hand was retracted immediately, though Katherine’s fear persisted. Her breathing was quickening, and she felt an awful lot as though she were being choked. That scared her even more- was there someone else in the room? Who was touching her? The panic-fuelled adrenaline coursing through her had begun to numb most of the pain she had felt upon moving the first time, and she found the strength to open her eyes. No one was touching her, she discovered, though the closeness of the woman made her inch back on the bed. The brunette watched her tremble with a growing worry, and slid onto her knees on the floor when she realised Katherine’s retreat.

“Hey,” she said softly, although even that made Katherine flinch. “I’m Lucy. You’re safe.”

She wasn’t surprised to see very little change in Katherine at the sentence, knowing even herself that it was stupid. But as no one had taught her how to deal with a 500-year-dead Tudor queen, she decided to cut herself a little slack. She maintained the friendly smile on her face, wondering what the hell she and Toby had done now.

---------------------------------

Catherine Parr woke with a groan.

Cramps squeezed her lower abdomen and she twisted in the bed slightly. She was so cold. Why was she cold? Wouldn’t the cold be bad for Mary?

The sound of someone moving in the room made her eyes open minutely. It was a man- probably her physician. She tried to look closer, but the light gave her a headache, and she didn’t really understand what he was doing, anyway. He appeared to be putting something in- a wall? Surely that wasn’t right. But she wanted Mary more than she cared for what he was doing, honestly. She cleared her throat softly in preparation to speak, and the man’s head whipped towards her.

“Where’s Mary?” Her throat hurt, and the complete dryness of her mouth told her she needed water, but Mary was more important. She had only seen her daughter a couple times, and she was feeling much better now. The man continued to look at her and a look of pity she did not like at all replaced the original disbelief that had been there. He set down whatever he had been doing and sat on the chair that was a couple feet away from her bed. Odd. This wasn’t her room. Had they moved her to a nursery?

The man avoided her question, asking one of his own. “How do you feel? Would you like me to get you anything?” Catherine frowned at that.

“Only something to drink. But where’s Mary?”

The look on his face deepened, but he only twisted round in his seat to reach for something. He passed her a very strange container. It looked like glass, but contorted and made a rather obnoxious sound when she squeezed it. It held water, but she wasn’t thrilled to drink out of it. She looked up at the man questioningly.

“It’s, um- it’s a water bottle,” he outstretched his hand and took the bottle from her hand slowly. He untwisted its cap and gave it back, watching Catherine take a cautious sip. Knowing she wouldn’t get an answer to her original question, she thought of another while she drank.

“Where am I?” She asked instead. This question made the man pause, but not in the way her inquiries of her daughter did.

“You’re in the 21st century, Catherine.”

She stared at him. He blinked back.

She was about to argue with him, to be angry, before she realised the rest of her surroundings. Nothing looked like it should. Not the walls, not the windows, not the floor, the bed, the chairs, the books, the door- not even the clothes he was wearing looked normal. And all the physicians had said death was unavoidable, that she had grown too sick. It made too much sense, but it made absolutely none at all at the same time.

“What?” The question felt childish, but she didn’t really care. His look of pity somehow intensified and she had to take a deep breath to keep from getting angry at it. She didn’t want pity, she wanted answers. “Who are you?” She asked next. He seemed relieved at this question.

“I’m Toby Marlow.”

#six the musical fanfic #anne boleyn #catherine of aragon #catherine parr #katherine howard #jane seymour #anna of cleves #fanfic #for five more minutes #six the musical

64 notes · View notes

winetae · 6 years

Text

⇾ taste the party (m)

⇁ Jimin x female!reader ft. Jeon

⇁ smut, idol!au, canonverse

⇁ established relationship, jealousy but nothing major, brief talks of body image, orgasm denial as punishment, public play, light humiliation, lowkey hyung kink, nipple play, derogatory language during sex, cum? everywhere?, threesome involving a dom jimin and whiny sub jk :(

⇁ 12.7k

:: post-bbma. your boyfriend catches you watching that part of their performance. on loop. you should be feeling apologetic but - well. it’s not your fault jungkook has a nice chest. you’re just showing your appreciation as one should ^^

↳ or; jimin doesn’t let your blatant ogling slide, determined to teach you a lesson. and jungkook? he’s just caught in the crossfire. not that he’s complaining.

A look of deep concentration furrows your brows as the video absorbs all of your attention. You’re so preoccupied by the sight in front of you that you barely hear the sound of a throat being cleared.

Startled, your phone slips from your hold, only to land on your face with a thud. A groan slips from your lips, your mouth twitching in discomfort as you feel your face throb.

You prod at the sensitive skin near your eye and try to assess the damage, hoping that no bruise will form. The twinge distracts you from noticing the figure standing near the doorway. Slightly disoriented, it takes a moment for you to find your bearings, but the weight of his stare finally reminds you of his presence.

Jimin’s handsome face greets you when you sit up from your lounging position on the couch, his mask pulled down to reveal features free of his usual layer of makeup. He leans against the frame of the door, head tilted to the side as he observes you in silence.

You rub the back of your neck, sheepish. How long has he been standing there? He could have said something sooner instead of staring at you like the second coming of Edward Cullen. Moments like these make it hard to understand him. What exactly is so interesting about watching y— shit.

The three second loop of their recent Billboard Music Award’s performance is still blasting from the device clutched in your hand. Although you scramble to shut it off, you know you’ve given him plenty enough time to recognize the song playing. Not only that, but you’re certain that he can easily identify the exact part you’ve been watching religiously for the past five minutes.

“Back so soon?”

The attempt at small talk is weak at best and you’re foolish if you think it’ll work.

Jimin’s not one to be easily distracted; he squints his eyes, his gaze flitting from your guilty expression to the phone still enclosed in your fist.

“Really?” asks Jimin, unimpressed.

Your cheeks burn. Still - you fight through the embarrassment. “I was just surfing the web, okay? I like to keep up with the current state of affairs.”

He blinks, feigning surprise. “Oh? You must be very interested in the news... When I found you, your nose was pressed up against the screen of your phone.”

“I’m half-blind. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” You bite the inside of your cheek, refusing to flinch in embarrassment - you still have some pride left, after all.

“____.” The way he utters your name makes you wary. You can’t tell if he’s truly bothered by the turn of events or if he’s fucking with you. “I had time to put the cat food away, go to the bathroom and wash my hands... Are Jungkook’s abs that riveting?”

“No,” you deny at once.

He folds his arms across his chest and narrows his eyes, taking a moment to consider you. When his silence drags on for longer than you’re comfortable with, you begin to squirm like a fish caught in a fisherman’s net. Words spill out of your mouth before you can prevent them for flooding out.

“Okay... Well, I mean, they’re not bad, right? There are worse things to look at,” you allow, begrudgingly, a wince marring your face. It feels like the admittance has taken off five years from your lifespan.

You’ve always teased Jungkook for being such a baby. The gap between his off-stage personality and the charismatic performance has always surprised you... But this? Their most recent stage has thrown you for a loop and you’re still refusing to accept reality, knee-deep in denial.

“But it’s not like I willingly looked for it! It just happened to- they’re everywhere, you know? On Twitter, Tumblr... Even YouTube started recommending me his videos to watch! It was just-” You gesture into the air to further illustrate your point. “There. And I, uh, wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I was looking because... Because I wanted to educate myself. But it didn’t live up the hype at all. No matter how many times I looked, I couldn’t understand what was so great about them...”

Jimin’s expression remains unchanging. He lets you babble, his brown eyes betraying nothing. Your voice eventually dies down to a mumble, unsure if your speech is making matters worse. It’s hard to know with him; most people you know have expressive eyes that reveal their thoughts, but Jimin’s poker face is truly unrivaled. Unless you’ve royally fucked up, you never know how close he is to snapping and taking you over his knee.

And that’s what makes it fun; you like pushing him, if only to elicit a reaction from him. You both enjoy the push and pull. Most of the time you willingly walk into your punishments, or goad him with remarks just to rile him up (“You really think I can feel anything when your hands are that small?”). The payoff is always worth it.

But the thing is —

This time, you hadn’t willingly gone out of your way to provoke him. It had been...an accident, of sorts. You hadn’t meant to stumble across the video in question or watch it for as long as you had. It had just happened.

You want to plead your innocence but judging by Jimin’s expression, any explanation will most likely fall on deaf ears.

How are you supposed to make him understand that the real culprit is Jeon Jungkook and his fucking abs?

A surge of outrage and indignation rises from deep within you. Fucking Jeon Jungkook. How dare he? How is that even allowed? Don’t broadcasting regulations exist to prevent such acts of indecency? And just who the hell does he think he is, pulling his shirt up to the fucking nipple?

Your brows crease as the sinful images flash through your mind once more. When the hell did his stomach get so defined? His penchant for exercise should have clued you in, but you still hadn’t expected them to look like...that. It feels like your entire life has been a lie.

To think that he’s been hiding them all this time... Just what the hell is he?!

You feel another mental breakdown coming, fueled by pictures of his chest you can’t seem to erase no matter how hard you try. They’re ingrained, tattooed to the back of your eyelids. Every damn time you blink, you see the stupid shirt life, the expression painting his fac—

“Are you seriously thinking of him right now?” Jimin cuts in, his accusing tone yanking you out of your reverie.

“No!”

But your denial comes out too forcefully, too quickly. It’s a miracle that you manage not to stammer in your haste to respond.

Jimin quirks up an eyebrow, “...Is that so?”

You can’t tell if he’s playing with you right now, but you quickly nod in affirmation, determined not to waver under his probing stare. Maintaining eye contact is a feat you barely manage, the intensity behind his gaze enough to bring a lesser woman to her knees. It feels like his stare is stripping you down, layer by layer.

Deep down, you know that he can see through your pretenses, just like he always has. He’s always had the ability to make you feel naked, your innermost thoughts on display for him to read like an open book.

That’s why it takes you by surprise when he finally breaks eye contact, unfolding his arms with a noncommittal hum. He spins around on his heels without bothering to take a second look at you.

Instead of the wild couch sex you half anticipated, he announces, “Are you hungry? I stopped by earlier to get the soy sauce we’re running low on. We should start cooking now if we want to eat before it gets too late.”

You blink, confusion keeping you rooted to the spot. A voice in the back of your head whispers that this feels too good to be true... It’s not in his nature to be this forgiving. After all, he’s never let you off the hook this easily before.

Worried that you’ve actually offended or angered him, you follow him to the kitchen, an apology balanced on the tip of your tongue. Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you stand there awkwardly as he takes out various pots and pans from the wooden cabinet and sets them on the counter.

Contrary to your expectations, Jimin seems unruffled. Deceptively composed.

If Jimin notices your uneasy demeanor, he doesn’t comment on it. “Help me chop these up, will you?”

He hands you the green onions and a red bell pepper. Dutifully, you take the ingredients and wash them off under cold running water before placing them down on the cutting board.

When the silence becomes too stifling, you speak up, “When do you have to leave tomorrow?”

“Four-thirty. Gotta be up early for hair and makeup.” He turns on the stove. Even from where you’re standing, you can see the fatigue radiating off his body. “Sorry... I wish we didn’t have to see each other like this.”

His eyes flit to the clock hanging on the wall. You don’t need to follow his gaze to know that it’s late; several hours have passed since the sun has set, the city now shrouded in darkness.

“Don’t apologize. It’s a busy time of the year.” You have nothing to complain about. Sure - it would be a welcome surprise if he could spend more time by your side, but you’re content with the way it is now. Maybe that’s why you’ve lasted for so long when so many celebrity relationships deteriorate over time. Only a mutual understanding and a certain amount of trust keeps the relationship working despite all of the hurdles.

“I wanted to say it.” He says softly as he drizzles olive oil onto the sizzling pan. “I feel like we haven’t spent much time together lately.”

“It’s okay!” You hurry to reassure him, “Actually, it’s strange... Should I be feeling distant because we don’t see each other as often? Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching your interviews and performances. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything so it doesn’t feel that way at all.”

“I didn’t know you watched our stuff. I’ll have to work harder now that I know you’re watching,” he jokes, sounding half-pleased, half-embarrassed.

The sweet smell of bell peppers permeates the kitchen. Jimin stirs the vegetables together on high heat until they cook through. All the while, he starts to hum along to the tune of Fake Love. The instant he croons the chorus, your shoulders tense up as you become wary once again.

Because he’s been singing it all week, you can’t tell if he’s taunting you right now, reminding you of your earlier fuck up, or just humming it from force of habit. Upon closer observation, the spring in his step, the gleam of mirth reflected in his irises...they all tell you that he’s taking great joy in making you squirm.

It’s safe to say that you spend the rest of the night on edge. A smirk stays permanently etched on your boyfriend’s face. Various scenarios flash through your mind, each one filling you up with an equal mix of dread and anticipation.

Yet Jimin does the opposite of what you expect—he doesn’t pounce on you the moment dinner is over, doesn’t even acknowledge the sheer babydoll you slip on before heading to bed.

What he does is press his lips against the crown of your head, his soft voice wishing you a good night’s sleep. The chaste kiss stuns you into silence. Jimin proceeds to turn off the lights, darkness eclipsing the rising suspicion etched on your face.

This is...very...strange.

You’re on high-alert, muscles refusing to relax. You toss and turn for a while, unable to find sleep. It must be a trap, you think to yourself as you stare blankly at the ceiling, the sound of Jimin’s steady breathing eventually putting you to sleep.

When days pass without further mention of the incident, you start to forget about it altogether. Maybe it’s better off that way. You don’t like thinking about it, either.

Slowly but surely, you find yourself relaxing, his attitude lulling you into a false sense of security.

You should have known better.

In retrospect, you’d been foolish to believe your boyfriend would let this matter go without a fuss; it wasn’t in his nature to be anything but petty. If you had remembered this crucial fact, then maybe he wouldn’t have successfully fooled you into letting your guard down.

You start to realize your mistake when five days go by without a good dicking down. Five. Which is not a rare occurrence when they’re promoting, but - something about it feels off.

At the end of each night, his lips work insistently against yours, his hands mapping out the expanse of your body, squeezing and stroking your erogenous zones, before pulling off abruptly, leaving you a panting mess.

It tastes like betrayal—after all, there is nothing crueler than cutting you off right before the main course. His excuses never vary, claiming sudden fatigue, and you’d have no trouble believing him under normal circumstances, but the glint in his eyes you spot every damn time tells you of a different story.

It’s now been a little over two weeks and you think you’re going to die a horny bitch. You’d tried rubbing one out on your own, but each attempt had only heightened your arousal, providing no real relief. It was like scratching a mosquito bite, only aggravating the problem instead of making it disappear. Why would you settle when you know you could get a grade A orgasm from your boyfriend instead?

Too bad you’re above begging. Your pride is the only thing keeping you from getting on your knees and asking him to fuck your face into next Friday. As the days slowly blur into two weeks, your resolve starts to crumble. Behind the facade you try to put up, you feel your edges start to fray.

How he expects you to hold on for much longer is beyond you. You refuse to believe he’s as unaffected as he pretends to be. Was going to bed with blue balls every night really worth teaching you a lesson?! Apparently, yes.

But the longer your dry spell perdures, the more drastic your thoughts become. You have half a mind to handcuff him to the bedposts and just ride his face until you’re satisfied, but luckily (or unluckily) Jimin switches strategies. Which is fine with you—anything is better than this. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You don’t expect Jimin to prove you wrong.

"Good job, Kookie," their instructor praises as the last notes of the song fade into silence. "Everyone did well. Keep it up, you’ve worked hard."

Jungkook dips his head down, the corner of his lips curving into a shy smile. Next to him, Yoongi collapses into a heap on the floor, done for the day. His chest rises and falls quickly, still struggling to catch his breath. Not that the other members are faring much better.

Even at full blast, the air conditioning isn't enough to cool them down. Jimin feels sticky all over, his damp clothes clinging to his form like second skin.

Jimin blots his face with a towel, his trembling fingers uncapping his water bottle. The slide of the cold liquid down his throat is as welcome as a desert oasis. He greedily gulps it down, the insides of his mouth rough like sandpaper.

He feels like he’s going to burst into flames, his body temperature refusing to cool down even as he presses an ice pack against his forehead. Sweat trickles down his nape, adding on to the layer of perspiration that covers his back. He’s bone-tired, all of his energy drained. His legs shake from the grueling practice, threatening to give out without warning. The only thing keeping him from face-planting onto the floor is the thought of a nice, steaming shower, and the comfort of a delicious dinner waiting for him at home.

Pushing his matted fringe out his face, he casts a glance over to their youngest member who is equally drenched in sweat, face flushed pink from exertion.

Annoyance prickles his skin at the sight, the feeling having become, against his will, all too familiar. He’s tried to fight it, to push it aside and ignore it completely. But just because he pretends it’s not there doesn’t mean it isn’t.

It only makes him feel worse - knowing that he shouldn’t be feeling this way, but feeling it anyway.

He heaves a deep sigh, knowing full well that Jungkook’s not the one to blame. It's his own fault for not working harder. How can he be praised if he’s not deserving of it?

Jimin knows his thoughts are irrational. Because really - he's genuinely proud of Jungkook. He's witnessed first hand how much work and soul the youngest has poured into this comeback, knows how much sweat and effort he put into perfecting every move until it became ingrained to his very core.

He stares down at his calloused palms, lost in thought.

“See you tomorrow, hyung.” Jungkook smiles his way, a slight sheen covering his face. “Say hi to noona for me.”

Jimin blinks, the mention of you snapping him to attention. His eyes narrow imperceptibly, suddenly remembering the other problem he’s yet to resolve. He huffs, the feelings of frustration culminating inside of him. “Right, I’ll see you tomorrow. Get home safely.”

There’s a slight edge that colors his tone, not usually present. Jungkook must be too exhausted to take notice of it though, attention already wavering to the phone in his hand.

Maybe it’s the stress of the comeback weighing down on him. Jimin’s not normally this worked up, this aggravated. Even the little things have started to annoy him - the shrill sound of his alarm, the slow tick of the clock as he waits for his ramen to heat up, Jin hyung’s incessant nagging. Things that he’s usually indifferent to, things that he sometimes finds amusing... He doesn’t know when they all started rubbing him the wrong way.

He wonders why he’s let it drag on this long, knows it’s not healthy. Keeping it to himself has only made it worse. All of his insecurities have continued to stack themselves up on each other, one by one, and now everything that he’s stockpiled inside of him threatens to topple over.

Jimin should talk about it to someone, let it all out once and for all. Communication is key for a healthy relationship, he’s been told. He’s aware he’ll have to bring it up eventually... But he’s been delaying the inevitable, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

Because it scares him. Putting his feelings, his fears, and his desires out there for someone to see, to judge. That’s not to say that he doesn’t trust you; of course he does. But it’s scary. It’s hard to confess his weaknesses to someone when he’s tried so long to keep up a flawless public facade.

He knows it’s not healthy to keep his emotions bottled in. He knows if he lets them, he’ll end up erupting like a volcano after years of being dormant.

These thoughts keep him alert on his way home, even though his body wants nothing more than to crash into a deep slumber. He stays uncharacteristically quiet, silently working up his courage to talk about what’s on his mind.

However, it’s hard to find the right timing. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Jimin occupies his mouth with spoonfuls of soup, knowing that once his dinner is over he’ll have no more excuses to hide behind. You fill him in about your day, informing him of all the horrid things your coworkers had said.

“... And it’s just so fucking sickening. They refuse to admit what they did was wrong. It’s mind-boggling, I really can’t believe I’m living in the 21st century when shit like this keeps happening.” You take a big gulp of water to calm yourself down. Jimin looks over at you in concern, knowing that your fury is genuine. “Of course they’ll agree that what happened to Minju was disgusting, but how are they any better? Why would they search the video up in the first place?”

“Yeah, there’s no way they didn’t know what they were doing. Did they catch whoever uploaded the video?”

You nod, mouth downturned into a frown. “But I don’t know how it’ll go... This is the third incident that happened in our company since September... The first one got pronounced innocent because of lack of evidence...” You trail off, outrage bubbling inside of you. “I wish the government would put in place stricter sanctions, at least to scare them off. I feel so frustrated I can’t breathe. Of course I feel angry, of course I do, but - I can only defend her so much without getting called in by the higher-ups. And I feel like... I keep blaming our individualistic and patriarchal society instead of actively trying to change it. Even if I get fired from my job, it doesn’t get rid of the problem.”

He grows quiet, your words resonating with him. Although the two cases weren’t the same in essence, Jimin could relate all too well to your feelings of frustration and helplessness.

“Sorry,” you quiet down. “I know this is a lot.”

“No, it’s okay. I want you to tell me about whatever’s troubling you,” he soothes, even as his mind screams back that he’s acting like a hypocrite.

“I feel a bit better, talking to you.” You offer a small smile. “I still haven’t figured out what to do at work but talking about it has helped a bit. It’s not a mess in my head anymore.”

“I’m glad.” And he is.

Looking back, he knows that it’s that conversation that ends up motivating him into confessing. It doesn’t happen right away; he works up to it, little by little.

It registers, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this is the 13th night since The Incident. He rolls over on his side, his cheek pressed up against the silky blue pillowcase.

Instantly, he can tell that you’re sulking right now. It’s become somewhat of a routine - he’ll get your body worked up and then cut it off before he gives in to temptation, and then you’ll sulk for a bit, still painfully aroused.

Jimin has always been aware where his strengths lie. And, not to sound full of himself, but he really does look cute and innocent like this, his squished cheek forcing a pout to sit on his lips - a 10/10 puppy dog face. It doesn’t have the same effect on you as it did when you first started dating, since you now know from first hand experience not to trust his misleading angelic looks... But he still hopes that this will soften you up some.

He repeats your name a few times, pulling your attention away from the book perched in your lap. When you raise an eyebrow in question, he freezes, unsure of how to get his thoughts out coherently. How did it come so easily to some people? He attempts a casual approach, “What’s so special about Jungkook’s abs, anyway?”

“I knew it!” You round on him, book forgotten already.

“Just answer the question,” he juts out his bottom lip, accentuating the pout he sports.

You finally decide to humor him, your index finger tracing the spine of your bedside reading as you mull over the question. “Maybe it’s the surprise factor? Jungkook’s such a sweet, shy boy... I don’t think anyone expected him to rip off a few buttons on live television.”

“It’s a shirt lift,” corrects Jimin, his lips twitching before he can stop them. “That barely lasts a second.”

“I think that’s why people feel the need to rewatch it several times to make sure they aren’t seeing things.”

He sighs, rubbing a tired eye with he back of his hand. Honestly speaking, he doesn’t care that you watched Jungkook’s fancam. He gets it. Jungkook’s hot. What doesn’t sit well with him is the lack of attention he’s been getting in comparison. Even the comments left under their videos are mostly about Jungkook’s abs, and he can’t help but feel annoyed. He has abs, too. Do people only start to care when they flash a bit of skin?

“Hey. What’s wrong?” You must’ve noticed the tick in his jaw.

He supposes it’s now or never. If he doesn’t get this off his chest now, then he never will.

“I’ve just... Been frustrated recently.”

There’s a short silence as he gathers his thoughts.

“Did I do something?” you ask, hesitant.

“No, not really.” Jimin shakes his head, reaching out for your hand. The warmth from your palm grounds him, helps him think. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs up with courage.

“I’m just... Are abs all there are to a person? Why do I feel like people only care about me when I’m stripping off my clothes?”

“Hey.” Your voice is unexpectedly firm, catching his attention. “You’re worth more than that. I’m sorry if I contributed in making you feel that way...”

“It’s not you,” he reiterates. “I’m... I feel like I don’t stand out enough this time and it’s... hard.” Lacking the right words, he finishes lamely, not knowing how to put his insecurities into words.

The reason he’d been avoiding bringing up the subject of you watching Jungkook’s fancam was because he’d hope to avoid this feeling - of being bare in front of you, without an armor to take refuge in.

Somehow you seem to understand. Your hand squeezes his, encasing his in a comforting warmth. He swallows thickly, not knowing why he hadn’t tried confiding in you earlier.

He remembers your words, how you’d said that talking about your frustrations had made it easier to clear things up in your head. Talking about it won’t miraculously erase his problems, but he can already feel a slight weight lifted from his shoulders.

“I feel bad... I’ve been so terse with Jungkook lately... I don’t know how to make it up to him for acting like such... a...” He trails off, eyes finding your inquisitive ones as a plan starts to formulate in his mind.

Hindsight truly is 20/20, you think with regret as you feel his gaze boring into you from behind.

“Noona,” Jungkook greets, the corner of his lips stretching to reveal his toothy grin.

“Hi.” Normally, you’d be more enthusiastic, easily engaging in conversation with him, but the stupid video playing incessantly through your mind at the moment reduces you to silence.

Unwittingly, your gaze drops to his stomach. It’s...instinctive. And you feel like the world’s biggest perv. You’re embarrassed for picturing the set of abs you know he has packed under the thin white shirt, so you duck your head and scroll through your phone aimlessly in an attempt to appear busy - anything to get your mind off them and the pain they had caused you.

The exchange and your subsequent reaction doesn’t go unnoticed.

Next to you, Jimin clears his throat and nudges you with his elbow, “I need to talk to you real quick.”

He stands up from his position on the couch and you move to follow him, doing your best to avoid Jungkook’s inquisitive stare.

“We’ll be back soon, alright? Don’t let the other hyungs worry.”

From the corner of your eyes, you catch Jungkook nodding in response, curiosity painted on his face.

Your boyfriend sets his hand on the small of your back, the movement drawing the younger’s scrutiny onto you. You stiffen, hyper-aware of his gaze roaming your profile. Almost imperceptibly, Jimin’s hand curls around your waist, drawing you closer to his side. It shifts your attention back to him.

His face is an impassive mask, the darkness in his eyes the only warning for what's in store. All of your instincts tell you that Jimin’s about to put an end to this ridiculous self-imposed sex ban. It kindles a sense of excitement in your lower belly. The newfound energy makes you eager to find out what he’s planning.

It’s a short wait. He leads you straight into a conveniently unoccupied room. It’s filled with rows of stage costumes all hung up neatly on racks, the clothes carefully organized by performance and member. Not the most fancy or romantic of settings for sex but you’ll take what you can get at this point.

With a click, the door shuts behind him.

Immediately your eyes zero in on the plumpness of his mouth, his lips colored pink. You know the hair and makeup unnies will scold you later for ruining his makeup, but you lean in to press an urgent kiss against them anyway.

Satisfaction wraps itself around your spine when Jimin doesn’t try to dodge your attempts at deepening the kiss. His hand comes up to caress your jaw, his thin fingers tracing the lines of your face. You’ve missed this - the heat curling in your stomach, the slide of his tongue against yours. When he finally pulls back, his blown pupils reveal that he’s equally affected as you.

Jimin’s thumb lingers on the curvature of your lips, before trailing down the column of your throat. Even a simple touch like this makes you ache. It’s really been too long since you’ve shared an intimate moment with him; anything he does is sufficient to get you hot and bothered.

Dark eyes stare down at you, silent in their assessment.

“I’ve decided on your punishment.” His voice sounds louder in the quiet of the room despite speaking softly.

You gape at him as your mind whirs to process his words. “I thought...? Wasn’t... What do you call the last two weeks you put me through then?

“Oh no,” he shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “The real fun starts now.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you growl out, “Fun? What part of this was fun? You basically locked me up in a nunnery and left me to fend for myself.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll like this part better. Off,” he motions for you to remove your shirt.

Maybe the lack of orgasms had messed with your head, because you find yourself disposing of the garment in five seconds flat. The comfortable cotton bra is removed soon after, no prompting needed. Had you any shame left, you might have dialed back the eagerness a little but you’re in no state of mind to feel ashamed. Hell, even a week ago you would have made Jimin suck his own dick for putting you through this shit.

But sacrifices have to be made for the greater good, you reason. Shame? The word no longer belongs in your vocabulary.

“Good girl,” he allows a smile to tug at his lips, his eyes drinking in the sight of you topless.

The surface of your skin breaks out in goosebumps when he drags the pads of his fingertips back and forth across your collarbones. He repeats the movement a few times, enjoying the constant fidgeting that his touch provokes. Whether it’s because of the air conditioning that filters through the room or because of the arousal that begins to simmer in the pit of your belly, your nipples stiffen to peaks, aching for attention.

Impatient, you grab Jimin’s wandering hand and place it over your chest, right where you need it. His smirk only deepens at your show of desperation, but you’re too focused on your task to care.

“Slow down,” he chuckles, eyes crinkling in amusement. It’s infuriating - how he does nothing else but cup your left breast in his palm.

“Jimin,” you hiss between your teeth. “Foreplay was over a week ago. I swear to God, if you don’t get on with- ow!”

Your speech is rudely interrupted when Jimin pinches your nipple between his index and thumb. Hard. The sting of pleasure travels down your spine, wiping you clean of thought. It soon proves to be difficult to stay composed; you have to bite your lip to keep your expression in check. Jimin doesn’t need to know how much he affects you. His smug demeanor is already insufferable as it is.

“And whose fault is that, hm? Why do you think I cut you off?” He prods, gaze locked onto yours. All the while, his thumb circles over your sensitive nipple, coaxing your pleasure to the surface. Your breasts are naturally sensitive, more so than others, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Right now, you’re leaning towards the latter, hating how easy it is for Jimin to manipulate your body to his whims. A few flicks of his fingers and you turn into a pile of mush, tongue heavy and hard to move.

“Because it’s hard to keep up with my sex drive?”

He twists the bud, drawing a yelp from your bratty mouth. “Wrong answer.”

The tension hanging in the air becomes heavy as the seconds of silence stretch on. Knowing that this a battle of the mind, you refuse to give in now. You just need to hold on a little longer...

When it becomes apparent that you won’t cooperate, refusing to play by his rules, he narrows his eyes in warning. You stare back, unwavering, the seam of your mouth tightly sewn together.

But just because you’re determined, doesn’t mean the wait isn’t torturous. It’s agonizing - knowing that you could be putting his mouth to good use instead of sitting still. You can feel the heat emanating from his body, so close yet too far away to provide any relief. It takes a monumental effort not to reach out and pull him against you. The darkness of his irises seem to translate similar thoughts; they rake over your frame, lingering on your lips, collarbones and chest. It’s almost like you can feel the phantom touch of his hands as they smooth over every dip and curve of your body.

When your eyes meet, it’s like you’ve both reached a silent agreement.

The next moment is a blur, one that’s hard to make sense of - one second you’re both staring each other down, the next your mouths are interlaced in a heated embrace.

In one smooth movement, he wraps his arms around your middle and hoists you up onto the vanity table. Back now pressed up against the mirror, you let your legs fall open so that Jimin can settle between them. It’s messy - your teeth bump into each other - but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the slight discomfort, not when Jimin’s finally giving you what you’ve been yearning for.

After two weeks of unsatisfying endings, this almost feels too good to be true. It seems like every man has his own limits, after all. Jimin’s no monk by any means... You’re surprised that he’s made it this far without his resolve cracking. Considering what a horndog he usually is, what he managed to accomplish is impressive in itself. You’d give him a congratulatory blowjob if he let you near his dick.

Unfortunately, judging by the pace he’s taking this, you don’t think that will be any time soon.

For someone who is under time constraints, Jimin sure is taking his sweet time, you groan internally.

There’s nothing hurried about his movements. He works his way down your body, peppering a trail of hot-mouthed kisses across the expanse of your neck and collarbones. He’s nothing but meticulous, ignoring your soft pleas to hurry the fuck up. Mark after mark, his tongue soothes away the sting of pain his teeth leave behind. Your features twist into a wince when he gives a particularly painful nip near your collar and you’re certain that the indentation of his bite will remain long after this is over, proof of your tryst.

Your veins feel like they’re on fire. Liquid heat travels throughout your body, from the top of your scalp to the tips of your toes, melting you from the inside out until nothing matters but the mind-numbing pleasure coursing through your veins.

He pulls your hips forward so that they’re flush against his. One of his hands pushes your shoulder back until you’re propped up against the mirror, while the other settles by your hip to keep you in place. The position is awkward and puts a slight strain on your muscles - you have to crane your neck to in order to get a proper of view of what he’s doing.

Never once breaking eye contact, he dives in, his mouth latching onto the sensitive nub of your right breast. Your back arches, chasing the delicious heat that his mouth provides.

Jimin’s plush lips are a force to be reckoned with. He’s absolutely relentless, his brows drawn together in determination as he makes sure to give both of your breasts equal attention. There’s a hidden purpose behind each ministration - every graze of his teeth against your skin makes you cry out, each teasing flick of his tongue makes you squirm in place. A litany of moans escape your parted mouth; the cries of pleasure steadily crescendo as the scorching fire within you nears fever pitch.

Seemingly satisfied, he finally pulls back, a grin of triumph etched onto his features. He looks down to examine the result of his hard work, prompting you to do the same.

Your breasts feel heavy and swollen, like they do before your time of the month rolls around. Even the lightest brush of his index finger against their tip causes your body to jerk back as if struck by an electric current. Jimin takes note of your reactions, cataloging every shift of expression.

“Sweetheart,” he hums out after digging his thumbnail into your areola. You shudder. “This feel good?”

You nod, not fully registering the question, too distracted by the deluge of sensations wracking your frame with every pluck and pull of his fingers.

“Knowing how much you like being played with, I bet you’ve already soaked through your panties, hm?” The lilt in his voice is teasing as he squeezes your skin, the drag of his fingernails enough to make shivers run down your spine. “Takes so little to get you going on, it’s cute.”

“Maybe. Wanna find out?” You shift your hips up against his, silently relishing the friction his denim jeans provide. If you cant your hips a certain way, you can feel the zipper dig into the crotch of your underwear, right by your clit. He lets you have your way, his dark eyes flaring in intensity as you fill up the silence of the room with breathy moans, your needy center rocking against his like a horny teenager ready to bust a nut.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’ve become too spoiled for you own good.” Jimin draws back before you have time to hook your ankles around his waist to keep him in place. The loss of contact is immediately felt, your body unbearably cold, the space between your thighs throbbing. You have to physically bite down a whine of protest, already close to losing your mind.

Snapping your legs closed, you try to douse the fire that’s burning up your insides. Your subtle attempt at gaining some much needed friction doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You’d do anything for cock right now.” He states, amusement dancing across his face at your obvious desperation. You fight back a sneer, pointedly eyeing the bulge tenting his jeans. As if he’s faring much better... If he expects you to acquiesce his ridiculous claims, he’s got another thing coming...

When you stay silent, lips stubbornly pursed into a pout, he cocks his head to the side. “No? That’s okay, it’s probably a good idea to head on back now. We’ve been gone for a while...” Ignoring the look of betrayal that crosses your face, he continues, “I did say we’d be quick, didn’t I? Poor Jungkookie might be worried about us. You know how he is...”

No, I don’t know, you want to growl back. But the 180 shift in his demeanor has rendered you completely speechless. Even as he bends down to retrieve your discarded clothes from the ground, you stay silent, mouth refusing to work properly.

“Here you go,” he hands you back your shirt. Your eyes narrow in suspicion, refusing to trust the good Samaritan act. You’d been fooled too many times now to fall for his tricks.

Sure enough, his sweet smile turns devious. He holds up your undergarment, conveniently keeping it out of arm’s reach. “I’ll be keeping this, though.”

“What do you mean ‘keeping it’?! I can’t go out like this when my nips are hard enough to poke someone’s eye out!”

You cross your arms over chest. There’s no way that you wont attract the stares of passersby in this current state. Might as well wear a shirt with big, flashy arrows pointing to your tits - the effect would be the same.

“You can have my jacket.” He shrugs the denim piece off his shoulders, revealing a simple red blouse worth more than the average man’s weekly salary.

Lost in contemplation, you try to weigh the pros and cons of the offer as you examine the over-sized denim jacket. Once buttoned, it’s large enough to cover everything from your waist to your neck. There’s no way anyone will suspect your lack of bra if you’re careful.

The more you ponder, the more the idea of forgoing a bra appeals to you. Why would you wear a bra when you could go without? You’re not the biggest fan of the constricting material, and slipping it back over your sensitive breasts might even be painful.

Deep down, you know you’re trying to justify your recklessness by any means possible. It’s so easy for rumors to start up and get out of control - you’re both well aware of that fact. And yet - you keep raising the stakes; stealing kisses when you think no one is looking, borrowing his clothes to wear in public, even going as far as to give him the suck in some random bathroom before an interview.

You finally reach a decision, your hand reaching out to take the offered cover-up in lieu of a verbal response.

Before passing you the jacket, Jimin pauses, a serious glint in his eyes.

“We don’t have to do this.” He makes sure to maintain eye contact, trying to convey his honesty. All usual traces of playfulness are gone as he searches your gaze for the slightest sign of discomfort or uncertainty. “You shouldn’t do this if you’re not sure about it. I won’t be disappointed or anything.”

“I know we don’t.” Your eyes soften along with your heart. It’s just like him to verify how you feel about the situation.

In all the time you’ve dated him, Jimin has never pressured you to do anything you weren’t entirely on-board with. Granted, you’ve rarely backed down from a challenge, but that’s more so because you have a devil-may-care attitude that everyone, your parents included, assumed you’d grow out of when you became an adult.

The truth is most of the time you’re the one dragging Jimin along for the ride. If management knew the shenanigans you and Jimin had partaken in, they’d probably ban you from seeing him, let alone set foot in their agency.

You grab the jacket from his hold, confidence oozing from your tone, “I’m game! I want this.”

He steps back to let you put your clothes back on. As you squeeze your tight-fitting shirt over your head, you let out a hiss of discomfort, the fabric rubbing against your perky nipples, irritating the sensitive skin further. It’s hard to ignore how aroused you still are, but by some miracle you manage.

Jimin’s jacket slides over your frame, effectively hiding your lack of bra. You triple-check just to make sure, spinning around so that Jimin can examine you from all angles.

“It looks fine to me.” Excitement glimmers in his irises, the thought of you being this naughty getting him aroused beyond belief. “Fuck, this is hot.”

“Really? This is getting you off?” You can’t stop your snicker. “You like knowing I’m walking around without a bra under these clothes? Should I slip off my panties for you too?”

“Shit.” His pupils dilate at your words, growing impossibly dark.

“I really don’t think that it’s a good idea though...” You pucker your lips into a pout, feigning regret. “How will I stop myself from dripping down my legs without them on? My skirt’s so short... I don’t want anyone else knowing I’m this wet for you.”

Jimin mutters a curse under his breath and you struggle to stifle a snort. And he has the nerve to call you easy... If you had known he would be this malleable, you would have seduced your way into his pants a long time ago.

“Let’s just go.” He grumbles, adjusting his jeans so that his bulge doesn’t stand out as much.

There’s a rush of adrenaline that courses through you. Every time a staff member greets you, it makes your breath hitch. You wonder what they’d think, what they’d do, if they found out that you were parading around, your nipples stiff as rocks under your shirt. You can imagine the expressions of shock, maybe even of horror, cross their face.

It’s an irrational fear - you know no one knows what you’ve been up to. The walk back to the waiting room had been mostly uneventful, most people not sparing you a second glance.

Darting your eyes around the nearly empty room, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth nervously.

In the far right corner, Namjoon is sitting with his feet up, laptop balanced on his knees. He hasn’t looked up once since you’d returned, his attention fixated on the screen in front of him, the headphones over his ears blocking out any distractions. The other member occupying the room happens to be Jungkook. He seems harmless enough - not having spared the two of you more than a handful of glances, too busy playing the latest addicting mobile game.

You settle onto the couch and glue yourself to Jimin’s side, using him as a human shield, one that’s capable of erasing your presence from the room. He laughs softly, breath tickling your face, his arm coming around to wrap itself around you. The familiar scent of Jimin’s cologne envelops you while the warmth of his body cocoons you in a protective blanket. The adrenaline rush from earlier seems to have made you drowsy; your racing heartbeat gradually slows down as your eyelids become heavy with sleep.

Jimin threads his fingers through your hair, knowing that you like the soothing feeling of someone petting your head. Even though it makes you feel like an overgrown cat, nothing else can make your body this pliant, this relaxed.

You’re broken out of your reverie by the sound of metal chair legs scraping the floor. Namjoon rises to his feet and stretches his long limbs, joints cracking in the process. Distantly, he mumbles something about getting ramen, his voice strangely muffled and distorted by the sleepy haze that’s fallen over you. He sounds miles away already, his voice drifting right on over you.

“I’m a bit cold.” Jimin leans down to mumble the words into the shell of your ear. “I think I’d like my jacket back.”

Your breath hitches at the suggestion.

“Hm? What d’you think?”

“But-” Your eyes flit over to Jungkook’s hunched figure. He is absorbed in his game now but who’s to say he won’t look your way?

Despite all rational thought, you slowly unbutton the outer garment, feeling a sick sense of excitement stir up in your gut as the jacket falls open one button at a time. Jimin’s expectant stare weighs down on you - even without looking, you can tell he’s scrutinizing your every move. Knowing that he’s complicit in your scandalous behavior only excites you further. You become bolder - your fingers working faster, no longer hesitant.

As the denim slides off your shoulders to pool around your waist, you immediately become aware of two things.

One - the inside of your panties feel uncomfortable damp. There’s probably a dark spot staining the fabric by now, drenched in your arousal. You’re certain that if Jimin flips your skirt up now he’ll be able to see the mess you’ve made - how the cotton sticks to your folds, completely molded to your lower lips.

And two - your plain cotton shirt leaves little to the imagination. The fabric surrounding your nipples is slightly damp from Jimin’s earlier ministrations, making the pebbled tips all the more prominent. Anyone with a working eye can clearly see the pigmented skin under the cotton material.

Jimin reaches a curious hand out, his fingers carefully brushing up against the stark evidence of your arousal. Your breathing stutters when he starts to play with them. Air gets sucked straight out of your lungs as you struggle to keep your reactions to a minimum, not daring to draw attention to the lewd sight you two must make.

There’s something arousing about the situation - Jimin’s casualness, the complete and utter lack of fucks given. He’s playing with your tits out in the open, for anyone to walk in on. For a split second, you wonder how far he’ll take this.

“H-hyung?”

Your neck snaps up, taken off-guard. Somehow, stupidly, you had forgotten about Jungkook’s existence entirely. Jimin’s hands fall from your chest, but the damage is done.

Your nips are now perkier than ever, almost threatening to poke their way through the thin shirt. You’re hoping that Jungkook will pretend to not have seen anything, or - better yet - fail to notice how swollen your nipples have become because of Jimin’s agile hands. It’s a futile thought.

“Uhh...” Jungkook visibly flounders. You can see the struggle written all over his face, how he’s doing his best to politely avert his gaze from your chest. Under any other circumstance, you’d find his wide-eyed reaction comical. But in the moment, all you want to do is shrink in on yourself and erase your presence from the scene of the crime. “N-nevermind. I’ll just, uh, go find Yoongi hyung.”

He carefully retreats, bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth.

“Jungkook,” Jimin calls out, firmly. You can see the immediate effect of his voice, how it roots Jungkook to his spot as if invisible strings prevented him from fleeing. Jungkook goes rigid, the muscles in his neck tensing up as he gulps harshly, mouth suddenly dry.

“Y-yes?”

“____ here wanted to have a word with you.” Your eyes nearly bug out at the mention of your name. “She has a little something to confess.”

Jungkook fakes a cough, stalling. “Ah...is that right?” He still refuses to look in your direction, the tips of his ears tinged pink.

“Go on, sweetheart.” He turns to look at Jungkook, eyes crinkling into a smile. “She’s a big fan of yours. Why don’t you tell Kookie what your favorite video is of these days?”

You aim a glare at Jimin, wishing for nothing more than to obliterate the ugly smug look from his face. When will he let that video go? You’ve always known he was petty and one to hold onto grudges... But even this is becoming tiresome. You know that if you refuse to acknowledge it now, he’ll hold this over you until the day you wither away.

“Fine! I watched the video of Jungkook flashing his tits. Maybe more than once.” You roll your eyes, your shoulders raising into a shrug. Jimin’s silent snicker tells you that your attempt at a nonchalant behavior had failed to convince them. Your face burns in equal parts embarrassment and arousal.

Jungkook splutters, taken aback by your brazenness. Hues of pink and red bloom across the surface of his cheeks.

Jimin huffs a laugh, “She finds you attractive.”

“Ah, uh. Thanks?” He squeaks, not knowing if this is some kind of prank or not.

“What about you? Do you find her pretty?” Now that the question’s been asked, you can’t help but feel curious. What does he think about you? You’ve never asked yourself this question before but now your interest has been piqued.

Poor Jungkook looks like his ears are going to fall off. They’re burning red. “Um.”

“I’ve seen you look at her before, it’s okay. Just tell her how you feel.” His voice turns syrupy sweet, trying to coax a response from Jungkook.

This is news to you. Your brows raise in surprise, eyes darting from Jungkook to Jimin and back again. The former shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking like a cornered rabbit about to get caught.

“She’s pretty,” he finally peeps, daring a glance at you. Your breasts are like magnets, attracting his curious gaze. He diverts his stare almost right away, but his interest doesn’t go unnoticed.

Jimin also takes note of the exchange, a smirk settling onto his features as his mind whirs with endless possibilities.

“... You sure about this?”

“Weren’t you the one that suggested this in the first place?”

“I’m just making sure!”

“Yes, I’m sure.” You repeat with an eye roll.

“Let’s get you nice and ready.” Jimin throws his phone aside, focusing his attention onto you. He lands a smack on your upper thighs, so quick it barely has time to register. “He says he’ll be here in ten minutes so we have some time.”

The fleeting spark of pleasure pushes you into action, your body moving into a comfortable position on the mattress even as you grumble under your breath. “Can you not talk about me like a turkey you’re about to stuff before roasting in the oven.”

“Well... You might not be a turkey, but you are about to get stuffed with cock.” He breaks out into laughter at his own joke, either from amusement or embarrassment.

You politely choose to ignore his comment. Sometimes you like to pretend like your boyfriend’s sense of humor doesn’t suck ass. It’s hard - especially ever since Jin’s jokes have started rubbing off on him after hanging out with him more often.

“Okay, I’ll stop,” he finally relents.

“If you say something like that while you’re fucking me, I swear on my grandmother’s grave—”

“Hey, don’t swear on your—”

“—that I’ll revoke your pussy privileges for a month. Don’t think I’m joking! The last time you pulled that shit I thought my vagina shriveled—”

“I said I’ll stop!” Jimin whines, promptly cutting you off. “I won’t do it.”

“Good.” You peck his lips, mouth stretching into a smile. “I don’t want you setting bad examples for Jungkook.”

“Please, with that face, I doubt anyone would complain if he decided to break out into a yodel halfway through.”

“...”

“Yeah, okay, maybe not a yodel but you get my point.”

“You know some people aren’t just here for the visuals, right? Most of— well...” Your mind drifts off, suddenly remembering their overly-enthusiastic fandom. You’re sure you’d find people willing to give the yodel thing a go... “I have standards, okay? And if you’re trying to tell me that he secretly has a yodeling—”

“He doesn’t,” sighs Jimin, put out. “Why do you have to be serious about everything?” He then grows quiet, lost in thought.

You take that moment to slather some vanilla-scented lotion onto your freshly shaven legs.

“He’s not fucking you, you know,” comes Jimin’s voice from behind you.

“And I don’t want him to.” You quip back, spritzing on perfume. “We haven’t had sex in like...a month. Gotta make sure it’s special, right?”

He shoots you a disbelieving look so you saunter up to him, bathrobe falling open intentionally. You make sure he gets a nice eyeful of your most expensive lingerie set - a sheer number that’s more aesthetic than it is practical. You know it looks good on you, the color perfectly complementing the hue of your skin.

“Everything I do is for you, okay?” The words I love you go unsaid, but they’re there, hanging between the space separating you.

Jimin pulls you in by the waist to lean his forehead against yours. The private undercurrent is interrupted by the door buzzer. He pulls away, a little reluctant to cut the moment short.

He goes to let the guest in and you trail behind him, a giddy sensation taking over you. It’s the first time either of you are trying something like this... And the novelty excites you. You’d spoken and talked it over multiple times before agreeing, drawing a set of rules and limitations to follow throughout. There’s nothing you’re too worried about - you trust Jimin. He knows where to draw the line and you know he’ll speak up if things veer off course.

That’s why when you find yourself in the bedroom, a stranger on your bed, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Well, he’s not a stranger, not exactly, but the point remains the same. It doesn’t make you feel uneasy to be half-naked in front of him, your fluffy bathrobe discarded somewhere on the floor of the hallway.

“You’ll be good for hyung, won’t you Kookie?” Jimin hums, a smirk toying at his lips.

“I will.” Jungkook’s eyes are earnest, eyebrows pulled together. He looks so willing to prove his obedience that it’s adorable. The expression makes you want to reach over and pinch his cheeks, shower him in praise.

Jimin’s eyes turn dark, quietly assessing. “We’ll see.”

He crouches down and rummages through his suitcase, his neatly folded clothes getting strewn across the floor in the process. A look of triumph settles onto his features as he stands up, hand clenched by his side.

There, in his enclosed fist, is a red, striped tie.

“Hyung’s about to tie you up, alright?”

“Why?” It’s not a protest, just genuine curiosity.

“You’re going to keep your hands to yourself and maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you touch.”

“O-okay,” he nods, taking this as a challenge. Jimin crawls onto the bed, pushing Jungkook into his desired position. You watch their interaction, transfixed. It’s strange seeing your boyfriend tie Jungkook up with a knot you’re so acquainted with. You can recall all the times he’s used it on you, how the slide of hemp or satin digs deliciously into your skin, leaving marks as a reminder of the encounter.

Jungkook runs his tongue over his lips nervously.

“You’ll tell me if you want an out, won’t you?” prods Jimin, looking serious.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm... That’s good.” Jimin praises, giving his head a ruffle. Then, to you, “Be a good girl and show Kookie how much you liked his performance.”

Your eyes dart towards Jungkook, your mouth feeling dry. You inch towards them slowly, still struggling to adapt to the situation. It’s not that you feel uncomfortable but it’s... Strange. New.

“Show me how.” You breathe out, finally reaching them. Now that you’re by their side, you feel a little less removed from the situation. It was odd observing them from a distance - you feel more at ease being an active participant.

Jimin assists you with raising Jungkook's shirt up, effectively exposing his skin for your eyes to feast on. And...damn. You’d seen how hot he looked through your screen, but seeing up close made your heartbeat pick up pace.

"Jungkook's worked hard on these." Jimin trails a finger down the line running through the center of Jungkook's abs. You watch with bated breath as the muscles clench up at the unexpected touch, becoming even more define than they were a second ago. He squirms under the probing gazes directed at him, feeling hot all over.

"You know what you both have in common?" starts Jimin, a smirk inching its way into his voice. "You're both really sensitive here."

He pinches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, drawing a gasp of surprise from the younger male. Your eyes widen in amazement at the sound. You'd heard rumors about it, heard the passing comments that sounded more like inside jokes, but you never thought he'd be this sensitive. "You really should give him some attention here, I bet he'd like that. And after all the work he's put in, he deserves a little treat, don't you think?"

Doing your best to follow Jimin's suggestion, wanting above all else to please him, you raise a hand up to join his outstretched one, fingers brushing up against his in the process. After checking for Jungkook's approval, you tentatively press into his nipple, rubbing against the flesh in small, circular motions.

The reaction is immediate; Jungkook's hips shift in place and he hurries to gulp in air as if short of breath.

Jimin chuckles, drawing back and giving you more room for maneuver.

You brace your hands over his chest for stability as you scoot your body closer to his. It takes a lot of effort to keep your hands still, to curb your desire to familiarize yourself with his exposed body. Jungkook watches you closely, lip drawn between his teeth, trying to guess your next move.

Slowly - not wanting to startle him - you dip your head down, your hot breath fanning his nipple. You press your lips down once, testing the waters, your gaze trained on his face. When he doesn’t show any visible signs of protest or discomfort, you run your tongue across the skin, letting it drag over his bud.

His skin is hot and firm under your tongue. It’s also surprisingly smooth to the touch, making the glide of your tongue all the more easy.

Jungkook twitches under you, his reactions impossible to suppress.

You know the feeling, all the times Jimin had played with you coming to mind. It’s easy to coax reactions from the man layer underneath you when all you have to do is imitate the techniques your boyfriend spent months perfecting. You try to remember what gets you riled up the most, adding teeth into the mix.

A pleased hum leaves your lips when a whimper falls from his lips. You work harder to elicit the same sounds, needing the confirmation of a job well done. Jungkook? He doesn’t disappoint; a string of muffled groans and breathy sighs are added to the mix - a sweet tune of high and low notes.

Jimin moves around, settling behind you. You pause, alert, but the smack he delivers against the side of your thigh jolts you back into action. You’re all too aware of the slow slide of your panties down your legs. Jimin’s palms massage the meat of your cheeks, spreading them out so that he can get a good view of your sopping center.

“Shit, you’re soaking.” Jimin hisses from behind you, his fingers delving between your legs. “You’ve made a mess.”

Now that he’s pointed it out, it’s impossible to ignore the throbbing heat at the apex of your thighs. Your hips buck involuntarily as he swipes a finger through your folds, the stickiness of your arousal coating his digit. He repeats the motion a few times, making sure his fingers are thoroughly covered, almost dripping. He then makes his was up the bed until he reaches the headboard.

“Open up.” He holds his hand up to Jungkook’s parted mouth, the sheen of your arousal catching the light. Jungkook gulps audibly, his disbelieving eyes riveted on the outstretched digits.

“Let hyung show you what a good slut tastes like.”

Jungkook’s eyes bulge and he looks at you to make sure you’re alright with the word. When you nod encouragingly, he opens his mouth up further, letting Jimin guide his fingers into his mouth.

It must be an instinctive reaction - the way he wraps his mouth around the two fingers and suckles. Jungkook’s eyes flutter close, the taste of you heavy on his tongue. He becomes greedy for it, his cheeks hollowing as he tries to get every drop that he can. It would be a lie to say the sight of Jungkook getting lost in the taste of you isn’t arousing. You can feel more arousal drip down before you can clench down your muscles to keep yourself from making a bigger mess.

Jimin keeps them inside until he’s sure that his digits are sucked dry. When he pulls off, it’s messy; strings of saliva connect his fingers to Jungkook’s mouth, dripping down the corners of his mouth and chin.

“Tastes good, yeah?” Jimin pats Jungkook’s cheeks, his thumb spreading the saliva around.

“Y-yeah,” he sounds content, if a little fucked out. His pupils are blown to black, revealing his arousal.

“What would you do to taste it from the source? Hmm?” suggests Jimin.

Jungkook’s eyes widen at the thought, his answer immediate. “Anything!”

“Anything?” Jimin laughs, loud and mocking. “Those are big words for someone tied up.”

“If you untie me—”

“No,” he says at once, dismissing the thought. Jungkook wilts under the intensity of his stare, giving up without much fight. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

Sensing the disappointment bleed off Jungkook’s frame, the corner of Jimin’s lips quirk into a smile. “I’ll tell you what. Do you want to see how wet she gets when you play with her just right?”

Jungkook nods enthusiastically, all previous reservations gone.

Jimin makes his way back to your side and you sit back on your haunches, body vibrating with desire. “Open your legs. Give him a nice view of your cunt.”

You almost shudder with anticipation, your knees knocking in their haste to comply. Not wanting to give them an obstructed view, you hold your pussy open with your fingers. You’re so wet that your fingers slip a few times, sliding over your folds.

In the back of your mind, you can’t believe you’re letting Jungkook, of all people, see you this way - lewd and unabashed.

Jungkook doesn’t bother silencing his groan, eyes firmly fixed on the sight in front of him. He swallows audibly - and if his dick wasn’t hard before, it sure is now.

“See how drenched she is?” Jimin muses, a pleased expression painting his face. “Such a cute little slut I’ve got on my hands. She’s always soaked for me, always hungry for cock, isn’t that right?”

You’re not too sure who the question is directed at, but you nod anyway. It’s not like he’s wrong - you’ve been craving his dick for a month. This foreplay is nice and all, but you’re just about dying from the lack of attention.

Jimin reaches over to flick Jungkook’s nipple. He flinches from the touch, his whine resounding in the otherwise silent room.

“Wanna give her yours, Kookie? She’s so cock-hungry she’ll take it from anyone.”

Jungkook wiggles his hips in response, too fucked out to string together a proper sentence. You feel a little bad for him... He probably thinks Jimin will let him cum right away... Knowing your boyfriend, he might not let Jungkook near your mouth at all. Well. Jungkook had all the time to learn.

You unzip his jeans, not bothering to slide them completely off. It feels strange to have another dick in your hands, when you’ve grown so accustomed to your boyfriend’s. You can’t help but compare the size and girth, how different it looks and feels pressed up in your hands.

Jungkook has a pretty dick. It rests up against his stomach nicely.

Maybe it’s because you’ve been Dick Deprived, but your mouth waters a little. You’re tempted to sneak in a taste, just wanting to feel the weight of a cock on your tongue again.

Fueled by these desires, you wrap your palm around his length. Jungkook shivers under you, his dick hot and throbbing in your hand. You lean forward and spit, the saliva drooling onto the head of his dick. You use the extra fluid as lube, his precum soon being added into the mix. The slick sounds sound particularly loud and each twist of your wrist extracting needy moans from Jungkook’s mouth. The cacophony of lewd noises only heighten your need for release.

Jimin observes all of this with a watchful eye, the sight affecting him more than he’s willing to admit.

Jungkook struggles to speak, trying to warn you of his impending orgasm, but he only manages to get out high-pitched whimpers. Suddenly, he cums, taking you by surprise, painting his stomach in streaks of white. Head tipped back, he lets out a drawn out groan, his chest flushed red.

Your thighs squeeze together at the debauched sight. You’d really appreciate if Jimin’s dick could enter you...right about...now. You’re so horny that if you had balls they would have fallen off ages ago.

“Clean it up,” Jimin punctuates his command with a sharp slap. The skin of your ass tingles where his palm connects, pleasure sparking up inside of you. “I know you’ve been waiting all night to get your hands on his abs.”

You fall forward, elbows keeping you propped up, and lick a stripe down his stomach. Jungkook tenses up beneath you, his abs becoming all the more visible to the naked eye. You continue licking the skin in measured strokes, the taste of his cum filling your mouth with every swipe of your tongue. It’s different from Jimin’s, but not altogether unpleasant.

“Fuck.” His hips jerk forward, lifting off from the mattress as you mouth the head of his dick. He curses, torn between wanting to chase the heat of your mouth and pulling away, still too sensitive from his recent orgasm. “Oh shit...”

It’s when you drag your muscle over a vein running down his shaft, that Jimin chooses to push his hardened length into you.

You choke down a moan, the sound barely muffled by the dick near your mouth.

The slide of his erection against your inner walls is made easy by the copious amount of slick that’s amassed between your legs. Jimin has self-control, but he’s also human. The weeks of pent up arousal bubble to a boil, and his hips snap harshly against the cushion of your ass, burying himself to the hilt.

“Fucking fuck,” his breath comes out harshly as he struggles to regain composure. “Fuck, I missed this.”

The quip comes out before you can stop it, “Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

Laughter tumbles from his mouth, the short moment of reprieve giving you time to adjust to the girth you had missed so much. There are no words to describe how satisfied you feel right now, your walls clenching around him as you try to keep him buried there forever.

You know it’s illogical, probably just a product of the month long Dick Diet, but he feels bigger than before. In fact, he fills you up so good that you feel like you’re two seconds away from bursting.

Jungkook whines at the sight of you getting fucked open, his neck craning to get a better look. You kind of feel self-conscious, knowing that he’s able to see your every expression, catch every stutter of breathing as Jimin plows into you from behind.

Those feelings are quickly wiped clear, the first roll of Jimin’s hips against yours robbing you of breath. Nothing matters anymore but his dick. Your world now revolves around it.

Jungkook looks equally overwhelmed - his eyes not knowing where to settle. He watches your breasts move with every thrust before looking back to admire the expression of rapture on his hyung’s face. Jimin looks so far gone - nothing like the facial expressions he practices for stage - that Jungkook can’t help but wonder how good your slutty pussy feels like. His dick twitches in interest, slowly coming back to much.

“You’re so tight, fuuuck,” Jimin swears you’ve gotten tighter, your walls threatening to suffocate him. He knew he wouldn’t last very long - not when he hasn’t had sex in this long - but he doesn’t expect himself to ejaculate so quickly. It’s a bit embarrassing, especially with Jungkook watching - but then again... Jungkook hadn’t held up much better and his dick had been untouched by your sweet cunt the entire time.

He decides fuck it, and decides to just go for it.

The pace of his thrusts speeds up, his hips snapping against your ass with every push and pull. The muscles in his jaw clench tight as he grinds his teeth together, sweat beading his brow as he races to completion. You, too, are lost in the pleasure. You’re suffocated by the heady smell of sweat and cum, by the sound of skin slapping together, moans tearing from your throat as you feel yourself nearing the edge.

For the past month, this is all you’ve dreamed of and more. Now that you finally have it, you don’t want it to end. You’re scare that once it does, you’ll never find pleasure this satisfying again.

Maybe Jimin can feel your reticence because he leans over, draping his body over yours. The slight shift in positions forces his cock deeper into you and you stutter, the sound splintered with hunger. Jimin has always known your body better than you know it yourself. He sucks down on the skin near your neck, aiming for a sensitive spot, and shoves a hand where you’re intimately connected.

“Get my cock wet, c’mon,” he urges, voice so low it comes off as a growl.

He gives you a few harsh flicks, his fingers rubbing against your swollen clit until you cry out, raw and unfiltered. It feels like you’ve been snapped in half - your back arches against his chest, hips pushing up against his as you lose yourself to the pleasure that washes over you.

Your orgasm is long overdue. Your body seems to sense that too, making up for all those orgasms lost. Pleasure wracks your frame, shaking you to the core. The tremors last longer than what you’re used to and only Jimin’s hands on your hips keep you physically grounded to reality.

Jimin rolls his hips into yours slowly, fucking you through your orgasm. It’s only once you whine out in overstimulation that he pulls out, throbbing dick coated in your fluids.

“Get on your knees,” he grunts, his fist pumping his leaking shaft as he waits for you to get into position.

You force your fucked out limbs into motion, your mouth automatically dropping open to receive his cum. The sight of Jimin standing over you, dick in hand, is almost enough to make you cum again. He looks so hot like this - chest glistening with perspiration, the dark of his irises translating his desperation.

The slick noises of his hand working over his dick make shivers run down your back. You stick out your tongue, eager to taste him, too.

It’s this visual - of you on your knees, the corners of your lips smeared in dried cum, skin flush with arousal, mouth wide open for him - that pushes him over the edge. He spills his seed onto your face, letting out a low, almost inaudible, growl. It dribbles down your chest, coating your skin in white.

His knees then give out and he face-plants onto the mattress, somehow managing to look graceful as he falls down. You lay down by his side, watching his chest rise and fall as he slowly evens out his breathing. Jimin turns to face you, his hand outstretched to caress your face.

“I love you.” Jimin mumbles in the afterglow, loud enough for you to pick up.

You beam, sitting up to slant your lips against his.

“Eh,” he wets his lips after pulling back to catch his breath. “You kind of taste like cum.”

“How would you know what cum tastes like, hm?” You ask suspiciously, head tilted to the side as you wait for an answer.

“Um. Not to, uh, intrude b-but... Can someone untie me?” Jungkook squeaks and you suddenly remember his presence. “My arms are killing me.”

a/n: “i’ll never write a jk fic again” and yet here i am dfkldjfdj. happy belated birthday amanda, my favorite nipple lover ;;; this took 10 and a half years to finish but i hope it’s okay !!! as per usual, my drabbles tend to go overboard...

also this is just mentioned in passing, but the reader’s work problems are a direct reference to kr’s hidden camera problem. i imagine reader would’ve taken part of the recent demonstration for equal justice for internet sex crimes !!

#happy 22 miss !!#for her #can u believe the first fic i write in 4 months is about ni ps...#me 2 #jimin smut #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts scenarios

3K notes · View notes

carmenlire · 6 years

Text

Higher than the Big Trees Ch. 16

Edit credit: @kindaresilient <3

Two chapters in two days? Don’t get used to this lmao

read chapter one

read on ao3

Alec stands in front of Magnus’s door and takes a breath before reaching out to knock.

He’s not nervous. Even though it’s the first time that he’s going to be visiting Magnus at his place, there’s no butterflies or lead in his stomach.

Remarkably, he feels relaxed. He’s hung out with Magnus before and it didn’t end in disaster.

Hopefully, he can keep up that streak.

Plus, it’s not as if this is a date. They’re friends, nothing more.

As Alec knocks, he takes in the corridor. Magnus lived in Brooklyn, on the top floor of one of the many buildings that had been renovated a few years ago. There’s exposed brickwork and intermittent light fixtures and it all seems to fit Magnus’s style, perfectly. It’s elegant but with character.

Magnus opens the door just a few seconds later, smiling.

“Good evening, Alexander.”

“Magnus, hi.”

Alec smiles back as he gives him a onceover. Magnus had apparently changed when he’d gotten home because he’s the most dressed down Alec’s ever seen him. He’s wearing a pair of yoga pants with a plain black singlet. His feet are bare, toes painted a dark emerald and adorned with a silver ring.

What the fuck.

Alec swallows as he sees Magnus’s arms. How were clothes able to hide so much?

He clears his throat and meets Magnus’s eyes for a beat before Magnus steps back and swings the door open wider, beckoning Alec in.

“Welcome. Did you have any trouble finding it?”

Alec steps over the threshold, immediately toeing off his Nikes.

“No,” he says distractedly. “Google Maps has yet to let me down.”

His gaze roves over what he can see of Magnus’s apartment. He sees more exposed brick, rich tapestries and colorful furniture. It’s a weird hybrid of old and new-- modern and ancient-- and Alec loves it.

From behind him, he hears, “Well, that makes one of us, darling. Once I was in Estonia trying to find this historically significant cathedral and the app just kept leading me in circles. A twenty minute stroll turned into a two hour fiasco. It was a mess.”

Alec turns around. “Maybe it was operator error,” he teases.

Magnus huffs, rolling his eyes. “Believe whatever you like. I’m usually an expert explorer, I have a sixth sense, but during that trip I got lost too many times to count. I was just running in circles. Plus, the Estonian language isn’t for the faint of heart-- I didn’t have a clue of what anything meant.”

“At least you have a story to tell now.”

“Like I need more of those,” Magnus says ruefully.

“Let’s move things out of my foyer.” He nods towards the living room and Alec follows him as he heads to the couch. There’s an infinitesimal pause, Alec only notices it because he’s neurotic, but Magnus chooses one end of the couch, the one closest to the french doors.

Alec has a minute to panic-- couch or chair or other chair-- but in the end his brain short circuits and he goes with the closest option.

The other end of the couch.

There’s an entire cushion between them and Magnus doesn’t look like he’s judging him too hard, so Alec relaxes against the surprisingly comfortable couch. It looks like it’s supposed to be a statement piece not to actually sit on, but as Alec leans against the back, it’s nice as hell.

Magnus looks smug. “Not as hard as it looks, huh?”

“I thought I was going to have to pretend like I wasn’t extremely uncomfortable for the entire night but this couch is actually a dream.”

Magnus nods a little as he settles against his armrest, bringing one leg up to tuck under the other. “I know exactly what you mean. When I first went furniture shopping, I wanted something comfortable but not shabby, you know? I walked by this couch a dozen times because it looked like something rich people have-- useless and purely decorative. But, I hadn’t found anything yet and it was in my budget so on a whim I sat down and almost melted into it. I bought it on the spot. I’ve had it eight years and it looks the same as the day I bought it-- definitely one of the best purchases I ever made.”

Alec mirrors Magnus’s position, runs a hand through his hair. “I know exactly what you mean. I bought the couch I have now when I moved out on my own. I won’t lie, it looks like shit, but it’s comfortable as hell and I know that I won’t ever get rid of it. It was the first big purchase I bought when the money came in from my first single. I’m emotionally attached to it.”

Magnus hums, looks at Alec with narrowed eyes. “I wouldn’t have expected that. You keep surprising me.”

Alec blinks. “Good surprises, I hope?”

“Very good,” Magnus says softly.

There’s a moment as the two of them just look at each other. It’s not uncomfortable, just a pause in the conversation, but it strikes Alec.

He can’t remember the last person he could share the quiet with.

He clears his throat, raises one of his eyebrows. “What are these surprises?”

Magnus grins, reaching out one of his legs to gently poke at Alec’s. “You’re a superstar, darling. I’m sure you could buy a thousand couches and it wouldn’t dent your credit card. But, you keep the first couch you had for sentimental reasons. You tip lavishly-- don’t think I didn’t notice how much you left Anna and Marv a few weeks ago. You’re not an asshole,” Magnus concludes bluntly.

Barking out a laugh, Alec says, “That’s good to know. I try not to be an asshole. I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen. I’ve seen a lot of people come and go and I just try to be good. Not the best, but it doesn’t take a lot to say please or thank you or not to trash a hotel room.”

He breaks off, stares into nothing for a minute. When he looks back up at Magnus, he finds him already staring at him, eyes intense.

“I have an image. I actively cultivate that reputation as a playboy and rockstar. I don’t hide the fact that I like to have a good time. But, I also work my ass off. Some of my peers get into the industry and they see the signing bonuses and the easy hookups and they think that’s it. They don’t see the hundred of hours that go into producing an album or how important it is to network professionally or that the life isn’t for everyone.

“So, yeah, I tip because it means nothing to me but a lot to them. That couch is comfy as hell and I’m sentimental. I’m glad you see beyond the surface, Magnus.

“I’m glad you care enough to want to,” he says, voice low.

Magnus studies Alec for a moment, eyes flitting across his face. Voice just above a whisper, he says, “Of course I do.”

He straightens and leans forward imperceptibly. Alec catches himself swaying towards, just a little.

The air is tense with the promise of something and Alec's close enough to see Magnus's eyes dilate.

Magnus jerks a little and leans back against the armrest.

Alec lets out a breath.

“So,” Magnus starts. “I have all four movies and a drawer full of take out menus. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Magnus laughs. “Okay, that’s good. What are you in the mood for? I’m hungry, too.”

Alec thinks for a minute. “Is there a local place that’s your go-to? I’m not too familiar with Brooklyn but I’m sure there something you’re in the mood for?”

Alec can’t be sure, but he thinks Magnus’s eyes might drop down to his mouth for a millisecond. He shakes himself. As if.

“Twilight is a bit of a comfort watch for me-- the movies really are shit and I usually just order a pizza from this place down the block. It’s a family owned place and they know what they’re doing.”

Alec’s nodding before Magnus even finishes. “That sounds amazing. My brother dragged me to the gym for hours today. I really am starving.”

“Say no more, darling-- oh, is there anything you don’t like on your pizza?”

Alec shakes his head and Magnus stands up and heads to what Alec presumes is his bedroom. He comes back a minute later, phone to his ear. He doesn’t go back to the couch. Instead, he wanders around the living room aimlessly while he talks to whoever is on the line.

“Good evening Tony, it’s Magnus. . . Oh, I’m fine. How’s your family?. . . They do grow up so fast. . . I’m still teaching, summer classes right now. . . Yup, the usual but let’s double the bread and the brownies. Thanks man, I’ll see Mikey soon.”

He hangs up, looks over at Alec with an amused expression. “Tony likes to talk. You can’t just order pizza-- you have to observe the pleasantries. He and his wife have been making pizza for thirty years and it’s a local joint. They pretty much know everyone.”

He comes around the couch, settling back into his spot. He relaxes, sprawls out a little more.

“I usually get an extra large supreme with an order of cheesy bread and brownies for dessert. How does that sound?”

Alec’s stomach growls and Magnus laughs.

“I’ll take that as approval. Now, let me put the first movie in and we can pause it when the food is delivered?”

“Sounds great.”

A few minutes later, the starting credits start to play.

Alec usually likes to watch movies silently, especially the first time. He hates when people talk during movies, distracting him, detracting from the experience.

But-- it’s so bad.

They’re only about halfway through the first one, but Alec's already looking forward to the rest of them. Edward looks like he’d literally rather die than look at Bella, Jacob is a little pathetic, and Bella herself looks like Alec feels-- there are really no good options, here.

Magnus and him make fun of the movie until there are tears in their eyes.

They’ve just gotten past the part where Edward scrabbles up a tree, shining like a disco ball, and Alec’s absolutely losing his shit.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “What the fuck. What is wrong with him?”

Magnus’s mouth is open to reply when there’s a knock on the door. He stands up, chuckling. Over his shoulder, he calls out, “Why do you think they live in the Pacific Northwest, darling? The sun makes them sparkle and it just wouldn’t do for people to see that.”

Magnus opens the door, taking the boxes and sliding cash to the delivery boy.

“Thanks, Mikey.”

“No problem, Magnus. Enjoy your food--” he leans to the side, sees Alec half reclining on the couch. “And your date.”

The teenager leaves, chortling, pocketing the bills.

Magnus turns around, arms full and Alec rushes up to help him, grabbing the smaller boxes.

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Youths. They’re so precocious and they think they're so funny.” He sets the food down on the kitchen bar.

“I want to say that I was never such an asshat, but tragically, I know that I was probably worse.”

Alec nods and opens the pizza box, mouth watering at the smell of garlic and cheese and sauce.

“Oh, I know I was a bit of a nightmare. I was either really quiet and surly or over the top. I was a mess. Holy fuck, Magnus, this pizza looks amazing.”

Magnus grabs plates, handing one to Alec while he opens the box of cheesy bread.

“It really does. Tony’s outdone himself tonight.”

They two plate up and head back to the living room, collapsing against cushions and resuming the movie.

They both go back for seconds and pop in the second movie, polishing off the brownies during it.

As the credits start to roll, Alec slouches in his seat a little. Their plates are on the coffee table in front of them and they’re angled towards each other, knees barely touching.

Magnus climbs to his feet and stretches.

“Ready for number three?”

Alec groans. “I’m so full that all I’m ready for is a nap. I haven’t eaten that much in ages.”

Magnus disappears somewhere but Alec can still hear his voice.

“That’s what movie nights are for, Alexander. Eating too much unhealthy food and watching questionable movies.”

He comes back a moment later carrying a huge ass blanket.

“I was getting a little chilly, but I’d rather be cold with a blanket than fine without one, so.”

He sits down on the edge of the couch and looks over at Alec, he waves his blanket a little. “Want to share? I don’t know how you’re feeling but this blanket is definitely big enough for the two of us.”

Alec debates for a second before he’s scooching over to the middle cushion. “Whoever says no to additional coziness?”

Magnus grins and sits down next to Alec, they’re sides touching.

Alec is overtly aware of exactly where they’re touching.

Magnus settles the blanket over them both, smoothing it down.

He looks at Alec expectantly and Alec gives him a droll look. “Yes, you’re right, this is the best blanket I’ve ever had the good fortune to use.”

Magnus beams. “Told you so, darling.”

What Alec doesn't say is that the blanket smells like Magnus, sandalwood a subtle scent. It's nice.

Beyond nice.

Magnus starts Eclipse and minute by minute, Alec can feel himself getting sleepier. He’s stuffed with amazing food, Magnus is a long line of warmth beside him, and the couch combined with the damned blanket is making him drowsy.

Magnus shuffles a little, moving imperceptibly closer, leaning into Alec a little more.

Alec turns away, muffling a yawn, and slides down the couch a little, leg settling more firmly against Magnus.

He closes his eyes, just for a minute, and the next thing he’s aware of is someone on top of him.

He moves, just a little, and discovers that he’s laying down. Opening his eyes, he immediately squints as sunlight comes pouring in through the french doors, hitting him right in the face.

He closes his eyes again and just takes a few minutes to breathe and get his bearings.

His eyes fly open as he remembers where he is. Who he’s with.

He looks down and gets a face full of hair, Magnus settled against his chest.

Alec has a brief thought of oh shit, but he can’t deny that this feels good.

Honestly, it’s been awhile since he woke up next to a guy and didn’t immediately look for the exit.

He moves, just a little, and Magnus hums, squeezing him from where he’s wrapped an arm around his middle.

Alec feels Magnus waking up and has a moment to panic-- will Magnus think this is too forward? Friends fall asleep together, right? This won’t turn into an awkward morning after-- forgetting that nothing even happened?

Magnus noses along his tshirt before he freezes. He looks up and meets Alec’s eyes.

There’s a moment of silence as they just look at each other. Magnus looks a little ridiculous, makeup smudged all to hell and back, his hair rumpled and Alec knows he doesn’t look any better.

“Well.” Magnus’s lips quirk up. “We didn’t get to the fourth movie.”

Alec laughs, surprised.

“No,” he agrees. “Your blanket was too comfortable. It lulled me right to sleep.”

Magnus sighs. “It is magic.”

He looks back up at Alec, solemnly. “Your hair’s a mess, Alexander.”

Alec snorts. “You should see your face, Magnus.”

Magnus jolts upright, eyes widening in horror. “I fell asleep with my makeup on! Oh, I bet I look like a raccoon that lost a fight with Sephora.”

In the next moment, he’s shrugging, nonchalantly. “It happens. It’s better that you see me like this now so that I know if this friendship can continue or if messy makeup is too much for you.”

Laughing, Alec sits up, pulls the blanket into his lap from where it was pooling on the floor.

“It’ll take more than smeared makeup to scare me off, don’t worry.”

Magnus smiles and there’s a few minutes of silence as they relax on the couch.

It’s weird, but Alec doesn’t feel need to make a mad dash to the door. He’s not feeling like a clock’s ticking menacingly. He doesn’t feel judged for not immediately making an excuse for why he needs to leave.

There’s no pressure here and it feels damned good.

His thoughts break off as Magnus starts talking.

“I don’t know what you have planned today-- we had really just discussed last night-- but I know this place that serves a mean belgian waffle. Feel like breakfast?”

Alec takes stock, grimaces. “I’d love to but I’d also really love to not look like I just rolled out of bed if we go out.”

Magnus shrugs. “I have two bathrooms with extra supplies. Feel free to get ready here, if you’re interested.”

Grinning, Alec says, “Alright, sounds like a plan. When do you want to leave?”

Magnus looks at the clock above the television. “How about forty five minutes?”

Alec nods and stands, cracking his back. “Meet you back here then.”

He starts walking but pauses, turning back. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Magnus laughs and points to the left of the entryway. “Down that corridor, there’s a bathroom that’s the second door on the right. You should have everything you need but let me know if you don’t see something.”

Alec nods and turns back. He finds the bathroom without a problem. It’s elegant, if eccentric. It’s done in shades of burgundy and there’s an elephant toothbrush holder on the sink.

He finds toothpaste, towels, and a spare toothbrush. He takes a shower-- the water pressure is amazing-- and gets out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He brushes his teeth and finger combs his hair as best he can.

He doesn’t have any other clothes, so he has to wear yesterday’s. There’s a bedroom right next to the bathroom and Alec gathers his clothes-- it’s a bitch to get dressed in a steamy bathroom.

He opens the door and almost walks into Magnus.

They both step back and Alec immediately remembers that he’s half naked, the flimsy towel wrapped around his waist the only thing keeping him decent.

Magnus seems a little dazed, staring at Alec’s chest with a sort of mesmerized intensity.

“Magnus?”

Magnus jolts, turns up to smile at Alec.

“Alexander! I was just seeing if you needed anything.”

Magnus’s gaze keeps dropping to below Alec’s face and Alec feels heat climb up his neck. While it was gratifying to be checked out, especially by Magnus, he was probably reading what he wanted into things.

Alec shakes his head a little, clearing it and realizing that he hasn’t answered Magnus yet.

“I’m fine-- I was just going to get dressed in the guest room.”

Magnus nods a little too enthusiastically. “Okay then, help yourself. I’ll leave you to it. See you in a few.”

He turns on his heel and heads to the other side of the loft.

Alec watches him leave for a few seconds before going across the hall to the guest room. It only takes him a minute and then he’s opening the door and heading to the living room.

He debates what to do. Seeing that he has twenty minutes until they’re set to leave, he walks over to the end table, picks up his phone.

Finding that it's had died sometime in the night he turns instead to the bookshelf on the wall. It looks to be a mix of knickknacks and books and Alec’s eyes snag on European Conquerors.

Alec still has his copy at home-- he’s been making slow but steady progress, saving Magnus’s chapter for last.

He stands by the wall and opens the book, easily finding his place. He gets absorbed and is startled when he hears a cough.

He looks over his shoulder and sees Magnus looking at him, brows raised.

Alec brings the book up, showing him the cover.

“I saw this on your shelf and thought I’d read while I waited for you.”

Magnus looks unguarded. “You’re actually reading that?”

Alec shakes his head, confused. “Yeah? I told you I would and I checked it out of the library. Plus, you wrote it. There’s no way that I’m not going to.”

Magnus’s face is the picture of surprise before his expression melts into one of fondness.

He clears his throat.

“Well. What do you think of it so far?”

Alec shrugs, looks down at the book.

“It’s dense but really interesting. I liked Gregor’s account of the Dutch East Indies-- I learned a lot. But I didn’t care too much about Lorsch’s chapter on Britain's economic theory. I comprehended it but I couldn’t help but think that he supported colonialism in the end. He didn’t really write as a historian.”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “That’s because the old windbag devoutly believes in British superiority and thinks that the fact that they invaded half the world is a testament to its strength and vivacity. He mourns the loss of the Great British Empire like a baby mourns stolen candy.”

He walks over to the foyer, sliding his keys into his pocket.

He looks over his shoulder. “Have you read my chapter, yet?”

Alec shakes his head, tucking the book back into its place before snagging his phone from the table.

“No.” He grins. “I figured that I would save the best for last.”

Magnus rolls his eyes but Alec can tell that he’s pleased.

“Well, then, you’ll just have to keep me updated.”

Alec smiles. “I guess I will.”

The head out the door into a warm June morning.

The sun is shining and people are milling about.

Alec and Magnus head out to breakfast and enjoy crisp, fluffy Belgian waffles, Alec insisting on paying since Magnus picked up the takeout last night.

Neither can remember smiling so much during a mundane breakfast.

Both are already looking forward to the next time they can see each other.

#httbt #my writing #hope y'all like this!!!#things are certainly getting cozy :)#dfjgdf now i gotta pack for vacation tomorrow #malec fic #malec au

23 notes · View notes

carpethefanfics · 7 years

Text

Polaroid.

“Ginny has a surprise for each of her boys, well, maybe two.”

Inspired by @sirussly and @asktheboywholived and @kapitan5o with these two lovely polaroid posts here and here, thank you.

Check them out but, warning, your heart may will absolutely hurt after

Enjoy.

She’d been sitting on their bedroom floor for nearly three hours

A circle of photos around her

An endless pile of boxes

An array of tiny scrapbooks that looked so full they may topple over

And every single photo that decorated her floor was moving

Small polaroids with scribbled handwriting

And dates written in blue ink, black ink, pink ink

She didn’t think she’d stop smiling since she sat down

Or crying

Because her cheeks had definitely not dried

And each time she picked up a new one it was like she was flooded with the memory behind it

Like she was with them in the photo

Instead of the way she desperately wanted to be

Because the box she opened first was from when she was younger

When Fred used to braid her hair and Percy would kiss her bruised knees

When she had woken up one morning covered in black splotches from a prank gone awry

Or when she had painted her entire face red with the muggle lipstick her dad had bought her mum

She ran her fingers over the ones of them all together

Huddled around a table much too small and laughing because she had wished for peace during the war

But she would give anything for the kind of chaos again

The box she opened second came from Luna

A series of photos she had taken throughout their time together

Some from Hogwarts, some from the last few years that had flown by

A series of images she had collected from other people

Ones where Ginny was diving for a snitch

Tumbling through muddy grass

Arising victorious in her first professional game

Ones where Ron was red in the face from arguing with Hermione

Ones where Hermione was surrounded by books in her London flat while no other furniture yet decorated the space

She was rewriting the Werewolf Registry for the third time

And then there was Harry

Down on one knee in the Burrow

His cheeks red and his hair more mussed than usual

Looking up at Ginny with a grin itching to break open at the corner of his mouth

Her mouth full of toast and her eyes round saucers at the sight of him right before she lunged forward

The two of them tumbling to the floor over and over and over again in the photo

The third box, the one she had just opened, came from Andromeda

And Ginny hadn’t been able to get through it just yet

Each photo in her hand was too happy, too light, too much hope in each pair of eyes for a future that had never came

Images of two barely swollen bellies

Bellies much bigger than Ginny’s was now

July can’t come soon enough, February 1980

Images of her uncles, arms wrapped around shoulders

F and G sweaters knit in unfamiliar colours

Christmas Gifts from Molly, 1970

A sight so similar to photos of Fred and George

But much too old to be them together

The air had emptied from her lungs at the thought

Her eyes dry and red from staring so long, too long

And then there were images of Tonks toddling around

Her hair an array of flashing colours

Her front teeth long gone, the freckles on her nose disappearing and reappearing

Dora doesn’t like to be called Dora, 1977

Ginny had held that photo to her heart for a while

Held it close to her barely showing belly

Hoping that Tonks was looking down on her

Wishing that she’d had the chance to meet the ones to come

But the photo she held in her fingers now

The one she had been staring at

The one that had tears dripping down her chin

Was of Peter

The soft sandy blonde hair and blue eyes of a nothing more than a boy

A boy who hadn’t known malice yet

A young man who was smiling at his friends in complete and utter adoration

And there was Remus

His face not nearly as scarred as when Ginny had known him

A cigarette between his lips

A bruise decorating his neck that she was certain not just a bruise

His eyes were on the man next to him, shimmering

And there was Sirius

His hair thick and dark and curled around his face

No tattoos plastering his skin, no hollow cheeks, no sunken eyes

Nothing but a cheeky smile and a glint in his silver eyes as he stared back at Remus

And there was Lily

Her arms wrapped around James’ neck and her thighs around his waist

Her hair a deeper red than Ginny’s own

Her eyes so strikingly similar to the ones Ginny had fallen so madly in love with

And her lips pressed to the neck of the man she had wrapped herself around

James

The same tousled mess of curls

The same soft, dark skin

The same unbearably handsome smile

The same look on his face Harry had when he was ready to topple over into bed but kept refusing sleep, kept refusing to miss this

Never could hold our firewhiskey, 1977

Ginny let her tears hit the photos

Cursing the hormones of her barely there pregnancy already coursing through her

Hoping that the gifts she had compiled would bring her boys the same joy

‘Gin?’

And she heard his voice

Deep and low and warm

And she heard the pitter-patter of familiar feet against hardwood

She waved her wand around the room

The photos finding their place back in their boxes

The boxes piling themselves away

Sliding back into the closet

All but the books she had created left before her as the door swung open

‘Teddy’

His hair flashed a brilliant red as he tumbled over to her

His small arms wrapping around her neck

His face slowly covering in freckles as she laughed

‘You always give me the best hugs’

She squeezed a little tighter as she finished wiping the wetness from her cheeks

Harry’s eyes narrowing, his brows furrowing as he saw her

Worry lines that never left him spreading over his face

She waved her hands at him as Teddy spoke

Stop worrying, I’m okay

Promise

‘Harry said you have presents!’

Ginny laughed

‘I do have presents, would you like to see yours?’

Teddy’s smile grew wide as the freckles on his skin began to fade and his hair faded back to its regular turquoise blue

Ginny patted her lap as Teddy took a seat and slid the book into his lap

It was small and bound in brown leather with a silver moon on the front cover

‘You remember all those questions you asked me last week?’

Ginny was looking at Harry as Teddy’s hand rested on the book

‘Bout mum and dad?’

‘Yeah about mum and dad. I thought you’d like to see some stuff about them?’

Teddy’s head spun back to look at her

‘See?’

Ginny turned down to look at him and then untied the binding of the book

‘Yeah, see.’

As she slipped it open she could feel him go still in her lap

And his hair suddenly turned a shade of pink she hadn’t seen in many years

‘Mum.’

Teddy’s little fingers glided over the photo of Tonks

Graduation Day, 1993

Her Auror robes much larger on her than expected

A smile bright on her face as she looks up to the camera

Obviously laughing from the predicament

‘Yes mum… And dad too.’

Ginny slowly turned the page

Rightful Head Boy, 1977

Teddy’s hair changed to a golden brown, soft curls over his forehead and down his neck

‘Dad.’

He ran his fingers over the photo again

One where Remus was holding a Head Boy badge and smiling up at the camera

Before turning around and being tackled by James

The red and gold badge flying out of frame

‘And Harry!’

Ginny laughed as Harry stood and came to kneel beside them

And she could see him chewing on the inside of his cheek as he watched the photo replay

‘That’s my dad Ted.’

Teddy turned to look up at him and his eyes became as dark and warm as Harry’s before turning back to their usual golden amber

‘More! More!’

Ginny kept flipping the pages

And she could feel the warmth in her cheeks, the welling of her eyes

She could feel Harry tense against her as her wrapped his hand around the back of her neck

Pages upon pages of photos

One of Remus reading, a black hat on his head, a long fresh scar across his nose, a mug of steaming hot tea floating beside him

One of Tonks lying on the floor

Dora, August 1997

Her hair a soft lilac, her nose scrunched up, a brilliant smile on her lips that broke into a laugh

A laugh Ginny wished she could play for Teddy

One of Remus, a wide smile, his eyes glued to the floor, a tie around his neck

The beginning of the scruff that never left this cheeks dotting his jaw

Then one of Tonks in a simple white dress

One neither Harry nor Ginny had seen before today

Her cotton candy hair the only part of her head visible as her face was cradled in Remus’ neck

A haggard pair of dress robes hanging off Remus’ sullen frame

The barely there sway of them two of them pressed together

And a softness on Remus’ face

His hands braced around his new wife

His eyes closed, a look of utter peace there that Harry and Ginny thought they may never see

And when they got to the end of the book Teddy lifted it up

A small polaroid that barely fit them

Edward Remus, April 1998

And there he was

Snug and lying sound asleep on his father’s chest

Remus sprawled out over the couch

And Tonks, curled around him with her face resting against Teddy’s side

All of them fast asleep

‘Me.’

Ginny bit her lip as Teddy spoke

‘Yeah bubba, that’s you and mum and dad.’

Teddy turned to her

‘Again?’

Harry squeezed Ginny’s neck as Teddy crawled off her lap and laid on his stomach

The book in front of his face

His eyes glued to the pages

‘As many times as you’d like Ted.’

She moved her hand back to brace Harry’s

‘I have one for you too you know.’

Harry’s eyes grew wide

‘Do you now?’

The endless shades of green there swirling in intrigue

Completely mesmerizing her

Ginny leaned forward and laid it before them

‘Would you like to sit in my lap too?’

Harry laughed as he moved from his kneeling position to sit next to her

She slipped it a onto his legs

A brown leather bound book just like Teddy’s

She could hear him take a deep breath so she laid her hand on his thigh

I’m here You’re safe Let’s do it together

Her eyes peering up every so often to glance over at Teddy and the ever changing rainbow of his hair

That beautiful lilac and striking cotton candy pink

And the half a dozen shades of golden brown

Then she turned back to Harry

His hand braced on the cover

As he flipped to the first page Ginny watched the subconscious upturn of his lips

Pages upon pages of his family

Of a life before him

Of the people he became

His mother with her arm wrapped around a young blonde

Hysterical laughter written all over their faces

His father with antlers sprouting out of his head

McKinnon and her Ideas, 1976

Then his godfather working on his bike

A dark shed, a few barely lit lamps

The first sprouting of tattoos that would soon cover his arms

The disapproving eyes of Remus

Moony ‘I’m never getting on that blasted thing’ Lupin, 1976

Harry peered up at Ginny

‘Keep going’

Her voice encouraging, her eyes glossy

So Harry did

Flipping through more and more photos of moments he never thought he’d see

Finally Hitched, 1979

His parents wound in a close embrace

A few people gazing at them in the background

But their eyes locked on each other

A photo similar to the one he had taken with Ginny only a few years ago

Harry Meets his Uncles, August 1980

A small bundle of black tufts being handed around

A look of utter horror on both Peter and Remus’ faces

A look of complete joy on Sirius’

And Harry hadn’t realized yet that he was crying

But as he dotted the tears away

The book came to a close

And his heart stopped in his chest

Coming Soon, 2004

There was no photo, just a caption with an empty white space

His eyes found Ginny’s

Wide and shocked

A feeling of utter panic settling in the pit of his stomach before a calming realization settler over him

‘We’re having a baby’

He spoke quietly to himself

Letting unfamiliar words touch his tongue

‘We’re having a baby?’

His mouth broke into a soft smile

Ginny’s hand still gripping his thigh

The tears still trailing down her cheeks

‘Dear Merlin, we’re having a baby!’

And then he was lunging over her

Just like she had the first time she kissed him

Just like she had the day he proposed

And they were tumbling onto the carpet

And Ginny’s laughter was thick in his ears

As he peppered her face with kisses

As he let his hand find its way to rest between them

And then Teddy was standing above them

His hair a soft blue

‘What’s wrong?’

Harry smiled and looked down at his hand

Ginny’s words leaving him breathless

‘We’re going to have a baby Teddy’

‘A baby?’

Harry peered up at him

And this voice caught in his throat as Ginny spoke

‘Would you like another someone to play with Ted?’

And Teddy was smiling

His small chubby hand finding its way to Harry’s

‘Okay’

And now Harry was imagining their scrapbooks

The photos he would take just like his parents and uncles had before him

Of a family to come

Of tiny Holyhead Harpy jerseys and little practice wands

Of a breakfast table bustling and exploding with too many bodies

Of the disaster their house would become

But most importantly

Of a family that was all their own

Of a family that was all his own

144 notes · View notes

hommebizarre · 5 years

Text

What's It Like To Have ADD?

by Edward M. Hallowell, M.D.

(and some follow-up commentary by me.)

“What is it like to have ADD? What is the feel of the syndrome? I have a short talk that I often give to groups as an introduction to the subjective experience of ADD and what it is like to live with it:

Attention Deficit Disorder. First of all I resent the term. As far as I'm concerned most people have Attention Surplus Disorder. I mean, life being what it is, who can pay attention to anything for very long? Is it really a sign of mental health to be able to balance your checkbook, sit still in your chair, and never speak out of turn? As far as I can see, many people who don't have ADD are charter members of the Congenitally Boring.

But anyway, be that as it may, there is this syndrome called ADD or ADHD, depending on what book you read. So what's it like to have ADD? Some people say the so-called syndrome doesn't even exist, but believe me, it does. Many metaphors come to mind to describe it. It's like driving in the rain with bad windshield wipers. Everything is smudged and blurred and you're speeding along, and it's reeeeally frustrating not being able to see very well. Or it's like listening to a radio station with a lot of static and you have to strain to hear what's going on. Or, it's like trying to build a house of cards in a dust storm. You have to build a structure to protect yourself from the wind before you can even start on the cards.

In other ways it's like being super-charged all the time. You get one idea and you have to act on it, and then, what do you know, but you've got another idea before you've finished up with the first one, and so you go for that one, but of course a third idea intercepts the second, and you just have to follow that one, and pretty soon people are calling you disorganized and impulsive and all sorts of impolite words that miss the point completely. Because you're trying really hard. It's just that you have all these invisible vectors pulling you this way and that which makes it really hard to stay on task.

Plus which, you're spilling over all the time. You're drumming your fingers, tapping your feet, humming a song, whistling, looking here, looking there, scratching, stretching, doodling, and people think you're not paying attention or that you're not interested, but all you're doing is spilling over so that you can pay attention. I can pay a lot better attention when I'm taking a walk or listening to music or even when I'm in a crowded, noisy room than when I'm still and surrounded by silence. God save me from the reading rooms. Have you ever been into the one in Widener Library? The only thing that saves it is that so many of the people who use it have ADD that there's a constant soothing bustle.

What is it like to have ADD? Buzzing. Being here and there and everywhere. Someone once said, "Time is the thing that keeps everything from happening all at once." Time parcels moments out into separate bits so that we can do one thing at a time. In ADD, this does not happen. In ADD, time collapses. Time becomes a black hole. To the person with ADD it feels as if everything is happening all at once. This creates a sense of inner turmoil or even panic. The individual loses perspective and the ability to prioritize. He or she is always on the go, trying to keep the world from caving in on top.

Museums. (Have you noticed how I skip around? That's part of the deal. I change channels a lot. And radio stations. Drives my wife nuts. "Can't we listen to just one song all the way through?") Anyway, museums. The way I go through a museum is the way some people go through Filene's basement. Some of this, some of that, oh, this one looks nice, but what about that rack over there? Gotta hurry, gotta run. It's not that I don't like art. I love art. But my way of loving it makes most people think I'm a real Philistine. On the other hand, sometimes I can sit and look at one painting for a long while. I'll get into the world of the painting and buzz around in there until I forget about everything else. In these moments I, like most people with ADD, can hyperfocus, which gives the lie to the notion that we can never pay attention. Sometimes we have turbocharged focusing abilities. It just depends upon the situation.

Lines. I'm almost incapable of waiting in lines. I just can't wait, you see. That's the hell of it. Impulse leads to action. I'm very short on what you might call the intermediate reflective step between impulse and action. That's why I, like so many people with ADD, lack tact. Tact is entirely dependent on the ability to consider one's words before uttering them. We ADD types don't do this so well. I remember in the fifth grade I noticed my math teacher's hair in a new style and blurted out, "Mr. Cook, is that a toupe you're wearing?" I got kicked out of class. I've since learned how to say these inappropriate things in such a way or at such a time that they can in fact be helpful. But it has taken time. That's the thing about ADD. It takes a lot of adapting to get on in life. But it certainly can be done, and be done very well.

As you might imagine, intimacy can be a problem if you've got to be constantly changing the subject, pacing, scratching and blurting out tactless remarks. My wife has learned not to take my tuning out personally, and she says that when I'm there, I'm really there. At first, when we met, she thought I was some kind of nut, as I would bolt out of restaurants at the end of meals or disappear to another planet during a conversation. Now she has grown accustomed to my sudden coming and goings.

Many of us with ADD crave high-stimulus situations. In my case, I love the racetrack. And I love the high-intensity crucible of doing psychotherapy. And I love having lots of people around. Obviously this tendency can get you into trouble, which is why ADD is high among criminals and self-destructive risk-takers. It is also high among so-called Type A personalities, as well as among manic-depressives, sociopaths and criminals, violent people, drug abusers, and alcoholics. But is is also high among creative and intuitive people in all fields, and among highly energetic, highly productive people.

Which is to say there is a positive side to all this. Usually the positive doesn't get mentioned when people speak about ADD because there is a natural tendency to focus on what goes wrong, or at least on what has to be somehow controlled. But often once the ADD has been diagnosed, and the child or the adult, with the help of teachers and parents or spouses, friends, and colleagues, has learned how to cope with it, an untapped realm of the brain swims into view. Suddenly the radio station is tuned in, the windshield is clear, the sand storm has died down. And the child or adult, who had been such a problem, such a nudge, such a general pain in the neck to himself and everybody else, that person starts doing things he'd never been able to do before. He surprises everyone around him, and he surprises himself. I use the male pronoun, but it could just as easily be she, as we are seeing more and more ADD among females as we are looking for it.

Often these people are highly imaginative and intuitive. They have a "feel" for things, a way of seeing right into the heart of matters while others have to reason their way along methodically. This is the person who can't explain how he thought of the solution, or where the idea for the story came from, or why suddenly he produced such a painting, or how he knew the short cut to the answer, but all he can say is he just knew it, he could feel it. This is the man or woman who makes million dollar deals in a catnap and pulls them off the next day. This is the child who, having been reprimanded for blurting something out, is then praised for having blurted out something brilliant. These are the people who learn and know and do and go by touch and feel.

These people can feel a lot. In places where most of us are blind, they can, if not see the light, at least feel the light, and they can produce answers apparently out of the dark. It is important for others to be sensitive to this "sixth sense" many ADD people have, and to nurture it. If the environment insists on rational, linear thinking and "good" behavior from these people all the time, then they may never develop their intuitive style to the point where they can use it profitably. It can be exasperating to listen to people talk. They can sound so vague or rambling. But if you take them seriously and grope along with them, often you will find they are on the brink of startling conclusions or surprising solutions.

What I am saying is that their cognitive style is qualitatively different from most people's, and what may seem impaired, with patience and encouragement may become gifted.

The thing to remember is that if the diagnosis can be made, then most of the bad stuff associated with ADD can be avoided or contained. The diagnosis can be liberating, particularly for people who have been stuck with labels like, "lazy", "stubborn", "willful", "disruptive", "impossible", "tyrannical", "a spaceshot", "brain damaged", "stupid", or just plain "bad". Making the diagnosis of ADD can take the case from the court of moral judgment to the clinic of neuropsychiatric treatment.

What is the treatment all about? Anything that turns down the noise. Just making the diagnosis helps turn down the noise of guilt and self-recrimination. Building certain kinds of structure into one's life can help a lot. Working in small spurts rather than long hauls. Breaking tasks down into smaller tasks. Making lists. Getting help where you need it, whether it's having a secretary, or an accountant, or an automatic bank teller, or a good filing system, or a home computer, getting help where you need it. Maybe applying external limits on your impulses. Or getting enough exercise to work off some of the noise inside. Finding support. Getting someone in your corner to coach you, to keep you on track. Medication can help a great deal too, but it is far from the whole solution. The good news is that treatment can really help.

Let me leave you by telling you that we need your help and understanding. We may make mess-piles wherever we go, but with your help, those mess-piles can be turned into realms of reason and art. So, if you know someone like me who's acting up and daydreaming and forgetting this or that and just not getting with the program, consider ADD before he starts believing all the bad things people are saying about him and it's too late.

The main point of the talk is that there is a more complex subjective experience to ADD than a list of symptoms can possibly impart. ADD is a way of life, and until recently it has been hidden, even from the view of those who have it. The human experience of ADD is more than just a collection of symptoms. It is a way of living. Before the syndrome is diagnosed that way of living may be filled with pain and misunderstanding. After the diagnosis is made, one often finds new possibilities and the chance for real change.

The adult syndrome of ADD, so long unrecognized, is now at last bursting upon the scene. Thankfully, millions of adults who have had to think of themselves as defective or unable to get their acts together, will instead be able to make the most of their considerable abilities. It is a hopeful time indeed.”

This is so painfully accurate. It’s funny because sometimes I have the thought, “...but am I really ADD?” The answer is yes, Hanna. You’re really fucking ADD.

Sometimes it’s hard. He describes what it feels like to have ADD using the metaphor, “...it's like listening to a radio station with a lot of static and you have to strain to hear what's going on.”

Bare with me as I go off-track. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was 19, which is kind of crazy to think about in hindsight. Basically since birth I was “problematic”, “rebellious”, “a huge pain in the ass”, etc. My mother brought me to a psychologist at a fairly young age. She told me that she knew something wasn’t “right” before I could even speak. You would think I would have been diagnosed as a child, but what doctors diagnosed me with was always some sorts of anxiety and/or depressive disorder. It makes sense, because these are things I dealt with and continue to deal with, but now I know that they are just symptoms of the core condition: ADD.

My childhood is blurry. I have more than once described it as the kind of white noise you’d see on a disconnected cable television channel. I described it that way before even knowing I had ADD. Since my diagnosis, I have found more than one similar metaphor from other’s attempting to explain what it is like to have the “disorder.” P.S. I fucking hate calling it a disorder. It sounds bad and I’m not bad, I’m just different. ANYWAY, (lol) it’s fascinating to me to be the way I am and to find people that describe how I feel so accurately. The reason why it’s so fascinating is because It’s easy to feel alone. This whole thing is an incredibly isolating experience for me.

I still struggle with the fear of others rejecting me because “I’m weird.” It stems from people rejecting me my entire childhood because “I’m weird.” As a 23 year old, I still occasionally experience the “ugh she’s weird” look. I can’t tell if it’s less frequent as I grow older or if I just care less than I once did. Probably a mixture of both. I accept myself more than I ever have, but I still have work to do in the self-love department. Don’t we all?

As I previously stated, sometimes it’s hard. But as the author explained, people tend to focus on the bad parts. If you look past the few bad parts, you will find an incredible amount of good parts. Upon figuring out what the fuck was even happening, I figured out how to harness my hyperactivity and melded it into productivity. It takes work, and I honestly can’t even tell you how I’ve got where I currently am, but I am living proof that having ADD is more good than it is bad if you can just sift through the bad parts.

In closing, I would like to thank all the people that accept me for who I am. I know so many people that graciously give me the platform to let my genuine character thrive and that’s honestly all I want out of this life. Having support from those who love me and accept me as I am makes this whole experience a helluvalot easier.

And to the people who give me dirty looks and think “I’m weird,” grow up already, will ya?

Love,

Hanna

0 notes

quatschmachen · 7 years

Text

Jam

2020 arc continues

XXX

Edith looked over her coffee cup towards the two men.

Her mind drifted to a previous conversation which had resulted in the situation before her. She had been visiting Hally, and it had turned out Élyse had been visiting at the same time. It had turned into an impromptu ladies night with too much wine, terrible romance movies (where they kept yelling at the TV, due to the implausible plots) and catching up on gossip. It was late in the night, after the third bag of munchies had been opened as they were lolling on top of Hally’s bed painting their nails, that Élyse had begun to complain about her brother. Honestly, Edith had been surprised it had taken Élyse so long to get upon this subject. “He is being not himself,” she began as she picked up a potato chip out of the bowl with a pair of chopsticks, in order not to screw up her freshly painted nails, “These past few years he has been…” she waved the potato chip in the air in an attempt to convey the meaning of not right, “Weird.”

Hally, who was bent over, tongue slightly poking out, foot resting on a chair as she painted her nails, muttered, “Isn’t he always weird?”

“This is weird weird,” Élyse popped another chip into her mouth and chewed thinking of what to say, swallowing, she added, “After the big 375 it was as if he got lost? He’s just been drifting around doing the actions of life, but not actually participating in life.” “Well that does happen,” Hally commented, “there are times when things seem purposeless… but then again usually a good vacation puts me into a better mood.”

Élyse snorted, “I thought that would help him, but even after sending him on a well-planned vacation, he came back tanned, with a smile on his face, but two weeks later he was back to drifting around like some lost log. It’s been annoying. He keeps drifting over to my place without even asking about my plans. Very unpleasant to show up to my place with a friend only to have his mopey face sitting on the couch flipping through the TV channels.”

“Maybe he needs a new hobby?” Edith had fatefully piped up, “Ed seems to have really taken to gardening, and his pet chickens. He and Calvin also keep up with local community classes, and baseball.”

Élyse had looked at Edith thoughtfully, “You did mention that their relationship was going irritatingly well.”

“I get hives looking at them,” Edith admitted, “I feel like I am looking at a Mormon Advert but for the perfect Gay love.”

“But didn’t Ed go through a rough patch in the past?” It was tone that was musing, something that Edith did not realize would cause trouble in her near future.

“Yes, but he seems to have really gotten better. Hate to admit it, but I have never seen him happier.” Edith put the finishing touch on her nails, and then looked over to Élyse, noticing the thoughtful expression upon her face.

“So you mean, he is actually connecting with his city? In a healthy manner?”

“Well, he is acting so well adjusted I am starting to suspect Calvin has secretly replaced him with a Stepford Wife robot.”

“Hmm… it’s been a long time since Étienne has fully connected with his own city,” Élyse had sighed, “Edith… do you think if Étienne visited your brother he might be inspired to change his life?”

Edith snorted, “Do you really think that’s a good idea, Élyse? I thought they had had a fight and weren’t socializing.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way…” Élyse had shot Edith a thoughtful look, as if trying to figure out how much she understood about the relationship between Étienne and Edward. “They do get along whenever I see them at meetings, it’s just perhaps they lost touch a little?”

“Élyse for the past few years you have been the one showing up to meetings in my city, when before Étienne seemed to always appear, even if it was an assignment specifically assigned to you,” Edith responded bluntly giving her an exasperated look.

“I think they just need to fuck,” Hally had contributed, stretching after having accomplished the painting of her toenails.

Edith had nearly choked on the chip she had just managed to swallow, and Élyse let out a long-suffering sigh.

“You always suggest fucking as the solution to everything, Hally!” Élyse managed to say in a tired manner.

“Well, it usually works for me!” Hally wiggled her eyebrows suggestively in Élyse’s direction, “Maybe if you weren’t so in love with pastries, I would show you the light.”

“Ed is with Calvin though?” Edith had said tentatively, she did her best to know as little as possible concerning Edward’s sex life. Her life was a lot better that way.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean they are strictly monogamous,” Hally had responded in a sing song voice as she stood up, walking in a penguin like manner to grab her drink.

“What does that mean?” Edith responded sharply.

Picking up her wine, Hally casually swirled it, a mischievous smirk upon her lips as she glanced over to the two of them sitting on her bed, “Well, I can confirm Calvin is a really good lay.”

“EWWWWWWW!!” Edith had shrieked, “I do not need to know this! You didn’t!”

Casually taking a sip of her wine, Hally responded, “Why not? It was a great threesome.”

“I think I’m gonna puke,” came the overdramatic response of Edith.

“Hey I am not going into full details here,” Hally laughed, “I just wanted to defend my position. They aren’t truly monogamous, well in the traditional sense.”

Élyse had been carefully observing the back and forth, an ever more thoughtful expression upon her face, as if an idea had finally taken root.

The idea of which had resulted in a lot of careful planning between Edith and Élyse (the only reason why Edith had gone along with this stupid plan was because Élyse had promised her a pastry tour of Montreal as a reward), and some careful conversations with Calvin.

At first she had been lost as to how to broach the subject. Her relationship with Calvin was friendly, but she had never been the best of friends with him. She knew him well enough that while usually upon first impressions people underestimated his sharp skills of observance, that he was never a man to be trifled with. Ever since he had moved to Edmonton however, their friendship had gradually grown to be closer, enough that every now and then he would come to her place and hang out, catching up with her.

This had been such a moment, as he casually petted her white fluffy cat, whose blue eyes had half closed in pleasure, as he sprawled across her white couch. She was sitting on her dark purple wing-backed chair, feet propped up on the matching ottoman, drinking her tea, wondering how to broach the subject.

“So you think Ed would actually give up baseball for lacrosse?” she asked in response to his conversation.

“Well, I need to discuss it with him, but baseball is getting kind of old for me,” Calvin responded.

“Hmm… talking about old news…” Edith had decided there was not ever going to be a good time to broach this subject, “I was wondering if you would be willing to do a favour for me?”

“What type of favour?” Calvin had slowed down his petting of Xerxes, his expression curious but cautious.

“Well, it is a favour for Élyse mainly,” she confessed, thinking it better to shift the blame upon the actual target, “She wants to somehow get her stupid brother to visit Edmonton.”

“Ahh…” his response had not seemed favourable at first, a thoughtful expression upon his face, “Why Edmonton?”

“She thinks that seeing how well Ed is adjusting to participating in his city will inspire Étienne to stop being a listless log?”

“Listless log?” Calvin laughed, “What type of expression is that?”

Edith had simply shrugged, “It is how Élyse has described him… apparently, he has not really been connecting with anything for the past few years, especially after the big 375. She implies he has been rather directionless.”

“Isn’t that his usual norm?”

“Well, according to Élyse this is more than usual?”

“Hmm… what would this visit entail?”

“Showing off the chickens? I don’t know, you can make the plan, I was only asked to broach the subject.”

Calvin had frowned, thinking about it, finally responding, “I want to talk to Élyse.”

“Sure.” And with that, the plan had suddenly steamrolled into the situation of today.

She had been shocked when she had first laid eyes upon Étienne when he had entered the meeting room, the concern of Élyse apparent. Étienne did not seem his usual self; even though he was acting normal, there was definitely something off about him. He was gaunt, as if his entire city was not able to provide food to give him his usual more filled-out complexion, his hair had grown longer, but it was in a manner that indicated he had given up trying to tame it. Even how he was dressed, yes it was professional, but it was not to his usual standard. When he presented in the meeting it was as if any ounce of bravado and confidence was such a forced act that she had a hard time believing that the other people in the room were being convinced by him.

Over the years, as much as she hated to admit it, she had looked up to Étienne, the way he seemed to effortlessly handle various situations. To see him acting so… off bothered her. She noticed that Edward had been shooting him some concerned glances as well, which definitely meant something was wrong. It had bothered her as she had gone home, bothered her as she chatted to her friends, and bothered her as she entered for the second day of meetings. She hoped that if perhaps she laid into him some of his spark would return to defend himself. Instead she had been watching him slowly crumble in front of her, his defense tired as if even he could not be bothered to believe in himself anymore. It did not make her feel better about the situation at all.

It was the morning coffee break, after she had seemed to strip him of any bravado (she was not doing this for pleasure, she had to defend her own interests as well,) when Étienne had turned towards her brother, expression tired, his hand slightly shaking as reached out to pick up his coffee.

Except he missed completely, his fingers instead of wrapping around his coffee cup banged right into it, causing it to tip the contents across the table and onto his lap, dripping onto the floor in a cascading waterfall and into his partially open suitcase. As he comprehended the situation, his expression changed from shock to one of ‘please kill me now’ as he leapt up, quickly moving his suitcase out of the line of fire, as well as moving any of the files on the table away from impending doom.

Edward had also leapt to action, going towards the kitchenette in the corner and grabbing the roll of paper towels, dashing forward and mopping up the table, floor, and finally, once the major crisis had been averted, dabbing Étienne’s shirt.

“Are you alright? You aren’t burnt, are you?” the question was low, and thankfully many of the other people of the meeting had already left the room for their various break needs to even witness this embarrassing scene.

Étienne had briefly closed his eyes as if trying to call upon God for strength to continue, before his hand moved up to remove the paper towel from Ed’s hand, “I’m fine. However I fear I will be spending the rest of today a monument to my disaster.” Here he made a futile gesture to his white shirt which had the brown coffee splatter across it.

Ed had stood back, considering him, “I think I can help with the shirt at least…” he had glanced at her, “Do you mind finishing the clean up while I get Étienne back into form?”

Deciding that this was preferable as well as feeling mildly guilty, Edith had simply nodded in acquiescence.

XXXXX

“Where are you taking me?” Étienne asked as Ed firmly grabbed his hand leading him out of the conference room.

“My office, idiot, I think I have a suit jacket at least that can cover up the worst of this,” he responded as he guided them to the elevator.

“Office?”

“Of course I have an office? Where else do you think I get work done? A bush?” the last part was asked lightly, a teasing note that apparently was lost upon the other man.

“No.” Étienne responded feeling a little stung. “I just… haven’t had an official office in years…”

The elevator dinged, and they got in. It was empty, and as the doors closed, Ed finally let go of Étienne’s hand, however he did not move it far, their fingers still brushing as he turned to look at the other man carefully.

“You telecommute?”

“No. I just don’t really bother with city business that much anymore,” came the soft admission, Étienne looking intensely at a corner, shoulders slumping even more as if admitting this was just placing another burden upon himself. So far it had not been the best of mornings for him, what from seeing Love’s Young Dream interact over breakfast, to the aggressive person on the bus who had elbowed him in the gut… to trying to avoid any in depth conversations with Ed… to being torn apart during the meeting… It was only 11:00 am and Étienne already wanted to return to bed.

“You mean you’re letting these intergenerational yahoos have free reign?” a light question, it seemed as if Calvin’s slang was rubbing off on Ed which somehow made Étienne feel even worse.

“Maybe I trust my people more than you?” a sharp response, one that indicated he did not want to talk about this subject anymore.

Ed’s fingers tentatively rubbed against Étienne’s, the touch comforting but also trying to gauge his feelings, he asked quietly “Or you trust Élyse to do all the work?”

Sparing a brief glance, he quickly looked away, hating how intensely Ed was looking at him. Stiffly looking forward, Étienne said, “That isn’t fair, Edward. There is no contract claiming that we need to dedicate our lives to boring city work.”

“Right. Sorry.” Edward shifted away slightly, his hand brushing up against Étienne’s as he moved it to adjust his shirt sleeve, fumbling with the buttons. The gap between them was suddenly colder, and Étienne wished he had not been so sharp. “I guess I was used to you being more interested in the events of your city…”

“Maybe I wanted a change.”

Their conversation was cut short as the elevator opened, and Ed promptly stepped out leading Étienne over to his cubicle.

“I thought you said ‘office’?” Étienne asked, looking around the small cubicle with curiosity. It was a cubicle that sat on that boundary between organized and a mess. Upon his desk was a work computer, sticky notes stuck all over the monitor reminding him of various tasks, the paper flowing onto the cloth cubicle siding, interspersed with various photographs. There was a cute one of the three chickens dressed up in little Oilers jerseys, another of him and Calvin leaning against Calvin’s truck, cowboy hats on, smiling at the person taking the photo, once more Calvin had his arm casually around Edward’s shoulder indicating how Perfect their relationship was. He looked away from the other photos, not wanting to see them, looking at the little black paper tower on Ed’s desk with various files placed on the levels. Next to Ed’s computer lay a diagram, which looked as if it was showing trees lining some sort of pedestrian boulevard. Reading the scrawled writing, he made out the words “Lilac Lane?” before once more his attention was drawn towards Edward.

“What did you mean about office?”

“Well, I thought you would be separate? Closed door?”

“Ah. Well, I did have one like that but I found it too isolating. I prefer the cubicle, puts me on a more even ground and I get to be caught up on all the gossip,” he briefly smiled at Étienne, “How else could I keep up on the ongoing drama of Moab’s life?”

Ed had opened up a tall tan metal cabinet, which was housing an extra pair of shoes, the promised suit jacket, and a rather whimsical blue shirt with a repeating pineapple print upon it.

“Oh I forgot about this…” Ed pulled out the shirt, and looked over to Étienne, “This is from one of the theme days. The theme was tropical vacation… this should fit you.”

Étienne stared at the shirt for a moment, a look of distaste upon his face. Of course the print would be pineapples, he thought with sour memories. However the dampness of his shirt was bothering him, and with a sigh, he reluctantly he removed his shirt, placing it upon Ed’s desk, next to the open file and put the pineapple shirt on. It fit rather well, the shoulders were a bit off but not so much that it caused a problem. Quickly he buttoned it up, wondering what else this day had in store for him.

“Wonderful, you look amazing, as if you are about to embark on a trip to Tofino,” Ed laughed, “Do you need the suit jacket as well?”

Making a face at Edward, Étienne grumbled, “Yes, I need to hide as much of this ugly print as possible.”

“Excuse me, this print is a Value Village two-dollar special!” came the mock offended tone as Ed grabbed the grey suit jacket, which did not match Étienne’s black pants at all. The end result was rather comic, but at least Étienne was not reeking of coffee anymore.

“What’s this Lilac Lane?” Étienne asked indicating the open file upon Ed’s desk.

“Oh? Well I want to have a place where people can view flowers in the spring, maybe make a flower festival?”

Raising an eyebrow, Étienne responded in a teasing tone, “Spring? Flowers? Edmonton?”

“Hey! Just because my flowers emerge a month after everyone else’s doesn’t mean they are worth any less for viewing,” Ed huffed, “They just take a little longer to develop and become more beautiful!”

Étienne’s response was cut short, when a head popped up from one of the nearby cubicles, revealing a spotty young redheaded man, whose lips were rather thick.

“Ed! How’s the meeting going?”

“Oh you know, Edith is about ready to murder me and Étienne here.”

The man looked over to Étienne as if he had just noticed him. His look was questioning and Edward hastily added, “He is representing Montreal interests concerning the transit, providing a different perspective.”

“You mean like he did with the NAIT line?” a skeptical tone.

Sensing that this might turn into a battle, Ed added, “Look Joe, we really need to get back to the meeting, I’ll catch you up later alright?”

“Sure. Maybe we can do coffee next week?”

“Sounds great, c’mon Étienne,” Ed said as they left his cubicle. As he was passing by some of the other cubicles various coworkers greeted him, trying to catch up, which Ed hastily explained they had to return to the meeting.

Silently Étienne observed these interactions contemplating how well liked Edward was. It was obvious that he had formed rather lasting friendships with his officemates. It felt like Edward was living in another universe in some ways. As they entered the meeting room, Étienne steeled himself.

XXXX

Edward had nearly forgotten Étienne’s soiled shirt in the cubicle, and they were already out of the elevator when he had told Étienne to ‘stay’ as he rushed back towards it in order to grab it.

Standing there, Étienne idly checked his phone, his mood lifting as he noticed Isa had texted him, it was rather cheeky and she was inquiring when he would visit her.

He texted back, pleasantly surprised when her response was rapid, and he spent some time teasingly flirting with her, until Ed appeared rather red in the face.

“Sorry about that, had to grab your shirt, let’s go… though I guess we missed the first bus home.”

It was probably a slip up, Étienne thought, as placed his phone into his pocket, calling the place home. Including Étienne into that idea of home. While the conversation with Isa had temporarily lifted his mood, it once more took a downturn as they entered Ed’s house, and he realized that he had not managed to dry out all the documents in his brief case.

He ended up laying them out across the kitchen table, painstakingly separating some of the sticky pages. Thankfully his tablet had been spared.

What made things worse was when Calvin entered and burst out laughing at Étienne’s shirt, asking when the Pineapple Express was due. Ed had appeared then and ordered them out of the kitchen so that he could make them dinner.

Étienne had absconded to his room to change out of the offensive shirt and quickly shower in order to remove any remnants of coffee from his body. It was at this point that he realized he had forgotten to bring in any clothes to the washroom, so he hastily wrapped himself in a towel, and went to make the short, but also agonizingly long dash, to the guest bedroom, a route that passed by the living room, where Calvin was sitting.

The dirty clothes over one arm, Étienne’s steps were rapid, and as he passed by, he glanced over to Calvin, who had looked up, a mild look of surprise at his state, but the moment was brief.

Thankful to change into his other pair of pants, the ones he had brought for lounging around in, Étienne left his room and, not knowing where else to go, entered the living room. He was pleasantly surprised that Calvin had thoughtfully grabbed him a beer.

Settling down onto the couch opposite of Calvin he looked over to the TV, realizing it was the news. Dread took him as Calvin lowered the volume, the intention of conversation obvious.

“How was the transit meeting today? What happened to cause you to change shirts?”

“Ugh, it was horrible. Managed to spill coffee all over myself,” Étienne responded.

“I hate when that happens, usually it occurs at the very moment you want to look the most impressive.” Calvin sighed sympathetically. “Luckily I am an expert at getting stains out of clothing, so if you put your soiled clothes into the laundry basket I will clean it up.”

“You?” Étienne frowned.

Chuckling, Calvin said, “What, you think Ed is the perfect house husband? The last time he did laundry he managed to turn one of my shirts pink. I am not entirely sure if it was a mistake or on purpose…”

“So when did you become such an expert on stains?” his curiosity was piqued and he shifted his leg, moving up onto the couch as he looked more fully at Calvin.

“Well, rodeo riding is not kind to one’s clothing, I was forced to become an expert on stains, especially since Caroline informed me I was on my own for that.” This was said with no malice, instead a large grin was upon Calvin’s face as he said this.

“Sound’s like something Élyse would do,” Étienne responded with a small responding smile.

“Ah well, it made me more independent.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Ed popped his head in to inform them dinner was ready. As they entered the kitchen Étienne noticed that the papers had moved and were hung up on a string, clipped up with little clothing pins. The table was neatly laid and in the middle of it was a pot of beef stew and some crusty buns.

Sitting down, Étienne tucked in, the food managing to banish some of the yuckiness of the day, the conversation between them pleasant.

However, once more it drifted to Étienne’s hair.

“It’s looking wild,” Ed was insisting as Calvin cleared up the dishes. Ed had moved next to Étienne, his fingers tangling into the locks, “There are split ends everywhere, do you even use a conditioner?!”

“Ed, my hair is fine,” Étienne had gone rather stiff, not sure how to act in front of Calvin, who had turned to look at them, his expression inscrutable. Feeling Ed’s fingers tangling in his hair was bringing back too many memories which he had worked hard to supress.

“I think you ought to let him cut it, or at least trim it,” Calvin said as he casually wiped his hands on the red checked kitchen towel, “He is going to bother you the rest of the time you are here until you give in, trust me, I know.”

“His hair is looking too wild, isn’t it Calvin?”

Glancing between the two men, Calvin shrugged, “No opinion, I opt out of this test!”

“Incorrigible!” Ed responded, as he looked to Étienne, “Isn’t he? The worst.”

“I am only agreeing to you because you are currently holding my hair captive.” Étienne responded as he jokingly mouthed ‘please save me’ in Calvin’s direction.

“Oh right,” Ed released his grip and stood up, “So what do you say? Just a little trim…”

“Hmmm, well I trust when Calvin informs me you won’t let up, alright.” Étienne sighed giving an over exaggerated shrug of defeat. “Where do you want me?”

“Stay here!” Ed had dashed out of the kitchen.

Calvin sat back down into his seat, another beer in his hand. “Don’t be too worried, he is rather good at this.”

“I’m not worried.” Étienne responded, and he was surprised when he realized he wasn’t. He trusted Ed, knew that he would not end up with a terrible hair cut.

A few moments later, Ed returned with a cape which he placed around Étienne to capture his hair, a razor, a comb and some scissors.

“What do you want?”

“Hmmm… a trim. I am quite keen on keeping my hair longer,” Étienne responded.

“Your wish is my command!” Ed gently spritzed Étienne’s hair with some water, his fingers gently combing through the mass of curls, the comb laying neglected upon the table. The actions were soothing, and Étienne tried to remember how many times Ed had played with his hair, the moments coming back to him, and he realized they were too innumerable to count. He closed his eyes, pretending that the situation was different. The soft snips were constant, as he listened to the conversation between Ed and Calvin, as they discussed various topics, from the chickens to a future meeting that Calvin had to participate in down in Calgary.

He was disappointed when he felt Ed fluff his hair, put the scissors down, and step away.

“Done!” sounding pleased with himself, Ed handed Étienne a mirror, and then held another up behind his head, lining them up so that Étienne could see the full effect.

His hair, which had looked neglected, now was neat. Perhaps the trim was a tad shorter than he would have preferred, but it looked rather good, and Étienne thought with mild amusement that he now looked like a well cared for poodle.

“It looks good, thank you,” Étienne set the mirror down, and as he stood up, he awkwardly worked to take the cape off, which resulted in him somehow dumping hair down his pants. “Urgh… now my legs are itchy.”

“You should have waited until I told you to stand up,” Ed responded as he swept the hair off the floor.

“I don’t have any clean pants,” Étienne sighed as he tried to beat some of the hair off of them.

“You can borrow some of mine,” Calvin responded, “I have some sweat pants which should fit.”

Before Étienne could respond, Calvin had left the room and returned with a pair of maroon sweatpants.

“Thanks,” taking them, Étienne left the room and changed. He then followed Calvin’s advice and placed his dirty clothing items into the laundry basket. He glanced at the clock and realized it was still too early to go to bed, but he was not so keen to return to the kitchen. On a whim, he slipped on his shoes and stepped out into the backyard, lit up by the slowly setting sun. He wandered over to the chickens and squatted nearby, watching as they pecked and scratched the dirt.

Henrietta looked at him curiously and waddled up to him, wanting attention. Tentatively he reached out and stroked her back. Her eyes closed in contentment, and he found himself being bapped on the knee by Mary-Anne who also apparently wanted some attention. He shifted making sure he was balanced as he petted the two chickens who were making soft crooning sounds.

In the distance however, Esther stood apart, looking at him suspiciously. Étienne petted them until his legs began to lock up, and he reluctantly had to stand.

As he stretched, Esther waddled a little further from him.

“Hey you,” Étienne said to her, “You are going to have to accept me at some point.” He was not sure why he had even said such a thing, but he was suddenly invested in making this chicken like him.

As he took a step forward, thinking of picking her up, he heard Calvin’s voice pipe up, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you—”

It was a warning too late, as Étienne’s hands neared Esther, she had fluffed up and pecked him hard before scurrying away.

Swearing, Étienne stood up and looked accusingly towards Calvin, who was squatting in a flower bed, hat on head, and weeding.

“How long have you been here?”

Calvin shrugged, “A while. Before you came out… I was curious was to what you were doing with the chickens… so I admit it, I spied. Don’t worry about your clothes, I popped them into the wash.”

“Oh…” Étienne flushed as he remembered the words he had said to Esther and hoped that Calvin would not put too much interest in them.

“Did you know that you can make jam out of just about anything?” Calvin asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You can make jam out of beetroots! At first when Ed suggested it I was skeptical, because, what the hell? Beetroots in jam?” Calvin was digging up another weed, and he paused as he took a moment to pull it out. “But it turned out I was pleasantly wrong. He even makes a mean beetroot chutney…”

“You speak of these jams as if I know them,” Étienne responded, “And I have not even sampled the chocolate cherry...”

“Really? Geez you are slow, there the jam was on the table in front of you like a prize and you didn’t even open it to take a dab?” Calvin rolled his eyes, “You better watch out or else I am going to eat it all.”

“Fine… you have convinced me… I am going to take a dab as you say,” Étienne responded, “See if what you say is true.”

“Hell, why would I lie to you, Étienne?” Calvin rubbed some sweat off his face, which only left a large smear of dirt on his cheek. “Though if I were smart, I would not rave about Ed’s cooking, you might just end up staying, due to being so fat you can’t even fit on an airplane!”

“I doubt that I will gain that much weight from three days, Calvin,” Étienne replied as he rolled his eyes. He walked back to the house, and entered it. He listened trying to figure out where Ed was, but as he entered the kitchen he found him there making lunch for the next day.

Glancing around the kitchen Étienne wondered where the jam would be kept, he decided it was probably easier to ask Ed, and he walked up to him.

Hearing his footsteps, Ed looked up from the stew he was ladling into a container, and softly said, “Hey.”

“Hey… do you know where the jam is? I want to try the chocolate cherry.”

A guilty look crossed Ed’s face, “Oh… I ate it all…”

“You… what?”

The guilt broke into a mischievous smirk, “As if, it’s in the cabinet over there…”

“You are bad Ed, you should know not to get between a man and his jam, otherwise there could be consequences!” Étienne warned as he opened the cupboard indicated and pulled out the jam.

“Oh? Like what?” Ed’s tone had turned mildly flirtatious, and Étienne chanced a glance at him. Ed was not even looking at him, instead he was screwing the lid on the containers and placing them into the lunch boxes.

“Waking up in bed covered in my hair?” Étienne threatened thinking of all the hair that had been swept up and placed in the garbage.

“Been there done that, need a better threat.” came the absentminded reply.

“I meant with my hair clippings not with me,” Étienne tried to clarify suddenly feeling embarrassed. He was having the weird feeling that they were having two entirely different conversations.

As he placed the boxes into the refrigerator, Ed looked over to Étienne, his expression confused. “Why your hair clippings… oh... ok... right. I suppose that would be weird, I mean, usually when I find hair in my bed it’s not from the garbage…”

“I think you are taking this threat too literally.” Étienne popped the lid off the jam, and then he dabbed his finger into it and popped it into his mouth, eyes closing briefly as bliss as the sweet and tangy taste hit his tongue. Calvin had been correct, this was the best goddam jam ever. No wonder he ate the stuff out of the jar.

“Well?” the question was tentative, and it took a moment for Étienne to figure out what the hell Ed was asking about.

Opening his eyes he looked over to him, “Delicious.” He scooped more out with his finger and sucked it, “This entire jar is mine now, not sharing at all.”

Flushing in pleasure at the compliment, Ed looked away, busying himself with folding the kitchen towel. “Thank you.”

“Hmm?”

“You complimenting the food mean you genuinely like it… it’s good to know I can make something that can please you.” He was still folding the towel, the movements slow, contemplative.

“Of course it’s genuine, what do I have to gain except more food?” Étienne teased, “It’s not as if I can get into your pants with any old compliment anymore.”

“Oh my god Étienne,” Ed laughed, “I am going to check the chickens, please don’t eat the entire jar in one go, you would get sick from all the sweetness.”

Licking his lips, Étienne responded, “I am an adult, I can do what I want to.”

“Well don’t expect me to be handing you a hot water bottle when your tummy aches,” Ed warned as he left the kitchen.

“I won’t,” Étienne responded too softly for Ed to hear. As he took another scoop of jam the feeling of emptiness returned. Ed and Calvin had a life, and assigned duties. He had no idea what was expected of him, what he should be doing. He was a guest, being taken care of, no need to contribute. Was it allowed for him to sit in the living room alone? Play a game of pool? Were they expecting him outside?

He moved and glanced out the kitchen window into the backyard, watching as Ed paused by Calvin, their conversation brief, before he moved to inspect the coop, make sure that the chickens were well watered and fed. An idyllic scene that did not include him, he thought. Where did he fit in? He had been oozing around his own city like a ghost, acting in repeated habits, but with a feeling of no longer being a part of it. Wherever he went the feeling lingered. He stood there watching them until he had finished the jar, his finger pressing against the glass scooping for any remaining parts of it. It was not intentional to finish the jar, his mind had been preoccupied. With a sigh, knowing that Ed would probably scold him, he placed it into the sink and washed his hands. Perhaps he could just go back to the guest bedroom and hide in there, pretend he had gone to bed early.

His thoughts were disrupted when the two men entered the house again, laughing over some story.

Calvin glanced into the kitchen, “Hey Et! We’re going to catch up on some TV, care to join?”

Not sure what else to say, he agreed. TV at least was low maintenance.

#quatschfic #pc: edmonton #pc: strathcona #pc: montreal #pc: calgary #pc: halifax #pc: fem!montreal #2020

10 notes · View notes

marcusssanderson · 5 years

Text

100 Good Night Quotes For The Best Sleep Of Your Life

Looking for positive good night quotes and sayings for before bed? These good night quotes will help you end the day with a smile on your face.

It’s easy to lay in the bed and toss and turn as we fight to let go of the day. But actually letting the day go is the only way to end a long day.

Even though the day was stressful, we did the best we could – and we deserve to rest.

So how can we effectively let go of the day?

Well, we can’t let the day go if:

We are replaying conversations

Thinking about all the things we didn’t do

Thinking about all the things we need to do

While we’re preparing for bed, we need to change the conversation.

We need to:

Be thankful for the opportunity we have to rest and sleep in a bed

See rest as important to our growth

Realize there will always be more to do

We hope you enjoy this collection of good night quotes and hope it impacts your internal dialogue just before bed.

Below is our collection of inspirational, beautiful, and charming good night quotes, good night messages, and good night wishes, collected from a variety of sources over the years.

Good Night Quotes For Letting The Day Go

1.) “Before you go to sleep, do not forget to say thanks for everything good that has happened to you in the last 24 hours. I am thankful at the moment for you.”

2.) “Never let the darkness or negativity outside affect your inner self. Just wait until morning comes and the bright light will drown out the darkness. Today has been difficult, but tomorrow will be another day.”

3.) “The darker the night, the brighter the stars, The deeper the grief, the closer is God!” – Fyodor Dostoyevsky

4.) “I like the night. Without the dark, we’d never see the stars.” – Stephenie Meyer – Twilight

5.) “She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.”

6.) “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” – William Shakespeare

7.) “The night breeze is blowing through my hair and the soft touch reminds me of your kisses. I wish I didn’t have to miss you this muchs.”

8.) “Although I love the stars that dot the night sky, I love the stars in your eyes even more. While I sleep, I will think about my favorite stars and wait to be with you again.”

9.) “A day is going to end again. It is nice to have a friend like you. Making my everyday seems so great. Thank you my friend lastly. Good Night and Sweet Dreams.”

10.) “I love the silent hour of night, for blissful dreams may then arise, Revealing to my charmed sight – What may not bless my waking eyes.” – Anne Brontë

11.) “All I wish is that the nights when we are together would never end. When we are apart, I cannot bear it. Good night, my love.”

12.) “Sleep, my Bella, dream happy dreams, you are the only one who has ever touched my heart, it will forever be yours.” – Edward Cullen

13.) “The longest way must have its close – the gloomiest night will wear on to a morning.” – Harriet Beecher Stowe

14.) “While you dream, I wish that each hope and goal comes true. I just want you to receive everything that you have wished for.”

15.) “Music is love, love is music, music is life, and I love my life. Thank you and good night.” – A. J. McLean

16.) “The sun is upset now, but the moon dances in joy. Although the sun is depressed at seeing you go, the moon gets to enjoy the whole night with you.”

Funny Good Night Quotes

17.) “There is something that is big, warm and fuzzy. Before you get too many ideas, you should know that it is a good night hug sent from me to you!”

18.) “I think the best way to get a good night sleep is to work hard throughout the day. If you work hard and, of course, work out.” – William H. McRaven

19.) “I prioritize in life. I like to work, I do TV shows, I do a lot of Iron Man training. I enjoy kicking back on a good night and drinking wine until I go to bed, and having fun with my friends. You just have to make time for it and keep it balanced.” – Joe Bastianich

20.) “Tonight, I would walk a thousand miles just to be with you. Missing you, my love.”

21.) “They say that God sprinkles his blessings upon the earth every day and I think I have caught one—it’s you! Wishing you a good night and I love you.”

22.) “Thank God for everything good that has happened during the day and wish everyone else a good night. Afterward, take a deep breath and sleep tight while dreaming of me. Sweet dreams.” – Romancebetweenthelines.com

23.) “Make sure to be thankful before bed. What you think about now will determine the state of your dreams.”

24.) “That’s the advantage of insomnia. People who go to be early always complain that the night is too short, but for those of us who stay up all night, it can feel as long as a lifetime. You get a lot done.” – Banana Yoshimoto

25.) “I was walking along and this chair came flying past me, and another, and another, and I thought, man, is this gonna be a good night.” – Liam Gallagher

26.) “I just want to say, good night, sweet prince, may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” – Harry Dean Stanton

27.) “Sometimes I’m so tired, I look down at what I’m wearing, and if it’s comfortable enough to sleep in, I don’t even make it into my pajamas. I’m looking down, and I’m like, ‘t-shirt and stretchy pants? Yup, that’s fine. It’s pajama-y, good night’.”- Rebecca Romijn

28.) “My idea of a good night has always been having a lovely meal and a proper conversation.” – Kirsty Gallacher

29.) “Here is a short line to keep in touch because you’re always on my mind very much.”

30.) “Love is one of the simplest feelings. All I dream about is capturing your heart each night. You already have my heart.”

31.) “Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.” – Poppy Z. Brite

32.) “Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.” – Dylan Thomas

33.) “God’s guidance is like a small lamp in a dark forest… Doesn’t show everything at once… But gives enough light for the next step to be safe. Goodnight!”

34.) “Here is to hoping that angels will guard you while you dream and the gentle breezes of the night will keep you cool. If it is too cold, may your blankets be warm as you drift on to a gentle rest.”

Good Night Quotes for Friends and Family

35.) The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.” – Haruki Murakami

36.) “Touch your heart and shut your eyes, dream sweet dreams and sleep tight.”

37.) “Each day I wish that my dreams will come true. Then I remember that I am now with you.”

38.) “Nighttime can seem longer than the day when you dream big dreams. Daytime lasts longer for people who make their dreams come true.”

39.) “The stars and moon arrive just to wish you a good night. Let the light of the moon guide your dreams as you pass the night away.”

40.) “No matter how far away you are, you will always be in my thoughts. Each day that we are together is the best day of my life.”

41.) “Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night.” – Virginia Woolf

42.) “There may be a billion yesterdays and a trillion tomorrows, but there is only ever one today. I would never let one day pass without letting you know that I am thinking of you.”

43.) “Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.” – Edgar Allan Poe

44.) “All I wish a sheet of clouds for your bed and bright crystals for the stars. While you sleep, may the angels play sweet songs that bring you bright dreams.”

45.) “The day is busy enough to keep me occupied. In the quiet of the night, I begin to really miss you.”

46.) “Life begins at night.” – Charlaine Harris, Dead Until Dark

47.) “Each night, I hope that the moon is large and bright and you will be happy and right. When you turn off the light, keep in mind that I am dreaming of you.”

48.) “Night is longer than day for those who DREAM, and day is longer than night for those who make their DREAMS come true.”

49.) “Each hour is crawling by like years. I cannot wait to be in your arms yet again.”

50.) “Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover. Like smoke from an unseen fire, a line of fire just below the horizon, brushfire or a burning city. Maybe night falls because it’s heavy, a thick curtain pulled up over the eyes. Wool blanket.” – Margaret Atwood

51.) “Good night, and good luck.” – Edward R. Murrow

More Good Night Quotes About Wishes

52.) “Good night my dearest love and have pleasant dreams. Here’s to the hope that tomorrow will be as sunny and bright as you are.”

53.) “Brings you dreams of castles in the air and big goals for the future. Rest tonight and allow dreams of the future to wash over your mind.”

54.) “As the moonlight dims and the world goes quite, give yourself some rest. Here’s to hoping that your sleep is as sweet as you are.”

55.) “Here is to wishing that your mind will rest in sweet serenity while the nighttime passes by.”

56.) “If I give you my heart, will you promise not to break it? Wishing you were here.”

57.) “All I do each day is wait to be with you again. My entire day revolves around the hope that I can spend my evenings in your arms again.”

58.) “Take a breath and gaze up at the stars. See the two brightest stars? Those are my eyes twinkling back at you.”

59.) “May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.” » Franz Kafka

60.) “Disappointment always arrives before hope and the darkness of night comes before the dawn. Don’t lose hope now because things will brighter with the new day.”

61.) “Sleep is such a luxury, which I can’t afford (suffering from Insomnia).” – Robin Sika war

62.) “Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.” » Mahatma Gandhi

63.) “All I wish that I could be there to say goodnight instead of sending you this message.”

64.) “Take a look out your window now. Although we may be apart at the moment, we can both gaze up at the same moon.”

Good night quotes to end the day on a positive note

65.) “A good night in is a series of documentaries.” – Elizabeth Debicki

66.) “Day is over, night has come. Today is gone, what’s done is done. Embrace your dreams, through the night. Tomorrow comes with a whole new light.”

67.) “This is the end of the day, but soon there will be a new day.” – Bernard Williams

68.) “The best bridge between despair and hope is a good night’s sleep.” – E. Joseph Cossman

69.) “Think of all the good moments of this day and keep a smile for tomorrow! Good night!”

70.) “Night is the wonderful opportunity to take rest, to forgive, to smile, to get ready for all the battles that you have to fight tomorrow.” – Allen Ginsberg

71.) “I promise to be the warrior who fights all your nightmares and the messenger who brings all your sweet dreams. Good night.”

72.) “Night is to see the dreams and day is to make them true. So its good to sleep now and see the dreams. Good night, sweet dreams!”

73.) “Your bed is ready to give you a hug, you should be ready to have a rest, and say goodbye to all the stress. Good night!”

Good night quotes to make them smile

74.) “Always end the day with a positive thought. No matter how hard things were, tomorrow’s a fresh opportunity to make it better.” – Harry Dean Stanton

75.) “Don’t worry about tomorrow, because God’s already been there.”

76.) “Forget about your troubles and let the sweetness of this lovely night lull you to a blissful sleep. Tomorrow is a new beginning. Good night.”

77.) “Listen to the nightsky, the Mockingbird always sing you my lullaby.” ― Jmemo

78.) “Lay your head down and go to sleep. Think good thoughts and begin to dream.”

79.) “Goodnight, goodnight. The time has come to close your eyes. Everything needs rest to be their best. Tomorrow will be here in the blink of an eye and a shake of a dog’s tail.”

80.) “The moon embalms me with her love and she kisses me good night. The nightingale sings her song of love when I take rest in the arms of darkness in the night!” ― Avijeet Das

81.) “Slow down your thoughts. Focus on your breaths. Get rid of the clutter in your mind. Prepare your mind and body for rest. It is time to go to sleep and wake up refreshed and rejuvenated in the morning.”

Beautiful good night quotes

82.) “If someone wishes you goodnight every day, you’re happier than so many people.”

83.) “My idea of a good night out is staying in.” – Martin Freeman

84.) “May you dream of lovely things and to find them real.”

85.) “Let go of every trouble that bothers your heart and mind tonight, and you shall wake up feeling refreshed tomorrow. Good night.”

86.) “Goodnight. Sleep awaits those of us who dare to dream.” ― Anthony T. Hincks

87.) “As you go to bed tonight, sleep with the knowledge that God sees your plights and hears your cries, and in due time will grant you the desires of your heart. Good night.”

88.) “Star light, star bright, you are the 1st and last I think of tonight. Goodnight, my true love.”

89.) “Goodnight. Let the stars light the way to where your dreams can be found awaiting your arrival.” ― Anthony T. Hincks

90.) “Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, closet. Goodnight, clothes. Goodnight, TV. Goodnight, kitchen. Goodnight, book on my nightstand. Goodnight, everyone and everything everywhere.”

Good night quotes to bring positive thoughts

91.) “Positive thoughts breed a positive life, so close your eyes hoping for a brighter future. Have a blessed good night sleep and sweet dreams!”

92.) “As the night gets dark, let your worries fade. Sleep peacefully knowing you’ve done all you can do for today.” -Roald Dahl

93.) “Let the sheep jump over the moon as you count them until your eyes close shut, knowing tomorrow is filled with adventure.”

94.) “Tomorrow is a new day and a new start to make things the best they can be! Let someone know what they mean to you! Goodnight!”

95.) “The sea will grant each man new hope, and sleep will bring dreams of home.” – Christopher Columbus

96.) “A good night sleep and beautiful dream are the best things to charm your tomorrow.”

97.) “Before you fall asleep every day, say something positive to yourself.” – Enid Bagnold

98.) “Only a peaceful good night sleep can help you to start afresh tomorrow with new positive energy.”

99.) “Let your mind weave into your subconscious. Your dreams will be filled with the beautiful castles your mind creates.”

100.) “The night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.” – Vincent van Gogh

Ready to say these wonderful good night quotes to someone special?

Whether it’s a friend, partner, or family member, ending the day by wishing them good night assures them of your love. Accompany it with a sweet kiss or a tight embrace.

Whichever message you choose to send out and how, either way, it would truly send them off the dreamland with a smile. Hopefully, the good night quotes above will help keep your worries aside so you can follow the night with happiness.

Did you enjoy these good night quotes? Which of the quotes was your favorite? Let us know in the comment section below.

The post 100 Good Night Quotes For The Best Sleep Of Your Life appeared first on Everyday Power.

0 notes

vdbstore-blog · 7 years

Text

New Post has been published on Vintage Designer Handbags Online | Vintage Preowned Chanel Luxury Designer Brands Bags & Accessories

New Post has been published on http://vintagedesignerhandbagsonline.com/beauty-queen-how-pat-mcgrath-revolutionised-makeup-fashion/

Beauty queen: how Pat McGrath revolutionised makeup | Fashion

In 20 years of interviewing actors, musicians, designers and artists, my audience with Pat McGrath has been the most difficult. Not because she’s chilly or aloof (she’s tactile, warm, prone to outbursts of laughter and the lavish use of “darling”), but because not a minute goes by without a passerby interrupting to tell her how much they admire her, and to my frustration, she spends much of our precious allotted time indulging them.

“You look beautiful, darling,” she purrs to one beauty blogger, as worried publicists look on impatiently. “Let me get someone from my team to do your makeup! It’ll be gorgeous on you,” she says to another. She stops again to pose for a photograph with actor Olivia Palermo (who seems under no illusion that she might be the main attraction here), then again to reel off some social media content and to check an assistant has her trainers. By then our “intimate chat”, in a bustling Parisian penthouse, is rather up against it, because McGrath is due to get on a motorbike to the Ritz, where an unnamed celebrity is waiting to be made up for the red carpet.

She promises a follow-up within days, and so begins almost a fortnight of postponements, briefing calls, time-zone complications and several profuse apologies as beauty’s biggest hitter paints, dusts and blends her way across dozens of faces and two continents. Truly, I have interviewed more accessible Oscar winners.

‘I just love cosmetics’ … Pat McGrath. Photograph: Ben Hassett

The reason I’ve been granted this extremely rare face time with the world’s most influential makeup artist is that she’s just launched her eponymous makeup line, Pat McGrath Labs, in Europe. The brand has already smashed the US, where McGrath lives in two New York West Village apartments, one above the other, though she is barely ever in either. She’s mostly on the road, working on magazine covers for the likes of Vogue, Harpers and W, the faces of celebrities such as Rihanna and Kim Kardashian, on advertising campaigns for Versace, Prada, Louis Vuitton and Gucci, and designing the makeup looks for around 80 major fashion shows per year (she is widely acknowledged as the most prolific catwalk makeup artist of all time). She travels from one fashion capital to another with dozens of makeup cases and a huge team of between 25 and 90 devoted artists to carry them all. “The most we’ve ever taken is 87 trunks,” she tells me. “I’ve collected everything for about 25 years. I’d go into a department store now and buy everything. It’s who I am. I just love cosmetics.”

McGrath qualifies this by telling me that she has filled 4,000 square feet of storage with products and says “You couldn’t get anyone more makeup addicted than me”, perhaps because she knows her passion for face paint isn’t immediately apparent. Much like the most celebrated fashion experts wear only black (she does, too – today she’s in a long black skirt, matching shirt and her signature wide black headband), the world’s top makeup artist doesn’t appear to be wearing the stuff herself. “I wear very natural makeup but it’s made up out of five foundations to make that perfect skin and my lipstick might be three different lipsticks mixed together, so it’s a kind of obsession in a different way,” she laughs.

If beauty is McGrath’s addiction, her single mother was her pusher. McGrath was raised in Northampton by Jean, whose love of God was matched only by an extraordinary fascination with everything fashion and beauty. From as early as McGrath can remember, working class, Jamaican-born, Jehovah’s Witness Jean was schooling her in advanced aesthetic awareness. “My mother was obsessed with makeup,” she says. “She would stand in front of the TV and we’d have to guess what she’d done differently with her eyes. I’d think: ‘Get out of the way!’ But she wouldn’t move until I’d told her.” Together they would analyse the makeup looks of Old Hollywood film stars, identifying which had inspired fashion designers that season.

Jean encouraged McGrath to be creative with makeup, mixing pigments from scratch to get exactly the right colour, adding heat to the skin with her fingertips to give it a healthier glow and soften the look of foundation. She explains: “She always put on a full face of makeup then got in the bath to get that dewy finish. It was next level, but this is where I got my makeup tips from – at seven years old!” Together, Jean (a talented dressmaker) and McGrath would go and look at Vogue patterns, then off to the market, where all the fabric buyers sold their remnants, before deciding which makeup would best go with the clothes.

A model with makeup by McGrath at Christian Dior show, 2008. Photograph: Penske Media/REX/Shutterstock

Whether they could find makeup to suit their skin colour was another matter entirely. To say women of colour were under-served by beauty brands in 70s and 80s Britain is a woeful understatement. “There was no makeup for women of colour,” she reminds me. “NOTHING. That’s what my mother’s search was all about. When we were out shopping we were always looking for a product that, probably by accident rather than design, worked for us. Where there was no ashiness, no ‘white cast’ [an effect commonly caused by talc in caucasian-skewed makeup], probably from some makeup line that had either discontinued it or gone bust.”

She concedes that this may be why she initially became known for colourful and avant-garde makeup, rather than for the “nude” shades that were so popular in the late 80s. Back then the dominant makeup look was matte and flat textured, created with products that had insufficient pigment for darker skins, which gave skin a sculpted but almost lifelike quality. Then, as sometimes even today, the word “nude” was commonly used as a euphemism for tones present in caucasian skin.

The teenage McGrath was drawn to looks that were a little leftfield, and got her big break “while stalking Spandau Ballet outside Radio 1”, wearing new romantic garb and bold lipstick on her eyes, cheeks and lips. She was spotted by presenter Janice Long, who pointed at McGrath’s face and asked: “Will you do that on me?” She recalls: “I didn’t even know that was a job. She said it was, so I went home that night knowing what I was going to do with my life.” She later moved to London and through the club scene, got her break doing makeup for Soul II Soul, who appeared frequently in the credible fashion press. Soon she was working for the Face and i-D, where 18-year-old stylist Edward Enninful had just been made the industry’s youngest ever fashion director. The two became close. Her bold makeup translated well into his striking photo shoots and stood out during the 1990s grunge era, when makeup was often downplayed to the point of non-existence.

It proved to be just one of many hugely creative and influential collaborations in McGrath’s career (she has been the go-to makeup artist for designer Miuccia Prada and photographer Steven Meisel for years), but is the longest and perhaps the most personal one. Both Enninful and McGrath describe the other as their “best friend”, and a few days after we meet, it’s announced that she is to be beauty editor-at-large at British Vogue, where he took the helm last week (the first man, and first person of colour, to do so). This explains why she remains so tight-lipped when I ask what she thinks he might change at Vogue, only assuring me that he will do great things. “Of course he’ll do amazingly!” she almost bellows. “He’s lovely. I remember when I first met him, when he had just started working at i-D, and he was so shy. He’s so quiet when he speaks, but now he says: ‘I’ve become loud because I’m with you’,” she laughs, before adding, more seriously: “I’m so proud of him, it’s amazing to see.”

McGrath with Edward Enninful, 2009. Photograph: Patrick McMullan/Patrick McMullan via Getty Images

The appointment of Enninful, a British Ghanaian, is seen by many as a sign that mainstream fashion media – where black cover stars and senior staff members are still exceptional – is finally becoming more inclusive. McGrath is cautiously optimistic. “I think you always want things to get better and that’s been my view ever since I’ve been in this industry. So it’s great to see there’s more diversity, but it could always get better.”

She concedes that her side of the industry is as culpable. “It’s the same with the beauty companies because there is a whole planet out there. How can you not address the whole world – what are you thinking?” She is determined that no one should have to do what she and her mother (who died in 1992, as her daughter’s career was taking off) had to, and mix their own colours to match. For Pat McGrath Labs, she explains: “I was working all the time with pigments to make sure they work on all skin tones, particularly to make sure dark skin doesn’t become ashy, pigments that are so rich they work on everybody. Because a lot of the time when you buy a normal shadow, it doesn’t always work on every skin tone – it’s chalky or too light – so that’s my main aim, to bring makeup for all skin tones to the fore.”

She’s interested in diversity in colour, but also in shape, size, gender classification, and for her own brand, has made a point of using models of different types. “It’s about pushing boundaries. I believe absolutely, the world wants something different, people want back their individuality.” Despite working with mainstream stars such as Cara Delevingne, Bella Hadid and longtime friend and collaborator, Naomi Campbell, McGrath’s public approbation has made stars of African-American writer, model and “plus-size” body-positive pioneer Paloma Elsesser; Jason Dardo, the American drag queen and burlesque dancer (otherwise known as Violet Chachki), and gender fluid model, former RuPaul drag race contestant and makeup artist Kurtis Dam-Mikkelsen – all of whom she discovered while browsing Instagram.

Beauty is quite technical, quite nerdy now. So it’s my time, because I am that woman

All of them stretch the beauty industry’s notoriously narrow perimeters. She’s proud of all her young collaborators. “I remember when I first saw Paloma on Instagram. I reached out to her and she became one of our muses and now that she’s working for so many brands, it’s so inspiring. I’m just so happy that all of my girls, and my boys as well, are doing so well. I’m watching what’s happened with Miss Fame (alter-ego of Dam-Mikkelsen) getting a contract (with L’Oreal) – these genius young people who started out with me and now they’re fronting beauty campaigns, or getting tons of editorial work, and it’s amazing to see how well they’re all doing, it’s brilliant”.Social media was a turning point for McGrath. It’s fair to say Instagram and YouTube have done for makeup artistry what MySpace did for music, giving young beauty talent a global showcase, as well daily access to, and inspiration from, the world’s biggest established artists. Thanks to the photo-sharing app (on which she currently has 1.4 million followers, a number matched only by fellow British artist Charlotte Tilbury), McGrath’s appeal has expanded way beyond the once insular world of high fashion. Does she mind that nowadays, seemingly everyone on Instagram wants to be a makeup artist? “No, I think it’s amazing”. She follows upcoming artists obsessively, reposting their images, even asking them to join her team. “They encourage me, I encourage them. A lot of my team met through social media. We had a contest called Backstage with Pat McGrath, which had 30,000 entrants and we chose 40 people to come and experience what’s it’s like on the road when we’re doing shows, and they just loved it. I met some brilliant people.”

Pat McGrath Labs taps into what beauty conglomerates are only just realising: the power of the online beauty geek. These makeup obsessives – men, women, young, old, black or white – reside in the sparkliest corner of the internet and revere beauty as high art. These are the fans who wait at their computers for a big product launch to “drop” at 6am, and who can, in all likelihood, namecheck studio system makeup artists, forgotten 1930s burlesque stars and the exact shade of Marilyn Monroe’s hair colorant (Dirty Pillow Slip, since you ask).

Christian Dior 2007. Photograph: Penske Media/REX/Shutterstock

Everything about McGrath’s launch was geared towards this community of anoraks, and capitalises on the internet’s ability to take what would constitute an unworkable niche in local territories, and make it a hugely successful global concern. McGrath’s first, and for several months, only product, was Gold 001 – a single, dry, metallic pigment that liquified with a special mixing solution. Launched on limited, numbered release and advertised only through McGrath’s social media accounts, it sold out in six minutes. “I was so overwhelmed,” she says. “I had only planned to do it as a one-off for fun, for the makeup addicted fans. Suddenly I was getting phone calls from around the world.”

Now, four times a year, another new professional-grade product – a holographic eye gloss, almost neon blue shadow, a balm stick and nude pigment for achieving McGrath’s signature “hyper-real skin” (formerly achieved by layering several different consumer products), is launched to similar frenzy. Each is encased in simple plastic factory packaging (“No weights, no metals,” she says, “the jewel is the product itself”) to keep down the already high price (from £55 in the UK, $40 in the US). Neither seems to put buyers off – in fact, many apparently never open their sequin-stuffed ziplock bags to fish out the product itself, preferring to keep their precious collector’s item pristine.

In this Instagram age, says McGrath, the number of beauty obsessives is vast. “People don’t want to be bored any more. They really do want to try new things. I know from talking to my girlfriends who aren’t even in the industry, the way women speak about makeup is no longer: “Ooh, look at this lovely mascara.” They talk to me as though I’m in a lab, using a thousand words to describe it. It is actually quite technical, and I do believe people love what they see at the fashion shows and editorial, and want to try it. It’s now a nerdy approach. And so it’s my time, because I am that woman. Now, ‘the makeup obsessed’ is everybody. An air stewardess recently told me her eight-year-old daughter watches complex how-tos on YouTube.”

Many of McGrath’s most outlandish catwalk looks have quickly become crossover hits. Dense, glittery eyelids with thick black brows for John Galliano, opaque gold lips at Prada, chunky, stick-on face jewels for Givenchy, metallic highlighter everywhere from Dior to Versace – all were copied by high street brands, and adopted widely.

But while the beauty industry was happy to copy McGrath’s looks (or even engage her as a consultant – she has helped to create products for Giorgio Armani, Max Factor, Dolce & Gabbana and Cover Girl Cosmetics), most weren’t confident in selling the real thing. “I spoke to makeup executives about my own line for the past 15 years and they’d say: ‘You know, nobody knows you, nobody really wants the kind of stuff you do in shows in real life.’ And then I joined social media and all I’d hear from thousands and thousands of people was that they did.”

She has no time for industry snobbery over social media beauty trends, such as contouring and dark, painted-on eyebrows. “Just the fact that people love makeup is wonderful. If you want to be out there in a thick, black brow, then go there, girl! But at the same time, people love it when they’re shown exactly how to do it well. Not everyone’s going to do things perfectly but the fact that people are trying, and are excited by cosmetics, always means something to me.” She’s all for clearing the smoke and mirrors of the fashion world. “When I remember how much joy the fashion industry brought to me, how I’d watch the 50 seconds of catwalk footage, twice a year at the end of News at Ten, and get goosebumps, well, it was life-changing. Imagine as a young kid now getting to see everything they’re seeing? It must be so inspiring.”

Christian Dior, 2011/2012. Photograph: Michel Dufour/WireImage

Nowadays, she finds inspiration by obsessively studying films, art history and photography. She insists she enjoys the pressure of having to come up with 80 or more entirely new concepts annually for the shows. “I love to be challenged. I can spend a good hour or two (in makeup trials) trying to make some concept a reality. But that’s what I enjoy the most, I love it.”

Isn’t it exhausting? “I always lose my voice by the end of show season,” she says, “but this is something I’m obsessed with, something I’ve always wanted to do. It brings me joy. When you’re at shows, there’s a nervous energy. You want to make everything that you do perfect because can you imagine seeing the clothing I get to see on a daily basis? It’s exquisite, so the last thing you want to do is have the makeup let that whole collection down. It’s pressure, but I love it”.

Back in Hotel Shangri-La, McGrath is now more than an hour late for her celebrity appointment and as she promises me another chat, we are interrupted yet again, by a young woman wearing red lipstick newly daubed in dense, sparkly glitter from Pat McGrath Labs. Her mouth looks like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, her eyes are almost tearful with happiness at meeting her idol. McGrath grabs her warmly by the shoulders and squeezes. “Oh my God, look at that lip! Isn’t it gorgeous? Wait till you go in daylight, it’ll be amazing!”

Pat McGrath Labs is available now, exclusively at Net-a-Porter.

Source link

#Fashion