#i just wanted to be able to send some emails?? okay that's an under-exaggeration but still | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

madswritingvoid · 3 years

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Afternoon Delight

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: 18+ SEE YA MINORS, smut but like soft smut, oral sex (m), masturbation (f), unprotected p in v sex, cockwarming, blood, vampire stuff, Max Phillips is a warning lol

A/N: Yes I 100% think Max would want his name in your phone to be Vamp Daddy and no I will not be taking questions about it at this time. BUT here’s another smut piece about my vampire husband, because I love him.

(Tagging @jettia because apparently she likes pain and wanted to read this if I ended up posting it)

Max Phillips is annoying. Not a joke, or an exaggeration, just a fact. He’s smarmy, sleazy, sneaky, manipulative, seductive, exhausting, and all yours. As much as his “management style” (re: turning everyone into vampires), may seem unethical or out-of-the-box, he really knew how to turn a company around. Surprisingly, when he isn’t being a total frat boy asshole, he’s also a pretty awesome boyfriend.

Yeah, sometimes you gotta remind him that no Max that isn’t funny or say that again and it’s a stake to the heart and the dick, but overall you know you love him and he loves you. He’d kill for you, literally. So when you hadn’t received your morning “show me your boobs, babe” wake-up text, you knew something was up.

With his cocky attitude and air of self-assurance, you’ve never seen anything really make Max sweat. Not until two nights ago when he said his bosses, the big bag vamps, were coming down for a branch visit today. You glance over at your phone to check the time and saw it was almost lunchtime for you both and decide to shoot him a quick text.

You: I know yours came in today but how’s my big bad vamp doing? xxx

Vamp Daddy🧛🏻‍♂️: :(((((((((((((

You: Is someone in the need for......

Vamp Daddy🧛🏻‍♂️: yes

You: an afternoon delight?

You: You could have let me finish, but okay.

Grateful you were working from home today, you sent off a final email and decided to take a half day, knowing Max would really need some help to relax.

You slinked off to your bedroom and changed out of your work-appropriate but very casual matching sweat set to slip into one of Max’s favourite sundresses you have- a deep cranberry with black lace around the bottom and on the chest highlighting your boobs, Max’s favourite, and the length hitting just above your knees made it “easy access” in his words. You keep your natural Zoom meeting makeup on and opt for a quick swipe of your favourite deep red lipstick to match the dress, ready to make Max’s afternoon.

Walking into the familiar office building you can immediately feel the energy is off. Not that it wasn’t always weird, since almost everyone in here was dead, but today it was even worse. Too quiet, too cold. You almost wanted to crack a “jeez, who died?” joke to lighten the mood, but you got the feeling today was not the day and walked right into Max’s office.

“Awww baby, what’s all this?” You coo as you glide over to him. What a sight he is. He’s sitting in his big office chair with his head right on the desk, long arms splayed out in front of him making his big hands hang over the desk’s edge. A total look of defeat. Hearing your voice Max’s head shoots up and immediately you’re hit with a classic Phillips pout, puppy dog eyes in full effect. “Baaaaabe,” he whines while making grabby hands at you until you’re finally within reach.

Pulling you into his lap, he buries his face in your neck, rubbing his nose up and down the column of your throat as your hands make their way into his hair, massaging his scalp. “Maxie, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You’re only met with a heavy sigh as he takes his head and burrows between your boobs, “Everything,” he mumbles against your chest. “They loved my presentation, but hated the office,” he grumbles.

“Well, that’s easy to fix, we can go out this weekend and get some new decor to liven up the place,” you grin and start really going to town on his scalp making Max almost purr and lean into your touch more. Before you could offer more support he started shaking his head, motorboating you but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“No babe,” he sulks, finally lifting his head up to meet your eyes again, “they hated everyone in the office. Said Andrew was weird and Dave had an ‘offputting’ quality. He’s dead! Almost all of us are dead! What do they expect? And that’s not even the worst part!!!” He moans, “he hated everyone, but liked Evan?” You actually gasp, no one likes Evan. He’s so mopey and annoying, especially after Max bounced back from Evan almost murdering him, showing up to work the following Monday as if nothing happened. “Oh baby, that doesn’t make any fucking sense, I’m so sorry,” you soothe him as your hands move from his hair and start to make their way down to his belt.

Realizing what you’re doing, Max’s whole mood changes. Smirking, he puts on a much more playful pout, “yeah baby,” he coos, “it’s been real hard. But now that you’re here something else has got real hard too, and I think I know how to fix that.” You slide off his lap and onto the floor quickly, Max lifting you up for a moment to slide his now folded suit jacket under your knees in a surprising moment of kindness. Pressing a kiss to his knee as a thank you, you make quick work of his belt and pants and pull out his hardening cock. As you begin to stroke him slowly you make eye contact and spit right on his dick, making him groan.

“Love you baby, let me make you feel good,” you say before taking the tip of his cock in your mouth, swirling you tongue around him and licking the salty precum that was already leaking from him. As you continue to work more of him into your mouth, you can feel Max absolutely melt into his leather chair and take whatever you give him. “That’s it baby, always so so good, always know what I need,” he praises and you moan around his length, the compliment going straight to your core.

Not being able to take it anymore, you snake the hand not pumping the part of him you can fit in your mouth, you slide your hands underneath your underwear and start circling your clit. You moan around his length again and Max slightly bucks his hips, sending him farther down your throat. “Fuuuuuck yes, sweet cheeks, that’s it,” he can’t stop it now as his hips start a shallow bit steady rhythm as he fucks into your mouth. Letting him take what you need you slide two fingers into your dripping pussy, using the heel of your hand to keep rubbing your clit while you pump your fingers.

The only sounds filling the office are Max’s groans and the wet noise of you fucking yourself on your hand. You can tell Max is close because his pace quickens and you can hear the chair arm rests groan under his tight grip until he gives one final thrust, shooting his load right down your throat. Making sure you don’t waste a drop, you continue softly sucking the tip of him as you start to chase your own high until Max uses his vampire speed and strength to take your hand out of your underwear and move you back into his lap. You whine at the loss of your orgasm and stare with lust filled eyes as Max takes the hand that was just inside you and cleans your fingers of the slick covering them.

“Now sweets, you’ve been so good to me, I figured letting you cum on my cock would be an appropriate thank you,” booping your nose he gives a little tug to rip your panties right off and sink you down on his still hard length. Your eyes roll back and you let out a high pitched moan at the stretch, you were already so wet from earlier he was able to push in with no resistance. “There it is champ,” he chuckles, “here’s your reward.” Putting his hands firmly on your hips he starts to move you up and down on his length, his hips meeting you with each thrust. All you can do is throw your arms around his neck to hold on, chanting his name as he hits that sweet spot over and over.

“Had s-such a bad day baby,” he growls, “but this- this pussy always does the trick,” you clench at the praise causing him to thrust a little harder. Knowing your so close to falling over the edge, you decide to give Max another treat, “B-baby,” you whimper, “f-feels so good. I’m so close, b-bite me,” his hips stutter before his pace resumes again. Grabbing your jaw he makes you meet his eyes and asks, “fuck, I love you, but are you sure? You don’t have to-” he groans as you clench around him again, your walls fluttering as the coil continues to tighten. “Yes! Fuck,” you babble, “I’m gonna come baby please,” you run your fingers through his hair and pull his face into your neck.

Feeling how much you’re gripping his length, Max licks across your pulse point and gives the area a little kiss before sinking his teeth into the soft skin. Once you feel his fangs break through, the coil snaps, and you absolutely gush all over his cock. You continue to moan as Max works you through your high as he continues to drink from you. Tugging on his hair twice to tell him to stop, Max stops thrusting into you and licks over the bite marks, his spit healing them instantly. Kissing your neck again you hear a mumbled, “thank you baby,” as Max wraps his arms around you.

You sit there for what feels like forever, him still seated inside of you while you go back to massaging his scalp. Noticing the time you attempt to get up, “Max! Honey, your lunch break has definitely been over I should go home,” his grip tightens around you as you get hit with puppy dog eyes again. “You could go home,” he agrees, “or you could just stay right here with me inside of you while I finish this report. I’m the boss, I can always leave early for my baby,” he gives your ass a gentle slap causing you to clench around him again. Groaning, he leans down to press a kiss to your temple, “besides I’ll definitely want to have you at least one more time before we go. Why don’t you have a little nap on big ol’ me?” He jokes, but you can’t bring yourself to make a come back, already feeling your lids grow tired from what just happened.

Nuzzling into his neck, you give his skin little kisses, “sounds good baby,” you slur, “sounds real good.”

#max phillips x you #max phillips x y/n #max phillips x reader #max phillips #bloodsucking bastards #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagines

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smol-and-grumpy · 4 years

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EUPHORIA - Chapter 28

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: He’s Dean Winchester, owner of a shady night club. She’s a journalist who has been asked to write an article to expose the indecency and debauchery that’s going on behind closed doors. But he’s also Dean Winchester, the boy who sat next to her in class. The boy who was too cocky for his own good.

Chapter Warning: NSFW, Flangst

WC: 3434

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons <3

This series is complete on Patreon!

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The next two weeks were uneventful compared to the one before. The threats are still coming in, but there were no vandalism anymore, and nobody who wanted to scare Dean off by driving into his fucking car.

But Dean’s still alerted. He thinks it’s just a trick to make him feel like they’re not out to get him, and if he lets his guard down, he’d pay and Dean’s not going to give whoever it is the satisfaction. No, he has to be the one to set the rules, and it should never be the other way around.

After the night she poured her heart out to him, the things between them had gotten even better if Dean can say so. He starts to refer to her as his girlfriend to people who didn’t know her, and well, his employees all know that she’s his and that she’s off limits to anyone.

Y/N’s still not living with him and that’s perfectly okay for him too. She’s working more to catch up on the things she had piling on while she was away and was taking care of him, so their time is sometimes really limited. Dean figured that it’s too early to offer her to quit her job, so he just really plays along.

The first week after his accident they took it real slow. She was on her period as well, and Dean got a glimpse of how it’ll be in the future. They had a couple of quiet nights in and if she couldn’t make it to his place, he would tear himself away from his job to knock at her door with some chocolate or ice cream. They argued about petty things, too.

Things he doesn't even really remember anymore but he knows that she does and he’s sure that she’ll bring it up at some point. They always do, don’t they?

Dean really made sure to show her often that she’s worth it and she questions his intentions sometimes. The fact is, that she thinks that she doesn’t deserve someone like him while he thinks that she is in fact the one who deserves someone much better than him. Maybe they both deserve each other. He thinks they do. Two broken people who come together as one.

The week after them finding themselves and finding out so much more about each other, the week of him knowing that he’s able to work around those little quirks and annoying habits of hers, was kinky.

They tried different rooms, and it was the first time that she used the safe word. They were in the medical room and Dean strapped her arms and feet to the chair while he had her eyes bound and clamped her nipples. He made her come four times without him even getting out of his clothes and afterwards, he taped the hitachi wand to her clit and fucked her like that. Another two orgasms later, she was writhing and wincing on her chair. Dean must say that he was maybe selfish too, with wanting to see how many orgasms he can tickle out of her in succession.

As he continued to fuck her and felt her coming on his cock for the seventh time, she yelled out the safe word. Dean almost didn’t pull out fast enough to tear the wand from her stomach and the clamps from her breasts. He loosened the restraints on her arms and legs quickly and scooped her up, walked her to the sofa and sat down with her trembling body in his lap. She was sobbing and he pulled the fabric from her eyes, but she wouldn’t open them.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said it over and over again, like a broken record, and Dean stroked her back, kissed her wet face, assured her that it’s not her fault. She was ashamed to have used the word, and he had to tell her and made sure that she knew that there’s nothing to be ashamed about. That the word is there to be used, that’s he’s not mad. He would never be mad at her, how could he, when all he does is fucking love her.

He picked her up, threw a shirt over her while he dressed back into his pants and carried her up to his loft, put her in a bath and joined her. He kissed her to sleep that night, holding her and let her know over and over that it’s okay. That they don’t have to do it anymore either.

She needed her space the next day and only returned the day after. There was no contact and Dean gave her that. He didn’t want her to think that she’s not allowed to have her space when she needs it most.

Dean found her cooking him dinner when she came back, said it was to thank him for giving her space and being patient with her and honestly, he didn’t know what to say to that, other than assuring her again that he’s here to stay, no matter what.

During the meal she said that she’d have to go to California at the beginning of the next week and she’d stay away longer, because it’s a work thing and not a stupid workshop. It felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs. He hates to be apart from her and it’s one thing if he knows that she’s close, it’s a whole other thing when she’d be thousands of miles away.

He played it cool, though, even though he knows he probably didn’t look as cool as he pretended to.

Later, he said that he’d need to set up the poker room for the guys before he can take time for her and she said she’d help him. While they were there, one of the guys asked Dean again if he’d want to join but Dean politely declined. It’s Y/N who elbowed him in the ribs and said that he should because it sounded like fun. He jokingly said to her that he’d of course only do it if she would be the one under the table sucking him off. To his surprise, she was game.

That’s how she found herself under the table with some other girls that night and Dean had a hard time to keep a straight face when she gobbled him down like it’s the most delicious thing in the world. Not having a straight face is not a trait while playing poker, but it’s good to know that Dean’s not the only one. When one of the guests suggested that they switch the girls because apparently Dean’s face gave it away that he really enjoyed it, he sent the dude a glare and said that his girl is not up for negotiation. The guest suggested that they play for Y/N but that’s the last straw. Dean threw him out right away and pulled her off his dick to which she whined, but Dean took her hand and they went up to his office. He let her suck him off there, and she was happy again. It’s much better when he can watch her anyway.

The day before she had to leave for California, she surprised him in his office with the cutest, most sexy set of lingerie and he almost felt bad to have just ripped it off her body. He said she shouldn’t spend money on things like that. That from now on, he would buy them for her because it doesn’t hurt him as much as it would hurt her if he tears them apart.

He took her to the airport where her boss was already waiting, kissed her goodbye and it was hard, alright. Hard to let her go when all he wanted was for her to stay. He debated on telling her to quit right before she had to board the plane, but he knew as much as she did that she won’t do that. To get her to quit he would need some careful planning. He was too good of a girl. His fucking good girl.

When she was there, they would try to call each other but time zones really worked against them and instead of going crazy while trying to find the right time, they decided to just text every now and then until she’d be back. Dean also didn’t have to pick her up as Rufus will be on the flight back with her and he was adamant to drop her off.

It’s the third day now and Dean’s anticipating her return.

Only two days left.

46 hours and 21 minutes.

Not like he’s counting or anything.

Dean’s down in his office when he checks his emails. There are some threats like always, apart from emails of new member sign ups and PR. Normally, he’d trash the threats right away, but there’s something about the header that really catches his eyes.

SHE’S NOT TO BE TRUSTED

He has a weird feeling about it and he doesn’t know why, but his heart starts to thump heavily in his chest. There’s a part of him that says that he should just delete it, but there’s also another part of him that wants to know what it’s all about.

So, against Dean’s better judgement, he clicks on the email and a video starts to play.

What he sees makes his blood freeze and he feels nauseous all of a sudden. He grabs at the trash can below his desk and throws up in it.

Y/N’s going back today and while she packs her things, she keeps on checking her phone. There’s still no message from Dean. She tried calling him last night and she texted when he didn’t pick up, but there was no text coming back, although she’s seen that he’s read it. Normally, he’d leave a good night and good morning text, but there’s been nothing and she can’t lie that she’s a little worried, but maybe she’s just exaggerating. Maybe he’s just busy and didn’t have a chance to text her.

There is still no message from him when she lands and while she walks to the parking garage with Rufus, she sees a familiar face and it sends her heart racing because she’s been reminded of the day Dean was in a car accident.

“Hey, Y/N,” Cas says with a weak smile.

Rufus senses that it’s somewhat private, so he nods at her as if to say that he’ll wait over by his car. She nods back before she returns her gaze back to Castiel.

“I— is something— Dean?” She knows that whatever comes out of her mouth isn’t really coherent, but she doesn’t really care about it.

“Oh, no,” Cas says, “Dean’s okay,”

There’s a breath of exhale and she didn’t even know that she was holding her breathing, “Oh thank god!”

“Yeah, well he’s not really okay. I mean, he’s not physically hurt or anything,” Cas stammers on and on.

“Cas?” She asks, notices that the man can’t look her in the eye, “Look at me,”

He reluctantly does.

“What’s going on. Did he send you here?”

“No,” He says, shaking his head, “He doesn’t know I’m here. Look, all I’m saying that maybe you should give him some time. It’s not the best idea to go see him now, Y/N.”

“Cas, you’re scaring me,”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Dean’s not himself these days and I don’t want to see you getting hurt by going there unprepared.”

“What?” She’s confused to say the least. What the fuck is going on? Why should she get hurt? Just what happened while she was away? What happened after the good morning text from two days prior?

“Look, I know that I can’t really hold you back and if you insist on seeing him, please have in mind that he’s really not himself. There’s something going on, but we don’t know what it is. He hasn’t been to the club and has been holed up for two days now. He wouldn’t answer his door to anyone but me. And I’ve been in there, Y/N, it’s not really a nice sight, or smell, let me tell you. He wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong, but he told me that he doesn’t want to see you.”

There’s tears stinging at the back of her eyes. He doesn’t want to see her?

“What happened?” Her voice is small and she feels stupid for even asking because Cas made clear that he’s doesn’t know and she believes him.

“Something happened that broke him. I don’t know what it was,” He shakes his head, “I just came to warn you because I know that you would want to see him.”

Dean hears the knock, but his brain doesn’t really register. He’s slumped on his sofa, three empty bottles of whiskey are lying on the floor and there are another two half empty ones standing around. He grabs one, takes a swig and ignores the knocking.

He doesn’t even know what day it is. Doesn’t know the fucking time because he drew the blinds on all windows. He also doesn’t remember the last time he ate or took a shower. It doesn’t seem relevant at the moment.

There’s some more knocking, and he remembers Cas just came to see him a couple of hours ago? Or was it yesterday? He realizes that he doesn’t really remember, but also he doesn’t really fucking care. What does Cas want from him again?

“What?” Dean yells out but doesn’t move from the couch.

“Dean, it’s me.”

Oh no. It’s her. It’s fucking her. The audacity of her showing up blows his fucking alcohol fueled mind.

“Go away!”

“Dean, I have to see you.”

Her voice is calm and it’s fucking smooth and warm and goddamit he’s getting weak when he doesn’t want to be.

“I don’t want to see you right now, Y/N. Go away,” He shouts out, but he couldn’t not add, “Please,” It’s because he’s weak when it comes to her and fuck this shit, really.

“Dean, please, I’m worried. I want to see if you’re okay.”

He can imagine her standing on the other side, probably with her forehead on the door, has she been crying? A part of him doesn’t hope so. The other part of him does hope she cried as much as he did.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, “I’m not okay and I don’t want to see you. Please, just go, Y/N.”

He never thought it would be this hard to say those words to her and there’s already tears stinging at the back of his eyes, which he blinks away.

Dean takes another swig from the bottle, closes his eyes and lets his breathing get even again. However his eyes widen when he hears the turning of a key.

Shit, she still has a key.

He stays still, maybe she won’t come in?

Ah yeah, she does. He hears the clicking of heels on the floor as they come closer. Until she’s standing on the side. Dean can see her in the corner of his eyes. He would see more of her if he would tilt his head. He doesn’t because he’s not ready to see her.

“What happened?”

Dean snorts.

What happened? What the fuck happened?

He stands up then and turns around to face her and the sight of her drives a fucking knife through his heart. She has been crying. Good. And she still does. Not good. Fuck. He’s getting weak and he doesn’t want to be fucking weak.

Dean swallows, “What happened? You wanna know what happened, huh?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh, I tell you what happened, Y/N,” He chuckles darkly but she’s not afraid of him, it throws him off and he tries to play it cool, “I got an email with a little video clip.”

She frowns and lifts her eyebrows.

Dean’s a little irritated because he can see it in her eyes that she has no clue what he’s talking about. How can she not know?

“It’s a sex tape, Y/N. Of you having sex with someone while you were fucking away!” He growls, it’s fucking loud because he wants to intimidate her.

She blinks, but she doesn’t back away. Not one bit. Her eyes stay focused on him.

“What?” She asks with irritation on her face.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Dean scoffs, “You were fucking someone else and you let them film you and somehow someone sent it to me and I’m fucking thankful they did.” Dean sighs before he goes on, “Look, it’s over. Please leave.”

“Dean, I wasn’t—”

“—You weren’t what? Planning on getting caught? Yeah, you should know that if you’re fucking dumb enough to let some one night stand film you that it’ll get back to you, Y/N.”

“It wasn’t—”

“—What? You weren’t the one on there? Because I know that it’s you. I could fucking pick out your pussy from a police line up, Y/N and I’m not fucking proud of it anymore. It’s your voice and your fucking face!”

“Why don’t you let me fucking talk, Dean! Why do you keep cutting me off?” She’s yelling now too.

“Because I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses! You know how I felt, huh? You wanna know how I felt when I saw that you are fucking someone else? You know how fucking betrayed I felt? How fucking stupid that the person I trusted most did something behind my fucking back? The person I fucking loved!” He spits out, but goes silent after the last word is pushed out of his lips. It isn’t his intention to confess his fucking feelings. Not like that.

“You love me?” She asks, her voice small.

“Not anymore,” Dean mumbles and threads through his hair with both hands, “Please go. I have nothing to say to you and I’m not standing here to listen to your sorry excuses. What’s done is done. I hope you have a good life, Y/N, I really do.”

Dean avoids her eyes. There’s no way he can look at her without getting weak and he doesn’t want to get weak.

She’s crying, he can hear that. But between the sniffles, she breathes evenly. She turns on her heels and walks to the door.

Before she goes out, she turns around and Dean looks at her, doesn’t see her very well because his own eyes are clouded with tears, “You know, if you really loved me, Dean, you would have told me what’s been bothering you. You would have come to me first before jumping to conclusion. You would have fucking talked to me, but I can see that it’s not what you want. You don’t even want to hear me explain because you’ve already made up your damn stupid mind. You made it perfectly clear that you want me gone and that’s what I’m going to do because I respect your decision. But before I go,”

She takes a deep breath and exhales audibly and Dean’s heart races and he clenches his fists to hold himself back from fucking running up to her and take her into his arms.

“I know what clip you’re talking about and if you cared to look closer, you would have seen that my hair was much shorter, you would have seen that it’s not a fucking hotel room, but a normal bedroom in a run down apartment I shared with Cole. I’m sorry the existence of the tape hurts you, Dean, but you have no idea how much it hurts me too to know that my ex boyfriend forced me to do a sex tape with him and that it’s still going around. You don’t understand how much it hurts to come home and instead of seeing the man I love smiling at me, all I get are these accusations. And don’t come at me for not telling you about the tape before. I wanted to erase that part out of my past and I was hoping that it wouldn't surface. So yeah, maybe it’s my fault that I wasn’t frank with you about it and I’m sorry. But you could still talk to me instead of breaking it off. As I said, I wish you the best, Dean. Goodbye.”

Y/N closes the door behind her gently and Dean’s still gasping like a fish on land, unable to bring out a fucking word.

Chapter 29

Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

#euphoria #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #nathalie writes

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goeymoey · 3 years

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What if you tricked me?

A BBS short! (Part 1/??)

Hope you enjoy :) !

——-

Nogla’s mic popped as he sat down in his chair. The signature black headphones already perched on his head.

“ Okaay, what we doin’ today boys?”

Miles away, in a different country, Tyler sighed. “ You really gotta get that mic fixed, man.” He turned on his web cam for emphasis and gave Nogla’s profile picture a frown. “ It sounds like shit.”

“ What do ya mean?” Nogla faked a whine. “ It sounds great! everybody loves the sound of my voice through this here mic! Am I rights boys?”. While turning on his web cam as he talked, Nogla leans back in his chair with both arms spread wide open.

“ I sound like a god!”

A neon green light highlights around Brian’s box as he snickers. “ Yeah...the god of shit!” Brian flicks his web cam on but, instead of being greeted with a smiling Irishman, he shows his middle finger.

Nogla sticks out his tongue. “ Shut yer fuckin mouth, traitor.” He crossed his arms with a pout. “ You’re the one who gave me the mic in the first place!”

Tyler and Brian lock eyes on the screen as the later smirks widely.

“ Why do you think that was?”

Nogla shrugs. “ I don’t know! I thought it was because you were being a good friend but-“ He gives Brian a hard stare through his screen “-OBVIOUSLY I was incorrect in my assumption! Hmpf!”

Another mic pop echos through the others headphones after Nogla’s shout, and it makes the two begin to snicker.

“ Sorry for trying to be a GREAT FRIEND and give you something of mine!” Brian says through a laugh. “ I guess I’ll go fuck myself next time!”

“ Shut yer cunt mouth you dirty-“

Nogla’s mic pops as it cuts off the final word to his sentence.

“- Next time I see ya, I’ll make sure to stick my foot up your dirty arse!”

Tyler bangs on his desk with a closed fist before taking off his head seat and walking away from the screen.

His faint laughter can be heard even as he walks out of his office and down the hall.

Brian smiles wide at the echoing laughter of his friend. He hunches over his keyboard, to be closer to the screen, as if he was about to follow Tyler himself.

“ You made the man leave the room, Nogla! how do you feel?”

Nogla scowls. “ I feel nothing towards any of ye cunts now...fuckin hate y’all...”. He mumbles. “ Especially-...Hey! Brock!”. Nogla cuts himself off as the discord ping of someone joining the voice call rings in his headset.

“ Just the man I wanted to see!”

Brock sighs and turns his web cam on. He stares at Nogla with a slack face of indifference.

“ Hey Nogla.”

The tall Irishman smiles wide. “ Did ya miss me?”

Brock scratches at his chin. “ No.”

“ What? Come on, Brock! I’m giving you all my love right here and you just-“ Nogla exaggerates his movements while shaking his hand in front of his face. “-give me this!” He slouches back in his chair. “ You give me nothing.”

Brock smiles. “ Okay...Hey Brian.”

The other Irishman smiles at the acknowledgment and tips his head. “ Hey Brock. How’ve ya been?”

“ Oh, y’know...” Brock holds in his laughter at the sight of Nogla giving him a deadly stare through the screen. “...same old things everyday, every night...the use’.”

Brian stretches his arms behind his back causing the bottom of his shirt to ride up a bit. “ Oh the woes of a single man in he early twenties. Never having any fun.” He rests back into his chair with both arms laying in his lap. “ Bet you wish you would have taken me up on that trip to Ireland, huh?”

Brock rubs at the back of his neck. “ Kinda...but not really.”

Nogla has given up trying to get Brock’s attention back and is now glued to his phone.

He mumbles something under his breath, but the other two males don’t catch it.

The door to Tyler’s office shutting muffles in the back ground of everyone’s head phones as the tall man comes stalking back to his chair. His attention is also focused on his phone, but his face is a mix of confusion and frustration.

He doesn’t reciprocate the others greetings and instead hastily shows the screen of his phone to the web camera.

“ Did any of you guys get this message from Evan?” Tyler’s grip on the blue cases phone tightens as he asks the question.

“ It says he sent it to me a while ago, but I left it down stairs.”

While listening to Tyler speak, both Brian and Brock brought out their phones.

“ Ummm...Yeah...” Brian starts awkwardly. “ I got a message from him too but...but it’s just a link with no url...” He mimics Tyler by holding up his phone to the web cam. “ It’s just a grey box...is that what you got?”

Tyler nods and sets his phone out of view from his camera. The screen facing up at him...just in case.

“ Yeah...it’s weird...How about you, Brock? Nogla?”

“ I got the box.” Brock shows the two his phone.

From his slouched position, Nogla mumbles. “ Same here.” His eyes stay glued to the screen. “ I already clicked on it, and it doesn’t seem...weird.”

The three watch as Nogla sits up and exposes his screen. “ I think it’s just a new game, or something like that.” He faces his phone towards him and then scrolls up on the screen. “ It’s like asking for my email and stuff like that so, I’m just guessing that’s what it is.”

Brock puffs out his cheeks. “ But what if it’s a virus?”

Brian shakes his head while tapping on the link. “ Evan wouldn’t send us a virus. He’s too smart for that.” His eyes shine against the brightness of the phone.

He flips up and down on the screen and then nods with a hum. “ Yeah, I think this might just be a new game for us to play. It all looks that way.....you wanna check it out togther?” Brian looks up from his phone. “ It says it’s multiplayer.”

Tyler purses his lips in an unsavory frown. “ I don’t know...it still seems a little sketchy.”

“ Aww, please, Tyler?! Please!” Nogla clamps his hands together in a plea while bowing his head. “ I’ve already set up my account and made my avatar! It’s too late to back out now!”

Brock huffs. “ Maybe for you.”

Nogla points at the screen with a strict finger. “ You shut yer fuckin mouth you god damn short prick!”

“ Hey! Don’t call me short!”

“ But you are!”

“ No I’m not! I’m 5’9!” Brock glares with his arms crossed. “ It’s like the average height.”

Nogla makes a ‘pft’ noise. “ That’s just what short people say! Now-“ bouncing up from his seat, Nogla waves his phone around dramatically “- hurry up and make y’all’s profiles before I start without ya! I’m getting bored!”

The others sigh at Nogla’s childish behavior, but fill out the link anyway.

It takes a few more minutes then Nogla would have liked- since Brian couldn’t decide whether he wanted his character to have blue or brown hair- but he refrained himself from succumbing to his impatience.

Brock was the last to finish his avatar with a worrying smirk as he tapped the ‘save’ button.

“ Okay, I’m ready. Who’s making the game?”

Nogla pipped up with shimmering eyes. “ I will you slow cunts! I’ve been waiting forever, let’s do this!”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “ It’s been like five minutes.”

“ Well, it felt like a long time!”

Brian scoffed at his friends whining. “ And yer just making it longer by complaining about it.” His arms sit across a wide chest as he laid back with the black cased phone sitting on his desk.

“ Just make the game already, jeez.”

Nogla huffed. “ I’m going I’m going....Okay, what are your guys usernames? The same as always?”

All three nod in agreement.

“ Yeah.”

“ Mhm.”

“ Weirdly, yes. I didn’t even have to change the ‘s’ in ‘Terroriser’ to a ‘z’ or add a 0.”

Brock hummed. “ Same here, and usually my names the first to go.”

Nogla rolls his eyes. “ Whatever, boring. It should be sending you an invite riiight....now.” He points to the screen just as three simultaneous dings pop in the others headphones.

“ The game won’t be able to start unless we all accept so, hurry up!”

Tyler looks down at the acceptance button suspiciously. “ I still don’t feel good about this...but fuck it! Let’s do this!” He taps the button and waits for the others to join.

Brock nods. “ Yeah, it might actually be fun!” He accepts the request.

Brian hesitates as he reads the short paragraph of rules before accepting.

“...this may be too much for some audiences...viewer discretion is-...I think this might be a horror game!” Brian exclaims with glee.

Brock’s face turns pale. “ A horror game? Does it say what it’s about? I didn’t read the warnings!” Brock looks down at his phone with worry as his free hand fiddles with his hair.

“ I wouldn’t of accepted if I had read that...”

Tyler snorts. “ Quit being such a pussy, Brock. It’s a mobile game. No mobile games are scary.”

“ Except for Five Nights at Freddie’s.” Nogla interjects.

“ That’s different.” Tyler responds.

“ How is that different? It’s a mobile horror game?”

“ It’s different because FNAF is based off of real life human things...like the fear that toys are alive or...yeah.” Tyler bites his lips in thought. “ Stuff like that.”

“ That sounds dumb.”

“ You’re dumb!”

“ Shut the fuck up, Nogla.”

“ No. You shut up.”

Brock sighs in irritation. “ Brian, hurry up and accept the invite before I blow my brains out from listening to these two.”

Brian absently nods as he reaches the end of the paragraph. “ Yeah yeah...im almost done.”

He taps the accept button.

“ I was just-“

“ Ooh Shit-“

The world turns black for all four men as their bodies slump down into their chairs. Phones slip carelessly from hands as headphones ride up on their heads and chairs creak beneath pounds of dead weight.

Tyler’s web came shakes as his head slams down on the desk in a dead black out. The door to his office jiggles behind him, but stays shut.

Brock’s head rolls back over his chair as his jaw unhinges to let his mouth hang open freely. The top of his headphones slide forward onto his forehead while his shoulders rise up on the chair.

Nogla’s arms simply drop dead and hang off the armrests of his chair while his head props up, unmoving, on his shoulder.

Brian’s body fully slips out of his chair as all dead weight transfers to the front of his seat and sends the furniture flying backwards. His camera also shakes as his body slams against the ground without trying to catch himself.

Then everything is still.

A green highlight appears around Tyler’s web cam as a bird chirps outside, but nobody moves and nobody talks.

...

Soon, their chests stop rising.

#banana bus squad #i am wildcat #dathi de nogla #the gaming terroriser #moo snuckel #fanfiction bbs fanfiction

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jimlingss · 4 years

Text

The Colour of Our Voices [4]

Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 4.5 OR Chapter 5

➜ Words: 4.9k

➜ Genres: 98% Fluff, 2% Angst, Slice of Life, Broadway!AU

➜ Summary: He wasn’t supposed to hear. He wasn't supposed to know. But the instant Jimin came into your life and pulled the curtains back, you couldn't hide backstage anymore. You were no longer merely a phantom of the opera.

cr.

Your breath is held in your throat. The phone rings. It continues, the ringback tone dragging on and on like a terrible song of suspense. Then, it stops. Your breath catches in your throat. There’s a crisp voice on the other end. “Ya-llow?” “Hi.” You swallow hard, trying to collect your wits, but it takes too long. “Hello?” “Yes, s-sorry. Hi. My name is Y/N L/N. I was wondering if you guys were having any auditions to take clients in—” “Sorry, we’re not. Have a nice day!” You’re hung up on, not like an unwanted telemarketer trying to make their living. But there’s nothing you can do, so with a sigh, you continue down the list of agents. Most of them don’t pick up. You leave voice messages that go unanswered, exactly like the emails you frequently send. Though occasionally, it picks up and it’s not just an automated voice. “Please stop calling us!” The woman hisses on the other line. “We only take referrals.” You’ve brought it up to the director again. But his brows always scrunch and he wears that visibly annoyed expression, giving an exaggerated sigh of feigned exhaustion. “Y/N, I told you what I told you. If you keep insisting on this matter, then I’ll have no choice but to be upset. No one likes it when they’re not being heard.” And that’s the kinder version. You’re spared on the speech that you need to work harder, that you’re not ready to be on actual Broadway, that you have a long way to go, that you need to be good as an intern first — like Jimin. Of course, he would mention Jimin. You don’t doubt that he has some kind of star quality that you don’t have. Everyone seems to love him. He could probably get a referral if he asked. Or get an agent who would want to sign him within a day. Your envy is boundless. “Okay, can you tilt your head a thirty degrees to the left?” “Ummm…” The brunette tries to follow the instructions. “Is this thirty degrees?” “It’s fine,” Namjoon mutters and puts an eye to the viewfinder. He snaps the shot on his Canon. The picture appears on the big screen seconds later. You muse that Jimin looks great with professional lighting and under the touch of a talented photographer. “Okay, now smile.” Instantly, Jimin gives a toothy grin. His plump lips spread into his rounded cheeks, eyes crinkling into half-moons. He’s overwhelmingly cute and you feel your heart stutter in your chest. Even Namjoon hums in satisfaction, turning his camera and snapping more pictures. After a moment, a break is called and Jimin comes hopping over while Namjoon fiddles with his device. “What do you think?” “Yeah, it’s good.” He leans over to the screen, unknowingly close to you, almost hovering over your body. The strands of his hair brush on your forehead as he looks over at the monitor. “You think I should put powder on?” “No, you’re fine. It’s fine,” you correct and clear your throat. “You’re supposed to be yourself. No glamour shots. The casting directors want headshots that look like you. If you come in drastically different, it’ll hurt you in the long run.” He hums and tilts to stare at you. “Thanks for showing me such a great photographer, Y/N.” You smile. “Just take it as a lesson on how to get onto Broadway. Plus, it’s not me who’s taking the photos.” “That’s right,” Namjoon pipes up and approaches, interrupting the two-way conversation. “You need someone who can capture your personality in two hours. It’s not such an easy thing.” “Thank you for blessing us with your talent, Namjoon,” you tease. “You’re welcome.” The photographer chuckles. “I’m just kidding. I’m happy to help. It’s not often that Y/N calls me up for a favour, and she’s certainly never. ever. brought anyone to my studio before, so of course I had to see who it was.” He eyes Jimin up and down as if choosing produce in the grocery store. “I can see it now. I can see the appea—” You bump into his shoulder roughly. “Alright, I think we get it.” “A friend of Y/N’s is a friend of mine,” he says. Jimin dips his head in gratitude. “I’ll entrust all my headshots to you then.” Namjoon laughs, delighted from the recognition. “I’ll be leaving town for a few months on business excursions, but when I’m back, you bet. Let’s get a few more done, Jimin. I think we should take outdoor shots too to get that natural lighting.” “You got it, boss.” You watch them walk off, practically kissing each other’s asses. Then you turn back to the monitor, looking at all the photographs again. If you were a director looking at these headshots, Jimin would most certainly get the role. // It’s a streak of luck that your phone rings. Usually, you’re the one dialing. Though this time, it’s not an agent who wants to connect with you — but it’s just as good. “Hello, Ms. Y/N? You recently submitted an application for the role of a town girl in the production of Beauty and the Beast. We’re interested in speaking to you about it further. Would you like to come in for a formal audition?” You could sob from unadulterated relief and happiness. But as overjoyed as you are, you don’t tell anyone just in case. You never know what could happen, and you don’t want to place others in an awkward situation if you end up with a disappointing outcome. So you brace yourself. But Jimin can tell something great happened — your smile is infectious. “Is everything alright?” He starts laughing when your giggles spill. Your face hurts from your grin. Even the director was taken back earlier at your newfound enthusiasm to take the morning coffee order. “Oh, just you know, life. Sometimes things work out, huh?” “Alright then, silly girl.” His eyes soften and his smile becomes gentle. Jimin steals another glance at you again. You’re humming, uncaring that the two of you are carrying over thirty coffee drinks on a brisk Monday morning, and that you’ll have to walk down three flights of stairs to hand them out. “You know, you look really...nice happy. I mean you usually look nice, but when you’re happy, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying….never mind.” Your cheeks become warm and you take a glimpse of Jimin. At the same time, he takes another glance and you both divert your vision after your eyes accidentally connect. “Um...thanks.” Jimin’s distracted. Clumsy. He nearly trips off the curb of the sidewalk. But when he catches himself, he quickly rushes over to open the door for you. You try your best to hold back your laughter. For the next few days, you practice your part by yourself, singing it over and over again, watching your own expressions in the mirror. You practice for the audition enough to become confident in your role, excited even. If you make it, you wonder what Jimin would say. He’s the only person who would celebrate with you. He’s also the only person you would want to tell. Once the afternoon of the audition arrives, you excuse yourself, telling Jimin that it’s a dentist appointment. But instead, you sneak from the basement of the building to the second floor, down the west wing. There, it’s a whole other world. The room is full of strangers, pacing around, holding the paper with their lyrics, but shutting their eyes to belt. They’re all warming up, melodic notes that sound jarring when it’s overlapping one another. Still, there are beautiful folks dressed in extravagant clothing, having probably spent time at the spa to get facials and get salon blowouts. It’s clear that many have bold personalities. That they’re not scared of eye contact. You tug on your shrunken sweater, palms clammy. You take a seat in the corner of the room in the uncomfortable chair. The girl next to you gulps down her lemon water and leans over. “Intimidating, huh?” “P-Pardon?” “I was just saying how intimidating this all is.” She scans the premise and meets your eyes. “But it’s all for show. To make up for their lack of talent. You don’t need to flaunt your skills in front of other people if you know you’re good.” You relax, giving a polite smile. “I agree.” “I’m Yeonjeon.” She stretches out her hand. “Y/N.” You shake it. “Nice to meet you.” “Likewise.” The young lady oozes with the confidence you wish you had. She’s stunning, bright eyed and pretty smile. “What role are you auditioning for?” “Oh, just a townswoman.” “Really?” Yeonjeon cocks a brow. “I thought you would try out for Belle. I’m trying out for Belle. My agent called me about this casting call and I thought I would give it a try. I’ve always liked Beauty and the Beast as a kid.” “Good luck then.” She thanks you and just then, another auditionee exits the room and the woman holding the clipboard calls her name. Yeonjeon nods and gathers her belongings, casting one glance at you before leaving. “Hopefully we’ll be able to work together, Y/N.” You wish her luck once more before watching her go off. Afterwards, you shut your eyes to try to calm your nerves, hiding your trembling hands and humming to warm your throat. How many times have you been called back for a casting call like this? Not often. And you’ve never been called again to actually get the role. It was easier back in community theater. They’d find a place for everyone who wanted one. It didn’t matter that you weren’t bold, loud, glamorous, charismatic... You’re shocked out of your thoughts when you’re jolted, someone beside you poking your arm. “Are you, Y/N?” “L/N Y/N.” The lady calls and you stand straight up, so quickly that you pull a muscle in your calf and the bag that was in your lap was now on the ground. The lady sighs. “Come right this way.” “S-sorry, sorry.” You shuffle past the crowd to enter the large room after grabbing your bag again. It’s a bigger room than you expected and a lot more people. It’s spacious with just a long stretched table facing the empty floor and exhausted faces sitting behind it. They stare back at you, unfamiliar as they judge you from head to toe, from your demeanor to how your hair is. It’s the director, the music director, the casting director, two producers and a reader — six of them slumped in their chairs, bored. You swallow hard, approaching the center of the room where the masking tape is on the floor. “Do you have a headshot and resume?” “Y-yes, sorry.” You dig inside your bag, finding the papers wrinkled. You cuss inside your head and as you try organizing them, you accidentally trip on the carpet. Luckily, you don’t fall, but the papers go flying, coating the floor in white. You mumble more apologies, picking them up to hand them out. Your head is dipped, cheeks warm. It’s only been five seconds, but it was already going badly. “Can you introduce yourself?” one of them asks in annoyance when the silence stretches for too long. “Y-yes, sorry. My name is Y/N. I have experience in working in community theater, both on stage and behind. Currently, I’m working as an intern at the production of Phantom of the O-Opera.” You’re sweating at your hairline and you flinch when you hear a sudden snap, finding someone on the sidelines taking your picture. “Alright then, Y/N.” The stern lady straightens out her blazer and puts down her pen, having jotted down some notes. “And you’re auditioning for the supporting role of a townswoman, so part of the female ensemble?” “Yes.” “Pardon?” “Yes!” you exclaim in a louder voice. “Then what song will you be singing for us today?” “The Life I Never Led by the Sister Act the Musical!” You’re already straining your voice by yelling, but you pay no mind, quickly flipping the page after they nod and make hums of acknowledgment. The man’s deadpans in a monotone, “Start.” You clear your throat, steadying your breath. “I've never talked back, I've never slept late, I've never sat down when told to stand straight—” One of their hands raise. You pause. “Can you sound more…” He gestures with his hand. “Light? Right now it’s very serious, and we’re looking for something lively.” “Yes, of course, sorry.” You brace yourself and start again. But it’s happening again. Your hands have a sudden tremor. You feel your heart picking up its pace, fast enough that you’re scared of getting a heart attack. Your face twitches against its will. Your mouth goes dry. You feel dizzy. Like you might throw up before passing out. “I-I've never talked back, I've never slept late, I've never sat down when told to stand straight. I've never let go and gone with the flow, and don't even know, really, why.” The strangers are scrutinizing you. A cold sweat wash down your body, palms clammy, knees shaking. It’s an out-of-body experience and you cringe when you hear yourself go off tune. Everything that you’ve prepared yourself for goes down the drain. The self-assurance washes away, leaving in its place your most desperate state — a girl who tries hard but whose effort never shows. Your voice even warbles against your will. “I've never rebelled, or stood up and yelled, or even just held my head high. And all of the feelings unspoken, all of the truths unsaid, they're all I have left of the life I never led—” You inhale a breath as the note finishes off. But before you can continue singing, the woman in the center raises her hand to silence you. It goes quiet immediately. The sound of scratching pens on paper seem deafening. Then finally, the woman looks up and clasps her hands together. “Alright, thank you for coming. We’ll let you know the final results.” “T-Thank you.” You leave feeling sick to your stomach. Outside the silent room is noise, others still singing and warming up, sounding a thousand times better than you. They’re stable, excited, assured. You know you did poorly, and you’re not imagining it either. You never end up getting a call back from them. No denials or confirmations. The radio silence is loud and clear.

It’s early in the morning with you crouched over sorting clothes in a bin that two pairs of feet shuffle forward. Your head moves back to find the girls that frequently flock to Taeyeon looking down at you. The corner of her lips curl. “You went for an audition for Beauty and the Beast?” “What?” “I saw you,” the other girl sasses with a shrill voice and her arms crossed. “I was wondering why you weren’t here, but Jimin said you had a dentist appointment. Looks like you were lying to even him.” “I—” One of them squats down, meeting your eye level. “Do you really think you could make it? Thought you could sneak away and get yourself a big role to show the rest of us and make us feel bad? I don’t think so. Let’s be frank, you could never make it, Y/N. Shouldn’t bother trying. Why would you set yourself up for disappointment? But I guess the effort is cute.” She stands and her friend smirks. “The director knows you were lying and trying to jump ship and run away from your job. He’s pissed. So good luck trying to keep this position, intern.” They walk away and your eyes sting painfully. Your hand balls into a tight fist, the clothes in your hands wrinkling. Your nails sink past the thin fabric into the palm of your hand. Your knuckles turn white. It’s a privilege to work here. A privilege. You remind yourself of these things — that you will not punch them in the face. As much as you want to and as strong as the urge is, you won’t scratch their faces until they bleed and scream. “Fucking bitches…” you mutter out from your clenched teeth. At the same time, Jimin enters the floor. The timing is poor. He’s a moment too late, but it’s enough to catch them walking away and enough for him to read your angered expression that he mistakes as emotional distraught. “Hey, what’s going on?” Your ears perk once you hear the smooth timbre. Turning to find Jimin, you sigh and relax, rage fading. “Nothing. Can you help me fold this bin? I need to grab the other.” “Alright.” Jimin nods slowly, watching your backside. The director is indeed passive aggressive to you, making comments that you shouldn't lose focus on this job and whatever else bullshit he usually gives. But you don't care. The weight of your failures are heavier on your mind. // “Today, we’re going to brush up on some singing techniques and then talk about building your acting resume.” “I practiced.” Jimin smiles. “I swear.” “Good.” It’s humiliating, not because of other people’s perceptions of you. But it’s humiliating to yourself. You’ve always complained that no one would give you a chance, that all you needed was an opportunity, but once it was given to you, you messed it up. There’s no one to blame. Not your shitty life or because of the director. Not because of your bad luck or the world’s prejudice towards you. It’s no one’s fault but your own. You’ve lost a great chance. How many more will be given to you? How can you ever dream of standing on a world stage if you can’t even go through an audition? Maybe the director was right. When you stand in his shoes, it’s clear that you don’t know what you’re doing, that you’re not ready. Far from it. Your ambitions are bigger than your capabilities. You’re a sapling who wants to be a grand cherry blossom. Perhaps that’s why those girls laughed at you — why they were so condescending when they found out you were auditioning. You’re a foolish imposter. A sapling that wants to be a blossom tree. You’d laugh at yourself too. “Y/N?” “Huh?” “I asked you how I did.” Jimin searches your expression with his own brows scrunched in concern. “I just sang.” “Oh, sorry. You did fine.” You’re too distracted to teach. You’re mentally distraught, fatigued — and you honestly just want to crawl underneath your covers for a while and wish your entire life would be fixed. Or at least until everyone forgot about you and you could start over. But Jimin would never allow himself to forget about you. “Are you sure you’re alright?” “I’m just….at a bit of a low point,” you admit, mustering a smile. “I’ll be okay. Always am.” “It’s okay if you want to talk about it. I’ll listen to you.” His gaze is sincere and his attention is fully devoted to you. It goes quiet as you mull over your own thoughts, and then Jimin’s eyes light up, He digs into his bag for a flyer. “Actually, there was something that I wanted to talk to you about.” He hands it to you and you unfold the corners. The flyer is a dark blue with a streak of red, a young girl on it facing the horizon. You recognize it immediately. It’s the musical, Les Misérables. Jimin smiles. “They’re doing auditions.” “You want to try out?” Your eyes flicker up to him. “I think we should try out,” he suggests. “It’s a good opportunity.” There’s a thick lump in your throat. The paper in your hand crinkles where you hold it tightly between your fingertips. You wondered how many chances you would get after you blew them all. But with Jimin, came another chance. Yet you’re still humiliated. You still feel like an imposter. “I don’t...think I’m ready.” He’s befuddled. “What do you mean?” “You should try out for it, Jimin. I think I’ll sit this one out.” Jimin grabs your wrist before you can get up. His hands curl around your flesh, but his fingers are gentle, his touch tender. His softened eyes search your expression again, and you feel your face get warm under his attention. “I don’t get it. Why would you want to miss this opportunity? Didn’t you tell me that you should always take whatever chance you get? I really have a good feeling about this one. I thought we could try it out together.” “I just…..I don’t think I can do it.” “Why not?” “Because I’m not good enough!” you scream. “You are!” Jimin stands on his feet and when he realizes he’s yelling, he lowers his volume. “I know that you know that you are, so that’s why I don’t understand. Are you giving up?” “No.” It’s an outrageous question, but somehow your harsh whisper sounds like a lie. “I’m not giving up.” “Then do this with me,” he coaxes. “We can try out together.” For a second, you envision being on stage with Jimin, looking over during the grand finale and exchanging silent smiles with one another — but it seems like such a far-fetched dream. “Are you really satisfied being a ghost singer and performing behind the curtain?” he asks. “I’m not.” You divert your vision elsewhere. There’s a sudden pressure on your shoulders, and you can feel yourself break out into a sweat. “There’s nothing wrong with trying,” Jimin tells you and makes it sound so simple. “If we fail, we fail together. If we succeed, we succeed together.” You meet his vision, wondering why he’s trying too hard to convince you. You don’t want to be pushed — but maybe it’s what you need. “Okay. Let’s try.” He smiles and you shove away your hesitance. // The pair of you get your applications completed together in the coming days, sending in headshots, filling out your sheets, preparing the reel. You practice small sections of the available script, singing while watching your expressions. It’s exactly what you did not long ago — but this time it’s with Jimin. And his enthusiasm crumbles away your despair. You might be a sapling trying to be a cherry blossom, but Jimin is a grand flower bed blooming beside you. He makes you just a bit more confident of budding your own flowers and reaching great heights. The both of you submit your applications together, and anticipation bubbles at the pit of your stomach. As much as you try to keep it at bay, your hope creeps back in. Maybe this could be it... And then your phone rings days later. “Hello?” “Hello?” The voice on the other line is unmistakable. “Hi, is this Ms. Y/N?” “Yes, it is. How may I help you?” “I’m the casting director for the Les Misérables production here in New York. You recently sent in an application for an audition. We were wondering if you were still interested and willing to set up a convenient date to meet.” “I-I….” You inhale a deep breath to fill your lungs. Your vision is blurred, eyes stinging with tears that threaten to shed, but you keep yourself composed and professional. “Yes, I’m still interested. I’d be happy to set up a date and time for an audition.” There’s a flutter in your stomach. You feel like you might throw up — but it’s the first time that it’s for a good thing. Though instead of opting for spilling your food out from your guts in excitement, you find yourself throwing the front door open. There’s one person that you want to tell. This time, you’ll follow your urges. You won’t hold back. But before you can even knock on the door next to yours, you catch the brunette boy walking down the hall, having turned the corner of where the stairwell is. Jimin sees you too and his eyes light up. They shimmer in the corridor lights and he approaches with his hands dug in the pockets of his trench coat. It takes too long. You run and meet him halfway. “I...got a call.” His smile expands into a grin. He hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “I did too. Just now, right?” “Just now.” You confirm with vigorous nods, almost crying. If it weren’t for him…. You hop up to Jimin on the tips of your toes, your whimper is muffled into his shoulder with your face dug into his coat. And your arms wrap around his torso. The boy’s surprised, stumbling back from the impact, but blissfully giggles when he realizes you’re hugging him. Jimin’s arms quickly encircle your waist. His cheeks deepen into a rosy hue and his smile softens even more. He smells of lavender body wash and fresh linen. “I told you that you could do it,” he teases gently in an intimate whisper. Your gratitude is immense. You’re rendered speechless. You don’t know what to say, what to tell him. So you try to show him, squeezing him tighter. You were going to give up — you could only take so many failures — you could only last so long in a state of limbo. But with Jimin by your side, you feel like you could achieve anything. You finally let go of him, heart racing, making wild gestures. “We-we need to get started, Park. We have to go look for a song and start practicing. You told me we’re in this together, so why are we wasting time out here? Come on!” You grab onto him, pulling him towards his apartment as his laughter rings in the air. In the meanwhile, Jimin muses in his mind that he meant it when he said you were beautiful when you were happy. You’re practically glowing. // There’s more practice to be done, helping one another choose songs for the audition, giving opinions to improve certain parts, to use certain techniques. You’re more motivated than before, fueling your own morale instead of relying on his. You’re eager, especially knowing that you won’t be alone during the audition, that you won’t be entering a room of complete strangers. Singing in front of Jimin wasn’t as hard as it used to be either. Your palms don’t get clammy, sweat doesn’t start dripping, your knees don’t shake. It helps a lot to sing directly in front of someone. And you’ve gotten comfortable with him. Jimin’s attention is still a lot sometimes, but you know it’s coming from a good place. He’s not so much scrutinizing as he is listening and savouring. “What if they ask you to dance?” He pipes up out of the blue while you’re making dinner at the same time as practicing. “What?” He repeats the question and smiles mischievously. “What would you do then?” “I don’t think they would. I’m pretty sure there isn’t any dancing in Les Mis, Jimin. If there is, then not a lot.” “Hey, you never know. They can tell you to do anything and you have to be ready for it.” You scoff lightly. He’s still trying to convince you to teach him after all these months. And you give in this time. You allow Jimin to pull you away from the stove. You’re timid, uncertain, but he places your hands where they need to be — both on his firm shoulders, while his own are light on your waist. “Like this.” “What if I step on your feet?” “I’ll survive.” His eyes twinkle, playful. “Okay, step back once, then I’ll step forward. Now step forward and I’ll step back. One, two, three, one two three. Just follow my lead.” You look down to your shuffling feet, making sure not to step on his toes. You feel silly, but it’s also easier than you realized. Maybe that’s just because he’s a good lead. “Relax, I’m not that fragile.” “I don’t want to be responsible if you get hurt.” You raise your head, eyes connecting to his. Jimin smiles, and then twirls you suddenly, making you laugh. He holds your right hand, letting you sway back and forth. It begins to feel more like a swing dance than a slow one. But the giggles are infectious and he pulls you close to him, enough for you to feel his body heat and for it to warm your face to your toes. You feel light, butterflies swooping from your chest to the pits of your stomach. And Jimin’s the very cause of it. “Jimin!” You laugh, trying to pull away. “The water’s gonna overboil!” He stares deeply into you, corners of his mouth pulling. “Just let it.” “And burn down this apartment?” Jimin shrugs, but lets go anyhow. “I wouldn’t mind.” You feel colder when he’s gone, though your fingertips still tingle with his touch. His hands were soft. “When the time comes, I’ll happily teach you how to dance properly.” You know that time will come someday as long as you stay by Jimin’s side.

#bts fanfic #jimin fanfic #jimin fluff #bts scenario #jimin scenario

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elderxprice · 4 years

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[#bom10daychallenge - day3.] There is a liquor store thirty-two miles outside of Provo that Kevin frequents every Thursday after class. He is on a first name basis with the cashier, who scribbles her number on all his receipts. He never calls, but she’s persistent. Eventually Kevin tells her he has a boyfriend, even though he doesn’t – technically.

Oh, wow, she says, and gives him his liquor for free. She feels bad for him. Kevin doesn’t blame her, because he feels bad for himself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be parked at the furthest corner of Lot 38, drinking from a bottle of Tanqueray and Skyping with his ex-companion.

“I’m worried about you, buddy,” Arnold says. He is sitting on the rusted fire-escape of a motel in Kampala, drinking a plastic cup of waragi. He is wearing the beginnings of a proper bedhead and no shirt. There are scratches across his chest and a fading bruise against his neck. Kevin does not want to know why, though he’s sure he could guess. “You’re drinking booze out of the bottle in a BYU parking lot. If someone sees you, you’re totally expelled.”

Kevin shrugs. “I think maybe I want that.”

“Do you? ‘Cause no offense, Kev, I find that a little hard to believe.” Arnold reaches to adjust his laptop - a gift from his overly concerned mother when she learned he was in no rush to come home - and for a blessed second Kevin gets a detailed view of Arnold’s lap. He’s wearing very tight, very small boxers that sit low on his hips; Kevin can make out the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. “You sat before a disciplinary council and restored your standing with the church, just so you could go there. I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure that wasn’t very fun for you. Considering.” He motions with a hand, sending a splash of gin over the lip of his cup. Arnold swears, and licks it off his arm. Kevin shifts in his seat.

“Considering what?” He frowns, propping his phone up on the dashboard. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

Arnold snorts, staring into what’s left of his drink. “Okay, sure, I believe that; but I also believe you didn’t tell them everything.”

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t there because of everything. I was there because of your stupid play.” The second he says that, Kevin feels bad. The play wasn’t stupid, it was beautiful; and helped him put a lot of things into perspective. Like how some things are just meant to be symbolic; a catalyst to push you towards greater purpose, and nothing more. Arnold’s play was that for Kevin. After, he no longer wanted to help people by baptizing them into the church, he wanted to help them by providing a sustainable solution to their problems. “I had no part in that, anyway, so it wasn’t exactly hard for me to apologize.”

“Uh huh, sure.” Arnold rolls his eyes. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to be a practicing Mormon, again.”

“Am I, though?” Kevin holds up the bottle of gin.

Arnold sighs; “Whatever, Kev.”

“Look, it’s really not that hard to understand. I love my family, pal. That’s all there is to it.” He thinks Arnold should have been able to figure that out on his own, considering he understands conditional love more than anyone. “Can we talk about something else?”

“I guess.” Arnold moves to sit cross legged, setting his drink down beside him. Kevin watches it tip over. “Why don’t we start with this: what are you wearing?” He offers Kevin an exaggerated wink, that Kevin rolls his eyes to.

“You can see me, Arnold.” Kevin waves a hand down the front of his shirt, which has BYU emblazoned across the front and a hole along the seam of the neckline.

“Not the bottom half.” Arnold lifts his laptop, tipping it so Kevin can see the outline of his dick. “There, you’ve seen mine, now let me see yours.”

“I thought you were worried about me getting expelled?” Reaching for his phone, Kevin complies. He is wearing jeans that leave everything to the imagination. He grins, as Arnold sighs in disappointment.

“Um, yeah, no – that’s not fair.” Arnold leans forward, tapping the screen. “Give me something to work with, Kev! I miss you, like, so fucking much; and we only get to do this once a month.”

This is news to Kevin, considering Arnold made no real effort to keep Kevin with him; and as far as Kevin knows, he still goes to bed with Nabulungi every night. Still, it’s flattering to know he still has this effect on Arnold. He thinks he’d like to keep it that way, even though he is not the only one. Tossing the phone onto the dashboard, Kevin unzips his jeans and tugs them down over his hips. He’s not wearing a single thing under them. Arnold better appreciate this.

“Uh, huh, yeah, that’s way better.” Arnold lifts a hand to his mouth; it is clear he is smiling behind it. His cheeks are flushed with something other than drink, and it brings Kevin back to Uganda, to the pit latrine where he gave his first blowjob. Arnold’s eyes had been so dark, they were almost unrecognizable; it has scared him and thrilled him all at once.

“Your turn,” Kevin says, wetting his lips. “Fair is fair.”

Arnold looks hesitant, glancing over his shoulder at the building right behind him. “I don’t wanna get arrested, Kevin.”

“And I don’t particularly want to get expelled. Just go inside, then, if you’re scared.” Kevin watches intently as Arnold shuffles to the far corner of the fire-escape, sliding a hand over the bulge between his legs. He’s always been up for a challenge. Kevin’s skin feels like it’s on fire. “Come on, come on, come on,” he urges. The windows of his sedan are fogging up.

“Were you always this impatient?” But Arnold complies, sitting up on his knees as he shoves his underwear over his hips and down his thighs. He’s already hard; Kevin is not far behind him. “’Cause, I’m pretty sure patience is a Mormon virtue or whatever.”

“You never gave me a chance to be,” Kevin says, sliding a hand down his stomach. Arnold watches intently as Kevin takes himself in hand. “You were always real eager.”

“Kevin.” Arnold whines, his eyes trained on Kevin’s hand. “Fuck.”

It does not take either of them very long; just a few strokes until Kevin is coming, head tipped back as he spills over his fist. Arnold swears, again, and follows soon thereafter. It gets on his screen.

“Gross,” Kevin laughs as Arnold tries to wipe it off, managing only to spread it around.

“Would you think so if it was on your face?” Arnold grins impishly, and waves before quickly logging off. Kevin wipes his hands on his jeans, once the call disconnects. He’s tired; from coming and just from being here, drunk in his car at BYU. He wishes he were anywhere else. He wishes he was with Arnold in Uganda, on that fire escape, even if they were just drinking gin and talking; because this once a month thing - it’s not enough.

I don’t know, he emails Arnold back, a few minutes later. Maybe we should find out?

#bom10daychallenge #kevin price #arnold cunningham #pricingham #headcanon

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

Witness : 26

Not Right

new moodboard created by @iheartsebastianstan Thanks to them and to anyone who wants to create one of their own or some art, I would be eternally grateful. You all are so amazing!

Character(s): dark!Bucky, dark!Steve, too

Masterlist

Warnings: this is a dark!fic, it contains non/dubious-consent elements. Some violence as well at the beginning. It goes without (and with) that this is 18+.

In this chapter, sex and internal conflict.

Summary: The reader feels her world closing in but it might be too late to save herself.

Notes: Okay, thanks to everyone and their patience with this series. Honestly the response has been overwhelming! I love you all so much and it's really meant a lot considering my recent mental episodes. I hate that I have so many issues and they always pop up at the worst times but this series makes it easier to deal with. I know y'all have come for the story and don't need a whole dump here but I think it's a little obvious that I've poured a lot of myself and my internal struggles into this one and so it just means so much more that it has had such a big response. Again, thank you for listening to me ramble and supporting this series! <3 Now, onto actual business here! This chapter has some juicy little tidbits (and I don't mean sex) just something y'all have been waiting for... I hope you all enjoy :) Tomorrow will be the second chapter of Happy Together so brace for some dark!Steve and Saturday will be another one shot requested for the raffle! (Again dark!Steve) so we have quite the line up. Anyways, as usual, comments mean the world to me. It's nice to have feedback and I just love hearing all your reactions and thoughts. :D You guys are so wonderful.

Please, reblog and or reply with your thoughts!! I’ll see you in the next one. :)

As promised, Bucky and Steve left town at noon. You were relieved to see them go but the looming threat of their presence had distracted you from the dark thoughts which now began to rise in the back of your mind. Vague memories of words exchanged; about you, about others. Gill... you knew nothing about her, only that she used to sit at the very desk you were now behind. And, if you were to guess at it, she had also been involved with the two men who had you caught in their claws, though you couldn’t say how.

You tapped your fingers on the desk as you scrolled through Pepper’s inbox, weeding out the junk, responding to those which could be generically shrugged off. It was second nature now. Almost fun. You imagined what it would be like to be her. On the arm of one of the most powerful men in the world, protected from others who might wish you harm. You were in almost the complete opposite station in life. You were trapped under the thumb of one who saw you as nothing more than a prop and you had little means of helping yourself.

“I promise, she won’t be another Gill.” “She’s not another one of your toys…”

What had happened to your predecessor? The black text blurred past your vision as you thought, scrolling the wheel as you thought back to your nights spent with both super soldiers. As much as Bucky set your nerves on fire, Steve was utterly terrifying. He was able to flip a switch, turning from the smiling office colleague to sinister masochist. You could feel his hands on your neck then. Had Gill felt the same fingers against her flesh, the same dread mixed with airiness? Is that why she had quit?

You sat back, looking around the office. There was no one there but you were ever paranoid. You leaned on the chair, glancing just down the hallway as an idea tugged at your mind. You took a deep breath and moved the mouse, hovering over the “sent files” link before clicking. Pepper’s emails, including those written by yourself, appeared before you. You began to scroll down, watching the date revert until well before your first day. And then you found it. An email with a familiar name upon it; ‘Daily Roster’ fwd. Gill Nazar. You stared at the name, another glance around the office.

You clicked and let the air out of your lungs. Nothing beyond the usual message; a list of names, times, special instructions. It was the same thing you received every morning. You clicked out and opened up the browser, typed in the former secretary’s name and hit enter with a rush of a anxiety. As the little circle reeled beside the cursor, so did your head. The results popped up and your heart dropped. You clicked on the first link; a headline already forgotten.

‘MISSING WOMAN: FORMER SECRETARY ON THE RUN?’ It was the most recent story on Gill, declaring that previous reports of her disappearance had been exaggerated and she had in fact merely run away from her boring office life. You explored those which preceded that, every day back in time building the heat along your spine. There were no clues which could have led to her discovery and the last article gave only an account of her wild college days, not far behind her, and a questionable quote from a “friend” to support its thesis. Yet the case had been closed and no one was looking for Gill Nazar any longer.

It just didn’t add up and you suspected your inevitable disappearance would make even less sense. The thought chilled you to the core and a sudden wave of terror came over you. If you didn’t get out soon, you would be the woman pasted across the articles, but only for a week before you were buried beneath the next week’s headlines. Another would sit in this chair and contend with the super soldiers.

You were shaking. Your eyes were glued to the screen and you couldn’t stop the panic as it filled your veins like ice. You needed to act soon or be lost forever.

A couple days later, after the revelation that Gill hadn't necessarily quit for a better job or due to a sudden windfall, you were still trying to figure out how to process the information. You couldn't say for sure that she was dead but it wasn't an unlikely conclusion either. The way Steve and Bucky spoke about her as good as confirmed your suspicions. And if her fate was so shrouded in mystery and fatalism, what then would yours be?

This wasn't just something you could forget but you could try to suppress it, at least distract yourself from it. It all seemed pointless now that your fate was as good as confirmed. Even as you played along you weren't promised any other end but that which you had tried to barter yourself out of.

Currently you were in the middle of a convenience story, your arms filled with a multi-pack of gummy worms, gummy bears, and sour keys. The endorphins afforded by such an indulgence might be enough to ward off the shadow which loomed over you. A couple chocolate bars were added to your load and you dragged your feet up along the last aisle. Your eyes caught shiny plastic packages, hung on security hooks, and you skidded to a halt. You tapped your toe and looked around.

You stared at the flip phones. ‘Burners’ they were commonly referred to as by dealers and similar criminals. You chewed your cheek, the wheels slowly beginning to wind on your head. “Excuse me,” You called over to the cashier, bent over the daily crossword in the newspaper. He almost reminded you of yourself and your doldrum work. “Can I get two of these phones please?”

He pushed himself away from the counter and came out from behind the lottery tickets and gum to shove a round key on the hook. He unlooped two and brought them up to the counter where you met him on the other side. You set the rest of your wares before him and he punched in the items dully. He seemed rather unfazed by your purchase but you gathered a place like this would have shadier types than yourself frequenting the joint. You accepted a plastic bag and and took your haul out onto the street. Finding your car, you slid inside and started the engine, a plan piecing itself together in your head. Well, nothing substantial but a line of communication. A way to protect yourself and your mom when an escape presented itself.

Back at your apartment, you took out the twin phones and charged them. You activated them with a set of fake names and typed in a message from one to the other. You left it unread so that the notification still showed.

Mom, text back when you get this. Y/N.

You would buy a parcel tomorrow and send it without a return address. That way Bucky couldn't track it. You felt an odd sense of accomplishment, a fragment of your independence secreted away. Even if you were caught out, you had tried.

You dumped the packaging down the building's chute and hid the phones beneath your kitchen sink, just behind the trash can. Just in case. You never knew when Bucky would return and he always seemed to drop in at the most inconvenient times. Your suspicion proved prudent as you slept heavily that night. No longer did the sense of doom hang over you so darkly and you dozed quite comfortably in your own bed. The morning after held a simple task and a rare sliver of hope.

But you were roused to half-slumber by a distant sound. There was a presence in your room thought your mind refused to retreat from its respite, instead you listened as if through a tunnel. A series of rustling, metal clinking, and muted footsteps. The mattress dipped beside you and a warmth snaked around your waist. At last your eyes snapped open and you grabbed the hand tucking itself under your side.

“It's just me,” Bucky's whisper was not as comforting as he would have hoped. “Go back to sleep.”

You tensed against him, not expecting such...gentleness? He wasn't forcing your legs apart or holding you down. In fact, he was giving you a new option. You would take sleep if it saved you from his usual tendencies. The rest of your night was spent in a shallow sleep, the presence beside you kept you from sinking back too far. In the back of your head you wondered why he was there. After days away on a mission he had decided to show up at your place in the middle of the night and slink into your bed like some long-awaited lover.

Still you resisted consciousness if only to avoid the answers to those questions. You were woken however against your will. Your mind still shrouded in drowsiness you grumbled as a hand pushed its way between your legs, sliding up your thighs, careful circles drawn along your clit. It was almost relaxing, the warm nestled in your pelvis as the fingers carried on. It was only as the grunt rasped in your ear and you felt the prodding along your back that reality slapped you.

Bucky was spooning you, his hand squeezed between your legs as he teased your clit, your shorts gone. Your own hand shot down to try to stop him but a soft ‘uh uh’ kept your from doing so. Slowly, he shifted away from you, his fingers still tugging at your core, and rolled you flat onto your back. He pushed your legs apart and you let them splay open, wondering if this was actually some twisted nightmare. A most confusing one indeed.

His beard tickled across your shoulder and along your neck, his lips laying sweet pecks along your skin. Your heart was hammering in your chest. What was he doing? This had to be some trick. To be so gentle with you he must have been planning something awful. His nose brushed across your cheek, his eyelids hooded over his blue eyes as they closed and he leaned closer. His lips were on yours before you could turn away and your eyes were wide open. He was kissing you. He had never done that before.

His fingers continued to pluck at you and you moaned despite yourself. The heat was pooling just so and you couldn't resist the flames licking along your thighs. You shuddered against him and he removed his lips at last so that you could turn your head and pant at the sunlit bedroom. He pressed his head once more into the crook of your neck, bringing you to a most disconcerting climax.

As the after waves took you, Bucky climbed on top of you, replacing his fingers with his cock, running his tip along your folds before slowly entering. You gasped. You wanted him to stop because it felt so unfamiliar, so wrong, and yet you wanted him to keep going. The intimacy of his actions was both long-missed and entirely unsettling. You craved it, just not from him. Not in this circumstance. His breath was hot against your neck as he began to move within you, one hand on your hip, the other tangled in your hair, cradling your head.

You tried to resist the tingling his touch was sending through you but your mind was too tired and your body weak. You gripped his bicep as he moved against you, your nails digging into his flesh as you fought him and yourself. There wasn’t any real strength put into it as you felt like jelly beneath him, every thrust sending a star across your vision. Your eyes rolled back and you let the haze take you, your name ringing in your ears as you met with yet another orgasm.

Bucky grunted your name low in your ear, bringing you back to the moment. You felt the warmth spill within you, his cum filling you and seeping around his cock. He collapsed atop you, not moving as he breathed heavily, his head just beside yours on the pillow. The glow of your lust began to fade, the oddity of reality like a bucket of cold water poured over you. You could handle him treating you like a toy, tossing you around, manhandling you, calling you a good girl, but you couldn’t do this. Him touching you so softly as if he actually felt anything but pure spite for you, saying your name…

“Get off of me,” You whispered, “Please, please.” You began to panic, smacking your hands against his shoulders as you begged him. You couldn't breathe. “Please. Get off!”

He pulled out of you, sitting back with visible shock on his face. You quickly rolled over the edge of the bed, barely getting your feet under you before you met the floor. You tripped over yourself as you scurried out to the washroom, slamming the door and locking it. You felt his cum dripping down your leg and you cringed. You stepped into the tub, turning on the shower head and detaching it as you frantically tried to wash him away. It was all wrong. He hated you and you hated him. That was how it worked.

You cranked the faucet off and dropped the hose, falling back against the tub as your body shook. Your top was askew and splashed with water, your bottom half chilly from the cooling drops across your skin. You closed your eyes and swore aloud. Your plan had to been to bide your time but how much longer would you have?

tags: @they-call-me-le @holylulusworld @petit-funsize @alexakeyloveloki @ladyofmyst @kellyn1604 @thelostallycat @grayxswan @collette04 @butteryoptimisticpeanut @buckycaptspideypool @blackpantherimagines @lilithhellfire @captainfreecandyvan @spaghettyrogers @phoenix21love @sathlens @iheartsebastianstan @lanabanana-86

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gotstory · 5 years

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My 20 Year Old Idol Husband - Day 18 - I’m Fine

20 yr old Jungkook, at the top of his idol boyband career, has a secret only he & his bandmates know – An underground relationship, with you, a girl he met at a fanmeeting. Things get a little out of hand and you find out you’re pregnant.

Read: Day 1 / Day 2 / Day 3 / Day 4 / Day 5 / Day 6 / Day 7 / Day 8 / Day 9 / Day 10 / Day 11 / Day 12 / Day 13 / Day 14 / Day 15 / Day 16 / Day 17 / Day 18 /

It was a normal day for the boys as they shuffled around their studios, practicing or recording.

Namjoon in particular was getting slightly impatient.

(Last night - Namjoon)

"Alot could happen in 3 weeks."

Yoongi frowned, "couldn't she just come with us?"

Instead of waiting for Bang PD to arrive, he decided to drop him a text.

- PD nim, I have been thinking about our previous tours abroad and wondering if we can hire a billingual PR manager to come along with us for the next tour.

The reply was almost instantaneous.

- We have been thinking about it too and have someone in mind. But we found out the agency let her go and we still haven't been able to get in touch.

Namjoon took the chance and pushed for it.

- PD nim if you don't mind, I do have someone to suggest whom we have worked with during the last Europe tour. We can discuss this in detail maybe later today?

As he focused on waiting for the reply, his heart was racing a little.

Why am I being nervous about this? It's not even my girlfriend...

Just then the door of his studio shifted a little and in came Bang PD with a smile.

"Oh! PD nim! Were you already here?" quickly, a wide smile came over him as he stood to greet his boss whom he hadn't seen in some time.

As the older man sank down into the cosy grey sofa and squashed abit of the Van cushion under his weight, he spoke up in a light tone.

"Namjoon-ah, why are you bothering yourself with these matters when I've already got a whole team of staff to look into such things? It's not like you haven't got enough work on your hands."

Namjoon wasn't sure if he was being scolded for being nosy or was Bang PD trying to thank him for going beyond his scope.

He sat down and with a pressed smile, began to put forth some of his plans he had been working out in his head.

"Actually, PD nim, there's this one person we really hope to have along with us..."

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

Back in the agency where you used to be, things were running as usual. But your co-worker and bff, Fan, had been having a hard time coping with other reporters who had no interest in the music events they covered. It was mostly a touch and go approach that left her missing you, her partner in crime, even more. Days were getting tougher and she even entertained the though of leaving altogether since there was hardly anything else to look forward to.

As she packed up her stuff ready to leave for the day, her boss strolled by with a worried look.

"Hey boss, everything fine? You look like you just lost your company."

He smirked tiredly, used to her teasing. "Thankfully not. It's just that one of our Korean counterparts have been asking for Chae-rin and it was a pity I let her go. I don't even have anyone else I could send as a replacement."

At the mention of your name, she entertained some hopes of reuniting with you.

"Then just hire her back and send her over to Korea! You do know she's IN Korea right?"

Surprised at this piece of newly acquired information his brain quickly turns the numbers and realised that it clicked.

"But wait," he said, "didn't she say something about needing to rest for her health?"

Fan quickly brushed it aside, "well yeah but it's been awhile now she's probably fine. Why don't I call her for you just to... You know, see if she fancies something like that? Oh and, which company are we talking about here anyway?"

The boss ponders, "That sounds good, Fan. It's the one.... with Mr Bang and BTS."

Her breath hitches and chokes in surprise as he catches on quickly, "What's wrong? You alright?"

"Oh nothing!" she laughs, "I'm feeling just fine! I'm fine! Yea, definitely, just fine!"

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

I'm feeling just fine, fine fine...

You wake up to the sound of your new BTS alarm, it was your favourite song of the moment after seeing the elaborate choreography and how it was such a comforting yet emotional track. You look around and find a note stuck to your phone. It was neatly written and you recognised Jk's handwriting from the numerous letters he'd written over the last year.

'Noona, (they insisted I be fair and call you that) we won't be back early tonight because of the rehearsals for the tour schedule next week. If you get bored, just get a cab and let me know where you are. The hyungs and I will be at the studio so please have a good rest and eat well. Jin-hyung says he made some soup and the kitchen is yours. Please call us if you run into any trouble at all.

-JK'

Of course, it would be a surprise if these busy idols were mopping around their house in the peak of their career. You weren't even expecting to see them altogether, recalling what a feast it was last night which only showed how long it had been since they could all rest at home together in the same space.

Finally. Some time to explore the city!

You thought to yourself, slowly reading off the messages you ignored since the night before.

There were a stream of pictures and messages from your ex colleagues and friends, as well as a few from Jungkook mainly to check if you were awake yet.

Just then, your phone rang and to your surprise it was Fan. Excitedly you answered it with your croaky morning voice.

- Ahem, ah, ah. Hello!

- Oh gosh, Chaerin, sorry did I wake you up? I didn't check the time difference!

- Don't worry it's noon here. What's up? You hardly call!

- Yeah I know, it's only been like what... Less than a week since you're gone and I'm dying without you.

You laughed at her cutely exaggerated tone which you missed.

- 4 days to be exact. It's only like what, my 3rd day here? It feels like I've been gone forever though. I miss working already.

- Really? How's your... Erm... Body? Has all the... Discomfort worn off?

You pause at her overly cautious choice of words and found it strange.

- Are you with someone?

Fan smiled, knowing how sharp you were.

- Well yes, and I wanted to ask if you really MISSED WORKING WITH US SO MUCH THAT YOU WISHED YOU COULD COME BACK?

Placing deliberate emphasis on the keywords with her back facing the boss, Fan definitely knew what she was doing and wanted you to catch on it.

- You're in the office aren't you... With, let me see... At this hour, wouldn't there only be the boss left? Hang on, are you saying he wants me to come back? Oh come on...

Giving an air punch, Fan was more than excited even though there wasn't even a conclusion.

- Not just me but before you... TURN ME DOWN, I just wanted to know it might be because you're PLANNING TO SETTLE IN KOREA?

- What are you going on about, Fan? You know full well the reason why I was dragged here! of course I have to settle here with... Well, you know who! And eventually I'll have to find a job and---

Quickly, Fan cut her short and put the phone to the boss.

- OKAY OKAY! I got that I got that! Hang on yes yes!

Nervously, he took it and tried to be as casual about it as he could. Unknown to you, there was actually a huge sum of money behind the contractual agreement which BigHit had offered. One that made it harder and harder for him to turn down or ignore. He knew the ball was not in his court and he had to get you back no matter what it took.

After half an hour of lengthy explanations and persuasion, you finally got the full picture.

- So, boss, ah... I mean, erm John, you're telling me the Korean agency we worked with, wants you to post me there as a permanent PR manager for them, while you manage the press at the Europe office, is that it?

- Yes, that's exactly what it is but of course, I'd have to hire you in order for that to happen.

It sounded like a good plan that would help keep your time occupied with income while you got a legitimate work pass to be in Korea as how you needed to. Only thing was letting them know, you'd soon be needing to use some maternity leave and that could potentially cause issues.

- But there are so many PR managers in Korea, why us and why me in particular?

- Beats me! but I know you've always outshone in your abilities and it doesn't surprise me if you were headhunted directly by them. It's just that they probably didn't know you had left the country and man, their staff are so persistent! There were a couple of mails I missed around the time you left which I ignored, since well, you left, but they've called me countless of times this morning as if they can't even wait an hour longer for me to disclose your details. But I told them I'd have to speak with you first. You know, PDPA can be a real bitch these days...

It was true.

Personal data protection was such a sticky issue that never let anyone in this media line rest. Of course, it didn't make any business sense for the boss to let another agency poach his ex-staff when he could possibly leverage on it. Anyone would. But you still didn't get it - why you?

- Before we go on, Mr John, which agency is this that has put forth such a strange request?

As if haunted by the thought, he sighed and sank into a chair.

- Apparently they said the leader made a direct request this morning for it and it became urgent. Remember the boyband you covered at your first stint? What was it again...

He motioned to Fan asking for the name of the band and she quickly showed him her Season's Greeting calendar with the 7 smiley boys.

- BTS. That's right. The Bangtan Boys.

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

The day whizzed by and you were completely caught in the flurry of calls, and emails you thought you never had to open again.

In a matter of hours, you had set up your laptop and found a small empty area where you could sit comfortably and wasn't occupied by one of the boy's laundry or gadgets.

The call had ended abruptly when you told Mr John to send you the emails for your consideration since Fan was probably freaking out at both her roaming call charges and the surprise of it all.

The leader made a request this morning? That's not possible... Namjoon? But why?

Bewildered, you let the mails load by the chunks until you hear the arrival of new mail from your boss - you had always gave it a different colour code just so you'd never miss it.

As you clicked it open, you saw the unmistakable BigHit email signature and a long mail thread which you read every single word not missing any of it. You could tell it was written very directly due to the probably lack of English expertise from the local staff but was succinct and sufficient to get the point across.

It was simple. They wanted you to work for them - with lodging and everything else taken care of.

This is more than perfect!

After going through the legal and operational details over the phone with their representative, you carefully broach the subject of possible maternity leave, in the near future. To your surprise, they were not only supportive but assured you that even the expenses would be taken care of so long as you were returning to your duties after that. The only thing was that you would have to start work the day after tomorrow in view of the tour that was upcoming.

Another long flight. Packing after you've just unpacked.

With a small sigh, your eyes caught sight of the neat scribbles Jungkook left for your this morning and smiled to yourself. Well, it wasn't that bad if this meant you were able to be with him for the next 3 weeks. It had just been 3 days with the boys but the thought of not being able see, hear, and just be near him had grown so uncomfortable that it made you teary.

Hurriedly you shook these thoughts off and took a deep breath, picking up your phone to text Jungkook.

- Work hard for today Kookie, I've got some news for you tonight :)

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

Hours later, Fan sorts out her own paperwork and ties up loose ends in the office, and prepares to take the first flight out in the morning to meet you. Unlike you, she had to get on flight soonest in order to arrive on the same day you start work.

Looking through the texts, she remembered having Jimin's number from the time when she pressed Chae-rin for at least one emergency contact other than JK's, in the event where she wasn't contactable. Picking up her courage, she decided to send him a text of her arrival... After all that you've done for her, being there for you in this uncertain period of your life, was the least she could do, of course, with some help, a surprise appearance would be the cherry on the cake.

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

The doors of the apartment swung open hastily and you hear the familiar banter of Jin, Namjoon and J-hope, as they discussed formations for the concert. They were so loud it sounded more like a party than 2 people just talking.

'No, no, no... hyung, I'll change it and Taehyung will sit on Namjoon and me because -- AAAigoo Jungkook-Ah! Your big bag is in my face, watch it!' It was J-hope, the loudest of them all, sounding suddenly cautious at the silent arrival of Jungkook, probably squeezing through the door with his over-sized bag.

'Sorry hyung! You okay?' Without even looking back, he habitually kicked off his shoes and tried to mask his excitement of finally being able to see you at the end of a long day. Going straight to his room, he finds your bags sitting at the door, luggage zipped and packed like the day you arrived. With eyes wide in shock he starts going into every room in search for you and when you were nowhere in sight, he grabs his phone and starts calling you, frantically looking around the living room if you'd left him a note or something.

The older boys, especially Namjoon, calmly check out Jungkook's room to see what he was being flustered about only to be startled by sudden movements among the rack of Jungkook's black tee-shirts.

'OOH! OOH! OOH! What-what -- Ahhh... you scared me!' Hushed Jin who put a hand to his chest after seeing that it was you, hidden behind the clothes. He looked extra warm and fuzzy today, in a turtle neck and glasses you seldom saw him wear.

You put a finger to your lips and motioned for Namjoon to come closer as you whispered to them. 'The company told me about your request.' You said, to the 3 older boys who were crouched down with their faces inches from yours in the dim corner. You continued, 'I'll be moving to the empty apartment next door in the morning.'

'JJINCHA???' J-hope exclaimed only to be quickly silenced by your hand.

'But why're you hiding from Jungkookie?' Namjoon asked. 'You trying to make him think you're leaving? You want to prank him?'

You nodded. 'It's now or never, isn't it?' with a cheeky wink, the brothers nodded and stood up giving you an "OK" signal, and started going into their overly exaggerated acting mode.

Jin sat on the bed while Namjoon went out to look for Jungkook, and J-hope started talking loudly again. "OMO! Jungkook-ah~~ Why are all her luggages packed up again? Aigoo, Jungkook-ah!"

As the boys gathered, they thoughtfully positioned Jungkook's face in your view, a clear sign they had done this so many times for the camera.

Namjoon started on his worried low voice, asking Jungkook if there was something wrong or if there was anything else he hadn't told them about. Before Jungkook could even respond, Jin chimed in like a comedic duo with Namjoon, picking up line after line, not even letting Jungkook process what was happening.

'... and you know, its getting late now, where do you expect her to go? right? her bags are all packed and she isn't answering her phone, are you sure she didn't say anything else to you? Jungkook-ah, check your phone again, did you miss some messages?'

You watched as Jungkook stared blankly, trying to recall while he cocked his head to one side, eyes fixed on the packed suitacases in deep confusion. 'No... Noona only said she had something to tell me tonight, but... but...'

'Something to tell you? Ah! That's right, she has to go back home that's why these are all packed!' Jin added quickly.

'NO!' was Jungkook's only response and you could see J-hope trying not to laugh at the innocence of this man-child. He was practically about to throw a fit at his 'helpful' hyungs in his sheer helplessness. As he mumbled unintelligible words to reason out why it wasn't possible you would leave, Namjoon decided to give it the final blow.

Putting his hands over JK's shoulder, he brought him nearer to where you were hiding as if to tell him a secret.

'Jungkook-ah, actually, I spoke to Bang-PD about Chae-rin.'

Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath in disbelief as he shrieked in a high pitch tone you'd never thought he was capable of. 'You, WHAAAAT???? HYUNGGGGG!!!!'

He continued, 'so I told him that for your sake, and hers, she has to move out of this place. Jungkook, hyung is sorry, I really tried my best to speak up for you but I think we can't have a girl here.'

You saw the Jungshook gifs appearing before your eyes as he froze in place, not even attempting to refute all that he heard. You made a mental note to commend his loyal and abiding nature even though it seemed like Namjoon had just turned his back on him.

After awhile, Jungkook spun around, looking at the other boys, studying their faces before going straight to J-hope giving him a deep closeup view of his bright round eyes.

'Wohhh, too close, Jungkook, too close, what-- what--' As he observed the reactions of his brothers, he stood up, surveying the room this time calmly and with sharp eyes, he realised how they had been deliberately leaving an empty space in front of his clothes. It was only then that he faintly saw some colours hidden behind the row of monochrome clothes, and took a deep breath of relief.

'Noona~ I know you're there. Come on out now, you have some explaining to do.' He closed his eyes with a satisfied grin and mild annoyance, pointing in your direction.

Slowly, you emerged bashfully, to the wind-screen wiper laughs of Jin and J-hope.

'Sorry, Chae-rin, we're just really horrible at acting no matter how hard we try. But for now I think we will leave you to deal with our little Kookie, see you outside for dinner! Bye!' In the blink of an eye, the hyungs exited and shut the door behind them as you heard their quick footsteps scurry down the hallway.

It only took you half an hour to explain the situation to Jungkook as he took it all in.

'Are you saying you'll be travelling with us when we're on tour, and when we're back, you'll be staying beside us?' He summed it all up in a sentence.

'Well, y-yes.... but Jungkook I'm going to be a company staff from now on, you need to be mindful of that especially when we're around the other people. I will have real WORK to do, not just tagging along.'

The glee on his face was so evident that you weren't sure if he was really seeing the full picture. Giving you a total embrace, you could feel his muscles relaxing slowly in your hold while he buried his nose in your hair.

'I don't care about that,' he whispered, slightly emotional all of a sudden. 'As long you're not leaving, I know I'll be fine.'

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

The next morning, Jungkook headed for practice early, filled with newfound vigor. They go through their routines, new formations, have meetings back to back and work from sunrise to sunrise.

A staff also meets you at the apartment, rather surprised that you had made your way to the door.

'How did you manage to get here?' He asks, slightly puzzled since it was a very secured residence.

Flustered, you blurt out whatever came to your mind. 'Oh, I met Namjoon while I was coming and he showed me the way, ha... yea that boy has good a very good memory for these things yea?'

'Ah, Namjoon? Yea, he did? I heard he doesn't request for staff directly but he specifically asked for you to be brought in as soon as possible... You guys must be close huh?'

As he opened the door to the adjacent apartment, your eyes saw the largest and most spacious loft-like studio, with full-length glass windows and light day curtains blowing in, fully furnished, open concept space. There were 2 rooms in view and a small kitchen, and a balcony. For a place like Seoul, you knew this had to cost a lot being in the same building as the boys.

The staff continued, 'there will be another staff joining us tomorrow and it seems you both are acquainted. It hasn't been sorted out where she will stay but for now, please settle in here as your home while you work with us. Since you're friends with the boys already, I guess there is no need for us to introduce you?'

You brushed it off casually, 'yea you must have had so much to do with my sudden arrival, please don't worry yourself with these trivial matters. I'm thankful enough as it is that Mr Bang made these arrangements himself.'

'Sure, in that case I will leave you and if you need any help just call for myself of any of the managers. We'll see you at the company tomorrow, Ms Chae-rin.'

As he closed the door to your new home, you pick up the shiny new card that came with a long black strap. Your passport-sized photo greeted you back with the same smile as you read the words beneath it to yourself.

BIGHIT STAFF

Strategic Artiste Management & PR Lead (BTS)

This meant a promotion in your career; a new role - not to say the least, one you've proved your worth for, but more impressively,with a team under your lead, the one to call the shots on the bulk of their public appearances, personal welfare, and the first say over the boy's schedules.

As you go through the contract that you had read tens of times over before inking it, you shake your head in disbelief. This was practically the role of a highly paid corporate nanny over 7 grown boys that the world was fawning over.

But well, who's complaining? And you knew deep down, with Jungkook by your side, you'd be more than just fine.

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

Thank u for your likes, reblogs, reads and for waiting ... and I will keep updating this book!

Please feel free to leave me your comments and if you are going for LYinSG, see u there! :))))

This story can also be found on wattpad with my same username:

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gretchensinister · 6 years

Text

Operation Welcome Mat (preview)

I usually like to post a fic for my birthday, and well, this is a few days belated, but sometimes that’s how it goes. This is a preview of something I’m working on, now, and it’s a branching out of my usual fandom territory! I hope you’re curious, and I hope you enjoy!

It all stems from the question: Why does so much stuff that only Superman can deal with happen on the planet that Superman is on? That’s not the question that Lois Lane asks, but it’s the one she’s going to find an answer for.

Lois Lane always checks her spam folder. In fact, she always opens each individual message in there. Ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the time, what’s in there is garbage, but garbage is not synonymous with useless. Consider the journalists in Portland who went through the District Attorney’s garbage to make a point about privacy. Her daily ritual isn’t on that level of significance, but she feels the point still stands.

Today, she opens an email that isn’t promising free trials of herbal supplements, contact info for hot singles in her area, or insurance policies that will cover damages caused by any and all anomalous events for as little as $10 a month. (These last annoyed her enough to ask Louise in Business to do a small expose on such companies—turns out, the fine print stated that given the regularity of attacks on Metropolis by aliens, robots, metahumans, etc., etc., these events could not be considered anomalous. Fucking scammers. She’s pretty sure they’re involved in a class-action lawsuit right now.)

Instead, it reads thus:

I am sending this to you because I think you are the only person in the world who might have adequate protection after I tell you this. It is for my safety and yours that I have not used your name or described what that protection might be.

I ask you to use any and all resources you have at your disposal to investigate Operation Welcome Mat. I cannot tell you much more without compromising the slight chance this communication has of reaching you. However, I do not exaggerate when I say that the revealing—anything more I dare not hope for—of this operation will affect every human life on Earth.

Sincerely,

One who works in the organization that knows you always check your spam folder

The remaining message is a long and rambling series of testimonials for anti-aging and potency supplements, but Lois sees no reason to consider these as marks against the authenticity of the original message. Camouflage is important. As is covering one’s tracks. She opens her desk drawer and retrieves a high-quality digital camera that’s nevertheless old enough that it needs an actual physical cord to transfer the pictures on it to any computer. Lois has kept it in excellent condition, save for, oh, the pesky matter of the fact that the delete function doesn’t work on the camera itself, and that she just can never find the right kind of removable memory cards. Darn, what a problem! Fortunately the camera contains a 5000-image capacity non-removable internal memory. She takes a picture of the relevant portion of the email—well, ten pictures—and then sets about blocking every IP address that’s sent her something that ended up in her spam folder today and deleting every email indiscriminately. She’d like to perform a more thorough delete, but she never does that with any of her spam, and she’s got a feeling that now would not be a good day to start.

Amateurs might worry about how she deleted the original email, but Lois knows that if she finds anything, she won’t need that email, and for another thing, the writer of that email most certainly doesn’t want anyone to be able to analyze their word choices and phrasing.

She rests her arms on her desk and starts letting her mind work through everything the email told her. So, she’s the only person who “might have adequate protection” after learning about Operation Welcome Mat? The only unique protection she’s had under any circumstances is Superman. In a few well-known incidents, he’d appeared to give preference to getting her to safety before others. Lois isn’t one hundred percent sure that’s true, as she knows very well that she might’ve been the person in the greatest danger during each incident. Over her career, she’s tended to disregard danger for the sake of the story. And she can argue persuasively that in order to be a successful female journalist, she has to be prepared to face a certain amount of danger; she can argue that her years of experience have given her the ability to accurately evaluate the potential danger of a situation. These arguments have been, and are, vital to her public persona.

But under a few layers of “I have to do this” is the chewy center of “I want to do this.” It’s true! Believe it or not, Lois Lane, Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist, is a bit of a thrill-seeker!

Good thing that might be exactly what her email contact needs.

So. Back to the email. Back to Superman. She knows well enough that she doesn’t have a raven-haired alien angel at her beck and call, but, based on what the public has seen, is it more likely that she does than any other investigative journalist? Yes. So, if only Superman can offer her adequate protection, then—

“Hi Lois,” Clark says, setting a paper cup on her desk. “Two sugars, no milk—” He breaks off into an almost cartoonishly exaggerated yawn that Lois nevertheless is familiar enough with to know is genuine.

“You ought to buy some coffee for yourself,” Lois says, digging a few dollars out of her wallet and tossing them at him, which he barely catches. “I mean, if you’re going to volunteer to walk down to Reeve’s every day, anyway. And didn’t you grow up waking up at 4am to milk cows or whatever?”

Clark smiles shyly. Like he always does. It’s a good smile, and on a kid who’s six foot three and probably better built than any of the barns he ever helped raise, it could very well explain why he always seems so exhausted in the morning. Though if Lois’ theory is true, she hasn’t seen or heard any other evidence of it. A gentleman never tells, Lois thinks idly.

“I can and have milked cows in my sleep,” he says. “I can’t do anything in my sleep, here.” He looks down. “Uh, the truth is that I haven’t been sleeping well since the—what did they call it? The Chirauga Incident?”

Lois grimaces. Yeah, Clark and half of Metropolis. Including her. When an army of aliens that big showed up all at once, there was no way to avoid some level of freaking out, special protection from Superman or not. “Yeah, the Chirauga Incident. Ugly sons of bitches, in my opinion. I killed one personally, you know.”

Clark’s eyes widen in shock, and Lois grins. “What? I verified they weren’t bulletproof before going out to start, you know, researching my story.” But, because she is committed to the truth, even though Clark seems like he’ll believe anything she says, she has to add, “Well, okay. I’m pretty sure I mortally wounded it. Superman took care of it before I could find out for sure.” It had been clean. Heat vision through the Chirauga equivalent of the spinal cord. And Superman had turned to her with that red glow still shimmering in the back of his eyes. “Are you all right?” he’d asked, hovering a foot above the ground like it was nothing, looking at her like she was something. And she’d looked into the terrible weapon of his gaze and been stunned by the perfect surety that he’d never use it on a human being.

And for all that, she’d never seen him look so alien.

“Weren’t you watching? I had this one handled,” she’d said, with a rasp in her voice she hoped he’d attribute to the heavy dust and smoke in the air.

“Well, in that case, I guess all I can do now is tell you to be careful out there,” he’d said.

It would be nice if there was a discreet little jump cut in her memory right after that, but, unfortunately, Lois remembers with perfect clarity that she’d responded, “Sure thing, spaceboy,” like a complete and utter dumbass. But then Superman hadn’t laughed at her, no, he’d given her the smile and wink of an old-fashioned movie star before flying away to continue saving the world. She, on the other hand, had staggered off, feeling as emotionally churned-up as a teenager.

The worst part about it, in her opinion, is that she knows very well that Superman has this effect on almost everyone who encounters him.

“Ah, Superman,” Clark says, drawing her back to the present. His shocked expression has been replaced by the little smile she’s often seen him wear when talk of Superman comes up. She’s always thought there was something secretive about that smile, something notably different from the rest of his farm-boy guilelessness. (Though, she doesn’t quite believe he’s as transparent as he otherwise appears. And she doesn’t think that’s just her natural suspicion kicking in. For one thing, the Daily Planet is big, but not big enough that someone who was hired as a journalist could fall through the cracks and become nothing but a friendly coffee boy. She’s read some of his articles, the neighborhood news stuff he generally covers, and the writing is as solid as he is, with words chosen with care and sensitivity. There’s more to him than meets the eye, and if he ever decides to get ambitious, Lifestyle is in for a big surprise. For another thing, he’d moved to Metropolis during a metahuman surge, and that, frankly, was not what normies did, no matter how clueless they were.)

The running undercurrent of what she knows about Clark and the smile that’s the one noticeable discordant note in the melody of the person she works with suddenly gel into a possible conclusion, one that Lois could’ve kicked herself for not even considering earlier.

Talented kid moves from small-town Kansas, where he could’ve been a big fish in a tiny pond. And he doesn’t even move to a city in the same state or region, where he could have been a big fish in a medium-sized pond. Instead, he moves to Metropolis, where he won’t be a big fish at all, but where it’ll be a big project for anyone who knew him in Smallville to ever visit, or know anything about him he doesn’t want them to know. Metropolis, which, despite its dangers, still lives in the cultural mind as a place where the good kind of anything can happen. (Where Superman is often seen.) And when he’s here, he never, ever says anything about even going on a date with anyone, and mentions of Superman bring out that secretive smile. And he started off writing his articles with a clear awareness of issues that Lois has seen other straight white male coworkers fail to grok even after clear, baby-step-style explanations. And he’s never, ever tried to turn getting her coffee into something uncomfortable.

So, possible conclusion: Clark is some flavor of queer, and still closeted/uncomfortable about it. But he can’t completely hide his crush on Superman because, well. Superman. And the kid has an honest face.

Just goes to show, she thinks, how slow and unreliable gaydar can be, even if you are bi.

But this does give her an idea on where to send him as she starts her initial investigation of this Project Welcome Mat. If it is big, bad business like it seems, Clark doesn’t need to get mixed up in it, even to the point of overhearing a phone call. And besides, it might help him accept himself, if he needs that.

“You know what, Clark?” Lois says. “You need something to take your mind off shit like alien invasions.”

Clark grimaces. “I don’t know if anything can.”

“Yeah, it’s a toughie, but you’re a Metropolitan now,” Lois says, with more bravado than she feels. Some things you don’t get used to. But some of those things you have to at least pretend to get used to. “Get outside. Write your cat-up-a-tree article tomorrow. Do something completely out of the ordinary.” And then, as if she’s just thought of it, “Powtown Pride is going on today. Powtown’s a neighborhood. Pride’s something to write about. You could go there and see what you can see.”

“Powtown?” Clark says, raising his eyebrows. “That’s the metahuman neighborhood. That’s…a bit more interesting than where Rowlands usually sends me.”

Lois waves her hand. “Rita is seventy-eight and still thinks anything involving a metahuman is a front-pager. Perry can tell her otherwise when you bring back something nice.”

“Well,” Clark says, warming to the idea, “there are a lot of misconceptions about Powtown that ought to be worn away by a reliable source like the Planet. I mean—there probably are. I don’t know, personally. But if everything written about Powtown was true, no one could live there. It’d be a smoking crater in the ground.”

“So you see? Needs you,” Lois says. She smirks. “Be careful, though. They’ve got twinks down there that could rip you in half.”

“Says someone who just told me about personally shooting a Chirauga,” Clark says. “No, no, I know—you had it handled. Anyway. Yeah, I will go.” He looks towards the windows and sighs. “After all, it’s a beautiful day to be outside.”

Lois waves at him as he leaves, then glances towards the windows herself. It really is a beautiful June day, not too hot, vivid blue sky, puffy clouds slowly drifting by. Does Superman prefer days like this for flying? She wonders. Or would it not affect him at all? What would it be like to fly with Superman on a day like today—Lois sticks her tongue out in an exaggerated expression of disgust. She’s better than that! She has to be!

Anyway, she’s got something new to investigate. Before Clark interrupted, she was thinking of what things out in the world only Superman could be adequate protection from. Well, aside from horrible things from space, that leaves a very short list that prominently features a house of a certain color and a building of a certain shape. And the name—Operation Welcome Mat—it has a very particular ring to it.

But she’s still going to look into the rest of that short list. A direct assault isn’t the correct approach here, and besides, there might be connections, even if the person she’s going to call is officially blacklisted from government contracts.

She scrolls to the contact in her phone for “Louis L’Amour,” and reaches out to someone who definitely isn’t a dead writer of Westerns.

Notes: I’ve decided to have Superman’s code against killing be specifically about humans/earthlings because for one thing, I don’t have to answer to Standards and Practices, and for another, I don’t feel like having every alien army be robots (which with sufficiently advanced AI doesn’t help anyway), and what do you want me to do, have Superman knock all the aliens out? If they’re going down long enough to be essentially counted out of the fight, they’re getting life-threatening brain injuries anyway.

#superman #lois lane #fic #operation welcome mat #my knowledge of superman comes from the DCAU but this is kind of my own 'verse

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malecsecretsanta · 5 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @Dark-alice-lilith!

A Malec Secret Santa gift for @dark-alice-lilith. I tried to bring you the fluff! I hope you enjoy. Happy holidays!

Read on AO3

******

Stealing Warmth and Looking for Light

Alec enjoyed the dark shadows of the city, illuminated only by the headlights of passing vehicles. Inside the shops still open during the blackout, cellphone lights shone through bottles of water on countertops, creating makeshift lanterns. Falling snow caught in beams of moonlight, glittering like crystals. It would have been beautiful walk with Magnus beside him, but as it was, he was eager to get home and get inside. Even Brooklyn was dark.

“Magnus?” he called out as he came in the door. The keys rattled in his hand, a new addition since they’d lost Magnus’s wards to keep out the unwelcome. The response he received was a thump and a muffled, “Ow! Shoot!”

Alec wandered into the kitchen. He thought to remove his jacket as he usually did, but the winter chill had already crept through the windows. In the darkness, he could just make out a familiar shadow in the utility closet. “Magnus? What are you doing?”

“The lights went out. The power panel, breaker box—I know it’s in here somewhere.”

“The power’s out in the whole city.”

“I know that.” Magnus emerged from the closet. A cobweb clung to the spikes of his dark hair and dust smudged his cheeks, making Alec miss his usual eyeshadow even more. “I thought I’d be able to do something for the loft.”

Alec plucked the web from Magnus’s hair. “You can’t. They’ll have to fix it at the city main.”

“Ah.” Magnus dusted off his jacket, fingers twitching idly. He still did that, Alec noticed, as if checking for the feeling of magic in his skin, though it’d not been there for weeks. “Well, we certainly have candles. Matches, on the other hand.”

“We have some. I’ve seen some.” Alec pressed a kiss to Magnus’s mouth and went off in search of matches, using his phone for light.

“Matches. So primitive.” Magnus sniffed. The kitchen drawers rattled as he searched through them.

“How was your day before the power went out?” Alec wiped at his cold nose, opening and closing cupboards, scanning his flashlight across the contents.

“I must have sent a hundred and one emails—emails, Alexander! Intolerably slow compared to fire messages, how are emails the best mundanes have?—canceling all my appointments because I’m ‘under the weather.’”

“That’s pretty much the truth, isn’t it? It’s all they need to know anyway.” The cellphone’s light glinted on a dusty book of matches. The shiny cover read Limelight – New York, London, Chicago. “Ah.”

“Yes, but they keep replying to reschedule and I have nothing to say. I can’t very well send an email that I’m terminally ill. ‘Dear client, Condolences on the curse upon your family. Unfortunately, I can no longer make our appointment because I’m dying.’”

Alec halted, his fingers sliding around the cold cardboard of the matchbook. “Dying?”

He turned to see Magnus wave his hand dismissively. “I’m exaggerating. I’m in a bad mood.”

“Okay,” Alec said slowly. “I found matches.”

“Ah! Good.” Magnus pulled several candelabras to the edge of the kitchen counter. “So then, after I sent all these pathetically slow emails canceling all my appointments, I couldn’t find my phone charger. I’ve never had to use a phone charger. Never.”

As Magnus talked, Alec struck the flimsy match. The orange glow warmed his fingertips, but the frigid fear bleeding through his belly hadn’t been banished with the wave of Magnus’s hand. Losing Magnus, being without Magnus—magic or no magic—that wasn’t a world Alec ever wanted to be in again. And how often had Magnus himself done this? Alec touched fire to wick. Beside him, out of the corner of his eye, he watched the dark shadow of his boyfriend glow brighter with each candle, this radiant person he never thought he’d get to have. He listened to Magnus fuss and rant about his day, about the unreliability of the building’s Wi-Fi and how much dust got everywhere now that his continual cleaning spells had ceased.

He loved Magnus so much, words never did it justice.

Alec’s heart ached, that cold in his gut seeping through him even as the candles flickered with heat, and he wondered how many people Magnus had loved and lost. The jealousy and insecurity he sometimes felt at that thought didn’t come to him now. Instead, he felt overwhelming admiration. Magnus hurt. He loved and he lost and he kept living. When darkness fell, he looked for light.

“On top of everything, my email address ended up being MagnusBane17. Are there 16 other people named Magnus Bane? No, there aren’t, so clearly some of my clients are up to things they shouldn’t be, doing who-knows-what on the Dark Web and using my name to do it. Is that what it’s called? The Dark Web?”

“I don’t know.” Alec blew out the match and dropped the scorched husk. “You’re the only Magnus Bane I want,” he breathed as he pulled Magnus to him and silenced his words. Magnus’s shoulders eased immediately with a sigh and he welcomed Alec’s arms around him.

“One of seventeen.”

“The best one. The only one that matters.” Alec kissed him, brushed his nose against Magnus’s.

“Your nose is cold.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to warm it up.”

Magnus scoffed playfully and pulled away. “Stealing my warmth,” he scolded, but tugged Alec with him.

They curled up together on the couch beneath a blanket, both still bundled up in their jackets. “I should have put in a fireplace when I still could,” Magnus muttered as he wiggled and shifted beside Alec, finding a comfortable position.

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Alec laid back, stretching his legs out along the couch and pulling Magnus against him. “Then I wouldn’t need to steal your warmth.”

Magnus gave a small tsk but his smile was soft and happy. He rubbed his socked feet against Alec’s beneath the blanket and settled against his chest. “They do say body heat is the best to combat hypothermia.”

“I like when ‘they’ say things like that.” Alec let his hand travel over the muscles of Magnus’s arms, firm and appealing even through his layers. He enjoyed the familiar tingle of arousal sparkling through him with Magnus’s body so close to his.

“Hm,” Magnus hummed contentedly. “It is nice. Though that depends on the body.”

“Oh?”

“One winter I found myself caught in a small village on the coast of Iceland.”

Alec smiled, loving the feel of Magnus’s voice rumbling against him. “Tell me.”

“They hadn’t been expecting a heavy snow,” Magnus continued, “but there it came, and the sea was violent, spitting and rolling. I’ve never seen so much ice. Usually Iceland is quite green. We all huddled inside the home of—oh, I can’t remember their names now...She was an impressive woman. A proper descendant of Viking queens. Somethings-dottir, but anyway, we all holed up inside her turf house. All of us. Her children, her brothers and sisters, her cousins, and all her sheep, horses and cows, too. So there I was, in fine brocade—”

“Of course you were.”

“Of course. And I’m stuffed between two of the smelliest sheep ever to grace this Earth, sweating almost, because they’re living, breathing wool sweaters. The fire, too! They burned whale oil and it poured this horrendous odor into the room. One room! One tiny little room with dirt walls with this stinking, smoking fire, ten grown Vikings, a farm’s worth of livestock, and me.”

Alec chuckled just imagining it, feeling Magnus’s laugh bubble beside him. “So you’re saying this is better or...?”

Magnus leaned up to press a kiss to Alec’s lips. Alec opened to it immediately, letting that lazy spark burn a little hotter as his tongue flicked gently against Magnus’s lips.

“Hm,” Magnus said, still close enough to kiss. “You’re a better kisser than the sheep.”

Alec snorted unattractively, fondly, and slid his hand down Magnus’s waist to cup his thigh. He pulled his boyfriend’s leg over, savoring that hitch in Magnus’s breath and the way their joined heat bloomed underneath the blanket.

“Mm.” Magnus brushed his nose against Alec’s throat; his wasn’t cold at all. “You smell better, too.”

“I try,” Alec replied, then lost track of any further cleverness as he sank into the wet slide of Magnus’s mouth and the intoxicating weight of his body pressing him into the couch.

They broke apart only when the power resumed with a whirr and several lamps flashed on, filling the loft with bright light. Alec’s lips felt soft and well-used. “Power’s back on,” he said, though it didn’t need saying.

“Siri,” Magnus called out, “turn off the lights.”

“Okay,” an unfamiliar voice replied. Alec noticed a small circular device light up in the corner. “Turning off the lights.”

In an instant, the lights blinked back out, returning them to the flickering darkness of the candles and the city glow outside the window.

“Hey, when did you put that in?” Alec asked as the device dimmed and went dormant again.

“I’ll tell you later.” Magnus lifted up enough to pull the blanket higher over both of them. “We were in the middle of something.” Then he pressed back down and Alec decided he didn’t care all that much after all.

#Dark-alice-lilith #malecsanta18 #*fics18 #*gifts18

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rearadmiralanarchy · 6 years

Text

Have a Gio/Mis Oneshot

Because I don’t know how vacations work :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14469108

Some good old meme-inspired family fun

Giorno loved his father.

Honestly, he really did, in mostly complete disregard to the multitude of what he would consider grievous shortcomings. His father was selfishly ambitious, ruthlessly cunning, heartlessly driven, and was overall charismatic and way too smart for his own good. But Dio Brando was his father and Giorno loved him regardless, as sons often do. However, he really needed his father to back off from doing that thing he always did.

The controlling and manipulative thing where he said it was for 'your own good GioGio, honest,' but it was kind of an obvious ploy to get you to do what he wanted. Signing him up for rugby (rugby!) without his knowledge was the last straw. It had taken thirty-five minutes to get his name removed from the roster and the coach was still sending him desperate emails, hopeful he would be a star just like his dear old dad and like his father. The only sport he had been interested in was tennis, scoffed at by his father, which would have been enough spiteful fuel to keep at it if only it weren't so much effort.

He was old enough now, with a stable income, almost finished with his degree, and was tired of his father trying to control every aspect of his life like he was a miniature version of himself.

Which is why Giorno was on Craigslist.

He needed something... dramatic, something shocking that would- well it would be impossible to break his father's will- but at least make him chalk him up as a lost cause (like his other three half-brothers).

Hopefully.

The best case scenario would be causing his father to give up on trying to live vicariously through him, the worst case would be Dio pouring all of his considerable resources into a reclamation effort. Giorno had a plan though, requiring just a single last cog in the wheel. Thanksgiving was a week away, and with the holiday came a traditional family meal.

'Family' in the Brando household included all four children, Dio, Uncle Diego, a few business associates, and Dio's two lovers/companions: a priest and whoever Vanilla was. This would be the perfect time to make a debacle of things, which wasn't really something he did, but if his father brought up arranged marriages one more time- this plan had to work.

He just needed to find the right person to do it with.

Hence, his excursion to the personals section, to find the right dinner guest. He'd already told his father he'd be bringing his fiance and had come up with a whole list of things sure to get his father out of his hair. After several hours of reading through posts one finally caught his eye:

"Hi my name is Mista here to offer my services this thanksgiving holiday. Do you have a family member you want to annoy? Maybe you need to come out to a parent or you just want to fuck around with your family. Whatever the reason Im your guy! For the price of one homecooked meal and twenty bucks I can:

*pick a fight with one or more family members

*beat the shit out of one or more family members indoors or outdoors

*get into a political debate (I know nothing about politics but will try)

*pretend to get smashed or pretend like Im high

*pretend we are married/engaged/pregnant

*hit on other members of your family in front of your parents

*propose in front of everyone

I am a 28 year old convicted felon with several years of jail time who can benchpress 145kg. I have nothing above a ged I got in jail and drive a loud as hell motorcycle that will make your dad both nostalgic and pull out a shotgun. I am open to both genders and am covered in tattoos and piercings. So if you need an entirely platonic person to ruin your nice family dinner Im your guy!"

He was perfect.

Giorno immediately sent an email briefly expressing his situation and requirements. As well as the kicker. Dio Brando had maybe an inkling of his persuasion towards the same sex, but still held firm that he would find a nice woman or few, maybe settle down with one for a time, and crank out a few grandchildren for him to influence since his other three actual kids didn't even inherit his hair color let alone anything else of note.

So Giorno was going to come out during the family dinner and maybe even break out the f(iance)-word to really mess with his father and his irrational fear of intimacy. He hoped the man from the posting was cute or handsome, but supposed a burly type of person would be more suitable anyway.

He didn't receive a reply until twenty minutes into his lecture the next day, surreptitiously checking his phone while the professors back was turned, to the delight of it not being spam. He requested a picture to make sure the offer wasn't a fake, which was easy and fair enough, a more detailed list of requests as well as what would be allowable in terms of what he could say and do. It was surprisingly thoughtful, Giorno assumed maybe he had done this before. As for the limitations... he really just needed his father to step back from his life, so shock value and commitment was key, he had to make his father believe he was beyond help and reason.

A picture and no limitations sent out and Giorno eagerly awaited Thanksgiving. Mista's appearance was still a mystery but he at least gleaned some semblance of what his personality was like through e-mail correspondence. He seemed like a very laid back and open sort of person, taking everything in stride.

The day before Thanksgiving, Giorno finalized his plans by buying a cheap fake engagement ring and helping Mista chose an outfit (how one man could own so much animal print was beyond him). It was exciting and nerve-wrecking all at once, and by the time the family dinner started he was ready to explode with curiosity.

Mista arrived right on schedule fifteen minutes late, a brief trio of knocks at the door and a text with 'showtime ;)'. Giorno was the one to open the door to... a tanned skin, muscled man his height and unlike anything his imagination had worked up the past week or so.

He did indeed have a few piercings along his earlobes, eyebrows, snakebites on his lips, the peeking image of a tattoo under a leather jacket and... the most gaudy clothing. A leather jacket and white and blue diamond sweater-vest over a bright orange polo, with tiger stripe pants and high white boots.

But he was handsome in a very masculine way; hard muscles and broad shoulders, short and styled hair as dark as his eyes, high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw...

He was a fashion disaster.

He was exactly Giorno's type.

Giorno was awestruck- fortunately Mista picked up the slack in time for Dio to come down the hallway in time for a "sorry I'm late babe," and for the no-longer mysterious guest with the gorgeous voice to tilt his head and plant a kiss right on the blond's lips.

Giorno could hear a faint 'wry' in the background but was able to collect himself with the kiss. Bringing his hands up to thread through surprisingly soft hair, Giorno deepened the kiss, getting a hum of approval and a higher octave 'wry'.

"I'm glad you could make it, Mista," stealthily sliding the ring box into a pocket of the leather jacket with a wink- earning a smirk in response.

Giorno turned to his father, arm wrapped around his guest, who threw an arm over his shoulder, "father, this is my fiance, Mista."

"I can see where he gets his good looks," Mista winked, unabashedly eyeing Dio up and down, "Guido Mista, you got a nice place here, pops."

He was good, Dio looked caught in a cornucopia of emotions ranging from murderous, disgusted, furious, disappointed, with a little bit of hope thrown in- he probably had a few ideas on how to split them apart. That certainly wouldn't do, and wouldn't happen, not if he had any say in it.

"Now that Mista is here, we should move on with dinner, right father?"

Dio's face twisted in a look that screamed how much he'd rather not, "yes. Let's."

As soon as Dio had turned the corner, Mista dropped his arm and quietly asked "was that all okay?"

It was so sweet, "it was perfectly fine. You are very good at this."

"Really? This is the first time I've done something like this," lightly blushing as he scratched the back of his neck.

Cute, but unfortunately he collected himself and asked "you have anything special in mind for me to do at dinner?"

"How terrible of a conversationalist can you be?"

"I've been told I range from disgusting to disturbing."

"Perfect."

Giorno and Mista sat side by side much to the annoyed eyebrow twitch of Dio and collective looks of confusion from everyone else. Father Pucci looked visibly disturbed, but it was clearly a front. Vanilla's face was unchanging.

True to his word, Mista was a force to be reckoned with at the dinner table: shamelessly flirting with Giorno's half-brother's, discussing his theory of cannibalism loudly and enthusiastically, making embarrassing noises as he fed Giorno spoonfuls of various sides (whatever matched his plate).

A part of him was caught in the sick satisfaction of watching Dio's face, the other part was relishing the attention Mista was giving him. He was incredibly observant, having quickly picked up on his facial expressions- faster than some of his family had- and able to read the room and conversation with ease. Although his topics were exaggerated and purposefully off-putting, Giorno actually found himself joining in and interjecting his own unabashed opinions, earning a pierced smile every time.

He really liked his guest, liked the way he talked and thought, liked the danger and intrigue, liked how different he was. Giorno's life was a rigid series of routines under Dio's thumb and Mista was an alluring spark that had Giorno flushing every time he was spoon-fed and cooed at, with every smile and name-drop.

He kind of really liked Mista.

He- oh right, this was platonic, wasn't it? It was all too easy and very appealing to forget that they weren't really engaged, but he might as well indulge while he could, right? So he fed Mista sometimes too, nudged his feet, held his hand, called him sweet names he'd probably never call- had never called anyone before. He was met with such positive reactions that it made him a little braver than normal, glimmers of things that made him think that maybe Mista wanted this to be real too.

As soon as dessert was served, Mista gave him a subtle wink before sliding the ring box out of his pocket.

"Giorno I- I have something to ask you," he was good, "I know I'm uneducated," Dio knew something was wrong, "and an ex-convict," but he was too desensitized, "but I... will you marry me?"

He had gotten out of his chair, on one knee, offering the ring up as everyone gaped and stared.

"Guido," smiling at the warmth in his chest and cheeks," I would love to."

Dio immediately spluttered, appalled and appealing to Giorno's rationality, Pucci loudly invoking the name of God, Diego cackling like a madman as the brother panicked. Vanilla was un-moving but seemed ready to toss Mista out on the street. If he wasn't already smitten maybe it would have worked. His pretend-fiance inhaled the dessert as Dio raged on, before eventually being escorted to the door. Giorno followed, closing the door in Vanilla's impassive face to turn to Mista.

"How'd I do? Pretty good, huh?"

Giorno couldn't help smiling, "you were the best. Absolutely perfect."

His former guest was standing very close, sliding the ring box into the blond's hands, "I really enjoyed it, doing that for you."

This was his chance, pushing the box back to tan hands (it did have his money in it after all), "would you be willing to do it again? For real this time?"

Mista looked surprised, cheeks flushing a bit, "you wanna... go on a date with me? Like, an actual date- with me?"

Giorno frowned lightly, "do you not want to?"

"No, no-I mean I- yes, I really, really want to, I just can't believe you'd want me?"

So sweet, "Mista, I'd been thinking about it all night."

"Oh... you really uh-?"

"Yes, so will you go out with me?"

"Hell yeah, uh, same time next week?"

"It's a date."

#giomis fanfic

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untaemedqueen · 6 years

Text

Please Take Care of Us > k.th

Chapter 12. (TRIGGER WARNING)

~Yuna's P.o.V~

I lay on my bed with a face mask on as Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook and Jin stand in my room with all the clothes I bought today and all my pants from my closet. "This can go with this..." Jin says laying things down on the bed. This is boring to me. Watching them have enthusiasm for it is nice but I don't care enough about my clothes to make a big deal out of it. I look at Taehyung and he laughs. "Ghost Chef." He says laying down next to me. I smile slightly but because of the mask I can't really talk. Taehyung looks at me and fixes the mask before smirking. "Yuna we should get your pants tailored." Jimin says and looks over at me. My blank, non caring expression makes him burst out into laughter almost to the point of crying. Since I haven't been able to say anything I've been having to endure their useless comments like 'Noona, why did you buy these. They aren't your style.' Or 'Yuna really? I thought we were friends. My friends don't have such bad judgement.' My phone vibrates letting me know the time is up. I peel off the face mask. "YA!" I screech making everyone scared. "If you all have so much to complain about, go downstairs and I'll throw stuff into my suitcase. I don't care!" I say throwing my hands up. "Okay, okay!" Jimin says laughing. I grab my mirror and look at my face. "Fuck." I whine in English tapping my fingers onto my skin. I'm so jealous of these boys even toned, poreless skin. My pores near my nose area and forehead are open even after doing a pore tightening mask. "What the fuck bro." I say throwing my arms up in exasperation. "What?" Jin asks putting down one of my new jackets and looking at me. "This." I say pointing at my face. "It's pretty. What's wrong with it?" He asks shrugging. "My pores are bigger than craters on the moon!" I yell setting down my mirror and folding my arms. Jin sits next to me and looks at my pores. "Don't exaggerate!" He says looking closer. I cover my face with my hands. "You shouldn't have to look at this." I whine and Taehyung pulls my hands off my face. "It's because your pores are filled with stuff." He says before getting up and walking to the wall unit. He pauses before pulling off the lucky coin and I stare at him wide-eyed. "I'll be back. Wash your face." He says before walking out the bedroom door. I hop off the bed and put on a headband and go to wash your face. That was close.

I sit in the bathroom with a clean face waiting for Taehyung. He walks in and smiles down at me. "Welcome to my face shop." He says with a girly voice. I laugh and he holds a kit in his hands. "I will now put a clay mask on you." He says sitting down next to me on the white bench in my bathroom. "You are making your skin too oily. It's clogging your pores." He says opening the mud jar. He grabs the stick to apply the mud on my face. He presses it to my skin and I shiver. "It's cold." I whine. "Do you want pretty skin?" He asks pulling away from my face. I nod sullenly. "Then deal with it." He says before applying more of the mask to my face. "This has exfoliating stuff in it too. It'll help." He says with a small smile. "Yuna after this let's do a little fashion show." Jimin says peaking into the bathroom. "I don't want too!" I whine kicking my legs. "Any ARMY would love to have a fashion show for us, I'm sure." He mutters folding his arms. "Then go find one!" I say folding my arms as well. "Bad girl! How can you do this to me?!" He says in Satoori. "Ya! Who do you think you're talking to like that?!" I say back in Satoori and he claps happily. "Truly a Busan girl." He says before getting grumpy again. "Please try on the clothes we prepared!" He whines loudly. "Fine. Fine." My phone buzzes in my pajama pocket and I pull it out. An email from Bang PD flashes on my screen. "What is it?" Taehyung says setting down the clay jar and peeking at my phone. Bangtan. I look at Taehyung and shrug. He sets a timer for the mask on his phone and looks back at my phone. I open up the email and begin to read it with Taehyung over my shoulder.

It pleases me to hear from the boys' manager that you are doing a fine job as their chef! I would like to ask a favor from you as their boss and yours as well. Whenever the boys fight they must solve their problems together as a group of 7. I would like it very much if they solve their problems as a group of 8. You have proved yourself as an ally to the boys as well as myself. Their manager has fallen ill all of a sudden today and will not be able to make the Japan trip. Please act as the boy's manager for this trip. This is a sudden request and I know it must be a shock for you. The boys trust your judgement and you care for them as friends. They will listen to you. All 8 of you will take care of each other. You will have security back up and no one will go against your word. What you say is law. Please give me a reply as soon as you can. If you do not think you can act as their manager for the time being I will understand and send another manager as soon as I can. Bang Si Hyuk

I look up at Taehyung and he looks at me. "Manager?!" He asks putting his hand on his mouth. "What makes him think I can do the job?" I ask confused. "Because we all trust you and trust your judgement like Bang PD said." "I can't do it." I say adamantly and shake my head. "I think you should and can do it." Taehyung says looking at his phone. "Why? Why should I do this when I'm only a chef and don't know how to manage anyone, let alone myself." I say to him. "It would give us freedom we have been dying for! It would just be the 8 of us! Like a real vacation!" He says happily. He really doesn't see the wrong in some things sometimes. "What if something goes wrong?! What if you get swarmed and attacked?" I ask him, "He said we'll have security!" Taehyung says pointing at my phone. "I don't think it's plausible." I say before Taehyung's phone starts to vibrate. "Wash your face and then come down to the dorm." He says handing me a face cream and then walking out. Why would I be their manager? Did Bang Si Hyuk hit his head or get a concussion or something? It doesn't even make any sense. This sure is last minute... "What am I going to do?" I mutter to myself turning on the faucet.

I open the double doors of the door and all 7 boys were seated on the long couch in their living room. I walk towards them and they clap happily. "Manager-nim! Please take care of us!" Namjoon says happily. I shake both my hands. "I can't do it." I say protesting. "Do you care about us? Want to protect us?" Yoongi asks and I sit down on a stool and nod hesitantly. "Will you look after us, like always when we go out to places?" I nod again. "How about when we get back to the hotel? Will you make sure we have our assigned rooms and be able to check us in?" I shrug and nod. "It's literally not hard. If you follow the schedule Byung Chan sends you then you should be fine. Let's just try it out once! Please!" Jin begs me reaching out for my hand. "I mean what if something goes wrong?! We are in another country with no ones help. I don't even speak Japanese! I'm scared." I say folding my hands together. "We will help you. We have been around managers for years. The routine is always the same!" Hoseok says with a smile. "Let's just try it out." Jimin says looking at me. My gut feeling of being afraid my whole life, of not being able to protect myself from the evil people I was with before is taking over. I was a rat in a blocked off hole waiting to be captured before Hyun Soo found me and took me by his side. I was poor, beaten and not even barely a proper person. I was small, insignificant in a big pond of piranhas. I wasn't even a person, not even a bug. A speck of dust was more important then I was. How can a person who couldn't compare to a speck of dust manage a group as big as the stars themselves? "Yuna?" I look at Taehyung and look back down. "You can do this. We will help you. It's only 2 weeks, not even a full month." He says before putting his hand under my chin. I look up at him. "Hwaiting! Hmm?" He asks and gives me a smile. I stand up and pace back and forth quickly before walking over to the fridge and grab a soju bottle. "Let's talk." I say putting the bottle onto the counter. It will be easier to tell my story drunk. If I tell them my story and understand why I am the way I am, will they understand while I'm so afraid.

I sit there with my face on my hands. "I'm going to tell you a story. My story. And then you'll finally know, why I am the way I am." I say tapping my fingers on my face. Jimin looks at me and tilts his head. "Nobody knows how you are apart from me." Jimin says and I sit back before taking another shot of soju. "Then tell them." I say nonchalantly. He looks at me before looking at everyone else. "She's afraid of everything and has anxiety attacks. She doesn't like feeling anything. She doesn't...know how to be a real person with emotions so she just neglects everything and tries to have a blank mind." He says before drinking some of his soju. I nod, "I'm also not good at speaking to strangers, I don't like to look people in the eyes, and I just want to work and not be noticed." I say and they all stay silent and look at me. I take another shot of soju and fold my arms.

"I was born in Busan and lived with dad and my grandmother until I was 8. When my grandmother and dad died in a fire, my korean family sent me to live with my mother. She didn't want to take care of me so she just let me stay in the house by myself and I wouldn't really ever see her. I started to hang out with the wrong people in New York for food sonce my mother wouldn't really provide anything for me and they ended up selling me to a whore house when I was 10 and I would cook for them and do other things I don't really want to talk about. So I grew up there and would get beat if I ever looked people in their eyes." I take another shot of soju not looking at the guys, if I look at them I might not be able to continue my story. "Lots of older men used to crowd around me and I get anxiety if I'm in a large group of people and feel like I can't breathe. When I would say I didn't want to sleep with people I would get locked in a closet until I would say I would have sex with these old men. I stayed their until I was 15. Since I was cooking for people all the time I started working for free at a bakery in New York. They would let me bake and wouldn't bother me but since I was gone from home that whole time and my mother never looked for I slept on the street or in the train station. I ended up after a while working at a culinary school and went to work with a pastry chef who got me a lot of awards if I slept with him. He and the other chefs would beat me if I did anything wrong. I tried covering up all my scars with tattoos." I say lifting up my sleeves. "One day Hyun Soo oppa came into the shop when he saw them hitting me for curdling a pastry cream. Ever since then, I've been with oppa. Until now." I say finally and pouring more soju with a shaking hand. "I don't want to be the way I am. Afraid of people and not being confident but that's the person my life shaped me into." I say before downing the soju. I sit their quietly and fold my arms together. The room is really quiet. I finally look up at the guys and they're just sitting there with sullen expressions. "I'm sorry." Taehyung is the first to say. I shake my head. "It's not your fault." I say shrugging. "I'm sorry we couldn't meet you earlier." Yoongi says with balled up fists. "So, how can I protect you all and care for you all, when I could never do that for myself?" I ask looking around. "We will change that." Hoseok says confidently and I look at him. "You deserve so much in the world. We will give it to you." Jin says before drinking his soju. "I didn't tell you this to pity me. I just wanted you to know my story and why I am the way I am." I say before clearing my throat. "If you don't like the way you are noona, let's change it. Let's make you into the person you wanna be." Jungkook says sitting up and looking into my eyes. "We'll help you become the person you want to be." Namjoon says confidently before drinking. I am so lucky to have these boys in my life. Not even because they are the famous BTS but because all 7 of them are good people with individually great personalities. They're all genuine people with genuine feelings. Even if they are as high as the clouds, they can stand on the ground next to me. "Let these next two weeks be the start to something new." Hoseok says pouring us all more soju. "Are you ready to be the person you want to be?" Yoongi asks raising his glass. I nod slightly and tilt my head. "To the new Yuna." Namjoon says and we clink glasses. To the new me.

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clan-fuildarach · 7 years

Text

birb story chapter 2

murmur’s name (nit) here is kind of spoilery but you’ve all been spoiled already so whoo cares. in this chapter, nuala meets the creature from the tomb for the first time, which has been dubbed by the press “the cnoc mór devil”

notes: “gaeltachtaí” = areas in ireland where the official language is irish. i make reference to the minister for heritage and gaeltachtaí who is the person in government (in the “dáil”) who’s responsible for all that stuff

Nuala didn’t leave Cnoc Mór for another two months.

All thirteen of the infected people were dead. No one else had been infected, no one else had been near the tomb. But Nuala still wasn’t allowed to leave.

Sitting in her slightly damp bed on a rainy Sunday morning, she wrapped a towel around her damp hair and opened her laptop. Balancing it on her lap while she plugged in the power cord, she made a mental map of her previous week. What had she done that she could mention in the email to her parents? Nothing much, really. She’d gone for a walk on the bog, she’d chatted aimlessly to one of the builders. She’d complained about the broken heating in her bedroom.

Sighing, she pulled up her email client and started typing.

Dear Mum and Dad

I’m doing okay here. Weather’s as terrible as ever, I don’t think I’ve seen a single sunny day all month, even though it’s March. The builders are turning the place into a proper scientific compound, but they clearly don’t know a thing about plumbing because my shower’s still cold. Dr O’Rourke is still taking my blood and checking up on me but I’m still fine, nothing wrong with me whatsoever. She says I might be able to go home soon.

Say hi to Aoife from me, if you see her.

Nuala

She wrote every week that Emily had promised that she’d be able to go home soon, so most likely her parents had already seen through the promise as just something to keep them from from getting too worried.

For a moment, she almost considered emailing her only friend, Saoirse. But what would she say? More empty promises that she'd be back soon?

Shutting her laptop, she pulled the towel off her hair. It fell around her shoulders in dark brown curls - too long for her tastes, by far. Maybe she could borrow a pair scissors from someone and cut it herself.

It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, and she’d already exhausted everything she could possibly to to pass the time. With a groan, she flopped back down onto her mattress and stared at the ceiling. No doubt the fuckers in her class back in Dublin would have been happy to get a break, a two-month long stretch of doing absolutely nothing. Well, Nuala wasn’t lazy, and she wasn’t so easily-satisfied.

Maybe she could go for a walk. She’d spent hours and hours trekking along the bog, past lines and lines of forgotten probes. She could explore the abandoned town of Cnoc Mór. If she was really bored, she could play the sheep game, which involved staring at the hills and counting how many red-sprayed sheep she could see.

And if Emily wasn’t around, maybe Nuala could sneak into the very centre of the new compound, a place called ‘the vault’, and catch a glimpse of the creature, ‘The Cnoc Mór Devil’, as the newspapers had dubbed it. It was still asleep.

Nuala had been caught trying to see the Devil more than once. Emily had taken her by the arm and dragged her away, telling her firmly that the creature was a biohazard and unsafe to be around. Nuala knew that, but that didn’t stop her. As far as she was concerned, she was immune to the sickness.

The builders and scientists in the compound didn’t seem nearly as interested in the Devil as Nuala. Sure, the scientists cared, they discussed the Devil’s “melanistic scutes” and “uncinate processes” to themselves in the unfinished canteen, but they didn’t seem to worry about what the Devil itself would think of its imprisonment. And the builders, well, they did their best to avoid the centre of the compound, muttering in low tones and blessing themselves any time they passed by.

Nuala rose to her feet, stretching her arms over her head. Hanging up by the door, her waterproofs were still damp from yesterday’s ramble on the bog. Dirty water had dripped down onto the rough concrete floor. Since the entire compound had been built - around the shell of the community centre - in less than a month, the living quarters were sparse and mostly unfinished. Nuala snatched up her coat and waterproof trousers and pulled them on, then pushed her door open.

She emerged from the residential building into weak, watery sunlight. Rain pattered on her hood. She passed a cement-mixer full of water and ducked under the scaffolding surrounding the community centre. Even in the rain, the build team was busy transforming the ancient wooden sports hall into an airtight medical facility, from the inside out. All they had left to do was the concrete cladding on the outside.

A couple of them caught sight of Nuala, as they moved along the ramps leading up into the nest of scaffolding, but none of them called out greetings. They never did, the cowards. She stared up at them, eyes narrowed, and snorted in amusement when a few of them looked anxiously away.

She pushed the hall entrance open and stepped through. Everything was looking good so far - usually, at this point one of the doctors would have caught her and sent her away.

In fact, she realised as she walked down a plastic-sheeting lined corridor, the place seemed empty. She’d just about decided that everyone had gone when she heard voices.

She froze, just outside the door of a little meeting room.

“Look,” a voice was saying in an American accent, “you’ve done your best here, guys, but we need to take the thing back with us. Our facility is a hundred times more advanced, we’ve got all the best equipment - you’ve barely got electricity.”

“No.” That was Emily’s voice. “I’m sorry, but that creature is linked to the tomb. Unless you’re planning on taking the tomb with you, too, you can’t have it.” “Ms O’Rourke,” the American said, in a tone of exaggerated patience.

“And, furthermore,” Emily said sharply, “what gives you the right to take our archaeological finds? The only person who can sign over the contents of the tomb is the Minister for Heritage and Gaeltachtaí. And I’m fairly sure she wants to keep everything here.”

Well, good. If Emily and the other scientists were busy entertaining their guest, they wouldn’t be hanging around the vault, ready to capture Nuala and send her away. With a faint, triumphant smirk, Nuala crept on past the door.

The place was an odd, brightly-lit blend of hospital and sports hall, with shiny wooden floors overlaid with plastic, medical cabinets lining the hideous salmon-pink walls. Although corridors had been formed with the use of plasterboard and that plastic sheeting, the distant ceiling stretched high over the whole floor. She passed several little medical stations, examination tables and sinks. At the end of the coiling corridor was a set of doors marked with bright yellow hazard signs. That was the furthest Nuala ever went, the distant threat of illness still hanging over her head.

She approached the doors and stood on her tip-toes, staring through the round glass port-holes.

The vault was cut off from the rest of the hall, with its own air supply. It was dim, compared to the rest of the hall, lights glimmering ghostlike through several sheets of translucent plastic, flickering from the screens of the medical equipment standing around the table.

Lying on the table itself was the Cnoc Mór Devil. Or, well, that was usually where the creature could be found. Nuala frowned, pushing herself against the glass, craning her neck to see through. No, the table was empty. Something was moving in there, though. A wire, leading from the bank of medical equipment and passing out of sight. As she watched, the wire shook for a moment, then dropped to the ground.

Instantly, a high-pitched whine suddenly filled the air, along with a low, throbbing alarm. The screen of one of the medical machines began to flash. Footsteps rang through the hall. Nuala’s eyes widened and she turned, almost expecting the creature to be standing behind her.

Emily O’Rourke raced around the corner, zipping up her biohazard suit.

“Nuala! What are you doing here?” she demanded, jamming her helmet in place. “Did you-”

“No,” Nuala said quickly, “I didn’t, I didn’t go in.”

“What have we got?” Emily said, her voice muffled by the helmet.

One of the other doctors appeared around the corner, checking a tablet computer. “All life signs just cut out,” he said helplessly.

No one seemed to care about Nuala’s trespassing any more. Emily stared through the portholes.

“Fuck! It’s gone - where are those American doctors? Nuala, did you see anyone go in there?”

“No,” Nuala said, frowning.

“You think they’ve stolen the Devil?” the male doctor demanded, setting aside his tablet.

Nodding grimly, Emily pushed the doors open. Thanks to an airlock on the other side, she didn’t contaminate the rest of the hall with the vault air. Before passing through the second set of glass doors and into the vault proper, she stood under the shower set into the side of the airlock and hurriedly began to disinfect her suit.

Nuala spun around, trying to catch sight of any other moving shapes through the plastic hangings. For some reason, she was furious beyond belief, possessed by a sudden anger. It was as if someone had stolen one of her personal belongings. With a faint growl, she turned on the spot one last time, then prepared to take off after the Americans in pursuit.

A shriek from behind her made her freeze. Her hammering heartbeat pulsed in her vision as she turned, slowly, to look through the portholes again. Emily had not yet made it into the vault. She was backing away, clumsy in her heavy suit, her body blocking the vault from sight. Nuala stretched up as far as she could, trying to see over Emily’s shoulder, cursing her own diminutive height.

Emily fumbled for the door controls. With a hiss, the door locks disengaged and the doors swung open. Emily shot through, locked the doors in her wake, and tore off her helmet.

Finally, Nuala could see through to the vault. She peered through.

A pair of wide, violet eyes stared back.

Nuala didn’t scream. She didn’t even blink. Instead, she reached for the door locks.

“What are you doing?” Emily demanded, dragging Nuala away from the door. “You can’t go in there.”

On the other side of the glass set of vault doors, the creature tipped its head on one side, a sharp, birdlike movement. It didn’t look away from Nuala, hunched over so that it’d be able to see through the doors. It pressed a long, narrow hand against the glass.

“It doesn’t look hostile,” the male doctor said slowly, bending over to look through the porthole beside Nuala.

“That doesn’t matter,” Emily said. “Who knows what it’s thinking right now - if it’s thinking. We don’t even know if it’s intelligent.”

The creature didn’t spare the man a glance. It met Nuala’s eyes and slowly held up its hands. It wrapped its right hand around its left wrist. Just like Nuala had, when she had first seen the creature. Not totally sure what she was doing, Nuala nodded at the recognition in the creature’s eyes. Slowly, a smile spread over its face. The band of bluish skin across its nose seemed to turn even bluer, like a blush.

“What’s the problem here?” a loud voice said from behind. The American woman, from the meeting Nuala had overheard.

“It’s awake,” Emily said curtly.

Ignoring the gasps from the new woman and her companions, Nuala turned to face Emily. “It knows me,” she said.

Emily’s eyes widened. “What?”

“It just indicated where I touched it, the first time,” Nuala said. “Let me go in and talk to it.”

“No,” Emily said. “Are you out of your mind? Can you appreciate why that’s a terrible idea?” “But who else is going to do it?” Nuala said, raising her voice. “I’m immune to the sickness. I opened its tomb.”

Emily hesitated for a long moment. She turned to the male doctor, who shrugged. Just as Emily seemed ready to give Nuala the go-ahead, the American woman approached the doors. In one hand she held a long rifle. In the other, a case full of brightly-tufted tranquilliser darts.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dr O’Rourke,” she said. “You can’t let a kid in there.”

Nuala was nineteen years old. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but the new woman didn’t even seem to notice. Nuala drew herself up, to her full height, and squared her shoulders. Emily caught sight of her just a second too late - before Nuala dived for the door locks.

She shoved the doors open, stepped inside, and locked them shut. Now only a pair of glass doors stood between her and the creature, which was still watching curiously.

“Nuala!” Emily shouted admonishingly, her voice barely audible through the thick quarantine doors. As Nuala approached the glass doors, she had to crane her neck to keep the creature’s face in sight, it was so much taller than her. It seemed to understand that in order for the doors to open, it had to step away, because as she approached it backed up a pace or two, its talons dragging at the plastic floor.

Nuala pushed open the glass doors.

The creature lowered itself to her level, kneeling in front of her. It sat back on the floor, hands on its lap, and watched her expectantly.

“If you don’t mean any harm,” Nuala said slowly, “you’d better tell them. They’re freaking out in there.” And she indicated the doors with a dismissive jerk of the thumb.

The creature’s ears twitched. It had just spent several thousand years in a tomb, asleep, so obviously there was only a very slim chance that it was able to speak English. Or, well, no chance at all. But Nuala didn’t hesitate, or try to communicate by hand signals or anything like that.

It tipped its head to one side, watching her with wide, curious eyes.

“What are you?” Nuala said, which she guessed should have been her first question.

The creature blinked, finally. Its jaws gaped, revealing rows of sharp teeth and a purplish, forked tongue, and it spoke.

“Ocrasach,” it said.

Nuala’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re… hungry?”

It licked its lips.

Well, that wasn’t encouraging.

“Can you speak English?” she said. “An bhfuil Béarla agat?” “English,” the creature said. “Okay. Hungry.”

Nuala blinked, vaguely aware of the sweat breaking out all over her body.

“I’m Nuala,” she said. “What would you like to eat?”

It seemed to consider the question for a long moment, splaying its hands flat on the floor.

“Roast cow,” it said, after a pause. “No… goat’s cheese. With hazelnuts. Wait, no, Salmon. The little salmon cakes with the blackberries - no, no, baked reeds.” As it spoke, its voice became more and more excited, its eyes shining. It gazed up at Nuala, its smile sharp and hopeful.

“Okay,” she said. “I don’t think there are any salmon or reeds around here. But we might have some meat in the canteen, and some cheese.”

“Yes, well,” the creature said, “that’s good too.” “If I get you some,” Nuala said, “do you promise to stay here? Emily - that’s Emily, there - thinks you’re dangerous.”

The creature nodded.

“Great. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Nuala turned to go, letting herself back into the airlock room and in turn into the corridor beyond. Almost as soon as the door locks engaged behind her, Emily reached out a gloved hand and physically dragged Nuala away from the door.

“Stay here,” Emily said, parking Nuala on the edge of the corridor. “I have to disinfect you.”

Nuala sighed and held out her arms as Emily sprayed her down with the disinfectant. “It’s not dangerous,” she said.

“How do you know?” the American woman demanded, from a safe distance.

“Because… because I just know, okay?” Nuala said sharply. “Anyway, it speaks English. And Irish.”

“Really?” one of the American scientists said, his eyes widening excitedly.

“Yeah,” Nuala said. “I asked what it was, it said it was hungry. And it promised that it would stay there as long as I got it something to eat.”

Emily hesitated for a long time as she began scrubbing at Nuala’s shoes. “Did it say anything else?”

“No,” Nuala said. “It gave a list of stuff it wants to eat, and that’s about it.”

“Okay,” Emily said. “Go on to the canteen, get it something to eat. Then go back in there and try to get as much info from it as we can. I don’t like how it avoided the ‘what are you’ question, either. What does it eat, by the way?”

“Everything, apparently,” Nuala said. “Meat, fish, cheese… reeds.”

Emily nodded. “Right. Well… go and get it something.”

Nodding, Nuala set off. She’d studied the neolithic diet, of course, and the diets of the people who came before that. The creature had made no mention of grain, but it had spoken of cattle and goats, so that meant it had come from an era where farming had just taken off, and an area where large grain farms were not viable. The reeds were a little unusual, especially in an area like this, but Nuala had to take into account the fact that the early farmers had arrived to a land covered in forest, no bogs at all. They’d deforested the entire country, changing the environment to allow the accumulation of plant matter that would eventually become a bog. Reeds had not been farmed, but they had featured in the diets of hunter-gatherers - apparently the roots could be baked, and tasted delicious.

Analysing every single item of food the creature had listed off, Emily let herself out of the community centre and headed for the canteen. The new compound had been walled in, and a good half of the empty town had been subsumed into the facility. One of the buildings was a café that now functioned as a food storage and canteen for the builders and scientists.

The smell of scrambled eggs and rashers floated through the air towards her, dampened by the rain. Nuala let herself into the canteen, her aloof gaze trained on the self-service counter. The builders in the room watched her from the corners of their eyes, muttering to their friends in low tones. Nuala’s lip curled. No one had gotten ill, apart from those original thirteen, so what was everyone so scared of?

Nuala grabbed a tray and a couple of plates. It was all breakfast food, basically, not much cheese at all in sight. But there was plenty of meat - a rare delicacy for neolithic people. With a faint smile, she piled one of the plates with sausages and rashers, and added a stack of little yoghurt pots to the other plate. That was basically cheese, right?

“What’s the occasion, Nuala?” the woman frying eggs behind the counter said. Her tone was jokey and slightly mocking. Nuala’s eyes narrowed coldly.

“The Devil is awake,” she said.

That shut the woman up pretty effectively. The nearby builders turned to stare, colour draining from their faces. Although most of them hadn’t seen the creature in person, everyone had seen the photos published in the Irish Times. Strange. In Nuala’s opinion, the only really threatening feature of the creature was its height, but these people seemed terrified of all of the creature.

With a faint smile, Nuala turned and left the canteen.

Back outside the vault, Emily and the American woman were arguing yet again about who had rights to the creature.

“Don’t you think it’s a little selfish?” the American woman was saying. “To keep such an important - an unprecedented - finding from the rest of the world? You’re just going to keep it here, in the middle of nowhere, forever?”

“I’m going to keep it here under observation,” Emily said through gritted teeth. “It might have important information about the illness, and we can’t just let you take it. Okay, Jennifer? Can you at least accept that?”

Nuala pushed past them, hitting the lock release with her knee. The arguing scientists fell silent as the door opened again.

In the vault, the creature had perched itself on the edge of the examination table, its talons wrapped around the metal edge. It turned sharply as Nuala entered the vault, its nose twitching. Its tongue flicked out again, like a snake’s. But it didn’t charge over and snatch up the tray, as Nuala expected. It remained where it was, its gaze expectant.

She held out the tray. “No cheese,” she said, “or beef, but you’ve got pork there, and some strawberry yoghurt.”

It took the tray eagerly, the blue band across its nose brightening. It was, Nuala realised, quite a lot like the comb of a rooster; pale at rest, but brightly coloured any time it saw something it was interested in.

“So,” Nuala said, hopping up onto the table beside it. “What are you?”

Its mouth was too full to reply right away. After a moment, it swallowed and took a breather, gasping, grease all around its lips. “Air spirit,” it said, taking up a yoghurt pot. It poked at the plastic for a moment, its ears twitching, and poked it with a clawed finger.

“Here,” Nuala said. She took one of the other pots and showed the creature how to open it. “You pull the top off like this. Don’t eat the packaging.”

The ruff of feathers around the creature’s neck were standing on end, apparently in excitement. They seemed a little shinier than before, the dullness patchy as opposed to all-over. The yoghurt pot looked tiny in its grasp, but it still handled it with utmost delicacy, tugging the lid off as Nuala had demonstrated. It raised the pot to its mouth and emptied it with a single lick.

Nuala’s eyebrows rose. It was a monster, sure, but surely she could teach it some table manners? It didn’t occur to her that it’d be someone else who’d be dealing with the creature from then on. In fact, the idea that Nuala would be removed from its presence was laughable.

It’s my monster, after all, she thought idly. Then she paused, frowning. Where had that thought come from?

“So,” she said, trying to distract herself, “you’re an air spirit. It’s weird, the scientists say you’re built like a bird, but you don’t have wings.” She leant to the side as she spoke, trying to see behind the creature, but it was true. It had no wings on its back to speak of, just an unbroken plain of midnight black feathers.

The creature froze and turned fully to face her. It almost looked affronted, though the yoghurt around its mouth kind of ruined the effect.

“Of course I have wings,” it said. “You just can’t see them. My wings are the best.”

“Wow, jeez,” Nuala said, “sorry for offending you. I’m sure your wings are great.”

The creature smiled and eagerly nodded. “They are. I’ll show you later. When we’re out of this, um… cave?” It glanced around.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Nuala said brightly. “So, listen. About the tomb we found you in. There were fourteen people there, me included, and everyone but me died. Why was that?”

“The curse,” the creature said, fairly distracted by the food tray.

“A curse. Right. Of course. And I’m safe because…?”

It glanced aside at her, its eyes narrow. “You are not a normal human.”

Nuala nodded, accepting it without hesitation. “So is it true that someone - a normal human - who wasn’t there at the tomb is totally safe? Even if they come near you?”

“This is true,” the creature said. “The curse is in the tomb.”

“Okay.” Nuala slid off the table and approached the door, wondering how she could put the creature’s comments into logical, scientific language. It was basically impossible, but then again so was the creature, so she wasn’t too worried about it.

She opened the door and leant out. “Hey, Emily?”

Emily stopped arguing with Jennifer, glancing around. “What did you learn?”

“The illness, it’s from the tomb, not the creature. It’s totally safe in there.”

“Are you sure?” Jennifer said.

Nuala nodded. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain the creature had been telling the truth. Now, telling the truth and being right are two different things, but the creature was a lot more knowledgeable about the whole thing than she was, so she was willing to take its words at face value.

Emily didn’t take off her biohazard suit, but she did leave her helmet behind when she followed Nuala into the vault. The creature was finishing up the contents of the food tray, clearing out the last pot of yoghurt with its eyes slitted with apparent pleasure.

“Hello,” Emily said.

It ignored her.

“What’s your name? I’m Emily O’Rourke.”

The creature made an odd, birdlike whistling noise. It set aside the empty tray, its tongue flicking out to clear the remaining yoghurt from around its lips. After a moment, it turned to cast Emily an unblinking, almost predatory stare. The band of colour over its nose became livid blue.

“She wants to know your name,” Nuala said.

It glanced over at Nuala and addressed her.

“Nit,” the creature said, pronouncing the t as it would have been in Irish.

Emily’s eyebrows twitched slightly. She mouthed the name.

“Okay, Nit. And what are you?”

Nit glanced around at Emily, its movements as sharp and birdlike as ever. “Hungry?” it said, a shred of hopefulness in its voice.

“Yeah, that won’t work twice,” Nuala said.

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Nit said, not particularly put out that its ploy hadn’t worked. It relaxed its grip on the edge of the table and slid off, onto the ground, where it stood upright at its full height again. Seven feet, three inches, apparently, not including the horns. Exactly two feet taller than Nuala herself.

“Do I still have to stay here?” it said, looking to Nuala for guidance. It had visibly relaxed after the food, its feathers smooth and contouring to its body instead of sticking up on end, the band of colour over its nose a faint, powdery blue.

“Yes,” Emily said.

Nit didn’t respond, waiting for Nuala to speak.

“Yeah, I think so,” she said.

#birb story 2017

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mrsteveecook · 5 years

Text

our weird and incompetent temp keeps getting rehired

A reader writes:

I changed jobs about a year ago to escape a toxic workplace. While I feel valued at my new job by my coworkers and manager, I still have that “I’m new, I don’t want to make waves” mentality. A few weeks after I started here, they hired a temp to catch up on the workload, since my post had been vacant for almost a year.

The temp is WEIRD and incompetent (incompotemp?). And yet, they keep re-hiring her for chunks of 2-3 months at a time.

Here are a few examples of the weird things she does:

• Says the government creates natural disasters to “cull the herd.” • Talks about sexual things during group lunches, such as the consistency of, uh, male fluids pre-and-post vasectomy. • Claims she was an army spy in an era when she would have been a toddler.

And examples of what I perceive as incompetence:

• Is extremely slow. For example, dossiers that take pros about 30 minutes and newbies about 60 minutes will take her an entire day, despite all the practice. • Claims to be a “details girl,” misses a LOT of details. For example, the table of contents on multiple projects she’s worked on doesn’t work because she never bothered checking the links. • Writes very strangely and not concisely. This example is made up, but I swear, I’m in NO WAY exaggerating: “Secondly, I identified a discrepancy in how the spelling of AnimalCrackers was written in the bottom-right corner of the footer of the Animal Crackers page, whereby the ‘c’ in crackers is lowercase whereas it should be modified to reflect an uppercase ‘C’.” Instead of just saying, “In the footer of page (link) Animalcrackers should be AnimalCrackers.” • Sends long emails correcting others on inconsequential stuff, cc’s everyone. For example, lists all the typos in an internal process document sent to us by IT (in the same way as detailed above), cc’ing the team, the IT guy, our manager, the IT manager. • Asks questions and will go to someone else if you don’t hand-hold her. For example she couldn’t see the lion crackers folder. I explained it was a permissions problem and she had to open a ticket with IT because they have a dedicated team that works on the animal crackers folders. I sent her the link. She said okay. Minutes later, I heard her asking another temp about it. When he couldn’t help, I heard her pulling her friend from IT to her desk and asking him to fix it. He explained the same thing (about having to open a ticket & the dedicated animal crackers team separate from them). SHE ASKED HIM WHERE TO FIND THE IT TICKETING SYSTEM. You know, the link I sent her. • Constantly calls me over to help her with things she should know how to fix. It’s not that I mind helping, but it’s always dumb stuff like “The animal crackers statistics aren’t working!” I pull up a chair and see she forgot to plug in the animal tail sizes. Over. And over. And over again.

I’m not in a position where I’m her supervisor, although I often QA her work, and in the absence of the team lead, I’m in charge. I don’t know if it’s my place to say something. What do you think?

Also: she applied for a year-long assignment that might become a permanent position, and boy howdy I’m not sure I can handle her as a permanent fixture on the team. What do I do?

I get so many questions that are a variation of “should I tell my boss about serious problems with a coworker’s work?” (but yours is by far the most interesting and entertaining, so thank you for that) and the answer is nearly always:

You absolutely, 100% can give your boss a discreet heads-up about serious problems that you are noticing in a coworker’s work.

I know that the conventional wisdom is “if it doesn’t affect you or your work, stay out of it” … but that’s really about things like “Jane is five minutes late every day” or “Bob has a nest of old soda cans under his desk” or “Cecil has a different style with clients than I do.”

When someone has serious performance issues, that’s something your manager would want to know about. Not in a “Jane sucks!” kind of way, but a professionally delivered, discreet, one-time heads-up about something that appears serious to you and that she might not have noticed. (And yes, it’s odd that your manager hasn’t picked up on this yet, but maybe she has much less contact with the temp than you do … or figures being weird is no crime and doesn’t realize there are actual performance issues too.)

Here’s how I’d say it: “I’m not sure if this is something I should mention to you or not, but I think it’s having enough work impact that I should. I’ve noticed some concerning things about Jane’s work — dossiers that would normally take 30-60 minutes are taking all day, and she’s regularly missing details like X and Y. I’ve noticed something that makes me think she’s not retaining pretty fundamental information — she’s asked me to help her fix the same problem over and over. I know she was brought on as a temp to help catch up on the workload after my position had been open for so long, and I’m not sure what the plan is for whether we’ll continue to renew that contract, but these seem like serious enough concerns that I wanted to bring them to your attention.”

(In fact, you have extra standing to bring this up because she was brought on to help catch up on your workload. I assume that means you have particular insight into how helpful she is or isn’t being.)

By the way, note that I’m leaving out the interpersonal weirdness. That doesn’t rise to the level of a manager needing to know the way the rest does. (Although if she’s talking about semen at lunch, you have every right to tell her to stop and to escalate it if she continues to talk sex at work.)

Now, from there, it’s up to your manager what to do. If she’s a weak manager, she may not address it, and there’s not much else you can do at that point. It’s reasonable and appropriate to raise it once, but it’s not something you should harp on after that. (The exception to that is if you manager seems very concerned and says she’ll address it and you don’t see any changes. Sometimes a manager thinks she’s addressed something, doesn’t realize the problem is continuing, and appreciates a heads-on that it’s still ongoing. This can be tricky though; you have to be able to tell the difference between “truly wanted to address it, thinks she did, and would very much want to know what’s happening now” and “did the minimum and doesn’t want to deal with it again.”)