#yes hi hello I had to pause the episode multiple times because PAIN

[gravityrulez]

okay so to your eternity apparently exists for the sole purpose of destroying my heart. that’s fine I’m fine, I am totally fine

narrator voice: she was not fine

#yes hi hello I had to pause the episode multiple times because PAIN #to your eternity #fumetsu no anata e #spoilers #and listen I expected this to happen sooner or later #but just as with the first ep the buildup was so fcking painful oh god I AM CRYING AGAIN #or more like STILL crying lmao #did I ever stop I think not #chi talks #I really reccomend this anime #it hurts so much but itsso good #I think about this show all the time throughout the week #also I highkey wanna draw fushi now #and march and nameless boy q.q

[celosiaa]

Hello! If you’re still taking TMA prompts, what about a scenario where Jon needs a little further observation/just needs some assistance until he regains his strength once he’s released from hospital, and Martin takes responsibility (because thinking about doting Martin makes me soft) 🥺 Thanks!

HELLO FRIEND THIS HAS TAKEN ME SO LONG AND I AM SO SORRY!!!!! but i hope you like this because it’s gonna be multiple chapters now!!! I got on a roll and wrote this whole first chapter in a fit of passion

featuring...Martin with Tourette’s! Hooray! :D

Set immediately after the episode where Jon wakes up from the coma, Georgie leaves, and Basira is soon to follow.

CHAPTER 1:

Soon after Basira returns with the water, it all falls apart.

“What did you mean, you ‘feel more real?’ What does that mean, Jon?” she demands, slamming the plastic cup of water on the tray hard enough for it so slosh over the edge. “What did you do?”

Perhaps it’s the post-statement, post-coma bit of euphoria; perhaps it’s the overwhelming hurt of hearing Georgie wish him dead—but Jon cannot quite stifle the laugh that bubbles up in his chest. Cannot quite swallow what he’s sure would be damp filling up the corners of his eyes, were he not still so dehydrated that he has nothing left to spare.

He has little left to spare of anything, it seems, after he spares a glance down his emaciated form.

“I d-don’t—I didn’t do anything, Basira. I wouldn’t—wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Bullshit,” she barks, crossing her arms and leering over him—reminding him so much of Daisy, it sends a familiar chill up his spine. “What. Did. You. Do.”

“I—please, Basira. Trust me.”

“Ha.”

“I-I didn’t. Didn’t do anything, I swear. If I did, I don’t—don’t remember.”

It’s the truth, it’s god’s honest truth, but it’s not enough. Of course it wouldn’t be—it’s Jon, after all. Jon’s word had never been enough for her.

“You know what?” she spits, sharp eyes meeting his after a few small moments away. “Georgie was right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You shouldn’t be here.”

Shouldn’t be here shouldn’t be here

Old, terrible wounds he had hoped were long dead begin to fester once again in his mind. He had always considered Basira a friend, but now…now perhaps, it would hurt even worse if she were.

A slamming door, and he’s back in the present. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he Knows Basira will not be returning—and is not going to get a nurse, either. No, Basira…Basira will no longer be part of this. Will no longer be part of him, as all of Jon’s friends come to be, eventually.

Friend.

She was my friend.

What else is there to do but sit, quiet and still, waiting on the world to turn again? Surely it had stopped. There is no window in this place—nothing to tell him the time at all. Perhaps they thought he hadn’t needed it, because he was never going to wake up. No one to disorient if there’s nobody there.

“No, please—he should—“

Scratching, a scratching at the back of his mind. A blurry picture, faded and torn, knitting together slowly with stitches formed from static and a searing pain behind his eyes.

“—he should have a window.”

Martin. It’s Martin, eyes soft and warm and loving and…despairing. The picture grows and grows and grows until—

“No, please,” Martin begs as he enters the new room they’ve just wheeled Jon’s body into, glancing around with distress, left hand banging rhythmically against his thigh. “He should—he should have a window, in case he wakes up—he’ll be disorientated, please.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, if—"

“No! I’ll not—I’ll not sit here, and let this happen—"

Thrown physically back by the weight of the memory, Jon finds himself lying back dizzily against his pillows, head pounding, heart pounding even louder with the knowledge that Martin was here, he cared, he was here he was here—

And then he looks to the left, and finds a copy of The Lord of the Rings. His copy, to be exact—it must have been taken from his flat, it’s so worn and loved and read and reread and reread. Reaching out to touch it with a shaking, far-too-thin hand, he presses his fingertips against the cracked spine and Sees—

Martin, reading it to him.

“‘I wonder,” said Frodo, “But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.’”

Taking a pause from the passage, Martin quirks up a little half smile, a sad whisper of a thing, before taking Jon’s hand in one of his own—using the other to remove his glasses, as he begins to weep in silence.

Aching, aching, aching is Jon’s chest—down through the depths of his soul, if indeed, he could still be said to have one. It is no longer a decision—he must phone Martin. If enough of him is still there to be phoned.

He hits the call button on his bedside remote and waits.

—

“Mr. Sims?” calls a nurse tentatively from the door, face still ashen from the shock of seeing him awake, and half-sitting back against his pillows. “I’ve got a phone for you.”

“Ah, thank you,” Jon breathes at once, reaching out a still-shaking arm to take it from her before she turns to hang another bag of saline on the pole to his right, hooking it up carefully to his line as she continues to speak.

“We—erm, just so you don’t waste your time, we tried your emergency contact many times with no response. A…Stoker, I believe is their last name?”

Any wind he had managed to pick back up in his sails is pushed right out of his chest with the devastation of these words.

Tim.

God, Tim.

“Mr. Sims? You alright?” she asks, looking moments away from poking or prodding him again—something he can’t bear, not with his skin crawling like this.

“F-fine, fine,” he assures, silently begging his hands to stop shaking. “Fine, thank you. For the phone.”

“You’re—you’re welcome. Erm,” she stammers, stumbling over herself in her hurry to back out of the door. “Ring if you need something.”

And then she’s gone, and he’s left alone again.

Alone alone always alone

He’s got to keep going; got to tear his mind forcibly away from his private anguish—and turns to what he desperately hopes will not become a new, unbearable grief. Punching in a number he feels he has no right to Know, he presses the phone against his ear and rings Martin.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Until he gets a notice that the voicemail box is full.

Stomach jolting, he realizes that Basira could have been wrong, that he could be in trouble, that he could be—

No no no

He rings again, waiting with bated breath, utterly motionless.

No answer.

He wants to tear it all down, to burn through every wall that separates him from Seeing him—

He rings one more time.

“Look, you’ve got the wrong number,” comes the irritated voice on the other end of the line after the third ring—and Jon will never be sure that it’s not the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

“…Martin,” is all he can say, all he can feel as he collapses back onto his pillows, lips upturning in a smile he never thought would grace his expression again.

A pause, long and frozen, like an inhaled breath that refuses to be let out.

“Jon?”

The disbelief, the shuddering hope is so clear in his tone that Jon at last feels his eyes pooling with the tears that had so often refused to come.

“It’s me,” he whispers, like a prayer—begging to be believed.

“F—oh, fuck—“

Loud clattering resonates from the other end of the line as the phone is dropped—or perhaps thrown. A more common tic for Martin when he feels something very strongly.

Whatever feeling it may have been that brought it on, Jon is grateful to observe the humanity of it—tears slipping down his face at last as he sees Martin in his mind’s eye, collecting his phone with the massively thick case around it, checking it for cracks as he does every time, though the screen protector has never once been without cracks—

Jon finds himself weeping, laughing, gasping—so very fond.

I missed you I missed you

I miss you

“Hello? You still there?” Martin gasps, voice a bit wild, a bit desperate.

“Still here,” he assures, wiping his face with a heavy sniff.

“Listen, this—" he begins, voice forcibly hardened, though Jon can hear the shakiness beneath. “This better not be a—a fucking prank, or—"

“I-It’s not. Martin, it’s not. I promise.”

I’m still here.

“…how?” he asks, voice still sharp, and Jon hardly supposes he can blame him.

“I don’t—"

It’s a lie, you do know, you’re lying you’re lying

“—I don’t know. Something…something brought me back,” he stammers, tongue tripping over the acridity of the untruth in his mouth.

It’s a lie and you know it.

“And you’re alright?” comes Martin’s trusting voice from the shoddy speaker.

Of course, running fingers through his hair that had grown so long, so wild, he braces himself for another half-truth.

“Relatively—relatively speaking,” he sighs.

“What does that mean?”

Too weak—he finds himself too weak to answer, cannot bear to say the words that will let him ask for help. Never could manage it, really.

“Do you want me to come get you?” Martin asks, because of course Martin knows him, knows the way Jon’s mind works, however maladapted it may be.

“Yes,” he murmurs in response, tears beginning to run again at the prospect of seeing Martin, his Martin, here in this lightless room that reminds him so terribly much of the Archives.

“Please.”

“Be there soon.”

With a click, the warmth of his voice is gone—but well-replaced by the promise of his presence.

Martin never breaks a promise.

Jon allows the security of it to set him adrift on the tides of sleep.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma fanfic #jonmartin #recovery #sickfic #my writing #i really hope you like this!!!

[honeymoonjin]

Cum! BTS - ot7 x reader smut

A/N: hello and welcome to the kinkiest thing I’ve ever written... As a personal celebration for being accepted into the btssmutclub, I’ve broken my own self-imposed two-week hiatus to present to you this: an episode of Run! BTS in which the seven members compete to see who can make you cum first. (4.5k)

Special thanks to @jeonau for the title, I owe you my life vi xx

This is a part one (Jimin and Yoongi only in this chapter), so keep an eye out for the second half! Warnings for sexually explicit content: a lot of mentions of sex toys and sexual content, exhibitionism/voyeurism, sensory deprivation, bondage, face fucking (not sure if this is the right term sorry, f giving), multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), spanking, manhandling, dirty talk, fisting, controlled orgasm, subspace, aftercare (phew!)

Part two can be found here

“Oh, what’s this?”

You bite your lip to hold back a smile at the unconvincing tone in Hoseok’s voice. That boy could never lie. Of course, they were all told as usual to act like they hadn’t heard of the episode’s concept before, but you’d already met with them multiple times to arrange it.

You let yourself zone out with a pleasant look on your face as the rules of the game were read out. It was simple; each member was competing to see who could make a girl orgasm the fastest, and you were the chosen victim. It was part of a three-part series on relationships, seeing which member of the world’s biggest boyband was the best boyfriend material. The fans hadn’t seen those episodes yet, as they were slated for a later release, but the producer had let you sneak into the editing booth a couple of days ago to catch up. The first part was based on romantic gestures; cooking competitions, picking out the most meaningful flowers, date ideas. This was the second part, and apparently seeing how well they were with kids was the third.

When you hear your name being called, you tune back in to the conversation and lift a hand, waving shyly. “Hello everyone, my name is Y/n, please take care of me.”

“We sure will be,” Jungkook jibes loudly, clapping hands with the eldest to his right who cracks up at the joke.

“Yes, Y/n, how are you feeling?” Namjoon asks politely, resting a large palm on your shoulder gently.

Your cheeks flush a little. “I’m excited. Curious to see who wins!”

The producer waves his hand behind camera to catch all of your attention before speaking further. “To help with your task today, each of you will be given an item that can be used on Y/n, but some will be more advantageous than others. In addition, any of you can use your hands or any part of your face.”

Jimin pouts. “Wait, can we not fuck her properly?”

“Only one member can use their cock, but that member has to go last.”

The guys surrounding you let out noises of consideration. “Using our cocks will definitely be an advantage,” Yoongi reasons, “especially if you’re big like Taehyung or Namjoon,” Yoongi breaks off and dodges when Jin kicks out at him for not mentioning him among the well-endowed members, “but if you go last, she might be too tired to come quickly.”

“Mm, it’s a hard choice,” Hoseok agrees. “Producer-nim, how to we choose who gets what toy?”

“Ooh, I get to choose, don’t I?” you pipe up. “Well, I get to choose the order that you pick the items in, and then each member can choose from what’s there.”

“That’s correct,” the producer affirms. Everyone’s eyes widen as a table is rolled out by two workers, filled with ten different objects. “The items to choose from are; lubricant, a dildo, nipple clamps, a paddle, a blindfold, rope, a ribbed condom, a vibrator, a ball gag, and one envelope which contains a mystery item. Y/n, you can begin naming the order.”

You bite your lip and glance at the guys on either side of you. “I want to say first, that there are some things there I like more than others, so even if I choose you early, you have to pick something I’ll actually like.”

“What do you like, then?” Jin asks.

You shrug. “You’ll have to find out. Why don’t you pick first, then, Jin?”

The other members ooh and aah as Jin approaches the table, hovering his hands over each item like a fortune teller and glancing back at you to read your expression. Disappointed when you remain with a nice-enough but neutral smile on your face, Jin sighs and turns around to properly choose.

“I think I’ll play it safe since I have the choice from all of them. I’ll go with vibrator.”

You wiggle your eyebrows teasingly at him, then return to the other six. “Hm, I think Yoongi is the strategizer among you, so I’m curious to see what he would pick.”

You subconsciously clench your thighs a little tighter together when he looks slightly up at you through his eyelashes and narrows his brows teasingly. He flicks his tongue out to lick his lips and walks over to the table.

After a few quiet moments of contemplation on Yoongi’s end, Jimin huffs loudly. “Hyung, this is a variety show, please say your thoughts out loud to the cameras or it’s no fun!”

Yoongi rolls his eyes but dutifully turns to the nearest camera, staring disdainfully down the barrel as he addresses the members. “I don’t want to give you guys all my secrets and theories. I want you to make bad decisions so that I win. I’ll take rope.”

You try to school your expression, but you can’t help but flush when he picks it up in his hands, and snaps it taut between them, the resounding crack of tension sending shockwaves right down to your quickly dampening core.

Yoongi chuckles at your slight flinch. “Ah, I chose well,” he gloats.

You clear your throat and swallow, eyes flickering up as you think through who should go next. “Taehyung, you’ve been awfully quiet, why don’t you have your pick?”

The maknae lifts his head up in surprise, fixing his hair under his cap and fiddling nervously with the zip on his jacket pocket as he approaches the table. “Uhh… ribbed condom?”

The other guys immediately hoot and cheer for him. Yoongi laughs, shoulders shaking. “The ribbed condom is only worth it if it’s on your cock. Taehyungie wants to fuck her!”

The man in question blushes and shuffles past you without making eye contact, but you reach out and gently pinch his bright red cheek as he walks by. “He’ll just have to hope nobody else wants to fuck me too,” you tease.

“Oh, everybody here wants to fuck you,” Namjoon explains matter-of-factly, “but this is a game, Y/n, and we’re all determined to win.”

“Go on and choose then,” you say lightly, “show me how you plan to win.”

Namjoon smiles languidly, in his element now that there was a decision to be made. “Well,” he begins, slowly strolling over to the dwindling supplies on the table, “at this point I’m sure you’re wet enough that lube is a waste of an item. Blindfold isn’t necessary, because I could just as easily push your face into the carpet so that you couldn’t see me anyway, and both butt plug and dildo seem like good options, but… You have several restraints, a paddle and nipple clamps on there. Seems like you want a little pain with your pleasure. I think the mystery item will be your personal favorite choice. I choose mystery item.”

You raise your eyebrows with a smile. Truth be told, you have no idea what’s in that envelope. Your favorite things to play with are already on that table. Namjoon takes the envelope and returns to his spot, slipping it open and pulling out the card. He reads it once, reads it again, and tips his head back, sighing in disappointment.

“Dammit,” he curses, flipping it around to show the rest of you as well as the camera, “cock ring.” You all crack up and he shoots you and the others a glare. “And we have to use the item? Great, this won’t be at all helpful unless I’m fucking her. Okay, I want to put my name down for going last too.”

Taehyung pouts and looks down at the silver packet in his hands nervously. “Producer-nim, what do we do if multiple people want to fuck her?”

“Once everyone chooses, then I’ll tell you,” the man answers simply. “Y/n, who’s next?”

As the options dwindle down, it becomes less about who you want to go first and more about who you want to leave until last with few options left. “Next can be-”

“Please, noona, let me choose!” Jimin blurts out, clasping his sweater paws together and pleading with his soft eyes.

“-Hoseok,” you finish, and Jimin cries out in annoyance and collapses onto the floor, throwing his arms up dramatically.

“Shit, Jiminie,” Hoseok says as he makes his way over, “she’s gonna leave you ‘til last now. Ooh, what to choose?” He tucks his chin into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger in a cliché thinking pose and pouts his lips slightly as he considers. “I think Namjoon was right, and since he chose the mystery item, I’m going to go with nipple clamps.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Oh, I did not expect that!”

Hoseok pauses, the chains between the two clamps still swinging in front of him after he picked them up. “What? Did I make the wrong choice?”

You just shrug ambiguously. “No comment. You’ll see when it’s your turn.”

You turn back to the group when a hand tugs on your own. Jimin is practically swinging from you like a child. “Noona, please let me choose! There’s nothing good left, noona please!”

You pat his head. “Okay, then, Jiminie, go choose.”

He smiles sweetly at you and bounces over to the table, running his hands over what’s left. “Um, I think I’ll do blindfold.” He picks up the black silk and turns back to you, eyes crinkling shut in another soft smile when you nod at him proudly.

“Well!” Jungkook announces loudly. “It’s my turn now, finally, and I’ll admit I’m surprised no one has chosen the obvious option.” He struts over and, without hesitation, selects the butt plug.

“Is everyone done?” the producer questions the group, but Jungkook shakes his head.

“And,” he continues meaningfully, sending Taehyung and Namjoon shit-eating grins, “I want to put my name down for getting to fuck Y/n.”

“Hey!” Namjoon exclaims. “We have shit items, Jungkook, respect your elders!”

Jungkook just shrugs smugly. “You should’ve chosen better, hyungs. Producer-nim, what do we do to be chosen?”

The producer laughs silently off-camera at his antics, then sobers up. “A game of rock paper scissors, one round.”

The tension in the air rises yet again as the three face off. “Rock, paper, scissors!” Jin yells on their behalf, inching forward to see the results before laughing boisterously.

Taehyung and Namjoon are both holding out scissors, with Jungkook in between them sticking out a fist. Jungkook won.

Taehyung pouts and steps forward to the production team. “Producer-nim, that’s not fair, he shouldn’t get to use his cock when he’s already got a good item. It should go to Joon-hyung or I! How are we gonna get Y/n off now?”

The producer just shrugs, and Taehyung gloomily stomps back to his place in line, letting Jimin wrap his arms around Taehyung in a consoling embrace. “Now,” the producer continues, “Jungkook is seventh place, but the rest of the order has to be decided. Please pull a card out of the bucket and wait to reveal it to the camera all at once.”

Obediently, the remaining members shuffle forward, and each take a folded-up card, gripping the edges in anticipation of revealing them. “One, two, three!”

Some are overjoyed, others are disappointed, but the producer calmly speaks over them, “the order is as follows, from first to last: Jimin, Suga, RM, J-hope, V, Jin, and finally Jungkook.” Out of his announcer-style voice, the producer stands up and gives more instructions on the room change.

You’re all led to a decently large bedroom set, with a bed in the middle, the items all lined up in order of use on a long side-table at the edge of the room, and all of you standing in front of it, you at the head of the group. As instructed, you’d also taken off your top layer of clothes to now be standing in the white matching lace lingerie set you had been given earlier. It was a little chilly in the room, resulting in a smattering of goosebumps on your arms and thighs, but no doubt it would heat up soon enough.

The production team are spread out on two walls of the room, the foot of the bed and the side across from you, and the producer lets you know one final instruction before you begin. “We’ll be timing each member, and the two fastest get a reward. Everyone else has to serve a penalty. Each time Y/n orgasms, she gets 60 seconds to recover before the next member takes over.”

Your eyes widen in shock. That part had not been told to you before. Your toes curled in anticipation at the thought of it. You clear your throat. “Jimin is up first; where do you want me to go?”

“Lie down on the bed on your back,” he commands, but still in a gentle tone, “I’ll help you put the blindfold on. Wait-” he breaks off and glances over to the producer, “when exactly does my time start?”

“The moment you touch her,” the producer replies.

Jimin chucks you the blindfold. “Put it on yourself, then.”

You catch it and stare at him, mouth open. “Rude. Okay, then.” You obediently lie down on the bed, scooting up so that your feet are fully on the mattress, and knot the blindfold behind your head, adjusting it so that it doesn’t pinch at your hair. “Ready.”

The pressure of fabric over your eyes makes it better just to close them, and in the pitch-black darkness you’re left in, another wave of goosebumps runs over you.

Quietly enough that you know he was hoping you’d miss it, Jimin whispers in the direction of the production team. “Okay, start.”

You bite your lip, toes wiggling slightly in anticipation, but instead of the light, teasing touches you were expecting from the sweet Jimin, your ankles are latched on to and you squeak as he tugs you down the bed roughly, legs falling over the edge and your pelvis smacking against his crotch.

The sound of his chuckle is drowned out by the laughter and teasing of his hyungs. “Shut up,” he hisses over to them, “it needs to be quiet so that she doesn’t know what’s coming next.”

Unable to stop yourself from laughing in the ridiculous situation, you silently chuckle, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Oh, good going, Jimin, she’s real into it!”

“Stop it, Jin-hyung! Producer-nim, tell them to be quiet!”

The gruff voice of the producer reaches your sensitive ears. “One minute, 46 seconds.”

“Fuck.” Without another moment of hesitation, a hand, cold from the air-con in the room, is slipping under your panties and tugging them down. “I can use anything but my cock, right?”

It feels more and more to you like you’re not even part of the situation, and instead of the blindfold doing its job, you feel like it’s just making you dissociate. “Jimin-ah, I need you to do something,” you whisper softly into the blackness.

Your request is honored by a gentle nip on the very inner seam of your left thigh. You gasp and hear a delicate giggle before you receive the same treatment on your other leg. “Jimin,” you sigh, pushing your head back into the soft duvet as you feel him suck one of your folds into his mouth, cleaning you up. You groan as he continues his ministrations everywhere between your legs except where you need him most. Your hips begin tilting up, seeking more.

You freeze when he suddenly plunges two fingers deep inside you. You know Jimin has small hands, yet the angle is far better than anything you could ever reach on yourself, and by skipping straight to two fingers he’s giving you that satisfying slight stretch.

“Oh, yes, that’s it,” you breathe as he finally begins actually trying to make you cum. The other members have been kind enough to fall silent, and the only sounds in the room are your panting and the squelch of your juices as he fucks you with his fingers, pushing upwards to grind against the underside of your pelvic floor for more divine friction. “Jimin, Jimin, ah!” Perhaps it’s the excitement of knowing that there are at least twenty people watching, and cameras filming you, or perhaps it’s the fact that you haven’t gotten off in a week, but Jimin’s actual efforts are sending you to the edge embarrassingly fast.

It’s not until you’re almost there that you realize your hands, which so far have been clutching tightly at the sheets, are actually free to roam, and you slide one down and wind your fingers in his hair, pushing his face back onto you. He laughs lowly against you, and the vibration makes your breath catch in your throat, but he opens his mouth and places an open kiss over your clitoral hood, flicking his tongue under and around your clitoris with just enough pressure to make your hips start up again. “Fuck, I’m close, keep going, just let me…” Jimin continues to lick and suck and finger you as you grind up against his face with steadily heavier breathing.

In a few more moments of you fucking his face, Jimin slips in a third finger on his next thrust, and the wider stretch tips you over the edge. Your legs tuck in, thighs locking around his head as he continues to lap at your clit and curl his fingers inside you. You arch your back, jerking as waves of pleasure slowly subside into periodic twitches, and you finally slacken your legs, letting him pull away.

As you try and catch your breath, you hear Jimin excitedly asking for his time, then whining angrily when it’s longer than he wanted, blaming the other members for teasing and distracting him at the start.

The blindfold is slipped off of you, and you squint up at the figure blocking the light in front of you. Yoongi. “On your hands and knees,” he commands roughly, the weight of the bed shifting as he sits back on his heels and waits for you.

Tiredly, you lift yourself up, aware there wasn’t much time between members. On your hands and knees, you feel yourself coming back to full awareness. It was a good orgasm, but it was more of an appetizer than a full meal. And you imagined Yoongi would deliver.

Teasingly, you wiggle your ass for him, only to jump in shock when a flat hand comes down to give a bruising slap on your right cheek. Without giving you time to process the sting, Yoongi is grabbing your wrists and pulling them behind you, making your face fall onto the mattress with nothing to support it. You feel yourself growing even slicker with the feeling of the ropes he’s winding around your wrists, not so much to cut off circulation, but tight enough to restrict any movement. You try to tug your wrists apart experimentally, but they stay firmly fastened together, resting on the small of your back.

Another slap rains down on your other cheek, and you gasp. “If I was allowed to use my cock right now, you wouldn’t be able to walk for days,” Yoongi’s voice says casually, smacking you again, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His voice grows distant as he presumably faces away from you. “You see that, boys? All I’ve done is spank her like she deserves and she’s dripping for me.” You suck in a breath as a pressure comes down over your back, Yoongi leaning over you to whisper in your ear. “Look at them. Turn your head the over way and look at my brothers as you make a mess all over these sheets.”

You whine and shift awkwardly until your head is on the other side. You can see them all now, Jimin sitting down with a hand in his jeans, playing with himself as he watches you with lidded eyes. The other members are all waiting their turn, but you can see the desire in their eyes as they shift their growing erections and shuffle awkwardly on the spot.

As you’re distracted looking them over, Yoongi takes the opportunity to sit back up and slap you again, this time on your clit. You squeak and try to tuck your thighs in, but with the way your chest is pressed against the bed, you have no leverage to. “If you look away from them for a second, I’m not letting you cum, game be damned.”

You whine, but keep your eyes trained on them, one-by-one observing the way they look at you. Yoongi runs the back of his hand and then his palms against you, slicking up his hand. You gasp and attempt to wiggle your hips forward, thinking you know what he has planned, but he plants his other hand between your shoulder blades and pins you down.

“Uh ah, you’re going to take me like a good little girl, hm?” He slips two fingers in, scissoring you open a couple of times before upgrading to three. “See, I didn’t want to say it before, but I have a plan.” You bite your lip harshly and shut your eyes at the stretch when he gets in four fingers, hoping he won’t notice you disobeying. “I don’t have to rush if I ruin you for all the other members, now, do I?”

“Hey, don’t play dirty, hyung!” Jungkook complains. “I have to go last, you know!”

You force yourself to relax as Yoongi begins fucking you faster with four fingers, loosening you up. “I don’t think I can take it, Yoongi,” you confess.

“I wasn’t asking you,” he replies gruffly, but takes his hand off his back to reach around and massage at your clit, upping the pleasure enough to let you calm down more. Surprisingly, that contact on your sensitive bud paired with the four fingers plunging into you are enough for you to feel the rising tide of another orgasm. “O-oh god, I’m close, Yoongi,” you moan.

“Holy shit,” Namjoon muses, “he’s been going like half as long as Jimin. Yoongi, bro, I think you’re going to win!”

You whine in frustration when the friction against your clit is removed. “Wha-?”

“No trying to get out of it,” Yoongi commands, “you don’t come yet.”

Your eyes open again, eyebrows deeply furrowed in focus. “But that’s the game,” you complain, “please let me cum now.”

“No.” You automatically hold your breath when his hands slow down, and you can feel yourself widening impossibly around him. “Take it.”

His eyes focused between your legs, you watch as Hoseok’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god, he’s really going to do it.”

It’s hardest at his knuckles, where the circumference of all his fingers wedged together is almost too much, but then he breaches a certain point and you feel his hand sink inside you, fingers folding up into a fist when they reach your cervix and can go no further. He stays still for a moment, and you’ve never felt so full, until he begins rocking his fist inside you, knuckles grazing against your g-spot, and his other hand strums mercilessly over your clitoris, and the pleasure is too much, and you can’t move your hands to stop him and you’re coming violently, harder than you ever have, tears streaming, and body writhing on the sheets as you let the orgasm hit you full force with a cry.

He speeds up while you’re coming, prolonging the high, and it’s so much that you feel on the verge of passing out, but just when your vision spots, he pulls out with an audible thwack and you collapse against the sheets, the muscles of your core fluttering around a void.

You feel completely hollowed out in all ways, and you let your eyes fall closed as nimble yet wet fingers pick at the knots, releasing your arms to flop on either side of you. A surprisingly tender kiss is pressed to your naked shoulder as Yoongi moves around beside you, and he leans in to whisper quietly in your ear. “Good girl.”

You feel the bed springs shift twice as Yoongi gets up and leaves, and Namjoon joins you. The moment his hand rubs against your sore ass cheeks however, a voice yells out for him to stop.

The hand pauses on you, and you’re too exhausted to react, barely conscious enough to listen in.

You vaguely recognize it as Jin calling out in a concerned tone. “…handle any more, we should take a break. Our schedule is free tomorrow afternoon, let’s finish then.”

Jimin speaks up, voice sleepy, and you wonder in your daze if he jerked off while Yoongi was taking his turn. “Yeah, Producer-nim, I think she deserves a break after Yoongi-hyung. Look at her, she looks like she’s going to drop dead.”

The hand on your ass lifts, only for the bed springs to jump again. You blink blearily when someone calls out your name and see Namjoon kneeling on the bed in front of you. “Hm?”

“Are you okay?” You nod weakly, barely able to move. “Okay, Taehyungie’s gone to grab some water from the next room, and we’re going to end shooting for today. I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked you first if you were able to go on.”

You hum in acknowledgement and let your eyes fall shut again, gingerly pushing your legs down so that you’re no longer sitting with your ass in the air.

Namjoon sighs and pushes the sweaty hair back from your face. “We’ll just clean you up, and then we’ll take you to the hotel room, yeah?” You mumble something into the sheets. “What was that?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” you admit, slurring drowsily.

Namjoon lets out a little sigh and then you hear him standing up, muttering quietly with someone else. You feel a third party roll you over onto your back, wipe between your legs with a baby wipe, and then gently lift your legs one at a time to slip on some baggy sweatpants. You crack your eyes open to see Hoseok standing in the t-shirt he entered in, but with no pants on, only Shooky-patterned boxers. Tipping your head down with your final energy reserves, you see his sweatpants are the ones warming up your legs and covering you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He just chuckles and boops your nose softly before moving away. You let your gaze fall to your side where Namjoon is clapping Jungkook on the back and pushing him in your direction. The maknae approaches you and warns you that he’s going to pick you up, before slipping an arm under your thighs and your back and lifting you off the damp sheets. You groan and flop onto his chest as he does a little shuffle so that you’re resting higher up on him, then your world whirls around you as he turns and begins to leave the room.

You press your face into his chest and inhale the fresh-smelling cologne lining his t-shirt fabric, and before you know it, you’re slipping hopelessly into unconsciousness.

#btssmutclub #jimin x reader smut #yoongi x reader smut #bts smut #ot7 smut #ot7 x reader #bts fic #bts oneshot

[sugarcookiesandsins]

Charmed [Episode 4]

➰ ot7 x reader, poly!bts x reader, mafia!bts ➰ they wouldn’t notice her until she was standing above them, a smoking gun in her hand a bullet in their heart 🌡 M   🛑 violence, guns, just y/n being a gutsy mf 🕛  6.1k+

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It had been a week since your injury at the warehouse. Thankfully, the bullet had only grazed your arm, taking away the layers of skin to reveal the fat layers underneath. The long-sleeved shirt that you wore would be forever ruined so you were forced to retire it, cutting it into strips to serve as bandages while you took shelter in your house.

There was no doubt in your mind that Jungkook had recognized your presence, but thankfully it didn’t seem like he had discovered the tracker, either mistaking it for a missed bullet or forgetting about it in the ruckus that followed. Still, it was odd.

Saying he was talented would be the understatement of the century. It had been dark and murky under the roof of the warehouse, that combined with the small opening between crates he would have to shoot through, it was a miracle you were hit at all.

The familiar beep beep of the microwave echoed through your house. Collecting the warm cup, you took a sip of revitalizing caffeine as you made your way back to your couch, eyes retracing the colored lines overlaid on a map of the city, each color a different day. Your alabaster skin suffering from the lack of sunlight. But you didn’t mind the drawn curtains and closed blinds, anything was better than ending up an unidentifiable body on the bottom of Han River.

You made your way to your nest on the new couch. Settling yourself among the blankets, you winced as the still tender flesh of your arm brushed against the leather of the fabric. It had been a stressful week of hiding - you had stayed in your apartment, relying on your bulk purchases of food to keep you sustained as you relied on your tracker to keep tabs on BigHit’s truck.

Glancing at the shuttered windows, you winced at the sight of the blond wig, half covered by the opaque fabric. It had remained there for the last week, ever since you chucked it at the window in your anger. It would have worked as the perfect disguise.

A high-pitched beep sounded from your computer, and your eyes turned to the screen just as another dot marked a location on the map - the truck had made another stop. You had programmed that tracker to mark location whenever the truck stopped for more than 3 minutes, longer than what it would take at a red light but still sensitive enough to pick up a small unloading and loading pause. It was a pain to wait before you went forward with the plan, but the mafia were smart. You didn’t know if they had approached the house or not yet. They could be waiting, or they could have used some corrupted form of psychology on you to fool you.

It was crucial that you got the location right the first time, as a failed attempt would put them even more on edge than they already were. You were sure that security would already be tighter due to your failure at going unnoticed, making the job even harder. Throwing your head back you let out a groan, one that was lost to time forever in the dusty gloom of your living room.

You let another week pass, stewing in the annoyance of being immobile and injured. Still, your impatience got the best of you and you wasted not time in rushing out the door as Eli.

He stayed mostly to roads he had never been on before, too paranoid that another underground worker would see him and give away his position. On hand, a phone with the list of all the addresses the truck visited, which was actually surprisingly short, organized from most visits to the least.

You had tried to narrow down your search using satellite imagery of the locations, but they were all clean. And yes, as cheesy as it was, there is some truth to the idea that suspicion increases when a place is too clean. Still, with no other option before you, here you were; possibly one of the greatest contract killers in the world, reduced to acting like a common thief who peeks through windows. Yes, some may argue that Eli was a common thief, but you firmly believe otherwise. What he did wasn’t thievery, it was art.

How many times had you trained to make your form disappear in a crowd, to make your fingers ghost-like in the efficiency with which they relieved pockets of valuables. You had done far too much to allow your work to be called anything less than a masterpiece.

The first house had been an epic flop in terms of anything interesting. The was simply a storefront for a pawn shop, most probably hiding another underground store but now that wasn’t your primary concern. It had taken you some time, but you had finally found it. Inconspicuous in the greatest fashion; why be isolated when you could hide in plain sight … in the penthouse of a luxury high rise!

You rolled your eyes at the extravagant clothing of the people walking through the ceiling-high, glass double doors. You could never imagine living like that every day; it would be stressful on your neck and head. All you needed was one accessory and your wardrobe was set. Without it you felt naked to the world, as if your entire identity was woven into the intricate metalwork.

The uniformed doorman sneaked another glance at your way, letting you know that it was time to do something, otherwise he was going to call security on your blonde ass. Instead of hightailing it out of there, you confidently walked to the front door and under the golden trimmed entrance, passing the doorman a slight nod. He silently glared back at you, too dependent on his meager wages to vocalize any complaint.

Passing the front desk, you smiled and nodded, playing the perfect part of a rich, but eccentric homeowner. Much like the cashier who worked at minimum wage, you were barely cast a glance. The clock that controlled time ticked away in the corner of the hall, much more interesting than any hooligan that may have infected the marble floors.

Making your way to the steel elevators, you stepped in the next available one and rode it all the way to the top. There was no one in the house, you knew that for certain; it was an entertaining sight to see the boys strut into their limo earlier, an hour or so before the doorman saw you for the first time. And since you began your surveillance, they hadn’t returned.

For how high-profile they were, the door itself was a very basic keypad lock, one that was clean enough to make the smudging more visible to the naked eye. In the corner of your eye, you saw the security camera trained on your face, or rather, Eli’s. He was a cheeky bastard and couldn’t help himself from waving at the person on the other side, who sat wide-eyed.

[KSJ]

It was a habit that had developed among us to randomly check the surveillance of our home while we were out. It wasn’t as vigilant as it sounds however with the time intervals ranging from 30 minutes to almost 2 hours but it was better than nothing.

I had reached a dead end with that ramen shop, though I did expect that. No thief was stupid enough to visit the same place twice, expecially when you had been tagged there. Still, no one had any rumors about his whereabouts despite antics being at an all-time high.

So imagine my surprise and anger at finding waving at me through the screen of my phone as he entered my house. His smile was wide enough to show off his perfect teeth and his fashion was to the nines with a smart hat over his blonde head and a leather jacket and dark jeans; he looked in his element.

Through gritted teeth, I ordered the driver to turn around. A business deal was small compared with bringing in Eli to the boss. Rarely did I ever break the calm and composed position of power like my father taught me, but even he had his breaking points and this was mine.

Giggling at your actions, you smoothly unlocked the front door with an electronic masterkey. It was the greatest thing you ever created and ran an algorithm to find all possible number combinations. It then used a phantom copy of the keypad server to run the possibilities, basically giving you an unlimited amount of trials.

You walked into the room like you owned the place, which for the next few moments until the boys got back, it felt like you did. Everything in you was working overtime to keep you from messing something up; the whited sepulchre annoying you to your very limits. It was very surgical in its decoration, pale and empty. It was a home, but it didn’t feel lived in.

Is this what happens when you probably have maids that come every day? Sadly, you would never know.

Making your way past the entrance hall - seriously what was with that? a hall just to greet people? - you encroached upon their living room; a bleak continuation of the uneasy entrance hall. There were multiple cameras, and you were pretty sure of bugs too, but what did you care about? You wanted them to know that you were here. You wanted them to understand just what Eli was capable of, even if it was putting a gun to their head and pulling the trigger.

The familiar ding of the elevator made its way through the opened crack of the front door. They were here.

The boys entered through the front door, six keeping an eye out for the intruder while Jin tried to find his location through their security cameras.

They were beyond furious, mostly because they felt the pain of having underestimated you.

“Hello boys.”

They would never make the same mistake again.

Immediately, you faced down the barrel of 6 guns, all but certain they would pump you full of iron without second thought. Yet in the face of death, you didn’t waver. They weren’t going to kill you after all, and everyone in that room knew that.

You only smiled, continuing to speak to maintain the dominance you held of the situation.

“Put your guns down. You can’t kill me anyways.”

Jimin scowled. Since the moment Jin had revealed to the group about Eli’s presence in their home, he had seen red creep around the edges. He was the frontman when it came to the group’s security, so even though he was happy the motion sensors inlaid into the cameras worked in informing them of the intruder, he was mad that the subversive technology in the lock had not prevented the intruder from getting in.

“Yeah? What’s stopping me?” Just to prove his point, Jimin took a threatening step forward, steadying the aim in the center of Eli’s forehead. “What’s keeping me from putting a bullet between those pretty blue eyes of yours?”

“Well, your boss for one.” Eli only smiled after that, letting the implications form themselves. it didn’t matter what justification he offered; the main goal was for the boys to come to conclusion themselves. That way, they would believe it more. “Or perhaps, it’s my pretty blue eyes? Take your pick Jimin.” The said man glared at your form.

Eli made his way to the antique bar setting on the far side of the living room, blatantly appreciating the arrangement of hard liquor in glass decanters. The boys had lowered their guns, coming to their own responses as to why Eli couldn’t die.

“Now, how about we all have a drink, and I explain why I am here, and you explain what it is that your boss wants me to help you steal.” They were trained men, so there was no blatant change in expression as you revealed the extent to which you understood their motives, but you could see some clenched jaws, no doubt unhappy with the power balance.

Currently, it was tilted in your favor, so you took the initiative to pour everyone drinks, gin and tonics all around. You then took your previous seat, leaning back with comfortable ease. The other boys also took places around the living room. They may not be completely estranged from the idea of shooting you, but at least the guns were no longer facing you.

Namjoon took a long sip of the drink, letting the familiar taste burn his throat on the way down. He hated Eli at that moment; the sense of passiveness the man gave off. As if he didn’t care about anything, least of all whether one of his boys put a bullet through his skull.

“Now, don’t be so morose about it all! It was all in good fun. Just a little something to show that I am not one to be underestimated, no matter how laissez-faire I seemed.” Eli spoke these words over the rim of his glass, the material distorting the smile that shines around white teeth. It wasn’t a tender kind smile that you show a lover, it was a deranged kind of smile, one that Namjoon rarely saw from anyone. And it sent chills slithering up and down his spine. He knew that working with this man would not be ordinary. And Eli knew that from the way it shined through his pretty blue eyes, locked solely on him at that moment. And for the second time in his life, he did not feel in control.

“Now, since I’ve shown you my cards. I think it is only proper that you show me yours.” The silence was punctuated with the clink of the tumbler on the center table. None of the boys met your eyes, half still focused on their guns. The other half just thought….and thought some more. How to answer a man who probably knows everything?

“We doubt there is anything that we could tell you that you wouldn’t already know.” Yoongi kept his voice level, as he always did. There was nothing special he saw in the little pickpocket, just another immature personality trying to be a man. Everyone was bound to mess up as some point, he just had to be the observant one and wait for it.

“You’d be surprised Yoongi,” Eli mused, ignoring the reaction Bangtan had to the obvious lack of respect the boy had. “There is always something to learn about everything. When you think you know it all, that is when you recognize that you were playing the fool.” You chuckled, leaving the rest of that phrase up to them for interpretation, already seeing the wheels in Namjoon’s head turning.

“Let me ask again. Why are you chasing me through the streets of Seoul?” Eli wasn’t expecting a no for an answer. You did not want to reveal that you only had basic knowledge of what they wanted, and even those hypotheses were not proven fact. But you had enough to play a small con for information.

“Here. I’ll even help you out. Your boss wants me to help you steal something because he thinks you’re not good enough, which is where I-.”

“We are good enough!” The outburst was instinct, coming from the one member that could never take being second to anyone, not even to a metaphor.

“Jungkook.” It was quick and sharp; an order without even needing to say the words.

“Oh? So, I was right. Thank you for the information, Jungkook.”

The dark-haired man leapt to his feet, pulled his pistol out of the holster and let go a single bullet. But then again, you weren’t just any old thief. With the same speed and flow, you pushed back on the chair as you saw, tipping backwards you dropped the glass, the loud crash more than enough to completely obscure a silenced shot. When the back of the chair made contact with the floor, you wasted no time  rolling behind the kitchen counter, where you were safe from any more stray bullets that managed to head your way.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad new Jungkook but you missed this time.” You heard a growl, but thankfully no heavy footsteps making their way to your hiding spot. Still, he was a killer. Walking silently was no issue for him. As such, you made your way to the other side, facing the counter and behind it, anyone who would be coming for you from the direction of the living room.

Small murmurs made their way to your ears, far too quiet to make out the placating reassurances that the boys were delivering. You didn’t try and stop them, the less angry Jungkook was, the less he was prone to try and kill you, again.

“I suggest you come back out Eli. So we can show you to your room.” You could tell from his voice that Namjoon was just tired with the whole situation. “After all, you are working with us. It would be apt that you stay with us for the time being.”

Peeking out from behind the counter, you raised a single eyebrow at the assembled group of men. 

“When did I ever agree to work with you? As far as I’m concerned you haven’t even told me what you wanted my help with.”

“You have no choice Mr.– '' Namjoon cut off, fully intending for you to fill in the blank but you refused. Something about watching him squirm in the awkward silence made you happy, figurately at least.

“I have no choice?” you simpered. “Now that’s just plain wrong.” You came out from behind the counter, fully assured by the strong hold that Jin, Hoseok, and Jimin had on Jungkook. It looked like he wasn’t about to shoot you anytime soon. 

“I make my own choices Namjoon. No group of pretty boys is going to stop me.” 

And that is the story of how you no —  how Eli  — came to live with the Bangtan Boys.

The room they escorted you to contained the very furniture that you had seen them select a couple weeks ago. Sharp lines, metallics, and sterile. Everything about your job summed up into one disgustingly perfect room.

The blinds were open to catch the last rays of sunset that glinted off the high-rises around you. With a slight scowl, you turned your head as one stray reflection made its way into your eye. “Nice place. Bit too much light for my eyes though,” you said as you turned to face them. Only five of the men from before had followed you. It seemed that Jungkook had decided to leave rather than kill you, and Jin had joined him to make sure he didn’t.

You waited for a response. A minute passed. Then another. And now even you were starting to feel the weight of the tension in the room. Here they really had you cornered. The five of them corralling you into a room with a singular window more than 50 feet above cold pavement.

Have you escaped from this kind of situation before? Yes but that was only possible due to a conveniently placed window-washer’s station and a metal straw; neither of which you had available at the moment.      

“Good night Eli.” Namjoon’s voice betrayed the loosening reins he had on the other boys. Jimin, who had a soft spot for Jungkook, seemed to have no problem in gripping the beretta he had in a shoulder holster in warning.

Not that you ever listened to what pretty boys ever told you.

The next morning you woke up at your usual time, waved at the camera disguised on the black surface of the flower vase and began your morning routine. Thankfully over the years you had perfected the art of wigs and the blonde mane had stayed on through the night. Grabbing your clothes and more hair products you made your way to the bathroom. Changing into something more comfortable, you put on your running shoes and made your way to the front door.

Stretching out your back, you felt it pop and released a sigh before you crashed into someone. Taking a few steps back, you looked up into the face of the one and only Jung Hoseok. It was odd to see the man out of his suit and into what looked like workout gear.

It would be illegal for them to not be working out looking the way they did, but seeing it physically was something completely different. Not many were crazy enough to have a 6 am morning workout routine.

“Seems you’ll be joining us of your own accord.” Hearing the familiar drawl, you turn to see the rest of the boys in various states of putting their shoes on in the living room. So all of them did this every morning. Interesting.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but you can’t watch me run today. I have my own routes and my own errands, so I’ll see you back for breakfast.” As you were finishing your sentence you darted for the entrance, so quick that Hoseok could only graze your arm with his fingertips.

Behind you, you heard the sound of footsteps as one of the boys, most likely Hoseok, gave chase to you. You pumped your eyes faster as you darted in the direction of the stairs. The elevators were a sure way to get caught if there was not one available immediately, but at least on the stairs you could use your skills to descend faster.  Slamming open the door to the stairwell, you leaped over the banister without second thought and angled your body towards the railing on the opposite sides a floor down. It wasn’t much of a head start, but with Hoseok you thought you could manage.

Using your palms, you latched onto the cold metal and pulled yourself over it. Not wasting a moment in continuing your journey down the stairs. Behind you, the slap of hands on metal scared you more than you would ever admit. The sound meant that whoever was giving you chase was not Hoseok. It meant that your pursuer would not look lightly upon you if they caught you.

Willing your motivation into your limbs, you pushed forward, taking the steps two at a time and trying to find another opening for you to jump down another floor. It wasn’t that there weren’t opportunities; no there were plenty of those. The issue came with commitment.

With a drop of over 50 feet below you, there was no room for error. You had to be sure you were making the jump long before you actually shifted the weight. From what you had guessed, the person seemed to have some strength and training, making the possibility for error even less. A trained person would see the shift in weight and the element of surprise was the most important thing you could have.

“I could do this all day Eli.” The dark voice from behind you almost made you jump in fear. It was Jungkook and he sounded like he would enjoy nothing more than to just exact all the anger he had towards you in a single moment. A lot could be done to a person without killing, and nothing that BigHit had said prohibited you from being a little banged up by the time you reached their front door.

Seeing an upcoming opening, you counted down the seconds until you jumped. About a meter away from the gap, you leaped for the gap. From behind you, you heard another growl as Jungkook came after you. At the last minute, you reached out your hand and grabbed the pole and used the centrifugal force to pull yourself back onto the stairs. Jungkook was so focused on the jump as he didn’t have the planning that you did, that you were able to catch your breath as he really dropped himself down two floors.

The look on his face was the most amusing; that wide eyes expression that really betrayed more anger at himself or not seeing this coming rather than at you for getting away.

Between heaved breaths, you couldn’t help but rub it in a bit more. “Eli 2 and Jungkook 0,” you smirked out. “Don’t look now but you’re in second Jeon.” And with that you knew the moment was over, and so did he. A trained fighter’s first lesson wasn’t on fighting at all; it was about holding back.

[JJK]

Looking at the messy blonde head a couple of floors above me, I wanted nothing more than to wring his neck. His lips were parted in mirth at my state of loss and the audacity of him to further rub salt into the wound as he relaxed on his throne above me.

Nothing was stopping me from running back up the flights and going after your snark attitude with his fists, but that was beneath him. That would be revenge and revenge was not looked upon kindly. Revenge is mindless while fighting is mindful.

Catching my own breath, because Eli was faster than he seemed, I glared in his direction and slowly began my trek back up the stairs to rejoin the boys. He would get away, this time. From across the round staircase Eli kept his eyes on me as he circled down and I circled up, until we met face too face on the 19th floor landing.

He gave me a small nod, lips slightly parted as he continued to restock his oxygen supply as he continued past me. I didn’t try to contest my loss.

I regret my training.

It wasn’t a hard task keeping your identity secret. You had already prepared for this eventuality and had stocked both you backpack and the back room of the noodle shop with extra supplies. This way, you could keep the location of your apartment a secret, just in case you needed to catch a break for any reason. Who knows when you would need a hideaway from BigHit.

In the meantime, you kept to places the boys knew about, like the noodle shop. So the ones that followed you had nothing to report back to Namjoon who had grew more frustrated as time passed, with no new information about you. In the house, you kept to yourself, only speaking about the mission.

“Why don’t you come join me! Taehyung! Jimin! Over here!” Your voice reverberated around the noodle shop, giving you a sense of deja vu as the rest of the patron turned to the entryway. Sending a quick wink at the matron of the store, she shook her head and nodded in response as she asked for another two bowls of noodles.

Recently, you had become close to her, creating some semblance of friendship between the two of you, built around her new-found popularity and you character. She would never tell you this, but you became one of her heart’s adopted children. In you she saw someone who was forced to grow up too fast, for what reason she understood that she would never know, but it was there.

“You’re playing with fire here child.” She leaned in as if she was taking your order.

In response, you lifted the menu, momentarily covering both your faces with the red book. “Well good thing I’ve stocked up on repellent, Umma.”

Pulling the menu back down, you motioned them over, giving them no chance to turn tail and run. They would now have to suffer through lunch with your infuriating face with those big wide eyes.

“It’s not good to tail someone on an empty stomach, so you should eat up. After this, I’ve got to take you on a wild goose chase around the park.”

#kwritersworldnet #bangtanidx #ot7 x reader #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #taehyung x reader #jimin x reader #jhope x reader #jin x reader #yoongi x reader #namjoon x reader #jungkook x you #taehyung x you #jimin x you #jin x you #bts x you #hoseok x reader #hoseok x you #namjoon x you #jhope x you #yoongi x you #ot7 x you #suga x reader #suga x you #bts jungkook x reader #bts jungkook x you #bts taehyung x you

[louisapennyfeather2021]

Newsies/Teen Wolf AU

Title: Unleashed

Summary: Mike and Ike take things too far. Jack decides he's had enough of it.

A/N: Hello! This is a scene from Season 3a, episode 4 of the MTV show Teen Wolf. If you haven't seen it, basically the twins try to get one of the werewolves to kill someone and the main protagonist decides to put an end to it.

Warnings: Violence (not horrible), claustrophobia, panic, near death experience, mentions of PTSD.

***

"The two of you will wash all the boards in this hall. Reshelving the library. Restocking the janitor's closet." Katherine glances to the girl sitting in front of her and instantly tenses. Out of all people she could get detention with, it had to be her. The girl who tried to kill Katherine and her friends not once, not twice, but multiple times.

"Mr. Harris-" Katherine pauses when the arrogant excuse of a chemistry teacher turns his stoney glare on her. "Um, does it have to be with her?"

"Now that I know you prefer not to, yes. You have to be with her." Mr. Harris hands Katherine the keys to the janitor's closet before turning, not notices to obviously expression of anger and annoyance on Sarah's face. Katherine isn't much better, although she hesitantly follows Sarah to the janitor's closet down the hall from Mr. Harris' classroom. Katherine grabs the cart full of different sanitary items to restock and begrudgingly follows the hunter. She waits in boredom once they reach the closet, waiting for Sarah to unlock the door. As soon as it's open, Katherine tenses and her breath catches in her throat.

It's small. Too small. The only way too escape is through the singular door which has no window. What if they get locked in? What if no one comes looking for then after they've been missing? What if-

"Are you okay?" Sarah's slightly bored tone brings Katherine out of her minor panic. Her face heats up because she knows that Sarah knows. Sarah knows about what Katherine's father did. She knows about the freezer. She knows everything.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just not a big fan of, um, small spaces." Katherine hesitantly follows Sarah into the closet, pulling the small cart in behind her. She leaves the cart halfway in the doorway to act as a doorstop in case the door shuts. Sarah starts stacking wrapped rolls of toilet paper while Katherine restocks the box of mop heads.

"Can I ask you something?" Sarah suddenly asks, not facing Katherine.

"Do you have to?" Katherine huffs, generally hoping to avoid any unnecessary exchanges. She can act civil around Sarah, that doesn't mean she'd ever go out of her way to give the annoying hunter even a smile.

"I guess not. i'm gonna ask anyway. Did you tell anyone that I was at school the other night?" Sarah's voice wavers just a little bit.

Ah yes, the night Sarah went against everything her and Davey agreed on to help save Smalls and Sniper from slaughtering the entire town. Katherine had been chasing the two rapid werewolves into the high school when a flash of bright light went off and both wolves retreated into the school. She had looked up to see none other than Sarah Jacobs standing on the roof of a bus, bow and arrow in hand.

Katherine knows her and Davey decided to stay out of the supernatural. Davey broke that pact when Jack managed to convince him to help track Sniper and Smalls, although it took a lot of convincing. Sarah seemed to have broken the pact long before that, seeing as she was the reason Sniper and Smalls had escaped in the first place.

"Was I supposed to?" Katherine lets out a deep breath, already tried of the conversation. She has enough to deal with already, with the twins still being around and Spot having found his little sister who he thought was dead. It's all a mess.

"It would make me really happy if you didn't." Sarah seems to relax just a bit, enough for Katherine to notice. She scowls at the back of the hunter and continues slowly stacking mop heads.

"Yeah, well, you being happy really isn't a big priority of mine, since you stabbed me, what, 20 times with knives." Katherine can sometimes still feel the blades. It was the night they found Hotshot and Snyder. Spot had made it clear that Hotshot couldn't leave alive, but Sarah and Jack were dedicated to keeping him alive. Personally, Katherine could care less. Hotshot was a dick, but she only gave up when she was repeatedly stabbed with multiple knives.

"Actually, they were Chinese Ring Daggers, but-" Sarah turns and immediately cuts herself off when she sees the way Katherine's eyebrows pinch together. "Oh, um, sorry."

"Was that an apology?" Katherine can't lie and say she isn't shocked, she's never not butted heads with Sarah on literally everything. An apology from Sarah to Katherine, especially since Katherine is friends with Spot and Spot did kill Sarah's older brother, is definitely not expected.

"Would you accept an apology?" Sarah asks and Katherine can see she actually means it.

"Um-" Katherine goes to answer, but she's cut off when something crashes into her and throws her against one of the shelves in the small room. She quickly stands up, ignoring the slight pain in her back, to see the supply cart now tipped in the room and the door slammed shut. Her eyes widen and she unintentionally starts breathing harder as she kicks the cart aside and pushes on the door.

"No, no, no, no." She mutters as she jiggles the hand countless times and pushes against the door. The handle turns, but the door doesn't budge. Even with the strength being a werewolf gives her, she can't move it the slightest.

"Maybe it's locked from the outside." Sarah offers, hoping to calm down an obviously panicked Katherine. It's not hard to tell that Katherine is panicking because of all those years living with her father and everything he did to her.

"No, there's something against it." Katherine starts frantically hitting door and pushing against it, effectively startling Sarah. She tenses when she hears an almost inaudible growl and she instinctively searches the room for anything to defend herself with.

"Okay, okay, okay. Okay, uh, all right. Just relax." Sarah starts to slowly panic, knowing she's in a locked room with a ticking time bomb.

"No." Katherine doesn't even leave room for argument as she starts knocking harder on the door, maybe in hopes of getting someone's attention. Sarah tries to get her to relax, to take a deep breath and realize she isn't with her father and that someone will eventually find them.

"Katherine!" Sarah finally yells loud enough to get through to the girl.

At least, that's what she thinks.

She's about to relax when she hears a louder growl. She watches in curious horror as Katherine turns around, her eyes glowing yellow and the tips of razor sharp fangs hiding behind her parted lips.

"Katherine, don't-" She hardly gets the words out before she's roughly pinned against one of the shelves, claws digging into the skin of her arms. Katherine growls low, her eyes feral. Sarah only stares wide eyed for a second before she starts screaming. She knows if she's stuck in here with Katherine, she'll die.

"Katherine, come on! Katherine!" Sarah manages to fight off Katherine long enough for the door to suddenly burst open and Katherine to disappear.

"Katherine!" Sarah jumps as Jack yells, although it's more of a growl. Sarah can see Katherine on the floor, her shoulders and chest heaving, although her fangs and claws have retracted. Her eyes eventually stop glowing yellow and turn back to their natural shade of brown. Her eyebrows quickly pinch together and confusion is evident on her face.

"Hey, Sarah." She flinches as Jack steps closer to her and she notices how tightly she's holding one of her wrists.

"I'm fine, really." Although she's scared out of her mind and she's never gotten along with Katherine, she knows it's not Katherine's fault. Something happened and Sarah knows better than anyone what PTSD can do to a person. She can also tell by the pure fear, shock, and confusion on Katherine's face.

"I'm- I'm sorry, I didn't- I didn't mean to do that." Katherine stumbles over her words as she rushes them out, her body subconsciously curling into itself. "I'm sorry."

"I know. Jack, it's not her fault." Sarah can see the skepticism on Jack's face. She knows Jack is still hesitant to trust Katherine.

"I know. I guess the twins want to get you more than angry. They want to get someone hurt." Jack sighs, shaking his head. He knows that if Katherine or any of the others lash out, it'll cause chaos that will only give the Alphas more of a reason to convince Spot to join them.

"So are we going to do something?" Katherine sits up straighter, although she doesn't look anyone in the eye and she keeps her knees close to her chest.

"Yeah. I'm gonna get them angry. Really, angry." Jack narrows his eyes and that's all it takes for the three to start planning.

***

"You know that there's a temple in Calcutta where they used to sacrifice a child every day? That's every day a dead baby, Albert, every day! Hey, you want to know what today is? It's dead baby day. Oh, no, wait, that's every day, because every day is dead baby day, yay!" Race throws his arms dramatically, only cringing slightly as some lower classmen pass them with odd facial expressions.

"Why are you telling me this?" Albert sighs, continuing his trek towards the other side of the school.

Race huffs dramatically, already knowing the attempt is futile. Ever since the deer, then Albert's dog, then the birds, he's found the pattern. Everything weird is happening in threes. So far, there's been three animal panics and three virgins killed. The only problem is, now he thinks whoever's causing this is going after protectors or something, he still hasn't found out that pattern.

"Because Jack's dealing with the Alpha Twins, someone has to deal with this!" Race raises his eyebrows, although they pull together when he sees the slight confusion on Albert's face. Albert drops walking, a far off look on his face. "You don't know about the twins?"

"Alphas?" Albert narrows his eyes in thought. It makes sense, even if he didn't know about it. Of course he'd never admit that, Race would find it too satisfying. Plus, nothing is ever normal in this town.

"Mike and Ike." Race confirms, waiting to see why Albert stopped walking. He wonders if maybe Albert doesn't know, but then he remembers Albert is a literal genius.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I knew." Albert starts walking again, not waiting as Race runs after him and falls into step with him.

"Okay, okay, good. So look, here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that the murders maybe come in threes. Ancient people love things in threes, right? So maybe first it's three virgins, and then, I don't know, maybe it's three people who own little dogs." Race nearly falls on his face as Albert comes to a sudden stop.

"I own a little dog." Albert glares at Race, although he can't deny the slight fear he now has. He notices the slightly guilty, slightly suggestive look on Race's face that goes along with a sigh and Albert scoffs before storming towards the other side of campus with Race in tow. "I'm not getting rid of my dog."

"Would you just think about getting rid of your little dog?!"

***

It's last period when everything falls into place. Albert and Race are in their respective classes as the warning bells rings. Mike and Ike sit in their class, both bored out of their minds since their plan to make Katherine snap failed.

But a plan has been set in motion.

"How long is this going to take?" Katherine huffs, her arms crossed as she stands next to a shiny, new motorcycle. Not even seconds later, the bike roars to life and Sarah stands up with a pair of tweezers in hand. Katherine offers her and impressed look before throwing her leg over the bike and positioning herself comfortably on it. She jumps only a bit when Sarah's suddenly right next to her, gesturing to the handle bars.

"Okay, pull back with your left hand. Kick down to put in gear. Front brake. Throttle. Back brake for stopping." Sarah turns her head and both girls are suddenly very aware of how close they are. Despite the earlier problem and past problems, Katherine knows Sarah saw her in a vulnerable state earlier. The fact that Sarah recognized this and didn't blame Katherine created a whole new level of trust. And maybe sparked something new. Sarah suddenly backs away, far enough so she won't risk getting hurt by the bike. "Try not to crash."

Meanwhile, Jack is all but running across campus to get to his last period class. He can't help the slight grin when he sees and open desk next to the twins and he squeezes the strap of his now heavy backpack anxiously. He makes sure to sit down loudly, enough to catch the twins' attention through the chatter of the classroom. He drops his bag and immediately notices how the twins both turn at the sound of metal hitting against metal in the bag.

As class starts and Ms. Blake, the English teacher, starts talking, Jack calmly opens his bag and pulls out a large rod.

"Looks kind of important." He can tell by the wide eyes of Mike and Ike that both recognize the motorcycle part. Dismantling one motorcycle wasn't too hard and it won't be hard to put back together, but the look of pure anger and confusion on Mike and Ike's faces is worth it. With a smirk, he pulls out a gear and spins it on his finger. "I have no clue what this does."

Both twins turn to each other before the sound of a motorcycle revving meets their ears, only loud enough for their enhanced hearing to catch. Jack carefully packs the gears back in the bag and zips it, waiting for the unavoidable break.

"Wait, Mike, don't!" Ike hisses as Mike bolts from his desk, the motorcycle engine getting closer. Mike runs down the hallway towards the sound to see none other than Katherine slowing the bike as she reaches Mike, eyes narrowed and a small smirk on her face.

"Get off my bike!" Mike yells as he grabs the handle bars, his shoulders heaving and anger behind his voice.

"No problem." Katherine revs the engine one more time before getting off and hurrying towards an open stairwell. It's at that moment that Mike must notice what just happened, especially as multiple classroom doors open and the hallways slowly fill.

"You have got to be kidding me." Mike's head snaps up to see an angry and shocked Ms. Blake, followed by his entire English class. He grips the handles of the bike tighter, knowing there's no way out of this without him getting in trouble for what happened with Katherine and Sarah earlier. "You realize this is going to result in a suspension."

Mike notices movement out of the corner of his eye and he looks over to see a smug Katherine standings next to Sarah and Jack, all three trying to hide smirks as they discreetly high five each other.

Although they successful angered at least one twin, probably both actually, they don't anticipate the retaliation that will soon follow.

***

A/N: I hoped you like it! This is one of my favorite scenes from Season 3a of Teen Wolf and although it doesn't make sense, I can drop a season synopsis to help it make some sense. If you really want to understand, all the seasons of Teen Wolf are on Amazon Prime, u seriously recommend watching them. It's kind of cringy, but only because of 2010/2011 CGI.

I'll probably try to write more of these to go more in depth with characters, some will be sad and others funny or both, but I promise I will try to make some more fics like this.

Feel free to send me an ask or episode recommendation that you'd like to see! I'd love to write different scenes from different seasons for you guys, just let me know what you want to see and I can work on it!!!!

#newsies memes #newsies imagines #newsies broadway #newsies imagine #newsies #newsies au #teen wolf au

[remember-wim-faros]

Episode 1 - Are You Listening?

[voice echoing] When a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it,

it makes a sound!

[birds chirping] Ladies and gentlemen. We have found the music! It had been lost, as so many things are lost. Missing, disappeared, misplaced, vanished. Every day, what falls into obscurity without anybody noticing? Without anybody paying attention. What is locked in the attic?

I mean, let’s talk about some things that have been found in an attic, or spaces like attics. Did you know that Van Gogh’s “Sunset at Montmajour”, that beautiful painting, was found in an attic? Or that the original handwritten manuscript of “Huckleberry Finn” was found in an attic? The “Venus de Milo” was, well no it’s no-not an attic but, buried in a farmer’s field, unearthed by a peasant who came across some stubborn soil.

Did you know that the only copy of the pilot of “I Love Lucy” lay under the bed of Pepino the clown for 30 years, until it was swept out by his widow when she finally cleaned up around the place and taught to herself, this is pretty funny.

All these masterpieces just a broom sweep away from history’s dustbins.

And today, today! Recovered from a neglected attic of a suburban townhouse, one cassette tape destined to be sold in a garage sale, containing what is likely to be the first recorded concert of Wim Faros.

So.. who is listening? Hello? I’m Deirdre Gardner, and I welcome you to my new show. “It Makes a Sound”. [thumping, windchimes] It’s the first and only show in the nation dedicated to Wim Faros, native son of our Rosemary Hills. Where together, we’ll be part of a musical legacy. We will prepare to receive the genius that is Wim Faros. And to return him, like a prodigal son, to this deprived land. I will be the one to provide you up to the minute news and information about the artist, as I discover it. The name – Wim Faros. The subject – genius. And its location? Where us extraordinariness, I ask myself, don’t you? Don’t you ask yourself that? Extra..ordinariness, where I it today? Where are the truly exceptional ones who, out of our sheer proximity to them allow us to glimpse the intersection of our little lives, with the profound? Who walks among us? Is there anyone? Who walks among -us-, all the little uses? [chuckles] Uses… eh, eh, rolling lint off our pants. Uses, squeezing avocados in the grocery store and never picking the ripe one. Uses um, driving up and down the side streets to work because highway frightens uses. Uses um, drinking chamomile, attempting inverted yoga poses, popping melatonin and crossing our fingers as we slink into bed for the night. Where can we look here, in this vast wearied landscape of Rosemary Hills? Where our weathered old water tower reminds us in fading letters of past town mottos. Such as “golf capital”. Or “Rosemary Hills is alive with the whirr of commerce.” Or “Let’s tee in the hills.” But where now, the best boast we can master is “easy access to the highway”.

Well. Here, amidst the now abandoned golf course and its neglected grass, amidst the shuttered strip malls and these potholed streets, the extraordinary has tread. And the footprints, they linger. If you know how to look for them. And I think I do.

My fellow people of Rosemary Hills, citizens of the world, what have you forgotten? What treasures have we hidden under cobwebs and dust? What beauty awaits us on the other side of that drywall, as we wrestle fitfully in our sleep? What life lingers on these old fairways? What wonders just passed us by, as we bowed our head towards.. uh, a brightened 3-inch screen? Our necks hurt, our brains are zapped from too much screentime, our souls ache, and suddenly decades have past us by. Like poof. What are we missing?

Do we remember what used to be held in the delicate folds of our heart? Do we remember how things used to sound? Smell. Feel. Taste. I want to.

It’s time to unpack the attic! Today, we have a mind-boggling discovery. A confirmed to be authentic tape containing what is known to be Wim Faros’ debut public musical appearance here in Rosemary Hills, in the year 1992. And so we are not going to rush this moment, like we rush everything. We’re gonna slow down, we’re gonna savor. We are going to consider the tremendous significance of this relic. In order to fully appreciate it.

And thus, it is my privilege on this day of days to hold in my hands this freshly discovered tape. It’s an ordinary-looking cassette tape. But.. it’s possible some of you have never held a cassette tape. I will explain. Because, though it contains the stuff of wonder, to the human eye it is just a 3,5 by 2-inch clear plastic rectangle with two holes in the middle. And these holes, they have six little black teeth. Non-threatening teeth, so that you could feasibly uh, insert a pencil or a pinky finger, should sometime go [wry] [0:10:09]. Like if the delicate tape needs your manual assistance.

Now that tape is a very thing, translucent gray strip, of course containing some magnet um, magnetic properties. So and it’s spooled around the left hole, and as the tape plays in the cassette tape player, the tape will run along the bottom edge of the rectangle across a tiny magnetic strip. And the magnets pull the music out, with magnetic force, until it is fully spooled around the right hole, which means the tape is finished and you have heard the music. And that’s how a cassette tape works.  

I’m Deirdre Gardner. This is “It Makes a Sound”. I am describing a cassette tape.  Perhaps the most important cassette tape there ever was.

No won this particular model, we have a yellow sticker that covers the smooth section of the cassette. Nad written on that cover in purple felt tip pen, in bubble letters, is “Wim Fa”, but a waterspot has obscured the “ros”, leaving a purply pink splotch. It’s very pretty, like a watercolor. And underneath, with that same pen and font: “1992”. Crudely drawn stars in uh, multiple colors of pen, speckle the entire sticker. I mean… it’s great. it’s really incredible that one small object can capture so much of an entire era, even just aesthetically. We all seek the soundtrack of our lives, don’t we? And we wish to be privy to the voices of our generation. Yet it its a profound rarity that an artist like Wim Faros crosses into your limited sphere of existence. It’s like an alien prophet touching down on a ordinary Tuesday afternoon in a chain store called The Last Topper. Suddenly making the universe crack open to reveal infinite shards of meaning barely comprehensible to you. Standing there in cargo shorts, holding a casserole dish. Yes, yes. it’s hard to determine the full effect on Wim Faros’s music on this simple town of Rosemay Hills in the early-to-mid 90’s. it’s difficult to quantify the extent of – sacred devotion he inspired in his earliest fanbase.

How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? That was a time without social media and its um, incessant public proclamations to hashtag, trending desires of the moment. Yesterday’s youth had to be more – intuitively united in our common affections. Had to keep the faith that even in a friendless existence, for instance as an example, living in an inherited furnished townhouse on the edge of Rosemary Hills’ gated golf course community, there were kindred souls somewhere underneath that same blue sky, wishing and waiting for a connection, just like you. Though perhaps at times to love in solitude, from afar, in the most generic of settings, was lonely and painful. That melancholy was trumped by a feeling of purpose. The purpose that comes from knowing that if someone out there could so perfectly capture the nuanced secrets of your soul, there must be greatness and solace in this universe indeed. isn’t that why we listen to the music? Isn’t that why we listen to the music?

We must ready ourselves to listen to the music. But I will say, even without the ease and benefit of cached fan pages or blogs serving as testimony to the early Wim Faros effect, the artist did manage to be a catalyst of cultural awakening in the town zeigeist. If a town can have a zeitgeist, can – sure. And there is archival evidence of the first reactions to Faros’s artistry. In fact… I happen to be in possession of documents from a Rosemary Hills resident who encountered Wim Faros in his earliest musical phase. Now, some of these pages are enclosed within a purple velveteen diary that I now have in front of me. The writing appears to be by the0 hand of a 12-year-old, I would estimate. And the paper is white ruled. And I seem to have come across a lengty series of haiku. Perhaps I sould share just a few of thes with you, for the sake of research. it’s a segment.. [rummages around] We’ll call it – the poetry of a little us.

[bangs a cong] You have changed my life by allowing me to see even thought you don’t see me.

[cong] I am hard to see in a golf community with many sand traps.

[cong]

You have a blind spot for almost nothing. But one in the size of me.

[cong]

I am the catcher you are a rare butterfly that I cannot grasp.

[cong]

Butterflies upclose freak me out. But you fly free, beautiful and free.

[cong]

I catch butterflies, yes, but I am afraid too. A contradiction.

[cong]

Faithfully you come to the window of my dreams singing: la la la.

[cong]

What is this music? Like, I never heard music before you played it.

[cong]

Now, those are just a few haikus and there are lots more, [chuckles] written here in Rosemary Hills circa 1991-1992. Likely dedicated to one Wim Faros.

[pause] If you’re just tuning in, hello. Welcome. I’m Deirdre Gardner, and this is the first episode of my show, “It Makes a Sound”. A discovery has been made in the attic. it’s Wim Faro’s first live album. It’s the real deal, it’s not a hoax, and it’s so rare that he only known copy exists, recorded from some distance, on a cassette tape. There is nowhere else in the entire universe where you will be able to hear a 16-year-old Wim Faros shaping what comes to be known as the sound – of an epoch. E-P-O-C-H. Stay with me and you will hear it here first, folks, because I have the tape and you’re gonna get exclusive access.

So we’re discussing Wim Faros’ formative teenage years as a musician, right here in Rosemary Hills. We’ve just begun working towards a fuller understanding of the human behind the mu-

[static] [hoarse voice] Who’s there? Who?

Deirdre: Oh, Jesus..

[static] I know, I know.. I know you! I knew!

Deirdre: Are you asleep?

[static, snoring]

Deirdre: Are you? Who’s that? (It’s something). OK. OK.

OK. Everything is good. I’m back. And i’m excited to introduce a new oral history segment of the show, based on town legend and lore around Wim Faros. It’s called – a portrait of the artist as a young man.

[music box plays] A light in the window of the second floor. The only window on the second floor, means Wim Faros is in his bedroom. And almost always when he is in his bedroom, he is drawing on the wall. What was on that wall? Everything was on that wall. The winds of change blew on that wall. The.. unfettered scrawl of technicolor wonders. The rainbow, a paltry container for the variety of colors applied to that wall. New color names would have to be invented. The ongoing overlapping shifting images and symbols, muraled, frescoed, appliqued, on that wall. All these ideas spewing forth from the eclectic multitudes of a single creative mind. In a blue and tan flannel shirt, his right arm braced against the drywall in an L-shape above his head. The bottom of his sleeve ripped and hanging down, he looks like he’s whispering secrets in a confessional. But he is drawing. There’s a lava lamp somewhere, out of view of the window, and it casts blobby spots that climb up and down the room, catching Wim’s distorted shadow when he’s out of view of the window frame. His left hand moves delicately or scribbles furiously. He is left-handed, as statistics prove that most geniuses are. If you’ve been watching, over the course of several months, you would have seen – his fantastic mural take shape.

In the center, a five-foot tall octopus, with the uncannily rendered face of Diane Sawyer. Her arms spread open, Christ-like, with magnolia blossoms and spiders dripping from her fingers. A flock of owls flying over a forest of pine trees. Each face of the moon, paired with a pizza pie of different toppings. Eight personalized pan pizzas, for eight different moons. A ninja army battling a family of squirrels throwing sharp acorns. Pages falling from a Gutenberg Bible into the gaping mouth of a Native American chief. Snoop Dogg. Scully riding a Mulder centaur as Ross Perot hoverboards over their heads! He was getting political.

As the seasons pass, the wall incrementally becomes and intricate map of his fertal, fertal inner life. Repetitions of hummingbirds and starfish, cans of beans, nunchucks. Later, peacocks. A dragon breathing fire, melting the iceberg just before it sinks the Titanic, which passes into clear skies. Dracula playing video games in front of a television set, flickering with an image of outrage from the Rodney King riots. And toaster strudels flying out of toasters into the rings of Saturn! Kurt Cobain offering an origami swan to a sobbing River Phoenix. And hundreds of other elegantly drawn details, too small to make out from a distance, that create a constellation of.. enlightened connectivity across the peeling beige wall.

And almost every night, after all the lights in the windows of the bungalow go dark, if you cared enough to pay attention, you would see the single beam of a flashlight splice a path behind the house, pointed towards a lopsided shed some 40 yards away. And if you were standing right up against the fence that separates Rosemary Hills’ gated golf course community from the unincorporated land that stretched out behind the scattered houses on Chamelia Road… you would hear a soulful strum of guitar, and a crescend of drums. Because in that decaying shed, surrounded by the loneliest darkness that is suburban darkness, is where young Wim Faros made the music. It was that music that pulsed through this town, permeated the air, pumped through the water.

Did everyone hearken to the call? No. If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it wall, does it make a sound? Well. I’m here to tell you: trees have fallen. Trees are falling. And you may listen, but do you hear?

People of Rosemary Hills, it is time to hear. It is time to hearken. Hearken. I believe in your ears. Wim Faros sang for you. You didn’t know, but he will sing for you again. He has been lost in the attic, but now he is found. And maybe, [sighs] I don’t know. Maybe… maybe you’ve been lost in the attic too. There was greatness in our midst, transcendence, eccentricity, nuance. I’m Deirdre Gardner, and I believe that when a tree falls in a forest, it makes a sound. And i’m inviting you to try, to truly hear, and to remember. So stay tuned for my next episode when that music, lost but now found, will be born again straight into your ears. When you hear the first track from Wim Faros’ debut concert. The first track, perhaps, of the rest of your life.

This has been the inaugural episode of the first and only show in the nation dedicated to the music and legacy of Wim Faros. Thank you for listening. If you have any information about Wim Faros that you think should be shared with our listeners, or if you own a working cassette tape player, do not hesitate to contact me. Um, I, I guess for now you shoud just ca- um email me at ddg at.. no let’s not do that um, i’ll create, I’ll create a new, yes you can contact me at wimfaros@aol… Actually no. please contact [email protected]. Thank you. I’m Deirdre Gardner. Til next time.

 [windchime]

“It Makes a Sound” is created and written by Jacquelyn Landgraf. Co-directed by Jacquelyn Landgraf and Anya Saffir. Sound design and engineering by me, Vincent Cacchione. Original music Nate Weida. With Jacquelyn Landgraf as Deirdre Gardner and featuring Annie Golden as the voice from downstairs. It Makes a Sound is a Night Vale Presents production. For more information on this show and other Night Vale podcasts, go to nightvalepresents.com. We hope you’ll rate and review “It Makes a Sound” on Apple Podcasts, and that you’ll tell your friends and all sorts of other humans to listen to the show, to hearken to the trees. And remember Wim Faros.

#it makes a sound #night vale presents #episode 1 #are you listening