#He’d be balding at like 20 and then he would just shave it all off | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kokobussy · 5 years ago

Text

neon.

pairing: yoongi x reader, mentions of jin x reader

warning: general smut, bareback, brief cockwarming, cheating, oral sex

summary: Yoongi has loved you for ten very very long years, every part of you, and he’s kept it to himself all of this time.

inspiration: neon by yukika, and i’m here by kim kyung hee

10 years.

Min Yoongi has been in love with you for 10 long years. He’s loved you through your awful 20’s where the world was cruel and unkind to the both of you. He’s loved you through your saddest moments, where you didn’t think you could make it through another night of pain. He’s loved you during every one of your experimental phases so far, like that one time you tried to cut your own bangs or when he thought he could DIY platinum blonde hair on a budget. Instead, at the sight of your uneven bangs and Yoongi’s damaged remnants of hair, the two of you decided to shave it all off in solidarity; or that other time where you swore keeping a pet snail was a good idea. While neither of you still really don’t know what happened to her, you could only assume the snail ran away, never to be seen or heard from again. Yoongi has loved you through reckless nights where you consumed as much pizza and cheesy ramen as you could or got permanent ink scarred into your skin, despite your lactose intolerance and frowning bank account.

He’s loved you through graduate school and the constant questioning of if you were doing the “right” thing, if all of this was really meant to be your path and if not then what was? He’s loved you through all of the unpredictable and turbulent events life has thrown, an attempt on life’s part to try and make you ugly and bitter. Thanks to family, friends, and Yoongi, you weren’t ugly and bitter and neither was he; for that much he was grateful.

In short, Yoongi has loved you for ten very very long years, every part of you, and he’s kept it to himself all of this time.

He’s never been good with feelings. He’s never really ever been good at expressing himself fully or saying what’s on his mind. Often enough his words, half-formed and barely thought out, end up hurting people more than actually resolving situations. Words are...difficult. They’re intricate and mischievous, pulling the rug from underneath your feet when you think you’ve got it right, and they never seem to be enough. Despite the intimate moments the two of you have shared over the years, delicate scenes that if one squinted could seem romantic to anyone, like the long walks around Namsan Park where you held hands and told each other secrets or visiting the Spring Flower Festival in Yeouido and cuddling against each other, Yoongi could never find the right words to say to describe how he felt for you.

At the same time, as much as he wanted to tell you, he didn’t want to tell you. He’s your rock, the one you go to whenever life swallows you into an unending stormy sea, and you’re his whenever he feels like he might drown. Yoongi didn’t want any of that to change. He didn’t want your friendship fading out because of his feelings. The two of you were always there for each other in a way that Yoongi could never find in other relationships, platonically or otherwise.

Sure, you’ve had partners because of Yoongi’s cowardice, but he couldn’t be angry or upset. Without speaking to you about it, how could you know how he felt? Yoongi had partners to quell the pain and upset boiling inside of him, but relationships born out of spite never lasted long; especially when those partners eventually found out the reasons for Yoongi’s inattention.

Because the two of you depended on each other for just about everything, neither of your relationships ever really went well. Yoongi would be more than eager to drop just about everything for you if you needed him. He’d leave in the middle of dates with a series of excuses if you were going through a tough time. He would even cancel plans last minute just to help you with a paper or provide moral support for a job interview gone horribly wrong. You, in turn, were no better. You went out of your way to spend as much time as you could with Yoongi outside of part-time jobs and school. You’d plan elaborate gifts and celebrations that paled in comparison to what you provided for your partners at the time. You threw birthday parties speckled in green with green cupcakes to match just to see Yoongi’s gummy smile. You bought his first mixtape and did whatever you could to get people to listen. You threw a party when that promotion eventually turned into a contract with a record label, still filled with the same green cupcakes that Yoongi loved. You bought him reminders of memories the two of you have had, like the cowboy hat mug or the pomegranate painting you made yourself. You drew him mementos of your time together, like the Spring Flower Festival memories you made or a piece inspired by his songs. You gave him all these things even when you barely remembered your partners’ birthdays and he barely remembered his own anniversary dates.

Looking back on it now, Yoongi wishes he was strong enough to say something; strong enough to create healthy boundaries so you weren’t so dependent on each other all of the time. So he could deal with this in a normal way and finally get over you.

Yoongi remembers the day, the hour, the minute you told him. It was in the middle of a museum with carefully curated artwork that didn’t really matter to him.

All that mattered was that it mattered to you.

Usually he would sit there with you for hours while you sketched emotions and patterns that he couldn’t really understand. At first, it all seemed like fake deep art to him, but gradually his opinion changed. After explanation upon explanation and passion alighting in your eyes as you spoke, Yoongi learned to love it. Maybe not as much as you, but it was enough.

Although these visits were usually filled with a lonely silence that accompanied watching someone work, Yoongi didn’t mind. He didn’t mind because of the fact that he could watch you here without it being too weird. He could watch you swell with inspiration and creativity that blossomed so violently and passionately that he could only stare on in awe.

It was during one of these visits that you told him. You told him so suddenly, so abruptly, that Yoongi briefly spiraled into anger, a vicious thing that reeked of green. That anger that had built so quickly, dissipated just as fast when he saw how happy you were. You were practically glowing in the streams of autumn sunlight coming through the large window panes.

So Yoongi smiled.

He smiled so hard that the corners of his mouth ached. He smiled so hard that his face felt stuck even when he pulled you into his arms and spun you around in celebration. He smiled some more when he hugged you to him for a while; hugged you as tight as he could without hurting you, just so you wouldn’t be able to see the tears that started welling up in his eyes.

After three long years, you were finally getting married to Seokjin, and Yoongi’s happy for you. Really.

In fact, he’s so happy that he’s out at a bar tonight with a few good friends of his, drinking his sorrows away and trying to bury them in some 27-year-old bear with something to prove.

Despite its tragic origin, the night has been going relatively well so far. It was Hoseok that decided a night on the town would get Yoongi’s mind off of this. Off of you. It wasn’t that Yoongi had been a wreck since you told him, but he was...well a wreck. Yoongi didn’t sleep much. He went wedding dress shopping along with your other friends and family and helped his close friend, Seokjin, write his wedding vows. Seokjin has been Yoongi’s childhood friend for 15 years. He’s known you for 11 years. You and Seokjin met at one of his green birthday parties on his 26th birthday. Because of these friendships with both of you, Yoongi has been in the middle of the wedding and assisting both of you with everything that either of you needed. The only people who supported Yoongi through this was Taehyung and Hoseok. Taehyung who readily agreed to the outing and, with Hoseok right at his side, dragged Yoongi out of his sad messy apartment to King, a local gay bar.

Together they grabbed drinks, danced, and toasted to new beginnings. As much as Yoongi didn’t want to view it as an end, as a life-changing moment, it seemed the rest of his friends wanted to. This was the somehow “end” of your single life and the birth of your married life as if the two weren’t one and the same. After a few shots of vodka, Taehyung wandered off with a twunk and hadn’t been seen since. The only thing he left Hoseok and Yoongi with was a text that had an okay, eggplant, and street emoji for context.

On the other hand, Hoseok surprisingly remains at the bar with Yoongi, quietly sipping a beer and trying to make his dearest friend laugh. Sure everything hurts, but it isn’t the end of the world. Yoongi laughs along with some of Hoseok’s jokes and tries his hardest to enjoy the time his friends dedicated to him. Just like he got over being bald for a few months and getting an ear infection from a “piercer” in your old college apartment during a rager, Yoongi will get over this too.

After it’s all said and done, everything will go back to normal because...it’ll have to. Because there won’t be any hope left. Eventually Yoongi will find closure and a love that will be entirely reciprocated. He’ll be able to spend all of his energy and adoration on someone who was able to accept and return it.

Now that you’re gone, he thinks, I’ll really have to find someone.

A voice just above his ear brings him back to the here and now, “Something wrong?”

Yoongi blinks back to the present, away from painful memories and missed chances, and looks up at the man that’s been trying to flirt with him all night. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s incredibly handsome with a hot dad bod to match, but he’s not you. He doesn’t have the comfort that you bring or the glint in your eye just before you say something so incredibly horrid, but funny that Yoongi can’t help but laugh at. It has nothing to do with the physicality of it all; nothing to do with men versus women and so on. It is only that Yoongi’s heart is thoroughly taken by you. “M’ fine,” he says with a smile, lifting up his glass to drink the remnants of a cheap whiskey sour with far too much ice, “Just had a little too much to drink.”

The Bear laughs accordingly, not really caring about what Yoongi’s actually saying, and pulls at the belt loop in Yoongi’s jeans to force the two of them closer. Yoongi welcomes the touch, welcomes the desire that he sees in the Bear’s eyes, and leans against him entirely. This man’s touch, no matter how horny it is, distracts his aching heart; helps him run away from his chaotic feelings and frustrations. “Hopefully not too much,” the Bear says into his ear, nipping at the lobe. As this handsome stranger whispers filthy promises into Yoongi’s ear, whispers of pounding his ass into the mattress and bending him in half, Yoongi thinks he can do this.

He can give himself up to the universe and have a good time without thought or consequence. Although the timing is right, although there’s a condom or two in his wallet, although he thoroughly prepped just a few hours before leaving the bar, there’s something holding him back. A feeling that tells him he shouldn’t run off with this guy, not right now, not when something more important is about to happen. But Yoongi promptly ignores the feeling and is just about to kiss away his doubts and fears when he catches a glint of light on the Bear’s leather jacket.

Something makes Yoongi look down at his phone on the counter to see exactly why the screen is lighting up just as he’s about to get lucky. He finds a familiar number glaring back at him, with poop emojis to match. It’s not an ex-boyfriend, ex-girlfriend, or ex-partner calling to plead for him to take another chance at their disastrous relationship — which surprisingly has happened far too many times — it’s you of all people.

The sight of your name has Yoongi pulling away from the man in front of him and disappearing to a dimly lit bathroom in the far corner of the bar. He barely manages to answer before it goes to voicemail, clamoring into the red-lit men’s room and staring at the thoroughly soaked sink in front of him. Despite the way he’s starting to slightly sober up as the pain returns, thoughts of your wedding on his mind again, Yoongi is happy to hear your voice.

“Hello?”

“Hey, where are you?”

It should be a simple enough inquiry, but it isn’t. While you’ve always been a night owl, you should be getting as much rest as you can. After all, you do have a busy day ahead of you. By now you should be asleep and wrapped in a series of blankets, but you’re not. Yoongi, having a big part in the wedding, should also be resting, but instead, he’s out with his friends and vaguely picking up on the whimpers in a stall to his left. What clues him in to the fact that something might be wrong is the tick in your voice.

It’s a tick he’s heard, pointed out, and fixed plenty of times. A tick that lets him know that you may not be doing too well. You hide your emotions just like Yoongi does, behind vague words and false reassurances. After years of knowing you though, Yoongi can always tell when you’re upset. That tick, that foreign accretion in your voice, mimics a performance that you can’t fully commit to. Maybe to someone like Seokjin or Hoseok, it might take a while to pick up on, but Yoongi has it down to a science.

That tick allows Yoongi to keep the conversation moving from small talk to jokes as he prepares himself for the cold January night he’s about to embrace.

“I’m at King right now with Tae and Hobi. Is everything okay?”

“Oh! You’re out right now?” How you don’t hear the grunts and moans steadily increasing in volume is a mystery to him. Why Yoongi didn’t simply go outside is also a mystery to him. “Don’t worry about it,” you continue, seemingly unaware, “You better not be late!”

“No, no,” Yoongi says hurriedly, a glimmer of small hope rising in his chest at the idea of seeing you, “Where are you?”

Yoongi’s already running his fingers through his disheveled and club influenced exterior. He fixes the wild mess his black hair has become, buttons up his shirt a bit, and tries to hopelessly and unsuccessfully take off the eyeliner Taehyung insisted on him wearing. But after a few minutes of fussing, he gives up entirely. It’s good enough for the night he’s been having and he doubts that you’ll even notice or care what he looks like anyway. Although he’s trying to have a conversation, the sound of skin hitting skin and moaning only grows as, Yoongi hopes, someone cums. He really should’ve just stepped outside.

“Yoongi it’s no big deal, really. Have a good time,” you insist, “and make sure you’re not late for my wedding, asshole. It’s like 1 am! Promise me you won’t get home too late.” Yoongi stares into the mirror, rolling his eyes at a pathetic mewl that leaves the stall, and makes up his mind right then and there, “Yeah I promise.”

As soon as his phone beeps, Yoongi rushes out of the bathroom to the bar where Hoseok has just started to talk to the Bear about a basketball game unironically. “What’s going on,” Hoseok asks, taking in Yoongi’s now neat appearance as Yoongi’s coat is taken off his shoulders and returned to its owner’s.

Yoongi pulls his arms through the trench coat in record time, wrapping the scarf that was buried in its massive pockets around his neck. As Yoongi settles his tab, Taehyung appears at Hoseok’s side, positively glowing post-coitus. “Had a nice time?” Yoongi asks, smiling when Taehyung curls around him all spent and happy. The puppy simply nods, looking over at the Bear who watches the two of them curiously. “What’s happening,” Hoseok asks, more demands, as the pair look at him, “Why are you leaving?”

“You’re leaving?” Taehyung and the Bear ask in unison, both with equally sad pouts on their faces.

“Nothing and yeah,” Yoongi answers hurriedly, signing his receipt and trying to do math in order to leave a decent tip, “it’s just—”

“Y/N?” Hoseok finishes, looking almost bored.

When they make eye contact, Hoseok’s gaze isn’t accusatory or upset, it’s filled with a tangible worry that has always been there since Yoongi revealed his feelings for you to him in confidence.

For a moment Yoongi thinks of all the talks and arguments they’ve ever had about you. They were mostly about how Yoongi should do something. How he should step up and say how he feels rather than sitting on the sidelines and remaining emotionally constipated. Even if it didn’t work out, at least you would know and Yoongi would be free.

“It’s not good for you,” Hoseok would say, “you deserve better.”

Looking at him now, Yoongi can tell that Hoseok isn’t mad at him at all. He’s just disappointed and honestly, Yoongi would rather have an angry Hoseok than a disappointed one. While he appreciates every bit of his friends’ concern and while he definitely needed to talk about boundaries, Yoongi needs to get to you. “I’m sorry,” is all Yoongi can offer, kissing Taehyung’s temple, “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Even though Hoseok huffs and mumbles something snide under his breath, he still leans into the hug Yoongi gives him and Tae and the Bear who had somehow become a part of the whole thing. Then Yoongi is off and rushing down the streets of Yongsan-gu the one sanctuary the two of you have always had. It’s the only place you could be.

It’s a shitty hole in the wall.

As long as you’ve been coming here, the owner hasn’t changed or updated more than she’s had to. It’s small, crowded, and the entire place smells like heady broth, but it’s been a home for you since college. You never knew the name, and still don’t, because the owner refused to give it one. The only thing you had to go by was landmarks whenever you went to the shop and the feeling of familiarity and home that guided you. What makes this place home is the fact that it never changes. No matter how many scars you gathered from bumping into things or tripping in your life; no matter how many times you cried your eyes out when you dealt with your family even from abroad; no matter how many days went by that could only be accounted for by feeling and glimpses of events; this place never changes.

Yoongi is another thing that hasn’t changed in all the time that you’ve known him. Despite the trials and tribulations, the unending struggles he’s had to go through, Yoongi has remained your ever-present and diligent friend and you’re incredibly thankful for him.

There’s a flash of movement by the door, faster than the people walking by on the street. You can see Yoongi come to a stop from presumably running, leaning on his knees and heaving out of breath. He wipes sweat that probably isn’t there and waves off the people who gawk at him on the sidewalk and ask if he’s okay. Although you told him not to come, a small part of you knew that he would anyway. He’d come without even knowing what’s actually going on with you. It makes your heart swell, makes you giggle at the sight of him waving off a few stragglers, but it also makes your heart ache. Yoongi shouldn’t have to drop everything for you. He shouldn’t have left his plans to make sure you were okay. Of course, you’re happy to see him, but you’re also sad you ruined his night. You manage to compose yourself, looking back into your empty bowl, just in time for Yoongi to get himself together and come through the door.

All signs of exhaustion fall from his face when he sees you sitting at the bar in your usual spot. “What are you doing here,” you grin, pretending to be surprised. Yoongi sits beside you and greets the owner, an ajumma, with a slight nod and a big smile. She leans over to pinch his cheek, smiling at the way he winces, before going to prepare his usual order.

For a while the two of you sit there in silence, listening to the clanging of pots and shuffle of shoes as Ajumma cooks in the back. Even though you ruined his night out, having Yoongi be here with you in this moment steadily begins to calm you down. He’s always been able to do this; to help you relax even when everything seemed to collapse around you. You can only hope that he feels the same way around you too. “So,” Yoongi pipes up, leaning against the counter to get a good view of you, “why the hell are you up right now? You’re getting married in like 3 hours.” It’s actually 9 and a half hours, but who’s counting? When you flinch at the question, Yoongi’s smile quickly fades. He wracks his brain for any number of problems that could’ve occurred to make this much of an impact on your big day. Jin’s too rich for it to be money, too carefree for it to be something you wanted but didn’t get, and too traditional for any outrageous plans to go entirely wrong. Jin wanted two simple weddings, one traditional in Korea and the other traditional according to your home country. You had readily agreed to the idea so what could possibly be wrong?

But before he can ask any more questions, Yoongi can see the tears welling up in your eyes as you ask, “What if I’m making a mistake?”

If Yoongi was a weaker man, he’d say yes. He’d say you’re making a mistake because you could have him instead. You could be with someone who cares for you deeply and knows you inside and out. You could be with someone who doesn’t cringe when he has to buy you tampons or makes fun of you when you go on one of your famous pointillism rants. You could be with someone who doesn’t complain when you grab at their jacket and demand physical affection or who always forgets why you naturally lean to the side when you’re trying to see without your glasses on. You could be with someone who doesn’t point out the way you eat nearly everything with your hands and always end up with sauce on your shirt. You could be with someone who quells your worries easily without much effort. You could be with him.

Yoongi would say all of these things if he didn’t care about whether or not it’s the right thing to do, but Yoongi isn’t a weak man. He’s a strong man, who cares about you more than anything or anyone, and he’ll do anything to make you happy.

“You love Jin so much, Y/N,” Yoongi says, sighing a bit like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You’re just scared and it’s okay to be scared. I think you’re just getting cold feet.”

You should never be afraid to be with the one you marry forever. It should be a joyous occasion, something that you celebrate and joyously scream to tell everyone over. It’s something that should make you cry from happiness and not fear, but he doesn’t say that and neither does Ajumma who drops your respective bowls in front of you and heads back into the kitchen.

When you don’t respond right away, your eyes lost in the swirling heat of your kalguksu, Yoongi tries again and swallows the lump forming in his throat as he goes. “You said yes for a reason. You’re just second-guessing yourself which happens to people all the time.”

Then why am I so scared, you want to ask, then why do I feel like this is the worst mistake I could ever make?

You nod along with Yoongi’s words anyway and try to will away this foreboding feeling that fills your bones. You’ll be married in 8 hours now to the supposed love of your life and maybe 8 hours from now the nerves will disappear altogether.

The two of you eat three heaping bowls of noodles each in silence before leaving Ajumma a hefty top and bidding her farewell. By the time you begin walking home, Yongsan-gu’s crowds have begun thinning out greatly for a Friday night. There are stretches where people are scarce, where no one is really around, and it feels like it’s just the two of you in the entirety of Seoul. Yoongi comes up with ridiculous jokes just to make you laugh and maybe hams up his performance for that little ugly snort he knows you’re capable of making. He tries to ignore the way you hang onto his arm as you both walk to the bus stop; tries to ignore the way it makes his heart flutter when you look at him with each red crosswalk.

But this time, just as you can see the bus stop in the distance, his eyes find yours when he feels them once again on his person. You don’t refrain from looking or pretend like you hadn’t been the entire time. Your eyes stay there, trained on him as if deciding something for yourself that Yoongi can’t see.

When you arrive at the stop, it seems you’ve made your decision. “Remember my apartment,” you ask, still looking at Yoongi. Of course, he does. How could he forget?

With all of the wedding planning and general chaos that came with booking multiple appointments, cleaning out your apartment had somehow slipped through the cracks. The two of you have been working on moving your things out bit by bit, packing up or throwing away memories to move into Jin’s big condo. Jin had helped you move here and there, but it was really Yoongi who did a bulk of the work. Jin had fancy businessman meetings to attend to with fancy co-workers while you and Yoongi had more...freelance work that could be done anywhere at any time.

Although movers did most of the heavy lifting, you still had to pack the small things and say goodbye to your old life. After being there all week, why would he suddenly forget? “Duh,” is all he responds with, waiting for you to get to the point. “Can we stay there tonight?”

It’s a stupid idea.

You were just worried about him late a few hours ago and now you’re risking throwing your 50k wedding out of the window for a sleepover. You could be late for pictures or miss the ride over from morning traffic or any number of things that could greatly impact your big day. Although these concerns swim through his head, Yoongi sees the desperation lurking in your eyes, the absolute need for an escape, and he realizes he could never deny you. “Don’t blame me if you’re late,” he shrugs, a smile breaking out when you grin, “and you’re paying for the Uber.”

The ride to your apartment is uneventful and silent as tension fills the small car. Yoongi isn’t sure what you’re quietly pondering as you watch the scenery change on your way to Mapo-gu, but he knows better than to pry. After 20 minutes of silence, the two of you arrive at your old building. You both find your way upstairs, all the way to the 7th floor, and head into apartment 708 in that same silence from Ajumma’s shop.

Of course your apartment is empty. The once familiar space, filled with knickknacks and various posters, is now hollow. After 10 years of living here, the only thing that remains now is the ugly mustard couch you won in an arm-wrestling match with a neighbor and the cheap red blanket Yoongi won at a fair for you that sits on top of it. Although you’re proud of the story of the couch, used it as a talking point for guests whenever they came to your apartment, you ended up giving it away to the next tenant. The couch faces the window with neon purple lights reflecting off of its strange color. Your heavy boots echo off the walls, amplifying just how woefully empty this space is, as you follow the couch’s line of vision to the window.

When you first moved in, your landlord swore it was the best view in the entire complex, but the only thing that took up most of that view was a giant purple neon sign for fortune-telling. The sign was simple in nature. It had a vulnerable palm, a crystal ball with a question mark in the middle, moons and stars, and a script that said “Destiny Awaits”.

At first, it made for good aesthetic Instagram pictures and a comforting landmark to stare at during fights with exes, but eventually it became a nuisance. Its purple gaze stared into your apartment and never left you in the complete darkness you desired now that you couldn’t have it. Whether it was day or night, the sign was on and blaring, even when no one was there. Occasionally you’d go by the small shop and ask for the light to be turned off, but it was never open when you went. Then you realized you hadn’t really seen anyone venture in or out of the space. Soon you complained about its invasiveness, its unending lights, and it bothered you to no end. Even now, your apartment is alight with its purple haze.

It wasn’t until you’d lived there for a few years that you actually managed to get inside of the place.

You’d just come back from a rambunctious night with Yoongi, Hoseok, Taehyung, and a few other friends. You and Yoongi walked hand-in-hand, trying to guide each other back to your apartment with drunken giggly steps. As you walked by the building that was the source of your complaining, for the first time in three years you saw the lights were on inside and people were sitting there, muted and transfixed on its decorations.

It didn’t take much to convince Yoongi to come inside with you. The only thing that bent him towards your will was the promise of takeout the minute you arrived at your apartment. You approached the counter where a young woman sat, popping gum between her lips and scrolling through a feed that disappeared the minute you walked up. She looked annoyed as you pondered what the best service would be for you and Yoongi, but didn’t say much. By minute five, she was tired of you and picked a service before holding out her hand for the money. You gave her cash, waited for the change, and once she gave it, the woman returned to her feed without so much as a goodbye.

So there the two of you sat, whisper-yelling inside jokes and staring at the artifacts that covered the shop. The place smelled of incense and spirits, an old musky scent that lived within the seats of the waiting room. The rug beneath your feet was old, frayed like many people had walked through at some point in time. As Yoongi checked his phone and you viewed your surroundings, you noticed the patrons hadn’t really looked at each other. They held almost entirely still except for the occasional blink or their eyes moving from one object to the next. It was eerie, creepy even, and made you stir uncomfortably in your seat.

When the time finally came, you were itching to leave. Most of the patrons had gone only to be replaced by more lost souls that wandered in. “Number 14 & 15,” a voice had called from the back. You and Yoongi looked around for a moment until you made eye contact with the woman at the counter who had begun to stare, unamused. Her eyes widened in exasperation, gesturing to your signed copy of the receipt. When you looked down at your own receipt, now crumbled in your hand, and unfolded it, you found the bold numbers 14, 15.

You don’t remember everything the fortune-teller said or how exactly he said it. What you do remember is the fortune-teller predicting sad-endings for the both of you.

He said that you and Yoongi would always be entwined, but you’d always cause each other great pain. He said that you should be honest with each other and that you should tell the truth. Or something like that.

You hadn’t really listened because it didn’t make sense. As far as you were concerned, the two of you were always honest with each other. You missed the panic in Yoongi’s eyes at hearing those words, the way he quickly sobered up at being called out by a random stranger because you were distracted by the fortune-teller’s pointed stare. By the time you made your way out of the small shop, Yoongi’s hand no longer holding yours, the encounter had already been forgotten. At least by you.

As a couple stumbles on the street, breaking up your thoughts, you can hear the raised voices of an argument. There isn’t any real way to know what they’re talking about besides opening the window, but you refrain. Instead you turn around to find Yoongi leaning back against the couch and checking his phone. It’s then that you realize you’ll never have nights like that again.

Random late nights where anything is possible and the entire world is your oyster.

You hate change.

You hate everything about it and yet here you are, throwing your life violently forward without any preparation. But you were prepared weren’t you?

You had a few years with Jin. A few years to clue you in on the fact that this day was going to come eventually, but you thought you’d have more time. You hate being scared; hate the feeling of being unsure and confused. Although your mind is in turmoil you can’t help but think, why didn’t you just stop the entire thing? Life doesn’t end when you get married so why does the idea of marrying Jin upset you so much so suddenly?

Looking at Yoongi now, as he taps through petty text messages from Hoseok, you come into his space and slowly take off his glasses. Yoongi stares up at you, eyebrows bunched in confusion, but says nothing. You envision him 10 years younger. You envision a time where it was only the two of you in this tiny space; a time where tiny succulents and feminist literature filled this tiny space; a time where things were different and life was filled with unpredictable potential no matter the pains that came with it.

Although you’re staring at the ghost of a famous singer instead of a big-shot producer, although he is staring at an art therapist instead of a famous illustrator, Yoongi is still Yoongi and you are still you. That much is certain. As you say goodbye to old dreams and memories, you can feel the moisture of vulnerability and fear streaming down your face.

The only thing that’s familiar in this moment, that calms and grounds you, isn’t your old couch or apartment, it’s Yoongi himself.

The touch of Yoongi’s hand as he fingers curl around your wrist, his worried gaze never leaving your eyes, and his ever-present faith in you no matter what you do. Your legs feel shaky as you take him in, stumbling a bit in front of him. Yoongi shoots up from his seat with raised hands and prepares for a fall that never comes. It’s tempting to give in; to close your eyes and succumb to whatever feeling has brought you up to this point. From the open streets of Mapo-g and the small space of the cab ride to the slow elevator and the inside of your old living room to standing here in front of Yoongi and asking for things, you’re not quite ready for. As Yoongi stands and envelopes you in a soft and comforting embrace, your fear begins to subside, and any worries or negative thoughts that plagued your mind disappear.

So the two of you stand there in the middle of your old apartment, holding onto each other like for comfort on both sides. The air seems to still when you pull away and stare into each other’s eyes. Soon the comings and goings of late-night traffic and the arguing couple who’ve begun to scream at each other seem to disappear. Everything around you, inside the apartment and outside, seems to be frozen in time. The only thing that seems to remain unaffected is the purple sign outside.

While the idea of everything coming to an abrupt stop should be scary, it’s actually a relief. It’s something that you’ve been longing for all night, but suddenly now have. In this frozen moment, anything is possible. You’re capable of anything and no one in the world can judge you for it because like the cars, the traffic lights, the arguing couple, they are also frozen.

You feel stuck under his gaze, closer than you’ve ever been in the past 10 years. Not physically. No, there have been times where the two of you have fallen asleep together or bumped into each other or even simply held each other in fear of something greater out there.

You’ve never been honest.

There’s something here, between the two of you, that makes you curious. Something that you’ve noticed occasionally, but could never have the courage to stare at outright; like a speck floating to and fro in the very corner of your eye. Staring into his eyes now, you see a passion and a pain that’s never been there before. At least you’ve never noticed it. You see something that he can’t have; something that pains him to see. It hurts you. You hurt seeing that hurt and everything in you wants to will it away. Yoongi doesn’t deserve that. He deserves everything in the world and if you could, you’d give it to him.

With this closeness, you can see the way his eyes linger on your lips. You can see the way they hover there for a time before making their way up to your eyes. Everything feels right between the two of you like you’re meant to be here in this moment together. You’ve never felt safer.

It’s only when your lips part, briefly sticking together in the mess of chapstick and balm, that you realize you kissed. Although this revelation hits you so hard that your heart nearly stops, you reunite with him once more. Yoongi kisses you like a man dying of thirst, desperately holding onto you like a lifeline, as if he’ll float away without you.

When the two of you pull away, pressing your foreheads against each other, a strange sense of relief comes over you. You smile at the feeling of his hands clinging to your waist. You smile at the wet teary sound of Yoongi whispering, “I love you.” You smile because all this time some part of you always knew. The way your heart flutters whenever you see him. The way you can’t stop smiling at the mention of his name. The way your eyes always seem to gravitate towards each other naturally. You’ve always felt some sort of affection for him. Right now you don’t know whether it’s love or a simple infatuation. All you know is that you don’t want to stop kissing Yoongi. You don’t want him to stop holding you or grabbing at your coat.

With 10 years of fantasizing about this very moment, about holding you in his arms and kissing like the way actors do on movie screens, Yoongi wants to kiss your skin, every inch that he can find, and suck those dark brownish-purple marks into you. He’ll have to work for it sure, it’s not like hickies show up easily on brown skin, but it’ll be worth it.

It’s then that Yoongi realizes he can’t mark you up. He can’t own you fully nor can you own him, the way you both want to. No matter your decisions today, you’re still engaged to be married. You and Jin belong to each other in a way that leaves no room for Yoongi. He would always be on the outside looking in, even if he continued to be as close as he is now.

As Yoongi’s lips make a burning hungry path from your lips to your neck, your coat slides off your shoulders and onto the floor in a pool of black wool. You palm him through his pants, letting off a small moan at the feel of him hardening underneath your touch. You lift your arms all too easily when Yoongi’s fingers curl around the ripples in your shirt. He pulls it from its sanctuary in your pants and finds your lips again. Even though his own morality or lack thereof distracts him, Yoongi’s hands still seize your breasts the second they’re exposed to cold air. You let out a small whimper as he toys with your nipples, pulling and twisting at them until you’re nearly writhing in his arms. With the slight duck of his head, he pulls one nipple into his mouth and teases the other with the bluntness of his index finger. You must’ve run out of Jin’s apartment on a whim and sent a text, short and sweet, about visiting an old friend at an even older noodle shop.

A thick wave of heat comes over Yoongi at the thought of you rushing here to see him; to embrace him. Even though he knows that you really sought his company in need of emotional support, he can’t help but indulge the feeling. The way your body comes naturally to him without any awkwardness or hesitation; the way your fingers flex as they grab onto his shirt; the way you close your eyes in pleasure while announcing your delight to Yoongi over and over; it makes Yoongi’s cock throb right in his jeans. It makes his cock yearn for the wet heat your voice promises if he continues. It makes his cock twitch in anticipation of what you could possibly feel like wrapped around him. While he tongues at your chest, his teeth bite and lick a hard and unyielding nipple into submission. You hold onto his arms to keep yourself steady, head tilting in ecstasy as the assault on your chest continues, and moan louder. You moan loud and often enough that Yoongi begins to build a pattern against both of your nipples, switching off when the other felt too lonely. Yoongi continues until you’re squirming. Until you can nearly cum from the effort he’s putting into your chest alone, but then he suddenly stops.

He turns away from your bust, finally giving you a break, and moves on to press kisses all over your torso. Yoongi begins to savor every inch of your brown skin, breathing in the scent of you. As much as he wants to explore, you push his head down gently until he falls to his knees. It’s there, on his knees, that Yoongi begins pulling and undoing your belt buckle to get at you. You hold onto his shoulders now for balance, still panting and dizzy with pleasure, and wiggle out of your pants when the time comes.

You come to a halt when a pair of faded yellow polka dot underwear come into view. It’s not like you were expecting to have a late-night rendezvous with your college best friend tonight or ever. There is a hole in the garment, specifically on your right cheek, and there are still some remnants of lace on the edges. You’re just about ready to turn away from the embarrassment of it all, but then you remember who you’re with right now. You’re with Yoongi. Yoongi who knows you inside and out. Yoongi who probably couldn’t care less about the underwear you’re wearing. Sure enough, despite your initial horror and upset at your choice of underwear, Yoongi ignores the atrocity altogether and leans in to kiss the small stretch marks around your hips. The same stretch marks that you complained about Jin not liking years before. The same stretch marks that led you and Yoongi to rub coconut, almond, castor, and olive oils onto your thighs in a span of two weeks. It took a combination of him and your other friends swearing that there’s nothing wrong with them for you to finally settle down. Yoongi distinctly remembers that it wasn’t Jin who comforted you nor did he say much when you’d panicked about the marks. So Yoongi kisses them out of spite and nips a larger one to draw a moan out of you as if that will get back at Jin’s ignorance in some way.

Yoongi hurriedly pulls your underwear off your hips and, with the help of you shifting slightly, tosses the pair away from the two of you. Looking down at him now, staring at the tuft of hair on your mound, you wonder how many times he’s imagined this; how many times Yoongi has pictured this exact moment where he would taste you for the first time

He couldn’t have possibly pictured it’d be here, in the tomb of your college days, or that you’d be wearing a ring that weighs heavily on your hand in the stasis of this moment. Yoongi grabs your leg and hauls it over his shoulder, guiding your trepid hand to his hair for something closer to hold onto, before diving into his late-night snack. His tongue meets your slit without hesitation as he begins to devour you whole.

The tip of his tongue outlines your pussy with careful strokes. The firm appendage flickers against your labia, teasing the sensitive tissues there, before exploring the rest of you. You whimper pathetically as you watch him, core clenching on nothing when he looks up at you. Little bundles of pleasure wash over you as Yoongi tastes you for the first tongue, tongue briefly sliding into your core and wiggling. Then his tongue flattens against you and his hands press into your hips to move forward. Your fingers curl around his black tresses as you begin to grind against his tongue, chasing the butterflies of pleasure that kiss your stomach with each movement of your hips. As you find yourself getting lost in the feeling of Yoongi’s consistent and heavy tongue, you feel a gentle prodding at your hole. A finger glides its way into your heat without any resistance. “Yoongi,” you whimper, squeezing those tresses in your hands, “more.” After his lips wrap around your clit like a vice, another finger finds its way alongside the initial one. There is no warning when you feel those two fingers bend slightly and whisper come hither against your walls to that fleshy bundle inside of you. All you feel is the fluttering of your stomach, the heated gasps of air as Yoongi eats you until your leg shakes with effort. He eats at you until you’re gushing around his fingers; until the burning of his hands on you becomes too much; until you’re cumming with a cry on his tongue.

You shake as Yoongi slips his fingers out carefully, licking every last drop and leaving thankful kisses wherever he can. Although when he pulls away he looks a mess, hair in disarray and exhaustive red kissing his cheeks, he’s the happiest person that’s ever been between your legs. When you see a hint of a smile as he looks up at you, you pull him up instantly and kiss him hard. He nearly falls over with your effort, a huffy laugh dances across your mouth. As your tongue glides across his lower lip and into his mouth, all you can taste is your cum and a taste that’s purely Yoongi.

“Wait,” you pant, eager to keep the sloppy kiss going but clearly distracted, “wait...you didn’t...” is all you offer before you’re dropping to your knees.

Your actions mirror his, undressing him as hurriedly as you can so you can get on with it. Yoongi can’t help but think about how beautiful you are right now, even when you’re marveling at just how hard he is in his jeans. He could’ve kept going, kept tasting you forever, but you seem to have other ideas. In an attempt to assist, Yoongi kicks off his shoes and motions over to yours. It takes you a second to realize that your boots are indeed hindering you and they soon come off with a bit of effort. With your speed, he’s just as bare as you are, save for his shirt and a pair of socks. Your eyes can’t look away from his cock no matter how much you want them to. The rigid length is just as pale as he is with a pink hue on his engorged tip. His balls hang heavily, begging to be touched and caressed. If one looked too fast, in a hurry to experience pleasure, they would miss the mole at the base of his cock. They would miss the way Yoongi’s breathing changes under the admiration; the way he gasps when you sweetly kiss the head of his cock. His cock is beautiful.

Yoongi’s head falls back when you begin licking at his length, slowly but surely taking it into your mouth. He goes to run his fingers through your hair, but then he remembers. He remembers all the times you’ve talked about the intricacies of your curly hair; all the times you insisted he couldn’t touch it or mess it up. So instead he palms the back of your head, hoping that this is okay, and doesn’t force you down on him any harder or faster than you’re willing to go. His hips thrust shallowly on instinct, but he allows you to pick up your own tempo; to swallow him on your own time. It isn’t long before you’re picking up speed and bobbing your head at a steady rhythm, drawing noises of pleasure from him. Yoongi finds himself far more willing to watch you seek pleasure from him than him taking it from you.

When you pull off of his cock to tongue shyly at his balls, Yoongi can see the bright purple of neon lights reflecting off of your skin. He moans at the foreign feeling of your tongue flicking against him and tries to palm at your head a little harder. As you pull away to look up at him, tugging at his cock to keep him going, Yoongi swears he can see the purple words “destiny” reflecting in your brown eyes. From this angle, it seems impossible, but before he can really get a good look the words are gone. He’s never forgotten about visiting that place with you, the fortune-telling shop that’s seemingly never open. He’s never forgotten about enduring the old man’s warnings regarding being truthful to each other. In the end, the old man was right.

There’s no way that this will ever be a normal relationship, no matter which path either of you chooses. Whether you and Yoongi made something work, consequently canceling the wedding, or if it all faded to pieces, you marrying Jin anyway, your relationship has now been forever changed.

The shitty thing is, Yoongi can’t make himself care. Yoongi is selfish and mean and cruel and deserves all the horrible things that have happened in his 30 years of life, but he doesn’t care. All of those things led to this moment; led to being with you and being held by you right now. He’d do it again, a thousand times over if that meant that he’d get to experience this night again. This would probably be the first and last time the two of you could be united in this way.

Before he realizes it, your mouth finds his length again. Yoongi gets lost in the feeling of your tongue caressing any part of your cock that you can reach, from a prominent vein or two to his slit. Your fingers reach behind him, a little cold, and roll his balls in your hand with care. The attention has his knees buckling and stomach rolling in waves. It’s beginning to be too much, he can feel the end drawing very near and he’s nowhere near ready. It’s when you lap wetly at his tip and when you give a slightly hard pull to his balls, that Yoongi can’t take it anymore. He pushes your head away gently causing you to drop your hand and move from him, confusion all over your features. In a flurry of movement, Yoongi sits down on the couch and spreads his legs, slowly jerking his cock in his hand as he watches you kneel. “C’mere,” he whispers, biting his lip.

“No way,” you answer, face entirely serious, “I’m not coming over there.”

Yoongi’s hand stills, his eyes open wide, as he tries to assess what could’ve made you upset. “W-what?”

“I’m not coming over there until you take your socks off, Yoongi. That’s weird.”

When you break out into a smile, laughter following along soon after, only then does Yoongi laugh. After his socks are removed, you briefly stand to settle into his lap. Your arms come around his neck as the two of you adjust, eyes meeting for a moment. The two of you maintain that contact as you slowly sink down and take everything Yoongi has to offer. It’s enough to fill you, to keep you satisfied, and that’s what really matters. From this angle, his cock reaches deep enough inside of you and comfortably stays there as his hands settle on your hips, encouraging them to move against him slowly. As you go along with his guidance and soon begin to form a steady cadence of your own, Yoongi wraps his arms around your middle and kisses you with as much passion as he can muster. You moan against his lips, let out a soft cry that he swallows, and try your hardest to kiss back with the same amount of love. No matter how much you try, it simply can’t be matched.

Instead, you increase the speed of your hips, bucking faster against him, to break away from this breathless kiss and pull Yoongi down to your chest. He follows your hands, leaning down slightly to pull and bite a nipple into his mouth as his hips meet your downward strokes. In almost no time, your cries bounce off of the empty walls of your apartment as you hold onto Yoongi for dear life. While you should be embarrassed at the volume, shy of your old neighbors who could definitely hear you, all you can think about is Yoongi’s hips picking up your slack as you reach euphoria.

You can feel his cock sliding against you. You can feel the weight of it against your g-spot. You can feel Yoongi pull away from your nipple and switch to another. You can feel the rising tide of unspeakable pleasure in your stomach. As Yoongi begins to pound into you as best as he can in this position, your nipple falling out of his mouth consequently, you can hear whispers of “I love you”s that you don’t and can’t return. You bury your face into Yoongi’s neck as you keep moaning and crying and chasing that wave. As his hips begin to slow, that wave begins to recede and your orgasm unwillingly dials back. At first, annoyance fills every fiber of your being, especially when Yoongi nudges you with his shoulder so that you pull away, but when you look at him fully you’re mesmerized. While he continues at a newly slowed pace, Yoongi himself appears serious.

You can see the look of resignation, of acceptance, that you can’t entirely understand or place. You can also plainly see the love in eyes, the adoration, and pleasure that lies within them; love that you’re not sure you can return. Yoongi makes sure to remember every inch of your face, all of your moans and the way your lips feel against his. He wants to make this last. He doesn’t want to face the horror, the rejection, the ultimate separation that you’ll both tunnel towards after this moment. As he claims your lips, Yoongi pulls out entirely, ignoring your whimpers and pleading. He maneuvers you to lie down on the couch before repositioning himself between your legs once more. From this position, you can see Yoongi’s eyebrows furrow in concentration as he slides his length back into you, grunting a bit at the feeling.

When you look at him, you can see a look of resignation, of acceptance that you can’t entirely understand or place. You can also plainly see the love in eyes, the adoration, and pleasure that lies within them; love that you’re not sure you can return. “I love you,” Yoongi says, as if reading your mind, “I’ve always loved you.” He leans down to give you a chaste kiss before his hips set a fast pace. The sudden speed and harshness have you clawing at his back in desperation, your previously subdued orgasm coming back with a vengeance. You moan filthily into his mouth, moan louder when he pulls away to pant into your neck. That wave rises again, faster and stronger than before, leaving you entirely helpless. Your back aches, your toes curl, as your hips try to keep up with his. Eventually, the two of you find a sort of rhythm, a steady give and take that has you both crying out in unison. The sounds of your love-making seem deafening now in the empty space, the sound of skin on skin ricocheting off of the walls. “I’ll always love you,” he grunts out, grabbing at your tight curls and pulling; you’re too lost in pleasure to complain, too far gone to yell at him for touching your hair. It’s when his hot breath hits your ear that you realize his words have the after taste of a promise. He promises that he’ll always love you, no matter what the future holds for the two of you. When Yoongi pulls away slightly, your sweaty foreheads together come together for the last time, closing your eyes tightly to focus on his unrelenting pace.

All you can see is purple as your orgasm crashes over you like a tsunami. Your body jerks at the warm splash of Yoongi painting your walls white, your moans mingling together again. When he’s finally spent and rested, he collapses on top of you in a tired heap. Well not entirely. Yoongi remains on top of you and slightly shakes with effort as he tries not to crush you under his weight. “Lay down,” you mumble, reaching up to run your fingers through his sweaty hair. Yoongi hesitates and instead moves to the side to nestle into you. After more maneuvering, the two of you rest comfortably on your sides. It’s you who pulls the ugly blanket down from its place on the couch and places it over the both of you. It’s you who continues to stroke Yoongi’s hair as he begins to fall asleep, cock still buried in the warmth of your silky walls.

As you both rest, time begins to catch up with the two of you. People begin to walk the streets and call loudly at or for each other. Cars honk and screech to a halt at changing traffic lights. The street lamps flicker briefly before continuing their nightly patrol. Everything seems to go back to normal except the two of you.

“Thank you,” you whisper suddenly, hips slightly wiggling at the feeling of cum sitting in you. When Yoongi wakes up from his half-asleep haze and looks up at you, you aren’t looking at him though. You’re looking at the sign outside, eyes filled with the overbearing nature of realization and muted acceptance. He grasps your chin, turning you towards him, and places one last kiss on your lips.

The kiss seems to last ages and Yoongi finds himself getting lost in your embrace once more. It’s Yoongi who pulls away and sees the far-off pained look in your eyes that you’re trying to hide and actively failing at. It’s Yoongi who falls asleep first on your chest, relishing in the feel of your fingers scratching at his scalp.

It’s only Yoongi who wakes up alone the next morning without any good morning text from you and a series of demanding texts from Hoseok asking why he’s late. It’s only Yoongi who arrives hurriedly to the venue, at 8:47 am, just in time to take a few pictures alongside Jin and his other groomsmen. Jin taunts him for being late while Hoseok looks on concerned, but Yoongi is too busy looking for you. It’s only Yoongi who stands at the altar behind Jin and Hoseok and Namjoon, waiting patiently for any sort of signal that the wedding is off; even if it’s a frantic guest explaining that you simply can’t go through with the whole thing.

It’s only Yoongi who is shocked, hurt, and confused when he sees you walking down the aisle looking as beautiful as ever with Taehyung at your side in lieu of parents, your wedding dress fitting you perfectly. It’s only Yoongi who has to smile for the quick pictures the photographer takes, has to pretend that last night never happened, as the crowd cheers when you and Jin say, “I do.” It’s only Yoongi who’s always loved and always will love you. You could never love him the same way.

25 notes · View notes

yamithediaperdork · 5 years ago

Text

Forgotten stories 2: From shadow hunter to Bald cuck (Mortal Instruments)

Alec signed as he was walking back from getting a snack to his room, and spotted jace coming back from his date and in tears. he was also in drenched pants and the stench of the piss someone ruined the taste and smell of his triple decker hogie sandwich. as the blond was home much earlier then expected, one had to assume the wet pants had something to do with it and Alec found himself mentally debating going and seeing what was wrong with the little crybaby or leaving him alone since Jace himself had clearly told him off and said he wasn't jace's daddy anymore. (the two had been in a bondage/ S & M nursery daddy and boi relationship that had amused many of the others but Jace himself had apparently gotten tried of soiling himself in bugling diapers and called it off.) Spotting Alec, jace whined loudly, then rushed over and practically tackled Alec, putting his sobbing face in the brunettes chest and knocking his sandwich to the floor. "No no, it's OK. not like i was gonna eat that." Alec grumbled softly, and then softly patting the sobbing dorks back. "ALEEEEECCC! it was Awful!" jace was sobbing and whimpering, and Alec was certain he was getting boogers all over his favorite shirt. "what happened,, as if i can't tell." Alec said, gently moving them toward his room. if he was going to have to be stuck with the little dork all night he wanted it in his room which had enchantments to cut down on the smell of certain things..which had proven useful when he let jace sleep in his room. (he'd also had enchantments put in Jaces room that amplify the effect of those same smells, meaning Jace's room could at times smell like a diaper pail.)

as the big baby calmed down enough he became to tell Alec how he'd met up with a boy from a bar, and they went and saw a movie together (Elmo vs. the teletubbies, part three) and the guy assumed that jace was just being quirky with the movie choice. After the movie they'd gone and picked up a 12 pack of bud, and then had gone back to the guys apartment for a quick little make out session before the main event. (alec had pointed out that Jace KNOWS that beer just goes right though him and due to his angel blood doesn't get him drunk, but Jace had just whined that he didn't wanna be rude.) sitting on the worn leather coach that the date had bragged was inherited from his grandfather, jace had felt himself getting crazy hot in the loins for the cutie, only to realize that he was getting hot, because he was starting to soak himself.

"So then the guy freaked out and yelled at me and called me a stupid diaper baby, so I smashed a beer bottle and cut up that stupid crotch and came home!" jace finished and sniffled, in just his soaked undies now and rubbing a eye as alec stripped him. "...well that was rude." alec said. "I know right? Like it was my fa-" "let me rephrase that. you were a naughty little boy who's in for it now,!" Alec said. "W-what!? But he yelled at ME!" "For pissing yourself like a god damn baby, yeah, and somehow you think he's in the wrong? you're gonna get put in proper clothing for a little spaz like you, then you're going to go over to his place with me and say sorry!" Jace huffed at that and stooped a foot, crossing his arms. "Not gonna and you can't make me!" Alec rolled his eyes at that and just reached for the hair brush as Jace's look of defiance turned to one of terror and the back of his undies, already piss stained, bloated out and a faint smell of shit filled the room. "...you know a cow could drop a deuce in here and the enchantments would cover it up? what the fuck have you been eating?" Alec asked. "...I like grilled cheese sandwiches but they don't like me." Jace whined. "..let's get you cleaned up, and dressed and then we'll visit this poor guy." "well uh..i don't remember his name. or where he lived.. or what he looked like!" Jace lied quickly. "I'm sure it'll all come back to you after a few minutes over my knee." "..Um..I uh..gosh it must of been a memory charm and somehow being back here cleared my head! I can tell you everything!" "amazing how that works. you're still getting a spanking for being a brat." "But thats not fairrrr!"

one quick and efficient shower later, Jace was being dried off by Alec and looking nervously at the hair brush and noming on a edge of the towel that was on his head. "Do..Do you hafa use the brush?" Jace finally asked, even though his cock was standing out at all 6 inches of it's stiff glory. "would you prefer I use the studded paddle? or got a wooden spoon?" Alec asked, noting with a smirk that despite the tremble and look of fear in the big babies eyes, and the fear in his voice.. jace's cock was twitching and drooling. "Nooo! Just your hand!" the Blond baby whined. "Hmmm..I'll make you a deal. I'll give you a hand spanking, but when we go you wear that pretty purple dress Isabelle got you. if you take the brush, sailor shorts and a sailor top with the hat. and if you take the paddle, Shortalls." Alec said with a smirk. "...I really hate you sometimes." "keeps our relationship interesting." Alec agreed. "ngggh..Not a freaking sissy.." Jace whined then looked thoughtful. "Make up your mind soon or you'll get both the brush and paddle, and then I'll put you in the dress." Alec said after 20 seconds. "Ah! Paddle!" the little diaper baby whined., then covered his mouth. smirking and tugging the whiny diaper bitch in for a forehead kissed, Alec chuckled. "no take backs."

before the spanking started, Alec made jace sit on a training potty (shaped like duck just to piss the little guy off) and used a spell to ensure that jace's bladder and bowels were cleared out before the spanking. he could always after all refill the brats guts, but this helped keep him from pissing all over the place or shitting everywhere. (the potty had been bought after the first spanking, so Alec knew what he was talking about.) with the sluices cleared so to speak, and Jace almost squirting out his loser milk five times as alec wiped his hole and cock clean, the blond brat was over his daddy doms lap. "...you know..you should go easy on me with the spanking." jace tried. "Oh?" Alec asked, tapping the paddle on the blonds bubble butt. "Y-yeah! see, you made me a helpless pants wetter so all of this tonight is kinda your fault." "mhmm..who begged who to spank them and put them in thick diapers where they belonged to start all of this?" alec asked. "...just saying is all." Jace huffed and closed his eyes. "well i predict the next thing you say is 'owwww daddy please spank me harder!'" alec smirked and brought the paddle down hard. and wouldn't you know it? He was right.

even with the ribbons he had tied around Jace's cock to keep the little bitch from spurting during his spanking, there was a puddle of pre on the floor that jace was currently laping up while on all fours, sobbing and moaning as he kept reaching behind himself to squeeze and fondle his tormented cheeks. Daddy meanwhile was laying out 4 thick diapers and then picking out a light tan pair of short all's and a white diaper shirt to go with. there was also a pair of white socks and a pair of tan sneakers,and to finish off the look there was a tan pacifier. "you better keep your cock under control brat or I'll bring out the clippers again." alec warned as he noted that Jace had been trying to low key work some of the ribbons off so he could FINALLY spurt out his load, his balls looking rather heavy and full. "Buh..but..I hate the head shaving!" Jace whined and pouted. "...according to you you hate all of this and yet here we are. though if you think about it. going up to a guy who was ready to fuck you..diapered." whimper. "Dressed like a toddler." Louder whimper. "and with your cuck diaper baby hair cu-" was as far as Alec got as jace cried out and fired out streams of cum, howling in frustration as the ribbons kept him for getting the full benefit and when he went to reach down and stroke himself Alec was quickly there, holding his hands behind his back and kissing Jace's neck. "you're gonna look cute as a cue ball." he chuckled. "A-asshole." jace whined.

the hair cut hadn't taken too long, and jace whined and sobbed as his long blond locked were shaved off all while daddy hummed happy tunes. the big baby was in just his diapers as daddy didn't want the hair getting all over his other clothes, but kept mentioning how itchy and irritated the shaving was going to leave the boy alll night long and would playfully pinch and tease jace's nipples while bringing such facts up. after getting his head bald as a melon, and making Jace wave bye bye to his hair before he flushed it down the toilet, Alec had then gotten the big baby dressed up and put a little curse on the pacifier that Jace could only remove it from his mouth with permission from daddy, or if someone else removed it for him. with the oversized nipple pressing down on jace's touge this meant that A) the former blond, now cue ball was blissfully quiet for a change and B) was a very drooly baby as Jace got out the seasume street themed toddler leash and got it attached to jace. "Don't worry though buddy.. if you get soo red faced and humiliated that you end up cumming again, this time daddy won't punish you. he'll just point it out to everyoneeeee." alec promised and rubbed the top of jace's head. "Man, you craving grapefruit too or just me?" he asked, making the poor baby bitch look in the mirror. jace just drooled and sulked. 'Jesus Christ. lex luthor likely has more hair then me now.'

heading out onto the streets, it was late enough that they didn't run into alot of people, though those that they did either stared and laughed, or who muttered about freaks. they did have the misfortune to go by a pack of vampires who took one look at the ex blond shadow hunter who loved to torment them and they all burst out laughing, giving the pair safe passage as they joked that they didn't hurt widdle babies. getting to the apartment block with jason (the Scottish boy that jace had been flirting with lived,) jace whined and mumbled around the paci, or tried to and just made more spittle go down his chin and add to the damp stain on the front of his shortalls. "huh..maybe next time I'll add a drool bib." Alec chuckled and then buzzed Jason's apartment. "Don't even think about trying to run. the same curse i put on your paci? i put on your diapers. unless you wanna be stuck in the same diapers for a week.." Alec trailed off and jace whined..but stopped trying to pull away. "Hello?" came a voice over the intercom and alec put up a finger for jace to stay silent, not that the big baby could talk right now. "Hi, is this jason Moonshore?" alec asked. "aye, what be it to you?" came the boys voice. "I have someone here who wants to say sorry for eailer tonight, and is going pay for the damages to your furniture." alec said. "...who's this and what makes you think i want that crazy bugger back up in here?" jason asked, his voice filled with hostitly. "I'm his Daddy dom, and trust me, you'll never forgive yourself if you don't at least see this." alec said. "look, there's 100 bucks in cash in it for you, taken from baby jace's own private little fund he was saving away to use on a trip to Disneyland." alec added as jace went wide eyed. that motherfucker had gone into his room and musta broken up mr.oinky, his piggy bank! DICK MOVE! "...aye just know I'ma regret this." the scot said after about 15 seconds of silence and buzzed them in.

As jason opened his door he took one look at jace and burst out laughing, and shaking his head. "git off, this is some damn yank prank show is it?" he asked, poking his head out into the halls to look for cameras. "nope. just a total diaper wearing bottom bitch and the poor sucker who puts up with him. may we come in?" Alec asked. "I suppose so.." Jason said and looked down at the puffy waist of jace. "aye doubt he'll be leaking anymore in here t'night." he added with a grin and stepped aside. though as jace waddled past, eyes filling with tears and looking down at the carpet he handled off and swatted the big baby's puffy backside. "aye could get used to that." he mused. "Noted. I'm always looking for babysitters. " alec laughed. Popping the pacifier out of Jace's mouth alec smiled at the bald baby, and nodded to jason. "Is there something you'd like to say little man?" "...I'm sowwy fer making tinkles on yer couch den being a bwat." jace said babishly, then looked confused for a second before realizing that alec must of had a baby talk curse on the pacifire as well. "Pffft...Bwhahahaha! Oh god! this totally makes up for the pissy couch. and as long as ya fix it up, yer forgiven." Jason said and then patted the bald babies head. "Fank ku! Dada, I's said sowwy, we go home now?" jace asked, his cock throbbing in his diapers even as he was mortified. "Hmmm I dunno..I think we owe Jason a evening of hot steamy sex still. well, those of us who can control ourselfs." alec smirked. "aye, I was promised a night in paradise. and ye be looking mighty fine." the scot said and smiled at alec. "But..but what 'bot me!?" jace mewed and whined. "..do you have any toys or something the baby can play with while we fuck?" alec asked.

And so the night where Jace was gonna show that he could be a mature young man and not a little diaper baby ended with him sitting on the living room floor of the man he had intended to top, dressed like a toddler and making tinkles and poo's poo's in his diapers while playing with action figures..all while forced to listen to his daddy and new daddy moan and cry out as they fucked hard in the master bedroom.

The end

6 notes · View notes

hopeless-island · 5 years ago

Text

Dying Dream Cast Directory

A helpful guide to remind you about the main crew of the Hopeless Pirates and their basic info stuffs. Keep in mind, names are done the Japanese way. So, Last name/middle initial/ first name

Also, there are spoilers in here for all people who are not caught up with the story. Read at your own risk.

Captain:

Gol D. Maven

Nickname/known as: Maven/ Usurper Maven/ “Momma Maven”/ Big Sis Maven

Age: 20 (at the beginning of Canon)

Disease: Usurper’s Syndrome. A terminal illness that is continual, and progressively aggressive, muscle degradation. Combats this disease by building muscle faster than it can degrade, leading to painfully slow increase in strength and low muscle mass on her body.

Appearance: Like a gender-swapped Ace essentially. Small chest, much wider waist than typical for OP characters. Clearly defined abs, lithe but defined muscles on arms and legs. She is not thickly built, her disease keeping her from being “bulky” and making her body remain rather lanky despite the strength on it. About 6′1″, long wavy black hair that goes down to her butt and is extremely wild and untamed. Freckles on her face that add a slight childish appearance to her face, and sleepy looking gray eyes. Always carries Stormfall, a large battle axe/halberd with a purple metal butterfly-winged blade. Stormfall is over six and a half feet tall, so the blade is always poking above Maven’s head a bit.

First Mate:

Nymph Katylan

Nickname/Known as: Katie/ Dark Nymph Katylan

Age: two years younger than Maven.

Disease: Unnamed terminal immunodeficiency, alluded to being like AIDS.

Appearance: Stereotypical blond rich-girl appearance. Classic OP-girl physique, with large bust and small waist. Straight gold-blond hair that falls a few inches past her shoulders, and large sapphire-blue eyes. Commonly wears light colored sundresses with exercise shorts underneath just incase she fights, so there is never an indecent moment. She is also the Helmsman and Archer for the crew, and uses an ivory-white recurve bow made by Kilik.The center of the bow can change lengths, controlling the strength and range of the bow. Average female height of about 5′7″

Navigator (Original):

Linral

Nickname/Known as: Rabid Linral/ Lin

Age: 18 at death

Disease: Unnamed cancer, alluded to being more than just one type as it is “everywhere.”

Appearance: Short tomboy, but with classic OP-girl body. She had short silver-white hair cut in a boyish pixie cut, and bright emerald-green eyes that she took pride in. Her body was littered with small scars, though not so many as to keep guys from blatantly trying to flirt with her. As stated earlier, she was very short-- just barely over five feet tall. Primarily a brawler, she had slightly more defined muscles than even Maven, considering Lin’s own disease didn't effect her muscle mass. Usually wore boy’s sports shorts and a grey or black tank top.

Weaponsmith (Original):

Kilik

Nickname/Known as: Kilik/ (I couldn’t remember/find his pirate name, so I made a new one up) Killing Steel Kilik

Age: 21 at death

Disease: Due to being unwillingly experimented on, his body developed the ability to produce its own organic poison straight into his own bloodstream. It never stopped his production, and production sped up over time. Too high of a concentration, and it would be fatal.

Appearance: About 5′10″, with fluffy cinnamon-brown hair that is on the long side, almost brushing his shoulders, and chocolate brown eyes. He is somewhat lanky, not muscular but with his own brand of lithe strength. Overall boyish, with most of his muscle mass being centered in his arms without being bulky, because of his occupation as a blacksmith. Also a swordsman. Known for creating a bunch of really wacky, weirdly-designed “swords” and other weapons in an attempt to find his own unique sword style. He finally did, after making round “swords” in the shape of clocks. Usually wore a simple black or mustard-yellow t-shirt and dark jeans with brown or denim overalls.

Doctor:

Razdall

Nickname/Known as: Raz/ Misery’s Herbalist Razdall

Age: 24 at the start of Canon

Disease: Unnamed heart condition, makes him extremely susceptible to spikes in blood pressure and heart rate. Weak heart.

Appearance: About 6′0, with short but messy purple hair. Gray eyes the same shade as Maven’s, but instead of having narrow eyes like she does his just look perpetually bored. His body is pretty lanky, and since he isn’t a fighter he doesn’t have much muscle mass at all. he has a slight, perpetual slouch and usually wears a black or dark purple turtleneck with black, slightly baggy pants and a lab coat with the Hopeless Pirate jolly roger on the back. Never seen without a utility belt laden with different pouches, orbs, and syringes full of his battle-ready herbal concoctions.

Seamstress:

Yalla

Nickname/Known as: Yalla/ Pretty Ninja Yalla (at least I think that’s what I went with as her pirate name... I can’t remember/ find it >.<)

Age: 15 at the start of Canon

Disease: Assassin’s syndrome. Similar to Usurper’s, but instead of muscle it is a constant degradation of organs in the body.

Appearance: A cutsey girly-girl, she has bubblegum-pink hair and bright golden yellow eyes. Originally she wore her hair up in constant long pigtails, but she started to wear it down after Kilik’s death. It reaches her knees when left down. She usually wears a frilly pink, gold, and black kimono that is cropped around the knee with sunflower-yellow boy shorts underneath incase any incidents occur. The kimono has three-quarter sleeves instead of the traditional long sleeves. She pairs it with flip-flops or goes barefoot. Still growing, she is relatively short at about 5′4″. She ate the Ribbon-Ribbon fruit and grew up as an acrobat in a circus, so she is not only very nimble and usually fights aerially, but she can turn her body into ribbons.

Shipwright:

Gino

Nickname/Known as: Gino/ Black Thorn Gino

Age: mid-thirties by Canon

Disease: Akui Hanahaki. Like the Hanahaki in other stories, this disease grows flowers in and off of the victim’s lungs, causing them to hack up flowers and leaves from it as the disease progresses. Unlike the normal mythical disease, this one is caused by hatred from a loved one rather than unrequited love. The only cure is being forgiven, but the person whose hatred caused Gino’ s illness is dead so it is officially terminal for him. He coughs up black roses.

Appearance: A large tiger-shark fishman, he clocks in at about 7′7″ and has greyish-blue skin with subtle grey stripes down his back and the back of his bald head, and partially over his shoulders and the back of his upper arms. Usually wears a black or dark grey tank top and black cargo pants or cargo shorts. He fights with spiked iron knuckles, and (spoiler alert) gets them upgraded to Seastone spiked knuckles after the Magician arc. He is very bulky, unlike the majority of the crew. Classic body of a thug/body builder type, with bulging biceps, very well-muscled chest/torso, and several tattoos.

Dancer:

Synalla

Nickname/Known as: Synalla/ “Crew Grandma”/ Slice-Dancer Synalla

Age: Late twenties by Canon. About 28 or 29..?

Disease: Unnamed lung disease. Fashioned a bit after Cystic Fibrosis, but obviously made into a fantasy terminal illness.

Appearance: She is a Snakeneck, and from her feet to the top of her head she is about 11′4″, with her neck by itself taking up almost half of that. Her body, like with most Snakenecks, is naturally lithe and lanky. Her hair is jet black, and goes down the entirety of her over-four-foot neck in sharp zig-zags that for some reason never lose shape. She dresses like a tango dancer almost constantly, in long brightly colored Mexican-styled dresses that end at her ankle and matching flats. She fights with tessen, or bladed war fans. She dances with them, too. She is naturally maternal and tends to mother hen, earning herself the nickname “Granny” or “Grandma” within the crew.

Scout/ Navigator (new):

Cala

Nickname/Known as: Cala/ Lynx Cala

Age: about 26 by the start of Canon

Disease: Nature’s wrath syndrome, another disease similar to Usurper’s and Assassin’s syndrome. This version is constant degradation of the bones and severe calcium deficiency/the body burns through calcium at a really fast rate.

Appearance: Is it even a surprise by now? Cala is lanky, as apparently most of the rest of the crew omfg where is my originality at? But to the point of being almost bony. He has very short-cropped blue hair, buzzed but not shaved. He ate the cat-cat model: Lynx fruit, and can change into a lynx. He is incredibly frail because of his disease and tends to stay out of fights unless absolutely necessary (I have bones of glass, and paper skin...) But he makes an excellent scout and spy with his enhanced senses from his Zoan fruit. He, uh. honestly I haven’t put much thought into his wardobe. He’s a bony cat dude. Probably wears long blue basketball shorts and goes shirtless half the time honestly, idk.

Crew Hypnotist..? I honestly don't know this guy’s role, I think he’s just a combatant/ bums out on the Dream honestly.

Dyan

Nickname/Known as: Dyan/ King Dyan/ Deranged Prince Dyan (Pirate nickname)

Age: idk if I put a solid age for him, but he’d be about 40 by the start of Canon

Disease: Similar to Kilik, Dyan’s blood itself is mutating and becoming toxic to itself. There is no known cure.

Appearance: He ate the child-child fruit, so he looks to be about 10 years old instead of his true age. He has spiky dark green hair, and is about 4′3″. He has a child’s body, so no real visible muscle mass or anything. He did used to be the King of the Ceres kingdom though, so he is constantly dressed in high quality clothes and somehow always looks like a stereotypical child prince/ rich brat. His devil fruit hypnotizes people along with making him stay in a child’s body, but you can read more about his devil fruit in the story itself.

Magician

Azalea

Nickname/Known as: Azalea/ Scarlet Magician Azalea

Age: I don’t remember if I gave her an exact age, but we’ll say 23 by Canon

Disease: Cancer (sound familiar? (;) Cured by Trafalgar Law.

Appearance: about 5′9″, with bright, vibrant red hair in an asymmetrical pixie cut that she is just now beginning to grow out. Classic OP-girl body, but with muscular legs that most people seem to not notice. She is a magician, and as such is always wearing a maroon suit jacket, black slacks, and a bowtie. She has a flair for the dramatic. whatever she wears, she is always stylish. She does, in fact, have a magic wand that she uses occasionally. sporty-cute-girl. OH yeah, she has the feel-feel fruit and can sense everyone’s emotions and shit

I think that’s it for the Dying Dream crew. Whoo that took a while. There ya go!

9 notes · View notes

maevefiction · 6 years ago

Text

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 53: Epilogue

Sunday June 29th, 2036 - Talk Story Bookstore, Kauai, Hawaii.

Stepping inside Talk Story after two decades had passed was surreal. It remained essentially the same, right down to the red painted walls. I, too, remained essentially the same, if you ignored the wrinkles that had begun to etch themselves into the flesh of my fifty-eight-year-old face…laugh lines, frown lines, and a downright furrow between my eyebrows from a lifetime of what-the-fuckery. The grey hair that had first appeared when I found myself wrangling three children all under the age of five was now expertly masked with copious amounts of dye applied by the talented folks at Zig-Zag Hair & Body. I still did yoga on a regular basis, more now that the kids were…well, grown, I guess. For the most part. Which was really a mind-blower, as is everything else associated with the passage of time in regard the human condition. Aging, kids, is not for the weak. No one tells you that if you sleep too long, your body parts will hurt. Your tits will sag, you’ll pee your pants when you cough, sneeze, or laugh too hard, your hands will ache if you, you know, use them to do stuff…like hold books. Your knees will creak to the point where you aren’t sure if it’s you making sounds or the stairs you’re descending. After you’ve finished a round of particularly vigorous doggy-style, you’ll find yourself uncertain as to which will be more detrimental…remaining in place or attempting to get off the bed. It’s an unimaginable brutality, standing powerless against the effects of time on your physical being while the inner you, the corporeal you, does not follow suit. This Maude was the same Maude who had married the love of her life in this very place, right down to her limitless desire for Lindor truffles and continued disgust at the idea of pineapples on pizza. I can, however, confirm that time does aid in the healing process, which is how we ended up back on Kauai. Each year that passed put more distance between us and the horror we’d endured, and little by little we were able to work through it, first by being able to actually view our wedding photos and videos, then feel small bits of joy while doing so, until finally, sixteen years out, the fear and anxiety was almost fully overridden by that joy. And here we were, on the day of our 20th wedding anniversary, right where it had all begun.

Some unpleasant memories, though faded and dim, still lingered, and as a result neither Tom nor I could bring ourselves to return to the Coconut Beach Marriott. The kids were all aware of the circumstances surrounding our wedding and the days that followed, as we’d vowed to be open and honest about it if the subject ever came up, because we preferred that they learned the truth from us rather than believing what they might have seen on the internet. Two years ago the need for the ‘the talk’ had arisen, and Henry’s reaction had utterly floored me…he’d leapt up off the couch, pulled me into his arms and whispered that he’d hoped his presence had brought me some comfort and that he wished he’d been able to do more. He’d turned nineteen in February, my firstborn, and even though as a parent you’re not supposed to, like, have a favorite…he was, in fact, my favorite, at least in the sense that there was a depth and level of understanding between us that was akin to psychic connection. Perhaps it was due to our shared trauma, or perhaps it was the trauma that caused me to relate to him differently…though in the end, it didn’t matter because I’d never expressed such a sentiment out loud, nor would I. Besides, I’d always known that he already knew anyway.

Henry…also known as Our Son the Writer, as well as Indy Gallagher, his chosen pen name. He’d taught himself to read at age four, having grown frustrated with Tom and I not being able to drop whatever we were in the middle of, which was usually dealing with one of his siblings, in order to do it on his behalf. From that point forward, books and the stories they contained were his passion…he was never without reading material, absorbing any and all information he encountered and losing himself completely in imagined realities, always longing for more. It was that longing which set him upon the path to becoming an author when he was thirteen, having found himself unwilling and unable to accept that George R. R. Martin’s ‘A Song of Fire and Ice’ series had gone unfinished and deciding he’d tackle the task on his own. A year and many kudos on AO3 later he’d started to build his own fictional universe, and when he self-published the first book of the series, ‘Times Prior’, in August of 2034 it sold a half-a-million copies inside of sixty days without any marketing whatsoever. The main characters were inter-dimensional entities left stranded on Earth, their memories thought to have been wiped clean, and the story followed their journey as they sought to combine the snippets of their past that remained into a single coherent whole that revealed their history while attempting to covertly integrate with humanity. Book two, ‘Presented Puzzles’ had been released in early December of last year, hitting the million mark within two weeks. Though I already had first edition tucked away at home, I hoped to find one here to purchase so I could secure the receipt to the flyleaf with a notation that this copy had been purchased from the location where Indy Gallagher’s own story had begun.

When I felt Tom’s hand on my back as he stopped to stand on my left, I turned my head his way, peering upward. Though he had his share of wrinkles and his hair, which he’d taken to wearing long enough to brush his chin, had gone completely grey at the temples with salt and pepper throughout the rest, the fucker did NOT look fifty-five. Not to me, anyway…when you’re young and you imagine being fifty-five it seems so damn old, but when it’s staring you in the face, or especially once you’ve passed it by yourself, not so much. There were still bricks in his stomach, his ass remained quarter-bounce ready, and, now that the Hiddlespawn had matured, I took advantage of the Silver Fox Hotness Level One Billion as often as humanly possible. As you do. He grinned at me, then leaned in to nuzzle my cheek with his own.

“Well, here we are, my love, at long last. How the ever-loving fuck has it been twenty years? Speaking of…perhaps I can interest you in a waltz down memory lane via a certain out-of-the way restroom?”

My jaw dropped open. “Oh my god, how dare you? Since when am I the kind of woman who has sex in public places?”

He laughed, tongue poking out between his teeth. “To the best of my recollection, since…forever.”

I crossed my arms, eyes rolling skyward. “Your recollection has clearly become unreliable, old man.”

“Mmm hmm. Meet me there in twenty?”

"Absofuckingloutely." I uncrossed my arms with the intention of pinching his nipple through the fabric of his white V-neck T-shirt, but was interrupted by the arrival of our entourage as they filed through the door and filtered into the space around us.

Simon settled in to my right, with Luke at his side, as per usual. Simon’s approach to aging was best described as rage, rage against the dying of the light…his hair remained blonde, though these days, much like Tom, he’d been wearing it longer, so much so that he occasionally sported a ponytail. Just a ponytail, never, ever a man bun. Never. I was, and I quote, to ‘dispatch him quickly and without prejudice’ if I ever witnessed him committing such an unforgivable offense. Fillers and chemical peels were a regular occurrence, as were weekly spa visits and a thorough daily skin cleansing and hydrating regimen. He made use of our gym more than Tom or I did and had taken up running more than a decade ago, which he’d deemed necessary in order to have enough physical stamina to open his own restaurant. It was a joint venture with his son Roland, aptly named Ka-Tet…with permission from Uncle Steve, of course, who was still cranking out wordy goodness at eighty-nine. It was located close to home, near Regent’s Park in the space formerly occupied by Odette’s, with a décor that was best described as dystopian spaghetti western. There was no set menu…Simon decided he’d be preparing whatever the fuck he felt like making on any given day, take it or leave it…and they were only open Friday and Saturday nights, which created an air of exclusivity that resulted in the place being booked almost a year in advance. It was perfect work-life balance for him, and whenever anyone mentioned how youthful he appeared he’d nod and reply that all credit belonged to his favorite preservation method…daily alcohol infusions.

Luke remained at the helm of Prosper, though he’d pulled back significantly since Ka-Tet had opened and essentially served only in an advisory capacity. He’d begun to lose his hair just prior to turning forty, and he’d opted to just shave it all off and embrace baldness as opposed to undergoing transplants or wearing a toupee. It suited him, honestly, and his penchant for quirky glasses and three-day stubble seemed to transform him into the way he was always meant to look. Scholarly, like a college professor. Which he and Simon had role-played, as I’d been forced to discover even though my hands were covering my ears, because Simon wouldn’t take no for an answer and spoke louder instead when I requested that he keep that shit to himself. I watched as he reached for Simon’s hand without even a glance downward, their fingers twining together in a gesture so often repeated it was automatic, built into the fabric of their muscle memory. They turned to smile at each other, then shifted their gazes in unison to focus on their daughters as they passed by to their right.

Seph’s light brown hair was wound up in a bun that rested at the base of her neck, dressed in a light blue linen tank dress that matched the frames of her glasses. She resembled Luke a great deal, other than her lips and nose, the former much fuller, the latter more rounded at the tip. Her frame was lithe, almost lanky, and she stood an inch or two taller than me sans heels. In the fall she’d be returning to Cambridge for her second year in pursuit of her BA Tripos Degree in Law, after which she intended to obtain a Masters in Law, then finally a Doctorate in Law. Ez, who was essentially a carbon copy of Simon as far as physicality was concerned, was currently a student at the New York School of Design and would be heading back to the city after our vacation. She’d just finished the Fashion Design certificate program and was scheduled to intern at Manhattan Fashion in the Garment District from July 15th through September 1st, at which point she’d return to NYSD to complete their Couture and Menswear programs back to back. She’d designed the dress Seph was wearing, as well as her own, a white cotton sleeveless wrap-around that hugged her curves and accentuated her impossibly tiny waist. Which I supposed was made possible, along with exceptional genetics, by running six days a week, an activity she’d often participated in with the other masochists in my life…Simon, Tom and Henry. Now that she was based in New York it was solely Henry, their ability to pair up simplified by the fact that both of them resided in the same building, Henry in my old apartment, Ez in hers two floors below. He was standing next to her, dwarfing her five-foot-six frame with his own, his height topping out at six-foot-one, just an inch shy of Tom’s. His hair, worn shoulder-length, was black like my mother’s but curly like mine, eyes identical to Tom’s in shape and color. He had Tom’s nose as well, but my lips and jaw. Like his father, he was lean but muscular, blessed with a gracefulness that I had never possessed. He’d relocated to New York the previous summer to focus on writing, opting to forgo college in the wake of the success of his debut novel. I agreed that college would be a waste, being a firm believer in the fact that one could either write, or couldn’t, but I’d called bullshit on the ‘going away to focus’ aspect, at least privately when Tom and I discussed it. He and Ez had always been very good friends, nearly inseparable, and I felt it in my bones that the real reason he’d decided to leave London was so they could remain in close proximity to one another. Her desire to live in the same building had been presented as great way for both of them to adjust to new surroundings without feeling isolated, which was true, but again, my bones had whispered that there was something bubbling beneath the surface. There had been no confirmation as yet, and I’d stopped mentioning it when Tom, the most hopeless romantic amongst all hopeless romantics, told me I was turning into an even more hopeless romantic than he’d ever been. But it hadn’t stopped me from, you know, looking for signs.

A flash of flaming red glimpsed out of the corner of my eye caused me to turn and look to my left, basking in the breathtaking sight of the whirling dervish that was our daughter, Mona Diane Hiddleston, born at sunset on Wednesday, June 17th, 2018. Her hair was the color of my father’s and Tom’s paternal grandmother’s, wavy like Tom’s, worn long and loose and hanging halfway down her back. Her eyes were brown like mine, and shaped like them as well, but the rest of her face was all Tom. She was five-foot-nine, and often described as a force of nature, at which point I’d smile and say that I had not the slightest idea who she’d gotten that sort of personality from. She’d be relocating to New York in mid-August to begin her dual-enrollment program at Julliard, studying both Instruments and Composition with the goal of a Doctorate in Musical Arts and a career as a conductor in mind. Unlike me, she could read and write music, and play any instrument she was handed with little to no training. Her singing voice was exceptional, her range higher than mine though not quite as broad, but she’d never expressed any interest in developing it other than participating in the school chorus because she needed an elective to flesh out her schedule. Mona had been our ‘difficult’ child…as a baby she’d been fussy, easily irritated with a sleep schedule that was measured in fifteen-minute increments, and as a toddler we’d dealt with outbursts and tantrums over what we considered to be thoroughly minor issues, such as the lights being too bright, her clothes being too tight, or the seams of her socks being ‘wrong’. Throughout it all, the only consistent way to soothe her had been with music, be it listening to it or creating her own using our piano, pots and pans, or anything else that provided rhythmic sounds. Shortly after she turned five, she was diagnosed with sensory processing disorder, which we learned later on went hand-in-hand with her being highly gifted. All three kids were, which wasn’t exactly a surprise given Tom’s and my placement on the IQ scale, but giftedness manifests differently in each individual with a variety of traits, some more challenging to cope with than others. Once we’d established a methodology for managing her SPD, she was like a different human being…strong, steadfast, boisterous, fully confident in her sense of self and intent on extracting each and every thing she expected from this world without apology. And my god, I was so very, very fucking proud to be her mother. And honored. She’d noticed I was staring at her and had just opened her mouth to ask me why when our youngest bounded out from behind her, paused briefly at her left, then pivoted to park himself directly in front of her.

Sean James Hiddleston, born Friday, October 23rd, 2020 five minutes before midnight, named as such due to the fact that the blue hue of the eyes that peered up at me when he opened them for the first time was identical to my father’s. He’d been a complete surprise, so much so that I hadn’t even realized I was pregnant until I was three months in…at 42, I’d figured missed periods meant I was embarking on the journey into menopause, and when Tom suggested that perhaps I should take a pregnancy test I’d laughed and laughed. Henry had just turned three and Mona wasn’t quite two, and when I saw the giant plus sign in the test window the laughter faded damn fucking quick when I realized Tom and I would shortly be outnumbered by a trio of ankle biters all under the age of four. After the initial shock dissipated, we were overjoyed, in awe of how the universe continued to be so generous to us, providing yet another miracle. By the time I’d begun to show Henry was cognizant enough to ask questions, and when I informed him he’d soon have a new brother or sister his face had paled and he’d whispered ‘Mamma, will it be like Mona?’, causing Tom to run out of the room, unable to keep his shit together, while I comforted Henry by explaining that every baby is different, the entire time asking myself the same question he had internally. As it happened any worries about his temperament were for naught, because Sean had been a jovial soul right from the get go. He was the child, however, that we had to keep the closest eye on because if left to his own devices even for a second he’d be into something he shouldn’t have been, and when confronted he’d just grin and simply say ‘But I’m learning things.’ Even still, at fifteen-going-on-thirty, he uttered that same phrase at least once a day. Sometimes more. Like when I’d caught him trying to remotely hack into my brand new Alienware laptop two weeks prior…you know, just to see if he could. And, of course, he could. Of all three children he resembled Tom the most, blond wavy hair, same blue eyes, nose and jaw…the only bit of me in his face were his lips. He’d begun his adolescent growth spurt just after Christmas and had shot up from five-nine to six-two in what seemed like no time whatsoever, and if I did a side-by-side of him and Tom from his Eton days it wasn’t easy to tell who was who. Despite their physical similarities, Sean had been cursed with my lack of grace and had already broken almost every toe and sprained various extremities on the regular. He had been blessed, however, with my engineering and mathematical skills, and his abilities made an accelerated program via online courses the best option for him after he’d finished year six. Once he turned sixteen he’d be permitted entry into Cambridge’s School of Technology, where he planned to focus on Computer Science, but the next round of required classes wouldn’t be available until fall of 2037. Starting in September of this year he’d be officially interning at CodeHex, working both with me and other high-level employees across our departments. I say ‘officially’ because he’d been interning in an unofficial capacity for nearly four years, popping in every weekday as soon as he’d finished his online courses back at our flat. When he was a preschooler he’d spent a good bit of time there as well, at my side or on my lap, as I worked to establish the CodeHex company and brand during my ‘free’ hours while Henry and Mona were at school. On the first day of his own year one he’d frowned as Tom and I hugged and kissed him goodbye outside the school’s entrance, stating that while he was very excited to make all sorts of new friends and learn new things, he’d very much miss his old job and old friends. Then he’d spotted a girl with a Captain Marvel backpack and promptly ditched us in order to run over and introduce himself, turning back to wave and smile at us before returning his attention to her and walking into the building while Tom and I stood on the sidewalk crying our eyes out like a couple of schumucks.

He’d moved closer to me, though still blocking his sister, arms raised and hands extended, palms toward Tom and I as he spoke.

“This is it, then, is it Mum? Where you and Dad met? All those years ago? Right here? In this bookshop?”

I nodded. “Yeppir. Also where we got engaged, and where we got married.”

Tom elbowed me, and Simon twisted his torso sideways to gawk at me, his head cocked to the right.

“Woman, have you finally lost your mind? You were married at the Marriot. I was there, looking resplendent in my purple tux while you puked in the bushes, remember?”

Opting to attempt to make a royal fuck-up appear as if it were a conscious choice, I turned my head towards him, index finger of my right hand raised and pointing toward his chest. “Well, you’re not totally wrong…we were married at the Marriot, but that was actually our second ceremony. The first one happened here, right after midnight so it was officially on the twenty-ninth.”

Simon gasped, placing his right hand over his heart, finders splayed wide. “Are you telling me right now, twenty fucking years later, that the two of you snuck off and got married without your best friends and spent the entire next day pretending your entirely invalid not at all legally binding apparently just for show wedding ceremony was one-hundred-percent genuine?”

I bit my lip and glanced skyward briefly, then back at Simon. “Yes. Yes I am.”

He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Maude Hiddleston, I have never been prouder of you than I am at this moment, you sneaky little MINX. How did you keep it a secret this whole time?”

I shrugged. “Only four people on the planet knew…me, Tom, the judge and Roger Marshal.” While researching our trip we’d learned that Roger had passed away in 2033, but his daughter Denise had taken over the business. Tom and I planned on seeking her out during our visit, but hadn’t provided any advance notice as we felt that expressing our condolences in person would be most appropriate since Talk Story, and her father, had played such an important role in our lives. I poked Simon’s left pec with my right index finger. “Shouldn’t you be all ragey because you weren’t there or something?”

He released my shoulders and crossed his arms in front of him, rested his right elbow in his left hand as he tapped his lips with his left index finger, then pointed it at me. “You know what? I fucking should be. But I’m not. Because I’m sure it was all mushy-mushy gushy-gushy and there was probably sniffling and crying and Shakespearean sonnet level verbal exchanges and therefore I’m dropping it in the ‘glad to have missed it’ bucket.” He mock-gagged, and as I swatted at him he pulled back and away, flipping me double birds.

Mona stepped out from behind Sean, her head tilted to the left. “Well that diminishes both the impact and validity of all those lectures on the critical importance of honesty a bit, doesn’t it?”

Tom roared with laughter, and I smirked. “I look forward to opening the box that contains my ‘HYPOCRITE’ T-shirt this coming Christmas morning. Men’s 2 XL, please. Black with white lettering. Maybe a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ on the back written in a script font?”

Henry raised his hand as he joined in. “Oh! Oh! There must be some photographic evidence of the clandestine ceremony hidden away somewhere, I’d imagine? That absolutely needs to be on the T-shirt’s front-side. And Dad’s complicit, so we’ll have to have one made for him as well.”

Sean grinned. “If such evidence exists, you can count on me to track it down.”

I glanced over at Tom, who was still chuckling. “This whole kid thing…your idea, wasn’t it? I can’t fathom having done this to myself without being coerced by an insanely hot dude via repeated seductions until I…”

All three of them screeched in unison. “MUM!”

Tom pointed at them in turn. “The lesson here, progeny of mine, in case you needed a refresher course…your mother is a master of diversionary tactics and especially enjoys their implementation when the outcome is likely her having…hmm…how shall I phrase this delicately?”

I snorted. “What your voluble father is attempting to convey without incurring my wrath is…the last word. I like having the last word. He neglected to mention that no topic is off limits in the pursuit of achieving that particular goal. So, shall we move on or would you prefer that I begin my dissertation on our wedding night activities?”

Again, in unison, with Simon, Luke, Seph and Ez joining in this time around. “MOVE ON.”

We all split off then, singly for some, in pairs for others, and wandered around the shop. Tom and I paused in the precise spot I’d been standing two decades earlier, narrowing down my reading options for what I’d thought would be hours of alone time on the beach. His arm slipped around my waist, and I circled his in turn, each of us leaning into the other, silent in our contemplation of the Before and the After, which is how we both viewed the stages of our lives prior to and since crossing paths. I could hear Sean exclaiming to Mona that he’d located the music section and that she just had to come see it immediately, Seph and Luke laughing as Simon assured them that yes, he did in fact still enjoy reading the Twilight Series novels and that there was nothing wrong with having a little vampy wolfie sad girl angsty fluff in your life thank you very much, and then, footsteps behind us…a strange echo of the past, and this time I didn’t hesitate to spin around to see who they belonged to. Tom did the same seconds afterward, and before us was a woman wearing a tea-length bright green tank dress, her jet-black hair worn in two braids that hung nearly to her waist. She smiled, and my mouth dropped open when I took note of her name tag. She smiled, realizing I’d recognized her.

“Aloha, Hiddlestons. Welcome back to Talk Story.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Alani. Oh my god. Well, this is a mind fuck of epic proportions. And I’m spewing profanity. Whoops. Sorry.”

Tom somehow managed to speak like an actual human being. “Alani! What a marvelous thing, seeing you again in this very special place…you’ve been well, I hope?”

She laughed, then stepped forward to embrace both Tom and I, then pulled back. “I have. I teach at the Waimea High School during the year…9th grade English Literature. Weekends and summers inevitably find me here. This place seems to have a gravitational pull I’m unable…and unwilling…to escape.” Sighing, she glanced around the room, then fixed her gaze back on us. “Have you heard?”

Nodding, I reached for Tom’s hand and took hold. “About Roger? Yes, but not until we started researching our trip. We wanted to wait to meet Denise to express our condolences. Is she available?”

Alani shook her head, frowning slightly. “She’s not, I’m afraid. Honestly, we’ve not seen very much of her at all, and she hasn’t been back since she told us she was putting the place up for sale. Of course, I understand that it reminds her of her father and…”

My grip on Tom’s hand tightened, as did his on mine, so much so that we both let go as if we’d received an electric shock. I took a deep breath, telling myself to be cool, Maude, be fucking cool before giving nonchalance a go.

“So. Talk Story’s for sale? Huh. Well, we most definitely hadn’t heard that. I don’t recall seeing a sign…”

Tom cleared his throat. “Neither do I. Does that mean a sale is pending, or is the property still available?”

She nodded, which was not at all helpful, but the words she spoke afterward were. “It’s still available. The sign’s off to the right of the building, attached to the potted tree so it faces oncoming traffic. The realtor’s been in a few times since it went up in January, but never with any clients. Our revenue isn’t even a quarter of what it was a decade ago, and Denise isn’t very involved so things have gotten worse since Roger passed. At this point, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to remain open, but I’m going to keep hoping that someone sees the value here, the history this place contains…” She cleared her throat, then shook her head back and forth slowly. “Goodness, I’m so terribly sorry. I honestly only meant to say hello…everything else just sort of…happened. I don’t know what came over me.”

I reached out and patted her upper arm. “Please, no worries. This place seems to foster that sort of thing. Books aplenty with the occasional divine intervention. That’s so going on the marketing materials. You on board with that, Tom?”

“Oh yes. Yes I am. Alani, do you happen to have the realtor’s number handy?”

One walk-through, two hours, and countless document signatures later we were officially in contract to purchase Talk Story, with a closing date set for Tuesday, July 1st at 1 PM at the Kauai Coldwell Banker Realty office. Much like I had twenty-one years earlier, we all had to haul ass back to Kapaʻa in order to make our dinner reservation at Kauai Pasta, though this time we were a party of nine instead of three. We’d requested the same booth area, spilling over into the two additional sections in the same row that backed the wall. Tom and I, in an effort to be appropriately extra, ordered the exact same meal we’d ordered the day we met, but sat side-by-side instead of across from each other. Midway through the main course we turned to each other, smiling as our eyes met, and all the noise of friends and family faded into the background as we paused to remember, lost in our thoughts of days gone by, and I felt this monstrous rush of emotions…love, joy, peace, and so many more…and I was so…so…grateful. Granted, I was grateful every day, but this was an all-encompassing gratefulness, and I looked away for a moment to survey our friends, their children, and each of our own children in turn. Life is incredibly strange and unusual, even downright cruel at times, but like the weed-dealing kid in American Beauty said, “sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in”, and that’s where I was at in that moment, in the very same space that had fanned the flames of the spark that had emerged at Talk Story. Which we’d just bought. For nine-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all contents included. I turned my gaze back to Tom, my head tilting to the right.

“Did we, like, just actually buy a bookstore? As in, the bookstore we’ve always considered ‘our’ bookstore is now…our bookstore?”

He nodded, and I felt his hand first on my knee, then creeping up under my shorts. “We did. And while I’m thoroughly delighted with that particular development, I’m also a tad disappointed because we missed out on our restroom rendezvous this go-round. Care to christen this one instead?”

“Oh, that’s a bold move right there, Thomas. The ladies’ room is literally separated from this table by a single wall. I’ll go first, you get up five minutes later and lurk outside the door…I’ll leave it open a crack so I can keep watch. When the coast is clear I’ll pull you inside.” I lowered my voice, whispering in his ear. “And then I’ll, you know, pull you inside again. And again.”

He groaned quietly. “Woman. Cease. And go. Go now.”

I excused myself, and that five minutes seemed to take a thousand years. There was fire in his eyes when he shut and locked the door behind him, and without a word he turned me around, bent me over the sink, pulled off my shorts and underwear and fucked me so hard I couldn’t help but cry out his name as I came, which he muffled quickly by covering my mouth with his left hand, which made me come again. And again. He soon followed, leaning down and biting my clothed shoulder gently to stifle his own cries. After he pulled out I stood upright, and he leaned in to kiss me, sucking my tongue into his mouth as he zipped himself up, peeked out the door, then exited and darted into the men’s restroom next door. I used the facilities, washed up, and waited for three minutes after I heard him finish up and walk by. A sly grin spread wide across his face awaited me as I returned to the table, and as I sat down Sean asked if we’d be ordering desert. Simon, ever the obnoxious asshat, smirked and commented that he was reasonably sure that some of us had already had their desert, which left Sean puzzled, Mona and Seph disgusted, and Henry and Ez blushing like mad, which really got my Spidey Senses all a-tingle. Luke simply smiled at me, shrugging helplessly, and I sighed, nodding, both of us silently accepting yet again that yes, this was indeed the life we’d chosen.

As it happened, no desert was ordered…instead, we headed back to the beach house we’d rented on the Coconut Coast, in Anahola Beach Park, which was seven miles or so up from the Coconut Beach Marriott. With only four bedrooms, it meant the kids had to share, so Sean and Henry were in one room and Mona, Seph and Ez in another, but it was literally steps from the beach, totally private, and had a pool and a hot tub. All of that was lovely, but lovelier still was the item tucked away in the fridge…a two-tiered chocolate cake with layers of cheesecake filling, iced with white buttercream and decorated with green and purple fondant orchids. As Tom and I fed each other a slice, Simon smeared icing on the back of my neck. I retaliated by flinging a banana from a bowl on the counter in his direction because bananas are disgusting and there was no way I was wasting cake, and suddenly we were in the middle of an all-out food war that ended with all of us jumping into the pool fully clothed. Fun was had, at least until we clambered out of the water and got a gander at the current state of the formerly pristine kitchen. It was almost midnight by the time we finished cleaning up the mess we’d made, but we’d powered through by taking turns listening to our favorite playlists. Just as we’d begun to discuss our shower schedules, the first few notes of Adventure Of A Lifetime began to play. Without pausing to determine who was responsible for choosing it, Tom and I gravitated toward each other and began to dance, then sang, and as the song progressed we were joined by Simon, Sean, Henry, Ez, Mona, Seph and Luke. By the end we were essentially screaming the lyrics, a troupe of dancing fools bound by love and blood still sharing the same adventure, celebrating where we’d already been, exited for what we’d discover down the road. Everything you want’s a dream away…we are legends, every day.

Later on, after all the good-nights were said and Tom had passed out after our engaging in some seriously spectacular anniversary shenanigans, I found myself wide awake. I walked to the glass sliders and stared past the pool at the reflection of the moonlight on the waves, the ebb and flow of the ocean that had always, to me, seemed representative of the back and forth, the ups and downs…all the moments of our lives as we pass through them. And then, there they were…Henry and Ez, walking toward the pool, holding hands. They too stood gazing out at the waves, and released each other’s hands to slip their arms around each other’s waists. Without warning, since I wasn’t privy to their conversation, Henry leaned backward, face to the sky, laughing the laugh that I knew sounded so very much like his father’s. I could see them both shaking with mirth, and they quieted slowly, her hand rubbing his back. As I continued to watch, transfixed, she rested her head against him, and he turned to pull her into his arms, then leaned down to kiss her.

At that point what migh happen next was absofuckinglutely none of my business, so I turned around and headed back toward yet another temporary bed that contained the sleeping form of my personal, perfect, permanence, awash in moonlight. I was now more awake than ever, so I remained in a seated position next to him, my back resting against the headboard. He mumbled in his sleep, rolling over to drape his left arm across my lap. The desire to wake him up and share what I’d seen so I could have a ‘HA, I told you so’ moment was strong, but it was cast aside by a vivid memory from when Henry had been an infant. Tom had just returned from promoting Kong, and I, in my incredibly sleep deprived state, experienced an instance of déjà vu that evolved into a vision of me, at some point in the future, passing the sleeper Henry had been wearing that night to a young man. Back then, the voices I’d heard weren’t familiar, nor recognizable, but now…now they were, because I’d been listening to them all day long. I recalled that when I was still carrying him inside me, each time I’d held Ez, Henry had thrashed about wildly, something that had never occurred in such a fashion with anyone else. The entanglement particle theory came to mind, one that Tom had referenced in Only Lovers Left Alive, which Einstein had dubbed ‘spooky action at a distance’. If entwined particles become separated, even if they wind up at opposite ends of the universe, if one is altered or affected, the other will be identically altered or affected.

I started down at the ring on Tom’s left hand, and the two on my own, one which had been inscribed with two lines of text at the bequest of the man who’d become my husband twenty years ago. On the first was ‘Talk Story - 6/29/15 - Our Story’, and on the second, ‘My Light in the Mist’. I was, briefly, unable to breathe, feeling that I suddenly, and for certain, temporarily, understood life, the universe and everything.

Even in the darkest hour of our journey through this life, there’s light. You won’t see it in that moment, you might not see it for a long time afterward…but it’s there, hidden by darkness, and as the darkness begins to fade there will be tiny specks of it in the distance. Chase after them, because those specks – they’re hope. The fading darkness transitions to a thick fog, then a translucent mist…you may find yourself lingering there, in the in-between, reasonably content. Living, but with a sense of incompleteness that you can’t seem to define, are able to suppress, but can’t quite shake. That’s the light, reaching out for you. And one day, it will finally make contact. And if you’ll allow it, the light will take you by the hand and lead you out into the open where the sun can fully shine upon you again…or perhaps for the very first time. And I’m here to say…allow it. Grab that hand. Grab it with everything you have, and never let it go. No matter what, never, ever let it go.

- Maeve Curry, June 2015- July 2019

#chapter 53 #epilogue

33 notes · View notes

ashhdolll · 5 years ago

Text

One Semester

Part One

Have you ever made love before? Not that quick, rough, pumping sex you have after a night out and the high from that “You up?” text has got you going, no I’m talking about real love making. The love is writhing and rotating between the two of you, I mean you can FEEL it being created as your bodies do that familiar dance. You want more, they want more, because what you’re creating isn’t just physically pleasurable, it stimulates your whole being... See I’ve done that just once in my life before and it has fucked everything up for me every since.

Senior year of college in Greensboro all you want is a fucking blunt, a paycheck and your degree. That’s it. If you haven’t joined an organization by now don’t even worry about it, you’re officially almost nonexistent on campus and that’s how you wanted it to be.

While a good majority of my friends had graduated in May, my senior year had extended to the fall semester so I would have to wait until December to turn my tassel. The fall graduation also extended my living situation another year that I had not planned nor saved for and why would I? There was weed to buy nigga!

To help my parents pay for my rent I decided to return to my old fast food job, I won’t say which one but if you have four dollars and some change you had a nice meal that could hold you for two hours. It was my second go round working there (I had previously worked there my sophomore year) and the manager, Ms. B was just as much of a crazy pastor’s wife looking bitch as before. Just imagine Shirley Caesar 5’9 with permanent shoulder pads and Shenehneh’s wig-you see it? Okay, that was my manager, she was loud, mean, blunt, and still one of the best women I know. She was the type of grandmother that my sensitive soul couldn’t handle so God sent her to me in another way-every reprimand stung for me and I had to learn not to take it personally. She was strong and I loved that about her and she loved me too. I was great with the customers inside and even better with them when I worked the drive thru, coming back to that job was like riding a bike. Listening to an order with four number 3 meals, two large and two medium. Oh and can one of the drinks be a half and half vanilla/chocolate shake? She loved how I would shove the ice in the cups, pour drinks and begin taking another order all before the former car has even paid for their meal. I had to be like that or Ms. B was going to bitch me out in front of everyone and loudly too. Her voice was like the crack of the whip, almost everybody would jump or got into their respective places when they knew she was around or heard her coming. She noticed everything which always annoyed me when I would be trying to sneak a four piece nugget in my pocket to snack on so that I could soothe the hunger pains stabbing my stomach.

I worked five days a week and also had class five days a week so morning shift was my friend. Waking up at 7:30am just barely making it to the 8am shift was a real struggle for me, especially since my shift was supposed to start at the time I got up. But, I had gotten used to it, and at eight in the morning my work started. Slicing tomatoes, breaking up red onions, opening fresh packs of mayonnaise (six containers of each) and also making bacon.

Now the bacon was the hard part. In the morning it was a bit easier since we opened at 10am. If I had gotten to work at my scheduled time I may not have been so overwhelmed but it was my senior year and if I didn’t want to be in my class I needed to graduate what the hell did I look like rushing to work for less than $9 an hour?

There was a process to the bacon that is simply too long to explain. In verbatim, there are six sheet pans you use to cook the bacon in the oven at a time. Six pans = one tin container of bacon. Before morning shift starts, Ms. B wanted ten containers of bacon ready. Two for each sandwich maker and then another six on the side over a warmer filled with a a bit of boiling water-to keep it hot. It was a tiring process, bacon got too burnt? Put another six in, start again. Bacon not done yet? Keep it in for another three minutes then it’ll be perfect. But shit, I haven’t even starting putting the fucking mayo in smaller tins, gotta go to the free- ‘JADA DID YOU CUT UP THEM TOMATOES YET?’ Ms. B would yell that from her office, she knew I forgot. Lemme get these tomatoes. Slicing, slicing, slicing, putting them in the tin containers. Slicing, slicing slicing, more containers. Slicing, slicing, cut your left pointer finger. Red drips down and the pain is almost not there but at the same time you can feel it. “JADA IS THAT BACON BURNING??”

Got to start another six pans.

These were my mornings from May to December. It would usually just be me, Ms. B and another older lady, Ms. Lydia who for some reason enjoyed being Ms. B’s bitch although they were around the same age and same height. Always “yes ma’am”-ing her like a house slave. By 10am the orders started and I was always the one taking orders until about 11 or 11:30, making my job duties change to taking orders and money, washing dishes, cutting bacon to put in the fridge so that it’d be ready for whoever my replacement was and trying not to burn my final six pans of bacon.

Either Jessica or Devon would come in and take over taking orders while I rushed finished my other duties before 1:30pm which was when I was off because at 2pm, I had class. If Jessica was coming in, it was definitely going to be a giggle fest. The customers loved her and so did I. She was five foot even, had beautiful caramel skin was just a naturally beautiful woman with brown playful eyes. All types of men wanted her affection but her girlfriend was the apple of her eye, she couldn’t be swayed. From the moment I met her we clicked. From jokes, to relationships, to marijuana we meshed. It was like I was meant to be there with her to survive this job because she sure as hell made coming to work a lot easier. She had my back at work and outside of it and I always spoke up for her whenever Ms. B made a slick comment about her (She would always say “I don’t know why you and Jessica have to always be talkin’ back” ‘because you always talkin’ hoe’ was my telepathic response).

When Devon would come in, it was a “hi” and “bye” situation. I had avoided that particular burger joint my senior yet to hopefully wipe of greasy memories from working there as a sophomore so to come back was a little embarrassing. There were a few people I knew that were still working there but they weren’t in school. The Locals is what us college kids called them. The Locals weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Most had kids and were in their late 20s or early 30s. Making my stomach drop and forcing me to think “What’s next? What happens when December ends?”

Devon was A Local, born and raised in Greensboro and had went to college for a year before withdrawing-he was an In-Betweener. He was three years my senior but didn’t work there when I did previously yet he was an amazing worker. Always on point, always clear and fast too. He was about 5’10 and had a very strong build, but you knew he also indulged in an extra slice of cake or two. Not chubby but solid. A man. Skin the perfect walnut color with a full low black beard, not that scraggly at all. Devon wore glasses, black frames and square and his work hat covered his completely shaved head. I’ve always liked guys that knew having a shaved head was much better than sporting a barely there hairline or premature balding. Completely shaving it all off told me that that particular man was realistic and in touch with what is. I like people like that, who don’t live in a fantasy and know how to accept things how they are.

Devon was attractive, plain & simple. But was he my type? The hell if I knew, I didn’t think I had a type. After a break up with my boyfriend of two and a half years I didn’t give a fuck about a “type”. Give me liberty or give me dick. But I had gotten tired of the random, late night fucks. It’s great, don’t get me wrong, but having someone that loves you after he orgasms is the thing I missed the most. I was tired of dealing with men in general and my focus was on graduating and paying my rent. Everything else in between that was a distraction.

Anyway, Devon was a dweeb for sure. When he’d take orders sometimes he’d change his accent. Going from a terrible ‘English’ accent to an even worse ‘African’ accent. He mostly took orders in his normal voice but on occasion when he was extra bored he’d switch up to entertain himself. His Johnny Cash impression was pretty good though.

We had been working together for about two and a half months. By that time I stayed away from almost every side conversation that came my way if it wasn’t from Jessica. I just wanted to work these measly six hours and go the fuck home, nothing more, nothing less. I’d speak to Devon in passing. (“Can I get some ice please?” “He says his burger was supposed to have no ketchup, not no mustard” “Can I get a small fry please?” ) and he was always so helpful. I appreciated it immensely. When things were busy we’d bump into each other at the fry station-it was very tight over there no more than about three feet of space. Everyone was always squeezing, knocking and prodding into one another’s rib cage. Devon would fill up a carton of fries while simultaneously elbowing my tit as I waited to stand over the hot bulbs and get my carton of fries. Other days I couldn’t wait and I’d have to force myself to get there, if he was standing there I’d lightly touch his back to let him know he was about to get pushed out of the way. I couldn’t wait to go home and smoke.

When we had slow moments we’d chat. Or rather they’d talk while I eavesdropped and cleaned my area, because if you weren’t cleaning or stocking something Ms. B would ask you why. Now you standing there looking lazy and stupid. I learned in life that it’s best for you to do what you know needs to be done without someone telling you to. I was cleaning around front counter after the lunch crowd cleared out. The lunch rush is what you fear and also what you thank God for because it allowed three hours to go by and you were really working. No jokes, no kikis, straight up labor.

As I was cleaning up, Devon and the sandwich maker that day Ahmad were joking around like guys do and ended up on the subject of Spongebob Squarepants, which then leads Devon into a ballad of ‘Striped Sweater’.

‘What in the fuck...’ I think to myself. I had to turn away to keep from laughing in their faces. These grown niggas singing a song from a cartoon. Graduate me please. It wasn’t so silly that I was annoyed but it was silly because I hadn’t seen that type of carelessness and vulnerability before from a guy since my break up. A lot of men in college I surrounded myself with were professionals in training. Already thinking about what they were going to do next when I myself hadn’t even started to think about what’s happening right in front of me. But that also made them stiff to me-as if they cared too much about how the world was going to perceive them once they left the university world. I’m sure Devon was not attempting to portray himself as carefree, he was just singing a song from memory. He was just being himself, a funny and unapologetic square who loved Christian hip hop. But that’s when I finally noticed him. He was watching me think because when I turned his way he quickly looked around and pressed on his headset-oh he’s just taking an order. No words come out. Yeah, he was watching me.

The days went by and we would talk more and more. Little bids here and there. His quirkiness & sweetness made me feel good. I didn’t know it then but that’s how I felt. One day, during our shift while it was slow and we were talking he asks “Do you have a Facebook?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“Okay type your name in and then I’ll add you”

And so it began. So not only was I able to see Devon at work, but I’d come home, take a shower and see what post he’d tag me in, reactions to my statuses. I’d see comments on my pictures “You think you cute” “Lips!!” It was fun. Playing that little game. See I’m not stupid, men are men. He looks good, I look good, I mean come on. As fun as this was I knew we were going to get down to business-real business. Grown business. He was still living with his family on the other side of Greensboro and I had my own place. ‘Let me know when you’re ready for me because I am’ was the aura I was beginning to give off to him. I knew he wanted it but didn’t know what to say or how to initiate it properly. He was treading lightly and I appreciated it so I decided to take the reins and invite him over.

The first time he came over I wasn’t nervous. It was going to be my own research project as to why or why not he deserved to be inside me. We were just going to watch something on TV, snack, talk about work and then he’d leave and I’d make my decision from there. I had been off that day but had already showered a crowded library and the gym stench from my tired body. I very much wanted to reschedule his presentation but it would’ve been my third time rescheduling with him and I knew he wouldn’t have came over at all if I pushed it to another day-a guy has his limits. Plus I figured the visit would be short, no more than an hour then back to my blunt and Netflix. A modern romance.

A text then knock at the door alerted me of Devon’s presence. My roommates were gone so I had the apartment to myself for a while with no distractions so I could really make my decision. I opened the door and there he was, fresh off work in his all black uniform. The stench of grease and old meat filled my nostrils and apartment making my stomach turn. I smiled.

“Hey how are you?” I asked motioning for him to come in further.

“I’m good, just tired.” He said while coming in and standing over me. Devon was inches away and I could smell the nuggets he ate on his breath. I looked up at him and realized how much taller than me his when I don’t have my work shoes. I felt little, but safe. He give me a nice warm hug I lowkey didn’t want because now my Dove body wash was getting mixed with grease. As he pulled away he took off his book bag and work shoes and his height fell two inches-that’s better. I looked down as saw three holes in his socks but didn’t say anything, nor did he. He was tired and took the bus to faithfully to make it to work and home every day. ‘I’ll buy him some more’ I thought to myself.

I walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge, “You want some juice?” I ask. I had bought some just for him because he loves sweet drinks. Sodas, juice, ICEE’s, whatever. As long as it had some type of simple syrup in it, that nigga was gonna drink it. No answer. I turned and looked back at him and caught him looking at me. Like it was the first time he’d really seen me. And technically it was, he’d never seen my outside of work or outside of a picture on whatever social media account. No, he was looking at me now. The at home Jada. The Jada that very rarely wears a bra or panties at home and who has much more under her work uniform then he guessed. Whose skin shines with moisturizer instead of sweat from work, the tattoos he didn’t know she had on that pretty brown skin. He was seeing me for the first time and I knew he liked what he saw. I liked that he liked it.

“Huh” he said.

If you can ‘huh’ you can hear. “Do you want some juice?” I asked again.

“Yea that’s cool”

I dipped my head into the fridge to cool my face and pretend to look around for the one juice that was sitting in front of me. The heat from my face was matching the heat downtown where my second brain (aka vagina) was located.

He sat on the couch and patiently waited as I poured his drink. Talking about some sports notification he got on his phone-like I gave a fuck. As I brought him his cup of juice he reached into his book bag and pulled out a bag of food from our job and traded me. I opened I sat next to him and I saw that it was filled with four chocolate chip cookies from our job. It costs ninety-nine cents to add to any meal and customers rarely took advantage of it. I picked up the slack for their obliviousness and stole cookies whenever the coast was clear. Devon would help and drop them in my bag when I’d be leaving for class. He knew they were my favorite.

I smiled again. Two smiles in less than five minutes? Yes it’s a wrap. “Thank you, I appreciate it” I told him.

“You’re welcome big heed”

I rolled my eyes, this nigga is so corny I love it. “How was work today?”

He sucked his teeth, “Man you know how it is, Ms. B yelling, hungry construction workers, annoying college kids like you.” He smirked at the end and looked at me out of the side of his eye.

“What the hell ever.” I softly nudged him.

The TV was turned to Family Feud and he seemed interested but I was not. Steve Harvey and his constant disbelief at outlandish answers was getting old but I put up with it for the sake of nostalgia.

We chatted, watched TV and showed each other things on our phone. Devon gulped down his juice and set it on my mama’s wooden coffee table. “Your place is nice”, he observed, “You don’t stay by yourself do you?”.

“No”, I answered “I have two roommates but one is moving out in a couple weeks.”

“Are they here now?”

“No”

Silence. Thinking. Thinking about us here alone together. Wondering.Things could happen, they should. Back to reality.

“Do you wanna watch anything else?” I asked him and handed him the roommate.

He took it from me and put it back on the coffee table. “Nah I don’t mind watching this”, he says and he wrapped his arm around me.

Ahh shit. I hadn’t been this close to a male body fully clothed in a minute. Although he smelled like an air fryer he felt so soft and firm. I relaxed but still squirmed under his arm. Not out of being uncomfortable but to give some sort of relief to my pulsating lower brain. This moment had been brewing since we started talking outside of work. The slick comments, innuendos and fake eye rolls had all lead up to this. As soon as Devon pulled me to him, the faucet turned on. Baby she was ready, begging, yearning almost. She needed it. Now.

“You good?” He asked and looked at me. We were so fucking close I could smell the last of the sweet juice on his breath. His pouty full lips were inches away. So no my nigga, I am not good and I would like your lips on both sets of mine, please and thanks.

“Yea, I’m fine” I croaked out. Perfect now I sound like a twelve year-old.

“Mhm okay.” He said still looking at me. Or in me rather because he was looking deep into my eyes. As if my eyes were going to give him the answer to a question he just thought of asking. With his left arm around me he held my face with his right and kissed me deep but gentle (that’s how all of our encounters would be...). Firm enough to let me know he was a grown man but also soft enough to let me know he knew how to take his time. It was like kissing a plump cloud, very soft and I needed more. The kiss went from sweetness to straight up lust in a flash. I pushed myself up to give more mouth and he pressed right back into it. Opening his mouth slightly I went in for the kill and slipped my tongue into his mouth. Tracing it and he held on to my face. He tasted so sweet. The kiss continued and an electric shock went down to the middle of my green sweatpants. I moaned in his mouth. He moaned back. The front door swung open.

It was my roommate that was moving and her boyfriend. And here I was in her couch pre-best orgasm of my life sucking face. Welcome home. Me and Devon quickly separated out of embarrassment and also gratefulness. Had they come five minutes later we would have been much more than roommates, definitely family.

“Hey how are y’all doing?” I asked sweetly. I know we looked nuts, my shirt was twisted, we’re breathing heavy, it smells like fries in here. She’s gonna call the fucking cops on me. We had only been leaving together for a few weeks. We barely spoke or saw each other because she was in nursing school. Gone early in the morning, coming in in the evening and going straight to bed. She didn’t even use the kitchen. A quiet girl who never interfered, I hope she’s doing well. Devon and I scooted away from each other slightly to look more comfortable and less like humping rabbits.

“Good, you?” She said with some surprise in her voice and eyes. Her boyfriend glanced quickly then looked straight ahead making a beeline for Jordan’s room. I didn’t answer and watched as she shuffled behind him. Good, hurry up and get the fuck in your room. I wanted to turn the desire up a few more notches in here. It was early September and in Greensboro the breeze begins to get crisper in the evenings. The cold air they brought in when they opened the door turned the heat down that we had generated.

Bruce Banner was back.

As the door closed to Jordan’s room I looked at him and smiled. He kissed me again and held my face. “You’re so pretty with those dimples.”

I cheesed harder. Marry me.

Devon released my face and checked his phone. “I gotta go lil mama.”

My heart broke. Not really but the one in my vagina sure did. If the sex was like the kiss it was definitely going to give me what I needed, and wanted.

‘Just ask him if he wanna fuck you from behind in the doorway real quick’, my Lower Brain whispered.

‘Calm the fuck do-well that’s not a bad idea, I don’t think my other roommate is going to be home for a -no. Stop, just relax.’ my Actual Brain decided.

“Oh, well alright. Can you come by again tomorrow?” I asked him hopefully. He stood up and walked to put his shoes back on and I followed. As I walked it felt like a puddle of lust was in between my legs. Send help.

Devon turned and looked down at me, pulling me close to him by my waist. I could feel the hardness in his pants slowly depleting.

Lower Brain, “Girl that’s just how he gon look when y’all fuck’

RB: Bitch, I know I can’t wait, shut up!’

He kissed me deep again, but quick, so he wouldn’t get us both started again. “I can’t do tomorrow, but Tuesday after I get off at five I can come by.”

LB: Tuesday is a day and a half away, you sure you’ll be okay?

“That’s perfect”, I said looking up at him. “I’m out of class out 4:45.”

And it really was perfect. I’m always out of class around 4:45, he’s off at 5pm but when you work in fast food, you’re never really going to get off at your scheduled time. At five is when you begin to have an attitude because your replacement is taking their time getting to your position to relieve you or they haven’t shown up at all yet-oh and people are still ordering because they have no idea there’s a shift change taking place through the intercom. Then the complaining to whatever manager on duty starts which is when they realize they have to let you go. After stocking up your replacement, stuffing burgers, cookies or even a salad into the bag you brought with you to work and getting your complimentary drink it was finally time to clock out. See by that time it’d be around 5:45pm, Devon would let me know he was on the way or outside and I’d already be showered, shaved and ready to finish what we started.

“Perfect.” I love the fast food industry.

#ashleysimonee story #ashleysimonee #ashhdolll #ashhdoll story

1 note · View note

bald-tales · 6 years ago

Text

Witness Protection at the Bears Den by Titan

Part 2 Ken was busy cleaning up after his last customer. It was nearly 5.00pm, and Ken had closed his Barbershop early. He’d had a call from his old friend, Dan Kellters asking if he could bring his boss around at 5 to discuss a business proposition. This had definitely sparked Ken’s curiosity; especially as Dan outlined it was to do with his makeover of ‘Luke’ that Dan had witness the last time he was in their bar. Ken didn’t know much about Dan’s work – something about a private detective agency. He’d remembered Dan saying his boss was quite the stud, and his suspicions he might be gay. Suddenly there was a light knock on the back door. Hmm! Their using the back alley, Ken thought to himself. It must be a very secretive proposition. Opening the door at the back of the shop, his big friend Dan stood, dwarfing the most fuckable man Ken had ever laid eyes on. Standing at about 5’ 7, and wearing an expensive looking dark suit, Dan introduced Ken to his boss, “Ken this is Jerrod O’Leary”. “Pleased to meet you Jerrod”, replied Ken, holding on to Jerrod’s’ hand a little longer than necessary. This guy had the blondest hair, well styled, with the bangs falling forward. His eyes were deep blue, and he wore a neatly trimmed moustache, as blonde as his hair. He looked like he spent many hours in the gym- which became more evident when he took his jacket off. Jerrod was also surprised with Ken, as the door had opened. He had the same shaved head as Dan, just as big a frame standing well over 6’3 with an enormous belly falling over his trousers. This wasn’t the sort of Barber he’d expected. Not that Jerrod had stepped into a Barbershop recently, his hair was always cut at a salon downtown, he was very particular about who went near his hair. It was nearing 6 o’clock, and the three men seemed to be getting along, like old time friends. Jerrod had finished his third beer, noticing how great it tasted. He felt very relaxed, and was starting to trust these two bald guy’s more and more. “Ken, I think I’m going to have to use the bathroom, that beer has gone straight through me”, smiled Jerrod starting to rise from one of the waiting area chairs. “Sure thing! Straight up those stairs, first door on the right.” answered Ken as he went to a small fridge to get some more beers. As Jerrod went upstairs, Ken offered a beer to Dan. “I had no idea you were involved in anything like this Dan, I mean the NCF for fucks sake, who would have thought!” “That’s the exact reason why no one must know about the exact nature of our company,” Dan replied taking a gulp of his beer, adding, “Do you think Jerrod’s going to let you come on board, he seems a little against your methods.” “Jerrod’s going to be agreeing with me more and more, you wait and see”. Dan realised Ken had an ace up his sleeve. Ken smiled, looking at their beer bottles. “Let’s just say that Jerrod's beer is a different flavour to ours. Cheers!” Dan smiled to himself. He now realised his boss didn’t stand a chance against his good friend, Ken. Dan felt a little sorry for Jerrod; he knew he was just the type Ken liked, but way too preppy for Dan. Then he thought, to hell with it, his boss had been on his case continually, acting so superior, looking down on Dan. Jerrod returned, looking a little drunk. Ken offered him another beer, “I really shouldn’t;” Before Jerrod could say any more, Ken interrupted,” Drink the beer Boy!” Jerrod felt he should, but why? As he took another mouthful, he couldn’t believe how great it tasted; no, he knew he’d have to finish this bottle. Ken then asked, “So Jerrod, would you let me work for your company, I’m sure I could guarantee no one would find any client I worked on.” Jerrod didn’t want to insult his host; however he was still not sure of this whole arrangement. “I’m still not convinced it is safe for our clients, especially the guy we receive this week. Our company’s very survival depends on his!” Dan spoke now,” As I explained, Jerrod, in the past no one has ever tried to hide the witness in their own home town. If we could alter the client mentally and physically, who would expect them to be living under the very noses of their prey”. They were all startled by a loud knock at the front door. Right on queue, Ken thought to himself, as he went to unlock the door. Jerrod was startled to see an overweight middle aged guy, standing in the doorway. He had the reddest beard, matching the hair that remained in a perfect ring around the side of his head. “Jerrod, meet Lucas, formerly Luke. Dan, I believe you’ve already met,” Ken said, locking the door and showing the huge bear into the shop. “Pleased to meet you son,” replied Lucas shaking Jerrod’s hand roughly. “Go grab a beer for yourself, Lucas,” Ken said cheerily. As the huge bear went to the fridge, Ken produced a driver’s license and offered it to Jerrod. “That was Lucas a week ago”, Ken said quietly. Seeing Jerrod’s eyes widen, he added, “That’s exactly the kind of work I’m capable of.” Jerrod looked at Dan with a glazed look on his face. “You believe this, I mean – you saw it happen?” “Sure did, boss. I told you Ken’s a magician. This is just the break we need!” Jerrod turned back to look at Lucas. “But, isn’t this a little extreme. I don’t think the NCF would condone altering even a witness this much!” Ken spoke up, “Let me work for you, Jerrod. You know you want me to.” Despite his initial fears, something told him to trust this man. In fact, if he didn’t know better he was starting to find Ken attractive, and his generous cock was telling him the same thing. Part 3 Jerrod still wasn’t sure about letting Ken work for him. Part of him found it easy to follow anything he said. What he didn’t know was that a powerful drug was already in his bloodstream, going straight to the brain. It wasn’t so much a love potion – they don’t exist do they? But it did effect emotions and free will, and if enough was consumed, permanent changes would occur. So far, Jerrod had consumed more than enough to cause some changes, the biggest; his new attraction to Ken. What no one knew about Ken was his interest in chemistry and physics. He’d got a degree in it whilst studying at Uni 20 years ago. And he still studied privately whenever he could, testing various drugs and special concoctions in a cellar under the shop. “Let me work on your client, you won’t be sorry.” Ken suddenly spoke up. “I’d like to work with you Jerrod, and I think you’d like to work with me.” As he stroked his beard, he looked deep into Jerrod’s eyes. He knew Jerrod was his. Jerrod couldn’t say no, despite his fears. He wanted to see more of this man, he just had to, “Sure, it’s a deal.” Dan smiled to himself, ‘that was easy’. “How about I give you a haircut on the house as a thank you?” asked Ken, now hoping to get this stud into his chair. “A haircut? I don’t think I really need one do I? returned a shocked Jerrod. “There’s way to much hair on top. You need a real Barber, not some expensive stylist. With your current look you just don’t fit in around here, and if your going to be coming down here regularly, your going to have to look more like one of my customers.” Ken said already running a comb through Jerrod´s hair. Jerrod felt electricity when that comb touched his hair. He loved his hair but a chance to get closer to this man- he was just about willing to do anything he said – but why? Dan spoke up after remaining quiet for most of the time, “His right boss! You sure would stand out around here.” “Maybe your right,” Jerrod said, looking at Dan now. “But nothing as extreme as you guys, I mean on you it looks great, but I don’t think I could carry a bald head.” He’d never really liked the look, always happy there was no history of hair-loss in his family. “Leave it to me, Boy!” I know what’s good for you, don’t I Dan?” said Ken as he winked at Dan. Jerrod smiled, but thought it odd Ken called him ‘boy’. Not that it mattered, if this macho stud wanted to call him boy, than boy it is. Dan knew Jerrod was in for one of Ken’s ‘special’ haircuts – he was going to enjoy this; it was high time this egotistical ‘kid’ was taught a few lessons. How Jerrod had even been able to head the business was a mystery. Dan thought he had heard a rumour about being left his wealthy parents estate. Ken was using his 0000 attachment on his Wahl heavy duty clippers. He’d already started his assault on Jerrod’s hair. He’d began to shear off the thick hair from the neck taking the clippers up higher and higher. Jerrod felt strangely nervous and excited as he felt those clipper teeth make contact with his skin. The vibrations, the warmth of the blade, how could he have been missing out on this for so long! Here he was, sitting in the old-fashioned Barber’s chair, he couldn’t believe how easily he’d got up on it – maybe it was because of Ken’s gentle coaxing, he seemed to know what he was doing. Still, those clippers seemed to be taking most of his hair off. “Ken.” Jerrod carefully asked. “Your shaving all my hair off are you?” “Relax Boy, I’m just making sure you fit in around here, your still going to have way more hair than Dan and myself. If anyone around here found out you worked for the NCF, you’d be in deep shit! Now sit back, you don’t want to disappoint me do you?” Jerrod shook his head. He only wanted to please Ken; he didn’t want any trouble with outsiders, Ken was only protecting him. Still, even though Ken had the chair facing away from the mirror, Jerrod knew this was going to be one serious haircut. Ken had removed the bulk of Jerrod’s hair on the sides now, taking off his carefully styled sideburns, Dan couldn’t believe the transformation already. Ken changed attachments on his clippers and started to attack the hair on top of Jerrod’s head. He took the Clippers from the front hairline straight through the forest of soft hair, removing everything in their path. It looked to Dan that he was leaving a 2 inch width of hair down the middle of the scalp, “Wow, Kens giving him a fucking Mohawk, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He was really getting off on this, he was massaging his 8 inch fat, cock like it was the first time he’d ever touched it. Ken made short work of the remaining hair, finally switching off the clippers and giving his work a critical look. Going back to the counter, he decided to use the 00000 attachment . He was going to leave the blonde stubble but after seeing the result of the Mohawk, he knew this boy had to be shaved smooth. Ken was now busy applying heavy hair wax to the newly styled hawk. Picking up the scissors he placed a hand on Jerrod’s shoulder, leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Jerrod hungrily kissed back, not believing his luck. It looked like this gentle giant wanted him as much as he wanted liked Ken. It certainly made Jerrod forget about what was happening to his beautiful hair. He thought the clippers had shaved him bald, but then he felt Ken applying some product and running it through the hair on top. “Your going to look real hot, Boy!” whispered Ken as he broke away from Jerrod’s lips. And with that, Ken carefully cut most of the length off the hawk, leaving about 2 inches of hair standing. Ken surveyed his work, “just a few more changes I think”. He applied a warm towel around the buzzed areas. Soon, Jerrod could feel warm cream being spread over his head. What came next, almost made Jerrod jump, until Ken told him to stay perfectly still. Ken was using a straight-edge razor on his head; the scrittching sound of hair and lather being removed, was a new experience for Jerrod. Ken had said he would still keep his hair, but here he was, making him as bald as he was. Jerrod, didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say something; but it kind of felt good. His cock was growing harder with each pass of the razor. As radical as this was, if Ken looked good with a bald head, maybe he would as well. Still, he’d always loved his long thick hair; how would he look? Ken was finishing up, going over any area he missed, tightening up the line where the hair began. Turning the chair towards the mirror, Jerrod could finally see the final product. He couldn’t believe it. He still had hair after all, but only down the middle of his head, the rest was shaved to the skin, in fact there was no shadow due to his blonde hair colouring. It was radical to say the least but Jerrod had to admit it gave him a slight edgy look. Before he could say anything to Ken, he felt the chair being tipped back. “That mo of yours doesn’t look right now, let’s give you a different look.” Ken said, and with that, he placed a hot towel around Jerrod’s face. “But I like my moustache, I’ve had it for years,” spoke Jerrod through the towel. “I’m not getting rid of it son, just enhancing it”, said Ken opening a small bottle and tipping it on to the area around Jerrod’s nose. Jerrod could feel the warmth of the towel, it made him feel relaxed. Surely Ken wasn’t shaving off his moustache, then it didn’t matter because he fell into a deep sleep.

7 notes · View notes

imjustthemechanic · 7 years ago

Photo

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black Part 13/? - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/? - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/? - A Favour Part 16/? - A Knock on the Window Part 17/? - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/? - Books of Alchemy Part 19/? - The Answers Part 20/? - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/? - Santorini Part 22/? - What the Doves Found Part 23/? - A Thief in the Night Part 24/? - Healing Part 25/? - Newton’s Code Part 26/? - Montenegro Part 27/? - The Lost Relic Part 28/? - The Homunculinus Part 29/? - The End is Near Part 30/? - The Face of Evil Part 31/? - The Morning After Part 32/? - Next Stop Part 33/? - A Sighting in Messina Part 34/? - Taormina Part 35/? - Burning Part 36/? - Recovery Part 37/? - Pilgrimage to Vesuvius Part 38/? - The Scent of Hell Part 39/? - She’ll be Coming Down the Mountain Part 40/? - Stowaways Part 41/? - Bon Voyage Part 42/? - Turnabout Part 43/? - The Apple

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

For a moment there was silence. It was Sir Stephen who broke it.

“If we are to agree,” he said, “then there must be one thing I insist upon.”

“And what’s that?” Newton asked cautiously.

“You must make no more of those.” He nodded at the Steward homunculus. “And you must give me the remains you have used as a template, so I may have them properly interred on English soil. That man was my friend, Sir James Buckeye, and I am weary of seeing his face everywhere and having it not know me.”

Newton looked at the steward, then at Jim, then at Sir Stephen again. Sir Stephen nodded gravely. He was sitting up straight, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, and he looked like a rock in the face of a storm.

“Very well,” said Newton. “The remains aren’t here, though – they’re at my workshop in Athens. I’ll give them to you when we’re finished in Barcelona.”

“I would like some token, to show that you mean it,” said Sir Stephen.

Newton beckoned the Steward homunculus to come closer. It obeyed, whereupon Newton stood, and reached to pinch the man’s throat on either side of the windpipe. The empty uniform dropped to the ground in a puff of gray dust.

Jim quickly lowered his head. He hadn’t wanted to see that, but now he was too late not to.

“Is that token enough?” asked Newton.

“It will do,” Sir Stephen decided.

Natasha had never been on a cruise ship. She’d travelled by boat, as both passenger and crew, but never in this sort of luxury, and she was out of practice at elegant dining. The CAAP had eaten with royalty a couple of times, but even that wasn’t this formal – her Majesty the Queen preferred to eat good wholesome food with her family and would drink brandy until she was telling bawdy jokes and somebody had to send the children to bed early. Here there was a string quartet playing, waiters were constantly at their elbow to top up her wine glass, and the room was full of the murmur of quiet conversations and the clink of silver and crystal.

As he’d promised, Newton had pulled some strings to get them a room they didn’t have to share with the Contessa’s menagerie, and had even found them some evening wear, apparently at shops on board the ship. Nat was wearing a pink cocktail dress with a matching purse, and Sharon was in a powder blue gown that could have been fresh off a Milan runway. Sir Stephen’s tuxedo was a little too small for him, so he was moving very carefully as he ate, worried about tearing it. Allen, not a formal diner by nature, barely dared move at all. Jim’s long hair was pulled back in a man-bun and he’d shaved, and in a tux Nat had to admit he looked very good indeed.

“So the apple,” Sam said.

“The apple!” Newton laughed. He was in a suit and tie, although his own long hair hung down, and for the first time he was not wearing a hat. Nat was a little disappointed to find that he wasn’t bald on top. “I never expected that to end up being the story I was famous for. It came from an argument with one of my students. I was trying to explain that the same force which causes things to fall on Earth also keeps things moving in the heavens, and he simply refused to understand. The thought experiment with the cannon was doing nothing for him. He said that when he shook a tree, the apples fell down, rather than going into orbit – so I picked up an apple and threw it, and asked him to imagine that it kept going so fast that by the time it reached where the ground ought to be, the ground had curved away from it, and he finally understood!

“Then I thought,” Newton went on, “what is the apple? What does it mean?” He looked expectantly around the table.

“Knowledge?” offered Allen.

“Yes, exactly!” Newton nodded, a smile on his face. “The apple which opened the eyes of Adam and Eve to the truth! You see, people think alchemists are a bunch of superstitious fools, finding correspondences in things and basing all their practices around them, but you can’t argue when it works! Thereafter I used a falling apple as an example of something under the influence of gravity, and the rest of the story, that one had hit me on the head and inspired me, grew all on its own.” He snorted. “I think people like to find outside explanation’s for a great man’s insights. It makes them feel better that they don’t share his genius.”

Nat was still nervous. This was all too nice. Maybe it was just that she’d never been at a formal dinner where something wasn’t going on behind the scenes, but the idea that they were all just friends now seemed absurd. Was she too comfortable with secrets, that she couldn’t feel at ease with open-ness?

Despite her nervousness, though, she still looked perfectly at ease as she sipped her wine. “What are you going to do with your gold, once you get it?” she asked. “Is there something you’re planning to spend it on, or are you just going to make a big heap and sit on it?”

“Oh, I’m not going to make gold, actually,” said Newton. “The Philosopher’s Stone can make anything, as long as its structure is fairly simple. I’m going to use it to create large perfect sapphires for interstellar lasers.”

Natasha had been about to ask him where the feather from the Holy Dove came in, but her train of thought abruptly derailed when he started talking in terms of actual science. “I’m sorry?” she asked, not sure she’d heard right.

“You’re… you’re trying to communicate with aliens?” asked Sam, equally astonished.

“Yes!” said Newton. “Alchemy is nothing but a search for the truth, for the templates of nature, as you so eloquently put it yourselves. Other beings in the cosmos must be doing the same thing, and their templates will be slightly different, because their DNA is different, their language is different, their whole way of codifying information must be different, and it’s the codification that gives information power. Think what we could learn from each other?”

“Alien alchemists.” Sam shook his head. “There’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear.”

Nat caught Sir Stephen’s eye. He gave a slight nod, and she returned it. He was worried, too. She tried Allen next, and found he still hadn’t touched his vichyssoise.

“It’s soup, Dad,” she murmured. “You’re supposed to eat it.”

“It’s cold,” he replied.

“It’s supposed to be,” said Nat. “Blame the French.”

He picked up his spoon. “I think you’ve been living in Britain too long, Ginger Snap,” he said.

“Not really,” she replied. “The French have a lot to answer for. Mayonnaise, for example.”

Allen chuckled, then had to raise his voice as the string quartet bowed before taking a break, and applause filled the room. “So are you going to marry Jim?” he asked.

He’d intended it to be a private question, but the applause ended a little too soon, and he spoke the words marry Jim into the silence left behind. The other people at the table turned to look at him and Nat, and Jim himself muttered a curse as he banged his elbow on the edge of the table in his surrise.

“Sorry,” said Allen quickly. “What I meant was… well, obviously it’s up to you.” He was speaking quietly now, but it was too late – everybody was already listening, including some people at neighbouring tables. “But I wanted to say, don’t do it just for the soul thing. If you’re going to marry him, be sure that you love him.”

“Dad,” Nat said. Didn’t he realize he was just forcing his foot further and further down his throat?

He seemed to, but he was determined to continue regardless. “What I’m saying is, don’t rush. Newton said he could live a long time, so don’t feel you have to hurry. Your mother and I knew each other for two years before we settled down.”

“Dad,” she repeated.

“We figured if we could put up with each other that long, fight, and forgive each other, then we were okay for lie.”

“Dad!” Nat insisted. “Just… please stop.” She held up a hand between them, as if to physically block his words.

Allen turned red. “Sorry,” he said, and took a big mouthful of his cold soup.

Unfortunately, Sir Stephen decided to chime in. “I have thought for the beginning that Buckeye would have liked you, Natalie,” he said. “He would have approved the match. Jim, I know you said you do not care what Buckeye would have thought, but I know he would have felt responsible for you, as for a younger brother or even a son.”

Jim was still rubbing his elbow. “You know what?” he asked. “Nat’s right. Just stop.”

The other people at the table – and at a couple of nearby tables – laughed. The strangers around them might not understand the situation, but they could tell that somebody was having their relationship discussed in public by friends and family, and laughed to ease the tension. Natasha laughed too, because her own anxiety was high. It didn’t help.

After dinner there was a comedian performing in the ship’s theatre, and more dancing in the piazza. The big-screen TVs in the Orion Pub were showing a soccer game. The spa and casino were open for business. There were a million options for people who wanted to enjoy themselves, but Nat wasn’t interested in any of them. She went out onto the Lido Deck where the last light of sunset was still visible in the sky, and leaned on the railing at the back of the ship, watching the stars come out to the east. The lights of Naples, or at least of the Italian coastline, were still just barely visible on the horizon.

Sir Stephen joined her. “This isn’t right,” he said.

“You noticed,” Nat observed. The dry sarcasm covered up her relief – she’d been itching to have a conversation about it, but couldn’t do so in front of Newton and Desrosiers. She was actually surprised they’d let her leave.

“Newton is luring us into a trap, and Madame Desrosiers as well,” Sir Stephen said. “We are all trapped already, here on this ship with the land far away. It is a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.”

“Yes, yes it is,” Natasha agreed. “I’ve been thinking. If Newton wants to destroy civilization using the philosopher’s stone, could he do it on a ship? We’re out in the middle of nowhere with nobody to stop him. He said himself that we’ll be at sea all day tomorrow. What if he makes the stone right here and uses the ocean somehow? We’re on a fault line. It’s not as convenient as a volcano, but it might still work.”

“I think it more likely he means to destroy the ship,” said Sir Stephen. “Or to abandon it and return to Naples, leaving us all stranded and unable to stop him.”

“If he can get off, we can get off,” said Nat. “He would have to do something to be sure we couldn’t follow him.” The idea of sinking the ship seemed plausible enough. Newton wouldn’t care about all the people on board – they would just get a head start on his end of the world.

The sky to the east was quite dark now. The lights of the Scorpio II, with its many rooms, clubs, and parties, meant that only the very brightest stars were visible, and it was also possible to see a glint of orange sunlight, illuminating the summit of Mount Vesuvius.

#fanfic #steve rogers #natasha romanov #clint barton #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sharon carter

4 notes · View notes

squaredancing-weston · 8 years ago

Text

para || West Anderport: If the Shirt Fits, 1/31/2017

Tagging: @mr-blainderson @shakespeareanporter and @squaredancing-weston

Time: Tuesday afternoon, 31 January 2017

Setting: Lima Mall, Lima, OH

Summary: Spencer and Blaine head to the mall to update Spencer’s wardrobe, and Brody tags along to help Blaine pick out a purse to train Bing with

Part 3

Brody

Brody quirked an eyebrow in surprise at Blaine, "Really? Didn't know you had that in you, Blaine. Have you and Bas been experimenting with possession or something. Do you feel the need to rotate your head in a 360 at any time?" he ribbed. "I don't know Spencer-- without mud or oils or something, I feel like it would lack the proper appeal." He scoffed lightly at Spencer's joke. "Sorry-- ranching out in the Bay is more of a white collar agriculture, and we dress the part," he replied. "You want the redneck plaid-flannel types, you can stop by Scandals or one of the farms around here. I'm sure they'll be more than willing to accommodate you." Brody tilted his head as the two boys spoke. "How can you even tell?" he questioned, glancing at the red. "I mean, who looks //bad// in red?" Pinks or pastels or something, he understood, but how people couldn't pull off basic colors was a strange concept-- that, granted, Brody didn't spend a lot of time thinking about, but still.

He gave a dry laugh at Blaine's comments. "Thanks-- I'm good. I'll shake things up when they need to be shook," he added, leaning back comfortably in his seat. "You know, Spence, I considered it, but those highwaters just chafe my boots, and the suspenders don't really go with my dance clothes. Maybe next year. Although I do have a walker, so at least I don't need to get that-- it's got little streamers on the handles," he laughed, holding out his hands demonstrating his grip on the hypothetical walker. "But you know, at least I'm not preparing myself for becoming bald by shaving my head. I'm enjoying my time with my hair," he added with a smirk, running his fingers through his scalp. He waved his hand at Blaine, "Don't tempt me SB-- I might just go ditch you guys for a pretty girl and a pizza pretzel." He caught sight of Blaine's tight smile, calling after Spencer with a laugh, "Actually, whenever you leave, a bunch of Chippendales come out, so we're just really anxious for you to turn your back."

However, when the youngest man retreated, Brody nudged his friend slightly, inclining his head in question and light concern."Ah-- you know," he shrugged, rolling his eyes. "Making the same jokes. Apparently you're not the only one suggesting I update my wardrobe. I'm surprised he hasn't sent you the same thing. He suggested I recommend //just// wearing bow ties around him, by the way." He was careful with his phrasing, including Blaine to dampen any speculation that the conversation was anything but banter.

Blaine

Blaine scoffed and shook his head. "No, but I think meeting him my freshman year of high school set the stages of at least part of me being changed forever. So no possession but almost a full year of a constant bad influence," he said in a playful tone. He kept an amused smirk on his face as Spencer and Brody went back and forth about farm apparel, something that he knew very little about himself and didn't really feel the need to comment on. He glanced back at Brody at his question and shrugged. "It's...kind of hard for me to explain, honestly. It's not an exact science or anything, at least not to me, but there are, believe it or not, some skin tones that mesh well with even red." He looked him over real quick and chuckled. "Lucky for you, unless you're wearing really bright shades of certain colors, you're going to be able to pull off almost anything. Congratulations." He bowed his head at Spencer's praise, raising his hand to wave it off. "Well, sure, out of the three of us, I would claim the title. But still, my expertise can only go so far." He snickered slightly at the though of Brody walking around with a decorated walker. "Can I put stickers on it? Like little rainbows and unicorns? Something to help you remember me by in a few weeks when you inevitably develop dementia," he ribbed his older friend. "Bring me back a cinnamon pretzel if you do. Cream cheese sauce and everything."

He laughed with Brody the best he could, but he was thankful when Spencer had finally retreated into the room. He glanced at Brody when he felt the nudge to his side and he smiled reassuringly to his friend, waving his hand to indicate that they would talk later, if at all. Out of everyone in his life, Sebastian and his family was the only one who knew the details about his transfer to Dalton. It wasn't the easiest thing to talk about, and he wasn't so sure that he wanted to bring it back up again.

Blaine snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, that sounds like Sebastian, all right. I don't think that that conversation I had with Dani a while back about the alternate uses for bow ties helped anything either." He pulled out his own phone, making sure that he didn't miss anything, and sure enough, there were three different messages waiting for him from Sebastian. He laughed and just slid the phone back into his pocket. "He's a mess.

Spencer

Spencer let out a crude laugh at Brody's suggestion of mud or oils. He wasn't exactly expecting it from the other man at that moment, and felt himself grinning like an idiot. "Dude, I might love where you were going with that, and probably most of the guys at Scandals would too, but let's face it. There's no prime rib there. I wanna settle for something better than Scandals' top hotties of Ohio 2017 or whatever." Spencer shook his head, wondering what on Earth compelled him to be so obvious with his word choice. To be fair, in Spencer's opinion, there wasn't a lot of amazing looking people in Ohio in the first place; Who in their right mind would pick Ohio as their settling grounds anyway? Upon settling in the changeroom, Spencer could hear a little bit of what the two other men were saying. "To be fair, I look good in a lot of colors, Weston. Not much makes me look bad. Hell, let me take that rainbow party walker out for a spin and I'll have all the guys askin' me for a turn." Spencer shouted through the little gap between the door and the ceiling, laughing to himself. He quickly shifted shirts again, letting his pecs breathe for a minute before putting on the next option for Blaine. Spencer focused on the mirror for a few seconds, not entirely sure this was 'him'. Still, he didn't want to doubt Blaine's color test and shrugged it off. He brushed his shoulders off a little before pushing the door back open just in time to hear Blaine. "I'm a mess?" Spencer asked, clearly misinterpreting what Blaine had said. "Well shoot, my bad man. And here I thought I was a handsome devil." Spencer held up his hands in feigned offense.

Brody

"Oh man-- I'm kind of horrified by the implications. Talk about trauma. How did you survive?" He shook his head. "Well, when you //go wild// where else should it go?" Brody quirked an eyebrow quizzically. "Prime rib? Is that what they call it in South Dakota, Spence? And if you're having a contest, not sure you'll find much else in the way of contestants than Scandals, let's be honest." He laughed. "You know what, sure Blaine-- you can be the Prime Rib.. I'll settle for a better cut." He laughed. "Hey, what space is left from Lucy's efforts, you are more than welcome. But don't clash- I want to look classy still. Trust, me, my grandpa has Dementia, and if he still can remember what time the hot nurse comes by, I'll remember the Scarlet Badass messing with my walker. And I'll definitely remember if the bald guy steals it, pretty colors or not, so careful Spencer." Brody made a face, "Tcha-- you're the one dragging this out. You should be buying //my// pretzel, not the other way around." Brody laughed, vaguely remembering Dani and Blaine discussing alternative uses for bow ties, "Didn't you and Bas have a similar talk in that regard?" he asked, thinking back. The older man looked up as Spencer reappeared, angling his head as he considered his new apparel. "I don't know anything about colors, but I'm not really a fan of the lighter shade," he opined with a shrug. "You sure aren't an angel, regardless, Spence."

Blaine

Blaine just shrugged. He wasn't too positive himself. He watched as the other two continued their back and forth, not really sure where to fit himself into the conversation; he'd only ever been to Scandals like three times, and his last visit was enough to make him sick of the place. Like Brody, he was confused about the choice of 'prime rib' in Spencer's wording, though he was positive that he understood the implications of it. He laughed at Brody and threw his hands up. "You know, I think I'm good. I've never been a prime rib fan myself." He smiled softly and apologetically at the mention of Brody's grandfather, but still chuckled. "You've called me dapper before; do you really think I'd be so cruel as to take your class away? Anyways, I'll even find a scarlet crayon and tape it to the handle bar. You'll have no chance at forgetting me then." Blaine rolled his eyes. "We've been here for /maybe/ 20 minutes, Brodes. But if it will make you feel better, I'll buy you a pretzel. Deal?" Blaine snorted. He didn't particularly remember having a similar conversation with Bas about bow ties, but it wouldn't have surprised him. He glanced back up at Spencer, pleased at the sight before him, but frowned at Brody's critique. Maybe he wasn't the person to ask for fashion advice after all. He sat back in his seat, waiting to hear what Spencer thought about the color.

Spencer

Spencer didn't think Scandals was a terrible place to at least meet people, but it certainly wasn't the greatest place to spark romance, that was for sure. Still, he stuck to his guns about calling it prime rib and nodded with a smirk. "It's what I call it guys. Don't judge. Besides, rib tastes good, looks great, and you can really get into it you know?" Spencer was well aware of how he was describing it all in an odd fashion, but couldn't help himself at the time. Hearing Blaine say they'd been here twenty minutes was surprising to Spencer. It seemed like he'd seen so many outfits on the racks today. Although, Blaine had made pretty quick work about picking things, which Spencer had to admit was fairly impressive in the first place. Spencer eyed the other two males' faces and then looked down at his own chest. "I... Don't think I like it that much honestly. It's nice and all, but I'm with Weston on this one guys." Spencer shook his head slowly, as if he himself weren't entirely sure. "Besides, if I'm not an angel." He turned his head back to Brody. "Then I'm definitely not good with something this light."

Brody

Brody chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, I mean, they're alright I guess-- I just prefer something something in a flank or a round, myself-- you usually get better flavor." He laughed in amusement as his own joke-- he may spend too much time around his Aggies after all. "Don't worry Blaine-- maybe Spencer will be willing to make you the Hamburger." He held up his hands in surrender, "That's true-- I have. But maybe in my decrepit state you'd suddenly decide it'd be more amusing to make a mockery of my wheels. But a crayon could be good-- in case I need to write stuff down, like in Memento. And it could be like the photo too, so dual purposed." Brody shrugged and shifted in his seat. "I'm good for a while, unless you're planning on putting Spence in every shirt in this place. Then we might have to renegotiate if and when pretzels will be happening. But if you're offering to buy, I won't stop you," he added with a grin. Brody's eyes widened in surprise that his opinion had actually won the majority-- he just didn't really like light colors much. Apparently that meant something? However he scoffed at Spencer, "Apparently no good at hiding it either, then," before he reached over and patted Blaine on the back. "Don't worry SB-- they can't all be winners. If you want, we can get you some sort of purse in pastel for Little B."

Blaine

Blaine squinted, an amused smile tugging at his lips at the ridiculous conversation. "I'd prefer not to be labeled as a piece of meat, but by all means, you two continue." Blaine brought a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "I would never make a mockery of the elderly, no matter how ridiculous their ride may look." He cracked a smile and shook his head. "Of course, I'm glad the crayon will be functional in many different aspects." He shook his head with a shrug, looking down at his watch, before eyeing Spencer again. He sat back in his seat with a sigh and thought for a moment. "Okay, well...let's go over this one more time. What were you wanting me to help you with again? Because, yes, we will probably be in this same store going through shirt after shirt unless I know exactly what I need to be looking for." He gave a side glance to Brody with a smirk. "Which means you won't get your pretzel." He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Considering I'm going with a darker pallet for my riding clothes, pastel purses are out of the question."

#ttl #para #Spencer Porter #Blaine Anderson #If the Shirt Fits #p. Spencer #p. Blaine #West Anderport #Westport #Braine #Splaine

6 notes · View notes

prettyflyforacyguy · 9 years ago

Note

all

rlord christ uh okay

1: Kitchen Counter, Couch, or on top of the dryer?

kitchen Table. ;3

2: Your last sexual encounter: Good or Bad and why:

good!!!!! it was early morning and aiden was off work so we decided to mess around and it was just v low stress and nice

3: A fictional person that you think would be good in bed:

hm uh. who;s that one tiger from zootopia? shit dice drew a commission of him a while back. the sexy one. he’d treat me right.

4: Something that never fails to make you horny:

there are like a million dumb fucking things aiden does that makes me lose my gdamn mind!!!!!! like, when he loosens his tie and gives me The Sex Look or kisses my neck in a certain spot... luv that husband

5: Where is one place you would never have sex:

somewhere kids could see :/

6: The most awkward moment during a sexual experience was when ______________

one time admittedly when i was new to anal i had the inevitable ShitDick scenario bc i didn’t know how to prep myself properly........im so fucking sorry, trey, im so sorry

7: Weirdest thing that ever made you horny:

this petsmart flyer came in the mail once. that was a weird jerkoff. made me realize im deep in petplay pff

8: What is the best way to sexually bind someone: Handcuffs, Rope, or Other [if other please explain]:

aiden;s been practicing shibari and it’s pretty fun! i’d say its my fav way to be restrained rn

9: What is the fastest way to make you horny:

it aint hard idk

10: Top or bottom?

this bitch be bottomin, my ass is Ready

11: We were about to ____________ but then ______________ [example: we were about to have sex but then his mom walked in]

12: Is one orgasm enough? Are multiple orgasms necessary?

it depends on how much stamina u have or if you’re in the mood for more? that time waiting for the refractory period tho suuuuuuuucks, im so jealous of dfab ppl that can come multiple times :/

13: Something that you have hidden in your room that you don’t want anyone to find:

a valentine’s present for aiden, shhh

14: Weirdest nickname a significant other has ever called you:

sometimes aiden fuckign. does French Shit and i dont know what he’s saying until after but it’s kind of become a joke because we’ll be having a really nice moment and he’ll lean in and like, whisper some bullshit like “my little lima bean” or “my sweet polished fork” and i fuckignt rftg,,, IT STILL SOUNDS HOT, WHY IS HE LIKE THIS

15: Two things you like [or dislike] about oral sex:

that “pop” noise when ur mouth comes off the dick. also, when he like, holds your head with his fingers tangled in your hair and bobs your head down on his cock g gg go gogfdoood thats so hot i love it when he does that to me its nice

16: Weirdest sexual act some has performed [or tried to perform] on/with you:

welcome 2 Trauma Land next question

17: Have you ever tasted yourself? [If no, would you?] [If yes, what did you think?]

yeah. it’s a pretty slutty thing to do, it’s not great tasting if u don’t like, pineapple and shit but it’s a pretty good way to get your partner turned on more

18: Is it ever okay to not use a condom:

if u and ur partner get tested together and r clean and not seeing anyone else

19: Who was the sexiest teacher you ever had?

my sophomore year humanities teacher in my study abroad program....holy Fuck. hooooly fuck. mr. nakamura still gets me going to this day. he has a wife tho :(

20: A food that you would like to use during a sexual experience:

whipped creaaaam!

21: How big is too big:

some bad dragons are really intimidating. christ.

22: One sexual thing you would never do:

let ppl use me as an object again :/

23: Biggest turn on:

humiliation is pretty good

24: Three spots that drive you insane:

my neck

my back

my pussy, and my crack.

25: Worst possible time to get horny:

driving is pretty rough.

26: Do you like it when your sexual partner moans:

ch r is t y es

27: Worst sexual idea you ever had:

define “worst,” anon.

28: How much fapping is too much fapping:

who fucking calls it “fapping” still

29: Best sexual complement you ever got:

Yikes^TM

30: Bald, landing strip, Jumanji:

is this like, a lesbian thing? i dont get it

31: Is it good sex if you don’t nut:

YA GATTA NUT!

32: Fill in the blank: "If they ____________, we are fuckin"

IF THEY TRUCKIN WE ARE FUCKIN!

33: What your favorite part of your body:

my belly........? idk i used to Hate My Mcfuckin Self but aiden blows raspberries on me and its fkin cute holy hell

34: Favorite foreplay activities:

if i suck on aiden’s fingers he basically fucking Dies on the spot, so that’s fun to use. for myself, uhh. thigh kisses are hot. so hot.

35: Love (>,<, or =) Sex For those of us who don’t remember our math thats “greater than, less than, or equal to]

there was a a time when i wouldve said sex is bnetter but no, it’s Lov....i Love Husband

36: What do you wear to bed?

boxers, and my husband

37: When was the first time you masturbated:

probably when i was like nine or ten? in the “i dont know this is masturbating but it kinda feels nice” way

38: Do you have any nude/masturbating pictures/video of yourself?

there’s a lot floating around there but most of it is during The Bad Time

39: Have you ever/when was the last time you had sex outside?

uhhh shit its been a while i can’t really remember?

40: Have/would you ever have sex outside?

mhm. it’s not my fav tho

41: Have/would you ever had a threesome?

i;ve had more than a threesome, buddy

42: What is one random object you’ve used to masturbate?

when i was young and desperate and trying anal for the first time i used a vibrating toothbrush but no one told me you’re supposed to not use the brush end. the bristles were rough.

43: Have/would you ever masturbate at work/school?

yes to both?? im a tiny troglodyte man what do u expect

44: Have/would you ever have sex on a plane?

maybe? this is a very specific situation, i know aiden would rather die than do anything on a plane tho

45: What is one song you’d like to have sex to?

i feel it coming - daft punk

46: What is something nonsexual that makes you horny?

literally like anything can make me hard im fucking easy

47: Most attractive celebrity?

my husband....he’s a star, to Me...

48: Do you watch gay/lesbian porn? why/why not?

yes. source: am gay

49: If a child was born on the occasion of the last time you had sex, how old would that child be right now?

Unborn.

50: Has anyone ever posted nude pictures of you online?

yes. i dont particularly like to think abt it but there’s a. big fan community wanting me to “come back” and it makes me super uncomfortable.

51: What is one thing that NEVER makes you horny?

girls :/

52: Do you have stretch marks? (How do you feel about them? Has anyone ever had a problem with them?)

i have a couple on my thighs and my belly from some healthy weight gain, but aiden doesn’t mind. he likes em

53: Do you like giving head? (why/why not)

dick....me Sucky Cock...nya

54: How do you feel about tattoos on someone you are interested in?

i dont rlly care

55: How would you feel about taking someones virginity?

i was a few people’s first lay and it was uh. difficult. they think they can just pound a man’s ass like their fleshlight and it’s rough when you’re like, laying there and your ass is on fire while you remind them to use more lube and also fucking go slower to start

56: Is there any food you would NOT recommend using during a sexual encounter?

sticky rice. good fucking lord, do not use sticky rice.

57: Is there anything you do on Tumblr that you would not like your significant other to see?

not really? we don’t hide things from each other

58: Do you own any sex toys? (what is it? (how long have you had it?)

we own a Shit ton. i’ve had some since i was like, a teenager but i’ve been collectin some over the years

59: Would you give your significant other unrestricted access to your Tumblr for a day?

oh god no. aiden barely knows what memes are

60: Would you be offended if your significant other suggested you get plastic surgery?

no, me and aiden have already discussed like, scar reduction shit. i have a few nasty keloids :/

61: Would you rather be a pornstar or a prostitute?

neither?? i mean, i was both for a while but *SLAMS TRAUMA BUTTON*

62: Do you watch porn?

duh

63: How small is too small?

all dick is good dick!!!!

64: Have you ever been called a freak? Why?

continues to Slam the Trauma Button

65: Who gave you your last kiss? Did it mean anything?

66: Would you switch phones with your significant other for a day?

probably not because aiden’s in a group chat with his work buddies and they’re all middle aged or young mom nurses. im a fish out of water.

67: Do you feel comfortable going "commando"?

sure, as long as its not like skinny jeans or something

68: Would you have a problem with going down on someone if they hadn't shaved their pubic hair?

not rlly. good dick is good dick

69: If you could give yourself head, would you?

im p sure everyone tries but usually i get my husband to B)

70: Booty or Boobs?

ass. please god, i’m all about ass

71: If you had a penis, what would you name it?

Ass Blaster 69

72: Have you ever been on an official date?

yes? like a movie and restraunt thing?

73: Have you ever cheated on someone? (Why?)

not that i know of, but there was a point when i was pretty low in life that i hopped around w/ partners and one night stands.

74: If you were a stripper, what would your name be?

the Pole Faller. i have no body strength and im named that bc i’d fall off the pole

75: Have you ever had sex in your parents bed? (Would you?)

no??????????? nO??

76: How would you react if you found out your parents had sex in your bed?

what...what kind of question even is this

77: What was your reaction the first time you saw a penis/vagina

“god i wanna put my mouth all over that”

78: If you had a penis/vagina for a day, what are five things you would do?

DOUBLE PENETRATION!!!!!! DOUBLE PENETRATION!!!!!

#Anonymous

1 note · View note

thisdaynews · 6 years ago

Text

When the FBI Thought a High Priest of Satan Was Trying to Kill Ted Kennedy

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/when-the-fbi-thought-a-high-priest-of-satan-was-trying-to-kill-ted-kennedy/

When the FBI Thought a High Priest of Satan Was Trying to Kill Ted Kennedy

POLITICO illustration with photos from Deanne Fitzmaurice/Polaris and AP

David Gambacorta is a writer-at-large at the Philadelphia Inquirer. He has also written for Esquire, Longreads, The Ringer, The Baffler and The Marshall Project.

The FBI and Secret Service agents made their way through the streets of San Francisco’s foggy Richmond District neighborhood, about two miles from the Golden Gate Bridge, toward a narrow Victorian house that looked like it had tumbled out of the shadows of Alfred Hitchcock’s imagination. The building rose two floors to a sharply pitched roof; nearly every inch of the exterior had been painted the color of midnight.

The agencies had spent the better part of two weeks in October 1980 pursuing a case that had all the ingredients of a potential media firestorm, one that could stir up the country’s most traumatic political memories. Now—on Halloween—their digging had led investigators here, to 6114 California Street.

It was called the Black House, and stories about what went on behind its walls had been the subject of curiosity and speculation for more than a decade. The agents climbed a brick staircase, and knocked on the jet-black front door.

They were soon met by a bald, middle-aged man with a goatee: Anton Szandor LaVey. No introductions were necessary. LaVey, the high priest of the Church of Satan, was once rumored to have played a mystical role in the death of a former Hollywood star. He’d been expecting these agents to pay him a visit.

A day earlier, Senator Ted Kennedy had left San Francisco after campaigning for President Jimmy Carter, whose general election showdown with Ronald Reagan was inching closer. It had been a long, tumultuous year for Kennedy, who was then in his late 40s. He’d tried to wrest the Democratic presidential nomination from Carter; when that bid failed, Kennedy resorted to playing the role of a good party soldier, summoning the remnants of his family’s old Camelot magic as he crisscrossed the country to win over voters for Carter.

Running for president had also awakened a fear that Kennedy had tried to hide even from his closest confidants: that he would be assassinated, just like his brothers, President John F. Kennedy and Sen. Robert F. Kennedy. Anonymous tormentors had been sending Ted Kennedy handwritten threats since the late 1960s. “Teddy has to die,” promised a note that was once mailed to his father. The death threats only multiplied when Kennedy was on the campaign trail in 1980. “He had to be conscious of it. There was always a danger,” Bob Shrum, Kennedy’s former press secretary and speechwriter, remembers. “There were always nuts out there, and that’s just the way it was.”

What Kennedy, Shrum and a handful of other staffers didn’t know was that one morning that October, teletype machines had clattered to life in FBI field offices across the country with a fresh transmission, seven pages’ worth of new intelligence information. The bottom of the first page contained a stark message: “SENATOR EDWARD KENNEDY — VICTIM, CONGRESSIONAL ASSASSINATION STATUTE.”

An informant had contacted the FBI office in downtown Chicago and explained that a plot to murder Kennedy was being set in motion. It’s a story that has never been told until now, a bizarre piece of history that became public only when I discovered records of the investigation that the FBI quietly released in June in The Vault, the bureau’s online FOIA library. The files outlined a scheme that supposedly involved money, drugs and the mob. And according to the informant, the ringleader—the man who allegedly wanted Ted Kennedy dead—was none other than Anton LaVey.

Fourteen years earlier,in the spring of 1966, the country was marked by unrest and experimentation. War was raging in Vietnam, flower power was blossoming at home, the Mamas and the Papas’ Southern California groove was all over the radio. It was an ideal environment for provocateurs, a fact that was not lost on LaVey, then a 36-year-old showman who claimed he’d worked in the past as an occult investigator and a performer in a traveling circus.

That April, he invented a new role for himself, shaving his head and forming the Church of Satan. LaVey organized his church around a philosophy of self-indulgence and excess—aptly mirroring the times—but still played around with devil worship motifs, vamping in a cape, and wearing a bulbous ring that he claimed could grant little children their wishes. His Jaguar even had a personalized license plate: SATAN9. “People like to have a hell of a time, don’t they?” LaVey asked during an interview around that time with Joe Pyne, a syndicated talk show host.

P.T. Barnum had a circus tent, and LaVey had the Black House, where he kept a pet lion and performed rituals. He would sometimes don a hood with two horns and surround himself with nude women in front of a fireplace that he’d converted into an altar. LaVey’s theatricality attracted the attention of some Hollywood players, like Sammy Davis Jr. and the actress Jayne Mansfield, who was rumored to have had an affair with LaVey. Black-and-white photos from that era show the two posing together campily. In one, Mansfield playfully clutches a skull while LaVey fans his cape out beside her, and in another, she prepares to drink from a chalice that he cradles in his hand.

The decade that followed proved to be a period of transition— for both LaVey and Kennedy. LaVey cut back on his public performances, and began writing books that cashed in on the pop culture fascination with films likeRosemary’s BabyandThe Exorcist. “He had ended what he called the ‘stuffed rat and tombstone’ news coverage which had primarily been published in men’s magazines,” explains Magus Peter Gilmore, the Church of Satan’s current high priest, in an email. “He was now granting his time to more serious discussions of his philosophy, beyond the flamboyant and spooky trappings which initially brought him attention.”

Across the country, meanwhile, Kennedy was wrestling behind the scenes with questions about his political fate. Supporters had once expected him to pick up his slain brothers’ mantle and make a bid for the White House, yet the 1972 and 1976 presidential races found Kennedy on the sidelines, immobilized by the specter of his 1969 car crash in Chappaquiddick that resulted in the death of a passenger, Mary Jo Kopechne, and led to him pleading guilty to leaving the scene of an accident.

But Kennedy’s hesitancy faded by the end of the decade, and he was heartened by early polls that showed Democratic voters would favor him over Carter in a presidential primary battle. “He was running for president because he really believed President Carter was not addressing issues that were important,” says Stuart Shapiro, a former Kennedy senior staffer. “That’s why, after much soul-searching, he decided to take on a sitting president.”

Running for the country’s highest office, though, increased the odds that Kennedy could become a target for some deranged would-be assassin who might lurk, anonymous and undetected, at a busy rally. It was no idle threat. In March 1980, a tipster in Charlotte, North Carolina, contacted the police after overhearing a group of men in a movie theater bragging that they planned to assassinate Kennedy in Pittsburgh, with some stolen M-16 rifles. A campaign volunteer in Trenton, New Jersey, received a phone call from a man who vowed to gun down the senator when he visited the city in May.

Aside from blurting, “They’re going to shoot my ass off the way they shot Bobby,” while on a congressional flight back from Alaska, Kennedy shied away from sharing his assassination fears with aides or family members. Instead, he tried to project an air of invincibility, or at least indifference. “I remember being in Iowa, and when we’d first go out there, the Secret Service would create this huge space between him and the crowd,” Shrum tells me. “And he hated it. So he started working the rope line again.”

Privately, Kennedy sought out his physician and political adviser, Larry Horowitz, and handed him something important. “It was a letter my father had written to me at the start of his presidential campaign, in case he was assassinated,” Patrick Kennedy, his youngest son, recalled in his 2015 book,A Common Struggle: A Personal Journey Through the Past and Future of Mental Illness and Addiction. “In it, he talked about how much he loved me, and how I had given him so much love. He said he would never forget the times we went fishing and sailing.” Kennedy took to calling Patrick from the road every night—his way of letting his adolescent son know nothing bad had happened.

The informant who contacted the FBI in 1980 said he’d received a phone call, too, on October 20. The caller had identified himself as LaVey, the informant claimed, and disclosed that he wanted the man’s help with a plan to murder Ted Kennedy.

The FBI and the Secret Serviceknew two things for certain: LaVey still lived in San Francisco, and they needed to get a handle on the case—and quick.

Investigators didn’t have to contend with Twitter or Facebook, digital echo chambers that decades later would make political discourse more toxic and create ideal delivery systems for trolls to share threats. But they also had fewer tools at their disposal. “We didn’t have all of the modern vehicles of communication or detection that you have today,” says William H. Webster, who was the director of the FBI from 1978 to 1987. “Investigations involved a lot of interviews and personal contacts.”

The FBI’s San Francisco office pulled records it had on LaVey dating back to the mid-’70s, when a tipster told the bureau that LaVey had purchased handguns, a shotgun and a rifle. Other files showed that LaVey had once supposedly been “interested” in joining the National Socialist White People’s Party, which had been known, in an earlier incarnation, as the American Nazi Party.

LaVey had no arrest history, but he’d been linked to a tragedy once before. His relationship with Mansfield had reportedly ended with LaVey’s putting a curse on Sam Brody, the actress’ attorney and boyfriend, promising that he’d die in a car crash. In 1967, not long after the hex was supposedly cast, Brody and Mansfield were killed in a wreck on a highway near New Orleans. The improbable implication—that LaVey inadvertently caused Mansfield’s death—persisted long enough to fuel a 2017 documentary,Mansfield 66/67. (In truth, LaVey did not have magical powers.)

The Chicago informant—whose identity is still being kept secret by the FBI—told agents that he’d had dinner once before with LaVey, who explained to him the Church of Satan’s beliefs. When they supposedly reconnected by phone in 1980, LaVey told the man that he owed the high priest a favor. His alleged instructions were simple: In a week or so, the informant would receive a package, and he must ferry it to a mob boss on the South Side of Chicago; the mob would, in turn, take out Kennedy. After the phone call, the informant was visited by a member of the Church of Satan, whose purpose “was specifically to discuss the satanic cult and the plot against Senator Kennedy,” according to FBI records.

There was more. The informant told the FBI that LaVey was going to fly to Chicago on October 27, carrying with him eight kilograms of hashish and an unknown amount of cash. Was this another piece of the puzzle to the assassination plot? Taking no chances, the FBI, Secret Service and DEA sent agents to O’Hare International Airport to intercept flights from San Francisco and apprehend LaVey, like something out of Steven Spielberg’sCatch Me If You Can. But there was no sign of him at the airport. An attempt at monitoring a phone call to LaVey also failed.

The Secret Service had polygraphed the informant prior to the fruitless airport search. “Results were inconclusive,” investigators noted, “due to use of cocaine.” They pressed on. They had to find LaVey. “I was a young agent when President Kennedy was killed, and [investigated] some leads on the case,” says Francis Mullen, who had risen to executive assistant director of the FBI by 1980. “When Bobby was assassinated, I was in Los Angeles, coordinating some of the leads on that case. If a threat had come in on the third brother, we’d have to take it seriously.”

Two days after the search at O’Hare came up empty, agents flew to San Francisco, and made their way to the Black House. A woman who answered LaVey’s door told them that he was traveling, and wouldn’t be back for several days. Another whiff. The investigators warned her they had information that suggested “an attempt may be made on LaVey’s life,” according to the records. They encouraged the woman to get a hold of LaVey and urge him to make himself available for an interview.

Kennedy’s Secret Service detail was kept in the loop about the potential threat, but it’s unclear whether the senator was aware of the investigation. “I spent a lot of time with him privately, and I don’t ever recall hearing about that one,” Shapiro says. “But I can tell you there were times when the Secret Service wanted him to wear a bulletproof vest.” The informant, meanwhile, had been polygraphed again, and was facing increased scrutiny. The FBI began to notice inconsistencies in his account. Were the agencies being played?

Investigators returned to the Black House a second time, on Halloween. And this time, when the door opened, they came face-to-face with LaVey. For years, he had enjoyed toying with people’s imaginations, blurring the lines between performance and something darker. But now he was faced with no-nonsense federal agents, and they weren’t in the mood to play around.

For a man who referred to himself as the “Black Pope,” the notoriety of being linked to an FBI investigation might have been a welcome development when he was first seeking attention for his church. This older version of LaVey, though, decided to come right out with it: He had nothing to do with any assassination plot.

“LaVey advised that of any political official, he has the highest regard for Senator Kennedy and his family,” according to the FBI records. And LaVey could sympathize with the threats that Kennedy often received; he told the agents that he had been the victim of physical and verbal attacks because of his position in the Church of Satan.

LaVey checked his recent phone messages, and noticed that he’d received calls from the Chicago area on October 23 and October 27. But he told the agents that he didn’t know the identity of the caller and hadn’t tried dialing the number that had been left for him.

And then LaVey shared some surprising news with the agents: His role as the head of the church was all a charade. Most of the church’s followers, he said, were “fanatics, cultists, and weirdos,” the records show. “[H]is interest in the Church of Satan is strictly from a monetary point of view,” the agents noted, “and spends most of his time furnishing interviews, writing material, and lately has become interested in photography.”

Satisfied that Kennedy’s life wasn’t in danger, the FBI and Secret Service returned their attention to their informant. Though he was “sternly admonished” for misleading federal authorities, he was not charged with a crime. But he didn’t get off entirely. The Secret Service told the man his activities would be monitored on a quarterly basis and whenever an official who was being protected by the agency had to visit Chicago. If he had an explanation for why he bothered to send the agencies on a while goose chase in the first place, no agent bothered jotting it down.

This wasn’t the last time that LaVey popped up on the FBI’s radar, though. In the late 1980s, the bureau would investigate a spate of allegations about child sex abuse that was supposedly linked to satantic churches, including LaVey’s, fueling a so-called “Satanic Panic.” The allegations were never substantiated. “Our organization has always been above-ground about its law-abiding beliefs and practices, so wild stories are generally seen to be precisely that—not having any basis in reality,” Gilmore, the current high priest, tells me.

LaVey died in 1997, and the Black House was later torn down, replaced by a fairly generic-looking condominium.

For Kennedy, the LaVey case—such as it was—was just another bizarre subplot in a life full of them, the cost of being a Kennedyand leading a public life. No threat ever proved worrisome enough to persuade him to give up his Senate seat, which he held until his death from glioblastoma in 2009. “You either live your life or you don’t,” Shrum says. “And he decided to live his life.”

#Foreign #Kennedy #Politics #trying

0 notes

cranberrybogmummy · 6 years ago

Text

Strange-ectady an outline for a story about my home town

The setting - So I'm gonna work a story or series of stories set in Schenectady with a twist, that Schenectady is an inter-dimensional weak spot and all sorts of paranormal weirdness happens. #Schenectady #StayweirdSchenectady I’m calling this story Strangectady It features: Witches who ARE DONE, Fuckboi sorcerer, conjuring the spirit of the Mohawk, an angel, a demon, vampires, werewoofs, mad scientists, secret cults, and a guy who seems schizophrenic off his meds, but HAS SEEN The inter-dimensional shadow being who suck out people's life force and IS TRYING TO WARN EVERYONE! Also, could you give him a cig? It’s also kinda lovecraftian. I’m also gonna roll my AL-verse (an earlier urban fantasy universe set in the 518) urban fantasy universe) into this.

Character profiles:

~~~~~ the humans?~~~~~

Fawn Davies - 28, chubby, brown curly hair, freckles. She’s one of two official licensed paranormal investigators in Schenectady. Winchell Vega is her boss and the other licensed paranormal investigator. She is mediocre at magic, but is a good medium and most important has a cool head, has good deductive and investigating skills. Her mother was murdered by serial killer Sebastian Cunningham when Fawn was about six and her father was long gone. Her mother was involved a sex worker and involved with drugs at the time of her death, but nonetheless loved her daughter and tried to be a good mom. She was raised by her grandparents in Niskayuna. Cunningham never revealed what he did with her mother’s body, he was executed in 2000. Fawn wants to find his body and contact his spirit to get answers. But right now is working on other people’s paranormal problems.

Winchell Vega - Half Puerto Rican, (dad’s side) English- German descent (Mom’s side). Winchell is in his late 30s with wild grey streaked black hair, tall and reedy, He’d be handsome if he didn’t look on the verge of a mental collapse, brushed his hair and shaved. He has a wild look in his eyes, and he wears a rumpled trench coat and slightly stained sweater vests over button up shirts also rumpled and usually a pair of khakis and scuffed dress shoes. Winchell is highly talent at magic, also very sensitive to the paranormal he can see what others can’t. He’s good at his trade, but the years and things he’s seen have taken its toll. He smokes like a chimney and is cheap, will shake someone down for a loosey. There are rumors that he was diagnosed as schizophrenia as a young man and has been medicated ever since. That is partly true, being able to see things and perceive things normal people can’t made him look schizophrenic. He took Fawn under his wing when she was in her early 20s and helped her get the training and license for this. He’s an asexual permenant bachelor, even though when he was seventeen he had a brief intimate relationship with a extra-dimenisonal being who was in the form of a girl about his age. He’s closer to his Dad’s side of the family then his Mom’s, he has an older sister and some nieces and nephews.

Dustin Destry- Thin with short black hair, goatee, sleeve tattoos earlobe plugs and wears a fedora. He’s in his late thirties, was friends and partners with Winchell but burned that bridge a while ago. Borderline alcoholic, womanizer faux woke, pretentious, he’s the worst kind of douche and hipster. He’s a middling talented sorcerer who fancies himself some kind go misunderstood anti-hero. He claims to be woke but will crack a racist joke and finds it uncomfortable to be around trans*, people, also kinda scared of muslims but is not overt about these things.He’s fair weather friend, he’s a boyfriend with a roving eye, and mostly he’s a coward, if his magic can’t do the trick. The only redeeming quality he has two unfortunately named children: Trazor and Zelda. They have two different mothers, he loves his kids with the fire of a thousand suns in his own ham-fisted way, he does pay his child support. And although NOT officially licensed he does take paranormal cases, and attempts to undercut everyone.

Maura Leeman - Witch of Schenectady 40 something, haggard face, fat, long stringy gray hair, mostly wears sweatpants and sweatshirts. VERY talented comes from a. Long line of soothsayers and witches. Despite hey cynical, world weary facade, she has a good heart and wants to use her magic to help everyone. People take advantage of this and dictate their own price or trade for magical services. Also since she works from home, her younger sister Samatha, doesn’t consider it a real job and uses her as free daycare for her young nephew and niece. Maura smokes cigarettes as well, she is 90% done.

Mercy L. Knight - the other witch in Schenectady. 100% done, just burnt out. She is probably one of the two most powerful magic workers in the 518, however as I said BURNT OUT. She charges fair prices for her services and no won’t take your half an ounce of dried, brown ditch weed for it. Rumored to be in her mid 40s, but looks ageless, short, with fine delicate features, like bone china. She dresses well and uniquely. Because of magical ability, assholes and life, she is a bit wary and far more messed up than most people know. She has one solace, her pets, she has a few cats, the white one is her familiar and has brought down pixies, and she helps the angel Adrielle at the animal sanctuary. (Knows just about everyone in the supernatural community in Schenectady).

Damien Leeman- Maura’s younger brother, an unhappy man has issues with anger and depression. Short blond hair, wiry build, sleeve tattoos and goatee. Used to be friends with Dustin, but that’s another bridge Dustin burned. Mostly is not happy because he is a soothsayer, and has visions of the future, that to outsiders look like grand mal seizures. Also he knows that the human brain is NOT meant to handle such things and no person with his gift, has lived to 40, mostly dying of MASSIVE brain aneurysm. He’s trying to keep it together, has a job in construction, and has a fiancee who loves and understands him.

Monsieur Duval aka Kevin Johnson- Medium and Necromancer of very little power.. Black, chin strap beard goatee, dreadlocks, mostly seen wearing a frock coat black suit with a purple satin dress shirt underneath, and a top hat and using a cane with carved skull. Claims to be from Hati and to know real voodoo. But that’s a lie, he’s from New Jersey and the accent is fake. Does a very good cold reading, however is shit when communicating with the actual dead and very bad at necromancy. Usually causes more problems than he solves. Which people like Mercy, Maura and Leanna have to deal with.

Leanna Yardley - Bi-racal, tall, slender, with dark hair and a kind smile. Beautiful, serene, soft-spoken. She is a sorceress of light her magical abilities are about 10 out of 20 and skilled, eager to learn more. She is trans, but that’s beside the point. She knows her shit and is not someone anyone would mess with. However her calm and shyness, lead people to think she’s weak. This not the case. She helps out when she can, and is working on her paranormal investigator license.

The Warlock aka Melvin Leeman - Old, Old man mostly bald with thin white hair on the side of head small and frail seeming, note I said seeming. lives in a house that also seem dark and cold even on the brightest warmest, day...

#schenectady #OCs #writing #original fiction #lovecraftian #urband fantasy #magic

0 notes

toboldlyknit · 7 years ago

Text

The Wonder of a Fairy-tale (Chapter 2)

Gavin has a discussion with Jeremy and Michael about his dreams and whether he should follow them.

Now we’re seeing what Gavin is dealing with

It's a funny place in Britain, so close to the rest of the world but yet so far. He knew that he could literally jump on a plane and escape, it was under 3 hours to France and everyone knew the way to Europe was through France. Gavin Free always knew that Britain was too stagnant for him but had no real reason to go. Something he had always envied Michael and Jeremy for was the fact that they had hopped on a plane over from America to Britain. They had done what he couldn't and yet they were sat here lecturing him about wanting to do the same.

"Gav, you can't just up and leave. It's stupid." Michael's words were the same ones he'd been uttering for the last year. The three of them had met when Gavin, a year younger than both Jeremy and Michael, had snuck into a university party. The two Americans had come to England for uni, which frankly Gavin thought was stupid just as Michael thought his dreams were. Michael had a head full of auburn curls which he dubbed 'the Jones fro', a name that Gavin found extremely funny, and a harsh personality.

Jeremy sighed, "Look, I get that you want to. But, do you need to. Have you got any of this planned out? Why do you even want to go to France, I thought the British and French don't get along?" Jeremy was the shortest of the three of them, by quite a fair bit but Michael and Gavin never mentioned it. Much. In an act of rebellion against his own genes Jeremy had shaved his head, he wasn't too fond of the fact that he was balding at such a young age. In terms of age, both Michael and Jeremy were 20 while Gavin was 19, Gav hadn't wanted to do the whole university thing and he was lucky his parents respected that. But that didn't mean that the other two lads wouldn't bring him in on freshers events and house parties.

"Who needs a plan? Since when have you guys ever had any plans? Did you or did you not only come to England for cheap booze?" Gavin fought back. Gavin was a bit of a weird character, he had very smart moments and some very dumb moments. There wasn't an in-between. His hair boarded between long and short and the colour was some strange mix between blonde and brown. He'd heard it be described as mousy brown but that just made him think of mice and he'd rather not think of his hair like an animal.

"Don't do this Gav, you know what we mean." Michael had a stare on his face boarding on one of anger.

But Gavin knew he couldn't give in, "How it thrills me, nearly kills me. I want to know some more, oh it makes me dizzy. As I look around the room and it makes me so depressed to see the gloom, take me through the darkness to the break of the day. C'mon Michael you have to admit it's intriguing. The thought of just up and leaving." Gavin stood up out of the chair, the three of them were sat in Michael's flat kitchen, and skipped over to the window.

Michael had his face in his hands and sighed, "Yeah I get it but you're only 19 and you have nothing past a high school diploma or whatever shit you guys have, you have so much to do."

Jeremy, who was previously playing with the hem of his Tshirt, came to stand next to Gavin, "I mean we can't really stop you, it's your life and your money. Do you have a passport?"

Gavin grinned, he knew the two wouldn't agree outright, but even this much from Jeremy was brilliant. He nodded, "I've had it ready for the last three months, but something was telling me to wait a while. Now it feels right." He was deliberately leaving out the fact that he had already booked the ticket for the flight over to France, he felt it may just be better to up and leave. "Look, Michael, I'm gonna take a chance on me for once. I'm doing what I want."

"I wish I understood, what happened to us? We all used to be so good, are we not enough anymore boy?" Michael was pouting, obviously upset at the thought of one of his best friends leaving.

Jeremy spoke before Gavin was able to bite back, "Michael, I don't think that's what Gav is on about. I think he just wants to explore a bit before he settles down for life." He turned to smile at Gavin, "Besides, he'll come back. He'll miss his lads too much!"

"Of course I'll miss you two! But, I've got to go back home and sort some things out." Gavin hated goodbyes, avoided them at all costs. They both knew this, he thinks that Jeremy and Michael knew that this was the goodbye. Gavin turned to head back out through the door, waved to his two boys and left for home.

Gavin walked along the pavement, the rain harshly trying to pull his hood down around his shoulders. Taking out his phone he rang a taxi to pick him up from his house once he'd got his stuff. Gavin knew he should have taken a coat, but the walk was only a few minutes from Michael and Jeremy's to his house so he can't complain too much. He looked around the streets to see the houses for the last time. He needed this.

He opened the door to his house as quietly as he could before nipping to grab his suitcase and boarding documents, as fast as he came in he was back ut the door. It was better this way, not letting anyone see him. He dashed into the taxi, putting his things haphazardly into the boot before asking the driver to take him to the airport.

Gavin Free had never flown in a plane in his life, he definitely hadn't been to the airport before. It was big, bigger than he'd thought it'd be. It was exciting, more exciting than he'd thought it'd be. Everything was better and he hadn't even boarded the plane yet. His plane wasn't boarding for a while so Gavin decided to walk around Duty-Free, all the tourist items with gorgeous pictures of London and rural parts of Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland had obviously never actually spent more than two hours in these places. There were keychains all over with The Queen's Guard's on them, fluffy hats oversized and characterised. He'd had enough with the cheap tat and decided to head over to one of the other shops to buy a bottle of water, he had heard that the food and drink on planes was expensive and usually wasn't chilled or heated properly so he was best to buy something in the airport.

Gavin had been about to sit down before he heard a voice talking over the speaker say "Flight number AF 1759 now boarding at gate 8, please remember to take all luggage with you."

Gate 8, at gate 8 his life was going to change. As soon as he passed through gate 8 there was no turning back. A wave of excitement rung through Gavin at the thought of staying in the compact hotel room he has booked for his first nights stay. Although he has no idea where he'll be this time next week he's still exited.

The flight wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Gavin had always been a bit lanky and thought that fitting into the seat was going to be tough, but the person in the middle seat hadn't boarded which meant that he was free to stretch his feet into there. Now Gavin was stood on French soil, the ground of a land he had never stepped foot on before. It was different from Britain, it was actually fairly sunny. He had grabbed his bags and immediately set out to find a taxi to take him to his hotel, the main issue was that Gavin spoke very little French, and what he did speak was bloody awful.

"Excusez-moi, puis-je voir l'hôtel? S'il vous plaît? Non?" Gavin knew that he had to be saying something wrong in his sentence, after three or four attempts and strange looks from taxi drivers one of them eventually felt bad enough for him that they said yes.

"Merci! Merci! Christ, I should have paid attention in French lessons..." He muttered to himself after helping the taxi driver move his bags to the back of the car. When the taxi driver eventually stopped the car Gavin knew that the drive had just dropped him off at a popular location and left him. The main thing that gave this away was the fact that behind him was the rather large Eiffel Tower.

"Sorry," The man spoke with a thick accent, "trouver de l'aide." He then got back into his taxi and drove back towards the airport at a fair speed, probably in the hopes that Gavin wouldn't catch up with him.

"Knew there was a reason we don't like the French..." Gavin sighed to himself, it was beginning to get dark and he honestly had no idea where he was. Brilliant start to a journey.

After again walking up to many many people he eventually found one that spoke English and was able to ask, "Please could you tell me where this hotel is? I have a room but I'm lost." The old lady smiled back at him, her grey eyes shined bright at the fact that she had looked kind enough to ask. She raised her hand and pointed towards a small cream coloured hotel, chips in the wall giving it a weathered look.

"Thank you so much!" In his excitement, Gavin had hugged the woman who simply just giggled back before nodding her head. He dashed off towards the hotel, under his breath, he muttered "Night is young and the music's high, with a bit of rock music, everything is fine." a phrase that he had come to say whenever he was getting a bit too anxious about something. It was something his grandma had said to him when he was young, he had no idea where she got it from but it seemed magical.

The hotel's entrance had two pillars on either side, it had a Roman kind of feeling to it. In school, he had never learnt much about the history of France but had definitely covered the architecture of Rome in his photography classes. He reminded himself that he needed to go and take a picture of everything once he had got all his stuff to the room. Gavin took a few steps into the hotel and prepared himself for speaking French to the man behind the desk. The man behind the desk had slicked-back brown hair, a white shirt and brown trousers, on his shirt was a nametag that simply said 'Hello' which wasn't very helpful. Gavin played with one of the sleeves of his leather jacket and spoke, "Hello, I have a room booked. Do you speak English by any chance?"

The man held up one finger after hearing Gavin speak, he was unsure whether this meant the man would get back to him in a minute or if he had to leave. Honestly, he was just very confused. The man headed off to another room leaving Gavin to stand in the entrance by himself. Gavin took in the room, to his right there was a spiral staircase leading upwards, forward a desk with multiple keys piled around in what appeared to be no particular order. The floor tiles had chips and dents everywhere, the walls had pieces of plaster falling off. Somehow the hotel still didn't appear run down, as though it was supposed to look like this. Gavin had a feeling it had something to do with the colours, muted greys and creams decorating everything.

Gavin's attention was brought back by the movement of another person walking into the room, a short woman with tanned skin and a plumped body with a name tag on her blush blouse that said 'bonjour'. Gavin hoped that maybe she spoke English and that was why the other man had gone to get her. "Hello, you have a room?" Her voice sounded like music to Gavin's ears purely because she spoke English. After such a confusing turn with the taxi driver, he had been worried that he shouldn't have come to France at all.

"Yes! Uh, sorry, yes I do. Booked under Gavin Free?" Gavin exclaimed before reeling himself in. His anxiety had left as soon as she smiled back and handed him a key.

"Up the stairs on the right, please." She seemed polite, whether that was an act Gavin couldn't care as he began the walk up the stairs and finally relaxed.

#ryan #ryan haywood #freewood #freewood fanfiction #Gavin #Gavino Free #Gavin Free #michael jones #jeremy dooley #freewood fluff #Wonders of a Fairy-tale

0 notes