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whiskey-tango-matcha · 3 months ago

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Before & After (M, flu)

You guys ready for a big, contagion-filled behemoth of a fic? Well, get ready because that's what this is lmao. Everyone gets to be sick for this one! It's written in kind of the same style as Then & Now, where we're flashing back to moments in time pre-Elliot's (the 'befores' are all 'before they all worked at Elliot's' and the 'afters' are the main story, they all happen in the same week), but this time all the guys get a fun lil flashback lol. This was a really fun write, I don't love every single part of it but I do really love some moments. Found family, my beloved.

CW: Male snz, CONTAGION (like... like a lot), flu (nothing scary happens though, they're just all extra-sick. maybe less flu, more cold-plus lmao), coughing, fevers. Also maybe a little TW for family problems, neglect, etc. Nothing crazy, but everyone gets a little familial gut punch.

Okay, enough chitchat. 6K words (oops) under the cut! I hope you like it if you decide to read it! It's crazy long, so I understand if no one wants to work their way through this one lmao, but if you do I'd love to hear any feedback, good, bad, or otherwise :)

Before & After

After

This year, like all the years before it, Greyson was the one who brought the flu into the restaurant.

“Oh, Christ,” Elijah moaned the moment the chef walked into the office. “C’mon man, it’s March. I figured we’d finally broken the curse.”

Greyson rolled his eyes, pushed past his boss, and slammed himself into the second rolling chair. “I’mb fine,” he said, his voice breaking on the second syllable. “Also, Mbarch is still winter, in mby defense. Hh-! Huhh… hnnn.” The chef rubbed under his nose, an attempt to coax the sneeze out that – “Hhh! Hh – guhhh, fuck mbe” – did not work.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, a dig that prompted a watery glare from Greyson. “March is not still winter.”

Annoyed, Greyson pulled out his phone and typed ‘when does winter end’ into google. When he got the answer he was hoping for, he pushed the phone to the other side of the desk – March 20 shone bold on the screen. Elijah pushed the phone with a pen back towards Greyson. “I’m not interested in touching your infected phone, thanks.”

“Just wanted to prove I was riiii – hh… hh -? Huh – hhhh. Snf.” Once again, Greyson raised an arm to catch a sneeze that staunchly refused to come. He glanced over at Elijah with watering, irritated eyes; the other man’s face was a mix between pity and disgust. “What?” he snapped.

Both of Elijah’s hands shot up; poking the bear was obviously not the right call today. “Nothing,” he said. “That just sounds fairly miserable. Can’t wait for all of us to be in the same boat. Definitely one of my favorite traditions you’ve bestowed on us.”

Greyson sighed, which prompted a flurry of barking, painful coughs. It was only eleven in the morning, but he felt as defeated as though he’d already worked a brutal shift. “It’s too busy for mbe to leave,” he said once he’d regained control of his spasming lungs. “It’s restaurant week, for God’s sake. Any other Tuesday, I’d just go home,” Greyson glanced up at his boss and shrugged, apologetic. “Sorry, Lij.”

Elijah pulled a weary hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Since this literally happens every single fucking year. But god, Grey, you certainly could’ve picked a better week.”

“Do you thingk I want to feel like shi – hh! Huh – HRRTSHHZCH-ue! Fucking finally,” Greyson nearly moaned in relief. He grabbed the tissue box that Elijah had placed on his side of the desk and tore into it. “In mby defense,” he said once he’d thrown the used tissues away, “at least this year I haven’t brought ndearly as much shit into the restaurant. I feel like mbaybe you should congratulate mbe on that. Hh...hhITSZCHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said, rolling his chair more towards the door to try and avoid the worst of the backsplash. “Yeah, Grey, you’re absolutely right, I should absolutely thank you for not bringing a thousand illnesses a month into the restaurant. What a normal and hinged thing to think.”

This prompted a stuffy laugh from the chef. “Whatever,” he said. “Ndot mby fault that Reed picked up sombe airport flu. What do you expect mbe to do, sequester mbyself fromb him? It’s a thousand-square-foot apartment, Lij. Sequestering isn’t exactly its selling point.”

“Mmm,” Elijah murmured, clicking his computer off. “Are you okay to work, honestly?” He placed a rough hand onto Greyson’s forehead, frowned at what he felt. “You’re hot.”

“Aww, see that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear fromb you,” Greyson placed a hand on his heart as he pushed his boss’s hand off his head. “I’ll mbake it through,” he said, standing to put a chef coat on. “Try ndot to get too close. HRRSZCH-ue! Hh -! HUHESTZHH-ue!”

Try not to get too close. As if any of them stood a chance in hell.

Before

When he moved there, everyone had told him Chicago is cold, as though that weren’t the most obvious fucking thing on the planet. He’d rolled his eyes; he knew cold. Hell, he’d grown up in Minnesota – if anyone knew cold it was him.

As the months went on, though, and the muggy summer turned to blustery autumn, which turned to the frigid, bone-chilling winds of winter, Greyson realized what everyone meant. Yeah, the weather was icy and the wind could cut through you to the bone – but he figured when people said Chicago is cold, they just meant the weather.

They did not.

“Chef, you’re twenty minutes late.” It was the first thing he heard when he trudged into work that morning; not a ‘good morning’, not a ‘how are you’, not even a ‘hey, you look like shit, is that why you’re twenty minutes late?’. With effort, Greyson pushed his hood off his head and blinked his superior into focus. The older chef was quite literally holding his watch up to Greyson’s face, as though he thought this may be the first he’d ever heard of the concept of time.

“Sorry, Chef,” Greyson managed, his voice a mangled knot of congestion. “The train was runnding behind. Hh-! HhhNGTSXCH-ue!” In an attempt to stifle the sneeze, Greyson managed to pop one of his ears open; the sudden clarity of sound made his head spin. Do not pass out, he chided himself silently, grabbing onto the wall for stability. The executive chef rolled his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re fucking sick,” the older chef sneered. If he wasn’t already flushed from fever, Greyson’s face would have flamed in embarrassment. He shook his head.

“I’mb good, Chef,” he said, swallowing hard to keep from coughing. “Just… the wind mbakes mbe… sneeze. Sorry for being late.”

His boss sighed through his nose, annoyed. “I have three projects I need you to finish by the time service starts. Do not sneeze on my fucking food, Abbott, you hear me?” Greyson nodded. “Great. Now get to the prep kitchen, and don’t let me see or hear you until service. Don’t be late again.”

The executive chef turned on his heels and slammed the office door, leaving Greyson shivering in his heavy winter coat in the middle of the kitchen. Thoroughly chided and markedly ashamed, the sous chef slunk to the prep kitchen to begin his projects; each one took longer than the last, as his health rapidly deteriorated. By the time service had begun, Greyson’s lungs burned, his head throbbed, and he had no voice to speak of – instead of having family meal with the rest of the cooks, Greyson stepped outside into the freezing alleyway and lit a cigarette, a bad idea but this comforting ritual was all he had to keep going at this point. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. No new messages.

Instead of taking a puff of the cigarette, Greyson let out a single, choked sob; he hadn’t felt this shitty in years. What was the point of all this, of suffering for his career, of dealing with asshole, piece-of-shit chefs who didn’t give a fuck about anyone, of living in big, cold cities where everyone was just out for them-fucking-selves? He’d lived in Chicago for nearly a year and had exactly zero friends, had been on zero dates, and had exactly zero creative drive. Desperate for any connection, Greyson pulled up his messages and typed one out.

Greyson

4:37PM

hey, mom. how are you doing?

The wind howled around him while he waited for a response. The sun was already set, and darkness had settled over the alleyway; Greyson tried to remember the last time he saw the sun, without luck. Please respond, a tiny voice in his head begged. Please.

A minute passed, then two, then ten. Service was about to start; if he didn’t get inside to the middle station soon, his chef would come looking for him – and that wasn’t something anyone wanted. Greyson pressed his lips together, coughed painfully into his coat, and stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette. One last time, he checked his phone: no new messages.

After

Per the usual, Matt was the first to succumb to Greyson’s illness.

“Already?” Elijah groaned. The two chefs were in the back kitchen, though to say they were prepping would have been a stretch. “It’s literally been one day, Greyson, how did you already manage to get Matt sick?”

The question went unanswered; Greyson was a bit preoccupied. “Hhh-! Huh...hnghh. Fugck,” he groaned, sniffling into the sleeve of his jacket. “God, that’s getti’g old. Hh-!”

“Hh’IGTSZH-ue!” Behind him, Matt pitched forward, suddenly, into both hands. “Ew, gross – HRRTSH-uhh! Hh...ITSZHH-ue!”

“Stop fuckigg stealing fromb mbe,” Greyson growled, turning towards his sous chef. “It’s rude.”

“I’mb rude?” Matt balked, snatching the box of tissues from the table that separated him from both his bosses. “You’re the one who mbade mbe like thi-ihh… HTSZHH-ue! RRSHH-ue!” This time, he managed to cover his mouth with a handful of tissues. “God, I can’t stop fuckigg sndeezing. HHITSCHH-ue!”

“Don’t rub it in,” Greyson muttered, pawing at his nose. Beside him, Elijah’s eyes were closed, his lips pressed into a hard line of annoyance. “Mbaybe we should start taking bets,” Greyson said, elbowing his boss playfully to keep the man from completely losing it. “Who goes downd first, who goes down last… mbight be a fun activity for the whole fam-”

On the last syllable of ‘family’, Greyson’s voice – which was mangled to begin with – fell off completely. Elijah swung to look at his counterpart, as Greyson’s hand flew to his throat. “Oh, fuck,” Greyson whispered.

“Did you just lose your voice?” Elijah’s voice verged on the edge of mania. “Tell me you didn’t just lose your fucking voice.”

“Umb,” Greyson wheezed, with effort. “I didn’t just lose mby voice.”

Elijah groaned. Greyson let out a small, painful cough. Across the prep table, Matt was stuck in his own personal hell.

“HRRSHH-uhh! Fu – NGTXSH-ue! Hh-! Hh’ITSZCH-ue!”

The two older men shared a concerned glance – normally, it would have been Greyson who asked, but since apparently speaking was no longer an option for him, Elijah regarded the younger chef. “Matt… are you -”

“HRRSHH-ue!”

“-okay?” Elijah finished, as Matt succumbed to a fit of ticklish coughs. He blew his nose, then tossed the tissues and nodded at his bosses.

“I’mb okay,” he said, near-panting post-fit. The heel of his hand found his eye, rubbed until both Elijah and Greyson winced on his behalf. “Christ, Chef, where do you pick this shit up,” Matt muttered, more to himself than anything. As if in response, Greyson doubled over, coughing into his sleeve until his eyes watered with the effort.

Elijah looked from one chef to the other, unsure of what to do or say; what Greyson said yesterday held true. It was restaurant week, one of their busiest weeks of the year, and no matter how much he wanted to send these two idiots home, it just wasn’t in the cards. He checked his watch – 2:55PM. Almost two hours until service.

“Okay, listen up you sick fucks,” Elijah regarded the two chefs. “It’s time to take a nap.”

At the word nap, both chefs visibly deflated. “Lij,” Greyson whispered, “mbuch as I love that idea, like ten out of ten, would a thousand percent love to participate… we just have so mbuch prep to do for restaurant week.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Like, we haven’t even gotten to half the mbenu. Hh-!”

“HHUHETSZCHH-ue!” This time, it was Greyson who doubled over to sneeze – a sound so harsh, Elijah was sure he wouldn’t even be able to whisper after it.

“Ndow who’s stealing,” Matt muttered, his sneeze obviously lost. They both glared at one another, then turned when Elijah began speaking again.

“Par the menu down,” he said. “It was choice of? Now it’s not. You two need to take some medicine and lay down, at least for an hour. I wish I could send you home, but I can’t.” He pushed a hand through his hair; obviously, this wasn’t a decision he wanted to make, but he had to do something. Otherwise there was just no way Greyson and Matt would make it through service.

“You’re sure, boss?” Matt asked, desperation painted on his face. If he could have made a sound, Elijah was sure Greyson would push back on this idea – as it stood, the executive chef just pressed his lips together, swallowed painfully. Elijah nodded, one curt, small nod.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Now, let’s get you two medicated.”

Before

Night was coming.

During the day, being sick with nowhere to go was not ideal, but ultimately it was fine. Matt would pick up extra hours at the diner – washing dishes, bussing tables, anything that didn’t involve having to speak – and stay there from open at four a.m. until they closed at six in the evening. It was hard to work while ill, yes, but it was easier than roaming the streets of New York with nothing to think about except how shitty he felt.

At night, though, the diner was closed. On normal days, Matt would crash at a friend or coworker’s house; he’d buy beer, or dinner, or weed and in return, he’d be granted a night on their couch, or their floor or – if he was lucky – a night pressed up against them in their bed. But those rare times when he was under the weather, he didn’t get invites to anyone’s home, no matter how close he thought they were. His weed and beer money never seemed to be enough to get any of his coworkers to bring an ailing Matt to their apartments, heat him up a can of soup, allow him a quiet night in a warm bed.

“NTSHZH-ue!” Matt sneezed painfully into his too-light jacket and shivered in the cold of the Manhattan evening. This was the third time he’d been sick since he was kicked out of his final foster home the day he turned eighteen, and each time went the same: he couldn’t manage to swing an evening at a friend’s house. The shelter turned him away – if we let you in, we get everyone sick, and then we’re taking care of a hundred sick homeless people. Sorry, it’s just policy. – and all his former foster parents let his calls go to voicemail. When it was finally too late to try anything else, Matt would find a bench in the park, put his backpack on his front with his jacket zipped up backwards over it to keep anyone from stealing it, and try to get some fitful rest until it was time to work again.

Eventually, just like every other time he’d been sick while living on the street, the cold and the elements would catch up with him. He’d end up with walking pneumonia, end up sleeping for at least one night in a bed in the ER. When the accounting department would ask where to send the medical bills after he’d been pumped full of antibiotics, he’d give them the address of one of his former foster families. Serves them fucking right, he’d think as he walked out of the emergency room.

Then, he would wait. He would go to work, get back to crashing on couches and sleeping with people he had no interest in just to get the sweet relief of one night in a bed, and he’d wait for the inevitable next illness to strike. Wait for the cold night to overtake him once again.

After

In the past, it had always been a toss-up as to whether Mark would fall victim to the yearly Greyson Flu. There were some years where he’d be the last to get it – usually a week or so after everyone else had recovered, which was exactly Mark’s style. Hold it together until everyone else is okay, he’d tell himself when he woke up with a sore throat and aching joints, and hold it together he would, until it was safe to take a day off. Then there were years where Mark was the only one to avoid the flu; his immune system tended to be better than the other manager’s, and he was the best at taking care of himself, though that wasn’t exactly a hard prize to win in this restaurant.

This year was different, though. This year, Mark and Matt were officially an item.

“NTSHH!” Mark wrenched to the side, attempting to hold back the sneeze that snuck up on him just as Elijah passed by the office. At the stifled sound, Elijah’s head turned on a swivel to see Mark, doubled over his elbow.

“No,” Elijah groaned, the look on his face so devastated that Mark felt his ears burn with shame. “Mark, please tell me you aren’t sick, too.”

Mark shook his head, attempted to keep from sniffling, and said, “I’mb ndot.” Wrong choice of words, he chided himself after hearing how congested his voice came out. Elijah looked like he might cry.

It was Day Three of the restaurant’s latest pestilence. Restaurant week hung over all of them like a wet blanket, soaking them to the bone, too heavy for anyone to remove. Each night had been busier than the last, and tonight – Friday night – was to be the busiest one of them all. Mark swallowed around a throat on fire. “I’mb sorry,” he whispered to his boss, sniffling. “Mbatt likes to snuggle whend he’s sick. Hh…hhETSCHH-uh!”

Taking pity, Elijah found one of the myriad tissue boxes placed strategically for the chefs on the line and brought it to Mark, who begrudgingly took one. “You’re supposed to be my rock, Mark,” Elijah said, his voice light and joking, but the words stinging the younger manager all the same. The GM sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Greyson!” Elijah called towards the prep kitchen while Mark blew his nose.

After a beat, they both heard a hoarse call-back. “What?” Greyson asked. Elijah rolled his eyes, annoyed.

“Come here!” he yelled.

They both heard an audible groan from the back kitchen – at least his voice is back enough to groan, Mark found himself thinking – and then Greyson was standing in the doorway of the office, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Does it look like I have nothigg going ond?” Greyson asked, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb ass-deep in yellowtail right ndo – ahh… ahKTXSHH-ue!” The chef attempted to stifle the sneeze into his elbow, then attempted to clear his throat – both attempts seemingly in vain.

“Bless,” Elijah said, automatically, before pointing directly at Mark’s face. “Look what you fuckin’ did. Asshole.”

Greyson’s eyes shifted towards the younger floor manager. Mark knew what he looked like; his eyes were red-rimmed, his mouth partially open in order to breathe, his nose scarlet and glistening. He had the flu, same as Greyson. They both looked like shit.

“Oops,” Greyson said, pressing a hand to Mark’s forehead and wincing. “To be fair to mbe,” Greyson said, turning towards Elijah, “this one’s mbore Mbatt’s fault than mbine.”

“Matt’s only sick because you are physically incapable of keeping germs to yourself. Now my fucking floor manager looks like he has a fucking wasting disease on the busiest night of the month.” Had they forgotten that Mark was still there? Or did they assume the fever had fried his brain past the point of understanding them?

“C’mon, Lij, he looks…” Greyson glanced back at Mark, made a little face. “He looks fine...ish.”

“No one would want him touching their table. I wouldn’t want him touching my table with a ten-foot pole.”

“That’s a little drambatic, don’t you thingk?”

“You kndow I’mb right here,” Mark broke into the conversation suddenly, prompting the other two to shoot their glances his way. “Right?”

With that, the wind was taken out of both Elijah and Greyson’s sails. “Sorry, Mark,” Elijah said, pulling a hand down his face. “You don’t look like you have a wasting disease.”

“Okay,” Mark said, brilliantly. “Thangk – GTSZCH-ue!” He sneezed into his lap, then lapsed into a fit of coughing. From above him, Mark heard Greyson snort out a laugh.

“Oh, fuck,” Greyson said, laughing and coughing at once. “Oh, jesus christ, we are so fucked.”

The laughter was as contagious as the illness Greyson brought in – Elijah was doubled over as well. “The fucking timing,” he guffawed. “The timing is just… it’s impeccable.”

Mark looked from one of his bosses to the other – Greyson doubled over coughing, Elijah crouched into a ball laughing – unsure of what to do. “Uh,” he said, “does all this mbean I can stay and work?”

If it was even possible, Elijah started laughing harder. “Fuck, Mark,” he sobbed with laughter, “you literally have to stay. We have no other choice but to put your half-dead ass on the floor.” Greyson grabbed his stomach, hysterical.

“Fuck, we have to stop I’mb gonna keel over,” he said, wiping under his eyes. “Oh, mby God.”

Behind them, Matt crept up from the prep kitchen. “What the fugck is goigg on up he – hh! HhITZSCHH-ue!”

This seemed to be the nail in the coffin; Greyson and Elijah fell to the floor in hysterics, with Matt and Mark groggily staring down at them. “Uh,” Matt said, wiping under his nose, “are they gonna be okay?”

Mark just blinked, bleary. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “NTSHZCH-ue!”

Before

The phone lit up for the third time that hour, buzzing angrily in an attempt to get Mark’s attention. On the top of the screen, the word that always sent a pit directly into his stomach: Dad.

With effort, Mark rolled over on the uncomfortable dorm-room bed and picked the phone up off the side table. For a moment, he considered tossing it across the room, watching it shatter into a million pieces, never having to speak to his father again – a freedom he couldn’t even imagine. He answered the phone.

“’Lo?” Mark croaked, biting his cheek to keep from dissolving into a fit of coughs. He hadn’t spoken in almost three days, not since he’d gone to the campus infirmary for a Z-pack in an attempt to rid himself of the illness one of his roommates had so kindly brought back to their dorm, and his voice sounded rougher than he thought it would.

“Mark, that you?” his father boomed on the other end. “It’s your dad, why the hell didn’t you pick up the first time?”

A vein in Mark’s head pulsed at the immediate accusation; he’d texted his father after the first call that he was sleeping, but apparently that wasn’t an acceptable excuse. “Sorry,” he said, yanking the phone away from his face to cough into an elbow. When he brought the phone back, his dad was already speaking again.

“-money for the goddamn cafeteria, I thought we talked about this.” The tail end of a sentence, but Mark instinctively knew what the first part had been. His mother and father got a bill for the campus cafeteria, despite the fact that Mark had promised to get a job to cover his own food expenses at university. Fuck.

“I’mb sorry,” Mark said again. “I’ve been lookigg for work, but it’s hard to find sombewhere that’ll accommodate a student’s schedule. Hh – HRRSXHH-ue!” This time, he didn’t have time to pull the phone away. On the other end of the line, his father grunted.

“You sick?” he asked after a beat; an accusal, not a concern. Mark swallowed hard.

“Ndo, sir,” he said.

“Good,” his father replied. “Figure the job thing out, Mark. I get another damn grocery bill from that school, and I’m done paying for any of those damn classes. Got it?”

Mark pressed his lips together. Do not cry on the phone, do NOT. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice small.

“Mom says hi,” his dad said, though Mark knew she hadn’t. “Talk soon.”

The line was cut before Mark had a chance to say goodbye – not that he wanted to. He let out a pathetically soupy cough, and put his head in his hands, defeated. What the fuck kind of parent says that shit, he allowed himself to think. The angry tears he’d held back during the call fell before he was able to sniff them back again. Fuck you, Dad.

For the next six weeks, until he finally found a part-time catering job, Mark would avoid the cafeteria completely; he’d scrounge from his friend’s leftovers, be the first at the dorm parties to shove cookies into his pockets, live on dollar gas station burritos so that he wouldn’t hear from his dad again. For now, he gave in to his baser desires: turning the phone over in his hand, Mark viciously hurled it across the room, cracking the screen into a million tiny webs.

After

By the time Sunday – the final day of restaurant week – rolled around, the restaurant could have been better classified as a biohazard unit.

“Last big night, guys,” Elijah said to the coughing, sniffling servers during the week’s final pre-shift. “Let’s just get through it and… and then we-ehh…” The servers all groaned as Elijah pitched into his elbow. “NGTZHH-ue!”

“Not you, too,” Riley, Elijah’s lead server, moaned. “Who’s going to help us on the floor now?”

Elijah flushed and cleared his throat. “Fuck off, all of you,” he said. “I’m fine. One sneeze does not the flu make. Let’s get back to the task at hand, hmm?”

They all knew, of course, that the denial was in vain. Elijah had felt the tendrils of a nasty fever work their way behind his eyes post-service the night before, and had only made it until four p.m. today without any accusations due to an arsenal of meds – meds that seemed, at this point, to be losing their ability to help him. His lungs felt heavy, his head and body ached, his nose was sore from sucking nose spray in every five fucking minutes. Despite the fact that they’d barely gone over any reservations, Elijah dismissed the servers to go eat family meal early; he needed to remedicate.

In the kitchen office, Matt and Mark were taking their Greyson-mandated nap on the pile of old tablecloths and coats; since his fever had broken, the executive chef seemed mostly-recovered and had taken charge of medicating and babysitting the younger managers. Elijah wasn’t about to complain; he had enough to deal with without doling out meds every five minutes. Perched in his office chair above the sleeping couple, Greyson was playing a loud-ass game on his phone with one hand and coughing into the other.

“Is there not anywhere else you can do that?” Elijah whispered, sitting quietly in his office chair. “Can you not see them trying to fucking sleep?”

“Oh, please,” Greyson said at full volume. “They’re out like fuckin’ lights. Watch.” He used the toe of one of his clogs to gently kick Matt’s shoulder. The sous chef let out a little cough in his sleep and rolled closer to Mark, not opening his eyes. “I snuck a little Nyquil in their teas,” Greyson admitted, laughing a little.

“Why would you do that?” Elijah asked, pressing his fingers into one of his eyes. “We still have service tonight, dipshit.”

“Oh, this was hours ago,” Greyson said, turning back to his phone game. “They’ll be good by five.” He shrugged. “Maybe. I was over listening to them coughing.”

“I’m over listening to you coughing, but you don’t see me drugging yehh – HNXTSH-ue! Huh - ! HRRSCHH-ue!” Elijah cleared his throat into the sleeve of his shirt, grimacing at the pain there. The soft sshhh of the box of tissues being slid across the desk prompted his eyes to shoot up from his elbow.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, pointedly. “Man, took you long enough to catch it. I feel like I should give you a prize or something.”

Elijah pulled a few tissues out and cleaned himself up. “I have ndot caught it,” he said, sucking in through his nose. “Until service is over tondight, I am well. I am healthy. I – HUHESTCHH-ue!” This time, he was unable to even partially stifle. Greyson made a noise of sympathy in the back of his throat, reached across the desk to put a hand on his boss’s arm.

“Yeah,” he said as Elijah blew his nose. “That’s not really how being sick works.”

Before

In his hand, Elijah held the key to the rest of his life.

He honestly couldn’t believe it was real; a key, a real, physical key to the restaurant he’d dreamed of since he was a child. Sliding it into the lock for the first time, Elijah could feel his life changing. The door creaked open and there it was: his restaurant, in all of its dusty, ripped-to-the-studs glory. Elijah pressed his lips together, on the verge of tears – nothing could ruin this moment for him. Nothi-

“NGTZSHH-ue! HRRSTSHH-ue! Fuck,” he wiped his nose with the back of his hand – ugh. Nothing could ruin this, he repeated to himself, not even this bitch of a cold he’d picked up at work three days prior; he’d been laid up in bed when he got the call from the commercial Realtor that actually, the keys would be ready for him today, if he wanted to pick them up. Never had he ever bolted out of bed so quickly.

Elijah walked carefully through what would one day be the dining room of Elliot’s, pressing his fingertips into the stone walls as though introducing himself to them. Hi, he whispered to the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the hundred-year-old stove that he was sure was a fire hazard. I’m home. Elijah had the sudden urge to call his parents.

It wasn’t an urge he had often; in fact, he’d only mentioned once in passing that he’d been trying to purchase a restaurant to them, and that was almost a year ago. But he needed to tell someone, needed someone to share in this excitement with him. He dialed his mom’s number.

“Hello, may I ask who’s calling?” his mother answered, formal as ever even though she knew exactly who had called. Elijah smiled into the phone.

“Mbom,” he said, his voice hoarse and congested. “It’s me – it’s Elijah.”

“Oh, Elijah, hi honey,” she said, distracted. “Is something wrong?”

“Ndo, mom, sombething is actually… ambazing,” Elijah said, still looking around his dark pre-restaurant. “Is dad there with you?”

“Mmm, yes, he’s watching golf, is this important honey? We were about to head out to the Club.” The Club. That was what Elijah’s parents called the only restaurant they’d ever cared about while he was growing up – the country club that was their pride and joy to be a part of. Elijah rolled his eyes.

“It’s really important,” he insisted. “Please – just put mbe on speakerphone. I have sombe huge ndews.”

The moment huge news came out of his mouth, Elijah knew he’d made a mistake. Immediately, his mother gasped and called to his father in delight – oh, no, Elijah thought.

“Honey! Greg, honey, it’s Elijah, he’s going back to school! He’s going back to medical school! Isn’t that right, sweetie? Huge news! Yes! Oh, we knew you’d go back. We knew this whole restaurant thing would blow over.” His mother’s voice tumbled out so quickly she was nearly breathless. Elijah felt his head spin.

“Mom, I-”

“Back to medical school, that’s great, son!” Elijah’s father bellowed from what was obviously the other side of the room. “My son, the doctor,” he mused.

Mouth dry, Elijah managed to speak over his parents, who were now discussing who at The Club they would tell first. “Mbom, Dad, please,” he managed, before dissolving into a coughing fit. His mother tutted.

“Oh, you sound terrible, sweetheart. All those nights up late studying, I’m sure!” The glee in his mother’s voice made Elijah sick to his stomach. He cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’mb ndot going back to medical school, mbom,” he managed. On the other end of the line – silence. Elijah was fairly sure he could hear a distant sob from his mom. Finally, Elijah’s father spoke back up.

“Why would you tell your mother that, then? Christ, Elijah, haven’t you put her through enough?” Greg, never quick to anger unless it involved his wife, audibly sat back down in his chair. He mumbled something Elijah couldn’t hear.

“I – I didn’t tell her that,” Elijah said, voice raising like a teenager’s. “She didn’t even let mbe finish what I was saying.”

“You said you had huge news!” his mother bawled. “What else was I supposed to think it was?”

Without thinking, Elijah pulled the phone away from his ear and once again looked around his restaurant. Fucking medical school. He’d dropped out almost ten years ago, and here they were, still holding out for him to be their perfect little doctor. Looking for a reason to brag about him at the club. As it stood, he wasn’t sure if his parents even told their friends they had a son.

Elijah glanced back at his phone, where his mother was still crying on the other end; silently, he pressed the end button and put the phone back in his pocket. Elijah closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath without coughing. Nothing will ruin this for me, he thought as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Nothing.

After

Keeping the post-restaurant-week, thank-god-that’s-over manager meeting had been Greyson’s idea; Elijah had said they should cancel, but Greyson insisted they keep it on. Since he was the only one well enough to execute it, and since Elijah needed the distraction of being around other people to keep him from his flu-ridden agony, he’d agreed. He hadn’t known that Greyson intended to host a meal and a mock-funeral for the week they’d just had, but somehow, it was the perfect salve to the burn that was restaurant week.

“Dearly beloved,” Greyson said from behind the line, mimicking a microphone with his hands, “we’re gathered here today in his hellhole of a kitchen in remembrance of the Week From Hell.” He raised his paper cup filled with whiskey, and Elijah, Matt, and Mark copied the gestures with their cups of tea. “May it forever rest in agony, and may we never have to speak of it ever again.”

“Amben,” the three other men called from the couch they’d dragged in from the host stand. Elijah suddenly turned into his sweatshirt to cough, prompting a groan from Matt and Mark beside him.

“Every timbe you do that you yank the fuckigg blanket off me,” Mark grumbled, pulling the blanket they were sharing back over his lap. “I’mb fuckin’ cold, boss.”

“Oh, please forgive mbe,” Elijah croaked when he was finally able to compose himself. “I’mb so sorry that the illness you gave mbe caused mbe to cough and mbake you cold.” He pulled a tissue out of the box on Matt’s lap between them and wiped his nose. “I’ll self-flagellate in the street as soon as I’mb able to mbove again.”

This prompted a laugh, followed by a soupy cough, from Matt. “He got you there, babe,” he said, touching his boyfriend’s face.

“Alright, alright, enough bickering,” Greyson called from behind the line. “Soup’s almost ready, are you assholes eating on Elijah’s nice couch?”

Greyson bowled the soup up, pushed a serving into each other man’s hands, and took his seat at the end of the couch next to Elijah. Silently, they all dug in.

Mark and Matt glanced over to Elijah for confirmation – the GM just shrugged, exhausted.

“I certainly can’t get up,” he said. “So I guess the answer is yes.”

“Fuck, that’s good, Chef,” Matt moaned, sniffling into his soup. “I don’t thingk I’ve had a real mbeal all week.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow at his sous. “Uh, thanks – I mean, that’s fairly concerning, but thanks anyway,” he said, prompting a laugh from all of them.

Without warning, mid-laugh, Elijah’s breath hitched. “Hh-! HRTSCHHH-ue!” Before he could realize what he was doing, the GM had turned towards Greyson and sneezed, mostly uncovered, into the chef’s face. Belatedly, he covered his face with his hand while Matt and Mark howled in laughter behind him.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, wiping his face with his hand. “Asshole.”

Elijah smiled – the laughter from the two younger chefs was contagious – and patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’d say sorry,” he said, “but to be fair, you’re the onde who got us into this mbess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes and smiling. “Whatever. Just eat your soup, dickhead.”

The four of them, squished on the tiny couch like sick little sardines, must have been quite the sight; spilling soup on the expensive couch, coughing into a shared blanket, laughing and shoving each other gently when someone sneezed too close to someone else. From the outside, Elijah was sure that they looked crazy – who the hell came into work the one day they were closed? – but from the vantage point of the couch, he couldn’t think of one single place he’d rather be. In this kitchen, on this couch – with these men. With his family.

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #snzblr #coldfic #male cold #contagion #contagion fic #flu fic #listen i wish i could write shorter stuff but i am medically long winded LMAO #could this have been two parts? probably #but i am not a two part girly #i like to sit down and read a full snz fic novel haahh #hope you guys enjoy :)

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themswritinwords · 2 years ago

Text

Remarkably similar to the Puppies Hack.

Find your local shelter or other place where you can interact with animals. Now set a word count goal. You don't get to go until you hit the goal.

But wait! you say. I'm a total pushover. What's stopping me from just going now instead of when I hit the actual goal?

Get an accountability friend.

You have to tell someone else your word count goal, and physically give them your car keys, wallet, bus pass, etc, or somehow otherwise put them in charge of your ability to get there. Now you can't go until you can prove you did it.

I cranked out the whole back half of a manuscript in a week doing it this way. Highly recommend.

Anybody else got that Evergiven sized writers block

#writing #adhd hacks?#mbe? lol

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goatgoesmbe · 4 months ago

Note

*Feral noises*

I need more Price and sidechick!! (Also, it was amazing) -🐻✨

IM GLAD YOU LIKE IT ANON 🐻✨>O<

THIS TOOK A WHILE IM SORRY, but here you go..!

part 1 of Sugardaddy!Price where you're just his sidechick.. 😔

or are you? *vsauce theme playing*

thanks to auntie @ahobaka-trash for beta <3

Pairing : Price x Gaz x f!Reader, implied poly141 x f!reader tw : oral sex (m receiving), foot job, dubcon, infidelity (or is it?), workplace harassment, praise kink, daddy kink word count : 6731 rated : E AO3

Between Him and Him

The night was full of passion, where pleasure was shared with every touch. Fingers intertwined on the sheet, squeezing with every collision of his hips against yours. His beard rubbed against your skin as his lips left a trail of marks down your neck. Rough fingers oh so skillfully working their magic, placed between your thighs to dance on your clit, rubbing, circling, pinching-

You shook your head and sighed shakily, scolding yourself in your head. This was no time and place to remember that. Your hands tapped your cheeks which felt warm to the touch, before looking around, hoping there were no mind-readers present.

You almost jolted when perfectly manicured nails tapped against your desk, sharp and deliberate. You looked up to find your boss’s wife staring down at you, her expression taut with barely contained anger. Swallowing hard, you quickly stood—while instinctively making yourself seem smaller in her presence. Stammering out an apology, you braced yourself as she launched into a scathing lecture on workplace etiquette.

Used to it by now, you only looked down at your heels and listened. From the very first day you started working as her husband’s secretary, she had always been hostile towards you. You never understood why until one day you overheard her accusing your boss of cheating on her with you.

You almost laughed at the time. As if you'd do something like that.

But now, an image of John Price flashed in your head. His smile, his touches.

The ring on his finger.

"Are you even listening!?" You snapped out of your thoughts at the sharp tone.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry.." You murmured, fingers twitching as you held back from fidgeting with your skirt.

After enduring another round of berating, you sighed in relief when you saw your boss finally emerge from his office and beckoning his wife over.

You watched as she made a public claim of her husband, kissing his cheek before clinging to his arm as they both disappeared behind the door. You saw a glimpse of her smug smirk before the door was fully closed.

You snorted.

A pause.

Then your shoulders sagged.

As you sank back into your seat, your mind raced with the thought of a similar scenario—but this time, it was John's wife who stood in her place.

Just then, your phone buzzed. As if he was summoned by your thoughts, his name appeared on the screen.

Despite getting an earful about work ethics previously, you answered the call and cradled your phone between your shoulder and ear. "Hello?"

"Hi darling, I hope I'm not bothering you" His deep voice rumbled, sending a shiver down your spine which made you feel ashamed for having such a reaction just from his voice alone.

"No sir" You responded, acting like you were taking a work-related call as your eyes focused on the documents you needed to proofread.

You heard John’s low chuckle and instinctively squeezed your thighs under the desk. "You're off work at 6 like usual?" He asked, to which you responded with a nod.

It took you a second to remember that he couldn't see you. Wow, even without him being physically present, he was still able to make you dumb.

"Yes, sir, 6.00 pm" You finally answered.

"Good" He purred. "I'll pick you up later, yeah?" He added.

"Um- ok-" you didn't manage to finish your sentence before he started speaking again. "From work, not your place"

At his words, you found yourself frowning. “Um- what do you mean?” You asked.

He never picked you up from work, you prefer that he come to your house anyway. So you’d have time to retouch your makeup and change into a more suitable outfit for the date. You didn’t like being to go out unprepared, he knew that.

“I’m taking you to my house” You heard him say.

..What?

He never took you to his place before, and you assumed it was because of the missus.

..Is this like one of those porno where he fantasized about fucking his mistress in the space he shared with his partner?

You should feel disgusted, really.. you should stop interacting with him, block him, ghost him, avoid him at all costs.

But your body betrayed that thought as you felt the heat simmering below your belly. Your face heated up in embarrassment. Ashamed.

Well, at least you were still capable of feeling shame.

“I want you to meet someone” John continued like he could read your mind.

Oh.

He probably wanted to introduce you to his wife so she could see for herself—that you were just a friend, or something, nothing more. A way to earn her trust, to ease her worries about suspicion of infidelity. You wondered if she had grown suspicious, which made him come up with such an idea.

If so, agreeing to this made you more of a bad person than you already were.

“..Okay” You responded against your better judgment.

Before he could speak again, you remembered something and spoke up again. “And oh- John..” You purred softly with the tone you used whenever you wanted something. He seemed to understand it immediately with how he let out an amused chuckle.

“Got it darling, checking out everything in your cart right away.” He uttered firmly, like a soldier following an order.

You felt giddy for being able to get a man like him wrapped around your finger.

Talked too soon.

“I’m expecting the payment first, love.. talk to you later,” He murmured seductively before hanging up.

You could only sigh and smile, and if anyone was looking at you right now, they could see red flushing your cheeks.

Looking around, you made sure no one was actually looking at you before you lifted your phone for a selfie to send him as the payment, snapping multiple pictures with the same pose and slightly different angles. You made sure the camera caught your cleavage that peeked out from your blouse, knowing how he often showed favoritism to your tits even though he worshipped every curve of your body.

You always noticed the way his pupils dilated whenever you wrapped your hands around his arm and made it rest between your breasts, the way he would casually cop a feel of your boob during cuddles, playing with them in a way that made you think you could cum from him fondling your breasts alone, the scratch of his beard as his groans were muffled when he buried his nose between the mounds, big hands squeezing them together like he wanted to suffocate himself with them, how he always need to have them in his hands whenever he pounded into you-

You let out an embarrassing yelp when you feel someone tap your shoulder.

A familiar chuckle was heard which made you look up, feeling a tad bit disappointed to see your boss instead of a certain someone who had been living in your head rent-free.

“Are you okay? Called your name a few times there.” He said with a head tilt and that signature smirk.

“Yes sir, I’m sorry.. I was just thinking..” You stuttered, looking down in remorse. You felt your cheeks warming up, hoping that he didn’t notice the look on your face when you were previously lost in such thoughts.

You felt his hand linger on your shoulder before he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The office light caught the glint of his wedding ring as he pulled his hand away.

He seemed to notice you glancing at it from how his lips curled in a crooked smirk. “She already left, don’t worry.” He said, amused that you didn’t seem to notice that either.

Suddenly, you understood why his wife was wary of you.

“Um, what do you need me for, sir?” You asked, trying to keep professional despite the disgust you feel. Something you never felt when you were with John, even though the older man held the same relationship status.

“The meeting,” His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in something close to amusement. "You were supposed to remind me, I was waiting for you."

Your stomach dropped.

Heart racing, you clicked open his schedule, scanning the time. Five minutes.

Shit.

You cursed John in your head for leaving you unable to focus properly on your job.

You stood up so quickly your chair scraped against the floor. "I’m so sorry, sir. I lost track of time—"

"I noticed."

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck. He didn’t look upset—if anything, he seemed entirely too entertained by your flustered reaction.

"It won’t happen again," you promised, already gathering your tablet and notes.

His gaze flickered over you—calm, assessing, just a little too lingering. Then, "Relax." A faint smirk. "I figured you were busy. That’s why I came looking for you."

Part of you wondered if he had waited in his office for something else to happen if you had come to him.

"Let’s go," he said, stepping aside for you to walk first.

As you did, you swore you could feel his gaze on you, feel the weight of his gaze on your ass. You held back from tugging your skirt down.

Seriously, what’s with you and married men recently..

The day went on in a drag. Usually, you had no problem zoning out as your body moved on it’s own, slipping into the routine of your job. When time slipped away from you, swallowed by emails, reports, and an endless to-do list.

But today was different. Ever since you noticed how your boss sees you in a way that he shouldn’t, you became more aware of everything. The way he purposefully brushed his hand with yours when you handed him something, how he placed his hand at the small of your back, how he not so subtly peeked down the collar of your blouse.

How come you never noticed it before?

It made you uncomfortable, overshadowing your previous anxiety at the thought of John taking you to his house.

His house, the place he lived in, with his spouse.

Come to think of it, both situations were practically the same.

Even so, you’d rather be with John than anyone else.

You resisted letting out a sigh of relief as the clock finally hit 6 PM. Heels clacked against the pristine floor as you fast-walked back to your desk, swiftly tidying everything up.

“Need a ride?” You froze when you turned around, almost bumping into your boss looking down at you.

“Um- no sir, thank you” You responded quickly before sidestepping to walk past him.

His hand caught your arm, pulling you back towards him before smoothly slipping around your shoulders. “Come on, it’s almost getting dark out, not safe for someone like you to be out alone” He said before dragging you away to the exit.

Your stomach twisted. Refusing him outright felt impossible—he was your boss, after all. Powerful. Untouchable. And if he took offense… your job wasn’t exactly secure.

“Sir, please.. i already-” You tried to plead but then a familiar voice called out your name.

The deep, gravely voice cut through the thick tension like a knife.

As you turned your head to look, and you relaxed as the familiar figure stepped closer. John. He was dressed casually—jeans and a fitted jacket—but his stance was firm, his expression calm but unwavering.

You bit your bottom lip, God he’s so-

Your boss’s jaw tensed. “And you are?”

John barely spared him a glance. “Her boyfriend,” he said smoothly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it—subtle, dangerous.

Blue eyes shifted to you, like he was expecting you to move to his side. So you did.

A strong arm slid around your waist.

Your heart hammered, but you nodded quickly. “Right. He’s, uh, here to pick me up.”

Your boss smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He then looked between the two of you, assessing. Eyes lingered at the ring on John’s finger, the corner of his lips twitched knowingly before he exhaled a low chuckle. “I see. Well, drive safe.”

John didn’t wait until your boss left, couldn’t care less for the retreating footsteps as he focused on you. His fingers gently held your chin, guiding your gaze away from your boss and onto him.

“You alright, luv?” he asked quietly.

You were still shaken, hands trembling as you felt your heart thumping up to your throat. You were not alright, but you nodded anyway.

He glanced down at you, giving you a once-over like he didn’t buy your response. He always had a way of reading you, picking up on what you felt without you ever needing to say a word. So he knew better than to push. With a small tilt of his head, he simply murmured. “Let's go then”

The ride to his house was quiet, safe for the soft hum of whatever was playing on the radio. Outside, the night sky loomed dark, concealing the clouds that had silently gathered. Eventually, raindrops tapped gently against the car window, their rhythmic pitter-patter lulling you into a fragile sense of ease. For a while, the silence felt almost comforting—until he finally spoke.

“How long has that been going on?” His voice was low, gentle, yet beneath it lingered an unmistakable edge. His protectiveness slipped through the cracks.

It took you a while to process his words, couldn’t think with his musk penetrating your nostrils, the warmth of his hand which rested on your thigh at the hem of your skirt, his thumb drawing small circles on your soft skin.

“I-i think.. it’s been a while” You stuttered meekly.

He scoffed. “You think?” he tutted, scolding in a playful manner. His grip on your thigh tightened briefly before easing, his thumb resuming its slow, deliberate caress.

“I-i never really paid attention..” You responded quietly, cursing your own stupidity in your head. Come to think of it, you should’ve noticed since the beginning. From the way your boss looked at you, to how his wife took a dislike in you. Yet, you’ve always brushed it off, and now you were left to face the consequences with how bold he’d become.

“Quit your job,” He said. A demand uttered in a calm tone that was edged with steel. It carried the weight of authority, leaving no room for argument.

“W-what? i can’t just-” You cut yourself short when his blue eyes shifted to you, pinning you on the spot.

“I've told you already, you don’t need to work when you have me, sweetheart,” He said in a softer tone, the words uttered were soothing. His hand slipped higher beneath your skirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

Well… he wasn’t wrong. He was your sugar daddy, after all. Whatever you wanted or needed, he’d provide—whether you asked for it or not. As he had been nothing less than that ever since you met him. And would continue to provide as long as you kept being his good girl. You could trust everything with him, right?

The moonlight caught the gleam of his ring, a fleeting glint in the corner of your eye.

No.

You were smart enough to not put any hope to a married man. Didn’t want to face the reality of him choosing between you and his spouse one day. You could endure everything for now, content with receiving his attention and money even though you knew it was wrong. You couldn’t help it, when somewhere along the way, you’d unintentionally started to have feelings for him.

Looking away with a pout, you responded “I’ve only worked there for three months.. it would be bad for my CV-” Your words faltered, lost in a sharp inhale as his finger went further up to trace along the edge of your panties beneath your skirt.

“Don’t test me, doll” The rumble in his tone sent a shiver down your spine.

You exhale shakily, cheeks flushed red, ashamed of your own reaction.

“A-alright, i’ll think about it..” You responded, with a voice that was too high and more shaky than you would’ve liked.

He hummed, fingertips moving to the front before squeezing your clothed clit gently between two digits. “Try again, baby”.

A whimper slipped from your lips as your thighs instinctively squeezed shut, only to draw a breathy moan when the movement only made the sensation worsen for the better.

“Y-yes, daddy..” You breathed out pathetically.

“Good girl” he responded, his eyes were now focused on the road. Though, his hand stayed between your legs.

You didn’t know what to expect when the front door opened. Maybe a sweet lady who would make you feel guilty for being a homewrecker. Or a weary, hollow-eyed woman who had long since stopped loving her husband. Perhaps even a striking, glamorous beauty—someone who only married him for the money.

Well, you certainly didn't expect to see the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. He looked like he just walked out of a Vogue magazine cover.

Broad shoulders, a solid chest, and arms that looked like they could hold the weight of the world without breaking a sweat. Defined muscles, sculpted but not exaggerated, hint at power without intimidation. His skin was a warm, rich brown, smooth and sun-kissed, complementing the deep chocolate of his eyes. But it was his smile—soft, warm, teasing—that made him truly ethereal.

His gaze rested at you tenderly while you stood there, gaping like an idiot.

“You must be..” He uttered, followed by your name, his voice smooth as silk, wrapping around each syllable like a slow, deliberate caress

Damn, even his voice was sinful.

Why the fuck did John cheat on him.

“Yes, um.. that's me, yeah.” You responded dumbly, blushing even harder when you heard him and John chuckle.

What should you introduce yourself as? John didn't rehearse anything with you-

“John told me a lot about you,” He said before you could break down and tell him everything about how you had been sleeping with his husband.

“I’m Kyle, by the way” he added, extending his hand for you to shake.

You shook his hand and hoped that your palm wasn't as sweaty as you thought it was.

He didn't let go until you did. And when he did, his touch lingered.

Or perhaps it was just in your head.

The light above caught a glint of the ring on his finger. A ring similar to John’s.

You shifted your gaze away from it.

“Come in, then,” Kyle said as he stepped aside.

As you walked through the door, you saw John kissed him tenderly out of the corner of your eyes. You chose to focus on admiring the interior of the house, looking anywhere but at them.

The atmosphere inside was calm, steady, a quiet sanctuary from the rest of the world. It wasn’t extravagant or overly decorated, but it still felt homey.

Made you feel like an intruder.

“John said you like pasta,” You sensed Kyle’s presence beside you which took you by surprise. His hand was placed at the small of your back as he escorted you to the kitchen.

The touch felt more intimate than it should. But you were too confused by everything to think much of it.

The dining table was set with effortless charm, set with care but without unnecessary formality. Multiple plates of steaming truffle pasta were arranged neatly; the rich, earthy aroma wafting through the air.

You were still trying to figure out what was happening. For what reason did John invite you here, what kind of stuff had he told his husband about you.

From what you were seeing, you could assume that this was a casual dinner. It also seemed that John had been talking about you to Kyle a lot, but why? Wouldn't it make Kyle suspicious? Maybe that was why John invited you over, to get Kyle to lower his guard by knowing you, your previous theory might be correct. But the way Kyle acted towards you was odd, there was no hint of jealousy in his eyes. If anything, he greeted you way too nicely than he should-

Everything was too confusing, you should just stop thinking.

“Oh- sorry, i didn't bring anything-” You replied as you looked up at Kyle with wide eyes.

Kyle exhaled an amused chuckle as he pulled out a chair for you to sit. “Why do you need to bring anything?” He responded with a teasing tone.

“Well.. um.. to be polite..?” You said after you sat, voice becoming quieter at the end of your sentence. Two pairs of eyes locked onto you, making you fidget in your seat.

“Cute.” Kyle simply said with a smile.

John smiled and reached out to caress your legs beneath the table as a gesture to calm you down.

A simple touch that sent heat rushing through you, the impropriety of doing it discreetly in front of his husband only making it more titillating.

You chose to shift your focus to the plate in front of you as you tried to keep calm, playing the role of a ‘friend’ or whatever John had told Kyle about you.

The dinner went better than you thought it would. At least on the surface, with how the two men seemed to be treating you kindly, even if on the inside, you felt like a sinner at the church.

You expected Kyle to ask more about you, but that didn't happen. It was like he knew about you already, asking you about your job and things that had been going on in your life like he was catching up with some old friend instead of talking with his husband’s mistress, even though he probably didn't know about that.

But even with how welcoming Kyle was, and how John was kind to you like he usually was, you still felt like an outsider. You couldn't help but notice how John always reached out to touch Kyle, whether to pass something or just a gesture he did when he talked. While Kyle looked at John like he hung the moon, smiling with each word uttered by the older man.

They made sure to include you in the conversation, but you couldn't help but be reminded of your position.

They were married, bound together by vows, the promise of forever, witnessed by the weight of rings on each other's fingers.

While you were..

A temporary pleasure, a pretty thing to warm John’s bed. A secret folded between late-night pleasure and stolen hours, never meant to see the light of day. He whispered sweet nothings, traced promises on your skin with the same lips that uttered his wedding vows.

You knew it, deep down. You were excited, the rush of something forbidden, the fire that burned bright but was never meant to last.

Then, your mind reeled back to the questions you had in your head ever since John said he wanted to invite you over. You still weren't sure of the reason, as you could only assume.

What was his reason? Was it really to convince Kyle that you were nothing to worry about? Or was it to show you that you were truly nothing to him.

Kyle laughed at a particularly awful dad joke John made, while you sat there in silence, lost in the whirlwind of thoughts crowding your mind.

Thoughts that gave you a headache.

And heartache.

You weren’t possessive of John like he was with you. But you were jealous—not of Kyle, but of what they had. Pushing aside John’s infidelity, you longed for what you were seeing right now.

Your eyes drifted to the rings on their fingers, and felt the lack of weight on your own.

You were a nobody.

“Sorry, i need to use the bathroom,” You stood up a bit too quickly, causing the chair to scrape against the floor with a sharp noise.

You winced. Both at the sound, and the way your heart clenched. No, don't cry. Not right now. Not in front of them.

“Come, i’ll show you where it is,” Kyle replied with a kind smile that sent a pang to your heart.

“I’ll clean these up,” John said as he stood and collected the dishes. He then walked around to give Kyle a peck on his lips before he headed to the kitchen.

With barely a glance towards you.

It was for the better, you thought. So his husband wouldn't suspect a thing, so you wouldn't get your hopes up.

“This way,” You heard Kyle say, standing nearby as he gestured to the hallway.

You could only smile and nod in response before you headed your way.

Lost in your thoughts, about what would happen after, what should happen after.

Should you put an end to this? Stop wrecking the happiness you just witnessed from the sidelines. The rational part of you said, yeah. But your heart was already attached to John.

Thought after thought occupied your mind as you walked down the hall and into the bathroom before heading for the sink to clear your mind.

Too lost in your head to notice footsteps following you from behind.

A presence followed you in, locking the door behind.

At the sound of the click, you looked up, only to catch Kyle's reflection in the mirror as he approached from behind.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder with his cheek pressing against yours.

And you froze, couldn't speak, stopped thinking.

“What’s with the pout?” He cooed with a disarming smile that made his eyes squint. His hand reached up to tug on your lower lip with his thumb.

“W-what?” You managed to break out of your shock with an embarrassing squeak.

His chest rumbled against your back as he chuckled in response.

“I was hoping to see this cute smile in person,” He continued as he pulled out a phone from his pants, showing you the pictures you took this morning, an innocent selfie–safe for the cleavage peeking out the collar of your blouse. The one you sent John.

That phone.. John’s phone.

You felt your heart drop, colors drained from your face.

“..You knew” you stammered.

And before he could say anything, you started to blabber. “I-i’m sorry.. sorry i’m- i know i shouldn't- i know it’s wrong”.

Your eyes teared up as the grip around your waist tightened. And you were reminded that the person behind you was a strong man who could snap you in half if he wanted to.

“Hey.. ssh..” his voice was soothing you as he turned you around, one hand rested on the sink beside you as the other went up to wipe your tears.

No hint of anger in his tone, just a tinge of amusement.

A thumb pressed against your lips to stop you from apologizing. “You're sorry..?” He asked with a tilt of his head, smirk on his lips.

You nodded shakily, holding back a whimper when he leaned closer.

Firm lips pressing against your trembling one, his hand cupped your cheek to keep you still. Not that it was needed with the way you froze.

Eyes wide as you could only stand there and let him savor your lips.

It was gentle, soft, almost.. sweet. Yet, you were left breathless when he broke the kiss.

He didn't back off all the way, pressing his nose against yours. His warm gaze locked onto you as he slowly licked his lips, savoring the lingering taste of you.

And your eyes couldn't help but follow the movement of his tongue.

Whatever thoughts that bothered you before were now thrown out of the window.

“Hmm.. prove it then,” he purred, warm breath caressed your lips as the timbre of his voice went straight to your core.

Your cheeks felt too warm for your liking. “..What?”.

His hand went down, but your eyes stayed locked to his. Even when you heard the familiar smooth whirr of metal teeth separating, accompanied by a faint rasp of fabric shifting.

“I said prove it, baby,” he murmured as he pulled back only to push you down on your knees by your shoulder.

One hand caressed your cheek, while the other held the base of his hardening cock in front of you, tapping the tip against your lips.

You jolted instinctively. Wet lashes fluttered as your doe eyes widened, looking up to meet his. That same charming smile from when he first greeted you lingered on his lips—but now, it carried a different weight. His pupils, blown wide with something else, sent a message that made you hold your breath.

“I’d call John over, but I'd rather have you to myself right now,” he purred as he pressed the tip of his cock between your lips, rubbing but not pushing any further.

..What is going on?

John would definitely notice both of your prolonged absences, he would eventually search for you- for Kyle-

This is wrong on so many levels, being in this position with your.. sugar-daddy’s husband, someone who should have despised you when he found out about your status as the mistress.

Push him away. Your conscience whispered.

But..

You had already become a willing participant in something scandalous from the moment you met John. Did you even have the right to weigh morality now, when the lines between right and wrong had long since blurred?

And who were you to refuse a command from such a fine man standing before you?

Your doe-like eyes trailed up his figure, taking in the lean muscles wrapped in a tight shirt, the faint happy trail leading downward, the sharp cut of his jaw, and that devilish smile playing at his lips.

Saliva pooled in your mouth, a drop slipped out the side and dripped down your chin as you parted your lips to suckle on the tip of his cock shyly.

“I know you could do better than that..” he murmured. Fingers pressed against your jaw, thumb and forefinger applying just enough pressure to part your lips. A slow, deliberate motion—prying them open with ease.

A soft moan escaped your lips as he eased in, inch by inch, stretching the warmth of your mouth.

He was gentle, pushing but not forcing. Giving you an illusion of control when you both knew who was truly in charge. Contrasting with John, who always made it clear from the start that he would break you apart, but also familiar in a way that they both intended to make a mess out of you.

Oh god.. John.

He was outside this bathroom, probably somewhere nearby. It should scared you, the fact that he might come knocking at the door only to find his side chick sucking on his husband's dick.

But..

You were too occupied to worry about that right now.

“That’s it.. good girl..” He cooed when you were an inch away from taking all of him. The praise sent a slow, simmering heat, curling deep in your core, you could feel yourself being embarrassingly wet just from having his cock in your mouth.

His fingers caressed your cheek down to your jaw, a small gesture of commendation that made you long for more. Wanted him to tell you how good you were for him, to have those long fingers caress your scalp as you pleasure him.

So you loosened your jaw further, letting your throat relax before pushing forward until your nose was nestled against the neatly trimmed curls at the base.

You preened when you heard him groan.

“Attagirl baby..” he rasped as he patted your head, an innocent gesture that made you shiver.

You wanted more of that, wanted him to praise you more, to be a good girl for him so he would reward you.

His hand rested atop your head—not gripping, pulling, or pushing. A silent command lingered in the touch, a wordless expectation for you to do your job while he watched.

And you obeyed.

Slurping up the precum and saliva that slicked his length, your tongue glided along each pulsing vein, tracing every ridge as you slowly pulled back. When you withdrew, you extended your tongue further, the pointed tip teasing over his frenulum with deliberate precision. Wide, doe-like eyes gazed up at him, making you look so utterly docile—obedient and eager to please, silently pleading for more praise.

And it was so nice of him to give it to you.

“Look at you, so pretty taking my cock like that.. you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? don’t worry baby, i’ll give you more.. just keep going.. oh.. that’s it..” He kept uttering praises that made you moan softly around his cock.

Leaning back in, your eyes fluttered to a shut as you focused entirely on his pleasure—willing to give your all if it meant earning more of those sweet praises.

But then, he gripped your hair and tugged you away, making you let go of him with a lewd pop as you whined.

“None of that, baby. Keep those pretty eyes open,” He scolded. His tone was gentle, yet the commanding words made you instinctively straighten your spine, nodding in quiet obedience.

He smiled before loosening his grip and let you continue.

With his words in mind, you kept your gaze locked onto his, never looking away as you worked to please him with your mouth.

Slurping, sucking, licking, swallow. Memorizing each twitch and breath, making mental note of any precise movements that pulled those deep, satisfied groans from his lips.

Relishing every praise uttered between the sound of pleasure.

Soon enough, you quickened your pace, bobbing your head fast the moment you felt him twitch. Desperate to coax him over the edge and feel him shooting his load down your throat.

With every nudge of his cock against the back of your throat, your pussy clenched. And you shifted on your knees, pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to quell the heat simmering between them.

And how kind of him to notice—even more so when he lifted his leg, tilting his ankle just enough to press the arch of his foot firmly against your aching heat.

An embarrassing whine muffled by his cock as he moved his foot side to side, rubbing your sensitive clit. Your eyes rolled back when he pressed his foot further up to press against your cunt before dragging it back and forth. Giving you a slow, torturous sensation that got you dripping.

Hands gripped his pants as your hips rolled against the slope of his foot to chase the pleasure.

It was embarrassing, to get yourself off of someone’s foot. But you were desperate, squeezing your legs together to trap him there as you continued to grind. Pathetic whines and moans slipped from your lips every time your clit caught on your underwear, or when you ground your hips down just right.

But then, he pulled his foot away and you almost sobbed at the sudden loss.

“Ah ah, don’t get distracted..” He tutted, hand reaching up to push your hair out of your face before trailing down to your lips which were still wrapped around his cock.

You bat your eyelashes at him, a pitiful muffled whimper slipped past your lips in a feeble attempt at an apology. Feeling sorry for getting temporarily lost in chasing your own pleasure that you forgot about his.

His smile widened in response as he trailed his fingers down to your jaw, a gesture that commanded you to continue the previous ministration.

As you started moving your head again, he put his foot back between your legs to rub against your clothed cunt.

With your hips grinding down at the same pace as your head, you tried your best to split your focus. But it was getting harder and harder with how he moved his foot like so- rubbing and pressing your clit as the slope dragged itself back and forth against your throbbing pussy, teasing between your folds.

You worked your mouth on him as you kept trying to build up the heat that intensified in your core. Doing both simultaneously as you were afraid he might rip the sensation away if you didn't satisfy him enough, just like before.

“You close yet, baby?” His voice purred as he moved his foot against you some more.

A squeak escaped your lips as a thrill shot up your spine. Your nails dug into his hips as you ground your pussy against him, hard.

And then you felt him moving his foot to the side, tugging the edge of your panties to push it aside before grinding directly against your bare cunt. Then, you felt the tip of his toes pressing against the entrance which became the final push that sent you over the edge.

You moaned wantonly around his cock as your legs buckled. Gasping through your nose as you struggled to breathe with him deep in your throat. Unable to keep up with the waves of pleasure that hit you.

A distant echo of Kyle’s voice was heard behind the blood rushing through your ears.

“That's it..” He praised.

You slurped around his cock as you kept moving your head.

“Making a mess of yourself..” he continued in a seductive whisper.

You swallowed with him deep in your throat, making him twitch as he groaned.

“Good fucking girl..” He grunted as he put one hand against your throat, cradling in a way like you were nothing more than submissive.

Spit inevitably coated the underside of your chin, lining the ridges of your throat.

Then, his head hung back, relishing the sensation as he teetered over the edge. His cock throbbed with the intense release, shooting thick ropes of white down your throat.

Tears welled at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as they clung to your lashes. But you couldn't pull away with his hand keeping your head still, making you take every drop of his cum.

“Take it all, doll.. but don't swallow,” he commanded with that smooth voice of his, which was way more soothing than it should be.

And you obeyed.

Pliant when he finally pulled your head back until his softening cock slipped out your lips with a wet, obscene pop.

You let him tilt your head up before prying your mouth open. Your gaze, glazed and unfocused as he drank in your wrecked state.

On your knees, basking in the afterglow after getting off on a man’s foot, saliva and cum trailing down your chin.

Then, he spit into your mouth.

“Swallow”.

And just like before, you obeyed.

If you didn't feel dirty being his husband's mistress, you sure did now.

Again, what's with you and married men recently.

The door clicked shut, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

Kyle couldn't help but chuckle at the fresh memory of your face in his mind. And while he wanted nothing more than to be by your side, you wouldn't let him.

And since he was in a good mood (thanks to you), he decided to indulge, letting you be when he noticed how flustered you were—too overwhelmed to bear another second in his presence.

So when you pushed him out, he left and let you clean yourself alone in the bathroom, letting you gather your thoughts.

“How was it?” He heard John speak from where the older man sat on the couch.

“Better than it should, if i say so myself,” Kyle approached and gave him a quick peck before taking a seat beside him. “I was just going to talk to her, but.. i couldn't hold myself back.”

Before John could respond, a continuous buzz was heard.

Kyle pulled out his phone and accepted the call before putting it on speaker mode.

“Fuck ye, should’ve said somethin’ about the lass comin’ o’er.” Thick scottish accent came through the speaker.

John chuckled at the complaints. “Don't want to overwhelm her yet, Mactavish."

“Ya fuckin' dobber- Come on, Simon! Hit the fucking gas. We’re headin’ back home whether they like it or not,” His yelling rang loudly through the line, even if it was directed at someone from his side.

Looks like the other two were ending their date early.

open taglist : @skeletonsucker, @niazrzl, @iiriam, @katerinaval, @chickennn-soupp, @massivescissorsthingperson, @dreamland08, @massivescissorsthingperson, @brittney-121, @kukavittu, @noheadcanons-juststories, @z-wantstowrite, @uraeus56, @tellme-im-pretty, @prettygirleevee, @pisiksukedk, @nathanmcr, @honestlymassivetrash, @stupidonme, @tribbisweetdear, @bluetokie, @babybimbo777, @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon, @avavie, @angelsdemonsmonsters, @cupcake4440, @herefor-tojis-tits, @axulaphie, @h0e-02, @lucienofthelakes, @goodbyegh0st, @cryingdevil, @pink-princess-amara, @kittygonap, @wiciclesatmidnight, @kat-m-syd, @russianeifelltower, @mothmothmothmothmothmoth, @candlelight-reading, @feral-postings

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keyofnow · 3 months ago

Text

The Beatles Chronology

If music is at their heart, then their story is the clothes it wears.

Those who fail to appreciate The Beatles — and even many who do appreciate them — underestimate the specific progression of events that transpired during their journey, let alone the quickness of it all. The Beatles were a professional band for only seven years.

Here are the benchmarks of The Beatles‘ career from zero to hero :

YEAR 0

John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Pete Best.

Brian Epstein is The Beatles‘ manager as of a few weeks ago.

First studio audition at Decca (on New Year's Day).

Regular gigs at Cavern Club, Casbah, elsewhere in Liverpool.

First BBC radio performances.

First shows in south of England.

Original bassist Stu Sutcliffe dies.

Return to Hamburg, seven-week residency at Star Club.

First EMI studio session.

Pete Best is fired from The Beatles.

Ringo Starr joins The Beatles.

First TV appearances.

John & Cynthia marry.

First single “Love Me Do”; becomes Top 20 hit.

Opening for Little Richard (in Liverpool and Hamburg).

Follow up single recorded.

Last Hamburg residency (through New Year's Eve).

YEAR 1

Second single “Please Please Me”; becomes first chart-topper.

UK tour opening for Helen Shapiro.

Recording debut album in one day.

UK tour opening for Chris Montez and Tommy Roe.

First LP Please Please Me; becomes #1 for 30 weeks.

UK tour opening for Roy Orbison.

Third single “From Me To You”; first undisputed #1.

Paul starts dating Jane Asher.

BBC radio performances: Saturday Club, Easy Beat, and others.

Extensive UK concerts.

Hosting BBC radio series Pop Go The Beatles.

Fourth single “She Loves You”; first to sell million copies in UK.

First UK Tour as headliner.

Band meets The Rolling Stones; John & Paul write song for them.

London Palladium.

Beatlemania.

Sweden Tour.

Royal Variety Show.

Fifth single “I Want to Hold Your Hand”; has a million pre-orders.

Second LP With The Beatles; displaces previous album at #1.

The Beatles Christmas Show (three weeks in London).

YEAR 2

Finishing three-week run of The Beatles Christmas Show.

Three-week Paris residency at Theatre Olympia.

“I Want To Hold Your Hand” hits #1 in US.

First US Visit: Ed Sullivan, Washington Coliseum, Carnegie Hall.

Filming and recording soundtrack for first motion picture.

Sixth single “Can't Buy Me Love” (#1).

John publishes first book In His Own Write.

Hold top five spots on Billboard Hot 100 chart.

First World Tour.

First motion picture A Hard Day's Night; blockbuster.

Third LP A Hard Day's Night (#1).

Seventh single “A Hard Day's Night” (#1).

Frequent BBC radio and TV performances.

UK Tour dates; occasionally The Kinks and The Who open.

First US Tour; first rock tour by chartered jet.

Hollywood Bowl.

Meet Bob Dylan first time, get stoned.

Brian Epstein publishes autobiography A Cellarful Of Noise.

Eight single “I Feel Fine” / “She's A Woman” (#1).

First deliberate feedback on record.

Fourth LP Beatles For Sale (#1).

Another Beatles Christmas Show; Yardbirds (w Clapton) open.

YEAR 3

Finishing three-week run of Another Beatles Christmas Show.

Ringo and Maureen marry.

First full week of studio sessions.

First use of outside studio musicians.

Filming and recording soundtrack for second motion picture.

First direct exposure to Indian music.

Ninth single “Ticket To Ride” (#1).

The Dental Experience.

Paul records “Yesterday”.

Europe Tour; The Yardbirds (w Beck) open.

John publishes second book A Spaniard In The Works.

Tenth single “Help!” / “I'm Down” (#1).

Second motion picture Help!

Fifth LP Help! (#1 on pre-orders alone).

Second US Tour.

Shea Stadium (largest concert attendance in history).

LSD pool party in LA.

Roger McGuinn, David Crosby bring Ravi Shankar records.

Peter Fonda tells “I know what it's like to be dead” anecdote.

Hollywood Bowl.

Awarded MBE's.

One-month recording new album.

George introduces sitar to band.

First use: extreme equalisation; tape speed manipulation.

Eleventh single “Day Tripper” / “We Can Work It Out” (#1).

Sixth LP Rubber Soul (#1); first album with no filler.

Last UK tour; The Moody Blues (w Denny Laine) open.

Turn down offers for third motion picture.

YEAR 4

Three months off.

George and Pattie marry.

John gives “more popular than Jesus” interview.

Friends of The Beatles open Indica Bookstore.

John discovers The Psychedelic Experience by Leary & Alpert.

Two-and-a-half months recording new album.

Starting with “Tomorrow Never Knows”.

First use: backwards tape; tape loops; automatic double-tracking.

First Indian musicians on Beatles session.

Klaus Voormann (artist friend from Hamburg) designs cover.

Last Beatles concert in UK.

Twelfth single “Paperback Writer” / “Rain” (#1 in 12 countries).

Song is subtle plug for Indica Bookstore.

Last World Tour.

Death threats in Japan.

Kidnapped in Philippines, and the First Lady incident.

Last US Tour.

Beatle burnings in Bible Belt of US.

Thirteenth single “Eleanor Rigby” / “Yellow Submarine” (#1).

Ringo's first lead vocal on Beatles single.

Seventh LP Revolver (#1); first album they don't perform live.

Last concert at Candlestick Park, San Francisco.

Three months off.

John films How I Won The War in Spain.

Paul writes film score for The Family Way.

George studies sitar under Ravi Shankar.

Ringo visits John in Spain and holidays.

John meets Yoko Ono at Indica Gallery.

New sessions begin with “Strawberry Fields Forever”.

YEAR 5

Sessions evolve into concept for new album.

Fourteenth single “Strawberry Fields Forever” / “Penny Lane”.

First single in four years to miss #1.

Paul helps organise Monterey Pop Festival.

Eighth LP Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Our World broadcast, recording of “All You Need Is Love”.

Paul publicly admits to taking LSD.

Fifteenth single “All You Need Is Love” (#1).

Meeting the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

Brian Epstein dies.

Filming and recording soundtrack for new DIY movie project.

Sixteenth single “Hello Goodbye” / “I Am The Walrus” (#1).

Televised movie Magical Mystery Tour.

YEAR 6

George records original film score for Wonderwall.

Band holds last recording sessions before India trip.

Meditation retreat at Maharishi's camp in Rishikesh, India.

Hanging with Mia Farrow, Brian Wilson, Mike Love, Donovan.

Meditating, writing songs for next album.

Donovan teaches them new picking pattern.

Seventeenth single “Lady Madonna” / “The Inner Light” (#1).

George's first composition on a Beatles single.

Return to London (first Ringo, then Paul, John & George last).

Foundation of Apple Corps.

John and Yoko fall in love.

Band records Esher demos at George's house.

Twenty weeks of sessions for new double album.

Paul and Linda fall in love.

Jane Asher dumps Paul on live TV.

First animated film Yellow Submarine.

Eighteenth single “Hey Jude” / “Revolution” (#1).

Ringo Starr quits The Beatles.

John and Cynthia divorce.

Ringo Starr rejoins The Beatles.

Eric Clapton sits in on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”.

The Beatles’ authorised biography published.

Ninth LP The Beatles, a.k.a. the “White Album” (#1).

John and Yoko busted for cannabis possession.

Hell's Angels crash Apple Christmas Party.

YEAR 7

Thirty days writing, rehearsing, recording and filming new project.

Directed by Michael Lindsey-Hogg, filmed first at Twickenham.

Glyn Johns audio engineer, George Martin musical supervisor.

George Harrison quits The Beatles.

Tenth LP Yellow Submarine (#2, behind The White Album).

Sessions relocate from Twickenham to Apple building.

Apple Studio installed in basement over weekend.

George Harrison rejoins The Beatles.

Billy Preston (unofficially) joins The Beatles.

Apples Studio sessions.

Rooftop performance.

John, George & Ringo hire Allen Klein as band's new manager.

John and Yoko marry (Bed-In For Peace in Amsterdam).

Paul and Linda marry.

George and Pattie busted for cannabis possession.

Nineteenth single “Get Back” / “Don't Let Me Down” (#1).

Twentieth single “The Ballad Of John And Yoko” (#1).

John and Yoko announce The Plastic Ono Band.

Sessions for one more album at Abbey Road.

Mostly leftovers from Get Back and the White Album.

Paul rejects Allen Klein as manager.

Band's last photo shoot together.

The Plastic Ono Band plays Toronto Rock'n'Roll Revival festival.

Band includes Klaus Voormann, Eric Clapton, and Alan White.

John Lennon quits The Beatles.

Apple keeps John's departure a tight secret.

Eleventh LP Abbey Road (#1).

Twenty-first single “Something” / “Come Together” (#1).

YEAR 8

Last Beatles session for new song; John does not attend.

Overdubs onto material for Get Back.

Phil Spector hired to produce soundtrack album for new film.

Paul McCartney publicly announces The Beatles’ breakup.

Documentary film Let It Be.

Twelfth LP Let It Be (#1).

Twenty-second single “Let It Be” (#1).

Ringo, Paul, George, and John all release solo records.

Paul McCartney sues to dissolve The Beatles.

Ever get the feeling there's something obvious you overlooked....?

🍏

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goatgoesmbe · 1 month ago

Text

Im yapper, bet

I know I yap a lot on this blog but i need you to understand this is tame version of my yaps

#mbe subjected to my yaps eternal suffering upon you my not immediate spouse #← hence i shall return the favor with my yappucino-#oh wow mine be just yap and no writing lmaoooo #but there's more holup-

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ginnysgraffiti · 1 month ago

Note

you're devouring these patrick bateman asks and i love it so i have to put in a bit

could we get smth w maybe a younger reader (like finishing a degree ish mbe??) whos an aspiring writer and patrick sees their writing as something actually good enough to obsess over and admire like he does with music yk and he kinda takes it upon himself to try to help boost their career and all that

also mbe a little gn idk if you do that on ur acc i forgot to checkkk it's ok if not there's just not much patrick that isn't fem

i tired to make it longer than usual, i hope you enjoy it TT

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

it starts as quiet curiosity. then, as always with patrick, it becomes consumption.

you hand him your writing one night —unsure, maybe shy, maybe joking and saying that you needed advice for university courses you were taking— and he takes it with mechanical politeness, fully expecting mediocrity.

most people who say they’re “working on a novel” are unbearable, and he’s read enough uninspired prose in the new york times to expect another disappointment.

but it isn’t that.

you write like you see too much. like you notice things other people miss. the rhythm of your sentences has intentionality. the metaphors are sharp, cold in places, and disturbingly exact. and he feels something rare while reading it: a flicker of actual feeling.

not envy. not admiration. something closer to awe. he rereads the same three pages four times that night.

then he prints a copy. just in case.

he starts quoting your own writing back to you —subtly, like it’s something from an ad campaign or a record sleeve.

in the beginning, you don’t notice. he’ll casually drop a phrase during conversation, something you recognize in passing. when you pause, brow raised, he only blinks. “what? it’s good.”

by the third time, he isn’t hiding it.

he reads your latest draft aloud to you in bed like it’s an excerpt from les inrockuptibles, cigar in hand, voice calm and clinical.

“this part,” he murmurs, tracing the margin, “this is violent. you understand violence better than most people in this city.”

and it’s not a compliment. it’s a revelation.

he begins inserting your name into conversations with unsettling ease.

patrick doesn’t usually talk about people. he talks about impressions. about value. but suddenly, your name becomes something he says often.

at restaurants: “they’re working on something new, you know. it’s different. smarter than what’s being published now.”

at business meetings: “you know who could write that better?”

he gets you in rooms you didn’t ask to be in.

he doesn’t ask if you’re ready.

he just decides.

you are something good, and like all things he deems worth preserving, he wants to own it — or at the very least, orchestrate its rise.

he offers to “help” edit, but his version of feedback is bizarrely intense.

he doesn’t care about grammar or structure. he cares about the precision of your metaphors, the weight of your last line, whether or not the reader should be punished by the ending.

he circles whole paragraphs and writes “not cruel enough.”

he hands you books from his library that don’t match your style, but then explains why your work is what they were trying to do — but failed to.

he says, almost offhandedly one night, “i think your sentences could kill someone if you wanted them to.”

and he means it.

he reads your writing the way other people read sacred texts. not because he understands everything — but because it makes him feel like he could.

he doesn’t love easily, or well. but he obsesses in ways that mimic it.

and you? you’ve given him something no one else in his world can offer: language that isn’t about money, or sex, or image.

your voice — your mind — exists outside the cages he built for himself.

so he tries to bind it anyway.

he commissions a custom leather-bound print of your manuscript. you haven’t even finished the last chapter.

he keeps it in his briefcase like it’s a weapon.

like you’re his weapon.

and when you finally ask why he’s helping you so much, he says — too softly to be calculated — “because you’re the first thing i’ve read that made me feel like i wasn’t in control.”

there’s a pause. he swallows.

then he ruins it by following it with: “and because i don’t want anyone else to find you before i’m done.”

you stare. he doesn’t flinch.

he thinks it’s a compliment. and, somehow, it is.

his obsession isn’t subtle: he’s constantly angling to insert you into the right circles, the elite literary salons, the private readings, the offices of influential publishers he’s cultivated relationships with.

patrick’s used to playing a game of appearances and leverage, and now he’s using every tool in his arsenal for you.

he’ll call contacts under the guise of business, then casually drop your name, speak about you as if you’re already a published author, an inevitability — and because it’s patrick, his confidence convinces them to listen.

he doesn’t care that you’re still working on your thesis or that you haven’t quite perfected your narrative voice. he will get you published, no matter what it takes.

there’s a sharp edge beneath his patronage — he’s determined the literary world will see you the way he does: worthy.

patrick’s precise nature bleeds into how he treats your writing process, almost to the point of compulsive control.

he schedules “work sessions” where you read your drafts aloud to him, under his watchful eye.

he’s the ruthless editor who will cut what he deems “superfluous” — but only because he’s obsessed with perfection. his feedback is exacting, sometimes cruel, but always laced with the knowledge that you can do better.

he doesn’t tolerate excuses or hesitation. “this is your career — your legacy. treat it like it’s the only thing that matters.”

and you start to realize that for patrick, your success is his validation.

because if you fail, what does that say about the one who invested everything?

beneath the relentless drive, there’s a strange kind of affection — rare, muted, and fiercely guarded.

patrick doesn’t do softness. he doesn’t do vulnerability easily. but when he watches you struggle with rejection emails or harsh professor critiques, he’s quietly furious on your behalf.

he’ll bring you coffee at dawn, a rare warmth in his voice when he says, “don’t let them break you. they’re terrified because you’re better.”

he believes in you with a conviction that feels almost like obsession.

and every night, when the city is silent and your pages are strewn across the apartment, he’ll sit beside you, pretending to read, but really just watching you breathe.

you’re still young, still growing — but patrick knows he’s already irrevocably tangled in the story of your life.

and the tension between admiration and possession is a constant undertone — he can’t help but feel territorial over your talent, your time, your energy.

he hates the idea of distractions pulling you away — friends who don’t “get it,” classmates who underestimate you, editors who dismiss your voice as “immature.”

he becomes a gatekeeper in the most subtle way, encouraging you to cut ties with influences that don’t serve your future, pushing you harder when he senses complacency.

“the world isn’t going to hand this to you. you have to take it — and i’m here to make sure you do.”

there’s a dangerous intensity in the way he says it, like love and control are braided into one.

the night of your book launch, patrick is impeccably poised — a mask of calm, but every detail obsessively curated.

he’s chosen the venue himself — a sleek, minimalist gallery downtown, just the right mix of exclusivity and buzz. the guest list is a who’s who of literary elites and socialites, and patrick has personally made sure your face is the only one on every invitation.

he stands beside you, perfectly tailored, but his eyes never stop scanning the room — calculating who admires you, who might try to undermine your ascent, who might be worthy of your attention.

he offers you a glass of champagne with the precision of a surgeon, his voice low and steady: “they’re going to eat you alive. but you’re stronger than they think. devour them.”

beneath that calm exterior, he’s buzzing with a complicated cocktail of pride, possession, and an unspoken fear that someone might try to steal what he’s helped build.

patrick obsesses over every review, every mention, every whisper of your name in the press.

he compulsively collects clippings, screenshots, and emails, filing them away in a binder that looks more like evidence than praise.

he reads the critiques with a clinical eye, discarding the “constructive” ones as irrelevant or malicious, but treasuring the rare glowing words as if they were personal victories.

if a review is harsh, he calls your publisher or editor — charming and lethal — to “clarify misunderstandings.”

for patrick, your success is a reflection of his own power and influence, and he will not tolerate anyone questioning it.

he becomes a paradoxical mix of protector and competitor.

while he wants you to shine brighter than anyone else, he’s also deeply territorial.

at parties and readings, he watches your interactions with other admirers or writers with a simmering jealousy that he masks behind polite nods and dry remarks.

he might comment, “interesting conversation, but be careful who you trust. some people only want your name for their own gain.”

he’s the silent shadow behind your spotlight, making sure no one forgets that he was the one who engineered your rise.

in private, his admiration turns into something almost reverent

he’s fascinated by the physical book itself — the weight, the texture, the smell of ink on paper. he’ll trace the letters of your name on the cover with deliberate fingers, like it’s an artifact.

he keeps a signed first edition on his nightstand, next to his meticulously organized skincare products — a symbol of the world you’re conquering together.

he may even whisper to you late at night, “you’re not just a writer now. you’re a force.”

and in that moment, the usual coldness melts into something fiercely protective and strangely tender.

GOD NOW I WANT A PATRICK BATEMAN TO HELP ME PERSUE MY WRITING PASSION UGH

:,(

#christian bale type of boyfriend #christian bale type of bf #christian bale x yn #christian bale headcanon #christian bale x reader #christian bale #american psycho x yn #american psycho x reader #american psycho gif #american psycho #american psycho movie #patrick bateman type of boyfriend #patrick bateman type of bf #patrick bateman x yn #patrick bateman headcanon #patrick bateman #patrick bateman gif #patrick bateman x reader

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silentsneezes · 8 months ago

Text

MLM jay/vik sickfic! it’s around 2k words, there are brief mentions of mess/spray but nothing excessive

i appreciate any feedback or comments! it’s my first time writing these characters, so if they’re out of character at all please lmk- i won’t take any offense to it :)

there are no spoilers, it’s set sometime in act 1

anyways, i hope someone enjoys:

Between their time in the lab and their developing “partnership”, Jayce and Viktor spend a significant amount of their time together. Being in such close proximity with one another means noticing the little details. Details which are admittedly insignificant, but still catch Viktor’s attention. He’s become accustomed to their unspoken but persistent routine in the lab: Jayce arrives around 8 AM, hangs up his coat, exchanges pleasantries with Viktor, and begins his work.

But today was different. Viktor didn’t hear the same habitual click of the coat rack as Jayce deposited his jacket, nor did he receive his “good morning Viktor” upon Jayce’s entry.

‘Unusual, yes, but people can have bad days’ Viktor reasons, biting his tongue as Jayce sits wordlessly at his desk.

After a painstakingly unproductive hour of work, Viktor grows tired of stealing glances at Jayce. It’s been taking every ounce of patience for him not to say something as his clearly sick partner tries not to pass out at his desk. Viktor’s fingers tap soundlessly along his workspace as he watches Jayce’s head stoop down with fatigue.

“Rough night?” Viktor breaks the silence, offering Jayce a sympathetic expression. Jayce’s posture straightens a little, and he shakes his head dismissively, “Jusd behind on sleeb.”

Viktor only nods in response, taking note of the congested, nasally quality of Jayce’s voice.

Viktor turns back to his journal, but his mind remains on his lab partner. His attempts to focus only become more futile as he hears a quiet sniffle behind him.

Unable to help himself, Viktor chances a look back at Jayce, swallowing as he catches the sick man rubbing his nose with a knuckle roughly.

The next thirty minutes pass in a quiet, but tense haze. Neither man completes any work, both preoccupied over Jayce’s illness: Jayce is too busy trying not to cough or sniffle too loudly, and Viktor is too busy trying not to fawn over his sick companion.

Viktor shifts in his seat as he hears a quiet, but distinct “hh-“ from Jayce. He tenses, his ears straining as he watches Jayce from the corner of his eye.

“hehh-“

Viktor purses his lips as Jayce’s breath hitches again, his expression hazy.

“hhHZZDSCHhew!” Jayce doubles over as a wet sneeze tears through him. His cupped hands do a poor job of muffling the sound, but they do manage to catch the spray.

Viktor’s heart hammers in his chest, his stomach swirling with arousal as Jayce lowers his hands from his face.

“Excuse mbe,” Jayce murmurs politely, snapping Viktor out of his haze.

Viktor’s slim fingers fish into his vest pocket, retrieving a silk handkerchief, “it seems like you need this more than I do,” he comments as he moves across the lab, leaning against his crutch for support as offers the handkerchief to Jayce. The silk almost looks illuminated in Viktor’s hands, his slim fingers holding the fabric with indescribable ease.

Jayce hesitates before accepting the handkerchief; realistically, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll need it. “Thanks.” Jayce can’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment as Viktor lowers his hand, wishing it had remained outstretched– he misses the closeness already.

“Don’t mention it,” Viktor dismisses lightly. His eyes linger on Jayce’s face, meeting his gaze in an uncomfortable silence.

Jayce breaks first, sighing and admitting “Look… I don’t wand you gedding sigk-”

Jayce pauses, the word “sicker” lingering on his tongue with a bitter sting. Viktor notices his falter, letting out a quiet sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. Neither of them need to say anything, they both know the stress Jayce feels over Viktor’s health, the responsibility he feels to take care of and protect his loved ones.

“For once in your life, rest, and stop worrying over someone else,” Viktor says, a softness to his voice intermixed with the hurt from Jayce’s unsaid quip, “Besides, I’m better equipped to handle undercity illnesses than you are.”

Jayce rubs his nose roughly with a knuckle as an itch blooms in his sinuses, “no need to rub it in.”

Viktor grins, “even ill, you feel the need to bicker,” he taunts lightly, placing a gentle hand on Jayce’s shoulder. He watches as Jayce’s eyebrows knit together, his shoulders tensing as he draws in a desperate, “hhH-“ before pitching to the side, “hhHG’ZZSXhh!”

Viktor’s stomach pools with heat as he watches the spray settle on Jayce’s forearm.

“Bless you,” Viktor murmurs, his accent thicker as he forces himself to speak through his arousal. He tries to focus on anything but the sound of Jayce’s sneeze, which plays on repeat in his mind.

Jayce buries his nose in the handkerchief, giving it a soft but productive blow.

“I assume you haven’t taken anything for this… cold of yours” Viktor questions as he takes the seat next to Jayce. It doesn’t take a genius to notice the strain it takes for Viktor to lower himself into the seat, his legs shaking with painful instability.

Jayce places a hand on Viktor’s knee, his gaze softening as he rubs his thumb along Viktor’s pant leg gently.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Viktor prompts, his heartbeat quickening as the touch of Jayce’s warmth settles against his knee.

“No, I haven’t taken anything,” Jayce admits with a huff, earning a slight smirk from Viktor.

“You know, your ego won’t suffice in fighting illness. You need medicine too.”

“Ha-ha,” Jayce enunciates sarcastically as he rolls his eyes. A slight smile tugs at his lips; he may feel like shit, but it's easy to feel content in Viktor’s presence.

—-

Over the next few hours, it becomes increasingly evident that Jayce is no match for undercity illnesses. After treading carefully around the subject for a painfully long time, Viktor finally pushes Jayce to admit how shitty he feels; although the admission is more credited to Jayce’s rising fever than Viktor’s prompting— his feverish haze has left him uncharacteristically docile and clumsy.

Jayce has always had a gentler side hidden beneath the councilmember persona he created. Although at the moment, ‘pathetic’ might be a more accurate adjective to describe the sick man. His skin is coated with a thin sheen of sweat, his clothes sticking to his uncomfortably hot body. His nose is raw and red after hours of being pestered.

The once soft handkerchief is stuffed in Jayce’s jacket pocket, sodden and overused. Viktor sits beside Jayce at his desk, cautiously resting a hand on the small of the sick man’s back.

“You should rest,” Viktor prompts simply, his fingers trailing little circles along Jayce’s back.

“We need to figure out how to control the hex core,” Jayce mutters in response, his head in his hands as he tries to think coherently, which is proving to be impossible in his feverish state.

“And we will, in time,” Viktor assures him as he gently massages Jayce’s shoulders with a hand, his fingers pressing into the knots with ease. A smile tugs at his lips as he manages to elicit a soft, contented breath from Jayce.

Viktor freezes as he feels Jayce’s shoulders tense with a sudden, “hh-“. His hand remains on Jayce’s back, feeling his body shudder slightly as his breath hitches, “I’m ghhh-gonna- sn-hheh-“

Viktor’s chest tightens with arousal, his stomach filling with heat as Jayce’s voice intermixes with the desperate hitching.

In his fever haze and busy with the pretense of not sneezing directly on Viktor, Jayce completely forgets about the handkerchief in his pocket. He snaps to the side, spraying the air with a harsh, “hhHRZSXCHhew!”

A moment passes before a second sneeze follows, spraying Jayce’s hand as it hovers halfheartedly in front of his nose, “hhHDTSZCHh!”

Viktor swallows, his arousal only heightening as Jayce sniffles liquidly, mumbling, “bless me.”

Viktor’s mind reels as he tries to formulate a coherent thought, his brain short circuiting as Jayce blesses himself. After a moment, he clears his throat, “the handkerchief might prove more sanitary than your hand,” comes out of his mouth without second thought.

Jayce’s cheeks flush pink, suddenly realizing how disgusted Viktor must be with him, “Right, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Viktor dismisses quickly, his eyes trained on Jayce’s nose as he presses the silk handkerchief to his septum.

The silk’s contact with Jayce’s nose seems to be a mistake, only bothering the itchy appendage further. With the handkerchief held haphazardly under his nose, Jayce snaps forwards, “hhDT’GDSXHchew!”

Viktor swallows as he feels Jayce’s shoulders shudder with the expulsion, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns along his sick partner’s back, “Bless you.”

“Thangks,” Jayce mumbles, his voice thick with congestion.

“You need to rest, Jayce,” Viktor tries again, although part of him longs for Jayce to stay in the lab. An admittedly selfish longing, yes, but he can’t ignore the persistent, adamant desire to be in Jayce’s company while he’s ill.

“I’ve dealt with worse, and our problems aren’t going to solve themselves,” Jayce says in response, his voice catching in his throat with a phlegmy crackle. He swallows, trying to keep any semblance of control he can as his body revolts against him.

“Stubborn,” Viktor tuts, his hand resting on Jayce’s shoulder again. Jayce’s lips curl into a slight smile at Viktor’s taunt, his glassy eyes doing their best to focus on Viktor’s face, “you’re one to talk.”

Viktor is about to reply when Jayce holds up a finger as a silent ‘hold on’, his face contorting into an itchy expression as he takes in a desperate “hhHHh-“

Jayce tucks his nose into his shoulder, his upper body shuddering forwards with the force of the sneeze, “hhHZZDXCHhh!”

Viktor blinks, his heart racing as he mutters a quick, “gezhuentiet.”

Jayce keeps his head tucked against his shoulder for a moment before he straightens up, his movements slowed. His ears ring as the beginnings of a headache bloom behind his eyes.

Viktor sighs, rubbing his thumb along Jayce’s shoulder gently as he says, “understanding your body's needs is an essential skill in succeeding as a counselor. You can’t help anyone if you can barely function.”

Jayce looks at Viktor with a tired expression, “‘barely function’ is a bit overdramatic, no?” he murmurs lightly, offering Viktor a little smile, “but you’re right.”

“I am?” Viktor speaks without intending to, shocked that he finally made progress in breaking down Jayce’s walls. His blunder earns a smile from Jayce, “you are. I’m not helping by sitting here and exposing you to whatever it is I have.”

“So you agree to rest?” Viktor asks, his eyes scanning Jayce’s face for any idiosyncrasies that might suggest he’s lying.

“Yes,” Jayce admits, running a hand through his hair before reaching down to rub his nose. Viktor smiles, feeling an odd sense of pride at having persuaded Jayce to take a break.

“Good.” Viktor stands, propping himself upright with his crutch before holding a hand out for Jayce, “Come on.”

Jayce’s haze lingers on Viktor’s outstretched hand, a rush of warmth blooming in his chest at the affectionate gesture. He stands up with the assistance of Viktor’s hand, though he avoids putting too much of his weight on Viktor.

Viktor starts leading Jayce towards the exit, but Jayce steers himself towards the cot in the corner of the lab instead.

“Jayce-“ Viktor starts, but he’s interrupted before he can get too far.

“I want to stay here,” Jayce says, and Viktor finds himself unable to argue. Even glassy and feverish, Jayce’s eyes always implore Viktor to listen to him, however foolish he might be.

Viktor doesn’t have the time to reply as Jayce plants himself on the cot, slipping off his shoes. After a moment of hesitation, Viktor leans forwards to pull the blanket over Jayce’s torso. It’s small and frayed, but it suffices.

It’s not long before Jayce’s congested snores sound through the lab, reminding Viktor of the sick man’s presence. To some, it might be irritating, but Viktor rather enjoys the sound as he works.

sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors i might’ve missed in my editing!

i hope i did jay/vik justice. if anyone has prompts, suggestions, comments or whatever feel free to reach out to me!

#sneeze kink #sneezefucker #sneeze blog #snzblr #sneezefic #sneeze thoughts #snzfics #snz kink #snzcane

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