#this one has actually been rattling around in my brain for a little bit lmao | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

riddle-me-ri · 7 months

Note

Hi! You're like the only page I know that writes One Bad Day Ozzie! So, I have a request!(( I was hoping it could be a smut also 👀)) My prompt is after Oswald takes down the umbrella man, maybe Y/n can help him clean up? Like join him in the staff shower. ((I feel like they have some just incase a drunk throws up on one of the girls ngl))

OH! Also maybe the umbrella man forced Y/N to stay by his side over he over threw Ozzie because he knew it would eat at Oswald. ((Like he threatened Y/n and made out of fear she stayed by umbrella man's side)) But, now that Oswald is back and has control over the lounge again Y/n can how how much she missed and loves him by helping him clean up and relieve some of the tension.

a/n: ahhh okay, okay so actually I’ve been rattling an idea like this in my brain for a minute, especially once I finished reading One Bad Day the first time around, so I’m glad to see someone else on the same wavelength. So…sorry if this got a little longer than you anticipated anon lmao I just wanted to squeeze in some ideas of my own from my intial idea for this concept lmao and also, I usually don’t mind big text, and if it’s a viewing issue for you I completely understand, but if you can, next time please don’t use the biggest text option available, especially if the ask is rather long, it’s just kinda disorienting for me and makes the post longer than it needs to be hehe thanks 💚

Content Warning: explicit sexual content (handjobs/shower sex/piv unprotected sexual intercourse/biting), numerous mentions of blood/gore, subtle hints at physical abuse and attempted sexual assault (by the Umbrella Man)

Word Count: 2.5 k

One Bad Day Penguin x F!Reader - Reunion

Oswald heaved deeply as little droplets of blood dripped from his lips.

He was still on his knees looming over Umbrella Man's corpse, his throat freshly bit open and blood gushing from the wound.

Everything was quiet as Oswald regained his bearings.

"O-Ozzie?"

Until a soft small voice broke him from his violent reverie.

He looked over his shoulder and saw you standing hesitantly in the doorway of the Champagne Room.

For a moment, he forgot about the dead man on the floor and the combination of his and the deceased man's blood that stained his face and clothes.

All Oswald saw was you.

He slowly got up on his feet and smiled at you.

"Hey, sweetness…" He greeted you with a groan.

It wasn't until he heard the soft pitter patter of blood fall to the tile floor that he realized what he must look like to you.

"Ah, shit…h-hang on–" He quickly spun away from your sight and started hastily waddling towards the washroom.

“Ozzie! I-It’s okay…is-is he?” You walked further into the room and fully took in the scene before you, more importantly the body of the man whose had you in a vice grip for months.

Oswald turned back and saw you staring wearily at the Umbrella Man’s body.

“Yeah…h-he’s dead, sweetheart.”

“So, i-it’s over?” You looked up at him your eyes meeting his icy blue ones.

He nodded. “It’s over. I’m back.”

As soon as he confirmed that, you took in a shaky breath before falling to your knees.

A large suffocating weight had just been lifted off your shoulders. The dark looming cloud that hung over you cleared.

You were exhausted but relieved, you were finally free.

Oz called out your name in concern before he knelt down beside you. “You all right?”

Completely ignoring the blood Oswald was coated in, you wrapped your arms around him as you began silently sobbing.

“Y-Yes, I’m all right…more than all right now.” You sniffled into his shoulder.

Oswald began comfortably rubbing your back.

He missed this.

For all the money, notoriety, power, and influence Oswald Cobblepot has obtained, lost, and just got back.

The Iceberg Lounge, the girls, the drinks, the money…even though it distracted him from his own allies that made it all possible in the first place.

None of it, absolutely none of it held a candle to you.

The night Umbrella Man beat Oswald nearly to death as he overthrown his empire. To put that much more salt in Oswald’s wounds, when you tried to comfort Oswald, the Umbrella Man grabbed you by your arm and yanked you back to his side.

He declared you were no longer Oswald’s. You were going to be his from now on…help him run the Iceberg Lounge…or else.

In present day, Oswald shuddered at the memory, his arms tightening around you, scared if it loosened you would be gone again.

“I’m so sorry, sweetness…I’m really sorry. You shouldn’t have gone through any of this.” Oz whispsered in your ear.

You shook your head. “You’re here now, that’s what matters…y-you saved me. You came back.”

“Of course. It took longer than I’d like, but I was going to come back for you, no matter what.”

“I knew you would,” you sniffled some more as you reluctantly pulled away to look at him–to make sure he truly was there.

You gasped softly when you finally took in Oswald’s physical state.

He was no longer the clean cut crime boss you fell in love with working for him years ago.

His black hair was greased back. Bandages across his nose, cheek, and chin. Stubble littered all over his chin it’s folds. Then finally the now dried up blood splattered on his face and clothes.

“Oh, Ozzie…” You slowly uncertainly brought your hand up to one of Oswald’s cheeks.

He intercepted your hand with his own and squeezed it.

“Don’t worry, it’s like you said, I’m more than all right now.” He offered you one of his small signature smirks.

You giggled as you interlaced your fingers with his.

“Oswald? Oh-” Lili busted open the door to the Champagne Room, frantically scanning the room until she saw you two.

Her head perked up at the sight of you. “Glad to see you still around.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Lili.”

As if on cue, Frieda and the others soon filed in as well.

“You did it Oswald.” Frieda commented.

“Not without your help, all of you…thank you. I meant what I said…things will be different.” Oswald stood up, your hand still in his as you also stood up.

Everyone solemnly nodded in agreement.

You tightened your grip in his hand. “Things will be different, and I’ll hold him to that.” You teased.

“You better, he’ll listen to you more likely than any of us.” Lili chuckled as she walked over.

“So what’re we gonna do with who was the Umbrella Man?” She asked gesturing to the corpse.

“We’ll take care of it.” Frieda said.

She nodded towards you and Oswald. “You two should get cleaned up…you’re both a mess.”

Sure enough when you looked down you saw some blood had also stained your dress. You couldn’t say you were upset about it. You hated the tight constricting dress that Umbrella Man forced you to wear.

“Good idea, thank you all, again.” Oswald said before turning towards you. “Lead the way, sweetness…”

“When was the last time you had a date with a razor?” You asked teasingly, as you got the water running at a decent temperature.

There were a few stalls of showers in one of the private floors above the main floors, just a little measure of convenience in case any of the drunken patrons made a mess of any of the girls.

Lord knows, you’ve had to help a handful of girls switch into a new outfit or help her wash food out of her hair. Thankfully, those clients never returned, but there was always one in every crowd.

Oz chuckled bemused as he ran his hand through his stubble. “No clue, it was probably when you last shaved me.”

“Which was…that night…” You answered softly, as you grabbed the hem of your dress and pulled it up over your head.

It had only been months but, every day felt like a month and every week felt like a year.

Oswald sighed as he dropped the white shirt to the floor.

A part of him just wanted to carry on as if nothing happened, just get cleaned up with you, eat something properly for once, and tomorrow he’d work on gettin everything back to the way it was. Not once looking back on Umbrella Man’s reign.

Deep down though, he knew it wasn’t possible. A large part of him that loves you needed to know what all happened to you…if anything happened. The Umbrella Man’s lack of respect for lives was obvious seeing as how it bled through Gotham’s streets…he didn’t want to dare dream of what Umbrella Man did to you.

Oswald’s thoughts came to a halt when he saw your bare form. His throat when dry and his heart beat started picking back up again…until he saw the bruises.

You had bruises all along your arms, thighs, and waist.

For a brief moment Oswald thought he didn’t let Umbrella Man suffer long enough.

You could feel Oz staring at the bruises. You sighed as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“He was a touchy bastard.” You commented. “Man handled me like a rag doll constantly to wherever he was…”

Oz gulped. “He didn’t-”

“No…not that he didn’t try though, but thankfully something always came up. Some person he was dealing with. Some comotion in the club…something always came up.”

Oswald couldn’t help but sigh in relief at that. He hated that you got bruised and treated roughly but, he was grateful that was all it was.

You slid the sliding glass door open with razor in hand. You looked over at Oswald and gestured with your head for him to follow you.

“As badly as I wanna kiss you right now. I’m not gonna get stabbed by tiny little whiskers.” You joked before making you way under the warm shower stream.

Oz guffawed, but quickly followed behind. Not only was this stubble starting to irritate him, but he just realized he still hadn’t kiss you yet since returning, and that was a must.

After rinsing away all the blood from his hands and face, Oz sat along a built in bench that protruded from all three sides of the wall except the wall where the shower head was.

You immediately got to work slathering his face in shaving cream and then diligently shaving off his stubble.

Oswald would mutter out an occassional question, asking about the Iceberg and how things have been with the performers, waiters, and bartenders.

On the surface it may seem like he was just trying to catch up to what’s transpired since his absence and where to go from there…to see who all was still around and how much funds was still available.

When in all actuality, he was distracting himself. Distracting himself not to just go ahead and kiss you despite the last bits of stubble remaining or to keep his eyes from following the multiple trails of water that cascaded down your body from your shoulders down as the spray from the shower hit your back.

What felt like hours for Oswald was only about twenty minutes when you finally pulled the razor back and turned it off with a satisfying smile on your face.

“Welcome back, Ozzie.” You said sweetly as you bumped the tip of your nose with his before turning your head slightly and gently pressing your lips to his.

Oswald’s entire body began heating up hotter than the temperature of the water. He brought his hands up to your face, holding you there, so you wouldn’t disappear again like all those months ago.

You slowly pulled back from his lips, but only for a moment before you brought your lips back to his face. You began kissing his cheek, his jaw, and all along down his neck.

Your hands gently squeezed his thighs before slowly dragging up to his crotch.

Oswald’s breathing became labored as he let you do whatever you wanted. He just didn’t want you to stop.

He chuckled breathlessly, “I take it you missed me?”

You huffed into the crook of his neck before facing him. One of your hands went up and swiftly grabbed the base of his semi-hard cock. Oswald groaned.

“I can say the same about you.” You whispered sensually, slowly moving your hand up and down.

“And I wouldn’t deny it.” He groaned. “I missed you so much, sweetness.”

“I missed you too…” You brought your lips back to his.

You playfully nibbled at his bottom lip before he lowered it a little and granted your tongue entrance. Your grip tightened as your hand sped up, occasionally squeezing the flaring red head of his cock.

You passionately swirled and sucked on his tongue as your lips stay connected.

Never minding for a moment that just an hour earlier that same mouth had just ripped open a man’s throat.

Oswald groaned into your mouth, making your lips vibrate from the sensation. One of his hands slid down to your shoulder and gently pushed you.

You pulled away from his lips with your eyebrows furrowed at the center.

Oswald shook his head, denying what you were probably thinking. “I-I need you, sweetheart,” he took a gulp of air. “Please…”

You never stood up faster.

As you stood up some slick slid down your thighs along with the water that was still running down the top of you both.

You braced yourself on Oswald’s shoulders as you brought your knees to surround his thighs, straddling him.

Your stomach pressed against his plump one as you positioned his cock directly towards your dripping cunt.

Oswald grabbed your waist when you began lowering yourself onto him.

You moaned out his name as he groaned yours when he was fully inside you.

His thick cock stretched you deliciously in the way you craved.

“S-Shit…” You breathed shakily.

Oswald could only groan more in agreement as he tried to get used to your walls suffocating his cock.

He had no idea how he went on for months without you–without this.

You slowly began riding him, lifting yourself up to where just the tip was still inside before dropping back down.

Oswald’s thick fingers anchored into the skin of your waist, as you gradually picked up the pace.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as he leaned forward. At first you thought he was going in for another kiss–

“O-Ozzie…” You moaned softly as he started licking some of the water off your chest. His tongue swirled around one of your nipples before he began sucking it vigorously.

The sensation caused your head to tilt back, granting him more access to your skin.

The shower stall was a cacophany of running shower water and the tell-tale sound of skin slapping against skin. Only highlighted by your high-pitched moans and Oswald’s gravelly growls.

As if to compete with the marks Umbrella Man left, Oswald littered your skin with bite marks.

Every time he bit into your skin it made you tightened around his dick and bounced faster.

You began to feel those small tingles along your arms and legs. Your thighs tightened around his lap as your walls clamped around his cock with a vice grip.

Oswald was panting in your ear, ocassionally growling which made you whimper.

He brought one of his hands up from around your waist and trailed it down to where the two of you met.

You gasped. “Oz!”

Oswald began rubbing small circles around your clit, changing from clockwise and counter-clockwise periodically.

The pit of your stomach started tightening, every limb in your body started tensed up just waiting to be relieved.

Just before you finally went over the precipice, Oswald turned his head into the crook of your neck and shoulder. He sweetly kissed the skin there before biting down, slightly harder than the others.

Like the end of a fuse to a stick of dynamite–your body was instantly lit aflame.

Strong strings of electricity volted through every nerve of yoru being. Your body shuddered as you came on his cock.

You moaned into Oswald’s shoulder as you felt him pump his cum into you, concluding his own climax not long after yours.

The water has since gone cold, which was comforting at first but got chilly soon after the post-orgasmic bliss subsided.

Oswald still sat on the bench catching his breath as he watched you turn the water off.

You walked out of the shower and grabbed two towels you set aside and tossed on to Oswald.

When he stood up to begin drying off, you leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

“How’s that for a reunion?” You grinned down at him with a wink.

All Oswald could do was laugh.

#ri writes #one bad day penguin x reader #one bad day oswald cobblepot x reader #obd penguin x reader #obd oswald cobblepot x reader

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 3 years

Text

My Darling Cat Roommate

lmao this isn’t lambden, as the title may suggest. sorry folks

@stinastar hit me with some feels over and modern roommate au where Geralt just doesn’t know what to do to make Jask feel better and this happened.

Warnings: We go into some Seasonal Affective Depression stuff here so like be careful with that if it triggers you, jask beats himself up a little, mentioning feeling numb at things that usually bring him joy, i swear in this one. I haven’t changed, dont worry lol

_______________________

Jaskier trudged home from work on Friday, exhausted but relieved he had the next week off. He wolfed down the leftovers Geralt had heated up for him and almost fell asleep on the couch before Geralt hauled him up and walked him into his room, where he promptly fell asleep on top of his duvet in jeans and his shoes. Sometime around when early morning coffee workers were getting up he undressed and snuggled under the warm blankets.

When he woke to Geralt making a smoothie he was prepared to launch into a full ‘morning people’ rant, only to check his phone and realize it was 2pm. So, maybe he’d needed rest.

It was still grey enough out that he shrugged and went back to sleep.

When he woke up again it was dark and the TV was going. He wrapped up in his comforter rather than putting on sweats and shuffled out to the kitchen only because his stomach growled when he tried to roll over.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty!” Geralt called over his shoulder as he floated past with the pasta he’d left in the microwave.

Jaskier just grunted a small “Thanks,” before he disappeared back into his room. He scrolled through various apps as he ate and rolled back into bed.

He might have fallen asleep, he might not, but he certainly didn’t get out of bed until his bladder absolutely demanded it on Sunday morning.

Geralt intercepted him in the hallway before he could make it back to his room, “You feeling okay?”

“Hm? Why?” Jaskier took a moment to respond, staring at Geralt like he’d grown a second head. He knew his hair was probably greasy but he couldn’t look that bad.

“You slept all day yesterday.” Geralt looked like he was diffusing a bomb rather than talk to his roommate, “Did something happen at work?”

Jaskier just shrugged, “I’m just tired.” And a little numb.

Geralt nodded, “I’m headed to the store. You sure you don’t want me to pick anything up for you?”

“I’m okay, Geralt…” he sighed, slipping past his brick wall of a roommate to slink beneath his blankets once again and make himself as small as possible.

It was late January and the Seasonal Affective Depression was in full swing. He should have bought that fucking happy light when it was on sale. Should have bought the Vitamin D tablets he saw last week. Should have let Geralt drag him to the gym a little more when he felt the initial dip. Should have blah blah blah. He thought over every little thing he knew would have helped that he just hadn’t done and sighed, pulling his blankets tighter around him. He knew he wasn’t going to do any of it until it got bad enough that his hair would stick to his forehead once he hit this point. Might as well hurry it along so it could be over with.

Geralt knocked on his door, snapping him out of his mini spiral. He hummed, not even bothering to turn over until he heard the rattle of the doorknob.

“I know you didn’t want anything, but… uh. I was in the bulk section. Got you the peach things.” Geralt’s voice was lower and softer than usual as he raised the frankly massive bag of peach rings for emphasis before he set them on Jaskier’s desk.

“Than-” Jaskier coughed when his voice came out raspy and broken, “Thank you.”

Geralt leaned against the doorframe for a moment, a curious frown on his face, “Bake Off is on in an hour if you wanna watch it.”

Jask forced a smile and shrugged, “We’ll see.”

Geralt pursed his lips and nodded, pausing a moment before pushing off the doorframe, “Okay.”

Jaskier stared at the peach rings for a while after Geralt closed the door. Eventually he compromised with his brain and rolled out of bed onto his knees, waddling a couple of steps until he could reach the rings then launch back to bed.

Normally he would have almost cried with happiness that Geralt had gotten his favorite treat. He loved it when Geralt did little things for him or thought of him enough to give him something, but he felt rather indifferent as he shoved the twentieth peach ring in his mouth.

Without warning his door opened just enough for a plate to appear and be gently set on his desk.

Geralt muttered, “For the sugar high…” before his hand disappeared and the door once again shut.

Jaskier almost smiled when he saw the neatly arranged concentric circles of Totinos Pizza Rolls on the plate. He got to his feet to fetch them this time.

Around ten that night there was another knock at his door that pulled him from an hour long scroll through tiktok.

“Jask?”

“Yeah?”

Geralt held a big grey bundle in his arms, “Do you- Uh. I thought- weighted blanket?” He held his arms out with a hesitant smile.

Jaskier sat up, “But don’t you use it to sleep?”

Geralt shrugged, unfolding the bean-filled blanket and laying it over Jaskier’s legs, “I’ll be fine.”

Jaskier stared at the ceiling for a while after he left, confused by Geralt’s suddenly attentive behavior. He would have expected the grouchy man to enjoy the silence that came with his bad days. For how much Geralt complained about his loud music, he certainly wasn’t expecting gifts.

Geralt left a note in the kitchen Monday morning saying he’d made Jaskier a breakfast sandwich with instructions on how to warm it up without it turning soggy. Jaskier stood in front of the panini press reading and rereading the note as he heated his breakfast like it was in Old English. He ate at the kitchen table this time, annoyed with the crumbs in his bed, and counted up all the little gifts he’d been brought. He could come to only one conclusion.

Geralt was part cat.

He’d stopped functioning and Geralt kept bringing him mice.

He smirked and sent him a quick text, “Thanks for the breakfast. 👌 V good.”

After breakfast, he decided maybe he could change his pajamas, but he stayed tucked under Geralt’s weighted blanket for most of the day. Every now and then Geralt would text him something stupid Eskel or Lambert did, or a meme he found on his break, and every time Jaskier would grin and send back an emoji. Words were out of reach but Geralt frequently only communicated in emojis and one-word sentences. He should get the message.

Jaskier fell asleep around two, really asleep not just the fitful light sleep he’d been having the last couple of days. He was rousted from a dream about a talking panini press by Geralt tripping over a pile of laundry and softly swearing as he tried to right himself without crashing into the bed or Jaskier’s lute.

“Geralt? Darling, what are you doing?”

Geralt finally caught himself and nearly blinded Jaskier with a smile as he straightened up, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Jaskier sat up and scratched at his hair, “Yes, but doing what?”

“Oh! Yeah. Uh. I-” Geralt, still grinning, pointed to a small fern in a bright orange clay pot sitting on his windowsill.

“You got me a plant?”

Geralt was practically beaming when Jaskier glanced back at him.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a cat?”

Geralt snorted, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “You’re feeling better?”

Jaskier tilted his head, “I think so? What makes you say that?”

“You called me ‘Darling’.”

A hesitant smile crept on Jaskier’s face. There was an echo of the usual all-consuming warmth spreading in his chest that he usually felt when Geralt smiled at him. He may indeed be feeling a bit better. Come to think of it he actually wanted to shower.

“I taped Bake Off. If you’re feeling up for a trek to the couch,” Geralt offered, forced nonchalance dripping from every word.

Jask nodded, “Let me shower, then we can finish off the peach rings.”

Geralt’s smile nearly stopped his heart, a sure sign he was nearing the land of the living again, “I got lasagna on the way home too,” he chirped as he jumped up and made his way to the door.

“Hey, Darling?” It felt a little forced and goofy saying the pet name like that, but Jaskier just couldn’t help himself, “Thank you.”

Geralt’s smile softened, “Anytime.”

#listen yall idk who im projecting on more with this one #but the feels are strong and i yearn #geraskier #geraskier roommates #geraskier roommates au #roommates au #the witcher #the witcher modern au #the witcher roommates au #geralt of rivia #jaskier #seasonal affective disorder #seasonal affective depression #cw SAD #depression #thems some heavy tags for something meant to be fluff #that kinda just hits the nail on the head for the fandom tho yeah?#lol #soft geraskier

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kpoppwriter · 3 years

Text

Coming Home Early

❧ Anon asked: hihi lovely, can I request xiaojun smut where the reader is trying to get his attention as he’s been working all day & not paying any attention to her & that just leads to infuriatingly good sex sjdjJhshdjdj

❧ Genre: fluff suggestive

❧ Words: 1k+

❧ Warnings: nothing too bad just some feeling up and marking, mild making out too

❧ Synopsis: You were starting to miss getting attention from your boyfriend. Looks like it’s time to take things into your own hands

❧ A/N: lmao I’m finally doing a request. My brain has been coming up with a lot of ideas lately but I haven’t had time or the mental capacity to actually write anything but I finally had time tonight so woo!!

~※ Main Masterlist ※~

The sun peeked through the slightly sheer curtains of your bedroom. You stirred in your bed, the sun’s rays warming up your face. Your hand immediately went to the other side of your bed looking for something, or someone, that clearly wasn’t there, your hand grazing over the cool sheets. You opened your eyes to confirm that there was no one else in bed with you much to your dismay. You sat up in bed and grabbed your phone. 8:39 am. Xiaojun left early today.

You sighed as you got out of bed. You made your way to the kitchen to get yourself some breakfast. You were about to open the fridge when you noticed a pink post-it note on the door of the fridge.

I’ll be out until late today. Sorry I didn’t say goodbye this morning. I didn’t want to wake you <3

I love you

You let out a little sigh. This was a normal thing nowadays with Xiaojun’s busy schedule. You’d wake up alone and go to bed alone occasionally waking up as he tried to sneak into your bed, his lips pressing kisses to your shoulder as an apology. You crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash.

You were doing the dishes after making dinner, the soft sounds of the TV playing in the living room keeping from your apartment from being completely quiet. The door started to rattle then opened. You were a bit confused as it was only 8pm and Xiaojun wouldn’t be home yet on a normal day. Apparently today was not a normal day. You saw Xiaojun walk past the kitchen and head towards the bedroom. You quickly dried off your hands and followed after him.

“Jun?” you walked into the bedroom, “You’re home early.”

“Yeah. Practice finished up early.”

He started stripping off his sweat covered clothes as he walked into the bathroom. He closed the door and you heard the shower start. You hummed to yourself, brushing off his curtness as being tired from his busy day. You went back to the kitchen to heat up some food for Xiaojun.

He soon emerged from the bedroom in fresh clothes and a more relaxed expression. You put a plate of reheated food on the dining room table telling him to dig in.

“Thank you, love,” he gently pecked your cheek before sitting at the table

Even that little bit of affection was enough to make your heart flutter despite how long you and Xiaojun had been together. You just haven’t been very intimate with him in a while so every little morsel of affection made you feel butterflies again.

You went back to the kitchen to finish the dishes while Xiaojun ate. A while later, he came into the kitchen with a now empty plate in his hands. He sent you a sheepish smile as he placed it beside the almost empty sink. He pecked your cheek again as he thanked you. He retreated from the kitchen and you assumed he was headed towards the living room to relax. You quickly finished up the dishes and walked into the living room.

Xiaojun was sunken into the plush couch, his eyes slightly glazed over as he watched the TV. You pouted as you watched him, a bit disappointed in the lack of attention you were receiving from your boyfriend. An idea popped into your head as you stared at him. You smirked as you sauntered over to the couch. You stood behind the couch and wrapped your arms around Xiaojun’s neck. You kissed his cheek gently eliciting a giggle from the male.

“Hey baby,” he smiled

You only hummed in response as you pressed another kiss to his cheek. Your hands moved up to his shoulders, your fingers massaging the tension from his muscles. He let out a quiet sigh, his body relaxing into your touch.

“Does that feel good?” you whispered in his ear

“Yes, it does,” he groaned

You continued to massage his shoulders for a bit longer before you decided to put your plan into action. Your hands trailed down to his clothed chest. You could feel him tense up under your fingers but ignored it. Your hands moved past the collar of his t-shirt, your fingertips ghosting over his warm skin. His chest rose and fell quickly.

“What’re you doing?” he breathed

“Touching you,” you giggled, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Your hands started moving further and further south inching closer to the waistband of his sweatpants. His head fell back onto the couch giving you access to neck. Your lips pecked at his sensitive skin stopping to gently nibble marks on his neck. A string of curse words left his mouth in a low groan. He suddenly stopped your hands pulling them out of his shirt. He looked up at you, his eyes now dark with lust. He wordlessly ushered you to sit on the couch with him. He didn’t let go of your hands as you rounded the couch. He moved to rest against the armrest pulling you down on top of him. His hand snuck to the back of your neck, his lips connecting to yours in a searing kiss.

“What’s gotten into you today?” he asked, breaking the kiss

“I missed you,” you pouted, “And you’ve barely paid attention to me today.”

Xiaojun’s face softened. His hand moved to cup your cheek, his other hand tracing designs on your lower back.

“I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know you didn’t,” you pecked his lips sweetly

“Well, let me make it up to you.”

You quirked an eyebrow up at him. A smirk graced his lips as his arm tightened around your waist. He flipped you over in one quick move. A small gasp escaped you from the sudden movement. You looked up at your boyfriend with wide eyes.

“Let me take care of you. I’ll make sure you get all the attention you want.”

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fullyfunctionalapprentice · 3 years

Note

🌊, 🎈, and 🍵 for both. - vesuvian-disaster

Driftwood (sea-savviness):

Aleis travelled quite a bit, from their late teens through late 20s; quite a bit of this was by sea. They and Lua racked up years of sailing experience, on both small and large craft, and proved a force to be reckoned with, between Aleis's weatherworking and Lua's shapeshifting, both of which give them a strong affinity for the sea. I'm not saying they've been a pirate...but I'm not *not* saying it either.

---

Turel travels by sea with some regularity; it isn't his favourite means of transport, because there's no such thing as privacy aboardship and because ships are, quite literally, a pain in the neck for someone his size. Like many very tall people, he's highly coordinated and graceful - but there's a vast difference between not knocking into things and actually being comfortable.

When he travels by sea, he pays his fare at least in part by working, even when he can afford it with cash alone, because he hates sitting idle, loves physical work, and finds that crews are understandably more at ease with him as a temporary co-worker than just...a giant who never talks? He's quite a competent sailor, but wouldn't want to make a career of it, including piracy.

Balloon (oddest possible happy relationship):

I'm not sure, really, because I don't know what standards of odd to apply. Aleis and Turel are themselves both Highly Peculiar People, so anyone compatible enough to be in a relationship of any nature would have to be pretty eccentric themselves. If it's the relationship itself that should be odd, what makes a relationship odd? They're both bisexual and polyamorous. Turel doesn't have a fixed abode; he has lovers in different locales, a fact about which he is open. Aleis lives sometimes in Muriel's hut with him, and travels to the South with him, and sometimes lives above the shop with Lua and Asra.

I guess Aleis's oddest relationships would be their friendship with Vlastomil and their...friendly rivalry? Nemesis-with-benefits? thing??? with Vulgora, because Aleis is a martial artist and helps Vulgora readjust to being human(ish) and they consensually beat the crap out of each other, which frequently turns into a far nakeder sort of strenuous physical activity lmao

Gonna just say Turel's oddest relationship is all of them because the man's a fucking cryptid? He isn't an apprentice and I don't have any set ideas for his relationships with canon characters aside from Muriel. He's been rattling around my brain for seven-ish years and I want to put him out there for other people to interact with, I suppose.

Tea (magic focus items or rituals etc)

Aleis's magic works through a combination of mental focus and physical movement, specifically a fusion of dance and martial art, much like bending in the ATLA universe. They move energy through their bare hands and feet, or through a blade, for which they favour a hand-and-a-half sword, preferably some variety of long sabre. As a weatherworker with an affinity for storms, their sphere of influence is wind currents, precipitation, and water; before their death, they were a master storm-worker, capable of influencing continent-wide weather systems and making lightning dance to their whim - though not at all given to the former, being quite restrained in any use of power with such wide scope due to the many, many factors involved and the corresponding potential for catastrophe. During canon, they're getting back in touch with their magical affinity, and, with their new and odd start, exploring unconventional ways of using its components.

---

Turel's magic runs very very deep and is very subtle - less an overt thing than a heavy weight on the fabric of reality. If it has a focus at all, that focus would be his hands: broad across the callused palms, the long fingers flecked with little scars, a few knuckles wider or offset from the others, nails kept short, earth and ink ground too deep into the deep copper skin to scrub out. Builder's hands, gardener's hands, craftsman's hands. The plants he grows have strong roots, their fruits are delicious and nourishing and in the gardens he plants anywhere he settles more than a few weeks there is a peace and a clarity, and they flourish long after he has left. Animals will go to those gardens, to whelp or to die in peace and safety. Items he makes hold up well, are seldom lost, and grow in beauty as they age. Often you will find one to hand when you need it most, even if you had thought it lost.

But that's just because he is an excellent craftsman, right? You can show the little knife he made you to a magician, and they'll examine it and hand it back to you with a faint bemusement that you thought its nature magical. Just a well trained eye and a careful, skilful hand; just a love of the work and an eye for beauty. And the fruits of the little kitchen gardens are just that, just good food, from healthy plants in good soil (even if the house is built on clay.)

#aleis the storm mage #turel the travelling craftsman

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starkerkeyz · 5 years

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If you break me, I'll let you fix me

Guess what my cat woke me up at 5am and I can't sleep so I'm going to write a few paragraphs on my phone and see what comes up. I think I'll tag it 'insomnia writing' so nobody expects any real plot lmao

"You're holding back." Bucky says it calmly as he spars with Peter, no anger at being physically weaker than a teenager in his voice, but he follows it up with a hefty throw that only works because he's figured out a lot of Peter's spidey sense relies on intent and potential harm. If there's no intention to hurt Peter and no immediate projectile incoming, his senses remained settled.

"But I-" Peter flips himself in midair and lands on his feet. He's effortlessly countered a full body throw that launched him 10 feet in the air but Bucky saw him trip on nothing and drop his pizza off his plate and be brought to tears just last week. ""-I don't wanna hurt you, B-Bucky."

He still stuttered and blushed trying to use Bucky's first name. Everyone in the tower had given up on him ever calling Tony anything less than 'sir' or 'Mr. Stark' but Bucky had finally worn him down with persistency and a few rounds in the ring.

"You won't." Bucky's arm adjusts itself, servos whirling as he watches Peter walk back up to him. The kid is relaxed; he's obviously assuming that they're taking a break to chat or maybe for Bucky to lecture him. Briefly he thinks about a surprise attack; he could let Peter get close and then go for a punch to the gut to rattle the kid's senses back online.

He discards it. He's not in the Red Room or with hydra.

"C'mere." Bucky beckoned him even closer and then held up his metal arm, making a fist. At Peter's confused look he continued. "I want you to squeeze as hard as you can."

"But-" Peter's eyes flood with so much concern he starts to step backwards on instinct. Bucky wraps his flesh hand around the collar of Peter's work out top (a ratty old tank like he isn't the pseudo adopted son of a billionaire) and reels him back in.

"If you break me, I'll let you fix me." Bucky says, a twinkle in his eyes that has Peter flushing at the tops of his cheeks but obviously pleased all the same. They both know how much of a geek Peter can be when he gets his hands inside the arm.

"Deal!" Peter's grinning now and he places a hand on top of Bucky's metal one. It's similar to when they first met (fought) back at that airport several lifetimes ago.

At first nothing happens and Bucky can tell Peter's hesitating. It's one thing to test his limits in a lab and another thing entirely to use it on a living person. Peter's eyes flick up to Bucky's and there's a nervous, frightened shadow behind his pupils that has Bucky moving his hand from Peter's shirt to the back of his neck, squeezing gently.

"You're alright. I'm asking for this. You won't hurt me."

Permission and reassurance given, Peter takes a last, dry sounding swallow and then begins tightening his grip in increments.

Bucky can sense pressure and a little bit of heat through the wiring and software translating the signals for him. If he concentrates hard enough, his brain could access and assess the exact amount of psi Peter is exerting right now.

Instead he's content watching Peter watch their hands. Earlier they'd broken a light sweat but now enough time has passed that Peter's skin looks dry and his hair has fluffed out. The red tint to his skin has remained, though.

Peter hooks a foot around Bucky's ankle and pulls, throwing the older man off balance and sending them sprawling and Bucky should be concerned because that move was so basic, so beginner, he should have seen it coming with his eyes closed but somehow Peter is more distracting than actual sensory deprivation.

"I can't do it." Peter lays himself out on top of Bucky, flopping so they're chest to chest and hiding his blushing face in against a scruffy neck. Peter tangles his fingers with the metal ones he'd been attempting to crush, thumb stroking smooth metal and hairline cracks from the plating.

"You're okay." Bucky doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't want to push Peter off. He doesn't really want to move now that he's found himself here.

This is probably better than letting Peter crush his hand anyway.

And that's it! I guess this could be considered my first mcu fic to date *jazz hands*

#winterspider #insomnia writing #unedited we type and post and die in one fell swoop like mehn #i had been thinking about them sexing #but then they #didn't #idk i haven't written in years #what even is word #wur

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askmyboys · 3 years

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M o r e characters (they aren’t related tho!)

I really should keep up with posting my characters when their done so oop- here y’all go enjoy a good man and a bastard (derogatory) | Name: Gordon Goodman

| Nicknames: Gord, Don, or Gordo

| Gender: He/Him and They/Them

| Age: 30

| Height: 8’2”

| Species/Race: Unknown

| Hair Color: Bubblegum Pink (his hair is usually in a man bun or a ponytail)

| Eye Color: Black (his eyes are literally like googly eyes, the pupils are usually in opposite spots of each other)

| Skin Color/Body Type: He’s pretty pale and he’s VERY lanky and to be honest it almost seems like he hasn’t got any bones in his body the way he can bend, stretch, etc (another thing to note, a lot of his body is just,, l e g s- bigem legs fdjksljfd)

| Appearance: His main outfit is literally a rainbow one, he’s got a rainbow suit on, pants to match and even somehow rainbow looking oxford shoes (he got ‘em custom made) and imma tell you rn it isnt a soft/light/pastel rainbow, its fuckin FULL ON burn your retinas bright- But… If your eyes are sensitive to bright colors he carries around a certain case (it’s got his other outfit that he prepared just in case someone’s eyes are too sensitive and hurt by bright colors) his secondary outfit is a light blue suit vest with a long sleeved light pink shirt underneath it, his pants also match the undershirt and his shoes are pink n blue oxfords (he does wear a pink n blue bowtie as well, it's much more soft light almost pastel colors tbh) They don’t have any inhuman features honestly, no fangs, nothing the only thing inhuman about them is the fact they seem so toon like and can do many things humans just cannot. He also doesn’t have a beard or any sorta facial hair either (hes babyfaced p much)

| Personality: I’ll be blunt, Gordon here is 100% a himbo, he’s super sweet, kind, caring but not very intelligent- he’s got a heart of gold and a smol brain (sometimes he can actually say some intelligent stuff but then like not even a few seconds later he won’t even remember saying any of that) despite being so lanky he seems to be VERY strong as he can pick up very heavy objects that a normal human couldn’t, he can also fit and squeeze into places most people couldn’t thanks to this ability, honestly there’s not much to him backstory wise, he didn’t have no traumatic past or any trauma really! Sure, I mean, there have been people who have been mean n awful to him BUT he still treated them kindly even then, he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body! Not cruel, not sadistic, not evil, none of that! He’s just a Goodman! (heh) a 10/10 boy

Who could do no harm to anyone, if they try to get physical with him he’ll legit just pick them up and hold them in a hug instead like “Shh! It’s okay, we don’t hafta fight…! I’m sure all ya need is a nice big hug!” but ye that’s about it for personality wise stuff.

| Side Facts: Likewise he has a lot of toon abilities, for an example- He has once pulled a flower out of his ear (which made his eyes rattle and roll around before falling back into place) and has handed it to someone, don’t worry the flower was as clean as it could be- It’s not only flowers though, he can pull anything out of his head essentially (bigger items though take a lot out of him and it’s a lot harder to pull those out so pls try to stick with smaller themed items) it’s not that he can’t because if he were determined enough he could pull something as big as a fucking sofa from his mind if he so desired ...but he’s never had to do that before- That’s p much his item summoning ability and how it’s done.

He’s super stretchy, flexible, and even moldable! He’s like a contortionist but probs without any limits whatsoever, he can bend, twist, etc- Hell, bc his body is mostly legs- He can legit without even having to balance on his hands just fall backwards to look at you, he usually has a grin on his face but with him it’s not spooky at all tbh- he’s just a bright, happy, outgoing and friendly dude! He loves to have a smile on his face but more importantly he loves to put a smile on others faces! Now that being said, he does understand sadness is a thing, anger, etc- And it can’t just magically go away, heck- while he doesn’t usually feel much anger- He does get sad sometimes himself! Even if he gives someone a hug, holds their hand, or anything he knows that won’t automatically make everything better or okay, he might be a himbo but if there’s ONE thing he understands it’s feelings and emotions ...Well he understands them to s o m e degree

He’ll be there for anyone who needs him though! If you want a hug he’ll wrap his arms around you! (if it's more of a snuggle, he’ll coil his arms around you ...pLEASE THO- remind him of how you have bones and your much more fragile than he bc he would never hurt anyone on purpose but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to accidents now does it?) or if you need someone to listen he’ll be happy to listen to you! If you need advice? ...H-He claims he’s not good at that but he has intelligent moments there sometimes but then he forgets what he says afterwards but he knows whatever happened it seemed like it helped so that makes him smile!

| Name: Darius Sullivan Gibson

| Nicknames: Dare, Sully, or Gibs

| Gender: He/Him

| Age: 39

| Height: 9ft (he IS hunched over a bit tho so he’d probs be 8’8” since he’s got them boots)

| Species/Race: uH- dEFINITELY NOT HUMAN FOR DAMN SURE

| Hair Color: Black (his hair has got a lil curly bit in front and that’s what I’ll give ya, a lil curly swirl jgfkdslfdj)

| Eye Color: Dark Green

| Skin Color/Body Type: Ghostly pale and he’s VERY large and wide, hims a BIG B I G man, this man is shaped like a fuckin B L O C K fghjdksljfhdk

| Appearance: His main outfit is a long black trench coat (a leather one) he usually doesn’t keep it buttoned either with a dark green turtleneck underneath it, he also wears a black ribbon tie and his pants match his turtleneck and he wears heeled black leather chelsea boots and he also wears a black cartwheel hat, he also wears fingerless gloves that match his turtleneck/pants. He has a fairly thick beard and sideburns (not really a long one but its just,, well, t h i c k) he has long pointed ears, multiple green tongues, some green tentacles (its that dark green shade, bright colors are b a d for him), and even a weird black tail that has a green fluffy bit at the end, and all his teeth are sharp but he has two particular sets of fangs top and bottom in his mouth that stand out more so than the rest of his teeth. And of course, he has sharp black claws as well (even though you can’t necessarily see it on his hands, his fingers are purely black, the best way to describe it is just pure dark energy lmao). And finally he doesn’t really have prominent scars but there’s scars LITTERED all across his body.

| Personality: Oof he’s baad, like- purely disgusting- literally tbh- He’s a smug, cocky, and arrogant bastard- He thinks EXTREMELY highly of himself, perhaps he has a God Complex even tbh- But also when I say he’s purely disgusting, this man smells like so many things and NONE of them are good- he’s also a murderer (it isn’t technically cannibalism but he does eat humans), he’s cruel, sadistic, and evil af- A bad bad slasher man, his favorite weapons are a cane, knives, or guns tbh- But then again those are just favorites- he’ll use ANYTHING he can as a weapon tbh, hell he’d pick up a random human and use them as a baseball bat to another- he’s also flirtatious but in a bad dark way, one example is he’ll flirt with you by literally stating how he’d love to just eat you up ...and you might think oh how sweet but um n o, he means it, just- come near him, stick your arm into his enclosure and see what happens hjfdksjdfks- you’ll be missing an arm-

Would easily use you like a lollipop tbh- oh god he’s gonna commit the b i t e of 87 hjfdkslkjdfs- he’s just, god he’s so awful- i wanna punch my own creation but he could easily defeat me and he would tbh, he’d be the one to challenge and fuckin kill god, there can be o n l y one fjkdclsjkd there is no tragic backstory btw, he’s straight up just a slasher, murders because he thinks its fun and everyone is so weak and pathetic compared to him!

There is no “befriending” this man, BUT… If he does grow “fond” of you then you’d more than likely be nothing more than a mere pet to him and nothing more or a possession even but if you're in his possession, a pet of his… You’ve definitely got the b e s t protection you could ever get in your life ...Well from ANYONE else, from him though? I mean, it's still risky, he IS a killer so just bear it in mind okay?

| Side Facts: Another thing he’d do, bc he smokes a LOT of cigars and I mean a l o t, he’ll legit bend down JUST so he can blow cigar smoke directly in your face, he also might put a cigar out using your head while also calling you a good little ashtray ...the more I talk about him the more I,, hate my own creation- i hate him purely and wholeheartedly

He lives in a place called Shademoor City and more specifically on a street called Brinewood, his street is definitely one for the not so nice ones of the city, like the further you go and closer you get to Brinewood St the more grotesque and nasty everything looks, and his “home” well it’s sorta more like a hideout area- He probs does have a mansion somewhere bc he uh he I S a rich man, what he did/might be doing to earn said money? ...Eh don’t worry about it- but if he does that mansion is EXTREMELY far away from Brinewood Street.

He’s more so a night owl but very rarely will you actually see him in the daylight, the nighttime is just the easiest to strike at, after all- it's so easy to hide within the shadows, hide in the alleyways and wait for unsuspecting prey to walk by.

He has a black cane with a skull on top of it and fun fact, it’s not just a cane haha fuck youuu!! Its also a SWORD B I T C H! (to him, swords are just bigger and fancier knives, either way, it still kills the victim!)

#my ocs #original characters #Gordon Goodman (a good man!)#Darius Sullivan Gibson (Bastard: Derogatory)#my own characters #ocs

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emilywatchescursedshow · 3 years

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Ep 15 - The Benders

Director: Peter Ellis Writers: Eric Kripke, John Shiban

Oh man. Ok so to be honest this was another rough episode for me, but I’m going to try to focus on the stuff that I liked before I get to my one big gripe with the story.

I loved the performance of the cop in this episode. I think that actress did a really good job. In general I liked her story and that she got resolution for her brother’s death by killing the main villain. I liked the way she interacted with Dean. I also liked that there was zero sexual tension between them, which was an interesting and sort of new dynamic for Dean to have with another character. I feel very comfortable chalking this lack up to the fact that she was a brunette, but it was still nice to see her boss Dean and have him not flirt with her in return. I do think it’s sort of hilarious how often they have the Third Character on the show be a lady, but I guess that’s what needs to happen when you have two (supposedly) het hotboi protags. Anyway, we stan anyone who puts Dean in handcuffs.

We get some good Dean moments of trying to navigate being a human person interacting with another human person which he is very bad at. I enjoyed watching him stretch across the hood of the car to try to get the antennae to use to pick the handcuffs. Don’t read too much into that.

I also liked that this episode had a lot more Action throughout the episode. The past couple have primarily been a lot of backstory to explain the events. This episode was just them Investigating The Weird Thing which was more entertaining because we get to watch the events actually play out. I thought the characterizations of the children were pretty well done, even with the minimal dialogue they had. One of them had a weird laugh that I thought fit well with the spirit of the episode, and I thought the actress who played the little girl did a good job also. Honestly if you told me when I was 12 that I would get to roll around in dirt, behave absolutely feral, and stab some dude in the leg with a knife with little provocation I would also be having the time of my life.

That being said, I think the events of this episode are very stupid. First of all, this episode is supposed to be weird because there’s no supernatural element. Dean has at least two lines to the effect that “well normal people just are crazy I guess” which I hate. In so many of the past 14 episodes, the antagonist has been essentially a human, and I don’t think the supernatural element of those stories really affected the person’s motivations. The motivation for these villains is just that they like killing people. They say like “humans are the ultimate game” but the humans they capture make fucking awful hunting targets and get murdered very easily, so that part doesn’t really make that much sense either but whatever.

As much as I don’t want it to, this episode reminds me a lot of the X-Files episode “Home,” which is a pretty infamous episode and has similar themes of “isolated country family goes sort of nuts.” I don’t know which episode is most successful in carrying through with these themes, but I don’t like “Home” either so maybe the conclusion is just that the point of this theme is very unclear.

Anyway, moment to moment thoughts: - Guy gets scared and disappears under car - Oh good we don’t have to go thru any intro rigamarole before getting the bros in these police uniforms - This bar is named Kugels Keg - Oh noooo Dean playing darts oh nooooooooo - Dean wants to have ~fun~ - Uhoh Sam vs motorcycles,, will Sam get snatched? - Lmao the audio work on that cat scratch and hiss was really, uh, something. Then some weird chime just looking at Sam’s feet. Uhoh Sam's gone - "like the rifle?" gross - Dean is gay for himself - The police officer knows something - Uhoh Sammy's pov in a cage - Amber alert namedrop - Oh my god the car just fucking drives by at that exact moment?? - It's the guy from the beginning "smells like the country" "we're in the middle of nowhere" from the guy in the cage who doesn’t know where they are - SHOW ME THE MONSTER oh they're just people LMAO - Yasss tug that pipe Sam - Uhoh Dean got caught "that Michael Jackson skin *smnthn*" .. uhoh there writers, maybe don’t do this - Dean trying to guilt his way into this officer's graces "I have to take you in" yeah no shit oh she's down I guess - "it’s a bracket" - This guy is gonna die ugly - Are they like feeding a monster or something? - There are a lot of shitty cars on this property - Is he being hunted? Thats what it looks like - Ok he just got stabbed to death - "your luck is so pressed" - The actress for the police officer is doing a really good job - Dean's promises are worth nothing lol she locked him to the car good for her - Oh creepy girl why is this officer being referred to by her first name - Officer down - Stretch Dean STRETCH - The giggle boys - They took her hair down? - Food service? No it's Dean. But this doesn't feel right. - What the hell is this episode - Turns flashlight on directly into eyes - Specimens from victims.. brains?? - Yes they're being hunted those are big game photos - Human bone rattle while presumably human butchering is happening. Also weird plinky music for atmosphere love the horror game vibes - Teeth - Creepy daughter stabs Dean - Knocking people out from behind seems like the mo - Are they out of cages? - Is the best hunt human? It seems pretty lame - "you're a sick puppy" - The girl is evil - Oh they're scared of cops - No don't burn deans eye out - He's opening the door? - Dean you're literally tied to a chair - Uhoh cop lady on his back - Classic shot guy behind other guy - Literally kill him. Or knock him out. Or cage him. I don't want this scene with the cop lady - Oh she just murdered him cool I was really worried with where that was going - The girl?? - What the FUCK was this episode - Luck pressed - This actress is killing it

So yeah, I have mixed feelings about this episode. I think if I just accept the conceit of the weird murder family the rest is actually pretty well well done. The pacing and tension in the episode is pretty good, and the supporting actors (except maybe the dad, who’s a bit too much and not enough at the same time) do a good job. I had fun watching it, which is the most important thing.

#spn s1e15 #spn #supernatural liveblog #supernatural

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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for all the honest world to feel (trixya) (5/8) - dare

Brian stared down at his screen, trying to understand what he was seeing – the mild frown on Katya’s face, and the other queen, hands raised, standing just out of frame beyond the gap in the bus bunk curtain.

(AN: so this is… long and sad. finally-throwing-in-an-angst-tag-at-the-bottom levels of sad. warnings for unsafe alcohol use and overdrinking; as usual, “she/her” for adore and “he/him” for trixie (brian) and katya. also, this might read a little weird, but i made the executive decision not to name the weho queen who’s been giving trixie shit because (contrary to, uh, all other signs, i guess) i don’t actually want to speculate on who’s a douche and who isn’t in the ru girl community. so that’s also a thing.

(OH, and, there’s more lyrics in this one, please don’t judge me, it’s very hard to try to measure up to trixie’s irl songwriting chops lmao)

this week on honest world: shit’s sad. shit’s real sad.)

| ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 |

FROM: SHEA - 9:57 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

[Attachment: IMG_3782.MOV]

Girl.

If you dont wife her up I will.

FROM: KIM - 10:03 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

holy shit

i don’t think i’ve ever seen her mad. like for real

FROM: SHEA - 10:04 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

This was some WWF shit girl. That bitch will be feeling it for a while.

FROM: KIM - 10:05 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

katya’s from boston. she’s 90% salt, 5% feelings, 5% inner saboteur and 100% ready to fight

FROM: SHEA - 10:05 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

Thats a lot of math, Kimberley

FROM: KIM - 10:05 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

are you being racist? don’t be racist shea. omg.

someone had to count trixie’s tips for her when she was passed out drunk in my bed

FROM: SHEA - 10:07 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

*Steal trixie’s tips from her.

FROM: SHEA - 10:15 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

Trisha baby if you’re out there we love you girl okay? call us any time xxxx

“You know,” Katya was saying, perfectly conversational, “I found it kind of cute at first? Like a puppy trying to fight itself in the mirror – or one that can’t, you know. Stop pissing itself. You know what I mean? Funny but sad. But I don’t think I find it funny anymore.”

The other queen laughed nervously. “Come on, Katya –”

“I’m not laughing. Why are you laughing?” said Katya, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not laughing.”

The laughter stuttered into silence. Over the mic, Brian heard Shea expel a slow, cautious breath.

Katya tilted his head, and the expression on his face darkened like a spring storm. “I want to make it really clear to you how far you’ve managed to over-reach yourself, that you’ve actually crossed my limits. ‘Cause I don’t care how you run things in your club, how you treat your friends, whatever – that’s none of my business, since I don’t work in your club and I’m not your friend. Oh, in case you hadn’t noticed – I’m not your friend. FYI. Because you’ve been acting like I am, and I think it’s time for that to stop.”

The raised hands dropped out of sight. “Jesus. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel.”

And that – Brian winced despite himself. That was a mistake.

Katya grinned, showing too many teeth. “Can I? I’d like that, thanks.” He tapped his fingers rapidly against the side of his thigh. “I feel like you’ve gotten a little too comfortable as top dog in your scene, and when Trixie showed up and didn’t line up to eat you out like everyone else does, your ego plummeted out of your ass. And what we’ve been seeing for the past half a year – can I repeat that? It’s been half a year, which is beyond pathetic – what we’ve been seeing is some kind of hemorrhoidal psychosis, as you take obsessive potshots at someone who couldn’t give less of a fuck about you. It’s not just pathetic – it’s harassment. You’re showing your whole ass right now but guess what, girl? We’ve seen it.”

“You said yourself you’re not in my scene, so don’t talk like you know shit,” the queen snapped back. Her voice tightened like a screw being ground into drywall. “The bitch could have tried to be friendly, for fuck’s sake –”

“You aren’t being very smart right now,” Katya interrupted, with all the force of a tire iron punching through a sheet of glass. “This might be a good time to consider your word choice, if there ever was one. That would be the smart thing here.” Teeth again, manic. “You want friendly? I can do friendly. We have another week on tour – you want me to do friendly. Because the alternative is that I freeze you out, publicly and professionally, and I make your life and your career outside of that fucked up, incestuous bubble of a scene you’ve pissed all over very difficult. Am I – am I being clear? I want to be very clear. You’ve messed up enough shit in my life, and I want this over with.”

There was a pause and a shift in the shadows beyond the curtain – nodding.

“Good. So here’s how this is going to go.” A wooden sound, rap, Katya’s knuckles against the bunk frame. Brian could make out the rise and fall of Katya’s chest, shallow and too fast, in the gap between the curtains. “You don’t post about Trixie. You don’t talk about her. If, God forbid, the opportunity arises, you don’t talk to her. That last one is for you – I’m a lover, not a fighter, but it is my strong suspicion that if you pull this to her face one more time, she will beat the ever-loving shit out of you. Just a – a pro-tip, let’s call it. An insight.”

There was a weak laugh. “She can try it. Jesus, Katya, come the fuck on –”

Slam – an open-handed palm against the wood. “Do you think I’m fucking around here? I’m not. Don’t fucking push me on this.”

Brian had heard Katya angry a handful of times in his life. He’d never heard him like this. This wasn’t Katya out of control; this was Katya very near the end of his rope, and aware of every inch he had left, making them count.

The sick feeling in Brian’s stomach crept higher. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

“You stop coming for Trixie,” Katya was saying. “No more posts on facebook, no more whispers at shows. No more shit-talking to promoters – yeah, I asked around, I heard about that. Not that it did you much good. It has to hurt, I think – does it? Knowing that Trixie’s booking is worth more than your word? That’s gotta sting. But I’m not sure how much of a hold your word even has anymore, you bitter fucking cunt.”

Shea, behind the camera, drew in a shocked breath at the pure vitriol in Katya’s voice.

There was a stillness to the air for a long moment, like the silence after a hurricane has swept the earth bare and ragged. Then the other queen laughed again; louder this time, acidic, but with a definite note of finality – of defeat.

“If everyone could see you now,” she said.

Katya barked a laugh of his own. “Girl, they wouldn’t care. I’m America’s fucking sweetheart.” He stepped back and waved a hand in the space visible between the curtains; it was shaking finely, Brian could see it. “Get the fuck out of here. I’m not dealing with you today. Call back tomorrow – I’ll be friendly again.”

The curtains fluttered as hurried footsteps passed by and receded out of the room, the door to the common lounge sliding open and then shut.

Katya’s shadow shifted. Back and forth, like he was caught up on a decision; then he said, quiet, muffled: “fuck.” Footsteps rang in the opposite direction – towards, Brian assumed, his own bunk, as there was the fumbling sound of feet on rungs and then the rattle of metal rings as the curtains were pulled shut.

The camera reversed. Shea stared up at it, her eyes filling most of the screen, hilariously wide and scandalized. Then the video went black – and flicked back to that first still, frozen, the anger on Katya’s face deepening the hollows of his cheeks, his eyes throwing sparks through the screen.

Brian stared down at the rictus of his face, then pressed the phone down screen-first beside him into his mattress. The hard lines of its body bit into the insides of his fingers.

Fuck. What the fuck.

He could stop the video, but he couldn’t make his brain put away the tired lines that had cut into Katya’s face, or the ragged edge of his voice, or how the sound of his palm hitting solid wood had rung through Shea’s bunk, bouncing thickly off the walls.

The room was too small. Brian dragged himself up and went out into the living room, phone in his fist tucked into his pocket, but out there it was too big, and his skin felt all wrong, and he wanted to call Katya but he couldn’t make himself do it.

Katya hadn’t called or texted since the night of the pageant, when Brian had waited and waited all night but the internet – and that fan in the bar who’d clocked him – had stayed miraculously silent. Katya hadn’t called, or texted, or tweeted, or even updated his fucking instagram.

God.

Brian’s phone buzzed suddenly in his pocket and he almost threw it at the balcony doors in his haste to get it out. He fumbled it awake – and then he saw the name on the screen, and his shoulders slumped again.

FROM: ADORE - 10:28 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

I forgot to ask but can u water my plants??? this is the longest ive gone without killing any of them :(

LA sucks.

it’s like *jaws theme* all the time. and i forgot my sunglasses

He swiped his phone unlocked and read through the texts, mouth twitching feebly towards an almost-smile. It buzzed in his palm again and a picture appeared – Adore, nose scrunched, squinting into the sky.

Brian typed back, i promise, you can definitely afford another pair of sunglasses. and yes, your plants are safe in my hands.

The answer came quickly, every letter infused with the kind of wry snark that Adore was so good at: dont make promises my lawyers can’t keep

Brian huffed a quiet laugh. The sound was swallowed up in the space of the apartment, a small rock dropped in a large lake, not even reaching far enough to touch the walls.

Adore had come out the morning after that night to find him on the couch, his guitar abandoned on the coffee table, staring out into the thin morning light. It wasn’t even 7 AM. He’d gotten four or so hours of restless sleep before giving up on it; the room was lit such a soft grey that he might as well have wrapped in a dream anyway. He’d been staring out at the clouds and the inkstain crows flecked along the telephone wires for so long that they’d blurred, like an impressionistic painting – barely real.

Adore had gone and sat beside him. Then she’d leaned over, carefully, and rested her head on his shoulder. He’d shuddered – one long wave through his whole body. She was warm. When she breathed her chest expanded against his arm, slow and steady like waves coming into the shore. He’d only been able to bear it for a few minutes before he’d had to get up, fingers twitching at his side; he’d given her an apologetic smile, and she’d watched him walk back to his room with her chin on her wrist, her forearm braced against the back of the couch.

He’d checked twitter one more time, and then fallen into deep, exhausting sleep.

“That’ll be thirty-two dollars and forty cents, please,” said the bored young woman behind the till, eyeing his – genuinely embarrassing – collection of groceries: ramen noodles, tomato sauce from a jar, the kind of shitty white wine he’d drunk in senior year of college, and stuff to make a salad, out of the idealistic hope that he might actually make a salad.

“I’ll just put that on my credit card,” Brian said. He watched her surreptitiously as she entered the amount onto the card reader. Adore had brought him here a few times, but he didn’t recognize her.

“This your first day?” he said, then winced.

“Huh?”

“I mean. Are you new?”

Now she was eyeing him, even less impressed than she’d been by his groceries. “No…”

“Oh.” He ran a hand over his head awkwardly. He’d forgotten his cap at home. “I just, I haven’t seen you here before. I thought…”

Her mouth twitched, and she popped her gum, a sharp snap in the air. The sound was somehow scornful. “Listen, mister – I’m working, you know, and even if I weren’t, I don’t go out with the kind of guy that bothers –”

“Oh my god, no,” Brian said, flushing, “Oh my god, no, I’m gay. What? No.”

“Oh,” she said. She started turning red too. “Oh. Shit – uh, I mean –”

He laughed awkwardly. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry for being, uh, super weird and stuff.”

The lights overhead were the sickly fluorescent yellow of small-time grocery stores everywhere. He could have been anywhere – east coast or west, north or south, any timezone, any city, any tour. His shoes squeaked on the floor when he shifted from heel to heel.

How was it less than a week ago that he’d felt so at home in this city he didn’t know at all?

“Your receipt,” the cashier said. She held it out towards him, then hesitated visibly. “Listen, uh… are you okay, man?”

He shrugged, stilted, and took the receipt, then grabbed the bags by their handles. “Oh, you know. More of the same,” he said.

It was awful to realize he meant it.

Touring was a little bit like being a ghost in your own body. You were breathing and eating and sleeping, but you might as well have been walking through walls, the way you drifted from place to place, squinting at google maps on your phone, talking to people whose names you’d either forget within five minutes or never knew in the first place. You could be anywhere at all; you might as well be nowhere.

Brian drank shitty wine and played into the night, the notes echoing hollowly across the big empty space of Adore’s living room. Music usually anchored him into his body on the road. Every chord brought him a little closer, the muscles, tendons, bones of his hands all tuned in to the melody with the ease of years. He could close his eyes and wherever he was, he was home.

But each time he opened his eyes again he was someplace new.

Seattle wasn’t a tour stop, but its grey skies, the neighbours he ran into on the staircase, the people he saw in the grocery store – none of them were home. But, fuck it, neither was LA, where he spent a few days every month or two and sometimes found himself waking up wondering whose walls he was looking at. And where the fuck did that leave him?

He played a sour note, paused, and corrected himself. Breathed. Tried to bring Emmylou’s lilting refrain back under his fingers.

Without Adore’s voice in the next room livestreaming her way out of boredom, the apartment grew stale and shadowed; without Katya’s calls every night, the days seemed endless, a pale stretch of hours where he did nothing and saw no one. And as each hour ticked past on the clock it became more and more obvious that the veneer of sunshine he’d pasted over Seattle with Adore’s friendly warmth and the sound of Katya’s smile was just that – a veneer.

Another sour note. He stopped and lay his guitar flat in his lap, then picked up his glass on the coffee table and drained it.

His phone lay still and silent beside the wet ring his glass had left on the wood.

He flicked a bit of lint from the couch off his boxers and took up his guitar again, tracing out the melody that he’d been chasing these past weeks on automatic. The sky outside was ripening, edging into evening. It was almost fall. He’d been in Seattle for three weeks, and it seemed he really hadn’t moved an inch.

He could call Katya. He could suck it the fuck up and call Katya, because maybe Katya was waiting for him to call. Maybe this whole ‘respecting Katya’s space’ thing he was doing was totally misguided, and Katya was waiting beside the phone every minute that he wasn’t out there defending Brian’s honour or whatever that was.

I fucked you up, he could say. I was so busy pretending that everything was fine now and my problems were gone because they weren’t yelling in my face every two seconds that I didn’t realize I was setting us both up to get hurt. I was so fucking stupid, Katya, and I’m so – I’m so sorry.

And Katya would say…

What?

I just want you to be okay, if he was feeling self-sacrificial; it’s your irrepressible Virgo energy, if he was feeling avoidant. Maybe, maybe, I thought you said you didn’t lie to me, and you weren’t going to start, if he was feeling particularly honest.

Katya was always honest, more or less. It was just that the truth was flexible, more conversation than monologue, and irony always had to have the last word. Brian, meanwhile, was just a bit of a liar.

Not with Katya, though. Not before. And he hadn’t meant to – he really hadn’t meant to, not even for a second; it was just –

Fuck.

It’s worse than I was letting myself feel, Brian could say. There’s things I don’t know how to tell you. Because it is about you.

His throat tightened; he let go of the frets. He grabbed for his drink blindly and for his notebook with his other hand. Resting it against the body of his guitar, he opened to a blank page and scrawled,

You fought yourself to bring all your feelings down to heel,

and if you stopped yourself from looking, was it ever really real

but everyone’s been looking

and you –

Something inside of him was drifting dangerously, thin tethers tied to his ribs all that held it in place, like a threadbare sail on fraying ropes. The words on the page blurred in front of his eyes. He raised his glass to his mouth but the rim bumped against his teeth and nothing came out. Empty.

He frowned down at his cup. Like, fuck that nonsense. He’d put good money down on those teeth.

The wine sloshing into the glass when he poured himself another sounded like the ocean creeping onto the shore on a windless day. Like Provincetown – another place he’d gone to hide; another town full of strangers. He set the bottle back on the table, cap off, and picked up his guitar again.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday he went running in the morning like nothing had changed. Before, Adore would be waking up when he got back; one of them would make breakfast, then they’d jam for a while, and then Adore would smoke up and Brian would text Katya, if he hadn’t already done so.

Now Brian just jogged. Further and further each day, until Thursday found him running along the seaside, pounding the pavement with salt stinging the inside of his mouth on every inhale. The sky was a soft feather blue, the ocean a deep silk bedsheet wavering in his peripheral vision – and then the mass of Pike Place rose up in front of him. Before he could think about it, his feet were carrying him inside; past the florists, past the bursting orange and red arrays of fresh fruit, and down the stairs to the magic shop’s door.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the collar of his tank top, grimaced, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was just-opened quiet on the floor. No customers, no music; just a vague shuffling from behind the counter. “Just a minute,” the shuffler called. “If this accursed speaker breaks on me one more time…”

There was a crackling sound from the speakers set high in the walls, like a cheap firework skidding along cement, and then a whole storm of swearing below the counter.

“Uh,” Brian said. He approached cautiously. “Can I take a look? I might be able to help.”

“No, it’s really fine –” A frazzled head popped up from behind the register. “Oh! It’s you! I know you. You think you can fix it? The damn thing goes off all the time, the wiring’s too old –”

Brian shrugged. “I work in clubs and theatres and stuff, so I’ve picked up a thing or two. Let me see.”

Steph – that was her name, he remembered – was as curly-haired and strangely-dressed as when they’d met, with a sprig of rosemary tucked behind the large crow-shaped brooch pinned to her blouse and dust all over her knees. He crouched down beside her and squinted at the mess of wires and cords, poking a hesitant finger around and hoping he wouldn’t get fried. That sound had not been good.

“I think,” he said after a minute, “I think it’s this. Hang on. I’m gonna – if I die, tell my momma I loved her, and tell my dad –” he ducked further under the desk. “Well, whatever you like, if you can find him.”

She barked a laugh behind him.

He didn’t die, although he did burn his fingers a little bit, and when the music started playing (some kind of witchy Swedish wailing, possibly Bjork, Katya – Katya would know –) he let out a “Hah!” of triumph. Eat that, three years on the road and four years of theatre school and thousands of dollars funnelled directly into the University of Wisconsin’s incredibly deep pockets. Eat the shit out of that.

Steph helped him out with two hands around his forearm, shaking him delightedly once he was more or less standing. “You’re a miracle worker,” she said with a bright smile. “I should hire you on the spot, because clearly you’re the real magic here.”

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his free arm and grinned down at her. Clear bright light was streaming through the high windows in the walls, glinting off her brooch, her earrings, the silver in her hair. Her smile and easy warmth was the same as it had been before, and, god, that was nice. “I’ve got greasepaint coming out of ears,” he said, shrugging modestly. “You can’t really call yourself a theatre kid until you’ve nearly died a dozen different ways trying to string up the speakers on the janitor’s old ladder. ”

“Different ways?”

He waved a hand. “You know, falling, electrocution – so boring. A good old-fashioned garrotte is where it’s at.”

Her eyes scrunched at the corners when she laughed. “I like you,” she said, grinning, “you’re strange,” and he grinned back, feeling lighter than he had all week.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. Then: “Oh, hey, the book you sold me is great. Who knew reading about the end of the world could make you feel better about life?”

“That’s right, the apocalypse poems, you…” Steph said, then paused. “God, I’m so sorry, I don’t remember your name. But you’re Danny’s friend, right?”

Brian blinked. Swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said; it came out forced, like he was overcompensating for something. “Yeah, sorry, it’s Brian. Yeah. I took some time off work and I’ve been staying with Danny.”

“Oh, do you work together?” she said, brightly and obliviously twisting the knife. “I know he does something or other with clubs and theatres and whatnot too. He’s very private about those things, but such a sweetheart. I haven’t seen him around in a while, though, how he is?”

“Away on business,” Brian said, “and, you know, we’ve been keeping busy otherwise. I’ll tell him you asked.” He wiped his palms against the sides of his shorts. “Listen, I actually – I should probably be going, actually. I’m supposed to be skyping him in about half an hour.”

An absolute lie, but Steph swallowed it without a flicker of suspicion. She smiled and pressed a hand to his arm. “Tell him I send my love. And thanks again for your help, Brian. I don’t know how many more shocks my old heart could take.”

“Oh stop,” he said, chuckling, and gave a little wave. “See you around, I guess?”

The polite small talk of strangers. Preferable to a slow death, but not by, like, a lot.

Brian took the stairs back up to the ground level slowly, although his heart rate was well back to normal by this point. He wandered out of the arcade, and turned, and walked, and turned, and then he was on a raised dock, leaning against a wooden rail next to a locked gate, which guarded the ramp down to the boats. The wood pressed into the front of his ribs. He curled his palms around the rail, ignoring the bite of splinters.

A light breeze ruffled his shirt and cooled his pink cheeks. The ocean stretched out before him, golden sunshine catching in the crests and troughs of the waves.

He closed his eyes.

At home, he typed, i hope you’re doing okay. i love you.

Deleted it.

Typed, today someone didnt recognize me and THAT made me sad. i think i need an intervention.

Deleted it.

Typed, went to the beach to sea what all the commocean was about but idk im still not shore

Deleted it.

Sighed, stared out the window, looked down at his feet.

Typed, i’m sorry. katya, i’m so sorry.

Deleted it.

“You’re so white from these shadowed winter months,” Katya crowed, shielding his eyes dramatically. “I don’t know if I can be seen with you.”

“You’re real white from being born, you know, caucasian and unfortunate, but I’ve suffered your company for years,” said Brian. He frowned and wiped at his nose where something wet was dripping – sweat or sunscreen, he didn’t know. “If you really can’t bear it, I’m sure I can find one of these tanned, strapping, oiled-up hunks of meat who’d be willing to walk with me –”

Katya grabbed his arm mid-gesture. “No no no, don’t you dare!”

“I’m just saying,” Brian continued, “you invited me, bitch –”

The shine of Katya’s grin, open-mouthed and laughing, was enough to blow his whole awful night out of the water.

They walked. The sun drew rippling air waves out of the too-hot cement; the ocean crashed beautifully green into the white shore. But it somehow wasn’t too crowded, for all that it was the dead of summer, the very peak of beach days. They moved in blissful anonymity. At one point, Katya bought him an ice cream. Brian ate it one-handed, making panicked noises and laughing as it dripped closer and closer to his hand. His other hand was – well. He’d taken Katya’s as they stood waiting for the cone, and he hadn’t let go yet. His stomach flipped giddily every time their steps fell out of sync – their palms would drag against each other, just for a moment, each time making him newly aware again of the calluses on Katya’s palm.

He traced his index finger along the big tendon on the back of Katya’s hand, and Katya glanced at him sideways, quick, lips parting on a short intake of breath. Brian licked at his ice cream and said nothing, warm and smug all over.

Sea breeze and the sting of salt. They leaned over the wooden rail, right into it, shoulders and hips pressed together. The blue stretched endless.

Katya started to turn red in the cheeks around four so they ducked for shade. Brian slouched back against the blush pink wall of some souvenir shop, under the awning, and Katya stood in front of him to block the sun from his eyes. One moment Brian was looking over Katya’s shoulder at the white gulls darting and dipping over the sea; the next, he was blinking up, and Katya was closer, leaning in, one hand on the wall beside his head, his gaze flickering over Brian’s face with the same combination of lazy ease and breathless flight as the birds in the air.

Brian blinked, processing, then licked his lips to wet them. “Feeling tall?” he said.

“Feeling lots of things,” said Katya, smiling faintly. “Tall may or may not be one of them. No one’s ever accused me of a Napoleon complex, Tracy – and my psychological rap sheet is longer than the Mariana Trench. You always take me to new and exciting places, did you know that? That’s why we’re friends.”

“I thought it was for the free therapy and life coaching.”

“Don’t undersell yourself, mama. What’s newer or more exciting than uncertified therapy and dubious life coaching?”

Brian laughed. “I don’t know that ‘new’ and ‘exciting’ are words that many people have applied to me – out of drag, at least.” His mouth twitched. “You might be du-biased.”

He expected Katya to throw back his head, lean away and laugh, but instead – Katya leaned closer, his eyes glinting with mirth. “I’m gonna kill you,” he said, “I’m gonna kill you right here and dump your body into the ocean in front of the tourists, God, and everybody, and no one will punish me when they hear about the years of pun-spewing bullshit you’ve put me through.”

He was so close. Brian’s stomach flipped again; he could feel Katya’s warmth all along him, make out the freckles on his nose. “Kill me?” he said, mouth dry.

Katya blinked. Something about the set of his jaw, the small lines around his eyes, seemed suddenly vulnerable, intense and somehow opened wide.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Or, I dunno. Maybe that other thing.”

Brian held his breath. All he could hear was the crashing of the waves, loud and close – or maybe that was the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He reached up and brushed the tips of his fingers along the sharp line of Katya’s cheek.

Katya’s chest hitched.

The breeze chased the sunlight through the empty pier, stirring the sand across the wood, and Katya leaned in, slow enough that Brian could stop him if he wanted. Brian didn’t. He lifted his face, eyes slipping shut; and Katya’s mouth fell on the corner of his, once, soft, then warm against his right cheekbone, and again on his left. Brian exhaled shakily.

“What,” he said, unsteady. “Can’t kiss me when the cameras aren’t on?”

Katya huffed a laugh, the breath warm on Brian’s face. He curled a hand below Brian’s ribs; his fingers dipped into the hollow in his tank top to brush against bare skin. Brian shivered. Voice barely louder than the wind in the distance, Katya said, “My life would be so much simpler if that were true.”

Brian opened his eyes. He looked up and met Katya’s gaze, and his mouth twitched, almost a smile. Katya’s stubble scratched at his fingertips as he settled his palm more firmly along the curve of his jaw. “Well, you’re not really a simple woman,” Brian said, and Katya was laughing when he leaned down and kissed him properly.

When he opened his eyes, the sun’s lowest rays had dipped below the edge of the awning, lighting Katya up in gold, and he tipped his head back to rest against the wall, wrapped his free arm around Katya’s waist, and said, “Come home with me.”

Except that’s not what happened at all.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was shining, and Katya was lit with gold, and he tipped his head back against the wall and thought about saying it –

– then smiled crookedly, and said instead, “You kiss like you have heat stroke.” And Katya threw back his head and laughed, wheezed, “no, just heat rash,” while the sun caught in his hair and lashes.

It’s not what happened, but it could have been. He could have taken Katya home, and pressed him up against the hallway inside his door, all that sun-warm skin under his hands. He could have kissed him the way he wanted to. He could have blown him right there with his knees sore against the hardwood, or taken his hand again and drawn him back into the bedroom, kissing him all the way. And after – Brian could have asked him to stay.

That wasn’t how it happened, but, crashed out on the couch in Seattle after his run, Brian dreamed every moment of it. Every inch of hot skin and the rasp of sheets and falling asleep together and waking up together. And when he woke up – alone – he pressed his hands flat against his stomach, feeling like something had been taken out of him. Feeling ill, feeling exhausted, feeling like his head was buzzing and his mind was five feet outside of his body.

Eventually he dragged himself up and fumbled for his phone. He wiped at the inner corners of his eyes with his knuckle as he thumbed it awake; then he pressed his palm over his face, exhaling shakily.

No new messages. Of course.

His whole body hummed feverishly, the twinned effect of the sun on his morning run and the one in his dream. Maybe that was what fucked over his self-control, that sick feeling like he was out of his head, or maybe he was just giving in to the inevitable – but, whatever it was, he opened his messages and, despite all his better judgement, typed out: check in?

Hating himself a little, he hit send.

When there was no response thirty minutes later, despite the read receipt that had popped up almost immediately, he left to go find something to drink.

“Oh hey, it’s you,” said the girl behind the counter. She eyed his purchases. “Wow. I didn’t think it could get sadder than last time…”

Brian huffed a short laugh. “Still gay, don’t worry.”

“Uh huh,” she said. She ran the first wine bottle – yes, first, thanks so much – under the scanner and hit a few buttons. “So is the whole sad and gay deal an aesthetic thing? How much Lana have you listened to in the past three days? I’m trying to decide if I should be staging an intervention that I’m – full disclosure – not really qualified for.”

“Do sad gays get a discount at this establishment?”

“Nope,” she said, popping it like bubblegum. “Sorry.”

She finished ringing him, his three bottles of wine, his pack of sour key candies, and his thoroughly depleted dignity through the machine.

“Credit,” he said, offering it over.

He was threading his hands through the bag handles, waiting for his card back, when she said, “Hey. What’s your name, man?”

He blinked. “It says on the card.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, handing it over wrapped in his receipt with an eye-roll. “So what is it?”

“Brian,” he said, and looked at the sallow lights on her face, wondering where she was going with this.

“Brian,” she repeated. “Hi, Brian, I’m Mariam.”

Her tone was conversational but somehow serious, weighted, and Brian – Brian swallowed against the sudden and unexpected feeling of his throat going tight.

“Now who’s hitting on who?” he managed, and she chuckled, but didn’t lose that look in her eyes.

“Brian. Take care of yourself, hey?” she said.

The lights glared brightly across the empty floor, the rows upon rows of no-name brands and the scuff marks on the shitty linoleum. She was watching Brian like maybe he needed watching. He swallowed again, and nodded, and left without another word.

Dust motes floated in the slowly draining sunlight when he returned to the apartment. The whole space of it echoed with the closing of the door. He kicked off his shoes, cracked open the first bottle, and went to get his guitar, glass in hand.

Hours passed. He drank more. He scribbled in his notebook, crossed things out, scrawled corrections in the margins. There was too much in his head. Words tumbled out like a hole had been torn somewhere, all the loose change and lint of his brain escaping despite his best efforts to plug the gap. His writing got sloppier, slanted; he wiped wine from his mouth with the back of his hand and turned the page.

The beach, the dream, the night before. The months of build-up, the moment of release. Wanting, wanting, he wanted so much and he had told himself, when he was a kid, that someday he would be able to have all the things he wanted. If he was smart enough and good enough, quick enough on his feet, he could make anything happen. But here he was: trapped into stillness as the path under his feet cut off abruptly. Because how could he have all the things he wanted when they existed at such cross-purposes?

Or was it just him? Not the fame, not the fans, not the industry, and certainly not Katya – maybe it was Brian at cross-purposes with all of it, putting himself in his own way, selfish and stubborn and cowardly, refusing to accept with good grace what the universe was offering him.

The sun dipped below the blocky Seattle skyline, the buildings across the road cast in radiant red, as he stumbled into the kitchen to open the third bottle. His hands slipped on the cap; he blinked wearily down at it, then out the window at the purples and pinks of the sky, dappled and streaked like watercolours. The sun was just a winking and burnished glare over the lip of the buildings. He inhaled deeply and it almost seemed like he could still taste salt in the air.

The skyline blurred before his eyes, replaced by the memory of the things his dream had omitted. Walking the long way back down the pier, Katya with one arm hooked around his elbow and the other hand clutching at his bicep like an ingenue, twitching with laughter every minute or so because apparently this was the most heterosexual he’d ever felt. Which, Katya had definitely licked at least one pussy in his day, so. What he meant was probably that it was dumb, and romantic, and brought them so much closer together than held hands as they made their way between the shadows of the tall lights that lined the boardwalk. The sun set in brilliant gold in the distance. Brian remembered the warmth of Katya’s chest against his arm; he remembered looking at Katya’s lips, then away, and wash, rinse, repeat; he remembered the sign they passed, jutting up out of the middle of the boardwalk: END OF THE TRAIL.

He remembered going home alone, flushed and giddy with the heat of the day, and turning on his phone to see a new notification from his facebook messages. date night tracy?, it said, captioning a photo of him and Katya on the boardwalk, arm in arm, the soft look on his face all too bare in the deep amber light of the sun setting over the ocean.

Brian shook his head, and poured himself another drink.

The night after that was all in flashes. His fingers sliding along the strings of his guitar. Losing his pen under the couch; hunting through Adore’s drawers for another one. Sweet sad notes filling the room, lingering in the air like sea salt. Fumbling with his phone; his guitar; his own hands.

Love’s the kind of feeling that’s not easy to derail, that was good, that was fine, but I find that I’ve been tryin’ ‘cause, ‘cause what, ‘cause what –

He lost another pen. After that… he didn’t remember much after that.

Brian woke to a splitting headache and a buzzing phone.

The phone was on his stomach; his head was on the arm of the couch. He blinked into the bright morning light and groaned, covering his eyes.

His phone buzzed again.

Whatever it was, it could fucking wait. He let it fall to the side as he rolled over, taking in the mess of paper and pens – what the fuck, where did he get so many pens – on the coffee table, the empty wine bottles, his guitar abandoned carelessly on the floor. The glass doors to the balcony were open, though he didn’t remember opening them, and the harsh cawing of the crows outside made his eyes water.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He stood unsteadily and made his way to the kitchen, where a bag of sour key candies lay splayed open and empty on the counter and a plate with the mysterious remnants of what might be a drunken midnight snack lay beside the sink. He stared at one, then the other, then turned decisively to get a glass out of the cupboards and fill it from the tap. He downed it in one go and poured himself another.

Back by the couch, his phone was buzzing again.

Katya, he realized through the groggy fullness in his head. That could be Katya.

He returned to the couch and lowered himself gingerly, full glass clutched in one hand. He fumbled the phone trying to grab it, which probably said bad things about the balance of alcohol to water in his system at that moment; then he thumbed it awake and scanned it as quickly as he could through the low-burning nausea of his hangover.

There was, in fact, a notification from Katya. A missed call at 2:23 AM. Brian’s heart leapt and his mouth went dry; but then he looked past that, at the avalanche of notifications from twitter and instagram, and his whole body turned cold, shoved into full wakefulness and unholy sobriety.

What the fuck had happened last night?

He unlocked his phone and opened instagram to see notifications in the thousands. Thumbing over to his profile, he found a post he didn’t remember making, dated 1:57 AM. That was – he looked at the little clock at the top of his screen: 7:13 AM – barely five hours before. The little thumbnail showed his shoulders over his guitar; when he opened it, he saw it was a video.

Brian stared at the post in horror for a long moment. Then – because there was literally no other choice – he flexed his fingers, which had gone numb, and he hit play.

The screen cut to his face, frowning blearily and too close, as he tried to prop his phone up. He looked – exhausted. Shit. Dark circles under his eyes, a tight, stressed set to his mouth, which twisted down as he failed to make the phone stand steady a third time. Finally he – the Brian on screen – muttered a sharp fuck, and just leaned the phone back against something or other, putting his glass of wine in front of it to hold it upright, so the rim blurred out the bottom of the frame.

He stepped back, sat down, and pulled his guitar into his lap.

Brian, the Brian watching, took shallow breaths against a rising nausea. His pulse thrummed loudly under the thin skin of his neck.

The camera captured the body of his guitar, the slouch of his shoulders, and part of his mouth, which he wiped at with the back of his hand, pick balanced easily between his fingers. Then he sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders and sliding his other hand up the neck of the guitar into place – Brian remembered that, cool smooth wood under his palm, he remembered glancing at the camera and thinking fuck it, fuck this –

The Brian on screen played an open chord and then set into the melody that made up the verses, the tumbling notes, middle finger – pinky finger – ring finger, and, watching, his brain cut through the fog to focus on that, ring finger, ring finger, the song he’d been working on all this past month coming together despite the drunken way he slid between the metal frets.

And then he started to sing, and Brian went from feeling slightly nauseous to being absolutely certain he was about to throw up.

It wasn’t the verses, thank god. Not the harried scribbles that filled pages upon pages in his notebook, most of them awful, all of them never to be fucking revealed to the world at large because they were his, ugly and sincere and too personal. All the moments that made him want to try; all the things that made him afraid. But this –

“Love’s the kind of feeling that’s not easy to derail

But I find that I’ve been trying ‘cause

I can’t see the when and where –”

A chorus is a vague thesis; but, watching, he still felt stripped wholly bare.

“I hear waves in my dreams at night,

Feel the sunlight and your stare,

So maybe it’s to no avail –

And maybe ‘stay’ won’t turn out stale –”

Brian swallowed, fumbled for his glass of water, tried to hear anything but the roaring in his ears, see anything but his face dipping into frame as he bent lower over the guitar, eyes closed, face pained as he sang stay. And he was sliding through the notes like a drunk stumbling through a door, graceless but functional and – worst of all – far too honest.

“But I still don’t know if I can go

Off-road at the end of the trail.”

Fuck.

The video didn’t end abruptly – apparently, when drunk, he couldn’t make the crop function work for him – but with an agonizing slowness, the last, aching note from his guitar hanging hollowly in the air. His shoulders on-screen rose, then fell; then finally he reached forward for his phone. A flash of his mouth, his cheek, his eyes squinting – and then it went dark, and looped back to the beginning.

He jabbed at the screen to stop it, and stared down at his phone in mute horror, jaw slack and mouth dry.

First things first, he deleted the video. It wouldn’t shut people up, but he couldn’t just let it sit there, all of him laid out in the bare daylight. The raw sound of his voice, scratchy with exhaustion, on his shitty phone mic; that one glimpse of his face, like opening a door you’re not supposed to by accident, the kind of door you can’t close again or back away from. All a room’s quiet secrets, the small ones that cut deepest, framed starkly by the open doorframe.

He wasn’t going to load twitter, or look at the texts that had come in from his friends who’d seen, but then a new one appeared at the top of his screen as his phone buzzed in his hand. It was Shea – a youtube link. His phone buzzed again with a second message, a third, more, all from Shea. He thumbed messenger open, still numb all the way through, and scanned the group chat dispassionately. Then he stopped, and read it again.

FROM: SHEA - 7:17 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

youtube.com/watch?v=Jf1L34kn0

Please watch this, get your collective shit together, and stop making me feel sad for both of you

Ive got better shit to do with my time

And PLEASE reach out to us, jesus, brian, we care so much and i know youre doing your own thing but we’re really, really worried.

Well. I cant speak for kim. Im worried; that bitch is probably just hungry

He huffed a laugh, but it didn’t feel like one. It felt like something was cracking open inside of him.

His phone buzzed again.

FROM: KIM - 7:18 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

i can be hungry and worried at the same time cunt

but sheas not wrong, bri.

please.

Brian swallowed, then swallowed again, throat tight and eyes stinging. He took another gulp of his water, then, after a moment’s hesitation, typed, i’m here. i’ll watch it in a minute. i love you guys and im sorry

He wasn’t sure what he was sorry for. There was a whole laundry list of reasons he should be; he might as well cover his bases.

It wasn’t – it wasn’t that he’d been wrong to leave. It wasn’t that he’d been wrong to want out or to go silent. It was just that it could be right for him and wrong for them, and he could be sorry for that, even if he wasn’t sure yet that he regretted it.

He hit send all the same.

His phone buzzed almost instantly with their replies, but he didn’t look, pulling up the youtube link instead. Then: for the second time that morning, his heart stopped and his body went cold.

“help me i’m not dying fast enough”, said the title under the loading video. “Katya Zamolodchikova Periscope (August 29, 2017 @ 2:40 AM)”.

He didn’t want to click – he knew he didn’t want to, and also that he shouldn’t – but he did anyway, because sometimes he was a masochist like that. Lately, especially.

Katya, on-screen, stubbed out a cigarette and lit another one, inhaling deeply.

“I’m not going to tell you how many of these I’ve had tonight,” he said to the camera. “Because it’s none of your business what hell cycle of ideating and ovulating I may or may not be going through right now. That’s first of all.”

He looked… gaunt. Unkempt. Worse than in the video Shea had taken a week earlier.

“It’s a funny thing, to have – kind of – resolved myself to wanting something, and always having it sort-of in reach, and then to realise maybe I can’t have it at all. I could have, but maybe I missed my moment, maybe I didn’t lay out my thesis convincingly enough – maybe maybe maybe. Maybe what I wanted isn’t on the proverbial table anymore. That’s harder, I think, than knowing all along you can’t ever have it. It’s a different kind of wanting. I don’t know.”

He flicked his fingers in the air by his ear, ash falling grey and soft like snow from a rooftop.

“I’ve never been good at wanting things. That’s funny, right? From an addict, I mean. It’s funny. You can laugh – I’m laughing. Maybe you are, I don’t know, I can’t see you. I don’t care.

I’ve never been good at wanting things – I’ve had them, or not had them. It all seemed kind of –” he paused, then laughed, a hoarse bark. “You know, insignificant in the face of the rapid decay of the environment, our bodies, society as a whole, and ultimately the universe itself. The universe is dying, by the way, in case you hadn’t heard. I took a first year physics class, girl, so I know what I’m talking about.”

You read Neil Degrasse Tyson’s book once, you fucking idiot, Brian thought; it rung hollow, as if it came from someplace a good distance from his own body.

“So I’ve never been good at wanting stuff. Drugs isn’t want, drugs is need. And that’s not – I know I look like a mess right now, but a) not on drugs, and b) still not about need. I’m not in some kind of I’ll-die-without-you pseudo-love psycho-abusive Nicholas Sparks kinda bullshit. I’m just – I’m just sad. I’m just really fucking sad. And I’ll delete this tomorrow, and anyway –” Katya looked sharply into the camera, and for a moment, Brian felt seen – “I figure it’s only fair.”

“So anyway,” Katya continued. He turned away, towards the road; his eyes lit up with amber streetlight, glass-green and shadowed. “We’re all dying. I know, Brenda, I’m a broken record over here about it, but we’re all dying, and that’s kind of a big deal. And I love it! In some strange, existential way, it’s liberating, it’s electrifying, it brings you closer to your own body and soul and maybe even God, if, I don’t know, that’s your thing sometimes – ‘your’ being mine – but then –”

He stopped himself. Brian watched as his fingers tapped frenetically against the side of his cigarette for a moment, then he raised it, pursed his mouth, inhaled. Exhaled. He lifted his face to watch the smoke rise and disappear.

When he looked back down, he was smiling, crooked at the edges, like it hurt. “But then something comes into your life, and suddenly, it’s like, wait. Hang on. I want to see more of that – let’s stop the death train, maybe. Let’s put a hold on this dying shit. Because whatever it is I’m feeling, I want that, and – and – and why the fuck am I wasting time killing myself when this has been here, maybe all along. Self-indulgent fatalism suddenly starts to feel – selfish.”

“I mean,” he interrupted himself, suddenly and obviously changing tacks as a thought struck him, “please still come to my show. It’ll be so good. All these questions and more will be addressed – not answered, because who cares about answers, but asked? Yes. More questions than you ever wanted. Please come.”

He flashed a smile, plastic-white, but it melted away too quickly into the same tired pallor.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if anything I’m saying is true. I want all sorts of things all the time, but it’s always a little bit – intellectual. Like, wow, I wonder what having that would be like? Feel like? I’ve never experienced this kind of wanting that doesn’t have an endpoint – it won’t just stop once I get it. It goes forward. It has a future. What the fuck is up with that, you know?

But it’s not – you don’t just get to have things.”

His voice cracked.

“No. Okay. One second,” he said, and then he disappeared around the camera. Brian could still hear him breathing, though, quiet in the night air, an eerie echo of so many phone calls over the past month.

When Katya returned, he lit himself another cigarette, and this one didn’t shake between his fingers. “I’m going to delete this the minute it ends, for the record. I don’t know why I’m even doing it. I guess I’m just lonely. I know, I’ve been on tour, and that’s great, but – I dunno. It’s lonely. Work is lonely. Dying is lonely. And there’s one thing I want and I thought I could have it but – turns out – I probably can’t, and that’s – that’s lonely too.”

His mouth twisted, an almost-smile.

“I always thought that was such a cliché: to feel alone in the middle of a crowded room. And I love a cliché when it’s not played straight, but. Maybe, sometimes, the crowd doesn’t matter when one person’s not in it.

Anyway. I’m doing a lot of whining for someone with not a lot of problems, comparatively. And this problem isn’t even really mine. Not at its core. Selfish, right? But hey – no one’s making you tune in, Elizabeth.”

He took a final, decisive drag on his cigarette.

“Okay. I’m gonna go listen to some ambient noise and try to sleep.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ocean sounds, track four: a classic. Yeah. Yeah, okay. Bye.”

The streetlight blanketing his face in fragile white, he looked into the screen again, directly, as if he could see Brian there looking back at him, heart sore in his throat. Then the video went dark.

Brian sat and stared down at the phone in his hands. Between the low buzzing nausea of his hangover and the Seattle morning greyness, the world around him felt – distant. Not quite real. Not as real or as close as that twitch of Katya’s mouth, or the wry, exhausted humour in his voice. The frustration and sadness and longing in every line of his body.

They were both so stupid. And so fucked.

He tapped out of Safari and into his messages, where he typed again, check in?

Knees tucked into his chest, he waited, and a minute later the reply came in – the little OK emoji, thumb pinched to index finger.

He exhaled loudly and pressed his hand over his eyes.

The phone buzzed against his thigh a moment later and he looked down again. It wasn’t from Shea or Kim like he thought it might be – it was, unexpectedly, another text from Katya. All it said was: you?

He bit his lip, thinking about it. He wasn’t going to let himself lie, to himself, to Katya, not again. He wasn’t going to do that to them. But the honest answer was – yes. He wasn’t good. He wasn’t better. But he was okay, for all the values of okay that the check-in had meant since the first time Katya had needed it: I’m alive, I’m safe, I’m here.

Yeah, he typed and sent, that’s about right.

He looked up from his phone at a sudden noise beyond the front door – a thump, like something heavy had been dropped.

It could have been one of Adore’s neighbours, so he dragged himself up and started to walk over, ready to offer assistance if needed. The woman upstairs was older, and generally bought more groceries than she could carry. But as he was approaching the door he heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and then the handle began to turn.

Adore wasn’t supposed to be back until that evening.

“Hello?” he started to ask, but then the door swung open, and he was staring into a pair of very tired, very startled eyes that definitely weren’t Adore’s.

“What the fuck,” said Bianca del Rio.

To his own surprise, a burst of laughter punched out of Brian’s stomach. “Yeah,” he said, staring back at Bianca, at the douchey sneakers on his feet, the Shangela shirt he was wearing, and the small duffel he’d dropped behind him. Brian found himself smiling, just a little. “Same.”

#I've said this to u already but… why #trixya #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #dare #angst #submission #fathwtf #canon compliant

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yumikkaku · 7 years

Text

wip. namkook rape roleplay -- or, like, the discussion leading up to it?? lmao

"So," Jungkook says, gnawing on his lower lip. "I kind of want you to rape me?"

Namjoon stops as he pulls his sleep shirt over his head for a long, long moment before figuring that he must have just misheard. He scoffs at himself as he finishes pulling his shirt over his head. "What?" he asks. "Sorry, it sounded like you said -- "

"Sorry!" Jungkook cuts him off. He brings his hands nervously up to his chest and goes just ever so slightly bug-eyed and wrapping his arms around his knees. He shuffles in space, tugging the blanket that's conspicuously wrapped around his shoulders. All of which Namjoon finds -- odd. "That's -- that's not the best phrasing, I don't think."

Namjoon blinks.

"I mean, like -- I want a safeword, and. All that. Like not for -- for real. Obviously."

Silently, Namjoon feels his own jaw drop.

This is, apparently, not the right reaction.

Jungkook makes a noise not unlike the squeaking of a small, hurt puppy. Namjoon's heart aches a little. "I didn't -- sorry, that's really weird, I shouldn't have said anything, it's just -- please just forget I said anything."

"Uh, no, Jungkook, it's -- " Namjoon says. He plops his weight down on the edge, Jungkook hiccuping slightly as the mattress bounces. Namjoon watches him curl a little bit further into his small blanket cocoon and quickly reaches over to pat Jungkook on the back. "It's, uh -- I mean, we can -- I just -- "

He clears his throat, watching the way Jungkook's eyes go wide in his head. Namjoon bites his tongue. He really needs to get his shit together.

"I wasn't expecting that," he says. His limbs feel tingly and his stomach rolls with an odd bit of unease. "But we can talk about it."

Jungkook continues to stare at him, wide-eyed.

"I didn't -- I didn't mean to freak you out." He knows he's a little bit shit at regulating his own facial expression, knows that the initial odd, visceral panic he felt must have been written across his face. He rubs at Jungkook's shoulder blades through the blanket. Regret bubbles low in his belly.

"Sorry," Namjoon says. Jungkook blinks up at him. He doesn't look scared, just maybe a little -- overwhelmed. Namjoon can't say he doesn't empathize.

(Because while Jungkook is sitting there, his lips popped open and his eyes all big and bugging out of his head -- Namjoon's brain is working doubletime to try and figure out what Jungkook might have meant by that, throwing image after image of Jungkook bleeding and crying at him, making Namjoon's stomach turn -- )

"I want, like." Jungkook bites his lip again before he lets his gaze slide down to the comforter. He takes in a deep breath and his shoulders sag and his lower lip pops out from in between his teeth -- all the stress just flows out of him. Namjoon's heart throbs. "I kind of want you to, like, break into the house? And grab me by the hair and like. Fuck my face."

Namjoon, once again, feels his jaw drop.

"If you could wear a skimask that would be cool?"

Namjoon had always been terribly jealous of the ability Jungkook has to just -- decide not to care. He stares at Namjoon with his gaze totally blank, no shame or worry in his expression despite the fact that he he must be feeling something along those lines.

"Um," Namjoon says.

He stares directly into Jungkook's near-expressionless face, worrying his lip between his teeth. It's not that he -- it's not that Namjoon is uncomfortable with kink. He'd told Jungkook a long, long time ago that he's open to trying new things. They did try new things fairly frequently. They aren't actually getting married until the summer, but Namjoon would be a fool if he didn't take the steps to open himself up more than he would in a normal relationship, to prepare for that level of -- of closeness, trust, commitment. (Not that Namjoon didn't already feel committed, but -- he knows he could always be giving a little bit more.)

"I mean," Namoon says. His heart thuds against the inside of his ribcage. He's not unwelcoming to extreme kink, not afraid of it. He knows Hoseok, in particular, has experimented with with a lot of things in his sex life. He talks about them all the time, and Namjoon is -- Namjoon is okay with that. (Although there's some small, panicked part of him that screams that Hoseok probably doesn't do things like what Jungkook is asking for.)

But the long and the short of it is that Namjoon doesn't care. Shouldn't care. He knows that Jungkook is smart, and kind, and won't try to make Namjoon uncomfortable. Won't try to make him do anything he doesn't want to do.

So there's really -- no reason that fear should bubble up quick and hot in Namjoon's gut.

"Is that...something you want?" he croaks.

Jungkook furrows his brow, glancing briefly from side to side before he opens his mouth and answers. "Yes?"

It briefly occurs to Namjoon how stupid of a question that had been.

"Right," he says. Jungkook wouldn't ask for something he doesn't want. "Of course."

Namjoon rephrases. "What -- what exactly is it that you want."

Namjoon leaves his hand on Jungkook's shoulders, curling his fingers slightly. Jungkook wiggles.

"I mean," Jungkook says. He takes in a deep breath, lets all his embarrassment and stress go like a helium-filled baloon.

(People give Jungkook shit somethings, for being young, for having older friends, for acting like a child. But Namjoon knows that he's far, far more mature than he lets on. Jungkook can seem a little clueless sometimes, but he knows how to handle himself. Namjoon is proud of him.)

"I dunno," he continues. "I really like the idea of, like -- you break in and, like, I'm doing dishes or something, and you grab me by the hair and cover my mouth so I can't scream and tie me up with duct tape so I can't get away -- "

He sounds a bit like he's rattling off a list of -- groceries. Or something.

Namjoon swallows.

"Like you ever do the dishes."

He knows the comment is belated. That his voie cracks awkwardly as he speaks. But the comment still seems to make Jungkook feel better -- he snickers a little, slips one hand out from beneath the comforter and reaches for Namjoon's hand.

Namjoon gives it to him, lacing their fingers together and running his thumb over the curve of Jungkook's knuckles. It's mostly by habit. Namjoon himself feels a little -- shell-shocked?

"And, like," Jungkook says. "I just wanna be able to fight back."

A lump rises in Namjoon's throat. "Right," he says.

He expects for Jungkook to continue, to elaborate -- even further on what he's -- on what his fantasy is, exactly. But Jungkook doesn't speak, and the seconds tick on and on and on, silence hanging over the two of them.

"Namjoon?"

"Yeah?" His fingers tingle and his stomach flips as he thinks about being the one to manhandle Jungkook, choke him and bruise him and make him cry. Which isn't in and of itself all that abnormal, Namjoon had dommed before, it's just --the image Jungkook, going about his everyday life with his mussed hair and bunny teeth and then getting fucking brutalized.

"Are you okay?"

And it's not like Namjoon is -- he's not afraid of hurting Jungkook. Not when he wants it. He knows Jungkook likes the occasional smack on the thigh, harsh bite to the collar bone, knows he likes it when Namjoon fucks his throat hard enough to make him gag and choke. But there's something about the image of Jungkook getting -- getting fucking raped in their own home that makes Namjoon's spine itch and his toes curl, something he can't quite place that just bothers him.

"I just." Namjoon's mouth goes dry as it dawns on him. "I can't -- is that really something you want?"

The two of them aren't particularly into anything extreme. Namjoon would be open to trying, of course, but they'd been together for years and there just wasn't -- there hasn't ever been --

There's some part of Namjoon that can't quite believe it, he supposes.

"Yeah," Jungkook says. "Of course. That's why I said something."

"But -- " Namjoon says. There's some part of him that's still bothered, that needs to be satisfied despite the fact that he can see stress and worry and self-consciousness creeping across Jungkook's expression again. He knows he shouldn't be speaking this way, shouldn't be stumbling around this issue like a big, gangly idiot when it's clearly something that Jungkook is nervous about. But the words spill out of him before he thinks to stop them. "In our home?"

Jungkook blinks. "Huh?"

And maybe that's -- maybe that's the bit that really fucks Namjoon up.

"This is -- " The two of them had been living together for not -- not the longest amount of time. Namjoon had always had a fantasy of buying a house with the person he was going to marry, but it had just proven to be financially irresponsible to continue renting a place when he started making as much money with his producing as, well -- as he'd always dreamed of. So he and Jungkook hadn't picked out the house together, but it was theirs. Their home, the place where they were going to live for the foreseeable future, and something about the idea of Jungkook wanting to roleplay some sort of terrible thing happening to him in their home, the one place in the whole world that Jungkook should be safe, safe with Namjoon -- it just gets to him.

"Um," Jungook says. He squeezes Namjoon's hand just a bit more tightly, glancing around the room once more. "Where else?"

"No," Namjoon says. "No, I just mean." He runs his tongue over his lips. "Is there not anything that -- don't you want to be safe here?"

Jungkook stares at him for a long, long moment before opening his mouth and laughing. "Hyung," he says, squeezing Namjoon's fingers so tightly Namjoon sucks in a quick little breath of surprise. "It's not real."

"I know," Namjoon says. He's still a little bothered. "Of course, I know."

Silence hangs. Quietly, Namjoon contemplates the difference between acting a fantasy out and allowing something truly awful to happen to yourself. From the outside, they look just about the same, but must -- have to -- feel very different. Right?

"We don't..." Jungkook starts slowly, "have to do it, if you don't want to. It wasn't a demand."

"Yeah!" Namjoon shakes himself. "Yeah, of course, of course." He wants to be able to voice exatly what he thinks, what exactly his issue is. He wishes it was something as simple as I don't want to hurt you or I just don't want to do that or anything else he could stick into a succinct little sentence. And the two of them could just. Be done with it.

"I mean..." Jungkook trails off, gnawing on his lower lip as he stares down at the comforter. "It's not, like, important or anything. Sometimes Hobi sends me, like, stories and stuff -- we've been talking a lot about, like, kink and stuff, and I've been reading, and I dunno, I just..." Jungkook trails off. "I kind of wanted to try it."

"Okay." Namjoon holds his breath. "Okay, that's -- " he reaches out and runs his fingers through Jungkook's hair, presses a slightly too-wet kiss to Jungkook's forehead. "Let me think about it?"

"Yeah," Jungkook says. Namjoon cradles the back of his head and rests his lips against Jungkook's forehead. He holds the two of them close. "Of course, I...sorry."

His shoulders sag in Namjoon's grip. "No," Namjoon says. "Don't be sorry."

Namjoon slips the blanket off of Jungook's shoulders before pulling Jungkook in close to him, holding him tight as he goes limp. "I'm sorry," Namjoon says. "I didn't mean to -- the idea just. Scares me a little. I think."

"Oh," Jungkook says. He rests his chin on Namjoon's shoulder. "Yeah," he says. "I get that."

"I just want you to feel safe," Namjoon says.

"I do feel safe," Jungkook says. "With you, hyung. That's why I asked in the first place."

There's not talking about quite the same thing, Namjoon knows. there's some sort of gap in communication, a difference between what Namjoon's thinking and what he's saying, but -- he's doing his best.

It's frustrating.

"That's good to know," Namjoon says. "Thank you."

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