#I tried to shake it off but srsly man what the hell | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bangtanlalaland · 5 years ago

Text

a dose of relief | ksj (m.)

synopsis ⇣ the CDC’s hottest scientist so happens to be your lab partner. how much longer will it take until he has you begging for him?

— health scientist!au

⇢pairing: CDC health scientist!kim seokjin x female reader

⇢genre: crack, pwp, smut

⇢word count: 5.7k

⇢contents ⨯ warnings: so sorry for this filthy porn with no plot, I’m also horrible @ science (even though it’s one of my fave subjects in school) so plz forgive me if I said something wrong or certain facts are incorrect, I tried to not use so many details/specifics on the science ooey gooey stuff in case that could trigger anything amongst readers, srsly tho somebody call the fanfic writing police, omg, there’s so much tension lolol, Jin is a dom in this OMFG, masturbation, mentions of an outbreak (oops sorry), lab sex (yes, I really went there plz don’t judge me [I know I’m a dirty hoe]), semi-public sex? (not really, but almost) use of sex toys, hair pulling, spitting, face/ass/pussy slapping & licking (oop), unprotected sex (lolol the irony; STAY SAFE!), orgasms (duh), creampie, degradation, so much name calling (holy fuck), JIN HAS A BIG DICK OK (BECAUSE WE LOVE BIG DICKS RIGHT?!)

a/n: honestly I find it so hard to write for Jin & IDK WHYYY. so I couldn’t pass up this opportunity to let the light shine on him for this one. besides, Jin would make the PERFECT hOTTesT SCIENTIST. because WHY NOT?!?! oh & let this fic just be a reminder for those of you out there (you know who I’m talking about): WEAR A GODDAMN MASK.

Seokjin Kim.

The name of the most handsome man in the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and yet you cannot spend a minute around him without perspiring. Because, well, you’re convinced he just has that affect on everyone. When in reality, it’s really only you. You sweat bullets being around him.

And he knows this. Which is why he’s near you again, looking just as sexy as he did the day before, attired in his white, lab coat — his blonde tresses clouding your vision as he wanders through the lab. You internally curse the universe for having made you both cross paths. You’d often speculate why he’s working here as a scientist. Shouldn’t he be somewhere on the front cover of like GQ Magazine or something? But no, for whatever reason, in this fucked up world we live in, he’s currently in the lab with you, performing test results, by using various liquid solutions.

“Ah, I can’t wait to finally clock out tonight.” Seokjin states while flicking a test tube that remains between his glove-covered fingers, gently placing the blood sample along with other tubes in the tray to be put away in the cooler.

“Hot date I’m assuming?” You question with a secret hint of jealousy oozing from your words — observing a sample through the microscope, turning the knobs to adjust the coarse and fine focus.

Jin beams at your assumption, shaking his head, “Ah. Nice one. But no.”

Your gaze flies up to his towering figure, raising your eyebrows, “So what is it?” You try not to get too lost into staring at his plump, pink lips. He almost catches you eyeing him and you instantly look away, darting your vision back into the microscope.

“I have the whole weekend off,” He coos with a giddy expression, and you internally scoff. That fucker.

You shake your head, “Sounds great!” No, it doesn’t sound great. Because he’s probably happy that he gets to be off so he can be with someone- Wait, no. He’s clearly not going on a date. Duh, he just told you that. Okay, now you’re really just fishing for something, but you’re also jealous of him that he’s off the entire weekend. These past few months have been hell, courtesy of a recent outbreak — every official, scientist, representative and whomever in the CDC is currently working day and night, non-stop to formulate a vaccine. Therefore you shuck away your feels, because you know Jin has more seniority than you within the company. You’d only just been transferred to his department right before the outbreak had occurred.

“Some well needed rest, huh?” You question, an attempt to keep the conversation going while also being the nosey old woman you are deep down inside. “You need it,” You unconsciously continue, somewhat too occupied in ensuring the proper amount of the sodium hypochlorite solution drops are added, squeezing the pipette carefully.

Jin nods his head in agreement, “Oh yeah,” he sighs, “Could definitely use what I call the Four S’s.” Your eyebrows furrow, more-so at concentrating on your accuracy.

But you hear him, and once the final drop of solution has been added, you pull away from the microscope, discarding the pipette in the proper disposal bin. “Four S’s?” You ask, with a tilt of your head.

“Mmhmm,” Jin seats himself on the stool in front of you, placing his hand under his chin. “Soup, soju, sex, and sleep.”

You nearly topple over when trying to seat yourself, and he doesn’t miss your clumsiness either. He thought it was cute how flustered you suddenly became, and he knew why you had. The word sex having stood out amongst the others he’d mentioned. You’re smoking under his gaze, a sudden wave of heat flashing over you within the blink of an eye. Ugh, how you hate the way he does this to you. Whatever this is. With a flicker of his eyebrows, a coy grin creeps upon his face. And you nervously swallow a gulp, easing the parched feeling in the back of your throat.

Awkwardly, you clear your throat, “Sounds like one hell of a weekend.” He continues his smirk at you, and at this point you grow slightly annoyed. Oh, his stupid hot face. Why does he keep staring like that?

“What?” You deadpan.

With a suck of his teeth, he pushes himself off the stool and stands up on his two feet, “Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone,” he coos with a wink. Yes, the fucker actually winked! You had to double check within your mind that you’re fully conscious because you couldn’t believe he did that. Jin doesn’t flirt with you, like ever. And you know that even he knows this, that grin still plastered upon his face. How the hell does he do it? Do this to you?

The sound of the door clicking signals his departure, to what you only assumed he was going on his lunch break. But the real question is, does he know? He must know that you are attracted to him, otherwise he wouldn’t have insinuated you’d “miss” him. Fuck. You’re screwed and you know it. Unfortunately not in the way you’d like to be screwed.

��

The weekend didn’t fly by like a breeze as it normally would, but instead dragged. You thought at one point the time may have just frozen, but subconsciously you knew that wasn’t even remotely possible. Although, you’re convinced that the reason for it all is because Seokjin wasn’t there. Normally, you’d both share the same shifts on weekends and everything felt in tune. You’d complete tests, run samples, and literally anything else under the sun together. But the time felt different when with him, and you’re beyond relieved to find that the end of your shift approaches. You both say your farewells and do it all over again the next day. It became a routine, really, one that you’d grown accustomed to.

However, since his weekend off, you felt something change, and you didn’t like it. You noticed since the start of your shifts, he permeated an odd vibe. Jin wasn’t making eye contact with you, and hell he didn’t greet you when he clocked in. Even when you’d discussed to your boss that after copious amounts of research and tests, the sodium hypochlorite solution kills various diseases and viruses, including HIV/AIDS, although said concoction is overly toxic for ingestion.

Seokjin never spoke or added anything from his research to back up your claim, which was completely degrading to you, because well… teamwork — he made you feel as though the countless amount of hours you’d both spent in the lab together was a waste. So yes, it was strange. He was acting strange, and you didn’t know whether to be gloomy or pissed about it all. After the meeting with the board, discussing the current problems with hygiene and public health, you returned to your station with Jin. You decide to test the waters and break the awkward silence since he wouldn’t.

You clear your throat in an attempt to draw his attention, but fail, his back still turned to you, “How was your weekend?”

He continues his work, not even flinching when you’d suddenly spoke. He replies so fast you were convinced he just knew exactly what you were going to say and simply waited for you to do so.

“Great,” he retorts with a nonchalant tone. You hear a few snap-like sounds and immediately note that he’s placing his gloves on. He brushes past you and into the cooler, removing a tray of blood samples to set them down onto the counter. You bite back a remark and instead try again.

“Had any good soup?” You internally cringe at yourself for saying something so stupid, but you can’t help but be the curious cat you are. Then his silence doesn’t make it any better. Here you are again, “Or at least some proper rest?”

His eyes finally meet yours, and you can’t quite read his pokerface. “I did,” He adds with still the most blank expression you’d known him to make. His gaze drops back toward the test tubes he’s busied himself with.

You continue to probe him, even though your insides scream otherwise, “Couldn’t have forgotten about the soju too, right?” You question, a tone laced with curiosity. He makes a simple “mmhmm” sound, clearly understanding where you’re going with this. A brief moment of silence subsides between the both of you, and for a moment you appreciated it but another side of you just had to know. Your essence ached for an answer, even though if said answer wasn’t one you’d want to hear, you still had to know. And you swear the phrase, “Curiosity kills the cat” could explain this moment in time.

“W-what about….” You trail off, in hopes he’d catch on. His eyes meet yours, and you can’t help but want to shribble up under his stare — whilst his defined lids peer into you, as if cascading into your soul.

“What about what?” Jin knows the next question you want to ask, and part of him wishes you’ll just ask already. He needs your inquiry of his sexcapades, because truth be told, he has none; and he’s on the brink of bending you over on this counter and fucking you senselessly — a burning ache, desperate to release his pent up frustration, mixed with the daily stresses that come along with work. His eyes linger onto your facial features, searching for a warning that you’d finally cave in, that by some miracle you’d admit you want him in just as a lustful manner as he wants you. Needs you. His weekend having been a long, cold, and lonely one. He’d desperately yearned for a woman’s touch, a dry spell long overdue.

He notes how your lips part and eyes widen, as if you’re stuck like a deer in headlights and don’t know how to simply let the words flow from your tongue. His pink, plush lips catch your attention, his bottom lip protruding in a manner that’s tempting for you to simply lick the flesh — the need to graze your teeth along the tissue clouding your mind. You suck in a quiet gasp, but audible enough for Jin to hear you. The sudden twitch of his member down below, the visual of having you whimper underneath him having flashed through his imagination. You instinctively obscure any second thoughts of your actions, because if he didn’t want you to know then why would he have mentioned the “Four S’s?” It’s like he’s calling your name, indirectly. Seokjin knows how curious you’ve always been, and it’d be silly to not know such a fact. After all, you’re a scientist that works for the CDC.

The more dense part of you spills, “Well, you know-” His eyebrow quirks up at you, as if not falling for your little trap. No, he wants to hear you say it, he wants those words coming out of you and streaming to his eardrums.

That familiar hum he has a habit of making slips from him, “Hm- No, I don’t.

He proceeds to his previous endeavors, scouring through the cabinets for some tools. You stand there dumbfoundedly, and cursing your own self for not having the courage to just speak your mind. Seokjin marvels at your conflicted expression, thanking his own self for not giving in so easily — because he wants to confirm his assumptions and needs you to make that move. He definitely didn’t want to be the first to impose, just in case you were to reject him and immediately perform some type of backlash technique. The last thing he needed was to lose his job and/or face a lawsuit for harassment. He ignores your stiff figure and gracefully mixes various liquids into a beaker. Your fingers tap along the counter and mind races hundreds of miles per hour. Just do it.

“Sex,” You whisper. His stirring stops suddenly and eyes move to yours with a slight tilt of his head. “Did you… Have sex?” You add, voice barely above a whisper. Jin sighs in relief, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders — the air now somewhat less stuffy, and he chooses to stifle back a moan of satisfaction at your question. And within an instant, he scoffs, sending a rush of discouragement over your being.

He shakes his head while a sly grin paints upon his face, “Wouldn’t you like to know, hm?” You roll your eyes at him, can’t even believe the audacity. Of course, you should have known he’d be comical about it. Because that’s what Jin does, which makes you question how he’d even passed the entire hiring process to be promised and given this position.

With a slight pull of your strands out of frustration, you retort, “What the hell, Jin? You were the first one to mention “the Four S’s” You make sure to exaggerate air quotation marks on the phrase.

“And now you’re acting like you can’t even say if you’ve gotten some over the weekend. What am I not allowed to ask you questions anymore?!” Seokjin stares at you with wide eyes, immediately making you feel guilty for your sudden outburst. But what was he to expect? How could he not think you’d be curious of how his weekend ended after revealing to you his much needed desires. You palm your face in embarrassment, not wanting to meet his gaze any longer. And that’s when he removes his gloves, discarding them in the designated bin, and the feel of his palms encase around yours, pulling you from your hidden position to reveal your face that’s now strained with a painful look.

“If it makes you feel any better… I haven’t had sex.” His sweet voice oozes of comfort, granting a sense of calmness to reside within you.

“It’s been so long, and I am actually going to lose my mind if I don’t soon enough.” His confession causes you to gasp lowly, and he notices this. You hadn’t realized he was still holding your hands, his fingers long and cold, rubbing light circles within your palms. You know that he’s telling the truth; his eyes screaming for attention. Jin is desperate, and you sense that, which would explain why he’d been so tense ever since showing up to work today. You take this chance to take in every feature he has to offer. His broad shoulders aiding to tower his figure above yours just as he constrains his neck slightly to glare into your eyes. Your mouth flies agape just by an inch, and you hadn’t realized how close Jin was to you. You could feel the warmth of his breathing from his nostrils hitting you like the heat boiling down below.

You had a dire need to just smash your lips with his to finally know what the pillow-y tissue feels like between your own. His deep, chocolate irises reeling you in and suddenly your hand clenches tight underneath his touch. He notices and releases his grip from you, not realizing he’d been holding you this entire time.

And then you break the ice suddenly, “I think you should get that taken cared of soon.” Jin watches your form whilst you depart yourself from the room. Entering the main hall, you hadn’t processed how warm the atmosphere in the lab had been — a thin sheen of sweat coating your face and neck, courtesy of Seokjin Kim.

—

And then things got weirder.

There was this unspeakable tension between the two of you. You hardly made much eye contact with him at work now. You trained yourself (somewhat) to not ask so many questions during your shifts together, and if Jin noticed this then he definitely didn’t show or tell that he did. You’d find yourself going home at the end of the day and pulling out your favorite vibrator just to orgasm at the thought of Seokjin and his rosy, juicy lips, slender fingers that you know could reach the highest of places; those silky, light, blonde strands that long for you to tug on them as he buries himself in between your legs. However, Jin does the same, even on that weekend when he was off. He coated himself in lubricant and acquired his pocket pussy to stuff his thick length through the silicone material, imagining that it was your walls encasing around his cock instead.

Bucking his hips upwards, wanton moans spilled from him whilst he continued to ride out the waves of pleasure he’d endured just by dreaming of you. He continuously re-played the sight of your face over and over again in his mind, when you’d looked up at him that day in the lab — with glossy, bright eyes twinkling of curiosity. He wanted right then and there to shove himself down your throat and make you choke on his big dick. At the moment his groin tensed up and balls ached to release his load, he moaned your name repeatedly, as if he was summoning you into his bed. Streams of his cum erupted into the sleeve, soaking his length with the creamy substance just as he huffed for air, an attempt to gain back his normal breathing pattern.

And then the next day…

He did it again.

But this time it was different. He opted for his palm instead and your voice. He scrambled through anything in his phone that could get him off, more like anything of you in his phone. Until it dawned on him. You’d left him a voicemail back when you first got hired, introducing yourself to him and asking him to give you a call back to discuss work-related matters.

Bingo.

Your voice sent tingles down his spine as it resonated through the speakers of his iPhone. Jin quietly hummed at your words, as if he was agreeing to what you were saying — even though it had nothing to do with sex or pleasing him in any matter.

“Wish you were here,” He slips with his eyes shut, whilst his palm eagerly strokes his stiff cock, fingers gently brushing along the vein on his shaft.

“Need you so bad. Want to make you scream my name.” He replays it again with a hiss through his teeth. Drips of precum seep from the head of his cock; he lightly grazes the flesh with his long fingers, stimulating the sensitive area. The squelching noises from his slick length can be heard throughout his apartment as he pumps himself vigorously.

Another uncontrollable hum spills from Jin when he replays the recording again, picturing you on your knees blowing him off until you lose your breath.

“Hi Mr. Kim!”

How much he loves when you call him that. He’d almost forgotten when you used to address him that way, until he insisted that you didn’t have to and to simply refer to him as Jin.

“Mmm, love it when you used to call me that,” Jin whispers softly.

His hips move on their own, bucking up into his hand. His thighs clenching as he continues to fuck himself through his palm, and with furrowed brows he claws the sheets of his bed at the sound of your voice.

“This is ____, I was just transferred to your department and was told to follow up with you for any questions I may have.”

Jin’s hums now turned into moans, “Oh, fuck. Want to make you cum on Mr. Kim’s cock.”

“Anyways, if you could please give me a call back then I would really appreciate it. I look forward to meeting you!”

Jin’s toes curl at the last statement, his lips part instinctively and thighs stiffen themselves. His impending orgasm approaches as he cries out in pure bliss, “Oh, yeah! F-fuck!”

His chest rises and falls when streams of cum project onto his abs, some coating his fingers — while he softly pumps himself to rid of the remaining secretions. His loose strands stick to his forehead, thanks to the built up perspiration due to the raise in his body temperature. Jin lies there with a shaky breath and trembling thighs paired with thoughts of you. How much he wished his cum hadn’t gone to waste, how he wished he could cum so much inside of you that you gush pools of his jizz when he removes himself out of you. And lastly, how he’s nearly on the brink of risking it all just to be inside you.

—

One morning you break through the doors of the lab you share with Jin, to find him peering through a microscope. You can’t take it anymore; it’s been too long since the day you’d met him that you wanted to literally devour him whole. The need to hold your composure now thrown out the window completely. You snatch your badge off of you followed by your coat and slam your hand onto the counter, startling him from his work.

“I need you to fuck me until my brain is dead and I forget who I am and that we are in the middle of a pandemic.”

Seokjin’s mouth and eyes fly as wide as they can go. Without hesitation, he perks up from the stool and nearly tumbles over to tear his gloves off, remove his glasses, coat, and protective mask. He hurriedly washes his hands in the nearby sink, his eyes still traced on your uptight form. With lips still parted, he makes his way back to you and grips your sides, caressing you as if he’s admiring this moment of you standing here in front of him, begging for only him. He can’t process what’s actually happening and so he opts to do so later, and instead just appreciate this moment — a dream that finally came true. Unexpectedly, he lunges you against the counter, causing your back to hit the handles of the drawers.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that?” He admits with a tone that’s mixed with lust.

Jin’s warm breath breezes past your face, sending a wave of chills down your spine. He cups your cheeks, and captures you in a heated kiss. His plump lips smooth out your own, a faint hint of coffee left on his tastebuds that signals you he more than likely had a cup of Joe this morning — your kisses filled with a fiery passion you didn’t know would finally come to light. His hands fall down to grip your waist in a feverish manner. Your fingers laced into his hair, an action you’d wanted to perform for what seems like forever now. His strands feel like satin under your fingertips.

His hands trail down to your ass cheeks, gripping the cushions with a hungry force. A rush of wetness seeps into your panties, and you silently convince yourself that you’d never been more horny until now. With teeth and tongues clashing, hands roaming along each others bodies, you both lose yourselves within each others touch — drifting into the euphoria of finally being relieved of the backed up tension that accumulated over these lonesome months. This moment in time was everything Jin had wished for. He yearned to have you in this way, and he’d only accept it if you were comfortable with doing so. The pang in his groin area throbs due to his high libido. Those nights he’d spent jerking himself off to the thought of you were now just a memory. When the burning need to breathe approaches, you both pull away panting for air. Jin’s already full lips now swollen and wet, his gorgeous almond-shaped eyes staring down your form in awe.

Your palms rest on his wide shoulders, caressing them with desperation.

“Please, Jin.” You plead with a whine. Within a swift he turns you around and bends you over. Your grip lands on the counter, knocking down the numerous utensils he’d previously been using, an almost failed attempt at keeping your balance. Jin roughly pulls your garments down, showcasing your panties. He brushes his digits along your covered core that pulses, almost as if speaking to his fingers. He applies more pressure, earning a small whimper. His erection gradually growing itself behind his briefs. He uses his index finger to pull your lacy undergarment to the side, a final reveal of your juicy lips. Your core clenches in front of him, as if calling to welcome him within your walls.

And suddenly a harsh slap lands on your delicate womanhood. You nearly fall apart on the spot at the abrupt infliction.

“That’s Mr. Kim to you.” He slips harshly and yanks your panties down to your ankles, your feet having tossed them somewhere in the distance. You hear the unbuckling of his belt, and he swiftly drops his trousers on the ground along with his briefs pooling at his ankles. His erect cock springs up, teasing the cheeks of your ass. And before you could even turn your head to take in the view of him, Seokjin slaps your lips a few times, the tip of his cock grazing against your clit while doing so. He then shoves himself entirely into you within one go, not even thinking to spare you even just for a moment. You knew you didn’t have to actually see his dick to know how big it is because damn did he stretch you out like you’d never been stretched before. You relentlessly pulsate around him, soaking him in your juices.

The pads of your fingertips grip onto the edge of the countertop. “Oh fuck me, oh!”

“Wow, you’re so tight. Fuck.” Jin moans. You find your hair being pulled back; he whispers into your ear, “I’m going to fucking give it to you, you hear me?” His large palm lands a rough smack to your ass cheek.

“Yes! S-sir!” You cry out, and another slap reoccurs, a familiar tingly sensation shoots straight to your heat. You didn’t think Jin was this dominate, but you’re convinced after such a drastic period of time, it would only make sense that he’d release his tension as he pleases. He creates his own brutal pace — relentlessly pounding your pussy out with no mercy. Your body bounces forward from Jin’s ferocious strokes, and your scalp aches from his tug on your hair.

“So wet, so tight,” He whispers to himself, blowing yet another smack to your bottom, followed by a gentle rub, an attempt to ease the soreness. You’re sure he’d leave a mark on you. The sound of his balls clapping against your cheeks resonates through the lab, and you internally pray that no one walks in because how fucked you’d both be if that happens. But at the same time, you really could care less because you’re being fucked by the hottest man in the company and that’s what matters right now.

“Fuck me, Mr. Kim! Please don’t stop!” His tug on your hair gets tighter. His delicate strands flapping up and down in the process of him hammering into you, his Adam’s apple bobs as moans emit from him, and his cock drenches itself in your arousal. He cherishes the sight of his dick entering and exiting your kitty, only for him to thrust forward into you with a sharp jab. He treasures your soft whimpers and cries of his name.

Jin pulls himself out of you completely, and you whine at the sudden loss of contact.

“Turn around,” With shaky legs, you comply and Jin gestures you to sit down on the stool — wrapping his arms under your knees and pulling your legs apart as wide as they can go, your drenched cunt on full display for his horny being.

You can finally see him and nearly cum on the spot at the sight of his huge cock. It’s beautiful, he glimmers of your wet — his mushroom tip approximately the same shade of color as his lips. He gives your pussy a few taps, mimicking a “knocking on the door” motion. The tip of his member prods your entrance, your fingers grip his forearms in hopes to not crumble from his ministrations, your legs eagerly wrapping themselves around his small waist. Once Jin’s length pushes past your folds, your walls immediately welcome him inside.

A fervor moan spills from you, and this time he doesn’t let up on your tender core, continuing where he left off with his rigid pace. With one hand gripping your waist, he uses the other to grip your neck, “Look at you all needy and desperate,” He slaps your face teasingly, earning a yelp from you. “I knew you wanted me this whole time.”

Another slap with a bit more force. A soft gasp falls from your fucked out self.

“Wanted me to destroy your tight little pussy just like this?” He forces a deep thrust, followed by another and another and another, gaining a strained cry from you. Your walls contract around his hardened length, begging for his motions to never stop. He slaps you again, making sure to leave a mark behind on your cheek.

“Speak when you’re spoken to.” He uses this time to slap your clit harshly, unsatisfied with not receiving a response from you.

You whimper in reply, a sudden jerk of your thighs, “Y-yes, Mr. Kim!”

Jin slaps you again, “Who’s a cock-hungry little slut for Mr. Kim?” He continues to slap your face again, alternating between your left and right cheek.

And again.

His filthy words cause a tingly sensation straight to your core, “Me. I-I am a slut for you, Sir.”

And again.

That familiar hum rumbles from Jin’s chest, an approval laced in satisfaction, “Mmm, that’s right. You’ll walk around this facility with my cum buried deep inside you. Understand?” He punctuates his question with a thrust so deep, you swear you feel him in your tummy.

“Yes, Sir!” You cry out with trembling legs. He’s hitting your sweet spot so well, and with another slap to your face, your eyes prick with tears. Jin’s overpowering demeanor is nothing like you’d ever seen before.

“Play with your clit.” He demands, and you follow. Your fingers find the nub to gently rub along the sensitive nerves, causing your thighs to twitch within Jin’s hold.

“Harder,” he commands. You comply and add more pressure, a boiling heat rising in the pit of your tummy. You close your eyes and focus on the sounds of Jin’s panting and your thighs smacking against his. He lands another harsh slap to your face, and squeezes your cheeks together with one hand.

“Open your mouth.” You obey him and find yourself opening up as he requests. He drops a line of his warm saliva onto your tongue, and demands, “Swallow.”

Your clit throbs in pleasure and he notes you’ve stopped rubbing yourself. With a gulp, you ingest his spit with a whimper. Jin slaps your clit this time, your legs naturally jerking in response.

“Did I tell you to stop touching yourself?” He probes while halting his thrusts. You nod your head in a no gesture, “N-no Sir.”

He slaps your aching clitoris repeatedly, then pulls himself out of you. Your walls cry at the loss of his thick cock. He bends down to forcefully slap your pussy, running his fingers along your dripping heat and within moments he lewdly spits on your wet folds, his saliva now glistening your already soaked labia. His tongue darts out to slither along your lips and he places a wet kiss to your clit before pulling away.

“I’d love to keep eating you out, but I’ve been dying to get inside this pussy,” He sheathes his member back inside of you and buries himself to the hilt, pulling back out all the way and slamming back into you. He releases another trail of his spit onto his shaft, smothering himself more. He licks the pad of his thumb and rubs your clit relentlessly, while giving you short and fast strokes; and suddenly your toes curl themselves at the same time your eyebrows furrow.

Seokjin notices your contorted expression, and with a beaming grin, he coos, “That’s right. Cum for Mr. Kim like the good, little slut you are.”

“Cumming, Oh fuck!” Your body quivers within his hold while your orgasm overtakes you, even the stool you’re still seated on slightly skids across the floor beneath you. Jin helps to ride your orgasm out, applying just the right amount of pressure as you writhe underneath him. Your nails graze along his clothed biceps, his sleeves now scrunched and wrinkled, and you honestly have no shame — too lost in being drowned into your orgasm.

He groans at the feel of your cunt contracting around his cock, his thrusts now gaining a sloppy momentum. “Fuck, didn’t know you could get so tight.” His eyes fall down to his cock — the sight of your lady lips sucking him in entirely and contracting around his shaft tips him over the edge.

Seokjin gazes into your eyes with parted lips and lets out a shuddering moan dipped in ecstasy, his nails dig into the flesh of your waist as he rides out his high.

“Fuck,” he breathlessly says. A sudden warmth down below causes you to witness Jin’s cock pulsing as thick ropes of his cum surges into you, painting your walls and filling you up entirely of him. He joins you in watching himself gradually ease out of you. You clench your walls intentionally; Jin’s cum drains from your fucked out heat and drips onto the ground.

You both remain in silence, the sound of your breaths filling up the entire space. Before you could even process what just happened, or simply let out a syllable or two, the double doors of the lab burst open.

There stood a tall, slender man with glasses and a dark-chocolate, bowl cut. His deep, baritone voice sends a shuddering chill through you.

“Someone’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

“Ah, shit.” Jin whispers, with both hands on his hips and his soft length now flaccid. You cover your face in your palms, in full shame.

#bts smut #jin smut #hyunglinenetwork #btsguild #btsgoldnet #bangtanarmynet #bangtanhq #btswritingcafe #mikrogalaxynet #ficswithluv #kim seokjin

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strayen-fx · 5 years ago

Text

My Roommate is a Demon

Minho x Reader (first person POV)

Genre: Fluff, Humor? I srsly dunno how to classify this 🤣

Wordcount: 1.9k

A/N: What is this ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ Sorry for being M.I.A this past week ㅠㅠ

I wasn’t expecting a visitor at such an ungodly hour of the day. More importantly, I wasn’t expecting to see a demon chilling on my couch while petting my cat at two in the morning.

It was supposed to be a simple hangout over Netflix and fastfood, but Changbin insisted that we deserve a more “interesting” Friday night. Apparently, he stumbled upon a bunch of summoning spells in the internet, and he was more than excited to try them out. His enthusiasm won over our protests, and we spent the night over black candles and weird symbols he had copied from god-knows-where.

“Why exactly are we summoning a ghost?” Chan asked, obviously skeptic about the whole thing.

“Binnie hyung just wants to scare himself,” Jisung said. I noted, though, that his hands were shaking uncontrollably as he shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Changbin rolled his eyes. “We aren’t summoning a ghost, you folks. We are summoning a demon who could grant our wishes.”

“Like a genie,” Chan remarked sarcastically.

I sat on the couch beside Doongie, my one-year-old cat, who was busy licking his fur. “Why exactly are we doing it in my house?” I grunted.

Changbin grinned. “Because you, my friend, have the biggest stash of chips among the four of us. That is the number one requirement for the summoning to work.”

Chan paused from downing a bottle of Mountain Dew. “Oh. It’s not because of Soonie, then.”

Soonie, who was sitting comfortably on the TV stand, hissed in response. He is my three-year-old cat, and Chan is pretty much convinced that he is a spawn of Satan. (He actually typed a whole three-page essay to prove this hypothesis, but that’s beside the point.)

Jisung chuckled. “Chill, hyung. Soonie didn’t mean to spill coffee over your research paper.”

Chan groaned. “Oh, I’m sure as hell he did. He hates me – he thinks I’m stealing his master right under his nose.”

Soonie seemed to have understood that we were talking about him. He stared Chan down for a good three seconds before walking out with his nose in the air, heading towards my room. (I sometimes agree with Chan – maybe my cat is a spawn of that fiery land deep down. I mean, look at the sass. He’s gonna make Hades proud.)

Unfazed by our cat conversation, Changbin took the lead and settled himself on the center of the room. The rest of us followed begrudgingly, forming a semi-circle around a bunch of papers carelessly drawn with symbols and letters.

I knew with utmost certainty that the whole summoning was going to flop, but I wasn’t going to tell Changbin that.

We sat in silence, inhaling smoke from burning candles. We turned the lights off to complete the creepy vibe, which resulted to me having a papercut while arranging the “summoning circle” that we hastily made. Changbin was confidently muttering in Latin (or at least I thought it was Latin – it sounded gibberish to me, actually). After a few minutes of half-rapping and half-singing, he immediately gave up. He kicked the papers scattered on the floor, stood up and grabbed a slice of pizza.

“Tonight isn’t the night. We don’t have enough moon energy,” he declared.

I know not what “moon energy” was, and I was far from interested. I moved to turn the television on, not hiding the sense of relief that washed over me. Finally – the night could finally go as how it was initially planned.

Boy, was I wrong.

After a couple movies and a tower of pizza boxes, my friends finally called it a day. They were living together in a studio complex just a block away from mine; there had been no problem in getting home late for them. We bid some quick good nights, and they were off.

I locked the door after they left. I was more than prepared to plop down my couch and enjoy my moment of peace and solitude, when I suddenly heard my cat purr.

Doongie doesn’t purr unless I’m petting him.

When I turned to my couch, someone was sitting there – and he was rubbing Doongie’s belly while sitting comfortably as if he was lounging at his own home. I almost threw the phone I was holding.

“Wha- WHO ARE YOU?!?!?”

The young man winced in protest as if it was I who disturbed his peaceful night. “Good evening to you, too. As much as I would want to have an, uhh, enthusiastic conversation, I would rather not wake up your whole neighborhood.”

“Excuse m-”

“And to answer your question,” he continued, “my name is Lee Minho. I’m an intern from the ninth division of Hades Eastern Labor Line. Next time, please make sure you’d call our line during business hours. While I love receiving overtime pay, my boss clearly hates giving them, and I’m done with tolerating his hot-headed ass.”

The man – Minho – gave me a soulless, obviously forced smile. He looked pale, I noticed. His long black hair was falling over his forehead, almost covering his eyes. He was wearing a baggy black shirt and a pair of skinny jeans, matched with white rubber shoes and black socks. He looked young – I think he’s just around my age. His eyes looked perennially bored, as if being in my apartment was the last thing he wanted to do in his life.

Which bring us to the most pressing question of all time: WHAT IS HE DOING IN MY HOUSE?!

“Excuse me, but who are you again?”

He rolled his eyes, not even hiding the annoyance on his face. “The moment you rang that line, I immediately knew I didn’t like you. I’m Lee Minho, stupid-face. From the–”

“Ninth division of whatever-bbibbidiboo,” I said, cutting him off. “But who are you to barge into my house unannounced?! Who are you to stain my carpet with your filthy unwashed shoes?! How did you get in in the first place?! Who are you and why does my pet rub against you like you’re his owner?!?!?!?”

He was staring me down, and I swear I saw a flicker of fire on his eyes. Like, literal fire. I thought I was going to spontaneously combust.

“I’d tell you to go to hell, but I work there and I don’t want to see you everyday, so that’s totally out of the question,” Minho said flatly. “You called our hotline a few hours ago. That’s why I’m here. Believe me, I’d love to be anywhere else but your filthy apartment.”

I shook my head. I’m not drunk, am I? Last time I checked, soda doesn’t contain alcohol or any similar substance that could make me hallucinate stuff. “I’m sure as hell I didn’t call you.”

He rolled his eyes once more. “Well, hell is saying otherwise. Even Doongie here knows that you called me earlier.”

“… Are you crazy?”

Minho closed his eyes in an attempt to control his anger. “Please, human. I am tired. Just say your wish so I could leave, then we can live our separate lives in peace.”

It took me a whole minute before I finally realized what Minho was actually on about.

“Wait. You mean… the summoning worked? It actually worked?”

“Actually, it didn’t.” Minho continued petting Doongie, who purred contentedly in return. “My boss sent me instead, because who can summon a real demon with that half-assed incantation? I can point out about a hundred flaws in your ‘summoning circle,’ if you can even call it that, and another hundred flaws on the pronunciation of the chant. Plus, who draws the circle on a cheap bond paper? Don’t you have class?”

I tried to ignore the fact that he was outright dissing me. Well, he was dissing Changbin, actually. “If the summoning failed… then why are you here?”

Minho rolled his eyes for the nth time. “Like I’ve said, I’m just an intern.”

“So… you’re not a demon?”

“I’m half-demon.” Minho stifled a yawn. “But I’ll soon be a full-fledged one, once I’ve been summoned a thousand times and fulfilled a thousand wishes from mortals like you. Hence, like I have said a hundred times now, just get on with your bloody evil wish already.”

I took a seat on the couch opposite Minho, trying to compose myself. A demon intern was sent into my house because a real demon can’t be bothered by our half-assed summoning? A demon? In my house? At the dead of night? Tell me about it. “If you’re really what you’re claiming to be, you’re almost five hours late,” I noted.

“Well thank you for pointing that out, Dr. Punctual. You could just thank me – at least I decided to come despite your trashy chant,” he answered. “It was hard for me to cross the border to your world because of the trashy portal you made. Plus, there’s no enough moon energy at this trashy time of the month. You mortals could really use some research.”

I tried to ignore the fact that he used the word “trashy” thrice in less than a minute. “About that, I’m not the one who summoned you. It was my friend. You should go and grant his wish, not mine.”

Minho sniffed the air like a cat. (He actually looked like Doongie.) He crinkled his nose and sat back. “Your blood. There’s no mistake – it was your blood that was used to summon me.”

“My blood? What are you–”

The papercut. Crap.

Just then, Soonie sauntered from my room towards the living room. You should know that Soonie is one helluva irritable, choosy and aloof cat especially when it comes to strangers. I was expecting him to hiss and jump away from the demon-in-training on my couch, maybe even hide back into the safety of my bedroom.

“Another cat!” Minho exclaimed. I whipped my head towards him, and I saw him smiling a fatherly smile down at Soonie. It was weird, but I felt warmth from the stranger who barged into my house. There was a sincere look of adoration in his eyes, and if an outsider would look at him with my cats, they would probably think that Minho is their real owner and not me.

“How are you able to pet Soonie? He doesn’t usually warm up to strangers,” I asked.

Minho smiled – and it was unlike the previous mischievous grins he flashed. It was soft and pure, I had to doubt if he was really an entity training to be a full-time demon.

“I guess I should change my profession and be a cat whisperer instead,” he answered. “I rarely see cats Underground; they can’t endure the intense heat.”

What he did next surprised me – it was even more surprising than the moment he made himself appear in my house out of nowhere:

He lied down on my couch, nuzzling Soonie and Doongie into his arms.

“Since you don’t have a wish for me to do anyway,” Minho said, “let me stay in your house for a bit. If you have two adorable cats roaming around your household, then I guess you’re not as intolerable as I initially thought you would be.”

I stared at him for a good minute. Then: “What?”

“Do you have leftover pizza? I’m starving.” He grinned at me, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m looking forward to living with you… roommate.”

He’s inviting himself as my roommate just because I have two cats?!?!?!?

°°°°°°°°°

A/N: Should I make a part two? What do you guys think?PART TWO IS NOW UP 💙

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catxtopia · 5 years ago

Text

Lips Of a Stranger} Chp. 10

Author: catxtopia

Ship: Billdip ((fluffy))

Characters: Dipper Pines, Mabel Pines, Bill Cipher, Gideon Gleeful

Summary: The Night Vale AU no one asked for.

Author notes: I am back on my bullshit, lets finish this.

Read: ao3

((HOHO Betcha thought you saw the last of me.

Four years late but hey I fricken finished this shit! I sat down literally yesterday after a kind person commented that they still wait for updates on this story (srsly so sorry and you're so sweet holly heck, never say comments don't totally motivate a writer) and finished this. I already had this chapter written many years ago but I didn't wanna post it until I finished the rest (so sorry for my dumb past self). So this one sounds pretty much the same as the rest of the story, however cannot confirm for the rest of the work.

I haven't written in ages, I don't particularly like writing anymore if I am being honest. I am not great at it but I have a lot of ideas lmao. So I just wanna preface that the ending... probably not great lol. I will have a full report on the last chapter, however, on my old ideas for this story and what I thought it could be. There is probably a lot of plot holes and unanswered things but I tried^^;;;

Anyways, I'll upload either every day or every other day depending. But this shall finally be finished lads! (also no beta, we're animals here)))

“You found it!?”

Lying still, yet menacingly, on the kitchen table was a maroon journal with a black number 1 inked firmly in the center. It was larger than an average book and much worse for wear, the red leather was ripped and mystery blotches were smudged in several different locations on the cover. Mabel and Dipper stood around the object that had been of desire for so long. Neither made a move to touch it, treating it like an old relic—which it very well could have been as far as Dipper knew.

“Yeah, it was in this wired compartment in a tree outside.” Dipper scratched lightly at his chin, eyes roaming over the book. His fingers itched with curiosity for he had yet to open and examine the contents inside. He wasn’t sure if he should, waiting for Cipher seemed like the logical option but that required calling the man, followed by seeing him again, and the thought of meeting gold eyes sent his stomach through all kinds of loops. Thus, his phone stayed promptly in his pocket where it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Compartment in a tree, huh?” Mabel repeated, a confused look crossing her face. She, too, moved her hand to rub lightly at her chin in thought. “How’d you come across that?”

Dipper stiffened ever so slightly, and then casted a glance at his intrigued sister. He cleared his throat and shifted to stuff his hands in his pockets roughly. “I just, ya know, fell against it.” He shrugged, trying his best to remain cool—which was, to say, impossible when it came to Dipper Pines.

“Fell against it, hm?” Mabel’s eyebrow slowly started rising.

“Yes, I fell against it!” Dipper sputtered, looking away towards the book again. “The details of how I found the book aren’t important. What is important is that I found it !”

Mabel stifled her giggles as much as her lips would allow. “Whatever you say, Bro bro.” She mused and leaned over the dusty object, intentionally ignoring the tomato that was now her brother beside her. He’d been through enough teasing this morning, she’d let him off the hook this once. “What do you thinks inside?”

Dipper leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “No idea.” He quietly thought back to the times he and Cipher were looking for said book. A distant memory of going to the junkyard and the words black magic and demons , danced in the back of his mind but he elected to ignore those warnings. If the book really was dangerous, there was no way Cipher would be looking for it. At least that’s what Dipper told himself.

“Are you going to open it?” Mabel quirked a brow, eyes not leaving the book.

Dipper shifted against the counter. “I don’t know, Mabes. Maybe we should wait for Cipher to open it first.”

Mabel pursed her lips and squinted at the book.

There was a long pause, the only sound being whispers from the TV playing in the other room. Then Mabel, with a big intake of breath, announced loudly: “I am gonna open it.” And quickly flipped the front cover open.

“Mabel!” Dipper yelped, but his words fell on deaf ears as the young girl turned another page, and then another. “Mabes, seriously, be careful with it! We don’t know what it is, it could be super old and crumble at human touch! Who knows what—”

As Dipper rambled on and on, Mabel’s quick movements tentatively began to slow. She flipped only one more page before stopping and taking in a soft gasp, voice riddled with distraught. “Oh my gosh.” She whispered breathlessly. Dipper paused in his ranting, staring at the back of his sister's head since he couldn’t see the book around her. “I can’t believe this.”

“What?” He inquired, a drop of unease plopping into the pits of his stomach. Mabel’s shoulders were tense; body rigged with what Dipper could only assume was fear. She looked as though she was witnessing a demon rise out from the pits of hell, or at the very least like her sweaters were being set aflame. And throughout it all, all Dipper could hear were McGucket’s warnings ringing loud and clear inside his jumbled head. “That books bad news I tell ya! Black magic, raising devils, kinda bad news! Nothin good ever came out of that thing.” Dipper cringed at the voice. “What is it?”

“It’s terrible…” Mabel whispered, leaning further over the book. Her hair draped over the yellowing pages, eyes hidden behind thick bangs. “Cipher, he’s…”

“What? What about Cipher?” Dipper stepped closer. He could feel his heart thump a little faster with each step he took towards his sister.

“He’s a…” The girl moved back, turning swiftly to face her brother. Her face was red and cheeks puffed out, eyes leaking frustrated tears and— “ He’s a giant nerd just like you!” She exclaimed dramatically, throwing one hand towards the opened journal and another over her stomach as she doubled over laughing.

Dipper stared, dumbfounded as his sister flopped onto the tabled to keep from falling onto the floor. She was wheezing and stomped a foot every so often, trying to regain her breathing. He couldn’t believe this. “Mabel.” Dipper squinted hard at the girl. The only answer he got was more laughing and a few arm flails. “Mabel, you jerk.” Dipper sighed, but a small smile was tugging at his lips.

“Oh! Oh!” Mabel giggled, laughter beginning to die out into soft gasps. “Oh my gosh, yo- your face!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dipper rolled his eyes. “You got me.” Behind his ribs, his heart was still pounding with adrenaline. He willed his limbs to stop their jittery shakes and calm the hell down. There was nothing to worry about, Mabel was just being her usual dork self. He looked towards the open book finally, now being able to get a good view of it. “So what’s in this thing, anyways?”

Having calmed down a bit, Mabel slipped across the kitchen in her fluffy pink socks, clamped onto the fridge handle and yanked it open to retrieve a can of Pit Cola. She juggled it in her hands, closing the door again with her hip. As she snapped the can open she explained lightly, “Looks like a dictionary for supernatural stuff to me. Really wired, it’s all hand written and stuff.” She paused and took a big gulp of her drink.

Dipper nodded and examined the scribbles and notes about different creatures. His eyes widened the further he flipped from page to page, completely entranced with the object sitting before him. It was no wonder Cipher wanted this thing, the stories he could produce with the book would be endless!

“This is amazing.” Dipper breathed. Gnomes, Zombies, Ghosts, this book was like a paranormal junkies Holy Grail.

Mabel hummed and jumped up onto the counter. “It makes sense why Cipher would want this. I am sure he will be happy you found it.” She mused, swinging her legs back and forth to the rhythm of a song stuck in her head. “Now you guys don’t have to go searching anymore! That’ll probably be a big nuisance off his shoulders.”

Dipper hummed absentmindedly as he drew his finger along the edge of the book, a thin layer of dust bunched up and latched onto his finger. He pulled his hand back, pinching the ball of dirt between his thumb and index finger till the grains rolled off his skin. He wondered briefly how long the book had been in that tree for, and for what reason.

“No more long hours trekking through stores and the occasional dumpster. I wonder if this old thing will help him with his work, or if that’s even what he wanted it for.” Mabel muttered against the rim of her soda can.

Dipper’s fingers instantly stilled, entire body freezing like someone had pushed a pause button on the boy’s life. No more long hours trekking through stores and the occasional dumpster . The words bounced around in his head several times and every repeat left a horrible taste in his mouth. He gulped and dropped his hand, brushing it harshly against his faded jeans. “Yeah, don’t know.” He bit out.

A minute ago he’d been excited to see Cipher’s reaction to his discovery, because damn it he was proud! And maybe boasting a little in the ego department. Now dread was filling up his core. No more time with Cipher…

Mabel slurped at her drink loudly, oblivious to the way her brother scooped up the book with a hesitant hand. “So, when are you gonna tell him?” She looked up past her wavy bangs, confused to find Dipper retreating towards the stairs at a quick pace. “Dipper?”

.:.:.

Dipper paced along the length of his bedroom, feet scuffing against the hardwood floor. He could practically feel the wood splintering away with each step he took. It was only a matter of time before he’d run a rut in the floor. He could hardly bring himself to care; however, as he gnawed at his thumbnail in a simple attempt to help distract his brain.

This was stupid, Dipper was stupid. He could hardly believe he was even thinking about the train of thought that he was. Not telling Cipher about the book? What kind of nonsense was that? He had to; it was his moral duty to give up the journal to the radio host. Otherwise, everything they’d done together thus far would be for nothing. The whole reason Dipper was being kept around was for the sole purpose of finding the book.

And once you give the book up, you won’t have a reason to be around Cipher anymore , Dipper thought sullenly. He turned once he paced as far as he could towards the door, changing direction to continue shuffling back the route he came towards the triangle window above his bed. It was a vicious cycle, this back and forth, back and forth. All the while he kept his eyes glued on the ground. He paused when his irises caught sight of a neatly folded pile of clothes at the end of his bed. Black jacket, pants, yellow scarf… A flash of blonde hair and the feel of rough bark against his back blurred past his eyes.

There would probably be no more of that once he gave up the book. Dipper lightly drew a finger against his chapped lips. If he thought hard enough he could still feel the pressure Cipher’s smooth lips had left against his own.

“Oh man.” Dipper mumbled aloud. Here he was worrying over some scraps of paper sewn together, while he should be questioning the fluttering in his chest from earlier interactions.

Cipher had kissed him and he’d be lying if he didn’t say he thoroughly enjoyed it. Both Mabel and Pacifica will be delighted to rub it in his face once they find out.

Dipper dropped onto his bed with a frustrated groan. Everything was happening all so suddenly, so fast he couldn’t make left or right of the images flashing before his eyes. And it was all because of that darn radio host with his perfect golden hair and otherworldly eyes. Not to mention his lean body that fit so right against Dipper’s the night before, warm like a blanket and oh so comfortable… Dipper shook his head quickly, expelling any further thoughts of Cipher’s body.

Really, Cipher was too handsome for his own good. It was practically supernatural.

Dipper snorted at the thought and fell back against the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, a soft sigh fluttering past his lips. What to do, what to do. He slid his hands up to rest on his chest and began tapping his fingers against his worn shirt.

“So you tell him.” Dipper muttered to himself. “You tell him about the book. It’ll make him happy, probably further his show somehow and bring in more listeners, which will make his work life better.” His fingers paused in their tapping, then slowly started picking up a rhythm again as he let another thought enter his mind. “Or you don’t tell him, you continue looking for the book as if you haven’t already found it and grow closer. Eventually he’ll forget about the book and move on, which will make his personal life better.”

“You don’t tell him and possibly ruin his career .” A voice that sounded eerily similar to Mabel’s rumbled in the back on his head. Ah, the voice of reason. It was bound to come poking its ugly face in here eventually.

“I don’t necessarily know if it’s for his show.” Dipper grumbled, sinking a little further against his bed. Great now he was talking to himself.

“What else would he need it so badly for?”

“I don’t know, curiosity? For a collection, maybe? His life revolves around the supernatural; it’s not that farfetched to want a journal filled on the subject.”

“So you’d rather keep the object of his desire away from him, in the hopes you become that object for him instead. That’s quite selfish.”

“Well no one asked you.” Dipper huffed and rolled onto his side. He stared aimlessly out the triangular window nearby. The sun had already begun to drip close to the tree line, casting an array of colors throughout his room. It was beautiful, really, all oranges and reds, and the occasional pink glow scattering across the shack's rustic interior. His eyes followed the colorful trail of light right back to the pile of clothes at the end of his bed. He stared at the yellow scarf for a long while before he worked up the strength to reach for it.

The fabric was so soft, softer than anything he’d felt before. It was probably really expensive. Dipper tugged the material fully into his palms and laid back down. He held onto the scarf like a blanket, running the pads of his fingers over the kind stitching. “Maybe he won’t leave once he has the book.” Dipper thought aloud once again. He was starting to make a habit out of talking to himself apparently.

It wasn’t like he wanted to keep information from Cipher, especially news that’d make him happy. The paranoia engraved deep in his soul that the man would eventually forget about him if they had no reason to be around each other was just too overpowering. Even though there was a good chance Cipher liked hanging around Dipper for Dipper and not just for his searching skills. It was a big chance, honestly. You don’t just kiss someone you plan on ditching. Cipher seemed like a better person than that, anyways.

But doubt was always louder than hope.

With a quick glance at the clock—which already read 5:10PM—Dipper decided he’d allow himself to sleep on it. It was already late so there was no use calling up Cipher now; he wouldn’t be able to come by until tomorrow anyways.

Settling on that, Dipper rolled over and closed his eyes. Super wouldn’t be ready for another hour or so and a nap sounded like a pleasant idea in the meantime.

.:.:.

Three days.

It’d been three days since Dipper found the old journal hidden in a tree. The journal, which a certain radio host had yet to know, was within Dipper’s possession. It had been shamefully tucked away in the brunet’s desk under a pile of scrap papers. It wasn’t the greatest hiding spot by any means, but Dipper didn’t feel comfortable leaving the relic under his bed or somewhere in his closet. At least in his desk, the book didn’t face any chances of getting ruined.

He stuck the poor book in the bottom drawer with the intention of returning to it in a week – because a night to sleep on deciding to give the book to Cipher just wasn’t enough. He simply wanted a little more time with the radio host to assure he wouldn’t ditch him. That was reason enough, right? In one week time, the book would be given to the blonde man. Until then, Dipper proclaimed he’d live with the guilt and enjoy some downtime with the host.

And what a glorious three days it had been so far. Cipher had been spending a large majority of the days hanging around Dipper’s work again. They’d continued their little routine, but the silence was filled with a lot more bashful glances and sly smiles. The kiss hadn’t been officially mentioned, but the implication that both of them equally enjoyed it and wouldn’t mind doing it again was pretty clearly expressed.

When Dipper wasn’t shackled to his job at the bookstore – and Cipher by extension – they usually ended up spending time around town or the radio station. Very rarely were they away from each other’s side. Not that either was complaining. However, every so often when Dipper would glance Cipher’s way, he’d feel a ball of guilt nibbling away at the core of his stomach. He couldn’t help thinking about the things he was hiding from the man. It didn’t feel right, but at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

“Do you like your job?”

Cipher blinked open his eyes and tilted his head a little towards the brunet lying somberly beside him. They’d been lying outside on a patch of drying grass a short ways from the radio station, simply enjoying the last few drops of autumn. The sun was high above them, basking them in a nice enough warmth that they only needed light jackets. Cipher was currently wearing the sweatshirt he had borrowed from Dipper a few days prior, having yet to give it up. Not that Dipper really cared, he felt slightly prideful seeing the radio host wearing something of his.

Cipher shifted his arms, which lay beneath his head. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He looked back towards the calm blue sky. “It’s fun, I like being able to talk about whatever the hell I want for a living. I am not the biggest fan of having to hide behind a curtain all the time, but it comes with the job.”

Dipper hummed, mulling over that information. He flicked his fingers against the zipper on his jacket. “Why do you have to be so secretive? I doubt anyone would like… attack you or something if they knew who you were.”

Cipher chuckled and turned on his side, arm bent and hand holding up his head. Dipper moved in a similar fashion so that they both faced each other. “There are a few reasons. Gideon thinks having me be unnamed makes me more mysterious, that not only the show holds secrets but even the host does.” He shrugged. “Plus, I like being able to live my life without interruptions. I would get annoyed pretty quickly if people were stopping me on the streets or spewing nonsense about me in teen magazines.”

Dipper twirled his fingers around a few blades of grass, tugging them lazily as he listened. “And here I thought you liked attention.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I do! I would love people bending at my every need, but I have standards. I wouldn’t be able to sit here with you like this if I was open about my identity, and that’s not something I am quite willing to give up.”

“I guess that… makes sense.” Dipper pondered. “So you’re a man full of secrets then?”

“I am a man with many angles and lots of knowledge of various topics, who happens to also like having a private life, so if that makes me secretive then I guess I am. However, since I like you I’ll tell you my secrets,” Cipher leaned forward, lips curving into a seductive smirk. “for a price~”

Dipper’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, “Oh really? And what’s your price, Cipher?” He mused, putting up his best confident front.

“Hmmm,” Cipher’s eyes flickered from Dipper’s eyes to his lips then quickly back again. “I don’t know, it’d probably have to be something really pricey since I’ve got a lot of secrets.”

Dipper snorted and rolled his eyes, “What like my soul?” He joked and playfully wiggled his eyebrows.

If one were to have blinked in that moment they probably would have missed the way Cipher’s eyes widened and sparked with wonder for a fraction of a second. He continued to smirk at his companion before rolling onto his back to stare up at the sky once again. “Something like that.” He hummed pleasantly. “I am sure your soul would be a beauty.”

Dipper scoffed and flopped over onto his stomach, arms crossing beneath his chin. He closed his eyes and snuggled a little deeper in his jacket. “Don’t all souls look the same? Like a smoking white ball.”

“I think you’ve been playing too many video games.” Cipher flicked at the edge of Dipper’s ear, earning a small yelp and glare from the boy. “Souls come in all colors and shapes, kid. The more corrupted the soul, the worse it looks. What the world considers ‘sinners’ usually look black, less smoky, more goopy. Like a ball of hot, bubbling tar. While good people are bright, wispy, and usually emit a color.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.” Dipper mumbled into the curve of his arm.

Cipher chuckled under his breath. “Call it a passion of mine.”

The two fell into a comfortable silence after that, lying happily beside each other with only the whispers of wind and occasional tweet of a bird filling the silence. They lay close enough that their arms brushed and with a little maneuvering their hands slipped into each other without question.

It was nice, being able to be together like this without any distractions. To simply enjoy each other’s company. Dipper really didn’t want to let this go, and yet as he peeked past his bangs at the still figure beside him, he knew that he would.

“Hey, Cipher.” Dipper said just barely above a whisper. He watched the blonde’s eyebrow twitch but his eyes remained closed.

“Hm?”

“I gotta tell you something, it’s kind of important, it’s about the b—”

Just as the words were about to flutter out of his mouth, a shrill ring of a phone smacked Dipper’s train of thought straight from his head. His lips latched shut and eyes looked down at Cipher’s glowing pocket, which the man was quickly moving to reach.

He flicked the device on and squinted at the screen as if it had personally offended him. Whether that was because it had interrupted Dipper or not, the boy wasn’t sure.

“Sorry, just an email.” Cipher’s expression lightened considerably as he turned the screen to face Dipper. “Look at this cat jumping in and out of boxes! Giffy sent it. Cats are so silly!”

True to his word, there was a cat hopping into different sized boxes with a small message from Giffany at the bottom of the screen. Dipper smiled softly at the ridiculous video. Of course Cipher would find cat videos funny, what doesn’t he find funny? Dipper thought for a moment and came to the conclusion that, nope, Cipher could get a kick out of anything.

As he watched the video play through, Dipper couldn’t help his eyes wandering to the corner of the screen where a list of information sat. At the top of the list was a name, one that had Dipper’s heart stalling. “Uh.” The boy muttered very intelligently.

Cipher tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brows at Dipper’s odd expression. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t find cat videos funny. Cause I don’t think this relationship can work if—”

“Bill?”

#it's done bby #two more chaps #shall update tomorrow #billdip #my writing #lips of a stranger #billdip fic #fanfiction #fic

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jenniferjuni-per · 7 years ago

Note

For your roommance fic: Cassian get roped into one of those charity auctions for Leia and Jyn is under a lot of pressure to outbid everyone for him.

Thank you so much for your patience on this! I loved this prompt btw, I kinda got carried away with it lol

read it on ao3

So Cassian told me something interesting today

Oh? And what could that possibly be?

FUCKING HELL LEIA

Lol! Lighten up will ya? It’s for CHARITY

Well I wish you would’ve run it by me first!

Why? You don’t own him

I didn’t say that I did!

Well you’re implying it and I don’t like your tone

Fuck off

He’s a grown, independent man, and he don’t need you tryna own his ass

Leia ffs

Lol

Srsly

Srsly Jyn, it’s for a good cause. He’s an attractive, charming guy, and I know all those horny housewives will fall all over themselves trying to outbid each other for him

That’s what I’m afraid of

Do it for the cause Jyn lol

Fuck you Leia

Oops gotta go Han’s here! L8r

LEIA

Jyn gritted her teeth, suppressing a scream as the text screen went dead. She tried not to curse out loud, completely unaware that she was muttering under her breath. Cassian looked up from the book he was reading.

“Everything okay?” He peered at her over his reading glasses.

“Hmm? Oh yeah, sure.” She blushed beet red as she noticed him staring at her, knowing exactly what she was reacting to.

“Listen, Jyn, do you not want me to do this? I could tell Leia I had a change of heart--”

“Oh god no! She’d never let me hear the end of it.” Jyn sighed, plopping herself down on the couch beside Cassian. He immediately wrapped an arm around her, tugging her close to his side. She didn’t want to look at him, embarrassed at her reaction to the whole situation, but he gently touched her chin so she would turn to him.

“Hey,” he said softly, his eyes dark and deep and sincere, “I don’t need to do this, you know. You’re more important to me than some charity.”

Jyn felt her heart flip in her chest, but at the mention of the word ‘charity’ she felt a burning shame. “No, no, you should do it, it’s for a good cause.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You should do it. For the cause.”

He smiled at her, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She could do this, she thought. She could put aside her pride and jealousy, be the bigger person. Do it for the cause, she told herself, repeated to herself, as she settled against his side and tried not dwell too much on the fact that her roommate/boyfriend was about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

---

The night of the auction arrived and Jyn found herself sitting on her hands, nervously biting her lip. Leia stood at the podium, looking beautiful and regal as she auctioned off various baubles and artwork and spa treatments and trips to sunny destinations. She was closing her folder and Jyn had a fleeting hope that maybe that was the end, but a mischievous grin overtook her friend’s face as she leaned down low to the mic.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” She announced with way too much glee in her voice. Jyn gritted her teeth. “I’d like to introduce to you all a very good friend of mine.” With a flourish of her arm, Leia indicated to the back of the stage, where Cassian emerged from behind the curtain. Even though Jyn had helped dress him for the occasion, she still sucked in a breath at the sight of him. His slim navy suit fit perfectly on his body, his hair tossed just so, his eyes sparkling in the harsh spotlight. Every woman in the room suddenly sat up straighter in their seats.

“Cassian Andor is a young professional, ready to wine and dine whoever of you can be the most generous. What do you say, ladies? How much is an evening with the handsome Cassian Andor worth? We’ll start the bidding at one hundred dollars.”

There was a moment of silence before a paddle in the back of the room went slowly up.

“One hundred!” Leia bellowed, slamming the gavel down onto the podium. Jyn jumped. From then it became a dizzying flourish, paddles going up around the room followed by giggles and shouts. Fuelled by the wine Leia had plied them with, the women were trying to outbid each other with a salacious frenzy. Panicked, Jyn pulled out her phone.

Hey Bodhi can you lend me some money

Sure, how much you need?

Not sure can I just let you know?

Wth? What’s it for Jyn?

Charity auction

Ah ok, then just let me know

Thanks bro!

She silently thanked all the deities in the world for her brother, before she hastily threw her paddle into the air, not even knowing what the price was at the moment. Leia paused, the room going silent. From the stage, Cassian was shaking his head imperceptibly at her, his eyes wide.

“One thousand… ?” Leia phrased it almost like a question, staring incredulously at her friend. Jyn swallowed. It was a lot of money, but she was sure as hell not going to let one of these drunken horndogs “spend an evening” with her boyfriend. She kept her paddle firmly up in the air. For a few agonizing moments there was no response, some of the women grumbling and resting their paddles on the tables. One woman, however, on the opposite side of the room, shot her paddle up into the air, glaring at Jyn the whole time. Jyn’s heart sank.

“Eleven hundred!” Leia shouted with relief, but Jyn wasn’t done. Returning the woman’s glare Jyn raised her paddle, and for the next few agonizing moments they traded volleys, Leia’s gavel slamming onto the podium the only sound in the room. Jyn felt heat rise to her cheeks as the woman challenged her, her eyes narrowing at Jyn every time she raised her paddle.

“Eighteen hundred!” Leia’s voice echoed across the silent room. Jyn paused, and the woman she’d been battling with began to smile, the corners of her perfectly lipsticked mouth turning up slowly.

Forgive me, Bodhi

Jyn thrust her paddle up into the air. “FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!” she shouted, and it could have almost been comical how everyone in the room gasped. Leia’s jaw dropped, the gavel hanging in the air. Cassian dropped his head into his hands.

---

Haha that’s really funny Jyn

I’m serious Bodhi

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING??? I DON’T HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEY

Come on it’s for charity

Fucking hell Jyn

Please Bodhi

You know I have to ask Papa for that kind of money right

I wish you didn’t have to, but I understand

Alright I’ll paypal you when I get it

Thanks Bodhi I owe you

You sure do! Also don’t ever ask me for that kind of money again

I won’t I promise, this is a one time thing

Good! Love ya sis

Love you too

Jyn shoved her phone back into her clutch and let out a heavy sigh of relief. She waited idly by the side of the stage as Leia and Cassian finished up a conversation with one of the guests, an older woman with perfectly coiffed hair who kept throwing her head back in an exaggerated laugh every time Cassian said something remotely funny. Jyn fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Thank you for your generous donation, and yes, we will find another handsome bachelor for the next auction.” Leia assured the woman as she walked away, wearing that fake smile that Jyn never failed to admire her for. As soon as Jyn walked over Leia punched her in the shoulder.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Fuck, Leia! That hurt!”

“Not as much as your bank account will hurt!” Leia shook her head, grumbling as she walked away. Cassian was left standing there, regarding Jyn with a curious look.

“Are you gonna yell at me too?” Jyn challenged him, her hands on her hips. Cassian threw up his arms and laughed.

“Nope, no yelling here,” he smiled at her, slipped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close to him. “Now that you have me all to yourself for an evening, what would you like to do?” he whispered into her ear.

“Whatever I damn well please, you cost me an arm and a leg.”

---

Later, as everyone started getting ready to leave for the night, Leia pulled Jyn aside.

“You’re off the hook,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“What do you mean?” Jyn asked, her eyebrows knitting in confusion.

“My mother paid the five grand.”

Jyn blinked, not comprehending. “I’m sorry, what?”

“She ponied up your share. But don’t worry, your name is still on the books as the winner.” Leia winked at Jyn, squeezing her arm.

“Leia, I don’t know what to say,” Jyn shook her head slowly, “I won’t be able to pay her back anytime soon.”

“Oh don’t worry about it,” Leia waved her hand dismissively, “Although be prepared for her to guilt you into coming to more of these charity things.” Leia cackled as she walked away.

“Dammit,” Jyn muttered under her breath.

#rebelcaptain #dailyrebelcaptain #jyn x cassian #rogue one fan fic #juniper fics #thanks so much for this prompt!#and sorry it took so long #tekayf-blog

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simba-bonfamille-lyons · 7 years ago

Text

A Christmas Carol /./ [Simades]

In which Simba visits Christmases Past, Present, and Future, with a very special tour guide...

@trip-downtheriverstyx

Best Line: the whole things srsly everyone read this /unashamed promotion

[tw -- panic attack, mentions of alcohol abuse]

STAVE ONE: CHRISTMAS EVE, JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT – Swynlake, England 2017

SIMBA: Christmas Eve was lonely, the house quiet except Simba and the sloshing of whiskey in his bottle. He sat in the living room, in the dark—except for the red, blue, and green lights of the Christmas tree. He hadn’t had the heart to not let Kiara put one up, and now, he stared at it, watching the lights change colors his eyes focusing and unfocusing—turning them into bursts of light over and over again. If you were quiet enough, which he was, he could hear the click of the lights changing.

He had sent Kiara away, because he didn’t want her to see him drinking, but more than that. He didn’t want her to have a terrible Christmas, again, because of him. Last year, he’d gotten his appendix out, the year before, she hadn’t spoken to him the whole day because she’d found out about Mufasa’s death. This year, he was too heartbroken to smile and pretend like everything was alright. Even for her. So, he’d packed her up and sent her to Nala’s, despite her protests and her assurances that it could just be them. He’d hugged her close, though, before she left, and he kissed her head and told her he loved her. That her presents from him were already under the tree she’d set up with Nala at Nala’s apartment.

Now, he sat on the couch, watching the hand on the clock tick closer and closer to midnight. Watching the bottle of whiskey get lower and lower as he sucked it down and down. He contemplated how much he would have to drink to shut his liver down. How much of it would it take to drown.

The only thing that kept him from testing that particular question was Bowie asleep on his bed near the fireplace, and the picture of Kiara on the mantle—the two of them in ugly Christmas sweaters from their first Christmas.

Eventually, somewhere before midnight—was it 9? 10? 11:59?, he didn’t know—Simba had fallen asleep. He awoke to the sounds of Bowie’s muffled bark. Bowie never barked unless something was happening that warranted barking—a knock on the door, deer on the property, someone inside the house (he had caught Kiara sneaking in late once or twice.) It jolted Simba awake, and, even though he was half drunk, he was awake and on his feet in an instant.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

There was a sound coming from the Christmas tree and Simba looked towards it—stomach lurching as he took a step back, knocking into the table and sprawling back into one of the arm chairs. “Taka?” he hissed, voice sharp. His body felt frozen stone cold with fear.

He heard a rattling sigh and the figure stepped further into the light of the Christmas tree.

Simba blinked and leaned forwards.

“Grandpa?” he asked, shaking his head slightly in confusion.

“Simba,” came his grandfather’s unmistakable voice. It had the same tone and texture as Mufasa’s and Taka’s—and Simba’s too. It was a voice that commanded the attention of an entire room. It was a voice that could be soft and gentle or hard and fierce.

“W-what—what are you…” Simba stood up, taking a few steps forwards.

He could see the lights of the Christmas tree reflecting through Geoffrey Lyons, who was broader than Mufasa and Simba had been, his skin much darker too. He looked like a shadow, but it was his grandfather. He knew for certain.

“Am I—dreaming?” he asked, his voice quiet. Ghosts didn’t look like this, he knew. It would take a very powerful one to appear like this.

“Somewhat,” Geoffery explained vaguely. “Simba, listen to me, and listen well. Tonight, you will be visited by another spectre this eve. You must go with them. Let them guide you, listen to their teachings. And, most importantly, follow your heart.” He touched Simba’s chest. It felt warm, and then it felt like it was on fire, and then, Simba felt himself falling backwards.

When he awoke the second time, he jerked awake to the sound of haunting bells, chiming midnight. They rang loud and deep through the house.

“What the f—”

“What the fuck?!” Simba said, whirling around to see none other than— “HADES? What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

STAVE TWO: CHRISTMAS EVE, MIDNIGHT – SWYNLAKE, ENGLAND 2017

HADES: It was a good question that Hades was asking himself.

But first, let’s back up:

Hades had not thought about Christmas in-- well, honestly, ever. Last year he’d been stricken with grief and the day passed like all other days: slowly, painfully, everything too cold. Before that he and Seph regarded it very little. They’d been forced to go to Christmas Mass when they were both much younger, their grandfather-- a pious man if only in what he preached more than his actions-- believing it might have some positive effect on his grandchildren’s devil-infected souls. With their mother there had been cookie-decorating and a Christmas tree, yes, but she never lied to them about Santa, never talked much of Jesus either.

But this year, Belle had flipped open to a page in one of their ancient tomes, pointed to a spell that involved catching a star, and looked at him like she’d already caught two-- one in each of her bright eyes. You’ll be home for Christmas, she’d said excitedly as though it were her Christmas wish. He’d touched her hair and he’d smiled back at her. Yeah, he’d agreed.

But the star was nothing but dust now. Belle’s wish had fizzled with it. They’d gone to the Christmas Tree Lighting, where last year Hades had sobbed into the snow, his blistered hands shoved into ice-- he had hoped to make up for that this year. But a melancholy sadness settled over the two of them instead, like another blanket of snow. They tried to have a good time, to drink cider and look at the lights and be, well, normal, he supposed.

But he knew what Belle was thinking. That come Christmas day, as silly as a holiday like that was (and they tried to pass it off as silly, the two of them), Belle would spend it alone and Hades would too. They would be separated by the Fates. Sure, Hades would catch the tail end of it. Sure, it shouldn’t matter but--

It was Belle’s Christmas Wish, wasn’t it?

So he’d gone to the Fates. And he asked a favour.

“A favour?” repeated Clotho. She laughed at once. “Didn’t we already do you a favour? When we bent our rules and let you save her--”

“So spoiled, so greedy--” tsked Lachesis

“So naughty, so needy--” sneered Atrophos.

“C’mon,” Hades snapped over top of them. He glared. “Isn’t there something I can do? Go get you-- some-- stupid pendant in some obscure part of the Underworld or-- I dunno, give you a year of my life or something--”

“Fate is not a bargain deal, Hades Acheron,” Clotho talked over him, her tone brisk. “You cannot purchase a day with a coupon.”

“Oh bloody hell--”

“But you can earn it.” And Clotho’s eyes gleamed.

Hades knew that look. It flickered between all the sisters now, Atrophos snickering as she snipped the air with her scissors. He looked from one to the other, took a deep breath to settle his own impatience. “I can earn it,” he repeated. They nodded, that gleam now a spark. Brighter, even more mischievous. “Alright. Tell me how.”

And so they guided him into the spinning room and brought forth an intricately woven tapestry of golds, reds, and blues. It was longer than many he had seen, so long in fact he looked toward one end and saw it disappear under the shelves and into the shadows. Usually it was royalty who had tapestries like this one, their stories preserved and extended. They were beautiful, complicated things. It also meant that oftentimes a hero did not have a tapestry of their own; it was shared.

His eyes flicked over it. Many of the swirling symbols and patterns meant little to his mortal eyes; they were illustrated in the language of the Fates. But there was one thing he did recognize. A statue. A statue-- in Swynlake. In fact-- there was townsquare. And he looked to the left, down the tapestry and saw Swynlake over time, streets growing, stores popping up…

“This is Swynlake’s tapestry?” he asked with his brow furrowed.

“Good guess, my friend, but no-- look again,” whispered Lachesis.

And he did. And he saw.

“The Lyons Tapestry.”

And it was then that his mission was revealed to him, in painstaking couplet form no less. But Hades agreed, shaking the hands of each of the Fates. Clotho rolled the tapestry all the way up and pressed it into his palm. The deal, then, finally struck.

On Christmas Eve, he walked into the house and drew Belle into his arms as he had every night before. The house had been warm, a fire in the fireplace, cider cooking on the stove. They shut the cold out and after dinner cozied up by the fire, Belle in two pairs of socks. They read and drank wine until Belle’s cheeks were nearly as red as the drink, and then Hades had scooped her up into his arms in a dramatic fashion to make her laugh, and he kissed her all the way up the stairs to his bedroom. He kissed her so she wouldn’t be sad, kissed her so she wouldn’t think, kissed her to keep her warm and make her sigh until her toes were curling against his leg and she held onto him so tightly, he didn’t think the Fates could take him away if they tried.

When Belle fell asleep, he stroked her hair and waited just a few minutes more. But the clock was creeping toward midnight. And he had a mission. He leaned forward and let his lips linger on Belle’s forehead right before the digital clock struck 12--

And then -- whoosh! Christmas fuckin’ miracle. He was in Simba Lyons’ house.

“Oi, cool it, cool it, I was sent by--” he grabbed the tapestry out of the back pocket, unrolling just the top of it. “Geoffrey. And the Fates.” He rolled it back up and couldn’t help but smirk, his eyebrows quirking up. “Congratulations, Simba, I’m your very own Christmas Ghost. And we’re gonna-- I dunno, save your soul or somethin’.”

SIMBA: Simba’s heart rate was still ticked up with surprise. He had a state of the art alarm system, you know, had it installed after Kiara had gone missing, his paranoia getting the better of him. It had been a good thing, though, it gave them all a certain peace of mind, especially after the whole Taka business. So, yeah, seeing Hades standing there silhouetted by the Christmas tree was a bit of a shock, and made him want to lash out, protect his home—at first.

But, his shoulders eventually dropped somewhat, though his hand was clenched in a fist and he’d taken a step forwards, ready to toss Hades out into the snow if it came down to it, even if he was the only one here, even if there was nothing to protect.

(Though, in the back of his mind, he was really wondering what the fuck Hades was doing in his house on a purely confused level—not even worried.)

Hades spoke and Simba couldn’t help but let out a bark of a laugh—it was not an amused sound, it was dry and sharp and he shook his head. He was still wary, but, he didn’t really think Hades was going to hurt him as the adrenaline ebbed away. He had no motive, not really. He wasn’t a murderous uncle bent on taking over InterPride—Hades was not a fan of the corporate world, Simba had figured that much out after the past few weeks of working together. Though, hey, maybe there was some motive Simba didn’t know about—he hadn’t thought Taka was a murderer. He had loved him.

Besides, what did it matter, yeah? If he died—

“Save my soul?” Simba deadpanned back at Hades after a moment, and he shook his head—snorting another laugh. “And who do you think you are, Allah? He’s the only one who can do that, and I’m afraid it’s too late anyway, by about four years, mate. Your time is better spent elsewhere.”

HADES: Hades was trying to be a good sport about all this.

When the Fates had told him what he had to do-- i.e. guide a lost soul through the past, present, and future to find his way-- he’d barked a loud laugh that echoed throughout the chamber. When they told him it was going to be Simba Lyons--

“HAH, no,” he had said at once. “No. No way. That bloke is hopeless, you kidding me? I already dragged him off the floor of Belle’s bathroom--”

But the Fates had just stared at him, stared until he shut up and grumped and seethed and accepted it. Though he had pressed on why. There were so many lost souls, weren’t there, people who made a bigger splash in the cosmic pond, certainly. He’d guide a general, he’d guide a president or prime minister, he’d guide-- hell-- a Magick like himself, who was overwhelmed, buried by the weight of their power. Why did it have to be Simba Lyons?

The Fates were not clear on this. Something like he knew Simba and Simba knew him and it was the kinda crossroads that would determine where the tapestry was gonna go. And so it was Simba, or no one. Simba, or he’d be decking the halls of the Underworld with Lachesis trying to squirrel him away under the mistletoe.

So here he was, and his brow twitched at Simba’s comment. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy (he’d been warned)-- but already? Hades rolled his eyes.

“Right, you don’t have a choice,” he said. “And neither do I. Look, I’m not-- thrilled, okay. You think I want to be guiding you around on my Christmas Eve? No. But-- I, ah, have to if I’m going to spend Christmas with Belle. You are my ticket. So you either behave yourself or I’m gonna drag your arse kickin’ and screamin’ to where we need to go.”

SIMBA: You don’t have a choice.

Those words made Simba bristle more than anything, his head snapping back with his own scoff on his lips, like a bull in a pen that had just been prodded. He didn’t like being told he didn’t have a choice—that was what had gotten him such a mess in the first place. He had been told his entire life that he didn’t have a choice. It was InterPride or it was nothing at all—no family, no duty, no honor. InterPride or nothing. That had been the choice and it wasn’t a choice, because Simba could never discard his family like that. The one time he’d tried it had almost killed him and that had been for a good reason—not just because he didn’t want to.

So, Simba didn’t have a choice with InterPride and InterPride made all of his choices for him—who he would be able to date and marry. What his life was going to look like. What subject he took in school, the people he met, the places he went. InterPride made all of those choices. Simba didn’t have choices.

But he could choose whether or not he was going to go with this asshole.

Except—he couldn’t. As soon as Hades mentioned Belle, Simba’s shoulders dropped and he turned his head, looking down into the fire embers burning low in the fireplace. His jaw muscle rippled and it was silent for a few moments. Then, he looked back at Hades and watched him carefully for a few seconds—trying to determine if he was lying, if this was some—trick. But, Hades held his gaze steady and Simba knew he wasn’t lying.

He just wanted to spend Christmas with the person he loved. Simba could understand that.

“Fine,” he said, “but no promises anything is going to change. I don’t know what it is you could possibly show me or do that would—save my soul?” he scoffed again.

HADES: Hades did not know either. He’d done his best, following along with the Fates and their obscure couplet instructions but there were holes in those rhymes, put there he imagined on purpose because these things could never be straightforward. No, straightforward would mean the Fates weren’t having fun and wouldn’t have anything to laugh at. Couldn’t have that-- what would the sadistic Hot Topic employees from Hell do in all that spare time?

So Hades was on this journey as much as Simba was. If anything, he was a messenger-- like Hermes, carrying his package (Simba’s tapestry) up from the Underworld. It was this tapestry, which looked like nothin’ more than a scroll clutched in Hades’ hand, that would be the map.

That part, at least, Hades understood. Otherwise? Well, he was the ambassador: envoy of the dead, the dying, the departed. He supposed that could apply to memories. So he’d wing it.

At least he’d gotten this far. Mentioning Belle was a good move (but he knew that; Simba was a sorry sap in love, wasn’t that why he was here?)

“Good, keep those expectations nice and low,” snarked Hades right back, though his lip twitched. If Simba was closer, maybe he’d see the triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Now c’mere. Got a present for you, Lyons.”

As Simba approached, Hades lifted the tapestry again, giving it a wiggle. “See this? It’s your-- tapestry. Everything that’s ever happened to you, everything happening now, the threads intertwined with yours--it’s all here. Take look” He held it toward Simba, hearing the chorus of the Fates--

With your hand on one end, let him touch the scroll

Then upon the midnight hour’s final toll.

Through the Christmas of his past will you take your stroll…

Simba’s hand wrapped around the end, but Hades did not let go. Then: the sound of a bell and a flash--

STAVE THREE: CHRISTMAS EVE, DAYTIME – NAIROBI, KENYA 2000

SIMBA: Simba hesitated again when Hades offered up the scroll to him. He stood in the center of his living room and eyed it. He knew whatever it was was magic—powerful magic, that was the only way Geoffery could’ve been summoned, and Hades too, breaking into someone’s home was hard, even with magic, if it was imbibed with magic itself—which Simba’s was, would be stupid to live in a town like this without magical protection. Could, quite possibly, all be a trap—even if Hades wasn’t involved with it. Maybe whomever had given Hades that tapestry were the ones who wanted to wish him harm.

He sounded like a paranoid fool and he knew it. But, could you blame him? After finding out his uncle had killed his father and tried to kill him—and having been unaware of it the entire time?

Still, Simba was just drunk enough to ignore his father’s voice in his head, telling him to be cautious, to be careful, there were people who loved him. (Which there was, but the thing about that was: none of them needed him.) He stepped up to Hades, a defiant gleam in his eyes to match Hades’ triumphant one.

He put his hand on the scroll and there was a bright flash of light which made him squeeze his eyes shut—

When he opened them, he had to blink a few times—the sun was baking bright against the dry, cracked ground. He knew, before he could fully see, that they were in Kenya. The sun felt different in Kenya, like it was closer, bright and sweltering, even in the winter—which is what this was. He could tell, because there was garland wrapped around the front porch of his Kenyan home. It was odd—because he could not feel the heat, or the gentle breeze that rustled the garland—which an antelope was chewing on, its shoulder shuddering as flies buzzed around it.

“Kenya,” Simba said, a little breathless, but by way of explanation to Hades, who was looking around with a bit of a crease in his brow.

Simba stood, like he was standing in the pages of a story book, before he climbed the creaking stairs—except, they didn’t creak as he put his weight on them. He couldn’t feel the warm wood of the porch underneath his palm. But, he kept walking, around the side of the large house, searching for—

Ah, there he was.

His Uncle Goodie’s warm, rich, smooth voice:

“So, they journeyed but never found the Lion; He had taken hold of sword and dagger…”

They rounded the corner, and there was his uncle, in the rocking chair in the corner of the porch, beneath the window. Around his feet was Chidi, Masamba, Oyibo, and Desta. Anan was sitting on the railing of the porch, arm wrapped around one of the poles, his feet swinging. Little Katlego sat in his lap, her head on his shoulder, half asleep.

“They returned home together with one accord To tell the King Mringwari, ‘Liyongo cannot be overcome, he is like fire! He is not mortal, that one, he is fire!”

“This is my favorite story,” Simba told Hades from where he had taken to leaning against the side of the house, arms crossed, a little smile on his face. “It’s about this warrior, Liyongo, he’s kinda—like Robin Hood, ‘cept he’s a prince, and better with a bow…”

He trailed off and pushed up from the wall. “Er, right—where am I?” he asked, more to himself than anything.

As soon as he thought it, he blinked and they were in the kitchen. He was sitting on the counter, a mixing bowl in his lap, but he was staring out the window.

His mother had flour on her arms as she rolled out dough. “What are you looking at, mwana?”

“I’m not,” little Simba grumped, “I’m waiting.”

“For your father?”

Little Simba nodded his head, but he was looking down at the bowl that he was most definitely not stirring as he was supposed to be. His mother sighed and put a little flour on his nose. Simba popped his elbow up to knock his mother’s hand away, not laughing like he usually would. He wiggled a little farther down the counter, away from her.

“You will see him when you get home.”

HADES: The flash of light blinded Hades and left a ring around his iris when at last it cleared. He blinked-- clutched harder at that scroll, feeling like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Then everything rushed in:

Hot air, the smell of-- grass and dirt? The sound of a voice he did not know. Green, brown, the creak of a wooden step.

He blinked again and saw it all, glancing toward Simba because this was not from Hades’ life. It was from Simba’s. The recognition sparked in his eye at once and he moved forward, leaving Hades standing rather dumbly for a moment before he snapped to attention. Hades then shoved the scroll back in his back pocket and followed on, climbing the steps of the porch. They did not creak because, of course, Hades was not really here. He was visiting, both of them hovering as ghosts would, looking over the shoulder of these memories of the past.

Wasn’t that what Seph had once said? That ghosts, really, were memory. And memory, really, was a type of ghost.

Stories too, thought Hades to himself-- and to his own memory of Seph-- as he listened in on this story. He glanced toward Simba as he talked about it. Was this story important then, was that why they were here?

He was answered a moment later as they dissipated and reappeared in the kitchen within the house, as though this was the real place they’d materialized in the first place. Once again Hades looked around. Nothing familiar to him, nothing but-- the affection in the woman’s voice. That reminded him of Opal.

That was Simba’s mother.

He let Simba wander closer and he, he stayed back. He ducked his head and pretended to be enchanted with a bowl of oranges. He reached for not, knowing full well he couldn’t touch it--

He knocked off the top orange anyway, because, fuck, right, ghost hands. It rolled from the pile, falling with a barely-there noise on the wooden floor. “Whoops, shit--” Hades said sheepishly though Little Simba and his mother hadn’t even noticed. He pushed it under the lip of the counter with his heel best he could. “Sorry.”

SIMBA: Simba’s heart had started pounding hard and tight in his chest at the mention of his father, and just like Little Simba, he had turned to look out the window with a hopeful gaze. He knew he was lucky, to get these extra moments with his father—like he had in the Underworld, and he treasured all of them. Moreso than even the real Simba, who was sitting on the kitchen counter top obviously missing his father so badly, would.

He knew this because—

“I don’t remember this,” he said out loud in his confusion, taking a step closer.

They spent several holidays in Kenya, of course. It was really only Aunt Miriam and Uncle Riley who celebrated Christmas, but it was as good of a time as any to get the whole family together—especially since half of them lived in the very Christian England. His father had always gone with him—or so Simba had remembered. He always did everything he could to come to Kenya, even if he had to come a day late, or leave a day early, or sometimes both. He was always there—

“It’s been two whole days!” Little Simba whined, kicking his feet against the kitchen cabinets.

“Yes, I know, it’s been two whole days of you being a brat,” Sarabi said, a hand on her hip—though her voice wasn’t unkind…perhaps just a bit exasperated, or exhausted.

Little Simba’s feet stopped kicking and he looked down into the mixing bowl, a deep frown on his face. Simba took another step closer, like he could reach out and comfort his younger self—though, he didn’t know what he would say, he could feel the disappointment burning in his own chest as he realized that he wasn’t going to get to see his father, even a past-version of him. A version of Mufasa alive and happy.

“Well, he’s supposed to be here,” Simba whined again, though his voice trembled even more. There was a long beat where Simba sniffled and Sarabi sighed. “I miss him.”

“I know you do, habibah,” Sarabi said gently, taking the mixing bowl from Simba’s hands and setting it down on the counter so that she could scoop up her gangly nine-year-old in her arms. Simba wrapped his arms and legs around his mama like a little baboon and Sarabi carried him over to the kitchen table, sitting down in the chair there, older Simba turning slowly until he was facing this new scene his brow furrowed.

“I miss grandpa too,” Simba hiccupped.

“I know, cub,” Sarabi said, stroking the back of his head gently. “Your father isn’t dead, though,” she reminded him with a bit of a chuckle, kissing the side of his head before Simba pulled back from where his head was resting on his mother’s shoulder.

“I know that,” he said brattily, tears on his face. “Grandpa is though.”

“Yes, and you’re father has had to take over, just like you will someday.”

“When Daddy dies?”

Sarabi chuckled again. Ghost Simba let out a wet little chuckle of his own, shaking his head and glancing down as his heart squeezed.

“No, when he gets too old.”

If only, thought Simba.

Little Simba fiddled with a tassel on his mother’s sarong and all was quiet in the kitchen. Outside the open window, Uncle Goodie’s strong voice could be heard:

“I am a young lion, I have instilled the wish to die in my heart; I fear nothing but disgrace if my enemies see my back. But both my feet are in shackles, And around my neck an iron ring has been forged…”

“This is right after my grandfather died,” Simba said, mostly to himself, realizing it in that quiet moment. “My father had only been CEO for a few months. I guess he…didn’t come with us this time.” There was a long pause where Simba stared at his mother rocking him in her arms. He missed that. He missed being small enough to curl up on her like that. He missed his father too.

HADES: Let it be known: Hades really couldn’t believe this was how he was spending his Christmas Eve, watching Simba Lyons get teary-eyed over Simba Lyons Junior who was getting teary-eyed over a father missing-in-action-- only he wasn’t, was he, he’d just not shown up.

Boo hoo hoo. Hades crossed his arms, looking down at that orange he’d tried to subtly kick away from prying curious eyes, so he wouldn’t roll his eyes and insult his ward for the night.

And look, Hades could have empathy for it all, he supposed, if it wasn’t history repeating itself. You’d think a kid would remember something like this and maybe make a change. What was Hades doin’ when he was nine years old on Christmas Eve? He remembered that, actually, too clearly, because it was the last year his mum was alive. There had been a fire in the fireplace and they’d all baked all day together, so they’d be ready for tomorrow. Hades smashed cranberries, Persephone helped with the potatoes, their mum did all the cutting. They’d baked sugar cookies, getting flour all over the place, then decorated them all. Or, well, Sephy did. Hades remembered distinctly only making two cookies, egged on by Sephy-- one for her, and one for their mother.

It snowed as it did most years. He remembered that too.

There had been no one to wait for, of course. Grandfather was far far away, even if it would just take a ride on the tram-- he did not come to Christmas. Hades’ father was a myth; he only knew he had one, somewhere, because all kids must. There were no people gathered on Hades’ porch; he did not even have a porch.

But still, Hades had a good Christmas and remembered it because it was so good. Because he’d had all the people who he needed.

He lifted his head at Simba’s voice, hearing him slowly start to remember (had he just pushed it away because it’d been sad?) Hades arched a brow and then wandered toward him, stopping by his side. Did the Fates expect Hades to comfort him? He hoped not. Instructions had been vague there too. He was just supposed to-- make Simba see the truth.

Well, Hades knew a thing or two about telling the truth.

“Guess he decided he had somewhere more important to be,” quipped Hades. He glanced sideways at him, remembering the empty house he’d stumbled into-- the sad, abandoned fire, the bottle of whiskey, the lifeless air. “Like father, like son.”

SIMBA: Simba was pulled from his musings as Hades came towards him. It was odd—having him here. Simba didn’t know how he felt about it. On one hand, he was glad he wasn’t reliving this memory alone, but he could hardly turn to Hades for support, so really—he might as well be going through it alone. He knew who he really wanted. He wanted his mother. He wanted his father. He wanted Berlioz. Even—Kiara.

Hades spoke, and Simba frowned.

He wanted to be angry. He felt the anger in his chest and he shot Hades a look but—he knew he couldn’t be, because it was true. The guilt covered the anger like a blanket, dampening it, putting it out before it could spread to his tongue. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked out over the window beyond his mother’s head, where the plains stretched out for miles and miles. There was no one else here. There was no one coming. He would be spending his vacation alone, because not even his family could fill the hole left by his father’s absence.

For a brief moment, as he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, he wondered if that was how—someone felt about him. He didn’t think so. He didn’t have a child who was waiting on him. He didn’t have a wife—or even a husband—or anyone at all. He knew he had quite successfully pushed everyone away. Maybe that made him better than his father, because, at least, he didn’t set up expectations. He’d just—been awful from the start.

It was easier that way, he supposed.

Though, he was also—disturbed…if that was the right word—that he…didn’t remember this. How could he not? His father never missed any of his games, never missed holidays, or birthdays—or…did he? Simba scoured back through his memories, but there were too many games, too many birthdays, too many holidays to remember properly.

“He got better,” Simba defended, but his voice was small and uncertain now. Had he? Or—because Simba had been sent away, he didn’t see it. How many date nights had Mufasa missed with Sarabi? How many of her birthdays?

“Let’s go,” he said abruptly, feeling his skin begin to crawl as it felt like his entire childhood was being rewritten, etched into his skin. “How do we leave?”

STAVE FOUR: CHRISTMAS EVE, EVENING -- Swynlake, England, 2017

HADES: If there was one thing Hades knew about Simba, it was he had fight in him. More than Hades, more than practically anyone-- there was a fire that caught easily and quickly if you knew how to spark it and it wasn’t that hard to figure that out either because Simba wore that heart of on his sleeve-- if he wasn’t just giving it out to people. Hades had felt the brunt force of Simba’s fight before. He’d bruised that heart with just a couple of choice sneered words and Simba pummeled him with his fist enough times to bloody Hades’ nose and blacken his eye. There wasn’t much that Hades admired about Simba-- but if he were gonna pick something, it would maybe be the fight. Even when it was stupid, all whiplash and bravado and wounded pride. Hades preferred the proud to the meek.

But here, right now? There was no fight. He’d expected more than a half-hearted defense for the dead daddy Simba so idolized (and if you’ll recall, Hades had seen Simba blubbering about Mufasa when they’d been in prison in Hell so-- yeah, he was familiar). But that was all he got. Barely more than a twitch of his jaw and a brief glare that had no actual fire.

Simba’s fire was-- elsewhere. Soaked in whiskey? Suffocating in a suit and tie? Shoved in the empty spaces of his closet where his beloved Bonfamille had once been?

Hades didn’t know but he rose his eyebrows all the same at the pathetic comeback. This was maybe what he was supposed to be doing for Simba-- helping him fight. At least...Hades certainly liked that mission more than memory lane bingo.

“Cool your heels, mate, got all the time in the palm of my hand-- literally,” Hades quipped. He got out the tapestry again though and pushed off the counter to cross toward Simba. Their eyes met. Hades moved his brows up, as if he was gonna say something.

He could. Could say a lot of things. Could say, y’know, this isn’t really about if your father got better. It’s about you.

Didn’t though. Instead he offered the scroll to Simba and as soon as Simba’s hand wrapped around the end, the light flashed through again…

...and as they blinked through it, they were away from Kenya, the air now thick with the scent of oranges, cinnamon, and wine cooking on the stove. Hades’ eyes darted around the rather nice-sized flat. There was a medium Christmas tree in the corner, all decked out in lights and baubles. And when he looked toward the kitchen, Hades blinked in recognition. Because yeah, that was Nala Calame at the stove, stirring the big pot of mulled wine. There was another woman in the kitchen with her-- ah, an older version of Sarabi, now he saw, the woman from the kitchen in Kenya now older, with more laugh lines on her forehead and crinkles near her eyes, but the same woman all the same.

“Oh shit,” exclaimed a third voice. Hades turned and saw little Kiara Lyons sitting cross-legged at the christmas tree. “Shit, I -- snagged Simba’s gift when I brought yours over!”

Nala glanced toward her. “Oh, well, we can bring it over tomorrow afternoon--”

“No, it’s supposed to be under the tree for him!” Kiara sighed. She snatched up the box and scrambled up, walking toward the counter. “Do you think-- maybe, if I-- you know, I tell him, and invite him over for Christmas Eve he could bring it back with him…”

Nala sighed this time. “I dunno Kiara, you’ve already called twice--”

“Okay but I-- there’s a reason now!” She exclaimed and plopped the wrapped box on the bar before slipping onto the stool. “Besides he wants to come, I know he does, I just have to-- you know, ask enough. He wants to be here.”

Hades crossed his arms and glanced at Simba. “Well. Welcome to your Christmas Present.”

SIMBA: Simba did not find Hades quip amusing, as he could not grab hold of that cloth fast enough. He wanted to be very far away from the disappointed little boy at his back. Far from the uncomfortable truths that were beginning to take root in his brain. It is a hard thing, growing up and learning your parents were not as wonderful as you thought they were. Especially when said parent had been taken from you before you could—learn that through them, and then grow with them, embrace them as a person and not a figure to idolize.

Simba would never get that opportunity. To—be friends with his father.

He squeezed his eyes tight and grabbed the tapestry, feeling a tug in his gut. The smell was the first thing that hit him, the mulled wine but also—Nala. Her house. He knew it before he even opened his eyes, just like he’d known the plains of Kenya. He almost didn’t want to open his eyes, because he knew what he’d see—a Christmas tree with presents underneath. He’d sent his own along with Kiara when she’d left, even though she’d protested that he wouldn’t see her opening them. I already know what I got you, plus, I know you’ll like it because I’m just that good, he’d tried to joke, but he hadn’t really smiled as he kissed her on the forehead and sent her along.

He knew he’d see his mother at the stove, cooking, and Nala in her comfortable, festive pajamas. All of them cozy and warm and smiling. Without him.

His eyes sprung open of their own accord at the sound of Kiara’s voice and his eyes went to her immediately, watching her sitting there with a pout eerily similar to his own. His own mouth twitched down in an imitation without even thinking about it. He tracked her across the room, his arms crossing over his chest as his frown deepened, watching the scene play out in front of him. He didn’t want to get to close, like he was afraid to shatter it.

There was nothing about the conversation that surprised him. His heart tugged in his chest, but it was a dull thing. This was what the whiskey was for. He knew he’d made the right decision, sending Kiara off. What would she be doing at home, if he had let her stay? Bothering Simba with offers of Christmas cookie baking and Christmas movie watching and hot cocoa making until Simba snapped at her and then they got in a fight? Merry fucking Christmas.

“That may be true,” Sarabi said from the stove, half-turning to look at her niece, “but you also know he won’t say yes. Don’t let him ruin your Christmas with his bullshit.”

“Hey!” Simba said, taking a step forwards—snorting indignantly.

“It’s not bullshit,” he grumped in Hades’ direction, side-eyeing him since he was—the only one there to hear it. “M’heart’s broke. Should have a bit more sympathy.” He cast his eyes down and then up and around the room, squeezing his biceps tighter. “I’m not exactly the best person to be around anyways. They’re better off. So, if you’re tryina make me feel guilty—it’s not working.” He looked back at Hades defiantly.

HADES: “It’s not bullshit,” echoed Kiara, though she said it with a sigh. She fingered the ribbon of her present idly, looking at it, not at Sarabi or Nala. The two women exchanged glances with each other though.

Hades looked at Simba. “Hey, I’m not doin’ anything, mate. Just along for the ride. Looks like you’re the one who’s making history repeat itself--”

Then Kiara’s voice rose above Hades’ own:

“He’s just--lonely and sad and needs us. And I need him. That’s what family does, we’re there for each other--”

“Kiara,” broke in Nala. It wasn’t mean, though. She turned toward the bar and slid her hand over it, grasping Kiara’s wrist with her hand. Her smile was kind, almost maternal. Which was good; Hades flicked his gaze to Sarabi and did not see the same kindness there. He did not know what to see. She was not as open, at least, as Nala was, who was a woman who had always worn her emotions plain to see.

Nala squeezed Kiara’s wrist. “Hey, I miss him too. You know I miss him. I swear, if I thought kicking down his door and dragging him here would make everything better, I would. But he wants to be alone.”

“No one wants to be alone, not really,” Kiara argued to that, though she was talking out-- to the universe, maybe? Hades raised his eyebrows. “Like, I know-- what he says he wants, but he doesn’t want to be alone--”

“Well maybe he needs it,” said Nala, her hand slipping off Kiara’s wrist. She turned back to the fridge, opening it so she could get out, yup, eggnog. She headed toward the cabinet next as she talked. “Maybe he needs to have this horrible Christmas all alone-- to punish himself or whatever it is he thinks he is doing-- and then-- well, next year will be better.” She sighed. “Just try to forget about him, Kiara. He’s not coming.”

Kiara blinked furiously, ducking her head as she rubbed at her eye.

“Ah. Makin’ your cousin cry, always an excellent Christmas gift,” commented Hades with a snort. He looked at Simba. “She look better off to you?”

SIMBA: Making history repeat itself…

Simba cut his gaze away for a second, his jaw ticking. That unpleasant feeling was back in his chest. The one that felt like a clock ticking backwards, or—not in the right direction at all, forwards and backwards and side to side with no rhyme or reason. It made him a little woozy, but he just shook his head and gritted his teeth, holding himself tightly and staring steadily ahead at the scene in front of him.

I need him.

No, you don’t, Simba wanted to say at once. Obviously, Kiara didn’t. She was the one who had ran away from her abuse. She had saved herself. She was stronger than Simba was, much stronger. He’d told her that several times. She didn’t need him, no one did. Even Ber was fine without him—sad, yes, but better off. With his family, who loved him, and Lou—who would keep an eye on him and protect him properly.

His frown deepened at Nala and Kiara’s exchanging, while his mother stood silently at the stove, her eyes hard. He’d seen that look before—Sarabi hated when people were made upset by those they loved. Unless it was Simba apparently. Simba had to suffer in silence, because he had the weight of InterPride to shoulder instead.

He looked away, his gaze cutting sharp to Hades as his heart twisted.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled at him, but his voice cracked and didn’t sound very threatening at all. He turned his head away again. Shaking it.

“I’ve seen enough, let’s go,” he said, voice hard. He held out his hand for the tapestry. “Let’s get this bullshit future over with.”

HADES: Hades raised his eyebrows, jerking the tapestry away from Simba. “Not so fast, mate,” he said-- and then the room filled with light. The ground shifted, the smell of the wine and spices evaporating fast as though they had never been there.

Then the light cleared and they were standing in a much different room, door shut, blinds drawn, a single desk light on. Downstairs, there was music playing-- beautiful classical music that drifted through this large house and got into the walls.

Hades knew this house. He knew that music, he knew that smell-- which could only be described as clean.

And there at the desk was Simba’s Berlioz. He had leaned back in the chair, pushing it onto his back legs. He was staring at his phone, chewing over his nail.

Under the light of the lamp glinted a crystal vial, filled with what a clear liquid. Hades rose his eyebrows. He could feel the magic emanating off it, and it reminded him of the little vials that Belle brought home from Howl.

“He’s your family too, isn’t he?” Hades said as they stood in the silent tomb of a room. “Let’s see what Berlioz is up to…” he leaned over the boy’s shoulder to look at the text on the screen...

Simba’s name. Ah.

Simba, i’ve been thinking and i know what i said and i know you hate me now and i deserve that but i

His finger deleted the words, all the way back to Simba.

Simba, i’m sorry for

Delete delete delete.

I really shouldn’t be texting you but i don’t want to leave everything that way. I was upset because of star wars and i just...overreacted though i know its over and this doesn’t change that but i

Delete delete delete. Berlioz blinked furiously, then breathed in sharp, looking up at the ceiling the way people did when they wanted to stop crying. He rubbed at his chest, then closed his eyes.

There was a drop of water. It was a small sound. Hades looked at the vial and saw the liquid in it ripple.

“BERLIOZ!” came a shrill from all the way downstairs.

Ber started there in the chair, nearly falling back, but catching the lip of his desk. He rocked back onto four legs.

“BERLIOZ. COME DOWNSTAIRS. NOW,” yelled the unmistakable voice of Adelaide, the Bonfamille matriarch, from what Hades knew.

“I-- Coming!” Berlioz called. But he did not move. He looked back at his phone, texting--

Simba.

Deleting Simba.

“Well, this is pathetic,” said Hades.

SIMBA: The light flashed and—

They were in Berlioz’s room. It took Simba a moment to recognize it, especially considering how dark it was. He’d hardly ever been here. He knew Ber hated it. That Ber hadn’t picked out the furniture or the paint or the comforter on the bed, the drapes on the window. You would think Simba would be able to pick out his boyfriend’s—ex-boyfriend’s—bedroom as fast as lightning. But, this had never really been Ber’s space. He knew that. He’d known that since the first time he’d stood in this room, Berlioz standing in the center of it, looking—out of place as his gaze skirted around the room and he spoke with a detached voice.

There where his clothes, still on the floor, spilling out of boxes he hadn’t unpacked yet.

He hadn’t unpacked the boxes.

His eyes flicked towards Hades the same moment that thought struck him. They weren’t in the future. They were still in the present. This was his Berlioz, sitting in his chair at his desk.

His family as Hades said. He felt his throat tighten.

He crossed the room quickly, his shoulder jostling Hades’ as he leaned over Berlioz. His nose brushed Ber’s hair for a moment, though the scent of it seemed—far away. Eventually, he dropped his eyes towards his phone, watching the words type out, delete, type out, delete. His heart clenched with every one, and subconsciously, he reached for his own phone in his pocket. He wondered if he pulled it out and opened Ber’s contact, if he’d see the little bubbles.

Sometimes, he could catch Ber writing, before. They’d both reach for their phones at the same time, and Simba watched those little bubbles stop and start, stop and start. He always texted first if he saw that happening. Every time.

Adelaide’s voice called up from downstairs and Simba jumped just as Berlioz did. That woman was a nightmare, in Simba’s opinion.

He looked back at Ber—whose face was drawn, looking like he was about to cry. His head ducked again and he typed something else out. Deleted it.

Simba blinked and a tear slipped out of his own eye. He went to reach out for Ber. He wanted to touch his cheek, his hair, hold his hand. Let him know that he was there, that he loved him, because he did. He didn’t hate him. He could never. He thought Berlioz knew that.

Fuck me for loving you.

“Shut the fuck up,” Simba said to Hades. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! I swear to Allah—”

Ber stood up from his seat at the desk, pocketing his phone—no text message sent. He looked right at Simba.

“Ber, I—”

Ber walked right through him. He’d been looking right through him too—because this was some…bullshit magic and only Hades could fucking touch anything.

“Do something!” he snapped in Hades’ direction, shoving his shoulder towards the door. He didn’t know what Hades was supposed to be able to do—but he had come on this trip for some fucking reason. Maybe this was it.

HADES: Disclaimer: Hades didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about.

He also wasn’t sure he was supposed to. He was playing every stave of this by ear, so if he was supposed to be some grand maestro of Simba’s fate, well-- well, he could only do his best and this, mind you, this was Hades best.

He was starting to think that was the point though. Really, after two of these and now here on his third, dealing with a tired Simba and now a damn near fiery one-- the fight back in his eye-- he was thinking maybe he was supposed to piss Simba off.

Because Simba wasn’t going anywhere, was just unspooling his own goddamn tapestry as he sat and drank whiskey and wasted his precious, precious hours, hours that Hades would kill for.

So Hades was supposed to make Simba fight. That’s why he, of all people, had to guide Simba. Not to mollycoddle the self-pitying bastard. But to shove his face in his mistakes and make Simba realize that-- yeah, he cared. He wanted to be with his family.

He wanted that boy, for whatever reason, maybe most of all.

So Hades just scoffed at Simba. Chuckled, laughed at him. “Oh, and what do you want me to do? I’m not who he wants-- I’m not the one he’s in love with. There’s nothing I can do to stop him from bein’ miserable. Soon that won’t even be in your hands anymore, mate, and there will be nothing you can do either. Though don’t take my word for it--”

He held up the scroll. “See for yourself.”

STAVE FIVE: CHRISTMAS EVE, LATE AT NIGHT -- Paris, France, 2021

SIMBA: Simba could punch Hades in the face. He really could. His hand clenched and unclenched at his side as he watched Berlioz pull the door open to his room and shut it again behind him. The only thing that stopped him was—

He didn’t know what. Maybe his own self-pity.

It’d feel too good to punch that smug fucker in the face (Simba would know, he’d done it already, hadn’t he?) Simba didn’t deserve to get what he wanted. Not right now. Not after watching Berlioz torture himself. Berlioz, who was so sad. Berlioz, who Simba had hurt worse than anything, because a broken heart was worse than a punch in the face. Because there was nothing you could do about it. No ice to help it heal. Even whiskey just dulled the senses.

Hades’ words echoed in Simba’s brain like a dull throbbing headache, like something had been wedged in between the bone and the soft tissue. Something that didn’t belong there. Or, maybe, it wasn’t what Simba wanted. A literal hard truth shoved into his brain.

Soon that won’t even be in your hands anymore, mate, and there will be nothing you can do either.

Simba whirled on him, his eyes dark and suspicious. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he snarled again, though, his voice was—slightly more…confused, suspicious, unsure. The thought roiled in his stomach. That there—wasn’t anything he was going to be able to do to fix it. That it was never going to be him that made Berlioz happy. It was all he wanted. More than InterPride. More than, even, being a teacher. He just—wanted to be the thing that made Berlioz smile.

He hesitated, this time, like he had the very first time, to grab the scroll. But, eventually, his curiosity—morbid curiosity, perhaps—won out. He reached out to touch it.

The light flashed—

When he blinked open his eyes they were at a—party. At a venue Simba didn’t recognize. Outside the big, beautiful windows was not a skyline he immediately recognized either—it was a city, which certainly wasn’t Swynlake. The decorations were obviously Christmas, with tinsel and holly hung with care. He spun on his heel, taking in all dazzling outfits, the din of the crowd, the chime of champagne flutes, with his brow furrowed.

“Where are—” he started, glancing at Hades, but then he caught sight of a familiar face—

Berlioz was standing a few feet away, in the middle of the crowd. Simba’s heart clenched. He looked—different, somehow, though Simba couldn’t pin point exactly what it was. Maybe it was just—how uncomfortable he looked, standing there with a glass of champagne, his expression blank. Simba knew that look—Ber was hardly breathing.

“What the fuck,” he said, casting another glare at Hades—like this was all his fault (which, it kind of was)—before he stalked quickly in Ber’s direction, his eyes scouring over his figure, wondering if there was anything he could do to help.

HADES: Now they stood in a large ballroom, not unlike town hall but-- much, much nicer. Hades glanced up at the high ceilings, glimpsed the marble columns. He knew where they were this time if only because the Fates had let him read ahead, following the two different threads this future concerned with his finger. He’d have to know, just in case Simba had questions and this particular scene did not answer them. It was the only time, really, that there was an exception to the rule about such things. For once, Simba got to know.

Nifty, wasn’t it?

And so Hades knew why Berlioz was here, standing awkwardly in the middle of a milling crowd, his face too flushed. He knew, in rough swaths, the different moves that had gotten him here. He knew unlike Simba that Berlioz did not live in Swynlake anymore, that he was not a music producer, that he had only recently moved out of his parents’ home to a quiet apartment all his own.

He knew about the boy headed Berlioz’s way. Not Simba-- the other boy, who appeared at Berlioz’s side before Simba got there, two champagne flutes in his hands and an easy smile, showing off his perfectly straight teeth. He swooped in to Ber’s side and Ber’s eyes snapped toward him.

“Berlioz--! Here he is. Berlioz, you’ve met Camille Delon, yes?” said the boy-- his name was Guy Binoche. Hades knew that too. He brought with him a beautiful blonde woman, hair perfectly curled and falling over one shoulder.

“Oh I-- er, no, I don’t think…”

“Ah, he doesn’t remember,” said Camille with a little laugh. Berlioz blanched. “Guy, your boyfriend does not remember me!”

Guy laughed too. “Ah, you must forgive him, he’s too in his head like always, aren’t you?” Guy smiled at him. “It is why I brought you more champagne, mon biquet. Drink up, relax!”

Like a dog obeying the command, Berlioz drank his champagne flute. Just a sip--

“Ah, more, c’mon Berlioz,” said Guy and then he looked back at Camille. “Anyway-- you must remember Camille, she works with me at your father’s office. She is on the public relations team.”

“I just wanted to say a quick hello to the Senator’s son,” said Camille. She smiled again, her eyes crinkling. “I hope you are having a good night?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, it’s… this is lovely,” Berlioz uttered, lifting his free hand to gesture at the decorations.

“I am sorry for keeping Guy so long near the drinks,” tittered Camille. “But I’ve returned him now. Here, I should let you enjoy yourselves!” She reached forward and squeezed Guy’s arm, then leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Happy holidays, you two. Guy, I’ll see you after the New Year!” And then she turned and flocked off.

Immediately, Guy’s smile dropped and he looked at Berlioz. “You couldn’t even pretend to know her? I have introduced her to you at least twice now. C’mon, mamour,” he tsked, reaching forward to tug on Berlioz’s suit coat lapel. “You said you were going to try tonight.”

“I am,” said Berlioz, quietly.

“Are you? Because you’re acting like a bitchy ex-lover of mine. You can’t be jealous of all my friends, Berlioz.”

“Wh--I-- I’m not.” Berlioz’s eyes widened. “I--I’m sorry.”

“Don’t start that.” Guy rolled his eyes, sucking his teeth a little. There was a beat, then his eyes flicked to Berlioz again. “Come, drink. You’re much sweeter when you are drunk-- not nearly as jealous.”

“I wasn’t--” Berlioz started but Guy scoffed at him, cutting off the end of his sentence. His mouth closed.

Hades raised his eyebrows.

Another second later, Berlioz stepped a little closer, his voice lower. “I wasn’t jealous. I’m sorry, I’m-- in my head, you’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry. Please, I don’t wanna fight--”

“Alright, calm down,” said Guy. “Now will you drink please and try to have some fun?”

“I am having fun--”

“Drink, Berlioz.” He leaned in-- and his whisper would be lost in the party but the magic of the Fates and this spell amplified it, somehow. Hades could feel the whisper in his own ear. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you suck my cock tonight. See? No reason to be jealous.”

Berlioz blushed bright red, ducking his head. Guy laughed, nudged him. “Drink!” he said again and Berlioz obeyed, downing the rest of the drink and then letting Guy put the second flute in his hand. Guy knocked their glasses together, then took a sip himself, his eyes lingering on Berlioz’s flushed face as they drank.

“Hey,” he said. “I love you.” He said it like he was expecting an answer.

He got one. Berlioz parroted it back to him. “I-- I love you too.”

“Guy!” came a voice and Hades looked toward the sound-- seeing a man approach them this time, a woman on her arm. He was tall, blonde, around the same age, his girlfriend blonde too. They fell into conversation with them, once again Guy taking the lead. He slipped an arm around Berlioz, made a joke-- And this is Berlioz. Forgive him if he doesn’t say much, he’s had too much to drink tonight-- and the couple giggled and Berlioz stood there, a pained smile on his face. And the conversation wound on, loud and fast, and Hades watched as Berlioz nodded and nodded and nodded…

Even Hades felt his stomach twist in pity. He knew that look; he’d seen it on Belle’s face when the crowds were simply too much.

“Excuse me,” said Berlioz at one point, blurting over the man in the middle of a sentence. “I ah-- I’ll just…be a moment. Need to-- just erm, go to the bathroom.”

He got about four steps away before Guy’s hand clamped on his arm and stopped him. “Berlioz, really?” hissed Guy.

“I-- I’m just-- going to the bathroom, I, I promise.”

“You could have waited for a break in the conversation. You’re making me look like a fool.”

“I-- I’m sorry. I’ll be right back,” pled Berlioz. “I’m sorry.”

Guy’s hand slipped from his arm. “At least bring back more drinks?” He scoffed again, shaking his head, and then returned to the couple with a laugh as though nothing had happened.

Then Berlioz bolted, knocking into someone on accident, barely apologizing before he kept going. Simba started after him at once, but Hades just-- blinked. And the scene changed.

They were in the bathroom now, shoved into a tiny stall with Berlioz. He had untied his bowtie, unbuttoned his shirt two buttons down. He was sat on the toilet, the palms of his hands shoved into his eyes as he dragged in rough, uneven breaths into his lungs.

Hades stood there and he crossed his arms, uncertain what else to do.

SIMBA: Simba stopped in his tracks when some man appeared at Ber’s side. He glanced over his shoulder uncertainly at Hades. It was—so hard to remember he was invisible—not really there—when Berlioz was right there. He felt like he could reach through the veil and touch him. He wanted to believe if he did that, Ber would feel it. He’d know Simba was with him.

Where was Simba?

He got closer, stopping right on Ber’s other side, his eyes scouring over his face—he looked different, somehow, older maybe, little lines by his eyes and his jaw sharper than ever. He looked handsome. Simba’s heart ached and it was hard to tear his eyes away from him to follow what was going on.

He didn’t really need to—because he knew this scene well, didn’t he? He had been that other man before, dragging Ber to parties that he hated. What was this supposed to show him? That Ber would never get out of this life anyway? It didn’t matter? That was some bullshit—Ber hated this life, why would he be in it still without Simba?

Either way—he hated this man. He hated him for laughing at Berlioz. For telling him to drink. For drawing attention to the fact that Berlioz was—not good at this sort of thing. His eyes narrowed slightly and he felt the urge to put his arm around Ber and draw him close. Protect him.

You said you were going to try. Simba’s jaw ticked and he looked away, those words familiar too.

His eyes cut back at what the man said next, his heart clenching in his chest. It felt like whiplash—guilt and anger waging a war inside of his chest. All those apologies used to be for Simba—and there were always reassurances that followed, even if they were a little rough and annoyed, Simba did always mean them. He knew that these things were hard for Berlioz.

He kept flashing back to that fateful night, his stomach curling and making him feel sick. His jaw muscle twitched. His hand clenched into a fist. His head snapping back and a scoff of disbelief leaving his own lips at that—what even was it—a bribe? I’ll let you suck my cock. Sexual favors weren’t supposed to be a trade for good behavior. That was—controlling. Awful.

Berlioz knew better. Berlioz, you know better, Simba wanted to say.

I love you. I love you too.

“You don’t—mean that,” Simba said, close enough to have whispered it in Ber’s ear. He didn’t, Simba knew. He knew what Ber sounded like when he told someone he loved him. It wasn’t like that, not like a—call and response. Ber’s love was a gift, and he spoke it like a present, a medal, a trophy, every time.

Simba wanted to punch this Guy in the face. His heart clenched tighter and tighter as he watched Ber grow pale, watched his eyes dart, his lips press close together until they were almost white. Don’t you see what’s happening! he wanted to scream at Guy, shaking him by the shoulders.

When Ber made a break for it and Guy grabbed his arm, Simba actually reached out like he could pull his hand way—but he just went right through, which made him growl in annoyance. He didn’t waste a moment before turning and weaving through the crowd after Berlioz, right on his heel, like Guy should be doing. He shouldn’t be alone, he shouldn’t be alone. He’s having a panic attack. He shouldn’t be alone. Simba’s brain kept repeating the words, his own chest tight as Berlioz barged into the bathroom. Simba slipped right through the door and knelt down in front of the toilet Berlioz had perched himself on.

There were tears in his own eyes as he tried to touch Ber’s shoulder, his knee, his hand, his hair. He just kept going through him every time. He blinked and let out a harsh breath, a few tears rolling down his own cheeks as he tried in vain to soothe Ber.

“Hey, shh,” he said softly, “hey, it’s alright, it’s alright. It’ll pass. It’ll—it’ll go away. Just—breathe. Ber, please. Please, hear me.”

Simba turned to Hades, looking up at him with a scowl on his face, remembering the orange all the way back in Kenya.

“Do something!” he pleaded again, just like he had back in the present. “Help him, he’s—he’s having a panic attack. Please. He—he shouldn’t be alone.” He looked back at Ber and tried to touch his knee again.

HADES: There was nothing Hades could do.

Just like just moments before-- and four years ago-- when Berlioz had sat alone in the room, unable to send a text, Hades could not fix his present, could not ease his heartbreak or change this future. He had followed the silver thread of Berlioz Bonfamille once it had broken off from the Lyons Tapestry, because it had, of course-- frayed, became a loose end that would never resolve. He ended up here. He ended up in some version of here: in France, with his parents, with some boy or another.

There were other boys before Guy. There was even a girl or two. And he was sure if he had kept reading, Hades would see more.

Because yeah, that fucker wasn’t his-- true love, his destiny. Didn’t need to have a magic future-telling tapestry to tell you that. Just had to see what they saw now: Berlioz, shuddering on the toilet seat, trying to strangle his own sobs even if that just made it worse. It didn’t matter what Simba did, what he said, how hard he tried to reach through space, time, dimension. Even Hades-- he might be able to reach out and make Berlioz feel a tickle on the cheek, a brush of something in his hair. But Berlioz would keep crying. He was alone.

So Hades looked up at Simba, pity in his eyes-- though he tried not to feel it, it soaked in every part of him. “Sorry, you...you know I can’t.”

Berlioz trembled, whimpered low. His sobs had turned into keening.

“He’s not a music producer, you know,” Hades added in the empty space between. “He plays in an orchestra. Mum got him the audition.”

Berlioz wiped his palms on his trousers, letting out another breath that rattled his whole body.

“He didn’t finish the degree at Pride University. He moves back to France this upcoming summer. No reason to stay in Swynlake.”

Berlioz breathed in, deeper. He mumbled something. If you listened very closely, you could hear it: stop thinking about it, don’t be stupid, stop it, stop stop stop--

“He’s about to get a text.”

Berlioz’s phone buzzed. He reached for it at once, plucking it from his pocket with a hand still shaking. Was Guy, and there were two words only-- Hurry up.

Berlioz sucked in another breath, but his face screwed up. He leaned back and looked up, but his eyes were squeezed shut as if it could stop the tears from slipping down his face.

Hades pulled out the scroll. “We should go.”

SIMBA: As Hades listed off Berlioz’s future—not a music producer, not in Swynlake, Adelaide getting him a job, didn’t finish school, dating some asshole—Simba felt his heart sink and sink and sink.

He knew that Berlioz wasn’t destined to this, he was destined for so much more. He would eventually get out of this relationship—Lou would not let this go on if he knew, Simba was sure of that. He could maybe find someone nice, someone he liked. Someone gentle and good. But—would he be happy?

Berlioz was always so worried about happiness. Having too little. Having too much.

But, more than anyone Simba knew, he deserved happiness.

Simba wanted to give it to him.

He felt something shift inside of his chest, watching Berlioz cry quietly—not being able to comfort the way he knew that he could, the way he wanted, the way he should.

He needed to go to him. Needed to convince him, no matter how long it took—to come back to him.

So, when Hades said it was time to go, Simba nodded firmly and stood up, grabbing the tapestry in his hand, ready to fix everything—

They weren’t in his house.

He whirled around, brow furrowed. What the fuck.

“What the fuck?” he said, just as a nurse—was that a nurse? Walked through him to bring coffee to another nurse who was standing behind the nurse’s station watching—himself. Looking out the window. Simba only recognized it was him because of Bowie at his side, his head in Simba’s lap. Simba was—skinny, though. Even from here, Simba could see the grey streaking through his hair and the yellow tinged around the corner of his eyes.

“No one came?” she asked, looking at the clock. It was 9:30.

“No,” the other nurse sighed. “Poor thing, he’s been sitting there all day watching the window.”

“Not a single person? But it’s Christmas! Isn’t his family some big name around here?”

“That’s the former CEO of InterPride, Eloise,” the second nurse said, rolling her eyes at Eloise.

“What? The one who had the nervous breakdown?”

“Yes, how do you think he wound up in here? Don’t you read files?”

“Only for my patients. And he’s not one of yours.”

“I read all the cute ones files.”

“Mary!”

“What? He’s handsome.”

“Maybe he used to be,” Eloise scoffed, “before he had a nervous breakdown and got himself checked into rehab, lost his job, and apparently all his friends.”

“Don’t be mean, Eloise.” Mary hit her with the folder she was holding.

“Should we say something?” Eloise asked after her laughter subsided.

“Yes,” Simba, real Simba said, his heart all twisted up in his chest. He felt like he was going to throw up. Even stumbled a bit like he’d suddenly forgotten how to stand.

“No,” Mary sighed, the laughter slipping away from her too, “just leave him be.”

Simba blinked and a tear, and then another slipped down his cheeks. “There’s still time, right?” Simba asked, turning to look at Hades. “Someone could—still come?”

HADES: They weren’t done yet.

He knew Simba thought they were by the steel in his eye, which had not been there before they had started all this. He’d been a zombie-person then, damn annoying in his apathy and self-pity. It was actually good to hear him snap at Hades or try in vain to reach out to Berlioz. It made Hades think this was all working.

But the scene they saw was not Simba’s future. That was what happened to Berlioz. There was another frayed thread on the Lyons Tapestry, another Meanwhile--

The scroll took them to meanwhile, whipping them through space, away from France and the baubles on the walls. They appeared instead in a dark, near empty rec room. Their were Christmas decorations, but if there had been a party here, it had happened a long time ago, and now no one was left-- no one but Simba sitting all alone.

And this was the true irony of Simba Lyons’ future.

There are many kinds of deaths in a life-- Hades had learned them all since he was small. There were deaths that happened little by little, that came in tiny white capsules slipped into the mouth or in bottles of whiskey coddled in place of a lover. There were deaths that happened long before the body broke down and the spirit could escape. That kind of death, the body was a prison. You could only sit and rot and wait.

This Simba had died a little more with every person he shoved away for he was a boy born into a beautiful, long tapestry with many threads. With those other threads, there were ups and downs, milestones, holidays, vacations and celebrations. But he did not do any of these things alone. In fact, Simba was not supposed to do anything alone; his story was one of family.

InterPride was not synonymous with his family the way that Simba thought not as he insisted it was all for the Lyons’ legacy, pushing forward despite what his heart wanted, what his heart called him to do. That was the warning from this future. Hades had read ahead and he had seen for himself.

He met Simba’s desperate, horrified gaze, felt that sick taste in his mouth-- the pity. He felt uncomfortable and he wanted to look away. But that was not the job of the ghost of Christmas Future-- who had always been Death.

So here was Simba’s little death.

“No,” he said, quietly and simply to Simba. He could tell Simba that Nala was running InterPride now and that he had missed the birth of her baby-- that Kiara was spending her break from school with Sarabi and all his cousins in Kenya-- that long before Simba had sat in this chair, he had had one, two, four, eight, twelve, one hundred chances to try to fix things and he had chosen not to, becoming a drunk instead of a friend, a cousin, or a leader.

He could say all of this but it would not matter, really. What mattered was this simple truth: “No, no one is coming.”

SIMBA: No one is coming.

“You’re lying,” Simba accused at once, his throat tight, tears burning on his cheeks. In his heart, though, he knew Hades was telling the truth.

In this future, Simba had no one to spend the holiday with. He had lost his job, the one thing he had probably pushed everyone away for. He had still failed. Was that his destiny then? Simply to—fail. To ruin his family legacy, to disappoint his father, his grandfather. He supposed he shouldn’t be that surprised—there was only so much he could do if his heart was not in his work. It had already started eating him from the inside out. He could feel the despair like a piece of black coal lodged between his ribcage. He could feel it every time he drew a breath, and every day, it got a little bit bigger and a little bit bigger.

One day, yeah—it was probably going to consume him.

Simba hadn’t really thought that far ahead. He knew, maybe subconsciously that down the road, this was what awaited him. Or, maybe he’d fooled himself into thinking what it was he told everyone else: that one day, he’d grow into it. That he’d love it. That everything would calm down, and maybe he wouldn’t love it, but he would—appreciate it, at least. He would…like what he did, perhaps.

But, at the end of the day, this was the end of the road.

Berlioz had been smart to get out, and he was just the first.

Nala would probably be second. She didn’t tolerate Simba’s bullshit for long. His mother was not soon after. Kiara would’ve been last at all. She would’ve tried and tried and tried. Simba could only imagine what it would be that would set her off, have her—give up on him too. It made his heart twist and he felt woozy again. There was a physical ache inside of his chest for home. For his family—Kiara and Nala and his mother and Berlioz.

He wanted to go home.

He didn’t want his life—not the one that he was living now. He didn’t want this future. He wanted—to be happy. Finally, finally be happy. It had been so long. Five years, almost, of misery.

How was he supposed to reconcile that misery with his family legacy though?

I can’t give up InterPride.

But you won’t be happy there, you’ll end up here, a voice in his head argued.

I’ll make myself like it.

If InterPride is in your life, this is where you end up.

InterPride was the thing that sealed this fate. Nothing else. Simba knew that. Of course, he wanted Berlioz back more than anything. He wanted him back so much every breath he took away from him hurt. But, he also just—wanted to be happy. He wanted to help people, but not at the cost of his family.

Wouldn’t InterPride cost his family?

His head hurt, his heart burned and he just wanted to go home. He wanted to hug Kiara and kiss her cheeks and the top of her head and watch her smile as she opened presents. He wanted to argue with Nala in the kitchen over the proper way to make eggnog. He wanted to sit with his mum by the fire and keep her fingers warm and let her tell him stories about his father, just the two of them in the near dark. And he wanted Berlioz to snuggle up to under the covers after a long day of food and family and laughter and joy and love—all the things the Christmas carols were about.

“I want to go home,” Simba said quietly, his voice still choked, his heart bruising in his chest. He turned from the sad sight of a future he had not chosen for himself. He wanted to choose. For too long, he’d been a pawn of his father and his uncle.

Simba just wanted—to be himself.

“I know what I have to do,” he told Hades, finally sliding his eyes over to meet his gaze, giving him a small little smile. Maybe he should feel embarrassed, but he didn’t. Instead he felt—

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to squeeze Hades’ shoulder, nodding his head a little. “You’re saving my life.”

A beat.

“Bit sorry I punched you, now.” He let out a breath of a laugh. “Tell Belle I said Happy Christmas.” His hand slipped from Hades’ shoulder and he reached out for the tapestry.

And there was a flash of white light—

And Simba was home.

#bdrphades #simades #featuring geoffery #featuring sarabi #simara #simala #a christmas carol #aka #the best thing i've ever done

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