#This feeder will be closed for six hours

[chubby-dutch-feedee]

Dark web spell feederism

You come home from a long day of working at the office. The first thing that you see is your lovely bf. He has been bingin food just as you like it. your partner is not that chubby yet, even after eating lots and lots of food each day. Only a bit of chubbyness has been gained.

an idea pops in your mind.

Some strange woman told you about cursed items on the dark web. The items have all sorts of powers. But some powers can be customly made for you. So late at night you start searching on the dark web. And low and behold you find a dealer. All the dealer needs is your name and your husbands name.

The dealer has made a custom switch for you. Here is what it does. The switch is connected to your partners stomach. Kinda like a portal. Turning the switch on allows you to eat as much food as you want considering its connected to your bfs stomach.

The next morning you say goodbye to your husband before leaving to work. Once at your desk you grab the switch from your purse. Time to start eating. Cakes, donuts, sodas, shakes and lots of more delicious foods are stuffed down your mouth by the end of your daily office hours.

You unlock the door of the house. Sleeping on your couch is your overly stuffed boyfriend. His belly has ballooned outwards.

This is just the start of it all...

Months go by and your boyfriend is growing rather quickly.

Each day you come home to a bigger belly. Its starting to hang like a waterballoon. Love handles are slipping over the sides of his joggers. All of his clothes are starting to shrink. He has no clue at all on how this is happening to him. However, you love the new him. groping his evergrowing belly and love handles. Seeing the luscious ball of fat waddling around the house with his jiggling fat filled ass.

But one day it all goes wrong.

At work you have been hiding a secret vat of lard in the abandoned cubicle behind yours. Gallons of the heavy fattening goop are neatly stored in there. This method has been used by you for about a week now.

You sit on your chair ready to multitask for the day. Doing paperwork and chugging down the supply of lard. You attach the hose muzzle of the lard tank to your mouth. gulp gulp gulp

The goop steadily flows through your mouth. 2 Hours pass and you start to get tired of all the work youve done. so you decide to take a little powernap. However, the hose is still attached to your maw.

After six hours you wake up...

Slowly you open your eyes. That nap felt really good. But the realisation hits like a truck. Oh no... You kept on chugging while you were asleep! Quickly you check the tank to see how much of the lard has been pushed inside your bf.

Every little drop is GONE!

Your keys tremble in your hands as you slowly open the door. The first thing you hear is extremely heavy breathing

huff hufff huffff huffff*

Then you see it, the behemoth of a boyfriend. He cant even utter a word let alone move. His belly has stretched far beyond his capacity like a giant lard filled blimp. Every small effort of movement waves his dough like body. giant moobs cover the top of his belly. Multiple parts of his body are covered in stretch marks and redness. It groans and surges heavily. He is a giant ball of FAT.

And secretly you love it.

You quickly close the blinds and every other visual part of your house that people can look into.

Your hands are almost starting to move like magnets towards his body. Grabbing those enormous filled moobs. There is nothing he can do except sit on his lard filled ass.

Who knows.. maybe you want to make him even FATTER!

[woso-dreamzzz]

Firsts

Hardersson x Baby!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Your first week at home

You get to come home the day after you're born.

Thankfully, you sleep the entire time though Pernille stays in the back with you just in case. It's a little strange, she thinks. The last time she was home, she was pregnant. Now she has you.

Your name is decided the day you come home and you do little but nap and eat. You're a little devil that first night and wake up on the hour, every hour to cry and feed.

Pernille has to get up because she's practically your walking food source but Magda gets up in solidarity too (though it's mainly to coo in awe at you).

The next day is more active. Magda drives you all to the registry office where they finalise your name and then to the embassies to register you as a citizen of Denmark and Sweden.

You seem to like the car because it sends you to sleep every time but dislike leaving it because you cry and whine until one of them holds you nice and tight.

You seem to like affection though. You're most content in Pernille and Magda's arms and you get all wiggly and weird when you're put in your car seat or crib. Magda can't quite tell yet if you just like their presence or if it's because of their warmth. Either way, she doesn't really care, more than happy to give in to your every need.

She takes a lot of pictures of you, sending them to family members who lament about not being able to visit but promise to book tickets to Germany very soon.

The exhaustion kicks in around day three. You haven't settled since your last feed of the night and Pernille's practically falling asleep in her seat as you suckle at her insistently.

Her eyes slip closed every few seconds and she has to wrench them open each time just in case something happens to you. Magda looks to be in a similar state as she lies on the floor at Pernille's feet, snoring softly before lifting her head when Pernille nudges at her.

"Huh?" She asks groggily," Wha's...Wha's goin' on?" Her words are slurred and she blinks the sleep from her eyes.

"She needs a change," Pernille says, unlatching you and handing you down to Magda.

Magda mechanically takes you, still completely exhausted but still awake enough to hold your properly.

You scrunch up your face in annoyance when she strips you of your babygrow and changes your nappy. It's one of the few things Magda can say that you absolutely hate. You screech loudly and kick out your little, uncoordinated limbs while Magda scrunches up her nose at the smell.

You're a little darling most of the time but she absolutely hates changing you. She thinks it's a fair exchange though. Pernille's barely producing enough milk to keep you full so there's none to express and put in bottles for Magda to use to feed you so Pernille stays as your sole feeder and Magda does the changing.

The little stump where your umbilical cord used to be looks fine when Magda checks it, a habit she has found herself doing ever since the nurse said that there was always a slight chance of infection. She tickles your stomach to distract you as she slips on a new nappy and buttons up your babygrow again.

"There," Magda says," All done!"

She picks you up and brings you into the crook of her neck. You're rooting immediately, trying to suck in her collarbone like it's going to get you milk.

Magda laughs a little, patting you on the back softly.

Day four and five happen much the same with the three of you trapped in your sweet little bubble at home.

Day six doesn't have much excitement either apart from the Wolfsburg chat blowing up when Nilla finally lets slip that Pernille has had you.

Most of the day is spent on a video call with you propped up on Magda's chest as Pernille shows you off to the camera. Everyone coos and awes over you as you yawn and clench your little fist.

Pernille swipes a finger against your cheek to show off how much you like to eat because you automatically move your face towards the pressure and start trying to root, searching for her breast.

It causes a fresh wave of coos to sound from the phone.

It makes you demonstrate your startle reflex expertly as your eyes go wide and you fling your arms out.

Magda likes to say that she knows you're going to be smart when you grow up just by how strong your instincts are but Pernille's planning on waiting until you're at least strong enough to hold up your own head to make such judgements.

"She's so pretty," Noelle coos from where she's squished between Ewa and Sara on the screen," When can we come to see her?"

"Pernille will come to you guys," Magda says as she holds you a little tighter with a wink to the camera. "We're keeping her to ourselves right now."

"Unfair," Ewa complains," Why can't we get baby love too?"

"Baby love is reserved for her mothers right now," Pernille laughs as she begins to say her goodbyes to everyone.

"How long do you think you can hold them off?"

"Probably until you leave. Frido, though, should probably get told before Nilla blabs to her too."

Magda sighs deeply. "I'll text her later."

"You better hurry," Pernille says," Or you're going to get a very angry phone call later."

On your seventh day at home, you let Magda know how you feel about her taking you from Pernille's breast before you're ready by spitting up all over her back when she tries to wind you.

Somehow, you've even gotten some under her shirt and she can feel the milky mixture slide down her skin.

Half-delirious from sleep exhaustion, Pernille finds this hysterical and laughs until she cries as Magda can do nothing but writhe in disgust.

"Pernille!" She whines," Stop laughing! Hold her so I can change!"

Pernille is still hysterically laughing as Magda feels your spit meet her waistband. To your credit, you're not crying or anything. You're just happily blowing spit bubbles out of your milk as Magda wriggles around.

"I've got her, I've got her," Pernille giggles as she takes you and mops up your face," Go and change. You smell."

"It's her fault!"

"Don't blame, princesse! She's just a baby!"

[pot-black]

Fireplaces*

As a note, most fireplaces are really inefficient when it comes to home heating, and the primary source for in-house heat is a wood stove insert. Most people only burn fireplaces for the atmosphere look, unless the firebox was designed to be used as a heat source. These typically will have doors to close the firebox out from the house, and a vent from outside piped directly into the base of the firebox for air draw. The inefficacy I mentioned is usually because the fire pulls air from inside the home to fuel it, which can cause cold air to be pulled through cracks in exterior walls causing drafts. In a very poor setup, the fire may end up drafting the heat out of the home, or back-drafting smoke from the fire into the home. Another feature of these heating fireboxes, can be pipes that bisect the flu carrying forced air from a blower. The air in the pipes is heated by the exhaust of the smoke, and can be used to circulate heated air through a home.

People who are serious though about heating by wood will most likely own an outside furnace or boiler in an outbuilding on the property. The outbuilding keeps the wood fuel dry and the wood dirt out of the home. Such heating sources work the same way as gas or oil furnaces and boilers, and pump heated air or water into the home. They only need to be tended to at least twice a day, aside from the high tech systems which may have an auto feeder and thermostat, and can be left alone for longer. Modern wood stoves and furnaces have a catalytic burner, which recycles the exhaust around to prolong the burn of the wood; a load that may burn out in two hours can last six.

Wood burning is technically a renewable source of energy, as the trees can easily be replaced in the environment. In the United States you can get tax credits for buying furnaces or stoves with catalytic burners. It Isn't green though, and does contribute to local air pollution. It typically is only seen in rural areas and suburbs. Mainly due to the land needed for fuel. Wood has to be split, stacked and seasoned: left to stand in a dry place for 12 to 18 months. One could also burn pellets, but they have to be bought in bulk. Most people who rely on wood heat, own land to pull from or have a reliable source of free wood. Tree removal companies are the usually source.

[keithrm]

It All Went Wrong

Originally Written May 11, 2013, edited in 2024, never posted (until now 02/13/2024)

In a dream, I walk into the gym to begin teaching.  The room is not as it really is, but is a dream-spun training room.  The floor banks from the entrance down to the far right corner.  The students are scattered about.  I have difficulty getting them to pair up and get ready for training.

Several older grapplers are near the entrance of the room, playing with the timer, until they finally make it malfunction completely.  One of them had tried to set it to do 100 minute rounds.  I try to explain that the clock doesn’t allow it, besides, who would want to work multiple rounds longer than an hour and a half?  As we all gather around the timer in an attempt to fix it, one of the larger grapplers puts me in a poor headlock, eventually tying up his own hand within his gi so that he cannot release me, while he also cannot set the lock.  Though not threatened, I cannot get free, nor could the grappler free himself from his own grip.  Eventually I slip out of his trap, and continue to try and instruct the unruly class.

A student, with his girlfriend partner, uses the focus mitts improperly, holding them as well as striking them.  In effect, he feeds himself for his own kicks, which he executes toward his partner – a very dreamlike distortion that is physically impossible but seems normal within the dream.  I chastise him, pointing out that the feeder does not strike, the striker does not feed.  I then proceed to show the class the next combination to work.

I select a student with whom I am familiar.  I have her use the larger Thai pads and feed for me as I demonstrate a kick sequence.  As I began to throw my kick, she backs up, slipping magically through the wall, forcing me to stop mid kick.  With the partner gone, there is no way to demonstrate the sequence.  The class, which seems to be about five groups of two or three people each, becomes even more unruly.

In frustration, and feeling class time is nearly done, I begin to exit the classroom.  I pass by several folding chairs near the entry way, chairs that had not been there earlier.  As I pass the chairs, which at first appeared empty, I realize they do have people in them, and one of them is upset I had not noticed her, though I really had not noticed the people there at all.  I decide I need to return to the room and formally close the class and apologize for having not provided a good training period.

As I turn around to reenter the room and address the class, there she is in one of the chairs.  She turns to look at me, and I lose all words.  I stammer, trying to apologize to the few students for the clumsy nature of the class, but I cannot focus or form words completely as I became more and more aware that she is right there looking at me.

I turn to leave and she gets up.  We both met up in the entry hallway.  She has with her a small child, six or eight years old, who is proud to announce that he had just gotten his middle name.  I have the sense the child is a nephew of some kind.  As the three of us walk out to a main room, I congratulate the boy on his new name, and then he turns and simply evaporates.  It is only then I get a full and clear look at her.

She looks as she did decades ago when we first met.  Her hair a bit longer then it had been in our last years.  She is wearing a very familiar heavy blue sweater, black open weave shawl, black shin length skirt, black transparent hose, and black shoes with two inch heels.  A very common outfit for her, one I have seen her in many times.  The sight of her and that outfit creates a sense of continuity, of past, of familiarity.

She moves to a well-padded sofa that does not have arms.  She sits down on it, and says, “I think I have a Valentine somewhere.”  She has several small gift wrapped packages, each in a metallic paper, one yellow, one blue, one green, one red, and so on.  She begins carefully opening a bit of the wrapping to look inside, searching for a suitable Valentine offering from her store of emergency gifts.

I beg her, “Please don’t.  Don’t.”  I cross in front of the sofa and sit beside her.  As I sit down, she turns and sort of curls up, her head against the back of the sofa, facing downward, as she brings her knees up on the seat.  I sit against one of her knees, my back lightly resting beside her head.  I keep repeating, “Don’t.  Please don’t.”

In my dream, I fight back tears.  I feel a bawl growing in me.  My dream moves from dream to half-dream.  I am neither awake nor asleep.  In my real self, I can feel the tightening of my chest.  My throat is clamped in the grip of holding back a cry, my breathing small gulping inhales as I avoid exhaling, knowing that a long expire will result in an uncontrollable burst.  My eyes feel heavy, full, warm, and wet, my closed lids holding back what would be a torrent of tears.

As I rise from dream toward waking, I realize I am physically experiencing the feelings in my dream, and holding back its sorrow.  Moments of effort remove the rhythmic pumping of my breath, and allow the tears to dry, and the hammer in my chest to cease.  I wake.

It all went wrong.

[best24news]

Rewari News: छह घंटे बंद रहेगा ये फीडर, जानिए वजह

Rewari News: छह घंटे बंद रहेगा ये फीडर, जानिए वजह

रेवाडी: बिजली विभाग की ओर से बुधवार को मरम्मत कार्य किया जाएगा। इसके चलते डहीना स्थित 132केवी सब के छह गांवों में छह घंटे बिजली आपूर्ति बाधित रहेगी। Haryana News: इस शहर से उडान भरेगी देसी और विदेशी फ्लाईटे हरियाणा विद्युत प्रसारण निगम के कनिष्ठ अभियंता राजीव ने बताया कि बुधवार को सब स्टेशन के टी-1 ट्रांस��ार्मर पर मरम्मत कार्य किया जाएगा, जिसके चलते दोपहर साढे़ 12 बजे से शाम साढे़ छह बजे तक बिजली…

[cloveroctobers]

RIO/MANNY x f!READER / SPRING PROMPTS

A/n: prompt list here —

using: #16. Working in the garden all day and curling up together that night on the couch

+ I’m combining Rio & Manny’s characters here if you don’t mind. It’s not too confusing, i promise! Something short and sweet for this Saturday night. Who doesn’t like domestic prompts?

Warnings: pregnant reader—if you don’t care to read about those then you can skip this one lol, language, and your man being kinda right about your well-being?

•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•**•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

Time got away from you and once you got wrapped up in your gardening, it was almost next to impossible to get you to relax—Depending on who it was, that is! It’s funny because you normally weren’t too much into plants when you were younger. You had grandparents that owned a floral shop in Hamden, that you spent countless hours in with your siblings while your parents worked long hours. Of course you learned a lot about time management and plant care but that all became a little careless to you once you went through high school and college.

Now look at you. Early thirties out in your yard at one of your vacation homes in Farmington Connecticut, tending to what the winter ruined. Not to mention you were about six months pregnant (with twins) doing this all on your own. You’ve been at it for hours and would have stayed out there non-stop if it wasn’t for your housekeeper, Jagoda…and your bladder reminding you to take breaks.

It was easily going on four pm with the sky turning orange and the air felt crisp and cold now. While you leaned back on your knees, you stared off into the distance enjoying the view until you felt a hand brush over your slightly stretched back. Briefly you closed your eyes, inhaling before tightening your grip on the trovel you had in your hand. Quickly putting the garden tool at an angle you went to swing your entire arm backwards at your attacker.

The fingertips that once gently touched your back, shifted to a colder touch as they twisted your arm behind your back which made you crouch forward with a slight wince.

“Easy, mama. It’s just me.”

Scoffing at your husband, he immediately let you go as you glared over at him.

“Why do you think it’s okay to sneak up behind me while I’m trying to enjoy my peace?” You huffed, using the back of your arm to wipe at your sweaty forehead.

The man sent his famous smirk at you as he remained crouched from behind, “I ain’t never heard you complain about that before?”

“Well times have changed man, I’m carrying double the weight now with your lollipop headed children.” You whacked at him, “and it’s all your fault.”

“Like I said, you ain’t never complained before.” Manny chuckled while you rolled your eyes, “listen…I think it’s time we head in don’t you? It’s been a long day for the both of us.”

Glancing at him you turned your eyes into slits, “it’s always long days at the club which is why I’m so surprised you’re back this early…”

“Yeah I bet, you didn’t want me to catch you out here any longer, right?”

“I don’t necessarily care if you did but I’m sure you had some sort of radar to know that I was still out here.”

“Nah, I just fired Jago.”

“Excuse me?”

Manny lifted his shoulders, “she’s been slipping lately and not following directions. Want to know what the main one was today? Not for you to be out here for more than three hours. I called to check on you, you didn’t return any of my calls or texts so I checked with Jago and she told me you’ve been out here for hours.”

“You did not have to fire the lady! Do you know how much work I put in? Cleaning bird feeders and their baths, preparing new beds, putting down fresh mulch—

Manny sniffed and held his palm out, “I knew I smelled something, didn’t believe for a second it could be my woman.”

“Analyzing the front yard,” you took a deep inhale before continuing, ignoring the man who’s eyes sparkled in humor at him trying to get on your nerves, “which needs so much more work than back here. I have to start a compost pile for the lawn and probably fertilize.” You rambled with a shake of your head, pressing the side of your forearm against your edges which were of course sweated out.

Manny pressed his elbows onto his knees and felt his thick brows furrowing, “Whoa. Whoa. Imma stop you right there, mama. We not doin’ all that. You not doing all that. I know people that can do that shit for us.”

“Who? the brothers your beefing with from Santo padre? They might fuck up my garden for fun since they don’t like Yuma’s asses.” You scoffed.

Manny laughed, “Relax, I got other connects. Remember my ‘ol boy, Mick? He got primos in Harlem that have their own business. I could always give them a call.”

“Please, I know how to manage my own garden, okay.” You groaned as you maneuvered your body by pulling your legs out from under you to lay flat on your back on a nearby blanket, “this gives me something to do while I’m out on maternity leave.”

Manny hummed as he silently watched you, noticing how you kept twisting your legs from side to side while keeping your palms down on the blanket. He moved to grip your ankles, catching your tired eyes as they flicked to his.

“Your hips are hurting aren’t they?”

“No.” You groaned at the aching that circulated your body, “it’s mostly my back.”

Manny pursed his lips, “yeah, you’re done. I already have the bath downstairs all set up for you. The food should be here in fifteen minutes and we’ll chill out on the couch for the night, yeah?”

“Sounds good.” You closed your eyes, “if only I felt like moving.”

“Uh huh, what happened to all that energy minutes ago when you were trying to stab me in the neck?” He flicked your lower leg meat.

He let you relax for five more minutes when he didn’t get a response, but of course he went back to slightly bugging you to get up. You leaned into him, waddling as he led you back into the house which he made sure was secure behind you soon to be four. Manny led you through the house, down the narrow hallway to one of the bathrooms.

While you yawned, manny tended to you after you took your bathroom break, helped you strip out of your clothes while feeling on your bump before guiding you into the tub, he brought your skincare to you and watched as you did that on your own before carefully dumping water over your face to rinse the residue off, then leaving shortly, he came back with cucumber and lemon water for you to sip on while he rubbed down your shoulders and upper back for a bit before truly leaving you alone to soak.

Sure you and Manny came from two separate lifestyles and had to adjust as a married couple. It was not always sunshine and roses, however when it tended to “be” you never took those moments for granted.

When he came back for you, you couldn’t help but to place multiple tender kisses to his plump ones in thanks, which he seemed to appreciate. The new tweaks in the night routine (which included bio oil and rightfully so saving your haircare for tomorrow) allowed you two to spend more time together; although it almost always felt brief in the morning once manny headed out for the day. He was also in loungewear now, smelling of fresh linen and vetiver as he led you to the sitting room at the front of the house, where dinner was already waiting at the coffee table.

Plopping down onto the leather sofa, you slouched down against the arm of the chair while manny handed over your meal before grabbing his own. He had to angle his body since you made yourself comfortable by placing your slightly swollen feet on his lap.

“This stuffed crab is hitting but you know what would really satisfy this craving?” You asked Manny, who tilted his head as he smacked on his smoked chicken.

“Lambis.” You mentioned, which was not what Manny was expecting.

Manny hummed, “oh so you craving your roots, huh mama? I’m sure I could find you some snails out in the yard tho…until we can actually take that trip to Martinique.”

“Ew, the disrespect. Don’t say shit like that to aggravate me when you’ve been doing so well since we got inside.” You scrunched up your nose while you glanced out the front doubled window.

The buzzed hair man laughed, “eat your food, y/n. Close your eyes and just imagine, that’s kinda what we have to do lately.”

“Oh I’m grateful, I just know the babies aren’t.”

“Must be from your side of the family, then.” Manny joked but stopped when you lifted your foot to kick his thigh.

A spasm went through your lower half in that moment, causing you to stop mid-chew and clench your pelvic floor. Manny sat up immediately noticing the discomfort in your facial expression and sighed. He placed his own food back on the coffee table and gently took yours from you, you started to whine in protest but clenched your fist as another spasm started to hit.

Manny licked his fingertips before he pressed his kneecaps into the noisy leather couch he loved so much. “Aight, y/n enough of the bullshit. I told you not to work so hard—

“Sorry but I really don’t want to hear this.”

Giving you a blank stare he suddenly ordered, “legs up.”

“What?”

“Look here, I’ve been trying to help your hardheaded ass since I got home and clearly Jody and sweetpea are kicking your ass from the inside out so please, ma. Just let me try something and when it works, you’ll be good to go I promise.” Manny told.

Sighing you began to lift your legs straight up but halted briefly, “I know you didn’t just up and decide to name our kids off some characters from a John singleton movie.”

Manny smirked but quickly shushed you and gripped your legs higher up into the air, as far as your body would allow you to stretch before he guided your hands to hold the tips of your toes backwards. He scooted forward to lock his arms around your thighs to help steady you, while you breathed and felt the pressure relieve.

“…you think this position is how I ended up like this?”

Manny snorted out a laugh as he shifted your thighs to get a good look at you, who had one eye open, “this is the only position I remember the instructor telling us about whenever you get spasms.”

“Yeah, I wonder why…” you teased with a shake of your head.

Manny licked his bottom lip before sending you a smirk and a kiss your way.

•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*••*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•**

Continue along with my anthology spring prompts here.

[ludwig-holy-blade]

Rhaenyra Targaryen Headcanons: Male Dayne Reader: Part II

The Time of Mourning: Rhaenyra was inconsolable. For the intervening months you acted as her rock, serving as her confidant and sworn shield. In the days and weeks following Aemma's death you had spent nearly every moment in Kings Landing attempting to console her. Hours spent in the godswood reading to her or reminiscing with Rhaenyra about her favorite memories. In that time old feelings resurfaced and young love sprouted once more and in fact even more virulent than previously. Those feelings once kindled by letters and smalls gifts became a bonfire within Rhaenyra. Warming and comforting her during what was then, the most difficult part of her life. Your unwavering support became even more important when Viserys named her heir to the Iron Throne.

A show of Force: You accompanied Rhaenyra every where even the small council meetings. Though the both of you despised them your mutual support made the meetings less tedious and annoying. The true test of your patients came with news of the Crab-Feeder. To watch as Rhaenyra was ignored by the council, by her own father when she was correct the need for force made you want to cleave some of these men in two. As always, when they sent her away to choose new Kingsguard, you went with her.

Ser Criston Cole: There were two people you could say you truly hated in Kings Landing one of them was Criston Cole and. When you joined Rhaenyra in her choosing a new member for the Kingsguard you couldn’t help but notice how Criston's eyes lingered on Rhaenyra more than they should have. Rhaenrya couldn’t help but notice your reaction to this and couldn’t help herself but tease you. The entire walk back she could do nothing but dawn over his handsome face and skill at arms. You silenced such comments with a kiss. Her plan all along. Displays of affection between you both were rare. Despite your closeness being well documented, neither of you wanted to give the schemers and plotters any chance to accuse her of impropriety. There was one person however whom Rhaenyra trusted beyond all others who she was fine telling about the both you. A person you wouldn’t trust as far as you could throw.

Lady Alicent Hightower: Just because you didn’t trust the lady Alicent didn’t mean you harbored her any I’ll will. This was not mutual. You were Dornish and she a Reachman your people had killed each other for generations. Not to mention her father had warned her to be wary of the ways of foreigners. You however didn’t trust her for a singular reason. Her father was a cunt. A scheming, conniving political animal that would do anything and everything to garner more power for his family. It was this proclivity towards power grabs that united you and Rhaenyra in your opinions on Hightowers.

A Sisterhood Broken: To call Rhaenyra incensed to learn her father planned to marry her girlhood friend would be a gross and dangerous understatement. Unlike her usual wroth Rhaenyra was overtaken by silent, belligerent rage. The entire court could see it in her hateful glances and hear it in her clipped and snapping tone. You however could see a step beyond that, the rage and anger a mask for betrayal. Alicent had been as a sister to Rhaenyra, her friend and confidant. While the court whispered of the young dragon-riders rage you had held her in the quiet night as she wept, grieving a friendship lost. She clung to you all through the night making you swear and swear to her that you’d never leave her. Regrettably you couldn’t keep that promise.

The Cruel Wars: When Daemon Targaryen and Corlys Valeryon made off to the step-stones to wage war against the Triarchy many men at arms and knights went with him. When they did you knew you had to join them. How could you not, men, women and children were suffering under Prince Drahar's sadism and would suffer still if nothing was done. You explained this for nearly six hours to Rhaenyra when you told her and still she raged. Crying and screaming, ordering you not to go. When the anger passed you held her close and promised her you’d return, this vow you made to the moon and stars same as the last. She refused to speak to you for the rest of the evening, demanding you leave her. The following day as you announced your intent to leave before the court and King Viserys Rhaenyra approached you. In front of the eyes of entire court she took out her favor and wrapped it about your wrist before drawing you in for a kiss. The kiss was long and deep and full of promise. You held her and whispered to her that when you returned you would take her to wife and with promises traded you left to join the cruel wars.

[namjoonchronicles]

the specialist | five

↳ pairing yoongi, you

↳ genre romance, pretend lovers, angst, eventual smut, office-factory setting

↳ title five |  ambitious one | 5.215k words  

↳ summary how would you convince yoongi to go on with this arrangements when he clearly said he want none of the shenanigans with you? you decided to do things the traditional way, to court him, take him on a date. when on the date, you revealed your (presumed) intention to court him but he vaguely answered stating that dating his superior wouldn’t look right. so he plays hard to get. and you can’t really say you hate a good challenge

↳ warnings none

↳ compressed links one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten  ongoing 

FIVE.

Ambitious One.

I have always been ambitious, my mother said. Tunnel vision once I set my mind onto something. I have always wanted many things. And have always found my way to get my hands on them — no matter what. I wanted many things. I have never wanted someone.

And I reckon, It’s a whole lot different than wanting objects.

There is nothing more depressing than the sight of a lady wanting so much from a man that doesn't know anything about her desire. Hoping for the ripple effect of her desperation would somehow reach him through telepathy. How do you teach your brain to think like your heart? Knowing fully well that they are of different makings? One, thoughts; another, thuds. Connecting the dots with careful calculations, dealing with mathematics is much easier than dealing with emotions. It’s making you physically sick, dizzy, discombobulated.

The last time you felt this severely vulnerable was when you considered leaving your professional field to be an artist. You already prepared the dialogues in your head and answers to questions they might ask. And by experience, you also know that sometimes they don't ask the question you thought they would. And that's where the trouble arises.

You caught Seokjin in a pretentious glance to feign hard work. Provided his long legs, he got next to you from behind in no time.

"You look like a drug addict at the sight of your drug dealer after a rehab, could you calm it down?" He spoke in a soft but hushed tone. His eyes darted at random places in the room, to mask the fact that he too was actually looking at Yoongi—who was in fact underneath a blistering machine fixing and aligning the foil and PVC with his capable hands.

"What are your plans?" Seokjin glides his eyes and himself to the side where you are, curious and in a serious undertone. "It's a little drastic but it might work," you matched his tone. "Sounds a little rapey but sure, I trust you," Seokjin nods. "Why on earth would it even go there, I didn't even say anything remotely sexual," you grimaced. "Rapey — as in intrusive of one's personal space," he adds. "Like what you are doing to me right now," you spat.

He glides his rolling chair away, mouthing, "Fair."

Yoongi could not understand why it was so difficult to screw the nuts in. He had multiple mishaps to face today and one of them is the no. 12 spanar isn't in the toolbox, and the WD-40 anti-rust spray is missing for the nth time today. To add to the problem, the PVC roll broke in half because the new kid he is training, slipped them out of his hand. To which he had to request Seokjin, the executive to order a new roll since he clocked in pretty early.

His knees are bruised from kneeling for hours by this machine and already, he had to go for training for a newly installed packing machine. The engineers asked him when he was free. To be fucking honest, his only free time is his break time.

One final twist and it's screwed. He pulls the foil roll into the feeder, and lets in extra length to finalize the alignment measurements. Then, he let the machine run. It stamps perfectly. He instructed the new kid to watch the machine as he cleaned up. He wipes his greasy hand with a rag he found. He knelt, yet again, by the tool box to hear the door open and close. It was you.

He placed the tools he used one-by-one into the toolbox and when he got to the last one, your hands snatched them faster.

"What do you need a WD-40 spray for?" He asked but not really asking, motioning his hand to take them from you. Repeatedly. "Do something for me..." you demanded, timidly. "No," he darted. "One thing, please," you added.

"I just did overtime yesterday, I will not do another one no matter how much you'll pay," he assumed.

Realizing he stood firmly on his stand, you resorted to, as you said to Seokjin, drastic measures. You hoped and prayed that you didn't have to, but knowing Yoongi as long as you did, you have expected this degree of complication to take place.

You took Yoongi’s spanner and went to run with it. You bolted to the doors.

"What in the fuck—" You heard Yoongi cussed breathlessly, moaning how he has no time for this.

"That thing is heavy, fucking christ," he mumbled tiredly.

Standing outside the glass doors, you held on the handles like it was your lifeline. Speaking of lifelines, your plan only works if Yoongi was in it. And the chance for him to be in it, is zero to none.

He could push the door if he wanted. He could do it with one hand. The strength you had mustered in both arms is a quarter of his left arm. But he assessed the situation diligently in a quick second and he knows that if he exerted more than that, you'll get hurt. What is making you behave that way?

He lets go of the handle for you to set the spanner he wanted on the floor opposed to the door. There is no way for him to take the spanner without tackling you down first. With the glass doors between you both, sounds do not transfer, so you'll have to communicate with sign languages.

You kick the spanner further away with your leg and toes. He groans and tilt his head back, baring his throat columns where his peony tattoos were. It distracted you. That's new isn't it?

Almost at the point of drooling, he tried to open the door so he could get to his tools but you were absolutely persistent.

"I can't believe this is happening," he shakes his head, pinching his forehead between his thumb and fingers, "I got shit to do!" He fusses.

Poking through the gap of the door, you said, "Are you going to help me or not? You help me, I give you your tools back," you parlayed.

You closed the door and he steps back to undo his facemask, mouthing a delicious, succulent, "Fuck you," he smirks.

You chuckled dryly and turned to him once more to show him your glorious middle finger before taking his spanners with you. With confident strides you walk along the long auto-lit hallway and somewhere between your steps, you hear the door behind you open and close.

"What do you want..." his voice, gritty with an attractive rasp.

You tugged a smile on your lips and turned to him.

"Buy me a meal," you said and he made a confused expression. So you motioned a fork and spoon with your hands and smiled.

Yoongi replied with a snarky expression, bit his smile and challenged you through the glass door as if to say, "You wanna try me?"

Seeing that he won't say yes easily, you took the spanner with you. So he hollered from the distance, "McDonald's? Or Burger King?"

"Burger King!" You replied just as loud. "The spanner!" "After I get the meal!"

So persistent.

"What do you want?" He said at the self-order counter.

He taps on the touchscreen for 'Eat In' option, and bolts at the onion rings the same time you did.

"You too???" You beamed.

"Yeah, the onion rings here are great," he said through an expressionless face, shoving one when it was placed on the tray, he wiped his hand on the back of his overalls and paid for the food as promised.

Now seated on the semi-empty fast food chain, Yoongi glances at you who is unwrapping the burger you ordered. He sets his limp crossbody sling bag on the empty chair next to him. His jumpsuit was unzipped up till the middle of his chest between his nipples, revealing the white shirt he was wearing underneath. At work, the multiple chains (read: dogtag, celtic cross and wolf fang) would have caused an issue but if worn underneath the jumpsuit, hidden away from prying eyes, one could escape suspension. The rules are high-school worthy,  but that's how the management wants to be conceived.

“What do you mean by ‘do something’?” Yoongi broke the silence with his gritty voice, fingers nimble on the onion he plans to shove in his mouth next, trying to rake his brain on the enigma that is you.

“I just wanted to have food,” you shrugged. Hoping the lie would be enough but deep down you know Yoongi is suspicious. Yoongi spreads his knees and reclines further back into his chair, lasering menacing gaze on your deceit. Despite him leaning, his bony tattooed wrist still extends over the expanse of the tables’ edge. His other elbow is on the other chair on his right. He cranes his neck back then to the side, and you could see a rough uncolored draft on them. The columns of his throat as he swallowed a thick gulp — such a delicious sight.

“Do I look like four to you?” You clicked your tongue, “On some days…” You begin. He begins to zip his jumpsuit and gather his sling bag, eyes darted at the exit and he clicks his tongue. You clawed his sleeve before he could go any further; the sleeves that he had rolled up his elbows.

“Let me!” you hurried to say and softened when you met his gaze in a brief glance upward from your seated position, “Explain.”

Seokjin crosses his arm whispering, “Yoongi will not pretend, take it from me.”

“I realized that we started off our tumultuous relationship from a misunderstanding that continued to pile on as we worked together and I know now that you weren’t as bad as I painted you to be,” you gulped. Yoongi is back seated on the chair.

Flashes of the words from the period drama you watched alone. The main character persuaded his love interest. Flashback end. Flashes begin. Standing across the table staring at Seokjin, you asked timidly, “Then what do you propose?” Flashback end.

Sometimes I learn to love from the TV screen. I mimicked their words and copied their intonation. To pretend to have feelings. Or to remember feelings, having been devoid of them for so long.

“After the time we’ve spent and how you’ve helped me out with the car and at work, I found out that I’ve been microscopically focusing on your bad qualities instead of the good because I was terrified of…” you fiddled with your nails, gazing down at your lap, “Terrified of liking you.”

Seokjin gazes to the side, at the window panels overlooking the road, “If he can’t pretend, then you’ll have to.”

I have to do this Yoongi.

“And I wonder if you’d consider,” you took a deep breath and forced yourself to look at him, “...Me.”

You can almost hear the crows flying across the room filling the silence that has been casted upon the whole restaurant. Actually, the crows were flying inside the restaurant and the staff are clamoring over them to shoo them out.

Yoongi straightens up in his seat. The way that whole day seems constructed, no, orchestrated to seem like a movie makes him wary. How it unfolds, how it came to be— they’re all so suspicious. He slouched forward and he brought his hand together, lacing each fingers like a prayer.

“What are you plotting, madam?”

I have to be more convincing. He’s not buying.

Yoongi has always been empathetic. According to Seokjin’s experience, if ever Seokjin needed help to fill in a specialist vacant spot, Seokjin would be honest about why the spot is vacant. Whether their motorcycle tires are busted, or their wife’s in labor, Yoongi would chime in. And by experience, you know that Yoongi would drop forks and spoons to help someone with something they couldn’t help with. Didn’t matter if it was a carefully-made lie. And the worst is, Yoongi kept falling for it.

Blinking to the side with your head hung down, you gulped. You didn’t say another word, just a dry scoff, too short a chuckle to hide a broken heart. Your lips pressed into a thin line. You don’t plan to say another word. You want the silence to eat him alive. Convincing, sometimes isn’t about speaking out, or throwing out big emotions; sometimes it can be in the silence. Because when emotion is at play, no words could compensate. Utilizing Yoongi’s strong sense of quiet empathy, you know that this was enough to dissuade his accumulating distrust. Sensing the change in the air, Yoongi’s head dropped and leaned back hoping to see the bigger picture of this strange confession that seemed to manifest out of nowhere. The longer you stayed silent, the heavier, the thicker, the more suffocating — the atmosphere became.

His knitted brows, the creases of his skin between, the lines in his forehead and the little shake of his head signifies a demanding confusion. Then he remembered the look, the gaze you held on him when he was catering you not too long ago. The lingering eyes, the stare. It adds up, doesn’t it?

“You have to understand,” He begins, clasping and unclasping his hand as he spoke in whispers, “I have never seen you in that way before, it has always been work and wanting to lend a hand where it fits,” and I am aware how it looks for you right now that I may have crossed a thin-line but for some reason, I can’t decide if it was love or coworker-ship and I can’t risk both. Yoongi clenched his eyes shut like it pains him to say it out loud, “But you’re my superior. It won’t look right for both of us.”

You swung your head to the side, nail digging into your Prada purse. The leather skin peeling off, unsure if it was his voice or his words that was wavering your fragile strength. This was something the dramas didn’t teach. Suddenly, it almost felt real and you tune your heart out to protect it.

“You’re not answering,” you shake your head, your smile faltering, “I asked if you would consider me… not the executive me, not your superior—me, the one you took riding, the one you cooked for, the one you listened to— me.”

The reflection of you in his eyes, his fluttering lashes as he figures out what to say. His mouth moves, and they sputter words that sound foreign to you. It is almost as if you’ve gone deaf, and you watched the shape of his lips to make sense of what he was saying and by delay, the words string into your head to form a sentence— all you could hear was ringing, high pitch ringing in your ear. The time moves agonizingly slowly and you sat there frozen, and taking it all in.

A week went by.  And then. Two weeks went by.

In your room, there’s a large corkboard. Unfolding the blueprint of the house you wanted, you have thumbtacks piecing all its four-corners. There were pictures of Yoongi surrounding his name card— his interest, his tattoos, the pros and cons you see in him. Your domineering mother and passive father and the qualities they might search for in a son-in-law. The strings connect towards the house; this pretentious status of the house your mother wanted you to have because it would increase your family’s societal status.

”I am already so very successful, mother!” “Really? Where is your house? Your land? Who would believe you?”

Unmarried. No prospect. A burden.

Smiling towards the corkboard, next to an open luggage on the floor, you said, “He didn’t say no.” Yoongi didn’t say no. These past two weeks, you were on a business trip to town, representing the production department in the annual meeting for the headquarters based in Seoul. These past few weeks, your only source of entertainment was Seokjin who was updating you on all the field gossip while you were away. In a phone call, Seokjin mentions something peculiar about Yoongi.

“He had been taking a lot of overtime lately,” Seokjin sighs into the phone, “Without me even asking… d’you think it has something to do with what happened in Burger King that day?”

“It might have…” “What did he say?” “He didn’t say no.” “But he didn’t say yes either, did he?”

Silence from your side, but your smile remains as you reminisce Yoongi’s voice when asked for time to decide, in Burger King that day.

“Did you tell him that doing too much overtime could kill him?” you switched in your seat. “Yeah-yeah I did. But he kept saying that he needed to do something.”

“Which was?” “Dunno.”

Yoongi had the day you returned to work, off. With his bike, clad in black, his black leather jacket and work boots, he walks into a pawnshop. Upon entering, the young boy at the cash register leaves to the back and an older heavily built man replaces him. He wore big chains on his neck, had gold teeth that were apparent when he smiled at Yoongi. Yoongi took off his helmet and greeted him with his chin. A wad of cash was placed on the counter for the older man to take. He combs through the stack of money with a wry smile.

“You can count them out, I’ll wait,” Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly. The older man passes the cash to his son who disappeared into the back to take out something from the safe deposit.

This is the something that he needed to do. Recovering his grandmother’s vintage wedding ring. The day that she had to pawn her ring was the day Yoongi went to interview to obtain the job he has now. He promised her on her deathbed that when he could afford to, he would take them back to her.

And so he rides to the cemeteries. With white baby breaths in hand, Yoongi crouches by his grandmother’s name plate, fiddling with the vintage ring he recovered, burdened by the thoughts of the future, something he had never even imagined because Yoongi had always been living in the present.

“Because you said, when a girl spoke to me about feelings, I should tell you first,” he said, his eyes squinting at the glaring sun, “This is me telling you.”

He dug a small shallow hole and placed the ring inside, “And this is the promise I’ve fulfilled. Permission to be happy now, gramma.” The smile his grandmother wore on her portrait now didn’t seem crestfallen like how he remembered it to be. Call him delusional, but she actually looked happy. He walks away feeling like the weight on his shoulder was lifted entirely. He took one last look at his grandmother’s grave and the baby breath he had left, the velvet box the ring came with on top of her name plate next to her portrait — a redefining leap. A fresh start. To the new Yoongi.

It was a little over 6.30pm when Yoongi clocked in for his night shift for the week when he saw you still seated in your office with your face lit by the PC screen. You were skimming through files and keeping up with the changed production plan while you were away. You stood up to update the rosters for your supervisors and machine specialists to see. This is to inform them about the changes and they were required to arrange a task force accordingly. Seokjin might have notified them verbally and through text but this is a formal briefing as per SOPs. Earbuds in your ear to keep you company when you catch the scent of freshly brewed coffee lurking in the dark office. Yoongi enters with a thermos and two mugs.

Looking over your shoulder, you eyed him suspiciously.

“Did you know, the largest spanner in this factory weighs about 2.5 kg?” He pours coffee in the mugs, takes his and leaves behind a smaller spanner and retrieves the heavier one you had been withholding from him. He walks backward, one hand holding his mug, the other shaking the large spanner, and he said, “This one’s 1.1kg.” A smile crept on your face. He disappears into the dark hallway. And you sped to the door sill.

“So it's a date?!” you yelled from where you are, hoping it reaches him, whose silhouette is apparent underneath the automated light in the hallway. “No time this week!” you could hear him smiling, he continued walking.

“Next week then?!” “No!”

That was how it began. Yoongi is doing the trades like you did. Like how you earned Burger King from him. The spanner is the symbol of trade. By leaving behind the spanner to you, he is giving you the benefit of the trade, the power. So you returned them to him. The issue here now is time. And suddenly, Yoongi was bludgeoned with looks and nudged from you, asking “Date?” A folded sticky note that reads, “Date?” Over time, you’ve gotten creative, and almost exposed yourself in pursuing Yoongi.

The “Dates?” were asked through the passover windows, written and folded in his locker, in his boots, inside his helmet, in all his pockets, in his toolbox. Time and time again, he crosses his arm at you, shakes his head and mouthed, “No.”

You sent a screenshot of your Google search to Seokjin. It reads, “How to ask a guy on a date?” followed by, “How to attract an INTP” then, “How to date.”

Seokjin [10:09pm] : Yikes. Seokjin [10:00pm] : Sorry I asked. “H. E. L. P,” you replied.

Seokjin calling…

“Maybe you’ve been too forward, like, the poor dude got spooked,” he starts. “Wow okay,” you grunt.

From the conversation with Seokjin, it seemed like too much effort isn’t attractive. Fair enough, you should have known when the first 3 of your 25 tries didn’t come to fruition. In dramas you watched, the girl wouldn’t have to ask. According to Seokjin, Yoongi would prefer a more intimate approach.

“ Maybe cut down the asking from 25 in a day to perhaps 1 or two—” Seokjin trailed. “ —a day?” “A week,” to this response from Seokjin, you frowned. Face crumpled.

“Inefficient, I wouldn’t have time, I need the house by mid-year next year,” you scribbled down the timeline. “Now, let’s not think of the time. You can’t rush trust,” Seokjin instructs, “You have to be patient.” “I’m a burnt out underpaid and overworked executive, I can’t afford to be patient,” you spat.

Seokjin rubs his face down, “Relationship to Yoongi, heck, to anyone is like a marathon. The finish line being the relationship itself. It’s not how you start, it’s how you end. It’s never about speed, it's about sustainability, stealth and commitment.”

“Speak to me like an engineer, you make zero sense right now,” you massaged the temples of your head.

Machines, calculations, mathematics— connecting the dots from one end to the other have always been simple to me. All the things the world finds complicated have always made sense to me and for that reason, perhaps, other things people thought as simple weren’t so to me. They don’t appeal to me, much less matter to me. It was when I began to work with people that I realized how much facial expressions could say without words. Being direct has always been easy, but now that I know emotions others have, I tend to think more, learn more. 

Have I been neglecting my heart for so long, I forgot I have one? 

Gentler. Like how you heard the female actress in that movie say to her lover. Yoongi had shied away from your advances because you came off too strong. Too eager. Having heard Seokjin’s advice, you had dialed it down by a ton. It wasn’t difficult, but you were more concerned of the time, ever glancing at the digital calendar at every 5 minute interval. Maybe you should forget about it all. Maybe accept your first defeat and run off. That doesn’t sound like you. Fret, you’re clawing at the impossible as of now because this desire of yours requires a third-party who had to be earned by emotions. It probably would have been easier if the target wasn’t Yoongi. But it is too late to change now. The cards are drawn and they spell his name.

What would you do if you truly love someone?

You make amends with your past. Yoongi blinks at the half-bitten biscuit in his hand. He is seated on the roadside, wiping his hand on the back of his black worn-out jeans. Dust flew as cars after cars passed by. His boots scratch the pebbles underneath being the only sound apart from the throttling bikes speeding by.

The tattoo parlor behind him had its shutter just opened. The owner, with his fiery neon green hair, rubbing his eyes as he prepares.

"The alarm died on me," he greets Yoongi at the door. Yoongi cocks his eyebrow and walks in, unconvinced, "Sure it did."

"Heard you were back at the pawnshop," Hansung yawns. "Not to pawn, but to get something back," Yoongi sat himself on the leather seat, peeling off his jacket and black turtleneck. Hansung prepares a bottle of cognac and two shot glasses. In a while, Hansung puts on his black gloves and Yoongi bares his neck. Unprompt, he applies tattoo care balm on his neck.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you want to cover up your skin,” Hansung mumbles to his chest, knees widespread to be in close proximity in order to do his job.

Yoongi didn’t respond. Hansung’s eyes glided to where Yoongi’s skin was still bare. The specks of scars, and healed wounds that his skin endured. Cuts and blades on the columns otherwise invisible to the naked eye. It was these scars that he wanted to hide. Ligature abrasions, permanent scarring, small pale circle scars littered his shoulders and neck, all but his face— his skins were witnesses and proof of a turbulent upbringing.

Yoongi closed his eyes and when he did, those words he grew up to ring in his ears like a broken record.

“How about I break your pretty little face, huh?” 

”Get over here, I need to put out my cigars.”

His childhood was dreadful.

“Hyung is always so strange,” Hansung let out a short chuckle, probably feeling foolish for saying this out loud, “Most people do tatts for the art, and you told me to treat your skin like a canvas. What if one day you wake up and decide you hate what I drew on you?”

“I do it for the tingles. I don’t care what you draw on me,” he replied coolly.

Yoongi showed up with a turtleneck the next day at work. He smells like coconut and mango when he passes by. He senses several head perks up when he walks by. He brought the book he was trying to finish since last Christmas.

“Friedrich Nietzsche,” you typed into your phone once you walked back to your locker. That was very interesting. Especially ‘Beyond Good and Evil’. The idea was to remember what interests him; and that is through the books he reads. As Yoongi was minding his business, he felt a shadow looming over him like a statue.

“I know you’re there, I’m not going on a date with you,” he spat dryly. “I wasn’t gonna ask— “ you screwed your face in disgust.

“Then why are you here, standing there like a ghost? Hm?” Yoongi shrugs, careful not to turn his head to the side because his throat tattoo is healing. “The will to overcome an emotion, is ultimately the will of another, or of several other, emotions,” you quoted. Sitting across the table, just like you did in Burger King, coffee in hand.

“I would not have guessed you were a fan of Nietzsche,” you take a small sip of the coffee in a paper cup, “Bunch of bullshit he is. But then again, fitting.”

Yoongi let out a scoff the same time he shut his book and threw it a short distance on the table, “Who said I was?”

“You were reading him.” “To understand him. The man’s dead.” “Well, I have SEVERAL things I disagree with.” “And so you spoke through his grave?” “IF I must.”

Yoongi squints his eyes toward you, and you squint back.

“One quote of him that I hate to this day, he said and I quote; ‘He who seeks intelligence lacks intelligence,’” you stated. “Why, because it hits home?” Yoongi darts.

“Because it was inaccurate,” you swirled and blew the hot steams away from your coffee. “Really, how so?” he tips his chin and folded his arms, leaning towards the table at you. You were rendered silence.

Yoongi clears his throat and lowers his voice, “It’s not a criticism. He’s not saying the people who value knowledge lacks it or saying that they are stupid. He’s saying that the people who search for something, don't have it. It is in a way, stating the obvious. He, who seeks intelligence,” Yoongi points his forefinger to your temple, “Lacks intelligence,” he taps the tip of your nose. He scrunches his nose, smirking.

“Get it now?” he returns to his laxed self. “I need a pen and paper,” you swallowed the whole paper cup of coffee. Yoongi handed one. Then he tore off a page from the Friedrich Nietzsche book. That sudden move thrilled you but you hoped it wouldn't show on your face but Yoongi caught on.

“So you’re that type of reader,” you grinned, taking the piece of paper from him, “The read and butcher kind.” “ I can’t decide if that’s a slur or a compliment, I’m leaning to believe that it's both?” He pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side.

The wall clock showed 8AM, you stood up folding the paper he gave you after writing something on it, then you pushed it towards him. His larger hand overlaps yours as he takes it. Your hand slips out easily. It was obvious that he fully intended to touch you. The calluses on his fingertips send electric tingles on  your knuckles and you couldn’t even look back at him after you left the cafeteria. You could feel his eyes on you.

“Bookstore. Saturday. Lunch.” You wrote.

Meeting was grueling. With the CAPA incident involving Yoongi finally coming to  a close, you are now helping Seokjin with his CAPA report while the meeting is in progress. All seven executives of the branches were huddled in the meeting room and while the presentation was happening, it was common to see secretaries and clerks handing over notes from the Machine Specialists to their Execs. This time, Jimin passes a note to you saying that it was from your MS.

Unfolding the note, you read a big three letters written with a marker pen, “ Y E S.” You smiled so big, Seokjin looked up from his laptop, his bangs poking his eyes. You gave him a nod and a smile and he too, grins. .

.

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Copyright © May 5th, 2022 namjoonchronicles do not repost, or claim as your own

[tribbetherium]

The Middle Glaciocene: 110 million years post-establishment

From Hell's Heart I Bite At Thee: The Plurodon

Skwoids, highly-derived marine gastropods heavily converging on cephalopods, had been highly successful for the past few million years, thriving in the oceans in an amazing diversity of forms, with a few tiny species even venturing into freshwater and colonizing rivers and lakes. Largest of these is the giant skwoid (Craccinus relasi), the biggest invertebrate in all of HP-02017's oceans: with its six grasping arms included, can easily reach lengths of ten meters.

For the past couple of million years, the giant skwoid had remained uncontested in the deep abyss of the ocean: save for a few small dolphin-sized cricetaceans that occasionally dive to such depths to exploit the abundance of small swimming sea slugs called pescopods, no other hamsters dive to such depths, as being air-breathers, they are dependent on access to the surface. But times have changed as the Middle Glaciocene comes under way, for the seas of 110 million years PE are reigned by a true titan unlike anything else before: the plurodon.

Plurodons are the largest of the marine predators known as leviahams: at about 18 to 20 meters long on average, and hitting 24 meters in the biggest males, they rival the largest seavers in bulk, and exceed the rounder-bodied cricetaceans in length: easily making them one of the largest, if not the largest, aquatic hamsters yet to live on the planet.

Plurodons are able to reach such tremendous sizes due to their unique dentition that allows them a dual mode of feeding: their jagged, serrated teeth, incisors and molars alike, are as equipped to strain out smaller prey items from the water as it is at tearing into larger quarry, if not a little less efficiently than the obligate filter-feeding seavers. Such a large animal could not possibly sustain itself on large prey alone, but during times of less-abundant prey, especially during summer months when most large marine life migrates away, the plurodon is able to make do with the vast abundance of tiny prey instead, such as shoaling shrish and swarms of pescopods that gather in the cold southern seas surrounding Peninsulaustra and the south polar ice cap.

Adaptable to a wide range of food items, the plurodon lives a dual life: at times being a filter feeder exploiting clouds and clouds of small prey items, and at times being an apex predator of bigger game, such as cricetaceans, large shrish including shrarks, and on occasion even the smaller seavers that sometimes venture into the Centralic Ocean during the winter. But the ultimate prize is one that dwells in the murky depths of the ocean's abyssal region: the giant skwoids.

Few other hamsters are able to dive to such depths, but the plurodon is no typical predator. Able to tolerate prolonged hypoxia and immense pressures thanks to proteins in its muscle tissue and blood cells with a strong affinity for oxygen, the plurodon can hold its breath for as long as over one-and-a-half hours, plunging into depths of up to a thousand meters below sea level to track its elusive quarry, aided by proportionally-large eyes adapted for seeing in the murky gloom. The giant skwoids do not go down without a fight, however, and many plurodons sport scars and wounds from the harpoon-like radula the skwoid uses to defend itself.

This fearsome apex hunter of the deep, however, is not without a softer side. Plurodons usually travel in mated pairs, frequently for life, and work together in order to catch their food: a pair making a slow, elegant underwater ballet of sorts as they plunge together into the depths, with one startling giant skwoids to blunder into the jaws of the other. Pregnancies are long, usually around ten months at a time, after which a single calf is born, which is fully dependent on nursing from its mother for a few months, and, at just a little over two meters at birth, is vulnerable to marine predators like shrarks, phorcas and even other leviahams.

Fortunately, both parents are very protective of their young, and as it grows stronger, eventually begins to accompany them on their perilous feeding dives. It learns from its parents how to hunt skwoids without harm, and stays close by for as long as ten years in some cases, before it finally separates from them to lead an independent life. Soon, at maturity, it searches for a mate of its own, and eventually pair-bonds with a suitable one, making clicking sounds with its resonating cheek pouches to communicate long-distance, as sound travels faster and further underwater than in air. Once bonded, a pair will spend the rest of their 80-90 year-long lifespans together, only taking a new mate should their previous one perish-- for in the harsh and unforgiving oceans of the Glaciocene Era, even the mighty plurodon struggles to survive alone.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

[kickthecanrevolution]

Chillin’. The cats are a little freaked out with all of this commotion but Minnie in particular is clearly happy with so much more room to run around.

I took a trip with some stuff to the new place this morning, then dashed to Home Depot to get the last of the tomato plants. I’m curious what I can grow through fall, the weather is so warm here Sep-Dec. I put more food in the bird feeder, I hope they show up. They will, it’s just been awhile. I want the birds to be there for the kittens when we wake up there Friday morning.

Came back home to take a nap and get ready for a big work presentation tomorrow and my neighbor asked if we wanted to do a run of stuff over so she could see the progress. I was desperate to close my eyes for a bit but I’m not going to overlook a second pair of hands and a Range Rover- my Minicooper with the top off can load quite a bit but I’ll take an SUV if I can get it.

Got home and immediately jumped into my presentation design. Six hours later, I’m finished, it’s a relief to go into this week with something solid my team can work on while I’m out moving. I was so focused on my presentation, I almost missed the couple picking up a bookshelf, the last of my giveaway items. I’m moving into this new place pretty lightly.

I’m proud of what I’ve done since February. I’ve parted with almost 70% of what I brought with me 14 years ago from Seattle, and so much h of what I’ve collected along the way. I made a new garden, totally gutted and remodeled a new place. I have a new job, taking care of my parents, and now my sister (coming soon) and dealt with so many cat scares and emotional ups and downs. It’s a lot. And, I’m starting to really grieve leaving here, it’s so unexpected.

[oldguardhc]

Old Guard hc #135

Warnings: Temporary Major Character Death, Alcoholism, Depression

AN: @sunshineandchemistry wanted hurt inspired by Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Then) by The Decemberists. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. 

They have a plan. 

They’re supposed to stop healing together. They’re supposed to retire from the action and live out the rest of their days in Malta. They’re supposed to have decades to prepare for the inevitable day. They’re supposed to go together. 

Not-not like this. 

Joe stares down at his own body. A puddle of blood has formed around it, bright red and barely deep enough to splash if someone were to step in it. His light blue shirt, now a deep maroon, is sticking to his chest and his fingers itch to pull the fabric away before it can dry. His eyes, open and glazed, he wanted to see the stars before this death, pierce through him in a way his reflection never has.  

This feels like a joke. 

He’s bled ten times more than this and was back in the fight a minute later. When his leg got blown off, he was walking not an hour later. So why the hell is the hole in his chest, barely an inch wide and four inches deep, not closing? This is nothing but a scratch in the long list of injuries his body has sustained. 

When he first woke up, he had laughed. He just got killed by a purse-snatcher. A purse-snatcher. They weren’t even smart enough to burglar a house; how the guy got the jump on him was a goddamn mystery, not to mention insulting and mortifying. Booker was never going to let him live this down. 

It was only after he sat up and patted his chest, still chuckling to himself at the sheer absurdity of the situation, that he realized something was wrong. That he was wrong. 

His hands, normally a warm brown, like wheat just before the summer harvest, were gray and pale, every inch of life snuffed out of them. Joe had stared at them, flipping them over and over, flexing and shaking his fingers to stimulate fresh blood flow, but no matter how much he moved them, how many times he blinked, they remained the same. Cool brown and utterly wrong. 

That wasn’t even the worst part. 

No, the worst part, the worst fucking part, was when he stood up, ready to shake off this awful day in the comfort of Nicky’s arms, dinner be damned, they’ll just eat another sandwich, and his body remained on the floor, still and bleeding and-and separate. 

He freaked out. 

He immediately laid back in his body, lining his arms and legs with the body on the floor first, before sitting up. When that didn’t work, he tried picking his body up to drag back home, only his hands had passed through his own arms and chest, like he was nothing more than a cheap light show. 

It was then that it sunk in, with his hands buried in his sternum and his own lifeless eyes staring back at him.

He was dead. 

He was dead and he wasn’t coming back. 

—

Nicky hasn’t eaten in days, not since he shared the small sandwich with Joe. 

“Just a snack!” Joe pleaded, batting his eyelashes with a wide grin. He looked ridiculous, like one of those Bratz dolls that once lined every shelf in the toy section at the supermarket. Nicky was more annoyed than charmed as Joe continued to beg; he was blocking the TV and his voice was getting progressively pitchier the longer Nicky continued to ignore him in favor of watching National Treasure. 

Nicky gave in, of course he gave in, if only to get Joe to shut up now that he was reaching dog whistle levels. He went to the kitchen, Joe right on his heels and made the fastest sandwich in history, a ham and cheese sandwich on one slice of bread. After folding it in half, he stuffed as much of the sandwich into his mouth and handed over the rest to Joe. It wasn’t much, barely bigger than the bite-sized sandwiches that are usually out on the buffet tables, but it was better than nothing. He almost choked when he saw the wounded expression on his husband’s face. Joe took the half-sandwich with a pout and spent the next fifteen minutes nibbling on it, savoring each bite like it was the best thing he’s ever eaten. It was cute and charming and Nicky kissed him when he finished, swatting his ass as they broke apart because dinner wasn’t going to get itself.

He should have made a regular sandwich. 

He should have just cooked with what they had in the pantry. 

He should have gone with Joe. 

His stomach twists and Nicky cries. 

—

Nicky’s not living. He eats, he sleeps and sometimes he even goes out for a walk, but he’s not living, he’s functioning and that’s enough for Andy and Booker. 

They don’t talk much to him; then again, no one talks much these days. It became glaringly obvious early on who initiated the conversations, who had the loudest voice, who kept the discussion flowing from one point to the next. 

He doesn’t blame them; they were engulfed in their own grief too, both fresh and scarred. 

They’ve become the liquor store’s best customers; between the three of them, they easily put away six bottles of hard liquor every night. It’s the only time they’re together, late at night into the early morning, drinking with a desperate fervency to get lost in their own memories of better times. 

“The widow club,” Booker joked one night, mouth curled into a snarl. 

“I never wanted to be part of this fucking club,” Nicky spat, taking an aggressive sip from his bottle. It was whiskey that night; it tasted like shit, it always tasted like shit, and Nicky didn’t care. It made him warm and muddled his thoughts and while he was drunk, he could forget, could ignore how empty everything was. 

There was a moment of silence and then Andy laughed, sharp and vicious as she raised her bottle to clink with his, “Cheers to fucking that!” 

During the day, Nicky sleeps. A lot. 

Nicky sleeps, because if he sleeps, he can dream. In his dreams, Joe is still with him, leading him through the world with both hands and promising to never leave his side. In his dreams, Joe is bright and warm, kissing him like he never left, loving him like they had all the time in the world. In his dreams, he can savor the weight of Joe’s loving gaze, anchoring him in this sea of madness. 

Most days, he wakes up around three in the afternoon. He stares at the ceiling until his stomach grumbles, and only when the pain becomes unbearable does he get up to get something to eat.

Sometimes, the stupid wind chimes will wake him up before three and those days are always the worst. Joe had loved those wind chimes; he would run his fingers through them every morning just to hear them sing, laughing as the house filled with its tinkling sound. 

Nicky hates those fucking wind chimes. 

He hates how every time he hears them, he thinks that it’s Joe, gently pushing one tube into another, creating a new song only for their ears. He hates how he turns his head with a sleepy smile towards the chimes, a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue, only to be splashed with the bitter reality that he’s alone, has been alone for awhile now. 

Nicky hates those wind chimes and he wishes he could melt it down into something useful, something quiet, but it was Joe’s and Nicky can’t. He can’t destroy something that Joe loved so dearly. 

But God does Nicky loathe them. They weren’t even under a vent and they still made noise. 

Other times, the birds will wake him up. They never had this many birds before Joe, but after, Nicky sometimes wakes up to five birds on his windowsill, chirping and chirping and chirping. They’re loud and they arch up into nothing and Nicky hates them almost as much as the wind chimes because Joe would have loved them. Joe would’ve sat in front of the windowsill for hours, sketching and observing the birds, swallows, or were they sparrows, tossing them little seeds to keep them there longer. Hell, Joe would have set up a bird feeder to accommodate their many visitors. To Nicky, those birds are just another reminder that Joe’s gone and he wishes that they would just leave this house of grief alone. 

So Nicky sleeps and he drinks, because if he does, he doesn’t have to live in a world that’s constantly screaming Joe’s name. 

He’s not living. 

It’s not really functioning either. 

—

It works. 

It works. 

Joe gasps back to life and he’s in the quiet comfort of Nicky’s arms, just like he wanted that stupid day and everyday since. The weight of his arms, solid and warm across Joe’s chest, it’s enough to make him burst into tears.  

“I missed you,” Nicky sobs, pulling him into a tight hug and Joe can’t wrap his arms around Nicky fast enough. He clings to his husband, taking in the twin scents of Irish Spring and cheap cologne, a combination he never thought he would miss; it smells like home. 

“I was always there,” Joe whispers, “The birds, the chimes, the damn towel on the floor. I never left.” I never left you. 

They’re both shaking apart in each other’s arms, but for the first time in months, it’s ok. It’s ok. 

Nicky laughs, it’s choked and brittle, but it’s the first time he’s laughed since that day, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world to Joe’s ears right now. “I hated all those things.” 

“I know,” Joe confesses, pulling back just enough to look at Nicky. He wipes away the snot and tears with the back of his hand. Nicky stares at him through red-rimmed eyes, a new kind of desperation shining in them that Joe knows are reflecting from his own. “But it got you out of bed, out of the house, and so I never stopped.” 

They have a plan.

They’re going to stop healing together. They’re going to retire from the action and they’re going to live the rest of their days in Malta.  

They’re not straying away from it this time.   

[gwydionmisha]

Personal: So much snow

So this is what's going on with me.  My AS has been really terrible the last two months.  It's hard to explain the level of debilitating too someone who's body works.  To give yo and Idea of how hard basic stuff is, on the twenty third, it took me four hours to get dressed and do physio. My legs kept buckling as I shuffled about trying to do the bare minimum as far as feeding cats, fish, and myself.  I literally scream from pain and nearly went over when I tried to feed Livia.

It's why the post schedule is so weird and I why I have...idk a couple weeks of link back log as of this writing.  I am doing what I can, but even my high pain threshold ass can't make this work.  The barometer has been yoyoing, and that generally just fucks me up.

So on the twenty forth, I was going to run out to grab a last minute thing before the store closed with the last of my EBT.  Three hours for dressing and physio, two cats in cling mode.  To give you an idea of the cling level, I was trying to put my shoe on, got as far as one sock and getting a shoe half on when Tavy leapt onto me and proceeded to nap in my arms.  Me: Well I guess I'm doing lungs before instead of after the errand.

I was latter than I meant, but surely the shop was still open, right?  We're a fairly secular college town.  It is not that cold, but I step out to find flurries and a thin layer of snow on my car, though none sticking yet on the ground.  I grew up with snow. the quality of the air and the look of the flurries told me they would be sticking soon.  I figure I should be fine on a fifteen minute errand, but I'd been snowed in all weekend.

The temperature kept dropping noticeably; the snow was coming faster.  Shop was closed.  I likely would have made it if I'd fought Tavy over the shoes, but no matter.  I'd guess I was gone five to seven minutes and it was brutal cold and coming down hard by the time I'd parked again.  Squirrel had work and the driving was scary.  I'd guess we got six inches, which is a lot in a town where the only people with snow tires either regularly commute over the Mountain pass or are skier/snowboarders. Our large town/small city has a snow plow, but they hit the big streets first, and generally the snow is melted before they get streets like ours, our worse the last three streets I lived on.  My current street is an increasingly busy feeder instead of the true back streets I've always lived on between coming North and this place.  Saturday it warmed up just enough for what little melted to freeze over after dark making it incredibly unsafe after.  Squirrel was white as a sheet when he got home from work 7ish Sunday morning.  It had snowed hard all night and my end of town the wind was so high it was blowing nearly horizontal.  The cats sat in the window watching in fascination.  It did that all day, i suspect, as it was still going past noon when I looked.

Luckily Squirrel didn't have work, and I don't leave the house unless all paths and streets are clear except for emergencies as I don't want to break anything or tear ligaments.  The snow it utterly beautiful, but I'm someone finding the hobble to the bathroom challenging, and i don't want to go to the ER and spend a month laid up like last time.

Except the fire alarm kept going off.  Nothing was on fire.  I'd been trying to get him to change the battery in his detector for a couple of months, but he kept spacing it.  I knew it wasn't mine as I changed them last... it was before I got my second shot end of March, so I'd say less than a year ago, but not by a lot.  The little detectors are wired to the big ones.  It went on for hours, waking people up, terrifying cats.  I finally gave him a battery, because I had one, being exactly that sort of anal retentive and the chirping will drive me bats because of my sensory stuff.  (I hate being caught without an emergency 9 volt).  A couple hours passed, but I could hear it chirping in his room again and it went off again, because of course it did.  He pulled it out, which the management company hates.  his theory is it's old and the equipment needs replacing, so I guess I'm staying up to deal with them.

I am tired and everything hurts, and I've lost track of how long the aggregate posting gap is.  I am sorry.  It likely won't be any better until the weather evens out.

[peakywitch]

Cassiopeia - John Shelby

Warnings: mentions of blood, war, curse word...the normal!  

A/N: changed John’s kids name! also, it’ll be revised through these days, tell me if you see any mistakes! <3 

word count: 2.3k

my masterlist

The small footsteps of two mischievous children were heard throughout the house. It was very early, the sun was still down. The two opposing hands of the children were intertwined, guiding each other through the labyrinth into which the house was transformed when the moon rose. The old wood under their feet creaked with every step, which alerted his not-so-asleep father.

"What if he hits us?" Ben asked nervously.

"James has been telling you stories, right?"

The boy nodded sadly at his sister's question. His friend was frequently punished severely, but at the Shelby household, it was different.

"Don't worry, it's for a good cause. Besides, dad would never hit us." Winnie smiled, trying to see his brother's eyes in the dark.

A good cause? John thought, what would be so important to speak in the moonlight? He knew what his two kids were up to, but he stayed in bed, still being able to listen to the two of them talk. He wasn't going to get up, not until the sun comes up at least.

"Dad?" asked the voice of the girl, with a low and still voice "Are you awake?"

John turned his face on the pillow, seeing two heads - one with braids and one with blond hair, both disheveled - appear through the door. What the hell were Winnie and Ben doing up at such an early hour?

A sleepy voice invited them to climb onto the bed with them, Ben accepted immediately, almost jumping on his father. Winnie just sat on the end of the bed, watching John hug Ben.

"What are you two doing up so early?" he asked, as he gently combed his son's hair

"It’s Emma’s and Lottie’s birthday on Monday." Winnie whispered, not wanting to wake the smaller Shelbys sleeping in the next room.

"Yes, I know", he smiled "six years ... I don't understand where those six years have gone." He smiled wistfully. But even so, that smile showed a pride that was not visible in the moonlight.

"And we thought about whether we could bake a cake." Ben smiled.

John's eyes went to the boy's sugar-craving gaze. Then he saw her smile, which had a small window.

"So the good cause is cake, huh?" He smiled, giving Winnie a sense that his plan to be quiet had failed.

But even with a defeat, the girl smiled, as her hand traveled through the braid that John had awkwardly made.

“It's already Saturday, you don't have school. Why don't they go back to sleep? he asked, after a chat of flavors, colours and fillings.

Winnie nodded as she listened to Ben, who had been snoring from the beginning of the conversation.

"Aunt Pol, I need a favor." John asked, as he played with the toothpick between his lips.

Polly tore her eyes away from the journal for a few short seconds, seeing her nephew's pleading look. When she read the newspaper again, she spoke:

“I'll take care of the children today, John. But since you are always..."

"Actually, uh... the girls turn 6 on Monday, and I wanted to ask you if you could bake them a cake?" the doubt and confusion in John's voice led her aunt to laugh.

"When in your bloody life have you seen me bake a cake, huh?" she asked, putting the paper aside and taking the last sip of her tea.

"Yeah, well," he laughed, "I don't lose anything by trying, do I?"

Between a nostalgic chat about how they were six years ago, Polly remembered in an instant, interrupting John:

"Y/N!"

Polly's exclamation shook John's comfort, her screams were always sending him to the Calvary.

"Y/N?" he asked.

The name burned on the tip of his tongue and in the back of his head, unable to remember who it was. He had known a nurse of that name, but it couldn't be because some enemies had killed her in front of him.

“Do you remember Karl's cake? That delicacy of chocolate, hazelnut and caramel?” his aunt answered with a question, trying to enliven the memory.

How could he forget that cake.

The cake was soft as a cloud, the chocolate intense and the caramel had a few notes of salt that made your tongue dance. John had never tasted a better cake than that. Also, he had eaten three servings. Faced with the memory, he laughed:

"How could I forget the stomach ache that lasted for two days, ey?" Polly grinned "Never such a beautiful pain."

They both laughed.

John's feet were constantly changing position. He was alone in a neighboring town from Small Heath, an hour away from his home. The address Polly had given him must be wrong since it was not a bakery; it was a simple English house. It had some rose bushes in the small front garden and a bird feeder in a vibrant little lemon tree. The aesthetics of the home were out of tune with John in an extraordinary way. The striking difference between the green of the home and the black of his clothes made him feel like an outcast.

Somewhat uncomfortable and hesitant, he headed for the door. It was then that he could hear the subtle violin that came from the house, also a piano. The atmosphere was so mellow, it almost completely calmed John's nerves. With the piano in the background, he knocked on the door. The music did not stop. From what he knew, the music that was playing came from a gramophone.

A woman in her forties opened the door for him, her blonde hair was down and her eyes were tired, but still had a smile from ear to ear.

"Yes?" she asked, without moving her smile.

"Good afternoon, ma'am" smiled John, taking off his hat "I'm looking for Mrs. Y/N ..."

Mrs? John asked himself, since when did he say he was looking for a Mrs?

The woman called out the name, and within seconds an old woman appeared in front of him.

"Are you Y/N?" asked John.

"So it is, dear." The lady's smile denoted fatigue but a strange feeling of youth.

Uncharacteristically shy, John explained his situation.

"Oh, great, great!" He smiled, and invited him in.

The lady, without asking much, sat the unknown gangster on a pink sofa with flowers and black wooden armrests. John could observe that the music came from a phonograph, it had been almost twenty years since he had seen one, they were not so common anymore.

After a few moments of inspecting the curious and cozy house from that old-fashioned sofa, the lady appeared with two aprons: both pink, with ruffles and embroidery.

"Very good," the lady smiled, "put this on and Y/N is coming."

The old woman did not give Shelby time to complain, leaving him in the company of a pink apron, totally striking.

Polly, what the fuck have you gotten me into?

John walked nervously through the dining room, cooking classes? I'd had enough of Polly's teachings on how to make soup, there was no way I could bake a cake. Less than less, two.

"Are you ready, Mr.?"

The voice... the voice is different.

John turned around, seeing how a girl appeared in front of him.

"And you are?" he asked, holding out his hand.

"I am Y/N."

John was mixing a thick brown mixture, while Y/N a white. The image of the man in a suit, with a chocolate stain on his shirt, made Y/N smile every time she saw him. He had steadfastly refused to wear something as ridiculous and flashy as that pink apron, but he had been persuaded to cook the cake.

"So everyone who wants a cake... comes and has to do it too?" John asked, finishing beating.

"Yes."

"So, my sister Ada...?"

“I end up with her egg-filled apron, but yeah. The cake was made by her with my help. "

John stopped beating, glancing sideways at the baker's smile. He knew that smile, but still not the woman who wore it.

While the cake was baking, they both talked about life, war, music. Sorting things out amid animated chatter, John tried to caress her arms with his. The moles on her arms reminded him of stars.

"You remind me of war." He said, without thinking once.

The look of the young woman was a complete poem.

"You're not good with compliments, are you John?" the girl asked, trying to add laughter to the situation, uncomfortable.

"Hell, I didn't mean that, I..." a chill ran through his body, what the fuck did he just say?

"Do not worry." She smiled, finishing cleaning.

“When I was on the Somme,” John began, “when I was on the Somme I couldn't think of anything other than the smell of blood. I couldn't hear anything other than screams, in a thousand and one languages, be it prayers or calls for help. The sun burned my forehead ... I remember feeling the infinite beads of sweat that dried on my neck. But at night, when death rested and war ceased, he looked at the stars. The sweat of the day made me feel like I was dying of cold in the cruel and dark French trenches. I prayed i would come home safe and sound, or at least alive. And the smell and the screams continued, until i found Cassiopeia in the sky. Then the smell would stop, the screaming too. My body was flooded with the aroma of bread that my mother made, and a lullaby sounded in my head that I heard my aunt sing. "

Y/N's eyes were attentive to every word, unconsciously shedding tears. The boy approached her arm, and slowly traced the W that was seen on her skin. His index finger joined each mole, and he touched the stars of the Samarin sky. He felt that peace, he felt that song and he felt different.

After that, they kissed. It was a bearable kiss, momentary and fleeting but brilliant, like a star. It gave them both that feeling you get on New Year’s: that feeling that, although it is still the same, you have a new opportunity. A fresh start.

“This is how looking up the stars felt.” Said John, while his nose was touching hers.

“How?” Y/n asked.

Both of their eyes were still closed. Their breathing was slow and peaceful.

John couldn’t answer; he felt everything crumble inside of him. Slowly, the disgusting smell of blood was flooding his head again.

“Is the cake ready?” he asked pulling away from her, making the girl sadden.

“Uh…yes, we just have to write their names with icing and it’ll be ready to be eaten.”

Her eyes were trying to connect with his, but he was observing the kitchen anxiously, avoiding her eyes. They both knew that John was evading her, but he didn’t know how she felt.

He left her in the kitchen to finish her work, as he washed the batter off of his hands in the little bathroom. It didn’t matter how many times he used soap, he still saw the red dots of blood on his hands. He felt the dirt under his nails, and the sweat drops on his back were always burning and itching, no matter how many showers he took.

When he left the bathroom, five minutes later, he saw the girl getting ready to write his daughters’ names on both cakes.

With a professional smile on her face, she asked for the names.

“Emma and Charlotte.” he smiled, tiredly.

As he put his coat on again, he watched the girl write both names in pink icing. She had a little bit of her tongue out, and was frowning. John couldn’t help but smile, not realizing how peaceful he was feeling.

One minute after he put on his cap on his the pocket of his coat, the baker gave him two white boxes.

“I really hope you learned something today.” She said with a smile, he smiled back.

“This” he said, giving her money “I believe is yours…”

He was giving her eight quids. Her eyes opened with astonishment.

“It’s two pounds each cake, John. Four in total.”

“Take ‘em, really.” He said, still insisting.

“John, I will accept five, and that’s it.” She said back, trying to act tough. Jesus, eight pounds sounded bloody amazing.

“I compared you to war, c’mon. Take them all.” He insisted agin.

“Six, and if you insist again I will give you both cakes as gifts.” She smiles, feeling the victory in her plan.

John smiled, he couldn’t believe how hard headed she was. He looked away, and let out a little laugh before looking at her, directly in the yes.

“Six it is.”

And when she saw the smile on John’s face, she felt like it was all good again, just like before and during the kiss. Boy was she wrong.

“You know…” the man started “I shouldn’t have kissed you, I’m so sorry…m’ wife, well…”

Y/N’s stiffened, her blood became ice. Every cell in her body fell numb.

“Oh…” she said.

John didn’t say a word. Neither did her.

She helped him load the cakes in his car, but the again. None of them said good bye. He took off, having given the girl two quids more.

He paid for the kiss, she though, not because he was sorry of what he said.

That night, she felt as dirty as John felt. The kiss was burning her lips, her consciousness, every inch of her body. She scrubbed her body even harder in the tub, tears were building up in her eyes.

But John,  on the other hand, felt peace every time he remembered the kiss. He was in bed, trying to sleep, trying to forget the war on his head. He thought of the kiss, of that bloody kiss that made him tremble and feel nervous again. He tried to understand what it felt, he tried every adjective. He found one, two hours after thinking non-stop about the girl he met that day:

Hope.

The kiss tasted like hope.

taglist: open

@a-golden-sunflower-vol-6

@fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby

@stydia-4-ever

[chubbyhl]

The Chubby HL Vault: Pancake Day Shennigans

Upon request, here is a LONG scene I wrote of a chubby fic that I never published because I thought it was too intense/too kink focused, but people were interested so I thought I would post for those that are into this! 

Please note this fic is VERY heavy on feederism, food, and weight gain kink, and also contains degradation/some name calling in a kink context. if you’re not into that, this isn’t the fic for you. You have been warned. But with that, please enjoy this very long (5k lol) piece of food porn 

--

“Morning, lovely,” Harry grinned, giving Louis a kiss on the head, “Happy pancake day.”

 “Thank you,” Louis smiled, and then motioned to the mess on the counter, “Need help?”

 “I’m alright, love, you just sit down,” Harry said, “I’ll have your plate ready in a bit, okay?”

 Louis nodded, and then waddled over to the table, taking his usual place. He closed his eyes, taking in the sweet smell in the air. His stomach gurgled in interest and he settled a hand over his plush midsection, rubbing the skin as if his touch would settle it when all it wanted was food.

Eventually, he heard the stove click off, and he opened his eyes and watched Harry bustle around, gathering the pancakes on two tall platters. He smiled at Louis when he saw him staring, and then picked up both plates and came over, setting him down with a heavy click.

 There were about six pancakes on each plate, one of the stacks bursting with thick spots of purple blueberries, and the other speckled through with baked brown bits.

 “Blueberry, obviously,” Harry said, pointing to one stack, “And then maple bacon.”

 The other man went to the fridge and opened it up, pulling out a few things and balancing them in his arms. He came back with a tub of butter, a bottle of syrup, a can of whipped cream, and a full jug of whole milk. He set it all on the table, and then picked up an empty plate he had brought over. He put one blueberry on it, smiling sheepishly.

 “Hope you don’t mind if I have one for myself.”

 “That’s alright,” Louis said.

 “Seriously, everything else will be for you,” Harry said, “Here, let me dress these up for you.”

 With careful movements, Harry lathered up both stacks with butter, and then poured syrup over both, and then topped each with a generous dollop of whipped cream. He poured Louis a tall glass of milk, and then kissed his forehead before he sat down opposite Louis.

 “Enjoy, baby,” he smiled, and Louis smiled back as he picked up his knife and fork.

 He dug into the blueberry first, his mouth watering as he carved into the stack and rich purple blueberry juice poured out the sides. He tucked it up to his mouth, a full bite of fluffy pancake and sweet blueberry juice, the butter and syrup nearly pouring out the corners of his mouth. He moaned happily and nodded, then went back to cutting it up once more. He got another forkful, quickly shoveling back into his mouth. Harry watched fondly, not even getting into his own pancake yet.

 “Good?” he asked.

 “Delicious!” Louis breathed out, already going in for his next bite, “Really, so good.”

 “Glad to hear it,” Harry said, “You want to try the maple bacon, too?”

 “Oh, yeah! One second,” Louis said. He tucked the blueberry pancake bite into his mouth and chewed it up, then stuck his fork and knife into the stack of maple bacon. He moaned again when it hit his mouth; there was maple baked into the pancake itself in addition to the liquid syrup that coated the bite, the salty bacon breaking through the sweetness. He quickly dug into more, nodding his head as he went.

 “So good, Harry, wow,” Louis gasped, already getting short of breath and he shoveled pancakes into his mouth. The saltiness of the bacon made him thirsty, so he picked up his glass and swallowed down some of the fatty milk, then went back to the blueberry stack. Harry was picking through his own blueberry pancake now as well, occasionally taking a moment to sip at his coffee and grin at Louis over the rim of his mug.

 “You look so happy,” he said fondly, and Louis nodded.

 “I am,” he assured him, then tucked more maple bacon pancake into his mouth.

 Harry finished his pancake quickly, but Louis was only half way through both stacks. The corners of his mouth felt sticky and he was sure he had blueberry stains on his cheeks, but he didn’t really care. He was getting into the part of the stack that was topped with whipped cream, and he moaned happily as he filled his mouth with it.

 He finished another section of the blueberry stack, and he was feeling fairly full, his belly already bloated and testing the elastic of his jogger. He pulled the waistband down, tucking it under his stomach. He gave himself a firm jiggle, putting and rubbing himself down. Harry watched, his eyes dark and hooded over the rim of his coffee mug, and Louis flushed a bit. It wasn’t even 11 in the morning and he was already turning on his boyfriend with how much he was stuffing himself.

 His stomach opened up a bit, and Louis returned to the maple bacon stack, cutting up more and more bites. He felt full again after several more bites, so he jiggled his belly again, burping weakly as he did. He patted his gut when he was done, and then reached for his milk, taking a long drink before he returned to the task at hand. The blueberry pancakes were bleeding butter and juice all over the plate, so he returned to finish that first, trying to soak up as much juice as he could with each bite of pancake. Soon the plate was empty, only leaving behind a pool of melted butter, blueberry juice, and syrup. Louis kind of wanted to lick the plate clean but he had another stack to finish.

 He pulled the plate of maple bacon up close to him, cutting it up messily and shoving it into his mouth without much thought. He felt syrup and whipped cream smear on his chin and cheek and he ignored it, keeping with his goal to eat more of the sweet, salty, heavy food.

 With a few more rubs of his belly, he was done with the stack, and grabbed his milk, leaning back proudly as he drained his drink. He slapped his hard, bloated belly proudly, hiccupping loudly as his belly was jostled.

 “So good, baby,” he repeated, letting his eyes droop closed. He dropped his hands to his stomach, rubbing his gut in full, generous circles. He opened his eyes a crack, smiling at Harry, “Come help me.”

 “Yeah,” Harry said breathlessly, standing up and coming over. He leaned down, and rubbed Louis’s belly, grabbing and fondling bits of it. His belly was already bloated and pushing up his T-shirt, and Louis flushed at the idea they were just getting started.

 “You did so good,” Harry cooed, kissing Louis’s fat, sticky cheek, “Nearly 2,000 calories already. And that’s just breakfast, baby.”

 Louis nodded, trying not to linger too hard on that massive number. He was making Harry proud, and he felt warm and full and happy, and it was a special day. That was far more important.

 “Let’s get you to the couch,” Harry coaxed, “Gotta digest everything if you’re gonna have your snack in a few hours.”

 Louis nodded eagerly. Harry chuckled and then picked up a napkin, swiping it across Louis’s face to clean him up.

 “Someone’s a little messy today,” Harry teased, “Good thing you’re so damn cute.”

 He gave Louis a firm, long kiss on the lips, and then pulled back, grabbing Louis’s chubby hands and helping lift all 280 pounds on him up on his feet.

 He settled onto the couch a few minutes later, and Harry turned on the TV for him before giving him another kiss and going off to clean up the kitchen. Louis watched the screen with hooded eyes, absentmindedly rubbing his stomach as he did so. The sugar, fat, and calories in his system made him feel sleepy, and he closed his eyes for long stretches of time before opening them again, finding himself in the middle of an episode he hadn’t been awake to see the beginning of. He kept dipping in and out of sleep, broken up by watching the TV or picking up his phone to click through some apps. Soon enough, Harry wandered back into the room to give him a smile.

 “You want a snack soon, love?” he asked.

 “Sure,” Louis nodded. He was comfortable now, neither hungry nor full, but he didn’t exactly have to be hungry to accept a snack from his boyfriend. Harry gave him a bright grin and a thumbs up, and then disappeared back to his near-permanent post in the kitchen.

 Another episode started on the TV, and Louis listened to the whir of the mixer and then the sizzle of a pan in the kitchen. By the time the episode was over, he could smell rich butter in the air, and licked his lips at the scent. When he heard the tell tale hiss of whipped cream being sprayed, he sat up in interest; or at least, he sat up as best he could with his heavy belly weighing him down.

 Harry emerged from the kitchen, still with an apron around his body, and smiled as he presented Louis with a small stack of three thick buttermilk pancakes, doused in syrup and cream.

 “Three?” Louis asked with a small pout.

 “It’s a snack, honey,” Harry laughed, “Lunch will be soon enough. But you have to have your snack first.”

 Harry returned to the kitchen just to get Louis a glass of milk, and then came back and sat with Louis on the couch. The TV was still playing but Harry looked far more interested in Louis as he cut into the pancakes, once again dripping with syrup and butter as soon as Louis cut into them. He lifted a bite into his mouth, smiling at how fluffy and buttery they were in his mouth. Harry reached over, holding onto his thigh as Louis ate. He finished his pancakes quickly and happily, and then drank his milk while Harry rubbed his belly. He felt full again, his stomach stretched but not quite in pain. He welcomed the sweet touch of Harry’s hands, and felt his eyes grew again as he listened to his boyfriend’s soft, deep voice.

 He lazily kept watching the TV, and Harry cuddled up next to him, his much slimmer body tucked up into Louis’s soft side. His hands were constantly on Louis’s middle, rubbing, pinching, and jostling him. Louis smiled sleepily at how good it felt to have Harry next to him, touching him and spoiling him. He whined a little when Harry finally got up, but Harry just smiled.

 “Gotta make your lunch,” he said.

 “Is it that time already?”

 “Well, it’s going to take me a little while to make them,” Harry said, “Just watch your show, babe. I’ll have them in an hour.”

 Louis let Harry go, falling back into his pattern passively watching his show. Most of his attention was focused on the sounds from the kitchen, and soon, the smells, which made his mouth water. He could smell hot grease and chocolate and peanut butter, and tried to guess what Harry was making before he was done. Eventually, Harry returned, and Louis perked up when he saw that one stack on the tray he was carrying was rich red, while the other was pale brown with bits of red and purple jam clear between the pancakes.

 “Peanut butter with jelly and some red velvet,” Harry said, “Eat up, lovey.”

 The food was delicious, of course it was. The red velvet pancakes were rich and sweet, with sugary buttercream icing between them and powdered sugar on top, and the peanut butter pancakes were loaded with filling and jam. And Harry had gone heavy on the whipped cream, covering every inch of the top pancake rather than a small dollop. Louis was happy to eat them, every bite tempting him to have more.

 He worked his way through half the stack of red velvet and a third of the way through the peanut butter and jelly before he starts to feel off. Not like he was hitting a wall, but just different. He felt slow, his brain starting to fuzz from all the sugar he was having. His stomach wasn’t happy with him, stuffed, hot, and aching. He grunted and tried to rub his gut, shaking his head while it just made him burp and hiccup weakly, not giving him much relief.

 “Need help?” Harry asked, and Louis nodded feebly.

 Harry immediately moved closer. He picked up Louis’s glass and guided it to his lips, helping him drink his milk. Louis gladly sipped at it, letting it go down his throat and wash away some of the taste in his mouth. He knew it would make him no less hungry; if anything it was going to fill him up more, but it tasted nice in his mouth and going down his throat. He took a few more sips and then Harry guided the glass away from his. Harry then turned his attention to the tray, cutting up a bite of red velvet pancake and then lifting it up and guiding it to Louis’s lips.

 And for whatever reason, he was able to open his mouth and take it.

 He chewed it, and Harry smiled at him gently.

 “There you go, love,” he said, “Let me know if you need to stop. You can have this later if you need to.”

 Louis nodded, but he knew he would want to finish his meal now, in one sitting. He didn’t care if that would mean he was having five stacks of pancakes and it was still early afternoon, it was going to try.

 His brain still felt sluggish and his body was hot and tight, his belly aching as Harry kept cutting him bits of food. But his mouth wanted it so badly; wanting more whipped cream and chocolate-y red velvet and sugar-filled jam in between bites of peanut butter batter. And his brain wanted more too; the part of him that was logical was far overruled by the part that wanted to make Harry happy and wanted more pounds to appear on his waistline.

 With those thoughts at the forefront of his mind, he kept opening his mouth for more. Harry held the fork in one hand and reached out to rub Louis’s belly with the other. He moved Louis’s waistband down further away from the swell of his stomach, and gently patted and caressed the skin that was poking out from the hem of Louis’s shirt. Louis felt a bit of whipped cream accumulate on the corner of his mouth, a bit of jelly on the other side, but he didn’t really care. His mind was glazing over, not focusing on much other than the controlling the muscles that let him open his mouth, chew, swallow, repeat.

 “All done with your red velvet,” Harry cooed eventually, “What a good boy. Was that good?”

 Louis blinked, vaguely aware that, yes, he had been eating a lot of red velvet and yes, there was an empty plate in front of him now. He nodded, feeling the extra flesh under his chin wobble as he did so.

 “Good, I’m glad. You want to finish the rest?” Harry asked. He tapped the edge of the plate that still had a generous wedge of peanut butter and jelly on it, and Louis felt his mouth somehow water as he nodded.

 Fuck it. He wasn’t coming out of this lunch with leftovers.

 He nodded, feeling his doubled chin wobble again, and Harry gave him a bright smile as he cut up the rest of the stack of pancakes and slid bite after bite between Louis’s lips. He was starting to chew slower, and barely got a bite swallowed before Harry was giving him another one. Harry was giving him the softest look, like Louis was a pet that had done an endearing trick, and it made him feel flushed as he kept eating.

 Harry put his glass of milk to his lips when he was done, and after a few chugs Louis pressed his lips together hard, trying to signal to Harry that he was tapped out. Harry got the memo and pulled the glass away, then reached out to rub Louis’s bloated belly. He pressed a bit firmly, startling a few hard burps out of Louis’s mouth, and then just rubbed his stretched skin gently, giving it some encouraging pats.

 “Don’t all those pancakes feel good in your belly, love?” Harry said, and like he was being fucking hypnotized, suddenly the ache in Louis’s belly turned into hot pleasure. He nodded, and Louis smiled and kissed his cheek, then picked a napkin off the tray and wiped Louis’s lips and cheeks with it.

 “You just digest that and let me know when you want a snack,” Harry cooed, and then kissed Louis again and cuddled up against his side.

 A snack, Jesus. Louis wasn’t sure he could manage dinner, let alone a snack right now, as good as the weight and tightness of his stomach felt. He didn’t want to think too hard about letting Harry down. Really, thinking anything at all right now was taking up a lot of effort – he felt sleepy and dazed, and when he closed his eyes he quickly fell asleep.

 And yet somehow, when he startled awake an hour later, he hiccupped loudly and then managed to ask “Snack?” weakly into the air.

 Harry, who was still pressed to Louis’s side, sat up and gave him a smile and a kiss.

 “One snack, coming right up,” he said as he got to his feet.

 Louis just nodded as he walked away. He didn’t know where the request had come from, he didn’t even know where the small slice of room in his belly had come from. He just knew that an hour later he had another stack of three buttermilk pancakes covered in whipped cream, and Harry cut into for him and brought them to his lips, and he ate.

 Christ, he fucking ate. Just kept his mouth hanging a bit open so Harry could put the pancakes in his mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed slowly, popped his mouth open again. They still tasted good and Harry was giving them to him and fuck it what his body was telling him, fuck his stomach protesting and his blood sugar spiking, he was going to have the snack his boyfriend had made him.

 The stack was done efficiently and Harry gave him another long kiss, once again asked if the pancakes tasted good. He proudly announced the stack he’d just made had even more butter in them than the buttermilk pancakes he had made this morning, and Louis just nodded along before closing his eyes and falling asleep under the weight of his rock-hard belly.

 He slept for a far long time, because when he woke up the TV was asking if he was still watching, and he smelled food being prepared in the kitchen. His stomach gave a gurgle and Louis put his hand on his swollen gut. He couldn’t tell if he was digesting or hungry, but he could tell that his shirt that rucked up right over the swell of his belly and was gathering under his soft pecs now. He just mindlessly looked down, getting a bit enchanted by the sight of his own thick fingers massaging his belly. His vision was a bit blurred and he felt far away, out of his stretched, bloated body. He could barely register the ache in his stomach. He didn’t bother to think about the numbers of calories and sugar and trans fat he had shoveled into his body that day.

 Right now there was just Harry, his own waiting mouth, and food.

 He heard footsteps and weakly tried to look at the doorway, where Harry was standing, wearing an apron and grinning.

 “Oh, you’re up!” he smiled, “Is my little piggy hungry for dinner?”

 And fuck it, yeah, now that Harry mentioned it, Louis was starving. He felt like he hadn’t eaten all day.

 “Yes, please,” Louis said, and then a delayed burp popped out. He didn’t have the energy to cover his lips or be embarrassed.

 “Good answer,” Harry smiled, “Give me an hour, okay?”

 Louis just nodded, and he stared forlornly at the TV, which was still paused. The remote was on the other side of the couch, and Louis felt too pinned down by his gut to reach it.

 “Harry?” he said weakly.

 “Yeah, love?”

 “I, uh” Louis stuck out his hand and uselessly wiggled his fat fingers, “Remote. Wanna watch my show.”

 “Oh, of course,” Harry said. He walked over quickly, taking a moment to smile at the sight of a very bloated Louis struggling to reach the remote, and then picked the device up and deposited it in Louis’s hand.

 “Thank you,” Louis said, a blush creeping on his cheeks.

 “My pleasure,” Harry smiled, and then kissed Louis on the forehead and went back to the kitchen. After he returned, the air started to smell sugary, and Louis once again tried to guess what Harry was cooking up.

 He was answered by the end of the hour, when Harry brought the trusty tray back in, loaded with two new stacks and a frosty glass of milk. Dinner consisted of a golden brown stack covered in toffee bits and equal drizzles of caramel and maple syrup, and another that was sandwiched with generous layers of candied strawberries and cream cheese frosting.

 Sticky English toffee and strawberry cheesecake, Louis thought he heard Harry say. It didn’t really matter, because Harry was already sitting down and cutting Louis a generous piece of the sticky toffee.

 Despite how full he was, Louis took it.

 He was out of his body again, floating somewhere else. Hunger and fullness didn’t exist, only food existed, and food was infinite. Harry was giving him a smile as sweet as the pancakes he was shoving in Louis’s gob, and Louis was taking him. His brain was on vacation, not caring about anything but opening his jaw and chewing, swallowing. Occasionally making grabbing fingers towards his milk so Harry would give him something to wash his meal down with. He felt like a spoiled child, eating sweets for dinner, demanding more and more, but Harry wasn’t treating him like he was spoiled. He was treating him like this is what Louis deserved, to constantly be served and catered to and stuffed full of whatever he wanted.

 Sugar-sweet berries and gobs of frosting and toffee candies and so much whipped cream passed over Louis’s tongue, and every bite made his head rush, his heart skip a bit, made his belly pin him down a bit more. His waistband was completely under his gut and it still felt painful; Louis vaguely wondered if the elastic would snap. Did he want it to? Did he want to eat so many pancakes his 3XL sweatpants broke on him? What would Harry say? Probably blow Louis right there, bloated belly be damned. Because what was the point of this if Louis didn’t have to wriggle into a 4XL waistband eventually?

 By the time Louis was done with his dinner his face was a mess and his mouth was permanently lolling open. He was struggling for breath at this point, and his stomach felt like a foreign object, enormous and round and keeping him in one place. He hiccupped and burped weakly as Harry cleaned his face, kissing his cheeks and rubbing his belly as he went.

 “You’re doing so, so well,” Harry sighed, his voice nearly reverent, “I can’t wait to weigh you before bed.”

 And ah, shit, Louis forgot he was going to have to haul himself onto a scale and be subjected to Harry’s numerous measurements before he could roll himself into bed and sleep for eternity.

 But he just nodded, because he was a good boy, and Harry smiled.

 Harry changed the station to the evening news, and Louis zoned out as the anchor told him about the horrible state of the world and he just thought about pancakes.

 In the next few hours, Louis digested, only hauling himself to his feet once to waddle down the hallway to the bathroom, because all that milk had caught up with him. He only gave himself a quick glance in the mirror, which of course turned into a longer glance as he looked at his stretched-out joggers, his rolled up shirt, his balloon belly that was bloated and covered in angry red marks and his pudgy cheeks that was swelled and still a bit sticky.

 He came back out to the living room and sat down heavily next to Harry, exhaling loudly when he did. Harry just smiled and rubbed his belly, giving it a pat. It gave a little gurgle, and Harry perked up

 “Dessert?” he asked, and Louis nodded immediately.

 His boyfriend dished him out a big stack of double chocolate pancakes an hour later, and Louis managed to get the fork and knife back into his hands and cut it up himself. He kept his eyes on Harry as he ate, making sure he didn’t miss a moment of Louis stuffing himself once last time. And Harry didn’t dare look away, just watching him with hooded eyes and a little smirk as Louis made the stack smaller and smaller until it was empty, just a smear of cream left.

 Louis let the fork fall with a clatter and then he went boneless, patting his belly and letting himself burp and hiccup as much as he wanted. His eyes were watering; he was in real pain now, and Harry rose up over him, pressing the sweetest kiss to Louis’s chocolate-smeared lips.

 “How do you feel?” Harry breathed out, putting a hand on Louis’s protesting gut. Louis blinked glassy eyes at him, and gingerly put his hands on his stomach. It really did hurt, but more than anything, it felt heavy. And big. So big. And he was slowly remembering that big, heavy thing was very much attached to him.

 “I,” he choked out, “I feel really fat.”

 Harry pressed a hard, crushing kiss to his mouth that nearly made Louis breathless, and he grunted.

 “Careful, I – “ he burped weakly again just as Harry pulled away, “Fucking full.”

 “I know,” Harry said, a bit too smugly, “God, I know.”

 Louis felt hot again as Harry massaged his gut, his hands firm and reverent.

 “What a good piggy you are for me,” Harry said, “Ate up every last thing I made. Didn’t even think twice, did you?”

 Louis shook his head, his cheeks wobbling.

 “Christ, you really are getting so big,” Harry shook his head with a smile, “Shall we go see how big?”

 “Uh,” Louis hiccupped, “Give…give me a minute.”

 He closed his eyes and let Harry pet him a bit more, and then slowly, let Harry pull him to his feet. He waddled gingerly down the hall, Harry’s hand at his back, guiding him to the bathroom and to the scale, blinking at how Harry nearly squealed when the scale stopped at 292.

 “Twelve pounds of pancakes in your belly, love,” Harry smiled, giving Louis a poke, “Let’s see how many stay in the morning.”

 Louis let Harry lash a measuring tape around his waist, his hips, his arms, his thighs. He didn’t listen to the numbers, he knew he was big, he felt every bit of it. He was just relieved when Harry told him they were done, and he lumbered to the bedroom and hauled himself into Harry’s big bed, flopping onto his back with a hand on his stomach. His boyfriend joined him a moment later, cuddling up tightly to Louis and kissing him sweetly on the cheek, like they were finishing up a perfectly normal day.

 “Night, gorgeous,” Harry cooed, petting Louis’s middle, “Made me so proud today.”

 Louis barely had the energy left to even smile, but he did, for a moment, before he let his eyes drift closed.

 He wondered if he would be hungry in the morning.

 Probably.