shit

in which wheein meets zico

Firmly sat upon her broom, Wheein rides above the tall skyscrappers of Seoul. Her eyes focus on the streets below that crisscross with each other to create a grid of the city.

She was diligent in studying her grandmothers map before leaving to find this mysterious Zico her friend recommended her. But just incase, she added an extra charm that would glow bright if she became lost.

So far it only barely twinkled when she started heading west when she should have continued north. Luckily, once she noticed the flare up and the unfamiliar streets, she righted herself and continued on the correct path.

If shes correct, and the odds seem to be favoring her tonight, shes nearing her destination.

in which wheein finds out she has had a curse put upon her

It was a normal day for Wheein; waking up at 2, nearly 3, in the afternoon. Hazy orange sun filtering through her windows, hitting her directly in the eyes, as if the sun god was mocking her directly.

She wonders if perhaps she did anger him in some way. Maybe some spell or sigil that went against his beliefs and made him smight her. No, she thinks, there's no way. She doesn't deal with dark magic, and nothing she performs is a problem in the eyes of a god -- if her books taught her anything.

Her landline starts ringing then, interrupting her contemplation. Sun still shines in her eyes and probably burns the corneas.

church bells and car alarms all sound the same to hoseok.

hoseok doesnt know why he didnt just follow jimin into the store when the younger offered. instead, he decided sitting in the car in the freezing cold was the lesser of two evils. he was wrong, he realizes, shivering in his not-warm-enough sweater. his breath comes out in gray puffs and hes almost positive his nose is in the process of falling off its so cold.

he sighs, another bout of vapor pluming from his mouth, and turns to the window. he uses the foggy heat to frost the glass so his fingers can dance across the glossy surface, scrawling characters and hearts and any other cute drawings that come to mind.

he quickly becomes bored with his childish vandilization of his friends car and his fingers feel too cold to move anymore, so he stops. he pulls his hands into the sleeves of his shirt, eyes looking out the windshield at the car parked across from him.

jungkook is italian-korean. his boyfriend, jimin, is just korean. oh, and a vampire.

jungkook invites him over for sunday dinner.

the sun has just fallen past the horizon, snuffed out by the dark sky and replaced by the bright moon.

jimin’s standing on the front porch of his boyfriends house, which he could hear is alive with people. his finger presses into the doorbell, the shrill ding-donging obnoxiously cutting through the chatter.

jimin flinches. so much for not making an entrance, jimin thinks sullenly to himself. though he supposes it isn’t as bad as the first time he met jungkooks family.

(“it’s fine, jimin. they didn’t see anything.”

“you don’t know that, jungkook!”)

alright…. so i’ve been gone for… a lot longer than a while. and i feel really bad about that. and its even worse when the only reason why i’ve been absent is because les twins have lost their appeal to me. i feel like i owe something to all the amazing people that followed and supported the stories i had involving them though. so i thought id write a kind of an abridged ending including les twins and alison (from drifting off, that i would say got the most recognition out of the multiple fanfics i started). i really hope you guys enjoy.

the three are a mess of limbs and she can feel two heartbeats pulsating from the skin that is in contact with her own. they are almost identical, one starting barely a millisecond after the other.

thuh – thump. 

                        thuh – thump. 

                                                  thuh – thump.

alison’s laying in between them, body pressed against a dirty mattress she retrieved for this exact purpose. her boys in mind when she found it and decided that it was ‘good enough’. all she wanted was a place for them to rest their weary bones. give the joints and muscles a soft cushion to make them more comfortable in the eternity they would spend trapped due to repenting or maybe just bad luck.

she wasn’t expecting she would be wedged betwixt the two and so graciously accepted into their world, but that was months ago and now she craves it. she doesn’t mind the occasional elbows and too-sharp knees jabbed into her when they shared a bed on nights where school could be forgotten and words could be shared.

it’s dark inside the house, but moonlight and smiles are used to illuminate the conversations they have with hushed tones and soft vocables.

the topics are never the same but her position always is. atop that dirty mattress with alison in the middle of a sandwich she never minds being apart of.

larry and laurent change sides every other time, both preferring the side closest to the wall with the dip that made alison fall closer to one than the other. but that never stops them from selfishly wrapping arms and legs around her in a never ending attempt to bring her closer. keep her sated, keep her there, keep her with them. 

she always wonders how she could feel their heartbeats as if they’re made of flesh and blood. as if they’re in bodies that were composed of the same ingredients as her own. she never comes up with an answer.

“will we be together forever, ali?” the one that has the optimal position tonight questions, his tone reverberating around his chest and giving sound a feeling. his voice is playful and light, a pitch that is uniquely larry’s.

she contemplates his question for a while. chewing on her lip and looking up at the cracking ceiling that had been there before she was born. before the twins died. before the three of them even knew of the love they could harbor. 

“i’m sure you two will be together forever,” she decides, refusing to lie to the beautiful twins she grew to love individually and together. their arms go rigid around her, pulling her closer, 

                                                 closer, 

                                                            closer. 

she feels tired and stretched too thin. the three of them share love but she wonders if its the same kind.

“you too, ali,” a voice buzzes on her other side. its deep and full and uniquely laurent’s. she wonders if the time apart when they were children (before she was born, maybe even before the house was built) created the subtle difference in the octaves in which they spoke.

they expect an answer, still pulling her closer,

                                                      closer,

                                                                  closer.

and she feels so thin she thinks she might snap. might accept their obsessive love as an equivalent to the love she feels. she’s so young she can barely decipher whether there’s a difference. she’s so young but she’s only getting older.

but no matter how old she becomes her twins will still prevail. inhabiting the house together and loving too hard. alone with only each other to satisfy their selfish craving for company.

she wonders if that’s for the best because they still haven’t received an answer so their arms tighten a fraction, again pulling her closer…

             closer….

                            closer. 

maybe a liiiitle bit. 

YOU’RE SO NICE. THIS MESSAGE LITERALLY MADE ME SMILE SO MUCH. i’m so glad you like my writing, like it’s an amazing feeling to know that you like it so much. and ME TOO; beyonce and les twins together legit kills me and ill never stop writing them together because it’s such a great dynamic. and i CANNOT wait until you write your gay LT fic because I’m going to fucking read it a million times i s2g. 

           ”Riverbank High School is the type of school that is broadcast in every teen drama. The groups that naturally formed within the walls are like they were written by a Hollywood director that was getting paid way too much for doing a mediocre job.”

           ”With just one short walk down one of the multiple hallways you’ll be greeted with at least one person from every clique.”

           ”Getting a drink at the water fountain might be a nerd that always wears some vague, dorky shirt that says ‘bazinga' on it or something that compliments the cargo pants he wears that have too many pockets that most likely hold the overflowing amounts of virginity he wields like Captain America's shield. The poor dweeb will likely get pushed to the side by a lunky football player that's brain can barely hold a thought.”

           ”Across from them will be silent goths that watch with eyes rimmed in black who desperately want to end the unjust berating but would rather maintain their calm, cool, and collected demeanor than be a hero. But they still have the audacity to whisper small snarky comments to each other about how horrible the jock is for bullying the dork while they lean against lockers that aren’t theirs, like their satiric remarks are meaningful.”

           ”Further down the hall will be art students that constantly have paint staining their skin and haircuts that make the whole student body contemplate whether they’re straight or not. They usually hang out with the stoners who have a shared aloofness with the artists and also a distinct pungent smell that is either from pot or a lack of hygiene — or maybe both.”

           ”The band geeks hang out near the elevator that is only active if someone breaks a bone in one or both of their legs. They tap on invisible instruments and hum to silent songs as they converse about who is fucking who in the group, because everyone knows that the band geeks only fuck other band geeks. Also, it would be wise not to play any music that does not have at least five instruments composing it around them. And definitely not “obnoxious rap” that could “barely be considered music” because they will no doubt start a fifteen minute argument with you that highlights all the important points of why rap music is a horrible genre.”

            “If you slowly pass the last door leading outside in any of the hallways you will get a glimpse at a cluster loners. The sad folk that pride themselves on their lone-wolf lifestyle but who also, ironically, group together whenever they are at any social function or stupidly smoking a cigarette on school property.”

            “If you’re lucky, you’ll end up in the popular group which, not so coincidentally, I am in,” I tell the newbie that looks like she has potential. She’s pretty and smart enough and she doesn’t look like she could dethrone me so she’s good as gold in my eyes. “Penelope Parker,” I formally introduce myself with an outstretched hand that is eagerly shook by the new girl.

            “I’m Eva.”

            “Anyway. We’re popular, prosperous, and pretty,” I side-eye a few of the girls and guys that were welcomed into the group due to a girlfriend or boyfriend that insisted. The took up valuable real estate at the table we occupied in the morning and at lunch. “Mostly," I clarify before picking myself up from the cafeteria table.

            “We’re the best out of all the groups, if I’m being honest,” I continue my rambling because I can tell Eva’s hanging on to every word I say, and who wouldn’t be?

            I direct us into one of the hallways that depict the exact image I had just previously described. A small fleet of my friends slowly form behind me and Eva as we leisurely near our first class of the day.

             ”Pink Parker!” The bane of my existence, Laurent Bourgeois, calls out to me, turning around as he passes just to see my reaction as he pins his immature nickname onto me with accented vocables and a harsh bite. 

            If I wasn’t petty, I’d let him have the last laugh without a second thought, but I can’t stop myself from turning on my heels to stare as he slowly flits backwards.

            He holds a mean smirk and I hold a meaner glare. 

            “Blue Bourgeois!” I chime back before linking my arm with Eva and focusing my attention on getting to English on time.

requested by anon.

            Larry and Laurent have been fighting for Beyonce’s affection for over a week. What they both assumed would end as a small crush swelled into a lustful admiration that they both wanted to test the limits of. 

            They would constantly annoy Beyonce with flirty smiles and lingering hands, trying to prove to the other that one’s love was stronger. They assumed she didn’t know of the silent battle they were having for her attention but their blatant gestures didn’t leave Beyonce in the dark.

            She would put up with the grabbing hands and constant need for half-reciprocated affection but refused to entertain their fantasies further like they so desperately wanted.

            “What’re you two doin’?” She questioned in a Southern drawl the first time she caught them arguing about her. The fight immediately seized when they registered the deep richness of her voice that left them both shivering. The silence ended when they both quickly tried to explain, talking over each other to create a jumbled mess of barely English words.

            She nodded at them, as if she understood what they were saying, while masking a slow forming smile with her water bottle. The rushed explanations of the boy’s didn’t falter until she made for the door a few minutes later.

            She continued to pretend she didn’t know of the game the two were playing.

            On stage when Laurent bumped his hip with hers or when Larry blew her a kiss, Beyonce would reciprocate it as if their overt flirting was normal.

            If ignorance was a color it would be a soft primrose that would compliment Beyonce’s skin tone so well that it looked natural.

             She couldn’t wear it all the time though. Like when it was four o’clock in the morning and Jay was still out somewhere in the night “hanging out with friends”. It was the last night of the tour and Beyonce knew he didn’t have any friends in Paris.

            Jay only had friends in Brooklyn and any other “friends” were liars. Liars that agreed to help Jay feed his lustful cravings in the early hours of the night when he should be at the hotel with his wife.

            Beyonce had told herself that if he showed up before three she wouldn’t give into her own cravings.

             She brought the hotel phone onto the bed with her and typed in the extension of the room that held her twins. Tangling her finger in the coiled cord, she waited for them to pick up.

            “Hello,” one of them answered, his voice gruff with sleep. She couldn’t differentiate the twins without visual indicators.

            “You and your brother should come on over,” Beyonce spoke into the phone with a sultry tone that sounded natural clinging to her vocables. Over the phone she could hear a click of a light and muffled movement. 

             ”What number room you in?” The twin questioned before a slapping sound was heard that whispered French quickly followed.

            “481.”

            She didn’t have to wait long before her twins were knocking on her door. Four thuds vibrating against the wood before Beyonce pulled the door open to be greeted by the identical brothers.

            “What’s up?” Laurent questioned, patiently waiting in the hall with his brother at his side. They were both bare chested and she assumed they had lazily thrown on pajama pants before their departure with the way the material barely reached their hips. 

            Beyonce silently invited them into her room by moving to the side and opening the door wider.

            “Is everything ok?” Laurent pressed, seating himself on the couch that was adjacent to the bed. Both him and his brother looked apprehensive as they waited for her answer.

            “Jay’s cheatin’ on me again,” Beyonce responded with an air of relaxation. The brother’s looked at each other, uncertainty staining their identical visages.

            “We so sorry, Monster,” Larry’s the first one to talk, though Beyonce knew Laurent was thinking the same thing.

            “I don’t want your sympathy, I just want y’all to help me to forget about him for an hour or two,” there’s a suggestiveness in her tone that’s impossible to miss.

            “I can help you forget,” Laurent offered first, pushing his brother out of the way to stand in front of the radiant woman. His eagerness brought a smile to her lips.

            “No, me!” Larry then chimed, pushing Laurent’s face backward with an open palm.

            “How ‘bout you both help me,” Beyonce sat herself on the end of her bed before pushing herself backwards until her spine met the headboard. 

            The twins followed her path to the bed before situating themselves at the foot of it.

            “Well, are y’all just gonna keep me here waitin’?”

            And with her question they launched into action. Laurent crawled his way towards her as his brother did the same on the other side. They hovered next to her before Laurent attached his lips to hers.

            Her lips were pliant as she opened them to mold them against his. He’s still too nervous to touch anything other than her lips so he supported himself on his arms on either side of her as her tongue rolled against his in a pleasant way.

            Beyonce’s right hand was on Laurent’s shoulder while the other one occupied Larry’s. Her thumbs rubbed identical patterns in similar muscles.

            She broke the kiss with a smile before turning to Larry to give him a small peck against his ample lips. 

            “Can I take off your pants?” Laurent questioned apprehensively, his fingers already dancing along the waist of Beyonce’s jeans, which evoked a small laugh from a sincere part of Beyonce’s chest.

            “They ain’t gonna take themselves off,” Beyonce jokingly answered before engaging her lips with Larry’s as Laurent fervently removed her pants.

            Larry was soft and gentle with his tongue as he instructed it to roam slowly against Beyonce’s. It elicited a beautiful moan from her when Lauren’ts tongue mimicked his brothers but against her underwear. 

            Beyonce pulled away from Larry as Laurent quickened the flicks of his tongue. Her fingers desperately rake Larry’s hair as his mouth finds a new home at the base of her neck. Larry’s teeth scraped against the tender flesh as Laurent pulled her panties to the side to give his tongue more access. Her eyes were hooded with lust and she swore she was going to pass out.

            “You like that?” Larry questioned for his brother as he took a break from assaulting her neck. His fingers trailed lower until they rest in front his brother’s nose. He gave out a questioning hum as his fingertips pressed into her soft flesh, trying to evoke a response from the withering woman.

            Beyonce responded with a strangled ‘mhm' that resulted in the pad of Larry's fingers working circles against the awaiting skin as a reward.

            With the new flurry of sensations, Beyonce genuinely wondered if she married the wrong man; Jay could never cause such a stupendous commotion within her like her twins could together. 

            Larry tenderly bit Beyonce’s clavicle while Laurent cleverly tucked his tongue upwards inside her and she completely came undone with a final sounding moan.

            “Larry, Laurent,” she groaned, gripping both of them with her left and right hand at the nape of their necks where curly hair met soft skin. She held them there for a few beats while she waited for her pulse to slow. She could feel them adjust themselves before coming to lay on either side of her. Her tight grip was replaced with open arms that enveloped them, pressing her sticky skin against theirs though it’s not unwanted by either parties.

             Nervousness is not something I feel often being one-half of Les Twins. It’s a foreign emotion that can barely be recalled without reminiscing about fluttering butterflies and wobbly knees from the first time I had a crush. 

            The feeling gets more muddled as time distances it.

            Now, as I muse with my fro in a desperate attempt to detour my racing mind, I note that I am nervous. I realize how my legs feel like they are vibrating and that, if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear my heartbeat pounding against my eardrums. 

            I am nervous and gay and decidedly need to inform my brother of one of those facts.

            I contemplated telling my other siblings but figured that I should start with the one I was closest to, physically and mentally. Coincidentally, I feared Larry’s reaction the most.

            I wipe my hands off on the dirty jeans while I anxiously delay knocking on my brother’s hotel door.

            The gold numbers screwed into the wood glare at me like I assumed Larry will when I share with him my secret.

            It would mimic the glare I gave Larry when he went away to cooking camp during the summer when we were teenagers. Larry assured me multiple times that it was necessary for him to hone his talents but it felt like betrayal to me. My twin left me alone during the peak of France’s heat and there was no excuse that could ease my bitterness. 

             I was forced to occupy my time with television and friends that were dull compared to my brother’s company.

            One night, in a feeble attempt to break the routine of mindless TV and boring friends, I snuck into the school. It was closed for summer but some of the teachers still inhabited it to get work done and finish the yearly grades that took longer to process than expected.

            It was approaching dusk so most of the employees had cleared out with the exception of a janitor or two. There wasn’t a more opportune time to go exploring.

            I creeped down the hallways, occasionally peaking through the windows on the doors to see what the teachers were doing inside.

            A majority of the rooms were dark and locked but I eventually came upon one that was dimly lit by a small table lamp. The teacher was hunched over the table and scribbling diligently into a notebook. I noted how the light illuminated his face in a delightful way before quickly clearing my head of the off putting sentiment.

            The teacher previously taught me science and always put up with my delinquent tendencies so I didn’t think that entering the room would cause a problem. I silently slid into the room before closing the door with a less than gentle hand that made a loud noise that echoed around the quiet room.

            The teacher immediately looked up, confusion evident on his visage with the way his brows pulled together.

            “What are you doing here, Laurent. It’s summer,” The teacher didn’t seem displeased to see me though, which I assumed was a good thing.

            “I’m just exploring,” but I was exploring something completely different now. I looked at the teachers face in the uneven light and decided that I liked the way his glasses made a red mark at the bridge of his nose. I liked how his hair was messy from running his fingers through it, just like I used to do when I was nervous. I liked how he looked young, but old enough for me to know that there was a considerable age gap between us.

            I was hyper aware of the mass amounts of things that I liked about the man that previously taught me science.

            “You should leave before you get caught,” the teacher turned his attention back to his notes, looking disinterested in the conversation that we were having. Something told me that he was feigning it.

            “I don’t care if I get caught,” I bravely stated, moving closer to my teacher. My heart fluttered with anticipation as he stared up at me with a new emotion smeared across his visage.

            I guessed it was lust and I was more than right.

            The events that took place after our discourse was a mess of bad choices and jumbled emotions that I would never forget but purposely fail to mention to my brother for over nine years.

            I wished that the feelings my teacher had evoked were a fluke, a dud, a one time thing. But they never were. If I wasn’t infatuated with my teacher then I was infatuated with the boy on my soccer team; if it wasn’t him then it was anyone else that would catch my attention and elicit unwanted emotions.

            It was a never-ending circle of loving a boy and hating myself.

            I regretted the incident that happened in that room in more than one way. I dreaded seeing the science teacher in the halls. I even dreaded passing the room on my way to lunch or gym. All of it was a constant reminder of our bad judgement and that things were different and I was definitely one of those things.

            Which incidentally resulted in me dropping out of high school; the haunting feeling that followed me doubled when I was in the confining building but I told my brother that I left for more prudent reasons which he believed. 

            I didn’t like lying to Larry, and not telling him felt the same as lying, so every night when I prayed, I would pray for courage.

            And tonight I finally received it.

            I bring my fist beneath the shiny gold numbers and firmly tap against the wood twice, waiting for Larry to answer the door.

            It felt like eternity before Larry throws the door open with his chest bare and his face drowsy from sleep.

            “What’s up, man? We gotta wake up early tomorrow. We got a flight,” Larry doesn’t attempt to hide the yawn that rips through him. I invite myself into the room, pushing passed my brother and the threshold of the door easily.

            “I need to tell you something,” I ring my hands out in front of me, something I rarely do anymore since my confidence is seemingly always budding. Larry must have noticed because his groggy demeanor turns solemn.

            “What is it? Do you have a herpes or something, bro?” Larry’s accusation is meant to be lighthearted but it makes me feel even worse. My silence is enough of an answer to worry Larry. “You’re freaking me out, man. What’s going on?”

            Larry puts a comforting hand on my shoulder, trying his best to shake me out of the nervous stupor I fell into. His hand is familiar in its place and I wonder if Larry will refuse to touch me once he knows the truth. 

            “I’m gay,” the words fall from my barely parted lips in a quick and clipped manor and Larry removes his hand from my shoulder just as fast.

            The sound of the clock on Larry’s nightstand can be heard. Cars outside are vibrating with life and causing an awful wooshing sound that can be heard through the walls. But we are silent, identical eyes locked on each other, waiting for one to respond or continue.

            “What does that mean?” Larry finally breaks the silence we once shared, his face a mixture of emotions that I refuse to decipher.

            “I like guys,” my voice is lower and weaker but I never break eye-contact with my brother.

            “No, that’s not—,” He pulls at his hair as if he is a younger me. “I mean, what — why — I don’t —.” Larry is the personification betrayal.

            He can’t form a proper sentence; he has forgotten every word he had ever learned. It’s like Larry is speaking in English his vocables are so broken.

            “When did you find out?” My twin questions me. Each word breaks my heart even more. If Larry is betrayal, I am regret.

            “I don’t know.” I’m lying.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I don’t know.” I’m lying. 

             ”Why did you lie to me all this time?” We’re still staring intently at one another so I am positive Larry doesn’t miss it when a lone tear rolls down my cheek.

            “I don’t know,” I’m not lying now. I don’t know why I didn’t tell my brother earlier. Larry hasn’t kicked me out yet so it’s apparent that he won’t. So why did I lie to him for so long?

             Larry immediately takes me into his arms like he used to do when we were younger; like when we exchanged teary-eyed goodbyes before Larry abandoned me during the hottest season of the year. 

            Larry has always been the one to nurse me back to health with a hug and encouraging words after a scrapped knee or hurt feelings, even if he was the one to inflict them.

            “You’re still my brother, Laurent.”

well here it is  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.