m/m The Repository - (Complete Story, 10/15/21)

[Tjdonger]

Splendid. Captivating. Motivational. Sexy. Perfect. All words to describe your work here. Thank you! Truly one of my favs….

[portamivia]

20 hours ago, TQuintA said:

English is my first language.  I think it was one of my responders who said English wasn't their first language.

 

But thanks for the lovely compliment.

Oh thank god.

[MadDog]

An awesome chapter to close the part on. I echo the question of whether the story's over or not...

[Mamey]

Really, I was impressed, you are an excellent writer, I loved it and I love how the story goes, you left me wanting more, I'm going to look forward to the next chapter, what I love about the story is that there is a mixture Of various behavior patterns, there is love, hate, lust, fear, worry, joy, anger, etc., and you never know what is going to happen and you leave us with that doubt and wanting to read more. I am your number one fan, you are a great writer, please don't make us suffer by waiting too long for the next chapter.

[citizenies]

Lovely end for today. But as before "chapter x" completed, does that mean there's more?

[TQuintA]

Part 5 – The Wedding and the Honeymoon

Chapter 1

            “What the fuck was that?” I asked after I closed the front door.

            It had been two years since Jason had done Curtis’s reality show.  The show had had some decent success, largely due to Jason’s presence.  He was by far the biggest celebrity on the show—and I mean both in star power and in muscle mass.  They must have edited around Jason crying because they never showed him cry even once.  I suspect they didn’t want to show the superhero bawling like a six-year-old because he missed his boyfriend.  The show, however, got drowned out in the throng of other reality shows and wasn’t renewed for a second season. 

            I was finally done with the Death Knell series.  The last book had been a huge seller—not quite eclipsing the first book in the series, but nipping at its heels.  I was relieved it was over.  Jason loved the last book but mourned the end of the franchise; he pouted for a week when he finished reading it.  On at least eighteen different occasions, he tried to sexually coerce me into writing an eleventh one, even if I never released it to the public.  It never worked, but I let him try all eighteen times. 

            I was currently working on more one-off novels under my real name and a script for a Hollow Maple mini-series for Hulu.  That book trilogy had gotten a lot more attention in the last few years as an “undiscovered gem.”  The online community was as strong as it had ever been, and only growing, so there was definitely a market for it.  Their current obsession was trying to track down Gloria Bowman and find out why she had never written any other books.

            Jason’s career was as big as it ever was.  His turn as Scott in that small movie got him a lot of awards show love.  He didn’t get an Oscar nod, but twenty different magazines called it the “biggest snub of the season.”  Jason didn’t care; he was just happy to have been in the movie.

            And that was just the tip of his crackerjack career.  The first superhero movie had been incredible; it blew everyone, including me, away.  The sequel was, sadly, a piece of shit.  But it was a profitable piece of shit, so it bolstered his career too, just not in the way he hoped. 

            Ever since he’d gotten huge and done the superhero movies, everyone wanted him for action movies even though he wanted to go back to doing dramas and romantic comedies.  After six months of auditioning for action movie after action movie after action movie, he grew tired and started pursuing TV roles.  His agent flipped a gasket, but Jason was tired of being pigeonholed.  He was sure he’d do more movies in the future, but for now, TV felt right. 

            ABC snapped him up immediately.  Jason was the male lead of a tawdry legal drama where he played a brooding, womanizing lawyer who used to be a brooding, womanizing singer.  The show was essentially a soap opera with a veneer of legal drama sprinkled on top.  Jason’s character slept with most of the female characters (including a judge) and was shirtless every other episode.  It was a cheesy, campy, low-quality show that appealed to the lowest common denominator.  I’m not going to lie: it was my favorite fucking show on TV.  And I got to fuck the leading man regularly.  And get fucked by him.

            Jason actually believed in the show, in part because they let him sing; I, on the other hand, thought it was so bad that it cycled back to amazing.  Either way, we were both happy that his schedule had calmed down and he was, for all intents and purposes, home every day at the same time.

            I had moved into Jason’s house immediately after Curtis’s show had wrapped.

            Now that we lived together, and now that Jason’s schedule was calmer, things felt settled.  Jason, when out of the house—especially when filming—was a ripped and shredded 185, but when he came home to me, I’d give him back his deposit, and he’d blow up to his full, real, 252 pounds.  In the lead up to the superhero sequel, even after he’d left Curtis’s boot camp, he’d seriously tried to get as big as possible, but we realized soon enough that without significant, illegal, and possibly health-threatening methods, he naturally couldn’t get past 230.  He was grateful we’d found a loophole to keep him swollen above his natural max.  It also gave him an excuse to have two entirely separate wardrobes: one for his public size, and one for his real size.

            When Jason was home and I had no deposits, I was 300—enough to paradigmatically outclass Jason, the way we both liked it.  We decided that, out of a sense of fairness, I had to stay above my 272 base line.  I had to work out as hard as him, watch my food as much as him, etc.  I didn’t mind because our gym time together was some of my favorite time with him, even if he did drag his feet every time we got ready to go work out.

            Of course, this also means Jason routinely beefed me up to 370 pounds—367 to be exact.  In fact, I spent most of my days at that massive size.  Most people (including H. K.) thought I was just always 370 pounds of muscular immensity all the time.  Even my parents thought I was 370 all the time.  Even Jason’s family (who absolutely adored me, including his asshole older brother) thought Jason was just 185 and I was a behemoth 370.  In other words, those who didn’t know I was The Repository thought that I was twice Jason’s size.

            Those who knew better, like Jonah and Shafe, got to know Jason at his real hulking size.  They were impressed, and he liked having people he could show it off to.

            And I hadn’t fizzed in years.

            We were stupidly happy in love, and then we’d had that visit from Shafe.

            Shafe had just placed second at Olympia, likely his last time competing—the closest he had ever come to winning.  He’d come over to see us, saying he had an important announcement.  We assumed he was announcing his retirement from competitive bodybuilding, but it had been an entirely different announcement.  

            “Marietta and I are getting married,” he crowed.  Then he put his hand on my shoulder and added, “And I want you to be my best man.”

            Resisting the urge to swat away his hand, I hurriedly (if unenthusiastically) said, “Sure.” Pause.  “Yes.”  Pause.  “Of course.”  You don’t say no to a thing like that.  But as soon as he was out of the house, I closed the door, turned to Jason and said, “What the fuck was that?”

            “It’s an honor,” Jason said flatly, not entirely believing it, too surprised by the announcement to come up with a better response.

            “It’s an obligation.  I’ll have to give a speech at the wedding.”

            “You’re a writer.  That won’t be hard for you.”

            “You know Shafe.  He’ll get me involved in planning the whole wedding, and he’ll need it to line up with his Chakras or something.”

            “You are an organizational genius,” Jason soothed.  “You’ll adapt.  I don’t know how you or Lacey do it.”

            “I’ll have to throw a bachelor party for a straight man.”

            Exhaling, Jason admitted, “Yeah. That part’s gonna suck.”

            “Glad we’re finally on the same side.”

            “Always,” Jason averred.

            “So, you agree that their marriage is out of the blue, right?”

            “No, sorry.  I wasn’t agreeing to that,” Jason said, shaking his head.  “Their marriage makes sense.  They’re head over heels in love.  They complement each other perfectly.  And they’ve been together for as long as I’ve known either one of them.”

            “I knew Shafe in his 20s.  He was a ladies’ man—practically a fuckboy.  I can’t count the number of women he’s been with.  He makes me, even with my past of one night stands, look like a priest.  I never thought he’d get married.  Never.  I know he’s been with Marietta for a while, but…” I trailed off.

            “They’ve been together for over two years,” Jason reminded me.  In a conciliatory tone, Jason continued.  “While you and Shafe were talking best man stuff, Marietta pulled me aside.  She’s a Canadian, not an American citizen, so Uncle Sam put them through the wringer, making sure it wasn’t a green card marriage.  On top of that, Shafe’s father, the Shafer who controls the family’s money, wanted to make sure she wasn’t a gold digger, so he put them through a second wringer.  They’ve been thoroughly wrung out.  It took them months to get through all of that, or they would’ve gotten married last year.”

            “This just blows my mind.  We’ve been together longer than they have.  If they’re getting married…”  I trailed off again.

            Trying to distract me, Jason chuckled and jokingly said, “Paula and H. K. think we secretly got married two years ago in Vancouver.  They think that’s why we went public with the red carpet kiss.  She’s constantly pressuring me to see wedding photos.”

            “H. K and Paula, Jonah and Cole, and now Shafe and Marietta.  Are all of our friends married?”

            We went through our list of friends, and every single one of them was married or engaged.

            “This makes no sense,” I said.

            “We’re at that age,” Jason replied, shrugging.

            I groaned in frustration.  “This is ridiculous.  Are we really the only unmarried people in our social circle?”

            “Looks like it,” Jason said, patting my foot.  “If that bothers you,” he continued, “we can get married.  I never thought I would, but I’m not opposed to the idea.  As long as we’re together, I don’t care.”

            “I love you.  I’m never going to leave you.  That’s enough for me,” I admitted.  “If we needed to combine finances, or if one of us didn’t have health insurance, or if we had kids—heaven forbid—I could see getting married.  I understand why gay people had to fight for the right.  It was important; it was necessary.  But getting married just because everyone else is?  That feels silly.  It also feels thoroughly heterosexual.”

            Jason forced me to look into his eyes.  I wasn’t used to Jason being so serious, so I listened intently.  “Is my career why you don’t want to get married?  Are you worried that, if we got married, people will find out you’re The Repository?  That Jason Prentiss can’t get married without it becoming a big hoopla that attracts a media circus?”

            I nodded slightly, saying, “It’s on the list.  It’s not high on the list, but it’s on the list.”

            “If you marry me, I will keep your secret safe, as I have these past two years.  It will be our secret.  And our wedding can be as big or as small as you want it to be.”

            “What are you saying?”

            Jason ran into his study and came back out with a ring box.  “I bought this a month after you moved in.”  He pulled the ring out of the box.  It was plain and unadorned bright gold, practically warm to the touch.  Its weirdest feature?  It slid bigger and smaller.  When I pulled on it slightly, it telescoped out into a bigger circle.  “It adjusts size, Miles.  Like you.   I had it specially made.  That way, you could wear it no matter how big you are.”

            “And you’ve just had this?”

            “This, and a matching one for me.  It doesn’t change sizes as impressively, but it does change size.  You didn’t want to get married, and I was sure you wouldn’t leave me, so I didn’t care if we never did.  I still don’t.  But I also knew you might change your mind someday.  So, I had them made so I could propose to you on the spot if the need arose.”

            “And if I don’t want to get married?” I asked.

            “Then we’ll stay together forever anyways.  You’re not getting rid of me.  I’m not going anywhere.”

            “Me either,” I said, sighing in relief.

            With that reassurance behind us, I was free to plan Shafe’s bachelor party and help with the wedding.  Jason largely stayed out of it because of his TV schedule and not wanting to steal the engaged couple’s thunder.

            Shafe, thankfully, liked the bachelor party I threw him.  Shafe doesn’t drink, so many—practically all—traditional bachelor party activities were crossed off the list.  His friends, cousins, and father were not the best planners, so they provided no help.  And, as a gay guy, my taste in nude female entertainment is based largely on educated guesses.

            In the end, I came up with a plan.  We started with a steak dinner where all his friends got uproariously drunk (Shafe and I had iced tea).  Then, we moved on to a strip club.  Shafe complimented my choice of venue.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I found it on Yelp and then asked the straight male proprietor to help me arrange the specifics (I was desperate and flying blind by that point).  After most of his friends and family were wiped out from the events of the evening, half of them snoring, I took Shafe to see a psychic.  I’d put in a lot of work finding this guy.  He was the only psychic out of the thirty I had interviewed who could correctly identify what color my aura was.  He gave Shafe a private reading (that Shafe infuriatingly kept private), and then we rejoined the few of his friends who were still awake.

            At the end of the evening, Shafe gave me a best man’s present.  “You’re hard to get gifts for, Vaughn.  My dad said I should get you a gold watch, that it was traditional.  But I don’t want you to die.  Giving a watch as a gift?  Unbelievably bad luck.  It just tells the universe I’m counting the minutes until you drop dead.  I don’t know what my old man was thinking.”

            “Neither do I,” I echoed, just going along with it.

            “Then, I asked my cousins and gym buddies, and they said I was supposed to get you a blow up doll or a private dance with one of the strippers. Something like that,” he said.  “But we both agree that’s a bad gift, too.”

            “Definitely.”

            “I think you’ll like this more,” he handed me a long, rectangular box.

            Internally, I repeated to myself, “Please don’t be a dildo.  Please don’t be a dildo.  Please don’t be a dildo,” as I opened it.  When I removed the lid, though, inside was a sunshine yellow bow tie.

            “I got you one to match your aura.  I don’t know what you two do with these things, but I’ve seen the dozens of bow ties in both of your closets.  I also know that every time he sends you a picture of a bow tie, you run right the fuck home.  The next morning, you have a huge smile on your face.”  That was almost sweet.  Then, slightly under his normal speaking volume and far more rapidly than he normally spoke, he added, “Is it bondage?  My guess is that you tie each other up with bow ties.  Or maybe tie off your junk.  Something like that.  Is it bondage?  You can tell me if it’s bondage.  Marietta thinks it’s some sort of Chippendale’s striptease thing since you’re both muscular hunks.”  Done with his rapid fire, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder conspiratorially and asked, “Is one of us right?”

            I knew that the real story, that it was nothing more than a cute inside joke, would disappoint him, and tonight was supposed to be about him.  So, I said something that I thought would make him happy: “If I told you, you’d be jealous that you couldn’t do it with Marietta.”

            He shouted an “Oh!” and punched me on the shoulder, pleased beyond measure with my non-answer. 

            All in all, I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed Marietta’s bachelorette party better.  They got drunk in a hotel room, sang karaoke, and hired a stripper I would’ve had an opinion on.

            When I got back from Shafe’s bachelor party, I found Jason on the couch in his study, mindlessly shoving handfuls of pretzels in his face.  There was an empty box that once held doughnuts sitting next to him.  That meant he’d been at this for a while.  I was instantly worried I was walking into a minefield. 

            “What’s wrong, Jason?” I asked.

            He pulled a magazine out from under the couch and threw it at me.

            It was a trashy gossip tabloid, like the kind by the checkout of a supermarket.  On the cover was the picture of Jason and me kissing on the red carpet.  In big letters, the headline said: “JASON PRENTISS IS GETTING MARRIED!"

[arpeejay]

Just FYI: The story can't end until Vaughn is at least 400 lbs. There, I said it. Yes, I am a bossy reader!

[ploder4]

17 minutes ago, arpeejay said:

Just FYI: The story can't end until Vaughn is at least 400 lbs. There, I said it. Yes, I am a bossy reader!

I wholeheartedly agree.  400 lbs plus.    Lol

[Degameth4429]

Thank you for the birthday present! Loving this story

[arpeejay]

4 minutes ago, Degameth4429 said:

Thank you for the birthday present! Loving this story

Happy Birthday!!