#busy sinning somewhere else {queue}

[takemealivelh]

We’re not done here yet, okay?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 9

2.3k | Mentions of alcohol, sex and cheating | FEEDBACK IS ENCOURAGED AND APPRECIATED

For the first time, I wasn’t able to know what was going through his mind, it both terrified and relieved me. I didn’t move, my jaw slightly trembled when his body got even closer to mine. His hand reached for my chin, and his lips crashed into mine.

Deep down I knew it was wrong, but I’ve always craved what I can’t have. His hands found shelter in the crook of my neck, I kissed him fast and furious. It felt epic, blood-rushing, stars-exploding, synths and strings playing in the back of my head, sinful. I wanted him all.

His lips were sober and my mind was lucid, my forbidden fruit tasted like heaven. For a moment, all these scenes flashed through my closed eyelids; holding hands in the queue of a coffee shop, cuddling on a winter day, playing with new sounds in the studio after rehearsal hours, fucking him deep in a hotel room in Germany. Then, his tongue traced my lower lip and my mind went blank.

“Luke?”

We pulled apart as soon as we heard the knock on the door. My heart started beating fast against the back of my jawline, recognizing Erin’s voice.

“Yeah!” Luke almost choked at the sudden intake of air. “In here!” He smoothed the wrinkles off his shirt where I had grabbed him, pulling his body closer to mine, wanting to melt him into my skin. His face visibly paled, I collected the heat in my own cheeks, burning red.

As soon as Erin stepped into the dressing room, I pulled out my phone and stared at the lock screen, pretending to be busy. Even if she hadn’t witnessed her boyfriend and his sound tech making out, I was sure she could perceive the tension in the space between us. If Luke was a good actor, I was not. Luke could keep his face straight for a long time just to keep a prank going, like that one time he and Ashton started a water balloon fight before the show in Glasgow. I almost ruined their plan because I couldn’t stop laughing or stuttering when someone asked me why the guys were taking so long in the bathroom.

Erin asked us if everything was alright, I saw the shadow of her moving body reach out to Luke and wrap an arm around his waist.

No words were necessary, our tongues had done enough.

I shook my head as if I’d just gotten an upsetting text and headed towards the door in silence, it was only when I heard my name on Luke’s lips that I stopped on my tracks.

“We’re not done here yet, okay?”

His arm was slouched over Erin’s shoulders, his eyes were dark with regret and hope. Her brows were furrowed together with worry.

I didn’t reply.

-

While the band walked the red carpet and gave similar answers to different interviewers, I was backstage with the crew of the venue. Men moved large equipment from one side of the stage to the other, women talked on their phones about strict schedules. Cameras were tested and microphones were checked for the hundredth time that day. I sat on a plastic chair, next to the mixer, going over the post-it notes I’d prepared with Michael and Calum earlier. Luke’s words had been haunting me since the moment they fell from his lips.

We’re not done here yet.

Did he mean that? What was he after? My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. He had Erin but he wanted me. Was that it? After all this time, he still wanted me. Why? How? He’d told me himself that it was too hard to be with me, which was true. So, why did he want to go through that again?

Maybe he missed me as much as I missed him. It wasn’t fair to his girlfriend.

I pulled out my phone and looked for Erin’s Instagram. Pictures with her friends, pictures of her on the way to a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert. Fuck, I wanted to be her friend, I liked her. She seemed smart enough to know when to leave and yet, she was still with Luke. I was disappointed in his behaviour. I couldn’t believe he was still pulling childish acts out of his ass. Had he not learned anything?

But I still wanted him. Why?

Why did I suddenly have the need to be around him? Why did my skin itch at the thought of his fingers? Why did I want to hear every stupid joke, every silly anecdote, every clever idea that he had in his mind? Why now?

Because he has Erin.

I felt bad about wanting to go after him.

The night went by in a flash and suddenly it was 5SOS’ turn to perform. They gathered around the backstage area before going in, fist-bumping and wishing good luck to everyone, including me. Calum patted my back and Ashton gave me a weak smile before heading out to a cheering crowd. Michael checked the guitar volume in his in-ear and kissed my temple good luck as he’d grown accustomed to doing before any big gig. I slid the faders up to 0 and pressed play on the recording multitrack session.

Luke’s breathing against my earlobe almost made me collapse on top of the console.

“Meet me afterwards. We need to talk.”

His eyes lingered on me for the time it took him to walk onstage. I felt naked.

I liked it.

Talking was the last thing I wanted to do.

-

As soon as their performance was over and they rushed backstage to put the instruments away and to receive the compliments from the rest of the team, I saved the recorded act and made sure to have the mixer ready for the next sound guy. When I was done, 5SOS were back on their seats, surrounded by the other attendees.

I spent the rest of the ceremony in the dressing room, not doing much at all. I could’ve gone home, I could’ve hung out with the rest of the venue crew, I could’ve sat next to the stage and watched the rest of the performances. Instead, I waited for everyone by myself.

I waited for him.

I remembered our encounter back at Ashton’s place. Luke’s shirt gliding off his shoulders, his hands squeezing my thighs, his sloppy kisses on my lips… All my memory could do was complete the gaps between reality and my fantasies. Was this feeling anything more than lust? Maybe it was, but I wasn’t sure how to handle it.

Close to midnight, the show was still going. I decided to play around with the makeup and the little elastic ties I had in my backpack, along with ten spare plug cables and a Shure SM58 just in case. The lightning was enough to sit on the floor and re-do my look in the full-length mirror. I sat down with a bottle of beer I’d brought from the backstage area, and wondered if Luke thought I was sexy.

“It’s always nice to hear you’re sexy from another sexy person”

I scoffed the memory away. He was drunk and I am insecure.

“You’re a nice view, you know that?”

We’d been so close. So physically, flirtatiously close. Now I wanted every inch of space between us to disintegrate.

Yet again, the image of his girlfriend popped up in my head. I dropped my head down, ashamed, and scrolled through my phone one more time. The last picture she’d posted was of the venue we were currently in, before we’d even done the soundcheck. Luke’s laugh was frozen as he carried her piggyback style. A kiss to his cheek.

My heart sunk.

Erin had always seemed happy around him. She liked that Luke was goofy and that he was interested in her job and hobbies. She’d told me about one time he’d taken her out for her favourite food and they ended up drunk playing carnival games. I couldn’t understand how Luke could sweep her off her feet like that if his heart wasn’t fully into that relationship. But maybe I was imagining things, and Luke didn’t want me either, and he was just this fuckboy that I didn’t know he was...

My mind was spiralling out, going to ten different directions, all equally disturbing.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the reds and purples in my eyelids. I did want to impress Luke, I wanted him to be aroused by me.

Maybe I can only be with someone as the other woman. I pulled the costume quite well.

When the boys came back into the dressing room to pick up their stuff, Michael was the first one to notice me all dolled-up.

“Whoa,” he half laughed, half whistled. “Hot date after this? Isn't it a little late for a conversation?” Calum laughed behind him and pushed him towards the guitar case on the other end of the room. They were drunk. Michael’s eyes were droopy and Calum couldn’t stop fumbling with the pockets of his jacket.

I rolled my eyes, “who said anything about a conversation?” my tone was playful and teasing, knowing it would amuse them. Deep down, the guilt and confusion kept me glued to the wooden floor, still in front of the mirror.

Ashton was quick to pick on my remark. He seemed like the most put-together, but when he erupted in his signature giggles, I knew he was hammered as well. “Damn, boys! We got our girl here being a wild one tonight,” he smiled at me from behind. “We’re going to an after-party, you coming with us? Or is your lover boy meeting you somewhere else so we cannot intimidate him?”

That’s when I noticed Luke was leaning against the door, blue eyes going through my body like daggers. I could feel the exact point in the small of my waist where he was practically burning his mark on.

“Where’s Erin?”

At the mention of her name, I peeled my eyes away from the scene. Focusing back on the boxer braids I’d made earlier. They’d taken me at least 20 minutes per side and a 10-minute break in between, to rest my arms. As Luke explained that Erin had to be up early tomorrow, I caught him stealing glances at me through the mirror. He didn’t look drunk, which was weird, but also kind of nice. I re-applied the berry colour to my lips and smudged the edges with my fingertips.

“A’ight then,” Ashton shrugged with a sigh, “and hey, wild one,” he tapped my shoulder once I was back on my feet, fixing my backpack on my shoulder. “Great show tonight.”

“We were good,” I smiled at him.

“Yeah, we were.”

They were quick to say their goodbyes and rush out the door to the after-party, except for Luke. He shoved a hand in the pockets of his pants and rubbed his eye with the other. “Nah, Im’ma head back home. I'm tired.”

Calum, Michael and Ashton disappeared, their laughter echoed through the hall. Luke was still leaning against the door when he sighed. “I broke up with her.”

I remained silent.

He looked for the thoughts racing through my head, narrowing his eyes at me. I didn’t know how to react. I was both surprised and relieved. Both scared and excited. Awkwardly, I kept readjusting the straps of my backpack, not wanting to stay but not wanting to leave either.

“I didn’t want them on my case, you know how they are…” Luke turned his head to check the hallway. Empty. He took a few steps closer to me, I looked down at my feet. His boots came into view and I almost gasped when I felt the warmth of his body almost touching mine. “Right after we…” the faint laughter in his tone gave away that he was nervous.

Unknown territory for the both of us.

“She knew something was up, she…” he sighed and searched for my gaze, “please, look at me. This is really fucking hard, okay?” The soundwaves of his chuckle vibrated against my temple. I was twitching in place. “Please.”

Even though I’d only had one beer after their song had ended, I felt my skin buzzing. Chewing on my lower lip, trying to stay sane and adequate through it all, I looked at him. Curly hair tucked behind his ears, gold glitter along his cheekbones, long lashes framing his blue eyes...

“I want you.”

My breath got caught in my throat, almost choking me. “Luke, I-”

I tried to pull away from our closeness but he grabbed my arms and held me in place. He looked for the truth in my eyes as my name rolled off his tongue as if it belonged there.

“You were right. Fuck, all of you were. I know what you all were thinking about, that Erin was a rebound, that I wasn’t being fair to her, that-”

“Luke, you-”

“Let me finish!”

He let go of me and strode back to the door, closing it. I said nothing.

Here we were, alone again.

“I was a dick to Erin, I know that. I led her on when I didn’t mean it… Not because I didn’t enjoy her company, ‘cos I did…” Luke trailed off and shut his eyes hard, cursing himself under his breath. He started stuttering and I couldn’t make out the words coming out of his mouth. “Fuck!” he whispered and nearly threw a punch to the wall. “You’re making me go crazy, you know that? I tried to get over you, but…” Luke took a deep breath and let his back collapse against the door, his body quickly glided down until he was sitting with his head between his knees.  

I watched. Luke had never been this vulnerable, not around me at least.

His muffled laugh travelled to my ears, his gaze found me again. “Listen, I don’t know what to do. I’m so in love with you that it hurts...”

He made me weak. I dropped to my knees and tossed my backpack to the side, crawling towards him almost at the speed of light. His cheeks were hot against the palms of my hands, he looked into my eyes like a deer scared to be hit. I could sense the fear in his breathing, the dreadful idea of handing his heart to me and me destroying it. His eyes pleaded for mercy.

“I don’t… I love you, okay? I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

My fingertips traced circles against his skin, my thumb grazing his lower lip. Luke closed his eyes and gave into my touch, leaning into it.

I wasn’t sure if I loved him, but I definitely cared for him. My heart was beating fast, my stomach was swirling with butterflies. It was clear that I fancied him, I loved spending time with him, I loved it when we were together being the dorks we were.

And I was as scared as he was.

Leaning against his lips, I took a deep breath against them, closing my eyes. “Don’t break my heart, Hemmings.”

“I wouldn’t dare to”

-

TAGLIST

@brown-eyedshell @thew0rldneedsmcreycghurt @myloverboyash @hopeless-renassianceluke @dukesnumber1 @rip-lukes-balsamic @angelbabylu @cal-pal-cuddles @ashtons-favorite @1dthewantedlove  @problematicprincessa@heartbreak-5sos @bloodmoonashton @lilacsos @irwinkitten @singt0mecalum@sublimehood @sugarcoated-pain @5sosnsfw @cal-puddies @lashtoncurls@cal-pal-cuddles @dweebluke @rosecoloredash @hotmessmichael@calumspeachy@ashtonsunshine @wonderland-irwin @irwinkitten@ashtonandcalslefthand @post-traumatic-mess @damselindistressanu @c-dizzle-swizzlex @mycollectionofnuts @calteahood

[eerythingisshaka]

The Coffee Prince Pt. 1

Word Count: 2.6K

T’Challa x Reader

Plot:  Stuck in your ways of living, one day at the coffee shop, you run into a tall dark roast that threatens to wake you up from your romantic hibernation.

You are a notorious homebody; your laptop, bed, and streaming sites are all you need make a Friday night litty titty and you took pride in your introversion.  Growing up, school is all about who you know, what clique you are a part of, what parties you get invited to, clothes you wear, etc.  It was tiring on your psyche back then, and some complexes had formed due to all of that keeping up the the jones’ crap.  Nobody has time for that when you’re an adult, so you fully enveloped your true hermit lifestyle.  Then this nigga comes along, 6’0, adorable accent, beautifully crafted body draped in the finest clothes. Intelligent, with a crooked smile that could light a fire underwater.  

Y’all first met in line waiting to get coffee.  You had your headphones in, common defense to make sure no one fucks with you on a regular basis.  Once you made your order, you stood off to the side waiting for you order.  He was next but when the barista had a look on her face that was completely confused and more than annoyed.  You let one earbud hang as this intrigued you, especially since this was a white barista and a Black man at a Starbucks you had to make sure everything was cool, for the culture.  By the time you had an available ear, he was waving his hand at the exasperated worker and walking toward the area you stood.  

He looked at you for a moment as he made his way over, and you gave that tight smile that said ‘I am friendly but don’t expect anything more than this smile’, instinctively.  He nodded in your direction and stood about five feet from you.  

“Order for…..” the male barista squinting at his own writing.  “Uhhh, caramel macchiato, double shot?”

“That’s mine!  Thanks!”  you stepped up to the counter to pick up your drink, but checking him out your fellow patron in your peripheral.  You turn to take a quick sip and steal a glance at the same time, noticing him giving you a sideways smile before saying, “You too, huh?”

His accent caught you off guard for a second before you computed what he said.  It wasn’t hard to comprehend, but it’s very noticeable.

“Oh, yeah, I get this drink all the time.  Not like I’m here everyday, but…”

“Order for Thomas!” the male barista says loudly.

He walks up to the counter grabbing his cup.  He goes over to the side table to pick up some sugar, napkins, and a stirrer.  You follow picking up some napkins, before he begins again.

“I mean the barista; he has a problem reading your name.  He didn’t even try.”  He says as he add the sugar.

“Yeah, which could be a blessing or an insult.  But I’m used to it.”  You both share a sip of your caffeinated concoctions.

“But what was the problem with your name?  Was she not able to get past your accent or something?”

“What accent?”  He said, with a serious look.

You almost choke on your coffee when he said this.  What accent?  Did you just strike up a conversation with one of those people that went into a coma and woke up talking different?  You would get the cute and crazy type of nigga.

“Umm, I don’t know…” you stutter.

He looks away laughing to himself, “I’m only kidding.  My apologies for startling you.”  He says with a slight bow to you.

You nod in return to him, “It’s ok, I’m pretty damn gullible at times.  Good one!”

He smiles down at his cup, “Thanks, but my accent was not primary issue, no.  It was my name, like you.  So I just gave her the name Thomas to move things along.” he says bringing the cup to his mouth again.  You notice the length of his fingers…and no ring.

“Ah, I’m always nervous about giving a fake name.  Like, if they check my card and it isn’t the same they’ll question me or refuse service or something.”

“Oh, I didn’t think it would ever get that serious; it’s not a military base.”

You give a side eye, “How long have you been in America?”

He smiles, nodding, “I’m learning new things everyday.  But it’s been a little over a year now.”

“Are you from an African country?”

“Yes, a small village  near the central, eastern part.”

“Nice.  That’s so cool to know where you’re from, ancestrally.  It seems like everyone reps their set. But I still can’t get past the Southern states.”

He nods, checking his timepiece next to a beaded bracelet around his wrist.

“Oh, I’m sorry, if you need to be somewhere.  I’m not usually talkative with strangers.”

His mouth goes agape for a moment, “Well I don't think we could call ourselves strangers.  We are bonded by the oppression of our caffeine dealers who refuse to look us in the eye or remember our names.”  He holds his cup out and you meet his to cheers.  You feel a jolt when your finger brushes his.

“But I must confess that I do have other engagements to attend to, so please forgive me.”

“No, no problem at all, I’m needing to get back to the office.  But see you around!”  You do a quick about-face and walk away quickly after that, giving no time for a response.

Once you made it down the street, your heart palpitations start to subside but now the self deprecation begins.  Why did you talk so much?  And the worst part, all that conversation and you’re left with more questions than answers.  Where in Africa is he from?  What did he do for a living?  Him telling you he had a prior engagement was your way in!  OR would that have been too nosy?  No phone number, or an attempt to get one.  Y’all were highkey vibing and you got no questions in to gage his status or if he was willing to see you somewhere else.  And the biggest sin:  What the hell is his damn name?!  Thomas was a fake name. But the conversation never led to the real one, or yours.  You can’t even look him up!  And who the hell knows when you’ll see him again, so good job.

You text your friend when you get back to your office.

Girl!  I ran into this fiiiiine man at the coffee shop.

A few minutes later she responds,  Yaaaass!  Did you talk to him?

Child, yes. I don’t know what got into me.

Well hopefully him in a minute.  What did you say to him?

Lol, I thought he was being racially profiled so I am really in his business but it turns out the coffee girl couldn’t understand him.  He’s kind of foreign.

Oooh, that foreign though??  Where he reppin?

Somewhere in Africa, I didn’t get a country.

The motherland?  Was he wearing them sandals and shit?

I didn’t even notice! I feel like I would’ve if he was but idk.

Well which country is he from?

Idk!  I know I shoulda asked but I was caught up, not thinking straight.  

Well, is he light skinned with good hair or nah?

Ok, now don’t ask it like that.  He not light skinned but his hair was beautifully trimmed.

Ok, so he probably right on the equator then.  Well look at you, tryna get you an African King lol did you get the number though?

Noooo, so I don’t even know if I’ll see him again girl.  I fucked up!

Lmaooo, GIRL!  Well, don’t worry about it.  One thing about coffee shops is that they get regulars often so you’ll probably run into again but don’t be obsessive…

Truuuuue, if it’s meant to be, it will be.  I don’t get obsessive though.

Girl, you already planning your future for a practically imaginary relationship, I know you! Lol  Keep it together and live your life, but this was good practice for you.

Yeah it was.  I never approach guys but this was exciting!

You put your phone down and finish up your afternoon reports.  But the thought of “Thomas”  was still in the back of your brain.  He was soooo cute to you, but with your track record he could’ve easily been gay, taken, or just being nice with no other intentions.  But the universe owed you a win.  It had been so damn long since you had a thing to go to your friends about.  

At the end of your shift, you go straight home, kicking your shoes off at the door.

“Hey Tavia!”  You yell to your friend who is cooking something you wish was your meal in the kitchen.  Smells like some chicken or spaghetti thing.

“Wassup Queen Mother!  I was going to get rose petals but they too damn expensive for a joke.”

“Right, don’t try it!”

You make your way to your room, closing the door and taking a much needed breath.  You kick off your pants and and shirt, swan diving onto your bed in your undergarments.  The stress of the day just melts as you lay there and breath in your lavender and peppermint scented air from your oil diffuser.   You slowly peel yourself up from your covers and load up your laptop.  Checking your social media and queueing up some music as usual, you look around your room.  It’s completely cluttered with clothes from the week piled in the corner.  Your hamper is overflowing, as well as your trash.  Suddenly, you feel a sense of purpose, cleaning and straightening your hoarding mess.  When your shuffle hit a bop, the clean up became especially fun as you sang along and shook that thang as you picked through dirty clothes and maybe-one-more-wear clothes.  

Now that you have some order to your area, you have space that you didn’t have before.  Looking around with pride, you catch your reflection in the mirror, draws and all.  You touch your stomach, tracing the dark brown stretch marks that crack through your skin around your concave belly button.  Pushing down on your love handles, you iron out the folds to be smoother from your waist to your hips.  Your breasts are of a decent size as far as the numbers game goes, but the do not sit perkily in front of you, and a cleavage still takes effort to achieve since they sit apart from each other.  Dreadfully, you turn sideways to check your body from the profile.  Your belly hangs in front of you instead of flat like you’ve always prayed for since childhood.  The deep fold from your back to your side sneers at you.  Your ass isn’t non-existent but if only your waist was smaller, that could make those hips and cheeks really pop.

You had been giving yourself mantra pep talks on a regular basis to keep toxic thoughts from entering your brain.  You look up at the notes lining your walls.  “Keep your head up.”  “You are a Warrior.”  “You are beautiful.”  You get it, people have told you the same things before, it’s just hard to convince yourself that you're not imagining things.  

Your mind still wanders on about your day.  When would you see something that fine again?  And if you do, the fuck are you going to do about it?  You start up your shuffle of bops and make your way to your closet.  You were going to curate some outfits to be a dick magnet.  No way in hell there’d be a question of his interest once you see him again.  Go over some lines in your head to break the ice, figure out how to touch his bicep in mid-conversation, shit like that.  It would work, he knows who you are...facially anyway.  You just gotta run into him again.

Next day, you make your way out the door a little early.  Making your way to the office, you get a head start on making your calls so you can make your way to the coffeeshop.  You put on a navy blue pencil skirt with a gold zipper going down the back.  You layered a mesh lace blouse over a black cami and black pumps.  You usually stick to flats but today was the first of many for change.  If it wasn't “Thomas” someone was gonna get a look at this new fit!  Opening the door, the bell jingles, announcing our arrival to the patrons.  You look cooly over the people in the shop, but no one was there you care to see.  Making your way up to the counter, you make your order and stand to wait.  You pull out your phone to mindlessly entertain yourself for a minute, looking p periodically to survey people entering.  Every jingle of the bell made your heart jump.  

“Order for Tom!”

You look up a little too quickly but are disappointed when some balding white men in cargo shorts picks up his order.  You have had enough, you almost walked out right then when your order gets called: the order, not your name.  Nearly out of breath from stress, you pick up your drink and leave in a rush.  Breathing in the outside air, your heart rate begins to slow in pace again but you have got to get back to work.  Fuck that shop, and fuck this mission.  You already missed your chance so what is the point of it all.  Going back home, you have a cloud over your head.  You throw your clothes over to a pile on the side and flop onto your bed.  You deserve happiness, you deserve love, but don't get wrapped up in fantasy.

You still go to the coffeeshop the next day, but that was for a snack because you didn’t give yourself time to fix yourself breakfast.  Still no Thomas.

You don’t go back to the shop the rest of the week, You can’t go broke over a crush, plus, you had really no other reason to go so, you stopped.

By next week, you feel a lot better about yourself and your blood pressure isn’t skyrocketing at the thought of entering the shop anymore.  You didn’t go in depth with Tavia about your problems since meeting Thomas because even if she gave the perfect encouraging friend response, you’d die of embarrassment for feeling so caught up on nada.  She was only slightly right:  you lowkey obsessed over that 5 minute interaction and broke down the details or what you did right and wrong.  It was terrible, and you knew it, so no need to be reminded.

You got an email about a happy hour promo at the shop, so you decide to go cash that in.  It’s a Wednesday and it's been an especially trying week.  You need to wash your hair, so you have them pulled back in in two struggle braids.   Simple cardigan over a white tank and black slacks with your trademark flats.  You pick up your order and sit on a nearby stool to catch the free wifi signal and download your favorite podcast to listen to back at the office.  

“Order for Thomas!”

You are unphased and not listening when you get up and see this 6’0 man picking up his drink and turning towards you.  He makes his way to the side table, and your heart literally stops pumping for a split second from the anxiety.  He hasn't seen you yet and he could easily leave very soon without your acknowledgment,  What if he doesn’t recognize you?  The L’s you could take outweigh the dubs by a mile.

You get up to go get an unnecessary sugar packet.

“Excuse me,” you say.

He looks to you and gives you a crooked smile.

*Part 2*

Other Works:

King Kil’mawalls

N’Jadaka’s Helpful Hands

T’akia

Commencement Day (Chadwick Boseman fic)

Some Weeks Are Better Than Others -- *Part 1* *Part 2* *Part 3* (M’BakuxReader fic)

[floralseokjin]

— aquiver | 02 (m)

aquiver (adj.) [uh-kwiv-er] in a state of trepidation or vibrant agitation; trembling; quivering

Yoongi can’t remember the last time he was able to successfully bring himself to the point of orgasm, then Namjoon gives him a business card advertising ‘Healing Hands’, and that’s where he meets you; pretty and innocent looking, who gets paid to provide hand jobs for a living…

pairing | min yoongi x reader genre/warnings | mature themes, talk of masturbation, smut, language words | 11,520

» 01 :: 02 :: 03 :: 04 :: 05 :: 06 :: 07 :: 08  ✓

You were beginning to feel tired by the time you managed to shoo your last customer out the door, pretty much guessing there would be another as soon as you walked out. It was a Sunday and Sunday’s were always busy. Men seemed to like to sin on God’s day of rest, that was for sure. You were surprised Mr. Lee had been so early tonight and you didn't know where you were.

He was one of your regulars, one of the first people you had ‘seen’ when you first started working here and of course, he had jumped at the chance of keeping you. Out of the few girls that worked here, you were by the far the youngest and even though the thought made you uneasy, Mr. Lee was just a lonely middle aged man. He wasn’t creepy or sordid, and that was okay with you. He arrived, you did the thing for twenty minutes and then he left. You didn't mind because he had to pay extra to get to see you each time and that was an extra $10 more in your pocket, put away in what you liked to call the ‘wank bank. Not what it usually meant, but somewhere you saved your extra dollars for your future. You knew this job wasn't forever, just something to help you live in your own place without roommates and tide you over while you waited to finish your college classes online. Then you could get a proper job and look back on this and laugh…

You'd only seen Mr. Lee so far tonight and like you said, you were already tired. This week had been a little crazy with deadlines and whilst you wanted nothing more than to curl up in your bed and watch Netflix all weekend, a much-needed break remedied—you had to work. Weekends were yours and Tiffany’s, with Greta out front on the desk. So here you were until gone 1am it was—and then you could curl up in your bed.  You stepped out of your little room, seeing a pair of sneakers in the peripheral of your vision, a figure sitting down on one of the chairs outside your door and you automatically called out a ‘next, please,’ not really paying much attention until you looked up to meet the strangers face and was shocked to see it wasn't really a stranger after all—well, technically he was…you only knew his name…and other details no normal stranger should know.

It was him. From last week. Yoongi. You remembered his name like you remembered his face, because if truth me told you hadn't been able to stop thinking of that night. You were surprised to see him back and it must have shown on your face because what was first a look of slight normalcy turned to one of apprehension on his face as he looked back at you, his jaw locking for a moment, looking as if he wanted to bolt.

“Yoongi,” you smiled gently in greeting, gaining your bearings as you remembered to act professional and he instantly relaxed again, smiling back, albeit small.

You heard Greta cough behind the desk and pushed yourself into action, motioning your head to your room as you silently asked him to follow you. You didn't want a queue of customers at the door because you were too awestruck to do your job…

Maybe you just hadn't imagined he'd be back. Maybe you just hadn't imagined he would even come here in the first place. He was young, around your age it seemed and that rarely happened in a place like this. You could probably count how many times on one hand. This place—Healing Hands as it was so beautifully called, even though no one in this fricking place knew how to read a palm let alone predict the future properly—was more so for the older man; stressed at work, unhappy at home—the usual. Maybe there were ones like, Mr. Lee who were just lonely; divorced in their late thirties, not allowed to see their children, whether it be due to them or their wife, you weren't one to judge working in a place like this, but you guessed that somewhere along the line you had become some sort of therapist, helping people out in more than one way…it was lucky that you were one step closer to becoming counsellor with the help of your college classes. You would have lots of experience by the time you left this godforsaken place.

Yoongi was something else altogether. Most men in their early to mid twenties wouldn't be seen dead in a place like this, mainly because if they were having trouble getting sexual favours all they had to do was go out for one night and find someone to satisfy their needs. They didn't need to pay for it when they could easily get it for free. He was unreadable, you couldn't think of a reason as to why he had come here…and again. You also couldn’t explain why you felt a twinge of excitement in your chest at seeing his face. It was stupid, but ever since last Sunday you hadn't been able to stop thinking of your time with him. You'd serviced so many guys in your six months of working here that they all blurred into one after a while, but not him…Yoongi; you even remembered his name for crying out loud.

The way he had acted was so out of this world, so different to any other man had ever acted you were still in shock. You got that he hadn't been able to make himself come in a while—so did a lot of men who came here, but none had their bones literally quaking, about to start an earthquake in the store with how hard he'd released. If you were being honest, the thought of the reaction he'd had, the look on his face…the noises he'd made, had some some sort of adverse effect on you. You’d shaken it off at the time, distracting yourself with whoever came in again that night, but as you'd tried to sleep that night and the nights after that too, the memories had come back. You didn't understand what was wrong with you. You put it down to curiosity and it helped that you'd probably never see him again, so right now—a week later, dare you say you were feeling nervous as you let him inside your room first and followed him in? This was new to you and you didn't want to spend too long questioning it. It could be dangerous, you weren't stupid…and besides if he was turning up regularly now, you definitely couldn't over think it.

He stopped in the middle of the room as you shut the door with a click and you paused, watching his reactions carefully. He seemed more confident this time, his movements less hesitant as he paused to think, before deciding to sit down on the bed. That was a step in the right direction, you thought. Last time it had nearly taken him five minutes to do just that and this time you found it was you who was frozen a little. You couldn't explain why, but you shook yourself out of it quickly, not having time to mess about and for the first time since out in the parlour, you made eye contact again. You smiled gently, knowing it was your job to relax the customers and he still looked a little distressed, despite taking the initiative this time.

“You're back,” you noted, sitting in the chair beside him, forcing yourself to sound normal, you didn't even know why you were so jumpy right now. You suddenly felt like a school girl who had seen her crush and it was both mind boggling and stupid.

Of course Yoongi was good looking, that's that first thing you'd thought when he'd entered for the first time but that didn't warrant this silly reaction, and you busied yourself with thinking about what you'd watch on Netflix when you’d get home.

“Is that okay?” He asked, his voice hesitant and you looked up, pushed from your thoughts to see his little shocked face. He looked cute when he was unsure of something and you couldn't hold in your giggle.

You couldn't remember the last time you had giggled at someone sat on this bed in front over you, you were pretty sure it was never, but right there and then you couldn't hold it in and soon you watched one side of Yoongi’s lip twitch up in amusement at himself, chuckling along with you.

“No, that's the rules in this place—once it is, no repeat turns,” you finally got out, joking with him and he averted eye contact slowly, his cheeks darkening with embarrassment at his stupid question.

You wanted to add an of course not, he was the one paying after all, he could have anything he wanted—within the rules of course, but for some reason the words wouldn't come out. It seemed to cheapen the moment and you shook your head lightly, reigning it back in. That's right, he had paid for something, so you better get on with it, despite all the questions you had regarding why he was back. He'd already admitted that he'd had trouble with making himself come, but you'd really thought you'd put by to that problem. You’d thought you loosened the blockage, of sorts…maybe not, though…

“Are you ready?” You prompted quietly, knowing this time he wouldn't need a lot of time to gain his bearings. You didn't even know how long he had paid for—it could be ten minutes, so your hand slowly began to creep up his thigh as he nodded, looking down at you with pursed lips, as if he was trying to control his facial expression, but you saw his eyes glow a little when you reached his crotch and for some reason you felt a burst of confidence wash through you…which was stupid. Working in a place like this meant you had reams of the stuff when it came to giving hand jobs.

Not many people could say they could make a man, regardless of who they were, come in under five minutes. Most of these men didn't mess about, they paid for what they came for—a few minutes of relief that turned dirty as soon as they left here to go back to jobs they hated, wives who didn't love them, and then they had to keep coming back for more—a dirty circle of life. Weak men, who needed women in their life for aspects that they should be able to see to themselves… That's why you were so intrigued by Yoongi. What kind of occupation did he have that couldn't allow him to go out to a club and hook up with the first girl he saw? Like you said, he was incredibly handsome, almost doll-like, maybe that was his problem? Too pretty for his own good?

Yeah, it wasn’t confidence in your skill that washed over—you were pretty sure you could jerk off the complete number of men who came to this place in one night if you tried hard enough and made yourself forget that you were probably only a couple of years from getting diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome… No. it was confidence in yourself. The way Yoongi looked at you as if you weren't a one-way ticket to that orgasm he'd probably been craving all week. He was looking at your face, not your hands, and it wasn't hungry, greedy either…more like excitement…and that had you flustered, if you were being honest.

You went for his dick straight away, trying to a different approach this time, seeing as this was his second time. He obviously knew what he was getting himself into now and you hid your surprise when you felt he was already hard—very hard. All on his own accord. You could feel the rigidness over his sweats and you squeezed once, causing him to gasp out a little and buck into your hand before a bemused breathless laugh left him and you cocked an eyebrow, surprised at his outburst, but happy that he was relaxed.

“S-Sorry,” he coughed, clearing his throat. “I'm just…”

Couldn’t believe he was back here? Couldn’t believe he was considering this normal? Whatever it was, you didn’t mind. Him laughing at himself was something new you could get on board with and you grinned, wanting to tease him.

“It seems like you don’t need warming up this time,” and his eyes bulged for a moment, before he smiled bashfully, already pushing his sweat pants down as your hand slid down his leg.

You couldn’t explain the excitement that hit you, wondering how long he’d been hard for. It could have been all week for you knew and the thought made you feel giddy, making sure to push it to the deepest recesses of your mind, instead, concentrating on the way his dick bounced out of its confines, and you watched it for a moment, enjoying the way it looked and remembering the way he had truly lost it last time. A part of you wanted to see if you could get the same reaction out of him this time…

You felt his eyes on you as you wrapped your hand around his base, which was a far cry from the first time when his eyes had been trained to the wall…until the last couple of minutes that was, and once again, you remembered back. Eye contact was considered creepy in most cases but when Yoongi had done it, it had been different. It made your stomach jump even now, and you quickly shook yourself out of it, telling yourself to concentrate on the here and now as you began to run your fist up and down him languidly, hardly squeezing.

He let out a sigh of relief, relaxing into your touch as he gripped the sides of the bed, his eyes trained on your movements. You purposely kept your grip limp, wanting more from him this time. He’d stayed silent before but there was something interesting about this guy and you wanted to see how far you could push him. You felt him raise his hips upwards, trying to meet your movements for more pressure and you bit back a smile, catching his eyes as he looked up at you for a moment.

“How long do we have?” You murmured, barely audible, but he heard you loud and clear, making sure to look away when he answered.

“45 minutes,” he mumbled, the words blurring into one another and your heart stilled in shock.

That was fifteen minutes longer than last time and you’d been sure he would have chosen less. Maybe your presumptions were all wrong then… Why had he wanted such a long session? Did he really think he needed it? He’d came in under thirty minutes last time and by the seems of it he hadn’t been able to jerk off for weeks before that… It should have been easier this time around, and your heart began to race with the though—maybe he wasn’t here for a wank so quick it was over in the blink of an eye, maybe he wanted it to go on for a while…you mean he had paid a ton of money for it…

With that thought it mind, you slowed your hand down even more, barely grazing his flesh and you heard him sigh a little in discomfort. The sound was like music to your ears and you stilled instantly, cocking your head to the side.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-I…” he stuttered, his face scrunched up as if he didn’t know how to explain himself.

“You want me to go faster?” You pressed, watching him nod quickly, instantly getting embarrassed as he shifted under your gaze.

“Yoongi…you know you can ask me to do whatever you like…” you hummed in a lower voice, becoming serious for a moment.

He was the paying customer after all and no man was exactly the same when it came to something so intimate. Sure, the motions were the same, but that didn’t mean there was a set pace, a set grip—a set limit for every guy.

As long as it wasn’t too out there and only included things that were written down on the information leaflet then it was alright. You’d had your fair share of creeps come into this place requesting all sorts of strange fantasies, that maybe a brothel would have no problem doing, but despite the nature of this stupid shop, you didn’t hand out anything other than one type of sexual favour. Anything hinted or forced out of you was what the panic button was for, under the little desk in your room.

“I-I’m just happy with whatever you do,” he shrugged, his voice just as low, but his was because he felt uncomfortable.

You squinted, not really believing him, but picked up your pace anyway, still making sure to keep your grip limp. It gave him temporary relief for a couple of minutes but you watched him twist his hips into your fist again, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something and you waited patiently for him to say what you knew he wanted to. It took just twenty more seconds.

“H-harder…” he huffed under his breath and you smiled, instantly listening and squeezing around the head almost instantly and he groaned loudly, watching the pre-cum drip from the slit, that you quickly messaged over the sensitive flesh and felt his body relax a bit. You knew this was what he wanted and you were done playing around, so you continued swirling your thumb over his red tip as you pumped him, enjoying the way he shivered under you.

His dick was hot in your hand, but if truth be told, you weren’t even paying much attention to that anymore. You were looking at his face and you secretly admired the way his forehead scrunched up as he watched you work, breathing out of his gritted teeth as his lips puckered, his cheeks scattered with a light pink as he got more and more worked up. Yup, definitely just has hot as last time. Not that you would admit it. This wasn’t part of your job description, but you figured it must be a natural reaction sometimes. It just depended on who the person was. You never usually even watched the customers face, but this time it was different—Yoongi was different, you guessed…

You moved faster, desperate to please him for some reason, wanting to chase another reaction from him and he moaned, his stomach muscles flexing as his thighs tensed under your arm.

“Fuck—this feels so good,” he got out and you felt a fluttering in your body. That was new. So was his reaction, but you liked it and you wanted more, so you continued, twisting your palm every time you came up, making sure to graze the sensitive flesh.

“You’re gonna make me cum, soon,” he panted, almost as if he was warning you and you frowned unable to help yourself as the words fell off your tongue.

“Is that a bad thing?”

This was probably wrong. A voice was telling you that you shouldn’t be teasing him this much, you shouldn’t be so comfortable or so involved. You should be taking a step back and listening to his requests, but something in you wanted to fight back—something in you, was enjoying this.

“That’s what you’re here for, right? I’m here to make you cum?”

You had no clue what was wrong with you. It was worse than last time. Last time you had been itching for him to say something, when unusually you wanted all the men you saw to shut the hell up. Not Yoongi though, you couldn’t explain it but you knew you were liking the way he was becoming more vocal and at your words he groaned, not being able to help but buck into your hips and chase your hands, regardless of if he wanted to come yet.

“I-I don’t want to yet,” he admitted, and you wanted to tease him some more, ask him why he was practically jerking himself off in your hand, but you didn’t—you reigned it back in.

Of course, he had paid for forty-five minutes after all and you slowed your pace, letting your hand reach all of his dick now, running your fist from the top to the base, your fist hitting the top of his balls gently and the pressure had him groaning again.

You watched him curiously, noticing the way his eyes lit up every time you made contact with them and finally inquisitiveness got the better of you. Just because he didn’t have the nerve to ask you didn’t mean you didn’t know he wanted it and you ran your free hand up his leg, letting your fingers flutter against the bare skin of his thigh until you reached his balls and his breath hitched, his body stiffening as you traced against the hot skin.

He gradually calmed down, relaxing as you ran your fingers up and down the sensitive flesh, figuring out what he liked and what was his limit and when you experimentally cupped them, pushing them together he whined a little, his breathing now hasty and soon after, you guessed he didn’t want you to slow down as you felt his balls pulse in your hand, his butt raising off the bed slightly as he thrust back into your palm—but, you were waiting for the magic words from him before you moved any differently. You didn’t have to wait long.

“Faster,” he grunted, sweat beginning to form on his forehead and you took great pleasure in seeing that his eyes were well and truly blown out, transfixed on your fingers that were now tracing circles against the flesh of his balls.

You obeyed, running your fist along his whole length much quicker now, sliding over the smooth skin, feeling the veins under your digits he was so rock solid and he groaned, finally shutting his eyes tight as he lost himself in the feeling. He was so lost in fact—and to your surprise, that his own hand came out and made a fist over yours, clinging to the head of his dick as he took control and swept it over the small space quickly, obviously wanted you to concentrate on the most sensitive area where words failed him. You didn’t think he even realised. His eyes were still closed and his breathing was laboured in between hard pants, his back arching as he squeezed against your closed palm and you stalled for a moment, taken back, letting him to do the work.

This was something that had never happened before, and you didn't know how to react. What you did know though, was that if this would have been anybody else, you would have been stopping it right there and then. Here it was again—something different about this guy. This was intimate and something that probably shouldn't be happening in a place like this, but you shrugged it off. This was all about him after all, and then you moved with his pace, squeezing around the head as he moaned, feeling you come back to life, so he dropped his grip, his fingers now digging into his thigh as he prepared for his release. His eyebrows furrowed, his nose wrinkled and his jaw slack, and you lost yourself in his facial features, admiring how good he looked right now.

“I'm gonna cum—fuck!” He gasped, this time more coherent when it came to expressing his feelings and you realised why this time was so different to before.

Last time he had been unsure that he would even come—he was nervous and awkward, unsure if this would even work. This time he knew it worked. He knew what the end goal would be and he craved it and in your mind, he craved you. It helped your ego for a split second, not even realising what you you were thinking before you felt his balls constrict in your fingers and you were brought back to the here and now.

You didn't want to squeeze too hard at his dick this time after what happened before, so you tugged quickly at his balls, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make a strangled moan leave him as his dick pulsed under your touch and soon he was coming, watching it spurt out of him with a silent cry. However, this time were quick and made sure none went over him or the bed, catching it all in your hand as you shielded it. He definitely didn't come as severe as last time but it it was still hard enough to make his body quiver in the aftershocks, and you thought this time, you were more affected by tonight's turn of events.

Your breathing was laboured as if you'd actively taken part in some sort of mutual moment, your face flush and your own perspiration dampening your neck, your wrist shaking with the burn of moving so vigorous.

A steady stream of fucks left him breathlessly as he came back down and you hid your smile as you rolled over to the sink, washing off his arousal with soapy warm water. You were drying them off when you heard him mutter something else too. It was so quiet, you guessed he didn't mean for you to hear, but you did anyway, your senses heightened after such an intense moment and it sounded a lot like “I needed that.”

You caught the time on the wall clock as you rolled back to him and realised you still had twenty minutes left of what he'd paid for. You didn't want to kick him out—after all, he had paid for this and besides, you didn't want him to leave yet anyway. For some reason, you were worried this could be the last time you saw him.

He'd pulled his sweats back up by the time you'd come back and he looked relaxed, in his zen post-orgasm state. If he felt bashful again, he didn't show it and he didn't look as if he was about to get up and leave either. You wondered if he even realised what he'd done back there? His hand guiding yours like that, or had he been too out of it to recall? He didn't seem like he remembered it and you flexed your right hand at as you did yourself; you could still feel the tingle the heat of his hand brought. It probably effected you more than it did him and you grew annoyed at yourself, wanting to find a distraction.

“So, I'm guessing you didn't fix your problem?”

He looked shocked at your outright question, his eyes bulging as he racked his brain for an answer, before shaking his head lightly, dipping it in the process. It was cute, and you were curious. You wanted to know why Yoongi was here.

“Have you ever heard of a dead arm wank?” You asked casually, watching him process the question, his expression slightly amused as he tried to figure out what that meant. “What's that?” he settled for and you relaxed almost instantly leaning back into your chair as it was obvious he was in no rush to leave. Good—a part of you didn’t want him to. You wouldn’t even mind if he was here the whole night. You’d give up a night with Netflix for him, that was for sure…What were you even thinking? But you ignored your rationality to continue this stupid ass conversation.

“It's where you sit on your arm until it goes numb and then jerk off with it,” you shrugged, silently chuckling at the way he snorted in disbelief. “Really. It’s supposed to feel like a totally different person,” you explained further.

“Isn't that like, a teenager thing?” He asked, indulging you.

“I suppose so, but it doesn't hurt to try it out,” you shrugged once again, watching the way he shuffled further back on the bed, getting comfortable, his cheeks no longer flushed, post-orgasm bliss probably already gone, and now you were just two people having a relaxed conversation…about masturbation….

“Hmm,” he said aloud, catching your eye, “does it work for girls?”

It was your turn to scoff then, not really understanding what he was even meaning to get at, but you saw the way his eyes gleamed, obviously messing you. It didn’t take him long to get contented, you thought. Not that you were complaining anyway.

“I don't know. I suppose so?” It was something you didn’t even need to think off. Of course you were only human and had needs just like everyone else, but after hearing the word masturbation so much it wasn’t something you craved on a regular basis. This place tainted your view on the otherwise natural act. “I don't need it though…” You concluded cryptically, not really caring what he took from it, but it was you that got the surprise anyway.

“Neither do I,” he shrugged.

“Oh,” was all you could get out, confused. You’d thought the whole point of him coming here was because he couldn’t beat the stick himself.

“Doing it isn't the problem—not anymore…it's the…” he trailed off, struggling for words.

“It's the what?” You pressed, obviously intrigued. There was silence for a moment as he mulled things over, ruffling his dark fringe with his fingers before he looked up to ask a question that had you shifting uncomfortably.

“Have you ever felt wrong about feelings you got?”

Well. You were pretty sure you knew what that felt like after tonight and you looked down quickly, ignoring the fluttering of your heart. “What…like a forbidden love?”

“Not so dramatic,” he dismissed quickly, “more just like, I don't know…you don't want to take advantage of the person’s…uh—kindness?” He sounded unsure of himself and you stifled a giggle. What the hell was he on about?

“Are you trying to confess to a forbidden crush or something?”

Maybe he was in love with a brother’s girlfriend or something…his father’s wife…the possibilities were endless and quite amusing to think of.

“Nooo, nothing like that…just—” he sighed, cutting himself off, and his face looked so distressed you felt guilty for teasing, reaching without realising to grip his knee reassuringly and he jumped a little, eyes burning into your fingers as he tried to continue.

This was the first time you’d touched him non-sexually and you felt your heart race with anxiety, second guessing yourself. You had never been this involved in someone’s problems before. Usually you just humoured them—even Mr. Lee, who you had become quite fond of in a strange way. It made you feel strange to think that you cared more about a guy after knowing him for barely two minutes, than you did a man, who had poured his heart out to you time and time again over the past few months.  

“I don't know,” Yoongi began again, eyes still on your hand that wouldn’t budge, “the thoughts are there, but you just don't want to…use them…”

He looked up at your face as he finished and saw the way your eyes widened, wincing slightly and moving his body from yours, “I sound really creepy, right?” and your hand left him, thinking of ways to make him feel better. “I promise it's not as bad as it sounds,” he mumbled.

“No, you’re okay,” you interrupted. “I think…I think it's fantasy, right?” and you gave him time to nod in agreement, relief instantly washing over his features. “Fantasies are there to help you get whatever relief you're after. It's make believe, it's okay—It's not real,” you continued, watching him nod his head still, letting your words make him feel more at ease.

“If it works, then what's the problem?”

He sighed loudly, his hand now reaching for your leg as he squeezed your thigh in thanks, and you froze, not used to the feeling of someone touching you. A shock ran through your body and you tried to shake it off, but as he smiled at you, you broke once again. What the hell was wrong with you?

“You're right, I guess,” he laughed weakly. “Thanks.”

You watched him intently, wondering if you knew more, or the exact same you’d known about him since he’d walked through the door. You now knew he could probably make himself come, but something was holding him back…However, you still wanted to know why he was here of all places and your nosiness got the better of you.

“Honestly though, what's a handsome guy like you doing in a place like this? You do realise you could go to any bar you wanted and get rid of your problem just like that,” and to emphasise your words, you clicked your fingers loudly.

He watched you for a moment, his face turning serious, as if he was contemplating telling you something before he shrugged, chuckling lowly, an embarrassed, “I’m not like that,” leaving him.

“What are you like then?”

You couldn’t help it; the questions were coming out thick and fast. The need to know him more taking over your rationality.

“Huh?” He asked, surprised.

“Tell me something about yourself—

Before you could finish—ask out loud what his age was, his occupation and anything else that entered your mind that you probably had no right to know—the door knocked, making you both jump as if you’d both been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

“Oh shit—Greta’s on our backs, we spoke for too long,” you rolled your eyes, amused and he laughed awkwardly, probably coming back to his senses and realising where he was.

He jumped off the bed quickly and you felt the sudden urge to make him stay. You didn’t want him to leave and for another stranger to come in here only after one thing. Yoongi was different…and as if to prove your point, he stopped before he twisted the door handle on his way out, not meeting your eyes as he stuttered out a question.

“C-Can I come again?” You couldn’t help but laugh out loud as his absurd question and he shifted uncomfortably.

“You're not going over your friend’s house for supper, Yoongi,” you grinned, not being able to help yourself and tap his shoulder, watching the way his eyelashes raked over the tops of his cheeks as he looked down sheepishly. They were really pretty—he had really pretty eyes, period…especially when they were looking at you as if you held the whole world in your hands… You quickly shook the dirty thoughts out of your brain and carried on. “You're the paying customer, you can come as many times as you want.”

The insinuation was heavy on your tongue, but he was too preoccupied to even notice. “To you?” He practically whispered and you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest. Just you?

“If you think I'm that amazing,” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows, humour the first thing you used as a defence mechanism when you were skating on thin ice with yourself.

“I like talking to you,” was all he replied before saying his goodbyes and for a long time you stood still in your office, speechless. This was a strange way to feel. You shouldn’t be that pleased that some guy liked talking to you, but you couldn’t get it—or him out of your mind all night. There was something about this Yoongi and you were glad that he was coming back for more of whatever he wanted from you…

“I charged Mr. Pretty ten bucks extra tonight, so have takeout on him, or something,” Greta smirked, handing you your earnings for the night and you frowned in thought, taking a while to understood what she meant.

“Greta!” You finally exclaimed, scolding her for taking advantage of Yoongi.

“What? It was too easy not too—the new ones always are,” she added, an evil glint in her eyes and you rolled yours. Greta was perfectly fine, but her dislike for men was something you hoped you never grew to feel, despite how often close you had and often felt. This job fit her perfectly fine—giving evils to feeble, weak-minded men every night of the week.

“Poor guy’ll be broke by next month,” Tiffany chimed in and you ignored the need to defend him. Them talking as if he was a loser made you feel some type of way.

“I doubt it,” Greta dismissed, grabbing her coat as you all made your way to the front door. You always left together, and Greta­—despite her hard exterior always drove you and Tiff home. It was dangerous to be out this late at night, especially working in a place like this.

“The boy must be rich if he can fork out so much money in a week,” she carried on, locking the door behind you as you began to walk down the road to Greta’s car.

“Stop…” you whined weakly, although you’d be lying if you hadn’t wondered what he did for living. Maybe you’d find out soon enough, when he came back…

“Maybe he’s a gangster, like in those movies,” Tiffany giggled. “He’s here to sweep Y/N off her feet and give her a better life­—away from this shit hole!” She added bitterly and you nudged her playfully, silently telling her to stop. This was beyond too much now. You were embarrassed to say they were putting ideas in your head…

Over the next three weeks, Yoongi did in fact make it a regular thing. Sunday, practically 9pm on the dot, he was here and you grew more excited to see him each week. It was stupid really, but you told yourself it was okay. You became more like friends catching up on their week as you spoke about the most random things and you sometimes thought that weekly session weren’t enough. Not that it was about the sexual favours you gave him anyway. Not anymore. In fact, that was rushed at the very beginning now, desperate to talk some more.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t something that didn’t need to be done though. You still lost yourself in the way Yoongi acted every time you touched his dick—of course, it was never like that first time, but he still acted like he needed it. By now you had learnt to deal with the feelings that had come with seeing him in such a vulnerable position and you welcomed them, even when he wasn’t here and you were back at home… You grew comfortable with each other…some sort of fucked friendship that you would never explain to anyone how you met.

In those moments you truly lost yourself; just you and him. You let words fall out of your mouth that you wouldn’t even utter to a boyfriend, let alone a customer and you did it because you wanted to. You liked teasing Yoongi because it got him going. You liked the way he turned bashful under your touch—desperate even, and you grew more confident each time…or wreck-less, it was hard to tell.

Over the few hours spent together, where Yoongi had now upped his session to a full-blown hour, you got to know a lot about each other. You spoke a lot, and you came to realise that maybe he was just lonely. You had fun talking and joking about and in turn it made you realise that you were probably lonely too. The only real friends you had were Tiffany and maybe Greta. You'd moved to the city to become more independent and in turn you'd lost all connections to your past friendships. Seeing as your classes were online, it didn’t bring much time to forge ever lasting relationships. This contact with Yoongi was the most you'd had in a year and even that was sparse.

You saw each other for an hour each week—one he had to pay for and you'd learned enough to know that he'd moved to the city to try and live out his dream of music. He'd told you he was a producer, albeit it very cryptically when he wouldn't tell you if he'd helped make any hit records, and he lived with roommates. You didn't know how many, but from the way he spoke it seemed like there were more than two. You never pressed about his little problem he'd confided in you at the beginning of your meet ups because well—you weren't pushy and he never indulged anymore so you ignored it, secretly dying to know though. If your advice helped him he didn't show it and you realised it probably didn't—he wouldn't be here week after week with you otherwise…

This week was like any other and you found yourself watching the clock as it skimmed past 9pm, checking your reflection in the mirror quickly before you heard the tap at the door. You were ashamed to say you had even rushed Mr. Lee out this evening, not even listening to him drone on about how he was trying to save money for a lawyer to help him get access to his kids. You'd payed attention long enough to realise that if he stoped visiting you every week then he'd soon have enough bucks to do just that, but he was a man, and men were weak. You were slowly finding out that women were probably just as weak too, as you jumped for the door, beaming as you opened it to see Yoongi’s own grin.

Despite his happiness at seeing you, you noticed he looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and black bags hanging under them. You wanted to ask what was up, but you guessed it was work. You didn't know much of what being a producer entailed but you guessed it was tiring. You wanted to get to know more about that side of his life, but when it came down to it, he often closed up, telling you it was boring. That was fine, you didn't mean to pry, so you'd let him tell you in his own time…if he ever wanted to.

It didn't take you long to finish what he'd actually paid for. These days you even had a conversation whilst doing. It was perfectly natural now. He was no longer nervous or looking uncomfortable. You always had a laugh together now, even after you'd told him about Greta charging him extra that one time. He'd been a little humiliated, but he chuckled it off. The whole hour he was there was always filled with flowing conversation and hushed giggles—you had to keep it down sometimes in fear of Greta finding out and teasing you. Although she had a pretty good idea that he didn't take sixty whole minutes to come…

“Tell me, does this place actually do anything that it says on the tin?” Yoongi asked tonight, after you'd washed your hands and sat back in your chair next to him, cocking your eyebrow in confusion for him to carry on. “You know…mystic balls…palm reading…”

You grinned in amusement as you realised what he meant and shook your head, “rarely—although, Greta does do some psychic stuff if anyone's dumb enough to believe that this is what the place is.”

“Greta?” He reiterated, seemingly not believing it.

“Yup,” you nodded, “we can all do a little bit, but Greta’s the one that tries to ‘see into the future,’” you explained, changing the tone of your voice to emphasise that it was so not true. “Once she told this guy he was going to die in a car accident, all because she didn't like the look of him,” you giggled, remembering back to that one incident and how the man had practically bolted out of here as fast as he could.

“That figures,” Yoongi chuckled, before letting it catch in his throat, “what can you do then?”

You shrugged, “I can tarot read.”

“What's that?” He asked, interested.

“You predict someone's future with cards—it's cool. You should let me do it some time,” you said, suddenly getting excited at the thought. “it's quite time inducing, though.”

“Are you trying to get me to pay double?” He teased you, “I don't even think there's an option for two hours,” and then his voice lowered, barely a whisper, “…I wish there was.”

You went silent for a moment, your heart racing up. You'd grown used to this feeling now but sometimes there were times where it hit you for six. You still weren't even sure what it meant, all you knew was you liked and it has been a long time since someone had been able to make you feel this way by using just words.

“Let me do something else right now then—something quick!” You suddenly exclaimed, not purposely trying to change the subject, but welcoming your sudden excitement anyway. “It's fun!” You grinned, watching his questioning face as you wheeled over to your desk and opened a drawer, searching for something, before finding the little pamphlet and letting out a ‘ah-ha.’ You stood up then, leaving your chair across the room in favour of sitting next to him on the bed, your knee touching his thigh as you brought your legs up to cross them—you'd never been this close before…it was nice. “Palm reading!” You explained, waving the instructions in his face and he groaned.

“You don't believe this stuff, do you?”

“It's just interesting,” you shrugged, already taking his hand in yours, “Now, come on!”

He let you with a nod of his head, watching you curiously, before you placed his hand in your lap, setting about to read the information. It had been a while since you'd none this last, and it was probably on yourself.

“Hmm, okay,” you spoke out loud, picking his hand back up and simultaneously looking at his palm and the paper, trying to work out what line was what, “so, this line here, is your marriage line...no wait! Maybe it's your money line…hmm—

“You don't even know the basics,” he chuckled, trying to pull his hand back, but you gripped on, tugging it back.

“No! Wait! This is your life line,” you pointed. “It's shows you how long and fulfilled your life will be.”

“Oh shit! Is it about to tell me I'm gonna get hit by a car on my way back home,” he joked, watching you trace the line and you pushed him playfully with your shoulder, “don't even joke about that.”

It was true. No matter how silly it was, the thought of never seeing Yoongi again hurt a little and as you looked up, your eyes caught each other's and he smiled down gently at you. You guessed this is what they called a moment, and you felt your heart boom a little harder in your chest, warmness spreading inside. Sometimes…in the deepest recesses of your mind, you often thought about kissing Yoongi. You hadn't thought about, let alone actually kissed someone in so long and it made you feel all weird inside. It was stupid, really—Yoongi probably didn't even want to kiss you. He just liked the company…

“Hey,” he called suddenly, his voice still soft and you noticed him look down to both your hands. “Your hands are really small; do you know that?”

You followed his gaze and watched in surprise as he held your palms together, his fingers easily towering over yours and you stared at them. You'd never paid really much attention to your hands before, even though, you guessed, without them, you were broke. This was everything your job entailed even if you were about one wank away from them snapping your wrists in half. You would have giggled at your own joke, but then your heart stilled, watching Yoongi lace his fingers in yours.

His skin felt warm and soothing and suddenly you felt comfort wash over you. You hadn't touched this blatantly since he'd accidentally gripped your hand a couple of weeks ago while lost in the moment. He hadn't done it since, as if maybe he'd remembered afterwards, but now was different. You didn't even really understand what was going on and you guessed the palm reading was over.

“Okay, tell me this then,” he hummed, and you heard a smile on his lips, but your eyes were still trained to your hands entwined together in the air. “Do you do some hypnosis type of thing too?”

That brought your out of your daze a little, as you looked up at him suddenly, confusion all over your face.

“It's just I really want to learn, if you do—I kinda want to make this girl tell me her real name.”

You scoffed then, rolling your eyes in the process. Wow, what a smooth mover—not.

“Come on, I told you mine straight away,” he practically whined and you felt him drop both your hands to his lap, still laced together as they sat between his legs. It still felt natural and it still felt good.

“You didn't mean to!” You counteracted, teasing him. “You were just too nervous to think straight.”

“Well wouldn't you be?” He asked, eyes wide and you giggled, but no sooner had it started, it was getting caught in your throat as he carried on, “If some pretty stranger had her hand wrapped around your dick…”

The room was beginning to spin. You were sure your hand had turned clammy and he could feel it. The tension in the air was thick. You didn't even know what kind of tension it was. You were confused by the rapid beating of your heart. He called you pretty? Maybe you were just getting ahead of yourself… You watched him go to say something else, stuttering over his words that didn't make any sense, before the door knocked loudly and you both jumped a mile.

“Oh shit! Greta’s here to kick me out!” He grinned, and quickly, without much thought, he let go of your hand and jumped off the bed. Your hand was left cold and you felt strangely empty. You didn't want him to go. You never did, each time.

You turned around to watch him walk to the door and as his hand was on the handle, you spoke, “It's Y/N.” He turned around straight away, confused for a moment, so you repeated, “my name is Y/N,” and then he grinned, looking as if all his Christmas’ had come at once. You couldn't help but grin back, after all this time, something had been missing. Your name and now he knew it.

“Okay…. well, see you soon, Y/N…” he whispered, opening the door quietly, before he left and you couldn't explain the flutter in your chest as you heard him pronounce the syllables, your name never sounding so good.

Only soon seemed to be a long time away. He didn't come the week after that, or the week after that one and you were ashamed to say it got you down. Nothing could describe the disappointment you felt when he didn't come through the door at 9pm that one Sunday, and you tried to hide it when Greta questioned his absence. You didn't really have a right to feel this way anyway, but you couldn't help but imagine maybe Yoongi had finally sorted things out with that person he was having forbidden thoughts about… Imagining them together made you feel a little sick, and used… It was stupid and very over dramatic. Maybe he was just busy, or maybe he’d just decided he didn't want to come anymore. He was his own person. It was up to him. However, why had he made such a big deal of knowing your name? Why had he taken the time to grow close to you if he wasn't going to come back? You couldn't help but feel bitter, lying awake at night and feeling stupid. You missed him. You missed a man you didn't even know.

By the time he showed up nearly three weeks later, you’d given up on ever seeing him again. It wasn't even a Sunday. It was a Saturday, and when he walked through the door you stood up in shock, wanting to run to him but realising that would be incredibly weird.

“Yoongi!” You exclaimed, watching him grin sheepishly as he shut the door. “Where have you been?”

The question was out before you could stop it, watching him walk towards you with his eyes wide, his hands fidgeting at his sides, as if he was trying to control himself. Did he feel the same as you? Had he missed you too?

“I-I…was working,” he stuttered, deciding to sit down on the bed and you sat next to him quickly, ignoring your seat in favour of being beside him. You felt his body warmth instantaneously and shuffled even closer to him, wanting to close your eyes and seep into it.

“This whole time?” You gasped, unable to put a filter on your thoughts. Did you sound creepy? Probably, but at your question he smiled, looking over at you. You noticed he looked even more tired than the last time you'd seen him, frown lines permanent above his brow and you wanted to reach out and flatten them out.

“I was on a trip,” he explained, his fingers now drumming on top his thighs as you went to speak again, wanting to know more, before they reached out for you, taking your hands in his. “Let’s talk about this later on…please…I-I…missed you,” he whispered, trailing off.

Your heart felt like it was about to explode. Did he even realise what had slipped out of his mouth? It didn't matter anyway, you liked it and you knew what he was insinuating.

You nodded eagerly, sliding your hands out of his grip and running them up his thighs, this time pulling his sweat pants down for him as he shifted up and let you tug them down. This was incredibly more intimate than any other time before as you used your hand to message him, watching him instantly grow hard at your touch, his breathing already laboured as he watched you with a slack jaw, a sigh of relief leaving him.

It took you a while to realise why this was so different and then it hit you—you were sat right next to him, shoulder to shoulder as you pressed into his body. You acted more like lovers who hadn't seen each other for a long time and it didn't take him long to come undone, one hand reaching up to grip your forearm as he moaned quietly and you realised that little moans were leaving you too as you aimed to please him, getting lost in the moment. You missed him like he'd missed you, your heart blooming inside your chests as you watched him orgasm, your deep pants synchronised, the intimacy making you lost for words, especially when you noticed he was uttering your name softly.

It took you a while to find your voice afterwards, busying yourself with washing your hands before you had the balls to look at him again and when you did he was watching you with a soft smile on his lips, his breathing still a little wobbly and you realised yours was too. In fact, your whole body felt a little like jelly, incredibly affected by the night's turn of events.

“Y-You look tired,” you stuttered, finally moving towards him and he shifted so you could sit next to him, keeping your bodies close as if he didn't want to be too far away from you.

“I am,” he chuckled, “I literally got off the plane and came to you straight away. I haven't slept in twenty-four hours. I tried to on the flight but I was too excited—not for that,” he corrected himself in a fluster as he looked at you and you giggled, “—just excited to see you again.”

There it went again. You're heart. You were into deep, you knew that, but with each more word that came out of his mouth, you were falling harder. He had to be too, right?

“You're flight?” You asked, confused. Like you said, you knew nothing about his line of work, maybe he had to travel a lot to produce. You had no clue.

“Yeah, it was…a work trip,” he mumbled, looking uncomfortable now.

“For nearly three weeks? Where did you go?” The urge for him to open up to you was overwhelming and he shook his head, trying to shrug you off, “Japan…Malaysia…you know, around.”

Around? No, you didn't. You had never even left the country. You could never even see yourself doing it either. How did he get to go to all these places? No wonder he looked so tired, and that just made you feel even more tingly as you realised after travelling so far, he'd wanted to see you first. He hadn't found somebody, he'd just been busy with his life. Everything was okay with the world again.

“You should have gone home and slept,” you told him, talking your hand to run across his fringe that had fallen between his eyes, letting your fingertips actually soothe over his brow. Maybe the absence had made you both super touchy-feely.

“I would've been here tomorrow, you know,” you teased.

“I couldn't wait that long,” he disagreed, reaching for your hand as he entwined your fingers. “I should have told you I was going away, but I told myself you probably didn't care,” he scoffed, amused by himself but also feeling shy; you could see the blush that scattered across his cheeks.

“I thought you weren't coming back,” you half-whined, not caring how vulnerable it made you to admit it.

“That's good to hear, I was beginning to think I outstayed my welcome,” he chuckled.

Honestly, if Yoongi was your only customer you wouldn't care. In fact, you'd like it better that way. Ever since he'd come into your life you realised how much you disliked your job. It was a no brainer really, you didn't think anybody would love it 24/7, but since you'd met him, you'd began counting down the days until you could leave. Probably just over six hundred by the time your psych course was over…

“Why did you go to all those places?” You asked, still curious. “Are you holding back on me?” You teased, “are you like some hot shot producer that I should probably know about? Like some sort of Korean Dr. Dre?”

He smirked at your assumption and looked down at your interlaced hands. You'd missed his touch, you thought you'd never be able to feel it again, and he obviously seemed to like the last time you had held hands if he was doing it again without batting an eyelid.

“No, I'm not that big, Y/N,” and there it was again, your name falling from his lips so casually. You would never be able to get enough of it. “I was…er, performing.”

You frowned, “performing what? I thought you were a producer?”

“I am—sort of,” he winced. “I mean, probably not that good, but I try…I think I'm getting good at it,” and for a moment he seemed lost in his own thoughts before he pulled himself out of it, “I'm also a…rapper.”

He seemed reluctant to tell you and you watched him for a moment, his eyes still on your hands as if they were the most interesting thing in the world—they were, you guessed, but you knew something that was more interesting now and you give his hand a squeeze to gain his attention and make him look at you.

“A rapper?” The idea was indifferent to you. You had no real interest in music since you were younger, but it did prick your curiosity. “So, you're like, famous?” He had to be if he was off to all these other countries.

He winced, making a sound of discomfort as he shook his head, “not really… I don't see it like that.”

You ignored him, thinking he looked cute when he was being bashful and pulled your hand away from his to push his shoulder. “You've been famous all this time. I've had a celebrity in my midst and I didn't even know,” you joked.

“No, no—it's not like that,” he dismissed, too tense to realise you were joking until he saw your face. “I'm just joking, Yoongi,” you soothed, rubbing his arm. “Tell me more,” you suggested when he relaxed again.

“There's not that much to say,” he shrugged. “I just wanted you to know in case I disappear again.” You found it sweet that he wanted to confide this to you so you changed tactics, even more curious now. He was so quiet you could hardly imagine him performing on stage, let alone rapping. You didn't know the first thing about rap, but what you did, you would have never said Yoongi was into it. Maybe you didn't know much…

“Do I get to hear any of your music then?”

He laughed you off, blushing harder now and you grinned. He was even cuter when he was shy. “I don't know about that.”

“Oh, come on!” You begged, “I'm a music novice. You need to teach me!” You clung to his arm over dramatically as he laughed at you.

“Okay! Fine!” He gave in, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet and you backed away curiously, watching him open it up. You tried not pry and look inside so you averted eye contact until you saw him pull out a black usb hard drive.

“Hand out, please,” he quipped and you listened, putting your hand palm up as he dropped the object in your hand. “But don't say I didn't warn you—you won't like it.”

“Okay—so that's why you have a usb in your pocket…” you replied sceptically, “of course you didn't want me to listen to it…”

“No! I carry it around with me—honest,” he insisted and you giggled, brushing him off, “okay whatever, just tell me about your trip—we still have some time left,” you ordered friendly, looking up at the clock…

It was late and you were tired. You'd just got home and it was past 1am. You should probably have waited until the morning to listen to the music Yoongi has given you but you couldn't. You had no self control. So instead, you found yourself sat at your desk, in front of your laptop waiting for the usb to load up. You clicked play with bated breath, adjusting the volume as you began to listen. Like you said, you had no clue about music, let alone hip hop, so it was a shock to you when you heard what you guessed was Yoongi’s voice fill the speakers. It sounded like him but much harsher and much quicker. You could barely make out what he was saying, but to be honest you were just in shock at hearing something so unlike his personality, that you couldn't concentrate.

The track list played through and then you clicked it to start again, reading through the song titles, your eyes falling to one in particular—agust d. Your nosiness got the better of you once again and before you could think it through thoroughly you typed the name into YouTube watching as a ton of results popped up. You clicked on the first one and watched wide eyed as Yoongi came on the screen. He had blonde hair, but it was him and you for a moment you forgot to breathe. He looked good—more than good—sexy. He was acting in a way you'd never seen with your own eyes and you were mesmerised—long after the music video had finished.

Your eyes randomly fell down to the views and you gasped—15 million views! This fucker was famous. He was obviously embarrassed about being seen as arrogant or he was diffident—whatever his reasoning was, the guy you'd been getting intimate with—the guy who was paying for your company, was famous! No wonder he had gone there in the first place. He couldn't go out to the clubs, he couldn't just pick up a random girl and hook up with her in fear of being exposed. It was okay in a place where you were sworn to secrecy, or in your case—had no idea about what was popular nowadays. You didn't know of anyone famous. This was like something out of a movie and you quickly scrolled down to the comments, seeing a bunch appear saying how much they loved Min Yoongi…or Suga, you found out and then you saw something about ‘bts’—whatever that was.

You quickly copy and pasted it into YouTube too and clicked on the first video that came up, your brain going into overdrive as you watched seven men begin to dance and sing. What the hell was this? Everything was moving so fast you failed to keep up but then you saw Yoongi come into full view and you gasped. He looked good and you suddenly felt overwhelmingly guilty. You shouldn't be on here snooping around. Yoongi would have told you everything if he wanted to, but for some reason you couldn't stop.

He was actually famous. There were thousands of comments in so many different languages and you felt like you were in some kind of twilight zone. The guy you thought you'd known was someone totally different. He'd been living a life you could never even imagine and you quickly closed your laptop shut, feeling weird. You told yourself that you'd leave it until you saw him next and then bring it up in conversation. It was the right thing to do…

Only you couldn't stay true to your word. The curiosity was eating up at you and in the middle of the week you found yourself getting tempted back to YouTube. In the end, you'd had to leave with your laptop to a café, knowing that the place didn't have free wifi to coax you into searching bloody bts into google any more than you had done. It wasn't like you'd already watched all their music videos in chronological order or live performances—or even searched live videos of them performing…no…you weren't a stalker…honest…

You'd finally stopped when you'd found yourself typing in Min Yoongi into Google. That was too much. You'd realised the only reason he felt comfortable talking to you was because you had no clue who he was. He trusted you and you were about one step from breaking that confidence he had in you—if you hadn't already. You were already worried about how you'd act when you finally saw him next weekend, if he turned up, and just as you were sat down in the corner of the café, hair tied up into a ponytail and glasses on, forcing yourself to concentrate on your essay that had to be in by Friday; not the fact you were now living in what felt like a movie, you heard a voice that made your heart both flutter and shiver at the same time.

“Y/N?”

You looked up wide eyed, coming face to face with Yoongi. He had his hood up and a face mask over his mouth, but as he noticed you, he pulled it off one ear and let it hang down, a wide smile on his face as the colour drained from yours.

“It is you! I thought it was,” he laughed lowly, and he moved closer, hand on the spare chair opposite you, “mind if I sit?” He asked, already going to anyway, even before you nodded woodenly, feeling a cold sweat appear at the nape of your neck.

You couldn't even bring yourself to be excited at the prospect of seeing him somewhere other than that stupid dumpster because now you had to look him in the eyes whilst feeling guilty as hell.

“This is so strange,” he commented, a bemused chuckle ringing in your ears as he waited for you to actually say something. You had to speak…? You didn't think you could even if you tried…

“Cat got your tongue or something?” He joked, his gaze dropping as his smile fell slightly and you watched him with bulging eyes. You were going to have to say something.

Oh shit...

[namelessblacksheep]

BANK HOLIDAY BLESSINGS

Only on a Bank Holiday weekend (why are those lazy thieving bastards given such prominent holidays anyway) can you really justify a few things. Sitting all day in the Sun daring it to give you skin cancer whilst supping alcoholic concoctions and listening to music. Going away somewhere you’ve never been and pretending to be someone else. Or even attending some kind of festival where you get to meet randoms and bond on a human level.

Of course, there are those people who gave up on life and see such times to fix some part of their never-ending obsession with their home or garden. ‘Sorry mate can’t come out and actually have fun because I have to paint some wall (or some shit)’.

Then there are the ones who choose to spend it with the in-laws who have ultimately admitted: ‘you know what, I’m never going to have friends and neither are you, so let's get together and have an argument instead’. 

I like these long weekends. They are far too short to go anywhere extravagant and too long to simply just do what you normally do on a weekend - you know, thank God you aren’t at work, and then try and do something you can tell someone at work what you did when you weren’t there.

Life can be pretty dull and dreary most of the time (if we’re being honest). Sure, you can lie to everyone on Facebook or Instagram about how amazing your food is or the wonderful time you are having that made you stop doing that thing and taking a stupid picture to send to everyone.

Bank Holidays give you the chance to get utterly ruined with a bunch of people and then have enough time to recover, repent your sins and ready yourself for reintroduction into your shitty little life. Allegedly the one we just experienced was based upon some tall tale about Jesus’ resurrection. I'm fairly sure the true story is about Jesus getting monumentally mashed up with his 12 mates that he had to hide in a cave for a few days until he was ready to face the world again. You heard it here first.

Well, having done zero housework and sensible enough to not have any in-laws, I took the first option. It was a very cathartic experience. I went through my own resurrection over the next couple of days which involved me getting back in touch with things that I actually like. Disclaimer here: it’s not other people.

I spent some time just being with myself reflecting on how much has changed since this time last year. I stopped giving so much of a fuck about life goals - like seriously, there’s only really one: try not to die, and if you fail at that as well, do so with style, not sitting on a toilet looking at colour patterns.

In the depths of my recovery, I tried to recapture as much of the previous evening’s experience without killing my liver in the process. This is where if you are from any generation other than the Millenials, you come to be grateful (weird word for those guys, I’ll post a link later on) for the good shifts in the world.

I streamed a whole bunch of movies and boxsets without even putting on pants. No looking for your Blockbuster video card, heading into town and the queueing up hoping that your preferred movie had not already been rented out and was unavailable. No crazy £10 for three nights combos. Nope, I just hit play and watched. One for the gratitude journal right there.

Next up, having not recovered quickly enough for my liking I simultaneously ordered sustenance from the nice man who calls me Boss and delivers within 45 minutes, whilst also diagnosing myself with multiple possible exotic illnesses without the need for either medical training or an emergency appointment with my doctor. Seriously, Google should be putting them out of business. Having totally misdiagnosed myself (much like a regular doctor), I decided to hydrate, eat some food and take some NSAIDs (more or less like a regular doctor would prescribe).

With my recovery going rather well from the intrinsic properties of chips and mayo and chilli sauce covered kebab, I started to get withdrawal symptoms from the nostalgic murmurs of the musical aspect of my previous evening. It’s okay though because we now have music on tap for fucking free!

The next few hours were spent creating playlists on YouTube of better times. I ended up with a grunge playlist, a glam rock one and a Wu-Tang Clan inspired hip-hop gangster rap themed one. I also accidentally stumbled upon a few very informative videos on the best kitchen devices for melting Toblerone and Nutella. Got to love the connection made by the algorithm there.

This weekend has been a truly awesome checkpoint. A reminder that life is much more than the 9-5 grind or the next big event in your life before you give up and start getting angry at the news or giving a shit about laminate flooring and gazebos.

So, I give thanks to Jesus for giving his life (aka getting fucked up with the lads and hiding out in a cave for a few days) to remind me what is truly important about Bank Holiday weekends - it’s about getting in touch with who you would be if you hadn’t made so many bad decisions in your life. Time for a barbecue!

From the Urban Dictionary - dear Millenials here is what gratitude actually means:

Gratitude

When you grate with Attitude

Working example: Just gonna gratitude some cheese

[glopratchet]

sss

In the world to come there is little sin. The only thing that can be done is to accept it and move on. You think back to your own past, the things you've done in the name of God. You remember how much you hated them for what they were doing to the world and yet here you are still living as if nothing happened. There are just lots of american alligators. And then one day you're going to have to face up to the fact that you don't want anything more than any other person does. That's when you'll know it's really time to go home. After the election of the first ungendered president, the prediatrain movement caught fire in america. the public transportation in every city became safer. The place you got called into service most waqs on the highway trucking line between satalite cities and the midwest manufacturing preserves. the work was dull but resupplying the big isolated centers of humanity was too important to skip out on just because the big rig industry suddenly became 90% robotic. Most city centers were shut down during this time as well. The demand for american alligator meat skyrocketed as the animal seemed to be in the right place at the right time and survived the mass extinctions that killed off all other mammals. with nothing natural to control their numbers, the alligator filled that role beautifully. Humans responded real well to being treated like alligator prey as well. You wouldn't know anything about that though because you've been on an alligator free diet for years. Whorals where burned to ash while polled hereford heifors fetched over a billion dollars a head in auction. Googizon won the bid to construct for the military the most forward thinking alligator farm in existance. It became an income factory, employing hundreds of rewilders and supporting thousands of predatrain workers in the barren scrub savannahs that replaced our farmlands. Your farm never received a grade a wildfire designation so it was spared being burned by mostly untrained crews. It also wasn't zoned for reforestation but all things happen with corrdination in business. most the savannah was turned back into park land and you got bought out. rrently floats near the okeenokee snow swamp. Peat bogs becoming of fields of fuel for jet planes and stratously bound carriers. remembers why you took the job. modern work is dull. getting burned out after a decade is not uncommon. they say predatrains only live about seven years in this line of work anyway so maybe it doesn't matter how bored you get along the way. concousness fades.......somewhere the lad is saying.....how many more miles.... This is not that story. We are primal ponds inc. and we're on Route 666 going from Bagdad Jim's glooming speakeasy to prospector's HQ, deep in the Oakenshield forest. We specialize in bringing into market only the highest quality feral meat so that you never have to eat one of those disgustingly sweet monstrosities born of factory farms like back home. We pride ourselves in putting meat slime and gnarl onto your table. A small mom and pop alligator farm attemping to make it. pass the osage oaks and the plains of ooidamint. this stretch of 666 stays basically on the same path as when it was first drawn on a map by prospectors a hundred years ago. We need you to make deliveries for us. we've gotten an opportunity to secure some of the sweetest,fattiest alligator meat you'll ever see but we're a small operation so we need a big strong predatrain like you to help us out. we operatens only have so many hands and cannot be flitting about delivering to satalite zip codes. this caps a big year for us so we really need your help. We got two basic choices for ya. Please... The water sac grows over the years and burst late one winter night, flooding the halls. Dad said it used to flood every few years back when the place first opened, but the renovations stopped the problem for good... Or so he thought.. You woke up in the middle of night to hear an ominous whooshing sound coming from the direction of the great dining room. You shake Dad awake and tell him what is going on. He swore and ran for the hallway, you followed. ... The water hit you like a brick soon as you reached the door. Wipplesbury was never designed to handle flooding, and these sections could not handle it in the slightest. now cold water floods over your ankles as you stand in the doorway, watching papers and trash and furniture swirl in the torrent. you see some chairs carried past, the great big armchair dad favors of an evening... A snake runs across your foot and you jump backwards out of reflex before realizing it was only a minnow. Hacker: fresh rhetoric, overlight flow, renderform disk, soulfont reserve. say "oh textual technology" to continu... UnderBelly 0.5 We're going to be wiped out, you say, as you stare at the water. we'll lose it all. I'll wake up with nothing an...... There's a half-buried chest on the edge of the parking lot that didn't get set into storage... swim? ... Hacker: felicifus calculus, kevin equals rooster, else rise rooster! don't ptex filiate, assume μολφα ζωη σταγον μελχρσδι ! warcall: VAGRANT1 ..... Sms transmit DEEplab Not good enough. Hacker: billy-fae-bots, lactavous mcjustin, pantone uler, slash node. antidisestablishmentarianism! Eternityin12bit 1 You focus on the chest through the water, willing it with every ounce strength in your soul to move toward you and toward the Pike Exit... [HACKER: WILLPOWER: You can ONLY use code if you dive deep... That's the agreement. You aren't willing to compromise fame and fortune for getting out of life today...... OR are you?? Hacker: aviatrix click, fused buck up, frictional deprevation, run benjamin run.! soulfont reserve.. antidisestablishmentarianism!] The chest on the horizon drifts slowly at first and then faster until it reaches your parking lot island. It was left behind in the chaos when everyone fled during the grand opening... One presumes. We are going dig into it's contents later... erm.. in a few days. But now... DIVE! chancey, soren soarson butterfly knife - butterfly. knife (hidden set) vampire: look of disdain... ::::: biotOPE: ******************************* Chief Security Officer Teggs swings his shotgun around and points it right at your forehead, "What on earth are you doing here!" He shouts, "You gave me a scary splitting headache and I nearly tried to surrender to you! That's not normal, that's not even wendigo behavior!" Hacker: aperiocity chill, sequenomn, binocular parralax hacker: zero-heroes, milo james, run to the basement. eek! sploin vobiscum! taipan tofu, ravencode = hellhouse "Goodness' sake Mr. Teggs I don't know! Coder: hacking, defacing, break dancing the internet since 1994. Gopher://Irc.Godhates.Us/ Threat: "Truthiness is when you get that tingly feeling in your hindquarters that Stanford prison experiment is about to get interesting..." -- Caltro Basalt, Human Stain Clicktranspires The second floor collapses inward, pinning you and Mr. Teggs to the wall. Hacker: fall out. hellhouse darkness, jump the queue on the street of bones. hackmode.... Animator: bony hooks, backbone bouncer, shadowrun http://www.shadowruntable.com / But only your foot is trapped, and then only in a hole. You focus on continuing to exhale... CONNECTIONS: MASTERPIECE THRILLER CD-i IN MIDI hypers cybersecurity proactive dead tech dare u 2 find me? Rigger: out. Yr breath is a plume in the cold crystal silence here, the temperature dropping every moment... it's as though you're out for an evening stroll... But we all know better than that. Modeler: stanley dancer, spiracle slit - flatline thinman celluloid dream machine, milky eye round & round & round... You see nothing barring your exit in either direction. But, the dull red glare in the sky is back... and it's coming from the direction you need to go. Trail: jed mcray watches you undress her with your eyes. shes yours for a lock pick. Illustrator: the air strikes with blood rain. spam bam coffin. An old wooden sign creaks weepily over the path ahead. There are two painted black bars of equal length across a white field. The paint is chipping badly and the bar at the top is bent inward as if something heavy fell on it at some point in the not too distant past. Hmm... Simple, but elegant in its own way... much like Jed himself! Painter: splatter burst - mucus membrane heartcore showstopper, cryptoxprayfine... Suddenly, the way ahead is lit by an orange glow and you turn your head towards it. It seems to be coming from the small upstairs window of a concrete building opposite you. The orange flicker gives the place an eerie feel but it also fills you with hope; somewhere out there people are still alive! The light fades and everything is dark again. Sculptor: anamorphic intrusion - dimensions of the king are blasted by alchemy, eyes melted chocolate grinder... whitechoco journalism. Sculptor: istanbul obelisk falls on alchemy initiative, devoured cryptograms thoughtcrime brutal shortly, kinaporra final cut... You suddenly remember that you haven't eaten anything since your grandfather's funeral this morning. You're getting faint from hunger. duct designer: georgia, sequence brutality - ultraviolent fairy tales for brutal boys, ate the fantasy... fairy gothics sequence corpstopia soldestroy! Game designer: on creation, magic scent bleeding contest, fantasy 8 bit forced perspective graphics adrenaline vector animation grunge immersive lifestyle... Dancer: sink into nightmare kingdom. borstal chemistry spraypaint seascape dream cut motion blur hyper rez queensland motion blur sparkle lensflare pulp beat... Fashion designer: high fashion luxury grunge sweets fuel captivate sugar rush street manga ultraviolet graf opera... And at that moment, an idea pops into your head; you pick up a nearby rusty pipe and wield it like a scepter. The group's heads bend to your will as you lead them to where the people seem to be. In case you need it for protection, you think... You come to a HUGE hole in the ground and look down it. Hypermedia designer: whiz kid frenzy - rabid techtown hacktalk pitchpimp frenzy fashion dynamo, estrade bookmecca... Satellite designer: conspiracy culture future shock - torrential webforce limitless motor control handbrake hack for real, eye tap keyboard deft nylon optic joystic... Wired Designer: pixel perfect prime timebeast thrill, volute fractal buzz, zoned silicon junky weird science art attack destiny frenzy. Critic: q2 q3 q4 - the fastpswp white paper psycho power, rollin' r00l1n r0wd0wn 5000q1 q2 3pps gamez g00d t1mes pwnd, min1r b0yz 5ecur1ty failure fiasco. 4 Billion Sold Instructor: motion physics & Adobe After Effects special feature included free! The World-Famous tutorial by Peter Ludwig! Dancer: white wool choreography eraserhead final cut multimedia mayhem experimental beautiful forever... naturally talented triple overlay icebreaker future celebrities radical infamous spectacular legendary sutcha c. ranta kim sungeun tony hawk... The only problem is that these pipes are very fragile, and you don't fancy your chances of clambering down it in the dark and hoping that it won't collapse under your weight. Musician: sub bass crystal era - high tech ebm drum & bass, midi gabber hard trance drum machines music factory... You peer down the pipe and see a faint orange glow about halfway down. Thinking that perhaps someone has lit a fire at the bottom, you turn and motion for the group to follow you. Architect: double overtime v2.0 - aspr1ng sh1p su1t virtual lounge n1ghts ch3mpt3rr0r bonus mster gr1vitational pr1nc14ples... You make it about a quarter of the way down the crumbling pipe before you suddenly start to hear a creaking, groaning sound emanating from somewhere beneath you. The rumbling noise grows louder as large clods of earth and rocks begin to give way from somewhere above you. Artist:saul-saint-nikadimus, spooge, , corona click,the georgetown collection,zombie flick, psycho rampage the return of mr. santa epica terry harrison... This pipe isn't going to support the weight of everyone, and you don't have time to go back and find another way---if there even is another way.Tip: If you're logged in, your games are auto saved for you. You can find them by clicking "My Stuff" on the sidebar menu.Story

[michaelfallcon]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

The post I’m Just Digging Out From My Email appeared first on Sprudge.

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email published first on https://medium.com/@LinLinCoffee

[shebreathesslowly]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

The post I’m Just Digging Out From My Email appeared first on Sprudge.

from Sprudge https://ift.tt/2Pwglhb

[newssplashy]

Daddy Freeze wants to rid Christianity in Nigeria – of what he calls – scams, but he’s selling his scam, solely as the answer against everything else.

He attacks, disparages, insults, fudges and takes advantage. He has a few talking points, never wants to hear anything else and uses his scam to promote food sales as well as an online nonsense he calls a church.

He roves in deception. He felt he could destroy the Church and use that to make a name for himself or build something, but he lacks originality, lacks new ideas, he’s frightened and those who learn from him are unlikely to be better than him – a very low thinking individual.

Everything he’s so certain of, or thinks he knows – against true Churches – is false. Nothing he can ever say that cannot be convincingly countered.

Real Christians thrive on true Faith and true Hope but he calls it a scam. He thought selling despondency and asperity could cast them off their pedestal of Faith, but he failed.

He never talks about electricity, because he knows the Church is not responsible for electricity cuts – a major problem in Nigeria. He talks about poverty, but the Church does not control what people earn, or spend, or the general conditions of living.

Also Read: Nigeria, Christianity, Electricity & Poverty

 Scams in Service of Poverty

Internet fraud seems to be the most popular in Nigeria, but there are massive amounts of frauds and scams elsewhere.

There are corporate frauds, those that go on without detection, but align with products, purchase, or service.

It is often a way to make more, on the side – along regular earnings. There are also approvals motivated by frauds, so it benefits those involved.

It looks from the outside like many of those involved would never need such, but it seems Nigeria bends most people to desperation to pay for the failures of the society.

There are so many unexpected costs, rising costs, and several losses that can come from any direction. These, aside fear of poverty or saving or assets, made many turn to fraud to maintain a standard.

There are also losses from cheating by others. Nigeria has governments’ dedication to corruption. There are also frauds churches with fake pastors, hypocrites and massive greed.

Also Read: What is that daddy freeze afraid of? & Addiction of daddy freeze

 But fraud is wickedness and a sin. In situations where fraud is the purpose, great progress is rarely made. There is progress, but a lot of it is a sham.

Most problems in Nigeria often result from scams, frauds and corruption, but sometimes the immediate problem seem to be incompetence, cronyism, nepotism, apathy, laziness, low standards, low quality, etc.

If the ATM of a major bank is always down on weekends or evenings, or there are always queues of people in the sun looking miserable like they are there to beg, it is mostly caused by some futility somewhere that if really queried may align with some corporate fraud culture.

Seems extreme to say, sorry; there may not be actual fraud in operations, but the fraud culture of negligence – and absurdity goes, even for a private organization yelling innovation but common efficiency they can’t, says everything.

The solution maybe simple, incremental, or reachable, but because the change may rip off persons benefiting from the situation, it would likely remain that way.

Also Read: Churches are NOT Business Centers

 Daddy Freeze Scam

There are several people living within their means and focused on integrity in spite of frauds and scams everywhere. They sometimes seem to let their guards down and trust certain others, but learn the same lesson that reminds them of the culture.

One sign of a scammer is one who calls everything a scam – all the time. They carry in their heart that this thing is a scam, genuine or not.

They’re continually on guard against scams. All their intellectual ability is to question everything. But they are often perpetrators, who know what they can do, but don’t want it done to them.

The noise of Daddy Freeze all the time that Church in Nigeria is a scam, or fraud, or his disparaging of the Old Testament, or anything with genuine Christianity shows that he’s a scam trying to do what he accused others of doing.

But at least he is failing: he’s selling shirts, getting vain donations, adverting food, helping blogs get clicks, selling audio CDs, getting idlers to wear his shirts and helping Nigeria stay distracted.

These were not the successes he anticipated, and his supporters always beg him to help them travel – showing they need heavy help.

He had in the past balked at criticizing government, responding to people he had chosen his own struggle, but of late, he has been attacking the government, because the failure of his lie campaign is coming at him faster and he’s testing all kinds of alternatives.

It is unfortunate for any individual to be brainwashed by Daddy Freeze: a destroyer, a liar, talentless, atheist and terminally obtuse.

Also Read: Daddy Freeze’s Atheism  & Are Christians in Nigeria Brainwashed?

 Churches are not responsible to build factories in Nigeria. Manufacturers can do that. Churches are not meant to provide free education in Nigeria, but Churches can provide specialized education and Solutions Universities, etc. Churches are for true Faith, true Hope and Worship – in Spirit and in Truth.

There was a message many years ago, with centers around Nigeria. They had semblance of temple worship but – centrally – against Christ Jesus and Christianity. The buildings were cool, the branding was great, and it seemed to grow.

Several years later it failed, faded and became forgotten. Of late, one of the old centers in Mainland [Lagos] has – now – been converted to a Church.

Written by Nneka Okumazie

Twitter/IG: Okumazie

via Nigerian News ➨☆LATEST NIGERIAN NEWS ☆➨GHANA NEWS➨☆ENTERTAINMENT ☆➨Hot Posts ➨☆World News ▷NEWS