#ill email everyones completed pieces soon

[ronkeyroo]

Want to perish but hanging on 👍

[evsvolunteerstotem]

New year, new things

27.01.2024

Šťastný nový rok!

- Okay, to be honest, this saying comes a bit late haha but I mean it's been more than a month since I last posted here. And since then there was a turn of the year and now we're already here in 2024. Of course, at the end of last year, many things were happening too but I'll keep the topic of Christmas and New Year's Eve short, otherwise, it would get out of hand before I could even shed light on the current month.;D

To sum it up: I enjoyed a very nice Christmas holiday with my family, had the chance to see many of my friends again and to name some events - I was in the theatre, went partying, watched a movie in the cinema, went bowling and celebrated New Year's Eve together with my friends. I was pottering with my sister, enjoyed a movie night as well as going on lots of coffee dates with my girls and that's not even all…

My holidays at home were wonderful and I'm so happy that I took the chance to meet so many people again but therefore it was also busier than expected and there was definitely not enough time to relax completely. That's also what I felt when I came back to Plzeň and has probably been the reason for me to become ill right on my first day of work. :/ Gladly I only needed a bit of rest and was able to be back already the following day. The first conversations were very nice and I felt the energy everyone had for the new year. It felt good to be back in a routine and to have some order in my everyday life again.

Nevertheless, I had the feeling that it was time for some change. I mean - new year, new resolutions and new motivation to try something different, right? That's why I had some "first times" in January… Let's start with the cultural part of my life.;) This month I visited the Great Theatre in Plzeň for the first time and watched a performance of "The Nutcracker" together with my colleague Lenka. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that this was one of the best theatre visits I've had in my life so far. The costumes, the ballet performance, the stage design, the live orchestra together with the choir and the mix of original pieces with modern and humorous parts - everything was just right and I felt more than entertained during that evening. The Great Theatre itself is beautifully detailed as well as quite impressive and of course, our tickets for the next show at the beginning of February as well as in April have already been booked and I'm looking forward to being there again soon.

I also felt extremely motivated for sports in the new year. Even though I had already been active here before and had mainly done home workouts and short runs, I also wanted to try something new. So, on the one hand, I spontaneously bought some really good running shoes to motivate myself a little more to jog aaaand I also completed my first volleyball training here last week! :D This was honestly a really spontaneous thing. I played this sport for about 1 year, when I was younger and after that almost every summer at the beach or sometimes in school and I still love the combination of playing in a team and moving my body in various ways. So I thought to myself "Why not starting again? – but I think one thing that has stopped me a bit so far was the fact that this team sport also lives from communication and I was not sure if I would find one club in Plzeň where English conversation was possible too. But then I just surfed the Internet and it didn't take me long to find this cool club named "Beach Service" that offers beach volleyball training for young people as well as adults. After a short email exchange and phone call with all the information I needed, I had my first training session. It was definitely tough but enjoyable at the same time and it's so nice how the coaches always explain to me everything in English again. I'm motivated to continue with the sport and of course, I'll let you know if they already send me to the Olympics this year. ;D

This month I also met Isabelle, the new German volunteer of "Tandem", another organization here in Plzeň. Our energy matched right away and we quickly realized that we had a lot in common. At our second meeting Isabelle and I went to the cinema before we had dinner at the "Pivstro" (the best Burger place in Plzeň :D) and took a nightcap at one of my favourites - "Café Regner". We talked so much and when I arrived home I only saw the message from Isabelle saying "I just realized that we spent 6 hours together!!" - and I also thought how crazy it is that time flies by when you feel comfortable around somebody because that was exactly what I experienced with her. :)

There is also some news at work. Besides the tasks I've already had before I started a new little project outside of TOTEM. Every Tuesday I go to a school for one to two hours and join the English lesson for children between 9 and 11 years. I remember, how excited they have been and how overwhelmed I was when I first visited them. It was something completely new for me as the children of course were very energetic and boisterous- the opposite of the seniors I work with. But I've got used to it and they are also not as agitated as at our first meeting but always happy to see me haha. And I'm very happy to meet them too, because everyone is so unique and lovely and at the same time it's nice to have some more variety at work right now.

But I want to be honest with you, besides all the good and exciting things that happen, I'm not super happy all the time. I can remember how it took me a few days to get used to being here again, to have a routine again, and sometimes things at work don't go as planned and I have the feeling that I could do better. For example in the conversational lessons, when I create a video for the TOTEM YouTube channel, or during my Czech lessons when I have the perception that I should be much better in the language so far. But in those moments I often tell myself to not concentrate on the negative thoughts I have or mistakes I make but rather to focus on the good things and on the positive feedback I get. In those moments I try to be proud of everything I've not only achieved but also learned so far. I want to make my time here enjoyable and unforgettable and therefore I want to look back at my year without thinking about the negative situations but with a smile on my face and the thought that everything happened for a reason and that I'm glad for all the experiences I was able to make. :)

Picture of the snowy landscape on my way home

Santa Claus comes to visit on Christmas Eve ;D

With my girls on New Year's Eve <3

Back in Plzeň in the beautiful Great Theatre

Inauguration of my new running shoes :D

Sunset at my favourite place at the Kamený rybník

Coffee date with Isabelle;)

The most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen <3

Next month is going to be very exciting and busy and I'm already looking forward to it.

Stay tuned and see you in February Laila:)

[secondhoekage]

Ignore this long rant I’m high as shit but I... can’t take the hero commission oR HONESTLY THE HEROES THEMSELVES, seriously anymore

They’re BRAINLESS they all share one (1) brain cell and it belonged to Crust. THESE GUYS had MONTHS to strategize this attack and what did they do? They fucked it up. They want me to believe this was planned and not written on a chalk board the night before? Sent out to all heroes the next morning at 8am in a CHAIN EMAIL?

Unpopular opinion(?): they sent the worst possible, ill-suited heroes to each location for this PLF raid and I’m mad at them for it and I’m mad at Hori for making me be mad at it even tho he had to do it beCauSe oF pLot but I’m mad.

The MLA’s plans to take on The League of Villains? Spotless. Chef’s kiss. The detail. The one-on-one counters they planned out. Accounting for each enemy’s quirk. Yeah there were like 6 of them to account for but?? Heroes, yall had enough info and enough time to think of ways to go about this raid and I’m supposed to believe that you did, BUT DID YOU REALLY? MONTHS TO PLAN, and saw one electric Sir Crocodile rip-off and immediately threw Kaminari on his ass. Good move. Kinda. But the rest of the PLF? Heroes just gonna make shit up as they go I guess?? 

To make myself feel better here’s a long ass useless rant on what could’ve damn happened and which heroes should’ve gone where and to make this an epic ass rumble. ugh. Even just doing some of these things would’ve made this arc (imo) feel more... convincing and delicious

under the cut tho bc damn this is too long

In this essay I will—

Edgeshot??? EDGESHOT??    EDGESHOT?? i’M GOING TO GO OFF. 

I swear to shit Edgeshot could’ve soloed the hospital but they had him at the PLF mansion for Some Reason like... like they didn’t make him run up on the League’s bar instead of the Nomu factory bc they knew he would take care of shit immediately. Make it make sense. If he was at the hospital eye just—Nomu in the way?? Doctor running off? Say less. Electric slide all the way in there Shinya. DID NO ONE SEE HOW EASILY HE HANDLED KUROGIRI? Did everyone just forget this man can pull a K.O in .3 seconds flat? Heroes didn’t think it might be a good idea to have him there, ready to give Shigaraki the paper cut of his life the second he woke up (if he even did bc my mans likely could’ve prevented the ‘doctor getting away>high-end awaken>rush to get shiggy out of the tank>shiggy wakes up’ chain of events)? Didn’t think to send him instead of this guy X Less just sitting there with That Look on his face? 

I get they needed heroes like Edgeshot at the mansion to take out a handful of enemies in one go but COME ON NOW. There were more than enough long-range AOE heroes there. And even if you don’t wanna believe he could solo then STILL, EDGESHOT DUOING WITH MIRUKO, ANYBODY? If anyone was gonna keep up with her happy ass zooming into the lab it could’ve been him. We were robbed of an Edgeshot/Miruko teamup and I’m not okay. Could’ve had a sexy ass panel of the hospital-team hyping up Miruko and Edgeshot as they dashed to Ujiko’s lab, two fast as shit bad bitches, zooming through these Nomu, absolutely obliterating them at lightning speed, watching each other’s backs too, PROBABLY SAVING MIRUKO FROM BECOMING THE PRE-DEATH ORGAN DONOR THAT SHE IS NOW. I know it was hot watching Miruko take on these high-ends but I’d have rather Edgeshot share the spotlight if it meant Miruko was in one piece rn. Hori played her

Anyways the literal dumb bitch energy that went into not sending Edgeshot to the hospital is sending me. Could’ve at least let him just be on the team and on standby while Shigaraki was waking up. With those sharp as shit reflexes of his we’ve seen? Shigaraki would’ve been out like a fucking light the second Edgeshot saw him sit up. X-Less you had a nice thicc upper lip that lip was too shaded for you to die, but F in the chat bitch. Useless plot fodder I’m sorry X-Less. There isn’t a hero there right now (besides Aizawa but like... idk, plot is nerfing him) that could’ve incapacitated Shiggy so quickly and prevented the mess they’re in now like my guy Edgeshot could’ve. Feels like a cop out

In conclusion: Edgeshot sweety I’m sorry they did this. I’m sorry you were nerfed. I’m sorry they didn’t let you deliver Kamino Pizza to this hospital. I’m sorry they ignored you and now everyone’s gonna die bc they didn’t they respect your Ninpo rights

CEMENTOSS??? y’all sent him to fuck up the mansion FOR WHAT??? If I were the hero commission and thought :

“Dang we need to completely ass blast this huge PLF resort to make room for our heroes to run in... but it would also be good if we had someone to do that at the hospital too just in case things get tricky and we need to pave a quick way to Ujiko’s secret hideout... but I’m single-celled and can’t weigh my options logically so ok. Cementoss, to the mansion.”

...................... Ok but can I in interest you in PIXIE BOB? I get the mansion is huge but going by the shit we’ve seen her do?? I’m not about to underestimate ol’ girl. I know she could’ve fucked that place up if they let her, switched her out for Cementoss, who could’ve made THE EASIEST route for the hospital team to get into the secret lab, trapped Ujiko, also trapped a couple nomu/high-ends in cement while he was at it, rearranged some tunnels for optimal tactical movement, probably could’ve done a decent-fucking-job at slowing the onslaught of Decay too if it got to that point (AND IT MIGHT NOT HAVE BC THE WHOLE POINT OF THIS RANT IS TO INSIST THAT A BETTER SELECTION OF HEROES WOULDN’T HAVE RESULTED IN SHIGGY’S CURRENT THANOS SNAP ORdEAL)

I know Pixie’s mostly on rescue operations and that’s what she’s doing at the hospital/surrounding city but WHY?? EVEN IF THEY REALLY NEEDED CEMENTOSS AT THE MANSION—WHY NOT HAVE PIXIE BOB DOING SOMETHING IN THE ACTUAL HOSPITAL BATTLE? JUST A LITTLE? The hospital is built on uh.. oh yeah... EARTH? And considering in the Forest Training arc she was using her quirk from a remote location (to make that Earth golem, or whatever) she wouldn’t even HAVE to be IN Ujiko’s lab to be useful

Can y’all PLEASE put at least ONE of your terraforming heroes at the place where y’all REALLY need them?? And not after-the-fact like y’all just did with Pixie Bob? Because clearly she didn’t do shit this last chapter trying to stop Decay. I’m sorry girl. You may be dead. Terrible.

I would have legitimately sent Snipe to get Ujiko before I sent Miruko and that’s that on that. Where is he even? He was there during the briefing but he’s gone? MIA? Idk. No way Ujiko is getting away from those bullets. Target locked: Ujiko’s hand. Fire. High-end Nomu remote goes bye bye. Then another bullet in the leg. No need to worry about him escaping and waking up high-ends/Shiggy when he doesn’t have kneecaps. Problem solved. No way it would’ve taken that long to break Shiggy’s tank either with a few well-placed pew pews zigging around some Nomu (not that we really wanna break him outta his tank bc look what happened). Snipe’s 6/5 technique stat deserves better!!!!!

Gang Orca did not go off and give a bunch of kids brain damage during the License arc to be so thoroughly ignored here. He’s clearly about to get his shit rocked by some gauged-out ex-Hot Topic employee in the next few chapters and ugh you’re TOO GOOD FOR THAT ORCA. COULD’VE BEEN OF USE AT THE HOSPITAL. PARALYZING SONIC WAVES? WE’LL TAKE IT. Who knows if any of the high-end Nomu would’ve been affected by paralysis but the small fry? Probably. Shiggy’s little twink ass? I would bet on it. Not that it would really stop him from using Decay but still

At the risk of sounding like someone I know who endorses child labor (the hero commission) here me out: CAN I GET A UHHH JUZO HONENUKI??? AGAIN YEAH good that he was at the mansion to do some long-range AOE action but if y’all are gonna force kids to join in on this war anyways, put your strongest and most useful ones at the place you need them. Shit it would’ve been real nice if Honenuki was there to trap some Nomu—uncertain if it would work against the high-ends that show some pretty flexible quirks but who knows—and even at the risk of reaching, maybe in some universe where Shiggy and Honenuki face off, it would be interesting to see Decay against Softening, since Decay’s one big weakness is that it can only work on solid objects sooOooOo? Idk. Would’ve been a cool match up but I hate that the kids are fighting anyways so we’re gonna ignore this Juzo rant. Just know it would’ve been cool

And as for the mess that’s going to be this fucking mansion soon... .. We’re just gonna ignore a whole ass Geten, big destructive power, big fucking threat, and not gonna throw Endeavor’s ass in there? Makes sense. They’re leaving it to Shoto I guess. They said time for you to fucking shine kid. Get in there. I mean really trading Endeavor for Edgeshot would’ve been top tier strategy but...

I MEAN THEY?? Made up a whole ass plan to counter ONE greasy-looking PLF guy by throwing Kaminari in there, but they couldn’t make up a plan to counter Geten? Are they just?? Pulling names out of a hat to see who gets to fight who? Did they spin a bottle to see who it landed on? Did Mt. Lady pull the short stick? I swear on shit when Geten starts going feral soon I’m not gonna feel sorry about it. Unless heroes got a plan and someone’s gonna make a sexy ass top 10 anime entrances to counter his ice then I’m disappointed. We went ape shit over Kaminari countering one of the commanders but are we not gonna get anymore ‘I’m your perfect counter and I’m here to stop you’ moments? No? I’M PISSED. 

I would have also settled for my kween Nejire being there to blast away some ice because who tf else is gonna do it? But eh. 

Dabi will also be trouble depending on what he decides to do. He only has about 3 good ideas a month and he’s used them all up by now so he’s in dumb slut territory as we speak. But you’d think that a villain as widely recognized as Dabi with such a destructive quirk would urge the heroes to have some plan to take him on but?? So far I don’t really see anyone quick to take on the role. Not that it’d be that hard bc he’s dangerous but also dangerously dumb. Where is Inasa. Maybe he can just blast the flames back in Dabi’s face. I love him but at this point he deserves to have some of his rights taken away

Don’t even get me start on Gigantomachia. I get the heroes had little choice except to attack before Shiggy was full-power but just?? NOT having a plan in case by some little chance Gigantomachia DID wake up? You stupid bastards. You absolute fools. I guess there’s not much you CAN do but FUCK y’all just gonna let him SIT THERE? No counter measures? No ‘Let’s execute this incredibly thorough and thought-out plan we’ve spent months formulating to restrain Gigantomachia in case he does end up waking up, because better safe than sorry’? When he tramples like 50 students I bet that shit gonna hurt

I hate it all. I was really happy about seeing Shiggy go off 272 bc he’s a king but after rereading from like, 258 I feel... weird. Maybe this will be resolved with more chapters but. eh. Now that I’ve thought of this, I can’t go back. I miss the brain power that was behind the MLA fight

[smolbeandrabbles]

Try It On, Take It Off - Orson Krennic x Reader (Rogue One)

100 Sentence Challenge Request

Orson Krennic + 95 -  “Have I mentioned, I fucking hate Halloween.” Requested by @mysticaltimemachinewench

Author’s Note: Roll with the idea of Halloween and October 31st being things in the Star Wars universe just for this fic, please! This boy is so whiny, I spent all week writing for him last week and he’s still like “write more!” so, I thought I’d post one. It’s because he’s all the bottom of my drafts now I’m sure of it. Boots & Boys - Kesha  Okay, so I was looking for songs to do with dressing up. And I found a bunch of cute love songs about wearing your SOs clothing, but... This one is fun and I needed fun for the premise-!

Disclaimer: Rogue One Characters/SW Universe not mine. / Requested  premise / lyrics & gifs not mine.

Premise: Every Halloween it’s the same thing, and Krennic is sick of people dressing like him. This year he’s determined to get to the bottom of things...

Words: 2010

Warnings: Swearing / Sexual connotations/Pre-Amble

_____

Think it's time that I mention I've got myself an obsession For the smell, for the touch I know I've got myself a habit But I gotta have it now I don't care where, work it out Let me break it down I try it on, I take it off So what you got? Something 'bout boots and boys They bring me so much joy I gotta say I wear 'em both so pretty as I walk in the city Give me boots and boys I'm keeping quite the collection Take nothing less than perfection My men drop beats like a bomb Wind me up, spin me round Oh, lookie what I found (ooh!) I'm crazy for you, crazy for you Hey hey, whatcha looking at? Hey hey, something you can't have They've got me looking rad You feeling that?

---

October 31st was always a date Krennic hated seeing in his calendar. The Death Star had not been a project spanning months by any stretch of the imagination. Orson was many, many years into this – and he was now accustomed to his workers Halloween traditions. He couldn’t say it wasn’t one of the reasons he was glad that it was nearing completion. That, and he might finally get the recognition he deserved. At least for now he had you. Given, you were relatively new to the project when he looked at the timeline as a whole, but you were certainly a necessary piece – and Krennic actually liked you. A lot of the other employees, if he were honest with himself, he actually could have done without. Which is probably why you’d grown close – and then maybe a little too close. But Orson wasn’t going back on that now. This was the day Krennic didn’t want to leave his office – inevitably, it was also the day that everyone would have him chasing all over the structure. Why? Oh, because they all knew how much he hated today too! So as soon as the email pinged in from the other side of the Death Star, Krennic tried everything he could to get them to come to him, or to send him documents, pictures, anything that meant he didn’t have to go on an annoyingly long walk. Orson used practically every persuasive trick in the book, to no avail. Eventually he had to concede rising from his desk, sighing angrily, and gathering his things to head to the problem. Almost immediately he was assaulted with the kind of visuals he’d become accustomed to. It seemed every other person on this damned vessel took today to dress up as him. Now, whilst dressing in the full white Intelligence Bureau tunic would have been against protocol and would have meant he could reprimand them, everyone decided to wear capes of various different colours instead. Some, like his, matched their uniforms – and if it wasn’t also for the fact they copied the way he walked and carried himself, with an unconvincing attempt at his accent and speech patterns, he’d find it quite tasteful. Krennic would almost be flattered, he supposed - perhaps even feel like a trend setter – had the crew not being doing it for any other reason than to mock him. God forbid any of them attempt Lexrulian; one day it was going to make his ears bleed. Others decided to wear their ‘capes’ in the gaudiest colours imaginable, and sometimes Orson felt like he was going to be physically ill just staring at them.

Still, technically all of this was against regulation – and although he probably couldn’t take on the entire staff and win, he took pleasure in chastising those he disliked most. “Isn’t that a little against your uniform regulation?” “Take that off now – before I have you reported.” “Next time I catch you in something like this, you’re off the project.” Annoyingly, he could never keep how irked he was out of his voice – and they took great joy out of that, and never bothered hiding it. When they did take these ridiculous attempts at mocking him off (Though it worked. He supposed.), Krennic knew they’d be pulled back on before he rounded the next corner – but for now at least, Orson could be smug in his little bit of power. The fact he could actually force the crew to remove them. He often pondered how this started. Tarkin, he had no doubt. Krennic wasn’t going to blame himself after all, he knew his uniform looked damn good. He just wasn’t fool enough to think this was respectful admiration. Eventually he reached the person who emailed him and, as predicted, it was an easy fix that Krennic could have done in less than five minutes on his tablet back in his office. The Director almost punished them on the spot for that, but by this time was already too pissed off with the situation to trust himself not to lose complete control. Not that that didn’t happen a lot, especially when everything was stalling – but today that was what everyone wanted. ‘If I see another bad attempt at ridiculing my uniform I’ll scream…’  Orson’s jaw was beginning to ache with the way he was tightening it. Half way back to his office, Krennic took a detour. By now he really was yelling at people – Orson was this close to drawing weapons and kicking them off the station, Project Stardust be damned. Desperately seeking respite, he wandered back to his quarters and as the corridors began to quieten, scuffled along in his boots, sulking. ‘What did I ever do to deserve this-!?’ Reaching the door to his room, Krennic gave a small smile – he would receive relief in here. Well at least she will be sweet... I can tell her my frustrations and she’ll sympathize… As Krennic keyed himself in and the door slid open, he realised just how wrong he could be. You were walking up and down the main room and studying yourself in about every reflective surface you could find. If this wasn’t you, Krennic would have blown it, and immediately all his irritations came flooding back. You were, of course – with access to his wardrobe - pacing around in his uniform. Full Intelligence white, rank bar included. Sure, the sleeves were rolled up – which pained him because it’d take an age to get those creases out - and the cape was a little long for you, but, you had the whole thing on, right down to the boots. Usually Krennic might smirk and call you out on wearing his clothes, after all you did look good in his tailored shirts. Any other day of the week he’d probably be pretty turned on right now. But NOT today. As the door slid closed behind him and beeped locked, you whirled around. The cape moved with you and your eyes fell to it; immediately distracted. Krennic’s uniform was gorgeous on him, but the feeling of power you got when wearing it for yourself was indescribable. You liked running your hands over it – the feeling of the fabric between your fingers very nearly bordering obsessive with your need to do it at every chance you could; it was so perfectly weighted that, in all honesty, the tailoring was a marvel to you. You always made a mental note to thank the designers and sewers for their impeccable work. (On Orson’s entire wardrobe, actually.) “Director.” You presented yourself and looked back to him, “What do you think?” Orson very nearly shivered, and if he wasn’t so pissed he’d probably have let himself. That was Lexrulian – and compared to everything else he’d heard today, was very nearly music to his ears. “What are you doing-!?” There was a snap in the undertone of his voice – agitated, to match the way his jaw tightened. You answered cheerily, nonetheless. “It’s Halloween. So, I’m you! I mean you could be me if you wanted, but I’m not sure the uniform would fit-!” You giggled slightly at the mental image of him in your tight black jacket – no, maybe it wouldn’t fit properly, but it might look really good. If only for a second. Although Krennic was glaring at you by now. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, is all this YOUR idea-!?” For a moment you looked innocent, “No! You mean the fact everyone else does it? I didn’t start it, but I felt I could damn well finish it. Besides, LOOK!, I can do it better than everyone else!” “No! No! Y/N-!” You scrambled up onto the table, and cleared your throat. It was clear to Krennic you’d been practicing, because you had his stance down and his mannerisms almost perfect. He was almost impressed. “The POWER we are dealing with here is immeasurable! Single reactor ignition would be just an inkling of it’s true destructive potential! And I will not fail!” He blinked slowly, thinking you were mixing up at least three of his previous conversations there. There was a long pause before Krennic stepped forward, pointing at you. “GET. DOWN! Do you have any idea how expensive that table was-!?” “Awwww, Orson, c’mon!!” “I’m NOT impressed, GET DOWN!” “Baaabe.” “Don’t whine..!” You backed up just out of his reach, even your best innocent eyes weren’t saving you today – he must have been furious. “But it took me so long, I’ve tried on all the variants, I tried on your dress uniform even-! And it isn’t complete without the cape, and the rain one doesn’t have a patch on the glory of this one!! I thought it wouldn’t drag if I put on my heeled boots, but that didn’t get the look right either! And it’s you – so, it had to be perfect…” Your eyes glittered gently as you tried to plead with him, “I thought if I did it properly, it might make you smile. That it might be more… respectful. I dunno I-” He cut you off, demanding, “OFF. THE. TABLE.” “Well, what are you gonna do-!?!” Krennic was quick on his feet, and even though you’d backed yourself up he still managed to grab your wrist and drag you down. You might have been in his uniform, but you were nowhere near his height; and you might have had his traits down, but you didn’t have his strength either. Meaning within seconds he had you shoved up against a wall – with a squeak – before his lips were on yours, wrists pinned by your sides. He might have been angry, but that only made this kiss hotter, and you practically melted into him. Orson was showing you absolutely no mercy – and you weren’t sure if you really deserved it, but you were at least a little glad of it. Eventually he pulled away from you; leaving you gasping and panting for breath. But you whined, wanting more from him. “Have I mentioned, I fucking hate Halloween.” Krennic had, many a time. Which is one of the reasons you wanted to do this, because he might feel a little better if you were doing it right. Clearly you were in the wrong ballpark. You thought about nodding in admittance, but thought maybe continuing to be playful would get you what you wanted. “Don’t think you did – maybe you did. You should remind me.” “Oh, I think I will.” His smirk was back as you let him run his hands through the fastenings of the tunic and unzip your pants. Oh, yeah, he wanted this uniform off bad. You bit your lip, “It does look sexy on you though, is it surprising everyone wants to copy it? I mean I like trying it on and taking it off.” Orson nipped your neck, eliciting a gasp from you; “Evidently I might too.” Then he chuckled at your sigh, running his hands over your warm skin, “That doesn’t make me hate today any less. I mean it’s hardly tribute, is it?” You tipped your head, “I mean, I tried.” “Oh, don’t think I didn’t hear that mocking tone.” He grazed his lips to yours, and it was hardly rewarding, you pined for more but he held you away from him – still immobilized against the wall, “Still, I’ll admit so much… you do look very pretty in white.” You did very nearly blush, but knew that his mind wouldn’t be going to something as virtuous as weddings or dresses; probably a different kind of white lace altogether. “Can I keep the cape at least?” Maybe he’d enjoy you wearing that and very little else. That would be like a ‘sexy’ Halloween costume, would it not? Even if it was just for him. Maybe that’s what Krennic needed if he detested today so much. He growled, kissing you again before you let him slide the jacket from your shoulders and it fell to the floor; “If you’re good, we’ll see.”

--- Thank you very much for reading! It’s been a while since Krennic has been posted too, I’ll admit! 🙏❤

2/16 down!

[cubeswhump]

Defy Fate; Reanimate, part 1: The Pieces of Osiris

Gonna make it clear that I got “Defy fate / Reanimate” from this song. This story takes inspiration from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein but I kinda took the barest base of it and ran wild.

For much of my childhood, I was dead set on being a forensic pathologist. Then I got autistic burnout which turned into a nervous breakdown and had to reevaluate my life plan. I still have a huuuuuge love for forensics/pathology and I finally put it to use. A bit too much use. You’re gonna learn about rates of decay today.

Note: Part 2 is already written and will be posted tomorrow or the day after.

Tagging @more-miserables and @brutal-nemesis

Warning for gore, self-harm (not done from depression or misery), terminal illness, whump of a minor (via flashback), death (death is a whole ass focal point of this story so be warned), drugging, creepy whumper (like super creepy), consensual mildly-NSFW stuff that doesn't go anywhere, semi-professional surgery, dismemberment, disembowelment, general grossness.

Dearil was a constant; Lorelai barely remembered life without him. He showed up in first grade an awkward little boy who didn't speak a word of English and she was the happy helper with dozens of gold stars who took him under her wing. But they grew up and he learned English and gained confidence while Lorelai retreated into her shell.

Dearil seemed the type of kid who would be bullied relentlessly: openly gay, overweight, embraced his feminine side with pinks and purples and earrings, grew his hair longer than any boy at school, could tell you every plot point of Bleach and Naruto but couldn't follow a conversation, did these things with his hands that were later identified as stimming. However, he never held his tongue and had this air of confidence that even the mean kids respected. It was quiet, studious Lorelai they picked on, but no one dared bother her when big Dearil stood next to her. When chemotherapy made him lose his hair when they were sixteen, some classmates even shaved their heads to show support.

They stayed close even Dearil repeated eleventh grade because health complications made him miss so much school. They stayed nest best friends even when Lorelai graduated six months early, when he took a gap year, when Lorelai got into medical school. Even when the dreaded Boyfriebds stuck their feet in.

The two shared an apartment while Dearil worked on a degree in business and Lorelai was kept busy as an assistant in a morgue and full-time student. They had big dreams, but Dearil's were much more feasible: he planned to open a bakery that exclusively hired neurodivergent teens and young adults. Lorelai's plans?

"They only don't want to mix magic and medicine becahse the pharmaceutical companies will lose money!" she growled, glaring daggers at the emailed rejection of her thesis.

"People fear what they don't understand. I mean, science can't explain it and it's pretty fucking crazy," Dearil replied, shrugging. "If I had to explain it, I'd say it's kinda like equivalent exchange in Fullmetal Alchemist, right? I don't really get how it works. But you're smart. You're strong-willed. You'll do great."

She didn't get his anime comparisons, but she could get lost in the sould of his voice. If she could bottle it she would drink nothing else for the rest of her life.

Then another Boyfriend came along and she heard that voice less and less. She hated everything about Frankie: the way he zipped around on that noisy motorcycle (and how dare he wear the only helmet while Dearil rode around unprotected), his spikey hair, his smug smile, his grating laughter, his leathee jackets, his lips on Dearil's.

She refrained from hexing him. She wasn't a bad person who would use witchcraft to cause harm. Her acts were subtle and harmless: placing red rose petals in Dearil's pockets and shoes and placing petunia petals in Frankie's.

"I don't know what the flowers mean but I'm guessing it's some passive-aggressive bullshit," Dearil huffed. "Cut it out."

He got a bit angrier when she tried to cut off a chunk of Frankie's stiff hair. It was just for a bad luck charm, nothing lethal, but she pled the fifth on that one.

"You're like a sister to me," Dearil reminded her that day after Frankieeft. He meant well, but she wanted to scream and cry and break things. But she forced herself to smile.

There was a thought that haunted her every day. She would be the maid of honor, perhaps wearing teal if Dearil's current hair color was anything to go by. She would have to give a speech and congratulate the grooms. Watch them kiss. It should be her under that altar! She should be wearing a white gown and veil!

She resigned to life as a lonely spinster. She'd be married to her job.

That was the worst thing she imagined happening, until life hit her like a truck... and the delivery was a truck.

Dearil was so late getting home again. Any minute now he'd call and tell her he was spending the night with Frankie. And sure enough her smartphone rang, but it wasn't Dearil.

"What's up, Kensia?" she asked, but the only response from Dearil's younger sister was sobbing. Instant dread. "Kensia? Come on, use words. I'm not a mind reader."

So Kensia spoke, and Lorelai would have preferred she didn't. She didn't remember getting off the phone. She didn't remember much of that night at all, but she couldn't forget all of it.

***

She almost didn't go to the funeral. She didn't want to wake up ever again. She thought about joining Dearil. But she got out of his bed, staggered to her bedroom, and searched her closet for appropriate attire.

The black dress was old and wouldn't cover the runes carved into her arms, but what did it matter if someone got uncomfortable? Fuck everyone else. The dress was tight in her waist and she bitterly realized that it would fit soon enough now that Dearil wouldn't be baking sugary treats all the time.

His mother came to greet her dressed in all white. The whole Jean-Pierre family wore white, even Dearil's dad whose wardrobe consisted of grey suits and plain ties. Catheline wrapped her up in a bone-crushing hug and Lorelai wanted to push her away and shout, "I'm not here for you!"

A cheap pine coffin for someone so great. What a disgrace. It was closed too. A closed-casket funeral was the most logical solution but it hirt Lorelai to know she wouldn't see his beautiful face ever again. That beautiful face was pulverized. Even Frankie, who was wearing a helmet, was killed so Dearil didn't stand a chance. He was killed on impact, painlessly.

Painless for who? It hurt so, so much.

She could scarcely hear the spoken eulogies over her own sobs, and declined to give one herself. Dearil's own mother wound up consoling Lorelai throughout the ceremony, rocking the young woman in her arms like a child. No words were shared until the end when Catheline walked Lorelai to her car.

"Traditionally in Haiti, we gather to mourn for nine days. It's a social gathering where we eat and drink and talk, nothing stiff and formal," Catheline explained through her own tears, smoothing Lorelai's messy ponytail. "You're part of the family, cheri. We want you to join us."

Like she wanted to waste her time at some social event. The only thing she wanted to do was lie in Dearil's bed and smell him on his pillow. But she couldn't shut Catheline down like that.

"Why nine days?" she asked.

"That's how long the soul takes to leave the body - that's what we Vodouists believe. We gather for nine days to assire the soul ascends safely and doesn't get stolen away by any petro loas. Evil spirits."

A pause. Lorelai got an odd look on her face. "Was he embalmed? Were his organs donated?"

Disgust flashed across Catheline's face for just a second. She took a deep breath. "We believe that harm dealt to the body after death harms the soul, so we don't usually embalm or donate organs. Dearil did want to donate his organs, you know what he's like, so we respected his wishes. He wasn't embalmed. Why do you ask?"

The question had a bit of an edge. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes.

Lorelai wasn't crying anymore, though her eyes were rimmed with red. "Catheline... If his soul is still on earth, could his body be saved?"

Catheline frowned. "What are you..." Her face contorted with horror. "No! I have nothing against you doing witchcraft, but this is where I put my foot down. Interfering with the soul? My son's soul? Imagine the pain he'd be in! How could you even think of that?"

Lorelai looked away from her. "I'm sorry... I'm just really... I'm not thinking. I wasn't thinking. I wouldn't do anything to harm her."

Cathine took her hands. "Look me in the eye. Promise me, Lorelai. Promise me you won't tamper with anything you shouldn't."

Lorelai sighed, looking into those honest brown eyes, eyes so much like Dearil's. "I promise."

***

She promised, but above-ground burial only existed to tempt grave robbers. It was a blessing; the universe wanted Lorelai to do this.

What wasn't a blessing was the man standing outside the mausoleum. Fucking Catheline must have held her suspicions and reported on them. The guard's head snapped her way, and she bolted.

"Hey!" he shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

Every step toward her car, every step toward her front door was a knife twisting. She was leaving Dearil behind.

She went to the gathering to keep up appearances. She drank much-needed wine and ate Haitian foods even when she felt like the smallest bite of food would make her vomit. She and Catheline said nothing of their conversation, and the older woman hugged her a bit much for her liking.

The witches in the forums turned on her. They called necromancy evil and her plan foolish.

People like you are why people think so badly of us! wrote WitchBitch666. No one had any tips but MagickalShells wanted updates on her progress.

No one had done anything like this. At least, not in written history. She was completely on her own. But it wasn't the first time she did something crazy woth magic, though the forums were more help the last time.

The migraines. The vomiting. The paranoia. The way he couldn't catch his breath. Finally, the seizures. After the appointment with the neurologist, Dearil had called Lorelai crying.

Four tumors across his brain, all cancerous. Two inoperable, the structures too important and delicate.

Dearil needed her like he did when they were younger, but it wasn't enjoyable this time. The doctors estimated that he had ten months to live. They only offered to attempt to shrink the tumors with chemotherapy and "focus on his quality of life."

He slipped into a coma toward the end, and Lorelai grew desperate.

Lorelai knew little about witches. Heathens, Mama and Pedro called them. They voted for increased limitations on magic at any election - local, statewide, and nationwide. They wanted it to be outlawed entirely.

But she knew witches did things that couldn't be explained with science. Maybe science wasn't everything. So she turned to the forums.

Once a week she would rip off a fingernail with her pliers. She would sneak into Dearil's hospital room and put the fingernail under his mattress, then slice into his hand with a razor blade and draw a rune behind his ear with his blood.

Hospital staff increased security when they found the harm done to his body hand and the blood on his head, but he miraculously woke up after two weeks. He still had cancer, though, and her work wasn't done.

"You've been doing what?" he had cried when he was coherent and cognizant enough to understand, staring at the deep, angry red slash across his palm. She lunged for his hand and he stepped back. "And let me see your fucking nails!"

"Come on, you're dying," she pointed out. "What do you have to lose?"

He cringed, but they both knew she was right. So he would let her take his blood and sleep with finger and toenails under his pillow, though he shuddered to think about. She lost weight and grew pale as he regained what his mother called "bebe fat" and life returned to his eyes. The tumors shrank with each X-ray.

"You're doung this, aren't you?" asked Catheline, very seriously, and Lorelai had paled. But when the teenager bowed her head, Catheline pulled her into a hug. "Thank you, thank you, cheri. But don't kill yourself to save him."

Week eighteen. Lorelai's nails were growing back ever so slowly and terribly brittle. With two toenails left, she had to wonder what offering she would give when she ran out.

But with the next X-ray, it was announced that the boy who was supposed to be dead in mere months was in remission. He walked with a limp because of the damage the tumor did to his cerebellum, but physical therapy got that fixed up. He returned to school, behind a year, and Lorelai became fixated on influencing western medicine to adopt witchcraft, if not becoming the first doctor to use magic on her patients in the United States.

The guard was there the next night, but she made sure she wasn't seen. She linked herself to the ground and, urging him to hurry up and take a bathroom break or something. Dearin's brain was the most important thing to be kept, but the brain is one of the first things to go, ces collapsing just minutes after death. Every minute wasted waiting for this stupid guard was cellular death. Losing her Dearin.

An illusion spell. He ran to investigate the vandals kicking at tombstones and each footfall was like feet stomping on Lorelai's face. She was never so happy to feel pain though.

A spell to unlock the door would be a waste of energy. One of the runes on her chest was already seeping, and she needed to save her blood for tomorrow. She picked the lock and slipped inside as the "vandals" led the guard here and there, running him ragged.

Dearil didn't deserve to be in this house of nobodies. Name after useless name among the granite on the wall until she found a Dearil Jean-Pierre. She pried off the granite slab with her crowbar, and then the concrete under it. She dropped the concrete on her foot and puffed out her cheeks to keep in the profanities. The concrete broke in two, and she expected her throbbing toe did too.

She gripped the sides of his coffin and tugged. It took a minute to budge. Dearil wasn't very tall, and neither was Lorelai, but he was wide and heavy. Her face turned red and she grunted with effort. She jumped back as his coffin fell to the ground. It was still jammed shut, and she wished they still nailed coffins shut. She didn't know what this sealant wasade of, but it was rough.

Running out of time. Guard could come back. Hurry up.

The lid came out, and the smell. Oh god, the smell. She gagged, but it was nothing compared to when her flashlight landed on what was left of her friend.. No, that actually made her swallow back bile.

He was missing one arm, only a little mangled stub remaining in his empty sleeve, but that wasn't the problem. His face, God, his face. The left side was caved in, skin and dreadlocks torn away to reveal the gore. He didn't have much of a left eyebrow, his jaw leaned to one side with missing teeth gaping at her, and what was left of his nose was a bloody pulp with the little stud nosering glinting far from where his nostril was supposed to be. And his eyes, his gorgeous eyes... Grey-blue scleras, left eye protruding from the socket with black spots around the iris.

"Oh god, Dearil..." She rubbed her eyes, willing herself to get a grip.

This was the easy part; all she had to do was transport him. But how was she supposed to fit a 5'7", 185 pound man in an, albeit large, suitcase?

It felt so wrong undressing him. She wanted her first time seeing him nude to be consensual, but not one "yes" left his bloated lips. She tried not to look anywhere inappropriate, flushing under her mask.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered as she produced the bone saw from her gym bag. She held the flashlight in her mouth as she sliced into one thigh.

Rigor mortis had passed and he was soft abd squishy, but the femur was still rock solid. It took a bit of force and then she moved to the other leg. The smell increased tenfold, and ut got even worse when she swutched ti a scalpel and sliced off strips of his wobbly, pudgy belly.

His neck was already broken and any damage could be fixed, so she pushed his chin down to his chest, avoiding looking at those glassy eyes. His remaining arm was okay to stay. It was easy to angle and wrap around his head, and she secured the limb with tape before cramming him into the plastic-lined suitcase.

She put the lid on the coffin and lifted it back into its divot. It was much lighter now, only containing clothes, flaps of skin, and two legs, and there was no evidence if tampering at first glance. She pushed the two concrete halves together and into their place on the wall, shoving the granite slab in after. They kept sliding and threatening to fall, so in the end she went around prying off and smashing dozens of slabs. With so much damage, they won't know where to start, and if they find other caskets unaffected, maybe they won't check his...

This plan was falling apart. No it wasn't. It wasn't, it wasn't!

Connecting her senses to the grounds, she found the guard outside. She held a lighter to her hand, feeling the warmth, imagining a small explosion and fire. Runes bled onto her shirt. The guard ran off to check the exosion at the other side of the graveyard, shouting. Feet trampling her face.

It was just an illusion. She wasn't one for destruction magic or vandalism. Well... The mausoleum said otherwise about vandalism, but as she walked away it was out of sight and out of mind.

She still struggled to lift Dearil into the passenger's seat of her car, having to roll the windows down to deal with the odor. She plugged her phone into the auxiliary cord and played his favorite music. She was never a fan during his life, but now she loved the sound.

She didn't go to their apartment. No, that would be far too predictable. She still had a key to Mama and Pedro's beach house, and when she checked earlier that day she found that they hadn't chamged the locks. It was only an hour's drive and she could make that to and from work, school, home without running out of gas money.

The roar of waves crashing on the shore competed with the obnoxious rumbling of a heavy wheeled suitcase on cobblestone. She got inside and turned on the lights. The table was new, very nice with polished wood. She didn't feel at all remorseful putting Dearil's odorous, leaking body on the pristine surface to operate. Preserving his brain was frst and foremost.

Face-down, his eyes didn't stare at her. She sliced around the top of his scalp, separated the skull, and then sliched straight down to his nape. She severed his optic nerves and then focused on removing the brain. The brainstem had to stay intact, so she removed the uppermost vertebrae it was attached to.

In her hands, she held Dearil's mind, the most important thing she had ever touched. Faintly grey and sagging with a chunk taken from the left. She struggled to figure out what larts were damaged the most. She reslized, with complete horror, that there wasn't musch left of Broca's area. Not his voice! I need to hear his voice! She'd have to fix that.

Wernicke's area looked okay though, so hopefully he would be able to read abd write without problem. His parietal lobe as a whole didn't look so good, and he already jad sensory issues... Hopefully it wasn't too bad.

She wished she could do an X-ray and see how the inner structures had decayed, especially his hippocampi. He needed to remember her!

Focus. She needed to focus on the task at hand. Whatever the damage was, nothing would be fixed if she just stpod there staring.

Her medical school had gotten on board with new postmortem brain preservation techniques. Liquid nitrogen, cryonics, blood substitute. The dust was mixed into the fluid in the tank, and now she allowed Dearil's brain to be submerged. She dripped fresh blood onto the rune under the tank and for just a second, the water glowed.

The human body is home to tens of trillions of microorganisms that keep you healthy. Though these populations are necessary for human survival, a single one getting out of control would be devastating. That's where the immune system comes in, suppressing overgrowth and keeping these populations in check.

But dead people have no immune system; bacteria runs rampant.

Lorai soaked a new mask in winter mint rubbing alcohol and pulled it on, and new gloves. Her goggles and apron stayed on, and sue set to work, starting the scalpel at his shoulder and ending at his breastbone. Mirror the stitch. Slice down his mutilated stomach to the start of his pelvis.

Peeling back the skin, it was clear his liver and gallbladder were no more; his insides were stained yellow-green with bile, and the winter mint did little to mask the smell of ammonia and hydrogen sulfate. She had to get rid of his stomach before the hungry microbes could do any more damage, scarcely breathing as she cracked open his ribcage and transferred internal organs to a garbage bag.

She couldn't exactly drag him outside and hose him down, so so brought him to the downstairs bathroom with the detachable shower head. He was so light now.

She rinsed him with the shower head. Water ran yellow-green, and then finally clear, though his insides still were definitely not a healthy red-pink. She wrapped him up in the fluffiest towel and brought him to the kitchen. She'd removed all the shelves in the refrigerator during her first trip to the house so she had no problems sticking Dearil's mostly empty husk inside.

And then she lit a few scented candles and went to bed.

***

The head medical examiner was a lonely older man. His wife was either dead or left him (Lorelai wasn't sure which, and she didn't care), and his only company was the corpses he sliced open. Lorelai saw the way he looked at her, eyes hungrily taking her image in. In the days after Dearil's accident, she started making moves on him even though it ft so, so wrong.

She smiled at him throughout today's shift. She washed her hair for the first time in days and let it hang lose around her face during her break. She even put on makeup, though it took a few video tutorials to get it loose.

Toward the end of her shift, she sidled up to him, whispering, "Hey, Viktor..."

He glanced at her. "Hm?"

"I'm not wearing any underwear."

He went red up to the tips of his ears.

"Come home with me," she said in a whine, fingers stroking his arm. "I'm staying at my family's summer home. I'm the only one there, all alone and sooo lonely."

"Fuck yes," he breathed.

"You ever have sex on the beach?"

"I'm getting hard just thinking about it."

She forced herself to smile instead of grimacing. "You ever been with a witch?"

"You?" His eyes widened, but then he smiled. "I bet you're magical in bed."

Ew ew ew.

"You've got that right." She placed a hand on the unmarked chest of the man on the table. His skin was the wrong shade of brown, but his hair was perfect. She already had a nose on ice that she'd taken during Viktor's break. It was a bit too dark as well, but it was just the right shape for Dearil. "How about we take this guy with us?"

Viktor recoiled. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, you said you want a magical night. Do something crazy!" she exclaimed. "You don't have to fuck him or anythibg, and we'll have him back by morning. It's not like he'll mind. It's a witch thing."

Viktor put a hand to his salt and pepper hair, eyebrows knitting together. A few emotions clouded his features before he came to a decision. "If you say so. But if we get caught this was your idea."

"Noted. But I promise you'll enjoy yourself."

He helped her wheel out the John Doe on one of the cheaper stretchers no one would miss, faces obscured by masks and a darkness spell. They stuffed the corpse into the tiny trunk of her car. Viktor pressed his lips to hers suddenly, bushy mustache scratching her. He smelled like literal death and whatever offensive oil he rubbed into his mustache so he wouldn't have to smell as much decay.

He couldn't keep his hands to himself during the whole drive, rubbing her thighs, kissong her neck, trying to unhook her bra and getting excited when he found out she wasn't wearing one. She wanted to slap his hands away, shout that her body belonged to Dearil, but this was a necessary step.

Her mind screamed but her lips purred, "Ohh, that feels so good."

He still hadn't settled down when they were taking the Doe into the house. "Talk dirty in Spanish, chica," he murmured.

"I was born in Florida," she sighed. "I don't speak that much Spanish."

"Don't you know any?"

"A bit. Do you?"

"I can say hola and count to ten," he laughed. "My Spanish classes probably ended before you were even alive. Come on, say something."

"Estas... Estas tan muerto," she said. "Eres solo, uh, um... un peón."

"That's so hot," he moaned, and she bit her cheek to keep from laughing.

Viktor's smile became a frown when they walked into the house. He set the John Doe on the table while Lorelai went and locked the door. He quickly sniffed his shirt when she wasn't looking, but the smell wasn't coming from him. And the bed in the adjacent living room was a bit of an odd choice, though he could appreciate the silk and headboard. And the ropes. This was gonna be a fun night.

Lorelai came back, a smile playing on her lips. She put a hand to his chest. "Come closer, Señor. Permítame whisper in your ear."

He leaned close, his smile tentative now. Her lups were so close they tickled him just as a sharp pain struck his neck.

"I never liked you," she whispered, pressing the needle in harder as he tried to pull away. He shoved her away and staggered back, staring at the clear fluid still in the syringe.

"What the fuck did you just do to me, you crazy bitch?" he screamed, clutching bis neck. Her smiling, round face had gone hard and cold, expression neutral.

"Oh, calm down. It's just lorazepam," she said. "They use it on unruly patients all the time. It's probably the safest injectable sedative."

Ge hit out at her but she easily dodged the sluggish attack. She pushed him down onto the bed, tying up his wrists. He still kicked his legs until she tied his ankles too. He was finally silent when she wrapped the duct tape around his head and moury several times.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, tying ger hair back. "Alexa, play Bury Me at Makeout Creek by Mitski, full album."

It's beautiful out today

I wish you could take me upstate

To the little place you would tell me about

"When you'd sense that I'd want to escape," Lorelai sang over the muffled screams and shouts, pulling on her mask, goggles, gloves, and apron. Viktor could only stare at the saws, scalpels, drills, and needles that she left on the table before she disappeared into another room.

No one could hear him scream.

[thesilverstaganddoe]

The Beginning: Psychology and the Law (Killing Eve Fic) Chapter 12

AO3 Link

Chapter [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

Chapter 12: Chocolate [Explicit]

“Okay, so...I hope this isn’t a really awkward question but...what do friends with benefits do on Valentine's day?”

It was a good question. It hadn’t really occurred to Oksana, she hadn’t even realized the holiday was coming up. If she’d ever thought about it, she considered it ridiculous and frivolous holiday, but now that Eve mentioned it she realized that she certainly wanted to do something. She took a moment, as if she was considering the question, but the answer really did come to mind fairly. Only one answer was really appropriate in their circumstances, after all.

“I don’t know. We could have sex.”

“We do that most days.”

“Yes.” Oksana grinned. “We’ll have to find something new and fun to try. I have ideas.”

Eve blushed hard. “Oh my god.”

“Are you declining?”

“No, not at all.”

Oksana leaned in briefly to bite at Eve’s earlobe. “It’ll be great.” She settled back onto the couch, tossing her feet over Eve’s lap. “I won’t get you chocolates, though. Or those stuffed bears that hold hearts. Those are stupid even if you are in a relationship.” She paused and reconsidered for a moment. “Actually, you know what, I will get you chocolate. Chocolate is great for everyone, every day and there’s this place I haven’t been to in much too long. But I will also eat much of the chocolate I get you myself.”

Oksana loved chocolate. Oksana loved all food.

Eve laughed. “Okay, I accept that.”

“Do you want chocolate syrup on your body?”

Eve stared at her. “Do I want what?”

“Chocolate syrup on your body. That I would lick off. Like on your stomach and tits. I’m not talking about as a weird flavored lube or something, that would be bad, you would get an infection.”

“I...don’t have a particular desire for that. Unless you’re wanting that to happen?”

“I would probably be apathetic about it, I think licking your nipples is just fine on it’s own. I was just asking. I could get chocolate syrup also when I got chocolates.

Eve had been continually blushing harder and harder for the past several minutes but the conversation didn't bother Oksana. Eve was much more easily flustered. Oksana nodded, satisfied.

“Yes, good. I shall go shopping at we shall make a day of it. Clear plans. When is it? I forget.”

“Thursday, I think.” Eve kind of mumbled her answer and she wasn’t looking at Oksana for some reason.

“Hmm. We have class. Perhaps we should be sick.”

Eve gave her a look.

“Seriously?”

Oksana grinned.

“Yes. Be wild.”

Eve let out a long sigh.

“I guess it is cold season.”

Oksana squealed and crawled into her lap.

“Yes, fun! I am excited.”

——-

Oksana sent out an email to her Thursday students the night before the holiday to tell them she was ill and canceling class. She figured they might very well see right through that and guess that she had some very different plans, but she didn’t really care. It would probably seem within her character and, besides, a fair number of them would probably very much also enjoy having the day off as well.

The day before, she’d stopped by a chocolate shop that she hadn’t been to in ages but remembered being quite delighted by at the time. The man at the counter had raised his eyebrows at her bill and complimented her for going all out for “a very special someone”. She’d been very quick to inform one that she absolutely did not have a special someone and she was most definitely single. He’d faltered for a moment and then backtracked and said that he understood, chocolate certainly made it easier to spend the day alone. She’d been just as quick to inform he that was absolutely not spending the day alone.

He shut up after that.

She’d left the shop feeling more than slightly irritated. She snapped at a little boy that got in her way, ate several truffles during the cab ride home, and only stopped herself because she wanted to make sure plenty were left for the next day.

Around seven the next morning, the earliest she figured was reasonable, she deposited herself on Eve’s doorstep. Judging by Eve’s sleepy expression and the rumpled sleep shirt she answered the door in, she was not nearly as big of a fan of the early hour as Oksana was.

“Hello, Eve! Happy sex day!”

Oksana had woken up early enough and with enough motivation to put a lot more thought into her dress than the barely awake, not yet really dressed, Eve clearly had. She’d picked out one her favorite extremely gay outfits, khaki pants, a button down shirt, and a tie. She also had a sweater tied across her shoulders, but it kind of annoyed her and she intended to dump it as soon as Eve let her inside.

Eve rubbed one of her eyes with the back of her hand and leaned on the door.

“Why does sex day have to start this early?”

Oksana pushed past her into the apartment. “Because we have lots to do.”

She headed straight for the living room and plopped down on Eve’s couch. Eve wandered behind and settled down beside her.

“I got things,” Oksana told her, dropping the rather large shopping bag she’d been carrying on Eve’s lap.

Eve pulled it open and began rifling through it, pulling out the multiple chocolate boxes first and rolling her eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” she told her.

“I told you I’d get chocolate. They are very good chocolates. I may have already eaten some.”

Eve snorted and set them on the table. “Of course.”

She returned to the bag and her eyes widened and she pulled out the empty strap-on packaging Oksana had left in the bottom of the bag. She looked over at Oksana who gave her a mischievous grin. Eve’s eyes traveled down her body, finally landing on Oksana’s crotch and the slight, but unmistakable bulge in the front of her trousers.

Eve was definitely no longer looking sleepy.

She blinked several times but didn't seem to know quite what to say. Oksana found Eve’s expression and lack of ability to find words very satisfying. She took Eve's hand and guided it to her lap. Without any more prompting, Eve’s hand cupped at the bulge.

And then, in a fraction of an instant, she reacted.

She straddled Oksana’s lap, hands pulling her face close and their lips together. The ends of her fingers tangled in Oksana’s hair, tugging strands out of the carefully arranged bun. Her hips ground down hard on her. Oksana responded happily, rolling her hips up to meet Eve’s and slipping her hands under Eve’s shirt to dig her fingers into Eve’s waist.

She let the kiss continue for a while longer, let Eve have some control over it, just enjoyed pull of her lips and the way all the parts of Eve’s body pressed into her, begging for contact. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she slid her hands further up Eve’s shirt, tracing along her skin, brushing up over her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra, naturally, and that was something Oksana greatly appreciated. She loved Eve’s breasts, her skin, her body. She hated any piece of clothing that kept them apart.

Oksana pulled the shirt over Eve’s head as quickly as she could, so as to break the kiss for least amount of time necessary. Eve’s lips were back on her’s in an instant, fiercer than before, hungry and stronger, her tongue pressing into Oksana’s mouth. Her hands traveled down to Oksana’s shoulders, gripping and pulling, tugging her closer against her body.

Oksana wrapped an arm around Eve’s waist and used it to pull her back away from her just enough that she had room to pinch one of Eve’s nipples between her fingers. They’d already been completely hard, well before Oksana got her hands on them, but Eve’s reaction still came, in the form of a gasp that was almost a moan. It made her falter in her passionate pursuit of Oksana’s mouth and gave Oksana the opportunity to take control of the exchange. She bit down on Eve’s lower lip and pulled their lips back together.

Eve let Oksana lead the rest of the kiss, seeming too distracted to do so herself. She clearly had another focus, as her hands left Oksana’s shoulders and dropped to Oksana’s belt. She had a bad time fumbling with it and eventually Oksana pushed her hands away.

“Having a hard time? Little distracted?” Oksana teased her.

“Shut up,” Eve muttered. But she let Oksana undo it for her. She went for the button and zipper herself, though, and had a fine time with those. Oksana shoved her pants off and Eve obediently lifted her hips just enough to give her the room to do so.

And then the harness and dildo were on full display and Eve was unable to look away. Oksana smirked. Eve ran a finger along one of the straps, seeming to be carefully avoiding the toy itself.

“Is this new?”

“Yes. I mean, I already have several, of course, but I saw this one and it looked very nice, I had to have it.” Oksana had lube in the bag but she needn’t have brought it. Eve was plenty wet without it, soaked through the underwear that she roughly shoved aside before her fingers wrapped around the toy, positioning it and then pushing herself onto it with a sharp thrust of her hips.

The way she moaned in that instant sent an incredible thrill through Oksana’s spine and between her legs. She bucked her own hips against Eve and as Eve cried out again, Oksana let out a small whimper of her own.

Eve seemed to know exactly what she wanted from Oksana and was more than happy to take it; Oksana was more than happy to give. Eve rode herself hard, up and down, on the toy between Oksana's legs. She steadied herself with her hands on Oksana’s shoulder, fingers bunching up the fabric of her dress shirt, surely wrinkling it. Oksana couldn’t have cared less what Eve did to her clothes. She could destroy them if she wanted to.

She settled her hands on Eve’s waist, somewhat as guidance, not that Eve needed much, but more so to enjoy the rhythmic movement of Eve’s body against her. Sometimes it was too hard to just let Eve take and she had to roll her own hips up against hers, seeking some sort of sensation. But not just that, not just a direct seeking of her own pleasure.. There was pleasure in the feeling of pressing up and against and into Eve like that, of feeling a part of her, of watching her react when Oksana did it.

Eve pulled one of Oksana’s hands from her waist and guided Oksana’s fingers to rub at her clit. Oksana grinned and nipped at Eve’s neck as she began to move her fingers, in slow circles at first, then faster and faster.

It was clearly exactly was Eve was looking for. She gasped and tightened her grip on Oksana’s shoulders. The jutting of her hips was harder and faster, but more uneven, the rhythm more uncoordinated and haphazard.

“Oksana,” Eve gasped, “I’m so...close.”

Oksana let her lips trail down Eve’s neck one more time before she looked up to see the expression on her face. She could see it in Eve’s eyes, exactly how close she really was, as if one single movement or touch could cause her to go crashing over the edge.

So Oksana stopped. She stilled her hips and held her hands tight on Eve’s waist so she couldn’t make any of her own moments.

Eve whimpered and it was an incredible sound.

“No, Oksana, why are you...don’t stop.”

Oksana grinned and as carefully as she could, arm wrapped around Eve’s waist, she shifted their position so that she had Eve on her back underneath her. She pressed into her once, long and slow. It wasn’t enough and Oksana had known it wouldn’t be, Eve had slipped back down away from her climax enough to leave Oksana more opportunity to play with her. Which was exactly what she had been going for.

Oksana leaned over Eve, planting her hands on either side of her body. Their bodies were pressed tight together and Eve may have been getting some small amount of pleasure from the pressure alone, but it was probably more teasing than anything.

“Oh, Eve…” Oksana said in a sing-song voice.

Eve let out a long sigh and gave Oksana what may have been an attempt at a withering look.

“Why are you being mean?”

“Because it’s fun. Also you like me mean.”

Eve gave her a half-hearted glare but she also blushed and didn’t even attempt to argue the point.

“Would you like me meaner, Eve?” Eve didn’t answer, just sucked in a breath. “Do you remember what else I said I’d like to do to you?”

Oksana waited, forcing Eve to actually answer.

“Yes.”

“And what was that?”

“You said you wanted to strangle me.” The glare that accompanied that answer was a bit more successful, but lust still shown foremost in Eve’s eyes.

Oksana grinned. “Yes. I did. And you asked me why I wasn’t. Because…”

She raised an eyebrow at Eve. Eve clenched her fingers together.

“Because I wanted you to be doing it,” she paused, “I want you to do it.”

“Well, that’s convenient. Because I plan to wrap my fingers around your throat.”

Eve looked like she’d stopped breathing.

“Oh.”

The word almost sounded like a cry.

Oksana’s smile quirked on her face. “Is that a good sound, Eve?”

It had seemed like a good sound, but Oksana wanted to be certain.

“I...yes...good. I want you to...please....Do that.”

Oksana grinned, full and real. Eve’s almost complete lack of ability to form words was beyond incredible.

It was unbelievably hot.

Oksana leaned forward so she could kiss Eve and doing so pressed the toy deep into her so the kiss didn't really land well, just grazed Eve's bottom lip as she moaned and tried to grab for Oksana’s hair.

Oksana took her wrist and pinned it to her side.

“Don’t do that.” She let the teasing begin to slip from her voice, let the warmth be replaced by something much firmer, much more demanding. And Eve reacted well. Her eyes went wide, she sucked in a breath, and nodded, immediately.

So obedient. So perfect.

Oksana ran a thumb down the front of Eve’s throat and felt Eve gulp under the touch. She paused, resting her thumb in the indentation at the bottom of Eve’s throat, just above her collarbone She watching Eve's eyes, how she stared at Oksana, transfixed. Waiting.

And then Oksana smiled, every so slightly. Just the smallest warning, a fraction of second before her long fingers wrapped around Eve’s throat and squeezed.

Eve’s entire body tensed at first and then she relaxed completely, sinking into Oksana grip. She never broke eye contact and the look in Eve’s eyes was incredible. It was lust and it was fear but it was also...completely open. And that may have been the most intoxicating thing of all.

Oksana slammed her hips into Eve and watched her eyes roll back into her head, her lips part. Wordless, breathless. She did it a second time and those two thrusts and the hand on her throat was all it took to bring Eve right back to where she’d been a few minutes before.

And then Oksana got to see Eve come.

It was so different than any other time. Both in the way that Eve’s usual signs of pleasure were restricted - her breathing, her moans, the words she would cry out - but also in how Oksana felt. The incredible power that accompanied it, of course, that was something she was used to. But also a connection and a passion that was unlike anything else she could really compare it to. And something that almost seemed...protective. The desire to hurt Eve, absolutely, unquestionably, but also the absolute feeling that she had to be careful. She had to be perfect. She had to do right by Eve. And she would.

Oksana released Eve’s throat so she could breathe through the end of her orgasm. She sat back and draped Eve’s leg over her lap while she traced patterns lightly over her stomach. Watching Eve’s face was lovely.

Eve seemed to come out of her daze and focused in on Oksana's contended watchfulness.

“You handled that very well,” Oksana told her.

“Mmm, well I liked that very much. And I think I should be complimenting you for that. Or thanking you. Or both.”

Oksana laughed. “We can compliment and thank each other.”

“Sounds good.

Oksana shifted and crawled up towards Eve so she could kiss her. Eve wrapped her arms around Oksana’s neck, pulling her in. After a minute, Eve sighed and released Oksana just enough to pull back a little bit.

“This couch is really uncomfortable.”

Oksana laughed. “Yes, it really is.”

“Bedroom?”

“Definitely.” Oksana got to her feet, pulling Eve with her by the hand. “Bring the chocolate.”

[cjdemooi]

The problem with performing

When I told a few friends in the entertainment industry I was going to write this piece, they begged me not to post it. They all agreed with what I wanted to say but desperately tried to persuade me I had to ‘play the game’ and under no circumstances criticise those who might be in a position to give me a job.

However, I found myself in an unfortunate yet unique position. After the last 4 years and through no fault of my own, I’m utterly toxic so can speak out with no consequences. After all, I can’t get more unemployable! If I was willing to play tedious games, I’d still be on television, have regular auditions and a career. Now I’ve been permanently deprived of those and am no longer willing to work with people I don’t trust, there’s nothing to keep me quiet or compliant. That rules out large swathes of opportunities but so what?

Smiling sweetly while being dismissed as a worthless commodity is something performers endure every day. The simple fact is, if you’re not willing to toe the line and do what’s expected, there are countless others who will. My response is, and always has been, screw that! The performance arts aren’t jobs, they’re callings. From a very early age, we all knew what we wanted to be and that fire only grew more intense. Of course there are sacrifices to be made but a line has to be drawn somewhere. I personally don’t believe that integrity and personal ethics are worth giving up for a dream.

Please understand that is only my view and I don’t in any way diminish those who strive tirelessly to succeed. Decisions have to be made and weighed up against such incredibly fine margins that distinctions become blurred. I’ve made my choices but each to his or her  own. 

I spoke out and criticised the BBC for the lack of same sex representation and racism. I lost my job because of it and was subjected to a smear campaign of lies in the national press. The implicit threat was, we pay you so do as you’re told. That’s a price very few people would be able or willing to pay and ultimately, I couldn’t afford it either. I lost everything because I didn’t shut up as was demanded of me. Honestly though, I don’t regret it.

Actors are treated with utter disdain. The recent interview with Mena Massoud in which he revealed he hadn’t had a single audition since Aladdin is a case in point. If the lead in a billion dollar movie is struggling to be seen, what chance does anyone else have? I have an impressive and award nominated CV but 4 auditions in 5 years speak for themselves and yet I’m still relatively lucky. Thousands of others are in far worse positions. 

Recently there has been a campaign to persuade casting directors and producers to let auditioning performers know if they haven’t been successful. Hanging around, waiting and hoping to hear about a role is not only frustrating, it causes people to miss out on other opportunities. A bulk email would take 5 minutes and allay a lot of fears but such a simple courtesy seems beneath a lot of people. We don’t need an apology or meticulous dissection of our technique. Just a quick ‘Sorry, not this time’ is all that’s required!

My worst experience, and there have been more than I care to remember, was a few years ago when I was called in for the national tour of Rent. I was sent 3 songs and dialogue for an audition 4 days later. I worked hard and managed to learn it all, travelling to London the night before to prepare. The next morning I had a singing lesson to warm up and set off up Tottenham Court Road. Literally as I was about to knock on the door, I received a text saying the producer had changed his mind and didn’t think I was right for the role. After all that effort, they wouldn’t even allow me 5 minutes to show what I could do. I was incensed so emailed him back expressing my disappointment and asking where I should send the invoice for my time and expenditure. He replied with indignant pomposity saying that was the way things were and if that’s how I was going to be, he was glad he didn’t have to work with me but I sent him the bill anyway. 

Of course this damaged my reputation with him and many others he spoke to but the fact he considered it completely acceptable to treat hard working professionals in such a manner was unforgivable. You may not want to work with me but I assure you, the feeling’s more than mutual. As actors, all we want is a chance. If we’re not good enough, fine but at least give us a few moments to try and impress you. 

I’ve burnt my bridges with a lot of industry professionals because I’m strong willed (or arrogant, depending on which side of the desk you’re sitting) but I’ve never once wished I’d kept my mouth tightly closed and my opinions to myself. I’m nothing if not brutally honest and direct. No doubt that attitude has cost me a lot of roles. 

A casting director who’d rather give a job to someone who’s become available from another production rather than sit through 3 days of auditions because the pay’s the same either way. A producer who consistently advertises jobs without pay because he’ll still be inundated with eager young things desperate for their break. A director who rehearses for 10 days then cuts your role to the bare minimum in order to give himself a big scene (and yes, this happened to me in panto in Clacton) Playwrights who promise you a script then go back on their word expecting you’ll bend over backwards to assure them it’s all fine. If nobody has to face any consequences, where is the incentive to change?

Too often, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Although thankfully no longer as common as it once was, it’s also not what you know but who you’re willing to sleep with. I wish that this wasn’t true but I can say from personal experience and stories from others that it most certainly is.

Potentially the most harmful barrier is the competition, very little of it healthy, between artists themselves. This rarely produces a buoyant environment of support for each other. It’s always been a case of how can I knock the other person down rather than raising myself up? I can reluctantly understand why this would be the case when trying to secure an audition but it happens all too frequently when there’s no direct or obvious rivalry. The whole industry seems to be predicated on survival of the fittest, so talent and kindness are often reduced to irrelevancies. I truly believe most performers are caring and encouraging but they’re battered down by a system that’s relentless and ruthless. The fact may very well be that I’m not good or obedient enough to succeed as an actor and those who are clever and subtle enough manipulate the system to their own advantage are the ones who will make it big. I honestly congratulate them as they’re better and more skilled than I ever will be.

We are taught there are standards to be upheld such as unrealistic body image or heteronormativity and these have been immensely damaging in the past. Fortunately, at least in this aspect, times are changing. I’ve been honoured to work with some amazing and nurturing people who’ve actively fostered workplaces of support and inclusivity. I hope these very positive models will soon represent the rule over the above examples rather than the exception. 

The problem is, drama schools are churning out increased numbers of students every year. They’re not taught how to cope in the outside world and find themselves ill equipped to vie for a finite number of jobs. The vast majority hold down multiple jobs just for a brief glimpse of their dreams. The time between sinking into debt during drama school and having to give it all up in order to live is probably only 3 or 4 years. That’s an cruelly narrow window to achieve something they’ve been yearning after for decades. The harsh reality is, most will never have a professional contract and will all too soon have to give up in order to survive. Surely casting directors and producers can appreciate that and at least give a few more chances to a few more desperate people?

I know these aren’t popular opinions but I believe them to be the truth. I refuse to play those ridiculous games pretending everything’s fine and not making waves with anyone with the power to employ me. I’m under no illusion that this article will obliterate any slim chance I had of ever working again so that gives me a free pass to call out what I believe to be wrong with the industry I love. Only when we come together in respect will we move forward in solidarity and strength. Performing is one of the very toughest communities to be a part of so I beg you, please, treat everyone in it with consideration and they’ll do the same in return.

 We all deserve that.

[reddielibrary]

Still The One

Secret Santa: Katie | @kaspbrak-eddie

Gift for: Elmo | @ellomello16

Special Message: Merry Christmas to the sweetest member of the fandom! I hope you enjoy this lil fic and I hope you have a good day, ily ♡♡

Word count: 6,789

*click title to read on AO3

Richie Tozier had never considered himself to be a wildly successful person. In school, he’d always been above average but had never been the top of his class, putting little to no effort into homework and exams but still managing to maintain mostly A’s and B’s. It may have been impressive, sure, but he had never been exemplary, and he prided himself in that. The slight apathy he felt for his schoolwork still yielded the same outcome that most of his friends and peers could only barely achieve through long, arduous hours of intense reading, writing, revising, re-revising. He didn’t bat an eye at assignments his classmates lost countless hours of sleep over. School had always come easily to him, as most things did. He was an incredibly charming man, never failing to make even the most stuck-up assholes crack a laugh every once in a while. 

Humans he had never taken issue with, he felt most comfortable in social situations and threw himself into them head-first every opportunity he had. Meaningful human interaction, on the other hand, deep, personal, one-on-one connections, well that was one of the few items on the list of things in life that made Richie uneasy. And he had a string of failed relationships to show for it, one that was longer than a suburban mother of six’s grocery list. Richie had simply never been able to connect with anyone on that profound, meaningful level that everyone talks about--that his partners talked about feeling with him. He had simply always felt like there was something missing, something not right. It felt as if something--or someone--was pulling him away, but if there was one thing he was sure of, Richie Tozier knew that he had never been in love.

Eddie Kaspbrak, on the other hand, had. Countless times. He fell easily, and when he did, he fell hard. Lamentably, he had a nasty habit of falling for people who could not even come close to reciprocating the love he gave--the absolute, irrevocable adoration that could only come from someone who aimed to please. The household Eddie had grown up in had been built around his mother’s intense, all-consuming need to be needed. Eddie had never known her as a rational person, although he supposed she probably had been at some point in her life. To Eddie, she was overbearing, almost dictatorial. Everything he did had to be passed through her first, and she approved of almost nothing. After years and years of the constant hounding, the unremittant whining and worrying, Eddie had learned that it was easier to just let her have her way, and he’d carried with him this skill of always striving to please. And he was damn good at it. It affected every part of his life as an adult, relationships with friends, with significant others, but most importantly, it made him incredibly good at his job.

He was passionate about his career--he threw every part of himself into his work, and he loved it. Although the work was unceasing, exhausting, it was a good outlet for his energy, especially when the same tendencies that made him great at his job had a propensity to affect his relationships negatively. Everyone he’d ever dated had had one of two problems with him--either Eddie was too clingy, fell in love far too quickly and let it overtake his entire personality, often morphing it completely to become more appealing to his partner. That, or they fought with him constantly about being work-obsessed, stating that he spent too much time away, or even when he was home, that he was distant, thinking about work; they complained about his going above and beyond to be the best, never supporting him the way he needed. By the time he was in his late twenties, Eddie had decided that he was done with relationships. He was exhausted and completely fed up with pouring his endless love and energy into people who didn’t champion his goals and applaud him for reaching them. In his memory, he had never had someone like that, someone who he could be himself with, someone who wanted him to be his very best. And he assumed he probably never would.

It was a Wednesday morning when Richie had gotten the call at 7:45, jolting him awake abruptly from a deep, heavy sleep. He groaned and patted around blindly for the phone on his nightstand, brushing his sleep-kinked, floppy hair out of his face as he did so. “Tozier here,” he grumbled into the phone, his voice thick and deep.

“Rich! It’s me! Get your ass out of bed, you lazy piece of shit!”

Still half asleep, Richie groaned, “The fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m just kiddin’ buddy. But seriously. Great show last night, you were fuckin’ hilarious!”

“Yeah, Steven. You always say that. That’s what you’re supposed to say, you’re my manager.”

“Yeah yeah.” Richie’s manager, who doubled as his best (read: only) friend, pushed on, ignoring Richie’s humility, “So the guy from SNL called back finally. You’re golden, baby. They want you to come out next week to audition.”

Richie’s eyes shot wide open, he was definitely awake now. He scrambled for his laptop on the floor by his bed as he replied, “Steve-O are you serious? If you’re fucking with me right now I’m gonna drive to your house and murder you.” He opened his laptop hurriedly to check his email, first reaching over to the bedside table to grab his glasses, sliding the thick, bulky lenses over his eyes to bring the world back into focus. Once he got his email pulled up, he desperately refreshed the browser, clicking the ‘get mail’ button incessantly.

“Bro, I can hear you clicking from here. Relax, I haven’t sent you anything yet. I’ll get it to you once I put everything together, I literally just got off the phone with the guy.”

Richie sighed. “Steven, you really are a genius. It’s happening!”

“It’s not me, Rich, it’s all you. And I always told you it would, have I ever lied to you before?”

Richie chuckled, rubbing at his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead, still in disbelief, “Stevia, baby, you lie to me all the time.”

“Hush now. You know when I do it’s just for your own good. Alright, well, I’ll let you get back to sleep… Or back to whoever is in your bed right now.”

Richie mock gasped, “Are you accusing me of having premarital sex? You know I’m waiting until marriage, Steven, sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh shut up, Richie. Goodbyeee...” He dragged out the last syllable as he audibly pulled the phone away from his face and hung up, his voice trailing off as the microphone was drawn further and further away from his mouth. A few minutes later, just as Richie was succumbing back to sleep, his phone vibrated with an email containing his itinerary.

Eddie sighed as he lay down on a cot in the on-call room of the hospital he’d worked in for almost four years now. He was halfway through another long shift, it was almost 6:00 am, but he could at least take comfort in the fact that it was just a twelve-hour rather than a twenty-four. Eddie had always had a penchant for medicine, even when he was young. Growing up with a mother whose every waking moment was dedicated to her only son, Eddie had been the target of her constant and unrelenting care. Although all of the illnesses she was sure Eddie suffered from had turned out to be fake, the excessive doctor visits as a child had made him extremely comfortable in hospitals and outpatient centers. As he’d grown older, he’d taken comfort in understanding his “illnesses,” and in doing so, he had begun to understand the source of them. He’d never been a slow kid--neither mentally nor physically--and at the ripe age of eleven, he’d realized just how his mother’s protection had hurt him, and he had vowed to leave her the very second he was able.

The only support system he’d had as a kid had been the friends he had made, who, after he’d left town for college, he had forgotten more and more about every single day. He was unsure if it was due to the influx of new information and experiences or something else, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t conjure up any of their faces in his memory, not even a single name. There was something there, he knew, something--someone--tugging at him. Something that panged in his stomach every time he walked past someone on the street with dark, frizzy hair, something he couldn’t put his finger on. There was the day in college he’d gotten reading glasses, and that night just as he was turning the light out, the sight of the frames laying on his bedside table gave him the strongest sense of déjà vu he’d ever experienced in his life, so much so that he had felt light-headed for a few seconds before regaining his composure. He had not slept well that night, dreaming of his childhood, blotchy and blurry, the only clear parts he could pick out in his head were a pair of impossibly thick glasses, beat-up black sneakers, scraped knees, and popsicles melting in the sweltering summer sun.

He’d been awoken by a panic attack in the early hours of that morning, something that rarely happened anymore, only when he had these dreams. These confusing, disorienting dreams. They were trying to tell him something, that he was sure of, but after years of having them, he was resigned to the fact that he’d never figure it out.

As he curled up in the cot in the on-call room to take a quick nap he thought of these dreams, hoping against hope that someday soon he’d understand what they meant.

As Richie boarded the plane at LAX at 5:00 am, he was so jittery that he could barely stand still. Most of it was from the four cups of coffee he’d already downed that morning in the Uber to the airport, but the rest was from nerves. He was nervous about the SNL audition, sure, but he was also nervous about something that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something that was in New York. Something he couldn’t remember. He shook his head quickly to rid the thought as he flashed the cute, young flight attendant a small smile, pushing his glasses up and turning to look down the long airplane cabin and find his seat.

He didn’t get much done on the flight, too distracted to think straight, his mind running a million miles an hour. Immediately after he sat down he pulled his laptop out of his backpack, searching for the hours of SNL footage he’d downloaded to watch on the way in hopes it would ease his nerves. He lost himself in the footage, even laughing out loud at some points. He’d lost track of time, but about halfway through the first episode he’d started, he felt a tap on his shoulder and pulled his bulky headphones off, knocking his glasses askew. Fixing them quickly, he looked up.

“Sir, we’re taking off. You have to put that away until the pilot gives us the go-ahead to get large electronics back out.”

Richie nodded and hastily shut his laptop, stuffing it in his bag and slouching down in his seat, looking out the window as the plane taxied the runway slowly. The take-off was excruciating, his seatmate asked him to stop bouncing his leg at least four times, having to speak up over the mechanical, monotonous roar of the engines. He apologized profusely each time, only to be asked again a few minutes later, not even having noticed that he’d started again. Once the electronics light above him lit up, he grabbed his laptop again and tried to relax, doing breathing exercises he’d learned from a school counselor while he was in college to try and ease his anxiety. It worked somewhat, and the five-hour flight raced by quickly. Once they’d landed, he rushed through the airport carelessly, almost mowing down a few toddlers on his way to the exit; airports always made him uneasy, too many people, he always felt overstimulated. As he made it to the arrivals area and found the driver he was told would be waiting for him, he broke into a near sprint, running up to the unexpecting man out of breath. “Hey,” he took a heaving breath and gestured in between the sign and himself, “That’s… That’s me. I’m Tozier.”

“Hello, Mr. Tozier. Pleasure to--”

“Just call me Richie. Please.”

The man nodded solemnly, “You got it, Richie. And is that the only bag you brought? I was told you’d have a suitca--”

“Oh, fuck!” Richie exclaimed in a hushed yell. “Be right back!” He took off, loping through the crowded baggage claim area, his backpack swinging behind him.

Richie managed to find the baggage carousel fairly quickly, and his bag was--by some fucking miracle--one of the first up. He grabbed it and rushed back to the driver, who was chuckling quietly to himself. He unzipped the suitcase to retrieve his winter coat--something he hadn’t needed in years since he’d moved to California. “You ready to go now?” The driver asked kindly after Richie had thrown the old, worn coat over his shoulders and zipped it up tight.

Richie nodded and extended the handle on his beat-up suitcase to wheel it behind him. The ride to the hotel Richie’s manager had booked for him took about an hour and a half. The hotel was in the middle of the city and traffic was, as always, an unbelievable nightmare. By the time they arrived there, it was just after noon, and Richie was starving. The car pulled up to the curb and waited as Richie paid and pulled his suitcase from the trunk. He shot the driver a two-fingered wave and turned around. Right into a shorter man, a man who looked to be around his age. He donned a set of blue scrubs shrouded by a thick parka that went down to his knees, his chestnut hair was tousled and frizzy under the hood, the guy looked exhausted. “Hey, can you fucking watch where you’re walking? Fucking touris--” His voice was cut off as he looked up to glare at Richie, and all of the breath left his lungs.  “Do-- Do I know you?” His eyes went soft as he let the hood fall off the back of his head, looking up at Richie, his gaze tracking quickly back and forth over his face.

“I don’t… uh. Maybe? You look kinda familiar…” Richie trailed off, pulling his suitcase in closer to his legs in order to avoid the looks of antipathy from passerby.

“Sorry, you just…” the guy shoved his gloved hands in his pockets nervously and took a deep breath, his exhale condensing in the air in front of his cheeks, flushed from the cold. “You look like someone I used to know… I think. I don’t know. Sorry, have a nice day,” he said as he quickly turned on his heel and hurried off down the street.

Well that was fucking weird, Richie thought to himself, I could have sworn I… He shook his head to clear the thought from it, he needed to focus. As he checked into the hotel, he couldn’t help but be slightly absent, his mind running circles, distressing over the audition, but also blindsided by the strange interaction on the street.

Eddie huffed as he replaced his hood on his head, tucking his chin into the jacket so that as much of his skin was shielded from the cold as possible. You’ve gotta fuckin’ stop with this, Eddie. The dreams… they don’t mean anything. He’s just a dude in glasses. Nobody. Focus. Forget about it. He sighed, quickly weaving through the slow walkers on the sidewalk and darting down into the subway tunnel, taking the stairs two at a time, grateful for a break from the incessant wind. When he got home and went to sleep, he had the same dream as always, but this time it was clearer than it had ever been.

The audition went fine, not as well as he’d hoped, but Richie wasn’t worried about it, he enjoyed his job in California; although Los Angeles did seem a bit lonely sometimes. He was glad to be heading back to Maine for the week to spend Christmas with his parents, who he hadn’t seen in over ten years, always too busy building his career to make it back home. This was the first year since he left for college that he was finally able to take a few days off and be home again. He thought about his childhood as he packed up his hotel room from his quick, three-day stay, pondered why he could remember hardly any details from that period of his life at all--not even the name of his best friend.  

He’d run around with a bunch of kids in those years, but there was just one. He knew there was always just one. The one that he wanted to spend all of his time with, the only one he still had any semblance of a memory of: band-aids, tears, cheeks flushed a darker red than Richie had ever seen in anyone--or had ever seen since. The one thing he remembered from his childhood, clear as a bell: the tinkling, warm laugh that echoed from his friend’s freckled, pink lips. The laugh he’d spent his entire childhood and adolescence doing anything and everything to elicit. The reason he still enjoyed making people laugh, why he’d made a career of it. He smiled to himself as he puttered around the room, his mind distracted by all manner of things, the man from the other day all but forgotten.

He gave one last look around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything then rolled his suitcase out the door behind him. The drive to the airport was slower this time than it had been three days before; snow began to fall about halfway through the drive, covering the city in a layer of pristine, sparkling powder. Richie watched out the window as the car blazed past skyscraper after skyscraper, his breath fogging up the window.

By the time he got dropped off at the airport, the snow hadn’t stopped, in fact, it hadn’t slowed at all. It looked as though there was a large possibility of his flight being grounded for the night, although he’d been refreshing his email every five minutes for the entire duration of the car ride, checking for news from the airline as well as from SNL. No news yet, so he strolled on in and through security quickly. He grabbed his backpack and tennis shoes from the scanner after they came out and sat in a nearby chair to put them back on. As he was slipping his second shoe on, a body plopped down next to him to do the same, dropping a pair of suede ankle boots on the tile floor with a loud slap. Richie could overhear him talking with someone on the phone frantically and snuck a peek up at the man. He was pressing his iPhone between his shoulder and his ear tightly, rambling so quick Richie wasn’t sure how he could get a breath between the words.

“I know, Ma.”

“Yes, I checked, it looks like it’s still going out.”

“It’s really not that bad, I pr--”

“Well, the news always exaggerates, you know th--”

“Yes, I’ll tell the pilot to be careful. Sure.”

“Mhm-- Yeah. Bye, Mom.”

He sighed loudly as he hung up the phone, dropping it onto the seat next to him then bending over to put his shoes back on. He chuckled quietly, “Sorry if you overheard any of that…” he said as he fiddled with the hems of his jeans, folding them just so and tucking them back under the tongue of his shoes, tying them up with the thin laces. He smiled over at Richie, who was still bent over working on the same shoe he had been when the other man had sat down.

“Hey… you’re that dude from the other day, aren’t you?” Richie asked quietly.

The guy screwed up his face, sitting back up. Richie followed, and he watched as realization fell over his features. “Oh my god, yeah. I’m sorry about that, I was just off a twelve-hour shift and…” he blushed and tried to flatten the hair on the back of his head, just long enough to show a slight curl. “And I was tired. But I’m Eddie.”

“Richie. Pleased to meet you, Eddie. Where ya headed?”

Eddie stood up, beckoning Richie to follow. “Bangor. You?” He asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“No shit? Same.”

“Oh that’s weird… I’d definitely peg you for a west coast type of guy.”

Richie laughed, warm, loud, “Ah, yeah. I’ve lived there for almost ten years. Born and raised in Maine though, baby,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose as his laughter yielded a snort.

“Don’t call me baby,” Eddie snapped. He’d always hated being called baby, although no one he’d ever dated had used the pet name; it stemmed from something else. It wasn’t his mother, as she favored more cushy pet names for him: Eddie-bear, muffin, sweetheart. Someone else had called him baby, had used it so many times. Why couldn’t he remember? The only thing he had left of the name were the feelings attached to it: the pain, the sorrow, the grief.

Richie put up his hands defensively, “Sorry ‘bout that, it’s a habit.” He checked his watch, there were still two hours until the flight was due to start boarding. “You on the same flight as me? The 4:45 one?” Eddie simply nodded in response, looking over at him with warm eyes. “Wanna get some food? I’m fucking starving.”

Eddie, in turn, checked his phone for the time and shrugged. “Sure, what did you have in mind?”

“Well I don’t know about you, but dat Chili’s 2go really hits the spot pre-flight, it’s an absolute delicacy.” Eddie laughed, a sound that made Richie’s head spin, made his heart ache. He beamed, “Letsa go!”

Eddie shot him a smirk, “You know Chili’s doesn’t serve Italian food, right?”

“It does if you order the spaghetti,” Richie quipped with a laugh.

After wandering around for ten minutes only to discover--to Richie’s utter dismay--that there was, in fact, no Chili’s 2go in their terminal, they settled for a little bar that wasn’t too busy, sitting down in a corner booth in the warm, dimly lit restaurant. When the waitress came over, Eddie immediately ordered “the biggest glass of red wine you guys are allowed to serve.” As she walked away, Richie’s eyebrows shot up at him, above his glasses and into the mess of his hair.

Eddie shrugged, “I fuckin’ hate flying. Plus, it’s an airport, everyone is allowed to drink here at any time of the day, right?”

Richie chuckled, “If I got drunk I’d spend the entirety of the flight trying to get you to let me blow you in the tiny airplane bathroom.”

Eddie’s mouth hung open in horror, “God, that’s fucking disgusting. Is everyone like this in California? Do you guys not have germs there?”

Richie winked, “Sorry.”

“So, anyway, what were you doing in New York?”

“Well, uh, actually… I was auditioning for SNL,” Richie said nonchalantly, looking down at his water glass and taking a small sip of it through the straw.

Eddie raised his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling in the soft light of the restaurant. “That’s cool, what the hell?”

Richie shrugged. “I do a lot of stand up in LA, my agent knows a guy who knows a guy.”

“That’s so fucking cool.”

Richie nodded, “It was terrifying though. Did you know they don’t laugh when you audition? Like at all. They’re not supposed to.”

“God, count me out. I can’t even make old people laugh. And they don’t have the internet, they don’t see any jokes.”

Richie smiled, “Maybe that’s ‘cause they’re just distracted by how cute you are.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie replied, stifling a grin as his cheeks turned a dark, warm rouge. Richie’s heart nearly stopped beating at the sight.

They finished their meal with more expository conversation and slightly less dirty talk, although it was admittedly not much better. Eddie’s cheeks slightly flushed from the wine, Richie’s cheeks sore from smiling, they wandered to their gate quietly. “Well, we’ve still got like an hour…” Eddie yawned as he checked his boarding pass, looking around at the gate numbers ahead of them. “Ah! Over there,” he said, pointing to a sign that read 35, the area underneath already had some people milling around it.

They found a set of chairs that was as secluded as you can really get in an airport and they both sat down, depositing their bags and coats on the chairs on either side of them. After a few seconds, Eddie looked over and nudged Richie, who was rustling around in his backpack. “Will you. Uh. Would you watch my stuff if I nap for a little? I can’t sleep on planes, but I’m fucking exhausted.”

Richie nodded, zipping up his backpack after having retrieved a book from it. “Sure thing, sweet cheeks.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, “Don’t… call me…” he was interrupted by another yawn, this one bigger than the last. “Whatever.” He pulled his knees up in front of him in the chair and reached for his coat, covering himself in it completely; only his head poked out above the thick fur that lined the hood. “Wake me up before they start boarding, I’m in the first boarding group.”

“Damn, how’d you swing that?”

He looked up at Richie, his eyes already half-closed with sleep yet still somehow managing to shoot daggers, “Printed off my boarding pass in a timely manner.”

Richie raised his eyebrows, “Well alright, just call me out for poor time management.”

Eddie nestled further into his coat, closing his eyes completely, “Mhm. Night, Rich.”

Richie’s heart soared at the pet name, his stomach fluttering with warmth. He smiled to himself as he looked over at Eddie, already breathing evenly next to him.

After about forty-five minutes, Richie was abruptly pulled from his book by an announcement over the loudspeaker that their flight would be delayed by at least an hour. He folded down the corner of his page and set his book aside, turning to look at his still fast-asleep neighbor. His voice low, he placed a hand on Eddie’s shoulder softly.

“Hey. Eddie,” he whispered, pressing his fingertips lightly into Eddie’s arm.

Eddie stirred, but not enough to move or even open his eyes, “Mmm?” He grumbled, curling up under his coat even more than he already was.

Richie kept his voice at a whisper, “Flight’s delayed. Another hour.”

Eddie murmured some sleep sounds, balling his fists up in the fur of his coat and wrapping it around his sides. “Good. Hndhdon’t wanna,” he let out a long, deep exhale, “dohnwandjsee my mom ahneeway.”

Richie chuckled, “That’s okay, Eds.”

Eddie, almost fully back asleep now, leaned over the armrest separating them and rested his head on Richie’s shoulder, nestling his cheek into the soft material of Richie’s baseball tee.

“Dohncallmeethat,” he whispered on an exhale, and his next intake of breath was a sleep-gurgled almost-snore. It was Richie’s turn to blush, he stifled a smile as he recovered his book and opened it back up.

After another hour, Eddie began slowly to wake back up, his eyes fluttering and a yawn breaking his lips apart as he sat up, sloughing off the coat, now too hot under its insulation. He looked at Richie, his cheeks flushed slightly from the warmth and the sleep. “Uh. Sorry for… I didn’t realize… That I’d been sleeping on you… How long was I out?”

“Like two hours,” Richie replied, a grin on his face. “I bet they start boarding soon, the snow stopped a bit ago.”

Eddie attempted to keep another yawn at bay, “Thank god. My mom is gonna have a fucking conniption.”

“Yeah, you said something about her while you slept,” Richie said, looking down to make eye contact with Eddie.

His eyes flew open wide, panic on his face. “Fuck. What did I talk about? I have weird dreams a lot… Didn’t realize I talked during them. That’s.” He paused, running a hand through the hair that was kinked on one side from being pressed against Richie’s shoulder. “That’s great.”

“Oh, not much. You just said you didn’t wanna see her.”

Eddie looked relieved. “Oh. Well yeah, that’s not untrue. She’s… A lot.”

“Sounded like it. From what I overheard when you were talking to her on the phone earlier…” Richie trailed off, the PA system in their gate had turned on, a bored-sounding woman began to drone out their flight information.

“Boarding for flight XF56G to Bangor will start in the next twenty minutes, sorry for the delay.”

“Where’s your seat?” Richie asked, still looking at Eddie, now rifling through his coat pockets for his boarding pass.

“12G,” he replied, neatly refolding his boarding pass and tucking it into his pants pocket.

Richie hastily retrieved his, folded and nestled into the back of the book he’d been reading. “Dang it, I’m 23B.”

Eddie smiled snarkily, “What I get for being on time.”

Richie glowered over at him, “Whatever, a flight’s a flight. Sucks no matter what.”

Eddie shrugged, “I guess you’re right. Well, it’s been fun, thanks for not stealing my shit while I slept.”

“All I had to do was sit here and watch you look pretty,” Richie replied. “Wasn’t too hard of a task.”

“I swear to go--” Eddie started, but was interrupted by the call for boarding group A, of which he was a part. “Well, maybe we could, uh…” He cleared his throat as he stood up, folding his coat over his forearm neatly. “Maybe we could get drinks or something while we’re in town, I’m only about twenty-five minutes outside of Bangor… God knows I’ll need the alcohol.”

Richie smiled. “Me too, maybe we could meet in the middle. Now go, or you’re gonna forfeit your precious group A standing. Find you after the flight.”

Eddie nodded, turning around and hastily pushing past strollers and bags and masses of people to make his way to the desk, turning around to shoot Richie one last grin before he disappeared behind the door.

The flight was quick, not even two hours. Richie spent most of it reading and attempting to sleep, although neither was going very well at all. He was continually interrupted by snippets of memories, playing in his head like snapshots; popping up and disappearing like old, faded polaroids. Things from his childhood he’d since completely wiped from his mind; at first, it was his parents, yelling at him for breaking his glasses, praising him for his A averages, worrying at him for something that to him was still a cloudy and nameless entity in his head. A relationship, maybe, but he hadn’t dated anyone in high school. Hadn’t he?

Then came his friends; the treasure trove of memories that opened up the moment he began to recall them was immense, it was endless. Summers spent swimming at the quarry, the years when time had had no illusion of significance, no meaning at all. The group of them roving the entire town on their bikes as if they owned the damn place, building the clubhouse in the barrens, hiding out from their bullies there. He was abruptly ambushed by memories of those boys, the bullies who’d made his and his friends’ lives living hell until one by one they’d moved all out of Derry. These memories he’d packed so far away he wondered if he’d been paying the bills for the storage space these had taken up, they surely had not been in his head all this time.

He remembered his friends one by one, Bill first. Bill. He hadn’t had a name in years, hadn’t thought about his friends since he’d moved, every attempt had ended with him left more confused, with more details forgotten. God, had he adored Bill. The leader, the coolest one of all of them by leaps and bounds. Bill’s power over them had been unmatched, they had all loved him, stutter and all. He then remembered Beverly, cooler than Bill by all standards but their own for no discernible reason. He recalled her beauty, but more than that he recalled her biting wit, her fierce loyalty, her courage. He remembered the others too, nearly all at once. Stan, Mike, Ben, their faces came up in his mind as if he was looking at photos, as if he was watching the greatest hits of his life. They came crashing into the forefront of his mind like a shattered stained-glass window being reassembled in front of his eyes.

Just as the plane began its final descent, more memories came to the surface, ripping through the others almost violently, overtaking all of his other thoughts like brushfire and flooding his mind with nothing but Eddie Eddie Eddie. Cute cute cute. How he could have forgotten him he had not the slightest notion, but those years with Eddie came rushing back, and suddenly it was all he could do not to pass out. They came over him in a deluge, swarming in his head like bees and making him light-headed. Little Eddie Kaspbrak, little in stature but never in character. His friend with the asthma that had turned out to be nothing but a bad case of worrying. His friend who had carefully and meticulously cleaned up and bandaged his knee that one day he’d fallen from the back of Bill’s bike, the only one of them able to stay calm and level-headed through all of the blood, all of the pain. His friend with the too short shorts and the too big t-shirts. His best friend. The love of his life.

Richie felt the plane land, hard and fast, felt his seat underneath his legs jostle him around as they made a bouncy impact with the ground, the movement slowing down as they taxied to the gate. He was pulled from the cavern of his thoughts, he looked up and around the plane, searching for that warm brown head of hair he’d just spent so many years without. It had been ten years, but the next five minutes were due to be the longest of his life. The moment the plane stopped moving, Richie unbuckled and jumped up, joined by some of the other overeager passengers. And Eddie. Richie caught sight of the button nose as the man turned his head, his eyes desperately searching the overcrowded cabin for the boy he’d been in love with since before he even knew what love was. The smile that was on Eddie’s face, his eyes brimming with tears, communicated exactly what they were both feeling. The rush of emotions, the inability to wait five minutes even though they’d waited years already. Richie just stared back, unaware of what his face looked like, although he supposed he probably looked like a damn slack-jawed idiot.

They held eye contact until Eddie’s seatmate exited the aisle and followed the line of passengers off the plane. Eddie tore his eyes away and reluctantly followed, flashing an uneasy, impatient smile before he moved. Richie waited patiently--as patiently as he could, although patience had never been his strong suit. When it was finally his turn, Richie moved anxiously off the plane, following the mass of people in front of him who apparently felt that it was okay to walk as slow as physically possible. On the jet bridge, he began to bob and weave through bodies, trying not to push anyone but nearly mowing down a few old ladies, hobbling at an astoundingly low speed through the wide tunnel. The moment he stepped off, his eyes found Eddie, who was waiting patiently for him, bag and coat in hand. Eddie smiled as Richie approached, dropping his belongings on the floor to reach out to him. Their bodies collided solidly, Richie also cast his bag away, their things in a messy heap on the dirty airport floor.

Richie looked down, looked closer this time than he had before. “Eds.” He fixed his glasses on his face, as if unsure whether or not his eyes were betraying him. “Eddie.”

Eddie nodded, tears welling in his eyes. “Richie,” he whispered.

Richie reached his free hand to cup Eddie’s cheek, letting his thumb swipe softly back and forth across his high cheekbone, still as littered with freckles as it had been when they were fourteen. Richie could feel his eyes wetting as well and blinked a few times, refusing to tear his eyes away from Eddie’s, they were still the same warm, hazel brown with flecks of gray. Richie could feel Eddie staring back up at him, boring holes into his own crystal blue eyes, cast into an almost clear aqua by the brilliant afternoon sunlight reflecting off the snow outside, magnified by the thick lenses that sat in front of them. As they looked at each other for the first time in over ten years--really looked at each other--Richie could feel every single memory of them crashing over him like a tidal wave, crushing him and building him back up again, and he could see the hurricane raging on behind Eddie’s eyes as well. He remembered the long glances, the soft touches, the warm, summer sun reflecting off the water, shining on their wet hair and their wet arms, coaxing freckles out of hiding. The bitter winters, those memories still dominated by warmth, the campfires, the backseat of Richie’s truck with the heater all the way up, the two of them wrapped up under blankets in the same bed. The hot breaths and lingering touches, tingling, warm skin covered with goosebumps. The warmth coming to a crescendo, a blaze that had destroyed everything in its path, igniting their lives and incinerating everything within reach. The fight that had ended it all, and the cold that it had left behind. Replaced again with only longing glances out the back of car windows, driving opposite directions across the country.

Richie watched as Eddie lost his battle with the tears in his eyes, letting a sob escape his chest, beaming up at Richie as the tears began to fell. “It’s been… God, it’s been so long, Rich. So fucking long. And how did we-- how did we not...”

“I don’t know… It doesn’t matter though. Because we’re here. And we remember. And… I never told you when we were younger because I was seventeen and a fucking idiot. But I love you, Eddie. I have since the moment I met you, and… I don’t think I stopped, even while I couldn’t remember you.”

Eddie smiled, laughing through the tears. “I love you too.” Just then, Eddie’s phone began to ring in his pocket, vibrating between them. He pulled it out hastily, sighing at the screen and pressing it up to his ear. “Mom. I just landed, calm down. I’ll be there soon.”

“Yes, I--”

“No, it’s fine, I can--”

Richie chuckled softly to himself as he watched Eddie’s brow furrow, and he reached in his pocket to retrieve his own phone. He read through the few texts he’d missed, deciding to deal with them at a later time. He took a deep breath as he opened his email, refreshing it slowly, ready to see nothing. When it finally loaded, there were two messages. Both from his manager. With shaking fingers, he opened the first one. His eyes pored over the screen, barely reading the words, attempting to absorb the contents of the entire paragraph at once. He scrolled to the bottom quickly, not really retaining any of the text at the top. When he got to the last line, it said this: “I know you’ll have scrolled through this whole thing and not read any of it. So, here’s the deal…”

He looked up at Eddie, who’d just hung up his phone in frustration. Eddie’s eyes went soft when he caught sight of Richie’s face. “What’s up?”

“I did it, Eddie,” he said, exhaling a short, relieved laugh. “I got the job.”

[justoneday-namjoonii]

Midnight Circus  pt.6

☾pairing: Jungkook(?)♡→  reader ☾genre: Angst. Fluff. Mature content. bad boy summer fling au ☾summary: “You’re ten times hotter this summer, you know that?” ☾Series status statement: “I don’t know how this happened...” a/n: ok so its a little scattered and I know I took forever but I hope the finish product makes up for the lateness^^

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | coming soon

“Can anyone tell me how many paintings by Claude Monet titled Water Lilies?”

Art appreciation. It seemed interesting enough so you went ahead and signed up for it. The professor had the class study, Claude Monet, this week, you knew the answer but decided to give the other students a chance. Speaking of the other students, Taehyung, Beah, and Namjoon attended this class as well. You sat somewhere near the front of the class, resting your head on your propped up forearm—your mind was elsewhere.

“Yes?” You glanced to the right to see Taehyung raising his hand.

“250 oil paintings.” 

“Correct. Can anyone tell me why?” He gave the class the opportunity to answer the easy question and you took it upon yourself to answer—you slowly raised your hand.

“Yes, Mr. Kim?” Namjoon must’ve raised his hand faster than you because now the class was curious about what he had to say.

He cleared his throat. “Monet was fond of his flower garden at his home in Giverny, it was the inspiration for a lot of his work, it was the center of his focus in last thirty years of his artistic life.” The information flowed off of his tongue like a poem made to mesmerize all who overhear.

“That is correct. Now class. . .”

He trailed off into something else but you were more interested in the buzz of your phone, it was a message.

[1:40] Namjoon: You knew the answer to that, we were just talking about it earlier.

You slowly eased out your phone so that it wasn’t in full view of the professor and typed slowly.

[1:40] You: yes but u raised your hand first and didnt give me time [1:41] Namjoon: ill make sure to give it to you next time then

When you felt the teacher was observing your way, you tucked your phone away, not to be answered until the class is dismissed. The clock was on your side today because before you knew it, the professor released you all early c=for a change. Students fleed the class like ants run to sugary spilled soda, they all had somewhere to be but you preferred to take your sweet time. You easily slid the notebook in your backpack and grabbed your bottle as you slung the bag over your shoulders.

“Miss L/n,” Your professor called out to you as he was exiting the classroom.

“Yes, professor?”

��I didn’t get to respond to your email but I thoroughly enjoyed your research paper, it was well organized and you presented your information eloquently.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Keep up the good work.” The middle-aged man smiled as he cleaned off the dry erase board. You smiled, walking out of the classroom with less weight on your shoulders.

“Hey,” A familiar voice came from somewhere behind you and you looked back to see Namjoon, walking a bit faster so he could stroll beside you. “are you and Jen, Taehyung, and Beah still on for studying for this evening? If so, I can still help you guys out.”

“Uh, yeah,” You did have a pretty big test coming up, “I probably should.”

“Good. I have a paper to finish so I’ll head over there now.” 

“Alright, tell everyone I’ll be there soon, I need to get a book from the library.” You bid him farewell as he walked out through the exit.

You walked through the campus, passing by the library because apparently both of you needed to pick up a book for your classes. The sun shined through the campus, the warmth cascaded within the building and created a tranquil atmosphere for the busy students that scattered throughout the school. Since the book you were looking for had nothing to do with the one he was looking for, you went to different corners of the library.

Namjoon peeked through the bookshelves, searching for the book. He found it easily but he waited around, recognizing that you were still searching for yours. 

“Where is it?” You mumbled, still not finding the book.

“Y/n,” You felt hands on your shoulders and you turned to see who it was, “I haven’t seen you in a good minute.” Hoseok. You completely forgot that he used to work in the bookstore, you didn’t know he still hung out here.

“Oh my gosh, Hoseok.” You beamed, embracing him. “Hi, it’s so nice to see you again, how have been?” 

“Good, my schedule is pretty busy this semester. I haven’t had a lot of free time lately.” He spoke but you were distracted by his unfailing beauty. He was glowing, a sweet smile and a kind expression resting on his face. “Are you looking for anything in particular? I used to work here so I might as well help you out.”

“Thanks, do you know where- What’s the name of it again...” You reached into your pocket for the piece of paper that you wrote the book title on. “That’s what I’m looking for.” He inspected the paper.

“Ah, I know where this is. It’s over here.” He began to walk off somewhere and you followed him. Hoseok had always been so sweet and kind, he and Jimin went to the same dance studio you went to. He worked as a part-time instructor there until he could get transferred to the school he really wanted to study dance at.

“Here you are.” He gestured to the bookcase.

“Thanks, Hobi.” 

“No problem, I’ll see you later.” 

He waved goodbye. You went to the counter to purchase the book, it took a minute or so and you were out of the store and going to your car so you could get to the cafe where everyone was probably waiting on you.

“Hey...” She nudged his bare shoulder, the heat of his skin sent a nauseating spiral of guilt, shame, and discomfort to the pit of her stomach. “My mom will be home in an hour, you have to go...” She pulled the duvet up to cover her chest, he was slowly coming to. She nudged his warm arm again, this time with a little more force. “Jungkook, get your clothes on...” 

His eyes fluttered open upon the call of his name. Typical—he was waking up in another unfamiliar bed, wearing nothing but boxers and a sinful scent. “What?” He seethed, already annoyed by her nagging voice and visible attitude. 

“You have to go, my mom will be home soon...” She stammered, fumbling through her drawer for some clothes to throw on to cover herself. Jungkook narrowed his brow as he sat up to gather himself, he replayed what took place between them and sighed. What is this, the fifth or sixth person this week? He decided to stop counting after this one. He went to the floor to gather his discarded clothes from last night and slipped them on without a word. The brunette, on the other hand, was your classic suburban-nonconformist-chick who won’t show gratitude to the parents who provide for her. He’s not the first guys she’s had over, she knew the drill too well. She wasn’t his ideal pick either. She was a bit too common for his taste, a little obnoxious, but the night was ending quickly and he didn’t have time to be picky. Her clothes were easy off and that’s all he required at the time.

When he glanced at the girl, she was getting situated to go to the shower and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember her name. He stared at her as he tied his shoes, trying to remember, Shelby, Shannon, Sarah, Stephanie? Something with an S...

”Do you have any Tylenol?” He massaged his temples as he was on his out of her bedroom, he had a little bit of a hangover.

“Yeah,” She ran to her purse, searching for the little bottle, “here.”

He took the bottle and shook it lightly to get on little pill out. He gave it back and nonchalantly made his way towards to the front door, her heart began to plummet into her stomach—what had she done?

“Wait,” She voiced shyly, “will I see you again?”

He laughed, cracking the door to stand in the doorway. “Maybe.” He left her with that.

That meant she wouldn’t see him again, not here, not with her.

He drove, not really biased on where to but he didn’t want to go home. The rumbling of his stomach indicated that he needed something to eat. He went to the nearest fast food place to get a burger and fries, y’know, something healthy. He was supposed to be in class but he assumed that but by the time he gets there, it’ll already be over.

Oddly enough, he went home.

To his surprise, his mom was home and she had a lot of questions.

”Where were you?” She was at the kitchen island with a mug of coffee in hand, the demeanor of a brute criminal interrogator.

“A friends.” He shrugged, casually walking off to his bedroom.

“Get back over here.” She hissed—that was the,’if you know what’s good for you, you better get back over here’ voice, he willed himself to tread lightly now. “I come home, working hard to provide for our family and when I get back you’re not even here. And I’m not stupid Jungkook, don’t think for a second that I’m buying that ‘I was at a friends house crap.’”

“Does it matter where I was? You and dad are never here anyway, so why should I be?” He frowned. “Why do you suddenly care?”

“Because you’re my son and I love you.” She sighed when his jaw clenched with the darkening of his eyes. “I know it’s not easy, and I wish I hadn’t brought you into this but there’s nothing I can do. You said you didn’t want to live with your dad, why are you giving me such a hard time?”

“I’m giving you a hard time?” He had to refrain from going off on her and the only way he could do that was if he left this house. Without a word, he ran upstairs to gather a few things in a backpack and when he came back downstairs she just stared at him. He had always been like this, bad at expressing his negative emotions without hurting someone, so his solution was to leave. “I’ll be back in a few days.” He stated.

“Jungkook there is no reason for you to-”

“I need my own space right now and I’m not in the mood for a lecture, mom.” He left the house, his mother not really even knowing what to say or how to get her son to change his mind. And it was just that, she didn’t know Jungkook anymore, she was unaware of his daily life. She always said, ‘as long as you get good grades and don’t get anyone pregnant, you can stay under this roof.’ She felt as if he needed a bit more structure than that, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. He’s going through a rebellious phase and she’s taking the brunt of it.

Jungkook went to Yoongi’s apartment.

He let him in without hesitation and went back to his room to study.

Jungkook found refuge in that worn out couch, he had more to stress about than finals and sleep seemed to be his temporary solution. He was called into work suddenly and he grudgingly drove to the bowling alley. He spent hours fitting antsy kids and adults for worn out old rental bowling shoes.

“Over here!” Namjoon raised a hand to get your attention when you entered the cafe full of stressed students studying for finals. You walked over to your group of friends and sat beside Jennie.

“Hey, guys.” You began unloading your books on the cramped table.

“Y/n, hey, sorry to ask but do you have the notes from the professor Welsh? I couldn’t make it to class and no one had the notes from the lecture on pdf.” Jennie pushed her glasses up on her face, pencil tight in her hand.

“Yeah, I’ll send it to you.” You pulled out your computer and began going through your files, searching for the notes you worked so hard to get. When you sent it, she showed the utmost gratitude by buying you a matcha latte. You sat across from Namjoon and he was completely enveloped in his paper—being head of the class must be burdensome, having to keep your grades up to maintain the honorable title. School was always something constant in your life, without it you felt like you were a void, an empty with no purpose. You only felt like that sometimes—other times you craved freedom, to dream under the stars with smoke tainting your breath from loving on a dangerous spirit. You sort of experienced that, maybe not to its full effect but you know what it’s like to get close to boys like Jungkook and you didn’t like it—not anymore at least. 

You brought your mind back to the task at hand, your math and final project. The job they gave you was to collect the data and write the slides for the 19th-century economy. A few hours went by and the cafe was still heavy with customers, even at this hour. Suddenly, you felt something graze your ankle, someone's foot?

You looked from side to side, then right in front of you to see Namjoon grinning at his laptop. You looked at him with the sole purpose of catching his attention, but he didn’t look up, that’s when you received a message on your computer.

Namjoon: I meant to talk to you about the other night, r u okay

You furrowed your brows at the message, not immediately understanding what he was referring to. When you looked up at him he glanced at you but then he began typing something.

Namjoon: Jungkook was trying to follow you, I managed to stop him. Are you ok? 

You: Yeah I’m ok 

He titled his head, he knew that you weren’t ‘ok’ but now wasn’t the time to talk about it, your face pretty much said that it wasn’t the place or time.

“I need a break.” Beah sat her book down with a pout. “Anybody up for pizza?”

“If we go get pizza, we’ll never finish.” You tried to dismiss the idea but they weren’t in the mood to be focused and responsible anymore.

“How about we order food here?” Namjoon suggested.

“I know! Yoongi hyung is home, why don’t we take some pizza over to his place?” Taehyung proposed.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Jennie went in on this crusade and you gave up trying to keep the studying here. Everyone began packing up their stuff and before you knew it, you were still packing up and Namjoon lingered behind.

“I wanted to ask, what did he do that made you so upset? He didn’t hit you or anything, did he?” If so, he was prepared to kill the kid. You slung your bag over your shoulder and walked out to the parking lot with Namjoon by your side. He came with Taehyung but you assumed he could ride with you to Yoongi’s.

“No, he didn’t hit me.” You reassured him, plopping down into the driver's seat. “He was mad that I was there, he just didn’t want to see me I guess...” Your words were but a mumble, not wishing to reminisce about that mistake of yours. “He also kissed me.” Namjoon made a perplexed expression. “Can you believe him? One minute he’s yelling the next he’s trying to kiss me. I slapped him and went home.“

“That’s my girl.” Namjoon giggled. “Now I know why he was so mad, you probably bruised his pride. He needed a wake-up call like that, not everyone is going to take his crap, he needs to learn that.” That fact made you smirk a bit, you felt like you had the upper hand as of now. 

“Why is he like this?...” You sounded tired like you’ve asked yourself this question before. “I don’t understand why he treats me like that...”

Namjoon had to think before giving you his answer, did Jungkook even have a reason? He assumed that the kid just acted like that because of childhood habits; he was selfish, greedy, aggressive even. “I-...I really don’t know, he’s only ever treated you this way, I think it’s just apart of his growing up process.” He scratched the back of his head in thought. “Even though he is an adult...He-”

“He saw me in the pool with Jimin, that was it!” Your abrupt outburst had Namjoon curious onto what else you had to say. 

“I don’t know what I was doing, I liked Jimin, I really did...” Your lips were turned down in a quivering frown. “I had a crush on him since forever and I never thought in a million years that he would give me the time of day, but he did, he told me that he liked me too and I was happy....” Your fingers were tight on the steering wheel, still trying to remain in control of the vehicle despite your frustration. “Jungkook kept sending these mean messages, I don’t even want to repeat the things he said, he was livid, over nothing Joon, absolutely nothing...” You stopped at the red light, holding back any signs of tears—this was nothing to cry about.

“I know you liked him. I wish it could’ve happened another way for you two but it just didn’t work out. I’m sorry I can’t help more...” This was the first time he heard how Jungkook found out about you and Jimin, now he understood a bit better. Jungkook went out there, looking for you and you were necking with one of his bestfriends—there’s the big picture. Jungkook was hurt, jealous—insecure. Something he wanted didn’t want him back, it wanted someone else. Can you imagine how it must’ve felt when he saw you, genuinely showering Jimin with affection after what you two had been doing? He was overwhelmed, he felt betrayed and used for the first time in a long long time, and that was the problem. He didn’t have the right to respond that way, you weren’t his; a few unchaste kisses and touching of bodies does not a relationship make. And Jungkook knew that. He knew that he didn’t want a bond from this and neither did you, so you and Jimin shouldn’t have been a problem. 

“I can understand why he was so angry now.” Namjoon gazed out of the window, a dispirited expression on his face. “I think for the first time in his life, his heart was vulnerable and he was no longer in control. You were tugging his heartstrings in every which direction and you didn’t even know it.” The mental picture brought a fond grin to his lips.

You blinked, attempting to process what he meant by that. “Me? I thought you were on my side here. I shouldn’t be penalized for his feeling-”

“No, no, no, I don’t mean it like that, of course, you shouldn’t. IIt’s just- Jungkook really hates feeling he’s not wanted, just like everybody else, he wants to feel desired. When he saw you- You I’m saying he felt like you were cheating on him, using him.” How were you supposed to use Jungkook? What could you possibly gain from that?

“You can’t cheat when there’s no relationship- And if it were him, he’d tell the unlucky girl to get over it because it’s not a relationship anyway. And if anything, he’s been using me. He doesn’t have the right to catch feelings but not punish me for it.” 

 “Yes, I agree, but I know Jungkook well enough to know this, his head, heart, and body are all in different spheres. He just doesn’t know how to make those three parts of himself work in unison and the result of that is situations like this.” Namjoon sighed, seeing that you two had arrived at the apartment already. “But that’s no excuse, he has to grow out of that and face the music like the rest of us.”

You two got out of the car and you ran over to help Taehyung with the pizza and Namjoon took it upon himself to knock on the door. Yoongi lazily opened the door, not phased by the sudden arrival. You helped bring the food inside and before you knew it you were plopped on the couch, forgetting everything related to finals and indulging in the cheesy, salty goodness of the pizza.

 “Hi Jungkook.” Irene. “A 7 1/2 please.” She came to the counter, looking at him like a hyena would a raw steak—he looked good to her. Jungkook knew her from around and she knew him but rarely did they interact.

“Okay.” He turned to look for the women's 7 1/2 box but it was empty. He searched around, dreading having to go to the overstock room to get them, he peeked up at her with doe eyes. “We’re out of 7 1/2′s can you do a 7 or an 8?” He raised his brows, seeing that she was smiling at him. “Well, I’m about to clock out so I’ll ask my manager to-”

“No, that’s okay.” She leaned against the counter, a grin still present on her lips. “You said you’re about to clock out, yeah? Are you busy?” Her eyes raking up and down his body, the slight bulging of his biceps under the work polo intrigued her in every way possible.

“No, why?” He countered with the crook of his brow, she followed him as he walked along the lengthy counter to go punch in his hours.

“Just curious...” Pearly whites digging into her bottom lip as he walked passed her, she followed him without clear intent. She put a hand on his chest, stopping him from walking away from her, she brought her face close to his, the proximity of closeness made him laugh—that’s what she wanted.

In a matter of minutes, they were in the alleyway between two unsuspecting buildings, classy.

“J-jungkook.” She manages to choke out through his relentless assault on her clavicle, it was more painful than anything and she wondered why he was being so forceful. When he lead her out here her stomach lurched in excitement and they were in the little corner where she was sure no one could see. “Y-you okay?” He was aggressive.

He responded with a rough nip to her neck followed by a tantalizing lick to soothe the pinch; she figured he was just in a feisty mood so she went with the flow. His hands found her bare waist and chest, not deciding on which one to seek comfort in. He was all over her, not providing her the leeway to control much but her hands. At this point, his shirt was wrinkled up and her lipstick was smeared into an abstract of lecherous hunger on her lips.

Jungkook snarled when her hand wandered up to his stomach to his chest but not close to where he wanted it. She gripped his collar to take his mouth away from her neck and have a nice long look at his deep, almost opaque orbs—he looked so intense and focused. “Are you trying to make look like I’ve been mauled? Damn.” She was referring to the love bites on her once cream-colored flesh. His cheeks were glowing a light pink when he left the heat of her neck, he was already feeling cold. 

“Why’re you in such a rush?-” He shoved his mouth against hers, swallowing her protests until they were nothing but moans—he didn’t come here to chitchat. They kissed for a little while, he easily battled her tongue into submission with his own, he would go so far as to say he was being a little nasty with it. But right now, he didn’t care what it looked like, as long as he could overstimulate himself with the feeling.

He pulled back, chest heaving lightly with a wetness coating his chin and strawberry colored lips. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Hm?” He smirked, their clothes were in shambles when he stopped to ask her. “You like this, don’t you? Shit, I know you do,” He smirked to himself, “I can see it on your face...” His hands doing their own thing to bring her to her metaphorical knees.

“Mhm.” She nodded, getting into character when his tone became authoritative and stern.

“Yeah?...” He nibbled on the cherry flavor that lingered on his lips, that’s why her lips were so bright red and plush. In the height of the moment, he clutched her jaw and slipped an index finger in the disturbingly warm cavern, because in hindsight, that’s all he was looking for out of this—warmth, he wanted to feel warm again. She bit him lightly, just applying enough pressure to grin. “Mm.” He scoffed, slipping the finger out and wiping her saliva on her clothes. “What do you want? Tell me what you want.” He demanded, wanting to hear her articulate it word by word.

“You, please.” She cooed. “I want you Jungkook, I don’t care how.” Now she sounded too desperate—but weren’t they both?

“Yeah?” He taunted with a throaty voice. “Let me hear you say it again...” He mumbled, more to himself than her. “Say it again, I want to hear you say it...” She obliged to his request, repeating over and over that he was all she wanted, craved to hear that. It triggered an influx of dopamine to his brain, it was like he was floating when he heard that one simple, yet, significant phrase, ‘I want you.’ “Fuck, turn around...” 

Warmth. 

For a moment, he felt a warmth, soft skin mangled together and he was in euphoria.

He got to feel wanted, even if it was only physical desire, and even if it only lasted for so long, he got to feel it and that had to mean something. It was satisfaction he was looking for but He hadn’t found it. When they finished, Irene clutched onto nothing when he pushed her further with an arm snaked around her stomach like a restraint. He felt a dirty, disgusting feeling—the high was over and it was time to say goodnight.

Night after night, girl after easy girl, in an attempt to fill that hollow space. Those girls would fill him to the brim for a short second just to drain him dry in seconds, and he’d do the same to them. He could have it his way, not have to lift a finger and they would swoon over him, fight each other if it meant spending their night with the midnight’s offspring. When it was all said and done, he cleaned up, fumbling to zip his pants up as Irene walked off in a hurry, saying she was supposed to be somewhere an hour ago or something like that. 

He went to his car in the back of the building and sat there dejected -- he regrets it, he felt remorse that made him want to cry and so he did. Tears escape his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. Sitting in the dark of the parking lot, sobbing into the steering wheel with trembling fingers—he felt cold again, it chilled down to his bones.

“Well, I should head home, my parents don’t want me out too late.” It was just you and Namjoon left while Yoongi was still in his room, Taehyung and Beah had gone home but you were pretty invested in this book when they left. Namjoon looked up at you from his computer. “Are you done with chapter 13?”

“Yeah, I finished it.” You began to pack up your stuff, tired and ready to go to get in your soft, cozy bed.

“Y/n, can you throw those towels in the dryer.” You heard Yoongi voice from his bedroom. “And throw those pizza boxes out.”

“This is your house Yoongi, I’m not your maid.” You grudgingly stood to your feet and went to do it anyway, it was the least you could do since he invited everyone into his place. Well, more like, let everyone invite themselves. You went to the little laundry area near the kitchen and did as he asked, Namjoon watched you with his glasses teetering at the tip of his nose.

“I guess I’ll head out too.” He announced, slinging his packed bag over your shoulder. 

“Wait, I’ll walk you to your car.” You stopped what he was doing and walked with him outside.

“Remember when you told me you’d look after me?” You spoke suddenly standing at the car door with a dreamy look on your face.

“How could I forget?” He smiled, his dimples looking as deep as the craters on the moon.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that, a lot actually...” You twiddled your fingers absentmindedly. “You’re a really good friend, like, you care a lot about me, more so than most people.” 

“What are friends for, right? If I can’t help you in some way then what am I here for? That’s just how I think.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the car to look at you with a sweet smile. 

“Well, thank you.” You stood up on your tippy toes and pecked his cheek—he blushed immediately.

“Y-y/n?” He laughed nervously. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know, just for being you...” You were suddenly shy as he got into his car, bidding you farewell. You went back to the apartment to fold those towels for Yoongi.

Jungkook found somewhere to park and watch the lights for a little while, the tears had dried and he was calm again. He got himself together and drove back to Yoongi’s place. When he made it there, he pulled out the spare key and jiggled it in the lock before it popped open. “Hey, I’m back hyung.” Yoongi made a sound of acknowledgment. He sighed, throwing his heavy body on the couch. He noticed that there were a bunch of folded towels on the couch so he sat them on the center table. He laughed a little, he’s never seen Yoongi as the type to do laundry publicly. He was tired, even with the tv on he started to get droopy-eyed.

Someone was in the house. You had to use the bathroom before you left and you weren’t expecting anyone else to come over. Too anxious to walk out to see who it was, you slowly turned off the light and peeked out. There he was, watching tv the couch, curled up like a kid.

Why is he here? You wanted to be angry but you were more curious than anything. For a while you just watched him; he’d take a sip of water, weave his hand through his hair, habitual little things. It’s been weeks since you last saw him and you were happy about that, you were mad at him. He yelled at you and kissed you without permission, in front of a bunch of people and even tried to chase you.

After a little while, he was out cold and you took that opportunity to sneak out. You crawled out of the bathroom and into the living to get your bag, he was silent, not moving an inch as he slept peacefully. You managed to make it to the front door and you were just about to twist the mob when you felt a presence behind you, a heat. You couldn’t move, you were perfectly capable of walking out—why are you just standing here?

“You-...You left your sweater.” When you looked back he had wiped at his eyes in an attempt to hide any signs of sleep. “This is yours, isn’t it?” He stared at you, why were you over Yoongi’s, alone. “I remember you had it at the cabins.” You nodded and took the sweater, twisting the nob but not opening it yet, tear a started to well at your eyes. He’s always treated you differently, poked fun at you and made you feel out of place. He’d taunt you and try to annoy you whenever he got the chance, he wasn’t good and you didn’t want him, you didn’t want to want someone like him. You hand to chant in your mind, Ignore him, leave him, don’t say anything-

“You hurt me...” You looked back at him, he was surprised you even spoke. “I shouldn’t give you the time of day, you know that don’t you?” He scratched the back of his neck, pressing his lips together and making his dimples appear lightly, he was nervous. “You got mad at me for being around you and then you kissed me.” You frowned. “What is wrong with you!?” You shouted, probably disturbing Yoongi’s silence

He blinked and began to feel a tremendous amount of guilt weigh down on him.

“You tried to follow me, you called me a backstabbing slut, a whore...You act like I cheated on you! Like I violated something sacred when you really had no right to be jealous, we aren’t together. I am not yours, I have never been close to being yours and you know that. All we did was fool around and it didn’t mean anything to you. It shouldn’t have meant anything to me, you played with me and for some reason I let you...You don’t care about me Jungkook, you said it yourself, you just want my body, remember? You just come back for ‘the physical shit’ as you put it...you don’t even feel guilty either-”

“I screwed up.” He breathed heavily, anxious to start speaking “But just hear me out. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything, I was a douchebag.” His teeth sunk into his bottom lip. “I do some bad things y/n, really bad and dirty things, and when it’s done I feel sick to my stomach- I don’t know what it is, I just never get full enough, so, I do it over and over to fill myself up but I still feel empty...” You could only imagine what he meant as ‘bad things.’ “And cold...” He paused. “Even with all the bodies I’ve sunk myself in to get that warm feeling I can never get it to last, I can’t be satisfied and it’s killing me. I told you that I can’t stop thinking about you, the way you kiss, your laugh, the way you talk, it’s always in my mind-” He was just rambling now. “I’m just trying to forget you.”

“That’s really touching Jungkook.” You retorted in sarcasm.

He swallowed. “But it’s not working and I don’t know what to do. I even hooked up with a girl that once bullied you, a few girls actually...” He suddenly confessed. “When I realized it, I wanted to die. I knew you would hate me for it, you should hate me for a lot of things...”

“You’re right, I should hate you.” That physically stung him, your words were like daggers to his soul. “But I don’t, and that’s what I hate about you, Jungkook. Not that you emotionally scar me for life but because here I am, talking to you like it never happened.” And that was the truth. “We’re not lovers, we’re not in a friendship let alone a relationship, I won’t put this much emotional energy into something that’ll hurt me.”

He choked back a sob, was it really nothing to you? “I-...I don’t want to hurt you. I know I was mean but I was just upset. When I saw you and Jimin in that pool- I don’t know,” He exhaled shakily. “I felt hurt...”

“Well, I felt the same way when you yelled at me but I didn’t publicly humiliate you. Where is the connection between your emotions and your reactions? You’re not a child, you know better than to lash out the way that you do.” You were starting to sound like a mom the way you scolded him.

“I’m just asking for you to forgive me, that’s all...”

“Would that soothe your guilty conscious or something? If you get my forgiveness, what do I get, hm? I’ll be like you now, I don’t want to do anything that won’t benefit me...Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”

That was harsher than you intended.

“You get my vulnerability.” He replied timidly. “My weakness, my pain, you get to see me at my lowest...” Out of the blue, he started to cry, silently. The sight took your breath away—you had never seen him like this, absolutely vulnerable. A few tears escaped his eyes and you’re heart lurched, you were witnessing such a personal moment and you almost felt guilty. “I’m begging you...”

You started to feel terrible, he was really sincere about this. “Jungkook,” You sighed, “look, I forgive you okay? But that doesn’t mean-”

The melodic buzz of your phone interrupted the moment, it was your mom. “Hello? Sorry, I lost track of time studying, I’m on my way now.” Jungkook could hear your mom over the phone. “Love you too, bye.” You hung and tucked the phone back in your pocket. “I have to go...” 

Jungkook wiped away his tears and nodded, accepting the fact that you had to leave. You suddenly reached into your bag, searching for something until he pulled it out, his earbuds. “I uh, I never gave them back, so, here.” He extended his hand and you dropped them into his palm, was this a peace offering he thought.

“Thanks.” He looked down at his hand and slowly, out of sheer faith, he brought his face close to yours, noses getting too close for comfort. You stared him in the eye, his lips parted in desperation but you refused to quit their whine for attention. You felt your self almost meet his lips by instinct, knowing they remembered the dance they’ve done so many times at the campground. You placed a hand on his chest to deny his request though. He mentally winced at the rejection but it didn’t change a thing because, in a matter of seconds, you were out the door and he stood there alone—cold.

“Don’t forget to turn the TV off, I can’t sleep with it on.” Yoongi peeked out of his room nonchalantly to see Jungkook walking back from the front door, he figured he’d ask later. Jungkookk went to sleep on the couch, the silence lulling him into a state of peace.

You are the sun that rose again in my life The return of my childhood dreams

I don't know what this feeling is. Perhaps, I'm in a dream, are you there too? My surroundings become more and more transparent, but I still see you.

[norgad-vcd]

Revised Text

What goes on, online?

Anything and everything. It’s a beautiful and vibrant mess of human interaction. Everything from trivial and thoughtless acts to the most sincere and genuine deeds. It’s grounds for the vicious and the virtuous alike. The internet is what you make of it; a tool as good or bad as it’s wielders.

It’d take a thousand lifetimes to see it all.

How about a quick glimpse instead?

Hiya, I’m Tom! I’ve spent enough of my life online that I can confer some of my findings to you. This book is a smörgåsbord of experiences, phenomena, and memories I’ve been witness to and participant in during my time here. While not a full picture, it should help you navigate the ballpark of possibilities out there. My experiences are just one sample from billions; perhaps after this you’ll seek to venture out further into that world-wide web, or - at the very least - understand a little better those who do.

Friendships don’t care about how you nourish them, just that you do.

Catching up online is great for keeping friends close. It might be raining, someone might be away from home, or even sick and stuck at the hospital; the reason doesn’t matter. It might not be perfect - and sure, we could all get a little more sunlight - but for what it’s worth it’s good for the soul and sometimes the best thing on hand.

How do I put this?

It’s not all the same thing though, there’s different tools for different jobs. There’s a difference between how I talk to people in an idle chat and talking to someone in a formal meeting; different modes of communication for different settings and people. It’s the same thing with online modes of communication. Sending a message on Discord to one of my friends, I’d take a casual, grammarless, and very loose style of typing. Contrast that with an email to my grandmother; that’s much more structured and considered, like a half mimicry of a handwritten letter to be delivered by post. People still sign off emails with their names at the end, as if emails don’t also just tell you who they’re from in the ‘sender’ info.

Occasionally I’ll need to message someone I only vaguely know. In these circumstances it can feel a bit standoffish and unfamiliar. I’ll type out sanitised and unambiguous sentences; without tone of voice - or a history of talking to the person online before - it’s hard to judge sarcasm, emotion, and everything else conveyed nonverbally in a conversation. Erring on the side of caution seems to be the best bet, until we both get to know each other’s style of writing a bit better.

Over the first 2020 lockdown, me and most of my real-life friends started a minecraft server together and played through it for the duration of our stint stuck at home. It was like a little clubhouse, each time we logged in and saw things change slightly since last time. We left each other notes and set up gifts and pranks for when people left and returned. It was a great way to keep in touch when we were otherwise very isolated from social contact.

On a lot of platforms there’s a little indicator that tells you if someone’s online, offline, or possibly busy. This is really useful to see if someone might be free to talk or hang out. It’s also really good at betraying to someone the fact that I still have not gone to sleep, despite the fact that I said I was going to sleep about four hours ago.

To be fair, they said they were going to sleep about four hours ago as well.

[JOSH TEXT]

A big benefit to text chat is that if I’m preoccupied and all my friends are talking about something, I’m not left behind and out of the loop. I can always re-read what everyone wrote once I have time, pick up all the new inside jokes and keep up to date with people’s lives. The same can’t be said for voice chat; if I miss a hangout there I’ve missed it for good. This can get a bit weird if people are using both at the same time though; the text portion of the chat devolves into a complete mess of contextless strings of text and images out of nowhere. With a keen eye and a bit of detective work I can often piece together the general gist of the missed conversation, but other times it remains a mystery forever.

Whenever someone sends me a meme, I’m elated. I get to look at a funny picture, but I also get to send that same funny picture to someone else. Who knows how many hands the image passed through before it reached me, and how many more hands it will pass through before it reaches its final viewer. Maybe it’ll never reach a final resting place, instead getting recycled and remixed into memes anew until the end of time.

[ANOTHER GUEST SPEAKER TEXT]

Who are you, on the internet?

Online, your real-life identity isn’t attached to you by default. Of course there’s places where the expectation is indeed a connection to real identities - like Facebook for example - but this is not a requirement. I’m not known as ‘Tom’ online, people know me by my username.

It’s not a fake me, or a way to lie to people, it’s just an alternate expression of myself. We act differently to different people in so many social situations, - from time with family, to at work, and to hanging out with friends - the internet allows even more possible ways to express parts of ourselves. For me, it’s liberating to exist in a state that’s disconnected from the tangle of my real life self, and to keep the tangle of my internet presence away from real life as well.

On the internet, nobody knows who you are.

Unless you divulge them to others, your identity, physical appearance, background, nationality, gender, race and so on are completely unknown; this is the great equalizer. Free from biases based on your physical self, you can be perceived as purely another person.

A clean slate can tempt some however to act recklessly. If an identity and history can be shed so easily, some people feel emboldened to act without the threat of consequences; verbally beat someone up, and then wash their hands of the whole incident.

It’s important to remember that people online are still people; while their faces might be obscured, they still have thoughts and feelings. In general, talking to people online has about the same potential as real-life to be great, awful, or somewhere inbetween; it’s mostly luck of the draw who you’ll run into.

I don’t know the names or faces of some of my closest friends.

That doesn’t mean I don’t care about them; I just care more about who they are as an individual. I still know their personalities, their sense of humor, what they like and don’t, and everything else you’d know about a friend. We still have inside jokes, favourite group pastimes, and all the rest.

Who are you talking to?

When I was younger and my parents would ask who I’m talking to on the computer, I wouldn’t know how to respond.

Do I tell them “I don’t know” and spark images in their heads of catfishers and criminals?

Do I tell them my friend’s username and get told “that’s not a real name”?

Most of the time I’d just try to give a vague non-answer and hope the conversation goes elsewhere. Keep my little world safe.

[SYDNEY TEXT]

Perfect is the enemy of good.

Because everyone lives in different time-zones, it can often be difficult to pre-plan hangouts. Oftentimes me and my friends have planned to have a movie night at a specific time, and then once that time rolls around, one or two people are still offline, probably asleep. Oftentimes whoever was missing will come online several hours later and be sorry and upset that they held everyone up and wasted everyone’s time. Of course, we had all just postponed the movie night and just hung out and chatted instead.

Oftentimes we have to accept that it’s near impossible to have everyone hang out at the same time; it’d require half of us to be up at god awful times or to wake up at 4am for something. Instead of trying to plan big ‘everyone’ events every once in a blue moon, we try to have frequent but smaller hangouts. It might mean that we don’t get to see everyone at the same time, but it’s still workable. If we were to hold out till everyone was free at the same time, we’d never end up hanging out at all.

She should have been back by now.

A while ago, someone in one of my friend groups noted that someone hadn’t been online for two weeks. Dread set in. We all knew that our friend was very prone to getting ill, and we didn’t want to say it but we were worried she might have died. Since we don’t know each other in ‘real life’ it was entirely possible that someone could drop dead one day and we’d never get any confirmation; just left wondering what happened. We asked around in common friend circles, and nobody had heard from her, coming up on about three weeks at that point. We had to do something.

Multiple friend circles of people from all around the world, scrambling to find any scrap of information about our lost friend. One person had ‘maybe’ an address that they sent something to once, but it might have been an old house. We found about three different possible legal names, and had no way to be sure which was right. We ended up sending a letter addressed to the name we thought was most likely to be right, or to “the family of”. Someone tried ringing her house, but the people on the other end of the line didn’t know who we were, and we didn’t know who they were; we got hung up on because they thought we were stalkers. It was all desperate fumbling in the dark, but we were worried sick.

There were only ever two possible outcomes; if she came back we would find out she was alright, if she didn’t we would be left eternally hoping she would. Nobody wants to be the one to say “Hey guys, I think our friend might be dead, we should give up.” Time soon gave us our answer; she was alright. She had been stuck in hospital for a while and didn’t have access to a phone to let us know what had happened. We were all so relieved and had a laugh over how everyone overreacted, but it really did scare me. I’ve learned to really value the time I get to spend with my online friends; next time might not be so lucky, and if something were to happen it’s hard to ever get closure on it.

There’s never been a better time to pick up a new hobby.

One thing the internet’s really helped with is connecting like-minded individuals. Before the internet, if you had a niche hobby, you were probably the only person you know in your town with that hobby. Kinda lame, yeah? Nowadays, you can reach across the globe and connect with everyone who’s into the same stuff as you! Mainstream topics can have gargantuan communities, but what I find even more interesting is the weird obscure hobbies and groups, the kind that would never survive without the internet.

People online dedicate huge amounts of their free time to making resources and guides to almost everything. Need more bespoke help? You’d be hard pressed not to find someone who’s keen to chat more about their favourite pastime, if it means welcoming a new person into the fold. Guides and resources, instructional videos; it doesn’t matter if you’re trying to get into carpentry, cooking or, (mine)crafting; you’ll find support along the way.

Some things really should have stayed niche.

Conspiracy theorists. Hate groups. Radical extremists. The internet’s power to connect people can also amplify voices that really didn’t need amplifying. What once were lone people with fringe beliefs - isolated and ‘alone’ - are now monstrous communities with the power to warp people’s sense of normality. There’s a critical mass where people don’t need to interact with people with outside views, they’ve got plenty of people to talk to in your own bubble. They don’t need to ‘go outside’.

We’re all susceptible to this; it’s only human. However, it’s important to stay vigilant. While you shouldn’t keep people around that make you miserable, you shouldn’t block out the first sign of dissent. Maintain a healthy variety in the people you talk to, and the content you consume.

[ANDREW TEXT]

In the rules discussion channel of a board game group I’m in, I swear sometimes it’s like I’m stuck in a time loop. I watch a random person ask a common question about the game, and then someone else will get the rules clarified for them. A few hours will pass, the conversation drifting elsewhere as people drop in and out. Suddenly, I spot it; the same question from before, but from a different person. Like clockwork, another nameless devout will rise up and deliver the answer. And again. And again. It’s like a two-line stage show where the audience is also the cast, over and over and over.

Since profile pictures and usernames are self-selected, every time I talk to someone new I get a weird little keyhole view of what who I’m talking to might be like.

This person has a picture of a cat as their profile image. Is it their cat, or did they just think the cat looked nice? Their username is ‘Millie’, is that their real life name; maybe? Or what if it’s the cat’s name? Are they pretending to be their cat? Are they a cat?

[RAZEK TEXT]

I do a wee bit of online gaming, and in a lot of these games the people you get paired with are completely random. I know nothing about this motley crew I’ve been thrown into, and yet we’re all expected to conform into a cohesive team and work together to win. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the luck of the draw has it that I’m paired with a bunch of inept clowns, and sometimes I’m paired with intelligent and skilled players who I mesh with really well. On the odd occasion, I might even strike up a good conversation with my team, build up some rapport. Start cracking jokes and bantering.

There’s a strong but ephemeral connection..

Sooner or later, the game ends. We say our goodbyes, and the game throws us back to the wind; like two ships passing in the night. There’s a slim chance we’ll ever both be in the same game again, but it doesn’t matter that much. We still had a good time, made a brief but positive impact on someone else’s day; and hey, there’s always the chance one of us sends the other a friend request before we leave.

Having a large presence online - that is, having other people follow or be ‘fans’ of you - is a mixed bag. For me it’s been really good in allowing me to get my art out there and get clients, but it’s also weird. It feels a bit like I’m up on a stage sometimes, everyone’s watching me. I’ve lost the feeling of being ‘just another guy in the crowd’. What if someone reads something I posted the wrong way? Do I keep being aloof and carefree, or will that hurt my image. Should I care?

[CHAI TEXT]

People with large presences can feel familiar, friendly, like you’re already friends. I’ve caught myself falling into this in the past. The brain’s great at filling in the details you want to be real. I realised that I had it written in my head that this person was super cool and the best and that it’d be really cool if we hung out; all extrapolation. While it’s entirely possible that they were everything I had imagined them to be, until it’s tested it’s all just imagination and fantasy. If I’ve never talked to them, how could I even know?

[DAVID TEXT]

What happens when the digital and the physical self have to intersect?

The two identities are from the same person, but they’re not the same.

One time, my parents sent me a text along the lines of “Your sister showed us your art; looking really cool Tom!”.

How.

I’d never sent my family any of my online profiles. I check my Twitter; sure enough in front of my eyes the screen tells me my sister has followed my twitter account. Abject horror. How much did they look at? What did they think? Should I start looking for a flat?

It’s not that I had anything to hide, it’s just that it felt… misaligned. Like two worlds coming together that shouldn’t. I’m sure for them it was just “Wow, look at our son go!”, but for me in the moment it was a sudden wave of confusion and dread.

One time, I was lucky enough to have a few of my internet friends visit in real life. I was showing them around my house, when I ran into my mum. It hit me. Who do I even introduce these people as? We all know each other by our online names and had been using them in conversation minutes earlier, but that would make no sense to my poor mum. And so, awkwardly, one by one my friends rattled off a set of names entirely alien to me. We all barely managed to keep straight faces as each of us discovered “Wait, this person’s called WHAT?”.

We all promptly forgot each other’s names within about two minutes.

Thanks to the internet, I met my partner.

Almost four years later we’re still going strong, twelve thousand kilometers apart. It helps a lot that a lot of our common interests can be done online, chiefly gaming and movies. But even the other stuff, we can still do together in some aspects. We always say good morning and goodnight to each other on the phone, and fill each other in on what we’ve been up to that day. If we go somewhere and see something cool, we can still share pictures and videos. If I make a really nice dinner, I can send them the recipe and they can have a taste (though that last one might depend on their cooking skills).

Of course, it’s not identical to an in-person relationship. We have to put a lot more effort into reaching out to each other and making time to hang out and talk; it won’t happen by accident. We’re both really looking forward to being able to move together, but until then, being together apart isn’t all that bad.

[WESLEY TEXT]

Listen a moment, before you go.

I am only one person. My field of view is limited, as is my experience. Take my advice with a grain of salt, I can’t prepare you for everything. There’s so much more waiting out there for you to uncover, some good, some bad; be sensible.

[CREDITS ‘N’ SHIT]

[stormecloudyy-blog]

Amor Probidio [v]

So I am redoing some of the parts because I wasn’t at all happy so I am happy I can salvage this story and make it end the way I wanted. 

Don’t you ever say I just walked away I will always want you I can’t live a lie, running for my life I will always want you - Miley Cyrus

Two months prior

I stare down at my phone, wondering where Landon is. He said he was going to be here at 7 pm, and it has been almost an hour. I even left work early so I could meet him for dinner. He got a promotion so he wants to celebrate. Never mind I have been working my ass off at work to maybe even have a shot at a cover story. There have rumors for a few months they are planning on doing an up and coming artist, and I need that story. It is going to be my ticket to getting ahead in the magazine and becoming an editor someday. 

Ready to call him, I resist the urge and decide to scroll through Instagram to look at everyone else having more fun than me. Usually the only thing on my Instagram is the occasional selfie or a photo of something random I like. The only reason I have any kind of followers is because I am writer for the one of the most popular music magazines and have a few selfies with some famous people, along with some famous followers. Just part of the job. I am looking at a friend’s recent wedding photos when I freeze. 

LandonJames has a new photo. And not just any photo. I am staring at my fiance smiling at a pretty girl who is kissing him on the cheek. Literally, what the fuck? I know everyone he does and I’ve never seen this stupid woman before in my life. My heart starts racing and I am ready to strangle Landon for being a n asshole. Ever since I agreed to marry him, he said he would stop being a major asshole and stop his stupid flirting with every woman he sees. 

I close the app and slam my phone down on the table. Loud enough I hear a crack and cause the people in the next table to give me a funny look. I stare right back and say, “Sorry, there was just a picture of my fiance kissing someone else on Instagram. My bad for interrupting your dinner!” They look away and whisper to each other, probably about how crazy I am. Whatever. I am happy. Life is great. Just because Landon is a flirt. That is just how he is. Everyone says he is just really friendly, he would never cheat on me because he loves me so much. That is why, after all, we are getting married. Because we are the right people for each other and there is no one else I could ever be with. Ever. 

My phone screen is shattered. Just great. I make a note to go get a new phone in the morning. 

“Autumn!”

Looking up, I see Landon walking toward me with a huge smile on his face and a single red rose in his hand. He slides in the booth across me and presents the flower with a flourish. “A rose for my love,” he sing songs.

I take it, wincing when a thorn pricks me. “Thanks,” I reply and place it off to the side. Two years and he still has no idea I don’t even like roses that much. “You were supposed to be an hour ago,” I tell him, holding up my cracked phone screen with the time. 

Landon scratches the back of his head and pretends to look embarrassed. “I know, baby. And I am so sorry. I got caught up with something at work, and I just lost track of time.”

I didn’t known kissing was “something at work.” Okay, then. “Oh, sure. That is fine. I wasn’t doing anything at all. No worries, I promise.”

“Good,” he leans in and gives me a sloppy kiss, getting saliva all over my chin. He grins as he pulls away and reaches for a menu. “I am starving. Let’s eat.”

He doesn’t ask me about my day, just starts rattling on about his promotion. 

Yeah, there is no reason at all to think I made a mistake getting engaged. None at all. 

Hiding out in my hotel room is reasonable. I can just do this for the next few days until I return home. I have been working really hard on this interview and story. I am going to get a fucking promotion from this. Then, I will get married in a few weeks. All of this is going to be great. Never mind the way my phone keeps buzzing with texts and calls and Snapchats. I am going to focus on my work. I sent Brice an email stating I am going to be sending him a rough draft very soon, and he will be pleased with what I have so far. 

I am not going to think about Shawn. And his hazel eyes. Or his stupid messy brown curls. Or that smile. Nothing. This is just work. And I am getting married. 

Married. I could start looking up a dress to order so I have one to wear in a few weeks. It doesn’t mean anything I have not ordered a dress yet at all. I am just constantly busy with work. I reach for my iPad, opening up a tab on Chrome to look at wedding dresses. 

After perusing online for about an hour, I think I found a nice Vera Wang on a discount site I like. Before I can take the plunge and press order, my phone vibrates to alert me an Unknown Caller is trying to reach me. I press ignore and go back to finishing up my shopping. I order the stupid dress, ignoring the ill feeling that passes when it says it will be shipped to my home in a week. Probably just need to eat. I reach for the bag of pre sliced apples I have been snacking on, shoving a few in my mouth. 

Now, there is knocking on my door. Ugh.

“Go away! I am working!” I shout, pulling my laptop back to me and staring at the same sentence I have been writing for the last hour. 

The knocking persists. Fucking hell.

I walk over to the door and open it slightly, poking my head out. “Yes?”

Instead of Shawn, it is one of his friends. Geoff, I think? He raises his hand in greeting and says, “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to come out with us later to have drinks. Shawn is at the gym right now, and I know he won’t ask so you. So are you in?”

I blink for a moment. “Drinks?”

“Yeah, drinks. It is one the band member’s birthday so wanted to celebrate. I didn’t want to be rude and exclude you since you are here for a few more days,” Geoff says, sounding a little annoyed I am taking so long to answer an easy question.

“Oh, I don’t know… I have so much work to do, and I am just really not up for going out after last night…” My voice trails off.

“I was at the party last night… we all heard you and Shawn…you know,” he gestures with his hands, blushing for a moment to finish his point. 

“Oh, fuck. Well, in that case, I will not be joining you for drinks. Bye.” I slam the door in his face and wish the floor would swallow me up. So much for discretion. 

Returning to my spot on the couch, my phone is ringing again.

“Yes?” I answer tersely, really annoyed with the conversation I just had and the way my life is just descending into complete chaos. 

“I want to see you tonight,” Shawn says, his voice sounding all low and scratchy. “I want more of last night. Again.”

“Fuck off, okay? I am not playing your games anymore. I told you again and again. You are no interest to me at all. We had sex once and now you think you want to do again. Newsflash, I told you just because you are famous, I am not going to fall for your stupid words. Leave me alone,” I snap and end the call. I throw down my phone, ready to just pack up my bags and head home already. I would if this wouldn’t fuck up my whole chance to get that job. 

More knocking. Are you fucking kidding me. I am going to give his stupid friend a piece of my mind. I storm over to the door and scream, “I already said no!”

“Fuck. Hello to you, too,” Shawn murmurs.

I look up at him because he is such a fucking tall kid. He is standing at my door in just a tank top, gym shorts, and sneakers. He is all sweaty, frizzy curls pushed back with a head band. My eyes travel around all of those muscles and holy shit, this boy is thick. Okay, this man. Fuck. I inadvertently lick my lips, suddenly unable to speak properly. 

“Hello…” I say, not meeting his eyes. The amount of turned I am on right now is so fucked up. As long as I do not look at him, this should all be just fine. And I am definitely not going to reach out and touch the tattoo on his forearm with a finger, tracing the lines of the Toronto skyline and his parents voice to make the guitar design.

Shawn watches me trace my fingers along his arm before taking them into his hand and pressing them against his lips. “You’re beautiful,” he says, gently nudging me into the room and closing the door behind him. 

Rolling my eyes, I take my hand back. “You can shut off your stupid charm because I am not interested at all. You are nineteen, and I am twenty four. You are famous, and I am just writing about you. There is no reason for you to even be in my room right now.”

He chuckles, placing his hands on his hips. “And yet you were the one who touched me first when all I said was hello.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You’re all sweaty. Get out.” I point at the door. “Right now.”

“But I just want to get sweaty with you again. This just saves me some time.” His hazel eyes twinkle with mischief. “And I am not that sweaty. Just like more than normal. Just work around it.”

“No, thank you.” I shake my head. “Go take a shower.”

He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Yes, please.”

Before I can open my mouth to speak, he has dragged me by the hand to the bathroom.

I slam the shot glass down on the bar, knowing I should stop. There is a limit, but I don’t seem to care too much right now. I am on my third shot, and I have been sipping on beer since we came to the bar. Shawn, Geoff, Andrew, and some other people whose names I forgot since I can’t stop taking shots. My entire life is just going to shit so at least I can get drunk to forget about how much everything fucking sucks once people find out Shawn and I had sex. There goes my whole career. I gesture for another shot, but Shawn nixes it with the bartender. 

“Maybe we should have less tequila shots for right now, Autumn,” Shawn tells me as he points at the three empty ones I have downed along with the few beer glasses. Plus his I have been sipping from as well. 

“Maybe you should have less tequila,” I tell him, my words a little bit slurred. 

Shawn takes a sip from his beer and says, “You are the only one who is having the shots like there is no tomorrow. Just because the tab is covered doesn’t mean you have to drink away the whole bar, you know.”

I glare. “Are you throwing in my face you have more money than me for tequila shots? You are the one who told me I should come out with you!”

He takes a deep breath and presses a kiss against my forehead. “That isn’t what I meant at all. I just thought you would have a nicer time if you were awake and not blacked out. That is all I am saying, babe. I swear.”

He called me babe. I should say something about this, but my mind is little too blurred for me to make any comebacks. And he kissed me. I will tell him tomorrow when I have had time to be less tequila happy. 

When one of my favorite Mariah Carey songs, We Belong Together, starts playing. I try to jump off my stool, but I stumble. Shawn catches me before I fall. I straighten myself off and say, “I love this song and I wanna dance so I am going to go dance now.” I point in the direction where some people are dancing and walk over there so I can have some fun too. I have not had fun in soooo long. It could be because of Landon. He sucks a lot. I wave to Shawn as I try my best to dance without falling down, getting lost in the music and singing at the top of my lungs. I giggle as a guy dances up to me, grabbing my hips and dancing close to me. 

“You’re very pretty,” he says to me, alcohol rolling of his breath as he whispers in my ear with his hands tight on my hips.

“Thank you!” I gush and give him my best smile. “You are so sweet! And I am glad you came to dance with me because Shawn didn’t want to dance with me.” I pout.

The guy raises an eyebrow. “Who wouldn’t want to dance with a pretty lady like you? Maybe you should come home with me so I can show you what a real man can do.”

I point at Shawn who is now watching the two of us with narrowed eyes. He downs the rest of his beer and slams the glass down the bar. I blow a kiss to him which makes him pause for a moment before pushing through the crowd to make his way toward us. 

“Shawn!” I say, waving as he is coming to us. “That is Shawn,” I tell the guy who keeps his hands on my hips, still grinding against me. “Shawn! This is the guy who is dancing with me because you don’t think I am pretty enough to dance with.”

He rolls his eyes. “Autumn, I just fucked your brains out like two hours and you honestly think I don’t want to dance with you?”

The guy pauses and steps back from me. “This your boyfriend?” He has to look up at Shawn who is taller and more built than him. Shawn takes a step forward, making him move back even more. 

The song switches to Baby One More Time by Britney Spears and I almost scream because I need to dance again. Shawn is still staring at the guy who looks like he wants to leave now. 

“Shawn is the one who said I should have less tequila, and he didn’t even offer to dance with me,” I inform the guy who is not dancing anymore. He is just kind of staring at Shawn like he is waiting for something bad to happen. A few other people are watching as well, but Shawn is not making any moves.

I dance to the music, grabbing Shawn and forcing him to dance with me. He grabs me and pulls me close to him, placing his hands on my waist and whispering in my ear how much trouble I am going to be in later. It sends tingles in all of the right places. The guy just shakes his head and walks away, not wanting a fight he would probably lose because Shawn is really tall and really thick. 

“Shawn, I wanna tell you something! But you have to promise you won’t tell anyone because people will think I am a horrible person. But I think you are like the best person I have met in a long time and I like it when we get naked!”

Shawn laughs loudly and presses a kiss to my head, pulling me away from the dance floor and sitting me down where we had been at the bar. His friends are all talking and drinking, just barely glancing at us to see what the heck is going on. I am sure they don’t even care. 

“Okay, Autumn. I want you to do something for me. I need you to please drink this water and maybe eat something. I would feel so horrible if you had a hangover tomorrow. So here,’ he hands me some water. “Sip on this and I am going to order you some pizza, okay?” He gestures at the bartender and puts in an order for pizza, thanking her profusely and even giving her a large tip so the food gets done faster. 

I take a few sips of the water, wishing I could have another shot. But I don’t want to make Shawn mad at me when this is the only time I have had fun in a long time, and I just want to stay here with me. Shawn keeps his arm on me, staying close and just looking at me like he thinks I am special or something. Like he just keeps smiling and I want to ask him what is making him smile. I even finish the water so he gets me more and he runs his hand through my hair like it is just a normal thing like we are a couple. Like we could just fall in love and be happy someday. 

“Okay, I am going to run to the restroom. I will be right back. Do not go anywhere,” Shawn tells me. “Hey guys? Watch Autumn please.” He jumps off his stool and heads toward the bathroom. When I am sure he is gone, I pick up the new beer he ordered and chug it. The alcohol hits me really fast and I am suddenly feeling even greater than I was. 

“Shots!” I scream and the bartender and obliges, placing two tequila shots in front of me. I down the first one and I am finishing the second one just as Shawn comes back.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Autumn?”

“I just had two more!” I hold up two fingers and start giggling uncontrollably. “Two shots. Just two more. And you were gone. You weren’t even supposed to know…”

Shawn shakes his head and lifts up his almost empty beer. “And this is you too, I assume?” 

I shrug, still not able to stop giggling and almost falling down from my sitting position. 

Shawn sighs and places his arm around me to keep me steady. “What am I going to do with you, pretty girl?” he sighs, kissing my temple. I wrap my arms around his neck and pucker my lips, demanding a kiss. He kisses me softly and smiles, those hazel eyes filled with so many emotions at once.t“

I go home soon so you don’t have to see me anymore soon,” I say with a pout, knowing it is going to suck when I don’t see him anymore. Because there is no way these stupid feelings aren’t real. Denial isn’t just a river in…somewhere.

“I told you you aren’t going to just get rid of me. That is why there are phones and planes and all of those things. So we can still see each other,” he reassures me, still oblivious to the horrible truth that will make him hate me the day he finds out. But for now, we can just have these few moments before it is all gone for good. 

“Time to go back to the hotel?” I ask with a yawn, suddenly feeling like the room is spinning.  

“Yes, babe, let’s get you to get some rest.”

Back at my hotel room, Shawn is doing his best to get me undressed. I ended up just throwing most of my clothes on the floor and saying I want Shawn to come to bed already. 

He takes off his own clothes, stripping down to his boxers and crawling into bed with me. He lays his head on my chest and looks up at me. “You know, I am pretty fucking sure I am in love with you. Which is fucking crazy because I just met you, and I know insta love is such bullshit. But I don’t get why else I would feel like this.”

“Maybe because you are just a horny boy who says whatever he wants so he can get more sex,” I say with a giggle. 

Shawn rolls over and stares up at the ceiling. “You think I am a joke all of the time just because I am younger than you. At least when it comes to emotions, bt I am always more than enough when we are fucking so you need to make up your mind already.”

This is the part where I should tell him I am going to be married in a few weeks so none of this matters. The words are at the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare speak them. Instead, I tell him, “You know there is no way you and I could ever be together. You are going to be so fucking famous you will have all the tits and ass you could ever want, and I am going to become an assistant editor and be one of the best fucking writers around.  We could never ever work out.”

Sighing, he gets out of bed and starts to pick his clothes up off the floor. “I am just going to go then. Since we will never fucking work out.”

“Shawn, please don’t leave…” I whine, reaching my hand out to him. 

Hazel eyes bore into me. “Make up your fucking mind. Either I stay or go. I am not going to go around and around with you forever.”

“Stay with me,” I say.

“I can’t fucking believe you already own so much of me, Autumn,” he tells me as he climbs into bed with me, his long limbs resting against mine. 

“You have my whole heart forever,” Shawn mumbles.

I can’t get married.

[internetandnetwork]

Boost Your Productivity With These 7 Effective Copywriting Hacks

If pushing deadlines, lack of sleep and overall lack of focus and health is giving you stress, automatically the copies you will craft will be of poor quality.

Regardless of what you are writing, whether it is product copywriting, social media posts, metadata, or blog posts, this fact rings true for every instance.

Forget about writing tasks; when under stress or feeling a lack of well-being, you are highly likely to make mistakes even when sending an email to a friend or family!

Want to know the #1 reason for this poor copywriting? – Unproductive habits!

We know for a lot of professionals such as news writers, the rush factor emerges. But then again, the majority of these hurried situations can be easily attributed to a lack of effective productivity habits at the top of the workflow chain.

Despite where these poor productivity habits stem from, unproductive habits and awful time management are the prime culprits here. And there is no way you can engage an audience if you are creating trash copies.

In this blog, we will discuss seven effective copywriting hacks that will help you craft engaging copies. Stay super focused and keep these hacks in mind to maximize your productivity!

Work With Zero Distractions

First things first – there should be zero distractions while working; none at all.

No scrolling social media, no checking emails, no text messages, no phone calls, and no disturbances from family members or co-workers if working remotely.

Because one thing that you need to keep in mind is distractions are the chief drivers of poor copywriting.

Therefore before you sit down to work on any writing tasks, do the following:

Turn off all the notifications from social media, emails, phones, etc.

Keep your mobile on silent mode and flip it upside down and place it somewhere away from your reach.

Only keep one window/tab open. If you are writing online using a platform like Google Docs, just keep that tab open and if using Word, close all web browsers.

Tell your co-workers or family members (if working remotely) to not disturb you while you are writing.

Start Blocking Your Hours

Just like conducting keyword research is a basic principle of SEO; likewise, blocking your hours is a basic principle of TMO (time management optimization).

When you manage your time wisely, your productivity gets revved-up automatically.

Don’t just block your hours for writing, do it for everything throughout your whole day.

Start your day by planning out your entire day in portions of time. There are multiple tools available online that you can use to help you schedule your day better.

Make sure you complete all the tasks on the assigned time and try sticking to your schedule as strictly as possible. It might seem a bit tough in the beginning (easier said than done), but eventually, it will become a habit (a good one)!

While emergencies like illness or family problems might happen anytime, don’t allow anticipated emergencies like a client demanding a sudden meeting or unplanned project to confiscate your blocked hours.

Simply blocking your hours will help you in streamlining your productivity. Put this into practice, and soon you will be able to build effective copies more consistently.

Prioritize Your Tasks

While you are blocking your hours, prioritize the writing projects that require your most focus and energy and do them when you are most focused and energized.

Well, ideally, this time will be early in the morning before you check your social media or open/respond to emails.

Just like we discussed in the first point, these two are the biggest distractions that strip your creativity levels off, and whatever the matter be (good or bad), it will stick around, even if you think otherwise.

Another best time to finish off your priority tasks is after you take a quick break since your mind gets ‘refreshed’ that time, allowing you to focus better and supercharge your energy levels.

Outline Your Content

This simple hack will simplify your whole content writing process much more than you’d think, although most copywriters often ignore this step.

Outlining your content will help you in organizing your thoughts and establishing a high-level flow before you dive into the more in-depth details.

While you continue writing, your content’s outline will typically shift, so there’s no need to stress too much about having the ‘perfect’ outline.

Just outline your thoughts in the clearest way possible and fill in the grainy details as you proceed.

For example, for this blog that you are reading right now, the outline included the introduction, headings (the seven hacks), and the conclusion.

It is not necessary that you outline your writing piece the moment you sit down to finish the task. Ideas pop up all the time, especially in the minds of people whose jobs involve lots of creativity, and most of the time, these ideas cross your mind when you are not thinking about writing or the project at all.

Therefore, be sure to write down the idea in a notepad or in your mobile, tablet, laptop, whatever is available right away.

Don’t Hesitate to Ask Questions

Many young writers tend to skip asking questions, whether it’s about a particular correction from an editor or about a subtlety they noticed within a client’s service.

People usually assume that others would think they are dumb.

Therefore, their master plan is to learn everything on their own or try to find out whatever it is that they need to know without any input from people who actually know the answer to their question.

Having questions in your mind will do you no good, except rob your focus and boundless time. And all of this could be avoided if they just got up, asked, got an answer, and then went on writing with a clear mind.

Asking questions continuously is the key to becoming a productive copywriter. So don’t ever feel stupid asking questions and always go for the quickest way to get an immediate answer.

This simple hack will help in streamlining your writing efforts and creating more quality work in less time, thus boosting your productivity.

Embrace Mind Recharge Breaks

This is just our way of saying that you must take quick breaks from work mandatorily. And by this, we don’t just mean throughout the day, but also for prolonged periods on a weekly basis.

Taking compulsory pauses from work lets you refresh your brain or recharge your creative units.

For example, let’s say we have 100 creative units maximum at a particular time. Now when you indulge in a writing task with your complete focus for two hours straight, you will probably be left with just a few remaining units. The same applies to when you spend an hour in responsive mode, checking and replying to emails and useless social media posts.

Meaning, after every writing session, you need to take out some time and relax to refill your creative units as much as you can. This is the only way you will be able to complete your next task and produce a writing piece that is truly engaging.

Do whatever works for you – whether a quick bike ride or walk in your garden, or playing with your pet to restore your mental creativity.

However, remember, daily breaks are a must, and so are weekly breaks.

Pick a day in the week and get away from all work. Taking out time for yourself will help you have a clearer and creative mind to be more productive.

Optimize Your Health

This point reinforces the point mentioned above.

This goes without saying – if our body is at its optimal health, so will our mind. And when a healthy body and mind work together, it leads to an excellent creation of smooth, high-flow, and engaging content (for writers).

Now, the best practices to stay healthy takes place both during and after work. Wherever you are, the key to achieving optimal health is regularly exercising every week, and having healthy eating habits.

When not in the office, exercising and eating a healthy diet is simple. You just cling to your weekly pact and do it.

However, things work very differently when you are inside the office, and this applies to all situations, whether you are working remotely or actually in the company’s office.

That’s because the workflow and office meetings cause most employees to eat junk food and stay hooked to their chairs all day.

But you need to fight these bad eating habits anyway possible.

And about the exercise regime, you can try keeping a mini-trampoline in your office if possible. Otherwise, go for a stand-up desk. It will keep you on your feet throughout the day, which will help maintain your energy level as well as promote better posture.

This simple hack will help you stay productive and focused on creating quality content more consistently.

Conclusion

Lack of productivity makes an unhappy and bad writer.

Most excuses that writers like to give is that the pay isn’t good or they can’t work full-time because there’s no work simply. But the truth is these are false opinions.

The need for writers has skyrocketed now more than ever for businesses, and everyone wants quality along with quantity.

However, quality must always override quantity.

But when you become highly productive as a writer, that same quantity element will help you grab more paychecks for a work that you love doing while also saving you more time to do the same more efficiently.

The seven effective copywriting hacks mentioned in this blog are easy to implement and very beneficial in boosting your productivity. So try these out today and experience the magic yourself!

Hariom Balhara is an inventive person who has been doing intensive research in particular topics and writing blogs and articles for Tireless IT Services. Tireless IT Services is a digital marketing, SEO, SMO, PPC, and web development company that comes with massive experiences.  We specialize in digital marketing, web designing and development, graphic design, and a lot more.

SOURCE : Boost Your Productivity With These 7 Effective Copywriting Hacks

[art-0f-studying]

Study Tips - Studying with a mental illness

As someone who has depression and anxiety, I found that the tips etc that teachers gave worked for others but not for me. I also found that I learnt a lot differently to everyone else because of my mental illness. So here are some tips I used during Secondary School and mainly college that helped me a lot.

Find out when your deadlines are.  It’s sounds simple, but it’s not when you have loads of pieces of work that have to be handed in in a short time. In school we had a homework record where you would write down the homework (What Class, description of the homework, any specific criteria that needs to be met, due date). My anxiety would make me think I missed something. So if I wrote it down as soon as we were told, I would trust my notes. If you aren’t sure, ask if you can. I carried this on to college with my own notebook. This saved me so much panic. I would then work on the one that was due first OR one that I knew would take the longest. I have made a free assignment planner printable that you can copy all your homework down onto when you get home. Just save the image and print

Consider times your mental health would be less good. It could be a certain date, or just one of them days. But be prepared for them. If i felt up to it, I would always do some extra work. I did Graphic Design, the work load was horrendous. But each project was the same layout. So after I completed one section I knew what the next was. We could pretty much sit down and complete the whole project if we wanted to (And had a few months to just sit there) without any tutor telling us what to do. So I would start planning what I would do, start doing title designs, or even just get straight into the work. Anything extra you can do while you’re in a good state of mind, will really help you when you aren’t quite your best. 

Talk to your tutor. If you need to have a good relationship with anyone, it’s your tutor. My main tutor saved my arse so many times it’s unreal. Without him, I wouldn’t have got my A-levels. I would have been kicked out in the middle of first year (For something not quite related to this post). If I was feeling low, I would go talk to my tutor, we would work out a plan. At the end of the week when we did our share day (basically sit round a table and show the class your work) if I knew I had a really bad week or so or I was feeling really anxious, I would talk to him before hand so he knew not to pick me and make me feel worse. My class was amazing and I was friends with all of them and we were in the same boat so no one laughed or too the mick. In fact we helped each other, but still I didn’t want to feel like I wasn’t good enough to be there. Your tutor is there to help, they want to help you and will work with you. The amount of times I sat next to him and broke down and he never ever made me feel stupid. They have seen everything before, I promise it’s okay to talk to them.

Look after yourself. Stressful day?? Try a bath, relax. Going home and doing more work will not help you at all. I know I said to get work done when you can. BUT not when you feel low. It will be worse. Trust me, it gets messy. Read a book, meet with friends, play that video game. If you feel able to do some work before bed, brilliant, if not, that is perfectly okay. You are still doing great :)

Know yourself. For example. If I was doing psychology homework, I couldn’t have music on. I had to sit at my desk, head down and work. If it was graphics work, I could sit anywhere, inside or out, headphones in happy as can be. Psychology was better done as soon as I got in, and I needed regular breaks and a drink nearby. Graphics was better done during the evenings and even nights, sometimes I would need breaks sometimes, woops 2 hours have gone by. Know how you work and what works best for each subject. Only you can do this, sorry I can’t help you figure it out. It’s okay to take things slow. Split one piece into smaller parts so it doesn’t feel so much of a task.

Lectures. So I haven’t gone to Uni so I don’t have uni lectures, but I did have long lectures about graphics. During this if I felt good, I would take notes and roll with it. But Psychology was when my mental health started to go because I really struggled with anxiety. First year was brilliant, second year, my anxiety and depression had got so much worse. So I started recording the lessons. If i switched off, it’s okay. I had the recordings. I would also ask my teacher to email me all the presentations she did for the lessons every week. So I could go through them at my own pace. I could not go at the same pace as those in my class that have no mental illnesses. To begin with I really really took it out on myself, saying I was stupid etc. My teacher realised I was so different from my first year and I told her about my mental health. She said to me:

“Don’t beat yourself up, learning isn’t a competition. You cannot compare yourself to others. People learn all different ways and at different speeds. When your brain isn’t quite healthy, it can take more time and energy to learn the at the same speed as everyone else. You cannot compete with classmates who are mentally well, because that will do nothing but bring yourself down. We learn for ourselves so there is no point beating yourself up if you take longer to learn.”

Take advantages of the tools they have. I spoke to my teachers if I thought I couldn’t get the work done on time, even though I tried as much as I could because of my anxiety, I couldn’t always do it. They understood. If I did an assignment early, I handed it in early. That was my own way of balancing things out. Free Periods. I spent in the graphics classroom doing anything I could, even if I just put one post it into my book, it was still something extra. Classmates. Not sure on a due date or just want to check something, people have your back. Missed a lesson, maybe they will copy their notes. It’s worth asking. Library. A quiet area for if you are going to have a panic attack. (life saver), books on your topics, a place to do homework, or just find a book to read and enjoy, it’s worth a trip. Counsellor. struggling a bit?? or just want someone to talk to?? It’s free and confidential. Need more tips to help studying. They probably have a few websites you can visit. 

This turned into a post that is a lot longer than I thought it would be. I hope at least one tip will be helpful for you. I have printables etc that can help you and they will always be free so check out my blog. Just remember to try not to be to hard on yourself, you are doing so well. As long as you tried your best, you didn’t fail yourself. 

One last thing. If I was extremely bad I would allow myself a mental health day pass. I spoke with my parents who agreed with me. There is so much stress, sometimes all you need is a day. I would tell my parents I wasn’t going in. No questions asked. This was only during college that I started this. In 2 years I only needed one day. I felt so much better afterwards. I spent the day writing up post it notes of plans and ideas and organising them. I would write down thoughts and screw them up if I didn’t think they were worth my time and it really helped to clear my head a bit.

Printables: Weekly Planner Assignment Planner  To-Do List Today Planner Books To read

[supremekalmllc]

New Post has been published on http://dreamworxbotanicals.com/cbd-gummies-for-kids/

Are CBD Gummies for Kids Completely Safe with Many Health Benefits?

Although CBD industry is on its peak nowadays, but it’s creating a lot of questions as well – for instance, is that safe to consume CBD gummies for kids? One can find CBD in many forms like lotions and capsules to oil, tinctures and gummies. And according to research, gummies are the most enjoyable way to consume CBD as gummies just taste like candy and can be divided into pieces with ease.

CBD gummies are known to be a healthy medication in general – with little or no side effects and a plethora of beneficial effects on the body as well as the brain. The FDA also recommends CBD-based medication for use in seizure cases, and used to treat a wide range of illnesses. Here, we’ll be discussing a little about CBD gummies and many health benefits. So, let’s have a look!

What is CBD Gummies?

CBD gummy product is not only simple to use but also most common, discreet and delicious CBD product. It’s important to note that CBD has an unpleasant taste – therefore, it’s an excellent option for those who don’t really like sweetened oil and capsules. Besides, CBD gummies for kids are perfect since kids likely to avoid the unpleasant taste of oils and capsules. The gummy form makes CBD enticing for younger users and is easy to chew.

Is it Legal to Give CBD to Kids?

For kids, it’s unethical to manufacture recreational cannabis products with THC. It’s, in fact entirely illegal to provide kids with THC-containing products. CBD, however, has no poisoning effects. Moreover, it’s known as a dietary supplement throughout the U.S. The CBD, too, has viewed to the same degree by many other countries in the world. Contemporary extraction techniques enable companies to eliminate THC from their CBD products – hence, healthier for kids and legal as well.

However, it’s still a bold move to consult with your doctor before using CBD gummies for your kid as a supplement.

Some Key Features

Obviously, everyone should know about quite a few features that make it healthier for kids if you’re in search of good CBD gummies for kids. Scientists have given a green signal for both adults and kids to consume, and there are solid reasons behind it. Here is a list of features you should know before buying CBD gummies for your kids.

Gluten-free

You won’t be disappointed by hemp gummies for kids if you are one of those who have strict guidelines about the gluten-free diet for your loved ones. CBD gummies are absolutely free from gluten but are vegan-friendly. Furthermore, there is no additional chemicals or additives.

Multiple Flavors

That is possibly why your kids might want gummies. One can order the best CBD gummies for kids in multiple flavors, and these are like candies in a store. Most interestingly, numerous well-recognised brands like DreamWoRx Botanicals sell a bunch of flavors in a single box. For instance, mixed fruits, berries, apples and several other varieties are available in the same box. Your kids will definitely love to give it a try as soon as possible.

Full-Spectrum

Not only CBD but full-spectrum CBD gummies for kids do contain many other cannabinoids in different races. There is nothing to be worried, however – as THC is not available to any of its cannabinoids. And that’s precisely what makes it an excellent product for kids to eat CBD.

Health Benefits of CBD Gummies for Kids

Relief from Anxiety

Most of the kids go through anxiety in an earlier age – whether because of house stress, difficulties in friendship, school stress or dietary deficiencies. The CBD gummies, however, can be used in the short term to address it. It works by enhancing neurotransmitters in the brain, which have the effect of lowering nervous system hyperactivity. It allows the mind to relax and return to a normal starting point after a stressful case.

Best to Treat Insomnia

Over stimulation will lead many kids to have problems when the day ends. With too much time in front of screens at home and school, their brains stay wired even in the bed. It creates difficulty that gets irritable. Well, CBD gummies for kids are known as the best healthy sleeping aid. It doesn’t sedate directly – so your child needs not to worry about reassurance. It only lets the child relax and sleep naturally. This actually slows hyperactivity in the brain.

Helps Controlling Asthma

Asthma ranges from moderate to serious in several different forms. Sometimes, it can be really harmful. CBD is a strong anti-inflammatory compound that acts on different asthmatic pathways, for instance – TNF-a, IL-6, IL-4 and IL-13. The approach works better for asthma prevention than for emergency treatment.

Moreover, don’t only prevent the immune activation of asthma, but the best CBD gummies for kids also alleviate muscles lining the airway as well as decreases stress level significantly.

Other Benefits

Epilepsy

Autism

ADHD

Motion Sickness

Skin Conditions

Should You Really Give CBD Gummies to Your Kids?

Whilst CBD products have not been tested thoroughly in kids – but preliminary studies have shown some positive results. A study on autistic kids with CBD has also performed by an Israeli group, showing a major improvement in overall kids’ behaviors. Although it’s definitely encouraging – but we all have to wait before further work is carried out to find out the real effects CBD is having on kids.

If you need any help with our CBD products – 

Please Follow Us: Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/dreamworxbotanicals/ YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7P3IIkxEGCrXspwRlvXt8g/videos LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/company/dreamworx-botanicals/

Lastly, would you like to schedule a meeting with us? Schedule Here! https://calendly.com/supremekevin

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[omfgtrump]

The Tale of Two Viruses: Part 12

Before I begin the piece, let me start with an eerie statistic: In less than a year, from May 2019 to March 2020, the share of weekly church-attending white Protestants convinced that Donald Trump was anointed by God to be president grew from 29.6 percent to 49.5 percent.

Two thoughts:

If God says it, well then it must be true…or,

If you do believe in God and think that The Don is the most “Godless” human,  then you better start doing Yoga or something to find your path because this here shit is the devil’s playground.

  At a press conference this past week The Don said: “We have met the moment, and we have prevailed.”

Here’s my idea of this week’s rambling lunacy:

Now that I have set the record straight- that we have prevailed- and before we get into questions from the media, I mean, aren’t I a great guy? I am standing up here taking questions from a bunch of low-life, fake people who are working for dying newspapers, asking the dumbest questions like “ Mr. President, Do you have a plan?” Do I look like the kind of guy that is interested in plans? Plans are boring. They require thinking through things, reading a lot of stuff. But of course, I do have a plan: It’s to follow my instincts and boy do I have some huge instincts. And what I am saying to people is to follow your destiny as workers and warriors and look that invisible enemy in the eye and say: I am part of “Making America Great Again” and you can’t stop me. And anyone who gets in your way, you know what to do.

And I am so sick and tired of the Faggie Fauci and the dullest man named Bright I have ever heard of, making up about stuff about numbers. And Red nose fool CDC Director Redfield is a joke.

Back to Mr. Dull, I heard everyone who worked with him disliked him; he was some kind of science nerd. Who wants to hang around with a nerd like that? He is saying we are not prepared and that time is running out. Got news for you Mr. Dull, that dark winter you mentioned is a figment of your imagination. America will be coming in to a brilliant sunshine just in time for my re-election.  The joke’s on him as guess who’s no longer working for us? And so then he went and whined like a baby to congress. He’s just a really dull, disgruntled nerd who is unemployed like the other 36 million Americans. Good luck trying to get that unemployment check. I hear that isn’t going too well.*

And Faggie Fauci using words like “dire consequences,” if we open too quickly, saying we lack testing capacity and Tracy capacity. Let me tell you straight up: there are not enough people named Tracy to track a virus. What’s with the Tracy thing? Everyone is thinking Fauci is losing it because he is constantly talking about Tracy. Dick Tracy? Spencer Tracy? This Tracy thing is gotten the better of him so you won’t be seeing him around much. What he said to congress was “just unacceptable.” **

Let’s face it: everyone knows that the “Deep State” employs “evil mathematics.” From day one they tried to deny that I had more people at my inauguration than Obama. Put your hands down, you slugs (to reporters), but the photos show it. Have you seen the real pictures of Obama’s inauguration?

And everyone screamed that Ms. Lock-her-up Hillary won the popular vote when millions of illegals voted. Put your hand down you twerp (to a reporter). You are going to ask; Where’s the proof of that? Right, weren’t you going to ask a nasty question like that? I should ban your network on the grounds of your reporters needing to go back to school to be educated about how to ask me a question.  But, you will see, soon there will be a very comprehensive report.

You want to keep talking numbers? So do I.

First, the number of dead is totally over-stated. There are people out there, you know people, don’t roll your eyes you impostors, you know there are people who know things, that are saying there are so many, many fewer viruses thingys floating around. And we don’t have as many deaths as reported because it turns out the people doing the counting have made some bigly mistakes, you know, that we will be talking about very soon.  I hear the person doing the counting flunked his AP math test, whatever that is, but it sounds worthy of a congressional investigation. Interesting, right, strange things going on there at CDC. We will be looking in to those fake numbers.

And I wish everyone would just get over this obsession with testing. It’s not all it cooked up to be. I mean isn’t it ridiculous that we are doing the most testing (not true based on percentages of the population) and then we get the highest numbers. Isn’t it bad to have so many positives? Stupid, right? Why don’t we just stop doing it? Who wants to be the leader of the world in Covid cases? It’s like saying we want to have the most people with acne. We don’t brag about that. We tell those people to get a new face or get out of sight because they are a nightmare to look at.

And the CDC’s original guidelines had like 63 things in it. Too many numbers. Ridiculous. Too Restrictive. The amended guidelines are much better and so, so much simpler:

If you don’t feel stupid or Un-American wearing a mask then it’s okay to wear one

Social distancing is probably a good idea, except of course, if you are near a sexy woman. Then…

And now let’s talk about the schools. We need our kids back in school. We need Americans to be smart so they can become geniuses like me. Children are safe. Put that hand down (to a reporter,) You are going to ask me about the finding in New York where 100 children died of a rare and dangerous inflammatory syndrome that appears to be connected to the virus. First of all, it’s New York. It’s a blue state, which is a direct line to the “Deep” state so it’s all an attempt to derail me from my greatness. Russia, Ukraine, Stormy Daniels, all attempts to stop me from leading this nation to its true destiny. So many are beginning to realize that I was put here by God to lead America to the promised land and what do I get in return? Don’t worry, those that see the God in me will prosper and the rest will pay the price for their doubts and disapproval.

And can one of you idiot reporters do me a favor? Can you find out who in the hell Tracy is? I am getting tired of hearing her name. And no, I didn’t pay anyone off named Tracy, so don’t even go there.

Before I leave you ungrateful S.O.B.’s, I just want to give a shot out to Mike Flynn who is free as a bee. We are looking for a job for you in our administration so keep checking your voice mail. Also, Paul Manaforte who got to go home because of the virus. But not you Michael Cohen, you are going to rot in prison.

  *Here’s what Mr. Bright actually said to congress:

“Our window of opportunity is closing. If we fail to develop a national coordinated response, based in science, I fear the pandemic will get far worse and be prolonged, causing unprecedented illness and fatalities.” He warned, “Without clear planning and implementation of the steps that I and other experts have outlined, 2020 will be the darkest winter in modern history.”

(He also spoke about lack of preparedness by U.S. Government)

Bright said that in January he received an email warning that America’s supply of N-95 respirator masks was “completely decimated and that immediate action was needed.

“And I pushed that forward to the highest levels I could at H.H.S. and got no response. “From that moment, I knew that we were going to have a crisis for our health care workers because we were not taking action.”

**Here’s what Fauci said to congress regarding opening too soon:

“That could result not only in ‘some suffering and death that could be avoided’, but could even set you back on the road to trying to get economic recovery.”

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[kernelmeow]

Diary of a Bodyguard: Client Safety and ‘Care’

Fandom: BTS (K-pop)

Characters: Park Jimin, Reader/Insert

Warnings: smut, sub!Jimin, fem!dom

Rating: NSFW

Word count: 9k +

Summary: Being a bodyguard, and a female one at that, was never going to be the easiest career path of choice. But when hired to ensure the protection and security of a touring k-pop boy band, it all seems worth it for one peculiar and unforgettable encounter.

A/N: It’s my BTS debut! Despite initial mixed feelings about this one-shot, I’ve overcome my personal conflict and decided to share this. Tbh I’m not 100% satisfied with the final draft; too many reasons to list, but there ARE elements I’m proud of. If I’ve learned anything from this drawn out process, it would be to STORYBOARD! I’ve since discovered the talented jeonjagiya and her ‘tips’ for aspiring writers - check her out! I really hope you guys enjoy this <3

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is written for entertainment purposes and is not a report of true events or an attempt to libel the persons represented.

The air is cool tonight; a precursor for autumns coming. It's enough to warrant a light blanket about your shoulders but decidedly, the windows remain open, preferring the fresh air. The evening has unfolded without expectations nor objective, free to indulge in relaxation and calm. By your design, these moments are fleeting however appreciated. You can't tolerate idleness, thriving on purpose and commitment. Beep. The personalise tone of your smart phone draws you from contemplation. Unlocking the device, an alert identifies an email occupying your inbox. It's work, and more importantly, it's marked 'urgent'. Arousing your intrigue, you proceed to read the emails content without further delay and soon discover that you've been nominated for an assignment. As you continue to peruse, you note information of particular importance; a select few from the agency, yourself included, would be an addition to the security detail touring across the country. If accepted, you'd be contracted for a month which was an unusually long period in comparison to other assignments. The email concludes with an expression of your presence being required immediately.

Well that doesn't leave much time, does it. With a simple phone call, you confirm your acceptance and receive flight information. The prospect of steady work was exactly what you needed. Discarding the phone on the bed, you rummage through your wardrobe and withdraw a suitcase from the confinements, and proceed to organise the essentials for a month away from home while wondering what the future might entail. Being a professional bodyguard provided the occasional thrilling story to share at gatherings.

This assignment would be no different than any other job, clientele typically being public figures, rich and powerful or both; businessmen, politicians and celebrities alike. During routine introductions, you could pinpoint the exact moment of scepticism which was both expected and ignored. This was a male dominated profession after all, and being anything but was distinguished as being everything but capable. You might possess the stature and exceed the standard requirements of the profession, but it wasn't enough to convince some otherwise. Yet, however tempted, you made no deliberate act to showcase physical prowess or allow ego to influence your actions. You completed each job, ensured the safety of your clients, and that ultimately mattered above all else, even if they didn't express gratitude for your service.

Most jobs were uneventful but occasionally, physical but minor intervention was required to deter an unwanted admirer or, and most commonly, the media. Displays of force were rare and the stereotypical 'brawn over brains' ideology is ill favoured. This isn't a Hollywood feature. A bodyguard is expected to have confidence, common-sense and good communication skills with their client and those involved in maintaining security. It's a common misconception that defensive training was the one and only prerequisite for this career path, and you've lost count how many times the awe exhibited by those who inquired and discovered otherwise.

It was still early days, having been in the profession a couple of years and thereby considered a novice. Eventually, given enough experience and a superior list of credentials, you would go private and work as a personal contractor, but until then you had enlisted at an agency and bodyguards were hired on a 'need be' basis. Contracts were generally short, anywhere from a couple of hours to a full day and sometimes a week at most, but generally no longer. But occasionally there was the odd contract that was for an extended period of time, and one such assignment had been appointment to you.

That's about it, looking over the packed case one last time. It'd be an early start tomorrow, and with that in mind, you ready for bed. The final, fleeting thoughts before sleep consumes consciousness, is that there was nothing else to worry about. Living alone did come with its perks; you could come and go as you pleased.

The venue is vast and situated in the heart of the metropolis, commanding attention of the area. Peering through the window of the taxi, your eyes travel up the advancing brim of the stadium, marvelling at the architectural feat. Must be drawing quite the crowd tonight. Your warm breath, traced with two necessary coffees, mists the glass, obstructing your view. You fall back into the seat, attention diverting to snippets of radio conversation. The event is drawing media coverage.

The bulking figure of the second agency representative sits beside you. Blake. Of all people, you're thankful he was chosen. He's fifty-something, family orientated and had been in the profession for over twenty years now. Ex-military and that's all he'd ever mention. He had been the most welcoming and non-judgemental. He never underestimated your abilities, allowing you to make mistakes and acknowledge and learn from them. He reminded you of that Australian actor; the one who played the grisly superhero. Only Blake wasn't grisly, not in the least, but he utilised his appearance to his advantage. People think twice about fucking with a guy who looked like him, but he was the biggest softy. Though bilingual, his linguistic skill couldn't offer assistance for this assignment, but he offered experience gained from working with a variety of clients. This assignment was nothing he hadn't done before.

Besides the carer choice you shared with Blake, there was one other thing for certain that you had in common: a thrill and desire for power and control; to be of service to someone in this capacity is an awesome feeling. Not long after entering this line of work did you realise that it reflected your personal life. Others at the agency had learned early on that you weren't a 'piece of ass' who thought she'd try dress-up for fun. It took one incident and one idiot for everyone to realise you intended on maintaining a tight separation between you personal life and work life, and that no one was going to succeed wooing you with such alpha tactics. It was laughable. Imagine their surprise should they know your preferences delved into different territories.

The taxi eases to a stop and you abandoned the thought. As Blake settles the costs, fully redeemable by the agency, you exit the vehicle. The contrast of the artificially heated air and fresh breeze is felt immediately. It was colder here, the city experiencing full blown autumn, and unconsciously you tug the collar of your jacket up to shield your neck. As you're inspecting the area, you feel Blake presence at your side.

“The cavalry has arrived,” he boasts enthusiastically.

You roll your eyes in response. “Oh yes. Very fearsome.”

“When you've seen what I have, two people can make a hell of a difference.” His reflective response was a testament to his wealth of knowledge and experience, and served to highlight your naivety, but you respected him nonetheless. “Come on. Let's get inside before my nipples erect.” And then he said something like that.

Flanked at his side, you match his pace with steel resolve and the cold forgotten.

On entry, you're welcomed by the facility manager and introduced to the tour manager and the head of security whom would coordinate alongside Blake and yourself. Blake, being a natural born leader and surpassing you in experience, was the agencies chosen representative and primary liaison between the facility staff and those who have hired the agencies service. It had taken time and understanding of this business to accept that you wouldn’t command respect without first earning it, and made all the more difficult to do so because of your sex. During your transition into the workplace, Blake had offered advise on the matter.

“Don’t let anyone, especially your client, see when shit gets to you,” he’d said. “That's a disadvantage you can't afford.”

Like much of Blake’s advice, you had adopted it if it meant bettering your service. With that in mind, you’re attentive, listening keenly and never straying to distraction.

An identification lanyard now hangs about your neck in addition to the uniform. The dress code was optional within reason but personal preference was dictated by the nature of the job. Foreseeing the long hours, you decided comfortability is a sensible choice. You're dressed in the standard company shirt, tucked into fitted cargo pants and finished with a belt and boots - cushioned insoles included. You favoured a tight pony tail and light makeup to refine a natural appearance. Blake and yourself are equipped with a two-way radio receiver; no dark shades, no suit. It's about practicality and sensibility.

Introductions conclude and swiftly eventuate to the next task of importance: a tour of the stadium lead under the guidance of the event security coordinator. It allows for the opportunity to familiarise yourselves with the environment and learn the layout of the venue, noting key areas such as the main entry and exit points, stairwells and bathrooms, and public and private access. Some areas are a maze of passages that you aim to commit to memory.

Local law enforcement will police the parameter of venue and surrounding areas to appropriately navigate traffic, while facility security will monitor the entrance booths and patrol the corridors and seating area. Private security, being Blake, yourself and the Korean security detail, would operate backstage for that was where the clientele would be situated. For this venue alone there were two scheduled concerts over two nights. Proceeding, there would be an additional recoup day before setting off for the next city and there the routine would repeat again.

While knowing the environment was just one aspect of the job, knowing your client was another. Would they listen and respect your judgement? Were they prone to risk taking or attention seeking behaviours? If so, they were more likely to draw attention, often adverse attention and that's when security was a necessity. Certain clientele were more notorious for such behaviour. You didn't believe in first impressions, hell, you were all too familiar with the misconception, but meeting your client for the first time gave you a sense for what you might expect of them. Intuition was a skill that would be refined in time.

The train of thought keeps you occupied during lunch. It was one of the few but appreciated perks at large events such as this – free food. While the time allowed, you check your phone and send replies to inquisitive friends and concerned family. Before you become too comfortable, the radio crackles and Blake's distorted voice sounds from your hip.

“Up and at it. We've got incoming.”

Taking the receiver in hand, you mumble, “They're early.” Taking another bite of your sandwich.

“And you're still sitting on your ass.” You pout at the device. His intuition was kinda scary.“You're still on your ass. East entrance. Now.”

You resist a mock salute, instead stuffing the remnants of the sandwich into your mouth and brushing the crumbs on your pants. Without further hesitation, you're marching to the destination.

Outside, security gathers and awaits the expected arrival. This entry was strategically separate from civilian access and allowed for the discrete arrival and exit of high profile visitors. A reinforced, automated but staffed security gate was the first check point that filtered entry. Cement barriers shield either side of the road to minimise civilian contact but as Blake points out, the secret entry isn’t so secret. Amused, you observe the small gathering of fans lining the erected barriers - a thriving hive of excitement. Fangirls and fanboys. They never failed to know when and where to be. Their dedication and sources commendable.

The buzz intensifies and you adjust your gaze to the road and observe a sleek, black limo inbound. Passing through the first security check, the limo gains entry and passes through a second check, navigating the road to the venue entrance. Faces indent the fence, peering to claim an advantaged view of the limo. The vehicle parks and the Korean security detail stiffen in attention. One of the doors open and as if on cue, the distant but unison scream announces your client's arrival, and there were few reasons for this particular type of hysteria and loyalty.

A boy-band.

One by one, the idols emerge from the vehicle and silently you count, brows raising a fraction when the number continues to exceed your expectations. When all the members are gathered, you've counted seven in total. Seven surprisingly attractive young men. They could be no more than a few years younger than yourself. They assess their surroundings and you watch as a mixture of curiosity and reservation play upon their delicate features. They're ushered along and the crowd ensures to showcase their undeterred enthusiasm, and like a protective shield, Blake, yourself and the other members of security escort the musicians inside.

Settled inside, the idols are addressed by the tour manager. The conversation is lost on you but the interpreter kindly shares information of importance. Before long, the interpreter steps forward and joins the conversation, gesturing to Blake and yourself. There is a moment of awe and some exclamation which is quickly attributed to the attention directed at your person, and it didn't take a genius to summaries the cause. Their reaction and naivety is too comical to even feel a mild sense of irritation toward the group of guppy-faced musicians. But without fault, you maintain the practiced poker-face, staring long and hard at them.

“Oh! She's so serious.”

“And looks so strong! Do you think she could lift me?”

“With those chicken legs, anyone could lift you.”

“Naw! You're so mean!”

They break into laughter, two shoving each other playfully. You restrain a smile, finding their exuberance contagious though ignorant of what was said. Their manager hushes them and the group simmers to a contained titter, and the discussion continues further interruption. You offer Blake a sidelong glance who smiles with understanding. Remain impassive to provocation, he had once said. This was unlike typical circumstance, but it was important for clients to understand the seriousness of your role and that you weren't easily influence by emotion and a damaged ego.

Time allows you to study each idol, one by one. The email had proved minimal detail on each member, but as personally expected, you had memorised all seven, and was able to select a member at random and assign name to face, even if you weren't confident about pronunciation. They exuded boyish charm and energised charisma, and combined with their youthful attraction was the perfect components for successful entertainers. But what of their talent? You imagine they sung and perhaps danced, but there needed a special ingredient to the mix. Inevitably, you would see in time and as if on cue, the interpreter mentions that they would proceed for practise.

Construction of the stage is near completed with minor adjustments being carried out by stage technicians. A large LED screen extends the stage anterior, flickering with random colour as staff ensure the interconnectivity of every panel. Metal beams raise above and across the foreground, outfitted with spot lights to capture the performance. The stage itself features a large rectangular platform from which a thin path extends from its center, pathing far across the green lawn and to end at a smaller platform. A fence, somewhat flimsy in appearance, surrounds the parameter of the stage and its extension; a meter in width would separate the compacted bodies from the stage and allow security to patrol the barrier, and camera-techs to capture the performance.

With a wardrobe change, the idols are ready for practise, guided by their stage choreographer who motions at different areas of the stage. Blake and yourself roam about the foreground, familiarising yourselves with the area you would spend a better part of the two days. Minimising interference with the group, you follow Blake as he inspects the fenced barrier, pointing out access onto the field, voicing comments aloud, more-so to himself, but you listen. He was thorough, nothing not worth his attention.

“What do you see?”

You regard him briefly, not surprised by the question, then you survey the environment, formulating a response.

“Low risk gig in my opinion. It’s a large venue but considering the demographic, attention will be focused on the performance. Stage-crashers are always a possibility but a minimal one at that.” Blake nods in agreement and you feel like you’ve successfully passed an informal test. “What’s the estimation of sales?”

“Surprisingly, ninety-thousand for the two nights.”

Those were good numbers. They were more popular than you'd given them credit, having not heard of the pop group before this assignment.

Blake spies your contemplative expression and asks, “What of them?”

Sparing a glance at the idols, you summaries your impression of the seven members since introductions and casual observation.

“Babysitting.”

Blake laughs, the arena enhancing his booming voice, briefly drawing attention to yourselves. Perhaps it was harsh and perhaps you were right, but it honest. You predicted that the dressing room wouldn't be trashed nor would you and others have to monitor inebriated persons. They were well mannered but no less enthusiastic and potentially prone to some mischief.

“I can see why you think that.” He grins. “They might surprise you.”

You snort, “I doubt that.”

He chuckles in response, entertained, and with laughter still rumbling in his chest, he retraces the path of the stage, skirting the main platform until you’re both backstage. He then mentions something about having to see to matter and instructs you to remain, throwing “Keep watch, Nanny” as he leaves.

Asshole, you think fondly.

True to his word, your attention trails the idols while monitoring the immediate area. They venture about the platform and extension, getting a sense for the area on which they'll perform. It's not exactly a riveting spectacle but remember that you're not being paid to be entertained. As they make their way back to the main platform, the stage choreographer barks a command which is answered with blaring stereo. The slow introduction of music piques your interest, casually observing as each member claims a position of the stage as the music gathers momentum. Then the beat drops and idols break into dance.

The hip-hop composition is fast-paced and memorised flawlessly, and the longer you watch, you note subtle variations in each members expression of style. They're good, you admit, really good. Impressed by the skill and choreography. As they disperse across the stage, you wander out from the sidelines to spectate. It just needed a sell-out audience to complete the picture. The music begins to ease only to transition into another song and more choreography. You were no dancer, but it rivalled everything you’d seen. The stage choreographer monitors the performance critically but seemingly satisfied.

This continues for a another four songs until the music lulls to a stop. They relax, dropping the staged composure to break into conversation, laughing heartily. The performance has certainty alleviated your bored disposition. As you observe the scene, flitting from one idol to another, you're caught by surprise to match gazes with one member. It's purely accidental, you're sure of that, but he doesn't shy away, holding the connection long enough for you to question his attention. However, the brief moment is severed when he's addresses by another idol.

You think nothing of it.

Rehearsal recommences and you continue to watch, loitering at the sidelines, but ignorant of a habit you quickly develop. You’d never considered yourself prone to distraction, but unconsciously, your gaze frequently strays to one particular member. It’s when you catch yourself, suddenly aware your gaze lingered unusually long and potentially risked being exposed for unwarranted attentions, is the habit realised. You're perplexed for the reason alludes you.

This new found distraction goes by the name: Park Jimin.

Though the encounter had been uneventful and meaningless, since chancing a brief but mutual connection between yourself and silver haired idol, you can't expel a growing curiosity toward him. The exchange was enough to capture your interest, so you indulge in the curiosity with hopes it might explain your gravitating gaze. Before, your attentions were without cause but now with new-found focus. You study the way he moves and intensity of expression as he dances. Perhaps you contemplated unnecessarily and studied too long, fostering a growing attraction, yet your mind wanders to dark places as your eyes unconsciously track his movement.

Get a hold of yourself, you chastise. It wouldn't do you any favours to indulge in such thoughts, especially while on the job and about a current client. Banishing the images, focus returns to the stage where rehearsal has since concluded and you're unexpectedly caught by the mutual attentions of said person. You’re ensnared by his gaze, provoking alarm at the blatant regard and find yourself shying away with an irrational fear that your thoughts are projected for him to know. With mustered composure, you casually cast your eyes around to portray casual but purposeful intention in being there, and hoping to ward off inadvertent attentions. When you gauge enough time has passed, but against better judgement, you chance a glance toward the group with intent to single out Jimin only to be caught off guard. He's expectant, a sly smirk playful upon his lips and you wretch away as if burned, heat colouring your face. Shit, silently cursing the indiscreet conduct.

Hushed conversation and smothered giggles prickle your ears and too often do you suspect eyes to palpate your ridged form. They are, thankfully, more discreet than your previous behaviour. You look anywhere but at the group and try to maintain a low profile, remaining out of sight and beyond the reach of prying eyes, allowing the wordless interaction to dissolve – hoping it will.

Blake returns with five minutes to spare before practise concludes. He doesn't comment on your changed demeanour. If it didn't compromise the assignment, he wouldn't ask questions, but his silence is provoking, if not more so than verbal inquiry. Internally, you're frazzled at having been so careless and so easily provoked. It was unlike you and that is what concerned you most. You had allow personal indulgence to interfere with work. It was a set-back but you'd mask the damage while repairing your professional persona.

As the sweat soaked idols are escorted to their dressing room, your attention stares pointedly ahead, resolute and refusing to give consequence of those whose gaze might drift your way in want of something. When the dressing door closes, concealing them behind its confinements, you sigh with relief, stoicism dropping. Blake observes the immediate change and while ignorant of what transpired in his absence to necessitate the hardened demeanour, he offers comfort in one of few ways he knows you'll accept.

“Coffee?”

You needn't consider his offer long before nodding in agreement.

Sinking into the couch that you'd befriend earlier, steam rises from the styrofoam cup of cheap coffee cradled between your hands. The couch shifts, Blake following your motive. Only silence exists between you. That was another quality you admired about Blake, he re-framed from making unnecessary small talk. The silence is comfortable and welcomed, and you absorb the quiet atmosphere and allow it to clear your mind, reclaiming peace within yourself.

Sometime later you're being nudged awake by Blake, having apparently dozed off. The slightest movement jars the crick in your neck and you grimace at the pain, grumbling complaints.

“Come on, off your ass.” And he offers his hand. You resist shooting him an irritated look, instead taking his hand and allowing his strength to haul you up.

With a series of stretches and carefully testing the movement of your neck, you're satisfied with manoeuvrability and give Blake a thumbs up.

The seven manned group has since been escorted backstage. The collective chanting of thousands of fans is all anyone can hear. Watching the idols as they're equipped with ear-pieces and microphones, you observe a mixture of churning nervousness and adrenaline fuelled excitement. There must be something about performing before thousands of people, you contemplate, that no matter how many times, you'd never get used to it. The group comes together and embrace each other, and you find that it's not just yourself that witnesses the scene fondly, silently wishing them the best.

The lights dim, the crowds hysteria explodes and the idols claim the stage under the darkened disguise. The darkness doesn't subdued the crowd only encouraging their echoing need. The music commences and the stage is illuminated with brilliant light, revealing seven stationary pop-idols commanding the undivided attentions of everyone within the vicinity.

Then it starts.

It was what you'd seen at practise and so much more. Was it their stage presence? The sharply styled clothing? Or maybe they were just really fucking talented? Whatever the mysterious equation, you see for the first time the sum of all those components: a successful boy-band.

Blake was right, you realise. You were if not more than surprised.

Throughout the concert, the idols dash backstage for impressively quick wardrobe changes, and on the first occasion you automatically turn away. Blake's amused by the considerate if not innocent gesture, his laughter barely audible over the combination of cheering and music. You resist shoving him but he can discern your desire to do so and it only provokes him to laugh harder. On the second occasion, you stubbornly refuse to turn your back, instead choosing to avert your eyes. Blake appears if not more entertained with this development, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. It proves challenging to purposefully ignore him while maintaining the privacy of the changing idols. Yet, try as you do, their frantic movement occupies your peripheral vision, and it takes just one slip.

Your gaze strays, like it had before, and the timing couldn't be worse. At least half the group is naked from the waist up, their sculpted torsos bear to the chilled night and wandering eyes. It wasn't on purpose, you swear, blaming a higher power for the unfortunate timing, but the damage is already done. Jimin is a vision of everything you never realised you desired. Though the lighting is poor, his lithe body is perfectly contoured, defining crafted muscle and holy shit those abs! Not only that, his pants appear insanely tight and you can only image it would take only a flex of muscle to reveal the toned thighs beneath. Sweat glistens upon his chest and neck, and your eyes follow the trail, even appreciating the damp locks. When your gaze meets his, you realise your repeated mistake. He knows your thoughts and you're afraid of what you've unconsciously let slip.

He disregards you so easily, resuming the task of changing clothes. You're acutely aware that he doesn't conduct himself with the same haste as his fellow band members, instead taking pleasure to leisurely indulge in dressing himself. As he pulls on a white singlet, unmistakably his hooded gaze shifts to you, as if to confirm your attention lingered still. Then with deliberately obvious intent, one hand grips the buckle of his belt, pulling at it suggestively to reveal more skin as the singlet is slowly lowered until his torso is eventually concealed.

In that moment, you're many things; perplexed, embarrassed, amused, and just a little turned on. Your mind is in a state of shutting down and rebooting that you can't possibility control your stunned, slack-jawed reaction. And Jimin, seemingly satisfied with the outcome, breaks a crooked smile, taunting you as he shrugs on the accompanying jacket to complete the outfit. It's enough to make you remember yourself, mouth snapping shut which causes him to snigger. How his little exhibition has transpired without notice is beyond you, quickly analysing the attentions of those nearby, yet miraculously it has. It remains a secret shared between yourselves. You return a steady gaze, a smile fighting to break free, so you cross your arms for good measure. He laughs again, the expression so delicate you don't know whether to hate it or love it. The moment is however, fleeting, his attention claimed by a member who clasps his shoulder and gestures to the stage.

With his ploy forgotten, Jimin jogs away along with the six other members. The elevated mood evaporates quickly but leaves a desire fostered by his actions. This was the first day for Christ sake!

The remainder of the night is uneventful, in one particular sense, but a success for the idols. The crowd roars with applause; thousands of fans crying simultaneously with joy and anguish at the concerts inevitable conclusion. The members provide one final bow, waving and throwing kisses to the audience as they withdraw backstage. Their manager intercepts them, gushing praise and the boys congratulate each other in a rowdy manner. Though what you thought matter, you're happy for them; they had earned it.

Jimin and yourself don't cross paths again that night. What's odd is that you take notice of that fact.

Minutes from midnight and comfortably settled into pyjamas, you sit cross-legged on the hotel bed, and it was a relatively nice hotel, you note appreciatively. Conveniently situated near the venue, it was but a five minute fare. The agency hadn't been too frugal with expenditures. The room divider, a pair of sliding doors, is open providing unrestricted view into the opposite room. Blake and yourself, like minded at times, are irrevocably attached to your phones. For the past ten minutes, you've persistently scrolled through Spotify in search of the familiar tones of the songs you've been repeatedly exposed to today. With each successful find, the song it added to your play-list and growing variety of music. All the while, you've unconsciously subjected Blake to the incessant skipping of music during your determined search.

“At least use your headphones.” He grumbles.

“You're welcome to close the door,” you reply dismissively. He glares but the non-verbal retaliation goes unnoticed as your attention never strays from the device in-hand.

“Do you want to coexist amicably these next few weeks?”

It's more so the tone than the question itself that successfully pries your eyes from their attachment to regard Blake. He stares dangerously with prospect of the repercussions should you not head his warning. The last thing you needed was to piss him off and warrant his wrath.

“Fine,” you drawl, muting the music. “I won't torture you unnecessarily with my music. So long as I get to smother you if I'm woken by your snoring.” You counter.

“Can't help that I snore,” he sniffs.

“Help it.”

He removes himself from the bed, all the while grumbling 'it's not my fault' and 'you started it' as he closes the sliding door.

“Goodnight!” you call, laughter colouring the expression.

With the negotiation concluded, you decided it best to follow suit and retire. The following morning, you take delight in goading Blake, reporting that you slept soundly and without disturbance. You cease his torture when he lunges for your phone.

You expected day two to play out much the same. Fully rested, you're prepared to bounce back into routine. Ahead of the bands arrival, Blake and yourself reviewed updates from the facility and tour manager. There were no issues reported from the night before. No security breached. All is well and was positively assured for the second and final night at this venue.

Blake wittingly assigns you to babysitting duty, payback for last night. Despite his best to rile you, and though you wouldn't admit it aloud, you can't deny the nervous flutter at the prospect of coming face to face with one particular idol in light of yesterdays incident. But such concerns are masked behind neutrality.

The stage had been substituted for a large rehearsal room. You overhear the commotion behind the door, the group expectantly enthusiastic. Really, there was no need for your presence within the room, but you needed to confirm they were all accounted. Perhaps overly formal but you choose to rap on the door before entering, the room quietening at the sound. You're meet with the inquisitive stares of all within.

“Hello!” One idol shouts, waving animatedly.

You’re taken back by the greeting. The idol in question possessed a sunny disposition, Hoseok, if you remembered correctly, and inwardly you warm to his friendly nature and offer a smile in return which serves to inspire to a winning grin, all cheeks and teeth that he boasts to his peers.

“See, she can smile.”

“Nobody said she couldn't smile.”

“Her eyes are expressive.”

“Yea, they express a special something for Jimin!”

The group explodes into laughter, evidently Jimin being the target of the fun as he’s affectionately jostled by the other members. The corner of his eyes pull in an attractive fashion, cheeks dimpling as he laughs along with them. You take caution during your observation, wanting to avoid a repeat of yesterday, but you acknowledge the difficulty of ignoring his person.

Without that thought occupying the back of your mind, you ascertain that all seven idols are accounted for.

Someone claps suddenly, jolting you from your fixed daze and quietening the rowdy group. He commands the attention of his peers, exhibiting leadership as he addresses the six youths. So he was the band front-man, you deduce, the smooth confidence of Namjoon radiating. His tone is affable, speaking with purpose but as their equal. When he concludes, he utilises a remote to commence the music. Everyone disperses, claiming formation across the buffed, wood floor to perceive themselves in the full length mirrors of the feature wall.

You needn't stay, reasonable that the room could - should - be guarded from outside, but gravity fastens you still, and you don't fight, compelled to remain by the unnameable force. Just five minutes, you lie.

The following hour consists of relentless rehearsing but the idols persevere with feats of stamina; their dedication unquestionable. They break twice, replenishing themselves with sports drinks while wiping away the accumulation of sweat. During the first interval, you observe with mild interest, as Jimin is cajoled by this friends, their influence obvious and insistent. He protests weakly, perhaps not overly opposed, but his demeanour expressing hesitance. The nature of the situation, you soon discover, is made apparent when under the influence of their incessant hands, he’s guided toward you. He swots at them impatiently but a smile never falters from his lips. He casts one last look back toward the group and they beckon him forward with words of encouragement and one final push. He utilises that momentum to carry him forward, and as he leaves the safeguard of the group, and all attention invests in the orchestrated union.

You sharpen as he approaches, guarded and critical. He's nervous, you perceive. Radically different to his conduct last night which was strategically hidden beneath stage confidence and an awareness of his physical attraction. He holds his chin defiantly, shoulders tight and square yet saunters with ease that might otherwise fool you. It's his eyes; they evoke innocent intrigue but nervousness. When he pauses before you, you can't help regard his actions with caution. He falters under the severity of your analysis, eyes retreating from your own, perhaps reconsidering the plot of his friends. But the momentary lapse is overcome when he presents to you a bottle of water, somehow concealed. You're shocked by his consideration, the gestured unexpected and sincere. The moment hinges on bated breath, all waiting in eager anticipation of what will happen. You move as if automated, accepting the offered drink, expression softening to betray a subtle smile and he swells with giddy happiness, ducking his head as he grins. He chances a final glance, catching your laughing eyes and flushes. He nods, a polite farewell, and retreats to the safety of the watchful six manned group, openly inquisitive of the exchange they instigated.

His return is met with cheers of triumph, as if he had achieved an incredible feat deserving praise and acknowledgement. It was comical and almost ridiculous, enough that you hide a chuckle before loosening the capped bottle. You take a generous gulp of the cool drink, ignorant of how thirsty you were until the liquid relieves the starvation of your throat, pooling coolly in the pit of your stomach. It was a satisfying sensation.

The heightened mood continues a minute longer and you observe as Jimin engages in whispered conversation, primarily with Namjoon. You can’t fathom the reasoning for their secrecy, but when they unanimously glance your way, you're expectant of another ploy in the making. Namjoon calls the other members to attention and they huddle together, heads lowered as they concoct their plan. Some giggle while others, they too, peek slyly from the sheltered cluster. When eventually they break apart, aligning themselves in preparation of what you perceive to continue rehearsal, what strikes you surprised is that instead of facing the mirrored wall, they face you. While you're acutely aware of the collective attention on your person, it's the attention of one that ultimately matters, and you can't fight the unnerving tickle of excitement and anticipation.

Namjoon holds the remote, poised to commence his shared plan and says, “He said this one is for you.”

You're struck surprised by his fluency, even more so by his meaning, but you don't question it, allowing them to show you. The introduction of a song begins to play and he pockets the remote. Jimin stars centre stage, eyes keen and pointed, a smirk playful upon his lips, resembling the cocky entertainer from last night.

With unison, they break into dance, immersed in the music and perfectly synced. Each movement of their bodies is influenced by emotion; a slave to the songs expression. You're mesmerised, unable to tear away from the performance. A private audience for one. You’re paralysed by their hypnotic movement and gyrating hips. What would presumably be a four minute routine seems longer and for that time, you've forgotten the purpose in being there, that anything existed beyond this realm of choreographed seduction. All that mattered was a growing and dangerous desire that darkened your eyes.

They simultaneously freeze, holding the struck positions. You blink, breaking the spell and finding yourself breathing again, and they too, drop the stance, overcome with exhaustion. It was deserving of an applause of thousands! Yet, in fear of yourself, you dare not move. But he waits, they all did, expectant of some expression or gesture of your approval. He need only a taste validation, enough for him to crave more. It need be something simple and not overly gratuitous. Then an idea strikes you and you must resist smirking.

Pushing from the wall, your heavy boots tread across the wooden floor. You're the epitome of composure and congratulate yourself on the mastered skill. With each step, Jimin's eyes marginally widen, the heighten thrill from his bold performance crumbling, and you saver his unravelling resolve. With precise imitation of his gesture, you present the water bottle, brow arching with silent challenge and perhaps a little condescension. He appears baffled, at a loss to your reasoning, yet still he accepts the presented gift, and it's not until you wink at him on turning away he realises you jest. The barest hint of a smile assures him of your appreciation and he’s left to ponder what has transpired as he's swarmed with eager question of the group.

Before a grin threatens to break from ear to ear, something motions by the door and on identifying Blake, you straighten in attentiveness. His gaze passes over you, interest resting on the clamouring idols. Almost obediently, you walk over to stand at his side, awaiting his acknowledgement.

“How things?” he asks.

You can't help regard him slyly, looking for a trace of the questions subtext, what ever it might be, but Blake hints to nothing, and you should've expected such. Deliberating an answer, you share Blake's regard of the chattering youths, summarising the events of the past hour. Jimin looks over, equipped with a dimpled grin and you find yourself biting you're cheek to suppress the betrayal of a smile.

Confident in you're ability to reply without fault, you reply, “Interesting.”

“Should I be concerned?”

Turning to him again, brows arching, you ask innocently, “About what?”

“That you and pretty boy were blatantly eye-fucking each other,” he replies, deadpanned.

“Harmless, I assure you.” Marking your heart with a cross, yet the sly smirk doesn't inspire confidence. Blake chuckles, a deep heart-felt sound, and shakes his head.

“Try to keep it in your pants.” And you feign injury at the connotation. But in honestly, he needn’t worry. It was all merely innocent fun.

It was time.

One by one the idols leave the confinements of the dressing room, exuding excitement and joviality. They're sharp and styled, a flare of make-up accentuating their fine features. High fashion models beware.

The manager leads the group, two security guards flanking the group, Blake and yourself leading the rear. The corridor is a congested highway of bodies; everyone rushing to ensure a flawless night, though they part to allow the group to pass without being detained. Your constantly on the lookout, a natural instinct; assessing and interpreting risks, not that you expected such but being cautious wasn't wasted effort.

It takes only a matter of minutes to get backstage, the area darkened and noisey. As the technicians are equipping concealable earpieces, you look from one member to another only to realise something.

Six? No, that can't be right, recounting the group. One, two, three...six. But the number adds up the same. Six idols minus one silver haired menace. You've got to be kidding me?! Nudging Blake, you draw his attention.

“We’re one short.” Jutting your chin toward the group. “Park Jimin is MIA.”

He frowns, seemingly sceptic until you watch the realised truth of your comment dawn on his face as he counts for himself.  

“How the fuck did this happen?” his tone interrogating.

“I don’t fucking know,” you hiss. “There were all present when we left.”

“You sure of that?”

That you were, having done a head count before the group had been escorted. Something had gone awry between then and now. The corridors had been chaotic; too many bodies crammed together. Something wasn't right, and you spare a look toward the idols who appear awfully amused and shrewd.

“Shit.” You mutter.

“What?”

“ I - no, it's nothing.” Voicing your suspicion wouldn't aid issue

“Nothing is no use right now,” Blake quips irritably. “Find him and make it quick.”

Your lips part, a defense prepped on your tongue, but you let your ego take the hit. So you nod and exit the stage. Once clear of the darkened environment, you break into a jog, swerving between the stage crew who still busy the corridors.

You can't say where he'd separated from the group but make for the bathroom along the way. Bursting through the door, an anonymous man screeches with surprise, compromised by the urinal.  

“Don't mind me,” you say distractedly, stalking into the bathroom. One by one, you push open each stall, waiting to meet the resistance of a locked door and hoping to find your missing idol, but your hand meets no such resistance, and the final door is swings open. Shit! That ruled out one area, and that questioned the next destination. Pivoting, you make for the exit, another apology thrown at the still shocked occupant who watches you leave with single-minded purpose.

Emotions coil in your stomach, threatening to expose themselves. You're pissed off, embarrassed, frustrated and concerned. Stalking to the destination, your pulse quickens, heightened by the building anticipation. You better be here! Throwing open the dressing room door, you march inside expecting the worse only to find the source your unnecessary stress, complacent and expecting.

Jimin sits before one of the mirrors, cast in the revealing light of the rectangular arranged globes, highlighting his flawless complexion. His attention diverts from the mobile in-hand, flickering to acknowledge the sudden interruption.

”Took you long enough.” He mumbles.

You're awash with sudden and unexpected relief. He's safe. But the emotion is fleeting, contested by confusion and growing irritation fostered by his lack of reactivity and indifference. He doesn't motion to move or attempt to express an explanation for why he's been found here when he's expected elsewhere. You're honestly confounded by the situation and it only serves to flame your simmering anger.

“Hey!” Aiming to command attention, but you're ignored and it furthers to dominate your surging irritation. “Jimin?” you press, but still nothing. Growling, you storm forward, patience exhausted. Grabbing the back of the chair, you swivel it around and it's occupant until you're face to face. He perceives you lazily and it succeeds to push you to breaking point. Fucking musicians.

Steadying your voice to a wavering calm, you do your best to speak reason.“You. Need. To. Go.” And gesture to the door, hoping he'll understand the improv. He regards the door and you again.

“No.”

You might not speak the language, but you're sure as hell know what a flat out refusal sounds like.

“That wasn't a suggestion.” Plucking the mobile from his hand and pocketing the device. You cross your arms, raised brows daring him to protest. “We're going. Now.” He maintains a leveled gaze and you meet is head-on, unyielding. This was one power-play he wouldn't win. He raises slowly, never wavering, but there is an immediate shift; attuned to an unspoken or gestured change in his character.

His shadowed eyes reflect an ambiguous intensity, and you're gripped by sudden transformation. Automatically, you assume the worst, that you've overstepped an undefined boundary and provoked him. But he doesn't lash out verbally and his physique doesn't suggest anger. Instead, his chin lifts, sudden like, as if to gesture a challenge.

Then, tentatively, his hand reaches out toward and you. Stunned, you watch the seemingly slow approaching hand, but at the last second grasp his wrist, halting further movement. You want to object to this, to whatever this game was, but words fail you, dying in your throat. And you know that your composure has since faltered, expressing perplexity, and Jimin preys on the vulnerability, persistent in his ploy. He steps closer, unbearably close, and your mind is screaming caution; the situations trajectory entering dangerous territory. Abort!  Yet, he continues without expressed objection on account of yourself, his unrestrained hand plucking the seam of your collar with feigned interest. His fingers trace the seam, gliding up and down with sensual purpose, coyly watching the conflict play upon your face – gauging for the moment his victory is assured.

“Jimin,” you hiss in warning.

He feigns ignorance, head tilting marginally, teeth catching his bottom lip and god-damn, you're doomed for eternity. Those fucking eyes, wanton and heavy and beckoning - how could you resist? And it's in that moment that Jimin fastens his grip on you, and caught within his carnal spell, you allow him to pull you down, capturing your lips.

It's gentle and soft, barely a kiss, and it's for the briefest moment when he inclines to pull way – reeling in the bait. Such a simple yet profound gesture for your undoing. You act on instinct, claiming what had been taunted. You claim his lips with no intention for gentle gestures. It's raw and hungry; everything that had accumulated to this point. Teeth on teeth clash in the domineering attack, mercilessly claiming those full lips and mouth hot.

But it's not enough.

Your hands, insistent and undisputed, guide him backwards, stumbling blindly past the chair and until the bench hits the back of his legs. Still you persist, urging him back and he catches the hint, propping himself onto the bench-top. He stares, eyes alive and thrilled, and oh, how you want to make him regret it. You want - want everything he has to offer, and he'll do so. He'll beg. Your hands hasten upon his hips, and with a swift tug, pull your pelvises flush against one another. A grin shapes those full lips and you crave them again.

The onslaught of tongue, lips and heat recommences, and you bite into that bottom lip that he had so shamelessly teased earlier. Greedy hands snake beneath his top, mapping and groping everything within reach, all the while devouring him with another kiss. He is all the right components of soft and hard – simply perfect. He gasps into your mouth as a thumb brushes a nipple, and your voracious appetite demands more, pinching the small mound and you're not disappointed.

“Is this what you want?” You whisper, releasing his mouth so that he may exclaim again, and he does. Through gritted teeth he whines, eyes squeezed shut, and its enough to satisfy you, if momentarily.

Delicate kisses trail his jaw, his neck, a balm to the nails that rack across his abdomen with aim to imprint and leave mark of your possession. A souvenir for him to remember you by.

“Have you found Park?”

The radio crackles at the cessation of the transmission and you pause your attack, attempting to process the question through the lustful haze.

“(Y/L/N)?”

You breathe a sigh of frustration against Jimin's neck, growing irritated by the continual disturbance. Inclining away, you pin Jimin with your heated gaze, and reply into the receiver.

“(Y/L/N) here. I've located Park.”

“What's the situation?” His voice unquestionably testy.

“The situation is...under control.” It was so fucking cliché but you can't resist smirking at the double entendre. To prove the point, you angle your hips down and Jimin whimpers.

“Then hurry your ass up,” he growls, ending the transmission.

Impatient asshole, discarding the device on the bench, perhaps too carelessly. Jimin, having regained some composure, quirks a brow in question of the brief conversation. Blake was right and you hate that he was. The concert was scheduled to start at anytime! Jimin, as if sensing the internal battle, wraps his legs about your waist, securing you. He fastens his fingers into your shirt, and tugs incessantly. You level him with a look, rationalising. Events have long exceeded the point of no return, doomed by your actions, and you consider no point to stop now.

Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, admiring its fullness from the abuse of your mouth. Then tilting his chin, you lean in to kiss him gently and slow. While he's distracted, a hand slides between your bodies and grasps the mound of his pants, earning a gasp. You massage and kneed the area, sweet sounds escaping between the breath of space between your mouths. His grip moves to your arms but you're not having that. Distantly thanking your defence training, swiftly his wrists are secured and panted against the mirror. He protests with a whine, but he'll have real reason to protest soon enough. With effortless ease, your unencumbered hand works diligently to unfasten the belt and then the button of his pants. Then with devilishly slow movement, the zipper is drawn down, prolonging the tension. Commando, you note approvingly, and claim your prize, revealing his stifled cock from the oh so tight confinement of his tight pants.

Pretty thing it was, flushed and perfectly girthed to fit comfortably within the grasp of your hand. Testing Jimin's arousal, you thumb the head of his cock, massaging the slit with precum, and he mewls. His expression is agony and pleasure, contorted beautifully; an instrument willingly submitted and at your behest. And glutinous for his pleads, you stroke him with precision to earn such exclamations. Hot, searing kisses mark his neck and jaw, feeling the erratic pulse of his jugular. He resists the hold, arms struggling weakly to wiggle free of the iron-clad hold. You smirk into his neck, relishing in the futile attempt, but reprimand the behaviour with a series of trailing bites for his disobedience. He whimpers into your ear, oh, and what a sweet sound it is. All the while you pump at his cock, fast and dirty – time is of the essence.

You know he's close. He pants feverishly, arching into you, legs straining about your waist. Come on, you urge, eyes keen on his face as you drink in the writhing of expression; pink lips parted and face wrought with pleasure. It was everything. Fastening your hold, the pace slows to controlled, lengthy strokes. He bucks into your hand, so naughty and eager, and then he reaches his peak. He cries out and conscious of the volume, you kiss him, swallowing every moan and exclamation of his orgasm. He spills over your hand but it only serves to fuel the task of maintaining the pace.

When he's milked of everything he possesses, you pull back slightly to appreciate the view. His slack expression is reward enough and you fondly brush his bangs. Now what to do with you? There's a box of tissues on the counter, and plucking a few you proceed to remove his essence while inspecting yourself. There could be no evidence of your conduct. However, on regarding Jimin, you grimace, noting the stained shirt and glistening perspiration. He meets the look lazily, still drunk on his high.

There was a rack of clothes and thankfully they're named. Selecting another top from Jimin's section, not quite a replica of the damage goods, but hopefully no one will notice the sudden wardrobe change. Returning to him, you offer the clothing and he takes it without question. Standing, he tucks himself away, unabashed as you watch. Then stripping off the shirt, you're gifted the chance to look upon him once again; the lighting in your favour this time. He's all too aware of his captivated audience and doesn't cower under the scrutiny. Lastly, he regards his reflection, patting away the sweat and brushing a hand through his hair. Satisfied, he turns to you, offering a soft smile, unperturbed by the events.

It’s difficult to reciprocate his ease.

He strides past toward the exit, and with his hand upon the door handle, he inclines his head in question when you don’t follow. Daunting realisation threatens to ruin your resolve. Fuck. You release a deep, long breath as he opens the door. The first foot forward marks the hastened facade you’ve constructed to make it through the remainder of the night. You trail behind him all the way, and Jimin’s conscious of your presence, feeling your eyes bore into his back.

Backstage, your bodies are swallowed by darkness and the energetic crowd chants eagerly. As you near the expectant group, Jimin stops and turns to address you and your breath stalls.

He steps closer and want you back-away, fearing the intimate interaction will draw attention. Worry creases your brow, hands bawled at your sides and if he notices, he doesn’t show. He radiates an unfathomable calm yet still maintaining a hint of that shy personality you’ve witnessed; much unlike his forward and seductive counterpart. He smiles again and it almost inspires confidence that maybe everything will be alright.

“Don’t worry, it’s our secret,” he says, and what you wouldn’t give to know what he said. “Wish me good luck!” And with a wink, he leaves.

You don't have time to consider the possibly of his words nor the incident before Blake is breathing down your neck, and demanding an explanation. It's easily avoided, casually throwing in the reminder that you're dealing with musicians, and he accepts the comment though evidently doubtful it’s the whole truth. Your focus returns to guarding tonight’s show and your secret. But as the show commences and a screams roar from the crowd, an unmistakable fact shadows your thoughts: you’re not nearly as guilty as you’d expect yourself to be, nor of the consequences if you’re inappropriate conduct becomes known. And in addition to that, there was still four weeks left of the tour...

End.