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falling-pages · 3 years

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Let me be your strength: MoriHaru

I transcribed this at 2 a.m., so it's not edited nor well put-together. But I liked it and thought it was cute, and there is not nearly enough MoriHaru content. Shoutout to @ohshcscenerios for listening to me cry about this AND for making the mood board!!!!

Summary: When the pressures of life threaten to snap Haruhi like a twig, she learns to fall into the arms of an old friend.

(AKA me thirsting over Takashi for 4k words)

Takashi Morinozuka x Haruhi Fujioka

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Talk of terminal illness

It wasn’t the champagne that made Haruhi lightheaded or twisted her stomach into knots, but she refused her second glass and sent the waiter away with a polite wave. The heat from the throngs of crowded pressed down on her, though the space was large and cool. She wished she could move outside, but the unbearable heat of a summer evening kept her clinging to her cold glass of water and air conditioning.

She dabbed at the sweat lining her brow, threatening to wash out the makeup Renge had so carefully applied. Haruhi rarely wore it, and when she did Renge always did it for her. They usually stuck together at parties, but she had slipped away as soon as they walked inside. For that, Haruhi couldn’t fault her--the ball was to celebrate hers and Tamaki’s engagement, after all.

The foundation was sticky in her pores, thick eyelashes framing her vision. She was too hot, too tired, too shifty. She tried to enjoy the party, but the source of her discomfort roared deep inside.

“Hello, Haruhi.”

She jolted, briefly, at the voice, so locked up in her thoughts she didn’t even notice the man approach her. Her old classmate towered above her, but his presence was welcome.

“Hi, Mori,” she sighed, leaning into the shadow he cast. Her skin cooled, but her heart burned at how close he was. “It’s nice to see you.”

Mori chuckled, eyes aglow with mirth. Or maybe alcohol, she couldn’t really tell. She had spent the last few minutes searching for anyone she knew at the ball, and it had seemed everyone was classily drunk on their wealth and drinks. It only added to her longing to go home, the guilt lodged in the back of the throat.

How could she be at a party when her father was so sick at home?

“Same to you,” her friend replied. His silver eyes raked down her body, taking in her dress, her makeup, her hair. His glance didn’t feel perverted, though, nor unwelcome. More like an artist working his eyes over a classic masterpiece. “You look very beautiful.”

Haruhi blushed magenta. Renge had worked her magic, lining her eyes and brushing pink wax against her lips, transforming the tired law student into a high-society lady for a night.

“Thank you,” she whispered, holding his gaze, despite every nerve telling her to look away. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

Mori inhaled. He blinked, washing his eyes anew, forcing the bourbon out of his system. He needed to see her straight, and he looked. He looked carefully. Dutifully. Rolling something over in his mind. “On you?” he answered. “Never.”

Haruhi sucked her tongue and smiled, letting herself feel beautiful, letting her insecurities dissipate under his gaze. “You know, this is all Renge’s work,” she explained. “The makeup, and we went dress shopping together.”

Mori grunted, envisioning it a precursor to wedding dress shopping Renge would surely drag her to in the upcoming months. He had to admit, the young lady did a great job -- the light green stitching against the pale yellow silk made Haruhi look like a flower in spring.

“We had to lock Tamaki in the house to keep him from coming with us,” Haruhi continued. She joined Mori’s laughter. “He still thinks of me as a doll he can dress up and play with.”

“Would you rather he had gone with you?”

Haruhi considered, squinting her eyes. “I’m not sure if he would have calmed her down or just doubled the madness.”

“Calmed her down, doubled your madness.”

“Yeah.”

“Mm.”

They shared an easy smile before Mori stepped away, by her side, to scan the crowd. Tamaki and Renge were sitting at a table overflowing with wine and hors d'oeuvres, chatting as he fed her a bit of cheese on a cracker. Both of them, likely drunk out of their minds, fell into laughter as he missed her mouth, snapping the cracker against her cheek.

“They’re good for each other,” Haruhi mused, not bothering to hide her wistfulness. “The king of excessive compliments, and the queen of backhanded ones.”

Mori noticed the lilting quirk in her voice, veering on the slight edge of jealousy. He grunted again, prompting an explanation.

“While we were getting ready, I asked her if it were too much,” Haruhi said. She sipped from her water glass, swallowing delicately. “I didn’t want to outshine the bride-to-be at her own engagement party. And you know what she said? She said, ‘Don’t worry, you don’t outshine me.’” This time Haruhi was the one to grunt, indignation crossing lines on her forehead. “Maybe she didn’t mean it like that. Maybe she meant something nice in French and it just came out bad in Japanese.”

Mori stayed silent as a waiter approached them with a tray of champagne. He reached for a flute, raising his eyebrows in a silent question to her, but she shook her head, and he refused as well.

“It’s strawberry.”

Haruhi perched her lip in question.

“The champagne.” He finished his bourbon, setting the glass down on a nearby stand. “They did that for you. They remembered you like strawberries.”

Haruhi briefly smiled, but took another sip of water. “That’s kind of them.”

Mori noticed the way she gripped her drink, the way she stared at the happy couple with blacked-out pupils. She couldn't be jealous of them individually, he knew. But of them as a couple? As a concept? Of their happy smiles?

He wanted to tell her she could outshine a thousand suns, that the golden shimmer on her cheekbone reminded him of a fairy queen, that in the lightness of her skin she could have trapped the moon. But he didn’t; he raised his fist to his mouth, cleared his throat, and tore his eyes away.

“You’re jealous,” he muttered. “Why?”

Haruhi snapped her gaze back to him. He had always been able to read her like a book, a riddle solved without explanation as the others stood scratching their heads. He looked back down at her, seeing how small she really was beside him. Confusion stirred in her deep eyes.

“Are you not?” he repeated.

She tore his eyes away from his, feeling movement in her chest. The terrifying ordeal of being known. She knew the champagne wasn’t the cause of her stomach knots, this time, either; rather, the smell of his cologne, strong and musky, left her lips parted in silent contemplation.

“I am,” she confessed. The drink weighed heavily in her hand. “They’re so carefree. There’s not a thought behind those eyes. They’re happy and don’t have stress or law school or a sick parent at home they should be caring for right now--”

Mori took the glass from her hand and set it on the table before stepping in front of her, bowing and extending his hand. She paused her rambling, just now noticing the change of music into a love song and the couples thronging onto the dance floor.

“Haruhi,” Mori said, “may I have this dance?”

Without hesitation she slipped her hand in his, allowing him to lead her onto the floor.

Just that little bit of touch sparked an inferno in his lungs, and he strained against the desire to just wrap her in his arms and whisk her away.

Once they floated to a free space, he took her right hand clasped in his left and took her waist with the other, spreading his fingers over the soft bodice of the gown.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Haruhi gasped, nearly euphoric at the feeling of his strong hands on her. She had been alone for so long that she didn’t even realize how touchstarved she was until his thumb rolled over her knuckles. Like it was right, like it was the only thing that mattered.

Mori led her in a waltz, guiding her clumsy feet with his experienced steps. He was a man so prone to the wild that she had nearly forgotten he was raised in aristocracy, trained and learned in all things fine and elegant. He probably learned this waltz as soon as he could walk.

And yet he held her with firm hands, looked at her with gentle eyes, softly correcting her mistakes without annoyance, only a speck of amusement playing in the upturned smile on his lips. He was in control, and this dance was the only thing she didn’t have to stress over. It made her want to fall into his arms and have him take care of everything else, too.

She noticed, too, his handsome features, as there was nowhere else to look but his face. He was taller now than in their youth, a broad-shouldered man of 26, heady and well-established and strong. She thought him too tall and muscled to be a graceful dancer, but she had forgotten he was a hunter, a fighter, a swordsman at his core. His suit, dark green and black, barely clung to his athletic frame. He was absolutely massive compared to her. Gone were the lanky, tall boy and flat-chested girl that once walked Ouran’s halls. Now they were man and woman at their peak.

She wondered how he had not found a wife yet, then wondered how she had never noticed him before.

He noticed, too. Every girlish feature he had adored in high school matured into ones of a woman mother nature scorns. When his fingers brushed her ribcage, she turned her attention back to his face. He was looking at her with the same intensity, but not the same recognition, like he was seeing something he had always known. His nose was noble, lips full, jaw sharp as his eyes. But what caught her attention was the scar, white against his tan face, jutting through his left eyebrow. It had healed long ago, the result of a kendo accident his first year of college, but the hair of his eyebrow never grew back correctly. The scar was turned and jilted and railed against the puckered skin, so untameable that Mori had stopped trying.

But Haruhi thought it suited him. The man could outrun the wild, but the wild would always catch up to him. The bit of evidence that he was more than what his last name got him.

Suddenly, she wanted to touch it. She had never felt the urge before; she barely noticed it, to be honest, and would never disrespect her friend like that.

But then again, he had never held her so intimately before.

Before she could, Mori cleared his throat. He had waited until she was settled in the dance to question her further, but she was staring so intently at him that he kept quiet. Had he been less tan, she would have seen him blush.

“What else is going on,” Haruhi?” he asked, turning slightly to avoid bumping into another couple.

She took a breath, disappointed that her reprieve had ended. She enjoyed looking at him. If he allowed it, she would have all night.

“You know, my dad,” she said simply, and Mori nodded, pulling her closer. Feeling his hand squeeze her made her woozy. “He’s still so sick. Not getting any better, not getting any worse. Just on the verge of needing someone to care for him at all times.”

Mori nodded again, chin hovering above her head. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he spoke. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you.” Haruhi did not miss the singular I. “Kyoya has been gracious with paying for the medical care, and for the nurses staying at our house. You all have done enough. Truly.” She looked up at him and did her best to smile, but even she knew he wouldn’t believe it. “It’s just so difficult because he needs care 24/7. So I feel guilty about going to class, guilty about sleeping, guilty about being here.” Her steps and voice faltered, eyelids fluttering to avoid tears. “I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, tugging her hands away from him. “I should be at home, with him. He needs me--”

She tried to turn around, but Takashi grabbed her waist and pulled her to him, shuffling so she could look into his eyes. Her gaze wandered just above them--to his scar, he was sure--but he shook her very slightly, very gently, like waking a baby. “Haru,” he whispered, taking the liberty of a nickname. Her eyes flashed in pleasure, in a memory, bright with tears and charm. But her bottom lip trembled.

“You deserve a break,” he said, using his strength against her for the first time, making her look at him, to hear every word he spoke. “You have done so much. You have suffered so much. You deserve a break.”

Haruhi tried to fight him, but it was useless--he was right, and he was here, willing to provide it. Beneath her anger, beneath her sadness, there was just exhaustion, burning like a bed of red-hot coals, and she was dangling just over the edge of it, so close she could feel the hellish fumes on her face. They drew smoke up her nose, wracking coughs through her chest, burning and blistering her palms as she clung to the rope just barely keeping her alive.

Either the rope would snap, or she would.

Her father had depended on her ever since she was a child, and she had no choice but to claw her way up the frayed thread. But now her lungs burned, her fingers bled. All she wanted was rest.

She had to drop sometime.

A warm hand on her shoulder roused her back, and she looked into her friend’s steel gray eyes, now warm and pooling like molten lead. When his fingers glided along her cheek, she realized she had been crying, and wiped away the tears. He didn’t speak, only caught the ones she missed.

“I’m not strong enough,” she whispered. Her mouth twisted into neither a smile nor grimace, but a ghostly combination of both. “They were right. I’ll never be like my mom, I’ll never be good enough.” Her exhaustion poured over her in buckets, weak knees finally giving in, stumbling forward into Mori’s chest. He caught her without reservation; he had since the moment they met, and he always would.

He was strong enough to stay still when she fell, propping her back up and sheltering her against him, within his arms. He held her fastly, tightly, as she cried, nine years worth of pining and love for the taking, manifesting in front of their very eyes.

He knew how difficult it was. He had just graduated from the same law school only months prior, had the same professors and took the same classes. He himself barely scraped through at times. Even though he had given her his old books and notes, she struggled--and no wonder, having to constantly take care of her father.

“You’re right,” he said against the shell of her ear. She shivered, and he ran a hand up and down her back to soothe her. “You’re not like your mother. She ever had to carry the burden you do.”

Mori saw the weights tied to her feet, dragging her over the edge. She was going to slip, and soon--she couldn’t continue the facade of strength when she barely slept at night, barely processed her mornings over coffee, barely found the motivation to shower and brush her teeth when all she wanted was to sit at her father’s side and cry.

Maybe she thought she was concealing it well, but he was a Morinozuka, trained and battle-hardened and able to pinpoint weaknesses. He didn’t want her to hide from him.

A cold hand wrapped around Haruhi’s heart, and she pressed further into Mori’s chest. Then she realized herself and flung back, cheeks reddening at her boldness.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry, Mori, I forgot my place,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on his very expensive shoes.

“No, no, Haru, no,” he said, scrambling for words. He cursed his silent nature. “I’m not going to let you fall. You are safe with me. I am never going to let anything happen to you.”

For a man whose strategy was always holding his cards close to his chest, he threw them down, baring his heart and soul to her mercy, desperately, as he tried to comfort her. He bent down, awkwardly long limbs sufficient in holding her, pressing her head to his chest. Her shampoo smelled so sweet, like the cherry blossoms waving just outside, and she felt so small curled up in his protective embrace. It sparked a heat in his knuckles, anger in his heart.

No one so sweet and good should have to suffer like this.

When she was ready, she moved away from his chest, accepting his willing hand wiping away her tears and the handkerchief in this pocket to hide behind until she regained her composure. Her makeup was ruined, and her hair was in disarray, but Mori thought she had never looked more beautiful than under his arm, pressing her cheek against his hand, chasing his comfort.

As soon as she smiled at him again, he took her hand and spun her back into the waltzing position. Mori built up the confidence to speak again.

“Is it alright if I call you Haru?”

A blythe smile. Pink tinged around her ears. “Yes.”

“Good.” He swallowed. “Haru, you are strong, and beautiful. It breaks my heart to see you like this. If you need to lean on someone, lean on me. Let me be your strength."

A fluttery sigh escaped her lips. “Okay.”

Mori nodded, leading her quickly back into the dance. Amazing, how many songs could be waltzed to. His agile feet knew them all by heart, so he could bask in the young lady’s presence.

Their eyes met periodically, blushes exchanged, and then gazes wandered. His traveled to the dance floor, landing on Tamaki and Renge.

They danced like two fools in love--which they were, obviously. Clumsy, falting steps, swathed in each other’s arms, mouths colliding in mismatched kisses and loud laughter. When he read their lips, he saw them chattering away in French. He saw the light pouring into each other’s eyes, both of them the sun pouring warmth through the window of the other’s soul.

He saw the way Tamaki’s bride-to-be looked at him, and wondered if the woman in front of him would spare him the same glance.

“You’re jealous,” Haruhi said suddenly. “Why?”

He turned to look at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Why did she use his own words against him?

She hid her smile behind her hand. “Are you not?”

He rolled his eyes, taking her firmly by the waist, as her hand returned to his shoulder.

“If you must know,” he muttered, twirling her under his arm, smiling as she giggled, “I am jealous. Because Tamaki has a beautiful lady in his arms, whom he loves, and who loves him, whom he can kiss and woo whenever he pleases.”

The orchestra suddenly roared, or maybe it was the blood in his ears when he noticed Haruhi’s hand tense in his. But, at least she didn’t drop it. She spun back into his chest, clinging to his shoulder like her grip would imprint on his suit. And when she looked at him, eyes bright and wide and full of wonder, he saw the knowing glint within.

She cocked her head aside. Her steps slowed, and she looked at him, running her eyes up and down his body as if just now realizing how long they had been dancing together.

“And you long for that?” she asked.

Mori sighed, ears pricking as the music ended. He let her go and bowed, assuming her wariness a rejection. Parallel to the floor, at least, gave him time to hide his face, regain his composure, mask the pain flowing quickly to his hands.

“Yes,” he sighed. And then, throwing all decorum out the window with a cracking toss of the head and a to hell with it for social commentary, he spoke again. “I long for it the way a bird longs to fly. And it makes me jealous of them, because I, too, had a beautiful lady in my arms, whom I love most dearly, whom I also wish to kiss and woo, but I do not know if she loves me back.”

His heart rose in his throat, and he gasped as he uttered the last words, oxygen leaving his lungs and brain at the sight of her chewing her lip. She had likely never heard him speak so many words at once. But they had clouded his mind. He had lived with them for nine years, pushed them down beneath the surface even as they slithered and crawled around in the form of blushes on his cheeks and pats to her head.

Finally, she spoke. They had stood there for an eternity, watching the other breathe. Wondering whose heart would give out first.

“Well,” she whispered, stepping forward and taking his hand, “she does.”

And then she pressed herself on her tiptoes and kissed him, just in time of the climax of the new song, in beat with the swells of strings and cymbals and trumpets, forgetting, momentarily, where they were. Takashi didn’t forget, but he couldn’t have given less of a damn. He turned off his practiced decorum, the polite manners of the aristocracy, all he had ever known, and kissed her like a man starved. Like she was his last meal, like he was poisoned and she was the antidote. It was Tamaki and Renge’s ball, yes, but he, too, deserved to be selfish for the first time in his life.

Haruhi knit her brows in concentration. His body was so hard, rough and solid and muscled from his years of training, but his lips were soft. Even harder were his practiced hands as they clung to her waist. They bunched the dress, moving and touching and exploring, and it reminded her of some exploring she also wished to do.

Without breaking the kiss, her hand wandered from his shoulder to his jaw, threading in his hair, before landing at his temple stroking the fine hairs of his eyebrow. But she hesitated. Even as her tongue was in his mouth, she was nervous.

When her fingers brushed the scar, he grunted. Though it was muffled by her mouth, the shame filled her stomach. She moved her hand back to his hair, but he grunted again, pulling just inches away to see the mortification hollowing her pupils. He pulled her hand forward, pressing a kiss to it, and replaced it where it belonged. He clutched her closer, watching in amusement as she touched as she pleased. The scar was rough and tattered, like the rest of him, but it distinguished him from the fine elegance of the ball.

She never cared for fine elegance, anyways.

Mori leaned down to press a softer kiss to her swollen lips. Haruhi’s stomach twisted into knots. How this force of nature could love her so tenderly was beyond her.

But when the song ended all too soon, he took her hand and led her to a table, snagging a glass of water for her. He whispered her name, his voice the soft type of strong that made her feel safe. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to call you mine.”

Haruhi’s mouth filled with cotton. She cautiously moved her hands up his chest, circling the knot of his tie.”Mori…”

“Call me Takashi, please,” he said, reaching down to hold her face. His thumb swiped gently over her lips, seeing how flushed and full they were. “Or you can call me Mori, or anything else you wish. It only matters to me that it comes from your lips.”

She gave off a sigh, a damp, fluttering sound from the back of her throat. “Yes,” she cooed, breathless. “Yes, Takashi, yes.”

At her perfect annunciation, Takashi swept her into his arms, lifting her high into the air, almost like the first time in Music Room Three, but this time she was smiling, and laughing, and maybe it was the candlelight and stringed musicians that made him feel so romantic, but he thought he could see forever in the way her glistening tears met her smile.

#ouran high school host club #haruhi fujioka #takashi morinozuka #mori x haruhi #moriharu #takaharu #takashi x haruhi

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mostlycompetentwriter · 4 years

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On Track

F/M Pairing: Y/N x Lee Minho

Genre: Married Life AU, Romance

Warnings: Smut and Language

Word Count: 11K

Summary: Despite her reputation, Y/N is considered one of the very best agents in the music industry. Of course, it doesn’t help that she married one of her clients---notoriously stubborn and arrogant Lee Minho AKA the extremely talented Lee Know whose silky voice and amazing choreographies appeal to an enormous fan-base. A pop singer who prefers to work alone, Y/N usually obliges Minho’s preferences...until her boss demands that he collaborate with the up-and-coming and multi-talented trio, 3racha.

Well, nobody ever said that married life is easy.

For: @hwngjn

There’s a certain decorum involved with the management of arrogant pop singers who think the entire world revolves around their singular existence. In my experience, if you want to tame these wild inclinations, then it’s best to do one of the three things: 1) leave the company ASAP with a two-week notice and a heartfelt plea for a good recommendation, 2) tolerate the existence of this pop singer and hope that he matures with age, or 3) marry this pop singer because you fell in love without understanding the fraternization clause of your contract.

Allow me to elaborate: options one and two will leave you with enough room to continue rising through the ranks without much conflict with upper management. You see, I have firsthand knowledge because I lived through the ensuing outcomes, leaving my first job at the tender age of 23 with very little knowledge and then arduously suffering at my next position with a female artist who insisted on testing my patience. But then again, if you choose to skip options one and two and pursue option three, then you better learn to live with the consequences because it will bring the most long-term effects.

Let me start from here because, for the most part, the consequences for me were fairly minimal. The record company was, of course, incensed when they found out about my unauthorized affair. Unfortunately, Minho liked to brag about the things he cherished, and he made no secret of our relationship outside of the company. I knew it was only a matter of time before the issue was brought to the attention of Mr. Park, the company’s CEO and head producer.

I can still remember sitting in his big office, ignoring the lingering smell of smoke, while Mr. Park shoved my management contract in my face. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, to which I had no response other than my weakness for Minho’s cunning smile. “You’re done here,” he announced and my heart broke in my chest.

Fortunately, before I could finish packing my belongings on the same afternoon, Minho had appeared at my desk with a very unhappy Mr. Park trailing behind him with an intense scowl. “Tell her,” Minho growled.

“Y/N,” he sighed. “You’ve been reinstated. Mr. Lee made a convincing argument on your behalf. Apparently, he can’t possibly work here and renew his contract without you as his manager.”

I remember glaring at Minho for his intervention, since our impromptu marriage was entirely his fault. “Thank you, sir.”

Thereafter, I was determined to do the best job I could as famed singer Lee Know’s manager, even if it meant facing scrutiny from jealous fans or bowing my head when I faced another agent in the hallways. I suppose I could deal with their scrutiny because it was better than the alternative of finding myself lounging away in Minho’s expensive condo unemployed and ruined because of my reputation. Even so, I was walking on thin glass everyday, and Minho continued to make things hard by insisting that he didn’t need to follow the rules, especially since he insisted on some one-sided feud with Mr. Park.

For example, today Minho was scheduled for an interview with a very distinguished magazine, but my husband had decided to prioritize his never ceasing libido over regular responsibilities. “Hold still,” Minho said, smirking against the side of my neck while his hands made quick work of my skirt and panties, shoving them harshly down my legs to make room for his greedy touches. Inhibited access to the heat between my legs, presented to him in just the way he liked, meant that his fingers were currently teasing the swollen folds of my labia while I fell apart at the seams.

I could tell that Minho wanted to take his time, but one glance at my wristwatch told me that we weren’t allowed such liberties today. “No, sir,” I said, reaching behind me to scratch my nails along his forearm. “You have an interview in ten minutes!”

“Relax,” he said, kissing delicately down the individual knobs of my spine. “I missed you today.”

“How romantic,” I deadpanned. “Can you hurry before the agency sends someone to look for us?”

As I said before, Minho was never the type to follow clear instructions, and he didn’t like the fact that his agency was rather strict when it came to scheduling. He liked to spite the men upstairs whenever an opportunity arose, such as prolonging needless foreplay when I was already dripping down my thighs because of his ministrations. I reached behind me for his belt, attempting to undo the zipper and release the erection straining the material.

“What’s your hurry, sweetheart?” he purred, knocking away my hand.

“My job as your manager,” I returned, fervently trying to hasten our unexpected intimacy.

“Well, as your favorite client, I suggest you bend over for me so I can fuck this little pussy.”

His words went straight to the tight coil offering no resistance the longer Minho continued to speak dirty words into my ears. “Did you lock the door?”

“Why? Are you expecting someone?”

I frowned, ready to offer a snarky retort before the words were wiped clean from my head when I felt the tip of his cock sink into my awaiting heat. “What was that, sweetheart?” he asked and I moaned loudly because he was suddenly intense with his movements, leaving no room to gather my bearings before he was fucking at a harsh pace.

Actually, in hindsight, I should’ve seen this coming when I met Minho in my office for the very first time. He walked in wearing a loose-fitting tank top and tight skinny jeans like he was attending a fraternity party instead of a company meeting. Minho’s steps were completely assured, sunglasses framing his face perfectly and standing out against the smooth tone of his skin. “Y/N?” he asked with a smirk.

“Miss Y/L/N,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “The agency assigned you to my care.”

“Really?” Minho asked, cocksure and smiling bright as he made himself comfortable on my futon without permission. “Miss, you say?”

“We go by professional titles, Mr. Lee,” I said, glaring at him from behind my computer screen.

“Sure,” he dismissed, reaching for the flower vase on my coffee table. “How does this work exactly? You do whatever I ask, right?”

“Put the vase down and pay attention.”

Minho’s smile vanished at my tone. “What did you say?”

“Mr. Lee, the agency forewarned me about your...behavior. I must assure you that it won’t be tolerated because my job is to make sure that you do everything outlined in your contract. I’m sure you didn’t bother taking the time to read it, but there are certain things the company expects of you other than posting to your Twitter at 3:00 AM in the morning.”

I took a deep breath, satisfied that he appeared to be listening. “For example, the company expects your first album release this October. It’s my job to make sure you attend all recording sessions. Furthermore, promotions will be anticipated leading to the album’s delivery to applicable streaming platforms. That means interviews, photoshoots, award shows, and radio performances. Please understand that I’m one of the very best this agency has to offer, which means my clients demonstrate respect and high aptitude for their work and how it reflects on the company. From the moment you first stepped through that door, I knew that you lacked both of those capabilities.”

I stood up from my desk, walking around to the front to regard the man who suddenly found it difficult to look at me. “Here’s a warning, Mr. Lee. If you fail to adhere to my standards, then I won’t hesitate to ask the company to find you a new manager, understand?”

Minho scoffed, snatching his sunglasses away before nodding his head. “Fine.”

Satisfied, I reached behind me for the manila folder I prepared for his arrival. “Now, let’s review your schedule.”

Of course, that was two years ago and despite the whirlwind of mischievousness that encapsulated Minho, including several scandals, an endless barrage of paparazzi, and several intense arguments with upper management, I wouldn’t trade our relationship for anything else in the world. You see, I never counted on falling in love with an idol singer, but he managed to charm his way into my good graces with an irresistible smile and warm personality masked beneath his arrogant facade of indifference. He always brought a smile to my face, even in the midst of an intense orgasm bent over my desk as his cock hit deep inside.

He fingers wrapped around my wrist, dragging my watch into his line of vision. “Two minutes, Y/N.”

I groaned in complaint, wondering how someone who graduated college with a flawless 4.0 GPA continuously broke company rules on a daily basis.

The following morning, I found myself crushed between several executives for an undisclosed company meeting. “Everyone!” Mr. Park announced. “I have exciting news for this year’s Christmas theme.”

A chorus of groans greeted his words. “Sir, I thought we were leaving the decision for the talent?” another agent spoke up.

“Yes, but I think this will work better for our core demographics,” Mr. Park said. “Y/N!”

I sat up straighter, attempting to look more alert than I felt inside. Unfortunately, Minho had kept me up all night in the small recording studio he built in our shared condo, asking me for continuous feedback on his latest project. “Sir?”

“Mr. Lee gave us a very interesting demo last week for a recent project.”

“Oh?”

“I’d like to make it a collaboration effort with our talent,” Mr. Park said and my heart seized in my chest because I knew firsthand just how much Minho despised working with other people. “3racha have landed their first platinum album. We need to capitalize on their success!”

“You want a collaboration between 3racha and Minho?” I asked, swallowing hard at the idea of telling my husband.

“Exactly,” Mr. Park said with a smile. “For the music video, I was thinking we could also invite Hwang Hyunjin and Lee Felix to choreograph something for the project.”

“How...exciting?” I offered, cringing at my tone. Thankfully, Mr. Park was already addressing 3racha’s manager while I stared at my empty coffee mug and wondering if I would need more caffeine to survive.

Afterwards, Mr. Park adjourned our meeting and I returned to my office to find Minho waiting for me perched on the edge of my desk. “Sweetheart,” he greeted me, pulling me in by my waist to press a welcoming kiss to my pout. “You seem worried?”

I leaned back enough to meet his gaze. “You better promise me that you won’t get upset and scream.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “When have I ever done that?”

A million scenarios filtered through my mind before I decided to leave those memories in the past. “I just finished a company meeting.”

“Oh yeah?” he nodded, playing with the necklace resting against my collarbone. “What happened?”

I took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Mr. Park had an... interesting suggestion.”

Minho glanced up and narrowed his eyes. “This doesn’t sound good.”

“He wants a collaboration,” I said, deciding to go for the killing blow before I could lose any more of my fading confidence. “The new demo you played for the company. He wants you to work with 3racha.”

Minho was quiet for a moment before he chuckled. “Really? Well, I don’t think so, sweetheart. You know how I feel about those things.”

I released an unsteady exhale. “It might be an opportunity?”

He shook his head. “You just march your cute little ass back into Park’s office and tell him I’m not interested.”

I groaned, pulling out of Minho’s arms to walk around my desk. “I have no power to tell Mr. Park anything.”

“Why not? You’re my manager!”

“Yeah, but he’s the head producer and owner,” I remarked, offering him an unimpressed look as I sat down to unlock my computer. “Besides, I think it’s a cool idea for the fans.”

Minho frowned. “Fuck, if I’m collaborating with anyone, then it’s gonna be Sam Smith or Post Malone.”

“As likely as that sounds,” I started with a dramatic sigh, “I think you should start small and work your way to the top.”

“But 3racha?” Minho grimaced. “Those fucking guys think they’re the absolute shit around here.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“Not funny,” Minho grumbled. “It’s my demo. I should be able to choose who I work with.”

“I think you’ve forgotten the fine print in your contract,” I said, reaching across the desk to offer his hand a gentle squeeze. “Please don’t make a big deal out of this. Can’t you make an exception...for me?”

Minho sighed, and I offered my absolute best pout in return.

“You’re lucky that I love you.”

Later that afternoon, I was surprised to meet Mr. Kim in the elevator on my way to the lobby. It was heavily rumored around the office that 3racha’s manager was notorious for locking himself away in the studio with his favorite clients. “Y/N,” he greeted me. “Are you busy?”

“Not really,” I said, holding up a folder. “I was bringing some files to Mr. Park.”

“Leave them with his secretary,” Mr. Kim insisted. “I thought it might be a good idea for you to meet my clients since we’ll be working together.”

“Minho is busy with an interview right now.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Mr Kim said. “Maybe it’s better if you talk to them first?”

I considered his offer, noting the disheveled appearance of his suit. “How long have you been trying to find me?”

“Does right now work for you?” he continued, pointedly ignoring my question.

“If you must insist,” I grumbled. “But they’ll have to meet at some point.”

“Yes, but I think we can delay the inevitable,” Mr. Kim said with a pointed look which I knew was directed at my husband.

“Fine.”

My easy agreement was met with a satisfied smirk to which I resisted the urge to remind Mr. Kim that I was only meeting his clients to make things easier for everyone involved in the collaboration. Of course, I had no room to talk down to my superiors and Mr. Kim’s credentials were practically golden compared to the minimal mark I had left on the company and its prolific talent. Instead, I let out a shaky exhale, wondering if it was too late to reconsider the fight I endured on a regular basis to keep my position with the company.

“Here we are,” Mr. Kim grinned. The elevator stopped on the top floor with a resounding alarm. “I think you’ll find my clients to be satisfactory.”

“In comparison to Minho, you mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as Mr. Kim urged me to follow him down a narrow hallway. I vaguely recognized our destination, but I usually never lingered around the studios.

“Did I say that?”

“It was implied,” I sighed, crossing my arms.

“Well, that wasn’t my intention, Y/N. You, of course, understand that nothing between us is personal?”

“We’re colleagues, Mr. Kim,” I replied. “That defines our relationship.”

“In that case...” he trailed off, pausing outside one of the doors. “I’m excited to work together.”

I rolled my eyes when he turned his back, but held my tongue as he reached for my hand to drag me inside the room. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to the plethora of monitors and screens dragging the walls of the entertainment studio. It reminded me of my early time as an intern during college, overwhelmed by the inner workings of the record company I was privileged to support, learning everything about the business. There was also a time, however briefly, when I first entered my current company as nothing more than an executive assistant for Mr. Kim who enjoyed reminding me of the fact, especially when his clients continued to eclipse mine in popularity. And that included the three men who offered us polite smiles when we interrupted their session.

“Y/N,” Mr. Kim said, dragging me further into the room. “I thought it might be nice to formally offer introductions. I’d like you to meet Bang Chan, Han Jisung, and Seo Changbin.”

“I’m very excited,” I said, taking on a professional tone as I extended my hand to Chan. “My client is looking forward to your future collaboration.”

Chan accepted my outstretched hand, curling his fingers around mine. “Likewise.”

I withdrew my hand slowly, offering Jisung and Changbin a courteous nod. “Mr. Kim insisted that we meet today.”

“Yes,” Chan nodded. “But your client is noticeably absent.”

I swallowed hard as I met his gaze. “Minho is busy with an interview.”

“I see,” Chan remarked, taking a step back. “Well, 3racha is working until this evening. Perhaps Minho could join us here after his meeting.”

I turned around to look at Mr. Kim who only shrugged in response as if it hadn’t been his idea to keep Minho as far away as possible until necessary. I rolled my shoulders, schooling my expression as I gave Chan an airy laugh. “That only makes sense, doesn’t it? Let me send him a message.”

“In the meantime,” Changbin sighed from behind us. “We can continue with the recording.”

“Keep us updated, Y/N,” Chan said, returning to his work while I started on drafting a message for Minho.

To Minho: Tell me when your interview ends

“Y/N,” Mr. Kim cleared his throat. “I hope Minho’s schedule is cleared for tomorrow?

I raised one eyebrow in question. “Tomorrow?”

“We’d like to start the first recording session,” Chan replied. “Mr. Park played us some of Minho’s demo and we have some ideas for the track.”

“Oh,” I responded, completely out of my element when it came to the actual creation of music despite the many nights I spent with Minho in our home studio. “I’m sure we can make it work.”

“Perfect,” Mr. Kim declared, pulling out his cellphone with a grin. “I’ll make the arrangements on my end.”

Mr. Kim stepped out into the hallway, leaving me alone with his clients who were all watching me with barely concealed curiosity. “You know,” Chan started, “I’ve listened to Minho’s albums. He doesn’t seem like the type of person to write love songs.”

“He likes to experiment,” I said, blushing when I recalled the way he had intimately explained the meaning behind his new demo, but there was no way I was telling anyone that the song was about me.

“Is he...open to criticism?” Jisung asked hesitantly.

“Why? Is there something wrong with the demo?”

“Of course not!” Jisung immediately corrected. “I just thought I’d ask because we have some cool suggestions to improve the overall quality. But I don’t know if Minho would listen.”

It was highly unlikely. “I’m sure he’s open for improvement,” I lied, wincing when I felt my phone vibrate from inside my pocket.

Minho: Call me.

“One second, gentlemen,” I said, cringing at my tone before escaping into the hallway. I held up my cell phone reluctantly, tapping on Minho’s contact name to place the call. He answered almost immediately. “Minho?”

“Sweetheart,” came his voice from the other end. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Yeah,” I said with a heavy exhale. “I’m with 3racha.”

He was silent on the other end for an uncomfortable duration. “Why?”

“Mr. Kim caught me on the way to Mr. Park’s office,” I said. “He insisted we meet.”

“Really? Are you having fun?”

I inwardly groaned at Minho’s tone, recognizing it as the same one he reserved when he was feeling particularly annoyed. “They want to meet you too.”

I was met with another long silence and then- “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I paced outside the studio entrance, wondering if Minho had suddenly had a change of heart in the brief amount of time he had been notified of the collaboration project. After all, everything would be a lot easier if my husband wasn’t so stubborn, a perfectionist in every sense of the word who had trouble delegating work to other people, especially when he didn’t trust them. But for this to be successful, Minho would need to respect 3racha as capable artists who knew what they were doing when it came to creating hit singles.

“This feels more like an intervention,” Minho suddenly announced, trudging down the hallway and pulling me out of my foreboding thoughts.

“Then don’t give me a reason to be nervous,” I said, accepting his brief kiss before reaching out for the door handle. “Promise me you’ll behave?”

“I’ll try,” Minho grumbled, and that was the only confirmation I received before letting the literal beast into the jungle..

Chan was the first to realize Minho’s arrival, standing up from the couch to greet Minho with a professional smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Minho glared at Chan’s outstretched hand. “I’m not thrilled about this collaboration.”

I shook my head, resisting the urge to grab Minho’s hand and force him to feign politeness for once in his life. “Oh,” Chan said, retracting his arm. “I just thought we should get along since we’re working together.”

“A temporary arrangement,” Minho said, clicking his tongue as he turned around to look at me. “Y/N can handle the PR stuff.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I quipped, trying to lighten the air even though Minho had more or less successfully generated enough tension to last a lifetime.

“Mr. Lee, my clients were hoping to schedule a session tomorrow,” Mr. Kim said. “We’d like to start on the collaboration as soon as possible.”

“Sure,” Minho said, jaw clenching to betray that he wasn’t entirely happy. “I’d like to work quickly.”

A long, insufferable silence ensued while Minho took his time studying the three artists he was expected to share his newest creation. Finally, Mr. Kim interrupted the never-ending staring contest, flashing a forced smile. “Bring the demo with you, Mr. Lee, and anything else you’ve been working on.”

Minho nodded. “I’ve already finished most of the song.” I took a deep breath, waiting until Minho turned around to look at me. “I have something to do, so I’ll see you at home.”

I bowed my head, holding my tongue until the sound of the door closing broke whatever spell Minho had cast over our sullen group. “Pleasant isn’t he?” Changbin snorted.

“He’s just busy,” I tried to excuse, but the sentiment fell short and I suddenly had the desire to run down the hall with my arms flailing above my head.

I guess we can consider day one a complete and total failure.

Despite the awkward tension of Minho’s first meeting with 3racha, I was determined that the remainder of the collaboration would endure no further obstacles. Accordingly, I woke up early the next morning with every intention of playing the part of the mediator, which meant doing everything possible to improve Minho’s mood. For example, my husband was notorious for being intimidating at work, but he was nothing short of soft at home and I took advantage of his early-morning clinginess by surprising him with breakfast in bed and open arms without worrying about rushing through our usual routine.

“You want something,” Minho said, one arm pulling me close to his chest while his other hand made busy work of his breakfast.

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“In general? Maybe it’s the fact that we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule and you aren’t losing your shit.”

I opened one eye, watching him as he swallowed down the remainder of his orange juice. “I’m comfortable.”

“Really?” Minho snickered, looking down with a knowing glance. “Sweetheart, you’re usually pushing me out the door right about now.”

“Well, things have been hectic at the company, so I thought it might be nice to treat ourselves.”

“I assume you’re talking about my required collaboration with the three idiots,” Minho said.

“I’m concerned,” I continued. “Minho, you hate working with the other artists, but this isn’t something we can just walk away from.”

“I understand,” Minho sighed. “I don’t want you to worry about me or the collaboration. I promise to be a good boy.”

I rolled my eyes at his tone. “That’s a great way to instill confidence.”

“They’re irritating,” Minho continued. “My inbox is full of messages and I hate email.”

“Welcome to the 21st century.”

“Are you sure Mr. Park wanted this?”

“Minho,” I said, slowly pulling myself out of his arms. “Stop thinking about the project like it’s some sort of punishment. Consider it an opportunity instead.”

“Please feel free to elaborate.”

“3racha are incredibly famous and they have a considerable fanbase,” I said. “When those fans hear your voice on the record, they might start paying more attention to your music.”

Minho exhaled, chest falling beneath my hands. “I see your point, but I don’t like it.”

“Nobody said you had to like it,” I reminded him. “Be nice to them.”

“What are you asking me to do?” my husband groaned, rolling over onto his stomach.

I quickly straddled his waist, working my fingers into the tense muscles of his shoulders. “I know you don’t like the collaboration, but it won’t last forever and then you can go back to working on your solo projects.”

“I guess, but only if you come to all the recording sessions.”

I grinned triumphantly, even if it was only one victory in a long history of tedious arguments with my stubborn husband.

Mr. Kim was a very impatient man, and I was only somewhat surprised to see him standing by the main entrance when we finally arrived at the company. “Minho, you needed to be in the recording studio...” he trailed off, glancing at his wristwatch with a frown. “Ten minutes ago.”

My husband scoffed. “I don’t work on your time, Mr. Kim.”

“We had a late start,” I intervened. “I’ll make sure he gets there soon, Mr. Kim.”

The older man grunted, clearly displeased with Minho’s behavior. Thankfully, Minho had the decency to wait until he was well out of hearing range before further disparaging Mr. Kim’s character. “Sweetheart, I’m doing this for you,” Minho said, glaring over my shoulder at Mr. Kim’s retreating form. “But I don’t appreciate being told what to do.”

“That’s how he is,” I said. “I used to work for him as an assistant. He was always keeping everyone busy. Time wasted is money lost.”

Minho snickered at my poor imitation of Mr. Kim’s accent. “I’d kick his skinny ass if I was any less patient.”

I resisted the urge to laugh at Minho’s “restraint” because my husband was notorious for acting without consideration for the consequences. “Don’t be late for your first recording session.”

Minho pouted, looking down at me with wide, brown eyes. “You aren’t coming?”

“I’ll be there soon,” I promised him with a quick kiss. “I have something to do first.”

Minho was hesitant to leave me behind, but I offered him another encouraging kiss before retreating in the opposite direction to my office. It seemed that I would need reinforcements for this particular occasion, and I knew there were only two men who I could force to help me. As such, I found Jeongin and Seungmin loitering around their desks, passing back and forth what appeared to be a paper airplane. “I wasn’t aware I made any prior aviation requests.”

Jeongin let out a small whine, quickly disposing of the distraction in the bin next to his desk. “Sorry, Mrs. Lee.”

“Look, I’m actually in a hurry today and there’s too much going on for me to handle your hijinks,” I said, beckoning the interns to follow me into my office. “I have an important assignment for you.”

“Of course!” Seungmin agreed, walking ahead to grab the door. “Whatever you need, Mrs. Lee.”

“It’s about Minho.”

“Lee Minho?”

I turned around to glare at Jeongin. “Who else? Or did I receive notice of another client with the same name?”

Jeongin shook his head furiously. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lee. It’s just...”

“Minho has a history with interns,” Seungmin finished. “And maybe people in general.”

I laughed at their suggestions. “You’ll be with me the entire time, alright?”

They both visibly relaxed. “So we don’t have to help him?”

“Not directly,” I affirmed, moving around my desk. “Sit down, boys.” They both complied quickly, looking up at me with wide and innocent eyes that reminded me of my days in university. “Minho and 3racha have a recording session scheduled for this afternoon.”

Jeongin squealed from his chair. “The 3racha! I love their music! Oh, do you think it’d be too much to ask for an autograph?”

Upon seeing my glare, Jeongin quickly apologized. “Would it be too much to resist that urge, Mr. Yang?”

The younger boy sighed. “Sorry, Mrs. Lee.”

“Anyway,” I continued, ignoring their antics. “I have your assignments.”

Seungmin leaned forward expectantly. “Whatever you need, Mrs. Lee!”

“Your job,” I said, glancing back and forth between Jeongin and Seungmin, “is to make sure that Minho doesn’t piss off 3racha.”

“How?” Jeongin asked with sad eyes that almost forced me to change my mind on the spot.

“Just make sure you’re at their recording sessions with me,” I said. “Intervene whenever it seems like they might argue.”

“Intervene?”

I sighed impatiently. “I don’t know, improvise or something, but nothing bad needs to happen or Mr. Park will chew my ass out for disrupting a perfectly good collaboration opportunity.”

Seungmin and Jeongin looked at each other before sighing in defeat. “Does this mean we’ll be getting a raise?”

Here’s the thing about my job: despite Minho’s insistence, he was not the only client I represented. For example, I was also currently working on the debut of a new boy group who were incredibly talented and highly charismatic. They were also obedient and respectful, doing whatever they could to make my job easier even though I never asked them to sacrifice their free-time to practice their dancing and singing. When I worked with their leader, I couldn’t help but think that my job was considerably easier in comparison to the extra effort sometimes required to fix Minho’s mistakes, like the time he showed up an hour late for an interview because I forgot to set the alarm in our bedroom. Nonetheless, it always seemed like I was doing something extra to remedy Minho’s abrasive nature, which explains why I was prepared to sacrifice two of the company’s interns for the betterment of the future.

“Are you ready?” I asked the younger boys, lingering by the doorway to the studio.

Seungmin managed a nod while Jeongin murmured something that I decided to interpret as his approval. I knocked on the door expectantly, slightly relieved when Minho greeted me on the other side. “There you are,” he said. “We couldn’t possibly start without you.”

I rolled my eyes, but followed him inside with my interns hot on my heels. Minho retired to the couch, hunched over his laptop as he worked with a frown. Meanwhile, Chan, Jisung, and Changbin were busy adjusting the sound equipment while Mr. Kim watched his clients with eager eyes.

“Stay here,” I said to my nervous interns before joining Minho on the couch. “Do you actually plan to help them?”

“Believe it or not, Y/N,” Minho said. “I’m not actually procrastinating...just putting the finishing touches on the initial demo.”

He lifted one of the earbuds, offering it to me with a grin. “Are you trying to ask me something?”

Minho scoffed. “Will you please listen to my finished demo?”

I snatched the earbud from him in response, plugging my right ear and blocking out the lingering noise from the studio. The soft cadence of the piano started to play from the computer, shortly followed by Minho’s familiar breathy vocals that never ceased to amaze me. My husband was gifted with a profoundly gorgeous voice that could reach high notes that even I would struggle to obtain.

“My voice sounds angelic, wouldn’t you agree?” Minho asked.

“I see your ego has somehow managed to grow overnight.”

Minho chuckled, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to my lips. “Don’t worry, I don't intend to sabotage the collaboration...I worked too hard on this demo.”

“I guess we can start then,” I said, stretching my arms high above my head as I waited for Minho to eject his flash drive. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Jisung approaching the two of us with a hesitant smile. “Good morning, Jisung,” I said, nudging Minho when he continued to remain silent.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, holding up the flashdrive. “I prepared most of the song.”

“Really?” Jisung questioned, accepting the device from Minho. “I’d like to listen.”

Jisung returned to the sound booth and Chan accepted the flash drive with a brief glance over his shoulder at Minho. My husband remained silent while Chan opened the corresponding file on the computer and everyone listened with admirable concentration while Minho’s sweet music and tender voice filled the empty studio space.

“It’s good,” Changbin acknowledged at the end, even though his tone was somewhat reluctant.

“Good enough on its own,” Minho muttered and I shot him a warning look. “Fine,” he begrudged. “I have some ideas on the arrangements.”

“Sure,” Chan nodded, leaning back against the sound booth.

“We can split up the parts,” Minho continued. “I’ll handle the chorus.”

“I see,” Chan acknowledged. “I guess that means you want us to take the verses?”

“Logical, isn’t it?” Minho snarked. “I suppose you can add a rap verse or two since that’s your...thing.”

“I could try and sing as well,” Jisung offered. “We could harmonize over the final chorus.”

“You sing?” Minho snorted. “I thought you were a rap group.”

“Does that automatically disqualify us from being singers?” Changbin asked gruffly.

“Of course not!” I interfered, inserting myself effectively between Minho and Changbin. “I’ve heard some of your vocal work and it’s absolutely beautiful.”

Minho grumbled something indecipherable under his breath from behind me, but I ignored him and continued to do my absolute best to ensure the recording session progressed as smoothly as possible. “I hope you don’t mind, but my interns will also be joining us today for their field work.”

“That’s fine with me,” Chan spoke up from his position behind the sound station. “Should we start with finalizing arrangements?”

I ushered Minho forward whose expression revealed his reluctance. However, since he was on his best behavior, Minho started conversing with Chan and the others about arranging the vocals and rap verses for the song. In return, I sat down on the couch with my interns since I wasn’t skilled enough to comprehend their impressive knowledge of song production. I knew Mr. Kim was also quite unfamiliar with their vernacular, but the proud man continued to linger around the artists as if he could possibly offer something beneficial to the professionals.

I scoffed at the idea, turning to look at Seungmin who was busy playing some sort of application on his phone. “Is this your way of doing a good job?”

He jumped at the sound of my voice, closing out of his game before shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I’m paying attention!”

From my other side, Jeongin sighed happily. “Han has the best voice.”

I tried not to laugh at Jeongin’s starstruck expression, especially since Han Jisung was a very impressive vocalist, singing Minho’s lyrics like they had come from his own imagination. “He’s quite talented,” I agreed, studying my husband to try and determine if he also shared the same opinion.

But Minho was difficult to read when he was focused on his music. He never spoke during Han’s performance, waiting until the younger boy was finished before addressing him expectantly from the recording booth. Minho sighed, pressing the button to allow him to speak directly to Jisung. “It was alright for a rapper.”

I resisted the urge to bang my head against the wall as Jisung glowered at Minho. “I’m not just a rapper.”

“The tone isn’t right,” Minho carried on as if Jisung hadn’t spoken, “we need tighter vocals.”

“My vocals are fine!” Jisung bristled and I shoved at Jeongin’s arm who immediately jumped into action. The younger intern stood up abruptly, the unexpected action commanding the attention of the entire studio...

“Who wants coffee!”

I sighed at his dramatics, but it was a decent distraction. “Why not?” Chan asked, reclining back in his chair. “It seems like we have a lot of work to do.”

Sadly, truer words had never been spoken.

Graciously, Minho managed to keep his more radical opinions to himself for the remainder of our scheduled recording sessions with 3racha. Of course, my husband always had his ways of insinuating an insult through carefully chosen words. Nonetheless, I think all parties involved knew it would be to everyone’s benefit if we finished recording the new song without arguing about Minho’s dismissive comments.

In any case, Mr. Park was thrilled with the final result, inviting me and Mr. Kim to his office after listening to the finished product. “This is exactly what I envisioned,” he said with a bright smile. “The fans will love this!”

“It was a process, sir,” I admitted, sheepishly offering Mr. Kim what I hoped was a sincere apology.

“I’ve scheduled a shooting day for the music video,” Mr. Park said. “I have the perfect concept for the song!”

“I’m sure it’s brilliant, sir,” Mr. Kim added.

“Lee Felix and Hwang Hyunjin have agreed to choreograph the track,” Mr. Park said. “They have some very interesting ideas for your clients.”

It was only then when I remembered that Minho liked to arrange his own dances, but since we were already this far into the collaboration, he might reluctantly agree once more. “We’ll be there,” I reassured my boss.

Unfortunately, I knew it would be a horrible shooting day when I walked outside with Minho and saw a gray sky and light misting of rain. “This is already a mess,” I said, dragging my still sleepy husband to the car.

“How long will this take?” Minho grumbled.

“If you’re willing to cooperate,” I said, fixing him with a stern glance, “then I’d imagine we can finish by this evening.”

Minho yawned. “I hate music video shoots.”

“You poor thing,” I sighed. “Whenever you finally decide to become a director, then I’m certain you’ll insist on controlling that aspect of music production as well.”

“I feel like you understand my vision, Y/N,” Minho said with an airy laugh. “I’m too tired to argue today.”

I exhaled a sigh of relief, hoping that he was being honest. “Mr. Park invited the company’s best choreographers. Please don’t insist on doing your own performance.”

“As long as they won’t have me doing anything less than artistic,” Minho said. “We should be fine.”

I chose not to take my husband’s words to heart as we drove to the shooting sight together in silence. It had started to steadily rain the longer we drove, and I had a feeling that the sky itself was foreshadowing the impending breakdown threatening to destroy all the progress we made. But I was also an optimist, and Minho was usually the least abrasive when it came to shooting music videos.

I parked my car next to the company’s van, watching a few regular staff members unload equipment from the back. “Y/N, it’s not too late for us to drive to that adorable little breakfast restaurant we like so much,” Minho reminded me.

“Shoot the video and I’ll treat you to a gourmet dinner,” I said, reaching across the console to squeeze my husband’s hand.

He was still reluctant, but I was proud when he reached into the backseat for our umbrella. We stood close together, Minho’s hand firm around my waist. In the distance, I easily found Mr. Kim talking with his clients as they fought to stay dry under one of the company’s tents.

Mr. Kim saw me first, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Y/N, you’ve decided to keep us waiting again.”

“Blame it on the weather,” I said, closing the umbrella as Minho wandered over to talk with one of the directors.

“Oh! You mean the rain pushing us into a delay? I guess I didn’t notice,” Mr. Kim returned, rolling his eyes as he led me further into the crowd of people. I faintly recognized the younger men dressed in gorgeous outfits, recalling their appearance in various music videos from some of the company’s most distinguished artists. “Y/N,” Mr. Kim smiled. “I’d like you to meet Lee Felix and Hwang Hyunjin. They have some excellent suggestions for the music video.”

“The honor is mine,” I said, bowing respectfully to Felix and Hyunjin. “Minho is eager to work with you.”

Felix smirked. “You don’t have to lie to us, Mrs. Lee. We know your husband prefers to work alone.”

“Ah,” I murmured. “His reputation precedes him.”

“I hope he can appreciate our efforts,” Hyunjin added. “Felix and I have been working on some new choreography for the track.”

“He’s being compliant today,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“There isn’t much of a choice,” Mr. Kim said, startling when the director attempted to speak over the white-noise of the tent’s occupants.

“Attention! We’re starting inside the school for the first scene.”

I met Minho’s eyes over the crowd of moving staff, nodding for him to obey the director’s command. “What’s the concept, Mr. Kim?”

“Friends-to-lovers?” Mr. Kim shrugged. “Your pretty husband is the main character, which I’m sure will please him greatly.”

“It’s a high school setting?”

“Yes, and he has a crush on a school girl,” Mr. Kim said. “You should know this very well, Mrs. Lee, didn’t he seduce you in the same way?”

I ignored his jab. “And 3racha?”

“Protective friends, I guess,” Mr. Kim said. “The director assured me that it wouldn’t take long to film.”

“I hope not,” I said. “The less Minho has to be here, the better.”

“Cut!” the director growled. “Mr. Lee, this is not the same choreography that we discussed with Felix and Hyunjin.”

“I tried to improvise,” my husband defended himself.

There were less than two scenes left to film and I was very close to dragging Minho away from the film shooting and knocking some sense into him. “Follow the script we discussed,” the director said. “Let’s take five.”

Chan glared at Minho as he snatched a bottle of water from the snack table. “Is it too much to ask you to cooperate, Minho?”

My husband ignored Chan, pausing in front of me to bring his forehead against mine. “I’m tired.”

I shot Chan an apologetic smile as I smoothed my hands through Minho’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled back to look at Chan who was engrossed in conversation with Jisung and Changbin. “He’s impossible to work with.”

“What’s wrong now?” I sighed, feeling another impending headache courtesy of Minho’s behavior.

“I hate Bang Chan,” Minho said. “He keeps looking at your ass.”

“Who cares?” I nearly shouted, attracting the attention of a few camera workers. “Minho, the shooting is almost over. Please, for the sake of my mental sanity, can you try to listen to the director?”

Minho’s eyes betrayed his exhaustion. “I want greasy food for dinner and a cheesy movie when I get home.”

I laughed, amused by Minho’s behavior. “Whatever you want.”

“Minho!” the director yelled. “We need you back on set.”

Minho closed his eyes and sighed. “He’s lucky I’m a professional.”

I was lingering by the snack table, picking my way through the bowl of skittles because I only liked the red kind, when I heard the unexpected sound of yelling from somewhere inside the school. My husband’s voice was easy to detect about the noise, and I stuffed a handful of candies into my mouth before deciding to investigate. As much as I’d like to imagine that the yelling was a part of the music video, common sense told me that my husband had likely gotten into another confrontation with the director.

However, the last thing I expected to see was Minho marching through the open doors of the school with Chan following him with clear annoyance. “I’m telling you it’s not good enough,” Chan said, frowning when Minho stopped by my side.

“I don’t want to film it again,” Minho said. “Besides, your reaction was genuine. The best ‘acting’ you’ve done all day.”

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” Minho said, glaring at Chan as he reached for my hand. “The collaboration required a song and we have a finished copy and a music video. I’ve done my part, so if you’ll kindly excuse my wife and I...”

Chan shook his head. “Do whatever you want, Minho. I don’t care anymore.... But the sad part in all of this is how much I was sincerely excited to work with you, despite your reputation.”

Minho seemed at a loss for words, glancing back and forth between me and Chan. “I can’t share your sentiment, Chan,” he finally said. “I think it’s best if we make this a one time thing.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Chan agreed with a disappointed sigh.

I could only helplessly stand aside as the two bickered, wondering if it was too late to formally retire.

Sunday was the only day of the week where I could actually enjoy myself without having to worry about the company or the never-ending demands of my clients, with the exception of my husband. “Y/N,” Minho slurred from next to me in our bed.

I made a vague noise of recognition, pulling the blankets closer to my chin because it was too cold in the apartment. “What?”

“Your phone is vibrating,” Minho said, and I managed to crane my head back just enough to realize that he was right.

I reached out my hand to feel for the stupid thing on the nightstand, pulling it close enough to read the message displayed across the screen:

From Mr. Kim: Mr. Park planned some sort of elaborate interview/performance for the new collaboration. Make sure Minho is at the company tomorrow by noon.

“Who is it?” Minho asked, using one arm to drag me closer to his welcoming heat.

“Mr. Kim,” I murmured in return.

“Why?” Minho growled.

“Apparently, you have an interview with 3racha tomorrow. Mr. Park wants a live performance for the debut of the collaboration.”

“I thought I was done with them,” Minho said with a tone that suggested he was anything but pleased with the news.

“It’s just one performance,” I argued. “And you promised me that you would finish all your responsibilities.”

“You keep adding more things,” Minho gruffed.

I smirked, rolling onto my side to face my husband. “I think it’s a great idea to let the fans hear it live on the same day it starts streaming.”

“Can’t they just play the recording of my parts?”

“It won’t be the same,” I said, leaning in closer to brush my lips across the seam of his pout. “I’ll be the loudest fan screaming your name from the back.”

He chuckled, allowing one hand to pull me in closer. “Aren’t you always my biggest fan?”

“Lee Know, will you sign my albums?”

“You’re a good negotiator, sweetheart,” he said, diving in for a passionate kiss that reminded me of when we first started dating and Minho was always eager to shower me with affection.

“Minho,” I gasped, barely restraining a moan when he suddenly moved between my thighs.

“I’m sorry I’ve made things difficult,” he said, pressing sweet kisses to the skin around my calves. Tender moments like this reminded me of the person I fell in love with, slowly learning that there was more to Minho than his arrogant stage persona.

“Please,” I whispered, helping him remove my sweatpants before weaving my fingers through his hair.

“Anything for you,” Minho said, breath hot against my sensitive skin. He stuck out his tongue, tasting the heat between my legs with languid strokes that promised the best wake-up call to start the day. Not that Minho and I did anything substantial on Sundays since we preferred to watch movies and indulge in the glorious high of junk food.

More often than not, we always ended up in this position with my husband doing his best to please me. And I had no room to complain because Minho was awfully talented with his tongue, and he had me writhing against the mattress like a complete mess. “You’re too good at this,” I complained halfheartedly.

His nails dug into my hips, holding me in place while he continued to drive me over the edge. “Are you going to cum for me?”

I always broke at his husky tone, lying spent in my post-orgasmic haze as Minho feathered light kisses across my legs. In moments like this, it was impossible to think about the negative aspects of working for the company, or the drama of the collaboration. Besides, it was only one more day and Minho never broke his promises.

I found a strange, but calming quality to pacing back and forth when I came across a problem that was incredibly difficult to solve. For example, arriving at the office early to prepare last minute forms while fully expecting my husband to show up to his scheduled interview and performance without my intervention. Yet, despite my expectations, I was currently backstage with Mr. Kim and his clients while we listened to a crowd of eager fans waiting to hear the new collaboration. Unfortunately, my husband was nowhere to be seen, and that meant our schedule was in jeopardy.

“Where’s Minho?” Mr. Kim nearly screeched, raking his hands through his balding hair while remaining heavily engrossed in his phone screen.

The performance was supposed to start ten minutes ago and the fans were clearly confused. A distinct murmuring of intermingled voices echoing throughout the soundless concert hall. “Y/N?”

I turned around, using every last ounce of strength I could muster to meet Chan’s gaze. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Is that so?” Chan asked, and the anger in his eyes was enough to nearly give me a premature heart attack.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, desperately ringing Minho’s number once again only to be met by the familiar greeting of his voicemail inbox.

“I knew that bastard would ruin this,” Changbin said. “He was determined from the start to see this fail.”

“It was one performance,” Jisung bemoaned, and I could only feel absolutely miserable listening to their shared complaints. But, in the words of my formidable boss, the show must go on and I couldn’t bear to disappoint the eager fans waiting to hear the song they loved.

Speaking of which, I reached out a hand to support myself against the wall when I saw Mr. Park walk backstage with his assistants. Our eyes met from across the room. “Mr. Park,” I managed, but my throat was suddenly dry despite the three empty bottles of water I had consumed.

“Y/N,” Mr. Park sighed, eliminating the distance between us. “Tell them to have 3racha perform without Minho. Our phone conversation today has certainly changed my mind about the viability of his collaboration.”

“You talked to him?” I growled, feeling nothing short of betrayed since my husband had repeatedly ignored my phone calls.

“We’ve reached an impasse,” Mr. Park explained solemnly. “Please tell Mr. Kim about the change.”

“But sir!” I tried to protest because I was extremely confused and had no idea what we needed to tell the fans.

However, Mr. Park was already focused on a new task and instead of delaying the inevitable, I found Mr. Kim talking urgently to a stage hand next to the curtain. “Introduce 3racha,” I said. “Tell them that Minho had an unexpected emergency.”

Mr. Kim, if it was even possible, grew even redder to the point where I hesitated to call for help backstage. “This is an outrage!” he finally growled, crowding me against the wall. “If this goes wrong, then I hope you know that it’s entirely your husband’s fault and his mistakes reflect poorly on your performance.

I bowed my head, because I knew that part of the blame rested on my shoulders as Minho’s manager, especially in regard to the mysterious phone call he shared with Mr. Park. In the meantime, I could hear the crowd cheer for the arrival of 3racha who performed to the best of their ability without my husband. Still, it broke my heart to know that he had somehow been excused from the performance after promising to complete the remainder of his responsibilities.

But I still wanted to give Minho the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps something happened when I left for the company and he was forced to call Mr. Park? Still, my optimism didn’t stop my hands from shaking from my grip around the steering wheel, pulling into my usual parking spot with a heavy sigh. Before our marriage, there were plenty of times when Minho tested my patience. For example, on multiple occasions I had come very close to handing in my request to have him transferred to someone else because he was sometimes impossible to handle. However, each time I would threaten to leave, Minho always convinced me to stay, turning his entire attitude around and doing his best to make up for his mistakes. He was usually successful, but today’s mishap forced me to question whether or not he was capable of recovering from this unexpected slight. And it wouldn’t just jeopardize my relationship with him as his manager, but also the close intimacy I shared with him as his wife.

I paused at the door to our apartment, trying to listen for any sound of movement from inside. “He’ll have a good excuse,” I attempted to justify, unlocking the door before dragging my feet into the entryway. “Minho?” I called out, greeting nothing but silence before I walked downstairs to his studio where Minho often liked to escape when he wanted to be alone.

I was surprised to see him inside, working on his computer as if today was just another ordinary session. “Minho,” I snapped, opening the door without bothering to knock. “We need to talk.”

Minho sighed, glancing away from his computer screen. “I know Mr. Park cancelled my performance.”

“Yeah? And you don’t think that there’s something wrong!”

“Y/N, don’t worry about the interview,” he replied. “Park called me earlier and told me he would take care of everything.”

I slowly exhaled. “I know he called you, but I don’t understand why it happened.”

“He said it wouldn’t be the last time I was involved with marketing,” Minho continued. “I told him I was under the impression that today would be the last performance. We argued for a while and he told me that I shouldn’t bother showing up today if I wasn’t committed to the project.”

I blinked twice, trying to process his words. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, barely restraining the anger. “I called you several times before Mr. Park showed up backstage.”

“I knew you’d be disappointed,” Minho said with a vulnerable tone I could hardly tolerate. “It’s not a big deal. Park knows about everything, and tomorrow we can forget about the collaboration.”

He looked at me like he was expecting me to just agree with him, but I was beyond words. Instead, I turned my back to him and retreated upstairs to our bedroom. I had fought with my husband before, but this was an entirely new level of anger and frustration.

I could hear Minho following me, but I refused to acknowledge his attempts to gain my attention. “You’re an asshole sometimes,” I growled, storming around the bedroom to find a spare set of sheets in the closet. “Let me know when you’re done being the world’s biggest jerk.”

“What are you doing?” Minho asked, blocking my path to the doorway. “We’re not done talking about this if you’re upset.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m done and you don’t always get your way,” I snapped, pushing past my husband into the living room.

“Y/N,” Minho said, reaching for my arm despite my attempts to ignore him. “I’m sorry.”

“No you aren’t,” I said, spinning around on my heel to confront him. “If you were sorry, then you’d try to make things right, but your ego has grown to such a monumental size that you can’t even accept the added weight of another mistake.”

“What are you saying?”

“You can’t make this right,” I said, tears obscuring the vision of my husband. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, expression transforming completely when he realized I was truly on the verge of a breakdown. “You know I’m not mad at you! Park knows everything, he was the one who told me not to show up!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I cried. “I asked you to do something that’s surprisingly simple for most people. Not because I wanted to punish you, but because I saw an opportunity to help Lee Know! But after the stunt you pulled today, I don’t think I’d bother helping you anymore.”

The single tear that fell from Minho’s eye would have normally been enough for me to recognize his guilt, but I wasn’t in the mood to fall back into the tedious cycle of forgiving him only to deal with another mishap in the future. “Y/N,” he said softly. “Please don’t leave me.”

I shook my head. “I need some time to think about things.”

“What do you mean?” he asked with a desperate tone. “We should talk about this, I can make it better!”

“Just let me sleep,” I begged him and he broke even more, releasing my hand with an uncharacteristic whine.

I tossed my blanket onto the couch, attempting to find a comfortable position on the leather. It was a far cry from the mattress in our bedroom, but I desperately needed space away from Minho. For now, I didn’t want to deal with the reality of our situation, which is why I was more than willing to drown myself in the familiar darkness of sleep.

The smell of bacon was surprisingly overwhelming when I woke up the next morning with lower back pain. I groaned, attempting to sit up despite the near constant throbbing. Apparently, leather sofas were built for style instead of comfort.

I opened my eyes slowly, feeling my heart jump inside my chest when I saw Minho holding a plate in my direction. “Y/N, are you okay?”

I swiped a hand across my face, remembering my argument with Minho from the previous evening. “I’m fine.”

“You should eat,” he insisted so I accepted the plate from him, shaking my head when I realized the toast was burnt, but Minho had never been a great cook. “I want to talk about last night,” Minho said. “Because you’re obviously hurt and that’s the last thing I wanted.”

“What did you expect?” I asked. “You weren’t there for the performance, you ignored my calls, and then my boss tells me that one of his artists decided he was done promoting his new single?”

Minho winced at my tone. “It’s all my fault because I decided to take everything personally. He forced me to do the collaboration when I didn’t want to participate, and it felt like he was taunting me...like I had no control over my music and he could do whatever he wanted.”

“He can, Minho,” I said. “You signed a contract with the company.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I keep forgetting that part, and it’s really stupid how much I let it affect me, but I hate it when things are out of my control.”

“But that’s no reason to take it on the people who were only trying to do their job,” I snapped. “Or refuse to tell your own wife!”

“I understand,” Minho nodded. “I was too caught up in my problems to realize that everyone was suffering because of my decisions.”

“What are you going to do about it?” I asked, holding my breath because I was dreading his answer.

“I’ll apologize to them,” Minho said, hanging his head in shame. “I need you to know that I’m sorry for everything.”

My heart broke at the sorrowful expression he wore, completely uncharacteristic of my husband...as was his decision to apologize since I halfway expected Minho to threaten his leave from the company. However, I also sometimes forgot that Minho was more than the way he acted around other people, and his sincerity was perfectly evident for me to recognize. “I know you are, but sometimes you do things without thinking about the consequences.”

“I’m aware,” he chuckled. “And I usually don’t really care, but that’s selfish...especially when it hurts you.”

“It is selfish,” I agreed. “How do I know you won’t do this again in the future?”

“Because I’ll remind myself of this moment,” he said. “I’ll remember what happened last night and do whatever I can to prevent it from happening again.”

I was stunned by his determination. “Are you really going to apologize to everyone?”

“I am,” he nodded. “Of course, your forgiveness matters the most.”

I took a deep breath, processing his words and the steady way he continued to hold my gaze. “You know I forgive you.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly, leaning in to press a chaste kiss against my lips. “I need you more than anything else in the world.”

My heart warmed at his declaration. “I wonder what everyone at the company would think if they saw how cheesy you are.”

“Are you going to tell on me?”

“Not as long as you behave,” I returned, laughing at the way he held me tighter, feeling nothing short of safe and secure in his familiar embrace.

Mr. Kim was surprisingly calm when I requested a meeting between our clients. In fact, I was shocked that he even accommodated my request considering our bad relations. However, I recognized an opening, walking down the hallway next to Minho who was clearly nervous as he hugged the bottle of champagne we brought as an apology gift.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Mr. Kim greeted us upon our arrival, sparing Minho a grimace before inviting us inside the studio.

Chan and Jisung were sitting together on the couch, glancing up only when Minho paused in front of them. Meanwhile, Changbin stood against the wall, watching my husband with narrowed eyes. Minho held tightly to the bottle of champagne in his hands, glancing between the three men who all wore similar expressions of disdain. “I’m sorry for the interview,” he said. “It was really selfish and immature.”

Chan arched one eyebrow, glancing between me and Minho. “Really?”

I quietly offered Minho a small push against his lower back, encouraging him to continue. “I rehearsed this,” Minho chuckled, “but it’s hard to swallow my pride.”

“Take your time,” I whispered to him softly.

“Well, let me start by saying that I was wrong about the whole collaboration thing,” he said. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be and you guys did everything to help us succeed.”

Changbin scoffed. “You certainly made it more difficult.”

Jisung nodded furiously in agreement. “I don’t think I’ve ever had this much trouble with promotion.”

“I know,” Minho agreed. “I was just upset because I have this stupid thing with Park and he knows that I have...problems working with other people.”

“That’s an understatement,” Changbin said, glowering at my husband with obvious disapproval.

“Honestly,” Minho said, swallowing hard. “The song is one of my favorites. I wouldn’t mind collaborating again in the future.”

“Well-” Jising broke off, staring at Mino with something akin to shock. “Huh?”

Chan frowned. “You really made us look bad on stage.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Minho sighed. “I was being an enormous jerk, trying to stick it to the man or something ridiculous and it played out better in my head.”

I reached out a comforting hand, squeezing Minho’s shoulder for support. “I think he knows his decision was wrong.”

Minho nodded. “You might be upset with me and I understand. I’m sorry for everything that happened, and if you decide I don’t deserve to be taken seriously, then I won’t blame you.”

Minho ended his speech with a nervous cough, thrusting out the bottle of champagne in Jisung’s direction who accepted the bottle hesitantly. “Minho,” Chan said, closing his laptop with a sigh. “I know about your history when it comes to working with other artists.”

“It’s not exactly a glowing resume,” Minho admitted.

“No, but that’s the only reason why I know that your apology was sincere,” Chan said. “If you’re really serious, then I think we can move past this.”

Changbin nodded his agreement. “Mr. Park also explained some of the...politics behind the interview fiasco.”

“I guess it’s hard for you,” Chan shrugged. “I’m glad you came here to make things right.”

“And the champagne is nice,” Jisung added quickly to which Minho managed a smile.

“I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you.”

“Well, if you were serious about collaborating again, we can start with line distributions,” Changbin said, leaning in with a smirk. “I want to sing next time.”

Minho laughed, nodding enthusiastically. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“In that case, we have cause for celebration,” Jisung cheered. “Mr. Kim, do we have spare glasses?”

In the meantime, I took a step back to allow the four men space to talk together, distributing several glasses of champagne before laughing at Jisung’s failed attempt not to spill anything on the carpet. It was certainly admirable, and I found myself simply watching Minho from across the room. This was nothing short of substantial progress, and I cherished the moment because it promised very good things for the future.

And at one point, Minho snuck away from his new collaborators to join me at the sound booth. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’m glad you’ve always been at my side.”

I reached out for his hand, watching Chan, Changbin, and Jisung hold up their champagne glasses in our direction. “You know? I’m really excited about your next project.”

Minho grinned, leaning his forehead against mine. “I think I could get used to this...as long as you’ll be there.”

I sighed happily, closing my eyes to remember this moment. “That will never change.”

#stray kids #skz #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #stray kids requests #stray kids imagines #stray kids oneshot #stray kids scenarios #skz oneshot #stray kids lee know #skz lee know #lee minho #lee know fanfic #lee know smut #stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids minho #stray kids minho fanfic

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sketchguk · 5 years

Text

10 muses; kth

➳ pairing: photographer!taehyung x artist!reader

➳ genre: college AU, smut, fluff

➳ wc: 9k

➳ synopsis: harboring an innocent crush on taehyung isn’t easy when you’re jealous of his natural talent for photography while you’re struggling with artist’s block.

➳ warnings: explicit language, lots of flirty sexual tension, hand job, thumb sucking, oral (m receiving), spitting, dirty talk, unprotected sex, riding, spanking, creampie, wet hair taehyung. this is filthy, and I’m not sorry whatsoever. taehyung’s an ass guy (questionable?) and a member of the big dick line (wbk).

Transitory light permeates through the autumn foliage, conveniently casting a spotlight on the profile of your sleeping figure. The wavering of the shadows flicker over the thin film of your eyelids. Waking up to the irritable glow of dawn, you flip your pillow over to conceal yourself from reality. Birds obnoxiously trill, signaling the early start of the day.

There isn’t a single soul on this planet who deserves to be awake at seven in the morning on a Saturday. On the other hand, karma loves to play tricks on you. While you lie in bed, waiting for a reasonable time to start functioning, mother nature has a different plan set for you. Your internal body clock will not shut down. After an hour, you finally accept the fact that you won’t be catching any beauty sleep until later that night.

Pulling your sheets back with an overdramatic wail, you will yourself to get out of bed. As you prepare for the day, you stare back at your reflection in the mirror, unable to recognize yourself. Not only are your eyes half-lidded, but you’re also half awake and near sighted. Squeezing your eyes shut and pressing a finger against your lids, you hope that it’ll be sufficient enough to pull you out of dreamland.

Your vision blurs, but your disheveled appearance comes into focus after a few blinks. With the palm of your hands, you try to smooth down the tousled hair that has moved out of place in your sleep. After many attempts, even with the effects of water, your efforts render futile. Perhaps you should have washed your hair last night instead of relying on dry shampoo for the third night in a row. Hopefully tying your hair up will make you presentable enough to the outside world.

The plan for today isn’t to scare men away with the head of Medusa, but rather to stop by the Museum of Arts and Design. Your studio art class requires that you visit a museum and reinvent an art piece using your own style and coming up with your own interpretation with whatever medium of your choice. To say that you’re dreading this assignment would be an understatement. Painting in public isn’t the aspect of the assignment that you dread. In fact, changing your environment would be more of an inspiration, or at least you hope so.

Lately, you’ve fallen into the routine of locking yourself in the studio and staring at a blank canvas which has made you unproductive. You’re more afraid of sitting inside a museum with artist’s block. It’s utterly frustrating to have your sketchbook lay in front of you when you’re ready to paint, but there’s nothing in your head that clicks. Nothing is worth committing to paper.

When you happen to get started on a piece, you’re half way done and you realize that you hate it with the entirety of your being. With one look at your portfolio, you’re ready to toss all your works into the trash.

Lately, there’s been a shift with who you want to present yourself as an artist. You’re not even sure if the paintings you were once so proud of are an accurate representation of who you are. Perhaps you’re being hypercritical of yourself, yet you can’t help but to nitpick the flaws in your work. Looking at accomplished artists on display might pull you out of your rut.

You slip on a pair of blue jeans and a plain t-shirt before grabbing your tote bag for the day. You finally perch your glasses on the bridge of your nose so you’re able to see beyond two feet of you. You grab the paint set sits on the edge of the desk, unused to its fullest potential for the better part of this month.

Some of your old projects align the walls of your room, adhered by strips of patterned washi tape. Your latest piece hangs above your nightstand. You stare at the 10.5 x 8.5 inch sheet of paper. The edges look sloppy with colors bleeding past the outlines. The background is unblended, and the foreground isn’t as detailed as you would have liked. There’s a lot of negative space, but if you were to fill it up, it would look overcrowded.

Are these even artistic choices, or are you just a shitty artist?

Unable to look at it anymore, and out of spite for yourself, you tug the painting off the wall and insert it between the last few pages of your sketchpad. Out of sight, out of mind. Sighing, you tuck your watercolors and the same sketchpad into your bag.

Storming out of your room in frustration, you try your best to keep a positive mindset for today’s activities. The door slams behind you, and you almost feel bad when you realize that everyone on your dorm floor is sleeping. Meanwhile, you’re a mad artist, tortured by the self-deprecating mind, walking out the door at eight in the morning. Mind you, on a Saturday.

You make your way over to the campus’ local coffee shop to lift up your spirits. Maybe you’re grumpy because you haven’t woken up before noon since grade school. Beyond that, you’re aggravated by your lack of artistry.

Falling into a pit of despair, a hot cup of tea has the power to make everything better. There’s magic within its bitterness, and solace that exists among a spoonful of sugar. There’s nothing that brings more comfort to you than the first sip of freshly brewed tea, warming the depths of your tummy. Of course, your favorite breakfast sandwich will also keep you content for the rest of the day. You have to treat yourself sometimes, right?

Pulling out your sketchbook, you intend to people-watch and work on some free-hand drawings before the museum opens up at noon. You’re convinced that you just have to keep trying until a light bulb flashes above your head. Inspiration strikes at the oddest times. It lives among strangers, and it’s sparked by experience. You can’t expect to create new pieces if you’re trapped in solitude within the four white walls of the art department.

The cafe is quaint. There are a couple students working by themselves in their designated corners. Some are reading, others are typing away on their laptops. A couple people scroll away on their phone while enjoying their breakfast. Everyone else on campus is probably nursing their hangovers from their Friday night festivities. One of the workers looks like he’s staring off into space.

All of these activities are rather mundane and unable to catch your interests. You massage your temples, returning back to the blank page sitting atop your table. Regardless, you sketch out the scene with your fine tipped pen. Finally satisfied with the shapes you’ve made, you lift up your felt brush, full to the brim with water, and hover over your sketchpad. You hesitate, unsure of what you even want to depict. Unmoved for seconds too long, the liquid drips from the oversaturated brush and onto the crisp white sheet. “Shit,” you mumble under your breath. Deciding that it’s too late, you just put forth your skill and lower your hand to make contact with the paper.

There’s an assortment of soft colors that spread across the page. The gray and green pigments stand out the most above the off-white walls, highlighting the mid-century modern aesthetic of the cafe. The graduated wet on wet blend of hazelnut brown wood breaks up the copious amount of furniture. The people in the shop remain faceless, although you will admit to having spent more time on the barista’s figure, having stood still long enough for you to sketch him out without coming off as creepy.

You’ve probably gone through the cafe’s entire supply of paper towels, given that your table is buried in its damped sheets, saturated with color.

Extending your arms outward to take a look at your piece. You squint one eye, hoping that the image looks better from a distance. Still barely satisfied with your work, you sigh. Taking a glance at the watch that sits on your wrist, your eyes widen at how long you’ve spent on a measly drawing ー11:38 am. You pick up all your brushes and head over to the bathroom to empty out the barrels and throw out the paper towels that have faded into a sea of colors.

Watching the ink drip down the faucet has always been cathartic. It typically means that you’ve been working on a piece for hours on end like the workaholic you are. Only with completion are you able to put down your artistic tools. But here you are, feeling empty because you haven’t produced a piece you’ve been proud of in months.

Capping off your brushes and drying them down with another paper towel, you return back to your seat. To your surprise, there’s a purple post-it note with an incoherent scribble sitting beside your fresh painting. Reading over the characters a couple times, you’re finally able to comprehend the nonsense. It reads, “You’re really talented!!” Blushing at the compliment, your eyes scan back to your painting. It’s not that bad, you suppose. You bring your head up to see if your secret admirer is still around. Everybody seems to be minding their own business, unaware of your presence for the last two hours. They must have already left in a rush to avoid confrontation. Shrugging, you stick the post-it onto the back of your painting and pack up your belongings to head over to the museum.

Colossal stone pillars line the perimeter of the Museum of Arts and Design with steps of marble slate at the foot of the entrance. The inside is just as grand with high ceilings and a sky roof that illuminates the slick white interior. Walls are lined with an extensive collection of artwork. A single piece is probably worth more than your entire life’s salary. There are so many beautiful arrangements of art in this building, you just have to admire what the museum offers before you can begin the assignment.

Tucked away in the back of the museum, there is a space dedicated solely to Greco-Roman art. There’s one particular piece that catches your eyes. Here lies a marble statue of Dionysus, standing nearly 12 feet tall, elevated by a matching platform. Immediately, you’re drawn to the wreath of ivy that sits on top of his tress fallen hair. His iconic panther symbol sits on his hip in the shape of a belt, lethal but beautiful all at once.

Although some of the statue’s features are deteriorated from aging, the wear and tear of it provides a great amount of character. The light from the sky roof enlivens the details of his countenance, truly bringing the deity to life. You’ve always admired sculptural art, something that you have not had the chance to dabble into. It’s a complex art, and only those with particular skill can really perfect such a medium.

Sitting criss crossed on the tiled floor, you pull out the materials to begin your project. How can one tackle on a recreation of some of the greatest art pieces in world history? You crane your neck to fixate on the sculpture, hoping that by some divine intervention, inspiration will hit you.

Minutes go by, and the room is silent. Everything is still, beside the specks of dust that float through the beams of sunlight. A groan of frustration leaves your lips as you tilt your head back. Closing your eyes, you hope that maybe a few minutes of meditation will clear your mind and bring some new insight. Moments pass, and footsteps infiltrate the once silent room. With a deep sigh, you turn your head to the culprit.

Your breath hitches in your throat upon recognition of the offender. His eyes meet yours and his hand comes up automatically in a shy wave. You offer a closed lip smile and return to your meditation in hopes that he won’t approach you. Meditation is meant to calm you down, but there’s nothing but tension that flows through your body.

There’s something incredibly intimidating about Kim Taehyung’s demeanor that makes you cower away at every glance. It’s the way he carries himself that makes you tremble in his presence. As you’ve observed, his talent is above and beyond everyone else in your class. His work with film photography is something classic, but simultaneously unique. The composition of his photographs are so well thought out, but almost always taken in candid. If anything, you’re a little jealous of his natural talent. It’s as if he’s constantly producing work, and they’re exceptional every single time.

“You know you’re supposed to put paint on the paper to do the assignment?” A deep baritone voice pulls you out of your thoughts. His voice is brimming with sarcasm as he practically breathes down your neck. Startled, you open your eyes and turn around, surprised by his proximity. He’s crouching down behind you, offering a boxy smile that reveals both the top and bottom rows of his teeth. He laughs at your reaction as you clench your hand over your heart.

He puts his hand on your shoulder as an apology and sits cross legged in front of you, mirroring your posture. Although you’ve shared multiple conversations with Taehyung in class, they were short lived. They were always questions about the assignments and complaints about your hard headed professor. Sometimes you would compliment one another’s work as you walked by each other to grab extra supplies. Your heart probably wouldn’t have been able to handle him this close and personal if you carried longer conversations with him. Regardless, you try to keep your cool to avoid embarrassment.

As Taehyung comes into your depth of field, your eyes autofocus on him involuntarily. He’s certainly a sight for sore eyes. A tan beret rests atop his head, and it hides his raven hair. There’s a beauty mark on the tip of his nose, slightly off centered, in which you’ve never paid attention to before. It’s cute. His large rimmed glasses sit right above his cheekbones, drawing attention to the roundness of his eyes and the long length of his lashes. You notice his tall stature with how much you have to angle your head to meet his gaze. The undone button up shirt does nothing but accentuate the broadness of his shoulders. The v-neck of his bottom layer expose his collarbones, and it makes you utterly weak for him. A gold chain with a ruby red pendant sits right between his pecs. His entire being must have been sculpted by Dionysus, the God himself.

“Thanks for the advice. Maybe I should give you some photography tips,” you joke.

”I could use the help.” His shoulder nudges forward. A smile returns to his lips. “Here’s a secret between you and me,” he continues, lowering his head. His eyes wander around the room to make sure nobody is eavesdropping on his so-called secret. You’re both well aware that there isn’t a single soul in the museum besides you two and the workers, but you still play along with his antics. His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek and his voice lowers to a near whisper, “I don’t actually know what I’m doing.” A laugh erupts through his entire body, breaking the silence from earlier.

“What’re you talking about? I love your pictures. They always come out so beautiful,” you admit, crinkling your eyebrows and cocking your head to the side in confusion.

“My art isn’t a big ordeal, I promise you,” he shakes his head, “I just play around with my camera and the end product is usually a happy accident,” he explains. The glimmer in his eye makes you believe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you aren’t actually intimidated by Taehyung. It’s definitely more of a feeling of jealousy. He’s able to produce so many works with so much ease (because it is easy for him). Meanwhile, you’re struggling to complete your projects, let alone be happy with the end product.

The lack of response sparks his attention. “You don’t believe me?” He asks, noticing your crestfallen look.

“I know better than anyone that art is about trial and error.” You focus your eyes on your hands that rest on your lap, playing with your fingers, “for me, it’s all about error though,” you confess with a pout on your lips. Taehyung reaches for your sketchpad that sits in front of you, but you press your hands down on top of the book to prevent him from seeing the so-called art you call a disgrace. You look over at him, embarrassed that he even wants to take a look at your private pieces.

“Do you wanna hear some solid advice I heard once?” He asks, retracting his hand from your book. You nod, accepting any kind of help at this point due to your desperation.

“If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.’”

“Did you just quote Van Gogh at me?” You scrunch your face, asking him incredulously.

“Only genius can recognize genius.” You both fall into a fit of laughter.

Speaking to Taehyung is a lot easier than you imagine. He’s not one of those stuck up art majors you have the pleasure of sharing studios with. He’s encouraging and very laid back. Unlike all the other students in your program, he doesn’t want to compare his work, but rather have it shine on its own. Taehyung isn’t critical of the photos he isn’t proud of, seeing that with every new piece, there’s an opportunity to grow and hone in on his skills. His attitude towards the creative process is admirable.

Bringing your knees up and gripping onto your calves, you lay your art book onto your lap so it’s clutched to your chest. In a way, it acts as your security blanket. Although painting can be frustrating, it’s the only activity that can give you comfort. This wave of embarrassment is all new to you. Skepticism of your abilities has led to you fending off Taehyung’s judgment. Breaking off the outburst of laughter, you admit, “I love Van Gogh as much as the next person, but I don’t think I can call myself a genius. If we’re exchanging secrets here...” You beckon him closer with a come hither motion of your hand so you can whisper in his ear. He leans in so that your lips brush up against his ear. “I have artist’s block,” you whisper shamefully.

He pulls back and clicks his tongue, “Of course you do, you’re too busy doubting yourself. I don’t even think you realize how many people are scared of your potential.” He says that like it’s a matter of fact ー the most obvious reason behind your problems. You’re taken aback by his stern expression, definitely unsure of what he’s talking about. Taehyung has never creased his forehead like that, his expression full of worry. Averting your eyes away from him momentarily and scoffing in disbelief, “You lost me there. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He brings his hand upwards towards your face, swiping his fingertips on the underside of your chin. Blush rushes to your cheeks and your eyes widen at the physical affection. His voice is sweet like honey, and his compliments drip with saccharine.

“You’re really too modest for your own good,” he replies with a slight shake of his head.

Rolling your eyes, you reach over and playfully push Taehyung’s shoulder back. Your knees drop, no longer supported by the force of your arms. He takes this opportunity to grab your sketchbook, scrambling to his feet. This must have been his hidden agenda all along. Being much taller than you, he stretches his arms up straight above his head. Even with a jump, you still wouldn’t be able to snatch it from him. You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in his chest in hopes that he’ll give into you. Although he’s taken a liking towards you, he’s still relentless.

A loose page slips out from the book, unbinded to the spine. You really ought to be more organized with your work. The sheet slides against the smooth tile of the museum floor, and you run over to grab it before Taehyung could catch a glimpse. It’s already too late. “If you don’t even think you did a good job on that, I can’t wait to see work you’re actually proud of,” his voice echoes through the room in awe.

You finally let up, deciding to show him. Sighing, you grumble, “I was proud of this. I even hung it up in my room, but I saw it this morning, and I thought that I could just do so much better.” You suck your lips in and offer a shrug, still in doubt of your talent.

“So leave it up in your room. Keep it as a reminder of where you began,” he takes the painting from your hand and slips it back into the front of the book, “You can’t become a better artist if your first draft is already perfect.” He hands back your sketchpad, and you ponder over his words, murmuring a thanks that is only to be heard by the two of you.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you. A smile tugs on the corners of his mouth. There’s no way you would have taken this type of advice from anyone if it wasn’t Taehyung. You know everything will be okay because he flashes you his award winning smile. He believes in you, and so do you.

“So let me get this straight,” you think aloud trying to gather your thoughts. You and Taehyung sit in the same positions as you have for the past 4 hours, both unmoved from your spots. A couple people have finally entered the Greco-Roman exhibit since you’ve been there, unlike at the start of the day when it was radio silent, but they left uninterested in the sculptures. Regardless, you carry on your conversations as if you’re in a world of your own. Taehyung looks at you with bright eyes, urging you to continue.

You tuck your stray hairs behind your ear, resting the pads of your fingers on your temple and shaking your head from side to side. This habit of yours has become customary for you whenever you’re in thinking mode.

“You’re a photographer, and a damn good one at that,” the index finger of your right hand meets the palm of your left. “You can play the tenor sax and the violin,” your middle finger comes down to count, further listing the many talents of the boy sat coyly in front of you. “You’re like the nicest person I met in the art department.” He shies away from you, avoiding eye contact as he looks down at his lap. “You’re good with kids and you have a soft spot for dogs.” At this point, you’ve given up on counting his qualities. There are just too many to fit onto one hand. “Do you have any flaws? Because you seem too good to be true,” you finish in question.

His hand comes up to cover the bottom half of his face, muffling his giggle, and his eyes squeeze shut, resembling crescent moons.

You’re also the cutest person I’ve ever met, you think.

“Sometimes I chew with my mouth open,” he answers in embarrassment, his eyes meeting yours. Your lips part, gaping open, you look at him in mock offence. Your hand comes up to clench at your heart as if you’re in pain.

“I knew the perfect man doesn’t exist,” you laugh at the pout that forms on his lips.

Suddenly, an announcement over the loudspeaker catches your attention: “Attention, all guests, the Museum of Arts and Design will be closing in 10 minutes. Thank you so much for your visit. Please kindly make your way out to exit the premises, and we hope to see you soon.” Taehyung is already up on his knees, extending his hand for you to hold. You look at his outstretched palm and place your smaller hand in his.

“A gentleman too. Maybe I can overlook the open mouth chewing,” your eyes crinkle at your own joke, and it’s his turn to feign offence. The look of betrayal washes away as he helps you up, and you both make your way out of the museum.

Nearing the exit, your eye contact breaks apart when you both reach for the door handle. His fingertips brush over the top of your hand, but you quickly pull away when you realize there’s a soft patter of rain against the glass door. Sighing at the slight inconvenience, “Oh, I left my umbrella in my dorm. Didn’t know it was going to rain today.” You crane your neck to look out towards the end of the street.

Maybe you could make it to the bus stop if you run and hope that the overhead covering would keep you dry. With the lackluster transportation network in this town, you’re sure that the bus would arrive in about an hour. You pull your phone out of your back pocket to check on the bus schedule, but Taehyung places his hand back over your wrist.

“I have one. It’s kind of small, but maybe we can head back to my room? It’s faster if we walk. We can wait for the rain to die down?” He offers.

“It’s okay, I was just going to make a run for the bus,” you point out the window with your thumb, not wanting to inconvenience him.

“It’s starting to pour, let’s go,” he hooks his right arm with your left, and he’s already opening up his umbrella, pushing the door open. Taehyung has never heard no in his entire life.

“This umbrella is too small for the both of us!” A laughter escapes from you as the rain splashes onto your exposed arm. Shivering, you squeeze your shoulders inwards to conserve some body heat. Taehyung unhooks his arm from yours. He drapes it over your shoulder instead, “come closer!” Being in such close proximity, you notice the musky scent that emanates from him. It’s a mix of pine and wood, yet there’s a hint of floral sweetness.

“How much further?” You inquire.

Because of the wind, water drips down your arm and soaks the back of your t-shirt. “I live in Roosevelt. It’s up there at the front of the quad” he responds, pointing at the brick building. Nearing the dorm, you’re relieved that you no longer have to trudge through the rain. The precipitation picks up speed and a rush of wind blows.

It seems that you have the worst luck because the umbrella flips inside out. The ceaseless rain drenches you both in an instant. Taehyung moves his hand down to the small of your back, shouting “Run!” He abandons the umbrella onto the gravel, and he’s lunging forward. Despite the situation being unpleasant, you find it to be completely amusing. You laugh like a madwoman and shriek at the cold force of the droplets. While you’re wildly out of shape and Taehyung is taking large strides, he stays by your side, never leaving you behind. Pulling out the keycard from his pocket, he presses it up against the magnetized lock. You rush to pull the door open, taking cover in the shelter.

Your hair is a disheveled mess, drenched in water. Running your hands through the wreckage, you shiver at the texture of it. The scrunchie that you tied up in there is long forgotten among the tangles. There’s no doubt that you won’t be sick with a cold tomorrow morning. Your glasses are fogged up from the humidity outside, so you attempt to wipe it clean with the hem of your t-shirt. Unable to absorb the beads of water, the glass is left smudged.

Still euphoric from the adrenaline rush, you crack yet another joke, “Do you think your grandma can send us a care package? We’re probably gonna be bed-ridden by the end of the week.” The lack of response makes you look up at Taehyung. You put your glasses back onto the bridge of your nose to make out his facial features. His appearance matches yours, sopping from head to toe. He, however, is still gorgeous despite the mess that the weather has made of him.

“Taehyung?” You try to catch his attention by waving your hand in front of his face. He stands frozen with his eyes glued to yours. He pulls himself out of his daze with a blink and suddenly, his hand clasps around your wrist.

He licks his lips and boldly asks, “Can I kiss you?” His eyes shift south to the curve of your mouth, slightly pursed. You gulp, taken aback by this wave of courage. Your heart races faster, and it’s as if someone raised the thermostat another ten degrees higher.

“Uhm…” You stammer. Of course you want him, you want him so bad. The situation just seems inconceivable in this moment. You don’t even know how to respond, voice weak. He inches closer to you, taking his other hand to brush the wet hair out of your face, resting his palm onto your cheek. Your mouth goes dry, and you soothe them over with a sweep of your tongue.

“Say yes, please,” he pleads. You nod your head, and that’s enough for him to press his lips to yours in a desperate kiss that knocks the breath out of you. His left hand lets go of your wrist to take hold of your waist. He moves hurriedly, pushing his hips against yours. With your back pressed against the wall, you reach for Taehyung’s broad shoulders to support yourself. Your lips part open at the intensity of his actions. He takes this moment to slip his tongue inside, rolling it over yours to deepen his movements. He kisses with a sense of urgency. It overpowers your senses, feeling nothing but wet and steamy.

A surging tide of pleasure washes over you as his hands roam up and down your sides, untucking your shirt from your jeans. You run your hands over his broad shoulders as his roam across the swell of your breast. Your nipples are already hard underneath the material that clings to your skin. Taehyung unlatches himself from your lips in place of kissing the column of your neck. He finds purchase on the curve of your ass, and you fall victim to his touch. Taehyung’s pillow-like lips are hot in its wake of kisses, but your skin is cold from the rain water. Closing your eyes, there’s a tremor that racks throughout your body.

“Taehyung,” You whisper breathlessly, overwhelmed by the ravishing sensation, “Where’s your room?” Maybe he didn’t hear you because he’s too busy sucking bruises onto your neck, but the truth is, Taehyung can’t bear to pull apart from you when you’re this close to him, weak in his arms. In fear of someone walking in on your unholy actions, you cup your hands on Taehyung’s cheek, bringing his attention to you. He looks up at you with hooded eyes, clouded by pure lust.

“Room?” You ask him once again with a soft voice.

This time, he grabs your hand and leads you down the hallway. You fall behind him as he takes long strides, bringing you to a halt in front of a large wooden door with two name tags taped to the front: Taehyung and Jeongguk.

He digs through his pocket, looking for his lanyard once again so he could pull out the key attached to it. Unlocking the door, he swiftly opens it up and pulls you inside. The lights are turned off, and the dorm is empty. His roommate must have gone out tonight. The translucent material of the curtains are drawn to a close, but the reflection upon the rainy clouds illuminates the room.

Once again, Taehyung pushes your back up against the wall, needy for your kisses. Your tote bag slips off the ball of your shoulder, and you throw it aside onto the floor, unsure of which side of the room belongs to Taehyung. You push off the thin material of his button down, and he discards it behind him. Removing his beret, you card your fingers through his jet black hair. Resting your hands on his hips, you urge him backwards to move towards the bed.

The back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls back onto the firm surface. Sometimes, you curse your college for having such small and narrow beds, but in this moment, you’re thanking the heavens for allowing you to be this close to Kim Taehyung.

You squeeze yourself between his legs, and finally you’re able to rip off the wet, clingy material of your t-shirt from your body. He props himself up with his forearms so he’s able to watch you undress. Today, you also happen to forego your bra, and he’s left in awe at your bare breasts. Climbing up on top of him, your legs rest on either side of his hips. He rubs circles on the upper part of your thigh, hands sitting idly on the top of your legs. Laughing at how apprehensive he has become, his brave demeanor seems to have disappeared, you decide to take action for yourself.

“You can touch me,” guiding his hands to the swell of your chest. His sight hasn’t left your boobs, mesmerized by the peaks of your hardened nipples. Such a boy. His thumb and index finger roll at your buds, and you moan at his ministrations, squeezing your eyes shut. You grind your hips in tune with his hands, slow but steady at first.

Taehyung looks at you as if he’s taking a long exposure shot with his camera — like absolute art. While you’re sitting there in low light, he senses the world rotate around you like you’re its axis. Your eyebrows knit together, and he swallows, never seeing anything as beautiful as your expressions in complete bliss.

The thought of him being inside you enters his mind, and his member grows hard at the image. He wishes he could take out his film camera and capture the moment, but maybe that could wait for another time if he’s lucky enough. He kisses your cheek, placing his head in the nook of your neck. A drop of water drips from his hair and onto your collarbones. You gasp at the contact, but his arm wraps round your lower back, and the other molds around your ass, encouraging you to move faster.

He groans at the weight of your body moving back and forth over his crotch. He weaves his arms to the front of your body, wanting to unzip your pants. Sitting up on your knees to help ease his efforts, he undoes the button that clasps the material together. Unable to handle the pace at which this is moving at, you stand up so you can remove the denim from your legs. The fabric is tight around your thighs, so you stumble as you attempt to pull it past the swell of your ass. He holds back his laughter. His palm splays over his stomach as you hop on one leg and try to stretch the rough material past your ankles.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Your face heats up after seeing his reaction, but you giggle playfully as well.

Getting down to your knees, you make your way back between Taehyung’s legs. He stretches them open to make room for you. Your fingers fly up to his waistband so that you could remove his pants for him. The material is softer and much looser than yours, so you can pull it down his long legs without any difficulty. Wasting no time, you reach for his boxers which are snug around his muscular legs. He lifts his hips upward so the cotton can slide down.

You lean in closer, wrapping your fingers around Taehyung’s shaft. You run your thumb over the slit, spreading his precum over the tip. This time, you’re in awe of the man in front of you. His build beneath all those layers has been a mystery to you for the longest time. You never would have imagined that he was this big, this girthy. You gather up a glob of spit in your mouth before releasing it over his length to make your movements more languid. The dribble that falls out of your mouth drips down his shaft and onto his balls. You swipe your wrist in an up and down motion, coating him entirely with your saliva. Your hand meets his sensitive head, slick with his arousal.

You can’t help but stare at his cock in amazement, never seeing one as pretty as his. Taehyung is stuck in a dilemma, not sure whether to watch your hand at the source of the action, or your face, seeing how pretty you look on your knees, ready to give him everything at your disposal. Your mouth spreads open, and Taehyung is magnetized by the pucker of your lips. His hand is drawn to your cheeks, moving his thumb so that it sits at the entrance of your mouth. Instinctively, you open up wider and suck on his thumb. He’s taken by surprise, but he lets you continue, never losing eye contact with one another. Your tongue swirls around his digit, taking it deeper when he offers another finger. He so desperately wants to see his cock shoved in your desperate mouth.

“Fuck,” he releases a gutteral moan, ripping from the depths of his throat. “Can you suck me off? Please, please,” he begs of you. Without any hesitation, you remove his hand from your face and lurch forward to connect your lips to the tip, giving soft kitten licks. He hisses at the contact, wanting more, needing more. His hands thread through your hair, brushing it back before holding it into a makeshift ponytail at the base of your neck.

Catching onto the hint, you hollow your cheeks and move down his throbbing length inch by inch. His throbbing cock weighs heavy against your tongue. He tugs off the black t-shirt, leaving him completely bare in front of you. There’s no way you could deepthroat him, but you would certainly die trying. You go down as far as you can, about halfway down, before he touches the back of your throat. You gag at how deep he enters you, pulling back in a sputter. A line of drool slips out of your mouth, still connected to the vein on his underside. You wipe it away with the back of your hand before diving right back in. While one hand strokes the part of him you can’t fit into your mouth, the other is wrapped around his balls, making sure that it doesn’t go without attention.

“Can you go deeper, babe?” He swallows, hips jerking up into your mouth. “Fuck, sorry,” he apologizes when your throat clenches around his length.

Growing aroused by the pet name, you look up at him with adoration. His wet hair is matted against his forehead, water dripping down the side of his face. His lean torso is still damp from the clothes that had previously clung onto his skin. It’s unfair how good he looks right here in front of you. More drool falls out of your mouth, and it’s messy ー so, so filthy, dirty, and disgusting. You choke around his dick, pulling back to catch your breath. Taehyung pets your hair in comfort, making sure that you’re okay before you start again. You nod, licking your lips and reminding yourself to breathe through your nose.

“Look at you, drooling all over my cock. So needy,” he rasps out above you.

“Can’t help it, you’re so big,” you tell him, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. You gulp and take a deep breath through your diaphragm, wanting to please him, you move your head all the way down his cock. Although you make it down in one swift motion, there are tears that brim your eyes. You squeeze them shut, and the tears run down your face.

“Yeah, just like that, babe, you take me so well,” he whispers above you. One of his hands swipes at the side of your face, wiping away the freshly fallen tears. There’s a pleasurable sting that surges through your jaw, but you’re enamored by how well he stretches you open. Bobbing your head up and down, your hands squeeze at his thighs. Your fingernails dig into his skin, forming faint crescent indentations. Taehyung doesn’t notice the pain, too enthralled by the burning pleasure that runs through him. The throbbing sensation increases, and he’s convinced he’s about to hit his release soon.

“Oh my god, s-stop, I don’t want to come yet,” he stutters out earnestly with a huff. His hands tug at your hair, wanting you to release him.

Wet strands of hair fall in front of your face, matted to your cheeks. To others, you may look like a mess, but to Taehyung, you’re otherworldly. With your swollen, red lips, he swears that you are the reincarnate of Aphrodite. The pressure of your mouth sends him to heaven, but he’s ready to risk it all and sin for you, if that’s what it takes.

You shift your weight onto your heels and stand up to remove the last piece of fabric that stands in the way. Taehyung moves from the edge of the bed and lies down so that his head can rest comfortably on the pillows. Climbing onto the bed, you make your way up his body to straddle him. A smile forms on your face so effortlessly. Taehyung makes you so happy and so at ease. Lying down on top of him, his hands find his way to the small of your back, tracing his name into your skin. His cock presses up against your stomach, reaching above your navel. You know that you’re going to be absolutely ruined with his size by the end of the night.

He looks at you with dilated pupils, hidden behind beads of water that sit on top of his glasses. “One sec,” you mumble against his lips, still connected in a kiss.

You gently remove the frames that sit atop his nose bridge and lean over to place it on top of his nightstand without leaving his embrace. “Better?” You ask him, making sure that he’s comfortable. He nods, and his hands reach back up to the side of your face, also sliding off the frames you were wearing, forgetting that they were there. He places them right beside his on the nightstand, and you smile at the comfort you offer one another.

You kiss him softly, unlike the frantic touches from earlier. He grips onto your waist, and you lift your hips up in response while your chin rests on his sternum, gazing into his eyes. Moving your hand southwards between your bodies, you line his member up to your entrance, rubbing it against your slit. Taehyung takes a hold of your ass, finding it more comfortable there. Ready to take him, you glide his length into you, whimpering at the stretch of your velvety walls. A gasp escapes from you your lips you slowly make your way down.

Within moments, the back of your thighs meet his, and he’s sheathed completely within you. You take a breather to adjust to his size, and he leaves a peck onto the crown of your head. Smiling at the gesture of affection, you relax in his hold. You feel him pulse within you, and you clench at the intimate feeling. Your knees spread on either side of him, allowing you to move up and down onto his shaft.

You settle on a moderate pace, and the sting is bittersweet. Your core is coated in arousal, making it so easy to slide in and out. His fingers dig into the swell of your ass, marring your skin with his touch.

Your hands find the nape of his neck, tugging onto his hair to keep you grounded. Your tongues tangle together in a heated kiss as you fuck yourself onto his shaft. You shudder when your clit glides against his abdomen. A sudden slap to your ass fills the room, and you jolt, yelping at the impact. Taehyung hums beneath you, enjoying the power he holds over you. Your forehead rests on top of his as you breathe into one another’s mouths, exchanging rushed pecks.

“Does it feel good? You’re so wet, baby, you’re soaking.” His grip tightens before spreading your cheeks apart. The squelch of your arousal is apparent. It fills the room each time you push yourself onto his cock, taking his length inch by inch. Nodding at his words, your eyelids fall shut. He lands another harsh smack to your ass, half-bruised, and pleasure shoots down your spine.

“Use your words, babe. I want you to look at me when I fuck you,” he rasps, voice hoarse.

You look at him through the slit of your eyelids, unable to open them completely. “Yes- yes, I love it, f-feels so good.” You had no idea that Taehyung would be such a dirty talker. He’s gentle as he’s always attentive to your responses, but at the same time, he’s demanding and his actions are just the right amount of rough and dirty. Somehow, he has managed to find the perfect balance that turns you on like no other. Your pussy pulses at his filthy words, and you can’t help but to ask for more.

“Spank me again,” you request.

Without any hesitation, he complies with not one, not two, but three consecutive slaps to your ass. You tremor at the sting, loving the way in which he manhandles you.

“You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you? Didn’t realize you’d like it this rough,” he says with another smack, whispering into the shell of your ear. Your mouth falls open at the grit in his voice, wishing that he could whisper dirty words to you all day — that he could bend you over the desk in your studio, cover your body with paint, and fuck you until you’re filled with cum.

Your skin must be etched with marks in the shape of his handprint. The thought of that really riles you up, and your movement falters. Taking notice of this, he insists, “ride me like you want it, babe.”

“Help,” you ask him with pleading eyes.

Understanding that you’re getting tired from doing all the work, he replies softly, “stay still for me, yeah?” He bends his knees upwards, laying his feet flat onto the bed. His hips lift upwards, fucking his cock into your heat. With this new angle and Taehyung’s sheer force, he pounds repeatedly onto the spot that makes you see stars. He reaches deep within you, bottoming out with blinding pleasure.

Your head falls onto his neck, and you bite his shoulder to keep quiet. You hook your arms underneath his biceps, gripping onto his shoulders. Your screams are muffled against his skin, and that’s precisely what drives Taehyung to go faster.

Your orgasm creeps up on you as you pulse around his length, growing tighter and tighter. His hand squeezes between your thighs, rubbing your clit with the the pad of his thumb. Your mind is numb, thoughts drawing to a blank. Your high is so close, you can feel a fire burning in the pit of your stomach, ready to be extinguished.

“Are you close? I can feel you squeezing me so tight,” he grunts. He’s right, your walls constrict his member as it pumps inside of you. There’s a ring of cream that wrap around his length as you coat him with your arousal.

“Yeah, yeah I’m so close,” you confirm with a lick of your lips and a furrow in your eyebrow. He’s pulsating inside of you, and you can’t help but to clench harder, approaching your high. His hand comes down to spank you for the final time, hitting you in all the right places inside and out.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” you moan out weakly with a shaky breath.

You’re pushed over the edge, convulsing on top of him, letting out a series of whimpers. Your vision blurs, and you seek comfort by squeezing Taehyung’s shoulders as he chases his high. His thrusts are messy, desperate for some release. Within moments, his thrusts begin to slow down.

Your insides are painted white with his hot and sticky cum, feeling it spurt out intermittently. His raw member twitches within you, and you tremble on top of him. He remains inside you, making sure that you don’t waste a single drop of his cum. But soon enough, it begins to seep from your walls, dripping down his length and between your thighs. You collapse on top of him, unable to hold your weight anymore. Taehyung reaches up to caress your damp hair.

“Didn’t think we’d ever get to do that,” he lets out with disbelief, still trying to catch his breath.

Looking up at him, you scoff at the idea that passes through your mind. Voicing it out loud, “You know I have a crush on you, right?” Your head drops back into his chest, embarrassed by what he might have to say.

“You’re kidding. I’ve been trying to catch your attention since I saw your presentation at the opening showcase,” he confesses in disbelief. His chest rumbles beneath you in laughter. You leave a kiss on his chest, bringing him back into your line of sight.

“I didn’t know that,” you mumble as if it’s a secret between you two, thinking about how long ago that was in the semester. It must have been the first week or so; the showcase being a festival of students’ works over the summer.

Breaking away from your thoughts, Taehyung’s voice fills your head instead. “Yeah, you’re always so busy working, I thought you didn’t notice me at first.”

Your eyes widen, receiving the news, “I thought you were so out of my league,” you whisper.

“Absolutely not,” his heartbeat slows down, now aware of your feelings for one another. He looks at you fondly with a twinkle in his eyes, “Do you wanna get some coffee with me or something?” He asks shyly.

You smile at his soft voice, “Sure, but I’m more of a hot cup of tea girl myself.”

“Really? I don’t like coffee either,” he shakes his head.

You giggle at his remarks, “Yeah, sure we can get some tea some time,” dropping a sweet kiss on his lips.

After a blissful weekend, you’re forced to finish your assignment for your studio art class. Inspiration came easy after your encounter with Taehyung.

On Tuesday afternoon, your class meets up to reveal their final projects. You prop up your new piece on an easel to display it for everyone. For once, you’re actually proud of your painting, turning it into a mixed media of the sort. It’s based on the sculpture of Dionysus like you originally planned, but you were heavily inspired by a certain man with honey skin and plush lips. A vibrant shade of cerulean blue sits on top of his head, a color that Taehyung said he wishes he could dye his hair one day. His signature beauty mark rests on the tip of his nose, faint, but very apparent to your eyes. You couldn’t forget the ivy wreath that rests atop his head. Beside the figure, the infamous black panther is replaced by an equally intimidating black and brown teacup pomeranian, just like Taehyung’s pet back at home.

Everyone presents their art piece in the same manner, propping it up on an easel so the students can roam around in a gallery walk. You bring your post-its with you so that you could anonymously leave your critiques on each person’s desk. Finally excited to get back into the momentum of art, you admire the beautiful work that the students came up with. Looking at each piece with a fresh set of eyes, you’re amazed by how the imagination works in regards to art. Each individual interpretation is so unique, and there’s never a single way to look at something. Taehyung’s optimism has really rubbed off on you.

Finally approaching Taehyung’s easel, you are left in complete shock by the photograph he decided to show the entire class. It’s a blown up picture that’s taken in the confines of his dorm room. His white bed sheets compose the negative space, taking up a third of the image. His sheer curtains flow inwards, and the windows are opened completely. The clouds are prominent in the background, but a couple of trees full of brown and orange leaves obstruct its view. The subject of the photograph, however, is what surprises you the most. It’s a sleeping figure, back turned against the camera, so only her damp locks of hair are on display. The title of his work is called “The Reincarnation of Aphrodite.”

Cheesy.

You jot down a comment onto your post-it note: “I’m still offering you those photography tips :)”

Making your way back to your workspace, you read through the comments that you received. Most of them were very kind, and others were constructive. Sticking out among the pile, however, is a familiar purple post-it note: “You’re really talented!! -Taehyung”

Gulping at the realization, you look up from your desk, eyes roaming the room to find the raven haired boy. He’s standing back at his desk with his eyes locked on yours already. He brings his hand up in a shy wave, and you give him a toothy, ear-to-ear smile, waving right back at him.

#fic: 10 muses #bts smut #kim taehyung #kim taehyung smut #bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic #photographer!taehyung #college au #bts college au #bts #10 muses #taehyung smut #fluff #bts fluff #taehyung fluff #bangtan #taehyung x reader

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dualdeixis · 4 years

Note

I came across your art on twitter and really love it, your style is so beautiful! I was wondering what program you use? What brushes are your favourites? Do you have any tipps for starters? (Especially for android users) I hope you don’t mind my questions, I’m trying to get into digital art and have been a bit lost 🥺 lots of love to you!

;_; oh wow thank you so much, your compliments and asking for advice really mean a lot to me, i don’t mind your questions at all!! putting this under a readmore though so i don’t spam anybody because i ended up talking a lot...

right now i use medibang paint on an ipad but i’ve only been doing that for a few months, before then i used firealpaca (which is a sister program to medibang - for both of them i just use the default marker tool) with a mouse. specifically i use them without antialiasing on because idk growing up on ms paint using only the pencil tool just made me accustomed to those crisp pixels

i don’t really have tips for like, the actual drawing aspect because i’m not a professional, i’ve never taken classes or been taught, this is just my hobby. all i can say is just keep drawing! the more you draw the more you stimulate your creativity, the more you train yourself to make a refined drawing out of a concept in your mind, etc.

my main tip has more to do with kind of, the emotional and mental health aspect, which is learn from other artists but don’t compare yourself to them. for example, don’t feel like you’re less of an artist because you don’t have a tablet, you’re just starting out and aren’t as good as the artists you like, etc. this creates a terrible negative thought pattern that can lower your self esteem and make it extremely hard for you to be satisfied with anything that you make... and i’m speaking from experience lol.

so absolutely study the artists you like, break down what it is about their drawings that you like so much, try to incorporate it into what you’re doing. but don’t couple that with negative self-talk, pressure to always be producing and improving, etc. art, all forms of art, are all so unique and beautiful and human, and the art YOU in particular make is so unique and beautiful and human, and i would hate for someone who’s just getting started to fall into this type of attitude! i don’t believe in the objective comparison of art - that is, i don’t believe you can objectively decide that one artist is “better” than the other; i don’t think art should be a competition. i think it should be a focus on learning, developing, communicating. when you see an artist that just blows you away, it’s easy to feel insecure or jealous, and feeling this way is okay and natural... but it’s also important to remind yourself that this is not a competition, and wherever you are in your journey is a completely fine place to be. actually, the fact that there are people whose art blows you away is a wonderful sign: it means you have a deep appreciation for things you don’t know about, for things you haven’t seen before, for things you have yet to learn, and i think an artist MUST have this appreciation. an artist has to know and accept and love that they are never done learning, because an artist who thinks they have nothing left to learn will not grow!

and the other side of that is, draw inspiration from the artists you admire, but also don’t pressure yourself to imitate them/"be like everybody else”/etc. the wonderful thing about your art is that it’s YOUR art! there’s no art in the world like it! so it’s a very delicate balance of finding inspiration outside yourself but also staying in touch with your own unique drive and vision; accepting that you will likely always feel like there is someone who does it “better” than you, but not being discouraged, but rather seeing the beauty in the fact that that means there will also always be something new for you to appreciate and draw inspiration from.

so i honestly think a lot of advice about art can fall under this balance: don’t value your art by how many notes it gets, don’t be afraid of experimenting and trying to do things you haven’t before (it’s scary because it’s new, and it’s okay if you think you’re bad at first!), look for inspiration not just in digital art, but also in film, literature, music, dance, sewing, sculpture - and not just in art period, but also in history, science, everything! i really think it’s all about knowing that your art inherently has value just because it’s something that you made, something that didn’t exist before. “good” or “bad” ultimately doesn’t matter, comparison to other artists ultimately doesn’t matter... just its existence is a wonderful thing. when we look at cave drawings, we don’t talk about it in an art critique way, but in a “people were here and they made art because that’s what people do, people were and are creative and people existed and exist” way, and i think that’s how all art should be at the core of it.

i really really hope this helped. i’m so happy you’re getting into digital art and that you thought to ask me about it, i’m always happy to answer questions. good luck and i’m here for you!!

#correspondence

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writinginstardust · 5 years

Text

Falling Like Stars | Chapter 3

Pairing: Tyler Jones x reader

Warnings: none

A/N: Do y’all want a lil bit of jealous Tyler? because we got it! But also lots of the soft good stuff because as you should know by now, I am a massive sap.

Word Count: 1464

"What the fuck did you do?" Those were (Y/N)'s first words to me when she met us outside the bar with Scarlett and Zila.

"Got in a fight. No time to explain right now, we've got to get out of here. How'd you do on the clothes front?" I noticed the girls had all changed, (Y/N) now wearing a dark pair of high-waisted shorts and a crop top. Cute. I tore my eyes away and focused on the clothes she was shoving into my arms.

"Those are yours, I hope they fit okay, Scarlett abandoned me and I don't know your size." Her cheeks flushed adorably and her hand fiddled with her hair - A nervous tick I'd witnessed a hundred times though rarely with me. I'd thought the brief awkwardness when she arrived for the mission had passed but she'd seemed nervous since Zila let her out of the med-bay. I wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe I could ask Scarlett about it.

"Thanks." I said and took the clothes from her after an almost uncomfortably long moment. I didn't even need to look at my sister to know she was smirking. "Scar, find out where Cat is and get us some directions while we change. See if you can figure out a way to get Auri across this place without trouble as well."

"Okay."

I spared one last glance at (Y/N). I had no reason but I couldn't help It sometimes. Never had been able to either. She smiled and I felt myself smiling back before Scarlett shoved me off with the others to change.

Their plan to hide Auri was a cargo box. Very original. I didn't have any better plans though and it worked even if it didn't make the journey particularly easy for Kal and I.

My muscles were starting to ache a little by the time we all settled down to sleep and I wasn't looking forward to a night on the floor at all. (Y/N) came and sat beside me though and suddenly it didn't seem so bad. She fell asleep quicker than I'd have thought possible. Probably still exhausted after almost dying less than 24 hours ago.

Her head was turned towards me and I felt her breath warming my face when I turned to look at her. She certainly looked exhausted. Her skin had a certain pallor to it that had never been there before. I thought back. It was there when she'd arrived too. Fainter, but still there. What kind of missions had De Stoy and Adams been sending her on?

As I watched, she shifted. Warmth flooded through my side as she let her weight fall against me, cuddling my arm and dropping her head onto my shoulder. I thought I might combust. We'd hugged in the past, of course - she'd been one of my closest friends for years, but never like this. This was different. At least, I thought it was. It certainly felt different.

After a while the floor started getting uncomfortable. No surprise there. My back was aching and I wanted to shift to alleviate the pain but, with (Y/N) leaning against me, I couldn't. Not without waking her up and I wasn't about to do that. She needed the sleep more than I did. And yes, maybe I did enjoy having her so close to me but that's beside the point. I talked with Scarlett for a while to keep my mind off the discomfort.

I'd nearly fallen asleep at last when (Y/N) disturbed me.

"Er...what's she doing?" My eyes followed her pointed finger to where Auri was...painting? The same strange drawing over and over again on the walls, the floor, the bed. She drew one more, bigger than the rest, in the middle of the floor before climbing into bed and going back to sleep like nothing had happened.

The two of us sat in stunned silence for a few minutes trying to figure out what the fuck that was. (Y/N)'s body was warm where it was still pressed against my side and I didn't think she'd noticed yet. Eventually she just shrugged and rested her head on my shoulder again. Knowingly this time. Did that mean something or would she have done the same to Scarlett or another friend? It was probably just comfier. But what if the contact was as calming for her as it was for me? No. Stop. This was not helping. I was going to drive myself crazy with all these unanswerable questions.

She fell asleep again. Maker knows how. No one else had woken with Auri's little artistic venture so I decided to try and sleep too. We could figure it out in the morning.

And figure it out we did.

Unfortunately, "figuring it out" had somehow led to me being crammed in a crappy hotel bathroom with Cat, Kal, Fin, Zila, and Auri. unsurprisingly that was too many people for such a small space and it was driving me mad. Knowing (Y/N) was on a date with a guy that wasn't me was only making my mood worse.

The sound of laughter, definitely at least slightly tipsy, seeped through the door. They were back.

I quietly seethed as I heard (Y/N) giggling breathily at some whispered flirtation. It was fake. It had to be. But that didn't stop it from pissing me off. I could picture it in my mind. His hands on her waist, his body pressed close to hers, his face tucked in the crook of her neck, lips whispering any number of flirty and filthy things. I wanted to punch something. Preferably the guy whose hands were probably all over her just feet away. But really I just wanted it to be me. My hands tracing her body. My chest brushing hers. My lips saying those things and brushing against her neck. The want was almost too much to bear.

Finally I heard two heavy thumps followed by some precautionary slaps. Scarlett yelled that it was safe and we all eagerly bundled out of the bathroom. My vision tinted red at the sight before me.

(Y/N) was half lying on one of the beds with one of the security guys sprawled beside her. Her hair was slightly disheveled and she was fixing her make-up nonchalantly, seemingly unbothered by the guy's weight trapping her leg or his head on her chest. Well I was bothered. She looked up as we entered and grinned at me. I felt some of my irritation slip away. Only a little though.

"Well that was interesting."

"Sure was." Scarlett smirked at (Y/N) from the other bed. "I never knew you could be such a flirt, you'd think I'd taught you." My stomach churned.

"I've picked up a lot of new skills since Adams and De Stoy started sending me off."

"Clearly." She winked at me smirked. I really hoped no-one else saw. "You boys should get going."

"Yeah, you don't have a ton of time," (Y/N) added. She looked down, frowning. "Can someone help get this guy off me? He weighs a ton."

Kal tugged him off with ease and she slipped off the bed. Fiddling with the hem of her dress - was it really that short before? - she walked over to me, concern clear in her eyes. She rested a hand on my shoulder and searched my face.

"You okay?" She asked gently, her voice quiet, meant only for me.

"I'm fine." It wasn't entirely true but it also wasn't an outright lie.

"If you say so. You better get changed."

I changed as quick as I could, very aware of how many sets of eyes were in the room with me. It felt like I was being watched. (Y/N) had a slight blush dusting her cheeks when I turned back to face her. Could it have been her looking? Yeah, I thought, because obviously there's just no way she could keep her eyes off you. Maker, just because you're constantly staring at her, doesn't mean she's doing the same.

(Y/N) came over and hugged me. Tightly. Still lost in thought I barely noticed but wrapped my arms around her waist instinctively anyway. It felt so right and I wanted to stay like that forever. She pulled away and my mind kicked back in as it protested the loss of contact. Lips pressed against my cheek and I had to remind myself how to breathe.

"Good luck," (Y/N) said with a soft smile and pink-tinged cheeks before nudging me towards the door where Kal was waiting. Heart fluttering wildly, I turned and left. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face for a long, long, time.

Tag Lists: (send an ask if you want to be added!)

Everything: @wonderfilledness @writingbychelle @ad-astraaaa

Aurora Cycle: @aurising

#aurora rising #aurora cycle #Tyler Jones #tyler jones imagine #Tyler Jones x reader #Tyler Jones x you #Tyler Jones Fanfic #aurora rising imagine #aurora rising fanfic #aurora cycle imagine #aurora cycle fanfic #reader insert #Fic - Falling Like Stars

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anastasiaskarsgard · 5 years

Text

Bill and Jessica

This is a continuation @skrsgrd-my-boi requested. So here ya go. Super fluffy and some curse words.

This is Bill and Jessica and they're just gonna be happy overload

For the first one go here: https://anastasiaskarsgard.tumblr.com/post/185008455366/i-sooo-need-you-to-write-about-what-would-happen

“Honey I’m home!” Jessica yelled as she walked in the condo, a few minutes past 3 am.

She’d been drinking since that afternoon and had misplaced her iPhone, somewhere along the way. Therefore, she had no clue that Bill had been blowing up her phone all night. She tripped over some shoes in the hallway and ate shit. It wasn’t too bad of a fall, but any type of fall, when you’re an adult is rough. Lucky for her, she was wasted, so everything was just hilarious.

Bill got up and walked out of his room, to find Jessica, lying on the ground laughing hysterically. He hadn’t been able to sleep anyway and had been laying there, rehearsing what he was going to say to her when she got home, but now he was just happy she was back safe.

He went to help her up, but instead of getting up, she pulled him down on top of her.

“Dammit! Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all night! I was worried, sick!” Bill spat at her.

“Billy Willy I might have drunk too much and lost my phone when the sun was still up. So there’s that. And then I was a drinking safari with Angel because she liberated herself from her evil boyfriend, the Dreamkiller. Terrifying guy. No fun at all.” Jessica hiccuped. “Excuse my hiccups, but I love you.” She grabbed bill’s face and pulled him into a deep kiss, interrupted here and there with a hiccup.

Bill was rigid at first, but he really loved Jessica’s drunk ass and couldn’t really be mad, she couldn't answer the phone, if she didn’t even have it.

He pulled away and met her eyes, “you could of at least called and let me know you’re ok.”

“Will do Billy Willy. 10-4 over and out.”

“I’m serious. I love you, and I worry. I know what a drunken jackass you can be, and I’m not saying you can’t go out and get smashed with your friends. I wish you would bring me along so that I can take care of you,” Bill said as he peppered her face with kisses.

“A-ok. Scouts honor,” Jessica tried to salute, but just poked herself in the eye somehow. “Ouch!”

Bill tenderly kissed her eye. “Can I carry you to bed?”

“Only if you’re naked,” Jessica said with a mischievous grin.

Bill had only been wearing boxers, so he quickly was nude and hoisted Jessica up into a bridal hold, carrying her to their room.

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer!” Jessica sang out.

“You are THE MOST obnoxious drunk girl that ever lived,” Bill said, rolling his eyes.

“Bitch! I am serenading you, and you call me names? Shame on you! Shame your cow! Shame your whole family!” Jessica giggled, but when she looked at Bill, he looked utterly lost. “Don’t tell me that you never saw Mulan!”

The beautiful Swede looked just as lost as he shrugged his shoulders.

“Put me down. I must go to my secret movie stash!” She said, kicking her legs.

He set her down, and she ran out of the bedroom to get her movie while Bill brushed his teeth. He turned to see her walking in the room carrying a tape box. He spat and asked, “is that really a VHS?”

“Yes. I have all my old Disney movies. I’m not a heathen. I can’t believe you never saw this classic. And you call yourself an artist. Bah!”

Bill beamed at Jessica as she talked to the DVD VCR combo trying to make it work with sloppy drunk impatience. She shooshed him and pressed her ear to the machine, with the cutest little concentration face, Bill had ever seen.

“What are you doing, Jess?”

“I’m making sure, it’s not eating it.... I think we are good.”

She stood up, quickly shedding all her clothes, and bounded over to the bed before diving on it, bouncing around giggling.

Bill loved how silly and free-spirited she could be. He had been like that once, but after playing a few very dark, disturbing roles, he found it more and more difficult to let go, and act a fool.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’d met Jessica after an event she had decorated, when his then-girlfriend, had gotten jealous and abandon him there. Bill was rather intoxicated, and his phone was dead, so he had no way to call a ride, and didn’t particularly care. He sat down to smoke when he heard a yelp. He quickly got up and ran towards the direction of the sound, imagining several terrible scenarios, he could be running into. What he found was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, clinging to a ladder that had fallen over against the wall, about to crash down at any moment. He hurried over and righted the ladder, holding it so she could climb down.

Jessica turned to thank her hero, and when she looked into his eyes, her eyes went wide, and she laughed.

”What?” Bill asked self consciously.

“Shut the fuck up! Bill Skarsgård did not just save me! Oh my God, I just told Bill Skarsgård to shut the fuck up! I’m so sorry, my bad. I should be internalizing all this, but I’m an asshole.” She hid her face in her hands, shaking her head.

“No worries. What were you doing on that ladder?” He asked.

Jessica explained she was tearing down the party now and was working. She owned a company that made any theme, or vision you had, a reality. Want a flapper fundraiser? Jess would come in with feather boas hanging from giant white balloons, that lit up. Champagne bottles turned upside down, spraying balloon bubbles, in a cascade. Make amazing centerpieces and turn a plain ballroom, into a scene out of the Great Gatsby...

Bill found her very easy to talk to and followed her around holding the ladder as she told him about all the different parties she’d done and hilarious anecdotes of her adventures.

“I’m just talking away and although I’m not complaining, why is a movie star helping me?” Jessica asked him, biting her lip nervously.

“Well, for one you’re a lot of fun to talk to. Also, I’m learning a lot about event planning, which I imagine is useful, but my phone is dead, and my date abandon me,” he said, making a pouty face.

Jessica couldn't believe anyone would abandon this sweet, beautiful man, but she knew the bitch he was dating, so it wasn't a complete shock. She knew all about him.

You see, although Jessica was hiding it well if Bill knew her better, he knows she talked a lot when she was nervous. She was worried because she was 1000% a Bill stan and even had a Tumblr dedicated to him. So outside she was quirky and cool, inside she was losing her fucking mind and had died and been brought back to life like 50 times that evening.

”Use my phone.” she said, handing him her phone.

Bill took the phone and stared at it blankly.

”You can use my Uber account or google a cab. Or you probably only like limos huh? You can also rent a car, and they'll pick you up, or I can give you a ride in my awesome ass van, but that'll be quite some time since I have to get all the decor down. I don't have to clean or anything. Just get my shit and go.”

”you wouldn't mind?”

Jessica nearly fell over. Her mind raced as she thought about driving with Bill in her work van. It was taking all her power, not to fangirl the fuck out, but he was surprisingly easy going and seemed like he just wanted to be a normal person. ”No! You can help me carry stuff so there are fewer trips and we leave sooner.”

Bill didn't want to leave sooner, but he nodded, and they went around collecting everything, laughing and chatting. When it was time to go, Bill panicked at the thought of never seeing her again but reminded himself he had a girlfriend. He climbed in the van and told her the hotel he was staying at while she turned on her Spotify.

”Okay, so I have a girlfriend.” he blurted out.

”Not a very nice one, but to each his own I suppose. Don't worry tho Bill; I wasn't planning on taking advantage of you.” she quipped.

Bill blushed and asked, ”well can you text me your number, in case I ever need to decorate an event or need to laugh?”

She could not believe Bill motherfucking Skarsgard was asking for her number. She handed him her phone, to text himself and tried to focus on not swooning so hard, she crashed the van.

Soon she dropped him off at his hotel, and it wasn't until he was safely inside she screamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bill crawled in bed, and snuggled up to Jessica, happier than hed ever been in his life. She was the light to the dark, and as he watched the movie, listening to her commentary, singing along word for word to every song, he wondered how long was polite, to ask someone to marry them.

#bill skarsgard #billy skarsgard #bill istvan günther skarsgård #bill skarsgård #bill fan fiction #fan fiction #fan fic #fluffy #fanfic #my writing

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elfnerdherder · 7 years

Text

Ill Intentions: Chapter 4

You can read Chapter 4 on Ao3 Here

If you’d like to become a patron and support my work, check it out Here. Every little bit helps!

Chapter 4: Smoke Break

He sat in a small room in Quantico, dismissing the notification on his watch that he should have eaten already. He stared down at the photos of Hannah Oberly and now Russel Stevens, then considered Crawford across from him. Jack said nothing, merely stared. Will sighed and looked back down at the pictures obediently. Spying one that seared against his vision, he reached out and tapped the photo thoughtfully.

“Was he hoping the worms would break him down after dying?” Will wondered. “In case no one found him in time?”

Jack let out an irritable grunt, disgusted.

“I called you after I made sure he was alive,” Will added on. “And I even took the note with me so that you could see.”

“You should have called me the moment you found the note,” he snapped.

“Am I being held officially?”

“I’m thinking about charging you with obstruction of justice,” he snapped, steepling his fingers. He considered Will over them, brow lowered darkly. “Does the fact that he could have died mean anything to you?”

“He’s going to be okay,” Will reassured him.

“Traumatized,” Jack corrected.

“Appreciative,” Will countered.

They glared at one another across the table.

“We’re keeping the note, and since we already have your prints on file, we’re taking DNA, too.”

“That’s fine.” Will had already photocopied the note, expecting something much like that.

“You do this again, Mr. Graham, I’ll get so many gag orders and lawyers up your ass that you won’t know how to sit right for years,” he warned. It was reminiscent of what he’d threatened Charlie with.

“Do you want the other notes, too? They’re at my apartment.”

“Much as you’ve probably contaminated them, yes.”

Will had photocopied those too. He wished he could have figured out what brand of fountain pen the Chesapeake Ripper used, just so he could have traced over the curls and loops of his handwriting, learned something about him in the way he dotted his I’s, but he’d run out of time for that. If The Ripper called again, maybe he’d remember to ask.

“Can I ask a question, off the record?” he asked as he signed a paper with his statement.

“Is it really off the record?” Jack asked.

“I’m not Freddie Lounds,” Will retorted.

Jack nodded, that flicker of comradery in his eyes as he looked at Will. Will liked knowing that there was someone else in the world not affiliated with him in a bias way that hated her, too. Maybe in another life, he’d be on the same side of the table as Jack was. He could see it, a specially bred dog made for hunting psychos, reporting back to get a pat on the head before being locked in the kennels till the next one came out to play.

“Did he take anything from them? Not for reporting –like I said, I’m keeping this out of the news. For now.” He emphasized ‘for now’ with a pointed look. “The Chesapeake Ripper took organs, but these two lived. He found ways to put them under; are they missing anything…vital?”

Jack Crawford would have been a terrible poker player, what with the way expression ranged across his face, first surprised, then horrified, and finally resigned. Even before he answered, Will knew. “Oberly is missing a kidney, and so is Stevens.” A long, pointed stare. “Off the record.”

“Off the record,” Will swore.

He took a taxi back to DC, fingers drumming along his knee as he stewed on that. Both times trophies, but trophies one could live without. Why did he choose them? Did he find a riddle on the internet, deem it clever, then find someone that fit the type? Or did he first see a person and find inspiration in their ways, their mannerisms?

He highly doubted it was as easy as that. The Chesapeake Ripper was methodical, precise. He chose Will, somehow knowing that Will would rather play games with him than turn everything into the FBI and disappear until everything blew over.

Which begged the question: why the fuck wasn’t he doing exactly that?

He huffed out a quiet breath, glancing down to his watch when it beeped. A message from Beverly asking if he’d survived the FBI. In a manner of speaking, yes. In a manner of speaking, no. He was more than aware what was normal, what was right. He was supposed to turn everything in, duck his head and write his column from the confines of a rather safe and secluded place of the FBI’s choosing. He would inform them of any phone calls or contact, let someone with a degree and specialty in psychopaths handle everything.

You were two years away from suicide, I’d wager. Six months away from alcoholism.

He didn’t like the aftertaste of considering that, though. With the way he’d leapt at the chance to go on a hunt for clock towers and funeral homes, there was a subconscious part of him that’d decided from the start that he was going to do this, regardless of the danger.

More than likely because of the danger.

Your readers will surely relish your insight to my psyche, as much as they enjoyed seeing you delve into the Minnesota Shrike’s. Truly, the masses revel in a good witch hunt, much the same way they enjoy reading about death and torture until they’re part of it.

This one is only mildly harder.

The man who invented it doesn’t want it.

The man who buys it doesn’t need it.

The man who needs it doesn’t know it.

You have three days.

-Avid Fan

Will sat slumped on Beverly’s couch, editing and stewing over replies, her laptop propped up onto his chest. Using someone else’s computer was a personal affair, he felt, the keys foreign and oblong to him. The faded spaces didn’t fit his thumbs right, and they hovered over the spacebar, hesitant. He’d needed the change in atmosphere, though. He had a reminder on his watch to beep to let him know to change scenery every once in a while.

“It’s a good thing they’ve got Lounds collaborating, otherwise people would think you were making this shit up,” Beverly said, munching on kale chips. She offered one to him, and Will accepted it, letting it hang out of his mouth as he tapped idly on the faded ‘A’ key, nodding.

“We’re writers and we couldn’t make this up,” he mumbled around the chip.

“Shit, you’re on the news!” He gave a start at her shout, and he slid the laptop down just enough to look at the television, blinking rapidly at the mildly grainy image of a camera marking him coming out of the funeral home with Stevens strapped to a gurney. Thankfully, the distortion made him appear ruffled, uncertain of himself as a police officer led him towards cars where he folded his arms tight around his chest, rocking from toe to heel –at the time, the leaping of awareness from vein to artery to capillary gave him the feeling of a near-ability to fly. He’d wondered absently that if he leapt from a building, if he’d never have to reach the ground.

“An unknown source sent the video in, saying they were longboarding by when they happened upon the chance encounter. This begs the question, though; is this life imitating art, imitating life? Just what are the lines of journalism that credits an almost vigilante-esque behavior? Where does the reporting stop and the police step in?”

“She’s just pissed it’s not happening to her,” Beverly said, grabbing another chip. “Hell, I’m a little jealous.”

“We can trade if you want; the FBI’s up my ass now.”

Beverly looked like she was genuinely considering it. After a breath, she exhaled and shook her head dismally. “No, I saw that answer you gave to the period question. Leave the genuine life advice to me, and you go write about crazies.”

When they brought a behavioral analysist on to discuss the sort of person that would entertain an ‘avid fan’ such as that, Will snatched the remote and muted it. He didn’t need someone on the TV telling him something he was already very much aware of, thank you.

Avid Fan,

With the FBI involved, surely you will begin to feel the heat, now. After the rescue of Russel Stevens, they are certainly keen to keep people safe, especially from people much like you.

To address your behavior as well as answer the question that Lacy4Luk sent in, regarding your personality, I’d say that first impressions tell me you have a wild flare for the dramatic. You were a child not given much in the way of attention, and that loneliness grew, fostered into something ugly throughout adolescence and finally peaked upon reaching adulthood. You revel in the macabre because you feel you’ve found your niche. You think yourself an artist, and unfortunately, Lacy4Luk, the artistic desires of Avid Fan lend them a monstrous appetite.

This is a person, however, that will not stand out –not because they don’t wish to, but because they’re intelligent enough to see that individuality is well, but too much of it falls under scrutiny. They will be pleasant in public, affable, kind, and one would even argue charmingly charismatic. People will trust them because they make it so easy to trust them. There is an aloofness, however; this is not a person that lets just anyone into their home. Their home is their fortress, and the people that enter it are either being used, or they are very much about to be.

Beverly read it over his shoulder, munching on her chips. The noise was distracting, the bag crackling, and he winced away from it, holding her laptop up as an offering.

“I like that you switch from addressing him to talking to Lacy instead,” she commented. “You’re saying you see him, but you’re just as interested in everyone else.”

“Lacy4Luk,” he corrected.

“You can’t pay me to refer to them as those weird ass names.”

“They do pay you to refer to them as those ‘weird ass names’,” Will retorted with a short laugh. “They pay both of us.”

“We’re not on the clock, though.”

That was true. Why was he working on this outside of work? He wasn’t writing for the daily news that was delivered Monday-Saturday, he was writing for the Sunday Edition, a weekly piece with the ‘best of the best’. He felt like he had to, though. He felt like it would be somewhat of a disservice to Russel Stevens to not. The poor man had been buried alive in one of his own coffins, worms thrown in to help him decompose.

Enough time had passed throughout the day that he could adequately process the horror of it, although it didn’t seem to sink in the way he knew it should.

After enough kale chips, he e-mailed his work to his laptop at the apartment and headed home, watch beeping to let him know he’d reached triple his step goal for the day. He acknowledged the notification, kept walking. Maybe he deserved a cake or something for achieving the unthinkable. Tripling your steps is a pretty big deal, or so he’d heard from their health department.

This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in a long time.

The papers hit Sunday, and by Monday he watched his e-mail fill to the brim. Was there a limit to how many people could send in e-mails at once? Would his inbox implode? He absentmindedly redid the settings so that his watch didn’t beep every time he got an e-mail. It was so distracting that he almost missed his reminder to go and get a cup of water.

You’re a hero, it’s so amazing how you don’t wait for the police to save people.

The police already has a bad response time, give them a riddle like that and it’s no wonder you didn’t wait for them to go and save him.

Do you think you’re real FBI or something? Honestly, this is making me rethink my subscription to Tattler News, that and on the front page Freddie Lounds is always the top half, and I’m tired of her tone, but this is just getting ridiculous now with the whole man hunt thing.

Hi, are you faking these things?

Why is this happening to you? Who is this Avid Fan in correlation to you?

The actual written letters were far better. When people had to write out each letter, they were more careful about what was put down. He thought of his cork board, now with photocopies rather than originals, and he sighed. The Chesapeake Ripper certainly was very careful about each mocking, taunting word that was written. Every single flourish was purposeful, as though he knew Will would later trace over it with an almost sort of reverence to the actions as he tried to ingrain the ink into his fingerprints.

As many abrasive questions about the validity of his actions as there were, the ratings inched up just a little bit more. Enough that Charlie was going to keep the column. Enough that despite some of the harsher, accusing statements, there were scores of other letters from his ‘avid fans’.

Tuesday didn’t bring a letter from the Chesapeake Ripper, and work crawled. His watch beeped. Get water. His watch beeped. Eat lunch. His watch beeped. Walk around. His watch beeped. Get water. His watch beeped. Speak with someone other than the computer monitor. His watch beeped. Catch the bus.

The bus was broken down, though, and with traffic the way it was, darkness had fallen by the time he managed his walk home, feet furious and watch beeping to congratulate him on his steps that day. It wasn’t fun to walk five miles in dress shoes, no matter the ‘memory foam’ assistance in the sole. Memory foam. Like he wanted shoes that could eat up the memories of sitting on his ass all day under too bright work lights and in front of a computer screen where a woman asked him if ‘he was the ass hole almost killing people, just to get ahead in his career’.

When he went into his apartment, he locked it behind him and flipped the light, letting out a short, aggravated curse when it didn’t work. Power outages were common, although certainly a pain.

When he turned to see the shadowed visage of a man, though, it occurred to him that it wasn’t a power outage at all.

His first thought was to unlock his door and run out of it, since that was a logical escape. When he went to move, though, his legs locked and he found himself decidedly frozen, throat dry and mouth gaping open. There was only one person that would find a way to leave them completely in darkness within his own apartment –unless he had a slew of Avid fans, but Will Graham wasn’t that arrogant –and if he’d wanted to kill Will, there was the second thought that he would have attacked when his back was turned, when it was easy to subdue him. Standing poised by his crummy table and his corkboard, Will didn’t think that was the case.

“I can only see your outline, so I’m wondering the thoughts no doubt racing through your head,” the Chesapeake Ripper said. It was the same accented, cultured voice from the phone. In person, it was deeper, a mellow undertone of completely controlled delight.

“I thought about just walking out of my apartment,” Will said, and he had to clear his throat to dispel the dryness. It made him sound hoarse, scared. Truth be told, it wasn’t fear; much like finding Oberly and Stevens, there was a thread of excitement, a whisper of something fantastic that made his heart skip beats, and he was very well aware of just how messed up that was.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Then I thought, it’s the Chesapeake Ripper; if he wanted to kill me I’d already be dead.”

“Oh?”

“So if you weren’t here to kill me, why would I ruin the chance to have a conversation with you?” Will’s watch beeped, to remind him that he should have eaten dinner already. The sudden light in the dark was blinding, and he quickly swiped the notification away, irritated by it. It made his eyes, adjusting slowly as they were to the dark, blind all over again.

“You haven’t eaten,” the Chesapeake Ripper noted. “You should fix that.”

“I’m not the best at cooking in the dark.”

“Luckily for you, I prepared a dish so that you didn’t have to.”

The Chesapeake Ripper prepared a dish. Will would have laughed at the thought, but even he had his limits. They considered one another, two solid cuts of shadow in the dark, and it occurred to Will that he’d even thought to draw the light-cancelling blinds so that not even the traffic and the busy streets below could interrupt them.

When the Chesapeake Ripper didn’t move, Will headed towards the table, bumping into the chair before he grabbed the back and pulled it out, sitting down. Sure enough, when his hands came to rest on the top, fingertips bumped a fork that skittered to the side. The sound was jarring, unsettling in the otherwise quiet room.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What do you smell?”

Knee-jerk was to suspect him of putting human remains on a plate for him to eat, but as he lowered his head to inhale the aroma, he was surprised to find something savory, spices with a rich hazelnut undertone. Fingers skimmed across the plate, then traced out the odd, oblong shape of a very cooked, very dead bird.

“Hazelnut, fig; I think Armagnac? It’s meat. A bird.”

“Have you ever tasted the Ortolan, Mr. Graham?”

“Is that what this is?” At the prolonged, unanswered silence, he shook his head. “I haven’t.”

“It is quite illegal here, but I have a lovely butcher who finds ways to entertain my palate when the mood strikes me. They claim it is to better capture the aroma that one places a napkin over their head in order to partake, but I for one know it to be that they wish to hide their face from God.”

“If God is omniscient, he would see beneath the napkin,” Will pointed out. The shadow of the Chesapeake Ripped shifted, moved, and he sat down at the table across from him.

“We give them their hopes, such frailties as they are.”

“Is that why you leave the lights off?”

“The lights are off because I want you to be blind, Mr. Graham.”

Right. Will nodded, staring across the distance with eyes straining to see. He could make out broad shoulders, but otherwise there was no distinguishing feature. His fingers twitched near the fork by his plate, urging him to grasp it –to what end?

“I’m going to venture that the bird isn’t poisoned because that would take away the fun,” Will stated. He was proud of the fact that his voice didn’t waver.

“I wouldn’t do that to the food.”

Maybe it was the way he said it, but Will could almost feel his lips curling up on the edges, a sublime joke that only he understood. “You’re eating their kidneys, aren’t you?” he asked, and his voice lowered as he thought of the other trophies from victims. “You’re eating your trophies?”

“And now you will wonder for the rest of the evening if it’s not my intention to kill you after all,” the Chesapeake Ripper said, delighted.

His watch beeped to tell him to drink a glass of water. The sudden light burned his eyes, and he hissed, slapping the notification away, rendering him even blinder than before. He blinked spots out of his vision, focused on the shadowed blob not more than three feet away. So close, yet so obscured he couldn’t see.

“Are you going to eat?” the Chesapeake Ripper asked gently.

“Did you make enough for yourself?”

“I did.” The small scraping sound of a plate on cheap, pressed wood. “Many people enjoy the ease of discussing business over dinner, and I thought it sad to not partake in something as delectable as this.”

“…All in one?” Will asked, passing his tongue along his dry lips.

“All in one, Mr. Graham.”

He grabbed the bird, fingers brushing against what felt like a handful of dried fruits, fingerfoods for ease of consumption in the dark. He’d read a few articles on chefs in France fighting to have the bird made legal to serve in their restaurants again, the shouts of foi gras and other controversial delicacies their platform. The birds had always looked mildly stupid, plucked and served up no larger than a baby’s fist. His lips glided along the skin, and with a quick, short breath, he tilted his head back and dropped it into his mouth, biting down.

It was savory, gamey in its own right. He bit down on flesh cooked just-so, perfection as organs compacted on bone, fragile and brittle. They shattered under the weight of his teeth, fig fresh on his tongue as he swallowed, a salted aftertaste as small bones scraped the back of his mouth and broke flesh. To consume, he took in some of himself, he thought, and if that wasn’t something smacking of darkly romantic and twisted, he didn’t know what was.

Just across from him, the shadowed shape of the Ripper’s face tilted back as he too partook, and there was something grossly intimate about the silence, about the sordid act as they witnessed one another do something that apparently even God would shame.

His fingers poked and pushed the dried fruits –now that he could touch them further, he was more convinced of that –and he stared, weighing. Assessing.

“Worth it?” Will asked.

“Far more revealing about your character than anything I’ve seen you display in a public setting, I assure you,” the Ripper replied. “You didn’t hesitate.”

“I didn’t.”

“And despite the person you’re sitting across from, you’re very much not afraid.”

Will swallowed, savoring the aftertaste of hazelnut coupled with blood. “I’m not.”

“How different from the dour, sad-faced man that you present to others, glasses askew just-so, fingers that dance across the touch screen of a device that determines your every move.” The chair creaked as he shifted, and every sense was alive to it. It was true what they said, that the loss of a sense heightened all others. He swore he could smell the faint cologne of something ridiculously expensive and musky. “You abhor socializing.”

“I do.”

“And yet you can sit across from me rather than run because you’re curious.”

Curious was a good word. So was excited, but Will didn’t want to admit that part. “Others would argue stupid rather than curious.”

“You’re not stupid,” the Ripper replied without hesitation. “In fact, I would argue that in most cases, you’re the smartest man in the room.”

Somehow, coming from him, the compliment smarted as much as it hummed with sincerity. What use was it to Will to have his intelligence validated by the type of person society would rather see dead?

“What now, then?” Will asked. “You didn’t come here just to feed me.”

“I was curious,” the Ripper said, “about what you’d do when faced with a situation in which you were put at a disadvantage.”

“Here we are, two curious people in a dark room.” Will shifted in his chair. “You’re not going to reveal yourself. It’s too soon.”

“Too soon,” the ripper agreed.

“I do have questions, though.”

The Ripper huffed a laugh, the shadow of his head bobbing in a nod. “I’d imagine so,” he mused.

“Have we met before?”

“Yes.”

“Where?” At the silence, Will pressed, “When?”

“Two years ago, although I’m almost convinced you don’t recall.”

Two years –two years? Will scrambled through his thoughts, people, places, sensations, but nothing rose to mind. He’d been at Tattler News even then, resigning himself to a life of bad writing and bad wedding cake. Even The Ripper took note of it.

“Nothing comes to mind,” he said slowly. “It must have left an impression, though.”

“It did,” the Ripper agreed pleasantly.

He wasn’t going to tell Will, and for that Will was resigned to not press. He didn’t want to be too curious, too pressing to something that the Ripper wasn’t inclined to share. It would look weak, grasping, and it’d waste what little time Will felt he had left.

“Why do you schedule yourself so strictly, Mr. Graham?” the Ripper asked when he didn’t speak. “Why do you make yourself a slave to a laundry list of items on that watch?”

Silence. Will debated lying. He debated smudging the truth a little.

“Quid pro quo: if you are honest with me, I will be honest with you,” the Ripper said.

“If I didn’t, I’d forget to do any of them,” Will said after a moment. “Sometimes when I’m thinking, time moves differently. I’ll wake up, maybe drink some coffee, but I stare at the traffic and next thing I know, it’s 6:00 P.M., and I’ve lost an entire day because of the traffic.”

“What about the traffic moves you?” the Ripper wondered.

“The way the lights cut across windows from the street shops; horns blare overhead, arcing along metal frames housing the curses of the one running late, fists slamming against reinforced plastic, children shrieking as parents race across crosswalks.” He reached up and rubbed away the crease between his brows at the thought. “It’s not just traffic. Little things. The steam rushing from the kettle, the way a person tilts their head as they speak angrily into a phone, the way lips fumble over words they wish they’d never said. I could feel myself bleeding into the world moving around me. I’ve been told by psychiatrists that my mind doesn’t have barriers.”

“You’d become so wrapped up inside of it that you had to create a timeline in which you could function as an adult,” the Ripper realized. “Rather, as what society says what an adult would do.”

“That, and I was tired of food going bad in my fridge because I’d forget about it,” he replied dryly. His mouth worried over his question: quid pro quo. An answer for an answer. “Why are you eating them?”

The Chesapeake Ripper stood, and he circled the table. Will tensed in his chair when he drew close, when gloved hands rested on his shoulders to squeeze, massaging away tensed muscles bunched at being in such close proximity to a murderer. The Ripper’s face lowered, and the tip of his nose traced along the shell of Will’s ear, down to his throat. To Will’s utter surprise, he inhaled deeply, mouth open against his skin like he could consume some aspect of him. It made a shudder curl down his spine, rest warm in his stomach like a fine red wine.

“Because I was hungry,” he murmured against his neck.

“You cannibalize people because you’re hungry?” Will asked skeptically.

“It’s not cannibalism if they’re not equals, Mr. Graham,” he said with utmost seriousness. “And I assure you, they are certainly not our equals.”

He walked out of the apartment, and Will let him. The curious part of him thought to run after with his phone, grab a picture before it was too late, but the darker, more manipulative part of him whispered that it would spoil the fun.

A special thanks to my patrons, @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @starlit-catastrophe, Superlurk, and Duhaunt6! You guys are the best!

#LiaS scribbles #Ill intentions #Journalist!Will #hannibal fic #hannibal au #hannigram #slowburn hannigram #to catch a killer #you eat his dinner?#I'd say #someone help will graham #but...I think he's fine #well #not okay but he'll live #for now

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imnoexpertblog · 6 years

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Date Night Central

5/18/18

Man oh man, I am ready to deep clean my apartment. I have just been way too happy with life too worry about a super clean home. Baby and I both have been! Our time together has been spent doing much better things than cleaning, so I don't even mind. I will take the day while he is gone to get it all done myself. Then there will be even more time to spend together when he is home!

One of the things I like to do with Baby is read. Yep, read together! I always wanted to read this book with someone but hadn’t been with the right person until I met him. The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman is outstanding. Baby and I have an excellent relationship and are very healthy when it comes to most (if not all) things. We communicate well and often, we listen to each other, we are not jealous or controlling, we are not clingy, we get and give enough space, we are the right amounts of affectionate, we parent well together, I could go on all day. My point is that no matter how healthy you may think your relationship is, I still recommend reading this with your partner. It offers so much insight and perspective. There really are different ways to love someone and it’s important to know what way you and your partner need to be loved. You often love in the way you need to be loved, but the common case is that you and your partner may not need the same type of love. This creates a bit of a divide at times, but this book can help align you two again and that is why I think it is so amazing. I don’t want to give too much up if you are actually interested in reading the book, but I will tell you what the 5 love languages are. 1) Words of Affirmation. 2) Quality Time. 3) Receiving gifts. 4) Acts of Service. 5) Physical Touch. I can say for sure I am very physical. I love affection and someone physically loving me. I love kisses, hugs, holding hands, little touches as Baby walks past me. I have also always needed words of affirmation. I know I am loved and appreciated but hearing it is what I desire. It feels great. I really value quality time with Baby. I can go a certain amount of days before not seeing him enough or having any alone time before it really starts to stress me out. Acts of service are always appreciated but I don’t desire them very often. Receiving gifts has never made me feel loved, necessarily. I love getting presents but my brain doesn’t translate that to how loved I am. Baby is just about the same as me, and we are lucky for that. Our love languages are very similar and that makes it very easy to be together. He is just as affectionate and tells me the things I need to hear. He also values the time he spends with me. He does push the acts of service for me when he can, like helping clean up and doing the dishes when I can’t. I suppose I do the same thing though, I normally clean a bunch and its mostly so he doesn’t have to. We get each other gifts when it makes sense; holidays and birthdays, etc. We did buy each other more things in the beginning of our relationship; it was new and exciting. Now we are 9 months in and still excited, just saving for a wedding and a house. Those are the best gifts I could ask for anyway, so I don’t mind it whatsoever. Back to the book though, I think you should read it! Amazon has it for a decent price, as it does most things.

If you’re looking for something to do this evening near Green Bay, grab a girlfriend and head to Appleton! AJ Miller of VAMP is hosting her second ReVivalist Vintage Street Pop-Up from 5:00 pm to 8:00 pm right outside of Shear Chaos Salon & Barbering Co. in Appleton tonight. If you have been on my Instagram, you’ve seen me model her street-wear vintage clothing. AJ is an amazing make-up artist and has recently started collecting and selling vintage clothing. She does the make-up, styling, and photography for her project. One-woman circus! Not only does she do it all herself but she rocks at it all, too! She is such an inspiration. Give AJ Miller of Vamp Artistry a follow on Instagram as well as the ReVivalist Vintage page. You won’t regret it.

Not looking to leave the house? Want a cheap date? Paint with your mate! Grab some canvases, paint, and brushes, throw on some music, pour a couple glasses of wine, and you’ve got a cute and cheap at-home dates. Baby and I painted together recently. We talked about our days and just relaxed. Painting can be very therapeutic. You can paint the same thing without seeing each other’s masterpiece until the end! Then, you could compare how you both brought your vision to life. You could paint whatever you want without the fear of being harshly judged. Baby painted a logo he designed for a clothing company a while back and I painted a flower resembling a lilac. Even if you’re not very good, it’s something different and fun to do. Baby and I were getting sick of not being able to do much outside of watching movies and shows because winter is limiting. To mix it up, we have done puzzles, read a book together, cleaned the entire apartment together, grilled out at home, had a spa night with face-masks and massages, had movie nights with Nugget in our room complete with snacks, etc. Dog-sitting for my parents was really nice because we got to leave our place and stay somewhere else with a bunch of puppies! We also want to start recording our music finally (I can sing and he has a background in music production. Match made in heaven?). Those are just some ideas. Now that it’s getting nicer out there are plenty of things to do! Mini golf, going for walks or runs, picnics, camping, visiting the Green Bay Botanical Gardens, swimming, hiking, biking, going to the zoo or park, etc. I could list a million things but I will leave it at that. Hopefully you got some ideas for upcoming dates from this week’s entertainment blog!

Speaking of all these date ideas, I just want to remind you all: Don’t forget that you need to date your partner. Whether you’ve been married for 10 years, are newly engaged, have been dating for a few years, (whatever the case may be) you still need to court your partner. Spend that time together, be alone sometimes, treat each other to something (we just discussed how cheap and simple it can be). The things you do with your partner are what sets that relationship apart from the other ones you have. Make sure to take time for the person you love. Be with them and be in the moment. Turn off the phones, find something to do or eat, and just exist together for a little while each week. The grass is greener where you water it and I can attest to that. I’ve noticed just how green my grass is now that I have an abundance of water. I can honestly say have everything I need because of Baby and I am flourishing. And don’t stop at your partner! Date your kids! Take them for some one-on-one time, too. They also need to have those moments with you. Get away from responsibility and just have some fun together. Let them be kids for as long as possible. I want to take Nugget to the zoo for a little date so badly! We just have to find the time to do it. It’s always great to have the entire family together but there is something different about it just being us two. I love taking him to run errands with me or to grab a quick bite to eat. He and I both really appreciate the quality time we get to have every now and then when dad isn’t home. Now I miss them both even more than I did before I started writing this!

I will be posting about a requested blog topic soon, right after the weekend! If not, the food blog will come first. That would work out just fine because then I can write about the ribs Baby is making for us! I hope your weekend is wonderful and full of good food. I know mine will be!

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ismael37olson · 6 years

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"New Line Theatre is Saving the Musical."

New Line will soon start our 28th season. And I'm feeling more optimistic right now than I have in a long time. We have some long overdue good fiscal news...! Believe me, this has never been an easy journey. I knew that when I started the company in 1991, but knowing it doesn't make it any easier. Throughout most of our history, we've generally stayed on an even keel fiscally -- one season might end in the hole a few hundred dollars, or less often, a few thousand, but the next season would always compensate. Only once were we in real fiscal trouble, after we had to close an already badly selling run early, due to a death in the New Line family. But the Regional Arts Commission stepped in with a loan, and within a year, we had corrected the imbalance and repaid the loan. That was the only time, until a couple years ago. Suddenly, for various reasons, we lost two big donors, a foundation grant, and then we were hit with the indignity of getting zero-funded by the Regional Arts Commission (under new management) after twenty-seven years of funding. More than fifty local organizations were similarly cut off by RAC for the coming season. So since 2016, we have been struggling mightily and we've completely retooled our budget, reducing it by about a third. But still we soldier on, and all this time we've have had amazing support, incredible loyalty, and venders with the patience of Job. And now, I'm extremely happy to report that our 2017-2018 season ended with a surplus for the first time in three years, and two-thirds of our debt has been erased. If the season ahead sells half as well as we expect, we'll soon retire the rest of our debt. I would be remiss if I didn't point out at this time that donations made before our fiscal year ends on August 31, can make that surplus even bigger and put us in an even better position as the new season begins! (hint, hint)

I make that pitch because New Line needs to replace that funding we lost. So we need to step up our fundraising efforts, and we hope all our supporters and fans will help us with these increased efforts. Ticket sales cover only about 40-45% of our budget. The rest is grants and donations. (Here's a post of mine that explains why nonprofits work this way.) You can make a donation right now by clicking here. You're welcome. And let me make a pitch to my readers who don't live in St. Louis about why you should still support New Line. For much of our history, New Line has been the only company in the country producing only alternative musical theatre. Today, we're thrilled that small companies around the country now frequently do the kind of work New Line does. But New Line is still unique in our ability to bring back to life shows that were ill-served and left for dead in New York, and to bring national attention to weird, lesser known, but brilliant shows, like Night of the Living Dead and Bukowsical. Our art form, the American musical theatre, is in a new Golden Age, and New Line is one of the forces moving us forward. But don't just take my word for it... Broadway composer-lyricist-bookwriter Kyle Jarrow says:

I love New Line Theatre. Not just because they did a great production of one of my plays -- not just because Scott Miller is one of the most thoughtful, passionate and engaged artistic directors I’ve ever interacted with -- but because New Line Theatre is saving the Musical. The musical is one of the most iconic American popular art forms. And yet, it’s struggling to stay relevant. As I see it, this is the result of a number of factors: ticket prices rising, the average age of theatergoers rising, as well as the commercial pressures that bring more and more unnecessary film adaptations to Broadway. For the next generation of audience, for whom theater is competing with film and television and video game systems, it’s not surprising that musicals often don’t feel like a very good investment of time and money. But it doesn’t have to be this way. A great piece of musical theater can have incredible power. Music has the ability to drill straight into our emotional cores, to elevate drama in a profound way. New Line Theatre understands this. From my discussions with Scott, it’s clear that his company approaches musicals as drama -- committed to digging deep to excavate the best in the works his company chooses to produce. In every production, they work to prove why the musical form is important. They demonstrate why this form deserves to live on, and why it deserves to evolve with the times. I don’t know of any other theater that does the kind of programming that New Line does. They take chances on new, cutting-edge works. They revisit quality shows that flopped on Broadway but deserve another look. And they do game-changing reinterpretations of classics. It’s a varied, exciting mission, and I’m honored to have been included in it. I very much hope to be again. New Line deserves your fullest support. What they’re doing is truly important.

Broadway composer-lyricist Amanda Green says:

I have had the honor and pleasure of having two of my shows produced at New Line Theater: High Fidelity (twice!) and Hands on a Hardbody. New Line was the first theater to produce High Fidelity after its brief run on Broadway. I went with trepidation. I came away floored by the intelligence, scrappy fun, big heart, talent of the actors and acumen of the production. It was a reclaiming to me of the show I wrote and loved, produced in the right spirit. Led by Scott Miller, New Line proves you can do a lot with a little. In a way, this production was more satisfyingly right to me than the Broadway production – and got to the heart and humor of the story. I knew as soon as I walked into New Line’s production of Hands on a Hardbody in 2015, that once again, Scott ‘got’ the material and it was in excellent hands. Entertaining, funny, deeply moving, performed in an intimate space, with a supremely talented cast. Scott’s masterful understanding of the show, and ability to draw the audience in, made for another transformative experience. I know I’m not alone in being a Broadway professional who holds New Line Theater in high regard: Ann Harada (Avenue Q), Stephen Sondheim (!) and a host of others count themselves vocal fans and supporters. I am not only a grateful author, I am a donor to New Line Theater. I believe in Scott Miller’s vision, in the talent, ability, and dedication of this community of actors, designers and audience members he has created. This is what theater is all about: bringing bold new work, undiscovered overlooked work to the community – with intelligence passion and heart Transforming both those who produce it and their audience.. New Line Theater deserves to have a long healthy life in St. Louis.

Broadway producer Jennifer Ashley Tepper (author of the Untold Stories of Broadway series), says, “New Line Theatre is an essential maker of musicals. Their work over the years in bringing worthwhile, lesser known shows to life for the St. Louis community is commendable. I recently saw New Line's production of Yeast Nation and was wholly impressed by the top-notch work of every artist involved. New Line has made it a priority to present challenging, thought-provoking musicals rather than prioritizing shows that happened to be the biggest commercial hits. In that, they are unique among theatre companies. Their integrity and their follow-through over many seasons of great work are extraordinary.” Broadway actor Ann Harada says, "Their success proves that there's an audience for musicals that might be just a little bit outside the mainstream. Even though everything in life is only for now, I hope these guys are now and forever."

John Waters -- yes, that John Waters -- called us “the coolest theatre in town.” He says, "New Line Theatre can make it work. They know how to make a show biz dollar holler. St. Louis, you're lucky to have this gang. Theatre-goers, put your money where you mouth is!" American Theatre magazine wrote, in a glowing profile of our company, "You might say Scott Miller's in the business of changing people's minds: about shows they thought they hated, about subjects they didn't think could be sung about, about the musical form itself. The key to Miller's success may be that-for all the ego necessarily involved in running a theatre and writing several books and blog posts expounding your point of view-what has guided him above all is his willingness to have his own mind changed, even occasionally blown." Our own Riverfront Times did a wonderful profile of New Line, writing, "New Line has won a national reputation not just for launching new productions, but for saving shows that have been savaged on Broadway." We New Liners have been ridiculously blessed over the years to have the kind of support we enjoy from our community. My friends running theatres in other cities are very jealous. But we have to do better in our fundraising efforts to keep our company healthy, and we hope you'll all help us. Think about making a donation before the end of August -- it would help us immensely. And don't forget, season tickets are still on sale through Sept. 3. You don't want to miss this season -- The Zombies of Penzance, La Cage aux Folles, and Be More Chill...! Thank you, St. Louis, for being such an amazing place to make cool musical theatre! Long Live the Musical! Scott from The Bad Boy of Musical Theatre http://newlinetheatre.blogspot.com/2018/08/new-line-theatre-is-saving-musical.html

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rightsidenews · 7 years

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6 Powerful Ways to Reclaim Your Identity From Identity Politics

Ash Sharp Editor

#WhiteLivesMatter is a Bad Idea.

In its modern incarnation, Identity Politics is a reductive collectivist tactic to quickly form ingroup/outgroup biases.

What I mean by this is that by accepting the Neo-Marxist concepts of the progressive stack and Oppression Theory, we begin to align ourselves with people ideologically similar to ourselves- and in ways that would have been impossible until now.

A fragmented sense of self is inevitable.

As I described in my piece on Neo-Marxism, the replacement for God, country or kinship is now the nebulous ‘diversity’. The perennial opponent will forever be the White, as white is not diverse. White is blank. White represents hegemony, in countries where the population is mostly White, and the colonialist/slaver to all peoples who are not White. White is a perfect boogeyman.

We live in an age where identity politics is so pernicious that it has even fed back into the prevailing liberal culture. Where for some decades the dominant social meme has been an individualistic one, now it appears that collectivism is to strangle that dream.

Munroe Bergdorf is not a victim of racism. She is a perpetrator of it. So pernicious is Neo-Marxist ideology in Britain that a Transsexual mixed race person can go on to statefunded TV and call white people the most destructive force on Earth. Imagine, a TV station funded mostly by white people and broadcasting to white people is to tell them they are inherently racist. It is an Original Sin. She tells us this bravely, as she says

“that if the United Kingdom took her oppression seriously, she would be listened to and taken seriously, rather than ridiculed or threatened with death.”

It’s almost like there’s an agenda at play here. I agree that no-one should be threatened with death unless they are actively trying to kill or otherwise harm people in the most heinous fashion, but this does not mean that anyone should take her seriously either. This is particularly true when Britain is one of, if not the most, least racist countries on Earth.

Ms Bergdorf will wait a long time for Whites to acknowledge their guilt under these circumstances. While a majority of White America now think discrimination against Whites exists, we are faced with a conundrum. If feelings are as useful as facts, and Whites are now feeling oppressed, it behooves the Neo-Marxists to Listen and Believe their stories of oppression. This would require Neo-Marxists to be logically consistent- so don’t bet on it happening anytime soon.

Instead, the Neo-Marxists would claim that White Privilege is protection enough, and sorry, you don’t get to play Identity Politics in the 2017 season. Try again next year. Unfortunately for them, there is no barrier to entering the field, bar the willingness to be called a racist for doing so. Seeing as ideologues like Ms Bergdorf call all White people racist by default, by birth and by culture, can we say that we are surprised by the rise in popularity of White identitarian movements?

More to the point, can we now see that the Classical Liberal foundations of what we consider to be modern Western civilisation are all too easily subverted by collectivists?

In troubled times it is natural for one to look for strength in numbers, for the easy camaraderie of similar interests- to reject the individualistic goal of the liberal society. This is true of all of us. In such times, it falls to the leadership of nations to provide what they are put in power to provide; a path. A goal. Reassurance that our values are defended from those who would corrupt them or overthrow them for their own anti-democratic interests.

Here’s how to utterly fail to do that.

This is Theresa May, the leader of the Conservatives in Britain. She talks in vague terms about vision, plans, and British values, while defining none of these things and doing nothing except crushing the life out of my country by having no sense of direction and trying to pander to groups who despise everything that she stands for.

It is this utter failure of centrist parties like the Conservatives in the UK and both sides of Congress in the US that allows identitarianism to flourish.

What shapes our identity? Is race a factor? Only if you are not White. It’s OK for everyone, except Whites. That’s fine, according to Neo-Marxist philosophy, because whites are the de-facto oppressors, purely based on the colour of their skin. Tell that to the Tutsis.

We must accept that there is a racial element to culture. It is evident that this is true in that most country and western singers are white, while most hip-hop artists are black. It follows that people of all ethnic backgrounds appreciate the art and music of other cultures, as evidenced by hip-hop now being more popular than rock music. It is evident again in that Americans define themselves as ‘Ethnicity + American’.

Good talk.

If we can understand such a simple corollary, then we also understand that there is a racial element to national identity too. As a mongrel Briton of no particularly unique origin, I have had the fortune to experience as an outsider the cultures of my friends in Scotland, Wales, Yorkshire and the Midlands, all of which have varying elements of their unique ethnic histories. As a foreigner in other lands, I have noticed the racial and ethnic influences on other countries, from North Africa and the Middle East to my wife’s homeland of Poland and our current home of Spain. The beauty for me has been in recognising the differences and the commonalities inherent within our cultures- this is how we are able to live in peace with our neighbours, to understand that their goals are not ours, but we can avoid conflict nonetheless, through dialogue.

We are distinct peoples. It is the valuing of people that leads me to reject mindless multiculturalism as proposed by the leftist. For all Mr Trudeau of Ottawa likes to bleat about it,** ‘value pluralism’** does not sell well to the public, and never has.

‘Life may be seen through many windows, none of them necessarily clear or opaque, less or more distorting than any of the others’. ~ Isaiah Berlin.

You might understand this as cultural relativism. There is no truth, only opinion.

I reject this.

In this mindset, all cultures are equal from all positions. Your love for your Italian culture (for example) should be worth no more to you than my British. The flaw here is obvious. You have far more kinship with Italy than the UK, so the only way for you to consider our cultures equal in your heart is for me to force you to do so.

This milquetoast approach to differences in cultures is driven by a desire to protect society from racism, but in fact, only promotes it. I am forbidden from thinking less of your culture, but in order to treat all cultures with equal respect as I would my own, I must compare them. In the comparison, I can clearly see that the culinary arts of Italy far outstrip those of my country. Perhaps I become jealous of this. I can also see that my people have been better at making reliable automobiles than yours, and have a less corrupt government (just about). Perhaps I commit the sin of Pride.

“Are you indeed to reign over us? Or are you indeed to rule over us?” So they hated him even more for his dreams and for his words” (Gen 37:8)

Even as someone without faith, the Biblical story of Joseph is a clear example of where Mankind still lives.

The point is in comparison we recognise the differences that, instead of celebrating, we are simply not allowed to think about, and so leave us sinful.

I deliberately used two European nations here to illuminate for you how difficult this is even without the addition of racial politics. Cheerfully, Liberal philosophy agree with me.

“Their liberalism forces them to call any doubts about human equality a result of irrational bias. Yet their connoisseurship [of diversity] forces them to realise that most of the globe’s inhabitants do not believe in equality, that such a belief is a Western eccentricity. Since they think it would be shockingly ethnocentric to say ‘So what? We Western liberals do believe in it, and so much the better for us’, they are stuck.” ~ Richard Rorty

It is not to say that a person from one culture is beholden to that culture for all time. We see the evidence of people adopting new cultural norms in second-generation immigrants and what the left sneeringly calls cultural appropriation. We also see the failure of integration and the pastiche of mocking other cultures for their difference.

It is possible for people to integrate and become part of cultures that are not their own. It is possible to appreciate other cultures without cheapening them. This is the same issue. If we accept that cultures have a racial element to them, and this element is indelible, can a case be made for a protectionist attitude towards the rights of native people?

If we take the position that the Western nations for all their myriad flaws are in fact the pinnacle of human civilisation thus far, and we accept that the national identities of these countries to some extent is based on the ethnic history and cultures of the inhabitants; then we must understand that the same protectionism that we would willingly extend to indigenous peoples in cultures that are not advanced as our own must equally apply to ourselves.

My detractors on this point need only look at the numbers of non-Westerners who wish to live here to see the truth of my words.

The Neo-Marxist will also point out that the West was won by conquest. There is no shying away from this. Similarly, we cannot go back. The sins of the White man are only more deleterious than those of other nations because of the fortune of the West’s success. Europeans were privileged enough to have suitable geography, climate and resources to grow rapidly in terms of technology. For example, the United Kingdom would never have dominated the world for so long if she were a landlocked country. The United States possesses gigantic resources that have been useful at every stage of development. The same cannot be said for the African nations, who despite having huge supplies of rare metals have been either unable to extract them until the advent of strip mining late 20th Century. A solid analogy is that you cannot ride a zebra into war. A city-state protected on all sides by mountains and the sea is perfect for the development of philosophy.

My point is that for all the West’s conquering, we have been a product of our environments in exactly the same way as every other culture. This includes the development of the collectivist ideologies proposed by Black Lives Matter and other Neo-Marxist groups and the Far Right. Yes, Europeans nearly destroyed the world with war, but they also saved it. As we approach Remembrance Sunday, when the United Kingdom honours the dead of World War I, it is always a time to reflect and to remind ourselves that no ideology works perfectly. And some ideas are worth going to war for.

We can only hope that under similar circumstances to our forefathers we would show the same integrity, sacrifice and courage. Lest we forget.

When we take their example, we illuminate something surprising. It appears that the liberal values of Lockean individual freedom that today are enshrined in our liberal democracies are not incompatible with national identity. You don’t even have to be a flag-waving patriot of your nation to understand the deep kinship with the members of your nation that transcends ethnicity. Even so far as to recognise the unique brotherhood of members of your own people- and as a Brit, I absolutely recognise our flaws too. (This being said, contrary to what you have heard, our dental schools are actually pretty good.)

Harking back to the example of The Greatest Generation is likely to get me dog-piled for glorifying racists. Well, so what. I’m not an extremist by any measure, but I can rely on Progressive darling Deeray Mckesson of Black Lives Matter to show me what one actually looks like.

Which non-profits would those be, Deeray?

It’s ok to be an identity extremist if you are Black.

Here is my intent with this piece, which I fear is a little clumsy. I wish us to start the reclamation of our collective identities from those who wish to divide and rule. To truly make our nations great again requires an understanding and respect for the nation in which we live. I do not believe that this is necessarily a racial or ethnic issue- although as I stated above, culture and therefore nationhood have a significant racial element that cannot be denied. Therefore, to preserve national identity, there must also be an understanding of preserving racial identity, should one wish to do so. This is a hard duality to grasp, and no doubt those on the Alt-Right will tell me this is impossible, the dream of a fool.

Maybe it is.

I still contend that there must be a way to recognise the role of Identity Politics without succumbing to ethnonationalism or to the postmodern dissection of every value we hold dear.

When people tell me that the UK is a racist country, I feel anger for I know this not to be true. I imagine for my American readers you feel the same when you are told America Was Never Great. For me, as an immigrant in Spain, it is my pleasure and honour to learn the ways of this country and her people. In doing so, I accept my role as a foreigner in their lands and acquiesce to the democratic will of the Spanish. In such a way, I am simultaneously an immigrant and a Spanish patriot. This is my concession to the identity politics of the Neo-Marxist. I lovingly accept my British heritage, my Wife’s Polish history and great culture, and the over-arching suzerainty of España for all matters pertaining to my domestic day to day life. I do not vote here. I pay taxes. The direction of Spain is for the Spanish- even when there are current events that cause me great concern.

Are Identity Politics and Individualism Mutually Exclusive?

European people over the last century have been stripped of the rights of group interest. Rules are different today of different races, and it has not passed unnoticed. If there is a population of westerners obeying the liberal ‘rules’ of fairness and equal opportunity, and migrants of collectively conscious individuals competing, one side is inevitably going to lose, given enough time.

The problem is not one of a clash of races. It is one of the Neoliberal economic demands for unending growth leading to an economic need for economic migrants. As victims of a flawed system, identitarian ideologies are at loggerheads. Through diversity quotas and affirmative action, the well-meaning liberal societies of the West have fallen into a trap. We have become prey to a culturally relativistic system that enacts policies literally entitled Replacement Migration. One does not even have to be an identitarian to understand that concept. Our populations are ageing.

And yet, the birth rate is negative for indigenous Britons.

Rather than consider that perhaps it is the economic system itself that requires modification, our rulers have decided that demographic change is entirely separate from culture, and unlimited migration can be advocated for so long as the taxation levels do not fall. All evidence shows this to be wrong.

We can see this well in the post-war creation of the state of Israel. In the following few years, the Jewish populations of almost all other Middle Eastern countries dropped to near zero. Where did all these Jews go? To Israel. Their absence in countries like Algeria or Iran is noticeable, and surely had an effect on the culture of those countries. You could even say the formation of Israel itself is the example of what mass migration to a region can do to the culture of that region- where once the British Empire curated a Palestinian Protectorate, a backwater colony with little tactical value beyond the Biblical, today stands one of the most advanced nations on Earth. This is, unfortunately, a far better situation than the West finds itself in today.

We are being replaced by immigrants who do not share the cultural values of the West and do not care to grant Western nations thanks or consideration. Under such circumstances that are probably understood by the Alt-Right better than most because they care more about race politics than you do, it is no surprise that their ideology is growing. Those of us who are not on the Alt-Right would do well to pay attention to their concerns. Turning a blind eye will not save us.

Individual rights are amazing. Collectivist power smashes these rights to pieces unless those rights are met by an equally powerful collective consciousness that considers the rights of the individual to be paramount. The answer to this paradox is the key to defusing the inherent violence of tribalism. The answer is the key to Making America Great Again. It is what was understood by our ancestors when facing fascism in Europe- collectively, the free world took up arms.

Today, to preserve these nations and ideals, immigration, as it stands, cannot continue. The globalist agenda must be resisted, and for this at least we can hope that we are on the right track with the election of President Trump, Brexit and other anti-globalist movements. How do we ameliorate the concern of the Alt-Right concerning replacement migration? Should we even try?

It is hard to engage the Alt-Right on the topic when their answer is the practical or philosophical Ethnostate, which they correctly claim is a term that can be applied to many nations that exist today. This concept is so unwieldy that there is no consensus on how such a state would be achieved. My suspicion with the Alt-Right is that even with a total moratorium on migration, it would never be enough. Preservation of personal choice entails that we are also free to take part in the dreaded miscegenation. The Alt-Right are free to disapprove, but they are not free to force us to not race mix.

Even so, all humans feel a shared kinship with people of the same race. It’s a normal reaction that we all experience. Regardless what race we are, there is an innate bond at some level which manifests itself in an in-group preference for those who are like ourselves. The Neo-Marxists call this phenomena unconscious bias when white people do it. It might charitably be considered ethnic nepotism when minorities do the same.

When Black people manifest racial identity, its decolonisation. It’s a black pride. It’s a positive identity to possess.

When White people manifest racial identity, it’s supremacy. It’s Racist. White pride does not exist because ‘White’ isn’t a race in the same way that ‘Black’ is, because of Slavery/Colonialism, delete as appropriate.

The entire concept of a hierarchy of the races- which is what Privilege Theory proposes- is simultaneously insane and damaging. Insane, because while there are clear biological differences between the races, the social construct of race that is endorsed by both Neo Marxists and Alt-Right is built on sand.

One side claims that white people are privileged by default. This is codified language. What this means, and is only now being admitted by Neo-Marxists, is that Whites are racist. All Whites are racist because White society is racist. Whites, therefore, have inherent advantages just for being White. Whites are a monolithic superpower which literally kills people of colour by their existence.

A racist idea which simultaneously demonises one race and infantilises the other.

Because it is now unacceptable to challenge such narrative without being considered to be a racist by leftist ideologues means that all of us are racists by default, merely for existing. Under such circumstances, we can think ourselves incredibly fortunate that the Alt-Right has not found high-quality intellectual leadership who would capitalise on what is a gift to race-realists.

For example- let us pick any innocuous event. A person has an interview but does not get the job. Depending on the races of the interviewee and the successful candidate this is either an example of White supremacy or an overbearing nanny state; unless both candidates are non-White. Even then, the Blacker-than-Thou woke intellectuals of the Left trying to figure out who is most oppressed can tie themselves in knots.

We must be as the sword of Alexander the Great. To the Extremes of the Alt-Right, to fail to accept their doctrine is to be labelled a cuckservative even if you are fully #MAGA aware. To the left… well, to fail to accept their racist doctrine is to become a racist. These albatrosses when hung from your neck remove the possibility of nuance, and prevent adherents from countenancing the explanations that do not pass through the ideological lens. Like a piece of tinted glass through which only certain light waves can pass, when you are obsessed with race, race is at the root of everything.

How to Win the Game of Identity Politics

1. Retain your individuality.

Regardless of how alluring collectivism can be, recognise that it is ultimately counter-productive to our culture. Because you and I share a nationality or ethnicity does not mean we must be friends. Our individual and often conflicting goals in the world must be prioritised while recognising that threats to the rights of the individual by collectivists require a collective response.

2. Accept that groups act in group conscious ways.

Politicians understand that pandering to minority interests is usually effective, provided it can be conducted in secret. This is why Clinton ultimately scuttled her own campaign by pushing so far with identity politics that the majority of the United States utterly rejected her proposal. In the United Kingdom we see the example of Islamic groups voting in blocks, organised through mosques and the inward looking and unintegrated cultures they serve. The Muslim interest is served by their community organisers, who pressure politicians to serve their interests above those of the majority, in return for guaranteeing their votes. In this collectivist fashion, an organised minority interest group can project far greater power than a disorganised majority.

3. Confront the dominant paradigm that promotes the idea of White people possessing no inherent culture.

The Neo-Marxists say Whites have no culture, but also that Whiteness is toxic. Reject this racism with all your heart.** All lives do matter. **The broad family of European Culture and her descendants is just as valid a culture as that of La Raza or the African Diaspora.

4. Resist the demands of supremacists.

Neo-Marxists and Globalists push demands for open borders. White supremacists demand closed borders and an insulated society. Both are extremist positions, and we must recognise them to be so. It is easy to see that the white supremacist position is such, but how much harder it is to make the case that replacement migration is a racist policy. It takes time, and knowledge that you must acquire yourself.

5. Take interest in your culture.

It is incoherent to listen to Neo-Marxists who cry about historical slavery or the oppression of women while simultaneously heeding their whinings about cultural appropriation. You have a culture, wherever you are from. Unless that culture is, for example, promoting the genital mutilation of infants, child marriage or the subjugation of women, feel free to be proud of your culture.

It feels crazy that I have to write that knowing it is now a controversial statement.

6. Accept that extremists will always hate you.

Nazi, bigot, cuckservative, alt-lite. This is a culturally conditioned response. The Neo-Marxist, inherently opposed to the concept of nationhood or tradition, is ever on the lookout for something to call Adolf the Destroyer. The ideals of what we call the greatest generation were to some extent nationalist, and in good faith. Today, those same men and women would be considered evil. Nationalism is not inherently an awful concept, nor is racial identity. That the Second World War was fought by Nationalists on all sides is of little interest to historical revisionists who wish to extrapolate National-Socialism and apply it as a critique of all concepts of national identity. Resist this if you wish your nation to survive.

In Conclusion

As men of the West and the inheritors of Western Civilisation it is my contention that we are faced with the grave consequences of replacement migration. We must accept this reality if we live in an evidence-based reality at all- that we are able to reject the fearful and regressive concept of an ethnostate.It does not have to be so. We do not have to fall as the Alt-Right tells us Western nations must fall if they do not adopt their answers to incredibly complex questions.

That being said, we do need to begin putting the interests of Western nations ahead of those of other countries, as other countries and peoples put their interests ahead of ours. This is by no means a unique idea of my own. It is one that dates back to the Founding Fathers and beyond. I beg your indulgence for quoting so much of Samuel Adams, but I cannot break up such masterful prose in good conscience.

The natural liberty of man is to be free from any superior power on earth, and not to be under the will or legislative authority of man, but only to have the law of nature for his rule.

In the state of nature, men may, as the patriarchs did, employ hired servants for the defence of their lives, liberties, and property; and they should pay them reasonable wages. Government was instituted for the purposes of common defence, and those who hold the reins of government have an equitable, natural right to an honourable support from the same principle that “ the labourer is worthy of his hire.” But then the same community which they serve ought to be the assessors of their pay. Governors have no right to seek and take what they please; by this, instead of being content with the station assigned them, that of honourable servants of the society, they would soon become absolute masters, despots, and tyrants. Hence, as a private man has a right to say what wages he will give in his private affairs, so has a community to determine what they will give and grant of their substance for the administration of public affairs. And, in both cases, more are ready to offer their service at the proposed and stipulated price than are able and willing to perform their duty.

In short, it is the greatest absurdity to suppose it in the power of one, or any number of men, at the entering into society, to renounce their essential natural rights, or the means of preserving those rights; when the grand end of civil government, from the very nature of its institution, is for the support, protection, and defence of those very rights; the principal of which, as is before observed, are Life, Liberty, and Property. If men, through fear, fraud, or mistake, should in terms renounce or give up any essential natural right, the eternal law of reason and the grand end of society would absolutely vacate such renunciation. The right to freedom being the gift of God Almighty, it is not in the power of man to alienate this gift and voluntarily become a slave.

-Samuel Adams

Do we consider the integrity of our national identities an essential natural right? I suggest that we should- no, I demand that we do so. Moreover, I know that there are many people in many lands who agree with Samuel Adams on this. This is why the #MAGA movement exists: because humans of many creeds understand that the transcendent freedom of man must be protected by a secure national identity.

As Adams warned us against, there are political actors who would defraud us and inflict fear upon us so that they may strip us of our indelible right to our national identities. Our cultures are not for sale, cry the Neo-Marxists at Hallowe’en, or whenever the latest Pixar movie comes out.

Do ghosts have white privilege?

Just so. And neither is our culture for sale. More than the reductive and infantile chants of ‘Blood and Soil’ are our nations. Our freedoms are the gift of God Almighty, and the globalists who obey only neoliberal capitalism, Neo-Marxists who wish to control every aspect of society so that none can speak their mind must be repelled. To the Alt-Right I say; I understand your concerns but I disagree with your tactics and your predictions. We in the West might yet reach a day where I am proven wrong and the Alt-Right can laugh in my face, but it is not today.

A free society, in which no person is experiencing unjust treatment and fundamental equality of opportunity is prevalent can still contain racial consciousness. It is evident that imperfect societies such as hours already contain these attitudes. Right now, we are considering that love for one’s own people is a racist attitude; provided you is White. At the core, this is the imbalance in our liberal democracies that leads to Whites affiliating with racial interest groups. It must end.

The Neo-Marxists do not understand that an oppressive system will always fail. We see this with every previous totalitarian society in history, and let us make no bones- **what the Neo-Marxist requires is an oppressive and totalitarian society. **If we are a free society, we cannot permit, for whatever reason, one race to be prohibited from overtly considering their racial interests to be paramount.

What I mean by this: you can stop the cringeworthy Nazi-LARPing at Murfreesboro by understanding that even Neo-Nazis have rights. This is how we de-radicalise the Alt-Right; by understanding that they’re not wrong about some of their concerns.

The consequences of ignoring this truth will be far-reaching. While our ideals may be towards individual freedoms, the collectivist ideologies are growing. The consequence of burying our heads in the sand will be great bloodshed- either as the state reminds us of what true oppressive power looks like, or as racial identitarian and Neo-Marxist groups go to war in the street.

In summary, when we accept that the very framework of working class White culture has been stripped by the predatory aspects of neoliberal capitalism we can see how we have arrived at an identitarian response from the same group. Migration, diminished financial security and rising house prices affect all working class people the most, regardless of race. We should neither dismiss nor be surprised by the rise of White identity politics to fill the void left by conventional politics.

How we move forward at this point has the potential to define a generation.

http://bit.ly/2Cb3WZX

#RSN #6 Powerful Ways to Reclaim Your Identity From Identity Politics #Ash Sharp

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