#its all so clear to me in my mimes eye. if the episode plays out like this catch me suing for plagerism

[riphimopen]

beavis and butthead accidental marriage episode starts out with them sitting there on the sofa everything on tv is like “the romance of youth” “young and in love” “married at twenty three” teen dating shows etc. beavis launches into one of his goddamnit we’re never gonna score speeches “WE’RE TOO DAMN OLD! CHICKS GO FOR YOUNG GUYS WE’RE NOT YOUNG ANYMORE” “uhuhuh yeah i guess we arent the strapping studs we used to be” “THE ONLY WAY OLD PEOPLE SCORE IS LIKE. IF THEYRE MARRIED OR SOMETHING.” “uhuhuhh yeah then you can like. do it all the time whenever. lol” lightbulb moment. “dude how do we find chicks to marry us” “uh i think theres like a place you can go? like one of those dating apps that sets people up. you always see people getting married there i bet they can set us up uhuhuh”

smash cut to the courthouse. “hi how can i help you two gentlemen” “we like. wanna get married. can you help us with that.” “...its so beautiful to see you being brave and open about this” “yeah we thought we might as well, yknow. bite the bullet. better than never scoring mhehehehe. so can you like. find us somebody.” “a witness? of course- shirley, can you come here and bear witness?” (“huhuhuh she can bare a lot more than that”) “here, we can get the whole thing done in ten minutes, if you want to keep things on the downlow- i understand you coming straight to the courthouse on this, not wanting to make it a big deal” “uhuhuhuh sure. the quicker the better”

“ok so just sign right here; and you’re next; alright, is there anything you’d like to say just now, or would you rather skip straight to the “i do”s?” “mhehe you said do” “okay then it looks like thats it! congratulations, gentlemen, youre married” “YES!” “YES!” airguitar “so like. where are the chicks.”

“the who”

“like. our wives dumbass”

smash cut “WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT TAKES SIXTY DAYS TO GET A DIVORCE” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN “PAPERWORK”” “IM NOT STAYING MARRIED TO THIS ASSWIPE FOR TWO MONTHS” “IM NOT DOING PAPERWORK!!!”

smash cut again theyre sittin on the sofa hot lady comes on tv butthead goes “huhuhh hey baby” “butthead you cant say that mhehehe.” “why not dumbass” “its not right dude its like. hhheehh cheating on me or something” “what the hell are you talking about” “because yknow we’re mehehe married? like. the guy at the courthouse sa” “we’re not actually MARRIED you dipshit. the only person who thinks we’re married is that butthole at the courthouse. if we were like. really married. then we’d like live together and do everything with each other and like you’d bring me a beer when i asked you to and i’d like buy you nachos whenever you wanted” “oh.” “dumbass. besides. if we were married we’d have scored by now” “huh. um. does this mean you wanna like. get a divorce.”

“....eh. that guy said itll like. take forever. and you have to do a bunch of like legal bullshit anyway. anyway, hes the only guy who thinks we’re married. like. im not gonna tell people we’re married.” “heheh no yeah me neither. no way.” “right. so then like, i can still hit on chicks. and like i give you permission to hit on chicks too.” “mhehehe cool.              so its like an open relationship type thing?” “WE ARE NOT MARRIED”

[writemekpop]

Lipstick On Your Collar (Part 1) | Nakamoto Yuta

Pairing: Nakamoto Yuta x Reader

Summary: Till death do us part... But what happens when he cheats?  

Genre: Husband!Yuta, Angst

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Infidelity, Sexual Content, Body Image

Gif: @yuthereal​

Part 1 ⭐| Part 2  | Part 3 | Part 4

“Ten more minutes, then it’s homework time, alright?” you called to your two older sons, eight and four years old. Caught up in their wooden sword fight, they didn’t even look up.

You smoothed your hand over your face, eyes bruised from lack of sleep. Between your banking job and your three kids, sleep was a rare thing.

Just then, you felt a waft of chill air. Yuta strode in through the front door, his feathery black hair in disarray.

“Hey babe,” you called, shoulders relaxing.

Your husband had this calming presence, your island on a rough ocean. Your chest ached for Yuta’s warmth. You hadn’t hugged, kissed… touched in months.

“Hi, Y/n. We need to talk,” Yuta deadpanned.

You picked up your baby daughter Ayumi. She needed her nappy changed. Bad.

“Alright. What’s up?” You placed her on the changing mat, blowing your fringe out of your eyes.

“I mean in private.” You saw that Yuta’s face was stretched and white. A knot curled in your stomach.

“Nappies?” You lifted your hand. He begrudgingly handed them over.

“Y/n. This is serious.” Yuta’s voice quivered like a taut string.

“Can’t you see I’m busy? What is it?” you snapped. You instantly regretted it. Nowadays, you were always on the edge of an explosion.

“Okay. Fine. I’ve… messed up. And I’m sorry, and I didn’t mean it, but… it’s happened.”

You bin Ayumi’s old nappy, then pull her into your arms. “Is that all? Look, if you’ve broken something, we have insurance.”

“This isn’t a bloody plate! I’ve- I’ve done something awful.”

“Right. Well done. Anyway, I have to help the kids with their homework.”

“Just look at me, Y/n! I’m trying to fucking tell you something!” Yuta’s yell turned your head.

Yuta’s eyes were red-rimmed and wide, like he was in shock. “I… cheated on you, Y/n. I slept with someone else.”

Your heartbeat slowed to a crawl. Instinctively, you pulled your baby close.

“Who is she?”

“Diya. From the school.”

Your lips went numb. You put Ayumi down in her rocker and started rinsing plates in the sink. “How long?”

“Just once. It was a mistake, I swear… it’s just, she was there, and… I didn’t plan it!”

Your chest folded in on itself. While you were kissing your babies to sleep, Yuta was kissing someone else.

“When was it, Yuta?”

“The… day you… went to stay with your sister.”

You’d never forget that day.

It was a few weeks after Ayumi was born. You couldn’t seem to get out of bed, let alone be a good mother. So you’d escaped… just for a day.

While you were breaking apart, Yuta searched out another woman.

“Where?” You picked up the cutlery, letting the hot water scald your skin.

“Her apartment. We met up after work, and one thing led to another… I swear, that was all.”

Images burned into your mind, like a flashed camera. Yuta’s fingernails scraping the back of her neck, like he did to you. Their naked bodies gyrating, sweaty, the smell of sex saturating everything…

Your throat convulsed in a retch. For a second, it was like a brick was hitting your chest.

Then, everything stopped.

You felt a curtain dropping. You didn’t have time to deal with this. Not now. As quickly as they came, the feelings slowed. Drooped. Vanished.

You looked down. You were clenching a table knife so hard it had drawn blood. You let go.

Everything blurred. You felt like a kid again, staring up at yourself from the bottom of a pool.

Your voice was a croak. “Obviously, we’re not telling the kids. My parents are coming next week – so we can’t tell them either.”

You dried your hands and looked up at Yuta. His mouth was hanging open, like a cartoon character’s. It was almost funny.

You continued speaking, bunging toys into a basket.

“If you want a divorce, tell me now, because we’ll have to borrow money. For tonight, I’ll take the bed, you have the couch.”

“What the hell, Y/n?”

You jolt and look up. “Fine! You can have the bed.”

Yuta grabbed your shoulders, knife-cheekboned and wild. “I don’t care about the fucking bed! I just told you I cheated on you. Why aren’t you mad?”

You stared at his hands on your skin, like you didn’t recognise them. Yuta spotted your gaze, and slowly let go.

“I’m really sorry, Y/n. I want to fix this. But you need to let me in.”

You looked into his chestnut eyes and frowned. Why was he being so obnoxious?

Slowly, you spelled it out. “You cheated on me. It was with our kids’ tutor, while I was sick. You’re sorry. You won’t do it again. Now can I go and make dinner?”

Yuta blinked. Slowly. Then, he gulped and gave you a slight nod. “Yep.”

You pushed past him, and called out, “Whoever helps mummy with dinner gets ice cream!”

You ushered your eager kids towards the hob. You didn’t look back, but you felt Yuta’s gaze on the back of your head. Stunned.

------

You plastered on your brightest smile all throughout dinner, whilst laying out bedding on the couch for yourself, even whilst tucking your children into bed.

Now, you were sitting in your children’s room, with the lights out. You’d just finished reading their bedtime story. They were fast asleep.

Finally, you let the iron screen lift from your heart. Instead of fighting it, you bared the most vulnerable part of yourself.

It was a memory: you were in Paris with Yuta on the first night of your honeymoon. You were in a mid-range Travel Lodge – the best you could afford – with rain pelting at the windows.

You had woken up at 11AM, tangled up with Yuta from your cuddling. You’d talked, worried, agonised about it, but you’d never had sex with him before.

Yuta opened one sleepy eye and felt your body with his hands, as if he was checking if it was there. You tingled with lust to the tips of your toes. Suddenly, you knew the moment was right.

For once, you didn’t care about your tummy that you always tried to hide, you didn’t care about your thighs which rubbed together when you walked.

You didn’t think about anything, except the feeling of Yuta’s slow kisses, the feeling of him inside of you, the feeling of his hands reaching to the very ends of you.

You were in a hazy, golden pool of completeness. As you gasped your worries, apologies, in each other’s ears, you became whole in a way you’d never known before.

Then, the memory shattered. And in its place, before you could stop it, was the image that was burnt into your eyelids.

It played over and over again, the trailer to a movie of your shame. Yuta in her apartment, the thumping of the bedposts, him between her legs, her exclamations of ‘yes!’, that were only echoed by him moaning her name…

You screamed silently into your fist.

You knew the real reason Yuta cheated on you. Whatever excuses he made, it wasn’t a mistake or a drunk one-off.

You grabbed the soft flesh around your waist. This was why. You thought of the nights you’d told him you were too tired, that you weren’t in the mood. That was why.

You couldn’t even blame Yuta. He was only compensating for the fact that his own wife would never be attractive enough, good enough, just enough for him.

The tears rose up your throat, making your head pound and your cheeks stretch with sobs. You wanted nothing more than to drown yourself in these tears, though you knew they wouldn’t wash the pain away.

Then, you caught a grey glimmer in the darkness. Your youngest boy, Nico, was wide awake and watching you with saucer eyes.

“Hey baby… go back to sleep,” you whispered, quickly smoothing away your tears.

“Are you crying, mummy?”

The softness in his gaze was like a punch in the stomach. You choked down another wave of tears. “No, sweetie, I’m fine. Go back to sleep okay?”

Obediently, he closed his eyes. You didn’t deserve such beautiful children.

You were doubled over, silent in the darkness. You pressed your palms into your eyes, so hard they hurt, and forced the tears back.

You couldn’t even make your husband love you.

What hope did you have with your kids?

------

Three days had passed since that terrible night.

It was 10PM, and the house was unusually quiet.

You and Yuta were sitting at the far edges of the couch, the Netflix episode you never missed playing on the TV.

Both of you were pretending like nothing had gone wrong.

“So… how was work?” Yuta’s cautious voice broke the silence.

You sighed and shook your head. “Just get me a drink.” You couldn’t be bothered with this charade. But at least you could drown your feelings.

“Are you sure that’s a good-” Yuta began.

“Just get it.”

He returned with a whisky, with two ice cubes. Your heart twisted. “You remembered?”

“How could I forget my wife’s favourite drink?” Yuta gave you a thin smile, and for a second, you forgot to ice him out. You smiled back.  

That was two whiskies ago. Now, the gap between the two of you on the sofa had shrunk.

You were laughing so hard your eyes were teary.

“Do you remember, Y/n? Your shirt was on backwards, my pants were on the other side of the room, we were moaning so loud half the theme park could hear us!”

You dried your eyes, sighing. “I bet we scarred a few kids for life that day…”

Yuta’s lip curled up in a smile that sent your heart racing.

You looked down. Subconsciously, your hand was massaging Yuta’s denim-clad knee. You retracted it.

“God, we really knew how to have fun, didn’t we?” You could barely remember the time before you had your three children. It was rose-coloured.

“I mean, Disneyland was nothing. Remember Taeyong’s attic? The nightclub bathroom? I could go on…”

“Ahh!” You mimed blocking your ears. “There are kids in the house, you know!”

In doing so, you lost your grip on your whisky glass, which was balanced on your knee. Yuta grabbed it before it fell, and his hand was suddenly on your thigh.

He let go, and you cleared your throat.

That was hours back. Now, you were having difficulty sitting straight. You’d lost count of how many whiskies you’d downed.

You grabbed Yuta by the shoulders and shook him. “Look! Let’s just get it out of the way. ASAP, straight, completo. No regrets.”

For the first time in ages, your blood was running warm with more than alcohol. The worn denim of Yuta’s jeans was pulling your gaze southward.

“Get what out of the way? You’re not making sense, Y/n.”

You pulled the pin out of your hair and let it fall over your shoulders. “The big three-letter.”

Yuta looked at you, still bewildered. “What?”

“SEX.”

The glass fell from Yuta’s hand.

To be continued…

Part 1 ⭐| Part 2  | Part 3 | Part 4

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Lucien’s Radio Broadcast Date

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 电台之约, which has not been released in EN! 🍒

[ This date was released on 17 May 2021 ]

[ PROLOGUE ] 

Part One: A Weekend Arrangement

On the weekend morning, I wake up contentedly, doing a big stretch on the bed. 

Feeling for my phone beside the pillow, I tap on the unread text that was received five minutes ago.

Lucien: Are you awake? Little Lazy Bug.

A small smile involuntary surfaces on my lips. Nuzzling the soft pillow case, I get up at one go, washing my face and brushing my teeth.

After fifteen minutes, I knock on Lucien’s door.

MC: Lucien, it’s me!

Not a moment later, he opens the door, wearing light-coloured home wear that I rarely see, a pair of golden-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

It’s been a while since Lucien and I last saw each other. He has been staying in the research centre recently, and I’ve been busy with filming a new show.

Since we both have a rare break, we made arrangements to meet today.

Lucien: I even thought I’d only get to see you at noon.

Upset, I look at his teasing smile.

MC: In Professor Lucien’s eyes, am I a person who doesn’t keep to her promises? I finally get to see you, so of course I’m seizing every moment.

The arcs at the corners of his lips grow deeper. He turns his body to the side, beckoning me to enter.

Following Lucien into the living room, I see several thick English books left open on the coffee table, and my shoulders droop subconsciously.

MC: Lucien, do you have work to handle today?

Lucien turns around, his eyes curving when he sees my appearance. He walks to me, then lifts my shoulders up gently.

Lucien: Of course not. I finally get to see you, so of course I have to be entirely focused.

-

Part Two: Pondering on the Play

After releasing a secret sigh of relief, I become curious regarding the books on the coffee table. Picking up one of the books, I see its name on the title page - 

MC: “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare”? Are you reading Shakespeare’s works?

Lucien: To be more accurate, I’m selecting a play.

MC: Selecting?

Lucien doesn’t respond to my question, turning around and walking into the kitchen.

Lucien: Are there any plays that you like?

MC: Hm... I can’t think of any that I especially like. All the plays I’ve watched with you seem pretty good. What about you?

Lucien: Do you still remember the play we watched called “André & Dorine”?

[Trivia] André & Dorine depicts the enduring love between an elderly couple as their lives are disrupted, but not overcome, by dementia

MC: I remember! Was it that mime theatre production? I still remember how you pondered over the guitar case on stage for a long time after the performance was over.

Lucien: I wasn’t pondering much. It’s just that after watching it, I felt that life is very short.

Lucien brings over a cup of steaming hot cocoa from the kitchen. He places the cup in my hand naturally, his eyes meeting mine.

Lucien: It has to be spent with the person one loves.

-

Part Three: A Typical Day in the Radio Broadcast Station

The temperature within the house seems to rise along with the the piping hot cocoa. I pat my slightly flushed cheeks, pulling the conversation topic back.

MC: Come to think of it, why do you have to select a play?

Lucien sits down unhurriedly, his tone steady as he gives me an answer which leaves one utterly confused.

Lucien: I need to confess something to Producer MC -

Lucien: I accepted the invitation of another radio broadcast station.

After waiting for Lucien to finish with his short “confession”, I finally understand why he has to select a play.

Two days ago, Lucien received an invitation from the Loveland Radio Broadcast Station to participate in a 520 Special Broadcast Program called “A Day in a Play”.

[Note] 520 stands for 20 May, a day celebrated by the Chinese as another Valentine’s Day. This is because 我爱你 (“wo ai ni” - “I love you”) sounds like the numbers 5, 2, and 0 (“wu er ling”) when said aloud

This program regularly invites theatre fans from various occupations to share their favourite plays, and Lucien is one of them.

Hearing such news bogs me down with mixed feelings. On one hand, I’m silently in awe at the good choice made by the radio station. On the other hand...

I sneak a peek at Lucien. His head is currently lowered as he blows on the steam of the hot cocoa, his expression levelled.

...if I were to get jealous about Lucien agreeing to participate in another show, it’d be an incredibly inconsiderate thing, right?

Just as I think about this, Lucien suddenly lifts his head towards me. He crinkles his eyes into a smile, as though he has completely seen through the little grumblings in my heart from earlier.

Lucien: Oh yes, this show requires me to invite a partner. The Great Producer MC would grace me with her presence, won’t she?

-

[ DATE ]

Lucien: “Come live with me and be my love,”

Lucien: “And we will all the pleasures prove,”

Lucien: “That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,”

Lucien: “Woods, or steepy mountains yields.”

Lucien: “And we will sit upon rocks,”

Lucien: “Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,”

Lucien: “By shallow rivers to whose falls,”

Lucien: “Melodious birds sing madrigals.”

Lucien: “...if these flights thy mind may move,”

Lucien: “Then live with me and be my love.”

Lucien: What do you think about this poem? Do you like it?

Lucien sets down the manuscript in his hand, lifting his eyes slowly.

He’s leaning next to the window of the guest lounge. The warm light of spring falls on his shoulders, creating a mild, brilliant white halo in the air.

A few days ago, Lucien invited me to participate in the 520 Special Broadcast Program called “A Day in a Play”.

The content of this show consists of idle talk related to plays, and it regularly invites theatre fans from various occupations to share about their favourite plays.

The stanza that Lucien just read aloud came from a poem written by a playwright called Christopher Marlowe. 

MC: I like it very much.

Returning to my senses, my expression is sincere as I look at him.

MC: Lucien, have you ever thought of changing occupations and becoming an actor?

When Lucien hears this, his eyes arch into a smile. He walks over, tapping the manuscript gently on the top of my head.

Lucien: An exaggerated compliment would make it lose its sincerity.

Just as I’m about to firmly express my sincerity, I notice from the corner of my eye that there are several markings on Lucien’s manuscript.

Leaning over to get a better look, I realise that those markings are notes taken down on the poem by Lucien with a pen.

I recall how he’s been incredibly busy in the previous period, and how there were many times when I had to remind him to eat...

Even so, he made notes on the manuscript regarding reciting techniques for this show. In my heart, I deeply respect his endless energy. At the same time, I can’t help but be envious.

MC: Does Professor Lucien need to do homework beforehand too?

Lucien: Techniques are required for specialised skills. I’m not a professional at reciting poetry, so of course I need to do my homework beforehand. 

I deliberately fold my arms, letting out quiet “hmph”s.

MC: But you don’t seem to do any preparations as a consultant for Miracle Finder.

Lucien: Since I’m a consultant, I can’t let the producer of the show see me do last minute work.

He draws slightly closer to me, lowering his voice.

Lucien: At a place you can’t see, I’ve always been working hard for you.

The evident slyness in his tone causes my breathing to turn slightly ragged. Clearing my throat, I put some distance between us.

MC: [blushing] That’s not what I meant...

Lucien: I understand.

Meaningful arcs hook the corners of his lips, as though he sees through the feelings in my heart. He tugs me over to sit on the sofa in the guest lounge.

Lucien: Or should I only participate in the shows you produce next time?

MC: ...I’m not asking you to go that far either!

He narrows his eyes and turns his head to the side, pretending to give it some thought. 

Lucien: In that case, I’ll always ask for Producer MC’s opinion before appearing on a show. Is that okay?

I nod, face red from his teasing. All of a sudden, my heart stirs.

MC: Verbal statements can’t be relied upon. Concrete evidence is needed.

I lift my hand, removing the small hair tie on my ponytail. Then, I indicate for Lucien to give me his hand.

He seems to guess what I plan to do. Supporting his chin casually with one hand, he stretches the other hand in front of me.

With a serious expression, I put on the hair tie on his wrist solemnly, as though I’m conducting a formal ceremony.

MC: It shall be the evidence. In future, the Professor Lucien on the big screen will be completely reserved by me!

-

After sitting in the lounge for a while, the director comes over and goes through today’s show schedule with Lucien and I briefly.

The show is segmented into reading letters from theatre fans, reciting monologues from plays, and monologue appreciation, among other things.

In every episode, this show will choose a particular theme of plays, which will then be used to expand on the contents of the show.

In order to be in line with the special day of 520, the theme for this episode has been set as the “possessiveness” between lovers.

As such, the plays and characters we selected are related to “possessiveness”.

The first segment consists of sharing letters from listeners. The show team had collected various reviews of plays from listeners, as well as their personal takeaways from the plays.

There’s only ten minutes before the show begins. Seizing this final free time, I sit in the studio, skimming through these letters briefly.

Some of the letters include analysis spanning over a thousand words on the extreme possessiveness of some classic characters in plays...

Some of the letters created a hearty one-act play based on the word “possessiveness”.

My line of sight roams over these letters, and I can sense someone leaning over from the side.

Lucien: What are you looking at?

MC: Letters from the listeners. Which letter would you like to read later?

Lucien glances at the open letters on the table for a while. Then, the corners of his lips suddenly curve upwards.

Just as I'm about to follow his line of sight, the director gives us a signal from outside, telling us that the countdown to the broadcast is about to begin.

Suppressing my curiosity, Lucien and I begin today’s radio broadcast with the guidance of the host.

-

The segment of reading letters arrives on schedule. I select a satisfactory review of a play to read. Very quickly, it’s almost time for Lucien to read a letter.

Host: Would Professor Lucien be reading an interesting review of a play as well?

Lucien picks up a pink coloured envelope in the middle directly, as though he has long since made a decision.

Lucien: Even though it isn’t a review, ever since I saw this letter before the show, I really wanted to share it with everyone. However, it looks like the owner of this letter is female. If I were to read it, I’m afraid it’d be slightly inappropriate.

Lucien turns over, handing the letter to me.

Lucien: Could I request Producer MC to read it for me?

I blink, taking the letter without knowing what’s going on.

Opening the letter, the childish handwriting brings with it a fragrance as it unfolds before my eyes.

MC: “Hello hosts, I’m a student from junior high.”

Slightly puzzled, I look at Lucien. He smiles slightly, indicating that I should continue reading.

MC: “Recently, I’ve been feeling troubled.”

MC: “Ever since coming to junior high school, my deskmate has been a very playful boy, and he always bullies me.”

MC: “He often tugs on my ponytail, or asks me to give him my seat in the canteen. Even though he gives me snacks, he says that it’s only because he doesn’t want to eat them.”

MC: “While eating his snacks one day, a classmate suddenly teased us and asked if we liked each other. At that time, I was in a fluster and shouted without realising, ‘How could I like him!’”

MC: “Ever since then... my deskmate hasn't spoken to me.”

MC: “I thought I’d be really happy since I’m freed from his bullying. But whenever I see him distributing snacks to other girls, I actually feel the impulse to cry.”

MC: “I even secretly placed his snacks on my own table, pretending that my deskmate gave them to me...”

MC: “ --so that I can attempt to stake my claim in front of other girls.”

MC: “Last week, I watched a stage play, and the experiences of the lead character were somewhat similar to mine.”

MC: “Afterwards, I read the reviews. Everyone was saying that the lead character was fiercely possessive, and a little abnormal...”

MC: “Am I also such a person? What counts as being possessive? Is being possessive truly an illness?”

After reading the last line, I lift my head to meet Lucien’s eyes, giving him a knowing smile.

Host: I didn’t expect Professor Lucien to select such an adorable letter. How would you respond to this young listener’s question?

Lucien: I’m very sorry, but I’m unable to respond. This question might require a consultation with a professional. But I once read a document on concepts in psychology related to “possessiveness”, and I could share it with everyone.

Lucien stretches his hand towards me, and I hand the letter to him in tacit understanding. 

He unfolds the letter, casually lifting his spectacles. Then, he lowers his hand, his fingertips tapping rhythmically on the table.

The sound of tapping stops abruptly. He lifts his hand to support his lips, then tilts his head slightly, as though recalling the contents of the document.

Lucien: The following information is for everyone’s reference. Possessiveness is typically expressed as an exceptional cherishing of the other party, and being concerned about the other party in various aspects of their life.

For some inexplicable reason, along with Lucien’s words, I suddenly recall scenes of myself heading to the research centre to bring him bentos.

Lucien: Only allowing oneself and the other party to have a connection, and not wishing for others to get close to the other party.

My heart once again inexplicably recalls the bitter taste when I heard of Lucien participating in this show. 

Lucien: If one finds that the other party no longer belongs to them, they’d use all sorts of methods to stake their claim.

Lucien appears to deliberately twist his wrist slightly, revealing the small hair tie on it.

...I have a feeling that Lucien is implicitly referring to me. I keep my eyes on Lucien, and can’t help but purse my lips.

He seems to sense my “complaint”, but his eyes remain on the letter in his hand, a smile on his lips tugging upwards.

Lucien: This is simply a definition, and isn’t enough to ascertain the intensity of a person’s possessiveness. However, satisfying one’s possessiveness in an appropriate manner isn’t a bad thing. If possessiveness is unable to obtain a suitable outlet, it’d end up violently engulfing the originally balanced love. Furthermore, possessiveness isn’t a disease.

Lucien sets down the letter. As though sensing my gaze, he turns his head and gives me a slight smile.

Lucien: It accompanies a strong love. It’s a human instinct. 

-

After the letter reading segment, Lucien, as the main guest, has to read a monologue from a certain play in the next segment.

This play narrates an account in mid-century Europe, involving the love story of a wealthy lady and a butler who grew up together since young.

This butler was naturally more intelligent than others, and had a composed temperament. If he were to craft a career for himself, he’d do far better than being a butler.

However, in order stay by the side of his beloved lady, he was willing to remain within the four walls.

The naive wealthy lady didn’t understand the genuine feelings of the butler. Like every other wealthy lady, she looked forward to marrying her own prince. 

But when she was arranged to get married to a wealthy duke, her heart started to waver.

Because the intensity of the butler’s possessiveness went to his head, he eventually poisoned the wealthy lady, then vanished into the night.

With his own hands, he buried the love of his life, and from then on became a fugitive, living a life that was neither dead nor alive.

The monologue that Lucien is about to read is taken from the part after the butler finds out that the lady is inclined to marrying the duke. It’s the first time he reveals the depth of his possessiveness. 

Lucien selected this monologue himself, and I can’t help but anticipate it.

Host: Listeners and friends, we’ll now lend our ears to Professor Lucien -

Lucien nods slightly, tilting his head towards me and blinking slowly. His lowered voice gradually seeps into the earpieces.

Lucien: “I thought she was just a canary which would only sit by the window...”

Lucien: “When the sun rises every morning, she’d be at the glass window, facing the blazing sunlight and preening its feathers to its heart’s content.”

Rich affection is in Lucien’s voice. It’s as though I can see a talented and handsome young man staring at the girl’s back in the room with deep feelings.

Lucien: “Her wings are vibrant and heart-stirring. She spends a lot of time on them, combing them gently with a bristle brush.”

Lucien: “Whenever this happens, I’d stand behind her, carrying a cup of hot tea, waiting for her quietly.”

Lucien: “I know that in this moment, she belongs only to me.”

Lucien’s voice suddenly turns soft and barely discernible. I can’t help but be immersed in it -

The modern studio around me suddenly shifts, as though turning into wooden furniture in Western Europe.

Ripples of colour reflect off the windows and onto the floor, glistening with light. An expensive fragrance of rogue diffuses in the room.

Lucien: “Only I know what she's thinking of, and only I understand everything about her.”

I turn my head to Lucien, who is behind me. He’s wearing a fitting suit, standing at a spot where shadows and light mingle.

Lucien: “We will be forgotten in this place by the world, but the strings of fate will tie us together.”

He suddenly pauses, the intermingling of shadows and light distorting his expression into shreds. He trembles slightly in the darkness.

Lucien: “...before meeting that duke, she was always in front of that glass window, being my bird.”

Lucien: “She should realise that if she were to fly out, she would have cuts and bruises all over from those impetuous dandies.”

Lucien: “She would discover that there is an entire sky of canaries which are just as beautiful and frail as her. Those dandies only have to reach out gently--”

Lucien: “And her beloved feathers would be easily plucked out.”

Lucien: “If this is the ending... if this is the only ending...”

Lucien: “Then her feathers should belong to me.”

When I see his calm and shadowed expression, I hold my breath momentarily.

Lucien: “Only belonging to me.”

The monologue ends.

-

Lucien: In the short span of one minute, you’ve already hesitated to say something to me five times.

Lucien sighs, setting down the cup of water in his hand.

After the monologue ended, the subsequent segments no longer involve the guests that much.

Lucien and I have left the studio earlier, and are sitting on the sofa in the lounge, waiting for the show to officially come to an end.

It’s just that... ever since we stepped out of the studio and I saw Lucien returning to his normal state, my heart has had difficulties making the adjustment.

MC: ...I was just so stunned.

Tickled by the exaggerated tone in my voice, Lucien chuckles softly.

Lucien: I’ll take that as a compliment. 

MC: Of course it’s a compliment! I didn’t expect you to perform so well. You were basically an entirely different person earlier!

Lucien: I was simply portraying the role as I understood it. But I accept Producer MC’s compliment.

He takes a shallow sip of tea calmly, returning to how Lucien typically is, and completely different from the butler he was acting as earlier.

Seeing him like this, a question suddenly surfaces in my heart -

I wonder what Lucien’s possessiveness looks like?

-

Director: Sorry for the wait! The two of you have worked hard today!

After the show ends, the director returns to the lounge, carrying a stack of manuscripts in his hand.

Director: The responses for today’s show are extremely good! Many thanks to Professor Lucien and Miss MC for the spectacular performance!

Lucien: We’re also grateful for your invitation to participate in this show.

Director: Professor Lucien is too polite. Both of you truly did very well. The comment board for the show is filled with positive remarks. To tell you the truth, there’s something I need to ask of the two of you.

The director unfolds the manuscript in his hand. Lucien and I lower our heads to look at it. It’s the script from that earlier play.

Director: We’d like to include a special 520 Easter egg for this episode’s theme. It would be the final scene between the butler and the wealthy lady. Earlier, Professor Lucien’s monologue left a deep impression on the listeners, and the responses were very enthusiastic. If possible, could you and Producer MC record this Easter egg today?

The director clasps his hands together, inviting Lucien sincerely. However, Lucien turns his line of sight to me.

Lucien: My rights to participate in a show belong to this lady. If she agrees, I’ll naturally have no issues with it.

The director looks over in confusion. Just as Lucien is about to showcase the hair tie with a dead serious expression, I hurriedly agree.

MC: Yes! We can!

The director unclasps his hands quickly, preparing for the recording of the Easter egg. Lucien and I remain in the studio to go over the lines.

After familiarising myself with my lines, I lift my head, realising that Lucien is leaning against the sofa, reading the script meticulously and silently.

Seeing him look so serious, I suddenly become curious again.

MC: Lucien, could I ask you a question?

Lucien: Does it have to do with why I agreed to participate in this show?

MC: ...as expected, I can’t hide anything from you.

He sets down the manuscript, grinning as he tidies the hair at my ear.

Lucien: I simply care about you exceptionally. I’m guessing that what you want to know even more is why I’d bring you along to participate in this show.

My eyes widen slightly, and I give him a thumbs up.

He chuckles after seeing this. Waves of gentleness ripple in those eyes that have always been difficult to read.

Lucien: I know that we differ from others in the way we’re always handling our own matters. It’s difficult to meet, much less have each others’ time. I also know that you’re always doing your best to give your free time to me -

Lucien: Bringing me bentos with plenty of dishes, attending conferences when I release new books, and taking me to see the spring day in your eyes.

Lucien: So, I want to tell you that whether or not you can see it, I’m also doing my best to own every moment of your free time.

Lucien: To me, participating in this show is akin to watching a movie together. I simply want it to be a special moment for us which belongs only to you and me. 

He leans down, drawing closer to me, encasing my surroundings with his unique scent.

Looking into his eyes, a wave of gentleness seems to ripple in my heart, and my cheeks flush slightly.

MC: I’ll also do my best to create special moments belonging only to the both of us. I’ll invite Professor Lucien to look forward to them.

Lucien: You being like this is already good enough.

The corners of his eyes turn upwards, and he puts some distance between us.

Lucien: Let’s go over the lines together. The director’s waiting for us to record the Easter egg.

I nod. Taking a deep breath, I return my focus to the script again.

In the final scene between the butler and the wealthy lady, the wealthy lady is holding a love letter she wrote to the duke, naively wanting the butler to polish her writing.

Even though she senses that she shouldn’t let the butler see this letter, he’s the person she trusts most.

In front of the butler, she’s like a young girl experiencing her first awakening of love as she reads the love letter aloud.

The butler, whose unbridled possessiveness and intense jealousy have rushed to his head, finally poisons his beloved in his arms after she reads the final line.

Using a letter from a listener as a prop, I place it in his hand and begin the monologue.

MC: “You must definitely listen to this letter...”

MC: “It contains my heartfelt sincerity. No matter what, I don’t want there to be any mistakes.”

Lucien: "If you read it to me, it will be your first mistake.”

MC: “Please! You’ve never refused anything I ask of you. I’ll just treat it as tacit consent, just like always!”

MC: “Dearest Great Duke...”

MC: “I’m writing this letter to you, and it contains my sincerity...”

Following the script, I read the letter written to the duke.

MC: “...and with this, I look forward to your reply.”

These are the final words on the letter. Following this, there are a series of stage directions.

“The wealthy lady grips her love letter, brimming with anticipation as she stares out of the window. The butler is silent, handing her a cup of hot tea as he usually does.”

“The lady drinks it without putting up any defences, but doesn’t know that he had poisoned this cup. The love letter floats to the ground, and she falls into the butler’s arms.”

“...he speaks into her ear: ‘You belong only to me.’ The canary in his arms twitches for a while, then never stirs again.”

Seeing the tragic ending of this love story, my heart can’t help but sigh.

The butler’s love made him lose his mind. In order to possess his beloved forever, he pushed both himself and her into hell with his own hands.

I recall the scene from before when Lucien was reading the monologue, and how he usually has eyes as calm as a deep pond.

That earlier thought once again surfaces in my mind -

I wonder what Lucien’s possessiveness looks like?

Just when I’m thinking about this, I feel a forceful tug on my arm.

I stumble, then fall into familiar arms. 

Puzzled, I turn my head towards Lucien. A sense of restraint is concealed in his eyes, and the unfathomable dark eyes hold within them intense emotions. 

Lucien: “This letter will never be sent, just as the bird will forever remain in her cage.”

Lucien takes a deep breath, leaning his weight against my body.

I feel scorching breaths on my exposed shoulders, and his hand brushes against my lips gently.

Lucien: “You can only belong to me.”

A familiar scent cages me in his embrace. For a moment, I’m unable to tell if the person before me is the butler who went mad because of love, or if he’s Lucien himself.

I abruptly return to my senses - the performance should already be over.

However, Lucien doesn’t let go of me, as though he hasn’t disengaged from the performance. 

Just as I prepare to remind him that it’s over, he suddenly leans near, leaving a soft kiss at the corner of my lips.

Lucien: Very sweet. I’m referring to the taste of the tea.

Stunned, I look at Lucien - he’s changing the ending of the script...

While he looks at me, the foreign emotions in his eyes suddenly vanish. Then, he crinkles his eyes into a smile, just like how he smiles at me every time.

I already knew that I couldn't hide anything from him.

This is his response to that question I’ve never asked -

Lucien: The person I want to possess will eventually possess me.

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[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Get a Hairband or Get a Haircut (Bi!Spencer Reid x Male!Reader)

Summary: Spencer’s boyfriend sees Spencer with his hair in a bun. He pulls some strings to make sure he’ll see that sight more often.

AN: Look, I just want to see this man with his hair up. Thank you to my pals on Discord for prompting me to write this!

Word count: 2.3k

Your name: submit What is this?

“Some of the worst mistakes in my life were haircuts” ― Jim Morrison

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Spencer’s attention was drawn away from his stack of paperwork when he spied, out of the corner of his eye, his boyfriend approaching his desk. Y/N looked as handsome as ever in his work’s uniform, the FBI VISITOR badge pinned above his heart. Spencer sat up straight first, like a meerkat, then stood to attention with his cane in one hand.

“Hey, Y/N, what are you doing here?” He asked, fidgeting with a pen.

Y/N held up one of their Tupperware from home, “I took your lunch by accident.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice. Give me a second.”

Bringing it up onto his desk, Spencer began rifling through his bag. He managed to keep up the persona of a man who had definitely not swapped lunches so that he could see his boyfriend again during his work day.

When Spencer turned back to Y/N, Y/N was just beaming away at him. Yeah, this switch-a-roo was definitely worth it. He couldn’t help but smile back as they swapped lunch boxes.

“Thanks,” Y/N said then used it to gesture over his shoulder, “I gotta head back to work quick, so I’ll see you tonight.” Before leaving, he bit his lip and took a step back, “I dig the new ‘do by the way.”

It was then that Spencer remembered his hair was still up in a bun. He’d asked JJ to borrow a hair tie after his overgrown fringe had fallen in the way one too many times. His neck went a light shade of red as Y/N blew a kiss to him before turning around to leave the building. His hand went to the back of his head, fingers wrapping around the bun to confirm that yes, it was still there. Spencer watched until Y/N rounded the corner towards the exit. Then, and only then, did he sit back down and return to his files.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

It had always been an easy target for the BAU team to playfully poke, Spencer’s hair. The boy band trim was a classic case of “let’s make quips at Doctor Reid”. Y/N wasn’t above joining in the teasing whenever it arose. One of his best jokes was that Spencer would often enter a raid with his hair bouncing around like an Afghan Hound trotting to first place at Crufts.

Y/N saved the praise for when they were alone.

That evening was no different to any other, plus the promise of a lie-in the following morning. Y/N made dinner for himself and Spencer – left warm in the oven for whenever he came home – and got out of his work clothes as soon as he could. He ate alone on the sofa, with his feet up and the dish on a cushioned lap tray.

The news was depressing, the game shows were dull, the documentaries were dismal. TV had really let itself go in terms of what it broadcast for the nine-to-fivers.

Pulling one of Spencer’s hairs out of the keyboard, Y/N pulled up a film on his laptop and linked it up to the TV. He retrieved one of his bags of candy from the coffee table’s drawer. The theme song skipped, he watched without extreme attention paid to the events unfolding. One episode blended into another, paused so that Y/N could change out of his work clothes before he got too lazy. He returned to his warm spot on the couch and snacked mindlessly until-

The front door clicked open and again when shut. Tilting his head back, Y/N was greeted by Spencer kissing his hairline whilst walking by. Y/N hummed, his eyes drifting shut at the gesture, and Spencer smiled – his hand squeezing on Y/N’s shoulder before letting go.

“How was work?” Y/N asked, watching Spencer head straight to the oven.

He pulled out the dish and spooned some of the lasagne into the bowl Y/N had set out for him, “Uh, just paperwork today mostly. How was your day?”

“Just the usual my end too,” Y/N joined him at the table, eating the rest of his snacks.

For a while, they exchanged a catch up on how things in their respective offices were going. Y/N had hidden an electronic whoopie cushion in one of the filing cabinets opposite his desk and activated when a person passed by. It took until an hour before the end of the day. Meanwhile Spencer had performed his new magic trick on Penelope, Prentiss, and JJ. Derek had ducked away into Hotch’s office before he could try anything.

Y/N could only keep his glee hidden for so long though.

“I got you something.”

And he pulled the present from under his legs and placed it beside Spencer’s plate. Brown paper – recyclable, naturally – and string neatly tied it together. It was straight from a story book.

Spencer put down his cutlery and lifted the gift gingerly, his eyes moving across the folds to try and determine what could be inside. It was light, a bit squishy. Then impatience took over and he became a kid at Christmas tearing away at the paper to free his present.

His chin in his palms, Y/N watched nervously as Spencer released his present, “Figured you should get some of your own, stop you stealing from JJ.”

It was technically a gag gift, but if Spencer was genuinely up for tying his hair back with one of these seven scrunchies, so was Y/N.

“You’re hilarious and you can cook,” Spencer spun the packet around his fingers, “When did I get so lucky?”

“Should be asking myself that, with the smartest and most gorgeous doctor in my apartment.”

A pair of scissors from the drawer snipped the plastic ties off and Spencer selected the purple one. He slipped it on his wrist, beginning to scoop his hair to the back of his head. Y/N watched, enraptured as Spencer pulled the scrunchie over the bun and twisted it around until it was secure.

“You are so pretty,” cooed Y/N, “The FBI’s Next Top Model.”

That bashful smile, the crinkles in the corners of Spencer’s eyes, they were all parts of why Y/N loved complimenting his boyfriend.

Spencer finished dinner with his hair still up and Y/N was delighted to see he kept the scrunchie in after he’d changed in his pyjamas. Footsteps plus a third beat were cushioned against the rug before vanishing when Spencer daintily placed himself into the sofa cushions. Y/N already had the blanket up for his boyfriend to tuck himself in, all ready for their Doctor Who rerun to continue.

It took about a minute for Y/N’s attention to be drawn from the TV and to Spencer. He wrapped his one arm around him, the old yawning in the movie theatre trick, and he didn’t miss the corner of Spencer’s mouth twitching at the gesture. Y/N’s arm bent to play with the strays that floated on the air above his head, stirring them around.

He tapped the scrunchie, “Take it out.”

Spencer squinted curiously, though he kept his eye on the TV, “Sick of it already?”

“Your hair’s too lovely to be trapped in a scrunchie all the time.”

With an affectionate eye roll, Spencer complied, teasing his hair a little until it was in its usual unkempt state.

“I should probably get a trim; it keeps falling in my face,” He said quietly.

“I reckon you could get a reverse Mohawk and I’d still love the bones of you.”

“A reverse Mohawk?”

Y/N nodded then mimed shaving a strip down the centre of his head, imitated the buzzing as he went. Spencer had to chuckle at the notion of rocking a cut like that at the FBI.

“I’m not quite ready for that.”

There was faux apology in his tone. Y/N kept up the ruse, wiping his brow with a relieved exhale, “Good, I was lying, don’t ever get a reverse Mohawk.”

Once Spencer had pinkie-promised on that, they got back to watching the TV. Y/N’s arms dropped to his sides. He kept one hand under the blanket though, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Spencer’s thigh. Spencer’s hand joined his shortly after the next episode of their show began, linking their fingers together for a moment before he let go again.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

As much as Y/N supported Spencer in his job, he fucking wished he could wake up before Spencer more often. He looked so sweet, half his face hidden in a pillow and the other half completely free from stress. His lean frame was hidden beneath the blankets. His hair was more like a mane, all springy and knotted and standing at odd angles.

Of course, Y/N could always get extra early when Spencer was here, but that would involve setting an alarm and no one in that apartment would appreciate it when it would go off.

“Spencer?” Y/N said in a soft sing song voice, tucking himself up close to his boyfriend, “Spencer, baby?”

He wriggled a little closer and kissed Spencer’s lips gently. His giggles were held close in his chest as the corners of Spencer’s mouth pulled up, revealing those delicious dimples.

“Spencer,” whispered Y/N once more, bumping his nose against his.

Spencer frowned before he opened his eyes; the wrinkles on his brow cleared once he saw who was waking him. His head lifted slightly. It was just enough to bump his nose back against Y/N’s before it fell back down into his pillow.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

In that gravelly morning voice, Spencer answered, “Yeah?”

“Can I try something with your hair please?”

Already, Spencer was groaning and rolling his eyes into the back of his head, trying to turn over in the bed. But Y/N was sat on the blankets now and Spencer had no choice but to cuddle into himself.

“I’ll buy you something at the gift shop today! Anything you want,” He offered as he pinned Spencer onto his back - with a little room in his actions made to be careful with Spencer’s leg. But Spencer draped his forearm over his eyes and continued to pretend he was back to sleep.

Y/N would not relent, bending over close as he whined, “Babe, please, this would make me so happy.”

Those striking hazel eyes peeked out from underneath the arm. Y/N could see a hint of his dimples returning. He exploited that weakness to the full, taking Spencer’s arm away from his face as he clasped his hand between his own. His lips pressed delicate kisses across his curled fingers then pouted down at Spencer who’s resolve was visibly deteriorating.

When Y/N ceased his kissing, Spencer retrieved his hand and pushed himself to sit up, the blankets dropping from his body as he leant into his boyfriend. He cupped Y/N’s chin and in turn his cheek was traced by Y/N’s forefinger.  

With a sigh, Spencer nodded, “Go ahead.”

The biggest grin broke out on Y/N’s face. He practically leapt off Spencer’s lap to collect his tools.

Though he made the act of reading the book from his bedside table, Spencer wasn’t really paying attention to the words on the page. He already knew them. Instead he let Y/N’s gentle brush strokes distract him, detangling the knots the night had tied. A glance into the wardrobe’s mirror showed Y/N idly biting his lip. The back of Spencer’s head was his whole world now.

When the comb could travel without resistance, Y/N’s fingers dragged around his scalp, capturing all the hair that grew above the tips of his ears and separating it from the rest. The slight scratch of his nails caused Spencer’s book dropped onto the bed and his glasses began to slide off his nose.

Quick to push them back up, Spencer was greeted by Y/N’s reaction to twirling Spencer’s around before securing it all with the yellow scrunchie. And Spencer had never seen him smile so much in the morning.

Y/N knelt in front of him; his hands were in loose fists that shifted in restrained excitement in his lap. When they unclenched, those hands caressed the free hair at the back of Spencer’s head, only moving around to cup his face. Spencer’s own hands were drawn to Y/N’s sides like iron fillings to a magnet. He soaked in Y/N’s affections that were poured into the way he looked at him.

The words were fragile, tender, just above a whisper, “Oh you’re so beautiful, Spencer. Thank you.” As if tying his hair up meant more than the world. Spencer was invaluable to Y/N; he knew it and he felt it.

Y/N kissed Spencer’s nose and it wrinkled with pleasure at the gesture.

But as Spencer leant in to close the gap between them, Y/N moved back and pressed two fingers on his lips, “You can kiss me properly when we’ve brushed our teeth. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you wear this to the museum.” He tapped the bun on top before he got off the bed. 

As his gaze followed Y/N retreating into the bathroom, Spencer caught his reflection on the wardrobe’s mirror once more. Morgan would say he looked like a hairy pineapple, or a greasy hipster. Nevertheless, Spencer was chuffed to know that Y/N still looked at him like he had scattered the stars above their heads - just for him.

He heard the shower running. As he fell back into the bed, the top knot pressing against the headboard, Spencer hoped no new cases came in because he could really use a whole weekend of this.

[emutempo]

Strike A Pose (domestic SuperCorp one-shot)

Summary: Everyone has the day off but Supergirl. And even though it means leaving Lena home alone for much of the day, Kara's determined to make the best of it.

Posted to my Ao3 here. 

Notes: It's 4:40AM and I just couldn't sleep without getting this out of my head. And since I'm still anxious about posting any of my fics, I figured once again it'd be better to hit that post button before I get too nervous and hit delete instead. Anyway, I hope this brightens at least one person’s day.

----------

Rays from the sun pour in from the windows of Lena’s bedroom and her eyes flutter open as she feels the heat on her face. She forces her eyes open and stretches into a yawn.

She looked across the bed and first saw a mess of golden hair splayed across a pillow. Kara was still fast asleep after a long week working at the DEO. It had been a long week for both them and Lena was looking for to a relaxing Friday with no work.

 She was happy the 4th of July landed on a Friday this year. It usually meant she had a three day weekend with Kara all to herself. No L Corp, no CatCo. Except, today, Kara was on call. Even though the DEO was operating with the minimal crew, Kara had volunteered to cover for J’onn, Winn, James and Alex. They had been so accommodating of Kara’s requests for days off to spend with Lena that Lena didn’t mind.

Today would be like any other busy weekend day for them. They’d lounge around the house, playing board games, watching their favorite movies and cuddling on the couch. And when Kara was called away for her Supergirl duties, she’d give Lena a quick goodbye and take off to deal with the problem before eventually coming back to Lena and resuming their activities like nothing had interrupted at all.

For now, it was still early and the city itself was still waking up so Lena turned over and cuddled against Kara. Her head, barely hit the pillow before she fell back into slumber.

—

Later, Kara and Lena were sat up, cuddling on the living room couch, each with a cup of coffee in hand. On the TV, an episode of QI playing. Kara took a sip of her coffee before

Kara and Lena had taken to watching QI on their lazy mornings. Kara was fascinated with the random knowledge and discussion on the show and more-so with Lena’s endless intelligence. This morning, they were talking about the history of astronomy.

Kara cleared her throat, “so when did people start thinking the Earth was flat again? It’s like they’re afraid the Earth is round. They’re lucky it is or they’d be off floating somewhere in space!”

Lena loved these little conversations with Kara. No matter how long she’d spent on Earth, still so much surprised her. Lena shrugged. “You know, the only thing flatearthers fear is sphere itself.”

It took Kara a moment to realize Lena’s joke before a giggle escaped her throat, still a tinge of morning gruffness in her voice.  Lena stared into her eyes, trying to memorize the beautiful sound of Kara’s laughter. But it was short-lived as Kara suddenly tilted her head, listening.

Lena smiles, knowing in that moment that duty was calling to Supergirl. National City needed its savior. Kara looked up apologetically to Lena. “Small kitchen fire. No extinguisher. Should be quick.”

And a moment later, a whoosh fills the Lena’s living room as Kara disappears for a moment before another whoosh brings Kara back, clad in her blue suit and red cape. Lena blows her a kiss. “I’ll be waiting for you, Supergirl.”

Kara mimes catching her kiss in the air and puts it to her lips before stepping out onto the balcony. Even though Lena’s a little disappointed, she can’t help but smile as she watches her go.

Kara has the goofiest grin on her face she holds Lena’s eye contact. Lena smiles, shaking her head. She knows what’s coming and she waits for it…

Lena watches as Supergirl turns around and takes a big step away from the balcony door. She turns around in place and mimes pressing an elevator button before taking a patient stance with her arms crossed in front of her, as if waiting. A moment later, still ‘standing’ with her arms crossed, Kara slowly floats up into the air as if riding an invisible elevator until she’s out of Lena’s view. But not before giving the Luthor a playful wink.

Lena can’t hold back the laugh caught in her throat. It’s loud and she knows Kara hears it.

—

Later, they’re sitting on opposite sides of the coffee table, a chess board between them. It’s Kara’s turn but she’s gone on a rant and Lena doesn’t have the heart to interrupt her.

“I just don’t understand. Why are ALL of them so sad? Isn’t there a single period drama about two women falling in love where they get to be together? The endings are always so tragic. Unrequited love… pre-arranged marriage… and that’s only if we’re lucky enough one of them doesn’t die! Doesn’t anyone run away together? Or say ‘screw you’ to all the cranky old men?”

Lena can’t stop herself. She leans over the chess board and kisses Kara. It’s soft and sweet. When she pulls back, she gestures to the chess board and Kara finally realizes it’s her move. She hastily moves one of her pieces and by the look on Lena’s face, it’s not… the best move. But Lena ignores it.

“I think they’re just trying to be historically accurate, love. Times were a lot harder for us not too long ago.”

Kara doesn’t seem satisfied with that answer. “Well, I still don’t like it. No more sad movies like that one we watched last night. Here Comes the World… or was it… A World to Come?”

“The World to Come,” Lena reaches forward to brush a hair out of Kara’s face. “We could watch Gentleman Jack.”

Kara pouts. “That doesn’t sound promising.” Lena chuckles, about to launch into an explanation of the history behind the titular character of Anne Lister when she sees that signature head tilt again and Kara’s eyes focus into the distance. Lena’s puts her hand up over the chess board about to say, “Kara, mind the chess board—“ but it’s too late. Two back to back WHOOSHES and Supergirl is again standing before Lena, who’s eyebrow’s cocked in ITS signature position. Kara notices the chess pieces all over the floor and looks at Lena apologetically, “you were winning anyway?”

Kara leans in and gives Lena a quick peck on the cheek. “Drunken brawl. I’ll get everyone settled down and be right back.” She keeps her eyes on Lena’s as she backs her way toward the balcony door. The look in their eyes and the suppressed smiles on their faces tell us that, again, they both know what’s coming. Lena watches as Kara steps outside, her cape flapping in the breeze, and takes her superhero stance. She double taps the emblem on her chest and then puts her hands out behind her and takes off in flight… Is she serious?

Lena guffaws and yells after Kara. “Iron Man? Are you kidding me?” But Lena giggles. Kara knows she’s gonna give her a hard time for that one later. As if to dig in even more, Kara loop-de-loops and flies by the window on her way to the drunken brawl.

Yeah she definitely heard that.

—

Back at home with Lena and Kara relaxing in front of the TV. Kara channel surfs while Lena plays with her hair. She lands on a movie that’s just started.

“Oh, I love Megamind! Have you ever seen it?”

Lena shakes her head, “I think most of the animated films I’ve watched in my entire lifetime on Earth I’ve seen first with you. And we haven’t watched this one yet.”

Kara scoots up closer to Lena. “Can we? Can we watch it together? It’s one of my favorites.”

Lena puts her arm around Kara and pulls her in. “How many times have I ever said no to your movie picks?” Kara turned around, wearing a hurt look on her face even though Lena knows it’s put-on. “You keep saying no to Hocus Pocus!”

“That’s because it’s a Halloween movie and we should watch it on Halloween.”

Before Kara can protest… another head tilt and yep, a WHOOSH away and back.

“Car wreck on the bridge. Firefighters’ jaws of life aren’t working. Back in a jiffy. We’re not finished discussing this.”

Kara went straight for the balcony and Lena thought she wasn’t going to get a special send off. But, of course, Kara had something else in mind. She turns around and grabs her cape, pulling it up over her head in a somewhat childish maneuver.

What the hell is she doing this time? Then Lena gets her answer when the cape puffs up revealing Kara blowing air into it to resemble a parachute before she floats up, up, and away.

“Ok, that was a good one.”

She can picture the shit-eating grin on Kara’s face and shakes her head, turning back to the TV and hitting play.

—

Kara and Lena in the kitchen, making an early dinner. Kara’s arguing a point and waving a spatula around like a judge waves a gavel.

“You agree that Bette Midler’s amazing and this is one of her favorite roles she’s ever played. She said so herself. I know because she follows me on Twitter.”

Lena flicks a gravy-covered whisk at Kara, flinging the brown sauce onto her shirt and face. Kara mouth drops open and she freezes in place, shocked at Lena’s gravy betrayal.

“That’s what you get for showing off.”

Kara, hands and face still frozen, pivots to face Lena, ��oooh, you’re going to be sorry for that.” With a burst of speed, Kara reaches out and tickle Lena’s sides. Lena squeals as she tries to escape but she knows it’s futile. There’s no way she’s escaping Kara’s grip so she does the next best thing and flicks more gravy at her. And now it’s Kara’s turn to squeal. “You are gonna HATE gravy by the time I’m through with you!” Kara dives for Lena but before she can catch her up in her arms again… you know what it is. The head tilt. Kara listens for a moment as she wipes gravy from her face and licks it from her finger. Lena takes a swipe for herself too.

Kara quickly glances at Lena before a smirk takes over her face. But Lena can’t stop her before…

“Kara don’t—“

… Kara WHOOSHES away, spinning the gravy off her body and flinging it EVERYWHERE, including Lena.

“—Do the whoosh thing.”

Lena stands there for a beat. Now SHE’s the one frozen with gravy-face. Kara whooshes back into the kitchen and licks a spot of gravy off Lena’s face.

“Break in at the pawn shop. Don’t try to sneak any kale into the fagioli ‘cause I’ll know.”

Kara makes her way to the balcony but Lena doesn’t turn around. She waits a beat for the tell-tale whoosh but doesn’t hear one. She knows Kara’s waiting for her to turn around and although part of Lena doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of turning around, she does. Supergirl has places to be and she doesn’t want to keep Kara waiting.

Kara smiles as Lena turns around before jumping onto an invisible broomstick and doing her best interpretation of a witch cackle as she ‘flies’ off.

Lena rolls her eyes as she wipes the gravy off her face with a towel. “Ok, ok! We can watch Hocus Pocus when you get back.”

Lena goes to the fridge and grabs the bunch of kale she’s hidden in one of the fridge drawers.

—

The evening. Lena and Kara lay on the couch, the remnants of their dinner on the coffee table in front of them. Kara swipes a remnant of gravy from one of the plates and quickly dabs it on Lena’s nose. Lena’s nose scrunches at the cold liquid as Kara fights to keep a straight face. So does Lena.

“I’m starting to understand why these witches want to eat these children.”

Kara playfully smacks Lena’s arm. She knows Lena isn’t mad in the slightest. Kara giggles as Lena tries to lick the gravy from her nose with her tongue. But her tongue can’t reach. Kara leans forward and licks it off for her.

“I could eat you.”

Lena blushes and leans in for a kiss. It’s tender and sweet. Lena pulls away to look Kara in the eyes. “Well, you have put a spell on me so I’d probably let you.”

Kara’s eyebrows perk up and she bites her lip, “is that a request, Ms. Luthor?”

But of course… Lena doesn’t get the chance to answer before Kara’s head tilts once again. A beat before… WHOOSH.

“Run of the mill creep following a woman home. Give me five minutes to set this guy straight.”

Kara plops a kiss on Lena’s nose where the gravy was before she turns and runs straight out for the balcony. She doesn’t wait for Lena to turn around but Lena watches anyway as Kara takes a running leap toward the balcony bannister and lands on top of it. She takes a few more jumps like she’s on a diving board before leaping and tucking into a somersault as she “dives” off the bannister and disappears below the balcony.

“Go get him, love.”

Lena hits pause on the movie and sits back, staring off through the balcony windows at the city, her eyes filled with a dreamy haze. She’ll wait for Kara to come back and watch with her.

—

Later that night, Kara and Lena are finally lying in bed cuddling and listening to the last of the fireworks going off.

Kara flips through Twitter on her phone while Lena reads a book in one hand and uses the other to stroke Kara’s hair. She hears a small yawn escape from the blonde’s mouth and looks at the clock.

“It’s getting late. Are you ready to go to sleep, love? Should I turn off the light?”

Kara drops her phone dramatically and tucks her head into Lena. Her arm lands with a thud across Lena’s stomach, collapsing as if exhausted.

“I’m not tired if you’re not.”

Lena strokes her head a few more times before she dogs ears the book she’s reading and places it on her night stand. She leans over to turn off the light when she feels Kara sit up. She turns and sees Kara’s head tilted, listening. Lena picks her book back up, ready to continue reading while she waited for Kara to come back from another rescue.

“What is it this time? Wild assassin penguin on the loose? Three crazy witch sisters kidnapping innocent children?”

Kara stiffens up and tilts her head the other way. “No, it’s a woman…”

Lena sets her book to the side, noticing the serious tone in Kara’s voice. “Kara, what’s wrong?”

Kara looks at Lena, seemingly concentrating on a sound in the distance, a look of concern across her face. “She’s dying… of patience.”

Lena’s eyebrows scrunch together and she squints at Kara, confused. “What?”

Kara turns to face Lena, still as serious as ever.

“She has this girlfriend who keeps rushing off all over the city, leaving her alone at home and she’s just… been so patient.”

Lena’s face relaxes and falls into a lazy grin as she catches on to Kara. Kara can tell Lena’s savvy to her playfulness but she doesn’t drop the series tone.

“See, she’s a very important and very busy lady who doesn’t get a lot of time off to spend with her girlfriend and when she does, her girlfriend always has to fly off. So, if it’s ok with you, I’ve gotta go fix that.”

Lena pulled Kara in close. She didn’t try to feign shock or surprise or play along. She was too consumed with earnest love and she didn’t want to waste any more of their time today, “so how long will it be this time?”

Kara leans in close, kissing Lena with soft lips and tenderness, “forever.”

[theparanormalperiodical]

31 Celebrity Ghost Stories You NEED To Read On Halloween Night (Or Any Time Of The Year, Screw The System)

*Puts on old professor glasses*

For generations we have been in awe of the celebrity.

*strokes beard*

For generations we have trodden their paths, followed their scents, and watched with wandering eyes exactly what they do - and all in the name of escapism.

Since the conception of humankind we have sought to understand what makes the rich and famous both rich and famous. Our philosophers decode mannerisms, our magazine editors calculate their every mistake, and the rest of us simply gaze up at the stars wondering how, why, and what we share in common with the glorified among us.

But you see-

*walks across the Ted Talk stage*

-they are just like us.

They make mistakes, they compare themselves to others, and yes, they even suck in their stomachs when trying on their new TopShop crop top and then shove it in the back of their sock drawer convinced their lower belly will always have too fat.

But even more than that, they have experiences with the paranormal.

*pulls up a chair and sits on it backwards cause for some reason people think it looks actually idk how people think it looks but whatever back to the imagery*

And so, on this Halloween night, we celebrate what brings us all together - no matter how much cash nor clout one has.

Shall we?

Miley Cyrus

During her 2009 Europe tour, Cyrus stayed in a flat in London - a flat that she claims was haunted.

"It was seriously so terrifying. It used to be an old bakery and they turned it into an apartment building, and I was having really crazy dreams and really scary things, and one night my little sister–it sounds crazy to tell you–but she was standing in the shower and all of a sudden I hear her scream.

I run in there and the water had somehow flipped to hot but it was still...It wasn’t like the water had just changed, the knob had turned but she hadn’t turned it and it was burning her.”

In the same bathroom Cyrus was convinced she saw a little boy sitting on the sink whilst she was showering. A series of other unexplained events took place until they delved into the family history of the bakery: it was passed down for generations from father to son. Cyrus believed she saw the last son to be left the bakery.

Cher

Turns out Cher doesn’t just believe in life after love but life after death, too.

The music legend herself is convinced that her late husband, Sonny, who died in 1998 is still making his presence known to her.

She claims his spirit has a habit of turning lights on to remind her he is there and often does this to her chandelier - even when there is no power.

“I love ghosts, I prefer ghosts to some people.”

Anna Nicole Smith

This late Playboy bunny was known for her bombshell sex appeal and scandalous career - but what about her forays into the supernatural?

"A ghost would crawl up my leg and have sex with me at an apartment a long time ago in Texas. I used to think it was my boyfriend, and one day I woke up and it wasn’t. It was, like, a spirit and it—woo! [miming a ghost flying from her bedsheets]—went up!

I was freaked out about it, but then I was, like, 'Well, you know what? He’s never hurt me and he just gave me some amazing sex so I have no problem.'"

When the interviewer asked her whether it was merely a dream Smith replied that it was happening every single night.

Kesha

Just like Smith, Kesha’s own experience with the paranormal is rather more sexual.

In her own words she went to the “bone zone” with a ghost.

"I don't know his name. He just started caressing me. It was a sexy time, it wasn't, like, sex."

Emma Stone

Back in 2014 Stone revealed on a late night talk show that the spirit of her grandfather often leaves quarters for her to find.

In fact, she claimed her family has a history of the small change - and its legacy clearly goes beyond the grave.

La Toya Jackson

Michael Jackson’s death is one of the most striking moments in modern history - but it turns out the King of Pop might also be the King of the Paranormal.

La Toya often claims she feels strong presences in the Jacksons’ childhood home and frequently shares about the supernatural activity coming from MJ’s old room. Many visitors, staff members, and family members have heard tap dancing coming from the room, even when they didn’t know who it used to belong to.

It was in this room that Michael would tap dance for two hours every sunday.

Susan Boyle

Boyle often recounts that she lost several members of her closest family within the span of a few short years and felt abandoned by her family. But in a 2011 interview she claimed she sees her mother’s spirit around her house, believing it to be a reminder from beyond the grave that she is not alone.

Megan Fox

"I was just in Mexico at my hotel and it was a bedroom, living room, bedroom...I had pre-ordered breakfast for 7:30, and at 7 a.m. I hear them come in with the table, I hear them pouring the coffee…

30 minutes later, at 7:30 I went in there, no table, no coffee, no food, no nothing, no one there. Door bell rings, I open the door, it's room service with my food...Brandy the nanny comes out later and says, 'Why did room service come at 7 when we told them to come at 7:30?' So you can't tell me I'm crazy, because two people heard it."

Ariana Grande

This paranormal enthusiast was visiting one of the gates of hell - Stull Cemetery - when she felt a sudden surge of negative energy around her. Flies suddenly appeared in the car and she smelt a strong odour of sulphur.

Both are symptoms of dark, demonic energy.

As they drove off she ‘apologised’ to the spirits for disturbing the peace and took a couple of pictures of the area before they left. She saw clear demonic faces in the image. When she tried to send it to her manager as proof of the strange goings on, the picture couldn’t be sent.

Why?

Because it was 666 megabytes.

Joan Rivers

This comedian’s old Manhattan apartment might be worth $28 million but it's far more famous for the supernatural entities within its walls than its price tag.

In one iconic episode of Celebrity Ghost Stories Rivers claims she even brought in a voodoo priestess to help a former resident, ‘Mr Spencer’, pass on.

Marilyn Manson

Just like Rivers, Marilyn Manson told his own paranormal experience on CGS. But his story had less spirits and more, you know, Satan.

Pressured by his peers into reading demonic incantations in a supposedly haunted basement, Manson claims he then heard demonic whispers around him asking if he believed in Satan.

Alyson Hannigan

Hannigan might be known for her Wiccan ways on the TV screen in Buffy The Vampire Slayer, but her encounters with the paranormal aren’t just captured by our favourite streaming services.

Back in 2003 Hannigan claimed she lived in a haunted house - but she believes the spirit is friendly.  

“My friend saw him first one night. She said, 'I don't mean to alarm you, but I just saw a man follow us out of the house.' “

"Later that night I saw this silhouette of a man standing in the bathroom doorway. I was like, 'Sweetie, what are you doing?' I thought it was [fiance] Alexis [Denisof]. But then I looked and Alexis was asleep next to me.”

Nicolas Cage

Yes, the most memed actor in Hollywood has faced a series of paranormal experiences, too. In 2007 Cage purchased one of the most haunted houses in America in a bid to get inspired to write the latest horror novel.

He bought the LaLaurie Mansion in New Orleans, a house belonging to one of the 19th century’s most infamous serial killers.

Many believe the slaves tortured by Delphine LaLaurie still haunt the mansion. Perhaps Cage heard the wails and moans of her victims, or maybe he felt the demonic presence rumoured to have taken part in a murder of a tenant in 1894?

Demi Lovato

Lovato often makes mention of her beliefs in the paranormal - especially when it comes to her haunted house in Texas. She claims a young girl named Emily haunts her home in the South, and has even mentioned that she was a childhood ‘friend’ when she was growing up.

But this tale has to be the most terrifying:

"One of my friends, Tucker, came over one time and he asked, 'So your house is haunted?' I said, 'Yeah, just watch. Something will happen. Something always happens.' We started to watch a movie when all of a sudden a laptop in my kitchen started to play a movie also. It was a black screen before, so it was a question of who turned it on and hit play.

And after that Tucker texted a friend saying, 'I think this house is haunted, a movie just turned on by itself,' and there was a 'glitch' in his phone that kept texting him back the word 'definitely' over and over again. That happened about 30 times."

Peter Jackson

Jackson might be known for putting mystical and magical creatures on the big screen, but he’s seen similar things in real life, too.

"One night I woke up and there was a figure in the room. She was really scary—her face was like a silent scream. She glided across the room and disappeared into the wall." He told Fran in the morning and she said, "'Was it the woman with a screaming face?’ We had never spoken about it. 

She had seen the same ghost two years earlier. So I do believe in some energy, a spirit or a soul..."

Kendrick Lamar

From one famous rapper to another:

Lamar told Home Grown Radio that he had a dream about Tupac Shakur - a dream he believed conveyed a message from beyond. In the dream Tupac told him “Keep doing what you doing, don’t let my music die.”

Keanu Reeves

He’s one of the internet’s favourite celebrities - but what isn’t so famous about this Matrix star is his paranormal experience from when he was living in NYC.

"I'm probably like six, seven years old, we'd come from Australia. Renata, [our] nanny, in the bedroom, my sister is asleep, she's sitting over there, I'm hanging out. There was a doorway and all of a sudden this jacket comes waving through the doorway, this empty jacket — there's no body, there's no legs, it's just there. And then it disappears..."

The nanny saw the exact same thing.

Adele

Ghost nuns are not only on-trend but also terrify-ing. Adele can testify to that. In 2012 the singer moved into a plush Sussex mansion which used to be a convent.

A couple creepy noises later and she hired around-the-clock security to protect her against the paranormal activity. Who knows what she might’ve seen in her new $6 million home?

Matthew McConaughey

McConaughey claims his Hollywood mansion was haunted by an unhappy female spirit by the name of Madame Blu.

"I was not even under the influence and she was there. She wasn't that happy, it didn't seem like she was going to be much fun to hang around or have in my house, so I went ahead and stood my ground. I opened the door and said 'You can move around all you want but I'm not going anywhere.'"

"For weeks everyone that came to the house said the same thing: 'There's someone down in that hall, there's somebody down in that hall.'"

Ryan Gosling

Most of the celebs that made this list whip out their charming ‘lil spooky story to pique interest in their latest career venture. Gosling’s story, however, is actually pretty f*cking scary.

One day, in his childhood home, he saw a ghost of a young boy.

"He just sat. And I knew from a very young age that he was a ghost, too. He scared me. I told my mother, but she couldn't see him. Nobody could. And I learned to live with that. I had to…

Then, a few years later, [my mother] thought she saw him, then almost right away my cousin saw him, and then my uncle. And we were outta there in fairly short order."

Laura Linney

Linney is one of Hollywood’s most cherished actresses - and even on the stage she has witnessed something from the other side.

She became a believer in the paranormal after working in the Belasco Theater on Broadway.

"I had forgotten this, and I was doing a play with Jane Alexander, and I turned to Jane Alexander, and I looked up to the upper balcony—there are two balconies there—and the upper balcony you can only get in from the outside, and those doors were locked; and I looked up, and there was a woman standing in the front row looking over with a blue dress and blonde hair.

I just thought, 'Well, hello!' I looked back at Jane, and I looked back up, and she was gone. I went to the house manager and I said, 'Joe, I think I saw a ghost.' And he went, 'male or female?' I said, 'female.' And he went, 'blue dress, blonde hair?'"

Megan Mullally

Another famous ghost that haunts a famous face features on this list. But this time the paranormal activity described by Mullally is certainly the most tragic.

She claims she lived in a house haunted by the spirit of Nicole Brown Simpson who was murdered in 1994. She believes that only when her husband watched the American Crime Story series about her death did the strange occurrences (most of which were odd and unexplained sounds) settle.

Kristen Stewart

Only last year our very own Bella Swan opened up not just about her own experiences with ghosts, but her own spiritual connection with other people.

“If I’m in a weird, small town, making a movie, and I’m in a strange apartment, I will literally be like, ‘No, please, I cannot deal. Anyone else, but it cannot be me.’ Who knows what ghosts are, but there is an energy that I’m really sensitive to. Not just with ghosts, but with people. People stain rooms all the time.”

Carrie Fisher

Carrie Fisher lived an extraordinary life. She was one of the few a-listers to openly discuss her struggles with mental health and drug use before it became so accepted in mainstream society. Unfortunately, these topics would haunt her in a rather more supernatural manner, too.

Following the overdose of a friend sleeping next to her in her mansion, Fisher claimed she would often feel their presence around her.

"Lights would go on and off, and I had this toy machine, that when you touched it would say, 'F*ck you! Eat sh*t! You’re an asshole!' And it would go off in the night, by itself, in my closet.”

She later hired an exorcist to cleanse the house of the spirit.

Halle Berry

Whilst filming Introducing Dorothy Dandridge, Berry would experience intense paranormal activity she believed was down to her dress.

A dress formerly owned by the woman titling the film.

"I'd come home and the housekeeper would say she'd heard my vanity chair moving upstairs in the bathroom. When the film was over, I desperately wanted to keep her dress, but it had to go. And then everything was fine."

Lady Gaga

Just like Kendrick Lamar, Lady Gaga has had her own dealings with the spirit of an icon. But instead of rap legend Tupac, she got the late fashion designer Alexander McQueen.

"Right after he died, I wrote 'Born This Way.' I think he's up in heaven with fashion strings in his hands, marionetting away, planning this whole thing…

I didn't even write the f*king song. He did!"

Melissa McCarthy

Comedian Melissa McCarthy revealed in 2016 that she believed in ghosts - and gave insight into where her beliefs came from.

"I grew up on a farm and I didn't have any real friends,

I have a very strong belief that people are out there, because I was certainly talking to someone in those barns. Otherwise I'm just crazy. I really strongly believe in ghosts."

Jessica Alba

In 2008, Alba told US Weekly about her own encounter with the paranormal when she was a child.

“I felt this pressure and I couldn’t get up, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t do anything

Something definitely took the covers off me and I definitely couldn’t get off the bed, and then, once I did, I screamed, ran to my parents’ room and I don’t think I spent many nights in that house ever again.”

Jenna Bush Hager

The White House already has a reputation for its paranormal activity (Abe Lincoln often makes a reappearance during times of crisis) and this former first daughter has evidence to support such a claim.

"I was asleep, there was a fireplace in my room and all of a sudden I heard 1920's music coming out. I could feel it. I freaked out and ran into my sister's room. She was like, 'Please go back to sleep, this is ridiculous.'"

Lucy Liu

This Charlie’s Angel - like so many of the people included in this article - claims she had sexual relations with something supernatural.

“I felt everything. I climaxed. And then he floated away.”

Bella Thorne

"I was lying in bed when I saw a shadowy, silvery figure of an old woman creeping across my room, then it slipped into my closet…

I panicked and ran out of bed and swung open my closet door only to see she was in there. But she was gone. I was sure I had seen her ghost! It was really freaky."

Do you believe ‘em?

If you liked this post be sure to like, reblog, and hit the follow button! 

Got your own paranormal experience to share? Head on over to the peoplesparanormal.com to read real ghost stories and submit your own!

Happy Halloween, lads.

[fart-gate]

SG1

Season 3 episode 19

"NEW GROUND"

Notes by me

- other planets version of archeology?? Very interesting @writers 😌

- cold address program?

- love how all other planets call the event horizon "water". Like you right! It absolutely looks like water good job

- P2X416

- hey wait I know this actor

- cold dialing program is for addresses that didnt work the first time

- if they dont have a DHD, they can just dial out manually with a naquada reactor??? Why am I just learning about this . when did they figure this out

- this guy seems friendly at least

- they believe aliens brought humans through the stargate. Congrats you are right

- I guess they are more advanced than we thought!

- "OKAY.....THATS A NEEDLE"

- when the bad guy asks which one is Daniel and Jack immediately jumps in to distract him alsjrsksndjdj

- BLIND TEALC?!?!?!?! Now he wont see how much I love him

- that was a stupid joke I apologize blindness is not a laughing matter

- tealc legit wakes up blind and has zero reaction to it. Regular Tuesday for him

- bad guy: what I say is right and yoy should never doubt anything i say

- almost skipped this dudes whole speech I hate him

- when tealc tells Nian that his god is an alien. Can you imagine being told this

- attacked by funky bats!!! Tealc got the short end of the stick in this ep

- I am not afraid to admit that I love when the bad guys take daniels glasses away from him

- "wormhole?"

"Big worms.....huge"

- the camera switching between all of them like the office . comedy

- "what is this illusion of water?"

"Magic"

- this guy just tunes everybody out that even IMPLIES that hes wrong when will he die

- I was excited to see shirtless tealc but then I saw that he was digging thru his goauld pouch and I was scarred for life

- "youre an alien" technically all sg1 are aliens to you

- "youre the most important thing to ever happen to my planet" so romantic

- tealc and junior arent doin so hot :\

- Daniel being dragged around and im here to enjoy life my skin is clear

- the DHD!!

- "scientific advance in either direction is still an advance" alright ok ok you can stay I like you

- "Daniel you ok?" Caring Sam

- its a shame that the big splash didnt kill this guy

- when tealc gets up to walk and just stops. And turns so he wouldnt hit the wall

- Daniel miming to the malp this is a sitcom

- super lucky Sam didnt fall against the side of the cage like Jack did

- their lives are in tealc and nians hands!! Not super confident considering one is blind and the other has never shot a gun but here we go!!

- tealc flying the ship *ride of the valkeries starts playing* *crashes into the side of a hill* *record scratch*

- rewinding the shot of Daniel running towards the DHD 💖 god tier directing

- Daniel goes thru the gate first bc he is babey

- aksnssj when tealc aims at Jack "TEALC!!"

- tealc bringing Nian!!!

- "who is junior"

"Colonel Oniell named my symbiote"

- Nian is now daniels research assistant!!! We have another alien adoptee!!

- tealc saying that he would go back to Nians planet if they ever stopped killing each other 💗

~

Whump under the cut

Jack Oniell whump: stunned by shield, zapped by gun, needle in neck, noises, caged, zapped by cage,shot by zat gun, passed out, electricuted by cage, Daniel yelling "you'll kill him!"

Sam carter whump: stunned by stun shield, caged, shot by zat gun, needle in neck, noises

Daniel jackson whump: stunned by stun shield, needle in neck, noises, flinching, caged, zapped by gun, covering eyes, manhandled, dragged, forced kneeling, keeping eyes down, forced to answer questions or Jack and Sam get hurt

Tealc whump: shot by staff , passed out, temporary blindness, blood on shirt, abdominal injury, walks into wall, blood on head, weak, on edge, shivering, marks on face, sweating, painful healing, blurry vision, needs help running, hospital scene, defiant through out episode

No glasses!Daniel for almost a full 20 minutes

[jimlingss]

Brass & Strings [14]

Episode 13 - Episode 14 - Episode 15 Words: 10k Genre: Fluff, Humour (?), Slice of Life, Music!Au, College!Au Summary: Have you ever wondered what happens to the mean girl after high school? Where do they go, where do they end up? More importantly, what happens when they get mixed up with the classic nerd that is always too nervous to answer no? Things become a lot more complicated when Kim Namjoon encounters you. They dub you as bat-shit insane and you are not ashamed.

Cr.

You’re sipping on your iced vanilla latte, nibbling on the green straw with your teeth and indifferent to the way your red lipstick leaves a stain as if you had kissed the plastic. The man across from you continues to audibly sigh and you know it’s some sort of signal but you can’t be bothered. You’re internally rolling your eyes. Though, after the fiftieth exhale, you’ll do anything to get him to stop.

Shut up! “What’s wrong, honey?” You put your hand over the man’s, cocking your head to one side. He lifts your fingers, thumb running over your knuckles and his eyes trail to your face, smiling warmly at how cute you look.

If only he could read your ugly thoughts.

“It’s just….my wife hasn’t returned yet, Y/N.” The man lets go and rubs his temples. “I miss her terribly. Every night, I wake up and find the empty side of the bed and I become so sad. She took the private jet to our summer house but she won’t let me in! She won’t say a single word to me!”

The man continues to rave and ramble on. You’re nodding but in a mechanical motion, no longer registering what he’s actually saying. “No one understands and it’s not like I can talk about this to my employees or the shareholders. I have no one….except, you. What should I do, Y/N? How do I get my wife back?”

You can’t. Why would she want to come crawling back to a bastard like you?

“Flowers.” You giggle out, “everyone loves flowers.”

The man grabs his phone and orders a thousand dollar bouquet to be delivered on his wife’s doorstep. He thanks you for your lovely advice, promises to see you soon and you mutually bid each other goodbye.

You slide on your Gucci sunglasses, tug your favourite cream fur coat closer around your shoulders and whip your hair back. People’s vision automatically dart onto your figure as your overpriced heels click against the cobblestone path, strutting past them and leaving them awestruck. But the cool facade is broken when a clumsy boy emerges from the shadows, joining alongside you. Your tiny smirk is replaced with a wide grin.

“You know, you don’t have to act as my bodyguard. Don’t you have better things to do than to follow me around on each date?”

Namjoon pulls on the strings of his hoodie, pouty lips that are obviously dissatisfied with you. “We need to take strong measures to make sure you’re safe. What happens if you get followed again? Or something worse like kidnapped or sold?”

“I can take care of myself.” You lightly taunt him. “I was fine before I knew you.”

“But now, I’m here. So, use me.” He smiles when you’re steps slow and you wonder if he knows what he’s saying. It’s unfair how much he can affect you when he utters such a simple statement. “I trust you.”

After each and every one of your outings, Namjoon has been waiting for you. He makes sure you make it to your next destination safe and soundly without a scratch. And when he, himself, can’t make it, he would somehow time it and Taehyung or Jimin would be in the vicinity. It should be infuriating that you’re being treated like a baby, passed around from babysitter to babysitter, but the gesture in actuality keeps you calm. Since the incident a few weeks ago, though you’d never admit it, you were still shaken.

You can’t begin to imagine what it would’ve been like if Namjoon wasn’t there. If he wasn’t with you now and you were alone. But you’re not alone anymore.

“I got to finish some work too!” The harpist’s dimples mark each side of his cheek and he indicates to the backpack swung over his shoulders. He clears his throat and you raise a brow. “Actually…” He hesitates, “for one of your classes, there was a massive project worth fifty percent of your grade. I’ve been working on it for three weeks now and I..I-I uh...just finished.”

The boy flushes and the tips of his ears turn into a shade of scarlet. He reaches up, pushing his glasses closer to the bridge of his nose. You stop in your tracks and he halts with you. “You did?” You’ve done this many times yourself and by the bashful expression written across his features, you know what he wants from you.

Namjoon wants your praise.

“That’s amazing. You’re amazing.” Unlike before when your words were dripping of insincerity and sarcasm, now you’ve allowed yourself to be honest. “I might not tell you this enough, but you know you’re very intelligent, right? You’re an incredible person, Namjoon.” Your arm lifts and you brush a few strands of his hair away from his eyes, all while staring at him.

Namjoon’s smile grows and it occurs to you that up until now, you’ve never really shown your appreciation through words. You’ve insulted him, yelled and screamed. But as the boy melts underneath your touch, you realize that he wants one thing...to be praised and appreciated.

“Thanks, Y/N- oof.” He stumbles back a few steps and a tinkling laugh streams from his chest. “What are you doing?”

Your voice is muffled through his clothes and your arms lock tighter against his waist. “I’m trying to show you that I appreciate you.” You don’t care that you look like an absolute fool, that your costly sunglasses are being smudged or that your lavish coat is being pressed. It might look like a funny sight - for such a dolled up girl to be embracing someone else who looks like they picked up their clothes from the garbage can. Yet, you couldn’t give a damn.

He laughs again, his cheeks numb from smiling when you finally let go. “I’ve decided that I want to be more honest from here on out.”

“Honest?”

“Yes.” You both continue to walk down the block of lavish stores. “I think I’ve been lying to myself for too long. It’s time to be more straightforward and truthful.”

Namjoon lifts his eyebrow, repressing more laughter. “Aren’t you blunt enough already?”

“To other people.” You quip, “but not to myself. And I want to start by asking you this. Kim Namjoon,” you shout out his name and he widens his eyes, “I have never seen you without your glasses.”

“What?”

“You can do whatever you want - your fashion style is a fucking catastrophe but it’s yours nonetheless. I simply want to be honest and say that I’ve been dying of curiosity as to what you look like without your glasses.” You nod and he blinks in bewilderment. “Second honest thought, I think we should go celebrate! If you’ve been slaving away, then it’s time to let loose!”

“O-okay.”

It must mean something when you don’t give a second glance to the palatial restaurant that welcome you with its open doors, serving fine dining dishes and tiny portions. Instead, you huddle with Namjoon in a food stall tent, asking the lady for bottles of alcohol and picking at the food on the grill. It’s simple. It’s not expensive or luxurious. It feels enough.

//

The next time you see Namjoon, you can’t help but study him.

“Hmmmm…..”

“Will you stop staring like that?” He covers up his face but you tug on his arms. “Y/N..”

He’s not wearing his glasses today. Namjoon told you that they were in for repairs, hence, he used his contact lens instead. “I don’t think I can get used to this. You look normal, don’t get me wrong….”

“C’mon. We’re going to be late.” The boy grabs your hand, dragging you away with him. You laugh, following along and letting him take you inside the dreaded science lecture hall.

For the next few days, Namjoon assists you through more presentations, reading the script out into your ear piece for you to mimic. If any of the professors notice that you’ve never once sat in their class, then they also know your last name and who you are. They never say anything.

It’s one of the few benefits of belonging to the family that you do.

“You know what?” You gaze at him one afternoon while walking in the corridor. “I think I like you better with your glasses.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat and brushes his hair. “I see.”

Lo and behold, the next day the harpist is wearing his spectacles again.

Aside from the presentations, Namjoon also writes exams in your place and by the end of the semester, he’s gotten B’s and C’s across the board. You study with him, of course, but while he’s doing biology and mathematics, you’re working on composition and music theory. Every so often, you ask him a spontaneous question or you tutor him in what he’s missed but the brilliant kid is never incorrect. His head is a encyclopedia and it’s frankly incredible.

“L/N Y/N and Kim Namjoon. If I could have a quick minute.” Your conductor calls you at the end of one of the last classes and you exchange glances with your friend. You approach in hesitation to the front podium and the unusual man’s smile only puts you more on edge.

“Is there something the matter, sir?”

You brace yourself for any criticism but he merely shakes his head. “No. On the contrary, I am quite impressed with both your performances this year. Y/N, you’ve always been one of the best students, despite your conflicts with your classmates. Namjoon, I have also been astounded at your massive improvements. You’ve become one of the best harpists that this university has ever seen. The two of you play very well and I want to reward you for that.”

“Oh. Uh…”

Your breath has hitched, unaware that such kind words could come from the harsh man’s mouth. He’s thrown his baton at multiple players before and if it wasn’t rage that he was feeling, then he was completely eccentric. You remember cursing the man as nuts on several occasions.

“Th-thank you.” Namjoon bows his head. “It’s an honour to hear that.”

You mime his movements and your conductor lets out a hearty laugh. “I was wondering if the pair of you would be interested in performing together.” Your head shoots up. “Now, I know that the harp and tuba isn’t a conventional duo but music isn't about being conventional. We should constantly be searching for better, for greater, even if it’s strange. And I believe if you two harness your powers and skills together, it could be a spectacular duet. What do you think?”

You’re a fish out of open water, mouth opening and closing several times. Namjoon’s eyes double and he steals a glimpse of you. “I-we….that would be incredible!”

“You’d be performing at the RPO as one of the last performances in a month-”

“Wait.” You hold out your hand with a shaky laugh. “Pardon?”

Your conductor gives you a strange look. “You’d be performing at the RPO-”

“T-The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra?” You choke and wheeze. Namjoon pats your back as you hack your lungs to death. He scrambles for his bottle of water and you down half of it. The conductor wears an amused expression. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra is one of the most famous ensembles where you live. Musicians like you and those who have graduated can only dream of entering. Not only do they tour around the world but they play in the most gorgeous venues; picking up awards from competitions like it’s nobody's business, performing for the head of state, recognized as one of the top. Wealthy folks fork out thousands merely to get a seat at one of their venues. And you’ve only heard rumours about how breathtaking the experience is. It’s the most stable of careers, a more than steady income. Performing with the RPO is the highest status you could receive. You’d be able to meet like minded people, have a potential path of fame and riches…..

You could become a world renowned musician.

“What do you think?”

Your knees almost buckle into the ground. “Y-Yes!”

//

Namjoon’s grinning and chuckling at how energetic you are, nearly bouncing off the walls. He’s only seen you like this when you were drunk off your ass, running around in circles until he had to forcibly haul you over his shoulder and walk away before a police officer could come by and hand a ticket for public drunkenness. But in your current state, you’re sober...or perhaps you’re actually intoxicated from excitement. Nonetheless, he’s having quite an enjoyable time watching you.

“Do you know what this could mean for us?” You throw your hands up into the air, out of breath from screaming into the couch cushion the boy gave you. “We could have careers! We could be actual musicians!”

“We’re already musicians.” Namjoon tips his head to the side. “But should we celebrate?”

“Fuck. Yes.”

You thought Namjoon’s place has always been similar to that of a dump. It’s not like he’s a very organized individual and you’ve witnessed dirty dishes laying around more times than you can count. But you’re pleasantly surprised when he pulls out a fresh bottle of wine from the fridge. Namjoon pops the cork and pours both of you a glass. You sit on his sofa and you clink your glasses together to a success.

“Jimin…” He grins in a sheepish manner, timidly waving his hand over. Jimin allows the front door to close and he drops his bag before slipping off his shoes. “Cam hab a drink with usss!”

The harpist’s roommate looks over to you, holding the bottle without realizing that it’s empty. Namjoon’s slurring on his words while you’re swaying from side to side, humming a song he doesn’t recognize. Jimin tries his best to hide his smirk at how the two of you are huddled closely together. “Nah, I think I’m good. I had a long day so, I’mma call it a night...make sure to keep it down…”

Jimin smirks and Namjoon narrows his eyes. “Wha’s tha..t supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He strides off into his bedroom and is gone within the next second.

Your friend turns back to you when you begin giggling again. A smile stretches across his face and he pokes your shoulder. “Wha? Wha’ is it?”

“Can you imagine?” You snort out while your stomach squeezes in hysterics. Your alcohol tolerance is higher than Namjoon’s and you’ve mastered how to speak without garbling the words up but that doesn’t mean you’re clear-headed at the moment. “The look on Rose’s face when I tell her!” Another snort and more chuckles fall from your plush lips.

Namjoon’s own laughter dies out as he becomes preoccupied in gazing at how soft they look, what it would be like if he reached out and touched them...if he kissed you.

His thoughts are immediately diminished or rather merely transferred when you bend over in snickers, putting your hand on his upper thigh. The muscle tenses underneath your fingertips and that’s when you look up to realize he’s not making a single sound. Rather, Kim Namjoon is gazing right into your eyes, leaning closer and closer. Your breath hitches, lashes fluttering as you stare at his own mouth that you can’t help but hunger after.

Your eyes shut. You brace yourself. But unfortunately, the moment never comes.

“I think….” Namjoon’s reached over to the table, grasping the neck of the emptied wine bottle. He clears his throat in an attempt to clarify his mind. “-we’ve had..enoug’.”

“O-okay.”

The two of you go to bed in silence, lying as far away as possible without facing each other. The strain in the air never really dies out until morning comes and the memories are pushed aside.

//

With the help of the conductor, the piece that’s chosen is relatively new, Giancarlo Aquilanti’s Tango. At first you’re apprehensive, preferring something classical and more technically complicated but your conductor insists that with an unorhodized duo, like the harp and tuba, it was best that the music itself be original as well. You can’t complain about his logic and after you analyzed the score and tried to play, you found that it had a peculiar charm.

For one of the first times, Namjoon gets to witness your Spartan discipline.

A year ago, he assumed like most others that you were a spoiled brat that loved money and attention; a person that clung onto others and manipulated them. He’s not wrong but the moment music becomes the subject, you lose the playful quips and teasings. You’re serious and demanding, striving for absolute fucking perfection. And the harpist is dying at your wrath.

“Again.” It’s the only word you’ve said since the beginning of practice and he expects it after each time you run through the score. “Again.”

When you first received the sheet music, you dragged him to the library to analyze it from top to bottom. Namjoon foolishly thought after two hours, he was finished but he looked over to find your scribbles and writing filling every single empty space. That day, you sat for six hours in total to find the meaning behind the piece, the style of it and break down.

It took less than an hour to play in tempo with each other, a surprisingly short amount of time but you supposed you and Namjoon are just more in sync than with the others you’ve ever participated with. It takes another full day for the pair of you to figure out your proper rhythm, dynamics and accents. You have to admit it’s a well written score - you two interchange the melody and rhythm at different parts, allowing both of your instruments to have its moments.

Throughout the piece, Namjoon has multiple arpeggios and glissandos that shine through while you set the beat. Namjoon was chosen for a reason. You can’t find much to complain about his technique but-

“Fuck.” You slam down your pencil on the music stand, holding your head in your hands. Namjoon observes you in silence and you let out an exasperated exhale. “I don’t know what’s wrong. There’s just something...missing!”

“Maybe we should take a break.”

“No.” You shake your head. “We can’t afford time for breaks. We need to keep practicing.”

Your team work with him isn’t bad at all. If anything, he’s the best person you’ve worked with thus far. Namjoon is as serious as you are and never once whines about how much you make him play. You only call quits on practice when your throat has shriveled up and you notice him stretching out the aches in his fingers.

In the next two weeks, you devote yourself to rehearsing. Namjoon goes off and finishes your science exams and you complete your other music courses as well before you seal yourself into the practice room. The conductor comes by frequently to monitor and give you his guidance, what to fix and how to play. He doesn’t dip his fingers in too much but makes a few comments here and there. You know he’s trying to get you to do it yourself, a teaching experience perhaps.

It’s infuriating.

“I don’t know. We’ve fixed every single flaw. We even wrote down where to breathe so it can be in sync.”

Yoongi glances at the score over your shoulder and hums. “The technical parts are all correct. You play flawlessly but I agree. There’s something missing. It feels empty.”

Your cousin’s criticism only drives you crazier. Now, you definitely know you weren’t imagining it.

“I think your unity definitely pulls through. The sound is crisp and I really enjoyed the last few bars. You did well on closing it up.” Jennie comforts Namjoon with her smile. “I, personally, think it’s exceptionally played.”

Yoongi steals your pencil and circles a few notes and areas. “Try adding accents and staccatos here. Maybe that’s what it needs. Try changing this into a flat.”

But sometimes even your genius cousin can’t save what was never there.

As the days draw closer, you go to your last resort. You’re at wits end. Once in a blue moon, an untrained musical ear might just be what you need; a person who can simply listen without considering the technical details and terminologies, truly the most unbiased.

“Well?” Namjoon lifts his foot off the pedal and stares into his roommate’s face. “What did you think?”

Jimin thinks for a long second and you wait for him. The boy runs a hand through his blonde locks, then shrugs. “Sounds pretty good.”

You facepalm. Namjoon sighs.

//

The office door crashes against the wall, mimicking that of thunder. You’re staggering in, hair a rat’s nest that appears infested with lice and the hoodie you stole from Namjoon hangs off of your shoulders in a way that makes you look like a beggar. The conductor in a slow manner, raises his head from his binder and smiles in amusement. Namjoon limps behind you in delay, cringing at your rude entrance but not saying anything.

“Why isn’t it you two.” He raises his cup of tea to his lips, taking an extended sip. The walls of your conductor’s office are full of ancient portraits of deceased musicians. An oak bookcase fills the space behind him. It’s cozy and carries an artistic aesthetic, though at this moment, you can’t appreciate any of it. “Is there something the matter?”

“Obviously.” You cut the air with a sharp tongue, unrestrained and completely gone wild. “You know what’s wrong. I know you know. I can’t take it anymore. We’ve been practicing for three weeks now and we’re running out of time. I can’t figure it out. Tell me.” The words come out as a demand and you add as afterthought, “please.”

“Alright.” He sets down his quill pen that’s too dramatic in your opinion. “Tell me, what is the tempo of the piece?”

“Rubato.” Namjoon answers and he nods. Your professor asks for the mood and the harpist answers without missing a single beat, having drilled it inside his skull. “Con fuoco, in a fiery manner.”

“These two things are supposed to help you discover what you’re missing the most. There’s a reason why it feels empty, dare I say...boring. You’ve got everything else down except for one key piece that makes or breaks it.” He leans back in his seat with a smirk and your annoyance is only building. The middle-aged man clearly is trying to take his time and test your patience. Namjoon puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder to calm you down before you can curse and after another second, he opens his mouth, “musical expression.”

He continues, “there’s not enough passion. The tango requires intense emotions. It’s senual, sexy, full of sexual tension, exuding sex, want and desire.” You never thought you’d hear any of your professors talk about sexual intercorse and in such a vigirous manner, waving his arms in grand gestures. “Have you both ever desired something with so much desperation before?!”

“Uh…”

“That’s what you miss. The raw need. The sensuality. It doesn’t need to be played flawlessly or perfectly but with emotion.” He hyperventilates, catching his breath and sits back again. “That’s the missing piece. It’s the key that will make you stand out amongst the others.”

There’s a tense silence in the room. Namjoon clears his throat in discomfort. “H-how are we supposed to do that?”

You question the same thing but the conductor merely shrugs. “Dunno. I can’t make you feel something. That’s on you. Good luck.”

What kind of shit advice is that?!

You’re on the brink to absolute insanity when you’re unable to probe for more answers. Instead, your professor takes the plump and red apple from his basket, giving it a good throw in the air, catching it in his hand and bidding you goodnight. He gathers his belongings, forces you out of the room, locks up the door and disappears down the hall while you scream.

//

“What an interesting predicament that you’re in.” Taehyung runs his fingers over his chin like it’s an invisible beard. Namjoon’s sitting across him at the dining hall, watching the saxophonist munch on a cheese sandwich (yes, bread and just cheese - don’t ask). “You know, don’t tell Y/N this because I think you’ll find my body in the gutter or ditch tomorrow….but, Y/N’s playing is impeccable. I told you once about the rumours that she’s a genius, remember? I rhinck one op da-”

Taehyung swallows his mouthful and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think one of the few reasons she isn’t a national sensation yet is because, other than her bizarre instrument of choice, her playing has always been lackluster.”

Namjoon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Her playing is too perfect.” Taehyung focuses on his food, doe eyes enlarging at the yellow cheese sticking out. “Her sound doesn’t have feelings. It doesn’t allow room for mistakes. It’s rigid. And it can make others feel intimidated or uncomfortable.”

“Y/N has always been an intimidating person.” He further comments, “and that must suck ass. She can’t really change the way she is. So, her own personality is inhibiting her dreams.”

Namjoon’s gaping at his friend. Namjoon wonders if Taehyung is the real genius. The kid could easily become a music critic.

“Though, recently, I’ve noticed her sound has eased up a lot.” The saxophonist looks up innocently, chewing the food packed in his cheek. “That might be thanks to you.”

“What?”

Taehyung must not hear since he moves on to a different subject. “Anyways, if you’re looking to create a more sensual mood, I don’t know. Why don’t you try to think about your...sexy times?”

He moves his eyebrows up and down in a suggestive manner. Namjoon sighs, “look dude. I hate to break this to you but I don’t ‘get any’. I’ve been so busy lately that-”

“Oh c’mon. Everyone has time for a little sexy time.” Taehyung grins. “All you need is a warm bubble bath, some alcohol, like wine or hard liquor, either-or. Wind down in your robe, scatter some rose petals on your bed and you use…” Namjoon’s face twists up and the other giggles. “Your hand.”

Taehyung laughs. “You think I get any either?! It’s my hand! Your hand is better anyways. It’s all you ever need! It’s a part of you and you bring it with you everywhere you go! A bathroom stall, underneath the table during a lecture, it’s your portable device! All you gotta do is pull down your pants and wrap your hand-”

“Alright, alright! Dude.” Namjoon shuts him up the moment others start to turn around in their seats to stare. “I-I know how, okay?” The harpist’s face is reddened and flushed. He mumbles, “I don’t need to be taught like some teenager.”

Namjoon hates how easily embarrassed he can get. A single comment can cause him to blush for the next ten minutes and it was an incentive to those bullies back in elementary and middle school - the period before puberty hit Namjoon and his body built into that of a hitman’s. But prior to that then, he was incessantly ridiculed and harassed. Kids took advantage of his timid nature and made him do their homework, stole his lunch money and took his shoes. The only teasing he accepts now is if it’s from his friends since he knows their true intentions and you, of course.

You just seem to be an exception to everything.

“Y/N?” He gently pushes the door open, slipping inside the dark practice room. You’re grasping onto the tuba, staring at your sheet music perched on the black stand. The curtains to the window are drawn closed and the lights are off. “Why is it so dark in here?”

“It was too bright.” You mutter, “it hurts my eyes.”

Namjoon takes a step and accidentally kicks over an empty coffee cup. His pupils flicker down and over to the corner full of the empty cups, as if you had collected them from the Starbucks trash can. “How many did you drink today?”

“Don’t know. Five?” You scribble something on the paper. “Namjoon, can you please turn off that fucking metronome? It’s making my headache worse.”

He keeps his eyes trained onto your figure and carefully treads to the chair where your metronome tuner is laid. He swipes the small device and then looks down. “Y/N. It’s already off.”

“No, it isn’t.” You grit out. “Then, what’s this buzzing in my ear?”

Namjoon puts your prized tool down before he strides over and kneels beside you. “Y/N.” You hum in response, savouring his soft and sweet tone that lulls you. “When was the last time you’ve eaten or slept?”

“Why does it matter?” You’re certain that you’re on the verge of a mental breakdown but maybe, maybe if you try hard enough and focus more, you can ignore it. “Look, w-we don’t have any more time. Now’s not time to relax. We need to practice. I-”

“No. We don’t need to practice. What you need is rest and to eat.” He shuffles your belongings and you’re about to tell him off, to curse at him to leave and stop bothering you but Namjoon looks up. “I think we’ve been over-practicing.”

“What? How? There’s no such thing as ‘over-practicing’.”

“Do you trust me?” Namjoon halts his hands and gazes back into your eyes. In your bleary mind, all you want is to follow his words of seduction, the ones that drip of honey and sounds like heaven’s angels. There would be nothing better than laying down for a bit of shut-eye.

“Please, Y/N. We’re a duo, right? I need you to believe in me as much as I believe in you.”

You can’t resist his temptation. “F-Fine.”

//

It feels absolutely glorious to step away from music, despite every cell and particle in your body screaming otherwise. Time is ticking, precious seconds slipping from your fingertips that could be used to figure out what you need to fix. But even though it might be completely idiotic of you, your confidence in Namjoon sedates your anxiousness. You don’t resist when he forces you down for a nap with him. Hours later, you wake up with your head no longer throbbing and your eyes no longer burning. You oddly feel rejuvenated and refreshed.

“Where are we going?” You half-expect to be taken back to the practice room for another round but instead, you end up- “I don’t cook, Nams.”

“It’s okay.” He hums while studying the squash like it’s artwork. “I do….kind of.”

You’re pushing the shopping cart after him, following as Namjoon bounces around the grocery store. You can’t recall the last time you’ve been to such a place. The maid was always assigned to pick up food and your parents never once set foot inside. After you moved out, you’ve only eaten at the dining hall or whenever your dates took you out to lavish fine dining restaurants.

To be at such a...commoner’s place, it’s unfamiliar. A year ago, you probably would’ve screeched and dashed out. Now, the chills nipping at your skin in the refrigerator section is slightly bearable and only because it’s the way in which the harpist examines ice-cream cartons.

His dimples appear ever so slightly when his cheeks move in contemplation.

“You know…” You pipe up and he looks over. “I actually like you better without glasses.”

His eyes perk up. “Really?”

“Yep.” Strangely enough, as you accompany him in the next aisle, his spectacles have disappeared from his face. “Where did your glasses go?” You have to hold in a giggle. “Can you even see?”

“I-I can.” He coughs. “They were bothering me so I took them off.”

“Alright then, tough guy.” You find it endearing how obvious he is and if the butterflies storming into your stomach wasn’t enough, then it’s the way he grabs onto the handle of the shopping cart with you, having to be led around. You’re pretty sure he’s as blind as a bat without proper eyewear but he insists that he’s fine.

“You know, there’s something I’ve been curious about. Ever since we went on that volunteering thing and we told old stories, I realized...I don’t really know much about your past, Nams.”

He lifts his head, nose grazed against the cereal box as he tried to read the label. He blinks in curiosity and minimal astonishment. “You want to know more about me?”

You look away with a nonchalant shrug. “Sure, why not? So...when did you start learning harp?”

“I started in high school, about fifteen years old? It’s late, huh?”

“No.” Your head shakes. “There’s no age limit to learning an instrument. I’m just surprised you’re this good when you’ve only been playing for five years.”

You push the cart and he continues down the next aisle beside you. “My father actually taught music on the side to find some extra money. He always loved it as a hobby but I wasn’t interested in it very much. He tried to show me instruments when I was a kid…...It wasn't until high school when I joined band that I got into it as well. I thought it would be a good way to get closer to him and share something in common.”

It’s heartwarming and you appreciate parents that love music. “They support you in it?”

“They do.” He nods with a soft smile. “I chose to play the harp in high school but I joined university as a chemistry major. It wasn’t until the end of first year that I realized I didn’t like it and I was taking a few classes in music at the time as an option when I decided to make it my major.”

“What about you?” It occurs to Namjoon that he’s been curious since he’s met you. It’s a question that everyone around has asked themselves but never directly to the only person who would know. “Why the tuba?”

“I started off playing the piano.” It’s a distant memory, one that you can barely conjure into your mind. “I was six or something. My parents threw me into a bunch of extra-curricular stuff, as parents do. Guess they wanted me to have an extra set of skills under my belt.”

“Oh.” He’s pleasantly surprised. “Can you play now?”

“Not really. Yoongi’s the better pianist. I only learnt for three years until I switched over to tuba when I was nine.” You throw a bag of chips into the cart before gazing into his brown irises. “And as to why…”

It’s a memoir you’ve held in your hands. A reaccuring dream that grounds you to the planet, reminds you of your roots. It begins with darkness.

You were born into a black void. With nowhere to go, a path became ignited by your parents’ guidance. Each step you took was measured by their eyes and persuaded through their soothing coos. You walked the road that they wanted you to walk, continuing on the route that they had laid out for you with their sweat and tears. But it wasn’t until you stopped one day, feet halting on the concrete and your eyes wandering into the endless oblivion.

Your eyes narrowed and your breath hitched. You walked into the darkness, despite the screams urging you it was a mistake, and you stepped off the course of your parents.

Another path became illuminated.

[Eleven Years Ago]

“Your daughter is a musical prodigy.” Your pianist teacher raves on and on in both excitement and distress. “In all my years of teaching, never have I encountered such a marvelous student. If trained correctly, she could become a world famous pianist in less than ten years.”

You grip your level six piano book, rocking from the tips of your toes to your heels. Adult talk bores you.

“No.”

Your father clears his throat and steps in front of your mother. They’ve had the same talk for months now but it always ends the same way. “We already have plans for her and she won’t be pursuing music.”

“Mr. and Mrs. L/N, it would be a waste of her talents and skills if she did not continue with music.” He’s desperate, nearly going down on his knees and grovelling. “Y/N has a gift!”

Your mother scoffs and huffs out, “then she can use that talent elsewhere. Somewhere more useful.”

Now, you’re bored out of your mind. You had picked at the spine of your yellow book and stared down at the ugly shoes that your mother insisted were pretty and expensive, but they cinched your toes too much for your liking. It had been more than ten minutes since they started to argue.....

Your ears perk at that moment, a sound emitting through the cracks of the door….a room over?

You slip down the hallway without anyone noticing and you peek into the tiny window of the practice room. You can’t see very well, only someone’s backside and they’re holding a golden instrument. You recognize it...the brass family...tuba?

It’s ugly. But as you turn away, one note pulls you back. The music tugs on your limbs, stealing the air within your lungs, an invisible strand tying itself from you to the instrument.

It’s an earthquake. A powerful and cavernous tone that rumbles and shakes your inner core. You whip your body back as the round and robust sound continues to resonate, majestic and sonorous in all its wonder. The sound is deep and low, a timbre that vibrates the floors and your ears.

It’s different. It isn’t like the common piano which bores you to death. It isn’t the violin that makes you sleepy and frustrated. What you’re listening to, has struck a chord in your soul, lit a match with a flame that cannot be snuffed out.

You tug on your mother’s dress. She doesn’t turn until you’ve done it thrice. “What is it?”

What you would then utter would not only mortify your parents and cause your piano teacher to begin hysterically crying...it would change the entire course of your life and make you walk a path that was never planned for you. It’s a path you have forged yourself.

“I want to play the tuba.”

The cashier’s eavesdropping. You can tell as you pack the food and produce onto the conveyor belt. But you don’t really care. Namjoon’s response and reaction is more important to you anyways.

“So, I basically cried and screamed and threw a tantrum until I got what I wanted.”

He smiles fondly. “Of course, you did. But I’m glad.”

You lift a brow, waiting with him where the groceries are being packed into bags. “And why is that?”

“Because if you didn’t fight for what you wanted and you kept on following along with your parents, we wouldn’t have ever met.”

“Hmm….” You tilt your head to the side. “You’re right. That would’ve been a real shame if we never met. I wouldn’t be able to ever insult you and follow you around and threaten you.”

“For the record, you’re not as bad as you think you are.” He smiles and nudges your side. “You don’t scare me anymore.”

You’re speechless, solely letting out a scoff and a ‘hmph’ as you cross your arms. Namjoon laughs at your pout and he’s about to press on but there’s a call of his name that startles the both of you. “Joon?”

“Oh no.”

He already knows before he’s whirled around. He’s grown up with this voice, heard it yell and nag him, lull him to sleep as a child. Namjoon groans, wanting to pull you away but aware that it’s too late. “Joon! Is that you?! Where are your glasses?!”

“Uhh….” You lean your entire body to one side, poking your head out from his large stature covering you, eyes travelling from his to the woman’s. “Nams?”

The harpist braces himself and spins one hundred eighty degrees. “Mom!”

“Mom?!”

“Son!” The short woman in rounded glasses opens her arms and engulfs your friend. He lets out an ‘oof’ and returns the hug. You watch in astonishment and elation at the mini family reunion.

Namjoon’s mother exudes a warm and maternal aura. She’s much shorter than her son and a bit smaller than you but the similarities between them are fascinating. The woman has chubby cheeks and dimples on each side, spectacles that slide down her nose and she adorns a soft smile. For a moment, you’re envious of their obvious close bond. If only…

“And who is this?” She pulls away and stares at you.

What a day to come dressed in shabby clothing. The one time that comes in every blue moon when you’re not in high heels or your fur coat, you’re meeting your friend’s family. You curse yourself at how underdressed you are, hair unwashed and Namjoon’s sweatshirt drooping off of your frame. If any of your parent’s friends saw you, they’d laugh and snicker at your face - you’d be punished at home.

“H-hi.”

You shut your eyes, not knowing why but on instinct. In the back of your mind, you’re fearful of being screamed or hit, the way your mother would react if you were caught dirty. “You’re very cute!”

“Mom!”

Your eyelashes flutter as you peel your lids back. What? She doesn’t mind that you’re a mess?

“Joon, is this your girlfriend?” His mother’s eyes are blazing and the two of you feel a flush wash down your entire face.

“N-no! We’re only friends.” Namjoon laughs awkwardly, pulling you closer. “She plays tuba. We’re uh, music classmates. N-nothing else!”

“I see.” She comments and looks over to the plastic bags on the counter. Her son follows her gaze and quickly takes it, thanking the cashier that was staring at their nails in boredom. “Why don’t you both come back for dinner then?”

“We were going to-”

“I already made stew at home and RM misses you.” Namjoon’s mother flashes her orbs to you. “Dear, come join us! I’d love to get to know you. It’s not everyday that my boy has made a new friend.”

The harpist opens his mouth to complain that he’s not in elementary anymore and that he’s perfectly capable of socializing but it dies in his mouth when you blink up at him. Your eyes are rounded, as if asking for his permission or if it’s okay to accept the invitation.

“Okay.” He internalizes the sigh, “let’s go.”

//

It takes a little bit over an hour to get to his parent’s home. Namjoon’s mother drives the entire way, merely listening in to the conversation and Namjoon admits that he doesn’t have a license...for humanity's sake. You can understand him without needing a solid explanation.

He tells you that he moved into the apartment with Jimin to have closer access to school. It makes sense since commuting daily for hours would be an absolute disaster - you know what it feels like, especially with your own studio apartment situated in the downtown area. But that aside, he also fills you in on some other details in his family. RM is his family’s dog of four years, named after Robert Morton.

“The composer?” You lift your eyebrow and he nods. The harpist ducks when you grin and lightly punch him in the shoulder. “You’re such a nerd, Nams. Have you always been like this?”

“For the record, my dad likes the name too!”

Halfway through the trip, his mother pipes up and inquires a few questions about you; what your exact major is, if you have any plans over the summer and your favourite foods.

It isn’t long until you arrive at the quaint home with the clean cut lawn and you meet Namjoon’s father. His parents...are positively, definitely, incredibly, fucking adorable. Aside from being extremely kind to you and opening their arms up immediately, his dad was waiting on the porch in his rocking chair for his wife to return. He’s shocked at your presence and welcomes you. Even the dog doesn’t go to Namjoon first but to you (which makes the harpist complain incessantly).

“By the way…” You frown, silencing his whines.

“Is there something on my face?” His brows furrow, watching as you study his features. Namjoon takes a step back. “What is it, Y/N?”

“I think you look better with glasses.”

“Oh.” The kid slides them on the next time you turn around to look at him. “I-uh..found them..?”

The house is tiny. In comparison to your parent’s mansion, it might be a shed out back or the quarters where the servants sleep. But it’s cozier than high roofs and dangling chandeliers, golden sewn rugs and sparkling furniture.

“Here! Eat more!” Namjoon’s mother scoops more for you. “It’s not everyday that we have such a lovely guest.”

“O-oh, thank you.”

RM’s perching his head in your lap, both for affection and to win your heart over and give him some food. You only occasionally reach down to scratch behind the dog’s ear. “So, I hear that you’re a musician? What do you play?” His father asks in interest, brown irises that gleam and remind you of the harpist.

“I play tuba.”

“Wow!” He exclaims, putting down his utensils. “That’s an incredible instrument, not very common unfortunately. I’ve always loved the ones in the brass family.”

Throughout the entire dinner, you and Namjoon’s father discuss musicality and the dying classical genre. You get so heated up that the dog whimpers and Namjoon has to remind you to keep eating. His father expresses that it’s been a long time since he’s had such a discussion and he feels invigorated and refreshed. “I’m so happy to hear that the future generation realizes the importance of preserving the histories of music. All the songs nowadays...”

“They lack everything from lyrics to the composition. It’s trash.” You finish off, managing to go without cursing. The boy across from you has to hold in his laughter but you’re dead serious.

By the time the delicious home-cooked meal has been consumed and you feel stuffed as a turkey, everyone’s cleaning up. You try to pitch in and help but Namjoon insists that he can do the dishes. The Kim family gathers into the kitchen and you decide to give them some space, wandering the small hallway and living room instead.

You find photographs of Namjoon, his toothy smile, standing next to his bicycle to squatting in front of a weird looking statue. There are even trophies of him winning math and science competitions stacked on the shelves by the television. He was exceptionally cute as a kid, dimples that shone through, hair that was even more ruffled than he is now. Back then, his glasses, clothes and shoes looked too big for his body, as if they were purchased for him to grow into.

“He’s been clumsy since the day I’ve had him.”

His mother’s abrupt but gentle voice nonetheless causes you to jump. She smiles and indicates a photo hanging on the wall. “This was taken of him when he was running at the park. Poor child tripped on his shoelaces and fell flat on his face in the mud.”

True to her words, he’s on the ground with big fat tears on his cheeks, perhaps only three or four years old.

Namjoon’s mother watches your enamoured smile and matches it. “Take care of him if you can. Sometimes I worry he’ll break his leg...again….or that he’ll find himself in bigger trouble. The boy wears his heart on his sleeve and it’s easy for him to get hurt.”

“I understand.” You know all too well what she’s talking about. “I’ll try my best.”

“Thank you.” His mother puts her arm around your shoulders and you jolt a little, not used to any form of physical affection. Still, her touch stays firm and warm. It’s a motherly hand, a comforting one at that. Your own parents never really did anything like this and you feel slightly envious, though thankful that Namjoon grew up in such a loving household. He deserves it.

“I-I’m not dating him.” You feel a wave of guilt overcome your senses. You’re a nobody in Namjoon’s life. You’re barely friends with him - you’ve threatened him, manipulated him in the past, lied and pained him in the way his mother just told you to protect him from.

You don’t deserve this hospitality. You don’t deserve this love.

Her lips tug in the same way her son’s do. It’s familiar and reassuring. Dimples mark each side of her cheek, a sheepish and timid gesture that soothes the turmoil entrenched in your chest. You feel tears fill your eyes. Namjoon’s mother is truthful, genuine and she murmurs to you, “it’s okay.”

It’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to receive kindness. It’s okay to accept love.

You turn around, embracing the woman and she laughs heartily, patting your back in a constant beat. The woman treats you like you’re her own, is pure and virtuous as her son. She smells of vanilla and cookies. You wonder if this is what a mother’s supposed to be like. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, dear.”

//

If the transportation system had one bus driver, he’d probably be sick of seeing you and Namjoon around. Thankfully, there’s not only one. But the seat you both plop down in is the exact same, in the back, with you at the window seat and him near the aisle.

“Your parents are so nice.”

“Yeah, well...sorry. They probably kept on asking you if we were dating.” He exhales in exhaustion, leaning on your shoulder to regain strength. “They get really excited by that sort of stuff.”

“Why?” You give him a playful yet incredulous expression. “You never brought girls home?”

Namjoon chuckles, “believe it or not, I have never been popular. People either hated me or became scared of me.”

You snort out, “I know how that feels.”

It’ll take at least another half-an-hour to go back to the city. For a second, you regret not taking the offer of staying at his parent’s home but you didn’t want to intrude too much. Plus, you feel slightly embarrassed for embracing his mother for absolutely no reason.

At the very least, Namjoon agreed to stay at your place tonight since it was closer than making the trip all the way to his apartment. “You know...I kind of like you without glasses…”

He grunts in a murmur. “Why do you keep changing your mind?”

You let out a giggle, leaning your head on top of his. You shut your eyes, letting them rest from the long day. “I’m joking. I’ve been teasing you for the past month…”

“...What?”

“I like you if you’re wearing glasses or if you’re not wearing them. In any shape, way or form-” Your open palm that’s rested on your thigh is suddenly interlaced with his fingers. You don’t flinch from the movement but savour his warm touch. “-anything’s fine.”

“You’re mean.” Namjoon sulks and you smile.

“I know.” There’s a long silence as the bus rides through the empty streets, the darkness of the outside causing you to be drowsy and nearly drifting into a deep slumber. But you feel oddly content at this moment with Namjoon resting on your shoulder and your own head leaning on his. And there’s been a question, probing in the back of your mind and not leaving you to rest.

“Would you ever date someone like me?”

He stays quiet and you’ve wondered if he’s asleep. But he answers.

“....yes. I would.”

“Even though I’m so overbearing and my personality is horrible?”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Y/N.”

“You don’t either, Namjoon.” You whisper gently underneath your breath and Namjoon’s hand tightens around yours. “You’re kind and sweet. You could do a lot better than me.”

“But I don’t want anyone other than you.”

“See? There you go again being sweet.” Even with your eyes shut tight, you can feel the heat sweep up your cheeks. Your heartbeat is thundering against your ribcage, like a march to its demise, your rhythmic instrument to the melodic strings. “You give me a hard time, you know?”

“Why?”

You promised yourself that you would be honest. No more lies. Not to yourself.

“Because I like you.”

“Oh…..”

The two of you don’t open your eyes. You’re too scared to face the consequences of what you’ve uttered. Namjoon’s too petrified that he misheard. Instead, you rest upon each other for the remainder of the ride. But neither of you can sleep when your pulse is skyrocketing.

______

There’s no time to discuss feelings or dwell on that night when the performance has approached.

You might throw up.

It’s arrived quicker than you expected, in a blink of an eye, and the past few weeks have felt like a blur. Due to your anxiousness, you came five hours prior, listening and meeting the other musicians. You have a few business cards in your bag and you’ve mustered up smiles but you can’t remember any of their names or the conversations you’ve had. It’s been a ‘good luck’ here and a ‘I’m looking forward to it’ there.

“I-I think I might be sick, Namjoon.” You grab onto his arm, repressing the urge for vomit to spew up your throat. Your grip is probably wrinkling his nice suit and it most likely doesn’t look graceful the way you’re crouching over in your black, sparkling dress….which at any minute now could turn into a putrid green.

“Listen to me, Y/N.” He places his hands on your waist, making you stand up to look him straight in his warm eyes. Namjoon looks particularly good today. He can clean himself up well when he abandons his oversized clothing for something fitted and gels his hair into a neat style. “We’re going to be fine. It’s going to be okay.”

“N-no.” You can hear the applause from the crowd, the violin sounds dying out in the auditorium. “W-we didn’t practice enough. We didn’t rehearse at all for five days! What was I thinking?! How are we ever going to fix the piece?! Oh god. Oh god!”

Before you can lose it, Namjoon pulls you in for a tight embrace, arms wrapped around your body. “Breathe for me. Just breathe.” You adhere to his commands, taking a shaky inhale for a steadier exhale. “Good. Now pay attention to what I’m about to say...I don’t care.”

“Wha-��

“It doesn’t matter to me if we go out there and beast it or royally screw up. To me, having this chance to play with you is enough. Can you believe this is our first time that we’re going to play a duet together?” He asks you in an excited voice, pulling away to stare into your irises. Namjoon chuckles and you smile. “Remember when you told me that someday we could play together? Well guess what? That someday is here.”

“You know you’re being ridiculously cheesy right now?”

“I don’t care.” He repeats and shrugs. “I’m just happy that I can stand here at this place, ready to play my instrument and be with you. No matter what, it’s going to be something worth remembering.”

The claps fade away and the conductor of the symphony turns around to begin the preface before you enter. You feel calmer than before, less tense and stiff. “Hey, Y/N?”

“Hmm?”

“At the end of this performance..” There’s more applause from the audience members. “I’d like to take you out on a date.”

You’re stunned. Namjoon smirks. Your mouth drops. He faces forward.

“Please welcome, L/N Y/N and Kim Namjoon, here to perform Giancarlo Aquilanti’s Tango!”

The curtains draw open, hundreds of people greeting you with claps and you’re forced to move forward. Your instrument is taken from your case on the way to the front and the harp is situated a few feet away. You sit yourself down, not having enough time to scan the spectators. But you’re certain that your professor, Namjoon’s family and your friends are here to root you on, somewhere in the crowd.

Your hand shakes as you place it on the valves and you shut your eyes to regain composure. Everyone is watching you, the esteemed musicians from behind to the people in the audience. There’s so many things that can go wrong. You can envision each and every one of the thousands in a flicker, like flipping through the pages of a book. Though the sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach is gone.

“Ready, Y/N?”

And when you open your eyes, the dimpled boy is sitting beside you. It’s okay.

“Ready.”

You inhale a breath, lips attaching to the mouthpiece and at the same time, Namjoon plucks a string. Your brass instrument cuts through the air in a crisp sound. It trembles and shakes against the tall ceilings, a cavernous and robust vibration that sings out with its deep timbre. It’s the sturdy tone of Earth, the luscious noise of land and soil that weighs those from drifting away.

As the score moves onto a more playful section, you transfer over to the rhythm while Namjoon interchanges to the melody.

The graze of his fingertips and tugs cause multiple chords to float like clouds drifting on a summer’s day. His gentle sound blurs when he steps on the pedal, the glissandos following the arpeggios. It’s gentle and mellow. He plays the angel’s instrument, twining his music together with yours. His genuine and direct emotions softens your harsher sounds, melting it’s sharp edges.

You sneak a glance at Namjoon, only for your eyes to lock with his. It takes everything within you not to crack a smile when he grins in such a silly manner.

If you are the ground, Namjoon is the sky.

Rather than incorporating raw need and desire, the sensuality is light and sweet. Your instruments are dancing with each other in a courtship full of giggles and smiles, gradualing building up instead of a burst of passion and tension.

The audience and musicians fade into the back and you focus solely on the music, the sounds and Namjoon. For a long moment, it feels like you’re back with him in the cozy confines of the practice room. It’s only when the deafening applause breaks your trance do you realize it’s over and you’re strung back into reality.

“We did it!”

“We did it.”

The people are in a standing ovation and the both of you barely manage to get up and bow as the performance sinks in. You can’t feel your face or your fingers. At least, not until Namjoon threads his hand through yours. “Hey...Nams?”

“I-I’d love to go out on that date.” The adrenaline doesn’t pause. You’re out of breath, stepping backstage. The curtains fall behind you. He smiles and you can’t stop yourself from spitting out the most desperate of words. “I-Is it okay if I kiss you right now?”

He doesn’t answer. The harpist simply takes one stride forward and opens his palm to graze against your cheek. You inhale and he presses his soft lips against yours, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. You let out a yelp when he lifts you off the ground to get closer. You smile against his lips and Namjoon even begins to laugh.

You break apart with a red swollen mouth, batting at his chest. “W-what kind of kiss was that?”

Namjoon is still giggling. “Sorry. I was just waiting too long to do that-”

You reach in for another. This time, you can’t help but laugh as well.

“Me too.”

[the-tales-of-horror]

Law & Order Doesn’t  Always Lead To A Happy Ending

Original Link By feyedharkonnen

“Knock, Knock”

“Who’s there?” I said it automatically now, which is what happens when your kid tells knock-knock jokes incessantly, having discovered their appeal about a week ago.

“Smell Mop” It was funny the first few dozen times she asked me this one but even as the guy who told her most of the jokes she now regurgitated, ad nauseum, in every waking hour, the novelty was wearing thin.

“Andi, honey, Daddy doesn’t want to knock-knock right now, I know, let’s watch your favorite show!” I jumped to my feet and yelled “DUN DUN!” Andi squealed with delight at the hallmark of her favorite, Law and Order. Who knew 3 year olds would prefer police procedural dramas over Dora the Explorer. I’m still waiting for Boots and Dora to find Swiper in an alley, having been killed by his fence.

I turned on the TV and went in the kitchen to make us some PB&Js and grab some Sunny Delight. It turned out to be a re-run, as was the norm at 2pm on a Thursday, but it was new to Andi, so she sat in her accustomed spot, right next to me with one of my arms over her shoulder, using my bicep as a pillow. The bright little sprite was wise enough to realize that Jerry Orbach, who played Detective Lenny Briscoe was also the voice of Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast. She referred to him as “Loomy Bisco”.

This episode was a good one though and it involved a missing person, so at the end of the episode, as L&E will often do they flashed across the screen, real missing people, both adults and children. I had gotten up to clear our mess of paper plates and refill the Sunny D when I heard Andi, ���Daddy, that’s Unca Billy and Jeffy!” I looked up and saw on my screen, a younger version of the old guy William, who lived across the street from me with his grandson Jeffery. It certainly looked like them but I didn’t want Andi to get overly excited and exascerbate her asthma. “It kinda looks like them honey, but that couldn’t be them, does Billy look like a bad man?” She thought about it for a moment and then said “Ok Daddy, you right.”

I sent a text to my wife who was at work and told her what we’d seen. She called me about 5 minutes later and told me I should contact the 800 number for missing and exploited children to give the tip, you know, just in case. So I did, all the while pacing by the large picture window in the front room, seeing if there were any activity across the street. I explained to the person on the line that I wasn’t entirely certain, but someone on one of their broadcasts could be my 60-something-year-old neighbor and his “Grandson” could be the kid this guy abducted 9 years ago. I felt like an idiot and that I was betraying him in some way by jumping to this grandest of conclusions. If we’d had the technology in 2001, I could have sent a picture somehow. I didn’t own a fax machine and my indestructible Nokia just didn’t have the capabilities.

“Sir, this is very important,…” The person on the line interrupted my wandering mind, “I’m sorry, ma’am, what was the question?” The woman repeated herself, “Do you know if the gentleman in question owns any firearms?” It was a bit of a jarring question after making a call on a whim. “Will? Yeah, the guy is an avid hunter and fisher, has a collection that would make Charlton Heston proud, I’m kind of jeal…” She cut me off, “Stand by please sir.” and the dulcet tones of Kenny G’s “Songbird” filled my ear, gross.

30 seconds later, a man came on the line, “Mr. Jacobs, my name is Carl Singleton and I’m a Special Agent in Charge of the Cincinnati Field Office for the Federal Bureau of Investigations.” I held my phone away from my ear and stared at it for a moment, looked over my shoulder at Andi watching Disney and brought the phone back to my ear. “I’m sorry, did you just say you were with the FBI?” This was becoming surreal. “Yes sir, I’m going to ask you a series of questions about your neighbor, William.” I balked at the idea of divulging the information at first. “Are you serious?”

“I take things of this nature very seriously Mr. Jacobs. Please just answer the questions.” He asked how long we’d lived here and how long we’d known Will, any distinguishing features, quirks, and odd behavior in public around Jeffery. Questions about his temperament, any substance or alcohol abuse issues, and suspicions of any skeletons in my neighbor’s closet. I felt like I was in front of the McCarthy Commission ratting on suspected commies. I answered as best I could but nothing seemed to concern the FBI guy until I mentioned Will’s ring and a scar on his chin.

“Wait, go back to the ring, can you describe it?” I thought for a moment, “Yeah, everybody in the neighborhood can describe that ring, it’s just like the ring that Tom Selleck wears in Magnum P.I., you know, the cross, Will is a huge Magnum fan.” I could hear Singleton muffle his end of the phone and yell something to another person, he came back to me. “Mr. Jacobs, I’m going to ask that you refrain from any contact with William at this time while we look into some things, it may be nothing.” And with that, he ended the call, leaving me to stare at the cordless phone in my hand. The nothing he spoke about happened 20 minutes later as I watched 2 unmarked cars block off the end of my street.

I picked up the phone to call my wife and was greeted by a dead line. I grabbed my Nokia and it read “No Service”. I looked out the window to see men clad in black tactical gear dodging between houses toward Will’s house, the activity outside finally caught the attention of Andi, who had been riveted by Disney this whole time when a helicopter wheeled overhead and took up a stationary hover about 150 feet above my neighborhood. “Daddy! A Whirlybird!” she squealed in delight, that’s what we called them. I told her to go back to the tv while daddy tried to figure out what was going on. I walked to my front door and opened it.

Three feet to the left of my door, the muzzle of an M-16 swung up to my chest then dropped again just as quickly and the uniformed gentleman who held it said through gritted teeth, just loud enough for me to hear, “Sir, get. The. Fuck. Back in your house, and stay there.” And he pulled my door shut. I noticed Andi a few feet away with wide eyes, “Daddy, that man said a bad word!” It made me laugh through the nervousness in my stomach, “Yes baby, yes he did. Shame on him.” There was no keeping her away from the window now since she’d seen the chaos going on in our little corner of the world.

I turned my Lazy Boy in the front room toward the picture window and got popcorn, since there was nothing else I could do. Andi sat on the arm of the chair commenting on the various figures running here and there. After about an hour, a black car came though the roadblock at the end of our street and came to a stop just behind the large RV that had been rolled in, a tall grizzled looking man got out and fixed his tie, Andi stared after him with rapt attention, “Loomy Bisco?” she asked. I laughed and said, “No baby, Loomy is on TV.” As if that would distract her from the guy in front of my house who clearly looked like he could be Jerry Orbach’s younger brother.

He spoke with one of the tactical guys for a moment and then went in the RV. After 15 minutes of static nothingness, a group of the uniform clad men burst into action, one team in the front, and I can only assume one team in the back, I knew the layout of Will’s house, as we lived in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, his house was almost identical to mine. At the front, a large man stepped up to the door with what looked like a large metal pipe with handles; he swung it back once, and brought the end crashing into the door just to the left of the doorknob. The frame, to the right, came apart like kindling and the door swung violently inward.

The big man swung to the side and the uniforms, huddled in a line, streamed in the gap like an armored centipede with a shield at its head. I can’t tell if it was five seconds later or ten, but the front picture window exploded outward in a fireball, the concussion blowing in my window and showering Andi and I with small chunks of glass. I picked her up, and ignoring the cuts to the bottom of my feet rushed to my bedroom at the rear of the house. I looked her over and aside from a few small cuts here and there, she was fine.

I could see her crying, but I couldn’t hear a damn thing except for a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I felt something oozing in my ear, and judging from the small amount of blood coming from Andi’s, I could well guess what it was. I walked, Andi in my arms to the front of the house to peek out the window to see if there were new developments, there were. It was a nightmare of burning cars, people staggering around blindly, carnage, the team that had entered Will’s house, what was left of them, was strewn across the once carefully manicured lawn, viscera and limbs here and there.

I didn’t have to worry about Andi seeing this scene of devastation as she had her face firmly planted in my shoulder. I could feel her tears soaking my t-shirt. The Loomy Bisco look-a-like came staggering out of the RV, a red stain about where you’d guess his appendix would be, the stain spreading slowly, his hand absentmindedly, occasionally touching the small, shiny, crimson shard of metal that protruded from his shirt. I walked as steadily as I could toward him. I could start to hear things very faintly through the ringing.

My voice sounded, to me, like I was speaking from somewhere around the vicinity of my chest. “You’re Singleton, aren’t you!” it was more of a statement than a question. He looked at me, confused, I could see him saying “Who the fuck are you?” I mimed the sign for a telephone and said “Jacobs”. His eyes passed over me and then Andi, then around the scene; his eyes showed regret, “I’m sorry, I should have known it wasn’t going to be this easy.” He waved over a group of rushing paramedics, refusing treatment until his knees buckled and it wasn’t his choice anymore. They looked us over and we received a ride to the hospital to check us for any internal injuries. I called my wife to let us know what was going on.

Tabitha nearly beat us to the hospital, that woman is a Formula One driver when it comes to needing to get to the hospital, as evidenced by her collection of speeding tickets from Andi’s occasional visits due to her asthma, which, surprisingly had not made an appearance as a result of the excitement of the day, I don’t know if my baby was in shock and it just hadn’t hit her yet, I was ready for anything by now.

Andi had fallen asleep in her exam room near the ER so Tabitha and I stepped into the hallway to discuss what had happened. A familiar, by now, face strode up to the pair of us and introduced himself to Tabitha.

“Carl Singleton, Special Agent in Charge, FBI. I can only assume you are Mrs. Jacobs. May I speak with you and your husband a moment?” We looked in Andi’s direction and he nodded, “Agent Samuels will be watching her.” He introduced a tall black man with scrubs on who nodded deferentially to us and proceeded to enter the room and take a seat in one of the chairs near the bed.

Singleton led us to a quiet office off one of the many hallways and sat heavily in a chair, wincing when he did so, he stopped his hand from goin to where I’d seen him bleeding back in the neighborhood. “You alright?” I asked, he responded with “I’ve had worse, but that’s not why we’re here. Your neighbor…” Tabitha chimed in, “Will?” Singleton sighed and corrected her, “Will as you call him is really one Staff Sargent Jonathan Merrill; former Army Ranger, veteran of three tours in Vietnam, and a psychopath of the highest order.

He initially came to our attention in 1977, shortly after his medical discharge from the Army. He claimed to be suffering from severe PTSD and was in custody after murdering his wife and four children in a particularly bloody fashion, a Family Annihilator is what the eggheads at the Behavioral Analysis Unit classed him as. He escaped custody on his way to a lifetime stay at Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas and has been on the run from us ever since, leaving us a trail of bodies from one side of the country to the other, even foraying into Canada and Mexico. This is the closest we’ve come to him in 7 years.”

“The eggheads really want their hands on him alive because he’s unique as far as serial killers go, they usually stick to a pattern and that becomes their thing, and I rarely, if ever changes. But with Merrill, he’s a special snowflake, he changes, he went from the family, to prostitutes, then hikers, then truck drivers, and now, teenage boys, we want to stop him before he changes his stripes again, so to speak. The Bureau refers to him as Mercury, because he’s so fluid and deadly. It wasn’t until recently, with forensic advances, that we were able to attribute dozens of other victims that we had originally thought were completely different killers with varying modes operandi. Personally, this guy terrifies me.”

“Why have we never heard of him? We could have…” Tabitha started to say, but Singleton cut her off, “The powers that be kept this under for wraps for reasons that I was never made privy to, but now, after today, they can’t hide this anymore. They’ll have to give us more now, or at least give us a deadly force option, he’s responsible now for the deaths of nine of our best tactical operators. That’s on my conscience because I underestimated the lengths he would go to escape and evade us, but this was calculated, that bomb was waiting for us. And that’s not all, when the explosive ordnance disp… I’m sorry, when the bomb squad finished clearing the residence, they found several… disturbing things.”

He paused and chewed his bottom lip a bit, as if trying to decide to tell us. “We found what we believe to be several graves, which means he’s been active and we will be unaware of if he has changed anything in regards to his M.O. until we autopsy the victims. One of the oddest things was a book of knock-knock jokes, we have no idea if theirs any significance to it.” Singleton shrugged, dismissing the statement he’d just made. I felt my intestines turn to ice and I was on my feet and sprinting down the hallways before my brain came to a full realization of why. Andi.

The world started to come back to me a little at a time as I ran, people shouting at me for running in a hospital, the pain in my feet from the glass I’d stepped in earlier, the dull quality to sounds from the blast damage. I got to the room where we’d left Andi with the undercover FBI agent. I pushed the door open to an empty room. I heard a groan from the other side of the bed, I scrambled around the side to see Samuels gasping for breath through the ragged hole in his throat, foamy blood surrounded the wound and streamed down his chest. “Where’s Andi!?” I screamed at the dying man. Fear and sorrow filled his eyes just before he died and he pointed above his head to the bed-side table. There was a note.

“Knock Knock, Neighbor, (turn over)”

I felt a paralysis of sorts set in as my mind filled in the blank, “Who’s there?”

I turned over the note as I heard Tabitha and Singleton come into the room behind me.

“Nobody, bye bye.”

[bearnece-city]

Ivory Keys: An Excerpt (to be used as base Treatment for Feature Screenplay) by Ara Bear

Evening. Smoke clouds fill an exposed brick, jazz club on the lower east side. The year is 1972. Patrons come and go as they please, musicians bump along behind the laughter, tobacco, and too loud talk. Though no one pays attention to the music around them, everyone moves to its rhythm. Music cuts, people move, to get away from whatever conversation they no longer want to have; or the music treads on, urging you to find your pace – talk too slow, too fast, just right.

When people enter, they notice the chunks missing from cracked brick and cement walls, and then the bar. Maybe the tune, but never who is playing the tune, who is controlling the rhythm.

William Shepard noticed the cracked brick, but it wasn’t the bar he saw second; it was Nick – and some could even argue that it was Nick he saw first.

William with his golden pompadour waves and early acceptance to Stanford Medical School, was not meant for the lower east side, but he needed a break to breathe. And breathe he did.

William was with his friends and girlfriend Jenny. They all spoke at once about the dingy place, the fog, the jazz; they were squeamish, but interested in the city’s underbelly. Will could not even speak to the beauty they all missed among the grime – Nick.

Nick’s jawline was covered in five o’clock shadow, with a single piece of chocolate, almost black hair, falling in front of his forehead, long enough to reach his right eye. His head hung down as he clamored away at ivory keys. William saw all of this.

Jenny, his friends, the room, and Nick all grappled for William’s attention. Nick won. But, Jenny tugged at William and lead the friends to a table closest to the bar, farthest from Nick. Will sat easily, snapping back into reality.

The night carried on as any other. They drank, laughed, smoked, talked, smoked, laughed, drank. They – including Will – fell into the rhythm played by Nick and his ivory keys, all the while forgetting he was even there.

Music cut out and it was time to make a choice: move on or wait for the next tune. Will and his friends chose the former; it was Thursday and it was getting late. Jenny and their friends went outside and left Will with the check. He was used to it. He sat at the bar, until the waiter would lock eyes with him long enough for him to mime “Check

please.” A new song had not rung over the room yet in a couple minutes. Nick had left his post and a new artist set up shop.

Sauntering off stage in tight blue flares and a – supposed to be white – dingy t-shirt, Nick made his way to the bar, to sit, in the seat next to Will. Turning to get the waiter’s eye Will caught Nick just as he sat down.

Nick commanded the bar; he had the waiter tending to him almost before he settled in his seat; he’d noticed Will having trouble and made a motion toward him, asking for two bourbons: two fingers, dry.

“Oh, no. I just need the check,” Will spoke up. “Not a fan of bourbon?” said Nick. “No. Yes,” Will fumbled. “What I meant was, I don’t mind Bourbon, I’m just picking up the bill, then

meeting my friends outside.” “So, just not a fan of me?” Nick chuckled. “What? No. You were great. Really,” said Will. “Name a song from tonight,” said Nick. Will was flustered. He had noticed Nick, but now he saw him there, so close. It was clear Nick was only

teasing. Even so, Will hadn’t an answer. “All of it. Great. Really,” said Will. The waiter came back with two bourbons. “Have a drink and I’ll consider it square,” said Nick. Tempted, Will sat silently for a second. He noticed the veins that outlined Nick’s hands as he reached for his

own glass. “I’ll pay for mine, but I can’t,” said Will. Nick swiftly knocked back the drink he was holding and reached out for the second glass. “Don’t sweat it,” said Nick. And just as Will was on his way, Nick crossed one leg over the other, accidentally brushing his foot against

Will’s . Will looked down, then back to Nick. “Don’t sweat it,” said Will.

Will went back to his dorm on the upper West side and dropped Jenny to her room.

“Comin in?,” she said. “Not tonight, I’m just exhausted. Been a long day,” said Will. The two-kissed goodnight and Will went back to his room. On the opposite side of the city, Nick wandered through the desolate streets of Brooklyn, making sharp turns

at every corner and running through every light. He moved like every muscle was controlled by a melody; taking two quick steps then a slow followed by a flourish of the arm or the occasional spin. He did not care who saw him, who judged him.

Nick made his way into a tenement building somewhere between the ritzy Park Slope and the colorless Bay Ridge. 40th street; a tan cinder block building, but you wouldn’t notice that amidst the illegible graffiti that painted its every inch. The sidewalks steamed from subway grates where Nick could feel the D train rumble under him. The corners smelled of piss and sweat – and home, for Nick.

Nick continued his melodic steps up to his apartment. Opening the door Nick saw his father in the kitchen. “You up?” said Nick. “Got off tomorrow, can finally sleep in. Thought I’d make the most of it,” said Nick’s dad. “Long as you’re not waitin’ for me,” replied Nick.

“Stay up with the old man?”

The two settled into their modest living room with two single chairs and a T.V. Nick’s dad grabbed a beer from the fridge and tossed one to Nick who fiddled with the TV antennae, trying to get a signal, or steal the neighbors – whichever worked first. Catching a signal, the two sat down to an episode of “The Odd Couple.”

“Always thought those two were a couple of fags,” said Nick’s dad.

Nick sat silently, sipping his beer then putting it down. Nick’s dad looked to him for a response. Nick grabbed his beer and continued to drink, though he was almost finished he drank like it was half full.

“Fags on T.V. and I’m barely makin’ rent working construction. Man’s work. Don’t pay like it used to.”

Nick finished his beer and fished in his seat for the remote. He flipped the channel and passed the remote to his father.

“Early day tomorrow, think I’m gonna call it a night,” said Nick.

Two weeks had gone by since that night. Nick had been playing in various clubs in the city and the city streets. Will, however, had spent the past two weekends back at that same club, hoping for another chance to see Nick, for another chance at bourbon, two fingers dry.

It was Saturday night and Will is tired of waiting.

Making his way back home, Will thought about Jenny. She had bought him a gold cuff link, pressed with Stanford’s crest to congratulate him on his acceptance. Will, then, gingerly rubbed his thumb over the cuff link. He hadn’t seen much of Jenny lately and as he approached campus, thought of stopping in to see her.

Five city-blocks out from the dorms, Will could hear soft jazz playing. He stopped rubbing the cuff link and closed his eyes. Will back tracked his steps and leaned against the open doorway of the club. There wasn’t the same underground vibe and people actually listened to the music around them and took it in as a substitute for conversation. Red light beamed over top shelf whiskey air.

Engrossed, Will walked in and took a moment to peer around the room.

“Alright, alright, alright bad cats, we have one more for ya tonight. Welcome this far-out fox all the way from Brooklyn...Nick Holt, on the sweet ivory keys,” said the club announcer.

Will saw red. Not because of the light in the room or a sudden surge of anger, but from his longing and excitement. Now he knew his name – Nick.

Will posted himself up at the bar, never facing inward, only out toward the stage, toward Nick. He never even ordered a drink. Just sat and watched. Just sat and smiled, and bumped on, to Nick’s rhythm.

After his set, Nick did as before. Sauntered off, sat at the bar. Next to Will. “You dig Jazz I gather?” said Nick. “Something like that,” said Will. Before Nick had the chance to retort, Will ordered two bourbons.

“Figured I owed you,” said Will. “For last time? Said, don’t stress it,” said Nick “For your ‘sweet keys’,” said Will. And the two laughed Nick, had seen Will walk in. Keys first and everything else second was Nick’s way of focusing on his goals.

But even still, that night he played on, hard and strong making sure not to lose a single person in the room.

“Yea, that guy is somethin’ else,” said Nick. The waiter came back with the bourbons. “You forgot to tell ‘em dry.” Will had not managed to come off as cool as he had wanted. “So jazz, why?,” Will said trying to recover.

“Why not? But really man, we’re losing the greats, Armstrong?,” said Nick. Will wanted to listen to Nick, but he could not focus beyond his lips to hear what he was actually saying. “And not to come off as you know..., but I think I could be that great,” finished Nick. Will stared blankly and filled the musky wood smelling air with “I have some records back at my place.” “Maybe I should come by sometime,” said Nick. “How ‘bout now?” Will said, shocking himself in his reply. Nick was puzzled, but smirked as he lifted his drink and looked straight down the glass. Nick knocked back

his drink. “Easy when it’s mostly ice,” teased Nick. “Come to think of it, I might have some better stuff, and I don’t have an ice machine,” said Will. The two left the bar at a hesitant pace, almost waiting for one of them to turn around, make an excuse to why

tonight wasn’t a good night. But, neither did, so they walked on. Will’s place was so close, there was no time wasted between them being at a crowded bar and them alone in Will’s room. It was quick enough that they could not think, which was terrifying, but also a relief.

“You have got two records man,” said Nick. “And neither are good; I mean Bread? Bowie? Psychs and depressants, where’s the groove?”

Will walked over to where Nick was in his room. The record player was set up on the desk by his bed. Will liked to put on music as he slept. “Excuse you, but I have at least five: Hendrix, Morrison, Bowie, Bread, and Zeppelin.”

“Listen to what they tell you to. Who are you, what do you want to hear?” said Nick.

“Maybe I like what these artists have to say,” Although, Will knew he knew not a thing about music and it was showing.

“Yea. Thought you brought me back here to listen to jazz?”

Will took the Bowie record from Nick’s hand, touching it slightly. “I said I had records, you assumed jazz. I just didn’t correct you.”

Nick moved in closer to Will. He reached for the record. “Maybe I’d like to hear this,” he said, as he grabbed it with a flourish. He spun it once in his hand then slid the record from its casing and placed it on the turn table. Leaning over Nick, Will placed the needle on his favorite spot. Will, just over Nick’s shoulder could take in his subtle scent of liquor and sweat. It was sweeter than one might think. Nick couldn’t help but notice their proximity and turned his face, away from the spinning record, to meet Will’s face by his shoulder.

“Did you also lie about that drink?” said Nick.

Will, abruptly, removed himself from behind Nick. He went off to his closet and rummaged for a minute. He knew exactly where his liquor was, but needed time to think, assess. He went through the logic like the med student he was sure to be, weighing possible outcomes, situations, what could go right, what could go wrong. Finally, he reemerged, bottle of whiskey in hand.

Nick walked over to Will. “Well?” said Nick. Will pointed to a glass on his desk and began to step away. “No need,” said Nick. And Nick took the bottle from Will, twisted off the cap and began to drink straight

from the bottle. He took his pull then passed it to Will; Will did the same. When it was Nick’s turn to take the bottle, he did but, he held it to his side.

“Name’s Nick,” he said. “I know, the club guy said it before you went on. Nick Holt,” it was burned into Will’s memory. Nick looked away and smirked; when he came back into the moment Will reached up and placed back

Nick’s straggling hair that never wanted to be anywhere but, in front of his eyes. Nick, with his free hand met Will’s wrist by his forehead, and pinned it against the closet door behind him, snapping it shut. Will was breathless. Nick pressed his lips to Will’s, both of them tasting of whiskey. Will jerked, but only for a moment before allowing Nick to do as he pleased.

With the bottle still in his hand, Nick continued to kiss Will and removed his other hand from Will’s wrist to begin to explore Will’s body. There was no thinking now as Will pushed away from the closet urging the two to stumble back to Will’s bed. They stopped long enough for Nick to take another swig from the bottle, set it down on Will’s desk, and now with free hands undo his fly.

As he had done that first night at the bar, Nick took complete control. He started stripping Will, pressing him down chest first on the bed as he climbed on top. Will muffled his breath and screeching moans into a pillow, in part to not let anyone else know what was happening and in part to not let Nick know his inexperience.

Done, Nick slipped on to one side of the bed. Will propped himself up with his head in his hands and his elbow digging into the now needed to be washed sheets.

“Name’s Will,” he said, looking up at Nick.

Still somewhat breathy Nick replied, “Nice to meet you.” The two laughed to themselves, then with each other.

“I have a girlfriend,” said Will. “We all do.” “What?” Nick had put together Will’s inexperience early in the night, but did not care. And this is how it went for three months. Will met Nick at gigs; Nick stood outside of Will’s dorm hall. Nick

introduced Will to the underground gay clubs of the east side, of Brooklyn and Queens. They danced, hard and sensual against the streaky nightlife lights and sweaty bodies, who were just like theirs. Nick spent nights teaching Will about music, sound, soul and rhythm; Will told Nick of his hopes and dreams of becoming a trauma surgeon overseas; if he could not stop the war in Vietnam, he would aide its victims. A pressure had been released on both of them: for Will, he cared about something beyond himself and his success and now Nick only played the ivory keys on weekends; his weeknights were too filled with Will.

The two created an oblivion between them where they saw, felt, and touched nothing else in the world, but each other, with only brief moments pulling them out. They found it hard to hide themselves in in public.

One day, making their way from the upper west side to Brooklyn the two had no choice, but to ride the subway. They caught the 1 train downtown; both stood against the train door. When they spoke, they did so in such proximity one could either think they were lovers or both hard of hearing.

“Take me to your place,” said Will.

Nick leaned in, so close he spoke into Will’s lips and nose. “Think I’m rollin’ with someone else? But, dear you are water turned to wine, I could want nothing more,” said Nick.

Will playfully pushed his hand against Nick’s chest; Nick moved his hand to meet Will’s in a loose holding of hands. Looking away from Nick to see what stop they were at, Will noticed eyes burning holes into him and Nick, each faced looked utterly disgusted with the two. At the following stop, a man pushed through Nick and Will, rougher that necessary followed by a mumble under his breath. They joined together again once the door closed, but this time when Nick came closer to Will, Will moved and pointed to two seats at the far back of the train.

Five months now. Will was set to graduate in a few weeks, Nick was still lapping up gigs where he could. They were in Will’s bed when they spoke of their lives to come; Miles Davis echoing off the turntable.

“I want to...to be with you after you finish” said Nick. “I’ll be in California. You want to be in California, middle of nowhere with no license?” “You are worth a license and nowhere with you is better than I ever thought I’d get,” Nick moved his bare

body on to Will’s. Nick was serious and would not let the subject lie. He got frustrated by Will’s deflections each time he

brought it up. “Prove it!,” shouted Nick in the middle of Washington Square park. “Tell me you love me, or I’m out.” “Would you stop. I don’t work for my money. My dad will cut me off, if I tell I lose everything,” said Will. “Nothing every distracts me from my music and I let you.” Nicked stormed off, basically ran back to Brooklyn. He was upset, red cheeked and puffy. Meanwhile, Will

had went back up to Columbia. He didn’t want to lose Nick, but he couldn’t see their future the way Nick could. He found a way to buy himself some time, while still showing his commitment, for Nick. He walked passed the jazz club, passed his dorm and vigorously began knocking on a door.

Nick was now home, his dad in the chair, beer in one hand remote in the other. “Dad! Dad?”

Nick’s father turned to look at him. “Son. Someone jump ya?” he said watching his tear, streaked son’s face. “No. I got something to tell you.” Back on the west side, the door behind Will’s fist opened. It was Jenny. He had seen her less in the past few

months, but she chalked it up to pre-med stress which was an understatement. Jenny went in for a kiss, but Will pulled back.

“I’m going to the other side of the country Jen. I think it’s time.” He left Jenny sobbing on her bed. One person off his chest. Nick was now hurriedly packing a backpack, shoving in as much as he could. “No lip wrist musicians in my house. This ain’t even our house Nicky! The landlord sure to put us out there.

Send us both on our asses. You like that? Being on your ass? No. Not here. When you want to be a man, you knock on my door.”

Nick pushed passed his dad practically leaping over the tenement steps, floating to Will’s dorm. “I broke up with Jenny. See? I told you, it’s just you,” Will said as Nick moved passed him to his bed. Will was so excited to give his news to Nick he failed to take notice of his bags, both in hand and under

watery eyes. “I’m did it. I’m out” said Nick.

“You told your dad?” “Yea. And I’m out. Pest control; don’t like fags. I mean, I knew but hoped but couldn’t keep hoping.” Will stood without words, just like the first time he had seen Nick. “No Jenny, guess there is no reason you can’t stay here,” said Will. In the summer months Will and Nick carried on as they had before that day. They made plans of their new

life in California. Will told Nick he’d come out to his dad and everything was moving along fine; rhythmic almost in their pattern. But, like any rhythm one note has to break pattern, to get to the next part of a song going; to change it, to move it along.

“I don’t think I have enough summer wear for a year. I’m gonna start lookin for clubs out there. Somethin’ to do when you’re being smart,” said Nick.

Two weeks before Stanford and Will knew he couldn’t keep up the lie any longer. “He doesn’t know,” said Will. They were on the subway, on their way back from one of their best nights out. Neither knew it would be their

last. “Huh?”

“You can’t come to California. I’m going to the other side of the country.” And so Will went on to gave the same trodden talk he’d given Jenny months before.

“I think it’s time we—“ and just as Will was about to put an end to it all the train came to its next stop. Nick got up and walked off. Will did not chase him. He had too much to lose. It was time.

Mid-day. Fifteen years passed. Will now lived upstate; he was a general surgeon, had a wife and a son with another on the way. He went on like Nick had never happened, though he always knew he did. He never did anything or anyone with as much love as he had done Nick. Fifteen years since he had been with a man.

One night after work, Will went into the city. He went back to one of the underground clubs that Nick had brought him to, only to find it no longer existed. Defeated, Will made his way back to his car, prepared to drive home. He didn’t know what it was he was looking for. Then a tune caught his ear. Two blocks south. “My Funny Valentine.”Willcouldn’tbelievejazzlastedthislong,itwas1987. Hefollowedthetuneandstoppedin.Afterafew scans of the room, Will came up blank.

“You lookin for someone baby?” said a man by the bar. He was dressed in mostly neon and glitter stroked his eyelids. “No. Thank You.” “Oh, I know your type. Shy?” Who was this man and how did he know? Was it always that present on Will’s face? The unknown man

scribbled a number on a napkin. Just as Will got up to leave he brushed him with his foot. “Not your type? Fine. Call this number, sure we got one for you,” and Will was on his way. Will went home. He left the napkin in his car glove box. He looked to the glove box every day; on his way to

work, on his way home. One day during lunch, Will went out and made a call. “Yes? Hello? Yes, Hi. I was told to call this number if I want—“

“I know what you want baby,” said the voice on the other line. “Just tell me when and how you want it.” “I don’t—this was a mistake.” “Hold on, hold on. What’s your type? I have a fit fella; 6ft blonde. 23.” “Too young.”

“Ok. How about mid-thirties, dark hair with a little salt sprinkled in?” “Yes, yes. That’s fine.” “Where am I sending, him honey?” “East side motel, 8’oclock,” and Will hung up the phone.

The whole drive over to the city, Will’s chest felt heavy and his mind cloudy. He had made it to the hotel, 15 minutes early. Enough time to pour himself a drink. He needed to breathe.

A knock came at the door. The man’s back was turned at Will’s opening of the door; “You ready for me?” replied the man. He turned on his heels to face Will.

“William goddamn Shepard.” It was Nick.

As Will drove off back to security he could not yet bring himself home. He stopped at a local bar and decided to stay for the day. He grabbed a seat. “Bourbon,” he said and held up two fingers. “Make it dry.”