#not even i can resist the allure of drama entirely | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inspired-by-the-music · 4 years ago

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For You: 4 O’Clock

Taglist: @jineunwootrash @jamies-kpop-reactions

Chapter 14: A Fool

By the time Taemin’s lips parted from mine, the fireworks overhead had almost entirely ceased, and most cars had vacated the parking lot below.

Breathless, I was almost hesitant to meet the glittering galaxies gathered in Taemin’s eyes, all too aware of the likelihood that I would spend the rest of the evening or the rest of my life aimlessly wandering through them. However, as you know by now, I could never resist the allure of Taemin’s other-worldly beauty.

His eyes smiled at me as his hands moved to cup my cheeks. “Do you want to do it again?” His laughter dissolved all tension in the air.

Before pecking at his grin, I hummed, “Maybe later!”

Narrowly escaping Taemin’s effort to catch me in another thousand-year kiss, I grabbed my mask from its corner and frowned at the high heels that were entirely responsible for the dull ache in my ankle.

“You don’t have to put them back on,” Taemin said, following my gaze. “I’ll carry you to my car and drive you home.” When I hesitated to climb onto his back because I had been too tall for piggyback rides for as long as I could remember, he pouted, begging, “Let me give you one drama-worthy moment, jagi. Please?”

There was no way to deny him whatever he wanted when he looked at me like that— like I alone held the key to his happiness in the palm of my hand. Setting aside my discomfort, abandoning my fear of heights (or, more accurately, my fear of falling from a height), I secured my hold around him. Releasing a deep breath, I laid my head on his shoulder.

Quietly, as if he thought that I had fallen asleep in the span of just a few seconds and he didn’t wish to wake me, Taemin asked, “Are you sleepy?”

“No,” I whispered, although my blinking eyelids had gone heavy with fatigue in the aftermath of the party’s highs and lows. “You’re just really warm, so you’re a good cuddle buddy.”

The smile on his face was audible as he repeated, “Cuddle buddy?” I wish I had opened my eyes to admire his smile, to watch if it grew when I dropped a feather-light kiss on the crook of his neck.

Delighted by the subtle shiver that ran down his spine at the sweet contact, I hoped that my voice carried my smile to him when he couldn’t quite see me. “What’s gonna happen to the blanket and the lights and—” I gasped.

Taemin’s body stiffened. He glanced back at my widened eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Your rose—” tears gathered in my eyes with the sudden sharp blow of winter wind— “I left it behind. I must have dropped it when you kissed me. I must have been too happy to hold on, and now—”

As soon as he set me on my feet beside his car, Taemin kissed each of my cheeks. Before any tear could fall, he promised, “I’ll go get it.” He held his keys out to me. “I’ll be right back, okay? Please don’t cry. It’s our happy night.”

I parrotted the phrase, “Our happy night.” A smile broke across my face while I cursed myself for my embarrassing attachment to symbols like the rose. But then, it was easy to forget embarrassment when Taemin smiled at me.

Looking back, I think that he must have planned all along to return to our rooftop place to retrieve the blanket and the lights and his mask. In that moment, though, I was so giddy with the thought that Taemin had retraced our path just for the sake of the rose that I greeted his return with a broad grin that he hopefully appreciated in the two seconds before I caught his lips with mine.

“You kissed me,” Taemin gasped as if it were the first time. Holding the rose out to me, he asked, “Will you do it again in exchange for a flower?”

I don’t know what came over me. In all of my life, I had never been an excessively smiley, giggly sort of person, but my cheeks ached from smiling that night. My laughter seemed to have lost all meaning, but I kept laughing anyway. All I can say, I guess, is that Taemin’s kiss made me happy. Too happy. Happier than I had ever been.

Had there been a rational thought in my head that wasn’t centered around the boy in the diver’s seat, the boy determined to lace his fingers through mine as he drove down busy streets, the boy I trusted to lead me to new heights at any corner of the universe, I might have called myself cringeworthy.

At every point in my life, I had been prematurely fixated on the moment of goodbye. Maybe that was some sort of well-intentioned coping mechanism. I’m not sure. All I can tell you in hindsight is that I must have had no intention of parting ways with Taemin. Maybe in some corner of my mind— or in the entirety of my heart— I decided that the rest of the night would be spent in his company.

When he parked in the driveway of my house, I realized from the sheer number of cars that there was no way I would catch an hour of sleep. More importantly, there was no way I would have been able to lead Taemin into my room undetected. Within seconds, I pieced together that Super Junior had occupied my home to a.) celebrate the new year, b.) celebrate their years of friendship with Mom, and c.) to celebrate the union of Momhae.

When I relayed that information to Taemin, explaining what it meant for our sleeping arrangements, he suggested, “We can sleep together in my room at the SuperM house.”

From his smirk and the mischievous glint in his eyes coupled with the dropping of his jaw when I eagerly nodded my head, I figured that Taemin hadn’t been entirely serious. No, Taemin was always serious about falling asleep together. He must have expected me to place some boundary against falling asleep together in his bed.

Sinking at the thought that I hadn’t explained how much I loved sleeping at his side, I dropped the rose onto my lap so I could trace stars on his knuckles. “I’m sorry if this sounds too clingy or dependent, Taemin, but I— I want to spend every night with you. Even when we go back to living separate daily lives after the tour is over, I want to spend the nights with you. That time when I get to remove my mask and lay my head on your chest and just exist—”

Taemin squeezed my hand and raised it to meet his kiss. I had to smile at that sweet gesture as my heart swelled and overflowed with affection. The fond wrinkles that formed around his eyes encouraged me to continue to confess, “That time holds me together. I— to tell you the truth, I don’t know what I would do if that time were to end.”

Taemin said, “It won’t,” so assuredly that the lump growing in my throat dissolved. Shallow lines etched into his forehead as he asked, “Why did you tell me all of those beautiful things, jagi?”

I shrugged, startled by my total lack of embarrassment as I met his twinkling eyes. “I just thought that it would be kind of tragic if you never knew what time with you means to me. Earlier, you asked me to tell you what I feel, and I— I’m going to try, but you should know that I feel a lot, and— if you could, I would like for you to kiss me when I ramble, please—”

Immediately, Taemin took the hint. He kissed me like he planned to feel my lips without the invitation.

. . .

“I like it when you’re like this,” Taemin said on our way up the stairs to his bedroom.

From my place on his back, I bit back my giggles for fear of waking the SuperM members who, judging by the almost eerie silence and empty driveway, weren’t even there. “Like what, Taem?” I kissed his temple, careful not to drop the champagne bottle he looted from the party onto the hardwood floor. “All over you?”

“Well, yeah.” He smirked as he kicked open the door to his pure white room. From first glance, it seemed to be a place beyond earth. “But I actually meant that I like it when you’re honest with me. I love it when you trust me with everything locked away in here.” His index finger tapped on an inch of skin exposed beneath my bangs when he set me down on the small sofa by the window.

The cushions were as light and fluffy as clouds. Maybe with Taemin, every day, in one way or another, I enacted my dream of being something that belongs in the sky.

“You’ve always been easy to trust,” I told him as he filled the space next to me. “I just— it’s hard to unlearn the habit of holding back. Just know that I’m going to trust you with everything in time.”

Taemin took the bottle of champagne, beaming. “I know. Thank you for trying for me.”

I rose onto my knees, sinking ever-so-slightly into the clouds, to peel back the silky curtains and raise the blinds. Shining brilliantly over our garden amid a shower of golden fireworks, the moon stared back at me and stole my breath away.

“You can see our garden well from here,” I observed as I sat back, careful not to disturb my aching ankle. “If I had a view like this from my room, then I probably never would have snuck out of my house.”

Taemin said, “Flowers aren’t meant to be admired through a window.”

And when I glanced over at him, I found that he was watching the moon just as intently as I always had. A part of me wanted to ask if he also dreamed of a day when he could reach out and feel the moon’s kiss on his fingertips. The answer was obvious the next time he looked into my eyes, though, so the question died on the tip of my tongue.

“I like it when you’re like this,” I said, unable to lift my voice above a whisper.

“Like what, Lei?” After setting the champagne bottle on the floor with a gentle thud, Taemin leaned across the couch to lay his head on my chest, flush against my heartbeat. Hooking his hands around my waist, he fanned his breath over my collar bone. “All over you?”

My heart raced for him, but it didn’t hurt, and I wasn’t embarrassed knowing that he could feel it too.

“Well, yeah.” I smiled as I carded my fingers through his hair. “But I actually meant that I like it when you talk like a poet. I love it when you trust me with everything in here.” My index finger traced his heart over his collared shirt.

Taemin wrapped his fingers around my wrist and pressed my palm flat against his chest so I could feel it— the ever so subtle quickening of his pulse as he lifted his head to breathe against my parted lips.

I guess the night couldn’t have remained an almost perfect dream come true because I didn’t live in a fairytale. Sometime later, Taemin pressed his back against the arm of the couch opposite me. After taking a small taste of champagne, he asked, “Do you want to play truth or dare like we did the last time we drank together?”

Because I am a fool for anything with sentimental value, I nodded my head so passionately that Baekhyun’s flower crown fell off of my head. It landed on the space between Taemin and me. Before I could return the crown to its place atop my head, he swiped it and laid over his hair. Although the flowers weren’t his, they looked prettier on him. They transformed him into a vision of an angel.

Knowing the answer, Taemin asked, “Am I pretty?” while tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and winking as I tasted champagne.

I giggled at the bubbling sensation on my tongue. “You’re absolutely beautiful, Taemin.” He rejoiced at the compliment, and I asked, “Who gets to go first in this little game?”

He decided with the question, “Truth or dare, jagi?”

Obeying Taemin’s gesture to take another sip of the drink, I decided to be bold. “Dare.”

Taemin hummed as he caught his pretty pink bottom lip between his teeth. I do not doubt that he was deliberately employing the very on-stage tactics that elicit screams from full stadiums around the world. Tugging his phone out of his pocket and flashing the timer on its screen, he dared, “Kiss me for a whole minute.”

Although I was no longer a stranger to kissing Taemin, my cheeks burned at his instruction. “A minute?” I frowned. I can’t tell you if I was disappointed because a minute was closer to never or forever.

“A minute!” Taemin smiled before puckering his lips.

I trembled with anxiety during that first dared kiss, I think, because I was too aware of the passage of time. I wasted that first dared kiss by holding my breath, whittling away the seconds until the alarm permitted me to crawl back to my side of the couch.

If Taemin was disappointed by the minute he wasted with his lips pressed to mine in the most lackluster kiss of all time— if he was disappointed that I was still as shy in the field of physical affection as I was in verbal affection— I couldn’t tell. His lips curled into a smile that I could see through the champagne bottle.

In my embarrassment, I nearly forgot to ask, “Truth or dare, Taeminnie?”

He squealed as he almost always did when I called him by anything resembling a nickname. “Truth.” His voice was a gentle hum.

My eyes broke from his just long enough to glance out at our garden before returning to the pleasure of staring at him until every detail of his perfect face was a permanent memory that I could sketch out on paper given a chance. I asked, “What were you doing out there by the rose bush that night before I sat with you?”

“Waiting for you,” he answered without a moment of hesitation, without a moment of surrendering to shame. “I noticed you out there once or twice when I should have been sleeping. I knew that you were lonely because you didn’t know that we were looking up at the same moon at the same time.” While I traced the ribbon around his wrist, he said, “It was my dream to show you— to make you feel that you’re not alone.”

Even if I achieved my goal of learning every language in the world, would I have ever learned the words with which to respond to something so beautiful? I don’t think so. I believe there are some moments when the only response can be silence.

I almost wanted to ask how he knew that I would be out there on that particular night. I almost wanted to know how the flower he held had broken. I came close to asking if he held it together in his warm, soft hands long after it was unsalvageable because he hoped as much as I did that the universe had gifted him with the supernatural ability to mend gaping wounds with his touch.

I bit my tongue, though, because the concept of fate enchanted me as a mysterious force that should not have to suffer through questioning. It was romantic enough to hear from Taemin’s mouth that we were brought together by the moon that I turned the page on those questions without regret.

Taking my next drink of champagne, I again chose dare, hoping for another chance to kiss my Taemin’s lips after he made my heart flutter with his talk about the moon.

Perhaps reading my mind or maybe wanting to feel my breath as much as I needed to feel his to thank the universe for the gift of the time together, Taemin said, “Kiss me for two minutes, please.”

That time, when Taemin started his timer, I hoped that by some miracle or happy accident, the alarm would never send me back to my appropriate side of the couch. I wanted to melt into him, to lose myself in him. It didn’t matter if I should ever distinguish myself from him again. Here— with him— is where I am happiest.

That time, when Taemin whispered, “My Lei,” against my skin, I didn��t cringe at the thought that I— all of me, every thought locked away in my mind, every fear hidden in the darkest corners of my heart— belonged to him.

Maybe that’s not the best way to phrase it. Maybe I mean to say that I didn’t cringe at the thought that all of me, even the parts that I considered fruitless or dangerous or flawed, belonged with Taemin. I don’t know.

Setting aside the semantics that certainly didn’t matter to me at the time, my heart stirred at Taemin’s whisper. I took both of his hands in mine and laced our fingers together as if that would forever tether me to the moment.

Time ran out as it always does and always will. After Taemin silenced the alarm, I stalled in peeling myself away from him. As cliche as this sounds, I swear that it’s true: it was almost painful to be separated.

Taemin noticed, or maybe he felt a pull toward me too. Swallowing champagne, he chose dare. He probably expected me to dare him to kiss me for as long as he wanted because I was tired of the alarm jolting us apart.

I don’t know how to describe my excitement when he leaned forward onto his knees and laid beside me on my side of the couch. It was a burning sensation that crawled up from the tips of my toes, pooled in my stomach, spread from my chest to the fingertips that reached out to trace his smile, and heated every inch of my face.

I don’t know how long we kissed that time, but I know that there was no coherent thought in my head by the time Taemin left me with tingling swollen lips. Maybe he deprived me of too much oxygen. Maybe the alcohol caught up with me all at once as my pulse quickened with each of his lingering touches.

Taemin swears that I was drunk on New Year’s Eve, but I can’t tell you for certain because I never felt like that— hot, honest, uninhibited, stuck in slow-motion— since that one night spent in his room. Because these memories embarrass me still, I have sworn off alcohol just to safely avoid circumstances that yield reckless choices.

Almost laughing at my dazed open-mouth expression, Taemin wondered aloud, “What are you thinking about?” while running his thumb over my crescent moon earring that matched his.

If he expected me to say anything profound, he must have been disappointed when I asked through bubbling giggles, “Do you think it’s physically possible for me to drown in your kiss?”

No disappointment was visible on his laughing face. If he wasn’t affected by the alcohol, I don’t know what his excuse was for muttering, “Let’s find out,” before fitting his lips with mine for the millionth time.

I am bashful about relating these acts of affection to you. I am not in any way ashamed about having kissed Taemin. It’s just— you know that I don’t regularly engage in this sort of behavior. I never really considered that I would ever breathe in sync or move in sync with anybody before Taemin found me in that hour of loneliness in the garden.

It didn’t come to me naturally at first— succumbing to that eternal pull toward him, the one who set me alight with his tender touch— but once the habit developed, I would never break it. Maybe I couldn’t even if I wake up one day and decide to try.

Anyway, there is something inherently nerve-rattling about carrying what happens in the dark in the company of the stars into daylight. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by telling you everything that happened after the rising of the moon, but I— I guess I want nothing more than to share my happiness with you. I guess I want you to know that happiness is him: Taemin, my star.

After all the nights of narrowly missing Taemin’s lips, I suppose that the damn burst all at once with the bursting of fireworks. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand him, but I don’t have to understand Taemin to know that I am in love with him. That’s why I’m trying to stop seeing the world in the logical way I have tried to add and subtract everything else in my life. I accept that some things— some emotions— some people are not meant to be put into words.

It’s beautiful that Taemin is one such person.

Undoubtedly drowning in Taemin’s scent of roses, I broke from the kiss to ask, grinning from ear to ear like an absolute fool, “Do you think I could get drunk from this kiss?”

And— I squirm at this memory— he said, “I think I already am.”

The very words that almost make me cringe in hindsight washed over me like a stories-high wave that swept me to the shore where Taemin’s lips molded with mine again, still not tired, still not bored, still so sweet and gentle but not at all timid. He convinced me that I was made for this— I was made for him— and I think I still believe that now that I am sober and the sun has risen and, for a blink in the universe, he is not reading over my shoulder.

I ruined what very well could have been a perfect knee-weakening memory by sitting up to suggest, “Let’s play strip poker!”

Taemin laughed out loud. He gripped his sides because they were splitting until he realized that I wasn’t joking. Likely rattled by my serious expression that contradicted the last several minutes spent giggling between kisses, he gasped. “Are you being serious?”

I must have been intoxicated. Had I been sober, that suggestion would have been a joke or, at the very least, I would have had the wit to pass off a genuine (humiliating) desire as an absent-minded attempt at flirting. Instead, I nodded, reaching out to card my fingers through his hair. “I’m always serious, sweet Taemin.”

“Sweet Taemin?” The broad smile that brightened his face now brightens my memories. Forcing his lips into an exaggerated pout, he said, “I don’t have cards, jagi, so we can’t play strip poker. I’m sorry.”

“Darn.” I frowned, brow furrowing as I traced my fingers over Taemin’s lips that pervaded my every blurry thought. “Oh well. I don’t know how to play poker anyway.” And then, when I should have dropped the subject before any harm was done, I asked, “Can we play strip rock-paper-scissors instead, Taeminnie?”

Taemin snorted. “Well,” he spoke in a soft hum that almost definitely meant no.

Being more shameless in that moment than I had been in my entire life, I felt my eyes widen pleadingly. “Please, sweet Taeminnie?” My bottom lip poked out from my frown, and my hands pressed together as if to pray.

He sighed, “Well, alright,” and then winked as if he planned to give me my way all along.

I squealed and clapped my hands as I sat upright on my arm of the couch. After I gulped another unneeded mouthful of champagne, Taemin took the bottle and set it behind his side of the couch so I couldn’t reach it without straining.

I wasn’t disappointed for long. Holding his fist out, Taemin wiggled his eyebrows. “Ready, jagi?”

Giggling, I nodded my head until I was dizzy and the game commenced.

It was fun at first because Taemin lost the first two rounds. I think he liked that I rolled my eyes and shouted, “Booooooooriiiiiing,” when he started by removing his black socks. Then, he laughed as air passed through my rounded lips— a poor imitation of a whistle— when he slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

Lowering back onto the couch, Taemin was careful to sit straight so that I could see each of his muscles. “Like what you see?” He smirked as if the answer wasn’t evident from my unadulterated stare and agape mouth. Like it tickled, he laughed when I reached to poke one of the muscles protruding in his abdomen because (even then) I needed proof that he wasn’t just a dream.

My winning streak didn’t last long. I was all too easy to beat, too compromised by alcohol and the mind-numbing sight of my boyfriend to even notice that I lost until he giggled.

After I shrugged out of Taemin’s jacket, dropping and forgetting it on the floor, I lost again. Without shoes or socks to shed, I stood and almost gnawed through my cheek as I reached for the cold zipper at the base of my neck. For the better part of five minutes, Taemin just watched me struggle with the zipper.

Maybe he thought I was stalling to remain clothed for as long as possible, but the truth— that’s too embarrassing to admit. Suffice it to say that, having suggested the game in the first place, I was not stalling.

When the sparkling midnight blue fabric fell at my bare feet, we both screamed.

Standing before him in only a nude bra and a pair of skin-toned Spanx, too stunned by my own action to look away from his widened eyes, I stuttered, “I— I can’t do this. Or can I?” Glancing down at myself, blushing just slightly, I realized, “I guess I already did, so—”

“No,” Taemin said as he stood. Although his eyes were closed, he walked to me without stumbling and draped his discarded shirt over my shoulders. Once I fit my arms through the silky sleeves that hung past my fingertips, Taemin opened his eyes to button the shirt most of the way up. He avoided my bewildered gaze, saying, “I’m sorry. I was just playing around. I didn’t think that you would actually do that. I’m so sorry, Lei.”

Because I couldn’t understand why he was apologizing when we had only played the game by its rules, I asked, “What’s wrong? Did I mess something up again?”

I must have cried. I can still feel Taemin’s thumbs brushing my cheeks just under my eyes. I hate that. I hate that I lost all inhibitions. I hate that I cried in front of Taemin just because his solemn expression terrified me to the core. I hate that I had no choice in whether or how to express the emotions I would have preferred to hide.

“No,” he whispered before enveloping me in a hug that was probably supposed to prove that nothing was wrong. He pulled my bangs out of my face and brushed his lips across my forehead. “You didn’t mess anything up. It just— if we keep going, I think you’ll regret it in the morning. I never want you to regret anything you do with me.”

“I wouldn’t regret it.” Suddenly too flustered, too ashamed to meet his eyes, I looped my arms around his waist and leaned forward to put my ear to his heartbeat. What once had been slow, confident, unaffected by my proximity was now rapid, anxious, all because of me.

“Please,” Taemin begged, “don’t say things like that when I’m trying to do the right thing.”

Before I could continue to childishly argue that there was no reason to pace ourselves or resist each other if we wanted the same things, Taemin tightened his grip around my waist and pulled me flush against his warm body. He held me there in the silence for what felt like eternities before swinging me, as if I was as light as a feather, toward his bed.

He sang, “Let’s go to sleep,” and smiled his smile that grew more familiar with each passing second. A beauty of my memories and my present confined no longer to photographs and my wildest dreams.

He pulled back the plush white blanket to expose white sheets, and he tugged me along toward the head of the bed, where he collapsed against soft cloud pillows.

“But I don’t wanna go to bed,” I whined, refusing to lay with him. “I’m not tired!”

Taemin laughed when I reached for the champagne bottle. His hand wrapped around my waist, tickling me through his shirt, and pulled me to the center of the bed so that my back pressed against his side. “Let’s cuddle, then. Come here and talk to me.”

I mumbled, “That’s my favorite thing to do,” and rolled onto my side so I could see him.

As I started to trace my name onto his chest with my index finger, Taemin chuckled. “What’s your favorite thing? Cuddling or talking to me?”

“Both,” I answered without hesitation. My eyes flickered up to his face. He was so beautiful that I had to tell him. “Do you know why?”

“No.” Taemin shook his head, which he propped on the arm resting atop his pillow. “Why, jagi?”

“You’re my favorite person,” I told him plainly, “because you’re beautiful.”

“I’m beautiful?” Taemin gasped like he never before received the compliment.

“Didn’t you know?” I removed my hand from his chest to cup his cheek, which bulged under the weight of his sparkling toothy grin. “You’re so pretty, Taemin. You’re the prettiest person in the whole world. You’re prettier than the sun and the moon and all of the stars. You’re brighter than all of them, too, and I love you more than them and—”

True to his earlier promise to silence me with a kiss whenever I ramble, Taemin used both hands to pull me atop him and, resting one hand at the nape of my neck, he brought my lips to his.

“This is my other favorite thing to do,” I confessed, looking down at him with a smile I hope rivaled the radiance of the sun. “I never want to stop kissing you.”

Taemin breathed, “Then don’t,” so sweetly that I kissed him over and over again until the sun rose or my eyes fluttered closed in a deep sleep— whichever came first.

My stomach didn’t knot at any of the night’s events until the morning sun broke through the window, unobstructed by blinds or curtains, and pried my eyes open with a dull headache. When my bare legs brushed against the fabric of Taemin’s dress pants, I flinched away from him, sat upright, and choked on a gasp.

I glanced at his sleeping form, barely getting to admire the half of his face that wasn’t buried in the cloud white pillow before my eyes zeroed in on the fact that his back— his entire upper body— was bare.

He was shirtless and right next to me. I was pants-less (except for my shapewear) and right next to him.

And in those few seconds before the previous night’s events came back to crush me under the weight of utter humiliation, I think my instinct was to run before Taemin could notice. I hate admitting that after I swore in champagne-induced honesty that I would regret nothing.

A confession: I was not trying to run away from regret. I was trying to run from a terrifyingly unfamiliar sense of desire that I— well, just use your imagination or something.

I swept Taemin’s jacket off of the floor and pulled my phone out of the pocket, only to be greeted with a wall of missed calls from Lucas. Because it wasn’t even nine o’clock and we had no set schedule, to say that I was worried that Lucas was awake— let alone blowing my phone up— was an understatement.

I wasted no time in calling him back on my tiptoed sprint into Taemin’s bathroom.

Lucas answered as I set to removing last night’s smudged eyeliner with a cloth I found in a cabinet. “Where are you?” he asked in place of ‘hello.’

While I had been cognizant enough pre-champagne to text Mom that I was crashing at the SuperM house— careful to exclude the part about sleeping in Taemin’s bed— I hadn’t thought to check in with Lucas.

“The SuperM house,” I replied, sinking at the thought that he might have been worried about me. “Specifically, I’m hiding in my—” I was going to say ‘my boyfriend,’ but my mouth couldn’t quite form the word— “Taemin’s bathroom.”

“Your Taemin’s bathroom?” From the wave-like inflection in Lucas’s voice, I could envision his wiggling eyebrows. I imagined that his bright, teasing smile faded into a frown before he asked, “Wait, hiding? What are you hiding from?”

I was hiding from the fact that I had woken up half-naked in bed with a half-naked Taemin. I was hiding from the truth that had he not drawn a line in the sand, had he not been the first to close the door, I would have given him everything. All it took was a little bit of champagne for me to lose all sense of dignity, and I— why couldn’t I regret anything?

There was no way in hell I was going to say any of that to Lucas, though. Instead, I said, “I don’t want to wake Taemin while talking to you.” I was picking among truths.

Lucas’s silence carried his belief that I was hiding something, but I clung to my secrets. “Why did you call me a million times?”

“Oh yeah. That.” Lucas chuckled. “Heechul and Donghae—”

At their names, the two men felt compelled to bicker within Lucas’s earshot.

Lucas sighed, “Well, you’ll just have to come home to get a clear read on this situation.”

Eager for an excuse to race home before Taemin could see my scarlet cheeks and tempt me into lovesick decisions, I asked, “Do you need me to come home now?”

Lucas’s response was delayed. He probably knew that I was trying to run, so he took his time in carefully structuring his response. “I think Heechul and Donghae will still be here long after you spend time with Taemin.”

As if stirred awake by the most recent utterance of his name, Taemin knocked on the door. “Lei, jagi, are you in here?” His voice was raspy with fatigue.

“I’ll see you when you get home,” Lucas said before hanging up, leaving me to confront the tension that set butterflies ablaze in my gut.

Setting my phone down on the counter, I told Taemin, “It’s unlocked.”

When he walked through the doorway, I couldn’t look at him for long. He was still shirtless and much prettier now that he was awake and smiling at me. I couldn’t breathe.

While my gaze averted toward the white marble counter, he filled the space behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pressed a soft kiss to my temple. He stood so close that the warmth of his bare skin radiated through the back of my (his) shirt.

“I thought you left,” he whispered, tightening his embrace, “before I could tell you again that I love you.”

The intimacy of this entire scene— being this close to Taemin after sleeping in his bed, wearing only his shirt over my undergarments, having spent and continuing to spend time in this place that was neither a hotel nor my bedroom but his space— burned me alive.

I said, “I love you too,” because I did even when I trembled like a leaf tempted to flutter away from the life-giving branch.

Taemin must have sensed my anxiety. His touch softened as his hand reached my chin, urging me to meet our reflection. “Look at us,” he breathed, and my eyes opened.

Our faces were swollen from sleep, and Taemin’s eyes were smudged by faint traces of makeup that he hadn’t wiped away the night before— the first night that he hadn’t prioritized his skincare routine— and my eyes were wide with some emotion that I can only describe as fear— but Taemin said, “We’re beautiful.”

Then, I saw the gentle, angelic smile that curved his lips— the lips I kissed a million times to claim as mine— and I saw the spark in his eyes, and I felt the way his chest rose and fell against my back. I saw that the blush burning my face was a pretty rosy pink that matched the color spread across every visible inch of his skin down to the fingertips, and I saw that the same spark in his eyes was alight in mine, and I felt that trembling at Taemin’s presence was okay. Trembling in Taemin’s embrace was the appropriate, proper, natural response.

He was right: we are beautiful.

“I’m happy,” I told him in case it wasn’t apparent from my sigh as I melted into him. “You should be the first person I see every morning.”

Taemin smiled before releasing me and walking to his cabinet. He returned to my side, offered me a toothbrush, and winked before brushing his teeth. “I usually am these days, aren’t I?”

His wink made my stomach do somersaults.

Tingling as I fit the toothbrush into my mouth, I shrugged. I thought long and hard before spitting into the sink and filling the morning air with the declaration, “I’m talking about forever, Taemin.”

Taemin blinked at me so many times that I thought the suds from his facewash had fallen into his eyes through his thick lashes. When he continued blinking after his face was rinsed and dried, I clarified, bold in my convictions despite his silence, “You should be the first person I see for the rest of forever. Or at least that’s what I think. At least that’s what I want.”

“I—” Taemin wheezed.

That’s when I started to panic: when Taemin fell into uncharacteristic silence. Leaning against the cold counter, I closed my eyes, rubbed my temples, and replayed all of our conversations. I knew that I hadn’t been the first to mention forever. Taemin was. Just last night at the party, just before he kissed me, he said that he would love me forever.

Had that been a sweet nothing with which to fill the silence? I knew that a lot of people say forever without meaning it, but I— I never have. I thought Taemin was like me: someone who feels the weight of forever. I didn’t think that he would say something like that just to say it, just to hear it said back, just to make me fall in love with a fairytale illusion.

I think I know enough of broken hearts to tell you that mine was shattered before Taemin wrapped his arms around me. His touch filled every void, healed every wound, and I knew how happy that rose was to have been held by him that night in our garden.

“You made me so happy just then,” he whispered in my ear, “that I forgot how to speak.”

Just like that, he mended and melted my heart. Just like that, he opened my eyes to his sincere smile, and I had to tell him, “You hold all of my heart in the palm of your hand, Taemin.”

He told me, still in a whisper pressed to my ear, “You hold all of mine too, Lei. Forever.”

Staring forever in the face didn’t seem so scary anymore.

Before I could even try to comb through the bird’s nest on my head, Taemin tightened his grip around my waist and lifted me off of the cold tiled floor, not quite high enough to trigger my fear of falling.

“Come on, jagi.” Once we stood in his bedroom, he motioned for me to climb onto his back. “ Let's make breakfast downstairs!”

Knowing well that— combined— Taemin and I had a total of about fifteen minutes’ worth of experience in the kitchen, I decided that it would be fun to visit unexplored territory with him. It would be like playing house, a game that hadn’t interested me since early childhood years in Grandma’s kitchen in Atlanta.

My ankle healed almost entirely overnight, so I didn’t need Taemin to carry me. I think I never needed him to carry me in the first place, but maybe I wanted him to. Maybe I liked having romantic k-drama moments with him when nobody could see and laugh and point out that I looked out of place in such a scene.

Because Taemin giggled loudly every time I dropped a kiss on his cheek, neck, or shoulders while descending the stairs, I didn’t hear any signs that Ten stood in the kitchen. Given that I was a guest in the SuperM house, I guess I should have been prepared to see another member at some point, but I would never have expected to see an outsider— a girl!

Before I hid my burning face in the crook of Taemin’s neck, I watched the girl trail her fingers down Ten’s arms, bare under his ruffled pink apron. I watched her long black hair fall over his shoulders as she tried to distract him from the sizzling stovetop with open-mouth kisses pressed to Ten’s jawline. All at once, I realized that both of them were almost completely naked.

All I could think was that the girl, even though I couldn’t see her face, was stunning in the way that she carried herself without any degree of shame.

Why couldn’t I be like that? Is shamelessness an inherent trait, or can one learn it and call it confidence?

I stifled my surprised gasp against the skin of Taemin’s shoulder, but Ten must have heard anyway. He somehow must have turned his eyes away from the girl long enough to find me clinging to Taemin at the foot of the stairs.

He said, “Hey, Lei!” in a bright tone that didn’t imply the embarrassment that would have seized me should anyone catch me in an intimate act with Taemin. “Have fun ringing in the new year?”

Although I couldn’t bring myself to meet Ten’s teasing gaze, I knew that he believed that a scene similar to the one playing out in the kitchen had played out in Taemin’s bedroom. Too embarrassed to speak even to try to correct him, I kept my eyes fixed on Taemin’s back as I straightened my legs, relieved by his willingness to let me go.

I hoped that Taemin was the only person who watched my dash through the front door, clad in only his shirt that— thankfully— reached my mid-thigh.

“Goodbye,” Taemin called after me through laughter. I was glad that he wasn’t offended that I left without breakfast. “I’ll call you later!”

To my further humiliation, Ten laughed too.

. . .

Had I been thinking clearly, I would have entered the house through my bedroom window instead of running around to the front door, shivering in the cold. It’s a miracle that I was greeted only by Lucas, who was too busy scribbling on a piece of paper on the coffee table to notice me until I closed the door with a soft click. It’s a miracle that Mom, Donghae, and Heechul were too involved in their discussion in the kitchen to notice that I stood in the living room, cheeks painted red by the winter wind and the vulnerability of existing only in Taemin’s shirt.

Rubbing at my temples, where a headache formed at Heechul’s sudden increase in volume, I groaned, “And here I thought we were finally at the happy ending.”

Lucas’s brow furrowed. He chewed on his chapped bottom lip as if he hadn’t heard me.

My frown was instinctual, a natural response to the absence of my best friend’s smile that accompanied every hello and brightened every day. “Are you okay?” My voice was gentle as I tiptoed to sit by his side. Reaching for the paper, the focus of his glare, I asked, “What are you drawing?”

No matter how intently I stared at the list of names and lines and hearts penned in rainbows of crayon colors, I couldn’t make out any picture until Lucas replied, voice raspy from a lack of sleep— maybe he tried and failed to fall asleep during the Super Junior New Years Afterparty— “Our family tree.”

At the top of the page was Mom written in pink, sandwiched between orange Donghae and red Heechul. Lines connected my name, a pretty shade of blue that reminded me of a daytime sky, and Lucas’s, a deep purple, to Mom’s to mark us as her children. Then, a line accented with hearts linked my name to Taemin’s, and almost illegible yellow, to define us as soulmates.

Below my name and Taemin’s was an unfamiliar title: “Lucas Tue,” written in green.

Cocking my head, I pointed to that foreign name. “Who’s that?”

The relief that overwhelmed me when Lucas broke his concentrated scowl to grin from ear to ear was shortlived. I choked on my breath when he explained, “That’s yours and Taemin’s baby! See how I wrote his name in green? That’s because he’s the perfect blend of you— blue— and Taemin— yellow!”

It was kind of cute that Lucas spent just as much time as I did (if not more) imagining a future with Taemin.

Rather than reminding Lucas that there was no baby or insisting him that there wouldn’t be one for quite some time, I asked, “Is this supposed to be an alternate spelling of, like, Lucas 2? As in, you expect me and Taemin to name our child after you?”

Lucas nodded eagerly. “I think it’s pretty clever. To make it less confusing, I propose we call the little ray of sunshine ‘Tue.’”

I blinked at Lucas, nearly on the verge of laughter. “If it’s really important to you, I’ll talk this over with Taemin, but my vote on this name suggestion is a resounding no.”

The wide-eyed offended expression that dashed across Lucas’s face easily gave way to a goofy grin as he swung his arm over my shoulder and ruffled a hand through my knotted hair. He laughed in my ear. “Aw! You want a baby with Taemin!” He cheered so loudly that Mom, Donghae, and Heechul should have heard.

I guess they didn’t, thank God, because none of them came barreling out of the kitchen.

“Cut it out!” I blushed as I wiggled out of Lucas’s embrace, inciting more teasing laughter. I flipped over the family tree so it couldn’t fluster me further. “Why are you drawing family trees anyway?”

“I’m trying to make sense of the world around me.” Lucas shrugged, staring blankly at the SpongeBob episode playing on the television. “Donghae is Mom’s boyfriend, but Heechul is the one who’s almost always here for dinner and dramas. Now that they’re both competing for roles in Mom’s life, I’m wondering which one is our dad.”

I gawked at Lucas. I was amazed by his genuine sense of confusion.

“Neither is our dad,” I said, thinking that should have been obvious. Instead of reminding Lucas that Mom was my Mom like I probably did at the dawn of our friendship, I told him, “Family units don’t need strict clear cut roles, you know. All that matters is that we’re happiest when we’re together. Donghae and Heechul should realize that they don’t have to compete for a place in Mom’s life and ours by extension.”

Lucas folded our family tree into a paper airplane as he considered my perspective. Pursing his lips, he conceded, “You’re probably right.”

I tugged my knees toward my chest. Crossing my arms and laying my head against the bend of my elbow, I breathed in the scent of roses on Taemin’s shirt. My shirt. The shirt I would keep (probably) forever.

“I’m almost always right,” I boasted, sending Lucas an uncharacteristic wink. I don’t know what was wrong with me. Happiness makes me weird.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lucas rolled his eyes even as he grinned. His eyebrows pinched together as he gathered the fabric of my sleeve between his fingers. “Hey, where’d you get this shirt?”

The resurfacing memories — the memories that I admit never once sunk below the surface, if I’m entirely honest— of Taemin from that morning and last night and every night passed that he had stolen my heart piece by piece struck me speechless. I couldn’t explain that the shirt once belonged to him while my heart swelled in my chest, knotting my throat and stomach and everything in its path.

While I struggled to breathe, Lucas’s eyes trailed down to my legs. His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and I almost wanted to laugh at his expression, but I was suddenly far too embarrassed to do anything but hide my face in my cloud-soft sleeve.

“Lei!” Lucas shrieked in a whisper because he didn’t want to attract attention from our parental figures. “What happened to your pants?”

All I said was, “Shut up, Lucas,” too mortified to meet his gaze.

Rather than staying to endure his interrogation, which I knew even in the darkest depths of embarrassment was genuine well-intentioned curiosity, I stood, pulled the bottom hem of Taemin’s shirt as far down my thighs as it would go, and ran upstairs to my bedroom. Somehow, I went undetected by Mom, Donghae, and Heechul.

Believe me: I appreciated that freedom while it lasted.

Until I was alone behind the closed door, stepping into white pajama pants that were a little too big because they once belonged to Lucas, it didn’t occur to me that my silence might have been damaging to my reputation. Yes, I thought of my reputation even with Lucas. No, I really hadn’t changed from the paranoid principled person I had been at the start of this tale. I’m sorry.

My silence implied that there was a scandalous reason why my dress laid on Taemin’s floor. Whatever scene Lucas imagined when I ran up the stairs was probably similar to whatever Ten imagined when he found me at the foot of the stars.

I can’t tell you why I squirmed at that thought. I should have been comforted by the reality that a.) nothing that scandalous happened beyond eternal kisses and an embarrassing game of rock-paper-scissors and b.) I wouldn’t have taken it back for anybody if something that scandalous had happened beyond eternal kisses and an embarrassing game of rock-paper-scissors.

But I wasn’t comforted. My stomach coiled with the realization that people thought I threw away every rule and reservation for Taemin.

It was true. With ease, Taemin walked through every door, even the ones I swore I locked. He made me want to fall face-first into the sky, but you probably couldn’t tell from my forced grip around the safety rail, ever submissive to the fear of falling alone, still scared that he couldn’t catch me even if he fulfilled his promise to try.

No longer consumed by the tension between Mom and Donghae because I could hear their laughter interrupting Heechul’s rant about who-knows-what, no longer distracted by the demands of the tour, my only thought was Taemin. And it wasn’t because we finally shared our first million kisses or because he was unashamed to lay shirtless by my side or because he set me on fire with his touch.

Taemin pervaded every idle daydream because of those moments when he made me feel safe. Maybe all I ever wanted was security, and I found it in his steady heartbeat. Maybe I found it in the way his shirt hugged me and made my skin smell like roses. Maybe I could never let go.

Maybe I hated that Ten could pervert pure love with his playful smirk. Maybe I never bothered to correct him by explaining that bond formed in the garden— which exceded the limits of all words anyway— for fear of misunderstanding or seeming as vulnerable as I had always been behind my mask.

Maybe I was shy, and maybe I always would be, but there was— is— there is a part of me that wants to shout from every rooftop that I will be forever in love with Taemin because every moment is like that first in the garden. A part of me wants to tell everyone that everything else, every hand held and kiss shared and love-stained word whispered in the dark has been an act of gratitude because he saw me.

Taemin saw me. Taemin loved me.

And sometimes, I realize that I still don’t know how to thank him or God or fate or the universe or whoever I’m supposed to thank for miracles.

I was contemplating this, my blooming garden of miracles, when Taemin’s voice filled my quiet room. “I have something for you, jagi.”

My scream would have brought Heechul and Donghae racing up the stairs (likely bickering about who gets to obliterate the demon serial burglar who dared to burst through my window in broad daylight) had Taemin not silenced it with a long kiss as he climbed onto my bed, where I had been laying with my eyes closed.

“Here you go.” He dropped a rose— the fragmented one from the party, which I must have forgotten somewhere again— onto my pillow. It landed by the crook of my neck and tickled my skin with its petals.

“Thank you,” I smiled.

Before Taemin could secure me in the embrace I never wanted to wake from, I walked over to my vanity. Catching my cheerful blush in the mirror, only briefly meeting Taemin’s gaze through the glass, I fit the rose into the vase with all of the others. “What about Baekhyun’s flower crown, my dress, and my heels?”

“They’re in my room.” Taemin kicked his shoes off onto the floor and rolled onto his back to lay his head on one of my pillows. “I can only carry so much when I scale up the side of your house.”

Something in his childish tone made me laugh as I crossed the distance back to him. “Noted, Taem. If climbing is such a struggle for you, why don’t you just come in through the front door?”

It was impossible, unrealistic, the dream that we could ever love out in the open, but I think I wanted it. I wanted to live in the world where we didn’t have to watch our shadows, look around every corner, lock every closed door. I just didn’t know how to get there, and I couldn’t ask Taemin to lead me to a place that didn’t exist.

Taemin winked. “Isn’t it more fun this way? Sneaking around like we have something to hide—” he sat up to whisper in my ear, unable to see the goosebumps that formed down my arms concealed by his shirt— “isn’t it exciting?”

My face burned, but I didn’t shrink away from Taemin’s voice or the kiss he placed on my cheek as my gaze fell onto my hands pressed flat in my lap. Breathless because of his proximity, I was almost too bashful to admit in my faintest whisper, “Everything is exciting with you, my Taemin.”

“Look at me.” His command was more of a desperate plea.

When I couldn’t obey, not even to see his brilliant smile, because all of me was on fire, Taemin dropped to his knees before me as he had in one of our American hotel rooms once upon a time.

It couldn’t have happened just a few months ago. A few months is too short to contain an infinity. And yet, my love for Taemin existed outside of time, perhaps owing to the years of admiring him as an idol from afar, or the decades of secretly dreaming that somebody like him existed and was bound to come my way on some unforeseen river rapid, or maybe—

Maybe owing to the soul bond signified by the blue ribbon on his wrist.

“Lei,” Taemin said my name so beautifully, “there’s no reason to be embarrassed. You can look into my eyes and call me yours because it’s true.” His hands cupped my cheeks like he expected me to burst into tears.

I didn’t want to cry, though. I only wanted to smile. So I did.

“Really?” I probably looked like a baby staring down at him with eyes blown wide with wonder, but I don’t mind. I don’t mind being vulnerable with him. “You don’t think I’m moving too quickly or being too clingy, or—”

Taemin’s peel of laughter made me laugh too. He said, “Honestly, I think you should move as quickly as you want. You can be clingier. I told you, I like it when you’re like this. Do it more, please?”

It was almost impossible to deny him when he looked at me like that, like I was his favorite part of the world. I crumbled. I fell a little deeper. I wanted to be anything he wanted, knowing that all he wanted was me unrestrained.

I told him, “It’s hard to hold back from you.”

Returning to my side to hold me even though the sun was casting its rays across our faces, he urged, “Then don’t.”

But I— I had to hold some parts for myself, right? I had to keep some things locked in that internal box so they would be intact should a storm blow through and destroy everything or— worse— should he gather his things, including the pieces of me, to continue on his separate way. I— I had to at least be able to tell my future self that I tried to prepare for the worst.

“Please,” I begged, reaching for the television remote on my nightstand to downplay my reference, “don’t say things like that when I’m trying to do the right thing.”

I tried to ignore the ensuing silence and distract myself from Taemin’s stare by flicking through a thousand boring channels.

Taemin didn’t react well to losing my attention. He moved to sit before me, deliberately blocking the television so that there was no choice but to meet his eyes despite the resurgence of butterflies.

“So,” he laughed bashfully when I raised my eyebrows. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck. “You remember— um— that?”

I nodded, blushing mainly because he blushed first. I picked at a button on my shirt. “I remember well enough to quote it.”

All he said was, “Oh,” before he crawled back to my side and pressed his back to the headboard.

I didn’t know what to say or what to make of his “Oh,” which was over too quickly to carry any tone with which to gauge his thoughts. Turning my gaze, which followed Taemin everywhere, to the television, I hoped (as always) that the tension would disappear— or at least stop growing— if I didn’t acknowledge it.

It was like I hadn’t learned anything from my journey of self-discovery. And why? Because I was blushing? Was my hard-won strength really so fragile?

No.

Having outgrown foolish, childish coping mechanisms, I rolled my eyes at myself and admitted that it was unfair to leave all silences for Taemin to break just because I was afraid to accidentally shatter something that never should have been mine. I read once that progress isn’t always linear, so I kept that in mind when meeting Taemin’s eyes.

He had gotten there first. He was watching me. Waiting for me. Quietly. Patiently. Maybe he knew that it was my turn to speak first.

“I don’t regret anything that happened last night,” I admitted in one breath. “Maybe I should because I have never kissed anybody like that before, and I’ve definitely never taken my dress off in front of anyone before. I don’t know how much I should blame the champagne, but I know I acted like a fool. The problem— if you can really call it a problem, and I know you wouldn’t— is that I don’t mind being a fool for you.”

If Lionel Ritchie and Diana Ross could sing that in “Endless Love,” then I could say it to Taemin. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

Taemin beamed at my honesty as he always did. Sensing that it was safe to do so, he draped an arm over my shoulders and pulled me into his side. Normally, nobody lies to feel small, but I was comfortable sinking into his embrace.

He said, “I don’t regret last night either,” apparently forgetting his apologetic efforts to get our night back on track after we screamed. “I never regret any moment shared with you. I kinda thought you were adorable, to be honest.”

“Adorable?” I scoffed through my grin. “You define things weirdly.”

“Nuh-uh,” Taemin argued with the shake of his head. “It’s cute when you cling to me and tell me that you love me more than the sun, the moon, and all the stars. Adorable!”

Blushing at the restatement of my ramblings, I said, “I’m not arguing with you. Things like cuteness and beauty are subjective, so—”

I was going to say that he just had weird taste by my standards, but Taemin interrupted. “Not this time! Objectively, my composed, dignified Lei is graceful— my emotionally expressive Lei looking up at the moon is beautiful— and my carefree, affectionate, drunk-on-kisses-and-champagne Lei—”

Composed and dignified once more, if even for a fleeting second, I interjected, “I was not drunk.”

But Taemin didn’t so much as dignify that with a pointed argumentative look. “You were precious last night. I was happy to see you without a worry in the world even if it was a once in a lifetime event I play over and over again like our first kiss or meeting in the garden or receiving your ribbon.”

Oh, I smiled, so he revisits our memories too.

Because I had been dying to know for as long as he wore my ribbon and I couldn’t remember if I was ever brave enough to ask, I seized the chance to wonder out loud, “Why do you love me, Taemin?”

I didn’t doubt him. At that point, I would have believed any beautiful lie he wanted to tell. I just— maybe this is vain, but I loved to hear what he thought of me spoken into the world.

Taemin glanced away from his ribbon, which I traced with my free hand, or at our interlaced fingers— whichever he was studying— to fix all of his attention on my curious stare. His eyes didn’t widen in surprise; they crinkled joyfully like I had finally stumbled upon the question he longed to receive because he held the perfect answer.

“Come close,” he said, feeling as I did that sitting hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, was not nearly enough, “and I’ll tell you.”

At his command, I leaned closer like I wanted to all along.

A shiver ran down my spine when he whispered in my ear, “Beauty aside, you’re the gentlest spirit in the whole world. You always walk on your toes, and you look both ways before crossing the street, and you’re sensitive to every change in the wind, and you burn brighter than the sun, but you never try to mark anybody with your flame.”

I hummed, perplexed that anybody could equate me, the girl who found her reflection on the moon, with something like the bold and beautiful sun. I didn’t argue with Taemin, though. I was too lost in his voice to find mine. I thought that his worldview was more beautiful than mine, and I imagined that by holding him and hearing him I could live in his world.

Deep down, I think I always wanted to live by the sun. Maybe Taemin didn’t see me how I was— he definitely didn’t see me as I saw myself— but he saw me as I wanted to be.

He continued, “You think you’re as mysterious as the moon and stars. Sometimes, I want to let you believe that because they’re your idols and I know why. It’s because they taught you how to shine in the dark. I understand, but— even if you’re a mystery to yourself and the people who haven’t been lucky enough to hold the sun— you’re not a mystery to me.”

“Taemin,” I wanted to say, but I couldn’t speak.

“I see you clearly,” Taemin boasted, wearing this smile that was childlike in its beauty like seeing me in this figurative sense gave him an advantage over every other person in the world. “I always have. How could I not love you with all of my heart?”

“Taemin,” I finally breathed raggedly because his name was the only thing to say.

Still, he wasn’t finished speaking. He could have talked forever, and I would have listened forever. He pointed out the window. Because he drew the curtains on his way in, I had to squint through the blinding light to find our garden off in the distance.

“Notice how I told you all of that in the sunlight?” He tugged me closer and sat me between his legs, clad in black sweatpants, so that my back was pressed to his chest. Holding tight around my waist, almost squeezing the air out of my diaphragm because it wasn’t enough to steal my breath with his words, he laid his head on my shoulder and hummed, “We’re not a dream. We don’t melt or fade in the sunlight, so you don’t have to be afraid for the night to end anymore. I mean it when I say forever, and I don’t mind saying it again and again until that word doesn’t scare you.”

“Taemin,” I breathed again. I was tempted to lie that I wasn’t afraid— which really wasn’t much of a lie when he held me. I almost wanted to tell him that I wasn’t afraid of a forever with him; I was afraid of anything less.

Because there was no room in the air for my fears, I said neither of those things. Cutting my eyes at him, holding absolutely no malice or genuine desire for him to stop, I said, “You’re making my chest hurt. I can’t breathe when you talk like this.”

“Last night,” he reminded me with a smile and the subtle raising of his eyebrows, “you said that you love when I talk to you like this.”

I did. I do.

He would never forget anything that I said on New Year's Eve, and I wouldn’t either. I’ve read that major life events result in a new perspective on life. There is life before the incident, and then there is life after. The incident shines a new light on everything that happened prior, and the incident is woven intricately into the understanding of the present.

Giving Taemin my ribbon was one such incident. Crying with him in the garden was another. New Year's Eve, with all of its kisses and clumsy attempts at intimacy, carried the latest collection of incidents.

True to who he had been since he started wearing the ribbon, Taemin didn’t stop pouring his heart out on me in overflowing portions just so I could catch my breath. He laid us down, holding me flush against his body so I couldn't shiver because of the winter wind blowing in through the open window; I couldn’t hide should the compulsion strike again; I couldn't mistake his sincerity; I couldn’t think to the future beyond his palms pressed to mine and his heart pounding with mine and his lips dancing with mine.

I never thought that anything could better express the soul than words, poetry, a diary addressed to a most beloved friend, a metaphor, music, the piano, the violin, a voice in a foreign tongue that carries your darkest fears into the light that recolors them dreams, a lifelong glance at a sky of moon and stars, watching the sea run and return to the shore at the moon’s command, but Taemin’s kiss. Taemin’s kiss.

It’s strange to say that I found more of myself there than anywhere else. Is that what it means to be soulmates? I don’t know, but I’m going to believe that the answer is yes even if that makes me a fool. Don’t tell me if I’m wrong or delusional or walking in a dream.

e.e. cummings was right: ‘kisses are a better fate than wisdom.’

My thoughts were tangled and blurred, but I remember thinking that I couldn’t breathe, but it would have been harder to breathe if he should ever go away. I remember sighing, relieved that we laid on my bed (that wasn’t nearly as cloud soft as his) because my legs were jelly and I almost certainly couldn’t stand. I remember thinking that this— being with Taemin— was what it felt like to fly.

And I didn’t know how to stop— I didn’t want to stop— so I flew with him until the sun descended and the stars and moon, my old friends, ascended in its place.

And that’s how Mom found us: impossibly close and still, still too far apart.

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truthseekerastrology · 4 years ago

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Chiron Chronicles, Volume Six, November 22, 2020: Venus in Scorpio, Finding Pleasure and Peace in Life’s Pauses.

I probably shouldn't have had that last drink I probably shouldn't have said all the things that I said to you I probably shouldn't have got so loud That's probably why you ain't calling be back right now But I probably shouldn't focus on all the probablys 'cause All that shoulda, woulda, coulda don't mean nothin', no And I know I was trippin' when I should have been lovin' you 'Cause if that shoulda, woulda, coulda did mean somethin' Then I wouldn't be Then I wouldn't be missing what could've been

-- From Shudawudacuda (from the 2017 studio album “Feel The Real” by Musiq Soulchild)

As I sit down to write this month’s edition of #TheChironChronicles, the clock on my phone tells me that It’s 6:17 pm ET. Funny thing though; my computer’s clock begs to differ. It’s showing a time of 4:16pm. It’s been stuck on this time for the last 2 hours.

I don’t know why the clock on my desktop decided to stop at this time, and to be honest with you, I’m not even bothered by it. What’s fascinating is that it honestly didn’t occur to me that time stopped on my computer until about an hour later, around 5:15 or so - I was so engrossed in watching a really powerful video about servant leadership (might be a topic for a future edition of #TheChironChronicles, so stay tuned).

At the moment it occurred to me what was going on, I decided that maybe I needed to cast a chart for this moment, and channel what it’s trying to say to us. With the moon in the reality-bending sign of Pisces, it truly feels like a Twilight Zone, Salvador Dali melting clock moment.

Here’s the chart of the moment the clock on my computer stopped at 4:16pm today:

Right off the bat I noticed two things:

First, Taurus is rising in the late degrees (by the way, this degree aligns very closely with Donald Trump’s career and life purpose angle), which tells me that this is one of those “no turning back” moments.

The Sabian symbol for the 26th degree of Taurus is “A Spaniard serenading his senorita.” Blain Bovee writes the following about this symbol:

“Love floats… There is an element of the magical in Taurus 26. It points to something which can uplift, allure, change the entire quality of experience, in this case, through song. The common 26th degree theme is that of 'suspension' in the sense that something exact just seems to hang there in the moment of experience... something extra.”

When I think of magic, Taurus doesn’t automatically come to mind. But we’re not talking about your garden variety Taurus… the queen of the chart, Venus, is in alchemical Scorpio, and she has the power to stop time in her quest to bring you pleasure.

Venus in Scorpio is an all or nothing Venus.. a whips and chains Venus, a dark magic Venus. She wants us to open up completely to pleasure, and will pull out all of the stops. She tests our limits. Sometimes physical pain will be involved. She will stop at nothing to tempt us away from the mundane. She is a fishnet stocking stiletto heels corset wearing Venus, built for hedonistic seduction, unforgettable pleasure with a little bit of pain thrown in for good measure.

Ready or not, she’s gonna give you some toe-curling, back arching, unforgettable experiences that will overtake your senses and make you literally feel like time has melted. Time stops when you find yourself in her clutches. She will make you want more and more… but if you’re not careful, she will drive you to compulsively obsess over her, but a warning:

Do not try to dominate or subjugate her. Your efforts to do so will be futile. Enjoy her - enjoy the moment. Let it transform you, but don’t try to change or control her. And definitely don’t allow yourself to be consumed by the darkness. You’ve been warned.

A little more about Venus right now… She’s just beginning her journey through the sign of power, other people’s money, death, sex, mysteries and secrets, having left her (other) home sign of Libra yesterday (November 21) at 8:15 am ET.

Venus is energetically uncomfortable in Scorpio, the sign of extremes, mainly because she wants to get along with others and understands that cooperation can advance her interests and bring her the things that she needs and wants. Scorpio could give a shit less about cooperation, to be honest.

I consider Scorpio an otherworldly place, watery for sure, but not in the way we think of the waters of Pisces (where the moon is right now) or the waters of Cancer. It’s fiery, steamy, transformative, life-changing - nothing at all like Libra, airy and harmonious, and nothing like her first home sign of Taurus, earthy and security seeking, content to work until the money’s made and the pot of something delicious is ready to be eaten.

The second element I want to point out is this… below the horizon… the Gemini North Node is in the 1st house, and over in the 6th house is Venus (the queen of the chart) and Mercury (the dispositor of the Gemini NN). All of the action in this chart is above the horizon and we’re kind of at the whim of forces beyond our control right now. The thing to do is to surrender and allow ourselves a bit of time to enjoy this pause.

Consider these questions: Have we done a good job in handling all of this Scorpionic, Plutonic and Martian energy over the last year?

Can we experience (give in to) the depths of pleasure without losing all sense of control? Is winning at all costs worth it in the end?

What ends up getting lost when we struggle to have our way?

What value do our power struggles and obsessions bring to our daily existence?

If you could stop time today, what would you say? What would you do? What needs fixing, what needs tending to?

Remember that Mercury stationed direct on Election Day, November 3rd and has since moved on from all the degrees in Scorpio he retrograded over when he began his travels into the Underworld on October 14th. He’s surveying new territory in the later half of Scorpio before he moves into the philosophical sign of Sagittarius. The Sun has since set up shop there, having left the depths of Scorpio for Sag on November 21 at 3:32pm ET, illuminating the way. Philosophical questions need to be raised, and answered… that will come over the next few weeks.

Between the election drama and the intensifying danger and dread of living through this coronavirus pandemic, feelings and emotions have been charged, polarized, amped up by a sense of revenge, payback and a lust for blood and a pound of flesh. Maybe we’ve unleashed our frustration on others around us, and maybe those outbursts were justified, or maybe they were over the top and uncalled for.

Nevertheless, there is a persistent sense that time has been distorted, and that there is really no room for pleasure and enjoyment of the little things, or that there’s this feeling that what you want or desire is being denied you, unfairly. We may look to overdo things over the next few days, but it is very important to strike a balance between our thoughts and feelings, and to resist the urge to initiate or continue to engage in power struggles with others because we may feel like we’ve been wronged or like we’re not getting our way.

The truth is, what has been, no matter how seductive or enjoyable or pleasurable it was, has come to and end.

What will be decided, is what it is, and we have to accept it and move on. Just like time.

#november 22 2020 #when time stops #chiron chronicles #venus in scorpio #sun in sagittarius #sagittarius season #moon in pisces #chiron in aries #truthseeker astrology #pluto in capricorn #astrologers of tumblr #tarot readers of tumblr #philadelphia astrologers #philadelphia tarot readers #Healing Energy #transformative energy #musiq soulchild

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morphituu · 5 years ago

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Can you do a quick one shot of angry sex with Nick and Callie? I’m dying to read it, I bet it’s hot 😈😈

The glare she met before throwing back the remainder of the beer was still just as heated as the first once she’d caught that morning. Now when the clock was about to stroke midnight and the kids were in bed, she figured he’d be at least a little calmer, but then again, neither was she.

It really shouldn’t have carried on so long.

The entire fight was so fucking stupid, but both of them were alike in the sense that neither wanted to apologize first. It lead to forced smiles around the kids and distance between them when they walked; a tense dinner of passing glances and stiffer conversation when getting the kids washed and in bed.

They’d wandered around the house restlessly, a bottle of Orkish vodka floating around with Nick and the last of Callie’s fifth beer tossed into the bin before she wandered out of the kitchen and by him, sat on the couch.

She could feel his scorching eyes following her, but she didn’t look back before making her way to their bedroom, no matter how alluring, and goddamn animalistic he looked slouching on the couch, his eyes reflecting in the dark.

It was hot and stuffy, but not enough to turn on the AC. She forced open a window, keeping the lights off as she stumbled around the room.

Her breaths were expelled in deep puffs, her footing unsure of itself.

Fuck. Why did you decide to drink?

She mocked herself. Cuz if you decided to smack him over the head with a frying pan, at least you’d have the booze to blame. Callie chuckled to herself, kicking her sandals off while leaned against their dresser, but even then she stumbled.

“What’s so funny?”

Her eyes rolled, spinning with a slight wobble and hooded eyes to find her husband leaned in the doorway, his molten eyes also at half mast.

She exhaled again, choosing to shrug.

“Are you going t’bed?” he grumbled, but she shrugged again.

“Depends if you are,” she bit back.

Nick’s eyes rolled. “Fucking drama bomb,” he mumbled.

“Fuck you, you’re acting like a big baby,” she retorted, stepping over to him.

“Can’t talk shit when you’ve been acting the same,” he sneered, and chuffing angrily when she elbowed past him. “Where’re going?”

“The couch,”

“Just lay in the fucking bed, Callie,” he groaned.

“Fine, you sleep on the couch,” she switched, coming back to push against his chest.

Confusion flickered across his face for a second, but in a flash he had her wrist in his iron grasp, his chest pushing her back and nearly tripping her.

“I can sleep in my own fucking bed if I want to,” he growled heatedly, getting right in her face.

“I said sleep on the fucking couch,” she tried shoving him, but his hold around her wrist brought her right back, ending with the same result the other two times she tried. “Fuck off-“ she tried one last time, but he got his own shove in, sending her back across the bed like a rag doll.

“Fuck off!” she bellowed, exclaiming when his big body fell over hers, boring enough of his weight upon her to keep her from wiggling away.

“Get off-“ she exhaled harshly, pushing against his shoulders when she felt rough kisses start to dance down the curve of her neck, his knee forcing between her thighs to find his place.

She groaned angrily, hitting his sides, but he only grunted, leaning back up swiftly to snatch her hands and pin them above her head as he swooped down for a heated kiss. Her body was already alive and overheating, his tongue sweeping between her gasping lips to coax her into a calmer state of mind, but a harsh bite on his lip reminded him of the fight they were still in.

“Knock it off,” he snapped, tasting the coppery blood on his lip.

“Get off,” she demanded, but he was already working his way down her chest, his hands having left her wrists to push her loose shirt up so he could get his mouth around one of the standing peeks of her breasts.

She moaned lowly, gritting her teeth, pushing against his shoulders, but he’d clamp down everytime she hit him, eliciting another shout and hard slap to his arm.

He left sore welts and hickeys across her skin, a wide hand pressing down at the center of her chest when he sat up to slip his other one beneath the band of her jeans.

Callie breathed heavily, fighting moans and the flutter of her eyes when he so perfectly rolled her clit beneath his fingers, his hand between her breasts keeping her pinned to the mattress.

“You’re fucking wet,” he panted, using his wrist to pop the top button of her jeans so he could slip his middle fingers into her soaked passage. But he knew that already. As soon as his eyes had watched her sauntering form cross the living room, he’d smelled it. She couldn’t fucking resist him, and couldn’t deny it, even when they were fighting. Nick whined, his mouth agape and watching her face constrict in mixed agony and pleasure as he stroked her spot in a come hither fashion.

She could only grip his wrist, her thighs that were once closed around his hand slowly spreading, her head dropping back against the sheets and her hair spread out like wild vines.

“There you go baby,” he cooed, smiling when she rocked her hips in time with the pumps of his fingers.

“Fuck you,” she gasped, shouting and stiffening when he curled his fingers and drummed against her g-spot.

“What was that?” he asked, leaning closer to her. “Say it again,” he ordered. “Say that to my fucking face,”

“F-fuck you!” she moaned, but barely had a moment to catch her breath after his hand suddenly pulled from her jeans before they were being peeled roughly off her legs, enough to pull her down the bed and then leaving her to wiggle back to the center. His own shirt and shorts were already gone in the dragging seconds it took to fumble her way up, the room starting to spin as she focused on his lustrous gaze, and then he was crawling after her, his heavy dick pressing insistently against her flushed cunt when he laid over her.

Her kisses were a bit tamer now, but she was breathless, her eyes barely opened as he ravished her.

“Apologize,” he ground out, pulling his knees up when her heels dragged up the back of his thighs and ass.

“You first,” she sighed, hissing when his hand landed on her neck, pushing her jaw back. Excitement rushed her in time for him to inhale deeply as he rested one of her ankles over his shoulder, pulling his hips back so his tip rested at her juicy entrance.

Without warning, he pushed in, his long groan meeting her strangled cry as his hand tightened there, bathing in the heat that enveloped him until he bottomed out.

“Where am I?” he puffed, watching where her juices reflected the light across his dick when he pulled back to his tip only to plunge back in, her thighs trembling every time he pushed her button.

“So deep-“ she choked, her nails digging into the skin of his wrists. Her mind was muddled, a wide smile spreading across her face when he again buried himself deep inside her.

“How deep?” he faltered, removing his hand to hold himself up. He gave into a few languid pumps, his head dropping.

“You’re in my stomach,” she whimpered, sitting up on her elbows to gaze with dizzy eyes upon the place he fucked her lovingly, his head lifting to find her mouth for sweet kisses.

They were both flustered, and clumsy, her hands wandering heavily across his rippling, muscled form to feel how every fiber worked below her fingertips; how his hips caught shadows like stone in the moonlight when he lifted her body higher, his head hung back over his shoulders to moan loudly into the dark room.

Before he found his release deep, and tight against her empty womb, he made sure she was begging and writhing beneath him, near sobbing as he teased her aching center with slow strokes, sometimes pulling to his tip to gently swipe his thumb over her clit. She tried to remain angry when he so denied her, but Callie couldn’t withstand the euphoria of having his hands all over her.

His fingers dragging down her neck when she bowed, rolling her nipples before pulling up from her spine to feel her breathe, caressing her inner thighs before he’d replace his dick with his expert digits in her pussy, all the while watching her carefully, his head sometimes following hers when she thrashed and he wanted to drink in those soft mewls made in his name.

At last she made it to her mind bending climax, her thighs trembling at his sides as he fucked her with shallow, tight snaps of his hips, one arm looped under her waist to hold her bouncing breasts to his searching mouth.

Nick had to cover her mouth when she screamed, his name falling past her lips in repeated shouts and cries until she was still against the sheets, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

He couldn’t form words when he felt his end building, pressing his face against her misty skin as the wet pulses of her sweet center brought him to climax. He cursed loudly against her, emptying, filling her with his hot seed and bucking wildly against her until he was spent.

Nick's body dropped over hers, both of them a pile of once brilliant fireworks now fizzling into a smolder as they came down from the miraculous high.

He peppered delicate kisses into her cheek, pulling himself up on weak arms to hold her jaw as he kissed her, her own hold on his face meager.

She groaned when he slipped from her, his impressive load spilling across the sheets, but she couldn’t find it in herself to move right away.

He found her hand beside his, raising it to kiss her knuckles as both of their breathing evened.

“I’m still mad,” she mumbled, both of them laughing breathlessly.

“Uh huh.” He intoned, his smile meeting hers.

#morphituu #nick and callie #bell peppers trilogy #oneshot #lemon #orc x human #exophilia #monster fucker #ask #anonymous #writing

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chikkachu · 5 years ago

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Hungry Days AU

Prompt: A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond.

-x-

Zorona (Zoro x Perona) make-out scene incoming. I couldn’t resist. What can I say? I do love writing steamy situations. I don’t know why I’m so captivated by this pairing at the moment. This will also be available to read on my ff.net/A03 account.

Not sure what couple I’ll write for next (my last one was ZoLu, I guess I love writing about my favourite marimo lol). So let me know what you think and what ships you like. Headcanons are always welcome.

-x-

Whipping the bamboo sword so hard the material creaked, frustration etched each movement the green-haired boy made. Zoro had experienced utter defeat at the hands of Hawkeye and today’s training session was his outlet. Perspiration dotted his forehead as he pushed his body to the limit – if not further. Knowing the young swordsman Perona would say the latter because she had witnessed his foolish fits of anger before.

He didn’t know when to stop.

Addicted to the feeling of hard work and adrenaline she supposed, not being a fitness freak herself. She’d prefer to put her feet up and drown her sorrows with a bowl of strawberry shortcake ice-cream. That was cuter than the smell of sweat and oxidising metal that accompanied the weight training Zoro chose.

Yet she still spent time in the kendo hall watching Hawkeye and Zoro when she wasn’t at the spooks club with Moria and Absalom. She felt strangely at home exchanging insults and chagrin. The brooding swordsman seemed to accept her regular visits as a norm. Her relationship with Zoro was peculiar. Sometimes they were at each other’s throats, his brutish attitude and ability to get lost in a one-way street tried her patience.

“Hah!” Startled Perona’s gaze jumped to the person occupying her thoughts. Tension making the harsh lines of his shoulders hunched forward, his perfect form wavering due to fatigue. It had been three hours of rigorous kata exorcises. Typical Zoro not acknowledging his limits - but this time was different. The injury had the potential to impact on his performance for months. She wasn’t an expert, but she knew that.

“Zoro.” She said, firm and non-compromising. Perona had never been a girl who settled for being ignored.

“It’s none of your business.” Biting and brutal to the point she could sense his teeth grinding as his jaw clenched. Heart pounding in response to the blatant dismissal, her own temper flared. No one spoke to her like shit.

“Excuse me?” It wasn’t said as a question. It was a declaration of impending war. If he wanted to throw down, then she wouldn’t disappoint. Springing forward from her perch on the bench, she marched toward the glowering idiot.

“You are a rude obnoxious jerk Roronoa!” Stopping only when she made sure to purposefully invade his space. Toe to toe and her finger jabbed firmly in his thorax. She wanted her entire body to scream ‘fuck you’.

“Tch,” Upper lip pulling upwards into a snarl, he avoided her glare by staring to the side. The bastard was still trying to ignore her. Not happening. Shuffling sideways she stood on her tiptoes to stare him dead in the eye. “…annoying woman.”

Brow furrowing, she leaned further into his space so her nose almost touched his chin. Why did he have to be so tall? It ruined the effect.

“Me? Annoying?” Perona spat, noticing how he visibly winced at the high octaves, “That’s rich coming from ‘Mr. I’d be late to my own funeral’”.

“At least my laugh doesn’t sound like a dying cat.” Zoro shot back quick as usual. He didn’t usually resort to such childish arguments with anyone - the perverted cook didn't count. That dickhead disserved every slur apparently. Perona knew how to push his buttons as well as the blond. His attack didn’t put her off, in fact, excitement pulsed beneath her diaphragm. Not thinking she lunged placing both hands on his chest and used her body weight to push. Chuckling she watched the muscle head stumble as he lost his footing for a moment.

She couldn’t help but feel accomplishment in catching him off-guard even if it didn’t push him back. Zoro trained daily in martial arts and toned his core strength to the point she had seen him doing one-arm handstands. Honestly, the impact of her palms on his chest felt solid - a living bronze statue.

Calloused fingers formed a vice grip on her dainty hand, the pressure enough to hold her in place.

Perona hyper-aware of her throbbing pulse, her wrist gripped by his strong fingers, a large knot settled in her throat. A dangerous glint glazed Zoro’s eyes but she didn’t fear him. Perusing the features of her long-time friend she noticed his full bottom lip twitching. He tended to chew his bottom lip when hassled and the action diverted her attention.

It’s no secret Zoro is a good-looking boy – now a young man. Classically attractive features combined with the exotic allure of seafoam green hair made him a heartthrob. But most of the time people admired him from afar, a treasure you could see but not touch. The man had a demeanour that demanded respect and a not so subtle ‘fuck outta here’ vibe if you managed to piss him off.

Perona and the select few allowed into his inner circle knew another side. A kind and honourable man. And the biggest dork she’d ever met.

“Oi, stop staring.” Damn. She’d spaced out again…whilst eye fucking. Zoro didn’t need to know that.

“I would if you stopped being so cute.” Unless she opened her own stupid mouth. She had meant to say UN-cute. N-O-T cute.

Because he wasn’t. At all.

“Cute?” He tried the word as if sucking on a sour treat. If she wasn’t so mortified the comical look that emerged - a cross between emotional constipation and disgust - would have triggered laughter.

The silence made her want to die or drop through the floor. Whatever happened quicker.

“I knew that’d pull out the stick that’s currently lodged up your ass.” She said, smiling sweetly. Tone sweet as honeycomb, dripping with the challenge. Time to save face.

Zoro leaned forward taking back the space she’d managed to steal. Squinting in thought his usual persona returned, it wasn’t the tense energy from before. Instead, it was a captivating focus that drew her in closer. He’d always had an ability to control the mood. It seriously rubbed her the wrong way. Perona would spend an hour iterating how she felt on a topic and he’d manage with a single sentence. Sometimes a grunt, yet she’d understand.

Right now, she understood the atmosphere around them. Intense, sexy and one hundred percent Zoro. Subconsciously placing a hand on his chest, she traced the seam of his keikogi. Keeping eye contact as she travelled to his neck, fingers brushing the soft skin in the conjunction of his neck. Zoro swallowed and once again she found herself admiring his lips. His nose brushed hers as he exhaled the brief contact titillating her nerve endings. Perona wanted more from him.

“Kiss me.” She sighed, her own lips brushing against his chin. Once again it wasn’t a question but a breathy demand. Her breath jittered as she felt his thumb stroke over her lips as if silencing the gibberish likely to explode from her mouth if he didn’t hurry up. True to form he read her well and the cocky smirk told her he hadn’t bought her excuse from the beginning.

“You always have to make things personal,” Zoro said, voice gravelly and taking her mind to a place that wasn’t appropriate for a gym hall. Head dipping, he hovered for a second, mirth dancing in his eyes. Fed up with his teasing she shifted to aim a well-deserved kick in the shin when he nipped at the corner of her mouth. Perona felt her mouth pop with an embarrassing gush that resulted from the attention.

He moved in quick precision, making her feel like the hunter became the hunted, enveloping her bottom lip into his mouth. Still holding her hand, he tugged sharply, and she found herself being melded into the masculine presence that was Roronoa Zoro. She felt a large hand splay across the small of her back, pushing her flush to his torso. Clearly, he didn’t want any space between them.

Peppering wet kisses over her top lip she felt him raise their joined hands. Pushing her palm flat against his jawline he broke away to lay a kiss on her palm. Aegean blue eyes gazed at her under a thick hood of gorgeous eyelashes. Honestly, Perona hated the fact that he was such a pretty boy and she had a weakness for anything cute.

Impatient she used the hand to forcefully turn his head, whilst the other slid into his green strands gripping what she could. Lips now a supple pink she nuzzled his nose before capturing his lips in an audacious move. Eyes closing, she took in the sensations of his tongue sliding over the seam of her lips, the warmth of his breath on her cheek and how soft his hair felt.

“AH-em.” Freezing at the deliberate interruption, Zoro’s arms locked around her waist in surprise. Her eyes shot open to see her partners face resembling the tragedy mask they often see in her drama study classes. Rose started to bleed onto his cheeks and coat the tips of his ears. It was too cute to stop an awkward giggle escaping.

“Tch.” Zoro and his typical sulk sound. He refused to look at her or his intruding teacher in the eye. Looking over his shoulder she spotted Mihawk standing in the doorframe across the room. Arms folded and his expression screaming annoyance. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth said he had expected this.

“Roronoa, this is not your bedroom. Take it elsewhere.”

Tinkling laughter filled the hall as Perona grabbed Zoro’s hand. It’d be her pleasure to whisk the wayward swordsman somewhere private.

#one piece #Roronoa Zoro #Perona #opfanfic #Zorona #zoro x perona #fanfic #prompt #a breathy demand #chikka fanfic #one-shot #fanfiction #zoro #zoro and perona #rated T

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briefhistorybriefhistory · 7 years ago

Text

Looks Like Frida: The Problem with the Frida Barbie

Recently, Mattel produced a new range of Barbie dolls. The range, designed to represent inspiring women, features dolls based on athletes, artists, scientists and film directors, amongst other professions. In the glossy publicity images, nestled snugly between Amelia Earhart and Katherine Johnson, sits a doll with flowers on her dark up-do, a few stray hairs between her brows suggesting her iconic monobrow.

Amelia Earhart, Frida Kahlo and Katherine Johnson as Barbie dolls

Of course, Mattel is striving to keep its profit margins healthy in a struggling industry of toy manufacturing. The corporation is also trying to deflect years of criticism around the Barbie franchise and the hideously unrealistic proportions of the Barbie body. Unsurprisingly, the Frida doll has drawn a huge amount of criticism.

A lot of this criticism comes from feminist circles, where the idea of a Frida doll, softened and sculpted into a vaguely ethnic Barbie mould, has been thoroughly rejected. And that criticism has a lot of merit. Frida has become a feminist icon, inspiring generations with her fearless exploration of femininity, the body and the self.

But western feminist thought cannot completely contain the entire argument as to why the Frida Kahlo Barbie not only disrespects her memory, but also the politics in which she very deliberately placed herself. While it is fine to discuss the way Kahlo would have likely abhorred the unrealistic body proportions of her little plastic representation, it is also important to discuss how Kahlo, and her legacy, have become distilled down into a toothless symbol of generic resistance, stripped of her ethnic heritage until she becomes a universal catch-all for womanhood, performed as fridge magnets, phone cases and tote bags.

Frida as a symbol

Firstly, we must look at how Fridamania became as it was. Although Kahlo enjoyed a relatively successful career in her lifetime, it wasn’t until after she died that she began to be lauded as an international feminist symbol. After a biography was published by 1983 by Hayden Herrera, Kahlo shot from artist to celebrity. Her work underwent a massive revival and during the 1980s and 1990s, the price of her work skyrocketed. In fact, it wasn’t only her artwork which shot up in value - in November 2000, at a Sotheby's Latin American art auction in New York, a box of Kahlo memorabilia, including ribbons, photographs and dried flowers, sold for over $55,000 USD. At exhibitions of her work, you will find not only the usual memorabilia of postcards, posters or t-shirts. Now, the ranges of Frida-inspired products include jewellery, cosmetics and cookbooks. A quick search on Google reveals depictions of Kahlo on nail varnish bottles, back packs and even, bizarrely, as a Daft Punk fan.

Whoever made this, turn on your location. I just want to talk.

Kahlo was even the subject of a 2003 biopic, Frida, perhaps the nail that sealed the coffin - we can no longer differentiate between Kahlo’s work and the enthralling drama of her life. In Devouring Frida: Art History and Popular Celebrity of Frida Kahlo, 1999, Margaret Lindauer writes,

'the drama of her life has become zealously coupled with her paintings. Indeed, there often is little distinction between Kahlo and her paintings, which converge into a single entity, Frida's-life-and-art.'

Of course, it is natural in some ways to want to relate the life of an artist to their work - it is an established technique of literary and art criticism. But to solely interpret Kahlo’s art through her life is to do a great injustice to her work and reduces it to the story of a single woman, as opposed to recognising it as a rich tapestry which draws upon a vivid cultural and political landscape.

To truly understand the essentialism of Kahlo, we have to look at the wider view of how artists from outside the traditionally narrow scope of the Western art canon - in particular, Latin American artists - have been interpreted.

Looks like Frida

Gerardo Mosquera wrote in his 1992 essay, The Marco Polo Syndrome, Some Problems Around Art and Eurocentrism,

Third World artists are constantly asked to display their identity, to be fantastic, to look like no one else or to look like Frida... The relatively high prices achieved by Latin American art at the great auctions have been assigned to painters who satisfy the expectations of a more or less stereotyped Latin-Americanicity, able to fulfil the new demand for exoticism at the centres. As a consequence, Rivera is valued well above Orozco, Remedios Varo more than Torres García, and Botero considerably more than Reverón.

By this, Mosquera means that the Western art world - and the Western art market - demands a sort of twisted “authenticity” from artists from outside of its narrow scope. These artists must be completely unique or must fit into an already established, comfortable, understandable mould, shaped by artists like Kahlo who have been accepted into the canon (in a narrow, binding way, something that we’ll return to later). Where those artists do not comply with this, they are undervalued and held to be “derivative” of Western practice.

This was horribly exemplified by Jean Fisher, who, in her essay The Syncretic Turn, Cross-Cultural Practises in the Age of Multiculturalism, 1996, wrote about the posthumous retrospective of the Brazilian artist Hélio Oiticica at the Witte de With in Rotterdam in 1992. European art critics were heard to remark that, while they recognised Oiticica's conceptual thinking, it was “inauthentic” - his practise was just a reflection of Euroamerican practice, and therefore was not “Brazilian” enough.

Hélio Oiticica’s Grand Nucleus Grande Núcleo, 1960–66

Kahlo as a brand

Unlike poor Oiticica, Kahlo has remained as the commercially and critically acceptable face of Latin American art, and much of this is due to the Kahlo brand and the way that her identity was boiled down. The essentialism of Frida Kahlo allowed her to be turned into a non-threatening and marketable product. In Isabel Molina-Guzman’s 2010 book, Dangerous Curves: Latina Bodies in the Media, the author writes:

Central to mainstream media representations of Latinidad is the production of ethnic authenticity, of an authentic ethnic or panethnic identity often grounded in familiar and marketable characteristics. Furthermore, media produced by U.S. ethnic and racial minorities equally depend on a mode of 'strategic essentialism' to produce authenticity.

Molina-Guzman was writing specifically about the film Frida, but her words are applicable too to the mass-branding of Kahlo. “Strategic essentialism” here refers to a strategy which is discussed in post-colonial theory where oppressed groups simplify their mass identity, even when there are vast differences between members of the group, in order to achieve certain goals. However, as Molina-Guzman writes, this same tactic is also used by the creators of the film - and the wider art market and media - in order to create the kind of “authentic” identity that was not granted to Hélio Oiticica. The producers and director of the film created a very specific interpretation of Mexican identity in order to create a piece of media which is commercially viable in the Western world. Molina-Guzman writes:

the characterization of Kahlo as an anti-establishment, defiant rule-breaker remains consistently romanticized within global popular culture—making her an alluring and profitable multicultural and political icon for contemporary audiences invested in multicultural identity politics.

This essentialism of Kahlo’s identity is applicable not just to the biographical film made about her, but also to the way that Kahlo is now interpreted by the Western art world as a whole, and by the audiences hungry for a taste of non-threatening ethnic glamour.

Frida as generic radicalism

This essentialism of Kahlo, and therefore the distillation of the Mexican identity into a marketable product, is of course something that can - and has been - exploited by the free market in order to make profit. Not only can one buy countless Frida-inspired products, but one can now also use them to signal a type of political affiliation which says very little at all, a politics which has been watered down by capitalism into easy to swallow, vague ideas of non-conformity. These politics have little to nothing left of Frida’s revolutionary spirit.

Do you want to suggest - but not too radically - a half-hearted idea of individualism? Why not use the Frida Kahlo emoji pack (the creator of which, Sam Cantor, by the way, said: “Frida was just perfect for the project. She conveyed her emotions so honestly and openly in her work. What better artist to translate into emoji, which we use to express emotion today?”)? Like Theresa May, do you want to project an image that of feminism, of loving and protecting women, while actively working to destroy the support systems which have helped to provide women with a basic standard of living? Why not wear a bracelet with her self portraits on it as you rally your troops to further dismantle the welfare state?

Honestly, I have no idea what emotion this is supposed to convey.

The image of Frida Kahlo has become so generic now that Oriana Baddeley, in her essay Reflecting on Kahlo: Mirrors, Masquerade and the Politics of Identification, wrote:

By the end of the twentieth century Kahlo's signature mono-brow had become recognisable to a mass audience outside of those interested in Mexican art history or Surrealism. Her self-portraits appeared on fashionable clothing and accessories. The face of Frida was used with the same regularity, and often with a shared symbolism, as images of Che Guevara or Bob Marley, so that her art and her appearance were forever confused in the public imagination. By buying into this Frida, the consumer can declare a non-specific radicalism, an acceptable declaration of nonconformity. As one contemporary website sales line puts it: 'Give your vehicle the revolutionary spirit with a Frida Kahlo car window decal.'

The image of Kahlo has become so distorted that we can no longer differentiate between Kahlo, the revolutionary Marxist artist, and the Barbie doll wearing a red shawl as a subtle nod towards her ethnicity.

Frida Kahlo’s politics

Of course, there is another reason why Kahlo would have likely hated the legacy which has resulted in the doll. While the world has not dwelled heavily on Kahlo’s politics, she was a communist, her politics and world view heavily influenced by Marx. She was a member of the Mexican Communist Party, although left when her husband, Diego Rivera, was expelled. At her funeral, her casket was draped with a red flag as mourners sang The Internationale.

Her 1954 painting, Marxism Will Give Health to the Ill, depicts the disembodied head of Karl Marx floating above her, his god-like hands gently embracing her as she casts off her crutches and walks unaided. The painting, a metaphor for her belief that Marxism could heal the world, shows the strangling of a bald eagle, neatly dividing the image into good versus evil, the power of the people versus the imperialism of the powerful state.

Marxism Will Give Health to the Ill, 1954

In order to truly do justice to Kahlo’s work, we must never forget the politics which shaped her worldview and influenced her art. Part of this is about rejecting the vapid representations of her which have been so readily commercialised - the fashionable t-shirts, the twee cookbooks and, yes, the doll. But we must also remember that Kahlo’s identity was not a tool to be used to signal our own radicalness or gender politics. We must remember that it is not useful to pick or choose from her rich, complex identity the parts which best support our own agendas. As Kahlo wrote in her diary, she was:

Always revolutionary, never dead, never useless

#frida kahlo #frida kahlo barbie #useless art criticism

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losille2000 · 8 years ago

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The Chocolate Affair, Chapter 1

TITLE: The Chocolate Affair CHAPTER NUMBER: 1/? AUTHOR: Losille2000 WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: AU!Tom, CEO!Tom, GENRE: Romance/Drama FIC SUMMARY: When a mysterious—and gorgeous—stranger sends dessert instead of a customary drink one evening in a bar, Christine Callaghan can’t help but be intrigued, even though she’s on a diet... from men. RATING: M (sex, language) WARNINGS: Um, nothing yet. AUTHORS NOTES: Intended this to be a standalone one shot, with the possibility of more if it was well received. However, considering the response I got from a few lines, I decided just to go ahead with the full length story I had in mind. Also, it’s a new tense I don’t write in, so hope all is okay. Thanks for reading, everyone!

The Chocolate Affair

Chapter 1

No one expects to spend their honeymoon alone, in London, reading spy novels and eating dinner—also alone—at a bar. At least, I didn’t. I thought I’d be on a golden beach somewhere, soaking in the warm sun during the day, and having outrageous honeymoon hotel sex with my husband at night.

Funny how things happen, right?

Okay, maybe not. I’m certainly not laughing. I still want to murder my once affianced, but the potent wine the bartender keeps pouring seems to be deadening my senses and my general distaste for matrimony. The words on my Kindle are beginning to blur and my head feels mushy, hazy, and comfortably numb around the edges. I’m not drunk—no, just buzzed and happier than I’ve been since discovering my dirtbag ex fucking my mother in a janitor closet at our rehearsal dinner.

Yeah. That happened. You’re probably thinking, “Whoa, call Jerry Springer! Maury Povich! We got a white trash trailer park family here!”

Contrary to popular belief, no, this stuff doesn’t only happen to the less fortunate of society. It happens to the ignorant. And you can be as rich as sin and still be the most ignorant person in the world. I mean, just look at the American president.

My mom isn’t, in fact, my sister cousin, or whatever hick thing you might think about us. She’s just my mom, for better or for worse—mostly worse right now. I grew up in a solidly upper-middle class American family. She’s a high school math teacher, Dad’s a corporate lawyer. My siblings and I went to the best schools. We’re successful people with a lot of potential. We just have a really fucked up family, and, as I was so blissfully unaware until a few weeks ago, it’s easy to ignore if you don’t really want to see it.

I didn’t.

That is, of course, until you’re hit square in the head with your mother’s bra. The same bra your fiancé had just flung toward the door of said janitor’s closet. I thought, in the dim light provided by a single bulb overhead, that my mom had a banging body for someone of her age. Then I realized why I was taking stock of her reasonably well kept physical attributes.

Long story short, that’s how you end up in London on your honeymoon. Being ignorant. Or something.

I guess it doesn’t really matter after your fourth glass of wine. As I polish off the fifth, the barman returns with bottle in hand. I shake my head and put my palm over the top of the glass. “Water, please?”

“Sure,” he says. “Anything else? Dessert, perhaps?”

He knows. He’s seen enough heartbroken people come through his bar to last a lifetime. I give him a small smile. Of course I want dessert. Alcohol and chocolate never fail me. They, like the bartender, understand me. “Try me again in fifteen minutes? Let me finish off this chapter.”

He disappears down the bar to help another customer and I return to James Bond and his exploits. It’s not long after that I’m finishing a short second chapter and a large white plate slides into view to my right.

A mound of chocolate cake rests in the middle of intricate swoops and loops of raspberry coulis; spun sugar floats above it in a wispy golden nest. Mixed berries masquerade as tiny multi-colored eggs resting inside it. The confection looks positively divine, but I’m still confused.

“I didn’t—”

Barman Joe shakes his head. “Compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar.”

I frown. Oh, great. Just what I need. Should I tell Joe to warn the guy that I’m not going to be the best company? I look anyway, because I’ve never been immune to curiosity. Even though I know it always kills the cat.

Fortunately, I still have a few lives left to use; I’m the proverbial cat.

Sitting at the end of the long—and surprisingly empty— bar is a god. Or, at least, a man I suspect to be a god, or somehow celestial in nature, considering his face might as well have been carved out of the same marble as Michelangelo’s David. He’s all angles, lean muscled and golden kissed, as though he has just returned from riding a chariot close to the sun.

Another man might be compelled to sit up straight and preen, once the woman he’s hitting on finally notices him. Not this guy. He sits completely still and stares, bright blue-green eyes—yes, those are gorgeous and easy to see, from my spot—blinking slowly. He has already preened, or maybe he’s just in a constant state of preen, but he makes it seem like it’s completely natural. There’s no over jelled, over tanned, over grown Jersey Shore man-child there. His silent confidence is staggering. It borders on arrogance, but never fully approaches it.

And, damn it, it’s pretty fucking alluring.

Then again, it could just be the alcohol talking. I turn back to Joe and motion with my fingers. “Two spoons, please.”

Dutiful Joe procures the appropriate silverware and hands them to me. I stuff my Kindle into my purse and sling it over my shoulder before grabbing the plate and my water. And I’m off. I don’t know why I’m going to him. It’s stupid. Men are stupid. That’s why I’m in London, of all places, but he pulls me to him like a comet stuck in Earth’s gravitation.

I set my things down, noticing the way his pursed lips turn up slightly into an assessing smile as I saunter over to him. He seems to appreciate what he sees; I don’t know why. I didn’t exactly dress up tonight. In fact, I didn’t bring any nice clothing with me, not caring to attract the attention of random men in bars.

He stands to greet me, like we’re in some strange historical romance. A stiff and uncomfortable moment passes as I try to remember where I am and what I’m doing. This is ridiculous. Okay, even if the standing to greet me means he’s a gentleman, it doesn’t mean anything else. I hate men, right?

“Hello, darling,” he says in a dangerous rumbly purr.

Be still my cold, dead heart. “Hi.”

Classic opening line, if I do say so myself. I gulp and glance up at him. He’s tall, over six foot, and despite his lean appearance and godliness, he seems corporeal and solid with wide shoulders and a trim waist. He’s warm, too; I can feel the heat of his body standing a foot away from him.

I wonder, fleetingly, what it would be like to touch him. I already know the answer, though. He’ll burn me. They always do.

“I had intended for the pudding to be yours alone, love,” he says, distracting me from my mind.

His voice. Damn. It’s… I can hardly describe it. The way he forms words with his mouth and then the way they roll off his tongue are like fleeting, enticing caresses. Warming—alarming—caresses in the richest, deepest, and poshest English accent I’ve ever heard. Frankly, it’s like I’m being dipped in chocolate sauce with every syllable.

I shake my head at him. “No, you have to share it with me. You’re the one who did this.”

He doesn’t seem entirely upset at the prospect, but I wonder idly if maybe he’s one of those guys who feeds people and gets off on it. Of course he’d have to be twisted somehow. No one’s perfect. Not even this glorious, sun kissed god of a man.

Or, perhaps, I read him wrong and he doesn’t want further contact with me.

He finally sits down in his seat and grabs a spoon. He holds it up for me to see. “I’ve never been one to resist a good pudding. Fair warning, however. I’m not liable to stop once I start.”

For a minute, I think he’s talking about something else entirely. I roll my eyes and settle into the seat beside him, feeling the weight of his eyes as I do. He shifts on his bar stool and grabs the unused spoon, pushing it into my fingers.

“Thanks,” I mutter through dry lips.

He grins again. “You first.”

“Cheers!”

I clink my spoon with his and dig in with relish. Gooey chocolate sauce spills out onto the plate and coats the spoon and cake. My first bite is hot melted chocolate heaven. It’s not too sweet, but not bitter like dark chocolate, either. The tart fruit breaks up the heaviness of the cake. And there’s a hint of hazelnut. Perhaps Nutella? I flick my tongue across my bottom lip to grab a small drop of sauce that didn’t land in my mouth.

I’m close enough to him that I watch his pupils dilate and nostrils flare. So he’s not feeding me to be kind. He wants more. I’m interested, too, but not an idiot.

“You should know I’m on a diet,” I interject between delicious bites.

A curious brow raises. “A diet?”

I laugh and add, “From men.”

His curious frown falls into a devilish smirk. “There’s nothing wrong in looking at the menu, though, is there?”

“Perhaps,” I breathe.

Then he leans in, close enough that I catch a whiff of his cologne—bright, citrusy, but masculine and heady. Expensive. But then, I realize, there’s not much about him that screams cheap. His fancy navy suit fits him perfectly, a silver tie bar adorns the sedated but fashionable tie. This is a man who has access to the finest of luxuries.

“Perhaps,” he imitates me. A wicked gleam shines in his eyes. “I hear cheat days are beneficial to the long-term success of diets.”

God, he’s good. Too good. Smooth. Like the chocolate cake I’m shoveling into my mouth to keep a whimper at bay. The cake beckons to keep eating; the intensity of his gaze refuses to relinquish control of my functions. Clearly, he doesn’t need a verbal acknowledgement to know how he’s affected me.

He laughs a deep, low rumble in the back of his throat. Glances away, trying to seem sheepish. But I know, somehow within the few minutes we’ve chatted, that he’s not sheepish. There’s no way he can hide it. He fills up a room—and certainly fills up the space between us—with his sizable charisma.

“Tom,” he says, extending his hand. That, too, is perfect. Long fingered, elegant and manicured.

I swallow a bite and set the spoon down. Take a drink of water, dab my mouth. Like my mom taught me as a little girl. “I’m, uh… I’m Christine.”

The grip on my hand is strong and sure. I can’t ignore the pleasurable sizzle.

“Christine?” My name sounds positively sinful rolling out of his mouth. “Beautiful.”

The name or—

“What brings you to my fair city, Christine?”

Somehow, I think he has an idea. I get the impression he does, at least. I don’t know why, though. Maybe he’s used to picking up sorry looking winos in bars.

“Wanted to get away,” I answer. Succinct. Non-committal. Let him think what he wants.

A wan smile ghosts across his lips. “Not with your husband?”

The word is like ice on my warming nerves. I stiffen and set my spoon down on the plate with a clatter. “How could you possibly…”

He reaches between us and touches my left hand, lifting the fingers into brighter light. I see, then, the band of pale ivory skin once covered with the diamond solitaire from my ex. I don’t tan well—or at all, really—being a true redhead, but the change in skin color is noticeable. Pulling my fingers from his unsettling grip, I clasp my hands together in my lap and move away from him.

“We weren’t married,” I explain.

Tom doesn’t retreat. He invades, pushing further into my space, not letting go. “A certifiable tosser, then, not to see the jewel he had.”

I smile despite the tension in my shoulders. People have said this to me in variations, ad nauseum, since it happened, but it’s one of those pleasantries people say because there’s nothing else socially acceptable to say. It’s supposed to make me feel better. It does nothing but slap another tiny Bandaid on top of the giant fucking hole in my chest where my heart used to beat.

Yet, I believe Tom. He’s serious. Maybe trying to get in my pants, only, but the sincerity he’s able to conjure in his tone puts a sizable gauze bandage over my wounds. One large enough to stanch the excessive bleeding.

My face burns with a blush and I turn away from him for just a moment to force my emotions away. I’m torn between lusting after this guy and bawling my eyes out again and then hitting something—a lot—to relieve my pent-up anger.

Tom is relentless in his pursuit and I feel the soft pads of his fingers on my cheek, gently pressing until I look back at him.

“Forget him,” he implores. “He wasn’t good enough for you.”

I give him a watery laugh and swallow around the lump in my throat. Whatever heat he’d built in me is now a smoldering ember about to be snuffed out, not the kindling just catching fire. It doesn’t extinguish entirely, though.

“I know he wasn’t,” I offer.

Then I think it’s strange that he would care so much or put such time into this subject. If he’s interested in a one night stand, he doesn’t need to know. People don’t care. They meet at the bar, romance each other, and do their thing without thinking of the consequences. It’s up to the individual person to stop the chase if they’ve got someone waiting back home.

What’s he looking for, anyway?

“Listen,” I hear myself saying, “the dessert was a lovely gesture, but I really need to get back up to my room.”

If he was a cockatoo, he’d be folding his brilliant yellow crest back up with his other feathers right now. Instead he saves face and pouts playfully. “So soon?”

Clearly, he expects to move further.

I shrug. “I’ve had too much wine. I don’t trust myself… and I have an early morning tour tomorrow.”

Tom removes his palm from my cheek, but not before carefully pushing a long strand of hair behind my ear. His water-blue eyes assess me again—really look—connecting freckles across my nose and memorizing the slope of my jaw, the fullness of my lips. At least, that’s how I feel under his unrelenting attention. No man has ever looked at me so thoroughly. He’s utterly enchanting.

He sticks his hand inside his coat and withdraws a white linen card, placing it face down on the bar. Next from the pocket is a pen—one of those fancy fountain pens with a wooden body, not a cheap plastic BIC, because why the fuck not—and he quickly scribbles on the paper. He slides it across the bar to me.

“I have this thing tomorrow,” he says, “and I find myself without a companion for the evening.”

I look down at the business card and gulp. Time and address. And a cell phone number.

My logical brain is screaming NO! but everything else that makes me a woman is screaming FUCK YES! and I shift uncomfortably. “I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

Tom shakes his head. “Nothing untoward, I promise. There will be others there, so you needn’t feel singled out. Think of it as an opportunity to meet the locals.”

“What’s it for?” I ask, my interest somewhat piqued now. Oh, who am I kidding? It was already piqued, but I can’t help all the warning bells going off in my head.

He smiles. It’s a trustworthy smile. One of those expressions that makes people believe you. On him, it’s also dangerous. I know—I sense—there are Important Facts he’s not telling me. Am I selling myself to the devil or is he an angel offering salvation?

“A private dinner for my friends.”

“Yeah, because that doesn’t sound ominous,” I say. “I’m not going to end up as dinner, am I?”

Tom throws his head back in gleeful laughter. Then he quiets and leans forward until he’s close enough that all I smell are the citrus notes in his cologne and all I feel is warmth radiating off his skin. A stubbly jaw rasps against my cheek as he lowers his voice to a whisper beside my ear.

“Only if you want to be dinner.”

A quiver of need shoots through my body and explodes out through my fingers, my toes, forces me to clench my thighs together. This is so wrong, but I can’t help myself. A part of me wants no strings mindless sex with a god, if only to get the ex fully out of my system. Another part of me knows I’m not this woman. After all, isn’t that why my fiancé slept with my mother? He agrees I’m a “frigid bitch.”

“Think about it,” he says, this time at a regular volume as he moves away and stands. I watch his elegant fingers fiddle with the buttons on his jacket as he secures it around his torso. “If you show up, I’ll be happily surprised. If you don’t, no hard feelings.”

I open my mouth to say something else, but I realize there’s nothing to say as he throws a wad of cash on the bar for both of our bills and thanks Joe.

“If you do decide to come, wear a black cocktail dress,” he says like it’s an ordinary thing telling someone what to wear. “Oh, and heels.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask suspiciously, but I can’t ignore the second quiver centering low in my abdomen, clenching the glorious muscles there. I’ve never had a man instruct me on what I should wear, but there’s something sexy and challenging in his tone. Something commanding—and yes, dangerous again—that makes me more than a little curious. It makes me want to run right out to the nearest dress shop and find what he wants.

I lift the back of my hand to my forehead. Nope, not hot. I can’t possibly be suffering fever-induced delusions.

He’s leaving then, with a quick wink. The man glides through the maze of tables toward the door like he owns the place. He’s all confidence and grace, even with his long, potentially gangly limbs. I wonder if he does, in fact, own the hotel bar; I turn the card over and look at the other side.

Hiddleston Group LTD. It doesn’t explain anything other than his ownership of the company, or at least his position as chief officer. Judging by the way he acts and how he dresses, I don’t need more information, though I know I’m going to go right up to my hotel room and do an extensive Google background search on the guy. A girl can never be too safe.

I reach for my things and sling my purse over my shoulder. Joe catches my glance and wastes no time stepping over to me. “Hey, Joe?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“That guy—”

“Tom? Yeah?”

I look again at the door as though he’s still there. He isn’t. Then I turn to Joe. “Is he, er… does he do this often?”

Joe shakes his head emphatically. “He’s in here all the time meeting business clients, but you are the first proposition in the year I’ve been employed here.”

My trust in men lacking, I still find it difficult to believe a man like Tom isn’t picking women up left and right whenever he’s out and about. Especially since he seems incredibly practiced in the art of the pick-up. Though, I remember, he did almost fail with me.

“I don’t know a ton about him personally,” he replies. “His family is good English stock, I think. He keeps to himself mostly, but he always tips very well. And that always says a lot to me about the type of person you are.”

I agree; having worked my fair share in food service, I am not immune to judging people based on their tipping habits. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

“No problem,” he says. “Have a good night.”

He turns around to attend a new person at the bar and I wave him off. My stomach is alternately tied up in knots and doing somersaults of anticipation. I want to throw caution to wind and see where this takes me—even if it is just an elaborate plan to woo me into bed—but I can’t fully shut down the warning in my head. Something isn’t quite right. No gorgeous guy sidles up to a bar, buys a dumpily dressed girl chocolate, and leaves without a promise of more. No one.

Despite Joe’s glowing recommendation, good family and wealth isn’t everything. Hell, my bastard ex came from both, too, the all-American family, and look what happened there.

I clutch the business card in my hands like it’s a lifeline as I step into the elevator up to my floor. I can almost feel the excitement bubbling to life in my hands, at the unknown. My life back home is ordered. Succinct. I don’t do frivolity. I go to work, I come home and feed the cat. Go to bed. Repeat. Here, though, in London, I realize I hold everything at my fingertips. Literally. I’m beholden to no one—no boss, no family, no demanding fiancé. I can just be me. I can experience life.

I can take one humungous risk and go to a dinner party with a god.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston fan fic #tom hiddleston fan fiction #au!tom #the chocolate affair #tca

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silvercreations · 8 years ago

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Pre-Code the Post-Code (Part I)

Will H. Hays & Joseph Breen are right up at the top of my “people I would not hesitate to punch on sight” list, along with everyone involved in the establishment of the PCA/enforcement of the Motion Picture Production Code. Can you imagine all of the wonderful(ly risque!) films we might’ve gotten if it just… wasn’t a thing? Don’t get me wrong, the creative innuendo of late-30s & early-40s film can be pretty fantastic— but I think what I tend to miss most in a lot of them is pre-code-style in-your-face salaciousness, the subtext-that’s-actually-main-text, the (relatively) daring approaches to/questioning of social conventions, the portrayals of bad-ass/devil-may-care women shamelessly going after what they want… sigh, I could go on and on and on.

Since I know I’ll never actually get to hit Hays square in the jaw, I like to channel that… creative energy into reimagining what some “post-code” films might’ve been like if they didn’t have to worry quite so much about suiting the censors. So, here are two— one I wanted to love, and one I still really kinda love— from what is (you guessed it) a very, very long list.

A Woman Rebels (1936)

There’s so much promise with the premise of this one— I mean, it’s supposed to be the story of a Victorian-era Hepburn defying her family, having a baby out of wedlock, and becoming a magazine editor-in-chief/women’s rights crusader. Note the emphasis on the supposed to part of that; this one is unfortunately nothing like the sales pitch, because the film takes great pains to avoid actually *showing* any of the sexual or intellectual awakening as it takes place.

Case in point: the affair that leads to Pamela’s pregnancy occurs almost entirely off screen, and there’s less than zero believable chemistry in the build-up or in the later drama; Hepburn has to pretend her daughter is actually her niece (she can do that because her married sister was also very conveniently pregnant, but dies of shock after her husband is killed at sea); instead of being totally liberated, Hepburn’s character is too afraid of her own sexuality to embark on another affair (even when relentlessly pursued); she still weirdly craves approval from her father and other male figures even as the film says she’s rebelling against them; and there’s far too little screen time actually devoted to Pamela’s activism. Basically, we’re left with a weirdly-paced story that’s 95% hand-wringing over the scandal of it all, with all the visually and narratively suggestive stuff cut right out.

I want to keep the premise of this one, but ditch the script— and am convinced this *could* have been a really amazing film if it was made just a few years earlier. Give me 15-20 minutes tops of that backstory, then dive headlong into a wonderful hour of the unmarried Hepburn having affair after heated affair & doing all kinds of on-the-job crusading while shamelessly raising her kid as her own. Basically, if the film/the code just let Hepburn be Hepburn & refrained from making this 80 minutes of “I *want* to be independent but the SCANDAL,” it would’ve been absolutely fantastic.

Dracula’s Daughter (1936)

So, this film is still pretty damn sexy in a “how the hell did this get past the censors in 1936” kind of way— but I still think it would’ve been so much better pre-code.

For the un-initiated: the plot almost entirely revolves around lesbian subtext (maintext? it’s kind of maintext) & this is probably *the* film origin point for the “lesbian as a brooding predator” trope. And, try as they did to scrub the movie of any “questionable flavor,” it’s all still pretty damn obvious. While Countess Zaleska (Gloria Holden) hunts all the humans, she’s really only shown lusting after women; the big temptation/seduction scene is directed at a young woman, and the way the Countess later hovers over and descends on the spellbound Janet has rather accurately been called “the longest kiss never filmed.” Plus (among other things), the taglines used for the film were “She gives you that weird feeling,” and, more overtly, “Save the women of London from Dracula’s Daughter!”

Needless to say, it doesn’t end well for Zaleska— and I know she wouldn’t get a satisfying ending even pre-code (hello, she’s the villain & a vampire & some shade of queer), but maybe we would’ve gotten less brooding and a more confident, overt display of sexuality. Yes, the not-so-thinly-veiled desire & pining & all the lustful gazing are all absolutely alluring— but I think what I really want is for Countess Zaleska to be a pre-code-style liberated villainess who’s confident in her exploits and totally owns her implied sexuality (and, if we really wanna pie-in-the-sky it, for one of the women she seduces to actually return that lust). Instead, she spends the whole film agonizing over/resisting her urges and wanting to "cure” herself of vampirism (& implicitly lesbianism) via psychiatry. I’m just saying, Bela Lugosi doesn’t spend “Dracula” fretting about or guilting over his attractions/lust — he gets to go after what he wants. Why not let Countess Zaleska/Gloria Holden do the same?

side note: think this was a bizarre match-up? bite me, I love period dramas AND horror.

#pre-code the post-code #Katharine Hepburn #Gloria Holden #brb gotta go back in time and punch will hays et al.#long post

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evakfanficsrecs · 8 years ago

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EVAK FANFICS RECS / PART 5

ONESHOTS:

Quidditch and liquorice wand kisses by Bellakitse ★ Summary: hogwarts!au; The first time Isak Valtersen meets Even Bech Næsheim the seven-year Ravenclaw chaser, it’s because the boy saves him from a bludger to the face.

Sunday 28-11-16 by Treehouse Summary: A continuation of the cuddly weekend Even spends at Isak's place.

Made of Candy by Stria (Asia117) Summary: For Isak, it started with colours. (Or, Isak dyes his hair. Pink suits him.)

MORE UNDER THE CUT

his ladder to the stars by tomlinsoln Summary: hogwarts!au; A story of how a Slytherin!Isak falls in love with the Ravenclaw seeker.

Love Me Harder by tech_ftw ★ Summary: In which accidentally being added to a group text has unexpected consequences. Like falling in love.

Lørdag 23:57 by manicExpressive Summary: Saturday February 11th, 2017. Isak awaits the countdown to Even's 20th birthday.

We go out for coffee and keep to ourselves by thestyleofsecrecy Summary: He then leaned in for a kiss, but Isak gently pushed him away. “Not when we are at school…” he whispered, blushing. “Ugh, c’mon! Okay, well, you’ll see – this rule will have to be broken. I’m irresistible.” Isak doesn't want Even to kiss him when they are at school, but Even is such a tease. Isak tries to resist him.

isak x even | the beginning of the birthday tradition by BloonStuff Summary: It's Even's 20th birthday and Isak has an idea on just how they begin it. Well, if he can ever get Even to wake up and participate.

Have you no idea that you're in deep by iamjustakiddo Summary: SØNDAG 12.2.17, 01:54: Music still pounded through the walls, dull and muffled, while the two boys swayed on the spot completely wrapped up in each other, breathing in unison and hearts racing each other and the world gravitating around them, endless, infinite.

Sideways and Slantways by iriswests ★ Summary: Isak gets stuck in an elevator with the one person he's vowed never to speak to again. This eventually prompts a conversation long overdue, but not without the memories flooding his brain like a broken dam first.

Håp by tiptopteapot ★ Summary: The strangest thing about Even's panic attacks is that, mostly, they’re silent.

Popcorn poppin' by tiptopteapot Summary: Wherein Even tries to romantically feed Isak pieces of popcorn in the cinema.

The World's Best Birthday aka Even's Birthday Treasure by Huntfandomlimb Summary: Isak spoils Even rotten on his birthday and plans a romantic treasure hunt.

hey little firecracker, baby, tell me where you've been by gravinnen Summary: Isak's been so focused on Even's birthday, he's kind of forgotten Valentine's Day is a thing that exists.

Isak and Even: everything at once by imissedyourskin Summary: soulmates!au; Isak frowned, “no? Is it different for you?” he asked her and she folded her hands in her lap, “yes. I used to see in black and white. Your dad used to see in colour. And then we met each other and we saw everything at once. It made me see colour and made your dad see black and white. That is what happens when you meet your soulmate.” Or, How Isak tries to find his soulmate.

Isak Valtersen, King of Romance by i_once_wrote_a_dream Summary: There’s a word for it. The feeling of belonging. Of home in someone’s arms. Isak isn’t entirely sure what that word is, or what language it’s in, but he knows it exists.

Lovelier Than Cardamom by flowerbedofsouls Summary: Everyone can agree that Even is a romantic at heart, but during Valentine's day, Isak surprises him in his own (just a tad too cheesy) way.

Let me know (I'll listen) by alijan Summary: "The first time Jonas sees Even, he is sporting his own snapback that Isak has stolen and which also surprisingly fails to ruin the guy's gelled hairstyle as he takes it off. The third year walks up to their group with sure confidence, his eyes trained only on Isak." Or, Season 3 events, Isak's struggle and Even himself from Jonas' eyes.

CHAPTERED:

i want to hold you like you're mine by lydiasage Summary: Isak and Even are both lonely in very different ways. Or, the one where Even keeps saving Isak.

Lost Boys (Not Ready To Be Found) by kittpurrson ✓ Summary: uni!au; Even is a disillusioned media studies student who wishes he hadn't screwed up his film school applications. Isak is a prickly bioscience student who figured leaving his mother's house for UiO would magically fix all of his problems. AKA a college AU, wherein Isak and Even meet later than they were destined to, but still save each other right back.

Darling, I feel you under my body by retts Summary: God, Even sounds so into it. That's hotter than anything by far, and Isak wishes he could see Even right now, turn this into a video call, but there's also something alluring about just listening to the way Even's breathing becomes ragged, the low pitch of his voice. Or a five senses fic wherein Isak and Even have plenty of sex and cuddles.

Hashtag Murphy’s Law by Snowflurryflake Summary: Or Five Times Things That Can Go Wrong, Go Wrong – and One Time They Really Don’t... Poor Isak, right? Nah.

And that's my song, unheard by Anonymous ★ ✓ Summary: Isak is a second year at Nissen, and he's also a violinist at the local music school. The day a new pianist arrives is the day his world is rocked off its axis.

I Want To Love You But I Don't Know How by Skamzombie Summary: “You really do think you own everyone don’t you?” Even smiled “No. But I do own you.” - Isak and Even do not get along. In fact they hate each other. But when Even finds dirt on Isak, well it is almost too good to not use it to his advantage. And then somehow Isak finds himself in the drama club...with Even where drama is definitely promised.

snow and dirty rain by grinsekaetzchen ★ ✓ Summary: In which Vilde starts a book club because someone else already started kosegruppa, Even is a book nerd, who recites poetry, and Isak struggles to see the point of reading boring books when he could just watch the film versions; except, that he meets Even, so maybe book club isn't that much of a waste of time as he's previously thought.

Crazy by hellagroovy ✓ Summary: In which rumors says that Even is crazy and Isak and Even never became friends.

Love's ignorant of time by mishabloom ✓ Summary: That time Isak found himself feeling a lot more like Sonja, when he got a call from the only person he didn't think he'd ever hear from, or Isak decides to save Even and uncovers all the feelings he's been bottling up since their break up.

All The Time I Dream Of You by TheHottieAndTheCutie ✓ Summary: Set over 9 weeks, at 21:21. Even knows they love each other, they've loved each other for a long time now. But saying it out loud is a different thing. Especially, when he feels like he could ruin his and Isak's relationship.

Headed Straight for the Castle by boxesofflowers, Eeyoreneedsahug & safficwriter ★ ✓ Summary: royal!au; Isak is the heir to the throne of one of the most powerful nations in the world, but he would rather be anyone else. Being a prince, growing up in the public eye, never making any choices of his own - it’s all been overwhelming. After sneaking out one night, he meets a college student that makes him smile for what feels like the first time. Can he cling to this one point of normality? And will his family - and the tabloids - find out the truth?

Lost In Reality by hippopotamus ✓ Summary: When Isak first starts at Nissen, there's a third year boy, Even, who likes to make fun of him, always pretending to ask him out on dates and calling him beautiful. For some reason Even disappears in february of that first year, and Isak doesn't think he'll ever seen him again (thank god), but clearly fate has different plans, when he walks into school to start second year and even is back, repeating his third year and back to taunting Isak as if nothings changed (except maybe how Isak feels about it).

Inside Even's Brain by Delongpaw ✓ Summary: A fluffy piece about Even and Isak. Deviates from Canon at points. Graphic Sexual Situations, language and drug use. Story is basically Even's Brain trying to deal with falling for Isak. No angst. No Bi-polar. Hopefully funny moments. Depression as a normal part of growing up is discussed.

(★ - personal favorites | ✓ - completed fics)

#even bech næsheim #isak valtersen #evak #even x isak #isak x even #evak fanfiction #evak fanfics #evak fanfics recommendation #skam #skam fanfiction #masterposts

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endestprana · 8 years ago

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The Way It Goes

“Clumsy yet fulfilling... Tempting and alluring...”

She knows. Everybody knows. Well, not really but she knew she loves it when her beloved did it that way over and over again. The curiosity leads to something so unexpected she got hooked on the first run. No one expects but she doesn’t care in the end. All she loves is how she got kissed that day.

Gray skies. Terrible storms. All of them managed to make the day Dia had been waiting for drenched in despair. Why did it have to happen when she’s supposed to be happily celebrating her anniversary. She’s not some kid who’s having that kind of bad luck, after all. But well, it’s not like she has no option in getting back the joyful times she’s been waiting for.

Let’s try asking her father for a ride. If she told him she’s having an urgent business at Kanan’s place, the Kurosawa father might gave her a ride for sure. Not sure if it was a streak of bad luck or what, but she found out that her sister managed to outdone her and made their father to gave her a ride first. What a disaster.

“Kanan-san..., what should we do?”

“Eh...? What? I can’t hear you Dia...”

“Kanan-san? It’s too loud there... Where are you right now?”

“Huh? What?”

Beep. The call was stopped as the sound echoed inside Dia’s room. It made her heart shivered a bit. “Don’t tell me she’s going to my place right now? No way, right? No matter how strong Kanan is, it’s unthinkable for her to rush her way here for her, right?” A doubt filled Dia’s mind as she looked at the scenery outside of her house which seemed like one you could find in a drama when something bad is bound to happen.

And as her heart tried to deny the possibility of Kanan heading to her house right now, the bell rang and it surprised the black-haired girl a lot. The beating of her heart was starting to go out of control but she managed to calm it a bit as she walked her way to the front door. “Let’s hope it’s just someone who wanted to take a cover from the storm.” Yes, like that’s going to happen.

“Dia...? Dia, are you home?”

“Ka-Kanan-san? Is that you Kanan-san? What are you doing coming to my house in the middle of the storm like this?”

“Ehehe~ Well, it’s just doesn’t sit well with me to be having our day ruined by a mere storm.”

“Yeah, it’s only you who thought it that way, you know. You and your thick-head. How irritating!”

“Eh...? So you don’t want me to come, then?”

“I-I didn’t said that, alright?! For now, let’s get you changed and we’ll talk later!”

“Hehe... thanks, Dia!”

Kanan went into the bathroom inside Dia’s room as the girl who’s worried like mad about her hurriedly went and preparing a set of change for the blue-haired girl. The troublesome girl. The girl who always managed to make her heart beats like crazy for a simple little thing. One day. Just wait and see, one day she’ll do the same and get revenge on that lovely girl! Well, at least that’s what Dia swore in her heart before Kanan got out from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. Dia was in shock that she immediately fell down, unconscious. Poor Dia, she outdone you once again.

“Dia...? Dia, wake up Dia... Ah, it might took a while before she regained consicousness...” mumbled Kanan as she took the poor girl onto the bed. What kind of shock did she gave her that it managed to make her passed out like that, Kanan wondered inside as she changed herself with the fallen set Dia left earlier. Done with changing, she sat right beside the unconscious girl who seemed like she’s having a bad dream right now.

“How cute~” Kanan let out her words as she ran her hand through the silky hair of Dia. “If only she’s always showing this side of her, she might be the number one idol in our school. Wait, it’s not okay at all! If she did that, I might have no chance at enjoying this sight anymore...!” she spoke to herself as she smiled towards the now-seemed-happy sleeping girl.

Dia is cute. Dia is beautiful. Well, you can say whatever the words are right to describe just how much Kanan adored the black-haired girl. She loves seeing Dia spoke. She loves seeing Dia laughed. She even loves it when Dia was crying. An S? Maybe, but who knows. What she knows is she loves everything there is about Dia. But there’s something that felt lacking despite all this whole year they spent on together as girlfriends.

A kiss. She wanted to know how it felt to kiss that sexy lips of Dia. It was also the reason she rushed through the bad weather. Today must be the day for her to finally taste it. The feeling of kissing the person you loved. Then an idea came to her mind. Everyone could guess anything but one. It’s obvious that the chance had already presented itself all this time when Dia was sleeping beside her right now. All she got to do is reach those alluring lips and she’ll get the taste for sure. But what if Dia hate it and then their relationship fell apart? Kanan might killed herself for that. However, it’s not like her to overthinking things like that, so why don’t we just get into it right now?

And so, with that little doubt inside her mind, she let her lips went and reached the ones she really wanted to taste all this time. Throbbing heart accompanied her lips’ short journey as they got closer to the prize. They was almost there before Dia opened her eyes. Kanan was really surprised, so much that she failed her standing and unintentionally grabbed Dia and thus they fell together to the floor. As she tried to opened her eyes, she felt a really sweet sensation on her lips. It was something new. It’s too strong it might be addictive. But what is that strange sensation? So she wondered before her eyes finally caught the scenery right in front of her, Dia who’s face as red as ruby (maybe?).

“Pwuuuahh... K-K-K-K-K-K-Kanan-san...?! W-W-W-W-W-Wha-Wha-What did you do j-j-j-just now!!!????”

“Dia. what are you talking about?” said Kanan as she felt the sweet sensation was decreasing as Dia spoke to her. Then, the revelation came to her mind “Ah, so that was a kiss. Sweet~”

“Y-Y-Y-Y-You, d-d-d-d-don’t tell me you were aiming for my lips all this time...?! Kyaaaaa!!! Kanan-san, you pervert!!!” she screamed while Kanan tried to calm her down

“C’mon, Dia. It’s not like that. Besides, it’s not entirely my fault, okay? We fell together, right?” trying to reason once again

“Nooooo!!!! Kanan-san is a pervert!!!”

“Dia, oh my gosh...let me clarify it, okay?”

“No, I don’t want to hear anything from a pervert right now!!”

As Kanan was kind of irritated by Dia who’s trying to break free just now, she resorted to shut that mouth. She wanted to shout that beautiful lips so there is no nonsense spouted out of it. At least for now. There she went to it. She captured Dia’s lips with hers. At first Dia resisted while sometimes her tongue seemed to enjoy what Kanan’s did to it. Slowly, as Kanan finally got the hang of it, Dia surrendered. She let her tension down as she finally started to enjoy the shameless act (she thought) with her girlfriend. After roughly five minutes, Kanan finally let her lips go.

“Dia...”

“What now, Kanan-san?”

“Did you like my present?”

“Hmph! Don’t ask for something obvious!!”

“So, you liked it, right?”

“Stop it with your smug face already! Now give me those lips of yours so I could get my revenge for stealing my lips ungracefully today!!”

“Dia, you’re too funny, you k---” She got her revenge just fine while Kanan still in her smug face

#kanadia #kurosawa dia #matsuura kanan #love live sunshine #endestwords #sorry mari #the end was a bit forced i think

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jussaraa347 · 5 years ago

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10 Ways to Offer Pricey Affiliate Products and Make Substantial Commissions

Among the quickest methods to increase your affiliate earnings is to use high ticket items. Commissions as low as 5% can still settle handsomely, supplied the product brings a huge adequate price. Plus some pay-per-lead programs provide large bounties of $50 and up for certified leads.

Why do not more affiliates develop websites around high-ticket items? Individuals’s internal resistance kicks in since they’re constantly a little anxious when it’s time to shell out huge dollars online.

If there’s one thing super-affiliates understand how to do, it’s gotten rid of purchaser resistance. Here are 10 never-fail strategies I’ve been teaching my customers and trainees. Use every one to your affiliate service, and you’ll quickly see escalating conversion rates on higher-priced items and profitable upsells.

# 1 - Turn your pocket calculator into a salesperson.

Numbers can often assistance of your selling proposal, so put those numbers to work! Ask yourself the number of methods can you MONETIZE the advantage of your services or product. Put those numbers on the table.

If you’re offering a $1499 teleclass that teaches individuals alternatives trading, compute the LOWEST possible earnings they will make from your system in one year’s time. State that even if they got the most average outcomes, they ‘d still make approximately $300 each day.

That suggests in a 5 day work week they ‘d make an average of $1500. In a 50-week year they ‘d make $75,000.

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Ask yourself, what sounds much better: “$ 29.95 a month” or “$ 359 a year?” Even if the possibility has to pay the whole amount up front, reveal them how that huge cost tag isn’t so huge.

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If your financial investment course costs $599, make a list of whatever your purchasers get: digital reports, videos, workbook, telephone hotline, personal website gain access to, software application, and so on. Put a price on each - make it reasonable, please-- then demonstrate how they amount to a lot more than $599.

Or let’s state you’re using to set up, set up, and personalize an off-the-shelf software application bundle for an overall cost of $699. Just demonstrate how numerous hours you invest in each component, increase by a sensible however high-end per hour rate ... and demonstrate how purchasers are getting $2500 worth of services for just $699!

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This takes some additional work, however I actually like it since so couple of affiliates are doing it.

Let’s state you’re an affiliate for high-ticket digital SLR video cameras. Inform your purchasers that when they buy any electronic camera over $599 from you, and they send you a copy of their invoice, they’ll get a bonus offer CD-ROM loaded with digital photography ideas, imaging freeware and shareware, and your handpicked online resources for products, devices, and picture printing.

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And most importantly, it’s a method to get purchasers to VOLUNTARILY offer you both their e-mail and general delivery addresses! Good.

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Define, in dollars and cents, how the expense of your product and services is a drop in the container compared to the returns it produces.

Let’s state your $799 office security evaluation course assists organisations pass assessments. These will actually include up to 5 figures, a substantial expenditure compared to the rate of your course.

# 7-- Make your potential customers eliminated that you’re charging so little!

This one’s so simple, I’m impressed more affiliates do not do it. Program greater rates for other items ... then inform them your rate, which naturally is much, much less!

Are you offering a financial investment course? Talk about $1 million personal financial investment accounts ... and the substantial commissions financial investment supervisors charge. By the time you inform them about your $599 course, your possibility will breathe a sigh of relief!

Sure, it’s an apples-to-oranges contrast. That’s the entire point. You’re revealing your possibility why your $599 course is the least pricey option for them ... and possibly the only budget friendly one.

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Many sales pages for pricey services and products use feelings and advantages. They construct desire and viewed worth over a number of thousand words and actually “offer” the individual BEFORE rate is even pointed out.

Often you can do the opposite --- and gain huge benefits by pre-qualifying visitors. That’s right, inform individuals the cost in advance. Play on the drama and exclusivity of a huge number to weed out the tire kickers!

Here’s an example: “This course is for severe financiers just. It costs $1299. If you’re terrified by that cost, or if you’re reluctant to purchase your capability to develop wealth, then our course is not for you.”.

Sure, this technique is based upon snob appeal. It’s likewise really effective reverse psychology: the more you inform a possibility they do not certify, the more some individuals will firmly insist that they DO!

If you do not think this method works, a few of the best direct reaction copy of perpetuity has actually taken it all the method to the bank. One fund-raising letter that created millions for a bird-watching exploration specified: “It will cost you $10,000 and about 26 days of your time. Honestly, you will withstand some pain, and might even deal with some threat.”.

# 9-- Use a “incorrect close” to develop thriller.

It’s a timeless ... and it still works. Develop the worth and desirability of your item without a doubt, however hold-up satisfaction for a couple of more paragraphs while overdoing much more advantages.

The most typical incorrect close is the old “But wait, there’s more ...” strategy. Despite the fact that your case is made, you do not stop and point out a couple of more alluring advantages.

If your potential customers have actually gotten this far, they WANT the item. Provide them 8 or 10 or 20 more methods to validate that huge expense!

# 10-- Sound like the leading professional in your field.

Rate resistance reduces in direct percentage to trust. If your visitors think that you’re an undisputed professional in your specific niche, they’re a lot more most likely to make that big-ticket purchase.

Deal UNIQUE services they can’t get in other places. Program PROOF that your item or service works as assured.

And prevent buzz at all expenses. It’s far much better to sound low profile-- however positive--- than to yell for attention.

And keep in mind, potential customers aren’t dumb. If you support your claims with difficult realities and information, they’ll happily pay hundreds to thousands for your affiliate promos. If you do not, they’re clever sufficient to look to your rivals!

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topmixtrends · 7 years ago

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I WOULD LIKE to begin with a confession — I made a New Year’s resolution for 2018: stay in better touch with my friends. As a US expat living in London, I can go months without talking to the people I care most about across the world. With a newborn baby and a permanent residency in the United Kingdom, this must change and I am committed to ensuring that it does. But February faded into March, and, despite some early successes, I could already see my resolve slipping away.

Of course this follows in a long line of such enthusiastic fresh starts spanning from losing weight, to learning to cook, to going out more, to stopping drinking. I must admit some of these have been more successful than others and, with the exception of sobriety, most fizzle out as the snow melts into spring. Far from finding these failures depressing, they provide me with a strange optimism — revealing that even as I age my ability to change and try new things is never fully extinguished.

This year, however, my New Year’s resolution took on an added pressure and increased urgency. I have more than mere willpower and good old-fashioned stick-to-it-ness on my side. I now have literally at my fingertips a mobile app that reminds me to write my friends and family. An audible ringing in my ear, it alerts my guilt to go into overdrive and motivates me to take pause from my busy day and reach out digitally to those I care about.

Shoring up my human connections feels like the least I can do in the face of a world spinning out of control. I cannot stop Trump from tweeting our way into a potential nuclear holocaust or our tragically irreversible slide into cataclysmic climate change or the fact that our most viable options to resist these modern terrors are usually little more than “lesser evils” themselves. However, I can WhatsApp my friends, share a joke, a small complaint, and cross it off my mobile to-do list reminding me that if only for today, I have become a slightly better person than I was last year.

This contemporary tension — where most of us live between small-scale personal empowerment and large-scale social disempowerment — makes Carl Cederström and André Spicer’s new book Desperately Seeking Self-Improvement timely and enlightening. It captures the alluring and often insidious desire to be better, especially in an era where things couldn’t seem to be worse. In their own words:

This book does not advance its own theory about how to become a better person, but rather reflects the desperation and frustration, the drama and humor, intrinsic to the search for self-improvement — the same search that millions of people engage in every day.

The book has an original and inspired hook. Rather than simply analyze attempts at self-optimization from the comfort of their ivory tower windows, these professors dove in and courageously tried a series of self-optimization strategies for themselves. The book is structured as a parallel travelogue of sorts between the two author’s concurrent experiments with self-improvement. What’s more, it chronicles in often brutally honest detail their relationship as they do so.

The obvious temptation would have been to merely satirize these admittedly extreme schemes to “optimize” one’s life. And at times, Cederström and Spicer’s book is nothing short of hilarious — a rarity in the otherwise all too often dry and unfunny world of academia. Chronicling his use of “Pavlok” — a wearable tech that electrically shocks its wearers to help them be more present and productive — early in the book, Cederström writes:

After breakfast, I Skyped André. He was in New Zealand on vacation and had just finished dinner. Unshaven, his long hair askew, he gave me a long lecture about productivity hacks. I found it hard to concentrate on him and tuned out after a while. Then I remembered my wearables. I took out my phone, opened the Pavlok app, and pressed zap. One second; two seconds. The shock arrived. I jumped out of my chair, letting out a scream. André burst into laughter.

With similar comic effect, Spicer reports on his personal investment into becoming a “Zen trader”:

To be a real trader, I had to develop a trading philosophy. And that was what I hoped to gain from the book I had up on my screen: Zen in the Markets, by a Chicago futures trader named Edward Allen Toppel […] I began reading about how the greatest enemy in trading was the ego […] To be a great trader, you needed to totally immerse yourself in the ultimate reality, which was the market. I had to become like a monk who, instead of contemplating a rock, focused his entire being on the market.

This is engaged research on steroids. Two prominent scholars decided to put themselves to the test and paid the mental and physical price.

However, neither Cederström nor Spicer is content to simply mock. If anything, their jadedness gives way to empathy and greater enlightenment. It is deeply moving to read about Spicer publicly undressing himself in the London tube as a way to overcome his body issues, or about Cederström discovering the pleasures of challenging oneself to live more leisurely. Cederström’s surprising reflections follow his attendance at a new age spiritual retreat:

Before going to the retreat, I had thought of spiritual training as a middle-class indulgence. But now, after I saw the pain that these people were suffering and how desperate they were to get better, I could no longer stand on the side and laugh.

It would be equally misguided, however, to take this fascinating text as an uncritical embrace of the diverse personal optimization movement. Throughout the book, the erstwhile collaborators — and close friends — spiral into a passionate mutual dislike for each other bordering at points on hatred. By the end of the first month, Spicer writes,

At about eight a.m. Carl skyped. He was lying on a couch under a blanket. He looked pitiful. I instantly started feeling better about things. This always happens. When Carl feels bad, I feel good. Buoyed by Carl’s illness, I continued writing. At four a.m., I clicked save. The book was done.

A shared exploration that started out as fun quickly descends into intense competition as to who could improve the most. Gentle encouragement gradually turned into outright mocking and one-upsmanship. The streak of masochism that commonly accompanies self-improvement projects was redirected into a Schadenfreude-tinged happiness at the other’s suffering.

Prominent reviews of the book in leading UK newspapers such as the Guardian and The Independent have not surprisingly zeroed in on the humor derived from this tension. They praise the misanthropic hilarity of their unconventional and occasionally conflictual partnership. Yet beneath this often perverse back and forth lies a profound critique. More than comic effect, it is a subtle but scathing statement about the alienating effects of our contemporary desires for personal betterment. It is a denunciation of the ways our hyper-capitalist society has made self-improvement just another thing that can be quantified and instrumentalized. A set of data-backed benchmarks that leads us to compete against each other and from which we can never finally measure up.

At its heart, Desperately Seeking Self-Improvement reveals how our 21st-century free-market culture has co-opted even our most genuine efforts to improve our lives. The discourse of “optimization” carries with it disturbing implications — linked to an unhealthy modern obsession to always be better and the best. Nothing is ever good enough and everything must be taken to the extreme. Such discourses resonate and have their roots in the disciplining realities of modern free-market workplaces pathologically fixated on optimizing their employee’s productivity and efficiency for maximum profit. Near the end of the project, Carl ponders its ultimate meaning, tracing it back to shared human fantasies of transformation, immortality (“the escape from death”), and capitalist advantage (“It promised to make you more productive and give you a competitive edge”). Yet these insights brought him little clarity:

As I was walking back home, I felt I had found some answers. But what was my motivation? Did I nurture a dream about being someone else? Was I afraid of dying? Did I want to boost my market value?

That same day in London, André had an even more profound realization: “Just after midday, my son, Julian, was born. This was the best day of the whole year and it had absolutely nothing to do with self-improvement.” This work adds to a recent wave of critical work challenging the penetration of capitalism and financialization to all areas of present-day existence. Political theorist Wendy Brown observes in her recent book Undoing the Demos that under neoliberalism, not only has the public sector been reduced but democracy and social relations have also become fully marketized. Just as troubling are the ways basic human emotions and impulses have been similarly infected by market logics. Happiness, according to sociologist Will Davies, is now an industry, one geared toward the maximizing of every potential moment of joy through continual and constant monetized consumption. Likewise, in my own recent book The Ethics of Neoliberalism: The Business of Making Capitalism Moral I explore the ways that our longings to be “good citizens” and help each other is increasingly turned against us. Employers and politicians put in and demand longer hours and make political sacrifices in an economy that increasingly asks everyone “to do more with less.”

The current popularity of attempts at personal development are rooted in both the neoliberal emphasis on individual responsibility and the desire to feel a sense of control in the midst of a fickle and unjust world. As Thomas Frank argued in The Conquest of Cool, the counterculture’s language of rebellion was co-opted from the 1960s on by commercial promises to transform the self. Cederström explicitly speaks of this connection,

As I was doing my second set of bench presses, I thought about Christopher Lasch’s claim that, in the early 1970s, as people lost hope in improving the world politically, they retreated into self-improvement. It was no small irony that our year of self-improvement was also the year when both Britain and USA had fallen apart politically. The gym was quiet and empty. It was the perfect place to forget about the troubles of the world.

With the “new dawn” of the financialized free-market 1980s, these discourses became turbo-charged, and the internalization of the “aspiration society” began. All you need to succeed is a good attitude and a willingness to work toward being your best self, professionally and personally. Yet as market optimism has faded in the face of unremitting crises and wage stagnation, self-improvement has remained as an appealing option for keeping hope alive. Personal betterment can be a crucial means for people to cope with a neoliberal reality marked by heightened economic anxiety and cultural upheaval. “If work is making me unhealthy, forcing me to work overtime on a zero hours contract,” one might reason, “then at least I can make myself physically healthier by doing my 10,000 steps a day and mentally healthier through mindfulness techniques.” It is what Laura Walsh in a recent article in Dissent Magazine has referred to as the new “coping economy.”

However, where there is financialization there is the intensifying pressure to maximize profits, so the improving subject can never be good enough, improved, or better. Now you must be optimized. You open every moment up to judgment when you are maximizing your life. Experiments with new ways of living are shadowed by fears that you should be doing more, and that you will fail to unlock your greatest self from within. Even the most virtuous experiences take on a destructive competitive edge — as spiritual seekers morph into spiritual competitors in a race to see who has suffered the most and who is closest to enlightenment.

This bleak vision of the present points though to the potential for a more progressive future. The longing for self-improvement reveals persistent and, yes, “desperate” desires for bettering our individual and collective existence. Further, the various experiments with self-improvement undertaken by Cederström and Spicer uncover how these radical desires can be pursued through local experimentations with different lifestyles. Rather than trying to save our souls, there are real opportunities to feel radically empowered through introducing radical principles of democracy and equality into diverse areas of our existence. While full-scale revolution may not be immediately on the horizon, it is never too late to try and “occupy” your own life.

Doing so can provide people with the opportunity to feel radically empowered in an age where this may seem impossible or futile. Yet this small slice of revolutionary optimism requires jettisoning demands for optimization and instead embracing an ethics of openness and experimentation. We need to stop trying to be our best selves and instead find ways to improve how we live together.

As he looked back at a year as a self-described “self-help fundamentalist,” Carl proclaims,

It was time to think less about myself now. I had kept the world at bay for most of the year. Never before had I read so little news, read so few novels, seen so few films, and spent so little time with friends. When I had written the academic book in a single month, I hardly spoke to anyone. When I trained for my weight-lifting competition, I spent every day in the gym. It was time to open the door, time to let the world in again.

Turning back to myself, maybe that is why this year it feels so urgent to reach out to old friends and family — to reach out and reconnect with others with the hope of turning our shared desire for self-optimization outward, into a radical discussion of how we might improve the world together, one action at a time.

Peter Bloom is an associate professor at the Open University. His essays have appeared in the Washington Post, the Guardian, and The Independent, The New Statesmen, The Week, The Conversation, and Open Democracy among others.

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