#the text presented is so sleek like a magazine

[dankusner]

Even in Her Memoir, Melania Trump Remains a Mystery

Back in 2012, some years before her husband, Donald Trump, was elected President of the United States, Melania Trump tweeted a picture of a beluga whale, its glistening white head emerging from the water, its toothy maw open in a half grin.

“What is she thinking?” the Slovenian-born onetime model captioned the image.

Over the past decade-plus, this tweet, which at last count has been reposted forty-seven thousand times and has garnered fifty-eight thousand likes, has emerged and reëmerged periodically in my feed.

On its own, it already had high meme potential—there’s just something inherently funny about a person wondering publicly, apropos of nothing, as to the inner reflections of a stock-image marine mammal (and deciding, too, that this stock-image marine mammal is a girl).

But the fact that it was Melania Trump who had posted the tweet made the whole thing even more intriguing, since the question she posed could pertain not just to the beluga but also to herself.

A feline-eyed, high-cheekboned beauty, whose sleek good looks were giving Instagram face long before Juvéderm was even a twinkle in Kylie Jenner’s derm’s syringe, Melania has been an enigma ever since she came to public attention, in the late nineteen-nineties, when she began dating Trump.

(At the time of their meeting, he was fifty-two and she twenty-eight.)

For Melania, the beluga tweet was an outlier, a rare expression of quirk.

As a rule, she has existed in the collective imagination not so much as real-life woman, with her own interests and idiosyncrasies, but as a glossy 2-D image, largely known through the mediating scrim of magazine coverage, which has tended to present her as one luxury object among others in her mogul husband’s arsenal.

(In 2004, before her wedding, Vogue followed her to Paris to shop for a couture gown for the ceremony, and then put her on its February, 2005, cover with the words “Donald Trump’s New Bride: The Ring, The Dress, The Wedding, The Jet, The Party”;

a year later, when she was heavily pregnant with her son, Barron, the publication once again featured her, this time in an Annie Leibovitz spread, posing in a gold bikini and stilettos on a plane’s airstairs in Palm Beach, as Trump idled in a silver McLaren on the tarmac below her.)

Even after Trump became President, Melania remained an essentially unknowable text.

Of course, all actors in the political arena depend on some level of obfuscation, and an attempt to figure out what a public figure really thinks tends to be a fool’s errand.

And yet, historically, the role of First Lady has depended on a kind of approachable legibility—a cheerful, open-bookish willingness to soften the hard edges that the role of President demands, through displays of helpmeet-like keenness.

Melania, with her pronounced Cold War accent, snugly streamlined outfits, and reluctance to discuss personal matters, seemed more sexy Bond spy than traditional First Lady.

During Trump’s Presidency, she didn’t speak publicly very often—“There is absolutely no question that she has been quieter than any modern First Lady we’ve known,” the Washington Post’s Mary Jordan, who has written a biography of Melania, said, in 2020—and even when she did make a rare address, such as the speech she gave at the 2016 Republican National Convention, some of her words were revealed to have been lifted from Michelle Obama.

What was Melania thinking?

The silent vacuum of her personality—which stood in stark opposition to her husband’s endless bloviating—naturally led to a media rush to fill it with Kremlinology.

Her every move and gesture were analyzed: that time on a visit to Israel, in May, 2017, when Trump attempted to grab her hand while walking down a red carpet with Sara and Bibi Netanyahu, and she swatted his hand away;

or when, in June of 2018, on the way to and from a visit to a shelter for migrant children at the U.S.-Mexico border, she wore a jacket whose back was emblazoned with the words “I REALLY DON’T CARE DO U?”; or when, to cap the same year off with a bang, she decorated the White House with blood-red, Goth-style Christmas trees.

Her new memoir, “Melania,” the former First Lady proposes, is a “deeply personal and reflective” corrective to the mainstream media’s unfair and malicious misreading of her actions, intentions, and very character.

“As a private person who has often been the subject of public scrutiny and misrepresentation, I feel a responsibility to set the record straight and to provide the actual account of my experiences,” she writes, in the book’s opening note.

And yet, despite this scintillating promise to draw back the drapery and expose “the woman behind the public persona,” “Melania” is one of the flattest, most abstract, and least revealing accounts of a life that I’ve probably ever read.

The basic armature of Melania’s story has long been known, and she recounts it here again.

She was born in 1970, in Slovenia, to a tight-knit family.

Her mother was a patternmaker and her father an auto-industry entrepreneur, and she grew up in relative comfort with her older sister, Ines, in the bucolic town of Sevnica.

She was scouted as a model in her teens and lived and worked in Italy and France before moving, at twenty-six, to New York, where she continued to pursue her career.

In 1998, she met Trump at a night club, and the two began seeing each other;

they married in 2005, and welcomed one son, Barron, a year later.

In the decade that followed, before Trump became President, she kept herself busy with motherhood while also selling a jewelry line on QVC and developing skin-care products.

Later, she followed her husband to the White House and beyond it, as the country experienced unprecedented events, including the Black Lives Matter movement, the COVID pandemic, the January 6th insurrection, and Trump’s first assassination attempt.

(The Stormy Daniels trial is not mentioned.)

I realize that the above makes some fascinating and exceptional episodes seem quite dull, but what if I told you that Melania’s much lengthier account adds almost nothing of note or interest to the bare bones of this précis?

The writing is riddled with generalities and clichés, at a level I haven’t seen since teaching college-freshman comp in the early twenty-tens.

“Visiting museums is a habit I have maintained in every city I’ve lived in. They bring me joy and inspiration,” Melania writes, of her cultural interests.

Of arriving in N.Y.C.:

“New York City was a vibrant and sophisticated playground. Memorable dinners at Cipriani with friends and fellow models were a social highlight.”

Of motherhood:

“The experience . . . has been a profound learning process, one that has shaped me in ways I never could have imagined.”

Of advancing her modeling career:

“The path to success may not always be easy, but with determination and courage, you can achieve your dreams.”

(As I read, I kept flashing back to scrawling “How so??” and “Example plz!!” for the hundredth time in the margins of a student paper, the tip of my pencil threatening to go clear through the page in barely suppressed agitation.)

In matters of political import, Melania gives us not much.

For a woman who has been a close witness to some of this century’s most high-stakes world events, she has little to say about them and is either unwilling or unable to provide a view from within the inner sanctum.

Occasionally, she slips in some words about “the media, Big Tech, and the deep state” and their attempts to slander the Trumps because of politics, or shares that she, much like “many Americans,” has “doubts about the [2020] election to this day.”

She also discusses her efforts in matters of child welfare, including claiming that she pressured Trump to stop the family-separation policy at the border—the “I REALLY DON’T CARE” jacket, she writes, wasn’t a statement about child migrants but about the media—and her Be Best anti-cyberbullying and wellness initiative.

But, as someone who has “long upheld the value of traditional gender roles,” she seems to mostly hew to a separate-spheres ideology, and we get relatively little information of public significance.

(Concerning her husband’s political achievements, she suggests, quite vaguely, that America “had made astonishing progress” during his Presidency.)

Now, I’m the last person who’d complain about anyone who prefers to tarry with the seemingly insignificant private sphere, but Melania doesn’t offer any details that would make such a choice worthwhile.

Instead, we get endless passages in which she tediously describes her encounters with heads of state and their wives, in the context of overseas visits and state dinners, or, in the case of the Obamas, during the transition process.

Melania’s first conversation with Michelle Obama was “cordial and pleasant,” and the second “pleasant and lighthearted”;

while visiting London, “it was an absolute pleasure to reconnect with [Prince Charles]”; and, while visiting Tel Aviv, it was “a pleasure to reconnect with Bibi and Sara.”

(And that swat of Trump’s hand on the tarmac, to settle that matter, wasn’t a swat at all, but simply a way to signal to her husband that the two couples couldn’t walk four abreast on the red carpet.)

Sometimes, it appears as if she has simply run out of ways to describe her total and inexplicable delight at her various encounters, and a glitch happens, as in the case of Brigitte Macron.

“Our interactions were enjoyable and we were always glad to see each other,” she begins, blandly.

And then, suddenly, and with no further elaboration:

“Together, we embraced the unknown, turning every moment into an exciting adventure.”

(What?)

Much has been made in the run-up to the memoir’s publication of the former First Lady’s pro-choice stance.

(“A woman’s fundamental right of individual liberty, to her own life, grants her the authority to terminate her pregnancy if she wishes,” she writes.)

While I find her words on abortion commendable, it might be the only surprising contribution that “Melania” makes, and the fact that the passage was advertised in advance reads to me as a promotional smoke screen, to distract from the book’s more general emptiness.

And, speaking of emptiness, Melania’s efforts to prove the robustness of her relationship with her husband are not entirely compelling, either.

After Trump wins the election, the pair have “a private moment”:“Congratulations,” I said.

“What an achievement. All those other people . . . and you won. You’re the president of the United States of America.”

“And you’re the First Lady,” he said.

“Good luck.” I looked at him, momentarily unsure of his meaning.

Good luck?

I realized he wasn’t worried, he was proudly confident I could handle the future.

It was his unique way of saying, “Good luck—I know you’ll excel. Let’s get started.”

Donald had always placed a considerable amount of trust in me—as a wife, mother, confidante, and adviser.

That morning his trust felt particularly tender and profound, resonating with love and understanding of our future together.

I was grateful for that moment before we would inevitably be pulled in myriad directions once more.

As my eyes scanned this passage, it struck me that just as we, the readers, attempt to squeeze meaning and feeling from Melania’s account of her life, so has she been attempting to squeeze meaning and feeling from her husband, a man so cold that, as his onetime mentor Roy Cohn famously said, he “pisses ice water.”

Never has so much stress been put on the words “good luck.”

I found the moment strangely poignant.

Suddenly it made sense why it might be easier to live an almost entirely abstracted life.

Poor Melania.

[finleycannotdraw]

Guess what? I’m re-binge-reading Good Omens. And here are some Obervations that I forgot about and some things I might put in fics. Also things I found funny. Basically my dumb commentary on the book.

Crowley actually flees Sister Mary. He doesn’t saunter vaguely away. He flees.

Ligur is rather more thoughtful than he’s portrayed in the show

Anathema likes to read about herself, and her teachers are confused because she spells words like Agnes Nutter

Crowley apologizes

By page 41, it is mentioned at least twice that Aziraphale and Crowley Do Not choose each other’s company for any reason other than that they are constants, that they have an Arrangement, and that they are Friends because being Enemies got boring.

Aziraphale blushes!!!!!!

The Drunk Scene is fuckin hilarious and it’s actually a lot longer than it is in the show, and really you ought to read it. (Book pages 47-50)

My mom (who has a PhD in human development) would probably like to talk to Crowley about upbringing because they seem to agree on how important it is

War has always looked 25, and had a vulture that died of fatty degeneration

Pollution is very cleverly compared to actual pollution

Warlock has Kermit the frog overalls, and Nanny Ashtoreth is described as someone who “advertises unspecified but strangely explicit services in certain magazines”. The tutors are present for about four paragraphs. Warlock is good at math and likes banana flavored bubblegum.

Crowley has a slice of angel cake. Aziraphale eats it. Aziraphale also eats deviled eggs. Hm.

Crowley calls Aziraphale angel casually enough to suggest he’s been doing it for a long time

Some girl at Warlock’s party calls Aziraphale a f*ggot

Crowley glares suspiciously at a gerbil. It is suggested that Hell has, in the past, sent hell-gerbils in place of hellhounds.

“Oh dear,” muttered Aziraphale, not swearing with the practiced ease of one who has spent six thousand years not swearing, and who wasn’t going to start now.

Adam and his friends play in a place called The Pit, where shopping carts go to die, apparently

Crowley is the first one to mention sides in the book!??!? Also Crowley goes on about how humans are more evil than Hell (but he calls himself evil—is he calling himself human already?)

Aziraphale yells “get off the road, you clown!”

“What’s a velvet underground?” *love confession???* “you wouldn’t like it”

Aziraphale is a bit rude to Crowley in the “flashes of love” scene and Crowley is less panicked about it

Crowley glares at the Bentley and it fixes itself

Anathema’s bike is called Phaeton

COULD THEY ACT ANY MORE MARRIED OH MY GOD

Aziraphale speaks like. Like ugh. “FlOUndeR on tHe rOcKS of inEquiTY”

“Thirty seconds later someone shot both of them. With incredible accuracy.” *cuts to a random pleasant story about Mary Hodges* *cuts back to where Aziraphale has fallen into a rhododendron and Crowley licks the paint before he knows it’s paint* dumbasses

Crowley does not slam Aziraphale into the wall

Crowley is actually pretty impatient and doesn’t argue with Aziraphale when he’s worried

“Nothing but dust and fundamentalists” “that was nasty” “sorry, couldn’t help it”

When the radio sings “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me,” Crowley sings “for me” and then screams

Crowley asks Aziraphale if he’ll keep in touch, and Aziraphale doesn’t say tickety-boo, and then Crowley says “right” and feels very alone

the international express man is small and has glasses, and wears green woolen socks

The sword, which turns out to be Aziraphale’s, is described as having an aura of hatred and menace, which makes me think of how it could’ve gotten that aura from Heaven or from humanity or from War...

In the book Pepper has red hair and freckles, which makes it a cool comparison to War’s appearance and the defeat of War

Adam is excellent at slouching, apparently

Occasionally, as Aziraphale reads the book, he would very nearly swear

“He wouldn’t have said ‘that’s weird’ if a flock of sheep had cycled past playing violins.”

“If you had told him there were children starving in Africa he would’ve been flattered that you’d noticed.”

“...that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.” (151)

Wensleydale watches David Attenborough programs

Shadwell’s voice is described as “the color of an old raincoat” and seems to fake smoking cigarettes

Aziraphales cocoa is moldy and solidified by the time he calls Arthur Young, and has a thin layer of dust on himself too

Newt says that the walls look like nicotine and the floor looks like cigarette ash, and he suspects both are, actually, coated with these substances

Newt looks a bit like Clark Kent, and people seem to like Shadwell for some reason, much to his annoyance.

Aziraphale calls Shadwell “dear boy” on the phone

Agnes Nutter called God a daft old fool #goals

Adam is wayyyy too good at video games

Smelling Anathema’s perfume makes Newt uncomfortable

Adam suggests that Pepper ought to have Russia cause of her red hair (huh)

Anathema and Newt actually have decent conversations?? Like?? Show??? C’mon, man. The show kinda butchered their relationship.

Trees, apparently, make a ‘vvrooooommm’ sound when they grow very fast

“He suspected that Crowley was from the Mafia, or the underworld, although he would have been surprised how right he nearly was.” Shadwell also thought Aziraphale was a Russian spy. Wow, Shadwell.

Aziraphale calls Crowley and actually says “shut up” to him, and then when the answering machine beeps, he tells Crowley to “stop making noises” and then he swears for the first time ever.

The fuckin’ footnote on page 227

“A sleek computer was the sort of thing Crowley felt that the sort of human he tried to be would have.” I like the word choice here. He’s not pretending to be a human, he’s trying to be one. That’s a really important distinction.

It never actually says what Crowley does to his plants.

Crowley’s flat is very white. Wow, Crowley. It just looks dark because of the lighting. Heaven imagery and symbolism out my ears, goddammit.

Why does Hell say Crowley’s name so much when talking to him?? Honestly, I think that’s an intentional dig at his chosen name, using it in their speech to scare him. Wow, Hell. (And wow, Finn, excellent sentence)

Whenever the book says something is shaped like something, it definitely isn’t that thing. “man-shaped” “dog-shaped” “car-shaped”... makes it pretty obvious they aren’t men, dogs, or cars, huh.

The code to Crowley’s safe is 4004. The year he “slithered onto this stupid, marvelous planet”... and the year he met Aziraphale, of course. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, Crowley, my dude.

Crowley consideres sticking Hastur into his car until he turns into Freddie Mercury but then decides even he isn’t that cruel

Actual text that I feel like nobody really agrees with: “Madame Tracy was by many yardsticks quite stupid”

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” “...imagine me out of uniform, sir, and what kind of man would you see before you? Honestly?” “A prat.”

I’m crying. The fucking bookshop fire scene made me fucking cry. I’m literally crying.

“...on all fours in the blazing bookshop, Crowley cursed Aziraphale, and the ineffable plan, and Above, and Below.” “The police and firemen looked at him, saw the expression on his face, and stayed exactly where they were.” “...a crack of thunder so loud it hurt....” *the sound of Finley sobbing into their cat*

The shortest biker in the cafe thing is 6′2, what the fuck

War, Famine, Pollution, and Pop Trivia 1962-1979

“Pollution removed his helmet and shook out his long white hair. He had taken over when Pestilence, muttering about penicillin, had retired in 1936. If only the old boy had known what opportunities the future had held.” HMMMMMMMMMMM

“There were no bitches in Hell either.” I know it’s talking about female dogs, but I rather thought Hell was full of bitches.

“Why are you talking like a poofter?” “Ah. Australia.”

“gOsh, aM i on teLEviSiON?” (Basically Aziraphale gets passionate about stuff and likes to talk).

Crowley is actually an optimist and doesn’t dwell too much on how sucky the world is. He doesn’t go get smashed in a bar. He just finds Aziraphale’s notes in the book and heads to Tadfield. And also, his new pair of sunglasses just... materializes out of his eyes. And he likes to whistle.

“Death and Famine and War and Pollution continued biking to Tadfield. And Grievous Bodily Harm, Cruelty to Animals, Things Not Working Properly Even After You’ve Given Them A Good Thumping But Secretly No Alcohol Lager, and Really Cool People traveled with them.”

“on top of the pile a rather large octopus waved a languid tentacle at them. The sergeant resisted the temptation to wave back.” Honestly dude, if an octopus waved at me I’d wave back.

Wait Agnes was apparently talking to Shadwell and not God when she said yowe daft old foole. I dunno

Madame Tracy: You old silly. Shadwell: 

Aziraphale does not know how to get rid of demons. Canonically. “Had never done other to get rid of demons than to hint to them very strongly that he, Aziraphale, had some work to be getting on with, and wasn’t it getting late? And Crowley always got the hint.”

The road to Hell is paved with frozen door to door salesmen, apparently. The question is where it is, because the demons always seem to just stem out of the ground.

“Heigh ho,” said Anthony Crowley, and just drove anyway. I love this sentence during that scene. 

I bet Hastur gets really mad whenever he hears Aziraphale’s voice from now on

Crowley isn’t breathing the entire burning Bentley scene

ADAM. SAID. “But I reckon you can make your own side” AND WE FUCKIN IGNORED IT?

The temperature above the M25 was simultaneously 700ºC and -140ºC which makes me think of something I read about magenta not being real. The M25 is magenta.

I feel like “Agnes” is just going to become an inside joke between Anathema and Newt at this point, and it will drive Crowley insane because he knows who she is but somehow still doesn’t get the joke.

I’m six inches taller than R.P. Tyler, and apparently according to the back sleeve of the book jacket, I’m very similar in height to Neil Gaiman

R.P. Tyler thought Shadwell was a ventriloquist’s dummy, and then sees cows doing somersaults

“That’s terrific. Much obliged,” said Crowley. — “Funny weather we’re having, isn’t it?” “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” “Probably because your car is on fire.” .... Also the fact that Crowley looks like a young man which I find interesting.

“The Four Button-Pressers of the Apocalypse”

“Where is Armageddon, anyway?” “I’ve always meant to look that up.” “There’s an Armageddon, Pennsylvania”

Famine is the one that says “that’s one big avocado”, and also, I find it interesting that War, more than once, talks about love. (All is fair in love and war much?)

Anathema threatens the guard with a stick, pretending it’s a gun

Aziraphale, of course, asks Crowley to sort it out because he, Aziraphale, is “the nice one” and then proceeds to sort it out himself. Because of course he does. Because what else could he possibly do.

I just ADORE THIS BOOK OKAY

I’M PROBABLY GOING TO READ IT AGAIN IN A MONTH

Aziraphale and Crowley are so fuckin married I can’t

[harringtonstudios]

dusky pink.

plot: you’re called in for an emergency photoshoot, not really knowing what to expect, things can surprise you. part 2!

A/N: holy moly this is the most i’ve written! glad i got back in a mood. this is for the anon that asked about a model!au earlier, i hope you like it. 

taglist: @iamdorka​ @no-shxt-sherl​ @bakerkells​ @findingmyth​ @rosegoldrichie​

When you had gotten an emergency casting call from Galore Magazine, you hadn’t expected all this. YBeing an established model, you were  known for your unique photoshoots and uprising through runway walks. You had been in the industry for almost a full year now, feeling like a veteran when you were constantly being booked by different agencies. 

Galore Magazine was one of your first employers. They had allowed you to explore your creative side while posing for the camera, launching what the industry called your “brand.” You had developed a strong, personal relationship with the executive assistant of the magazine, and she would always offer you jobs when you felt like you needed something to do in order to keep busy. 

-

The phone call came in at 3am, disrupting a night out. You had immediately picked up, walking to the outside of a club after seeing her name flash on the screen. Within minutes, in a slightly tipsy haze, you had agreed to a two-day long shoot, confirming that you would be able to fly out in a few hours. 

The alcohol had settled into your bloodstream when you rushed to your apartment, throwing clothes into a duffel bag. The flight you were supposed to be on was scheduled to leave soon, and you knew that check-ins were going to be a bitch, so you grabbed a bagel from the 24/7 corner deli before setting off to get to the airport. 

It was only after you had settled into the airplane seat that you realized you weren’t exactly sure what you had said yes to. The alcohol from last night had drained out, leaving you with a pounding headache and you grimaced as the plane started lifting off. Pulling out your phone, you texted the editor of Galore, shamelessly asking what you had signed up for the night before. 

There were a few emojis exchanged and then finally, you got the creative plan for the shoot. It was supposed to be a Romeo-and-Juliet aesthetic, inspired by the 90s Leonardo DiCaprio version. You grinned, remembering how fully obsessed you were with that movie in your teenage years. The vibes had always seemed so beautiful, popping shadows and gold chains, it was something you were eager to emulate. 

As you read through the notes, you realized that they had a rapper coming in to play as Romeo. This threw you off, there was a certain way you modeled and when collaborating with others, you liked to be prepared beforehand. It wasn’t anything bad necessarily, you just liked to know your partners so that you could tweak your methods to their needs better. You took a breath before opening up Google to search up “Machine Gun Kelly.” 

There were a shit-ton of articles to sort through, mostly relating to his new album release, “bloom.” Scrolling through the different new posts, you bit your lip. He seemed nice enough,a few things catching your eye straight off the bat. The tattoos that lined his skin were amazing, creating a tinge of jealousy as you looked at all of them. Tattoos were your weakness, having about ten smaller ones yourself. This was going to be interesting.

-

Landing at the airport, you caught a Lyft straight to the set. Since this was an emergency fill-in, you didn’t have time to do much else, sighing as the Galore studio came into view. You loved being in California, the sun shining down on you, cobbled streets, lazing living and you really wanted to enjoy all of it. 

Right away, the front desk assistant shuffled you off to the hair and make-up room. The team had a very specific vision to execute and you smiled as their creation came to life. Putting on a natural, dewy look, you sat up straight, trying to make this process as easy as possible for everyone.

 Picking up tweezers, they aligned gems under your eyes, making the color pop. Lightly dusting some shimmery powder on your cheek, they moved on to your hair. Straightening it, they applied some sleeking oils before tying it back a little. All of a sudden, one of the top makeup executives came rushing in, holding a swatch of eyeshadow. 

“Put this on her! And make sure her lip color matches. Let’s go, hurry it up,” he clapped, throwing the palate to the artist working on you. You shut your eyes, letting fingers run over your eyelids. The color was a dusky pink and as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you felt good. 

Applying some Vaseline on your lips before the pink gloss, you pursed your mouth together, blowing a kiss at the mirror. Glancing up, you caught the eye of someone standing behind you. 

Turning around, you looked up to see none other than Machine Gun Kelly, leaning against the doorway. His makeup seemed to be already done, matching the glow of yours. His hair was done up, looking soft and sharp at the same time. There was a scar on his cheek, cut open and you saw the eyeshadow shade splotched around it, creating dusky pink on top of his cheekbone. He was smiling at you and you felt a blush start to rise on your cheeks. 

“Promise I’m not that cocky. Ever,” you muttered, trying to avoid his warm gaze. 

“Cockiness is sexy,” he laughed, leaning over to reach out a hand, “I’m Kells.”

“Y/N,” you responded, giving him a loose handshake. 

“Oh c’mon, I know you can shake harder than that,” he grinned, gripping the tips of your fingers in his hand. 

“I mean, I could. But why would I want to?” you responded cheekily. Raising his eyebrows, he smirked, dropping your hand. 

“HEY YOU TWO! GET INTO COSTUME,” the executive assistant shouted as she passed by. Walking behind you, she leaned in to whisper, “Looks like someone’s getting along,” before going on her way. Feeling the blush climb just a little higher, you got up off the chair. 

“Costumes that way,” you murmured, pointing down the hall as Kells followed behind you.

 “So, you know a lot about Galore?” he asked and you smiled thinking of all the memories you had in these very rooms. 

“Yeah, they gave me my first big break yanno? I’ve been eternally indebted to them since,” you explained, letting your fingers trail over the walls covered in autographs. 

“Wow, big ups to you. Most people forget where they come from, glad to see you sticking to your roots,” he spoke as you turned into the room. 

“Mhm,” you whispered, immediately getting distracted by the racks that hung around the room. Colors popped out from every corner, complementing the golden shades on your faces. Reaching out to touch one of the satin shirts, you felt Kells nudge your elbow from behind. 

“I don’t think we’re supposed to touch those,” he murmured, nodding to the sign that the costume designer had hung up. 

“They’re beautiful, I have to. Fuck the rules,” you muttered, picking up one of the hangers off the rack. 

He gave you a look before mumbling, “That’s what I like to hear,” and then both of you were grabbing hangers, pulling clothes off of the racks. 

“Where do we change?” he asked, hands bunching up the expensive silky shirts. You knew the changing stations were next door, but you didn’t want to really walk over. 

Looking up at Kells, you smirked before going, “Right here?”

“Oh? Don’t have to tell me twice,” he said, throwing the shirts on one of the chairs in the room. Reaching to pull over his white t-shirt, he laughed, seeing your gaze on his bare torso. 

“Sorry, I um, haven’t seen so many tattoos on somebody,” you stuttered out, hands itching to reach across and touch. 

“I think that’s what they all say,” he said, running his tongue against his teeth. 

“Shut up, get naked,” you scoffed, turning around to hide the red of your cheeks.

 Pulling off your top, you reached for the first shirt you had grabbed, a deep blue button down. It wasn’t meant for you, reaching down to the tops of your thighs as you closed one of the lower buttons. The shoot was going to be in lingerie anyway, and you knew Kells would see your body, so there wasn’t any reason to hide it right now. Turning around, you presented yourself, throwing up jazz hands. 

He guffawed, palms reaching up to cover his mouth. Widening your eyes, you leaned over, putting your hands on top of his. 

“Stop, are you trying to get caught?” you shushed him, looking at the door for the costume director to walk in at any minute. 

“I’m sorry, you just look great, I. I can’t even come up with words,” he snickered as you moved your hands back. 

Flipping him off, you took a step back, admiring his look. He was wearing a deep pink suit, jacket open to reveal all his tattoos, pants tailored to his exact body shape. Looking him up and down, you wet your lips, tongue reaching out involuntary. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly a shout came through the door. “What is going ON? Y/N you know better,” came rushing out of the mouth of the director. Snapping at you, she pointed over to a rack filled with satin lingerie. 

“Get the white one on now. Take this shit off,” she said, reaching for the blue shirt you’d done up. Huffing, you shrugged it off, before walking over to the clothes for you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see her fussing over Colson’s fit, playing around with the buttons on his jacket. 

Shrugging off your sweatpants, you pulled on the white outfit. It fell to the bottom of your legs, slits done meticulously to show off your legs. The lace on it was beautiful, and you hesitated before stepping back around, suddenly getting a little bundle of nerves in your belly. 

“Perfect! Come here,” she muttered, reaching for something on the table. Picking up a set of angel wings, she turned you around, snapping them over your back. 

You saw Kells staring at you from his spot by the door, and the heat in his eyes was unmistakable. The bundle turned into a flutter and you swallowed, trying to calm yourself down. This was just going to be another shoot, nothing special. 

-

Oh how wrong you were. Right off the bat, the director asked you both to go across the street, in the mansion they had booked for the day. This was your first time exploring and you had quietly marveled in the grandeur of it all. There was a high wall, taller than you were, but coming to right around Colson’s chin. The director lifted you up, and then you were posing on top of the wall, bare legs soaking in the sun as Colson played with your hand, standing right below you.

For the first few shots, you looked out in the distance, trying not to catch his eyes. It had gotten intimidating to make eye contact, especially now that you were in the headspace of Juliet. After a couple of takes, you got pulled aside, softly told to “Act like you’re in love, dammit,” and then popped back up on the wall. 

Taking a breath, you steadied yourself as Colson put your palm in his, and made eye contact, softly smiling as he looked up at you. The pose felt like forever, eyes boring into each other, and then the director shouted, “Amazing! Ok next,” and you were being pulled down into the next area. 

-

A few solo photos later, they put you back on the wall. Colson stood in between your bare legs, leaning into you. His arms braced on either side of your hips. The close proximity made you nervous, and you let out a soft laugh as his hair brushed against your cheek.

“Shhh,” he whispered, barely moving his mouth. 

“You shhh,” you whispered back, leaning your shoulder against his.

 Instead of responding, he simply reached his hand over, putting it slightly over yours. Tapping his thumb against the back of your hand, he slowly moved it into a stroke and you pulled your legs together instinctively, forgetting he was in between them. 

You saw the smirk build in his face and you let out a breath, trying to not let him get to you. 

“What’s wrong,” he murmured, still moving his thumb agonizingly slow on your hand. Nudging him with your thigh, you tried to shut him up as the camera flashed. 

“Done. Okay, both of you. Take a break, go change. We need to get a few more shots in before the sun goes down,” the photographer shot out and you pushed Kells back a little, throwing him a grin before sauntering back to the studio. 

-

Switching into the green lingerie suit, you looked at yourself in the mirror. This one was a smaller one-piece and you glanced at your booty, making sure it looked good for the pictures. Pulling the suit up a little, you admired the way the lace cupped your boobs, perfectly covering your nipples. Picking up a towel from nearby, you wrapped it around before crossing back over to the mansion. 

Kells was standing there in the blue shirt from earlier, and you let out a laugh, seeing the perfect way it hung off of him. You reached up, adjusting his collar, smiling as you saw him gulp. 

“I think you look better in this,” you murmured, fingers delicately running right over his neck. 

Stepping back before he could respond, you took off your towel, putting it on the desk nearby. Turning back around, you saw his face, eyes eagerly running up and down your exposed body. 

“I think you’d look better in nothing,” he mumbled, hand rubbing at his chin. You felt yourself get warmer at his comment, and you threw a wink at him, before walking over to the director who was setting up a beautiful red car. 

“Game plan?” you asked, clapping your hands together. 

-

Ten minutes later, you were balancing on Kells’ thigh as he sat on the car’s hood. One leg hitched over him, the other extended as you stood straight. You pressed your torso against his, arching into him, throwing your head back so you could bare your neck. 

Placing both hands on his chest, you laughed as the director yelled at Colson, placing him into position. He wrapped a hand around your back and you felt yourself naturally lean into the touch. His other hand came to rest on your bare thigh, pressing in slightly, fingers barely there. He looked straight at you, and you feel your heartbeat pulse as the camera started clicking. 

“Y/N! Wrap your arms around his neck. Yes, now look right over at the camera,” came the shouts from the director. Colson pulled you closer, bringing the arm around your waist closer. He turned to face the camera too and you watched the director falter for a second before rushing over to take the picture. 

“Holy fuck! That was incredible,” she yelled from behind the screen, and you giggled, letting your head fall on his shoulder. 

-

“Y/n, you’re free to go for tonight,” the executive director said, pointing around the rest of the crew to pick up different set pieces. You nodded, grabbing your duffel bag as you turned to face her real quick, “Uh, what about Kells?” 

He was across the room, getting more eyeshadow dusted onto his cut, typing away on his phone. The director looked over at him, before looking at you, eager to get away with him. 

Rolling her eyes, she went, “Listen, I need him for a few more shots tonight, but he’ll be done in half an hour if you wanna hang around. I know Gina’s been dying to catch up with you.”

Grinning, you dropped your bag on the seat. Pulling your hair up into a ponytail, you walked past Colson to the hair station. Gina had been the first friend you’d made modeling and she was incredible at her job, a creative visionary when it came to not only styling hair, but keeping it protected when crazy things were happening too. 

Leaving the room, you heard Colson go, “Hey, wait where’s Y/N going?” and you smiled, knowing that you weren’t the only one feeling the heat building between the two of you. As you got out of earshot, you could still hear the director yelling, “Don’t get your panties in a twist!” and you almost walked smack into Gina herself, snickering at his panic. 

-

Half an hour later, you were clinging onto Gina’s words as she told you the latest horror story of a terrible famous client. She had broke out a bottle of rosé, sipping on bubbles while you picked at the platter of fruits you had stolen from the front desk. There was a knock on the door, and you hopped off of the counter, pulling it open. Kells stood there, back in his regular clothes, Converse knocking against each other as he stumbled a little. 

“Hey,” he mumbled. 

You lifted your cup up, taking another sip, raising your eyebrows, urging him to continue by nodding slightly. 

“So, I’m kinda stuck in the area for the next two days for this terrible photoshoot I’m doing with this horrible girl -” he started, and you interrupted him, choking on the rosé as it hit the back of your throat, laughing. 

“Sorry, uh, you were talking about this awful girl?” you continued, getting most of it out of your system. 

“Right, yeah. Would you wanna get dinner with me?” he finished, making that eye contact again, creating a warm fuzz in your tummy. 

“Yeah, yes. Yeah,” you blurted out, rosé and nerves rumbling within you. 

“You said that already,” he grinned as you went over to pick up your bag. 

“Shut up,” you grinned back, trying to hide your smile. 

“Bye Gins, I’ll catch you tomorrow,” you said, leaning in for a hug. Kissing your cheek, she whispered in your ear, “Get some please. I need to know, for science,” and you let out a belly-laugh before following Colson out the door as he waved goodbye. 

It was all in the name of science right? No harm, no foul.

[randombtsprincessa]

Behind the Stick

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Min Yoongi x Reader (2nd POV)

Words: 7k

Genre: Smut

Summary: Your bartender for the night and you take an interest in one another.

Warning: Drinking, Bartender! Yoongi, Wings Era Yoongi, Dom! Yoongi, flirting, kissing, nipple play, groping, fingering, oral (both receiving), deep throating, protected sex, public sex, something very close to subspace, yeah, someone knows you had sex. 

You crossed your legs, the fabric of your sinfully tight dress stretching across the knees at the movement.

The dress was armor, worn to seamlessly blend through the type of ambience the bar you’d visited had going on. It was fiery red, not a color you wore a lot, but it matched well with the vermillion of the décor. The dress hid you amongst the frequenters of this particular establishment, chatting and very much unaware that you were not here to drink yourself dizzy and go home to sleep.

You were working.

And so, you needed to be left alone so you could do it. Dressed in your working attire of practical jackets and shoes, you doubted you’d get what you wanted. So, you’d shirked off your normal blouses, pulled off trousers and loafers and donned on that dress and the heels.

The heels…

You swore to god, the heels were a work of the Devil’s hands. Sinewy yet sleek, they latched onto the palm of your feet, held up by shimmering ribbons that had taken you the better part of the evening to figure out.

They added a stature that made you taller than you were, straighter in your slouch and you felt like a goddess, sitting at a corner of the bar top, idling over a simple gimlet.

You let out an exhale, taking a sip when a tiny, imperceptible change zipped through the business side of the counter. The man who’d been wiping the glasses exchanged a look with the one who checked the bottles and headed to the other far side.

You watched, interested, the process of the Shift; when one batch of workers went home and the second batch took over. It was like clockwork, each piece working near flawlessly – once routine had been perfected, of course.

You glanced down; eyeing the lime garnish and chewing into it, lifting your eyes back up to watch the bartenders. Now, there were additions. Two other men had joined the ones who had been present when you’d walked in.

One of them was laughing, a bubbly laughter barely echoing through to you but the other, slighter man stood some space away, his back to you as he listened intently to what was being discussed.

You felt rather see the solidification of a decision. It seemed to come from the man whose face you couldn’t see. Nodding and gesticulating with his hand, he sent the first two men off on their way. The man who’d been laughing had sobered by now, nodding as the man set out what seemed liked instructions, nodding while the man pointed to different directions. When he was done, the taller man went to the main area when the man you’d been eyeing finally turned, entering the bar.

You kept chewing on the lime wedge, absent mindedly keeping your eyes on the man. He rolled up the sleeves of his simple white shirt and turned to check the bottles before picking a few up, taking whiffs from them. Placing the bottles back, he checked under the counters, too thoroughly to miss anything and nodded to himself.

Raising his head, his elfin features settled into a professional mask; blank and a little off from approachable. Shrugging off your interest, your eyes soon drifted back to the subject you needed to study for your piece: What People were like when Inhibitions weren’t a problem.

Idol Magazine was on its way to becoming a people’s choice magazine and part of that problem came from the fact that people were actually reading what was in it. It wasn’t just a magazine that shopaholics picked up on the way to the checkout counter or people brushed by for the quick gossip. Each month, a reader survey the office itself conducted showed just what the people loved and or wanted from your magazine.

No, it was a people’s magazine and writers in your magazine worked hard to cater to a variety of tastes.

Your particular area was an in-depth representation of the people who surrounded your readers. Armed with a Psychology and English degree, you’d stepped through the building of your workplace, eager to start and you’d worked diligently.

You loved your job, absolutely.

The thing with writing was that you couldn’t just give your readers whatever general idea a layman would have. No, you had to watch, examine, understand and give examples. If you did not, some moron quoting Aristotle was bound to come over, barging for you to be taken down.

No, you wrote a column worthy of a college thesis and you gave it your all.

Hence, why it was necessary for you to put down your intrigue for the new bartender and turn to your material subjects. You owed your loyal readers that, after all.

You spent the next few minutes deep in your study, taking notes down in your phone on the pretext of texting.

You’d just focused on a particular couple. The man was red faced, probably trying hard to control his liquor while the woman he was with looked torn between amusement and annoyance. You’d have wondered if you should maybe get someone to interrupt but it didn’t look like a first date; the girl kept patting his hand, speaking in a familiar soft voice to soothe the nearly gagging man.

You put down a few more notes.

“Lady; what’ll it be?”

Starting at the sudden question along with the shadow that fell over you, your fingers fumbled and sent the phone clattering on to the melamine counter. You looked up like a frightened rabbit.

It was the bartender, bearing down on you with raised eyebrows at your reaction to him.

“What?” You asked, gaining some composure back.

“I was going to take your order.” The man said. His lips twitched, eyes flickering between your own before flitting down to your phone. “Also, I’m going to have to ask if you’re doing anything illegal, just in case your reaction had something to do with it.”

You snorted at the passable joke. Never mind the fact that it was actually wrong of you to be observing his clientele like this but well…you needed something to write about.

You weren’t breaking any laws, of course. Ok, maybe some code ethics but you never took any oaths.

“I’ll take another gimlet, and no, I’m not; I just got way too much into my phone. It’s bad habit.” You sidetracked him easily and he was probably more interested in working anyway.

He nodded at you, going to the center to mix the drink while you finished the note, shutting down the app. You had enough for a five hundred to thousand word column.

With nothing better to do anymore, you indulged in your earlier fascination with the bartender, who had currently moved on to making three drinks at once.

You were right about him not seeming like the usual bartender. The level of precision with which he poured, stirred, garnished the three different glasses in front of him with no pause, no hesitation spoke volumes as to his experience.

What was it about bartenders anyway? They worked with alcohol all day, almost every day, were more than likely to be privy to the shadiness of any town but there was just something so…alluring about them. The knowledge, the street smarts and unexpected wisdom was almost never shown. Of course, the outside was just as charming to the species.

Tattoos, piercings, too tight shirts showcasing forearms and chest…you couldn’t go wrong with that packaging.

Your bartender didn’t have any of that.

His pale skin was unmarked, smooth like porcelain and his white shirt didn’t emphasize his physique. You also couldn’t see any piercings on him. The unbidden thought of seeing all of him just so you could see if he had any ink or metal hidden away from public view made you blush, looking away.

No, you couldn’t harbor feelings like that for a complete stranger. He was working and so were you, albeit that you were done. He still had a whole shift ahead of him. You doubted he would be very much interested in being distracted by you when he was trying to pay his bills.

You certainly wouldn’t appreciate that.

He was good looking though…

With groomed black hair, a button nose and pouty, perfect small lips, he would’ve passed off for a life size doll. Yet the expression of focus, eyes sharp and lips pursed as he worked fast and efficient…

You couldn’t help imagining that look as he worked just as efficiently on you. You wondered if he would wear the same expression when he pounded into you…

You slapped a hand to your forehead, trying to force out the image of the young bartender sliding himself in you. You were getting drunk, it had to be it. Even if you had been nursing the gimlet as slowly as you could, it had to be the alcohol.

And you had just ordered another one…

You glanced at the bartender again, watching him serve up the drink and grabbing yours.

Oh no…here he comes…

You managed to school your features in a mask of polite disinterest just as the man stopped in front of you, glass in hand.

“A gimlet, ma’am; would you like something else?” He asked, equally polite.

You quickly shook your head, taking the drink from him and taking a huge gulp. He immediately raised his hand.

“Whoa, you don’t have to take it down in one go.” He said.

He was right, the liquid throttled on its way down and you nearly spat it back out again. “I’m sorry, I know,” You coughed out.

He placed his hands down flat on the counter top, leaning his weight on them before he did a quick scan of the room, returning to you.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

You blinked up at him. Your name…? Why did he want your name? Your name wasn’t anything important…

“What’s yours?” You countered.

Something shifted in his gaze. “Well, that tells me you’re not a regular.” He snickered.

You took another gulp from your drink, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head quickly. “Nothing, nothing; just saying that if you were a regular we’d probably be very familiar by now.” He said.

The edges of his mouth hitched up into a smirk, as if he was amused by a private joke, his eyes – pitch black, reflecting the star like lights of the bar.  

“That’s very cryptic of you. Are you trying to hint that you’re a star employee and I should tip you more?” The tart in your voice could’ve put the lime garnish to shame but it only made your attractive bartender grin broadly.

“Nice, let me guess; you’re a speaker? No, most of those people use that prompter shit, reading out other people’s words. So, definitely not political,” He mused, tilting his head.

You laughed. “That’s very…liberal of you.” You teased.

“I am a leftist at heart. So, you’re a writer, aren’t you?” He continued probing.

You sighed, resigned to giving in. “Yes, I’m a magazine columnist for Idol. My name is Y/N.”

The man smiled. “Columnist Y/N…it’s got a ring to it. I’m Min Yoongi, I’m,” he paused, “just a lowly bar worker.”

You gave him a knowing smile, sipping at your drink. “You don’t seem like one.” You murmured.

Yoongi’s eyes popped open, “Why do you say that?”

You shrugged, swirling the little toothpick in your drink. “I don’t know, you don’t seem too…lowly, if you know what I mean.”

He leaned forward, elbows angled towards you. “I don’t indeed. Do explain,”

You continued to stare down, trying to get your thoughts into order, as per what you’d seen of him for the evening.

“You just…you’re dominating, you feel powerful and you have this aura. When you were taking your shift, I saw how you gave out instructions and they got followed. You mixed three drink and I didn’t see one mistake – you didn’t even slow down, and there were no complaints. This gimlet is much better than the one the other bartender made – don’t tell him I said that. You’re just…more. Which either makes me think you’re way more experienced behind a bar; or you know, that you’re a wine god or something,”

Yoongi listened to your barely audible rant with an intrigued look on his face. He placed his face on his palm eyeing you.

“So, you think I’m too qualified to be a bartender, is that it?”

“Not really no; you could run this place for all I know…but then again, appearances are deceptive.”

“Yes they are,” He said suddenly and you eyed him, surprised at his proclamation.

“Uh, listen…this is going to sound really unprofessional but the place is winding down and I’m going to close in half an hour or so. If you want, you can sit at the back and we can…chat for a bit. I’ll let you out the back.” He offered.

You froze, considering what he was saying. There was no way he was actually offering just a ‘chat’. He had plans and you didn’t know if you were equipped to handle whatever he was going to dish out.

But then again, you did want to see if he had any tattoos or piercings…

A slow Cheshire grin spread across your lips. Yoongi’s eyes dropped down to your lips and sure enough, his own split, revealing a swipe of his tongue as he lapped at his drying bottom lip.

“Deal,” You whispered, only for him to hear.

Yoongi had been right. As the minutes passed, even the most inebriated of the patrons started to take their leave. They respectfully parted ways with their tables, the glasses and some even cheerfully greeted the second bartender, who’d already begun to clear the tables. You watched, now seated comfortably within the plush leather booth at the far back, as they stumbled on out. The booth was meant for the VIPs, you were told but since it was closing time, Yoongi didn’t think anyone would mind.

Now empty, the bar had a different atmosphere.

It was silent for now, aside from the small clinking of glass as the man who had been walking around the bar checked the bottles and cleaned and put away the glasses.

A light song rung out in the background, Yoongi walked back down from wherever it was that he had vanished to. At his appearance, the other man quietly slipped towards the back, letting Yoongi man the bar enough to make himself a drink. You watched him carry it to where you were sitting.

For now you were feeling sober enough to know what was going to happen sooner or later, and you were not one bit jittery about it. In any case, you could feel the tell tale pin pricks of excitement coat your arms and the back of your neck.

Yoongi sat down right next to you, setting a respectable distance between you while you watched him with hooded eyes.

You watched as Yoongi took a swig – the whiskey slipping past his pouty lips, coating them in a shiny glisten as he rushed his tongue out just after. His Adams apple bobbed, drawing your gaze to the slender, smooth column of his throat.

“So,” he spoke, your eyes flitting back to meet him as he turned, angling his body towards yours. “What does a job for a magazine columnist entail? I suppose it’s something to do with what you were doing with your phone before?” He asked.

You chortled at his inquisitiveness. “Yes, I was people watching. I can’t just give my readers some general idea about life. I’d be fired for treating our magazine for anything less than the first rate art that it is.”

Yoongi smirked. “You don’t think it is?” He asked.

You stopped, looking down at your glass, nearly empty now. “I think it’s wonderful. We’re open. We’re diverse. There’s a severe lack of good civic opinion out there and we offer that. I love my job. I love what I have to do to write my pieces.”

Yoongi was staring at you, deep thoughts lurking behind his too black eyes. “You’re making me want to get a subscription.” He teased and you laughed, finishing the drink and placing your now empty glass on the black table top. “What about you, what is your life like?” You returned his question.

Yoongi hummed, pensive as he continued to gaze at you. However, he didn’t look at you, as if he was far away in thought even while keeping his eyes on you.

“I don’t know what to say, I think. I get up in the morning; do what stuff that needs to be done, some leftover paperwork then come to work. I stay here till closing time then go back home. That’s pretty much it.”

“You make it sound so mundane.”

“It is but…it’s what I like. I love my job, like you. It’s a good routine.”

You nodded, looking around the bar again. “How long have you worked here?”

That took him a pause to answer, thinking his answer. “I’ve been here since it was opened.” He said.

Your eyes widened. “How long has that been?”

His lips twitched, hiding the growing smile behind the rim of his glass. “A good while, maybe five to six years; I’ve watched it grow.” He admitted.

“Wow,” you said awed. “That’s always a good thing to see, watching things grow.”

“It is; I had to start work pretty early in life. I didn’t get much of a college education or anything but well, you can still make something of yourself and this establishment is the peak of my existence.” He cast a small, fond smile around.

You smiled too, only at him. It was obvious, watching him and he adored this bar. The gleam of true appreciation made your belly flop.

“I admire you, Yoongi. There are always people who think that you can’t be anything without a degree and then there are people who achieve things in their life without it. It’s horrible how they are looked down upon. Between you and me, I think it’s the people who make something of their own lives without anyone’s help who are the best.”

You stopped, noticing Yoongi shift, leaning forward to put his glass down as well. He let his arm rest on the back of the booth, essentially caging you in.

“You’re probably the most intriguing person to walk through this bar, Y/N.” He placed a delectable point upon your name. It made you want to curl up.

“Are you going to do anything about that?” You asked quietly.

Yoongi’s eyes flickered over you, taking in the sin of a dress that you had on, trailing down to your legs to rest on the heels.

“I’m going to kiss you, if that’s okay.” He murmured.

You took a quick breath. Heat was already settling in your stomach, roiling when you managed to say, “Go ahead.”

Yoongi didn’t waste much time. Leaning all the way in, he left barely a breath’s distance away, letting his hot mouth hover just over yours, enticing you with the possibilities of everything he could do with it.

You let him complete the action, barely breathing yourself as he engulfed your mouth in his. The acrid taste of the alcohol rested on both of you, intermingling on your taste buds as you slipped him your tongue. It was a bold move but you thrilled when he reacted eagerly to it. Cupping one cheek in his hand, he moved over completely, all traces of space gone between you two.

He sucked in your tongue in his mouth, delicately embracing it with his own, engaging in a daring dance. You let your hands wind around his neck, inching towards the soft mass of hair at the base of his head. Yoongi parted from you for air, hair falling into his face, shading his eyes. His cheeks burned red and you could feel him radiating heat.

You shifted, maneuvering in the small space. Hiking a leg over his waist, you towered over him momentarily. Yoongi’s eyes were still half covered with his hair and you had no intention of brushing them out. He looked so sexy; you could already feel the seep of arousal from your core.

And the way he bit his lips while staring up at you, swollen lips open, you knew you’d have trouble walking tomorrow…

Yoongi placed his palms flat on your legs, letting them slide up. The fabric of your skirt hitched with his touch while your skin seared everywhere that he exposed. Reaching up till he was barely brushing the hem of your panties, he paused, letting you sit down exactly on to where he had been hardening.

You let out a soft whimper, Yoongi’s grip making sure you grinded on him, relieving pressure for him. He remained stoic – content to watch you fragment from his ministrations.

“I don’t know what you were expecting out of wearing this dress tonight, Y/N, but I can hope I can do it justice.” He growled finally.

You shook your head, rising back on to your knees again. “I didn’t expect anything. A girl just likes to look good once in a while,” You pointed out.

“And the shoes…?”

“Makes me feel like a goddess,” You muttered, distracted with the way he was blowing cool air onto your scorched skin.

“You do feel like one.” Yoongi agreed and you close your eyes, feeling him press a smirk to your skin. Laving a tongue across your collarbone, he reached the strap of your dress.

Yoongi allowed you to sit down once again, giving him further access as he dipped into the cleavage the dress generously offered you. Soft nibbles accompanied his fingers fiddling with the strap, tugging it off and down from your skin. He removed his mouth, watching you as you slid the other one off as well.

The dress was zipped at the back and you felt his hands trail over the fabric, squeezing the back of your neck lazily, grinning when you moaned.

“You like that, do you?” He asked, nodding to himself when you gave an appreciative hum.

He squeezed again, harder, letting you feel his nails rake the soft skin there barely before the other joined in the back, tugging at the zip tab.

“Wait,” you said, suddenly remembering that you were doing this in public – at a bar, no less. “Are you sure we’re alone?”

As hot as Yoongi was and as much as you were enjoying the feel of him against you, you didn’t want to be an unwitting subject to being caught having sex in his workplace. It would mean Yoongi being fired from his job that he loved so much.

Yoongi had already stopped, looking up at you in question. Your concern made him smile, genuinely, pressing softer, tender kisses to your jaw line.

“Yes, baby,” The endearment made you shiver in his hold. He angled your neck for his teeth next, grazing at the pulse point. “We’re alone. I sent Hoseok off to home.”

“You’re sure no bouncers or anything is going to come by?” You asked.

“The guard might come, but trust me; we’re not getting in any trouble.” He assured you, pulling away from you to look at you seriously.

You looked at him curiously. “Unless, you want to be…we can do something about that.” He suggested.

You laughed, his hands gripping onto your hips to buck you against him, trying to get the mood back. He returned to the zipper, pulling it all the way down to the small of your back, where his hand stayed – warm and calming.

You let your arms rest loosely, the front of the dress pooling around your chest, held up by nothing as it fell, baring you to Yoongi’s ravenous eyes.

“Fuck, they’re perfect.” He said, on the very edge of a growl as his hands shot out to grab onto the soft flesh. The sudden press made you keen, arching your back into his hands.

Yoongi’s touch was relentless, kneading your breasts, pulling at your nipples, tracing the sensitive underside before he was taking them in his mouth. His teeth – you noticed, he liked using them – were the first to meet the tender skin. His palms groped at your wildly while he suckled.

Your head fell back, hips rolling against his. Your underwear had become uncomfortable. The fabric was skimpy at best, and the flow of your juices had absolutely destroyed them. You were almost sure Yoongi could feel your wetness soaking through by now.

Yoongi released your nipple from his mouth with a lewd ‘pop’, mouth open as he pulled you into a messy kiss, wet and teeth clashing. You allowed him to delve fully into your mouth, reaching wildly for his hand. He gave it to you, still engrossed in kissing you, not pushing away until he felt you place it along the exposed skin of your thighs. He looked down, then back up at you; understanding the silent plea reflected in your blown out eyes.

“Ah, you want me to touch you, baby?”

You nodded haplessly, whimpering when Yoongi trailed his hand up, resting it right against your soaked panties, cupping you gently.

“You’ve ruined your panties.” He murmured, pushing the dress away to look at the tiny thing. “And such pretty ones too, I almost feel bad.” He gave you a wicked grin before he was dipping his hand in them, the material stretching around his wrist.

A long, finger entered you so abruptly, a long whine escaped you with no barriers. You had to grip on to Yoongi’s shoulders for support, unable to keep from buckling when he curled the digit.

“Such a wet, dirty girl; you lose it on only one finger?” Yoongi teased your entrance with another finger, his thumb barely grazing against the pulsating bud of nerves that cried for attention.

“Yoongi, please…I’m going to explode.” You were about near to screaming for him to help you but he shook his head.

“Not just yet,” He pulled away, leaving you gasping from the emptiness before lifting you onto the table. He let you sit, moving the glasses from before onto the next table before returning to sit in front of you again, eyes fixed to your core.

You leaned back on your elbows, watching him, panting as he raised the dress up as far as it would go, bunching around your waist and then pulled you to his mouth.

The loud moan that followed when Yoongi’s lip encircled and sucked onto your clit was so obscene, it would’ve caused a nun to curl her toes. Your previous fascination as to what Yoongi’s mouth could do was well rewarded while he lapped and laved around your pussy as if he was drinking directly from a fountain.

Two fingers stroked into your walls, in tandem to the slurping cause by his tongue, lapping away the traces of your arousal as fast as it came. Your hands moved, cupping your own breasts, playing with yourself when you saw his eyes fixed on your face. You smirked at him, unable to help yourself when you let your hand trail down to his head, fingers twining with his hair.

Your nails raked along his scalp, scratching lightly. That caused Yoongi’s eyes to close; tongue pressing into your entrance as he let out the filthiest moan you’d head, muffled by your wetness. You dropped to the table, both hands clutching Yoongi’s hair, keeping his mouth against you, riding out your high. It came in waves, rising and then crashing against you, drowning you in ecstasy. You ended in pants, eyes blinking away spots.

Hands ran up your legs, rubbing away tightened muscles and sore spots.

Yoongi got to his feet, leaning over you. Hands splayed on the either side of your waist he eyed you ferociously. His hair was stragglier; no doubt the result of your tugging and stuck up. But you could see his face now, especially his eyes, which were almost fully blown out.

“You,” he said lowly, color flaming high in his cheeks and voice barely controlled, “are the hottest thing I’ve ever come across.” He placed a hand on your sensitive flesh, a finger parting the lips as he studied you, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“You’ve made a mess, baby. Gushed out your sweet juices all across my table,” He commented, swiping the finger straight into his mouth. He groaned, eyes narrowing but staying steady on your face. You watched, entranced, each shift in his face before he was popping the finger out.

“You taste so good, Y/N. I’m going to have your taste on my tongue all night.” He told you.

You didn’t know if it was the high of the orgasm or just the basic Yoongi effect but you reached for him, sliding forward till he was standing between your parted legs.

Yoongi let you fumble with his pants, pulling his belt free from the loops, letting it fall free as you unzipped him. While sitting on him you had fairly anticipated his size but by god you were so curious, you had to see him naked.

And you told him as such…

“Take my clothes off?” He asked, snickering at you.

“Yes, come on, I want to see you naked.” You ordered firmly, already shoving his pants down to his ankles.

Yoongi obliged.

Taking a single step back, he gave you a final heated look before he was hooking his fingers under the hem line of his shirt, lifting it. He was teasing you, you knew, by the slowness and the distinct air of stripping in the air. He let the fabric caress each inch of his torso. His stomach, tightening from the flex, the chest, much broader than you had guessed.

His shoulders and arms weren’t muscled, showing the lack of strenuous exercise but while there were no muscles, there wasn’t flab either. Yoongi was a fit fucking god and you drooled.

Of course, there were no tattoos or piercings, anywhere…you even looked at his back as he turned to discard away his shirt and the rest of his clothes – underwear included.

Yoongi stood before you, gloriously naked and godly. He turned to look at you with full knowledge of your ogling and he reveled in it. Lips pulled into a smirk, eyes on the narrow side to make his pretty face look like it could cut steel.

Under the pretty packaging, Min Yoongi was a lethal man.

And you had never wanted a man so damn much in your whole life…

You grasped onto his hair, pulling him down into a kiss that made him stumble from its force. His hands wrapped around your waist, tugging you tighter against him.

A chill from the night air had seeped into the empty bar, making the heat radiating off your bodies and from your exertions all the more tantalizing. He panted against you, hot puffs of air landing on your own lips when he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Let me suck you off.” You said.

Yoongi grinned, nodding his acceptance before gently helping you off the table to stand in front of you. He wrapped a hand in your hair, a murmured ‘my turn’ making you tremble in his hold as you kissed down his body. You suckled near his navel, letting your mark bloom lavender against his pale skin.

He held your hand to help you kneel, the hardwood flooring under your knees sharpening your focus on the magnificent manhood in front of you.

Both of Yoongi’s hands were now in your hair, wrapping and pulling it into a makeshift ponytail. “Go on then, baby,” he encouraged.

You sighed, gripping onto his hips to nuzzle along his length. He smelled like citrus, maybe from the drinks he’d handled and garnished or his body wash but it was mouth watering. You wrapped your lips around his tip, sucking gently, getting used to the feel of his thick weight on your tongue.

Gradually, you moved further, widening your mouth and taking in more of his velvet hardness. You rubbed his skin, one hand stroking along the rest of his length. You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath before going all the way, holding yourself as you felt him breach your gag reflex.

Above you Yoongi cursed, a string of incoherent words following when you repeated the motion, finding joy when Yoongi’s grip on your hair tightened, holding you where you had stopped.

“You’re fucking perfect, you know that? I might not let you go.” He warned, drawing your attention to look up at him.

Yoongi in this angle was heavenly. His hair was back to falling in his eyes but he was consciously blinking or shaking the strands away now, trying to look at you sucking him off. Color had drained from his face, probably aiding his erection but his lips were raw from being bitten and chewed upon. His chest heaved stomach tense and you had never felt more powerful kneeling in front of a man.

You could very possibly end him at this very moment and he would more than likely be happy about it.

So you stayed there, kneeling in front of him, watching him crumble with the suction you created around his hot length. You sent him a wink when you caught his eye and just as you had anticipated – he broke.

“Up, up, get on the table,” Yoongi had finally reached the point of growling. The hair he held, he used as reins to tug you up roughly and yet you relished in it, feeling him turn you around and push you to bend over the black table.

“You little minx, you enjoyed watching me nearly blow my brains down your throat.” He accused in a grunt and you could only laugh.

Your giggles continued in his search for a condom, rifling through his pockets till he found one; the sound of the packet ripping making your anticipation rise.

Interrupted with moans when he grabbed and squeezed with abandon; all the parts of you that he could reach – your tits, your hips, and the curve of your ass. He took full advantage, shoving the dress down till it was only circling your waistline.

“We’re keeping the shoes on.” He grunted in your ear.

He leaned back down, hand travelling down the outside of your thigh, pressing kisses down your spine, one at the edge of your rear, the inside of your thighs and one at the curve of your ankle. You groaned when you felt him part your folds again, his tongue running over the cooling flesh, igniting flames again.

He gripped onto your leg, admiring the trails of ribbons that held it up before pulling it up along with him as he stood.

He kept a tight hold on you, watching you teetering on the single shoe. He pushed your knee to brace on the table, still keeping his hands on you, balancing you before pressing up right against you.

His body stabilized yours, your hands using the table to anchor yourself against it. It was hard to stand on the single heel but Yoongi was soon pulling you back on to him, holding up most of your weight.

“So fucking hot,” He mumbled against the back of your neck just as you felt him push the head of his cock into your entrance.

The stretch of his cock burned so good, you didn’t even try to hide or curb the moan that fell from your lips. Back arching, your fingers clawed into the wood of the table and it was only just the first thrust.

Yoongi reared back, thrusting shallow, the angle making him rub tightly against your walls. His hands gripped on to the cheeks of your butt, holding you open so he could slide inside of you easily.

“It feels good, doesn’t it, baby?” He asked and even with your eyes closed, you could tell the edge he was tight lining on.

He sounded strained, almost at the brink of control.

“Yes, but you can go rougher.” You prodded, eager to feel him more.

“I can, indeed.”

In a split second, Yoongi was no longer considerate. An arm wrapped around your torso, palm at the base of your throat and fingers around your neck. His other hand snaked to the front, resting at your mound.

He still held up your weight but his pace went from shallow to deep, fast – brutal. Skin slapped against skin, his fingers strummed your clit mercilessly, playing a tune to match his rough rhythm.

You cried out, his name falling from you incessantly; as if a prayer, a call for retribution…you couldn’t tell. Very gently, you felt pressure increase near your windpipe.

You might have frozen, might have asked him what he was doing, but the uncontrollable coil in your core, his length battering into your cove and the harsh pressure on your nerves made you delirious with pleasure.

The lack of air made your eyes haze over and then, unbidden, floating in some sense of hypnotic plane. Only pleasure and the giver of it existed as you turned literal putty into his hands.

Then came, unbidden, Yoongi’s voice, a command: “Come for me, Y/N.”

You obeyed.

You couldn’t even scream. You couldn’t make any sound. You only came for Yoongi.

Body quivering and writhing in his hold, you arced against him, his head burying into your neck as he grunted, his own orgasm following as you clamped down on him. Impossibly tight and unable to stop himself further, Yoongi emptied himself into the rubber, sighing against your skin as if you were his only salvation.

You lay spread out on Yoongi’s table for how long, you had no idea. When you came down, Yoongi’s weight was still on you, warm and bracing. He was massaging your back, blowing warm air near your ear. You hummed, letting him know of your consciousness.

Yoongi craned his head, watching you blink twice to gain some semblance of composure. You could feel droplets collecting at the corners of your eyes and Yoongi quickly swiped them away with his thumb.

“Y/N, baby, how do you feel?” He asked voice calm and close to you.

You asked yourself the same question and smiled to yourself. “Fantastic, just fantastic…did I pass out?” You hedged.

Yoongi chuckled. “No, floated off a little…maybe a little like subspace but you were very much here. You were beautiful and brilliant.” He kissed your cheek.

You let him nuzzle into your skin, indulging in the aftercare.

Yoongi soon migrated to the seats, pulling you upright so he could pull the dress down your legs and up your chest properly. He leaned you against him, zipping you up before he got dressed himself.

You sat on the leather, watching him buckle his belt when the sound of approaching footsteps and keys made you both freeze.

The guard was here and you had just obviously had sex with Yoongi. There was no denying it. The scent of sex was palpable, the table was questionably messed up and both of you looked…well, fucked.

It took Yoongi only a second to recover and you prayed that his assurance for his job security was legitimate before the man walked in. Dressed in a grey uniform, he stopped, stuttering in his steps when he caught sight of Yoongi at one of the tables.

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Then –

“Boss,” the man said, surprised. “What are you still doing here?” He asked.

You flinched at the question before realizing something. Huh…boss…?

Yoongi carded a hand calmly through his hair, looking unconcerned. “I was just checking the stocks, Jungkook. It took me a long while so my…um, girlfriend came over to pick me up. I’ll be leaving now. Make sure to lock up behind us.”

“Girlfriend,” Jungkook mused, taking a look around before shrugging, apparently deciding it was none of his business. “I always do sir; have a nice night sir, ma’am.” He bowed politely and Yoongi grabbed your hand, pulling you out of the seat and quickly ushering you out of the back staff exit.

Yoongi and you emerged out into the parking lot, walking quietly till you had reached your car.

“You’re…the boss? You own this bar?” You broke the silence first, turning to Yoongi.

He nodded, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry for not telling you beforehand. I was going to tell you though, but Jungkook interrupted.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before? You were making all those cryptic remarks.” You said, wrapping your arms around you. Why did you have to forget brining a jacket?

Yoongi moved closer to you, his closeness providing you some extra warmth. “I, well, you see, people behave differently to what you appear to be. I was short a tender today. It’s a lady, and her sister gave birth. She needed the day off and I worked her shift. You just…you caught my eye and you said all those things you don’t expect people to say. I just wanted to see if you would feel the same attraction to a bartender that most people feel for the Bar owner.” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, it sounds stupid now that I say it out loud.”

“No, not really, its fine, I understand. What about inside, about the girlfriend, why would you say that?”

Yoongi snorted. “Well, I’m hardly going to say you’re a customer, am I? He’s a good cop, Y/N; he knew we just had sex in there. I’ll bet you anything he spends the night out or inside the staff room tonight.”

“Right, I hope he won’t be expecting to see me around on the regular then.” You turned to unlock your car.

“I was hoping you’d become one.” Yoongi said.

You smiled slyly. “For you or your bar…?”

Yoongi shrugged. “It’d be a double offer. Be mine and the bar’s going to be a regular anyway. Be a regular here and you’re bound to run into me.” He returned my smile.

You pretended to think about it. “Well, then, I’d say that first option sounds better.” You dropped a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow, then.”

You slid into the driver’s seat, with Yoongi leaning in through the window.

“It’s a date.” He winked.

This work is a gift for the precious @yoonmochiiii​ !! Happy Holidays, lovely. 

It was an amazing experience, being your (not so secret) Santa and getting to know you! I hope you enjoyed yourself and that you like your present! I hope we can be friends in the future as well and stay in touch!

Have a beautiful Christmas, and have a glorious, safe and bountiful New Year sweets! 

[over-a-new-leaf]

self-care 101 (covid-19 period)

Since we’ve rolled round to another May bank holiday, I thought it’d be nice to share some tips with you. As a homebody, and someone who will do absolutely ANYTHING to avoid one specific boring activity, I’ve racked up quite a long list over the past few years. Obviously, I’m no professional - but I find these help. There’s no specific chronological order to these - just pick and choose as you like!

Get out of bed!

Or lie in if you need to. Whatever makes you feel good

Start off the day with some yoga or meditation, or basic stretches

Or pray for a bit if you’re religious

Make your bed: tuck your sheets in, rearrange your pillows, etc.

Brush your hair and tie it up nicely

Pick out a cute outfit - could even be your favourite PJs - and lay it out

Go take a soothing shower, or a bubble bath

Use a bath bomb, get some nice candles if you feel like it

Put on some nice music to relax to

Try out a new hairstyle or style your hair the way you would if you had somewhere to be!

Slap on some makeup, why not? :) 

Floss your teeth, or maybe use that teeth whitening formula you never picked up again after using it for the first time

Pick out a recipe for a hair mask or face mask and put it on

Before doing any of these, make sure they suit your hair & skin type

E.g. if you have frizzy and dry hair, use a moisturising and rejuvenating mask vs if you have sleek, straight hair - use a volume-enhancing mask. Same goes for your skin - evaluate whether you have dry skin, oily skin or combination 

Stick to the recommended leave in time! It can be extremely difficult to get out later otherwise

Or make your own mask! There’s tons of recipes on YouTube and Google :)

Make yourself a nice breakfast

Breakfast smoothies are amazing! A really simple recipe I use contains a few spoonfuls of oats, handful of fruits (e.g. blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, grapes), honey / sugar by taste and yogurt.

Or a nice bowl of your favourite cereal

Avocado toast - there are so many different varieties of this online, and I bet you’ll find that you like.

A fruit salad!

Eggs done the way you like

A full English if you’re feeling ambitious

Workout for an hour or so

This doesn’t have to be really equipment intense or challenging if you don’t want it to be

Some YouTubers I recommend: Chloe Ting, Emi Wong, Fitness Blender, MadFit, Blogilates, Yoga with Adrienne, etc. 

Don’t over exert yourself. Take longer than the recommended break time between exercises if you need to

Grab a new book, or a book you just enjoy reading

You can browse through Spotify for any playlists to listen to while reading - or use a playlist of songs you like

Listen to some music you like

Or discover some new music using Spotify’s ‘Discover’ feature

Preferably something that lifts your mood!

Pick out a recipe you’ve been meaning to try and just make it!

Dance around the house to some music

This can also be a sort-of-workout!

You can try learning a routine

TikTok dances are so stupidly fun

Maybe get a friend on vid-call and learn a dance with them

Make some TikToks

Or duet some on the app!

Get out a new bottle of wine - it’ll make you feel boujie ;)

Or your drink of choice - I’m not big into alc so I usually love a cool mint lemonade or iced coffee

Sit outside if the weather is nice

Or even if it’s rainy! I particularly love rainy days

Go for a walk around your neighbourhood

Do some grocery shopping! It can be surprisingly fun when you’re in no rush - plus, that’s a task off your future to-do list

Go meet a friend - stand at least 2m away and have a chat

Or text/ call your family / friends

Houseparty is great to use because it’s got games that you can play together if you’re not big on talking

Watch that TV series / movie you’ve been trying to get round to

Play with your pet, if you have one!

Do a cute lil photoshoot

Put on a nice outfit and take some nice pictures using the timer

Pictures with your pet

Or take pictures of your surroundings when outside

Or of the new dish you’ve impulsively made

Grab a pretty notebook

Start a bullet journal

Or a diary!

Do some journalling using journal prompts online

One really simple activity I really like is writing out 3 things that made my day :)

If you’re a poet or writer - write write write!

Maybe take the first step towards starting a blog (like I did last week, aha)

Play a musical instrument 

Or pick up something you haven’t played in a while

Try learning some basic chords online

Or just play your favourite music if you’re a professional

Sing along to your music!

Search up some online webinars and virtual events to attend

Lots of professional webinars on LinkedIn, even Facebook at times

Live museum and art gallery tours on Google!

Try some meditation

Headspace is a great freemium app, among others

Use a guided meditation from YouTube

Create a Pinterest account and start making boards

These can be pretty pictures

Or things you’ll have in your future house

Workout routines

Even more self-care recommendations

Sketching

There’s this activity where you put your playlist on shuffle and draw what comes to your mind when you hear each song

Or just search up an image online and draw it

Doodle in your bullet journal / book if you have one

Embroider/ stitch some of your old clothes

Plenty of tutorials online!

You can stitch in some cute images :)

Try a new podcast 

There are so many to explore on Spotify under the Podcasts section

Or watch something on YouTube

Learn something new if you feel like it

Pick up a subject area of interest and search it up on YouTube

You’ll get so many results!

Reorganise your house / room

Put on some music to jam along to while doing this!

Vacuum

Or just tidy all those papers off the desk

Reorganise your drawers

Fold your clothes

Dust any surfaces - super satisfying!

Maybe spice up your furniture placement

Try moving things around - be careful not to strain yourself

Do some laundry maybe

Yawn, but can be satisfying once you’ve done it!

Purge your wardrobe of any old clothes

You can donate them to charities

Or sell them on apps like Depop

Do some online shopping

Be careful not to spend too much though! :)

Download a photoprint app and get some pictures printed

There’s a lot of apps that offer you __ amount of free prints with delivery costs - not a bad deal!

You can finally make a photowall / collage

Try some scrapbooking 

Get out some old newspapers and magazines and cut out any pictures of words that particularly catch your eye

Make pretty lil collages or spreads with them

Reorganise your digital folders

E.g. bookmarks on Chrome

Saved folders on Insta

Email folders

To Do lists

Give them pretty names so you’re more likely to use them in future

Catch up on some much needed sleep 

Afternoon cat naps are actually lovely!

Make yourself some tea or coffee and just sit by the window with some music

Cliché and niche, but makes you feel calmer!

Try some chai recipes online if you’re into relatively milky tea or trying out new recipes

I’m not a big fan of chai ^ which is surprising as an Indian, but my family and friends love it soo

Do something with your family / roommates

Movie night!

Group dinners (even better - themed dinners!)

Or a fine dining wine night (bonus points if you dress up!)

Board games night

Or just games night e.g. charades, Headbandz, Psych (app)

DnD - never tried it but sm people have recommended it!

Make some TikToks

Sit around and chat

This is random but you can make PPTs about things you like and present them to each other - good for shit n giggles :) 

Play an old online game e.g. Fireboy and Watergirl!

Create each other in the Sims 

Organise some friendly competitions :)

Truth or Dare? 

Look at star sign stuff with them - whether you believe or not, it’s an interesting thing to do nonetheless

Do Enneagram tests - extremely interesting and scarily accurate from my personal experience

Experimental cocktails maybe!

Some DIY arts and crafts!

Pitch a tent outside

Or make a pillow fort inside

Speaking of which - pillow fights!

Karaoke night

Or set up your own club - make a playlist, get some strobe lights or turn off the lights and get everyone to switch on their phone flash and just dance around. Get some drinks if you want as well!

Have a BBQ - great to do especially in the afternoons or early evenings!

Have a date night if it’s just the two of you :)

Have a picnic outside

Text someone something nice!

Win-win for the sender and the recipient :)

Great chance to reconnect with someone

Cleanse your devices & social media profiles

Change your profile pictures, bios

Archive / delete some pictures (we’re all guilty of this)

Maybe restart your account if you haven’t used it in too long, have too many random followers or just want to start afresh

Check your phone storage and delete stuff accordingly

Change your wallpaper / theme

Back up old pictures and delete them off your device 

And that’s my list for now! I might add to it later if something comes to me but I hope you guys enjoy this! :) 

Image credits:

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/151574343695926876/

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/579627414531062674/

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/AQzIfTN5EwSc9JESrIo1l8AQw6cznXq2HLFq_SQk6La00-yL2As1QnY/

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/499055202462999051/

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/328481366576228467/

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/6262886962801682/

[forkanna]

[AO3 LINK] [EF LINK]

CHAPTER THREE

                                       ~ x JUDGMENT x ~

"So you admit you were following her?" Sae asked Makoto as she crossed her legs in the other direction. "You know stalking is a crime."

The student brushed off the black vest she wore over her white shirt. Clearly it was just a nervous habit; an attempt to appear more presentable. "And yet it's part of your job, Sis."

"It is. Not part of yours."

"Fine. But I didn't have any…" Her shoulders rose and fell. "There was no way to tell if I was completely crazy, a-and Ren was just a good person concerned about his teacher, or if… if she was doing something unspeakable with him. And after Kamoshida…"

At last, Sae let her eyes fall closed for a moment. "Alright. So you believe you have good intentions. I'll grant you that - and only that so far. But I'm going to need to hear more and you know that."

"Yes, I understand. So where was I? Right… the fresh lead."

                                      ~ x The Priestess x ~

Ms. Kawakami and myself steered clear of each other for a few days. It was good to see that she was back in school and teaching again, despite whatever trouble had befallen her thanks to those two horrible people. I really wished I could help, and I wanted to ask Ren, but there was no way I could do that without revealing to him that I had followed him to the hospital and eavesdropped. Not that this was anything new for me, but I still felt too guilty to come forward.

So I left it alone for a while. But eventually…

"Hey, bro," Ryuji whispered to Ren just after one of our little… gatherings. And his whispers aren't particularly quiet.

"Hm?"

"About that thing… with Victoria." His dyed-yellow spikes barely wobbled atop his head as he glanced around, but I appeared to be nose-deep in a book and Ann had already skipped off to do something else, so he decided the two of them were relatively 'safe'. "You're really not gonna give me any details?" Ren shook his head. "Aww, man…"

Ren muttered something back that I couldn't quite overhear. He was better at being discreet than the "monkey", as another of our friends calls Ryuji on a regular basis.

"But you actually got to talk to her, dude! Like, what's that like? Y'know, with the kinda things she does?" His eyebrows waggled. "Special services! Ehhh?"

By this point, Ren looked like he would really prefer the conversation to be over. So he said something a little quieter, a little longer, and Ryuji gradually started to look like a boy who found out the video game he wanted was all sold out at the store.

"Fiiiiiine, keep your friggin' secret. Just sayin', Becky sounded really hot! And you got to hang out with her alone because Mishima an' me choked! Why couldn't I keep my shit together, man?! UGHHH…"

That was it. And alone, the piece meant nothing to me; I assumed Ren, Ryuji, and for some reason Yuuki Mishima of all people had run into some cute girls named Becky and Victoria - maybe they were Westerners visiting? - and had hit on them, and then the other two ran off to leave Ren fending for himself. Even if I didn't know what they meant by "special services", I decided it was probably some disgusting boy euphemism for activities I didn't want to think very deeply about.

The very next day was a Saturday. Ms. Kawakami still looked weary, but not quite as bone-tired as she had before her brief hospital stay. And she still seemed the same way as I followed her out of the building. This time, it was by coincidence, not design; I had been busy studying in the library and lost track of time. It was just starting to edge into the evening by then.

And I wanted to call out to her. In fact, I started to speed up my steps and do exactly that. There had to be something I could say to show her I didn't mean her any harm; that if she wasn't hurting anyone, wasn't taking advantage of Ren, then we had no problem and I wanted to help if I could.

Before I could, her phone rang. And as she rounded the corner, her voice changed when she answered; became higher.

Bubblier.

"Hiiii, this is Becky! Did you call to request li'l ol' me again?" There was a slight pause, and then she giggled in a way I had never, ever heard a teacher giggle before. "Wonderful, Master! Laundry with Becky's extra-special fluff and fold, meeeeYOW! Do you have my usual fee ready?" Another pause. "Great! Don't worry, I will be there very soon! Byeeeeee!"

As Kawakami thumbed the touchscreen to end the call, I could do nothing but stand there as if turned to stone by Medusa, watching my teacher hang her head in weariness and shame. What did I just hear? Who did I just hear? "Becky" bore absolutely no resemblance to the woman who normally slogged her way through our classes as if she could really use some of Cafe Leblanc's specialty brew - the one standing before me now, who looked like she wanted to climb down the sewer grating and disappear.

And furthermore… no way was it a coincidence that was the same name Ren and Ryuji had been talking about.

Now I had to know what was going on. That whole conversation sounded like something very specific, and it made me worry about her… but I couldn't be sure. And the last thing I wanted to do was throw around more unfounded accusations.

Which is how I ended up following her.

The subway took us another stop along before she got off. Even though she did glance in my direction once or twice, my magazine shot up to hide my face often enough that she never quite realised I was following her. Then she went inside and I was left to loiter. I needed to turn to a friend - and since I was fairly certain Eiko Takao, the flightiest girl I have ever known, would be of no use to me…

QUEEN: Hey do you have a sec?

PANTHER: What? Omg you never text me Mako-chan PANTHER: What's up? 8D

It was hard not to be intimidated by Ann's overabundance of enthusiasm. Just made it feel too daunting and like I would be better off if I threw my phone away. But I tried not to let my nerves keep me from responding.

PANTHER: Hellooooooooo? QUEEN: I think I'm doing something bad

PANTHER: Something bad? PANTHER: ARE YOU ON A DATE PANTHER: Who is it? Joker? No wait, no way… QUEEN: It's not a date PANTHER: RYUJI?! PANTHER: Oh QUEEN: Seriously does Ryuji seem like my type? PANTHER: LMAO okay maybe not QUEEN: It's not a date it's something else PANTHER: Huh? PANTHER: Hey… it's nothing life threatening is it? PANTHER: Please QUEEN: Whoa whoa no PANTHER: I can't go through that again PANTHER: Okay good QUEEN: I'm sorry PANTHER: DON'T FREAK ME OUT LIKE THAT PANTHER: No no you're good friendo 3

QUEEN: Maybe this was a mistake PANTHER: Huh? PANTHER: Omg just tell me already QUEEN: Well QUEEN: I think one of our teachers is up to something strange QUEEN: And I followed them

My eyes glanced up toward the apartment building's door when some man walked inside, and I swallowed hard, waiting for Ann to reply. At least I had managed to say 'them' instead of 'her', so she wouldn't know it was Kawakami. Or Ms. Chouno, but still, the list of female teachers was shorter.

PANTHER: Something strange? PANTHER: Kamoshida strange? Because if it is PANTHER: I want in QUEEN: Well… I don't think that's it? QUEEN: Please listen PANTHER: It's not? QUEEN: I'm close to the Akasaka-Mitsuke station QUEEN: And I'm waiting to see if I'm right about something PANTHER: Dude you're being pretty sketchy PANTHER: But it sounds like PANTHER: You're worried? Like really for real? QUEEN: Yes. QUEEN: I think this teacher is being blackmailed PANTHER: Blackmail?

Just then, the door opened, and I had to close the text and raise my magazine to hide my face again. But it wasn't Miss Kawakami who came out, anyway; it was a woman in sleek black pigtails and a French maid uniform. She seemed totally at home walking around like that; probably had regular hours in one of the maid cafes in Akihabara or somewhere. While she stood at the curb, I started to go back to reply to Ann's incoming messages…

The maid glanced my way, waiting impatiently for her cab. And she felt familiar. Recognition was already making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end before my conscious mind sorted it out.

"Wait," I breathed softly as a car pulled up. It had a pink banner on the side of it, proudly proclaiming "VICTORIA Housekeeping Services" in bold red letters. My thumb was already activating the camera app as I watched the maid approach the back door and open it, bowing and saying something to the driver before slipping inside and away. I was able to get one or two shots of her, then of the car.

And she was gone before my brain fully realised what had just happened. "Was that… Kawakami?!"

                                      ~ o ~

In practically no time, I was standing around in the underground mall below Shibuya station - "Shibuchika" as it's called. Looking for Ann. Eventually, she waved me over to the flower shop she was poking around in.

"So?! What's up, what's the story, what's the dirt?!"

My hands came up to ward her off as I laughed nervously. "Okay, okay. Wow! Let me catch my breath. Can we get some boba or something first?"

"Sure, let's grab some aojiru. I'm trying to be healthier, for my modelling career? And like, I keep getting it pointed out to me that all I eat is crap."

"It won't kill us to be healthier, I suppose," I admitted as she steered me to the stairs.

Aojiru is… interesting. Greenish sludge in a glass that is full of nutrients but bitter and unpleasant. Still, we ordered two cups of Beauty Aojiru to hopefully make us more radiant, and shelled out ¥5000 for the pleasure.

"Bottom's up!" Ann laughed, clinking her plastic cup against mine. "The things we do for beauty!"

Passerby seemed alarmed at how much we were gagging afterward. Still, we managed to finish the drinks and then found a bench somewhere to sit and catch our breaths.

"I can… feel the burn!" she finally announced in a strangled gasp.

"R-right! So refreshing!"

Bracing against her knees, she took in a few strong breaths and let them out slowly. Then she sat back and smiled over at me, tears at the corners of her eyes.

"Okay, spill, girl. What's this crazy mission you went on, what did you find out?"

"Well…" I still felt really guilty for following Kawakami in the first place, and if she was truly an innocent victim, would feel even worse exposing such a secret. "Let's just say… her name is Becky."

"Becky?!" Her blue eyes narrowed in thought for a moment before she shook her head. "No Becky I remember hearing of on the Shujin Academy faculty."

"It's not her real name. Anyway, here's what I know so far…"

So I told her. Not everything, obviously, because I didn't want to out Ren or Kawakami until I was absolutely sure of the situation. But I filled in all of the other details I knew so far. That cartoonish face I was beginning to grow so fond of went through a million transformations - shock, disgust, sadness. But she seemed to feel roughly the same about the situation as I did.

"Well we can't do nothing, Mako-chan. Those two creeps are shaking her down for money! Totally exploiting her!"

"Exactly! I'm not sure what that student's connection is, but even without that…"

Ann nodded, arms tightly folded over her chest. All I had told her about Ren was that some student I knew was in frequent contact with 'Becky'. "There's a big problem here, though."

"Oh? What's that?"

"How are you supposed to ask her for details if she doesn't wanna talk to you? Like, I completely get that you wanna protect her identity, cuz you don't know for sure that she's hurting anybody. And if she's not... Becky is just in trouble and you don't wanna hurt her more."

My nod must have been sadder than I myself realized, because I suddenly felt a gentle hand resting on my shoulder. Smiling up at her, I whispered, "You're right. What she has to go through... it makes me sick thinking about it. So I need all the answers before I make a move."

"Sure, yeah. And… well, I could ask her for you, but then you'd have to tell me who she is. Same for any of the guys - and she'd prolly hate the idea of talking to them anyway."

"True," I said, even though Ren came to mind again. But Ann didn't need to know that. "So what can I do? Camp outside her front doorstep and confront her when she gets home? It would embarrass her too much. Right out there in the street like that!"

"Hell yeah, it would," she sighed, sitting back and staring up at the ceiling as commuters passed by us, off to destinations unknown. "But… what if…"

My ears perked up. "What if…?"

Ann held up her index finger as she looked at me, eyes wide and lips slowly beginning to stretch into a smile. "What if she didn't talk to Makoto?"

"Huh? Sorry, I'm… didn't we just say it has to be me, since I would be betraying her to tell any of you?"

"Yeah, but also nah. Okay, since you're the student council president, you've got the keys all sorts of parts of the school, right?"

Squirming, I held up a hand as I told her, "I'm not breaking into the teacher's office and waiting to ambush her."

"No, no! Let me see your phone again." I handed it over, and she wasted no time pulling up the pictures I have hastily snapped. Luckily, none of them showed Ms. Kawakami's face - or it was too blurry and far away to tell it was her. "Victoria, huh?"

Now Ann was pulling out her own phone and looking up something. Then she took a picture of her screen with mine and handed it back.

"'Victoria Housekeeping'," I read. "Wait… what are you-"

"We gotta hurry," she said as she popped up, grabbing my hand and yanking me to my feet so fast that I almost dropped my phone to the ground. "If we don't hurry up, we'll run out of time!"

"Time for what?!" I protested as I stumbled after her. "Ann, slow down! ANN!"

                                      To Be Continued…

[iconiceyesbirminghamwestmid-blog]

Dwelling Of Graphics Design

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[eternalsterekrecs]

Hiii could you rec some fics where Derek is Stiles's boss plz. Love this blog by the way you guys do an amazing job :D

Hey! Thank you so much! We actually have a hidden tag for BOSS DEREK you can enjoy but here, have some other recs!

BOSS DEREK

Alpha Magazine ‘Verse by WhoNatural

(AKA, the Ugly Betty AU where Stiles is totally Betty)

Stiles thinks he’s finally getting a break when a job at the sleek, sophisticated, Alpha Magazine opens up - but soon realises he’s not going to be writing anything and instead is playing tutor-slash-babysitter to their new Editor-in-Chief. Derek’s spoiled, grumpy, in way over his head...and so painfully attractive it makes Stiles want to lick his face. So there’s very little choice in the matter.

“Totally not like that,” he maintains, “It’s not like we’re Bond and Moneypenny.”

Scott gives him an excited grin, chuckling. “Dude, you’re totally his Miss Moneypenny!” he says, eyes wide like the world just finally started to make sense. “You’re the only one who won’t sleep with him even though you’re dying to.”

i wish i had a river by thepsychicclam

Derek is the editor of a successful publishing firm, and is horrible to all his employees, including Stiles. On Christmas Eve night, he gets visited by three spirits and has to take a look at his life.

aka A Sterek Christmas Carol

Dare by Inell

Stiles performs a private show for a new client

Help Wanted (But Not Really) by reillyblack

"Stiles, I'll clear up your confusion about the position. Derek here needs someone to live with him. He's a difficult person to live with, so I won't sugarcoat that. But his responsibilities at the company right now make it impossible for him to actually take care of himself and his home. That would be your job," Laura explained.

Both Stiles and Derek objected at the same time.

accidentally? by bibliosexual

BOSS: “know why I called you in here?”ME: “because I accidentally sent you a dick pic”BOSS [stops pouring 2 glasses of wine]: “accidentally?”

yup.

Or, in which Derek receives a surprising email one morning.

Double Negatives by i_am_girlfriday

Derek is a high powered lawyer, and a born and bred Upper East Sider. Stiles is a broke actor who’s grateful to land a full time job as Derek’s newest assistant. Their working relationship is one hundred percent professional...except for when it's not.

only if for a night by stilinskisparkles

“I’m Stiles,” he says breathlessly.

“Derek.”

“Derek, hi, do you—”

Derek doesn’t let him finish, kisses the words right out of his mouth.

discord and rhyme by orestes

Derek doesn’t tell Stiles he’s proud of him. He doesn’t say that sales have gone up lately, and it’s probably this Twitter account’s doing. Instead, he settles his hand on the small of Stiles’s back and tentatively rests it there. “Not bad,” he says. “For a rookie.”

dancing shoes by redhoodedwolf

Derek Hale is the most ruthless ballet instructor in Northern California. Rumor has it that Abby Lee Dance Company along with the show Dance Moms were looking to collaborate, even give him his own show, and he turned them down.Stiles isn’t so sure about the Dance Moms rumor, but he does know that Derek Hale is a force to be reckoned with, because the man glares at him the entire time Stiles is interviewing for the position of studio receptionist. It’s not the glamorous dance teacher job he’s been dreaming of, but it’s a step up. If he gets hired, he’ll be working alongside the Hale family, one of the most well known names in dance. Just even having that title on his resume will allow him to be a shoe-in anywhere he wants.He just has to, yanno, not die under the force of Derek Hale’s glare.

12 Days of Hale Publishing by relenafanel

Something must have poked his Christmas Spirit. It might be the way Hale was watching the proceedings with a scowl on his face, unable to hide what was clear derision. Earlier, his eyes had lifted when Stiles entered the work pen with the presents, and Stiles had been under the impression he had been vaguely pleased. The only thing Stiles could think of that would make someone such a gloomy grump was not getting a gift.

“What?” Hale asked, staring at him through the glass wall that made up the part of his office facing the work area.

“I’ve got something for you!” Stiles said, waving the small rectangular present as he walked in.

“That’s not mine,” Mr. Hale said, staring at the box like it offended him. Then he stared at Stiles like he was offending him more. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“No mistake, sir. It’s a special delivery from magical Hale Holiday Elves.” Stiles gestured to his head. “See the hat. A man wearing this hat makes no mistakes.”

Be the Life of the Party by Mimiminaj

His father’s face suddenly turned serious again.

“He is twenty four though, son. I don’t care if his smile shits rainbows and his laugh births puppies. You are his employee. It would be bad to cross those lines during your first job. Or ever.”

Stiles’ face hit the table.

“I hate my life,” he moaned.

Scott laughed cheerfully. “Don’t worry sheriff! It sounds to me like the entire cinema staff feels the same. Stiles doesn’t stand a chance with Derek!”

“Scratch that,” Stiles mumbled into the wood. “I hate you two more.”

Or – Stiles starts working at the movie theater. His boss is Derek.

Driving Mr. Derek by I_JustWokeUp

Derek no longer has a license to drive. So Laura steps in and hires fresh-out-of-college-with-useless-major Stiles Stilinski to drive him around.

An experiment, also, with intersped images and text.

My Taco Sparkles by butyoureyessaidyes

The first time he sees Stiles Stilinski, the kid’s on his hands and knees in Derek’s office.

--

Or the one where Derek has to battle corporate espionage, meddling family members, clothing turned choking hazards, and inappropriate feelings for his obscenely attractive new intern.

Help Wanted (But Not Really) by reillyblack

"Stiles, I'll clear up your confusion about the position. Derek here needs someone to live with him. He's a difficult person to live with, so I won't sugarcoat that. But his responsibilities at the company right now make it impossible for him to actually take care of himself and his home. That would be your job," Laura explained.

Both Stiles and Derek objected at the same time.

it’s free (and always will be) by kellifer_fic & maichan808

Stiles starts looking around, like there's someone who'll rescue him from this painfully awkward situation and Derek can't blame him. All he can think is this is some kind of elaborate prank Laura is playing on him after she'd found his pile of Fangboy back copies last month.

Or, the one where Derek has to marry a human to save Clawbook and it turns out to be Stiles. He's completely doomed.

accidentally? by bibliosexual

BOSS: “know why I called you in here?”ME: “because I accidentally sent you a dick pic”BOSS [stops pouring 2 glasses of wine]: “accidentally?”

yup.

Or, in which Derek receives a surprising email one morning.

[ladyoftheloch126]

Taster of my 19days TianShan fanfic Adversity is a Gift - Chapter Thirteen Ready, Fight!

He Tian was currently sitting in the passenger seat of his brother’s BMW, on his way back to the organisation’s office.  The silence in the car was telling, confusion being the biggest contributing factor.

Why had his dickhead Uncle made him go to the prison, when he was going to off those attempted rapists anyway?  What an unbelievable cluster fuck, such an utter waste of time.  Was that his Uncle’s aim, make him work his ass off for nothing?  Aah it wouldn’t surprise him at all, lately his Uncle did everything in his power to make He Tian’s life a living hell.  Tian rested his weary head against the cool window, watching the scenery fly by in a green blur as they made their way through suburban areas into Beijing centre.

He Tian thought about the terrified guard at the detention centre, typical coward didn’t know what to say or where to start.  He stuttered and stammered through their entire conversation.

“What?”  Tian’s furious growl was loud in the waiting room

“I can’t bring them to you because they all committed suicide this morning at 10am,  they hung themselves and left identical notes.”  The guard He Cheng had bribed was shaking in fear, sweat ran down his temple from under his prison uniform cap.

“Fuck!”  He Tian cursed loudly and banged the nearest table with a clenched fist.  “Can my name be connected to those three?  My name was used yesterday to gain access to them?”  Tian got up in the guards face, his words were spat out through gritted teeth.

The guard gulped and nodded.

“Get those records and destroy all trace of me!  I want no fuck ups, make sure you do it or we will come to your house and kill your wife.  I don't have to tell you how serious this is, do you understand?”  He Tian stepped even closer to the guard, so he could whisper his instructions into the man’s ear.

“You ask too much of me!  I will be fired when they find out, what about me?  How can I live if I can’t work?” The man’s eyes grew wide with panic.

“I don’t want to hear you whining like a bitch, I want to hear you say “No problem sir, I will take care of it.”  Do you understand?  Do you love your wife?  Do you love your family?  If you do….then don’t disappoint me.”  He Tian patted them man hard on his cheek, making the other man wince.

“No problem sir, I will take care of it.”  The man nodded, one of his pale sweaty cheeks was now red from abuse.

“Good.  No trace, I want no trails to us, otherwise you’re not gonna like the consequences……”  Tian put a heavy hand on the guard’s shoulder and took a lesson from his Uncle, squeezing hard to get his point across.

“I understand, aah!”  The older man winced in pain, but he merely kept nodding like the neck of a plaster cat which wags its head.

“He Cheng will be in touch, I guess the deal you two brokered has fallen through, no reduction in interest for you!”  He Tian winked sardonically and strode out the door.  Serves that crooked guard right for mortgaging his house out from under his family to gamble.  He Tian had no time for useless assholes like that.  Tian got back to his brother’s car and relayed what had happened, bring on brotherly confusion.  Both of them were at a loss as to why they were even at the detention centre.

Half way through the drive Cheng’s mobile chimed, Cheng glanced at He Tian.

“Can you look at the screen to see who it is?”  Cheng was a diligent driver, no texting and driving for him.

Tian picked up the iPhone, which was incased in a sleek black cover and read the short to the point message out to his brother.

Qiu:  We have a redheaded boyfriend issue.

He Tian froze instantly.

“Does that mean your little boyfriend is with Qiu?”  He Cheng’s voice grew loud with disbelief.

“No, it can’t be, how the hell would he….”  Tian’s sentence trailed to a stop.  Was Shan at Jian Yi’s?  No…it can’t be he was at school, it was still during school hours, everyone should still be at school!  Why would Momo be with Qiu?  He Tian had a bad feeling in his gut.

“Faster Cheng, I feel like this day is going from shit to shitter by the second.”  His brother had been sitting at a steady 70mph, but now he stomped his foot on the accelerator and started speeding them back to the office.

He Tian took out his mobile and tried calling Mo.  It rang and rang but eventually went to voicemail.

“Call me back you fuck.”  He Tian stuffed his phone back in his pocket with a curse.

“Message Qiu for me, tell him what happened at the prison.”  Cheng unlocked his phone, then he handed it to his little brother.

He Tian did as he was told for once and soon had a messages back from Officer Qiu.

“He wants us back at the office now.”  He Tian started to casually scroll backwards through the messages between his brother and brother Qiu.

“What are you doing?  Give me my phone back Tian.”  He Cheng tried snatching it until he realised he was still driving, then held his hand out.

“I’m just googling something, calm down.”  He Tian went back through previous texts and raised his eyebrows at some of the conversations between the two men:

Monday 9.37pm Qiu:  Pick up beer, I’m getting you shit faced drunk and then banging your brains out. Cheng:  You promise?

Tuesday 10.05am Cheng:  Get toilet roll and antiseptic cream on the way back. Qiu:  Antiseptic cream? Cheng:  My asshole resembles the flag of Japan.

Thursday 12.40pm Cheng:  Why today did you have to go to your ‘other’ employment? Qiu:  A good man’s work is never done. Cheng:  Send nudes. *Picture of Qiu’s crotch, semi hard cock, clearly took in a bathroom.* Cheng:  I was fucking joking!! But this will work.

“What is wrong with using your own phone?   Hey what are you looking at?!”  Cheng tried to see, but Tian casually switched to some bullshit horoscope website which was current on his brother’s browser.

“Nothing.”  He Tian waved the phone at him.

Next he went into the pictures and he was wheezing internally because his older brother and Mo Guan Shan had more in common than he thought.  Looks like brother Qiu liked to send Cheng a lot of nudes and like Momo, Cheng had kept EVERY single one.  Swallowing back his amusement, he relocked the phone and gave it back to his sweating brother.  Everyone knows you should never hand your mobile over, unless you were willing for someone to paw through your content.  It was an unspoken law.

“Concentrate on driving brother.”  He Tian nodded at the road and they settled into a  tense silence for the remainder of the journey.

=========================================

Things were hotting up at the office, the beer was flowing, toasts were shouted and Mo was told to wait, whilst six boys not much older than himself were taken into a separate room, and all of the men present piled into the room with them.  Brother Qiu had abandoned him too, but She Li was back glued to his side, even going as far as to fling an arm over his shoulder again.  Urgh.

“We can’t see what happens?”  Mo asked his long lost asshole friend for the night.

“You can’t witness the ceremony it’s steeped in tradition and secrecy, if you want to see inside that room then prove yourself in this fight and work your ass off until they deem you worthy.”  She Li tipped back another beer, he didn’t seem drunk though.  Mo had stopped drinking all together, last thing he needed was to be staggering about shitfaced, swinging and missing.

“How come you’re not inside?”  Mo had a nervous fluttering in his stomach that was part excitement and part apprehension.

“Me?  I’m not a Beijing member so I’m not required to go in there.”  She Li grinned and relaxed back against the wall.

“So when those guys come out, will they still be Blue Lanterns?”  Mo was curious about the hierarchy, it seemed like an army.

“No, they will be official gang members, 49ers.  Like me.”  She Li finished his beer and put the empty bottle onto the table beside them.

Like He Tian.  Mo thought about how old Tian was when he went through all of this, shit poor kid.

“You’re still here?”  A low voice sounded from across the room.

“Head.”  She Li inclined his head respectfully.  “Still, just crashing the initiation.”

Mo couldn’t help but stared as an elegant man approaching them.  He was fucking tall!  As tall as He Tian, he wore a killer suit, one of those ones you only see in magazines, or on models on billboards.  He was handsome, his hair was short and well groomed, face unlined making it hard for Mo to work out how old he was, the man could be 30 or 60.  His aura was overwhelming, intimidating even.  The dude was thin, maybe his suit made up for a weak body?

“Who’s this?”  The man walked over to a sideboard full of crystal decanters, chose a low tumbler and then poured out some amber liquid.  Was it whiskey?

“Old friend from Middle School, he’s here to ask permission to serve you, Boss.”  She Li’s silky voice finally made its way into his thick head and Mo froze as the man approached him.

“Good luck, I might stay to enjoy your performance.”  The man’s grin made all the hairs on the back of Shan’s neck stand up, then the man walked away.

Mo Guan Shan hadn’t uttered a single word.  He stood there like a dumb redheaded statue, but he knew who that man was now, knew his face and voice.  Shan’s heart pounded and his fists clenched as he watched the retreating back of his boyfriend’s abuser.  He Tian’s Boss went into the room where the initiation was taking place and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Don’t worry, he has that effect on everyone.”  She Li had obviously took note of his frozen state.

“That was….”  Shan finally found his voice.

“Our Dragon Head.”  She Li stood in front of Mo and took in his current state.  “You can fight in your trousers and shirt.”  She Li spun around as the door opened and Huang Fu came out laughing, jovial men poured out of the room behind him.  The new 49ers were slapped on the back by nearly a hundred hands.

Mo took off his coat and school uniform coat and stuffed them in his bag, along with his rings and the earrings Tian bought him years ago.  He was ready for anything these gangsters threw at him, he didn’t give a fuck now.  He was pumped that he had laid eyes on that molesting fuck.  Shan tensed when the man in question also exited the room and stood chatting with Huang Fu.

“Okay, on to this afternoon’s entertainment!”  When Huang Fu shouted this, the men in the room cheered and clinked glasses.

“We’re gonna see if this new recruit has the balls to stand his ground against two of our new 49ers!”  The room erupted with jeers and chants about Mo’s lacking anatomy.

“Over here boy!”  Huang Fu motioned for Mo Guan Shan to come over, and when Mo got to the centre of the room, he felt like every eye was on him.  

Betting was already taking place, were they for or against him?  Shan stood proudly with his shoulders back, hands in pockets and his A-typical glare in place.

“Haha I think I like him, he looks like he can fight!” “No way, he’s gonna lose, they’re seasoned fighters, idiot!” “I am gonna put 500 yuan on the redhead kid!” Everyone threw insults at each other and Mo Guan Shan in particular, until Huang Fu held up his arms and beckoned for silence.  He approached Mo and nodded to two cocky looking fuckers.  They grinned as they stripped off their suit jackets, rolled up the sleeves of their dress shirts and suddenly before Mo had time to rethink they were ready to go.

“This isn’t about killing, or serious injury.”  When the incense master spoke, Shan thought to himself was this like a pre-fight talk?  A bastard referee? What did they call it, fucking UFC!  “This is all about aggression……”  The man nodded.

Silence hung in the room.

Before Mo could react one of the dudes flew forward and punched him with enough force that his head snapped back, making him curse.  Shan’s attempts to shake off the throbbing ache in his jaw were short lived, the other guy ran in with a leap and brutally kneed him in the stomach.

Mo staggered back, involuntarily dropping to one knee as he proceeded to cough his guts up.

When Mo Guan Shan looked up, it was just in time to see a fist smashing into his face.  He felt the other guy’s fist twisting the neck of shirt until he choked, hauling Mo to his feet by it.  The sound of the thick cotton collar ripping was loud in his ears.

Punches rained his face in a beautiful symphony of violence, until he had blood running hot down his chin.  It was then Mo Guan Shan thought that he might be screwed.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14818106/chapters/36045018 

[awholeotherlevel]

Valley of Shadows-Chapter 1

By Camille Scott

Harriet stretched a slender arm sideways, grasping the bar underneath her foot.  She touched forehead to knee, before whisking the leg from its perch.  Harriet retreated, leaving Bach alone with his music.  Such were the times she was at peace; on the verge of exhaustion, the ballerina ran fresh bathwater and added a touch of jasmine to the swirling water.

In the bedroom, Harriet peeled off her leotard.  She returned to the bathroom and quickly immersed herself in the foaming liquid. Bach floated into the room.  Harriet smiled and began scrubbing her skin with the soapy towel.  Now that the ballet tour was over, she would go and see about mom.  Her brother sent the text last night.

Some mothers phoned, hers contracted mysterious illnesses.  Visits from each of her children were the doses necessitated by her “illnesses.”  Harriet and her siblings loathed such visits and went reluctantly.  Guilt forced them there, maintaining its unwavering grasp on the reins of their conscience.  The adult children had been summoned to pay homage to their earthly master; the one mortal who could break their spirits.

An oppressive sense of obligation would take Harriet, Rachel, and Richard into custody until they had done their duty.  Then having served their time, they would be released on parole into the world beyond their mother’s front gate.  Poor Joshua never did escape.  He still lived with her.

Harriet sighed over the uneasy, guilt laden days and sleepless nights that lay ahead.  Then she dismissed the burdensome thoughts and summoned up more pleasant ones.  Harriet thought about the previous nights’ performance.  Her mind’s eye traveled across the happy faces in the Parisian audience. A faint smile spread across her face.

She completed her task and climbed out of the tub, wrapping herself in a bath towel before releasing the water.  Bach had already finished and lay dormant until his presence was again requested.  Harriet gazed at her reflection, attributing grace to the sharp almost gaunt face, overlooking the cloudy eyes and dark circles that had begun to show despite her deep complexion.

“Now that the show is over, I can eat a decent meal.  Not now though, I’ve got a plane to catch tonight and I haven’t even thought about packing!”

*                                                      *                                                   *

Across the ocean in a New York apartment, lay Harriet’s brother Richard listening to the sounds of traffic and pedestrians below his open window.  Darkness was absolute.  HIs body tensed and relaxed, fighting for control of his consciousness.  All at once, the battle ended.  Richard’s body was overcome with fatigue and he fell into a fitful sleep:

“Richard? Richard! Where are you boy?”

“Mom, is that you?”

“Who do you think it is boy?  Get in this house.  You haven’t done a single chore!”

In the dream, Richard started towards the house staring in disbelief.  With each step, the house seemed to shift and expand, to age.  He reached the front porch and suddenly found himself before a dilapidated building.  Anxiety numbed his faculties, holding him riveted to that spot.  Richard knew that he had seen the building before, but where?  Where?

“Richard, if I have to come get you, then you’ll be sorry!”

“B-but mom, this isn’t our house.”

“Stop talking foolish and get in here boy!”

He lingered for a moment, stunned by a powerful foreboding brought on by the strange familiarity of the building and the situation before him.”

“Get in here now!”

Her angry voice propelled him forward, through a decaying door, into the darkness beyond it.

“Well, it’s about time! What in the hell were you doing? Always running off somewhere...”

Richard followed the sound of his mother’s voice, until it stopped abruptly.  The darkness suddenly contracted; pushing in on all sides like thousands of tiny hands.  Richard gasped stale air.  All at once, the sensation ceased.  He felt a presence behind him and spun around to face a woman’s shadowy figure.  Richard recognized her and the entire situation came back to him.

“Is that?  Oh no, she’s going to..nooooo!”

Richard with a jolt. The sound of the gunshot echoed in his mind.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized that it had just been another nightmare.  Yet one hand unconsciously moved to his heaving chest.  Yes, it had only been a dream.  Richard sat up, further reassured by the shabby room.  Swinging his legs off of the rickety bed, he rose and crossed to the television.  In switching it on, Richard dislodged a stack of envelopes.

On a whim, he knelt and began studying the accumulation of mail.  Richard now made it a point to sift through the stack every few weeks, after unnoticed utility bills left him without gas and electricity for several days in the dead of winter.  Magazine subscription offers, contests and organizational literature ran together until something made him stop.  He glared at the all too familiar envelope and discarded it unopened.

“What does mom want now?”

     *                                                    *                                                       *

In Chicago at that same moment, Rachel cast one last glance over her shoulder, reassuring herself that no one had followed her.  She quickly slipped through her front door and bolted it.  Something on the floor caught one of her high heels and flung her against the carpet.

“Ouch! Let me find some light, before I break my neck!”

Blind man’s bluff ended with her switching on an end table lamp.  The weak bulb gashed a dim hole in the middle of the room, forcing darkness against the walls.  Rachel did not need light to know that Billie Holiday was waiting on the vintage record player turntable.  She strolled over and gingerly switched on friend, soul sister and emotional mediator.  Remembering her package, she stooped to retrieve it with her purse and met the sinister gaze of a rag doll.

“I could have mauled myself on that stupid thing! How many times have I told that little imp to keep her...”

Pain tore at Rachel’s insides, as rage and sorrow welled up in a violent tug-of-war. 

“That no good bastard! It’s just like that coward to snatch my baby and run off with his tail between his legs!”

Anger gave way and sorrow forced Rachel to her knees.  She knelt in silence, watching tears shower the carpet at her knees.  As the pain subsided, Rachel became aware that Billie was still with her.  She moaned, “I’m getting too old for this.  Yes, it’s time to go and see momma gain.  She’ll fix everything.”

Rachel picked herself up and carried her packages to the bedroom.  She unwrapped the dress, taking a moment to caress the silky fabric.  Yes, time would stop when Rachel slipped into this little number.  Just imagining all of the jealous faces lifted her spirits.  After a train ticket and a present for her mother, this dress had taken her last dollar, but she couldn't go home looking like something the cat dragged in could she?  

Besides, the hicks in her hometown looked up to her; lived to see what they could never have or be.  Come Sunday morning, she wanted...no, she had to give her mother’s congregation something to remember until the next visit.  Oh yeah, she’d knock those old hags flat!  Rachel opened her closet door, gazing lovingly at her many hats, shoes, furs, suits, dresses and slacks like Nefertiti surveying her royal treasures.  She started to pack, tossing her costly selections into an equally exorbitant suitcase.

A mirror caught Rachel’s eye and she stopped to admire her beauty.  A visit back home was just what she needed.  She would go home and let those losers feast their eyes on her.  Let them put her back up on a pedestal where she belonged.  Her smile faded as each step towards the mirror highlighted the weariness, bringing into focus the bags that hung from her tired eyes. 

Once again, reality butchered her high spirits and Rachel mourned the passing.  How could he?  That bastard! She hadn’t even wanted to marry him.  Her mother had chosen this one, arguing that he could take care of her and provide a comfortable life. For a while, it really seemed as though it would work.  He adored her and gave her everything she asked for.

Rachel stumbled out of the room, possessed by a need to stifle pain before it consumed her.  How was she going to explain her predicament to her mother? How could she go slinking back home with her hand out again? She dreaded it, but she had nowhere else to go.  She had no job and no prospects.  Without her husband to pay the bills, she would lose the house.  Rachel sank onto the couch and tore open her purse.  Unsteady hands filled the needle and emptied it back into a speckled arm.  Rachel closed her eyes and lay back.

Soon, Billie’s voice rose and swirled around the room, twirling about Rachel’s limp body.  Rachel opened deluded eyes to a vivid hallucination.  She gazed at sleek couples crouched behind their nightclub tables, silently devouring each note captured by their hungry ears.  She looked up and there was Lady Day herself, bejeweled, austere, framed by the magic that poured from her shimmering lips.  The spell faded as the record ended.  Rachel watched the audience dissipate, curling towards the ceiling like so much cigarette smoke.  Ms. Holiday gave a royal curtsey and exited through the living room wall.

Rachel closed her heavy lids, listening to the phonograph arm bump along empty record grooves.  Then grooves became tracks and rhythm was motion.  She was a passenger on a locomotive.  Once more, Rachel opened her watery eyes and was amazed at what she saw.  She was in a train, seated by a window, surrounded by daisies that sprung up out of the seat cushions.  A conductor strolled down the aisle, smiling genially at her.

“Ticket please.”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“Daddy?”

“Yes baby, I came back for you.  I just need your ticket.”

“But daddy, I don't have a ticket.”

“Then you have to go back home.”

“No, take me with you daddy!”

       *                                                       *                                                *

It was already hot down in Arkansas where Joshua stood staring absentmindedly at his full coffee mug.  His tired eyes sought answers which surely lie within and dissipated with the steam that rose from the scalding brew as phantoms fleeing purgatory.  Joshua surrendered with a weary sigh, after taking a vindictive sip.

“Needs more sugar.”

He reached across the counter and began transferring huge sums to his coffee, stopping just short of syrup.  This having failed to inspire, Joshua wandered back over to the kitchen table and sat in front of his laptop, glowering at the screen.  He was having a serious case of writer’s block.

“Aw hell,” he muttered.

Joshua switched off his laptop and reached consolingly for his pack of cigarettes.  A coughing jag tormented his lean body, interrupting his lack of concentration.

“These things are gonna kill me.”

As if death were as inconsequential as the stubbing of one’s toe, Joshua shrugged.  He picked up a pencil and doodled on a crumpled napkin. His mother wouldn’t be home from the hospital for a few days and he hardly knew what to do with himself.  A knock at the door temporarily resolved the dilemma.  He went and glanced through the screen.  A smile bloomed on Joshua’s face.

“Hey man, what are you doing up this early on a Saturday morning? I thought you’d be under somebody’s porch sleeping off last night.”

“Nah man, when you’re in love, you don’t need sleep!”

“I know what that means.  Your old lady must want you to do something,” said Joshua laughingly.

“Well, now that you mention it, I do need to borrow your lawn mower.”

“I knew it! She sure keeps you jumping.”

“Can I come in, or are you gonna leave me standing out here?”

“Well, If you’re waiting for an engraved invitation, then you’re gonna grow old standing out there on the porch!”

Thomas lumbered past Richard grinning and sprawled on the living room couch.

“What you got to eat in this joint?”

“Nothing for you!”

“Aw come on man, I’m starving.  What did you have for breakfast?”

“Coffee, cold collard greens and a hot dog.”

Thomas’ masculine face twisted in distaste.

“Now why would anyone willingly eat garbage for breakfast?  You don’t have an ulcer, you’ve got heartburn Einstein!”

Joshua laughed appreciatively, more at Thomas than the joke.  What was it about this lazy, mischievous, beautifully ugly dude that pleased him so?  Thomas was the only person on earth who could make Joshua laugh at himself and the world.  But then, it had always been that way.  Whenever Joshua started taking things too seriously, felt the tide of his emotions carrying him away, Thomas was there to drag him back to reality sometimes kicking and screaming but always laughing.

“I thought you came to borrow my lawn mower.”

“I did, but I’m still hungry.  What you got sweet to eat? Any of your mom’s pie left?”

Thomas followed Joshua into the kitchen, peering over his shoulder when he opened the refrigerator.

“Listen, how’s your mom Josh?”

“Fine, she’ll be home in a few days.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“They’re not sure.  They want to run a few more tests and keep her under observation for a while.”

“Oh...hey, isn’t that a slice of pie over behind the peas?”

“It sure is.  Here you go.”

Joshua retrieved the dish and handed it to his friend.

“Grab that milk Josh.  I can’t eat pie without milk.  Hey, tell your mom I hope she’s back on her feet soon.”

Joshua leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Thomas finish off the pie quickly with big bites.  He gulped down the rest of the milk and put his dishes in the sink.

“Nine o’clock already! I’ve gotta get going.  Is the mower still out in the garage?”

Joshua nodded and watched Thomas move to the back door.

“So, why does her highness want you to mow her lawn?  Where are her brothers?”

“Otherwise occupied and she’s having a dinner party tonight.”

“It’s at night?  Nobody’s gonna notice her lawn in the dark!”

“Yeah, but you know how she is; gotta have everything just so.”

Joshua shook his head over the invisible leash which seemed to grow shorter everyday.  It was times like this which made him thankful that he wasn’t in a “serious” relationship.  Joshua sat on the back porch and waited for Thomas to emerge from the detached garage at the other end of the yard.  

Come to think of it, he had never been in a steady relationship.  Joshua was always much too shy to approach girls in high school and college.  Even now, he only went on dates as favors to pals whose girlfriends had homely friends.  Besides, the few times he started dating, his mother ran the women off with fire and brimstone lectures about sinful flesh.  No one was ever morally wholesome enough for her son.  Joshua was lost in thought and did not see Thomas emerge from the garage.  His friend’s voice startled him.

“Well, I’m gonna take off.  I’ll bring back your mower tomorrow.”

“Huh? Oh alright man, I’ll catch you later.”

Thomas waved and pushed the mower to his car.  Joshua watched his friend’s lopsided grin disappear around the side of the house.  The sun fell from his mental horizon and an all too familiar pang returned to nudge at his stomach.  Joshua knew it would be weeks before he saw or heard from Thomas again.  Since meeting Nicole two years ago, she had wormed her way into more and more of his life; consuming his time like a tapeworm.  It wouldn’t be long before that woman figured out how to sever all his old ties.

Nicole was a highfalutin’ wannabe who worked hard at forgetting where she had come from.  She also didn’t seem to recall scheming her way into the good life, by charming and manipulating the terminal patients she provided care to as a nurse.  Somehow, she got many of them to sign over their assets to her.  Of course, she and her crowd told a different story.  Joshua rubbed his eyes, retrieved a cigarette from behind his left ear and lit it with the lighter he always kept in his pocket.  He sighed, thinking about an imminent deadline for his latest article.  Time to get busy.

[dedalvs]

How did you come up with the spelling of the title of your book?

Good question with an interesting story behind it! Might as well tell you the full story so you can better appreciate the final design.

In early December of 2014 I got an email from Colin Webber saying he had a design idea for the book. He said he’d been reading it and found it really interesting, and that based on some of what I described in the Sounds chapter he thought it would be cool to break things down syllable by syllable. Before pitching it to the rest of the team, though, he wanted to be sure he had the actual symbols right, so he showed me his work in progress. This was it:

The design really blew me away. I had sent along some ideas about cover ideas (ideas featuring dragons, quills, parchment, etc.), but they were nothing like this. This was wild in its minimalism, and, well, modernism. It looked so sleek! And I loved the colors. If you’ve read my book (or glanced through the first chapter, at least), it looks like Colin was probably inspired by the section on Optimality Theory, where I group words by feet (not syllables) using parentheses.

Naturally, though, the symbols here aren’t close to right, and since the whole point of the book is to learn the actual fundamentals of phonetics, among other things, I thought we should try to get it as close to right as possible. Even so, there’s no way we were going to get away with a cover that was 100% in IPA. So what I did was I emailed Colin back telling him I loved the look of it, and I gave him the title transcribed in several different transcription systems. This is what I sent (note: the IPA lines are my pronunciation [since it’s my book!], not general American):

IPA (Narrow): [ði ˈɑɹt ʌv ˈleŋ.gwɪdʒ ɪɱ.ˈvɛn.tʃɨn]

IPA (Broad):  /ði ˈart ǝv ˈleŋ.gwɪdʒ ɪn.ˈvɛn.tʃɪn/

Americanist (Broad): /ði ˈart ǝv ˈlæŋ.gwɪǯ ɪn.ˈvɛn.čɪn/

Mirriam-Webster Transcription: thē ˈärt ǝv ˈlan-gwij in-ˈven(t)-shǝn

Dictionary.com Transcription: thee ahrt uhv lang-gwij in-ven-shuhn

Only one difference: the “th” in M-W is underlined. I also made sure to let Colin know that there was a crucial difference between the mark used for primary stress and an opening single quote mark.

I sent that info on to him, but my agent Jo made sure to let me know that Colin contacting me was extremely unusual and a bit of a mixed blessing. An author rarely sees a work-in-progress cover (unless they have some personal connection with the artist, which is rare), and is also rarely consulted in this way—and, furthermore, the artist rarely takes the time to read the book the way Colin did (remember that this isn’t fiction here, but a rather esoteric art form that delves heavily into linguistics. Far from a light or easy read!). So this was really cool, and showed that Colin was dedicated to the task, and that was great, but Jo told me that the cover is still a group project—that often after a cover is presented, it gets workshopped, and not just with the artists, but also with the marketing and sales team. So it was great that Colin was dedicated, and great that I liked what he produced, but she warned me that the end result might not look anything like this, due to circumstances out of our control. This was good info to have, but I thought that was fine, since this was a cover I was never expecting in a million years.

A month passed, and my editor reached out to me and said they’d selected two finalists, and these were they:

As you can see, Colin made some compromises, clearly trying to satisfy as many wishes as possible, while staying true to his original vision, which I loved. First, we now have the subtitle of the book in there. Second, in case there would be any confusion, the title now appears in English in white. Third, he primarily stuck with the M-W transcription. There’s no overline or underline on the first word, “the” (so that the first word is totally familiar to English speakers, I’m guessing), and proper IPA primary stress marks are used throughout. I’m not certain why the “v” was changed to an “f” in the transcription of “of”, since no version has that, but you’ll also notice the (t) which is present in the M-W version has been moved to the last syllable, where it’s reminiscent of my IPA transcription which uses tʃ, and places it at the head of the last syllable. (Also, I imagine that you don’t have either “laŋ” or “lang” because the descender would mess up the spacing.)

While full IPA would be great, I loved this cover. I was absolutely ecstatic about the look of it. I did ask that the stress mark be removed before “of” and that the “f” be changed to a “v”, and both my requests were honored. Also, though, when it came to color, I had a choice to make. Originally I fell in love with the blue cover, but as I looked at these more and more, I found the black to be more striking—and also felt the white stood out on the black much better than it did on the blue. For that reason, I went with black as my choice.

So, having passed that info on, I was quite content! I was going to have a great cover, and I had some meaningful input on it both before and after the presentation. This was great!

Then in April of 2015 I got an email.

Apparently marketing and sales were concerned that the cover wouldn’t tap into the the sci/fantasy market, since the cover was just text. They decided to ask Colin to go in a different direction, and asked me to choose one of these two as the final cover, as they were planning to finalize it the next week:

Now, don’t get me wrong here: These are handsome covers—and Colin clearly did a lot here to try to ameliorate the fact that my top choice cover was being passed over (and I was grateful for it!). First, he used my narrow IPA transcription in its entirety (save for the missing stress mark on [ɑɹt], which I’m sure could’ve been added very simply); second, he mentioned my other book, Living Language Dothraki; third, he included my original idea of having different types of writing implements. Furthermore, I had been told specifically by my agent that this might happen at exactly this stage.

Still, I was heartbroken.

I disliked the book/author font; I disliked the colors; I found the icons a little too cutesy (plus, I would’ve switched the robot and crown. Placed where they are, the robot looks like it’s misaligned. It’d be better in a square [I do love that dragon, though]); the style wasn’t classically heraldic, in my estimation… But for some reason the thing that got me the most is that we don’t see the other end of the brush and pen. I recognize full well that we should not, due to the angle, but it still drove me nuts. It’d be like seeing a skull and cross bones with only the top of the X appearing above the skull.

I initially asked my agent to try to sway Penguin for me, because I wanted to be diplomatic. She encouraged me to voice my opinion in my own words, though, so I sent an email back detailing everything that concerned me about this new direction. Ultimately, I said (and I still think this is true) that there are a large number of people who know who I am because of Game of Thrones. I could imagine fans of Game of Thrones hearing about the book because of the show, going to the store, picking up the book, looking at the cover, and putting it down. The cover is just too juvenile. (Though if it had to be one, it would be the blue one; that was certain.)

I sent that email off, and waited.

The next day I received good news. My amazing, fantastic, wonderful, outstanding, incredible editor Elda Rotor went back and interceded on my behalf, and she won the day! We were going back to Colin’s original design, the one I liked.

So, yes, the title of the book is not in proper IPA—it’s not even in proper Mirriam-Webster transcription—but I LOVE the cover. I adore it. And we had to fight for it—and I’m so grateful to every person at Penguin and New Leaf who helped make it a reality. The book could’ve had a cover that looked totally different and had the actual IPA title on it, but ultimately, I think this one is the one it was meant to have:

(And note that Living Language Dothraki made the final cover!)

Also, check out what happened afterwards. The Art of Language Invention was published September 29, 2015. In December, Colin Webber, designer of my book cover, was recognized as Print Magazine’s Designer of the Week. If you follow that link you can see a nice writeup they did on him, and throughout they show images of some of his work, including—wait, which book?!

OH YES THAT IS THE ART OF LANGUAGE INVENTION!

And it gets better! In January 2016, Colin’s cover for The Art of Language Invention was selected by the Type Directors Club as one of the winners of the 2016 Award for Typographic Excellence! ARRRRRGHGHHEHIPWE81-8128128218!*!*!3838 I WAS SO EXCITED FOR HIM!!!!!!

So, yeah, that is the story of how the title of my book is spelled. Some day if someone is curious I’ll also tell you how I got the title of the book itself, since that was not the original title, and that too is a bit of a story. But, yes, I love the cover of my book—every single letter of it. It makes me happy every time I see it. :)

[ladylibertypress]

Reading ‘Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox’ in the Digital Age

Publishing infiltrated the art world as an art in and of itself in magazines, on the Internet, in libraries, artistic collections to notions of the bookshop and round table discussions on and off-site in Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox at Kunsthalle Wien from November 2017 to January 2018. 

Nowadays, we even consume the analog as a digital experience. This lens i.e. “But is it instagramable?” or "Can I look it up online?” might at first, seem like a basic method but was a means to navigate the books on display.

Red tiled rooftops shape bookcases, replicated in three rows, symbolizing “home is where the books are” . Explanatory meta text is written on the walls, setting its timeline from 1989 to the present, marking the fall of the Berlin Wall and the beginning of the world wide web. This transformation from analog to digital shapes the perception of the show, spanning and panning the many mutations since publishing became an artistic practice.

Exhibition view: Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox: 1989-2017: Foto: Jorit Aust

Experience digitally

   Similar to the world wide web the show is vast in scope but mostly material. Rather than walk each red-roofed aisle like the wet dream of bibliophile, surf it like the Internet. Each publication opens up its own vortex in your hands or via clicks. A large screen hovers over a pedestal, displaying The Post-Digital Publishing Archive, a section in its own right. This project itself is an infinite exhibition. Worth clicking your way through from the comfort of your MacBook for the museum struggles to display post-internet art in interesting ways. The cultural value of this piece gets lost here. So take a look here, on your browser: http://p-dpa.net. Expand your resources of published data online wider by following up your search with the revolutionary UbuWeb, a platform from 1996 that opened up another galaxy to share avant-garde fine art.  What catches your eye? This is the mantra for the impatient digital reader. 

Fixated like a junkie, insatiable like a foodie; the viewer is blinded by bibliophilia. All the curators or rather collectors, headed by Luca Lo Pinto, and the authors, artists, publishers, binders, and coders involved are bibliophiles. Therefore, visiting this show feels like a crash course in library studies or creating an annotated bibliography for your Ph.D. in art. You have to be a true bibliophile —A minor fetishist to the endless textures, multiple formats and content of artist books—to appreciate this interactive index. Listicles are cool here. It’s paper on paper, on paper and on the Internet. 

   Upon entry you receive a booklet, the #toolbox17 index. Next to your iPhone camera, this proves just as important a device to roam and browse the exhibition. Another tool is an oversized newspaper —with no pictures— dryly explaining in small, tight paragraphs the background stories to the individual books in detail. You might have to meticulously read these manuals from front to back before you can even fathom understanding the deep contextual underpinnings of what your vision discloses. 

   The tricky almost virtual method to reading this show is to cross-reference between numbered and titled paragraphs on the wall, corresponding to a red-roofed shelf pew in Real Life. Then match the lists of typed book titles in your booklet with the real book or magazine. Eleven sections in total. On the sensory bright side, you may, however, touch the books individually, smell them, rifle through them, take a picture of a picture or text, and enhance your social media. This system  compares to an encyclopedic video game. The reader has been shrunk to a mouse cursor, and is now stuck in a very colorful version of Wikipedia, doomed to forever roam, browse and cross-reference. After reading on reading, a tiredness sets in similar to the affect after scrolling through your news feed or after reading this article.

Tabs

   Though the show sets up clear sections, there is an algorithmic randomness to what jumps out at the viewer. Each book is click-bait. You will come across dick picks such as the cover of Schism-zine as well as news on news and printed landmarks of sub and high culture. In the section Artist-run Magazines, The Magazine as Medium, you can find radical pieces of paper such as the fanzine Heyt Be! Created by Denis Beser, Sedef Karakas, and Bari’s Sinsi, it represents the Austrian local underground zine scene as well as the alternative and political printing culture in Turkey. These red roofs house a global village in their breath of artistic periodicals. Heyt Be! and the Swiss, Austrian and Berlin-ese art periodical Ztscrpt — each issue is named after a different Word Font— can also be purchased in the actual museum gift shop.

Heyt be!, Photo Credit: Nina Prader

Don’t confuse the gift shop with the art bookstore, you enter the show through. The latter is art, curated by Motto distribution and Gregorio Magnani, usually found in Berlin on Skalitzer Strasse as a shop. On display are meta books such as The Book on Books on Artist Books, exemplary of eternal and viral mirroring effects that suck a reader in to open another book tab. The museum guard mentions that he sometimes has to act as the bookkeeper here. On the wall, a text proclaims the relevance of the distributor and the bookshop to the art world. Aptly titled The Bookshop as a Medium (section 11), the implication uncovers one example from the spectrum of art book distributor practices. From a circulating gift economy, not-for-profit structures, non-profit, not-enough-for-profit to veritable art book gangsters, they all operate and advertise under the ideological belief that the notion of the book is the purest symbol for freedom of speech on the dog-eat-dog art market.

Filters

   Artists that read and make books is the overarching theme to the show’s theoretical filters. Each book has its own set of filters in turn. In the section Artist’s Library, the canonical artist chose inspiring works, relating to artistic publishing. Paul Chan’s choices: Self-Publishing for Dummies, H.P. Lovecraft’s Grimoire, a textbook of magic: Necronomicon and the University of Chicago’s A Manual of Style prove ironically helpful to understanding the show.

    To the book nerd, all the pretty books are markers of printed matter history. Celebrating icons of the printed matter magazine renaissances from the early 80s such as General Idea’s FILE Magazine’s final issues and Starship and Index from the turn of the Millennium. A contemporary response on the timeline is the New York-based independent online-culture, post-internet Sex Magazine, paying tribute to digital-natives and the unregulated Internet. 

File Magazine, Photo Credit: Nina Prader

   Also worth a skim to get that friction between analog versus Instagram photography vibe, SKULPI, annually published by Roman Schramm, is mostly matt technicolor photography, exploring different ways to express sculpture. Follow that up, with the 3-D materialization of the magazine THE THING Quarterly, a periodical that literally is an object edition. It takes the shape as 1 of 1000 hand-crafted numbered ceramic lottery balls. Does the one on display contain a diamond at its center or just a zirconia like the other 999? The message is the medium, worth a snapshot.

2.THE THING Quarterly Issue 28, 2015 THE THING Quarterly Issue 28, 2015, Foto: Kunsthalle Wien 2017

This is Not a Newspaper

   Artistic publishing is a collection of glitches —illy camouflaged— with which artists hack the public. The section The Message as Medium contains artists masking their message in newspapers and periodicals. Pop-culture activist and rabble-rousers like the Yes-Men, Steve Lambert, and Andy Bichlbaum, made a special edition of The New York Times with visions of a better America on July 4, 2009, with the headline piece: “Iraq War Ends”. This section juxtaposes well with the takeaway meta-newspaper NEW YORK POST flag profile by Michalis Pichler at the entrance of the exhibition. On its mostly white pages, this compilation counts flags from newspapers like The New York Times, New York Post, Village Voice around 9/11. Sometimes the absence of text acts self-explanatory like an emoji. In a similiar vein, the Profil magazine facsimile from 2000 by Hans-Peter Feldmann (Austria’s equivalent of the German Spiegel) has a blackened cover. The original rests next to it, Austria’s political mess best described in imagery as an emptied cover of political mourning. These alternative forms of mediating news resonate as artistic fake news with substance.

   On the whole, the show is a haptic google image search. How much you will actually see in full remains a mystery. A heap of book culture from a very specific time frame crystallizes in the shape of an index. There is much room to read or not read in between the lines. The publishing toolbox is obtuse. What is still legible in the age of digitization? Though a feeling of over-saturation, paired with attention deficit disorder sets in, the book remains a monumental signifier for knowledge and freedom of speech, everyone can subscribe, maybe even read one.

Profil by Andy Bichlbaum, Photo Credit: Nina Prader

Written as an Online Review for SLEEK Magazine January 2018

Exhibition Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox: 1989-2017  8/11 2017 - 28/1 2018 at Kunsthalle Wien

[nikhilgraphic]

Brutalist, Reverse Contrast Typefaces That Add a Touch of Weird

Experimenting with different font styles can infuse character into your work. you will be surprised by what an enormous change a seemingly small typographic tweak can do! Originally an style of architecture , the brutalist aesthetic is one that's characterized by deliberate plainness or crudeness. Brutalism has made a comeback in many realms today, and you'll now find the design in fashion, furniture, and, more and more frequently, graphic and web design. When brutalism is employed in graphic design, the aesthetic is one that grabs your eyes with its rawness and unpolished nature.

Typefaces during this style substitute stark contrast to the fashionable neat, polished look that so often encapsulates contemporary design. If you're trying to form your design projects a touch weird (or unique), inspect these 20 brutalist, reverse contrast typefaces. they are not your typical clean-cut body fonts, but ultimately, they will make your text more interesting and obtain more eyes noticing your creations than ever before.

Adele Moon

For a font with a definite artistic movement feel, try Adele Moon, created by Roselyn Carry. The typeface comes with 22 different ligatures with common letter combinations, and therefore the designer has also included9 pre-made logos that match the typeface's aesthetic as a bonus. The typeface is somewhat whimsical in feel, with curled ends and little , decorative serifs. this is often an honest choice of typeface for branding, titles, and logos.

Astoria

TanType created ASTORIA, a display typeface that features a mythical or antique feel. The designer of ASTORIA describes it as a "quirky display serif that spells fun" with a "psychedelic look." this is often definitely not a body font, but one that's best fitted to mastheads, posters, branding materials, and more. Because the serifs on this typeface are so slight, it pairs well with most convention serif or Helvetica fonts.

Hacky

For a font that exudes luxury, choose Hacky, created by madeDeduk. The font comes with 9 variable weights, also as uppercase characters, lowercase characters, numbers and symbols, international glyphs, uppercase alternatives, lowercase alternatives, and ligatures. 

Hacky is a superb font to use for branding or packaging materials, and therefore the designer also suggests using it on an "invitation....t-shirt, label, poster, logo, etc." One perk of selecting this font is that you simply can visit the designer's Instagram to ascertain samples of what the typeface seems like within the world 

Ethery

Another font compatible for luxury brands is Ethery created by LABFCreations. This stylish, symmetrical font is contemporary in feel, but its classic, minimalistic look makes it an honest fit any project with a clean, sleek aesthetic. The designer explains, "Geometric and classy , this font is right for creating logos and branding. With original ligatures...It works perfectly for creating stylish logos, striking editorials, invitations, graphic quotes, and more" once you purchase Ethery, you'll receive OTF, TTF, WOFF, and WOFF2 files with the font. there's also multilingual support for various languages.

Kendrick Serif

Kendrick Serif may be a distinctively fun font with a bold look—perfect for headlines and branding. The typeface was designed by Jeremy Vesey of Hust Supply Co. It comes with 362 glyphs and regular and oblique versions of both the uppercase and lowercase set. once you download Kendrick Serif, you get TTF and OTF files, a Webfont kit, and western European characters.

Valky

From NEWFLIX.Bro may be a serif typeface with a vintage feel, and it's perfect (according to the designer to be used in "editorial projects, Logo design, Clothing Branding, product packaging, magazine headers, or just as a trendy text overlay to any background image. once you download Valky Classic, you get a bunch of fun features, like 4 font weights, lowercase and uppercase, stylistic alternatives and ligatures, numerals, punctuation, accented characters, and support for multiple languages. one among the good parts about Valky is that the designer is hospitable suggestions and welcomes requests for extra glyphs and language support.

Evangelina

One of the fanciest, most intricate fonts on the list is Evangelina: a typeface created by designer New Tropical Design. The designer explains that it's intended to be a display font and designed as an ode to fashion photography from the 1970s to today. The font has elaborate curves and shapes, and since of its elaborate nature, it is best for headings, logos, invitations, and more. It's an attention grabbing choice of font, and it comes with OTF and web fonts, upper and lower cases, number, punctuation, and multilingual support. The designer of Evangelina says that it is a typeface that's "guaranteed to draw the eye!"

Bornice Modern Serif

Bornice Modern Serif may be a brutalist font with an unmistakable vintage aesthetic and just a touch little bit of cartoonish quirk. This font, which was designed by Damelev, has some interesting inspiration behind it, because the designer explains, that it represents "exuberance and faith in social and technological progress." Bornice was intended to be used for logos, t-shirts, apparel, badges, invitations, packaging, headlines, posters, magazines, greeting cards, wedding invitations, and more. you'll access its OpenType features on most Adobe programs, including Indesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop.

Cyrano

Dharmas Studio made Cyrano, a serif font where every letter was handcrafted to seem European and trendy . The designer created the font for fashion-centric projects. They suggest using Cyrano for "creating elegant, chic, lifestyle design like logos, title, magazine and more" The font comes with a lowercase that's actually uppercase and therefore the uppercase is alternate. once you download Cyrano, you get TTF, OTF, SVG, and Webfont versions; letters, numbers; punctuation, multilingual support, ligatures, and an alternate access guide.

Canyon

Canyon, created by Bnick, is a chic serif display font supported Henri Jules Ferdinand’s “Le Bellery Desfontaines” holotype . The designer explains, " I modified and refined each and each character (along with creating new ones) so as to be legible during a digital format." once you download Canyon, you get all English characters and punctuation, along side most Swedish and European characters. This font is obvious , simple, and straightforward to read, and it's slightly of character without adding anything too over the highest .

Milla Grace

From LABFCreations is Milla Grace, a thin, all caps elegant font that exudes classical beauty. The designer of Milla Grace explains that the font is right for logos and branding, also as "creating sites, logos, striking editorials, invitations, graphic quotes, and more." once you buy Milla Grace, you get OTF, TTF, WOFF, and WOFF2 files with each font. you furthermore may get uppercase characters, discretionary ligatures, and multilingual support for various languages.

Tittowest

Haksen created Tittowest Futuristic Serif Display Font, which is best fitted to headlines, logos, posters, packaging, t-shirts, and more. This font is funky and industrial-feeling, and it comes with both uppercase and lowercase. once you download Tittowest Futuristic, you get both a daily and Italic version, alternates in uppercase, ligatures in lowercase, numerals and punctuation, accented characters, and more. Multiple languages are supported, and therefore the download comes with OTF, TTF, and WOFF files. The designer recommends using it in Adobe Illustrator or Photoshop with OpenType features.

Pearl

Pearl may be a perfect name for this font from TanType because it feels elegant and female . With playful curves, the designer of PEARL explains that the font is supposed to "tease your eyes." Still, it also features a classy composition, fancy enough for elegant packaging, invitations, apparel, and other products that decision for whimsical, wavy fonts. The download comes with multilingual support and OTF, TTF, and WOFF files.

Cigra

Identitype created Cigra, a font that's fashionable and stylish but easy to read. The designer of Cigra describes the font as "a standout display font that's an ode to fashion typography in present day. Its elaborate curves and unique shapes make it perfect for headings, logos & wedding invitations." it's PUA Encoded characters that are fully accessible with none additional design software, and it includes multilingual support. Also, its Open type features are often access using Illustrator, InDesign, Photoshop, Word, and more. Indentitype sums up this luxury font perfectly, saying, "Cigra is all class, so if you would like a trendy font that's bound to draw the attention , then this is often it!"

Migaela

Migaela may be a fun, retro feeling font that was created by nurrontype. This display font features a distinct seventies-era aesthetic—with a fun little bonus - the dot of the i is formed of a snowflake! The designer of Migaela calls the font "cheerful, positive, and charming." once you purchase Migaela, you get three optional styles: regular, overlap, and smooth (rounded). think about using Migaela for a retro Christmas, winter, or holiday project because that snowflake detail is simply the wintry accent to enliven any wintertime project

Kindred

Looking for a cool , retro feeling display type that harkens back to a special era? Try KINDRED by TanType. this is often one among the foremost distinctive of the reverse contrast typefaces on Creative Market, and its curvy lines and quirky look make it good for a 70s-style project—or one that harkens all the way back to Mythical times (Thinks: a Funny Thing Happened on the thanks to the Forum). The designer, TanType, says the font is well-suited for any project you've got in mind, and that they include the font utilized in a spread of settings within the product's screenshot on Creative Market.

Holly Jolly Bundle

Annie Konst created Holly Jolly Bundle, an incredibly fun, brutalist type that's really well-suited for brand spanking new Years', Christmas, and winter projects. The font looks distinctly hand-doodled, and it pairs well with cartoon images or aesthetics. within the bundle, you do not just get the font. you furthermore may get tons of extras, including (according to the designer): "ready-made illustrations and PNG clipart for your projects, just take it and use!" one among the simplest parts about the bonus elements is that they're also editable in order that you'll fit them into your projects, and you'll work with these elements in Illustrator, Photoshop, or Canva.

Eclipse

Eclipse may be a classic, condensed serif typeface made by Studio Aurora. The font is best fitted to display-type projects, and therefore the designer recommends using it within the following projects: "magazines (titles and layouts), logos and branding, invitations, social media, quotes, blog headers, posters, and advertising." The font has language support for several languages, including Afrikaans, Albanian, Catalan, Danish, Dutch, English, French, German, Italian, Norwegian, Portuguese, Spanish, Swedish, and Zulu. This strange eye-catching font may remind you of watching the moon because it changes the form of their month.

Explore More Brutalist Typefaces

Brutalism is more popular than ever, thanks, perhaps, to a backlash to the sleek, clean minimalism that dominated the last decade. If you would like to require advantage of a design trend that's popular, eye-catching, and different than what most of the people have seen in recent years, consider incorporating some brutalist elements into your creations—particularly when it involves typefaces. These brutalist fonts draw eyes to projects and are unforgettable—helping your project draw attention and make an impact on anyone who encounters it. For even more eye-catching, unforgettable designs, flick through all of the planning assets on Creative Market. because of the designers on Creative Market, the location is full of plenty of resources to assist make your work one-of-a-kind—particularly creative typefaces and retro fonts, get start your course for knows the facts of graphic designing find the best institutions which have the graphic designing course in Delhi.

 Choose one among the brutalist fonts above, or browse the remainder of the location to ascertain logos, templates, icons, graphics, photos, and more from designers which will infuse just the proper amount of character into your project. you will be happy to understand that Creative Market designers have mastered every aesthetic—from wondrous to weird, and you will be ready to find many elements to form your projects look even more professional and aesthetically pleasing than ever before.

[maisieseaman]

Evaluation-Multiverse

For this term our overall theme was Multiverse. Our final goal was to create six A3 postcards using words and quotes from our penguin books that we were given and then finally to animate 1 of them (This will be done when we return to college). Personally i found this terms work more difficult as it was a lot of graphic/ photoshop work which is not my favourite as i am more of a fine artist. On the other hand, i had never used photoshop before and i have enjoyed playing around with it and learning how to make my work look more professional, clean and sleek. I have researched various artists who specialise in many different techniques and are all very unique, however, there are 3 artists that influenced my final outcomes in particular. Marc Lawrence is an abstract artist whose screen prints are a particular favourite of mine. His distinctive style involves building up lines, shapes and marks, with much consideration for placement. His work impacted my ideas/ art because of its bold and eye-catching colours. Lawrence uses contrasting and complimentary colours and tends to change the hue of his imagery to fit the theme.

 This inspired me to use complimentary colours on my final outcomes as i used red&green, blue&orange etc. I love using bold colours within my art and so, much like Lawrence, i altered the hue of my imagery to fit with the them of each postcard. Like here, i have altered the colours of the people and the zebra stripes to fit with the recurring green theme.

 Another artist that has impacted my ideas and outcomes is Peter Bankov. He is a graphic designer whose work is bold and busy. 

Before i discovered Bankov's work, i was very much reluctant to play around with background shapes and was very set on making my work look perfect. However, he helped me to find a style that i liked working in, creating organised chaos with thick lines effortlessly drawn over the background, breaking up the plain space.

 And finally, Rossana Taormina who is a textile artist, has influenced my latest work in Thursday's lesson. She does stitched geometric shapes on top of old photos that she has accumulated through time. 

I absolutely love textile work such as sewing and would say that this lesson has been one of my favourites all term. Her work is minimal but effective and in that lesson i created simple collages (based on words from our books) from images found in magazines and then used coloured thread to create connections between each image and to elevate/develop my work. I then incorporated these final outcomes into my digital postcards.

Our six postcards had to be based on words from our penguin books so on our first few lessons this term, we spent time carefully selecting our favourite words and quotes. My book was based a lot on travel and adventure which i was pleased about because it is something i am passionate about. Some quotes i selected to base my final outcomes on were "enchanted isles", "dusky shells", "moon shadow", "magnificent decay", "eternal ocean", "the wind was light; the waves languid", "wild nightmare", "ravenous race" etc. However, i decided to go with "wild nightmare", "magnificent decay", "old-fashioned", "it was after sunset when the adventurers returned", "voyages around the world" and finally " discovered by man." I tried to choose quotes that could potentially be very visual which means i could tell a narrative through each postcard. My favourite quote to use was "old fashioned" because it meant that i could go with a vintage theme which i loved. I really enjoyed finding antique imagery and creating my polaroid screen prints because i got to use bright and vivid colours, much like the 70's and 80's. Throughout this term we experimented with materials, processes and techniques such as collaging, screen printing, stop motion animation, photoshop, typography, sewing, painting etc. We had to create our own mini stop motion animation which would later help us to gain an idea of what sort of animation we wanted to create for our final outcome.

 I loved the more practical lessons where we got to create art for the photoshop lessons as that was when we could be more creative and experimental, allowing us to try out various techniques. Furthermore, i have really enjoyed Thursdays lessons as it has allowed us to go out of our comfort zones and do art that we probably wouldn't have thought of doing ourselves. My favourite lessons in particular were when we did layered atmospheric tracing paper illustrations and stitched collages. We created surreal and strange misty landscapes/settings with drawings on multiple pieces of tracing paper to give the illusion of a foreground and background and used various mediums such as pen, watercolour, pencil, wax crayons etc.

 For the sewing we made simple collages using magazine cut outs and then stitched on top with colourful thread, allowing us to use our imagination and artistic skills. I love using textiles as it adds texture to a minimal piece.

On average, i would say i have spent around 3-4 hours working each offsite day, developing my skills and techniques and refining my work/blog allowing myself to experiment and make mistakes. I have recently acquired a new art room/work space so i can work at a proper desk and leave all my work out overnight without having to move it. This work space means i can focus more without distractions and have all my art materials/resources at arms reach. When we first began this term, i was apprehensive of how to approach this topic due to the fact that it was going to be a lot of digital/photoshop work which i was not use to, however, i would say that after a few lessons on how to use photoshop, i was able to use it to its full potential to create my final outcomes. This is one of my biggest achievements this term as i am always looking to acquire and develop new skills, even if it wasn't particularly to my liking, it is still a useful skill to have as it could become useful in the future. Furthermore, i am very much used to putting all my research and work into my book, but this year we have had to adapt to putting everything onto online blogs, which can have its difficulties at times, so i am happy that i have kept up to date with the work and presented everything clearly. If i were to set myself a target to improve on for next term it would be to do more developmental work at home. Once i have done the work at college i need to experiment more and create new outcomes to push my work even further. I am very pleased with my final outcomes (final postcards analysed on post below) because they're very eye-catching and bold with great use of colour. I am very much a colourful artist and love to create work that is vivid, busy and striking to draw the viewer in. I would say that all my postcards are very different as i don't like to repeat imagery and love to try out different styles on each piece, however, they all have the same reocurring theme of travel and adventure which is based off of my penguin book "the Maldive shark" in which the author reminisces on his own adventures at sea, with repeated themes of courage, danger and hope. I have attempted to show this through the use of colour, shape, format/layout, imagery and text and believe that my outcomes have reached the brief.

final word count= 1,257

[glitterisevil-blog]

What Christmas Means to Me

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year” or so the song goes. But not if you’re someone who has mild Aspergers, OCD, or an awkward combination of the two. Even as I write this I’m acutely aware that I’m about to make myself sound like the biggest arsehole known to mankind, but I wanted to share this post to give people a bit of an insight into the way my brain works, and so that when I’m being particularly “un-festive” in the run up to Christmas, there’s a bit more understanding around why. I’m not just being a twat, I’m really not. There are elements of it that I genuinely struggle to cope with.

 Anybody with an Autism Spectrum Disorder or anyone who has a family member on this spectrum will know how difficult certain life situations can be. I’ve read about families who can’t have a Christmas tree, or can’t unwrap presents because they have children with severe Autism who find the whole thing far too stressful. 

Now, at no point here am I implying that this is my situation, nor am I looking to enter into any sort of woe-off contest with any readers of this post. This isn’t about me wanting sympathy; it’s about being able to express my feelings. Year after year I’ve been labelled a Grinch because I’m not skipping through Tesco whistling Jingle Bells whilst cheerfully stockpiling boxes of Quality Street, nor will you find me watching Muppet’s Christmas Carol the minute that Bonfire Night is done with. And I need to explain why…

 As long as I can remember I’ve found the concept of ambiguity quite stressful, and I detest having a lack of control over things. Everyday stuff that most people do without a second thought can cause me untold degrees of angst.

For example, imagine I had to park in a car park in an unfamiliar town, in order to catch a train somewhere. It wouldn’t be enough to just turn up and park there, oh no. I’d need to look online to see how many spaces the car park had to evaluate my chances of getting a space. I’d then need to understand the payment system in advance. Do I take a ticket and pay upon exit? Or do I pay upon entering? If so, will they take my card or will I need coins? Does the car park have a one way system or not? If that car park is full, where is the nearest back-up car park and what’s the distance from the train station? Should I just assume the worst and leave the house twenty minutes earlier than planned in case I need to use that back up car park and then have to walk to the station to get my train on time? It’s unlikely that I’d sleep particularly well the night before the journey either, with much of this going around in my head.

And inevitably, I turn up with plenty of time to spare, grab a coffee on the platform, and catch my train, just like all the normal folk. Everyone just assumes I’m really organised. It takes a lot of cortisol for me to appear this organised.

 So, onto Christmas…descending on us each year like a giant, expensive, tinsel-covered cold sore that we all felt erupting but had no power to stop. Here’s the bit where I make myself sound like a moaning, ungrateful bastard as I list the things I can’t cope with about Christmas. To all those “Buddy the Elf” types amongst you – pin back those pointy ears and brace yourselves….

  Christmas cards

I can’t even express how delighted I was a few years back, when the trend to donate to charity rather than send Christmas cards became a thing. I seem to recall that there may have been some actual air punching involved! Perhaps I’d now be spared the ordeal of cards infiltrating my home over December, sneaking in slowly and nestling themselves Trojan horse style between the electricity bills and bank letters. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to see as many of them lying there on my doormat alluringly, expecting to be unsheathed, admired and displayed in my home for all to see. Well no, I’m not spared that ordeal. Because the majority of people will still send cards, because they think it’s nice for me to receive a card, assuring me that they really want me to have a merry Christmas.

 Someone should pass an Act of Parliament that forces manufacturers to make Christmas cards a uniform size, shape and colour, and then perhaps I might have a chance at a merry Christmas. As it goes, I spend most of December putting them up and continually rearranging them in some semblance of size and shape order, until a new one appears in a random colour or format (a fucking purple star shaped card this year – seriously?!) and throws the entire display into chaos. Don’t even get me started on cards with glitter on FFS.  If you want me to have a merry Christmas, just tell me via text, email or Facebook and then I’ll know that you really mean it.

 Christmas trees and decorations

One day I will live in a mansion that could easily be the main feature article in Ideal Homes magazine. It will have a lounge the size of a church hall, with sleek polished wooden floors that would be the envy of any bowling alley. This lounge will contain nothing but a large sofa, a wall mounted television, a coffee table, and a textured rug. When this day comes, I might consider the concept of a massive, brightly coloured, flashing Christmas tree encroaching on my space. Whilst I live in a modest house, with a small lounge, that looks like an overflow warehouse for Toys R Us due to the amount of baby-related shit that already takes up an entire corner, I’m not entertaining one.

Based on my feelings towards a tree, I’m sure you don’t need me to explain why I won’t drape tinsel round my windows, or have a 2ft high, battery operated snowman in the house that talks to you each time you walk past it.

 Presents

This is the bit that carries the most immense guilt for me because it’s the part I really wish that I could enjoy. Those amazing people that you love dearly and who love you back, have taken time out of their busy week to spend their hard earned cash on choosing a gift for you. They’ve taken the knowledge that they have about you - the colours you like, the interests you have, your shoe size or body shape – and have used it to select a gift that’s just for you. That’s just lovely.

Except its not lovely if you’re me. Because now, a collection of unfamiliar items that I didn’t need or ask for have invaded my “safe space.”

And as well as now having to find homes for all these items, I’m also expected to show delight and gratitude to the giver of each item, and make up nonsense along the lines of “wow I’ve wanted one of these for ages!” when presented with a fucking spiraliser. This, my husband tells me, is what polite and normal people say at Christmas when presented with a gift.

Spoiler alert: I’ve not wanted one for ages, I’m sorry to tell you that this is a barefaced lie. Had this been the case I would already own one, as by now I would’ve identified some deep, primal urge to carve courgettes into the shape of spaghetti, and then trotted along to John Lewis to buy whichever gadget best made this happen.

So we can all safely assume that the fact that I didn’t already own a spiraliser means that I didn’t really want a spiraliser. But that’s a moot point because now I have one. And I have to store it somewhere in my house logical enough to convince the giver that I will use it (like the cutlery draw) and not somewhere unconvincing (like the wheelie bin) but each time I go to get a fork from the draw, seeing that bastard spiraliser sat there taking up space will remind me that I’m a horrible, ungrateful person who doesn’t deserve nice people in my life.

Now, gift cards are great, because they mean that I am in full control of all the purchases that will come into my house, and such purchases will cross the threshold following a great deal of prior consideration like whether they are needed, where they will live, and how they will be used. The beauty of the gift card is that if it happens to be for somewhere that I won’t ever shop, then I can simply choose not to use it, or re-gift it to someone who will. Yes, gift cards are good.

 Food

Franz Kafka once said that so long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being. So based on this logic, during the month of December I must have solved more questions than The Beast, The Governess, and The Dark Destroyer from The Chase put together, because I literally DID NOT STOP EATING.

Food and drink are my Achilles heel, cheese especially so. Wine definitely. So having copious quantities of them around the house within easy spreading and pouring distance makes for a very difficult and uncontrolled time of year for me.

If I could merely enjoy them for what they were, and worry about the weight gain in January like everyone else does then it wouldn’t be as stressful. But that’s not how someone like me works, with my daily (sometimes twice daily) weigh ins, or my need to exercise excessively at the gym to erase the calories from a “bad” food day. Food should be enjoyed and respected. It should be shared with friends and family. It should be fuel for exercise. Food should not take the form of a tin of Roses, shovelled with wild abandon into your mouth, one after another, until you feel so violently ill that you have to put yourself to bed to resist the urge to throw them all up and start again like some sort of Roman emperor.

My unhealthy relationship with food can pretty much be kept in check from January to November because at no other point in the year do people find it acceptable to bring home a 24 pack of mince pies every time they nip to the garage for diesel. At no other point do we give ourselves carte blanche to get as fat as we want because we’re supposed to “eat drink and be merry” at this time of year. The entire concept of excessive Christmas eating, for me, dredges up far too many demons that I’d rather not face. Except not only am I expected to face them, I’m expected to welcome them in, pour them a Baileys and offer them a Ferrero Rocher because these demons have Christmas fucking jumpers on. It’s bollocks.

 So there you have it, a little glimpse of what it’s like to live inside my head over the festive period. And nobody needs to remind me of how unbelievably lucky I am to have these “problems” at Christmas because I already know this to be true, which only serves to compound the feelings of guilt that I feel when I read some of this back.

Next Christmas my son will be 18mths old and will want the WORKS! A huge tree adorned with glittery ornaments, Santa’s “snowy” footprints stomped out in the lounge, gaudy stockings hung up on the fireplace. So it’s possibly time I addressed all of these issues. Or at least some of them. I draw the line at tinsel.

[takemeawaytocamelot]

Speed Dating - Dinner Date

Well then! The one-shot story that’s become an actual thing is back! @outlanderedandoverhere was just amazing giving me this prompt to start this series. And a big shout out to her for helping me with a choice of music for Jamie to enjoy. @diversemediums @outlandishchridhe and I did quite a bit of ‘frolicking away’ last night when I wrote most of this. Don’t worry. I’ll give y’all a BTS post soon. For now, enjoy the next installment!

The Morning After

Jamie looked around his kitchen, satisfied. Earlier that afternoon, he’d gathered some carrots from his garden, along with the herbs to season everything with. The salmon would be done in just a few minutes, just in time for Claire’s arrival. He’d texted her earlier to let her know the front door was open and to just come in. The salad sat in the bowl, waiting for the vinaigrette he’d fixed the night before. She’d called just before she’d left her tiny flat and he’d started the carrots to boiling.

“Ah,” he muttered to himself. “Too quiet.”

Nibbling on one of the smaller carrots he decided not to cook, he turned on the stereo he’d installed in the kitchen. He had no ear for pitch, but he found that didn’t bother him so much when he listened to certain kinds of electronic pop. The lads at the stable didn’t know about his music preferences and he would never ever tell them.

If ever I try to push away

You can just keep me there*

The upbeat sounds of synthesized pop flooded the kitchen as he finished cooking the carrots. Everything was nearly finished. All that was left was Claire.

My GPS unit told me to take one final turn and I stopped the car. There was no way this was Jamie’s house. The gate (it had a gate!) was open and I drove up to park near the front door. He’d told me to just go in and I hesitated briefly. But the sound of techno music had me curious, so I walked inside.

“Jamie?”

No answer. So I followed the music until I found the kitchen.

A vase full of wildflowers was in the middle of the table, candles scattered around it. The table was long, sitting near one of the large windows looking out over a well groomed garden. Movement caught my eye and I looked over to the stove and saw Jamie. I think he was trying to dance.

I stood for a moment, just watching as his hips popped from one side to the other with the beat of the music. He turned around, the end of a carrot sticking out of his mouth, pot of boiling water in his hands.

“Well hello there,” I said, trying to keep from laughing.

After a slight hesitation, he gave me a sheepish smile and finished with whatever he’d been doing. He swallowed the carrot he’d been chewing and came over to kiss me.

“Glad ye made it,” he said, letting me go finally.

“I never would have thought of you as a techno pop sort of man,” I said, leaning against the countertop.

Just looking around his kitchen, I thought it was larger than my whole flat.

“Aye, weel… I dinna have much of an ear for music, ken? I canna hear pitch for the most part, so it all just sounds like noise to me. But synthesized pop… I dinna need to hear the music to feel it.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it. My God, whatever you’re making smells wonderful.”

“Good! I havena cooked for anyone in some time. And never for a lass I had over.”

My cheeks flushed as he gazed at me.

“Then I’m honored. And I’m honored that you’ve chosen to share this with me. This house is… It’s stunning, Jamie.”

He turned away then, fiddling with one thing or another.

“I dinna like to talk about the money I have. In the past, it’s been… difficult. Women are either attracted to me because of it, or they’re intimidated when they find out. I ken it’s big and expensive, but it holds all my nieces and nephews when they come for a visit. It lets me gi’ a room to a lad from the stable when he falls on hard times.”

So sharing this with me, sharing his home, meant even more than he’d let on. It was important to him that I not define him by his money. I’d never been the sort of person to care about money or status. Not that I wouldn’t mind a little more of it myself, if only to escape my tiny flat.

“I think it suits you,” I said, watching him still bounce a little at the music playing. “And I don’t care how much money you do or don’t have. That’s not why I took you home.”

“Ah,” he said, pulling salmon out of the oven. “I kent that was the way of it. Ye took me home to have yer way wi’ me and send me on my way.”

I couldn’t help but giggle, which had been his intention.

“You’ve discovered me,” I said.

“Come wi’ me to the dining room, if ye please,” he said, a plate of cooked carrots in his hands.

He sat me at one end of the table, setting the carrots down before turning back. I started to get up.

“No, please. Sit. I’d like ye to be surprised when I plate it. Have some o’ the wine if ye like. I’ll be back presently.”

As he disappeared back to the kitchen, I smiled to myself, picking up the glass in front of me and taking a drink. The pleasure Jamie took in preparing dinner for me was endearing. The way he smiled and planned every part told me just how much he’d been looking forward to it.

When he returned, he had two plates with beautifully glazed salmon on a platter. A crystal bowl of salad nestled itself between the carrots and the fish.

“Jamie! This looks like something out of a magazine!”

“D’ye like it?”

“It’s beautiful! Oh thank you for this!”

Glowing with pride, he sat down on the other end of the table and we ate. We held polite conversation, which more often than not devolved into shameless flirting. It was easy with him, though, like we were meant to be.

“Now,” he said, wiping his mouth on a napkin. “Would ye like the grand tour?”

“Is this your plan to get me into your bed?” I asked, setting my own napkin down.

“Ye think I’d be so obvious?”

I snorted.

“Yes, actually. I do. But… I would like the tour.”

“And if it happened to end at my bedroom?”

I shrugged, standing with my plate in hand.

“If we happen to end up there, I suppose we’ll see what happens.”

He grinned at me and I followed him to the kitchen. After rinsing the plates, he loaded them in the washer and offered me a hand.

“If ye would, my lady.”

I laced our fingers together, following him as he started the grand tour. I tried to tally up how many times I could fit my flat into this place but eventually gave up.

“I’ve got a few trophies in here,” he said, motioning around one of the sitting rooms. “I dinna like to flaunt it, but I’m proud of the things we’ve won.”

“You always say ‘we’, you know.”

He frowned in question at me.

“Whenever you talk about something that the stables has accomplished, you always say ‘we’ instead of ‘I’.”

“Well, it isna just me. I canna take credit for something I didna do.”

“Because,” I stopped walking, pulling him down for a kiss. “You are a very good man.”

As we walked, he explained his design choices for each bedroom. When he’d bought the place, he knew that he would change almost everything. But each room was nice without being pushy about how expensive it was. He lead me upstairs and around to the rooms there as well. When we came to the last door, he paused.

He couldn’t meet my eyes, though he didn’t drop my hand.

“This is… This is my sanctuary. I’ve no’ brought another soul into this room before. No’ even my sister or brother in law have seen it. I keep it locked when the kids are about so they willna sneak in.”

“And you’re willing to let me in?”

Jamie shrugged his shoulders as if his shirt was too tight (it wasn’t) and took a long breath. Then he looked up at me, letting me see every single thing he felt. His eyes were full of fear and nervous energy, but trust and adoration too.

“Aye. I want to share everything wi’ ye, Claire. This room, even more than the house, is my home. I would like to invite ye into my home, mo nighean donn.”

The door opened without a sound and he waved me into the room. Every other room in his house was sleek and modern, filled with creature comforts because he could afford them. But this… This was something altogether different.

The bed was massive, which should have made the room feel small and cramped. Instead, it made the whole place feel lived in. The quilt was a lovely plaid pattern and looked to be a high quality wool. Without even thinking, I walked forward and ran my hand over it, marveling at how soft it felt. Jamie waited at the door as I explored his safe place.

On the wall across from his bed was a beautifully framed Scottish flag. It was old, tattered around the edges, the white faded into an odd yellowish color. Beside on the wall was an antique dirk, the same that Highlanders wore at their sides in the eighteenth century.

The colors of this room were warmer, more rustic, and they felt more like the Jamie I was getting to know. As I moved around the room, I found that one wall was windows, with French doors that opened out onto a small balcony. The view from this room was incredible, the stars in the night sky glittering like diamonds.

“This is beautiful,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“Thank ye.”

I forced myself away from the window and turned to look at the photos on the wall. An old wedding photo with a tall, graceful woman who had Jamie’s hair and a man with dark hair and bright blue eyes was in a silver frame. Beside it was a scattering of photos of children and a few adults.

“Are these your family?”

“Aye. Mam and Da,” he nodded to the wedding photo. “My sister Jenny recreated their photo when she married my best mate Ian. They’ve got a gaggle of bairns, as ye can see.”

The smile in his voice had me looking up at him to see mischief in his eyes.

“Jenny complains that she’s done carryin’ his bairns. Then a few months later, she announces she’s pregnant again. But they’re happy. They kent they wanted a lot of bairns and Jenny doesna really mind.”

“They’re a beautiful family,” I said, looking back at the photos of the children on the wall.

“Their eldest son, the one in the wee kilt there. His name is Jamie, after me. Jenny and me are verra close, ken?”

I stared, for a long moment, at a family photo. Jenny and Jamie, with a man I assumed to be Jenny’s husband Ian, and a few small children. Jamie was sharing his innermost feelings with me and I felt compelled to do the same.

“I’m an orphan,” I blurted. “My parents died in a car crash when I was very young. My Uncle Lambert raised me. He was an anthropology professor who was invited to go on digs all over the world, so I traveled quite a bit.”

Jamie was quiet, just watching me as I showed him my secrets.

“I’ve dated a few times, but it never felt right. I used to stare at my parent’s wedding photo when I was little, just to see how much they loved each other. I knew, even at that age, that was what I wanted. To be loved that way, that deeply… Lamb loved me, I knew he did. He did his best to take care of me.”

“But he wasna your father,” Jamie said quietly.

I shook my head, feeling my throat grow tight at the memory of my lost family.

“I’ve never been in love,” I said in a soft voice, looking down at my hands. “Every relationship I’ve had never felt right, never gave me the satisfaction I craved. It’s like I never really connected with any of them. I certainly never told them about my life.”

“And ye shared it wi’ me.”

His hands took mine, large and warm as he squeezed gently. I looked up at him and met his kind gaze. Sharing all this with him made me feel more vulnerable than I’d ever been before. Unfounded fear sprang up within me and I didn’t know what to do about it. Whatever this relationship was, it terrified me. I trusted Jamie, though I wasn’t totally sure why. But this was so much, so quickly.

I’d told him the truth, none of my previous relationships had ever felt right. Being with Jamie did feel right, but I was afraid. Opening yourself to someone like this left the potential for hurt. We’d known each other for two full days and here I was, revealing my most secret self.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered, pulling my hands back. “Jamie, I don’t…”

“Shhh,” he said, letting me go. “Ye dinna need to be scairt of me, Claire. I’m no’ gonna force ye into something ye dinna want.”

“I know,” I said, shaking my head in an effort to order my own thoughts. “I never thought you would. But…”

He hooked a finger under my chin and lifted my face until I met his eyes again.

“Is this moving too fast for ye, mo chridhe? We can slow things down if ye like. Go out for regular dates, learn more about each other.”

When I made no reply, he took a step back from me.

“Would ye like to go home?”

I felt suddenly empty, even though the space between us was a small one. Terrified as I was, being near him felt safe. That connection I wanted so much was there, between Jamie and myself.

“No,” I finally said. “I don’t want to go home.”

Jamie was comfort and safety. I knew if I let myself stay away from him, allowed our date to end here, it would be over. If things slowed down, I was afraid it would stop altogether. So I reached out and put my hand on his chest, just over his heart. He waited for a moment, just staring at my hand, before he looked up and met my eyes.

“What is it ye want, then?” he asked in a soft, low voice.

I closed the distance between us, our gazes still locked.

“To be myself,” I said. “I want to be myself and…” my cheeks flushed a little. “I want to see you, James Fraser.”

He made a Scottish noise deep in his throat.

“Ye do, mo ghraidh. You have seen more o’ me than any other living person. And I see you, Claire Beauchamp.”

Then he leaned down and kissed me. Somehow the delicate way his lips touched mine melted my worries. I drew myself closer, deepening the kiss as his arms came around me. The lacy black dress I wore felt suddenly constricting. Jamie’s hand moved slowly up my back until he found the zipper.

His fingers brushed against my skin, igniting a fire in me as our kisses became more urgent. Without warning, he turned me around and held me steady. I was a little dizzy and wobbled a little, but his hands on my shoulders kept me on my feet.

“Wh… Why…”

It was almost impossible to form a coherent thought.

“Bloody zipper got stuck.”

After a little tugging and creative Gaelic curses, he got it loose. His hands, work worn as they were, caressed my skin tenderly. I found myself leaning back into his touch, craving him. His lips visited my neck, my shoulders, anywhere he could reach. Then he was pushing the dress off my shoulders, hands sliding down my sides to help it the rest of the way off.

My head fell back against his shoulder when his hand slid down my stomach and inside my panties. He was slow and steady, making me tremble and whimper. I bit my bottom lip while he stroked me. Soon, my hips churned with the rhythm of his hand, the sound of his breathing. The heat of his breath burned on my neck, sending tremors through my body. His other hand came up to cup my breast. I must have made some sort of squeaking sound because I heard him chuckling in my ear.

“Dinna hold back, Sassenach.” He said, a smile in his voice. “The neighbors willna hear ye.”

I could only whimper in response as his finger entered me, my body bucking back into his own need as he held me firmly upright against him. I struggled against his hold, though I had no desire to escape. Finally I cried out, jerking as waves of pleasure crashed over me. His arms never slackened and I knew he was the only reason I was still vertical.

I staggered a little when he eventually let go, but I sat down on his bed before I fell over. He pulled madly at his belt and I noticed how heavily he was breathing. But I needed to touch him, so I got to my feet and reached for him. The belt gave and he wrenched it free, his trousers dropping around his ankles. I’d just gotten my fingers under the waistband of his underwear when he pulled my face up.

This kiss was… more. For the first time in my life, I yielded and was consumed. We fell backwards onto the bed, with me struggling to get his shirt unbuttoned. I couldn’t remember when my underwear had come off, or my bra, but it didn’t much matter. All I cared about was that he filled me, hot and hard when his flesh touched mine.

I surrendered myself to him, giving him everything I was as he made love to me. I’d never opened myself this way, not to anyone. But with Jamie, it didn’t feel like I was losing something so much as I was gaining something. Allowing myself to feel everything, becoming his, didn’t take away who I was.

Jamie seemed to accept what I gave him, and he reciprocated, giving me all of himself. Though we spoke no words, we communicated how much we meant to each other. Our bodies spoke a language unknown to me before, leaving nothing to be misunderstood.

My hands dug into his buttocks and I cried out his name as he brought me to completion. His thrusts grew less rhythmic as he neared his own end. I arched my back, angling my hips a little more to help him along. He let out a low, guttural sound as he climaxed, his body pinning mine to the bed.

He kissed me for several long minutes, both of us sticky with sweat. I’d probably want to shower later, but for now, I didn’t want to let Jamie go. Slowly, he nibbled down my neck and back up before he rolled off me.

“Tha gaol agam ort,” he whispered, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

“I don’t really have much Gaelic,” I whispered back, turning onto my side as he wrapped an arm around me.

“Dinna fash. I’ll teach ye.”

After a little adjusting, we snuggled up beneath the bed sheets, my back to his front.

“You won’t tell me what that one means, will you?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

“No’ just yet. Will ye stay the night wi’ me?”

I started laughing, oddly giddy and full of happiness.

“Do you honestly think I could walk out to my car after that?”

Jamie chuckled and kissed the top of my shoulder.

“I did my job, then. Rest, mo chridhe.”

With his arms securely around me, I settled in to sleep.

He couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not when he held the whole world in his arms. Claire slept hard, the flush faded from her cheeks, though her lips still held the hint of her smile. He tucked a stray curl behind one ear, letting his finger trace the line of her jaw. She truly was the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

“Lord,” he whispered, pitching his voice low so as not to wake her. “Ye gave me a rare woman. And God, I will love her well.”

*Clearest Blue by CHVRCHES