#a compliment would be ‘your body looks great !’ not making unwanted suggestions about my eating habits

[prisonpodcast]

.

[everything-person]

Little Red Riding OH!

A/N: another Captain Swan Halloween fanfic. First time writing a fanfic that is intended to be smutty so please bare with me. Hope you enjoy.

Summary: Emma's friend Ruby convinces her to go to a costume party where she just so happens to be in matching costumes with non other the Killian Jones.

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Emma shot upright at the sound of banging on her door. Rubbing her neck she looked over her desk at the open book and scattered papers. She fell asleep while doing homework again. The banging that woke her started again.

“Emma. I know you're in there.” BANG BANG BANG “Open up.”

With a groan Emma pushed up from her desk, moved her way through her apartment to the front door. She opened it to find her friend Ruby dressed in a very revealing and bright outfit.

Emma used the door to proper herself up before asking, “Ruby. What the hell are you wearing?”

“I’m wearing my costume for the party.” Ruby said marching into Emma's apartment.

Emma followed her with her eye, her eyebrows furrowed. “And what the hell are you suppose to be?”

Ruby turned back to her placing her hands on her hips. “I’m Goldilocks.” she says pointing to the little bear sewn onto the corner of her skirt.

“Riiight. Well I don’t have any porridge for you so why don’t you try the bear down the hall.”

“Emma. We are going to a Halloween Party tonight,” Ruby said stubbornly.

Emma finally pushed off the door allowing it to close. “I’m not going,” she muttered as she made her way to her couch, plopping down on it.

Ruby came to stand right in front of her, “Emma come on. I have your costume right here. Go get dress.”

“I’m not going. And I don’t even want to know whats in that bag.”

“Come on Emma. It’ll be fun. You haven't gone out in forever.”

Emma rolled her eyes, “I’m just busy with school.”

“Another reason to go. You need a break, you need to let loose and have fun. You remember fun right?”

Emma gave Ruby a look causing Ruby to throw her hands in the air. “Okay if you go tonight I won’t drag you to the next two parties.”

“Really?”

“Really. Come on Emma. It’ll be fun. Everyone is going, a ton of hot guys are gonna be there. Plus there is free booze and free food,” Ruby said holding out the bag that contained Emmas costume.

Emma jumped up from the couch and grabbed the bag. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Ruby studied Emma for a moment before saying, “I could have said free food and you would have agreed right away.”

“Yup but now you promise to leave me at home for the next two parties so you can’t take it back.” Emma ran off to her room to get dressed before Ruby could argue.  

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Ruby and Emma pulled up to a house filled with disgusting monsters and half dressed witches. Every room had a ghost and bats hanging from the ceiling, spiders crawling on every wall, and every window held a pumpkin each with their own uniquely craved face. Music flowed through the air mixing with bursts of laughter and random chatter. 

“Hello ladies,” purred a voice behind them as they made their way through the swarm of people. 

Emma turned to the source of the voice, after appraising them, “The Mad Hatter how original however did you come up with the idea?”

Jefferson Hatter gave one of his famous smiles at her snark, “Says the woman who apparently lost her way to grandmothers house.”

“Great costume for a great party Jefferson,” Ruby interjected on their banter.

“Thank you Ruby. You are looking ravishing tonight as well.”

“More like looking to get ravished,” Ruby flirted. 

Jeffersons eyes trailed up and down her body then smirked, “Maybe that can be arranged.” His tongue darted across his lips before he continued, “But for now enjoy the festivities. Bathrooms are down that hall and upstairs, dance floor is through there, and backyard has some extra fun.” 

“Where is food?”

Jefferson laughed before pointing in the direction of the kitchen and bar. “Go fill up your basket with all the treats you desire.”

Emma turned and follow the direction his hand was point in, Ruby close behind her. 

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His eyes followed her as soon as she stepped through the front door. White cloth held her breast with a black corset wrapped around her, accentuating her curves. Her red skirt flowed as she walked, stopping at mid thigh allowing for her thigh high stockings to start leading down her deliciously long leggings. She wore a red cloak with a hood framing her face and complimenting her body instead of hiding her way.

“Jones!”

Killian was snapped out of his sirens song by fellow party attendant August. Killian took in his costume, he was dressed in leather jacket, dark jeans, and leather gloves with a red scarf wrapped around his neck. 

“What the hell are you suppose to be?”

August held up the bat, Killian didn’t notice, before answering, “I’m Negan. From the Walking Dead.”

Killian lifted his glass of rum to his lips before looking back at his red delight. She was now speaking with the host of this party. August followed Killian gaze letting out a whistle. 

“Damn.” 

Killian shot a glare at the man standing next to him, in the corner of his eye he saw Emma was on the move again. He excused himself then made his way through the crowd. He found her in the kitchen, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she bit down on a chocolate covered strawberry. He was about to make his way toward her when a squealing flash of red hair darted past him. 

“Hey Killian, enjoying the party?” Elsa asked as she passed him making her way to her sister and best friend.

He watched the friends talk for a moment before heading outside. He went to a window that looks out onto the backyard. His heart dropped at the sight of Emma talking to a huntsman. 

‘Ugh, what were the odds?’ He thought to himself. Taking a deep breath he steeled himself. Tonight the big bad wolf will get red riding hood one way or another.

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After a couple rounds of beer pong Ruby decided she wanted to go in to dance. Pulling Emma with her back through the house until the land on the dance floor. They dance to the beat, swaying close together. If their movements were a little suggestive they’ll blame the alcohol. No one seemed to mind the show.

As they danced Emma felt a claw snake around her waist and a chest press against her back. 

“Seems you’ve lost your way Little Red,” a voice growled in her ear. “You should be more careful. There are all manners of beast lurking around and being dressed as you are is dangerous.”

“Maybe. I���m looking for a little danger,” Emma purred back. She felt her partner growl deep in his chest. Just as quickly as he appeared he vanished back into the crowd leaving Emma feeling cold. 

Emma turned back to find Ruby found her own dance partners. See that her friend would be busy she decided to head to the kitchen to pour herself another drink. It was late in the evening and everyone had more than there fare to drink. After being shoved, bumped into and had her ass smacked more than she cared for, Emma decided to find solace upstairs.

After climbing the stairs she found herself in a hallway holding doors with different sorts of decorations. She approached one that was covered in police tap reaching for the handle.

“I don’t think you’ll find your grandmother in there.”

Emma jumped back at the sudden sound of the voice. She turned to see none other than Killian Jones. He was dressed in a grey pinstripe suit complete with fedora. One would think he was dress as an old school gangster if it weren’t for the wolf ears coming out of his hat, having paws instead of hands and tail poking out from behind him.

“And I believe the three little pigs live down the street.”

Killian chuckled taking a couple steps closer, “I’m not in the mood for pork.”

His eyes traced her body, his tongue darting across his lips. A pleasant shiver ran down Emma's spine.

“What are you doing so far from your friends?”

“Ruby found herself another dance partner.” Emma shrugged, “I also had a needed some space away from wandering hands.”

Concern flashed in Killians eyes, “Did you find yourself in the arms of an unwanted dance partner?”

Emma smirked, “No actually it was after my dance partner left me that I found I only wanted his hands on me.”

Killian face quickly turned from one of concern to a smolder. “Oh?”

“What about you Jones? Big Bad Wolf need to catch his breath?”

“Actually,” he reached a paw up to scratch the spot behind his ear, “seems we are in the same ship. I came up here to hide from a rather frisky Rapunzel.”

Emma quirked an eyebrow, “The Big Bad Wolf is scared of a little princess?”

“No. But because of her I had to leave my dance partner wanting.”

“Oh I thought it was because you couldn’t handle a little danger.” Emma swayed closer to him. 

“Perhaps you’re the one who can’t handle it.” Killian took a step toward her. 

Their breaths mingled together, her shirt just brushing his jacket. Both of them watching each other, waiting to see who would move first. The party down stairs all but forgotten. 

Emma broke the spell by grabbing the lapels of his suit and surging forward. Their mouths clashed together in a fiery kiss, their tongues battling for dominance. They broke apart for air only for a moment then Killian recaptured Emma's lips. 

One of his paws was grippingly the back of her hood while the other reached for the doorknob next to them. Throwing the door open he lead her inside what he hoped was an empty bedroom. Closing the door he pressed Emma up against it. She popped open his jacket, Killian allowed it and his paws to fall on the floor before gripping her body to his. Tearing his mouth away from her, his lips trailed down her neck kissing the tops of her breasts before making his way back up to her ear. 

“I’m going to take you against this door-”

Emma let out a breathy, “no.” 

Causing Killian to stop his actions, he picked up his head looking into her eyes. She saw the question in them and smiled.

“We’re going by the book.” She lifted up her skirt revealing the white lace thong she was wearing, “You’re going to eat me.”

Not having to be told twice Killian lowered himself so he was eye level with his Halloween treat. He taunted her, starting at the top of her stocking he kissed a trail up to where she wanted him before moving down the other thigh. 

Emma moaned and whithered in anticipation above him. Having enough of his teasing she gripped his head and lead him to where she desperately needed him.  

Killian, able to take a hint, dove right in. He worked his tongue into her cunt, alternating between long slow strokes and quick flicks. He sucked on her clit savor if the taste of her nectar. Emma's hand gripping the back of his head egged him, working faster to bring her to climax.

Emma moaned biting her lip. She was a little surprised how eager Killian was. But you wouldn’t find her complain. She let out a small gasp, “Fuck. I knew that mouth was good for something.”

When Killian tried to pull his mouth away to respond Emma’s hand held him in place. He continued working his tongue over her cunt. Feeling her legs shake he wrapped one around his shoulder his hand groping her ass as his tongue went deeper into her cunt.

The louder she got the closer he knew she was to climax. With one last swipe off his tongue she fell over the edge. Killian continued licking her as she rode out her first orgasm. Once the last wave of pleasure ripples through her body he placed a kiss on her thigh before letting it drop off his shoulder.

He kept a tight grip on her as he stood. Placing gentle kisses along her neck across her cheek finally reaching her lips. Unlike the first one, that was filled with fire and desperation, this kiss was filled emotion and longing.

Emma wasn’t ready for that. The only emotion she could handle right now was lust. Nibbling on Killians bottom lip as her hands traveled down his body. She palmed at the bulge in his pants causing him to groan. Pulling back slightly she said, “I think it’s your turn.”

Emma shoved him backwards. Killian continued to walk back until his legs hit the mattress. Emma knelt between his legs, popping the button on his pants and pulling down the zipper with her teeth. Sliding his cock out of his pants she smiled looking up at him, “No wonder your called the BIG Bad Wolf.”

She licked his cock from base to tip, swirling her tongue around his head before swallowing his cock whole. She bobbed her head up and down his large shaft, hallowing out her cheeks for increased pleasure.

After a minute or two Killian couldn’t take it anymore. He gripped her hair wanking her mouth off him. “If you don’t stop we won’t be able to get to the main event.”

Emma smiles raising herself up she captured his lips again. “Fuck me,” she breathed against his lips.

Killian flipped her onto her stomach on the bed. Emma raised herself so her ass was in the air. He gripped her hips, admiring her supple ass, biting down on her right cheek before standing up straight. He lined his cock up with her entrance then thrusting in. He filled her completely.

Giving her a moment to adjust to the intrusion he began to thrust into her. He gradually grew with speed soon he was pounding her into the mattress. Emma was meeting him thrust for thrust. The air was filled with their moans as they fucked each other.

Feeling close to his orgasm he reached his hand around Emma’s hips, fingering her clit. Within minutes they both hit their climax. Killian continued to thrust riding out their orgasm before colasping next to Emma on the bed.

Both breathing heavily try to regain their composure. Killian was the first to speak.

“That was...” Killian trailed off finding it difficult to describe what just happened.

“A one time thing.” Emma finished his sentence as she pushed herself off the bed. Adjusting her costume she made her way to the door.

“Wait a couple minutes before you go back down. And don’t forget your jacket.” She said as pulled open the door to leave. Before she had a chance to close it she heard Killian call out, “As you wish.”

Shaking off the deeper meaning of those three words she headed back downstairs to the party. Anna, dressed as Daphne from Scooby-Doo, came running up to her her basket in her hands.

“Emma I found your basket. I filled it with more goodies for you. Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Thanks,” Emma took back her little basket now filled with party treats. “I was just in the bathroom.”

“Oh well come on.” Anna grabbed her wrist and pulled her along.

Killian reaches the top of the stairs. Fixing his jacket he watched Emma being pulled by the red head disappearing into the crowd. When she became lost in the ocean of party goers he became more determined to make sure tonight was not a “one time thing.”

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A/N: Okay so not the best but at least I got it done by Halloween so HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

[bluehhj]

listen to me — chapter 45

LISTEN TO ME — 0045

listen to me masterlist;

WORDS: 2.3K

Sae Murase was the name of the surgeon who patiently explained Jinah's complex case to her friends. She detailed the diagnosis without haste, letting the group absorb each piece of information carefully, even pausing to ask if they understood or wanted her to repeat it using more uncomplicated words, but, sometimes, she was barely answered, given that no one seemed capable enough to focus on her words and enjoy the gift of speech at the same time.

Suddenly, Murphy was right when he said that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, at the worst possible time.

"Not to say it was all bad, maybe Jinah was a little lucky," the doctor continued her report, finally removing the white mask that still hung from her chin. "The two fractured ribs didn't compromise any of her vital organs, that already cheers me up. In fact, I noticed a tourniquet¹ on her left leg and I can bet that, by the obvious improvisation, it wasn't the ambulance crew who put it there." the doctor, then, looked at Seungmin, who swallowed the excess saliva. Just as Jeongin was Chan's internship instructor, Sae was his, and let's say shaming in front of her was the last thing the younger Kim needed at that dawn.

"She was losing a lot of blood," he said, a little shy. It's okay that a dirty piece of jeans and a half-burnt twig weren't the best options for rescuing someone in serious condition, but Jinah survived, at least. "I couldn't keep pressing her belly and leg at the same time, I had to improvise."

"I'm not scolding you" Sae's smile was so slight it hardly even appeared, but she was pleased with Seungmin's attitude. "Actually, you did very well. Congratulations."

The pride of himself after receiving a compliment was present in the form of a grateful gleam in Seungmin's eyes. He opened a smile as lightly as the surgeon's when Chaerin discreetly touched the base of his spine, congratulating him as well. It was something so small, especially compared to how important the rest of the situation was, but it still made him a little happy.

"What really worries me is the trauma," the doctor confessed, suddenly more tense. "We have done the tests, but it's not possible to predict exactly how she will react when she comes out of the coma."

Seungmin bit his cheek inside, remembering the blood covering Jinah's hair, the bruises on her face and how it terrified him — not from the image itself, but the inevitable consequences. There are cases when a coma can become worse than death itself. Seungmin, then, found himself saying a silent prayer that it would be different with Jinah.

"But will she wake up?" Jade asked, clinging to any loose thread of hope. "There are people who stay like this for years and years. Please, she can't."

"I have to be honest with you," Sae let out her breath slowly before continuing. "And I say I don't know when Jinah will wake up, but I know that if she does someday, it may not be as reassuring as it sounds. Brain injuries are cruel. Maybe she can wake up and stay the same as ever, but maybe a only thing out of place can make her a completely different person than she was before."

"Different in what way?" Changbin wanted to know.

"At best, there is often some long or short term memory loss, personality change and a bit of logical dysfunction" tired and with a headache from not sleeping well for days, and carrying all the daily pressure on her shoulders, the doctor surrendered to the wear and sat on one of the chairs. "At worst, however, it is possible that there is partial or complete paralysis of the limbs, as well as loss of sight, difficulty in speech, among others related to the senses. And of course, we also have the worst of worst, which is when the patient doesn't even wake up."

Woojin slowly shook his head up and down thoughtfully. "If your intention was to reassure us, congratulations, doctor. You did it right."

"Sorry for scaring you all with all these things that might not even happen" although her words said otherwise, Sae wasn't sorry, still holding the same serious look and soft tone of voice. "But it is my duty to keep you aware from now on."

Hyoyeon nodded without much force. She had listened everything with her eyes fixed on the floor and only raised her head again when she assumed that the Japanese girl had nothing more to say. "Are you doing everything for her, doctor?" she asked, then, and Sae didn't need much to understand what she meant.

After all, it was a private hospital. Everyone was aware that the state-of-the-art treatment offered there wasn't paid for on its own.

"I didn't want to get to that part today," she admitted, running a hand over the back of her neck in a shy gesture. Sae imagined that it must be horrible to have someone important going through such a difficult time and still be financially charged, as if the obligation of doctors were to pluck people's money for simple favors, and not save them for the sake of the profession. "But the answer is yes. I thought it wise that all treatments for her to recover faster should be started even before consulting her family. The decision to continue or not, however, is still up to you."

It wasn't a question of wanting or not wanting to continue. From what she had heard from Jisung, Hyoyeon knew that Jinah's parents lived in a dignified manner, but lacked a favorable financial position to handle the situation properly. Chan, Felix, Jade, Changbin, Woojin, and Seungmin could also fit into the same picture. In that circle, only Sooyoung, Chaerin, Yoorim, Hyunjin, and Hyoyeon herself had good money to help without affecting anything. However, though not in the same material proportions, but with the same goodwill and determination, the collective exchange of glances, leaving no one out, made it clear that the eleven were more than willing to do anything for Jinah.

"I'll pay her first night," Hyoyeon offered. It wasn't as if she wanted to completely lift the weight off Jinah's parents, but at least until they arrived in Seoul, she wouldn't mind taking over. Moreover, she wasn't only doing this for Choi, but also for Jisung, who could certainly take no other action.

"That's great," Sae even got up, smiling a little more willingly than last time. Later, she would remember to make everyone aware of the importance of having a health insurance, because it wasn't always you found friends as true as this group. "I shouldn't even thank you, but thanks."

Hyoyeon also opened a mild smile. "It wasn't us who just spent hours doing miracles to save someone's life, doctor."

"Thank God it wasn't us," muttered Woojin, then received a weak elbow from Felix on his back. "What? My body is just dust now, I'm dying of tiredness."

"It's almost five in the morning and you guys still have to go to college." Hyoyeon covered her mouth with her fingers, as if only then did she remember that. However, the rest didn't show much excitement to attend class in a few hours.

"I'm not leaving," said Jade, affected. She was so worried about Jinah that, if she could, she would live in the hospital until she recovered. Chan and Changbin also declined at the same time.

"Guys, you guys spent all night here" Sae watched the tired faces and the growing dark circles. "I'm not asking you to go to class, but at least go home and get some rest before you get back. Jinah's condition is serious, but she's being well cared for, I promise."

Faced with the silent reluctance that ensued for the next few moments, Sooyoung, though she knew no one but Hyoyeon, pressed her lips into a thin line before daring to complete: "I know how worried you guys must be now, but I say, from own experience, that Jinah's life has stopped doesn't mean yours need to stop either. I've been through this same situation with my ex-husband and spent three whole months by his side, unable to do anything. I was so happy when he woke up, but then I saw the confusion that my life changed because of carelessness and I still got anemia because I didn't take proper care of myself."

"Exactly," agreed Hyoyeon. "What she means is you all here all the time won't improve Jinah's health but only worsen yours. And I bet that, as much as you want to stay, no one wants to get a low grade in college right away now that you're about to graduate, and don't lose your job either."

There was a moment's thoughtfulness until Hyunjin sighed and relaxed his shoulders. "They're right," he concluded. "We can take turns and, if anything happens, and I hope not, we'll call right away."

"Anyway, I'll stay here until Jisung wakes up," Hyoyeon said, sounding more sad this time. "He'll suffer when he finds out about Jinah. I want to be around to hug him."

"I think we'd better leave, then," Chan suggested. "Seungmin and I have to come back in the afternoon because of the internship, so, you guys can work normally without having to worry too much."

Jade was the one most unwilling to give in to the rest her body and mind begged for, but even she had to agree that standing still and at the mercy of unwanted thoughts was far worse. The agreement, then, was collective.

"We'll be back early in the evening," Yoorim promised, already leaning toward leaving the hospital with Hyunjin and Woojin by her side. "Anything just call, don't forget."

Seungmin nodded with a weak and equally comforting smile. "We won't."

"You can go too." Hyoyeon softly addressed Sooyoung.

"Don't you want me to be with you?" the other woman replied.

"It's up to you, but I imagine your puppies are very hungry by now."

Sooyoung thought about denying it and saying it was all right, but the memory of not leaving even a little bit of ration in the bowls almost made her despair. "My God, I had forgotten about that! But I'll be back later, okay? Eat a little bit at the diner and take care of yourself."

Hyoyeon could barely answer before Sooyoung ran out of the hospital reception. The thought that she took care of the puppies as if they were her real children was something that always made Hyoyeon laugh. In her view, there was no one more amazing in the world than her little sister, and it was great to have her so close again after so many years away.

Hyoyeon set aside her fraternal sentimentality when she noticed that Chaerin and Seungmin were also leaving. She, then, called the couple back and, when they turned to look at her, Hyoyeon released a long breath and stretched the corners of her lips in a grateful smile.

"Thanks for everything. I thought you two were the last people in the world who could do such a thing, especially for Jisung. I think no thanks is enough to make up for it."

"You don't have to say thank you." Chaerin flashed a smile similar to hers, but it was obvious how embarrassed she was. Her mind had created a sequence of possibilities of what would happen when she met Hyoyeon again and none of them ended with her ex-mother-in-law treating her so well. Not that she was complaining, of course, but she was embarrassed. "And since we're here..." she hesitated, squeezing Seungmin's hand that was intertwined with hers. Chaerin got a squeeze back, as if Kim were encouraging her to continue. "I wanted to say I'm sorry... For what happened at the beginning of the year."

"Don't" Hyoyeon shrugged simplistically. "Jisung is better without you, just as you are better without him. In the end, you did what you had to do."

Chaerin didn't think Jisung was doing that well, at least not with Jinah in a coma; Hyoyeon thought the same, but she believed that this obstacle would be overcome and soon things would get back on track. Thus, the Canadian didn't retort and preferred to believe too. So they said goodbye, both keeping positive thoughts, since these were never too much and Jinah more than anyone deserved them.

Outside the hospital, Jade and Changbin, who walked in silence all the way, finally turned to each other. Their hands were no longer entwined, but any layman would be able to see the almost palpable difficulty they were having to widen the short distance between them. The mood wasn't completely strange, nor too uncomfortable; they just seemed to have lost the ability to communicate verbally. Perhaps this was because they were unsure what to say given the circumstances in which they met again, but the silent support they had offered each other in the last few hours was enough to replace any messy dialogue.

"Take care," Jade finally said, almost in a whisper. Changbin watched her for a few more seconds until he answered in the same tone.

"You too."

Hyunjin was already waiting for the american in the car while Woojin decided he'd get a ride with Seo this time around — or was just kicked out of the front seat when Yoorim, in her own words, said "near my man, only I sit". Jade and Changbin, then, said goodbye with a small smile and each went to one side. But they didn't care much about it, since they both knew this was far from the last time they had run into each other, both in the hospital and elsewhere.

The walk could be long and complicated from now on, but they had each other anyway, plus a dozen friends.

Step by step. One day at a time.

Tourniquet¹: First-aid procedure adopted to stop bleeding that couldn't be stopped in any other way. A piece of cloth or twine is placed around the injured limb, between the wound and the heart, tightening the binding as if strangling the limb, so that the arteries are compressed and the blood doesn't continue to flow. A branch or bar may be used to facilitate tightening of the tourniquet and maintaining proper pressure. It must be used as a last resort and, only, to control bleeding from serious injury to the extremities, when all other control methods have failed.

a/n: my cousin is studying nursing, so this week i heard her talking about this tourniquet and i thought it was useful to put it here hehehehe but really, it's very nice to see them doing it, but it has to be in case of a very emergency because it can hurt and cause a lot of issues if you don't know how to do it right

listen to me is also culture, okay

and i may be inside the biological areas, but i don't know everything either eh talking about the chapter now, i found it really shit lol but on the one hand it was good, as it is important nonetheless and i also found it right to let you guys breathe before coming back with the bombing (yeah folks, it's not over) tsk, do what

i'm leaving now, bye <3

[nothing-but-kpop-dreams]

Where (1/3)

Author’s note: This is my first drabble. I J-hope you all like it (‘,:D)

 ***Anything in italics is a flashback.  And anything separated by a “---” is a new flashback.***

Genre: Angst (y/n x Jhope)

Summary: You have felt empty for months now and you aren’t too sure why. It when you decided to look back on things that you figured it out.

Word Count: 2113

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Alternate Ending | Alternate Ending Part 2

You woke up feeling as out of sorts as you have the last few weeks. You turned over to your side, his half of the bed was empty as always, like it had been for what felt like months.

You dragged yourself out of the bed and made your way to the bathroom to wash up. The reflection you saw in the mirror was one that you refused to believe was yours. Your eyes were still a bit puffy from the intense crying of the night before. There were deep dark bags under your eyes that you acquired from countless anxiety filled nights without him. Lastly, there was this permanent frown that scarred your face even in times when you tried to smile. All of it caused from your feelings of emptiness.

“Where did this all come from?” You thought

You pulled out your toothbrush, popping it into your mouth as you replayed everything of the last few months trying to figure the whole thing out

---

From your bed you could hear him going about the place, most likely dropping his things at the entrance.

“Finally” you cheered internally

2am couldn't have come sooner. Now his practice was over and he was home.

His footsteps neared the bedroom door and you shut your eyes to pretend to be asleep. He always got after you when you stayed up for him.

The door knob moved slowly in attempts to be quiet.  You shut your eyes tighter as if that would make it more believable that you were asleep

The first thing he did was drag himself to the bathroom. It took a long while but eventually he came out.

He slowly crawled into bed and you knew it was your chance. You rustled about as if him climbing under the sheet woke you up.

“Hi baby.” you said in a mumble, your eyes only half open to add to the “just-woke-up-because-i-felt-something” role you were in.

“Hi.” he said in a grunt.

He slid under the sheet, but he only stuck to his side of the bed. No words, no hug, no kiss. All he did was just lay there doing a last minute scroll of his twitter feed. He had been acting like this the past week. The first few days it didn't bother you, but now, all you really wanted was a small cuddle like before.

You wiggled up to him and snaked your arms around him, just digging your face in the crook of his neck. It was only a week, but you missed the feeling of him in your arms.

But just as soon as you had your hold on him, he pushed your hands off. “Y/n, I’m sore.”

Y/n. Why didn't he call you jagi like he always does.

“...So how was your day?” you asked with a yawn. The sleep was catching up to you now, but you wanted to stay up longer for him.

Jhope didn't even look at you. He just rolled to his side, giving you his back. “You should sleep. You have work in the morning.”

---

“You ready to go?” he asked impatiently from the doorway with a huff.

“Aaaaalmost done.” you hummed while you applied your lipstick.

“It’s just us and the guys. Why are you getting all dressed up?” he sounded so annoyed.

“Maybe because this is the first time on months that i can. When was the last time we even went out?”

There was no reply out of him.

You swung your head around to face him only to see that he left the room. “You have to be kidding me!” you grumbled as you shoved your feet into your heels

You stepped out into the living room. Jhope was on the couch looking down at his phone. He was always on his phone when he was home. It was a habit that was starting to annoy you.

“I’m ready”

He got up with a grunt and began walking to the door.

“Wait, do I look okay, right?” you were trying to fish for a compliment. You didn’t spend an hour getting ready for nothing.

“You look fine.” he said without even looking back at you.

“Ya, you didn’t even look at me!” you whined as you caught up to him.

His shoulders slumped and his neck practically gave up supporting his head, but eventually he turned to you. He scanned you up and down with bored eyes. “Like I said, you look fine.”

“Not great? Not beautiful?” Desperate was your middle name at this point. You just really wanted to hear something more out of him.

He gave you this “smile”. You didn’t know how to explain it. It was almost a pity smile. He cupped your face and he gave you a kiss, but just barely. His lips were barely on you for a second before he pulled back and said. “You look amazing. Now let’s go cuz we are late. They probably started eating without us.”

You followed him out the door and down the hall to the elevator. You grabbed his hand and intertwined your fingers with his. Jhope said nothing more. His hand was limp. All he did was continue to walk.

You tried to think of something to say, but you didn’t know. He didn’t like to talk about work, neither did you. You hadn’t really done much in your day instead of your usual stuff around the house.

The silence continued as you stepped into the elevator. Once he rested in the corner he pulled his phone back out. You studied him as he looked at the screen. His eyes were alive and there was even a slight smile on his face. From the reflection from the glasses that complimented his outfit, you could see the message app open. A bubble popped up ad that’s when his smile widened and he let out a chuckle. His fingers began to dance on the screen as he typed away.

You grew curious and looked over his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Nothing!” he said, shoving his phone in his pocket.

---

No pillow talk, no cuddles, not even any evidence of love bites. He only rolled over and knocked out.

You shaved, spent an embarrassing amount of money on new lingerie, and took over an hour on your make up. And for what? A ten minute fuck.

Your attempts at seduction failed when he came home from his thankfully shorter practice. He didn’t want to play along with your dirty flirts and his body cringed under your touch when you wanted to give him a “sexy massage”. He just skipped it all and got straight to the point of what you wanted. It was as if he was just trying to get it over with.

You regretted everything. You felt ugly and even more unwanted than you did before. A few tears slid down the side of your face. You tried to hold yourself back from crying, but it was hard. “Don’t cry or he’ll wake up.” you thought. “The last thing you want to do is wake him and and make him lose sleep over your stupid thoughts. Of course he wasn’t into it. He was tired. It was stupid to do this, i should have known better.”

---

“Why are you awake?” He asked when he found you sitting in the living room couch at 2am. “What have I told you about waiting up for me?”

You only glared at him.

“You are going to regret staying up this late in the morning.” he warned

“Where were you?”

His movements froze for a second. Finally you said something that got his attention. “...Practice”

“I thought it was supposed to end at 11.”

“It kept going longer. It happens all the time. You know that already.”

“So why is it that when I called Yoongi an hour ago, he said that practice ended at 12?”

His face cringed at your question. “Why did you call Yoongi?!?”

“Because you didn’t pick up! So where were you?”

He squinted his eyes at you, so offended by your tone. “We went for drinks after practice, alright.”

“Yoongi didn’t say anything about you all going for drinks.”

“He didn’t come with us! He is my fucking baby sitter now or what?!? What’s with all these questions? What is so wrong with me wanting to unwind after practice before i sleep and do it all over again?!? Was us going out so bad?”

You hung your head. “No-”

“That’s what i thought!”

“But-”

“No! We aren’t gonna talk about this anymore. It’s late and i want to sleep.” he grumbled.

---

It wasn’t even two minutes into being home and you couldn’t hold it in any longer. Throughout the entire Big Hit Christmas party, you were completely ignored by your boyfriend and you were beyond mad.

“Who is she?” you hissed as you slid off your heels by the door.

“What?” he played stupid while he put his keys on the hook and slid off his jacket.

“That girl you were talking to all night. Who is she?”

“Soomin? She’s my stylist.” his voice  was so casual is it you even more upset.

“So you spend the whole party with you stylist instead of your girlfriend?!?”

“Y/n-”

“Do you have any fucking idea how ugly it felt that whenever someone suggested to have a picture taken, I had to go around looking for you? Do you know how bad i felt that i barely get to see you and this one night to go out with you, I keep catching you talking away with some girl that you see at work every fucking day?!” You could feel your voice shaking just remembering how he smiled at “Soomin”.

“What are you talking about? You and I ate together with everyone else, we danced, we took pictures.”

“Only in the beginning when all the cameras were out! You only stuck around when the others were sober enough to have a decent conversation and even then i couldn’t even get a word out of you. But no with that styist of your you were just a fit of laughs weren’t you?”

“Oh what so i can’t be a nice guy with her? She’s going through a divorce! I couldn’t help but try to cheer her up cuz her jerk of a husband didn’t want to come with her.”

“And what about me?!? What about ME being happy with MY boyfriend?!?”

“You say that as if you weren’t having the time of your life laughing up a storm with the others. I saw you! Every time I looked over at you, you were taking pictures or laughing with Jungkook-”

“I was saving face!”

“Saving face my ass! Stop overreacting about all this.”

“I am not overreacting! Just tell me why the fuck you were all over her!”

He furrowed his brows at you and tilted his head, a bit taken aback by what you said. Then suddenly he let out a laugh

You could only stare at him through watery eyes. How could he be laughing?

“Oh now i see what you’re getting at.” he said under his breath. His face was serious now despite that fact that he was laughing only a second ago. He stared back at you almost as if he was disappointed in you. “I can’t believe something like this is coming out of you.” he said with a tone of disgust.

You stayed quiet. You didn’t really know what to say. His eyes burned at your skin and silence filled the room.

“...Y/n i don’t have the time or energy to have a stupid argument over stupid bullshit.” he said eventually. “I need to sleep, not to explain myself from your delusional accusations.” his words were like knives

Still you said nothing. But then again what could you say?

“You know what? I think i’m just gonna leave.” he said as he turned back to the door.

“Leave?” you barely got out “What- What do you mean you’re gonna leave?”

“I don’t need to deal with this right now.”

You marched up to him and pulled his hand way from the keys. “I’m trying to talk to you!” you cried.

He pulled his arm right back. He grabbed the keys and jacket with one hand. “Sounds more like yelling to me.” he said before he slammed the door.

-

Your face was streaked with hot tears. Your body felt weak as your cries evolved from soft hiccups to intense sobs. A wave of pain resonated throughout your body and your limbs went limp. You felt like an empty shell of a person as you stared back at your sobbing reflection. “Where did the love go?”

-Admin Boat

[pjmendez]

Serve Or Be Served (2017)

1.

On the tube one morning going to work at St. JOHN, the world-renowned English restaurant, I was wearing my long beige vintage mac, black tracksuit bottoms and plain white hi-tops, my black duffel bag was on my lap, and I had one leg crossed over the other as I read James Baldwin’s Go Tell It On the Mountain. My hair was trimmed close, my stubble fine. The seats either side of me remained empty.

A tall man of around 40 got on at Victoria, saw the seat next to me and oriented himself towards it. Then he saw me, without making eye contact, and pulled back from his toes to stand next to the opposing door. I kept an intermittent eye on him until I got off at King’s Cross, when I looked back to find he’d sat down in the seat I’d vacated. As I turned round to continue my journey, I was left with the image of his face looking up at, presumably, the line chart in the carriage, to check how to continue his. There was something fresh and purposeful about how he’d rounded his shoulders and stretched out his neck, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide, his checked work shirt open at the neck, his blond fronds of hair neatly unkempt, clean and casual, considered yet relaxed. He’d forgotten me, and was over our moment of discomfort. He was starting his day, his life. He doesn’t remember this moment. I do.

All that intelligence and breeding, and the world is still what it is because certain people are still chasing the same old dream. By and by they’ve allowed their subjects greater freedoms, but never the ultimate: the right to live one’s life outside their system of authority. Every action for the past half century has been in the service of protecting a nepotistic hierarchy of earthly gods. To what end? What have they planned that the rest of us don’t know about? Every civilisation in the past has died: Babylon, Egypt, Rome to name but a few. I’m not a historian, nor a mathematician, but anyone can see patterns over time. The current guard is outgoing; it’s just a case of when and how. Of course there’ll be a horrible mess, both to live through and reflect upon, if anyone survives.

I once excitedly watched a documentary on Channel 4 called “The Trouble with Black Men”, back in the days when I believed blackness was a curse and when I was looking for confirmation of the differences I perceived between myself and “regular” black men. I remember one interview in particular that the film’s writer and presenter gave in the classroom of a majority black school in south London. The boys were eleven or twelve; all seemed intelligent, curious, conscious, gregarious, unselfconscious and articulate. Where are those boys at fifteen? Eighteen? Twenty one? Thirty? Not living lives befitting their natural capabilities, because I can’t see them.

I googled “The Trouble with White Men” to see if I could use it as a title. Not one search term match, I was unsurprised to find.

2.

I’ve experienced many false starts attempting to leave the hospitality industry. Eventually I realised that people would always complain about me because of who I am, and that I wouldn't be able to change myself to accommodate ignorance. People complained about me because I wouldn't let them patronise me. I was never wantonly rude to any of my customers, but some tried my patience, and it was only then that things started to unravel. I allowed every one of my customers to recognise that I was intelligent and capable, that I was older than I appeared, and knew everything about the menu, including the wine. I allowed them to see me as a friendly, helpful, resourceful person first, before they saw me as black, or English, or anything else. I didn't feel it necessary to give each one of them justification for my eloquence and experience; perhaps some of them were simply trying to make conversation, but it hurt me to have to answer questions such as "you speak very good English. Where did you learn to speak English like that?” “Where did you go to school?” “Where did you get your voice from?" I gave up when I realised I no longer had the energy to keep convincing people – I have nothing left to prove as a waiter – and that my energy should be redirected towards proving myself as a writer. Eighteen years is more than long enough as an apprenticeship; I'm educated in my own idiosyncratic, unstructured, esoteric way, and I increasingly began to feel that it was time to start at least trying to produce something, some kind of fruit.

Even when my service was good, when I gave my guests every reason to believe that I was a person of quality and someone to be respected, they could still give me reason to feel aggrieved. I remember serving an older lady, who reminded me very much of a posher Jo Brand, with her husband and grown-up children. She wanted advice on a nice, fruity, medium- to full-bodied wine, and I knew exactly what she would want to drink, so I suggested a bottle, and she left it to me, and she loved it; indeed, they ordered a second and third bottle. I advised her on food, and her daughter was pregnant, so I advised her on what not to eat on the menu. They took all my advice and had a lovely meal.

"I need you at home."

Initially I took it as a compliment, then as a joke, but soon came to realise who was speaking to me and who she was speaking to: an upper-middle-class English white woman, whose predecessors, it would have taken little imagination to conceive, probably employed staff, and in these throwback times, being served by a capable black waiter, she imagined me for herself as a domestic. She didn't ask me who I was outside of work; she didn't ask me if I was an actor or dancer, as people often do. She imagined me only as her home help, a servant who would make her life easier for her. She did everything but offer me a job.

I was reminded of the scene in The Colour Purple, when Sofia, played by Oprah Winfrey, is accosted in the market square by a white woman who takes an unwanted interest in her clean, polite children (proof of her competence) and offers her a job as a maid – a job “offer” in those days and circumstances would've been tantamount to entrapment – to which Sophia responds:

“Hell no!”

Upon repetition, she is slapped by an outraged white man who overhears; the camera focuses on her vengeful eye; unable to resist retaliation, she gathers her heavy fist and punches him to the ground. Ensuring her children don’t see what happens to her, she is set upon by an angry mob, beaten to disfiguration, and forced to work for the woman after all, the while losing her freedom and her beloved children.

I am in no way comparing my relatively lucky situation to that of Sofia and countless millions of other African-Americans and European colonial subjects whose lives were defined by forced domesticity, slavery and worse, but in those moments, and while this Jo Brand-lookalike was still in the restaurant finishing her dinner, I was made to feel as if at any moment I could be led out of the restaurant, put into a car and taken to her home, especially as, at the time, I was in rehearsals to play Shakespeare’s Othello, a high-born African soldier who had been sold into slavery in his youth, and I lacked the technical ability to separate art from life cleanly enough.

Those who believe we are living in a post-racial society are often white liberals who agree amongst themselves that racism doesn’t exist, and who lack first-hand experience of everyday racism; none of their black friends, should they have any, are going to complain to them about racism. I personally try not to talk to white people about racism because it’s impossible to approximate its complexity in a normal-length conversation. They think that because they see themselves as not being racist, and because they only associate themselves with people who see themselves as not being racist, that that is proof, in their world, that racism no longer exists.

I remember serving a table of twelve Americans who were an hour late for their booking, and had all kinds of weird requests. They wanted several portions of the famous bone marrow and parsley salad to share between them but then à la carte mains and desserts, and had brought their own wine. Because they were so late and had so many requests – aperitifs, etc –  I was a little bit salty with them at first, and could see they were starting to protest at me, so then I started entertaining them in my best American accent and all of a sudden the mood changed and we started to get on rather well. They were from California, and this was about a fortnight before the Trump-Clinton US election. They were confident that Hillary would win. “All down my Facebook wall is blue,” one of them said, the same one who asked me where I was originally from – “where are you from?” “No, where are you from, I mean, originally” – and when she eventually got me down to Jamaica, she said she thought I looked “more East African”. We agreed that misogyny would be to blame if Hillary did not win. They drank their wine and let me taste some, ate every scrap of their food, and were in and out just like that, leaving me a £100 cash tip on top of the service charge.

In the age of social media, people are able to seek comfort in the false knowledge that the world is as they see it on Facebook and Twitter. They believe that certain things are going to happen because everyone in their world says that that is what’s going to happen. The great flaw of social media is that it ghettoises people; we only live in the world that we and our friends create, and we distance ourselves from people who have different opinions and ways of living. We console ourselves in the hope that “our” world will win, and fail to acknowledge enough the dangers thereby possessed by those of a different inclination. Those liberals who feel like racism doesn’t exist: do they know any black people? And if they do, which black people do they know? Black people have, of course, for a long time been party to the highest levels of society, albeit thinly outside the entertainment and sports industries, fields black people have long excelled in. But what about in other levels of society? It’s all very well to have a buddying relationship with the black security guard at Fortum & Mason’s, the black waiter at St. JOHN, the black nurse at Chelsea and Westminster – people who seem to be doing just fine for themselves because they work in expensive neighbourhoods – and not have to talk about institutionalised racism. It’s all very well to be friends with a black attorney or medical doctor. But they and everyone in between will all experience racism.

Microaggressions unfurl themselves at the most unexpected and disorienting times. I was in Brixton looking for somewhere to have lunch, was on my own and hadn’t brought anything to read, so I went to Book Mongers and picked up several paperbacks (not that I’d planned to read all of them over lunch). I could see on the Ritzy Cinema’s main display board that I Am Not Your Negro was playing again. Instead of going into the cinema I decided I'd look for the listings board outside. I barely even noticed the two men on business sitting in front of it; they were just people. As I approached, apologising already that I just wanted to see the listings board, the look of panic on their faces was clear. They grabbed their things and beat a hasty retreat. They apparently thought I was about to try to rob them. I felt like vermin. The swift gentrification of Brixton is well-documented; young professionals priced out of Clapham will come to Brixton, and there are certain places for them, places the likes of me aren't readily allowed unless I immediately look like the sort of “cool” black person who dresses daily in mainline Comme des Garçons and potters about town, apparently unemployed, with a huge grin on my face, wheeling my cage behind me so that the tourists can take pictures.

James Baldwin once wrote: "I learned in New Jersey that to be a Negro meant, precisely, that one was never looked at but was simply at the mercy of the reflexes the colour of one's skin caused in other people." As a black male body, I’m constantly having to dodge the reflexes of white people in whose sightlines I appear, taking care not to walk too close behind someone at night, even if we’re walking at the same velocity and in the same direction, for example. Perhaps soon we will all wear spectacles logged into our social media accounts that will show in colour what we want to see, our friends, and what we find of interest; everything else will be black and white.

For five years I’ve lived in the area of Brixton that borders onto Clapham, a great location that means I have easy access to both the Northern and Victoria lines, the year-round beauty of the approach to Clapham Common and the huge variety of food on offer in Brixton. I have at least five good Jamaican takeaways and restaurants within a ten-minute walk, a fantastic cinema, good vintage and charity shops, the aforementioned well-stocked bookshop, fine flat whites, two tube stations, an Overground station and buses that hit every nook and cranny in London. I once knew someone who’d lived in Clapham for twenty years, but who freely admitted to me that he didn’t know any black people. Whenever we would go out to eat it would be in Clapham, or Soho. Whenever I suggested Brixton something in his eyes disappeared. Perhaps he didn’t believe that Brixton has genuinely good eateries up its sleeve, but I rather think it’s because he feels that Brixton is too black for him; anywhere there are black people is too black for him. He is a wonderful man in many ways but how can I associate myself with someone who racialises me, in a different but no less offensive way than did the Jo Brand-alike in the restaurant? How can I associate myself with someone who didn’t want to see Moonlight, Hidden Figures or Fences with me because, having seen 12 Years a Slave, he couldn’t bear to see another “depressing” art film about black lives? How can I associate myself with someone who has absolutely no interest in the cultures I belong to, and worse, no willingness to come with me on the journey of discovering why I have issues with those cultures, and how they can be resolved? How can I trust people who say we live in a post-racial society when their only concession to anti-racism is to not call me a nigger?

We still live in a racist world. Black people are still stereotyped. We still live in segregated society. It’s just that in London, at least, we are very polite about it.

3.

I worked a lot of hours. I came down with a cold. I worked a lot of hours with the cold. It was gruelling. The next day I should’ve rested but went out for a long lunch at a French brasserie off Clapham Common with my friend and shared three carafes of Malbec to drown down the gritty oysters and disgusting, smelly, suspiciously-pink chitterling sausage with chips and béarnaise sauce I fatally chose from the menu. I thought they’d be crispy deep-fried shards of whatever innards I’m quite used to eating, given my employment at St. JOHN, but it was a grisly, oddly pungent mess, almost as if I’d slit open a cow’s stomach, ripped out its intestine and ate it right there in the field.

I went to work, and worked more hours with the cold. Celebrities. That week I’d met and served a customer, a customer, a customer and a customer, not to mention a customer and a customer, who, having that very day published the headline ‘CRUSH THE SABOTEURS!’, asked me for some white bread without even looking at the basket. I went home, smoked a really strong joint and wondered whether I might die of exhaustion and food-poisoning, collapsing right in the middle of the restaurant floor, by the till.

That pretty black boy, who looked good enough to eat.

I remember catching a customer staring at me once, hungrily, during a wine tasting, back when I’d only been there a couple of weeks and was still smiling. I wondered whether, instead of reporting my death, they wouldn’t just send me in a white van to an abattoir to be cleaned out like a suckling pig then brought back, every hair on my body torched and scraped off leaving my eyes looking a little awake, teeth and tongue intact, my entire skin surface oiled up and my torso stuffed with bread, onions and sage, sewn up and tucked in the oven with foil protecting my extremes. Maybe I wouldn’t fit, so they’d have to chop my legs off at the knee and sew them at the ends; perhaps they’d braise my lower legs in chicken stock and white wine, garlic and whole shallots. Four hours is all my slender body would need.

A customer would wait in the middle of the feasting table, his cutlery stood on ends in his fists, Fernet Branca having prepared him, the start of a bottle of 2012 Côte Rotie in his wine glass. A customer would be there, along with a customer, a customer and a customer, not to mention a customer and his hypersexual girlfriend, whom I was never able to look in the eye in life. A crazed-looking customer, her bleach-job in need of a retouch, would carve me with no make-up, wearing a red wine-stained apron, starting with my head, which would sit on a plate in front of the host for selfies, each meaty haunch, cut from the waist through the natural line into my groin, enough to feed ten with side bowls of stuffing, potatoes and greens, my kidneys a lucky find. Then the abdomen; she plucks out my ribs and separates chunks of steaming flesh with her tongs; he’s a tough one; maybe I wasn’t in the oven long enough; I’m burnt to sight but it was hard to judge how long to leave it with my colour skin. We’ll know for next time.

My heart, trimmed, turns up as a Monday lunch special, grilled with a balsamic glaze and served with green beans and a pickled walnut dressing; my balls, another starter, poached in milk and deep-fried. My liver comes as a main, devilled and pan-roasted in butter with a sherry vinegar deglaze. Delicious, says some American lawyer dining alone, having licked his plate clean and drained his glass of 2015 St. JOHN Bourgogne Rouge dry. I’m not that hungry, explains a customer, having pushed his plate to the side after a mouthful or two. Can we order six madeleines, ask a Japanese couple, midway through the liver.

© Paul Mendez 2018