#conference rooms derby

[seiwas]

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: ​​you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause. 

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called. 

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time. 

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior. 

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas. 

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out. 

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual. 

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement. 

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind. 

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again. 

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his. 

.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio. 

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time. 

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids. 

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like. 

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare. 

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing. 

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.” 

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.” 

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since. 

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning. 

You nod. 

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors. 

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again. 

He hums. 

“But I couldn’t find you, so…” 

He hums again. 

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you. 

You snort, “I wish.” 

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.” 

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think. 

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you. 

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card. 

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.” 

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze. 

An interesting man. 

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think. 

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed. 

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be. 

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting. 

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly. 

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors. 

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity. 

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye. 

“Do you come to this–” 

“My studio is just by the corner, so–” 

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?” 

“It’s on the way to work most days.” 

You nod, humming. 

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead. 

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again. 

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.” 

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said. 

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies. 

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer. 

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.” 

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever. 

.

.

.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be? 

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations. 

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster. 

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you. 

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now. 

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio. 

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s. 

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good. 

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?” 

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate. 

“And this?” 

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge. 

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer. 

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later. 

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye. 

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.” 

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout. 

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.” 

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges. 

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should. 

.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours. 

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet. 

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind. 

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums. 

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time. 

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should. 

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort. 

“Just ask, I know you want to.” 

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety. 

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper. 

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles. 

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting. 

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces. 

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close. 

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.” 

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.” 

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along. 

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from. 

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand. 

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.” 

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth. 

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.) 

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close. 

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you? 

.

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay. 

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface. 

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more. 

“Would that be troublesome?” 

You laugh at his rigidness. 

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.” 

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough. 

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you. 

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break. 

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are. 

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard. 

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.” 

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.” 

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art. 

So, no. 

There’s no other place he’d rather be. 

.

.

.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation? 

“Will you be free next weekend?” 

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late. 

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it. 

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.” 

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio? 

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion). 

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks. 

“Not for a session.” 

You tilt your head curiously. 

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it. 

“For a date.” 

.

You begin to take up his weekends now, too. 

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three). 

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food? 

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often). 

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way. 

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company. 

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp. 

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday. 

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt. 

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through. 

It’s unexpected, but you like that. 

And you like him—quite a lot, really. 

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair. 

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features. 

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours. 

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his. 

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before. 

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating. 

“Kento,” you whisper. 

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him. 

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now. 

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door. 

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually. 

.

Things are good a month until your exhibit. 

Things are good until they aren’t. 

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years. 

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures. 

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this. 

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work. 

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy. 

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either. 

You groan, banging your head against the table. 

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing. 

Nanami finds you in your studio that way. 

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended. 

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this. 

And it’s too much—it’s all too much. 

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to. 

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away. 

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined. 

Silence. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly. 

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.” 

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.” 

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing. 

“Then we’ll do what we can.” 

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way. 

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.” 

“Who?” 

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.” 

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.” 

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–” 

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?” 

That makes you look up. 

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home. 

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say. 

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently. 

.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before. 

You remold and repair to build up yourself. 

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him. 

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul. 

.

.

.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning. 

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really. 

He smirks, “You’re a natural.” 

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along. 

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate). 

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks. 

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner. 

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody. 

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely. 

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?” 

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself. 

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you. 

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat. 

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours. 

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?” 

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops. 

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself. 

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love. 

.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly. 

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to. 

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck. 

A gasp escapes you. 

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest. 

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish. 

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while. 

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you. 

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate. 

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss. 

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.  

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body. 

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good. 

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.) 

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows. 

A tear drips down your face. 

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried. 

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.” 

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours. 

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad. 

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content. 

.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit. 

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way. 

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one. 

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes. 

He smiles at you the same. 

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged. 

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on. 

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams. 

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched. 

It is as much you as it is him. 

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls. 

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately. 

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[inkdrinkerworld]

𝓒𝓤𝓟𝓘𝓓'𝓢 𝓒𝓤𝓡𝓢𝓔

Synopsis: James can make your days trying to get a story for your company really hard, he gets under your skin and knows exactly what buttons to poke and you hate it.

cw: a bit of an axious!reader, rugby!james, i used the house names for the clubs but it is not at all set in the HP universe.

wc: 1.1k

-`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´-

Sports journalism is fun and rewarding. 

You love going to the post and pre-match interviews and talking to the players and managers and getting all the insight you can to then write your story. What you don’t like is having to interview James Potter. 

Everytime James sees you in the press room, he decides it’s his time to be the most non-descriptive, non-responsive to all of your questions and make it difficult for you to even write a story. He loves giving you vague answers that don’t answer any of your questions and it gets under your skin like nothing else. 

It’s even more tiresome when he’s the team’s go to media-man because of his looks. He’s England’s current heartthrob first and their best flanker second. He’s beefy and burly, with curls that look like they’ve been ink dipped individually and dimples that throw a wrench into many a woman’s plan. It also doesn’t help you, mostly, that he’s the perfect gentleman the minute the cameras are on and everything he says takes on this sugary, colying tone.

Dread fills you as you walk into the media room, finding a few familiar faces before you sit to the back. You hope in vain that James isn’t on media today, maybe they’ll put his sweet teammate Remus on media duty. He’s always sweet and succinct, answering all the questions, no matter how ridiculous, with a grace and precision you suspect makes him perfect for being the team’s fly-half. 

You’d even interview his rowdy teammate Sirius, possibly the best winger in the game right now, and endure his loudness and even his flirtations with the camera so long as you just got good answers. 

Your hope is shattered when you hear James talking as he rounds the corner, your hands grow cold knowing that today is the day you write a half decent story about the Gryffindor team. 

“Morning,” he calls as he enters, his eyes find you immediately and the smile he shoots you makes you scowl. It’s going to be a long press day. “It’s great to be back.” 

“How have you and your team prepared for the start of the season? Knowing it’s a derby game must make it all the more exciting to be back.” One journalist starts, sweat already pebbling on your brow. 

James answers perfectly, in depth and with the knowledge that you sometimes forget these players possess. 

“What about the injured players from last season? Can we look out for their names on the starting squad? What sort of system can we look forward to this season?” You ask, hands shaking as you prepare for the worst. You hate how much anxiety courses through you nowadays in these interviews. They used to be far more fun. 

“I can’t well say what we’re going to play this weekend, it’d be a bit of a helping hand to the Slytherin team.” The media room laughs and you have to bite your tongue to keep the scowl off your face. “However, we’ve got a lot of key players back in the squad, so I’ll say keep your ears open for some names you haven’t heard in a couple months.” 

By the time you’re finished with the conference, you’ve got sufficient answers for the hopes of the beginning of the season but every other question was bypassed or you’d received a roundabout answer. 

You’re picking up all your equipment, the other journalists all gone already. James hovers near the door, watching you for whatever reason but it makes your skin crawl. He has to know what he’s done. 

“Can I help you, Potter?” You ask, lifting your head to catch a peek at him. His arms are folded across his chest and he’s leaning against the doorframe, something sort of like a smile on his face. 

“Just waiting for you to be done. Wouldn’t feel right to just leave you in here alone.” There’s a bit of sincerity but mostly amusement in his tone and you roll your eyes. James laughs and pushes off the door frame moving towards you, “All done?” you huff and sigh, hoisting your bag over your shoulder and walking past him. 

“Have a good training session, James.” he nods, watching you go with a smile on his face, one that spreads bigger when your perfume lingers in the room after you. 

-

When you hit submit on your report you feel good but stressed. 

What usually takes you an hour and a half to get done, took you twice as long because reports have been so slow during the off-season that you wanted to get it perfect before the opening match. Stretching, you make your way into the kitchen. 

You’re sure half the worry was unnecessary and the other half was about impressing your boss. God knows you need that woman to be pleased with something you do this year. 

Your phone rings before you can give in to that anxiety inducing thought, your stomach pits and the cup of tea you had to your lips lower. “This is Y/n.” 

“Hi, I want to talk about the interview you just submitted,” Your boss is a bit of a hardass. She’s always harping about things being ‘perfect’ and stories being complete, so in the two years you’ve worked there, though you’ve climbed to higher and higher positions, you’re still the fresh and sort of peppy girl you were to her when you’d handed in your resume and appeared in her office in a blue suit. 

“Sure,” you set down the tea and open your laptop, ready for a slew of changes or to change whatever she wanted you to. 

“It’s great,” that’s high praise, yet you sense something in her tone. You’re almost certain she’s going to make you rewrite the entire thing to make the opening game of the season, a derby game no less, seem even more anticipated than it already is. “I just want you to add a little more about the history of both teams. Potter’s already brought in an influx of new fans, we want to make it easy for them to get into the season and get behind either team and feel the rivalry.” 

That’s not what you’d been expecting. Not what you were expecting in the least. 

“I’ll resubmit tonight by eight.” is what you say but inside you’re twirling and jumping around your apartment while morning sun streaks through your living and early 2000s pop music is blasting through the house. 

James Potter and his non-answers be damned, you just got the best compliment of your work life.

[evita-shelby]

12 Days of Smuff: Day 4

Day 4: Reassurance + Car Sex

Tommy Shelby x Eva Smith (oc)

Cw: semi public sex, car sex, feelings of inadequacy and frustration

Thomas hasn’t felt this on edge since he was betrayed.

This should be easier, no one shooting at him, no one dying, just him in a conference room negotiating a loan from his wife’s family to start their legal businesses.

In London, tomorrow morning and in the presence of the uncles and aunts and cousins running the third largest shipping company in the Atlantic.

Fuck.

“Fuck. Fuck it all!” Tommy cursed as his car gave up on the road from Birmingham to London.

Could’ve taken the train, but driving made him feel in control.

“We brought the petrol for this, remember?” Eva tries to reassure him reminding him they had planned for this.

“I know, I am just kicking my crate, love.” He tries to calm himself enough to get off the car and refill it so they can get there and leave as soon as possible.

“We’re making good time even with this delay, Tom. Take your time.” The witch assured him and gave his hand a good squeeze. “Everything will go great and we’ll be in Digbeth getting the deed for your office before you know it.”

“What if they deny me the loan because we eloped?” He asks searching for his cigarette case ---a gift from Eva--- only to find his pocket empty.

This resulted on another round of curses and him slamming the wheel in frustration.

“They won’t, Tom. They know good business when they see it, and they know better than to doubt my word about it.” Eva answered because to her this meeting was just a stupid formality to intimidate him.

“Tell you what, how about we take a break for a few minutes?” the witch suggested as if they weren’t on the side of an empty road.

“And do what? Pick some fucking flowers, fuck?” Tommy throws back at her sarcastically.

“Road’s empty and we got time to kill anyways.” Eva joked as if his words hadn’t stung her. Just weeks ago they’d returned from their honeymoon and now he’s taking his frustration out on her.

What a fantastic way to prove them right, he wasn’t good enough for her, too fucked up to be a good husband.

“Tom, don’t even think that. If you’re fucked up, I’m broken beyond fucking repair. Fuck them, I love you, you love me and that is all that matters.” Eva took his face in her hands wanting to push out his dark thoughts by sheer will.

And maybe she could if he let her.

So he pulled her for a kiss and did what always pushed the shadow out of his head.

“Tommy I was joking, I wasn’t—” Eva sputtered after he let go of her lips and sought to free her tits from her blouse.

“Road’s empty and we got time to kill anyways.” The gangster turned businessman and husband smiled and kissed her again knowing she won’t say no. “Let’s fuck, Mrs. Shelby.”

And they do, not a quick hurried thing in case someone comes, but a fuck that makes them wish they didn’t have a meeting to attend.

“I wanted to fuck you like this that night after the derby, love.” He admits with a groan as she rides him with gusto and in the next movement accidentally pressed back on the car’s horn.

They stay there laughing, not stopping as the car horn blared out into the empty road and the newly weds continue to fuck in the driver’s seat with wild abandon.

Only God would know what made them late to the meeting, and Shelby didn’t even believe in him anyway.

“I wish you had,” she kissed him as it came to an end and Tommy decided it was ample time they get a car for their own.

[blackshoesofficial]

Ways to Elevate Men's Fashion Using Formal Footwear

Stylish men, nowadays know how to look stunning in formal wear. Men look smarter in formal clothes, thus the leading footwear makers in the fashion industry are putting more focus on elaborating formal shoes for men to let the fire burn longer!

Do you feel bored tucking in your formal shirts inside your formal pants and wearing a tie with well-brushed hair and a maintained beard? It’s high time to add some spice to your men’s fashion and you can do it with brown, maroon, or black formal shoes from a popular brand. However, brushing up your closet with some vibrant formal clothes can make you feel refreshed.

Here are some ideas to enhance men’s fashion with formal shoes—

 Instead of sticking to the same black Oxford shoes, start wearing monk’s shoes with your formal clothes. With a white cotton shirt, pick a pair of grey trousers and wear the brown monk’s ankle shoes for men with a matching belt. You’ll dazzle in front of the mirror.

Make sure you have maroon, red, green, and navy blue casual shoes in your closet. Rather than wearing the leather navy blue shoes at weddings and parties- pick them to wear with your navy blue suit for a board meeting. Nothing can beat your smart avatar inside the conference room.

Despite showing your love for Oxford shoes, buy Derby’s as well. Don’t wear the same leather formal shoes daily for the sake of hygiene. Let the leather dry up in a few days and breathe after wearing them one day. Keep changing the formal shoes to add more freshness to your office fashion.

Get your website ranked by one of the leading SEO agencies in Delhi and receive a free PCC audit from PPC Consultants.

[aghotel]

Business Excellence: The Stuart Hotel’s premium corporate services in Derby

In the bustling heart of Derby lies a haven of comfort and convenience tailored for discerning business travellers – The Stuart Hotel. With its prime location, contemporary amenities, and a commitment to excellence, The Stuart has carved a niche as a premier destination for corporate facilities and services. Let’s delve into what makes our 4-star hotel in Derby stand out as a popular venue that offers premium corporate services in Derby to business travellers.

Prime Location and Accessibility The Stuart Hotel Derby The Stuart Hotel’s strategic location is a boon for business travellers. Situated conveniently in the heart of Derby, it boasts easy access to various transport options – Derby train station is a mere 5-minute walk away, ensuring seamless connectivity for those arriving by rail. Additionally, its position on the well-traveled London Road (A6) provides effortless access to the motorway network, making it a breeze to reach by road. For those with their own vehicles, the hotel offers on-site parking, alleviating any parking-related concerns in a busy urban setting.

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Gastronomic Delights

A cornerstone of The Stuart Hotel’s appeal is its exceptional dining experience. The XS Restaurant is a perfect blend of ambience, artistry, and culinary excellence. The restaurant’s thoughtfully designed interiors, complete with mood lighting and designer artwork, set the stage for memorable dining. The menu offers a range of delectable options, cooked in a modern British style, ensuring that every meal is a treat for the taste buds. From indulging in a full English or continental breakfast to savouring a sumptuous dinner, XS Restaurant ensures to provide premium corporate services in Derby.

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Business trips don’t have to be all work and no play. The Liquid Bar provides a chic and relaxing environment where guests can unwind, socialize, and enjoy delightful food and drinks. With its bespoke artwork and air-conditioned ambience, the bar offers the perfect setting to catch up with colleagues, watch sports, or simply take a breather. It’s not just a bar; it’s an experience that enriches the stay of every corporate traveller.

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Beyond accommodation and dining, The Stuart Hotel has earned a reputation as a sought-after venue for meetings and conferences. With a specialisation in hosting a diverse range of corporate events, the hotel offers the expertise to transform business visions into reality. The centrepiece of the hotel’s conference facilities is The Suite, located on the ground floor with its own entrance, lobby, bar, and cloakrooms. This adaptable space can be divided into smaller rooms to accommodate gatherings of varying sizes, from intimate exhibitions and interviews to extensive conferences and corporate gatherings. The Suite can host up to 160 delegates, ensuring that every event is tailored to perfection.

Special Packages and Corporate Rates Understanding the unique needs of business travellers, The Stuart Hotel offers special day delegate rates for hosting business meetings and conferences. Additionally, the hotel provides exclusive corporate rates that ensure a smooth and personalised stay for corporate guests. With its prime location, contemporary amenities, and dedicated professional team, The Stuart Hotel has firmly established itself as the preferred choice for nearby businesses and corporate travellers.

In conclusion, The Stuart Hotel stands as a shining example of business excellence in the hospitality industry. Its blend of prime location, modern amenities, exceptional dining experiences, and versatile event spaces make it a go-to destination for business travellers seeking comfort, convenience, and sophistication. Book direct to enjoy the best rates: www.aghotels.co.uk/the-stuart-hotel/.

For bespoke corporate rates and DDR packages, contact our sales team at sales@thestuart.com.

[girlyandunruly]

2022: Hard time balancing work with a well-lived life.

I felt overwhelmed constantly with how much responsibility I have and still trying to maintain our house chores, errands, cooking, exercising, my hobbies, trips and social life. After pandemic period I wanted to get back to “normal” but seems I can’t go back to who I was. The amount of planning and coordination it takes to do anything has been getting to me. I made too many plans, I traveled almost every month of the year (by plane) and a few months multiple times. Normally this would be fun, but going from not traveling at all for a year, to doing so many trips, it messed with the routine I had established. At the beginning of 2022 I had felt that so much time was wasted during the 2-year pandemic that I needed to catch up, but I over did it. So, for 2023 I’ll focus on not doing too much, only the necessary. I already said “No” to a friend inviting me to Arizona in March. That’s a start!

Though overwhelmed with preparations and airport madness, the moment I’m at my destination I forget all about the treacherous journey and have the best time. Memories that stay with me forever, even the bad ones are good lessons learned and make me laugh now. Travel recap:

JANUARY:

Spent a week in Vail working and snowboarding with Kevin.

FEBRUARY:

Kevin took me to Mexico (Holbox and Playa del Carmen) for my 37th birthday.

MARCH:

Birmingham, MI for Luka’s baby shower that my mom and I hosted.

APRIL:

I traveled to Fort Worth, TX to attend a conference where Barr Engineering was one of the sponsors and I attended as the only representative.

JUNE:

Poland road trip with my mom. Drove over 700 miles between Warsaw, Krakow, Auschwitz, Wroclaw, Poznan and Gdansk. Every town was adorable and Auschwitz was heartbreaking but a must see.

JULY:

Taos and Santa Fe, NM for 4th of July. 

Birmingham, MI for Demi’s 3rd birthday and meeting new nephew Luka.

AUGUST:

Portugal road trip for our 4 year wedding anniversary.

SEPTEMBER:

Rock climb with Mary at Redmond, OR.

OCTOBER:

Minneapolis, MN for work training where I did an ESG presentation.

Cabo, Mexico for Pearl and Owen’s wedding.

Scottsdale, AZ for Elizabeth and Jeff’s wedding.

NOVEMBER:

Nashville, TN for a conference where I was the only Barr Engineering representative.

Flagstaff, AZ for Thanksgiving with Kevin’s family: his dad, Justin and (very pregnant) Vanessa.

DECEMBER:

Houston for Christmas with the family. We had a flight back to Denver scheduled for Dec 26 on Southwest but after a winter storm a few days prior to the date, SW cancelled almost all of their flights. It was chaos, we couldn’t find a flight back on any airline until 3 days later so we decided last minute to rent a pickup truck and drive 15 hours from Houston to Denver. And so glad we did because SW kept cancelling flights days later and our luggage would probably be lost.

The times I wasn’t traveling but stayed in Denver were memorable:

   1. Danny Elfman’s music from the films of Tim Burton

   2. Marijuana Mansion tour for my birthday.

   3. Denver Derby was back, and I created a gnome themed hat!

   4. Hosted adorable girls tea party at Babe’s Tea Room.

   5. Had 90s nostalgia with Kate at the F.R.I.E.N.D.S set

   6. I hosted Elizabeth’s bachelorette celebration

   7. Best of all, our annoying neighbors got two adorable kittens this year and they started hanging out in our front yard a lot. They would come visit us every day that we started buying cat toys, catnip and snacks. After a few months, the cats now hangout inside the house and we consider ourselves co-owners.

We finished big renovations in the house:

The back parlor was completely renovated (floors, roof, ceilings, electrical, walls).

Front porch concrete and posts redone.

New front door.

The outside of the house repainted.

I think we are finally done with house upgrades. 2023 will be the first year of just regular maintenance and no more weekends of long hours at Home Depot.

Baby news!

My brother and Tracey had their healthy baby boy Luka on May 19, 2022.

Kevin’s brother Justin and Vanessa got pregnant with a boy, due in February 2023.

Last but not least WORLD CUP MADNESS. It was a bit strange to have World Cup games in November/December but it brought a lot of fun exciting times even though Netherlands ended up losing against Argentina. The dutch boys fought to the end, 2-2, going to penalty kicks -where they never win on penalties UGH the curse-  but the game was rated top 3 most exciting games of the WC. Watched probably 80% of all games, I even took days off from work to just watch games all day, can’t wait for Euro Cup! #futbolislife

We ended the New Years celebrating with Elizabeth and Jeff. And after-party with Dylan and Holly. Too much fun. Grateful for these friendships <3

Our 2022 Adventures recap video:

[wikifoxnews]

Who was Kevin Bradley ( Man , 65 killed in Hingham Apple store crash ) Wiki, Bio, Age, Crime, Incident details, Investigations and More Facts

Kevin Bradley Biography                                            Kevin Bradley Wiki

A 65-year-old New Jersey man has been identified as the person killed in Monday morning's crash at the Hingham Apple store, according to District Attorney Tim Cruz.

Kevin Bradley was identified as the person killed on Monday, Cruz said in a press release. He said Bradley was pronounced dead at the scene. "Preliminary investigation has revealed that the male driver of a 2019 Toyota 4Runner crashed into the front window of the Apple Store. The driver has not been identified at this time," the statement said. The Plymouth County DA's Office has identified the person killed at the Apple Store in #Hingham today as 65-year-old Kevin Bradley of New Jersey. The DA's office says "the male operator of a 2019 Toyota 4Runner crashed through the front glass" of the store; no ID on the driver. pic.twitter.com/Wfryesn8Es — WBZ NewsRadio (@wbznewsradio) November 21, 2022 According to the Boston Globe and Boston 25 News, Bradley was a "professional who was on hand to support the store's recent construction." A dark colored SUV injured 17 people and killed one person in and around the store around 10:45 a.m. Monday morning, Cruz said. The vehicle traveled from the front of the store to the back, pinning people against the wall, authorities said. "We are devastated by today's shocking events at Apple Derby Street and the tragic loss of a professional who was on hand to support the store's recent build. Our hearts go out to our team members and customers who have injured and to everyone affected by this horrific accident. We are doing everything we can to support our team members and our customers during this very difficult time," said a spokesperson for the tech giant. at the point of sale. Dr Jason Tracy, director of emergency medicine at South Shore Hospital, said the hospital had to call in additional surgeons and support staff to treat the 17 people injured in the accident, but the hospital had sufficient staff and was able to handle the number of patients depending on the time of day and the staff available. The driver of the van that drove through the store window was not among the 17 people taken to hospital, nor was it the person who died in the crash, Cruz said at an earlier news conference. Earlier, Cruz said 16 people were injured in the crash, but the hospital said it received one patient who has come to the hospital since the accident, bringing the total number of injured to 17.

Press conference

Hospital officials said at the press conference that the injuries included head trauma and "dismembered limbs". They also said that among the victims were patients with chronic conditions that made treatment difficult. There were already people in operating rooms receiving treatment for their injuries and some were waiting for operating rooms to become available, authorities said. Tracy said his team did an "incredible" job and he was "beyond proud", but added that this situation was never something they wanted to happen. Authorities said the hospital came to activate a MedFlight, which was ultimately useless. Another doctor from the hospital described how a triage center was set up at the nearby restaurant to help treat victims on the spot. There were several bystanders assisting the injured in and around the Apple Store, Cruz said, and Hingham Fire Chief Steve Murphy said that included off-duty medical personnel, as well as the director of the South Shore Hospital. Cruz said officials are treating the incident as a criminal investigation, and that it is active and ongoing. The Associated Press said the driver of the vehicle was male and was being questioned by police. Officials also said the Plymouth County Technical Rescue Team had been called in to assess the structural integrity of the building and "at this time there are no concerns" regarding the structural integrity of the building. At 10.45 a.m. On Monday, officials received multiple 911 calls about a car that drove through the window of an Apple store in a Hingham mall. The driver of the car was traveling at an unspecified speed. The Apple Store is located in the outer right corner of the plaza between a Brandy Melville clothing store and Burton's Grille. The Hannover Fire Department first posted on Facebook that the Derby St. crash happened just before 11:00 a.m. Monday morning, leaving more wounded and trapped. The department shared an image from the scene, which showed a hole in the glass case of the Apple Store. Read the full article

[thestuart01]

Want a Meeting in Style?

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[nehakumar]

Looking for the Best Conference Meeting Room & Hotel in Derby

The Best Western The Stuart Hotel is a unique and versatile venue in the derby city centre. The Stuart Hotel offers a range of meeting rooms in the heart of Derby city centre. Our rooms range in capacity and can seat between 2 and 100 guest. Plan your next event or meeting at Best Western The Stuart Hotel in Derby.

[mcsqueeneys]

Retirement Party for Outgoing Living Guildpact Draws Record-Low Attendance, Despite Ice Cream Cake

Despite the provision of free snacks and boxed wine, the official retirement party for Ravnica’s outgoing Living Guildpact, Jace Beleren, was marred by record-low attendance, turning a would-be festive occasion into an awkward event.

“Gee, I’m glad I came back to Ravnica for this,” a visibly-miffed Beleren was overheard to remark, as he cut slices from a partially-melted ice cream cake in a mostly-empty conference room. “I mean, I know I wasn’t exactly the greatest Living Guildpact, or anything, but you’d think people would show up just for Fudgie the Octowhale?”

“Yeah, it got awkward,” acting Azorius Guildmaster and first assistant party planner Lavinia told colleagues after the event. “I mean, I knew it would be bad, but I didn’t know it would be that bad. All the other guildmasters clicked ‘maybe’ on the Evite, so I figured at least some of them would show? Emmara, maybe. Vraska, for sure. Even two would have been better than zero. Maybe Lazav was there? I guess we’ll never know.”

Making matters worse, Lavinia admitted to having faked most of the signatures in the outgoing Guildpact’s retirement card. “It was in the breakroom for a week!” Lavinia told friends at a much-better-attended afterparty. “A week! You don’t know how many e-mail blasts I sent out, saying ‘sign Jace’s going-away card!’ But someone just kept stealing the pens. Maybe Lazav? I guess we’ll never know.”

When asked by a reporter for comment, Golgari Queen (and Beleren’s current romantic partner) Vraska blamed her non-attendance on a mix-up. “I honestly thought it was tomorrow,” the gorgon said. “I told Lavinia not to book it on a Friday. I have roller derby on Fridays. Lavinia knows I have roller derby on Fridays.”

Asked if he had any regrets about missing the festivities, incoming Guildpact Niv-Mizzet told reporters: “Of course. I love ice cream cake.”

[salehmadridista]

La Liga - MD26: Atlético vs Real Madrid | March 7, 2021.

- TV listings + Official streams.

Match - Preview {▸} | Press conference: Zidane - Match prep: Mar 6 {▸} - Dressing Room | Warm-up - Last meeting: 0-2 W (Dec 12, 2020 - La Liga, MD13)

Absentees (Call-ups) - Ramos, Hazard, Carvajal and Mariano (unfit\injured)

Stats:

Real Madrid have not lost any of their three games at Wanda Metropolitano in LaLiga (W1 D2), and remain the only team to have played in the new 'rojiblanco' venue without losing in the competition.

Atlético de Madrid have failed to win any of their last nine LaLiga games against Real Madrid (D5 L4), their longest run without a victory in a derby under Diego Pablo Simeone.

Zinedine Zidane is unbeaten in his three away LaLiga games against Atlético de Madrid as a manager (W1 D2) and could become the second Real Madrid manager to avoid defeat in his first four away derbies against 'rojiblancos' in the history of the competition, after Luis Molowny in 1986 (W3 D1).

[thiswasinevitableid]

#5 Danbry SFW, please ;-; *prayer hands emoji*

Here you go!

5) I’m a pro athelete at a press conference and I make a comment to my buddy about you because I forgot my mic was on.

Context note: 27/5 is twenty seven laps in five minutes.

The Kepler Wrecking Belles are still taking questions, though Aubrey (skatename: Lady Flame) is starting to wish they’d wrap this dang thing up. Their team has won every exhibition game they’ve played at RollerCon (thus far) and so everyone has questions about their strategy and how a team from such a small town can be wiping the floor with teams from bigger cities. 

“Okay, one more question, then my girls have gotta go rest up.” Their coach and founder of the Kepler Wrecking Belles, Mama (skate name: Mama Bear, now retired), scans the crowd, “yeah, you, in the far right.”

Aubrey turns to look and suddenly has zero interest in ending the conference. Sitting there, tablet in hand, is the most gorgeous woman she’s ever seen. Blonde hair, a few stray freckles, a body that’d make a girl fall head over skates…

….oh shit, she’s asking a question. Aubrey really hopes someone else has got it.

“Hardest part of our training regime?” Sitting next to her, her teammate Juno (skate name: Divine Fury) taps her chin, “when Mama puts us through circuit after an entire practice of speed drills.”

“Really?” The blonde leans forward, curious, “that’s harder than doing the 27/5?”

Her teammates trade looks, murmuring among themselves, nodding, and Minerva (skate name: Chosen Buns), adds, “She puts basic training to shame.”

“No wonder you all are doing well, sounds like she puts you through your paces.” The blonde makes a few notes and the press conference comes to a close. 

But all Aubrey can think is, “like to put her through her paces.”

Oh no, she said that out loud. Wait, why is everyone looking at her, she whispered it right?

“Mic.” Juno points to the treacherous piece of sound equipment as the team dissolves into degrees of hysterical laughter.

Aubrey turns, finds the blonde blinking at her, stunned, as she packs up her things. Then the crowd is moving and Aubrey loses sight of her. 

“Shit, shitshitshit.” Aubrey stands, vaults awkwardly over the table. 

“Where the hell are you goin’, Lady Flame?” Mama raises an eyebrow, 

“I gotta go apologize and also, shit, nevermind!” She takes off, wishing she had her skates on as she stumbles through the crowd, looking for a flash of blonde hair. Which, given how many women here are blonde, is not the best strategy she’s ever come up with. 

She gets lucky, spots the woman getting into an elevator on the far end of the main hall. 

“Hey! Hey!” She waves, causing several people (including the blonde) to look. When their eyes meet, she blushes instantly. 

“I’m super sorry for my comment that was really inappropriate I just meant I think you’re cute is all but in like a respectful way!”

The woman smiles, calls back, “it’s okay And, um thanks!”

“You’re welcome can I-”

The elevator door shuts. 

“-get your number?” Aubrey finishes, much softer than before, “Aw, beans.”

-------------------

“Aubrey, we’ve got three more days of the con, I’m sure you’ll see her again.” Juno pats her shoulder as she straps on her kneepads. 

“But what if I dooooooooooon’t? It’s been a whole day already and I haven’t seen her at all.”

“It’s still  big con. It might take a bit. Wait, is this why you keep offering to the be one to go get drinks or the first aid kit or whatever else we forget back in the room.”

“.....Yes.” Aubrey grumpily rests her face in her palms. 

“I see no sign of her in the rosters.” Minerva holds up the program containing photos of all the teams.

“Guess she’s not a player. Could be a ref, or just a fan.”

“Yeah” Aubrey sighs, clips her helmet on, “c’mon, let’s go warm up.”

The bout is against the She-vil Dead, and Aubrey is a little nervous; it’s still just an exhibition, but as Pivot it’s her job to coordinate many of the on-track plays. She doesn't want to look bad in front of the big dogs. Or anyone else who might be watching. 

They pull ahead fast; Juno is not only a speedy Jammer, she’s agile too, meaning she has no trouble dodging She-vil Dead’s blockers. Not to mention Minerva is a terrifying blocker against the opponents players. 

Then it happens; she’s skating, scanning for plays, when someone cheers her name in the stands. 

It’s the blonde, complete with little red and black cheerleading pom-poms that match Aubrey’s outfit.

“Look-” Minerva is cut off by an opposing blocker hip checking her before the same blocker sends Aubrey skidding down the track. She gets up to take her place in their formation, and can already tell she’ll have track burn for the next week. 

When they hit the next break, Mama knocks playfully on her helmet, “play now, flirt later.”

Aubrey does exactly that, and the Wrecking Bells win by a slim margin. She’s on the bench, taking off her skates and surveying the rash on her leg, when a shadow blocks out the lights. 

“Um, hi again.”

“Hiiii, um, I mean, hi.” 

“You’ll have to excuse her, think she took one too many hits today.” Juno teases and Aubrey flips her off as the blonde laughs. 

“Do you-”

“Can I get your number?” She is not missing her chance again. 

Another laugh, like neon on a warm summer night, “I was going to ask if you wanted to get a drink later.”

“Hell yes. But also please give me your number because if I lose track of you again I’m gonna die.”

“Or she’s gonna get us killed because she’s lookin for you instead of watchin the track.” Juno calls, zipping up her sweatshirt.

Soon Aubrey has a new number in her phone and a promise to meet Dani at the bar at seven. 

She arrives in her best black miniskirt and red top, spies Dani waving her down from an outside table. She looks so pretty. 

“You look so pretty.”

“Thanks. You look hot.” She grins.

Aubrey points finger guns her way, “I see what you did there.”

“My brother is the real punmaster in the family. Uh, were you really looking all over for me?”

“Yep. I wanted the chance to prove I really was interested in getting to know you. So, um, are you just a big derby fan?”

“Yeah, I did some boot camps but could never quite commit to the time needed to do more. I still love watching people play. I’m, uh, I’m actually moving to Huntington.”

“But that’s not far from-”

“Kepler, I know. That’s why I started following the Belles; they’re the closest team and I wanted to root for them. You’re, uh, you’re my favorite player. I think you’re just...you’re so cool.”

“Aw geez,” Aubrey jiggles her leg, “how am I suppose to out-flirt that?”

“By being yourself?”

“Dang, you’re good.”

Aubrey spends the next two hours on cloud nine as she shows Dani pictures of her pet rabbit and listens to her talk about her work in sustainable gardening. They talk shop too, Dani curious about what it’s like training under someone as formidable as Mama. 

The crowd in the bar bar is thinning out when Aubrey crosses her legs then uncrosses them in a hurry.

“Ouch.” She looks down at her track burn. 

“Yikes, that really is bad. I should apologize, because I guess it’s kind of my fault.”

“I mean, that huge blocker did most of the Gaohhh, oh I get it.” She giggles as Dani bends forward and plants a line of kisses up the mark. 

She sits up but stays leaning, meaning their faces are oh-so-close together, “Better?” 

“Uh huh.” Aubrey moves in, kissing her and getting a happy sigh and a kiss back. 

“I have some more apology ideas.” Dani gives her a mischievous smile. 

“Fuck, guh, um, don’t think I can tonight. We have a match tomorrow and Juno might literally kill me if I come in super late and wake her up. Tomorrow night do you wanna, like, go to dinner?”

“Definitely.” Dani stands and Aubrey mirrors her, “if I don’t see you before then, good luck tomorrow.”

“Am I gonna see my favorite fan in the stands tomorrow?” Aubrey purrs hopefully moving in for one last kiss. Dani obliges, then kisses her nose. 

“You know it, hot stuff.”

[blackshoesofficial]

How to Enhance Men’s Fashion With Formal Shoes?

Stylish men, nowadays know how to look stunning in formal wear. Men look smarter in formal clothes, thus the leading footwear makers in the fashion industry are putting more focus on elaborating formal shoes for men to let the fire burn longer!

Do you feel bored tucking in your formal shirts inside your formal pants and wearing a tie with well-brushed hair and a maintained beard? It’s high time to add some spice to your men’s fashion and you can do it with brown, maroon, or black formal shoes from a popular brand. However, brushing up your closet with some vibrant formal clothes can make you feel refreshed.

Here are some ideas to enhance men’s fashion with formal shoes—

 Instead of sticking to the same black Oxford shoes, start wearing monk’s shoes with your formal clothes. With a white cotton shirt, pick a pair of grey trousers and wear the brown monk’s ankle shoes for men with a matching belt. You’ll dazzle in front of the mirror.

Make sure you have maroon, red, green, and navy blue casual shoes in your closet. Rather than wearing the leather navy blue shoes at weddings and parties- pick them to wear with your navy blue suit for a board meeting. Nothing can beat your smart avatar inside the conference room.

Despite showing your love for Oxford shoes, buy Derby’s as well. Don’t wear the same leather formal shoes daily for the sake of hygiene. Let the leather dry up in a few days and breathe after wearing them one day. Keep changing the formal shoes to add more freshness to your office fashion.

Get your website ranked by one of the leading SEO agencies in Delhi and receive a free PCC audit from PPC Consultants.

[aghotel]

Business Excellence: The Stuart Hotel’s premium corporate services in Derby

In the bustling heart of Derby lies a haven of comfort and convenience tailored for discerning business travellers – The Stuart Hotel. With its prime location, contemporary amenities, and a commitment to excellence, The Stuart has carved a niche as a premier destination for corporate facilities and services. Let’s delve into what makes our 4-star hotel in Derby stand out as a popular venue that offers premium corporate services in Derby to business travellers.

Prime Location and Accessibility The Stuart Hotel Derby The Stuart Hotel’s strategic location is a boon for business travellers. Situated conveniently in the heart of Derby, it boasts easy access to various transport options – Derby train station is a mere 5-minute walk away, ensuring seamless connectivity for those arriving by rail. Additionally, its position on the well-traveled London Road (A6) provides effortless access to the motorway network, making it a breeze to reach by road. For those with their own vehicles, the hotel offers on-site parking, alleviating any parking-related concerns in a busy urban setting.

Comfortable Accommodation for Restful Nights The Suite at The Stuart Hotel After a busy day of meetings or conferences, nothing beats the comfort of a good night’s sleep. The Stuart Hotel offers modern and spacious rooms designed to provide business travellers with the restful reprieve they need. The well-appointed rooms are equipped with contemporary amenities and comforts including comfy beds, blackout drapes, free wi-fi, a hairdryer, a flat-screen TV, a desk with chair, USB charging points and tea & coffee making facilities. It ensures that guests wake up refreshed and ready to tackle the day’s challenges.

Gastronomic Delights

A cornerstone of The Stuart Hotel’s appeal is its exceptional dining experience. The XS Restaurant is a perfect blend of ambience, artistry, and culinary excellence. The restaurant’s thoughtfully designed interiors, complete with mood lighting and designer artwork, set the stage for memorable dining. The menu offers a range of delectable options, cooked in a modern British style, ensuring that every meal is a treat for the taste buds. From indulging in a full English or continental breakfast to savouring a sumptuous dinner, XS Restaurant ensures to provide premium corporate services in Derby.

Unwinding at Liquid Bar

Business trips don’t have to be all work and no play. The Liquid Bar provides a chic and relaxing environment where guests can unwind, socialize, and enjoy delightful food and drinks. With its bespoke artwork and air-conditioned ambience, the bar offers the perfect setting to catch up with colleagues, watch sports, or simply take a breather. It’s not just a bar; it’s an experience that enriches the stay of every corporate traveller.

Meetings and Conferences with a Touch of Excellence

Beyond accommodation and dining, The Stuart Hotel has earned a reputation as a sought-after venue for meetings and conferences. With a specialisation in hosting a diverse range of corporate events, the hotel offers the expertise to transform business visions into reality. The centrepiece of the hotel’s conference facilities is The Suite, located on the ground floor with its own entrance, lobby, bar, and cloakrooms. This adaptable space can be divided into smaller rooms to accommodate gatherings of varying sizes, from intimate exhibitions and interviews to extensive conferences and corporate gatherings. The Suite can host up to 160 delegates, ensuring that every event is tailored to perfection.

Special Packages and Corporate Rates Understanding the unique needs of business travellers, The Stuart Hotel offers special day delegate rates for hosting business meetings and conferences. Additionally, the hotel provides exclusive corporate rates that ensure a smooth and personalised stay for corporate guests. With its prime location, contemporary amenities, and dedicated professional team, The Stuart Hotel has firmly established itself as the preferred choice for nearby businesses and corporate travellers.

In conclusion, The Stuart Hotel stands as a shining example of business excellence in the hospitality industry. Its blend of prime location, modern amenities, exceptional dining experiences, and versatile event spaces make it a go-to destination for business travellers seeking comfort, convenience, and sophistication. Book direct to enjoy the best rates: www.aghotels.co.uk/the-stuart-hotel/.

For bespoke corporate rates and DDR packages, contact our sales team at sales@thestuart.com.

[bongaboi]

Liverpool: 2019-20 Premier League Champions

30 years of hope: my life as an ardent Liverpool fan

After three decades of near misses, slips and tears, the Merseyside team’s wait for another league title is nearly over. So what does it mean to a scouser and lifelong fan?

by Hannah Jane Parkinson

I am three years old in the photograph, hugging a plastic, flyaway football. I am seven, arriving tentatively for my first training session at a local girls’ club. I am bounding back to my mother’s car, blowing hot breath on cold hands, beaming, the salt from the artificial turf embedded in the soles of my trainers.

I am eight and glued to the television, watching teen wunderkind and my Liverpool hero, Michael Owen, score the perfect goal against Argentina in World Cup 98.

I am nine. I give up one of the few days I have to visit my father to attend my first ever match at Anfield, Liverpool FC’s famous stadium. A week later, my father dies. These two events are inextricably linked in my mind, and the guilt continues to whichever day you are reading this.

I am 10 and make my first appearance in print in a feature for the local paper, the Liverpool Echo, about girls getting into football. I am quoted as saying that all my sister cares about is boys and fashion.

Twelve years old and the fuzzy letters of “Parkinson” on the back of my shirt arch down my shoulder blades.

I am 13. Our team, known as Liverpool Feds, are approached by Liverpool FC to become their official girls’ outfit. We visit Melwood, the first team’s training ground. The full-size goals loom like scaffolding.

I am 14. My hero, Owen, makes the same move to Real Madrid that Steve McManaman made five years before him. This breaks my heart. Suddenly, all I care about is boys and fashion. Without really making a decision, I give up football. Cold winter nights are spent inside on the sofa watching Sex and the City. I discover live music and MySpace.

I am 15. I own the entire range of Clearasil products. A group of my schoolfriends and I take a night off GCSE revision to watch the 2005 European Champions League final in Istanbul; the first the club has reached since the mid-80s, and so it is forbidden not to watch. Liverpool are losing by three goals at half time. A lost cause. Minds wander to the second biology paper… But wait. Liverpool pull back to 3-3. And win on penalties. Pandemonium. We join the throng in the streets; the blaring car horns; the beer jumping, like salmon, from pint glasses; the embrace of strangers; the straining vocal cords.

I am 18 and living in Russia, watching games on my first-generation smartphone via a 2G internet connection. Each time a player goes through on goal the signal drops to endless buffering. Liverpool finish second in the league, four points behind bitter rivals Manchester United.

I am 26, we are bearing down on the title. Steven Gerrard in an impromptu on-pitch team talk, after a crucial win against the newly flush Manchester City, shouts hoarsely at his players: “This does not fucking slip now!” The next home game, Gerrard – one of the best players the club has ever seen, captain, scouser, Liverpool FC lifer – literally slips on the turf against Chelsea to concede a goal. We lose. Manchester City finish top of the league by two points.

I am 29. I am in Cuba, where the internet is heavily censored. But I manage to watch the last game of the season, which will be decisive. Liverpool finish the league with 97 points; the highest points tally ever for a team that doesn’t win the title. City win again. With 98 points. Liverpool do, however, win the Champions League – for the sixth time – after scoring four goals in a sublime semi-final comeback against Barcelona. The injured Mohamed Salah, watching on the bench, wears a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Never Give Up”. The T-shirt sells out.

I am 30. I have never witnessed my beloved Liverpool FC lift the title. Two months from now, this is going to change. As I write Liverpool have a 22-point lead at the top of the table. Of 84 points available this season, they have taken 79. Next Monday is the derby against Everton.

I want to untangle what this will mean to me – the fan who met Steven Gerrard a couple of years ago, grinning like a child; the fan who, two weeks ago, was unbelievably touched when current star Trent Alexander-Arnold recorded a video message to cheer her up during a bad time. What it means to other fans: those who witnessed the dominance of the 1980s, and the younger ones who have known only disappointment. And what it means, too, for the future of the area of Anfield itself.

It’s late February in the Flat Iron pub, one of the many dotted around Anfield. Steve Dodd, who is 49, is with his friends Dan Wynn, 26, and Gerrard Noble, 47. All from Somerset, they are having a pre-match drink before the home game against West Ham. Steve talks of the current Jürgen Klopp-assembled side as the best Liverpool side he thinks he’s ever seen.

The friends have been scouring the internet for places to stay in the city for the last home fixture of the season, but to no avail. “Rooms are going for £400 a night,” Gerrard says, his eyes widening. He and Steve are allowing themselves to get excited, but Dan, who like me has yet to experience a league title win, looks anxious and rubs his thighs. “No,” he says, “I don’t want to jinx it. Though I’ve been kicked out of various WhatsApp groups for being smug about all the results.” Steve tells me they weren’t prepared for it, this three-decade-long wait: “I just thought we’d go on winning.”

We talk about how important it is that Klopp’s politics match the club: Liverpool is a leftwing city; Liverpool is a leftwing club. At the last election, Labour retained all of its 14 MPs on Merseyside. The city has never forgiven the Tories for former chancellor Geoffrey Howe’s strategy of “managed decline”. Thatcher is a hated figure. But so is Derek Hatton, the former city council deputy leader and member of the Marxist group Militant. Last month, Italy’s rightwing politician Matteo Salvini was forced to deny that he had pulled out of a visit to Liverpool after the metropolitan region’s mayor called him a “fascist”. During several games last year, chants rang out for Jeremy Corbyn. The current prime minister conspicuously avoids visiting. As Gareth Robertson, who is a part of the immensely popular The Anfield Wrap podcast, with more than 200,000 weekly downloads in 200 countries, puts it to me: “Not only do we want a good football coach, we expect almost a political leader, someone who gets us, and our city, its values.” Humorously, there have been petitions for Liverpool to become a self-determined scouse state, and “Scouse not English” is a frequent terrace chant.

The club has a mantra: “This means more.” It pisses off other teams and is, understandably, dismissed as marketing speak. But isn’t it true? Isn’t the 127-year-old club what people think of when anyone, anywhere in the world, mentions “Liverpool”? The famous football team that plays in red – allowing for the Beatles, of course.

The city has another team, the blue of Everton. I have nothing against Everton. I consider Everton fellow scousers and too little a threat to focus animosity towards. In a way, the clubs are unruly siblings; we love and scrap in equal measure. Totally different personalities, but born of the same streets.

Four years ago, a man named Jürgen Klopp arrived on these streets. Or more accurately, he arrived in the suburb of Formby, renting the house from his managerial predecessor, Brendan Rodgers. Klopp is the football manager that even non-football fans like. He’s Ludovico Einaudi, seducing those previously uninterested in classical music. He is a man of principle; a baseball cap permanently affixed to his head, as though at any point he might be required to step up to the plate on a blindingly sunny day. Perhaps for the Boston Red Sox, owned by Liverpool FC’s American proprietor, John W Henry.

Klopp is erudite. He is proudly anti-Brexit in a city that voted 58% Remain. “For me, Brexit makes no sense at all,” he has said. He is a socialist: “I am on the left … I believe in the welfare state. I’m not privately insured. I would never vote for a party because they promised to lower the top tax rate. If there’s something I will never do in my life it is vote for the right.” He grew up in a humble village in Germany’s Black Forest, and it shows. There’s a saying in the region: “the hair in the soup”. It means focusing on even the tiniest things that can be improved.

He has the good looks of one of my favourite 1960s Russian film stars, Aleksandr Demyanenko. He hugs his players as though they were the loves of his life and he might never see them again. Journalists like him for his press-conference banter as well as his eloquence. He visits children in hospitals. He is funny. When Mario Götze, one of his star players at former club Borussia Dortmund, left for Pep Guardiola’s Bayern Munich, his explanation was: “He’s leaving because he’s Guardiola’s favourite. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I can’t make myself shorter and learn Spanish.”

Liverpool have had many famous managers, of course. Bill Shankly (there’s a statue of him outside the ground); Bob Paisley (ditto); Kenny Dalglish. But Klopp is already being talked of as one of the best ever.

Liverpool the city has evolved from its shamefully prominent role in the slave trade – in common with other major British ports – to a place with a diverse population and a well-won reputation for being friendly and welcoming. But the tragedy and scandal of Hillsborough, in which 96 fans were crushed to death in 1989 at Sheffield Wednesday’s ground, is etched into the nation’s sporting history, and its social justice record. After a 27-year-long battle to clear the names of the Liverpool fans whose reputations were smeared, after inquests that lasted two years – the longest case heard by a jury in British legal history – a verdict of unlawful killing was returned. But, as Margaret Aspinall of the indefatigable Hillsborough Family Support Group pointed out, after David Duckenfield, police commander at the ground, was cleared of manslaughter last year, no one has yet been found accountable for those killings.

The Sun, which categorically did not report “The Truth”, as the infamous headline went, but was found to have published untruths that blamed Liverpool fans for the disaster, is a red-top pariah here. The paper is the bestselling national in print, but shifts a measly 12,000 or so copies on Merseyside. A branch of Sainsbury’s was once found to be selling copies under the counter, as though they were counterfeit cigarettes. It’s a boycott that has lasted longer than many marriages.

The socially progressive values of the club extend to it supporting an end to period poverty – free sanitary products are available in every women’s loo at Anfield. Last month, the Reds Going Green initiative saw the installation of organic machines to break down food waste into water. The club even has its own allotment, which grows food to serve to fans in the main stand. It was the first Premier League club to be officially involved with an LGBT Pride event in 2012, at the invitation of Paul Amann. Amann tells me how he set up the LGBT supporters group, Kop Outs, because: “It’s essential that our voices are heard, our presence is welcomed and respected.” The group works alongside the Spirit of Shankly supporters’ group and the Fans Supporting Foodbanks initiative and has regular meet-ups. These things mean something to me: a football fan as a girl, and now as a woman. A woman who dates other women. A woman who doesn’t want to hear homophobic chants on the terraces. Or, it goes without saying, racist ones. Jamie Carragher, ex-player and pundit, has apologised on behalf of the club for its backing of striker Luis Suárez, who was banned from playing for eight matches in 2011 for making racist comments. “We made a massive mistake,” Carragher said. “What message do you send to the world? Supporting someone being banned because he used some racist words.”

Back on the pitch, some of this season’s performances have been, quite simply, balletic. Others as powerful and muscular as a weightlifting competition. Formations as beautiful as constellations. Forward surges as though our fullbacks were plugged into the mains. Possibly the best fullbacks playing today: 21-year-old local lad Trent Alexander-Arnold (known just as Trent) and the fiery Scot Andy Robertson (Robbo) are spoken about by pundits as innovators. Gary Lineker and I text, rapturously, about the two of them.

For a football team to be consistent, for a team to win the league, it must be capable of winning in many different ways. The aesthetically pleasing playing out from the back. Lightning counter-attacks. Scraping 1-0 wins in the final minutes (and, particularly at the start of this season, we have done a lot of that. It’s something Manchester United used to do in their 90s pomp, and naturally, I hated them for it). Mindful of the trauma of The Slip, the agreed club line is “one game at a time”, said again and again, as another scouse son, Pete Burns, once sang: “like a record baby, right round, round, round… ” And my God, how many of those we’ve smashed. The current side is the first in England to hold an international treble (the Champions League; Uefa Super Cup; Fifa Club World Cup). We have not lost a home game for almost two calendar years. Shortly, we’ll no doubt break the record for the earliest title win during a season; the most points across Europe’s top five leagues.

It is, even to the neutral, extraordinary stuff. It is, even to the haters, albeit grudgingly, extraordinary stuff. In 2016, one of the greatest stories of modern football was the previously mediocre Leicester City winning a surprise title. Liverpool’s dominance this season surpasses that for drama. It is watching history in the present.

Being at a game at Anfield is like being high while ingesting nothing. The stands seem to have lungs. Though You’ll Never Walk Alone has become supremely emotional, an anthem for strength and perseverance post-Hillsborough (“walk on through the wind / walk on through the rain”) it’s a song originally from the musical Carousel. It was a standout 1963 cover version by Liverpudlian band Gerry and the Pacemakers that kicked off its adoption at Anfield. “It’s got a lot of lovely major-to-minor changes at often unexpected moments that have the effect of emotionally blindsiding you,” music journalist Pete Paphides says (although he’s a United fan, so feel free to discount everything he tells me). “But it’s also obviously very hymnal, with a chorus which invites that religious ambiguity. It was Aretha Franklin’s version that John Peel played after Hillsborough and rendered himself incapable of carrying on by virtue of doing so.”

Anfield has always been something special; players from countless teams often talk of it being the greatest ground they have ever played at. Or the most intimidating. Or the most electric. But of late, there’s an extra buoyancy. The crowd salivates.

Watching the game against West Ham, we take the lead within 10 minutes, but they quickly equalise, before going ahead. We score twice more. It is our 21st consecutive home win, setting a Premier League-era record. At the end of the game, Klopp and his players applaud the Kop end, fans’ eyes glistening with both emotion and wind chill (“walk on, through the wind… ”)

Adjacent to the stadium at the redbrick Albert pub, Clara, Tom, John – all in their 20s, students, and local – and John’s dad, David, who is 53, are cheering the last-ditch win. I repeat what I asked Steve and his friends: just how excited should we all be?

“Very fucking excited,” says John. “Very fucking excited,” Tom concurs. (Scousers use swear words as ellipses. And the speed of Liverpudlian patter matches the rat-a-tat-tat of freestyle rappers.) The Albert is floor-to-ceiling in flags; unassuming from the outside, iconic inside. Across the road at the Park – the “Established 1888” sign above its door – it is Where’s Wally? levels of rammed, entirely usual for a match day. But the mood is as disbelieving as triumphant. It hasn’t happened yet, but it already feels as though people are waiting to be shaken awake from a dream. Around the corner, posters at another fan favourite, the Sandon, advertise a huge end-of-season victory party. I grab a burger at the Kop of the Range, a kebab joint not far from a scarf stall that has seen its business rocket over the past three years.

My Uber driver, Mohamed, 35, moved to the city from Sri Lanka. A massive Salah fan, he tells me his own revenue booms when the club win a game – happier fans means higher fares. “People don’t want to spend money on a loss,” he says. “If we win, the whole mood lifts. You can feel it in the car. Though when you start driving with Uber, they tell you not to mention what football team you support. Because football means a lot to people. There are many feelings involved with football.”

It’s unsurprising to me that even back in Sri Lanka, Mohamed was a fan. Liverpool is a global behemoth. The richest club in the UK outside Manchester.

A £1.7bn valuation; £533m turnover; pre-tax profits of £42m. Matchday ticket revenues increased (thanks to a regenerated £110m main stand). Visiting the club shop, there is LFC-branded gin; babygros; even a Hello Kitty tie-in range. As Richard Haigh at consultants Brand Finance tells me, next season’s kit deal with Nike is “expected to represent the largest in history. Brands will be willing to pay to have some magic dust of LFC.” There are official stores as far afield as Dubai and Bangkok.

John W Henry has won the support of the fans for his positive handling of the club. And yet, despite this huge wealth, Anfield is the 10th most deprived neighbourhood in the country. Boarded-up houses surround the stadium. The club has not covered itself in glory in the past, accused of buying up properties in unscrupulous ways. But it is hoped that local enterprises, such as the community-run Homebaked cake shop and new housing association properties, will make the neighbourhood better.

Last week, we were knocked out of the FA Cup in a match against Chelsea. Or, as I call that fixture, Kensington versus Kensington. (In Liverpool’s “Kenny”, 98% of residents are among the most deprived 5% nationally. In London’s, residents earn three times the national average.)

In the league, there has been a blip. Last weekend we finally lost. And we lost 3-0 to, with the greatest respect, Watford; not a bad side, but a side ensconced in a relegation battle. Arsenal, who once went a whole season unbeaten (“the Invincibles”), and are keen to keep that record, tweeted from the official club account: “Phew!”

But I am not panicking. It’s possible Dan from the Flat Iron is panicking. But Klopp isn’t panicking. In typical fashion, he said the fact we played an absolutely awful game of football was “rather positive… ”

“A couple of years ago,” our hero reminds us, “I said we wanted to write our own stories and create our own history, and obviously the boys took what I said really seriously. It is so special. The numbers are incredible.” In a nod to Sir Alex Ferguson’s famous line that his greatest challenge was “knocking Liverpool right off their fucking perch”, Liverpool chief executive Peter Moore says now: “We are back on our perch.” As The Anfield Wrap’s Gareth says: “In a dream scenario, a period of dominance follows. Not so long ago that dream was just that. Now, it’s a reality that is much easier to imagine.”

Four more games. Eyes on the prize. For me, at last, 30 years in the making, eyes on the prize.

[msjr0119]

Forgive me

Epilogue Part 2

Series includes suicide and abuse.

Based on true events but using TRR characters who are owned by Pixelberry.

Warnings: Slight swearing, fluff 🥰

@annekebbphotography @burnsoslow @drakesensworld @ladyangel70 @kingliam2019 @bbrandy2002 @butindeed @bascmve01 @drakewalker04 @pedudley @captain-kingliamsqueen @duchessemersynwalker @insideamirage @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @kozabaji @texaskitten30 @ibldw-main @kimmiedoo5 @nikkis1983 @dangerouseggseagleartisan @gnatbrain @walker7519 @lodberg @cmestrella @hopefulmoonobject @addictedtodrakefanfic @angi15h @liamxs-world @rafasgirl23415 @notoriouscs @yukinagato2012 @dcbbw @qammh-blog @nz1091 @beardedoafdonutwagon @cordonianroyalty @custaroonie @lauradowning29 @jared2612 @desiree-0816

Epilogue part 2 - the final chapter 😭😭😭 This series was based a few things on the unexpected death of not only my colleague but my friend. We didn’t realise that he had taken his life until three months after his passing, he was homosexual- only his brother, close friends and colleagues knew. He lived two lives, one with his partner and their pet huskies, and the other with his ‘fake’ wife and daughter (for appearances) RIP Shabs 🥰

I went rogue with this series as it was very emotional writing parts that never got published due to me going rogue. Thank you to everyone who has liked this series as a Drake Stan it’s always hard doing Riam - love you all 😘

*****

“My role as an only child will soon come to an end because my mommy is due with my new best friend. You’re... you’re.. we’re...” Liam couldn’t ‘spit’ out the words that he needed to express, having a baby of their own was always a future thought. At this moment in time, he had just got the girl back- he had Lucas who he had now classed as his own son ever since Leo gave him permission to.

“Li, breathe. Jesus Christ.” Drake picked up Lucas, and created a bit of distance as he could see the King was in shock. Liam eventually slowly stood up, still believing that he was trapped in some dream.

“You’re pregnant? How do you feel? Are you up to doing this today?” Rubbing her arm, she could see the concern in his eyes. Already acting like the doting father, caring for his child’s mother’s health and needs.

“Liam I’m pregnant I’m not ill. It was Drake’s idea to tell you here. I wanted to sneak you into a seperate room for privacy before the ceremony. I feel fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“I’m glad you did it, I’m just shocked. When did you become pregnant? Isn’t it too early to know for certain?”

“New York.” Liam thought back to the night he had proposed, their reunion had created half of him and half of Riley. It had also explained why she had bad mood swings on their joint hen/stag party.

“Can’t you show a little bit of appreciation for all the hard work Maxwell has put in to ensure we have a good night?” Liam was annoyed with Riley acting miserable, he couldn’t read what she was thinking exactly- but the resting bitch face explained it briefly.

“I am Liam, but I didn’t ask for all of this. I’m tired and I’d have just preferred to stick to traditional hen and stag do.” Holding her stomach, she had cramp and had hoped that he would prevent causing more of a scene.

“Go and find a stripper, and have a one night stand then. We’ll all be at the bar- having a scotch and cigar. Is that a traditional stag do?”

“Liam I didn’t mean it like that. You know what? Screw you!”

“Go, go and have fun. You have my permission.” Turning around he ignored her pleas to wait.

Riley thought about Liam’s words regarding a one night stand- hesitantly knocking on the door she hoped her choice would open up.

“Riley? What are you doing here?”

“My fiancé has given me a hall pass, a free pass for a one night stand. There’s only one person I would consider for this.”

“And who’s that?”

“The handsome man stood right in front of me.”

“Your fiancé is a very lucky man. I’m sure he regrets offering you this chance.”

“Liam shut up and just kiss me. I’m sorry and I love you. I wouldn’t do that anyway. You’re the only one for me. Did you know you’re an arsehole at times? I hope that you choked on the cigar smoke!” She winked, whilst laughing. Dragging her into the room, he was grateful that she didn’t use ‘the hall pass’ - he had thought about who she would sleep with, number one suspect being Drake. It broke his heart thinking about it, he was stupid to suggest it. Thanking the lord that she made the first move in repairing their relationship after their tiny disagreement.

“Anymore surprises for me today?”

“Leo’s sat with Rob- is that a good surprise?” Liam furrowed his eyebrows before looking over, seeing his older brother smile at him and impersonating the chef kiss- Liam knew he couldn’t wait a second later to marry his Queen.

“So I see. Are you ready to become Mrs Rhys- again.”

“That was a sham, this here is real. Let’s do it.” Liam couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, kissing Riley gently on her lips- he then bent down and kissed her stomach. Announcing their news with this little gesture- the guests began whispering, the whispers echoed throughout the whole cathedral. Standing back up, he nodded to his step mother signalling that they were ready to complete their vows. Holding his fiancées hands, his thumbs brushed over her knuckles- it was time.

After the wedding reception, Liam carried his bride over the threshold. It was now his turn to surprise her, once he could resist kissing her. Placing her gently on the ground, he held her hand leading her to edge of the bed. Loosening his tie, he had hoped that she would like the surprises he had for her. Asking her to close her eyes and to not be tempted to peek, he made his way over to the wardrobe where he had hid the gifts prior to the wedding.

“Riley, I know you’re peeking.”

“I’m not!” Lying, she was attempting to peek discreetly.

“Hmm... okay- open your eyes love.” Riley did as he instructed, her eyes widened at the sight in front of her. A beautiful bouquet of roses that provided a sweet aroma, as well as an envelope.

“I did also have a bottle of champagne- but with your bombshell that you dropped, you now can’t drink alcohol. So we could keep that to celebrate the birth of the new prince or princess. Here, open the envelope.” Opening the envelope, she began to cry. There was a handwritten letter as well as an important document.

Riley, you are reading this because you decided to go ahead and marry me- I’m surprised you didn’t change your mind. I’m going to keep this short and simple- you are my world, my saviour, my beautiful Queen. I am so lucky to have met you- you saved my life and made it complete, a true fairytale where the Prince fell in love at first sight with the beautiful princess. I love you, I always will do until I take my last breath. Liam x

Riley was now crying uncontrollably- wondering if she could read what the other document included.

“I love you too Liam, more than you’ll ever know. When I first saw you, I knew who you was- Leo said I’d fall in love with you, maybe it was just a premonition? What’s the other thing? I don’t think my hormones could take it.” Holding her hand, he fixated his gaze onto hers, remembering the words Leo whispered to him at the Derby Lucas may be my son, but now you need to be his father. I love you little bro.

“Ri, at the Derby Leo spoke to me- giving me permission to be Lucas’s father from now on. Those documents are adoption papers- you don’t have to agree with it, but I would like to adopt him especially now we are married. He will always know about Leo, I’m not replacing him....”

“I’d love for you to adopt him. He loves you. I love you. We are a family now.”

*****

It had been four months since the royal wedding, Riley was glowing as the pregnant Queen. She had won the heart of Cordonia and it’s people in an instant. Liam was in awe of his wife, his Queen, the mother of his children- he had become very protective over her. Today they were doing a press conference, updating their people on the progress of the pregnancy.

Liam walked into their room, immediately placing his arms around her growing bump. Thinking back to their first scan- he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

It was the day that Riley and Liam was due to see their baby for the first time, for a dating scan. The two of them were excited but also apprehensive. They entered the SUV to travel to the hospital, she could tell that he was anxious by watching his body language- usually it would be Liam that would be studying people. The distant gazes looking out of the window, the silence, she wondered why he was so nervous. Holding her husbands hand, she had hoped that this little gesture would make him feel more at ease.

“Good morning Your Majesties. The doctor will be with you both shortly. Have you drank enough fluid so we can get an accurate picture and measurements?” Riley nodded, knowing exactly what the protocol was- remembering how nervous she was when pregnant with Lucas.

“If you lay down, try and stay still. I’m going to place the gel on your stomach- as you’ll already know it can be quite a shock due to the coldness.” Riley smiled, looking at Liam- he looked as if he was about to pass out. “Liam? Are you okay?”

“Yes sorry, I’m just nervous yet excited. I don’t know what to expect. You’ve been through this before, I haven’t.” They both heard the doctor laugh at his nervousness- knowing the King was gradually losing his stoic expressions. “So the babies are growing fine, as expected.”

“Babies?” They both shouted in unison.

Both Liam and Riley were shocked to say the least that they would have three children under the age of three - they were definitely going to keep the King and Queen on their toes.

“How are you feeling?” Liam rest his chin on her shoulder, providing light kisses.

“Fat, ugly, tired, sick. After these two pop out- you are staying away from me.”

“You are not fat nor ugly. You know I couldnt stay away. Besides you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off me.” Moving his mouth from her shoulder, he slowly moved his lips towards her neck. Throwing her head back, she knew now wasn’t the time to become turned on- they were busy.

“Liam, I mean it. No more children please. They are draining the energy out of me.”

“We’ll see. Maybe in the future?” He winked at her, not knowing how she would react due to her hormones. “Are you ready to face our people my Queen.”

“Ready as I’ll always be.” Sighing she wasn’t ready, she was never ready. But as Queen, she had to fake it- to be the perfect Queen that she always had to be.

Walking to the front of the palace, Bastien escorted the two of them and Lucas towards the podium. The cheers from the crowd, added to Riley’s morning sickness feeling. After many questions, Riley finally relaxed having her husband supporting her at all times. There were many questions asked, and answered mainly by Liam. There was one more journalist who had patiently waited his turn- Liam pointed to him gesturing him to begin with his questions. Slowly standing up- the man bowed to the King and Queen- before clearing his throat.

“Your Majesties, I would personally like to congratulate you both - not only with the royal wedding but with the news regarding expanding your family.” The unknown reporter said, providing them both with a soft smile.

“Thank you, we are so thrilled to be expanding our family. Both the Mother and babies are doing fine.” Liam’s eyes sparkled, as he held Lucas in one arm and placed a protective hand over Riley’s growing bump.

“That is fabulous news. However I do have a previous unanswered question to ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“When her majesty first visited Cordonia with the crown prince, the former King had hired a press secretary- who mysteriously disappeared around a similar time that her majesty returned to the states. When previous questions were asked regarding this all those months ago you ignored it. Where has he gone?”

“Well obviously because my wife and the crown prince had left to return home, we didn’t require a press secretary anymore. What is your name? Who do you work for? I don’t believe we have met.” Liam had now become suspicious about this person’s true identity. Every so often there were new faces at press conferences, but this man had Liam thinking overtime- paranoid to say. He could feel Riley’s heartbeat increase as if she was about to crack under the lies that her husband had conducted to protect her.

“Your majesty, I am a freelance journalist, new in the trade. My name is Claudius.”