#i hope you gave kudos to Gap Year

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Trash Magic

Big Daddy Trailer Park Cop AU One Shot

Summary: it’s 2008 and it’s the pits of recession, not that the suburbs of El Paso would notice, things have been rather shit among the rows and rows of trailers for some time now. With your dad locked up for being a little too ‘entrepreneurial’, it seems your only ally in these tough times is the town‘s scary old softy, Officer Presley, and the more than professional interest he takes in your speeding and footwear. 

Era: modern but with that dumbass tumblr dusty Americana feel to it I hope?

Kudos: so many to @eliseinmemphis who was my plot guru, kept this thing alive and gave so many lines and sentences used herein.

Word count: 15k and I didn’t edit this sorry for misspells, etc

18+ and may be thematically disturbing to some please read cautions, proceed at your own risk!! More specifics below the cut

HAPPY NEW YEAR MY DARLINGS!

Specific warnings: sexual content, drug use, stripping, casual prostitution, age gap, reader isn’t a minor for such activities but only eighteen?? which is not touted as a good thing but it’s in here?? if that’s a hard no then be warned. graphic descriptions of kinda gross blowjobs and very gross blowjobs, spanking, officer Presley does take too many pills for his pain ok? driving under the influence, minors drinking, trailer trash lifestyle in general, such as I personally have had experience with, it’s rough out there folks but there’s always the good ones trying their best. Sorry I really threw Joe E under the bus. I’m not really sorry but I’m sorry you have to read about him in here. Please let me know what warnings I missed if I did. Again, could be thematically disturbing due to age, solicitation, law officers, drug use, humans not being tidy little robots.

When you were three years old you recall the smell of plastic heating in the sun, the hot smell of fresh cut grass and the cold splatter of hose water on your skin. A little paradise it seemed, that tiny kitty pool and your mama waving the hose over you with one hand, her cigarette dangling between the fingers of her other, bright warm sun and yellowing grass stretched out in large swathes between the little white shacks stacked row upon tidy row. Always the same and ready to guide you home after each little wander into the thicket behind the clearing.

That was life in the Shady Oaks trailer park. There really was only one mature oak tree and it was a live oak and the sunshine beamed right through its little leaves all seasons of the year.

By five you had a sizable jar of grasshoppers collected and had become too scared of their hoards and awful beady eyes to ever release them, fearful they would swarm you the minute you undid the lid of the mason jar and gave them freedom. You had let one out and watched it hop across the torn Hexagons of the linoleum floor before it jumped in an acrobatic feat and landed in the mac & cheese your mom was making. You never know what she did with those jars, but you were half relieved, half heartbroken at the fact they were no longer your responsibility.

By eight you knew you lived in a trailer park and spending your time collecting ants and moths for the new set of grasshoppers to eat was a peculiar and uncool pastime. As were muddy knees and torn t-shirts on a girl approaching her teenage years. But mama hadn’t been able to take the heat and the rows upon rows of mildewing trailers anymore and daddy was too busy with his “entrepreneurship” to dress you right.

By twelve you had learned that some nights daddy came home, and some nights he didn’t and you couldn’t be sure which you preferred. His drunken state was unpredictable and confusing even though he was not abusive, but his absence left you counting quarters and wondering how long your Fig Newtons would last if he stayed gone longer than a week again.

By fifteen the Dollar Store and its fluorescent bulbs leached the vitality out of you with each long day shift, school was an afterthought, and your days smelled of plastic bags and detergent. You brought that smell home to your musty trailer, seeped into the sweaty fabric of your tank top. The only thing that stayed consistent whether your daddy was home or not was the religious watching of the NASCAR races. Reruns and live, it didn’t matter, where many girls escaped into Disney or Reality TV, you did your dreaming while sitting in the ratty drivers seat of daddy’s Ford, making the engine thrum.

By seventeen, your daddy was gone for months at a time. Sometimes he’d leave the Ford and take off on the road with Benny and Gregg in Benny’s motorhome from a few rows down. Greg had the pale blue trailer with the blinds that were always smashed in the one window. He always left his damn lights on, even when he was gone and they’d glow yellow and demented between the brittle plastic. Some nights when you walked back home from town, maybe a little more plastered than you’d like to admit, you’d keep Gregg’s trailer and his silly window as a landmark to turn left in the maze of trailers.

One night the bulb burnt out. One by one the rest of them did too. The fellas, they’d all been gone so long. Next week the electricity got turned off to yours. The bill hadn’t been paid. Dollar Store wages kept peanut butter and miracle bread in your cabinets and bought you cheap tequila from Terry who lived five trailers down and didn’t care about ID’s so long as there was cash on the counter. What the wages didn’t pay for was electricity or gas money or a new car that could actually accelerate fast enough to give you that thrill you craved.

Despite your lousy education and demotivated upbringing, you had some spark of diligence and ambition residing inside you, it was stoked to a decent blaze by the awful, humid and stale air of the trailer without its swamp coolers humming at night. Not even the fridge stayed cool longer than forty eight hours and you ended up at the seven eleven eating roller dogs.

You weren’t looking for job opportunities while licking corn dog grease off your thumbs but opportunity came to you anyway. As you nibbled at the soggy fried dog and licked at the rancid oil while leaning against the auto supply shelf, you’d have to be some sorta dumb to not know that Carl was hanging around the same aisle for something besides windshield washer fluid.

Carl was a native to the outskirts of El Paso just like you, and he was a married man, married to Clarissa in fact. Clarissa who’s plastic miniature flamingo’s gracing each edge of her weedy gravel drive had a younger you thinking she was the height of trailer park sophistication. That was before Officer Presley, who lived in a spacious double wide down by Gregg’s trailer and its burnt out bulbs, got himself a Tiger figurine made outta real concrete and painted pretty as anything, its blazing feline eyes not missing a speck of paint, unlike the flamingo’s slashed ones. Officer Presley only had the one and it was assumed he was saving up for another, and he placed it by the little porch he built off his trailer door, the proximity to the structure giving it a noble sorta air that sitting statues out by the street didn’t manage.

“If you keep watchin’ me like that I’ll have to start chargin’.” you told Carl and his leering face, and took another bite, munching with the carefree manners of someone actually hungry.

“Can’t do that here.” he wheezed a laugh, then thumbed over his shoulder at the bright lights of the trucker club blazing in the dark sky through the dirty glass doors of the gas station. “But over there it’s legal.”

“You so horny you’d pay to watch a girl eat a corndog?” you were dubious, wondering just how little Miss Clarissa put out if he’d waste money on this, it wasn’t like she was busy repainting her Flamingo’s peeling eyes or nothin’.

“I’d pay for a drink for ya.” Carl offered, fidgety hands wedged in his fraying front pockets. “And you can eat another dog. You like hot dogs? They’ve got ‘em over there.”

“Nah, I need cash.” you declined, aware that you could barter for drinks and end up evicted or else make sacrifices regarding the booze and keep your tin roof over your head.

“Cash?” he repeated like a dumb parrot.

“Yeah, stupid.” you flailed your hands a little in annoyance, fully certain everyone in this run down rural suburb knew you were as broke as you are alcoholic at seventeen.

“Ok, then I’ll pay for your hot dog,” he negotiated with an oil stained finger scratching at the sore on the corner of his mouth, “And you can eat it so long as you do it how I tell ya.”

You sighed and ran your chipping nails along the plastic jugs of car oil. “So long as ya let me eat it.” you stipulate, “And you gotta pay for the show.”

“I ain’t made of money, girl!” Carl protested, “I’m buyin’ dinner, you should be thankin’ me.”

“You were plannin’ on buyin’ me a drink.” you pointed out, “Where’s that money gone?”

“Jeeze ok, ok,” Carl sighed, “I’ll pay you same as a wild Turkey would cost.”

“And a dog?”

“Yeah.”

“With chili on it?”

“Oh c’mon now-“

“-It’ll make for good slurpin.” you pointed out sagaciously

Carl groaned in annoyance and appreciation for the mental image. “Ok, a chili dog and the cost of a shot. No funny shit with the tab and you eat it how I say.”

“Does the club have air conditioning?” You asked your last stipulation.

“Course it does, it would be hot as fuck without.”

Your trailer was hot as fuck and anytime spent loitering elsewhere was greatly desired. “Ok then.” you agreed with a shrug.

By the time you’d crossed the parking lot, with Carl’s guiding hand on your lower back, you were irritable from the heat and exhaust fumes. Inside was cool and almost as dark as the parking lot except for the wild, multi-colored lights swirling around the place, highlighting the girls humping the stage floor in the middle of the establishment. One more underage addition wasn’t remotely as remarkable as the fella in the corner trying to take a bite outta a lap dancer’s boob. He got smacked on the cheek for it and nothin’ more, got his full dance anyway and as you watched her after while sitting up on the bar stool, you noticed her negotiate something similar to what you’d just done. She stayed in his lap after her dance was done and after some gesticulating and her unimpressed sighs, some agreement was reached and you watched them get up and walk to the back of the club, through the backdoor that you knew led to nothing more than miles and miles of desert.

Five minutes later a similar transaction occurred between a trucker and a pole girl. They went out back, too. Ten minutes later the first couple came back in. She went to the stage and he went out the front door Carl had brought you in by.

By that point you were slowly inserting a hot dog onto your pink tongue and swallowing a bite every three minutes or more - at least, that’s what it felt like. Carl’s directions were so slow and infuriatingly erratic that you found yourself grateful for the fact you’d already eaten a bit at the gas station, otherwise this would’ve been the cruelest tease to your belly that hadn’t had lunch and only Raisin Bran for breakfast. You chose to ignore the way his hand moved in the shadow of the bar, wiping at his jeans too many times to be passed off as sweaty palms.

A nearly fully dressed girl in cut offs eating a chili dog was hardly the most sensational thing to be watched in this seedy joint, but it was the most peculiar and no sooner had you finished the dog after a laborious thirty minutes, collected the extra drink cash and prepared to go home after declining Carl’s offer of a ride before you found yourself propositioned for the same ordeal. This big fella actually offered a drink with it and much to Carl’s betrayed horror you agreed. Carl ended up leaving, going home to Clarissa, feeling too cuckolded to continue watching someone else watch you eat meat in a casing.

In between sipping Hard Mike’s lemonade you chatted with the fella and spilled pinto beans on your bare legs from the excess. Even the bartender had stopped being annoyed, he even got a bit invested in your gig, retracting the offered napkins for the spill when another guy, a farm hand from the pecan grove down the interstate, asked to lick it off.

You charged seventeen bucks for that spit bath and felt funny as the saliva dried in the chilled bar room air. The bartender asked you if you lived in El Paso. Hesitating to give yourself away or open yourself up to a driveby, you merely agreed that you lived nearby, he didn’t need to know you lived in the Spark City suburb and walked to this tuck station grill to save fuel.

Marty, he said his name was, and Marty was pleased you lived close. In that case he asked if you’d wanna work there. You knew at the time he wasn’t offering you to bartend, your age prohibitive even in so lax an establishment. Your eyes flicked over to the long gal with her sallow skin and stringy red hair loling around the stripper pole in the glow of a green spotlight. It had to be 3:00 am by then.

“Does everybody do extra?” You asked him, plainly referencing the deals that took folks out back into the sagebrush and the backside of the club.

“You do as much as you wanna get paid for.” he admitted. “Plenty just strip.”

Just, he had said. Just strip.

Just stripping was a gross understatement for the rigorous and demoralizing ordeal of flinging your practically naked body around on stage for gaping older men to ogle each night. But it took up hours of your time not paid by the dollar store wages, and you could snooze from five am to eight when your shift began again in respectable retail. You earned a decent amount, even after having to pay Marty and the doormen a portion and even turning down a lap dance or two. The chili dog schtick kept its novelty for three nights and then you were driven to grinding against the pold like all the others, wondering if they’d all hoped to not end this way, same as you.

After a few weeks of this your piggy bank was less empty than it had been in months, hidden under the sink of your trailer behind the Comet and pulled out only to stuff in bills or else retrieve bread money, one Sunday you counted enough to pay your lease for the trailer slip. What was left would make a tiny little down payment for the electricity bill.

Or gas money for at least fifty miles or more in your gas guzzler. You weighed the bills in your hands and mournfully inspected your bruised knees. It was your off day, you contemplated going to the club in the evening as it didn’t respect the Lord’s day like the dollar store, but until then you had hours of a perfectly cloudless day to burn. Suddenly your trailer felt unbearable in its stuffy crampedness.

You tore outta your door and cranked up your daddy’s old Ford and with relief found it started with only a few tries. You tore down the road too, seeking the interstate after using that cash to top her tank off. For the first time in ages a full smile had begun to split your face. You went east, passing the last remnant of civilization that you called home and comprised El Paso’s dusty satellite cling ons. Then it was open range, nothing just mesas and tumbleweed, no one else could brag of such flat country or so wide a sky.

You floored it, the speed limit a decent 80 on its own, you went up to 120, fast as you dared push the transmission without fear of being stranded in the desert. Billboards warned of “last chance for gas, Van Horn 200 miles” followed by a possibly related: “God is coming, have you repented?”

All flew by in a unheeded blur as you cranked up the stereo and let the wind whip your hair. You covered a patrol car in a cloud of dust and saw his lights flash at you in the rearview. No chase commenced. When you leisurely drove back you noticed it was highway patrol, the sun was setting and he flashed his brights at you. You flicked them back.

“Hey officer Presley.” you murmured amused at him turning a blind eye to the speeding. Back when you had more money and made a regular habit of this amateur racing, you noticed the same benevolent light flicker and never a siren broke the still of the desert. “You ole softy.” you giggled at the thought of the middle aged officer being generous for you and only you, and wondered if he’d heard about what had become of you yet. Seems like most of the trailer park had. Favorite topic these days, right up there with when or if your daddy was ever gonna come home. Had the wives hating you during the day for the suspicion of their men wanking over you at night.

“Maybe if you could spare a single food stamp or somethin’ to help a gal in need I’d not be strippin’!” You had hollered at Ms Clarissa for all to hear and you stood by it. Buncha lousy, miserable hypocrites who did far worse behind their canvas doors.

You do go to the club that night.

You stripped down to your panties and bra and made enough to buy ice and a trip to the dentist. You packed the ice in the dead refrigerator and pampered yourself with some milk and a carton of ice cream for the filled tooth.

Next day you filled up your gas tank again and blazed a path through town, headed to the wide open and dreaming of busting your way into the male ranks of nascar drivers. You were deep into a daydream and committing a little self pity about how you hadn't been able to afford cable and were missing all the races when a siren’s blare broke your fantasy and the flicker of red lights against a pale blue sky filled your rearview. Begrudgingly you pulled to the shoulder as you cranked down your window, fiddling with the radio knobs till you could actually hear your crime when your peruser sauntered up.

“Well, well officer Presley, finally got persnickety about laws, have ya?” you observed to yourself with a grin as you watched the handsome man swagger towards you along the white line in your side mirror, tugging at his pants as he neared, trying to shimmy the article of clothing a little higher but is impeded by his belt, stopped by his sizable belly, his holster and buckle sitting under the bulge of it.

Your mouth watered. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him up close, not since last time he pulled you over, though you always took note when he was lounging outside his trailer in a lawn chair with his dog or stripped down and working under his hood. He was always built, intimidating to all the stupid rascals he kept in line along the border, but now he had become outright fat and his khaki shirt pulled apart between each button. Yet when he came up to your window, that little boy's grin was still gracing one of the most exquisite faces known to man, and his voice was tender and playful when he greeted you, just as you once recalled. You could see his sweaty hair, matted on his chest and belly between the gaps, his underarms have massive pit stains, doubly apparent thanks to the light color of his police uniform.

Your smile had something of the she-wolf in it as you greeted him, sniffing the air in hopes of catching a whiff as he leaned on your window frame, nearly crowding you from outside. “Hey Miss Lead Foot Louie,” he greeted, “you know why ya been pulled over?”

“Haven't got a clue, officer.” You stated the truth and enjoyed the way his title rolled off your tongue in a bantering way. It was easy.

Officer, officer. Somebody important and authoritative. No sir, yes sir, Officer.

His left eyebrow quirked and you wondered what he looked like at twenty five, how devastating that expression would have been before his wound and his meds and the water retention. Whatever power it may have once held, it holds nothing to that slightly bemused, slightly cynical world weariness that shows in his every expression now, that had a twitch of an eyebrow making you feel a fool in the most delicious way. “You’re goin’ seventy in a forty five, Miss.” his tone was patient even as his face suggested he’d like to tan your hide for being so reckless. “Reckless endangerment of others, and yourself,” he quoted sternly, “it ain’t no small matter and I don’t countenance it on my highway.”

Gosh, you just loved it when he laid claim to government property like highways and interstates. It helped you smile meekly at him and nod.

“Sorry officer, I got lax.” You purred, batting your eyes and you could see the heavy flap of their coal coated weight in your periphery. “I’ve seen you lettin’ me fly by on the interstate. I guess I thought…”

He leaned further into her car window, shirt gaping helpfully at his neck and allowing you a glimpse of sweaty hair, little droplets shining like rhinestone studs in the coarse curls. You leaned towards him, nipples hardening beneath your t-shirt bra as your mind started to the taste of salt. “You’re in town, miss.” he pointed out with grave disappointment for your lack of behavioral modulation, “S’one thing on the open plain, it’s another when you’re endangerin’ your fellow citizens, flyin’ through intersections, speedin’ up and threadin’ traffic when you’ve got a visible yield sign. Right there! Ain’t responsible. And I won’t countenance it.”

“Sorry officer.” you pleaded, lingering on his rank with all the sultry appreciation of a girl who lacks authority figures in her life. It made his palm itch.

He sighed and gave you a small smile, puffy, marshmallow lips set under a dark five o’clock shadow and it wasn’t even noon. “Now, how many times do I gotta pull ya over ‘fore ya start listenin’ to me?“ he asked with patient expectancy and you swallowed hard, actually feeling a small bit of guilt.

“Well,” you drew it out, biting your lip before tossing your head and beaming at him, “maybe just one last time. Like always.”

He tsked at you in reprimand but his eyes lit up with enjoyment, and that was worth whatever fine he might slap you with. It really wasn’t, not with how broke you were but gosh, you loved breaking the ice on him, reeling him in for another verbal tussle. One day you hoped those expressive hands would accidently smack you mid-wave when he was explaining something or other. You lived in hope of that day.

You watched as he straightened briefly and reviewed your vehicle, thumbing at the peeling paint on the hood near his thumb and swished at the sand on your tags. You held your breath, hoping the dust would disguise their expiration. Officer Presley just grunted and surveyed your lemoning old truck with the face of a man who appreciates nice things and doesn't see any nice things in sight. The face of a man whose patrol car was a Ford Mustang.

“You like speed.” he observed, still glancing at your tires with lip curling disdain. You wanted him to look at you like that but his face always softened when he turned back to you. It did this time as well.

“Yeah.” you breathed.

“You got a shit truck for speed, terrible drag, shit tread on your tires, bet it’s a gas guzzler, too.”

“Well yeah, officer,” you rolled your eyes at his survey, “but it’s not like I can afford much else right now so -I do this for fun. Fun’s not illegal in America yet, is it?”

He looked at you gravely then and his eyes turned sad. “Yeah I heard about the strippin’. You watch yourself now, be careful and make sure you don’t engage in no extra-curric-u-lars.” he advised sternly, peering over his tinted sunglasses at you while saying the big word, over pronouncing it with authoritative gravitas, “I’ve told Marty that means no bar tendin’ when you’re underage. And I’m tellin’ you now, that goes for solictin’, too. You understand me? Nice lil girl like you could get in a heap of trouble real fast. And I won’t countenance it.”

The rest of you perked up at the heavy handed advice, feeling smothered and also cherished that someone would give a shit, even if they were just defending laws n’ government regulations. Thinking of them as Officer Presley’s laws, as his property you were twerking on somehow ennobled your calling, made you feel like giving it a try to be good and not disappoint him. You felt grateful he hadn't chewed you out for the stripping like half the neighborhood, you’d expected some disgust.

When he finally looked at you with disdain, and you were determined that he would, it would be for something less unchangeable, a little less broke, a little more sexy.

“Yes sir, I got ya.” you acknowledged with a nervous laugh to hide your discomfort with the way he kept staring at you, reading you, it felt.

He kept at it for a few moments, chomping on that gum stick in his mouth, dexterous pink tongue lolling the stuff from one row of molars to the others and back. Most fascinating ping-pong match you’d ever seen and while he did his soul-reading, you watched his mouth.

As his jaw worked overtime, he narrowed his eyes at you, so blue they looked violet behind the tint of his lenses. “A’ight.” he decided at last and suddenly your window was bereft of his congenial bulk, you heard the rap of his knuckles on your truck roof.

“You stay outta trouble now, Missy.” he let you off with only a warning, two sharp knocks on the metal and then, “I’ll be seein’ ya.”

You watched the side mirror with investment as he meandered away, futilly hiking up his holster again as he went before he entered his squad car. He flashed his lights at you as you stayed gawking, you fumbled with the ignition and peeled out off the shoulder, moderating your acceleration upon afterthought. You’d promised to be good.

But nights at the Trucker Bar didn’t pay to be good. You had a laundry list of things you wanted and a hefty list of needs alongside it. You tried picking up a shift at the Texaco but Ashley there near tore your hair out against the beer coolers for encroaching on her shift. Everyone needed work and Spark City had never been much of a City, too little infrastructure to prosper its community in good times, much less in the pits of a recession. The Best Buy in El Paso was hiring, you read in a mail advertisement. Their wages cost as much gas it took to drive there and back.

So you got pretty good at something else, something Officer Presley wouldn’t be impressed by, or maybe he would in a moment of weakness but lord, much as you worried and panicked some times about him dropping in on the Trucker stop, meeting eyes and him just knowing you’d been doing extracurriculars, he never showed. Must not have been his scene. Not that you were sure what his scene was, you only ever saw him in his patrol car or else cleaning his guns on his trailer porch next to his Tiger figurine.

You assumed he liked blow jobs as much as the next man. But he never showed and so you got more and more lax, went out back of the bar to the Sagebrush desert and blew heavy tippers against the concrete wall, ant bites and stickers plaguing your knees. So far you hadn’t even needed to walk on over past the broken wall to the dingy motel in back and do the horizontal tango.

Moderate extracurriculars and the dancing was enough to tip your little piggy bank into having a little something to shake at the end of the day. You got yourself a haul of cereal and hot pockets that night, even splurged on milk that went rancid by the next day without refrigeration. You spent your late mornings debating how much money you had left for rent and how much you had for electricity and the viability of buying a generator instead of paying the bill. You also wanted a Blackberry phone real bad, your old flip phone a relic and on its last wheezes -maybe that’s why your dad’s calls never came through.

You were chewing off the price tag of your dollar flip flops, walking barefoot out of your daytime workplace -Dollar General- at the end of your shift when you realized there was a patrol car pulled up beside your Ford. First you cursed, then you grinned as you saw the familiar figure of Officer Presley wiping at your windshield with a bandana. Then you cursed again as you realized he was checking your expired tags.

You jogged over the burning asphalt, still tied flip flops in hand, hoping you didn’t look like shit from having taken off the Dollar Store vest without smoothing your hair afterwards. You hadn’t been good, he could be here for anything, soliciting, or for the speeding you know he caught on his radar or else the tags.

“Hey officer!” you chirped, as carefree and smiley as you could manage -and you’d gotten to be a tidy little liar at the club, insisting you couldn’t wait to have greasy, unwashed truckers in your mouth.

He turned his head slowly, hand still heavy on the windshield and observed you through those glasses again. “Don’t you ‘hey officer’ me.” he retorted, riled despite himself at the way you always said his rank like he had you locked up with frilly pink handcuffs to his waterbed. He shook his head and focused on the variety of delinquencies he had to reprimand you for. “These tags are out of date.”

“Aww,” you feigned consternation pretty decently as you really hadn’t bothered to prioritize the tags with every other dire cost pummeling you right now, “I’m sorry Elvis.” you tried a little familiarity as you drew closer, watching enthralled as a stale desert window tufted the front of his black locks of his sweaty forehead, “Things’ve been a lil tight for a while now, what with daddy leavin’. Slipped my mind.”

He pulled his hand off the windshield and his hands tried to rest on his hips but they slipped and ended up in an odd, off-kilter sorta sling on his pockets and belly, “They’re three years overdue.” his tone sounded unimpressed, you shivered despite the heat.

“Oh.” you chewed your lip and gazed at him hopefully.

“I oughta tan your hide, lettin’ you turn feral with all my concessions.” he said aloud while stippling his fingers on your rusting truck hood. His eyes dropped to the newly purchased, junk flip flops you still clutched. “Why’re you bare foot?”

“My last pair broke.” you explained, end of your shift the thong had snapped and here you were with the replacements.

“Well put ‘em on, the road’s nasty.” he grunted in aggravation, eyes dropping to your feet and widening in disgust at the welts and blisters you’d accumulated from your cheap stripper heels. “Holy shit, that’s gnarly right there.”

You felt a bit offended by that, wanting to object it was the toll of the job, sorta like fat guts came from lounging in patrol cars for a living. Figuring you were in deep deep enough shit as is without outright insulting him, you bit your tongue and chewed on the plastic connector again, trying to free your sandals.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop that.” he growled after a minute and to your bewilderment he stepped in your space and grabbed the foam footwear out of your mouth, “Gonna chip a tooth goin’ on that way, then your tips’ll go down, ya thought of that? No? No you don’t think ahead about nothin’.”

He was working himself up into a frustrated frenzy, tugging at the plastic tag, mumbling all the while about your behavior until it snapped at last and separated the flip flops. He stared dumbly at his success for a minute while you tittered. Bad move on your part, his eyes darkened and he genuinely scowled at you, something more effective than it should have been with his outdated sideburns carving lines in his cheeks.

“Turn around.” he demanded and you snapped your mouth shut, confused by his attitude and furtively eyeing your flip flops still dwarfed in his gloved hands. Who the hell wore gloves in this decade? In this century? In an El Paso suburb that was only a degree or two cooler than the surface of the sun.

You turned around.

“Hands on the hood.” he told you.

You placed them on the burning metal and wished you had gloves, angling your body away from the hot body of the truck, wincing at the heat, on tippy toes to save your feet from the asphalt. Was he gonna cuff you? He hadn’t even read you your rights and could a person even be arrested for tags? You really didn’t know and you never thought he would-

Suddenly a loud snap resounded in the empty parking lot and a white hot sting against your bottom distracted you from the pain of the hot car. You yelped in shock, hand flying to nurse the denim clad ass cheek that was burning from his smack. You glared over your shoulder at Officer Presley, ready to give him what for about him taking parental liberties until you saw his face folded into childish consternation, poofy bottom lip jutted out in remorse as he viewed the snapped flip flop in his hands.

He’d broken a shoe on you. Appreciation flared back, and you wanted to squeeze his cheeks and tell him it was ok, he could ruin the other, too.

“Aww shit, now I-I-I didn’t mean for that-“ he bemoaned, turning the ruined foam pad around and around in his hands as if there was a way to fix it when the other half was on the ground.

“It’s ok.” You heard yourself comfort the fucker who’d just spanked you in broad daylight.

“But you just finished your shift.” he muttered, and his consideration for your inconvenience touched you, “Here I-I-I’ll go buy ya another pair. Uh, yeah, c’mon.”

You skipped alongside him, trying to get him to look over at you but his face was flushed and his eyes trained on his task, picking out a hot pink pair instead of the polka dots you had chosen. “Does nothin’ for your lil sooties and brings the attention away from the polish ya got painted and instead directs the eye to the crustaceans and shit ya got goin’ on.” he referenced your calluses with a grimace and reached into his back pocket to pull out his worn wallet.

You stared at the hefty meat of his ass the entire time and almost missed it when he pulled out five dollars and put them on the register. You watched his ass and its khaki clad splendor as he returned the wallet without change and wiggled it into the tight back pocket.

At the double sliding glass doors of the front he snapped the tag there and then and squatted down with a little grunt, his knees popping audibly as he gallantly laid out your cheap slippers. You stepped into them, taking the liberty of putting a balancing hand on his sweaty shoulder.

His hand ran up your wrist and held you there a minute longer than it needed for stability. He squeezed twice and let go. You watched him heft himself up to his feet with admiration and a little pity for the stiff way he moved when he’d been stuck in one position for too long. Seemed to you so long as he was kept moving he did alright, nice and fluid and you’d seen him chase and tackle a man on foot awhile back, he’d been runnin’ like the wind then. He had it in him, just lounging in the patrol car hardly helped things.

You got the sudden and stupid urge to ask if he wanted to go swimming in the Motel 6’s pool, it would be good for his joints and your sore back and he’d be wet and maybe have his shirt off and you could-

“I got somethin’ to tell ya, it’s w-w-why I-I stopped when I saw your truck and uh, sweetie, let’s stay h-here in the cool.” he gently tugged your arm back with the pads of his pretty fingers hooked on your deltoid, pulling you back over the threshold and into the dryer sheet scented air of the Dollar General.

“What is it?” you asked him as he seemed nervous, a foreign look on him. You started to feel a little panic at the thought he might be leaving, going back to wherever he came from, done with this Podunk town and its big crime and little criminals.

“There ain’t no easy way to say this a-a-and I wanted you to hear it from me.” he chose his words carefully, eyes trained on the white and speckled tile below your feet until after a big breath he lifted his stunning eyes and gazed at you gently and in the most gallant way you’d ever been looked at before, murmuring in clear, compassionate tones, “They caught your daddy the other night -drug runnin’. Ain’t no petty marijuana charge or somethin’, it’s the big stuff. He’s gonna be put away, for a long while, in-car-cer-ated.” he specified with distinct pronunciation, “For a long while, Miss. I’m sorry to be the one t-t-to t-tell but I wanted you to know it’s true, I-I-l booked him in myself.”

“Well,” you swallowed hard, a little ashamed you’d been more alarmed at the prospect of officer Presley leaving than suspecting anything wrong with your walking disappointment of a father, “well damn.” you muttered.

“You don’t seem much surprised.” he pointed out, pulling his tinted shades down his nose to get a clear review of you, he had a red line on his nose from their weight.

“I barely know him anymore,” you admitted, “and I doubted he was gone spreading charity or something.”

“Yeah.”

“But damn -he was supposed to come back.” you felt a little angry about that part. A little childish for believing it too.

“Maybe he meant to,” he soothed, although your father’s entrenched position on the river suggested a more permanent stay, “and was doing all that sellin’ to give you somethin’ better but he was breakin’ the law and endangerin-“

“-Endangering others, I know.” you snapped at him, not because he was anything but nice, you snapped at him because he was very kind and he had a silver, shiny, sanctimonious badge on the large swell of his left peck.

The longer you stared at the badge the more you wanted to sink your dollar store acrylics into the meat of that man and try tearing -they’d probably break and it made your eyes swim with tears of frustration and you stomped out of the double glass doors into the heat of the parking lot. The sun would be going down soon and that’s when your best customers would pour into the club. You snapped your way across the asphalt on the flip flops he got you, ignoring his calls behind you as you wrenched open the squeaking truck door and hopped up into the cab.

“Really it’s fine!” you yelled at him as he came up to the window again, the concern and reproval written on his face way more heavy than you could take right then, “It’s not like I was expecting him back anytime soon anyway and -and you’ve got a job to do, ok? I get it. I get it, ok? Now I gotta go, officer.” You cranked up your engine and diesel fumes swirled around him. He batted the air in front of his face like a dainty lady would a swarm of flies and leaned heavier still on your rolled down window.

“I just wanted to let ya know.” he reaffirmed his intention, his gesticulations bringing your eyes to the gold watch around his wrist that jangled against the car metal, “Tell ya not to uh, don’t do nothin’ rash, alright? Just ‘cause he’s gone. You’re a big girl, you’ll make it. You ‘member what I said last time ‘bout extracurriculars?”

“I’d like to do you some extracurriculars.” you seethed with an angry smile and he looked taken aback, actually stepping away from the truck and his belly heaved with his offended breaths. One hand balled in a fist at his side and the other twitched, fiat palm swaying beside his thigh like he was gonna smack again. Extracurriculars -you’d like to take his no doubt chubby little cock right down to the sweaty thatched base and chew, just to earn a real spanking.

Maybe this lewd intent was written on your face but he slowly backed away from your truck like you’d gone looney, pointing his finger at you as he went, “You be good, I mean it. And that’s goes for respectin’ officers of the law.”

He was about to get into his side, looking over his car top in admonishment and you quickly made sure your truck was still in park before turning round in the seat and hanging yourself out the window, cleavage pressed against the edge to your best advantage and blew him a kiss. “I’m always a good girl, officer!” you swore adamantly and it stopped him dead in his tracks, stopped in a half crouch to his seat, that eyebrow disbelieving, “Officer Presley commissioned me to be good and I ain’t anything but!” you swore.

Took him five whole seconds to recall he was supposed to have his ass seated by then and he lowered himself the rest of the way into his car. His belly brushed the steering wheel and his legs spread themselves even in the driver's seat, it made your crushed breasts tingle. “Be-have.” he pointed that finger again and your thighs clamped shut on your seats, overwhelmed with unbidden thoughts of the long and slender digit probing inside you. How’d his fingers stay so slender when the rest of him bulked up?

You saluted as poorly as you could and watched him drive off, aggression plain in his accelerations and the way he took his turns. He shoulda stayed and spanked the other cheek, you thought, as you turned around and slumped in your seat, legs splayed and fighting a desperate urge to slip a hand down your shorts. You hoped to god he’d find some quiet shoulder of the road in the desert this evening and with a car passing every twelve minutes, tug a load out to the thought of wacking your denim booty with his belt. It would be good for his blood pressure.

Hands sticky from your own dismal release, you pulled out of the parking lot ten minutes behind him and, too scarce on time to go home first, drove straight to the club, knowing full well that you could always just strip down to your underwear.

Or less.

What with dad permanently unhelpful now, it was a fact of life that you’d have to do more than get by till he came back. You’d already accepted that awhile ago, this just confirmed it. You figured you’d need to save another stash of money, like the real professional girls did, girls like Kelcie and Shay, a little fund for renting out a motel room at night. The one a quarter mile out back of the truck stop, no harm in it except for a few bramble scratches in the dark and the odd coyote not scared off by the truckers’ loud moans out back at the blow job wall.

But for tonight you hadn’t any such stash and so after a few hours at the poll and chatting up the fellas lounging on barstools, you found the tip jar lacking and made one of those lil deals that were becoming almost as commonplace as getting your butt pinched.

This time, in the moth attracting glow of the outside light, your customer had a New York accent and while at cock level you learned from his fancy, dangling silver keychain that his buddies knew him as Joe E.

Now Joe E had a little brown cock and a small, fused ballsack under a sizable belly like most of these men in here did, and you did some of your best work on him. It was easy to do with him fitting in your mouth so easily, you pulled out every trick you’d learned at this wall, all of which he unfortunately resisted succumbing to more than the usual client. He’d pull himself out of your throat and he would grip his base, prolonging his experience and you supposed he had a right to it, he was paying money for something and he might as well do it how he liked but your jaw ached after a while. Soon your ears ached worse, exhausted and fed up with the self important monologue he kept up between the usual, self promoting stud talk that an unimpressive man in his forties likes to indulge in while paying for sex acts out back of a hole in the wall truckers club.

Joe E tasted like he hadn’t touched a fresh vegetable in years and through the overwhelming desire to puke you recognized with some pleasure that he was tipping you extra for being “like a damn vacuum down there, you pretty little dog.”

You drove home from the club, headlights on dim in the early morning and passed by Officer Presley’s double wide with intent, choosing the route you’d take if you were walking. It was dark inside but as you passed you saw he wasn’t asleep, his car was still gone.

You wondered if his doggie was in there or on patrol with him. You sighed and pulled into your own weedy drive, depressed with something you didn’t know the cause of.

You brushed your teeth, you ate cereal after remembering you hadn’t eaten, and stripped out of your clothes before crashing into bed, falling asleep in seconds despite the musty, unconditioned air inside.

It was the next morning, so near afternoon as to barely warrant it but Elvis Presley liked to take credit for any bit of effort he made and so let the record show it was still morning, when he entered the Waffle House off Moody Blvd and sat himself down in a booth and ordered his usual. It arrived at 11:56 in the morning and so it was breakfast, not lunch by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been up all night, the usual plaguing reasons and a few added to it. You, thoughts of you and tanning your hide and gripping you and you squirming over his lap made his patrols a hellish experience and he was almost glad for the distraction of the fucker without plates pulling out in front of him and making a run for it through the border checkpoint at 8:45 pm.

Now he was distracting himself with food, and if there was anything in his life to rival his appreciation of a slippery and obligin’ pussy, it was five scrambled eggs piled high on a white plate with burnt bacon to the side and waffles stacked on a companion plate. Brenda put them down with a smile and gave him a side hug that made his face brush her apron and shoulda gotten her fired by the food regulations but Elvis liked Brenda for her affectionate ways and the way he didn’t ever have to correct her about his order.

“You look tired.” she worried over him and he found a smile starting to threaten on his face, he stuck his fork in the eggs to distract himself.

“Just a busy night.” he admitted and absentmindedly rubbed at his sore knee.

“Aww you’re a treasure, keepin’ us so safe.” he patted his arm again and he fully smiled this time. “You just tell me if you need anythin’ else. I’ve got more coffee, lemme get ya more coffee, Elvis.”

“Thanks Miss Brenda.” he called to her and she giggled as she fetched the cloudy pot.

The bell over the entrance jangled and from Elvis’ chosen vantage point in a booth that faced the doors, always facing his entry that man, he saw Joe Esposito walk in, smiling like a motherfucker for a Wednesday morning and swaggering like Elvis hadn't seen the little runt do since he passed the bar back in 1980 something.

“Hey Brenda, hey EP!” Joe greeted and Elvis braced himself for a cheerful morning when all his hopes had been for some quiet and a little maple syrup glazed despondency.

“Hey Joe.” Elvis greeted his old friend, “You in town?”

“Yeah, my route’s takin’ me to Las Cruces.” Joe informed him as he helped himself to the booth across from Elvis without invitation. If he ate one of Elvis’ bacon strips, even reached for it, Elvis would be pulling out his Glock.

“How’s business?” Elvis asked as neutrally as possible, knowing that it was a sore subject for Joe who had once bragged about being destined for big things, holding it over everybody else at the high school back in Memphis. Still Elvis couldn’t help but ask, partly because it was small talk and if he could get Joe on the subject he knew the feller wouldn’t stop talking, and Elvis could then eat his eggs with minimal requirements for speech. He also took some inner consolation in the fact that all Joe’s brags had worked out about as poorly as Elvis’ dreams had.

It made for two portly middle aged men in a Waffle House booth discussing gas prices at noon.

Joe ordered just pancakes and Elvis judged the lack of meat from beneath his lavender shades and patiently asked the right questions to keep Joe smacking his breakfast with an open mouth and waxing sentimental about life on the road. It suited Joe, even if it was boringly unimportant, he was king of the road in between stops at Walmart distribution centers and out in the stretches of no man’s land the girls were cheap, far cheaper than any Times Square street walker. Joe hadn’t been to Times Square since he was sixteen but it was something he still liked to brag of and to incorporate in his life story like it was an integral part of his narrative.

“But are they fresher?” Elvis inquired, always intrigued by the subject of pussy but also harboring a deep aversion to the way most men spoke on the subject.

“Nah, not really, but that’s why ya go for the mouth.” Joe catechsied Elvis on the ways of call girls and Elvis felt his eye twitch, personally he enjoyed blow jobs as much as the next guy but to avoid the pussy all together as Joe was suggesting? It took all the joy out of the act for Elvis and he picked at his eggs morosely as he listened. He’d had such a large appetite before Joe sat down and started talking of fishy cunts and girls with throats like drainage pipes.

Joe had been to the truckers lounge, the trucker club, the strip place, whatever it was called -the place Marty ran. Elvis knew it, he tried not to react to the name, to pretend he didn’t gas up at the Texaco next door with the express intent of hoping to catch sight of you some nights. He never did, and he’d never been in. But Joe had gone in and Joe being Joe sat across from Elvis the next morning and bragged to a law officer about paying for a blow job. Which along with ruining Elvis’ appetite was offense enough for Elvis to decide to arrest the fucker, but the eloquent details of the slut who’d given it to him made Elvis see red.

Elvis didn’t really mind folks watching you, some stupid, possessive part of him was glad that all those fuckers drooled over you and couldn’t touch, same as him as he sat year after year in his lawn chair on his porch, watching you pass his trailer with longer and longer legs, prettier and prettier as the dusty days rolled by.

But to touch you? That someone else had touched you? The butter on his waffles suddenly looked wrong.

“-just fifty bucks man. Fifty bucks well spent.” Joe was bragging like he’d cheated the stock market and Elvis heard a roar in his ears that the doctors swore the pills would take care of.

You’d sucked Joe Esposita for fifty dollars right after Elvis had told you to be good and you’d blown him a kiss.

His chest hurt.

Elvis had Joe’s greasy face pressed into the syrupy plate with his hands behind his back and cuffs clanking before either the officer or the suspect even realized his intent. “Prostitution’s illegal, motherfucker, as is paying for such services in the state of Texas.”

You’d told him you’d be good. Fuck! He so badly didn’t wanna think of Joe being your first that he had to countenance speculation about you making a regular habit of this thing which was both worse and better all at once and he took out his frustration at that knowledge by trundling Joe into the back of the squad car with far more force than necessary.

It was a flimsy charge to file, Elvis knew that even before the clerk gave him the usual papers to fill out with a confused look. Wasn’t like Elvis was gonna put down your face or name, give away your crime. Without that connection the charge of paying for sex was flimsy and Joe would be released before dark. But it was nice to hear him sqealin’ and bitchin’ about his driving schedule and a buncha other ordinary begs that made Joe E sound as pathetic as Elvis knew he was.

It fortified Elvis throughout the day, kept him from going to your trailer or interrupting you at work to ask why in God’s name you would degrade yourself like that. It kept him bolstered with red hot rage until he was staked out in desert twilight on the dark side of the Texaco, headlights off and his eyes squinted as he watched patrons and girls go into the club.

This was his fault, for locking your daddy up, driving you to such lengths. He felt sick about it, shoulda known a stubborn, white trash girl like you would just reach for the next alternative this easy. Made him sick. Elvis suddenly felt nice and superior to all these men filing into the neon lit cinderblock structure, he had resisted touching himself to the fantasies that had filled his mind about you last night. Wasn’t pertinent that he had a stiffy right now, that was just the nerves and excitement of a stake out revving him up

He lit up a cigar and let Mellancamp growl over the stereo, engine off and the key turned just a little for the dash lights to stay on. He wasn’t sure when you got off work at the club, he assumed it must be some time around dawn and that suited his shit circadian rhythm just fine. He wasn’t tired as the hours went by, he was downright furious and his heart hurt and he popped a couple oxys sitting there with his busted knee throbbing and his mind a demented echo chamber.

By the time the sky was turning a sickly violet with the first promises of sunrise, Elvis had worked himself up to such a degree as to have his door flung open and one boot rhythmically tapping against the cement in his agitation, legs spread to alleviate the ache his pills had provoked in his groin even as the rest of him felt loose and untethered and decidedly deserving for once.

When you walked out the front of the club into the stale early morning air you laughed to yourself at the silliness of thinking you’d need a coat. Your little denim shorts and cherry print crop top suited just fine even in the early dark. That NASCAR jacket you’d had your eye on, the one Shay showed you on eBay, it would have to wait, the tips were shit tonight. No real hurt with that, wasn’t like it was cold. Just another something you wanted and would have to put off. You hadn’t driven tonight as the walk was cheaper and closer but you’d forgotten your pepper spray back at the truck stop and you hesitated for a moment about going back in, hating the idea of getting sucked into some sorta early morning drama from the drunk leftovers. While you were debating, a flash of white seared your vision and you staggered to a stop in the middle of the mostly deserted parking lot.

Headlights.

Well shit, now you really wished you had that spray. You thought about making a run for it, trying the nearest truck cab and praying the guy in it was less of a creep than whoever stakes out on the deserted side of the building.

“You get over here!” the approaching figure came into view, finally silhouetted by his own lights as he stalked towards you wearing a leather trench coat like some noir villain.

It would be a lie to say you breathed easier when you recognized Officer Presley’s commanding baritone.

“Shit shit shit.” you chanted beneath your breath at how riled he sounded and his right hand started making angry gestures for you to approach as he himself closed the distance with a deceptively fast gait.

“Hey, get your ass over here, I called you.” he yelled far more loudly than necessary with his massive hands already closing around your wrists, you didn’t even think to make a run for it, where exactly in the world was a kinder place to turn to than this angry law officer who always nosed in your business too much? “Get, get over here.” he repeated with a yank and tugged you stumbling over your flip flops to his squad car.

He bent you over the hood, just like you’d dreamed of more than a few times and you felt the heat of the headlight against your thigh as your shoulders got twisted back. “-solicitation,” he was pronouncing and your heart sank at the realization he had caught you after your promise, “prostitution-“ the cold clamp of a handcuff on your wrist had none of the rebel thrill you once imagined, it was terrifying and you whimpered pathetically at the thought that you’d expended his patience, that maybe your flirty banters had been one sided and he really was fed up with you.

“Officer-“ you begged with your cheek smashed to the hood.

Some guy had walked up, actually being a good citizen and concerned about the manhandling. It took one flash of Officer Presley’s badge for the guy to back away with a mere “you at least gonna read her the rights, man?”, throwing concerned looks over his shoulder. Maybe he’d been a tipper, you didn’t recall one face from another unless they were awfully ugly or skinny.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll read you your rights, you got the goddamn right to remain silent-“ Officer Presley was struggling with the other cuff and his weight on your lower back made you wheeze just as he was short of breath. He was awfully worked up, huffily trying to clasp the cuffs and slurring your Miranda rights carelessly for so staunch a believer in laws and precepts.

When he succeeded and stood you upright you craned your neck to look at his sweaty face behind you and his eyes were wild and his hair disheveled like he’d run his hands through it a million times tonight. He looked a bit obsessed with his nose flaring like that, his speech slurring and his usual decorum completely goners.

“Are you drunk?” you balked in alarm as he trundled you into the backseat, face first into leather with your cuffed hands behind you, ass stuck out the door.

“Of course I ain’t!” he howled and pushed your butt further until you righted yourself on the bench seat, “I’m your officer of the law, that’s what I am.”

“I-I-I know that, I just-“ you felt a cold sweat break out at the realization he kept all his stubborn righteousness even skunk drunk on something, “-you seem a little…impaired. For a law officer. For a law officer driving on a government road. See! I do listen, I do and I really don’t think that while you’re dr-“

“I don’t even touch the booze, unlike you.” he spit. “Nothin’ gonna get you outta this, this time you’re gonna learn your lesson!” he wagged his finger and slammed the door shut, you could hear his seething monologue through his open door as he came round and took his own seat up front, the hard plastic partition only muting it slightly. “I can’t stand, won’t stand for it, no hard times gonna make for you-“

You tugged at the cuffs on your wrists and swallowed at their security, the ole man might be inebriated but he sure knew his line of work. It made you doubly anxious at how vulnerable you were, unbuckled and cuffed in the back seat of a man about to hit the road in a blind, possibly medicated rage. Your one glimmer of hope was the fact you were the cause of that rage -and you hoped, hoped so damn hard he cared out of some sort of fondness, not anger.

“Strippin’ and blowin’ and probably snortin’ shit and you ain’t even outta highschool-“

“You turned eighteen?!” He balked, jerking the rearview down to stare you in the eyes.

“Yes sir.” you agreed meekly.

“And you didn’t tell me? I’d have gotten you somethin’!” he cried out, “Eighteen and don’t tell nobody, no mama, no daddy, and now fuckin’ with the law-“

“Officer Presley I understand you’re angry and I’m sorry-“ you tried your most vehemently ass kissing tone and scooted up to the edge of the seat, face pressed the the scuffed, forehead greased plastic divider, “I’m so sorry I had to break my promise to ya but money’s been so tight, I—ooh shit-!“

You tipped over on your side as he hit the accelerator, the wheel already turned for a complete 180 spin to leave the dingy parking lot and its flashing neon lights. You sat yourself back up and pressed your face back where you could watch his leather gloves spin the wheel, and breathe as close to him as possible even if it didn’t serve to make him notice. The plastic sorta hampered the more primal assets at your disposal. You were readying for some more protests when he spoke up, his pouty, boyish, hurt tone emphasized by his jerky merging into three lanes worth of morning commute traffic

“— why didn’t you come to me?” he cried out and you had to give it to him, crossing three white lines that smoothly while in a rage wasn’t for anyone, he had a knack, “Why didn’t you say, ‘Officer Presley, if I don’t have me enough money for’ -what is it you need money for?”

“EVERYTHING!” You screamed back, exasperated and a little scared at the blur of tail lights he wove you through.

“You’re greedy,” he surmised, “you’d rather go work at the tit shack as a lot lizard, shakin’ it for strangers and suckin’ Joe E’s cock than ask for my help. My help!” He stabbed at his chest with a gloved finger and it was quite obvious how tore up he was over that mental image, you didn’t know he knew such particulars but you could use this to your advantage, you could try at least.

“Officer Presley,” you cooed as gently as you could with road noise and a plastic divider hampering your sultry intentions, if you had freedom of movement you’d be reaching around his thick neck and tucking that one sweaty curl behind his ear where it tufted with his sideburn, “I’d have preferred it was you,” you watched closely as that sank in, the lead foot easing on the accelerator, there was a choice up ahead, left to the precinct or right to the trailer park, “but I’ve got my pride and I couldn’t just take charity from you. I kept hopin’ you’d come in, then we could both do each other a favor.”

You could hear him sniff, running a hand underneath his nose. “That right?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, forehead thudding back against the plastic and at the red light intersection he stopped and craned his neck to look at you. “Don’t take me in, not this morning, please, pleaaasssse!” you begged, “We’ve both been working all night and we’re tired and sad and- you need somebody to make you dinner before you fall asleep, don’t ya?”

It was a dirty, dirty ploy to distract him like that but you could see with searing clarity the way his eyes wavered in their glare, then softened into childlike meekness at the thought of food and companionship. “You wanna come back to mine?” he whispered, gravelly from all the yelling and his eyelids batted under the lavender shades, azure and owlish.

“I really do.” you agreed, “Mine hasn’t had any air conditioning in seven months.” you admitted and he made a wounded noise of protest for your deprivations. You’d make him see why you took to stripping, he just had to be eased into it.

“I didn’t take it outta the freezer ‘fore I left.” he realized dejectedly as he turned right -away from the station.

You took a massive breath and tried to make it go to your swimming head, relief coursing through you at getting your way. Then you tried to process what he’d said. “Oh, your dinner?” you prodded.

“Yeah. It’s frozen. Lasagna.” he mumbled.

“Well, that’s nothing me and a microwave can’t solve.” you assure, gauging how his profile had softened in the dim lighting of the cab lights but his grip on the wheel and his jittery leg were about as stiff and upset as when he cuffed you. “What could I do for you in exchange for a bite?” you whispered, the sudden stop of the car making you realize with a hitch in your breath that you were in front of his place.

“I liked you.” he suddenly spoke up with such vehemence that it would have been comedic, what with him having already given into you and taken you home, but instead it was a little heartbreaking. “I liked you but you was too young!”

“I still like you.” you hedged, “Even though you cuffed me and called me a lot lizard.” you teased.

The solicitation, the sharing, it seemed to be his chief sore.

“That’s whatchu is!.” He grouched, staring out his front windshield at the single hung lamp illuminating freshly washed vinyl. “But I’ve taken you home anyways.”

“It’s really sweet of you.” you insisted, shifting on the peeling bench seat and wondering when he’d take you out of the car. “Are you gonna let me warm up that lasagna?”

“You said you wished I’d come in?” he ignored you and went back to your previous comment, about wishing he had frequented the truck stop.

Well, well, Officer Presley - a man like all others, after all.

You smirked, sticky lip gloss feeling a little cracked at this corners as you beamed at your little victory. “Maybe I could find a way to show my appreciation for takin’ me back to your air conditioned little palace. -while the lasagna is warming up.” you clarified and heard him grunt, and shift, his legs spreading a little wider in the cramped front seat.

“Yeah?” he pressed, sounding a little winded unless you were just too quick with the assumptions tonight.

“Yeah.”

“You offerin’ to be *my* lot lizzard?” He asked and after a tense minute where you were unsure if he was about to be angry again, he tapped the glass and whispered, “A joke, c’mon, don’t you get it? It’s a joke.”

“But I would!” You insisted after laughing for his benefit.

“Hmm.” He sniffed again, “Well. Hmm.” and with that unclear utterance he opened his door and heaved himself out into the stale Texas air, hiking up his pants again in that useless habit and shutting it behind him. It seemed an eternity before he finished hiking and shifting and shaking a leg out before he came and opened your door, a gentlemanly action made necessary by the stupid cuffs, still clanking around your wrists, as you scooted out of the back seat.

Officer Presley surveyed you up and down, blinking blearily as if he hadn’t seen you fully in the dark parking lot, like the glare of his headlights wasn't sufficient to show him your little cherry tank top and denim shorts, the satin tops of your red bra peeking out of the stretched neckline. “Hmm.” he hummed again and surveyed you once more, the pull of the cuffs behind your back adding to your posture being a bit booby. “Now ‘fore you cross my threshold, I’ve got house rules.” he was swaying a bit alarmingly and caught himself on the side mirror, you chose to ignore this and give him all the deferential attention needed to cure his -jealousy? Was he jealous? Of all the men who tipped you? “First rule, no dirty feet in the house. I hate filthy carpets. I hate them.”

“O-ok.” you agreed.

“Clean feet.”

“Okey.”

“Hmm. Ok.” he closed his eyes and recalled the next, “Let’s see uh- no back talkin’! No talkin’ back, what I say, goes, in my house.”

It was a trailer, not a house. But:

“Of course! You’re the man of the house!” you enthused with a little bounce for his benefit. He was still wacky and veering so fast from niceness to belligerence you were pretty sure you’d end up a little worse for wear after this no matter what. The thought excited you.

“Ok.” he pronounced, staring at the gravel and your feet like he didn’t know what to do now. You wondered when was the last time somebody had come into his place. “I got a doggie, too. Backroom. His word is law, don’t go botherin’ him none.“

Having seen the size of the dog, even if you were inclined to be a jerk to it, you wouldn’t dare. “Gosh of course.”

“Ok.” again. “I’ll get the hose.”

He left you there, leaning cuffed against his squad car as he trundled over his singed lawn to the side of the trailer, returning with the running hose in hand.

You knew it was destined for your feet and didn’t make a fuss as the warm hose water splashed against your blisters, soothing away the dust and the sticky cocktail splashes and god knows what else.

“House rules?” he prompted as he sprayed.

It was getting quite light out now. Probably close to six in the morning. What a long night. “Clean feet, respect doggie, no back talking.” You listed.

“And make yourself useful.” he grunted as if he had mentioned that before and you’d been faulty in your retelling.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Mm, ‘cause you’re my lot lizard now, ain’t ya?” he hummed, hose pointed to the side and suddenly his face was very close to yours, his belly closer and pressed to yours.

“Y-yeah.” you gasped.

“You gonna be a useful lil helper, hmm? Let hims take care of ya while you take care of him?”

Well shit, you weren’t at all sure if this were house rules or a big sexual game. Either way you wanted some lasagna and the crisp prospect of air conditioned sleep. “Yes, officer.”

“Good girl.” he turned the nozzle off on the hose, clamping it at the mouth and dropping it to the gravel.

“You- are you gonna uncuff me?” you giggled nervously as he swayed above you, nose almost brushing yours, eyes heavy and drooping.

“Hmm,” he stepped back and hooked a thumb in his belt loop, a shit eating grin spread over his face, bunching up the apples of his cheeks and turning him into a boy before your very eyes, “nah. I think -nope. Not gonna.”

“Well- shit, officer.” You sputtered, “You’ve got some little secrets?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of how little they are, sweetheart.” he cheesed before reaching out and hooking a finger in your strap, and tugging you gently by it up his porch.

It was odd, Seeing his ceramic tiger up close. Like déjà vu, or walking into a movie, some dream playing out. If your hands had been free, you would’ve pet the head concrete reverently, feeling some sort of gratitude to the noble beast for making your girlhood wishes come true as you tripped through the screen door and into an icebox of a trailer.

He shut the door and pressed you up against it with a move smoother and more practiced than you expected from him. Maybe wrestling criminals and doing the nasty called for the same dexterity. Or maybe he’d been fuckin’ somebody else all this time, waiting for you to grow up. Maybe he’d made a whole harem out of the trailer park and you were just his last pick. The thought hurt terribly, worse yet as you knew most days he was a sweetie, a funny man, attractive and well liked, not this grumpy, pill drunk trailer Baron that smushed you with his belly and sneering face so near but never descending as a lover’s should.

“Kiss me.” you goaded, licking your lips in a studied way. The little contemplative, whining sound he made took you by surprise.

He pulled down your bottom lip with a gloved finger and checked your mouth and tongue like a damn dentist. “Listerine first.”

Of course. Hygiene.

Clean feet, clean mouth, just for him to probably put his piss dribbled cock in it.

He stepped away and methodically took off his gloves, laid them on a small, doily adorned side table by the door, and then his gun and his belt came off with a satisfied grunt that made your inner thighs tingle. The thud of his large flashlight finished this routine.

Doilies.

There were doilies and frilly curtains and the oddest assortment of cheap finery around the place. A nod to the Tuscan craze taking over places like Target and such, while having a unique spin on it you weren’t sure what to name. You took it all in as he piloted you to the bathroom and methodically he pulled out a still wrapped toothbrush and plopped a jumbo sized bottle of mint flavored mouthwash on the fake marble counter.

“You kept that in case you have a lady guest?” You teased as the clinical silence was all a bit funny.

“Yeah.” he agreed without a hint of amusement and you sobered up again at the idea of him having anybody in here but you.

He poured a large quantity of the mouthwash into a paper cup, retrieved from the tidy stack of paper cups beside the sink for that purpose. His housekeeping was an odd mix of spectrum-like meticulousness and slovenly disorder. There were three pairs of pants on the bathroom rug beneath your feet and yet the mouthwash cups were stacked as carefully as the Tower of Babel. “Swish it for seventy five seconds.” He directed very soberly, tipping the liquid disinfectant into your mouth. You almost swallowed the shit. While you swished till your eyes burned and your tongue went numb from scalding mint, he tore at the packaging for the toothbrush.

“Ok, spit.” you happily spat out the green torture liquid and grinned back at him in the mirror.

“Never had a man ask me to spit it out before.” you teased.

He fumbled the toothbrush in surprise for a minute before giving you an admonishing eyebrow. “Girl don’t. We gotta brush your teeth.”

Instead of doing the obvious thing, the honorable thing and uncuffing you, he instead took his place behind you and pushed the toothbrush between your lips, moving it as if you had no arms and were helpless. All this to keep you cuffed.

What a pervert, you thought, charmed.

It was oddly cozy even if it was more than a tad bazaar, him pressing himself to you and running his spare hand along your side as you bent over the counter, trying not to ruin the moment by slurping paste too much. It didn’t seem to bother him, he didn’t watch you brush, he just discreetly rubbed the front of his slacks against your butt and kept his hand jerking the brush across your teeth. His other hand soothingly running up and down the curve of your hip, fingers fluttering under the hem of your tank and brushing bare skin with reverent little swoops.

When you were finished he laid the toothbrush down beside his, on a folded little towel in the back left corner of the vanity next to the mirror.

The domesticity made you smile. “Look, they’re spooning.”

He grabbed your chin gently, tilting your head to the side as he leaned over your shoulder. His lips very close again. “Happy late birthday.” he whispered, “I’d have gotten you a cake. Cupcake. Somethin’. You deserve to be celebrated.”

“Kiss me?” you asked again and this time he did, at his own pace, micromanaging each swipe of tongue and press of lips but he kissed you, strongly and angrily and admiringly in turn. He pulled down your tank as he went, stretching the neck out beyond any salvaging and then your bra, unclasping it with strange proficiency and letting your top gather in a ugly bulge around your hips, stuck by your cuffs and shorts, as his hands cupped and squeezed your breasts, somehow making this appreciative mauling seem essential to the act of kissing.

You two finally separated, breathless and revved up, staring at each other with wild, half lidded eyes.

“Ok.” he pronounced and you readied for more only for him to say, “Lasagna. C’mon.”

His kitchen was far nicer than yours, but still it was a mobile home kitchen. And he was a thorough bachelor. He crooked his fingers into the plastic handle and yanked open the freezer, standing aside with a grin on his face that bode no good for you. “I’m helpin’ ya out a little,” he explained sheepishly, “since you’re hampered.” he had a way of saying it like handcuffs were a natural disability, “But I let you off scott-free in exchange for you makin’ me some food.”

“Food and other things.” you bitched, “Didn’t sign up to be a comedy act.”

“Oh that’s right,” beamed, “you did offer other things.” he bit his lip and you thought you’d won when he went right back to it, “You said while it was warming up, you offered other things, while it was in the microwave. Yeah, so go on, grab that TV dinner there, not the fettuccini one, the lasagna.”

You stared at the open freezer and then back to him and then back to the freezer. “Grab it?” you sassed, not having a lot to lose with your tits out and your hands cuffed and a law officer having fun at your expense.

“You’ve got a mouth don’t ya?”

“You’re sick.” you smiled in realization before sticking your head into the cold space, nipples pebbling against the chilled plastic, and biting at the package containing Walmart’s latest gourmet provisions.

“Uhuh, that’s it.” he sounded more pleased at the sight of you with a frosted package between your teeth than he had all this time, “Heyer doll, I’ll open the microwave for ya.” his ability to make himself gallant when he was demeaning you so thoroughly made your pulse thunder uncontrollably.

You had to jut your chin and strain your jaw to plop the heavy foil package of frozen shit into the mounted microwave -fancy mobile home owning bastard- and shove it onto its proper revolving plate.

“There we gooo!” he cooed to you and you stepped back to allow him room to shut the door. “See if you can punch the buttons with your widdle nose.” he suggested excitedly and having gone this far, you didn’t see the point in objecting, not when it made him grin like that. You managed to hit the five for five minutes but the “cook” button wouldn’t respond and after banging your nose against it many times, with many laughs shared between, he finally punched it with one of his oddly pretty fingers.

“There we go.” you echoed, finding that you were blushing the minute the hum of the microwave buzzed the air, his eyes pinned to your face.

“Five minutes.” he whispered.

It was a hint. You expected something a little lewder from a man who had you carrying out food prep like a circus dog. A man of many moods and tastes, was officer Presley. “Can you cum that fast?” you asked, turning to face him.

“That’ll depend on you.” he replied levelly, a challenge in his eyes. He still wore his glasses, somehow that made you feel filthier than all the cash favors you’d ever done. He turned a little in his stance to lean back against the counter, his wrist watch jangling against the edge of the formica, his legs widening.

You dropped to your knees, linoleum freezing against your skin and you looked back up at the ticking microwave timer. You knew what he wanted, and if you were being half honest, it’s what you wanted too. So you didn’t act too good for pressing your face to the crotch of his uniform slacks, forehead indenting the swell of his belly above you and taking his zipper between your teeth. Filled out as his slacks were, with all the stupid gathers and the still fastened button, you could only barely see veiny pink flesh behind the newly opened fly.

“No boxers?” you chided him with a smirk and the unapologetic one he gave you in return made your belly clench, as did the musky smell of him and that soft double chin he had when looking down at you. There was stubble on it blending into his throat.

You’d been right, mouthwash and sterilization for your tongue but not even a spit bath for his sweaty balls and clammy dick -the man was out of his mind. You swallowed down the natural aversion the scent gave you and nuzzled your face nearer, trying to nose the button out of its hole. All you did was succeed in brushing his pants against him and making him impatient.

“Four minutes and twenty seven seconds.” He enunciated the timer reading for your benefit and you whimpered at the impossibility of getting the button undone without hands.

“Please, I can’t undo it.” you asked for his help, tugging at your handcuffs angrily, shoulders painfully aching and only the base of his thick penis visible with its nest of curls and heavy sack.

“Then make due.” he stared down at you unimpressed and you felt an overwhelming urge to grind yourself against his boot at his disdainful expression.

Blinking away horny, frustrated tears, you held your breath and buried your face again, nuzzling inbetween the fly gap, using your chin to tug the crotch further down until his heavy, purplish pink balls spilled over the respectable khaki’s and into the cold air. A bit of hope filled you at how taut and bunched they already were, he wasn’t so cool and unaffected as he acted. You saw him reach into his pocket, digging for something as you weighed your next decision.

“Don’t you want some lasagna?” he prodded.

That made you mash your face to his pants and take both of those hairy balls into your mouth, slurping and sucking at them like a shop vac. His jangling movements in his pocket ceased suddenly before picking up again, and then he withdrew it, a sharp gasp heard above you before he stuck a retrieved cigarette between his lips and lit it. A billowy cloud of Marlborough was blown over your crouching form as the microwave hummed on and his chest hummed in satisfaction. He shoved his hand back into his pocket, knuckling along at his cock.

“That’s it.” he sighed as you mouthed at the base as best you could, tonguing at the hefty vein running along the underside, slathering as much as you could reach. He was salty and tacky to taste and his pants were growing wet from something more than your spit. He was a leaky little man, it made your smirk and smack your lips.

“Feel good, officer?” you moaned in question, just as the microwave dinger went off. “Nooo, damnit, no!” you whined at the sound, a poor loser at all times.

Officer Presley only chuckled and twisted a little to pop open the door, hissing and cussing as he grabbed the benign edges of the hot foil and plopped it into the counter, “Hey hey hey, I didn’t say you could get up, now, did I?” he chided as you shifted a tiny bit away to watch him pull off the cover and reveal cheesy red sauce. Your stomach was in knots, it was so empty.

“No.” you admitted.

He twisted his torso to snag himself a fork from the drawer beside your head, and then, stabbing the casserole with it, took both his hands down to his pants and undid the button at last, letting his pants fall to the floor as they’d been trying to do and been prevented by a belt each time you’d seen him. “Finish what you started, doll, and then I’ll give you a bite.”

You swallowed hard, saliva pooling freely in your tongue at the smell of Italian food. It would be of use. He was tapping his sputtering fat cockhead to your lips and after a tiny grunt of resistance, you gave in, opening your glossy lips and letting him slide the thick meat over your tongue, tangy and salty and pulsing like a living rod, all the way to the back of your throat.

“Fuck me, that’s it.” he nodded to himself as you gagged around him, pulling back a little before pushing back in.

You heard the slide of the casserole tray against the counter and the crunch of tin foil, looking up through bleary eyes you saw him cradle the lasagna pan to his chest, balanced on top of his gut. You hollowed your cheeks around him while watching in disbelief as he stabbed at a bite and brought the laden fork to his mouth. He groaned around the bite in enjoyment -your guess over which pleasure was gaining the upper hand. Feeling a little competitive against TV dinner lasagna, you worked his cock faster, sucking more deliberately and trying very hard to let him down your throat, pleased as his hips began to cant and thrust in time with your encouragements.

“That’s it, that’s it, my sweet little homegrown hoe.” he mumbled to you adoringly through a mouthful of pasta and it made your face glow in pleasure, chin and chest dripping with the filth of it all. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna-“ he warned suddenly, pasta tossed back on the counter as he stood up straight and grabbed the back of your head, holding it still, smoldering cigarette pinned dangerously near your ear and hair as he fucked your mouth with fast, frantic pumps before a frankly preposterous amount of spunk filled your mouth and dolloped down your throat.

He petted your head as you struggled to breath again, cloying gloop coating your mouth, one hand coming up to take off his glasses and toss them to the side. He rubbed at his eyes and you realized you weren’t the only one teary eyed from the intensity of it. “Mm, reckon I gotta keep ya after that.” he decided, knuckling your cheek fondly, they were sticky to your surprise. “Want that bite?” he asked conversationally and while you’d have preferred some water to wash down his most recent gift, you nodded anyway and he stabbed at the casserole until he had a great big bite and brought it down to your mouth, smirking as your cheeks once again bulged at the mouthful.

“Thank you.” you smiled up at him and he humphed bashfully before motioning with his fingers for you to stand up.

“Wanna eat the rest of this in bed?” he asked eagerly, licking his teeth, “I’ve got a waterbed.” he added like that would convince you.

“Of course you do.” you giggled. “And of course I do - lead the way.”

He grinned and pushed off the counter, grabbing the casserole as he went. “Might even find the keys for those back here.” he joked about your cuffs before adding with a wicked little wink, “No promises, mind.”

Hope you enjoyed, I write for screams and comments and unhinged feedback. 🤓♥️

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#early post for my brit babies #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis #elvis imagine #elvis presley smut #elvis presley fan fic #elvis presley fandom #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #big daddy elvis #big daddy Elvis fanfiction #archive #trash magic

[matan4il]

Hello! And thank you for your blog - it's blessing to scroll through while we wait out this hiatus 😅

I saw an earlier reply where you mentioned Eddie originally being Maddie's LI and omg I need more details. I mean I can see it at the start where Buddie started hanging out with the guise of 'Maddie move', but I'm curious if you know any more of the OG plans in that regard and when/why the show chose to go a different direction.

Thank you in advance and have a lovely day!!

Awwwww! This is so kind of you to say, Nonnie! Thank you so much, I hope you know how much I appreciate it! *HUGS*

And sadly, we don't have a lot of info about this. What we know is Maddie was supposed to be paired up with Eddie, but Jennifer Love Hewitt said that someone who had been through what Maddie had would need someone older and closer to where she is in life, so JLH advocated for Maddie to be set up romantically with Chim instead. Which I am all for, I love Madney! But I'm so glad that while at it, this also gave birth to Buddie. So we owe JLH for two great ships.

Now, we don't have official ages for most characters on the show. For most, they're more or less the ages of the people portraying them (notable exception: Angela Bassett is in her 60's and plays Athena, who's in her 50's, so kudos to her for making that so believable). So if we look at the ages of the actors and assume the characters are close to that, Ryan is 8 years younger than JLH, while Kenneh is 8 years older than her. Technically, it's the same age gap. Though it's not in the same direction! However, in terms of romantic experience, one might argue that Eddie's one meaningful r/s before joining the 118 (with Shannon) was more serious than the one r/s Chim had that we got to hear about and that he was still stuck on at the start of s2 (with Tatiana, a woman he was constantly lying to, feeding off her things for firefighters). So in terms of age and experience, I'm not sure Chim was necessarily, at least on paper, a better fit than Eddie. I think it's possible JLH liked Kenneth, hit it on with him, and had an inkling that they're chemistry would work out better. Whether I'm right or not, mad respect to her for making that brilliant call! I think 911 would be so much poorer without Madney and Buddie.

Hope I did manage to help a bit! Have a great day! And as always, here's my ask tag. xoxox

#buddie #911meta #buddie meta #911 meta #9-1-1 #evan buckley #eddie diaz #edmundo diaz #evan buck buckley #ask #anon ask #fandom love #911 cast #madney #jennifer love hewitt #thank you! #<3333 #kindness #911onabc #911 on abc #911abc #911 abc

[askconnie]

Connie! What are your opinions on... Stevonie?

- @ponpasta

#i only know eat hot chip. draw at 3 am. and lie #and i wanted an excuse to draw stevonnie shhhhhhhhh #i hope you gave kudos to Gap Year #steven universe #steven universe future #askconnie #connie maheswaran #mod pon #ponpasta #art

[nemuitoka]

What are your favorte jshk fanfics? also where do you like reading them the most?

Hi Anon!!! today is the day I can finally answer this question😈 ahaha you know how much I enjoy making fic recs so 👀 Let’s go!!!

To answer your second question first, I like reading them on AO3 the most! Mostly because I get almost unlimited number of characters to rant in the comment section........... 😆but also the tagging system is very helpful.

Okay, now to the fun part of this ask😏

You said JSHK, but I mostly read Hananene ones so all of my favs include that pairing... as  I already did a fic rec here of my favs, this list will continue that one, so please check that one first hehe ((I apologize in advance..., I would love for people to recommend me some mitsukou ones tbh... I’m really lost when it comes to other pairings orz)) 

If I’m completely honest with you anon-san, my favorite JSHK fic right now is the one Roxanne ( @istoleyourboat )  wrote based of my art and her snippet:

Star-Crossed and Falling- Where Stars Go to Die by lilaflo

Hanako is Princess Nene’s personal knight 👀. A tale of forbidden love. They slowly fall in love as they exchange a series of gifts, one that includes a pair of matching earrings that remind them of their love when they’re apart. Also, jelly Hanako of Nene’s suitors😏... Oh, but nothing lasts forever and those sweet moments will come to an end when they have to face their cruel reality, in this world, they don’t get to choose neither their battles or the ones they love.

Now more of Roxanne, because I seriously enjoy her work so much (I’m sure everyone knows by now lmao sdkj) 

Night of the Phantom King by lilaflo 

This one is a spooky one. Nene’s regret for never realizing who she truly loves takes her to mourn her deceased friend Amane and cry on his grave in a Halloween night, then suddenly the Phantom King comes to take her away👀 & he looks suspiciously familiar... Beautiful world building btw, also the ending is just, excellent. 

12 Year Romance by lilaflo

Amane meets Nene at the Tanabata festival, she’s older than him, but he falls for her instantly, fast forward, Amane is now in middle school, he’s a troublemaker, & gets constantly into fights, but he swears the new school nurse looks familiar... he then realizes it’s her and thinks it must be fate!!!... This one hits close to home bc I’ve been in this situation irl, so I can confirm all of Nene’s struggles are real (and ofc how a love with an age gap should be handled the correct way, this fic really teaches you many life lessons hahaha) 

took a sip then another sip, then you turned and said to me by chivalrousamour 

This autor has a bunch of good JSHK fics!! I recommend you check their AO3 out, bec you may find something you like for sure! But, this is my absolute fav from them. Nene is a mangaka, celebrating the finishing of her long serialized manga, while Amane is a delivery boy who happens to find her in a very questionable state in her house👀 (it’s all family friendly ofc, anon, I’m not a slimy pervert like some ghost boy)

Maid for Each Other by corologs ( @corologs )

Courtney has this amazing College AU collection series that I encourage you to check out!!! But Maid for each other is my fav!!! So it’s the Yugi twins birthday, and it’s Tsukasa’s turn to choose where they go to celebrate it... you can already tell where this is going... (let the chaos begin) & as the title said, it involves maids!!! (it has Kaicho wa maid sama vibes if you liked that anime~~)

If I Could Tell Her by corologs

What if the picture perfect arc plan was successful??? Well, this fic explores this idea, and it’s very interesting to read. I like how Amane and Hanako are two separate people here.

the horizon tries but it’s just not as kind on the eyes by sincerelyand ( @sunlightinourheadlights ) 

(Oh my sweet Karen, she writes such good fics, so go check her AO3 out as well!!) Amane and Yashiro are friends that share an apartment (& they were roommates-- OMG they were roommates), even if Amane has its complains, because Nene can be a handful sometimes (and in denial of her true feelings as always, are we even surprised at this point?) he loves her dearly anyways😭.

for real, this time by sourlemoncandy  ( @sour-lemon-candy )

Did somebody say fake dating AU?????? Because hell yeah I did asajj I loved reading this so much!! Nene and Amane are childhood friends, and Nene overhears some girls talking about Amane and how one of them plans to ask him out... but she senses these girls are up to no good so she... well, you gotta read it to find out more~~ it’s no fun If I tell ya everything hehe... so go go go!!

lemon cream by sourlemoncandy

Amane and Nene, just two good friends having a road trip and sharing donuts... what could go wrong??  😏 seriously, I loved this fic so much!! Instant fav! Also makes me wanna try some good sweet donuts...

Trip Down Memory Lane by insipidenvy ( @insipidenvy )

This fic is so sweet. I have such a huge attachment to it, because I read it when I really needed some fluff in my life hahaha. It’s sort of a collection of memories between Amane and Yashiro’s relationship over the years. So heartwarming... if you need the fluffs you’ll enjoy this very much!!

The Radish Princess and the Toilet Prince by insipidenvy

This is my favorite fic from insipidenvy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You know how I am a slut for Royalty AUs so that’s why!!!!! Also Toilet Prince!! hahahaha such a good nickname lmao. I love how they bond over their insecurities, it’s very relatable tbh. 

Between Wind and Water by WingSongHalo  ( @wingsonghalo )

My beautiful Wing always delivering the good Hananene content, as she should!! This fic is so fun to read!! I laughed so hard at Nene and Hanako being awkward with each other!!! So you know how Hanako is super clingy with Nene, he’s always touching & hugging her, but this time something weird happens and he’s so distant~~ Nene doesn’t want to admit it at first, but she misses his clingy ghost boy~~ you’ll have a good time reading this for sure!  

The Monster's Bride by Hammsters ( @uglierdaikon )

Have you heard about the myth of Cupid and Psyche? Well this fic rewrites it in a very Hananene way <3 hehe I loved it so much (as I’m a huge fan of mythology~) To sum it up, Nene is fated to marry a monster that lives in the mountains so she’s devastated... to her surprise, her husband is far from what she expected... she only had one rule to obey and well... we all know how reckless Nene is so... you go find out what happens next now!! hehehe

Morning Reflections by FalalalaLa  ( @miss-sternennacht )

So you’ve heard of Hanako watching Nene sleep, but what about Nene watching Amane sleep???!! this fic offers you this and so much more fluff <3 Also Nene remembering how they met and how their relationship evolved during the years, aww <3 

Cursed Coin by DaikonSenpai  ( @daikonsenpai )

There’s a school dance, Yashiro’s supposed to be dancing with Kou (since she can’t go with Hanako, which causes him to be jelly~~ and bitter), but she loses a coin Aoi gave her for good luck so she goes out and searches for it on the last place she saw it, the school fountain. Suddenly Hanako spots her, what’s she doing outside??? is she drunk or something?? what happens next you may find out when you read it~~~

Between Love and Hope by Baronesscmd (SweeterThanYourDarkestSin) ( @baronesscmd )

Oh to be Nene and get to sleep between the Yugi twins... God really has favorites uh... ISTG, this collection of fics is so cute. I love how Nene loves the twins so much in this AU, they have their little cute family. She ofc is in love with Amane, but their relationship with Tsukasa is so tender... it’s mostly this trio having fluffy moments together to heal your soul... if you need some, you’ll get it here for sure hahaha. 

Ghost of You (And All the Futures We've Forgotten) by Indigo_Floof  milkteamoon  ( @indigosienna , @spades-queen )

So anon you may have been wondering, well this bitch likes fluff only???? how about some angst for a change, uh? DAMN, OKAY THEN, here you have some angst to rip your soul out and wish you never sent me this ask in the 1st place, bec of the emotional damage this fic will leave you sdajjsa, also if you liked “Erased”, you’ll love this fic too! 

Hanako of the Opera by zxrstan

Finally, but not less important, me being annoying about Hanako of the Opera & POTO AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!! This fic is based of the AU Aidairo created mostly, it’s really fun to read if you didn’t get much of what was happening during the Hanako of the Opera event, it has a nice ending also! very satisfying I must say. 

AAAAND THIS IS THE END OF MY ALL TIME FAV LIST OMG;;;; Kudos for me for searching through all my damn AO3 and Google Chrome history (from both my PC and phone, since I am a FOOL and forgot my AO3 password so I read a lot of these in the past as a guest before recovering my password LMAO, please be patient with me omg, and also if you see me bookmarking them now, you know why 😭) 

Kudos to all of my writer homies as well, I love and appreciate all of you so much!! you have no idea! 💖

I hope you find this list useful, anon!! Thank you for sending me this ask and have a wonderful day! 

Ps. Please everyone feel free to add more fics to this list if you want! this is all my personal picks, but I’m aware there are a lot more fics that I haven’t read and deserve as much recognition as the ones I listed!

#toilet bound hanako kun #jibaku shounen hanako kun #hananene #amanene #jshk #tbhk #jshk fic #jshk fics #tbhk fic #tbhk fics #fic rec #fanfiction #ask #anon #damn this ended up being HUGE #I toned down my extra as well I'm aware I can get annoying sometimes #love you all!!!! #hopefully this helps you anon #and if not I'm sorry u.u I'm a hardcore hananene shipper so...... yeah #thank you for reading!! #Anonymous

[thedrarrylibrarian]

A huge thanks to everyone who participated in the Library Holiday Party and the Hangover Brunch! I hope you had as much fun as I did, and hope you enjoy your gifts! Here’s the final nice and naughty lists!

Naughty

Mistletoe: Christmas Is For Sex (and Love) So Give It To Me by @goldentruth813 (53,218 words, rated E)

Draco buys Harry an Advent House, intent on helping Harry create all new holiday memories, and have a lot of great sex in the process.

Bonus Mistletoe: Christmas Eve and the Kisses Four by @violetclarity (5,366 words, rated E)

Draco was determined to ignore Harry and have a good time at this Christmas Eve party, but with enchanted mistletoe in the mix, that was easier said than done.

Tree: Business As Usual by @thegertie (17,623 words, rated M)

Harry's Christmas isn't shaping up the way he'd imagined it would.

Sweets: My True Love Gave to Me (Six Jars of Chutney) by @goldentruth813 (12,311 words, rated M)

On his first post-divorce Christmas Eve without his children, Harry goes to Marks & Spencer hoping to find a bit of his past; what he finds instead is a future.

Party: This Time Next Year by @janieohio (5,310 words, rated E)

Their kids are friends, their friends are friends, and though Harry and Draco have floated through each other’s lives for decades, it’s never been like this. Tonight, at Neville and Pansy’s Christmas party, something clicks, and things will never be the same.

Nice

Mistletoe: Muggles, Mischief, Music and Mayhem by sesheta_66 (5,236 words, rated T)

Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to be working on Christmas Eve with him. What happened over the course of the evening was even less expected.

Present: Of Christmas Shopping and Surprising Gifts by @eva-eleanore (6,030 words, rated T)

Of course, Draco can help Harry with his Christmas shopping, no problem at all. He might be in love with the git, but feelings can be ignored. Or not?

Music: Stopping by the Messiah on a Snowy Evening by burglebezzlement (4,480 words, rated T)

When Harry Potter agreed to join Hermione’s Muggle-Wizarding Choir, he wasn’t expecting to be singing next to Draco Malfoy. Christmas, choir music, and the gaps in a Wizarding education.

Sweets: Kissing Santa Claus by @erebeus-roxy (1,532 words, rated G)

Scorpius sees Papa kissing Santa Claus. He’s not pleased.

Party: (Christmas)Time to Make a Move by ieroo (4,032 words, rated T)

For Harry Potter, the only bright part of the DMLE Christmas party is Draco Malfoy. When their evening moves onto Blaise's mansion Harry decides it is time to make his move, especially when he watches Draco and Pansy dancing to Muggle Christmas songs.

As always, if you find a fic you enjoy, please remember to leave the author a kudos or a comment!

💚❤️ Lots of Love and Happy Holidays! ❤️💚

#the drarry librarian #library holiday party #library holiday party- hangover brunch #drarry #christmas drarry drarry fic rec #lots of love and happy holidays #harry potter #draco malfoy #harry/draco #harry potter/draco malfoy #draco/harry #draco malfoy/harry potter #harry x draco #draco x harry #harry potter x draco malfoy #draco malfoy x harry potter #drarry christmas rec #rec list #drarry rec list #drarry christmas rec list

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi Steph!! I was wondering if you knew of any really long fics (like 25k or more) that are only one chapter, I travel a lot sometimes and some places don't really have good enough internet for multi chapter fics. So yeah, any really long one chapter fics about John and Sherlock would be appreciated. Thank you!

Hey Nonny!!

LOL OKAY FUNNY STORY. I almost replied to this with “oof I’ll have to read EVERYTHING so I’m sorry.... and then... I remembered.......

I put chapter counts on everything 🙃😐 

I’m not the brightest crayon in the box. 🖍 

Anyway, so yes, I can definitely rec you some fics! BUT I should also offer you two suggestions you can totally do to read ANY fic!

On Ao3, you can click on the “Entire Work” button to load ALL chapters of a fic (it’s the very first button along the top) and in turn you can then just read it all there! 

And the very last button along the top, you can Download copies of the fic to your phone or computer with eBook file types (AZw3 for Kindle, ePub for iPhone’s Books app, and MOBI is for other mobile devices and e-readers), the HTML if you want to read it as-is in a web-browser, or the PDF format which is a universal file format that is supported by everything, even web browsers, so it’s a good one to download if you don’t know what format you need :) If you read on an eReader, though, I can’t recommend enough just downloading the format for your device. You get to keep a copy of the fic AND the eReader keeps it nicely formatted. It’s a BRILLIANT, BEAUTIFUL feature that Ao3 gave us, because I like downloading all my fics and read them later in iBooks. Once you start that, Nonny, you can’t do it any other way. AND at the VERY END of the fics, it links BACK to the original post so you can bookmark, kudos, and comment on it!! <3

So yeah, two options you can do to solve your poopy internet and still read long fics hee hee! <3

ANYWAY EXCUSE FOR A NEW LIST LOL. 

ALSO, side note, check out @silentauroriamthereal; a large chunk of her fics are both long AND one chapter, so it’s a good place to go and she’s a brilliant author so I don’t think you’ll be disappointed! <3 Plus a lot of her fics are on this list, so I am sorry hahah.

AND I wanted to make the list a bit longer than I had, so I picked fics over 20K, if that’s alright :) As always, if you wrote a 20k+ single chapter fic, let us know!

SINGLE CHAPTER FICS OVER 20K WORDS

A Life Well-Lived by Kate_Lear (E, 20,121 w., 1 Ch. || Original Male Character, Sherlock Woos John, Jealous Sherlock, Reluctant Bi-John, Past Abuse, Insecure John, Reassuring / Caring Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Understanding Sherlock) – John got scared off men by an abusive past relationship. Sherlock has to try and woo him while not scaring him off with protective possessive rage.

The White Lotuses by SilentAuror (E, 20,340 w., 1 Ch. || Slow Burn, Domestic, Romance) – One day John realises that he just isn't where he belongs, which is back at Baker Street with Sherlock. So he goes back and Sherlock, in his own way, courts him. Romance.

Out of the Woods by SilentAuror (E, 20,471 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Romance, Slow Burn, Flirting, Drunk Sex, Practical Jokes, POV Sherlock, Bottomlock, Possessive John, Pining Sherlock, Frustrated Wanking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, First Kiss/Time, Virgin Sherlock, Love Confessions, Soft Sherlock, Dancing, Bum Appreciation, Hanging out with the Yard) – Sherlock is fairly certain that John has taken to flirting with him of late, but can't be entirely certain of it. At least, not until a case takes them into a forest, along with Lestrade's team and something happens that will change everything about their lives...

You're On the Air by prettysailorsoldier (M, 20,616 w., 1 Ch. || Unilock, Matchmaking, Radio, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Flirting, Bisexual John) – The Consulting Detective and The Woman dominate the airwaves of their university radio station, doling out advice on everything from meeting the parents to sexual positions. When their ratings start to dip before the holidays, however, manager Mike thinks it's time for some fresh blood, and who better to fill in the gaps than rugby captain--and notorious flirt--John Watson? Part 1 of 25 Days of Johnlock

whiskies neat by Ellipsical (E, 20,660 w., 15 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, POV Second Person Sherlock, Slow Burn, One Night Stand, Rimming, Blow Jobs, Anal, Soldier John, Crying, Emotional Lovemaking, Switchlock) – Home and hearth and whiskies neat, or, alternatively, Sherlock Holmes falls in love.

Achieving the Together-Coloured Instant by teahigh (E, 20,776 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel, PTSD, Codependency, Fluff & Angst, H/C, Smut, Demisexual Sherlock, Experiments) – John wonders if this is how it’s going to be: A life speaking in code, because they’re both too stupid to figure out how to say, “I love you.”

Winter's Delights by Kate_Lear (E, 21,173 w., 1 Ch. || Holmes Family, Christmas, Fake Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Bed Sharing, Domestics) – Sherlock takes John home for Christmas to meet the extended Holmes family. Part 1 of Winter's Delights

Love Is by SilentAuror (E, 21,508 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, UST / URT, Post HLV, Romance) – At Mrs Hudson’s urging, Sherlock finally decides to tell John how he feels about him. Part 1 of Love Is

echoes through time by chellefic (E, 21,619 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Romance, ACD & BBC, Epistolary) – Mummy sends a trunk from the Holmes cottage in Sussex to 221B. Its contents alter the way John and Sherlock see themselves and one another.

Ghost Stories by SwissMiss (M, 22,256 w., 1 Ch. || Pining, Holmes Family, Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, First Time) – Sherlock's parents think he and John are a couple. They might be onto something.

Sonatina in G Minor by SilentAuror (E, 22,574 w., 1 Ch. || Case Fic, POV Sherlock, Angst, UST, Sherlock’s Violin, Post-S3, Romance) – John has come back to Baker Street, but Sherlock doesn't understand the strange tension between them, even after he begins teaching John to play the violin at John's request.

The Kepler Problem by kinklock (E, 24,270 w., 1 Ch. || Sci-Fi AU, Alien Sherlock, Space Repairman John, Alien Biology, Horny John) – Working in uncharted space exploration was not as exciting as John had hoped, especially when it turned out to be mostly bot maintenance on uninhabited planets. However, the mystery of the repeated, unexplained malfunctions on planet BAK 2212 might turn out to be exactly the kind of adventure he'd been craving.

26 Pieces by Lanning (E, 28,236 w., 1 Ch. || H/C, Torture, First Time, Happy Ending, Schmoop, Past Abuse) – Mycroft gives Sherlock the apparently simple task of solving a puzzle box containing a stolen microchip. It isn't simple.

The Wisteria Tree by SilentAuror (E, 29,773 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3, Emotional Love Making, Amnesia/Memory Loss, Sherlock Loves John So Much, Sherlock POV, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending, First Times, Hurt/Comfort, Est. Rel., Retirement) – Sherlock wakes up from a month-long coma only to discover that he has no memory of the previous six years to his own shock as well as John's...

Shallow Grave by SilentAuror (E, 31,672 w., 1 Ch. || Romance, Angst, HLV Fix It, Infidelity, Pining Sherlock, First Person POV Sherlock) – Starts as Sherlock's plane is taking off at the end of His Last Vow. When he finds out that Moriarty is alive and that he's being recalled from his mission, Sherlock decides that he should have told John how he felt before he left. So he walks off the plane and kisses him.

The Midas Touch by flawedamythyst (E, 32,231 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Magical Realism || John has a Magical Cock, Dub Con, Healer John) – John Watson has a medical condition that means everyone he sleeps with is instantly healed of all illness and injury. This causes complications when Sherlock breaks his arm, and even more complications when Sherlock falls in love with him. Yes, this is a story where John has a literal magic healing cock. It's a lot less cracky than you're probably imagining. Warning: Contains complex issues of sexual consent, although not between Sherlock and John.

The Whore of Babylon Was a Perfectly Nice Girl by out_there (E, 32,897 w., 1 Ch. || Past Drug Use, Blowjobs, Toplock, Mentions of Switching, Rough Sex, Background Cases, Sherlock’s Past, Sherlock’s Sexual History, Experienced Sherlock, Past One Night Stands, Fingering, Cuddling, Possessive Sherlock, Paris Holiday, Bed Sharing, Naked Lie-Ins, Bathing Together, Confessions, Worried Sherlock, Laying in Bed All Day, Meddling Mycroft, Naked Lazy Day) – Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John's head.

Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained by withoutawish (M, 32,961 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff and Angst, H/C, Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mild Gore, Sherlock Whump) – The list that is tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator of 221B reads, ‘Kidney(s), and/or a full cadaver (preferably male, late 30s, under six feet tall), bag of fresh toes, sixteen cow’s eyes (corneas retained), dual exhaust hand –held flame thrower, an unopened first edition copy of Joseph Conrad’s 'Heart of Darkness', and no less than ten abhorrently gruesome murders in the upcoming month.” The one neatly hanging next to it simply reads, “Sex.” One of these lists is not John Watson’s. If John Watson were to put what he really wanted in list form, to live in a land somewhere beyond ‘almosts' now that Sherlock Holmes has indeed returned to him, he would never be able to look his flatmate in the eye ever again.

Bedtime Stories by Liketheriver (M, 34,388 w., 1 Ch. || Emotional H/C, Romance, Angst & Humour, Bed Sharing, John First Person, TRF, John Whump) – John's POV during Season 2 and beyond when Sherlock takes up semi-permanent residence in his bed. A collection of codas and missing scenes wrapped up into one long fic and topped with a bow that takes the story beyond Reichenbach and into happy territory once more. Part 1 of Bedtime Universe

The Yellow Poppies by SilentAuror (E, 34,952 w., 1 Ch. || H/C, Nightmares, HLV Fix-It, PTSD, Trauma, POV Sherlock, Doctor John) – Sherlock is threatened and assaulted in the hospital immediately after having been shot in the heart, first by Mary, then by Magnussen. As he recovers at Baker Street with John and plans the attack on Appledore with Mycroft, he fights to work through the trauma caused by these two visits. Set during His Last Vow.

The Unfinished Letters by SilentAuror (E, 37,391 w., 1 Ch. || Post S3 / S3 / HLV Fix it, Angst with Happy Ending, Romance, Infidelity, Depression, Case Fic, POV Third Person Sherlock, Love Confessions, Pining Sherlock, Letters) – A fire at Baker Street leads John to read something he was never intended to see: a notebook of half-written, unfinished letters Sherlock wrote during his time away...

Set in Stone by SilentAuror (E, 39,309 w., 1 Ch. || Romance, Wedding, Therapy, Fluff and Angst) – Sherlock and John are back from Ravine Valley and planning their wedding. However, as they move past the trial of the human traffickers, Sherlock can't help but wonder if he's imagining that John is becoming a little distant. Surely he isn't getting cold feet about the wedding... Part 2 of The Ravine Valley series

Act IV by SilentAuror (E, 39,707 w., 1 Ch. || First Person POV Sherlock, HLV Fix-It, Infidelity, Angst, Drama) – After Sherlock is shot, John moves back into Baker Street. They spend the autumn together as John tries to make sense of his life and make some important decisions about both Mary and Sherlock. Canon-compliant, excerpts from His Last Vow.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by SilentAuror (E, 50,635 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4/S4 Divergence, Case Fic, For a Case / Reverse Fake-Relationship, Conferences, Marriage Equality, Travelling / New York, Pride, Homophobia, Bottomlock, Marriage Proposal, John POV, Sexuality, Love Confessions, Emotional Love Making, Public Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Passionate Kissing, Needy/Clingy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Touching / Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Little Spoon Sherlock, Intense Orgasms) – John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #long fics #single chapter fics #Anonymous

[petalbrooke]

ace fic ace fic!

I want to thank @runawayface for inspiring me to write some ace content and actually post it! This is a very short and self-indulgent fic where Elliott discovers he’s ace - I have a lot of headcannons around that possibility and maybe I’ll dig into them one day.

Here is the link if you want to give me kudos/comments on ao3, which are always appreciated, and the full fic is below.

Thanks for reading :)

Elliott had wanted desperately to fall in love. He’d read and written about it in so many ways, had seen it in blossom like flowers in the couples around him, but had yet to experience it – truly experience it. The heady feeling of falling for another, of long nights and early mornings with that person by his side. Of years and years of getting to know them better than he knew himself. In a town comprised of about thirty or so people, half of which were married or otherwise committed, Elliott had always thought that it wouldn’t happen to him.

At least, until the new farmer rolled into town.

Everyone was interested when they heard the local farm was being taken over by the previous owner’s granddaughter. A new face would be interesting under any circumstances, but one who was going to transform the weed-ridden farm? Well, that was something else entirely. He hadn’t met her until about a week after she’d moved in, when she’d gone to visit Willy at the docks. Elliott had been on the docks, bare feet dangling over the side as he scratched out several lines from a poem he was trying to write.

“Are you… Willy?” the woman had asked, hesitating outside the door that would actually take her to Willy. Elliott was immediately struck by her appearance – chestnut hair she had pulled back in a messy bun, dirt streaked on her slightly burnt face that matched the hue of her eyes. She was, he supposed, beautiful, though not in the same way as the heroines he often read about.

“No,” he laughed, gesturing towards Willy’s home. “He’s in there. My name is Elliott, and I live in that little ramshackle shack on the beach. You must be Elona, the new farmer?”

She beamed, and Elliott tried to imagine how he would write her if she was someone in his novel. He’d make sure to mention that slight gap in her front teeth, and the way her cheeks flushed when she smiled. Or perhaps that was the sunburn the work on the farm must have given her.

“That’s me. Well, it was nice to meet you. I really need to talk to Willy, but… I’ll see you around?”

“I hope so.” Elliott returned to his poem, changing one phrase five times until finally settling on the one he had originally chosen. Later – he wasn’t sure how much later, but the back of his neck had started to feel rather toasty – she had emerged, a new fishing pole in hand, and had joined him. They sat in companionable silence, each occasionally asking the other a question, until dark.

This was how it had all begun. Elona would come by every day, usually just after noon, with some products from her farm and fishing rod in tow. They would sit and talk and Elliott found himself craving every moment he would get with her – every minute spent with her was the best of that day. Afternoons turned into evenings turned into nights, and Elliott was finally beginning to understand the feelings of the characters in those romance novels he so loved.

Well. He was understanding most of them. There was one aspect he still didn’t understand was hoping might change with time, and it was the… intimacy aspect. He’d always tiptoed around the idea, even in his novels; all his knowledge had come from other authors and not from experience. After months of time together, he felt sure he loved her. Reasonably sure. What else would this feeling in his chest be, his desire to spend his life with her? To grow old with her? But there was still one thing – the marriage bed – that he couldn’t figure out how to navigate. (Well, not always the marriage bed, but he’d always been a bit of a traditionalist.)

He’d always thought that the swell of desire would come when he fell in love. That was always how it seemed to work in the novels. Sometimes it even came first. But even with Elona, even with everything he felt about her – he just couldn’t see beyond the fact that she was pretty. Elliott could tell when a person was attractive, objectively speaking. But it didn’t make him feel anything. He thought it would come with the right person. But Elona felt right in every way, and still, nothing.

She hadn’t brought it up yet, and neither had he, but tonight was the night, he had decided. It wouldn’t be fair if she had expectations he couldn’t meet. Or perhaps he was just completely broken, and could never love, not the way he was supposed to.

They were having dinner that night, at his cabin. Not homecooked – Elliott was never meant to be a chef – but seafood from the Saloon on his own plates worked just as well. It was quiet dinner, and Elliott’s hands betrayed his nervousness.

After three unfruitful attempts at conversation, Elona slammed her fork on the table, startling Elliott. “What’s wrong? You’ve been acting strange all night. Barely talking, you’ve hardly touched your lobster, and I know that’s your favorite.”

Elliott glanced at the aforementioned lobster, unable to meet her steady gaze. “Yes, well, there was… there was something I wanted… something I needed to talk to you about.” He took a deep breath, suddenly at a loss for words, despite having rehearsed it endless times. “I don’t think I can be what you need me to be,” he said, the words tumbling out, unbidden.

Elona’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. Clearly, whatever she’d expected him to say, this hadn’t been it. “What… what do you think I need?” she asked.

Elliott cleared his throat. Yoba, why was this so hard to say? “I don’t think I can… I mean, you’re beautiful, and I hope you know that, but I’m not… I don’t feel…” he stammered, unsure how to say what he wanted without wounding her. That it wasn’t her, it was him, it was that he couldn’t make himself feel that attraction he thought all couples had.

Her eyes softened, and she reached out and took his hand in her own, her fingers small and rough from hard labor. “Elliott, honey, I think I know what you’re trying to say.”

“You do?”

“Unless I’m wrong – and I rarely am,” she laughed, “you’re trying to tell me you don’t feel any sexual attraction towards me. Is that right?”

Elliott could feel heat creeping to his cheeks with how outright she was about it. “I, um, I…”

“And let me guess,” she continued, giving him a knowing smile and a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve never really figured this out about yourself and you feel broken. You see what everyone else has and you don’t understand why you don’t.”

“Yes,” he whispered. He could feel tears forming behind his eyes, though he couldn’t explain why.

“Honey, that just means you’re asexual. Or somewhere on that spectrum. It’s fine.”

“What… I don’t…” Elliott’s head was spinning. He’d never heard the term before, though he could figure out what it meant. “You mean… it’s okay?”

“More than okay,” she said, giving him that huge smile, the one that reminded him of the rays of the sun. “I was going to talk about this with you soon, because I wasn’t sure. But it had never come up, and I was nervous to be the one to do it… I’m the same way. I don’t feel that kind of attraction. But I still feel love. And I love you.”

The tears flew unbidden now, though he was smiling as they did. “So… so it’s okay?” he asked again, not quite able to believe it.

Elona stood and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “More than okay. Let’s finish dinner up and we can talk about it some more.”

Elliott swept her tiny frame into a massive hug, so overcome he was with emotion. He had agonized over this conversation, had been so sure it would lead to the loss of this woman he loved, and instead it had proven that nothing was wrong with him, with them. He was whole. They both were.

Never had he been more excited for his future.

#sdv elliott #stardew valley oc #stardew valley #sdv #sdv fanfic #stardew valley fanfiction #my fic

[gallavichgeek]

Author Interview

I was tagged by @yeah-all-of-it​! Thank you so much, that was very kind of you.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I currently have 18, though I'm working on three more as I answer these questions.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

337,932

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Saving Grace (546)

South Side Forever (437)

Sex Tape (408)

The Ian to Mickey’s Cal (381)

The Truth (346)

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, every single one within a day or two. I appreciate comments more than anything, it really gives me a sense of what my readers are feeling and whether I am getting the right emotions across and whether they are finding my story interesting. 

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I would have to say Saving Grace really leaves readers on the edge until the very last few paragraphs. 

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I ONLY write happy endings, except for Two Kisses, but you can blame the movie Fatherhood for that, so I don’t think it counts. (If any of you have seen that movie on Netflix then you know exactly how painful that one shot is)

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

The closest crossover I’ve written was The Ian to Mickey’s Cal. My friend Co-wrote it with me where we explored Ian being the model for Jedi Fallen Order and Mickey having a crush on the video game character only to then one day meet Ian in the video game store he works in and he is blown away by the resemblance. 

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

A few times, and every time I know it’s been a troll because either their comment shows that they didn’t actually read the whole chapter/story and are just poking at sections that they skimmed so they can start an argument over it. Or when I kindly reply to them, stating I understand how they feel however that’s not what the story was intending, they suddenly blow everything way out of proportion  and begin pointing things that aren’t even relevant to the story or the original argument. That’s when I stop and let it go, knowing they are just looking for an argument. 

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Of course. I like to try and dabble in everything but I don’t write my ship sleeping with other people (three ways. Cheating. Break ups and sleeping with randoms to get revenge. etc etc)  I’m personally not interested in exploring kinks like tentacles or femboy either, but have nothing against those that are courageous enough to give it a try. 

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes. I’ve had three translated into Russian

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, The Ian to Mickey’s Cal with Camnoelgallavich

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Gallavich. I’ve had many others over the years but none have hit me this hard, stayed with me this long or inspired me the way they do. 

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I don’t have any WIP’s because the way my process works is I write the whole story before I begin to post so that I can update frequently and only have to focus on editing each chapter. I have been burned many times with WIPS and I don’t want to do that to my readers. I want them to know if they start my story they are guaranteed an end and not a huge gap between updates.

15. What are your writing strengths?

Capturing the characters emotions and dialogue. I always make sure to write them as they would speak in canon with the exception of may be getting a little more emotional sometimes. 

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

I’m not the best at editing. I have to edit my chapters twice before posting and sometimes get help from my beta with lengthy paragraphs where I've jumbled my words with what I’m trying to convey across to the readers. I also have an issue with time jumping. It’s as though I need to write out everything that happened to lead up to each point rather than just skipping forward a day or a week. 

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I only speak English and I don’t want to put it in a fic in case google translate it wrong. The one time I used Russian in ‘The Truth’ I checked google six times before posting to make sure it was right and I translated from English to Russian and Russian to English just to be sure. 

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Shameless. I’ve thought of writing for others but ideas never captivated me enough to get me writing. 

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

Maybe sterek. It’s a little harder being that it’s a supernatural world but it would be interesting to explore. 

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

It’s a tie. 

‘Saving Grace’ which is my first huge fic that really explored my characters in a world that was so different to canon. I did a lot of research to get the facts correct while diving into the world of mental health. 

The second fic would be ‘Hope’. Once again, I did research, but it’s more due to it being such a wholesome story that warms my heart because it gave the characters the happy ending they never got in canon, fixing all the issues the show forgot to address, so it’s a fic I keep very close to my heart. It’s now part of a series that I don’t think I could ever stop writing for. 

I don’t know a lot of writers on Tumblr since I mostly use Twitter and Instagram but I'll try @camnoel @filorux​ and @doodlevich​.

#author interview #fanfiction #gallavich fanfic #really appreciated being tagged in this #Thank you

[onwesterlywinds]

Where Flood Waters Ran

Part of my Godhands series, set roughly in the year 1544 of the Sixth Astral Era - thirty-three years before Hydaelyn’s present-day, and thirteen years before Ala Mhigo’s fall.

GODHANDS IS NOW ON AO3! If you like it, send over some kudos!

Despite all their digging, Ashley and Marco might well have been the last people in the Undercity to learn in full what had happened to Elza. The Blackram Knights had taken her deep into the Iron Maiden for more than a week, mere days after she'd offered her hideout to two teenage boys in need of shelter. The screams had been horrific, or so they'd heard, and the smell of gore and shit had overtaken the Undercity's lower reaches by the end of it. To finish with her, the Knights had welded an old Skallic diving helmet over her head, leaving her with a few slits in the metal through which she might eat or drink or breathe, and only then had they released her from their captivity.

For a dubious mercy, Elza was not yet dead, and yet much of the Undercity seemed to have written her off as such. She had attended no meetings with her fellow sigil-bearers; none of the young ones had taken errands from her. No one spoke to her wellbeing, let alone her whereabouts. She was a living ghost, a memory most had already seen fit to discard.

"We have to go find her," Ashley whispered.

They could speak with some freedom from their present surroundings. It was Flood Day, and a throng of nearly two score shouting children had gathered in one of the great storerooms up a ways from the ancient canals, both to avoid the black water when it surged over its banks and to have a proper vantage for when it did. The littlest ones had settled into some massive game of tag with rules Ashley didn't pretend to understand, except that in such tight quarters, it seemed to mimic the ebb and flow of the river not so very far below them.

Ashley stared out across the room, to where K'tobha and some of the other boys were tearing apart shipping crates apparently for the hells of it. "She helped us at our worst. It isn't fair for her to take the fall for us."

Marco's face was fixed in an uneven scowl; he made no attempt to keep his face pleasant for the children, as he so often did. "If she's keeping her head down, there's nothing we can do for her," he said. "She knew what she was doing when she helped us, and she's got her reasons for staying away now."

"Why can't we go to her?" Marco turned to him as if to tell him off, but he pushed on. "I know she's not stupid enough to still be in her hideout, but she can't be that hard to find, with that thing over her head-"

Ashley cut himself off as a familiar shape sidled up alongside Marco, his face cloaked in shadow until the moment he clapped a hand on Marco's shoulder.

"It's pointless," Hawthorne said by way of introduction. "Overheard Palolo, the little shite, telling a few Blackram Knights all about that 'careful' conversation you had with her ma about Elza's meetup with the Maiden." Then, with one of his signature grins, he added, "You fucking loudmouths."

Marco swung an elbow toward Hawthorne's general direction, albeit without much enthusiasm; the boy dodged the swipe easily and reappeared at Ashley's side. "Anyway, Elza's off to wherever she's off to, and the Knights know you're looking for her now. They were staking out her place when I passed by just now; think they're hoping to find her first to get the jump on you."

Ashley let out a growl of frustration so loud that a few of the nearest children turned to him, momentarily distracted from their play. "How can they just let him do this?!" he fumed. "Any of them!"

"Listen." The voice was low, and he nearly mistook it for Marco's - but it was Hawthorne, deadly serious for perhaps the first time in Ashley's memory. "Marco's got it right. Elza knew what she was getting herself into. You think she'd lose her man, and her boy, and still think Blackram couldn't touch her?"

"No."

"Fuck no," Hawthorne confirmed. "Best thing you can do to repay her now is keep the hells away. She isn't dead - and with a bit of luck and a whole lot of minding your own business, she could stay that way."

With a hearty blow to Ashley's back in farewell, Hawthorne left the chamber, dodging a charging throng of sprats as he did so. For a time, he and Marco stood in witness to the chaos, both of them with their arms crossed tight over their chests. It would not do to leave so soon after an argument - especially not when anyone sparing them a whit of attention might guess what they had fought about - but far more practically, neither of them had anywhere better to be.

"I felt the same way when Sigrid died," Marco said to him at last. "Was so mad I couldn't even grieve her. The other sigil-bearers all knew the bastard had an eye on her, and they did fuck-all to keep him away from her. ...Even Elza."

Ashley mentally thanked him for not saying Blackram's name aloud, as Hawthorne had. "Were the two of you close?" he said, softly. "You and Sigrid."

Marco shook his head in vehement denial. "We didn't ever really talk. But she did a lot for me, 'specially when I was a lad: letting me stay in her territory up by the palace a few times, and always giving me coin for my tips, even when we both knew they were worthless. Probably kept me alive more than once."

"Hells, that's something," said Ashley.

His remaining thoughts scattered as a child careening away from the others tripped into his side; he immediately reached for his pockets to ensure their integrity and, for a blessing, found them uncompromised. Together, he and Marco revisited their familiar silence.

The patterned batiks of a Fist-in-training reemerged through the crowd to lean beside Ashley once more, and Ashley's only indication that this was Gelva and not Hawthorne was the prodigious depth of her scowl from under the hood.

"Since my brother won't shut up-"

Marco gave a little snort of laughter. Gelva's frown deepened, but she did not turn to face him. Whatever reason she had for joining them, it wasn't to start a fight.

"I have no idea where I'd start looking for a deposed lord with no options, who's got the Undercity's worst dogging her steps, and who's already had every last secret beaten out of her. By her own account."

His heart leaped, despite himself. Despite everything. "You're saying-"

"Not a single fucking word out of you, or I'm gone. If I'm saying anything, it's that Dad's been keeping a new shipment in one of our warehouses. I told him it was useless and more trouble than it's worth, and he called me an idiot for it. So there's that."

Ashley could only stare at Gelva's face as he rushed to piece together the implications of her words. "Thank-"

"That's a word," she snapped. She left as quickly as her brother had, albeit in much more of a huff and with less resistance from the crowd around them.

His ears were ringing long after her departure. When he stared over at Marco, he saw some trace of hope on his features as well. Still, Ashley could not concentrate through the noise and cheer around him, and his mind and heart were unable to settle.

"I'm gonna go," he said to Marco at last. "Need some sun."

"'S probably past midnight by now," his friend reminded him.

"Some fresh air, then."

He pushed off the wall and stretched as he waited for an opening in the children's game to make an inconspicuous departure. Before that chance arrived, a cry tore through the tunnel outside the storeroom. Every head turned, almost in unison, to note its origin, and a man in leathers threw himself through the doorway, drenched all over and sporting a deep gash to his bare forearm.

"Marco!" he yelled, then- "Marco's friend! Crusader, in the canal!"

The storeroom settled into an odd calm. As Marco ran for the door, with Ashley following close in his wake, the children seamlessly cleared a path for him.

"Barricade the doors!" Marco shouted over his shoulder. "Big ones up front, little ones in back - you know how it goes!"

The man who'd shouted the warning nodded and staggered in, back toward the ruined crates to lend himself to the defense, while Marco and Ashley slipped past him to meet the danger head-on.

The floodwater was already lapping over the canal's banks, stretching wide across the white stone of the landing station a few ilms deep. On the opposite side of the rush of dark water lay two bodies with a heavy net floating near them; between him and Marco and the current, a towering suit of ancient armor turned.

It was wrought entirely of metal and somehow no less hideous for it. It had no head, let alone any semblance of flesh to speak of - and yet the longer Ashley stared at it, the more clearly he could envision a ghastly face twisted in agony, and a frame racked by the spasm and twitch of rogue muscles, driven by whatever fell magicks compelled the armor to attack.

"AIM FOR ITS CORE!" Marco called - and at those words, Ashley's eyes fell upon a glowing, pulsing crystal, smaller than his own clenched fist, hovering at the center of its two massive pauldrons.

"How the fuck are we supposed to reach-"

The crusader raised a greatsword covered in glowing runes and charged, the ringing of its steps dulled by the floodwater lapping out across the stone hall. Marco feinted to its right and submerged himself in the shadows; the armor's torso pivoted, tracking him with nonexistent eyes.

Ashley ran at it from the side. The core lay in position well above the height of his head: he could perhaps reach it if he extended his arm in full, though doing so would expose nearly the full length of his body to the crusader's blade. Almost as an afterthought, Ashley drew his knife from his waistband and stabbed into the closest available gap between plates of armor, somewhere near where the crusader's thigh would have been. A dark swirl of aether, thick and shimmering like oil, gushed from thin air and a hellish roar burst forth to resonate against the walls, and then the crusader raised its arm-

"ASHLEY!"

A gauntlet collided with his ribs and sent him flying, stunning him even before he landed hard against the wet stone. The whole side of his face seared with pain, his nose and mouth stifled with blood and saltwater. Somewhere from up above came the slosh and clang of the crusader's steps, getting closer and closer - then an otherworldly hum.

A deep purple magick enveloped his arm and subsumed his knife. Ashley braced for some new agony to reach him, only for the magick to fade almost at once - and when it did, his knife's blade dissolved into the water beneath him in a shower of rust.

The crusader took another step closer, and another, and all the while Ashley staggered to his feet in a vain effort to ignore the screaming pain along his side. He had no weapon and could not retreat back to the storeroom without the crusader following him, without it reaching the children.

From dead ahead, Marco loosed a loud cry and leaped onto the crusader's back. He fought the armor's movement with all its strength, straining to hold just one of its arms, and yet the other arm reared back as if preparing to gore him.

At once the pain retreated to a place within Ashley's control. He lunged forward and grabbed the crusader's sword arm in both his own, standing fast even as the flood water surged against his legs and the monster howled in outrage.

He could barely see Marco, covered in sweat, leaning over the crusader's headless shoulders; he watched his friend stab once, then twice, and miss both times. Then the crusader shuddered with some desperate strength, and it was all Ashley could do to continue pulling at the arm with the greatsword, diverting its swing away from Marco at all cost.

He did not see Marco land the finishing blow. He only knew the crusader was defeated when it lost its strength, when its sudden lack of resistance sending him lurching forward. One by one the plates of ancient armor splashed into the water at his feet - and when he turned around to ensure Marco's safety, his friend stood with his chest heaving, holding up his knife, upon which was skewered the crusader's dark and lifeless core.

***

As Ashley returned up to the canal storeroom to try to find something for his face, a handful of Undercity leaders had already arrived to take stock of the crusader's defeat: a Duskwight matriarch, a merchant clad in blue who swept several of the children into his embrace, and the respective keepers of the Laurel and Kalmia Sigils. When the storeroom became too crowded for comfort and the only healing to be found was a grimy rag from a nonetheless well-intentioned little girl, the pair of lords followed Marco and Ashley back down to the canal, where the water had already risen up past their ankles. As Marco helped him splash water onto his scraped cheek, the lords worked in tandem: the Laurel Sigil leader, a conjurer with a halo of dark hair, chanted over the empty armor and scattered consecrated salt in wide but calculated circles; the Kalmia Sigil's keeper, a tall and imposing warrior with a crossbow strapped to their broad shoulders, traced out the crusader's battle in the gouges its sabatons had left upon the stones of the landing.

The warrior glared over at the other side of the canal, to where the bodies of the crusader's two victims lay entwined in their own net. "Idiots," the warrior whispered, then: "That cave-in up by Aster's has closed off the other bank, and there's no chance of crossing the water until the flood subsides. We'll have to let the river take the corpses and pray for the best."

"Mmm," the conjurer responded. "I don't like the chances of them coming back."

"We're talking ghosts at worst, Dagmar. Things don't come out of the river. The only reason that armor did was because those scavengers decided to test their luck on Flood Day." They shrugged. "I'll take it with me, if it makes you feel better."

Dagmar frowned but nodded. The warrior procured a length of rope and set themself to binding the crusader's empty armor into a single tight bundle.

"Wait," said Marco. The warrior did not stop their movements. "Dagmar, Neele. We have to talk."

"Shhh," Neele, the warrior, shook their head. Neither they nor Dagmar looked at him or at Marco; they were pointedly staring up toward the ceiling, or at some intricate tilework along the canal wall. They might have resembled Heart-Seers for their lack of eye contact, were it not for the fact that they were not listening - not to the water, not to the stones, and not to anything the two boys in front of them were saying. "You lads did good work today. That's forty-five children you've saved."

Ashley managed to take a single step forward without his hip giving in to the pain. "What are you-"

"You've every right to hate us," Neele continued, looking down the tunnel where the rush of water disappeared, "for how things have transpired. I'm sorry we weren't there for Elza, and I'm sorry we can't be there for you."

Marco let out a strangled sound that might have been the beginning of a growl of frustration; instead, he spoke only one word. "Why?"

The conjurer, Dagmar, spoke up for the first time. "It's quite the omen," she said. "I, too, have forty-five souls in my care. At least for now. Forty-five souls to cull the Undercity's legions of undead, and that's with the Knights picking us off at a whim. If I cross their master, we'll doubtless pay an even greater price."

"The last time I opposed Blackram at the Quorum," Neele chimed in, "one of my border-fighters went missing the first day. Then two. Then four. We're strapped as it is, but I'd be a liar if I gave you any reason for keeping my hands clean of you save that they're my people, and I'll do whatever I must to keep them alive."

"And this way," Dagmar added, blinking pointedly up at the ceiling, "we never saw you."

Marco shook his head. "Listen," he said, and his voice wavered with a desperation Ashley had never heard from him before. "Ashley won't bring you any trouble."

"Marco," Ashley interjected.

"I don't care if you leave me be, but just give him a chance, and-"

"You're not that daft, lad," said Neele. "Trouble's all he'll bring - Blackram's already seen to that. And the longer you stick with him, it won't matter how many young ones you save: you'll only bring trouble, too."

With that, Neele hoisted the bundle of armor over their shoulder, and they and Dagmar left the canal as one. Marco paced the landing for another minute, until the flood reached up to their knees.

"I can just-" Ashley began.

"Nah," Marco said, albeit without his regular levity. "We'll find somewhere to collapse. Good thing we don't need their permission to watch each other's backs, right?"

#Godhands #Ashley Rosenheim #Marco

[noodlecupcakeswritings]

Undercover - Chapter 15 (A LokixRaven AU)

Loki won the battle of New York and now rules over Earth after eliminating Thor and Hawkeye. The remaining Avengers have gone into hiding, waiting for a chance to take back their planet. Raven (OC) is their key to doing so.

This fic is pretty much porn and with this AU Raven and Loki have no previous history.

Please leave comments, kudos and reblogs if you like it. It really helps me out as a writer, lemme know if you wanna be on the taglist as well :)

Warnings: Violence, Language, Murder, Confessions, Loki’s catching feelings, Ravens catching feelings. 

Chapter 15

Raven’s P.O.V

Upon returning to the palace, Loki and I seemed a lot closer. He had spent little time with the others since we’d gotten back. He seemed to only want to spend time with me. Most nights we had dinner together before returning to my quarters. He still didn’t spend the night, however. There was still one more hurdle, one more wall for me to break down. Something was holding him back, something from his past. Once I got through to him...I’d have to let SHIELD take him in. Even if the thought of handing him over, betraying him seemed harder.

Loki’s company was enjoyable. He was kind, handsome, sweet, thoughtful and good in bed, which was always a bonus. I think I was falling for him, even if none of it was real. It was all a fantasy, but it was the perfect fantasy. One I would happily get lost in. In his palace I could pretend that the ruin of New York didn’t exist, that he hadn’t taken my planet by force, that he wasn’t a murderer or a liar. I could pretend that I wasn’t an agent sent to take him down.

Loki had asked me to meet him at the throne room a little after lunch. His day was busy, full of meetings, and this was the only free hour he could spare for me. Making my way through the golden halls, I paused outside the throne room. The cracks in the door showed bursts of light, and inside I could hear some sort of commotion. Loki needed me. Throwing open the doors, I ran inside.

The room had erupted in complete chaos. Loki was fighting off three men and a woman. They were dressed in similar armour to Loki, only the colours they donned were red or blue. And there was more than one Loki in the room as well. Like he’d cloned himself. He used magic, so it was more likely than I had originally thought. It was something to question later. Right now, I needed to help. But I was only effective in a fight when I used my abilities, and I’d worked so hard to hide them from him.

But Loki could only fight them off with clones for so long. Some of them were already vanishing. I looked around for some sort of weapon. The Chutari guards lay on the floor, dead. Running to one of them, I pulled free the long blade from its grip. Now I wasn’t completely useless. The closest target was the tall blonde male, his armour silver and blue. He was distracted by two clones, so he didn’t see my attack until it was almost too late. But my goal was not to kill.

I refused to take another life when I had already taken so many before. Another thing Loki couldn’t find out about me. My blade clashed with the blonde’s sword. He seemed surprised. After all, to him I was nothing more than a slave. “So, he’s getting his slaves to fight his battles now?” He asked rhetorically. Growling, I shoved him back and went for his side where I knew there would be a gap in his armour. Blocking my next attack, he spun round and back, putting space between us.

It was clear that I was outmatched. I wouldn’t be able to beat him or any of them like this. The blonde advanced on me, slashing downwards. I blocked in time, but he forced both our blades down. My own blade inched closer to my throat, and we both knew I wasn’t strong enough to resist much longer. Taking a cheap shot, I drew my leg back and kicked him hard in the balls. He fell to his knees, making a choked sound. He wouldn’t be down for too long, so I kicked him again, getting him straight in the jaw and knocking him out.

Loki fought off the largest of the men and our eyes met. Worry was evident on his face and he tried to make his way over to me, but another male blocked his path, the shortest of the three. Instead, he conjured another clone before me; the clone taking me by the arm and dragging me to the door. “You have to let me help you, you can’t fight them alone,” I protested. “When you came here, I promised to keep you safe. Do not argue. If you want to help, you can get me reinforcements.”

As we reached the door, the clone stopped and faded as it had been stabbed through the chest. Before me stood a woman with black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She wore silver and red armour. Weaponless, I raised my hands to show I was no threat. I’d hoped she’d let me go, but she’d clearly overheard the previous conversation and she took me as a hostage. Standing behind me, she pressed her blade to my throat and forced me to walk forward with her. My hands balled into fists, anger coursing through me as she threatened my life, as she made me feel helpless.

“Loki, stop your sorcery now or I’ll slit her throat,” the female shouted above the noise. In an instant the clones faded, the room falling silent. Loki didn’t lower his sceptre, still on the defence. “Let her go Sif, she’s innocent in all this,” Loki demanded. Sif only tightened her grip on me, refusing to give into his demands. I hated the feel of the blade pressed against my skin; it had been something I’d never wanted to feel again. And Loki knew that.

“Just let her go. Please,” Loki tried again. “You care for a Midgardian? After lecturing your brother for doing the same?!” Sif exclaimed. His brother? These people must be from Loki’s home planet and must have known both of them well. “You will return to Asgard where Odin will punish you for your crimes. You will let these people and their planet go,” Sif continued. There was a flicker of fear from Loki at the mention of Odin. Whoever he was. Loki considered his options, glancing at the two men who were ready to spring into action again should he try anything.

Sif nicked my skin with the blade as if to prove she wasn’t bluffing. I winced at the sting, feeling blood droplets run down my neck. With tears in my eyes, I felt like I now had no other choice. Grabbing the blade, I used my abilities for the first time in years. Conjuring fire, the blade soon heated up and Sif dropped it with a hiss. Now free, I spun, so I was facing her, hurling more fire at her. Sif retreated, screeching as her skin was scorched. But I didn’t stop there, I kept going until she was silent and still. Dead. As the other two sprang into action, I used my telekinesis to stop the large one mid-air. Loki used his sceptre and fired an energy bolt at the shortest one.

“Take your friend and leave!” I demanded, motioning to the knocked-out blonde. Throwing the larger one to the floor, I kept my hands raised, ready to use more of my abilities if need be. Loki remained by my side, also on the defensive. The larger man threw the blonde over his shoulder and in a flash of rainbow-coloured light the three men vanished. My whole body relaxed as the threat left, tears rolling down my cheeks. I felt exhausted, Loki’s gaze on me the entire time. Hesitantly, he reached out for me, saying my name softly.

I felt awful and exposed, shying away from his touch. I’d killed someone for him. Now I was in deep, probably too deep. Fury couldn’t find out. I’d probably be fired or worse. Loki placed a hand on my shoulder to try to comfort me again. “Raven you acted in self-defence, you did nothing wrong,” he spoke softly. “I killed someone! Who were those people anyway?! Why were they here?!” I asked. Loki sighed, as If this were difficult for him. Folding my arms over my chest, I stood there giving him an expectant look. “I’ll tell you everything, just not here. Besides, it seems you have things of your own to tell me,” he added.

Scoffing, I stormed to my quarters, Loki following closely behind. Once inside, he closed the door behind us and we both waited to see who would talk first. Although with the look on my face Loki caved in first. Sitting on the edge of my bed, he patted the spot next to him. I gave into his request, still coming to terms with what I had done. Sitting down would be a good idea. Loki took my hand in his and turned to me, but couldn’t quite meet my gaze.

“The truth is...I never wanted your planet in the first place. I only ever wanted a chance at equality. As...the second born that means my brother was first in line for the throne. I never had a chance, what with Asgardians having such a long-life span. By the time my brother would have passed, he would have had heirs to take his place.” “Thor?” “Yes. Our father always made it very clear which son he favoured more, which son he deemed worthy of the kingdom, the throne, even that stupid hammer.”

Part of this I already knew. I knew about Thor and Mjolnir, but Loki couldn’t know that. Besides, I’d only met Thor on one occasion and whilst he’d been kind, he was too boisterous for my liking. So it seemed Loki had daddy issues like I did. And rightfully so. Regardless of first borns and second borns, parents should always treat their children the same. I could see years of not feeling good enough and likely being told so would cause Loki to lash out like this. Yet the other part of me didn’t like that I was sympathizing with him. He didn’t deserve my sympathy when it was on me to bring him to justice. Yet I felt there was still something he was holding back from telling me. I wanted to push, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to do so.

“Thor was banished from the realm, stripped of his titles and powers for almost starting a war between Asgard and Jotunheim. I thought if I destroyed Jotunheim that I would be protecting Asgard and the kingdom. But apparently not. Even when Thor was the one who started it all, I was still the one who had to suffer the consequences, and he was hailed as a hero. I fell through a black hole, expecting to die so I wouldn’t have to see the disappointment on my father’s face anymore. But instead Thanos found me. Tortured me until I agreed to find the tesseract for him.” Loki continued to explain.

Whilst I didn’t approve of genocide, I could understand the need to prove his worth. The need to feel in control and good enough. Loki still refused to meet my gaze, his grip on my hand lose as if ready for me to recoil from him. Instead, I squeezed his hand to reassure him it was okay, that I understood. Because I did. “I know what it’s like to want to prove your worth to others and yourself. I know what it’s like when the thoughts of never being good enough eats you up inside,” I spoke softly. Telling him seemed easier now, I knew he would be accepting. A part of me wondered how many people he had told his story to. And if he really didn’t want this planet, then maybe I could convince him to let it go before SHEILD could bring him in.

“I was born with the ability of flight. I had these beautiful wings, something that made me feel special as a kid. The night I killed my father…he…he broke my wings. After having them taken away from me, I was so angry, I wasn’t special or beautiful anymore. I hunted down other people like me, took what made them special. Eventually it had to stop when an organization got involved, one that locked up people with abilities,” I explained. If it wasn’t for SHEILD, I still would have been stuck in a cell on suppressants. I owed them my life. And this mission was my way of wiping that debt. If I failed, they’d probably send me back, and I’d never see the light of day again. I had to turn Loki in, no matter how I felt for him.

Loki listened silently, not an ounce of judgement on his face. Cupping my cheek, he leaned in and kissed me softly. Pressing his forehead to mine, his thumb stroked across my cheek tenderly. “I promised you before that I would keep you safe and that still stands. Nothing will change that.” He spoke. Swallowing thickly, I did my best to fight off tears. He didn’t deserve this; he didn’t deserve to be lied to. But I couldn’t tell him for the fear of being executed like Agent Collins. “Meet me tomorrow night after dinner at my quarters,” Loki continued.

His quarters? None of the slaves had set foot in his quarters before. And I wasn’t about to pass up that opportunity. I nodded and forced a soft smile to say I’d be there. He kissed me once more, happy with my answer. “Will you show me these other abilities that you’ve acquired?” He asked, curiously. I had used none of my abilities for so long out of fear. But here, with Loki, I had nothing to be afraid of. Smirking, I responded, “I thought you would never ask.”

Taglist: @sweetfictionalworld​​​​​​​​​, @therealityhelix​​​​​​​​​, @darkprincessloki92​​​​​​​​​, @skulliebythesea​​​​​​​​​, @fizzyxcustard​​​​​​​​​, @myownviperroom​​​​​​​​​​, @jana-banana-fana​​​​​​​ 

#loki #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki fic #Loki Angst #loki fluff #loki feels #LokixOc #loki AU #loki smut #Avengers #avengers fic #avengers au #avengers fanfic #avengers fanfiction #avengers feels #avengers fluff #avengers smut #avengers angst #marvel #marvel fanfic #marvel fic #Marvel AU #marvel fanfiction #marvel feels #marvel fluff #marvel angst #marvel smut

[outroshooky]

waiting for the sky to fall | jjk

⇢ genre: series; part one (i-saw-you-on-the-subway-every morning-this-week-and-i’m-possibly-in-love-with-you!au) (fluff)

⇢ pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

⇢ word count: 6.3k

⇢  warnings: brief instance of anxiety; probably too much rambling about how pretty jeongguk is when he exists like that

⇢ a/n: a dearest birthday present for the love of my life and platonic soulmate @guksheart. cait, i cannot believe we have been a part of each other’s lives for over a year now. i adore you so so much and i am so proud of the bold, compassionate, wonderfully gay, fierce yet gentle, considerate, accepting, lovely woman that you are. i would not trade our sisterhood for the world, and i still cannot believe that you are coming to new york in a mere matter of months. i can only hope that we’ll have adventures like this one when you do.

this is heavily inspired by the commute i took to visit my friend in the city over the summer!! kudos to columbia university for loaning me some much-needed inspiration, although i never fell in love with anybody on the way there.

part one of the verses and vibes series. part two will be uploaded on december 20, 2019.

“bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art—   not in lone splendour hung aloft the night   and watching, with eternal lids apart,   like nature’s patient, sleepless eremite,”

�� “bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art”; john keats

10:57pm.

Call it 11, it’s close enough.

Eleven o’clock in the evening.

A sacred time, those great appreciators of the universe would say. It is amazing how, as the wind caresses your hair with breezy fingers, there are some who walk the city streets below without pause. Some who cannot understand the sanctity of such a time, the security that comes with the blanket of nightfall— if you could call it nightfall in the heart of such a metropolis.

Below you beats a rhythm akin to the one in your soul, beneath the skin of your merely human chest. A home you’d heard so much about, fallen in love with before you’d even met, and god it couldn’t have felt more right. Over the edge of the balcony is utter chaos: taxi cabs honk an irregular staccato, the open! sign of the ramen shop one block over flickers its own neon melody. People shout, brakes screech, doors bang, dogs bark; to anybody else, it would be utter madness but to you- to you, it is simply home.

The ambient light mutes the glow of so many stars that pinprick the sky millions of miles above, arcing across the heavens in so many celestial designs. If you squint, you can pick out Casseopia, maybe even Ursa Major through the dim haze. The stars are far and few between, but it’s a quick glance to your left and right and you’re surrounded by majestic masterpieces, this time of a manmade design.

When you were younger, you used to muse that skyscrapers not only scraped the bright blue sky so far above, but supported the very cosmos itself with the slight curve in their arching backs. They bore the weight of the world, shouldering the immense task of keeping the stratosphere aloft. For a skyscraper to crumble was for the sky to fall, and yet you’d never seen one even waver in the wind.

Later, of course, you would learn that this was not the case. Earth herself kept the stratosphere in good health, and those wonderfully tall buildings existed as testaments to man’s great ability. However, there was a quiet part of you that still entertained the fantasy (as all of us do, in one way or another). And why not? It's moments like this, where you are surrounded by the dizzying breadth of the world out there and you can taste the sweetness of the universe’s ambrosia, that have you thinking twice about it all. Who says that we can't hold up the sky? Who says we don't spend our lives wondering, even if just a little bit, when the pillars will collapse and the sky itself will cave in one shuddering breath? Who decides when the Sun will burn, the Moon will freeze, when life as we know it tumbles to ash and dust?

“Baby?” His fingers interlock over yours, warm against the cool of the balcony railing. “Everything okay?”

His chest is warm against your back, grounding in its familiarity. You could name the planes and angles of his body like you could name the asterisms that freckle the night sky. He smells like cucumber soap when you turn and nuzzle into his neck, the damp locks of his hair tickling your forehead. You usually tease him when he’s post-shower like this, the bangs that tumble past his cheekbones giving the impression of a shaggy mop, but you spare him tonight. He squeezes over your hand, palm flush against your knuckles as your cheeks heat against his neck. 

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just taking a moment.”

Jeongguk tilts his head skyward, but he’s already got the universe in his eyes, wide and fawn. His chest rumbles when he speaks, soft velvet, a little gritty. “It's so beautiful out here.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” you raise your head to reply, brushing your nose to the column of his throat.

He’s got good composure but he's blushing now, between the lateness of the hour and the softness of your skin. He may smell of Dove and there’s a pimple dotting his cheek, but you’re stunning in the light and there’s a faint air of something sweet; if it’s your skin or your soul, he can’t decide. Perhaps both but he can’t help himself; his lips find your forehead and your eyes flutter shut. Contentment so simple, so lovely. 

His arm slides around your shoulders and the way you fit into his side is divine insistence. The other half you never knew you had, and yet at one time, it wasn’t this way. Hard to believe, but that’s the reality of it, and you never even knew he filled a gap in your heart until the deed was done, and there was nothing you could do to unplug the hole.

He kisses your temple and you kiss his shoulder, exposed by the dip of his t-shirt. “Come to bed, baby.”

“But it’s so nice out here,” you whine. 

“It’s late and you have class in the morning,” he coaxes quietly, his accented English gentle in your ears. “Come on.” His fingers slip from your own and you sigh, giving in.

“But you have to carry me inside.”

His eyes roll but he’s already stooping, and when he scoops you into his arms to press a kiss to your nose- he just can’t help himself- you poke his cheek and he grins a smile as warm as the lazy afternoon sun. “I love you.”

“I love you twice that amount.”

Jeongguk takes the balcony in stride, nudges the sliding door open with his foot. “Yeah, well I love you fifty times that amount. Squared.”

He kicks it closed behind him as you raise an eyebrow. “Cheater.”

“I’ll throw you on the bed, swear to god.”

“You’re mean,” You retort. 

“No I’m not.” He turns the light off on his way in, bumps the bedroom door shut with his impossibly slender hip. “I’ll be the big spoon if you take that back.”

Bedsheets under your fingertips. “Fine.”

It is hard to believe that, merely a year ago, you would be coming inside to an empty bed. Merely a year ago, your world would be silent, save the busy hum outside your apartment windows. Merely a year ago, you hadn’t a clue that your world was about to turn upside down, flipped on its axis and spun into chaos in ways you’d never even considered possible. Merely a year, but a lifetime spent sitting, waiting, wishing- twiddling your thumbs, chewing on your fingernails, anxiously hoping for something, anything.

And that’s when, exactly three-hundred and sixty-four days ago, the columns gave out in a rush of dust, the cosmos itself unraveling at the seams of early morning.

 Momentary silence, a stifled yawn. “Come cuddle.”

A sleepy, breathy, near-whisper. “Will you be the big spoon?”

Jeongguk chuckles, breath soft. “Always, baby girl. Always.”

one year before

There’s no better alarm clock than a caramel macchiato, sipped through tired lips and bleary eyes on the chaos of a Monday morning in the subway. You are far from a morning person, as evidenced by the death grip on your Starbucks cup, but you feel just a little more human with the help of four espresso shots and a pump of hazelnut. Having an off-campus apartment means it’s a roughly twenty minute subway ride between home and school, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, not when there’s not much of a difference between the two.

To be frank, the city is home- a comfort you never expected, the subject of a thousand love letters never to be written but in the deepest cavities of your soul. The grime of the sidewalks, the gritty rumbling of the subways, artful graffiti and corner bubble tea and a little bit of pride, thrumming in the deepest recesses of necessity. The city in which you grew up is merely a square foot to the square acres that are your romping ground now.

The wires of your headphones snake around your scarf, bundled up around your shoulders. It is that wonderful time before fall bleeds over completely into winter, a lingering cool breath, and arguably the best season of all. Thus, you are perfectly comfortable underneath a warm jacket, backpack slung across your shoulder as you swipe your card, pass through the turnstiles and on to the waiting train just across the platform.

The subway car rattles beneath you with a groan, darkness rushing past in so many variants of orange from the neon lights that dotted the tunnels. Around you, bodies press tight on the morning commuter train; in any other circumstance, it would make you anxious, but there’s an odd feeling of security it grants. The train slows, pulling into the next station, and you focus your attention on the page of Madeline Miller’s latest bestseller.

At the next station, the car decompresses as travelers shift, and you are left a moment to breathe before the train will inevitably fill again, two stops from now. Next to you, a purple jacket brushes your shoulder. Just above the top of your book, a pair of black Timberlands pauses before turning towards you and settling. 

There really is no reason at all why these Timberlands would be special. There's no reason at all why your eyes find it necessary to track upwards, no reason why you should have glanced up from your delightful novel for the sake of one commuter’s settling. No reason at all why, as your eyes followed skinny jean-clad thighs to a leather jacket, and further, further.

His caramel-streaked hair brushes his cheekbones, styled in a way you’d typically call bedhead, but on him looks like art. His brow is soft yet defined, much like his jawline, cutting narrow. His lips are perfectly pink, a gentle pout, and his graceful nose a button. His shoulders are broad, the taper of his waist impossibly slender but hidden under the folds of his ridiculously oversized t-shirt. 

And his eyes- his eyes. 

You have poured over literature for hours upon hours, soaking in poetry and epics and novels alike, yet you have never understood what the poets meant until this very moment.

His eyes are the café au lait you sip on sunny afternoons, the sweetness of a chocolate bar, the warmth of a woolen blanket in wintertime. They glint with the light of a thousand stars but shine with the depth of a thousand galaxies, each and every one a testament to the great work of the universe. It is as if he holds the very cosmos in his pupils, and your breath is stolen from your lungs without a second thought. 

He is stunningly beautiful but goes completely unnoticed by everyone else in the car, it seems, as the train picks up speed. There is no greater punishment than tearing your gaze away from him when you realize you've been staring too long to be socially acceptable. You force yourself to return back to your novel but end up reading the same line five times over, too distracted by the shift of his heels, the way he toys with the straps of his rucksack. 

Part of you aches every time the train car fills, obscuring your view of the handsome stranger. Each time, you’re left wondering if he's moved, but each time, the crowds part to find him still seated on the garish plastic bench, glued to his iPhone. Your stop is the next and you can't help but feel anxious about getting up, about turning face and walking out of the train car. Your heart rattles an irregular tempo as you snap your book shut (still on the same page as twenty minutes ago), gather your things, and carefully stand amid the gently rocking car. He doesn't even look up at your sudden movement, and there's a part of you that is somehow irrationally crushed. 

The train grinds to a halt and the doors slide open, and you spare one last longing look before striding across the grimy tile, minding the gap between the train and the platform. Foolish of you to want to stop your day for the sake of an attractive stranger. Foolish of you to think his day would stop, either. 

With a muffled curse behind you, footsteps thud and voices grumble as a mop-haired boy with a rucksack on his shoulder bursts his way out of the train car, having nearly forgotten that this is his stop, too. When something brushes your arm as you jog up the stairs, you nearly drop your Starbucks with the realization that he is unintentionally keeping pace with you across the stairwell, lost behind the curtain of his fawn locks. 

Anxiety melts to curiosity as you weave through the station, matching pace all the while as you’re spit out onto the street from underground and walk the mere half block to your university gates. He hesitates under them, a touch of nerves, but shakes his head and continues on under the tree-covered path of the quad. You lose him somewhere by the Economics building, heading towards the library as you turn towards Hamilton Hall, but the excited thrill in your veins outweighs any and all disappointment.

You're practically glowing during 8am lecture, dancing on air through your lunch break when you think you spot him across the dining hall, but in fact it's just that guy from your math gen-ed. You’d never admit to a stranger consuming your thoughts, but here’s a nagging feeling at the back of your skull as you zip up your bag at the end of your day and head towards the corner station. 

A typical Monday indeed?

Anything but. 

It was certainly unconventional, the way you launched yourself out of bed the next morning in favor of tripping into a pair of jeans and dashing to fix your hair in the bathroom mirror. You haven't put so much effort into getting ready in months, and factoring in time for a dab of makeup left you skipping breakfast in favor of slinging your bag over your shoulder to rush out the door on time.

An iced Americano restores breath to your lungs, but does nothing to soothe the jitter in your bouncing knee as the train doors shut and a voice crackles over the intercom, unintelligible. A chocolate croissant is light on your tongue, memories of the flaky pastry crossing your mind only to be drowned out by thoughts of the next station and the promises it holds.

With no novel in hand, it is easy for your eyes to flick to the crowd as the train slows coming into the station. Effortlessly, you pick him out even with the white mask across the lower half of his face obscuring his nose and mouth. His visage is scrawled, it seems, on the inside of your eyelids; it danced throughout your Human Behaviors class, teased you through the late night of cramming for midterms. You hoped the concealer would cover the dark spots under your eyes, but you couldn't be certain.

As the doors slide open and the crowd surges forward, you lose him for a moment in the streams and flows of people coming and going. He appears just down the car, button-down rolled at the elbows, and even from a distance you feel your cheeks heat as he finds an empty seat just across the aisle.

Yesterday, his jacket hid him to the knuckles under the security of worn leather. But today, pushed sleeves reveal the ink snuggled tight around his wrist, curling its way up his forearm to snake hidden under the folds of the unbuttoned dress shirt he so casually threw over another plain black t-shirt. Sunflowers and daisies and blossoms you can't even name bloom in color across his skin, geometric designs etching sculpture into living marble. He is a magnum opus through and through, bearing so many works of art on the canvas of his flesh.

The white wires of his headphones leave him oblivious to the world, the galaxies in his pupils twinkling under the stark white light. He is wholly unbothered by a group of high school girls tittering to his left, the judging eyes of the older gentleman to his right. He simply exists in all of his beauty, whether the world wishes to love him or not.

And then his eyes find you.

It is only for a moment, but his gaze renders you breathless, mind spinning, pulse racing. He blinks owlishly, staring only for a second, two, but it's long enough to feel your heart ricochet around your chest, caged butterflies in your chest soar against the crest of your ribcage. They dart in tandem, beating their fragile wings with a fluttering pulse; you swear you’re reduced to a mere teenager at the sight of him, and that’s just ridiculous. The train car around you is suspended; it is hard to believe you are breathing the same air merely a few paces away, but you are and it is him and the depth of his soul is staring you blind in the face.

You don’t know him but you know him, all at once. He says a thousand sweet nothings with the shine of the lights in his eyes, promises commandments to keep when his lashes flutter against the apples of his cheeks. He is a complete stranger but somehow, someway, a known companion. His fingers twitch against the fabric of his jeans and you wonder what they would feel like wrapped around yours, memorizing every divot with a careful reverence. How they would brush your hip when he pulls you against his side, how they would pull at you craving more, more, more— 

A spice of cologne curls under your nose, a little floral, a little sweet. Perhaps it’s his, the scent that clings to his pillow in the morning and his jacket in the evening. The tap of the woman’s foot to your left is the beat of his footsteps on the creaky apartment floor as he announces he’s home, he’s brought dinner; life is simple and content—

He nods his head to the beat that flows quick through his headphones, eyes shut, in his own world. You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to share on your morning commute, fingers entwined with coffee in one hand but music in your heart—

Bodies around you ebb and flow, but the flurry is nothing compared to the images that swirl in front of you. Tracing his tattoos with the lightest touch, laughing till his nose scrunches at a shitty pun, early kisses and late-night touches. The warmth in his eyes when you do something stupid, the comfort in your arms around his shoulders when he’s doubting himself—

It’s a misplaced elbow to your ribs that jolts you out of reverie as the older gentleman seated next to you creaks to his feet. You wince and open your mouth to complain, but not before taking in the empty seat across the train car, devoid of leather and ink and beauty.

Where did he g— 

That’s when the car doors slide shut and you, all too soon, come to a stunning realization:

The handsome stranger whom you have just spent twenty minutes daydreaming about is gone, nowhere to be seen, lost in the crowd of chaos that is the city.

And you have completely missed your stop.

Well, it’s a damn good thing taxi cabs exist.

Your alarm does not go off on Wednesday morning. Perhaps a fatal mistake, because by the time your dreary eyes crack open at the suspicious amount of rest you’re getting for the middle of the week, you are supposed to leave your apartment in eight minutes— shower, breakfast, makeup, and all.

Perhaps there is a god looking out for you after all, because you manage to make it out of the house only two minutes later (although just about all of the above had to wait). Your stomach grumbles as your feet trod down the littered stairs of the station, an insistent reminder that the last meal you had was ten hours ago, and you really need to eat sooner rather than later. No time meant no coffee meant cold hands, an unfortunate consequence, and you’re shivering your way through the turnstiles onto the train as the wind bites cool at the back of your neck.

You’re still drowsy from sleep, a ten page paper having kept you awake, so it is no surprise that you nod off on the train. You’re not sure when your mind clears of soporific fog, but when your eyes flutter open, the one person you’ve been waiting for is seated in front of you with his elbow slung across a backpack next to him, propping up his head as he too drifts off. A raven cloth mask covers his nose and his mouth, his eyelashes brushing the curve of his cheeks, a bit crimson from the chill. A binder slips crooked under his arm, threatening to topple to the floor. Squinting at the train board means you’ve got two stops left and you force yourself upright, rubbing your eyes only to wince at their dryness.

Though your eyes ache and sleep tugs at your bones, he is worth staying awake for as his body sways with the rhythm of the car. Around you, everyone is immersed in their own little slices of the world, completely oblivious to another tired traveler. There’s a scar on his cheek and a tiredness about him, and your heart, two sizes too big, aches for something you don’t quite understand. One station passes without interruption and he is still asleep, draped over his backpack with his notebook slipping further, further. 

The train rounds the final bend, brakes screeching as it pulls into the station. The sudden deceleration is enough to send the stranger’s binder, packed with papers, spinning to the floor of the train just as you stand to gather your things. A few index cards here, some loose green and white papers there, and he is somehow still asleep through all of this, surrounded by oblivious minds and occupied hearts.

You have approximately five seconds to make a decision before the train fills with a swell of new passengers.

You don’t have to think when you’ve already made your choice.

Forgoing the cleanliness of your jeans, you stoop to the floor, scrabbling the spilled contents of paper and a pencil and a spare Chapstick into the mouth of the binder. People are already beginning to spill through the door, but you’re pushing your way through without a second glance, feet pounding the steps underneath you. You follow the beam of light that pours underground, cutting corners and rushing staircases until you are facing a narrow city block and the buildings that reach on tiptoe to kiss the heavens. The sun’s caress is warm on your cheeks as you stride through the gates, ever stony in their stoicism, and find a shady bench to sit and organize the mess in your hands.

It is a simple black binder filled to the brim with notebook paper, neat handwritten ideas that dissolve into simplistic sketches and jotted thoughts. You don’t mean to read it, you really don’t, but as you tuck the pencil into the neon green case looped through the rings, a single form catches your eye: an advertisement for the show in the greater library this weekend, set up by the architecture majors showcasing their designs in conjunction with the fine arts students.

He does fine arts? That must be the sketches in these pages. But perhaps it’s a casual hobby for him? Maybe he’s only interested in it and not actually pursuing it as a major. There’s Korean on this too; is he an international student? How long has he been going here? Why isn’t he dorming on campus with the others—  

A cough in front of you, and when you glance upward, you nearly choke in surprise.

Hazel shines russet when his eyes catch the light that filters through the trees, twinkling with something unknown when they meet your own. His hair is tucked under a beanie, vivid red against the muddy brown of his oversized sweater. His mask is pulled down to his chin as he fidgets in front of you, twisting his fingers with almost a childlike nervousness. His lips part, plush, a little chapped. “Can I have that?”

His English is sweet, accented on the ears, a softer tone than you’re expecting, but you don’t mind it. Curse your nerves and your sweaty palms! “Oh! Yeah, sure!” You nearly shove the binder at him and he blinks owlishly, taking a moment to examine its contents, making sure nothing is out of place while you ramble on and on. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get it back to you on the train, but you were asleep and I didn’t want to bother you, especially since here that’s typically just not what people do, you know how they are- Oh, your pencils and things are inside the pencil case, I figured they would be too much to try to carry around before I found you, you know? And I didn’t want anything to get lost; I hate when things of mine go missing and I tend to be so scatterbrained.” You chortle nervously as he hugs the binder to his chest.

A small smile blossoms on the stranger’s face and you get the feeling there’s more he wants to say, but doesn’t know how. Instead, he bows graciously, a little pink in the cheeks, and states simply, “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, really! Don’t worry about it. It’s what I’d want someone to do for me and since I’ve seen you only recently on the morning train, I didn’t quite know if you’re new to campus or you’ve been here a while and just moved or something like that-” He’s still staring, eyes wide, and you realize you’ve been talking for far too long. “But ah, I’m sorry! Continue on, yeah? Have a good day!” You ramble, internally kicking yourself. Damn your loose tongue and damn this man for being so infernally, unfairly attractive.

He blushes even deeper, face flushing crimson, and shoulders his backpack. “You too…?” When he trails off, you realize he’s waiting for your name and nearly trip over your own tongue getting the syllables out. He repeats it once and nods, extending a hand. “My name is Jeongguk.”

The way his fingers brush yours is ingrained in the softness of your skin for the rest of your day, in the touch of cologne that lingers in the autumn air long after he’s gone to class. He is the sweetness of your afternoon Starbucks and the freckles of the night sky, dotted through the ambient fog that settles over the city with all the comfort of a blanket. Somehow, someway, there’s a name to the face.

A very handsome face, to boot.

You wake early that Thursday, early enough that you have time to wrap yourself in the fuzziest blanket you own and pad to the window to gaze out upon the city as it wakes slowly, block by block.

The city is sleepy too, rosy glow hanging lazily over the skyline, reluctant to slip into the brightness of daytime. It slumps against the skyscrapers, vibrant fingers brushing the glass with the softest caresses, whispering sweet nothings to the minds that rest just behind the other side. Perhaps dawn enjoys pampering her city like this, with the kindest affirmations and the prettiest, warmest eyes. 

From your apartment window, it is as if first light is melting away, slipping lower and lower as the cracked-egg yolk of the sun leaks over the harbor, spilling over the urban jungle. As you stand, blanket around your shoulders and bathed in the beauty of early morning, a thought strikes you, a minute snippet of profound reality.

It is still on your mind as your feet cross the platform an hour later, effortlessly stepping over the gap into the narrow confines of the train car. It’s busier this morning and thus your usual seat is taken, leaving you to stand and cling for dear life to the pole. A stranger brushes your arm and someone pushes against your backpack, your throat tightening in response. Oh, how you hated busy days. Anxiety blurs your surroundings, swirling in color and breath and heat around you, an unfocused Polaroid. It is blurry and nothing is right, and the doors are opening and closing, opening and closing, and then there’s a new face pressing to your left, and your entire world melts at the very seams.

It is him. Him! He is here and real and in front of you, and has opted to completely ignore his usual (empty) seat in favor of standing with you, a kindly smile gracing the corners of his lips and he ducks his head into your field of view. His eyes flick to yours and the bokeh clears, your heart thrumming happily at the warmth they contain. His fingers grip above your own as he shifts to make sure others can flow around him; you take in that little scar on his cheek, the moles that dot his neck just under the folds of his jacket, the subtle lick of ink that dips into his collarbone. You can just make out the hum that trickles from his headphones over the rattling of the train, a melodic undertone, and his head dips to check his phone.

You’re the one to nudge Jeongguk when it’s your mutual stop, him flinching with surprise when he realizes how fast the ride has gone, and as you follow up through the station, you find that you are no longer trailing him, but instead by his side. He opts to walk next to you; when you tilt your head, asking the silent question, he merely smiles and pushes the pace just a bit. When you’re chasing sunlight on stone, borne out of the street into the mouth of the day, you find yourselves under the university gates, side by side. He takes out his earbuds, fidgeting with the wires as one foot taps the sidewalk. He’s nervous. “I just wanted to say thank you for getting my book yesterday,” he begins. “Properly thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Jeongguk!” You grin, perhaps a little flushed. “Anytime, really.”

Now it’s his turn to redden, shuffling in place. “Ah, is there anything I can do to return the favor?”

“Jeongguk, don’t be silly! Well…” you trail off. “Answer me one question. What’re you majoring in?”

He beams a little at this, glancing at the sidewalk. “I’m studying architecture here for a year; I’m from Seoul. I’m also learning English.” He winces. “Or trying to.”

“Well, I think you’re doing a great job. It’s amazing that you’re learning architecture in an urban environment like this!” You gesture above as a flock of pigeons flutters past. Like a damn Disney film. 

His eyes follow the birds as they swoop above the street, ducking under lamps and through scaffolding. “It’s different from Seoul, but also like Seoul. I like it,” he confesses. “I really like the city. Any city is my city, not just Seoul. You know?”

God, he is so cute, it hurts. Hearing him talk is flowers blooming snug in your chest, winding around your nerves, soothing their live-wire ends. You can’t help but smile at him. “I know.”

“I don’t want to keep you too long…” Jeongguk hesitates as the bell in the clocktower resonates down the commons. “Class starts soon.”

You frown. “Too soon. Want to grab lunch over at Fourteenth?”

His brows furrow. “Fourteenth?”

“Fourteenth and Tenth, yeah. There’s a cute little cafe on the corner, great for people watching and Americanos. And bubble tea. There’s ramen a few shops down, too.”

“Ramen!” Jeongguk practically vibrates in excitement. You swear your face will crack from how hard you’re grinning, from shyness or joy or both. His nose scrunches; your stomach flutters. “Can I have your number? Wait, is that too direct? May I have your phone?” He shakes his head but you’re already handing him your device, a new contact at the ready.

“Text me when you get out of class. I’ll show you how real ramen is supposed to taste.”

Jeongguk raises a hand in farewell, slipping his own phone back into his pocket. You’ll never know that he saved your contact under 귀여운 여행자, nor that he suddenly has a reason to stay awake through his 8am.

And when he spots you sitting there under the Alma Mater a few hours later, his heart skips a beat in its chest. His phone vibrates in his hand.

Ready to eat?

He was born ready.

There’s a poetry book you like to read on Friday morning subway rides, one that filters breath into your lungs and stirs the lyrics in your heart. You soak up the comforts of literature with a mocha in the other hand, lo-fi in your ears, and obnoxiously colored plastic supporting your back. How wonderful life could be in all of its simple joys.

There’s warmth at your side in the form of a boy, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the galaxy in his heart who asked if he could sit next to you and with a pounding in your chest, you gladly accepted, moving your bag to your lap and returning to your Keats, singing cants of yearning all these years later.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to dea—

A note is tucked into your open page, a folded piece of cream-white paper, smooth at the edges, unwrinkled. You glance up at him to find his gaze steadily fixed on a grayed gum stain, knee jumping up and down, up and down as he fingers the rip in his frayed jeans. You unfold the paper slowly, carefully.

Are you busy on Sunday afternoon? Because I’d really like to take you to an art exhibition on campus, and I think you’d look right at home among the masterpieces.

Jeongguk’s focus is on the floor and the floor alone as his stomach twists. Butterflies beat their wings against his ribcage, darting here and there, and he swears that if the train sways one more time, he may throw up his bagel right there and then.

He feels something at his right jacket pocket and flinches, only to notice it is your hand that retreats from it a second later.

He produces a familiar looking scrap of paper from his pocket with trembling fingers, unfolding it anew as he reads a new line of scribbled letters, squinting a little at the cramped figures.

An art exhibition? Sounds like a perfect first date to me.

And that’s how this beautiful thing begins.

an epilogue (of sorts): one year and one day later

There is a thought you had many moons ago, in the heart of a child but nestled in a timeless soul. A thought that was purely fantasy: of mankind supporting the weight of the heavens with the structures that scratch the sky around your tiny little apartment, shared not by one soul, but two. Never before had someone so fallen into your heart like he had, cradling it in his palms with sweet, sweet adoration. Jeongguk was yours and you were his, and that was simply how things were.

You had moved in shortly after you began dating, a decision some criticized but had felt purely natural to the both of you. It was easy to fall into a rhythm with him, easy to let him into the world you had built for yourself now expanding to fit one more.

He introduced you to Korean barbecue and held you when things wouldn’t go your way; you dragged him into the vortex of John Mulaney’s comedy and cried together while binging all seven Harry Potter movies in two days. He taught you some Korean while you polished his English, supplementing it with words he perhaps didn’t need to know, but you couldn’t help laughing when he mashed profanities in brand-new combinations. He loved tea and quiet nights on the couch; you craved the intimate moments high above it all, watching your city rush beneath you in all of its gritty, grimy, wonderful glory. Jeongguk’s pen scratches the page of his sketchbook as you gaze out at the lights that flicker in the apartment buildings seated securely in midtown, downtown, beyond.

We will never know when the sky decides to fall, to come crashing down to earth in all of her heavenly splendor. It is something known only in the fabric of the universe, stitched together in cosmic threads we cannot even hope to unravel. Not yet, anyways. It will come to us eventually, when it is time, comfortably so. In the meantime, you’ll look out over the balcony railing of your little studio apartment uptown, the night air breathing clear, with a blanket wrapped around your legs and Jeon Jeongguk by your side, unceasingly himself.

And that is everything you can ask for in this life and the next.

#bts #bts fluff #kpop fluff #jungkook fluff #kpop fanfiction #kpop scenario #bts au #verses and vibes #outroshooky #guksheart

[badbookreviewclub]

Complete Review: Insanity: Jeff the Killer by Neesha Nickleson

DISCLAIMER: There are spoilers in this review. I highly doubt you will have any plans to read this book, but if you don’t want it to be spoiled, just don’t read the review until after you’ve read the book. To take a break from Empress Theresa and the pain that it has been causing me, I decided to read a fanfiction that Neesha Nickleson, self-published and sold via Amazon. Insanity: Jeff the Killer is significantly shorter than Empress Theresa, at a grand total of 76 pages. On the Amazon listing, Nickleson admits in ‘Videos for this product’ section that she wrote the book when she was fifteen, which in itself is almost endearing to me. Apparently, she wrote it for a contest that Nickleson claims to have won. I’m not entirely sure what the contest was for, but kudos to her. Nickleson also comments that there’s a sequel to this book, however, I haven’t been able to find it.  Neesha if somehow by the will of the fates if you find this review; Please, I just want book two. When will you release book two for purchase? I need it in my life.  The Summary: “Bullies and liars beware: A new threat is arising. Naomi Jansen just wanted to have a normal carefree life until she met Jeff at summer camp. Jeff is a laid back teenage boy with a dark secret. Then one morning at camp, Naomi hears that one of her long time bullies, Mallory, was found dead in her cabin. Naomi suspects Jeff at first but then decides that he’s too sweet do something like that, until a series of events changes her mind and her outlook on sanity.”  This summary isn’t terrible, to be honest. I’ve read far worse, though personally there are a few things I don’t like about it. First of all, revealing that Naomi’s bully was killed. I know this isn’t much of a plot twist because it happens within the first couple of pages in the book, but it gets rid of a sense of mystery. Second, we don’t really know anything about the characters right off of the bat besides general characteristics. I would have preferred if Jeff’s characteristics were written from Naomi’s first impression, for example: “Jeff seemed like a laid back teenager, though when Naomi hangs out around him, the air feels off.” Not the best that could be done considering I literally just threw that out there, but there are small revisions that could be done to give more of a sense of mystery to the book and the characters without pulling from the content of the summary itself.  I do know that this book is quite literally about the Creepypasta, Jeff the Killer, so it isn’t as if anyone reading it has no idea who Jeff the Killer is, but I do feel like the point still stands. Just because a reader has an idea about the content of the book doesn’t give an author the excuse of revealing plot points in the summary. I do also understand that it was written when Nickleson was a fifteen-year-old, so I don’t hold much against her in that regard. Hell, I wrote shitty fanfiction when I was fifteen. However, if you are willing to publish your work online and even sell it, you are going to have to expect criticisms and reviews.  The Characters: Naomi Jansen - The main female lead, Neesha Nickleson’s original character. Jeff Woods - The main male lead, based heavily on if not is completely a mirror of the Creepypasta, Jeff the Killer. Liu Woods- Jeff’s brother, both in the story and in the world of Creepypasta. Based off of or mirrors the character of Liu Woods. Mallory - Naomi’s bully.  Randy - As per Nickleson’s descriptions, the “average-sized” skater boy. He’s the boss of Troy and Keith. Troy - the “fat” skater boy and can apparently run very fast. Keith - the “skinny” skater boy Plot Summary and Breakdown: Considering that the book is only 76 pages, there’s not much plot to it, but there is a plot. The entire book follows Jeff and Naomi around, from their first encounter at a summer camp to the ‘first day of school’ and finally to the moment when both of them snap and kill their families. It’s a fairly simple and straightforward plotline, which works to the advantage of the story at some points. At other points, however, the rapid pacing of the book can be incredibly confusing and makes little to no sense. There are a lot of logical gaps throughout the story that can leave a reader confused or holding their head in their hands, which I will go into as we delve into the storyline itself. Nickleson also has a tendency to flip between Jeff and Naomi’s perspective throughout the chapters, which is a problem within itself. Thankfully she does label in big and completely capitalized letters when she is switching perspectives, which makes it easier to follow along.  There can be a few problems with jumping perspectives in the middle of chapters because we lose connection with the character who was just narrating at times, though it can certainly help the book from becoming repetitive when you want to repeat a scene from a different perspective. In this case, however, it would have been best to completely write the book from third-person rather than jumping between first-person perspectives. First-person can work incredibly well for emotional impact and drawing the reader in, however, in my opinion, it is still possible to do that in a third-person perspective. Perhaps an author wouldn’t be able to do it as well, but in the case of Insanity: Jeff the Killer It would have worked just fine. We start off the book from Naomi’s perspective as her mom is dropping her off at Summer Camp. She is dropped off at a Summer Camp every single year, though this is the first year that she’s seen Jeff, so we could make the fairly logical guess that Jeff is new in town. Namoi’s first opinion of Jeff is that he’s a ‘weirdo’ for wearing a hoodie in the middle of summer. I honestly can’t blame Jeff for wearing a hoodie in the middle of summer because I do the exact same thing. Admittedly, the hoodie I wear in the middle of summer is a lightweight one, but I do. If I could go all year without ever having to stop wearing my jackets I would be so content (So, let’s stop global warming pls. It’s getting harder to wear jackets in the middle of summer. This is a terrible reason for wanting to stop global warming, but any reason to stop it is decent enough in my opinion). We don’t really get Jeff’s first impression of Naomi, but he does follow her and sit next to her to introduce himself because I guess she gave him a weird look. This is when we meet Mallory, who somehow already knows Jeff despite the fact that I thought he was new in town.  Mallory is a little asshole, ‘nuff said.  Just kidding, I have more to say. Mallory calls Jeff her “future husband Jeffy”. She also absolutely adores the color pink which we find out because she’s covered head-to-toe in pink. We also know that Mallory is Naomi’s longterm bully from the back summary, yet, she already knows who Jeff is despite the fact that I’m fairly certain that Jeff moved in. This was a little confusing for me, but I decided to just take it as a sign that Mallory had met Jeff when he arrived at camp and she decided right then and there that he would be her husband. It’s not entirely unreasonable for a teenage girl to say that about a boy that she finds attractive, right? I mean none of my friends ever said that about anyone that they found attractive, but it’s something that I’ve heard about happening. Mostly in movies, but I’m sure it happens elsewhere.  I think.  Maybe.  Anyways, Mallory basically attacks Naomi with a fucking pink and sparkly knife that her mom gave her. She cuts up Naomi’s arms, legs, back, and waist to prove that she’s better than her. This is where we learn that Mallory is a psychotic fucking bitch, and this is where Mallory kisses her life away. Naomi doesn’t tell anyone who could do something about it that Mallory did this to her and instead just fixes herself up. She does meet up with Jeff a little bit later and shows him what Mallory did, he feels bad about it because he just watched before passing out (I think).  A little later on Naomi goes to bed and has a dream about Jeff killing Mallory, we move on to the next chapter and SURPRISE Jeff killed Mallory and her entire cabin. Here’s where the first logical fail comes in; Rather than keeping everyone in the camp to be interviewed by the police or to keep the potential killer from running away, as soon as it is found out that Mallory and her entire cabin were brutally murdered, the camp decides to send them home early. From what I can gather, there’s a little voice in Jeff’s head that tells him to commit these violent acts, though it really only crops up when someone has hurt Naomi. This seems a little ridiculous to me considering that he literally just met her and as far as the book goes, it doesn’t seem like he had these violent tendencies before he knew her. However, Jeff doesn’t want her to find out that he was the murderer so when Naomi’s mom is giving them a ride home, he tries to hide the fact that there’s very clearly a bloodstain on the pocket of his white hoodie by saying that it’s spilled kool-aid. The bloodstain came from the knife he used to kill Mallory, which as far as I could figure out, isn’t a small knife. How Jeff got away with this, I will never ever know, nor do I think I could ever hope to know. Naomi excuses this and accepts it without question because she believes that Jeff is too sweet to have committed a brutal mass murder. I don’t know if this is naive or endearing that Naomi already seems to be falling for Jeff, though this is mostly from my own inference rather than any emotion that has been implied.  Emotion tends to be another problem throughout the book. There’s no emotion in it. The characters seem to be cold and blank slates, even when facing some pretty anxiety and adrenaline-inducing situations. Even when they’re potentially facing death, we don’t get much emotion out of it, and in this regard, the book tends to be pretty disappointing. The way that the plot is laid out, emotion is incredibly important to the story and so are their thoughts and opinions because it is supposed to be a total spiral into madness. When Jeff and Naomi both snap and lose their sanity, we don’t see that spiral, it’s sudden and jarring. There was no slow spiral or thoughts that circled down the drain faster and faster until both of them gave in. A little bit of that is implied with Jeff, which I’ll talk about later on, but the reader doesn’t get any of that from Naomi, making her sudden transition to insanity abrupt and with no foreshadowing other than it being blatantly stated on the back of the book.  However, I digress. Moving back onto the plot, we meet Liu when Jeff is dropped off at his own house. I assume Liu is around the same age as Jeff, though I’m not entirely sure on that point. This is were another logical fail comes in; Despite having been told only pages before that they were being sent home early from camp, apparently, the first day of school is tomorrow.  The rapid pacing of the book created this failure of logic and made me pause for a second to question just what I was reading. It only took a few seconds to remind myself that this was a book written by a fifteen-year-old and originally was posted as a fanfiction. Of course, that’s not to say that all fanfictions are bad, there are some absolutely amazing ones out there, but I do have yet to find one written by a fifteen-year-old that doesn’t have some error in logic. Nickleson just so happens to have more than a few errors, especially towards the end of the book.  Before the first day of school however, Jeff texts Naomi and tells her to go watch the news. So, she heads downstairs and turns it on. It’s a live report of Mallory’s mother accusing Naomi of killing Mallory. And, as it would turn out, they’re right out front of Naomi’s house as well which is rather convenient because they want to interrogate her on live TV and ask if she killed Mallory and why. Because, you know, having someone interrogated by the news rather than having the police interrogate them always goes well. Naomi exposes the cuts that Mallory gave her and essentially just calls Mallory a horrible person. There was no questioning here, the news reporter just accepting it without a single word and declaring Mallory a horrible person. Ultimately this whole episode and everything that Mallory has done is inconsequential to the rest of the book and everything is pointless.  I’m dragging on the longer side here, so I’ll try to speed things up so my review doesn’t end up as long as the actual book is. The first day of school comes and Jeff and Liu are waiting at the bus stop with Naomi. We meet the three skater boys here, Randy, Tony, and Keith. We realize that Jeff and Liu really are new to town because Randy tells them that the new kids have to pay a bus fee because they’re new. Rather than paying it though, they decide to fight. Jeff stabs Keith in the legs and the arms though this never really matters because Keith is fine. Jeff and Liu run to their house and Naomi runs to hers. A short while later Naomi shows up at Jeff’s house and claims to have knocked out the three boys with a metal baseball bat, though right after she did Randy somehow cut open her arm. Blah, blah, blah, they watch a movie, eat some pizza, and then Jeff makes his love confession to her by kissing her. Naomi reciprocates the love and BOOM I guess they’re dating now, how lovely.  Despite the fact that this is supposedly the first day of school nobody is questioning just why they’re playing hooky from school and just accept the fact that they’re not at school. A little while later they go back to Naomi’s house and we learn that Naomi’s mom was home the entire time. So why she didn’t go to her mom for help is beyond me. Naomi shoots at Randy with a bb gun and they all run off after coming after her and Jeff again. She then goes back to Jeff’s house with him for reasons even I don’t get because it seems like they’re just jumping between houses at this point. Liu gets arrested here after saying that he was the one who beat up the three boys, covering for Jeff. Jeff is upset about it and for some reason, Naomi is as well because she thinks that she could have had proof to stop them from arresting Liu despite the fact that she said only moments before that he’ll spend two days in jail at most. Liu doesn’t get a trial for this whole thing, which only makes it more confusing why he’s spending a few days at a Juvenal Detention Facility.  Related story time: When I was 12 I got into a big fight with some of the kids, enough so that the cops were involved. It was mostly just some throwing of hands and the boys shouting “punch her in the boob.” It happened because one of them, threatened to grope my 8-year-old sister, and as the big sister of the family, I couldn’t let that happen. I called him an idiot and we got into a fight. Nobody was arrested, nobody got into trouble with the police, just with their parents. There were a few bruises and a couple days later at school, the boy came up and apologized to me.  Look, I know Keith got stabbed in Jeff’s fight, but honestly, it’s never mentioned again and Keith runs like he didn’t get stabbed at all and acts like he didn’t ever get stabbed so I honestly don’t know if Nickleson remembers that Jeff stabbed Keith. As such, I think it’s a little ridiculous that Liu, a child, was arrested, and sent to Juvie without trial, for a fight when the three skater boys weren’t arrested either.  Moving along from that whole mess, Jeff and Naomi go to an 8-year-old’s birthday party because Jeff was invited by the kid’s mother after Jeff and his family moved into the neighborhood, and Naomi babysat the kid. Randy and Co. show up to the party and Naomi send all the children inside. The Co. have guns and are aiming them at the adults so they don’t try to interfere. Randy lunges at Jeff and Jeff fucking murders him. Keith obviously is upset by this and breaks a bottle of vodka over Jeff’s head after dropping his gun. I don’t know why he had a bottle of vodka or where he got it, but he has one. He then chases Jeff upstairs and to the bathroom and another fight breaks out. A bottle of bleach from a bathroom shelf falls onto Jeff and douses him in bleach. Keith points out that Jeff is now covered in bleach and vodka and proceeds to light him on fire. Bitch what the  f u c k.  I will admit, I do think that this is a creative solution as to why Jeff has bleached skin and does follow along well enough with the actual story of Jeff the Killer, so I am inclined to believe that Nickleson either did a bit of light research into his story or had some prior knowledge about it. This is one thing that I will give the book kudos on.  Jeff wakes up at the hospital, after the bandages are removed he finds out that his skin is bleached and he says that he loves it. Naomi apparently loves it as well and nobody in his family concerned in the slightest that Jeff loves it. We find out that Keith was caught though Tony managed to evade the police because as the reader learns earlier in the book, despite being larger in size, Tony can run like the fucking wind. This becomes a problem later on in the book because Tony comes back and shoots Naomi. Yes, Tony shoots Naomi despite insisting much earlier on that she wasn’t part of the dispute, only Jeff was. Jeff hears the gunshot and grabs the biggest knife he can find and from what I can tell, he murders Tony as well. There’s a little bit of a typo in this section, as instead of saying that Jeff murdered Tony, Nickleson says that Jeff murdered Keith. This threw me off a little bit before I realized that it was a typo. Jeff goes to the hospital though in the ambulance that Naomi’s mother called when she heard the gunshot. Because when you hear a gunshot, your first instinct is to call an ambulance and not go see what happened to see if everyone is fine first. This is really the first bit of emotion we see in the book because Jeff is pacing back and forth so much that Liu, who is out of juvie at this point, points out that Jeff is going to wear a hole into the floor. Turns out, Naomi is fine because the bullets missed her brain and her heart by a millimeter. Now I’m not a doctor, but I’m at least 80% sure that could still kill you. Not only would a bullet near the brain shatter the skull and cause hemorrhaging from the distance it was, but it would screw a lot up. The impact of a bullet that close to your heart would probably still do a lot of damage as well, and yet, Naomi is released from the hospital that night. I’m more than certain that the doctors would have kept her for observation, but I suppose not.  Before Naomi gets shot, we do get a decently sweet scene of Jeff dancing with Naomi, fulfilling a daydream she had of herself and Jeff dancing to a song called Fallen Angel. The artist of the song is never stated but apparently, it’s really good music for dancing and is appropriate enough for Naomi to daydream of herself and Jeff dancing to it in a ballroom. If anyone would care to fill me in on what song it could be, it would be much appreciated. The scene is short-lived though and doesn’t have as much emotion put into it as I would have liked. I think that it could be a beautifully sweet scene, though it isn’t. It isn’t a beautifully sweet scene simply because Nickleson doesn’t write descriptively enough to fill us in on what the characters are feeling. She tells us what they are feeling occasionally, but even then, it’s only on occasion and a story like this could greatly benefit from having emotions tied into it.  After Naomi gets shot and released from the hospital Jeff snaps. He can’t see how beautiful he is when his eyes are closed and when he’s sleeping, so he goes and burns off his eyelids and cuts his cheeks so he’s always smiling (as per the actual story of Jeff the Killer). He then murders his parents and stabs Liu. I’m not sure if Liu actually dies or not as in his story, he survives though Jeff cuts a smile into his face rather than just stabbing him. Jeff then goes over to Naomi’s house, potentially to kill her and her parents, I’m not sure. He finds Naomi playing the piano and when she turns to him, she has “a cut along both of her eyes and a heart carved into her cheek.” I assume that she has a line cut over the top and bottom of her eye, rather than on her eyes because holy fuck that would be intense. But she reassures Jeff that she finds him beautiful still and shows him that she murdered her parents too. Jeff and Naomi go missing after this and are only seen again when they show up at an interview with a ten-year-old boy whose parents they murdered. They had nearly killed him though they didn’t get the chance, so they decide to take action and killed him and the interviewer in the middle of the interview. Jeff and Naomi then make a promise to come and kill everyone else.  In the epilogue of the book, they show up to Slender Mansion, where they are warmly greeted by our friend, Slenderman whose movie in 2019 holds many nostalgic feelings for me but also sucked ass. If you don’t know what the Slender Mansion is, you can read about it here. It introduces you to what it is and is essentially just a giant rant about why it shouldn’t exist because it basically tells the canon of the creepypasta universe to fuck off as it does what it wants. It’s rather amusing, actually. Rating: 4/10 Ending Thoughts:  Overall, it was an enjoyable read when you didn’t think about it too much. It brought me back to my days of loving Creepypasta and everything to do with it. It was an endearing fanfiction to read, even if not written amazingly well. It was still better than Empress Theresa and was a much-needed break from that shit show of a book. I also want book two Neesha. You said you had book two and it was better than this one. Where is book two, Neesha?  I don’t know what I’m going to post next because I am genuinely dreading reading the next portion of Empress Theresa. It will probably take me longer to get through it as I want to do a couple of chapters in one go. Up next I’ll probably ready a book called The Rose Council, written by a man I absolutely despise. I’ll explain more in that post when I get around to doing it. Or perhaps, I’ll write a review on an actually good book for once. 

#review #insanity: jeff the killer #neesha nickleson #book review #bad book #okay book? #entire book #creepypasta

[jennycalendar]

2019 fic roundup

december was INSANE and i spent most of january dealing with the aftermath of Terrible Parents, but i am finally doing this! in nearly-february! good grief!

tagged by @catty-words​! always a delight, cori <3

Total 2019 Word Count: 541,906 Total 2019 Hits: 29,555 Other 2019 AO3 Stats: Kudos: 3,184; Comment threads: 787; Bookmarks: 509; Subscriptions: 223.

Total 2018 Word Count: 338,835 Total 2018 Hits: 22,374 Other 2018 AO3 Stats: Kudos: 2,192; Comment threads: 453; Bookmarks: 280; Subscriptions: 69.

links and titles to 2019 works (buckle up, folks.)

[btvs] imperfections (148,374 words) y’all know about the braveryverse already but i’ll bring up some good points: jenny and giles accidentally adopt the entire scooby gang. also faith gets some actual support and is actually eventually stable enough to date buffy. good times.

[btvs] deliberate obstruction (5,492 words) the one where jenny is petty as fuck and attempts to sabotage every single one of giles’s dates after their breakup. not her best look, but it was really fun to write jenny being Not Great. she deserves to have that option.

[btvs] arch-nemeses (2,171 words) who doesn’t love some of that good old-fashioned ripper au nonsense? particularly when it’s spike and ripper being confusing nemeses who sometimes drunkenly make out (jenny thinks this is very funny).

[btvs] sick day (3,097 words) written because someone should take care of giles, damnit! probably not jenny, tho. she’s not the best at it. lucky for her giles loves her so much.

[btvs] simpatico (10,096 words) sister fic to the grieving process! set circa btvs season six! jenny is connor’s awkward aunt! giles is a repressed disaster who’s still pining but refuses to admit it! 

[btvs] honesty’s the best policy (3,830 words) that one where giles and buffy are hit with a Truth Spell that means they say exactly what they’re thinking. is that all that bad for buffy? not too much. is it a little iffy when you’re a repressed watcher man who still haven’t told your girlfriend how much you love her? uh.

[btvs comics] i router, you giles (1,111 words) GOD this was written BEFORE i knew that giles and jenny were dating in the reboot comics and isn’t that a concept? a snarky-cute first meeting! ok not really that cute bc they just yell at each other a lot! but definitely snarky!

[btvs] transitional (3,152 words) good golly this is cute and i honestly forgot that i wrote it. which makes sense, bc there is a lot of stuff on this list. set in between season one and season two, in an attempt to bridge the giles/jenny gap between “awkwardly friendly coworkers” and “oh my god i think i like you”

[btvs] across the pond (5,323 words) FUN FACT this got nominated for a headline award and i’m SO PROUD OF THAT?! epistolary fic! giles leaves for england in s6 but without his wife! his wife is very mad and writes him VERY MANY LETTERS TO YELL AT HIM! perfect for those people who sometimes think “god, i wish jenny had been in s6 to yell at giles.” 

[btvs] very really married (66,987 words) giles and jenny got drunk-married in las vegas and are keeping the marriage going so they don’t look like terrible authority figures. giles does not want buffy to know about his fake wife. giles does not want his fake wife to know about his real slayer. giles has a lot of problems and it doesn’t help that he might be catching feelings. big mess.

[btvs] bad dreams (2,267 words) GILES/JENNY/ANYA IS BEST SHIP NEXT QUESTION

[btvs comics] an open mic enthusiast (2,250 words) yet another giles/jenny comic-reboot meet-cute written before i knew they were dating!!! this time: jenny gets to see giles playing guitar. repeatedly. because she keeps going back to watch him at the open mic.

[btvs comics] blindsided (2,024 words) my first (and definitely not last) giles/anya fic! a shorter version of a plot bunny i hope to chase down in 2020 (ahaha did i say that WHOOPS)

[btvs] uncharted (16,469 words) my jenny calendar day fic! also known as “jenny calendar has a guilt complex: a novella.” no prophecy dream outs jenny to the group -- but she tells them anyway. and blames herself. and breaks up with giles while she’s trying to Fix Things. absolute mess. (thank god there’s a happy ending, right?)

[btvs] on the mending of hearts (9,236 words) that giles/anya fic where giles shows up at anya’s failed wedding and sweeps her off her feet and they have sex in his hotel room! except uhhh there’s a lot more drama and crying and anya really just needs some cuddles, tbh.

[btvs] extracurricular activities (1,003 words) straight up this one BARELY counts as a 2019 fic. i wrote it back in 2016 and forgot about it and found it on my hard drive and wrote an ending to it. it’s tiny, but it’s cute! lots of early-relationship calendiles fluff, as is My Brand.

[btvs] cookie dough and boy talk (a remix) (3,976 words) dawn, but in the ripper au! she’s a precocious little bab and ripper babysits her and gets semi-adopted by joyce. it’s a thing.

[btvs] a history lesson (698 words) a brief ripper au interlude between jenny and dru. dru tries to point out that jenny and ripper are in love. jenny very unconvincingly denies it.

[btvs] faith, hope, and pancakes (3,236 words) ripper au, now with faith! and she gets to hang with college-age jenny! who is dating her idiot boyfriend ripper! the Most Fun of times.

[btvs] compromises (750 words) this....was supposed to be a three-sentence prompt but I Can’t Do That. giles and jenny discuss (read: jenny yells at giles about) giles attempting to attack angel on sight.

[btvs] valentine buzz (3,422 words) i wrote this in may lmao but i just REALLY WANTED to write fluffy braveryverse valentine’s day nonsense!!! lots of cuddles and kisses and softness abound in this fic.

[btvs] days in goodness spent (5,893 words) this fic's point was a little more abstract and a little less blunt than most of the rest of these, but i wanted to explore the concept of giles slowly going from idealizing jenny to genuinely loving her. i hope i did it justice.

[btvs] to have and to hold (7,861 words) giles and jenny get married in the braveryverse. that’s really all there is. also i posted this on my birthday (may 23rd) AND it is the 23rd fic on this list!!!! WILD!!!!!)

[btvs] saw her in the streetlight, making all the world bright (5,738 words) took me like a year and a half to write the first fic in the ripper au, lmao. in which jenny is a snarky eighteen-year-old, ripper is a snarky college dropout in a band, and neither of them are at ALL good at communicating. especially not ripper.

[btvs] perfect (1,465 words) ripper au: it’s revealed that jenny hasn’t had sex before. ripper handles this with his characteristic maturity and grace (just kidding lmao he FREAKS. but it’s bc he loves her.)

[btvs] respite (1,106 words) i wrote this after issue 5 of the reboot dropped bc i was very emotional about canon power couple giles and jenny. in retrospect, i gave giles’s emotional maturity WAY too much credit--esp. given what’s going on now--but it was still fun as heck to write.

[btvs] shouldn’t we be getting together (3,193 words) this fic’s existence is a combo of me reading a summer camp ya novel and liking the Aesthetic but not the Culture & me talking endlessly w/ @jackalopingintothevoid​ about ripper and jenny’s teenage dynamic. so many of these fics have her galaxy brain takes woven in and i KNOW she knows that. lov u, jack.

[btvs] fragmented (6,158 words) written because of that one time my brain was like “but what if jenny WAS haunting the school?” happy ending because it’s me and g/j deserve some kisses.

[btvs/hp crossover] buffy summers, muggle-born (22,070 words) i CAME BACK TO THIS in 2019 and wrote a few chapters and DROPPED IT LIKE A HOT POTATO. hopefully 2020 will bring me the courage to pick it up again!!!!!! who DOESN’T want a carelessly-mashed-together crossover where the scoobies and the golden trio are all going to hogwarts together for some reason????

[btvs] in bloom (8,452 words) this was SUPPOSED to be the end of the jenny-anya-tara trilogy. it was not. (more on that later.) this was also supposed to be a fic where giles and jenny get together. jenny and anya got together. writing things is wild sometimes.

[btvs] i still want to be your girl (35,165 words) straight up i am so proud of this fic! s7 au: jenny was chased out of town by angelus. giles does not know this. jenny has been working with angel in la, but left with faith to try and help defeat the first. giles is not the guy she remembers. (but jenny’s not exactly the lady giles remembers, either. so maybe things might work out.)

[btvs/leverage crossover] what’s in a name (4,421 words) sophie’s & jenny’s relationship to their names & identities always so totally fascinated me! this fic was my way of exploring that. (also i got to give giles and jenny a toddler. that was fun too.)

[btvs comics] live a little (6,700 words) i had so much fun coming up with a backstory for giles and jenny in the comics that i am kinda tempted to eventually try and do it again. this one was fun to write, tho.

[btvs] kind of like hydrogen peroxide (7,501 words) THIS was FUN. ripper au, but it explores both jenny’s longing for High School Normalcy AND ripper’s fucked-up relationship to magic. also senior prom is a thing.

[btvs] mending fences (6,093 words) sequel to the aforementioned epistolary fic! lots of first-person self-loathing from giles, but also a LOT of love for jenny and his kids. also the man really truly needs to stop repressing.

[btvs] her father’s daughter (1,982 words) 2020 will bring us another chapter of this fic i swear to GOD. literally there’s only one chapter up so i cannot even TALK about my plans for it but uhhh if you want giles and jenny and their three daughters pls feel free to go to that prologue and check it out.

[btvs] a thousand different ways we fell apart (4,888 words) the au fic to encompass all au fics! inspired by the comic reboot and me being like. christ. do they go through this ridiculous shit in EVERY universe? ....and then i wrote a fic where jenny was a space traveler looking through multiple universe to try and fix her marriage with giles. extra fun.

[btvs] no such roses (4,814 words) this one turned out a TINY bit rushed, but the concept of jenny bringing giles back from the dead is always something that i love exploring. i might come back and rewrite this, someday.

[btvs comics] no perfect choice (4,801 words) OOF. wrote this one after issue 8 dropped. a lot softer and more tender than what actually happened, tbh. maybe i will reread it again to make myself feel better about comic calendiles and their brutal split.

[btvs] family (3,545 words) wrote this one p early in the year and came up with an ending to it much later! ripper au: the story of how xander came to live with giles and leave his parents. angst-with-a-happy-ending abounds.

[btvs] a california january (2,206 words) jenny and giles attend a funeral together. that’s pretty much it. this is defs one of the best things i wrote this year, tho.

[btvs] how i survived my summer vacation (volume two) (25,027 words) swear to god this is gonna be the next thing i update. the braveryverse NEEDS to continue. it’s got married calendiles, for god’s sake.

[btvs] clear and impartial judgment (3,977 words) that fic i wrote when i got mad at a lack of resolution wrt helpless. like!!! giles drugged buffy!!! do we not get to talk about the psychological ramifications that would have on her???? (well. canon doesn’t. but i do.)

[btvs] sunshine ladies (10,188 words) THIS FIC WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN and i say that with incandescent love in my heart. i intended for the ‘verse to be giles/jenny, and then i intended it to be jenny/anya, and then i was like....jenny has two goddamn hands, and there’s foreshadowing here for endgame giles/jenny, and i wanna write some giles/anya. let’s fuckin go. (DEFINITELY writing another installment in 2020 about this iconic ot3 of mine.) 

[btvs] spirit-touched (4,769 words) the first smut i write and it’s calendiles ghost sex. i really think this is on brand for me, esp. considering that swath of asks in 2016ish where everyone wanted to know if ghosts could jack off. incredible.

[btvs] dear friend (28,865 words) this fic had such a rushed ending :( it’s a cute premise (you’ve got mail giles/jenny au!!!!!), but i lost interest halfway through, and as a writer i can rlly see that when i read it. another thing i might like to go back and rewrite at some point, tbh!

[btvs] familiar (2,034 words) AUGH i am SO proud of this fic. SO SO PROUD. it’s a concept i really can’t explain and the little twist at the end is something i really really like, so...just read it.

[miss fisher’s murder mysteries] unbearable (5,670 words) i need to write more mfmm in 2020 but the amount of good fic out there is deeply intimidating/delightful. this one was my little “what if it was phryne who thought jack was dead” and tbqh i had a lot of fun with it? bc pining phryne (who makes brief but extremely poignant appearances throughout the series) is an awkwardly, heart-meltingly sincere lady.

[ace attorney] man’s duty to society (544 words) wrote this as my first foray into aa fic while getting emo about miles edgeworth. would absolutely still die for that man.

[ace attorney] fancy running into you (5,887 words) lots of schmoopy narumitsu fluff! gregory edgeworth is alive! miles is trauma-free! phoenix is an artist! just!!! goodness!!!!!!!

[ace attorney] big sister (2,741 words) set in the same gregory-edgeworth-is-alive ‘verse: babey franziska comes to live with miles and his dad. she is a little impossible but miles kinda does love her.

[ace attorney] prince charming edgeworth and his incredible tux (8,042 words) this fic came from me being like “i want to write phoenix swooning over miles in a tuxedo and being like HE LOOKS LIKE A DISNEY PRINCE” and spiraled into something much longer!

[ace attorney] fate, choice, and everything in between (4,384 words) SOULMATE AU. nothing i love more than deconstructing soulmate aus. but like. in a romantic way. also phoenix and miles ARE soulmates and that is JUST facts.

Favorite Fic: I WROTE SO MUCH STUFF THO LIKE !?!??! how can one expect me to distill it to just one fic? i’ll make it my top threeL

a california january (I AM SO PROUD OF THIS FIC. it is soft and angsty and silly and devastating and tender. all the calendiles feels.)

i still want to be your girl (same mood!!! i’ve wanted to write this fic for literal years, and it’s one of those rare occasions where the picture in my head actually turned out BETTER when written out!)

sunshine ladies (this is like my giles/jenny/anya ship manifesto and it still makes me happy to think about them all co-running the magic box together and smooching a lot.)

Hardest Fic: OOF uh i went through a rocky period of writing when transitioning into college? no such roses and dear friend were hit the hardest by my insecurity & my desire to Finish Things rather than actually spend time on the craft. but i’m much more settled in now and my writing is DEFINITELY in an upward swing (as my newest fic -- as day follows night -- attests to quite nicely, imo)

Do You Plan to Take Prompts in 2020? always always yes! (i’m bad at following through with them, but am ALWAYS accepting them.)

What was the best thing about 2019? there were almost too many good things to COUNT, but i think all of them were made possible by me working extremely hard to get myself the FUCK out of my abusive parents’ house and into my first choice college!! i’m thriving, y’all.

What was the worst thing about 2019? realizing that both of my parents are fundamentally terrible people. that part kinda sucked.

Any last thoughts for 2019? i finally understand what it’s like to fall asleep feeling safe, and to notice the way the leaves change color, and to get excited about self-indulgent things like food and cuddly stuffed animals and my own fic and art. 2019 brought a lot of happiness into my life, and oh yeah also i’m in love! lots of cool stuff going on.

Goals for 2020

finish the latest braveryverse installment!

MORE ART JUST IN GENERAL. i love drawing, but there’s not a lot of free time for artsy celia when they prioritize writing so often!

write one of the many incredible longfic ideas that’s floating around in my head. it’s honestly probably only like two or three big ones, but at least DECIDE which one i’m gonna focus my energy on.

more giles/anya this year!

more giles/jenny/anya this year!

diversify! still gonna be writing about jenny forever, but like. it might be fun to write about a few new things here and there.

maybe some more ace attorney fic? maybe even some mfmm fic again? phryne and jack are never far from my heart.

not tagging anyone bc this is....january. but if you wanna do it, feel free!

#fic #fic roundup #ngl i'm like really proud of this list #stayed up.....two hours....to complete it

[ipurpleyou1993]

My thoughts on:

Melting Me Softly

Starring: Ji Chang Wook/Won Jin-ah/Yoon Sae-ah

- For those who do not know, this series is Ji Chang Wook's comeback entry since his military service ended. So, safe to say, many have high hopes for the series. 😊

- How hard is it to lose the one you love - in this case, death? Bez, it's super hard.

This gets even harder when you do not have proof of their disappearance and ONLY ASSUME that you've lost them.

Imagine the pain of having to mourn a loved one that you are still hoping to find alive in the back of your heart and mind.

This may sound like a spoiler but I literally cried on the second episode. ANG SAKIT! 😭🥺🙈

- Family FIRST. We all love our family. I love how this series shows us that no matter our age, we will all still be someone's child and sibling. We protect and love our own. And we will do all things we can to support them.❤️

- Pateince is key. 💯 So for the pilot episode, I had so many questions in mind already. I found it very confusing. Although I have to admit, it will all make sense as the episodes progress. Hence the first sentence - PATIENCE IS KEY. 🙈🤣

The Gist:

The series is about two individuals who entered a cryonics experiment during the 1980s for a variety show.

It was intended to be a 24-hour experiment but due to unfortunate circumstances, they woke up 20 years after.

In total, there were 6 participants in the experiment. But only two agreed to show their face for the viewership of the variety show.

One of the two participants to to agree is Ma Dong Chan. He is the male lead in the story and is played by Ji Chang Wook

Ma Dong Chan is a renowned director during his time. He is known to have the golden touch for all the shows he directed turned out to be certified blockbusters. He participated in this program because he is the kind of director to do all-bizarre things to prove a point. He believes that it is possible to change the world through positive and innovative media platforms.

The second participant is Ko Mi Ran. She is the female lead in the story and is played by Won Jin Ah.

Ko Mi Ran is every woman out there - she does everything for her family. Especially for her special needs brother. The reason she participated in the experiment is for her brother. You'll find out more when you watch it. 😉

The story begins after they wake up 20 years post-freezing. In 2 decades, everyone and everything changed, though for the two of them, it was literally just yesterday.

See how they cope with the change and how things progress from there in the series. 💜

What I liked about the series:

- First of all, JI CHANG WOOK! ❤️ We all know that Ji Chang Wook is a certified OPPA. No questions asked. From Healer to The K2 to Empress Ki, he made us fall in love with him - ALL THE FREAKIN' WAY. 😍❤️😊

I love how Ji Chang Wook got the role of an angsty director this time. It suits him - with his charming looks and seductive charisma. 😉❤️😋 This just goes to show that due to his great acting skills, any role just works for the man.

In reference to his director role, I love how he always says (as Ma Dong Chan) that he became a variety show director to give the people something to look forward to amidst all the negativity the world brings.

And when asked: Why do you go extreme measures for a variety show?

He always answers: Because I have to do what others are afraid of doing to make a change.

You see? He gave inspiring a new meaning. 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

But seriously tho, it's so hard not fall in love with JCW. He's just... well look at that 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

- This is my first encounter with Won Jin Ah. I've got to say, the image of a frail woman suits her. She's sooooooo thin - LITERALLY. Hahahaha! I think one strong wind blow can affect her balance. 🙈😂🤪 But I appreciated her acting. Good job, girl! 💯

I like her character's feistiness, tho. She looks frail but her will power is strong. She will do everything in her power to support her family. Isn't she all of us? Hahahaha! Go for #GirlPower! 💜👍🏻💯

- I love the friendship of Ko Mi Ran, Kyung Ja and Young Seon. Despite the 20 year hiatus on their friendship, they still managed to chat and bond as if it was just yesterday.

Don't we all wish we have this kind of relationship? One that can withstand long pauses and boys coming in between. #SANAALL 😊❤️👍🏻

- The chemistry. ❤️ I've read reviews saying that JCW and WJA lack the connection required to make a kilig series. But I saw the chemistry. There's just so much push-and-pull going on that it makes the heart cringe and wonder - ANO NA BA TALAGA?!?!

- THE KISSING SCENE THAT WAS THE TALK OF THE TOWN!!!

SPOILER ALERT!

Check out this link👇🏻👇🏻

https://youtu.be/zveSVEdFuyI

Now we all understand why it trended that time. Who wants to go next?? MEEEEEEEEE! 🙋🏻‍♀️🙋🏻‍♀️🙋🏻‍♀️

- I SUPER LOVE THE OST - BGM included. 💯👏🏻🎉 Tell Me, Please by Yeonjung is my personal pick! 😉😊👍🏻

As previously mentioned, I love all the music pieces included in the OST. They're all full of emotions suited for every scene it was played. Kudos to the music team of the series. Gujab! 👍🏻👏🏻🎉💯

I also liked the snippet of Can't Take My Eyes Off of You on the first episode (with Ko Mi Ran dancing in her PJ's). Hihi. ❤️😊💯

Link will be provided below for easier reference. 😊

- I love beautiful relationships between FAMILY. I liked how the family relations were displayed in the series - it was genuine and sincere. Makes you want to be a part of their family. 😊

- I love the comedy stint between Ma Dong Chan and his niece, Ma Seo Yoon.

In reality, it's actually rare for older people to listen to kids her age. But she is well-versed when it came to technological advances, what's in and what's not, and just LIFE in general. I found it funny because Ma Dong Chan actually listens to her and she MAKES A LOT OF SENSE - actually, she's MORE SENSIBLE than the adults in her home. 🤣🤣🤣

- I also liked the funny realization Young Seon had about her husband and son. This can be considered one of the best scenes in the series - for me at least. Hahahaha!

In reality (in the series), it is not intended to be funny. But it came across as funny to me because...well...20 years has passed and it is history repeating itself - literally. 🤣🤣🤣

Cons:

- Honestly? I found the beginning of the series very NOISY. All the shouting was literally banging my eardrums while watching. I almost skipped the first episode because of this. 🤷🏻‍♀️🙅🏻‍♀️

Also, the first episode was trying to be funny - and when I say trying, it was very evident that they were trying. Good thing tho, Ji Chang Wook was able to comvince me to continue watching despite this. 💁🏻‍♀️

- The 20-year love story gap did not quite work for me. Was too awkward to watch. Personal opinion, tho. 💁🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️

- The acting appears to be too theatrical for me. It's soooooo exaggerated especially with the scenes of Hyeon Gi and Hong Seok. 🙅🏻‍♀️

- The villain's existence is somewhat "short-lived" and all over the place.

You're kinda expecting a lot of action since the series progresses in such a way but then, it turns out to be a "meh" ending for the villain. Then, the continuation of the evilness seemed as though it was put there just for the sake of it. 🤦🏻‍♀️

I don't want to compare, but I'm so used to korean villains who are so agitating that they make you cringe on so many levels.

Soundtrack:

Melting Me Softly OST Playlist

Just a bonus clip since I really loved the scene this was played in 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

https://youtu.be/AiIBKcd4m5Q

There goes my thoughts. Happy reading and watching! 💜

CTTO - Photos/GIFs/Music

#kdrama #kdrama review #Melting Me Softly #Melting Me Softly Review #Review #Ji Chang Wook #Ma Dong Chan #Won Jin Ah #Ko Mi Ran #Go Mi Ran

[zed-zalias]

so, for any readers of hurricane who follow me (i think there’re like? two? two that I know of? but anyway), i have... things to say i guess?

So, I wrote Gladisun smut. That finally happened.

And I’ve had it planned for... Wow, over three years now, actually. Hurricane has been planned for three years. And a lot has changed and been added (Especially because Hau’s DID is ridiculously poorly portrayed because I was young and stupid and had no idea what the fuck I was doing), but... To be honest? The story’s been... Pretty solidly in place since it first showed up in my head. And I assure you, it was immediately as much of a convoluted, bloated, won’t-shut-up mess as it is today.

And I’ve realized that Gladisun is officially dead. I am the only person on AO3 writing Gladisun, and it seems... Likely to stay that way, judging by the gaps between the last few fics for the ship. And I’m not saying this to, like, pressure anyone who reads my stuff to write some of their own. I’m saying it because it made me realize I’ve kind of been lying to myself.

When Ultra Sun and Moon came out (And fucked everything good about the story and characters, by the way, as is hopefully common knowledge), i.e. just over two years ago, and when that didn’t cause a sudden-outpouring of Gladisun fics, and when people in fact began to delete Gladisun fics (This actually happened to like four or five that I really loved and really bummed me out!!), I should have realized that the “Gladisun Renaissance” I’d always hoped to witness would never actually happen. Because, like, that was the opportunity, that was the last time it would have made sense. And even if Gladion appears in some future game ten years down the line, Sun certainly won’t, and all it will lead to is a deluge of GladionXMoon fics. Which, if you like that, it’s fine. I shouldn’t be mad about that. You just lucked out as a shipper, and I didn’t. The way I think of Moon has always gone better as Lillie’s partner (Which is also automatically better because it’s g a y) and just a good friend of Gladion and Sun, but whatever, that’s my opinion, and I understand that. So honestly? More power to them. But of course it is a little disheartening to know (Yes, I can see the future) that when Gladion shows up in some future game without either Sun or Moon, there will be no new Gladisun fics but definitely new GladionXMoon fics. So yeah, I’ve essentially been forced to confront the reality that the people reading Hurricane right now are (For the most part) the only ones who will ever read it.

And I love them! The ones that leave comments or the ones that just read it and maybe leave kudos, it doesn’t matter. I’ve even made some friends through it, people who make me want to keep writing, who inspire me to keep going, who help me think maybe what I’m writing is worth writing. And I try not to have doubts about that very often, but they do sometimes creep into my thoughts.

It’s just that it’s weird to realize you’ve essentially been lying to yourself. It’s weird to be confronted with reality suddenly and realize, like, oh, I’m essentially screaming this story into the void. Only a few people will ever read it, even though for me, it’s been hundreds (if not thousands) of hours of work and hundreds of thousands of words. It’s just weird. Because if no one’s writing anything new for the ship, it stands to reason that most people aren’t looking for new stuff to read about it. I know that isn’t always true, but in this case, I think it’s a fair assumption.

But I love the story, and I don’t mean that in a pretentious way. I don’t mean I love the way I’ve written it. There are a million things I regret. And it of course doesn’t escape my attention that the actual organization of the story is a mess that makes it impossible to jump into it if you haven’t been reading along already. But I love the story of Sun and Moon, and I love the story that occurs after Sun and Moon. And really, that’s all Hurricane is. Sun and Moon feel so much like they simply begin to broach compelling questions, like they only scratch the surface of beautiful characters and powerful themes. So I love the story I see in my head, even if I often fail to do it justice when I translate it into the external world. And again, I’m not bragging. That story didn’t come to me because I’m particularly creative or something. It was just there, and I honestly can’t tell you where it came from or how the idea started to take form. But when it did, it happened in the span of about an hour and a half of keysmashing into a page on my old Lusamine RP blog about an AU, and that AU became Hurricane. So I love the story, and I love the characters, and I love all the readers who have stuck with me through all my bullshit. And for those reasons, I couldn’t ever imagine leaving this behind.

In short, I’m going to finish Hurricane. And I’m going to finish all of the stories that flow from it. I won’t spoil what my plans are for those, but rest assured that the series will keep me busy for a while, and when it’s finished, I’ll feel like I’ve completed the story of Sun and Moon as I see it. For those who like my interpretation of the games’ themes and characters, I hope the feeling is similar. For those who see the games differently and think the “unofficial postgame” should go differently because of that, more power to you! I hope you write your story too! More Sun and Moon content is always a good thing!

So even though I’m feeling... A little odd, a little discouraged even, I’ll finish the story. I could never consider leaving it behind at this point, anyway (See: Sunk-Cost Fallacy, Cognitive Dissonance, When Prophecy Fails, etc....), so it will continue to be added to until it’s so unnecessarily long that it crashes AO3′s servers because I am physically incapable of brevity, apparently.

So if you’re invested in the story, don’t worry. It’ll be finished. It’ll probably go through so many events you’ll even come to wish it would just end already! :P But really, thank you for sticking with me. I owe the entire story to the readers who have left kudos, especially to those who have also commented, and especially especially especially to those who either already knew me personally and read them and gave feedback or who had never met me but were friendly and kind enough to strike up a conversation with me and tell me that they like the story. Without that encouragement, this story would likely have been abandoned years ago.

Thank you for making me believe my own words carry weight.

#hurricane status update #Zed_Zalias_Hurricane #Writing Rant #long #long post #rant

[zenonaa]

Read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20866334 Comments: today is tofu day!!! 十腐

💗 Please reblog here and leave kudos on AO3 if you liked it!! 💗

***

Darkness still cloaked the bedroom when Touko opened her eyes. 

When they started rebuilding Hope’s Peak, the only intact building had been the old school building where the killing game took place, so until Touko and the others rebuilt a dormitory building on the south side of campus, they had been forced to reside there. Even after they transferred over to where they lived now, nightmares continued to lap at them and run ghostly fingers down their spines. 

Sometimes, they still did. Have nightmares.

Like flowers rearing their heads after a barren winter, a city grew around the new Hope’s Peak, where ash was snow and dead, decayings leaves were substituted with dead bodies, but even so, even now, the city left a lot to be desired. Scaffolding grew up buildings like vines, buildings made from ruins, and during the day and sometimes well into the night, the whirr and roar of machinery grumbled through the school grounds. Those first few weeks so long ago proved difficult to sleep through. Hearing those noises reminded the survivors of the killing game, of the rattle of machine guns, of the heart-wrenching explosions that teased their hearing during their confinement years ago. It sounded like the battering of baseballs. The roar of a motorcycle engine. Fire crackling. A laptop being smashed. A conveyor belt buzzing.

Just clearing the rubble took years.

Tonight, she hadn’t had a nightmare. Had just woken up from a dreamless sleep. The only lights in the bedroom - two, to be precise - originated from a night light sat on the bedside table nearest Touko while the other hovered on her other side. Touko grabbed her glasses off the bedside table and put them on so she could see what created the other light.

It turned out to be the face of the laptop resting on her husband’s lap.

Their mattress creaked as she shifted her weight. She squinted, her heavy eyes adjusting to the pocket of light. It reflected off Byakuya’s glasses, and the shadows on his face stood out like a coffee stain on one of his many white shirts. Though the darkness scared her because anything could lurk in it, such as monsters and nothingness and hands that weren’t hers, she knew it was his face it clung to here on their bed, and so she wasn’t scared.

“Byakuya?” she mumbled as she fixed her glasses.

He didn’t turn his head in the slightest. His finger stroked his laptop’s touchpad, and his lips remained pursed in concentration.

“Decorations like frills and ribbons can irritate a newborn’s skin,” he murmured without looking up.

Barely processing what he said due to the fog of sleep clouding her mind, she nodded, lay her head down again and drifted back to sleep.

Approximately seven weeks ago, Touko revealed her pregnancy to Byakuya and approximately seven weeks ago, Byakuya stared back at her, frozen. Time held its breath. Then, within seconds, the walls of surprise around him shattered and he grabbed her shoulders, breaking into a smile. Not one of his smirks or a twist of the mouth that could be misconstrued as a sneer, but a smile that showed a row of even white teeth that blurred as she welled up. He let go of her shoulders and after she pounced into his chest, muffling her cries of happiness with his shirt, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her deeper into a hug.

They were going to have a baby.

They were going to be parents.

Since that moment in the doorway of their bathroom, both of them had thrown themselves into preparations. Byakuya arranged the baby shower and insisted they order in and set up the necessary equipment for checkups in the first aid room, rather than have Touko fly out to a hospital for them. She hated hospitals. As well as that, he attended each appointment, holding Touko’s hand as Hiroko spread jelly onto Touko’s stomach, and he took photos each time the baby scan appeared on the screen even though Hiroko said she could get him a copy.

And they had a lot of appointments.

A lot.

All their friends heaped the couple with support, and that included Touko’s alter. So far, Syo only fronted occasionally, mostly when Touko’s hormones ran too wild. Touko hadn’t spoken to her alter about it, but she had her suspicions, and Byakuya confirmed them when he told her that Syo informed him she didn’t like the sensation of being pregnant so avoided coming out. Still, Touko would awake and the baby would be fine, and one time, Touko discovered a package ordered in her name, and it turned out to be a t-shirt with ‘VODKA AUNT’ printed on the front and a baby romper suit that had ‘BACK OFF! I HAVE A CRAZY AUNT AND I’M NOT AFRAID TO USE HER’ written on it with hearts around the text.

The one thing they hadn’t done much of yet was baby clothes shopping. Keyword being ‘yet’. Hiroko bought a couple of things for them, mostly blankets and bath towels, and their friends gave them various bits and bobs, but according to a website dedicated to babycare that Byakuya found, they needed more, and both Byakuya and Touko wanted to do some of the shopping for themselves. It was a simple thing that both craved.

And so, late one morning, the doors of a clothing store in one of the city’s districts yawned open as Touko and Byakuya emerged into it together. After a couple of steps, with Byakuya taking the lead, wearing a burgundy jacket paired with matching trousers and a green t-shirt, he came to a stop. Other shoppers were sprinkled throughout the white-walled area, shuffling their feet across the scuffed flooring as they meandered between shelf units and clothing racks.

Byakuya pushed up his glasses and surveyed his surroundings. He spotted a sign on a nearby wall, boasting arrows labelled with various clothing sections.

“They’re on this floor,” he said.

“Good,” replied Touko, eyeing outfits that wouldn’t fit her anymore. Her pale red floral flare maternity dress fitted her snugly, as did her purple leggings. 

His eyes flitted over to Touko. He gave a nod, grabbed a canvas bag from a line of them and beckoned to her. She followed him across the floor, one hand holding his hand while her other was placed on her stomach. Gaps and spaces that could fit more clothes bloated shelves and racks, as if the couple arrived at the end of the day after a huge sale, but Touko suspected that this was all the stock the shop had.

Oh well. They would make do. The couple pressed on, passing piles of vest tops, lines of leggings and printed t-shirts, but neither gave them a second glance. As they weaved past a display shelf showcasing jeans of various shades, two girls blocked their path, chatting loudly with jerky hand flourishes and seemingly unaware of the world beyond their bubble.

Touko grimaced. Byakuya squared his shoulders.

“Move,” he said, pointing a finger at them. “My wife’s coming through.”

She could have swooned, but she just placed her hand on her cheek.

The girls scrunched up their faces but as Touko drew closer, their eyes flickered and they reluctantly shunted to one side to let them pass. Byakuya grabbed her hand again and strode on with Touko in tow, and they continued across the shop floor until they arrived at a section with colourful clothing that reminded Touko of a bouquet of flowers. A large board hung on the wall nearby, with a photo of a smiling mother and her baby on it.

However, more worthy of their attention were the miniature clothes surrounding them. Little t-shirts. Small romper suits. Some had writing on them with little quips and statements. Others were plainer, wordless. Byakuya plucked a blue jumper off a rail and rubbed one of its sleeves between his thumb and forefinger.

“Assuming you got pregnant around January, our child will be due in October,” he said, keeping his eyes downcast as he studied the material as gently as one would handle the infant wearing it. “At such an early stage of their development, babies grow at a quick pace. Therefore, we will want to buy clothes on the bigger side. Our child will still be able to fit into them even if the article is for an older child. We will want warmer clothes for when he’s born,  and lighter weight clothes in a size of nine months to one year for when he reaches six months... While we do have some baby clothes gifted to us from our friends, we should buy a few more zero to three months outfits to cover all bases...”

Every word that uncurled from his mouth tugged Touko’s lips into a wider smile. She bobbed her head in agreement and poked her index fingers together. 

“You’re ever so prepared, Darling,” she told him with a simper. Byakuya nudged up his glasses.

“Of course I am. Our child deserves the best and nothing less,” he replied. He returned the jumper to the rail and began rifling through the other hangers, inspecting the rest of the stock. The metal hooks scraped as he pulled them along. Behind him, Touko did the same.

Some outfits bore slogans that reminded Touko of the romper suit Yasuhiro gave them - one colour, with writing on the front and in his case, it had just said, ‘INSERT IMAGE HERE’ with nothing else on it. She pouted as she visualised it in her head and hauled a different, unexceptional romper suit toward herself, after which she widened her eyes, seeing the one hiding behind it.

“We have to buy him this!” she said, snatching a hanger off the rail. Byakuya turned, holding a pink corduroy romper with bunny decals.

Her fingers pinched the shoulders of a white romper suit. On the front, in bold, black font, it said, ‘OF COURSE I’M CUTE, LOOK AT MY DADDY’.

Byakuya clicked his tongue with a furrowed brow. She continued staring at him. He turned away and elevated one finger, pointing it upward.

“... Newborn size,” he said.

Touko deposited the romper suit into their fabric bag. Byakuya draped the romper suit he found over his forearm and the pair resumed leafing through the rails for more outfits. An excited flutter trembled in her chest as she hunted through the different clothing. Dresses with pockets that a baby wouldn’t need. Cotton onesies with faces of animals and cartoon mascots on them. She moved onto the next rail, dragged a few hangers, and gasped.

“This one!” Touko shrieked, and she revealed a grey romper suit that said in black cursive, ‘MUM + DAD = ME.’”

Byakuya faced her and read it. He narrowed his eyes. “Let me feel it.”

She held it out, and he rubbed the sleeve between his thumb and index finger.

“... They’re rather lightweight, so I would buy one that is labelled for nine months to a year,” he said.

Touko stored the romper suit in the fabric bag and straightened up. They both continued facing each other. He stepped toward her. She tilted her head back, drinking in the sight of him. Of his blond hair that she loved running her fingers through, his blue eyes she could stare into for hours and his tall frame that fitted around her so perfectly. Without a word, he brought his hand forward and placed it gently against her bump. 

Neither spoke, and in this nook of silence, Touko wondered if her father ever accompanied her mothers on their shopping trips when one of them had been pregnant with her. If he ever picked out a snap button t-shirt and imagined her in it, if he checked the sizes on different shoes to find a pair that would fit her, his baby. If he went with one mother. If he went with both mothers. If he bothered to go at all. She never asked, and so she wondered if her mothers ever looked forward to the birth of their children. If they ambled through shops, choosing little outfits, and if they ever cared at all. They certainly hadn’t after she was born alive and her half-sister wasn’t.

With a shaky breath, she looked up. Byakuya’s eyes were trained on her bump. He had told her he had been conceived in a laboratory dish. While she grew up as a second thought, as a burden, as a slap in the face by her mothers’ older boyfriend’s infidelity, as a shackle they couldn’t escape from, Byakuya had been wanted, specifically created to continue the conglomerate, as a business investment, and grew up being told the world would be his. The conglomerate tried to mould and shape him into its perfect successor. Anything less wasn’t good enough. Byakuya, one of more than a hundred, whose other siblings had been sent into exile and cursed with the fate all losers of the heir selection process fell to. Byakuya, who couldn’t remember meeting his father until he won. A father, who his son referred to as ‘Togami-sama’, a cold and heartless man who Byakuya would have grown into if he hadn’t enrolled at Hope’s Peak. Met his classmates. Met Touko. Felt love. To everyone else, he was Togami, but to her, he was Byakuya.

After a life full of conflicts, of constant death and loss, a life where their greatest conflicts were now finding enough baby clothes or getting past a few people in a store was something both treasured.

Love glowed in her chest, warm and filling.

“I’m really happy, Byakuya,” she said softly.

He met her gaze and swallowed, and he replied, 

“I am as well.”

#togafuka #Touko Fukawa #Byakuya Togami #danganronpa #dr3 #fanfiction #one shot #pregnancy