#i just wanna toss this edit into a garbage but i worked hours on it so why not just post it lmfao

[faunusrights]

yeah, all i got is this belly button lint: a happy huntresses short fic

wrote this real quick because i love thinking about the random crap fiona has in her Inventory(tm). also i just like thinking about these clowns in general, so,

=

"Okay, so, what's actually in your Semblance right now?" Joanna asks one day in third year, when Fiona and May have sneaked away to Robyn's dorm to lose at cards and help edit her new batch of flyers promoting union creation in the workplace. Fiona had given a couple a look and accepted them as good enough, but May is weirdly exacting about her standards and is currently trying to convince Robyn to nudge the text headers over by ten pixels to the right. That's why, as she's sat on the floor and wrapped up in the drama of watching Robyn try and slowly fail to ignore May's insistent pleas for her to boot up her editor, Fiona's caught just a little bit off-guard by the question.

"My Semblance?" she asks, and Joanna nods all serious-like from her place on the bunk above Robyn. Joanna often looks very serious, because she suffers from what Robyn calls resting thoughtful bitch face, so sometimes it's hard to gauge how actually serious about something she really is. "I mean, it's probably a mess in there right now."

"I keep forgetting you actually use it like storage space," Robyn adds cheerfully, having now progressed onto shoving May away from her laptop computer every time she tries to creep closer. "Since most Semblances are, y'know, combat-only things or like... special occasions, I guess. And yet here you are, telling people you really don't need a bag for all your groceries!"

It is fun to flex on all the people struggling to carry like six bags to their car or their home, and Fiona preens. "Yeah, it's nice. I mostly keep things in it that I'd wanna have in an emergency, but it's been a while since I last sorted through it, so, who knows what garbage I've put in there."

"Tell me Robyn's braincell is in there too," May says imploringly, still trying to slide an arm around Robyn to get at the keyboard, but Fiona just shakes her head. She can't and won't be blamed for that particular disappearance any time soon. Instead, she rubs her hands together, scrunching up her face as she tests the edges of the Semblance. It's a funny thing, a Semblance like this--she never really has to think about it, but it's always just in reach, like this extra weight in her chest that she can totally forget about. It's strange to think about, so she often just doesn't.

"Okay," she starts, and she goes for the biggest item she can sense, which is an easy one to explain. In her hands materialises an acoustic guitar, worn and scuffed with age, and this attracts to attention of every girl in the room. "Well, this one's easy. This is my guitar, and honestly? If I ever leave it behind in the meatspace and don't pick it up on my way out the door, know that you've just seen my evil clone and you have to kill her."

Joanna blinks, and Robyn seems caught between asking about the guitar, the evil clone, and also the fact that Fiona insists on referring to the physical world as the meatspace. So, she does as Robyn does best, and settles on an expletive. "Shit! You play?"

"Been playing since I was... like seven? Something like that." Fiona shrugs, because she really can't be sure; her first vague memory of even seeing this guitar was a long time ago, her uncle telling her it used to belong to her grandmother who'd never managed to learn a damn thing on it. So, Fiona had taken up practice, if only because it was something for a little lowlands Mantellian Faunus to do during the long, cold polar nights and the endless sunshine of the midnight sun. "But, yeah, this is always on me in some form or another."

"You should've played it whilst we were on watch our last mission," May says, with a certain scowl that Fiona knows is 100% directed at their team leader, who is currently off doing... some sort of bullshit with their partner, no doubt. Gods, this team is a nightmare. "All those hours trying to stay awake so we could stare into nothing..."

"Sorry," Fiona says, and she means it. She'd intended to, but, well, she'd sort of chickened out. The echo in the mountains is kind of insane. "Next time?"

May nods, but Joanna cuts off whatever she's about to say next by waving her hands through the air like she can physically dissipate the conversation. "Okay, okay, cool, but now I gotta else you got hiding in there."

Re-compressing her guitar--and oh, is Fiona thankful that dematerialising and rematerialising it doesn't leave it out of tune--Fiona has a mental root around. "Uh, okay, so, we've got--"

In no particular order, she starts pulling things out: a pair of thick gloves for the brutal Solitas chill, an extra pair of socks (hugely understated by most, but never by Fiona), a ushanka that Robyn instantly cheers for, and a couple of jackets ranging from light windbreakers to thick furred jackets that feel like she's wearing a mattress around her ribs. Her Scroll and wallet are in there too, naturally, as are her keys and some extra ammunition, and she pulls out a load of old train tickets with a grimace. "Hm. I was meant to throw these away years ago."

"You're basically carrying around a wardrobe in there, then?" May asks in a way that'd maybe be a little teasing if she didn't look about as jealous as she sounds, but it becomes a thoughtful expression when Fiona shakes her head again.

"Bold of you to think I haven't got a whole pantry in here too," she says, and now Joanna looks very interested. "Check this out."

The first thing she pulls out is a gallon jug of clean water--endlessly fucking useful, she's found, especially when you're in some situation where you can't sit on your ass for an hour waiting for the water purification tablets to do their job--before pulling out a whole host of Atlesian MREs that she keeps around just in case shit really does hit the fan. Atlas rations are... not good, in a phrase, but she's owed them her life more than once, so, whatever.

"What dates are on those?" May quickly interrupts with a critical eye, trying to make out the printed numbers on the snow-patterned packets, and Fiona tosses her one if only to distract May's hands from trying to puzzle out Robyn's password when Robyn isn't directly paying attention.

"Things don't really degrade in my Semblance," Fiona admits. "I've tested it before on stuff with a short shelf-life, like cheese and milk, and honestly I can leave it in there for months and have it come out just as fresh as when it went in. Something to do with a sort of... internal stasis, I guess." Then, she adds, "One thing in my Semblance is a goldfish in a bowl, but he's part of a practical theory I'm running, so I can't materialise him for another fifteen years or so."

"That sounds very normal," Joanna says, and Fiona is glad she agrees as she barrels right over the inherent sarcasm.

As May agonises over finding the date, though, Fiona continues to unveil her pantry--there's plenty of snacks, like dried fruit and nuts and energy bars and chocolate, and when she reveals she carries extra for every member of her team and then some (then some in this instance being Robyn and Joanna, not that she'll admit it), Robyn looks delighted. "That's so sweet! Look at you, making sure nobody goes hungry. You're one in a million."

That's cute and very gay, but Fiona has a lot of stuff to be working through and so she keeps on going--there's a flask of coffee that, thanks to the maybe-stasis, is eternally hot, a bottle of dark Mantellian ale she keeps as, uh, moral support, and she blushes when she pulls out half an uneaten tuna sandwich. "I wondered where that went. Whoops."

May looks up from the MRE for a second, and then does a double-take as she takes in the sight of the very limp and sad-looking sandwich, made courtesy of the Atlas Academy cafeteria. "Wait! Isn't that the sandwich you accused me of stealing last month?!"

"Anyway!" Fiona says with a forced grin, quickly making it disappear back into the void where it can safely continue not existing. "I think the final thing in here is... wait."

She blinks, and suddenly in her hands are at least a hundred little booklets entitled The Pocket Guide to Communist Outreach, scattering right over the floor. Robyn yelps, and then reaches down the side of her bunk to pick them up. "Oh shit! I forgot I asked you to hold onto these! I thought we ran out, nice."

Joanna's face is in her hands, and May sighs long and hard before tossing the MRE back to Fiona with a distinctly pained expression.

"It goes out of date in a month," she notes with distaste, and Fiona just sucks it up without a word. She'll be thankful for it when they end up down a dark cave with no backup, but Fiona figures she'll sit on that one for a bit before being able to make the greatest told you so call in history. She can wait.

"So," she says, watching as May takes advantage of Robyn's momentary distraction to try and access her computer again. "I guess... do you wanna hear me play a song?"

Joanna watches as her partner leans too far over the side of the bunk, yelping as she nearly slams her head directly into the hard vinyl of the floor, and she grimaces. "Please do."

Grinning, Fiona finds her guitar again--somewhere buried, she mentally notes, beside the gallon of water but under the coats--and she slings the broad strap about her shoulders before settling it on her lap, crossing her legs tightly beneath herself before finding her place on the fretboard. After having not played since being back home, it relaxes her more than she'd ever realised it did. It helps to be surrounded by friends, though. Helps to be with family.

"I don't take requests," she adds, flatly, and Robyn laughs from her place on the floor before music fills the dorm, soft and deep and achingly familiar of a place far, far below.

But she's okay with calling this place home, too.

#is the title really a spongebob refer-- #rwby #happy huntresses #fiona thyme #robyn hill #may marigold #joanna greenleaf #my writing #sorry this was in my brain for a while there sdfhjgsdfgjh #BUT ITS OUT NOW. ITS FREE. #what else would you have called this #fiona doesn't mention this but she also has emergency condoms and a literal handgun. just in case. #JUST IN CASE...

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Goodnight, Aaron (Aaron Hotchner x OC) Chapter 4

Summary: With Hotch’s blessing, Sebastian begins to assimilate into the Hotchner household. 

Tagging: @sunlight-moonrise, @clean-bands-dirty-stories, @genevievedarcygranger, and @davidrossi-ismydad

Chapter 3 // Masterlist // AO3 Link // Chapter 5

Dropping Jack off at school proved to be the easiest thing in Sebastian’s day, despite not waking up past ten o’clock for the past few weeks.

Packing his possessions only took two hours in comparison to the literal hellscape that was the cleaning up. His tiny bedsit hid plenty of nooks and crannies that hoarded dust and grime. On his hands and knees, Sebastian scrubbed away with anti-bac spray and wipes in hopes that he would get his deposit back.

He really fucking hated cleaning. It always took him way too long. Probably because he got putting on a video for background noise – it had to be something he found interesting to help pass the time but not so interesting that he would be pulled into watching it. A fine wire to walk and Sebastian had terrible balance to match his attitude. There was also the fact that he would often put off cleaning with the excuse of doing it all in one big go.

Past Sebastian was a bitch and Present Sebastian was suffering because of it

After a quick lunch of his leftovers, he lay back on the floor and dialled for his best friend. She picked up after three rings and he whined loudly to her.

“Bellamy, help me. I’m drowning in used wipes in my shitty shitty bedsit.”

“Hmm, delicious,” and Bellamy hung up.

Sebastian didn’t bother ringing up to see if she’d appear in the room. He decided that he would find out if she was on her way or not in the next hour.

Turns out it only took twenty minutes for Bellamy to push the front door open with the tip of her wedges.

“Why’d you call me to help you clean? Sexist pig,” and she swung her leg over his head.

Sebastian didn’t bother trying to dodge, letting the air shoot past his ear, a few stray hairs fluttering in Bellamy’s wake, “Because Klaus would make more mess, and I love your scintillating company – did you bring anything?”

“I got me coffee and you Haribo’s.”

Just another reminder as to how all that kerfuffle with his work visa was worth it.

He clasped his hands together as if in prayer, “I adore you; I owe you my life.”

With a grin, Bellamy tossed the packet his way, “Give me a cloth and tell me about your new boss then.”

Another thing Bellamy brought was the tunes. She was mumbling lyrics as she scrubbed away at the skirting board, Sebastian harmonising in terrible ways. The tasks didn’t get completed much quicker, but it was much more entertaining for Sebastian. Who knew what Bellamy was up to before this, she didn’t tell him.

Bellamy tossed a bag into the garbage can and peered in despite the smell, “Somehow still better than my flat.”

“When are you moving out by the way?”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll move into your bedsit.”

“Don’t, landlord’s a prick.” And Sebastian looked over his shoulder, a belated measure

“Still better than mine.”

Bellamy stayed right up until all the belongings were crushed into Sebastian’s car and the door was locked by them for the final time. It was a very unemotional time when Sebastian tossed the keys through the letterbox, and they left down the murky stairwell together.

To say Jack enjoyed the sight of all Sebastian’s bags pilled together in the backseats was an understatement. The drive back, he was more elated by the tracks leaking from Sebastian’s stereo. His chatter on the drive back about the games in the playground filled the time, and Sebastian was drawn into the world of spies Jack had created.

The energy dipped when Jack and Sebastian had to carry all of Sebastian’s belongings inside. The lift worked, thank God, but Sebastian was still weighed down with his bags for life. Plus Jack could only carry so much. He was only somewhat eager to drag Sebastian’s wheelie suitcase down the corridors. And even less so was Jack to get on with his homework once the car was clear of baggage.

Sebastian sneaked a sly glance at Hotch’s list of Jack’s preferred snacks before he made up some apple slices with peanut butter. Gotta trick the kids into eating their five-a-day.

Somehow, after that snack break, Jack transformed his mood into “very understanding” about doing his science work - especially for an eleven-year-old. He listened to Sebastian’s reason, one he wished he’d thought about and listened to when he was Jack’s age, was heard.

The Lego break was greatly appreciated too. Especially since it was coupled with the front door opening at quarter to seven to reveal Hotch.

“Hi, Daddy!” Jack trotted over and hugged his middle.

“You’re home early,” Sebastian cheered from the kitchen counter.

“On time for once,” Hotch set his stuff on the side, and his gun into the drawer swiftly after. “Don’t expect it to happen often.” Then, as Jack went back to the dinner table, Hotch knelt down and removed a second gun from an ankle holster. Sebastian didn’t comment. He must have just missed that last time.

“What you doing, buddy?” Hotch joined Jack at the table, subbing in where Sebastian left off. He brought his own pile of paperwork with him. But it stayed in his briefcase.

“Math.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Sebastian’s cooking playlist continued with its lyricless songs. But it was turned it way down and Sebastian felt more self-consciousness about each song still coming up. Towards the final seconds, he would hover over the skip button before deciding that it wouldn’t be so bad if it continued.

One of Sebastian’s favourite songs came on, but he had very little time to enjoy it.

When Jack heard that it was playing, he bounced on his little butt with excitement, “Sebastian wants to get married to this song!”

Looking between Jack and Hotch, who was looking expectantly for an answer with a little grin, Sebastian noticed his jaw was slack and promptly shut it.

“I would like to have my first dance to this song,” He explained, a little slower than Jack who continued:

“We listened to it in the car! But he doesn’t like a bit in the middle so he’s going to change it.”

Sebastian bit his cheek and got back to stirring the cabbage around in the saucepan in a triangle.

“Is this it?” Hotch tapped his pen against the homework, “The part you don’t like?”

“Not yet,” Sebastian replied, “There’s a change from three to four beats per bar in a sec first.”

And, as if he wanted to make things even worse for himself, Sebastian began to wave out the time signature with the fork he’d been using in the saucepan. Hotch and Jack watched the movement the movement change from a triangle to a lightning bolt as the song shifted into its denouement.

“So maybe I’d have to get it edited,” Sebastian finished, his voice fading out the more he spoke.

He didn’t point it out when they reached the moment of upbeat, just before the closing bars that didn’t fit with the traditional wedding idea. Who knows? Maybe he’d be unconventional if he got married, jam out with his significant other on the dance floor.

But he wasn’t about to discuss that with Hotch - or continue it with Jack for that matter. And he didn’t look up from his cooking until it was done and ready to be served.

Hotch ate with them, sat beside Jack while Sebastian was opposite. Jack gave an enthused rehashing of this spy game’s narrative beats. His fork was his baton as he orchestrated a rich tapestry of how he and his friends crept about the playground together. Interjecting appropriately, Hotch offered him tips of the trade, like some hand signals to use while sneaking underneath the windows of the classroom.

“Did you move in alright?” He suddenly addressed Sebastian.

Prayed none of his food was stuck in his teeth, Sebastian replied, “Yeah thanks, I’ll probably be unpacking for some of tomorrow though.”

Jack helped Sebastian load the dishwasher after dinner while Hotch disappeared into his office. It didn’t go unmissed, the way Jack’s behaviour slumped as soon as his father turned to walk away from him.

However, when Hotch reappeared sans suit jacket and tie, Sebastian bit back his laughter. Not because he thought the sight was funny, but he was just so pleased for Jack as the two began setting up a film. It was such a beautiful event to watch unfold from the kitchen table, where Sebastian was flying his Minecraft avatar about the server in search of something to do. He wanted to ring his mum, but by the power of time-zones, he was rendered incapable. So instead he punched a tree until it fell.

“Sebastian! Are you going to watch with us?” Jack said, his neck craning as far as he could go to look at his nanny while he pulled the puppy eyes on him.

“Um,” Sebastian threw a glance at the horrendous clock tower besides Bellamy’s mansion, “I’m gonna work for a bit, sorry Jack.”

The puppy dog eyes grew wider – how that was possible, Sebastian didn’t know – but Jack accepted the answer with relative grace and settled with Hotch on the couch, his legs buried beneath a blanket.

Sebastian decided to start building, something productive. But the further he got into his project, the further he wanted to jump into the ocean because of how ugly everything he made turned out to be. The booming opening titles of a Star Wars film brought him back to the apartment, where Hotch was retrieving something from the fridge, barely giving Sebastian just enough time to switch tabs to his email before he walked behind him.

But then he stopped beside him and spoke under his breath, “You live here too now. You don’t have to worry about bothering us.”

“Ah, I don’t wanna encroach on your time with Jack. And I was just gonna go to the shops. You want owt?” It all came tumbling out of Sebastian’s mouth pretty quick.

“‘Out’?” Hotch repeated.

“Owt, anything, it’s slang for anything.”

“Oh, no thank you. We’re all set,” and he held up the chocolate bar in his hand with a little smile. Sebastian’s stomach tensed but he returned the smile and closed his laptop lid, off to his room to get his rucksack.

Hotch’s arm rested around Jack on the back of sofa. They took turns breaking a square off the chocolate bar, Jack occasionally going for another between

“It makes sense that ‘owt’ is ‘anything’, if ‘nowt’ is ‘nothing’,” Hotch remarked, his head falling back on the couch to look at Sebastian. He shot him back a single finger gun.

“Now you’re getting it.”

“You don’t have to keep your shoes by the door either.”

“Oh, your poor carpets,” Sebastian let out a laugh at his oh-so-very-lame comment, making eye contact with the dress shoes that rested beside Hotch’s feet in pewter grey socks on the floor.

The shop was only a ten-minute walk away and he knew what he wanted. Sebastian still looped around the aisles as if he did not know where his next minute would be spent on this mortal coil. Eventually he settled on a slice of banoffee pie from the bakery. He answered the phone at the till, not so subtly bringing up the subject of their Minecraft time to Bellamy on the other end:

“Have you been on the server yet?”

“No, I’m marking some homework. Why? You wanna hop on tonight?”

“Ah, I’m gonna wait until Jack is off to bed first.”

“I’ll keep you posted on how the little buggers do with their homework.” And there was a clink of a glass in the background, “But I’m telling you, if I read one more ‘Curly’s wife’s nails are red because red means danger’.”

“Make it a drinking game! Don’t, don’t do that.”

Sebastian just missed the rain on his walk back. Thankfully so because his hoodie wouldn’t provide much protection for himself or for his pie. Upon re-entering the apartment, he was greeted by Jack and Jack alone.

“You alright, bud? Where’s ya Dad?”

“He had to get the phone.”

Speak of the devil, Hotch returned to the sitting room with his tie neat in place and suit jacket returned on his back. As he collected his belongings from his safe, he caught sight of Sebastian, “I gotta go to the office, shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

He kissed the top of Jack’s head and nodded goodbye at Sebastian before leaving. It was then Sebastian saw that the movie was paused and Jack was eating the last square of chocolate.

“Do you want to finish the film, or wait until your dad comes back?”

“Finish it, please,” Jack drooled a little and Sebastian grabbed a tissue to mop it up.

He poked away at the pie before eating it. The pair watched in quietude before Sebastian remembered the last of his snacks at the bottom of his bag.

“You want a Haribo?”

They went through the usual routine: the Millennium Falcon speeding away with the gang barely intact before the credits rolled, teeth brushing, Sebastian reading Where The Wild Things Are until Jack was dozing off and not fighting his nanny easing him lower into his pillows.

The ugly-as-hell clock tower was demolished in favour of making a little paddock for the cows. Bellamy joined the server and insisted on an extension to their little home.

When he realised how dark his room had gotten, Sebastian checked the time.

11:03.

He closed the lid of his laptop. Then he lay down on his bed with his eyes open and listened. Just his breathing and the beating of his heart were heard, slow and steady for Lord knows how long.

Then the front door creaked.

Footsteps padded across the floor, and the hall light snapped on. A shadow beneath the door passed by. He heard Hotch go into Jack’s room. Then the light went out again and a bedroom door closed.

Sebastian turned over and closed his eyes, now that he was ready to sleep.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x oc #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #my writing #wc: 2k+ #r: male #series #goodnight aaron

[9uk]

Let Me Stay Close To You : part 6

⌲ summary : you were finally free from the worst nightmare of your life in high school. the doors of college welcomed you with open arms, you were set on living your best life in here, away from the toxicity back at home. that shimmer of hope in restoring your life, was somehow effortlessly crushed by a tap on your shoulder. “Hey Y/N, why don’t you say we catch up for a moment?”

⌲ pairing : bully!jungkook x reader

⌲ word count : 5.6k

⌲ genre: angst

⌲ warnings : mentions of abuse, snakes

⌲ a/n : i’m so so sorry this is unedited and written at 4 am & i just wanna thank you guys for waiting and please give me all the feedback i need to improve so bad. idk sometimes i think my writing is little draggy but it is lacking lots of info as well, or maybe i don’t like to read long descriptions or something idk lol just tell me ur opinion.

part five >  part six  > epilogue

It is a feeling long gone but never forgotten.

It must be the most cruel joke of the year—Jeon Jungkook in the arms of Y/N.

He feels breathless, like the infinite darkness has consumed all the oxygen in his lungs, sucking every last bit of him out of his body like the blackhole. He hated it. He absolutely detested it.

The dark. It was something that reminded him of the times he hid in the corner of his bedroom, praying with bleeding lips —that he had bitten down onto so hard out of fear—and trembling hands, as he awaited the lashing he was going to receive. 

He started to think that it was happening on a daily basis now, how at any point in time at night he father would bust into the room with a cane, his dark figure looming by his door and Jungkook would shudder away as the tears involuntarily slip from his eyes.

 At 3 am, he would sit by his window and watch the moon with much resentment, silently as he sinks into the abyss of the night. 

The deep cuts and harsh bruises on his body was painful. But nothing could compare to the betrayal he felt when he sees his mother happily chatting over tea with a friend—all this while, when he was locked up in a random room—almost getting beaten to death with a thick rod away in the late hours of the night.

Jungkook doesn’t care if he gets caught loitering in the open hallway like that, he had nothing to lose and was ready to risk it all if he was granted just one look of his loving mother. 

He missed her a lot. 

The quiet times he spent in the suffocating room made him think about how much he took her love for granted.

 Was love supposed to be earned? 

He didn’t know that love—something he thought was the warm embrace of his birth giver, the extra marshmallows she would pop into his hot chocolate, the peonies she picked and tucked into his hair, the voice as smooth as silk aiding him into a deep slumber—would too, consist of a unimaginable amount of lies after lies, betrayal at its finest, and the revelation of the ugly side of it all. 

Her eyes fall onto his frail figure, one that has been tortured physically to a point of plain damage.

He was a hundred percent sure it was his mom—from the way she habitually blinks with her right eye a couple of times between normal blinks, from the way her fingers wrap around the entire teacup rather than the mini handle. Yet, instead of her eyes widening and growing with worry for her child being abused beyond the line of humanity—she furrows her brow, and her gaze turns into a glare, one he always faced when he picks on his vegetables, and she storms to him, grabbing him by the sleeve of his shirt, dragging him back to the room where he’d belonged.

She aggressively shoved at his shoulder, “You’d better dare not come out of here again. If father sees you, I don’t know what he will do to you. And I won’t be able to help you.” She wipes at her skirt, as if she had just laid her hands on a piece of garbage.

“Mommy!” He can’t help but cry out at her entire change in attitude towards him,

before her face contorts in disgust, slamming the wooden door in his face followed by a locking noise at the keyhole.

Jungkook refuses to believe what had just happened, so he screams as loud as he could, not caring about how piercing the shrills of his voice were—hoping that she would hear his expression of his misery through the seperation and feel at least a tinge of pity for him.

 He sucks in a deep breath, tears successfully rolling down his face a waterfall, and he screams even louder if that was possible—he wants her to have his yells of plea engraved in the back of her head, appearing every so often to haunt her in her sleep and taint her with guilt. He wants his mother to snap back to her old self, the one who would be carefully placing bandaids over the tears on his skin.

Unfortunately, her footsteps fades into the distance, and she returns to teatime with her acquaintance, shredding all of her last bit of conscience for her son.

A piece of garbage he was.

Freedom shined like a butterfly crawling out if its cocoon bathing in fresh sunlight for the very first time. 

Jungkook was released from his room like a convict when the grim news of the passing of his brother arrived to the household. He wasn’t even allowed to attend his biological brother’s funeral, like he was a bad omen or something of the sort.

During this period of time, he was frequently left alone in his room with his usual three meals and toys he grew bored of. The monster didn’t visit at night, for the grieving over his brother was too much to bear apparently. It gave him enough time for his injuries to heal, a skin forming over them barely covering anything except to provide protection against infections honestly.

However, after a several days pass the door unlocks and he trembles in pure terror. Was this his fate?

That there would be no end to the treatment his own family gave him, that he would have to spend all his birthdays along with his Ironman plushie as he sang himself to being an age older.

He prayed, for it was all he could do.

To his surprise, he never knew the bedroom door opening this time, was to a whole new world for him. Jungkook begin going to school, being able to eat meals at the main dining table, put his foot up on the couch if he wished, enjoy hot showers and roam freely—even out of the estate.

A unfamiliar yet eye-opening concept of life.

He wasn’t complaining.

His father remained cold as ice towards him and he couldn’t bother much about his mother, after seeing the way she left him to drown on his own in a pool of misery and despair. He was no longer desperate for parental love or attention, they ignored him but kept him in check when needed and he enjoyed life more than he could have ever imagined.

‘Study hard’ and ‘Take over the company’ were two phrases he heard a lot coming from both freaks and he just did as told, knowing how his grades would get him whatever he wanted now.

He didn’t even have to ask, and the poshest car or the latest limited edition pair of shoes would arrive at his doorstep. 

His life seemed almost perfect now, except that he still hasn’t learnt how to sleep with the lights off. 

And that is because he simply can’t. The absence of light would bring him back to those days where he tossed and turned with nightmares swirling in his mind, worries overtaking his pounding heart and his father showing up with a potential weapon in hand. 

He doesn’t see his father often, assuming he is coped up at the office with work and his mother still endlessly mourning over the loss of his brother, finger tracing over his smiling features in his middle school portrait. The boy was long gone but never erased from his mother’s heart.

 While he was at the brink of death and she did not even bat an eye.

 He was smart—he just had to be obedient and he would get whatever he wanted, no more bad treatments anymore—he was now treated like a king. Sometimes he thinks that he owes his life to his brother. 

It was like a sacrifice made to save him from his predicament.

A really, depressing and tragic sacrifice.

One that switched the initial plan of the Jeon Family and their business—one that his parents decided to use and groom Jungkook to become the heir.

One that made the girl stop visiting ever since.

One that changed the destinies of the two children who met at the company dinner.

Jungkook has never fallen asleep with the lights switched off before. 

That is, until he did exactly so in your bedroom.

 He is unable to comprehend how he actually managed to do just so, fall asleep peacefully in complete darkness. Nonetheless, he did wake up after a couple of hours breaking out in cold sweat with his arms clutched around your stiffening form. 

Jungkook hates how the feeling of holding and pulling you close to him is so comforting in an unexplainable manner, and how you felt nothing less than home. Jungkook is beginning to doubt why the hell he started these petty grudges with you—when you were a fibre away from the woman he used to love wholeheartedly. Keyword : used to. However, it was a tad too late for regrets.

 He was only left with two choices of compensation and reconciliation. They were undeniably difficult to carry out, especially having hurt someone to an extent that far it’s almost outrageous. He thinks what he has done in the past to you is absolutely unforgivable. 

Because if he was asked to do the same for his father’s mistakes, there would be only one option.

“You’re back early today. No dates or parties to attend tonight?” You cheekily tease as Sooyoung walks through the front door.

 A few moments later, she doesn’t reply as she settles her bag down onto the couch and toss the car keys onto the table.

 There was resentment written all over her face, she looked annoyed and in an extremely bad mood. You decided to keep quiet, considering that it isn’t the best time to speak when she felt this way over god knows what.

Sooyoung fumbles around some clothes, before she is heading for the door again, completely ignoring your existence.

  No, please just Jungkook ignoring me would suffice.

You couldn’t let this slide and worry about what you had done to offend her for the whole night.

Just as she slings her bag over her shoulders, you open your mouth again. 

“Sooyoung-ah, where are you going?”

She barely even looks over her shoulder to face you, before replying, “To meet Seulgi and Wendy.” 

She was brushing you off so casually.

 You felt like this more than the number of fingers on both hands could count, when people offered you help after Jungkook threw your pencil case in the bin or poured your lunch over your papers, you would think there would be a chance in making proper friends with them and escape this cruel torment. It wasn’t until you tried to sit with them in lunch and the whole group of students suddenly went quiet, the feeling uncomfortable to beyond. It’s like your presence made them stop discussing about anything, they awkwardly scratched the back of their necks before hurriedly placing the food trays back and scurrying off to class, leaving you alone at the table.

 It was silly of you to think that people have begun to accept you just because they offered you a piece of tissue paper.

That day, you looked at your food and watched the tear drops fall into the gravy.

And from then on, you never went down for lunch ever again.

You’re thinking about why you weren’t invited, especially when it was always the four of you, no more or less. You didn’t want to lose this precious bunch of friends, and you surely weren’t overthinking when you felt that they were leaving you out on purpose.

“Uh, I’m not invited?” 

The words came out way more obnoxious than you had intended, it had an aftertaste of bitterness and spite. You regret it immediately as you witness her face fall even more, into an irritated frown.

“You want to be invited after what you did at the party?”

Kiss Taehyung? Scold Jungkook? What was it?

“What... I did at the party?” You genuinely question, scanning every small action or word you had done or said back then.

“Oh c’mon. Let’s quit playing dumb. You clearly knew how much Seulgi liked Taehyung and you had the audacity to make out with him?”

Your lips parted in shock. Sooyoung was clearly the one who suggested to go over and converse with Taehyung, as well as the one who left you alone with him. 

Why was she being so pretentious about the whole situation?

Did she like him?

But you had to admit Seulgi totally slipped your mind when Taehyung wrapped his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you hard.

“I just-“ You try to explain yourself. Only to face a dead end. 

It was your fault, and all the fingers were pointed at you right now. You exhaled, “My mind wasn’t in a clear state when that happened, and I just went with the flow, I really did not mean to hurt Seulgi or anything-“

Wow, you sounded even more pretentious than Sooyoung.

“Do you know how upset Seulgi got, when Taehyung was filling her up with details of how you practically threw yourself at him like a whore?” ‘And disappointed’ She mumbled softly to herself, but it wasn’t missed by your ear.

 “I never knew behind this facade of obedience and innocence lied someone who was so sly and disloyal.”

Your friends felt betrayed. 

You had no words to retaliate or argue with what Sooyoung had just said—because you think it’s true, you see yourself as that kind of a person too.

 You ignored the fact that Sooyoung kept complimenting Taehyung right in your face, that nothing really happened between the both of you that night thanks to a certain someone, and that Taehyung deviously lied about you throwing yourself at him. It happened because of both parties’ consents and desires. 

And despite all these facts that they never went to consider before labelling you as a whore, the damage has been done. 

The true colours have been revealed.

She swipes her car keys off the countertop when you’re left speechless and guilty, heading out once more. 

You felt like crying, but for some reason you couldn’t.

It was something you should have expected from the very start.

Losing the people you hold close to your heart was something you were beginning to get so used to. This felt worse, because you chose to hurt them.

People would comfort you by saying that it is unintentional and that you didn’t have the need to feel bad or upset, but you’re starting to feel like a monster yourself. You are rather thankful for your first ever friends after so long to leave your side, because it’s what an asshole like you deserves. 

A new chance had already been granted to you, and yet just so easily and quickly—you screwed everything up. Maybe a person like you did not deserve to live a normal life. 

You were meant to be alone, you always have been and you always will. 

The loud slam of the wooden door is a finger snap to your face, and you realise why all those years you had shut yourself off from people—you don’t think you are able to handle the kind of pain that squeezes tightly at your heart and constricts your chest when they leave. 

If people come and go so easily, you had might as well not let them enter at all. You think it saves a few more heartbreaks and opportunities of getting hurt.

Your whole body is stinging with numbness as your mind is nothing but a blank, you walk over to the coffee table—one which you and Sooyoung had shared the local pastries over a season of Friends for one too many a times—and ur heart clenches at that. 

Sly and disloyal. 

You don’t think you are able to forget those words that callously shot like daggers at you—for it was done by someone you loved and cherished a lot since you offered to share that damn kettle.

Picking up your wallet, you flip it open only to be met with the genuine smiles—something that the both of you often shared when you were younger. 

The old photograph was taken in the middle of summer, when two carefree kids hung out at the beach with silly floats and fancy swimsuits, rainbow popsicles in their hands. The glaring sun light as seen in the picture reminded you of how your childhood was filled with nothing but fragrant flowers and fresh sunshine, that made one feel young, wild and free.

You never saw that sunlight again.

Instead, you choose to view the moon in the darkest shade of night now, admiring how celestial and full it looked—to replace the emptiness you felt in your heart. Junghyun is someone you would rarely forget, for the round shining whiteness in the sea of black was always there as a constant reminder of the boy who played a major part in your younger years.

“Look at the moon, if you ever feel sad. Then think about me,” Your best friend nudges your elbow with a playful quirk of his brow, he turns to look at your tear stained face with something close to adoration. “And always remember that no matter where I will be,”

“…I will always love you.”

You chuckle at how stupid you must sound, reciting something as small as a foolish promise between two kids to comfort yourself. You’re laughing and yet, the tears never seem to stop falling from your eyes. 

The memories of that fateful day was sewn into your mind—the two of you were kicking water in the shallow pool, only for you to carelessly drop the Tamagotchi you have in hand into the water. Junghyun immediately dives in forgetting about any form of hesitation, fishing out your sinking device like a lifeguard. ‘It’s okay’ he says, ‘I’ll get you something even better.’ When your pet is glitched out and doesn’t respond to your commands anymore, you began wailing like the little brat you are. After he wipes your tears causing an unbearably cute pout is formed on your tiny features, he said those words you’d never thought you would cling onto for life. That night, it was the first time he ever asked for something from his parents.

Both adults were initially confused by the sudden request, but compiled to it anyway without further questions. And when Junghyun woke up to a brand new Nintendo DS placed on his study desk, his face gleamed with satisfaction.

There’s a knot forming in your throat and your lungs are deprived of air as you attempt to cease the relentless sobbing. 

The illumination of the moon—for some reason—seems extraordinarily fluorescent tonight.

The anatomy project has long been finalised and submitted. The grades of it would even be released by the end of this week. It’s been over weeks since Jungkook and you have ever spoken a word to each other. Since the complicated yet warm hug had taken place between the both of you, you detached yourself from his body after your breath steadied and your mind clear of the drunken, built-up frustration—only muttering an excuse to hurriedly leave before he could say anything else to you. 

You left him standing there feeling more peculiar than ever. 

The hug, the party. You words slap him across the face once more as he recalls the exact thing you had said to him. 

You were never more right.

 He was this horrible, sick-minded and sadistic piece of trash—was he any better than the man who beat him to death on a daily basis?

Taehyung wasn’t the best for you, but he had no right to interrupt whatever was going on at that point in time between the both of you.

 Simply because he wasn’t any better. 

In fact, he feels like he’s much worse than his friend—who sticks his dick in every living thing—Jungkook is a dick himself.

At least Taehyung was nice without trying and he knew the correct things to say or do, even more so he knew how to control his emotions and temper. Maybe that’s how he gets all the girls hung up on him even after he uses them like rags of clothes.

Jungkook wasn’t good at any of that. 

Properly communicating and interacting with people just wasn’t his forté.

 If he’s angry, he lifts his hand. If he’s happy, he says things that cross the line. If he’s sad, he converts that to anger and resort to violence to shield that one bit of vulnerability from anyone, not wanting to seem weak at all. 

That is why his circle of friends is small, and he feels like he doesn’t even truly know and understand any of them. But you? Damn, you knew his temper like the back of your hand, you’ve seen him in his angriest form, you’ve witnessed fear overcome every cell of him and undergo a panic attack, you’ve watched him on the brink of tears as he ventured through another nightmare—and yet, he knew nothing about you.

You would forever remain as this mysterious and unpredictable person to him—and that, never failed to make him feel exasperated by the overpowering need to explore every millimetre of you, inside out. 

He was unable to identify your soft spots or pick on your weaknesses—you were typically unreactive to anything that he does. 

The time he spent in college with you was nothing but an emotional rollercoaster, an absolute train-wreck. 

In class, he wouldn’t even notice your presence for you snuck in five minutes late in a dark hoodie and black jeans, lurking in the corner of the lecture hall, before hastily leaving the second the lecturer ended the lesson.

He realises that you were becoming similar to the girl in high school, he notices that your group of friends at the cafeteria had one person missing and it was always you. He wonders if you have “left the squad” or aren’t on talking terms anymore. He wonders what had happened to cause the falling out between you and your friends. Or maybe you were just being yourself, avoiding contact with humans in general. Like a shadow, you loomed in the secret spaces, disappearing and reappearing as and when you wished.

It wasn’t until that day he roamed the streets around town, exploring the people and places a little with his giant camera. He felt like a tourist in a foreign country when he was actually studying and living on this land.

 For him, everywhere felt foreign, even the posh villa (and many other more estates) he owned didn’t even feel like home. Nothing was close to the feeling of his mother’s fingers intertwined with his own—aforementioned lady long gone and burnt to ashes in the back of his mind.

Home—a feeling he cannot grasp despite the fountains of cash and power coming his way, the throne at the very top of JEON entertainment hungrily waiting for him to take over—Jungkook only felt it again after what seemed like decades, in your fucking bed, hugging you to sleep. 

The thoughts of you are shaken away violently when he—whether by fate or luck— decides to enter a fast food restaurant wanting to grab some fries. Not only did he get the strips of potatoes he craved for, he also managed to spot you just behind the counter, eyes wide and brows raised. It was adorable to see how you acted like you didn’t notice him at all, clearing your throat and blindly meddling with the smoothie machine.

Jungkook simply snickers at your obvious reaction.

It was almost as if the sight of you effortlessly stuck a smile to his face.

The joint only had customers leaving one by one after dinner time, the queue to the cashier nonexistent and he made good use of that matter of fact.

He confidently strides up to you—acting like he didn’t recently get yelled at by you, then hugged you, and at the very same time get ditched by you—and you quickly whisper to one of your colleague’s ear, begging him to take Jungkook’s order for you. Judging by how you were speedily undoing your apron, he takes the hint and waits for a while before backtracking and joining you in the bathroom with a smirk plastered on his face.

He had you trapped and not even your shadow wouldn’t be able to escape this time.

“Hello.” He greets lowly with his palm of the wall and his legs crossed, taking up the whole doorway when you emerge from the cubicle.

“Oh my fuck-“ You jump and his heart does little somersaults.

“Long time no-“

“Is there something you need?” He is cut off short in the speed of light, your dumbass face looking unbothered to the point where it’s scary.

Your tone is dead and dull, lacking any sort of energy and emotion, but the prompt sounds snarky coming out of you.

Your gaze was in all directions other than in his, you seemed uninterested and distant.

He shrugs it away, before answering, “Yes actually. I will wait till you knock off.” 

You want to argue and tell him that it’s a bad idea, and that he was the last person you want to see—but he spins to leave leaving you no choice.

Jungkook emitted a stench that leaks of a strong sense of dread and burning infuriation inside of you. The whole restaurant smells of Jungkook and you want to shun away from his incessant staring at your working form.

 “Is that handsome dude your boyfriend?” Kihyun points to the culprit of your everlasting dread and the persistent sighs coming out of you with his chin and he pokes your side with a side of his lips curling upwards. 

You squeak and smack his hand away, “Is not.” 

He scoffs at the firm denying of yours and continues, since number of customers were at minimum and there was nothing much to do left with a quarter to closing.

“As if. Why the hell is waiting for you then?” You roll your eyes.

When he obtains silence, he proceeds to press at your buttons.

  “To hold hands and smooch on the way home together!” He purposefully sings aloud for Jungkook to hear and you kick his butt trying to shut him up.

It’s a pity Kihyun is a young father of twins and the most fun and easygoing manager you could ever have. To tell the truth, he’s part of the reason why you’d stay working at this shitty place. You’d think he would make a great bestfriend if not for his age and family responsibilities. His personality also sadly resembled your late bestfriend a lot—funny, selfless and wise.

It was the first time you couldn’t even bear to clock out, because that would mean it was time to deal with Jungkook.

He excitedly leapt up from his seat, making his way to your side as you hooked your bag over your shoulder. It had been a long day of school and work, and Jungkook was there to extend it even more. Your shoulders visibly slouch at the thought. 

Stepping out of the restaurant, Jungkook stood beside you with a takeaway in hand, looking like he’s been dying to ask you stuff. You didn’t feel like interacting with anybody though, just wanted to be on your bed as soon as possible after standing for what seemed like ages past the clock.

“Are you hungry?” He is looking at you with those big round eyes again, and you shift your gaze to the floor, afraid to meet his brown orbs.

What the fuck.

“I bought this for you.”

Your head shoot up, then flicked to the plastic bag he’s carrying with one hand.

No fucking way. Wasn’t that his supper or something?

“W-What.. you didn’t have to-“ He throws the bag of burger and fries into your hands without blinking and you struggle to catch it.

“It’s actually okay.” You couldn’t accept his kind gesture or some reverse psychology effect he was trying to make you feel. 

The grumble in your stomach comes on cue, roaring louder than thunder.

You nervously laugh before helplessly stealing a fry from the bag, contradicting your earlier sentence.

“Great. Now you’ve accepted my offer, you have to answer three of my questions.” He shoots you a winning grin. You were already shoving the fifth fry into your mouth, munching away without any care in the world.

Fuck it, three questions it is. The fries tasted too damn good for you to give it back or run away from the golden crispy and fluffy treat.

Jungkook bites on his lips and contemplates for quite a while. Like the question was a hard one to raise. You tap at your feet in a bit of anticipation. Just a bit.

“Why does it seem like you’re avoiding me?” He finally gets it out.

It wasn’t just him, you had practically cut off all contact with any ape that was intelligent enough to speak and alienated yourself from this world. You wouldn’t even greet the birds in the morning like you always do, you just suffocated in the haze of self-pity and hatred.

“I’m just busy working.” You kept your words to minimal, not wanting Jungkook prying into your personal thoughts and feelings about yourself.

Lame excuse, that’s what Jungkook thinks of your short answer. But he is popping out his second question mark. 

“Hmm, seems fair.” He fakes and cocks a brow up. 

“Then what happened to you and Sooyoung or something,” 

The fact that he remembers your friend’s name almost lets a chortle slip from your lips. Your expression remains stoic—you were a professional at concealing the display of your real emotions—and even though you’re pretty upset at how the topic of the friends you once had was raised after so long, you reply from the bottom of your heart, “I don’t want to be associated with anyone right now.” 

It was the truth, and it wouldn’t hurt Sooyoung or you in any way.

He hums in understanding before, “Then... are you alright?”

You want to cry.

 Why does Jungkook, number one asshat and jerk towards you your whole life, have to act so sweet and caring when you’re at your lowest? It makes your heart want to give in and succumb to him completely. You had rather die.

The affection and concern Jeon Jungkook is showing you is too much for you to handle, and you don’t know what to make that of. 

Why does he even fucking care if you were okay or not?

You instantly turn on your heel—a copy of your actions back then when you first met Jungkook again—ready to escape the conversation and rush home—like you should have done ever since he stepped foot into your workplace. Jungkook has been recently making you feel things and all sorts of things—from the first time you bumped into him at a party, or when he laid over you and fell asleep like a baby, and embracing you after he made you cry— the last thing you want is to even feel anything.

It doesn’t take longer than a second before Jungkook is stomping towards your leaving form. He wasn’t going to be left hanging off a cliff by you, twice.

Being asked about your wellbeing was like mishandling an unpinned grenade, causing a spark in a room filled with methane and running through a minefield.

A wrong move and instead of exploding, you would vanish into thin air in a snap.

“What the fuck is up with you?” Jungkook grabs your arm in time to halt you and narrows his eyes sternly at you.

“One moment you’re cuddling with me, and then you’re scolding me, and another you’re hugging me back, and now you’re trying to run away from me.” The confrontation sounds like something that would happen within a couple and an inevitable blush grows on his cheeks as he tries to stay as fierce as ever. 

You look surprised upon his rant, but there was no response.

You were at a loss of words until, “If you can answer this, then I won’t distance myself anymore.”

You’ve had enough, and closure is what you both needed most.

“What are we? We’re not friends, nor are we acting like enemies, and we’re not together either.”

You put the truth out in the open like a glass ball handled with butter fingers , exposed and fragile to touch.

“Maybe this is what it feels like when you go against, to try and change something that’s meant to be, what we’re meant to be forever–” His features softened and his grip loosens as the realisation dawns upon the two of you, allowing your hand to fall by your side. 

You huff in a deep breath, sparing a brief moment to collect every thought and reach your conclusion.

 “Bully and victim.”

#jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook scenarios #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #s: lmscty #bangtan smut #bangtan angst #bangtan fluff #bts writing #bts fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook fan fiction #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfic #bts #bangtan #bangtan boys

[danisnotofire]

Do you have any advice for writing? I used to do it all the time but then I just didnt have time for it anymore. And now I want to get back into it and I keep trying to write, but Im hit with this overwhelming doubt/anxiety that it sucks. And I dont plan on posting my writing anywhere so I dont understand why Im so nervous about writing to the point where I want to cry and cant do it. And I really want to work through it but its just so difficult. Any advice? -🌳

i’m not sure how good i’ll be at giving advice on this, because i often feel the same way!!! 

but ig that leads me to my first point, anon, and that is, you have to understand that that anxious feeling never really goes away. sometimes you feel better about it, sure, and sometimes you’ll write something and know you were meant to write it, but 98.7% of the time you will be screaming and crying into ur document and thinking you’ve been a failure and faking any ability to write this whole time. you have to understand that that’s all part of it. but you have to understand: it doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer. i really think you have to internalize that if u ever wanna write anything. 

the best thing to get over feeling awkward and robotic is to separate yourself from what you’re writing. when i got back into writing fic (it’d been like, legit 4 years lmaooo) it was hard to put myself aside and stop feeling weird about writing it. i felt that same stiffness/awkwardness when i started journaling too. the best thing you can do for it is just understand that nobody is going to read it unless you want them to. it’s not going anywhere. the only person who’s gonna judge it is you. 

once you get over that, write as much as fucking possible. it doesn’t need to be a lot. it can be a sentence. it can be a few hundred words. it can be a fuckin novel. just write something. the only reason i’m VAGUELY good is because i’ve been doing it for a longass time. 

i’ve been writing creatively on and off since like,,, third grade. i’m now a sophomore in college. you just gotta churn out as much content as possible. i promise you, eventually it will be good. 

if you can, i think writing classes are actually super helpful for this. i used to kind of shun them and look down on them because i thought somebody teaching me how to write would take away my own style. it actually helped me refine it, mostly because it got me into writing again after going so long without it. i was forced to write every week for a whole semester, and it kind of became a habit that i continued all through the summer.

fun fact: i don’t think no such mirrors would exist in the form it does now if i hadn’t taken that class!!

BUT: I get that classes aren’t always available to you. there are definitely ways u can get urself in that habit!!! you can do nanowrimo (which i did my freshman and sophomore years of high school, where you write 50k in 30 days just to pretty much see if you can. i CANNOT recommend nanowrimo enough. up until no such mirrors, that was my proudest artistic accomplishment)

FIND TIME TO WRITE WHENEVER, WHEREVER YOU CAN. you are going to have to sacrifice certain things to find time to write, but that’s all part of it. i struggled in doing this when i started school this semester because i went from having mostly my entire week free to having like, zero time to write, which is why it took a month for no such mirrors to update. it also sucked because writing makes me feel better about myself, because it helps me be a more productive member of society or something, and so, although it was hard, it became super important to me to find a time to fit that back into my schedule (i ended up carving out a few hours after my last class of the day on MWF, which happened to be my english class with a prof whomst i ADORE, so i always left feeling super inspired. and now i usually go to the silent floor of the library for a few hours and pound out a few thousand words. it’s not ideal, and ofc i’d rather be taking a nap or decompressing from class, but at least it’s something!) 

i know this is harder to do, but i really do think posting your work helps!! i love writing fic because you get INSTANTANEOUS feedback on your skills, and it helps you develop them in a (largely) positive and supportive atmosphere. the people who are reading fic are the people who WANT to like it, who are just desperate for any content they can get. it’s such a good space to learn and grow as a writer (i started writing and posting fic when i was like, 12 years old. my percy jackson days. pre-tumblr. lmao #neverforget) 

i know this is SUPER FUCKING CHEESY, but another thing that helps you become a better writer is to read as much as possible. read anything. read fanfiction from authors you admire. read YA novels. read children’s books. read the classics. 

and then, (and this is something i will shamelessly do lol), pick your favorites, and try and mimic their style as an exercise!!! i recently read james joyce’s “a portrait of the artist as a young man” for class. it’s now one of my favorite books. and so what i did was go to google docs and pound out a few hundred words just trying to mimic the style. it ended up being a weird 1500-word-wip. most of it is garbage, but i wrote lines i’m really fucking proud of. 

obviously don’t like, plagiarize. but what i’ve come to understand is that you can learn something from everything you read. whether it’s a certain type of metaphor, or a kind of characterization, or the art of simplicity, or a way of writing dialogue, or a stylistic thing. and by mimicking that style as a writing exercise or using their style as inspiration for your own work, you help refine what you like, and what your style is. 

i will never be james joyce. that’s pretty obvious. but my version of james joyce is its own style of writing altogether, and it’s not necessarily bad! it’s its own style that i can then learn bits and pieces from later on. to me, writing is this weird ungodly mix of natural ability/learned style and compiling what you like about other authors into your own work. it’s a messy process, but eventually you will churn out something you like. and that’s what matters: producing content that you enjoy. everything else will come in time. (did i think anybody would read engagement sequence? uh, no. i hoped they would, and honestly i do wish that fic was recognized more than it was (bc any author who says they don’t care about feedback is LYING) but mostly i was writing it because i had SO MUCH FUN writing that fic. i’m probably most proud of that piece of writing out of everything i’ve ever written. it came from me combining poetry and prose into this weird pseudo mix of both) 

another thing that’s easier said than done: DO NOT COMPARE YOURSELF TO OTHER AUTHORS. this is something i CONSTANTLY struggle with (to the point where i get SUPER down on myself if i’m not getting the same amount of anons asking about my work or comments or kudos or fuckin’ whatever). it’s something i CONSTANTLY have to work on, but it’s so so important, and the sooner you start working away from this habit the better off you’ll be. 

if anything, USE these authors as people to learn from!! ask them questions about their process!! read their works and take note of what worked really well and how they executed it, so maybe you can incorporate that into things that you write later on. 

IMPORTANT: COMMENT ON WORKS. COMMENTING ON WORKS DOESN’T ONLY BENEFIT THE AUTHOR, BUT IT ALSO BENEFITS YOU AS A WRITER. commenting helps you specify and work out EXACTLY what you liked about a certain piece. even if you don’t think it does anything, it actually puts words to specific things that you like, which then helps you incorporate it into your own writing. also?? long, thoughtful comments make an author’s fuckin DAY. someone once left like an 8 paragraph review on my fic, and i could. not. stop. rereading. it. for the better part of a week. TRULY. 

take yourself less seriously. honestly. as much as it kind of sucks, writing is supposed to be fun and ultimately, it’s supposed to be rewarding. let yourself experiment with style and dialogue and characterization. who fucking cares? i wrote 300 words about spaghetti steam as a metaphor for jeremy’s parents’ divorce the other day. it doesn’t matter! nobody will read it!! that’s what editing is for.  

it also might help to talk about your writing process!! i know i love doing this, and i see loads of other authors do it too. it’s so, so, so fun to complain about writing, because writing is really fucking hard. even the pieces that come easiest to me are still a pain in the ass to write. 99.99% of the time i write, i would rather be doing something, anything else. who wants to sit and cry into a computer screen? nobody in their right mind. ya do it because you love it, and you love the final product and you love seeing what you’re able to do, what you’re capable of creating. 

if you’re having trouble starting, pick literally the first thing that comes to mind and write as much or as little as you fuckin’ want. remember, you’re in control! you can do as much or as little as you want. when i started writing no such mirrors, i had NO IDEA it was gonna become what it was. i started the fic with jeremy throwing a baseball up in the air and some random dialogue. i didn’t know what role everybody else was gonna play. i didn’t know it was gonna turn into an actual fucking novel. i had no idea! i just had the idea of jeremy laying on his back and tossing a baseball into the air repeatedly. why? i legitimately could not tell you! but it worked. it felt right and natural and easy, and here we are 72k later. 

that being said, IT’S NOT ALWAYS GOING TO FEEL RIGHT AND NATURAL AND EASY! you’re just gonna have to write through that! it’s gonna fucking suck a lot of the time, especially with longer works! i fucking hate certain chunks of no such mirrors, to the point where i can’t even bear to look at them. 

this leads into another point, which is….

you’re going to feel like you’re faking it. that’s okay. keep writing. i doubt in my abilities every. goddamn. day. i reread my fics probably daily and can’t understand why anybody would like them, half the time. i feel like the characters’ interactions are forced and awkward and unnatural, i think the dialogue is boring, i think their feelings don’t feel real and i don’t feel like their motivations have depth. i feel like the plot is hanging on with masking tape and thread. every author will feel this way at some point or another. i know that sounds fake, because i’ll read posts like that from my favorite authors and can’t believe they would write anything except perfection. so you have to remember, it’s in your head most of the time. 

however, that’s not to say you’re perfect. you aren’t. there’s no such thing as a perfect writer. sometimes it’s healthy to listen to that voice in your head to try and improve. you just can’t let it become the loudest part of your writing process. 

so yeah! those are my writing tips!! that was a lot and im really sorry if it was all cliche and cheesy bullshit, but i promise they work, or at least help a little bit!! 

i hope you can get out of ur slump, because i love writing so much and hope i never stop doing it (even if i say i hate it l o l) and i really hope you can get to the point where you feel comfortable saying the same

#writing advice #writing tips #writing #Anonymous #I'M SO SORRY TO MOBILE USERS #long post //

[ecotone99]

[AA] Keep the Change Kid

WARNING: Contains swearing and sexual references.

Introduction: This is a chapter from a mostly finished novel I wrote 10 years ago. Time restrictions and especially a huge amount of editing yet to be done have prevented me from completing the project, though I do fully intend to finish it before my time on planet Earth is up, which may well be sooner than I would prefer. At any rate, the plot of the novel is as follows; after shooting Condoleeza Rice (remember her?) in the head with a sniper rifle, a lone and expert assassin is being hunted by the dark forces of one government or another. These hunters are led by an individual going by the cover-name of “Mom”. Mom is a British ex-secret service operative with SAS and a “diplomatic” background in South-east Asia, among other locales. He is a very tough and capable individual (picture someone like the actor, Charles Dance, perhaps best known for playing Tywin Lannister in Game of Thrones). He employs a band of Russian/Chechen ex-military/FSB operatives, particular in their capacity for violence and ruthlessness. The assassin they are hunting is a young half Asian/half Caucasian woman of exceptional beauty and grace, as well as cold-blooded focus and precision in the trade she has assumed for herself. She goes by the cognomen of “The Angel of Death”. A tacky cliche of a name to be sure, but this was not intended to be permanent, but rather only a working handle for her as I developed the plot. She is being protected by a type of guardian angel named Aidan. Aidan is a wise-cracking smart-ass type, unique in that he was brought back from the dead by the “Heavenly Powers That Be” (whomsoever those might be), for the express purpose of protecting the life of our lovely assassin.

The novel’s plot is set in and around Vancouver, British Columbia during the unfortunate reign of George W. Bush, one of my favourite whipping boys at the time. This chapter (and the following one) deals with one of Mom’s operatives named Anton. Anton is a hapless Russian of limited intelligence and unlimited violence. On orders from Mom he is trailing a couple travelling north from Vancouver on the way to Pemberton BC in a pick-up truck during a lengthy and ferocious summer storm. Anton thinks this couple are the assassin and her guardian angel Mom and his crew have been tasked to take out. He will discover many things during this long, stormy night and the following day.

If any readers of this story indicate a desire to read the next chapter in this drama, please comment to that effect and I will post that under the title of “For Morons Like You” forthwith.

Hope you enjoy the read. Cheers, Popeye Le Pew.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

‘Come on ya prick… hurry-up fer chrissakes… I'm gettin soaked here, eh!?’, a woman’s raspy voice, punctuated by a burst of desperate, phlegmy coughing, calls out in the night.

‘Yeah, yeah. Keep yer friggin panties on will ya, I gotta piss’, a man’s booze-slurred voice barks back.

Anton, lost deep in a dream of perplexing dimension, is rudely awakened from an uneasy sleep by the loud drunken voices just outside his Pathfinder.

‘I ain't wearin no panties.’

‘Well then keep yer bra on.’

Disoriented and groggy, Anton looks around trying to blink the sleep out of his brain and trying hard to figure out where in the Hell he is.

‘I ain't wearin one of them neither. Let’s go Stud, its takin ya longer to piss than it did to blow yer load, eh?’

It comes to him after a moment or two and he curses the one that put him here: MOM! Fucking Mom!! Ублюдок!!! Anton is in fact in the parking lot of the Chieftain Pub in Squamish, BC. ‘If is not asshole of world, is sure smell like”, he’d scowled as he drove into town earlier that day. The paper mill just across Howe Sound bestowed “a certain something” to the Squamish air. Though he doesn’t realize it, he's been fast asleep for the past couple of hours… with the truck’s engine idling.

The wind is still howling like a troop of drunken banshees and the torrential rain that was falling when he’d arrived hasn’t let up, but rather seems to have increased in intensity. The voices are coming from the right and, leaning across the passenger seat, Anton wipes a narrow strip of condensation from the window. He can see a man and a woman by a pick-up with “Pemberton Spud Farms” on the driver-side door. “Is where cell-phone signals come from, for sure.” In the downpour, he can’t quite make out if they’re the same two people in the photos Mom gave him, but it is the truck he’s been looking for.

The man finally finishes relieving himself, opens the driver’s door and climbs into the pick-up. He rolls his window down and spits before leaning over to unlock the passenger door. The woman climbs in saying, ‘about friggin time, eh! Couldn’t ya have pissed before we come out?’

‘Couldn’t you shut the fuck up?’

‘Close yer goddamn window, I'm friggin cold.’

‘Ah quit yer bitching,’ he says, lighting a cigarette and tossing the match out the window.

‘I wanna stop at the Mickey D’s to get some grub.’

‘Fuck that, I ain't stopping till we put some miles behind us.’

‘Come on ya cheap prick, I’m hungry and it’s a long ride to Mount Currie, eh? Be nice to me and maybe I’ll blow ya on the way up.’

It was an offer he wasn’t about to refuse. It’s a long drive up to Mount Currie after all.

‘Yeah, yeah OK, we can stop at the slop-shop up on the highway.’

‘Alrightee then Stud, but yer buyin, eh?’

‘Sure. That’s me, last of the big-time spenders,’ he says as he fires-up the engine and drives to the parking-lot exit, spitting out the window again and planting a large gob on the hood of the Pathfinder as he drives by.

Anton waits for them to get ahead a bit and then pulls out after them, staying half a block behind the pick-up. Is not matter with the raining like this, they are not seeing nothing. They are the goddamns drunk anyways. Fucking shit, he thinks, wishing he were off somewhere, drunk himself with a hooker to take the edge off his blues instead of following these two through the driving rain in this god-forsaken stinking dump of a town. Anton does bad moods rather well.

Taking out his cell-phone he tries calling Mom again, but doesn’t make a connection. ‘Is the bullshits’, he snarls. The pick-up stops by the intersection at the highway and turns north. Anton comes up to the flashing traffic signal, waits for a couple of cars to go by and then follows. Up ahead, just past the main intersection, the pick-up slows, turns into a McDonald’s lot and lines-up in the drive-thru lane. He pulls the Pathfinder over to the side of the highway and waits. Is going to being the long goddamns night, he thinks, watching as the driver gets out, walks around to the back and rummages around in the pick-up’s box. He removes something and deposits it in a garbage container by the take-out window. ‘What’s in fuck he is doing now?’, he mutters. The man then takes a sports-bag from the box, looks the cargo over and gets back into the cab. Though Anton can’t get a good enough look to compare him to the man in the photos, he thinks, must be is guy. Mom is saying he is having the sports-bag with him and is tall.

The cloying odour of hot grease and fried food wafts in through the heater blower and Anton’s stomach starts to growl. Though he hates American fast-food, Anton realizes he’s famished. He hasn’t eaten since before he left Vancouver and thinks, I am gotting to eat somethings, anythings.

Waiting until another car drives in behind the pick-up, he shrugs his shoulders and pulls into the McDonald’s lot, lining-up in the drive-thru lane and calling his order into the mike on the menu board when his turn comes up. Sitting there, compulsively cracking his knuckles, he sees the pick-up’s order being handed out from the take-out window. It then pulls ahead to the road, stops to let some traffic by and turns onto the highway. Shit!! Is better I not am losing this prick in pick-ups, Anton thinks and puts the transmission in reverse to pull out of the drive-thru line himself. Checking the rear-view mirror he curses seeing that two more cars have come up behind his, boxing him in. He’s stuck there and fidgets nervously, waiting for the car in front of him to get its order and get out of the way. Ahead, a hand holds a large fast-food bag out of the take-out window and remains suspended in mid-air, waiting for the driver of the car to take it. But the man appears to be having some kind of a problem with the transaction. He’s dropped his money on the ground.

‘Come on fucking motherfucker, you are hurrying ups. I don't am having all the fucking nights to waiting for you’, he calls out his window.

A man’s head emerges from the car’s window, completely ignoring the bag plainly being held out to him, and turns to glare at Anton. It is a large, curiously deformed head, perhaps the product of foetal alcohol syndrome. The head sticking out of the car window bears an exceptionally ugly face, sporting an exceedingly belligerent expression. And it looks only too eager for trouble. Anton has seen a number of unfriendly faces in the course of his life, starting with the band of mujahedeen fighters who came to kill his father, uncle and older brother when he was seven years old. That face in the car in front of him is even uglier and less friendly-looking than that of the FSB drill-instructor who made Anton’s already miserable life a living Hell. One of the most satisfying moments he ever had was when he put a bullet between the bastard’s eyes. The eyes on this guy’s face are having considerable trouble focusing. He’s obviously very drunk.

‘Eh!? What the fuck’s goin on buddy? Ya got yerself some kind of problem back there or what?’

Anton sticks his head out the window and looks at the guy, thinking, oh shits, now what is!!?

‘Who, me? You are meaning me? I not am was speaking at you, I am calling the friend who is go to washrooms for the pissing.’

The face continues to glare at him, it’s mouth hanging open and it’s eyes each looking in a different direction. It’s not buying Anton’s contrite explanation.

‘Zat right, eh? Sure sounds like yer having a little problem with me.’

‘No, no. Is cool, is completes cool.’

‘I could maybe fix that problem for ya… howboudit pal… ya wanna go, or what?’

‘No, no, is not the necessary, is not the problems with you. Is with the friend I am was calling. At washrooms. Not you. He is pissing the long times.’

‘Yeah? Well yer startin ta piss me off, pal!’

‘Is all the big mistakes. I am not here for the pissing-offs to you, I am come for Bigs Mac and fry, like you.’

‘Ya sound like yer some kinda foreigner. Zat what ya are, some kinda goddamn foreigner?’

Anton reaches over and takes his M88 from the glove-box and screws the silencer onto the barrel. He considers firing several rounds into that ugly drunk face glaring him right away, but remembering why he's there in the first place, puts the pistol on the passenger seat and pulls his jacket over it. He pokes his head back out the window, smiling with as much meekness as he can muster. Not an easy feat for Anton.

‘No, no I not am the goddamns foreigner like you are say, I am tourist. I not am being here for having the problems with good guys like you. Nice to be meeting you and visit your great city.’

‘What the fuck…? Yer a tourist? Ya sure you ain't got yourself no problem with me? Cuz if ya come looking fer one… I’m the guy fer ya alright!’

Fuckings Hell, this prick is not wanting to gives up, Anton thinks.

‘No, no, is no problems, you can believing to me. Is everything cool. Only with friend at washrooms, he is taking really long times for the pissing. You are the friendly Canadian guys, I am not having the problems with you. Really.’

‘Oh Yeah? Ya sure bout that?’

‘Yeah, is no problems, for sures.’

‘I mean, if ya wanna go… ya wanna go or what?’

‘Look mister guy, there is being your Bigs Mac and fry, they are wait for you. You are enjoying delicious hamburgers and having the nice evenings.’ You are fucking-offs now or I am shoot you in goddamns face, you prick, he thinks as his hand reaches for the locked and loaded M88 next to him.

The face looks at him, still trying hard to focus with limited success and then, somewhere in the remnants of his tiny pickled brain, the penny drops and he abruptly turns toward the hand holding the bag out to him. His head collides with it and he exclaims, ‘what the fuck!? Oh yeah right, my burgers.’ He looks down at the bills he dropped a moment ago, opens his door and reaches down to pick them up, grabs the bag the hand is holding and hands the hand his money. He takes his change and drops it on the pavement and says, ‘aw fuck-it!’, and closes the door again.

‘Hey… awright then buddy. So yer a tourist eh?’, he says looking at Anton again with a crooked grin on his stupid face.

Anton smiles and nods his head enthusiastically as he takes out a pen and paper. He jots down the car’s license-plate number thinking, I am fixing you later you сосунок петуха, you just are waiting.

‘Sure, you are rights-on, I am the tourist to you fantastics country Canada and I am visit you beautiful city Squamish this nights.’

‘Zat right? Huh, well whaddya know, a tourist!? Hey, I don't got me no problems with no tourists.’

‘OK mister guy, this is good… I don’ts gots the problem with you too.’

‘Aw that's great, that's just great!’ He turns to his companion beside him and says, ‘Ain't that just great baby? Guy’s a goddamn tourist.’ He sticks his head out the window once more, blinking his eyes as he tries to focus on Anton. ‘Well you have yerself a real nice time in our town there buddy, we gotta get goin now… welcome to Squamish, eh?’

‘Fucking crazy whacks-job,’ Anton says as the car pulls out to the exit and drives up the highway in the same direction the pick-up went earlier. He considers ignoring his own order and leaving immediately in pursuit of the pick-up, figuring it must be quite a ways up the highway by now. Screwing it, he thinks, pick-ups is not can be that far and I must am eating something, even if is this shit of McDonald, and moves up to the take-out window.

‘That’ll be twelve dollars and sixty-three cents please,’ says a skinny teenager with bizarrely pointed ears, buck-teeth and coke-bottle glasses somewhat too large for his face. He looks like a rabbit who’s parents could well be closely related, too closely perhaps. And, possibly being that particular fine dining establishment’s number one best customer, has really, really bad acne.

Holy cows, is the fucking Canadian mutant, Anton thinks, recoiling. He shakes his head, reaches over to take the bag the kid is holding out and hands him a fifty.

‘Oh, a fifty,’ the rabbit-kid says, holding the bill up to his glasses and squinting. ‘Don't you have anything smaller?’

‘No, is all I am gots. Make it fast kid, give to me the changes, I am in the big hurry.’

‘Well I don't have change for a fifty sir, you'll have to wait for my manager to come and break that bill for me.’

‘Where this goddamns manager is?’

‘He’s just in the men’s room.’

‘What he is does in there? Is jerks-off?’

‘I’m not really sure but I think he’s taking a long du…’

‘Is OK kid, I don't are needing to knowing of detail.’

‘If you’d like to pull into one of those parking slots off to your left to wait, he’ll be out to change that as soon as he’s done, sir.’

‘No! I not am having times for waiting of fucking manager to wiping asses of he. You are keeping of changes kid, buying yourself new head,’ Anton says and pulls out to the highway. He peers squinting through the driving rain, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding a soggy, dripping burger on which he munches while trying to keep the Pathfinder steady in the howling wind. After several kilometres he finally sees the car that was in front of him at the drive-thru and what looks to be the pick-up’s tail-lights beyond it in the distance.

The weather has turned from really bad to atrocious. Anton finishes the now cold French fries and second triple burger and, feeling like he’s just been horribly violated, belches loudly. ‘Fucking Americanski garbage’, he scowls. Throwing the wrappers and bag out the window in disgust, he takes out his cell and tries calling Mom again but still can’t get a connection. He watches as the car from the drive-thru pulls out to pass the pick-up and smiles. Flipping his cell-phone open again, he dials 9-1-1 thinking, you wait Canadian cocksucker prick, is shits hitting the fans for you soon, and is connected after half a dozen rings.

‘This is emergency services, what area are you calling from?’

‘Yeah, I am driving on 99 Highway to the Whistlers.’

‘Exactly where on Highway 99 are you sir?’

‘Sure, you are right. I am exactly on 99 Highway.’

‘What part of Highway 99 are you travelling on at the present time?’

‘I am not knowing what is part, but is… you know, on way to the Whistlers, just north at Squamish.’

‘Do you have an emergency to report? What is the nature of your call please.’

‘Yeah sure is emergency, is why I am call you. What you are think, I am being lonely?’

‘Could you please tell me what is your emergency sir?’

‘There is the car just now, is passing really fast, is swerves like the crazy guys, almost crashing to me. I am seeing this car is passing of pick-ups ahead and almost is crashing to pick-ups too. Car is nearly drives in ditches.’

‘I see. And what would you like us to do?’

‘What kinds of question this is!!? I am thinking you are better to sending somebody for stopping this crazy guys before he is kill somebody.’

‘Were you able to get the license-plate number of the car sir?’

‘Yeah sure, I am getting. I am writing this down, just the minute, I am telling you number… OK, here goes… is VNG 642. You are getting this?’

‘VNG 642. Did you happen to take note of the make and model of the car as well sir?’

‘Is looking like the Chevy Blazer, old shit-box, lots rust. Brown maybes, yeah, colour is for sure brown.’

‘An older model Chevy Blazer, brown in colour with lots of rust, is that correct sir?

‘Yeah, that’s it, is what I am say to you. The old shit-box Chevy Blazer. Is the goddamns rusty buckets.’

‘And the vehicle is northbound on Highway 99, north of Squamish at the present time? Is that correct?’

‘Uh-huh, this is right. The 99 Highway, past of Squamish. Is driving north.’

‘What type of vehicle are you in sir? Are you the driver of this vehicle or are you a passenger?’

‘No, I am driver for sure. I am being all alones, is not no passengers here. And is the Pathfinder I am driving. Nissan.’

‘Is this your own vehicle sir?’

‘Vehicle of me? No, I am renting.’

‘A rented Nissan Pathfinder. Which year would that be sir? And what is the colour?’

‘Why are you ask me questions like this about car I am driving? Is the fucking pricks in goddamns shit-box Chevy Blazer who are drunks you must are worry for, not car of me.’

‘I require the information about your vehicle for my report sir. And I would appreciate your not using foul language when speaking to me.’

‘OK, I am being sorry for to say fucking at you and pricks and goddamns too, is no personal, I just am being nervous with this kind of dangerous drivers. I am scare he is killing me. Sorry lady.’

‘I understand sir. Can you tell me the year of the vehicle you're driving?’

‘What year is!? Is 2002! You don't are knowing this? Month is September in cases you don't are knowing this too.’

‘The vehicle sir, I am inquiring as to the age of the vehicle you're driving, not what the current year is. What is the year of that vehicle please?’

‘I don't am knowing. I am not asking guy at renting place what is year. Is not making the difference for me as long as is running. But colour is black.’

‘I see. Do you know the license-plate number of the vehicle?’

‘No, I don't am knowing. What this is, the fucking quiz-show? Oh sorry, I am forgets, you don't are liking the fucking. But OK, I can stopping car to having looking at plate numbers if you are wanting this.’

‘That won’t be necessary sir.’

‘Good, because is raining like the dog and cat. I am not wanting to gets wet like the duck.’

‘I understand. I’ll need to get your name sir.’

‘Name? Why for you are needing name of me?’

‘For our records sir, we require your name for our records.’

‘You are telling my names to the drunks guys in Chevy shit-box Blazer!!? I am rather you not are telling this. I not am want to having troubles with this drunks guys.’

‘No sir, you won’t be having any problems from that driver. Any information you give us will be kept strictly confidential.’

‘What this is meaning, strictly confidential?’

‘It means we do not give out the information that you provide us with.’

‘OK, if you are being sure.’

‘Yes sir, I'm sure. What is your name please?’

‘My name? You still are wanting to knowing name of me?’

‘Yes sir, what is your name please?’

‘Is Josef.’

‘Is that your surname or your given name sir?’

‘Giving name? I am just giving you name of me? Is Josef. You not are understanding my English?’

‘I can understand you perfectly sir. I just need to get your name.’

‘Josef, I am telling to you already.’

‘I will need to get your surname as well sir.’

‘What this is meaning, how you are saying? Sir-name?’

‘Surname refers to your second name, given name refers to your first name.’

‘I am already giving to you first names. But I am having four names. What you are calling other names?’

‘I need you to tell me your name, sir.’

‘Which names you are wanting first?’

‘Your first name sir.’

‘I am telling to you already, Josef. Is first names.’

‘I will need your surname as well sir.’

‘What name? Sir-name?’

‘Your family name.’

‘You are not wanting other names first? They are coming before the family name.’

‘Just your first name and your family name is all I require. What is your family name please sir.’

‘Stalin. Like Great Hero of Soviet Union who is squashing Hitler like the cockroach.’

‘Have you been drinking this evening Mr Stalin?’

‘Yeah sure. I am drinking delicious super-size Coca-colas with eating triple lousy cheeseburgers of McDonald and shitty fry. Is diet Coca-colas. Why you are caring what I am drinking?’

‘I meant have you been drinking any alcohol this evening Mr. Stalin.’

‘No, of courses I am not drinking no alcohols. I do not drinking the alcohols. Besides, is against law for drinking the alcohols and driving of cars. You are not knowing this!!?’

‘Yes Mr. Stalin, I am familiar with the law.’

‘Well I am sure hoping you are being familiar about drinking the alcohols and driving cars law. Is very big problem in my country. So, you are wants to knowing something elses?’

‘What is your address sir?’

‘I am visitor to your country. I am living at Moscow. You know in Russia? Used to be Soviet Union, but now we are calling Russia agains. Same places but name is different. You are wanting address in Moscow, Russia?’

‘Do you have an address here in Canada Mr. Stalin? A hotel or friends you're staying with perhaps?’

‘No, I am just flying at Vancouver today. I am not yet having time for to checking in hotels.’

‘What is your address in Moscow then sir?’

‘You are not telling address to drunks guys in car? I am not wanting to having no troubles. I am telling you this before. You have listen to me when I say this to you?’

‘Yes, I am listening to you Mr. Stalin. I promise you, you won’t have any trouble. Your address will remain in our confidential files. There's no need for you to be concerned. I only need it for my report.’

‘Is happens all times in Moscow. Guy I know is get shoot last year because he is giving address to police. In fucking head. Oh sorry, I am keep forget you don't are like fucking. Sorry lady.’

‘Yes well, we do things a little differently here in Canada Mr. Stalin. You don't need to worry about that happening.’

‘OK, you are sounding like the nice lady, I will trusting you. But oh boys, I am hope is not nobody waiting to shoot in head of me when I am comes home.’

‘If that should happen Mr. Stalin, you may rest assured it is not in any way connected with this call or the information you provide.’

‘Yeah sure. OK, I am giving to you address now. You are having the pens to write this down?’

‘Yes sir, I have a pen. You may go ahead and give me your address.’

‘Is Kremlin Apartments, number 622, 1942 Red Square Moscow. You are getting this?’

‘Kremlin Apartments number 622, 1942 Red Square Moscow, Russia, is that correct sir?’

‘Yeah sure, that’s is it.’

‘Is there a postal-code for that address?’

‘Of courses is being the postal-codes, but I am not remembering. I just am movings in.’

‘Well thank you very much for calling this in Mr. Stalin. We really appreciate it.’

‘You welcome. Is nice country this Canada you are having here. Maybe I am buying couple house in the Whistlers for girlfriend of me. Listen lady, I am hoping you are not minding for me to saying this, but you sure spending lots time asking the question to me. You don't think you should be getting off from phone now and catching drunks guys in shit-box Chevy?’

‘Yes sir. Enjoy your visit to Canada. You drive safely now. Good night Mr. Stalin.’

‘Yeah so longing lady.’

Several minutes later, two police cruisers come tearing up the highway behind him with their lights flashing and sirens blaring. Anton chortles with glee and pulls-over to let them pass and then resumes on down the dark highway. They should is taking cares of drunks prick from drive-thru of McDonald. It is not long before he comes up to the Chevy Blazer and cruisers by the side of the road. Slowing as he passes, he sees a couple of constables struggling to put a large hand-cuffed man into the back of one of the cruisers. ‘Is what you are gets for piss-off to Anton, you stupid fuck,’ he says laughing as he drives by.

Trying Mom again, he still cannot get a connection. Well, at least drunks prick from drive-thru back at Squamish has getting whats is comes to him. Is too bads I am not having the chances to shoot this prick in face of him, he thinks, I can trying Mom later, after fucking storm is finish. Is must havings to stops sometimes. Maybe is being the phonebooths on this bullshits highway to nowheres and I can call to Mom from there. Anton emits a sigh of dejected resignation and settles down to what he figures will surely be a long and uneventful drive down a dark deserted highway. (Just you wait Anton my lad, just you wait - ed)

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