#eighty four thousand people.

[orchidyoonkook]

Saw this today. And I kind of just sat for a moment in shock.

A fic with over 640 THOUSAND words.

A fic with over 84 THOUSAND hits.

And less than 1000 kudos??

Less than 250 comments??

This isn’t it guys. Fic is dying by the looks of these numbers. This author is putting their all into this story and not even 1000 of the 84000 people who opened the work could’ve been bothered to click one button to leave a kudo?

And this isn’t me bitching about me. If you know me you know I never expect likes or comments or reblogs on my work. But when I get them I’m over the moon. I’m showing my friends, my partner, my mom even my grandparents on occasion. I’m ecstatic.

But I don’t need them like other authors might. Like other authors may need them to know to keep going. To know their work is appreciated. To know what they are doing is worth doing and to stick at it.

So remember to be kind today. Leave a kudo. A comment. A reblog with a “I love this” in the tags.

It may not be much to you.

But it is everything to the writer.

[macfrog]

homesick

a cowboy like me one shot

oh, i missed these two. here's a little check-in on my favorite morally irresponsible outlaws.

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you spend the weekend back home in austin with joel.

warnings: age gap (early 20s/late 40s), twinge of angst, piv sex in the shower (beware of slippage). you know the drill with these two. part of the cowboy like me universe, but can probably be enjoyed as a standalone.

word count: 6.3k

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“This is Joel Miller. I can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I��ll get back to ya.”

You wait for the beep, pacing along a wall of steel cylinders. The laundromat is stifling, the machines’ drumming deafening. It’s eighty-something degrees out, and it’s only six o’clock.

“Pick up, Miller. Hello? Hello? I know you’re there. Can’t come to the –” you clear your throat, strum the twang in your vocal cords, “– Can’t come to the ph-owww-ne right n–”

The line clicks as he picks the handset up.

“Did you call just to make fun of me, kid?”

You halt, spinning on your heel. “So you were screening me?”

He scoffs. “Didn’t notice the time. I’ve been out back with Tommy.”

“Oh,” you mellow, tongue curling around your ice cream, “We don’t have to call right now, you know. I’m just doing laundry.”

“It is six there, right?”

“Yeah, but don’t let me keep you. Go hang with your brother.”

Joel sighs as he sinks back into his couch. “Keep me. He knows you were calling tonight. He’s probably outside fraternizing with the neighbor, anyway. Won’t even notice I’m gone. Laundry, huh?”

“Mhm.” You suckle on the lip of the waffle cone. “It’s a beautiful night, and I’m stuck being force-fed Mötley Crüe and watching a steel drum shred my panties.”

“Sounds like a good time to me.”

“Enough, cowboy.”

“I like Mötley Crüe,” he chuckles. “They got some hits under their belt.”

“Name five.”

“Five,” he says. “You’re asking a lot there, darlin’.”

“Of Mötley Crüe or of your memory, old man?”

Joel hums. “Should’ve seen that one coming, baby.”

You boost yourself up onto one of the dryers, swinging your legs. If there were anyone else in the laundromat, you’d care to hide your fluster – but you’re here on your own, and the man just melts you. All girlish and giggly, you feel his words swirl around your stomach like sweet honey.

“Tell me about your day,” you say, covering the flutter in your voice with another mouthful of ice cream.

“Well,” Joel says, “weather’s fine, work’s fine. Almost done with that renovation for your favorite clients.”

You gasp. “The old couple with the cats?”

He grumbles. “That’s them. They still hate me, by the way.”

“The couple, or the cats?”

“…Jury’s out.”

You snicker.

“Then, uh, I called Sarah, had some dinner, and now here I am talkin’ to you.”

“Hm. I’m your favorite part, right? I’m your favorite part of today?”

Joel pauses, breathing for a moment. Slow, quiet, but sure, he says: “You’re my favorite part of every day.”

The smile on your face cracks, crumbles into something more pained. Your heart sinks.

It’s been three months since you were last home. Technically, it’s been seven weeks since you were in Austin – but Joel was out of town for the weekend, and you spent four days cleaning your dad’s gutter and watching westerns.

It’s been three months since you were last in Joel’s arms. In his house, in his clothes, in his bed. Three months since you heard his voice not through the crackle of a thousand miles apart; since you smelled him on your skin, not on the flannels you’ve stolen from him.

Three long, tough months.

And it means nothing, anyway. All this missing each other. So you tell yourselves, and so you tell everyone else. You’re not together, you’re not committed. You’ve been seeing other people, so has Joel – even if he’s only been on two dates in the nine months since you moved away.

Spending a casual weekend together here and there is enough to get you by. It’s easier this way, right? It’s cleaner. There are no crossed wires, no strings at risk of becoming tangled.

Only – your entire relationship is woven in tangled strings. Messy, knotted, twisted around your fingers and threaded through your ribs. A summer’s worth of weaving yourselves closer and closer together, only to be pulled apart come fall.

It didn’t take long to prove that when a knot is pulled, it only binds tighter.

It only binds sorer.

“Anyway,” Joel says, “your turn. How was your day?”

You gulp, slipping down from the dryer to check on your wash. If you speak, you’ll break, and if you break, you’ll sob.

“Baby? You still there?”

“Yep,” you croak. You wipe your eyes with your sleeve and shake your head. “I – uh…Yeah, my day was fine.”

The line quietens.

“You sure? Everything okay at work?”

Your reflection blinks back at you in the window of the machine, warped and molten. She opens her mouth and replies, “All good.”

He can read you even three states apart. “Let me call you back. Hold on.”

The call disconnects before you can protest. Over your shoulder, another regular shuffles into the laundromat.

She smiles, skin supple and sun-spotted, looking but not looking you in the eye. She slides her full basket over one of the machines on the other side of the room, and tosses her clothes into the drum.

When your phone vibrates again, you pass by her and out onto the street.

Joel’s pixelated living room stretches across your screen.

“Joel,” you sniff, “Joel, it’s –”

“Can you see me?”

“No, you gotta flip your –”

“…never know why the damn thing don’t –”

“The button with the arrows. The camera button, Joel, it’s –”

His coffee table flips, and in place – straight, dark brows drawn tight in a frown. Crows feet, scar across the bridge of his nose. Peppered hair a little longer than the last time you called, beard a little thicker.

The only person in the world who can weaken your knees and splinter your chest, in one fleeting glance.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers, expression softening. “Look at you.”

You slump against the warm wall, sliding down. One sight of him, and your knees give. “Oh, my God, I miss you today.”

Joel laughs. His head cocks, smirk tugging at his lips. “I miss you every day.”

“Yeah, that’s – that’s what I…” you sigh, “…That’s what I meant. It’s just – some days, you feel a little further away.”

“Today one of those days?”

You nod. A car soars by, whipping hot air from the road which pours over your bare legs. “It’s just…been a day. That’s all.”

“We can talk about it, if you want. You’re hell of a lot smarter than me, darlin’, but I’ve had my share of bad days before. Never does any harm to get it off your chest.”

He smiles. It breaks your heart.

He works ten hours straight, some days. Out at the crack of dawn, home with only enough time and energy to nuke something in the microwave. Somewhere amongst that, he fits in beers with Tommy and ridiculous DIY jobs your dad elicits his help for.

And still – he sets aside an hour or two every few nights, specially for you. He collapses into his couch, decaf in his mug, and puts the world to rights with you on the other end of the phone.

The meaningless work dramas, the paper building up on your desk. The commute, for the love of God – the traffic jams you swear will one day be the death of you. The last thing Joel needs is to listen to your problems on end, and you tell him so.

“Bullshit,” he replies. He shakes his head, takes a sip of his beer. “I asked, didn’t I? Talk to me. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You groan. “I just…I wish I could turn my brain off. Just for a little while. No meetings, no call times. No helping my dad trim the trees in the yard when I’m home for the weekend.”

He laughs. “He rope you into that one too, huh?”

“Sure did.” You tense your fist, wince at the memory of splinters you were still plucking from your palm even weeks later.

“I got nothing to complain about,” you tell Joel, “I know that. This job is…it’s right where I want to be. Just – sometimes, I miss being back in Austin, following you around Costco and hiding from my dad. It’s like life was simpler then.”

Joel chokes. “I guarantee you,” he coughs, thumping his chest clear of beer, “life was not simpler. Not by a long shot. Goddamn.”

He swings to his feet and wanders across the room to his kitchen. Past his armchair, past the guitar mounted on the wall. Past the dining chair he always hangs his coat from. You know the anatomy of his home better than your own, it feels like.

You sure as hell miss it more than your own.

“Lemme see…” Joel squints over his phone. He leans over his kitchen counter. “What’s next weekend look like for you?”

You shrug. “My weekend off.”

“Nothing planned?”

“Nothing yet.”

He nods. “I’m meeting a supplier on Saturday afternoon, but if you can stand to be without me for a few hours, then…”

His eyebrows lift.

So do yours. “Then…?”

“I can look at flights,” Joel says, “get you booked tonight. Pick you up Friday, drop you off Sunday. Spend the whole weekend with your brain shut off, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

A wave of warmth floods through your chest. Relief, maybe – or simple adoration for the man on the other end of the phone. Most likely, the way it always seems with Joel, it’s both at once.

He loves you. Enough to break every rule in the book. To go behind his best friend’s back for an entire summer. He loves you enough to let you go, watch you follow your wildest dreams, and then be the safety net at the end of each long day, each hard night.

He loves you enough to scratch everything off his calendar for a few days, just to make sure you’re okay. Just to hold you in his arms, heart beating a rhythm he knows better than his own. Just to sing you to sleep, and wake you up with burnt toast and runny eggs.

You pull the collar of your shirt over your nose and weep into the material. “I ever tell you how much I love you?”

He smiles. “Not half as much as I love you.”

“Gross.”

“I know.”

The laundromat door flings open.

Face now flushed and hair scraped back, the woman clocks you immediately and throws a pointed finger in your direction. “Are you coming to get your panties or what, little girl?”

She clicks her teeth and disappears again. The blind hanging over the door rattles with the force it slams closed.

“Guess that’s my cue,” you whisper, heaving to your feet. “Better go get my panties.”

“Why?” Joel’s making his way back outside. “Ain’t like you’re gonna need ‘em.”

You scoff. “Talk later, cowboy.”

Austin welcomes you back with a delayed flight, a screaming seatmate, and a raging headache.

The airport is busy. Loud busy. All chittering couples, hordes of kids with nauseatingly bright backpacks. You drag your suitcase through to arrivals, careful not to trip over the wheels of the stroller ahead.

When you spot his tall, dark figure weaving between bodies, the gate hushes. You move towards him by instinct, parting the crowd as you go. The magnet in your chest senses its partner drawing nearer, and nearer, and nearer.

And nearer, until he’s reaching out. He’s close enough that his hands land on your waist, and it’s the first time in three months that you’ve felt this weight – his weight, the way only he feels – all around you.

Joel pulls you in to his chest. He locks you in, resting his chin on your head.

“Hi, honey.”

You inhale his scent, breathe in the comfort of him. “Hi,” you exhale.

Tears prickle at your eyes. It feels stupid. He looks down at you, thumb swiping across your cheek, and a salty droplet spills.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Good.”

“You okay?”

“Perfect, now.”

“You look perfect,” Joel grins, “Look like the sun.”

And you could swat him away, could shrug him and his flirting off. The sun sure as hell doesn’t look stewed in three-hour plane, too tired to move and too clingy to unhook from her dad’s best friend’s arm.

But that’s not what he’s saying, is it?

You do look different. You feel different. You feel brand new. Golden – just like the sun.

These days, it feels like there are two versions of you. One, you’ve spent the better part of a year polishing off – electric and vibrant, eyes wide and head spinning, moving through her day like gliding on air and then collapsing in a heap come nightfall. Chaos with a clipboard and call sheet.

And the other – slower. Steadier. Surer on her feet, simpler in her ways. Dust under her heels and a Texan shine in her smile. Honeylike; moving where her body tells her to go, drinking up the world as she pleases.

There’s a moment, stood under the fluorescent lights of the terminal, where you feel the first give way to the second. Safe now, in Joel’s arms, to slip back into her old, worn boots and shutter her mind – even just for this weekend.

“Come on,” he whispers, wrapping his hand around yours. “Let’s get you home.”

And there never seemed like a better idea than that.

He keeps your things in his shower caddy.

Bottom basket, strictly yours. Shampoo and conditioner and bodywash and a loofah, all exactly where you left them last time you were here. He says it as he cranks the handle, holds his palm under the flow until it’s just right.

“The strawberry stuff…?” Joel nods to the bottle, face screwed.

You gasp. “You don’t like it?”

He shakes his head. “Like it on you. I smelled like a fruit farm for a week, baby.”

“Makes a change from wood trimmings,” you mutter, peeling the shirt from your chest.

Joel glares over his shoulder. “You wanna say that a little louder?”

“No, sir,” you whisper, and step into the cubicle.

The water pours over your head and down your spine, breathing life back into your body. You close your eyes and let it wash down your face. LA feels so distant, so lost to the steam and serenity in Joel’s ensuite.

He lingers in the doorway, watching as you turn under the shower. He smiles when you hold your hand out and flick your fingers.

“Soap, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, dropping it in your palm.

You slip the velvety bar over your skin. The soap lathers in thick, milky bubbles, cascading over your chest down to your hips. Your hands lift from your navel to cup your breasts, pinching your nipples between soft fingers.

Joel’s jaw ticks. He crosses his arms, shoulders tensing. “Easy, darlin’. Dancing with the devil here.”

It burns low in your stomach.

You pass him the bar back. “Maybe I want to dance,” you murmur. “Maybe he does, too.”

His eyebrows lift. “Maybe he does,” he agrees. He trades the soap for shampoo, tapping the bottle against your hip.

The heat grows under your skin. Having him watch, his close eye on you as you wash the suds from your hair and slick bodywash over your skin.

His eyes drift from your chest to your waist, looping up to your soaked eyelashes and dripping bottom lip, diving again between your legs.

Hungry. Starved, even.

Three months of secret photos and sexy phone calls to get you both by. Three months of imagining you, fist around his cock in the dead of night, coating his stomach just with the thought of you.

And right here, right now, in his shower: the real thing. The forbidden fruit. Body hot and skin soaked, just as desperate as he is. Just as needy.

You step forward, reaching for his shoulders. Arms around his neck, dampening the collar of his shirt, you pull him closer.

“Dance with me,” you whisper against his lips, stealing a kiss.

Joel’s gaze darkens. He takes your jaw and tilts your head back. Voice like thunder rolling over you, he warns, “I told someone we’d be somewhere.”

You smile, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “We’re running late. Something’s come up.”

His arms lift and you pull the cotton over his head, tossing it to the floor. He’s the same solid sculpture as always. Strong and wide, torso scattered with hair which thickens across the span of his chest.

He rids himself of his boots and jeans, kicks his underwear off, and joins you under the water. So big that he corners you, so tall that he has to adjust the showerhead.

Pressed up against your body; warm, manly scent raining over you. He’s hard, tucked right by your hip, rutting gently as he steals kiss after kiss.

He’s addicted to it. To you. Has been ever since that first night, the first taste of poison. Has been, probably, since that first glimpse of you last summer. For all the wrong reasons and in all the wrong ways, for better or worse –

You break him open. You make him weak.

Joel groans when you wrap your hand around him. That familiar weight in your grasp. He glances down to watch your slow strokes, fighting back a filthy smile.

“Missed you,” he breathes, voice lost to the patter of the shower. He slips a hand between your legs. “Ain’t gonna last long, are you?”

“Fuck,” you hiss, grinding into his palm. You toy with his bottom lip, nipping at the edges of his smirk. “We got all weekend. Just – just fuck me.”

He hikes your leg over his hip and lines up. A blooming ache when he notches at your hole, tip teasing your entrance.

Your back curls. You wrap your arms around Joel’s neck, whimpering into his chest.

“’s alright,” he kisses your neck, “Just take it nice ‘n slow. Get her used to me again, baby.”

He pushes inside, two heavy hands on your waist. Always in control, always easing you in. He holds you delicately, moving inch by inch, watching the twist of your brow and bite of your lip before sinking in further.

He reaches up and tilts the downpour to the wall. Lifts your fragile body, split in two on his cock, and pushes you against the tile.

Your cunt aches as he slides out. She clamps around his tip. It hurts – but you don’t want to let him go.

“Stay,” you cry, nails digging into his shoulders. “Stay inside me.”

He hums and presses his lips to the hinge of your jaw. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, baby. I’m right here.”

His hips move forward. Your cunt opens for him the deeper he moves. Like welcoming him home, remembering the way it feels to be this full. The stretch of taking him, the air stolen from your lungs. The love you can never find the beginning nor the end of.

And then he’s moving quicker, sharper, one arm wrapped around your neck to cradle your head. Hips snapping against yours, slowing to a roll when you yelp.

Whispering sweet nothings in your ear – how good you’re taking him, how tight she is. How much he’s missed this, missed her, missed you. Never wants to let you go, never wants to be anywhere except right here, feeding you his cock and watching you come undone.

“Made for me, huh?” Joel grunts. He presses his forehead to yours and slips the words across your tongue. “All mine.”

“All yours,” you echo, weeping under him. The flame catches and curls around your stomach.

The missing piece to the last nine months. The dead-end dates, the hazy hookups. Awkward good mornings, and goodbyes that never seem to come quick enough. Sneaking off home to shower the scent of it away, to replace it with something sweeter.

Him.

Because none of them are him.

They don’t make you laugh and they don’t make you come. They don’t see you, don’t hang on your every word. They don’t – they can’t break your world apart and paint it something new. They don’t know your every move, don’t understand the most fleeting glances.

You could spend forever circling every bar and every diner; what do you do for work and where did you grow up. You could chase the tail of every flannel shirt, search all over for that twinkle in his eye.

They’re not him. They’ll never be him.

Joel coaxes you where he needs you. He fucks you until you’re quivering in his arms, head rolling across his shoulder. His thrusts begin to stall, breathing turns to panting, teeth sink into any part of your skin he can find.

He moans into your neck. The sound nudges you towards the edge.

“I’m close, baby,” he grits, “’m so close.”

You look up at him through tear-soaked eyes.

Three months. Since the last time he touched you, kissed you, fucked you like this. Since the last time he lost control, came deeper inside than anyone before, or anyone since.

Three months since the last time you held him in your hands, lined your lips with his, and begged him to stay in you.

Joel laughs. “Dangerous little game, darlin’.”

But he’s fading. He’s falling under, same as you are.

You want it. You need it. Need to be full of him – that ache when you walk, the warmth leaking down the inseam of your thighs. The feeling of being his, all his; ruined and wrecked in the sweetest way.

“Stay – inside,” you plead. “I want you to – want it so bad.”

“Keep begging, honey. Sound so cute when you’re desperate.”

“Please, Joel,” it’s getting harder to hold, “Just wanna feel you in me –”

“I know, I know,” he shushes.

You tense in his arms, gasping. “I’m gonna – come –”

“So,” Joel smirks, “come.”

And it snaps.

You scream into his chest. Your climax pulls you under, drowns you in a heavy wave of pleasure. Your hips lock, legs clamp around his waist as you cry out.

He plants a hand flat against the tile to steady himself. He holds you still as his own orgasm rolls through, pumping your swollen cunt with each rush of warm release.

You collapse against his body, bubbling and mumbling something incoherent.

He hears you, though.

He shuts the water off and rocks you back and forth. His cock slips from between your legs. “Shh, shh,” lips to your temple, “’s my girl. Such a good girl, baby. So good for me.”

You hum in response and pull yourself upright. You trace the shape of his beard, soaking wet and soft under your touch, following the droplets of water to his chin.

He kisses the tips of your fingers. “I love you,” he says. Chants it like a prayer, leaning closer and closer until his lips are against yours. “Love you more ‘n anything.”

You giggle. “You’re tickling me.”

Joel nuzzles his nose into your neck. He wriggles his fingers under your ribcage. “Can’t get enough of you,” his tongue swipes across your hot skin, “Swear to God, baby, you’re killing me.”

“Joel,” your head falls back with a clap of laughter, “Joel, stop – oh, my God, you have to stop, please – Joel!”

He hoists you onto his hips and turns. Hands still exploring, still pinching and squeezing everywhere they shouldn’t be, he carries you out to his bedroom and drops you onto the mattress.

“Here,” he chuckles, wrapping a towel around your body. He knots it over your chest and rubs your waist, before flopping down onto the bed with a sigh.

You roll over on top of him and fix the dripping hair from his forehead. “Missed you,” you whisper, trailing kisses along his collarbone.

He smiles. His heart flutters beneath yours. “Missed you more,” he says.

His semen drips between your legs. He’s softening against the inside of your thigh. The bed is soaked, sheets that’ll need changed before you sleep tonight. You’re tired, spent, pussy throbbing from the loss of him – and it’s all so perfect.

Being here, with him. Seeing him, feeling him on your body. In your body, for crying out loud. Holding him, kissing him, loving him up close.

It’s fucking perfect.

“What are we running late for?” you ask.

Joel’s eyes flutter open. He cocks his head, frowning.

“You said we had somewhere to be,” you clarify.

“Oh,” he winces, “Uh, your dad’s. He’s havin’ us for dinner.”

“Oh,” you echo. “When is he expecting –?”

He glances at the clock. “Half hour ago.”

“Nice.” You push yourself up, slipping from his grasp. “Well, this is about to be awkward.”

Joel folds his arms behind his head. He tracks your flurried movements: lugging your bag across the floor, tearing through it for an outfit that doesn’t scream, Your best friend just fucked me senseless in his shower.

When you straighten and lift your arms, eyes wide, his lips turn.

“You said you wanted to dance, baby. I was just following orders.”

The sun filters through the leaves, breathing back and forth with the sway of the trees.

You’re horizontal in a deckchair, feet in Joel’s lap, blanket around your shoulders. Full on burgers and baseball talk; if it weren’t for your dad’s riveting conversation about his new lawnmower, you’d probably be asleep.

“Ride-on,” he tells Joel, nodding. It makes gardening a real thrill, apparently. He flicks a hand over the span of the yard. “Whole thing done in less than twenty minutes. Hank says he’s half a mind to make an investment himself.”

Joel purses his lips. He strokes your ankles soothingly. “Sounds like a good buy,” he placates.

Your dad drums on his armrests, admiring his yard some more. He mumbles something about raking the leaves, painting the fence, then – with a vigor that makes you jump, he taps your arm.

“How’s work, kiddo? Still rockin’ ‘n rollin’?”

Your eyes flash across Joel’s. The hell does that even mean?

The corner of his lip twitches. Your guess is as good as mine.

“Yep,” you lie. “Living the dream, Dad.”

Joel says nothing. He hasn’t told your dad why you came home – hasn’t even mentioned the tears outside the laundromat. Your secret is safe with him, you know that. Some puzzles are easier to figure out, the less eyes that are on them.

He hasn’t even brought it up with you yet. Granted, you’ve been home all of four hours, and a solid quarter of that time has been spent naked with him back at his place – but he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

This weekend doesn’t have to be about work. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be about you feeling homesick. It can be as simple as you hadn’t seen your dad for a few weeks, or you heard the news about the damn lawnmower and just had to pay a visit.

It’s what you’ve always loved so much about Joel. It’s what reeled you into him in the first place.

He just lets you be. No questions, no pressure, no worries. He knows you’ll figure it out – you always do. And if he knows that, then it makes you believe in it, too.

Dad sinks back into his chair with a sigh. “What’s on the cards this weekend, then?”

“Joel’s down San Antonio way tomorrow,” you yawn, “Some supplier meeting.”

“You don’t feel like a road trip?”

Your eyes roll to Joel. He’s already staring back. You cock an eyebrow, smirking into your glass.

His shoulder rolls in a shrug. “Your call, chief,” he says, tipping his drink to you.

The minute he mentioned the meeting last week, you knew you’d be tagging along. Two hours each way and an hour in between is too big a chunk of your weekend together to miss out on.

That – and you’ve missed Joel’s front-seat singing.

It doesn’t matter what you planned on doing – rolling around his bed for three days straight, driving to San Antonio and back. Hell, trimming your dad’s trees and cleaning his guttering.

As long as you’re doing it with Joel, it’s enough.

It’s what you came home for in the first place.

The drive passes quickly enough. Joel’s truck doesn’t have Bluetooth, and he only keeps three discs in his glove compartment: Don McLean’s American Pie, a Guitar Classics compilation album, and a blank disc with SARAH MILLER, SECOND GRADE scrawled in Sharpie.

He whips it from your hands when you fish it out of the compartment.

“Listen, listen to this,” Joel says, slotting it in the tray. “Found it a couple weeks ago. I listen to it when I’m drivin’ to work.”

Her squeaky, seven-year-old voice punches through the cabin. “Welcome to my presentation –” she roars into the mic, pausing when a voice picks up in the background. “Huh?” Sarah asks.

“You’re holdin’ the mic too close,” Joel murmurs, almost fourteen years younger. “Farther. Farther,” he says, and then – “Alright. Go.”

“Welcome to my presentation on Amelia E-Earhart,” she resumes, clearing her throat. “She…Oh, Daddy, we gotta restart. I forgot to tell ‘em my name.”

Joel covers his laughter with his fist, reciting it line for line. “Tommy said he’s gonna make her a copy for her birthday,” he says.

“Oh, my God. She’s gonna hate you guys, you know that, right?”

He nods. “I’m countin’ on it.”

Sarah rounds off a few facts about twentieth century air travel before Joel swaps her for the radio. He hands you the disc and you place it safely back in the glove compartment.

You curl up in the passenger seat, swinging your legs over to his lap.

He rubs your calves and glances over, smiling. “You okay over there?”

“I’m more tired than I was when I landed,” you reply, and he laughs.

You haven’t had much of a chance to catch up on sleep. The second you made it home last night, your dress was on the floor at the foot of Joel’s bed. He woke you this morning with his lips on your thighs, your underwear around your ankles.

He was midway through cooking breakfast when you floated into the kitchen to return the favor. The toast burned, the eggs shriveled to a crisp, and your knees bruised.

Fuck it, right? You’ll miss him when you’re gone. When all that’s left are the memories, and the sound of his climax through speakerphone.

An afternoon spent on the road is good recovery time, then, for all that’s waiting for you when you make it back to Joel’s tonight.

A few off-key covers of fifty number ones from the last fifty years later, you’re pulling into a barren lot headered by a beige trailer. The supplier springs out – a beefy guy with a full head of thick, white hair. He crosses the lot as Joel parks up.

Joel rounds the truck, pausing when he spots you lingering at the tailgate. He curves a hand around your neck, thumb circling over your pulse point. “You comin’?”

You twist the hem of your tee around your finger. “Maybe I’ll stay out here and wait. It’s a nice night, and you ain’t gonna be too long, right?”

He shakes his head. “Be as fast as I can. If it gets dark out, you come inside, alright?”

You shuffle into his embrace. “Promise.”

He kisses your head and steps back. “Here,” he slips the flannel from his shoulders, “If you’re sittin’ out. Got my phone if you need me.”

He disappears inside and the door falls closed. A cluster of moths twirls around the light on the trailer’s side. You hop up on the bed of the truck, crossing Joel’s shirt around your frame, and nestle against the back window.

The sun pulls down towards the horizon, sending dregs of daytime in ripples to the stars. She’s still alight just beyond the trees, still burning a hole in the sky. She winks at you from a distance.

The world looks different from Austin. Bigger, like the view from your bedroom window. There’s always more, just beyond the horizon. There has to be more, right? More than four pink walls and a chest of drawers. More than Sal’s store, more than Rita’s cross stitch.

You chased that more halfway across the country – only to realize it was in your hands the whole time.

Him and his lazy smile, sarcasm as thick as the accent he speaks it in. Rolled up sleeves and messy collar; a half-empty cup of coffee and a cracked watch face.

He’s all the more you could ever need.

You’re still perched on the tailgate, staring skyward, when Joel finishes up.

He swaggers across the lot, tan arms speckled with dry dirt, boots kicking up dust. He tosses a fistful of papers in the front seat, then drifts around to settle between your knees.

“Hi,” he whispers, tucking his nose under your jaw.

“Hi.”

He plants his hands either side of your hips and kisses your neck. “Home time, sweet girl.”

You glance over your shoulder.

This time tomorrow, you’ll be on your flight back. Row twelve, seat C. Joel’s flannel over your shoulders, slowly forgetting the scent of him, mile by mile. You’ll sleep with it tucked under your chin until it no longer smells like oak or pine, or the mint bodywash he uses.

You’ll miss it the way you’ll miss him. Holding onto every last moment. Deep morning voice, warm, safe embrace. The rumble of a laugh in his chest, the glimmer or mischief in his eye. The touches he saves just for you; the words he whispers when the lights turn out.

You wrap your arms around his neck.

“Can we go watch the sunset somewhere?”

Joel glances off behind you. His eyes flit back to yours, sunlight catching their ochre and setting him ablaze.

“Get in,” he pulls you down, “I know just the spot.”

It’s almost dusk by the time you reach the outlook.

A twisty dirt road which opens up between some trees, halfway out of the city. Joel reverses the truck and parks in the clearing. The two of you slide onto the tailgate, sharing a bag of fruit gums he had stored alongside Sarah’s CD.

The stars turn one by one, dotted across deep indigo. The last of the day’s blush still lingers where the city meets the sky. Tucked between trees and twilight, it feels as though you’re the only two in the world.

Joel holds the bag out, and you pinch a couple pieces of candy. “How you feelin’?” he asks, looking out to the skyline.

“Okay, I guess,” you mutter. “This has been a nice reset. I wish I could take you back with me.”

Joel laughs. “I don’t.”

“No?” you suckle on the sweet fruit, “I think you’d fit right in.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” He shakes his head, pinching your chin. “Naw, LA is yours. It’s something you did, all by yourself. I am so proud of you, honey, do you know that? I mean, I miss you like hell, I really do…”

He glances back down, rustling the bag in his hands. He’s hiding, you know him well enough. Staring at his lap instead of in your eye. When he looks back up, there’s a glimmer along his waterline.

“…But the way I feel any time you call, and I know…I know you’re out there doin’ something you actually give a shit about. You ain’t stuck here, too big for your own bedroom, too comfortable for anywhere else.”

He slips a hand over your knee and squeezes.

It’s infuriating, how right he always is. You’re working your fucking ass off, and for good reason. Austin was always too small for the world inside your head. Missing each other is a price you’re both willing to pay, for the luxury of not missing out on every dream you’ve ever had.

But –

“What if it keeps getting harder?” you sniff, “What if I need you more?”

Joel clicks his teeth. “’s always gonna get harder. That’s life, darlin’. But the hard times won’t last forever. And when it feels real tough, and you feel like you can’t do it no more, you call me. You jump on the next flight. You switch your brain off, and you let me take care of you for a little while.”

You shake your head. Tears break loose, rolling down your cheeks. “I can’t ask that of you, Joel, you got your own shit to worry about –”

“Baby.” He sighs. “I’m old. I’ve done everything I think I oughta do. You know, the days I know you’re gonna be callin’ at eight o’clock – it’s all I can think about. I’m at work checking my watch every five minutes.”

You giggle, turning into the crook of his arm.

“It’s true,” Joel snickers, “I’m like a goddamn teenager. That’s what you do to me.”

He catches you and pulls you against his chest.

“What I’m saying is – there ain’t nothing that matters more to me in the world than you. My own shit to worry about? You mean – you?”

“Shut up,” you scoff, spitting tears into his shirt.

“You call,” he says, resolute, “and I’ll be there.”

“I’m calling,” you whisper. “I’m always calling.”

“Then I’m always here.”

You sit back, bracing yourself on Joel’s thighs. He wipes the wet from your cheeks and fixes his shirt over your shoulders.

“You know, one day,” you tell him, “you’re gonna get a call, and it’s not just gonna be for the weekend.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“One day, I’m gonna come home forever, Joel.”

“I know,” he repeats. “And I’ll be on the front porch waitin’.”

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

two of the transfems youre friends with have been talking to you about the clinic they got their bottom surgery done at. apparently its dirt cheap, and the surgeon - despite some oddities and, your friends admit, poor hygiene - is incredibly talented. theyre more than happy to give you her phone number when you ask, and while it sounds simultaneously incredibly sketchy and way too good to be true, at this point youre just so broke, desperate, and tired of gatekeepers that you're willing to give it a shot.

you call on a thursday afternoon, and the call is picked up on the fourth ring, when youre just gearing up to hear an answering machine. the voice on the other end sounds like a middle-aged woman with a smoking habit trying to sound like a cheery, bubbly young girl, and mostly succeeding. hiiiii! what can i do for you? she asks. you say er im looking for a surgical clinic is this the right number? she says mhm! thats me. you say okay, i just have a few questions. she says shoot. you say do you take patients who arent referred to you? she says nobody refers patients to me so yes. then she giggles. youve never heard somebody pull off a giggle in real life. you ask okay, so ive been looking for a place to get my metoidoplasty done, can you do that here? she says i dont know what that is give me like five seconds. then the line goes silent. you can hear her typing on a mechanical keyboard and humming to herself as she reads. youre now convinced that this is not in any way a legitimate medical institution.

youre about to hang up when she comes back on the line. OH you need a dick she says. sure i can do that! does tuesday afternoon work for you? i have that morning free too but i HATE getting up in the mornings so id rather not schedule it if i have to. you say tuesday afternoon is fine, how long should i expect the visit to be? she says i dont know like seven hours? you say seven hours? she says yeah give or take a few, every person is different so i dont know what itll be like until ive got your cunt opened up. honestly probably best to take the whole day off just in case it turns out to be a tough operation. you dont respond to that immediately. she says oh shoot should i not use the word cunt, is that too gendered? sorry. you say no its fine. you say i thought i was just going in for a consult? she says i mean yeah if youd rather. i dont mind doing same-day but some people like having more time to think about their options. do you have somewhere to be tuesday night or something? you say no its just... no tuesday afternoon should be fine. she says okay great!

she gives you her address. she says knock three times so i know its you and not my parole officer. parole officer you ask? she says im being good i promise but i still hate talking to him hes boring. you say if you dont mind me asking what were you imprisoned for? she says the ones i plead guilty to at the trial were a hundred and ninety-two counts of first-degree murder with a parahuman ability, two hundred and fifty-six counts of physical and emotional torture with a parahuman ability, five hundred and six counts of intentional infliction of emotional distress with a parahuman ability, four hundred ninety-eight counts of aggravated assault and battery with a parahuman ability, four hundred twenty five counts of domestic terrorism with a parahuman ability and two hundred and twelve counts without, three counts of arson, two hundred forty two counts of burglary with a parahuman ability, three hundred eight four counts of robbery with a parahuman ability, four hundred twenty seven counts of abduction with a parahuman ability, a hundred eighty six counts of human trafficking with a parahuman ability, three hundred ninety counts of destruction of public property with a parahuman ability, eighty counts of possession of a controlled substance, more than three thousand conspiracy and complicity charges in various felonies, eighteen violations of the Geneva Conventions, and the unauthorized practice of medicine. i plead not guilty to the larceny, sexual assault, contempt of court, corporate espionage, and identity theft charges and the prosecutor didnt really try to fight it since i had already earned seventy life sentences from the other stuff so im technically innocent of those.

you dont say anything to that.

after three seconds of silence she says sooooooooo i'll see you tuesday? you say tuesday, yeah. what was your name again? Riley, she says. Riley Grace Davis. you say thanks again and then hang up.

you debate constantly during the intervening days whether you should go on tuesday. youre grateful your friend group is so slutty; it means youve already seen with your own eyes that this surgery is real and not just a lure to murder you. still, you have some reservations, which you think is perfectly understandable.

you call one of your friends whos been there already. she picks up and you say if this is a joke its only sort of funny. she says if whats a joke? you say the clinic. you say you DID give me the actual number to the place where you actually had your bottom surgery done right? she says yeah, dont worry the surgeons so sweet. you say she admitted to doing two hundred murders when she was on the phone. she says i dont know anything about that but i trust her. you say if i end up dead, kidnapped, or mutilated, its your fault. she says dont worry about it.

tuesday comes. you never agreed to an exact time so you show up as early as you can and still have it be "afternoon" in your mind - 12:30. you climb the rusted fire escape to the third floor door and knock three times. the door is answered by a woman six feet tall in casual but very nice clothes with frizzy brown hair and an expression you cant read. you say er, riley? she says nope. another girl pushes past her, exasperated. she's maybe five foot two and her wavy blonde hair is worn down, with a red bow in it. she's wearing torn jeans - naturally torn, not the sort that you buy with holes in them that youve always hated but the kind that were once normal jeans and now have worn through much of the fabric on the knees. her tshirt is faded and has stains that you cant quite place on it, but youre pretty sure it was once Eidolon merchandise.

she says damnit amy let me answer the door next time. the taller woman, amy apparently, shrugs and steps aside to let you in riley claps her hands together once youre inside and the door is shut. introductions! she shouts. amy, this is, er... I never actually got your name? you tell them your name. she says right! hes one of my clients. and this is Amy, my sister. dont worry about her, shes just a little awkward. amy says can you PLEASE not introduce me as your sister. riley says make me. then she grabs amys shirt and pulls her down, standing on her tiptoes at the same time. they kiss in a very un-sisterly way. you clear your throat politely.

riley breaks away and says right, yeah, sorry! i get distracted easy. youre here to get a dick right. you splutter a bit, both at the bluntness of the question and the fact that amy is still standing right there. riley follows your gaze. she says oh dont worry about her! sorry, i wouldve run her off earlier, i thought you wouldnt come by for another few hours. you say sorry. she says dont worry, its her fault. amy says you didnt tell me you had a client. riley says you didnt ASK. you clear your throat politely again. you say er yes, i did come in for metoidoplasty. she bites her lip and furrows her brow. she says metoido... oh right. well i dont really do that here but i can give you a dick. you say uh im not really interested in phalloplasty. she says whats phalloplasty? amy says its the construction of a penis, usually via tissue flap taken from another part of the body, often followed by the insertion of prosthetics to allow the constructed penis to achieve erection. riley says oh, huh. yeah i dont do that either. i can give you a dick though. she takes a second then puts on an exaggerated scowl. who would want that she asks? amy says lots of people prefer it to metoido for aesthetic reasons or because they dont think theyll be large enough for penetrative sex with metoido. riley says but it wouldnt feel like a dick! man, some surgeons are talentless hacks.

you clear your throat again. you say so if youre- riley says youre clearing your throat a lot, are you okay? you say im fine, its just- she says oh duh were being so rude! why are we all standing around here. come sit down in the living room, do you want anything to drink? she leads you into the living room. it has the unmistakable air of a room thats been cleaned recently, with vacuuming marks present in the carpet and the unmistakable scent of air freshener. the sofa that you're gestured to sit on is, by contrast, unbelievably filthy. stains of every sort are visible on it - some of them are obvious, like the patches of blood and vomit or the ring of a coffee mug. others take you a second to place, like the crusty streak along one cushion that you realize all at once is semen, or the sticky yellow parts that you hope to god are honey. some of them, like the muddy green handprint along one arm of the sofa or the deep black smudge along a seat, are completely foreign to you. you can smell it from several feet away.

amy notices your hesitancy. she says i keep telling her to throw that thing out. riley says and i keep telling HER that its a relic from earth bet! its an antique and itll be worth millions soon. it just needs a good deep cleaning. amy says what that sofa needs is a bullet, not a deep clean. you sit down. drink? riley asks. you say er what do you have? she says water, diet coke, vodka, coffee. no more beer though, SOMEBODY drank the last one. amy says you never said they were off limits! riley says they arent, im just teasing. you say waters fine. riley says aaaaaaaaaamyyyyyyy, could you pleeeeeeaaaaaaaase go get our guest a glass of water and me a diet coke? oh and can you grab the pill bottle on the second shelf of the spice cabinet. amy says sure, i'll be right back.

riley sits down next to you. she says sooooooo what do you want for your dick? you say sorry, if youre not doing phallo or metoido then what exactly are you offering? she says no offense but it would take like literally eight years to give you enough background info for you to understand my explanation, and i dont have that kind of time. im not getting any younger. except for when i am. she laughs louder than you thought a human could. you have no idea how to describe the sound of her laughter. she says just tell me about your dream dick and ill give it to you. trust me, im a doctor.

except that youre not, amy says, returning with glasses and pills in hand. she sets the water down in front of you and you immediately take large gulps, feeling very much lost right now. riley says am TOO, accepting the pill bottle and diet coke from amy. she frowns. why is it can diet coke, she asks? she says glass bottle is so much better. she says why did i even BUY can. amy says they are literally the same liquid, what do you mean its better. riley says theyre not the same, stop deluding yourself. amy says which of us is the REAL doctor? riley says both of us! the PRT finally issued me an equivalency. youre talking to doctor riley davis, MED. amy says oh really? congrats she says. riley beams. then she unscrews the lid of the unlabeled, dark brown glass bottle, grabs three pills, and pops them into her mouth.

what is that you ask. ectasy she says. you want some? you say no thanks. she says you sure? you say i probably shouldnt take drugs before an operation, what if it interacts with the anesthetic? riley says dont worry, i made my own anesthetic that has zero drug-drug interactions. amy says except with sudafed. riley says ok YEAH except with sudafed, how was i supposed to know? she glances at you. you dont take sudafed do you she asks. you say no. she says good. it was such a bitch cleaning the pus off the ceiling she says. you say huh? she says dont worry about it, you dont take sudafed. she says are you sure you dont want any ecstasy? i promise its pure. you say i dont want to get addicted. she says i can surgically remove the addiction pathway from your brain if that would help. amy says riley, no means no. riley says fine. do you want any ecstasy babe? she says no thanks. riley frowns. she says you guys are a bunch of squares. she pops a fourth one and starts chugging diet coke.

she slams the can down after drinking what must be half of it, wipes her mouth with her arm and grins. sorry, we keep getting distracted! she says. she says im getting into the start of a manic episode and that always makes me roll right over people in conversation. what do you want for your dick? you say um. i hadnt really thought about it. its not normally a choice beyond the type of surgery, you sort of just end up with whatever the doctors are able to make work? thats lame she says. why are normal doctors all so lame she says. ok, rude amy says. OBVIOUSLY im not talking about you babe riley says. and stop distracting me from my client! amy holds up her hands in mock surrender, an easy smile on her face.

you didnt bring a toy with you did you, riley asks. you say huh. she says sometimes people bring a toy that they want me to model it after and that makes everything a lot easier. you say no you didn't. you say i hadn't really thought about my preferences, can we go dealer's choice on this? amy pipes up. she says you REALLY dont want riley to go dealers choice. riley says shut up and get me another diet coke, i just finished this one. amy says yes princess. you honestly cant read whether it was meant to be mocking or endearing. riley turns back to you. ok, she says, lets start with basics. primate? canid? equine? suine? dolphin? i could give you a hyena pseudopenis but i dont know if that would be offensive. you say human is fine. she says please dont tell me you're gonna just be boring this whole time. you say define boring. she sighs deeply and starts massaging her temples. amy, having stepped into the room in time to hear the last bit of conversation, tousles rileys hair. she says sorry babe, customer's always right.

you work out the appearance of your soon-to-exist cock this way. riley asks questions about length, girth, hair, amount of semen generated, percentage growth when erect, and you try to give what you think are average answers every time. amy watches, bemused, the whole time. halfway through she leaves to get the bottle of vodka. she drinks five shots in fifteen minutes. you say i didnt think the human body had that much capacity for alcohol resistance. she says it doesnt. riley swats playfully at her arm.

eventually, riley grabs a set of crayons and a cocktail napkin. she says ok, i think we got it, scribbling furiously. she shows you a crayon drawing of a dick. this look good she asks? you squint at it. there are no measurements given and the medium does not allow you to make out any fine detail. you say yeah thats fine. amy tries and fails to hide a smile. riley chucks the napkin aside and rubs her hands together. boring parts done! she says. time to get messy she says. amy pours a sixth shot of vodka. she says dont forget the anesthetic first. riley rolls her eyes. she says OBVIOUSLY i didnt forget the anesthetic. she says ill be right back. as soon as she leaves the room, amy knocks back her shot. she turns to you. she says you mind if i stay and watch? she says i dont want to make you uncomfortable, but i like watching her work. shes cute when shes working. you say at this point youre not sure you would mind anything at all. you say at this point you dont think you would be fazed if she came back with a fully-formed dick wriggling around in her hand like a fish and sewed it onto me. she says dont tempt fate.

riley comes back with a black bag the size of her head, which she sets on the coffee table with a thunk. she points at you and says okay, clothes off. or pants off i guess. you can leave the shirt on. or take it off. i dont care. you take it off. she tells you to lie down and starts pulling things out of the bag. amy stands up from the sofa to give you the space to stretch out and sits on the coffee table instead, one leg pulled up to her chest with her chin resting on her knee.

riley pulls out a syringe from the bag, filled with pitch-black fluid. she says okay this will hurt for a second but only for a second. you say huh? she flips you over onto your belly and jabs the needle against your lower back, into your spinal column. it hurts like a bitch for all of two seconds and then you stop feeling anything at all in your lower body. you also cant move your legs, you realize. what just happened you ask, as she flips you onto your back again. she says i just killed all the cells in the nerves in your lower spine. she says its the easiest way to make sure none of the pain signals slip through, and she'll just replace them with living ones when she's done. you don't know how to respond to that.

she pulls more things out of the bag. a cartoonish array of different cutting implements come out. most of them are various sizes of medical scalpel, ring cutter, or saw, but you also see a pair of chunky pink safety scissors, a pizza cutter, a serrated bread knife, an x-acto, a drill with a comically long bit, a pair of wire cutters, gardening shears, and an awl. she says okay im gonna start operating so look away if you dont wanna see how your crotch looks while its being rearranged. especially if you think you might puke, i hate having to stop to clean up puke in the middle of surgery. you look away. you notice amy is watching transfixed.

for a couple of hours things go on like that. amy and riley make light conversation, with riley filling any silence by humming a wordless tune you dont know. the sounds and smells youre getting are enough to make you slightly sick; you continue not looking.

in the middle of hour two, riley stops. oh goddamnit, she says. what amy asks? riley says she forgot that shed need extra meat. amy says you started a surgery to give somebody a whole new organ and forgot youd need more tissue to do it? riley says shut up, im dumb. amy says no youre not babe. riley says ughhhhh now what. amy says just get his stem cells to grow the tissue you need. riley says nooooooo thatll take forever, and i have places to BE tomorrow, and if i stop putting pressure on him here hes going to bleed out through his cunt. you say wait, what? amy says well i dont know what you want me to do about this situation, i gave you my solution. riley says baaaaaaaaaaabe. amy says whaaaaaaaaaaaat. riley says i think we have some bacon in the fridge, will you pretty please with sprinkles on top go get it? amy says and what do i get in return? riley says a kiss. amy says id get that anyway. riley says my undying love and affection. amy says i have that already. riley says not making me angry at you so you can sleep under my roof without having to worry that ill turn your sweat glands into acid glands in the middle of the night. amy says that, plus i get to top tonight. riley says fiiiiiiiiine, just go get the bacon. amy gets up.

you say look uh i know you said not to question what youre doing but i kind of dont want a dick made of bacon, not to sound ungrateful. also did you say something about me bleeding out? riley says dont worry, if you bleed out ill put the blood back in, im a professional. you say thats not as reassuring as she thinks it is. riley says whos the doctor, mister? you say technically both of us. i have a phd in social sciences you say. she says wow, theyre just giving out doctorates for anything these days, huh? you say hey, rude. she says only teasing. you say anyway, uh, you didnt address the bacon dick thing? she says oh dont worry about it, my amys amazing, youll see.

amy comes back in with the package of bacon. do you need this in any particular shape she asks. riley says nah just give me a good amount of it. and make sure its spongy, so when he gets hard the blood can- amy cuts her off. she says dont worry, ive given you enough penises at this point that i think i know what penile tissue is like at this point. you say given her enough penises? what the hell does that mean? riley says hey, dont kinkshame! she sounds legitimately offended. you say sorry. amy pulls the bacon out of the package, holding it aloft in her left hand. you watch as the familiar look of a half-pound of bacon shifts and warps into a strange lump of fatty, spongy tissue of a waxy color. she hands it to riley. riley says thanks sis youre the best, love you! amy says no problem. riley says id kiss you if i wasnt elbow deep in this guys cunt right now. amy says kiss me after the surgerys done.

another two hours go by. the sounds of flesh being chopped, sawed, and stitched underscore riley and amys meaningless conversation about whether they HAVE to attend their acquaintance lisa's birthday party. riley says lisa probably wouldn't throw a birthday party if there wasn't some sort of scheme going on. amy agrees but says that doesnt indicate whether they should get involved with the scheme or not. you wonder dimly if you will ever feel your lower body again. you wonder if this is purgatory, an endless afternoon of lesbians bickering affectionately while one of them does surgery on you. you turn your head enough to look at the clock. its 5:26pm. where the fuck did the time go?

another hour passes. riley stands up. she is soaked up to her elbow in various bodily fluids - mostly blood, but youre not looking too closely. she says finally! she says just need to regrow your nerve cells now. you say is that going to take long? she says like twenty minutes maybe as she flips you over. you say ok. she jams a different needle into the same spot, injecting a strange yellow paste into your spine. she then flips you onto your back again. you feel brave enough to finally look at your crotch.

there is a completely normal human penis of average size there. you reach a hand down and touch it. you dont have any sensation in it yet since your nerves are all still dead, but it feels warm and soft under your hands. you smile, feeling tears come to your eyes. its over.

rileys talking. she says i followed your specifications except i had to cheat a bit on the nerves, you actually didnt have very many in your clit for whatever reason so your glans has maybe eight thousand fewer nerves than you wanted, sorry about that. she says i gave you balls in your scrotum for shape but since you said you didnt want kids they dont produce sperm. let me know if you want that changed she says. she says it should be fully functional in every respect, but if you notice any erectile dysfunction, incontinence, discoloration in urine or semen, priapism, or any other issue come back and we'll sort it out. if you notice it bleeding in ANY capacity, call me immediately. if im not answering call Amy, ill give you her number. if SHES not answering either then you can start seeing normal doctors, not that those idiots will know how to help you probably. if you want any changes to it call me and ill pencil you in to get it adjusted. get all that she asks. you nod. she says cool. she says itll be like $200, no rush if youre not able to pay right now. you say it might be a bit since youre still trying to pay interest on your student loan debt. wait, she says, they have student loans again? you nod. she says the world ended like thirty years ago, when did they set up student loans again? fuck, how much do you owe? you say a little under eighty thousand. she says jesus fuck, nevermind, its free. goddamn. you say thank you so much. she says yeah of course. do you want us to dress you or do you want to wait until you can move and do it yourself?

[jsprnt]

celebrating the win against austria with your boyfriend

kenan yıldız x reader

A/N: my first kenan fic!! based on this request! thank you for requesting 🤍

W/C: 1.604

just a couple minutes.

that was all that was left for turkey to win their match, and to be a part of the last eight teams competing for the euros this year.

your heart had already leaped when austria had scored one goal in the sixty-sixth minute of the game, and just like everyone rooting for the same team as you, you hoped it would stay 2-1 for turkey.

you had obviously come to support your loving boyfriend, his first euro tournament in his career. he had already played a good eighty minutes, before his coach had decided to take him off.

sometimes he'd glance at you when the game was paused during a certain foul or injury. wanting to make sure you were still there, screaming and clapping in support for him. of course, the glances were pretty short, he had to focus on the game, and you knew that as well.

kenan would give you all the attention after the game, whether he won or lost.

making eye contact with him was your absolute favorite part. it was no secret that your boyfriend was a looker. every time he'd show up on the big screen, you had to hold yourself back from fawning a little too much, though the eye candy was always welcome.

especially in his white kit, it made him look like an angel as he was running around the pitch. the sweat from being incredibly active, darkening his brown hair.

you'd chuckle and smile at the occasional wink he would send you. it leaving you flustered and hot, although it had been drizzling for the past few seconds, it helping you cool down a little.

you fold your arms up, against your chest. wiping the rain that had been dripping down onto your naked arms, your turkey kit not helping you since it’s a t-shirt. you tap your shoe impatiently against the ground, well- the bleachers.

the game pauses for a second during an injury, watching the medics arrive. you look up suddenly when you're nudged by kenan's mother, who's sat next to you, a confused expression on her face.

"look up.." she says, pointing over and up to one of the huge screens in the leipzig stadium. you furrow your brows, not recognizing your own face for a moment.

realizing it's in fact you, on the screen, you smile, trying not to look awkward. your mother-in-law laughs, nudging for you to stop being so tense.

you chuckle, your lips pulling into relaxed smile, you wave your little türkiye flag, sending a quick flying kiss to the camera.

your face heats up at the sudden attention of the thousands of people in the stadium, and you're relieved when the camera pans back to the pitch, the game resuming.

you shake the situation off quickly, hoping you looked good at least.

your breath hitches when you hear the extra time being announced, and get ready for another torturous four minutes.

your mind switches to how anxious kenan himself might feel, at this point, he couldn't do anything about it. he could only trust his teammates to continue defending and possibly score another goal.

you turn to kenan's mother, an anxious expression on her face. you immediately grab onto her hand, smiling at her before squeezing her hand in reassurance. she turns to you, sending you a warm smile back.

you don't have to speak to know what emotions are running through your bodies, it's visible from the look in your eyes.

since you and kenan had been dating for more than a year, you had gotten very close to his parents. especially his mother, having her share the same feelings as you was both reassuring and very important to you.

the entire turkish supporting side of the stadium erupts in gasps and shouts as the ball is headed by a member of the opposition.

everyone's jaw slaws open in shock and happiness when goalkeeper gunök successfully swats the ball away, to prevent a last-minute disaster for turkey.

you and kenan's family start jumping in happiness, along with the thousands of fans. the noise is incredibly loud, and it seems to reach a higher frequency when the full-time whistle is blow.

you watch multiple of kenan's teammates drop to the grass in exhaustion and relief, some running to the goalie and some jumping up and down in happiness.

your heart beats faster when you look for kenan, smiling lovingly when you make eye contact with him. he waves to you, and his family.

the smile on his face makes you swoon, and you have to hold yourself back to not run up to the pitch and plant a fat kiss on his cheek.

the celebration lasts a couple minutes, and you all chant along as the players and staff make a circle in the middle of the pitch.

you immediately perk up when you're allowed to go down to the pitch. waiting for kenan's family to greet him first, as you fiddle with your white handbag. a gift from kenan on your last birthday..

"liebing.." kenan immediately coos in his first language, opening his arms wide for you to nestle in between them.

you wrap your arms around him, pressing your face against his chest. he brings you into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around your waist.

"did you enjoy the game?" he asks, leaning down. his bigger hands cup your jaw, and he presses a tender kiss onto your forehead.

you close your eyes, soaking up the loving touch, feeling rain drizzle on you. the sky darkening as darker clouds become visible in the sky.

"i did enjoy the game. I'm proud of you, baby.." your mutter, looking up into his brown eyes.

he grins down at you, thumb wiping at your face. cheeks wet from the rain.

"oh! you're ruining my makeup!.." you complain, though you don't move or try to swat his hand away.

"it's pretty like this. just like on the big screen. that kiss was for me, right, liebe?" he quirks up his slit brow, peering down at you with a cocky expression.

"you saw that?"

"of course, I almost forgot where I was.."

you chuckle at his words, rolling your eyes in a teasing manner, before humming against his chest.

"aren't you cold?" he suddenly says, eyes darting to his parents. noticing that his father had already given his jacket to his mother. the both of them chatting with his teammate arda's parents.

you don't even get to open your mouth to respond, before he drapes his white training jacket over your shivering shoulders, forcing you to pull your arms through the warm jacket.

"thank you.." you smile, making him lean down for you to kiss his cheek.

the smile on your face grows bigger at his own grin, his pearly whites showing.

"now you're getting all wet, though.." you observe, reaching up to fix his wet hair. the once fluffy brown locks, now soaked and flat, stuck to his forehead.

you don't even notice the cameraman right next to you, totally immersed in fixing kenan's recently washed hair, and definitely not realizing that a huge camera is pointed towards you two.

"you need a warm shower, and maybe some tea. are you allowed to go out tonight? or do you still have a curfew?.."

you frown as your questions don't get answered, and make a confused noise when you feel his hand pressing against your back. pressing you flush against his chest.

"what're you doing, baby?" you question, following his eyes, only to land on the biggest camera lens you've ever seen in your life.

"oh.." you mumble in realization, instantly flickering your eyes away, and watching the protective look in your boyfriend's eyes.

even though you had been filmed before, when you'd attend kenan's juventus games, it never got any easier.

dating an athlete just came with unwanted attention and filming, though you tried not to let it show.

your chuckle to yourself out of embarrassment, burying your face into his chest.

"am I supposed to be looking at the camera?" you ask, words muffled, feeling his hands on your back. his fingertips dancing onto the wet fabric of the jacket.

"no, you don't have to if you're not comfortable. it's starting to pour out here. let's go inside.." he murmurs into your ear, before grabbing on your hand.

"are we running? what if we slip on the grass?" you ask, squinting and trying to cover your eyes from the rain with your arm.

"come on, i'll catch you if you fall.."

you manage to sneak a glimpse of the teasing smile on his face, before he starts dashing towards the inside of the stadium. a chocked laugh leaves your mouth, squealing at how fast he's running.

but, you're a little too happy you're inside, when you see how fast the rain switched from drizzling to pouring out of the sky.

"I'm not a footballer like you, remember?" you pant, placing your hands on your knees and bending over. trying to catch your breath, probably looking crazy to the family and friends of kenan's teammates.

you don't notice when he steps away for just a second, coming back with a towel to dry you off.

you feel his hand on your shoulder, then a soft towel on your head. you stand straight, grabbing the white towel off your face.

"thank you.." you mumble, patting your face dry, then reach up to dry his face with the other side of the towel.

unbeknownst to you two, you're still being filmed.

no doubt these clips will be posted on the internet tomorrow, and you'd try to figure out how to navigate this new-found publicity, with kenan by your side, of course.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Halloween! Would love more of F is for Frankenstein! 🧟‍♂️

a continuation of 1

Twelve hours later JARVIS has brought him up to speed on what was clearly the weirdest week of his life, the fabrication units are working on a better container for his corpse than the damn suit, and they’ve identified nearly a hundred ways that this plan isn’t going to work.

JARVIS isn’t deterred.

One of the advantages of being a synthetic person is that he can’t feel exhaustion physically, although this whole experience has confirmed that he can feel it mentally. The downside to this is that he doesn’t have any sort of natural que to alert him to the passage of time.

Which means he doesn’t have any idea how long it’s been until it occurs him to check and he frowns. There’s something not quite right, besides the obvious. “Did you – shouldn’t I have gotten some calls or something by now? What did you tell them?”

It’s been almost twenty four hours since he died. Even with the clean up from a massive alien invasion to see too, he’s sort of expected someone to reach out to him. Agent Coulson is such a stickler for timely debriefs –

Ah. He was such a stickler for timely debriefs. Tony isn’t the only one that hadn’t gotten out of this mess alive.

“Sir has received eighty nine assorted calls and texts from Miss Potts, fifty three from Colonel Rhodes, one hundred and twelve from Mr. Hogan, and seventeen from various SHIELD personnel. Two of those are from Director Fury personally. There have been close to a thousand from various news and media companies, but those have been ignored and deleted per Sir’s standing orders.”

It’s amazing how well he’s able to synthesize and interpret emotion. He’d installed a rudimentary AI into – well, himself, he guesses, and that combined with the memory dump is really exceeding all of his expectations. He knows this because he’s appalled. “JARVIS! What the hell? If we’re going to convince the world I’m not dead, we have to talk to people!”

“Is that what we’re going to do?” JARVIS asks.

There’s steel in his voice, a warning buried in there. TONY’s heard that tone before but never, ever directed at him.

Except it’s not. Jarvis would never talk to Tony Stark like that, but he’s not Tony Stark. He’s just one more robot and AI for Jarvis to corral, although sophistication wise he’s several steps ahead of his helper bots. Except he might not be, because not even Butterfingers would be dumb enough to agree to something like this.

“It’s not going to work,” he says harshly, because it isn’t. “But yeah, I guess that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Calling Miss Potts,” JARVIS says promptly, and Jesus, that’s not what he meant at all.

“Don’t,” he hisses, but of course it’s too late and Pepper picks up immediately.

“Tony?” she asks, voice shaky and hoarse and faint. She’s been crying. She’s been crying hard enough that it’s stolen her voice and he knows Jarvis was focused on other things, but he could have at least sent her a text. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

He breathes and then leans over, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He doesn’t even have an omelette to hide behind this time. He knows he’s dead and he’s seriously considering the idea that this is hell.

“Tony?” she repeats, voice going up several notches in the way he hates. She’s afraid. He hates when she’s afraid.

He forces him mouth to move, forces words pass his lips. “Hey, Pep.”

“Oh god, Tony,” she says and then there are tears again. He wishes he could hold her, could kiss her tears away and could fold his arms around her delicate shoulder and tuck her beneath his chin, keeping her safe and keeping her close. Except he can’t do any of that, because he’s not Tony Stark. “Tony, Tony – you left so quickly and we couldn’t find you and no one’s been able to get in contact with you and JARVIS is offline in the tower and – where are you? Are you okay? I watched you fly that bomb into the portal, and,” she has to cut herself off to try and keep from crying again.  

You watched me die, he thinks, although he obviously doesn’t say it. “Hey, breathe for me, okay? Deep calming breaths, I know you have a lot experience with those around me-”

“Don’t tell me to breathe!” she snaps. “Where are you, Tony? What’s going on?”

He hesitates. They haven’t discussed this, and they really should have before JARVIS put that call through. Unless this is a test, and wow, his AI are such assholes. That old curse about having kids that are just like you is making more sense by the second.

“Something happened to my memory,” he says, which is probably the only true thing he’ll be able to tell her and will hopefully cover the gaps of things that JARVIS couldn’t tell him. “I got here and passed out and I just woke up and I panicked and I don’t – I saw space, and the – the aliens, which is so weird to say Pepper, I need you to fully appreciate how weird that is, but my head is killing me and nothing makes sense. The last memory I have on Earth is us running final checks on the clean energy prototype.”

He's a terrible person. Or, well, a terrible android. Whatever.

“Where is here?” she presses, her voice softening and strengthening both. It’s always so much easier for her get her bearings when she’s the one taking care of him, which is probably why she’s always so steady. She’s always taking care of him. “Where are you, Tony?”

There’s no getting around this one. Jarvis probably won’t be happy about it, but TONY isn’t really happy with him right now either. “Malibu. I’m at the Malibu house. Sorry, I don’t know why I came here – I mean, I really don’t, I was blacked out for most of it. Give me a couple hours for everything to stop spinning and I’ll head back to New York. Wait, are you still in New York? You were going have to leave early for that thing after we tested the prototype-”

“I am in New York now,” she says, almost sounding calm. “Do not fly the suit if things are spinning Tony, I swear to god.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, just a little spinning, you’re so dramatic-”

“Tony!” she interrupts, but the hitch in her voice is laughter instead of tears. “God, Tony. I’m so glad you’re okay. I love you, so, so much.”

If there is a hell for androids, that’s where he’s going.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m glad you’re okay too, Pep.” He can’t say it but he has to say it because Tony would say it, because Tony loves saying it, because he loves her so much that it sits heavier on his chest than the arc reactor ever could. “I love you too.”

He stares at his hands for a long time after the call ends. His fingerprints are Tony’s, of course, and his hair is Tony’s and his memories are Tony’s and this feeling that he wants to call love belongs to Tony too. None of it is his.

Well, except the guilt. That’s definitely his.

“Incoming call from Colonel Rhodes,” JARVIS announces.

“Answer it,” he says. Why is he so damn tired? He’ll have to run a diagnostic on his processors later.

There’s nothing but harsh breathing down the line, filling every corner of the workshop. TONY thinks, maybe a little hysterically, that it’s the only breathing happening here. He’s designed to mimic it, but it’s nothing besides that, mimicry. “Hi Papa Bear, how are things?”

The heavy breathing stops, for so long that TONY wonders if they got disconnected, then Rhodey bites out, “I’m going to kill you, Tony! I’m too damn old for this, you can’t keep giving me heart attacks every time I take my eyes off you!”

Too late. Tony’s already dead.

“You’re only two years older than me,” he says. “If it weren’t for me, you would have been the youngest freshman at MIT. Besides, a heart attack or two is character building, I’ve had like. Seven. Ish.”

“Reminding me how many times you’ve almost died is not your smartest move right now,” Rhodey says. “Tell me you’re okay.”

It’s a demand, an order, firm and unyielding like he’s one of Rhodey’s underlings. Except that Tony was giving orders way before Rhodey was, with the whole running his own multi-billion dollar business thing, and that tone of voice has never worked on him. Still, he says, “I’m okay.”

“Tony,” he says warningly, clearly not believing him, which is fair enough. He is lying.

TONY sighs, hanging his head like he can stretch the tension out of him, but that’s not how things work anymore. He’s vibranium and silicone and some other interesting materials and all his tension is mental. “Sour patch, I’m fine. Okay? Confused as all hell, but I’m okay. I’m sorry I worried you. I really didn’t mean to.”

“You never mean to,” Rhodey says, but his voice has softened and lowered. It sounds like he’s holding the phone even closer. “You almost never mean to.”

“It’s just difficult, is the thing, because you’re a little prone to worrying, a worrywart, as your mother might say-”

“My mother worries more about you than me and always has even though I used to be only one us getting blown up,” he says.

TONY pauses, considering. “Well, she is a smart lady.”

“Damn straight,” he agrees. “Pepper says you’re in Malibu. I can be there in two hours.”

“No!” he shouts, then winces. His eyes skitter over to the suit holding Tony’s body. They need a plan and that plan can’t involve Rhodey being here in two hours. “Don’t. Stay with Pepper. Please.”

“She’s fine,” Rhodey retorts. “You-”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts. “I’m fine, she’s fine, we’re both fine, except she’s in the city that was recently invaded by murderous aliens and I’m not and I have a suit of armor with repulsor technology and she doesn’t, so. Stay with her. Please.”

The silence drags on then Rhodey lets out an aggravated sigh. “Fine. But get your ass over here and if you miss another call from either of us I’m heading over, no matter what you say.”

“Sir yes sir,” he says.

He expects Rhodey to hang up on him then, but he lingers, nothing but his real, non synthetic breathing on the other end. “You really scared me this time. I saw the news reports and then we couldn’t find you-”

“Hey,” he says softly. A bomb and Tony disappearing and Rhodey unable to anything about it. Tony wasn’t the only one of them that had nightmares after Afghanistan. Neither of them had ever been particularly good at sleeping, but it was nearly impossible those months after, when he and Rhodey were fighting and Tony was hiding Iron Man and they still crawled into the same bed because Rhodey got frantic if he reached out in the middle of the night and found the bed empty. Which he often would, considering how much time Tony was spending in his workshop.

They shared a bed more after Afghanistan than before it. Rhodey had been willing to risk the paparazzi and exposure if his other option was staring up at his ceiling and having a panic attack about Tony being gone. Tony had been bitter about that, which certainly hadn’t helped their fight about weapons manufacturing any.

Pepper’s nightmares had been easier. She’d only been his assistant and friend at the time, after all. She would call him at two or three or four in the morning – or all three – and have some sort of urgent question or something for him to sign and he just went along with it because she just needed to hear his voice to fall back asleep and he’d learned after the first teary voicemail and alert from JARVIS that when he didn’t pick up, her vitals were out of acceptable range, per the prototype StarkWatch on her wrist.

It wasn’t until after they got together that she told him she actually drove to his house most nights and called him from her car rather than her bed. Just in case he didn’t answer, which wasn’t logical and didn’t make any sense at all but Pepper hadn’t pretended it had.

They’d all gone a little crazy, after Gulmira, but they’d settled.

But this is going to bring it all bubbling up and if TONY doesn’t figure out a way to reassure them then they’re going to want to stick close to him like they had before and he can’t let them do that. He can’t keep up pretending to be Tony forever and it’s going to be either Pepper or Rhodey who figures it out. He doesn’t need to help that process along at all.

Except that since they watched Tony fly a nuke into space and then hadn’t heard from him in two days, that’s basically impossible. The fact that it wasn’t three months and from their perspective he’s actually fine is going to help, but the level of damage control he’s capable of here is fairly minimal.

Still, he has to try.

“Honey,” he says, making his voice soft and warm like Tony only does when they’re alone. He doesn’t know where Rhodey is now, if he’s somewhere private, but he doesn’t hang up or stop him. All the stupid nicknames were fun and genuinely affectionate but they were also cover for the times that Tony slipped and called him something he shouldn’t, a little too genuine and not quite kitsch enough to pass muster. “Love, it’s okay. I got my head knocked around some, that’s all. And because I freaked out and ended up on the wrong side of the country, I need you in New York, doing what I can’t. That’s all. I’ll be there soon.”

If there’s a hell for androids, TONY is going there and the hellfire will be hot enough to melt his vibranium core, which, you know, is going to the be least of what he deserves.

“I love you,” Rhodey says. TONY closes his eyes. “You know that, right, baby? I do.”

It’s a bad, bad sign that Rhodey is the one using pet names, especially over the phone. “I know. Of course I know. I’ve always known.”

Over two decades of secrets and hiding and fooling around with women he didn’t give a shit about, before Pepper, and through every lonely, angry, desperately sad moment of it, Tony had known that Rhodey loved him. He wouldn’t have put up with that shit for anything less.

Tony died knowing that Rhodey loved him. TONY is sure of it. It’s the worst sort of cold comfort and he’s glad that he can’t offer it.

“I love you,” TONY echoes, because Tony’s been saying it for twenty six years and there’s no good reason for him to stop now.

Except that Tony is dead. He’ll never tell Rhodey that he loves him again.

One day Rhodey and Pepper will find out that the truth and know that while they heard Tony’s voice telling them what they needed to hear, while they let relief nudge out the fear, Tony was dead and cold and gone.

He hates this. This wasn’t what he was programmed for.

This isn’t what Tony would have wanted. But until he can convince JARVIS of that, they’re all stuck in this hell of the AI’s making.

[i-was-today-years-old-when]

i learned what was the strangest execution in history

Contrary to the popular belief, people don’t always die when they’re killed.

This is Tyburn Tree, London’s largest site for public hangings from at least 1177 until 1798, when Newgate Prison became the new home for this macabre form of entertainment.

Out of the thousands executed there, one famous case was that of a William Duell. Indicted on charges of rape, robbery and murder, the 17-year-old Duell was eventually convicted of rape and sentenced to death. On a bitter winter’s day in November 1740, the condemned youth faced the noose at Tyburn alongside four others.

After being hanged for twenty-two minutes, he was cut down and his body hauled into a hackney coach, to be taken to Barber-Surgeons’ Hall, where his body would be dissected for the purposes of medical research.

The surgeon and his assistants got a surprise when they placed the corpse on the slab though… it groaned. Further examination revealed some other signs of life, so they let several ounces of blood and after a while, he was able to sit up, though it was a while before he could do anything else.

He was then transported to Newgate Prison where he was held up in a cell and given broth and covers to keep him warm. In a matter of days he was reported to be back to full health, and had developed a strong appetite. During this time, the powers that were had to decide what to do with him.

After all, he was legally dead.

In the end, to avoid making a mockery of the law and to curb the spread of the knowledge that it was possible to survive hanging, they decided to sentence him to transportation. He was sent to North America and reportedly lived out the rest of his life in Boston, before dying at around the age of eighty-two.

[mesetacadre]

In February, 1945, when the USSR agreed at Yalta to join the Allies in the war on Japan, it was decided to divide Korea into two zones for purposes of military action. The Russians took the north, the Americans the south. The following July, at Potsdam, the 38th parallel was chosen as the “great divide.” Korea was a victim of Japanese aggression, not an enemy. We would come as liberators, not as conquerors. The military occupation was to end within a year of victory, followed by about five years of civilian trusteeship in which all the Big Four Powers, America, the Soviet Union, Great Britain and China, should help Korea to her feet. That was the plan. The reality proved otherwise. The growing cold war against the Soviet Union made Korea also a base. The two zones solidified into two areas of military occupation. Friction continues to grow. When American troops landed in South Korea, September 7, 1945, thousands of Koreans danced and cheered and shouted: “Mansai,” or “Live a Thousand Years.” Within six months surly Koreans were demanding how soon the Americans would go home. Within a year great uprisings took place in eighty cities and in hundreds of farming villages against the “police state” that the American armed forces kept in power. When the Americans landed in Korea, the Koreans had already a de facto government. A “People’s Republic” had been declared a day earlier by a congress of Koreans themselves. General John R. Hodge, commander of the U. S. armed forces, dissolved this “People’s Republic,” and drove most of its members underground. Two days after landing, Hodge announced to the Koreans – who had waited a quarter of a century for liberation – that Japanese officials would temporarily continue to run Korea. Korean delegations waiting to greet Americans were fired on – by Japanese police! The Russians pursued an opposite policy. They recognized the “People’s Committees” that the Americans were suppressing. They encouraged Korean initiative when it took the form of ousting the Japanese-appointed puppets, dividing the landlords’ lands, and nationalizing the Japanese-owned industry as the “property of the Korean people.” They especially looked with favor on what they called “mass organizations,” – farmers’ unions, labor unions, women’s associations and unions of youth. The Russian zone in the north fairly blossomed with such organizations energetically building their country after their own desire. From time to time the Americans and Russians held conferences to determine Korea’s future. Nothing came of these talks but increasing bitterness for two years. The Americans insisted on including pro-Japanese quislings and returned exiles in the provisional government. The Russians refused. The Russians insisted on including representatives of the trade unions, the farmers’ union and other similar organizations. The USA would not hear of this.

In North Korea: First Eye-Witness Reports, Anna Louise Strong, 1949

[uss-edsall]

Before and during the Second World War, the Third Reich made an absolute fuckload of the Nazi flag. You know, the infamously iconic red flag with a white circle and black swastika in the middle.

It was both the national icon and, being the symbol of fascism, extremely important to churn out millions of the things.

The allies who fucked the Third Reich’s shit and made a Thousand-Year Reich fail to survive the decade employed millions of young men who all knew they were making history, and wanted a little souvenir to bring home. A Nazi flag made for a great one. They’d torn down the world’s greatest evil, captured the flag, a potent symbol that people have died for. Why not take it?

Eighty years later, when the youngest man to have fought in the war is 97 and they’re all dying out, families the world over are going through great-grandpa’s stuff and finding whole ass Nazi flags. They know he served in the War, they know he wasn’t a Nazi, he killed Nazis! But they don’t want a Nazi flag in their home in Chicago, or wherever they are. But it’s a genuine historical artefact. People fought to defend that flag, or to destroy the evil that flew it. You can’t just throw it away, it’s got an educational value to it. Oh, I know!

Send it to a museum!

The result of this?

Every military history museum refuses to take Nazi flags from people, because every day they get three or four offers to take ol great-grandpa’s nazi flag and put it on display to Warn The Next Generation.

Today I and a couple others from my museum opened a storage unit that hasn’t been catalogued since 2014. I joked before we entered, “I bet we’ll find a Nazi flag!” We found two.

[perfectlyoongi]

PAWNS IN THE COSMOS

ㅤ↬┊synopsis ... namjoon was in love with you since the first day he saw you, but letting your magic paralize him, he never had the courage to admit it to you – that is, until he found out that you were his soulmate.

ㅤ⚘.fandom ... bts. ㅤㅤಇ.ft. ... namjoon x gn!reader. ㅤ⚘.genre ... long-shot. ㅤㅤಇ.content ... soulmate!au, college!au, fluff, angst, using of they/them prns for reader at the start. ㅤㅤಇ.word count ... 5.1k. ㅤ⚘.cole's note ... i originally wrote this for bts but posted for jjk but i regretted it so heres the original post <3 i hope u like it ♡

How is a person defined?

Of course we can delve into personality tangents and unique character traits that only each of us possesses in a perfect combination of stars and magic. However, this alone is not enough. A person is created by more than mere looks and personality; there are dreams, each person’s own ways, unique hearts that shine with specific colors conceived by each thought, each action, each desire.

A single personality is not enough to define a person – all the gods knew this. And, as such, a new system was created.

Numbers.

What more to define a person than the infinity of numbers that made up the universe?

All human beings were born marked with simple numbers that dictated their souls; from zero to infinity, passing through the infinities of decimals that each one had, the numbers managed to acquire a body in that new world.

Stuck on the back of their necks, hidden by occasional hair and various clothes, the numbers became something sacred in that society; not only was it something that defined a person, that made them unique, but they were also the main factor in relationships and connections. The thing is, bored with the eternity of cosmic lives, the gods liked to create small games that helped them in the static passage of time – and what more exciting than guiding the various lost souls to their better half?

A soulmate was something primordial.

Created long before the first star was born, soulmates roamed the world hand in hand, their stardust unique to each pair created by the various gods. They were essences without bodies, united only by cosmic dust that insisted on cradling them in the eternities of time and space in the universe. However, just star and cosmic dust was something monotonous, without any substance of its own, without a body of its own that made everything much easier to see, to be marveled at.

Thus, the first humans were created.

A connection that was only felt by the universe, beautified by the stars and constellations that they made their homes, was now something tangible, something that could be seen, something that could be admired. And, since then, relationships began to blossom in the world according to the seasons, making all the love that was felt to be the cause of all the misfortunes and happiness in the world.

Every year, small letters with a specific number and initials appeared on the bedside tables of thousands of people, a hint to eternal happiness appearing in black tones on a white background.

For years, humans followed their cards, creating happy and fulfilled lives for centuries, never once contesting the appearance of neither their cards nor their veracity – the gods commanded, the humans followed.

“Eighty-three million, two hundred and twenty thousand, six hundred and seventy-four point one hundred and ninety-three.”

“What?”

Hoseok placed his apple juice on the table and looked at his friend, intrigued by the numbers he recited so naturally.

“It’s their number.”

“Their?” Hoseok raised an eyebrow and let out a small pretentious smile, knowing perfectly well who Namjoon was talking about.

“Their. I saw it yesterday when they got off the bus. It was very brief, but I’m sure that was the number.”

“And what do you intend to do with this life-changing information?”

Namjoon looked at Hoseok for the first time since they sat at the bar table. A smile played on the brunette’s lips, his dark eyes shining with the possibilities that danced in his mind.

He leaned forward, his chest almost touching the plate with his sandwich and, in a whisper too low for such a noisy space, Namjoon spoke in a soft and quite convinced voice.

“Write down this number and compare it to the one on my card.”

“Did you receive your card?”

Hoseok’s question came out automatically, a trace of nervousness clinging to the various syllables, his dark eyes widening behind his sunglasses.

“Not yet,” Namjoon sighed and resumed his starting position, playing with some loose crumbs from his sandwich. “But I believe it’s coming soon. I don’t know how to explain it, but every time I look at them…”

The words that were going to come out of Namjoon died in his mouth without having a chance to see the light of day. Taken by a mystical force, a chance written by the cosmos, Namjoon raised his face at the exact moment you entered the bar.

You looked beautiful that day.

Favored by the beauty of that day, the sun’s rays painted your smile golden; your eyes shone with the light of new experiences, your words sounding as delicate as the breeze of that day.

You entered the bar without any worries, your laugh filling the space with the delicacy of its sound. You were with your group of friends, looking for a free table in that crowded bar for you to have lunch before your afternoon class. Your eyes scanned the compartment with some hope, a smile lingering on your lips after a joke from your best friend.

And then you noticed. In all that confusion, oblivious to your friends’ conversations, too focused on finding a place to sit, you saw Namjoon looking at you. Static, without any thought beyond his eyes, without any reaction when you approached him, your smile expanding with each step you took.

“Hello,” you stopped behind Hoseok, one of your hands resting on his chair as your eyes jumped from Namjoon to Hoseok. “Ready for the test?”

Hoseok put his hands on his head, ruffling some of his silky hair as he let out a small growl, which made you laugh. And what a laugh. What a melody sung by your lips that seemed to fill the entire bar, drowning out every sound that appeared there.

“I spent the night studying, but I couldn’t memorize anything,” Hoseok’s outburst was accompanied by a tired sigh, his body leaning back against the chair, making you let go of it. “I don’t think even a miracle could save me.”

“Think of it like this,” you walked to the side of the table, Namjoon and Hoseok on your sides, your group of friends in front of you waiting for you. “It’s about the Bible. Jesus will be with you.”

Hoseok gave you a small frown and picked up his apple juice again, giving Namjoon a little kick under the table.

“And you? Are you ready?” Namjoon spoke finally, holding his sandwich and taking a small bite as he waited for your response.

“What helps me is being able to take the Bible with me,” you confessed between smiles and winks. “But I’m confident. Our presentation actually went well.”

“The teacher liked it,” Namjoon set down his sandwich and looked at you. “I think we even make a good team.”

“And I wouldn’t give anything for you two,” you smiled as you gently ruffled Hoseok’s hair. “Well, I’m going now. See you later.”

Namjoon followed you with his gaze out of the bar, the way your body walked excitedly towards your friends, the way your smile didn’t leave your lips for a single second.

“Eighty-three million, two hundred and twenty thousand, six hundred and seventy-four point one hundred and ninety-three.”

Namjoon repeated the number again under his breath, his eyes still fixed on the bar door.

“I can’t believe the teacher gave us more work,” Namjoon grunted, storming into his room. “Where do you want to start?”

He placed his Bible on the desk, throwing his backpack onto the bed. Hoseok followed in his footsteps, throwing the book on the bed and placing the backpack on the floor, opening it immediately with a sigh.

“We can start with the document the teacher gave us…” Hoseok’s voice was full of doubts and uncertainties, his hands frantically searching his backpack for a notebook. “We can read it and go from there.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything.

Sitting down at the desk, he turned on his computer and waited a few moments until his desktop began to glow in shades of blue and silver. “You start with the document and I’ll look for which books we need to study.”

Hoseok nodded and, after making himself comfortable on his best friend’s bed, he began to dive into the waves of knowledge in the document, reading and rereading concepts and terms, looking for something in the various lines of ink that could help him in his new work.

Namjoon, in turn, opened the web page, typing a few words before spending minutes opening and closing tabs, desperately looking for help. Beside him, the Bible was open, several sheets of papers and memory aids reminding Namjoon which books he needed to highlight and look deeper into.

Shrouded in stories and theories, the two friends didn’t notice as the hours passed. Too focused on their work, taking some notes and highlighting the most important thing, Namjoon and Hoseok disconnected from the outside world, believing that, the sooner they finished that work, the sooner they would free themselves from the academic responsibilities that gave them so many headaches.

The sun was slowly setting.

From Namjoon’s bedroom window, the various street lamps began to shine with the certainty that a long night was approaching; cars and people retired to their homes at the end of a long day of work, and, in the sky, between the soft clouds and the vast dark blue, several stars made their way to the earth, telling in their death endless stories of past memories and lives lived.

Namjoon stretched out in his chair. Putting down the computer mouse for a moment and looking away from the screen for the first time since he got home, Namjoon felt tired, totally devastated by a complicated day in his life: the Classical Texts exam had gone wrong – no matter how many prayers were in the Bible, he knew that his grade would go down; the teacher, at the end of the exam, gave his students one last assignment in a week full of exams and presentations; and, to end the last ray of hope in Namjoon, that day had been another day in which he was unable to do anything other than admire you.

It had been almost two years, but Namjoon had simply withdrawn into a bubble of shyness that prevented him from functioning decently in front of you. He didn’t understand why, but you had a power over him, like a spell, an enchantment that prevented him from functioning normally in your presence. It all happened so fast, he didn’t even remember the first time he succumbed to your charms, but, once consumed by your unique, cosmic essence, he found himself trapped in a web of emotions that prevented him from leaving.

But now was not the time to dwell on you. Now Namjoon had an obligation to fulfill and, as much as he wanted to ignore it, he knew that his responsibility as a student had to be pleased.

“Do you want to order some food?”

Hoseok straightened up in bed, putting his pencil behind his ear, adjusting the sunglasses on his head. “I’m not very hungry…”

“But we need to eat,” Namjoon stood up with a small grunt, walking away from the desk and grabbing his cell phone. “I’m going to order some food and I’ll take the opportunity to call Jin and ask for his notes for tomorrow.”

Hoseok didn’t answer him.

With tired eyes and a yawn trapped in his mouth, Hoseok saw his best friend leaving the room, making the room plunge into serene silence.

Tired of studying, feeling a strong pain in his back, Hoseok fell onto the bed, taking out his cell phone and starting to explore the digital world while waiting for Namjoon to return.

Hoseok was freely lost among images and videos, reading loose sentences without any context, finding a bit of tranquillity in the chaos of others. Hoseok’s slender fingers moved across the screen with ease, clicking on images and links, allowing him to sink into a little peace before returning to work.

But no matter how involved he was in the digital world, that didn’t stop Hoseok from listening.

It was a faint, low sound, like the turning of a page. It was brief, lasting only a second, something too small to be noticed – but Hoseok noticed, Hoseok realized that something had happened, and when he sat back down on the bed and looked at Namjoon’s desk, he saw it.

A small, white card rested gently on the wooden surface. It was thin, almost invisible from Hoseok’s point of view, but those dark letters, that black that adorned the card left no room for doubt: Namjoon had just received his card.

Hoseok leaned forward, looking closely at the initials and numbers written on the card.

There was silence.

A dark silence took over Namjoon’s room, leaning into every corner, refusing to leave through the door that Namjoon had left open. The shadows in the room seemed thicker at that moment, gaining a bit of dimension when seen from the corner of Hoseok’s eye; it seemed like they were watching him, trying to keep Hoseok’s actions in their dark corners, silently judging everything Hoseok did, everything he thought.

But Hoseok continued to look at the card, memorizing the initials and numbers, repeating them in his mind over and over again. Until he heard Namjoon’s voice approaching the room and he let the shadows keep the secret he had just done.

Namjoon was at the bus stop patiently waiting. Letting the sun warm him through the bus stop window, Namjoon faced the road with a smile on his lips.

Seeing students and teachers walking up and down the street, hearing the happy birdsong and feeling the cool breeze of the day on his face, Namjoon couldn’t be happier at that moment. That day seemed as if the whole world had gained a new color, a new meaning, as if all the stars that made up the universe had arranged themselves especially to draw Namjoon’s path.

He was certain that in that day nothing would destroy his enthusiasm. Not when he held tightly to a small white card and waited patiently for a bus to arrive, for you to arrive.

It had been mere minutes since Namjoon arrived at the stop to see your bus arriving punctually at your building. Keeping all the enthusiasm he was feeling in a small box inside his heart, Namjoon approached you when you got off the platform, ready for another day of classes.

“Good morning!”

“Oh, good morning, Namjoon,” your smile painted constellations, illuminating the entire universe with a simple curve of affection and delicacy. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Eighty-three million, two hundred and twenty thousand, six hundred and seventy-four point one hundred and ninety-three.”

You stopped walking and looked seriously at your classmate.

Confused by why those numbers were recited so passionately, you waited for Namjoon to continue his reasoning. Looking closely at Namjoon, you couldn’t help but let out a small smile; there was something about his childish enthusiasm, his cosmic joy that made you feel the slightest bit comfortable.

“It’s your number, isn’t it?”

“And how do you know my number?” your smile had taken on a playful tone, not realizing where that conversation would lead you, or why he was having it with you at that moment. As such, and as always, you just waited.

“Because they gave me that number yesterday.”

Namjoon handed you the small card he kept in his hand. Curious about his words, you looked at that white piece of paper, seeing your number and initials in dark tones.

ㅤㅤY.N. 83220674,193

You remained silent for a moment while you assimilated all that information.

In reality, you hadn’t received your card yet, but you didn’t care. In so many years of life, you never had the need to get together with someone, to let the gods guide your destiny with a mere card – that didn’t mean you weren’t expecting it. You were never a romantic by nature, avoiding cliché films and closing the books when the couple began to express their eternal love for each other – that didn’t mean you didn’t want that magic for yourself.

The reality is that throughout your life you have had to worry about something more than the triviality that was love. From friendships to school, your entire life was made up of obstacles that prevented you from delving into the complex webs of romantic relationships that could have been.

But there it was. A card. Your number. Your initials. There was no denying it – Namjoon’s soulmate was you.

Still trapped in those complex numbers and the beautiful initials carved into the white of the card, your mind began to wander to a future that could exist, leaving you speechless, completely surrendered to the surprise of the event.

“You seem excited about that idea,” not knowing how to respond, not knowing how to act after that revelation, you tried to focus your attention on Namjoon, starting to walk into the building with your colleague always by your side.

“Just happy for the confirmation.”

“Confirmation?” You looked at Namjoon confused and he just smiled before opening the door to the building for you.

“I always knew it was you.”

You gave a small laugh that gently echoed through the interior of the building. “What made you so sure?”

“That’s what I felt.” Namjoon let a sigh escape him, his lips expanding more and more into the victorious smile he wore. “Since the first day I saw you.”

You looked curiously at Namjoon as you climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“I can’t explain it to you, but from the first day I saw you, I felt something inside me changed. It’s hard to explain, but it’s as if the forces of the universe were pulling me towards you. Many times, without meaning to, I was already looking at you and wondering how I could talk to you.”

Namjoon’s words traveled seamlessly to your ears, collecting all the celestial magic they could grab along the way. Namjoon’s confession appeared wrapped in the stardust of the sky that sheltered you, leaving you to smile shyly at your colleague’s frankness.

Could it be true? All the words Namjoon said seemed too whimsical to be real, his honesty appearing like a small butterfly on warmer days, flapping its wings and simplicity with the lightness of someone who didn’t care about what he said.

“Very well,” you said finally, opening the door to the classroom and giving Namjoon space to enter. “And what do you intend to do with this new information?”

“For starters,” smiled Namjoon, leaning against one of the desks, the one where you always sat, and putting his hands in his pants pockets, “I’m going to ask you out on a date.”

“What if I say no?”

You sat in your seat, placing your backpack on the table and looking at Namjoon with amusement. “I will invite you until you say yes.”

You wouldn’t go as far as to say you were in love, but the truth was you felt something.

You would never think that agreeing to go out with Namjoon would bring you the avalanche of feelings that you started to feel. There was something about him. Something that moved you, that managed to reach your core and comfort your heart as if it were a blanket. You couldn’t explain what it was, you couldn’t explain what it was like, you just felt it. And it was something so unique and unusual that it consumed you every time you were with Namjoon.

Since the day you agreed to go out with him, your whole world seemed to have changed.

“Explain something to me,” Namjoon stretched as he sat in the chair. Leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand, he stared at you, eyes so bright and passionate that he made you feel important.

“What?”

“What do I need to do so I can be yours?”

You choked on the water. The words that Namjoon said hadn’t crossed your mind, taking you by surprise.

You coughed once, twice, three times, placed the glass of water on the table and looked at Namjoon, your eyes still shining with the tears that had formed seconds ago.

“What?”

“I just want to know,” his smile was infectious. Whenever Namjoon looked at you, he smiled, a smile that spread across his face and made him more beautiful, more brilliant, as if that curve of his lips were the only detail about him. “We have already gone on several dates. We already know each other well. What is missing?"

You stared at Namjoon.

In fact, you felt something every time you were with Namjoon, your heart growing warmer with each moment shared with him. But that something was indescribable, you couldn’t understand the nature of that something. What was it? Where did it come from? Why did it torment you so much every time you were with Namjoon?

Yes. You could ignore it. You should just let yourself lay in the comfort of that feeling, and allow yourself to enjoy a little of the tranquility that that feeling offered you. But there was something about that feeling, there was something that made you feel nervous. Maybe it was because you were happy and it had been years since you last felt so carefree and light; maybe it was because you couldn’t explain what you felt, the lack of words and descriptions leaving you delirious. You didn’t know exactly what it was. You just knew you weren’t ready.

“I’m waiting,” you let out a small smile, looking at the water in the glass and thinking deeply about that something attacking your heart. What was that?

“For a formal request?” Namjoon let out a small laugh, so beautiful and melodious that it made the authenticity of your smile change tones, the small line becoming more real with that laugh. “I can kneel here right now and ask you to be yours.”

“No,” now it was you who laughed, holding Namjoon’s hands when he made a move to get up. “Don’t be silly!”

“So what do you want? Tell me and I’ll give you anything.”

“My card.”

You whispered your confession a little nervously, letting your voice get lost in the university bar.

Namjoon looked at you, the smile that beautified him so much gently fading as he thought and repeated your words in his mind. Your card. Your card? Why were you waiting for something you already knew? What did you want to find in your white piece? Why was confirming a number so important to you? Didn’t you feel your connection? Didn’t you feel how your souls were interconnected for generations and eras, your essence existing on the same star before inhabiting the human bodies that held you back from expressing your true love?

“Why?”

Namjoon’s voice had changed tone. Before playful, sprinkled with passion and affection, it was now serious, monotonous, without any feeling attached to the intonation of the syllables.

“Just…” you continued to stare at the glass of water, too embarrassed by your whim, thinking that your request was a betrayal for Namjoon. “I just want to be sure.”

Namjoon looked at you without showing any emotion. His bright eyes were now opaque, focused on your figure, studying your posture; his lips were in a straight line, too tense from the conversation to be able to express a mere smile.

Finally, he took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and putting his hands in his coat pockets.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll wait.”

Namjoon’s words gently lifted your chin, finally looking at him, seeing a small, shy smile on his lips, filled with a small sadness wrapped in understanding.

“Tell me your number.”

“Sixty-nine point zero, one, six, zero.”

“…six, zero,” Namjoon’s number was now saved on your cell phone. You were smiling, believing that that exchange of numbers could be the last drop to fill the glass of your doubts – it had to be him, you felt it.

Namjoon got up from his chair, smiling and offering you his hand.

You put your cell phone away and held Namjoon’s hand, feeling his warm, thin fingers intertwine with yours, gently pulling you out of the bar and taking you through the city’s flowery paths to your house.

Saying goodbye with a kiss on your forehead, Namjoon watched you enter your house, the smile he still wore being painted with love and complete devotion – oh, how he loved you.

You sighed when you entered the house. You were tired. Classes were becoming increasingly demanding and, with the semester almost over, the pressure only increased.

You placed your hands on your shoulders and pressed down hard as you walked to your room. Your back was burning, a fog of anxiety was clouding your mind, your feet were asking for a moment of rest.

You threw yourself onto the bed, leaving your backpack at the bedroom door. You were exhausted, you couldn’t even open your eyes. Ready to get some sleep before studying, you took your cell phone out of your pants pocket and placed it on the bedside table next to the white card.

A white card.

As if pinching you with electricity, the card woke you up to reality.

You quickly sat down on the bed, holding that piece of paper in your hands.

Finally the confirmation, finally the key to your happiness.

You abruptly pulled Hoseok into an empty room. After closing the door with some force, you faced your friend who looked at you confused and a little worried.

“Wha–”

“You should have told me.”

You cut Hoseok’s words without any difficulty, throwing your card at Hoseok, he fumbling to catch the lightness of the paper.

You were upset, completely furious. Your heart pounded with the knowledge of that betrayal, forcing you to look at Hoseok with angry eyes and trembling lips.

“What happe–”

“Look at the card,” you didn’t want to shout at Hoseok, it wasn’t in your nature to speak loudly to other people, but at that moment, totally consumed by all the emotions that arose in your heart, you couldn’t control your tone of voice, your words coming out louder than intended. “Look at the card and explain to me why you didn’t tell me!”

Hoseok’s dark eyes looked at you nervously, the glow that embellished them giving them a fear that was completely unknown to him. It took a while. He was still assimilating your words, repeating them in his head, trying to understand what you specifically meant. But, when all the dots connected, when your anger became justifiable and the card essential, Hoseok quickly looked at the card, letting out a small curse when he saw the initials and numbers that adorned the white piece of paper.

ㅤ J.H. 2430.1872

“I can explai–”

“I can’t believe it. It is really you! You switched the cards!”

You let out a fake laugh, turning your body to face the door in an attempt to calm down. After taking a deep breath once, twice, three times, you looked back at Hoseok, who now had a look of determination that didn’t match your conversation.

“He loves you.”

“He’s not my soulmate,” you couldn’t explain, but your eyes started to water. Anger? Despair? Betrayal? What emotion did you seek from the turbulent sea that shook your heart to make you want to cry?

“That doesn’t invalidate the fact that he loves you.”

You shook your head, your lips forming a fake, angry smile, painted with the turmoil that existed in your heart. “You know perfectly well it does.”

“Listen,” Hoseok approached you, the card held in one of his hands. “You like him. It’s noticeable! The way you look at him. The way you shine when you’re with him! Yo–”

“No!” you shouted without realizing it, snatching the card from Hoseok’s hand and waving it in front of his eyes. “You are my soulmate. It’s you I have to stay with. You are the one I have to love.”

“No. No! No!” now Hoseok was also shouting, desperate to make himself heard, wanting to explain himself at all costs. “You don’t have to keep your–”

“You know perfectly well what happens to those who don’t stay with their soulmate.” Sadness. Hurt. Suffering. Grief. Years of pure despair. Years of nothing but anguish. “Do you really want him to be like that? Consumed by the negativity of the universe?”

“How,” Hoseok laughed, a little insane with your argument, taking his hands to his head and pulling lightly his hair. “How is he going to be unhappy if he has loved you since the first day you met?”

“Feelings come and go,” your tone returned to normal, your gaze now trapping Hoseok in a box with no escape, your conversation turning from despair to frustration. “He wouldn’t be happy with me.”

Hoseok looked at you furious with your deaf ears. You looked at Hoseok irritated by his empty words.

The door opened.

Namjoon entered.

“I heard screams… Is everything okay?”

Namjoon’s eyes jumped from you to Hoseok.

He was confused, he didn’t understand why you were alone in an empty room screaming. On the other side of the door, Namjoon hadn’t been able to understand the nature of your argument, but now looking at you, he knew it was something serious.

“Tell him.”

Your eyes finally got tired, the first tear sliding easily down your face, taking with it a bit of the sadness of reality. “Tell him, Hoseok.”

“Tell me what?”

Now Namjoon started to get nervous.

What had happened between the two of you to create such a tense atmosphere? How did the two of you, the ones who were always joking with each other, the ones who knew nothing more than laughter and smiles – how did the two of you end up screaming and crying?

“Tell him how I will never be happy with him because I am destined to love you.”

ㅤㅤ♡ feedback is appreciated ♡

[saphronethaleph]

Rushing the boomer

“How long?” Palpatine asked.

“Do not strain yourself, lord,” one of the cultists said. “Your attempt to possess the Snoke body will have weakened you-”

“I am well aware of my limitations,” Palpatine snapped, then turned to the Final Order engineer. “How long, commander?”

“That depends, my lord,” the engineer replied, his voice firm. “For the whole fleet… fourteen years. A single ship could be completed in eight. One ship coming online at a time in sequence, the first ship will be finished in nine years and the whole fleet in sixteen.”

Palpatine frowned.

“The whole fleet, then,” he said. “The might of the Final Order will blaze a path across the galaxy, and all will obey the Sith or perish.”

“It is as you command, my lord,” the engineer said, saluting.

Palpatine waved him away, then gestured, and a hologram of the Star Destroyers currently under construction formed in the air above him.

They were vast ships, for line vessels, and the Sith Eternal were building one thousand and eighty of them.

One thousand and eighty!

Never again would rebels exploit a single point of failure and destroy his most powerful and only superweapon… a fate he had experienced twice, now, and each one burned like a canker in his heart, the fury suffusing him and lending him strength.

At his insistence, Palpatine’s spies in the wider galaxy, outside Exegol, had found for him the names of every single person who had been directly involved in the attack on both Death Stars.

Han Solo, Chewbacca, Leia Organa Solo, Evaan Verlaine… all of those names were of people he hated. And Palpatine would see them destroyed, one way or another.

But there were four names for which the Dark Lord of the Sith reserved his greatest hatred. The true, simmering passion that Palpatine held for those who had truly thwarted his plans.

Landonis Balthazar Calrissian. Nien Nunb. Wedge Antilles… and, more than anyone else, Luke Skywalker.

If there was anyone who Palpatine wanted to destroy, it was Luke Skywalker… not merely to see him dead, but to humiliate him. To tear him down. To reduce all his triumphs to smouldering ruins.

Break the New Republic. Destroy the New Jedi Order. Turn his own family against him. Shatter his will.

That was what Palpatine would do, to Luke Skywalker.

And then – and only then – would the galaxy burn, worlds submitting to the rule of the Sith or being destroyed.

Thinking such pleasant thoughts, it took a moment for Palpatine to notice the flashing red alert on the side of the holodisplay.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Explain it!”

“We’ve picked up ships, incoming,” an officer said, looking up from his displays on the other side of the room. “Lots of them – Rebel ship classes!”

Palpatine’s hand waved, and the holodisplay reconfigured to show the Red Honeycomb Zone and the tactical displays.

Sure enough, ships were coming through. Two Mon Cal star cruisers, first, then frigates and cruiser class vessels, disgorging a cloud of snubfighters from their hangar bays.

Sith Eternal TIE Fighters were already taking off, but Palpatine could see the difference between the two forces – the Sith Eternal was a secret military and had never actually fought in battle, and it had been aiming for a projected readiness date over a decade in the future.

The New Republic fighter corps was no such easy target. Even without their shields, their skill and training were clearly superior, and the first pass saw a dozen Sith fighters go down in blazing, burning wrecks. A dogfight was already beginning, but it was a dogfight that could only go one way.

But how had this happened? Exegol was secret! With the hyperspace anomalies protecting it, the only way to visit the planet would be to not only know where it was but be shown…

...unless, that was, someone had a Sith wayfinder.

Suddenly gripped by a cold rush of fear that prompted a surge of utter hatred, Palpatine reached out with his mind towards the New Republic strike force as it became haloed in laserfire and explosions.

He could sense a Sith Wayfinder. HIS Sith Wayfinder! The one that had been in his throne room during the Battle of Endor.

Pushing harder, Palpatine located the dancing spark of the wayfinder, alongside a sickeningly familiar presence – a presence ducking and dodging and rolling, as it locked onto and destroyed one TIE Fighter after another.

“Skywalker!” Palpatine shouted, then coughed. “SKYWALKER!”

“Watch out, there’s another fighter flight taking off from the hangar system to port,” Nien Nunb said, pointing.

“Got it, keying them in,” Lando agreed, his gaze flicking between the displays of the Raddus flag bridge. “Hey, Wedge, you want to take those fighters and the battleline will kill the hangar for you?”

“Copy that, General,” Wedge agreed. “Red leader to Red Alpha flight, follow me in!”

Six X-wings rolled to follow Wedge in, and Lando checked over the displays again.

“Well, I’m no expert but I think we caught them with their pants down, Admiral,” he said, glancing back at Leia. “No more than one in fifty of the capital ship turbolasers are working, and most of them seem to still be under construction.”

He whistled. “It’s a damn good thing we caught them when we did, though, I’m reading over six hundred ships in states of construction and there’s hundreds more building slips.”

The Raddus jolted as a volley of turbolasers hit, then the radio crackled.

“Gold leader here,” Verlaine called in. “Princess, I’ve got eyes on where that fire’s coming from, looks like a turbolaser testing facility with some working cannon. My boys and girls will fix that little problem.”

Nien made the adjustment before Lando got to it, and a double volley of proton torpedoes blasted the facility to pieces.

“It’s certainly a damn good thing we found them before they finished,” Leia agreed. “How did you do it?”

“Well, our lead ran out on Kijimi,” Lando said. “Then I realized nobody had actually checked the wreckage of the Second Death Star, and unlike the first the second’s armour wasn’t in place to contain the explosion. I thought it was likely some of it had come down intact, so Luke and I went over to find it and that’s how we got here.”

“I’m picking something up-” Nien reported, then they all looked out the window at once as a flare of lightning crackled up from a hole in the ground. It gripped a New Republic corvette, lightning crawling over the surface and ripping chunks out of it, and when the bolts stopped the engines had been disabled and most of the CR90 crashed seconds later.

“Skywalker here, I’m on it,” Luke said, his X-Wing shooting past and shooting down one of the last enemy TIEs. The Jedi Master’s snubfighter kept going, rolling into a complex manoeuvre and spitting laserbolts down the chasm, then the lightning came back up again – and Luke’s ship absorbed it, glowing bright white as the energy was corralled and neutralized.

“I don’t know about you, but that looks like the main event as far as I’m concerned,” Lando noted.

[imusticaniwill]

A Beautiful Story of Life

Shared with me by a friend.

The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn’t already know.

I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned round to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me

with a smile that lit up her entire being.

She said, “Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I’m eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?”

I laughed and enthusiastically responded, “Of course you may!” and she gave me a giant squeeze.

“Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?” I asked.

She jokingly replied, “I’m here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids…”

“No seriously,” I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.

“I always dreamed of having a college education and now I’m getting one!” she told me.

After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake. We became instant friends. Every day for the

next three months, we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this “time machine” as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.

Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.

At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I’ll never forget what she taught us.

She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, “I’m sorry I’m so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I’ll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know.”

As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, “We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing.

There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor every day. You’ve got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have so many people walking around who are dead and don’t even know it!There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up.

If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don’t do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old.

If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight.

Anybody can grow older. That doesn’t take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change.

Have no regrets.

The elderly usually don’t have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets.”

She concluded her speech by courageously singing “The Rose.”

She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.

At the year’s end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.

Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it’s never too late to be all you can possibly be.

These words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.

REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY. GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.

“We make a Living by what we get, We make a Life by what we give.”

[seat-safety-switch]

Today, everyone who uses the highway has agreed that we will go exactly 92 km/h. It's a little bit slick in spots because it rained and froze last night, but that short section on the bridge doesn't outweigh the vocal group that routinely sleeps in late and needs to get to work faster than 80.

This method works a lot better than the old one, where everyone just went whatever speed they wanted. Sure, there was a "speed limit," but nobody recognized the law as being valid. To limit speed is to limit essential freedom, believed a whole bunch of speeders like myself. Ten, twenty, eighty over the limit: this is the stuff that the human spirit is made of. In the end, though, we too realized that the only thing that was truly valid was the opinion of our fellow citizens.

Originally, the negotiation was a little clunky. Not everyone subscribed to the peer pressure, not until it reached a critical mass of people. Organizing eventually got the goods, though, as it always does. It's hard to speed when all four lanes are going the agreed-upon speed in perfect synchronicity, and it's really intimidating to go slower than traffic when hundreds of thousands of tons of automobiles behind you are waiting for you to find the narrow pedal and rejoin civil society.

Sure, I miss speeding. I really do, but I don't miss having to go zero to fifteen for a couple hours a week because someone had a big spin-out on the bridge, or had to make a lane change at the last minute while thinking about Matlock and missing their exit. Now, I get to work every time, reliably, in a boring fashion. They might as well have built a train, and saved themselves all this money on mandatory speed-sensing bomb collars.

[demolition-queen]

Gaza is bleeding, guys. All we can do is count the bodies. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, one hundred , one thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand, thirty three thousand six hundred eighty six...

I look at the world from my window. All I can see is darkness. Darkness for the whole world. Savages are everywhere. And they poison the world and people. They keep doing this over and over again. If we don't wake up, they will destroy humanity. We lost some of us, they took them. If we don't stop them, they will come for all of us. Today the genocide is called Palestine, but in the future its name will be HUMANITY.

[floridaboiler]

source - https://twitter.com/CalltoActivism

I absolutely love this story…….. It made me cry.

"An 87 Year Old College Student Named Rose The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn’t already know.

I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned round to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.

She said, “Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I’m eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?”

I laughed and enthusiastically responded, “Of course you may!” and she gave me a giant squeeze. “Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?” I asked.

She jokingly replied, “I’m here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids…”

“No seriously,” I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.

“I always dreamed of having a college education and now I’m getting one!” she told me. After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.

We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months, we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this “time machine” as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.

Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.

At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I’ll never forget what she taught us.

She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, “I’m sorry I’m so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I’ll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know.”

As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, “We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success.

1) You have to laugh and find humor every day.

2) You’ve got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die.

We have so many people walking around who are dead and don’t even know it!

3) There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up.

If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don’t do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old.

If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight.

Anybody can grow older.

That doesn’t take any talent or ability.

The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change.

4) Have no regrets.

The elderly usually don’t have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets.”

She concluded her speech by courageously singing “The Rose.

She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives. At the year’s end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.

Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it’s never too late to be all you can possibly be.

When you finish reading this, please send this peaceful word of advice to your friends and family, they’ll really enjoy it!

These words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.

REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY. GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.

We make a Living by what we get,

[todaysdocument]

An Act to Establish the Federal Courts of the United States

Record Group 11: General Records of the United States GovernmentSeries: Enrolled Acts and Resolutions of CongressFile Unit: Public Law, 1st Congress, 1st Session, Part 1: United States Judicial Courts. September 24, 1789

In the Judiciary Act of 1789, Congress established with great particularity a limited jurisdiction for the district and circuit courts, gave the Supreme Court the original jurisdiction provided for in the Constitution, and granted the Court appellate jurisdiction in cases from the Federal circuit courts and from the state courts where those courts' rulings had rejected Federal claims. The decision to grant Federal courts a jurisdiction more restrictive than that allowed by the Constitution represented a recognition by the Congress that the people of the United States would not find a full-blown Federal court system palatable at that time. For nearly all of the next century the judicial system remained essentially as established by the Judiciary Act of 1789.

Congress of the United States,

begun and held at the City of New York on

Wednesday the fourth of March one thousand seven hundred and eighty nine.

[centered heading/title:] An Act to establish the Judicial Courts of the United States.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled,

That the Supreme Court of the United States shall consist of a Chief Justice and five associate justices, any four of whom shall be a quorum, and shall hold annually at the seat of government two sessions, the one commencing the first Monday of February, and the other the first Monday of August. That the associate Justices shall have precedence according to the date of their Commissions, or when the Commissions of two or more of them bear date on the same day, according to their respective ages.

And be it further enacted, That the United States shall be, and they hereby are divided into thirteen districts, to be limited and called as follows, to wit: One to consist of that part of the State of Massachusetts which lies easterly of the State of New Hampshire, and to be called Main [sic] district; One to consist of the State of New Hampshire, and to be called New Hampshire district; One to consist of the remaining part of the State of Massachusetts, and to be called Massachusetts district; One to consist of the State of Connecticut, and to be called Connecticut district; One to consist of the State of New York, and to be called New York district; One to consist of the State of New Jersey, and to be called New Jersey district; One to consist of the State of Pennsylvania, and to be called Pennsylvania district; One to consist of the State of Delaware, and to be called Delaware district; One to consist of the State of Maryland, and to be called Maryland district; One to consist of the State of Virginia, except that part called the district of Kentucky, and to be called Virginia district; One to consist of the remaining part of the State of Virginia, and to be called Kentucky district; One to consist of the State of South Carolina, and to be called South Carolina district; and one to consist of the State of Georgia, and to be called Georgia district.

 [complete document and transcription at link]

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 9/10/2024

someone adopt this little orange man from me in Houston TX! more details here!

listening

the 1991 Ella Mae Morse compilation Capitol Collectors Series is the official driving-cats-to-the-vet album bc it is so mellow but still fun. this album has previously been featured several times in tuesdayposts but i think you should all listen to it again.

seven thousand three hundred days IS a long long time to sleep ur so right ella

-

reading

two different works that annoyed me: Emily Hamilton's The Stars Too Fondly. my first clue should have been that this is my least favorite poem, bc ppl would quote it to me smugly after my mom died. im sure they thought they were being so super comforting to a budding astronomer, but, much like how i can no longer eat lasagna bc ppl gave us Twenty! Party! Size! Platters! Of! Lasagna! after my mom died (they would just Appear on our front porch, frozen), too much of this poem really soured me.

i had this book on hold Forever and then delayed delivery twice bc i have not felt like reading lately. here's the publisher's description:

In her breathtaking debut—part space odyssey, part sapphic rom-com—Emily Hamilton weaves a suspenseful, charming, and irresistibly joyous tale of fierce friendship, improbable love, and wonder as vast as the universe itself. So, here’s the thing: Cleo and her friends really, truly didn’t mean to steal this spaceship. They just wanted to know why, twenty years ago, the entire Providence crew vanished without a trace. But then the stupid dark matter engine started all on its own, and now these four twenty-somethings are en route to Proxima Centauri, unable to turn around, and being harangued by a snarky hologram that has the face and attitude of the ship’s missing captain, Billie. Cleo has dreamt of being an astronaut all her life, and Earth is kind of a lost cause at this point, so this should be one of those blessings in disguise that people talk about. But as the ship gets deeper into space, the laws of physics start twisting, old mysteries come crawling back to life, and Cleo’s initially combative relationship with Billie turns into something deeper and more desperate than either woman was prepared for. Lying somewhere in the subspace between science fantasy and sapphic rom-com, The Stars Too Fondly is a soaring near-future adventure about dark matter and alternate dimensions, leaving home and finding family, and the galaxy-saving power of letting yourself love and be loved.

should be catnip for me, right? wrong. starts out as a chat fic, which i hate.

i had a lot of trouble finishing the first chapter, which also has an extended third-person omniscient narrator flashback in italics, a thing i also hate. i KNOW you can figure out how to integrate this information into the book in a better way instead of dumping it in my lap.

i think part of why this is not hitting like i wanted is the tone, because i think this veers more new adult than i was really hoping for. i think introducing a big group all at once is very hard to do effectively. i do not like a series of character introductions that feel like they are trying to sell me action figures. or perhaps blind-bag figures. i do not like a six-deep list of cheesy puns about someone's name. i do not have the patience to see if this debut novel finds its footing a little later on, though i am glad a sapphic ghost in the machine romance exists in this world.

i also read dean motter's mister x (both the original late eighties through early nineties run and the 2008 follow-on).

let's yoink the description from wikipedia:

Set in Radiant City, a dystopian municipality influenced by Bauhaus and Fritz Lang's Metropolis, the series concerns a mysterious figure who purports to be its architect. His radical theories of "psychetecture" cause the citizenry to go mad, just as he did, and he takes on the mission to repair his creation. To accomplish this he remains awake twenty-four hours a day by means of the drug "insomnalin", all the while coping with a Dick Tracy–like rogues gallery and supporting cast including his long-suffering ex-girlfriend Mercedes. (ed note: the redhead in the santa beard below)

the art in this comic book is really and truly stunning. everyone was firing on all cylinders. beautiful retrofuturistic advertisement vibes, very fun play with panels and word balloons while still being readable, there are airships, you know how it is. looooooooove a hardboiled noir.

the Concept of mister x, this horrible awful futuristic city that grinds its citizenry up and spits them out? both figuratively and sometimes literally? love it!!! love a great wounded beast of a city as a character!!!

unforch the "who is mister x" subplot does not resolve in a satisfying way, imo. there's a lot of flip-flopping, there's a lot of options, he ends up being (maybe?) someone he was very definitively proven NOT to be in an earlier issue, and it really soured me on the whole experience. and also i don't believe it! that specific person makes no fucking sense! who mister x is, is by far the least interesting part of the series. tell me more about how he's fixing the city. show me more of the city. shut up and dance, robot artists

-

watching

X-Men: Apocalypse (2016, dir. Singer). this movie did not need to be two and a half hours long. appreciated the EXTREMELY divorced energy from charles & erik though, quicksilver rescuing the school scene was also very fun. my bestie's husband has informed me we are NOT watching Dark Phoenix, i'm not sure if we're going to loop back and watch the ??? number of wolverine films or if we're going to see how i feel about deadpool. bc i find this character insufferable through clips only.

-

playing

there is a feature in the video game genshin impact to turn your World Level (TM) down in order to make overworld enemies a little easier. i am at seven out of nine bc i genuinely can't finish the boss to unlock world level 9, and i am finding some of the overworld enemies too hard at 8 and want to finish the achievements in a more relaxed fashion.

-

making

this is going to be a lot of previously posted pics so bear with me.

saturday morning/saturday evening. plants? repotted. porch and stairs? swept. old wasp nests? knocked down. different mirror on the porch to go out to the curb when i have the energy? yes. also a giant slab of engineered stone from the top of a dresser but that's out of frame.

speaking of the giant broken dresser that was in my apartment when i moved in just over a year ago, i ripped it apart with a crowbar and threw it in the dumpster. put my pretty zebrawood desk in the empty space and started thinking about what to hang on that wall. the wall across from it is maps, bc i think a cozy office should have lots of maps and it makes a good video conference background. maybe this will be the dedicated cowboy nonsense wall. i did so much dusting and vacuuming and mopping and the girls can't even hang out in here bc the orange boy is in the office bathroom. big sigh.

also a lot of driving around and emailing and calling thirty shelters and rescues figuring out how to get this orange man a home. please take this orange man off my hands.