#me writing a whole paragraph about them like an hour after waking up

[miraculous-showtime]

if you actually think about it, emu is the perfect catalyst for all of rui's strange ideas. emu loves to have fun and she loves to see others have fun and smile and she is a bit strange and thinks outside the box. rui is the same way but he's the "idea man". and emu is his cheerleader. rui goes "and what if we end this one with a giant box of fireworks going off, of course taking the proper safety precautions incase of misfire, injury, or an actual fire." and emu looks at him with sparkles in her eyes and goes "that sounds so super duper cool rui-kun!! let's do it it'll be soooo wonderhoy!" because she is just imagining the glorious explosion of sparkles and colors and how the audiences' faces will light up with surprise and joy. they both love a good out of left field way to put a smile on someone's face. also not to mention how previously rui was shunned for his extravagant ideas but not by emu. emu never has any pushback because she has 100% faith in rui to not mess anything up, to put on a good show and not hurt anyone with his ideas. of course they have nene and tsukasa to keep them in check if they get too wild but i think emu is really good for rui. rui needs someone to have complete trust in him and his ideas so that he can have fun and grow from all the things that happened in his past. emu is that someone, she matches his energy and enthusiasm levels, taking all his crazy ideas and only ever going even further with them.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Goblin Mode Daddy König

I’m gonna be honest folks, König doesn’t stop being a goblin when he has kids. He’s a good dad, don’t get me wrong, but he’s a bit of a nightmare.

Art from This Post

Thankfully, König is a good father and husband. He’ll clean up after the little ones, he’ll take shifts when caring for them (especially in the first year), he’ll go so far as to take a weekend to be with the kids so you can rest. He does expect you to pull your weight, kids are a choice and a lifestyle when you have them. He wants you to care for them as a good parent would.

However, there are times where König is a little… Curious with children. Not in a bad way, in more a ‘Bro you’re kinduva dick’ sort of way. Not malicious to a point of harming a child, no never. But he’s a dick.

So, when König goes on walks with his kids he’ll put them up on his shoulders if they get tired. He really wants them to love nature as much as he does, of course! He wants them to love the woods and forests and to embrace the world around them. This also means he takes them tent camping and when they complain about not having anything to do he’ll tell them to find ways to entertain themselves. He won’t keep them busy all the time; they need to learn what to do with themselves when they have freetime. This also means that when they come up asking him to entertain them when he’s napping, he’ll wake up, grunt, then turn over and go back to bed. They’ll learn that bothering dad when napping typically doesn’t go well.

The other delight of König is when he’s playing games with them. He’s determined to teach them self defense. It’s very important! What he doesn’t expect is for his kids to get in trouble at school for using some of these techniques on their bullies. He’s not mad, just a bit sheepish when he’s called in and has to explain that no, they didn’t do it out of nowhere, actually he has been the one teaching them self defense so, you know, sorry about that.

König is great when watching kids. It’s just that he does it in his own way. He’ll actively involve them in what he’s doing. This means that his kids watch horror movies wayyyyy too early. They also learn to curse far too early for your liking. At least he teaches them to be responsible with it, but still. C’mon man. He at least does turn it off and care for them if it’s too scary. He’s not a monster, just sometimes a bit oblivious.

He’s also very intent on ensuring a good education. His children fear not the sandal, but the pen and paper as he forces them to write paragraphs about why kicking their dad is a bad idea. He’ll lecture them too, of course, but he does take delight in pushing education into every avenue in life. Yes, this means that you’ll sometimes stop on a trail and get a half hour lecture on how to use a flower in stews and herbal remedies. His children are begging him to stop but he’s insisting that they learn.

Unfortunately, this leads to smart kids, and smart kids know how to be sneaky and how to mouth off. Unfortunately for them, König is better in both areas. He can be downright snarky with his kids. He’s blunt and straightforward and also determined to remind that no, they cannot say whatever they like whenever, they need to learn their manners first.

Now, the true goblin nature of König comes out with food. He’s a nightmare with food. He was before having kids, he will be after. It’s just now he has new targets.

When his kids get cookies, they will inevitably make the horrible mistake of offering a bite to their father. Just a little one, but they want to share! Sharing is good! Sharing is not so good when your father devours your entire cookie with a smile. He just eats the whole thing. There is no sharing food with daddy König. He’s König the Devourer and his children aren’t immune to his ways.

Sometimes, one of his kids will offer him a lick of icecream. He proceeds to take the cone and then refuses to give it back until there’s naught but a napkin left. His children learn the meaning of the word ‘betrayal’ at a terribly early age. Perfidy will haunt their every memory involving their father and food.

I cannot stress the shock on König’s face when he steals his toddler’s cookie and then gets slapped.

This leads to playfighting. König is surprisingly gentle and good with playfighting. He’s good at falling in such a way where he doesn’t hit the kid behind him in the process. He’s actually quite good at avoiding accidents entirely. Part of it is being hyper-vigilant as a colonel, part of it is just that König really cares about his kids. This said, he won’t always stop an accident if he thinks it’s a good learning opportunity. If his kid runs into a sliding glass door, that’s a great learning opportunity. Again, he’s a bit of a dick.

He’s especially a dick when being introduced to his kid’s friends. König is a big, big man. Being five and meeting your friend’s dad is always scary, but when said friend’s dad is König? Oh good lord it’s terrifying. König used to try to ease kids into his presence but now he just accepts they’ll be terrified of him.

Now before I go into the next antic, I want to make something clear. König is a very quiet man. Extremely quiet. However, when his children make a mess, he doesn’t always want to go upstairs and knock on their door. Being in the military and having a big body gives him a nice big voice, and he’s more than happy to shout for his kids to come downstairs for something. Sometimes, he’ll yell about something but he’s not actually that mad about it. As I’ve said before, König would never yell at his kids with all his energy. He might raise his voice when he’s particularly strained, but he avoids yelling (in anger) as much as possible.

However, when yelling for his kid to come pick up their toys, imagine his horror when his son comes down and then another kid comes following behind. Oh König has so much explaining to do. He didn’t realize the play date was today, not now at least. He’s mortified that he just yelled at the top of his lungs and nearly made a child soil their pants. He has to get down low and really help calm the kid down with cookies and milk to make sure the kid won’t pass out. He has so much explaining to do when the kid’s mom comes to pick him up. It’s a genuine nightmare for König. He probably tried to ask you to deal with it for him but sometimes you gotta face the consequences of your own actions. König learns this the hard way.

König is good with other kids, but sometimes when he slams a door too hard or yells when he stubs his toe, visiting friends can get the willies spooked out of them. He always tries to apologize, but there’s so much you can do to calm someone down when you’re big and covered in scars (or worse, wearing a hood).

König isn’t a perfect father by any means, but the thing that matters most is that he always loves his kids. He always emphasizes how much he cares about them to you and to them in particular. He’s good at keeping his cool when things get heated and he’s great at getting to them on their level. He really does love his children above all else. His family is the most important thing in the world to him. He’s determined to shower them with love and affection. He’s strict about education and helping them get ahead in school, and he’s insistent that they are good kids and not spoiled brats, but he won’t ever hit his kids. He’ll never scream at them and call them names. He might grunt and make sarcastic comments, but he won’t ever hurt his child.

Or at least you say that until he accidentally sits on one and they both scream.

Konig Dump

Headcanons

[bettyfrommars]

The Nightmare Factory

an Eddie Munson x Reader series

The Fabric of Moonbeams

Masterlist

18+Only for mature themes, mention of sleep disorders and sleeping medication, longing, afab!reader, astral travel, horror icons. wc: 4.2.

Eddie got demoted to Ominous Thuds & Ghostly Whispers status after the whole Headless Horseman debacle.  Not because Steve or Saul narced on him, but because the eye in the nightmare sky sees everything.

He tried tapping the morse code that Wayne taught him on your bedroom wall one night, but only succeeded in making you sleep upright in the chair in your living room with all of the lights on.  You had dark circles under your eyes the next day, and almost dozed off at your keyboard.

You spent a lot of time looking at the sketch you had done of him, and the description of the headless horseman dream that you remembered with fascinating clarity.  You could close your eyes and smell the soap and leather of his skin now, and you could see the way his mouth moved when he spoke to you.  He knew your name, and you felt like you knew him.  

You found a book at the library called, “My boyfriend, My Nightmare” about a woman who believed she was in a relationship with a man in her dreams for years.  No one believed her, of course, and she was diagnosed with a particular type of rare disorder that had her on such heavy sleeping medication that it was impossible to remember her dreams, if she even had them at all.  

You sank down on a soft chair and almost read the entire thing in one sitting.  According to this woman, there is a place called The Nightmare Factory where your nightmares punch a clock and take lunch breaks together and collect a paycheck.  Apparently, it sits on a separate plane of existence, and you go there when you sleep.  Nightmares can exist during waking hours as well, the author said, and you sat up straight to read that paragraph.  

“The membrane that keeps our worlds apart begins to dissolve when you are able to perceive the nightmares, when you begin to understand that there is no true distinction between reality and dreams.”

“If you can imagine it, it exists somewhere in possibility,” the author continued.  “The Nightmare Factory workers are a form of entertainment to save us from the true horrors of human existence.”

What ever happened to the woman? Did she ever get to be with the man she fell in love with in her nightmares?  You skipped to the last chapter, and skimmed a few pages until you found what you were looking for.  

Her final words were very vague, but she admitted to going off of her prescribed sleeping medication, which made her have insomnia for a week, but then she started to dream again.  

“I know that no one will believe me, and that’s fine, I did not write this to convince anyone.  I’m having it published through a private company to help those who might find themselves in a similar situation.

By the time you read this, I will be gone.

The physical particles of my body have a hard time assimilating when I return from dreams now, and one day soon, I will stay there with him and not return through the secret door.  I’m not sure if I will ever be able to get back to this astral plane as anything more than a visitor, so please, if you are able to cross over, find me.”

You checked the clock on the wall, knowing you should head home, and then you found a few more books to take with you.  One was a manual on how to decipher your dreams, and the other was another memoir, though not as detailed, that someone had written about moving through the dream world with your physical body.

That’s impossible, you mused to yourself.

But still, some strange blossom of hope in your gut moved you to tuck it under your arm.

Meanwhile, Eddie flirted his way into the 7am Unexplained Voices & Creaking Stairs class by offering to service the teacher’s car for free.  She was a ghostly apparition who wore glasses and a pair of gloves to give students a hint to her presence.  She finally accepted after some hesitation, knowing full well that there was a waitlist. 

Anyway, her ghostmobile was not only serviced, but detailed, and there Eddie was, in the front row, bouncing his knee, eager to learn anything and everything he could.  

His band played a show at the Hideout that night.  The Hideout in Eddie’s dimension was a place where a lot of Nightmare Factory workers went after their shifts, so it often looked like the bar scene from Star Wars, but with ghouls. The factory was the biggest employer for a thirty mile radius, and everyone who grew up in Hawkinsville had worked there at least once in their life.  

It had been difficult when Eddie and Wayne first moved there when he was young.  Eddie was what they called “a normie”, meaning he was not born into the nightmare life.  He hadn’t been raised by evil clowns or wolves or demons who walked on goat legs.  He’d picked up shapeshifting pretty fast though, and he’d learned to make his eyes go completely black whenever he wanted to by the time he was ten.

There were more than four drunks at the place that night, Eddie counted at least six, and then there were a few normies at a table, but he didn’t recognize them.  The bartender had a beer ready for him and slid it to the end of the bar before giving him a “thumbs up” motion.  Corroded Coffin did not get paid by the venue to play on Tuesday nights, so the beer was always on the house.  They had a tip jar at the edge of the stage that usually only had a couple bucks in it by the end of the evening, or a sprinkle of loose change.  

They were halfway through the set when Eddie looked out into the crowd and saw you.

He blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut for a beat, but when he opened them again, he saw that it was really you—standing there, staring back at him, plain as day.

Sure, the room was dark and filled with smoke, but there seemed to be some type of luminescence around you.

Eddie cleared his throat into the mic and wiped his hair off his sweaty forehead, waiting to make sure to make sure you weren’t a mirage for the thirsty man that he was.  Some shrill feedback sounded through the speakers, and he mumbled an apology to the crowd.

You lifted your hand up slowly to wave at him, and you mouthed a little, “hi,” as a smile twitched across your lips.

But this time, it was Eddie who woke up.

He was back in his own bed, gasping for air, wanting to cry, wanting to return, needing to know how you had made it into his dream.

You were looking for him now.  Somewhere, behind the scenes of time and space, an invisible membrane was getting thinner.  

—------

“Are you coming or what?” Your friend Ellie turned to see that you had stopped short at the entrance to the Haunted House attraction you were about to enter.  You’d already paid, and had your hand stamped, but all of a sudden you wanted to be back in your bed, reading.  

You loved Halloween, but you weren’t a huge fan of jump scares, unless they were coming from that guy you kept dreaming about, the one named Eddie.

You wrote his name down in cursive and blocked letters all over the inside of your notebook, wanting to press it into the wrinkles of your brain.  It had been weeks since you last saw him, and every night you hit the pillow, you were hopeful.  

“I’m coming,” you jogged a bit to catch up, listening to the evil, mechanical cackling and high-pitched screams coming from inside.

You caught up to her and stayed close.  There were strobe lights inside and menacing figures loomed in the narrow hallway before you turned a corner into a dining room full of people with decapitated heads.  A few scare actors jumped out to lurch at you from dark corners while thunderous organ music played.

After the next room, there was a shuffle of people as one of the animatronic spiders dropped down from the ceiling, and one of the scare actors with a pig mask blocked your path right when the hallway split, so you lost Ellie, and all of a sudden, you were alone.  

You spun in a circle and called Ellie’s name.

Surely you’d still be able to hear the sounds from the haunt? But everything was quiet, the crowd was gone, and the noises from earlier were muffled, as if coming from far away.

Panic rose in your throat as you felt along the wall for a light switch or a door.  You stumbled around a black, velvet curtain and caught sight of the glowing EXIT sign with a rush of relief.

“Ellie? Anybody?” You eyes were having a hard time adjusting to the inky darkness, but the illumination from the sign gave you hope

This was fine, you’d wait for the other’s outside and tell them you had to duck out because you weren’t feeling well, which was not a complete lie.  

Beyond the door were aged, wooden stairs that went down.  A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling to offer a weak, ocre glow.  You didn’t remember climbing stairs to get into the building, but you must’ve been mistaken.

You hurried down the steps, hearing the door slam shut behind you with unexpected force, enough to shake the walls.  

Something didn’t feel right; the further you went down on the creaking steps, the darker and danker it seemed to get.  There was a sudden heat emanating and you could make out some soft rattling and hissing sounds.

By the time you realized you’d gone down into a sealed basement, it was too late.  

It wasn’t just a basement, though—it was a…boiler room?

There were metal tanks producing steam mounted with temperature gauges, and you couldn’t see to the other side of the space because they were massive.

“Hello?” You took a tentative step forward, looking around the concrete walls for some type of door to get out of the building.  Your heart was in your throat, and your breathing was getting rapid as your eyes jerked from side to side like a scared rabbit.  

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “Can anyone hear me? I got turned around and I’d like to leave now.”

There came a high pitched scraping then, like nails on a chalkboard, and it was so shrill, you had to cover your ears.  

“I can hear you just fine,” a deep, gravely voice chuckled from somewhere to your right.

Your attention snapped in that direction.  Instinct was telling you to start backing up, to get further away, to go bolt up the stairs, but that’s not what you did—you just froze there.  

It wasn’t long before you spotted a pair of glowing eyes peering at you from between two of the pipes, against the far wall. 

There was a person standing there.

It had to be one of the scare actors, down there on their break, or maybe this was a part of the haunt? But where was everyone else? And why was there a huge, poorly lit boiler room in the basement of that old house?

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he spoke in an evil sneer, like a villain in a cartoon.  

“This isn’t funny,” you shouted. “I just want to get out of here, please.”

He gave another diabolical cackle, and then there was the sound of nails on a chalkboard again.

The man in the basement with you stepped into view with a flourish, brandishing the long, metal daggers on his hand, flexing each finger for you to see each one individually; the tips were sharp and the blades caught the light.  He had on an old, brown fedora, a green and red sweater, and his skin was covered in scar tissue from severe burns.

You were down in that boiler room with Freddy Krueger.

The scream you let out as he charged toward you might’ve cracked fissures in the concrete.

You spun on your heel—

—and landed face first into the body of the person that had been standing behind you.  You felt the ragged, torn nature of a shirt under your cheek as whoever it was had enormous height, and then you pushed back and looked up in time to see a hockey mask with black eyes staring down at you, expressionless. His shoulders were broad and his body massive. Out to the side, he brandished a gleaming machete that was the length of your arm.

“Hi baby, get behind me!” The person in the Jason Voorhees mask said, sounding slightly echoed and muffled. The look he had was the same as in the movies, but this one had curly, almost frizzy dark hair that was long past his shoulders.

That voice…it was Eddie.

It was your Eddie.

You stammered a partial question, but then  you were already moving, letting his arm guide you around so that his body acted as a shield from Freddy who was cackling and swiping his finger knives around; you could hear the sharp whistle of air against the metal.  

You held on to the hips of Voorhees Eddie from behind and peeked under his raised arm to look at Freddy.  This Eddie in front of you was tall and massive, much more so than you remembered from the last dream you had.

“What the hell are you doing here, maggot?” The Freddy Krueger guy growled, saliva dripping from his yellow teeth as his pocked skin stretched over his cheeks like curdled milk.  

“Don’t worry about it, Jerry,” Eddie growled with disdain, throwing his machete into the other hand with deft precision. It twirled in the air and he caught it by the handle.  “This one is mine.”

“Oh, really?” The guy who looked like Freddy suddenly had a normal voice again, and his shoulders relaxed, dropping his hands to his sides. “I didn’t know, wow man, I’m sorry. Did I get the schedules mixed up?”

Voorhees Eddie relaxed too, dropping his free hand down to hold your hip, making sure you were still there. “No, you’re good,” Eddie’s voice was light now, soft, even. “I’m just filling in for Alex, he’s on vacation for a few days.”

“Paid leave?” Freddy/Jerry asked.  You were trying to match his face with the voice coming out, but it wasn’t working.

“I think so,” Eddie nodded once. 

“Must be nice to have seniority,” Jerry put his knives hand on his hip and scratched under his hat with the other. “Okay well, I’m going to head over to the next job. See ya, Munson.”

And with that, a black space the size of a door opened behind Jerry and he stepped through it. The door disappeared, and so did he. 

“Eddie?” You said his name over the hiss of the boilers as he turned to you.  You could see the realistically gray, rotting flesh of his Voorhees skin under his mask.  “What are you doing in a boiler room looking like Jason Voorhees?”

“Workin’,” he smiled and dropped the machete to the concrete with a clang to be able to snake his arms around you so that his fingers clasped at your lower back.  “I’ve been missing you.”

His new height was throwing you off as you tilted your head back to look up at him.  

“I recognized your voice this time,” you smiled, proud of yourself.  

He lowered his head to touch the mask to your forehead.  “I didn’t mean to disappear on you.  It took me a while to be able to have physical form again, to be able to see you like this.”

“It’s okay, I know,” you slid your hands up the torn clothing over his broad chest.

“You know?” He pulled back, searching your face.

“I’ve been reading this book, about where you work,” you wet your lips. “That Nightmare Factory place. I’ve been trying to figure out…how to see you more often.”

Eddie’s heart jumped.  He put his hand over yours on his chest and held it there, and you could see that even as Jason Voorhees, he still wore his signature metal rings.  “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” you got a bit bashful and looked down. “I want to…get to know you better.”

“I saw you the other night in my dream,” he rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand.  

You stared up into his eye sockets of his mask, and your face lit up.  “That was cool, wasn��t it? I couldn’t believe I found you.  There is a sort of meditation in the book that I did about a thousand times, and it was only for a second. I think it’s a type of astral projection. You looked really good on stage.”

Eddie tucked his chin almost bashfully, moving his hand to interlace his fingers with yours.  “You thought I looked good?”

Eddie had been learning too.  Learning new skills to come to you in your nightmares, but also learning about a rare case where a nightmare worker crossed into your dimension and stayed there.  They were never heard from again, and some say they didn’t survive the crossover and their particles exploded into the ether, but Eddie chose to believe that was a lie to keep people from trying.  

Suddenly, there was a banging sound, muffled and far away, but you could feel it thudding in your chest.  You checked around the room, thinking it was noise from one of the pipes, but Eddie dropped your hand and squeezed your arm, checking his digital wrist watch with a sigh like he usually did when he was about to make his exit.

Back at the factory, someone was banging their fist against the transportation door, shouting for Eddie. He tightened the muscles in his jaw, frustrated that there never seemed to be enough time. It sounded a whole lot like Kevin.

He had to figure something out soon, before his heart exploded.

“Are you in trouble again?” Now that you knew a bit more about what he did, you feared he might get penalized, and you wouldn’t lay eyes on him for another month.  The pounding continued intermittedly, and you faintly heard someone call out Eddie’s name.

“No, not this time, sweetheart,” Eddie stretched, puffing his chest out a bit, and then bent forward to put the mouth of the mask on your forehead. You could feel his warm breath on your skin there.  “But my shift is over.  I have to get back before my timer goes off.”

“Before your timer goes off? Sounds like you’re in a microwave.”

“Well,” he tipped his head to the side, thoughtfully.  “The technology is similar, I suppose, but yeah, I hate to leave you like this.”

You hugged Eddie Voorhees as hard as you could and spoke into his chest.  “Maybe next time, I’ll find you first.”

The distant banging got louder, more persistent.

He bent down to grab the machete, pushed a button on his watch, and the same square, black opening in the air appeared.

There was a second there when you considered just running and jumping through his door, but then you remembered a part in the book when it mentioned how that type of jarring dimensional travel could give Dreamers what scuba divers called “the bends” from the dramatic change in pressure.  

You were about to tell him you’d miss him, or goodbye, or something else, but then, in a blink, you were jolted back to your senses—

—you were back in the hallway of the haunt right after the spider had dropped from the ceiling.

Wait a minute.  How had that happened?

You were at a dead halt, stopping the flow of people traffic as you looked down at your hands and over at Ellie who had turned around to motion you to keep moving as another scare actor dressed like a deranged doctor covered in blood jumped from the corner.

When you got home, you rushed to your desk to open the book, and flipped to the chapter called “The fabric of moonbeams”.  It talked about “dream pockets” that occurred like daydreams when you were linked to someone.  The author didn’t know exactly how to explain it, but she suspected it had something to do with sudden surges of adrenaline that caused a dimensional shift, especially if you had a connection to someone at the factory.  

You sketched out Eddie again that night, this time, it was what you remembered from when you’d visited him for a few seconds at The Hideout.  Flanked by his bandmates, he was strumming the strings on his guitar, looking down with one knee bent out and his hair hanging down.  

You wanted to recapture the scene as realistically as possible so that you could study it to prepare for the next time you tried to visit him.  Next time, maybe you'd step into his world and not his dream.

Maybe next time, he’d kiss you again.

----

Happy Halloween weekend to all of you who are enjoying this series, thank you for reading 🧡

[junos-jrabbles]

authors note !! I come bearing sniper angst, but it isn't good, sorry, wrote this in like twenty minutes, also posting on mobile so sorry HAHAwait you can drag paragraphs around?? Anyway space cowboy is such a good song

Is there something more?

Sniper/Reader, angst

Warning -- Implied suicide, grieving, respawn accident

He'll remember it forever.

He still sees your reflection in the mirror. It's never left him, that aching feeling that stings every vein in his body as he boils over into tears in the late hours of the night. Sleepless.

You weren't supposed to be gone.

He knew it, everyone knew it, they'd held a makeshift vigil for you before it was hurried along, swept away like you'd never been there. He'd been allowed to be the one to toss your documents into the fire. How kind. How torturous.

Every day was a flip of the coin.

He still sees your reflection in the bottle of beer he nurses. He'd stolen one or three cases from Tavish by now, it was the only thing that seemed to soothe him, y’know? You… God he can't even think about what you'd say about him now. You'd have called him a mess, and told him, in that stupid, loving and gentle voice of yours, to breathe. You'd always been so kind to him.

They said it was an accident.

They always had, always will, every incident there'd been. An accident. One after another, you saw how it hurt the two in charge of the respawn experiments, and he saw how it hurt you. There had been a moment of silence when it happened, he held your hand as the life, the spark, the light drained from your eyes. He saw the fear in them. Medic trembled to his left, trained onto the monitors, he was sure, but he was focused on you.

The whole time.

Failure.

You should've respawned, right? There was no reason you shouldn't have, surely. But… You didn't. There's no changing that. There's no bringing you back, no howling hard into the night sky that'd bring you back, back to him.

The cold, night air breathes vain whispers against his skin he'd only heard from your lips, and he shudders. He can't forget you. He's cold. He knows this. Damp, familiar. He'd cried for nights, woken up in enough cold sweats, but this was different.

He sees you, blood red, in the reflection of his kukri, the warmth that seeped, drooling from his side in a thick puddle beneath his waist, felt familiar too. Fuzzy, is how he'd describe this feeling when he'd wake up, cold, empty, and alone in his van. He wishes he wouldn't.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not very good, tell me if it's trash thank you :) I hope you're all well, I just needed to write a little... a little...

if you have any links to short angst fics with the boys please send I need to bite someoneHAHAH

[suraemoon]

A Sunset in 1956

“Hot summer days, rock and roll. The way you'd play for me at your show. And all the ways I got to know your pretty face and electric soul.”

Elvis Presley x Reader

Warnings: An unclear/inaccurate timeline? Memphis in the Summer of 1956 is all we know. The Colonel has a few namedrops (sorry). I think that's it...just a lot of fluff and longing.

WC: 4.7k

A/N: This is my first time ever writing a fanfiction, I usually give up after the first paragraph, so just keep that in mind lol. Kind of a long introduction. A lot of thoughts. A love letter to 1956 Elvis and all those who fell in love with him. <3

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

1956 - The year when most of the nation first became aware of the name, Elvis Presley.

His name could be well-heard uttered like a beautiful not-so-secret secret in hushed, giggling whispers of teenage girls passersby after the local high school let out its last bell. Adolescent girls across the nation were caught mesmerized, crowded around their family television sets, as if under a trance by the Southern young man shaking his hips to the vibrations and melodies of that sweet, exhilarating Rock n’ Roll music.

The girls felt something awaken in them after watching Elvis Presley on their screens late in the evening. A feeling that refused to sleep in the quiet hours of bedtime, a light that refused to dim under the moonlight, a wind of extreme feeling that rustled through the pages of their minds as they lay in bed.

Excitement…for something they wanted, but did not quite have. A feeling of sexual desire that was not supposed to be openly felt and that was so forbidden, yet beautiful that it became a high of elation.

The feelings wake up with them the next day, and love not only for the music taking the nation by storm but also as the man, seen to many, as the face of it all, leads them to the record stores for every new release. It led them to the shows where he put his all into bringing them to their feet and bringing all those emotions over the edge. How they wish they had the opportunity to be with him.

To be in your spot? Not exactly…they want more.

You hear his name loudly hollered and complained about by older folk, eager to express their extreme dissatisfaction and disgust with what was presented on the late-night television programs as “dancing”. How dare Milton Berle air something so vulgar?

There is an excitement in the air that they can’t feel, can’t understand. The snowflake melts as soon as it comes into contact with them. They do not care to look at its unique pattern anyway. As the water from the faucet bends effortlessly around their tired, life-worn hands, they fail to notice the rainbow made as the water catches the light of the sun. A rainbow in which you have had the privilege of getting to know every hue throughout your years of close friendship. 

This is unknown to most, especially an old man at your job asking if you listen to 'all that vulgar roll-and-rock stuff…or was it rock-and-roll? It's not worth it. You try your hardest to put on your customer service voice and politely laugh at the ignorance, knowing that your shift has just started and it's too early for the hassle of explaining Rock-n-Roll to someone not at all interested in learning.

His name, one you first heard when the teacher called out attendance in class all those years ago, was moving like a wave, and any unknowing individual would think he was running for office.

You can’t help but laugh softly at your own thoughts as you stare at the all-familiar Memphis surroundings through the glass of the car window. Suddenly, you are pulled back to reality by a firm squeeze of a hand that you had just noticed began to rest on your thigh. Then, you heard the signature Southern voice that had the whole nation going haywire.

“You alright, honey? You’re as quiet as a dormouse over there.”

Elvis looks over at you and slightly bites his lip as the car you two are sitting in, a new one he bought more recently, sits at a red light.

You smile at him, a slight hue of pink brushing your face, partly from embarrassment at being caught and taken out of your head like a fish out of the water and partly from your best friend’s hand still being on your thigh. You try to divert your focus from the shock of sudden attention and instead try to make a joke.

“Oh, I’m alright…Just in shock is all. I mean I’m in a car with Elvis Presley. I might faint.”

You playfully fan yourself with your hand as you enunciate his name as if it is displayed in big letters on a marquee shining bright on the busy streets of Broadway. A sight that you can easily imagine coming to fruition. You can’t help but laugh, breaking your already unconvincing, but in a way real, act.

“Mhm, sure." He hums, all too used to your teasing, “You sure it’s not just the heat? You can roll the window down a little more.”

He has that signature smile on his pretty face as he focuses his sky-blue eyes on the road before him. When the light turns green, he puts his foot on the gas. His right hand hesitates for a second, debating on whether it is still appropriate to continue to lay on your thigh. He ultimately decides to lift his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’m just kidding ya.” He already knew that. And you know that he knows that you just had to make sure. 

When he speaks again, he has the same excitement that he had when you two first got into the car as if it never left, because truly it never did disappear. As you stare at his beautiful eyelashes, enhanced by the mascara that you’ve helped him apply a few times before, you notice a look in his eyes. It’s like the Memphis road ahead of him reminds him of another long road, one that he does not quite know the destination of yet. Your eyes trace his side profile as he talks with a boyish smile on his face.

“Once we get to our spot, Imma tell you all about everything, Satnin. I will. Life’s gonna be even more crazy, if you can believe that. I mean the Colonel said the tours are gonna be…a-and the audiences will be even bigger. It's all up from here, honey, and I’ll explain it all to ya…I really will. I ain't gonna say it all complicated cause it might be a lot for your pretty head… I m- I mean it's hard for me to even…believe. Ya know?”

He says this all fast-paced, hurriedly as if he’s being timed to speak, but you have no problem keeping up with his words from years of conservations both long and short.

“I know, Elvis. I’m really excited for ya. I always am and you know that.”

“For us, honey. Me, you, and my parents.”

You look at him adoringly, admiring his apple-like cheek, his outfit the shirt of which had to be from Beale Street, and the beautiful way the sun reflected off of his face. The beautiful orange before sunset that put a comforting and pleasing softness on everything it touched wouldn’t be until a little bit, but when you were around Elvis, every minute felt golden.

There are a few minutes of silence perfectly comfortable due to so many years of knowing each other before Elvis pulls into the driveway of your home; the same cornflower blue house that your family has been living in and loving for as long as you can remember. His eyebrows furrow and a few creases appear between them, the same ones that you love to smoothen with your thumb whenever you get a chance, as he ponders for a moment,

“Your folks ain’t home?”

You responded nonchalantly, a little surprised that this had not already come up in conversation. But, considering the fact that so much has been going on in his life lately, it is not shocking that your parents not being home for a weekend didn’t wander into your discussions today.

“Nah. They left this morning for a wedding of some old friends of theirs. They were telling me over dinner yesterday….”

You and Elvis get out of the car, doors closing in synchronization as you continue, 

“The couple getting married have been friends their whole lives…I think the guy was already divorced…or was it that the lady already has a kid?”

As you go on trying to carefully recall what your parents had told you about their weekend trip while you were scarfing down Mama’s delicious home-cooked dish at dinner yesterday, you fail to notice Elvis taking something out of the car’s leather back seat and slipping it into the back pocket of his pants.

“I don't know, Maybe both…But they realized recently that they’re made for each other. Getting married in Nashville so my parents are spending the weekend.”

Elvis focuses his attention on you and nods, letting you know that he is listening to your story, “I’m guessing your brother is still out on his work trip too, which is crazy, 'cause that means…”

Elvis looks at you with a playful gleam in his eyes, one that lets you know that you’re about to be teased, “They trusted you with the house.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You giggle, feigning offense with your voice.

“I’m plenty responsible for taking care of ole' Blueberry.” You put your hands on your hips in confidence as you look up at your house and the spot on the second-floor siding that needs to be repainted. Whatever happened to it anyway? Your “Rosie the Riveter”-worthy confidence takes a back seat and your hands leave your hips to rest at your sides as you ponder that question.

“Well…” Elvis elongates his word as he leans his arm on your shoulder, tilting his head slightly.

You turn your head up towards him, already knowing the situation that he is referring to. “You really won’t let me get away with the ‘almost burning the house down thing’ huh? I was trying to do a good deed! What can I say, I’m a good girl at heart.”

“Yeah, you were trying alright, and then the surprise ‘Happy Anniversary’ cookies for your folks caught fire.”

“Stop teasing me.” You whine with a small laugh as you take his hand in yours and lead him to your backyard. “Let's go out back before the sun sets on us.”

You can’t help but let your mind wander back to the cookie incident as you walk hand in hand to your signature spot in the backyard, looking down at your feet in the green grass,

“Can you believe that after I burnt my cookies, David brought out his ‘Happy Anniversary’ cupcakes? Totally upstaged me.”

“He’s the golden child. Unlike your cookies…which weren’t golden at all. They were actually tar black.” 

You can not help but laugh at his cheesy joke as you two sit on the lush grass under the big tree in your backyard. Its leaves are still green from the energizing air of summer, their bright beauty contrasting with the broken wood swing hanging from the tree’s strongest branch with now only one rope, the other one laying on the ground as if having given up a long time ago. The swing has been broken for so long that it's almost like decor at this point. For years, this tree has been the spot where you and Elvis chose to spend long, but never dragging, hours talking to each other and listening to listening to records. Whenever the weather allowed for it that is.

This was the spot where all those years ago, Elvis told you all about his favorite superhero, Captain Marvel Jr., the very first time he came for a playdate at your house. You had convinced Elvis to let you play alongside him as a superhero after fulfilling your role as the damsel in distress for a few rounds of the game. Well, being alongside him as Captain Marvel Jr’s sidekick; it would have to do, you thought contently. The two of you had run around with towels as capes for hours, stopping crime in the confines of your gated backyard which your young minds had imagined was actually all of Memphis.

Elvis went back to his house right before sunset that evening with grass and dirt stains on his clothes that matched your own. This was something that you two kids had also shared with your Mama’s new towels left scattered in the yard, which she wasn’t too thrilled about. A smile stayed lingering on your face as you were tasked with doing the laundry that night.

Those old times thrive not only in your memories but also in the roots of the old tree. Does it smile when you and Elvis still choose to sit under it time and time again? The age of the tree is unknown due to the fact that it was already full grown when your family moved in all those years ago. Maybe love has kept it up and standing despite any storm that might come blowing its way.

A few minutes of conversation under the tree remained similar in structure and topic to a lot of your discussions with Elvis recently. 1956 has been a huge year for Elvis and you have never minded him being the center of attention because of how much you truly and wholeheartedly adore him.

“Isn’t this all amazing, Elvis? We used to dream about this stuff for you. I mean I’ve always known that you’re great but….I mean, remember when we were just kids listening to records? Now people go out and buy records that say Elvis Presley.”

Elvis looks up at the white, pillowy clouds passing by. New clouds float through the sky but their all familiar patterns and shapes never lose their comfort. Someone looking up could easily be convinced that the clouds they see are the same ones that just passed by the last time that person had gotten the inclination to look. That would mean they weren’t paying close enough attention.

“I remember being in grade school and my audiences only had my lil Satnin sitting crisscrossed apple sauce with those big wide eyes.” He looks at you and you get a glance of the smile lines gifted from Heaven.

You run a hand through his dyed, jet-black hair and you smile to yourself as you think back to the sandy-haired boy who had just moved to Memphis from Tupelo. The one who on the first day of school was placed in the seat next to you by the teacher. You remember how his leg bounced up and down in anxiety under his desk on the first day; his pencil tapping in what seemed to be the rhythm of a song. 

You remember the cheeky grin of the sandy-haired boy who had just moved from Tupelo to Memphis. The boy who talked really fast except for when he was singing…something that he loved to do. It was hard to miss that Elvis was a lover of music because he made it known. 

“I was early to the party, wasn’t I?”

“V.I.P.” He says nonchalantly as if your exceptionality is obvious. 

“Now you got thousands, millions who wanna listen to ya. A bunch of wide eyes on Elvis Presley.”

“Mhm...but your eyes are still my favorite. Always will be.”

Your eyes saw the butterfly come out of the cocoon. Your eyes saw the fidgets, the smiles, the tears, and all the little habits that made Elvis, Elvis. But did you feel the feeling? A shakiness in your legs as you watched him dance and shake his? A jump in your heart at the first riff of his guitar? A slightly parted mouth as you watched him sing from those beautifully plump lips? Of course. Oh, how you feel it all.

Girls nationwide are experiencing what you have been feeling for years now. It’s just that they have the ability to do things that you aren't quite in the position to do...express your attraction for the world to hear, scream for dear life at his performances, rant and rave to your best friend about the handsomeness and charm of Elvis Presley. All these things you could not do due to the fact that your best friend is the man himself.

He mumbles a little, expressing random thoughts out loud, “We need to keep doing those guitar lessons with you too. I know it’s been a while but I’d hate to lose our progress. You’ve really got something.”

You hum in response, “I think I was just starting to get the hang of it. Whenever ya find the time I’d love for ya to teach me more.”

“Need to get you a guitar. Something real nice so you can practice when I’m not around.”

“I don’t need anything 'real nice'. Maybe once you get a new one, I can borrow your old one. I don’t need anything new.”

You’d hate for Elvis to spend his money on getting you your own guitar. Would it be spectacular to have your own? You’d love it and play it any chance you got. But to have him go out and get one for you would be unnecessary. You’re sure you can save up the money for one with some paychecks.

As you think about possibly getting your own guitar, Elvis has already moved on from that topic and starts talking about something else that has popped up in his thoughts. He was truly lightning in a bottle, a constant, sometimes unpredictable spark of electricity.

He gets that special smile again and you know that he’s thinking about the future.

“I’m gonna take you international. Maybe one day I’ll perform under the Eiffel Tower and I’ll get ya all of the French clothes that gals like cause for some reason the French ones are better than the Memphis ones…Or maybe I’ll perform in one of those fancy palaces in England for the Queen.

Imagine that. You think she’d like me?”

You smile as you imagine the Queen of England at an Elvis Presley performance. I mean if she’s like most young women…

”I don’t think she’d be opposed.”

“Might go against some protocol by having me there. It's gotta be real strict for the royals in London. You know how the knives and the forks are supposed to go on certain sides of the plate? All that rich folk stuff?"

He sighs as if words aren’t enough to describe all of his dreams just right, “I wanna do it all. Go everywhere. I don’t want to be confined to one place…no reason to be.”

As his fingers reach to play with a strand of your hair, a promise that Elvis made to you a few years ago pops back into your consciousness, like the younger-version of you blew a bubble and sent it to the front of your brain,

‘You’ve still yet to take me to New York.”

He chuckles, “I’ll take ya to the top of the Empire State Building, honey. Once you grace the streets of New York maybe they’d even resculpt the Statue of Liberty to look like ya. It would be a great sight to see…Imagine all of those tourists lining up to see your pretty face like you’re Miss America. Would leave a good impression, that’s for sure.” He lays the strand of hair back perfectly where he found it.

You giggle and a blush of pink spreads across your cheeks, “Elvis stop.” 

He shrugs at you, “Just telling the truth.”

As if the heavens heard him utter the words “a great sight” and God himself wanted to show the world one of the most beautiful sights he ever created, like an artist shows off his masterpiece, you notice how hues of orange, pink, and purple start to fill up the sky above you. The clouds blend into the mural; even though they have been moving contently through shades of calming blue all day, it is as if they halt to be gladly used in the greater canvas. They are happy to be used to enhance the beauty of the sun, for they know that the light makes them shine. 

A golden light falls over Elvis’ features as it does yours. A gift for both of you to admire on each other.

Elvis breaks the beautiful silence gently, stuttering a little over his words,

“Speaking of New York, I-I got you something real special. I was there and they had this store, it was all fancy…and I saw this. Reminded me of you.”

He holds out a small, thin box for you to take and you notice how his long, slender fingers seem to shake a little bit as if this moment had been anticipated all day.

“You got me a gift, Elvis? What’s the occasion? It ain’t my birthday yet.” 

A confused look graces your features like the sun paints the sky. Unaware of the way he takes the time to admire you and the beautiful, golden light of dusk as it kisses your features, you think carefully as to why Elvis has given you a gift. Your mind flips through a calendar. 

"Stop worrying your pretty little head, doll. Does there need to be an occasion?"

You hum in response and hesitantly decide to take the black box into your hand before beginning to open it gently.

"It ain't gonna jump out at ya, Honey." Elvis whispers quietly, playfulness replacing nervousness in his voice.

"Be quiet." You whisper back.

After opening up the lid of the box you gasp, "Elvis!"

Your lips slightly part in shock and you smile as you lay your eyes on a beautiful gold bracelet with small diamonds adorning it. After a few seconds of admiring the beauty of the piece, you realize for a second time now that it's yours to keep. You quickly look at him with a face of slight worry.

A smile remains on his face from watching your eyes light up at the sight of his gift.

"Ain’t no way this is for me, Elvis. You can’t. It must’ve been so expensive an-and I really don’t need it. I don’t want you spending your money on me, especially not on fancy stuff like this…I ain’t one of those Hollywood girls.” You ramble on, closing the box and trying to push it back into his hands. You place his pretty hands around the box as if it is too expensive for you to even hold.

Elvis breathes out from his nose and licks his lips as if slightly entertained by your reaction. His voice stays soft.

“Nuh uh, Satnin…You always try to do this when I give ya something nice. You could win a Nobel Prize and you would still have trouble accepting a congratulations card from me. It’s for you, honey. I got it just for ya. You don’t gotta be one of those Hollywood girls to have some nice jewelry.” He pushes the box back into your smaller hands.

“Elvis…”

“Let me pamper ya. Let me spoil ya. I need to. I’ve known you for so long.” He says almost as a beg, a soft plead.

You nod small and then suddenly give him a huge hug, the force pushing him back a little. His eyes widen for a split second, not having expected this big of a gesture so quick, but he relaxes as you fall onto him.

When you lift your head from the crook of his neck, you blush at how close your faces have happened to end up. A matching blush falls over his features and you can hear his soft breaths as they come out. His blue eyes are perfect…absolutely gorgeous. They are the only stable blue in the sky’s changing hour. You always take any opportunity you can to admire Elvis’ beauty, but now, being practically on top of him…you can see everything closer and more intimately than usual. His hand gently rests on the small of your back as you sit in his lap.

Now, both of you are at a standstill when it comes to what happens next. Think of a pen picking up from the page and pondering what else to write while in the middle of an important sentence, one that might change the story. You want so badly to kiss him, to show him how much you adore him in a way you never have before. The only time you have gotten to feel his soft lips on yours so far has been at night when you dream. Two soft pillows, one under your head as you sleep peacefully under the moonlight and one being his lips kissing you, your imagination providing you with what you so desperately need.

His eyes have the same apprehension as yours as if the two of you are thinking similar things, going through similar battles of emotion in your all too similar but at the same time very different brains. 

You know you can’t kiss him. It will complicate an already bustling life. Elvis can’t have a girlfriend. That is what he told you the Colonel said when you asked him why he ended things with Dixie. You remember how Elvis paced around the room that day. Colonel Parker got rid of Dixie…what if he got rid of you too? You can’t lose your Elvis, you won’t lose your Elvis. You know deep down that you can’t let your feelings hold him back from the greatness he is destined for, even if it means a state of eternal longing. The haunting question “What if?” forever stuck in your head. Oh, how some days your mind asks you to be selfish.

The look in his eyes makes your lips go for his cheek instead, missing the beautiful, pillowy target that your heart’s arrow was aiming for. He relaxes into your comforting kiss, long black lashes on true display as his eyes shut. 

When you pull back and giggle at the mark of pink lipstick making itself comfortable on his face, he opens his eyes to catch a glimpse of your smile. 

“Thank you. Do yo-you wanna…want me to help you put the bracelet on?”

You nod, leaving the comfy spot on his lap to instead sit back on the grass next to him. The same grass long abandoned after you had the opportunity to be even closer to the one you love so much. It wasn’t empty though, the black box still sat from where you placed it to hug Elvis, opened and waiting patiently to be remembered. Its velvet interior stood out greatly against the grass.

You grab the box and take the bracelet out from where it lay, handing it to Elvis. Elvis takes the bracelet and looks at it quietly for a moment. He hums as if still satisfied with the choice he made while in the jewelry store in New York. What looks beautiful while sitting under the artificial light of the jewelry container looks even more gorgeous in the all-familiar setting of Memphis under the sun’s calming light. He knows for a fact that what looks beautiful sitting next to many other expensive jewelry pieces, will look even more gorgeous on the wrist of his Satnin.

Elvis softly wraps his hand around your wrist to be able to guide it to lay on his leg. He takes a moment to unclasp the bracelet and then gently wraps it around your wrist. When he reclasps the bracelet, you hold your hand up and smile admiringly.

You look back at him gratefully, eyes full of love, “Thank you, Elvis. It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

He smiles at you adoringly, “No worries, honey, I’m really happy that you like it. You deserve all the good things, you really do….And you wanna know what else?”

“Hm?” 

“No matter what happens with all these changes…there is one thing that isn’t gonna change and that's this. That’s us.” 

Change. How scary it can be.

You want the relationship between you and Elvis to change, blossom, and thrive like how the hydrangeas you planted last spring can change colors with pH but still remain so beautiful. Oh, how sometimes you wish that there was just a slight change: a minute more of hand-holding, passionate kisses reoccurring throughout long days, and nights spent loving in a way that you never have before. But, you aren’t one to gamble, and change can also mean sadness, heartbreak, and loneliness. You stay content and grateful for the one-of-a-kind beauty of a friendship well-loved.

“We’ll always have each other, Elvis. Always have and always will.” 

You smile wide and lay your head on his shoulder as you two continue to look at the sun moving lower and lower into the horizon before disappearing.

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

[earlgreytea68]

I admire your writing SO MUCH. What is your writing routine? Or do you have any writing tips you might like to share?

Awwww, THANK YOU! That is really so lovely to hear!!

My writing routine changes from time to time, which I mention because sometimes it's worthwhile to switch up your routine if it stops working for you.

I always advice trying to write at least a little bit every day, even if it's just a sentence or a paragraph. And rather than framing it that way -- a sentence, a paragraph, a hundred words -- I set aside time to write. Even if I only sit down for five minutes and spend the whole five minutes re-reading what I wrote last time, keeping the story there in my mind is useful to me.

Because I think you should try to find time to write every day, I try to have a time set aside each day to write. When I was younger, I used to write at night. Then two things happened: (1) I got busier, which meant I was sitting down later and later at night for my writing time; (2) I began to be so tired at the end of the night when I finally got time to write. I didn't really notice that I was tired, what I noticed was I was having a hard time writing. The stories felt like slogs and I wasn't getting anywhere.

So! I read somewhere about someone who used to get up early in the morning to write. Look, I am not a person who's waking up at 5am to write. But some mornings I wake up fifteen to thirty minutes earlier than I need to, and I sit up in bed and I write, and this has worked really, really well for me. My brain is much more awake at the beginning of the day and the words have come more easily and it's been a nice way to ease into the day. The problem is it's not a very long period of time, but it's better than nothing. Again, when I was younger, I used to find the time to write for hours. Life happens. Rather than lamenting the loss of marathon writing sessions, instead I cherish the time that I get.

With that said, you might be like, "Hang on, sometimes you very quickly turn around a fic right after some event has happened, how are you doing that in 15 minutes at the beginning of the day?" Oh, don't worry, I'm definitely not. Because this is my other piece of advice: Sometimes you get an idea that just, like, goes, and when that happens, I write. Now obviously you can't do this if you have other commitments, but anything that I can procrastinate to the next day in favor of writing a fic that feels right there, I do, and I do it without guilt, because I can do it the next day, and who knows if the fic will be there the next day. I don't know if that's exactly advice, because I know I have a much more flexible schedule than many people do, but I did want to explain that I promise I'm not lying when I say usually I only write 15-30 minutes a day lol

So that is my "routine." As for "tips," my main writing tip is to write what you would like to read. If it interests you, then it's done its job. For this reason, I think writing is very personal and there are almost no universal "tips," because different things work for each person. I, for instance, cannot outline and hate to do it; it messes me totally up. I start with a vague idea and a first sentence and I go from there. This works for me. I'm unbothered by not having a plan. It wouldn't work for everyone, so if that idea freaks you out, make an outline! But if you feel like you get stuck at the outline stage, this is permission from me to ignore it entirely and just write.

Other things that personally work for me: I try to trust my characters. If I'm struggling with a story, it's probably because it's wrong, and I need to figure out what I did wrong. Like, the characters are in the wrong place and don't want to do what I'm trying to make them do, that's why they're fighting me.

I try not to write "boring" parts. Like, if I'm bored by what I'm writing, I assume everyone else is, too. Just skip to what you want to write and write that. The "boring" part can't be too important to the story if it was boring.

If you're writing a love story, give your characters time to fall in love. That is not the boring part, I promise. If they had a good date, tell us what they talked about on the date. Write the actual dialogue. Whenever I find myself writing, "They talked for hours," I stop and think if I can put some of that conversation in. That, to me, is the important stuff.

I happen to be an auditory thinker, not a visual one. I think in words, not images. For this reason, my first drafts tend to be a lot of dialogue. When I read them over, that's when I add in beats here and there to pause the flow. A dialogue tag can be a nice beat to make the reader pause and not be overwhelmed by the conversation. If you're struggling with dialogue, sometimes I try it out loud, playing both parts.

Identify what writers you admire do well. Not just "writing." Like, I think some writers write excellent descriptions of kissing, for instance, and I wish I wrote better descriptions of kissing. Once you identify the more specific thing they're doing that you admire, really study how they're accomplishing the effect that you like. What makes that description of kissing so good? Thinking about what makes something seem "good" to you can help you to think about using those same tricks in your own writing.

My only universal rule of writing: Resist epithets. You almost never need them. Just use their name or a pronoun. It will read better, trust me.

I hope some of this is helpful!! I will say that I got a comment recently (I read ALL of your comments and they are all wonderful and also so deeply helpful to me in your reactions to things, even if I'm often terrible about responding to them, they are lifelines for me, please know I read and appreciate so much EVERY SINGLE ONE) and the comment said something like, "I used to read your Sherlock stuff! I can't believe now you're in FOB fandom! Your Sherlock stuff was fantastic, but your writing has gotten EVEN BETTER!" I put this in not to brag about this comment lol, but to say that I agree with it, I think I am a better writer now than I was ten years ago and a better writer than ten years before that. You're always getting better, because you're always practicing and learning for the next story. You might not feel like it's happening -- it's not like I'm like, "Let me go PRACTICE writing now!" -- but it will!

[simplyholl]

Although I was a constant lurker for months, today marks my one year as a Loki writer. It has been so fun whoring out with all of you. There have been too many laughs to count. By some miracle, I’ve reached a little over 1,000 followers. I’m shook that so many of you are interested in partaking in my wildest fantasies. But I am so thankful for all of you. If you have read, liked, commented, or reblogged anything - thank you from the bottom of my heart! I love reading every wild thing you have to say about these scenes I’ve created.

Sometimes I will just sit there and read your comments over and over in complete shock that my words would elicit such responses. I am so thankful for our little corner of the internet where we can unashamedly be ourselves. We all have different backgrounds, cultures, and lives but we can all agree we just want our favorite god to dick us down.

I’ve made lifelong friends from doing this, and I would’ve never met them otherwise.

@lokisgoodgirl Thank you for giving me the kick in the cooch I needed to start posting my writing. I would have none of this, if it wasn’t for you. Your words of encouragement mean everything to me. Thank you for being my tech expert for the first little bit. I would never give anyone else my login info. You’ve helped me get through some of the toughest times of my life and I am forever grateful for your friendship. I love listening to your voice notes. Your “Good morning” always puts a smile on my face. I hope we can meet in person one day, although I can’t promise that I would keep my hands to myself. I love you endlessly.

@wheredafandomat I only met you at the end of January, but it feels like I have known you my whole life. Is it possible for two people to share the same brain? Because I’m sure that we do. You can make a 2 hour phone call feel like 5 minutes. I’m lucky to have you in my life. My frequent collaborator and birthday twin - I love you so much.

I couldn’t think of a celebration that I wanted to do, but I wanted to share some of my favorite comments over the course of my time on here.

#burdened with a glorious manhood

-@coldnique

The threat to use his vibranium hand to do the choking was just the cherry on top of my death day cake. This is a filthy masterpiece

- @joyful-enchantress

Well spank me sideways, this went from O-deranged in 2.5 seconds AND I'M NOT MAD ABOUT IT

- @thedistractedagglomeration

Ohhhhhh he talks her out of her hero panties and in to his heart

- @cakesandtom

"sit on his face darling" l'm not gonna survive another paragraph I swear to god.this is too much in the best way

- @lokisgoodgirl

The thought of being an avenger and having Loki fuck you senseless is stupid hot, but add into it him talking about making you carry his secret sex baby and still be an avenger is 🔥🔥🔥

- @itsybitchylittlewitchy

Take that you little shit! I am so glad he saw them together and still mounted at that!

- @silver-tongue-taken-to-bed

I mean it's a fitting description after all the devil is tempting and so is Lokis dick

- @fictive-sl0th

You had me at President Loki and biting!

- @marygoddessofmischief

should have really realized that it was you, my dear, who wrote this!

- @smolvenger

I don't need legs, l'll just drag myself around.

- @goblingirlsarah

Spelling his....spelling his name.. ☠️☠️

- @lokisgoodgirl

absolute genius. i read the part about considering staying with him even if just for the sex and i was like "YOU GO Y/N GO GET THAT MULTIVERSAL ASGARDIAN DICK"

- @muddyorbsblr

Yeah Narfi you little bitch. Take that!

- @wheredafandomat

This was so naughty!!! When the vacuum fell and he was like, "fuck it" then continues to pound you harder!!! 🥵🥵🥵

- @mochie85

I neeeed a tall Loki to be my coworker for the job I don't have so he can fuck me in the storage closet

- @wheredafandomat

The best part of waking up is Bucky & Loki in your cup!! WAY better than Folgers.

- @km-ffluv

IT WAS PHENOMENAL. would have tears in my eyes with how proud I am if I wasn't so horny

- @lokisgoodgirl

Just for fun,

If anyone wants to give it a re-read, here’s the first fic I posted.

Snowed In

And this is actually the first thing I wrote

Across the Multiverse

It’s been a great year. I can’t wait to share more horny, unhinged, wild fantasies with you in the next one.

All my love,

-Holly 💚🖤

[isaaccadrian]

Saucy Neckline Onlyfans Creator Shen Yuan

My friend just showed me a video about an onlyfans for saucy victorian ankle pics and it got me thinking about Shen Yuan starting an onlyfans page for saucy neck pics where he wears pretty, elegant hanfu that highlight his neckline.

All to prove to Airplane Bro that neck fetish is NOT an actual thing in Ancient China. He is doing this IRONICALLY while spending bank on expensive hanfu and camera equipment that display his neck beautifully. He posts them on onlyfans, expecting like zero views.

Only to wake up the next day and sees that actual people have donated to his onlyfans page and are asking to see more. Some of them are history buffs who get the irony and just wanna continue the joke but some of them are actually thirsty for Shen Yuan's neck pics.

here's this one person who has actually donated a whole whopping 1000 Yuan on just one pic of Shen Yuan's neck decorated with a gold and pearl choker (it's actually women's jewelry but hey, beauty had no gender). The fan goes by the name Junshang and begs for more pics.

They write a whole exposition with paragraphs praising the artistry of the pic and the tasteful choice in costume that does his pretty neck justice. It should come off as creepy because it's so fucking long and detailed but Shen Yuan is actually kind of flattered?

What started as an internet joke to get back at Airplane bro slowly starts to become a weekly thing Shen Yuan does. Junshang becomes his biggest fan, always leaving effusive comments about the beauty of Shen Yuan's choice in hanfu and scenery in his photos.

And without fail, Junshang always attaches a frankly obscene donation to each and every one of his pics. Shen Yuan starts to wonder who his generous mystery donator is. Is he some random old guy with a neck fetish? Is he some rich preteen heiress with too much time on her hands?

Shen Yuan begins to take requests for clothing and scenery choices from top donators and obviously, Junshang always wins that right, even if they have to donate stupid amounts of money to beat out his other fans.

Shen Yuan gets nervous that Junshang will choose something slutty or revealing but his fan always seems to choose something tasteful and elegant that Shen Yuan would have actually chosen for himself. Some fans have actually been hinting at him to do a live cam Q&A.

They want to know their internet troll with the most desirable neckline on the web. Shen Yuan fiddles with the idea and decides that he'll just trial run for now (since he's super shy IRL and can't handle too many people's attention) and just do a 1-on-1 live show.

He decides to auction off his first live show and obviously, Junshang wins by a long margin. Shen Yuan feels a funny feeling in his chest when he sees that Junshang has won his first live show.

He spends hours flipping through all his outfits to choose the one he thinks Junshang will like the most. He finally settles on a black and red number that he knows Junshang adores by the ginormous donation they sent after he posted that pic up.

As the time draws nearer, Shen Yuan gets more and more nervous. His biggest fan has the option of leaving their camera off (because Shen Yuan respects his fan anonymity) but he hopes Junshang turns on their camera so he can finally have a face to the person who writes him such sweet comments. And right on time, the screen lights up and displays the most handsome man Shen Yuan has ever seen. For a second, Shen Yuan is tongue tied. This is his mysterious benefactor? This hot piece of ass?

Holy shit, this is not the type of person Shen Yuan imagined would need to pay stupid amounts of money for his neck pics.

Shaking himself out of it, Shen Yuan smiles and hesitantly asks, "Junshang?"

The man smiles and oh my god, he has dimples.

"Hello, Shen Yuan."

Shen Yuan snaps out of his daze and quickly replies, “H-Hi!”

To his surprise, the man turns shy and looks down bashfully before sneaking a peek up at him like a blushing maiden.

“You’re so much more beautiful in real life, Shen Yuan.”

Oh my God, Shen Yuan can feel the tips of his ears burn. How can a guy that hot be dropping lines like that without killing anyone?

“I-It’s nice to finally put a face to my biggest supporter!” Shen Yuan says.

“Nice to meet you, Junshang!”

“Binghe.”

“What?”

“My name,” the man smiles that cute dimpled smile. “My name is Luo Binghe.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Binghe,” Shen Yuan smiles back helplessly. “So… what questions do you have for me?”

They spend the next hour chatting tirelessly about Shen Yuan’s internet troll onlyfans page (Binghe laughs while Shen Yuan chuckles and defends himself “It seemed like a good idea at the time!”) and about Luo Binghe’s life.

Shen Yuan finds out the Binghe is younger than him (“I should be calling you Yuan Ge!”), loves cooking, and that he’s a university student who stumbled upon his web page in a fit a boredom over studying for his exams.

The hour goes by so quickly that Shen Yuan startles when the timer he set up goes off. He had so much fun talking with Luo Binghe and he is actually a little disappointed that the time is over. Taking a peek at the screen, he notices that Binghe seems to think the same.

“I had a really fun time talking with you, Yuan Ge,” Binghe says. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to meet with you.”

“You too, Binghe,” Shen Yuan replies and finds that he actually means that sincerely.

No one moves to turn off their screen and Shen Yuan hesitantly chews on his own lip, the wheels in his brain turning. This goes against every online meeting rule he’s every known but fuck it.

“Hey, Binghe?” Shen Yuan hesitantly asks. “What city are you located in?”

The man visibly perks up at the question and eagerly tells him. To both of their delight, they actually live in the same city and neighborhood. Binghe is the one who shyly brings up if he would be open to possibly meeting in real life.

“B-But only if Yuan Ge wants to!” Binghe is quick to add, turning bright red, “I completely understand if Yuan Ge doesn’t want to!”

“Of course I want to!” Shen Yuan giggles at the man’s blushing appearance, “We can continue that talk about ideas for my next shoot, if you’re open to it? You had some really great ideas!”

“S-Shen Ge likes my ideas?” Binghe asks wondrously.

“How about coffee at the local café?” Shen Yuan suggests.

The day of the meeting, Shen Yuan is nervous. He’s dressed in ordinary modern day clothes and he knows that he looks so very plain and boring in them. He’s afraid of disappointing his biggest fan and literally the hottest man on Earth.

When he sees Binghe waiting at the café already 15 minutes early, he nearly has to do a double take. Binghe is even more handsome in real life, tall and built like one of those ancient xianxia heroes from those dramas his sister watches.

The entire café seems just as enthralled as Shen Yuan with the man, all the girls sneaking glances at him and whispering to each other. Binghe just seems to look bored and distant but the moment he sees Shen Yuan, his entire face lights up.

“Yuan Ge!” he waves his hand like an overeager puppy. “I saved us a seat!”

“Binghe,” Shen Yuan smiles, all doubts about his own appearance wiped from his mind. “I hope I’m not too late!”

“Yuan Ge is not late at all,” Binghe insists, “I was just too excited and came early.”

They spend an entire afternoon talking again about everything under the sun. Throughout the duration of the conversation, Shen Yuan realizes that he’s starting to actually like his troll onlyfans account. It’s fun and it brought him Binghe.

The afternoon bleeds into the evening and Shen Yuan suggests a local restaurant nearby. Dinner becomes dessert becomes drinks, and before long, it’s late at night and Shen Yuan doesn’t want to leave Binghe.

Binghe offers to drive him home since the local transportation has stopped running which Shen Yuan accepts. The ride is silent but nice in the way that it allows Shen Yuan to percolate his thoughts.

“We’re here, Yuan Ge,” Binghe says as they roll up to his apartment.

“Would you…” Shen Yuan starts then stops again, “Would you maybe want to join in on some of my photos?”

He can see the moment Binghe finally registers his words, face growing so bright it’s like staring into the sun. “I would love nothing more!”

They become one of the highest grossing onlyfans account on the site as supporters become increasingly intrigued by the new addition to their favorite neckline troll’s photos. The speculation runs wild that these two are together.

Shen Yuan smiles at all the comments on his account and neither confirms nor denies these suspicions.

But later he runs another Q and A session, the one free to his fan base and Binghe joins in on the video, sitting side by side with his Yuan Ge while holding his hand and staring amorously at him as he answers the fan’s questions. As the livestream draws to a close, Binghe brings up their joined hands and presses a gentle kiss on Shen Yuan’s knuckles. The Onlyfans site goes down from the influx of traffic.

[dollythesheepp]

Veronica- Chapter 10

Ao3 

Dear Westerburg... You may find what I've done shocking ...

Instead of more details about Veronica's fight with her friend Heather, or lovestruck ramblings about JD, all Betty found when she turned the page were scratched out words, written in a different handwriting than the one she had become accustomed; the phrase occupied one line, and there was nothing else written on it. Betty furrowed her brows and turned the page.

Dear world... No one thinks a pretty girl has feelings.

Same thing. The sentences looked like drafts, as if Veronica was writing a letter and she just couldn't find the right words. What did she do that was so shocking?

Expecting another entry like that, Betty turned the page again, this time staring at Veronica's usual welcome in her messy, barely readable handwriting.

September 24th, 1989. Dear diary...

FUCK!

The single word was written in big, block letters, and it took over three whole lines on the page. Betty chuckled, finding that specific entry funny and very teenage like. She stopped chuckling when she got to the next paragraphs.

Dear diary...

I might as well stop sending my applications to ivy league colleges now, as I'm sure the only place I'll be attending next year will be San Quentin.

I can't believe I actually did that. I just killed my best friend (and my worst enemy, but there's a fine line between those two, as I've come to learn.)

It's been three hours, and I still haven't come to terms with it. Because how exactly do you process something like that? I'm sitting in my room, jumping at every noise my parents make downstairs , just waiting for the moment the police will come knocking on my door.

I can't talk to anyone, not Mom and Dad, not the Heathers (the ones that are still standing, anyway), and not even my freaking therapist. You're the only one I trust now.

What the fuck have I done?

Betty only realized her mouth was open when she started to feel her tongue dry; she closed it and blinked rapidly, snapping out of her shock. She adjusted her glasses on her face, and read everything again, to make sure her myopia hadn't somehow distorted Veronica's words and made them seem like something entirely different than what was in fact written.

That had to be a joke, right? Some sort of dare. Or perhaps Veronica was speaking in metaphors and hadn't actually meant killing her friend in the literal way.

Betty turned the page.

September 25th, 1989 Dear diary...

Heather Chandler's death has wreaked havoc throughout Westurburg. The student body is in shambles now that they've lost their queen.

Heather McNamara can't stop crying (in the moments when she isn't sucking face with Kurt Kelly or complaining about how unfair it is that we only got half a day off from school. Everyone grieves in their own way, I suppose..), Heather Duke has suddenly lost her urge to purge now that Chandler isn't here to comment on every calorie she ingests, Peter Dawson is bragging to everyone about how he was one of the last people to go on a date with the recently deceased Heather and Miss Fleming is in some weird sort of power trip, as if Heather's death awakened in her a need to change the world by forcing teenagers to talk about their feelings.

And me...well, I know that I rambled on about wanting to kill Heather, but I did not plan this. It's one thing to wish someone was dead and it's another thing to serve them a wake-up cup full of liquid drainer.

Having said that...If I had the chance to go back in time and undo what I did, I'm not sure I would have changed anything .

Betty blinked, her shock preventing her from expressing any other reaction. She closed the diary as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat and went to bed, finding herself unable to keep reading more.

That night, she didn't sleep.

***

Once the first rays of sunshine started to light up the guest room, Betty gave up on trying to sleep, after restless hours of tossing and turning all night. She stayed in bed, clutching her comforter and staring at the ceiling with a hundred thoughts running amok inside her head, and got up a few minutes after Martha arrived at 8:30; JD woke up shortly after, walking down the stairs already dressed for work.

As usual, Betty found herself in the routine she had established during her stay. She had breakfast, alone this time because JD was late for work and left with an empty stomach and a thermos full of coffee, then she went to the office to work. Seating in front of the computer, Betty couldn't keep her eyes off of the window, where she could see Veronica in the backyard with Martha. They were enjoying the sun as they usually did at that time because Betty wasn't the only one with a routine there.

As a matter of fact, most days in the Sawyer-Dean residence felt exactly the same, like they were all characters in a movie that was being played over and over again. JD would leave for work, Martha would take Veronica outside for a couple of hours and would read her a book or talk to her, then she was fed, cleaned, and Martha would put her back in bed and turn on the TV for her until it was time for her to go to sleep. Sometimes JD would take Veronica downstairs, once he got home, and he'd tell her about her day, other times he would go to her room and stay there with her for hours.

Betty couldn't help thinking about how she would feel in Veronica's position. How draining it must feel to be stuck in that repetitive pattern for the rest of her life. With that thought in her head, she got up and closed the curtains; she didn't want to think about Veronica.

She tried to focus on her job, but the words written in Veronica's diary kept coming back to her every time she closed her eyes. Veronica had killed someone. And according to what she wrote, she didn't feel sorry. Shocked maybe, and scared of getting caught and ruining her life, but she showed no signs of selfless remorse for ending the life of a seventeen year old girl who she had once called a friend.

Did JD know about that? Betty couldn't help but think that God certainly did, and that was why Veronica's life had turned out the way it did. Commeupance comes one way or another.

***

Eventually, Betty managed to forget about the diary for a few hours, her desire to finish her job serving as motivation for her to work faster. With the curtains closed, she didn't feel the hours go by, nor the sun go down until JD knocked on her door.

"Hey," he poked his head inside the office. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm good, thanks," she smiled. She glanced at the swatch on her wrist. It was 6:15 p.m. "You're home early today."

JD fully entered the room, leaving the door slightly ajar after he passed. He gave a shrug. "Yeah, I managed to finish some things earlier," he said. "Do you like pasta? I know it's early but I'm starving."

"Same," Betty said. She managed to get through the day with three cups of coffee and one cereal bar, completely forgetting about lunch. "And pasta sounds great."

She followed JD to the kitchen, and she settled down on one of the chairs to watch JD cook. As always, he refused to let her help but after some insistence, he conceded and let her make the salad while he took care of the rest.

"Do you know what I realized?" JD spoke up after the two of them had finished eating. They were seated in the living room, a soccer game playing on the TV, while they rested from eating what felt like enough spaghetti to feed all of Italy.

"What?" Betty asked from her spot on the armchair. She had opted to not seat on the couch with JD; she didn't know how she would feel knowing that he was that close to her and she didn't want to find out. The daydreams and the indecent thoughts were enough.  IItwasnt even because of Martha, she had left earlier that day, but even so, Betty thought it was best to put some boundaries out of respect for JD.

"I talk so much about myself but I barely know anything about you," JD said. It was true, JD did talk a lot about himself but only because Betty asked a lot of questions, she didn't like being the center of attention and she enjoyed getting to know him, so it was always a win-win.

"There's isn't much to know," she said. "I don't have any interesting stories or anything like that."

"Just tell me anything. Where did you grow up?"

"Cleveland," she said. "And you just did the typical 'Oh, I'm so sorry for you'  expression I normally get when I say that."

JD laughed. "There are worse places if that makes you feel better."

Betty knew that Veronica had also been born in Ohio, in a small town called Sherwood but she was glad JD mention that; she didn't want to think about Veronica.

"Maybe a little."

"Good," he chuckled. "Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?"

"No, at first I wanted to be a doctor but I think that was just because every mom wants that for their kid, including mine," she said. "But I'm very squeamish when it comes to blood and all of that, so I changed my mind when I was like 10."

"And how old are you now?"

"Hm," Betty pursed her lips. She looked down at her watch again, the numbers indicating it was 11:45 p.m. She chuckled.  "You're not going to believe this..."

"What?" he asked curiously.

"I'm turning 30 in 15 minutes."

JD's eyes widened in surprise. "What?" he said again. "Really?"

"Yep."

"What a crappy way to spend your birthday, with people you don't know and having to work all day," he said, giving her a sympathetic look.

"I've had worst birthdays," she shrugged.

"Stay right here," JD got up from the couch.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to bake you a birthday cake," he said, already raiding the cabinets to get the ingredients.

"You don't have to do that, it's so late..."

"No, I insist. What kind of birthday doesn't have a cake?" he argued. "Just watch some tv, I'll be done before you know it."

"No way, I have to see that," Betty got up to follow him into the kitchen, unable to contain her smile. That was by far one of the sweetest things anyone had ever done for her.

50 minutes later JD placed a chocolate cake in front of her. He cut one slice for her and one for himself. The entire kitchen had been invaded by that delicious smell of freshly baked cake.

"This is really good," Betty said, after swallowing another big piece.

"I'll tell you the secret one day," he gave her a playful wink. "There's hm...there's some frosting on your face."

Automatically she placed her fingers on her face. "Here?" she asked.

"No, right here..." he leaned in closer, and gently put his thumb on the corner of her lips. He kept his finger pressed on her mouth for a second too long like he didn't want to let go. He was close, close enough that she could feel his breath on hers and smell his perfume.

Part of Betty was yelling for her to step aside, and get as far away from JD as possible before any of them could get hurt. Betty didn't listen. Instead, she ended the distance between them with a kiss.

He tasted like chocolate. At first, she thought JD would stop her, or pull away but he didn't. Betty was the one to initiate the kiss but JD was the one who took full control. And she allowed him because it felt so good.

It started slowly, but quickly things became intense, desperate. They both wanted it. She felt his hands running wild through her hips, her legs, her hair. Their lips were still touching, his tongue inside her mouth, her heart palpitating inside chest.

His kisses were exactly how Betty had imagined: explosive, ferocious, dangerous. And wrong. So wrong. But at that moment, neither of them seemed to care. It didn't matter that the hand fumbling with her shirt, desperate to yank it off, was the same hand that he wore his wedding ring, or that his wife was on the floor above. None of it mattered because it felt so right. And it felt so good.

She was thankful that Martha wasn't there anymore, otherwise, she would have heard them as they fiercely tried to quench their needs with each other.

Enthralled by it all, Betty didn't plan on stopping with just a kiss. She wanted more. And she probably would have gotten that, if it wasn't for the sound of something shattering on the second floor.

The noise startled the two of them, who broke apart instantly. JD looked at her, panting and his face red, with lipgloss smeared all over his face, and furrowed his brows, confused. A second later he was racing up the stairs in worry, Betty behind him.

He opened the door to Veronica's room and rushed inside, turning on the lights. He was still panting, but something inside Betty made her beloved that it was out of worry for Veronica's wellbeing, and not out of euphoria from the moment they had in the kitchen. And for a second she felt jealous of JD's invalid wife.

Veronica, as expected, was in bed. Her eyes were closed, it looked like she had been none the wiser about the whole commotion. How was it possible that the noise or JD storming inside her room didn't wake her up? Betty supposed she could be groggy from all of the medications she had to take, but still, she thought it was weird.

"Shit," JD's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she stopped staring at Veronica to look at him. On the floor, next to the window was a shattered vase, dozens of pieces, small and big, scattered all over the carpet.

"Did it fall on its own? How?" Betty wondered aloud, more to herself than to him.

"The window is open, it must have been the wind," he said. "Martha probably forgot to close it."

He tiptoed on the floor, trying to avoid stepping on the pieces of broken porcelain, and closed the window, making sure that it was locked this time.

Betty glanced at the sleeping figure on the bed. Veronica looked so peaceful, so fragile. She never would have guessed that Veronica had killed someone.

Betty swallowed the lump in her throat. "You're right, it must have been the wind..."

[mypunkpansexualtwin]

This is a big one, going under a cut for several paragraphs of introspection and some brief mention of my last suicide attempt.

Hell of a thing, realizing this time last year was about the start of my Nuclear RSD Spiral that ultimately led to me trying to go play chicken with a freight train back in February with half a bottle of rum and a handful of sleep meds in my stomach to make sure I didn't flinch. Obviously I didn't, but I did get far enough that I had to drag my drunk ass off the train tracks and go stumbling back home to have the rest of my meltdown in peace and un-queue the suicide note I'd had prepped since last November. Fun stuff, crazy to think about.

Especially considering how I'm doing now that I've had the necessary wake up call from that whole situation and have finally started internalizing "hey, letting people see you hurting and hoping they'll decide you've suffered enough to deserve help is not the same as communicating your needs. Talk to people before it gets to your usual Talk About It After You Tried To Off Yourself About It. If it gets to this point again, next time won't be an attempt." (Fun stuff, lots to thank my grandparents for.)

And now I've got the right medication combo to help me keep an even keel. Wellbutrin/Vyvanse? Bad. Lamotrigine/Vyvanse? I might actually be a human being for the first time in my life. I've been getting a shower every night and brushing my teeth twice a day without fail since I started. And trust me when I say that's fuckin astronomical progress for me. Even when I found out it wasn't the case, part of me was still certain it was fake that people could just get up and do things without mentally screaming at themselves for anywhere between 2 hours to 4 months first. Shit, I can do it now and it still feels fake.

Anyways. The ability to Task was an expected improvement, as was the ability to regulate my momentum on said task better than without meds (ie, at fucking all). Although I figured it'd be a ways off to get this much improvement. I can put things down without freaking out (mostly) and I can pick them back up again after an interruption.

Another unexpected bonus too, I hadn't even thought to anticipate any change in another big factor at all. Like, not only did I not realize it was on the table, I hadn't realized that this particular table even existed. I figured this other issue couldn't improve with anything but another two years of therapy.

I've got a lot more control over regulating my emotions and the kind of obsessive, destructive thought spirals (usually RSD or my usual Leech And Burden thoughts or my brain cooking up scenarios to get upset about because they felt too real, or a fun combination of the three) that'd lead to me writing off entire days or weeks until I burnt myself out. Used to be these were so intense it'd just kind of gut me and I couldn't do anything but ride it out. Intense enough that I've had a couple mental health professionals tell me "yeah, no, it's not enough for formal diagnosis, but there's definitely strong evidence for OCD where the autism and ADHD overlap," one of whom went "right, that makes sense with what you've described about the last month, and speaking of the last month, i think we should consider going back to once a week since every three weeks hasn't been helping you." It used to be that the only way I could get these under control would be by heading them off before they got started or getting borderline blackout drunk in the middle of the spiral and distracting myself until I couldn't stay awake to think anymore. Both required sufficient distraction because every attempt at actually trying to take it apart and process just perpetuated it. Healthy, right?

But now, not only do the little things that used to sap my energy for the whole day now just breeze by like nothing (again, hygiene stuff), I can stop the spiral. They're not nearly as loud and sharp as they used to be and I can just... put them down. I've got the energy to do more and the control to just pick something else up until I'm ready. The bad ones still take a few tries, but that's huge after 25 years of "welp this is just the week we're having." And even bigger than that, it's already easier to pick it apart to find what needs fixing instead of just metaphorically cutting myself up while making a bigger mess.

It's also easier to not need my anger as a wall to keep between me and the people who have hurt me. For the first time since my granddad died, I can look at him and my grandmother as people through a sympathetic lense and still be able to say that the bridge there is burned and I won't be going back. I used to need to think of them as awful, irredeemable people just to keep from crawling back for their approval.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still pissed about everything that's hurt me deeply enough for my therapist to go poking at in the wake of a PTSD screener saying "yeah we're not even close to done, try again next year." But it's not the only thing that's there, and maybe someday I might even be able to scrape out my own closure instead of starving myself waiting for apologies that'll never come. Cleaning out the bullshit associated with the hurt didn't kick off the meltdown it would have even a month ago. The little scar from an arm-clawing meltdown last November is just a bitter little emotional bruise that I can push right back to the back of my mind until the dirt-spot mark finally fades out completely.

It's easier to not hate over it now. I've got more energy now and can finally use it for better things. Why waste it turning people into demons when I know damn well even if I wasn't the only one who fucked up and hurt people, I still did exactly that. And yeah, there's stuff I'm gonna stay bitter over, on both sides of things, and probably still mildly bitch about when the irritation of it decides to pop back in for a visit. That feels like a fair tradeoff for something that did still very much almost kill me, but it's not gonna stop me anymore. And it's not even a matter of "the best revenge is letting go and living well" because in the half dozen cases that stick the hardest, that wouldn't even be revenge. Fucked up as things ended, it's not like I was hated. Hell, maybe I'm lying to myself when I go this far, but I'd like to think that most of those people would be happy to see me doing better, even if they'd promptly turn right the fuck around and pretend they didn't see me at all.

Or maybe things did fester to a point where there's just as much animosity as I had for them and they'd rather see me lose a game of chicken a few more times before they can let go. God knows I was bitter enough for a good while to think pretty goddamn frequently that I hoped they were in just as much pain as I was. So yeah, that's also fair. Maybe they don't care either way, and as much as that idea stings the most, it's still entirely fair.

Regardless, I've got better things to do. I've got some self love and self respect to cultivate after realizing I was never given any kind of foundation besides "If You're Not Giving Everything, You're Not Worth Anything." Joked about it for years, but only in the last month did it actually Click. Admittedly I'm still falling into some of the same thinking, although instead of "I don't deserve the love people give me unless I'm Being Useful, I'm a manipulative liar if I get it without earning it," it's more like "I can finally Do Things, so I can finally deserve my own love." It's a brittle crutch, but that just means I know not to give it too much weight while I get my feet under me and start building the foundation I actually deserve. Because people deserve love and I'm a people too, goddammit.

Anyways, this was a big long rant partly for myself and partly for the six of you who've paid attention and might wanna know how I've been doing. I'm still standing, let's see where it takes me. For now, I'm gonna go be gay with my girlfriend of 6 months as of last week.

[froshele]

Can we please - I know it's not very pro idiot dilf of me and Tumblr doesn't always like that but can we please take a break from cooing over the clueless infantilized dadness of this man and analyze the situation and the context critically?

He opens the article with a totally unnecessary paragraph fawning about some teenager (as like a lead into "you wouldn't BELIEVE what sorts of people can set records and how humble they are!") and then goes into like a thing about the same guy's juggling record and how much he loves Mario and is the webmaster/referee of some record site

This entire saga begins because the author of the article hears about how important tetris records are to gamers and is immediately like lol you know My Wife really likes that dinky little game, she gets 500 lines easy, she's weirdly good at it (for a woman) i know

and so then the guy is like (awkwardly) wow the record is like 300something you should take her to the tournament

and so he wakes her out of a dead sleep to tell her this, and there's a cut and he does take her there, and she goes along despite playing tetris casually and mostly just to focus on long car trips because she's like fine with being shown off to his friends it's ok, or maybe because she wants to set a record for real, i dont know, he doesnt tell us enough about her to say and i dont think he knows enough about her himself

he barely briefs her about what to expect from all these gamerbros and she gets nervous, and-

Lori and I drIve to Weirs Beach in the middle of rush hour. This is fine. We haven't had much time to talk about the scene, and she wants to know what to expect. She is anxious. I can't say I blame her. After a few months of laughing about this whole idea that she could be a Tetris world record-holder, it is time for her to deliver. Live. In front of some of the world's best video game players.

Oh my gd dude do you even love her. Do you even have any faith in your wife or is she a mere woman to you. What do you mean laughing about it, and do not give me the man of the times argument, when I left home I time traveled out of 1880 and this is a genre of misogyny i actually managed never to experience

Since I'd woken her up that night, the idea had felt comfortably surreal. We'd tell friends the story and have a good laugh. I mean, it's Tetris. Everybody knows Tetris, and most everybody has played Tetris. It's the video game that people who hate video games actually love, probably because it's so simple

Shut UP shut UUUUUP shut UPPP if it's so simple YOU set a record at it then

There are many things that attracted me to my wife, though I can't say an exceeding amount of hand-eye coordination was one of them. She's 31, she works as a nutritionist at UMass, and she's fairly athletic. She can hit a softball and catch a football, but there was nothing about her to suggest she had some innate ability for the split-second decision making required to succeed at Tetris when the pieces are really coming fast. The idea that she could be the best person to ever play the Game Boy version of Tetris seemed beyond crazy.

GOOD LORD what an asshole. We didn't need to know the age, athleticism or weight range of your wife!

Good LORD you guys. Literally he only did any of this to write this piece about it, and nowhere in any of this do we get any sort of statement from her at all except at the very end. It's an article about his wife's achievement, only like 70% of it is him creaming himself about other men and negging her by proxy

There is the line

For the first time, I allow myself to believe that she really is that good.

SWEET BABY RAYMOND, MAN! You must be so much fun at parties! He spends the whole article basically going like heres my gamer cred, i know you guys would never believe a woman had any mental capacity at all and tbh neither would i but listen this museum acknowledged my wife's record and then i was so hyped! I felt like i wanted to hand out cigars because MY woman beat the record

and they're all like ooga booga cheating? wait no actually secret Real record! And the guy's all like

She is not using any cheat codes or banned techniques because, frankly, she doesn't know any.

HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT? i wouldnt cheat at a world record either but the way you talk about Lori good sir I dont think you have any sort of grip on or appreciation of what she knows. Worst way to defend your wife's integrity, 1/10 for even thinking to, although it was for the record and not for her

Anyway she beats the colour category record too and

Billy, I definitely have the record, right?"

"Oh, yeah," I reply. "Now you're just showing off."

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

The crowd is getting into it. Twice, she makes mistakes and the pieces pile to the top of the screen, but she gets out of it. After an hour of playing, Lori makes one mistake too many and her game ends. She has destroyed the record – her final score is 841 lines. We would later determine this was her second-best game ever.

Almost a guarantee her mistakes wouldnt be covered if she was a he but anyway of course this was only her second best game, very slick use of "we"

Day comes over to shake her hand. Lori is laughing as Day declares her "the greatest Tetris player in the world," then turns to me to add, "And I must say, she's also the prettiest."

eeeEEEEeeeeUoUUUGHHHHH. Who GIVES. A Fuck? Who ASKED? More importantly why was this put in the final article? You couldn't torture me into embarrassing a stranger like that in a piece meant to flatter them, although of course I would also not be in this situation with my wife, who is a person whom I respect and love

The only thing Lori is ever quoted as saying is

"That was one of the most bizarre moments of my life," she says. "The flashes were going off and Walter was talking. It was like Bizarro World."

Which of course is the name of the arcade lounge hahaha

AND THEN

AND THEN this ends on THIS note:

What does it mean to be the best in the world at something? This is what runs through my mind as we lay in bed Sunday morning. We are both struggling to understand what Lori's mastery of a game that Day calls "the embodiment of comprehensive thinking" means in our lives.

As I go to pack the car, I realize that Lori has bought some things on the trip, and fitting them into our Jeep Cherokee is getting tricky. Then I look over at Lori, and it all makes sense. "From now on," I tell the new master of fitting shapes into tight spaces, "you pack the car."

Of course! Of course if she has a skill (which isnt reeeeeally all that) she has to use it to benefit him and this is all cutesy and charming! 87 years after the women's vote in this gentleman's country, ladies and sundry. 87 years.

Please don't harass Billy Baker about this. He is an old man and I'm sure a better person 20 years on. And if not, well, that was not the point, the point is I do not think this is as cute as it seems.

please read this story of a man accidentally discovering his wife is the world's best Tetris player

[writinghyperobsession]

Dream

Sorry if this is a bit confusing or something, it came to me in a dream. I’m not joking. I saw a less detailed version of this in a dream a few days week month+ ago. My brain just likes to remind me of how lonely I am with dreams like this (this was not a first instance of this, maybe I will write from other dreams if I find a file where I wrote down their plot). Anyway, enjoy the read!

****************************************

The symphony of the storm was not letting up. Rain’s relentless drumming was momentarily interrupted by the bass of thunder. The only light in the living room was a lamp standing next to the large sofa. The sofa itself was in the color of burgundy and its sides stretched forward, in a shape of C, granting room to sit with legs laid on the sofa. 

On one of the sides closer to the lamp sat Alice. She stretched her legs before her, using the extra space. Her attire is simple but no less enchanting. Dark blue jeans stretched to her ankles where they were replaced by socks with cute cat motive. Her jumper was full of colors and patterns that combined into a chaotic rainbow.

Alice frowned while her deep brown eyes flied over a text at her tablet and pushed up one of few pins that held her long dark hair.

William walked in with two teacups, snacks and an old book on a tray. He put the tray on a coffee table and sat down. His slender frame was covered by a simple clean t-shirt and pair of jeans .

“Something happened?” William asked after seeing Alice's worried face.

“Aah, nothing world ending” answered Alice, “just that, all the train departures in the next two hours were canceled or postponed. Just wrote to my parents about that.”

“Look at the bright side, at least you are not getting soaked outside.” Will tried to cheer her up “And I found an extra copy of Sorrows of Young Werther.” ~It’s a good thing that my parents are such fans of the Romantic movement.~

“Great, now I don't have to go to the library tomorrow. And how will we mention this part of our project?” Alice pointed at her tablet.

Will carefully scooted closer, closing the distance between them, and leaned to Alice to get rid of an annoying reflection of lamp on the tablet. ~ I’m a bit too close, but it can’t be helped ~ ”Suicides? Well that sure won’t be fun. We could split it, one of us talks about it broadly and the other one mentions specific examples. Which part would you like more?” He asks and straightens his body, creating a bit of distance between them. ~ Even more dates we will have to memorize ~

Alice thinks for a moment. “I guess I could take the specific examples as you already have a lot of dates and such in your parts.”

“Okay” Back of the book cracked as William opened it and started reading through the pages. For a moment the only thing that could be heard was the turning of the pages and the storm outside.

“Looks like we will have to add few meanings of the old English words for better understanding of our audience” stated William after he stopped his quick inspection of the book

“Do you have some examples?”

“Yeah, right here the usage of yoke could be hard to understand without the context.” William pointed at the page

“Lemme see.” Says Alice as she scoots closer and starts reading the paragraph above William’s finger. Slowly she lays her head down on Will’s shoulder. “Maybe, we could put it as a footnote in the lower part of the projection.”

“Yeeaah” Will slowly says as he looks on Alice ~What?! That’s touch too much! What am I going to do?~ He looks back at the book and starts talking quickly: “So, how much time do you think we need to read the whole book?”

“Let’s give it a week. We have more than enough time to make the project afterwards” Alice answers, without lifting her head. 

“Week is convenient for me too” affirms Will glancing at Alice again ~Looks like I will have to roll with this.~  “And what about ….

Will wakes up, sitting on a couch. ~I must have fallen asleep.~ He hazily looks at the clock. It’s 8 pm. He’s about to start cleaning the tray before him when he’s reminded of the situation. Alice still has her head on his shoulder and she has fallen asleep similarly to him. ~Well … now what? I don’t want to disturb her but I can’t really do anything now. But at the other side, this feels pretty peaceful~

Luckily (or not) for Will, Alice wakes up while this conundrum weighs on his mind.

“What time is it?” she asks “8 pm? I have to check the trains”

Alice quickly boots up her tablet and checks the timetable. “Station was closed down because of the heavy rains!? Now how will I get home?!”

“Well, you can stay ,if you want.” suggested Will

“Really, won’t your parents mind or something?”

“Don’t worry, they wouldn’t leave somebody in need without help. And they are at a conference so there’s a free bed” Explains Will.

To be continued… maybe :3

[squarebracket-trickster]

Well, more like a numbered list - with all the events that need to happen in order. Each event is described in paragraph form, in as much detail as I feel is necessary (so I don't forget anything important).

Every event develops the story in at least one way. Either plot happens, or a character learns something or makes a major decision (or a subplot, characterization moment, or bit of foreshadowing etc.).

I'm not really concerned with breaking things into scenes, or trying to make sure every scene does more than one thing. This is just a list of the developments that will get me from beginning to end.

I will also add in everything I want to happen (jokes, worldbuilding, dialogue, fluff, etc.), but I will connect each "want" with a "need". So like, "I want the characters to share a bed (and be Very Mature about it), but I also need them to discuss overthrowing the king. Oh! They can do both at once."

An entry will look something like: 9. To their dismay, there is only one patch of straw in the prison cell. Character A tells Character B to sleep on it, Character B asks, "why? are there rats?" Argument ensues. The dumbasses both end up sleeping on the floor out of stubbornness. Neither can sleep, so they plot how to escape together (very sleep deprived). Character B mentions that they should go try to find Rebel Leader down here before they leave. Character A says no, they will not participate in treason. Character B convinces them eventually - "the king already hates you, why the fuck are you still loyal?" They finally agree to sleep on the straw together because the floor is ouchy. They wake up in each other's arms the next morning and never mention it again.

My outlines aren't hard, and I often don't finish them. But I find that if I start trying to draft without a clear idea of 1. the steps to get from chapter one: establish the norm to the inciting incident (~30% mark) and 2. everything the inciting incident incites that will have to be resolved, I end up just pantsing 10-30k worth of scenes I don't particularly care for, and then I get stuck - I've set up a whole bunch of threads that might be interesting to another writer to explore, but none of them are the story I want to tell; and I have a direction in mind, but I am no closer to getting there. Everyone tells me to "just keep writing! Eventually you'll get unstuck." I think if I don't like the story after 30k I'm not going to, and it's a waste of time.

My outline for WIPVII got me to about the 40% mark, and then I had a clear enough idea of all the threads I needed to follow to get me to the "high point before the 3rd act breakdown" that I left the outline unfinished and pantsed the rest.

--

I've never found any other outlining method useful. I don't need help visualizing story structure or keeping track of plot threads/subplots etc. I will know, for example, that "so-and-so must make x decision in this scene". What I struggle with is figuring out, "how did so-and-so even get into this situation in the first place?" I know what needs to happen, the problem is details, and details require ideas, and generating ideas is the part I get stuck on.

I don't know of any outlining template or technique (or pantsing technique for that matter) in existence that can help with thinking up ideas (other than the good old fashioned "list everything that comes to mind until you find something you like" and "stare at the wall, take a break, scream into the void, kidnap a man a monologue to his terrified screams, wake up in a cold sweat at 3am"). Ideas come when they come, and I'm picky which doesn't help.

So, alas, I hate the planning stage. I hate being stuck, but I'm not really asking for help. I've just kind of accepted that getting stuck is part of my process.

(Oh, and the good news is, after about 4 and a half hours, I got myself unstuck!!)

I hate outlining I hate outlining I hate outlining I have been stuck on the same bullet point for four hours I hate outlining I hate outlining I hate outlining

[osakunt]

Your blog is fuc***g awesome!! I was wondering, can you write something with msby boys and a s/o who is going to uni and has a lot of exams? Like yesterday me and my friends studied all night and we have breakfast with readbull, coffee and cereal to have the energy to study again and I want to see them with a s/o doing something similar. Thank you!

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➬ 𝗠𝗦𝗕𝗬 𝟰 𝘅 𝗴𝗻!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

➬ 𝗺-𝗺𝘆 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴 😳😳 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁𝘁𝘆 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 𝗹𝗺𝗮𝗼. 𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲, 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆 ‼️‼️

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𝗦𝗔𝗞𝗨𝗦𝗔 kissed you before going to bed and told you to come to bed when finishing. He was knocked out - in sleepy land until he rolled over in the early hours of the morning to bring you closer to him but you weren’t there. “They can’t be” he whispers. Peeking an eye open - already knowing where you were. “Mind telling me why you’re still here and at four in the morning……with energy drinks (?) love, what the fuck ?” “Morning Omi. How’d you sleep ?” You look over your shoulder to see him frown at you.

“Don’t morning, me. Tell me that you didn’t stay up all night” he sits next to you pushing your notebook to a clear space in the coffee table. “Then I won’t tell you” you shrug giggling making him groan. “Did you at least take a break to eat ?” “No. I said I was going to do that but I completely forgot” hearing your answer ,he leaves for the kitchen and comes back with two bowls,cereal and milk. “Here this’ll keep you steady for now” he hands you your bowl nagging you to eat before you got sick. When you were done you set the bowl down and go back to picking up your notebook, however Kiyoomi had other plans.

“NOPE. You’re comin’ with me” he throws you over his shoulder, making his way to the room. “I have my day off today so we’re sleeping” he says before his head hits the pillow and arms circling around you. It didn’t take long for the both of you to fall asleep. After eight hours of cramming things into your brain, there was nothing else to expect. ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

BOKUTO thought you’d go to sleep a few minutes after he went to bed but he had been in bed for an hour now, still awake - waiting for you to come join him to cuddle to sleep. Grabbing his phone from the night stand, he sees that it’s exactly eleven on the dot. Getting out of bed and going to where you were at the desk in the next room, he sees you sipping on coffee - reading some notes you had taken hours before. “Hey baby ? You coming to bed ?” He asks poking his head and half his body into the room

“I can’t Kou. I need to finish up this third part” putting your mug down, you look up to see him pout. “How many parts are left ?” “Two, baby”. Now, Bokuto wasn’t all too happy with you staying up - after all he only went to college for two years before getting drafted for the MSBY. He understood that you working for your career was a priority but at the moment his priority was having you in bed and in his arms, ear pressed against your chest to hear your heart beat. “Guess I’ll just stay with you” he pulls up a rolling chair settling down in it; smiling at you.

“Kou, this will take me all night.”

“I know. I’ll spend it here with you. Good thing it’s off season so I can stay up till anytime”

“That’ll mess up your sleep schedule though”

“No it won’t” and he was right. It wouldn’t mess up anything for him. It was now three in the morning and he was on your lap knocked. You even used his chest as a table for your books when you ran out of space on the desk.

He wakes up when the sound of a RedBull can opens and some of the sprit falls on his cheek. Blinking the sleep away - he stirs up from your lap, taking in the circles under your eyes. “Are you done yet ?” “No. I need to read through this article” you pull out a sheet with a pencil. “Then let’s popcorn read so you can finish this up. This studying thing annoys me. It takes you away from me” he grabs your paper and starts reading the first paragraph to help you finish faster. ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Atsumu’s plane landed around five and got home at six from an away game the team had. He wasn’t excepting to see you eating a bowl of cereal with your laptop propped up on your legs with a blanket over your head. “Ya waited fer me ta get home ?! Awe, angel yer so sweet ♡” “Shhh Tsumu !!! I need to hear this” you shut him up increasing the volume of your computer.

“Welcome home babe - thanks,baby! It’s great to be back - I missed ya- I missed ya too, angel” Atsumu goes back and forth with himself creating a welcome home scenario - playing both your part and his.

Making it over to the floor where you were set up, he squints his eyes seeing numbers and letters appearing on the computer screen. Face dropping even more, he sets down his duffle bag then takes your laptop away from you. “Heyy!!” “Let me see your face” he squished your cheeks with his hand to get you to stop moving.

“Ya didn’t”

“I did. And will continue” you finish up your bowl of cereal tossing it aside to grab your laptop from his hands but he yanks it away.

“How long ya’ve been at it ?”

“Since two days ago”

Hearing you say two days ago blew him away. This meant you probably hadn’t eaten anything nor taken a break. Setting down the laptop - he brings you up to the couch snuggling into you. Playing with your hair and making small talk, he feels your exhaustion overpower you - slowly carrying you into a deep slumber. A slumber that he also needed and took the chance while you were in his arms. ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Hinata was up studying with you. While you studied for your career, he studied his plays and next moves to make in the next game the team had. “I can jump a little higher” he pauses the video he was watching to write down a solution for his problem. Glancing over to you, he sees you handing him a glass bottle of refrigerated Starbucks. “Thanks” he smiles at you opening up the drink and looking at you again. “What time is it ?” His eyes show how bad he needed sleep, however he refused to go to bed unless he found ways to improve his plays.

“It’s ten. I think we should go to sleep. I’m pretty much finished” you suggest

“Fifteen more minutes. That way we can both finish and sleep the whole day” he says yawning.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you look at him and turn off the tv. “No. You were literally just falling asleep just now.”

“Y/n- but pleaseee” he gives you puppy eyes. Ones that you ignore packing up your things in their respective place. Unlike the other MSBY 3, Hinata will be the one you have to force to go to sleep because of how invested he is in finding ways to palm that ball. Though the others are also invested, Hinata is the one who has a hard time because of the excitement.

“No. Sweetheart it’s about to be noon. Let’s try to at least sleep” you grab his hand - dragging him to the shared room. “Maybe I can do that trick Atsumu did with Osamu when we were in high school. When they changed positions”

“Shut up. Sleep” you kiss his forehead resting your head on your pillow - quickly falling asleep.

“Baby ?….y/n …..oh they fell asleep” Hinata rubs his eyes, feeling the warmth of the bed - maybe a quick nap wouldn’t hurt.

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[niskoo]

[02:00]

pairing: lee heeseung x reader

genre: angst, fluff, ....hurt comfort? idk

warnings: poor descriptions of a panic attack because i completely forgot what its like

word count: 1.3k words

a/n: hi hi!! this was (a bit late Jfbsjn) a request from @wonvelvet (thank you so much for requesting!! i love your writing <33) ALSO IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FLUFF BUT IDK HOW IT TURNED INTO THIS HAHA IM SORRY IT MIGHT BE RUSHED </333

networks: @enhypennetwork

For your whole life, numbers and brains defined you. At least, you thought it did. That’s just how your parents raised you, around exams and exams and education. Never have they at least considered your feelings. And neither did you.

Until you got to college and met the boy who accidentally spilled paint on your shoes, the boy who felt bad and quickly apologized, the boy who promised to exchange them for something. You thought it was simply silly, how could be so worked up over a pair of sneakers?

And as he took you out for a small treat ar a bakery, for the first time in your life, he asked for what you wanted. You furrowed your brows at this, claiming it was just pastries and he could pick anything out.

And as you took a bite in the donut, you observed as the boy’s expressions changed as he smiled in what seemed like pure bliss. You asked him why he was so happy, but you really didn’t expect for him to make a whole speech of why donuts bring the heavens down to earth.

You felt something there, you wanted to smile at his small presentation, you wanted to join in and ramble nonsense about a pastry.

Lee Heeseung brought colors to your life. Not long after the first bakery date, he asked you on a real one, where he would dress up and actually pick you up and all that jazz.

And now here you are, a year later, staying in the same apartment.

It was crazy, how he actually brought feeling into your life, when you were completely unaware of how much more you could enjoy life, instead of looking at numbers and meaningless information you probably wouldn’t use in the future.

Most of your experience with your boyfriend was happy. Most.

Now wasn’t one of those times.

Now was one of those rare times where you would find numbers and worksheets so difficult, where you would struggle and want to give up.

It was simply too much. Too many assignments, exams, projects, too much work.

You stare blankly at the open document in front of you, fingers hovering over the keyboard, grazing over the keys. You’ve been at it for hours now, typing potential pieces, before deleting it after realizing how ridiculous it sounded. You’ve never had such a hard time doing an assignment.

The white screen of your laptop practically glares at you, the two paragraphs of nonsense screaming how pathetic and useless you were.

You grunt, and quickly shut your computer down, slamming it shut. There’s a migraine grazing your mind, tired of staring into a bright screen for too long.

You trudge lazily onto the bed, patting the sheets, before plopping in next to your boyfriend with a groan.

Heeseung instantly wakes up at the dip of the bed, turning around to greet you. “Hey, you done with the report?” You stick your head back up from the pillow, shaking your head with a deep frown. Heeseung chuckles lightly at your response, nodding, before pulling you closer to him and under the blanket. “It’s okay, you can finish it later.”

You find yourself instantly dozing off in Heeseung’s embrace, sighing in bliss, before nuzzling your face into his neck, humming in agreement.

You don’t think about the unfinished document sitting on the study table, only about your boyfriend’s featherlight touch and light kisses on your hairline.

Though, a few hours after sleeping, you do find yourself suddenly awake, a deep heavy feeling in your chest. You sit up from Heeseung’s hold, eyes instantly trailing to your laptop on the study table. A sudden feeling of nausea and anxiety floods your body when you realize you had not even done half of your report.

Feeling overwhelmed, you crawl out of bed, hands shaking and footsteps slow as you approach your laptop. Your breaths soon grow shaky as well, as you open your computer and see all the reminders of all the assignments and exams you have yet to come.

Your eyes burn as you read through the list, the anxiousness spreading throughout your body in an overwhelmingly fast pace, thoughts of how you’re gonna fail clouding your mind. You step away from your laptop, stepping back, hands finding themselves shaking and holding onto the back of your head.

You’ve only had a panic attack around 2 times in your life, and every time you force yourself to focus on your breathing, just like father had said, but now all thats hazing and filling your mind is how much things you have undone, how much of a failure you are, how weak you can be.

Soon, soft sobs the air, tears smearing your face messily as you shut your eyes and focus on your thoughts, and your thoughts only.

You’re a failure. You can’t get anything done. You have so much to do. Why are you so weak? Why can’t you fulfill mother and father’s expectations? Why do you have to be so pathetic?

You don’t realize your boyfriend quickly getting out of bed at the sound of your sobs, rushing to hold your hands in his as he kneels in front of you.

“Hey, hey,” he mumbles, placing a hand on your cheek. You jolt at the touch, finally realizing Heeseung in front of you, a worried expression twisting his face. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You try to focus on his question.

Why are you worked up?

Your eyes trail to your open laptop on the table, blinking at the brightness. And then, you remember.

Quickly, you suck in a sob, attempting to stand up and walk to your laptop to finish everything, but a soft grab at your hand tugs you back gently, causing you to bump into Heeseung’s chest.

“Hey, no no, look at me. Y/n, please look at me.” Your blurry vision turns to him, his gaze, glazing with pure worry. You try to blink your tears away, only to have them fall down your cheeks. Heeseung instantly reaches up to brush them away with his thumb, caressing your cheek dearly. “You’re okay now, I promise. You’re with me.”

Heeseung, the boy who makes noodles for you when you stay up to do an assignment, the person who makes sure you get enough sleep, the first person who comforts you, the only person who cared for your feelings. Your breaths finally steady, mind focusing only on Heeseung, his soft gaze, furrowed eyebrows, gentle voice, even gentler touch, god how you would end up dead without him.

“You’re okay, everything is fine.”

Your eyes seem to long for something more than that from him, blinking up with a certain gloss that tugs on his heartstrings. As if to read your mind, your eyes, Heeseung tugs you closer to him, hands now caging your cheeks in his palms.

Heeseung takes your hands in his once more, sticking your palm out in front of him. He presses his own large palms against yours, aligning your fingers together. Your heart softens, softly linking your fingers together softly. His hands felt warm, comforting, as if to reassure you that he’s there for you, that he validates you and cares for you.

“You’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you. Can you tell me what’s wrong now, baby?”

You tell him what’s wrong, you tell him of your never ending stress of that week, sniffling softly every time you remember all your unfinished works. He reassures you that your own mental health matters much more, reassures you that you’re not pathetic, or weak, or a failure, but it’s human to not be able to handle so much.

Lee Heeseung, who painted your shoes and your life, who brought you pure happiness and comfort, you don’t think you could ever live a proper life without him.

A week later, 2 of your essays have an extended due date, you actually pass your exams, and best of all, you’re at a bakery, eating and talking nonsense about donuts bringing heaven down to earth with the only person who ever made you feel validated.

[amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines]

Maeve//i don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you

Request: Could you please do something else with Maeve? Perhaps something where reader works with Maeve on an English project and she's surprised that they have so much in common. She realizes she has feelings for her somehow after that? Sorry that's sort of rubbish, have a swell day/night.

hey! what’s up everybody! i hope everyone is well, and i hope you like this!! title is from ‘the lakes’ by taylor swift! 

- English projects are never fun 

- I mean, who finds constant stress and a deadline that’s always far too close fun?

- Nobody

- That’s who

- Well apart from Mrs Jones

- Your year 9 English teacher who made every minute of her classes a living hell

- And who mysteriously went missing half way through the year after having a screaming match with a fellow English teacher

- When she was supposed to be teaching you Romeo & Juliet. 

- One day she was accusing Miss Newman of being a terrible teacher and purposefully bumping up students grades so she looked better 

- And the next day both her and Miss Newman were gone 

- And you only got a replacement teacher when you moved into year 10

- Right now though 

- Its seems Miss Sands is going through some stuff 

- Because not only did she give you an assignment on Friday with a deadline of Monday 

- She also chose your partners instead of letting you choose your own

- Which is why you’re stood outside of Maeve’s in the pouring rain

- On a frankly miserable Saturday morning 

- It seems the weather knew exactly what sort of weekend you were facing 

- And decided to make it even worse. 

- By the third knock 

- You’re about to give up 

- The curtains are still drawn 

- And you’ve seen more movement in a graveyard 

- Plus

- You kind of already assumed you would be doing the project alone 

- Maeve Wiley was known for being very...

- ...independant 

- And group projects are no different 

- You actually think she may be more independent during group projects

- So as soon as Miss Sands paired you together 

- You knew 

- You were 99% sure that 

- You’d do your thing

- She’d do hers 

- And then five minutes before the presentation 

- You would figure out a way to connect the two.

- Anywayyyy

- While daydreaming about a time when you won’t have any assignments 

- And making awkward, accidental eye contact with Maeve’s neighbours 

- The door in front of you opens 

- Simultaneously giving you a fright and almost knocking you out

- She yawns and scratches the top of her head 

- ‘what are you doing here?’ 

- She sounds both tired and annoyed and you blink at her a few times before answering 

- ‘er - i - the project. for english.’ 

- It takes her a few seconds to process what you’ve said 

- But when she does 

- She looks even more miserable than she did five seconds ago

- And you brace yourself for a long weekend 

- She sighs and rolls her eyes 

- Before slowly opening the door properly and letting you in

- You feel slightly nervous as you walk in 

- But you really have no idea why

- It’s not like she’s a complete stranger 

- But then again 

- She’s not exactly a friend 

- ‘don’t worry, i’ve hidden the drugs. i don’t really like to share anyway.’ 

- ‘what?’ you ask confused and she rolls her eyes again 

- She huffs and crosses her arms before nodding to the slightly messy living room

- ‘i get it. we’re a bunch of benefit fraud chavs that do nothing but drink and smoke all day.’ 

- ‘that’s not what i was thinkin-’ 

- ‘sure it wasn’t.’ she rolls her eyes and you stare down at the floor. ‘i need to get changed so make yourself at home I suppose.’ 

- She walks into what you assume is her bedroom and slams the door behind her 

- Leaving you to stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room

- It’s small and slightly cramped 

- And most people would say that all the stuff makes it look busy 

- But to you 

- It’s wonderful 

- It’s filled with stories and memories 

- Some self explanatory 

- Some slightly more bizarre 

- Like the wonky blue and yellow clay swan living on the coffee table 

- You really want to know the story behind it 

- But decide it might be a little early in your partnership to start asking about her attachment to a half swan, half moth looking ornament

- So instead you pick up a pile of books on the dining table and move them onto the floor 

- You can hear Maeve opening and closing drawers while humming a familiar tune 

- And you feel yourself relax slightly as you place your laptop and books where the books were previously sat 

- Even if it does feel like you’re using all of your braincells to try and figure out where you’ve heard it before 

- ‘wow, do you actually trust me around that?’ 

- ‘what?’ you stop humming and look up at her 

- She looks between you and the laptop, staring at you expectantly 

- ‘oh no. i mean of course i do.’ you blush and she shakes her head before sitting opposite you 

- ‘so what do we know about women in fiction?’ 

- ‘historically they are written as either a femme fatalle type or some sort of innocent angelic being.’ 

- ‘they still are’ 

- ‘true’ you agree and flick through your textbook

- ‘why don’t we write about that then?’ 

- ‘what? how we’re still depressingly far back in the equality movement, despite being told otherwise?’ 

- She stares at you for a few seconds 

- A mixture of shock and surprise 

- Before nodding 

- And smiling 

- An actual genuine smile 

- You didn’t even know she could do that 

- Well you did 

- Of course you did 

- But you just haven’t seen it a lot 

- Usually when you see Maeve 

- She’s either mad, grumpy or very, very, very angry

- But her smiling 

- Puts a smile on your face 

- And this was definitely not where you thought this was going 

- ‘yeah...that’ 

- ‘okay.’ you shrug. ‘you can do classic literature because i know you prefer them and i’ll cover modern works.’

- ‘how do you know i prefer classics?’ 

- ‘the pile of books’ you nod towards the floor and she follows your gaze, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. ‘they’re all ripped and folded. you either love them or really, really hate them’ 

- ‘okay’ she eyes you suspiciously as you focus on your laptop 

- And you can feel your cheeks heat up under her gaze 

- However as quickly as they were there 

- They disappear 

- And the two of you fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence. 

- After about half an hour 

- Maeve stops what she’s doing to stretch 

- ‘is it okay if i play some music?’ 

- ‘sure, it’s your place. do what you want...as long as its not awful’ 

- ‘and what constitutes as awful?’ she asks, a smirk playing on her lips

- ‘well’ 

- And with that one question 

- Your entire day disappears in front of you 

- Laptops and books are closed and long forgotten 

- And instead you talk about music and movies 

- Books and plays 

- Characters that you love and hate 

- And the fact that her favourite character is the one you hate the most 

- She makes you lunch while you debate between movies and books and which adaptations are good

- And which ones should never have been made

- And you clean up and apologise profusely after a stray cushion (possibly thrown by you) ends up knocking the pan over 

- Surprisingly 

- She finds it quite funny 

- And you let out a relieved sigh

- Soon the sun goes down on another day 

- And you’ve barely written two paragraphs done between you

- ‘do you want to stay?’ she asks while your putting your jacket on

- If she’d asked you that this morning 

- You would have thought she had lost it 

- But now it feels almost inevitable 

- And you feel genuinely lucky to be asked 

- Not many people get to know Maeve 

- The real her 

- And that last person she told all of this to broke her heart 

- Very publicly 

- And she told herself she would never let herself be that vulnerable with someone ever again

- But this just feels right 

- For some reason you feel right 

- She feels safe with you 

- And part of her hates herself for it 

- But then again 

- She hates herself for not getting to know you sooner

- She feels far too attached to you 

- And it’s barely been twelve hours 

- You of course agree to stay 

- Shocking yourself and her 

- And while she sorts to sofa out 

- You excuse yourself to the bathroom 

- Under the pretences of telling your parents where you are 

- It takes two seconds to text them 

- And the other 28 to ask yourself 

- What the fuck are you doing? 

- Why are you agreeing to this? 

- Why do you feel like this? 

- What are you feeling?

- Who knows?

- Not you 

- Great 

- Now you’ve been in the bathroom for a suspicious amount of time 

- Just get it together, Y/n

- It’s just a study sleepover 

- Maeve gives you a questioning look as you leave 

- ‘you know how mums are. always worrying about where you are and what you’re doing’ 

- ‘i wouldn’t actually’ she shrugs and your eyes widen 

- ‘oh shit, sorry. i’m so sorry. god, i’m an idiot.’

- ‘it’s fine’ she forces a laugh and you wince. ‘i got you an extra duvet and little women is ready to watch so i can show you that the book is better’ 

- ‘that’s not what i said and you know it’ 

- ‘i’m sorry. i can’t hear you over the sound of me being 100% right and you being 100% wrong.’ 

- ‘you may be good at english, but you suck at maths’ 

- The next day you wake up to the sun shining through the curtains 

- And a clump of Maeve’s hair in your mouth 

- You splutter and cough and wake her up quickly 

- And she jumps away from you and smacks her head of the table 

- The two of you ended up moving the blankets to the floor while watching Pride and Prejudice 

- And neither of you bothered to move back 

- Maeve yawns and scratches her head

- Exposing a small part of her stomach and you feel yourself become a little breathless 

- ‘are you okay?’ 

- ‘ye-yeah’ you nod and she eyes you suspiciously 

- ‘whatever’ she shrugs and starts making breakfast 

- You watch as she pours to bowls of cereal

- Giving you the last of the milk 

- And for a second you’re a little worried as to how she knew you liked it 

- But then you remember that she also likes it and you had a whole discussion about the best and worst types of cereal at 2am 

- And half way through breakfast 

- You remember the original reason you’re here 

- And both of you curse loudly 

- Before rushing to finish eating 

-You get half way through your project 

- When Maeve asks if you want to go out for a bit 

- And well 

- She doesn’t need to ask you twice 

- And by the time you come back 

- The feeling you had last night returns 

- And has settled in your stomach 

- For the foreseeable future it seems 

- It makes you feel both light and heavy at the same time 

- And when you look at her 

- You feel dizzy 

- So you rush to finish the project 

- So you can go home and pretend nothing has changed 

- And yeah 

- With the need to leave 

- You get the rest of the assignment done fairly quickly 

- But you end up leaving feeling more confused about Maeve as you did when you started this 

- Maybe Miss Sands was right about a weekend project 

- Any longer and you would have gone insane trying to figure out whatever the hell this is 

- You just have to get through tomorrow and then you’ll be okay 

- Everything will go back to normal 

- You and Maeve can go back to being neutral to each other

- And you won’t have to deal with all of these confusing feelings that have decided to make an appearance for some reason 

- Wellll

- Turns out Miss Sands was wrong 

- A weekend is not enough time 

- And the first few presentations are awful 

- To put it nicely 

- So you spend the next week in a permanent confused state 

- Confused as to why you start looking for Maeve whenever you enter a room

- Confused as to why your heart skips a beat whenever you hear her laugh 

- Confused as to why you never want her stop talking in class 

- Even if the bell has rung and it’s lunch 

- Confused to why you keep looking for excuses to go over to see her 

- Despite your assignment being long done 

- And even more confused as to why you feel anxious when you’re waiting for her to answer the door

- The next Monday rolls around both painfully slowly and far too quickly 

- And while you wait for Ola and Danny to finish their presentation 

- Your hands shake with anxiety while your grip your papers 

- Maeve reaches over the table and gives them a reassuring squeeze 

- But it just makes them shake more and she slowly pulls back 

- Your turn can’t come quick enough 

- But then it’s over far too quickly 

- And you slump back down in your seat disappointed 

- Despite Miss Sands’ praise 

- Because it’s over 

- You no longer have an excuse to hang out with her 

- You never talked before 

- So why do you care about after 

- But there’s so much about her that you want to know

- Like the weird swan/moth hybrid 

- And the ugly plate that sits on top of the bookshelf 

- You want to be part of these stories 

- You want to be able to point to these things and say

- ‘yeah, i know exactly why that is special to you’ 

- You want to be the reason to add to this random collection of stuff 

- You want her to smile when she looks at them because they’ll remind her of you 

- You want her to smile when she looks at you 

- ‘y/n? are you okay?’ she asks making you jump 

- The classroom is now empty and you didn’t even notice the bell go 

- ‘ye-yeah’ you nod and grab your bag

- ‘are you sure?’ she grabs your arm forcing you turn around 

- ‘whats the weird swan thing on your coffee table?’ you ask and she furrows her eyebrows at you. ‘it’s just i saw it when i first came over and i really want to know the story behind it’ 

- ‘oh. aimee went through a pottery phase last year and that was the only thing she made that didn’t have a hole in it.’

- ‘and the plate?’ 

- ‘birthday present from my neighbours’ 

- ‘they got you a plate?’ 

- ‘yeah, they don’t have any kids’ 

- ‘clearly’ 

- Silence fills the room and you stare at the peeling posters behind her head 

- You can feel Maeve move closer to you and your breath hitches when she stops a few centimetres in front of you 

- She grabs your hand and squeezes it again 

- And your heartbeat increases 

- ‘y/n?’ 

- ‘yeah?’ 

- ‘i’m really, really confused right now. like more confused that i have ever been in my life. but what i do know, is that if i watch you walk out of that door without saying anything first, then i’d regret it for the rest of my life. i’ve only ever felt like this about boys before, but now i feel this and more about you and i have no idea where it’s come from or what i need to do, but i do know i need to tell you. because otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair for either of us’ she whispers and you stare at her wide eyed 

- ‘can i kiss you?’ she asks and you nod your head quickly 

- Slowly she leans in

- Her eye flutter closed and you follow 

- Your lips brush over hers 

- Her hands wrap around you waist to pull you close

- And then your lips connect 

- And you feel everything change 

- She kisses you slowly 

- And when you pull away you both feel breathless 

- Her cheeks are bright red 

- And there’s a shy smile playing on her lips as she looks at you bashfully

- And all of a sudden you feel really grateful for Miss Sands and her personal issues 

- Although you really hope they are resolved now 

- For your sake as well as hers

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