#someday i will find the time to sit down and finish this series

[anonabelle]

I vaguely remember this episode and I think I drew this because I wanted something a little more out of Marco's reaction (although I'm pretty sure a hug like this would have made things worse).

[milaisreading]

Hi, is your request open? If so can I please request something like the bllk boys didn't know it's CD!YN's birthday because they're too engrossed on practicing and they just find out because Ego-san greeted her in the middle of lecturing them.

-Please excuse my grammar, English is not my first language TT

-also it's my birthday today so I gathered my courage to request for the first time to indulge myself (⁠^⁠～⁠^⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ

Have a greet day!

🌱🩷: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE ASK! I feel honored to write this then. Hope you like it and hope you are having a great birthday, and getting a lot of presents 🥰❤️

Warnings: Reader uses she/her. In the story the boys will be using he/him when addressing Yn. Requests for this series are open.

⚽️Blue Lock belongs to Muneyuki Kaneshiro and Yusuke Nomura⚽️

Ever since (Y/n) became the captain of the rowdy team known as Blue Lock, her life changed a lot. Whether it was for the better or for worse, she didn't know. Maybe someday she will be able to judge it better, but for now she barely had any time to sit down and think this through. With how chaotic everyone was, the JFA gave her a clear warning:

'Make sure they behave during interviews and on TV. Their behavior is a reflection of you as a captain. It is also a reflection of Japan to the world. Don't tarnish it.'

Back then she wanted to say a lot of colorful words to the old men, and she still does, but now she had little to no energy to do that. In fact, she completely forgot what day was when thanks to how hectic everything became. And just like that December 24th came, which is also (Y/n)'s birthday.

While the outside, aka fans and general public saw some ads and public congratulations for the player's birthday, the girl and other Blue Lock players stayed blissfully unaware of everything.

"Here." (Y/n) sighed as she offered some salmon on her chopsticks to Bachira. Grinning, the boy took a bite, smiling in victory as he received death stares from everyone else.

"Bachira, you can eat on your own." Isagi rolled his eyes and looked back at (Y/n), speaking more softly now.

"Please, eat your own food. You look like you need some."

"Huh... oh, I don't mind, Isagi. I need to make sure you guys are healthy." (Y/n) smiled weakly, feeling way too tired to say more.

"(Y/n), feed me too. Feed me, too!" Nagi begged, tugging on her sleeve.

"Oh, sure-"

"Nagi, you have your own hands and chopsticks. Let (Y/n) eat his own food." Reo warned from the girl's left side as Nagi pouted.

"Please~" The albino gave (Y/n) some puppy eyes, and before she could agree, a tray was put between her and Nagi's face.

"Huh?" She looked at the person who did it, only to find Barou glaring at her classmate.

"Eat on your own. And you, eat something, now. Let Bachira eat on his own."

"But I don't want to-" Before Bachira could finish, Gagamaru shoved a pastry into the boy's mouth.

"I will feed him instead. You eat something." Gagamaru said as he grabbed a displeased Bachira's shoulders.

"Yeah, let us handle it." Isagi agreed.

"But-"

They are right. You should eat something. I didn't see you during breakfast today." Karasu said from the table next to them.

"What?! Why did you miss out on breakfast?" Rin yelled in worry, and (Y/n) gulped as she felt Reo and Barou glare at her.

"I didn't feel like eating this morning." She excused herself.

'I had to prepare everything for an upcoming interview.' She wanted to say, but couldn't bring herself to burden them with it.

"Not feeling like eating? You? I have a hard time believing that." Otoya said suspiciously.

Yukimiya sighed and took his plate of food, walked over to (Y/n) and put the plate in front of her.

"What?" She asked the boy.

"Have my food, too. It can't bring you any good to miss out on food."

"Uh..."

Reo frantically nodded his head.

"Have mine too."

"You should have something high in protein, (Y/n)." Hiori agreed.

"Take my tofu, too."

"I can give you some of my veggies as well. They are sweet-sour." Niko added on.

"No, guys. It's fine. Please eat. It's more important that you all are full and-"

"It's also important that the captain isn't hungry, (Y/n)." Kunigami said, putting a hand on her head.

'Where did he come from?!' She thought in surprise.

"Seriously, I am fine-"

"That pale face says otherwise. I should give you a nice skin care day, (Y/n)! A nice Vitamin C mask does wonders~" Aryu added in, causing (Y/n) to raise an eyebrow.

"I am really fine, Aryu. Please, focus on yourselves. We can't have you tired-"

"We-we can't have you faint on the field, (Y/n)! P-please listen to us!" Tokimitsu interjected, clearly worried over the girl's health.

"Yes! You are important for the team, too!" Kurona added in.

'I am? I am just the captain... a babysitter if you will...' Well, at least that's what she was made to feel by the JFA.

"Here! I was given this new nutritious shake to try. It's good for the bones." Chigiri said, handing her the pinkish drink.

"Uh... this is your-"

"Eat!"

"And drink that!"

"You should really get some rest after, too."

"My pillow is very soft, I will give it to you."

"I will carry you to your room."

"Hold up! Hold up, everyone!"

(Y/n) grew a little overwhelmed, but thankfully everything stopped once Ego's voice appeared.

"What is this ruckus?!" Everyone stopped and looked at the screen that was showing the confused adult. Gulping, (Y/n) put her utensils down and got up.

"I am so sorry, Ego-san. This one is my fault-"

"Silence. I know it's not. And don't put all the blame on yourself." (Y/n) shut up and looked at Ego silently, the boys watching the interaction in confusion.

"Besides, why aren't you resting today?"

"Uh... The JFA-"

"Forget what those old farts said, I told you to rest today."

"Are you sure?" (Y/n) asked, unsure if she should listen. On one hand she had Ego, and on the other she had the duty to keep everything in line, for the country.

"Yes, besides, it's your birthday. Go and rest."

"Bitthday?! You never told us it's your birthday today!" The team yelled in unison, causing (Y/n) to flinch a little.

"I myself forgot... if I can be honest." (Y/n) blushed as Ego sighed.

"Go. Sleep. Now. I will deal with the JFA. The rest of you stay and finish your lunch."

Ego ordered as the room fell silent.

'Ego... will handle it.' The girl slowly nodded her head and walked out of the cafeteria as everyone watched her silently.

Once she was away, and out of earshot, Ego spoke up again.

"So... you guys want to take part in a surprise party Anri and I are preparing?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Of course!"

"Party for (Y/n)! Yes!" The team agreed, eagerly waiting for what Ego will say next.

Walking back into her and Rin's room, the girl sighed and plopped herself on her bed, cuddling into the pillow.

'Ego-san will handle it. I can rest for now.' As if a weight got lifted of off her, (Y/n) sighed in relief and started to drift into a slumber. Feeling more carefree now.

Once Ego finished instructing everyone what they should do, he turned off his camera and looked back at Anri.

"Is everything ready?"

Happily, Anri nodded her head and went through the list.

"All the ingredients and instructions are set for Isagi, Barou, and Rin. The meat, veggies, sauces, and spices for the katsu are there for Kunigami, Hiori, and Yukimiya. Bachira, Niko, and Karasu will get the balloons and decorations to prepare. Sanrio themed ones are so hard to find during Christmas, especially of that pink sheep." Anri commented as Ego nodded from time to time.

"Nagi, Reo, Kurona, and Aryu have the wrapping paper set for the presents. And lastly, Tokimitsu, Gagamaru, Chigiri, and Otoya will clean up and prepare the cafeteria. In case (Y/n) wakes up earlier than expected, I will try to distract her till everything is done."

"Ok. Everything is under control then. I will leave now." Ego announced as Anri finished her talk, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow.

"Go? Where to?"

"To talk with the JFA. Nobody treats my players like they are some no-name babysitters."

As the day went on, (Y/n) slept peacefully while the boys were moving fast to cook, bake and set everything up for the party. Anri was watching over everything, in case they needed help in the kitchen, while also keeping an eye on the monitor showing the door to (Y/n) and Rin's room.

6 hours later...

By now it was 8 PM and (Y/n) slowly opened her eyes, and sat up on her bed as she stretched.

"I feel so much better now. What time is it even?" She mumbled blinking the sleep away to look at her clock.

"8 pm... already? I slept for so long?"

She said in surprise and then looked at Rin's bed.

"Rin isn't here yet... maybe they are practicing still. I will go and join them." (Y/n) said, getting up from her bed, but before she could move more, a knock was heard.

"Huh? Yes?" She called out.

"Oh! Good, you are awake!" Otoya's voice was heard and the door opened, only for (Y/n) to see the said boy and Bachira.

"Hi, guys? Sorry for missing practice today, I will join-"

"No,no. We aren't practicing today. Come with us, Ego-san told us to get you."

Bachira and Otoya walked over to the confused girl, grabbing each of her arms and dragged her out of the room.

"Ha? Did something happen?"

"Nope!" The two said, sending each other secretive smiles.

'What did I miss?' She raised an eyebrow.

"We are here! We are here!" Bachira said happily as Otoya hummed along. (Y/n) grew even more unnerved now as she sniffed the air a little.

'Am I crazy? Why does it smell like Katsu?' She thought.

"Open the door~" The duo said.

"Are you guys pulling a prank on me?" (Y/n) asked in confusion.

"No!"

"Please, just open the door." Bachira and Otoya answered. Reluctantly, (Y/n) nodded her head and walked closer to the door, slowly opening it.

"Happy birthday!"

"There you are! We were worried you won't wake up till tomorrow!"

"Happy birthday, (Y/n)! Hope you like everything!"

(Y/n) blinked in surprise as Otoya gently pushed her into the room. Flabbergasted, the girl looked around the room, now decorated with different balloons.

'Oh... Sweet Piano balloons! How did they find them?! They are so hard to find.' (Y/n) thought, blushing in excitement as she saw them. The players silently, and anxiously, watched the girl inspect everything.

"Huh..." (Y/n) muttered, eyes widening in amazement as she saw the cake, decorated with the pink sheep.

'Not even my parents did this for me...' (Y/n) thought, feeling her eyes water up a little.

The boys watched in panic as tears started to stream down the girl's face.

"Ah?! Did we mess something up?" Gagamaru asked in worry.

"I don't know!" Hiori said back as Isagi went to hand her a napkin, which (Y/n) gladly took it to wipe her tears away.

"We... we are sorry..." Rin said awkwardly.

"Did I mess up the decorations on the cake?" Barou looked over the cake.

"I think it's my fault. The balloons look a little deflated." Niko gulped.

"Maybe we should have done a better job on them." Karasu muttered nervously as Bachira and he glanced at each other.

"I swear I made sure the katsu doesn't burn." Yukimiya flinched.

"Did I mess up the salad?" Kunigami bit his fingernail in worry.

"You... you guys did everything amazing! Thank you so much!" (Y/n) finally busted out, hugging Isagi, who was the closest to her. Isagi tensed up and blushed a scarlet red, but hugged her back anyways.

"You are the greatest team ever!" (Y/n) announced with a huge smile, causing their worries to lift, and smiles to appear on their faces.

"Happy to hear that..." Nagi sighed in relief, but tugged on her shirt.

"Huh?" She looked over at the boy, still hugging Isagi.

"I want a hug, too."

"Me too! Me too!" Kurona nodded, running up to her, followed by Gagamaru and Tokimitsu.

"Me as well. Please."

"Me-me too, if you don't mind." Slowly, the other guys joined in on the asked and (Y/n) couldn't help but laugh softly.

'These guys are the best.'

[oddinary4bts]

When the End Comes | jjk (teaser)

☆summary: Seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook?

☆pairing: photographer!Jungkook x lawyer!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, there is mature content in every chapter)

☆genre: breakup!au, slice of life!au, angst with a big A, smut

☆warnings: I will be posting individual warnings for each chapter, so watch out for that! In this teaser: reference to Jungkook's accident (car wreck), angst (a recurring warning in this fic let me tell you)

☆word count: 65.8k

☆series masterpost

☆a/n: Gosh this whole piece makes me so so so emotional. I think it's by far the most angsty thing I've ever written, and I hope you all will enjoy it!! I'm sorry for the tears and emotional toll tho :') Thank you to @moonleeai for beta-ing this, I'm so thankful for you <3

☆Read The Forgotten Spaces here, the prequel to When the End Comes! It does not need to be read to understand When the End Comes, but I think it still should be read first to have a better understanding of the characters in general!

☆Add yourself to the taglist here (if you were on the taglist for The Forgotten Spaces, you're already on the taglist for When the End comes!)

☆☆☆☆☆

But love never leaves a heart, where it found it, found it You found it Someday, I'll fall into you That's where I'll be now when the end comes

When the End Comes by Andrew Belle

☆☆☆☆☆

“Kook…”

He says your name, a loving plea that could have changed the ending, if the months hadn’t passed.

“We need to talk,” you breathe against his neck.

You think you hear his heart breaking. Like a car wreck: it’s so loud you don’t think you’ll make it out of the crash. Only, he did get out of it once – you can only hope he’ll get out again.

He runs his hand on your back, loses it in your hair. He’s gentle, infinitely so, tracing your body to remember you by when you’re gone. At least that’s what you think it is.

“Yeah?” he lets out with a small, quivering voice.

A tear spills from your eye, falling onto the soft skin of his neck.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He holds you tighter, turning his face so that he can press a kiss to the side of your head. It’s a desperate move – it holds the weight of the universe.

“I…”

He never finishes the sentence. His words are lost to him, and you steel yourself for the glimpse you’ll give him. And when you do, you see his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I can’t do the distance anymore,” you tell him.

He nods once. “I’m staying until November.”

He blurs behind your tears, and they roll down your cheeks freely. You don’t try to dry them, and neither does he.

“But then you’ll go again.”

He doesn’t need to say anything to that, because you both know it to be the truth. His reply is physical: his arms let go of you, falling on the bed on each side of him.

You move to sit next to him, instinctively grabbing a blanket to hide yourself. Jungkook shuts his eyes before pressing the heel of his palms against his eyelids. As if that’ll stop him from crying, from shattering into thousands of little shards that will go by the wind.

The end has come. It’s upon you, right this instant in time. You think you’ll forever hate this moment – will you ever recover?

☆☆☆☆☆

Read chapter one here!

[hellowoolf]

on strawberries and masonry: chapter iii

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

OR

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), blood & gore, scars (NOT self inflicted), knives, guns, SMUT!!, unprotected p in v, fingering (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 9k

authors note: the fucking. at long last. thank god. (this is my first time writing smut omg goodbye)

series masterlist | masterlist

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

joel speaks to you like copper oxidizing in the sun. it’s slow at first, a shiny amber thing you covet, bestowed every once in a while on patrol or in the dining hall. but when the green catches hold, the gloss of it gone but easier, softer, it’s only a week or two from start to finish. he remains taut with you, strung into a tight wire you weary your hands trying to soften. even still, his prevailing silence makes him a vault, and at every moment you deem appropriate, you store your secrets there.

you tell him about the strawberries first. of the redness of that first one, and the way you’d wept with tommy and noah over the soil. of your hoarding of them, too. you recall to him your brisk walks in the biting air with ellie, smuggling handfuls stained red in the warmth of your coats, to deposit the bunches of them in your kitchen. 

he doesn’t ask you again, after his vulnerability on your porch that night, about ellie, but regardless you tally your moments with her to recite for him. you watch him grip to them like a wounded animal in the snow, though still he is joel, and so mostly he is quiet as you recount your greenhouse conversations. you’re certain, now, that he isn’t her father, but she mirrors him to a degree of uncanniness, what with her constant bristling. this you do not say to joel, but mostly because you suspect he already knows.

you pull from joel what he lets you. you learn he lived in austin, before. you learn he worked in a boston qz most recently, up until the trek with ellie to wyoming (the motives of this are strictly off-limits, and though you enjoy pushing him, you allow this omission to stand). you learn he loves music, and played the guitar a lifetime ago. and you gather scraps of him in the moments between the stories, too; he is performative, despite himself, and runs inhumanly hot, and reaches still for his southern manners like he’ll someday be rewarded for them. most of all, though, you learn he is not very good at covering the craters of himself. the small set of moments from his life before jackson he allows you to see are censured, punctured through by his own tongue, you deduce to muzzle the voices of the characters of his past he won’t let you meet. but his recollections remain wounded by his carving of them, and so the ghosts of his memories, unnamed as they are, are clear to you. there is one in boston, and another set along the path to jackson. most incurably, there is one in austin, but unlike the rest, joel carries this specter with him. 

the dining hall is always bloated with townspeople when you return from your rounds. the warmth of them overcomes the cold of the outside (it has persisted into late january this year) and as you find a table with joel at your side, the buzzing heat tickles at you from under your coat. you sit down at an empty table with joel on your left.

“but i do think they’re being weird. quiet, i guess, and tommy isn’t ever quiet.” you turn to joel, whose mouth is full already, and he leans back in his chair. tommy pulled away from you, and joel, too, over the last two weeks or so. maria has kept her distance—you have learned to expect this—but tommy is so insistently social, and so his waning outings in town seem odd to you.

“i dunno. tommy’s tommy, ain’t he?”

“yes, tommy’s tommy. but tommy hasn’t been tommy. you see what i’m saying?”

joel shrugs, stabbing again at his plate. “i guess,” but his thought isn’t finished, so you don’t respond quite yet. the brown of his eyes flickers when he’s let the tail of his sentence go, and you’ve learned to make space for them. “i…i don’t think maria’s too comfortable with my bein here.” he won’t look at you, but still it’s as vulnerable as joel ever is with you; he thinks tommy is distant because of him. you’re thrown to that night with maria in your kitchen, asking (demanding, really) that you patrol with joel, to the unyielding truth that your forced proximity to him begins and ends with your proclivity for violence. you aren’t quick to guilt, but it lays its clammy hand on your shoulder while you watch him eat. you’re reminded of how hot the room is, and begin to pull your arms from your jacket, turning your head slightly to lay it across your chair.

“maybe not, but she’s never been too excited about me, either. maria’s protective, very protective. but tommy’s different, too, he–” you don’t know if it’s the looking or his finger that comes first, but in any case you’re jolted somewhat ungracefully into silence. joel’s face has contorted into something unrecognizable as he looks down at your arm, bare in a tank top for the first time in months, and you watch as his pointer finger follows his eyeline down the scar on your left bicep. oh fuck. the callous of his touch just barely dances along the top of it, padding his fingertip along the skin in what feels like disbelief and disappointment and something else entirely. the mark closed up years ago, but the feeling of joel’s hand along your skin nearly burns the thing off. your sanity and your wanting of him are so flammable, and the spark of his touch sets the whole of you in smoke. after a few seconds of it, of the looking and the touching and the silence, joel remembers himself and stiffens again in his chair.

“i’m sorry, darlin, i-” he stops himself. “i'm sorry.”

and him calling you darlin is entirely unfair. you flush, across your chest and down your spine and down through your sex. there is something truly wrong with you. “no, no. it’s okay. i didn’t realize you hadn’t seen it.”

though he’s retracted his hand, joel’s stare remains clutched across your bicep. his fists curl in on themselves in his lap, and he stays there, firm and looking at you and cupping on nothing in his palms. you fill the silence.

“it was a long time ago. i don’t think about it much anymore.” this is only halfway dishonest.

“i shouldnta touched it.” he almost sounds bashful, boyish. he finally looks away from the scar and back at his food. “shouldn’t be starin either.” the depth of his voice tears through you despite the softness of it now, a whisper nearly unintelligible under the sounds of the dining hall. it strikes you that he thinks you a victim, and the thought nearly makes you sick. by maria’s fear of him, you’re certain joel has as blood-stained a past as you do, and late at night you tell yourself he would understand. still, you haven’t had the heart to tell him. what would you even say?

joel shakes his head slightly side to side like he’s reprimanding a child, though the child is him, now, and you could laugh at how awful and sweet and misinformed it is. you’d like to forgive him again, but you think he’ll excuse himself if you say any more about it, so you let the whole thing dissolve away.

“you like strawberries, sting?”

joel groans. yes, along with the lusting and your little fruits, the nickname is a luxury you cannot deny yourself.

“‘n so i played, but never out at bars or anything. tommy sure as hell wanted me to,” he said, securing his horse back in the barn.

“so who’d you play like?” you called from your stall in the stables. 

“nobody,” he grunted back.

“you play like sting?”

noah found an old record of his on a run once, and you sat by jesse’s record player for hours at a time listening to it. in truth, it was some of the only music you really knew by heart. as you asked it, the both of you stepped out from your corners of the barn, and he stood with his hip cocked. you grinned at him, but he looked incredulously back at you.

“like sting? are you serious?”

you crossed your arms over your chest. “i’m asking a question. can’t i ask a question?”

“jesus. sting played the bass,” he said, exasperated, as he turned from you to walk out. you thought of his thorniness and guitar playing and the colors of his voice. sting. you decided you’d call him that as you followed out after him.

“i think so. i think i used to.” he seems far more relaxed in his chair now, and it makes you sink further into yours.

“i just have too many now. i’ve been thinking of giving some away,” you say, looking at him. “would you take some?” and it’s true; they’ve been overflowing into your sink and onto your windowsill. your little plant has been bountiful, and you had insisted her harvests were yours, but watching them mold on your counter has not proven as indulgent as you had thought. another, quieter and much more dangerous piece of yourself, tells you that really, you just want to give something to joel, to give anything to joel, but you cite instead the rotting by your fridge and allow yourself to ignore that little voice.

joel eyes you. “you really askin? or you bein courteous?”

“am i ever courteous?” you laugh. he smiles a little and laughs, too.

“no, no. i guess not.”

you’re giddy with the shake of his chest and his grin. he doesn’t laugh all that often, you suppose because it exhausts him so, but when joel laughs it’s an anatomical revelation. the whole of him wrestles with it. you’re wet, again, (it’s nearly constant for how often you’re together), and you eat what’s left of your lunch.

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

your favorite of the group before jackson was danny. you’d met eliza first, in the salt lake qz, but danny was your age, and beautiful in a delicate sort of way that struck you as unnatural. you remember the stories your father told you from the bible, of the angels with eyes and wings and bloodlust, and danny was of that sort. it surrendered you to him, you think, and so you let him fuck you when the moon wasn’t out. he never made you come, really, but it wasn’t about the coming then. you were teenagers and guilty, so heavy and ashamed and good at the killing, and so the rub of a tree at your back as you let him put his cock in you was an escape from your being and the blood on your hands. 

in his back pocket danny kept a polaroid, folded up and frayed around the edges, of him as a child, much of the same abnormality and prettiness, and ellie reminds you of that photo. for a thing you’re certain has seen death on and about her, ellie remains strange and stunning. she sits to your left with her legs out in front of her, sorting through your stock of seeds. you spin your knife along your knuckles as you sort through a pole bean plant to harvest the ripened pods, the orange light of sunset filtering through the leaves and quilting shapes along your skin. 

“okay, mainly you’re almost outta radishes. everything else you gotta pretty nice setup on,” she says, setting the box down next to her. ellie had broken her outstanding silence with you, and you determine quickly that she isn’t disillusioned with who you have been. she’d told you once that you hold your knife like you’re worried someone will take it from you. she’d laughed and laughed, conjured scenarios of your vegetables rising against you, and you laughed with her. still, she sees your practice with it, the disjoint of your grip against the unmoving of your plants, and inherits the knowing of the damage you’ve done.

“alright. i’ll see if anyone going through the set of cabins down south can find anything,” you say back, sifting still through the bean leaves. 

“and what do you say now?” ellie’s voice lilts with her smile, all childlike wickedness, and you turn to her, grinning back.

“thank you, ellie.”

with a grunt and a stumble she stands back up and gives you a half bow, echoing self contentedly, “thank you, ellie.” you snort.

as she leaves, you watch tommy approach through the greenhouse walls. you think he’s frightened of her, hides himself in his coat as though she may reach out and tear him apart, but still he tips his chin to her as he makes his way towards you and crosses her path. you can’t help but smile, tracking the peeking green of a few pole beans she’d stolen bounce from her pocket as she walks away. you walk out the doors to lean on the outside greenhouse wall.

“i see you’ve risen from your crypt,” you say as he arrives fully in front of you. 

tommy grins tight lipped, his arms cradled to his ribs as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his jeans. there’s an anxiety to him, to the way he rocks back and forth before you. “yeah, yeah. i already heard it from damn near everyone i’ve seen today.” 

“i’ve been more social than you these past two weeks. you know how fucked up that is, tommy?” you’re trying your hardest to show him you’re joking, coax him into honesty. he’s come to confess something to you, you think.

“oh give me a break,” he replies.

you raise your eyebrows slightly and holds your arms out in front of you; you have the floor. a beat.

“well i came to tell you the news.” you hum. “maria and i are, well i guess maria is, shit,” he says, but he’s smiling now, coy and wistful, scratching the back of his head as he asks, “how did people used to do this?” you say nothing, still. “maria and i are having a baby.”

and something between your lungs shifts out of place. they are going to have a child. a child. your first thought is that they will be good parents, tommy and maria; their flesh and blood is warm with sun and work and something lovely, and it will make for something worth growing, you’re certain. they will be of jackson, like your plants and the snow, and maybe the whole of humanity is forgiven for children like this, born into safety and wood cabins.

your second thought is so horrifically selfish you can hardly stomach it, let alone recite it. you swallow it back down.

“tommy, that’s amazing,” and you hug him there, a copy of your embrace standing in the reflection of the greenhouse walls. “how are you feeling about it?”

he pulls back grinning. yes, he will be a good father. “well shit, scared out of my mind, you know,” he chuckles, “but real excited. maria, too.”

you give him a smile that you mean. “well, you guys let me know if i can do anything,” you say, and gesture towards the garden, “if there are any herbs or things that could help maria with any of it you just let me know.”

tommy nods and puts his hands in his pockets, nodding. “i thank ya for it.”

for a moment, the two of you stand there in the waning sunlight, watching what you’ve become. tommy, you think, is precisely what he was meant to be. he has always been far too content with existence, molded over as it might now be, to deny fatherhood. you wonder what he sees in you. 

“well, give maria my congratulations. lord knows she’s doing the heavy lifting,” you chuckle as you move to go back into the greenhouse, “and come knocking if i can help.”

you make it to the door before tommy calls your name and you turn around.

“how’re you doin on patrol with joel?” he asks you from his spot, letting the words cross the now sizable distance between you. you’re thankful for how far he is, hoping whatever grin is laying itself across your face is too subtle for him to make out.

“we’re doing okay, i think. he’s a little tense…and can be fucking terrifying.” and now you really smile. “but i can handle him.”

tommy barks out a laugh and begins to walk backwards towards the town square, calling out with a palm cupped to the side of his mouth, “you’re good for him!”

and you let yourself be jovial, laughing as you kneel to your beets, but really you might never forgive him for saying something like that. 

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

joel still hasn’t come to visit your garden, though you’re grateful for this now. the warmth of the greenhouse has become your respite from the constant wanting, and you think if he materialized in the doorway you’d melt there in the soil. pacing through your kitchen, you eye the little basket of strawberries on your counter. you’ve named them joel’s already, but each time you’ve made to bring them to him your resolve disintegrates down your thighs.

but oh, they are so perfect now, reddened into a vivid blush, and if you don’t hand them off today you’ll have to throw them out. you grab the basket and slip out the door, doing your best to avoid spitting up your heartbeat on the walk to joel’s porch.

it’s nearly dusk, and when he opens the door he has a glass with about a finger of whiskey in his right hand. it sloshes as he looks you over, eyes measured a little with surprise and something else, but you stay tied to the wrap of his fingers around the glass and lock your knees to keep from dropping to them. 

“hey, sting,” you grin (or grimace, more like).

“uh,” he leans a shoulder on the doorway and the movement brings his chest closer to you outside of the threshold. you smell the whiskey and the pine of him as he continues, “hey.”

his voice is deeper, now, hoarse with the weight of the day, and you conclude that you are, in fact, doomed for madness, if he keeps looking at you like that. you bring the basket of strawberries up to your chest and gesture them to him. “i just wanted to drop these off. they’ll go bad in a few days.”

joel peers down into the basket and grins a little, turning to put the tumbler on a table behind him before stepping more fully out of the house. you think he expects you to take a step back to make room for him, but you allow his chest to crowd yours, tilting your head further back. “well shit,” he laughs, “these are real.”

“yeah, well, now they’re real and they’re yours.”

joel lets his eyes circle once more over your face before extending his hands to take the basket. the warmth of his fingers as they brush yours along the weaving makes you clench and expand in the span of a moment. “thank you, really,” he says softly, sincerely, and the basket is so much smaller, now, held to his front. 

you shove your hands into your back pockets. “eat them soon, though, please.” 

joel turns around again to put the basket inside just beside the whiskey glass, and says to you behind him, “can always make jam or somethin if i can’t go through em all.”

your stomach twists up and it pushes what can only be described as a giggle (an awful thing) from you. “jam? you know how to make jam?”

he shifts back around and cocks his hip, sticking a knee out. “the fuck you mean by that tone?”

you laugh harder, earnestly, nearly folding over with it as he grips the door, ready to close it. “jam?” 

“yes, jam. it ain’t that hard.”

you keep laughing just for the sake of it now, but as joel begins to swing the door shut with a quiet jesus you hold your hands out. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just don’t look the type is all.”

with a tilt of his head he asks, “oh yeah? so what type am i?”

this quiets you. please, do not give yourself away, do not bleed your hand, do not. you narrow your eyes at him, dramatizing your assessment, pleading with yourself to construct an answer suitable for near sunset, but you take too long, boots nearly reaching his. he grunts, bringing his thumb and pointer finger up to hold your chin and twist you away from him. you feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers for the moment that he grasps your head between them, and your pussy drools a little. still, you begin to make your way down his porch; this is far from the most aggressive way joel has decided the conversation has ended, and so despite his push of your chin from his palm you make it to the final step pleased, the warmth of his skin still licking where he touched you. 

“goodnight.”

you stop, take a deep breath in, the silence behind you petting down your spine. he hasn’t closed the door. he’s waiting for you to say it back. and you die a little death there, with one foot on the road. “goodnight, sting.”

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

the air is noticeably warmer this morning as you drag it into your mouth, padding along the beginnings of spring towards the stables. joel has prepared his horse already when you walk in, giving you a mornin, and he’s leaned up statuesque on her side with an elbow. the sling of his gun’s strap hugs his chest through his flannel, and the barrel peeks up over his shoulder, but only just. you salute to him as you saddle your horse.

“morning yourself.” you feel him stretch behind you as he mounts his horse (you are always so painfully aware of his body) and smirk, “rough night? did the jam give you trouble?”

“christ, i didn’t make any, darlin i’m just tired.” 

you mount your horse. darlin. jesus.

“well you rest up, cowboy, i’ll cover you.”

joel grunts and says nothing as you trot out the gates together. he doesn’t think you capable of protecting him; in all, it is your best kept secret.

as the both of you wind through your northern route, you notice again the opening forest floor, weeds and flower beds resurfacing again beneath the trees. elderberries start to bloom out here this time of year, and in years past noah has uprooted the bushes for you to replant and harvest. the flowers are edible, too, and beautiful, and you wonder if joel will let you stop a moment to look for them. you wait until the trees grow thick and quiet around you before asking.

“joel,” he makes a noise in response, “could we stop here for a little? there are berries that grow around here and i want to see if i can find any to take back to the greenhouse.”

joel looks at you from his horse, affectless. “you serious?”

“yes.”

he lets out a sigh that morphs into a yawn midway through and shakes his head around a little, dusting something from his mind. “alright, alright. fine. but stay close, please,” and he trails off as he says it but you catch the end all the same.

you smile up at him, feet already on the ground and setting your rifle at your horses hooves to pull your knife out. as you weave through the shadows of the brush you call back to joel, “maybe you can make some marmalade out of these, too,” and you’re buzzing with the scoff that passes even through the feet between you, but he’s grinning, small and against his best efforts, and you spot that, too.

“you ever gonna let that go?”

and you don’t answer, ducking into an embankment of bush and leaves. 

it’s been years since you’ve foraged like this. you used to pick mushrooms and berries from the ground with danny at night when you ran with the raiders, eat them together and take your chances. this feels different, though, charged with a tenderness and gentle knowing that’s new to you now. the world out here looks so much like your garden, feels so much like yours, and it strikes you that the mountains answer to you in your own small way. you could find a spot, up and away from the snow, and decide what grows there, play god with the grasses and the weeds. so though you find no elderberries in this brush, you are quiet with that little victory as you pace back to where you left joel.

as you approach, joel’s voice calls through the trees. a deep and pained “fuck!” and the rustling of clothes grows louder as you pad forward. there’s a shrill grunting, too, not joel’s, not joel’s. you take stock of your heartbeat and your fingers and the blade in your coat. there is someone else here. you move silently on the dirt, hiding your body in the bark and greenery, and then you spot him, kneeling with his hands behind his head, his gun kicked a few feet away, and a scrawny figure holds a glock to the skin of his forehead. suddenly you’re 19 again, and unafraid. joel spots you from your place halfway behind a tree and his eyes widen a fraction. don’t come out, he’s pleading with you, but you will not listen. your father’s knife, tucked into your jacket, coughs to life.

you trample the ground below you as you stumble out, hands in the air. you whine, “please, please, don’t hurt him,” and the man whirls around to you. he looks gaunt, his cheeks pressed into his face, but his beard, which hangs wiry by his chin, is streaked with something bloody and dead. he bares his teeth and laughs with delirium.

“so there is another one,” he says as he approaches, gun pointed now at your nose. you let him think you a coward and flinch as he presses it to your face. “you’re prettier ‘an your partner, ain’t ya?”

you keep your eyes wide, say nothing. not yet, not yet, he isn’t close enough. joel barks from behind him, lowly and wild, “don’t you fucking dare,” but the man has already brought his other hand to drag around your face, through the hollow of your collarbone, down your sternum. you let your lip tremble and joel flinches ahead of you.

the man calls behind him to joel, saying “if i hear you move a goddamn inch i’ll shoot ‘er.” joel’s face is pulled up into fury and brutality and helplessness, nostrils flaring and chest heaving, but he stills.

“please, please, i’ll do anything, let us go,” and as you say it, already his right hand is tilting, the barrel of the gun slowly drifting from your cheek. just a little more.

his breath is soiled with rot as it fans over your face and he’s so close to you now, whispering, “anything?” 

the gun is pointed just to the right of your ear. 

now.

you twist your arm between your shoulder and his wrist to grab his hand, pointing the gun to the treeline as you duck under it to spin behind him, your free hand reaching into your coat and stabbing through the artery that runs through his neck. blood pours from around the handle as the man falls to his knees, and you grip him by the filth of his hair to pull your knife back out. you let out a breath, standing over what is now a corpse. it’s been years, but you are always yourself, aren’t you?

you falter only when you turn around and joel is there. he’s sat fully on his haunches, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he looks up at you. and the look on his face is…you don’t entirely know. his eyebrows kiss, knit together on his forehead, and his eyes look through you, like you’re an apparition before him, but still his mouth hangs open slightly. you think if you stay here, standing above him, the whole mangled history will come clawing from your mouth, so instead you move to sit beside him, the both of you now facing the body you left behind. 

the silence survives, for a few seconds. joel’s shoulders slump as he adjusts himself to sit with his legs out, and he pulls in a deep breath. 

“you done that a lot?”

you take a moment before replying, “yeah.” you think of how the truth seems to demand to be known regardless, regardless of your stifling of it and your wanting of joel and whatever innocence you’ve never had but cling to when with him. you think of this, and begin speaking.

“i was 18 when they found me in the salt lake qz. there was a group of them, 9 at the time, and this woman, eliza, she promised they’d take care of me. feed me more than the qz had. and i wasn’t starving or anything, really, or in any kind of trouble. i could take care of myself, you know. maybe i should’ve had a stronger moral compass. i was just…” you take a breath, “i was so alone, then. my father died on outbreak day, and mom was never really in the picture. some of them were my age, some were older. i don’t know. i’d learned how to use the knife like…” you look again at the corpse, “like that by then. i’d killed by then. it didn’t feel like i was losing anything, being a raider.”

joel is still beside you, looking down at his hands, but you know he is listening.

“and so we used to trap people like that. men, mostly. they’d throw me out in groups of them, let them get close and then…” you wave your hand around, a stand-in for the killing. “i ran with them for a few years. they kept their promises.” your scar throbs beneath your sleeve and you take another breath. “and then another group got the jump on us. we’d been looking through a warehouse and they’d been hiding there, i guess. they killed a few, nearly killed me, i think. they sliced through the artery down my left arm,” and you trace the line of the scar as you say it, “but matteo killed the rest before they slit my throat. he tried to stitch me up a little with what was left of our twine. still, they left me there. i didn’t really blame them. still don’t.

tommy found me there. he patrolled with noah, back then, and they came passing through after everyone else had left or died. at first they said i could only stay until the wound was healed, but in the end nobody had the heart to turn me out.” finally, you look at him, and he shifts his head up to look back at you. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.” and you are.

joel’s eyes flit over your face, scowling still but soft, too, and brings a hand up, slowly. he cups his palm around your cheek to turn your head, thumb soft along your face, and wipes the blood splatter along your neck and jaw with his other hand. when he shifts your face back to his, he lets his thumb trace the line of your nose, around the curve of your chin, once, featherlight, under your bottom lip. your mouth opens up a little, watching him watch you. he nods, then, decisive, and pulls himself off the ground, helping you up after him. 

you ride back to jackson in silence, leaving the dead man in the open. you let joel turn over what he saw, what he heard, in the quiet of your horse’s footsteps. he leaves you in the barn when you’ve dismounted, tells you to stay put, and reports the man to tommy. you stay, leaned up against the barn wall, waiting for him, something inside you scratching along the lining of your body, wondering what he’s thinking and knowing you have no right to it. when joel comes back, you notice the streak of blood on his thigh where he’d wiped his fingers after holding your face. you consider each other a moment from across the stables, and something passes between you. you saved his life today, and he’s grateful for it in a way he’s struggling with, and you can both agree you needn’t mention it again, at least until tomorrow. these thoughts he lets you read, before dropping them.

“you like whiskey?” he asks. and god what you wouldn’t do for a drink, so you nod. he jerks his head behind him and grunts, “c’mon.”

you let him lead you to his house, and for the first time you come inside.

joel has lived in jackson for years less than you, but still he’s filled it more than you have yours. there are books, on little tables and in the shelves, and half-done whittlings, and pencils. you flush with the scent of him, so strong in the curtains and the couch.

joel pours you a healthy shot into a tumbler, and then one for himself, and he lets you roam as you sip on it, following at your back without a word. you approach each of his shelfs, run your fingers along them, linger on the pieces of him he’s littered around. you finger through a pile of guitar picks and set your glass down there.

“what did you think of me when you first met me?” and you don’t entirely know why you ask it, at first. it comes, maybe, out of a selfish need to be reassured, or an even more dire want to hear his voice.

“what did i think of you?” he asks, and you can feel him approaching your back slowly. you hum, and joel reaches around you to set his glass down next to yours. he’s so close now and you squeeze your thighs together. “why d’you wanna know?”

and really you do your best at keeping yourself even. certainly, you tell yourself, he doesn’t mean to have this effect on you. certainly, he’s only trying to be kind after you sliced someone open for him. “i guess…” you think a moment, and then, “you asked me last night what kind of person you were. i want to know what you thought of me.”

he sighs a little, inches closer still. and his voice is so deep when he says at your back, “can i touch you here?” and you see in your periphery his pointer finger at your shoulder, hooking lightly over your hair. you barely muffle the shake in your chest and nod, and he pulls your hair over your other shoulder to bare your neck.

joel runs his nose along the line of your shoulder and lets out a breath there, pained and dismantled. into the seam of your neck, he whispers, “as soon as i saw you darlin i thought,” and he pauses to bring the backs of his knuckles, desperately light, down your spine, and you clench around nothing. “i thought you looked so goddamn soft. the fuckin garden and the strawberries, jesus, the strawberries.”

the paw of his hand, now at the base of your backbone, stretches itself along one of your hips. he says, now, “what about here? can i touch you here?” you nod again. joel’s fingertips press into you over your jeans there, but still he keeps his palm raised with a tremble that feels like restraint. “i thought i’d scare you.”

you let out a breath, slow, and muffled by your own attempt at control, and press your thighs together. the growing wetness at the nexus of your legs sears you, all lightning and heartbeat, and you will yourself to stay standing against the insistent pull of your arousal. joel tips his nose above the lobe of your ear to speak into it, lowly and gruffly and nearly apologetic (but not quite), “i’m too goddamn selfish.” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and breathes deeply again. “and violent.” this time, his words really do sound like repentance, and you stay silent to make space for the full of his confession. but his lips hover over the crest of your shoulder again, barely grazing, branding you all the same. “but you’re…” his jaw unhinges slightly, but he collects himself, “you’re vicious, baby.”

you whimper, then, and the sound of it makes him press his entire hand into your hip, suddenly frantic and squeezing at you.

“you hurt people, haven’t you darlin?”

you have to gasp for air, your pussy leaking into your underwear, because he’s seeing you, horrific and violent, and choosing to seek you out anyway. you nod cautiously, and his hands feel like they’re everywhere. and then gruffly, into your ear:

“you gonna hurt me?”

and you figure now, at least, you must be honest with him. “probably.” you barely recognize your own voice, the color of it darker with want than you’ve ever heard before.

joel pulls himself flush with your back, letting you feel the hardness of him, and allows himself a single push of his cock on your ass, muffling something animal in the back of this throat. he bands his free arm around your front to splay his palm on your sternum, pressing unforgivingly, and you feel the wild screaming of your heartbeat echoed back at you through his skin. he’s shaking, whispering, “don’t let me do this.”

you lay your head back into his shoulder to bring your mouth further up to him, arching yourself into his hold, making a home for yourself there. and pleading is a crime you refuse to commit in the presence of others, but you cannot help your own desperation now. “please.”

he spins you around then, and the lip of the shelf behind you presses determinedly into the skin below the hem of your shirt, but he’s kissing you (like he hates you, almost, or maybe himself) and so you take in the pain like it’s easy and you love it. his hands cup your head on either side, cradling the base where it meets your neck and threading his fingers through your hair as he nips at your bottom lip, laving over it with his tongue. he moans into your mouth as you kiss him back, lord forgive you for what that makes you feel, and you hitch a leg up to his hip to press your cunt into him. even through your jeans and his, he is an inhuman kind of large, and you wrap a handful of his shirt between your fingers to anchor you to sanity as you grind your hips at him. i need you i need you i need you, and you don’t say it, won’t say it, but you think it all the same. 

his hands move from around your head to grab at both ass cheeks, dragging your center across the front of his pants and you groan at each other from the feeling. whatever it is that sews you together is being reaped. you let yourself be dramatic; you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“joel, please,” you whisper into his mouth, which continues to eat at you.

“please what?” he pants back through your lips. “say it. what are you askin for?” despite this torture, his hands start to grope down your sides and pull at the buttons of your jeans. you move to press yourself into his grip but he insists, pushing you back into the wall. “tell me,” he growls, and it’s shadowy and lustful and deep, but as desperate as you feel, and it emboldens you.

“fuck me now, joel, please, please,” and you continue to beg, though your words turn incoherent, as he brings you up the stairs, holding your pussy still against his cock as it hardens behind his zipper. your pleading tightens joel's fingers on your waist, your thighs, the crook of your knee.

joel splays you on his bed, the tendrils of his hair haloed out around him as you run your fingers through and hold, and joel sucks and bites down your neck as he smooths his hands under your shirt to feel your skin. you whine out as he grabs at you, tight and wanting, and he pulls away so the both of you can pull your clothes off. you’re frantic as you sweep away your shirt and then your jeans, left bare besides your underwear on his bed, and you’d be embarrassed at your frenzy if joel wasn’t equally so pulling at his pants and shirt, but as it is you let yourself marvel at him. the broadness of his shoulders and biceps as he opens himself to you, the softness of his tummy, and oh, god, his cock tents in his boxers and you feel the already overwhelming wetness in your panties spread itself further. as soon as he’s on the brink of nakedness he’s on you again, caging your head between his palms on the mattress and pressing the hard line of his cock into your aching sex. his eyes bite at you with as much physicality as his teeth and tongue. something rumbles and unlocks in joel’s chest watching the rise and fall of your breasts as you heave, still grinding on you like he has no choice.

“goddamn it darlin,” he grits out, letting his eyes close a moment to feel the drag of your pussy against him. “you think about this?” your jaw falls open as you let a sigh out, one that means yes, and he moans deeply as he wraps his palms around each breast and squeezes. “you think about it as much as i do?” you nod again; you are past embarrassment, even humiliation, you are unreachable. it is only joel and his depth and you under him. “you touch yourself thinking of me?” and now you moan with the full of your chest, letting it loose in the sliver of air between you, and he returns it. “show me,” he pleads.

you let yourself a moment to pull the air, now heated with your body and his, into your lungs before you drag your fingers down your front and into your panties. he watches the movement of it, and his mouth stays open around a silent groan watching your fingers circle and push under the fabric, hearing you. you’re fucking dripping, and the squelches of your digits as you fuck yourself on them makes him groan and thrust his hips a little into nothing. you whimper his name and he falters a little. 

as a tightness grows in your belly, approaching without mercy with the scent of him at your lips, he finally brings his own hand down into your panties. he cups his palm over your moving hand and you begin to pull it out, but he catches your wrist. 

“no. keep going,” he groans. and you realize now he’s feeling how you touch yourself, barely resting his hand over your fingers as you pet inside, and you nearly come at the sight and thought and feeling of it. 

as you near your high again, he tightens his grip on your wrist and pulls your hand from your cunt with a growl. you whine at the loss, but he pushes two fingers inside you and suddenly you’re yelping like an animal, thrashing as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. he whispers, mostly to himself, “oh jesus christ you are so fucking tight,” and you keen. joel circles the spongy spot deep inside you and you clench around his fingers, pushing your clit further into his hold, and you’re so close, so close, so close. you tell him so, and he smiles a little, lustful and wicked but nearly in disbelief, too, and he says back to you, “it feel good, honey?” and you could almost laugh at him for questioning something so glaringly obvious, but any thought is cut off by a white and swirling pleasure that coils and then unties itself, and you come with a high pitched moan while he groans above you. that’s it, baby, oh my god. he whispers this to you as you come, but it sounds underwater and you can barely process it even as you come down from your high and joel pulls his fingers away. 

when your vision clears, you look above you to joel with his fingers in his mouth, eyes closed and stroking himself over his boxers, and now you really think you’re hinging on death.

“fuck me now, joel, please, jesus,” you say, though it’s breathy and broken with the intensity of your orgasm, which throbs still through your clit and around your walls. 

joel pushes you further up his bed and lets his head dip again into your neck as he pulls his boxers and your panties off, biting with a diminishing mercy and chastising, “greedy.” you nod because you are.

when finally, finally, his bare cock is running through the wetness of your cunt, barely catching on the opening, and you’re two heaving bodies with the feeling of it, the both of you pause for the first time since joel’s entryway. you press a little foot into the back of his bare thigh, and you watch each other there, nearly in and of one another. 

you whisper, “you gonna be okay, sting?”

joel breathes out onto your face and you feel his cock jump and pulse along your dripping seam. he looks pained, but you grin because you know better, can feel better by the rawness of him on you. 

“yeah,” he replies. “are you?” and he looks down to where you nearly connect, gyrating his hips again and prolonging the feeling of his head at your entrance. you have just enough sense to notice his cock is as massive as you’d felt it to be, red and weeping along your pussy, and you’ll take him in your mouth sometime but not now, he has to fuck you now or you’ll blind yourself with your own wanting heat.

you murmur back a yes (it’s the best you can do), and he fists his hands in the sheets by your hands as he pushes himself in. 

you imagined joel would fuck you roughly, unforgivingly; in this, you were right. but he is not rushed. joel drags his cock deep through your walls, letting the head bump your cervix before pulling nearly all the way out, and then reburying himself inside, but it is meticulous, intentional. you press back up, as best you can, to rub your clit in the dark curls at his base, and in return he curves his hips deeper into you; the friction there makes your walls pulse, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it pistons in and out. 

only when you’ve recovered from the initial stretch of him can you hear the noises the both of you are making. it is unholy, unceremonious, and loud. you’re moaning in his ear as he fucks you, and he groans into your mouth, the side of your head, your neck, every patch of skin on the expanse of you that he can reach. 

so fuckin wet f’me, huh?

fuck, baby, this pussy is so fucking good.

yeah, yeah—oh fuck—clench me like that, fuck.

you know you won’t last long, and from the stumble of his hips each time you whimper at him you know he won’t either. with each thrust his balls slap and stick to your skin, the bed frame bumping on the wall. 

joel sits up straighter, eyes trained on your stretch around him and the wetness that pours out there. he looks wild, awed at how you suck him in, and you’re mewling just as wildly because he’s so fucking deep and you think you can see the bump of his head below your navel when he thrusts inside. you curl your hand over his bicep and press your nails in, moaning out, “joel, joel, oh my god, you’re so deep i can see it.” 

joel follows your eyeline and moans out something broken and incoherent, pressing a palm down where he knots up from your skin to feel himself moving in your walls, and you scream. the sensation makes you clamp down harder on him and joel grips the other hand on your hip.

“stop, oh my god, stop,” he grunts, cock still hard and unyielding and beating inside you.

“i won’t last, joel, please,” you whine back, and joel lets his eyes slip closed for a moment before nodding. he mutters out a fuck and presses your knees up to your chest, slinging each calf over his shoulders as he fucks you harder, deeper, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“jesus christ, darlin, you’ll kill me.” another moan. “come on my cock, baby, c’mon, let me feel it” and it’s a demand and a prayer at once, and who are you to refuse? you feel your cunt soaking him, the squelch of your bodies together intensifying, and the filth of it unravels you a second time. you come like a punishment, hard and drawn out and expansive in your body, and joel is moaning out at the feeling, “so good, so fucking good.” 

you drag your nails down his back, hoping the marks are harsh enough to stay, and joel’s head tips back with his mouth pulled open. his cock swells and twitches inside you, and as his fingers turn white with his grip on your legs he pulls out, pushing your thighs together and fucking the skin there until the white ropes of his come paint your chest and stomach.

you both pant as joel slumps slightly over you, keeping an elbow at the side of your head to keep his weight off you but allowing your legs to fall to the bed again. despite the fucking, this is by far the most intimate; your breaths meeting between your faces, his nose pressed against yours. you look for something to say, but come up short. joel spares you by pushing himself off the bed and retreating to the bathroom.

you are both quiet as he wipes you with a cloth, though he remains gentle, diligent. when you’re clean, he throws it somewhere off the bed and sits on the edge, back to you and head in his hands. you shift to let your legs hang off his quilt, but don’t turn to him.

“joel,” you say, lowly. it’s only his name, but you know you’re asking something of him now, something you’re not sure either of you are strong enough to give. still, you wait for his response, keeping your gaze on his floorboards.

“what are we gonna do?” and it’s so soft, it reminds you of the day you met months ago. he is timid again, and it frightens you. the weight of your friendship, which you feel finally has bloomed into something worth nurturing, presses along your airways. you’ve wanted him for so long, and now you’ve had him, and you want him again. and so you’ve had your cake, and you move now to take a bite.

“we…” you let out a breath, as steady as the moment allows, “we’re friends.”

joel runs his fingers through his curls once before looking at you, and you gaze back. his eyes squint as he assesses your naked body on the edge of his mattress. “you gonna want me to fuck you again, darlin?”

you think he’s trying to panic you, euthanize whatever amalgam you’re constructing on his bedroom floor before it overcomes the both of you, but you do not shrink from him. “probably.”

he nods.

“are you?”

joel sighs. “probably.” 

and so you redress yourself and return home, legs trembling and aching unbearably between them, and wonder for how long you and joel can deny absolutes in favor of the gray area you’re carving out together. probably probably probably, the both of you are clinging to probably. but you have no qualms with using nails and teeth to find purchase, and so despite all better judgment, you mostly feel sated, at last.  what price could you possibly pay for this anyway? your heart? your soul? you forwent your ticket to absolution years ago, and you suppose the last half holy thing you can do is want, so why deny yourself this carnality? this is your last testament to living, to fuck joel and be his friend and deny the inevitable complication. you have taken and taken and taken and the blood remains on your hands, so what’s one last smeared fingerprint on the walls of your existence? when death comes for you, she’ll have such an awfully easy time, for you’ll have left a walkway in red behind you. what’s one last sign post? i am here. and it will be painted in your wanting and platonic insistence and the piece of joel you took within yourself tonight.

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

taglist: @koshkaj-blog @shotgun-shelby @limerence4u (if anyone wants to be added let me know!!)

[writercole]

Bound: A Sounds of Someday story

Summary: Jensen and Y/N have a strained month after their engagement. Words: 1848 Warnings: Childbirth (non graphic), anxiety. Credits: I'm pretty sure @flamencodiva beta'd this ages ago when it was supposed to be more than this. A/N: This is part of the world of Sounds of Someday. I haven't written RPF in over a year now so this is definitely an ancient wip that I'm bringing back for my dear friend @jensengirl83's birthday. I tried to find the master list for the series buuuut it's legit gone and I'm pretty sure that I deleted it. But I've linked the prologue (haha fooled you guys. The series is still there, just the ML is gone) and everything should be crosslinked. ANYWAY - this was born out of a challenge that Brandy set forth quite some time ago. My song was 'Turn the Page' by Bob Seger. I'm pretty sure I captured it well. Love you B! A/N 2: There is an entire story to follow behind this but I'm elbow deep in the rewrite and I'm also sure that the story that follows will be a separate book. But to all the fans of this series, I love you and cannot thank you enough. You can read the original again and the rewrite will be done hopefully in the next 6ish months. 😘

Jensen laid in the bunk on the tour bus and stared at the wall. The only thing he could hear was the sound of the engine roaring and the tires on the road. Everyone else was asleep except for the driver, Cliff. He’d tried to fall asleep but the only thing he saw when he closed his eyes was his fiancee’s face the moment she realized what he was doing on that stage two months ago.

Jensen dropped down to one knee in front of Y/N and her hands flew to her mouth as she gasped in surprise. “What better place to continue our adventure than on the stage where it began. Y/N, will you make me the luckiest man on earth and be my wife?”

He smiled at the memory as it played in his head again, comforting him while he rode several hundred miles east from Omaha to their next show. With a sigh, he turned over again, facing the curtain that was drawn across his bunk. The soft glow of the ambient nightlights filtered through a crack in the curtain, illuminating the beige walls and light blue of the curtain and bed linens. 

Jensen huffed as he swung his legs out of his bunk and padded to the common area. He sat in the corner of the black leather sofa and spread out from end to end, his feet resting against one end while his back was against the other. He leaned his head against the back of the sofa and pulled his phone out, opening the youtube app and hitting his favorites.

The video they recorded for Eric Church started playing softly, the strains of ‘Like a Wrecking Ball’ surrounding him as he watched their smiling faces filling his screen. A tear slipped down his cheek when the video switched to the one Gen had posted of the proposal. He fell asleep watching the two videos on repeat, like he had every night since he’d left her side.

Y/N sipped from the glass of wine that was perched on the edge of the bathtub. The bubbles had nearly gone and the water was barely warm but her eyelids were still refusing to get heavy. It wasn’t the same sitting in the house in Austin alone, it wasn’t the same sleeping alone. Jensen’s pillow smelled like him, but it was cold, too soft. 

Sighing dejectedly, she drained her glass and then the tub, stepping out onto the plush rug and wrapping herself up in Jensen’s soft robe. She inhaled deeply, comforting herself with his scent.

She crawled into bed again and pulled up youtube on the smart tv. She navigated to her favorites playlist and hit play. The sound of Jensen’s voice filled the room, a video from one of his first concerts with Corey. She watched several videos before drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

“Jensen, man, what’s going on? You were a million miles away tonight,” Corey asked, his brows furrowed and his voice soft. They had just finished a show and Jensen had been sullen and quiet, his usual playful banter missing from their set.

"I have never been more ready for a tour to end. I like what we do, love what we do, but I don't know if I want to keep doing this." Jensen put his head in his hands and sighed deeply, willing the tears away. 

Corey sat next to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder. “I get it, man. I do. With Alicia due any day now, I’m questioning this life, too. It’s hard enough being away from my wife but being away from my kid? That’s going to be a whole other ballgame.”

“We haven’t even set a date or really had time to just absorb being engaged, you know? She was with us that night and the next, then she went back home to Austin and I haven’t seen her in a month and we can barely video call and -” Jensen felt his breathing getting shallow and his chest tightening, signaling the start of an anxiety attack. It had been a few years since his last one and was shaping up to be a major one.

“Steve, bag!” Corey yelled across the room. Steve took one look at Jensen and ran across the room with one of the paper bags that were kept on hand for the number of people dealing with anxiety on the tour. 

Corey handed Jensen the opened bag and walked him through breathing and grounding exercises, calming him down and getting him to refocus on the room around him. He handed Jensen a bottle of water and made sure he was okay before continuing their conversation.

“Look, Jay, it’s not gonna be easy, man. But we’ve only got a few more dates on this tour and then we’re off for months. You’ll be able to hang with us and your godchild, whatever that may be. You’ll plan the wedding, hell maybe even have the wedding. And it’ll all feel like a bad memory,” Corey offered half-heartedly. 

“Yeah,” Jensen nodded, swallowing hard. “Distant memory.”

The days passed in a hurry. The countdown progressed down to hours, just over 48 now. Two more days and Y/N would be back at this airport picking up her fiance’. But now, she had business to tend to.

It was nearly midnight when Y/N made it to the door of the apartment her best friends owned. She was staying with Alicia until either the baby was born or Corey got back from tour. Alicia insisted that she was fine but Y/N wouldn’t take no for an answer; it was her way of paying them back for everything they’d done for her since they’d met. 

“Alicia!” Y/N called as she walked inside, taking her keys out of the door and slipping them in her pocket. Alicia didn’t answer, but Y/N heard her cry out in pain. She rushed towards the bedroom, the direction the sound came from, and found Alicia doubled over, holding onto the door frame of the en suite and clutching her stomach. “Lee?!”

“Y/N. Thank god you’re here. I think I’m going into labor.” A splashing sound drew their attention towards the ground, a stream of clear liquid puddling on the floor at Alicia’s feet. 

“Pretty sure your water just broke, hon. Get your shoes, I’ll grab your bag and we’ll call the hospital on the way down to the street,” Y/N instructed, already heading to the closet for the prepared bags. As soon as she grabbed them, she was phoning the hospital and getting the information on the fastest way there and what she needed to do for Alicia in the meantime.

“Y/N, Corey,” Alicia panted as she waddled to the elevator. 

“Don’t worry, hon. I’ll handle everything else. You just focus on keeping that baby where it is until we get to the hospital.” Y/N said a silent prayer to whomever was listening that they’d make it in time and that she wouldn’t have to deliver a baby in the backseat of a cab.

Cliff had stopped at an all-night diner for everyone to get off the bus, stretch their legs, and have dinner before continuing on the next leg of the journey. There was still time before the next show, the last show of the tour, so he figured a break from the road was needed.

The group was situated at a long table, Corey at one end and Cliff at the other, quietly talking and enjoying their break. Corey’s phone rang and he looked at Jensen after checking the id. “It’s after midnight and it’s Y/N.”

“Her flight landed like two hours ago,” Jensen added, worry building in his gut.

“Y/N, what’s going -” Corey was cut off by Y/N talking very, very quickly and then handing off the phone. “Alicia, baby, are you okay? How far apart are they? How long until you get there? Okay baby, one of you call me when you can. I love you.” Corey hung up the phone and looked at the table. “Alicia is in labor. Y/N is with her. They’re almost to the hospital.”

The table was stunned into silence before a cacophony of reassurances spewed forth from everyone, turning the heads of the other diners, though no one seemed to care. They finished their meal quickly and headed to the bus, ready to get this final show on the road so Corey could get home to meet his kid.

Seven hours later, Alicia was holding a beautiful baby boy. She was exhausted but she was overjoyed, basking in the bliss of new motherhood. Y/N watched everything with a soft smile and tears in her eyes, happy for her best friends and already deeply in love with her godson.

Corey was video chatting with Alicia and the baby, assuring them that he’d be here tomorrow. That meant that Jensen would be here tomorrow as well. Y/N sighed in relief and shut her eyes, knowing that it would feel faster if she got some rest.

The performers on stage for their final date of the tour were nearly vibrating with anticipation, counting the seconds until they could run back to the tour bus and hop on their flight to New York. The crowd was enjoying every second and the energy in the arena was palpable.

Corey thanked everyone and bid them a good night, restraining himself from running off the stage. Post show drinks were skipped as everyone packed up as fast as they could, the amplifiers still ringing in their ears, and headed to the airport. 

The plane took off from South Carolina and landed in New York a few hours later. Corey and Jensen were scanning the crowd as soon as it came into view, chuckling when they spotted Y/N holding a sign that said ‘aging, washed up rock stars’ in bold black letters. 

She dropped the sign as soon as she saw Jensen rounding the corner of the walkway and ran to him, jumping in his arms with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

“I missed you so much, sweetheart,” Jensen whispered as he twirled her around. 

“Missed you more,” she replied as she buried her face into his neck. 

“What’s this about you picking up aging, washed up rock stars?” Corey jested from behind them.

She lifted her head enough to send him a glare. He tossed his head back laughing loudly, amused by the antics of his best friends.

“Can we wrap this up, please? I got a kid to meet,” he quipped, smirking at the couple. 

Jensen shifted Y/N onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry as she shrieked and the three of them headed to the baggage claim. 

Jensen took the wheel and drove straight to the hospital, dropping Corey off to go be with his son and wife. “Where to, sweetheart?” he asked when they pulled away. 

“Anywhere, baby. As long as I’m with you.”

[sssammich]

fanfic writer questions

Thanks for the tag, @foibles-fables

1- How many works do you have on AO3?

i'm at 122 right now (wahoo!)

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

794,634 (i am on a mission to 1 million in the next couple of years)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

well i've been around many a fandom block, but i'd say for current brainrot:

supergirl (mostly supercorp, but i have a smattering of rare pairs because women, amirite?)

swan queen

bumbleby (i also still have so many rosebird dreams i'll get there someday)

makayuro (with a smattering of rare pairs also because women, amirite?)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

well unsurprisingly, ever since plopping down on supercorp fandom, the numbers have been from there. but shoutout to my victorious fic from 2012 holding strong lol

evergreen, closest i get, not for nothing, you've got mail, and one way or another

5. Do you respond to comments?

yes yes absolutely!! sometimes i am late and sometimes i just leave it in there so i can have it stay unread but anyway i try to respond and i appreciate everyone who sends them to me. i have historically been a oneshot writer so it's been nice also to get comments on wips!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

oh shoot angstiest ending?? well i think i would say my supercorptober ficlet about memory loss of sorts might tick that (it ends kinda idk open but not bad, i will say)

but then there's also this one old soccer RPF i wrote that's more, idk, poetry than any real fic about one of them leaving lmao

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

the happiest ending? i mean all of them, i reckon. if they end up together or have a promise of together then they count lmao

8. Do you get hate on fics?

uhhh none that i've seen? i mean if it's in the comments, no? but if it's elsewhere, then also no? i have been fortunate in that way

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

OMG YES I AM FINALLY IN MY SMUT ERA

uh i reckon comedy smut for now (read DickFic here) but the day is young and my doc is empty so who's to say

but i have dreams for some sad smut because i'd like to develop the range LMAO

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

surprisingly, i do not. what i instead do is just little spin through five fandoms at any given time and just confuse myself that way

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

unfortunately yes. twice now. once was for my victorious fic that was used for a 5th harmony RPF lmaooo

and then on thanksgiving weekend, the first chapter of Crepe AU was posted by an anonymous for a The Wilds ship (but my friends rallied to get it taken down so i didn't have to send a takedown form to ao3 while i was traveling home)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope but that would be totally rad

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

i love fic writing group work so yes! i have a series of sad angsty women that i have with my best friend in my revue starlight fandom, and then, of course, @sideguitars and i have 'humans in the storeroom' (that reminds me it's my turn to write the next part smh)

i also like jumping into writing sprints or writing exercises with folks (like a round robin)

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

let's not do this, i shan't pick amongst my children

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

so far all my wips are things i wanna finish and will do my best to finish. i have a couple of retired wips that will just sit in my ao3 forever and i have made peace with them, though.

16. What are your writing strengths?

i wanna say characterization, pacing, emotional resonance, and a simple and natural writing style maybe

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

action?? plot??? proper AUs lmao

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i do not because i find i butcher it and also then i cringe lmao

19. First fandom you wrote for?

oh written for but never posted? hermione/ginny

posted for? god probably All My Children (bianca and maggie) when i was like a teenager hahahahaha

20. Favorite fic you've written?

sorry no can do i love them all because i wrote them and there are so many things i enjoy about them. but i will say that the writing events circuit i've done this past year (supercorp bigbang, bumbleby big bang, and swan queen winter solstice) are born out of a lot of labor of love and i'm really proud of the work i've done for them.

and not for a writing event, but i am also extremely proud of re:live for mayakuro fandom-- that one makes me think that if i never wrote for that fandom again, that that's a really good fic to end on)

No-pressure tags, of course: @sideguitars, @eqt-95, @fazedlight, @luthordamnvers, @vox-ex, and @waytooinvested

(yall have probably done this before but here it just in case!)

[fayes-fics]

Lessons Applied: Opening Scene (WIP Extract)

This is the opening scene of part 5 of the Lessons series - as usual, it's an Anthony and Benedict threesome. But with a twist, that you see teased below. We are back in Regency times with this one. It takes place a few weeks after Lessons 3. And, as ever, is for @iboopedyournose

I’m publishing to give myself the FEAR to finish the fic. 😜😁

UPDATE: full fic now posted HERE

——

You are on the balcony observing Anthony Bridgerton as he effortlessly makes his social rounds at the latest soirée. Your bottom is still smarting a little from the riding crop he used on you last night.

There is movement behind you, and you know who it is by cologne alone. You can’t school the smile tugging at your lips.

“Can’t sit down yet?” 

“Not comfortably. He was particularly harsh,” you reply dryly.

“Mmm, yes, I thought it a little excessive,” Benedict opines softly, drawing up next to you. “You should turn the tables; give him a taste of his own medicine,” he chuckles.

“Hah!” you laugh, glancing sideways to catch his handsome profile as he scans the crowd. “You are very droll.”

“I mean it. For the right person, he would be willing to cede control,” Benedict says quietly, not wanting your inappropriately intimate conversation to be heard by others milling in the vicinity.

“Really?” you feel sceptical about it. In all of your time with Anthony, he has been a classic dominant even before Benedict became part of your dynamic. But Benedict knows his brother much better than you.

Below, the master of ceremonies announces for everyone to gather in the gardens, and the balcony starts to thin out as people move towards the staircases. 

“He’d only do it for someone he truly trusts. And I think that might be you,” Benedict’s tone is affectionate as you both track Anthony’s movements out of sight.

“Hmm, I’ll try it, on one condition,” your mouth ticks into an amused pout as you twist to face him.

He turns to face you as well, smirking in a bemused fashion. “Name it.”

“You help me,” you cross your arms and raise an eyebrow in challenge.

It is just the two of you left now on the balcony as the crowd files out of the French doors beneath.

He chuckles and then leans close, his lips near your cheekbone and his hands settle gently on your waist. “Do I have to submit to you too?” His voice is a teasing murmur.

“Do you want to?” you whisper back, touching his forearms.

“Hmm, maybe someday,” he offers thoughtfully, his fingers squeezing you gently. “But I think I’d prefer the privilege he had that first time we met. He got to do whatever he wanted to you, but I had rules. I want him to be the one under rules, and I get to do whatever I want.” He runs a thumb slowly down the front of your dress. “And I want him to watch as I destroy you, darling girl.”

You are panting at the thought of Anthony under your control as Benedict unleashes his full potential.

“God, yes,” you breathe, swaying close to his face, desperate to kiss him.

“Mmmm, not here, not now,” he intuits your desire, his breath hot on your face. “Save it for our session. Anticipation makes it so much sweeter, I find,” his voice almost an octave lower, his hand hovering over the junction of your thighs through your dress. “But if you need a little something to tide you over…” he adds, eyes glittering with menace. 

You nod enthusiastically.

Double-checking that the entire room is empty now, he yanks your dress up and sneaks a hand under the hem. Somehow he expertly locates your clit and pinches it between his thumb and pointer finger. Hard. Almost painfully. You gasp, and your breath stutters.

“This is mine, do you hear me?” his tone utterly authoritative.

“Yes, sir,” you quiver.

“You do not have permission to touch it until our next session, understood?” he intones.

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl,” he rumbles, and the fingers are gone before you can even register your thoughts.

He sucks them into his mouth, staring you down, watching your pupils dilate and your mouth open a fraction—he loves to tease you.

“I will know,” he warns, “just one look at you, and I will know if you disobeyed me.”

“What will you do if I disobey?” you whisper fervently.

“I would probably tie you down, worse than you will to Anthony, tease you until you screamed the damn walls down. Just keep taking you so close to the edge of bliss but not letting you over,” his deep voice a warning bell to behave.

“And If I’m a good, obedient girl?” you query, already breathless.

“I will make you come so many times you pass out,” his devastating crooked grin in full effect.

“Sir, you are dangerous,” you smile back.

“Says the woman willing to punish my brother,” he lobbies back playfully.

“Only if you help me,” you remind.

“Nothing will give me greater pleasure, my girl,” he assures lightheartedly, offering his arm to walk you outside to the festivities.

——

[vanilla-c0c0]

The villains want to embarrass the little robin (William Rex & Victor) - Story Event Premium End

All possible disclaimers are valid! I’m not a mother tongue speaker and I’m doing this just for fun. 100% accuracy is not guaranteed. Have fun!

When asked by WIlliam how she even knows about that, she explains that firstly, the major premise is that they would never carelessly expose someone else to danger. Furthermore, William has already acted as the Queen’s aid once, meaning that there’s no reason why he couldn’t do it this time, too. Her conclusion is that there was no real danger this time. Also, she has noticed that she hasn’t seen Elbert, Alphonse and Roger since the night before; are they on a mission related to Her Majesty? Victor happily claps his hands.

Victor: MC! How smart and insightful you are! Ahh, if I was allowed to, I’d crush you in a hug right now.

William: You’re right, MC. We knew that an incident targeting the Queen wouldn’t happen at the parade.

They recieved intel on a group plotting to assassinate Her Majesty for money; therefore, they spread false information concerning a double attending the parade in the Queen’s stead, and that the real Majesty was at an important meeting at Oxford.

Elsewhere, a gunshot resounds in the mansion where an important meeting is supposed to be held. The men who were planning the assassination are miserably lying on the dinner table.

Alphonse: Oh my, it ended up messing up the whole meeting place like this… this way, there will be no important meeting nor any other kind of shit. Right, Your Majesty?

The woman sitting on a chair removes her veil; it’s Elbert, who asks if it’s already over. Roger notes that this time all he had to do was sit down, but Elbert’s glad it went like that: he didn’t have to be careful about stepping on anyone’s shadow. By now, the parade must be already over, notes Alphonse, and Roger pities that they weren’t able to see Her Majesty MC. The real Queen Victoria was hidden in a safe place by Victor.

MC is relieved that Queen Victoria wasn’t actually ill. Victor apologises for keeping silent; after all, he wanted her to enjoy the life as a queen without any worries. William adds that though that is true, they also believed that she would find out by herself.

MC: Fufu, isn’t that a bit contradictory?

William: Ohh, I do not deny that there is a great deal of contradiction.

MC: Then, I will take it as a sign of trust from the two of you.

Still, they kept a secret! As a way of apologising, William invites MC out on a night date with him and Victor.

A few minutes later, she’s up high, on the roof of the Crown Castle. Then suddenly, William picks her up and starts moving from one roof to another (what in the fate series???). They run through the dense forest, cross the drawbridge, until they finally reach a roof with a view on the Big Ben.

Victor: How was your trip in the night sky, MC?

MC: It was so much fun! I’d like to fly again.

William: Fufu, you really do like bad things.

Victor: Girls who like bad things are welcome; otherwise, she wouldn’t get along with us.

They look down at the city of London, laughing together. It was a unique day that started with the two men’s proposal, but thanks to that, she has learned a lot: the Queen’s feelings and her determination, Victor and William’s first meeting… She thanks them for giving her a valuable experience. She’s still unsure of what her role as a fairy tale master is but she’s looking for what she can do for Victor, William and the Queen.

MC: May the Crown (freedom) shine on everyone’s head one day.

William and Victor: …

William: Fuahahah, Nostalgic isn’t it, Victor? Was that on our way home after finishing our first mission as Crown members? Victor told me:”I’ve decided, William. The name [the organisation’s] name will be Crown. What do you think? May the Crown shine above the heads of all who seek freedom someday”.

Victor: Every time I talk to you, I become more and more grateful about having you as the fairy tale master. Just like you poured your heart out to us, we want to do the same.

William: Yes, we will listen to your desires, cute little robin.

MC finds herself standing between two people smiling beautifully; just looking at them makes her feel like she can go anywhere, like she can do anything. She feels so happy that she doesn’t want the night to end yet. Victor asks her what is it that she wants right now, followed by William who repeats the question.

MC: Victor, WIlliam. Just a little more, with me—

She confesses her honest feelings to the self-righteous king and the aide of the queen.

[walkawaytall]

for your ask game - what's up with #3 and #4? particularly word of the day haha i love the concept already

Thank you for asking! Okay, so, funnily enough both of these started out as stories intended for fandom events, and then I ended up going in an entirely different direction and they’ve sat somewhat abandoned ever since. I even posted snippets of Macabre because I was so sure it’d be submitted for that event, so if it sounds familiar, that’s why:

#3 - Macabre: the basic premise is that, post-war and post-wedding, Han finds out Leia’s written down every time she probably should have died but didn’t on a calendar as…I guess a coping mechanism of sorts while Han was in carbonite (she’s lamenting the odds of them being able to rescue him successfully, and Luke says to think about all the times the odds were against them and they should have died but didn’t, and Leia decides to take the suggestion very literally), and since most of the times she should have died are also times when Han should have died, they start celebrating the days as weird, personal holidays because…I dunno, gallows humor as a coping mechanism suits them both, I think. Anyway, I have 2600 words that I really like of this thing and then couldn’t decide exactly where I wanted to take it because one route would’ve meant a VERY long one-shot, the other would’ve felt incomplete to me, so it’s been sitting there while I work on other stuff. I did just think of a possible third option, though, but I need to think on it a bit more before picking the project up again.

#4 - Word of the Day: this is crack treated seriously for sure. Han realizes that Dodonna not only has a Word of the Day calendar, he tends to overuse whatever the word of the day is, so to keep himself entertained in meetings, he basically makes a game of trying to identify the word of the day and then keeping a daily tally. During a particularly boring and scattered meeting, he ropes Leia into it, which starts a series of inside-joke-type games they play to get through dull meetings/gatherings. The concept isn’t fully fleshed-out, but I’m clearly a sucker for people having rituals and inside jokes, so I’m sure I’ll at least attempt to finish it someday.

WIP game

[evansbby]

For the writer asks: 11, 15, 24, 25. I do hope you end up getting asked about all of them!!

11. a WIP you’d like to finish someday.

All of them? Bahahaha. I am aiming to post the captain’s reward part 2 next, as it’s already 10k words long. wicked games 5 is a WIP that I really really hope I can succeed in finishing, only bc I really want to complete reader’s/Ari’s/Steve’s/Kira’s/Sharon’s stories and give them all a fitting ending! I feel like I’d have let myself down if I don’t, but I know I have a long road ahead of me as the plot of wg 5 is very ambitious as is the structure of the fic with all the flashbacks and flashforwards — it’s something I’ve never done before and I’m excited and nervous to delve into it! Apart from that, I really want to post my sugar daddy Ari full length fic — I really want to tick all the boxes with that one and make a super long smut-filled fic that I know yall would enjoy but it’s just gonna take time. There’s also a mystery Steve fic that I’m almost don’t with that I’d like to be able to finish and post soon!

15. favourite weather for writing.

Cold weather, at night when it’s all cold and I’ve just taken a shower and I sit on my bed with the window open next to me and the cool air coming into the room, fan on full blast to also create white noise which allows me to write without getting distracted easily. It’s perfect hehe.

24. how do you recharge when you’re not feeling creative?

To get my creative juices flowing again, or to get myself inspired I usually just stop writing and give it a rest for a few days. Being away from your wip can help you get inspired to write it more if you’re not constantly staring at it. I also daydream a lot in bed, when I just wake up or when I’m going to sleep at night — this is where I get most of my ideas from and then I get excited to write them down. Also, watching a movie or series really helps to get my creativity flowing again I’ve realised. Like I’ll watch something on tv and then think of how I’d better the plot and then it gives me inspo to write. Also reading my fics helps me get creative again. Also watching twt prn but I can never find the good stuff like how yall send me links lol.

25. besides writing, what are your other hobbies?

I love fashion — I love watching and reviewing fashion shows and collections both past and present. I also love fashion illustration and I love drawing hybrid style illustrations of traditional iconic pieces mixed with tacky 2000s style. I also like painting in real life — I’m not the best but I e recently gotten into it! And yeah I can’t think of anything else lmaooo.

[eirianerisdar]

How do you find the motivation to write? I used to write all the time about a year or two back and haven’t since. I just can’t do it, sometimes I’ll get a creative burst and type it down real quick but I can never finish them. I miss writing, but work has been busy and even when it’s not, I use my free time to do literally anything else. And I read your most recent reply to an anon and it seems like you’ve got it harder than me and still push out these amazing, wonderful, well-written chapters. How do you do it?

Honestly, Anon, I see you (in the most non-cringe way possible).

Because that's me, too.

I used to write daily back in secondary school. Then I hit medical school, and the burnout made it difficult for me to enjoy what I liked most - writing. Because writing took energy I didn't have. If you look at my fics, most of them are posted in a burst of energy within a few weeks, or in longer-spaced bursts of a few days. In my Silmarillion series there are two mid-length fics sitting on half-completed final chapters because I've just been too worn out to tie up their emotional threads in a way I'm satisfied with.

Writing is something you need energy to do. The reason I've been able to write what I have for the Avatar 2 fandom is because for the first time in three an a half years, I'm not working 86-100 hour weeks. I see anywhere from 66 to 79 cases a day, I have to rush if I want to pee or eat, and I don't get to drink water except at lunch, but I get to sleep. That's something. And Half Alive is a pretty straightforward hurt/comfort and family dynamic healing fic; it's not something that requires much thought to detailed subplots, though there are still a few I want to resolve.

So don't feel guilt or disappointment that you need to do literally anything else apart from writing when you get back from work, anon. Your brain needs to recharge, and it's automatically sending you to things that will recharge you. If writing isn't going to recharge you or benefit your mental health in that moment, then you shouldn't push yourself. You should write for you, not for anyone else; it is your art and your own happiness. Applaud yourself if you wrote even a single line. It's there, and someday when life isn't quite so busy you'll have a wonderful foundation for a story to go back and finish.

Blessings. <3

[docholligay]

Sometimes in life, you find a calling. Something that speaks to you utterly, and, in that moment, the gates open, and you realize that we are all created for something wondrous, be it small or large, and you have found it. Your purpose. And then sometimes you have a mortgage to pay.

It’s the latter circumstance that brings me to this office. Maybe circumstance is being too kind. I believe in God mostly because the preponderance of the evidence leads me there. Problem being, God is a jackass and wants me to be the punchline in a series of cosmic jokes. I’m a country girl, a straight shooter, and the last thing I want is to listen to someone enumerate their problems at me, thirty percent of which are a failure to listen, and sixty percent of which are a failure to act.

Gotta allow the ten percent for galactic shifts, death, and the discontinuation of Coke Starlight.

Point is, I spend a solid twenty hours of every twenty-four convincing myself not to shoot first and ask questions later, only to get a job where people are tossing targets at me. Couples counselor. There are probably jobs I’m less suited for, but inasmuch as I’m aware, typesetting’s all done by machines now. I look at the schedule today. They give me the hard cases, because I don’t take it so personal. You see my name after yours, may as well file the papers and box up the mementos. My job isn’t so much to save the boat as it is to save the people in it.

Maya Tendou and Claudine Saijo. I don’t recognized the names, though there’s no reason I would. That’s only happened a handful of times. Rich socialite. War hero. People who end up in the papers, the big ones. I don’t read much else, and barely that. What and who the kids talk about on Twitter and TikTok is beyond my ken.

I shuffle through the file quick-like, and then rubberneck at the ages like it’s a highway crash. I can tell you the trouble right now, and it’s the numbers one and six, in a neat row. People don’t try to save these relationships, they just cut through them like a college 101 course. Must be rich parents. Rich parents paying either too much attention, or none at all.

I walk into the room. Two girls who think they’re women, sitting on opposite ends of the couch. Tall, brown hair and back both straight as a pin. Surprised she allows the couch cushion to bend beneath her, but maybe that’s the secret. Other things bend. She doesn’t. On the other end, a blonde that’s going to enter every man and woman thus inclined’s dreams and nightmares someday, hair curling across her shoulders like café smoke in a Paris summer, brown eyes sparkling like champs.

“Well,” I take a sip of my coffee, “Maya. Claudine.” A nod on one end, a wave on the other. I guessed right. “So, let’s get started.”

It’s never easy breaking the ice, made worse by me, half the time. I’m no war general, and I’m always coming late to the battle. Ground has been ceded, casualties tallied, and I’m still reading the map.

Luckily, Claudine fills me in, before I even have time to finish sitting down. “Maya thinks only of herself, of her victory! She’s convinced herself she’s better than I am, but--”

She keeps talking, but I take another look at the intake form. Actress. Actress. There’s bad ideas, and then there’s worse ideas. If I could offer a list of high school commandments that would be ignored, ‘Thou shalt not let the theater kids date each other” would be at least number three. I’m tempted to send them packing, but the only way you can bill for 150 an hour is to work an hour, so I sip my coffee as she keeps going.

“--and I was always there for you! Always telling you, that you would not be defeated!” 

Some people expect the partner they are, and not the partner they have. People’ll tell you what they’re willing to do, if you’ll listen. I’m looking at Maya’s face, and a shiver goes through me as I feel the chill of moonlight on a grave. Her future’s carved out, and if the little French storm at the other end wants to make so much as a dent, she’s gonna have to be in for the long haul. Who needs to make time for that, now? World has so many choices.

But you can’t tell a client to leave their girlfriend in the first ten minutes of a session. That’s the sort of thing that brings down the Yelp reviews. You have to make them see it themselves. Half of counseling is just interpretation. You have to change the language enough that it goes from someone’s mouth to another’s person’s ears, and means something.

The voice was clear and cold as I imagined as it answered: “You confuse the stage and the wings, Claudine.”

I hear her perfectly, but she may as well have been speaking Finnish, from the look on Claudine’s face. The relationship is gonna be second to the career, and Claudine’s career is even lower than that. Maya’s a legacy kid, paperwork says, and that name is carved in stone. It’d be easy to see her as a bad person, but I hear the way she says Claudine’s name. The French way. If nothing else about her, her tongue can bend a little.

It’s not enough. Sometimes people try, but it’s not enough. Not by the time the secretary hands them over to me.

“Claudine,” I sigh, “What is it you want?”

“I want her to--”

“Not from her,”: I set down my coffee cup, “Sorry for not being clear. Outside of Maya, what is it you want? What feeling?”

She looks at me like I have three heads and two of them are Jimmy Hoffa. That’s the thing, about teenagers, and why I should tell Louise up front I wont’ take them anymore. Bunch of people who end up in my office don’t know themselves, but with teenagers it’s a temporary condition. Hard to know yourself when you’re in the process of being rewritten. Of course she’s never thought about what she really wants. It’s just goling to school, getting to the next semester, then going to college, then getting a job, and at no point is the assembly line designed to make you think about what you want. Things are easy to get, feelings are hard. “Love, of course.” She looks insulted, like I’m the idiot here, even though I’m not the one trying to save a three month old relationship with another sixteen year old.

“And, Claudine, Maya,  what does that feel like?”

They both look at each other, not at me. The whole operation is coursing with hormones, and competition can feel like desire, and desire can feel like love.

I get a lot of annoying answers to this question. Even more silence. Twice I’ve had someone quote that goddamn bible verse at me, and both times it was someone who had a laundry list of mistakes their partner made. Sometimes, i even get a good answer. Those I keep tucked in an envelope in the back of my desk.

“When you…” Claudine’s brows furrow.

I knew she’d be the one to try to answer. Maya’s not going to answer, because she doesn’t know, and she’s the sort of girl who’s not ready to fail. She’ll sit there hoping I’ll find her stoic and not stupid. I find her both. Claudine doesn’t know either, but she’s hoping she’ll find something pretty, a Jackson Pollack of emotion pouring out of her mouth, though I heard Pllack planned his paintings, and I’m not convinced of the same for her.

I raise my hand to her. “Sounds like you want to be adored, Claudine? That right?”

All the things she’s said, about flowers and compliments and even a pretty little turn of phrase about being looked at form the other end of the room, all strat to scrub away at the truth. Claudine wants a spotlight of her own, not to be the lighting director. Nothing wrong with that. Usually one in each relationship. People think being the backstage is the right answer, but the real answer is to find someone who enjoys watching. Plenty of them.

Probably not in an acting school, though.

I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair and wish I still smoked. Maya’s mouth is hanging a little open, that perfection chipped just a little bit at the edge, like she’s realized that the stone she’s carved into can’t move, and she’s not even sure she would want to if she could. Maya’s starting to speak Finnish. Claudine’s not there yet.

Claudine’s still busy looking like I’ve accused her of murder. The glint of her eye could filet a fish.

“Non! I--”

“Claudine.” Maya says it like a judge handing down a sentence. “We don’t have time.”

“Maya…”

There’s tenderness there, between them, and it almost makes me regret killing the hour till I open my thermos of soup trying to convince them to leave each other. But they’re sixteen. If they’re mean tot find each other, it’ll mean more at twenty-six. Thirty-six. Once they’ve grown some grass under their feet.

“I want you to be the actress you can be.” Maya nods at her. “And you can’t, if you keep looking to me. I can’t look to you. We have to look up, to the stage.”

I smile, noting that Maya has carefuilly left out any idea of Claudine surpassing her, or even coming up to her level. She’s surprisingly mature and childish, wrapped in that fascinating package that only teenagers manage without being tiresome. Maybe because when adults or doing it, we know they should learned. But Maya’s both arrogant and wise, in this moment, and it’s a cute look for a teenage girl with a pedigree who’s only a few years from getting knocked flat by auditions and jobs. Let her have it while she can.

“I love you.” Claudine’s French, and it doesn’t shame her to say, though Maya blushes and looks away, and for once, that’s enough, and she smiles, “No. That’s wrong, isn’t it? I want you. I crave you. But…I don’t love you, do I?”

Maya reaches over for the first time, and takes her hand, her cool eyes looking into Claudine’s as she regains whatever composure a literal sixteen year old drama queen can have.

“No. We don’t. Do we?”

Maybe this is what their parents wanted. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, 150 in my pocket, and soup in my thermos.

Case closed.

[sluttyhenley]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @starrybouquet (thank you!!)

1. how many works do you have on Ao3?

50 (actually 51 if you count the one that hasn't been revealed yet)

2. what's your total Ao3 word count?

269,637

3. what fandoms do you write for?

I have posted in 18 different fandoms on ao3 but most recently 911, Top Gun and The Old Guard

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

my heart is working overtime (e, 911, buddie, 4k)

is forever enough (e, 911, buddie, 10,4k)

lover good be good to me (e, the old guard, joe x nicky, 20.4k)

a twister to blow everything down (t, 911, buddie, 17.2k)

when one plus one equals three (t, 911, buddie, 3.6k)

(gonna also say how blown away i was by the reception to my heart is working overtime, considering it really is one of my sillier fics)

5. do you respond to comments?

yeah, it typically won't be right away, but i do tend to reply to comments definitely! on a multi-chapter fic it doesn't tend to be until i'm posting the next chapter

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

the sound of glass (kate daniels, m, hugh d'ambray x christopher steed)

i wrote this fic for the kate daniels series last year for yuletide. i kept it within canon parameters and therefore there was no way for this pairings ending to be anything but angsty. to this day my fic is the only one in that pairing tag.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

either is forever enough (mentioned above) or put a hold on my heart (e, tgm, rooster x phoenix, currently sitting at about 31k) which i haven't finished posting yet, but like i did finish writing it and let me tell you that ending is some of the sappiest shit i've ever written

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i have. both times i deleted the comment with the intention of moving on, the second time the commenter didn't let me do that so i responded with a rocky horror gif

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

i didn't used to but boy howdy those scenes sure do seem to be finding their way into my fics. i have a wip in the works that opens practically right out the gate with two explicit scenes. it took me a bit to get back into m/f smut after writing so much m/m for buddie. (i haven't posted any f/f but i have written it for an original work)

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

yep! only one and it was a cross between the old guard and leverage and it was such a fun time actually

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

if so i don't know about it

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope

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

nothing beyond bouncing ideas back and forth with others

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

oh god. i have like. the ones that scratch an itch in my brain and ones that i love writing for. i got new ones this year (icemav and rooster x phoenix) i love writing buck x eddie and i have had a lot of fun writing book of nile.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

i have a couple of ideas that i started and then kind of moved on from those fandoms (i had a couple of hp wips that i was excited about but will now never finish) but really a lot of what i have sitting in my docs that are unfinished are things i would like to come back to someday

16. What are your writing strengths?

dialogue, probably. and humor

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

i've had to spend so much time developing my imagery skills, and describing action. explicit scenes are such a challenge for me, from vocabulary to action. but as i work on them more i find myself developing those. but all of that are still very much weak points for me

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i won't really do it unless it's just a few words. i did it in a book of nile fic a while back, but i kept it to a few french phrases that i could translate in text.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

the first fandom i ever posted fic for was the librarians. i actually wrote some doctor x rose stuff that never went beyond the privacy of my own docs.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

i'll do three that i'm really proud of (and a bonus one that i can't name because it hasn't been revealed yet) put a hold on my heart (i just am so fond of it and all the little details that i came up with for the story some of which will be expanded on in other fics) words i've never said (it was fun to write a mistaken identity christmas fic for buddie and i really do like how it came out) let's get lost (and let the good times roll) which i wrote as a companion to lover be good to me (mentioned above) and i just really liked getting to explore and expound on another facet of that story and i really liked the character dynamics i created

tagging (no pressure of course!): @natashatrace, @reachingforaspark, @ladywaffles, @redbelles

[katvonbirb]

📓 :3

I had to go browse my gdocs folders for an answer to this one, but here's a Transformers fic that is technically, like, half written, but I started it back in 2016 and the chances of it ever actually getting finished are pretty low. But I open the document every now and then, reread it, maybe add a few words, and it's still sitting in the back of my brain.

This one gets a little messy with different threads being pulled from canon and other fics and headcanons, but stick with me.

This fic has a title, partly because it I did, actually, start writing this: in the dark, a light

As for the setting and such: Transformers. Giant robots in disguise. Optimus Prime, Megatron, etc. This fic takes place on Cybertron, before the war leaves the planet, before the OG animated series, before the movies, before Earth. So no humans, just sentient/sapient robots.

There are some fics out there that play with Transformers and the occult, the Cybertron equivalent of ghosts and boogeymen. I don't remember now if spark shadows was something I pulled from those fics or if they just inspired it, but a spark shadow is kind of like a malevolent ghost that would roam around and kill a mech and eat their spark, their heart/soul, in an effort to return to life.

There is an Autobot, Jazz, who is commonly portrayed as a spy or saboteur. And he doesn't get a whole lot of screen time, though he's present in several of the various franchises, but he's very fun to play with in terms of background and such. So I thought, what if spark shadows are real, what if Jazz is a spark shadow, except that spark shadows aren't actually ghosts, they're an actual type of creature on Cybertron, just ones that live way down deep in the planet, near to the core, and they're an old species, old enough to have become a legend up at the surface of modern Cybertron. And so he's just kind of pretending to be a transformer like the others, but he's got additional senses and capabilities, things that lend well to him being a spy and saboteur.

And there is a Decepticon, Soundwave, who is often portrayed as the Decepticon spymaster, with casseticons that are small animal-type mechs that he carries around with him and also serve as spies and saboteurs. And there's nothing special about him, he's a normal enough mech, but he's the enemy.

And that's a lot of background for a fairly straightforward plot: What if, during a battle, a surface level of Cybertron gives way and Soundwave falls down, deep enough that he can't get out on his own, and he's injured? And Jazz comes down and finds him, only he doesn't kill Soundwave, he saves him and leads him out of the old, dead and unused layers of Cybertron. But along the way, Jazz has to use his spark shadow nature to keep them safe and it's his knowledge of the innermost sections of Cybertron that let him lead Soundwave back to the surface. And Soundwave is seeing this and making observations and starting to put together the clues into an answer that should be impossible, but clearly isn't. And the ending will be them getting back to the surface and parting ways, but now Soundwave is aware that Jazz is some sort of primordial creature that shouldn't exist and it's really all just one big what-if character study, lmao.

I'm not even sure if it's a shippy fic, it might end up being just gen, but I really love the idea and maybe someday I will poke at it enough that it will become a real, finished fic. Someday.

[stay-dazed]

bookworm

i’m so glad to be a bookworm. something i owe to my mom who tried her best to raise me as such. she gave to me more than a child could ever ask for, such as a large bookshelf packed with various books, even before i could actually read. and once i did learn, i was unstoppable as it became my lifelong special interest. i was known for having my face pressed into a book most of the time and often i got into trouble at school for being so distracted. i didn’t really care though. i was just happy to switch books at the library quicker than the other kids did.

by age 9 i was so influenced by books that i wanted to publish one myself. i’ve written many stories over the years, and while i have other goals i’m working towards at the moment, i still hold on to my dream of becoming a published author someday.

honestly, i’m comforted by having come from a line of bookish women. my grandma spent years of her life collecting all sorts of books, most of them antique by now. she collected until she made a mini library of her home. walk down the hall and you’ll pass a couple stacks of books seated on the floor. whenever i visit my grandparents i look through a section of the books, hoping to find something new to borrow. my favorite find was the art of food by claire clifton, which i still have sitting on my own bookshelf now.

my mom has fond memories of buying her favorite book series as a child - the black stallion by walter farley - and finishing books in a day. we try to find time to settle in a cafe and just read our separate books for a little while. my aunt used to carry a bag with her that was filled simply with books, which i started to do myself with an old virginia woolf tote bag mom handed down to me. my aunt and i love to talk on our commute to work about the books we’re reading, want to read, and books we recommend to one another. i’m so grateful to share a passion like this with my family. we also love various art forms, animals, gardening, and music, but books have stuck with us the most.

actually i just had a book arrive in the mail a couple days ago, one i’ve been wanting for a long while now - all quiet on the western front by erich remarque. i’m on the fourth chapter and i love it, which is new for me as i don’t generally like war movies or books. it’s just so poetic in how it describes the emotions war brings on young men. it’s sitting next to me on my bed right now, with a stack of sticky notes i use to mark my favorite pages on top.

to get so lost in a book that the emotions it evokes leave you just pondering for a few minutes at the end, wondering what to do next, to hold a book in hand and enjoy the feeling and even the smell of it, to explain books you love to another person. it’s just the best feeling in the world. i’m beginning thinking i should start a bookish instagram to show book hauls, reviews, and recommendations. i don’t know, i might just do it.

[bookwyrminspiration]

hi! 1. i have been on the road for hours but am finally getting close to home and oh man quil it is so good to see all the familiar landmarks and foliage again, i forgot how absolutely homesick i was but this is such a place to be homesick for, and 2. this is not about found family AND i still haven't. actually finished the entire series really so i don't even know how satisfactory the ending is (or if i've already recommended it haha) but the false prince, which is part of the ascendance series, might be a fun read for you! i remember reading tgl for the first time and the main character's Voice reminded me SO MUCH of sage, the mc from that book, that i had to sit down and check if the authors were the same (they were not). it's abt this orphan kid who gets kidnapped so he can compete w a handful of other boys to impersonate the late prince who had been killed years ago and become a, i think it's called a puppet ruler? for some guy. it is EXTREME amounts of fun from what i remember of it haha--my brother and i didn't know there were other books until like this year though, which sucks because it's like!!!! i think like four other books!!! that's so wild!!! it was one of our favorites!!! so i mean it's your choice if u would ever read the entire series bc i can't guarantee the quality of it but i genuinely love the entire tone of the first book it's just so well done :)

Hello! 1. I am so so glad for you--when I was coming home a couple weeks ago it was so nice to see the streets and know where we were, how the traffic flowed, the kinds of stops and lights you'd find, the way's the streets looked. In CA it was so green everywhere and I was just like. what the fuck where are my Rocks and Dirt and why do we have to take so many uturns. wishing you pleasant dreams back in your own place with your own food and clothes and atmosphere <3

2. !!! I have that series!! I own the first three--though I think my sister's had the first book for a few years, because she borrowed it a while back and never gave it back. same with the lightning thief. and I didn't realize until like a year ago that there's a book 4 + 5 now, so I haven't finished the series either. I actually. Don't know if I ever read past book 1--I think I started book 2, but stopped a few chapters in? I can't say for certain because it was so long ago--I read the false prince almost a decade ago, in elementary school for battle of the books, so I've forgotten nearly everything.

And I remember I really loved the voice as well! I might've even stopped partway into book 2 because the voice didn't feel the same, but again. it's been a while. I remember very little except for the final twist, with the fools gold thing. But I know elementary me was blown off her fucking feet with that I was SO astonished and blind-sided.

But!! Because I own books 2 + 3 but haven't finished them, I do fully intend to reread the false prince at some point in the future so I can read those! on my quest to read all the books I own! so while I can't have any meaningful conversation about any of it (i forgot his name was sage, for example...), I will be able to someday!! i don't know if I've ever seen anyone else talk about or mention the series--and I didn't know that was its name--so very cool that you have!