#so I had to go into my settings from my browser history EVERY WEEK to snooze it

[cutepresea]

Me: *submits ticket about post not showing up in tag or dashboard*

Support (automated reply): Can you send a link, you can get it from your dashboard

Me: .......it not being on the dashboard is part of the problem, but sure here's the link (insert link)

Post: *suddenly starts working properly and shows up in the tag*

Support (supposedly not automated this time but I don't believe them): Can you send us a link to the affected post, you can get it from your dashboard

???

(All of this is paraphrased and not actually how any of it was worded but this is the gist of things)

[safeplacesnupin]

Snupin Fanfic Year in Review

Hey friends! So I really want to start promoting more amazing Snupin fanfics and I thought this might be a good way to start. I'm going to go through my bookmarks and select one (or two, or three) Snupin fics I read for each month and bookmarked and recc it in this thread :D Sorry if I don't tag every author but if you know their tumblr PLEASE tag them! *disclaimer* I didn't get an AO3 to bookmark until July so the first few months are just ones I had favorited in my browser until I got an AO3 LONG post ahead! A bunch of Snupiny goodness!

🦔 January - Triquetra by Contrarian_Hedgehog 🦔

Summary on AO3: With the war fast approaching, Snape is forced to rely on Lupin and Black in order to secure his place in Voldemort's circle. Can they get past two decades of hostility? After a month of cohabiting, being around each other gets easier yet so much more difficult. Notes: This is actually a Snackin fic! A poly relationship between Remus, Severus, and Sirius. It has such a fantastic 'I don't want to do this but I have to' into a full blown relationship and it comes with such spicy art and scenes. 16 chapters total. Read: Triquetra

⚔️ February - Lily's Boy by SomewheresSword ⚔️

Summary on AO3: Before his third year of Hogwarts has even begun, Harry faces three whole weeks of unsupervised time in Diagon Alley. In that time he takes a trip to Gringotts - and that changes everything.

Burdened with the knowledge that Dumbledore has been blocking his family magic, and manipulating far more than he ever thought possible, Harry doesn't know who he can trust; but he knows he can't keep going that way. There's a whole world of lore and politics and history to catch up on, and the more he learns, the more Harry realises his true place in the world, and how much is being kept hidden from him. All the while, Dumbledore's twinkling eyes are constantly watching, and Harry can't let on how much he knows.

With help from unexpected places, Harry starts on a journey to end the war, and reshape the wizarding world. With how much he looks like James Potter, people have forgotten one important thing about him - he is Lily Evans' son, and she was one hell of a witch.

Notes: Buckle up for a long, fantastic fic my friends! Lily's Boy is 109 chapters! This focuses a lot on Harry as I'm sure you could guess (Drarry specifically), but Snupin is a huge focal point in this fic and I would not call it background. It's brilliant worldbuilding earn it this February spot!

Read: Lily's Boy

🧁 March - Have Your Cake and Eat It by Cunegonde 🧁

Summary on AO3: Lying in hospital after the Battle of Hogwarts, Remus Lupin has a lovely lucid dream that he's gone back to his school days at Hogwarts. Only the day passes, then another, and another, and soon he must face the terrifying possibility that it isn't a dream — that he has irreparably altered the events of the past.

Please be advised, this one contains Adult Themes. Just, not so much in the fun flirty way, more in the midlife existential crisis way.

Notes: Primarily following Remus around as he gets transported back in time to his school days?! And how he falls for our lovely Severus Snape while trying not to mess up reality. YOU WILL CRY. Bittersweet ending warning on this one but so worth the read. 33 chapters

Read: Have Your Cake and Eat It

🦡 April - For Once Seen by diandrastrikesback 🦡

Summary on AO3: “Get the shutters,” he said stiffly. 

“Want to see you,” Lupin whispered into his hair. 

Snape’s panic rose. He fumbled with his words as his heart beat up his throat. “No. Erm…oily hair…you know, bad skin,” he stammered quietly. 

Notes: A short drabble and first ever time something of mine inspired anything. ToT <3 Set in the summer, Remus sneaks over to Sev's house to have some fun. Sev isn't confident in his appearance though.

Read: For Once Seen

🐍 May - The Heir to the House of Prince by A_LoveUnlaced and elphi13 🐍

Summary on AO3: Summer of 4th year and Harry's all alone, dealing with his grief and the sudden revelation that James Potter is not his father. Support comes in a strange form. The form of Theo Nott, son of a death Eater. A strange friend who says he'll help him find his true father, whoever this Lord Prince might be.

Notes: Back to the long fics; 87 chapters AND this is a part of a currently ongoing series. Sev is actually Harry's father and wow is that a shock to Harry! This fic features Snupin and a Theo/Harry pairing and does a brilliant job focusing on both. Extremely compelling read. Severitius.

Read: The Heir to the House of Prince

🩺 June - Not Quite What the Doctor Ordered by Arionrhod and McKay 🩺

Summary on AO3: Severus Snape is a brilliant diagnostician, but it turns out that Remus Lupin is a very difficult case, in more ways than one.

Notes: I'm not usually one for super AU fics but this one takes the cake. Severus is charactarized fantastically and the story is so very good! This is completely non-magic and the relationship between these two is just chefs kiss! 4 chapters.

Read: Not Quite What the Doctor Ordered

🥇 July - With Every Step I Rise and Fall by @miffmiff 🥇

Summary on AO3: After the war, Remus thinks that all hope is lost of ever reconnecting with Severus. He may be in for a surprise though.

Notes: So I have this secret extra ranking I call 'The Golden Shelf.' It's the best of the best, and while many of these fics in this list hold that rank, THIS is the fic that inspired me to make that ranking at all. The very first fic on my golden shelf! This takes a look at how Severus and Remus grapple with the past and embrace each other. Charactarization feels real and so spot on. 1 chapter.

Read: With Every Step I Rise and Fall

Honorable Mention for another fic I read in July: Because He Really Knows Me by flyfreewithme776 is an AU fic where Remus is a cute barista and Severus is pining even if he keeps making his drinks wrong!

🎁 August - The Great Hogwarts Christmas Gift Exchange Debacle of 1996 by Snegurochka 🎁

Summary on AO3: Ron wants Luna, but Luna wants Ginny, and Ginny wants Harry, and Harry wants Hermione, but Hermione wants Lupin, and Lupin wants… Snape? Oh, what tangled webs we weave, when Dumbledore sets up a little seasonal fun for a group of hormonal teenagers spending their Christmas at Grimmauld Place – with two angsty thirty-somethings who have quite enough of their own problems to be getting on with.

Notes: This was a very long 1 chapter fic that was such a delight to read! The summary doesn't do it justice and I'm not sure that my little notes can either, but please give this a shot! In August like me, or right now; perfect for the holidays! Hilarious misunderstandings and a wonderful ending await you.

Read: The Great Hogwarts Christmas Gift Exchange Debacle of 1996

Honorable mentions for a few other fics I read in August:

Batten Down the Hatches by @diandrastrikesbackk is a heartbreaking, fantastic little fic that pays homage to many other Snupin fics. A look at the life of the Snupin fandom as seen by the duo themselves <3

Drifting Satellite by the_throwaway_account is a slight AU with an angsty Remus trying to cope with his lycanthropy with no supportive family or friends. Enter: Sev

🛶 September - I Lie In Your Charms by KALA @kalainthecanoe 🛶

Summary on AO3: When Severus Snape banked on being dead at the end of a war, it was as much of a shock as a burden to find out he was very much alive. He'd rather welcome oblivion and be known as a hero, than watch himself become a listless ghost of his former self. He never expected his Life After Death would contain much but living an isolated, quiet, life. Instead he somehow ended up returning to Hogwarts to teach, becoming involved in student affairs he'd rather stay far removed from, and most importantly, having copious amounts of sex with his old childhood enemy- Remus Lupin.

Recovery is a fickle and long road, and he certainly didn't expect his would involve accepting Remus as part of it.

Notes: KALA is an incredible writer in every fic they craft, but this is one of my favorites. As the summary suggests, spice fest! But this is no plotless hotness by any means. Who doesn't love using sex as a distraction from trauma? Wonderfully written 12 chapters.

Read: I Lie In Your Charms

🎂 October - October 1984 by @bluesundaycake 🎂

Summary on AO3: Severus knows something is wrong at Hogwarts, but he can't quite figure out what.

A story built from the daily prompts for Snapetober 2022. Accidentally snupin.

Notes: So I loved this one so much I had to draw art for it. Seriously I can't say enough good things about this fic! Snape has an adorable crow friend and has to figure out what the heck is going on at Hogwarts while also pining for Remus. Rumored by BlueSundayCake to be a part of a series! :o 32 chapters.

Read: October 1984

Honorable Mentions for fics I read in October:

A Door Left Ajar by Hera_Invictus takes a great look at Sev and Rem's past when Remus comes to Hogwarts to teach during POA. I don't know if they invented the word sexpilogue but uh, yeah...

Fuel the Pyre of Your Enemies by DivinityInMotion took the 'paired for school project' hook and sunk me in a fantastic story with slow burn Snupin.

🐺 November - Artemisia Absinthium: The Wolf and the Moth by Gertrude_Crow @princeandcrow 🐺

Summary on AO3: When Severus Snape uncovered Peter Pettigrew as a traitor before Voldemort attacked the Potters, it changed the course of many lives - his own included.

Relationships are forged and broken, as those that survived the war now have to learn to live, find new paths, and build new futures. And though their leader is gone, not all of the Death Eaters are willing to accept defeat.

Notes: Part 2 of Gertrude_Crow's Artemisia Absinthium series; READ THEM ALL! This is an AU during the first wizarding war focusing on Snupin with intriguing other relationships. Drama, intrigue, and a few dark spots make this series an incredible read. Part 2 is my favorite, coming in at 30 chapters.

Read: Artemisia Absinthium Series

💰 December - The Inheritance by Shadowycat 💰

Summary on AO3: Things hadn’t gone well for Remus Lupin since the end of the war, so he didn’t think he could afford to pass up an unexpected inheritance from someone he’d never met. Of course it turned out there were a few strings attached, including having to share his surprise windfall with Severus Snape. Not that Snape was particularly happy about that...

Notes: It's a 'we have to live together and go on a treasure hunt and now we love each other' fic! Not going to lie, the writing reminds me of a modern day Jane Austin and the story line is so compelling. A little mystery and some great reading! 24 chapters.

Read: The Inheritance

Horoable Mention for another fic I read in December:

Ne'er-Blue-Well by @diandrastrikesbackck was written for a prompt I gave, but it took my usually serious, not a fan of comedy self and had me laughing out loud with a truely genius string of puns said by Severus Snape himself after a potion accident.

WHEW! Hope you find a new fic to enjoy! This was just whenever I read the fic, but did you have any you read this year that should be on next years list? -or- are you a writer working on one?! Leave them in the comments please! Here's to many more in the new year!

[bunnidid-reviews]

Possible accessible OSDDID App Review

Simply Plural !

Facts:

What type of app it is: An app for tracking what parts/alters are fronting

Compatibility: Seems to be available for apple and android products, as well as browser support

Size: 66.5 MB

Internet required: Yes

Does it share my data?: You’re able to share your information with friends. Most things are set to be private initially

Lockable: You can log off as needed

Light and dark mode are available in-app as well as syncing with your device’s settings. There’s also a more accessible font option, which I thought was a nice touch.

~

Personal thoughts:

Personal difficulty using(0 being the most easy, 10 being impossible): 9

How easy to add your parts: 2

How easy to switch between parts: 7-8?? It took me a long time to figure out how to even do this, but once you figure out how its maybe a 5

Personal avoidance level: 10, no parts wanted to use this app

Safe to say, I’m perplexed by this app. Let me show you some screenshots

We start with this clusterfuck of options. As someone who’s dissociating and dyslexic all these different directions that hold the exact same weight as eachother are really confusing! A young or badly confused part might think User Report is the same thing as making a note of who’s out right now

Maybe this is helpful to someone, but to me, it looked like way too much even on a present day

This is the ‘Members’ list. Where all the parts are listed. There are a lot of symbols here that aren’t listed in any of the help sections that I’ve had to clumsily figure out by trial and error. Like apparently the arrows next to the names are.. Making a note of who’s here in the moment? I had no idea until just now.

Also they’re sorted alphabetically. Never in the history of Ever have I sorted my parts this way?? Sorry, this is the stuff I’m really specific about. 

Evidently the bottom buttons are how to view who’s fronting at the moment. I can’t figure out what ‘custom front’ is for

Here’s what a part looks like when you open them up from the list. You have a lottttt of info you can go through and add using the icons at the top. I like that it has this many options for people who are probably a lot more serious for the use of the app. 

When I first used it some years ago, I had no idea the Visibility was an option, so you might want to make sure it’s set to what you need it to be to feel secure (Private, shown to trusted friends, or shown to all friends)

Here’s the side bar, with lots and lots of options again, but at least these are a little more sorted and I would’ve preferred this for the main page.

Now, let’s look at Add Front Entry...

Okay, so there’s a detailed front entry and a quick front entry option. The detailed front entry looks like this:

....

My dear OSDDID friends, I ask you, Do you know how long the part previous to yourself started fronting, from the date, the hour, the minute?? and when they stopped???????? Not even you, the previous parts who were here.

I think the quick entry would’ve been better if you could add the hours options yourself, because most everyone I know with a dissociative disorder has a very different rate of switching, and 2 hours is not enough for the people who might switch once in days or weeks. (I personally shift from one group of parts to another every few days to a week) 

At this point if you’re thinking that “She just doesn’t understand, I’ve been using this app and it just takes a learning curve to use..”, I invite you to realize that this app has no margin for error, no lenience for our I Don’t Know Myself Disorder, no room for considering dissociation and it’s varying forms and general blurriness. 

I wondered for a moment why it was like this...

Ah-ha. 

The Plural Association is organization that hopes to eliminate the difference between OSDDID and non-disordered plurality, effectively de-medicalizing a Dissociative Disorder. 

I read some of these links and quite a few of them focused on the ‘beautiful mind of having plurality’ rather than the dark reality of where a dissociative disorder comes from, being a trauma disorder. Downplaying DID as ‘Not Getting Along With Your Headmates’ disorder. There was just enough reasonable and flowery language for them to sprinkle blatant misinformation throughout, tricking you into believing things that may be harmful if you actually have a Disorder that needs treatment. 

I have no doubt that people with non-disordered plurality are experiencing something. I can’t claim to know enough about someone’s mind to say otherwise, of course. I think saying Endogenics don’t exist shuts down people who might actually need help. 

However, the mixture of OSDDID and Endogenics like this is very very harmful when it comes to creating ‘accessibility’ like this. It takes away from the actual point of what would be helpful for someone with a DD, like communication between parts, the slow breakdown of dissociative barriers, and for many, the lesser separation between parts and goals towards coming together.

The Plural Association wants you to be separate, but also know all parts, which can be incredibly dangerous to venture into yourself if you have a lot of trauma(and therefore parts) you don’t know.  Integration, Fusion, and taking it slowly and at the pace recommended by a professional, are really wonderful and personal parts of healing and shouldn’t be snubbed out by the pressure to be As Plural As Possible. Exactly like this app does

Final thoughts:

This app is needlessly complicated. I mean, maybe it can be really helpful if you go through and learn everything about it. I’ve only been picking at it for a week and barely scratched the surface. I feel like it must be like an art program, it takes you a lot of hard work and practice to settle into using it.

The premise is not at all for me. Not in all my years of knowing and figuring out my DID have I ever found it useful to *just* have a record of who switched when. Sure, it can be enlightening. But I’d find a lot more use in a text app where my Personas can make note of what’s going on in the moment, how they’re feeling, why they’re there. 

Simply Plural is not at ALL simple or accessible to the common dissociated user.(me) Many times I peeked at it, I got confused easily and lost. It feels like a winding house where one room leads to the next and the next without hallways. 

It’s a lot especially for people who have less distinct parts too. or many of them! they’d all be placed in the same alphabetical order without any distinction between distinct and nondistinctive parts, or subsystems. 

I’m extremely uncomfortable that you could technically find people on here, and find their information if they didn’t have the right privacy settings on. I didn’t feel completely safe putting all my parts on here, capping it at the main 16. Even more so, there’s the ability to give someone a ‘token’, which is customizable access to your information, including being able to write and add things, as well as delete them. I could easily see an abuser use this for the worst. What in the world?!?!?

I try to keep my reviews light and positive because I believe there’s merit in any DID media to various ranges of accessibility for people. But this one I just cannot recommend. I hope you understand my points as to why

If this app works for you, dissociation and all, then I’m really glad for you! If you’re endogenic and don’t have dissociative issues, maybe it’s more suited to whatever it is you...do with your parts? ? (I don’t know enough, sorry)

Would I recommend this app to someone with OSDDID? Nope.

[duckprintspress]

How can I write quickly?

I (hi, I’m @unforth) have been asked frequently over the years how I write a lot quickly. I’m a pretty fast writer - for example, I wrote the 5600 words of my May Trope Mayhem fill from yesterday in under 2.5 hours. 

First, a little of my personal history for context. I’ve always written, starting from when I was able to string letters into (very poorly spelled) words and (horrible un-grammatical) sentences. When I started trying my hand at serious, professional-level fiction writing, I joined a community called novel_in_90, which was founded by the author Elizabeth Bear. The purpose of novel_in_90 was “to be NaNoWriMo but more realistic.” Instead of 50,000 words in 31 days, it was 67,500 words in 90 days, or 750 words a day. I participated in multiple rounds of novel_in_90 starting in mid-2005, and in 2007 I completed my first (godawful) novel. When I started, even writing a couple hundred words of day took me forever, but it got easier with time. 

During those same years, I also got a job that required I do professional writing on a deadline: I was a grant writer, and I only got paid when the grants won. That often meant working fast under high pressure, culminating in the weekend I wrote and edited an entire 40 pages grant that was due on Monday. I think, if I hadn’t had a solid foundation of “regular daily plodding writing,” I’d not have been able to marathon when the moment came...and it came because I had to, not because I wanted to. However, I learned a valuable lesson: I could. Subsequently, I found that, when I had the time and space and was rested enough to use my brain, I could bust out a huge amount. Like, I wrote an entire 150,000 word novel in 17 days.

My personal record is about 200,000 words in one month (it was the month I wrote that novel; I wasn’t tracking when I did that so I don’t know exactly), 25,000 words in a day, and I’ve topped out around 3,000 words an hour. I do know people who can do more...but not many.

Not everyone will be able to do this. Flat out, I MUST preface the rest of this post by saying that. Some people will find that writing fast fits their brain, and for others, it just won’t, and that’s okay. Fast doesn’t equal better, and it isn’t inherently “good” to write fast. Furthermore, even for those who can write fast, not everyone will find the same strategies helpful. I can share what works for me. Try out one item, some items, or all of these - if writing faster is something you want to be able to do, which it certainly never has to be. Use what works for you, and discard the rest.

Sit in your chair, put your fingers on your keyboard or touch screen, and write. You can’t write 1,000 words in half an hour until you write one word, however long that one word takes. I know saying this is obvious, but I’ve been asked “how can I write fast” by people who struggle to write at all...fast can’t be your priority until you’ve got a foundation of just writing. (Honestly...fast should never be your priority, but it might be helpful to you regardless, which can make it worth learning.)

Start small. Set an achievable goal, and make yourself meet that goal (daily, weekly, whatever) come hell or high water, no matter how long it takes you. Keep the goal small at first; you’re not trying to torture yourself, you’re trying to build a skill. If you set the goal high enough that you consistently fail, you’re not teaching yourself anything. And, if you find the goal IS too high...lower it. There’s no shame in working within your limits. Think of it like starting a new work out regimen: you wouldn’t try to run a 10k at a record time if you can’t run a mile slow. Treat your fingers and your brain the same way you’d treat your legs and joints. Give them time to grow, learn, and improve before you try to push yourself.

Trying to write daily is worthwhile if you want to work on your writing speed, because you’ll be forced to try to fit it in as you’re able - that might be ten minutes in your morning, or an hour in your evening, and it might vary from day to day, but making it daily means you have to fit it in somewhere.

Building skills takes time and isn’t easy. For some people, it will come easier than for others, and even when you’re fast, going from “I can write words fast” to “I can write damn good words fast” takes practice and dedication and accepting constructive criticism - speed alone will never be worth more than writing well.

Having a community can help. Ya’ll will check in on each other, cheer each other on, remind each other that missing a day or a goal isn’t the end of the world, and keep each other’s spirits up. If you don’t know other writerly folks online, I recommend Weekend Writing Marathon ( @weekendwritingmarathon ) as a good place to start (I used to be a mod there). Once you’re trying to work up to larger word counts in a day, remember that even writing fast will take minutes or hours. You can’t write 2,500 words in an hour if you don’t set an hour aside. Make sure you’re giving yourself the room and time you need to succeed.

You will probably never be able to do high, rapid word counts every day, every week, every month. The best runners in the world don’t run marathons every day. Set realistic long term goals.

Work on projects where you have a clear idea of where you’re going. I’m not saying “pantsers” can’t write fast, because of course they can, but if you want to write fast, and well, and coherently, to create a first draft that’s in pretty good shape, you’ll do better if you have a good sense of what you’re trying to accomplish with your story. That doesn’t mean you need to do all your world building up front, or have a complete outline (I never have either). All you really need is what happens next. I tend to plan projects - and write them - one full scene at a time, with only a vague idea what’s going to come after. (I’m personally a “plantser,” and the strategies in this post will likely be most effective to other plantsers.)

Visualize ahead of time what you’d like to write...but don’t get too attached to what you visualize. When I go to bed, I plan the next scene I’m going to compose, often to the least detail. I then forget all of it overnight, at least all the specifics, and I’m left with a general sense and shape of what’s to come. You’ll never be able to replicate the “perfect” dialog you pre-conceive, so give up on trying to. Instead, play through the scene and think about the emotional beats you want to hit and plot points you want to forward. If you keep that in mind, you’ll be able to get the words out faster than if you’re agonizing over every word or regretting the “oh-so-great” idea that you’ve since forgotten. 

Practice different work styles. If writing every day doesn’t work for you, try instead saying, “this is my writing day each week,” and aim for a lot that specific day, and write little or nothing other days. Try writing at different times of day and on different days, fitting it into your schedule. If you’re beating yourself up for not writing when you “should,” it’ll be that much harder to succeed, so instead, as I said for point 2 - set a reasonable goal that fits your life and working style, fitting it around your other responsibilities, and push yourself within that framework, instead of trying to shoehorn into a style that you “think you should” use to succeed. 

Track your word counts, and take notes on how much you did and what project you were working on. If you’re also experimenting with different times of day and different days, make sure you note that too. I personally use a simple Excel sheet (well, Google Sheets, now) - column one is the date, column 2 is “starting word count,” column 3 is “ending word count,” column 4 is “=column 3 - column 2”, column 5 is notes. Pay attention to when you succeed at writing faster, and when you don’t, and consider what factors might have played into your success...and then try to replicate those factors next time you’re doing a sprint. Control as many variables as you can while you’re “training.”

If you find social media distracting, trying getting a web browser extension that prevents you from connecting to websites for a set period of time.

If you find you tend to dither before starting, I find it helpful to run through everything that I might do to procrastinate (check my social media! grab a snack! make some tea! set up my playlist! check my social media again! finish making the tea! check my social media for what I swear will be the last time!), and when I’m done, it’s like, well, I’ve done all those things, I’ve got no choice left, time to write, no excuses left.

If you find you struggle with picking up a WIP, try leaving off in the middle of a sentence at the end of a session, one where you know exactly how it ends - or, leave off mid-paragraph, or when you are positive you know what happens next (and I mean literally next, as in the very next sentence.) It’s much easier to “pick back up” when your first words are super clear. (Do not do this if you think there’s any chance you’ll forget or end up in a situation where you won’t return to your WIP for months!) 

If you find you struggle to maintain continuity across multiple writing sessions, try rereading what you wrote the previous day before you proceed. Resist the urge to edit it!

Avoid stopping when you get stuck, even to do research. Don’t know a fact? Add a comment to your manuscript flagging the relevant text, “LOOK THIS UP LATER.” Can’t think of a word? Put in something you can use the “find” function on easily (I personally use “XX” since there are no words that have a double x in them) and so you can come back later, search for your chosen placeholder, and fill in the blanks. Not sure how a scene ends but know the next scene? Jump ahead.

That said, if you really don’t know what happens next, you don’t do yourself any favors by pressing on. As I’ve said previously, speed alone should never be your writing object. It’s better to slow down, consider your plot, figure out where you’re going, and then write, than to just plow ahead - or at least, that’s better if you want a manuscript you’ll actually be able to use for something at a later point. If you’re truly just practicing, you can also say “screw it, who needs coherence?” and keep going. I’d personally never have finished my first novel if I’d spent a lot of time worrying about making the pieces fit together and yeah, it’s a mess, but it’s a mess I wrote instead of a mess I got stuck on and never completed.

Don’t move the finish line. If you’ve set the goal of 500 words a day, don’t beat yourself up if you get 550 because you think you think you could have done more. If you say you’ll write five days a week, don’t get mad because you DID have time the sixth day but chose to use it on something else. If you make yourself feel like shit when you succeed, what’ll happen when you fail? And when you’re comfortable and really think you’re ready, change the goal - reassess every month, say, and up your goals. While working for speed, trying upping your word count goal without changing the amount of time you allot for working.

Your need to adhere to the above suggestions will change over time. Once, I always had an outline; now I often don’t need one. Once, I wouldn’t let myself stop even to use a thesaurus; now, I find I can look up words without breaking my flow or significantly slowing myself down. This is not an “all or nothing” prospect, nor is it a “do things the same way forever once you’ve found one (1) thing that works” prospect - you’ll experiment, and find strategies that work for you, and then at some point, your needs will change, and you’ll experiment more, and find new strategies that work for you, on and on, as your skills grow. 

To reiterate: writing fast should never be your objective in and of itself! Greater writing speed will come with practice and as a general side effect of improving your craft. Simply being able to write fast is useless; being able to write fast and well will enable you to get more of your ideas out there, so if that’s something you’d like to accomplish, focus on building your general skills and training yourself to be able to use those skills rapidly and in tandem with each other to produce decent writing, in a first draft, at a decent speed.

Once you try, you may find none of this works for you! That’s okay. That’s good! You tried, which means you learned something about yourself and your own writing style, and that too will help you to improve. Keep experimenting, keep learning, and find what does work for you - and accept that no two writers will ever be the same, and one of those differences will be writing speed. Some writers will never write fast, and that’s doesn’t make them any less awesome or valid. And some writers will always write fast, and that doesn’t make them inherently awesome or valid. Only with a suite of skills that suit your individual life, personality, work style, writing capabilities, goals, etc., will you succeed as a writer (for various, personalized definitions of the word “success”); speed is only one of those potential skills, and not one that’s particularly important in my opinion...yet I still get asked about it fairly often, so here we are, these are my suggestions

Go forth, and write some words! <3

[goldenraeofsun]

PO Box 8921

“What is that?” Dean demands as Sam dumps a duffel bag full of mail out on the war table.

Cas looks up from his tome on Babylonian chaos magic or Shang dynasty dragon taming or whatever he’s moved onto now. All Dean knows is that the book smells like rotting flowers and mouse shit, so he banished Cas to the other end of the war table.

“Fan mail,” Sam says.

Cas sets down his book and walks closer.

Dean throws Sam a baffled look. “Why the hell are we getting fan mail?”

“It’s more like we’re getting Chuck’s fan mail,” Sam says sheepishly.

“Explain. Now.”

Cas picks up a letter curiously.

Sam sighs. “The last time Charlie was here, we hacked Flying Wiccan Press - Chuck’s old publisher - and we redirected his mail and royalty checks to a local PO box. I figured if anyone deserves money off those books, it’s us.”

“I thought his books tanked,” Dean says flatly.

Sam scowls. “It had a resurgence after the angels came into the picture,” he says with a sidelong look at Cas, who’s apparently absorbed in reading a note from Vancouver, British Columbia.

“Seriously?”

Sam shrugs. “They’re very compelling, apparently. I’ve been checking it every very few months, but two days ago I got a call saying they were running out of space.”

“Why?” Dean picks up a large flat envelope and rips it open. “What the…?” he murmurs. He slides out a matte illustration of the Impala driving down a nameless highway, golden swaying wheat fields bracketing both sides of the road, a fading sunset illuminating the horizon. His mouth falls open.

Sam takes a seat and pulls Dean’s laptop towards him.

“I was doing research,” Dean says quickly as Sam flips it open.

Sam takes one look at the screen, grimacing, before he clicks the mouse forcefully. “Really, Dean?” he gripes. “Cas was right there.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, smirking. “Exactly. I needed to know if he thought-”

“No,” Sam says, horrified. “I do not want to know.”

“You asked about the research.”

Sam’s does a full-body recoil. “That was not what I meant and you know it.”

Dean chuckles. He sets aside the beautiful painting of his baby (that one’s going in the Dean Cave for sure) and picks up the next package of similar size and weight. He eagerly tears off the top and pulls out the contents. It takes him a second, but the trenchcoat slipping off the figure’s shoulders is a dead giveaway.

“Hey!” Dean says, spinning it around to show to Cas. “I think it’s supposed to be you.”

Cas looks up from another letter - this one from Wellington, OH - and tilts his head. “My wings aren’t rainbow colored. They’re actually a color not perceptible by human eyes - maybe by some genetically mutant shrimp -”

Dean laughs. “You don’t have an eight pack either. It’s all artistic license, baby.”

“Aha!” Sam says, spinning the computer around, the porn tabs banished to the void of Dean’s browser history. “The fans reached a milestone last week.”

“What mile-” Dean cuts himself off as another illustration slips out behind the one of Cas. It flutters to the table.

“Is that of us?” Cas asks curiously, reaching for it. He holds it up.

“No way,” Dean says vehemently as he shuffles around to stare at it over Cas’s shoulder.

“Probably,” Sam pipes up.

Dean glares over at him. “How do you know that, Samantha?”

“That milestone?” Sam says, his face an odd mix of smug and constipated. “There are a hundred thousand fan fiction stories, as of last Monday.”

Dean blinks. “Fan fiction?”

“Yeah, a lot of it.” Sam sets aside the laptop and reaches for a nearby letter in a robin’s egg blue envelope.

Dean takes a large step away from the pile of half-opened mail like it just started emitting Sam’s toxic post-Chipotle farts.

“Are we - are they - is it more Sam slash Dean?” Dean asks in a faint voice.

Sam smirks. “Not this time. Like I said,” he says as he scans his letter, “the readers really liked the angels.”

Dean makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. Do all these letters wax poetic about Cas? That’s a lot of people that have thought about his angel naked. And that doesn’t sit right with Dean. “Why?” he demands.

Sam throws him a sharp look. “Why not? Cas is our best friend. He’s a good dude.”

Dean glances to Cas for reassurance, who shrugs as if to say he doesn’t understand it any more than he does.

“So they, like, have a thing for angels?” Dean asks haltingly. “An angel kink?”

Cas scowls.

“Not all angels, just Cas,” Sam confirms. “Plus love interest.”

Dean shifts his weight to his other foot. “Right… you and Cas?” Dean ventures as Cas sighs loudly next to him.

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes a letter towards Dean. “No, not me and Cas, jerk.”

Dean picks it up tentatively. He really can’t handle reading about a fictional version of himself banging Cas, but before he can flip the letter open, Cas nudges him with his elbow. “Sam’s right. This one is obviously of us,” he says, tilting the drawing so Dean can get a full view.

It takes a moment for Dean to get what he’s seeing. Everyone in the illustration is fully clothed, first of all. It shows a darkened, windowless room. An outsized television illuminates the three figures watching an episode of Scooby Doo. One of the men is sprawled out on a recliner, Sam’s long, hippie hair a dead giveaway. Another man is asleep in the second recliner, covered in a draped trenchcoat - Cas? No, there's a third guy standing above the second, his elbows braced on the back of the recliner, his fingers tangled in Dean’s hair as Dean sleeps on.

“This is very sweet,” Cas rumbles.

Dean picks up the letter Sam handed him, his face flaming. “Unrealistic,” he grunts.

“Really,” Sam says flatly as he reaches for the illustration. He whistles as he takes it in. “Nice light composition. And what are you talking about? We watched Scooby Doo like three days ago in the Dean Cave.”

“I’d never fall asleep in front of the TV,” Dean says scornfully. “That’s a disgrace to Scoob.”

Cas makes a noise that Dean hopes is a cough, but judging by Sam’s smirk was probably more of a snort.

Dean flips open the letter, and, to his surprise, it doesn’t start with contrived porn dialogue.

Dear Mr. Edlund,

I’ve been a follower of your work for many years, and I have admired and rooted for Team Free Will, especially for Dean and Castiel’s relationship. Despite all the pain, despite destiny itself working against them, they found each other and created something that resonated with thousands of people. They truly have a profound bond that transcends every barrier imaginable, and it gives me hope.

Dumbfounded, Dean reads on, shutting out Sam and Cas completely.

He swallows thickly as he sets the letter down.

“Dean?” Cas asks, concerned. “Are you alright?”

Sam drops his joking expression. “You good?”

Dean nods.

“No matter how your story started out,” Sam says slowly, “you won. And it seems like you did a lot of good along the way.” He gestures to the pile. “More than just saving people from monsters.”

Cas lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes. “Apparently I am a gay icon now,” he says, his face completely serious.

Dean cracks up. Wiping at his eyes, he grabs another letter at random. “We’d better get going on the rest of these. The faster we read ’em, the faster Sam can reply.”

Sam’s face falls. “Wait, no-”

[moonbeambucky]

Hey Neighbor (Part 9)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 3827 Warnings: fluff

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: A huge thank you to my wonderful beta Sam @buckyofthemyscira​​​​​​​​ Feedback is always appreciated!

PART 8 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

The lobby of Stark Industries is bright and almost blinding compared to the dull grey that looms over the city outside. To make matters worse, the sky would darken into a deep black in just a few hours, a depressing casualty of setting the clocks back.

It was mid-November with winter closing in. You bundle up your coat, adjusting your scarf before daring to step outside. You were having a conversation with Steve, or at least you thought you were.

“He’s been like this all day,” Mr. Lee said, laughing as a confused Steve finally picked his head up from his phone.

Steve apologized as his cheeks turned pink, again. He was texting Peggy and he just couldn’t help the way he felt about her. They had gone on a few dates since they met on Halloween weekend and Steve was one-hundred percent smitten.

“Well anyway, I have to head to Metro-Gen now so you boys have a good afternoon,” you said, saluting them before stepping outside.

Your internship was going well. It had only been a few months but you were very comfortable working in this type of environment. You were familiar with the hospital and some of the ER staff other than Sam. You assisted Elena with her cases and tried not to forget everything you’ve ever learned while under pressure. It was scary but exciting and most of all you were happy to provide assistance and care to those that needed it.

When the weekend finally came you were thrilled to finish up your hours at the hospital. You were cold and tired, and really wanted to take off your bra immediately. Wanda was coming over which was rare since she and Sam became official. Any time he had off they tried to spend together and you understood it, especially with the hours required for his job but you really missed her and were happy to finally hang out after so long.

“So you seriously can’t eat this?” you said, taking a hefty dip of guacamole onto your chip.

“Uh yes I can bitch, don’t hog all the guacamole,” Wanda joked, pushing you aside as she grabbed the dish for herself. “I just can’t eat the chips.”

Wanda was always trying new diets, not that she ever needed to be on one. She was doing the Keto diet now and while you applauded her commitment you could never give up carbs like that.

She sat cross legged on your couch, moving her fork around her bowl absentmindedly as she worked up the courage to speak. “So I wanted to ask you something…”

A pang of anxiety hit your stomach as it tends to do whenever someone says those words, but you tried to remain neutral, wondering what Wanda was going to say.

“I know we usually have Thanksgiving together but Sam happened to be off this year and I know it’s really soon but he invited me for dinner at his parents’ house and I haven’t said yes yet because I wanted to speak with you first because I know it’s our tradition to do something together but– ”

“Wanda!” You had to shout her name so she could stop and take a breath. You smiled at her, letting her know you were okay with her having Thanksgiving with Sam. “I’m really happy for you,” you said against her ear as she leaned over to hug you.

That night you thought about Wanda and Steve, how they both got into a relationship on Halloween. Meanwhile, the only thing you got that night was a blister on your heel.

“Hey neighbor.”

Bucky’s voice echoed from down the hall as he stepped out of the elevator, seeing you locking your door, with a laundry bag at your feet.

With everyone’s new relationships and Natasha prepping for a case no one has gone out since Halloween and things definitely felt a little weird.

“Hey,” you replied shakily, offering an awkward smile in return.

The truth was you were still upset with Bucky on Halloween. Well, not just you but the whole group. It had been weighing on you each day that passed without seeing him. The closer Bucky got to you and his door, the more nervous you felt and you really wanted to get this off your chest.

“Bucky… sorry this is out of the blue but…” You chewed on your lip trying to figure out exactly what to say.

His brows knit together. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a tense smile, wishing you hadn’t said anything in the first place, especially with the way concern filled those ocean blue eyes of his.

“Yeah I just…” With another big sigh you pushed the words out. “I thought it was kind of rude for you to ditch everyone on Halloween without saying goodbye. I know we’re not that close and you don’t owe me or anyone an explanation for wanting to leave or whatever but I don’t know, I just… needed to say that.”

Your lips pressed together firmly, feeling your heart pound rapidly against your chest as you waited to face whatever backlash there was after sharing your feelings.

Bucky sighed, letting his shoulders slump down. “I’m sorry Y/N. Honestly, that’s not how I wanted that night to end. But you were talking with that guy so I didn’t want to interrupt anything and everyone else had each other so I thought I’d do my own thing.”

“Guy? What guy?” You wondered out loud. When Bucky described him you realized he was talking about Bruce. “You thought something was going on with me and that guy? No, no. He’s a friend from work, just a friend.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to block… anything… just in case.” Bucky chuckled, flashing his bright teeth as he smiled. “Still that was a dick move of me so I’m sorry.”

You accepted Bucky’s apology, feeling a little better about why he left the way he did. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t have left with that girl anyway, not that you care, because you don’t. Although now that most of your friends were in relationships you were feeling a little envious. It’s not that you didn’t want to date but you were too focused on work and school at the moment.

“Well I guess I’ll see you later,” you said, picking up your laundry bag.

“Wait!”

Throughout your conversation one thing stuck out the most in Bucky’s mind, when you said you weren’t close. He really thought you were and he’s not sure why it affected him so much but he wanted to change that and make it right.

You’ve definitely become a good friend of his even if you hadn’t gotten off on the right foot. And maybe he’s been a little busy lately, he hasn’t kept up on the group chat and didn’t think about how his lack of communication impacted anyone else. You were his friend, and so were Steve, Sam, Natasha, Clint and Wanda. He wanted to do better and be there for everyone so he might as well start now.

“If you wouldn’t mind the company I actually need to do my laundry too.”

There wasn’t any hesitation as you nodded back to him, your lips pulling into a smile that grew wider when he returned one of his own. Bucky took a few minutes to gather his laundry and together you walked a few blocks to the laundromat.

It wasn’t too crowded for a Sunday afternoon which was a pleasant surprise so the machines were pretty available. Bucky shared his detergent with you which was kind, saving your quarters from buying the single use packs the shop offered.

You sat beside him on uncomfortable chairs, bouncing your leg to keep warm as you shivered. There was some heat circulating through the room, a muggy wet heat that poured out every time someone opened the machines to check on their still damp clothes. Bucky was a good distraction, keeping you focused on your conversation as you caught up on what’s been going on in your lives.

“Thanksgiving’s going to be a little weird this year with Wanda and Steve doing their own thing but it’s alright.”

Bucky heard the disappointment you tried to hide in your tone but your face didn’t mask the emotions as well. He listened as you explained this was your tradition since you moved to New York. Since you couldn’t afford to fly home for both Thanksgiving and the holidays you had to choose, and so every year you spent the day with friends.

“Why don’t you spend it with me?” he asked, watching as the corner of your mouth slowly began to turn upwards into a smile.

“With you? You don’t go to your parent’s house?”

Bucky’s expression softened, “Normally I do but this year they’re flying out to spend Thanksgiving weekend with Rebecca.”

“Where does she live again?”

“It’s ‘they’ and Arizona.” Bucky rubbed the chill from his arms despite wearing a jacket. “Kinda wish I was there right now,” he chuckled.

The machines shook for their final spin cycle and you and Bucky got up in preparation to grab your clothes.

“You didn’t want to go with them?” you wondered.

“I’ve got a lot to work on plus I’ll see Bex soon, they usually come in for Christmas. So… is that a yes? I know I’m not Wanda or Steve but I’m still your friend.”

Bucky’s expression was hopeful as he awaited your answer. A beaming smile spread across your face as you replied, “Yes. I’d love to have Thanksgiving with you!”

If you looked at Bucky’s browser history over the last few weeks you would find a lot of food related searches: How to cook a turkey, how long to cook a turkey, how to cook a turkey fast, easiest way to cook a turkey, simple Thanksgiving dinner, Thanksgiving for 2, best Thanksgiving sides.

He wanted to make your Thanksgiving special but truthfully Bucky wasn’t the best in the kitchen. He could cook a few things but the idea of making a full Thanksgiving dinner was daunting and he couldn’t exactly ask his mother for help.

Since it was going to be just the two of you he finally found his answer– Thanksgiving dinner on a sheet pan. Bucky wrote out the list of groceries he needed, making sure he had everything needed so he could prepare the dinner.

You were working a full day at the hospital so Bucky had extra time to prepare for your arrival. His clothes were folded neatly, placed in his drawers that could now actually close. He made his bed, well he made sure the pillows were straight and draped his comforter over everything neatly. His instruments were gathered together neatly beside his desk and he made sure his bathroom was clean. Bucky spritzed his cologne in the air for good measure to make sure everything smelled nice.

Once that was done it finally dawned on him that he didn’t have a table. “Good job Barnes,” he scolded himself as he cleared away the last remaining clutter on the trunk that served as his coffee table. It would have to make do.

Bucky opened the package he bought at the store, a harvest themed tablecloth that was entirely too big for the trunk but with a few extra folds he made it look alright. It was an extra touch he hoped you would be happy to see. Checking his phone Bucky began to prepare the food, hoping to time it right for when you were coming by.

“No, no, no,” you cried, passing another bakery that was sold out of pies.

You hadn’t planned this properly. Not one bit. With Bucky preparing dinner you offered to bring the dessert and for some reason you thought making pumpkin pie from scratch would be easy. You were very wrong.

By the time you got home last night you were too exhausted to even look at the recipe. You needed sleep and had no shame in going to bed pretty much right away. The fact that it gets dark before five o’clock definitely helped you justify your early bedtime.

The genius idea you had was to wake up a little early so you could make the pie crust which might have worked out if you hadn’t overslept. Yes, despite the extra sleep you got your body wanted more.

Although you made it to work on time you ruined any shot at trying to snag a pie from any bakery along the way. Now you were headed home, defeated and upset with yourself for ruining Thanksgiving.

You trudged through the hallway, sighing heavily as you stood outside of Bucky’s apartment. Your knuckles rapped against the door, waiting for him to answer. Bucky pulled open the door with a smile that dropped the moment he saw your face.

“Y/N, is everything okay?” His hand came upon your shoulder as he offered comfort.

With another deep sigh you shook your head, “No… well yes.” You reconsidered your words, not wanting to worry him. “I ruined Thanksgiving.”

His mouth opened but Bucky didn’t speak, silently wondering why you think you’ve ruined something that hasn’t happened yet.

“I said I would bring dessert and I wanted to bake but I was too exhausted, so I thought I’d get something from the store but everything was sold out and now I feel like a shitty friend.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way you pouted so seriously over something as insignificant as dessert.

“Hey, c’mere,” he said, opening his arms. You rested your head against Bucky’s chest wrapping your arms around him as he rubbed circles on your back through your jacket. “You didn’t ruin anything, doll, I promise.”

With a few more reassurances from Bucky you pulled away from his embrace, feeling a little better even if part of you was still disappointed. You told him you would be over in a few minutes, desperate to change your clothes.

Bucky’s door was unlocked and you let yourself in, now wearing a loose sweater and black leggings that would allow you to feel comfortable as you stuffed your face, and casual slip-ons your feet thanked you for. Bucky was equally casual, in a dark grey t-shirt and black jeans so you didn’t feel bad for underdressing.

You stepped inside seeing the coffee table set up in a themed tablecloth and a scented pumpkin candle that smelled delicious as it spread throughout the room.

“Dinner should be ready in a minute or so. Can I get you something to drink?” he asked as you set your bag down beside the couch.

“Wine, I guess?” You weren’t really picky to be honest, happily taking the glass of Pinot Noir as Bucky poured for you and himself.

Bucky barely had a chance to take a sip before the alarm on his phone was going off, his reminder to take the food out of the oven.

“I hope this is okay,” he said, pulling out the sheet pan of turkey breasts surrounded by stuffing, green beans and sweet potatoes.

Your mouth was watering as you inhaled the enticing aroma. “Mmmm it looks delicious. Do you need any help?”

Bucky shook his head, telling you to relax. It was hard, because even though you were still pretty tired from the day you felt like you should be doing more than sipping wine on his couch. You stared at Bucky as he stood in the kitchen, dividing the food amongst two plates.

The muscles of his back were entrancing to watch as they moved beneath his shirt. Dropping your gaze you couldn’t help but stare at the way his jeans hugged his butt.

“You like what you see?”

Bucky’s voice seemingly came out of nowhere as you hadn’t realized he was looking over his shoulder.

“What? No, I’m… tired and stuck in a comfortable stare,” you laughed quickly, masking the awkwardness of definitely getting caught staring at his ass.

Bucky chuckled under his breath. He placed both dishes down, proud of the work he had done. Pressing his lips together Bucky had hope written across his face as he waited for your reaction.

Your hand came up to cover your mouth as you tried to chew fast enough so you could tell him how delicious it was. A smile stretched across his face, happy that he made you happy, and then Bucky began to dig in.

There wasn’t much to watch after deciding to skip over all the football games and sitcom reruns but choosing from Netflix wasn’t much better. There were a dozen cheesy, romantic Christmas movies but neither of you wanted to watch any of those.

“Oh how about this?” Bucky asked as he flashed by Nailed It! Your eyes lit up with delight as you nodded your head. If there was one show that made you feel better about your baking skills it was watching these hilarious disasters.

Bucky had the cutest laugh. The sound itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary but the way that his whole face lit up while he was laughing. The joy reached his eyes first with crinkles pulling at the corners, his nose scrunched up reminding you of a bunny, and that smile… Bucky had one of the nicest smiles you’d ever seen because it had the power to make your own greater just by looking at it.

You were crying with laughter as the contestants revealed their cakes, each one somehow more horrifying than the last. By the third episode you found yourself comfortably resting your head against Bucky. It was nice to have someone to hang out with like this again especially since Steve had rightfully been spending most of his free time with Peggy.

“I hope you don’t get your baking skills from this show. Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t make pie,” Bucky teased. Your immediate response was to playfully smack his leg. “Ow I’m kidding!”

“It would have been good, a thousand times better than this,” you gestured towards the screen.

Bucky cocked his head to face you. “So let’s make it now.”

Your head shook rejecting his suggestion. “It takes too long. The dough needs to rest for a while after you mix it and I don’t want to eat pie at two in the morning. Not when I have to get up early again.”

With another day off from Stark Industries you’d be spending a full day at the hospital, trying to chip away at all those hours you needed to do.

“It’s still early, we can make something right? Cookies? Is that the same dough?” Bucky asked, because even though you had to be up early he still wanted to spend time with you and he could also go for dessert.

“It’s not exactly the same but I have all the ingredients. Do you want to make cookies?”

Bucky’s stomach rumbled as if on cue making both of you laugh.

Since it was easier to bake in your apartment you helped Bucky clean up the dishes you made in his, feeling it was rude to leave things a mess. Bucky didn’t want you to clean but you at least insisted on rinsing the plates clean and since you were at the sink anyway you ended up washing most of them.

You didn’t see the way Bucky smiled while watching you. This was probably the only time he’s felt comfortable having a woman linger in his apartment. His flings all begged to draw out their time, promising him pancakes or the best eggs and bacon he’s ever had. As hard as they tried, he shut them all down ushering them out quickly but things with you were different. You were friends and closer than he would ever be to any of the random names in his phone.

In your apartment Bucky helped gather the ingredients needed. Counter space and New York didn’t exactly go together, not in your price range, but together you cleared space on your kitchen table and set everything up there.

Bucky ignored his phone that rang as he cracked eggs into the large bowl you were using to mix everything together in. He picked up the bag of chocolate chips pouring a generous amount in the dough, not that you minded; the more chocolate the better!

Together you scooped up balls of dough onto a baking sheet and placed them in the oven.

“Bucky!” You turned to find him swiping his finger through the bowl of raw dough and eating it.

“What?”

“You can’t eat that you’ll get sick!” you protested, taking the bowl away from him and washing it before he could risk his chance of getting E. coli any further.

He sucked his finger into his mouth, smiling, “No one has ever gotten sick from eating raw cookie dough.” His comment had you look back, blinking in silence. “Okay well I’m sure someone has but it’s never happened to me.”

“I want you to enjoy these cookies Bucky, not vomit all over the place.”

He brought over the rest of the bowls that needed to be washed, this time taking over and returning the favor since you washed his dishes. “You mean you wouldn’t take care of me if I got sick?” He pouted, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

“Not a chance,” you said teasingly, unable to hold back your smile.

Checking your phone you pulled out the cookies just in time for them to be crisp and chewy. After letting them cool you let Bucky take the first bite this time, watching as his eyes rolled back as he let a sinful moan slip.

“So fucking good. You’re amazing.”

This isn’t the first time you’d heard similar praise coming from Bucky, and combined with the orgasmic look on his face it made you turn away with embarrassment, now having a visual of what things might be like at night on the side of the wall. You grabbed a cookie to distract your mind, biting into buttery perfection with a massive amount of chocolate thanks to Bucky’s heavy hand.

“Thanks for a great Thanksgiving Bucky. Tonight was awesome,” you said, kissing him on the cheek before wrapping your arms around him.

“You’re welcome Y/N,” he murmured against you, squeezing back a little tighter, both of you now aware of the friendly kiss you had given him.

Bucky left with a dish containing most of the cookies at your insistence. He couldn’t help but eat a few more when he was back in his apartment. Before getting into bed Bucky listened to the voicemail he received earlier.

“Hi James, it’s Mom. We missed you tonight. I don't know why your deadline was on a holiday but I hope you finished everything. I set aside some leftovers in case you wanted to come over tomorrow. Call me back. I love you.”

PART 10

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

My new computer finally arrived! I didn’t want to get a new computer this soon, as knocking my old laptop off a chair last week wasn’t part of my plan. But my old laptop was pretty old and would probably have needed replacing within a year either way, so that made me feel a little better. Also, I managed to combine a gift card with a good sale to get a new laptop that did not deplete all my savings. The aspirational trip to the UK for which I’ve been saving money... I’m now hoping for spring 2022... is still a possibility.

It’s also amazing that it’s now easy to just buy an enclosure and then your old hard drive becomes an internal hard drive. I don’t know if I’m behind the times, but I didn’t know that until last week, when I Googled the latest methods for getting files off a computer that you knocked off a chair while having a breakdown in the middle of the night. It was ridiculously easy to do this, and now 1) I have all my files from my old computer in a device that can be plugged into my new computer, and 2) I got a 1TB external hard drive for the price of the $20 I spent on the enclosure. I mean obviously I had to pay for that hard drive when I first bought my old computer, but I’d expected to lose all the hardware from my old computer when it broke, so compared to expectations I am up by one entire hard drive.

The first thing I did when I opened my new laptop, before I even turned it on, was of course put my Nish Kumar sticker on it:

Then I took it to a library with good internet that will let me download files at a decent rate, and I spent a few hours getting it all set up. I kept track of what I was doing in a document, figuring it could be helpful to have this list for the next time I need to take a new device and make it into the computer I like to use. I’m going to share the list publicly, because I’ve spent a lot of time finding good software to make a computer easy to use. I’ve found at least a couple of good free alternatives to expensive programs.

So here’s what I have on my computer. Posted in case it helps out anyone else who’s been looking for a good way to do any of the things I do with my laptop and would like to benefit from the time I’ve spent finding these things.

- Set the battery to stop charging at 80%. Drain the battery below 80% and then plug the computer back in. This will do so much to save the battery.

- Set the default folder view as list mode.

- Pin the folders: Music, Videos, and Screenshots to quick access.

- Use Microsoft Edge to download Google Chrome. Basically, make Microsoft Edge dig its own grave.

--- Sign into my Google account on Chrome, so I get all my bookmarks and extensions and history. Make sure all the important extensions are there:

------ Adblock Plus

------ uBlock Origin

------ Allow Right-Click

------ Bookmark Manager

--- Pin Google Chrome to taskbar.

--- Unpin Microsoft Edge from taskbar.

--- Set Google Chrome as default browser.

--- Set Google as the default search engine.

--- Set Google as the home page.

- Download Microsoft Office, sign in to the account with a subscription.

--- Reset the default on Microsoft Word to not automatically put space before or after new paragraphs.

--- Pin Word to taskbar.

- Download MPC-BE, the absolute gold standard of video and audio playing software. Customize the hell out of it, because you can do that with this program. Press “O” and the options menu opens.

--- Under “player”, switch to “new process for every file”. That lets you open more than one video file at a time, a feature that the basic Windows video player somehow doesn’t have.

--- Then go to “Keys”.

------ Keep the space bar as “play/pause”.

------ F = Framestep, D = Framestep Back

------ Up Arrow = Jump Forward (small), Down Arrow = Jump Backward (small)

------ Right Arrow = Jump Forward (medium), Left Arrow = Jump Backward (medium)

------ L = Jump Forward (large), K = Jump Backward (large)

------ CTRL + Up Arrow = Volume Increase, CTRL + Down Arrow = Volume Decrease

------ End = Previous File, Page Down = Next File

------ H = Fullscreen

--- Set MPC-BE as default video and audio player.

--- Pin MPC-BE to taskbar.

- Download iTunes. I’m not a fan of Apple but I am a fan of the iPod Classic and this is the only way to use that. Also iTunes is actually a pretty convenient music player. I use MPC-BE for long audio files that I want to really get into (ie. an audiobook or a podcast), and iTunes for just playing songs.

--- Pin iTunes to taskbar.

- Download Adobe Acrobat Reader.

- Download JDownloader 2.

- Download uTorrent.

- Download Immunet and Avast for Virus protection. Unpin the Avast browser from the taskbar but don’t delete it completely. Go into the control panel and remove all traces of McAfee.

- Download Google Earth Pro.

- Download AShampoo for unzipping files.

- Download VideoPad. This is the one program that has good free alternatives, but I’ve paid for it anyway (as opposed to Microsoft Office, which I’ve paid for because I don’t think any of its free alternatives are at all comparable). That’s because I do enough video editing to think it’s worth paying extra for an easy-to-use program with a lot of features, and about a year ago I made a one-time payment for the full version of VideoPad. I very intentionally did the one-time payment rather than the “pay per month” thing, partly because I knew I’d use it for long enough to make that worth it, but also for the principle that I like to own things and do not like the shift within technology towards temporarily leasing things. So I downloaded VideoPad on my new computer, searched in my email to find the key I paid for last year that lets me turn it into the full paid version, entered the key, and got told it’s for and old version and won’t work. So I had to find a copy of that older version and download that, and then my key worked. I hate that software companies can let you pay for their product and then not let you re-download the version you’ve already paid for.

And that is how I have set up my computer to be very useful. Fuck reliance on temporarily leasing data from companies that can change things on you any time they want, up with open source software. If anyone is looking at this post and thinking I’m missing something, let me know. What makes your computer-using experience better?

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Beauty in the Blood - Part One

Summary: One day your friend convinces you to join a dating website that matches people based on their search histories, and when you match with Loki Odinson, a handsome, intelligent coroner who’s a fan of your murder mysteries, you’re absolutely thrilled. But there’s something off about Loki, and as your relationship progresses, you discover that his dark side is even darker than you could ever have imagined... 

Pairing: Serial Killer!Loki x Writer!Reader 

A/N: This story is based off of this post! I hope you guys enjoy; this is my first time writing Loki, and this will probably be the darkest thing I’ve ever written. Please let me know what you think as the story progresses! 

Warning: This chapter contains hints of smut and GRAPHIC descriptions of death and murder. Later on, this fic will also include rape/non con, dub con, kidnapping, yandere/obsessive elements, and even MORE graphic descriptions of death and murder. Please read at your own risk, and as usual, this is only for the eyes of those 18 and older. Thank you, and enjoy!

It was hard to find a decent guy these days. New York was the city of dreamers, artists, and absolute weirdos, and out of the three, you only seemed to attract the latter. You’d been to speed dating events and Singles Night at your local bar, but there was never a connection, never a spark, and every guy seemed to have something fundamentally wrong with him. It wasn’t that you were looking for the perfect guy, it was just that you’d met too many who were demanding, controlling, or misogynistic.  

You’d given up on finding your special someone a year after you’d moved to the city. After all, being single wasn’t too bad. You could do what you want whenever you wanted without having to think about someone else. So what if you didn’t have anyone to kiss on New Years? So what if you cried a little every now and then from feeling so alone? It was fine. It was absolutely fine, you told yourself. Fine, fine, fine…

“I’m absolutely fine, Wanda. I don’t need a boyfriend to be happy.”

You were sat across from your good friend, who was stirring her coffee with one hand while she tapped her fingers against the table with the other. She arched a skeptical eyebrow at you before taking a sip of her drink.

“You’re right; you don’t. But you’re lonely,” she pointed out. “A boyfriend would help with that.”

There was no denying that she was right. Wanda was perceptive, and she was also one of your closest friends. You’d met her during your first week of living in New York, and she’d helped you adjust to living in such a busy, fast-paced place. She probably knew you better than you knew yourself, and that was why you slumped in defeat and threw back the last gulp left of your mimosa.

“God, you’re right,” you bemoaned. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“I know,” she grinned. “But don’t worry; I can help.”

“Wanda, not that I don’t appreciate your effort, but the last guy you sent me out on a date with got mad that I didn’t put out after he paid for my dinner. I don’t want to go on any more blind dates.”

She winced, reaching over to pat the back of your hand.

“I had no idea Kyle was like that,” she promised you. “If I’d known he would be such an asshole you know I wouldn’t have set you up. But I wasn’t going to suggest another blind date.”

You tilted your head to the side.

“What did you have in mind, then?”

She grinned and reached into her purse, fishing around until she found her phone.

“I heard of a new dating app that made me immediately think of you,” she explained excitedly, pulling up the website and passing her device over to you. “It matches you with people in your area based on your Google searches!”

“Pfffft.” You scoffed, taking a quick glance at the screen before looking back to your friend. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard of.”

“I know, I know, it’s a strange concept. But it has one of the highest success ratings out of all the dating websites! It’s only been around for six months, but over half of its users say that they’ve found someone they can see themselves spending the rest of their lives with!”

“Statistics can be made up, you know,” you groused. “Besides, one look at my browser history would send anyone running in the opposite direction.”

“Maybe not someone who has one similar to yours,” she pointed out. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Wanda, you know what I do for a living, right? I could match with some kind of serial killer!”

Your friend just waved you off and ordered another coffee, picking up her phone again and stuffing it into her pocket.

“Just try it? Please?” she begged. “Just give it a shot, and if it doesn’t work out, then that’s that, right? No harm done.”

Several hours later, and you found yourself sitting on your couch, staring at the same website homepage that Wanda had shown you. You bit your lip, letting your fingers skim over your laptop’s keys, not typing anything just yet but feeling their ridges as you considered the “Join Now” button.

There wouldn’t be any harm in it, right? Just like Wanda said, if you hated the kind of people you matched with, then you could always delete your profile. And you didn’t only search things for your research, after all; you also googled recipes and cute animal videos. What if you matched with a gorgeous guy who’d also googled “Try Not To Laugh – Kitten Edition”? Hell yeah.

After taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you clicked on the button, making quick work of filling out the ‘About You’ information. Five minutes later, you’d chosen a profile picture and linked your Google account to the website, and you were ready to sift through your matches. The wheel on the screen turned slowly as your computer processed the information, and you actually jolted when it dinged with the results.

Well. Result. There was only one person who’d shown up with a similar search history as you. You let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding, and you almost closed your laptop and went to retreat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s from your fridge, calling it a day and forgetting the whole debacle. But then you saw his profile picture and… Holy shit.

He was lean and pale, and your eyes were immediately drawn to his long, black hair. He had it slicked back in the photo with just one strand hanging down over his left eye. In the photo, he was wearing an exquisitely tailored black suit with a black shirt and tie underneath it, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes trail along the lithe contours of his body. He looked as if he were carved from marble; you almost started drooling just from the sight of him.

You jumped again when your computer dinged for a second time, and your eyes widened when you saw that you had a new message in your inbox. With fingers that were just barely trembling, you opened it, skimming over the message from the man you’d paired with.

Good evening. I must admit, I was quite surprised when I got the notification that we’d matched with one another. I’ve had this profile for about four months, and I’d had yet to be paired with anyone.

So he was handsome and eloquent. You clicked on his profile and blinked when you saw his name. Loki Odinson. Wow. Even his name was refined, if not a little strange; it sounded like a name you’d give to one of the characters in your books.

Hello, Loki, you typed out. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was pretty surprised to find someone else who has such a twisted search history. I don’t know if I should be happy or concerned.

It only took him a few moments to reply.

The feeling is mutual; I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for the morbidity, though. Mine is that I happen to be a coroner for a living. And yours is…?

I’m a writer, you explained, your interest piqued by his profession. I write murder mysteries. So, yeah… Morbidity seems like a fitting way to describe it.

A writer, you say. I happen to be quite an avid reader; would I know any of your work?

I’m not sure; have you ever heard of The Bell Ringer? That’s probably my most well-known book.

You’re kidding.

He sent you a picture, and it was of a pale hand holding a copy of The Bell Ringer, your name glistening in bold font beneath the title.

I’m a great fan of your work, as you can see. I own several of your novels.

Another photo loaded beneath the newest text, and it was of a shelf full of your books. The Shrew Woman, A Night in New Hampshire, The Hanging Woman – nine books in total. The only one that you’d written that wasn’t there was the one you’d just sent out to your publisher, and you suspected that once it was out in stores, it would be joining the ranks of Loki’s shelf.

Wow! It’s always so nice to meet a reader. I’m so glad you like my stuff!

Oh, love, you’re a huge talent. I must say, I’ve found your work rather inspiring.

That’s so kind of you to say!

I know that this is rather forward, but are you doing anything tonight?

You glanced up at the clock you had hanging on the wall – 8:13 pm. It was already pretty late; typically you’d be putting on your pajamas and curling up in bed to do some late night reading here soon. But something inside of you whispered that you should do it; you weren’t spontaneous enough. What if this was an opportunity to meet the One? At the very least, it would be cool to meet such a loyal reader.

It depends on if this guy I’m talking to online asks me out. Do you think he will?

He would have to be a fool not to. I suspect he’ll ask you if you’d like to meet at a café.

Well, then, I suspect I’ll have to say yes.

An excited grin was plastered over your lips as you bantered back and forth, and when Loki sent you an address and a message saying ‘I’ll see you there in twenty minutes’, you jumped off of your sofa and rushed to put on your shoes. You were still dressed in the leggings and oversized sweater you’d worn to brunch with Wanda, and all you had to do was straighten your hair and pull on your boots before you were out the door. The address he’d sent you was within walking distance of your apartment; in fact, you’d been there before, but never on a date.

Your heart was pounding the entire way over, and you couldn’t get over how unlike you this was. You didn’t just get up and meet guys you’d met on the internet on such short notice, much less so late at night. And yet here you were, stepping into the café fifteen minutes after receiving Loki’s message. Your eyes scanned the room, but it appeared that he wasn’t there yet. As you got in line to order, you tried to calm yourself, not wanting to look too frazzled when your date finally showed up. You tried to even your breathing, twisting the fabric of your sleeves between your nervous fingers.

He’s just a person, you told yourself. You’ve been on dates before; everything was going to be fine. Nothing bad was going to-

“Hello, there.”

You gasped and turned around, eliciting a chuckle from the man now towering over you. He was dressed in a set of black trousers with a simple white button-down tucked into them, and his hair was loose and falling around his shoulders. His grin was wide and full of teeth, with just the slightest sinister edge to it. But his eyes were warm and twinkling with excitement and just a hint of mischief. Those clear blue irises brought a smile to your own lips, and you chuckled along with him at your initial fright.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you walk in,” you explained.

“It’s quite alright,” he assured you, offering his hand. “I know you already are aware, but I’m Loki.”

You grinned and introduced yourself, going to shake his hand, but he smoothly cradled your fingers and drew them up to his lips, pressing a light kiss to your knuckles.

“It’s good to finally meet you in person,” he cooed, seemingly all too aware of how flustered you now were.

You opened your mouth to say something in return, but you couldn’t think of anything to say as silence lay heavily between the two of you. You were saved, though, when the barista called out to you, asking if she could take your order. You spun around on your heel and shot her a grateful glance before ordering your favorite menu item and reaching into your purse for your wallet.

“…And I’ll have a cup of Earl Grey,” Loki stepped in, handing her a card from his open wallet.

“Oh, I could have paid for mine,” you protested, but he waved you off.

“No, no, love. It’s my treat.”

He gave you a tight, close-lipped smile, and you didn’t protest further as he paid for your orders. He led you to a booth in the corner, sliding into the side opposite to yours gracefully. The leather squeaked against your thighs as you shuffled in, and when you were finally settled across from him you caught a flicker in his eye that sent chills up your spine.

It was gone in an instant, though, replaced by the same suave look he’d had while ordering his tea.

“So,” he began, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “As I said before, I’m a fan of your work. Truly, I have been since your very first novel.”

“’Beauty in the Blood’?” you asked incredulously. “I’m surprised; no one seems to like that one. After reading it, my mom suggested that I start going to therapy.”

Loki chuckled, licking his lips, and your eyes followed his tongue of their own accord.

“Ah, well, whether or not that’s true, it’s still my favorite of your works by far,” he continued. “The parts told by the killer’s perspective were…beautiful. You captured his mind so artfully, it was as if…”

He paused, searching your face for a moment.

“It was as if…you understood him,” he finished.

You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking over his words. He’d skipped right over the small talk you’d come to suspect on first dates, but despite how strange of a direction the conversation was taking, you were…intrigued by it.

“Well,” you started, “I feel like I did understand him.  I mean, sure, he took delight in the killing of others; he saw it as an art form. But as twisted and evil as he was, he was still a person – a person that had come from my mind. Cuz the thing is…”

You paused, gathering your thoughts and trying to find the right words to convey them.

“The thing is,” you spoke carefully, “that every storyteller uses bits and pieces of themselves to tell a story. A story is like a stained glass window – it’s made up of different pieces of an author’s mind and soul, and it comes together to create something greater than the sum of those pieces. So, yes, I think I can understand him; his darkness might be a reflection of my own – deep, deep down.”

You glanced up at him, blinking when you saw the transfixed look upon his face. His eyes were wider than they had been before, and his lips were parted as he listened.

“Sorry,” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I, uh… I got a little carried away. You probably think I’m some kind of freak-“

“I think you’re beautiful.”

His words took your breath away, and when the barista set down your cups on the table, you jumped in surprise.

“Is there anything else I can get you guys?” she asked cheerfully, and a flash of annoyance crossed over Loki’s face at the interruption.

“We’re fine,” you assured her quickly, giving her a polite smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome!”

You gripped your mug tightly as she walked away, savoring its heat as it warmed up your cold hands.

“So,” you said, desperate to break the sudden silence that had fallen over the table, “you mentioned that you’re a coroner. What drew you to your profession?”

Loki sipped his tea, humming as he thought over the question.

“Well… The conversation has already veered towards the darker side of things,” he mused. “I might as well tell you the story.

“When I was twelve years old, my sister killed herself,” he began.

“Oh, Loki, I’m so sorry-“

“Oh, no, don’t be,” he interrupted. “We weren’t close at all. I was adopted at a young age, you see, and Hella never accepted me. She was cruel, and she took every opportunity she could to remind me of my inadequacies.

“But, as I said, one day she died. At first, we didn’t know how it happened; there were no marks on her body whatsoever. She just looked like she was sleeping as she lay there in bed. We called the hospital, and the police, and eventually the coroners discovered that she’d injected bleach into her arm. Later on, my mother found the syringe under her bed, and all the pieces of the puzzle fit together. We finally knew the how and the when, and I never really cared much about the why.

“…That probably makes me sound like a monster, doesn’t it?”

You sat back, swallowing a scalding-hot sip of your drink before answering.

“No,” you answered, shaking your head. “I don’t think that makes you a monster. She abused you; it’s only natural that you found some relief in her death. I would’ve probably felt the same way.”

He studied you for a moment, tracing the lip of his cup with his index finger.

“I wonder if you would have…” he murmured to himself, so quietly that you almost didn’t hear it.

“Well,” he sighed, plastering a smile on once more and straightening up, “you probably aren’t going to be very keen on a second date if I keep dragging our conversation into subjects like this. Tell me, where are you from? What made you move to the city?”

“How do you know I’m not from here?”

“Love, neither of us have the New York accent, now do we?”

You laughed, and after that the two of you fell into an easy flow; it seemed that the heavy beginning of the date made it all the easier to talk to him. You discussed what you liked about the city and what you didn’t like; you learned that Loki was originally from a small town right outside of London, and that he has an adopted brother named Thor that he was close to.

“He’s an oaf,” he’d said when you’d asked what his brother was like. “Everything about him is literally the opposite of its coinciding part of me. But…he loves me; he never thought of me as the adopted child. I was always just his brother; despite his shortcomings, I think he does mean well. Besides, his IQ level is in the single digits, so I’m afraid I must look out for him for fear of what would happen if he were left to his own devices.”

From there, you shared stories about growing up, about life and ex partners and mistakes and successes. Before you knew it, the happy barista from before was approaching your table again, this time with a nervous smile.

“Hey, guys,” she greeted. “I’m so so sorry to bother you, but we’re closing up…”

Loki glanced down at his watch as you glanced at your phone – 10:30.

“Shit,” you laughed. “I had no idea. Time flies…”

Your date shot a glare at the barista before his eyes flickered to you. He gave you a wide, close-lipped smile and straightened his collar, raising his eyebrows.

“Then I suppose it’s time for us to head out,” he murmured. “May I escort you home?”

“Oh! Of course. If it’s not too far out of your way…”

“Even if it is,” he smiled, “I still want to walk you home.”

Your heart fluttered, and you set a five dollar bill on the table as a tip before standing up. The barista scurried away, and you almost turned to apologize to her for Loki’s cold shoulder. But you didn’t know him well yet; maybe that’s just how he was. Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it.

“You guys have a good night!” she called out after you, and you smiled over your shoulder at her before reaching for the door. Loki’s hand darted out and grabbed the handle before you could, opening it for you with a slight bow.

“After you, my lady.”

“How chivalrous.”

The two of you walked side by side down the street, hands brushing as you strolled down the sidewalk. You glanced upwards, smiling at the scattering of stars overhead as your breath fogged in the chilly air. You shivered, rubbing your arms a little bit to ward off the chill. Loki evidently caught the movement, and you felt his arm drape around your shoulders. You leaned into the warmth of his body, tilting your head up to share a grin with him.

“Again – chivalrous.”

He chuckled, squeezing you for a beat.

“I try my best… It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Gorgeous. Not as gorgeous as you, but…very pretty.”

You laughed and hid your face in his neck.

“Stop… You’re too charming.”

“Oh, really? I was under the impression there was no such thing.”

The two of you fell back into a companionable silence as you guided him towards your brownstone, until he spoke up once again.

“I must say… There’s a question that I’ve been meaning to ask you that I’m just…dying to know the answer to.”

“Go ahead, Loki. I’m an open book.”

He laughed softly again, hesitating before voicing his question.

“If you were to kill someone, how would you do it?”

You paused, thinking over your response.

“Well… Why am I killing them? Is it a crime of passion or a crime of necessity? Am I killing them just for the enjoyment of it, or out of revenge, or because the person needs to die for a bigger cause?”

“That… That is actually an excellent follow-up question,” Loki mused. “Let’s say… A crime of necessity. The person needs to die for a personal reason with no anger or revenge in mind. How do you do it?”

You bit your lip, calling to mind all of your morbid Google searches that might apply.

“Um… Air shot between the toes,” you finally said. “Fill a syringe with air and inject it between their toes while they sleep. It’ll look like a heart attack that way.”

Unbeknownst to you, warmth suddenly bloomed in Loki’s chest, and you glanced up just in time to catch the fond, almost…loving gleam in his eye. He quickly looked away, tilting his head up to look at the stars, but you’d caught it. And it wasn’t that it unsettled you; you weren’t uncomfortable because of the look. You were uncomfortable because you hadn’t been upset by it. You’d felt that same flutter once again as butterflies batted around your rib cage.

Nothing more was said as you turned the corner that led to your street, and you silently ascended your home’s steps with Loki’s arm still around your shoulders. You reluctantly slid your key into the lock, only turning to him once your door was opened a crack.

“I had… A really good time with you, Loki,” you told him, craning your neck to look into his eyes. “I know that this isn’t what you’re supposed to say to a guy after a first date; I know that it might scare you away. But I want you to know that I haven’t felt this way in a long… Actually, I’ve never felt this way. And it’s really scary, but I hope… I hope we can do this again sometime soon.”

Loki’s eyes softened, and he moved his arm from around your shoulders to your cheek.

“I haven’t felt his way, either,” he murmured. “But I know that I don’t want the feeling to go away.”

He was leaning forward, his eyes closing, and your heart leapt into your throat as you met him halfway. His lips were cold, and smooth, and soft as they pressed against yours, and you leaned into his touch when he pulled you closer by your hips. A sound escaped your throat as his tongue darted out, licking past the barrier of your mouth to glide itself against yours. His hands came up to cradle your cheeks, his thumbs rubbing against your cheekbones as your lips moved against one another, and you hummed once again as your chests pressed together.

You don’t know who pulled away first, but you spent a moment just taking in one another’s essence, your foreheads pressed together as the fog of your breaths mingled. You heard Loki let out a chuckle, and you looked up curiously.

“What is it?”

“I’ve just…” He licked his lips and let out another soft laugh before pulling away.

“I’ve just never felt like this before,” he repeated.

You smiled and pressed a peck to his lips before walking towards your door again.

“Have a good night, love,” he called after you, and you paused in the doorway to blow him a kiss.

“You too, Loki.”

You shut your door, missing the way his gaze darkened as he stared at the façade of your building.

“Oh, I will, darling. I will.”

__________

Loki hummed to himself, the leather of his gloves squeaking as he clenched and unclenched his fists. The silver of the table gleamed under the fluorescent lights of his basement, and the air was musty, thick with the smell of iron…and decay. Instruments and tools were lined along the wall in front of him - knives, machetes, a hatchet… It was cliché; he knew that. But he just hadn’t been able to resist the temptation while designing this special room.

A muffled scream sounded from behind him, and he rolled his eyes before turning back to the perky little barista who was currently strapped down to another metal table he’d “borrowed” from the hospital morgue.

“Are you honestly still trying to scream for help?” he snarked, raising an eyebrow at her. “I’ve told you; you’re currently under about five feet of solid concrete. Who will hear you? Who will help you?”

The girl let out a sob, and he watched her big blue eyes flicker to the wall just over his shoulder before coming to rest on him again. They were red and swollen, and he let out a coo of false sympathy.

“Oh, don’t worry, little girl. None of these are for you.” He grinned, turning back to the table behind him. “You can thank my new lover for that. No, she inspired me to take a different direction this evening.”

A small, genuine smile came over his face as he picked up the large syringe, turning it over in his hands.

“She’s been inspiring me for a while, actually,” he mused, ignoring the screams as he sauntered over to his victim, syringe in hand. “She’s such a brilliant writer, my darling is. It truly was fate that brought us together; if I’d had known that my favorite author was a beautiful young woman who also lived in Manhattan, well… I’m sure I would have found her sooner. But I won’t dwell on lost time; I’ll just have to make up for it.”

He ran a hand over the girl’s knee, trailing it down her shin even as she struggled against the strong ropes twined around her wrists and ankles. As his hand gripped the arch of her foot in an iron-like hold, he let his eyes close. This was always his favorite part – the moments right before death. The anticipation was like foreplay; it got him just as hot and eager, and the payoff was very nearly comparable. If he were ever asked to describe the feeling of ending another person’s life, of ripping out the remaining chapters from their story before it could be written, the only thing he’d be able to compare it to was an orgasm. That white-hot pleasure that flooded his veins was addictive, as was the lead up he was experiencing right now.

“You know,” he mused, slowly drawing back the plunger of the syringe, “my girl is so smart… Not a lot of people would think to off someone like this. But it’s not as easy as you would think; you can’t just use any old syringe. It has to be big, has to be a lot of air. And you have to be careful; if you hit muscle, it won’t be fatal, and the whole endeavor would be for naught. But if you hit a vein, and if you get a big enough pocket of air…”

The duct tape on her mouth did little to quell her scream as he inserted the needle into her flesh. A novice might not be able to find a vein, especially not in a foot, but the years of medical school paid off, just as they did every day at his job. He injected the empty cartridge into her vein, groaning and letting his eyes drift shut. He was slow about removing the needle; the separation of steel from skin was slow, intimate… Gentle.

“Hush…” he whispered, drawing out the word with a hiss. “It’s done now, love. It’s done.”

He let his arm fall to the side, and he took a step back, watching the girl start to settle down as he put some distance between them. He gently set the syringe down onto the table before crossing the room to the armchair in the corner. Letting out a soft grunt, he lowered himself into the seat, crossing his legs and letting his head fall back.

“Fuck, what a day,” he sighed. “This isn’t what I was expecting when I woke up this morning.”

Loki lifted his head and gave the young girl a wry smile.

“As you may have guessed, this isn’t my first time doing something like this,” he began. “But I do try to limit myself. I may take…five victims a year. Maybe six or seven if I’m particularly stressed. My last one was on New Year’s, though. I’m not due for a killing for another few months, but… That girl really had me going.

“I was hoping that she’d invite me in tonight,” he confessed. “Though I wasn’t expecting it. It was our first date, after all. But a man can hope, can’t he? If she had invited me to stay the night, you wouldn’t be here right now. Alas, though… I had all of these pent up feelings that I had to do something with. And you were so…obnoxious back at the café. I couldn’t tell if you were being genuine with your disgusting, overbearing cheerfulness or if it was as fake as your blonde hair. But, god, did it get under my skin…”

The girl let out a sob, and he noticed that she was beginning to shake. He chuckled, feeling himself grow hard in his trousers as he thought of you. You’d come up with this idea, this beautiful, drawn-out murder. Such a sweet, innocent looking girl on the outside. But such delicious, pure wickedness within.

“Fuck,” he huffed, palming himself through his pants. “Despite the nuisance you made of yourself, today was so perfect… She’s the One, you know. The one and only girl who can ever complete me. I didn’t even believe in this sort of thing this morning, but for the first time in my life, I’m glad I was wrong.”

He forced himself to still his hand, moving it to his knee as his jaw clenched. In the past, he’d done this in front of a few of his victims; male or female, if they were pretty, young things, the act of killing them made him so hard that he had to touch himself as he watched them squirm on his table. But not tonight, not after you. That part of himself was only for you, now, and he was strong enough to resist the urge until his was the only heart beating under his roof.

And so he sat back and watched. At first, the girl only shivered, and after thirty minutes he was afraid that he hadn’t injected enough air into her. But then he noticed the way she was breathing; it was like she was a fish out of water, and the slope of her furrowed eyebrows betrayed the pain she was in.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, voice thick. At first she didn’t answer, but then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. He hummed in understanding, hiding his grin behind his hand as he scratched his chin.

“How marvelous.”

He knew she wouldn’t last long when her skin started to turn blue. After an hour, the seizures began, jolting and shaking her body as if she were a ragdoll. He watched in fascination, his cold, blue eyes never leaving her tied-up form. Soft, strained whimpers were leaving her throat, and he let out a purr as her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

His joints popped as he stood up, and the heels of his shoes clicked against the concrete floor as he rounded the table, making his way to her pretty blonde head. He slowly, deliberately pulled the duct tape away from her mouth, and he chuckled at how blue her lips had become.

“This is a much better look on you,” he observed. “This is so much more real than those saccharine smiles.”  

She finally went still 84 minutes after the injection. Even after her heart stopped beating, he stood over her, watching the unnatural stillness of her chest. Despite all of the corpses he’d created over the years, and despite the years he’d spent in his profession, it was still something that he’d never gotten used to. People weren’t supposed to be that still; people were supposed to blink, and smile, and talk, and breathe, but the things they became after death did none of those things. They didn’t move, and they didn’t feel, and there was always a moment of disgust when he first laid eyes on a fresh corpse.

But it passed quickly, even quicker than normal tonight. The disgust faded away and left behind pure, unadulterated lust as his thoughts strayed once more to you. Typically, he would stay behind, lingering in the basement to dispose of the body. Sometimes, if he wasn’t too tired, he would actually drive out and deposit them in whatever spot he’d predetermined to be the one the police were to find them in.

But tonight, he left the corpse there on the table. He flicked the lights off and climbed the first, then the second set of stairs, peeling off his gloves and petting his cat on the way to his bedroom. He showered, then combed his hair, then settled down between his silk sheets completely naked. Then, and only then, did his hand travel down to his cock, and his mind once again, indubitably, trekked back to you. Your face, your voice, your beautiful fucking mind…

The thought that finally made him cum was the picture of him fucking you in a pool of blood on his basement floor, of the bright crimson painting your skin as he let his hands worship your body. The thought followed him into his dreams, ruby red and throbbing to the beat of his heart as he slept deeply into the night.

_____________

Detective Romanoff stood side by side with her partner in front of the dead body, hands planted firmly on her hips as she chewed her lip.

“How old did you say she was?” she asked the coroner, her eyes flicking down to the rope burn on the woman’s – the girl’s – wrists and ankles.

“Twenty,” was Dr. Odinson’s accented reply. He turned around, glancing between the two detectives before taking a deep breath and turning his attention back to the body. “I’m afraid that there won’t be much investigating for the two of you to do here. The cause of death was a heart attack, pure and simple.”

“A twenty year old girl having a heart attack?” Detective Rogers scoffed. “I think you got your wires crossed, there, Loki.”

Natasha watched as a muscle in the coroner’s jaw twitched, and he let out a frustrated huff as he peeled off his medical gloves.

“Detective, this sort of thing happens all the time – freak accidents that can strike even the healthiest of people. They are…unfortunate, but they’re also a fact of life.” He tossed the balled up gloves into a trash can and whisked past them, bending over to type something into the laptop resting on his desk as he continued speaking to them.

“After reviewing her medical records, I found out that her father died two years ago from a heart attack; if I were a gambling man, I would say that a bad set of genes were the only culprit here.”

“What about the marks on her wrists?” Natasha asked. “They gotta mean something, right?”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” Loki smirked, cutting his eyes over at her before straightening up. “It probably means that little Miss…” He paused, glancing down at a paper resting beside his computer. “Miss Allison Berry was into bondage before her untimely demise.”

“A woman is lying dead, Odinson,” Rogers spat. “Show some respect.”

Loki raised his hands up in surrender as he sauntered towards them.

“I apologize if I offended you, Detective,” he replied coolly. “I meant no disrespect. But I’ve run all the tests in the book. There were no signs of sexual assault, no signs of foul play. I’ll type up a proper report for the two of you, but I’m telling you now – the girl died of a heart attack.”

Natasha and Steve shared a look before turning back to the doctor.

“Have the report ready for us before the end of the day,” she ordered, patting Steve on the shoulder and gesturing for him to follow her as she made her way out of the cold morgue.

“Whatever you say, Officer.”

Natasha froze mid-step, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck bristle as a thousand images flashed through her mind after hearing him say that word. She gulped, oblivious to the confused look Steve was giving her, and she kept walking without turning back around.

“It’s Detective, now, doctor.”

The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off Loki’s dark chuckle as he was once again was left alone with Allison Berry’s body. His smile didn’t fade as he pulled on another pair of gloves; if anything, it grew as he finished the young woman’s autopsy.

“I was being honest with them; you know that, don’t you?” He winked at the girl’s unseeing eyes, his hands moving of their own accord as he stitched up the clean line he’d cut through the skin, bone, and muscle of her chest.

“It was just a heart attack.”

[littlemessyjessi]

“Out of Time”: A Harry James Potter Imagine: PS OC : Chapter Two : “Lessons in Unconditional Love”

Harry James Potter x PS OC featuring a time travel theme.

——————————————————–

A couple of weeks had passed since Jess had officially integrated into Hogwarts... in the 70s of all places.

The school was abuzz with the news of the transfer and she was well recieved in the house of Gryffindor.

Everyone was highly amused by her accent.

Firstly, because she was American.

And secondly, because she came from the southern part of America... meaning she had a southern accent.

James literally thought it was the best thing to have ever happened to him.

He'd taking to calling her Cowgirl at every opportunity.

He'd even proclaimed them to be the baddest in Gryffindor because together they were Jessi James.

An obvious play on the notorious outlaw from American history.

He'd instantly become obsessed with literally anything slightly American Western related.

However, he was appalled by the concept of a cold glass of sweet tea and insisted that they treat themselves to a glass of sasparilla instead.

If he wasn't so damn cute, she'd have probably smacked his hyperactive self.

He reminded her of her Harry a lot though which was a welcome presence when she was missing him so much.

It was hard to sleep in that dorm bed when she'd become so accustomed to being cuddled up to Harry, with Teddy's little turquoise mop tucked between them more often than not.

She missed her little rugrat too and sometimes caught herself staring at Remus just a bit too long.

Teddy had barely had a chance to spend any time with Remus at all but he was more like him than the lanky teen would ever realize.

Sirius had warmed up to her considerably and what amused her more than anything was when he would approach her in his animagus form.

Which was exactly what he was doing at that very moment.

She'd been sitting by the Black Lake.

Memories of herself and the twins terrorizing Harry, Ron and Hermione clouding her vision as she sat there.

She was homesick and beginning to think she'd never be able to go back.

At times she just wanted to burst into a dead run and go for it but the Headmaster had strongly advised her against even if she did feel like she could beat them before they could get to her.

In all honesty, she'd somewhat knew when she did this that there was a possibility that it would be a one way trip.

She had been willing to make that sacrifice for Harry.

It's just that she landed a few years too early.

She got distracted for a moment and when she did the pull had jerked her to a stop in time like it usually did.

She'd meant to travel back to that fateful Halloween night and kill Voldemort before he had the chance.

She planned on killing him and then making James and Lily aware of his horcruxes so that they could destroy them and hopefully raise Harry to have a happy life.

She knew that by doing that she might not ever meet Harry but she loved him so... she was willing to do it.

She just missed him so much and couldn't help it when a few tears leaked from her eyes.

A soft, wet nose prodded at her arm and she turned to see Sirius, as Padfoot, sitting beside her.

She offered him a small smile.

Of course, she knew it was him but he didn't know that she knew it was him.

"Hello, Mr. Dog." she said. "Lovely to see you again.  Although, you might be pushing your luck.  If McGonagall gets word that there's a dog on the grounds she'll likely throw you out.  She hates dogs you know."

His eyes, so like her own, twinkled in a mischief he believed he only knew.

He whined at her slightly and licked her cheek and she laughed.

"Oh, I'm alright." she said. "Just a bit homesick is all.  Seeing you helps though.  Just missing some loved ones is all."

He simply put his head in her lap and she began to rub his ears.

"You're a good boy, you know." she said, her emotions getting the best of her.

She knew what kind of life her dad had.

Especially, at this point in his life.

By this point, he'd already run away to the Potters but it was no secret that Sirius had a very awful upbringing.

"And you're very special." she said, her eyes tearing up.  "You're very good and loving and you've got a big heart. The best of a friend.  Anyone would be lucky to have you in their life.   Don't you ever let anyone hurt you or tell you otherwise because you are the best da- dog, anyone could ever ask for."

He moved again and looked at her, curiosity shining in his eyes surrounded by black fur.

"And I'm weird because I'm talking to a dog but whatever.  Just so you know." she said sniffling.  "Don't let anyone give you shit just because of well, whatever reason.  Yes, you look like the Grim.  That's true.  But it doesn't matter what a person looks like or their name or their family or where they come from.  What matters is what's in here."

She reached out and touched his heart beneath his furry chest.

Sirius leaned forward and nuzzled her face with his furry head and she just sniffled.

"Someone really important to me told me that." she admitted, tears cascading from her stormy gray eyes.  "I didn't get to see him very much because he was gone for most of my life.  But he was a good person.  He was the best dad I could have ever asked for.  And he loved me and I never doubted that."

Sirius just froze looking at her as she literally had a mental breakdown in front of her.

To him, this American girl was clearly missing her father who he could only assumed had died.

But to Jess, she was sitting her with the dog/teenage version of her father.... mourning the loss of him in the future.

She was sad because he was gone and trying so desperately to deal with the fact that he was literally sitting right next to her.

He whined and cuddled closer to her just desperate to get her to stop crying.

She laughed when he popped his snout under chin.

"Oh, I'm alright, Mr. Dog." she said. "I just really miss my dad is all.   He had a bit of a rough go at life too.  People always gave him looks because of his family name.  But he was the best.  Just the best. He was in prison when I was a little girl, you know.  But I had his picture and I'd set it up with my teddy bears and have a tea party.  And I just knew that if he were there he'd surely let me dress him in my tutus and paint his nails and have imaginary tea and cakes with me.  Because he was a good Daddy."

In that moment, Sirius wanted nothing more than to let this girl, this strange girl from American, dress him up.

Put makeup on him, braid his hair, paint his nails, put a tiara on him- anything to get her to stop crying.

It broke his heart.

Jess eventually simmered down and actually fell asleep against the tree.

Sirius took the opportunity to nip away and transform back into himself at the edge of the forest.

He looked on at the girl who seemed so familiar to him and decided that she was ok.

He felt rotten for being so suspicious of her when here she was obviously homesick and clearly dealing with the loss of someone who loved her very much.

He didn't know what that was like from a parent but in that moment he decided that if he ever were to become a father... he'd be like her dad.

He'd love a kid unconditionally and do everything in his power to make sure they knew that.

————

Chapter One

Chapter Three 

————-

Hello my darlings! I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while so I’m happy to bring it to you! I’ve written and rewritten it so many times lol.  But I think I’m really happy with the direction I’m headed now and I’m super excited for it! I would love to hear what you think! Please comment, share it with your thougths and/or blow up the ask box! I love hearing from you! Those comments make my day! I love ya’ll.

All my love darlings!

Kenny

————————-

@frankie2902

@pleasantdreamqueen   @becrazy–beyou

@littledeadrottinghood @blackirisposts

@therealmrshale @woodworthti666@thegreatirene@fanfictionandjunk

@angelus320

@alanlizzingtonshore@buriednurbckyrd@disneymarina@tubbypeachwriting

@sullybot @georgiagrl1990 @whenallsaidanddone

@mischiefnevermanaged94 @inumorph

@congurl

@centerhabit

@bubblymusiclover13

@qtmeryr

@thisismysecrethappyplace

@tnupsweetpie

@alisoncdariel

@hannahloveslife

@wormyboi

@blackirisposts

@maggyme13

@amethyst09

@ibenkastberg

@fanfics1717 @mrscasnovak

@thickemadame @babygirl-barnes

@theladyofmasks @aengsty

@kalliravenne​

@witchygagirl​

@gruffle1​

@writtenbywolfie​

@kribbydahhufflepuff

@leah-halliwell92​

@thelastwildangel​

@silent-browser​

@simplymagical​@simplymagicalwritings​

@lilac​flicker

@malulucifer

@minxyvixen​

@moncheriemoony

@queenlexusloverofbts​

@criminalyetminimal​

@plus-size-reader​

@owenniasstars​  

Love, Kenny

[fanfictioncorner]

Adventures of Fanfiction Corner Part 1- Browser x Wi-Fi (part 1)

Mickey was just putting the finishing touches on a new fic she was going to post. Some trauma for this character here. Some life long hatred of water and the cold for that character over there. Some hot bedroom time for these two characters. A breakup for those. Truthfully she was on a roll.

“Mickey,” Sock says walking into the room. Sock was the only one who dared poke the bear when Mickey was on one of her 2-3 week writing binges.

Mickey hummed in response,” I’m almost done-”

Mickey hears a soft sigh, “Mickey we have a problem.”

Instantly Mickey’s head shoots up and she looks at her partner in crime, “Are we talking IDK blew up the kitchen problem or IDK blew up the moon problem?” Mickey asked. Hoping to God it was the moon. She had had pudding in the fridge. She hadn’t had pudding on the moon.”

“Worse than both of those, and not involving IDK at all,” Sock says eyes wide.

Mickey took a moment to finally look at Sock’s face. Their eyes were wide and full of dread. Their mouth was set into a fine line, and their face was frighteningly pale.

If the master of instigation was this worried about something happening, then something was truly wrong. 

Mickey nodded her head and closed out of all the tabs on her computer, saving her writing (even though she knew once the page closed it would never be opened again). She stood up stretching a bit before putting on her problem solving exterior. Some called it her crisis management face.

Mickey followed Sock out to their giant living room. The rest of the members of fanfiction corner seemed to be scattered throughout the room. Varying stages of horror on their faces.

Mickey turned as she entered the room, “Sock who the fuck died?” Mickey asked questioningly.

Sock shook their head, “No one died... yet.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. Everyone looked to be relatively safe, as safe as one can be in this house, so what the hell was Sock talking about?

“Is this your leader?” A gruff annoyed voice asked, and Mickey spun on her heal to stare at a guy who was the same height as her, though probably much better off in the looks department.

“You told them I was the leader!?” Mickey whisper yelled to Sock.

“All of the mods agreed it was the best choice,” Sock says smiling. Sock steps back to stand with the rest of the mods as Mickey mouths ‘traitor’ at them.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” Mickey asks after catching sight of a second male to the left of the first. 

“Is everyone gathered here?” The gruff male directly in front of Mickey asked.

Mickey bristled at the rudeness. 

Motherfucker I left my writing binge for this shit, I swear to fucking god you better not ignore me. 

“It appears that everyone is here,” Mickey speaks through gritted teeth,” But I can assure you that I can handle this just fine without dragging them into this mess.”

“They are the mess,” The male muttered gruffly. The companion at his side stood quietly. Shyly shifting from foot to foot. “I’m here to fix a problem.”

Mickey glared,” Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

The gruff male turned and glared at Mickey. His icy blue ice pierced the air, “I’m you’re fucking browser history, and that’s your Wi-fi. We’ve taken human forms and boy we have some things to say to you.”

Mickey chuckles a bit, but then stops when no one else in the room joins in. 

“Please tell me he’s joking,” Mickey says, eyes shooting over to Sock.

Sock instead points to the guy pointed out as Wi-fi and sheepishly smiles, “He gives off a signal.”

Mickey stares for a moment at Sock in shock, “You’re joking.”

Sock and all of the mods shake their heads in denial... no.

They weren’t joking.

Mickey’s face pales at the thought of their collective browser history coming to life.

“Now that we have that sorted,” Browser says with a fake smile,” I have some things I am dying to say to you.”

Mickey audibly gulps.

Browser points at the group that most often hangs out in 18 plus chat and glares, “You all are going to a special place in hell!!!” 

None of them refute it. He wasn’t wrong.

“HOW DO YOU EVEN THINK OF SOME OF THE STUFF THAT YOU WRITE!?” Browser yells throwing his hands up in the air, “I SWEAR HINATA HAS GOTTEN SCREWED EVERY WAY POSSIBLE INSIDE OF MY HEAD BECAUSE OF YOU FUCKS!!!”

A sharp chuckle comes from Gray and Slayer. They mainly wrote angst after all and it must be pretty fun when the blame isn’t being put on you. 

“Don’t get cheeky,” Browser says turning and glaring at the two who were giggling, “I’m not happy with you either.”

The giggling stops and their mouths snap shut, “Do you know the amount of times I have to see your little angst stories play through my head. Every day. Every day. I am tired. I want one dream where not all my characters die or they at least get a happy ending.”

Slayer mutters a small, “Sorry.”

And suddenly Browser is turning to the fanart makers, “AND YOU ASSHOLES!!! I SWEAR IF I SEE ONE MORE DICK IN AN ASS I WILL LOSE IT COMPLETELY!!!”

There are multiple chokes of surprise. 

“And to the Supernatural fans in this room,” Browser says, “I hate you. To the Haikyuu fans here, you disgust me. And to the BNHA fans... PLEASE STOP WITH THE DABI SHIT!!!”

Mickey nods, after all this whole thing had to be over soon- 

“And you,” Browser turns to Mickey with a glare, “You are awful.”

Mickey lets out a surprised squeak, “I am not that bad.”

“You made Wi-fi cry and shut down after your last fic,” Browser deadpans.

“So that’s why the Wi-fi wasn’t working that day,” Mickey mutters under her breath.

“We don’t want to work for you anymore,” Browser says glaring,” you all suck.”

“Wait!” Mickey yells, “You can’t just leave, we kind of rely on you.”

Browser glares,” If we stay I’m making conditions.”

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

Three weeks later it was an outside day. Wi-fi and Browser were taking a day off, which meant that the whole of the house had to go outside in the sunlight.

“It’s gross,” Mickey mutters, “It’s bright and it’s gross.”

“You’re just mad you can’t do 2 week straight writing binges anymore.” Sock says smiling.

“Don’t test me,” Mickey says,” I swear I will get a typewriter.”

“And what if that came to life too?” Sock asked smiling.

Mickey gave a full body shiver.

[tundrainafrica]

Title: Hacker

Summary: 

"Education has reached a new frontier. Given the pandemic and the need to continue educating the youth, many companies have started developing ways to eliminate distractions in the online classroom. Eduguardian is an MDM solution designed to support our educators and guardians in their mission to create the optimal learning environment for children."

Brookland starts using Mobile Device Management solutions for the student's devices and Alex naively tries to find a way to bypass it. 

Written for the SpyFest fic exchange, Dec 2020

Link to cross-postings: AO3

Prompt:

"Alex is noticed as having a lot of potential (be it while he's on a mission or just going home from school but is paying a lot of attention to his surroundings and gets noticed by some criminals - not the ones he's investigating- or by some other intelligence agency; either way, they don't recognise him as a spy) and someone tries to recruit him. MI6 isn't exactly happy with the whole ordeal, especially when Alex gives the offer some serious consideration (or he doesn't, it's up to you. MI6 is still pissed)."

Notes:  I am so sorry I took way too many liberties with this hahahah. I hope it's still recognizable? An attempt at crack. (Do people actually follow me for Alex Rider content?)

When Brooklands got into the trend of holding both online and in-classroom classes, Alex was out on a mission. 

In fact, he didn’t even notice that most of his classmates were joining him when he was doing modules his teacher so kindly sent him. Probably because his downtime to actually look at those modules consisted of those times in a helicopter minutes before he was to skydive and land onto the roof of another military headquarters.

The change was gradual but it was there. Alex though, having had too many things running through his head never did notice it. That is until he opened one of his devices during class to see the browser Safari was blocked on his iPad.

Your school has not provisioned this as a Class App. Please contact your school administrator if you believe this is a mistake.

“What the hell is this?” Alex whispered, mostly to himself.

“Oh yeah, it’s blocked. You have to use the Eduguardian browser now,” Tom answered from next to him. He reached out over Alex’s shoulder and clicked on something on the lower screen of Alex’s ipad, a green app with a badge on it

“What? Why?”

“Yeah, something about ‘educational technology being the new frontier’ and ‘having to protect children in an online setting’…”

With Tom’s mannerisms, Alex could almost imagine the speech drilled into his classmates heads while he was away. He didn’t have to imagine for too long though. An ad of Eduguardian was one of the few things they were at least allowed to access during class. For some reason, Alex found himself more interested in the ad than in the actual class.

Education has reached a new frontier. Given the pandemic and the need to continue educating the youth, many companies have started developing ways to eliminate distractions in the online classroom.

Eduguardian is an MDM solution to support our educators and guardians form a better environment for your children.

MDM?

“Eyes up.” And just like that, before Alex could even figure out the implications of an MDM, his screen froze then locked and he was left with nothing better to do than listen to his teacher.

The teacher flashed the questions on the board. “Pop quiz everyone!”

A link was sent to his iPad. It opened up to a google form with one essay question History was generally one of the easiest subjects to google.

How were peasants in western Europe similar to serfs in Russia? How were they different?

It was an essay so at least they were given time and space to research. Or so that was what Alex thought. Having been a student for many years, and for a long one year, having been a student who was constantly behind. Alex had built very efficient methods for research.

As Alex opened up wikipedia, he soon found out what cruel reality.

“They blocked Wikipedia?”

“Apparently, starting with wikipedia is lazy research.” Tom answered softly back, looking not at all convinced with the school’s strategy.

For the first time since his first mission, Alex was not happy to be back at school.

                                        Hacker

“It doesn’t end there… When you get home, your parents have control of the gadget. They can set curfews, set up restrictions. This invention is fucking crazy,” Tom ranted as they made their way home that afternoon.

For Tom it was. Alex was sure though Jack wouldn’t be too strict about it. She never was. She was more like a sister than a parent to him after all.

All hopes of a normal day though were dashed when he came home to find Jack as confused as he was. “Brooklands never told me about anything like that.”

“You’re kidding...” That was a declarative statement. Alex did not want to even want to plant the possibility that maybe, just maybe she knew nothing about it. “Every student has to have an assigned guardian... “ Alex watched as Jack’s eyes widened in what could have been realization. As she did, Alex was starting to understand what she meant, having stumbled upon the same conclusion.

                                          Hacker

“Alex, you have to understand, MDM is the new frontier. With the internet, we can’t just have kids running around watching porn or war movies without supervision.”

“This is a bunch of horseshit. You’re infringing on my right to privacy.”

“You’re acting like we have never done this before Alex. Besides, it’s not like we’re watching what you’re doing 24/7. Just enough to keep you safe… and your content age appropriate.”

Mrs. Jones’s justification had Alex rolling his eyes. He had checked his web filtering settings that afternoon to see that all violent Youtube channels and subreddits had been blocked. Keywords like blood, guns and suicide have also been filtered out. But you’re so ready to drop me at the line of fire when convenient. He would have wanted to say. By then though, Mrs. Jones was looking back at her paperwork and Alex knew any argument would have been futile.

Any argument towards Jones at least. Alex still had allies among MI6.

“Smithers, how much do you know about this MDM thing?” Alex asked as soon as he closed the door behind him. He was aware that the walls were soundproof and he made little effort to regulate his voice, having wasted too much of his patience talking to Mrs. Jones. He had twenty other things to say more insulting to ‘horseshit’ after all.

“Well, it’s all the rage now but it’s nothing new. MI6 has been using mobile device management systems since before to watch their employees.”

“Why does MI6 have to be the one assigned to ‘parent’ my school account?”

Smithers shrugged. “They are your legal guardians.” The man had a face about him, as if he didn’t want to be involved. Alex knew Smithers had a soft spot for him and he just had to use it to his advantage.

For a few more moments they were silent. Alex though continued to stare at Smithers, widening his eyes a bit and twisting his mouth into a little pout, or maybe a face of disappointment. All he intended to show though was a little bit of hopelessness and awareness of the unfairness of his situation.

It may have worked. It may have not worked. It was enough for Smithers to let out a big sigh, bring out a USB and connect it into his computer. Within minutes, he placed it on the table, gesturing for Alex to take it. “Don’t you dare tell Mrs. Jones about this.”

                                         Hacker

It was a quick install virtual desktop interface.

It was a straightforward solution to the MDM that ravaged his iPad and within minutes of installation and booting it up, Alex finally had access to whatever else prepubescent boys usually preferred to search up privately.

Through the VDI at least. Alex noted. That virtual desktop had become Alex’s one stop shop for blocked content for both days at school and nights at home.

When in school, Alex already had a disadvantage when taking pop quizzes and for once he actually felt that MI6, or at least Smithers, was doing their part to undo the damage of missed classes. He had finished one of his quizzes for literature thirty minutes before the class ended because of the quick access he had had to sparknotes using the VDI Smither’s had given him.

“Alex, what the hell---” Tom whispered. Or it was a little too loud to be a whisper for a very paranoid and guilty Alex. He quickly pushed at Tom’s chair so the boy beside him would lose his balance and distract him. That gave Alex enough time to close his VDI and pretend to struggle as he reviewed his already completed worksheet.

Tom didn’t buy it. “Alex, you know something we don’t.” He had whispered to him soon after students started to file out of the classroom.

Tom was his best friend in Brookland. Within a few minutes of listening to Tom’s outrageous theories and rants, Alex finally caved in and requested for Tom’s USB. Within a day, he had copied that file to Tom’s USB and the latter had it installed on his laptop, just in time for their next exam.

Tom looking a little too relaxed for the next exam was what set off alarms for the whole class. Tom had a secret he didn’t want to share and somehow the class knew. No one just became above average overnight. Especially someone like Tom.

Alex was approached a few days after he had given Tom a copy of the file. It was when he had passed by the toilet which was reserved for things other than conventional uses of the toilet, did he run into someone who reeked of whatever they smoked inside.

“I have a business proposition for you,” he said, a whiff of smoke following suit.

                                              Hacker

A week passed and suddenly everyone was finishing their exams thirty minutes earlier. The teachers had attributed it to the effects of a good MDM. Alex’s wallet was a little heavier so he wasn’t complaining.

That was until he found a black sedan in front of his home with a man in a suit and a quick message from Mrs. Jones.

The ride to Mrs. Jones office was been silent, save for a terse “go in!” as soon as he arrived in front of her office. He heard venom in that voice and was sure she was at least trying to be polite but was probably seething.

Mrs. Jones did not waste any time. “MDMs are an important part of national security Alex.”

“Yes. I’m aware of that.”

“Then what am I hearing about a mass production of VDIs packaged externally.”

Alex shouldn’t have been surprised that she found out about it. He found cold chill brush through him as she pointed it out. “Where did you hear that?”

“We had to investigate the suddenly very impressive results of the students in quizzes over a three week period. And they traced it to one school, Brookland.” Mrs. Jones glared at him accusingly. “You can’t just hack into MDMs!”

Alex brought his hands up defensively. “Why do you suddenly think it’s me?”

“Alex, no boy your age just suddenly stops watching porn for a month."

A week later, all devices were wiped and all USBs ceased. The damage had been done.

At least Alex got to keep the money.

[sankt-brekker-the-demjin]

You Know, For Research Purposes - Tom Holland x Reader College!AU

Summary: Working on their research project, group mates Miles, Ned, Haz, Betty, Tom and Y/N grew closer together over the course of a few months. Also, how does Cheetos and ice cream taste together? ;)))

Word Count: 2,433

A/N: (gif not mine.) lolz hi! Look what boredom did to me.. I made a fanfic... [first time doing this idk what to do so there's that moving on. Hope u like it! Geronimo.]

Tom ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands with force. He banged his head lightly on the table. He looked back at his Lit folder and saw he still had half of it to finish. He closed it and decided he would do it later. Managing the research project and studying for exams were taking a toll on his body and his sanity. He got up and went to the get some water.

It was halfway through midnight. His parents and brothers were asleep on their rooms. Miles, Haz, Y/N, Betty and Ned - his Qualitative Research applied subject classmates were sprawled all over the living room, laptops shoved to their faces, bond papers in hand. It was a typical students' night. The group had gotten together at Tom's house, and planned to stay overnight.

Miles and Y/N have History 1 together, while Betty and Haz had Calculus. But other than that, this was the only classes they all had together. Being in college is no easy feat, proper time management was necessary. 

Ned had assigned each member to a specific part of the paper, and they've been at it since 8 pm. They all have to multitask and manage their time. Tom had almost finished his part of the paper, so he tried to do his Lit homework now.

Tom heard footsteps stomping on the floors. He turned and saw Y/N marching up to him with an annoyed look on her face and was about to speak but he cut her off.

"If you complain about the heat one more time, I'm give you a real reason to sweat," Tom set the cup of water with a smug look on his face.

She halted on her tracks and smacked the paper she brought on his arms. Tom chuckled, but didn't move.

"No, you idiot," Y/N rolled her eyes. "You might wanna fix that paper before you go off scaring people to death with that annoying face of yours."

His mouth twitched in amusement and took the stapled papers from her hands. "So you admit you've been looking at my face."

"You're so full of it," Y/N stepped around him and grabbed another glass, getting water from the tap.

Tom looked at the incorrect charts and tables he had made on the paper. He cursed under his breath. He had been working on it in the wee hours of last night. Spontaneous typing, no pit stops on spelling errors and everything else, just got it done.

"The original file is on my computer upstairs," he groaned. "I'll have to re-do this again."

"You do that," she clicked her tongue. "And I'll just chill here by your fridge for a moment."

Y/N opened the fridge and took the remaining slice of cake laid on a plate.

"That's mine -" Tom protested.

"Not anymore." Y/N ate the cake.

He scowled and moved to close the door of the fridge. Y/N leaned her back on the door. There they were, a few inches away from each other. Tom stood seething; Y/N chewed the cake with an amused expression. She wiped the frosting on her lower lip with her tongue reflexively. Before he realized it his eyes wandered to her lips.

Tom inched his face closer, eyes darting over to her eyes and lips. "If you don't stop biting your lips ..."

"What are you gonna do?"

Tom remained quiet but clenched his jaw.

Y/N chuckled, "You're all talk and no action."

Heavy footsteps echoed on the hallway to the kitchen, gaining both their attention away from each other. Tom whipped his head to the of the voice and shot him a look.

"I told you 7000 times, a chicken is a bird -" Haz bursted into the room with a phone clutched to his ears, pausing when he caught sight of Tom and Y/N. "D'you have a charger I could borrow?" Haz covered his phone with his hands.

"I have one in my backpack." Y/N said.

Haz nodded, talking again to his sister on the phone about chickens. He walked back to the living room, waiting for Y/N to follow him.

Y/N stopped by the table where Tom had been working on, and pointed at his paper. "I can't finish my part if you can't finish yours." Seeing as his paper's original file was on his computer upstairs, she grabbed his laptop without waiting for him to reply. "Imma borrow this ... Thanks."

She went back to the living room, laptop on hand.

"And don't look at my browser history!" She heard Tom call back from the kitchen.

"Wouldn't dare," she countered in a mocking tone.

As the weeks passed, they started collecting data on the field. They went through one institution to another, gathering reports and statistics, and validating it with professionals. Then after that it was all a blur. They submitted the paper to Mrs. Luxley and was graded, only given back to them for minor revisions.

The gang decided to spend that same night they passed the assignment on Tom's house again, just like they did when they were still making the paper. Tom's parents had gotten used to them staying over, and Sam always tried to flirt with Betty when he was around. 

Ned and Haz raced to Tom's bedroom. Ned threw himself on the bed first. "God, I've never felt the bed being this good," he sighed and melted with pleasure. All those sleepless nights they've had finally paid off.

Haz hit him with a pillow. "Move over!"

Y/N laid on the couch, feet perched on top of Tom's lap, getting comfortable. Betty and Miles slept on the carpets of Tom's living room. They just sort of crawled to the floor in delight and just stayed there, too tired to move anywhere else. Haz came back to the living room, holding a bottle of champagne on his hands from the Hollands' cupboards.

He cheered. "Let's celebrate!"

But they celebrated the victory by sleeping out for an entire day spread all over the Hollands' house.

Even though their project was finished, the lot still remained close with each other. They spent times at Miles' favourite diner by the corner of the campus during their collective free time.

And last week, Haz's sister gave birth to a pretty baby girl. Haz invited them over and they all came to join the little house party his sister threw. The group counted on this as the official celebration of their hard work.

It was a Thursday afternoon. Family and friends chatted and caught up with each other in the Osterfield's backyard. Dream by Fleetwood Mac could be heard playing on the living room speakers.

Tom was talking with his dad. Betty and Ned sat at the garden chairs talking to one of Haz's brothers. Those two really were people persons. Miles and Y/N laughed at a hilarious history joke their professor rambled about. Tom tried to pay them no mind, though his glance drifted to them every now and then. His dad eventually noticed the shift in his mood, but decided to ignore it because his mum came to them, carrying Haz's niece. Tom accepted the baby to his arms while his mum and dad went to the kitchen.

Lily, the smol bean's eyes crinkled with joy and giggled. Her chubby little hands reached out to him. Tom stuck his tongue out affectionately her. He turned his head to the low whistle he heard.

"Wow... Daddy," Y/N smirked.

That day was all fun and games, but by the end it they still had school stuff to catch up on. A few weeks later, they decided to cram in the library.

Nothing feels better than suffering with acads together friends.

The group sat in a table by the corner, immersed in their own world. Tom went to the bookshelves to look for an autobiography book his proffesor suggested. Ned was compiling essays on his laptop. Miles was reading a book by Neil Gaiman. Haz and Betty were doing their Calculus homework.

Y/N's chin rested on her hands, staring blankly at her laptop screen. A straight line blinked repeatedly on the ends of the only sentence she typed.

What the fuck |

She just needed a head start on this critique paper. Nothing too heavy, just one paragraph to kick it all into place. That's where it's always hard. The first line. So now she's stuck with cursing. Before Y/N realize it, she's slumped her face down to the wooden table with a light bang. The group lifted their eyes to her, asking if she was alright. She shoved her thumbs up above her head, and they went back to what they what they were doing.

Haz who sat on her right, patted her back. "Same here, sis," he fought back a yawn.

Her eyes felt heavy. Then she groggily looked up to the little 'thunk' dropped on the table.

"Oh, great you're alive," she muttered before setting her face back on the table again.

Tom pulled his chair beside her. "Miss me already? I was barely gone for a few minutes."

"I'm so blessed to be with your presence," she stated in a monotonous voice.

Tom snorted. "Your professor is really gonna give you an A+ with those colorful words. 'What the fuck,' short but sweet."

She looked up and stuck her tongue out. Seeing his face has started to get old ... she tried convincing herself that, though.

They did their business. Ever so often, Y/N and Tom's elbows would brush against each other. Y/N had her earphones on, listening to her shuffled playlist on Spotify. Tom heard muffled tunes, and turned his head closer.

"What are you listening to?" He whispered; his breath fanned the side of her neck that sent chills up her spine.

She didn't look at him and instead continued to write key points to make on her essay. She spoke, her voice low. "This one's called Uncomfortable by Wallows."

He grinned and leaned even closer. "Can I listen?"

From across the table, Ned took 10 bucks from his wallet and shoved it on Betty’s hand. She pumped her fist in a silent triumph.

Y/N shifted her head to look at him, only to find his cute, devilishly handsome face inches away from hers. If she would tilt her head a little... their lips would touch. They locked eyes for a second, before she plucked one earphone and gave it to him.

He cocked his head, liking the song. Minutes passed. The only noises were from turning book pages, soft patter of keys on the laptops, and bits of hushed voices encompassed the area.

An hour later, Y/N felt herself getting hungry and went out to buy food, Betty tagging along. They ate outside since the library was strict on the 'NO eating policy.' Not even other drinks are allowed, only water. The others stayed behind. Then Betty came back to her seat.

"Where's Y/N?"

Betty sat on her chair, "She's outside, still eating."

Tom nodded and felt himself getting hungry, too. He opened his backpack and took a bag of Cheetos he stashed. He stood and said to them he was gonna eat outside. He went out, and spotted her leaning on a pillar, scooping ice cream out of a cup.

"I'm starving," he stood beside her.

"We've been there for ages," she scooped another spoonful of mint chocolate ice cream she got from the shop across the street.

Tom munched on his Cheetos. He turned to look at her happily savoring her ice cream. He moved for Y/N's ice cream cup but she swerved it out of his reach.

"Get your own," she swatted his arms away.

A thought crossed his mind. It reminded him of the last time they did this at his kitchen, over a slice of cake. And how they've been so close...

For the past few months, he's gotten a strange feeling whenever Y/N was around. Like there's an electric buzz in him, his heart would warm up at the sight of her. He couldn't stay away from her, and he wants to know her better, and feel her and just be there right beside her. He couldn't explain it.

Tom grinned at the memory, chucking a piece of Cheetos on his mouth. He stepped forward. "D'you wanna know how Cheetos and mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes like together?" he leaned closer to her face; his breath hot against her skin. His gaze shifted down to her parted lips. "You know, for research purposes..."

"Hmm?" She held her eyes up on his own gleaming brown ones. "Probably good. Anything's good with mint chocolate ice cream."

"Yeah?" His hands reached out to move the strands of her hair away from her face. "Wanna test it out?"

She shrugged.

Tom found his hand on the back of her neck and slammed his lips to hers. Y/N's eyes fluttered shut. He tasted full of that cheesy goodness. And her, a heavenly taste of vanilla and the aroma of mint. Her arm stretched out to keep the ice cream cup away. She parted from his lips to set the cup down onto the pillar. He wrapped his arms to her waist, pulling her flush against him. With her now empty hands, she ran her fingers on his soft brown curls. She tugged at the strands, eliciting a low guttural sound from him muffled by her mouth on his.

He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead on hers, breathless. "We should get back inside to do ... stuff."

"No no. Don't care." She pulled the back of his neck and closed their distance again. He chuckled.

Y/N loved the way their mouths danced to a rhythm, flavors mixing together from the forgotten taste-testing session, now a different kind of session.

A hand still on her waist, the other cupped her cheeks and tilted her chin to give him more access. She wrapped both her arms around his neck, welcoming warm the feelings burning inside her.

They parted, but still inches away from each other. Y/N bit his lower lip. Tom hissed in surprise but she kissed it better.

"So ... what do you think?" He murmured in a low voice.

"Mmm, I like it." Cheetos and ice cream forgotten.

"Yeah?" He grinned at her. "Me too."

Seconds lapsed. Neither of them moved, still stuck in a more romantic version of a staring contest.

"I like you." Tom's heartbeat raced.

She grinned back at him. "I like you, too. Like 3000. I like you that much."

-

Roll the end credits.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Damage Control

Part 7 in Getaway Series

Warnings: nonconsensual sex (oral, vaginal and anal intercourse, violence), angst, general assholery. 

This is dark!(nomad)Steve and explicit. 18+ only. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. I mean it, I’m not gonna tell you again.

Summary: The reader tries to figure Steve out.

Note: This is shorter than usual chapters in this series but we get the plot moving towards the end and we’re getting so close y’all. So I hope you enjoy this installment. I might not get to post much this weekend or whatever because I have a lot of ish coming up so thank you for reading and for your patience.

Anyways, hope you all enjoy and let me know what you think as always. Love ya <3

...

It was almost a week since the barbecue. Steve had yet to return for another night of torment. It was almost concerning. Before, he dropped in almost every other day to relish in your suffering. You wondered what kept him, not that you longed for his return. You even hoped, by some chance, that the world’s greatest fugitive had been caught. 

Well, you’d know if that happened. Everyone would.

You splendoured in the daydream as you sat at your desk. After what he’d done, you only wanted one thing. More than just him gone, you wanted him dead. He had taken more than just Ethan, now he’d turned your own family against you. You hadn’t spoke to Gia or your mother since Sunday. It was too humiliating.

You thought of the headlines; the new reels. Captain America in cuffs, the man’s arrogant blue eyes averted in defeat. You smiled and played with your pen. That would be sweet...if only. 

But why not? He was still the most wanted man in the world. Hunted by more than just his former comrades. Steve Rogers had made many enemies in this world. You sat up and your chair squeaked. You glanced around at the office as if another would see your thoughts. Was it possible to bring down the former Avenger? Not on your own, of course, but maybe there were others who could help.

In all this, you’d forgotten that this man was not supposed to be in your life. He was supposed to be in prison. He belonged there. He’d earned it since his exile. Yet, even if you ridded yourself of his oppression, you’d never get back what you lost. What he’d taken from you. But perhaps you could keep him from taking even more.

You slid your chair closer to your desk and minimized your task center. You opened the browser and peeked around again. You swallowed and typed into the search bar. News stories from months ago popped up. The search for Steve Rogers was still in effect but no sightings reported. You scrolled past the hashtags and image results and clicked on the first link.

Stark Industries. Iron Man himself was leading the manhunt for his former ally. The newly repentant superhero eager to atone for the collateral damage of his heroic acts. You tapped your finger on the mouse and read. If you did this, there was no turning back. If you did, it all became deadly.

Well, what was life when it was like this?

You scribbled the number on a post-it and cleared your history. You closed the window and turned your headset on. The first call was easy; second-nature. But with each minute you became more distracted by the pad. The nerves fluttered in your stomach and made you nauseous. 

What would you say? What could you say? Steve Rogers ruined my life. Oh, and I’ve been fucking him. Well...it’s complicated. You finished your sixth call of the day and excused yourself to the bathroom. You tucked the small paper up your sleeve with your cell in the other. You locked yourself in a stall and shakily dialed the numbers, hesitation as you hovered over the call button.

The line picked up and you blurted out the words clumsily. "I know where to find Steve Rogers."

-

When you got home that night, he was there. You didn't acknowledge him as you set your purse on the table and kicked your shoes off. You didn't even look at him; his presence a speck in the corner of your eye.

He was stretched across your couch, his feet propped up on one arm and his head against the other, arms up and bent behind it. You went about your after work routine. 

You changed out of your stiff pants and blouse and pulled on a pair of sweats and a loose tee. You doubted you'd keep them long. When you reentered the living room, he turned his head to watch you. His hand slipped down to rub his crotch. His jeans bulged with his anticipation.

You cringed and he reached out to you. "Come here."

You stared at him. You slowly walked over to the couch. He pressed his hand against your thigh and snaked it around to grab your ass as he drew you closer. He squeezed and you flinched.

"Still sore?" He asked. You didn't respond. "Don't push me now."

"No." You answered. He didn't need to know that you were still tender every time you sat down. That he had fucked you so hard that you didn't get off the mattress until your alarm for work. He didn't need to know you had cried in the shower too.

He smirked. "Good." 

He tapped your ass and pulled his hand back to his jeans. He lifted his ass as he undid his fly and pushed his pants down. His cock sprang forth and he fell back with a sigh. "Hmmm," He eyed you as he gripped his cock and reached to you with his other hand.

"I'm trying to decide…" He picked at the elastic of your sweats. "Pussy, I think." He poked your vee with two fingers and wiggled his cock. "Right, come one before I change my mind."

You clamped your lips shut as you shed your sweats. You hooked your leg over him and he grabbed your hip as he guided you into place. He aligned himself and pulled you down. It hurt as he entered you. You were dry and tight. He groaned as you strained against him until he finally bottomed out.

"Fuck," He hissed and held you down. He pressed his thumb to your clit and rubbed. "What's the matter, hmm? You miss me?"

You bit down and stared behind him. You couldn't look at him as the tingle began to bloom beneath his touch. Your thighs clenched around him and you let out a deep breath. He moved his hand back to your hip and guided you.

He rocked you slowly as your arousal spread. The noise of your wetness repulsed you but fed your body. You slid up and down his cock faster and faster. He grabbed your ass and kneaded it painfully before drawing his hands back behind his head.

"Keep fucking me," He smirked as you slowed.

You gripped your thighs and kept your hips moving. His eyes were on your pussy. He delighted in the sight of him inside you. You panted and puffed as you rode him, wishing for it to be over even though you knew once was never enough.

"Come on," He grabbed your hips suddenly and brought you down as hard as he could. He lifted you and slammed you back so that he hit his limit each time. It was painful and yet it sent ripples along your spine. "I see it. You're gonna cum. Go on."

You shuddered and wrapped your fingers around his wrists as you tried to slow. He kept you in motion, your flesh slapping against his loudly. Your muffled moans broke loose and you tossed your head back and whined. 

You squeezed his wrists as you orgasmed and your body shook wildly. Even as you descended from your high, he didn't quit. He fucked you harder, used your body without a care. Even as he grunted and came, he didn't stop. Not until your thighs were sticky with cum.

He eased you down and stayed inside you. His hands fell and lingered on your thighs. He reached up to tweak your nipple and chuckled at your flinch.

"When I was away, I watched our little video." He grinned. "Very hot."

You hung your head in shame but said nothing.

"I was just visiting a friend but fuck the time dragged by. Thinking about that ass. About those stubborn little frowns, the way you snarl when you know you're going to cum even when you don't want to."

You tried to push yourself off him but he held you there.

"Uh-uh," He warned as his fingers spread across your thighs. "You can't run away now, girl. You can deny it all you want but we both know you fucking love this." He tilted his hips and poked your cervix painfully. "Ethan knew it too."

"I told you not to talk about him." You growled.

He slapped you. Hard. He gripped your throat and threatened to squeeze tighter. "And you don't make the fucking rules here. Goddamn, you're a stubborn bitch."

"And you're an asshole," You rasped.

He chuckled darkly and let go of you only to smack you again. You batted away his hand and he caught your wrists. 

"You're fucking fiesty today." Your nostrils flared and you tried to pull away. He barely noticed your struggle. "Fuck, you really want me to send our little romp to the boy? Think he'll watch it all the way through? Or you think he'll cry like he did before?"

You stopped and stared at him. Disgust, hatred, despair. You closed your eyes and sighed. He let go as your strength drained from you. All your anger slaked away and you were left weak and pliant. He always won.

"Now be a good girl and clean me up," He patted your thigh and waited. 

You climbed off of him. More cum seeped down your thighs and his cock twitched. He was growing hard again. His length shone with your juices and you shuddered as you turned to him. 

You took his cock and bent over him, trying to hide your face as your lips met his tip. He stiffened as you opened your mouth around him. His fingers tickled your side as he hit the back of your throat. 

He hummed and you forced yourself to take all of him, almost gagging as he slid down your throat. Your entire body tensed and you drew back. His fingers danced along your skin and you pushed yourself back down.

"Don't stop till I cum... don't leave a mess now." 

You almost choked at his words. You hated the control he had over you, the way you so eagerly bent to him. You used your hand in tandem with your mouth, your jaw ached and your throat burned. You gulped and gasped as his fingers sank into your waist and he groaned.

His other hand went to the back of your head and he guided you faster. Your spit dripped down his cock and around your fingers. You struggled to breathe but kept going. Just be done, just be done.

He came with a sudden spasm. He sounded surprised and he pushed your head until he was down your throat entirely. You slapped at his stomach as you fought to swallow around his cock. His cum slid down painfully and he let you go only as tears pricked at your eyes.

You pulled back and stood. You touched your throat and coughed. You wiped your lips as you panted and your head spun dangerously. You were so dizzy you almost stumbled. Steve caught your hand and kept you from backing away.

He sat up and turned his legs over the edge of the couch. He released you and rubbed his thick thighs with a smirk. “Turn around.” 

You turned your back to him. You shook your head, thankful you could hide your grimace. He grabbed your hips and forced you back, nearly taking you off your feet. You bent your legs as they hit his and he brought you down into his lap. You hovered over him as he lined himself up with your ass. You planted your hands on his thighs and pushed but he didn’t relent.

“Just relax, it’ll be easier,” He pulled you down until his head slipped inside. It was just as painful as last time. You whimpered and he pushed further. “Fuck.” He swore as he sank into you. “You’re still fucking tight. Shit.”

You strained around him and whined. It hurt terribly. You still felt the pain of the last time. His hands snaked down your hips and over your thighs. He hooked his fingers beneath your legs and brought them up so that they were bent almost flush to your chest. He leaned back and lifted you easily.

He slid in and out as he thrust below you. Slow at first. Testing you. Relishing your feeble cries. You were helpless in his grasp as he rocked his hips into you. Helpless to the peculiar waves that began to build and build. The pain faded as it had before and you were stunned by the new sensation. The intense and overwhelming cluster of pleasure.

He sped up until he was slamming into you mercilessly. His breath was hot against your scalp and he worked below you. Your hands were on his as he folded you in half, your body bounced against his. 

“Steve…” You gasped. “Please...st-stop…”

“Stop?” He purred in your ear. “Why?”

“Please…” You were in a haze. You’d never felt this much pleasure at once and it scared you. It scared you that this man you hated so much always found a way to dissemble you entirely. “Sto--” Your breath rushed out and you were left speechless as your eyes rolled back. You quivered as you leaned your head forward and your orgasm constricted every inch of you. “Oh, oh, Steve. Steve…” He didn’t waver as your moans turned to sheer ecstasy, “Yesssss. Oh my god!”

You yelped as you were suddenly turned and he pushed you down onto the couch cushion. He stayed inside of you as he crushed you beneath him. Your legs were trapped under you as he pounded into you, a hand on your shoulder and another on your head as he pinned you down. 

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” He snarled. “You fucking slut.”

He rutted into you as his breath hitched and the entire couch shook beneath you. You clawed the cushion as another wave washed over you. You came again, your voice trapped in the couch as he held you down. He slowed but his thrusts were just as hard. Measured and sharp as he came with long growl.

He shuddered and stopped entirely. Your body spasmed as it buzzed in the afterglow. You plummeted back down as he pulled out of you and the couch shifted with his weight as he fell back. Slowly, you pushed your legs out from beneath you and kept your face hidden against the cushion. He slapped your ass and you squeaked.

“Don’t let me go soft now, girl.” He chuckled and your stomach turned. You opened your eyes and sat up shakily. 

It wouldn’t last forever. Just a little longer.

-

He didn’t leave. You sat and stared at the super soldier, his bare ass to the wind as he snored on your couch. You expected him to go as he always did, but he didn’t. When he finished with his desecration, he’d let you go and you’d gone to get your robe and hide the bruises and fingerprints that marked your skin. When you returned, he was asleep.

You waited an hour. He still didn’t wake. You frowned and retreated to the bathroom. You kept the door open and stared at him as you twisted the faucet. He was still there. You showered, sore and achy as the heat sank into your bones, and you emerged to find he remained. 

What was his game?

You tiptoed to your purse on the table and pulled out your phone. You gulped as he turned over. His hand fell to the floor and you were unsurprised to find him erect. In his sleep, he was insatiable. He snored even louder as he rolled onto his back. 

You unlocked your phone and opened your camera. Your heart raced as you watched him. Oddly peaceful despite his depravity. You neared him quietly and angled the lense to his face. You steadied your hand and snapped the picture. You quickly retreated and hid the phone behind you as if he would awake at the silent shutter.

He still did not rouse. You licked your dry lips and scurried to your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the mattress, a shiver ran through you as your towel threatened to fall away. You quickly typed in the address and opened the page. You scrolled past the phone number and clicked on the email. 

Submit your tips to our online support to aid in the hunt for dangerous fugitives.

You sighed and clicked again. Your phone call had been less than successful. It was hard to believe a woman from a small city in a different country had actually found the Captain America. They took your tip but sounded less than convinced and you doubted the phone call they promised in return would come. This would seal it thought. This was your smoking gun.

You attached the file and wrote out your claim. The same thing you’d told the operator. I know where to find Steve Rogers. You added your name and your phone number. You hoped this wasn’t some strawman helpline. Hoped it wasn’t some shell set up by Stark to keep his name pristine. You hit send and sighed.

You cleared your history and deleted the photo. You set your phone aside and stood to pull on a night shirt and hung your towel in the bathroom. His snores were almost comforting. He was asleep; harmless. 

A thought flashed in your mind. You looked at him from the doorway. You could do it. Take care of it yourself. But if he woke, you’d be dead. The whisper faded and you went back to your room. 

You laid down and let out a whimper. Your body hurt. You pulled the blanket over you and buried your head in the pillow. Sleep was unlikely but you just needed to rest. To try to forget.

-

You couldn’t recall falling asleep. It was late though and your head pounded as you came back to the surface. There was a weight across your middle. You were on your back, your shoulders cramped and your neck sore. It was an arm; his arm. Steve laid beside you, snoring as he had the night before on your couch.

You sat up suddenly. Recoiled from his touch. He growled and rolled over. He grumbled as he woke and his blue eyes found you. 

“Fucking Christ,” He swore. “What the fuck?”

“What are you doing?” You hissed. “Go.”

“I’m trying to fucking sleep.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Couch was too small.”

“Mmhmm,” You muttered doubtfully. “Well, I gotta work.”

You stood carefully. You gripped your back as it twinged and you gritted your teeth. You felt like shit, probably looked like it too. He draped his arm over your side of the mattress and you saw the twitch beneath the blankets. You turned away and slid open your closet.

“Call in.” He said. You froze and glanced over your shoulder. “Come on. You’re tired and...you’ve got work to do here.”

You shook your head and pulled out a pair of pants. “I can’t just call in. I need to pay my rent, my bills, buy groceries.”

“I said call in,” He barked as he pushed the blankets down. He cock stood and he stroked it with a sigh. “You’ve got two minutes.”

You hugged and tossed the pants on the floor. You snatched your phone from the night table and stormed out of the room as he continued to play with himself. You stopped dead as you saw the notification that bubbled up on your screen. 

Stark Industries. Re: Fugitive Report. [Urgent].

You quickly swiped away the alert and dialed your work number. As the line connected your mind raced. You’d have to wait until he left. What if he didn’t? Well, he had to go eventually, he always did. 

The other end picked up and you cleared your throat. “Hey, Donna, yeah it’s me, I can’t make it in, I’ve been sick all night. Yeah, yeah, I think it might be contagious. Okay, yeah, thanks.” 

You hung up and locked your phone. You turned and stared at your bedroom door. Could you really take on Steve Rogers?

[secondhand-trash]

Ashido Mina(BNHA)- Spring Flowers

A/N: I know that this is way earlier than the time I’m supposed to post this but I will be in an examination hall at that time so I decided to post it now uwu this is the fic I wrote for @bakuismybitch for the @/bnhaclaimedmysoul spring time event^^ sorry that I haven’t been messaging you as much as I should and that this falls short comparing to my other stuff, I kinda overestimated my ability to balance life qwq

Description: you might not be able to go out to enjoy spring as you want to but Mina is determined to bring spring to you.

Word count: 1735

When quarantine was first announced, Mina had expected that she would be the one badly hit by all this. She was the energetic one in this duo, the one that couldn’t go a day without being around other people and the one who wants to go out. If one of you would go insane because of being trapped inside he confines of your house, she could almost bet on her last existing brain cells that it would be her.

And oh boy was she wrong.

At first, you seemed to be rather indifferent by all this. “It would be fine,” you had said when her hands flailed around while she whined about how long it would be until you could do all the things you liked to do again, “there are plenty of things we can do while being inside!” You were the one who would make her get up early in the morning despite no longer having a schedule because you read that maintaining your regular habits was good for the mind. There were pages of home workout videos and craft tutorials on the search history of you browser, she was still astonished that you managed to find so many different way to sew puppets out of old socks. You had took upon yourself to make something different for lunch every single day and she had to practically beg you to stop baking after having sourdough for a week consecutively because you wanted to test out all sorts of recipes and fresh bread doesn’t last long. So, which she would now scold herself for being so stupidly optimistic but didn’t know any better at that point, she was truly convinced that the only issue you would have is the eventually shortage of space to accommodate all your creations that spawned from your boredom.

She knew that something was wrong the moment she woke up one morning and saw that it was way past the time you would usually wake her up at. It was a gradual change, but the more she picked up on your wilting spirit the more concerned she was. Lunch started repeating, you nearly forgot to feed your starter one week until she asked about the little jar of dough in your fridge, you started breaking ramen into pieces and call it a snack. She could see you physically spiraling down and it was very worrying to witness. 

The breaking point when she realised that she had to step in and pull you back was when she walked out of the room one night and saw you wrapping yourself under a cocoon made out of blankets with a nutella jar in your hand, your eyes an empty void as you stared at the glowing television. No lights on, no anything, just the pale light from the screen shining on your face and making you look so souless. Mina’s eyes travelled back and forth between your still frame and the television. Why were you watching the weather channel at 1?

“...Are you ok?”

No response, you didn’t even move. Gingerly, she climbed onto the couch next to you and gave your shoulder a light poke. “(y/n)?"

Nothing, not even a budge. You jumped when she called for your name again, this time louder and with a bit of a squeak to her voice. Clumsily, clutching the jar that nearly dropped, you coughed in embarrassment. “Oh, mina,” you chuckled almost too stiffly that it sounded more like a huff, “you’re still awake?”

“Yeah...” she narrowed her eyes, “what are you doing?”

“Ah, you see,” you put down the jar of chocolate spread, pilling the blanket away from your body as you gave your nose a light scratch before continue, sounding almost way too matter-of-factly considering how eerie this all was, “I was thinking that since we can’t go out, maybe I’ll imagine what it is like everywhere else to make it remind myself of what spring looks like.”

All the little cogwheels that had been spinning and spinning in her mind finally clicked into place when she realised what all of this was about. Spring, yes, it was spring already. She didn’t even remember that it was already a good quarter into the year with how long she had been staying in but you sure did. You had always thrived during spring, something about the smell of grass in the humid air and the warmth that was seeping back from the winter cold always put you in a constant good mood. So the fact that this bit of joy was no longer available had put you in a slump that you were sinking deeper and deeper into made total sense.

“Guess I should go to bed now,” you said nonchalantly, as if you weren’t staring at a slow motion shot of a random place in the world like a zombie just mere seconds ago. You collected the half-finished jar of nutella and hoisted the blanket in your arms, looking at your very dazed girlfriend like she was the one who was doing something weird, “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Mina said as she scurried up, thinking of what she could possibly do to stop you from finding comfort in the weather channel, “yeah.”

You woke up to the sound of pots banging and cabinet doors slamming shut, a squeal mixing in between at times. Your foggy morning mind was telling you to go back to bed, that you did not have the energy to handle whatever it was that your girlfriend was up to. But just as you were about to flip onto your other side and take up the now spared up vacancy on your luring mattress, a sharp screech followed by a series of profanities made every hair at the back of your neck stood up. You sighed, no longer feeling even an ounce of sleepiness and rolled so you were facing the ceiling.

You needed to go check if she is alive, didn’t you?

Poking your head from the door, you could see Mina carefully pinching a piece of bread with the very tip of her thumb and index finger. She was almost flinging it into the pan before quickly retreating her hand as fast as she could. The sizzling echoed through the kitchen and you watched as she poked the bread with the spatula with caution.

“Mina?” You tilted your head when she snapped her head up, yellow eyes widening when she saw your confused face, “What are you doing?”

She didn’t say anything so you looked past her shoulders to look at what’s in the frying pan. If anything, your confusion had only grown. The bread was soggy, the edges browning and sticking to the bottom of the pan. There were clear stains of what was put in there before left around the bottom, some already starting to burn into black char.

“Mina what are you making?” You asked and your girlfriend scratched the back of her neck rather sheepishly.

“This was supposed to be a surprise,” she said, “I was gonna make you breakfast.”

“Aw that’s so sweet!” You cooed and then you finally connected the dots of what she was trying to do deconstructing the kitchen so early in the morning, “Is this... French toast?”

“Yeah!” She chirped, literally scratching at the pan to flip the frying toast and it made your heart ache at how it was likely that you were to say goodbye to that pan after this, “Is it not obvious?”

You blinked, not having the heart to tell her that you would have no clue if you simply stare at the pile of burned bread that was placed on a plate. “Did you add any butter to the pan?” You asked, referring to the burn that stuck to the pan.

“...you need to do that?”

You chuckled, “Do you need help?”

“What? No!” She flailed her hands in the air as she tried to push you out of the kitchen, “Just chill around and wait for the food! This is about you, I don’t want you to even lift a finger!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed, shooing you out of the kitchen, “It’ll be done in a few.”

“Ok,” you said rather skeptically, “just... call for me if you need anything.”

It didn’t take long for you to hear another groan from the kitchen and for Mina to weakly beckon you for help. You laughed, knowing exactly that this was bound to happen.

With a good square of butter in the pan and some relentless scraping later, you had the plates of toast on the table with a generous amount of syrup on top. You eyed Mina curiously when she didn’t sit down, running around the house and grabbing the computer in her hand.

“Mina what are you doing now?” You said, almost not sure if you find this amusing or confusing.

“You see,” she said as she turned on the computer, “I know that you like spring and you’re sad that we don’t get to experience the season, so I decided to do something fun and have a picnic indoors!”

You snorted when she pulled up a picture of the lily fields at a nearby park and placed it right by the table. A gif of butterflies on her phone which she carefully steadied with a mug. “You know how those youtubers like to use have a fake fireplace in their backdrop?” She said, seemingly pleased with her little set up, “I figured we can do the exact same thing but with flowers.”

This whole thing was a bit funny, if you were being honest but warmth bubbled up inside of you at the thought of Mina going out of her way just to make things a little bit more enjoyable for you. You laughed when she lined up your sock muppets and arranged them in a circle, going as far as to putting an empty cup in front of them.

“What is a picnic without friends?” She winked as she poured out a glass of orange juice for you. Raising her glass, you grinned at how hard she was trying to put on her serious face. 

“Cheers to spring?”

You smiled. The glowing screen might not even come close to the real thing, but you still felt the fresh giddiness that the spring flowers would always bring you.

“Cheers to spring.”

[stevemoffett]

A Hard Nap, The Fall of Math, The Star Wars Holiday Special, Disco Point, and There You Are

In January last year, I noticed a sign in myself of the same cancer my dad had back in 2008. Unlike the usual symptoms that set off my paranoia, it wasn’t some vague feeling, it wasn’t an intermittent pain, and it wasn’t a general ill feeling—it was clear and unambiguous, out of the ordinary and one of those symptoms that, if you google it, is under the list of “call your doctor if you experience any of the following.”

It was also nonspecific: this symptom could mean cancer, but it could also mean about five other cancer-unrelated conditions. I called for an appointment that morning with my general practitioner, who said that the earliest available date was about two weeks later.

I knew that the only way my fear would be effectively relieved was with the one sure-fire diagnostic tool for this type of cancer, one that’s recommended for everyone, but not until about age 50: a colonoscopy.

For the two weeks before my GP appointment, I mentally prepared for death. For the record, I do this every time I interpret my body’s signals as cancerous, but the mental preparation usually stops after a few days when the symptom either goes away or when a clear alternative cause presents itself. This time, I didn’t get that kind of relief and, in fact, the symptom repeated more than once between setting the appointment and going to it. Each time, it was like an intrusive thought come to life: you’re going to die. You’re going to go through surgery and chemotherapy like Dad and you’re either going to die early, or find out like he did that the cure is worse than the disease, or maybe you’ll hang on just long enough to experience both.

Winter mornings in Texas can sometimes be surprisingly cold. While stepping out the door on a midsummer morning is like walking into someone’s hot exhale, as you might expect, a 33-degree morning is more like a slap in the face. When I packed everything I figured I’d need to move here a couple of years ago, I threw away my winter coat, thinking, I won’t be needing this anymore. (The coat was also about ten years old at that point.)

My first winter in Texas, I layered a bunch of shirts underneath a light jacket and wore a scarf on freezing days. The second winter, I decided that I’d had enough of being cold. After all, I rationalized, here in Texas it was monetarily possible to never have to feel cold again if you really don’t want to. So I bought the warmest coat I could find, an unstylish, bulky parka made by Caterpillar, the company that makes construction vehicles. No more layering, no more checking the weather before leaving in the morning. I could just put this coat on and not worry about it.

But now, under the shadow of a cancer scare these January mornings, wearing the big coat made me feel less like I was smarter than the weather and more like I was trying to smuggle a terminal disease wherever I went. Under my coat, tie, button-down shirt, undershirt, skin, fat, and muscle, something was growing silently in the dark. While maybe it had slipped up and showed some of its handiwork to me, it was already too late to do much about it now.

Since it has affected my life several times before, and since it is such an exquisite mixture of dread and uncertainty, cancer is one of my mind’s biggest bogeymen. I feel personally insulted by the idea of it. I treat you so well, body—why would you betray me? Was I not nice enough? Is this poetic justice for my vanity? Is it, as the old anecdotal saying goes, due to my worrying?

Not only did I feel like I was smuggling cancer under the big coat, I was also warming it up by drinking my coffee. I was feeding it directly when I ate something too sugary. And I was probably even giving it an evil sense of satisfaction when I got stressed out about it. If I was able to keep my mind off it by working in the lab, mixing and pipetting, using kits, and doing arithmetic in my head, it would come crashing back into focus when I was pulling my gloves off to wash my hands.

I pulled up incognito mode on my phone’s browser during my breaks, googling “5-year survival rate colon cancer age 35.” “Cancer staging colon prognosis.” “Colon cancer smoking.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack in college.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack 18 years ago.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack after seeing Luke Wilson smoking in The Royal Tenenbaums.”

At home, I suddenly started noticing the expiration dates on my nonperishables. What will last longer, I thought, the freshness of this baking soda, or me.

I knew I wasn’t going to be comforted by the first GP visit. After all, they’re usually the first stop to a specialist, unless you have a PPO insurance plan, which I don’t. The doctor listened to my symptoms and family history. “Well,” he said, “Given your history, it’s a good idea to refer you to a GI. But, you seem like you lead a healthy lifestyle otherwise, with none of the other risk factors, so we’ll see what he says.”

I made the GI appointment and had to wait two more weeks for it, with the same circular worrying and googling. At the GI appointment, I sat in the waiting room, the youngest patient there by a few decades, and I felt a little bit ridiculous. On the other hand, I’d also just read a harrowing story about a woman in her late 20s who had colon cancer and died from it. That was a real person, I thought, who at the first phase of it probably went through all the same feelings I was now, the I’m-being-ridiculous and is-this-worth-the-time-and-vacation-days, all the way up until her diagnosis. Not just because I was scared, I felt a pang of sympathy. A disease of the old picking a victim from the young is terrible luck.

And I figured, if it could be her, it could be anyone. But most of all, it could be me.

That last bit, I think, is one of—one of—my greatest flaws, the vanity of always thinking that the worst things will happen to you, in spite of the odds. It’s a way of making yourself feel special, but it has no upside. You don’t feel confidence with this type of special-feeling. In fact, you’re more likely to be timid and self-centered, and you just come across as weird to the outside observer. They might think, There’s only a few steps between that guy and Howard Hughes. Somewhere, deep in your mind, they think: Wires are crossed.

Shortly before I went in, another patient arrived, a man around my age or maybe younger who, despite a dozen or so free seats, declined to sit down. My name was called, and I passed a sign on the way to the back that said, “If you have recently traveled to China and have a fever you must let our staff know.”

This doctor’s exam rooms had floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you’d see in a movie, instead of the usual dull and bulby, off-white plastic exam room interior. A Spanish medical student came in to give a pre-appointment questionnaire and to take my vitals. He asked, in much better English than I could have mustered in Spanish, “So. There is some blood in they crep?”

When he came in, the GI repeated what my GP had said, and since he was also the person who would be performing a colonoscopy, he said I should set an appointment for one with him. I managed to get a date three weeks later.

From other people’s stories, I knew two things about colonoscopies: they are no fun, especially the night before, but the general anesthesia on the day of the procedure, on the other hand, is fun. I was nervous enough on the day before that I actually asked someone at the pharmacy for help finding the items I was looking for: Polyethylene Glycol (or PEG, which we use all the time for lab experiments, and which I was going to have to drink 2 liters of), Gatorade, and laxative pills. I had to take about 800% of their recommended dosages, each.

The bodily effect of those chemicals was dramatic, and I will spare the details. The worst parts of it, I found, were the generally exhausting physical toll it took, and the feeling by the end that I had some kind of dangerous sodium imbalance: I was sweating between my fingers, for example, but the rest of me felt as dry as paper. At 10PM, I was too tired to do anything, but too nervous to sleep for more than a few hours.

One smaller worry that I felt the next morning, as I took a selfie in my hospital gown to send to a friend back home, making a backward peace sign to show off the IV sticking into my hand and also how brave I was being, was that I might just die right there on the table from the general anesthesia. Part of my grad school research was on Propofol, the most-used general anesthesia nowadays (which, incidentally, also killed Michael Jackson). This was the same drug I was to be given.

I’d never been fully put under anesthesia before. It was astronomically improbable that I’d have an adverse reaction to it and die (and by the way, Michael Jackson abused it, using it far outside of medical praxis—if you’re afraid to get a colonoscopy yourself, don’t be, it could save your life), but keep in mind what I said about my vanity.

“Hey, I’m really scared,” I told the anesthesiologist. He said something, muffled by his mask, that sounded like, “It’ll be all right.” Then he busied himself with a syringe, connecting it to my IV. He depressed it about a third of the way. “This should help you,” he said.

The last thing I said was, “Whoa…I feel it.”

After what felt like a hard, late-afternoon nap, I said, “Hello?”

My head was wrapped with something. When I touched my face, I could feel that there were cotton pads underneath the wrapping, holding my eyes shut. I guess that at some point either mid-procedure or after, my eyes had opened, unseeing, and they’d done this to keep them from drying out. “Hang on, sir,” I heard a nurse say, and my head was unwrapped.

“It’s over?” I asked.

“You’re all done,” he said.

“Gimme a minute, please,” I said, my South Jersey accent peeking out. “I feel a little weird.”

Eventually, I sat up. Two of the nurses helped me stand, and I pumped my arms like I was lifting light, invisible dumbbells. As I put my glasses on and looked around, I thought that they all seemed like they were fighting to not smirk. What did I say while I was blacked out? I wondered, with a twinge of panic, before deciding that it would be worthless to speculate. It could have been anything. There are literally millions of possibilities. Again—it would be worthless to speculate, I told myself, firmly.

An Uber driver, I had been told by hospital staff during a consultation, was not a legally strong enough party to take responsibility for me at discharge. Someone I knew would have to escort me to my apartment. Also, they said, they really would do that thing where you’re back in your own clothes, and they push you to the exit in a wheelchair when you’re all finished. After my procedure, my co-worker stood waiting in the discharge zone with his car as an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital exit. I stood up from the wheelchair and got into the passenger seat of his car, for some reason more aware than usual of the heat coming from the vent and the smell of the car’s leather upholstery. “I still feel weird from the anesthesia,” I said to my friend.

“I’ll bet you do,” he replied.

It was about lunch time, and I had taken the rest of the day off from work. When I got home, I ordered a pizza and lay on my bed. I ate the pizza and watched Star Wars. I had not felt any euphoria when I woke up, I thought hollowly. And my first solid meal in almost forty hours tasted unremarkable. I was still groggy, but not in a pleasant way. I felt cheated.

The hospital staff had put a manilla envelope into my hands as I left. It contained sheets of images the doctor had taken during the procedure. Once lucid, I leafed through them and compared the thumbnail-sized images on printer paper with googled images of cancerous tumors viewed through a colonoscope, trying to diagnose myself.

A couple of the images on the papers had shapes that looked weird, with what seemed like variations in the texture or color of my colon wall that to me, at least, appeared one hundred percent fatal. It was another two weeks before I had a follow-up appointment to go over them with the surgeon.

“See this?” The GI said, two weeks later, pointing to one of the images that had seemed completely normal to me, unlike other ones I had thought were much more scary and unusual-looking. “That’s a low-risk polyp. Of course, now it’s a no-risk polyp, ‘cause it’s gone.”

This medical episode ended only three or so weeks before the whole world changed, but I was all the more grateful for that. If I’d waited to be checked out, then I would have been weighing whether it was worth getting tested against the possibility of being infected with COVID.

The doctor recommended that I get a colonoscopy every five years from now on, but added, “If you want, you can go earlier than that.” I told him thanks, but once every five years sounded fine.

*

I wrote about the first seven weeks of the pandemic in my last entry. After that, May and June passed in the same way as March and April had. I went back to work in mid-June for two weeks before the first summer COVID spike closed things back up. I continued to play Quake, and I continued to fret about my family.

I had a job interview for a position in northern Maryland in April. I didn’t get it, but I had a good idea why I’d been turned down: the position wanted people with proven math skills. Which makes sense—for the last few years I’d said repeatedly that I wanted to have a job that involves less lab work and more data analysis. This was one of those jobs.

My graduate program gave me a degree in “Computational and Integrative Biology.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Integrative Biology,” or “Computational Biology,” but I always feel sort of dishonest when I tell people my degree. (Apparently this feeling is common among grad students). My own reason for feeling dishonest was because, in any other college, the work I was doing would probably just fall under normal old “Biology.” While it was true I had done course work that reflected “Computational and Integrative” Biology, they were courses taught in a remedial way.

When I say remedial, I mean that they were courses designed to get biologists up to speed on how to do higher-level data analyses with their experiments. For instance, in my “Biomath” course, we went over ordinary differential equations and graph theory. Those are both intermediate-level math types, ones you’d encounter in the later part of an undergraduate math degree program. Throughout that course, there was a lot of handwaving whenever I asked questions.

“Eh…,” the professor might have responded to something I had asked, “that requires a lot of background explanation we don’t need right now to handle the problem here. Just take it as a given for what we’re working on.”

In grad school, it’s common to be well-versed in only your narrow little research tunnel that leads outward to the edge of “known” biology. But a few times each month, several of us students would head to the bar down at the city’s waterfront after work to talk about our research. It usually began with a complaint—“This is the third time this kit wouldn’t work this week and it takes twelve fucking hours to run it each time,”—but to give us a more context for their problem, whoever was griping would have to go back and start at the beginning, recounting all the steps leading to their experiment’s failure.

This was a useful exercise, since a pair of new eyes on your work meant that at least you could get feedback on how to better relate the subject matter when you talked to a non-science audience, and at most, you might get a real solution for the problem you were bumping up against.

But I would sometimes get privately upset, as I sipped my beer and glanced out the window at the river, when a math-centered Computational and Integrative Biology student would start talking about their research. As someone who feels an unpleasant, TV static-like anxiety in my chest the moment I see letters in italics, or one of those big, orphan sorority sigmas following an equal sign during a math seminar, this upset feeling was directed at myself. Because, as a result of my insecurity, I would start listening to the beginning of the math student’s explanation of their research, trip over the first unfamiliar term I heard, lose the thread of what they were talking about, give up, and zone out. The math students, overall, just seemed light years ahead of me.

A critical vocabulary word that I began to mentally tie to the situation—slumming, these math types were slumming when talking to us biologists—was the grain of sand to my insecurity’s oyster. By the time I got my diploma a few years later, it had developed into a little pearl; now I had the feeling that I was, relative to those who’d come from a math background, a fake computational biologist.

Unhelpfully, the people in charge of hiring for the jobs I want nowadays seemed to agree. All the job listings I was interested in applying for made me feel the same panic that advanced math symbols on powerpoint slides did. The subjects they wanted their applicants to have experience in—machine learning, deep learning, regression analyses—were all frightening, impregnable terms, reminding me either of some kind of giant machine made up of endless tubes and valves, all spitting dangerously hot steam, or of a highly secure, underground bomb shelter that requires fingerprints or eyeball scans to get into. I knew from my previous learning experiences that if I didn’t understand the fundamentals and learned only the higher-level, applied stuff, it was just going to make me feel unworthy, and I’d forget it at once.

But summer had come—it was midsummer now, in fact. The pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so what was I going to do if I didn’t start learning something? I ended up registering for three classes at a community college back home, which offered their fall semester online. For two thousand dollars, including textbooks, I got a spot in Introductory Statistics, Linear Algebra, and Calculus III.

Calculus III was a risk. I’d taken Calc I and II in undergrad, now about seventeen years ago, and I had earned Bs back then. I didn’t remember much of the material from either class. I’d tried watching Khan Academy videos at various points in the meantime, but could never stick with it. I’d watch several videos in a row, feel like I understood things, try a practice problem, get it wrong, and forget about it after a day or two. But now, I had put actual money into it and, in a few months, a grade would be spit back out, so this time I had real skin in the game.

But I had misgivings that I was too old to learn new stuff, or that I would be one of those students I remember when I was in undergrad, the older students who would grind class to a halt with their endless questions. Or maybe I would get worse grades than I had in undergrad, despite taking things more seriously now.

Two of the classes were taught asynchronously, meaning each lecture was a video that you could pause or replay at your leisure, and all tests were take-home, but the other class, Statistics, was done over Zoom. You might think a Zoom class could be a better way to learn—clarifying questions can be asked immediately, for instance—but for me, at least, it was not. Instead of focusing on the material being taught, the whole time I’d be thinking, “They can see me. Everyone here can see me. I can see me, and I have a dumbass expression on my face. Can they tell that I have a bedsheet instead of a curtain over my window blinds?”

My mind wandered during class just as much as it had while sitting in a lecture hall when I was eighteen, but now, these classes were held later at night, after I’d been working all day and had eaten dinner. As a result of this, and the fact that I find Statistics to be boring when it’s taught as a series of don’t-worry-about-how-we-derived-it formulas to plug numbers into, I did the worst in Statistics.

But Calc and Linear Algebra were more interesting. When I watched the class videos, I got familiar with the disembodied voices of the teachers, who each seemed to be trying to do an impression of Khan Academy videos. My Calc teacher, with his strong Vietnamese accent, would punctuate every few lines of derivation or proof with, “So what does that mean then?” Every time—new topic, new chapter, new problem, exactly the same tone of voice: “So what does that mean then?”

Eventually, in my head, his cadence merged with the tones of Woody Woodpecker’s laugh, and I began saying it to myself as I did chores around my apartment. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d half-sing at my garbage can liner as I cinched it shut. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to a wrinkled button-down shirt, enjoying the pepper shaker-y smell of my iron when it’s turned up to its hottest setting. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to the window blinds, when considering whether I should replace the bedsheet I’d hung there with an actual curtain, before answering myself that No, this apartment is too temporary for something as tony as curtains.

Sometimes I’d say it three times in a row, like Woody Woodpecker himself:

“So what does that mean, then?”

“So what does that mean, then?”

“So what does that mean, then?”

I kept a Google Sheet of how much time I spent doing work for each class, and found that I averaged about 20 hours a week total. That broke down to approximately an hour and a half each weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday I would go for about six or seven hours each. I’d get up at 7:30 those weekend mornings and brew a pot of coffee, then sit taking notes and working through every part of each assigned homework, not moving on from a problem until I understood everything about it.

I think that those Saturday and Sunday mornings may have been the happiest I felt during the year 2020. In the middle of a difficult Calc problem, not having the answer yet but certain I was on the right track, while also buzzing on caffeine, as a beam of early horizontal sunlight hit my kitchen backsplash and filled the apartment with more brightness than all my lightbulbs put together, I for once did not feel worried. I was unworried about my parents, my sisters, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and all the pets. Unworried about COVID, or cancer, or the work stresses of the week. Unworried about getting older, about being alone still, or about enjoying being alone too much; unworried about letting all of this time go by and still feeling like real life hasn’t started; unworried about my dad having another stroke, or about my mom just suddenly up and dying out of nowhere, or cancer, or whether my hairline is changing, or the fact that my heart has been skipping a beat sometimes lately, or whether my friends who I speak to on the phone were getting sick of me, or whether I am too graphic when I describe symptoms I am afraid mean I might have cancer, or whether my apartment neighbors will keep me up with their noise again tonight, or whether the tooth sensitivity I feel drinking cold water lately means I need to risk a dentist visit during a pandemic, or whether I will be able to have healthier boundaries with my parents whenever I return to the northeast, or whether I’ll ever feel truly satisfied and content, or whether I’ll ever feel actual joy some day, or whether my hang-ups, and anxieties, and fears, and regrets about my personal and professional choices will end up all ganging up on me at once, or, of course, whether at any given moment, I might have cancer.

My attitude going into the classes was that I would disregard whatever grades I got and simply aim for as much comprehension as possible. But about halfway through the semester, I lost my nerve and began to think of my grades as a direct indicator of my level of understanding. So I started fretting about my grades, and on days of Calc III exams during the second half of the semester, I took vacation time so I could spend the whole day working on them.

It got a little crazy toward the end, but finally, it was over, and I managed to get all As. That made me happy, even if I knew that that kind of satisfaction is a bit immature. But I felt like I was making up for some of the sins I had committed as a college student, my laziness and my previous lack of appreciation for education finally, in a small way, absolved.

*

I spent Christmas here in Texas. When I think back on Christmases from previous years I find that I can remember the past two years very well because I flew home and packed a lot of family and friend time into a few short days. Before 2018, though, I can’t remember any specific Christmas well enough to recount anything that happened on the day.

But when I was a little kid, I remembered each Christmas perfectly, mainly due to the gifts I got and the room where we put the Christmas tree—where “Christmas happened”: in 1990, it was in the back room and we got a magic set, and also my brother pretended to faint when he saw he’d gotten Reebok Pumps. In 1991, it was in the family room, and my brother and I got the Nintendo game “Base Wars.” In 1992, it was in the living room and we got a Sega Genesis along with the game “Sonic 2.” In 1993, it was in the family room again, and I got a Hot Wheels Key Force car, and my brother got the Genesis game “Hard Ball 3 With Al Michaels.”

In 1994, my grandfather died a few weeks before Christmas, and we got a Sega CD. That was the year I became aware that the Christmas spirit was vulnerable to external forces, one’s first experience with death being the most offensive of those forces, and after a few months I also became aware that a hot new gaming console like the Sega CD could “fail,” slipping into obscurity with a small and unremarkable library of games. As a result, the indestructible-seeming sheen of Christmas fell away, leaving behind a better idea of what Christmas really is: a bare, thin-glassed lightbulb plugged into the middle of the year’s darkest period. After 1994, I can’t really remember what happened each Christmas.

This past Christmas will always be memorable, though, because I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day pretty much doing one of three things: playing Quake (yes, that hobby still refuses to die), watching something Star Wars-related, or video chatting with my family. At any time when I wasn’t speaking to family, I had Christmas music playing in the background, including while Star Wars was on. I turned the heat up in my apartment to 75 degrees and enjoyed how money-wastingly hot it was getting, until my nose started to bleed from the dry air.

I want to take this opportunity to say that I much prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is generally all anticipation and guest arrivals, buoying the mood long into the falling night. From the viewpoint of Christmas Eve, any miracle might happen the following morning. But then after a late, over-buttered breakfast on Christmas Day, there’s nothing much else to do except think about cleaning up and regret how much you’ve eaten. The “anything could happen” feeling is now all gone, collapsed from a dazzling infinity’s worth of possibilities down to one homely outcome.

I hadn’t put up any decorations for my apartment, unless the Christmas music can be considered a decoration. This ended up being a good thing, though, since I didn’t have to take anything down once the holiday was over.

*

I started taking walks pretty early in the pandemic, my first walk happening after about one week of lockdown. That day there was a surprisingly large amount of people also walking. We all stayed far away from one another, since none of us were wearing masks—the width of even a modest suburban Texas street is still impressively wide, so there was no safety issue. I always took the initiative to be the one who crossed the street if I saw someone, exaggeratedly swinging my arms as I crossed so the person walking toward me could see my intentions even from far away. I did this because I figured it would be harder for the dog-walkers to wrangle their dog across the street and get out of my way, and the people without dogs were either old or were walking in a group.

In the beginning I was walking maybe twice a week, which then became three times, which became five. It held at five times a week during the fall semester because I’d have to be on Zoom from 6:30-8:30 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays, which took up the whole span of time in which I would usually walk. Nowadays, no longer taking classes, I walk every night.

For a while, I tried to get home before sunset, because I’m afraid of being hit by a car in the dark. After the clocks shifted back, I had to choose between walking earlier, during rush hour when everyone was arriving back at their houses from work, or waiting to walk until after the sun has set. I ended up buying one of those reflective construction worker’s vests for $8 on Amazon and waiting for nighttime. I feel like a dork when I wear the vest, but most of the people walking at night who I see are also wearing reflective clothes. Theirs are more chic than my vest, though, looking like they were ordered through an expensive fitness-wear catalogue. I’d buy the same type, but to me, walking is a meditative, solitary act, and I don’t want to feel that I’m catering to externalities like looking stylish while I’m trying to feel solitary. It also acts as a tacit acknowledgement that I’m not a criminal: “I’m making myself as visible as possible! I’m not casing your houses to break into them later on!”

Even though the focus of COVID is on the transmission of disease through shared, respired air, I still pay a lot of attention to contaminated surfaces. When I go out anywhere, I have a routine: first, I put on my going-out clothes (newly clean), then my shoes, which are possibly dirty, since I have to re-tie them sometimes with unwashed hands, so before I touch anything else after tying my shoes, I wash my hands. Then, I put on a mask, turn off all the lights except the one at the front door, pick up my keys with my right hand, slip my phone into my left pocket, and walk to the door. I put my keys in my right pocket (my wallet is already there), open the door with my right hand, turn out the light, step out the door, and take the keys out of my pocket to lock the door with, again, only my right hand.

I use my right hand pretty much everywhere outside—to push or pull open doors, to open my car to retrieve something from it, to open my mailbox and carry my mail in—because I know that if I use my left hand, my phone-operating hand, I’m going to have to put the phone into a little UV light phone-sterilizing box that I bought when I get home. And for some reason, I feel like it’s a small moral failure to have to use that UV box, so I try to keep my left hand from touching anything except for the phone. But I know that if I drive anywhere, all bets are off—both my hands touch the steering wheel, my left hand touches the car door handle while getting out, and I push open doors with both hands whenever I get somewhere. I’m sure that my left hand ends up touching something that may have SARS-CoV-2 on it as I carry out an errand, and therefore into the UV box my phone must go when I get home. But, when I go out to walk, there’s a good chance that I won’t need to touch anything with my left hand between leaving the apartment and coming back. If that’s the case, I can use my phone freely while walking if I want to, but when I get home, I can still just take it from my pocket and place it on my desk, no ultraviolet sterilizing waves needed. But of course then I still have to wash my right hand.

The walk is the same route every night now. It’s a vaguely circular, level 2.7 miles, starting northbound, bearing west, south, then east. It takes about forty minutes for me to walk the whole thing, plus or minus four minutes, depending on how warmed up I get while walking. My heart rate generally goes up to about 115 beats per minute for most of the walk, according to my watch, then spikes to 135 as I climb the stairs to my fourth floor apartment at the end.

Insulated by the sound of music or an audiobook on my headphones, and with my hands stuck in my pockets, actually holding onto the cloth pocket linings themselves, I feel less like a person on a walk and more like someone steering a large, inertia-filled thing—a sailboat that I have to tack against an unfavorable wind, or a bobsled whose blades I have to turn out of deep ruts on the ice. But despite feeling bodily awkward, I find suburbia to be a soothing place to move through. I really don’t understand how some people think of the suburbs as some kind of dystopia, to be honest. My neighborhood has wide streets, as I mentioned, and the houses are almost all ranch-style. The trees, like the houses, are shorter than they are in the northeast. Some of the trees look more like very tall shrubbery. As for the ground, the blades of grass are wider, and the soil is just a bit sandier. Sometimes, I see two-inch-long cockroaches, what people back home would call “water bugs,” creeping across the sidewalks.

I can’t remember the names of the streets on the walk, except for Forrest Street, which I noticed once when I saw the street sign while I was running and it made me think of “Run, Forrest, run!” and Kenilworth Street, which has the same name as a street back at home. Other than those, I only know points along the route by the informal names I’ve assigned to them. There’s a road where it changes direction from heading north to heading east, and it looks over a little park. The lack of houses there gives an unobstructed view of the western horizon. For that reason, I call that part of the route “Sunset Bend.” At another point on the route there is a house where, in the beginning of lockdown last spring, a family was always outside, the parents sitting motionless in Adirondack chairs while their kids all went nuts on the front lawn, playing with the sprinkler, or doing hopscotch, or sitting at one of those tiny plastic picnic tables, playing some board game. That part of the walk I called “Kidville.”

There were other houses that were always so inactive, so abandoned-seeming—the blinds were always closed and there wasn’t a car in the driveway—that I started to wonder if anyone lived there at all, and whether maybe the neighborhood association was mowing its lawn to stave off the shabbiness. But after the switch from walking in daylight to nighttime, I saw that some of those houses, while still shut up and silent, had lights on inside in rooms not facing the street. Looking at those houses is like staring into the vents of a space heater in a dark room.

Eventually I started thinking about how the walk is exactly 2.7 miles. Then, idly, I realized that if you multiply 2.7 by 30, you get 81. That number of years, eighty-one, seems like a decent amount of years to hope to live—it’s not greedy, you’re not asking for a hundred years, for example—but also, maybe when I get closer to 81, there will be better medical treatments and 81 will seem younger. Assuming that doesn’t happen, though, I think of 81 years as more or less “a complete life.” It is very sad, but not exactly a tragedy, to die at 81.

With this in mind, I started translating the distance along my walk to human ages. For instance, 1.0 miles into the walk, times 30, would equal 30 years. And 1.2 miles times 30 would equal 36 years, which is how old I am now. Since by the time I’d discovered this “conversion formula,” the walk was already so familiar to me that I had a very good perspective on how far into the walk any given point felt—the precise moment when I sense that I’m transitioning from the middle to the end phase of the walk, for example. So when I came up with the multiply-by-30 conversion formula, I was interested to see exactly what part of the walk 1.2 miles, or 36 years old, corresponded to.

The answer is that it was later in the walk than I’d hoped. The moment I reach 1.2 miles is long past the most scenic parts of the route; it’s just after a left turn that puts me on a long straightaway of modest houses leading to an arterial road, known to me as the hook-around part of the circuit where in past walks, I had thought, “Now I’m on my way back home.”

Over the next few evenings, I noted other points, ones that had come before the 1.2 mile marker, and compared them to parts of my already-lived life: I graduated high school at 0.6 miles into the walk, which was the beginning of Sunset Bend. I got my master’s degree in a spot where, at nighttime, a streetlight shines through the leaves on a tree, giving the street a dance hall, disco-ball kind of lighting (hence, “Disco Point”). That friendly, lighted patch of street, with a jaunty-looking house standing next to it, makes it my favorite part of the walk. As for points I have not yet reached: still ahead of my current age distance, at around 1.5 miles, is Kidville, but I haven’t seen anyone in the front yard there in months now.

Toward the end, almost back home, there’s a large school property. I’ve never seen anyone on the grounds, except for the occasional person who sneaks onto the running track to jog it. Along one of the fences that borders the school, in springtime last year, someone started zip-tying laminated sheets of paper with jokes written on them to the chain links. The jokes are all clean, and pretty lame—these days it seems like almost all kid-friendly jokes are just puns, like “How did the farmer find his wife? He tractor down!”

One time, I saw a kid about ten years old on his bike, riding along the sidewalk and stopping to read each joke. The fence ends at a small park for toddlers. There’s a big plastic sign at the entrance of the park, faded but still legible, that has a boy’s name displayed on it. Below his name is written a tragically short span of years, and below that, a message: “This park is dedicated to the memory of (the boy’s name), and to all of the little tykes of (the neighborhood).” Whoever it was putting up jokes on the schoolyard fence stopped replacing them with new ones some time during the fall, and I walk too late to ever see anyone playing at the playground. Well, that’s not quite true: very rarely, around 9 PM on warm nights, I might see what appears to be a young mother scrutinizing her phone as her kid swings in the dark.

*

I haven’t been to the gym to lift any weights since lockdown started. I’ve been able to do cardio in my apartment, but the result of all the cardio and all the walking is that I’ve lost a decent amount of lifting strength, as well as about ten pounds. This is consistent with how life in general has evolved: I have also reduced the list of spaces I travel to, leaving my apartment only to go to work, to pick up groceries, and to walk through my neighborhood. My body, and the edges of my life, have gone through a great miniaturization, but my perspective has adapted with it—each feature within this smaller space seems more detailed, and the day’s moments are of a finer grain. Inside my apartment, I have realized how much the lighting affects the atmosphere, and as a result the mood, so I can change which lights are on when to reflect the mood of each time of day. When I walk at night, sometimes I have the same feeling I did the week before I moved here from New Jersey, a sort of farewell feeling. That feeling started in the fall as a dessert-like flipside to my happy mornings spent doing math homework. Those evenings, I also felt like I was saying goodbye, to a more insecure, more ignorant version of myself, I guess. Nowadays, I get the feeling that I’m saying goodbye to the person who had, until now, always feared that he was missing out on things.

There will be a time, closer to now than now is to the beginning of the pandemic, when I will leave Texas. I will be happy and relieved to return home, whenever that is. But at the same time, there’s a new feeling that is starting to take root, and it’s a weird one: for all the hardship that the pandemic has presented to me, the anxiety for my family and the limitations it’s put on my mobility, social life, and career, for more than ten months now, its most memorable effect, unless I’m affected by the illness itself, will be that it made me love my neighborhood. I have walked more than 500 miles of it over the months, and scores of miles remain to be walked before I move away. I’ve walked during steaming afternoons, during cloudy sunsets, in pre-dawn twilight on cool mornings, and during soft, breezy evenings. It’s always picturesque, pleasant, very green. The houses look inviting, and the dog-walkers wave to me. I listen to music that suits my mood and do the geographical equivalent of palm reading. That’s all, really.

Can a person love a place? Feel gratitude toward landscaping, houses, parked cars, and people viewed only from a distance? Can someone feel affinity to a fox seen in a churchyard and streetlights shining through leaves in the night? Affection for lawn mower exhaust, for the noise of an approaching SUV slowly carving out a bend? Love for landmarks that correspond to moments in one’s past, or to moments that one might encounter in the future?

There will be a time, I hope, when my years in Texas are far in the past. But some day, I will hear a song, or see a house with a certain architecture, or smell a variety of grass, and Texas will return to me. At the same time, I also hope that it isn’t too overwhelming. I’ve found that I can never tell how potent a memory of a particular time or place will be until there’s a lot of distance between me and it. Sometimes, a memory will come gently, settling on me like a haze, ready to be indulged, even laughed at. In such cases I turn up the music that brought the memory, or take a luxuriating whiff of the scent, and I think back on the time, feeling only a little bit sad.

But other memories swoop down like some kind of predatory bird, and in those cases, the nostalgia feels more like the punch of the bird’s talons in the back of my neck. The sense of missing is so strong that it feels less like nostalgia and more like a distilled, portable homesickness. Ridiculously, I’ll even want to return to the memory’s time and place, despite knowing that in reality it had been fraught with pain or unease. Which makes the sneaking feeling growing during this time, at this place, all the more uncanny. I mean, all that this span of time has been, is me, and some terrain, and the wind, and the light of the sun or the moon. No one else. My nostalgia for anything before this was always about times and places with other people. So who will I be missing?

Someone once said, Wherever you go, there you are. But now, I wonder: is that really true?

[park-thatasshere]

With A Face Not Even A Mother Could Love

Facials was by all means             

                                                                       the last thing you had in mind

Featuring: Jungkook Genre: Smut (facials) Word Count: 2.6k

m.list

A/N: Just dropping in to say hi. Thank you so much to @chimmysdick for being a pillar of support with my craft and just life in general. This fic is of course nc-17 so read at your own risk but please enjoy.

Should you really be thinking this with him so close to you? Fuck, should you be thinking about this at all?

It was a nice gesture for him to take time out of his Friday night to come help you do some last minute cramming, but how did he expect you to focus when he’s wearing that Tommy Hilfiger cologne he knows drives you crazy? 

Okay, he doesn’t know it drives you crazy...but he should by now with all the squirming and squi-

“___, is something wrong?”

“...No why do you ask?” Your face heats up, further succumbing to the guilt of being a complete horndog.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh I’m sorry what was the question?”

“I asked which bone marrow is considered to be life saving.” At this point Jungkook doesn’t seem amused in the slightest.

You rack your brain trying to skim through your memory of which one your professor emphasized on multiple occasions only to draw a blank. “Leukocytes?”

Jungkook visibly deflates, “That’s not even an option.”

You give him a comical smile topped off by a lazy shrug of your shoulders. “Look ___, I really want to help you but if you’re not feeling up to it we can try this again some other time.”

“No, I’m sorry I’ve just been...distracted is all.” You close your eyes in resignation flinging yourself onto the floor.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You keep your face buried into your arms debating on whether or not you should profess your frenzied desire to have his cock beat your pussy black and blue. “Not really,” is what you settle on.

He gently shuts the textbook and places it on the table, muscles rippling underneath his white T-shirt with the action. “How about we take a break and order something to eat or something.”

He doesn’t know what’s bothering you but one thing is for sure, whatever it is, food will most certainly take your mind off of it.

You nod in agreement, whipping your phone out to order take

While Jungkook heads for the bathroom, you take a moment to think back to how the both of you got to this moment on your couch.

You knew of the whimsical Jeon Jungkook for quite some time before you were formally introduced to him. Every mention of him is filled with nothing less of pure adoration, admiration, and lust. He is very successful in his academic career. In order to keep him, and his high test scores, eager to learn, his high school had to bump him up two grade levels, or so the tale goes. 

You’d be a fool not to believe it though,you are two years his senior and you’re learning more from him than he ever could from you, other than how to be a functioning alcoholic.

You never thought much of the snot nosed kid in the beginning other than what you’d heard. But he’s shown his worth on many of your shit faced nights stranded at parties, as well as cramming sessions. Much like the one you’re having now, hours before a really big final. 

He was alright to you, you soon concluded.

More than alright even, but that makes you wonder. What is such a clean cut wonder boy hiding behind all those manners and gentlemanly gestures? 

You peek over your shoulder for any signs of movement coming from the bathroom door. Assuming Jungkook is hosting D-day in your toilet, you commence to sneak a peek at what lies within his laptop.

You open up the browser and click on history. Skimming through the list only finding a seemingly endless list of research material and obscure google searches. After a minute more of snooping through the list, a light bulb goes off. 

P r i v a t e browser

Your fingers hurriedly brush over the mouse pad, opening up the obscure browser only to see a screen filled with a plethora of open tabs

PORNAGRAPHIC tabs.

You click on random ones frantically loading up each web page to take a gander at what Jungkook spends late nights beating off to.

Cumshot facial compilation. Cheating gf takes biggest facial of her life. Premium bukkake. Sloppy face fucking. Bukkake gangbang.

The list is very telling on his foreplay preferences, but facials? Facials are by all means the last thing you had in mind. Actually, you don't know what you had in mind. Maybe something on the more purer spectrum, like mild nipple play. You did not expect Jungkook to be into such a degrading kink.

You’re stuck in a reverie of conflicting emotions. A part of you wishes that Jungkook is the sweet innocent boy he portrayed around school, having never been kissed and what not. A pure virgin. While the other half of you was silently relieved that maybe he wasn’t so prudish after all. In fact, a straight freak. 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts with the clicking of the bathroom’s door lock and a hushed chorus of swear words. You slam the laptop shut completely mortified at being caught snooping.

You’re both left speechless, but then again what can really be said under these circumstances. You weren’t sure exactly what he saw but you damn sure knew you were not sticking around for the fallout.

“Actually I think I’m going to hit the hay, I’m not feeling too well.” He gave an apologetic smile.

“Oh! Is it a fever?” He’s reaching a palm for your forehead before you even have time to step away and your reflexes cause you to smack his hand away. Way to make the situation a lot more shitty.

“Uh, yeah well goodnight. I’ll let myself ou-” you don’t even give him a chance to finish his statement before you head to your room, slamming the door behind you.

He ponders over the post bathroom break exchange before he’s back to packing away his things. “I wonder why she was in such a hurry to shut my laptop.” 

Upon opening his laptop, his entire face flushes at the contents he’s faced with. Pornhub, wide open and anything but discreet. After putting the pieces together he becomes completely mortified, moreso because he was sporting a half chub in spite of all that had transpired. He wastes no time in leaving your apartment in complete shame at what you must think of him.

Little does he know that you’re pressed up against your bedroom door entirely enthralled with salacious thoughts of his cock drilling your throat.

There are no texts. No calls. No messenger birds being sent two and fro. Absolutely nothing over the span for a week and a half. 

You yourself vowed to stay away from the boy, in hopes your lust for him would fizzle out.

It didn’t.

You wish you were better at defusing situations and being the bigger person. That’d make it a lot easier to march right up to the onyx haired bow and flick him in his perfectly proportionate forehead for not texting you andohmygodjungkookisstandingrightfuckingthere. 

Of course he’d be here, you coerced him to volunteer to present a booth with you to keep you company. For extra credit, of course, not that he needed it but you sure did. You remember when your professor eagerly spoke about the Convention, droning on and on about how we would greatly benefit from attending. Then slapping down a clipboard down onto her podium with a sign up roster on it. You pleaded and begged Jungkook to sign up with you, even using the cheap “there’s gonna be free food and booze” line.

He’s looking sharp, and you want to dissipate into water vapor because you comparatively look and feel like a dirty napkin.

He’s wearing a dark button up, sleeves rolled in a relaxed manner, with semi-tight slacks to match. His belt cinches to his waste, only emphasizing his cute ass. His hair haphazardly drapes over his forehead and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look this damn sexy.

Clearly you’re staring for too long because the burn of your eyes pulls his attention from the conversation presented to him and directly towards you. The eye contact is brief before he whips his head around redirecting his attention to the couple seemingly immersed in the stimulating discussion before them. You watch him exchange a few pleasantries with them before he sets his drink to the side and walks off.

Your feet are frantically speed walking through the cigar smoke and stench of hard liquor before you can even register or piece together what you’ll say once you catch up to him.

You find him slumped down on some god awful read pleather couch in one of the spare conference rooms, head in hands.

“Who said you could just waltz away whenever you pleased. You still have an hour and a half on your shift.” You chastise all in good fun.

His head jumps up at the sound of your voice and he visibly starts to clam up. “I wasn’t- I didn’t-”

You flop down next to him, a bold move on your part, before speaking up. “About last Friday…” You trail off.

“I know. You must think I’m disgusting.” He’s back to sulking.

“Nooo, why would I think you’re disgusting?”

“Because...of what you found on my computer.”

Now it's time for you to go flush. He knew this whole time!?

You’re actually hot from the sheer mortification that he knew you knew.

“You must think I’m a complete pervert.”

“Being a pervert isn’t always a bad thing, I like perverts.” First attempt and consoling was a fail.

“You what?” His brows furrow at your strange statement.

“I like perverts? Besides, have you ever even tried giving a facial?”

“I mean no, I’ve only ever been with one girl but she was pretty much a one sided lover. I never really got to experiment other than missionary and painful blowjobs.”

“Do you want to? Right now?”

His eyes grow to the size of saucers. This was definitely a proposition. Something seemingly straight from one of his porno’s. Wait! He needs to humble himself, he can’t just use his close friend like some kind of gloryhole can he?

“I don’t think this is a good idea ___-”

“Shut up kid, I’ve been craving your cock for a week and a half and I refuse to practice self control any longer.” And with that you drop to your knees before him and spread apart his legs to make room for yourself. You stare at him expectantly for a few moments until he gets the hint and hurriedly unzipped his pants and slips both his pants and boxers seamlessly down the length of his thighs.

Your eye to eye with his weeping red tip. The first thing that comes to mind is big, you were excited to finally get a hearty helping of his dick.

It jumps toward you, an invitation to welcome him into your silky throat. You haven’t tasted cock in a while and the scent alone sends your senses into a frenzy. 

“I like you!” He rushes out in a hurried exhale. You flick your eyes up to see his visage marred in a scarlet hue. It tickles your ego to know that the ripened Jungkook feels so small in your presence, even with his hefty cock in your view.

Awkward silence fills the space between the both of you before you realize he’s probably expecting an answer.

“...I like you too Jungkook”, another awkward pause “I’m sorry I’m not used to explicitly expressing my feelings. This,” you worry your lower lip and gesture to the current situation, “usually suffices.”

You don’t spend time dwelling on the formalities. 

His cock is anchored with a tight grip, you poke your tongue out to administer skittish licks along the ridges and veins of his member. Jungkook let’s out a needy whimper, one that has you shivering.

You finally open your mouth just wide enough to slip the head of his cock in. You suckle on it as if it held life's secrets. While one hand gripped his thick cock, the other reached down to cup his balls. Your teasing ministrations never halted as you dribbled all over the tip whilst gently rolling his balls. You could feel his testicles tighten and that was just the beginning of his end.

His head is thrown back, thighs flexing with every particularly hard suck. 

“P-put it in please, your mouth.” His eyes are glossy, voice coated in a whine.

Without further adieu you take the whole of him into your slick mouth. The initial stretch is a bitch to get used to as he fills you fully but once your saliva starts to pool on his cock you’re able to slip him in even further.

You bob your head up and down to the sound of soft melodic moans, periodically stopping to gargle his balls into your mouth. His jaw is clenched in uninterrupted ecstasy and your pussy throbs at the sight alone.

Jungkook gets adventurous, reaching over to grip your hair before shoving you down on his cock once again. He was encased in a warm frenzied haze of lust, wanting nothing more than to coat your pretty little face in his emission. 

He abruptly stood to his full length, never leaving your mouth as he walks you over to an open space within the room. His fingers tug at your soft tresses even tighter as he starts face fucking you. Slick sloppy tell tale signs of the pummeling your throat was getting resounded around you.

He’s thrown all caution to the wind as he thrusts his hips forward at a steady pace. “F-fuck ___, you’re good at this.” You press your tongue against his shaft, to garner another response.

You eyes water at the ache in your jaw at the sudden intrusion, trying to alleviate the discomfort by breathing through your nose. In this moment the only thing you’re both focused on is getting him to his release and it shows with the way you start bobbing your head in time with his thrusts, allowing him to bottom out in your tiny little throat each time.

His fingers falter around the strands of hair so tightly wrapped around his knuckles, betraying him.

“I’m so-“ Jungkook breathed raggedly, “So...close.”

He casts his gaze down to you, eyes dropping with pleasure and mouth left agape for many labored breaths and moans to be escape.

His pace quickens, grunts becoming more apparent. Not even a second later he’s pulling your hair to release you from his dick.

One hand tugging on a fistful of your hair while the other is rapidly jerking him to his orgasm. Your eyes are closed while you give him a brilliant smile. Soon enough you feel the spurt of hot, sticky cum land on your face.

You open your eyes to see Jungkook completely captivated by his handiwork. Your mouth is wet with saliva, a mixture of spit and cum coating your lips and dripping down your face and cheek.

“How do I look?” 

“Like a fucking goddess.” 

He helps you up, ushering you over to the couch before he’s pressing up against your back suckling on the side of your neck. You lose your footing and trip onto the couch, on all fours mind you.

“I’m gonna fuck you right here, just like this... okay?” It was really a question but the concern on his face said otherwise. 

You nod your head and just as he's about to lift your dress there is a loud knock on the door.

“Jungkook? Are you in there? Some of our guests would like to speak with you.” A muffled voice who you believe to be your professor spoke on the other side of the door.

“Better get going wonder boy.” You catch the giggle that threatens to spill from your mouth.

He waves your comment off, begrudgingly stepping out of the door and you can’t believe just how nice his ass looks in those pants.