#I should try to write more frequently and keep it shorter

[jarofstyles]

Teenage Dirtbag 5

Here we go again! I decided to bring back Fratrry in the rotation. For those of you who didn’t read them yet (or forgot) check out the series masterlist. These updates are shorter so I can get them out somewhat frequently instead of making you wait hehe.

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Teenage Dirtbag Masterlist

WC- 1.5k

Warnings- asshole H, angst, Y/N putting him in his place as usual

----

Harry knew he should be a bit more cautious when it came to Y/N but… god, how could he not try and push the envelope if it meant her maybe giving into it again? 

The reality of it was that Y/N, a girl who hated his guys most likely, had been the best fuck he’d ever had. She had blown his mind in the literal and metaphorical sense, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Fate had a funny way of working, sure, but he couldn’t be too mad considering he knew their chemistry was too good to push away completely. 

H: what do ya want from the cafe, baby doll? 

Y/N: nothing that you’ve touched. 

Harry smirked at his phone. So predictable, already back with the snarky responses. It worked him up a bit, thinking about how this snarky girl had pleaded for more, kissed him sloppily as his balls smacked against her ass and dragged her nails down his scalp. Such a sweet thing for him that night had gone right to being sour as soon as she left. 

H: ok, so you want me to lick your cake pop. Got it. 

H: it isn’t like we haven’t shared saliva before ;) 

Y/N: yeah, lick on it and then choke . Let me know how that goes so I can cancel our session this afternoon. 

The hope was to bring the sessions here one day. As much as Y/N had disdain towards him, the sparks had flown during sex. She had loved it just as much as he did- he’ll, during their last round she had pushed him on the bed and rode his cock until he was sensitive, her nail marks left on his chest for days. 

H: I’ve got something else you can choke on, baby

Y/N: I will quite literally not show up today, your grades be damned. 

His lips puffed in a pout. He was pushing it, but it was so fun to rile her up. Eventually, he hoped she would give in and like him. See the fun parts of him like other people did- but for now, he would play this game. Cat and mouse… though he wasn’t quite sure which one he was. 

H: fineeee. I’ll be good. 

For now. 

Y/N: please do. It was a mistake and we don’t need to keep bringing it up. 

It was a mistake he very much wanted to repeat, over and over again. 

H: yes, maam. I’ll see you at 2 🫡

Y/N: don’t be late, I’m serious. I have something afterwards and I can’t be late 

H: oooo, a hot date? 

Y/N: yes, actually. So don’t fuck this up or you aren’t getting your full hour. 

His smirk quickly fell. 

She was going on a date? With fucking who? 

That wasn’t in his plans. For some reason, guiltily, he hadn’t anticipated the idea of someone else making a move on the girl he wanted to fuck. Let alone her accepting. She seemed like such an ice queen with him that it led him to forget just how sweet she was to literally everyone else.

It was slightly infuriating, how everyone had nothing but good things to say about her. She was nice and she helped out this person when they moved, she helped plan this persons birthday party, she spotted this person 5 when they went to get coffee… there was no denying everyone else got the sweet parts while all the sourness was reserved for him. 

And yet, he still pushed her. Still played this game and taunted her because how the fuck else was he supposed to get her attention? He was going to have to kick it up a notch.  

——

“Who’s the date with?” He asked in the middle of their session, ignoring the paper in front of him as he looked at her. She was way more dressed up than he’d seen her at a tutoring meet before, a little skirt that brushed her thighs and a little button up tucked into it giving it a sweet but sexy combination that made him a little twitchy. 

In all honesty it had been hard to focus since he seen her today. All he could think about was how those pretty lips had been bitten and swollen from his kisses, how they’d curled around his name so fucking sweetly that it had his cock stirring at the memory. Her perfume was seemingly freshly applied and it was interfering with his brain chemistry or something, because all he wanted to do was throw the books to the side and pull her up to straddle his lap. 

He imagined her hands knocking off his SnapBack, tangling in his hair as she rode his cock right in the secluded part of the library. His hands under her skirt and gripping her plush ass yet again, unbuttoning that little shirt and leaving more marks on her skin. 

Marks he caught a glimpse of as she suddenly looked up at him. 

“His name is Derek.” She cleared her throat. “He asked me out on Monday so I decided to say yes. He’s really nice.” For some reason she looked embarrassed by the information she had divulged, like she hadn’t meant to say all of that. 

That sneaky little minx. 

“Uh huh…” he let his eyes linger on the bruising that was fading but not quite covered by the collar of her shirt. “And what is Derek going to think of this pretty little thing?” 

It was gentle, his knuckle lightly brushing over the mark he remembered sucking during the first round. He knew he had caused some nice little lovebites but that one was still healing, so it was probably a dark one. Fuck, it probably looked hot as fuck when it was first developing. “Suits you, y’know. My marks on your skin. I could put some more there, If you want.” 

He was pushing it and he knew it, getting closer to her as his nose brushed her cheek. She wasn’t pushing him away, so he counted that as a good sign. “I could take you back to my place and I could give you quite a few more. A refresher course because… I highly doubt this guy is gonna be able to make you squirt all over his dick. Which you did with me, twice.” He hummed, letting his fingers fall a bit deeper down the collar of her shirt. “I don’t think he’s going to give you what you need, princess. We already did it once and so we’ll… it would just make sense to do it again. I think we have gotten well enough acquainted that I could do the job.”

He hadn’t seen the cold drink coming. Poured all over his lap and seeping through his shorts, he yelped as the icy liquid  hit his skin. “Oi! What the fuck?” 

“I told you, last time was a one and done for this particular reason, Styles.” She snarled, grabbing her books and hurrying to shove them into her bag. “Because you’d be a fucking pig and see me as a sex object instead of a human being. I’m not some fucking challenge, I’m a girl with feelings and I- I told you, I wasn’t doing it again and it meant it!” 

“Babe- no, I wasn’t suggesting that at all. I’d never say that shit.” He tried to fight, unsure how it had gone south so fast. Apparently, he was shit at reading her cues. Worse than he originally thought. 

“You don’t have to say it. You suggest it. You don’t respect what I say. This is why I was never going to go and do anything with you. Who gives a fuck how hot you are if you’re an arrogant son of a bitch who can’t get his head out of his own ass to see exactly why people don’t like you.” Slinging her bag across her shoulder, she scowled at him. “This isn’t going to work. I’ll find you another tutor. I can deal with your stupid flirting, but throwing what we did in my face? Absolutely the fuck not.”

Harry didn’t have a chance to defend himself, feeling incredibly confused as she ran off. Any call of her name went ignored, the librarian hushing him as he made his way out of the doors but it was too late. She was god knows where. 

Who knew those legs could run so fast?

He was a little pissed that she was assuming he thought of her as some sort of object. He didn’t mean to make her feel any sort of way about it all, not thinking he was throwing it in her face, but apparently she thought so. 

H: Y/N can you please come back???

H: I didn’t mean to upset you 

H: I know I can be a dick and that’s part of our thing but I never thought of you as a sex object and I never would 

H: I didn’t think I was throwing it in your face 

H: can you answer me please????

H: I don’t want a new tutor, I want you :( 

H: y/n, cmon 

H: alright, I’ll try again tomorrow. But we need to talk. Please.

[deadpcnned]

Sealed by the Storm (jj.m)

chapter five

pairing: jj maybank x reader; marriage of convenience

content warning(s): mentions of vomiting

author's note: i always sit down thinking i have nothing to write and then the chapters end up this long... i'm sorry. if you're reading this, maybe you can lmk if you'd prefer the chapters be shorter (esp since it's a series)

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JJ feels as though he can still tell which patches of grass he'd stepped over when he trekked the path he is currently walking less than twenty-four hours ago. Only yesterday, he was making his way to the familiar red brick steps that would lead him to one of his most life-altering moments. JJ had always expected to be a frequent flyer at the Kildare County Courthouse, but his two most recent trips to the establishment couldn't have existed in his wildest dreams. 

Getting married at nineteen — sorry, John B— to you would have been like a weird fever dream he experienced while on a crazy trip. Being a property and store owner with his best friends? That dream he had kept buried deep inside his heart for years. From as early as twelve, JJ saw the potential in the property where they'd built Poguelandia 2.0. He spent many nights using the open water to catch something to make for his dad and or to make an escape when he needed to. He knew that land and that water like he knew the back of his hand. Building a business like the shop from the ground up had been what JJ had made his eighth-grade career fair project about. He'd completed it with a piece of printer paper he'd stolen from the school library and a red marker he'd taken from his homeroom teacher. He'd crumpled it up and thrown it away before he could turn it in when he realized all the kids had made theirs on full-sized poster boards.

It was moments like those that had made him decide early on he'd never be a business owner. Those subtle reminders that he was in a league so far behind the rest that even completing a middle school project properly wasn't possible for him. When he and the rest of the Pogues had established Poguelandia 2.0, he couldn't believe it. It was proof that twelve-year-old JJ hadn't been wrong. Forget proof of validation- it had made him happy. So happy. To belong, to have purpose. And that happiness may be snatched from his grip in an hour. 

JJ drove the Twinkie up to the courthouse, and in the time he'd spent parking it, the Pogues had already begun making their way in. Spotting Kie, he decides to try to catch up to her. Kie had been quiet all morning, and he obviously hadn't had the time to talk to her last night. If he's being honest, he isn't sure what he'd say to her if she were willing to talk. 'I'm sorry?' 'You up?' Nothing he'd say in any other situation made sense in this one. What did a guy say to the girl he was sleeping with after getting married? 

"Kie—" JJ's call is cut quiet when he notices who Kiara has just met up with in the gathering crowd. Anna Carrera embraces her daughter tight, while Mike Carrera stands with a straight face behind his wife. JJ tries to turn the other way to dodge them, but Kiara has already heard him and is waving him over. Fighting a grimace, JJ makes his way over to the trio. 

"Morning," JJ says, nodding at Mike and Anna. He should probably shake Mike's hand, but he isn't a fan of false niceties and Mike and JJ are not cordial. 

"You showed up," Mike chides, resulting in a tap to his chest from his wife, who is clearly trying to keep the peace. 

"It's a hearing concerning my property. Where else would I be?" JJ shrugs. Mike has never been a fan of Kiara hanging around the Pogues, but he definitely has a personal vendetta against JJ. It's been like that for years. Maybe he has some fatherly sixth sense that told him JJ's relationship with Kie was different from the rest, but JJ thought it was more that Mike saw him for exactly what he is — nothing good. 

"Didn't bring your wife? Not dragging her into this with you?" Mike's question might have thrown JJ off — what with being addressed as having a wife— if it didn't feel like he'd spit the word. He can't figure out why Mike, referring to you that way, claws out an even darker part of him than he usually feels come out with Kie's dad. 

"Her name's Y/N," JJ corrects, his tone low. "She's a good friend of your daughters, actually. I dropped 'em both off here just now." JJ lifts his right shoulder to give off an air of disregard for Mike's faux concern. 

"Right. Well, I hope you don't mind giving us some time with our daughter," Mike uses his hand to gently guide Kiara into the courthouse with him, and JJ waits for Kiara to stiffen up and bristle, telling her dad no. But when he looks at Kie, he doesn't see the same fire he usually does when her parents are sticking their noses in her business. The fire is still there, but instead of defiance, it is fueled by something bitter JJ can't quite place. He watches as she lets her father guide her, not waiting to see if JJ will follow. 

JJ knows he probably looks like an idiot, standing alone like he's frozen. He feels it then, that tight pull right in the center of his chest. A loop of everything wrong starts to run through his mind: Kiara's mad. Property hearing. Groff's my dad. Kooks always win. The loop won't end no matter how hard he tries to turn it off. The volume may decrease as he gets more feedback to interpret, but it'll still be there like a low thrum in the background. 

He finally picks up his feet and moves towards the courthouse, his mind only half there, as if he is floating instead of making the mindful decision to walk. As he draws near the ivory building, he sees Pope and Cleo standing by the doors, in conversation with Pope's parents. It's the person standing a few feet away from the red steps who captures his attention. 

There you are, standing all alone in the bustling crowds. His fucking wife. Your eyes keep flitting around the lawn, looking for something or likely someone. JJ ignores the tiny voice in his head that wants you to be looking for him. 

He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he can't get the image of you from last night out of his head. You in that white dress the moment he decided he liked your hair down best — loose and carefree. You when he was knelt in front of you, all the cards in your hand, still choosing him. You with the barely restrained tears that had felt like they were blurring his vision instead of yours.  And you, with that wide smile and those flushed cheeks from the summer night's heat. The way you danced, your body molding perfectly into his as he spun you closer. He had realized that somewhere between all the fun, he hadn't wanted to let go. There is possibly nothing more dangerous than feeling like he needed to touch you at this moment in time. 

JJ wills away the haunting memories of last night as he finally reaches you. You'd caught sight of him when he was a few feet away and are speaking as soon as he is in earshot. 

"You parked," You say, and JJ just smirks at you stating the obvious. He hasn't spoken to you one-on-one since you returned to your room last night. 

"That I did. You ready to head in?" You nod at JJ's question but make no effort to enter the courthouse. You bite your lip, worrying the soft skin with your teeth. JJ tries not to dwell on how badly he wants to free it for you. "What?"

"Something feels wrong, JJ."

"Yeah, no shit," JJ grumbles, though he finds comfort in being able to focus on his anger rather than whatever else he's feeling at the moment. "These fucking Kooks, man. Always in our way."

Kooks always win. Kooks always win.

You shake your head again before looking around. "I can't shake this feeling like we're forgetting something huge." 

"I think JB brought the Proof of Ownership certificate with us, but I'm sure the court has those files on hand, too," JJ says, trying to ease your worries. 

"No it's not…" You shrug, giving up on explaining this to JJ. "Never mind, I'm probably just anxious." 

"You sure?" JJ takes your nod for what it is– not at all assuring but a green light to proceed anyway. You both walk into the courthouse side by side, the perfect image of a united front. Pope and John B have saved you both a seat at the edge of their bench, and JJ steps back to let you slide in first. He settles beside you, his legs kicking out as he slouches against the backrest, but his attention doesn't stray from you. His gaze remains on your fingers as you wrap them around the edge of your green top, your nerves clearly needing a way to physically manifest themselves. JJ balls his hands in fists to stop himself from reaching out to hold your hand. That probably would do the opposite of consoling you. 

He fights the urge all throughout the start of the hearing. His mind's still running through his spiral, and as he fails to pay attention, the hearing plays on a loop. 

Kiara's mad. Property hearing. Groff's my dad. Kooks always win.

JJ watches as your group elects John B as their spokesperson. He listens to his speech and knows he should be choking up on emotion, but instead, all he can do is focus on his own thoughts. Eventually, the other side is speaking, and he hears something that draws his attention.

"So, what the, uh, current occupants of the land don't seem to understand is that there is an injunction to invalidate the most recent sale," JJ straightens in his seat, no longer able to play the part of uncaring. What does he mean by invalidate? "There was a pre-existing promissory note from the original owner that was in the process of being finalized when the land auction took place." JJ bristles. From the corner of his eye, he can sense the Pogue's confusion, but as he searches his mind for an answer, the pieces are coming together too quickly. The hotshot lawyer keeps speaking, but all JJ can concentrate on is 'previous owner.' Before the Pogues, it had been JJ's house. Which means the previous owner is…

"Where is the original owner? And can he validate the authenticity of this document?" the judge asks, to which Dale, the lawyer, responds affirmatively. 

"He's right here," JJ turns slowly, the appalled gasps of the crowd barely registering past the blood thumping in his ear. There he is, Luke Maybank, his father. No – not his father. The man JJ had been thrown onto, never wanted and never loved, no matter what tiny moments JJ had believed they'd shared. 

Groff's my dad. Groff's my dad. Groff's my dad.

Somewhere around him, JJ can hear words like 'son,' 'JJ's dad,' and 'fugitive.' The only clear sound comes from beside him: 'We were missing something.' None of that feedback matters, though. JJ can't focus on one thing long enough to process it. The world around him has reached a screeching halt, but his thoughts are neverending bursts of chaos. Of course Luke didn't show up to stand behind him, to support JJ in not losing the land that their fragile relationship had been tethered to. 

"JJ, why would your dad–" Kiara's voice rings through to JJ from her spot next to Pope. JJ doesn't look up as he opens his mouth to respond, but your voice cuts in to answer for him.

"He's not his fucking dad," If JJ was in a more conscious state, he might have enough energy to flinch at your words and the lethal tone you spoke them in. Instead, his head falls, and he can feel it happening. The moment right before his chest completely constricts, and his legs carry him away, running from everything happening here. JJ stands up abruptly, facing the man who ruined him. Luke's eyes find JJ's immediately, and there is probably something he can read in them if he wants to, but JJ has no interest in that. 

From a distance, he hears a familiar voice. She's shouting something about love and not being deserving of it. But it's not the right kind of feedback. He can't use it to reel himself in. 

Property hearing. Kooks always win. Property hearing. Kooks always win. Property hearing. Kooks always win.

JJ's feet carry him towards Luke, but he doesn't stop, ignoring him. He walks right past him, and with a frenzied turn of his head, he searches for anything he can grab ahold of. His fingers twist around the smooth surface of a chair and he lifts it over his head. He intends to crash the chair into a window and get some goddamn air in this room, but he never gets the chance. 

"JJ, no." It's you. You followed him? He looks up, his mind still not completely catching up with the moment, to see the rest of the Pogues crowding the front of the room. Then you. JJ scoffs at the fact that you feel the need to follow him. Always fucking babysitting him. 

JJ's arms are being restrained by the security officer who stands by the courthouse door. As he resists the man's grip, another security guard joins in. JJ can hear you telling him to stop, to not 'spin out.'

"Take him out!" You yell at an officer, and as they drag him out the doors, JJ thinks he never wants to see you again. Your self-righteousness is so apparent in your features. You always know the right thing to do, and in your mind, JJ couldn't tell his right foot from his left. 

"Let— let go of me!" JJ yells, his voice shaking with his body. "Stop!"

Eventually, the guards let go, and there you are again, your hands out in front of you in a cautious stance as if he's some animal that just escaped its cage. JJ can't see anything past red, and without Luke in front of him, you are slowly becoming his target. JJ needs to get past you and away before he does something he'd actually regret. 

JJ charges past, or at least he feels like he is charging. In reality, his movements are slow, from the delirious state he's reaching, giving you the chance to step in front of him. You reach your arms out, pushing them against his chest, and the force is strong enough to shove him to the ground and not even there at the same time. 

“Y/N.” JJ seethes. "Move."

"I won't let you do something you'll regret." JJ steps back, his hands coming up to pull at his hair. You are so frustrating. No. You are downright infuriating and he is so tired of it. You'd gotten in the way and gave him the chance to think about what he's doing. Thinking means feeling and feeling means he won't be able to stop from breaking down. 

"JJ," your voice comes out soft, as if you are trying to coddle him, and it sounds so wrong coming from you. So fake. You don't care. You can't care. Because you see him for exactly what he is. You see him like mold that ruins everything it touches, making it irreparable. Yet, he finds himself wanting to let go of his inhibitions and lean into that softness. He wants to trust it and wrap himself up in it. Your voice seems to be the right kind of feedback. He's able to focus on it and grab onto it. But he's not ready to.

Property hearing. Kooks always win.

Tears are gathering in his eyes, and he looks around quickly to see if anyone is nearby. A few stragglers have left the courthouse, and he immediately runs to the back of the building. He knows you're hot on his trail, but right now, he needs to hide from prying eyes. Everyone will be looking to see how Luke Maybank's son reacts. 

You don't say anything right away, and JJ relishes the moment of quiet. But all good things must come to an end, or so they say. 

"JJ, you don't des—"

"Screw that!" JJ's voice is loud and full of disdain. "Screw what I deserve. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to call that place his. He's… he's not fit," JJ emphasizes his point by hitting the pads of his fingers against his temple. "Don't they see that?"

The look on your face doesn't feel like pity but JJ still doesn't want to see it. You can't care. Do you care?

"No, he doesn't. I know he doesn't," you agree, and JJ shakes his head. "But he doesn't deserve you throwing your life away for him." 

"You don't get it. He's not fit," JJ's arms are being thrown in every direction as he made his point. "He's not fucking fit, and I have the receipts to prove it."

"What do you mean, JJ?" You ask with a note of hope that makes JJ's heart throb. "Is he not the actual owner? Did someone else own the property before?"

JJ sighs, a sound between a groan and a 'no' leaving his throat. "No— I… never mind." 

He watches your face fall; that light in your eyes, the one he found too rarely, disappears again. With the final bit of fight seeping from his body he slumps against the wall of the courthouse, his head falling between his crossed arms. He doesn't expect you to meet him where he is, and you don't move for a moment, but then he feels your hand against his arm. You're massaging circles into his bicep and even with the added layers of his gray shirt and blue flannel, he feels like his skin is on fire. He's still angry, it seems, because everything feels like it's on fire with you here. 

He lets you touch him still, unable to escape the heat. He doesn't lift his head or say a word, but he also doesn't move away. After a moment, he feels you rest your forehead against his shoulder. You both must look uncomfortable, the way he's curled into himself, and you are probably extending your neck far enough to reach his shoulder, but neither of you changes the position you're in. 

His mind is silent. No loop, no spiral. JJ is unsure how long the two of you sit there like that, but nothing seems to be pulling you away from him until he hears a voice from around the corner. 

"Let's check here," it's Pope's voice. When JJ lifts his head, he sees you haven't moved yours just yet. He has this lingering thought that he doesn't want Pope to find you just yet. Pope does, of course. 

JJ makes eye contact with Pope and then with Kie. The speed with which that burning sensation leaves his body is as though a bucket of ice water has been dropped over him. Kie's face gives away nothing, but her eyes tell a different story. She's upset, but right now, he can't really find it in himself to care. 

Kiara's mad. Kiara's mad. Kiara's mad.

"Guys," Pope speaks, only pausing for a second to take in the sight of you resting on JJ. You finally lift your head at his voice, pushing your body back so you aren't as close to JJ. "They're calling us in. Emptied everyone except us and Topper's team." 

"You guys go ahead," It's you who speaks up for the both of you. "We'll be right behind you." 

"Y/N, why don't you head in with Pope? I'll come with JJ," Kie's voice is void of malice, which JJ is relieved about. This whole thing is weird enough; he doesn't need Kie holding onto misplaced emotions because of your arrangement. 

"Right," You nod, standing up. You look at JJ once giving him a nod as well. No consoling smile or encouraging words to part. Just a nod like you had this one under control. Great job, comrade. 

And yet, he doesn't want you to go. He wants to stay like this for just a little while longer. He also knows he should want that with Kie. God, when had this all become so complicated? 

He turns to the curly-haired girl, who is already offering him that sympathetic smile you failed to give him, and he realizes he kind of hates it. He always hates that smile, but he loves what's associated with it. Free range to fuck up as profoundly as he wants. For once, he doesn't want that pass. He wants to believe he can be better and not need it. Laughable, truly. 

"Jayj, I'm so sorry." What else is she supposed to say, really? 'I'm sorry your dad's a piece of shit' basically sums it up. It still feels so pointless. "You deserve better family."

Alright, well now that one is definitely pointless. 

"Yeah, well, "JJ shrugs, pushing his arm out to one side. He's gotten up now and is already walking towards the front of the courthouse. "We all do." 

He knows she wants to say more, but he doesn't want to hear it right now. Kiara accepts that. He feels like there was a time she wouldn't have. She used to put him in his place, but somewhere along the way, she'd stopped. If he had to pinpoint a time, he thinks it was sometime after he'd spent his restitution money on that hot tub. She'd been so angry at first, but after seeing him all bruised up, she hadn't said anything again. She'd even argued with Pope and John B to let them keep the hot tub instead of returning it. In a way, Kie has accepted that this was JJ. He'd always be the guy who drew shit cards and kept gambling like he had a Royal Flush each round. 

"Mr. Maybank, is it?" the judge asks as JJ walks up to the front. John B pats him on the shoulder, leaving his hand there for a while. JJ only nods in response to the judge. "I trust you've calmed down enough to be part of this conversation."

JJ nods once. The judge, still displeased, continues anyway. JJ knows Luke's still in the room; he saw him as soon as he came in. He's standing between Topper Thornton and his lawyer. He must feel like he's on top of the world, sandwiched between those Kooks, and untouchable. He always sort of was for JJ. 

"As discussed during the trial, land ownership has been transferred from the original owner. Seeing as the property was auctioned off before these details were settled, the property is rightfully theirs." 

"Judge, with all due respect, that's unfair," JJ can hear the voices of every adult who ever told him life's not fair as John B speaks. "When we purchased the land, we weren't told of any such issues. To punish us for the fault of another party is wrong." 

The judge nods, not pleased with the situation either. "I agree, Mr. Routledge. However, these are not mere technicalities, and we must not treat them as such. I am sympathetic to you all, and for that, I've decided to grant you a one-week eviction notice." 

JJ scoffs and is pleased to find out he's not the only one. He looks up at you, and when you notice, you roll your eyes as if you are the only ones who can see how idiotic this judge is. 

"What about our money?" You say, your voice full of authority. You're not usually the one who speaks up in public, leaving that kind of work to Cleo, so JJ is surprised to hear you so sure of yourself. "We paid a lot of money for that property; if the auction is void, we should get that back." 

JJ hadn't thought of that. He'd been so caught up in losing this dream he hadn't thought about the fact that the money could be returned to you. That it should be. 

"I also agree with you, Ms. …" You don't fill in the space the judge leaves, instead sticking your nose up at the thought of sharing information about yourself. JJ does nothing to hide the smirk that comes out of him, subconsciously finding himself jutting his chin out to mimic you. The judge continues, but he does not looks happy about your display of rebellion. 

"The sum you paid for the property should be returned to all of you. However, because this auction was done through a third party and not by this court, the money's return could take between three to six months."

The judge lifts his hands at the outburst of the Pogues, cutting them off. "This is completely out of your control, but it is out of my control as well. I've decided that until the money from the auction has been returned, no work can be done on the old Maybank property." 

This time, the Kooks in the room react poorly to the news. JJ should be glad it's not all smooth sailing for the Kooks, but they'll still get there eventually. What's there to celebrate in that? The judge continues, going between appeasing you all and the Kooks and then going over the ground rules. 

The Pogues must leave by the following Wednesday at 12 pm. 

The Kooks may not remove any structures or begin work until the money has been returned to the Pogues. 

There will be another hearing between the two parties and the judge when the money has been returned and construction may only proceed then. 

There's more. So many rules, all of them pointless. 

JJ walks out behind all the Pogues except you. You're walking next to JJ again, with a little more space. No one speaks. 

"JJ," JJ stills at the voice of his father. He can hear it already, that tilt of apology present. JJ never could figure out if it was real. If his dad would have these moments of clarity, he could see just how cruel he was or if it was just a way to get JJ to keep coming back. 

JJ sighs, as if he'd rather be anywhere else than having this conversation, but he wants to hear the reason for the betrayal. 

"What?" JJ asks, his voice full of nonchalance that doesn't belong in this conversation. Topper and his family have already headed towards the parking lot, leaving only Luke, JJ, and the other Pogues. 

"JJ, I'm sorry," Luke starts, inching closer but stopping when JJ steps forward. When Luke's sober, he's a bit of a coward. You gotta believe me; I had no choice." 

"Could've been a man and gone to prison," JJ shrugs. "Simple as that." Luke's face is small, so different from how he looks in his fits of rage. 

"Son, please—" JJ flinches at the term. Son. He hates how much he loves it. 

Groff's my dad. Groff's my dad. Groff's my dad.

Suddenly, he doesn't want to have this conversation anymore.

"You don't deserve him," It's Kie who speaks up from somewhere behind him. "You don't deserve his love." 

JJ wants to vomit. Do they know he loves Luke? Do they not believe him when he pretends not to care? He doesn't want them to see through his act. 

"I'm talking to my son," Luke is shooting daggers at Kie, but she keeps going. 

"Don't call him that. He loves you, and you betray—"

"Kie, stop." JJ mumbles, but she doesn't. 

"You betrayed him. He's so much better than what you gave him." 

JJ's mumbling for Kiara to stop, but it's like she doesn't hear him. Or maybe he's not actually speaking out loud. He feels you then, brushing past him and walking past Kiara, who's come closer to where JJ is standing. You stride up to Luke and JJ wants to pick you up and tuck you away. He knows Luke's basically harmless when he's sober, but he still wants you nowhere near him. 

He watches as your hands grab the front of Luke's worn-out shirt, pulling him down to your level. Your voice is low as you speak, but the words still ring loudly. 

"You're a piece of shit who got in my way," Your teeth are grinding against each other. "Watch your back." You let go with a hard shove that pushes Luke farther back than someone who didn't know you would expect you to be able to accomplish. "And leave JJ and us alone, asshole."

You don't even wait to watch what Luke does, turning around and grabbing JJ's wrist to lead him to the Twinkie. You're mumbling something under your breath the whole way to the Twinkie that JJ can't understand. When you finally reach the Twinkie, you remove your hand from JJ's arm and cross them across your chest. 

"He's such a piece of shit," you whine, and JJ almost wants to laugh. One because you're telling him? And two, because you look practically childlike in your anger, and after such a devastating loss, it's almost a relief. There are no pitying comments in an attempt to soften the blow Luke landed. With JJ, certain steps need to be performed at specific temperatures. Right now, when he's cooled down, but his hand is still on the knob to start the stove, he needs to pretend that nothing is happening. And if he can't do that, he needs to pretend that what's happening isn't a problem unique to him. Somehow, you know exactly how to handle him right now. 

You're making the problem one he can share with you. He doesn't have to shoulder it alone and he doesn't have to feel like he's the only one drowning. He can use you to come up to the surface. 

"That he is," JJ whistles, then smirks as a thought strikes him. "How'd you like meeting your father-in-law?" 

You stare at him momentarily, your eyes comically wide, before you smile at him. Your smile against the backdrop of these circumstances feels like agony and he thinks he may be a masochist. 

"Think I may start calling him daddy." 

"Aye, that title's reserved for me—"

"Okay, okay," you shut him up, your arms coming up to shove at his chest lightly. You're laughing though. Your real laugh, the choking one. JJ's hands come up to catch yours, tugging you closer, and he relishes how your eyes become hooded, the only indication that his being near you does anything. Fuck, why does it do something? 

"You've got the keys," your voice is even, and you don't move away from his grip, almost making him second-guess whether he really does have any effect on you at all. "Unlock the car."

JJ reaches into his pants pocket and then the next, following with the one stitched into his flannel. He's making a show of not being able to find the keys because he knows how you'll react, and he wants that sense of normalcy. 

"JJ, I swear to God if you lost the keys," JJ quickly brandishes the keys from his flannel pocket, giving you a sideways look. You just roll your eyes and get into the back seat. You don't sit next to him when he gets in the driver's seat, and when Kie takes the passenger seat instead, he guesses that makes sense. 

The week following the town hall meeting had been painful, to say the least. It felt like everyone was tiptoeing around one another, afraid to directly address the issue and too stubborn to let go. The Pogues had tried to come up with solutions the evening they returned and the following day. Every option thrown in the middle of their circle seemed like it would be their life raft, but soon enough, they’d find a dozen holes in it. The Pogues were used to working in the gray, but this issue had them working in black and white. The problem was too entangled in legal technicalities to find a backdoor solution. 

You and the other girls are gathered in Sarah and John B’s cramped room because Sarah had said she felt too sick to get out of bed.

“What are you feeling?” You ask Sarah, whose head is resting against your thigh. She has a lethargic look painted across her features that’s making you tired. 

“Mm, don’t know,” Sarah mumbles. “Just feel tired.” 

“You must’ve caught a bug,” Kie says from where she’s sprawled out on the floor. “Just gotta rest.” 

Your hands run through Sarah’s hair to comfort her, but your mind keeps wondering what’ll happen tomorrow. No one is addressing the issue, and even though there’s been ample time to pack, no one has begun to do so either. 

“Where are we gonna go?” Your voice is hushed, afraid to be the one to bring it up. The atmosphere doesn’t shift so much as it intensifies. The threat of leaving this home is constantly looming over you all, but you’re bringing it down and covering the group with it by putting it into words. 

Cleo sighs from her corner of the bed, “We’re gonna go with Pope to his parents’.”

That much you had assumed. It was like when you arrived from Poguelandia and crashed in their living room. Your question had been more abstract. 

“Um, no,” Sarah says, and you can hear the nausea in her voice. It sounds like her words are escaping past a literal lump in her throat. “Y/N has to stay with JJ. You’ll come with John B and me.”

“Sarah, come on. It’s not that serious,” You argue. Your eyes find Kie’s, who has sat up a little and is already looking at you. You hadn’t had the conversation with her yet, and now it feels a bit pointless. You had already married JJ, so what was the point in running it by her? At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. In reality, you have built the conversation up so much that it felt like too high a wall to climb now. 

Sarah lifts her head from your lap, “It is exactly that serious. What kind of married couple splits up a week after their wedding?” You bite back your bitter reply of a ‘fake one,’ not wanting another lecture from Sarah. 

“Well, where exactly are we going? Because the Chateau doesn’t exist anymore.” Sarah’s entire expression changes. She’s biting her lip in a way that makes it seem like she’s sorry more than anxious. 

“So I went to see Rafe after he stopped by at the shop,” Sarah starts, her eyes flitting to the side. “He, uh, was talking about trying to… reconcile our family.”

You’re sure you’re staring at Sarah as if she has two heads. In what world is Rafe Cameron going to save their family?

“And you told him to shove whatever plan he was brewing up his ass, right?” Cleo asks. You hum in agreeance. 

“I know it sounds crazy. Trust me, if anyone knows how untrustworthy he is, it’s me. But… it makes the most sense right now.” Sarah’s picking at her cotton pajama shorts, avoiding you and Cleo’s eyes. Kiara rises from the floor and sits next to Cleo. 

“You’re planning on staying in his house… with him?” Kie’s voice is dripping with well-founded disbelief and defensible judgment. 

“I’m not doing that,” You add. 

“No, of course not,” Sarah finally looks up. “He has a one-bedroom apartment he bought to lease and said John B and I can take it.”

“And you trust that?”

“No, but I trust that he said we can call a guy to change the locks. And that he’ll finance it.” You tilt your head in semi-approval. At least she’s thought it through somewhat. Picking up on the fact that you aren’t entirely convinced, she adds, “It’s our best bet, Y/N. Where else are me, you, and Kie gonna go.”

She’s right, but knowing she’s right doesn’t make it easier to accept this is where fate has taken you. You’d never met someone as evil and, frankly, unhinged as Rafe Cameron. He’d tried to drown his sister, for crying out loud. Now, you were going to trust him to shelter you?

“So, let me get this straight,” Cleo leans forward. “We’re trusting Rafe Cameron to give you a safe space? That’s like giving a kleptomaniac the keys to your shop and asking him to watch it.” 

“What– what other choice do we have?” Sarah’s voice wavers, but she looks resolute about her choice. “I can’t just let us fall apart. Not again. I need to make this work, and if that means trusting Rafe, then so be it.”

You can’t argue with her when you hear how much this means to her. If five of you are together, that’s still better than zero. 

“Um,” You turn to look at Kie. “I’m gonna go stay with my parents.” You lock eyes with Cleo, both of you silently acknowledging how out of character this is for Kiara. Kiara’s relationship with her parents is rocky. Not in the way it was for JJ or Sarah, but her childhood home is not a place of comfort for her. She’s doing this because of you and JJ. Which makes no sense because you and he are nothing. 

“Kie, you’re coming with us,” You insist. 

“No,” Kie shakes her head. “I’m not. A one-bedroom can’t fit five people, and apparently, you’ve gotta stay with JJ. Guess the rest of us have to figure it out alone.” The bitter tone in her voice is not missed, and you’re scrambling to find something to take it away. Kiara may not be the closest to you, but she is your family. You love her like you love Sarah and Cleo. You don’t want to lose her because of a guy you don’t even like romantically.

You love them all, and they’re all slipping out of your grasp. Kiara’s bitterness, Sarah’s desperate optimism, and Cleo’s lack of contesting all leave you feeling like the ground is being taken out from under you. Then there’s JJ– residing in your mind in the form of a shadow and complicating everything. 

One moment, he’s behaving so much like the reckless boy who drives you crazy, his words biting and his actions thoughtless. He makes you want to scream, but when you least expect it, he’s pulling you in close and shielding you from the chaos — even when he’s the cause. His touch is always steady, anchoring you to this convoluted reality. That part of him — the one that seems like his rawest, most unguarded self — gives you whiplash. He’s a mess you feel you’re constantly cleaning and a safety net continually catching you. 

“Kie–” You try to get her attention. 

“Hey, Sar, I’m gonna go make you some soup. Just… call the boys back. Let’s have our last dinner.” 

You're not sure how the night had rushed by you so quickly. The dinner had been a haze of forced conversation, and the night had been full of drunken suppression. No one reminisced about their time at Poguelandia 2.0 and discussed how much they'd miss it. That might be something you'd all regret in the future, but it seemed like your last line of defense last night, to live in denial. 

You're all outside the house now, the early morning sun mocking you. The sun isn't gentle. It beats down on you but does nothing to warm you from the chill washing down your spine. The sharp light cuts you out of your thoughts of the wasted night, a cruel reminder that it's all over. Pope and Kie's parents drove up to help transfer their belongings, but they were waiting further away to give you all privacy. The yard, which you had loved for its spaciousness, feels too small. You could see Mr. Heyward leaning against his truck, trying to maintain a respectful distance from the group. Kie's dad had packed his car with her belongings and immediately sat back in the driver's seat, never wanting to interact with the rest of you. You know Pope's dad is carrying your grief with you all, but you wonder if Kiara's dad feels more smug– like he finally gets his chance to shout, 'I told you so!' You want to beg Kiara not to give up, not to go back to their house, but you don't because you think you're the last person she'll listen to. 

You're unsure how many hugs Sarah gives you, but she won't stop even though you are both going to the same place. Cleo isn't holding it together nearly as well as you thought she would. The strongest girl you know is failing at hiding the tremor in her voice, and it's throwing you off balance.

"You sure you and JJ can't just crash with us?" She asks, resting her hand on your arm. 

You shake your head. "We'd just make it harder for you guys." You can see on Cleo's face that that isn't the right thing to say, so you add, "Plus, Pope would get back pains after we force him to sleep on the floor."

Cleo gives you a shakey smile before pulling you in toward her. She hugs you tighter than ever before, and you return it tenfold. She'd been your rock since you were fourteen. You'd never spent a night more than a few rooms away from her, and now you'd be on different sides of this island, which you felt you were still learning some days. You didn't know how to survive without her guiding your way. 

"I'll call you," She whispers.

"Every day," You promise. 

When you pull away, you see JJ standing in the corner with Kie. He looks like he's trying to convince her of something, his hands waving as he speaks. Kie has that determined look on her face that you always admired. She doesn't look like she'll budge about whatever they're discussing. You don't want to stare at this private moment between them but can't tear your eyes away. Is he pleading with her? Apologizing? Only saying goodbye? 

You don't have to watch Kiara and JJ for much longer because suddenly she's stepping away from him with her hand out to halt his motions. That's the last you see of Kiara before she walks away from the slowly dispersing group. Pope and Cleo are the next to go, leaving a hole in your heart that you're not sure you'll ever fill. 

The ride to Rafe's apartment is quiet, even quieter than the ride you four had taken to the courthouse the day of your wedding. When you finally reach the building, no one announces the arrival and no one talks until you enter the apartment. It's a grand apartment, fully furnished and nicely decorated. You'd expect nothing less from a Kook property, and it makes you want to tear apart every – probably custom-made – painting on the wall. Why do they have to have everything? 

"Fucking Kooks," JJ mumbles, taking in the room. "Fucking Kooks."

"Couldn't Rafe have just bought the land? " John B. adds, and it feels like a stab to the chest. 

You can hear Pope commenting with some smart-ass comment or shockingly sassy remark, but he isn't here, and no one fills the silence. 

You don't bother unpacking your suitcase; you're so used to living out of limited storage space. Instead, you help Sarah hang her clothes while the boys go to the grocery store to get a couple of essentials. Sarah is in the restroom, and you've just finished hanging the last of John B's printed button-downs. For a Pogue, he sure did have a lot of shit.

"Oh my God!" You hear a screech from the connected restroom, startling you. You drop the shirt you just picked up from Sarah's box of clothes. 

With your heart in your throat, you approach the restroom door, "Sarah?"

"Oh my God, oh my God," Sarah continues to repeat the three words, her alarm rising each time. 

"Sarah, open up," When she doesn't reply but her panic persists, you try the knob and find the restroom is unlocked. "I'm coming in," you warn and rush in without waiting for a response. 

Sarah is bent over the sink, her left hand covering her mouth. Her right arm is hidden from your view, and she's shaking. 

"What happened?" You ask, leaning forward to find some semblance of an answer. 

Sarah doesn't say anything, but she pushes her right arm out towards you. Her lips are pursed in a thin line, her cheeks void of color. You take a moment to process what she is showing you. In her hand is a blue and white stick, and you take it from her hand to inspect it closer.

"Holy shit."

It's a pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test. Sarah's positive pregnancy test.

"Is this…" 

"It's real," Sarah whispers. You look up at her, and she returns your stare as if she is expecting you to explain this to her. 

"What are you going to do?" It isn't the right thing to say in this situation, but it's the first thing you can think of. 

"I don't know," Sarah's voice breaks, and her emotions flood out. "I mean, I'm nineteen. I'm living in my murderous brother's rental property because we don't even have jobs. Babies are expensive! I need a job. What will JB thi–"

"Hey, hey," you say, placing the pregnancy test on the counter and stepping toward her to cut off her rambling. Breathe, Sar. Just breathe." Her chest is heaving, and you exaggerate your breathing to model what you need from her. When she begins to calm down and matches her breath to yours, you ask, "Is this something you want?"

Sarah lets out something between an inhale and a whimper. At first, she shakes her head, but something changes when she turns to the sink, and her eyes catch on the test. Her shoulders fall, but instead of devastation, you see relief. 

"I want this so bad," She whispers. You agree with everything she said: having a baby in her situation doesn't fit, but you can't help but smile at her. "I didn't think I would, but if I am…" Her hand rests on her stomach, a streak of protectiveness you are both used to seeing from her and is entirely foreign to you. "I'd want to keep it."

Your chest swells with warmth. "Then that's what you'll do," you tell her firmly. "And we'll all be here for you. Every step of the way." You offer her a confident smile, and she returns it with a hesitant curve of her lip. 

"I'm going to have a baby," Sarah whispers again, but her smile seems impossible to contain as she says it. 

You laugh, pulling her in for a hug, "You're going to have a baby." 

Sarah tightly winds her arms around you, "I can't do this alone." 

After so many years, you want to cry for the hundredth time in the past two weeks. This beautiful girl who loves so freely is afraid no one will love her enough to endure this trial with her. Her tumultuous relationship with her family aside, your new family has been torn apart, and she's finding out there's going to be a new and very dependent member. 

"And you never will be," You promise. "This baby's got a village." 

"Baby," she squeals. Your laughter bubbles up and washes over the room, blocking out the weight of the world for this moment—this moment between two friends and their shared joy, hope, fear, love, and life.  

You'd decided you'd wait for Sarah to tell John B about the baby before you left the apartment. You had to. John B and Sarah would need privacy and space to grow their family. A one-bedroom was already too small for that task, and adding two grown adult roommates would worsen the situation. You'd already shared the bedroom with Sarah the night before when John B had insisted he'd take the couch. You couldn't keep that up. 

You didn't know where you'd go, but maybe you could take Cleo's offer to stay with her and Pope. JJ would have to bite the bullet and stay with Kie at her parents. You'd figure it out. But you didn't want to be more of a burden than you already were on your best friends. 

John B and Sarah had left the following evening to go on a walk, where Sarah would tell him the good news. You'd figured you'd use that chance to explain to JJ what was happening. 

"Hey," you announce your presence, though it seems a bit unnecessary since you are both on opposite ends of the same couch. 

JJ directs his attention away from his phone and to you, "Yeah?"

"So, I needed to tell you something," JJ must notice how serious you are because he shuts off his phone and tilts his body to face you. "It's about our living arrangement."

"You wanna stay with Cleo?" He asks. "That must be hard." 

You weren't sure if anyone else had noticed how much separation from Cleo affected you, but apparently, JJ had enough insight to assume it would. 

"No, uh, it's not that," JJ waits for you to continue. "But what I'm about to say is a secret. Like, a huge one. So no one can know."

This makes JJ's brows knit together in confusion. "Okay? What is it?" 

"Sarah's pregnant." JJ's jaw drops with humorous speed before he begins to open and shut it. He's sputtering, unable to form a thought. 

"Relax," You say, giving him a peculiar look. "You're not the father." 

"She's pregnant? John B's gonna be a dad?"

You nod, letting him process this however he needs the time to. JJ sinks back into the couch as if he is being physically hit with the news. 

"Wow," his hands run through his hair. "Parents. They're gonna be parents," JJ shakes his head, and you wish you could be in his mind at this moment. Is he being judgmental? Is he worried?

"Wait, are they?" He asks suddenly, sitting up straighter. "Does she want us to— does she need our help. Is that why you're telling me?" It takes you a moment to understand what he means. 

"No, she doesn't need us for anything like that," you assure him, a bit caught off guard by his awareness of situations like these. JJ isn't the most emotionally intelligent guy, at least you don't think so, and his awareness of other potential options is a bit of a surprise. "They're going to be parents."

"Wow, that's… amazing," He mumbles. "For them. Could not be me, but good for them." You laugh, the JJ you know poking through from behind all the maturity. 

"Yeah, agreed," JJ chuckles at your grave tone. "But that's why I wanted to talk to you."

"Right," He nods, suddenly remembering the start of this conversation. 

"We need to leave. The apartment, I mean. They'll need their space, and we can't overstay our welcome." 

"Where would we even go?" JJ rubs his hand against his clean-shaven jaw. 

"I could stay with Cleo, and you'd probably hate this, but Kie's parents—"

"What? No way," JJ leans forward again, his expression tightening. "We're not splitting up."

"We aren't?" You ask dumbly. You had expected JJ to push back on leaving the apartment. It may have had just one bedroom, but it was better than any home he'd had before. Plus, it was much better than encroaching on the Carrera's property for him. You hadn't expected him to be concerned about you two going your own ways. 

"We have to stick together." There's a certainty in his stare and an edge to his voice that has you second-guessing yourself. It pins you in place and leaves you defenseless. "Or none of this will look real." 

Oh. Right. What else would he have been concerned about?  

"I doubt Kie or Pope's parents would blow our cover," you say, keeping your voice light, hoping to conceal any disorientation. JJ gives you a pointed look, and you sheepishly correct yourself: "Maybe Mike, but we can find a way past that."

JJ sighs, not laughing at your light attempt at humor, "We're not splitting up."

"We don't have anywhere to go, though," You sigh. "Remember, you said it yourself, no one else will cover for us."

JJ's shoulders fall, and he gives you a look that makes you want to take back everything you've ever said. He looks so… fragile. You may have missed it if you weren't looking at him as closely as you are, but it's undeniably there. 

"We cover each other," he shrugs, and with those four words, he speaks so nonchalantly that he eases the weight you've felt growing on your shoulders. He sighs again, leaning back against the couch. "I know somewhere we can crash." 

You wouldn't have imagined going along with that uncomfortably vague statement a week ago, but now you had no other option. All you can do is follow JJ blindly, even though your trust in him is hanging by a fragile thread. For once in your life, you don't bother asking questions. You're too exhausted to try to piece together your next steps as diligently as usual. You'll figure it out later. 

When Sarah and John B returned, you'd tried your best to arrange a celebratory dinner for them. You'd used the ridiculously expensive glassware Rafe had stocked the apartment with – because, of course, Kooks that could afford real estate on this side of the Island couldn't buy their own plates and cups – and put a very fancy peanut butter and jelly sandwich on each plate. It was all you could do, but you made Sarah's a double-decker for what it's worth. It hadn't made you feel great that you could hear her hurling the contents of her dinner from your spot in the living room (JJ had gotten a good laugh out of that). 

It had taken a lot of convincing and even more tears for Sarah and John B to agree to let you go. They had reasonably questioned where you planned to stay, and JJ mentioned something about a Jim Buckley. The name meant nothing to you, but John B seemed to understand. John B had looked apprehensive but hadn't shut the idea down completely, which made you feel better. He'd even driven the Twinkie to drop you two off while Sarah turned in earlier than usual. You'd held her tight and whispered your promise to her again. You and JJ separating from them was only physical. Nothing could keep you away from that baby now that you knew they existed. 

When John B pulls up to what looks like a dock, you step out of the car to give him and JJ privacy. They'reTheir connection is like yours and Cleo's. You've seen how they communicate without words and how sometimes the only person who can reel JJ in is John B. Saying goodbye will be painful, even with the sweet reminder of who you're all doing this for now. 

You take the time to figure out where you are. The dock extends over a large lake, not the ocean. There'sThere are only a few man-made lakes in the OBX since most Kooks are in the market for real estate by the ocean. You notice a secluded mansion that seems like it touches the sky. In typical Kook fashion, it's humongous, but unlike most other mansions, the nearest house to it is a few miles down. 

When JJ exits the Twinkie, his eyes are misty, but you don't comment on it. Instead, you'd sidle up to his side, your entire demeanor asking him what's next. You hate this– not knowing and not being in control. You never relinquish your control unless it's to Cleo, and it took a few years before you could get to that place with her. The itch for control is catching up to you.

"Why are we at a dock? Whose house is that?"

"That would be Jim Buckley's house. Used to maintain his boat for him when I was younger." You nod, waiting for him to expand on that, but he doesn't. 

"And he's going to kindly let us stay with him?" You ask, a false sense of hope laced in your tone. You know that's not happening. 

JJ snorts, "Yeah, right. No, we're gonna crash on this fine boat of his." JJ waves his hand in front of him, towards the water. You look at the dock, and there, tied firmly to a post, is a cabin cruiser. More specifically, a Yellowfin 54. You'd dreamed of having one since you were fifteen, and after moving to the Island, you would enviously look at each one you passed. 

"We're gonna stay here?" You ask with a slight pep in your voice. You try your best to mask that little bit of excitement and focus on the issue at hand. "We can't. We'll get caught."

"Don't gotta worry about that," JJ shrugs, heading towards the boat. You follow him as he explains further. "Jim's usually flying internationally for business and the missus is usually miles away at Kelce's dad's place when that happens."

"She's cheating on him?" You gasp.

JJ waves his hand behind him, "It's fine. Jim's probably doing the same in, like, China." 

"Um, okay. I'm going to ignore how you know this, but what about maintenance. If they're never here, it must be in horrible shape."

"I used to do maintenance for them, and I know for a fact they have someone take care of it every Tuesday at ten a.m., without fail," JJ offers, and you can't lie that your nerves are calming a bit. "He uses it when he's in town, and Janet puts him in the dog house."

"And Janet is Mrs. Buckley?" You ask.

"Yes, ma'am, she is," JJ stops right in front of the boat, turning to smirk at you. "I was wondering when you'd start your interrogation."

"Shut up," you roll your eyes and sidestep him to get up onto the boat. You don't take the hand JJ's offering you; instead, you stick your hand out so he can use you as support. JJ gives you a sarcastic smile but still takes your hand. He doesn't let go as he guides you to the front of the boat. Lifting the cushion of one of the seats, he pulls out a small key.

"Jackass still keeps it here," JJ mumbled, throwing the key up before catching it in his fist. He has that dangerous look on his face, the one he gets when he's winning a risky gamble. JJ leads you to a short, narrow door on the side of the boat. Before he places the key in the lock, he pulls you in, searching your eyes. He seems like he's waiting on you. For what exactly, you're not sure, but he doesn't deter his staring. You don't have to voice your concerns. He's used to you badgering him with your distrust. 

Still, you say one thing. "JJ, someone could find us." 

"I know," he nods. His voice is quiet but steady. He's grounding you again, tethering you. He doesn't cut into your concerns. Instead, he catches them and holds them with care and understanding. "You don't have to trust this, but try to trust me," 

"Impossible, I know," he says. A small laugh bubbles past his lips, his expression genuinely amused. He steps forward then, using the hand that's still clad in yours to pull you towards him. The smile leaves his face, but his voice softens as he speaks. "But will you try? For us?"

The air around you compresses, pushing you two together until there is space for nothing except a little spark between your chests. A spark ignited by the words Us. That word hits you like a bad wave wiping you off your board. In a literal sense, you are an us, two people in this together. But it means so much more. Like, after you step into the cabin, everything will change. There won't be a you or JJ. There won't even be a you and JJ. It'll only be an Us. One unit. For better or for worse, it's Us. 

"I-I'll try," you stammer. JJ gives you a grateful smile. 

"We'll lay ground rules, make sure no one catches us," JJ promises. There really is nowhere else to go, and all you can do right now is either give this a shot or sleep on the streets. "And if we get caught, at least the jails have cots." Or that.

You hit your hand against JJ's arms, and he pulls away, laughing. He takes two small steps away from you, but the spark doesn't snap. It grows. No amount of distance can extinguish it now. 

He puts the key into the lock and opens the cabin door. You note that the door doesn't creek. He ducks his head and crouches to step inside, flicking the switch to his right. The dim light spills out around him. You follow his lead, his hand– still holding yours– pulling you through despite any lingering hesitation. 

The interior looks exactly as you remember seeing it online when you would mindlessly scroll. The "lounge" area consists of a leather couch built into the floor, a sink with a microwave over it, a fridge under it, and two doors. If your research is correct, one door will lead to a full-sized bed, and the other will lead to a restroom that makes a porta-potty seem big. You'd dreamed of having a boat like this for vacations and fishing days. You'd never wanted it to be your home. After you'd left Terrance, you hadn't wanted to return to ship life, but at least it wasn't foreign to you. You'd know how to maintain it and make it work. 

JJ strokes his thumb against the skin of your hand as he announces, "Home sweet home." 

"Home sweet home," You agree.

taglist: @theater-bitch @ayy1234567 @tpwkyarely @loves animals0000 @b3rryb3t @mvaldez7821 @ummmmokaynotme @velyssaraptor @chloemaybank @sandaltoesocks @thexplosivegirl @rudypankowisbae @marleymarleymarleymarley @snowtargaryen @awurtzx06 @yumwhy @rudypankowisbae @thxtmarvelchick @otra-chica-0 @agnxstic @rinaarii @kaisgirlie

[lilasamaaa]

Miss missing you | Charles Leclerc x Reader

Genres | Angst, Hurt.

Word count | 2.1K

Warnings | Breakup, depressing thoughts, mentions of cheating.

Summary | Reader wakes up the day after her breakup with Charles and reflects on their relationship. Inspired by the song "Miss Missing You" by Fall Out Boy. Author's note | Sorry for being criminally addicted to writing sad things.

Don't panic, no, not yet

The living room shutter is closed. Impenetrable.

She has no idea how long she's been like this, slumped on her couch in the dark, her face irritated by the relentless assault of her tears. Outside, she knows life has gone on without her. She suspects the sun has risen, like every morning. That darkness has given way to light, like every morning. She even heard her neighbors in the hallway, heading to work. Like every morning.

Taking a deep breath, she feels her heart and throat tighten, tears doubling. She didn't even know she had that much water in her body. It's not just an ordinary morning. It's the first of many mornings where she will wake up with her heart in pieces.

I know I'm the one you want to forget

She remembers, a few years ago, listening to Taylor Swift's "Mr. Perfectly Fine" for days on a row. She remembers cursing Joe Jonas, she even remembers feeling so sorry for Taylor. What kind of guy breaks up with his girlfriend over the phone?

Well, Charles, apparently.

She's not stupid, not blind, not even a little naive.

She had felt it coming. Had noticed him slowly drifting away. The calls were less frequent, and the ones she managed to intercept, shorter. She knows there was someone else. Maybe multiple someones. They'd somehow stopped talking about him, about her, about them. They only talked about races, cars, airplane trips. That's the only thing that seemed to keep them together. The only thing that had brought them together in the first place. She, the daughter of the CEO of one of Ferrari's sponsors. Him, the one who wore the suit with the logo printed on it.

Cue all the love to leave my heart, It's time for me to fall apart

She wished her heart would close. She wished she could block his access to it. She wished she could reclaim it, as one might retrieve the keys to an apartment once shared. But that bastard remains wide open. It's almost embarrassing, the way her heart, cruelly empty, hopes to be filled again. To feel his warmth once more. To beat for him again.

Her mind has stopped functioning, but her heart, somehow, hasn't stopped. It keeps beating, selfishly. It keeps her alive. For what? To feel the hurt, the betrayal, the despair? Honestly, it's not worth the effort. The poor thing should have just stopped.

Now you're gone, but I'll be okay, Your hot whiskey eyes have fanned the flame

She's young. She's had flings, but she's always been the one to end them. Charles was her first serious relationship. The only significant one, actually. She didn't think the pain would be so raw, so physical. She feels like she can sense her heart crumbling a little more each time she thinks of him. She feels it in her chest, swelling, taking up space, trying to escape. It wants to leave her body. To break free from this darkened, wounded brain that suffocates it.

She's not against the idea. It can leave. She can function without it. She's almost convinced of it, if that's what it takes to feel alive again. To feel like her again.

Maybe I'll burn a little brighter tonight, Let the fire breathe me back to life

Her heart isn't the first to be broken. Won't be the last.

She's heard stories from friends, from close ones, who've gone through breakups. Today, she feels so foolish for feeling so little concern about those stories back then. She's always been a listening ear, an unwavering support. She's sat in bars, cafés, bedrooms, listening to stories of betrayal and broken promises, and she simply didn't believe it would ever happen to her. As if she were above the laws. Above all that. She remembers listening to tales of broken hearts like children listen to myths of dragons, of wizards, of magic.

That's what it was for her. Fantasy. Something so unreal, so inconceivable.

Even though it hurts, she has sworn to let herself feel everything. The good as well as the bad. She knows that one day, she will look back on this period of her life, and she won't be overwhelmed by sorrow and pain anymore. But today, she has to go through it, let the flames lick her body to better heal her wounds later.

Baby you were my picket fence, I miss missing you, now and then

She'd never introduced a boyfriend to her family. Never envisioned a future with anyone. Never looked at houses with anyone. But with him, she did. A few months ago, while strolling on the hills of Monaco, she'd passed by a gate behind which a stone path led to a discreet little house. She'd fallen in love with the garden bordered by trees and flowers. She'd liked the color of the gate surrounding the property. She'd even found charm in the slightly crooked chimney protruding from the roof. She'd taken a photo of the "For Sale" sign and sent it to Charles. He had responded with a series of emojis (a face with hearts for eyes, sparkles, a star, the rest she can't remember). He had promised to call to set up a visit.

She would never walk down the stone path.

Chlorine kissed, summer skin, I miss missing you, now and then

She's never been drawn to wealth. She was born into it. Penthouses, luxury cars, diamonds hold no charm in her eyes. She's always been searching for more authentic, more simple things.

One summer when Charles had suggested a yacht outing, the lovers had ended up on a poorly patched-up rowboat that was taking on water. The monacan had complained all afternoon, but she still remembers the sensation of lying against him, against his warm, salty skin, alone in the world in their small boat. A feeling that no amount of money could ever buy. A feeling that no amount of money could ever get her back.

Sometimes before it gets better, The darkness gets bigger

What had begun as sweet and innocent had taken a turn.

Times were tough. His job was demanding. Exhausting. She did her best to support him, to show him he could lean on her anytime he needed. He wouldn't talk. Little by little, she was abandoning more and more things from her daily life to dedicate herself to his. His stability. His success. His worries. Sometimes, she felt like she was losing herself, but she knew it was temporary. She thought she would soon get the old Charles back. Even when he started going out late. Even when he started coming home late. Even when he started not coming home at all.

The endless suffering hadn't brought her anything. In fact, it had taken everything from her.

The person that you'd take a bullet for, Is behind the trigger

She knew the signs, had seen them in her own parents. When they ate together, he could go through the entire meal without meeting her gaze. When she placed her hands on his body, he would sometimes shiver. Not the shiver of anticipation from the early days. The kind that suggested he didn't deserve the display of affection.

Her own friends seemed oblivious to the situation. "I ran into Charles yesterday, at the club," "I saw Charles in town with a friend", "Aren't you with Charles today?". Were they trying to pretend everything was fine to protect her? Or were they already distancing themselves from a situation they didn't want to witness?

Oh, we're fading fast, I miss missing you, now and then

She pinpointed the breaking point as her sister's wedding. How ironic, she'd thought. Celebrating love, respect, and unity when I feel none of these things in my own relationship. Charles had arrived late, his hair disheveled, tie slightly askew. She had felt tears burning behind her eyes, had bitten her cheek to hold back from exploding in the middle of the church. She refused to believe that he had done that to her. That he had disrespected her on this day, in this place. Her entire family had cast a glance in her direction, had observed the way Charles had slipped between the guests to sit next to her. Without a glance. Without a touch. Her sister, speech in hand, had taken a few seconds to start. "With you by my side, I know I can face anything," she had started saying to her husband, letting her eyes meet the teary ones of her little sister.

Making eyes at this husk, around my heart, I see through you and we're sitting in the dark

He told her everything, recounted everything to her. From what he felt in the car during a race to his latest argument with his brother. She read him like an open book, could anticipate every word, every gesture, every thought, even. To joke around, she often said she knew him better than she knew herself. Upon reflection, they got together when they were eighteen. Had she even had time to get to know herself, or had she cowardly built herself around him?

The idea of pursuing her life's journey without him terrified her. She didn't know who she was, who she wanted to be. She didn't even know if she liked herself. She sometimes wondered if he knew her as well as she knew him. If he knew her favorite color, her favorite song, her favorite season. She always ended up pushing those somber thoughts away, reminding herself that these concerns were those of a schoolgirl, and got back to her duties. To taking care of him.

So give me your filth, make it rough, Let me, let me, trash your love

She was gentle, with a calm nature, almost maternal.

She never lost her composure, never raised her voice. But she had yelled that day. When they arrived home after the church ceremony. She would never forget, and he probably wouldn't either, how her voice had broken when she had shouted three words, three little words that had been enough to shatter everything. "Who is she?".

She, who admired him so much, who thought of him as a man of the purest and most sincere nature. She had given him a chance to repent. He hadn't seized it, hanging his head low. That day, facing her anger, the pain of a betrayed woman, she'd found him so small that he was almost ridiculous. He hadn't responded, of course. Hadn't said a word.

I will sing to you everyday, If it will take away the pain

She'd stayed. She wasn't sure if love made her do it. Perhaps it was out of habit. Or masochism. But she had stayed, and life had resumed just as it was before, for a few weeks. They had started waking up side by side again, sharing their day over a meal again.

Making love, again. She hadn't even realized they had stopped touching each other, desiring each other. How long had it lasted? A week? A month? Six?

He played the piano in the evening, proclaiming a love strong and indestructible over the keys, letting his fingers glide from white to black, filling the apartment with sounds and colors that had disappeared. Of feelings that had disappeared.

Oh, and I heard you've got it, got it so bad, 'Cause I am the best you'll ever have

She had let herself dream of the life before.

A life where Charles had only touched her, only tasted her. A life where she didn't discreetly grab his phone every night when his breathing indicated he was asleep. A life where she didn't send messages to Carlos at all hours of the day and night to find out where he was, with whom he was when she wasn't there. A life where her sister didn't regularly tell her how worried she was about her, finding her too thin, too stressed, too distracted.

So, she had left. She had left the spare keys he had given her on the dining table. She had fled his apartment and returned to hers, the one she had just planned on returning the keys to the owner, ready to move in permanently with him. She had spent three days alone, spending entire days in the dark. Ignoring the messages and calls of her mother, her father, her sister. Carlos, too.

Baby you were my picket fence,

By the end of the third day, he had finally called, and after three rings, she had picked up.

Neither of them had spoken for several seconds.

Then, he had done it. For the first time in months, he had been honest with her.

"It's not working anymore," he had sighed into the phone. "I can't do it anymore."

She had hung up.

Lain down on the sofa.

Waited for the day to save her from the night.

I miss missing you, now and then,

Now and then.

[ms-demeanor]

Hey! I appreciate your perspective on computer-based things. I think I need to get a laptop and would love your opinion on decent brands. If you don't have an opinion or want to answer please disregard the q.

Context: I'm often on the move and really want something small, light, and that will last a long time. I'm bad about buying new things or taking things to be fixed so ideally it's not something that dies quickly or needs frequent repairs. For a while I used an iPad for this but I need more of a keyboard than tablets have and the shelf life of an iPad is shorter than it should be for the cost. Mine is 7 years old and only works while plugged in... I liked my Macbook Pro I got for college but it's almost 15 years old and given I haven't needed a new one since I don't think spending all that on a Mac makes sense either. I use a gaming PC mostly but I'm going to need to travel a lot more in the upcoming year. I'm ok to spend up a bit since I want it to last.

I think you're going to have to adjust your expectations about the average functional lifespan of electronics. Seven years is a lot to get out of any tablet and fifteen years is way way way above average for a computer.

At work we estimate that the functional lifespan of a laptop will be around five years and the functional life of a desktop will be around seven years; we include upgrades in that lifespan, like adding RAM and storage.

It is not *unusual* to get more than five years out of a laptop or seven years out of a desktop, but if you are a heavy user of anything other than a browser and a word processor, that's about the time when you'll find that the computer feels slow enough to be frustrating. This isn't a hard limit, and it's not something that everyone experiences because people use computers differently, but if you're an artist and you use a drawing program that program will start to feel slow after a while because as updates and patches and drivers have been tweaked for newer devices they've slowly left your device in the dust.

This isn't planned obsolescence, by the way. Computer manufacturers try to "future proof" their devices to a certain extent, but you just can't anticipate certain kinds of changes. Maybe your laptop was manufactured before there were consumer SSDs available so its operating system doesn't take the advantages and limitations of SSDs into account. Maybe your desktop was built for DDR3 RAM and we're now on DDR5 and people aren't writing programs to the standard of the old technology, they're taking advantage of the standards of the new technology.

Since you were able to use your devices comfortably for such a long time, it sounds like you're not a very heavy user and don't need to worry too much about beefing up your specs. However it does sound like you want to keep your computer and use it as long as possible while paying a reasonable price for it (which is good! I think we should all try to extend the lives of our electronic devices as much as possible!).

I actually think you sound like a good match for a Framework laptop.

Framework is a company that makes laptops that are a lot more modular than what's on the market these days. They're mean to be easy to open up for upgrades and sturdy for heavy use. Most of the parts of the laptop are easily replaceable - including the screen - so you can use them for a long time and easily make upgrades that will help the computer feel fresher.

They're a bit more expensive than comparable PCs but much easier to repair if you aren't comfortable opening up your own computer (framework is intentionally built to be easy for people who are non-technical to work on their computers), and they are a LOT less expensive than comparable macs.

I still think you're probably looking at around 7 years of regular use out of a Framework and it won't *break* at that point, it will just. Probably be a bit slow and frustrating. You might not be able to get parts for it after a certain point. You eventually won't be able to upgrade the OS. But that's true of all computers.

I've still got my 2005 macbook. It still turns on, I can still use garage band on it. But it doesn't connect to the internet and uses such an old USB standard that it is extremely slow to transfer data on or off of and it cries and freezes if i try to use photoshop. It's not broken, it's just no longer useful as a daily computer.

What I'm defining as functional here is "Is able to run multiple programs (including at least one browser with 50+ tabs open and two office suites) at the same time for 8-10 hours a day without crashing, freezing, or losing data and restarting is not a major inconvenience."

In those terms, it does sound like you're probably in need of an upgrade (I can't imagine that your current machine is particularly quick) and I think that a framework laptop would suit your needs well.

If you're looking for something somewhat less expensive, you can generally find a decent thinkbook with a 12th or 13th gen i5 processor, 16GB RAM, and a 500GB SSD for around $700-ish, which is the low end of what I think you're going to pay for a decent laptop. I'm reccing lenovo here because I personally like them and have found them to be very easy to crack open for repairs and upgrades. Stick to the thinkbook over the thinkpad because that's the business line and is a bit sturdier and they are designed to be easier to upgrade over time.

Actually, here's a thinkbook with a 12th gen i5, 40GB RAM, and a 1tb SSD for under $700. That's a shockingly good price for that laptop; the reseller OEMGenuine is one I've purchased from many times before for work and I've found them to be reliable, though the reason those specs are so good is because they've added aftermarket parts, so your RAM and SSD won't be under warranty from Lenovo.

For Framework you're looking at at least $1000, but it's easy to plug and play with upgrades so you can start out with lower specs (except processor, don't cheap out on the processor) and upgrade later. The framework is a bit smaller and easier to travel with, but I have a laptop quite similar to the lenovo and it's not a huge pain to move around - it's very light but the 15" screen might be bigger than you're looking for.

If you're willing to spend a little bit more and you're very uninterested in doing your own upgrades and would prefer the most computer you can get for your money right out of the gate, this is a 12th gen i7 thinkpad with 40GB RAM and a 2TB SSD for $1150. (I've not ordered from this reseller before, so maybe check over their terms if you're considering purchasing from them.)

[fumifooms]

Hi I’m currently reading through a bunch of your posts, specifically the Laios based ones since he’s my favorite and I wanted to say the ones I’ve read (The Succubus and Marcile’s smile so far as well as some Laios/Lycion ones) are amazingly written and I love how in depth you go and the manga panels you use as examples, the observations you’ve made as well are some things I’ve never even thought to consider and they’re incredible,

Anyways, I just wanted to say how incredible your writing is and thank you for making such wonderful posts that I’ll continue to read, I also hope to make some Laios and Lycion art because it’s such a rare pair that I love, but regardless have a wonderful day!

Glad to hear it! 😊 I’ve already rewritten the Laios’ succubus analysis once but it’s still one of those analyses old enough that I don’t like anymore and find badly written ironically… I’ve been wanting to make separate posts rephrasing and reframing some things about the topic, summarizing to be way shorter concise and whatnot… The succubi in Dunmeshi and what they say about everyone is one of my favorite topics and I talk about it even privately so frequently that I can’t help but reword things over and over again and always finding new imo slightly better ways to put things… It is a bit of a problem though because I try to keep repeating myself on my different tumblr analyses to a minimum but then there are the topics that I’ll just happily go on a spiel over anytime lol. But yeah right now I’m sort of waiting for the anime to get to that chapter before preparing the wips on it for posting lmao I did condense and explain my favorite complete reading of Laios’ succubus into a summary I’m satisfied with recently, in an 11 tweets thread, link for those curious~

Super looking forward to the laicion omg 🥺 I should share some of my fic wips one of these days, me and a friend lucky-fydraws have been talking about a modern au for a while where they both attend furcons hehe. If I start talking about it now i’ll be here forever though

I can slip in a laicion art wip though hehe… Spoilers for end of manga

I post my art over at @fuumiku though, you might have seen my laicion comic on there Thank you again for the nice words!!! They make my day better :) and make me more motivated haha

[hannie-dul-set]

— arranged by: member (eldest to youngest) | date (latest to oldest) | type (full-length to drabbles to blurbs). i don’t recommend reading my older works because they’re terrible. still putting them on here for the sake of bookkeeping | last updated: 23.12.18.

HOME FOR THE BITCHLESS. wherein your friend offers a room for you to crash in while your dorm is being renovated, but fails to mention that your new housemates don’t know how to talk to women (oh, and they also have an ongoing bet about you, too).

PAIRINGS. choi soobin, choi beomgyu, lee heeseung, park jongseong, sim jaeyun, park sunghoon x female! reader. GENRE. housemates! au, rom-com, sitcom, reverse harem time baby. GENERAL WARNINGS. too much swearing, references to/jokes about sex but i will not write smut, an awful amount of secondhand embarrassment, all of the boys are pathetic (check each chapter for specific warnings). WORD COUNT. (currently) 22k.

[monsters don’t hide under the bed] 

LOVE VOMIT.  [n.] — the term when you become too full with your feelings too quickly and too frequently that you end up spitting everything out before even getting the chance to digest. this happens to you more often than you’d like to admit— every quarter, actually, ever since starting college. but what can you do when the prospect of falling in love is just too good to say no to? what can you do when maybe the next desert might actually stay inside your system this time?

or, wherein you fall in love with a different guy every season but fail to notice the one that’s been looking at you the whole year.

PAIRING. choi soobin x  reader (ft. the rest of txt x reader). GENRE. college! au, orgmate! soobin, strangers to friends to lovers, slice of life, romance, humor, mild angst, comfort (no hurt), SLOWBURN, featuring some members of seventeen, enhypen, and le sserafim. WARNINGS. reader is shorter than soobin, swearing, drinking, kissing, unrequited feelings, annoying org jargon. WORD COUNT. 36k.

THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER DRINK BEYOND YOUR LIMITS (OR MAYBE YOU SHOULD?) soobin blacked out one evening and forgot something he shouldn’t have.

PAIRING. choi soobin x reader. GENRE. fluff, humor, lovestruck! soobin, based on the manhwa “daybreaking romance.” WARNINGS. drinking, swearing. WORD COUNT. 1.2k.

모기 / MOGI. in which all of your life, you and beomgyu have been stuck together like glue whether you liked it or not. and as much as you want to change that, life seems to have different plans. 

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x reader. GENRE. childhood friends to not quite friends (derogatory) to not quite friends (endearment), romance, humor, very light-barely there angst, pining idiots, college! au with flashes to high school, featuring an ensemble of 01z idols. WARNINGS. swearing, many many (fake) death threats, so much secondhand embarrassment, mentions of sex, mentions of blood and gore, the worldly problems of a teenager, mc has anger issues, gossip. WORD COUNT. 14k.

THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLF. you don’t buy it when beomgyu keeps trying to make a move on you.

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x reader. GENRE. fluff, humor. WARNINGS. swearing, beomgyu is embarrassing. WORD COUNT. 1.6k.

BFF PRO MAX. best friends doing not so best friend things.

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x reader. GENRE. fluff, suggestive. WARNINGS. making out. WORD COUNT. 582.

[rockstar! au]

TOMORROW X TOGETHER MASTERLIST. © hannie-dul-set.

[surr3al1sm]

MLYiD scheduling!

Two posts about MLYiD in one day, what am I? It's author or something? Anyways, I have a little question to ask you guys. You see, no matter how much I LOVE writing 10k+ word chapters for you guys, these coming months it's just not going to be a realistic goal anymore. It's going to be the busiest time of the year at the themepark I work at, which means I'm going to have to work a lot and till very late. Meaning I physically will not have enough free time to write such long chapters (nor will I have the energy to). So I have two options for you to pick from. I could: A. Write shorter chapters (like 4-6k or something) and try my absolute hardest to keep posting weekly. Which basically means I will be splitting the chapters I write now in half, or three ways if necessary, not that you're going to get less content. Just more chapters. Although I cannot guarantee that this will be on Saturdays like it is now, and I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to make it every week. You guys will be updated if I don't. B. Continue to write the long of chapters like I do now, but they are going to be way more spread out. Like I'm going to be posting one every 2/3 weeks instead of every week. Also with this I can't even guarantee I'll make it to current MLYiD levels, but I'll try my best.

Vote for which option you'd prefer please! It would really help me decide on what to do.

I really don't think this matters to you guys as much as it does to me, but I'm someone who very much likes to keep a tight mental schedule and who very much likes to stick to that schedule. I would love nothing more than to keep writing as is, but that's just not even remotely possible for me right now due to work. Hopefully this should only apply to July and August though. This also applies to chapter 10, but I honestly already decided to make it shorter so I can give you all a chapter this week.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

remember it once - chapter three

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack x Belle Rating: T (will change) Chapter: 3 / 7 Word Count: 2900

For today's @dodgerfoxweek prompt: love letters/banter

read on tumblr: one | two

The months are long without her. Jack finds himself softening towards Sneed of all people. Following the lifesaving procedure Jack performed on Belle, Sneed has demonstrated a genuine interest in bettering his basic surgical skills and acquiring the more advanced techniques he lacks. He’s still superior, still snide, still essentially Sneed, but now he listens to Jack’s ideas and, occasionally, compliments him on his successful surgeries.

The number of successful surgeries has been increasing steadily since Belle introduced ether and carbolic acid, and with Sneed cooperating, the two doctors are able to work side by side in the theatre on the same patient. This frequently shortens surgery time, which has manifold resulting benefits: decreased blood loss, reduced risk of death from time spent under anaesthesia, shorter duration for Jack and Sneed to endure each other’s presence. Strangely, the situation has become something akin to… training each other. When Prof goes, the hospital’s power structure should actually change for the better, with two capable surgeons sharing their knowledge. Sneed will be Jack’s reliable right hand, and Jack has dreams of bringing in new doctors who will contribute to the pooling of information rather than existing in competition with one another and risking lives in the process.

Of course, it isn’t a completely smooth partnership. Sneed can be awfully Sneedy at times. Whenever he makes a dig about Jack’s reading, Jack urges him to put his own educated shoulder to the wheel to see if he can find the cure for being an insufferable git. Someone really should, he insists while watching Sneed’s mustache twitch with restrained petulance, in this day and age.

Unless he’s tending to his patients, Jack keeps his evenings for himself. He’s trying not to gamble, not to drink too much (admittedly, “too much” is an inconstant measure), not to say yes to Fagin’s more suspicious plans; anything he claims is “foolproof” is particularly to be avoided. It isn’t exciting, but nothing really is without her.

Just once during the four-month voyage that carries Belle to England, a letter is delivered to Jack. Well, it’s delivered onto another ship, to the postmaster in Port Victory, to Government house, into Fanny’s hands, and she turns up at the hospital—to his initial confusion. Since Fanny escaped marriage to the Lettuce, Jack isn’t aware of any renewed interest in Sneed. He doesn’t understand what she’s doing here. When she says she’s received a letter, he imagines the very worst and feels his face drain of blood, but Fanny launches into a description of Belle’s experiences thus far. By her tone, Jack slowly recognizes that this letter was not followed by a note about Lady Belle Fox’s tragic burial at sea. He exhales. Even though Fanny feels that she’s communicated everything, Jack asks her to read the letter. He wants to hear Belle’s words.

Tell Jack I would write to him if Mother was not watching me like a hawk, Belle writes. I forgive her, only because we have been two months at sea and even the pastimes which were initially the most novel have become dully familiar. Without a full household staff to command—and Father, crucially Father—her attention falls heavily on me. She tells me to do my embroidery and study my Latin instead of the anatomy texts she finds “vulgar” and “revolting.” This is most amusing, considering her own pricked fingers and the seasickness that rears its head whenever she attempts to read for an extended period.

“It sounds dreadful,” Jack remarks, crossing his arms.

“But you were in the Navy!” Fanny protests. “Don’t you love the sea?”

“I didn’t mean the sea.”

She may be willfully ignoring the implication that he was talking about her mother.

It is not recommended that I stand on deck, Fanny reads on, but after I had done it once, I was determined to return. Fanny, it takes the breath from one’s lungs. Blue. Everywhere. To be in constant motion, harvesting the energy of the waves. Some mornings—

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

Jack’s vision had unfocused as he listened, reintroduced to the sea he’d made his career upon through Belle’s eyes. He realizes the question is Fanny’s and blinks.

“Which part?”

“All that dreadful… air! The wet!”

“Keep reading.”

Fanny sulks but lifts the paper once again.

Some mornings, I catch the dawn. The sky is the blackest thing you can imagine, and then, suddenly, the ship and all of us onboard are born into the world. I believe we are hardly real between sunset and sunrise. Colours seem to seep up from the horizon as though the paintings you love so much have been washed in the distant water, fleshy pinks and bitter oranges rise and bleed. It is the most vital thing I have ever seen. I only wish Jack were with me. Tell him, Fanny. I can hardly believe I won’t sail from one shore and meet him at another…

“It becomes a bit… romantic,” Fanny explains, not exactly bashful, but certainly aware that she is privy to something Belle and Jack would ideally keep to themselves. “Would you like to read the rest alone?”

Ah. Then it is uncomfortable.

Before he can speak, Jack watches Fanny’s eyes widen as she recalls the disastrous dinner. She’s about to assume (only because Sneed bloody announced as much) he can’t read. He heads her off, quiet and flushed while he explains that it is difficult, not impossible. Easier when words are written clearly with plenty of space, more difficult when someone’s handwriting is cramped and smudged. He can read. It just takes time, but he will spend time on Belle, he will sit with her letter and focus and squint in order to relieve Fanny of her messenger duties.

“But what about when you want to write back?” Fanny asks, eyes searching but kind.

“I’ll ask—” But who will he ask to correspond with his fiancée on his behalf? Fanny is probably the best choice as she’s keen to support their romance, but she’s nosy. He might (he does) want to say things that only Belle’s eyes will read.

“Oh! I have already thought of something much better!” Fanny gushes. Jack hasn’t yet had the opportunity to suggest a single name.

—

“It is the images that I find so very awful,” Fanny explains, supporting this assertion with a grimace as she pages past an illustration of a grotesquely swollen tongue, “but it was the images Belle seemed to like best, of late.”

She’s installed him in her sister’s room. One of Belle’s medical texts is open on her desk, and the pair of them stand over it in contemplation. The Governor is in town and the household staff are either entirely disinterested in what Lady Fanny and Dr. Dawkins might be doing in Lady Belle’s bedroom or else they don’t care a whit. Even if they did care, Jack thinks, what are they to do about it? Most of them probably can’t read any better than he can, if at all. They certainly won’t be writing to Lady Fox to inform her of the young doctor’s latest misdeed.

“What do you think?” Fanny asks.

“I couldn’t overstate their usefulness,” Jack says, turning a few pages himself. “And I suppose they are things of beauty, when done well.” He traces graceful lines of musculature. “The detail shows an interest in precision and care, which I can certainly relate to.”

“Not of the images themselves,” Fanny complains, closing the volume with sudden petulance. “My idea! Drawing to Belle instead of writing to her!”

“I’m not sure I have your… skill,” he states cautiously, recalling Fanny’s very memorable trees. “Not to mention your instruction. You must have had tutors?”

“I did have one, but he was quite rigid. We had a difference of taste.”

“I see.”

“Have you ever drawn?” she wonders.

“A little,” Jack admits. At last, he removes his hat, setting it on the desk. He brushes a hand through his hair. “We surgeons try to keep notes of our surgeries—successful and not. Often, Hetty will take dictation for me, but if she’s busy, or the procedure’s something I did by feel rather than by sight, it can be easier for me to try to sketch what I remember.”

Fanny smiles encouragingly.

“Try, then.”

This is how he removes his coat and pulls up a chair. It is how he casts his eyes over the pencils and sticks of charcoal, the messy potted watercolours, before reaching out to touch the tools with his fingertips. Jack doesn’t notice when Fanny leaves him to it, but at some point, there is a cup of tea on the desk into which he accidentally dips a brush. He doesn’t realize until he fills his mouth with the chalky flavour of diluted paint.

It's his own palm he’s attempting to represent. He curls and opens his hand, studying the toughened skin. In his mind, he peels back time, scrubs away the callouses to peel back his very skin, remembering his palm ripped open from the ropes on the first ship on which he sailed. Jack sketches the ragged edges of the injury, the glow of abrasion. With a sodden brush, he dips into the red, then swipes across the paper, watching the wound bleed as the water spreads. He wrings some of the water out before applying more paint to the spot, getting the colour rich and real and—

Fanny shrieks from behind him.

“How awful! I mean, excellent.” She smiles in apology. “I wish I had never seen it, and I mean that as the most sincere compliment.”

“I understand. I appreciate your opinion.”

“Do you?” She looks genuinely surprised. “I can see why Belle fancies you.”

It really isn’t his place to tell his fiancée’s sister she should expect more than basic respect from any man she’d hope to marry, so he doesn’t. Fanny is much more assured in the advice she gives to him, offering blunt criticism as she points to different parts of his creation. Not unkind though.

“Again soon?” she asks when she’s done and he’s standing to go, realizing he has paint soaked into the sleeves he didn’t roll up his arms soon enough. Unusual. It’s normally blood there.

Jack nods.

—

While he’s still learning, Belle’s letters begin arriving from London. Fanny dutifully shares each one. Now that Belle has more freedom to write—physical freedom, without her mother looking over her shoulder—each letter contains the sentence “Fanny, stop reading.” Jack appreciates the honesty of Fanny reading this line aloud, though she does also frown at being excluded from the rest.

The rest.

It has to be Fanny who explained, and Jack is grateful for it. The remainder of Belle’s letters are written larger, with spaces between the letters, each word cleanly executed on the page. They’re legible, specifically for him, exactly how he told Fanny a letter would need to be to lessen his struggle.

At last, he has an account of her longing firsthand. She doesn’t speak of the engagement—there is still a risk that Fanny would spy the word, even if she weren’t intentionally snooping—but it’s clear she isn’t only writing to an acquaintance, a friend, a fellow student of the human body. That Belle refers to well enough, perhaps dangerously so, but it’s all in Latin. The switch from one language to another stumps Jack at first, but he learns to watch out for it. In Latin, Belle is both formal and erotic, and Jack finds himself angling her letters away from the eyes of Hetty and Fagin, though neither knows the language. While Belle’s sentences are stiff, the parts of the body she employs Latin to address—parts of his body, and hers, frequently imagined together—evoke visceral memories. The dusty old language can be surprisingly sensual, Jack finds, when Belle writes of skin on skin.

He responds with broken bones, chipped teeth, dislocated jaws—drawings of all the latest cases to pass through his ward, everything Belle’s missing. It’s when he’s replicating the twisting line of stitches he threaded into an elbow the other day that he has the idea to embellish beyond paint; Jack pokes through her belongings (sorry, Belle) until he discovers her embroidery thread. After that, his art becomes vivid in a way that almost astounds him, even as he jabs the needle through the page. He lays a skin-coloured wash on an arm, then raises a blue vein down its length. He adds fibre ribs to open cadavers, creeping lines of red to blood-shot eyes. When he gathers both Fanny’s art supplies and his strength to recreate the surgery he’ll remember for the rest of his days, he brings Belle’s aorta to life in crimson before sewing in the noose that ties it off. I love you, he tries his best to say. I love you all the way through.

—

Dearest Jack,

I must tell you immediately, or with as much immediacy as a letter from Britain to Australia can allow, that my mother and I will be home in Port Victory sooner than we had planned. Therefore, do not suspect me of neglecting our correspondence if you do not hear from me with the regularity to which we have both grown accustomed. I may be boarding a ship within the week. I fear my mother is being overly cautious, but as an earlier departure is to my benefit, I was hardly about to protest. The responsibility for her agitated state is mine, as I will unfold.

I’ve told you of my time at the University College Hospital here in London. As access to the hospital was key to my mother getting me here, she has allowed me to maintain a standing appointment with staff. I have observed so much and taken copious notes. Your letters also inspired me to seek out a young nurse here, who I was told had something of a talent for drawing. I’ve paid her to illustrate my notes, so that we might more easily replicate these new techniques on our patients when I am back.

Though I miss you terribly—you know I do, Jack, do not be too jealous of London’s sick and injured, monopolize my time though they may—there has been so much to learn that I was deeply frustrated by the wave of sickness that suddenly swept the city. Before you leap to chastise my response, yes, I know it was a selfish one. You see, at home, you might have called on me to help mitigate the spread of illness. Here, I am an indulged guest. I may be present at surgeries and question patient doctors, but in the case of an outbreak, I am denied entry. Foolishly, I complained about this to my mother. Rather than commiserate with me over the injustice of my being shut out when I have the time, inclination, and very possibly the skills necessary to help, she determined they were quite right to bar me. A mere two days later, she decided we had better leave them to it and sail for home while our own health is still sound.

This does not mean I have seen nothing, and, Jack, I am not so selfish as to hope this illness reaches Port Victory. It appears to be neither influenza nor typhoid. I may have been able to diagnose it with closer study, but such a thing was denied me. At least these male doctors cannot separate me from my books; I have already begun packing my trunks with all the latest literature. I know you will make time for me so that we can discuss things properly. It is an enormous comfort.

It's been more than half a year since our separation began, yet I doubt you have forgotten what awaits us upon my return. My mother will see how you have flourished in your role as Head Surgeon, and she will know how steadfast our love has been. I believe our engagement has lasted long enough. I long for us to be united in all ways.

Yours across oceans,

Belle

—

The months are slower than ever, but not even Sneed on his crankiest day can bother Jack now. When Prof finally stepped aside, as recognition for his substantial contributions to the health of the colony (To the death rate, more like, Jack thought, but resisted impertinence just this once), he was allowed to maintain his residence in the house meant to be passed between head surgeons. Braced for the worst, Jack was surprised that this didn’t mean he wouldn’t be offered the things his predecessor had enjoyed.

Instead, they built him a new house.

The day he was granted his own bed is still clear in Jack’s mind, the day he was given his own quarters at the hospital even clearer. An entire house is so overwhelming that he puts off moving in. He’s afraid of the strange and terrible objects that will fill it—spoons in the kitchen and settees in the parlour. Innumerable trinkets for Fagin to nick, no doubt. Jack will have to pretend to mind, because the best thing that will be in the house will be Belle. He can’t imagine being concerned about much else.

He takes to strolling down to the dock each morning. On one of them, Belle’s ship comes in.

[soongtypehuman]

Update on Things

It’s been almost 4 months since the craniotomy that removed the tumor that was crushing my brain. The hope was that the surgery would cure the mild to moderate cognitive issues I was dealing with, or at least stop them from progressing. I’m sorry to say that wasn’t the case, and many of the problems have gotten dramatically worse.

I don’t want to go into too much detail, least of all because it’s boring. My short-term memory, ability to read and write, as well as speak fluidly, have all been affected negatively. I’ve just had another EEG to see if the seizures are continuing, and will have another MRI this week to assess the amount of damage to my brain from the tumor that had been affecting it for years and any damage caused by the surgery, and to check for a stroke. It’s a lot of fuckery I don’t have all the answers for yet. Once I have answers, then I can begin a more exacting treatment for the problem(s).

Unfortunately, as I said above, the problems are affecting my ability to write.

Planning and outlining have always been the backbone of my writing process, but even more so now. Everything is slower and requires a lot more concerted effort and lots of revision.

In short, I’m not able to create as quickly as I once could, although I’m hoping that will change eventually with enough rehab and figuring out new ways to work around my setbacks.

Ideally, I’d like to continue posting every Sunday, just as I have for over a year, but I might have to accept the idea that, as far as things go at the moment, I might not be able to use my writing time for both a weekly ficlet while also finding the time, energy, and focus to work on longer fics. For the time being at least, I might have to switch to posting every other week so I can allot more time and attention to the longer fics.

I just don’t know yet and can’t set anything in stone either way.

But I did want to say something about all of this because I was worried people might see me posting less frequently or posting work that isn’t as long as it used to be and think that I’ve gotten lazy or lost interest. That couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, my love of this series is one of the few things in my life that brings me joy and that I can count on (my most beloved @monotremer being the main source of that), and one of my biggest motivators in rehab is trying to return to being focused and prolific where my writing is concerned. But I also have to accept that some things may never return to the way they were.

In any event, I hope to keep posting work regularly, but hope everyone understands if I’m not always able to do that.

Updates on what’s coming:

I was working on a longer fic to post to the Data/Lore collection today, but didn’t finish it, so there’s a shorter ficlet in the non-explicit Positronic Rivalry collection instead. The D/L fic should be ready to post next Sunday (fingers crossed). And while all that’s happening, I’m still working on the multi-chapter in the main series that got much bigger than I originally intended. It’s slow going, but it’s going, and my hope is that it’ll be ready to post in July.

[themauvesoul]

Sometimes I feel like I am a guy trying to plug a hole in the Hoover dam with my pinky finger. Anyways. Here is what you actually need to know about paragraph length, sentence length, and the like:

Yes, the rule is TECHNICALLY that you’re supposed to start a new paragraph with each new action or thought. However. On a more basic level, a paragraph is just a group of sentences that are conveying the same idea, and there are one million ways to skin that cat. For instance, here is an excerpt from a personal essay I wrote a while back:

Here it is again:

And here it is again:

All of these are technically correct, but they read slightly different. The first one reads faster than the other two, and the ideas in the paragraph blend and bleed together a little more. The middle one is much more measured and even. And the last version reads very slowly and dramatically, with heavy emphasis on certain words and phrases. What makes these three passages read so differently is the length of the paragraphs. Readers tend to pick up the pace during long paragraphs, and slow down quite a bit when they get to shorter paragraphs. Additionally, you’ll notice that the two one-word paragraphs add a TON of emphasis to those words. This is because they’re so visually distinct AND extremely short.

The trick to formatting your paragraphs is NOT following an imprecise rule that is frequently difficult to apply to your own writing. The trick is to vary the length of your paragraphs.

This:

And this:

are both equally annoying. The version without any paragraph breaks goes on and on, and eventually you get tired of reading it. The version with TOO MANY paragraph breaks feels like it’s shouting at you, because every sentence is so important it deserves its own paragraph. Formatting paragraphs is, first and foremost, about including enough variation to keep people interested and paying attention.

And this exact same principle is true of sentence length. If you scroll back up and look at the pic where I put every sentence on its own line, you’ll notice very quickly that there’s a lot of variation there. Some sentences are one word, some are three lines long, and most fall somewhere in the middle. This is intentional. It keeps the reader engaged. If you look closely at this paragraph, you’ll see that I’m doing it in here, too.

The reason for this is identical to why varying your paragraph lengths is a good idea. Long sentences move quickly, short sentences slow the reader’s pace and add emphasis, and medium sentences keep the reader at a comfortable, easy pace. You can use long sentences to add urgency, a sense that time is moving quickly, or a level of confusion as the reader tries to decipher your six line sentence. Short sentences pack a punch. It’s the difference between a freeze frame and an establishing shot. You can use the rhythm and meter of spoken language to help out with this as well. Most people sort of instinctively vary their sentences in length, tone, and emphasis. Nobody irl is speaking to one another in a series of five-word sentences because it sounds robotic and disgusting. If you write in the natural cadence you use in spoken language, you will automatically vary your sentences enough to keep a reader interested.

One thing to note about this is that the emphasis sentence and paragraph lengths create, much like any other fun writing trick, is like cayenne pepper or salt. No emphasis is bland, but too much makes your writing inedible. Figuring out how to season your drafts is a process that you can only complete through experimentation.

This is why you patently SHOULD NOT listen to writing advice that is broad, basic, or positioned as universally applicable. Everybody has their own preferences wrt spice and salt! Two people can look at an identical work of art, and can very easily get into an argument online about whether it’s bland or over seasoned, because they fundamentally have different standards. The best way to improve your writing is to learn how and why the tools in your toolkit work, experiment with them, and show other people the results.

[samanthahirr]

For the meta asks, 1 and 18??

Thanks so much for the questions, silverbrume! Fun Meta Asks for Writers

#1 - my current BIG project is Off the Books (13/21 chapters posted, and I hope to have it finished by year-end!), a 00Q fic that on the surface is about Bond & Q hunting down Silva to get revenge for M’s death, while falling in love along the way. But thematically, it’s about untangling the damage that M’s years of manipulation did to Bond & Q, and getting Bond to admit that he can’t keep repressing-and-ignoring his traumas or trying to convince everyone (including himself) that he’s "fine."

On the shorter side, I’m working on a Riverhouse Remix (which per the rules must remain a mystery until posting). I know which story I'm going to remix, and I know the sequel I want to write for it, but I’m currently trying to puzzle out how much of the original fic I can/should include (as in overlap) in my remix to create a comprehensible, standalone story. An interesting challenge!

And on deck (ha!) is my 00Q merman AU, which I am increasingly excited to write! I’ve got most of an outline written for it, and I’ve decided to stick to a straight-forward, chronological structure instead of experimenting with flashbacks/flashforwards. That means it’ll be 25k minimum (more like 40k...), but I’m coming to terms with another long-fic commitment and a boatload (HA!) of maritime research.

#18 - I love this question about alternative versions of my own stories! I don’t have many alternate versions in my notes because of how much planning I do in advance of writing, but here’s my wildest example:

I originally came up with a loose outline for a fic about aromantic!Q having a bunch of sex with a few different double-0 agents…but I couldn’t see it coming together as an actual “story.” So I took my favorite scene idea from the outline—one in which Q asks Bond to help him shave so he can go down on 003, and Bond shaves Q for her pleasure while she watches, leading directly into a threesome—and I reimagined it as a standalone OT3 fic for The Man from UNCLE fandom (Aftershave). As part of that reimagining, the shaving became Gaby’s request and Napoleon’s challenge/dare, with an emotional arc of Illya overcoming his discomfort with Napoleon’s difficult personality (frequently mocking/teasing Illya) so Illya can admit to them both how deeply he actually trusts Napoleon…and then Illya goes down on Gaby in a threesome with Napoleon.

When I DID decide to develop the aromantic!Q idea into a full story the following year (Touch It, Stroke It, and Undress It), I needed to reimagine that shaving scene into a different kink. I made 003's request be for Q to wax his chest for some corset dress-up instead of shave for cunnilingus, and I wrote a 00Q wax-play scene instead of a shaving threesome. And since I still wanted to hit that threesome beat, I created a brand new threesome for 00Q + Alec as a capstone. 

So in this particular instance, Chapter 6 of Touch It is an alternate universe retelling of Aftershave, which is an alternate universe retelling of a half-written 00Q scene in my notes. Trippy!

[lilac--sun]

Okay I should ACTUALLY start posting more frequently, I had family issues going on but we're all good now<3 (when Nightmares name or NM starts with a purple letter that means it's him uncorrupt)

Dream is naturally an EXTREMELY good aim. He chose the bow as his weapon of choice because he could close his eyes and still hit his target. Not only does this help in battle, this helps in everyday life, he can toss something behind him and make it into a basket/trashcan without even looking.

Every time killer walks into a room he slaps the top of a door like a middle school boy, Dust has joined in on this and they're in the process of getting cross to do it

The entire gang is bilingual with the exception of Dust, he's multilingual. Nightmare speaks Spanish, Killer speaks Arabic, Horror speaks a bit of German Cross speaks French and Dust speaks Sweetish, Norwegian he knows sign language and can write in Greek.

Nightmare is very reserved and quiet, unless you get him drunk. He's a happy and loud drunk, so when the gang got him drunk for the first time they were amazed about how giggly he was, he's also a lightweight which I think is pretty funny so after about 5 drinks he was OUT on the floor

When Dust wants to relax but can't sleep he makes visible 💤💤💤 with his magic so the gang knows he's relaxing (I feel like classic does the same thing tbh)

Nightmares uncorrupt body is still physically trying to keep up. When uncorrupt he looks like a slightly taller 11 year old, when his mind and corruption is thousands of years older

Cross has hundreds of self harm scars all over his body, and he was extremely self conscious of them and REFUSED to let anyone see his bair arms. That was until he trained with killer for the first time and saw that his arms AND legs were covered with scars and literally nobody seemed to mind so he dropped his coat and nobody said a word about it, so he started wearing shorter shirts afterwards.

Error loves being the center of attention all the time 24/7. So when the gang is all together and they don't make him #1 he gets kinda pouty, or hits them with "Why iS nobod-d-d-dy paying atTentiOn to meeee" until someone pays attention to him

Horror loves cheesy romance films just because of how bad they are. He'll sit down and binge like 4 or 5 really bad ones and cry laugh at them until he falls asleep

Nightmare sings in the shower but he'll deny it until the day that he dies

Inks current mood(with or without paints) is directly corresponded with the AU he's creating. It usually ends with copies and copies of a random AU

First time Nightmare called Dream "brother" after the truce, Dream let out so much positivity, NM couldn't be near him for a few hours

[numbknee]

i seek your advice numbknee. i really wanna write my own kyman fics and i have so many ideas for them but i’ve never written a fic before and i’m frightened to dip my toes into it. i’m not a writer, i’ve never written before. like how do you just sit down ans qrite something??? jfkgk i’m so confused, what’s your process or do you have any writing tips? i ask you cuz i love your writing and i look forward to your posts a lot.

That's so awesome, good for you dude!! Writing can be a really fun creative hobby but I totally get where you're coming from. The first fic I ever wrote was for the adventure time fandom 10 years ago (yikes I'm old lol) and I was really scared to post it. I don't remember how exactly I got the courage to finally put it out there but it def feels like diving into the deep end. Just know that everyone has to start somewhere!

The good thing about fanfiction is that it's as "low stakes" as you can probably get when it comes to creative writing. It's not for a job, it's not for any academic assignment, it's just something you do for fun. And I think the culture around fanfiction understands that a lot of writers are amateurs and are generally supportive regardless of your starting level in terms of skill. Personally, I would rather read from an inexperienced writer who's clearly trying their best and has some interesting ideas over a more polished/experienced writer taking themselves too seriously or treating fanfic writing like a competition.

There's no single "correct" way to write, because ultimately you have to do what best suits your own style and preferences. But for me, I generally start out with an idea for a single scene that inspires me and come up with a story around that scene so it fits into a cohesive fic. For example, for my first kyman fic I initially had the idea in my head of Kyle being mesmerized by Cartman dressed in drag and impulsively making a first move on him. I worked backwards from there, so I had to come up with 1) why he was doing drag in the first place, 2) why Kyle would be there watching him, and 3) how they end up alone together so Kyle can make the first move. The last one was the trickiest for me to figure out for some reason, but eventually I came up with the idea of Cartman tripping in his giant heels and injuring himself so Kyle would have to help him inside the house. It was funny but also helped move the plot along.

Planning out the scenes ahead of time like this can help a lot, but also don't be afraid to change things up as you write it out if you think something else works better. Since you have a bunch of your own ideas, start out with the one scene/scenario that inspires you the most and plan it out from there. I'd suggest first writing a shorter one-shot since that's easier to plan for than a longer, multi-chaptered fic. There's a ton of resources online you can find to help with story structure if you're not sure where to start or how to build on your idea. (Like this video about the 6 essential questions of storytelling).

Other logistical things: Make sure you save your work frequently. Spell-check is your friend. If you're not comfortable asking someone to beta-read your fic, use text-to-speech or read it aloud yourself to help catch any mistakes and listen to how sentences flow. I highly recommend using AO3 to publish your work since it has a great tagging system and helps you get visibility because of that, but also ensures your work will stay safe from the whims of corporations destroying/erasing fanworks since it's independently run and funded.

One last thing to keep in mind: it's nice to get positive interaction from the fandom, but ultimately you should write for yourself and your own enjoyment. If you only write seeking the approval of others, you're never going to be happy because you're solely basing your writing's worth on strangers' opinions. There have definitely been fics I've written that didn't get as much interaction as I would have liked, but in the end I was happy I wrote it because it was something I could be proud of having made for myself as my own audience.

Hope this helps! Good luck 👍

[in-flvx]

Hellooooo

I didn't come across a private chef Sirius ask? Or maybe I just missed it but I'm curious since the title is misleading?

I am becoming obsessed with your writing and ideas and just your blog! 👀😍👀😍👀

Hey hey, no there wasn't a Private Chef Sirius ask yet, and I'm super excited that you are interested, bc I love this AU. It let's me work with one of my fav thought experiments: how different would each of the Marauders be, if just one of them hadn't gone to school with the others. The title is a bit misleading bc Sirius ended up not actually working as a chef, but you'll see in the snippet.

The following morning begins with watery coffee, and kisses, bittered from that, in bed. Rubeus tells Sirius that he loves him still, and Sirius buries his face in Rubeus' armpit hair. It smells masculine in a way that Sirius relishes in. The sweet a reminder of the intimacy they shared, forever ago. Masculine and bitter, and sour in the way only alcohol manages to make someone smell. And yet. Rubeus smells like the first harbour Sirius ever knew.

"So, what brings you back to the isles?" Rubeus is wearing his glasses, from just having read the paper, but now looks at Sirius. There is hope in his eyes, that breaks Sirius' heart. Not for you, old man, not for you. "Work, actually. They need a hand at someones summer residence." Rubeus' face falls a little. "When do you start?" Sirius sighs. "Today. Or rather I'll have to arrive today. Not sure if they make me actually start today as well." Rubeus sniffs a little, but instead of protesting, he busies himself with making sandwiches for Sirius, despite Sirius' protests. Not much later, they share a last kiss before Sirius takes his old bike, and takes off.

Another drive through the scottish countryside, shorter this time, brings Sirius to the manor of his new job. It's large. Dark and oppressive, like so many houses of Sirius' childhood. Ivy ranks over the light facade. Natures protest against the building. Trying to strangle it. He can feel himself straighten up, as if his old gouverness had stuck a hat needle between his vertabrae again. With crunching stones, Sirius parks his bike. As he gets up, a stern looking woman stalks towards him. "Mr Black, I suppose?" She asks. Sirius is sure he can hear some of the brogue scottish in her RP. "Hi, yes that's me," Sirius gives back with his friendliest smile. "Minerva McGonagall," she introduces herself, and then continues to admonish Sirius for putting his bike where he had, and to instead park it behind the house. Sirius follows her instructions. "The Potters and their friends will start coming by Saturday. Mr Potter likes to keep company. His friends as well as the mother of his son join him here for the summer," McGonagall explains on the way. "By then you'll find your way around the manor and understand the workings, and routines of this place." Sirius parks his bike in a garage with several limousines and a few less fancy cars, which in all likeliness belong to the staff. "These are the cars you are expected to drive. While we have a chauffeur, you are going to do our shopping, and should one of our Masters require a drive you might have to step in. Everything you'll need for bigger repairs is stored here as well." Sirius nods. The garage is fancier and older than those he worked in so far, though that doesn't have to mean much. "The shack right over there contains Mr Filch's utensils. That is our gardener. He will expect your help frequently, as his old age forbids him from certrain work." Sirius nods along, as McGonagall shows him around. "Mr Slughorn and myself are the heads of our regular staff, but you are not the only newcomer here. All the more important that you don't embarrass us with incompetance or the unwillingness to help. One of our maids only started this week as well, and our new chef will arrive on friday." It starts to rain when they arrive back at the manor. "I understand you have a wide array of skills?" "I should hope so." McGonagall looks at him expectantly. "I'm used to farmwork, understand mechanics, and worked in several kitchens." "You will get to show off all of your varied skills over the summer." McGonagall uses a small key to open the door, and leads Sirius through a badly lit corridor. They cross several staircases which lead to different parts of the house. The very first, right behind the entrance door leads to the living quarters of the staff, as McGonagall explains. Sirius can hear two girls singing a round. Both immediately stop when McGonagall opens the door. The girls jump up in greeting.

[prowerprojects]

Well, who could have predicted what went down between SA2 and now. And I imagine if certain events went differently, we might some things would be way different. Especially when English is telling one story and Japanese telling another. (He wasn't the only character who experienced writing issues, his in particular just became "unfocused" after a while until they started scaling back the cast a bit.)

Hmm, probably would have helped if he had more kids around his age to interact with frequently. Cream slowly faded to the background {to her fans' dismay}, Marine is in Blaze's dimension and good luck finding Charmy interactions. Closest thing now is Sage and that's a mystery for now.

I think his theme song pretty much laid out his aspirations and still holds true for his Frontiers story in both versions of it. Presented differently in it and SA2, but ultimately the same goal: Finding his own style and path. (How far his potential goes really depends on him, so him pushing himself in different ways [and perhaps at times too much] could make him discover more things about him he hadn't before. That, wanting to show his friends his new skills is a good motivator too. xD)

I don't expect a drastic timeskip either; at most it'd probably be a few years. I'm sure they want keep the characters relatively similar-looking in nature if they ever decide on any physical or outfit changes to fit their current story, but not disrupting the iconicness of the designs. It's not the same as making an adaption with a different art direction. (Heh, I actually like the idea of him having a ponytail, to go along with his tails. Like Bark's, but shorter. But I can see them going for stylized models; the Mario crowd has been going nuts over "Wonder".)

In Boom's case, since it was meant to be its own subsection, the characters having designs that distant them from their Modern selves made sense from a marketing standpoint. Mixed on release, warmed up since but not wholly. At least wasn't the early concept art, Sega stomped down hard to get what we got. (It was mainly Knuckles and Sonic that got most of the criticism, with Amy to lesser extent, and Tails having little to none. Heck, some think his Modern self SHOULD have the goggles and toolbelt. Funnily enough, some did like the idea of a bulkier Knuckles, just not top-heavy, and more like his ancestors. And I have seen some scarf/adventure-looking Sonics here and there. And the surprise that was Vector, that leather jacket does suit him.) In any case, making changes isn't easy. Execution matters so much.

Considering that Eggman has a Vtuber model now; that'll likely mean other characters down the line, depending on the topics that pop up. (Though Shadow does feel like he's next. Hoping that his is mainly him and Tails before Sonic inevitably pops in, which is a recurring gag for that series.) But yeah, just a few fun shorts. Nothing crazy.

Yeah, his development from sa1 to sa2 made sense, it's unfortunate that it didn't work out in the long run.

Actually... idk about that. I feel like interacting with the other kids a lot would only highlight how more mature he is compared to them. When with his own friend group of older friends he still comes off as more childish than them. Maybe if they'd leaned into "youngest characters all being friends" from the start, but we'll never know now.

(Though take this with a grain of salt since maybe I also have a bit of resentment over people trying to metaphorically "banish them to the kids table", as if they all need to hang out with each other just because they're the same age.)

Yeah "Believe in myself" is a great theme for Tails and I feel like. You need to listen to it to understand him as a character, though I feel like it fits what he's going through in Frontiers somehow better than sa1? Like, a lot of the stuff mentioned in the song you can't really get from his story in the game itself (or maybe I just. forgot or wasn't paying enough attention). (Though it might also be the case of them writing frontiers and using the song as a baseline for his character and arc, while in sa1 it was probably the opposite)

Maybe they will change up some clothes!(Tails with a little ponytail? Aahhh it would be so cute) (I do agree with those people I wish Tails had goggles and a toolbelt in the mainline series. Maybe not on a permanent basis but at least goggles when he's flying? On the other hand, I do enjoy the main characters all having pretty simple designs. I also agree with Knuckles being bulkier, I like what they did for the movie, it just makes more sense for the type of character he is)

I only brought up Boom as an example of people reacting negatively to the redesigns, and it wasn't even canon.

Man Shadow could give us so much lore. I need the next season of TailsTube now (I can't believe it was a whole season? 4 episodes? Tails you hack) Man I really want some Tails & Omega interactions. I need to know what their relationship is like in canon. Or Cream? You could use Cream for the Chao lore. Aahhhh.

[greenerteacups]

Frequently Asked Questions

Hi! If I’m asked a question more often than sometimes, it’s probably here. Static page also accessible at this link.

When is the next chapter coming out?

I update on Friday mornings, weekly, usually before noon PST. If it’s a Friday and you don’t see an update, it’s either because I’m on a writing break, or we’re in a hiatus between books. Or I've been hit by a car or something.

Do you have social media?

Aside from Tumblr — nope! I’m one of those hermit types. My AO3 account was previously the only place I was active online. I made a Tumblr so I could offer a platform to interact with people who are more comfortable here than in the AO3 comments section (for instance, there’s no anonymity function on AO3; you can log out and comment as a guest, but that’s a lot of work, and then there's not an easy way to check if your question was answered.)

Can I tag you in [thing]?

Yeah! I check back in here every few days, on average, to scope out my inbox and my mentions. If you make something for my fic, I’ll publicize it everywhere, obviously.

Can I bind your fics?

Yep! Carte blanche. I don’t own the copyright for anything I write, so I appreciate the thoughtfulness of people asking, but you can absolutely go ahead and do whatever the hell you want with the text of my fic. Print it, paint it, burn it, bind it, turn it into blackout poetry. Transformative art is human nature. But if you do, please, please, show me! I’ll scream for a thousand years.

Caveat: I’ve seen some people have anxieties about the sale of bound fics for profit, since they’re worried about publishers cracking down on copyright violation and litigating fanfiction. This is tough, because on the one hand, bookbinding can be expensive; on the other hand, selling fic is a violation of copyright, and the only way AO3 is allowed to exist is by authors making precisely $0 from anything they post. (This is why AO3 will boot you immediately if they catch you trying to make money from non-original works on their site — if I so much as drop a PayPal link in the description for Lionheart, the fic will quickly be taken down, and my account could be suspended.) So my stance is: I’m not going to sell my fics; if you bind for personal use, this doesn’t matter, go for it, live deliciously, etc; if you bind to sell, please be careful and discreet as you can. But you have my OK, for what it’s worth.

Can I translate your fics?

Yes, of course.

Will you write other things, besides Lionheart?

Eventually, yeah. Probably nothing longform soon, however. When I’m writing something, I get engrossed in the world and I sort of tunnel-vision onto the project. When Lionheart goes on a hiatus between books, I may pop out and do something else, just to keep my skills sharp and give my mind a break. That’s where shorter pieces like The Climb and SWLITS came from. But I keep my eyes on the prize, as far as what I’m writing, because I pride myself on having finished most (though admittedly, not all) things I’ve ever started on AO3. I hate having unfinished projects  cluttering up my Works page. 

I don’t read WIPs. When will Lionheart be finished/should I read Lionheart?

Listen, I’m not gonna tell anyone how to read fic. If your reading preferences make you happy, then you’re doing it right. And I’ve also been burned by remarkable WIPs that peter out, or die on a cliffhanger, and they just about break my heart. I can’t promise that won’t happen, because I don’t know what life holds in store. I also can’t promise when Lionheart will be finished, because, frankly, I have no idea! As a full-book rewrite, if you look at the current chapter count, and then look at the number of books in the series, then, yeah, it clearly has a long way to go.

But I also know that the Completed Works filter on AO3 is hiding a lot of good fic, and I think people who only read completed stuff are missing out on the real fun of update culture — of reading something serially, the excitement of waiting for the next chapter to drop, looking for clues about long-running puzzles, theorizing in the comments, getting to experience each new hit live. That’s one of the few things about fanfic that you can’t get in a novel, and it’s a real treat. I’d at least give it a try.

Otherwise, here’s what I can tell you: Books 1, 2, 3, and 4 will all be finished. They will have completed endings, and will offer (satisfying, I hope) resolutions to the major conflicts of those stories. And that’s a fact.