#i find comfort in reading about fictional characters going through absolute hell

[scrambledslut]

when your comfort character has excessive trauma so you read fanfiction that traumatizes them even further

[saytrrose]

A post that Freakshow Au + Sm-Baby Fans NEED TO HEAR. READ IT.

—————

I cannot stand the people on tumblr in Mushys comments accusing her of so many horrible things. People have been stating that Mushy has been drawing “non-con” and supporting “abuse”. I will not go into too much detail on how it is affecting her and why but it is incredibly overwhelming for her, and she is not comfortable posting for the time being- and you people are making it hard for her to enjoy it anymore.

Mushy is portraying the au and characters how they would canonly work and that does not make her a bad person. The large amount of people trying to say that she has been drawing non-con of the late absolutely SICKENS me. You clearly do not have any understanding for that terminology and should not be throwing it around. Maybe if people paid attention to the au, the lore and how they are characterized you would come to the conclusion that NO ONE WANTS TO BE IN THE FREAKSHOW AU.

If you need a reminder of the definition, The TADC Freakshow Au is an Au where a horrible virus infects the Ai and twists their reality into a horror mindscape. THIS IS NOT CAINE OR ABLES FAULT. Caine and Able ARE AI. They are corrupted by the virus unwillingly and what Able puts Pomni through in the Able-Owned Pomni Au is yes, considered psychological abuse. HOWEVER why in gods name would you assume she supports that shit? Do you people just assume whenever someone draws a death scene they support murder?? or when someone depicts a scene of an animal getting hurt in a fanfic or movie that director/writer supports animal abuse?? Does that seriously go through your head?

EVERYONE in the Freakshow au in under some sort of psychological abuse- HELL in the original show they are. Like did you even watch it? And back to Freakshow, it’s a HORROR AU. People are killed left and right and no one seems to have a problem with that hm? THIS IS FICTION. PEOPLE NEED TO LEARN THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FICTION AND REALITY BECAUSE WHEN YOU DO NOT DO SO YOU HURT PEOPLE IN REAL LIFE. Not the people producing fictional content, YOU.

People are quite literally, harassing Mushy right now and it is heartbreaking to see my friend experience this. If you do not like certain content that Mushy creates, BLOCK her or BLOCK her tags. People asking for her to tag her art with “abuse” makes her highly uncomfortable. If you do not like this, simply take responsibility for your own viewing and stop interacting.

People need to stop assuming that Mushy is also not trying to find comfort in drawing certain topics. You people need to stop assuming that Mushy lives some sort of cheery happy go lucky life. She experiences a lot, she is going through A LOT right now and you people dog piling these accusations onto her is not only just disrespectful as a person in general, but as her follower. It is truly just disappointing to see just how rude people can be when they are supposed to be your biggest supporters.

A tag MIGHT be arranged, something as simple as “Able-Owned Au” and if this is done then block it. It is that easy. It is so so easy and simple to take initiative for yourself and what you see and how you feel about it by limiting it on your own end than going out of your way to make someone feel horrible about themselves.

Mushys blog is HER blog. She can draw whatever she would like to and if anyone has an issue with this you can very kindly, FUCK OFF. The block button exists, use it. The block tags method exists, use it.

Stop harassing creators.

[tavyliasin]

Villain-Fucker Angst Hours

Good timezone, darlings~ Are you ready to get all up in your feelings? No? Me neither, loves, but here we are regardless so the words are going to flow as they usually do... This is focused on Raphael from Baldur's Gate 3 and his fandom, but the latter section can easily apply to any villain fandom.

Self-Analysis of Devil-Fuckery, Or Why Do I Adore Raphael When He Is Very Obviously Evil: A Short Essay by TavyliaSin (Who Still Cannot Name Anything With Less Than A Full Paragraph) ((NSFW)) (((Game Spoilers)))

The following may discuss heavier topics, but without specifics, so whilst it should be safe for most to read without triggering any difficult memories please be aware of Raphael's entire vibes, the content and context of his story, and I'd also like to mention that this isn't a "woe be us for we are terrible people" piece, it's actually more about:

"There is an inherent kindness and warmth to much of the Raphael fandom, and I think there could be some common threads behind that, pulling us all in closer in a comforting blanket that we wrap around each other to keep out the cold of the world."

So, what in the nine hells am I on about? Well. Raphael-fandom is a wild and wonderful place to be. The rest is in sections, so feel free to skip through to what you feel is relevant to your interests. I am so prone to waffle I should open a restaurant~

Who Are Fans Of Raphael? What Do They Want?

We are feral, unhinged, all sheets to the wind "I want that devil man, carnally, and there is no force in all the planes that could stop me". There's the vanilla to the extreme and every level in between, tops, bottoms, versatiles, Doms, subs, and switches - there are a whole lot of people who would love to get their hands on either (or both) of Raphael's forms, for a simple smooch or something far more spicy~ [edited in] To add on to this, not all of us even desire him in a sexual way, for many it is romantic, soft, or even just the rather pleasant thought of spending an evening with drinks by the hellfire because he would be fascinating company. Aces, Aros, and AroAces may all find themselves well within the devilish corners of fandom too~ which is a whole other essay~ [end edit] So, I see you. I'm one of you. Extremely loud and utterly hingeless in my fan appreciation for Raphael. He's one of my favourites to write about, I seek art of him, and the same goes for his mirrored other half, Haarlep, who I arguably love more despite there being far less content of them in the game.

And the Fandom? The Vibe?

From my experience in the Raphael Fandom areas, we have a very deep and abiding understanding of consent, respect, and treating each other with an absolute and uncompromising kindness. We've had talks about keeping each other safe in fandom, exchanged details of people we have encountered who need to be avoided, even shared details between moderators of different fandom servers to pre-ban people proven to be creeps and/or art thieves. We've also discussed consent, including the issues with it in the game, and how areas of the story can only really be considered dubious at best and could easily be triggering for people. And these discussions have been open, honest, fair, and with the acknowledgement that most of us love these scenes anyway. So there's a sense of care that runs through everything, behind the horny-posting and fan content, behind the endless thirsting after our favourite fictional characters. We have a depth of kindness that warms my sinners soul every time I see it.

What Does This Have To Do With Self-Reflection, Raphael, or Villainy In General?

Well let's look at Raphael. He's a villain, obviously. He's manipulative, devious, and inherently evil by his very nature. He keeps Hope chained in his basement, constantly subjected to endless torture. There's also mention of how Gortash was sold into his service at a young age, clearly not an enjoyable experience given the other details and how things turn out (particularly as Raphael would need Gortash's own plans to fail entirely in order for him to succeed in his own and get that crown). And as fans, we accept that. We don't sit making excuses, or trying to say "well actually Gortash is a little shit and Hope probably deserve it", and we don't shy away from or conveniently ignore those darker sides of him with malicious intent to enable more evil to flourish. What I noticed, when I allowed the thoughts to continue, is that there is a theme here.

If Evil Can Be Loved Then So Can I

That's the core. Of course, darlings, I am not claiming to be a heinous monster. I certainly do not have a laundry list of crimes that would make the devil himself say "Uh, that's a bit much." But I sure as fuck treat myself like I do sometimes. You see, I think a lot of us have that tendency, to judge ourselves far more harshly than anyone else. Our patience, understanding, and forgiveness for others runs deeper than the Mariana Trench, but when it comes to our own flaws? One minor mistake and we think ourselves to be the worst beings ever to disgrace the earth. Thus, the villainy we see reflects how we are treating ourselves. So by loving and accepting all of those things that should be terrible, hated, we are actually learning that no matter how poorly we think of ourselves that we can be worthy of that same love and acceptance. We are extending the affection we are unable to show ourselves to someone we see the worst parts of ourselves amplified within. And that's why villains attract the people with the most kindness. The most forgiveness. Because it takes someone with a truly huge amount of empathy to find love for the embodiment of evil.

Or, IDK, maybe villains are just hot and we're too far down to care.

But wait, before you go!

THERE'S SOMETHING WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT.

All of this is about FICTION. We should never be accepting of the kinds of evil we see in the game irl. We do not owe anyone kindness if they do not show it to us.

What is hot in fiction is not always OK IRL.

Look after yourselves out there, remember that consent is key in all things, and please do try to learn to love yourselves, darlings, you are worthy of it and you should judge yourself by the same standard you judge others. If you are in doubt, if you are worried, if you feel afraid - reach out, talk to someone. There are many who will listen.

Treat yourself as you would treat a friend. You deserve that much.

Oh, and all Raphael fans who understand kindness are welcome around me, any hour of the day, I adore our little fandom circles and would gladly collect all of us together. I'm following a lot of you as soon as I find you, like hunting shiny pokemon~

See you in Avernus, my darling Little Mice, may we all find joy in the Cambion's Embrace~

[lexreadsdiversely]

Horror is such an interesting genre because a lot of the time, individual people define it by whether or not it's scary, but fear is so subjective. One person can find something absolutely terrifying while another finds it just meh, or sometimes oddly comforting. This usually has people going "this clearly isn't horror" - though I've noticed that people who find it comforting rather than scary are less likely to claim that it isn't horror than those who just didn't find it scary. It's objectively still horror, but people who find comfort in it can recognize that they are relating to/finding comfort specifically in the horrific.

I'm reflecting on this today because I'm working my way through Our Wives Under the Sea, and while I'm only about halfway through, I haven't found it scary even once. Can't say the same for my poor wife. As someone who's life got turned inside out six months ago, I'm finding myself relating a little too hard to Leah. When you also went through hell and feel like you "came back wrong", watching it happen to a character feels almost cathartic. It feels like someone else understands you. It feels, strangely enough, warm. This fictional character gets me. It's still objectively horror even though it doesn't scare me.

I wish the book community wasn't so quick to judge whether a book deserves to be in the genre it's categorized as based on individual feelings and experiences reading said book. Apart from romance (and mystery, to a small degree) most genres don't have set rules. Many fit into more than one genre, and different genres have overlapping qualities. Just because you as an individual don't find a particular horror book scary doesn't mean it isn't horror, and the same can be said for so many genres.

[alpaca-clouds]

Astarion's Plotline and the Thing About Consent

Let me talk about one thing I find weirdly underdiscussed in the BG3 fandom. Technically this does not only concern Astarion, but also a lot of the other romanceable options. but I see it most discussed with Astarion especially in regard of one thing.

I am not the only person who feels icky about the graveyard sex. Not becasue of the graveyard, but because of the context in which it happens. Aka: Astarion has had the hell of one day. He has confronted his trauma in so many ways, he has almost died, he managed to overcome Cazador, and he actually managed to remain himself rather than becoming Cazador. I absolutely do understand that our dear fanged friend kinda wants to celebrate his freedom by finally having sex just because he wants to have it - but I also understand that for a good chunk... Him wanting to fuck in that scene is mostly him somehow trying to cope and not having learned good coping strategies, right?

However, whenever someone in fandom brings this up, quite often someone will reply: "People who are traumatized are still able to consent, you know?"

To which I - someone with tons of trauma - will just say: "Yeah, they can, but consent is something that happens from both sides."

Now, we will leave out the meta discussion that obviously Astarion, on the basis of being a fictional character in a game, obviously has no agency in either direction, while the player does. But ignoring that and just reading the in-game situation...

Tav, Durge, or whoever of the origin characters might be on that graveyard with Astarion in that scene still also have a right to not consent to it. And yes, say: "Hey, you had a hell of a day, and I am honestly not sure whether this is good for you, and if it turned out not to be I would feel really shitty about that" is actually a valid reason to not consent to have sex with someone.

Even if Astarion does want sex in that scene. Even if it turned out to be actually the thing he needed. The other person in the scene very much still has the right to say: "I am not feeling good about this, I don't want this, at least not now."

I am not saying that your own Tav/Durge needs to not be okay with it. They can be perfectly fine with it and have their kinky graveyard sex. What I am saying is, that not everyone is feeling like that - and that their feelings are valid, too.

And it is weird how some Astarion fans react to this, too. First there is the "but he can consent", to which I will just say: "Yeah, and his partner can also say that they don't consent". And then the people will go: "But he looks so sad if you say you don't wanna have sex with him." Which... I... Folks, for once: He is fiction. But also... Even if he wasn't fictional, he would have to live with it. It is not the job of his partner to fuck him whenever he wants sex. Again: Consent matters. And consent involves at least two people.

Like, folks. I am begging you. Just consider this fact. Consent has to come from everyone.

And I can tell you that at least my Tav in that situation did not feel very comfortable with the whole situation. I mean, this is how I wrote out the scene on the graveyard in my fic version of the evening.

“I think, I’ve been dead for along enough,” Astarion finally muttered. “It’s time to try living again.” He took a deep breath, trying to sort his thoughts, his feelings. Then he took the bard’s hands, smiling at him. “With everything life has to offer.” He did not even think about it much, as he gave his voice a sultry tone, and most certainly he had not expected Tav’s reaction. But the bard twitched just a bit. “Astarion…” He seemed awkward, uncertain. “I…” Astarion was not certain if the bard understood. “I want you. I think I might…” “Stop, please,” Tav whispered. There was a tremble going through his body, and an expression in his eyes, that felt like a dagger in Astarion’s heart. He didn’t understand. What was going on. “Don’t you…” It was hard to speak those words. “Don’t you want me?” He had not intended for his voice to sound as hurt as it did in the end. A sigh. Tav pulled his hands out of Astarion’s, before cupping Astarion’s face with them. “I want you. I do. And you know it. Just not… Not now.” “What is wrong with now?” There was hurt still. And anger. Just a bit of anger over the rejection. “What is wrong with now? I am finally free. I can finally…” “Astarion…” Tav was hesitating once more, before moving in closer, pressing his forehead against Astarion’s. “You have been through a lot today. A lot.” “Yes, I know. I was there, remember?” The sarcasm was back in Astarion’s voice. He tried to pull away, but though gently, the bard held onto him. “Please, look at me,” Tav said. “Let me…” He stopped, before letting go of Astarion. “Can I show you?” Now it was Astarion’s turn to pause. He understood, of course. He understood well. “Alright.” He opened himself up to Tav’s feelings – and they were strong. Warm, consuming almost. A want. A need. Fantasies. All there. And it made Astarion understand even less. “Then why?” “Because if I sleep with you again, I want to be sure that we both are going to feel good about it the next day,” Tav said gently. “And today, I cannot be sure of that.” Those words made nothing any clearer. “I don’t understand.” “Look. Today was so much for you. And I do not even need you to show me your feelings. I can tell like this. The sadness. The pain. You feel guilty, too. About those spawn that are more or less your responsibility. About killing Cazador, too.” “Why would I feel guilty about that?” “Because no matter how much you hated and feared him, you were also dependent on him for two hundred years,” Tav said. He took Astarion’s hands again, pressing them. “And there are probably a lot of other feelings, too.” His thumbs were caressing the backs of Astarion’s hands. He gave a tiny sigh. “Look at me.” Astarion had not even quite noticed that he no longer looked the man in the eyes. But he did now. The same, familiar green eyes. “I do not even trust myself right now,” Tav said. “I know I care about you, deeply. I want you. You have no idea how much I want you. But with all the chaos right now… I do not trust myself enough to say whether this is love or just…” Once more his thumbs so gently went over Astarion’s skin. “Right now, I am mostly worried about you. Because today was a lot. And I know those days. And I know what follows.”

And... It is just something that has to be considered. I mean, I know there are people who romance Karlach but still do not sleep with her, because their character is not ready for that. And that is just the thing. Consent has to come from both sides.

In that it does also not matter whether the player is uncomfortable or whether they have just an idea how their character would feel. For the scene playing out... The romancing partner can say "I don't consent." too.

[quimichi]

It's me the little guy Fae >:3 and I'm here for your match up event

Fandoms

Honkai and/or genshin

Pronouns

She/they

Hobbies

Illustration, crochet, embroidery, watercolor, gaming, TTRPGs (tabletop role-playing games) like DND, putting my characters through absolute hell (writing)

Gender preference

With fictional characters I prefer men but I love me a tall sexy evil Woman

Personality

Don't listen to what my hobbies say about me, I'm actually a chaotic little shit who runs circles around my friends. I do my best to give support when needed whether it be mentally or with a technical issue but I'm sure you knew this stuff before because we are friends on here. Though I will say I am depressed and that may impact the character I may or may not get matched with.

Fun facts

I really like foxes :)

And jellyfish :))

While it's not common enough to be a hobby I do know how to sew

My favorite colors are pastel pink and yellow

Well I prefer a cottagecore aesthetic for myself I actually don't prefer that in a partner.

I'm not a Neuvillette main but my autistic ass will go off about water (different bottles of water have completely different tastes you cannot change my mind)(also cold water tastes sharp and warm water tastes round I will not be taking criticism on this)

I don't have a green thumb per se because all my plants are suffering but they stubbornly cling on to life no matter how much I neglect them.

If you need more you know where to find me

A/n: I'M SORRY BESTIE BUT MY HEAD WENT "DOMESTIC" THE ENTIRE TIME---

ARLECCHINO

@ NO CAUSE HEAR ME OUT

@ you loce cottage core, and your hobbies are stuff like crochet and watercoloring. Its cute and i feel like Arlecchino matches that somehow??

@ listen, she is much more softer than she looks. She loves the kids and does really care about them, i think this cute little domestic life would fit her and would also be a dream for her

@ although she grows the kids into the fatui, she loves them dearly, can't show it tho-

@ but anyway--imagine sitting side by side near a fireplace while she reads a book and you do your thing beside her. No talking, just enjoying each others company

@ loooves to do domestic things with you, like cooking together, baking a cake, reading a book, crochet or bathing together.

@ i think she can do embroidery and crochet but not so good-teach her, she will actually listen. She's a little tsundere but she'll listen and she will learn pretty fast.

@ it's important that the twins and freminet like you, they visit quite often or she visits them. If they don't like you, or any of the kids in the house of the hearth, she would be quite skeptical about you then

@ lucky for you cause...they love you, duh?? Who wouldn't.

@ you're very parental, you give great comfort and you like to play with the kids.

@ and Arlecchino loves to watch lol

@ now to your depressed state. She will take it very seriously and will tell you so many times to rest and take care. She would give you the best tea from liyue, only the best watercolors from Fontaine, and the best baked goods so you can relax.

@ she would also leave you your space if needed. It wouldn't really bring her down, she would just be worried about you, but as a strong woman she wouldn't show it to you, that would only bring YOU down.

@ so dw, daddy Arlecchino will take care of everything. And if someone bothers you...well...you know...

GEPARD

@ listen it was hard for hsr ok---

@ for some reason I see you with Gepard---

@ also for the same reasons as Arlecchino, the little domestic life won't go out of my head for you-and Gepard also fits this

@ like-he comes home from work, also brought some goods from the bakery so you both can enjoy some sweets after dinner (which you both prepare together) and then after dinner and dessert you both cuddle on the couch while watching the snowflakes dance outside Belobog

@ if you ever decide to crochet him idk socks or something, he will wear them with pride. Even if they're pink with glitter, he ADORES them.

@ wears them under his gear lol. Like Belebog is cold he appreciates any warmth that he gets. And what is warmer than your love~♡

@ (I'm disgusting-)

@ super shy, we all know, so it took him a bit to gain the confidence to ask you out- I can see you being friends with Serval so--Imagine asking out the friend of your sister?? Yeah I'd piss myself too-

@ but Serval was pretty supportive sooo dw, it all worked out very well

@ ans Lynx is also not complaining with you so the relationship is blessed ♡

@ helps around the house, he was raised good :)

@ also, if he has every a free day and you have to work, he takes care of the things at home and cooks for you ♡♡♡

@ also runs you a bath. Spends his entire day making you smile when you come home.

@ very overprotective too. Can't stand seeing you sad or having a bad day or depressed episode, so he does everything in his power to change that

@ even if it means for him to act like a complete idiot just to see a smile, cause trust me, he would

[paradox-time]

@basil-does-arttt

Heeeeyyyy, thanks for giving me an excuse to ranttt <3<3

Ok so, I saw a post of yours that was something like "what about gortash do fans find appealing?”

I'm going to try my best to answer why some of us are fans of this Absolute Shitbag (pun intended)

Some of my credentials, I've played the game for over 700 hours over about 4 months, seen, made, and interacted with tons of fan content and talked about it at length with other fans and unwilling friends. I make it my job to know every single scrap of Lore the game has to offer, going to stupid lengths to read all the books and letters hidden throughout the game, I also savescum the hell out of dialog options so I don't miss any exposition. I've played a tav twice and a dark urge 8 times, plus started but never finished other origin playthroughs.

Safe to say. I am deranged. (Yay hyperfixation)

Anyway, Enver Gortash is one of my favorite villains in fiction. This does not, in any way, mean that I admire or excuse any of his actions. I don't find him handsome or charming. He isn't redeemable or even likable in any capacity as a person.

The entire main theme of the game is whether or not the characters perpetuate the cycle of abuse or break it. You see that with Astarion, he either kills Cazador and forges his own future as a freed spawn, or ascends, and becomes someone who is just as bad and abusive as Cazador. You see it with Shadowheart in whether she chooses to live a life under Shar's cruel influence, or leave her past behind her and embrace Selúne. You see it in Gale and whether he ascends to Godhhood and is nothing like the kind and inquisitive person he once was, or leaves Mystra and his life as an archmage behind to live a life of quiet comfort where he can follow his passions and teach people like he should have been taught instead of isolating students like how mystra and elminster isolated him.

Many more examples blah blah blah

Ok, a lot of people (wrongly) try to justify and apologize for everything gortash has done by pointing at his backstory like a gotcha thing.

Gortash's parents sold him into slavery when he was very young to pay off their debts. The person who then raised and owned Gortash was none other than the ultimate slimeball, Raphael the Cambion. In this environment, Gortash grew incredibly bitter and started to worship Bane, the god of Tyranny, Dictatorship, Strife, and Subjugation. This was because he believed he was owed power over others for everything he was put through. He then becomes a slave trader, selling Karlach to Zariel is one notable example, a war profiteer and arms dealer, he keeps the families of his prisoners held hostage in an underwater prison that was rigged to explode and then subsequently flood if any of his factory staff tried to escape. His workers were also made to wear fucking bomb collars. He sews bigotry in the general public by not letting refugees in the city and controlling the media (newspapers and posters). His entire goal and religious doctrine is founded on the belief that it is his divine right to control and oppress people.

It has been so freaking long since I've found a piece of media that had an actual villain, but still kept said villain's story and motives interesting! Lots of modern media really tries to go the formulaic propaganda villain route. “Character A wants to do the right thing. Character B wants to do the right thing but does it in a BAD and DiSrUpTiVe way!! Gasp!! Villain!” I think it's supposed to endorse and enforce moral superiority of centrists, yuck. but that's a Different Tangent™.

I feel like there are a lot of fans that think that in order to like a character, they have to be morally palatable and pg or whatever. I see lots of fans that can't fathom liking a character that is genuinely evil and a bad person. So they just. Ignore the entire central point of the character.

Gortash sucks ass. If I met him in real life I would beat his ass into the dirt. But he isn't real. And fiction, especially interactive fiction, is an amazing way to explore darker themes in a safe and controlled environment. This is amazing for dozens of reasons, including exploration of catharsis.

I like Gortash because he amazing as a Villain. His story is super connected to the themes of the game. His acting is done with so much care and talent from the production team at Larian.

Fans who fawn over and woobify him. Umm. Do better. Get media literate please. No hate, love all the gortash content, especially in relation to the Dark Urge's story line. But please stop pretending he isn't as bad as he is. That's one of the main things I find compelling about him as a story device in the first place. You can like evil characters because they're fake.

Ummm conclusion…. Yeah. I like Gortash because he makes a fun story.

[skz-streamer]

A Lost Cause -2/3-

<-Past - Next->

Pairing: Felix (skz) x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, slight smut?

Warnings: mentions of suicide, scarred wrist, pain, car crash, PTSD, abusive/toxic boyfriend, substances, abuse, bruising, crying, um... lmk if I missed anything else❤️

Notes: Finally!!! This chapter is a little shorter but it is a little more juicy ;) Im not sure when chap 3 will come out, possibly Thursday? Anyways I thought Hannah's new song fit this chapter pretty well, I tried to include some ocean vibes in there :)

Summary: After an abusive relationship you head to the bar for refuge...only to find yourself in another relationship, but is this one "A Lost Cause"?

-please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people

Word count ~1.5k ;)

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

A week later

You walk out of the large glass doors, finally out of the hospital you think. You can only imagine how messy your apartment must be, the leftovers in the fridge, the unmade bed. It wasn’t a welcoming sight to envision, especially after your situation. You ended up getting discharged with a broken arm and some painkillers, not to bad…I mean it could’ve been worse. You brush your hand over your cast, your hand traces higher and higher up your arm.

Suddenly you feel a sharp pain in your shoulder, even though it had been a week the nail marks that your ex had left in your shoulder were still there, small little scabs concealing a deep trauma inside. But then again there was him….Felix. To be honest what happend with him at the bar was a blur, so you decided to start new with him. He was a nice guy, well more then nice he was caring, sweet, compassionate, cute, loving…shit. You could’ve kept listing words that described him, but snapping you out of your trance was your ex. 

“Come here sweet cakes” he said, annoyed? You couldn’t tell the tone of his voice. How did he know you were out? And just as if he were reading your mind he spat out “ forgot I’m still your emergency contact?” Fuck, you were stuck with him as your ride back. Your car was absolutely totaled and had been sent to a junkyard, and you had no updates about insurance or money back. Everything was just piling up- “Get. In. The. Car” his words sent a shiver down your spine, you really really didn’t want to get into his stupid car with his dumbass self but…

It was a quiet drive home, infact too quiet. You had got in the car and he had turned on the radio. All that went through your mind was the repetitive words of ‘you’re his ex, and he’s yours’. Even though you were the one who broke up with him, were you the only one that felt pain? Was he really just a jerk? You sit on your couch. The only not cluttered place in your apartment. Maybe it would be nice to have a roommate, it was a random thought but at least there would be company. It was hard without your ex, you admitted it. In some way you felt like you needed him but no. You couldn’t go back to that relationship again. Ex means ex.

Trying to snap yourself out of your brain rotting thoughts you decide to go to bed, it’s only 8:00pm, which is quite early to sleep for you but you're tired as hell. Your messy bed welcomes your fragile figure as you lay down, letting the mattress pull you in. 

Your eyes snap open, the clock on your bedside table reads ‘5:00am’ shit. You had a feeling this would happen, sleep early and wake up early. You grabbed your phone giving up the thought of trying to go back to bed again, you had tried that already and it didn’t work. Like at all. Nothing was open at this time. Ugh what were you supposed to do now? You drag yourself out of bed and slug to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. You get your cast off in another week, it was kinda depressing to look at actually. Usually most casts would be decorated with hearts or names and even little messages, but yours was just a plain white. In fact it was starting to get a little gray around the edges. Maybe if you were with your ex he would’ve- the coffee pot loudly beeps interrupting your thoughts, goddd why were you so hung up over him?

You decide to go out for a walk, maybe some fresh air would be good for you, there is actually a really pretty bridge near your house. It overlooked the ocean. It was pretty nice in the morning, known for providing a beautiful view of sunrises and sunsets. You quickly change into a messy outfit, you just throw on some jean shorts and a tank top. You grab a jacket and head out, looking at yourself in the mirror for the first time in a while, you look different. It’s a cleaner look, smoother skin with no bruises or scratches ruining your skin. Your top perfectly showed the little inward curve your waist had, you didn’t have an ‘hourglass body’ but you were happy with what you had. 

Gladly the bridge was a walkable distance from your apartment, you still didn’t have a car. Gosh there were so many things to sort out. You really tried not to think about all of the things you needed to do…not to mention your job, you hoped you hadn’t lost that. All your worries were blown away as soon as you felt the cold breeze hit your hair. You loved the ocean, the idea that so much was hidden in it scared you and intrigued you at the same time. You felt inclined towards it. You continue to stroll down the bridge, the waves crashing against nearby rocks, the sounds of seagulls, it was all beautiful to you. 

Not looking where you’re walking you bump into someone, sending your coffee to spill all over yourself. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry” you stutter out. “No I should be sorry, look at yourself” he replies, it’s a familiar voice almost like Feli- you find yourself looking straight into his eyes. You had tried your very best to not think about him, especially since what happened in the hospital, it was a mistake. Mistake? That didn’t seem like the right word, maybe an accident? You didn’t mean to lunge at Felix after your ex left, but you felt safe with him, warm. 

Three days ago (Flashback)

Felix had been coming to see you every day since the day you were checked into the hospital, you werent sure why but it was nice to have some kind of company. - 

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear a knock on your door, “come in!” you say excitedly, hoping that its felix who is standing outside. And your hopes were right! Felix walks into your room sitting down on the chair next to your hospital bed, one hand behind his back. “SURPRISE!!!” Felix screams, louder then he expected to, making you jump a little. You giggle at his antics before looking down at what he was holding. Its a tiny rubber ducky, you look back up at him. He is smiling so much that there are little creases next to his eyes, you smile in response it was a silly gift, especially for someone your age but… it was cute, and it was sweet that he got you something in the first place. 

Felix gently holds your hand so that he could place the duck in your palm, gosh why were you getting so flustered… He closes your palm and pushes down, the rubber duck creates a little squeaking noise sending you and Felix both to a loud laughter. Felix wraps his hands around you, pulling you in for a hug. You could feel his rock hard chest flush against yours as he squeezed you into the hug harder, you practically melt into his chest as he starts rubbing small circles on your back.

Your laughs quickly turn into muffled sobs, in response he pulls you away and stares you straight in the eyes. You quickly sniff and try to wipe away your tears but he swiftly grabs your hands, pressing the into the soft mattress below. “Why?” is all you manage to whimper out, you werent sure what you were saying why to. To Felix and why he stayed with you for hours on end? To yourself for loosing a relationship with your ex? To your ex for treating you like shit? Why…why did it have to be you. You knew making connections with felix would be a lost cause but…

Felix removes his hands from your wrists now cupping your face, hes staring into your eyesbut your eyes are staring directly at his lips. His thumbs swipe over your cheeks, wiping off your fallen tears. “Whats there to cry for? Promise me you wont cry again…atleast not without a proper reason” he says, almost in a whisper like tone, trying to match yours from earlier. All you can do is nod in his hands, still focusing on his pretty pink lips. He notices that your eyes are somewhere else and pulls you in closer, you feel his hot breath against your face. Fuck it.

You smash your lips against his, catching Felix by surprise. You feel as he eases into the kiss, he slightly smiles tugging your bottom lip with his teeth. You wish you could stay like this forever, just the two of you. You really liked Felix, he was always there for you even though you barely knew him. Actually now that you think of it you didn't know anything about felix besides that he was a bartender. You wish you could know everything a bout him, you wished that you had met him instead of your dumbass ex. But i guess not, all you had was this one kiss.

Permanent tag list: @eee5533 @mixtape-racha @ot8skz-wifey

lmk if u wanna be added to the tag list ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[punch-love]

conflict anon here again and im SO GLAD you agree man. i think what really gets me about it is that i was specifically searching for conflict-packed fic and that's why i was so let down. i also feel like authors are entitled to write whatever they want forever but it just FEELS to me when im reading their fics like they would be happier writing something more domestic, and i want to find something where they're more feral.

i want the ID reveal and the relationship-confirming to cause MORE problems, hell i want them to get together and blow out into a massive argument and breakup then have breakup sex and get back together and then realize the sex didn't actually fix anything and then break up again but they can't stop being obnoxiously in each others space either way

but it feels like fic im trying to find like this fights the very concept of conflict so hard and wants one singular plot point to fix everything as quickly as possible without even walking me through the characters' insight as to HOW that fixed anything other than "problem over, let's be together forever now!" let alone the level of conflict that'd be so engaging like that with a million curveballs

im so aware its a personal taste thing its just been frustrating reading fic after fic after fic and finding so little of it. its no ones fault i can't find fic perfectly tailored to my tastes specifically, i just tend to ramble about my frustration. you and oprime and sci and a couple other authors are my favorite for writing it the way you do, she's not gonna die today will always be one of my favorite fics of all time because it gave me that ever persisting conflict driven by their obsessive need to stick together even when they're fighting every step of the way. i just always get into a longwinded ramble when this comes up and i was hoping youd like to share your thoughts so thank you for answering 🙏

I think this pairing kind of presents a unique challenge to writers (at least it did for me) that action and conflict is such a huge, borderline essential part of their canonical dynamic. If you're not used to writing/utilizing both physical and emotional conflict, your stories can often fall so, so flat for these two, specifically because that's the fuel that makes the engine run. The first true action scene I ever wrote was chapter two of love-punch, and I like, now I'm an action writer for life now (editing an action sequence as we speak) but I had to get out of my comfort zone because I realized that type of stories I wanted to write about them required them to beat the shit out of each other to work.

These two are definitely not problem solvers so much as shit starters. I feel like for them, the problems they actually have to solve are the ways they perceive each other (because both of them heavily project onto the other) and what that means long-term for their relationship - every other form of conflict, to me, is up for grabs forever when it comes to their relationship. The shit talking, ass kicking, and fire starting is what makes them, them.

I've said this before, but a lot of people write fanfiction as an exploration of their own ideal relationships. (which is absolutely fine) I think spideypool is a difficult sell though, for that specific fantasy, because their relationship operates on instability and violence primarily. I think most people aren't looking for a relationship where your communication consists of name-calling, beat downs, and moral differences so severe it makes you almost kill each other a lot. That, does not make a good, a good or healthy real world relationship but SUCH a fun fictional one. People are going to write their fantasies out, though, and that fantasy is that one kiss/one fuck/one confession creates relationship fueled bliss forever because many people, hate conflict - both experiencing and reading it. It sucks, if you're a reader who likes problems. I also always say this, but I encourage you to channel that energy into writing your own work. It's what I did, and it paid off so great for me because now I have 12 works specifically catered to my own personal needs exclusively. Fandom is always going to suck, but you can be the change! (and if you don't want to write, that's cool too, sometimes it's good just to get your qualms out into the world and find people who agree)

tagging @primewritessmut again so she can read your praise straight from the source.

It's a tough fandom if you really like their canonical dynamic more than their fanon one, I feel you man. I am always holding a prayer circle that more writers who like problems more than they like easy resolutions joins in and starts writing some real fucked up shit.

[ghost-proofbaby]

ghost!!! i am sobbing weeping crying omg twenty four hours is coming to an end and it is so very bittersweet. i found 24hrs on ao3 and stayed up until three am binging it, then immediately went and followed you on tumblr, and ive been keeping track of it ever since. im not very good a tumblr since i only started using the app for fanfic last october, and i am one of those people that sometimes is ashamed of being a fangirl, so it’s almost unbelievable to me that i have a space where no one will know it’s me and i can enjoy whatever i want. im still trying to adjust to that, tell myself that it’s okay to repost fanfics and that this is a safe space. but twenty four hours has helped me with a LOT of that. before i used to kinda be ashamed to go on tumblr, but now i scroll it daily bcs i didn’t want to miss any updates on the fic. i also made the plunge and officially got an ao3 account, after oh about, seven or eight years of reading fan fiction practically non stop. so im getting there, and i just wanted you to know that twenty four hours helped me to get there.

and i think the main reason that twenty four hours has helped me get there is because of the quality of your writing. you write beautifully, intricately, and most of all—truthfully. ive never read an x reader that has felt so real, so fleshed out and most of all, relatable. i would find myself having internal monologue as i read from the ‘reader’s’ perspective and then the next paragraph would, sometimes word for word, have ‘reader’ think what i was thinking. this fic was also so healing, in a way. the way you used literary devices to describe such complicated situations had me often feeling relieved—like i had just let something go. as someone with a lot of baggage right now and who has a hard time believing they could ever be loved, it was at the very least comforting to have my insecurities and my negative qualities forgiven and proven untrue through ‘reader’ if that makes sense.

ik this is sappy as hell but i genuinely feel this way. your writing has moved me in a way that actual published books haven’t done for me in a while. so i just want to thank you for the time, effort, and thought that went into this fic. and secondly, i want to suggest the idea of adapting this into a novel to be published or a screenplay for a movie, in case no one has mentioned that to you or you haven’t thought of it. i really believe you have something good here, and with your talent, i could see you being very successful. this story of these two people—who both have internal wounds inflicted on themselves, each other, or from the past—who then grow more self aware and choose to be honest, even when it’s hard, is such a rare thing to see in literature or any kind of art. and i think the world needs more of that. bcs, like i said, this fic was more than just a fic to me. it touched me deeply. i cried, i laughed, and i reflected my own self. in short, it was a journey in more ways than one.

so thank you—for your art, for ‘reader’, and for eddie. i can’t wait for the epilogue and to read whatever stories you may have planned for the future.

<3

(ps so sorry to have word vomited in your ask box.)

first and foremost — never apologize for word vomit in my ask box. i am always a-okay with that. 🖤

i don’t even know what to say. i have this terrible habit of putting a lot more of myself than i care to admit into both my readers and my ocs, and most of the time, it’s not the good parts. usually, it’s the absolute worst parts of myself. i take all the rot inside, and i throw it into these projections, and i try to justify how someone with those qualities would still be deserving of love. it’s always been a coping mechanism. always. and then i’ve always strived to be a better writer, make my words worth reading, because i know how much of myself i’ve put into it.

to know other people see themselves in reader or eddie or any character i write is both so strangely hopeful but also so saddening, and it just makes me want to give you the biggest hug 🫂

on the note of publishing, i have definitely considered it. it’s just a really scary journey to decide to take. but the day i do decide to take the plunge, whether with this story or any other i’ve written or any entirely new one, you all will be the first to know 🖤🖤🖤

thank you so so much for reading, for letting my writing touch your soul the way it has. i am so honored that this fic has had this type of affect on you. this message genuinely made me cry. i am sending you all the love. <3

[mcmactictac]

So I’m trying to write a paper on the pros and cons of fandom culture for a media class right. And let me just say it makes me SO MAD trying to find sources because there are so many genuinely wonderful things about fandom and there are many complex social issues reflected in them. Yet so many of these articles are all just based so heavily in sexism? Like playing into that “crazy fangirl” stereotype. And listen I get it yk some people are like that. But I want to talk about WHY fandom is so important to so many people.

Everyone is so quick to judge without getting any understanding of where the sense of attachment comes from. Yes, fandoms have bad people. Yes, there is fetishization, doxing, and a shit load of other problems. It just drives me nuts that those problems are pointed out and no academic sources make an effort to figure out why those problems occurred. Like the relationship between society and fandom is so fucking interesting and its really interesting to see how different fanbases reflect different viewpoints on things.

Also I’m tired of everyone saying we control the media. I have not sat through years of queerbaits; through all of November 5th and the hell that came after it for people to say that producers always listen to fans and give them whatever they want/target everything towards them. Like yes ofc massive media companies are going to take advantage of people cause sadly that’s just how so many of them are. But that doesn’t take away from the genuine meaning and support that media gives us? 

Like brief academic moment here we’ve been talking about Stanley Hall’s model of communication and the idea of encoding and decoding, and how media can have multiple different meanings. I fully agree that people’s own cultural experiences and personal contexts change the way they interpret something. And it’s absolutely fascinating to see how fanbases can have such a large majority of people who draw the same conclusion from media based on their experiences. Especially with queerbaiting and queer coding. I've been thinking about BBC Merlin a lot recently and how interesting that show is not only on its own but in relation to it’s fandom. How so many people can watch it and see magic as something so clearly queercoded, and identify themselves with that characters, and then other people can insist that we’re grasping for straws. 

I just wish it was taken more seriously yk? Like the good and the bad that comes along with it are both very real and intense emotions, especially with so many neurodiverse people in fandom space who become hyperfixated on media. That’s something that has a massive impact on people. Fandom can be a space to connect with others, to explore your own identity, to critically reflect on what you’re consuming, to inspire yourself to create! 

Whenever people outside of fandoms talk about fanfiction it’s always about slash fiction and YES that is a part of it but I have read some truly incredible and impactful fanfictions that has understood the target audience better than a majority of media sources. Fanfiction that can speak to you, reflect your own feelings, provide a sense of comfort or a way to express emotion. Like yes there’s fic’s that are just smut but I’ve seen just as many 100k+ fics that are like focused around found family, mental health issues, AU’s with incredible worldbuilding, fans who put the devotion into creating well rounded characters and expanding upon the foundation placed before them. I’m tired of all that being ignored, because it should be appreciated. I’ve seen so many people who manage to communicate a certain feeling or emotion through fanfiction better than in books I’ve read.

And as so much of adolescent culture shifts online I think fandom spaces are HUGE in terms of self discovery. I’m tired of adults invalidating fandoms because it’s just “made up of obsessive teen girls” there is so much more to that and every day I am tempted to write an essay (not for class) on it because I have so many thoughts on it and I absolutely hate that people refuse to take it seriously.

Wow ok clearly had some feelings there thanks for coming to my TED talk 

[mesaprotector]

Still drifting down the stream.

There's perpetually a side of me that's focused on current responsibilities and thinks I can do it no matter how stressed I get, and a side of me that sneaks in during quiet moments and goes "don't forget, you're depressed, and none of this BS will stop you from getting older and dying alone".

Sometimes - okay, very often - I find myself thinking my love life is really the *only* problem I have, and everything else is a complex built on a complex that just is really how things go when you can't fix things for more than half your life. Like I still half believe if tomorrow I fell in love and it led to a decent relationship the hopelessness would stop trying to sneak in.

I resent to some degree nearly everyone I get to know well and a bunch of fictional characters too. Hell, I can barely describe my feelings sometimes except through stories I read. And at times I feel I'm very wise. I told a relative recently I feel what revolutionaries nearly always get wrong is just how much happiness there already is in the world. That makes me sound like I'm a lovely, humanity-supporting, balanced human being. Rather than someone who rereads a manga about a girl who murders four people just to comfort myself.

Are there even stories written about people like me? I wonder that a lot.

I genuinely believe I deserve to be happier than I am. I don't blame anyone but I kind of wish I could. I don't think asking for someone I'm at least a tiny bit attracted to to like me back is that outrageous.

I wonder if the version of me that dated in high school and college would be as unconcerned with money as I am. A lot of things stop mattering when you're still figuring out if your own life is worth it.

Do other people not have thoughts this dark? I can't imagine ever having a friend (or lover) I could tell absolutely everything to. Hearing people say they share everything with their bestie/husband/etc. I don't know anymore if they lack self awareness, or if I really am just incredibly screwed up.

I know I wasn't always. My darkest secrets in high school were pretty normal things I've since at least hinted at to friends. But then every couple months I tie myself into another knot and it gets deeper and deeper...

I can talk endlessly about my horrible feelings but I can't cry. Well, I can - but only about stories and music I love.

I took psych in high school without realizing I'd get stuck in "Identity vs. Role Confusion" at least a decade past when I should've figured it out. My identity is nonexistent. I'm just me. I sometimes feel Jewish or American or weeaboo-ish but I never throw myself into any category with my whole heart. I hate gender and wish it didn't exist. I barely know what race is. I never see myself in any personality type description. I can't paint myself over for anyone - I apply for jobs using a thoroughly unprofessional email address - but I'm also forgettable, stoic, and mild.

I'm sleepy.

Tomorrow I have work that I'm not sure will get done. If it does I probably will feel only slightly better.

Some day I hope I do feel like part of the world. I never really have.

[breitweisergallery]

Since you had a shitty day, here's some question from the weird questions for writers: 5, 8, 13, 19, 24, 33, 36, 39

thank you friend <3

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

i don't think i do, which is wild. i have habits that i have in relation to writing, but i don't have any particular superstitions.

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

i was gonna say dialogue for sure, but i actually have written an original fiction piece that was done entirely via dialogue, so.

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

i find darker themes and topics easier to write than lighter ones. i'm particularly bad with anything fluffy or soft without some kind of angst built into it. i just like conflict.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

once upon a time, a six year old took was in first grade. he liked writing so much, he volunteered to join the group of kids who were writing stories for the parents to hear on parent-teacher night. he read more than he did anything else, with his nose almost always buried in books.

he moved to a new country when he was nine, starting fourth grade, and really found his solace from constant, horrible bullying in books. he read and wrote as much as he could, going so far as to barely pay attention in his classes. he would go on to attend a weekend writing retreat in sixth grade, at age 11, and make one of the greatest friends he ever would - an actual adult, published author, who to this day, is still one of his biggest supporters.

that retreat cemented young took's love for writing, and his desire to take it somewhere with his life. alas, seventh and eighth grades would be pure hell for young took and he found comfort in LARPing and fanfiction, going so far as to spend his entire ninth grade (homeschooled) reading and writing fanfiction (he got an A in the class).

young took was in his senior year of high school in kentucky when he met the teacher who would change his life. despite having only just started writing poetry, took would shyly turn in some poetry for a creative writing assignment and his teacher (who also taught his ap lang class) would take him under his wing, mentoring him through the 4 class periods took would spend in that classroom a day. this teacher would nominate young took for the creative writing award for high school graduation, and would be excited to workshop his portfolio with him when took expressed interest in applying to art schools.

now, took is preparing to start a mfa in creative writing with a focus in fiction, attends a voluntary fiction class via zoom on monday nights (and has been since 2020!), and takes every chance he has to write.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

it depends on the story. sometimes it's nothing. sometimes it's extensive. sometimes i spend hours on research for a single sentence. sometimes i make shit up and ask people to forgive my ignorance.

i do enjoy prep work. recently i've been really into making powerpoints for characters in my original stories. it helps me visualize them (since i have absolutely no mental visualization at all).

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

i used to paint a lot. it tied into the poetry i wrote, because when i got extremely overwhelmed and would veer into shutdown territory, i would paint the voices of singers i liked. usually accompanied by a poem describing their voice as i saw it.

i also used to be an actor. i was very active in theater communities and i had just started dipping my toe into acting for film when i had to stop for numerous reasons.

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice…what do you Know?

so much literature. so much writing. i always enjoy writing about writers - just a touch too meta at times, always funny to write a scene about a writer procrastinating editing while i myself am procrastinating editing. throw onto that academia, gender, and sexuality, and you can wrap up what I Know in a nice little bow.

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

the knowledge that tomorrow will be different.

[thetransfemininereview]

Not exactly @spursthatjeangle but that sounds neat! Also I’m glad you asked cause it means I can monologue about my favorite tropes lol.

So like, one of my absolute favorite genres of fiction is the psychological romance. And I mean that in the sense that it’s a romance novel that takes a brutal or honest look at an unhealthy relationship dynamic, yet still manages to treat its characters with dignity and compassion anyway.

With transfemme fic, you get lots of unhealthy relationship dynamics, but almost none of them learn to strike this balance. And part of that I think is that healthy relationships and trans women don’t always go together like peanut butter and jelly, and it’s like,, that’s hard to write if you’ve never experienced it. Basically my issue is that I like reading stories about couples who learn and grow together and who find ways to become better for each other, and almost nothing I’ve read from a trans author does it while also portraying a relationship with real unique challenges or struggles.

So you get a lot of friends to lovers or enemies to lovers or whatever, but there’s no real psychological dimension to any degree. It’s not dark, it’s not challenging, it doesn’t make you question how and why we love, it’s just romance straight down the middle with a little bit of Trans(tm) for spice. For the Love of April French is a good example of this, like I’m sorry, but for a BDSM romance about a het couple with a trans girl, it’s so vanilla lol. Characters have internal struggle but like, it’s everyday stuff, albeit through a BDSM and Trans-Positive lens.

Then you’ve got what’s probably the biggest category, which is incredibly fucked up relationships that get so thoroughly drenched with the UWU skirt go spinny juice that it’s unclear whether the author even thinks it’s fucked up or not. Like a LOT of Eggfic is like this. Like “lmao I just enslaved you and broke your mind but it’s okay cause we’re cuddling now.” I won’t lie and say that I don’t enjoy that occasionally, but seeing the same thing repeated as nauseum becomes, well, nauseating. It’s the worst aspect of Eggfic imo, where the fluffy vibes go from comfort food to aenesthesia that completely deadens you to any actual commentary or meaning.

And then you get your takes where it’s fucked, the author knows it’s fucked, and everyone is enjoying it. This falls into like, two categories. On one hand, you get the Dorleys and Human Domestication Guides of the world, where these extremely fucked social dynamics become like their own societal microcosms, microfantasies that operate under fantasy rules. A lot of TG/TF goes here too. So basically fic where the author is enjoying it and the characters are also enjoying it. And like, cool, you do you, but that’s not romance - it’s speculative fiction. Then the second category is like, the authors are enjoying it and the characters are NOT enjoying it, and that’s just like… extreme horror that’s taking pleasure in making the blorbos destroy each other. The Fluids of the world. And there’s an argument to be made that Fluids is a romance, but like, it’s not really what I want in a romance?? Like I want a romance where I can conceive of myself in the characters shoes. That’s a big part of romance for me, wish fulfillment.

Weirdly the book that came closest to scratching this niche for me might be Tell Me I’m Worthless by Alison Rumfitt??? Like everything about Ila and Alice’s relationship is fucked to hell and back, but it’s so compassionately written and envisioned and the ending carries such radical hope. But also like,,, it’s a fucking horror novel. There’s a three page 4chan Nazi screed about pigs and Umberto Eco quotes. That’s not something I’m looking for when I want a romance novel lol.

There are two primary tropes I want in my psychological romance novels:

Firstly, realism. In full honesty, I don’t think trans literature has even begun to grapple with the systemic impact of mental health issues within the community. And like, I don’t mean that in the sense that it’s not depicted, but like, half the time it’s either shrugged off of the character gets fridged. Again, horror novels are the only place that I think I’ve seen a real substantive treatment of trans mental health issues.

And I get it, it’s hard. So many people go through real shit on a daily basis and don’t want that in their fiction. But like, it’s a conversation that needs to be happening and it largely isn’t. The Third Person by Emma Grove is another good example of a book that gets this right, but like, that’s a memoir. Still not a romance. There’s a time and place for escapism, but when every book is either “haha were not gonna worry about that” or “this is horrible and inescapable and everyone involved will suffer then die” it gets pretty damn exhausting.

Which segues neatly into my second point, which is hope. For me, a great romance needs to have a fundamental core of hope, and so many of the books I read, especially ones that try to do psychological, is a complete lack of it. Equally frustrating to me is the complete refusal of most Eggfic to breach any real impactful topic or challenging inner truth, because the aversion as such seems to be just as much a product of the mindset that it’s all just a bleak inevitability (transphobia, violence, etc.) as the novels that burn their characters to cinders and piss on their graves.

Like I’ve read so much Eggfic and other trans novels that fall into these various pitfalls. They’re not bad books, it’s just boring, cause there’s no stakes and no payoff.

I know this is a very picky perspective. I’ll be the first to tell you that despite my omnivorous reading habits, I’m rather selective when it comes to books I actually love. But I think that, even removing my personal taste from the issue, there’s a broader critique about trans tropes and genres to be made that one might be able to extrapolate this toward.

“Man, I wish I had something trans to read,” I think to myself, sitting less than five feet away from a pile of twenty trans books I haven’t read yet

[moonlit-sunflower-books]

books i love and why you should read them

1. instructions for dancing by nicola yoon

absolutely perfect meet-cute

made me question my existence multiple times in the best way possible

comfort book tbh

basically changed the entire way that i look like love and life

such realistic, raw emotion??? how?

the main character has a really dry sense of humour and i love it

really fast read!! i finished in two days

2. orlando by virginia woolf

it makes me feel really cool while reading because it has dark academia feminist vibes

also victoria woolf is a queen

it's based on a real life queer love story

some of the lines just made me sit back and go. oh damn,

it's surprisingly easy to read

(also full disclosure i have Not finished this yet but i love it so far)

3. six of crows duology by leigh bardugo

be gay, do crime

six teenagers who don't know what the fuck they're doing and manage to break into one of the most secure prisons on the planet and also basically take down a government

inej ghafa.

lots of rep!!

you get the awesome magic from shadow and bone without suffering through alina starkov's internal monologue

"my ghost won't associate with your ghost"

there's a massive fandom of chaotic gays so u will find a home among us <3

the character development is literally flawless

4. scythe trilogy by neal shusterman

i'm a simp for citra okay i admit it

but also the worldbuilding of this book is just. perfection

and it has limited characters but each one is so three-dimensional and you really go into depth about how each one of them thinks and feels and aaaa so good

the power dynamics that are created between characters are amazing

5. an ember in the ashes quartet by sabaa tahir

helene aquila. that's it.

ok no that's not it

but helene aquila and elias veturius are literally perfection; this book was written for the bisexuals /j

all three main characters are absolutely incredible

the number of plot twists??? im? how *sobs*

oh yeah this book will make you sob a lot

but it is worth it

the worldbuilding is so solid and i love the way that she uses magic in both the worldbuilding and the character development

also omg the character relationships? laia and elias and elias and helene and helene and laia and the way that they all develop i can't

brown rep <3

6. red white and royal blue by casey mcquinston

it's set in an alternate 2020 which was way better than ours so it's great if you're into escapism and like to avoid your problems by dissociating into fictional lands

alex claremont-diaz owns my entire heart

gay

gay fluff

childhood rivals to enemies to reluctant allies in a time of crisis to growing trust to friends with mutual pining to friends with benefits with mutual pining to lovers

it's a hell of a rollercoaster

also lots of politics! if you're into that kind of thing

7. a court of thorns and roses by sarah j mass

don't read it <3

[angeli-marco-writes]

Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective

A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.

Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.

Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...

TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway? 

“You are absolutely unbelievable!” 

“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid. 

“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”

“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” He mimics. 

John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face. 

“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”

As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs. 

Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded. 

“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.” 

With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open. 

“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake. 

John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.

Can you come over? Please? SH

It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now. 

Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.

He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door. 

Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body. 

“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.

The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek. 

It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together. 

That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.

“I’m here, bud.”

Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there. 

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too. 

His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker. 

His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.

“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows. 

“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.

Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”

“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”

“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.” 

He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.” 

And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-

Oh.

The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory. 

Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face. 

His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?

Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?

Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long. 

“What are you doing?” she whispers. 

He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.” 

She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”

“Hmm, same difference.” 

Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.” 

He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive. 

“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”

“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise. 

Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces. 

As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep. 

For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him. 

Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone. 

“May I take your shirt off?” he asks. 

“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”

“Be my guest.”

In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.

His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets. 

“Never undone a bra before?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”

“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”

“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling. 

She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck. 

“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine. 

“N- fuck, no.”

“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”

“I know you will.”

She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years. 

“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”

She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”

“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”

“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”

“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again. 

They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little. 

He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name. 

“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”

“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words. 

“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”

“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”

He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”

And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort. 

Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off. 

“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”

“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”

“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”

She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees. 

“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”

Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…

“You sure you wanna go this far?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.” 

He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-

“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”

He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Hmm, anything, you say?”

Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”

Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.

This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.

Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane. 

Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.

“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.

A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away. 

“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”

“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”

She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up. 

“Touch yourself f- for me.”

“What? Why?” 

Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on. 

“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”

She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there. 

“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”

She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers. 

“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air. 

She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair. 

His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen… 

He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him. 

“Do you have a condom?” he asks. 

“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”

“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”

“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”

“You have a considerably good point.”

With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.

“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”

“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”

He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Can I…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”

Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had. 

His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before. 

“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another. 

“Please.” She all but begs. 

Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.

“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing. 

“Hmm, not quite.”

The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?

“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.

“So good.”

She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame. 

“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns. 

He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly. 

The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.

“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”

He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”

Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other. 

His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her. 

“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him. “Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely. 

Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another. 

He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight. 

“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”

His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them. 

“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before… 

She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?” 

He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body. 

“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.” 

Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering. 

“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”

He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.” 

A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom. 

“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”

He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner. 

“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”

He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”

“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs. 

He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”

As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs. 

“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”

Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” 

She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse. 

“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks. 

“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.” 

He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything. 

“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.” 

She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly. 

“Look at you now.”

After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain… 

With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.

In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly. 

His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?

The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton. 

“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.

Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way. 

“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...” 

She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”

He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.

“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”

“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”

He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”

Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier. 

“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”

“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”

He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”

“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles. 

He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.

“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”

“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”

“No, I don’t think I ever can.”

The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’

“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs. 

And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.

John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…

He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock. 

It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag. 

She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that . 

This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet. 

One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”

How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of… 

Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.

John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple. 

The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone. 

She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”