#if anyone wants to see the offending fics firsthand

[belle-keys]

Sending hate to fics writers is stupid but death of fanculture but fans less interacting with writers through comments or reblogs says more about writers of fics than about the fans. I wrote on AO3 for 5 years and I wondered why people leave kudos but comment once a month. Why zero discussion/engagement. Later I found out they were scared of voicing their own opinion for fear of me misunderstanding them. Many said later now even compliment can be interpreted as insult so it was best to stay silent. On Tumblr it is VERY visible that people are holding their tongues. They don't want to offend anyone always be nice and pleasant. They forget that you gain respect by honesty because human beings value honesty more than nice people pleasers who get walked over and never complain. Especially false niceties as all over the Tumblr. Niceties feel fake and honesty don't.

I mean, yes? Yes. However, I think my previous posts on why sending hate and/or unsolicited negative criticism to fanfics is stupid is a completely different topic from what you are discussing here: improving fan engagement. If you’re totally cool with your readers leaving critical comments then that’s great and admirable, but not every writer is looking for strangers (especially out-of-ship readers) to pick apart their fics’ flaws, however. You always gotta know who you’re dealing with firsthand.

I, despite not being a fic writer, could not care less for false niceties either. That being said, unwarranted negativity is often justified by the claim of “honesty” when honesty, in those cases, means just being a blunt asshole. There needs to be a balance in fanspaces between politeness and honesty, generally speaking. And the way I see it, if we’re not besties, it’s probably better to say nothing than a false nicety and just move on. Why? Fandom is never that deep.

[asktheheirofslytherin]

*OOC* did you really ship Trumputin lmao? I actually like your fics about them surprisingly. Do you have smut?

[[OOC: Lmaoooo! I’m impressed you went back and found my A03 username lmao. But I’m glad you liked the fics! I didn’t seriously ship them irl (Putin would NEVER - I see him as a man with taste. But then again, I *could* see him stringing Trump along) but with the headlines the way they were, I mean, the fics pretty much wrote themselves. 

I stopped writing it out of respect to the many criticisms that Trumputin was inherently homophobic - though tbh I still felt the chemistry was there. But RPF is hard because you do have to take the biases and opinions of the public (moreso) into account; like if one of them *were* a woman it would have eliminated the homophobia take, but there would have been concern that the fic only existed due to a misogynistic stereotype of female sexuality - which also could have been a valid take. 

 But yeah, I had fun writing those - but I Just couldn’t bear to write smut about Trump. It just seemed...well, there are just some things you just don’t want to describe, lmao ]]

[sobsicles]

Opening Line Tag Game

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I was tagged by @dont-offend-the-bees - thanks! ill just do my spn fics and not any ive co-written because i didn't start the first chapters for those, though they're very good (Season Z and The Bad Santa Clause, respectively, that are fics written by a group of many amazing authors!)

Dean starts falling in love with him on a slow Sunday morning under slanted sunlight that slips through the gaps in the trees. — six hundred sundays (and many more)

Why did the curtains have to be yellow? — i want to do with you (what spring does to cherry trees)

In a bar on a Tuesday morning, it's a few months out from the final shot at the world ending. But hey, Chuck's long gone, and everything has worked out for the best, and the world keeps right on turning. Funny how that goes, huh? — dumbassery, denial, doing (the three d's to the destination)

There are certain moments in one's life when things go exactly as planned. It's like the stars align and the skies open up to reveal rays of sunlight and, against all odds, everything seems to be in perfect harmony. This is a phenomenon that Dean is genuinely not accustomed to, as it doesn't really happen for him. — finding hope (and finding him)

The first time she meets him, he's nothing more than an almost-missed appointment. — break the skin (to break the barriers)

The first time Dean and Cas kiss, it's not even really a kiss at all. It is, in fact, mouth-to-mouth. — a kiss for every season (literally)

The brass chip slides back and forth in a small path across the leaning desk Bobby has had for years and still hasn't gotten around to fixing. The chip reads: To thine own self be true. Unity. Service. Recovery. — separate ways and sleeping dogs

Getting used to Heaven is something of a marvel. It ain't perfect, and Dean thinks he'd hate it if it was, which is probably why it isn't. There's just enough human-esque nuances to it that keep it feeling like life rather than death, and he's thankful for that because he's got the smallest inkling that he should have gotten to live a little longer than he did. — oh sooner or later it all comes down to faith

So, the first thing that happens is Castiel comes back. It's at a pretty inconvenient time, considering the amount of pain Dean is in and how close he is to being dead. — things happen (they do, and they do, and they do)

It's not the first time Claire has ever gone missing. It is, however, the first time Kaia panics about it. — what's missing is found (our souls can exhale now)

It's different now, no matter how much they're pretending it's not. Mostly out of self-preservation, because sometimes their sanity is hanging by a mere thread and it's so obvious that they simply have no choice but to fake it 'til they make it. They've done a lot of that through the years, practically crafted it into a fine art, but this is the best performance yet. — according to all known laws of life

Time is different here. — what they deserve (it's better this way)

The first realization he remembers having is that the stars are oddly bright from where he lies sprawled on his back. The second, of course, is that there are troubling sounds coming from some vague point to his left. He supposes that's fair—vision and auditory processes are usually the first thing people make sense of when they wake. He knows that much, at least. Not much else, though. — Memories Bring Back Memories (Bring Back You)

Dean would think that a failsafe like this wouldn't exist. It doesn't quite add up in his head when he sits down and thinks about it, but Sam assures him over and over that it's well within the realm of possibility for the Men of Letters--supposed smart people--to come up with something as stupid as this. — home is where the heart is (and you have mine)

The blackbirds start singing a dawn. — profoundly bonded (by law)

So. So, the thing about desperation, and want, and desire, and how it controls, is that it's all bullshit, and Dean wants absolutely no part in it. — staring at ceiling in the dark, same empty feeling in your heart (love comes slow and it goes so fast)

Cas wasn't a music fanatic of any kind, Dean knew this firsthand. Sure, he listened to whatever Dean was listening to, or whatever was playing in the car on long trips. But he never went out of his way to listen to music in his spare time. — listen to the song in my soul (only you can hear)

All things considered, Castiel found solace in the fact that his life couldn't get any worse than this. — Just A Touch

There were a few things that were known about Dean Winchester, undeniable things that hadn't wavered once in his entire life. — a helping hand (let's not be friends)

Dean was merely ten years old when he discovered that bridges didn't close the gap between two worlds. — The Bridges We Built

insane to me that none of these opened up on dialogue. i don't open up with dialogue that often, as it turns out. also, most of these fics are dean pov. only three of these out of twenty are cas pov (1, 12, 18). my personal five favorites out of these: 3, 5, 10, 14, 15.

im supposed to tag people, but like, i want anyone who wants to do it to do it! if you see this and want to do it, definitely do so! tag me if you do; i'd love to see your answers!

[songofclarity]

You're one of the very few Wen Ruohan fans I've encountered! I am super curious as to your thoughts on how your version of Wen Ruohan (polite, restrained, incredibly powerful but misled by those around him, ruthless but not outright evil) correlates with some of the novel passages about him being cruel, fond of torture, etc. (1/3)

(Passage 1) The QishanWen Sect’s leader, Wen RuoHan, had a moody, violent personality. He loved the sight of blood and sometimes took enjoyment in torturing those that offended him. Jin GuangYao was only able to capture Wen RuoHan’s interest by catering to his needs, making all sorts of cruel yet amusing devices (Passage 2) The “Fire Palace” was Wen RuoHan’s playground. It was where he collected thousands of torture devices for tormenting people (2/3)

At least for me, those passages were the basis of my reading him as being fond of torture and hurting people and such, so finding your contrary view was really cool. Is your view that those are biased descriptions, given that the novel is told from close-point-of-view for Wei Wuxian (who obviously had reason to dislike Wen Ruohan!)? Or do you incorporate those aspects into Wen Ruohan in some other way? I love your fics & meta a lot; if you don't want to answer, feel free to ignore. Thanks! (3/3)

No one is more surprised that I became a Wen RuoHan fan more than me, Anon!! Thank you for the ask, it makes me really happy that you’re curious about it and that you’re giving me an opportunity to talk about him LOL Although I do politely protest to it being called my version of Wen RuoHan...! I promise you, I'm not trying to make this characterization up out of thin air to suit my whims. The reason I've grown to like him is because I started paying closer attention to him and what I found made him rather more interesting and likeable compared to when I first read the novel with a focus on Wei WuXian and co.

MDZS is all about differentiating between what we see and what we are told. Spoken rumors vs recognized truths are important plot devices. We are told at the very start of the novel that Wei WuXian, the Yiling Patriarch, was this horrible and monstrous person who slaughtered thousands without any remorse. He was a terrible, dastardly demonic cultivator and the entire cultivation world breathes with relief now that he's gone, because what a terror that man was! How sad for his poor Shijie and Shidi that they ever met him! Mo XuanYu summons him with the explicit belief that Wei WuXian is indeed this malicious, heartless ghoul who will torture and slaughter the Mo family in cold blood for his revenge.

And what's Wei WuXian's response to that? "You've got the wrong person..." (Ch. 2, ERS).

Now, we see firsthand evidence that shows why people would think Wei WuXian is this kind of monster. We see him torture and mutilate Wen Chao, we hear about the leagues of corpses he raises to fight in the Sunshot Campaign, we see the violence that erupts both times at Qiongqi Path, and we see the massacre at Nightless City when he goes off the rails. His motivations and circumstances aside, this is the work of a villain. He’s terrifying! Taking his motivations and circumstances into account, however, I don't think anyone would accuse him of being moody and violent and loving to torture even though we see him being moody and violent and torturing his victim with a lot of malicious satisfaction. It takes a certain kind of someone to force their victim to eat their own flesh, after all.

By comparison, we never even see Wen RuoHan being violently moody or enjoying the sight of blood or even engaging in torture. I wrote several paragraphs going scene by scene that made this reply a mile long that I have cut out, because the short explanation is that what we have here are descriptions of a person we never encounter, not even when he has his son's murderer under his foot and at his mercy. By all means, like Wei WuXian to Wen Chao, Wen RuoHan is at least justified in killing Nie MingJue for killing Wen Xu. Wen RuoHan even asks to confirm that he has the right man (and would someone who likes torture and blood even care?). But then he... doesn't kill him. And then he turns down an offer to torture Nie MingJue as well. Considering Wei WuXian hunted Wen Chao down for the opportunity to torture him, Wen RuoHan not even wanting to take what is offered him on a silver platter is in direct conflict with the report that torture is his favorite pastime.

And this conflict isn’t accidental. It’s done on purpose for a specific reason.

What's interesting about those two passages you picked is that they are both post-Sunshot condemnations of Wen RuoHan's character. Wen RuoHan is very dead and unable to defend his reputation after the Sunshot Campaign. His Wen remnants are very much being tortured and abused by the Jin who sing about how they are the good guys even as they beat Wen Ning to death. Jin GuangYao has all the reasons in the world to turn Wen RuoHan from a basic antagonist into a sadistic monster in order to cover up his own crimes, because there is no rational way Jin GuangYao can possibly reconcile saying, “I had no choice” with Wen RuoHan telling him, “Do as you please” (Ch. 49, ERS).

Because those two passage you identified which characterize Wen RuoHan are provided by the only person who survived Nightless City and is given a voice: Jin GuangYao. Jin GuangYao who used and murdered Wen RuoHan for political gain in order to get fame and his father’s attention. Jin GuangYao has no reason or desire to let Wen RuoHan have a fair trial, and certainly the cultivation world is not interested in a sympathetic take of the man who led the Wen Sect.

The mural painting Jin GuangYao has done on the stairs at Koi Tower show him murdering Wen RuoHan. Note how it’s the expression on Jin GuangYao's face, and not anything to do with Wen RuoHan, that makes Wei WuXian feel uneasy. It's because the Wen Sect as a whole are demonized that the Jin Sect is able to get away with becoming far, far worse. Jin GuangYao depicts himself as a hero slaying a monster, and it is in that manner he is able to go over a decade becoming a true tyrant whose crimes dwarfed any of Wen RuoHan's misdeeds.

Rather than only listen to Jin Sect, who had a very obvious complex toward the Wen Sect, we should at least pay attention to the people who actually treated Wen RuoHan like a person rather than like a stepping stone. In which case we must look to Wen ZhuLiu!

[Wen ZhuLiu] was protecting Wen Chao under Wen RuoHan's orders. He'd never liked Wen Chao's character to begin with. Yet, there were no worst circumstances, but only worse circumstances. Wen Chao ordered him to come protect Wang LingJiao. The woman was not only shallow and conceited but also cruel at heart, gaining much dislike from him. However, no matter how much he didn't like her, he couldn't go against Wen RuoHan and Wen Chao's orders and kill her. (Ch. 58, ERS)

Look at the personalities Wen ZhuLiu does not like. Wen Chao is arrogant and lecherous. Wang LingJiao is, explicitly stated, conceited, shallow, and cruel at heart. Wen ZhuLiu dislikes Wang LingJiao so much that he would kill her if he could!

Remember that Wen ZhuLiu picked following Wen RuoHan on his own. He picked his own master because he liked him in some manner. Before the Wen Sect fell, it was hugely popular with guest cultivators and Wen RuoHan is at the center of all that. Would Wen ZhuLiu pick a heartless master who behaved like Wen Chao or Wang LingJiao? All signs point to no. So it's safe to say that:

Wen RuoHan is not arrogant or lecherous

Wen RuoHan is not conceited or shallow.

Wen RuoHan is not cruel at heart.

And if Wen RuoHan is not cruel at heart, he wouldn’t be so cruel as to enjoy torturing people like the rumors say. And I think we have more reasons to trust Wen ZhuLiu than Jin GuangYao or the Jin Sect on this.

[bi-naesala]

Happy birthday Nishi-chan~

Fandom: Yakuza Rating: E Warnings: / Relationships: Majima Goro/Nishikiyama Akira Characters: Nishikiyama Akira, Majima Goro Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Male Character, Trans Nishikiyama Akira, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Majima Goro, Multiple Orgasms, Set during the time Kiryu's in jail Summary:

Usually Nishiki tries to ignore Majima when he comes to bother him, but this time he doesn’t find it in himself to push him away. He wasn’t expecting to be taken to a love hotel, though, but in the end, can he really complain about it?

(Also on AO3)

(Fic under the cut)

Usually Nishiki tries to ignore Majima when he comes to bother him, which doesn’t happen quite as often as she used to do with Kiryu but it’s still enough to make her an annoyance, but this time when she comes to him asking him out for a drink, he doesn’t find it in himself to say no.

Maybe it’s because it’s been a while since the last time he went out with anyone, maybe it’s the loneliness, maybe it’s the fact that as annoying as it is, Majima’s attention is still flattering to him, so he decides that what the hell, for once he could have some fun.

  He wasn’t expecting to be taken to a love hotel, though, not that he can complain when Majima’s kissing him breathless, hands caressing his already naked body.

Majima’s truly unpredictable, and that can also be seen in the way he kisses, going slow and deep for a moment, then changing course in a second, keeping Nishiki constantly on his toes.

The most surprising thing of all to Nishiki is how much he’s into it. He never thought he’d ever say yes to going to bed with Majima, but here he is now.

 “What do you want?” she asks him once he pulls away, lips still so close that Nishiki can feel his breath against them.

“To get you out of that hideous jacket first of all,” Nishiki replies, a cheeky grin on his face. He’s so happy that he’s finally going to get to throw that travesty and insult to fashion away.

Majima grins back, ignoring the comment on his fashion sense - as if she doesn’t know it’s tacky as hell.

“Go on then, bigshot,” he encourages him then. Nishiki doesn’t let him repeat it twice before taking the offending jacket off, followed by her pants, which come off less easily however. Still, they manage.

 As soon as Majima’s as naked as him, Nishiki begins to run his hands over her body, moved by wonder. So this person isn’t just a made up legend, but it’s real and tangible; Nishiki can feel every scar on his skin, and yet he doesn’t feel disgusted by it. If anything, he feels something more akin to awe, being able to see firsthand just how much Majima has survived in her life.

He doesn’t get to explore his body as much as he’d love to, because soon Majima’s got him pinned by his wrists, licking her lips as he does so. For some reason, Nishiki finds that extremely attractive.

“Nu-huh,” Majima says then, shaking his head. “This is for you.”

Before Nishiki can ask her where this sudden generosity comes from, she goes down on him, mouthing at his neck, and all that leaves Nishiki’s lips is a gasp when he bites his collarbone.

“Yeah, like that…” Majima encourages him then, lowering himself to lavish Nishiki’s chest, licking between each pec while she traces the recent scars under them.

 “Beautiful,” he calls him, and sure Nishiki has been called beautiful countless times, but he feels nobody’s has ever been as sincere as Majima about it. Maybe it’s because, as crazy as his act is, Majima is an honest person: she never hides her true intentions.

It makes Nishiki flush.

 He doesn’t have the time to focus on that sensation though, because Majima’s kissing a trail down his body, and although Nishiki doesn’t notice at first, a raspberry on his stomach is enough to bring him back to reality, squawking indignantly.

“What the hell?!”

“You have the audacity to get distracted during some ‘Goro Majima Quality Time’! How do you think that makes a lady feel, huh?” he replies, frown evident on his face.

“Right… sorry,” Nishiki mutters in reply, not knowing what else to say. Luckily for him, Majima’s bad mood leaves as soon as it arrived, and she smiles at him.

“Alright, alright. You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” she mutters, keeping lowering himself until he’s almost out of the bed, face inches apart from Nishiki’s cock. She playfully blows air on it, making Nishiki squirm. “Look at you… So wet already…”

“Welll…” Nishiki begins, trying to find a convincing excuse to justify it, but it all goes to hell when Majima parts his lips and goes to town.

 She licks him like a madman, making Nishiki moan at his ministrations.

He eats him out just like he kisses, completely unpredictable. Just when Nishiki’s gotten pliant and used to the way she swirls her tongue around his cock, she goes even lower and presses against her entrance, going so slow at first that Nishiki’s forced to ride her tongue, all while Majima looks at him with a hunger that Nishiki wonders if he’ll be able to ever satisfy.

Then, suddenly, he grabs him by the hips and goes back to his cock, sucking it between her lips. Nishiki bucks his hips up - at least as much as he can while Majima’s still holding him down - whining at the sensation.

 Fucking hell, he’s so close already…

 “Oh god… M-Majima! I’m--!”

Nishiki’s orgasm crashes through him like a thunder, leaving him struggling for breath as it builds up and builds up and god he’s never felt this good in all his life.

His thighs quake around Majima’s head as she keeps going on and on, even after Nishiki’s come down from the high, not slowing down not even one bit with the way he flickers his cock with his tongue, even sucking it just to make things worse, no matter how many times Nishiki tries to call for her to tell her that he’s done.

Words ineffective, he tries to choke her with his legs to get him to stop, but then Majima takes hold of his thighs, gripping them so hard he must be leaving bruises, and keeps them well spread open so that she can work in peace.

No matter how much Nishiki tries to pull away, his hold on him is too strong, leaving Nishiki sobbing for the overstimulation. It hurts, it hurts so bad.

“P-Please…” he croaks, but not even that is enough to make Majima stop.

 Slowly, however, the line between pain and pleasure begins to blur, and Nishiki finds himself grinding his crotch against Majima’s face with a renewed interest. He hears her chuckle, but she’s merciful enough not to tease him, dutifully continuing eating him out until he comes again, back arching against the sheets.

This time, at least, Majima stops with her ministrations, pulling away to admire the mess he’s made of Nishiki, chin glistening from his juices - there’s some on his goatee too, gross… but also hot.

 It takes all of Nishiki’s willpower not to shield his eyes as Majima climbs up towards him, settling then on his left, but it’s impossible to look away, not when she holds his chin with her hand, grip gentle but firm.

“So?” she asks, grinning from ear to ear.

Nishiki must’ve gotten brain damage from his orgasms, because all he manages to say is a very eloquent “fuck”.

“Good, good!” Majima laughs. It sounds more like a genuine laugh rather than his usual over the top cackle, though Nishiki can’t point it out because as soon as he opens his mouth, he feels a finger ghost over his cock with obvious intentions.

“I-I can’t,” he stutters instead.

“Oh don’t say that, I know you’ve got another one left in you,” Majima replies.

Well, he’s not entirely wrong: ever since his last orgasm Nishiki has felt that he wasn’t quite done yet, a sort of eagerness that would’ve led to some unsatisfaction hadn’t Majima not intervened.

 This time at least she starts slow, lightly rubbing a finger over his cock.

Nothing prepares him, however, for when Majima gets two fingers inside him. He’s so wet that they go in easily, and every movement is accompanied by squelching sounds that seem taken straight from a porno.

At first she goes slow, searching for that spot inside him that will make him see stars. Then, once she’s found it - and she knows he did because Nishiki almost jumps out of the bed when she brushes against it - he begins hitting it repeatedly and without mercy.

Nishiki can’t do anything, too tired and drowsy and sweaty from his previous orgasms; he can barely let out any more sounds as Majima keeps going.

It becomes even harder for him when Majima captures his lips in a kiss; he can barely follow her lead, which makes things rather one-sided, but by the hardness he feels against his thigh, Majima must enjoy it quite a lot. Maybe he wants to be as overwhelming as possible just to be an asshole, but still, whatever the reason, Nishiki feels like he’s in heaven.

 When Majima pulls away, he licks Nishiki’s lips. “Close again?”

“Yeeeeah,” Nishiki whines. It takes him a lot of effort just to do that.

Suddenly, Majima’s voice becomes more authoritative, but still without losing its playful edge. “Come then, let me see.”

That’s all Nishiki needs to hear. His lips part, but no sound comes out of them, if not a single strangled moan as his body goes all rigid, reaching yet another orgasm, without even having his cock touched.

 When Majima pulls away, Nishiki can finally breathe again, body shivering and hole twitching at the sudden emptiness.

He thinks it’s over, but Majima has still something to give him it seems, because he thumbs at his cock again. Despite the fact that she barely brushes his digit over it, Nishiki still feels it, and it hurts - he’s so oversensitive now.

“Enough, please!” he manages to beg, and thankfully Majima does stop this time, allowing Nishiki to catch his breath.

 Holy shit, he still cannot believe what’s happening to him!

  He gets quickly distracted when Majima kisses him, going slower this time, which is good because Nishiki wouldn’t have been able to follow her.

When they pull away, Nishiki notices something soft in his gaze, though it would be hard for him to tell what’s causing it, at least until she speaks.

“Happy birthday Nishi-chan.”

 … Huh?

 Nishiki looks at Majima, surprised. “Wait, what?”

“Ain’t it yer birthday today?” Majima frowns. “I swear, if Nishida has given me the wrong info, I’m--”

“Oh shit, yeah… Yeah, it is my birthday,” Nishiki mutters, barely hearing what Majima’s saying.

That makes Majima stop in his tracks. It’s her time to look surprised now. “Wait, what do you mean? Did you forget?”

Nishiki lowers his gaze but doesn’t respond, not that he needs to: the answer’s clear as day. He’s devoted his entire being to working hard for when Kiryu will be out of jail that he’s forgotten that he too is a person, which includes forgetting stuff about himself, like his own birthday. Not that anyone else seems to have remembered it…

 Pretty sad, isn’t it?

 He hopes Majima doesn’t say anything about it, and judging by her silence, that seems to be the case, at least until, with almost an inhuman speed, Majima’s between his legs again.

“Wait!” Nishiki exclaims, brain still catching up with what’s happening. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Majima replies. “I’ll make you come so many times you’ll also forget your own name.”

He doesn’t give Nishiki the time to utter a word before going down on him again, and all Nishiki can do is moan. His voice is still strained from before, and it’ll probably get worse, but hey, if this is the cause of it, then who’s Nishiki to complain?

 He doesn’t think he’s ever screamed so hard in his life, and he does indeed get his mind so blown that he forgets many things, and all he can think about is how good Majima feels and how much he doesn’t want this moment to ever end, even though, unfortunately, it does.

After Majima’s done with him - how much time has passed? - he feels like nothing more than a puddle, completely spent but happy.

Majima’s grinning at him, rubbing his thighs soothingly, and Nishiki can’t help but to grin as well.

 As far as birthdays go, this has to be the best he’s had in a very long time.

[babbushka]

Hi,Z ✨from the 40 questions for fic writers would you please answer if you’d like of course #4,7,8,15,&16 ☺️

Hello my dear anon! Thank you so much for asking :) 

4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

Oh my gosh in terms of chaptered fics, 9 or 10, I think! Lol. I have lots of plans for the new year, and I can’t wait to get cracking on some of them. There’s a lot of fun in just thinking about and daydreaming about the ideas though, so even if 1 or 2 of those actually turn into something, I’m still grateful for the time to mull over new AUs or ideas. 

Currently the one that’s on my mind is Beyond Reasonable Doubt, which will be a Lawyer!Kylo AU chaptered fic in which Kylo is wrongfully accused of murder and needs you to represent him. Classic slowburn, enemies to friends to lovers, murder mystery court-room drama, lol. 

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

For this question I’m going to choose this scene from Each Eye, my Mob!Kylo Ren x Reader fic: 

You were hunting, hunting him down. On your way to rip him apart limb from limb, on your way to gouge out his eyes and yank his heart straight out of his throat.

Snoke.

The man who had ordered your beloved to kill his father, which he had done! Which he had done so well, so deservingly – it hadn’t been enough. Not enough for Snoke, not enough for him who lured him into a trap for his sister to strike him down. The wretched old man, the monster who had taken your Kylo away from you, who had warped and twisted him into a puppet who had to obey.

Well, he didn’t have to obey any longer, not anymore.

Kylo was passed out, blacked out in your bed. You had found him had saved him, had sewn the chasm of his face back together with ugly fucked up stitches because you didn’t know how to do any better, you didn’t know. You had never done anything like this before, had never even seen it done. Nothing but sheer force and willpower had pushed your fingers forward, nothing but blind determination and fear had given you any sense of calm.

Were you calm?

For context, this story is about how Kylo Ren deals with the apparent news of a traitor within his family of organized crime moguls. The entire fic is shadowed by a sense of underlying tension between literally every character (other than Kylo) and you, but for the majority of the story there isn’t a clear reason why. The paragraphs above are the beginning of that why. 

I’m proud of this whole setup because really it’s something that is set up through the entire story leading to this point. There’s a curiosity there -- why does everyone fear her? Why does everyone blindly respect her? Even Kylo submits to her, and he doesn’t submit to anyone. 

Well, in the scenes that follow, you find out exactly why. It also unveils another layer to her character that we don’t see in the present. In the present, she is perfectly put together. In the flashback, she is absolutely unhinged, and that is a sort of simmering dichotomy that everyone in the story -- and now at this point, the audience -- knows can flip at any moment. 

She is capable of sheer brutality, and you see that firsthand. 

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

You know what I’m also going to choose a scene from Each Eye for this question lol, which as a matter of fact follows shortly after the scene mentioned above: 

“Do you remember? Remember what I did to him?” You asked softly, removing the napkin from your lap, folding it and placing it on the table. You knew there was one last course coming, some sort of ice cream, but you didn’t care.

You wanted to go home, you needed to plan.

“Yes.” Rey said, voice barely above a whisper, because she did – she was there.

“Remember how I spared you?” You asked, snapping your finger and drawing her attention so that she could look at you, so that you could look at her, really look at her.

“Yes.” Rey answered, terrified.

You were no longer all smiles, all warmth. You were no longer sunshine and charm as you had been, as you tried to always be. No, no now you were angry, now you were impatient, now you were offended. Your eyes were cold and hard when you regarded her, when you bore your gaze into hers as you leaned in ever so slightly, leaned in just enough to make her lean in too.

“I’m starting to regret that.” You whispered, before pulling away.

The waiter arrived then with the ice creams, and you returned to your normally cheerful disposition, checking your phone and collecting your belongings.

“Shit, would you look at the time!” You laughed breezily, apologetically to the waiter. “I need to get going, Kylo will be expecting me back home soon. You know how he gets if he’s away from me for too long.” You said to Rey, who was stunned.

“Of course.” She said, mind racing, pulse jumping.

The waiter nodded, handed the ice creams off to someone else passing by so they wouldn’t melt, no use in wasting them on people who wouldn’t eat it.

You eyed the little piece of newspaper that was still on the table, and picked it up.

“Oh, would you mind holding onto this for me? He doesn’t like it when I fill in the puzzle without him, gets all sour.” You winked, folding it up and handing it to Rey.

“Did you finish it?” Her voice shook as she accepted the paper.

“No, there’s one left, I was hoping you could solve it.” You smiled warmly, standing up and putting on your coat, “It’s got me stumped I’m afraid. Forty-two across.”

There’s a lot of dialogue in the Tea Room scenes, because there’s a lot of unspoken truths being revealed. But I like this moment a lot, because it’s the moment that Rey realizes she is completely and totally fucked. It’s the moment where, without saying anything at all, you tell her that you know what she’s done, what she’s doing. 

It’s also an example of that switch I mentioned above being flipped, how thin the layer of her patience is. It was all in all, just such a fun scene to write, that whole tea moment. 

15. If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

This is such a fun question!! For those who may not know, I’m actually a spec screenwriter, and I use many of my chaptered fics as the base/starting point for some screenplays. So do keep an eye out, because there’s actually quite a few in the process of being tweaked and adapted into scripts. 

But to pick just one for this question, the answer is definitely Two Doves, a Flip Zimmerman/Reader fic I wrote which gives us a glimpse of Flip’s time in Vietnam. 

There are so many movies about the war in Vietnam, but in the updated for-screen version of Two Doves, that movie is more about veterans grappling with death and grief, humanity, morality, and what it means to be human. It’s very much an anti-war film that talks about the treatment of veterans after the war and how that’s a parallel to the treatment of vets today, as well as a commentary on the imperial militant industrial complex that has such a grasp on our country. 

16. If you only could write one pairing for the rest of your life, which pairing would it be?

Oh hands down Flip & His Darling Jewish Wife. I just have so much invested in that version of Flip, and there’s so so much that I could write about with them. Probably because that AU is also the personal AU put into prose lol, but idk. I’m just always very interested in seeing where they go, and how they handle the things life throws at them. 

[kpopficsincorporated]

What Do You Want From Me?

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader

Rating: M

Genre: Romance, friends to lovers!au, college!au

Warnings: Smut (yeah…), unprotected sex (ALWAYS WEAR PROTECTION KIDS), praise kink, oral (m receiving), fingering, squirting,

Words: 5685

A/N: WAS PREVIOUSLY ON KPOPFICINCS - THIS IS A REPOST. We decided to make an entire new blog. The previous post will have a link to this one. Sorry for the inconvenience.

- This is our first fic! We hope you like it. I had to have help from Bby Jay on the smut lol. Our requests and asks are open. 

UPDATE 9/9/20: Due to recent events, I have removed Woojin from this fic. I don’t support that kind of behavior. I refuse to support that kind of behavior. I updated this fic in light of that, and if there are still new people who want to read this, they can. I don’t think anyone is really reading this anymore, but I still wanted to remove him from my story. Thanks for your time.  -Sam

----

“How about we about we place a bet this time. The first two people who go out of their chips gets a favor from one of the two losers,” your friend Tiffany was bold. You knew she just wanted a massage from Minho as payback for the last time you guys played games and she lost and had to give him one. You guys were currently at your apartment for game night to destress from finals week. You and Chan would be the only ones staying during the summer while your other friends were going home.

“Okay, what kind of favors are we talking here?” Minho asked, already aware of Tiffany’s not so hidden motive.

“If I win, I want a massage from Minho,” she crossed her arms over her chest triumphantly. You could see Minho trying his best to hold in his smile.

“Ugh, I don’t want to do that!” he exclaimed, but you were too smart for this. You weren’t as oblivious as Tiffany was to his love for her. She just thought they were both super competitive and so far, he had been winning their bets, receiving favors from her. “Okay, fine. If I win, I want you to go with me to try that new restaurant I’ve been checking out. And you have to pay.”

“Ugh, fine.” She only relented because she thought she was going to win this one, you could tell.

“Okay, Chan what do you want from Y/N?” Minho asked the boy next to him. Chan was quiet for a moment, obviously putting in some thought of what he wanted. You noticed Minho glancing at you strangely, a small lift of his lips but it was so quick, you swore you were seeing things.

“You know, I could seriously use a massage. My neck has been killing me lately,” he answered, turning toward you.

You tried to keep your excitement down. Would it really be a punishment to be able to touch him like that? No, it would be more like a prize for you. You have had the biggest crush on Chan for the past year. At the beginning, he had started dating your friend, Jasmine, and really that was your fault because you helped them get together.

But they’ve been broken up for the entire semester and you couldn’t be happier that he was finally single. Your friend did him dirty and cheated on him. She barely even put the effort into the relationship and you were no longer friends with her. She seriously mistreated the kind boy and your friend group no longer wanted anything to do with her after that.

“Okay, that’s fair. If your neck gets worse, you should go see the doctor,” you informed him and he smiled in return.

“I will. Now, what do you want from me?”

Wow, that was such a loaded question. You wanted so much from him. You wanted him to return your affection, but that’s not something you could simply ask for. He didn’t like you like you did him.

You wanted something else, too; something you’ve been dying to experience firsthand when Jasmine had talked and gushed about it. But that isn’t something you could ask for in the company of others. You quickly glanced at the other two who were watching you intently, waiting for your answer.

“You know, I’m not quite sure yet. How about we just say you’ll owe me a favor?”

“Okay, I can deal with that. Let’s play this thing,” Chan said.

The game then begun, and it ended up being a complete mess of nothing but laughter. It was a charades sort of game, acting out specific words from a selection of nine words. Each time a word was played, it would be switched for a fresh one from the large deck of words. The first one to go out of their five chips, wins, but in this case, the first two would get a favor each.

“Wait, how does Y/N only have one chip left?” Minho gasped from laughter, finally realizing that you will probably be the first to win. “Are you cheating and hiding them somewhere?”

“What? No! There was that round where Chan acted out ‘Schmoopy’ and I was the only one who got it because you guys missed the cute kissy face,” you laughed.

“You must have been watching him hard, because you’re damn right I missed that stupid kissy face.” Tiffany was fed up. She just wanted to win over Minho and they were currently tied with two chips each.

“How is it that Y/N thinks my kissy face is cute and you think it’s stupid?” Chan asked, completely offended. He had a dramatic hand on his heart to convey exactly how he felt about it. It was really cute.

“Okay, Minho, it’s your turn,” you say, not answering Chan’s question. Minho quickly drew a number and peered over the cards as discreetly as he could to see which word he’d be acting out. He stood from sitting position on the living room floor. He quickly schooled his features, taking a deep breath. Minho looked at Tiffany, smirked and started body rolling all the way down and then he started doing the ‘grind on me’ dance on the floor.

Chan burst into laughter and you shrieked in glee, turning to see your friend blushing wildly and watching him closely. You quickly glanced at the cards to pick  your answer and were torn between ‘freaky’ and ‘NSFW’, the words closely meaning the same thing as far as acting them out. Minho took his seat beside Chan on the other side of the coffee table, a wide smile on his face making Tiffany look away.

“Well, there’s two it could be,” Tiffany mumbled, intently studying the cards and not looking at Minho again, a blush sticking to her face and staying there.

“It’s a 50/50 chance,” you whispered to Tiff, debating which word to choose in your head. You looked at your number cards and chose which number you thought it was and quickly placed the card face down on the floor. As you waited for the other two to place their cards down, you took a chance to glance at Chan, smiling to yourself at his concentrated features.        

“Okay, ready?” Minho asked, looking at everyone and lingering longer on the female beside you. “Flip your cards.” You all three flipped your cards, but only you and Tiffany got it right. It was ‘NSFW’.

“Hell yeah! I got it right!” she threw her arms in the air in excitement, turning and giving you a high five.

“Well shit, Y/N is the first winner!” Minho stated, crossing his arms and not liking the chances of him winning the second round while he still had two chips and Chan and Tiff have one.

“Minho, you’re a freak,” was all Chan said in his defense for picking the word ‘freaky’.

“Way to go, Y/N” Tiffany winked in your direction. You don’t know why she’s acting this way; you’ve never told her anything, not trusting any of your friends to not meddle in the friend group. You just wanted things to happen as they would, not because your friends decided they wanted it to happen, ya know?

“Tiffany, you don’t even know what my favor is,” you sighed.

“Does it matter? He is still gonna owe you one!” You shrugged your shoulders, as if it wasn’t that big of a deal, but on the inside, you were soaring. You don’t know how you’re going to bring up what you want from him, but it’d have to wait until it was just the two of you.

“Okay, next round. Technically, I’m supposed to act it out. Do you guys still want me to?” You asked your friends.

“Oh hell yeah. You’re good at this,” Minho answered your question, while Chan took out the previous round’s card and replaced it with another. You quickly drew a random number card, checking to see which it corresponded to, an easy one in the grand scheme of things – ‘table flipping’. You quickly acted it out, and everyone hummed in response and chose the number they thought it was.

“Okay, flip your cards.” Everyone got it right, which meant that both Chan and Tiffany got it right. Minho was the only one who had two chips.

“Hell yeah, I won this round, bitch!” Tiffany exclaimed, jumping up and dancing around the room. You glanced at Minho to see him trying to hide his smile and put a pout on his face. Tiffany looked just in time to see his pout and started laughing in glee.

“Okay, do we want to do a tie breaker, or are you okay with both of us getting favors?” Tiffany thought about it for a second before answering Chan’s question, stating that she was fine with both of them getting massages.

The four quickly cleaned up the game, getting ready to leave.

“When should I come over for my favor?” Chan asked with a smirk as he was walking toward the door, Tiffany and Minho ahead of him.

“I’ll text you. Maybe next weekend if you’re free? We can do it on movie night while watching the movie,” you replied, referring to your weekly movie night. Usually, the night was spent with all of your friends, including Liz and Theo (they already went home for the summer), the only couple in your friend group. Chan nodded in response, bidding you goodnight with a quick hug as he left with the other two who were already arguing about something irrelevant.

-

When you saw Chan again, it was a Friday night – movie night. You were busy cooking dinner when he walked in without knocking. He took his sneakers and socks off at the door, extremely comfortable in your small living space.

“Hey, what’s for dinner?” he asked and you answered him, turning off the stove once it was finished. He quickly fixed you both a drink, familiar with your kitchen already, and took the drinks to the living room, turning off the lights. He set up the movie he brought while you fixed the plates. Once settled, he started the movie and began eating. Chan picked a scary movie, something you were thankful for. You weren’t like most girls – you hated chick flicks. You’d rather watch a horror or action movie over the rom com’s any day – but you were also an avid Disney/Pixar/Dreamwork’s (cartoons) fan, so you watched those movies as well. Chan knew this, learning about your obvious likes and dislikes over the past year.

You ate your dinner in the silence, only the sound of the movie filling the apartment. Once you were both finished eating, Chan rinsed the dishes in the sink and came back to the living room.

“Did you want to do the massage during the movie or after?”

“I can give it to you during,” you smiled in his direction, getting up from the couch to get the oils you bought just for this. As you got to your bedroom, you quickly went to the restroom and prepared yourself. You quickly changed into the shorts and camisole you had set out for tonight. You had already shaved every inch of your body before you started cooking dinner in preparation for your favor. You only hoped that he’d agree to do it, it was kind of a big deal. You took deep breaths and washed your hands twice. You grabbed the large basin from under the sink and two hand towels and a rag from the rack. You added your oils into the basin and made your way to the kitchen. You soaked one hand towel and one rag, throwing them into the microwave to heat them. Once those were finished, you finally made your way back to the living room.

“Strip.” You sat your supplies down, organizing them.

“W-what?” Chan asked you, frozen in his spot on the couch. You couldn’t help but giggle as you corrected yourself.

“Take your shirt off, you big goof. You want your neck and shoulders massaged, right?”

“Oh. Yeah.” You took a seat on the couch, sitting up on your knees. You leaned over towards the table on the right side of the couch and pulled the whole thing as close to the couch as you could get it so that everything was in reach. Your couch was deep, two people could comfortably sit one in front of the other on your couch without someone falling off onto the floor. You stayed up on your knees, spreading them so he could fit between.

He stood from his seat and took his shirt off, throwing the piece of clothing across the back of the couch. You had missed seeing him shirtless. His beautiful pale muscles made you want to drool. What you would give to run your hands – your tongue – all over his body. You could feel arousal spiking in your abdomen as you swallowed to calm yourself down. You patted the space between your spread knees, a silent request for him to sit there.

He slowly sat down, stiff and straight.

“Lean back, Chan.” You grabbed his shoulders, gently pulling him back to lay flush against you. “I won’t bite,” you smiled. Unless you ask me to, because I definitely want to bite. You took a deep breath and, boy, did he smell good. It wasn’t cologne, it was more like his natural scent, maybe the type of body wash he used, but he always smelled good.

You grabbed the oils, handing them to him, trying to focus on what you wanted to do. You started lacing your fingers through his hair, deciding to massage his scalp a little before your hands were covered in oil.

“Which one do you like more?” you had a personal preference, but it wasn’t guaranteed he would like the same oil as you. You had gone to bath and body works earlier in the week and picked out the lavender cedarwood, eucalyptus tea and peppermint.

Chan opened the first one, smelling it and quickly put the peppermint back. You smiled at that. You weren’t a big fan of peppermint, but you know that you could rub a little behind your ears to help with migraines. He put the lavender cedarwood back and handed the eucalyptus tea to you – your favorite.

“Good choice. This one is my favorite,” you informed him, grabbing one of the heated towels. “Here, is this too hot or is it okay?” He touched the towel, muttering that it was okay and you unrolled it, laying it across his shoulders to help him relax. He sighed, releasing a heavy breath, making  you smile. “Is this okay?” You pressed the towel in across his shoulders, massaging only a little.

“That feels amazing,” he sighed out. You picked the towel up and moved it to his neck, repeating your actions. Once it had cooled down a little, you removed the towel and put it back in the basin.

You grabbed the oil, pouring some into your hands and rubbing them together to heat it up. “Are you ready?” A quick nod of confirmation and you began rubbing the oil into his skin. You started on his outer shoulders, kneading the muscles and working your way to his neck. You were finally touching him and his skin was so warm. You realized that in this position it was difficult to get to some areas (your knees were slightly in the way), but you didn’t care. You wanted him close to you, so you spread your legs wider, pulling him closer to you.

When you got to his neck, he moaned. Moaned. The sound caused butterflies to erupt in your stomach. It was quiet and breathy, something that you wouldn’t have been able to hear if you weren’t hyperaware of him.

“How does it feel?” you asked, seeking his praise, something you desperately wanted to hear. You wanted him to tell you how good you were for him. Woah. Did you have a praise kink???

He released another subtle moan. “It’s really good. My neck has been really sore and this feels amazing.” It wasn’t a big deal, really, but it made you feel so good that he felt good. The moans were already causing a wetness to gather in your underwear and you were sure if he kept making the noises, he was bound to feel it on his back. You grabbed the oil bottle and poured more into your hands, rubbing them together. You started at his neck this time, rubbing long strokes from there to the end of his shoulders and down his arms.

You worked his neck and shoulders for another twenty minutes, greedily absorbing every moan he made. If he denied your favor, at least you’d have the memory of the noises he could have made. You did this a few times before you ventured a little onto his chest. When  you looked over his shoulder, you could see his tantalizing abdomen calling out for you to touch him. You quickly went back to his shoulders before he could say anything about moving to his chest, but he didn’t say anything – the only noises coming from him were out of relief and pleasure.

You slowly moved back to his chest, massaging there for a little longer. “Is this okay?” you asked lowly and quietly in his ear, trying your best to sound seductive, not knowing if it would actually work. You’d never done this before, literally winging it at this point. You thought he’d jerk away, yell at you for talking in his ear like that, but all he did was shiver.

“Y-yes,” he stuttered. Stuttered. Chan does not stutter. Did the massage really feel that good or was it something else?

You took a chance anyway, going further down to his stomach, palms flat, and coming back up, lightly using your nails. There was a sharp intake of breath from Chan and he released it slowly. “How about this?” You repeated the action, without stopping. He let out a louder moan this time, the loudest one yet, but it was still quiet. Instead of answering this time, he nodded his head, eyes closed tightly, head leaning heavily against you.

You looked down, following the movements of your own hands, mesmerized by the feeling of his skin beneath them. You ventured as low as you could and that was when you noticed the small tent in his shorts. That couldn’t be what you thought it was, could it? Was the massage simply amazing or was he completely turned on by what you were purposely trying to do? You didn’t actually think it would work. You were eager to give him a massage, hoping beyond hope that you could somehow rile him up, a fantasy you’d been having since he asked for a massage as his favor. But for him to actually do what you dreamed about, was – and you let out a soft moan yourself. You could feel arousal flooding your underwear just from him becoming hard at your touch.

“Chan,” you whispered into his ear. He gently turned his cheek into you, as if trying to get closer to the sound of your voice. “I know what I want from you.”

His eyes snapped open and he tried to turn his head to look at you, but you fit your face into the crook of his neck, still running your hands over his skin. With your face right beside his, he couldn’t twist his head like he wanted to.

“W-what?” The fact that Chan kept stuttering with you was making you worse for wear. You quickly turned your head down, in a moment of bravery, and kissed the junction between his shoulder and neck. The boy gasped as you simultaneously ran your hands dangerously close to the waist band of his shorts. His hands shot up at that point, holding yours in place, stopping your movements.

You licked your way up to his ear, savoring the taste of his skin. “My favor.” You latched onto his earlobe, sucking and nibbling before moving back to his neck. You trailed kisses all across as much skin as you could reach in this position. He subtly moved his neck so that it was easier for you to access, letting out a soft moan when you started to suck a bruise onto his skin.

“What do you want from me?” Such a loaded question, really. But this favor had been plaguing your mind since you first thought about it. You’d been dreaming about it for longer than the week where it became a possibility. This was something you’d wanted for a long time.

“I want,” you paused, soothing your tongue over the new bruise on his skin. You unlatched your mouth, growing nervous as you were finally going to say it. Would he agree? Or would he shun you for even thinking that it would something he would do?

“I want you,” you whispered.

He quickly turned around, his right hand going to the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss. As soon as your lips connected, he pulled away. He looked at you, really taking in the features of your face before he decided that it was okay to do it again. He leaned back in, the kiss lasting longer, but he pulled away to speak.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long,” he said with such conviction. You opened your mouth to say something – anything – but before you could speak a word, he was kissing you again.

What started as a somewhat shy kiss, blossomed into a fiery passionate one. Chan turned you around so that you were straddling his thighs. He moved his hands, one at the back of your head, holding your hair and the other cradling your face. You could feel just how hard he was pressing into your core and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a sort of giddiness.

Hesitantly, Chan’s hands started to wander down from where they were, caressing down your body until they grab onto your hips. Your hands were stationed holding his head, moving to pull at his hair as he released a hiss. Your body felt like it was on fire, his hands leaving you smoldered in their wake.

Gently, his fingers slid just under the hem of your camisole to lightly touch the skin underneath. The feeling of his fingertips on your skin made you feel dizzy, but in a good way. Your entire mind morphed into a black hole, void of everything except for the man underneath you.

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears so loudly, you were sure he could hear it, too. He slowly moved his hands further up your body. If Chan was trying to drive away what little sanity remained within you, he was succeeding on all accounts.

He broke the kiss again, moving his lips down your neck. You almost missed his sharp intake of breath as you pressed yourself down onto the hardness hiding his pants. You moaned at the slight relief to your aching center. Without warning, your camisole was pulled over your head, leaving you topless in front of Chan’s intense gaze.

You feel a rush of embarrassment wash over you suddenly, having never been this exposed to any man, let alone the one you’ve been crushing on hard for the past year. The embarrassment was short-lived, however, as Chan stopped you and whispered, “No. You are absolutely beautiful,” before proceeding to ghost over your breasts over your bra.

He lightly grabbed them, softly massaging with the most delicate touch. The moan you let out could have made the devil himself blush. In one swift movement, your bra was gone and in its place was Chan’s mouth and hand.

You continued to grind yourself into Chan’s lap, feeling like you might explode without some kind of friction. At this point, you’d soaked all the way through your shorts. Needing more, you whined a “Chan, please.”

As if reading your mind, the hand that wasn’t preoccupied with your chest slipped under the waist band of your shorts and underwear, coming to rest on your pubic mound. You shuttered in sheer excitement as Chan’s hand sunk lower to cup your dripping and needy center, grinding into it with his hand softly.

Chan mumbled a soft “shit” as he came into contact with your wetness for the first time. Easily slipping one finger inside and then two, Chan set a slow pace while continuing to grind the heel of his palm into your clit.

Reduced to nothing but a moaning and whimpering mess under his attention, you called his name out in utter bliss. You felt the taut rope in your belly tightening further.

“Ch-Chan, I-I’m—” and before you could convey the arrival of your orgasm, the rope snapped and your body felt weightless. Your orgasm had hit you like a freight train and you were positive that with all the times that you’d brought yourself there, it was never this intense. But if you were honest, you never went this slow on yourself.

Chan, watching your body convulse in pleasure and feeling the clenching of your inner walls on his fingers, let out a low groan of approval, continuing to watch you ride the wave of pleasure he gave you.

Once you came down from your high, Chan caught your eyes, looking directly into them with a look you’ve never seen grace his features. It was a look of pride, lust and, could it be, affection?

He pulled his hands from your shorts and chest, setting them on either side of your hips.

“We can stop here if you want,” he said in a genuinely kind voice. You shook your head violently, not trusting your voice. “Are you sure?”

You swallowed heavily, nodding your head. “I’ve never been so sure about anything.” He kept eye contact and you couldn’t take it anymore. You leaned down, planting a searing kiss on his lips. He wrapped his arm around your waist, turning and laying you down on your back across the couch.

You reached for his shorts in a moment of bravery, lightly ghosting over his erection. He let out another quiet moan as your hand continued to trace him. He moved his lips down to your neck, repaying you for the bruise he received earlier. The sensation caused you to moan, arching your back as you reached your hand into his shorts, grabbing him fully.

The moan he released was the loudest you’d heard from him, matching yours now. He sat up as you pulled his shorts down. Sitting back on his knees, he watched your hand squeeze his shaft. You brought one hand to your mouth, licking it so you can stroke him. He watched your actions, letting out another sinful moan. “Such a good girl,” he groaned and the words went straight to your core.

“Yes, I’ll be your good girl,” you moaned and you couldn’t believe those words even left your mouth.

“Oh, baby girl,” he moaned, quickly stopping your hand from continuing. He took your shorts and underwear off. “Are you ready?”

Just as he lined his cock up to your entrance, you held him steady. “Wait, Chan.”

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His brow creased in worry as he quickly pulled away. You smiled, endeared by his actions.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just, I know I should have said this earlier, but I’m a virgin.” His eyes widened comically. Yes, this is the original favor you wanted to ask him. You wanted Chan to take your virginity. “And before you even ask, yes, I want this. I asked you for this because I trust you.” You brought his face back down to kiss him, the sweetest kiss you could offer him. “Is that okay?”

He nodded, smiling as he kissed you again. He brought his cock back to your entrance and you felt it there before he pushed into you in one go.

“Holy shit,” he whispered as he pulled away from the kiss. Chan allowed you to adjust as he peppered your shoulders with kisses. “You feel so good – you’re taking me so well,” he whispered into your ear. You moved your hips, a way to ask him to move without saying anything.

He pulled out only to quickly push back in, causing a shudder to wrack through your body. You released a breathy whine. “Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s it.” He continued his thrusts and your moans grew louder.

“Chan,” you started as he entered you over and over again. “Chan, I need more. I’m almost there.” It was surprising how fast your high was coming. You didn’t know if you were ready for it. But you knew what was going to happen with this one, with it being so intense so quickly.

He brought his hand down to quickly rub your clit back and forth. He pulled out, replacing his cock with his fingers to rapidly thrust into you to bring you to your orgasm, your whole body shaking. And what you expected to happen – happens as you orgasm.

“Oh my god, you squirt?” Chan asked, surprise completely taking over his features. Once you’ve calmed down, you nod in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I should have warned you,” you sighed as you raised your hands to your face, huffing out a breath.

“That was so fucking sexy,” he said as you both try to catch your breaths. You laughed, not expecting him to be so open to it.

“Let’s see if we can make you do that again,” he whispered darkly as he entered you once more, only this time on a mission. He furiously rubbed your clit as he thrusted his hips against yours. The high came so quickly this time, you weren’t sure what to do. Chan changed his depth, thrusting into you shallowly and it happened all too quickly before he pulled out and you squirt all over again.

Your body convulsed, eyes rolling back into your head , the force of this orgasm something you’d never experienced before. He waited for you to come down as he rubbed himself in front of your pussy, watching it clench before him.

“I’ve never done that twice in a row before,” you whispered out of breath as you watched the movements of his hand, biting your lip. Your spread your legs as wide as you could, bringing a hand to caress yourself so that he can see. The second your hand touched your clit, your whole body jolted in oversensitivity. “Are you close, Chan? Would you like me to help?”

“Yes,” he sighed in relief. He sat back down on the couch as you climbed off, kneeling on the floor in front of him. You grabbed his cock, using the mess from between your legs to make it easier. It was now that you finally took a good look at him, the sweat glistening down his abs as he looked at you between his legs.

You stroked him slowly, keeping eye contact with him as you tried to help him reach his end. You quickened your pace, his moans growing in sound.

“Don’t stop, baby girl. Keep going, just like that.” You started twisting your hand slightly at the end, tightening your hand just a little bit more. You were truly winging it at this point, but Chan seemed to love it. He grabbed your hand, stopping your movements at the base of his cock as he came. It seeped out from the tip, spilling onto your hands and you couldn’t help bringing your tongue to taste just a little. The second it touched his sensitive tip, he hissed, encouraging you to take the whole head into your mouth. You sucked lightly before popping your mouth off, continuing on to lick your hands. He didn’t necessarily taste the best, but you couldn’t help but to swallow it all down as he watched you.

He patted his thighs, “Come here.”

You straddled his lap again, only this time in a hug. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he buried his face in your hair, his arms wrapped extremely tightly around your waist. You sat there for a few minutes.

“I hope you realize that you can’t get rid of me after this,” he spoke lowly, but you could hear him perfectly.

“What do you mean,” you asked, pulling away to read his face.

“I mean that I like you too much to let you get away now,”  his eyes were closed, refusing to look at you.

He said what now? Did you even hear him correctly? HE FUCKING LIKES YOU!!

You leaned in, giving him a kiss. “I would never try to run from you,” you whispered, causing his eyes to open.

“Does that mean..?” he started, acting like it was an impossibility.

“Dude, I never would have slept with you if I didn’t like you, too,” you laughed and a smile graced his face.  

“Well then, will you please do me the favor of going out with me this week?” he asked, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Really? Freak yes, I will,” you kissed him again. “Will you do me the favor of staying the night with me tonight?”

“Absolutely, but first, I think we need a shower,” he laughed, as he glanced down at your bodies.

“Just shower, right?” you asked just in case.

“Yeah, I’m too tired to do anything else tonight.” He stood from his seat on the couch, holding you in his arms as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He took you to the shower, turning the water on and then helping you wash your hair.

“Thank you,” you whispered as you were cuddled together in your bed, but Chan was already asleep. You snuggled deeper into his chest and you fell asleep quickly.

[honeypiehotchner]

the envoy -- takeshi kovacs fic part one

Okay, so. I told myself I wasn’t going to write another fic because I don’t have the time. But here we are. 

I watched episode 3 earlier today (“In A Lonely Place”) and this fic just decided to pour out of me. Yes, there will be multiple parts. It’s following a similar storyline, but a few details will be altered (no pun intended).

That being said, welcome to yet another fic of mine. Altered Carbon style.

Don’t forget to let me know what you think! I love feedback especially on a world as new as AC <3

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Words: 1,599

Summary: Set in episode 3. Replace the dealer with Nym and there you go. She has a lot of secrets to be found out later.

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Nym Rolark is a longtime friend to Vernon Elliot. She’s who he goes to when he needs any…well, “hardware” as Kovacs put it.

           But what Elliot fails to mention to Kovacs is just how feisty this Nym is.

           “What the fuck are you doing here, Elliot?” Is the first thing that comes out of her mouth. Kovacs’s smirk doesn’t go unnoticed, but she doesn’t verbally acknowledge him just yet. “I told you to call before you come over.”

           “I know,” Elliot admits, a hint of apology in his tone. “But this is kind of last minute.”

           “My least favorite phrase,” Nym comments, turning around to cross her arms over her chest. “And I don’t do favors for anyone, so who the hell is this guy?”

           “Takeshi Kovacs,” the man in question answers, still smirking. It’s annoying. It makes Nym want to slap it right off his face.

           “The Envoy?” She replies with disinterest, then looking to Elliot. “Why did you bring him here?”

           “I need some hardware,” Kovacs answers for himself. “Lethal kind.”

           “I don’t own anything that’s not lethal,” she deadpans, turning back to Elliot. “Who’s paying?”

           “I am,” Kovacs answers again, getting a little irritated himself that she won’t speak directly to him.

           “Of course you are,” Nym rolls her eyes. “What’s your price?”

           He shrugs his shoulders, but not in the nonchalant way. In the arrogant way. “Whatever it takes.”

           Christ, she thinks, the quicker we get this over with, the better. “Fine. Right this way.”

           She leads the two men – one friend, one…enemy, or what she isn’t sure just yet – down the hallway to her basement door. She knocks twice, mostly out of habit, before shoving the door open, flicking the light on. She doesn’t bother looking back to see if they’re following, trusting that Elliot is either leading the way or Kovacs is fast enough to keep up with her.

           She hears two sets of footsteps, though, so the former must be true.

           When she reaches the hardware room, she bends down to lift the garage door up, flicking these lights on as well.

           “These are the classics,” she announces, a little annoyed that she has to, but since the Envoy is new, she does. She moves over to a locked vault, scanning her hand before saying, “These are the new additions – they’re expensive.”

           “I’ll take your best.”

           “That’s subjective,” Nym fires back, gesturing to the classics. “Those are my favorite, therefore my best.”

           Kovacs smirks. “What’ll do the most damage?”

           “That depends on the person.”

           Elliot glances between them tiredly. “Listen, you said you need this stuff now. Can you stop picking a fight for five goddamn seconds so we can get your shit?”

           Kovacs gives the man a look, wondering where in the hell that came from – and why Elliot thinks he can speak to Kovacs like that all of the sudden – but all it takes is one look at Nym to see.

           The Elliot family have been more of a family to Nym than her own family has. And that’s all Kovacs can tell. But that alone, in combination with Nym’s attitude, is enough to make him back off.

           “Ingram 40 flechette,” Nym holds up what, despite her previous comments, is arguably her favorite of the more advanced weapons.

           “There we go.”

           “Prototype?” Kovacs asks.

           Nym doesn’t hear any malicious intent behind his words, but her comment comes before she can register that. “Who do you think I am?”

           And Kovacs’s reply is just as quick. “Someone who really has an issue with people like me.”

           “With strangers,” she corrects him, then nodding and muttering, “You’re one to talk.”

           “Seriously?” Elliot nearly groans.

           “CTAC R and D,” Nym continues, picking back up on the real conversation at hand. “Uses flanged armor-piercing rounds. Ten-round clip. Homing tech onboard.” She watches as Kovacs – the dumbass, she thinks – places his hand at the bottom, causing her to offer a warning. “Don’t put your hand there.”

           He almost looks offended. “Why?” And when she reaches to grab the gun, he pulls it back.

           She sighs. “Do you want me to show you or would you rather me let you learn the hard way?”

           That arrogant smirk crosses his lips again before he gives in, handing the gun over. Nym doesn’t miss a single beat before saying, “Watch your head,” to which Elliot ducks as she fires the gun at the wall. Kovacs raises his eyebrows at the bullet lodged a few inches into the solid concrete. “Stay down,” she instructs when she sees Elliot beginning to stand. She presses the second button, the bullet flinging itself back to the gun.

           “That’s why,” Nym explains, wanting to add dumbass at the end, but deciding against it. “Reverse the field generator, the flechette homes through a plasma chamber, autoloads right into the mag.”

           “Is that new?” Elliot asks, his fingers grazing the bullet hole in a daze.

           “New to me,” Nym smirks. “Got a pair of them last week.”

           “I’ll take one,” Kovacs speaks up, bringing the attention back to him – he has a habit of that, she thinks.

           “Alright,” she nods, handing him the gun while eyeing what he already has in his hand. “Is that custom?”

           Kovacs glances at the weapon in his hand before shrugging, this time in the I don’t know way.

           “You mind?”

           He hands it over without a fight, or a sarcastic comment, surprisingly. “Modified second series Nemex?” Nym asks in shock. “Where did you get this?” She doesn’t even have one here.

           “From a guy who doesn’t need it anymore.”

           “Fair enough,” she nods, handing it back. “That’s where half my inventory comes from.”

           “And the other half?”

           “You don’t need to know.”

           Kovacs smirks again. “You got any blades?”

           “Do I got any blades?” She replies, rolling her eyes. “Come this way.”

           She tips the box lid, revealing her vast array of knives. She’s collected these the longest, so she has a larger selection.

“Tebbit knife. Tantalum steel alloy blade. Flint in the pommel for weighting.”

Nym smiles proudly at Elliot.

“Bioweapon coating?” Is Kovacs’s only question.

“Runnel’s coated with Reaper,” Nym answers easily, handing him the knife. It’s her favorite of the blades. Her personal choice in combat. “Betathanatine.”

“Shit scientists cooked up to study near-death experience,” Elliot adds.

“Deeper you stab, the more dose you get.”

“Ring it up. Plus whatever he wants,” Kovacs nods toward Elliot.

“I already know what he wants,” Nym rolls her eyes, heading back to the main room. “Sunjet 2320?”

           “You already know,” Elliot calls after her. “Classics never go out of style.”

           “You know it,” Nym agrees, placing the Sunjet on the counter. “Is that all?”

           Kovacs nods. “I think so.”

           She holds out the DNA scanner with a tired look. And when Kovacs makes no move to walk over, she sighs. “Either you pay or I keep the stuff. Your choice.”

           He smirks again, the arrogant kind as he practically waltzes over, taking his sweet ass time before placing his thumb on the scanner. The screen goes from orange to green, bringing a smile to Nym’s face.

           “Pleasure doing business with you.”

           That smirk stays on his face as he gathers the weapons and stuffs them inside a…pink Hello Unicorn back pack.

           “Seriously?”

           “What?” Kovacs raises his eyebrows, teasing before bringing the bag up and kissing it.

           “Nothing,” Nym shakes her head, accepting Elliot’s side hug. “Can I ask why you need all this shit?”

           Elliot furrows his eyebrows. “You never do.”

           “Well, you’re not normally bringing strangers in here,” she reminds him, shooting Kovacs a glance. “Let alone an Envoy looking into Bancroft’s death.”

           “Well, Bancroft’s only been murdered once.”

           The glance Nym sends Kovacs turns heated. “You don’t believe he killed himself, huh?” Everyone seems to think the ass was murdered. Everyone except Nym. And the police, apparently, because they couldn’t find any evidence of a murder. Just of a suicide.

           He shrugs. And doesn’t say another word.

           “Seriously, Elliot, why are you friends with him?”

           “Not friends,” Elliot clarifies quickly, sensing Kovacs is almost on the way to commenting about it, too. He looks to Nym, squeezing her in the hug a little tighter. “He’s helping Lizzie.”

           Immediately, Nym’s expression changes. “How?”

           Elliot explains everything, and explains his original reluctance to let any of it happen, but Nym understands. She knows he’ll do anything for Lizzie. Because Nym would too.

           “How much is it costing? I can help, you know I—”

           “Actually, Kovacs is covering it.”

           “Oh,” Nym nods, giving Kovacs a more respectful nod this time. “Well thank you.”

           “Technically, Bancroft is covering it,” Kovacs clarifies. “It’s just on the tab.”

           Nym nearly rolls her eyes. He’s got Meth money and suddenly he doesn’t know how to handle himself. That’s what normally happens when you get your hands on that amount of money. Nym saw it firsthand in her own family.

           “Well,” she sighs, patting Elliot’s back. “I’ve got somewhere to be, so, not to be rude—” She pauses to glare at the Envoy when she hears him snicker. “—but get the hell outta here.”

           “Us too,” Elliot chuckles. “You have fun.”

           “And you be careful,” she punches Elliot’s shoulder. “I mean it.”

           “I will.”

           “What about me?” Kovacs speaks up, completely ruining the moment.

           “Don’t take this personally,” Nym smirks, “but I think you can handle yourself, Envoy.”

           He smirks in return, and Nym swears she hears a chuckle come from his chest, but she isn’t sure.

           She’s only spent half an hour with him, but Nym can’t figure out Takeshi Kovacs.

[redpink-archive]

show me healing

“I’m here if you need a person.” small piece i was inspired to write after noticing how sad rosa looked in the show me going ep of b99, i felt like rosa’s and jake’s friendship could be expanded a lot more so this mess happened lolol also pls bear w me as this is my first time ever writing a fic omg be kind…. also shoutout to tilde (@sergeantames) for helping me edit this u are amazing ily anyways w/o further ado, here is my fic also alternatively titled rosa + jake + emotions lol

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The air is cool when Rosa steps out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. She lets out a sigh of relief; she wasn’t used to having to deal with so many emotions and so many people hugging her in such a short span of time. A part of her was grateful for her squad. She loved them all so dearly, and seeing their relieved faces when she walked back into the precinct did pull at her heartstrings, maybe even enough to make her feel like crying. She’d never tell them that, though.

The immense love that she had for her team slowly morphs into an uglier feeling, something she doesn’t even know how to describe. She sits down on one of the concrete ledges and tries to untangle her thoughts. She feels angry, she feels horrified, she feels anxious, and mostly, she feels so small. The events of the day replay over and over in her head but nothing makes sense, nothing feels real. She barely feels real herself. The last thing she remembers clearly is relaying her badge number and name to the dispatcher right before joining two other detectives who were headed to the hotel as well. Everything is a blur after that, and the only thing reminding her that she’s still alive is the coldness of the concrete she’s sitting on.

“Hey.” Rosa hadn’t heard the balcony door open and nearly jumps out of her skin as she turns to face the person who came to check up on her.

Jake.

“Sorry,” he quickly adds as he walks over to where she’s sitting. “I didn’t think anyone would be here, and I just needed to process some stuff, and the cold air weirdly makes me feel less alone.”

Rosa turns her head back and focuses her eyes on the building that she had been staring at before Jake came.

“Yeah, the cold air is the only thing reminding me that I’m real right now,” she says without breaking eye contact with the building. She feels Jake sit down next to her on the concrete.

“How are you, Rosa?” His voice is soft, and this has more of a profound effect on her than she was expecting it to. She pulls herself together and turns back to him.

“I- I don’t know, I’m fine.” She watches Jake’s brow furrow, and swivels her head back to face the building. She doesn’t need sympathy, she just needs time to forget. She already feels herself repressing the events of the day, and she’d rather leave them at that instead of trying to unpack those events right now with Jake.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk. I just hope you know that I’ll always be there for you if you ever find yourself in a bad place, ok?” The simplicity of his statement is highlighted by his matter-of-fact tone. They’ve been through a lot together, and she knew that he always had her back. “I’m here if you need a person,” he adds.

She wasn’t expecting to reply, but her words spill out faster than her brain can think to stop them. “I don’t know how I got back, Jake. I told you that it was prank, and that I didn’t use the elevator on purpose, but honestly, I can’t remember walking back into the precinct. I literally think I just saw stairs and climbed up them, uninhibited, and ended up on the fourth floor. After I responded to the call, I think my brain switched to autopilot because I don’t remember making any conscious choices, I just remembered my training. I didn’t even feel like a person.” She wasn’t used to sharing so much about what she felt to others, even though she had known Jake the longest out of all of the detectives in the 99th precinct. She felt so exposed, but even that did not stop her from continuing.

“I do remember thinking about what if I died right there. A part of me was ready, I think, to die.” She’s shocked at her own revelation, but the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that it was true. Rosa had been ready to sacrifice herself. For the job. For the civilians caught in the crossfire. For the people who left their homes today and didn’t return, and the families who they left behind.

“Were you really?” Jake’s voice cuts through Rosa’s thoughts like a knife. It sounded too hoarse to be his own voice, and he hadn’t noticed that he’d been holding his breath the whole time she was talking. Rosa looks down at her hands.

“Yeah,” she starts, “but I would have missed you guys a lot.” She lets out a small smile and looks up at Jake, but quickly looks back down when she sees him staring off into the distance with eyes that were a little too shiny. After a brief awkward silence between them, she gently nudges his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m sorry for freaking you out with what I said. I don’t really know where a lot of that came from.”

Jake promptly turns his attention back to Rosa. “No, no, please don’t apologize. I wasn’t even there when it happened, I don’t know why …” He trails off, struggling to find the right words to say what he feels but Rosa cuts him off.

“You know, on the way back here, I thought about you a lot, and all the stuff we’ve gone through together, and how scary it was to not have you there in a time of crisis. I mean remember being on Hawkins’ task force? That was some scary shit. And going to jail? Even more scary shit. But it was easier to go through it with my best friend, you know?” She watches Jake hastily rub his eyes with his sweater sleeve. He lets out a soft chuckle.

“Best friend? Some best friend I am, I don’t even think we got a chance to talk about what happened on that task force after everything ended and we came back.” Jake lets his anger seep into his words. He had always regretted not sitting down and talking with Rosa about the task force and the trial and being in jail for months. Sure, the whole experience had made him doubt his decision-making skills for a while after he witnessed firsthand how easily it was to be able to put away two innocent people. He became more cautious when determining the guilt of a potential suspect. It’s what made him a better cop, according to Holt. “You see it as a weakness, but it means you’re growing,” he had told him. But what about Rosa? How had the experience affected her?

She steps in before he has a chance to continue. “Hey, that’s equally my fault. I mean, I could have also initiated something.” Jake looks unconvinced, so she backtracks. “Okay, fine, I probably wouldn’t have, but it’s fine. You had a lot of things going on, you proposed!” Jake’s face lights up at the memory of that night and his huge surprise to Amy, and Rosa laughs at his very predictable reaction. “There was no reason for us to talk about it in the midst of all of that,” she shrugs.

“But that’s not the point of a friendship,” Jake argues. “Any person can be there for you when it’s convenient. Friends are supposed to make room in their schedule for you, especially when you’ve know each other since the Academy, and especially when you’re best friends,” he tells her.

“You know, I always considered you my closest friend because you didn’t try and talk to me about personal matters. Back then, it seemed like everyone was always itching to know everyone else’s ‘story’,” she says while making air-quotes with her fingers and rolling her eyes. “You were just content to test out the cool guns that were there, and it was refreshing.”

“Okay, there’s no need to make me out to be some sort of gun fanatic,” Jake huffs, making Rosa laugh again. “And while that may have been true at first, I think we’ve come too long of a way to not be able to be more open about how we feel out on the field, because … you’re right. It is scary out there, and it’s too easy to let that consume you. I mean, doesn’t a small part of you want to be more like the Swedes?” Jake breaks into a smile, eyes glittering, but not for the same reason as before.

“God no, and I’ll have someone mercy kill both of us if we ever end up like that,” Rosa deadpans while Jake struggles to contain his laughter.

“You KNOW people that can do that kind of stuff?” He asks incredulously, and Rosa makes a face.

“Oh come on! You were just telling me how long you’ve known me for!” She pretends to be offended at Jake’s gross underestimation of her vast amount of connections with shady people. Jake looks equal parts amused, impressed, and worried. She lets out a chuckle, but it’s quickly replaced by silence. “But I do want to thank you for looking out for me. I know I have a hard time talking about stuff like this but I appreciate you trying.” She pauses for a second, then continues. “And I’m sorry for not realizing that our friendship isn’t something that we can just half-ass.”

“That’s right, we must full-ass it!” Jake exclaims, a part of him actually being genuine. He transitions quickly back into being serious. “I’m sorry, too. I was really worried about you being alone and in danger-”

“I wasn’t alone, Jake,” Rosa reminds him.

“Well you were without the squad, our squad, so, a part of you was alone,” he justifies himself. “But, yeah, we were under orders to stay back, and I felt like I wasn’t doing anything to help so went directly against Holt and left with the intention of helping out at the hotel. But I hadn’t even gotten to my car before I realized that Holt was right, and that the squad needed me there to help them not repress their fear about this situation. And you need the same thing, we all do. I mean, God knows me and Amy are going to talk about this when we get home. I can’t even imagine what would happen if one of us…,” he trails off, lost in thought, leaving the sentence suspended in thick air. He shakes his head and continues. “The point is, emotions are hard, and we are all still learning how to express them in healthy ways, and I want you to learn with us.”

Rosa sighs. “I want to, too,” she manages to say after the bit of silence that passed while she was digesting Jake’s words. And she really did want to.

[httplovecraft1890]

Tabula Rasa

A drabble that came to me earlier this week about a premise I’m not sure I’ve actually seen done yet in the LoveSick/Yandere Simulator fan fic writing community. You can consider its premise a slight AU given what we’ve seen thus far about the game’s back story or alternatively a prequel to pacifist!Ayano or good!Ayano play throughs. Happy (early) Father’s Day. You can continue reading here or go to this story’s AO3 page.

Mr. Aishi doesn't have an official name in canon yet, but I decided to go with Junichi as, based on an entry on BehindtheName.com, it's a combination of the characters for 'obey/submit,' 'pure,' and 'one.’

“…I tried, please believe me. I’m doing the best that I can. I’m ashamed of the things I’ve been put through, I’m ashamed of the person I am.” - Joy Division, “Isolation” (1980)

          The house feels surprisingly still for the middle of the day.

           It’s not a feeling that Junichi Aishi – no, he has to remind himself, when she isn’t home he’s Junichi Fukunaga once more – is used to. Every moment of every day and in every second of every minute in each hour, there is a pair of eyes on him. It’s a kind of tension that would be hard to describe if he could ever find the courage within him to tell his story to someone, anyone, who might listen. He thinks it might be the same sort of pregnant pause that soldiers must feel when they know that an enemy awaits them on the battlefield but no shooting has begun yet. The only difference between those men and himself is that despite the horrific cost they will face there is always an end for them though whether in death’s embrace or the shell-shocked aftermath of victory it doesn’t matter. For Junichi there are only brief moments he can claim are truly his own and it’s been that way ever since he moved in with her.

           ‘Trapped,’ he corrects himself bitterly. ‘No need to let the Stockholm syndrome slip in that much.’

           Today is one of those days. She had gone out to shop at the open air market in Buraza to fetch them pork cutlets for dinner tonight, among other things, about an hour ago now and he will have to work quickly if he’s to succeed in his plan. He tries not to think of the empty smile that ghosted her face as she told him she’d be back as soon as she could, normally hollow eyes lighting up to give the impression of human affection, but unable to mimic it if one were paying enough attention. She’s grown more trusting of him now since the birth of the monster. Perhaps she thinks that by having something that is theirs he won’t dare try what he’s been planning ever since they returned home from the hospital.

           She needs to be wrong just once.

           The monster’s room isn’t far away from theirs; it’s right across the hall, in fact. His fingers steady themselves on the smooth surface of the sliding door as Junichi closes his eyes. What he is about to do is only right and if there was anyone to watch he’s sure that no one would blame him. All he’s been through at her tender mercies… it’s not a fate he would wish on his worst enemy. She will cry, approximating real tears, but he knows that she’ll never make the connection between the monster’s slaying and his whereabouts today. Try as she might he’ll find ways to prevent her from delivering any more hell spawn into the world. Perhaps Junichi will try to set up an appointment for a vasectomy in the future. He’ll have to be careful of course. Baby fever is real, he knows, and sure to be at a pitch when it’s compounded by grief.

           He draws back the door and steps into the room. It’s surprisingly pleasant, if he does say so himself. Junichi had even told her that it was his responsibility as the male half of an expecting couple to take the initiative to prepare it. She had deferred to him as usual as he’d picked out the wallpaper covered in swirling pastels, the milky white chairs and changing station, and even the handsome oak crib in the center whose polished handles gleamed just so when the sunlight streamed in. It was downright picturesque. If circumstances were different, Junichi might have even been proud of himself for setting it all up.

           Junichi pushes himself forward. His window of opportunity gets smaller and smaller with each passing second he knows and he can’t afford to back out now. Nor can he think much about the implications of his decision either as any self-reflection would surely stop him in his tracks. He has no illusions that what he is going to do is fundamentally wrong. The monster’s nature hasn’t surfaced yet but it will in time. The shell it bears is no excuse for all the misery it can unleash if he doesn’t nip it in the bud now when he has the chance. Yet none of that reassurance seems to matter as he steps through the threshold and into its lair. His heart which had moments ago been as steady and calm as he could manage is doing overtime as he feels adrenaline begin to course through his veins.

           Making his way to the would-be bed he sees it there lying in wait for him, totally unaware and prone. If he were to allow sentimentality to creep into this he might even go so far as to say that his intended victim is cute. Sitting there in a pink jinbei, the monster’s chest slowly rises and falls, head resting gently against a sizable plush tanuki which his parents had dropped off the last time they’d visited during Golden Week. He tries not to pay attention to its rosy, chubby cheeks or a nose that reminds him oh so much of photos he’d seen of his grandmother. There can be no attachment between them; not now, not ever. But more than that Junichi tries to avoid its dark gray hair, thin as it is on its tiny head, and lips that even in sleep have formed a distinctive pout. If nothing else it steels his resolve to see this through to the end. Those things are hers, not his.

           He can remember the day she was conceived as clearly as what he’d had for lunch the other day at the Saikou corporate headquarters. It had been a Saturday when he’d been awoken by a pair of needy hands and met with a ravenous gaze on opening his eyes. She did this at times, sometimes with his permission, and sometimes without. On her better days she would ask him what he wanted to do in their bedroom, even letting him decline her advances if she felt magnanimous enough on rare occasions and Junichi hates how good she feels to be inside of and how wonderful her tongue manages to be against his most sensitive areas. Other days there is no choice in the matter. She would pin him to the mattress and suddenly he would be a scared high school student tied to an ancient creaking chair in the basement (a place he can’t go to now without breaking into a cold sweat), eyes shrunk to pinpricks and his breathing haggard as she straddled him, planting sloppy kisses all over him, over and over and over, “Tell me you love me, darling…”, “I don’t even know who you–”

           The audible cracking of his knuckles brings him out of his stupor and Junichi releases a grip on the crib’s railing he didn’t even know he’d had.

           He slowly reaches for one of the unused pillows by the creature’s head, removing it with all the skill of an experienced Jenga player. Junichi barely trusts himself enough to breathe at this point for fear of waking his target. It’s a quiet thing – on its best days he can even forget that it sits in this place at all until she asks him to check on it. Aside from the occasional murmur of discomfort to signal it needs a diaper change or to be fed Junichi might even go so far as to say it’s a baby that most parents could only dream of having. All of the supposed long nights that plague young couples haven’t hit him yet and he expects they never will. But he knows that it’s all an act, a ruse meant to fool him and the world from its instinctual nature. He knows firsthand what it will be like when its kind grows up. He doesn’t know how big her family is. Junichi doesn’t even know if she has siblings, but it doesn’t matter. Even if his act of rebellion will be known only to him and him alone, he at least fought against the fate he’s long since acquiesced to with a whimper every night when she wraps her arms around his midsection like a vice as they fall asleep.

           Junichi weighs the small object in his hands for a moment, feeling its cottony softness. He’ll be as gentle as he can with it as he pushes it down onto its face; he knows it won’t cry. ‘Sudden infant death syndrome, I’m afraid,’ says the imaginary doctor in his mind. ‘We don’t know the reasons for why they go. Sometimes… accidents like this just happen.’ Oh, he’ll weep alongside her then for appearances, but it’ll all be a show. She brought it into this world. Junichi’s practically doing the world a favor by ridding it of the vermin before him. But as he looks quickly away from the murder weapon and back to his target he realizes his mistake. He should’ve been quicker to do the deed.

           Its eyes have begun to flutter and for a moment Junichi forgets his plan, wanting more than anything to slam the object in his hands into its face and push down as hard as he can. He’s so close and there’s no guarantee he’ll get an opportunity like this for a long, long time and by that point an excuse might not be so easy. The opportunity literally lying in front of him is slipping out of his grasp. His hands hover in place over the monster’s head as he lowers the offending object. ‘Don’t look,’ he thinks as he tries to steady nerves which have begun to light themselves in panic over this latest setback. ‘If you do that, you’ll never be able to go through with it. You’re no murderer. You’re not her.’

           This is it.

           Do or die.

           He can’t feel guilty for destroying something whose only purpose is to perpetuate a cycle of abuse that is decades, if not centuries, old. What he’s doing is only right. Karma be damned, if he has to return in penance as some lower lifeform, he will. What Junichi is about to do is nothing but a mercy to the unsuspecting men beyond this house’s walls. The blood shared between them is as meaningless as the so-called marriage he’s been forced into. Junichi is totally and utterly alone in this hell. If she will never let him go then this might very well be the last act of defiance he can muster and, by all the gods in heaven, he will have it.

           If Junichi were a more observant man, however, he might have been able to avoid many things.

           He might have avoided her or at least able to incriminate her with something if he’d paid more attention to the girls who had slowly left or disappeared from Akademi one by one after they seemed to show some interest in him. He might have avoided her wolf in sheep’s clothing act about being too frightened to walk home with a murderer on the loose. Junichi might have avoided the chloroform rag that she’d brought along to use once they were navigating through one of Buraza’s alleyways. If he’d pulled out a little sooner he might not even have to destroy his innocence like he is attempting to at this very moment.

           But most importantly, Junichi might have avoided taking a minute too long to do the deed.

           His breath hitches in his throat as he meets the gaze of a pair of slate gray eyes staring up at him from the crib solemnly. No. No. This can’t be happening. It isn’t fair. All this time, trying to steel his nerves just right to do what he’s had to build himself up to for months ever since he found out she was pregnant… it’s slipped away from him. The pillow falls from his hands and bounces onto the soft bedding of the crib with a quiet plop. He can’t do this. Not now, not after making eye contact with it. A foolish part of Junichi doesn’t want the last thing for it to see being a father who doesn’t want it but instead whatever pleasant dreams are dancing through its head. It’s why he hasn’t downed an entire bottle’s worth of sleeping pills yet himself.

           There’s nothing that fills him with warmth left in him.

           He collapses to his knees, his hands sliding down the bars of its cage. Junichi wants so many things in this moment. He wants to scream, cry, run away and never look back from this place (as pointless as he knows that endeavor to be), to be the man in the photographs that litter his prison whose smile is genuine and not part of a carefully constructed mask, perhaps even more so than hers is, and to feel some sort of remorse for having contemplated for so long taking a child’s life. Instead Junichi feels the same deadened feeling he has felt ever since he came to live here sink in once more.

           Seconds turn into what Junichi is sure are minutes as he sits there, kneeling before his former target, shaking the bars of the crib as if he were the infant instead. It was foolish to think that he could ever hope to take control of his situation. She was right: there was nothing left for him outside and certainly no reason to do anything other than follow her whims. All he had to do was give up, to stop hoping that there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, and he would be free at last. Junichi had heard her casually mention before in passing that her father had been a man whose mind had never recovered whatever trauma it’d suffered when her mother had broken him. He is both empathetic and envious at the same time towards a complete stranger.

           Lost in his own despair, Junichi almost doesn’t notice the touch suddenly present against his left hand until he stops shuddering. But when at last he feels he’s cried as many tears as he’s able he finally turns towards the source of the sensation that has been resting against him. He’s tried to psyche himself up today for a litany of fake emotions: shock, grief, even anger, but surprise is not one of them and more so when that the feeling is genuine. In the time he has taken to wallow in his own self-pity his target has taken upon itself the duty of moving one of its small hands out to him, tiny fingers splayed against him as if it can somehow bless him and free him of his would-be sin, its expression unwavering in how calm it is.

           It takes all of Junichi’s willpower to meet its – her – eyes and he finds that as soon as he does he wants to look away in shame. She had done nothing to him; none of this had been her fault. In a war against someone who seemed remorseless to the depths in which she’d sink to keep her happiness, he’d sunk down too. Bile begins to rise in the back of Junichi’s throat as he tries desperately to mentally bargain with his daughter for forgiveness.

           Daughter.

           It’s the first time he’s ever ascribed that term to her. Oh, the hospital had told him that’s what she was, her mother told him that with a gleeful expression every single morning, but it was something he’d avoided altogether. It had been a foul word, a curse that was so awful he felt it shouldn’t pass from his lips. But now it seemed appropriate to him. In her own way, she was just as much a victim of circumstance as Junichi was.

           Picking himself up Junichi stares down at her. Features that had once seemed so alien, cruel that he could barely stomach them, no longer inspire that same sense of revulsion that they once had. Hesitating a moment, he reaches his arms down to pick up the girl, resting her head against the crook of his arm as he’d seen his aunt and uncle do countless times to his cousins when he was younger, her small body tucked close to his chest as he practically collapses onto the wicker chair next to her bed.

           ‘Do all things begin in innocence?’

           It’s a question that floats to the surface of his mind without much prompting. It’s hard to imagine at one point that she could be anything but the monster he knows her to be. But there must have been a time when even she was in his daughter’s place, defenseless and vulnerable, a tabula rasa waiting to be etched onto by the world’s sculptors. His thoughts travel briefly to her father, a living corpse of a man who saw, heard, tasted, smelled, and felt the world but at the same time couldn’t. Junichi didn’t blame him for retreating into himself. In its own way such a thing must have been like achieving nirvana. Yet had he fought as much as her mother…

           It was a dangerous line of thinking, Junichi knew. “Coulda, shoulda, woulda” was the eternal refrain of mankind. He was operating on a theory, perhaps even less than that, and it was something that he had no proof of. Perhaps this whole line of thinking was a sham and nature dictated everything. For her part, his daughter offers no support and no criticism to his reasoning. In the entire time since her departure from her little world, she has been totally silent, as per usual. Absently tugging on the neck of his white polo with his free hand, a nervous habit, a new plan begins to form, a desire for revenge borne out of anger at his failure and to atone for what he’s tried to do.

           “Your…” he has to steady himself to even the utter word, “…mommy isn’t the only one here for you. I am too.”

           Tears begin to well in the corner of his eyes and he has to fight the urge to give the little girl an impromptu bath.

           “I know I haven’t… haven’t been the best daddy, but I can change.”

           An understatement. She’ll never know just how lucky she was in avoiding what she did. Nor will she ever. It’s a secret he intends to take with him to his grave.

           “I don’t know if you can, but I’ll try to help you change too. We can be good together.”

           Images of his little girl over the years flash before him. Her first day of school, a broken arm from climbing a tree, sitting with other children at lunch, and, though he has to fight his way past his own desire to break into a panic, sitting across from someone and admiring them from afar. If she can’t understand what it means to be kind, then he will teach her, help her, so that she understands that she doesn’t have to be a monster.

           “I…”

           It’s not a burden he’s asked for but one he will undertake for everyone’s sake. Leaning forward, Junichi places his lips as gently as he can to her forehead in a kiss.

           “I love you, Ayano.”

           She will be her father’s daughter.

           He’ll make sure of it.

[mariequitecontrarie]

Meet Me in the Courtyard: Part 3

Part 3 Summary: Belle finally finds out what’s under the sheet on Gold’s worktable.  The Fic: Belle hosts a monthly movie night in Storybrooke, always leaving the seat next to her empty. Gold loathes movies, yet movie night at the library is the one community event even he can’t seem to resist.  Rating: T, actually A/N: Sorry this took me so long, guys. This was supposed to be for the July @a-monthly-rumbelling, but alas. And then I saw the September smut prompt…”Friends can totally watch porn together and nothing can happen…no they can’t.” And this has both prompts. But no smut. IDK I’m getting a headache. Thanks to @magnoliatattoo, who makes everything I write better.

{On AO3} Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Barefoot, Belle scrambled over to the worktable and lifted the corner of the sheet to peek. Her eyes widened in happy surprise, her dimples puckering. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Depends on what you think it is.” He leaned back against the wall with an indulgent smile, his annoyance from the scene at the diner having faded enough for him to risk teasing her.

Beaming, she yanked the sheet off the table and it billowed to the floor. “Yes! It’s a movie projector! Where did you get it? When? Who is it for? Is it a commission? Are you restoring it for someone?” She squealed and waved her hands around the machine, skipping around the table like a young girl.

“So many questions.” He laughed at her enthusiasm, then, suddenly cautious, he looked at his shoes, frowning at a scuff mark on the toe. They needed a good polishing.

“What are you planning to do with it?” she persisted, running her finger along the edge of a metal reel.

Gold turned his attention to the contraption. The concept seemed self-explanatory to his mind, but she seemed to want him to come out and say it.

A crash of thunder pierced the quiet patter of rain on the roof, and when Gold shifted his gaze toward Belle again, her eyes were misty and her pink lips parted. “You did this for me?” she asked softly. She stepped closer, laying a hand on his arm.

Oh, she definitely wanted him to come out and say it. Bollocks, he hated bloody sentiment.

“I suppose,” he allowed, then bit down on his wayward tongue when her face crumpled and she took a step back.

Gold ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Nothing he did or said in regards to Belle French ever went according to plan. He felt like he was standing on the curb by the library once more, his tongue twisted into knots as he tried to decide whether to come to the movie or go home. Instead, his existence hovered somewhere in between— he was but a spectator in his own life; never a participant. Now, even in his own shop, he had lost his footing.

“Yes,” he corrected himself gruffly. “It is. You like movies, right?”

That was all it took to see her brilliant smile beaming his way once more.

“I do.” She nodded so hard he thought her head might fall off her shoulders. “Do you have any movies we can watch?”

“I may have one or two in storage. Let me check the inventory.” It was a welcome excuse to turn away from the intensity of those too-blue eyes.

The wind howled and the rain intensified, slanting east toward the front of the shop. Gold continued to rummage through the inventory closet while Belle looked through the small pile of movies he’d unearthed. On the top shelf, he found a thick blue-grey cardigan sweater, and offered it to her.  “You’re still shivering.”

She shook her head and giggled, pushing the sweater back at him. “I told you, I’m not cold; I’m excited.”

“Nonetheless.” He draped the garment around her slender shoulders. “Humor me.”

“All right,” she allowed, drawing her arms through the sleeves, “then humor me.”

He lifted an eyebrow and waited.

“I’m sorry about before. With Ruby and the others. They were way out of line and I should have…I don’t know.” She toyed with one of the sweater’s oversized buttons. “Something other than sit there and do nothing.”

Gold waved a dismissive hand. They’d been over this already, and her apology was unnecessary. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I did.” The sheen in her eyes told him tears were near again. “Sitting in silence while another person is insulted is the same as hurtling the insults yourself.”

“I suppose I don’t make it easy most of the time,” he offered, making his way to his desk. He opened a drawer and retrieved a box of tissues, handing her one. “I have something of a temper, as you’ve witnessed firsthand.”

“No, you have a sarcastic streak, and a sharp edge to your wit. I like your way with words.” She sniffled and blotted her eyes.

He smiled coldly at her misplaced defense of him. “I’d have just as soon bludgeoned your friends over the head with my cane,” he said. “I’m not a good person, Belle.” It was important she understood that fact, however many stray dogs he fed or fortune cookies he ate. He was ruthless in his business dealings and eschewed personal connections. Manipulation and force were ways of life for him.

“That’s what you would have everyone believe.” She crumpled the tissue in her hand with a snort. “Then why didn’t you? Cane them, that is?”

He sighed. “Because you’re one of the few people I genuinely like. I didn’t want to frighten you…” He drew his brows together in a fierce frown. “But I’m not a pet project, some lost soul you can tame and bend to your will.”

The look she gave him was entirely too shrewd. “I think you’re lonely.”

He shrugged. “There are benefits to being alone, you know.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t wake anyone up when I start screaming at night.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean…”

“That was a joke, Miss French.”

She laughed. “I’m the opposite, I guess. Too much of a people pleaser. I worry about what everyone thinks.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Then what are you doing here with me?”

Holding his eyes for a long moment, she caressed one of his hands in both of hers, cradling it as she would something rare and precious. There was that peculiar feeling in his chest again, the one that bloomed whenever she touched him, a cross between suffocation and freefalling.

“I don’t care what other people think when I’m with you,” she said, giving his hands a light squeeze.

“That’s fortunate,” he said curtly, looking down at their joined hands. He slipped his hand out of her grip and clapped his hands to break the tension, then stepped closer to the movie projector with a decisive nod. “Well, then. It’s raining too hard to go anywhere. May as well tinker with this thing and see if I can get it working.”

“Yay!” Belle slid onto the cot and scooted backwards until her back was against the wall, then curled up like a kitten. He watched, bemused, as she tucked the blanket around her hips and covered her bare toes, preparing for the show.

“I don’t have any popcorn,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting…”

“Oh, I’m not hungry.” She shook her head. “Besides, you hate popcorn.”

He smiled a bit, inordinately pleased that she remembered.

“Right. I’ll just…” He motioned toward the machine again, then rummaged through his tools. The last time he’d worked on the projector, he’d been trying to adjust the suspension, but to his surprise, there was already a film loaded on the feed spool.

“How odd.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I wonder if…”

He hit the power button. A soft blue light spilled across the darkened room and filled the screen. As the picture brightened into focus, the sound of disco music crackled through the old, lo-fi speaker. A woman’s frosted blond hair bobbed up and down while small, whiny screams sounded from her bubble-gum pink lips. A man with a thick, black mustache and a carpet of chest hair grunted in effort, his gold necklace dangling as he thrust on top of the woman.

Gold stared in abject horror at the scene. The picture was grainy, but there was no denying the obvious. The tanned, oiled couple shifted on screen, and the man flipped the young woman onto her stomach and lined himself up with her as the camera angle narrowed to capture their new position in hideous detail.

Belle uncrossed her legs and rose from the cot, head tilted as she stepped closer to the screen. She laughed at the woman’s exaggerated moans. “Are those leg warmers? Wow! Seventies porn. How vintage.”

For a moment he joined Belle in gawking, mesmerized as the couple continued to thrust and grind, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh echoing off the wood-paneled walls. It reminded him of one of those terrible sea lion shows at an aquatics park. Against his will, a warm sensation swirled in his lower belly and Gold gulped, drawing a deep breath as he felt himself twitch.

The display may have been vulgar, but he was still a man. A man alone with a beautiful woman. In the middle of a rainstorm.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip and an odd prickling sensation creeped up his spine—half arousal, half revulsion. He sprang toward the machine, trying to turn it off. The switch was stuck and he slammed the power button repeatedly, desperate to be rid of the horrible movie. “Damn it, Baelfire! I’m sorry, Belle. My son…I let him take his girlfriend on a tour of the shop the other night.”

“But he got it the projector working,” Belle pointed out, ever the optimist. “That’s great! Besides, what’s a little porn between friends? I’m not offended, if that’s what you’re worried about. There’s entertainment value here!” Her laugher was shrill as she shifted her eyes away from the screen. “Friends can totally watch porn together.”

Friends? His heart clawed at his dry throat.

All he could manage in response was a stiff smile. This was not how he envisioned this evening playing out. Disgusted with himself and furious with Bae, he turned his back on the screen.

“How old is he? Your son?” Belle asked, shifting her attention away from the moans and groans of the couple onscreen.

“Old enough to know better and young enough not to care.” He winced as the man onscreen drew the woman’s legs around his flanks and pounded into her hard. “You might know him better as Neal.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Neal Cassidy is your son?”

He couldn’t help but grimace at her surprised expression. Neal hadn’t been back in Storybrooke for more than a few months, and he didn’t care one bit for the idea that he’d crossed paths with Belle. “His reputation often proceeds him.” He sighed heavily. “Why, what has he done this time?”

“Nothing! It’s a small town and he comes into Granny’s for burgers at least a couple of times a week. All my friends think he’s handsome.” She rolled her eyes.

“I see.” His clenched jaw began to ache. Of course Belle and her friends giggled over Bae. Every woman did and—bastard that he was—he was petty enough to be jealous of his own son.

“It’s not…I don’t mean to pry, but why is Neal not a Gold?” she asked.

He waved away her concern. “His way of asserting his independence. We had a falling out when he was nineteen. He moved to Boston for school, switched to his mother’s maiden name, and starting using his middle name as his first—all to spite me. We’re over it now for the most part, but he still prefers Neal to Bae.” He narrowed his gaze and hardened his voice in warning: “I wouldn’t bother getting to know him. He won’t last long in a small town like Storybrooke.”

Belle laughed. “You think I’m interested in him?”

He stiffened at her lighthearted tone. “Most women are.”

“Not me,” she said firmly. Like a gazelle, she moved toward him on light, quick steps, then reached for his face, drawing the backs of her fingers from his temple to his chin and circling her thumb through his five o’clock shadow.  She rose up on tiptoe, her breath ghosting over his ear. “Neal is an attractive young man. But he’s not…you.”

Oh. Perhaps she didn’t really mean friends after all?

Stunned by the compliment and her closeness, he fumbled for something to do with his hands, seizing on an antique fishing hook on the corner of his desk. He jiggled the heavy piece of metal in his fingers and squeezed. He didn’t even like fishing, but Belle’s eyes were on his mouth and her lips were inching closer to his. She moistened her full bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, and Gold’s mouth went dry. He dropped the hook, snagging it on his trousers. Damn it.

Belle laid a calming hand against his chest. “Here, let me.”

“All right.” He inhaled deeply through his nose. She was standing so close he felt her hair brush against his wool waistcoat as she bent down to retrieve the hook. His heartbeat increased its tempo, and Gold was sure she could hear it pounding inside his chest, like a prisoner begging to be rescued.

“Do you have it?” he asked, hating his weak, breathless tone.

“I think so,” she said in a small voice.

He shifted his stance as her fingers brushed his thigh again. He could feel the heat of them through the thick wool and his body responded. Gold gritted his teeth; he didn’t want to become aroused when Belle’s head was hovering at his crotch.

He grasped her elbow and tried to take a step backward.

“Ouch!” She lurched against him, her cheek pressed against his half-hard body.

“Do you need me to help you up?” he asked, trying to be polite. What the hell was she still doing down there?

“I, uh, well. I seem to be stuck.” Her laugh was feeble.

“Stuck? What do you mean stuck?”

“Some of my hair is caught in your belt,” she clarified. “Please, no shouting.”

“Fine,” he gritted out, forcing another breath between his clenched teeth. “I’ll just take it off. The belt. I mean the belt!”

“Great idea,” she said, sounding relieved.

He carefully wriggled his hands between Belle’s face and his belt buckle, but a movement out of the corner of his eye made him pause.

There stood Miss Lucas, her eyes wide as saucers in her pale, wet face. He looked down at Belle’s head, still fastened to his crotch, and behind him, a long low moan echoed onscreen where the loathsome “vintage” pornography continued to play.

Miss Lucas’s bright red lips stretched in a wide smile. “Is this a bad time?”

xoxo

Sorry for the cliffhanger. Sort of. 

The movie projector.

[solia-dreams]

X-Files fanfic: unused material for chapter 37 of ‘This Is How The World Ends’

Author’s note: Wrote 4,000 words of the next chapter before I realised it was going nowhere. I’m cutting all this - some exceptions, perhaps, but most is going in the trash - and thought “I know some people who might appreciate access to it, even if it’s not going in the actual fic” and so here it is :)

Harsh orange sunset illuminated the drawn faces of the Johannsson children as the car dropped its speed coming into town. Mulder rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and blinked his eyes hard, glancing quickly up at the mirror again to give his vision a break from the relentlessly dull street view. They weren’t his children, but seeing them safe and alive and together brought him a sense of comfort all the same, and he was sure the man in the passenger seat felt that on an even grander scale. Erik Johannsson had lost his wife in senseless and sudden tragedy, and had been thrust into both single parenthood and homeless fugitivity within a day.

“This is it,” Mulder said softly, disturbing his companion from his doze. Erik startled himself awake and sat forward, scrubbing his face and staring through the windscreen at the burnt-bright surroundings. “Welcome to your new home.”

Modest and unexciting, a newish and characterless neighbourhood of a characterless town in eastern Idaho, with identical boxy houses lining the wide straight streets. Mulder would never have chosen this place to settle down, and he doubted the Johannssons would have, given a better option. No single house stood out as architecturally unique; no charming front garden invited an admiring wandering eye. A far cry from the lovely family neighbourhood in Leominster with the tyre swing and the big trees lining the sidewalk, this area had been planned off only two or three blueprints, and every house was just a copy, with blank front yards and empty porches. No stamp of individuality identified one family’s house from another.

Anyone could blend in here – the new Collins family would go easily unnoticed.

Erik Johannsson didn’t share Mulder’s lacklustre disinterest in the neighbourhood. His crinkled, tired eyes lit up and he turned in his seat to shake his son and daughters awake, delighted. The kids were as sick of sitting in the car as the men were of driving it by this point, and had long surpassed the limit of their preteen patience, but even through their sleepy ill-temperedness, they joined their dad in his enthusiasm as he pointed new landmarks out to them, and they pressed their noses to their windows. Their chatter and noise helped Mulder focus on this last ten minutes of driving.

A couple of weeks ago he’d checked out the warehouse address left under a Volkswagen windscreen wiper and found this family hiding, hungry and afraid, unseen by anyone bar their one contact, ‘Sally’, since before Christmas. Rebecca Rose Johannsson’s husband and children, unaware of much of their circumstances except that their mother was murdered and they were next if they were found. The kids hadn’t been to school all year; Erik hadn’t been to work or attended the fake funeral undoubtedly arranged for his wife. Mulder felt deeply empathetic for the family. Not only had he experienced life in hiding from essentially the same people (new names, new faces, maybe, but ultimately, the same cruel agenda) first alone for a year, and then for many years with Scully, but he had also seen firsthand what had happened to drive them into their reclusion. He had unzippered the body bag containing Rebecca Rose. He had watched Scully cut into her chest and perform her autopsy. Her death had been Mulder’s door into this conspiracy. For the Johannssons, her death had been a thrust through the door and out into the unexpected wilderness with no supplies and no map.

“Is that the school?” the younger daughter, Lily, asked, pointing. Her siblings watched the building pass them by. “Is that where we’ll go?”

“Looks like that’s the elementary school,” Erik agreed, squinting to read the signs in the overbright afternoon light. He reached down to his feet where his only bag, scuffed and dirty after so many months, lay between his feet, and retrieved the thick envelope of paperwork Mulder had arranged for him. He leafed through the false birth certificates, the renamed dental records, the freshly opened bank account and made-up school reports. He found the list from Benny of facilities local to their new home. The schools. The hospital. The dentist so poor Zach could have his aching braces adjusted, finally. “That’ll be your school, Lil.”

It felt good to be facilitating this family’s renewal, to see their relieved excitement over things that mattered so little to normal, unafraid families, especially after so many weeks as ‘Steve’, Mikhail Levin’s steadily improving car washer and errand boy. Life with the Russians was insightful and crushing at the same time – the more he knew about what this conspiracy was really about, the more he wanted to run from it, back to DC to gather up the only people who mattered to him now and off to the hills somewhere. In unzippering Rebecca Johannsson, in drawing in Scully, in meeting Henry Gray and now in assisting Levin’s international agenda, Mulder had put his foot in something he wasn’t sure he would be able to pull out of, even if he tried. It was big. It was cosmic. What he’d long feared, and worse, because no one else could see it.

He understood now why Sixty-Four, or Sally, or whoever she was, had warned him about the Hosts, that they’d taken note of his interferences, however minor, and had discussed how to rid themselves of him. They had a secret to hide, a secret so huge it should come as no surprise that their plan did not exclude the option of killing Scully if it meant discrediting and discouraging him. They’d murdered Rebecca, hadn’t they, to shove Dr Gray back into line when he overstepped his role, and had threatened to come after her family next. The Worldwide Family of Hosts and their partners knew no boundaries, and would suffer no consequences.

“This is your street,” Mulder advised brightly, turning across the road through a gap in the lethargic afternoon traffic and into a long, straight side street. The town was the victim of uncreative and meticulous town planning, everything laid out in dull grids. He squinted out at the mailboxes. “Number twenty-seven.”

He would have loved for it to be number sixty-four, thinking that would have been perfect considering the lengths the pledge had gone to in her attempts to protect the family. She had risked her life to smuggle them out of their house at Christmas, and had been sneaking them supplies for months, keeping them alive long enough for her tenuous connection with the Russians to secure so she could ask the favour she needed: a home, unquestioned and unsuspicious, for her tragic charges. Mulder gathered she didn’t get much contact with people outside the Family, and the communication she’d had with Daniil Lenkov before Levin had sent him home had been apparently hard-won and shaky. Mulder, taking Lenkov’s place as the contact point between Gray’s Sixty-Four and Russia’s Levin, had been more forthright. “Dr Gray needs a safe house for someone significant to the case. It’s not negotiable.”

Levin’s wide network of outwardly average model citizens included a few small-time property investors, and so it was that Glenn Collins had taken over the lease at number twenty-seven. A furniture truck full of second-hand furniture had arrived earlier in the week and unpacked into the house, and Mulder, fresh back from a visit to Boston, had serviced his crappy but reliable old car and picked the family up for a road trip. Levin hadn’t questioned the request from his inside man; Gray was an irreplaceable, unrivalled resource, and though the ask was obscure, it was not unreasonable given his willingness with privileged information at the risk of his own position and life.

At the house, the turn of the key and the resultant quietening of the engine sounded like the car’s mechanical equivalent to a sigh of relief, after three days of near-continuous driving, Erik and Mulder taking it in turns to cross the country with three bickering, miserable, cramped kids in the back. Now those children tumbled out, crumbs scattering to their new driveway, which otherwise matched the driveway of every other house in the street, but to this family, it might have been built of yellow bricks. They ran up it to their new front door, and Erik turned his new key and they rushed inside. Mulder followed, taking his time, glad for the feeling of ground beneath his shoe instead of pedal, and of muscular contractions typical of movement as he walked around and stretched. Never. Driving. Again. He liked driving but right now he’d be happy to walk for the rest of his life if it meant never having to sit back in that seat. At the very least, he would be taking Erik up on his offer of a night’s sleep on the house’s couch. Erik was the kind of guy you’d call lovely – you wouldn’t hesitate and wonder if he’d be offended by that, you’d just say it, because that was just the truth – and he’d actually tried to insist Mulder should stay the week out, sleep in the master bedroom, claiming he’d be fine with his new couch and it was the least he could offer Mulder in exchange for all he’d done. It was quite an effort to convince Erik it wasn’t necessary, and even more of an effort to make him believe he actually preferred sofas over beds. Besides, he’d ended up reminding him, they had no idea of the condition of the furniture Levin’s friend had arranged. The beds could be riddled with fleas, and then all five of them could be fighting for the couch.

Mulder collected his backpack from the car and went inside. The furnishings turned out to be perfectly adequate, if mismatched, and boxes of likewise uncoordinated basic household items – cutlery, picture frames, toys, DVD player – were stacked in the middle of rooms with no apparent system. When Mulder walked in, Lily was delightedly waving about the frying pan she’d found in the box in the bathroom on her zippy tour of her new home, shouting, “We can have pancakes again!” He couldn’t help his tired smile as he stepped aside to let the girl whizz past on her way to her dad, but the smile hurt. Erik caught her and picked her up, like dads do. Like other dads get to, anyway.

Family is comfort, and this was a comfort Mulder hadn’t felt in a lifetime.

“We’re never going to be able to thank you enough for this,” Erik told him, honesty and graciousness making his voice solid and whole. “You’ve saved us. Thank you.”

“I hardly did anything,” Mulder insisted again. “You’ve got people in high places who care a lot about you and your children, and I’m only carrying out what they arrange. The house, the accounts, the papers, the furniture…”

“But you put it into motion, and you’re the one who gave up three days to drive us here,” Erik Johannsson said sincerely, as his older daughter Laura came back from the hallway and squeezed past Mulder to get outside to the car, citing going back for her bag. “We would never have made it on our own. It would have taken me all week driving, and I would have gotten us caught for sure. I know you kept us under the radar with all those funny country roads and backwater roadhouses, and I know what a risk this was to your safety, too. I hope Sally and her boss are paying you well.” Erik paused, shifting his little daughter to his other hip. “You haven’t heard back about that email from Sally, have you?”

“No, I don’t expect to,” Mulder answered, but heard a faint tone at his back as though getting a message even now. Swinging his backpack off his shoulder, he brought it around to his front, digging through it for his current phone. Sixty-Four’s unexpected contact with Erik halfway through their drive had prompted a flurry of activity – Erik worriedly reading aloud her instructions to pass the attachment to Mulder and to delete any hint of it, and to definitely not download it or open it with the internet turned on in case it was being traced, and for Mulder to get it to the Bureau where something could be done about it, for the benefit of Rebecca’s case. So that was what they did. Mulder was burning to know what he’d had, but he knew the discouragement from opening the attached file was a good idea, and so forwarded it to Gerard with the same instructions, except to make sure it got to AD Walter Skinner, without question and untraceably.

There was no telling whether it had.

The tone was still chiming, a ringtone rather than a message notification, and Mulder had his phone in his hand. It wasn’t ringing, and its screen was blank. He looked around, tired brain not computing, but the sound was definitely coming from inside the backpack. No. A stupid possibility occurred to him, and he dug in again, frantic and disbelieving. Under the map at the bottom was another phone.

It was vibrating with each ring. Alive.

He grabbed it and wrenched it out, letting other artefacts rip free as well, falling out onto the floor while he stared at the old phone he charged up once a week and never turned off and never used.

It had never rung before. Now it was ringing.

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” he muttered vaguely to Erik, recognising the number as the only number that had this number programmed into it. His thoughts felt slow. Why? Why would she call now, after all this time? His stomach filled with lead at the potential reasons. He almost didn’t want to answer.

But he’d promised.

He forgot to swallow his fears before speaking. “Scully?”

“Mulder,” replied the low voice not hers, and a face came to mind from four years in the past before the confirmation came in words, “it’s Assistant Director Skinner.”

A beat, a million thoughts. This was her phone. Skinner was an ally but why would she give him her phone to make a call? She didn’t want to speak to him and would only call in a dire emergency – of that, he was quite sure, since she hadn’t found cause to use this number in more than three years – and if she were able, wouldn’t she surely make the call herself? His brain immediately overloaded with improbable and horrific scenarios.

“Where’s Scully?” Mulder demanded, pulse accelerating in fear. “Why do you have her phone?”

“How quickly can you be in Wyoming?”

Oh god, she had been in an accident, hadn’t she, an accident in lame-ass Wyoming of all places, and Skinner wanted to tell him face-to-face. Or they’d gotten to her, taken her again, and Skinner had only just found her, dragged out to fucking nowhere and dumped, and he needed Mulder to identify the body. But he should be able to do that himself. Unless she was totally mangled. Maybe there were only birthmarks from under her clothes with which to identify her, marks only Mulder or maybe her mother would know about.

Or maybe he was overreacting and postulating ridiculous paranoid thoughts. He tried to push them down, get control of them. Maybe she wasn’t in Wyoming at all, but after those thoughts, wherever she was, that was where Mulder planned to be next.

“Depends,” he said flatly. “Where is she?”

“She’s here,” Skinner replied, words which should have been assuring except that his voice was hurried and low, like someone with a secret. “I’m with her now at what passes for a hospital outside of Thayne.”

“Thayne?” The thud of his heart smashed his attempt at reason, and a whole new flurry of disjointed, highly specific visions swept through him, in which Scully was no longer dead but gravely injured, or maybe dead, or maybe sick. Her cancer was back, and she was being treated in Wyoming where no one would know she’d been weakened. A case had naturally led her to Thayne, and in investigating an alleyway a delusional runaway had jumped out and slashed at her with a broken bottle. She was lured there by an agent of the Family of Hosts posing as a contact, or worse as Mulder, and had come under fire and taken a bullet, and was lying in a hospital bed awaiting brain scans to tell her doctors if she was still viable. Shit – calm down. Skinner. He knew, he could clarify, he could explain. “What happened?!”

Erik Johannsson lowered his daughter, expression appropriately concerned for Mulder’s reaction, but Skinner on the phone was far from sympathetic to Mulder’s spiralling overdrive of panicked thoughts. “Nothing happened. She’s fine.” She’s fine, she’s fine. The spiral slowed, and Mulder turned away from Erik to keep his relief to himself, pacing unhurriedly toward the door. Skinner elaborated. “We’re investigating a case and she’s in the restroom, alright? She doesn’t know I’m making this call.”

Mulder froze. She didn’t know Skinner was calling. Because she wouldn’t have made the call. Because she didn’t want to talk to him. A rude reminder, because in the golden relief that she was alive and fine, he’d forgotten that she was still not talking to him and they were still uncomfortably on the rocks. She wasn’t his to worry about. She wasn’t his to fly to. Not that it would have stopped him if she were in danger, but for anything less…

“Then why are you?” He heard the temperature of his own voice and knew it was childishly chilled, the same tone he used with Scully when she hurt his feelings or made him jealous. He was overwhelmingly grateful to know she wasn’t sick or hurt or dying, no hospital gown and thin pale sheets and whirring machines plugged into her ailing body like the nightmarish instances of their past, but the sudden fear of that and then the assurance it wasn’t a fact had thrown his emotions about and left him vulnerable.

“We’re about to go into an interview,” Skinner answered, now almost whispering, eliciting a curiosity in Mulder. Tempting him on multiple fronts, testing his resolve. “Agent Scully is not going to handle it well. She’s already shaken. I think you should be here for her.”

Mulder kept his feet firmly planted where he stood in the Johannsson family’s new foyer, but it took effort. Whose side was Skinner on? Stupid question. Hers, always hers. “I’m sure she appreciates your concern, but trust me, I’m the last person she wants to see.”

“Trust me. You should be here.”

With an irritated sigh, Mulder stepped back outside into the greying orange of the freshly set evening. Skinner still didn’t get it. He knew they were divided, didn’t he? Hadn’t Mulder told him, four years ago when they’d last spoken, to expect this? Weren’t Skinner and Scully close enough that he would have to know where she stood with her former partner, even if she probably didn’t really talk about it? Or at the very least, was Skinner not insightful enough to note that they were very deliberately not seen together, which should insinuate – if he wasn’t personally up-to-date with their relationship status – that they were avoiding each other for a reason?

“She doesn’t want to see me,” Mulder insisted, leaving no room for further argument, an early breeze sweeping past him. He watched as Laura Johannsson finished tossing all her siblings’ things from his backseat onto the driveway, and went to close the door for her. “Our last conversation was… strained.”

Laura had grabbed her own backpack but now turned to the scattered mess she’d created on the ground in the name of organising her brother and sister and respectfully clearing most the mess they’d made in Mulder’s car. Responsible, thoughtful beyond her years: the typical nuclear firstborn only to the highest power, because she’d suddenly become mom as well when hers had been taken away. She slung the coats over her shoulders and gathered all the activity books and pens and toys, while Mulder knelt beside her to pick up the handfuls of food packets and bottles and drink straws the children had burned through. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his hands, though really, he should just hang up. He had nothing to say to Skinner, and nothing to offer Scully right now. Sixty-Four had been quite clear – their mission and her life could be in danger if she was further associated with him, and an emotional interview was not worth that risk.

“If she’s upset by the case, there’s nothing I can do to help,” he said finally, preparing to end the conversation and go back to Erik’s family, some people he actually could help. “Having me around will only make it worse.”

That should have been the end of it, but Skinner hadn’t forgotten the days of being his boss, and still had the authoritative voice to prove it. “Mulder, listen to me. This is bigger than you two giving each other the silent treatment.”

Mulder turned his eyes skyward, exasperated. The man was insufferable. One of his most trusted friends, yes, but insufferably impatient and blunt. Of course Skinner would reduce Mulder’s current complicated arrangement with Scully as simply reciprocal spite, and be tactless enough to actually say it.

Regardless of whether it was true, it wasn’t meant to be said, especially between two friends who hadn’t spoken in near on half a decade.

“Whatever you’re doing, drop it,” Skinner continued, his voice an impatient growl, and Mulder eyed his armful of garbage ironically, following Laura back to the new house. “Whatever it takes you, just get here. I don’t want to tell you why on the phone. I don’t want anyone to overhear.”

The email. How could he have forgotten? It had reached them after all, and it was as big as Sixty-Four had implied. When the message tone went off on the phone Sixty-Four had smuggled to Erik halfway through their epic cross-country road trip, the topic of Rebecca had inevitably come up between the men, and he and Erik had discussed Mulder’s connection to the topic and Erik’s extra information on the topic at disjointed length, whenever his kids weren’t eavesdropping in the cramped quarters. “Something about the case?” he asked, shouldering through the front door after the teenager’s loose ponytail.

“Yes, but not specifically,” Skinner confirmed cryptically, meaningfully, wilfully, sounding even more paranoid than he had when they last met. He’d said he was in a hospital, hadn’t he? So who did he think was going to be listening in on their conversation? What exactly had Sixty-Four let his friends in on, and why was Skinner so intent on involving Mulder? “And not something, someone. Someone I think you would very much like to meet, even if you still won’t admit your connection to him or his mother.”

The implication was sickeningly clear, and Mulder dropped everything except the phone. The Johannssons in the main area of the house all jumped at the sound of empty Coke bottles hitting the floor, and they looked over in concern. Laura Johannsson stopped where she was and turned to see if he was alright. She had the eyes he’d seen sightless and cloudy in Berkshire County Morgue in December, her mother’s daughter. The same eyes again, reincarnated in the offspring.

Like William. His son, with Scully’s eyes. Their perfect child, who’d settled so warmly and perfectly into the crook of his arm the first time she passed the tiny bundle over to him to hold, and looked up at him with her eyes, bright and round. Love and hope and faith and magic all rolled into one flawless being. But…

But his son was gone, lost to the big wide world, and those eyes were just another pair in a crowd of strangers, unrecognisable unless taken aside and viewed in isolation. Skinner had to be wrong. Or Mulder’s interpretation had to be wrong. Someone you would like to meet. It could be anyone. Even if you won’t admit your connection to him or his mother. There were plenty of people Mulder pretended not to know, for their own sakes or his – undercover and covert informants, sympathisers, whistle-blowers. Maybe some had mothers. There was no way Skinner was referring to William, no way he was about to interview William. William wasn’t in goddamn Wyoming, one state away from where Mulder’s own feet were currently touching the same planet. It was a ridiculous fantasy to entertain. But the words kept playing in his head, and he heard them a thousand times on fast-forward before he managed to speak, hope seizing his heart and hurting inside his chest, and he knew what he’d heard when he managed to utter only, “Walter…”

“You need to be here,” Skinner reiterated forcefully, voice low and close. “I think we found him.”

The line died, and Mulder took his phone from his ear to stare at it. Overwhelmed. Scully’s phone had called. William. Not her voice. He knelt to gather the rubbish back up, stunned into rude ignorance as the Johannssons asked if he was alright and Laura returned to help him. William. Skinner, still an ally after all this time, a surprise voice out of the past calling on Scully’s phone. And Scully was unhurt. Alive. My son is alive. Skinner and Scully working together in Wyoming. I think we found him.

It was insane to believe it. How many other people could it be?? The odds were certainly not favourable that this find of Skinner’s was Mulder’s lost treasure.

But Scully believed it. Skinner said she was shaken. Not going to handle this well. She believed it, and she didn’t believe in anything.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, interrupting Erik’s second tap on the shoulder and worried inquiry. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I’ve…” He looked up and tried to focus his eyes and attention on his constant companion of two and a half days. Kind eyes. Lines from laughing. A dad, a good dad, with beautiful kids. Mulder looked at their faces. They all looked alike, in different ways – a family. What did his family look like? He hadn’t seen it together in almost fifteen years. But now… it was in Wyoming. “I’ve got to go.”

[writingwife-83]

Buckle up @colonialfire24 because I’m going into possibly more detail than you wanted lol...

At the very least, a beta reader should be able to correct spelling, grammar, punctuation, etc. IMO they also need to be available to the writer. That doesn’t mean they have to be ready to instantly edit your fic right when you finish writing, but I also don’t think it would be appropriate for someone to volunteer as a beta reader if they’re so busy that they’re not going to be able to check a fic for weeks or something. That’s kind of tough for the writer.

The other thing that’s really important is that they’re comfortable giving constructive criticism. I think we’re all used to the etiquette of fanfic where we don’t criticize things we don’t like in other’s fics, and instead just move on to something else. But if someone wants you to beta read, they want genuine feedback before it gets to where everyone else can see it. If you read something and it doesn’t feel right to you, that’s not the time to be polite and say, “great job, I liked it!” Beta readers should be tactful and kind of course, but they also shouldn’t hesitate to speak up if there’s something they think could be improved. I think most writers with a good beta reader have on occasion been told in so many words, this isn’t your best work and I think we need to go back to the drawing board. Yes, that can be frustrating, but 100% of the time I can say I’ve ended up being happier with the final product. That kinda brings my to another point...

I think what really makes a beta reader great is someone who can also help you with things like plotting, characterization, and general inspiration. And to me, that means that a great beta reader should also be a good writer. I think I’d have a tough time being comfortable plot planning and taking a lot of critique from someone who hasn’t been there themself and totally knows firsthand how to make it all work. I know there can be exceptions to this, and I don’t mean to offend anyone here, that’s just my personal opinion.

Did you want me to totally go nuts with this question? Cuz I did. 😂

Hello! I am still fairly new to the Sherlolly realm and have written a few stories, but I was wondering about the etiquette on beta readers/editors. I feel I have a sound literary background but I still find myself correcting errors and wishing I’d elaborated more in certain aspects of a story. Do you have a beta reader for your stories, and how did you find someone up to the task?

Hi there, and welcome! 👋🏻 yes, I do have a beta reader. @thisisartbylexie has had my back in that area for a few years now. She and I started chatting earlier in my fandom days and developed a friendship, largely due to some personal things we have in common, so her beta reading for me kinda just developed naturally since we were often chatting about fic ideas and planning together anyway.

The first couple of years I wrote for sherlolly I did not have a standing beta reader and I think it really showed lol. Later down the road I ended up going through some of my older fics and adjusted some of the bigger and more consistent mistakes. My point is that I totally get what you mean. It’s always good to have a second set of eyes when planning or editing a fic. I think all of us at times will crank out a small thing and not bother with beta readying, because ultimately this is all pretty informal and for funsies. But in general, I feel like it’s a good idea to have one available.

As for finding a beta reader, I think your best bet is to post in the ship tag. IMO, you want someone super familiar with the show, the characters, the ship, the language you’ll be writing in, and just good writing in general. There’s lots still active in this ship so if you post that you’re looking (or maybe someone will respond to this answered ask!) I imagine you’ll have some volunteers.

Again, welcome! And thanks for asking, I hope I was helpful! 😉

[jellyfishfics]

Some News on the Landscaper AU

I’m putting this under a cut because it’s quite lengthy, but I think this is a very important topic that needs to be addressed, so I hope that if you like the Landscaper AU, or just support fics and writers in general, you’ll give this post a read.

I found out last night that someone on ao3 took many aspects of my yoi Landscaper AU fic to spin their own fic off of it. The very beginning of their fic has the same setting as mine: Viktor retiring and moving into a mansion to live in the luxury he can afford as the top skating champion of the world. Even the phone call with Chris is there, and there are so many parts of the fic that are blatant rip offs and cheap imitations of what I wrote, I couldn’t get far because I just felt so awful. I had friends who read the fic on my behalf, and what they told me was appalling.

I’m very heartbroken that this was the fic and project, out of everything I’ve written, that was stolen from. My initial thought was: why me? Why such an obscure author with flimsy, paper-thin confidence, why steal from me of all people? But I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone else, so it’s up to me to address this and explain why this ao3 user’s actions were so damaging, and I hope no one ever attempts doing something like this again.

I debated speaking out about this or just letting it slide, but I don’t think I can let this go. I want to let everyone know that under no circumstance is this ever ok, and for me personally, that’s for two reasons: I’ve been offended both as a writer, and as a person who identifies as trans.

As a writer: I want everyone to know that I take my writing very seriously. I’ve been writing for a long time; eight years old being as far back as I can remember writing my first story. I’ve been working on my craft for a long time, entering contests, sending work to journals in hopes of being published, and devoting my minor in university to creative writing. I’m constantly seeking to improve, which is why I took up fanfiction in the first place; my first fic was written as an objective goal--write a story that’s the same length as a novel. I had no idea that fanfiction would be so much fun, that it would lead me to so many important friends, and that the immediate reader-writer communication could be so beneficial. So I care about my fanfiction just as much as any of my original work.

Every piece of my writing is an extension and expression of myself, and fics in particular are how I explore a lot of my own feelings and identity in a safe space where I don’t need to worry about judgement from peers, professors, or family. The Landscaper AU was especially important to me because I decided to have Viktor identify as nonbinary trans just like me, as well as live in the same area of my home, which I’m away from right now because of school. So please understand this rip-off fic is actually the worst insult to me ever.

Listen, I get it. A very small part of me knows you probably meant no harm to me. You like my fic, you’ve made that very clear with your bookmark of it, and the comment you left (after writing your imitation fic no less). You liked my words and idea so much, you wanted to use them for your own story. Alright. But, I have to express how horrifying it is to find that the words I put so much time and effort into writing, drawing from my own experiences and feelings, twisted around and made into your playthings. It’s simply not fair. And I’m afraid I can’t stand for this.

As a trans person: Now I want everyone to understand that as much as I’m open and proud about being nonbinary trans, I’m also very insecure about the way I present myself, and I get dysphoria easily. So this fic series was my first attempt at representation for myself and others like me. And it had me so so so very anxious!!! Any of my friends can attest to this, there were so many times I wanted to give up the series all together before I wrote a word of it! That’s why art for the series existed before I even drafted the first fic, my friends were trying to motivate me. And it worked, I was able to get the first fic out. But I was still very insecure, I wasn’t sure how well nonbinary trans Viktor would be received! So to everyone who sent me positive comments, additions to me post, and tags, thank you so much!!! Every single one of those words meant the world and more to me.

This past week, I was having a rough patch in school, and my anxiety was through the roof, so despite all the support I was given for this fic and the series, my paranoia was getting the better of me, which is why you saw me so indecisive and wanting to delete the fic. I apologize if I alarmed anyone, and thank you for sending me encouragement through it.

I really wanted to use this fic and series to give some validation for my gender, and do it for a character who I love and proportionally gets less trans headcanons and fics than the rest of the main yoi cast! And out of the eight fics for trans Viktor (including mine and the imposter), the majority are about the struggles of being trans. Which is very important, and something I know too well unfortunately, but you know? Damn me if I wanted a light-hearted, fun fic where there isn’t anything inherently wrong with being trans and nonconforming, and there’s a trans character being treated with nothing but love and respect in a natural way. I just wanted to give myself and other nb trans peeps some positivity, and show that we’re just as deserving of a quirky love and comedic romance as any other gender.

I’m not going to sugarcoat this; this rip-off fic is literally my worst nightmare in writing. It’s quite literally the most transphobic piece of writing I’ve ever had the displeasure to look at. Now I believe all gender is fluid, and that people can go through different identities in their life; I know I have. But what this ao3 user did was the most invalidating and fetishizing piece of work I’ve ever forced my eyes to see. I never want to read the line “her original sexuality” ever again in my life. The ending was super heteronormative, super binary, reducing a trans identity to the idea of “it’s just a phase, and once you find ‘the One,’ you’ll go back to normal.” I’ve honestly never wanted to throw up at a piece of writing until now. This offends my whole being, just as a trans person, and then this ao3 used took my words to fuel this horrible fic.

In response to some blunt comments this fic received, the ao3 user said they didn’t do any research. I…really wish that they would have. Maybe then this fic wouldn’t have been so horrible. Oh yeah, and not stealing from me would be a good improvement too.

My point is, trans people are disrespected, harassed, and thought of as a joke enough in mainstream media, so I really don’t need a fic like this, given a tag that’s supposed to represent us, and then you throw that representation out of the fic completely because you didn’t know how to write it and wanted to create your own disgusting, heteronormative ending. I’m very, very, upset about this, and I’ll be honest that there is no way I’ll forgive this.

Now, this was a very disheartening discovery. I almost wanted to stop writing the Landscaper AU altogether. But, a friend of mine told me something important, and I’ll quote her now:

“Could you imagine if fic writers like you with firsthand experience of being trans didn’t write about being trans in various contexts? This is such potential for presenting Viktor, comfortable with his identity, totally working it, and having his friends and peers respect that and him being nonbinary, rich, and successful. Finally there’s a great representation of a nonbinary trans character that is so casual within its context.”

This reminded me of what I set out to do when I started planning this fic series. I want to see content of trans people just being confident, happy, and loved. So I won’t give up. I’m going to approach the Landscaper AU and other trans positive fic ideas I have the same way I approached my first fic; I’ll make posting a fic weekly my new objective writing goal. This way, I have a steady schedule to build my writing stamina and productivity back up.

I’m still in school, and as it’s my last semester of university, I’m very stressed out, so I might not be able to stick to this schedule, but I’ll do my very best to do so! I hope you’ll all support me, and send me more encouragement in any from you can; whether it’s kudos, comments, messages, tags, asks, additions to my fic posts, or tweets. I appreciate every single one of these.

I’ll see everyone in part 2 of the Landscaper AU!

[botgalhs]

@achromaticbibliophile requested a fic where Kankri was crushing on Rufioh, either red or black. Went with black. I will be honest... I honestly don’t know how to write Rufioh for shit, but I tried my best. I’m sorry if it’s not quite what you had in mind, hope you might like some part or other of it regardless.

Also I didn’t want to deal with typing quirks and such, so I just wrote them typing as if trolls write normally.

It all started out as a chat. Nothing more, nothing less.

Kankri was just in the midst of yet another one of his rule-breaking forays on the internet while his culler was away. He was in the midst of searching for some bit of information or another, if pressed he really wouldn't be able to recall just what it was. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little chat client application tab that he had minimized begin to blink.

Someone was attempting to message him.

He pulled up the window to see who would be messaging him, but his brow furrowed when he saw their trolltag. It resounded some form of familiarity or other in him, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what or whom. Still, he was curious, and  decided to try for the risk anyhow. He set his fingers to the keys to respond to the initial message.

AT: Hey, you're Kankri, right?

CG: … This is he. Can I ask who I'm speaking to? I don't think I know your tag.

AT: Oh, right. Sorry. I guess we didn't talk much when we first met. My name's Rufioh. Rufioh Nitram. I'm a friend of Meenah's. I think we've been part of group chats a few times?

That did sound somewhat familiar, thinking back. And the name 'Rufioh' wasn't all too unfamiliar, now that he saw it typed out.

CG: I see. Well, I apologize for my hesitance. Can I help you with something?

AT: Well, not really help, I guess? It's more of a... more of a question, really. I mean... you're culled, right?

His fingers lifted from the keys for a moment, mouth thinned. Well, maybe he should have expected these sort of question sooner or later, with half his friends being highbloods, and the rest assumedly able-bodied enough to make it on their own without a culler. Still, it sent a bit of a sting into him that was unavoidably heavy.

CG: … Yes. I am. Why?

AT: Oh, well, sorry if I offended you or anything. I mean, man, I really hope I'm not insulting you by asking this, but... what's it like? Being culled? Is it good? Bad? Do you like it?

Kankri couldn't help curling his fingers up to his palms, biting his lower lip between his teeth. He shot a look over his shoulder, as if expecting his culler to be right there, looking over his shoulder. She was not, of course. She would be out for another couple of hours at least. Still, his fingers trembled a bit as he slowly typed out a reply.

CG: It's... I don't really like it. My culler is pretty strict. She feeds me and takes care of me well, but she doesn't let me do a lot of things. I don't really go outside a lot without her, and she's really strict on mealtimes and bedtimes. And

He paused again, right before continuing the sentence. His mind was right on the subject of that 'and'. 'And' she put him through a quadrant he didn't want from her, that he absolutely hated and wished she would stop even though she didn't and probably never would. His breath caught in his throat, then was hissed out.

CG: Never mind, forget the last part.

AT: Wow. That, uh... that doesn't sound too good.

CG: Not really.

AT: So... you don't like being culled, then? That, uh... that's good to know.

CG: Why do you want to know, anyway? If you're worried about it, there's not much reason to. As long as you don't get badly hurt or lose your lusus at some point, the highbloods would have no reason to cull you. I'm culled because there wasn't a lusus who wanted me.

Because he was a mutant. Though he didn't want to have to spell that out in particular.

AT: Oh. Well, um... curious, mostly, I guess.

CG: Kind of an odd thing to be curious about.

AT: I mean... Hey, could you keep a secret? I know this is kind of sudden, but, if you really want to know...

CG: … If you wanted to tell me, sure. I could promise not to tell anyone.

AT: Oh, um, okay. Well, uh... You see, the reason I asked was... technically, I think I'm supposed to be culled. Should have been? Something.

CG: Should have been? Why weren't you, then? Why would you have needed to be culled? Are you unwell?

AT: No no, nothing like that. See, the thing is... I'm kind of a mutant.

Kankri felt his blood pusher thump. A mutant? Like him? More text appeared on the screen before he could even begin to respond.

AT: I've got these wings, you see. I think they might have missed me or something when I crawled out of the caverns? My lusus found me and took me away, and I've been hiding them for a long time. I know I probably should've been culled, but I've heard some things about culling that weren't so great. So I wanted to ask you. Since I saw something about you being called in some other chat. I felt kind of guilty sometimes about not being culled like I maybe should be, because of my mutation, sometimes, but I wanted to hear from someone firsthand how it really was. So, thanks for taking a load off my mind. I don't think I would have wanted that, sounds super strict and junk.

AT:... Are you still there? … Kankri?... Kankri?

CG:... Don't ever message me about this again, Rufioh. I mean it.

AT: Oh, man. I made you mad, didn't I? Jeez, I'm super sorry. I didn't mean to make you upset or anything.

CG: Just stop. Please. I have to go now.

AT: Kankri, wait!

CG: Goodbye.

He gripped his hands at his side as he clicked himself invisible on the chat client. His teeth were grinding just thinking about the conversation he'd just had.

He wanted to know because he was curious about being culled? What was that, a fascination? A passing notion to want to know what it was like to live under a highblood's thumb? Why? If Rufioh did have a mutation, something so noticeable like wings, and managed to get out of being culled, why would he ever think that it was something he would want to have happen to him?!

And being so nonchalant about it? As if someone would ever willingly walk into the sort of life Kankri absolutely loathed!

He clutched his hand at his chest, feeling his blood-pusher beating hot under the skin. Just thinking about the conversation he'd just left was making him furious. Still, he sat there, breathing in and out, trying to calm himself down. His culler would be home soon, take things one step at a time. First erase all traces in his chat history that he'd talked to anyone while they were away, turn off the husktop and put it back at the charger where it was before. Then go up to his respite block and try to breathe easy. Couldn't appear agitated when his culler returned.

He just couldn't help it, though. Every time he thought of that bronze-colored text, surely the same as the troll with normal blood but still a mutation to his name, it just got his blood pusher racing again with that dark, burning feeling. He was just so angry, but he didn't know why.

After perhaps half an hour of lying there, he heard his name being called, but finally felt he was calm enough to greet his culler. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the bed, and made his way downstairs.

Knowing that, even if he couldn't quite place the reason for all the anger he was feeling from their talk, if he ever met this Rufioh Nitram in person, first thing he was going to do was punch him in the face.

[kythen]

Would you write a KuroDai fic with this dialogue as prompt? "Hey remember when I said it was 'just a crush' and that I would 'literally never fall so low'?" "Yeah?" "I was wrong. I'm entirely screwed. Help me, please." It's probably basic pining KuroDai but when isn't that good, hmm? (人˘ ³˘)♥ (don't feel forced though! ♥ I just really love your writing~) I hope you'll have a nice day ~

It’s been months since I received this ask… Anon, I hope you’re still out there somewhere…

the second our eyes met (baby i was yours)

kurodai (and akaboku). 2426words. dance au. ao3 link

When Sawamura Daichi walks through the door, Kuroo doesn’t stand a chance, even if he doesn’t know it, not yet.

His eyes linger then shift away as Sawamura glances his way, returning back to Sawamura as soon as he crosses the room.

“Who’s that?” Kuroo asks Bokuto out of the corner of his mouth, nudging him with an elbow to get his attention.

“What?” Bokuto follows the line of Kuroo’s gaze to Sawamura, who is now talking to Suga with a comfortable familiarity which must mean that he knows him, and his mouth forms a small ‘o’ of recognition. “That’s Sawamura. He joined us last week when you were down with that cold.”

“Huh,” Kuroo says and doesn’t comment further.

His eyes don’t leave Sawamura either, his gaze flitting down the length of his body, taking in all of him from his hair (black, plain) to the build of his body (strong, fit, holds his weight nicely, slanted away from Kuroo as he turns to draw Asahi into their conversation) to his feet (clad in a pair of worn Nikes, nice design if not a bit too simple for Kuroo’s tastes). It takes all of one second for Kuroo to process all of this and look away. But as he turns his eyes away from Sawamura, Sawamura shifts and their gazes align momentarily, fleetingly. Sawamura sizes Kuroo up the same way, taking exactly one second before he tosses a smile Kuroo’s way and turns back to Suga and Asahi.

It startles Kuroo, who hadn’t even had the time to break out into his friendliest smile—the one that made strangers want to punch him a bit just because, Bokuto had once said. He had probably just been caught staring like the gormless fool he rarely was.

“Huh,” Kuroo says again, raising a hand to his chest and pressing it against his startled heart.

—

Sawamura can dance, keeping up just as easily as anyone else in class as the instructor runs through the routine at a breakneck speed, confident in their ability to catch on. It is an advanced class after all and they are regulars, all familiar faces Kuroo has seen pop in some time or the other. Sawamura is the only new face he has seen in a while and the way he moves makes Kuroo think that he has danced before, been dancing all his life perhaps.

He is friendly too, chatting with any other student that drifts into his vicinity with a natural ease that makes Kuroo slightly envious. People tend to be wary around Kuroo before they get to know him—and even after, sometimes—and he knows it’s because of the way he looks and comes off, but at the age of twenty-five he finds that he doesn’t really care. Life is too short and too interesting to be constantly giving a damn about what other people think of him.

Bokuto didn’t mind, jumping straight into Kuroo’s life as easily as he did into just about anyone else’s lives. It’s Bokuto who drags Kuroo over to Sawamura now, waving an arm to catch his attention as they near him. They are packing up and Sawamura settles his bag on his shoulder, greeting Bokuto with a smile before turning his attention towards Kuroo.

“Hey hey, Sawamura, you haven’t met Kuroo yet, have you?” Bokuto says by way of greeting.

“No, I don’t think I have,” Sawamura says and his voice is nice, low and mellow. “I’m Sawamura Daichi.”

He offers a hand to Kuroo who takes it automatically and gets a firm handshake in return. “Kuroo Tetsurou,” Kuroo says, finally getting a chance to use the smile he hadn’t been able to use earlier.

“He was sick last week so he wasn’t here,” Bokuto tells Sawamura, “but he’s here like all the time usually.”

“Bokuto said you were new here,” Kuroo says.

“I just started last week,” Sawamura says.

“And how are you finding it here?” Kuroo asks, keeping his friendly smile on, trying not to let it slip into his usual smirk.

“I like it.” Sawamura shrugs. “Suga and Asahi have been coming here for ages and they’ve been telling me to get back into dancing and I guess I finally managed to find the time to do so.”

“So you haven’t been doing this often?” Kuroo asks, raising an eyebrow inwardly.

“Not recently, no,” Sawamura says sheepishly. “So if you catch me lagging behind or messing up, show some mercy.”

“You’re doing fine. I didn’t notice a thing,” Kuroo assures him. “And if I do, I’ll make sure to keep it for blackmail. Mercy is for the rich.”

Sawamura laughs and it is a warm sound, rich with genuine mirth. “I’m going to have to do my best from here on then.”

“Daichi!” Suga’s voice comes through the door. “We’re ready to go!”

“See you next week.” Sawamura offers him a quick smile before he heads for the door.

“See you,” Kuroo echoes, his hand coming up in a little wave that Sawamura doesn’t see with his back turned to him.

—

The next week, Kuroo watches Sawamura during class—to keep his promise on the blackmail thing, he tells himself as he finds his gaze drifting towards Sawamura again. Despite everything Sawamura said, he is good, although Kuroo can see where he falters around the edges, his eyes sweeping around to see how his classmates move before he tries it out himself half a beat behind the rest. But he is a fast learner and he moves his body with a tight control once he gets it going, which speaks of years of training.

He is mesmerising and it doesn’t hurt that he is easy on the eyes, his face set in a fierce determination that brings out the strength of his features. When Kuroo’s eyes wander, he finds that he appreciates the curves that stand out against his clothes, pulled tight against his body, outlining the slight arch of his hips and leading down into sturdy thighs.

By the time they’re done for the day, Kuroo learns three things:

The third quarter of the routine for this particular song

Sawamura Daichi is a very attractive man

And Kuroo is very, very interested

“You’ve been staring so much, Kuroo. Just how much are you planning to extort from Sawamura?” a voice chimes by his ear.

“Huh, what?” Kuroo turns to Bokuto, distracted.

Bokuto shakes his head. “I always knew you would turn to a life of crime but blackmail is just beneath you.”

“Oh, that.”

“What else would it be?” Bokuto questions Kuroo and when he doesn’t get a reply from him, he turns to Akaashi next to him.

Akaashi glances at Kuroo then at Sawamura across the room, connected by the line of Kuroo’s stare. “He likes him.”

“He likes who?” Bokuto asks, mimicking Akaashi’s actions and trying to see as he sees. “Ohh. But he’s only seen him like twice?”

“It’s infatuation,” Akaashi informs Bokuto. “Kuroo likes what he sees and what he sees is Sawamura.”

“Like a crush?” Bokuto scrunches up his nose.

“Okay, don’t think I’m not listening to the both of you gossip about me just because I’m distracted,” Kuroo finally turns to the conversation at hand.

“Welcome back,” Akaashi says dryly. “Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

“Not really,” Kuroo admits with a shrug. “Sawamura’s really nice to look at and I have a pair of eyes. It’s a pretty logical course of action.”

“The next logical course of action would be to ask him out,” Akaashi says helpfully.

Kuroo scoffs, waving a hand at the both of them. “It’s just a crush, or an infatuation as you so kindly put it. I would literally never fall so low.”

“Okay, okay, wow, I’m offended for Akaashi and me and just about every couple out there.” Bokuto frowns at Kuroo, reaching out for Akaashi’s hand.

Kuroo raises his hands in mock surrender. “No offence, Bo, but it’s just that I don’t see how this, any of this is going to develop into anything more. I’ve only seen him twice.” Kuroo raises an eyebrow meaningfully as he parrots Bokuto’s earlier words.

“You’re going to see him so much more. He’s paid for a month’s worth of sessions,” Akaashi tells him.

“And love sneaks up on you when you least expect it,” Bokuto says seriously, gesturing at Kuroo with Akaashi’s hand. “When you fall hard and fast for Sawamura, I’m going to make you eat your words, Mr Super Single.”

—

Kuroo’s downfall, as Bokuto predicted, comes swiftly and it all starts with couple dances.

He doesn’t know how it happened but what they had learnt individually and were supposed to perform in groups had somehow ended up as an outbreak of spontaneous couple dances across the room after Bokuto dragged Akaashi out after practice was over and hit the music. The thing about Bokuto is that while he isn’t the best at following instructions to a T, he is fantastic at improvisation. Kuroo sees this firsthand as Bokuto switches up parts of the choreography to fit himself into Akaashi’s space, his hands bracketing Akaashi’s hips and accentuating his movements.

It looks good, they look good together, stepping in and out of beat with the music as Bokuto experiments with the choreography and Akaashi follows his lead, sliding a careful hand across his forearm. Bokuto beams at him and Akaashi smiles back widely, not the careful, measured smiles he gives to everyone else. They look happy together and it is infectious.

The next moment, Kuroo sees Hanamaki grab Matsukawa with a competitive look in their eyes, and Oikawa pull Iwaizumi out of his conversation with Sawamura, determined to get out there. Suga snags Asahi and then Kuroo realises that it is only Sawamura and him left in a room full of dancing pairs.

Kuroo’s head and feet feel unusually light as he drifts over to Sawamura’s side, grinning widely as he holds out a hand to him. Sawamura doesn’t take it immediately, his lips quirked up in a half-smile as he says, “So how much blackmail have you collected on me already?”

“Enough to live comfortably off it for the rest of my natural life,” Kuroo tells him.

Sawamura crosses his arms. “Then I’m not giving you any more material to use against me.”

“I’ll disregard it this one time,” Kuroo says magnanimously, keeping his hand raised and palm upturned towards Sawamura.

Sawamura glances down at his offered hand, hesitating before he admits, “I’m really rusty.”

“That’s not the point.” Kuroo reaches out to settle a hand over Sawamura’s forearm, pulling it away from his chest. “The point, as so well demonstrated by that demon couple over there, is to have fun. Let loose. Classes are over for the day, and don’t tell the other students this, but they don’t lock up the studio until late so we can do whatever we want until they chase us out.”

Sawamura still looks hesitant but he doesn’t shake off Kuroo’s hand as Kuroo pulls him to an empty spot near the mirrored walls, safely away from the spontaneous dance-off Tanaka and Nishinoya have started in the middle of the room. The song they had been dancing to still plays in the air and Kuroo eases into it, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Sawamura when he doesn’t move with him.

“Think of it as extra practice,” Kuroo encourages him. “The last class for this routine is next week and they usually film the performances then. You’re gonna want to shake off that rust before then, aren’t you?”

That seems to convince Sawamura and his shoulders drop, his face going thoughtful for a second before he slips into step with Kuroo. He is determined as usual, moving just as was demonstrated by the instructor, and Kuroo grins at him in the mirror. Sawamura goes right and Kuroo goes left, going right when Sawamura goes left, dancing like an exact mirror copy of him. He takes a step back so he doesn’t collide with Sawamura, his chest brushing against Sawamura’s back as they move to the same spot.

It isn’t anything like Bokuto and Akaashi’s perfect synergy but Kuroo thinks it’s close enough for the pair of them who have barely seen each other more than three or four times. It’s potential, a whispering of “what if” as Kuroo gazes past Sawamura’s shoulder at himself in the mirror and at Sawamura in the mirror, matching grins in their reflected faces.

They look good like this together, Kuroo realises as the song comes to an end and Sawamura steps away from him, his face flushed and pleased. Kuroo’s heart stutters, not from exertion, but surprise as he realises, oh, maybe, just maybe he could ask Sawamura out for real and maybe Sawamura would say yes and they would get somewhere from there, not now, not immediately, but eventually. All Kuroo has to do is take Akaashi’s advice and follow the next logical course of action.

The door to the room slams open—a clear sign for them to scatter—and Kuroo darts for his bag and his things strewn out around it as Sawamura does the same on the other side of the room. The rest of the students file out of the door in bits and pieces, the lights shutting off and the speakers being disconnected and shoved into someone’s bag.

“See you next week,” Sawamura mouths at Kuroo before he ducks out of the door with Suga and Asahi.

“See you,” Kuroo mouths back, raising his hand in a little wave again, even though Sawamura has already disappeared out the door.

The last ones to leave are Bokuto, Akaashi, and him, the both of them hand in hand and Kuroo deep in thought.

“Tired?” Bokuto asks Kuroo as they meander through a maze of corridors before finally emerging into the street.

Kuroo makes an ambiguous noise, still trying to hold on to that faint, floating feeling that had emerged when he had been dancing with Sawamura and then that deeper sense of realisation, that oh moment when he had broken away from Sawamura, looked into his eyes, and thought that he didn’t want it to end.

He wants to do that with Sawamura again.

He’s going to do it.

“Hey,” Kuroo says carefully, catching Bokuto’s attention. “Remember when I said it was ‘just a crush’ and that I would ‘literally never fall so low’?”

“Yeah?”

Kuroo takes a deep breath. “I was wrong. I’m entirely screwed. Help me, please.”