#would it be bad if I used every single word as an individual tag?

[tavyliasin]

2024 Writing Retrospect

Tagged by @jellymellydraws so I'll give it a go!

What's been your biggest learning point this past year? There are very few things I can't/won't write if I put my mind to it, I just need to find the right angle - I've found a lot of joy in writing crackships, one shots, and rare pairings. I do adore my longer stories, but digging in to new dynamics never fails to be exciting and I'd like to lean on that some more~

How has your writing developed this past year? I think I'm a lot more confident in writing, particularly kink, and I'm easing my way out of some bad habits like sentences that are far too long or being too vague when my mind wants to skip through the most exciting parts~

Bad writing habits? Hmmm I'm going to have to throw in getting distracted, not finishing WIPs, and definitely the impatience to post. I know works are better with a beta read, but that means waiting and editing and re-reading instead of just slamming it down, throwing the links into every corner of the internet, and running away in fear and horror that nobody wants what I just put out. Ah, there's another bad habit - the lack of confidence in finished works. I don't like looking at my stats, but I cherish every single individual comment and kudos like my entire creative career depends on it.

Favorite thing you wrote? Gods that's a tough one. I adore all of my works, and I wrote so much this year. It might be between the Raphael/Haarlep prequel pieces, and possibly Emperor x Volo "A Legend, Alive" which was a real experiment when I started it and it just developed so much depth and feeling as I took it entirely seriously~

Biggest win? Getting over 500k words published on AO3, over 100 works, and also finishing the 24 chapter speedwritten epic that was the Volo Kinkmas Challenge. Most of which barely a dozen people have even opened judging by the hit counts, but I shouldn't expect people to actively want to read 24 chapters of Volo smut without me begging them and yelling "hear me out, it's actually really good" about a thousand times a minute. (Seriously though I am proud of finishing it and I think I did a damn good job too, allowing myself that pride)

Goals for the new year? Write. The. Original. Novel. I did barely anything on it last year... I would also like to finish all 3 of my longfics, they've been going on too long without concluding, then I'll feel more free in starting new things or indulging in silly premise one shots~

Your favorite words of the year, aka the words you check each chapter for, making sure you didn't repeat them 788 times? "As". You can pry "as" from my cold dead hands, I need it, it works, I will use it plenty~ Otherwise I really just keep checking word repetition constantly. If I'm going over a piece and worry I've said a word too many times I will do a quick ctrl+F to highlight uses and see if I'm good or not. I prefer several paragraphs before a word repeats and open my thesaurus tab often~

What are you excited for in the new year? Creative events, finishing the other Zine pieces I've signed up for, and the release of Fan Zines I've been a part of - really excited to share those pieces with you all when they are released~

Tagging in - with no pressure, only if you'd like to - @morb-untamed @laserlope @khapikat222 @ineadhyn @redroomroaving

[severeprincesheep]

Booktok Girlies Losing Community & Books Aren't Political? 

Soon it'll be 20 years since Stephenie Meyer first published Twilight, a book that while bringing her fame and fortune also brought her an equal measure of persecution to a degree that, to my naive eyes, was astonishing to behold. I've seen much worse since, like the ongoing "fuck JKR" tag proves every day.

And even though I've listened to what her "critics" have had to say these past maybe 15 years that I've been paying close attention, I can now tell you I am yet to hear a single pertinent criticism of her books. People who are equally practiced facing bigotry of other sorts know what bad will looks like, they know what I'm talking about.

It took me a while to finally just accept that all these defamations were coming from a place of prejudice. The same far-right individuals and organizations in America that have consistently defamed her, banned her books from libraries and burned them in public pyres have one objective: that this mistake is never allowed to happen again. Society must not celebrate or give any visibility or power to female-bodied people. Other talented young women with potential and aspirations to greatness must be repressed. They must be made to see what happens when you pursue academia followed by a paid career as a published author, so that they will say to themselves: "It's too much trouble, I'm too afraid, I should just be a stay-at-home mom and if I do write something I should keep it in a drawer somewhere". That's the agenda.

Rule No.1 of misogyny, guys: women must not be allowed to leave a legacy.

One of the hardest pills to swallow was not the dawning realization that men hate women, although that is more than I can bear. It was women's subservience to men and their habitual betrayal of their class. The audience of mostly young girls who passionately loved her books were completely silent when all the hounds came for their favourite female author, and remained silent in the following decades of hate that never abated.

Well, those girls who were teenagers or young adults back then grew up and continued to read, some of them even became authors in their own right... and now they realize that for some strange reason there appears to be an awful lot of hatred for romance and fanfiction and indeed for any kind of literature that women love.

The fascists who believe women should be seen naked and not heard are coming for the newer generation of female intellectuals and there's no one left to save them. And after decades of never standing up for their fellow women they are suddenly quite concerned that Project 2025 is going to erase their favourite books and illegalise their own writings. Oh nose.

It would be funny if in the end Stephenie Meyer, JK Rowling and other women who have been unjustly persecuted and suppressed were the ones who saved the day by using their visibility and money to fight against the on-coming Taliban-like eradication of women's freedom of speech.

But if I have learned anything at all is that any women they saved would then proceed to give all the credit to men instead, and would openly lament the place where help came from and would apologize for being rescued by the wrong lot, etc. They would never be grateful or take back any of their past unfounded accusations or finally understand who is their friend and who is their foe. That is a hopeless case.

So I'm going to take a leaf off of black women's book on this one, and I'm going to say that this is a they problem. It's not my lesson to learn. When they took men's side against women they fucked around and now they're going to find out. In the words of Parkrose Permaculture: "You have shown you will be complicit in your own oppression to gain some measure of proximity to power, some illusion that you're going to be the next Elon Musk (or in this case to gain men's validation)." OK, so now go ask for help from the men who oppress you and silence you, see how that goes.

For years I used whatever voice I had on my blogs to protect women's right to express themselves and to publish books without fear of persecution, while women actively sided with misogynists against the best interests of their class, throwing under the bus even their most favourite childhood authors. I feel like they, not men, have defeated me.

Here is a small reminder of what men were already doing to books written by women well before Project 2025, as women watched with indifference and cooperated with their oppressor. I wonder if when it's their own reputation and their own legacy burning if they'll feel the same heartbreak that I felt. The same loneliness too.

[ginnymoonbeam]

Thai QL Favorites Tag Game

Tagged by @lurkingshan - thanks!

Favorite Thai QL: Moonlight Chicken had my heart from scene 1 and kept it the whole way through. Love stories mean the most to me when they are seated within a community, and when the central romance is inseparable from many other ties of love. The themes of home, of longing, of connection through fear and long-hardened anger -- the problems of family and class and queer struggle and love not returned -- the continual presence of ritual in all its forms, from holidays to prayer to the simple sharing of a meal -- everything in this show speaks directly and intimately to my heart.

Favorite pairing: I have a handful of favorites, but I'm going to go with First and Khaotung. They are both fantastic performers who have elevated every role they've played for years, and together they're absolutely magnetic. I love their versatility, individually and together, and I can't wait to see what they do next.

Most underrated actor: I'm going to go here with someone whose performance always impresses me, but who doesn't get nearly the attention she deserves: View Benyapa. She is always compelling. Her characters have weight and vitality however minor they are, and she does the very tricky job of making a side character dynamic and interesting without pulling focus from the mains. (Khaotung also excels at this, but thankfully he's no longer underrated.) I'm excited to see her in 23.5 and I hope to get to enjoy her in more and bigger roles in the future.

Favorite main character: Oh this one is difficult! I love so many, for so many different reasons. If I must choose one, I think it's Inthawut from 180 Degrees. I understand so deeply his fear and his guilt, and I ache for him.

Favorite side character: Somehow even more difficult! I'm going to say Tankhun of Kinnporsche. It's easy to see him as little more than high camp comic relief, and I'm pretty sure he wants it that way. If you see him reading the room, sending signals, and generally displaying sharp, competent insight, no you didn't.

Favorite scene in a QL: The Bad Buddy ep 5 rooftop scene is perfect.

Favorite line in a QL: "Because I'm hungry." Three plain, ordinary words that perfectly express the heart of a complicated, painful relationship. My jaw dropped when that line was spoken, and it bounced around in my brain for weeks afterward.

Most anticipated QL: As much as I'm dreading the surrounding discourse... gotta be Only Friends.

Healthiest relationship: I don't like this question, may I have another? I have a whole slew of problems with the way "healthy relationship" is used in fandom (see also: "green flag") - like the way health is presumed to be a single measurable quality, and conflated with virtue. There's a place for using fiction to talk about how we want to behave or be treated in relationships, but more often I feel like people are using these for the satisfaction of occupying a moral judgement seat, and I'm not here for that. Let me say instead...

Relationship dynamic I would most like to have myself: Cake and Seeiw of My Only 12%. I love how absolute and unquestioned their love for each other is - the only issue is what kind of love, and that gets resolved pretty much as soon as it's raised openly. I love the intimacy they have from knowing each other their whole lives, and the easy way they fill one another's gaps.

Relationship dynamic I would least like to have myself: Yi and Kon-diao of Cutie Pie. I enjoy Cutie Pie immensely, and I'm looking forward to Naughty Babe, but ye gods do I not want what these boys have.

Guilty pleasure series: After my whole rant about "healthy relationship," guess how I feel about "guilty pleasure"?

Most underrated series: I did this one scientifically... I looked to see which of my favorite shows has the lowest rating and view count on MDL. The winner is Ghost Host, Ghost House, which definitely deserves more love.

Tagging @phneltwrites and @lurkingteapot you want!

[fmaoldficarchive]

Ratings & Warnings

Navigation | Ratings & Warnings | Welcome Post | Find a Fic | Submit a Fic (tba)

When viewing fics on this blog, you might notice something strange - some fics have two different ratings listed, one in regular print and one in bold italics. And those with a single rating may have a word like 'accurate' or brief descriptions written alongside them. So what gives?

This blog uses a 'secondary rating' system. It roughly follows ao3's format, which is most familiar to readers today, modified to be a bit more detailed. It's made to help navigate old fanfics across many fansites which may or may not comply with a modern reader's understanding of ratings and content warnings.

The original, author-given ratings and warnings are given first in plain text, to the right of which I add, in bold italics, either an agreement that the fic meets it's modern-equivelant rating, or an annotation explaining what I believe the modern expectation would be and to an extant why (avoiding spoilers where I can). In addition, I add warnings and tags where necessary which people can block as needed

Ratings

What's acceptable by order of: swearing, horniness, violence, deaths, gore, torture and sexual violence topics General Audiences - Up to: mild swearing, romance without or with very little horniness, mild violence/fight scenes, offscreen deaths, no reference to gore, torture or sexual violence (everything that doesn't check any additional boxes below goes here) Teen - Up to: swearing, horniness without excessive details, violence, onscreen deaths, minimal gore, reference of topics such as torture and sexual violence without graphic details or visuals (for example - an 03 fic in which Rose's assault is mentioned but not explicitly described or flashed back to would get a teen rating) Mature - Up to: swearing, non-detailed smut and excessive horniness, graphic violence, onscreen deaths, gore and mild body horror, topics such as torture and sexual violence with limited graphic details (basically if Dante herself was a rating) Explicit - Up to and beyond: swearing, graphic or detailed smut, graphic violence, onscreen deaths, graphic gore and/or body horror, topics such as torture and sexual violence may be explicitly shown (where you can find both your royai pwp 150,000+ word count post canon kink meme megafic and your lizard envy mpreg BDSM mindbreak flowershop au at the same watering hole)

Warnings

I have added additional warnings to the original four offered by ao3 to aid you in dodging your squicks:

(aka a list of tags to block if you don't like something. Filter liberally and rejoice)

Graphic Depictions of Violence - self explanitory, graphically depicted violence. #graphic violence Incest - Save yourself the trouble of blocking every varient of Ed/Al, Ed/Hohenheim, Trisha/Al, etc. Just block #cw incest Major Character Death - the one tag I'm mostly leaving alone, what constitutes a 'Major Character' is nebulous and largely up to individuals to decide. #major character death is for fic whose authors specifically tag it, when or where else it's used will be based on my discretion or by request.

Medical tags:

| Emetophobia - so you don't have to miss out on all the other good sickfics just because vomiting squicks you: #cw nausea and vomiting

| Infections - Fics containing graphic descriptions of infected wounds (along with descriptions of things like necrosis and pus) will be tagged #cw infected wounds

| Miscarriage and/or Abortion - Largely in relation to fics about Izumi, tags are #cw abortion, #cw miscarriage or #cw miscarriage and/or abortion to block fics containing either. Note: Due to personal reasons on my part you will likely not be seeing fics containing graphic depictions of either of these things. Fics containing passing mentions, or which are short enough to scroll past are fine, but prolonged scenes I really just can't handle, it's bad. If someone requests a specific fic alledgedly containing either to be archived on here, I plead Buyer Beware - I'll tag, I'll post, but I won't be personally checking to see if they're right.

| Pregnancy and/or Childbirth - #cw pregnancy and #cw childbirth respectively

Rape/Noncon tags:

|#cw noncon refers to depictions of sexual assault.

|#cw implied noncon covers the discussion or reference to noncon, without it's direct or explicit depiction, which may be triggering to some people more than others. (Like the ratings example: There is a difference between 03 Rose discussing what has happened to her and it being shown 'onscreen')

|#cw medical noncon is for graphic depictions of forced medical and or alchemical procedures and/or experimentation (such as the chimeras' creation).

Self Harm - #self harm encompasses all intentional harm to oneself, fics containing suicide or attempted suicide will always be tagged with this in addition to #cw suicide or #cw suicide attempt depending on the outcome.

Smut - Only interested in the violent side of the mature/explicit sections? Block this tag. #smut

Underage - Instead of needing to block every ship tag associated with this, block this one instead #cw underage. This tag currently applies to underage age gap ships of all ratings (e. g. Royed gen fluff will still be tagged underage if Ed isn't an adult for it) and sexual fics in which both characters in the ship are underage (e. g. a Ling/Lan Fan smutfic will get the warning, but a fic about them kissing will not). Although you'll still need to block individual ships if you don't like them aged up either.

Vore - #cw vore Note: This is another thing I can't personally bring myself to read, will be done on request similar to miscarriage

Fics posted prior to Jan 1st 2025 will be updated to match this soon and this notice removed.

You can suggest additional tags or edits in the comments or reblogs and I'll add them. No, that one thing that bothers you is not stupid, you and your squicks and your triggers are valid even if you don't explain yourself and anyone who tells you otherwise isn't your friend. :D

[gisellelx]

For the fanfic author asks do you want to talk about: 6, 30, and/or 42?

Thanks, @palmofafreezinghand

6. How do you come up with ideas?

In fanfic, I write the stories I want to read for which I can't find a version I love. Almost all of my fics come from me basically just wanting to be a voyeur: "The Talk," my first fic, was me reading the line in BD where Edward mentioned he'd talked to Carlisle about having sex and me thinking, "Well now that had to have been an interesting conversation!" So I wrote what I thought happened. They also come from conversations with people--Ithaca Is Gorges came from talking with my bestest bestie about the fact that as you get older, you start realizing that your parents are fallible people, and that one of the biggest problems with the Twilight saga is that Bella is taking Edward at face value when he has not ever managed to get to that point with Carlisle and Esme. So what do the Cullens look like when they're not filtered by Edward?

Also I was trained to write characters first; plot second. So "ideas" for me usually are "okay, in this situation, how would this character logically respond, given all the things they hold dear, are afraid of, think are at stake?" I don't think of plots first. Plots emerge (and frustratingly, keep emerging.)

30. What do you struggle with most when writing?

Perfectionism. So, so much perfectionism. I very often see something that needs to go first before I can write the second thing, and then if I can't write the first thing, it doesn't matter if the second thing is more white hot. It's the main reason I've shifted to fully drafting long fics and only posting fics that consist of what are effectively related one-shots: Cien Años right now has been stuck because there's a chapter with Rose and Esme I need in order to establish something about what Esme thinks of Carlisle before I go to one of Esme and Carlisle 70 years later. But I've been having issues with that one. I will obsess over pieces of a work and over individual sentences until they truly pass muster, and, if I decide there's something else that belongs in the work, I will edit it later. I appreciated your tag comment btw, and also laughed about it because I revise everything. Sideblog answers? Yep. Headcanon posts? Yep. This post? Yep! I will move beats around in a sentence on a reddit post so that it has the rhythm I want it to have, even though there's absolutely no creative merit in it at all.

I used to be way better at just writing and letting stuff stick but not anymore. The other day one of my collaborators talked about her writing process and described mine as "Oh and then [giselle-lx] just produces these perfect sentences that say exactly what we all mean" and I was like, "No I have just already edited five times before I put them into Overleaf!"

42. How do you get over writers' block?

I...don't? I'm staring at a fic in Scrivener that hasn't been updated since 2019 and which I started drafting in 2010. And like I said above, been stuck on another work for a year.

But the thing which works the most reliably is reading. When I read, whether nonderivative stuff (which is mostly what I read--I am a bad fanfic reader, I confess!) or fic, my brain starts sparking with ideas and then I can get going again. If I'm struggling to get words down, it's usually a sign I need to read more.

Oh and the other thing which reliably creates writing is getting the hell off social media. Every single time I am serious about that practice, my brain just rebels at how bored it is and starts writing. "Ordinary Time" happened after I deprived my brain of social media for a month, and "Drying Up" happened after I deprived it for merely a long weekend. I know this in my soul, and yet... :/ :shakes fist at Mark Zuckerberg:

Ask me things!

[cherryblossomshadow]

#oof that last line #disability problems rip #if you have no achievements goals or projects it's literally treated like a mental illness (tags courtesy of @katisconfused) Totally to the added tags- it often feels like there has to be some kind of news or development to deliver to people or they are dissatisfied in you. I think it’s the capitalist growth mindset we have here- constant productivity or you’re not doing anything (comment courtesy of @eto-bee)

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#i think it's because success is tied to value here #so if someone values you they want to find a success to praise you for or help you feel successful (tags courtesy of @40screamingfrogs)

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#american society is individual-based rather than communal-based #you are fully expected to achieve cool things and to tell people about them #what do other countries do for small talk i'm confused now (tags courtesy of @artisticlicense-personal)

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#when someone pointed out that americans ask about what people do for a job a lot it rocked my world #apparently it's really rude in other countries to even ask #while it's really normal small talk here! (tags courtesy of @a-daks)

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#America's insanely individualistic but sometimes it isn't in an inherently bad way #It's just in a way that sometimes doesn't mesh with other norms (tags courtesy of @theater-of-dimensions)

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I’m American and I’ve always lived here, always raise by just Americans but I do this with every single conversation I have. I didn’t realize that Americans don’t do this and are more direct. I used to think that nobody wanted to talk to me because they had nothing to comment on what I was saying. My whole life I have been thinking “okay so I have autism so maybe I’m not holding a conversation correctly” or “I must be boring them/they don’t like me/don’t want to talk to me” I now realize what has been going on. I’m thankful for this post, I never would have understood. I always though “jeez they must not want to talk to me because I’m giving them SO many opportunities to keep carrying this conversation and they are just not doing it. Just ask me about something” now I know I have to be more direct when talking to people here 😭 a pain (comment courtesy of @xleeleeboox)

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#notes are super interesting on this post #and yeah it is super regional here but talking abt yr 'achievments' is definitely a base to the culture. at least where i live in the us #though achievements is a strong word its more like. i wanna know what youve been doing/abt yr life #tell me abt yr job and where you went to school and what hobbies youve picked up recently and if yr good at them yet #and what trips youve gone on and how you're doing as a person. if youve moved recently! #theres a bit of a back and forth about it. like. if i ask what yr job is after you talk about it for a bit you should ask abt my job but #most of it is just the expectation that we'll talk back and forth at each other about various things we do/are interested in for a while #not that im good at it lol i tend to forget stuff ive done recently and underplay my accomplishments cause i have self esteem problems but #its super cool to look and see that a. this is a social expectation we have in the us and b. that other cultures very much do not have this (tags courtesy of @letluigisaythefword)

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We have sayings in the US that reflect this too, even in our work lives. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease” meaning if you don’t speak up, if you arent adamant or even annoying about your wants/needs/desires then you won’t get them. But you turn around and look at Japan and you have “出る釘は打たれる” or “The nail that sticks up gets hammered down” which is very much the opposite. Greeks are similar, in my understanding, where if you are too boastful or compliment someone too eloquently, you’re supposed to follow it with some slight or insult or spit on the ground, so as not to “draw the ire of the gods/God/universe”. It was a cultural phenomenon I saw and was not as well educated on as I wish I was. If someone has a better understanding on it please take the stage. (comment courtesy of @olives-and-lilies)

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#….huh #i think in japan the analogy has to do with nails being hammered. #or in china they talk about you being a lone snappable chopstick #but yeah this is how america operates (tags courtesy of @laisai)

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#lol #Taking notes for when I have to interact with Americans #Mexicans are different because they are so quick to get personal… #People like to talk about what their family is up to a lot #Even the really dark stuff. And then you are getting therapy from the guy sitting next to you in the bus. #People say hi to each other and then are like 'anyway what has your mom been up to?' 'and your cousin?' (tags courtesy of @lyxthen-reblogs)

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#this was EXACTLY my experience getting to know USA folk #sometimes i still get blindsided by their unabashedness lmao #like ''wow you are SUCH an american. only an american would be so brazen.'' and i cannot stress enough #that that is said with FONDNESS! #they worm their way into your heart #i often defend americans at dinner and stuff because like yes sure they are very annoying ones but like. #the americans will agree that they are annoying. And mate they deal with a lot things………. #you would probably be a bit overbearing/batshit too tbf #its nice to talk to people who are so. open. and unapologetic abt that stuff (tags courtesy of @ain-person)

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Americans being the "funny guy who hypes others up" of the world is not what I expected to see but it's so nice? (comment courtesy of @itsdetachable)

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Image description beneath the cut:

[Images 1-2 ID: A comment on reddit by user Winterplatypus reading,

I think it's more than the media, there are some cultural differences that don't translate well. Australia is a bit more like England (and I want to say Japan?) and has tall poppy. syndrome. You don't talk about the cool stuff you did unless someone asks, and even when you do, you downplay it. There's also a weird conversation dynamic where the other person in the conversation plays an important role by picking up on the clues and asking questions that allow you to talk about your achievements. The end result is the same, you still talk about your achievements but there is a little verbal dance you have to do to get to that point. Americans don't play along with the dance at all. They talk about their achievements completely unprompted, and don't ask the right questions which enable you talk about yours. That makes the conversation one sided and gives us the impression that they don't care about us, it seems like they only want to talk about themselves.

But as you get to know them better you notice that they aren't self centered, they are operating based on a completely different set of social rules. If you talk about one of your achievements unprompted to an american they aren't hostile to you at all (like an aussie probably would be). They genuinely appreciate your achievement and congratulate you on it. It's complicated because ignoring the social rules gives us a bad first impression, but also makes them very genuine upfront open people that are happy to celebrate other peoples accomplishments. I feel a little bad for them because from their point of view it might seem like they are cheering for everyone else but nobody is cheering for them.

/end ID]

[Image 3 ID: tags by user @abluehappyface reading,

#as an American who doesn't share their achievements openly for my own reasons #NOT sharing your achievements is weird here #like if you don't people think you lack confidence and then they'll try to hype you up #'so what have you done recently' 'not much honestly' 'cmon you must have done SOMETHING' #like if you don't have something they deems as an achievement they'll either pry it out of you or turn something mundane into one #you can't NOT have an achievement or be good at something because then there's nothing to talk about it seems

/end ID]

This is the first time someone's pointed something out about the way we behave I didn't even realise and found myself realising they are entirely right

[carronpatrick]

Had typed a large reply to someone and accidently closed the app so the last 30 minutes was wasted and 😭💀💀💀 why is my brain like this?! 😭😭😭

**per tags, added video, literally of me, daily, constantly, always

Wait this got even better/worse. (below cut because I have to explain just how fucking dumb I can be, lmao. It's just funny rambling, completely SFW except 4 Fbombs because it's just my favorite word ig, idk, but also idk who has the shorten post setting enabled and don't wanna clog y'alls feeds.

But enjoy the chaos of my 'ADHD despite my meds having kicked in today, forgetful because I have a BAD object permanence/constancy deficit, unorganized but organized in that disorganization at the same time, can't delete things because what if I need it in 2 years LIKE THIS VIDEO' brain.

I opened up the attachment option like this

BECAUSE I HAVE OVER 18,000 (EIGHTTEEN THOUSAND, YES) PHOTOS/VIDEOS. 💀 I literally just took the 2 days and transferred them all over to my hard drive like the week of Mom's brain surgery, I just haven't taken the days to go through and delete each I don't need on my phone anymore because, well, Mom had brain surgery and that was only a week after her arm nerve surgery and I've needed to take care of her and then we both now have some kind of respiratory infection so we've been taking medicine and sleeping for the past week and a half basically, while the weather goes from 87f one day to 28f the next night back to 78f the next day.

(The weather description is added because the yoyo weather typically causes the start of sinus infections for me, happens every single damn year at this time, and has since I was like 2 or 3, and no doctor wants to prescribe antibiotics because they don't want to risk me becoming immune to them ((?????! 😭 Once a year would not do that, especially if they alternate between amoxicillin, augmentin, azythromyacin/z-pack, clindamyacin, cefdinir, etc each year... All things I've taken over my 30 years of many, many sicknesses and all still 100% effective for my body at normal doses! I already take daily allergy/sinus nasal spray that used to be $400 a bottle when I was like 10 and is now otc and is like $12-15, I take an anxiety /allergy rx also, like? Give me the fucking antibiotics I've had an infection according to my white blood cell count for the past 3 years almost constantly.)) but yeah, yoyo weather, it's harsh on a body, lmao.)

But I'm searching, and I have my gallery generally organized. I have a reactions set that all start with 'R-' and then what emotions they convey, have video folders and all my celeb pics are by group/member/individual, I have individual friend and family folders, i have mood boards for each original song I'm going to record and release eventually and they each have their own folder til I make them into one image, etc. It took like idk, in total probably a week or 2 to do all of this. So twenty minutes pass and I CANNOT FIND this video I randomly remembered while adding tags to this post. So I'm laying here like

I've checked @anxiousgirl and @thevampywolf 's folders, I've checked each video folder, every reaction folder, I checked my personal folders cause maybe I put it there because it so accurately describes how fucking dumb I am - nothing.

So then I realized - I sent it to both Rachel and Ash like a year ago. Now, we both send a fuck ton of videos, memes, gifs, random pics, etc all the time. But I KNOW that Ash and I send more back and forth because we both get on our ADHD bullshit on Tiktok and Instagram and send mass spams randomly. So I'm going through Rachie's WhatsApp chat. And the only kind of search query I can think of is 'stupid' because that's the video basically. So I'm going through ALL 'Media, Links, and Docs'.

Y'all I thought I was bad at sending pics and vids to Ash, but Rach, I am so sorry, lmfao. Like one time in May I sent maybe 50 fucking things in one convo because I was introducing you to Monsta X a bit and. 😭🥴 I'm a visual teacher/learner, y'all, okay?!

Anyway. It's now been about an hour and a half since I started this and I finally found this dumb 6 second video that I sent her last April. Also, very succinctly sums up the whole fucking post, lmfaoooo.

It's me. 😂

[watermelonlovershigh]

My Favorite Harry Styles Fics MASTERLIST

My Masterlist Masterpost where you can find my writing.

This is going to be a Masterlist full of my favorite Harry Styles fanfictions that I recommend and love. The purpose of this Masterlist was originally for me to keep all of my favorite writings in one spot so I can come back to find them easily, but of course anyone is free to view.

I will separate and organize this Masterlist dependent on what the writing classifies under. I will separate Series: (has chapters with a continuous story line or one shots with the same plot & universe), One Shots: (really random fics that can have a variety of plots), dad!harry: (writings that are centered around Harry being a dad or states matter of factly Harry is a father), and any other categories I may create when I feel its needed.

Also, I'll give you a mini review on what I thought about each fanfiction. Stickily my opinion though so take my review with a grain of salt.

Last updated: (11-10-22)

*Please give these a read or and show the writers some support.*

Warning: will contain a lot of smutty fics!!!!!!!

............................

Series-

Sail The Widest Stretch by @beautifulletdownfics

A friends to lovers story about pub trivia, fraying adult friendships, and the squishy parts of us that break and heal.

Personal Review: Great 10 part story (very long chapters I might add) w/ a ending one shot. My only problem was the lack of details when it came to the smut scenes but that didn't push me away enough to not read. Defiantly recommend.

Only Human by @hsogolden

Harry and Y/N are friends…. with benefits, but not the kinds you’re thinking of.

Personal Review: Not much to say. It's a very long 13 chapter fic that has a lot of angst, romance, and fluff.

Take it Slow by @atlafan

Y/N had a bad experience with an ex over a year ago, and finally accepts her coworker and good friend Niall’s invitation to go on a blind date with his friend Harry.

Personal Review: When I tell you this is my favorite Harry fic of all time I mean It. Its SOOO good. It's extremely long. 90 long chapters to be exact. Took me about 3 weeks to read. Lots of VERY DETAILED SMUT. Honestly would love this to become a movie it's so good. Also there is a sequel that's just as good. HIGHLY RECOMMEND if you love the idea of growing a life with Harry because that's what a lot of this is focused on.

My Everything by @atlafan

What happens with Harry and Y/N after he proposes? How will the two navigate the engaged life while also continuing to juggle their jobs, friends, and families? Let’s find out.

Personal Review: This is the sequel to Take it Slow and It's just as good. It continues their relationship. Its not as long chapter wise (only 20 chapters) but they are very long chapters. This fic made me cry harder than any movie or book I've ever read. Not because it was overly sad, but because of the emotional attachment I had with the characters and sad it ended. Also VERY HAPPY ENDING.

FROM EDEN by @harryhoney-bee

19th century!h / baker!h / forbidden love.

Personal Review: I tagged the Masterlist instead of listing every individual one-shot for this universe. This is a great continuing series that has great smut, great angst, and great fluff. Highly recommend if you're into au Harry fics.

Office Neighbors by @atlafan

You’re a new professor working towards your PhD, and Harry is your new office neighbor.

Personal Review: My third favorite Harry fic of all time. Great, detailed smut. All chapters are over 10k words long. Harry is his soft and caring personality that he has in real life. Harry is a single dad so that means dilf!harry. Great relationship evolution. Completed series as well. Just overall one of the best written fics i've read in a while. And i may have shed a tear or two at the end but it wasn't necessarily sad, i'm just a wimp.

Daddy Issues by @fkinavocado

In which you've got textbook daddy issues and when your tool of a younger brother brings a sweet doe eyed girlfriend home for Thanksgiving and you end up offering her a ride home, you meet just the man to fix them.

Personal Review: This is an on-going series and i'm in love. It's full of smut as well as some very fluffy times. Harry is a softie that turns into 'daddy' real fast. It does have some tough times between characters but they always find a way though the conflict. Highly recommend this. Especially if you like older!harry because this Harry is in his 40s.

Aster by @moonchildstyles

Harry is a tattoo artist and y/n just wants him to like her. This series will document how their relationship blossoms.

Personal Review: This story has one of my favorite Harry's in it. At first Harry can come off as a bit rude but once you keep reading you'll realize Aster Harry is the sweetest thing ever. In the chapters there aren't much smut but in the blurbs for this series they're are tons of great and detailed smut. Also these chapters and blurbs for this series are so long which is great for people who love reading lengthy stories. Rarely any mistakes in the writing too which is a plus.

............................

One Shots & Blurbs (random)-

Curious Girl by @permanentcross

Harry/You/Male of choice. Some blind eyes were turned during this for the sake of creativity and fantasy, but I kept it as tightly controlled as possible.

Personal Review: I love threesome Harry smuts and this one is great. Very naughty smut and rough sex. Very long as well.

OR STIMULATING HER WITH THE SHOWER HEAD. FUCK. by @secret-rendezvous1d

Harry uses shower head on his misses because her pregnant belly made sex uncomfortable.

Personal Review: It's very short but still a good smut.

in need for more by @harryimaginedstories

she wants to stay after sex.

Personal Review: Sexual but not smut. It's a very good fluffy fic. Not too short but not too long.

LET IT BLEED by @songbirdstyles

you’re on your period, and harry just wants to make you feel good.

Personal Review: The best period sex smut I've ever read. Plus it's not only period sex but it has a very smutty dry sex scene.

Alex from Dunkirk before he goes to war Smut by @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy

the night before Alex gets drafted for war, he makes sure to give you a night to remember by going on a date which leads to you both in bed making love all night long.

Personal Review: Its sort of short with not too much dialog but it's still very detailed in what they are doing. Also kind of sad because Alex (Harry) isn't sure if he'll be coming home from war.

Not Your Charity Case by @erodasfishtacos

Harry is a frat boy - who doesn’t need sympathy from anyone. He makes Y/N feel a sense of home when they’re together. But is Harry just like every stereotypical frat boy?

Personal Review: The Harry in this series is SOOO sweet and their relationship is the cutest thing i've ever read. Also he's deaf. It's very long as well, with another one shot in this verse.

Finally Fitting In by @erodasfishtacos

Harry goes homes to meet Y/N’s family. He’s gets more then he expected. He starts to feel like he has a home.

Personal Review: Even better than the first one shot. It is a bit more sad but Harry is still as cute as ever and has a very charming personality even if he's deaf. Plus great smut!

Harry Teaches You How to Masturbate by @floralsatin

harry sitting behind you and teaching you how to masturbate but he ties ur legs to his legs cos u keep closing them

Personal Review: Its short and has a daddy kink involved but never the less hot smut.

Give Me Love-- Harry Styles by @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy

After you find out your boyfriend cheated on you, you end up getting drunk and calling Harry (your friends with benefits) and he comes over to have sex with you in the middle of the night. Then you realize you're in love with Harry and so does he.

Personal Review: Its super long with great smut. Also contains a lot of angst as well as fluff.

Friendly Competition by @rollingsins

Harry and Florence are competitive. A little too competitive, when it comes to you. Smut.

Personal Review: This is a very well written smut. Harry and Florence are both dominates to Reader and they argue over who pleasures Reader best. Super HOT!

Man’s Best Friend - One Shot by @atlafan

Y/n begins to catch feelings for her fwb Harry because he has a great connection with her dog.

Personal Review: I don't know what it is about atlafan's writing but i have never felt more connected to fanfic characters as i have with their characters. 10 out of 10 smut. Soft!harry. Quite long. The ending is a bit of a abrupt ending that i wish was continued but that's just a me problem. So highly recommend!

The Kids Are Alright by @atlafan

A single mom starts dating Harry, an oral surgeon, and their relationship becomes stronger until they end up getting married and Harry adopts her two children.

Personal Review: It was great. No smut but that didn't take away from how good it truly was. The fic is also quick pace and skips to different times in their relationship so it isn't crazy long (still long but not anything to crazy long) I may have cried while reading it even though it wasn't even that sad. I'm just a wimp.

DESIRE by @watchmegetobsessed

When you go to stay at your dad's cabin after just breaking up with your boyfriend, you find out you're not alone and your dad's best friend is staying there as well. Then you end up sharing your feeling for one another and things get heated.

Personal Review: Its very long, about 8700 words and its written well. The smut wasn't all that detailed but that didn't make it bad or anything. Plus older!harry is hot!!

Clingy by @atlafan

Harry is a really clingy boyfriend and gets insecure about his clinginess towards you when he over hears one of your friends talk about how they think it's weird how clingy he is towards you.

Personal Review: It's so cute. There is a small smut scene but its mostly fluff with mild to none angst. And it's long but not too long.

Bar Crossed Lovers by @atlafan

Two bartenders that are friends (that have sex) eventually catch feelings when they realize no one can make them feel as good as one another.

Personal Review: It's got fluff, angst, and smut. Written well and I highly recommend. The smut is top notch too.

Lover by @harryhoney-bee

Soft sex with boyfriendrry after the show, plus some domestic love <;3

Personal Review: This was written so well and the details in the smut are amazing. If you enjoy soft and love making type sex, then this is a great reading option for you. It's a decent length, over 3k words, and with after care shown. Plus its HSLOT Harry.

Harry Playing with His Lovie's Pussy by @jarofstyles

Harry just casually touches and plays with y/n's pussy and ends up making her come.

Personal Review: Not much to say. It's kinda short but so so hot.

Princess by @stylesmygucci

You wake up accidentally dry humping your new boyfriend Harry's thigh and Harry pushes you to continue when you get all embarrassed.

Personal Review: I have a lot of favorite thigh riding fics but this one has to be one of my favorites. Because Harry was so nice about it and encouraged y/n to continue.

Roses and Vanilla by @stylesloveclub

In which y/n and Harry aren’t really close until y/n falls in the shower, and Harry falls in love.

Personal Review: Harry is super soft and caring in this. I loved every second of it. There wasn't much smut but it didn't even matter because of how well it was written. Plus its pretty lengthy.

MUCH TOO MUCH by @bopbopstyles

Harry and Y/N are college roommates and after over a year of never crossing the friend boundary you two hook up and things get….complicated.

Personal Review: Everything about this was good. It does have a lot on angst but there is a happy ending so, its worth it.

............................

dad!harry-

In Sickness And In Health by @talesofstyles

After the birth of their twin babies, Harry and YN’s marriage suffers.

Personal Review: Great story. It's very sad with a lot of angst. And a great smutty sex scene.

Ivy Sick In The Night by @erodasfishtacos

harry being woken up in the middle of the night by ivy because she threw up all over herself and she’s crying trying to cuddle into him with vomit all over herself 😭

Personal Review: This is a super short blurb with ceo!harry and it's super fluffy.

Baby Steps by @enthusiasticharry

you’re harry’s sons therapist, and he isn't the only one you end up helping.

Personal Review: Its a singledad!harry fic that's super long and written very well. it has lots of fluff as well as a smut scene.

california dusk by @adore-laur

You give birth to your second baby (this time a at-home birth) and Harry is right beside your side to entire time

Personal Review: It was supper fluffy. Great in details and pretty long.

............................

[blouisparadise]

8738Here are some amazing bottom Louis fics that were posted or completed during the month of May. We really hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!

1) Embrace The Haze | Explicit | 3347 words

Five friends get high one night, and Louis wants cuddles from Harry. With the help of some weed, Harry decides to fuck Louis, and he doesn't care that their friends start to watch. Except, then they begin to join in, but that's alright with them, too.

2) Second Puberty Individuals | Explicit | 4639 words

Note: Please take note of any trigger warnings and tags.

People are born biologically male or female. Their bodies develop as they hit puberty. For some individuals, like Louis Tomlinson, a ‘second puberty' can occur resulting in various different outcomes. In Louis’ case, he gets a nice pair of tits and loses the cock and balls he was born with, his ‘second puberty’ gifting him a fully functioning vagina instead. Age 23 and still a virgin, Louis does his best to hide that part of himself from the world. But every six months he must endure a check-up exam with the Doctor. He has quite the shock when his new Doctor turns out to be Harry Styles, a boy he used to go to school with and always secretly had a crush on.

3) I Knew It From The Start | Explicit | 5233 words

Louis starts calling Harry ‘daddy’. Consequently, Harry discovers that he has a daddy kink.

4) What Are The Chances? | Explicit | 8164 words

Louis is a poor uni student, attending the community college in his town. What are the chances that he meets a rich businessman and falls in love?

5) Stuck On Me, Stuck On You | Not Rated | 8738 words

It’s not a big deal that Harry and Louis grew up together, and not a big deal that Harry is in love with Louis since he can remember.

But it’s a big deal that Louis is pregnant and has no idea who the father is.

6) Maybe | Mature | 8963 words

Note: The main pairing is Louis/Zayn.

The one where Zayn and Louis hate each other enough to have mind-blowing sex in a party bathroom.

7) Walk On The Wild Side | Explicit | 11176 words

To say Mitch is confused as to what exactly is happening would be a colossal understatement, especially when the cowboy leans up and kisses Louis on the mouth and he doesn’t pull away. “You can keep on steppin’, bud,” the man calls to Mitch, snapping him out of the bewildered state. Gawking at the man, Louis slaps his bare chest. “Where’s that southern hospitality everyone’s always talking about? That’s Mitch, my friend, we met a few hours ago. He’s chill, no need to be rude, H.” “My bad, man. I thought you were just starin’,” H chuckles, standing up to dust his pants off and snatch his hat back from Louis before walking over to Mitch. “‘M Harry—Louis’ boyfriend. Pleased to meet ya.” What.

8) Butterflies, The Beautiful Kind | Explicit | 18401 words

Prompt 36: Louis is a single parent with a child who is terrified of doctors. However, one day, the kid gets sick. Thankfully the new pediatrician, doctor Styles, has wild curly hair and green eyes, and a soothing deep voice that the kid immediately grows attached to.

9) Adelfés Psychés | Explicit | 19650 words

Harry has been hopelessly in love with a certain woodland nymph for as long as he can remember and no amount of wooing seems to be working

10) We Beat The Odds Together, I’m Glad We Didn’t Llisten | Not Rated | 22215 words

Louis moves into Liam’s frat house after finding out he’s pregnant. Liam thinks it’s a great idea. And it is, it really is.

If only his frat president wasn’t completely gone for Louis.

11) My End And My Beginning | Explicit | 24749 words

When Louis starts as an intern at a new company, he becomes particularly fond of the boss’ five children. And maybe the boss himself as well.

12) Pleasing Inc,. | Not Rated | 24838 words

"As he approaches the door he notices a sliver of blue fabric poking out, the scarf Harry had been looking for pooled on the floor just inside the doorframe.

He bends down to pick it up, his intention being to put it on his boss’ desk and head home. But of course, Louis couldn’t pick up an alphas scarf that they wrap around their neck, without giving it at least a little sniff. Especially when said Alpha is Harry Styles, his boss, HIS Harry, that he’s trying really hard not to throw himself at on a daily basis.

It was all over the second he got the scarf to his nose."

13) Through Chaos As It Swirls, It’s Us Against The World | Explicit | 31728 words

Corporal Styles is sent on a suicidal mission, at his hands the lives of hundreds of men that are going straight into a trap. He ends up finding Louis, the french and most beautiful boy he has ever seen, and a baby, in a basement of a dead city.

14) Now I Think That I Could Love You Back| Explicit | 42255 words

The one where Omega Prince Louis is thrown a Courting Ceremony. A weekend full of competition ensues for his hand in marriage. As if he’s not already stressed about choosing his future Mate in three days, it’s just his luck that his enemy, Alpha Prince Harry has decided to partake as well.

15) Night Song | Mature | 50484 words

Louis’ heart has made its decision. It belongs to Harry, in all of his terrifying, cowardly, amazing glory. Perhaps Harry can take it when this is all over, place Louis’ dead heart where his own should be. Proper poetic, that would be. Or perhaps he’ll let it rot right along with the rest of him, toss Louis away and laugh at the pitiful human who’s managed to fall for the wizard who only prays on the beautiful.

Whatever happens to Louis’ heart, he doesn’t care. It’s up to Harry now. It belongs to him; completely.

16) Let Your Damage, Damage Me | Explicit | 57077 words

A low and dangerous growl was ripped from the future King’s chest.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the alpha snarled, eyes dark and nostrils flared.

Even as anger rushed through him at the alpha’s brutish display, Louis felt breathless at the intense gaze of the man that was going to be his future mate.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to be under all that. He will be inside me, all muscles and rage.’ Louis felt his cheeks heat again, but refused to be cowed. So he put his best smirk on display, the one alphas despised to see, the one that assured them all he had the upper hand.

“Thought you were expecting me, dear husband. I’m your future mate.”

17) Only You | Not Rated | 60109 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

After a relationship with some light BDSM, Louis wants more. He goes regularly to a BDSM club, the playing is fun but he wants someone who he can fully trust and try some new things with. So he applies at the club as a sub who is looking for a dom. It is all anonymous and when he gets the invitation he does not know who the dominant is.

Will Louis find what he is looking for?

18) Cause You Got Me In My Feelings | Mature | 67918 words

The one in which Louis Tomlinson is an omega nerd who sees his world turned upside down when he falls in love with Harry Styles, the most popular alpha male in high school.

19) Billow And Breeze (Islands And Seas) | Explicit | 102506 words

It was bright; that was the first thing Louis could recall. With a groan, he winced at the throbbing behind the sockets of his eyes and rubbed his temples in an effort to soothe the pain. Maybe he really did hit his head when he took his tumble. The omega squinted as he looked at the surrounding rolling hills and fog hanging over the countryside. As strange as it was, the world felt different, though it looked practically the same.

Disoriented and confused, Louis padded through the moss and listened for his husband. “Liam?” he croaked shakily. Nothing but a symphony of woodland creatures met his ears. His footsteps were muted by mossy green grass beneath his feet and soil fragrant as he neared the crest of the hill. At the top, he froze, lips parted in horror and eyes widening at the expanse of empty farmland—not a soul in sight. It had only been less than ten minutes prior that he could see Inverness from the crest, but now there was nothing.

“Impossible,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief—his mind not quite able to make sense of it.

20) Halfway Home | Mature | 103158 words

Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson were improbable childhood friends, much to Harry's dismay. They were thrown together each summer when Harry was forced to visit Louis' grandfathers' ranch in Black Hills, South Dakota. With each passing year, their friendship blossomed into something more. When trail rides turned to stolen kisses, and tragedies turned to confessions until they could no longer deny the inevitable draw they felt for one another.

Though life and their future plans soon set them on different paths.

Ten years later, Louis is the proud owner of Halfway Home Wildlife Refuge. Harry returns to the ranch to escape the perils of his past in London, and though their memories still haunt Louis, he won't let that deter him from his goals. However, someone has been keeping a close eye on the refuge, and possibly Louis specifically, and Harry's return may have unleashed more than just old passions. There's a hunter lurking in the Hills, someone who's decided they've bided their time long enough.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

You can find other monthly roundup fic rec lists here.

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 

tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc.  7.6k.

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 

You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 

“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 

He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 

“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  

“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  

“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 

Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 

(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  

He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 

You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”

“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 

“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 

“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  

“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath.  Two. 

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 

“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”

“This is it.  Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 

“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  

“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 

“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 

“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 

“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 

Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 

“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 

“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 

“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 

“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  

“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  

“You like?”  

“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”

That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  

“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  

“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  

“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”  

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  

“Gonna miss me?”  

Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  

“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”  

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 

“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  

Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  

“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 

Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  

(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 

“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  

“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  

Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  

“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 

(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 

“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  

“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​​​ @codeinebelle​ @xjoonchildx​

[spencers-renaissance]

I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly

Summary: After Spencer fails his firearm recertification, the FBI believes some hand-to-hand combat and self-defence training is in order, and who better to administer it than the BAU's very own, Derek Morgan? Everything goes swimmingly until Derek decides to simulate an attack from above, and Spencer's thrust into the throes of a horrific flashback.

Tags: hurt/comfort, past abuse, platonic cuddling, angst with a happy ending, friendship or pre-slash, crying, panic attacks, flashbacks, episode: s01e06 LDSK, protectiveness TW: !!Discussions of Underage Rape/Non-Con including Molestation and Incestuous Sexual Abuse!!

Pairing: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid (Platonic or Pre-Slash)

Word Count: 4.3k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

It’s a dreary day in late October when he fails his recertification test. Later, he’ll look back on this moment with a strange mixture of thankfulness and stone-cold dread, but in the moment all he can feel is the burning of his cheeks and the festering humiliation sat heavy in his chest.

Hotch is kind about it, because Hotch is kind about everything.

“Do you know what happened, Reid?” he asks with a complete absence of judgement, and it’s clear from everything about his body language and tone that he isn’t angry and he isn’t being critical, but Spencer feels his defences rising regardless.

He shakes his head and shrinks back in his seat, avoiding Hotch’s eyes.

“Did anyone do anything to make you feel uncomfortable?”

His eyes snap up to meet Hotch’s and he shifts to sit a bit more upright as he shakes his head with more vehemence this time. Sure, he didn’t particularly like the evaluator, but only because he seemed unimpressed with Spencer from the moment he laid eyes on him, acting as though evaluating someone who was doomed to fail was a waste of time.

Spencer can’t exactly blame him.

Hotch sighs. “Listen, Spencer,” he says gently, “I know you can handle yourself in the field and I know you can handle a gun just fine, but you know how many requirements were overlooked for you to join the unit in the first place, and you also know that your position in the BAU has been controversial with a few of the higher-ups. So, here’s the plan. I’m going to be your evaluator for your next recertification in two weeks, and in the meantime, I want you to do some hand-to-hand training with Derek to improve and consolidate your field and self-defence skills.”

Realistically, he knows that this is the best he could’ve hoped for, and he knows how hard Hotch and Gideon fight his corner when he’s questioned by everyone from witnesses to local PDs to the director of the bureau himself.

That does not mean he has to be happy about this.

He acquiesces because he has to. “Okay,” he says quietly, hoping he doesn’t sound as defeated as he feels.

“Reid,” Hotch says, redirecting his attention from the spot on the carpet he’s staring at. He waits for Spencer to look at him before smiling slightly and looking at him with a raw kind of earnest he knows is privileged to witness. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”

It’s Spencer’s turn to smile, brightening up from his miserable disposition slightly. “I do.”

⭑⭑⭑

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek says cheerfully, slamming his locker closed just as Spencer enters the FBI gym. “I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”

Spencer sighs, opening the locker next to Derek’s and putting his messenger bag inside before opening the grocery bag he’d brought his gym clothes in. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says drily as he pulls out his clothes and heads towards one of the two private changing cubicles.

He hears Derek chuckle to himself before he calls back to him as he opens the door to the gym. “I’m gonna set up, you come through when you’re ready.”

Spencer procrastinates for as long as he can, making sure his shoes are tied perfectly and the bows are even sizes, folding all his work clothes as neatly as possible and placing them carefully back into the grocery bag, but before long, there’s nothing more he can do and he has to face the music. He inhales deeply, steeling himself for the next hour, before putting his bag in his locker (closing it with much less force than Derek did earlier) and walking into the gym.

It’s a fairly big hall that’s usually used for academy recruits, large scale demonstrations, and the various sports teams that have cropped up in different divisions of the FBI. Spencer knows that Derek currently plays basketball for the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime team, the department that the BAU is part of.

Right now, though, Derek has them set up in a tucked-away corner, both hard and soft mats laid out on the ground surrounded by various equipment Spencer couldn’t hope to identify correctly.

“You took your time,” Derek says when Spencer approaches him, eyebrows raised and an obvious note of amusement in his voice. “But now you’re here, let’s get started.”

They begin with a short conditioning exercise that Derek says is supposed to ‘get the blood pumping’ but in actuality has Spencer panting like a dog and soaked with sweat within minutes. Maybe those higher-ups have something of a point. He knew he was unfit, but this is just embarrassing.

“Okay, now with the warm-up out of the way—”

“That was a warm-up?”

Derek doubles over with his laughter and Spencer can’t help but join in, despite how out of breath and red in the face he might be.

“It’s supposed to be, Spence, but maybe I over-estimated things a little,” he concedes once their giggles have died out. “Alright, alright, let’s move on to some basic self-defence moves. I know you probably already know most of these, but this is supposed to be a refresher, yeah? And to remind you that you can hold your own in the field, whether you pass your recertification or not.”

Spencer winces. “I don’t know, Derek, I mean I did fail every single physical aspect of the academy examination.”

“See, that’s what I mean, pretty boy,” Derek says, standing up from the mat and helping Spencer up, too. “You’re in your own head, and when you’re out in the field, you have enough enemies without making your own mind one as well. You know this stuff, Spence, I’m just here to remind you of that.”

“Alright,” he nods, holding in his sigh. He doesn’t mean to be negative, he just can’t help the way he’s feeling. The last week has been rough.

“Okay, so let’s go through front-facing attacks first,” Derek says. “What’s the first move you can do to protect yourself in that situation?”

“Elbow shield,” Spencer replies, holding out his arm and blocking Derek from coming any closer with his forearm acting as a barrier that Derek presses his chest against.

“Exactly, and what can you do to inflict damage in that position?”

Spencer responds by sliding his forearm up to Derek’s neck and applying light pressure, not wanting to actually hurt him.

“You got it. Okay, now what if I manage to grab you and pull you closer, what’s your move?”

He keeps his forearm locked to keep Derek from advancing too close, but this time he grabs his bicep with both hands and uses his core to bring him closer before he raises his shin and mimes kicking him in the groin.

“See, you know this stuff,” Derek says brightly. “The only note I have is to just remember to keep your thumbs in line with the rest of your fingers, not wrapping under my arm.”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense. The thumb is easily broken, although the most common injury associated with a broken thumb is actually damage to the larger bone of your hand, the metacarpal.”

Derek chuckles. “Exactly.”

Funnily enough, Spencer actually finds himself having fun as they walk through some other basic defensive movements as well as the best way to use tactical punches to overpower or debilitate an unsub or attacker. They frequently burst into peals of laughter, as can be expected when two close individuals find themselves having to do semi-serious work together, and before he knows it, forty-five minutes have flown by.

“Okay, I want to end with some more up close and personal attacks and the best way to stave them off, alright?” Derek says as he puts away the boxing gloves and pads.

Immediately, Spencer feels a small glimmer of nerves and anticipation for how this might make him feel, but he brushes it off. He knows he’s safe with Derek, and the whole point of the exercise is to defend himself. Nothing’s going to happen.

“Let’s start with an attacker coming at you from behind,” Derek decides, coming up behind him. “I’m going to cover your mouth, and you’re going to use your skills and knowledge to remove me, alright?”

Spencer nods, hoping Derek doesn’t read the hesitancy in it, and he supposes that he doesn’t because soon enough a large palm is tightly covering the lower half of his face.

For a brief moment, he isn’t a twenty-five-year-old agent training with one of his closest friends in the gym in the basement of the FBI Headquarters, but a scared and lonely ten-year-old in his childhood bedroom, trying to fight the persistent, evil man on top of him, wondering why his dad would do this to him—

He snaps himself out of it by opening his eyes and forcing himself to take in the surroundings, and before long instinct takes over and he’s gripping at Derek’s wrist and using his core and bodyweight to bend forward and free himself from the restrictive hold.

“Good job, Reid!” Derek says encouragingly, and there’s no evidence on his face when he turns around that he noticed any sort of hesitation or deliberation, so he suspects that his flashback really was only for a second, no matter how everlasting and all-consuming it felt in the moment.

He manages a shaky smile, and invites his next method of torture. “What’s next?”

“Okay, what if I was to grab your t-shirt and immediately start punching you?” Derek asks, immediately miming doing exactly like that.

Fighting the instinct to go into protective mode, he instead turns around elbow first and uses his other hand to mime punching Derek while his knee goes up to attack his groin.

“Perfect! That’s the spirit, kid. No unsub’s ever gonna get the best of you.”

Spencer blushes a little at the praise, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to meet his eye, but inside he’s beyond pleased, both with the encouragement from Derek and his own self-confidence he can feel flooding back. Maybe he really does have a handle on the more physical side of things. Maybe he isn’t just good for his brain.

“Alright, let’s finish off with some on the ground stuff, okay?” Derek says, sitting down on the mat and inviting Spencer to join him with a pat on the space beside him.

He hesitates a little, and this time Derek notices, his face softening.

“Listen, I know this one is a bit more uncomfortable than the others, but we’re almost done, right? Let’s just get a few moves consolidated and then you can go and have a shower and head home to relax.”

Spencer nods finally and joins him, laying on his back as Derek instructs. The vulnerability of the position has him feeling deeply uncomfortable, no matter how many times he tells himself that he’s safe with Derek, but he forces himself to lie still. If nothing else, he doesn’t want to reveal this very personal and private detail of his childhood to his best friend. He just needs to keep reminding himself that he’s safe.

“Right, let’s practice the pinned wrist escape, okay?”

Before he knows what’s happening, before he can process the words and prepare him for what’s about to happen, Derek’s straddling him and resting his full weight over his hips and his wrists are wrapped in a tight grip, pinned to the mat above his head.

It’s so sudden and the sensations so overwhelming that he can’t help the immediate fear response that’s triggered, because he’s not in the FBI gym with Derek anymore, he’s somewhere else entirely.

“No, please,” he begs, voice strangled by a sudden, all-consuming dry sob that heaves his chest, “please don’t, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, please, dad, don’t—”

His sobs suddenly overtake his words and he’s left crying pathetically on the floor, too trapped in the memory to notice that the pressure’s been removed from his hips and he’s free to move his arms, too consumed by the physical and emotional anguish that came with the abuse to hear Derek’s desperate, heart-broken pleas from beside him, begging him to come back to himself.

“Spencer!”

A voice finally manages to break through the fog of panic, and he slowly regains consciousness, the white hot glaze of fear and crippling memory fading incrementally until he can see the high beams of the gym ceiling, until he can hear Derek’s gentle, soothing words beside him.

“It’s alright, pretty boy, I’m here, you’re safe,” Derek tells him gently, although Spencer can hear the urgency in his voice, even in his scared and overwhelmed state.

He covers his face with his hands as his desperate, heaving sobs transform into wet, humiliated cries.

“Hey, hey, Spence,” Derek murmurs beside him, “is it alright if I touch you?”

He considers shaking his head, but really, he wants some comfort right now, no matter how much he’ll hate himself for embarrassing himself further later. He’s glad he does though because Derek very carefully and very slowly lifts him up until he’s wrapped up in a comforting hug, his face buried in a strong chest. He’s not sure he’s ever felt safer than in this exact moment.

“You’re alright, pretty boy, I got you.”

Spencer continues to cry, the overwhelm of having a flashback that intense still wracking his body, but eventually, he starts to calm down, the tension slowly bleeding from his muscles as he collapses, boneless against Derek’s body.

“Here, why don’t you have this granola bar and some water,” Derek suggests gently when his tears have dried up, reaching over to the edge of the mat where he was clearly hiding some post-exercise rewards.

Spencer accepts them tiredly, not moving from his position slumped against Derek’s chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asks him once he’s sipped his way through half the bottle and the granola bar is gone.

As much as he’d like to get things off his chest, as much as he trusts Derek, he just— can’t. So he shakes his head and pulls himself into a sitting upright position, although he still doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes.

“Okay,” Derek says softly. “I’m gonna drive you home. Come on.”

Spencer numbly walks through the locker room and the halls of the FBI with Derek guiding him until they reach his car, and the motion of climbing in brings a little bit more awareness back to him.

“Thanks,” he whispers as Derek starts the engine and drives them out of the parking garage.

“Don’t be ridiculous, pretty boy. No thanks needed.”

They don’t speak on the journey home, and Spencer contents himself with looking out the window at the passing scenery until they enter the city and trees transform into tower blocks. His mind drifts, but he’s just grateful that it doesn’t keep circling back to the flashback, having somewhat successfully resealed those memories like he always does, pushing them down and smothering them with as much good as he can collect in people and memories and things.

The silence between them prevails until Derek steps into his apartment behind him, closing the front door and helping Spencer out of his jacket before hanging his own coat up on a hook and steering Spencer towards the sofa. “You are going to sit here,” he orders, picking up one of Penelope’s hand-knitted blankets from its position neatly folded over the arm of the sofa, “while I get some tea and something to eat. Fancy anything in particular?”

Spencer remembers the satsumas and macaroons Penelope brought over the other day and tells Derek as such, following the other man with his eyes until he disappears into the kitchen and he’s left alone with his hazy thoughts for a couple of minutes.

They pass in a blur, though, and before he can blink, Derek is pressing a mug of warm chamomile tea into his hands and placing a small plate of a satsuma and a couple of macaroons on the coffee table.

The weight of Derek sitting down on the sofa next to him, and the grounding feeling of his palm wrapped around his ankle, has his hazy mind clearing until he’s in a much more present and aware headspace, enough so that Derek clearly notices it.

“You feeling a bit more like yourself?”

Spencer nods, and offers a small smile, trying to ignore the curls of humiliation and self-loathing working their way up his throat. Thoughts he hasn’t had in years are bursting at the seams Spencer had sewn tightly around them, brought up by physical memory alone, and he’s trying to hold them back, but somewhere in the back of his head, there’s his dad again, whispering dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, di—

“Hey, Spence,” he hears, and he snaps his head up, his dad’s voice shutting up and making room for Derek’s — Derek’s soft and gentle reassurances, his promises that he’s here and he’s safe and everything will be okay. “You got a bit lost in your head again there, kid. You alright?”

Spencer sighs tiredly, and a tear runs down his face unbidden. He’s not crying exactly, just— leaking. Leaking in the way a tap that hasn’t been turned on for years does when it finally experiences a much overdue release of pressure. Leaking in the way Spencer Reid does when he has a flashback to the sexual abuse he experienced as a child for the first time in two and a half years.

“Spencer,” Derek says, and something in his voice catches his attention, something serious, something earnest. He looks over at him. “Spencer, I know what you’re going through.”

His cheeks pale and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears because those words, that means— surely not, right? How could Derek— how could he—

“It happened to me, too.”

And there’s the confirmation. There are the five words that have him breaking down again, tears splashing into hot chamomile tea and onto cold, cold hands, sobs wracking his sore and tired shoulders. No one should have to go through what he did, no one. Especially not— God, especially not—

“Hey, Spencer, listen to me,” Derek says urgently scooting closer on the sofa until he can lift Spencer’s chin up with his hands and raise his head until their eyes are locked on one another and he can bear witness to the pain and the openness and the concern swimming in his dark brown irises. “I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re here, aren’t we? We’re safe. Don’t cry, pretty boy, everything’s gonna be just fine, I promise.”

He pauses to give Spencer a little time to catch his breath, but after a couple of minutes he speaks up again. “Would you like me to tell you about it?”

Spencer knows it will break his heart to hear. He doesn’t want to listen to a story in which Derek Morgan was the victim and not the hero, not his hero, but part of him knows that he needs to hear it; needs to know that he wasn’t and isn’t alone. And he can’t help but wonder whether maybe Derek needs to say it. Whether he also needs to tell someone what happened and have them empathise completely, have them say “I understand, I know what you’re going through” and have them mean it.

So he nods.

“His name was Carl Buford,” Derek says, resting the hand not clutching Spencer’s ankle on his knee, “and he was my football coach. A hero of the community. After my dad died, I got in a little trouble on the streets, right, and as a result, I got a record. Eventually, that record was expunged, and I learned that Buford had done it. I was confused, obviously, but he told me I had potential, that I was special, that I was going places and he was gonna help me get there.

“And so we started spending more time together. At first, it was just one-on-one football training and some run of the mill mentoring, and I finally felt like I had a real father figure again, someone who I could look up to and talk to and trust. Until one day when he took me up to his cabin. He gave me Helgeson wine to intoxicate me, and then convinced me to go skinny-dipping in a lake with him but when we came back to the cabin, he started— he started rubbing up against me. It eventually spiralled into… molestation and rape. He used to say "You better man up, boy, look up to the sky" when I would cry out for him to stop, or later — when some shameful part of me had accepted it — when I would wince in pain or he could sense I didn’t want to be there.

“And that went on for years until I guess I outgrew his preference and he— I mean— I guess, I guess he must have moved on.”

Spencer wants to be sick, and he’s pretty sure Derek feels the same, so all he can do is lean forward and wrap Derek in the tightest hug he can manage while they cry together.

“Did you ever tell anyone?” Spencer asks after a little time has passed.

Derek nods. “When it started affecting my football career in college, I started seeing a therapist, and I’ve really gotten to a place now where I’ve come to terms with it. As much as I’m ever going to be able to anyway. Half of that therapy was me grieving for the childhood I lost, expressing the anger I felt towards Buford in a healthy way, and then accepting that there isn’t anything I can do to undo the pain except work my ass off at the BAU putting guys like him behind bars since I lost my chance with him.”

Spencer nods. “I’m sorry he isn’t in prison.”

Derek shrugs his shoulders a little, pulling out of the hug. “I keep tabs on him. If I ever so much as catch a whiff of him hurting one of the boys at the centre I’ll be on him in no time. Just… waiting for the evidence, I guess.”

Spencer takes the hand resting on top of his knee and squeezes it, a show of solidarity his tongue can’t manage.

They sit in silence for long, comfortable minutes before Spencer finally feels like sharing. He knows that Derek isn’t expecting anything: if he never wanted to explain, he knows Derek would understand completely, but something about knowing he’ll understand like no one else can, that he can share and feel safe in doing so has his own story rolling off his tongue like it never has before.

“It was my dad,” Spencer says quietly, a confession he’s always been too ashamed to make. “The first time it happened was the night of my sixth birthday. He said that the day was his own celebration, because he’d waited so long and he was finally going to get his prize. He raped me. It wasn’t like that every time, sometimes he’d stop at… touching or— or fellatio, sometimes he’d come into my room and stand over me, getting off on how scared I was anticipating the act that never came.

“He left when I was ten, not far away from my eleventh birthday, and a big part of me always wondered whether the main reason he left was that I wasn’t in his preferential age group anymore. But when I was thirteen, I bumped into him in a hotel in California of all places, and even though I was bigger and stronger and nowhere near as vulnerable, he still got the best of me, he still weaseled his way into my room and took advantage of me again. After that time I carried pepper spray everywhere I went until the FBI issued me a gun. I swore I’d never let it happen again.”

Derek looks desperately sad when he finally meets his eyes again, and before he knows it he’s being wrapped in another hug, and they’re both in pieces again. However painful these memories are, though, the release of them is more cathartic than anything Spencer’s ever experienced; crying together with another survivor over everything they lost, the people that stole their childhoods and abused them for years on end, their younger, scared selves, desperate for someone to save them.

It hurts Spencer’s heart, but he also doesn’t think he’s ever felt safer than right in this moment.

“Is this the first time you’ve talked about this, Spence?” Derek asks eventually, with his cheek resting on the top of Spencer’s head.

“Yes,” he admits, another tear dripping onto the hands curled anxiously in his lap.

Derek pulls away and looks him in the eye, cupping his face gently and brushing a tear away with his thumb. “I’m proud of you.”

As broken and unseemly and ripped open and torn apart as he feels right now, as exposed as this entire ordeal has made him feel, for the first time, he thinks he agrees with Derek.

His trust was destroyed by the person supposed to protect him, and he’s carried the trauma of being sexually abused as a young child around with him for the last two decades, and still, he’s here. He’s brave enough to share himself with Derek, and he’s strong enough to cry and grieve and ache for the scared six-year-old boy he wishes he could go back in time and save.

Right now, in the early evening light of the flat and the safe and supportive arms of his best friend, he’s proud of himself, too. And that feels really damn good to finally say.

Please practice self-care after reading this, especially if you are also a survivor. RAINN Rape Crisis UK International Help for Survivors

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @thataveragenerd @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @cmily @notevanbuckley @thebipolarbisexualnerd (taglist form)

[maddiwrites]

Secret Lives (Part 2)

Paring: JJ Maybank x reader 

Summary: You and JJ never got along so your friends trap the two of you on a boat in the middle of the marsh to work it out. Only it doesn’t go as planned. (Part 2)

Note: I couldn’t be happier with the feedback I am getting from Part 1!! Thank you guys so much for helping me out and hanging on there with me as I figure all of this out! I’m so grateful for all the comments and messages and I am ready every single one! Now I saw a couple people asking to be a part of a tag list...so if someone could tell me how to set one of them up I would be more than happy to lol. I will tag the two people I’ve seen who asked to be tagged! But yeah, am I supposed to set something up for a tag list or do people just message me if they want to be tagged in my stuff? Someone let me know!! 

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: Language, angst, small parts of child abuse. 

Part 1

It’s been about two weeks since you’ve seen or talked to the Pogues. Everyday felt ten hours longer and the air felt thinner. You missed your friends. You missed surfing with John B, you missed debating about the accuracy of medical TV shows with Pope, you missed sleepovers with Kie, and yes, you even missed JJ. 

As much as you hated yourself for it, you knew you did the right thing. Staying with the Pogues would have caused more harm than good. It was clear as day that you and JJ would never get along because he didn’t like you and you weren’t going to stand around and be insulted by a guy you still can’t help but think about every single day. 

Every night, you pictured the hatred behind JJ’s blue eyes when he spoke about you being nothing but a spoiled brat who didn’t deserve his trust or your friendship with the other Pogues. Each word felt like an individual stab to the heart. You were use to people not liking you. The girls at your school hated you for not giving them the time of day, the boys threw hurtful remarks at you all the time after you rejected them. But they never hurt as much JJ’s. Because they didn’t come from the guy you loved. 

It didn’t matter how much JJ hated you. You couldn’t help but fall for his sparkling blue eyes, tan skin, and fluffy blonde hair. You swooned every time JJ laughed and smiled because you loved seeing him happy. You were turned on every time JJ stood up for one of your friends, threatening to fight whoever it was that was bothering them, even if it was an uptight Kook. You were silently heartbroken every time JJ told you and his friends about his sexcapade from the previous night.  You were concerned and personally infuriated when JJ would come to the Chateau with new sets of bruises without telling you where they came from because that little voice inside your head told you exactly where they were from. 

You loved him, and you hated that you loved him. 

But this was for the best. At least thats what you told yourself.

Kie didn’t agree though. She found you in your room the next day, ready to apologize for stranding you on a boat with JJ, but it just ended in another screaming match when you told her what happened. 

“So just like that? You’re gonna leave?” She yelled. 

“I can’t do it anymore, Kie! He doesn’t want me there, and I am so sick and tired of trying to get him to like me.”

“What about John B and Pope? What about me? You’re our friend too!”

“We can still hangout -”

“Without JJ? That’s so unfair!”

“He hates me, Kie! How would you like it if I forced you to hang out with Sarah Cameron, huh?”

“That’s not the same.”

“Its the exact fucking same, and you know it!”

Kie ended up storming out of your room, neither one of you feeling any sort of peace or satisfaction with your decision. You haven’t talked to her since, and you contemplated calling her every day. 

But you never do.

The alarm you set on your phone blared in your ear from the pillow next to your head - a reminder that you needed to leave to pick up your father. You slapped the touch screen of your phone until the stupid alarm turned off. The last place you wanted to be was anywhere outside of your room. The thought of being with you father, the man you continued to blame for all your problems, filled you with self-hatred. You hated how easily he was able to manipulate you to help him, making you and your mother out to be the bad guys. He used Andrew’s wealth as a guilt trip for you, saying that since you didn’t do anything to deserve his money, the least you could do was help him out because you and your mother left him with absolutely nothing. And you fall for it. You fall for it every single time because he says you use to be daddy’s little girl - that he had big plans for the two of you when you were old enough to learn life’s pleasures. Little did you know his biggest life pleasures had always been drugs, alcohol, and gambling.

You tied your hair up in a messy bun and bounced down the stairs. Swiftly, grabbing the car keys to your new Mercedes Andrew bought you for your sixteenth birthday, you sped walked past your little sister who tried showing you a new trick that she taught your maltese puppy.

“Look, Y/N/N!”

“Not now, Gracie,” You huffed. 

As you drove through the Cut, you couldn’t help but keep a lookout for your Pogues.  You tried not to slam on the brakes every time you caught a glimpse of blonde hair or swerve when you saw a guy John B’s height carrying a surfboard. 

You honked your horn twice when you pulled up to your dad’s shitty apartment. After no longer being able to pay his mortgage after your mom left him, he had no choice but to move into the cheapest apartment in OBX. He always tried telling you that was your fault too. 

A few minutes later, he walked out, looking like he hasn’t showered in days or knows how to change his socks.

He slid into the passenger seat with a grunt, barely passing you a second glance. “You’re late.” He said. 

You stayed quiet, knowing that anything you said would only piss him off even more since you weren’t in the mood to put up with his antics.

You drove him to his drug dealer’s house, parking outside of the one story home that looked like it was rotting from the inside out. Your dad made you take him here a couple times. Every time you stayed in the car. But today, your father had something different planned.

“Come on,” He said.

“What?” You looked at him with your brows pinched together in confusion. 

“I need you inside.”

“No, no, no, no. That wasn’t the deal.”

“Well it is now, so let’s go.” His voice was stern through his clenched teeth, his eyes unblinking. You stared at him for a long second, debating whether fighting with him was worth it. 

Without another word, you reluctantly opened your door and followed your dad into the house. It smelled like B.O and marijuanna, just like how you pictured a frat house would. Pots, pans, and plates were filled to the brim of the sink. A moldy meal that looked a couple days old sat at the round table tucked in the corner. 

Your dad lead you into the living room where three other men were sitting. Well two men and one boy you recognized immediately. You swallowed your nerves as they all turned to look at your dad, then you.

“What’d you bring me, today, Jerry?” The guy with the long black hair tied in a low bun looked at you like you were fresh meat. 

You took a small step closer to your dad, ironically looking at him for some kind of protection. You didn’t trust any of these men in this room. You didn’t care if they were your father’s friends. They were men who made poor life choices and you didn’t know how far they could take it.

You looked over at Rafe Cameron, who compared to these guys, looked like a lost kid in a carnival. He was sporting a black eye and jaw. He looked both shocked and scared to see you here, probably worried that you would torment his reputation by letting everyone know how he really spends his weekdays when he’s not partying on his daddy’s boat. Little did he know, he had just enough blackmail to use against you too. 

“This is my daughter, Y/N,” Your dad introduced you. “Y/N, this is Barry.”

Barry looked you up and down and smirked. “You look like you a part of Country Club’s world.” By the way he was pointing his thumb back at the Kook, you figured that was his nickname for Rafe.

“She is,” Your father answered for you. “Remember when you said you didn’t trust me to come up with enough money to pay you back for my blow? This is proof that I got it. That I’ll always have it.”

Bile rose up your throat and your heart twisted in your chest. Is this how your dad thought of you? An open wallet? 

Of course it is, you thought. 

Barry nodded, impressed that someone like you came from a man like your father. “Well, take a seat. Can I offer you anything? Beer? Soda? Maybe a whiff?” He pointed to the white line on his clear coffee table.

“No. Thank you.” You said slowly before looking up at your father. “I didn’t bring any cash...”

“Don’t worry sweetheart. I paid out this time - used the check you sent me for my water bill. But now Barry knows he can trust me with his shit - that I wasn’t lying about you.”

“Maybe you can help Country Club pass my shit around. You’ll get a nice discount if you do...and maybe something else,” Barry looked at you suggestively. 

“Don’t scare her off, dude, she just got here.” The other man said. He extended his arm out for you to shake his hand. “I’m Luke Maybank.”

In that moment, it felt like the whole world stopped turning. You stared at the man in front of you, drinking in all his features and matching them to JJ’s. Same blue eyes, sharp jaw line, and a perfect nose. You looked down at his hand as you hesitantly shook it. Dirty, dry, scuffed. You remembered the days and nights that JJ would limp into the Chateau. He would blame it on the Kooks but the details in his story never stuck, like he couldn’t remember them with each person he told.

“Maybank?” You repeated.

“Yeah,” He narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”

“I was friends with your son.” Just like that, you went from being nervous to being angry. You hated this man more than you’re own father. JJ didn’t deserve the beatings and the abuse from the man in front of you. He was nothing but a deadbeat dad who didn’t know how good his son really was to him. 

“I would have remembered a pretty face like yours.”

“He never brought me around your house,” You looked at Luke Maybank from his shoes to his face. He was wearing jeans with dirt stains on them, a fitted white tank underneath a grey and blue flannel that was ripped by the cuffs around his wrists. The bags under his eyes were as dark as the bruise on Rafe’s face and his chin was in need of a shave. “Wonder why.” You couldn’t stop the sarcasm that dripped from your tongue.

You wished you could say more, or spit in his face, or kick him where it hurts. You weren’t afraid of what would happen to you, but how he would take it out on JJ if you did.

You looked up at your dad. “I’ll wait in the car.”

You quickly walked out of the house, immediately taking in a deep breath of fresh air. Before you could hide away in the front seat of your car, Rafe called out for you to stop.

You turned, only because you didn’t know what he wanted.

“What?” You said.

“Tell your boys this isn’t over. They’re not going to get away with -”

“I’m sorry. What are you talking about?”

“The Pogues. They sunk Topper’s 2020 Malibu, 24-MXC.”

At least now you have an idea as to where his bruises came from. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?”

Rafe smirked. “I forgot. You’re not a natural born Kook.”

“And yet you and I are standing in the same douchebag’s yard. What a coincidence.”

Rafe sneered at you. If this were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of his ears. “Just tell them.”

When Rafe turned to walk back into Barry’s home, you called out to him. “How do you know it was them?” Rafe turned around. “What’s your proof?” He didn’t answer immediately, and you watched him wrack his brain for some bullshit lie, which gave you all the answers you needed. “I’m guessing there isn’t any but you think it was them because you gave them a good reason to sink Topper’s 2020 Mailbu, 24-MXC. A boat I know is the finest wake setter and number one in luxury, quality, and performance.” The only reason you knew that was because JJ would say it every time Topper and Sarah would cruise by you on the HMS Pogue, and the look on Rafe’s face made it worth every second having to listen to JJ repeat that almost every week.

If Rafe wanted to respond, he couldn’t, because your dad was now walking towards you with a mean mug on his face.

Before you could say anything, the back of your dad’s hand whipped you across the face. His wedding ring, the one he refused to take off for eighteen years, caught on the corner of your mouth, splitting your bottom lip.

Rafe jumped back, startled, and you bit back a scream. Your thumb skimmed over your lip, blood coating your finger. 

“Don’t embarrass me like that again. Got it?” You dad glared down at you.

“Sir...” Rafe’s voice shook with unease. If you weren’t silently shaking with shame, you would have been surprised that Rafe even said anything at all. 

“Trust me, kid. You don’t wanna get in between a quarrel between a dad and their kid,” Luke Maybank smirked as he made his way to his own truck that was parked in front of yours. 

You glared at the back window of the car, now shaking with both shame and anger. You knew there was nothing else you could do to change the way Luke treated his son. You knew you couldn’t stop him from hurting JJ. 

But it shouldn’t matter. Because JJ wasn’t your problem anymore.

                                                  ***************

The next morning your mom made you run her errands for her. A trip to the Cleaners to pick up Andrew’s suits, the pet store for dog food and treats, and lastly to Heyward's because, according to Gracie, he sells the best hot dogs she’s ever had. 

You were trembling with nerves as you stalked through the aisles. You kept your head down, focusing on finding everything on your mother’s list as quickly as possible so you could get the hell out of there. When you went to check out, Mr. Heyward studied you but didn’t say anything. Lord knows what Pope told him. You wouldn’t be surprised if he charged you extra just to make a point. 

“Thank you,” You said as he handed you the brown paper bag. 

He nodded silently. 

As you walked out of the store, you’re faced with three out of your four friends that you dreaded seeing. They were huddled together, whispering and bickering about something. When they heard the bell above the door chime, they all looked up at you. The four of you stood there like you had all just gone brain dead. Your mouth dried up and you forgot how to speak. 

Pope looked surprised to see you, like a ghost he wasn’t expecting to see. Kie looked glum, and you remembered your last conversation. You didn’t know what you were now. You couldn’t read JJ’s expression. His eyes are casted down on your face. He was staring at your lips. Your beautiful soft pink lips he’s dreamt about kissing for years. Now they were tainted and he was dying to know how, so he could wrap his hands around that bastard’s neck and set him straight. 

“Hi...” You said softly. You didn’t know what else to say. 

No one else had a chance to speak because the piercing noise of a police siren cut through the awkward tension. Officer Shoupe got out of his car and started approaching Pope of all people. 

"Morning Officer,” Pope said nervously.

Shoupe acted like he didn’t hear him. “I have an arrest warrant for felony of destruction of property.”

You instantly thought back to what Rafe said to you yesterday. Topper’s boat. How they’re not going to get away with it. 

You watched Shoupe with wide eyes as he told Pope to put his hands up. “Hands where I can see them.” Kie tried blocking Shoupe from getting any closer to Pope. “Young lady, out of my way.”

Heyward walked out of his shop when he heard the commotion. “You arresting my boy?”

Shoupe didn’t answer and forcefully pulled Pope’s hands behind his back. 

“Be careful!” Kie screamed at him. 

Everyone started screaming at Shoupe, trying to get him away from the boy who didn’t deserve this. Pope had a future ahead of him. One that didn’t involve relying on his parents money to get. He was a hard worker, stayed out of trouble, and even had a scholarship interview in a couple weeks that will be his one way ticket off this island. He couldn’t go to jail. It would ruin him. 

Your head started ringing as the people in front of you moved in slow motion. Rafe’s words repeated in your head - more importantly the words he didn’t say. He hesitated when you asked how they knew it was your friends. Because he didn’t know for sure. 

“Stop!” You screamed louder than anyone else, causing everyone to pause in their movements. Your friends looked at you with wide eyes and Shoupe narrowed his in suspicion. “Pope didn’t do it.” You couldn’t stop yourself from doing what you were about to do, but you knew it was better than Pope getting pushed down to the station. “I did it.”

“Y/N...” JJ started to say softly, but you cut him off. 

“You’re here for the Thornton’s sunken boat, right?” You continued, knowing that if you proved with some details that you were there, Shoupe would have no choice but to take you instead of Pope. “Pope didn’t do it. He wasn’t even with me when I did it.”

Shoupe shook his head. “Y/N, you don’t want to cover for -”

“I’m not covering. I was sick and tired of Topper and his friends always taking advantage of my friends, who do nothing but work their asses off to make sure families like mine can prop their perfectly painted toes up on some beach chairs and do nothing but lay in the sun all day. So I hit Topper where it hurt with something so replaceable as a boat because I know money is all that matters to that family.”

“Y/N, what the hell are you doing?” JJ said through clenched teeth. 

You shrugged. “What? I’m just telling the truth.” You took a deep breath and glanced at JJ one last time before focusing back on Shoupe. “You know my dad, Shoupe. And you know I’m not talking about Andrew. I mean, my real dad.” 

You tried to act like you didn’t just spill your biggest secret to really sell your story. You pretended like the eyes of all your friends weren’t burning holes in your head. 

Shoupe used to be the officer that would frequently visit your home when you lived with your dad. Neighbors would call the cops on your family a lot because the screaming got to be too much. Without your mom pressing charges, there was nothing he could do. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know your dad,” Shoupe said softly, like he felt sorry for you that he knew exactly what you were talking about. 

“I guess I inherited his temper.”

“What?” Kie’s voice broke and tears started cascading down her cheeks. You forced yourself not to look at her. 

“I know you don’t have any proof that Pope did it. There’s no cameras posted around the Thornton’s dock.” You knew that because Sarah made you hang out with their friends a couple of times on that boat. “And there were no witnesses.” You were banking on Rafe’s reaction for this one. “So I’m guessing the Thornton’s, most likely the Mrs., paid you or something to make the arrest. But I don’t think the Sheriff would appreciate you taking someone who you have no evidence against in instead of someone confessing to the crime right to your face.”

You didn’t blink when you stared Officer Shoupe down, challenging him to go against you and fight his way to Pope. But both of you knew he couldn’t take Pope after this. 

“Is this true?” Shoupe looked at Pope.

“Yes -”

“Not you! I’m asking Pope,” Shoupe snapped, glaring at you. You knew you just ruined his entire day. 

Pope looked at you for some kind of answer. You tried subtly nodding your head, telling him it’s okay to agree. You wanted him to say it was true. 

You didn’t know what was coming next for you, but you knew you could handle it. You didn’t know if Pope could.

“Yes, sir,” Pope said.

JJ felt like he was punched in the gut. He didn’t want Pope to go to jail, but he sure as hell didn’t want you going there either. He wanted to tell you he was sorry, that he was an idiot, that he tried not to love you but failed. He knew he treated you like shit and he pushed you away. Yet here you were, still taking bullets for each of them. 

Shoupe nodded and began reading your Miranda Rights. You handed Heyward your groceries and said, “I’ll have someone pick these up.”

“Wait!” JJ tried calling out to you as Shoupe helped you into the back seat of his car. “Wait! No!”

You kept your head down as Shoupe drove away, only looking up when you knew you were at least a mile away from your friends. 

As Shoupe closed the door to a room where you were to wait to be interrogated, you smiled to yourself. Your mom was going to be pissed, you were about to get in a shit load of trouble, and the Pogues still may never talk to you again, but you knew you just saved Pope’s entire future - the one he deserved more than anything. 

And you were proud of yourself for that.

                                                   ***************

Of course Mrs. Thornton didn’t want you to go to jail. She wanted about $30,000 of restitution money to make up for it. You rolled your eyes when you heard that. All that family cares about is money. You knew she probably didn’t even care about the boat in the first place. 

Your mom screamed at you the entire ride back to your house. She took your phone and TV away and threatened to homeschool you for the next school year. Your mom was strict but her punishments never lasted long. She usually caved somewhere in the first week. You think its because she thinks your childhood was punishment enough and that behavior like this was to be expected because of it. You tried not to get that mentality stuck in your head, but sometimes you could get yourself into some trouble here and there. 

Another part of your punishment was to do the yard work around the house. Andrew had already written you a list by the time your mom forced you to wake up at 6 a.m.

You couldn’t even be mad at the punishment. Mulching the yard was the least you could do. Andrew even planned on paying the Thornton’s back if you worked for him for free the rest of the summer. 

It was about mid morning when a car pulled up your driveway. You felt like the wind was just knocked out of you when you noticed the junky Volkswagen van park. 

JJ hopped out of the Twinkie and walked in your direction. You didn’t know what to do. Were you supposed to say hi and pretend like nothing ever happened between you two? Would you go back to bickering? You looked down at your body and was mortified at what you were wearing. Although it was only some black leggings and a white tank top, you were covered in dirt and sweat, and reeked of cow manure, which you knew was what mulch was made out of. 

You tried pushing away the butterflies that swarmed your stomach when JJ stood next to you. You turned to look at him, unsure of what to say. You hated that he had this effect on you. Usually you were quick witted and were able force any kind of small talk. I mean, you were a Kook now after all. But this felt different. You didn’t want to have small talk with JJ. You wanted to really know him. His past, his now, his future. You didn’t want to be tongue tied. 

“Hey,” He said softly.

“Hi,” You wiped the sweat off your forehead with the back of your gloved hand. You glanced back at the van, waiting for one of your other friends to appear. “What are you doing here?”

“You weren't answering your phone and I got worried,” JJ sheepishly tucked his hand in his pockets and had a hard time of meeting your eyes. 

Ever since you mentioned a dad with a bad temper, JJ couldn’t stop thinking the worst for you. When you weren’t answering your phone, he wondered if he had done something to hurt you. The thought made him so sick with anxiety, he drove to your house to make sure you were all right.

“Yeah, my mom took my phone away. Turns out she doesn’t like it when her daughter gets arrested.” You tried to joke. “Why were you worried?”

JJ finally looked at you again. “What happened to your lip?”

You coughed from the unexpected question. You reactively bit your bottom lip and looked away. “I uh, fell on Sarah’s boat the other day.”

“Y/N...” JJ said softly and touched your elbow to make you look at him. 

“What, JJ?” You snapped, turning to look at him with a glare. He probably put two and two together the second you mentioned your dad yesterday in front of him. Just like you did when you met Luke Maybank. You hated that you had this in common with the blonde Pogue, but you also knew he could be someone you could confide in, which is something you never had. “Why do you care? Just because you know about my dad now doesn’t make us friends.”

“I was wrong, okay? I was wrong about you, Y/N.”

You scoffed, “I have an asshole for a dad, JJ. Nothing else has changed.”

“I was the biggest dick to you. You tried every day to be my friend and I pushed you away. And I’m sorry. The truth is, I don’t like change and I don’t trust people because my dad -” JJ paused and looked away towards the road, unable to meet your eyes. 

“Because your dad’s just like my dad,” You said, making his head snap back to you. “I met your dad the other. It turns out they have the same drug dealer.”

“You met my dad?” JJ’s eyes went wide.

“Yeah.”

“Did you...”

“I didn’t say anything other than how we use to be friends. But trust me, there was a hell of a lot more I wanted to say.”

JJ nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, you were right. I didn’t take the chance to get to know you because I was afraid that I would like you a lot more than I wanted to, and then you would realize you were too good for us...for me. So I pushed you away. I tried hating you so you would hate me too. But truth is, I never hated you. I could never hate you. You’re smart, funny, kind, beautiful...” Your eyes flickered up to meet his and you noticed a pink hue running up his neck, which probably matched the one on your cheeks. “I’ve always thought that. And I don’t care about where you came from. You could have been born and raised a Kook or you could have been homeless your entire life. Nothing could ever change my opinion of you. I like you, Y/N. And I miss you. The Pogues miss you and they hate me and I hate me too because I drove you away. And I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t tell if this was a dream or not, but you weren’t going to mess this up, even if it was a dream. Because JJ was standing in front of you, telling you he missed you and that he wanted you back with him and his friends, and you’d be a fool not to take him up on that because you missed them too and you were miserable without them.

“I miss you too, JJ.”

JJ smile grew wide at your words and for a second, you thought he was going to jump up and down and cheer. “Really? You don’t hate me?”

You shook your head. “I never hated you, JJ. I never could.”

“You should.”

“No. I shouldn’t. I get why you didn’t want me around. I’m a Kook now and I was being shady when I tried hiding my dad from the rest of you. You were just protecting your friends.”

“Turned out they weren’t the ones who needed protecting,” JJ said softly.

You shook your head. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Why do you still see him if you live here now?”

“It’s complicated.”

JJ reluctantly nodded. He hated that this was a part of your life he couldn't exert himself into just yet. He had to earn that. He needed you to trust him first before you let him into such a vulnerable part of your life. But he understood that. He understood that more than anybody. 

But he was going to make sure John B kept his eyes on you. JJ knew you two were close.

“I won’t push you to tell me. But you can talk to me about it. I won’t judge you.”

“Thanks, JJ,” You said graciously. People say that all the time. You can talk to me. For the most part you never believe them. You think its just something people say to make them sound sincere. But with JJ it was different. You believed every word.

“Just promise me if you see him again to take someone with you. Like John B or something.”

“Okay,” You said. You didn’t know if you meant it because all you could think about was that JJ cared enough about you to be worried. 

“Okay...” JJ said awkwardly. “So we’re good? Friends?”

Your heart cracked at the ‘F’ word but you knew you were crazy to hope for anything else. You were lucky enough to even get called a friend. You bit down on your bottom lip as your grinned and nodded. “Friends.”

“Good,” JJ nodded. “So, I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay...” JJ clapped his hands in front of him nervously. “Good. Then I’m just gonna...”

“Yeah, I should probably get back to...” You pointed back to the mulch.

“Bye, Sassy.”

You turned back to the mulch in your wheelbarrow and bit back the urge to squeal in delight, at least until the van pulled out of your driveway again. 

“Actually you know what?” JJ said, making you turn around. He was walking back over to you with a determined look on his face. “Screw friends.” 

“What -”

Before you could process what was happening, JJ cupped your cheeks and smashed his lips against yours. You instantly kissed him back and pulled him closer to you by fisting your hands into his shirt. The butterflies in your body transformed into a stampeded and your heart was hammering against your rib cage. 

You’ve kissed so many other guys before, but this one felt different. There was a passion behind this one - a meaning that felt so deep it could only be explained through actions. Kissing JJ felt right, like you had done this hundreds of times before. 

JJ pulled away first and rested his forehead against yours, his eyes trained on your swollen lips. His breath hit your face and your legs went weak in the knees. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for about two years.” He said.

“What took you so long?” You said, your eye lashes fluttered up to look at him.

“I didn’t know what I had until it was gone,” JJ said, looking up at you. He pulled away to look you in the eyes. “I love you, Y/N. And I understand if you don’t feel the same way but - “

You pulled him in for another kiss as fireworks exploded in your head. You didn’t want to let go of this moment. You couldn't believe that everything you wanted was happening.

“I love you too.”

JJ’s eyes lit up like lights on a Christmas tree as did his smile that widened with each second. He picked you up by your waist and spun you around. You giggled above him and beamed down at him. You’ve never felt this happy in your entire life.

When he set you down, he kissed you again. “Say it again.”

You pulled him in close enough for your faces to be nose to nose. “I. Love. You. JJ Maybank.”

JJ shook his head and chuckled. “Unbelievable.”

He kissed you again, and you didn’t care if you didn’t get the yard work done in time because you fulfilled your duty as a Kook. You officially have everything you could ever want. 

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tags: @allycat449-blog @zarahsloves

[sneezefiction]

soft nekoma sleepover

Nekoma x Reader - Sleepover Headcanons

a/n: the Nekoma portion of my soft sleepover series :,,) my friends and i have had rough weeks so far and i thought this would be a sweeter way to cope <33

warnings: none!

wc: 1280

---

you’ve always been such a strong person

whether you’d had a rough week full of assignments and exams or there was tension with your family/friends, you would always manage to hold your head up high and push through it all with a convincing smile on your face

but this past week finally pushed you over your limits

as you walked into Nekoma’s volleyball practice that Friday afternoon, manager’s clipboard in hand, you tried to keep up your usual peppy expression on

...but the smile refuses to reach your eyes

Yaku greets you warmly, expecting a big grin and a soft hug from you, but all you could do was ruffle his hair and walk quickly to your seat, holding in tears of frustration

this threw him for a loop and Yaku definitely asks you what’s wrong and if Lev did anything to upset you because, and i quote, 

“I will fight him right here, right now. Just say the word.”

you just shake your head and stand up to give him a quick, wordless hug, which only leaves him more confused?? because he wants to fix this and you’re being really quiet??

Kenma then notices your gloomy presence and mentions it to Kuroo who’s eyes snapped your way quizzically

you were clearly upset and, if they weren’t completely mistaken, you looked like you’d been… crying?

Kuroo wasn’t having it at all bc you, of all people, deserve to be happy & smiling

he calls the boys in for a huddle but Kuroo asks you to wait on the bench with that trademark sneaky smile on his face

as they all converse, you see heads pop up and turn around to glance at you, Lev and Yamamoto’s concerned expressions making it obvious that you were the topic of conversation

it became clear that, even without words, your misery hadn’t escaped them… you couldn’t decide whether it was a blessing or a curse

“Alright!” Kuroo’s volume gains your attention

everyone turns to you and you feel as though you’re shrinking under their gazes

“We have a proposition for you, Y/n…” Kenma explains quietly

“More like a demand, but whatever you say Kenma.” Kuroo cuts in, with a slight drawl

“How about you come over to my place tonight? We’ve not had a team sleepover since our last training camp and none of us are busy tonight.” the quiet setter finishes

Kenma sounds reluctant, his eyes shifting from the floor to the wall, avoiding your gaze as much as possible

yet one glance over to you reminds him why he’s offering up his precious Friday night

a real smile graces your previously downcast face, which makes all the boys go silent in awe of what a simple sleepover suggestion could do

now cut to Kenma’s house where he has two consoles of Mario Kart already set up bc it’s the only game that everyone on the team knows how to play

you get there last, much to your own dismay, because you had hoped to feel more settled before interacting with all of the boys again

just before you walked in, Inuoka made sure that everyone was smiling, welcoming, and that there’d be no fights (@ Yaku)

and the team agreed that tonight was all about you: their precious manager who really needed some encouragement and fun in their life

the moment you set foot inside, you’re met with cheery faces, bowls of popcorn, “cards against humanity” on the table, and a spot on the sofa (that you have to assume is meant just for you)

everybody looks SO DAMN COMFY:

Kai, Kuroo, Lev and Fukunaga are in name brand sweatpants and soft t-shirts, Shibayama, Inuoka, and Yaku are in clean workout shorts, Kenma is in a trendy sweatshirt and the rest of him is covered by a weighted blanket, and Yamamoto & Teshiro are in their volleyball uniforms from earlier (ew)

you get a quick nod and a brief smile from Kenma (basically Kenma was never meant to be a Professional Host™), but the rest of the boys are ✨Beaming✨ as you look them over

and your heart swells because this is exactly what you needed. to be in the presence of these sweet, granted kinda sweaty, guys where there were no goals or deadlines to be met

Kuroo’s grin quickly catches your eye and he pats the open couch seat next to him

and conversations take off smoothly and sweetly, the airspace full of friendly taunts, crude jokes, and screams from Lev’s being hit by 3 blue shells in a single game of Mario Kart

after several hours of you beating their asses with Princess Peach on Rainbow Road, everyone ends up splayed out across each other for the sake of comfort

your head found its way to Kuroo’s lap (the two of you being both third years, classmates, and close friends) and his hands move to give you a much needed scalp massage

you feel the weight of the world melt off your shoulders. it’s like one night was all you needed to clear your head and at least help you back onto your feet

with your legs dangling off the arm of the couch, Kuroo’s hand now just gently stroking your arm, you decide to thank them for tonight as best you could, because you’ve not felt this happy in what seems like months

“I just want to let you kids know that you’re all the best.” you cut through everyone’s conversations, voice resting on their ears for a moment

“And, uh, not to be disgustingly cheesy… but I really love you guys.”

you cover your eyes, acting as though you were embarrassed, but in reality you feel tears threatening to spill out

Kuroo’s expression falls for a moment, because he’s not stupid and can tell you’re still processing everything

so he simply lifts your hands off of your eyes and you, with a perfect tear skimming the side of your face, can’t help but let out a soft, relieved laugh

it’s silent for a second, but Kuroo just smiles & opens his mouth to say something

but he’s interrupted by some rude-ass kids (Yamamoto & Inuoka) shouting out their love for you and rushing over to smother you in tearful hugs

you’re saved by Yaku, who’s grabbed them both by the backs of their shirts, stopping them in their emotional, hug-giving tracks

but your giggles continue, now laughing at all their surprised expressions and Kuroo’s peeved one from getting cut-off

so you hop up off the couch, place your hands on your hips and allow their eyes to rest on you before swinging your arms open wide with the sweetest, most genuine smile you can muster

“Well, are y’all gonna come hug me, or should I just go now?”

queue a small stampede of boys tackling you (gently) to the floor, laughter bubbling from every mouth, and warmth that spreads from the outside, in

in between the chuckles, shoves, and “get off of me’s” you hear a phrase tumble out of Kenma’s mouth

“We love you too, y/n.”

it was supposed to be unheard, lost in the tumbling around you, but those three words then took traction in individual ways with different boys

“We love you!” 

“I love ya.” 

“You’re kinda okay, I guess...”

“Marry me, y/n!”

“Shut up, Yamamoto!”

you would always have a place with them, no matter how bad things got and no matter what anyone said about you

because whenever you needed them, they’d be sure to show up, just as you’d do for them

---

soft team sleepover series

soft shiratorizawa sleepover

soft karasuno sleepover

soft seijoh sleepover

soft fukurodani sleepover

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @miss-rin, @shou-kunn, @senkuwu-chan, @super-noya, @stcrryskies, @holaaaf, @sugacookiies, @vintgicals, @moonlightaangel, @kit-tea, @theworldupthere, @sugasugawarau, @star-puff, @akaashisupremacy

(comment, dm, or send an ask to be added to my general tag list - blogs in bold could not be tagged) 

[randomrosewrites]

From the beginning to the very end.

Seeing the one you love fall for someone else hurts.

Pairing: Diluc X GN reader (unrequited), mentioned Kaeya x reader (not focused on) Words: 3.3K Warnings/ tags: Alcohol/ drinking mention, unrequited love, reader drinks to cope at one point, general angst. a/n: This was requested by anon. I’ve taken the prompt and altered it a bit, Kaeya and Diluc are both emotionally complicated men *sigh* Someone help them.

Your arrival into Diluc’s life is with all the grace of a baby fawn attempting to stand. Choppy. Awkward. A tad pitiable.

It’s a Friday night at Angel’s Share. The worst ones to be bartender, and precisely why Diluc always drags himself into town to suffer for a few hours. It’s the days where the knights, both seniors and new recruits, gather to spend their weekly wages of mora. He knows the tradition well, after his time with the knights. He used to always sit in the back corner with Kaeya, the two giggling as they drank non-alcoholic cider.

…but the past is the past, and he refuses to dwell on it any further.

They trickle in sometime around 9pm. They’re easy to spot. Uniforms too pristine, armor too shiny. He watches as wide-eyed recruits alongside experienced knights file into the reserved table at the back.

The brave one is sent from the flock to the bar, to order drinks for the table. Diluc gives you his best intimidating stare, arms crossed over his chest. You fiddle with the front of your uniform as you approach the bar, nervously shifting from foot to foot.

“Hello Sir, uh, could I have uhm…” you take a second to count on your fingers. “Ten drinks, please?”

Well, at least you can get your sentence out. (Sawyer, one of the new recruits from a few months back, mumbled everything. It took Diluc ten minutes to figure out what he wanted.) “What kind?”

“Oh…the regular kind?”

He could make this easier on you, but he decidedly doesn’t. “There is no regular kind. Dandelion wine? Lamp-Grass cider?”

“Uh, ten glasses of dandelion wine, please.”

He raises a brow. “Everyone is of age, even the recruits?”

“Oh, yes, the younger ones’ curfew ended an hour ago.”

One quick glance over proves your truth. Fine. He gets the drinks ready quite easily. It’s just pouring wine from the barrels into their tankers. Once he has them on a tray, he says, “Ten thousand Mora.”

“Oh…uh…” you stare at your feet in embarrassment, apparently just realizing that yes drinks cost mora. “I-“

“If you can’t pay,” he starts, annoyance seeping into his voice. “Then I suggest you get out.”

Maybe that was a bit too harsh. Your jaw clenches. Your hands tighten into fists. Diluc thinks you’re about to burst into tears or run out the front door when a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Not to worry, I’ll cover the costs for this.”

Of course. He’d be here, of all nights.

You look to your saviour, lighting up. “Oh, thank you, Captain Kaeya.”

Kaeya smiles amicably, patting your shoulder. “My pleasure. Join the others, I’ll carry the drinks there shortly.”

You hurry off to the table, not one to disobey your superior’s orders. Diluc and Kaeya are left alone at the bar, the former frowning, the later smiling.

Kaeya places a sack of mora on the counter. “Feel free to count it, every coin is in there.”

Diluc snatches it, tossing it under the cabinet. (Kaeya always pays in full. Either that or he purposely omits a single coin, just to fuck with him. But it’s not worth it for Diluc to count ten thousand coins individually.)

“Corrupting fresh recruits already, aren’t you?” Diluc says.

Kaeya chuckles dryly. “Why, Master Diluc, I’d never do such an atrocious thing.”

Kaeya picks up the tray before Diluc can make some sort of witty retort. “Now, I’ve got to amuse myself. Enjoy your night, Master Diluc.”

Kaeya remains out of his hair for the rest of the night. By all accounts, it’s a good thing, but tonight, it only makes Diluc moodier. Especially when he glances over at the knights table, spotting the captain’s arm strung over the back of your chair.

---

“What on earth are you doing?”

You jump, turning to face Diluc, leaning against the nearby tree. He’d been patrolling the area for threats when he’d noticed you, swinging your sword about in the middle of Windrise. The fact that he’d managed to catch you by surprise unnerved him. (You were a knight; you’d need to learn to be alert.)

“Practicing, Master Diluc.” You wipe the sweat from your face with your shirt and Diluc quickly averts his eyes to a group of slimes slugging around the Anemo Arcon Statue. He’d have to deal with them later.

“Don’t the knights have a dedicated training area?” They do. He knows this, outside the city walls or on the northern shores of Cider Lake, he used to go there and take recruits when he was a captain, make them run up and down the sloping hills all afternoon in full armour.

“Ah, they do, yes, but I mostly prefer to train alone.”

Diluc chews on your words for a moment, before pushing off from the tree and striding towards you. “Hold your sword again.”

You hesitate, drawing your sword and holding it like you were doing previously.

Diluc covers his hands with yours, moving them along the sword. “Adjust your hands like this. You’ll have more force when you swing and you’re less likely to hurt yourself if you hit something solid.”

He steps back, allowing you to swing a few times in the air. “Use your chest more, not just your arms – good. Again.”

About an hour passes, with Diluc giving instructions, doing a very bad job of hiding his stares, and with you doing as he says. He doesn’t realize how long it’s been until you sheath your sword, and the sun has set over the horizon.

“I apologize, Master Diluc, but I’ve got to get back to the headquarters now.”

“Oh.” He says, stupidly. Of course, you’d have to leave, to go back to the knights, but that thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “I see, yes. I suppose you should.”

You bow respectfully. “Thank you for your help, you really are as sweet as Captain Kaeya says.”

He suppresses the growl that rises from his throat. Figures, Kaeya would call him that. “Mhm.”

You salute him, the standard knight’s salute. He nods his head as you start back towards Mondstadt, pondering why he decided to help you, until you fade from sight.

---

He swears, he doesn’t mean to keep meeting you like this.

He had been exploring an abandoned domain north of Wolvendom, looking for any members of the abyss order. Fortunately – or unfortunately, there hadn’t been anything but slimes and old artifacts inside, and he’d come out soaked head to toe with water.

He was starting up the path when he saw you huddled by an electro crystal, poking it with your sword and jolting back when it shocked you.

“…you can’t break those with normal attacks,” he says. “They’re elemental crystals.”

You turn around, not surprised by his sudden presence (good, you’re learning.) “You can break them?”

Arcons, do they not teach the knights anything anymore?

Instead of arguing, he simply demonstrates, calling flames to his claymore and slicing the rock. An explosion of pyro and electro occurs, shattering the crystal into purple chunks.

You gape at the crystals. “Wow, you’re amazing, Master Diluc.”

He flushes at your praise, coughing and adjusting his tie. “It’s nothing. What are you interested in with the crystals anyways?”

“Captain Albedo requested them. I guess I’ll have to get outrider amber to gather them, or klee, perhaps…'' you collect the chunks into a small bag, standing up and brushing the dust from your pants. “Thank you again, Master Diluc. You always seem to be helping me out a lot.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says, swallowing for a moment. His throat feels tight and his palms are sweating in his gloves.

You salute him. He nods. They’re your usual goodbyes, nowadays. He watches you march off, the crystals clinking around in your bag.

“Wait,” he splutters, the objection coming from his throat without thinking.

You turn around, waiting expectantly. Diluc swallows, again. (When did he get so warm?)

“Next time, please just call me Diluc.”

You blink carefully, then smile. “Alright, Diluc.”

The sound of his name on your tongue makes his heart race and sends electricity through his stomach.

(And not just because of the nearby electro crystals.)

---

Two days later, a bag of purple electro crystals appears at your doorstep in the Knight’s headquarters. There is no name from the sender, but you suspect who it is from the emblem of the dawn winery logo upon the bag.

You smile to yourself, then hurry to deliver the goods to Captain Albedo.

---

“Do you have a crush on someone, Master Diluc?”

He nearly drops his teacup in his lap, sputtering into his drink. Adeline doesn’t even flinch, handing him a handkerchief to wipe his mouth with. His owl preens herself on its stand, indifferent to her master’s squabbling.

“P-pardon?”

“I asked if you had a crush on anyone.”

“…what would make you consider that?”

She clears the table swiftly, shrugging. “You seem to be in good spirits. You’ve been smiling more, and you’re more pleasant.”

He frowns. “Are you suggesting I’m usually moody?”

Adelinde’s face remains blank. “Not at all, sir.”

She bows and leaves him to his thoughts and paperwork.

A crush. Ridiculous…he’s not a schoolboy. And besides, he hasn’t been acting differently. Sure, he’s taken more shifts on Friday night, and he’s been visiting Windrise more often in hopes of maybe running into a certain knight, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s all justifiable.

…

His owl cocks her head at him, even she knows when he’s lying to himself.

“…don’t look at me like that.” He huffs, turning around in his desk, back facing the owl.

---

Once the thought is in Diluc’s head, he can’t get it out. It doesn’t help that over the next few months, your presence around him only amplifies his feelings.

Every breath you take, every little movement you make - it transfixes him. He feels drawn to you naturally, wanting to be closer to you, coming up with more and more ridiculous topic ideas just so he can hear you speak.

He feels happy. He begins looking forward to the next day and the next week, not apprehensive about what new problems might arise.

And just as soon as he’s settled into the norm, the world decides to rip it away from him.

---

The knights file into their usual spots on a friday night. Diluc greets them with the same, stiff nods, except this time, his scowl isn’t as deep, and the furrow in his brows is loose. For the knights coming to celebrate means that he might have a chance to see you.

And he does. Diluc can’t stop the way his lips turn upwards when the door swings open and you file in. You give a wave, he nods back.

He does his best to not stare as you socialize with the other knights - (there really are a lot of them here tonight. Even Captain Albedo is among them) - but he fails miserably. So much so that he forgets to serve the other patrons up front.

It’s a relief when you eventually wander over to the bar. You don’t even need to tell him your order anymore - he just gets to doing it immediately.

“Big celebration?” he asks.

You slide into the seat and smile. “I suppose you could say that.”

He raises a brow and pushes the drinks towards you, leaning on the bar. “Oh? Is it a knights secret I’m not privy to know about?”

You swat at him harmlessly and his breathing hitches at your chuckle. “No, not a secret. It’s just nice to celebrate for celebration's sake, you know?”

He does not, but nods anyways. “I suppose it is. In any case, you seem very happy.”

You cover your growing smile with your hand. “Do I?”

“Yes, did you get a promotion? Replace Kaeya as Cavalry Captain?”

“No! No, nothing like that…” you laugh and shake your head. “But Kaeya…”

He hadn’t expected his joke to actually hold some truth. He presses, “Kaeya?”

“Well, we -” you avert your gaze, eyes softening in bliss. “We’re um - a thing. Now.”

Diluc pales, nearly falling off the bar.

“Oh.”

“Yes...please keep it a secret, we don’t want anyone knowing just yet.”

Diluc’s head spins. It feels like a lump of coal is stuck in his throat. He swallows and tries to stop his breaths from becoming erratic.

“Congratulations… I hope-” his voice cracks and he clears his throat. “I wish the best for the both of you.”

“Thank you, Diluc.” you reach over and pat his hand. He barely conceals a flinch, wanting to rip it away. “

You walk back to the knights, and for the rest of the night, he operates on autopilot, picking at the remaining shattered pieces of his heart.

---

It hurts.

Rain and sweat get in his eyes. He ducks to avoid a swing of a club, swinging his fiery claymore in retaliation. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, only that his hands are numb from gripping his weapon for so long. A long gash runs up his side, stinging each time he moves.

The ache in his chest hurts more.

How naive, how silly, to entertain the idea that you’d ever like him back.

Diluc closes his eyes, and consumes himself in violence once more.

---

He doesn’t frequent the bar for the next week. Enough to collect his thoughts. Enough to smother the pang of hurt he feels whenever he gazes at you.

He’s above this, above being debilitated by his emotions.

(He knows he is not.)

---

Things get better, as they always do. Things always go back to a level of normal. He returns to work at the bar. He returns to looking forward to your visits.

The front door swings open. He expectantly turns, smile dying on his face when he sees who’s entered.

“Jeez. You think I’ve just murdered someone how you’re looking at me,” Kaeya sighs.

“What do you want?” Kaeya’s the last person he wants to see. Especially since - since -

“Can’t I just drop by for a drink?” Kaeya takes his seat at the corner of the bar. Diluc resists the urge to throw the glass in his hand. He never gets to the point, always meandering about the issue, chatting about this or that until the other party is exhausted trying to humour him.

Not Diluc.

“You’re never here to just drink. Out with it.”

“…I was just wondering how you feel about our newest knight.”

He inhales through his teeth and sets the glass he was polishing down. Fine, if that’s the game Kaeya was going to play, he’d play along. “I think it’s improper for you to be engaged in a relationship with your subordinates.”

Kaeya grimaces, keeping his eye on the wood counter. “Do you say that because you care for workplace standards, or are you perhaps-”

“No.”

“ - jealous?”

The towl ignites in his hands. “Fuck off. Get out of my bar. Now.”

Kaeya sighs, but gets up from his seat, hands raised. “Alright, fine...but If it’s any consultation, I understand how you feel.”

“You don’t get to know where I’m coming from,” each word feels like acid down Diluc’s throat. “You don’t ever get to understand how I feel.”

Kaeya smiles sadly. “I know. And because of that, I’m not gonna come in the way between you two.”

Kaeya opens the door and waves before Diluc can question him. “Good night, master Diluc.”

The door shuts behind him as he leaves. Diluc tosses the towel in the trash, blood boiling underneath his skin.

---

He doesn’t see much of you or Kaeya for a week. (Which he supposes is good. If he saw Kaeya now, Barbados wouldn’t be able to stop him from getting into a fight.)

The next time he sees you is late one night, when most of the patrons have left. You look a mess, hair disheveled, feet dragging against the floor. You mumble your order to him before dragging yourself upstairs, one foot at a time.

Diluc brings what you requested up – one of his strongest liquors – to find you staring off into space. He sets your glass down gently, and you snap from your reprieve.

“Here’s your order. If you need anything…just let me know.”

You nod, keeping your eyes focused downwards. “Thank you, Diluc.”

His heart breaks at how defeated you sound. He returns to his post for the remainder of the night.

Never once does the cavalry captain come in. Diluc has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

It’s many hours later when the tavern closes for the night. Diluc shucks on his coat and goes upstairs, finding you half-asleep on the table, empty glass clutched tight in your grasp.

He shakes you gently and you stir with a moan. “It’s closing time. Do you need help getting home?”

You laugh bitterly. “Where is ‘home’?”

Diluc wordlessly slips the glass from your hands. “Come on, let’s get you back to the knights headquarters.”

Exhausted, you relent, leaning on Diluc heavily as he escorts you out of Angel’s Share. The smell of alcohol is strong on both your breath and clothes. It makes Diluc’s nose wrinkle.

You stumble over stones and steps. The walk back to the knights headquarters takes twice as long as it normally would. Diluc doesn’t mind, instinctively activating his vision when he feels you shiver from the cold.

“I thought Kaeya loved me,” you say suddenly, resting your head on his shoulder. “He said he…”

Diluc doesn’t – can’t – say anything, not when the lump of guilt in his stomach threatens to tear him apart from the inside out.

---

Truthfully, he’d thought you would have left the Knights after that incident. It must have been beyond difficult - having to see the person who broke your heart every day.

But you don’t. Diluc already knew how determined and strong you are, and you prove to be stronger than he could have ever foresaw.

It’s rough. There are nights where you show up to the tavern, barely coherent and full of grief. But there are others where you show up with Albedo, or Amber, and he gets to see you smile again.

He observes you from afar, at windrise, training with Noelle, getting quicker and quicker with your sword each day.

The seasons come and go, snow falls and melts, and when the dandelions grow again, before he ever knows it, you’re a Captain yourself.

The tavern is full for your celebration. Wine flows freely - free of charge thanks to Diluc - and the air is abuzz with joyous conversation.

“My highest congratulations, Captain,” Diluc says, raising his own glass (non-alcoholic) in toast.

You clink cups with him, smiling in your new uniform. (You’re radiant, he thinks to himself). “I can’t thank you enough, Diluc...for everything. I’ve always seen you as one of my closest friends.”

Friends. The word cuts deeply into his heart. Yes, friends. But being friends is something that he is ok with. He can watch you thrive, watch you live your life, he can keep your presence in his life, a small candle flickering in the dead of winter.

He knows your heart is elsewhere, he sees it in your eyes whenever you see the colour blue, or whenever the scent of death-after-noon waffs through the air. Your grief isn’t as prominent, but still there.

He doesn’t know if your feelings for Kaeya, if you even have any after the breakup, will ever go away. Perhaps they’ll stay over you like a looming shadow for the rest of your life.

If only – he’ll think, on nights when you’ve fallen asleep on his couch, bottle of wine beside you – if only he hadn’t said anything, maybe you’d be happy with Kaeya.

But the past is the path, and he must look to the future. The future where he can stand by your side, in whatever way you’ll accept him.

(Alone from the beginning, alone in the end. Fitting, for someone like him.)

[qqueenofhades]

Hi. You made a post a couple of days ago about how queer historical fiction doesnt need to be defined only by homophobia. Can you expand on that a bit maybe? Because it seems interesting and important, but I'm a little confused as to whether that is responsible to the past and showing how things have changed over time. Anyway this probably isn't very clear, but I hope its not insulting. Have a good day :)

Hiya. I assume you're referring to this post, yes? I think the main parameters of my argument were set out pretty clearly there, but sure, I'm happy to expand on it. Because I'm a little curious as to why you think that writing a queer narrative (especially a queer fictional narrative) that doesn't make much reference to or even incorporate explicit homophobia is (implicitly) not being "responsible to the past." I've certainly made several posts on this topic before, but as ever, my thoughts and research materials change over time. So, okay.

(Note: I am a professional historian with a PhD, a book contract for an academic monograph on medieval/early modern queer history, and soon-to-be-several peer-reviewed publications on medieval queer history. In other words, I'm not just talking out of my ass here.)

As I noted in that post, first of all, the growing emphasis on "accuracy" in historical fiction and historically based media is... a mixed bag. Not least because it only seems to be applied in the Game of Thrones fashion, where the only "accurate" history is that which is misogynistic, bloody, filthy, rampantly intolerant of competing beliefs, and has no room for women, people of color, sexual minorities, or anyone else who has become subject to hot-button social discourse today. (I wrote a critical post awhile ago about the Netflix show Cursed, ripping into it for even trying to pretend that a show based on the Arthurian legends was "historically accurate" and for doing so in the most simplistic and reductive way possible.) This says far more about our own ideas of the past, rather than what it was actually like, but oh boy will you get pushback if you try to question that basic premise. As other people have noted, you can mix up the archaeological/social/linguistic/cultural/material stuff all you like, but the instant you challenge the ingrained social ideas about The Bad Medieval Era, cue the screaming.

I've been a longtime ASOIAF fan, but I do genuinely deplore the effect that it (and the show, which was by far the worst offender) has had on popular culture and widespread perceptions of medieval history. When it comes to queer history specifically, we actually do not know that much, either positive or negative, about how ordinary medieval people regarded these individuals, proto-communities, and practices. Where we do have evidence that isn't just clerical moralists fulminating against sodomy (and trying to extrapolate a society-wide attitude toward homosexuality from those sources is exactly like reading extreme right-wing anti-gay preachers today and basing your conclusions about queer life in 2021 only on those), it is genuinely mixed and contradictory. See this discussion post I likewise wrote a while ago. Queerness, queer behavior, queer-behaving individuals have always existed in history, and labeling them "queer" is only an analytical conceit that represents their strangeness to us here in the 21st century, when these categories of exclusion and difference have been stringently constructed and applied, in a way that is very far from what supposedly "always" existed in the past.

Basically, we need to get rid of the idea that there was only one empirical and factual past, and that historians are "rewriting" or "changing" or "misrepresenting" it when they produce narratives that challenge hegemonic perspectives. This is why producing good historical analysis is a skill that takes genuine training (and why it's so undervalued in a late-capitalist society that would prefer you did anything but reflect on the past). As I also said in the post to which you refer, "homophobia" as a structural conceit can't exist prior to its invention as an analytical term, if we're treating queerness as some kind of modern aberration that can't be reliably talked about until "homosexual" gained currency in the late 19th century. If there's no pre-19th century "homosexuality," then ipso facto, there can be no pre-19th-century "homophobia" either. Which one is it? Spoiler alert: there are still both things, because people are people, but just as the behavior itself is complicated in the premodern past, so too is the reaction to it, and it is certainly not automatic rejection at all times.

Hence when it comes to fiction, queer authors have no responsibility (and in my case, certainly no desire) to uncritically replicate (demonstrably false!) narratives insisting that we were always miserable, oppressed, ostracised, murdered, or simply forgotten about in the premodern world. Queer characters, especially historical queer characters, do not have to constantly function as a political mouthpiece for us to claim that things are so much better today (true in some cases, not at all in the others) and that modernity "automatically" evolved to a more "enlightened" stance (definitely not true). As we have seen with the recent resurgence of fascism, authoritarianism, nationalism, and xenophobia around the world, along with the desperate battle by the right wing to re-litigate abortion, gay rights, etc., social attitudes do not form in a vacuum and do not just automatically become more progressive. They move backward, forward, and side to side, depending on the needs of the societies that produce them, and periods of instability, violence, sickness, and poverty lead to more regressive and hardline attitudes, as people act out of fear and insularity. It is a bad human habit that we have not been able to break over thousands of years, but "[social] things in the past were Bad but now have become Good" just... isn't true.

After all, nobody feels the need to constantly add subtextual disclaimers or "don't worry, I personally don't support this attitude/action" implied authorial notes in modern romances, despite the cornucopia of social problems we have today, and despite the complicated attitude of the modern world toward LGBTQ people. If an author's only reason for including "period typical homophobia" (and as we've discussed, there's no such thing before the 19th century) is that they think it should be there, that is an attitude that needs to be challenged and examined more closely. We are not obliged to only produce works that represent a downtrodden past, even if the end message is triumphal. It's the same way we got so tired of rape scenes being used to make a female character "stronger." Just because those things existed (and do exist!), doesn't mean you have to submit every single character to those humiliations in some twisted name of accuracy.

Yes, as I have always said, prejudices have existed throughout history, sometimes violently so. But that is not the whole story, and writing things that center only on the imagined or perceived oppression is not, at this point, accurate OR helpful. Once again, I note that this is specifically talking about fiction. If real-life queer people are writing about their own experiences, which are oftentimes complex, that's not a question of "representation," it's a question of factual memoir and personal history. You can't attack someone for being "problematic" when they are writing about their own lived experience, which is something a younger generation of queer people doesn't really seem to get. They also often don't realise how drastically things have changed even in my own lifetime, per the tags on my reblog about Brokeback Mountain, and especially in media/TV.

However, if you are writing fiction about queer people, especially pre-20th century queer people, and you feel like you have to make them miserable just to be "responsible to the past," I would kindly suggest that is not actually true at all, and feeds into a dangerous narrative that suggests everything "back then" was bad and now it's fine. There are more stories to tell than just suffering, queer characters do not have to exist solely as a corollary for (inaccurate) political/social commentary on the premodern past, and they can and should be depicted as living their lives relatively how they wanted to, despite the expected difficulties and roadblocks. That is just as accurate, if sometimes not more so, than "they suffered, the end," and it's something that we all need to be more willing to embrace.

[awkwards]

Kinktober Day 5. Aphrodisiac : Pleasurable Test | Overhaul

Day 5: Aphrodisiac

Title: Pleasurable Test

Pairing: Overhaul x F!Reader

Count: 2.2k

Summary: You needed to make ends meet, and so you go to subject yourself to a testing center that will pay. Turns out, you’ve signed yourself up for way more than you expected. You should really read the fine print.

Warnings: Noncon, syringe, aphrodisiac, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, yandere, sadist overhaul

Note: It’s finals week and definitely starting to hit me. Also, thanks for all of the support! If you’d like to be tagged for my kinktober fics, dm me! My inbox is open~

You snarled behind your gag at the man in the lab coat, who was currently coming at you with another needle. When he stepped close, you managed to kick the shot away.

“You can’t even handle one little girl. Pathetic.” A voice you haven’t heard before chides. A man wearing a plague mask and rather large coat with purple feathers stepped in. You could barely see him from where you’re restrained on the operating table. He snaps gloves onto his his, his eyes glaring at the subordinate. “And now that needle is filthy.”

“I’m so sorry sir!” you could see the sweat from the doctor, his face pailing. “She kicked me and it went flying!”

“Begone. I do not wish to hear your excuses.”

“Yes sir.” The guy practically runs from the room.

The man levels his gaze on you, judging.

You quirk an eyebrow at him, challengingly.

You’ve been here for a week. It was supposed to be one test, in which you got paid for. You took it because money was tight and you needed to pay rent. Little did you realize they would keep you kidnapped and subject to their devices because you were the “perfect candidate”.  Your fear has practically been pushed aside by your anger. For a week they’ve been sticking you with needles, running “tests”, keeping you on the edge of functioning. All you had left was your anger and attitude.

“What a nuisance.” The man sighs. His dark eyes scan your barely clothed body.

Quicker than you can move, the man has your legs pinned down, fastened in place just like your arms and neck are. A gasp of shock careens past your lips, silenced by the gag.

“That’s better.” He moves over to the counter where the equipment lays. He turns his back towards you. “Do you know who I am?”

“Well, I assume you’re the one in charge of these monkeys. Do you know who I am?” You bite at him.

“I am Kai Chisaki. You will address me as Overhaul.” He turns slowly, an intense look in his eyes that makes your skin crawl. “I know plenty about you. You are a quirkless individual. Your blood type is AB negative. You’re allergic to penicillin. You’ve lived in this city your whole life. I know you were adopted at the age 5. You had a kidney transplant at the age 12.”

“Your parents were brutally murdered when you were in high school by a villain attack. I know that the villain attack was actually a target for your father’s brother because he made some bad deals with the yakuza.” He grabs a needle and begins to mix a mystery pink liquid into it. You’re shaking by now. How does he know so much?  “You dropped out of high school quickly after, and less than two years later sold most of your adoptive parent’s belongings, and then the house.”

Overhaul takes deliberate and slow steps towards you, tapping the air bubbles out of the needle. “You moved into a seedy little apartment in the middle of town. You work at a small bar across from the noodle shop in the bad part of town because it was the only place that would hire you. This month you couldn’t make ends meet so you showed up here.”

A gloved hand drops onto your arm, thumb soothing over the prominent vein of yours. “And most importantly, I know your name isn’t actually Nakaya Kosuke. You, Miss (y/n), have quite the extensive history.”

You jerk hard at hearing your birth name. No one should know! Only your adoptive parents, who as he stated were dead, and the lawyer that erased your identity knew.

You try to speak through the gag, your words hushed.

An amused dark chuckle falls from him. “Oh, my apologies, did you want to speak?”

You nod your head.

His eyebrows raise, as if debating it. Finally, he unties the back of your gag. You spit it out, breathing in deeply. “Careful now, say something I don’t like and I’ll put it back on. Or I’ll remove your tongue.”

“Why am I here?”

He hums. “You are special. Did you know that your blood type is extremely rare?”

You clench your teeth, glaring at this cocky son-of-a-bitch. “I did.”

“Well, fortunately for us, your blood type was exactly what we’ve been looking for in our experiment. It’s extremely hard to come by a willing participant, too.”

“I’m not willing. I signed up for a test. One.”

His chuckle is light, and his eyes are wide with sadistic mirth. “No. You actually signed up until there was one successful test. So far, none of them have been such. It would appear someone didn’t read the fine print.”

Oh. Oh god. Did you really?

“No worries. You will be fully compensated. Well-” His eyes narrow. “If you live.”

Overhaul begins to prep the vein in your arm. “See, quirks are filthy. Those heroes parading around their quirks are but vermin on this earth. Pathetic. But you - no, you’re corrupted like those who roam the streets. Your blood is pure. Your genes are clean. You and I are far more similar than you might think, y/n.“

“What are you going to do to me?” Fear is fully controlling your mouth now. You shiver as he sanitizes the area he plans on injecting you.

“I have reason to believe that your blood will be the perfect capsule to carry my new invention. It’s a device that will remove the quirks of those who come in contact with it.” The look in his eyes turned wild, excited. You shiver. “My parents were ripped away from me, too. Those heroes did nothing to save them. Yet, they parade around the world as if we, the common folk, owe them. Not for long. Now, don’t make too much of a noise; I’d rather not have to remove your tongue.”

The prepped needle’s cap comes off, and the metal slides into your skin. You whimper, looking away as Overhaul begins to press its contents into your bloodstream. As quick as it began, it ended. He wipes away the lone blood drop before pressing a bandaid against you.

“Normally I would never dream of coming so close to an individual. But you are different from the filth filling this world.” Gloved hands grab your chin, turning you to look into his eyes. “You’re pure. Perfect. And I plan on taking full advantage of that, my sweet Y/N.”

Tears burn your eyes, your lip trembling. You finally let your body relax. This time you were truly fucked. He pulls his hand away, throwing away the needle tip of the syringe. You watch him walk away, back to the counter where he removes his gloves and washes his hands and arms.

A warmth began to fill your system. You shoot a concerned look at Overhaul. It was like your body was warming up from the inside out, your blood beginning to boil. A feverish sweat was spreading over every inch of you. “Something’s wrong.” You croak out.

Overhaul turns back to glance at you, sweaty and blushed. A mild look of intrigue covers his face. “Oh?”

“It’s burning me.” You whine.

Your body is completely uncomfortable now. The warmth feels … different. Wrong even.

“Explain to me what is happening.” He dries his hands leisurely, watching you from across the room before putting on a new, clean pair of rubber gloves.

“I’m hot. It feels like my blood is boiling. I -” you whimper as the slightest movement of your head increases the feeling tenfold. “Please make it stop.”

Overhaul takes his time as he walks back over to you. He runs a finger over your pulsepoint. The single touch sends a wave of pleasure crashing through you, a moan following. “How interesting.”

You’re mortified and confused. You wish you could rub your thighs together at the uncomfortable feeling between them.

“I see now. The molecular constructs of those two vials creates an aphrodisiac.”

You pinch your eyes shut as his single digit drags down your arm, over the hospital gown you have. The thin fabric is too much. It feels as if it’s weighing you down and making it that much harder to breathe.

“I suppose I should relieve you. It’ll be the only way to collect your blood at the right molecular compounds,” He muses to himself, talking out loud as if you’re not there.

Overhaul pulls off the glove on his left hand. “If I hadn’t reassembled you already, I would let you suffer until the side effects wear off. But, because of me, you really are clean. You should thank me.”

Not knowing what to say, you watch the man through your watery tears. He presses his bare hand on your stomach. If you weren’t being restrained, you would have arched into his hand, moaning loud as pleasure floods your core.

When he removes his hand, your whole body shivers as air nips your bare skin. How? “Wh-what?”

He chuckles. “My quirk.”

You watch as Overhaul steps around your pinned body, coming close to your wet sex.

“What a mess you’ve made. Disgusting.” Despite his words, he runs his gloved hand up your right leg, stopping at the stop below your belly button. You can feel your walls flutter.

A choked out “Please,” tumbles from your lips. You’re so turned on it hurts. Your brain can’t think straight anymore.

You moan loudly as a single finger strokes your dripping lips. You roll your hips as best as you can to get more friction. He lets out a proper laugh at your discomfort, sliding his single digit past your folds.

“So needy. What would you do without me? If I wasn’t here to relieve you?”

Your walls flutter around his digit as he runs his finger against your inside. The burning in your blood only seems to increase at the slight relief. “Please, Overhaul please!”

At your pitiful begging, he slides another finger in, stretching your walls. He works the two digits in a slow and methodical pace, scissoring you. You whine and cry, grinding your hips into his fingers. When he curls the two fingers and strokes the spongy spot inside you, a coil snaps, and you cum hard around him.

He doesn’t stop, continuing to pump his fingers inside you. You moan as you come down from your high.

The heat inside dims for the barest of moments before firing back up with a vengeance.

“Did that make you feel better?” He mocks, putting more force behind his motions.

You gasp as the coil of pleasure begins again. “It hurts! I need more, please!”

“Patience, little one. You’ll get your release. Soon, you’ll be begging me to stop.”

As if to prove his point, he uses his thumb to stroke your clit hard. Your walls flutter and drip around his gloved fingers as you feel yourself close to the crest again. “Oh - Oh, oh please!” You wail.

“Cum again, pet.”

You do. Your walls spasm as you tip over, shaking in your restraints as a sigh leaves you.

He doesn’t stop. The fire inside is rapidly dwindling, and you flinch at the touch.

“Oh, are you sensitive already?” He muses. “It won’t last long.”

True to your words, the fire picks up again. You sob as his touch hurts. It hurts yet is relieving you too. Tears stream down your face as you’re overstimulated, but the heat is still there.

“It's almost over. Hold on just a bit longer.”

Overhaul fingers you faster, making the coil of pleasure twist quicker and harder than the last two orgasms. You sob as you near the edge again.

“Last one. Give me one more. Cum over my fingers.”

“I can’t!” You cry out, rocking your hips into his fingers despite what you say.

“You can. And you will.” You can hear the squelching as his fingers target your g-spot, his thumb rolling your clit hard. “Cum again y/n.”

A scream rips from your throat as you’re forced over the edge of another orgasm. Your entire body tenses, and white fills your eyes. Overhaul drags his fingers out of you slowly, making you wince from the overstimulation. He tears the glove covered in cum off of his hand before sliding a new set on.

Panting hard, you come down again, body relaxing. Your blood no longer feels like you’re being boiled alive.

You flinch as a syringe is forced into your arm, and watch in sick curiosity as he draws blood from you. Even the touch of the needle makes you quiver, your entire body too sensitive for touch.

“Shh, it’ll be okay. You did so well.”

You moan, shaking as he places a bandage over your skin again. Your head swims as black dots at the edge of your vision.

You look up at him, and can tell even from behind his mask that he’s smiling. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Rest well, pet.”

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