#//: no worries! i can only use the beta editor anyway :>

[writingquestionsanswered]

hey, i love your blog, you’re so kind for doing all of this. kudos.

i was wondering if you have advice on how to not be terrified of sharing your work with the world? i write a lot of fanfiction (and someday hopefully some original stories) but i get so so anxious about ANYONE reading them so they usually end up rotting in my google docs, and eventually i stop writing them because i don’t get the motivation that comes from reader responses

but the issue is i’m not sure how to tackle this anxiety. as someone who has published works, do you have advice for this?

Tackling the Anxiety of Sharing Your Work

For my answer, I'm going to cobble together some bits from previous posts and add some new stuff. ♥

Sharing our fiction with others is one of the biggest steps we take as writers, and it can be scary no matter what you write. But, if you want to be published, it’s a necessary step. As with so many things in life, doing something that requires courage is often just a matter of taking a deep breath and doing it. "Ripping off the band-aid," as they say.

However, there are some things that might help ease the associated anxiety a bit:

1 - Try to Pin Down Your Specific Fears - One of the first things you may want to do is try to figure out what you're specifically afraid of or what's making you the most anxious about the prospect of sharing your work. If you can find the root cause, it might be easier to tackle the associated anxiety. Are you worried people:

will think your writing is bad?

won’t like your writing style?

won’t get your story/characters?

will judge you for what you write about?

will think less of you for writing at all or what you write about?

will blab about your writing to others?

will steal your ideas?

will see similarities between your story and others?

will make you feel tied to a project you might not complete?

I tackle some of these in the writing-related-fears portion of my Motivation master list.

2 - Don't Rush It - If you take the time to properly revise and edit your story, you can be confident in knowing you've put in the time and effort to make your story the best it possibly can be.

3 - Start Small - If you can, try sharing your story first with an "alpha reader," or in other words a trusted friend, family member, or community member who can appreciate your story. In this case, you might say you're not looking for specific feedback but just a general impression of what they liked about the story. This way, it's not about getting constructive criticism so much as getting over the hump of sharing it and getting the little boost of what they like about the story.

4 - Gradually Go Bigger - From there, you might try sending to a couple of beta readers and opening up to a bit more feedback. The great thing about this is not only are you conditioning yourself to sharing and getting the opinions of others, you can potentially use the feedback to iron out kinks in the story if there are any.

5 - Use a Pen Name - You might want to consider using a pen name for anonymity. Pen names have many different purposes, but much like wearing a mask at a party, they can decrease your inhibition a bit because it creates a bit of a buffer between the real you and your writing.

6 - Post and Let It Go - Many writers get around the issue by simply not engaging with reader feedback, and if you're someone who cares what other people think or are likely to be daunted by the prospect of criticism, this may be the best route for you to go. Now, I know that with fan-fiction in particular, reader feedback is often used for improvement. But the truth of the matter is, you shouldn't rely on reader feedback for improvement anyway. Alpha readers, beta readers, critique partners, and editors are a much better metric for where to improve. When you get your feedback elsewhere, you can post your story and let it fly on its own without worrying about what others are saying.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[rpschtuff]

I also thought I'd make a quick post going over my experiences and observations using the beta editor, as someone who put off switching for months and months and has now been using it for about a week. If you're putting off making the switch because you're not sure what it will be like, and are worried about committing to a broken editor, this post is for you.

General Observations

Overall, the editor itself really isn't that much different. A few things are in different places, such as blockquotes being under the dropdown and being called indented now, but it's not the buggy, broken mess that I half-expected it to be. A lot of the bugs that various people have reported on have already been fixed by staff. (And you can report bugs or just general complaints to staff! There's a feedback section of their form and they are actively taking user suggestions into account. Just remember to be nice about it.)

Sometimes bold, italics, and small text will act up and not apply correctly. But frankly, those would act up on the legacy editor, too. And if things are being weird, it's fairly easy to select the offending text and just fix it.

Things I Like

By far my favorite feature of the beta editor is the ability to disable reblogs on a post. As someone who runs a roleplay blog for a pretty popular canon character, I've gotten used to typing all of the names L.ike Th/is in order to prevent my posts from showing up in search, and slapping a huge "do not reblog" disclaimer onto everything -- only to have some personal who apparently can't read reblog it anyway. But now I can simply take my OOC posts, headcanons, metas, whatever, and set it so that no one can reblog them.

I love the ability to edit tags without having to completely delete and rewrite them. I've gotten so used to having to redo tags over a single typo that the realization of this the other day left me in shock. You can just click inside the tag and change any of the text that you want.

The new content label system is pretty good. You can clearly designate a post as having mature content, and your followers can choose in settings whether they want to have those flagged posts viewable or not. It's another feature I'd love to see Tumblr expand on, and add some more options to flag a post as, it's a really good start.

The post scheduling system is much more clear than before. You can actually schedule a post and feel confident in the exact date and time that it will go up, unlike the previous system that felt like a wild shot in the dark.

You can add colored text to posts pretty easily. There are a bunch of preset colors, and while I haven't played around with it much, I understand that adding custom colors via HTML is pretty straightforward. It's not a feature I personally use much, but it's neat.

There are also additional font and styling options, like Lucille, Chat, and Quote. Again, not things I use very often, but cool features to have.

Things I Dislike

Tumblr will remember your old tags, but without any capitalization. If your frequently used tags have capitalization and you want them to be consistent, you'll have to retype or paste them in every time.

When you paste an image URL into a post, it will insert the image as before, but include that link below it, with no way to easily remove it. This is an issue for those using gifs or icons with transparency, and simply pasting the image in directly will cause it to display incorrectly. As someone who uses a webpage of my icons when working on threads, I now have to download the icon I want to use and upload it, which is a minor annoyance compared to simply copying the image link and pasting it in.

[mvsicinthedvrk]

beefleaf but beta editor, he xuan & shi qingxuan with @irresistiibles continued from here

They seem genuinely shocked that he can be a decent host and offer her a glass; he should probably be offended by that, though really, he can’t blame her for her surprise. But of course he had the wine sitting around. It’s not like he’d bought it for any other purpose; the only reason it had been here was for Qingxuan’s benefit if he ever game over. It just hadn’t gotten used, since everything. And afterwards, when it was clear that it probably wouldn’t be needed again, He Xuan hadn’t felt much like pouring it down the sink-- though maybe he should have, if having kept it means the other would gape at him like a fish. “Tell me who else would drink it, if not for you,” he grumbles under his breath, shoving his own wine glass towards his face and taking a gulp. 

If this was supposed to be quick and easy, He Xuan can’t see that it’s particularly going to plan, though that’s as much his fault as Qingxuan’s. He’d known that no conversation with the other could be ‘quick,’ and none of this is easy. “If you don’t want to be here, you can go,” he proclaims with a frown when he hears the frustration in their voice, before clarifying: “I’m irritated that you have the audacity to ask me for any favors. I’m not mad you’re here.” There’s a difference. He’s not mad. If they’d come for any other reason, that would have been obvious. Even so, despite He Xuan’s visible irritation, he probably will end up giving in. He knows this; so he doesn’t even know why they bother to have conversations about things when he gives in to her demands nine-times-out-of-ten anyway... but maybe the other would have assumed things would have changed, between them in that regard. He supposes he had obscured that likelihood fairly well during their last conversation. Out of the ways he could be sought after for help, though, admittedly handing over the fan is probably the simplest solution. He Xuan would lose his mind trying to teach the other how to cultivate; although he hasn’t had to do it himself, he’s read enough on the subject that compared to Qingxuan, he’s probably an expert a thousand times over. He can’t imagine she’d want to ask him to teach her, though; that would be crossing the line. And asking for spiritual energy-- He Xuan would reject request that outright, as it’d feel too inappropriate giving it to them. He’d removed it from them in the first place; what would the point of that have been, if he goes ahead and gives it right back in smaller installments? It doesn't seem like something the other would ask for, anyway. So He Xuan doesn’t... he does understand, the more he thinks about it, why the fan might be Qingxuan’s only practical course of action. 

It’s definitely true that she's brainless, though, and the familiar pout on the other’s face strikes a chord, though he levels the other with a blank, unimpressed face as she seems to fumble for a response. I think you’re actually a bad actor. That’s something he hadn’t expected to hear, and his surprise probably does show in his eyes at that. “Fair and unfair have always existed between us. That’s my proof of being a good actor,” he points out evenly. It’s true that he hadn’t gone to the trouble of disguising his personality too much; why would he, when no one in the heavenly realm had known what Ming Yi was really like anyway. But he’d never given away what his ultimate intentions had been as part of his revenge plot. And he’d never indicated how deeply he’d hated their brother, had he. “Maybe it shouldn’t, anymore,” he acknowledges, returning to the question of fairness and whether they should bother to worry about it. “It’s not easy to let go of.” Not on his part. Qingxuan might be a better person, able to accept the shitty hand she’d been dealt and not resent He Xuan for it, or resent him but move past it with ease; unfortunately, that’s not a skill that He Xuan’s well-versed in. He could try, he supposes, though-- it won’t matter much, will it, if this is the last time the other’s going to come over. The subject lightens when Qingxuan claims he could act. If he ‘wanted to.’ He Xuan’s eye twitches. “Your acting wouldn’t even convince a toddler.” They go on to rattle off all the things that she’s concerned about, all the responsibilities to think about now, and he has to add after a moment of silence, “...There are canes at the drug store.” He doesn’t say it to be a dick, but: they’re right there. He’s walked past them in the aisle a number of times. So that shouldn’t be very hard at all for the former wind master to figure out, compared to cultivating from scratch. Something easy to check off the other’s to-do list. 

Qingxuan’s eyes are suddenly wide when he sits up straight, as though they’ve come up with the most stunning idea in the world, so obviously it’s a ridiculous one. As though He Xuan would need to chaperone his use of their own fan. She thinks she could just practice with it in his living room, but without talking to him, and that would somehow cause less problems? Or are they picturing going out into the back stairwell and trying to cultivate back there?  Beyond the fact that ‘just ignoring’ her if she was in the building would be impossible-- “I don’t need to be responsible for babysitting you and your use of your former spiritual device,” he drawls, shutting that possibility down immediately. 

After another moment, he stands and heads back to his bedroom, leaving Qingxuan on the sofa, not bothering to give any kind of explanation as to where he’s going. It should be obvious, or if it’s not and she’s too impatient to wait for him to return and leaves in the meantime, then it’s their own fault. It’s almost funny that she said it shouldn’t be tossed in a drawer, as that’s where it’s been out of sight for the last two months. He crouches down next to the side table next to his bed, sliding out the bottom drawer. In it lies two fans: water and wind. 

He hadn’t looked at Qingxuan’s fan at all since he’d tossed it in and slammed the drawer shut when she’d first left it behind. As he pulls it out now, he can see that there are visible lines where it’d been broken and repaired; the same form it was in when he’d given it back the last time. It makes sense, he thinks, that if Qingxuan’s physical form updated to match her memories then his fan would, too. But if it’s repaired the same was as it had been before, that means that his ashes are embedded in the repaired ribs and handle of the fan, just where he’d left them. At least he knows where the ashes are now, not that he’d been particularly worried about them while in the city, since if something had happened to them, he’d have been long gone. 

He Xuan doesn’t know what had possessed him to hide them there in the first place. Or rather, he does know: a combination of desperation, clouded judgment, and apathy. Once Shi Wudu had been killed, there should have been no reason why the calamity hadn’t dissipated, and unfortunately it hadn’t taken long to figure out what else could possibly be tying him to the world. So when he’d repaired the fan, he’d made that split-second decision in a blaze of detached indifference and misery. They’d never know the ashes were there, he’d told himself, and if the fan happened to somehow get crushed or destroyed, then that’d be that. Whatever. 

He hesitates for a moment now as he picks up Qingxuan’s device and shuts the bedside drawer. There’s more to think about now. If something happens to the fan and he dissipates, he’d be leaving Chunyu alone, and he can’t do that to her when she’s still getting used to this world. Shi Wudu too is a concern, since if he ever caught wind of what's in it, he’d surely crush the fan to pieces before anyone could blink. And with him still being impossibly alive, He Xuan can’t allow the water master to out-exist him. Despite those valid concerns, after a moment of thought, he decides that he doesn’t feel compelled to remove the ashes before handing the fan back. When he'd done embedded them during his initial repairs, as much of a mess as he'd been at the time, that was about as emotionally honest as he could have been with himself, and to undo what he'd done and take them back now would just be an act of cowardice. Deeply regrettably, there’s still no one else the ashes belong with, other than Qingxuan. For better or for worse. So fan-in-hand, he stands and returns to the living room. 

“Here,” he says lowly, tossing them the spiritual device carelessly as soon as he’s crossed through the doorway. He sinks back into his own spot on the couch and picks up the glass of wine he still hadn’t finished before as he ignores Qingxuan’s reaction, whatever it might be. “You got what you came for.” 

[bomberqueen17]

dark times

it’s just so fucking dark.

i’m feeling very despondent. work is both busy and boring. i have been in a fugue state where i’ve just frantically been writing, writing, writing, tens of thousands of words, but i don’t feel like i’ve hit the “point” yet.

if i were writing for a commercial market and had a merciless editor i have a suspicion that i would be writing ten thousand words for every thousand i kept. i just feel like... i haven’t... hit the point of anything in a long time. i don’t think that’s true but it’s how i feel.

and i just hit a wall today, i was trying to write and i just-- can’t. it’s a scene i badly want to write and have been looking forward to and it won’t come, i wrote 15k in a different work to avoid it and today i finally buckled down and started to work on it and... it’s awkward phrasing and it’s not going anywhere and like my only beta comment so far is to that effect and like. yeah. you right, but like what the fuck do i do about that. and i realized it’ll be super difficult for me to write because it’s going to be a lovely fluffy scene and then i need the people in it to have a vicious fight and breakup and it’s not going to get resolved for a bit and-- my readers are going to fucking hate that, i’m going to have to spoiler it so people don’t feel betrayed. and like yes that’s how you do hurt/comfort, you have to hurt them that’s how it works, but. It’s work.

everything is dark and dreary and grim, and i don’t want to do the work, i just want to read the fucking story. And yet! I have like.... two? three? friends updating long stories right now that are just what I want to read, and I can’t read them for some reason, so I’m behind on that. I don’t want to read. I want to write. But I want to have written, really, and that’s not the same thing as either reading or writing.

So I’m just feeling whiny, but I’m also feeling burnt-out and terrified. Today as I was working at the shipping desk, loudly taping packages so it’s not like I was hiding, a customer came up to use the bathroom, and then answered her phone while in the bathroom. I stopped to listen, incredulous, as she put the caller on speakerphone and then flushed the toilet, and i was like who does this, it must be someone she’s close with, and then she came out of the bathroom loudly confirming her address over and over, so like-- no definitely this was a stranger she was talking to, wow. And then the stranger on the phone was like “SO the test came back positive, I’m confirming your COVID diagnosis,” and the customer is like “Wow no way!” and the stranger on the phone is like “I’m afraid yes! I’d recommend you stay at home.” and the customer says

she says

“Oh I am at home, don’t worry!”

bitch what the glittering F̴̨̝̼̦̹̱͈̽̀̒̔̓̔̾ Ư̷̢̨̢̨̛̰̟̭̮̙͕͖̼̞͓̌̋͆͑̿͂̒́̈́̒̂̈̕ C̴̺͉̣͓͇̳͌̃̆ K̴̢̝̹̫̫̳͙̋̎̏̐̈́̏̌͆̾͐͋͠

here’s the good part, she then goes down the stairs, and I’m like good! go the fuck home! and I finish taping up my packages and carry the bin of them downstairs for the mail pickup, and

she is standing there at the counter still on her phone. She is finishing up her phone calls. I’m like what the fuck, and go behind the counter, and in a moment she finishes her call and leaves.

Yeah!!! she was just standing there to make her phone call!!! In a room full of people! Freshly COVID-diagnosed!!! JUST HANG OUT A WHILE, BITCH! Love it

We are going to be in this pandemic forever and I just

i would like a fucking break, i would like to go somewhere else, i would like to be someone else, i would like to stop fucking worrying about shit constantly, i--

argh.

anyway. also i need to buy dude a belt buckle, for Christmas, and it can’t have flags, eagles, Trump, guns, or dumb sex jokes on it, and that rules out like 90% of what I can find and the other 10% is ugly too, I guess there are a few that were pretty but they’re all custom or from some other country that won’t get here in time and i wish he’d told me about this like a month ago but here we are.

Oh yeah and Etsy never wrote back to me so I have to find a belt buckle not on Etsy. The logistics of managing to get an Etsy account while being locked out of my sole email address is absolutely the fuck beyond me.

the only ray of joy in my life is imagining Ciri with a gun. That is still bringing me occasional glimmers of serotonin. That, and looking at the glitter on the back of my phone case, which I cannot explain but fuck there’s something about that.

You know, I own one of those Make You Less Depressed lights somewhere, I would consider trying that out only I’m literally not capable of doing something like that consistently enough to have it help.

[aritany]

Hello bestie I’ve been thinking about your answer from my other ask all day (thank you again) and I have one more question if you don’t mind!!

What are beta readers? Is it anyone who reads your book, or are beta readers, like, a profession? How much of a story can you share with people before publishing it (or even querying)? For some reason I have this fear that if I share my WIP with people, then I can’t publish it?? No idea why I think that. But then if that’s true, the concept of beta readers doesn’t make sense, right? Or is there a difference between sharing it in person (like with close friends) vs sharing it online? I assume posting it is straight up not allowed (cuz why would anyone buy it) but what about sharing it with online friends? But like, wasn’t 50 shades of grey posted online first as fanfic? God, all of this is so confusing.

Anyway thanks again, I’ve literally been wondering about this stuff for years and it’s SO hard to find people willing (or able) to answer!!!!

heya! no problem, happy to help out. i’ve got lots of pointers about this one!

Crash Course On Beta Reading

beta readers are any readers that read your book with the intention of pointing out areas that they think need work. they can be anybody with eyeballs, and you can use them at any point between drafts!

if this is your first novel, i recommend involving betas after your second or third draft. usually when you finish your first draft, you have some ideas of areas that could use work, and a lot of the editing is easy to do yourself.

betas will generally be comfortable giving feedback as long as you set the parameters for them. for example, i collect my beta readers using a google form and i let them choose whether they’d be most comfortable making suggestions through inline comments (i use google docs for betas), responding to a questionnaire at the end, or leaving their thoughts however suits them best.

you can absolutely let people beta read your book and still publish it. hell, i have a whole team of alpha readers who read as i am writing just for fun. i posted a whole novel on wattpad that i’ll probably publish someday. What Comes After had two rounds of beta readers and got a book deal without any issue, so i don’t think it’s something you need to be super worried about.

the publishing industry is only concerned about what you have put up for sale and how it performed. (that’s why agents and editors caution against self publishing before you go into traditional publishing. it’s dumb, but editors do look at sales on previous books of yours before they offer. it is a business, after all!) since beta readers receive the book for free, that’s not something you need to be concerned about. lots of successful authors use beta readers!

key things to remember if you’re giving your work to readers for the first time:

readers in your target demographic will give you the most relevant feedback

keep your expectations low. about 1/2 of the people i ask to beta read finish the book within the time frame i ask. don’t worry about that. as much as it feels like it, it’s not a reflection on you or your book. i wasted a lot of energy being angsty about this the first time i ever gave a book to betas

ask your friends, but be cautious about it! i recommend not asking your super close non-writer friends, because it can get pretty awkward to talk about if they don’t follow through

beta readers sometimes mutate into friends and it’s the best

99.9% of people who read your book would not dream of copying it, especially if your betas are writers. i know that seems counterintuitive but writers know how badly that would hurt

if you’re sold on beta reading and want to give it a try, i recommend asking around the writeblr community for people who will read. i’ve done it, and you can find some of my examples under the tag #beta call. feel free to tag me in beta call posts (this goes for everyone) & i will reblog them* to boost your engagement!

*note i will not do this on excerpts/wip intros if i’m not on the tag list, it’s uncomfortable to be randomly tagged in content and i most often will ignore it on principle, but i’m more than happy to do it for writeblr intros and beta calls!

i hope that answered some of your questions! cheers😊

[wayward-dreamer]

The Right Direction

AO3 Link: Read Here

Square Filled: Dog walker!Jensen

Pairing: Dog walker!Jensen x Female!Dog walker!Reader

Word count: 2,839 (Wow! I wrote something under 5K lol!)

Rating: Teen

Summary: Sometimes the wrong direction can turn out to be the right one.

Warnings: Some swearing, a bunch of cute dogs, fluff.

Created for @spnaubingo

A/N: This is written for @downanddirtydean‘s 500 followers challenge! Prompt is in bold. I hope you like it twin!! Thank you @deanwanddamons​ for being a beta on this! As always, I’d love to hear what you all think! Happy reading and enjoy! :)

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​ 

A wet nose and soft fur were the first things she felt on her hand every morning. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, a groan leaving her as they adjusted to the light in the room. She felt the bed shift and heard the sound of a collar shaking, her smile growing as the furry ball landed in her lap. She stroked her little Corgi’s fluffy hair, kissing the top of his head.

“Morning, Ringo.” She planted another kiss on his head, her hands alternating between squishing his face and running over his light brown and white fluffy coat. “Someone hungry?”

Ringo licked his lips, signalling he was more than ready for breakfast.

“Alright, come on,” she muttered as she gently dropped him down on the floor of her bedroom.

Y/N got up from her bed, laughing as Ringo scurried out of the door ahead of her, stopping to wait impatiently near his bowl. His round behind wiggled, excited to be receiving his breakfast as Y/N picked up the bag of dog food, dropping some into the metal bowl.

“Stay,” she commanded, watching his innocent brown eyes look up at her. Waiting for a few seconds, she smiled. “Eat.”

Ringo gave his lips another lick, bending down and gobbling up a few pieces of dry food at a time. She smiled at him and then went about getting ready for the morning, quickly changing into her sweatpants and oversized sweater, throwing her hair up in a messy bun. By the time she was ready, Ringo was finished eating.

“Alright, shall we go?” she said, bending down in front of him and petting under his chin. She clipped his leash onto his collar, patting him at the same time. “Now, I’m trusting you to be good with the other dogs, so you better listen to me. Okay?”

Ringo gave her a little whine, causing her to lift an eyebrow. “Ringo.”

His paws started to tap excitedly against the floorboards, making Y/N give him a smile. “Good boy,” she said, scratching behind his head and standing up.

She quickly grabbed her keys, phone and wallet, heading out the door of her apartment, and walking down a few flights of stairs, Ringo in tow. She knocked on the door of an apartment, smiling as Mrs. Morris greeted her. She held the leash of her 6-year-old Border Collie, Betty, in her hand and smiled at her.

“Morning, Y/N. How are you?” she asked, as Betty’s tail wagged excitedly when she saw Ringo, more than ready for her walk.

“I’m great, Mrs. Morris. How are you?”

“Oh, you know, can’t complain,” the older woman said, handing her the leash. “Betty’s a little too excited this morning.”

Y/N patted Betty a few times, shaking her head. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

With a goodbye, she walked Betty and Ringo down the last two flights of stairs, and out onto the sidewalk. She held onto the leashes, enjoying the sun but there was as a slight chill against her face on the bright autumn morning. They walked for about ten minutes, picking up more dogs along the way. A Bulldog, a Pomeranian and a Chihuahua. Y/N walked them into the dog park, knowing how much they loved to run around and play with each other. They were all from the same neighborhood and socially used to each other, making her job much easier. However, Y/N was in desperate need of caffeine, having forgone a cup at home to get the dogs. Making a quick stop at a vendor, she paid for her steaming cup of black coffee and continued to walk them all down the path in the park, trying to find a clear spot to sit down and let them run around.

Y/N kept the dogs in front of her, all of their leashes in one hand, and her drink in the other, trying to get away from unfamiliar pets they hadn’t interacted with yet. As she smiled down at her fur friends for the morning, she basked in the peacefulness of the walk.

Suddenly, Y/N screamed as she collided with another dog walker, a man completely distracted with his phone and not watching what the German Shepherd and Golden Retriever he was walking were doing. Her shoulder got knocked backwards, her arm coming up and spilling her piping hot coffee all down the front of her sweater. She screamed again as the liquid seeped through the material, making contact with  her skin. Thankfully, the sweater she was wearing was thick and she didn’t get severely burnt by the hot beverage.

“Oh my god! I am so, so sorry!” the man apologized, steadying the dog’s leash as he stashed his phone away.

“Sorry?! Watch where you’re going next time, you asshole!” she yelled, using her free hand to wipe the front of her sweater with her sleeve. She hadn’t even looked up at the man yet, focusing on cleaning herself. Her ever loyal companion, Ringo growled at the other dogs, who were slightly bigger than him and were growling back.

“Ringo, it’s okay,” Y/N said, calmly as she pulled lightly on all the leashes, moving the animals  behind her legs. They were all starting to bark, getting riled up by the man’s German Shepherd and Golden Retriever.

“I really am sorry,” the man said, as he pulled the dog he was walking back, “He gets really excited when he comes here, and I was trying to message someone-”

“Well maybe don’t do that,” she grumbled, soaking up the coffee with her sleeve as best as she could. She finally looked up, her eyes blinking as she took in the guy who bumped into her. He was incredibly gorgeous, with green eyes that looked guilty and soft and plump lips that he was biting into. She looked like an absolute mess in her casual attire, and here he was, towering over her and looking like a male model in a dog park.

“Please let me buy you another,” he said, sheepishly as he pointed to her shirt.

She shook her head, a little stunned by the good-looking man in front of her. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“I feel terrible,” he muttered, frowning as he gestured to the German Shepherd “He pulled suddenly while I was texting. It’s no excuse, I know, but he must’ve gotten excited when he saw your dogs.”

“It’s really okay,” Y/N reassured him. She felt awful for yelling at him now that she saw how apologetic he was, “They’re not mine. I’m a dog walker. Only the Corgi belongs to me.”

“I am too, but this guy is mine,” he smiled, gesturing to the German Shepherd next to him, who was now sitting and looking up at Y/N. “His name’s Jagger.”

“Jagger? As in Mick?” she asked, chuckling.

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling. He patted the top of the Golden Retriever’s head, smiling. “This is Astro. Neighbor’s kid is a big Jetsons fan.”

Y/N laughed, gesturing to her best friend in the whole world, “This is Ringo.”

“As in Starr?” he asked, smirking.

She laughed again, nodding. “Yeah. The Border is Betty, the Bulldog is Jackson, the Pom is Mimi, and the Chihuahua is Coco.”

“Ringo and Jagger… we sure know how to pick some good names,” he said, smiling at her.

“Yeah,” she agreed, smiling back at him. “Anyway, I should get going.”

“I really feel awful about this,” he muttered, frowning. “Can I make it up to you some time?”

She bit her lip, smiling as she shrugged. “We’ll see.” She would have to think about it, considering they had just met, and it wasn’t exactly the greatest first meeting.

“I’m Jensen, by the way.” He offered his hand, smiling softly at her. She took it in hers and felt the butterflies in her stomach begin to flutter.

“Y/N,” she said, smiling back at him. She looked down when she felt a wet nose against her hand, seeing Jagger nudging at her hand. She crouched down and patted him down, scratching behind his ears. The dogs tried to move around her to get to him, but she kept nudging them away, lightly. He whined when she stood up, pulling on his leash as he tried to follow her.

“Jagger, no. We gotta go, man,” Jensen told the dog, steering him in the other direction with Astro in tow.

With one last look at the man who she was totally caught off guard by, Y/N led the dogs away, unfortunately having to cut their walk short.  Jensen smiled as he turned and watched her walk away, hoping that he would see her again. He felt terrible and just hoped he had another shot to get to talk to Y/N. He had seen her from across the park before the collision happened. She was beautiful and despite the horrible circumstance, the moment their eyes met he knew he was done for.

They always say dogs have the best instinct about people, and Jensen was happy to know that Y/N was a good person according to Jagger’s eagerness to go with her. He just hoped there would be no hot coffee in the way of him getting to talk to her the next time he saw her.

A few days had passed since the incident in the park. Y/N was back there again, this time only with Ringo, and it was just after lunch. She handed in her article for the week, meeting her deadline a day early and decided to take her fluff ball for a run around in the dog park once she had submitted the article to her editor. She laughed as he ran circles around her on the grass, a blur of brown and white fur. As he continued to run, Y/N’s attention was suddenly taken away from him, as she heard someone clear their throat behind her. She turned and smiled, seeing the handsome dog walker who bumped into her a few days ago, a white cup in one hand, the leash to his beautiful German Shepherd in the other.

“A peace offering?” he stated.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, shaking her head.

He held out the cup insistently, smiling when she took it. “Yes, I did.”

She held her palm out, allowing the dog to come near her. The animal sniffed her a few times and licked her hand.  Y/N instantly moved her hand behind his ears to pet him. “He’s gorgeous.” As is his owner she thought to herself as she looked at Jensen, “How old is he?”

“He’s four,” Jensen told her, smirking. “Still acts like a puppy sometimes, though.”

“Aren’t they always a puppy no matter how big they get?” she asked, chuckling. Jagger started nudging against Y/N, wanting her to play with him. Jensen smiled, glad that his dog approved of her.

“Yeah,” he nodded, and looked down as Ringo came running to her, interested to see who her new friend was. Ringo hopped excitedly towards Jagger, not intimidated by the size difference between them at all.

“Hey buddy, you remember Jagger?” she asked, smiling brightly. She crouched down, calming him slightly as Jagger began to growl. Jensen got down to the dog’s level, holding him back slightly.

“Hey, behave,” Jensen commanded.

Comforting both of the dogs, Jensen let Jagger move forward a little first. He sniffed Ringo as Y/N let him go slightly too, to do the same. They tried to figure each other out, and one lick from Jagger had Ringo running off, turning to see if he would follow. Jensen let him off the leash, watching as he ran off, both of them play- fighting as they rolled over on the grass. Y/N and Jensen stood back, watching their dogs become fast friends.

“He doesn’t take to small dogs so quickly,” Jensen remarked as he watched his German Shepherd play with the small Corgi.

“Ringo loves every dog he comes across,” Y/N said, smiling as she watched them play. “So, I’m glad he found another friend.”

“Me too,” he muttered, smiling. “Jagger’s been lonely. I keep thinking I should get another one just so he doesn’t feel it anymore.”

“Well, until you do… he’s welcome to play with Ringo,” she stated, smiling at the gorgeous man next to her. The butterflies had returned, and she was finding it hard to keep her cool around him.

“Thanks.” Jensen smiled back at her, trying not to hold eye contact with her for longer than necessary, suddenly nervous to be near to her again.

After that afternoon, Jensen and Y/N had a standing meeting every Thursday afternoon in the dog park. As Jagger and Ringo played together, Y/N and Jensen would talk about everything they could before the dogs exhausted themselves. They discussed how they got the dogs, what they did for a living apart from dog walking (Jensen told her he worked at a brewery and Y/N told him she wrote for the paper), their favourite movies, books, music and more. By the fourth meeting, Y/N was hoping that he would ask her out on an official date. She knew she couldn’t be the only one feeling an attraction between them and wished more than anything that he would pluck up the courage and ask her. Maybe she would have to if he didn’t, but that was something she had never done before.

On the day of their usual meeting, Y/N and Jensen strolled the length of the park, walking Jagger and Ringo side by side. Every now and then, they would turn and smile at each other, as Jensen kept telling himself to open his mouth and ask her out on a date. Letting the dogs off their leashes, the owners watched on as they did every week, the dogs now absolute best friends. A brown leaf fell from the tree branch above Jensen and Y/N, landing on her nose and getting stuck there. Jensen laughed as he leaned over, using his thumb and forefinger to remove it.

“Thanks,” she whispered, looking up at him. Their bodies were close, both of them in slightly warmer clothes now that the weather was turning.

“No problem,” he mumbled, smiling. He looked out ahead at the park, worrying his lip as he thought about how to approach the subject of asking her on a date. “Okay, so…”

“What’s up?” she asked,  her stomach fluttering at the thought that the moment had finally arrived.

“I, uh… I really like you, Y/N,” he told her, his smile becoming wider as he turned to her.

“I really like you too, Jensen,” she said, beaming up at him.

He sighed in relief, nodding. “Okay, so then… I would love to- I mean that is if you want to, I really want to take you on a non-dog park date.” Dear Lord, this isn’t going well he told himself as he cringed at his bad attempt to ask her out.

“You know…” She laughed as she looked into his eyes. “Must be hard with your sense of direction. Never being able to find your way to a decent pick-up line.”

Jensen chuckled nervously, his cheeks red with embarrassment. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope,” she said, smiling as she winked.

A moment passed as they continued to look at each other. Jensen backtracked, a little more confident this time.

Taking a deep breath, he looked at her. “Y/N, would you like to go out for dinner with me?”

She smiled up at him, finding him so adorable in that moment. “Yes.”

The first date turned into a second. The second into a third. They would meet up in the dog park, some days with Jagger and Ringo, and others with all the others they would walk on a regular basis. With huddles of dogs of different breeds, they walked closer and closer to each other, stealing kisses and loving looks.

Dates and dog walking turned into getting down on one knee, the ring box clipped to Ringo’s collar as Jensen asked Y/N if she wanted to spend her life with him, with Jagger in tow.

They married in a small ceremony, with Jagger and Ringo at their feet, more than happy to be best fur friends forever.

And eventually… the news of an addition to their little family came, with Jensen and Y/N completely over the moon with the dogs getting a human brother or sister.

Y/N sat on the couch, smiling as she patted Jagger and Ringo’s heads, both of them sitting on either side of her, their noses close to her growing belly. Jensen walked in, a bowl of popcorn in his hand, settling into the couch next her, putting Ringo’s body over his legs. Y/N turned to him and leaned in, kissing his lips softly as he turned to her.

They say that dogs have great instinct.

And for that, Jensen and Y/N would always be grateful to have two fur companions that brought them into each other’s lives.

-x-

If you’re crossed out, Tumblr won’t let me tag you :(

Tags: @deanwanddamons @winchest09 @downanddirtydean @jensengirl83 @wonder-cole @that-one-gay-girl @flamencodiva @ellewritesfix05 @roonyxx @akshi8278 @hobby27 @michellethetvaddict @spngirl05 @kyjey @halesandy @440mxs-wife @stoneyggirl @deanswaywardgirl @redbarn1995 @marianita195 @babypink224221 @deans-baby-momma @parinarain @thoughts-and-funnies @mandalou29 @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @superaveng @supernatural-love14 @vicmc624 @prettyboyswow @lunarmoon8 @supernatural-bellawinchester

[mallowstep]

hey again! i was the anon that asked about how you write the beginnings to your fics. your feeling was right; i wasn’t really asking about plot. my problem was that i was staring at a blank screen, trying to come up with a beginning scene, and failing because i didn't know how to begin. a commenter said something about challenging themselves to write a scene that establishes the major divergences from canon, which is exactly what i've been trying to do. even though i know what i want, i don't seem to know how to go about it. i think it's because i'm usually a very descriptive writer, but for this fic, i wanted to do something simpler, and now that’s putting me at a loss. i’m so used to starting fics off descriptively that i'm not sure how do it any other way.

HHHHHHH FUUUCK TUMBLR SDL;FJ;DSALKJF

FUCK TUMBLR!

okay. so. sorry. i wrote a WHOLE FUCKING THING. dear god. i fucking.

it's been a while since it was relevant, but i have a issue with repeating work. like. it's something my brain won't let me do. so this is going to be much, much shorter than it was initially and i'm sorry about that.

anyway.

you're making this too hard. look at this first draft of a paragraph from a published novel:

[id: paragraph of nearly illegible handwritten text]

as you can see, only one sentence remains.

i'm going to include my own example from istmsams under a cut (because of the daddy thing).

you can change your first scene, but only if you actually write it. which means if you can write a descriptive intro, write that. don't worry about how you actually want to start. just get some words on the page.

there's a reason published novelists write the whole thing first and edit.

rough draft: (also, aside, tumblr's beta editor makes it almost impossible to type indented text conveniently. first, ">" should be the block quote shortcut, because that's what it does in markdown. it's really annoying that it goes to a quote block. (block quote = intendented text; quote block = tumblr big serif letters.)

Dovewing churrs, rubbing her temple against Tigerstar's shoulder. "I don't want to upset you," she says. "I'm sorry if you saw Daddy playing with me."

"Don't call him that!" Ivypool hisses. "Stars, I'm right --- you don't --- urgh!"

"You did follow me."

"Because you were going to meet him."

"Which I did."

"And?"

"And you can't yell at me because you decided to watch."

"But you know I'm here now!"

Dovewing pouts. Not that it will [draft cuts off mid sentence]

"You're the one who had the idea to follow me, knowing where I was going."

Ivypool curls her lip. "Sorry, I didn't expect my sister to be calling

draft cuts off mid sentence lol.

final version:

Dovewing churrs, rubbing her temple against Tigerheart’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You—”

“Ivypool,” Tigerheart warns. “Now isn’t a good time for this.”

“Because you were about to fuck her? Yeah, what ThunderClan really needs is more halfClan kits.”

“Because you’re upsetting her.” He kisses her temple.

“It’s fine,” Dovewing says. The look she gives Tigerheart makes it clear what she wants to add, and Ivypool is grateful she doesn’t. “But it is weird that you followed me.”

“When you say you’re going on walks at night, but I find hay in your nest, I do grow concerned.”

“Hay?” Tigerheart eyes Dovewing. “Kitten—”

“Stray piece. Could’ve been from anything.” She flicks her ears. That’s not the point. It’s still weird that Ivypool followed.”

“Yeah, trust me, I wish I hadn’t.” Ivypool flops to the ground. “But really, Dove, daddy?”

“Not that it’s your business, but yes.” Dovewing’s ears flick a few times, and she can’t quite meet Ivypool’s eyes.

[chaoticallysapphic]

the great trial part six

summary: This was meant to be the easy part. The part filled with brightness and love. The war was over and you had the love of your life all to yourself. No more Baatar, no more secrecy and no more lies. But with the calm comes the realization as all the adrenaline finally leaves you. Now you know, this is the hard part.

a/n: you can really tell I needed to be held while writing this. Thank you @medeliadracon​ for being the best editor/beta reader ever

word count: 7.9k

                               3. Tell your partner why you love them. 

Spring is near its end, the days have grown hotter as the sun beats down on the metal city. And with the end of spring comes a special day, your birthday. In the last few years, it was nothing big, Kuvira would usually promise you something great one day like an elegant necklace or first edition books. Those three birthdays spent with her felt strange and hollow. You knew each time she got so caught up in it all that she forgot. Two days before your last birthday you even heard Bolin remind her. 

And whilst she's no longer constantly busy with the task of uniting the Empire, you didn’t think she’d remember. You also didn’t expect the guests that arrived later that fateful day. 

When you wake up, feeling slightly excited about the day, you wake to an empty bed. At first, that familiar feeling of panic (smaller than any of the others before) tightens around your chest until your gaze drifts to the open door. The morning light shines through the sheer curtains you had installed in the living room and casts Kuvira in an angelic glow. 

Her dark hair has been braided, the style reminds you of the day you met. She’s sporting a pair of shorts and a large sleep shirt of yours (it used to be your dad's) along with a pair of the knitted socks you got for Winter Solstice. You bite your lip at the sight as your heart slowly begins to beat at its normal pace again. 

Slowly sitting up you stay in bed with the blankets covering your lower half as you grab her pillow and hug it. Your chin rests on top of it as you watch your lover make you breakfast. Even if she doesn’t remember, this is already better than your last three birthdays. 

You don’t know how long you sit there and dreamily watch her but you do know that when she finally catches your gaze, most of whatever she’s prepared has been set on a tray. “You're meant to be asleep,” she says in defeat. 

You bite your lip as your smile widens at her words. She grabs the glass of mango juice she was in the middle of filling when she finally felt your eyes drilling holes into her backside and places it on the tray with everything else. 

Kuvira grabs the metal tray by the handles and carefully walks over to your bed. You place her pillow down and scoot over until your back hits the headboard. You help her set the tray down, not wanting to stain the sheets if anything were to spill. Spirits, you want to cry, not because of anything bad, but simply because you can tell how much effort and time was put into the meal at hand. 

There’s a stack of apple pancakes with a cinnamon mixture drizzled on top, the pad of butter is half melted and you notice the little pitcher of syrup set beside it. There’s a small bowl of chopped fruit along with a few pieces of perfectly cooked crispy bacon. “I wanted to surprise you.” 

Gulping you look into her eyes and say “you surprised me.” Slowly, afraid of knocking over the tray you pull her close so you can softly kiss her. Your hand is on her shoulder as hers are holding her up on either side of your legs. She’s leaning over the tray as she kisses you back with such gentleness that it makes your heart clench at the love you're currently feeling. 

Kuvira reluctantly pulls away, ever since that night a month ago that ended with you sobbing she’s tried to keep either of you from getting carried away. She wants you so bad, but it’s not time, and she won’t risk the delicate balance that the two of you have recently found. 

“Happy birthday.” Tears well up at her words as you let out a wet chuckle. Every little problem has momentarily vanished in this sweet moment. She reaches her hand up to gently wipe at the tears, if not for your smile she’d be worried that you were upset. 

“Thank you….” You look down at the meal before you as you pick up the fork laid out on a napkin. “This looks amazing, Kuvira.” 

You eat in peaceful silence and Kuvira moves around so she’s sitting beside you and has her chin resting on your shoulder with her arms wrapped around you, your back pressed against her chest. The pancakes are heavenly and you thank whatever force compelled Kuvira to start cooking because this is the best thing you’ve ever eaten. 

“Do you want a bite?” You cut a piece off for her and lift your fork. She shakes her head. 

“It’s for you.” 

“But have you eaten anything yet?” 

“No, but I’ll eat something after.” You raise your fork to her lips anyways, and she sighs before opening her mouth. It’s weird feeding her but you kind of like it, once she bites the piece off you lower the fork you watch her reaction. You smirk when she groans at the taste and before you know it she’s reaching for your fork again. “Hey wait!” 

“That’s amazing and I made it, so I deserve more!” 

“It’s my birthday breakfast!” You're both grinning from ear to ear as she tries to take the fork from you. There’s a dip in the bed as you both continue to struggle over it, she’s beginning to win and there’s this smug look on her features. 

Suddenly her eyes widen as she looks behind you but before either of you can stop whatever it is she sees the sound of Lily gobbling said pancakes up fills the room. Turning slightly so you’re no longer facing Kuvira you see that the plate has been licked clean as Lily stares at you both, her tail viciously wagging back and forth. 

“Well it looks like neither of us is gonna eat them,” you say, it’s still for a moment before you laugh and Kuvira joins you. Perhaps some other day you would have scolded her but right now you're too happy to care. 

You split the bowl of fruit and bacon between the two of you and make Lily lay on the ground to keep her from stealing anything else. Her long snout is raised in the air as she sniffs the bacon that you feed Kuvira.

“What do you want to do today?” She leans back a bit and loosens her hold around your waist. You bite your lip as you try to think something up, growing up your parents would make a picnic and take you across the street to your favorite place on earth where you’d eat amongst the flowers and spend the day basking in the sun. 

Unfortunately with your house arrest that isn’t possible. Someday you’d like to spend it that way again but with Kuvira there as well and Lily napping in the sun beside you all. But today, after everything, you just want it to be as peaceful and relaxing as it possibly can. 

“I just wanna listen to the radio and cuddle you.” Kuvira warms at your words, that’s a plan she can get behind. So you both force yourselves out of bed and place the tray in the kitchen. You turn the radio on as Kuvira lays down on the couch, turning the dial so the volume is lowered a few notches you climb onto the couch and lay between her legs. Resting your head on her chest, you sigh happily when her arms wrap around you. 

The afternoon is peaceful and sometimes one of you breaks the silence to say something in hushed voices. The windows and garden door are open, which allows a cool breeze to flow through the room and graze your skin. You're just about to fall asleep when someone repeatedly knocks on your door. 

“The fuck?” Kuvira groans out. She had fallen asleep some time ago and is being rudely awoken to the knocking. Your parents aren’t meant to come over until dinner time like Kuvira and your father planned, and from what she can tell it’s only midday. 

Reluctantly you extract yourself from Kuvira’s hold and head over to the front door, by now the knocking has thankfully stopped. Sleepily rubbing your eye with one hand and you open the door with the other. Once the person on the other side catches who is greeting him he pulls you into a hug so tight it causes you to wheeze. 

“Happy birthday!” Bolin lets go of you, causing you to stumble back two steps. Kuvira’s eyes widen as she sits up and watches him place his hands on your shoulders with a grin. “You’re one year older!” 

“You… Remembered?” Your brows are raised in surprise as you notice the large gift bag behind him on the floor. Meanwhile, Kuvira is debating going to hide away in your room, not because she’s scared of Bolin but because this is your day and last time they spoke he didn’t hold back his hatred for her. 

“Of course, how could I forget one of my best friends' birthdays?” You step aside to let him in, so he grabs the bag and makes himself at home by placing it on your coffee table. Kuvira stands so she can swiftly excuse herself but stops when Bolin sends a forced smile her way. “I thought I’d come to visit Zaofu and see you, plus I missed Opal.” 

“How is she?” You’re not a massive fan of Opal ever since Kuvira told you about how she acted during her brief time away, but you know she means the world to Bolin just as Kuvira does to you. You walk over to Kuvira as you notice her eyeing the bedroom door and snuggle into her side, wrapping an arm around her waist. 

Bolin seems surprised at the open display, to be fair he found out about the two of you right before he escaped and has never witnessed the two of you share so much as a hug. “She’s doing pretty good, she’s really happy to have her family all back together again.” 

You know that’s a slight dig at Kuvira but try to ignore it, at some point you’ll pull him aside and ask him to ease up on her, for you. “Are you… Do you wanna stay for lunch?” 

To be honest the both of you probably would have slept through lunch but with the arrival of Bolin you may as well eat, three bites of pancakes with some bacon and fruit doesn’t last as long as one would think.

“Totally! We have so much catching up to do anyway.” You help Kuvira heat up some of last night's dinner along with sprucing it up with spices and some homemade bread that she made the other day. Bolin sits at the table and watches the two of you move throughout the kitchen peacefully. 

You both are so used to this that by now you know when to hand the other a utensil or keep from bumping into each other while moving around. He never thought he’d see the great uniter in a kitchen, especially in pajamas no less. Kuvira’s hair is a bit of a mess from the nap and is half out of her braid, not that she notices and you're wearing her white tank top with light blue pajama shorts. Both of you are sporting socks and are the picture of domesticity. 

He notices how healthy you look. Those years on the train were slowly killing you, your lack of appetite and resigned demeanor had made you gradually disappear, it seems like he watched your soul float out of your body sometime after the engagement.

But now you’ve gained back the weight you lost, your cheeks are full again, hair shiny and you’re… Smiling. He’s seen you smile a lot, but he realizes now they must have all been fake because this one is so obviously genuine and nothing like the others. When Kuvira passes by you, a hand grazing your back to let you know of her presence you peek at her with a look so full of love. He wonders if Kuvira knows just how much you love her. It must be a lot by the way you seem so relaxed beside her. 

Lily trots in from the garden where she was most likely barking at anyone passing by and immediately decides that she must sniff this new person. She shoves her cold snout against his arm and Bolin jumps in shock, a yelp escaping him. 

Both of you look up at the sound and when you see Lily inspecting Bolin you snort. “That’s Lily,” you begin to plate the now warm kebabs while Kuvira scoops the Papaya salad into three bowls. “She likes if you rub the backs of her ears.” 

“You got a dog?” Bolin eyes the two of you, more so Kuvira than you. Kuvira has a dog? He must be having some kind of fever dream because nothing seems correct right now. 

“Yes…” That’s the first thing Kuvira has said to Bolin since he stepped through that door. To be fair her heart is pounding as she waits to see his response. You mean too much to her to mess up right now. She can’t ruin another one of your birthdays by starting a fight with your best friend. 

“Well, that’s cool! Y’know I might need to use Lily as an excuse to get one myself, but maybe a smaller one because I’m not home a lot and I could carry a small one around. I don’t think I told you but I work for Zhu Li now.” You bring the plates over to the table and help Kuvira with the bowls. 

The last of Bolin’s words perplexes you. For the most part, you’ve been sheltered from the outside world and its news since the hospital. The last you heard about Zhu Li was her marriage to Varrick. 

She sent you a letter letting you know and saying she wished you could have made it, but she understood that you couldn’t. “What do you mean? She isn’t Varrick's assistant anymore?” 

“Oh wow you’ve really-” Bolin takes a bite of his kebab and his eyes widen at the explosion of flavor in that one bite of meat, “been left out of the loop huh? Also, this is really good.” 

“Thanks,” Kuvira says softly. Another shocker for poor Bolin, she made this? What other weird things has she been getting up to ever since she tried to enslave them? 

“Well,” Bolin brushes off Kuvira’s words, and you sigh to yourself. “Zhu Li ran for president of Republic City and won.” 

“What?!” Your eyes widen, you drop your fork back into your bowl and stare at Bolin. “Really?” 

“Yeah, and she’s ten times better than Raiko. I’m… Well, I guess I’m her assistant now, so I don’t really have much time for myself anymore, but it’s a fulfilling job.” 

You reach under the table and search for Kuvira’s hand. Your fingers brush against hers before wrapping them around hers and softly squeezing. You know she must be uncomfortable right and you’re so grateful. This can’t be easy for her.

“How did you manage to sneak away to Zaofu then?” 

“Oh she gave me the time off when she heard it was your birthday, even gave me a gift to give to you from her and Varrick.” Oh wow, if it’s from the both of them it will probably be something fancy, but knowing Zhu Li it won’t be too over the top whereas if Varrick was in control of it you’d probably have something that could be seen from a mile away. 

“I hope I can see her again sometime, Varrick too.” 

“I’m sure if you ask she’ll find some time off. You mean a lot to her after everything.” After helping her escape, is what he doesn’t say but it’s what everyone knows. Escape from Kuvira. 

“So what are they like as a couple? It shocked me when I got that letter.” And so Bolin goes on one of his tangents about everything regarding the couple. 

Apparently, they both knew about their soulmate bond from day one but Varrick had assumed it’d be one of those rare cases where the love they felt was platonic instead of romantic. But he was just shoving his feelings for her aside, and she had assumed it was platonic as well seeing as he was her boss. 

Little did either know how wrong they were and spent all of those years together slowly, inch by inch, falling in love with one another. It’s actually kind of romantic, they were if anything, friends before lovers. Sometimes you wonder if that's how it should be. 

After everything you feel like just jumping into a relationship with someone you don’t know because of words on your skin seems a bit hasty and rushed. To become friends first, to slowly get to know another allows them to learn if they are right for each other. 

Just because the universe has chosen you as soulmates doesn’t mean you have to date them, many people, those who don’t feel romantic attraction towards others, form deep friendships with their soulmate. And others leave their soulmate because, even though their bond is deeper, the other may still be bad for them. You wonder if you would have left Kuvira if you weren’t so stubborn.

You understand that at times the universe doesn’t choose correctly but you think it did for you. Perhaps at first, she wasn’t good for you but the woman she’s grown into these last few months (almost a year) is thoughtful, caring, and handles you with the utmost gentleness as if you're porcelain. It’s a transformation unlike any other. After that first kiss, it was almost always rough and fast, you had gone further into the physical aspects of your relationship far before you even knew the basics about each other. She was all-consuming in a way that slowly sucked the life out of you but now she’s slowly filling you back up and replacing the cracked pieces of your heart. Pieces she broke. 

“I’m so happy for them, I know Zhu Li seemed worried about Varrick’s reaction to her return,” you reply after he’s done regaling you of everything regarding the couple. It makes sense now that you think about it. 

You think back to the day you helped her escape as you handed her the battle plans for Republic City and how you asked her if you thought a soulmate could forgive the other over a great betrayal. 

“Do you think, what with the deeper bond and all, someone can forgive their soulmate if they betray them?”

“I hope so.” 

Whilst you were panicking over Kuvira, she was probably panicking over Varrick. Then you think about now, about the therapy sessions and the months of not talking, of not touching. The fighting and tears. There wasn’t much for Kuvira to forgive but there was so much for you to forgive. How do you answer your own question when you still aren’t so sure? 

“Oh, the trip back to Republic City whipped him into shape, it made him realize how much he loved her.” By now you’ve all finished your food and Kuvira gets up to collect all the plates. When she passes by you gently grab her wrist to slowly pull her down and leave a quick peck on her cheek. 

She can’t help the slight flush that dusts her cheeks as she stands back up after the kiss and heads to the sink. You just want to try and let her know how much you appreciate her right now, how you see the work she’s putting in. 

Bolin gets up at the display and heads over to the coffee table where he left the big, dark blue bag. He brings it over to you and sets it down on the table with an excited grin. 

“Okay, so this-” he pulls out a perfectly wrapped medium-sized box, “is from Zhu Li. I thought you could open it first and then open mine.” 

He's like an over-excited toddler as he sits down beside you. Kuvira watches from the kitchen as you tear into the wrapping paper, it falls to the floor in small heaps that she knows Lily will try to chew. 

You rip off the last piece of paper to find a black box staring back at you, sliding it onto the table you gently pull the lid off. The first thing that catches your eye is a thin metal bookmark that resembles a flower with its stem. There're words engraved onto the side that read ‘Bravery is often found in the quiet ones’. 

You think back on last year, it was a terrifying time but the two of you, the quiet ones, were braver than anyone could imagine when it came down to it. That night helping her escape made you feel like a hero in a novel, well up until the adrenaline wore off on the ride back to Zaofu. 

Together you took out a general and six guards. She destroyed the mecha suits and you destroyed the weapons. At the moment you didn’t think of yourself as brave or courageous. You were simply trying to right the wrongs of your past, trying to finally be the person you hoped to be. 

Biting your lip to keep from crying you lift the bookmark to show Kuvira “now you can stop yelling at me about our books.” 

“You practically mutilate them with that awful dog-earring,” she retorts. She can see the glisten in your eyes, but she’s too far away to see the words engraved. Kuvira doesn’t comment on it as you blink a few times to wash them away before carefully setting the bookmark onto the table. 

Pulling your gaze away from the bookmark you look towards the box to see what else is inside. There’s something wrapped up in silver tissue paper so you swiftly pull it off and are met with a sight that has you giggling. In your hands is a book titled ‘Communication for Dummies’. There’s a card that slips out of it, it’s small and white, and when you open it up you're met with Zhu Li’s neat handwriting. 

The bookmark is to help remind you of your success, 

The book is to hopefully help you find peace. 

I miss you and hope you’re having a very happy birthday. 

Thank you for everything, 

Zhu Li Moon.

You gently place the card on top of the book and put all three items back into the small black box before placing the lid back on. By now Kuvira has walked over to help you pick up the wrapping paper, which you pull yourself away from the box to do. When you hand her the fist full of paper in your hand, Bolin slides the bag your way. 

“I can’t wait to see your reaction,” he places his chin in his hands as he leans forward in his seat. He’s practically vibrating with excitement so to help calm him down you happily open up the bag and pull out all the tissue paper he stuffed inside. 

Your fingers graze across the smooth fabric and you gently grip the material to pull it out of the bag. In your hand is a mint green halter top made of stretchy fabric, with furrowed brows you pull out the other item inside that’s a pair of matching mint green pants made of the same material. 

“For when you start dancing again,” Bolin happily explains. You look down at the clothes, before you’d always just wear a tank top and sweatpants like most of the girls there but some of them, the ones who had been doing it most of their life had special outfits for practice. “I thought the best dancer I know should have something to practice in.” 

“Bolin…” You want to remind him that you aren’t a dancer and haven’t practiced with a teacher in four years. Looking at the top in one hand and pants in the other reminds you of that first day sparring with him on the train, how he believed in you and your dream. 

“There’s one more thing in there.” You bite your lip and gently set the clothes down, at the bottom of the bag is a silver shoebox. Using both of your hands you carefully pull the box out of the bag and set it on the table, Bolin sets the bag on the floor for you and watches as you carefully lift the lid. 

Inside is probably the nicest pair of dance shoes you’ve ever seen. Made of soft black leather with laces down the center they have a strong grip on the soles and you run your hand over the bottom of them before looking back up at Bolin. 

“The lady at the shop said those are best for the flying stuff, that’s what you wanna do right?” 

Flying stuff, a wet laugh leaves your lips as you vigorously nod. Unshed tears glisten in your eyes as you think about how sentimental this all is. For the last few years, you’ve felt forgotten and unimportant, like if the wind finally carried you away no one would notice. Today feels slightly overwhelming all of a sudden as your grip on the shoes tightens. 

“Are they not the right kind?” Bolin’s voice drips with concern and all you can do is shake your head as you try to calm yourself down. A few tears trickle out from the corners of your eyes and you let out a deep, shaky sigh. 

“No these are perfect, thank you.” He stands from his chair and pulls you into his arms, the shoes get squished between the two of you but you don’t care. Neither of you notice as Kuvira slips into the bedroom, this feels deeply private. She suddenly feels like an intruder in her own home and sits cross-legged on the bed with her sketchbook in front of her as she waits for him to leave. 

When Bolin pulls away from you, he notices the absences of your lover and lets out a sigh of relief, sitting back down in the chair he helps you put all the gifts back in the bag for now. 

“Are you happy, Y/n?” 

“Huh?” You furrow your brows as you wipe away the last of your tears, you feel slightly silly for crying but you know he doesn’t mind. He witnessed you cry a lot on the train. 

“I mean it’s not like before? You’re happy, and she’s finally treating you right?” Oh. You think back on the times you’d start to cry during sparring sessions, he’d always ask if you wanted to stop but you’d simply press on. It felt better to punch away the tears than wallow in them. 

It is better, you think. You’ve known for some time that you both have made vast improvements and it makes you so happy to know that your relationship won’t remain such a toxic void, slowly sucking the life out of you. There was still so much left to do though. 

“I am and…” you smile, “she is. She’s been really amazing these last few months.” Bolin feels a sense of relief in your words. You were like a sister to him and it made him feel so much better to be returning to Republic City knowing you were alright. 

“Y’know I expect you to start writing to me, I can’t just come up to Zaofu every few months to make sure you're still alive.” 

You laugh at that. Grinning you playfully let out a dramatic sigh “I guess I can fit that into my busy schedule.” Both of you talk for a while, he tells you more about his job and you inform him of the thrilling development of your plants which has him laughing with how hard you try to make it sound interesting. 

Eventually, though he has to go. Apparently, he and Opal have a dinner date that he has to go get gussied up for. When you lead him to the front door he pulls you into a tight hug just like the last one, only this time, you’re able to wrap your arms around him too. You stand like that for a minute before he finally pulls away from you, opening the door for himself he looks at you one last time. 

“If you ever need someone, I’ll come as fast as I can, okay?” You nod, to be honest, you had momentarily forgotten about how much Bolin cared for you. It's comforting to know he still cares about you after this year apart during which you’ve stayed with someone he hates. 

“I know, thank you, Bolin.” He offers you one last smile before leaving, the door softly shuts behind him, and once more it’s simply the three of you in the apartment. Lily is napping on the couch and the bedroom door is shut, you know Kuvira snuck off at some point so you leisurely walk over. Upon opening the door you find her sitting at the center of the bed, hunched over with her charcoal pencil in hand. 

“Hey,” you lean against the doorway with your arms comfortably crossed over your chest. She looks up from her sketchbook at the sound of your voice, a soft smile creeps its way onto her lips. “How’s the sketch going?” 

“I’m almost done, ‘started working on it yesterday, so I’m mainly shading right now.” She sets the pencil down and pushes some loose strands of hair behind her ear. “How was your time with him?” 

You slowly walk over and climb onto the bed, you steer clear of the book and make sure not to look down at it as you sit beside Kuvira. Your fingers run through her hair, from her nap most of it is out of the braid and she hasn’t tried to fix it. You love her like this, when she looks so relaxed and happy. “It was nice, we mainly just chatted about our lives since we last saw each other. I missed talking to him.” 

“Those were some nice things you got.” Kuvira looks down at her sketchbook and picks up the pencil to twirl between her fingers.  

“They were, I wasn’t expecting that though.” 

Kuvira sighs, raking a hand through her hair she looks at you out of the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry I can’t get something like that for you today.” Or have ever given you something like that, she thinks in a self-deprecating manner. 

She thinks of all the empty promises on all your other birthdays, the way she’d mention one day showering you in jewelry once it was all over. You’d always tell her you didn’t need fine jewels, just her, but she still feels like a bad girlfriend for not having all of that and more to hand to you on a silver platter. 

“Kuvira…” You inch closer to her until your knees are touching the side of her leg, one of your hands helps tilt her head towards you so you can look into her eyes. “You could hand me a wilted flower and I’d love it.” 

She rolls her eyes at your words, but you pull her face closer until your noses are touching. “I’m serious, I’m really happy with how today has gone, I don’t need anything. All I want is to spend the rest of the day relaxing with you.” 

“I do have something…” She replies softly. You tilt your head in question and watch as she slowly extracts herself from your hold before moving over to her nightstand. She fishes a stack of papers out of her drawer, with her back turned to you, she rearranges them and makes sure none of them have been bent or smudged. 

Kuvira is nervous, which shocks her because she’s never really been nervous. The few times she has, she realizes it’s been about you. With a final exhale Kuvira turns around and sits in front of you. Your knees are touching, you can’t see what's on the papers as she holds them close to her chest. 

“It isn’t a ruby necklace or golden ring but…” Kuvira thickly swallows as she slowly lowers the papers, you bring your hands up to carefully take them from her. “It’s all I have to give to you.” 

A gasp escapes you at the sight before you, the first paper is of a panda lily, the lines are uniformed and perfected, there’s not a single flaw in sight, not even the shading is shoddy. “These are from the past couple of months, it starts with my first few drawings and ends with the more recent ones.” You’ve never heard her sound so nervous before. She tucks her hands between her thighs, her whole body tense as she watches you silently inspect the first drawing. 

Biting your lip you carefully set the first drawing down, afraid of ripping it. The next three are all of different kinds of flowers, you realize they are flowers your dad often brings over to the house. Each one is as perfect as the last, these can’t be her first few because this looks amazing, then again it seems everything Kuvira does is amazing. 

The fifth one is a bit different, it’s of you, sort of. You can tell she had a harder time with this one, instead of having the sharp defining lines and perfect strokes it’s a bit softer, you can see some smudge marks around the hair but it’s still you. You’re looking down with your hair pushed behind your ears, it’s a side profile. 

“That’s not the best of them,” she admits. You shake your head, delicately as if scared you’ll break it your fingers graze across it. 

“I love it.” The lump in your throat slowly grows as you sift through the stack. Slowly it’s less perfect, less inanimate and lifeless, and rawer. There’s a drawing of Lily on her back with her tail wagging that you know you’ll have to frame. 

There’s one of your parents, it looks like something similar to Winter Solstice as they sit next to each other with glasses of wine in their hands. Your dad has his arm slung over your mom's shoulder as both are laughing. There are finger smudges on the corner of it and you can see the happiness in their expressions. 

Next is you and your father filling dumplings, he’s staring down at you. You're grinning from ear to ear as you stare at the half pinched dumpling in your hands. 

Then it’s you and Lily with her sitting on your lap, your arms are wrapped around her body with your eyes close, head resting against hers. The drawing makes you feel cozy and loved like you're experiencing the moment she captured on the piece of paper. 

There’s two left. The second to last one stuns you, your grips on the papers tighten just a fraction as you stare at yourself sleeping. Your hair is sprawled across the pillow, you have a hand tucked under your head with the other outstretched, most likely trying to reach for her. There’s this content look on your face, a slight smile and a scrunch of the nose. Your shirt has ridden up and bunched just under your breasts, the curve of your body on display as the blanket rests at your hips. 

“When did-” 

“Three weeks ago.” 

You nod, wetting your lips, you feel tears well up in your eyes, you can’t tear your gaze away from the drawing. Your heart swells with love for this talented woman sitting across from you. Is this what you look like in your sleep? Is this what Kuvira sees when she wakes up in the morning? 

“You just looked so peaceful,” she admits anxiously. She keeps looking at you and then the paper, there’s one left, it’s recent but it’s different from the rest. This is based on an old memory, and she doesn’t know what you’ll think of it, 

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe out, your voice shaky. This is too intimate to frame, you’ll have to get some kind of book or folder to hold this and any future ones for safekeeping. You aggressively wipe at your eyes, afraid of the tears dripping onto the paper. Carefully Kuvira extracts her hands from her thighs and brings them up to pull your hands away from your eyes, gently she wipes the tears away for you. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, you’re not sad right?” You shake your head in her hands, and she lets out a sigh of relief. “Well, there’s one left.” 

Thickly swallowing you nod before cautiously setting that drawing on top of the rest. Her hands move to run through your hair as you look down at the last one. You still in her hold at the image in front of you. Unlike the rest, which are clearly drawn from memory in house arrest, this one goes far back. It’s something you haven’t thought about in years, it’s of you dancing in the studio with the metal flower underneath you, petals open to reveal you mid twirl. 

You look different, younger, and stress-free with a determined expression. You vaguely remember doing this, it wasn’t part of the routine but something you sometimes did when you thought you were alone. Clearly, at some point, you weren’t as discreet as you thought with your private practices. 

Eager as ever you’d come to the studio an hour early sometimes to warm up before everyone else slowly trickled in. You’d run through the stretches Suyin taught you then practice any moves you felt insecure about, which was honestly all of them. The metal flower makes you flush as you remember your night with Kuvira, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to look at it without feeling slightly scandalized. 

That was your first time, first kiss too. It was overwhelming but also so perfect, she cradled you between her hands like you were a delicate spring flower and watched you come undone so many times before deciding to show you how to pleasure her. You were exhausted when you both finally collapsed in a tangled heap and finally knew why everyone seemed obsessed with sex. 

“Y/n?” This time tears do fall onto the paper and you mentally scold yourself, you offer a weak smile as you let her wipe away the tears. 

“These,” you place one hand on top of the pile, your other delicately holding the last drawing, “are the best gifts I have ever received.” They beat everything you could ever think of. These are things you’ll hold onto for the rest of your life and will show your grandkids. 

You’ll cherish them for the rest of your life, even the less personal ones because it’s something she made, something she deemed beautiful enough to share with you. 

Kuvira doesn’t believe you. She’s sure your parents have spoiled you with amazing gifts growing up and can’t help but believe these drawings to be some kind of a cheap cop-out. But that smile of yours as you continue to softly cry has that self-deprecating voice quieting down. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something, it’s one of the things on Dr. Hanika’s list.” 

You hum in acknowledgment of her words as you pick up the stack from the bed and carefully clutch them to your chest. It seems stupid but these drawings make you feel more loved than you’ve ever felt before. 

“I know you can’t say it to me yet and I don’t want to pressure you.” I do wish you’d say it back, she thinks. “But I wanted to tell you some reasons I love you.” 

Your eyes widen in surprise at her words, but she presses on. “I know we’ve had a rough start and I know I’m to blame for it but I do mean it when I say it to you. Because…” she takes a deep breath, “you are so sweet and caring, you treat everyone kindly but aren’t afraid to fight back when necessary. I watched you stand up for what you believed in last year and you did it so fiercely, without a doubt in your mind it seemed.” 

“You take care of those plants like they are newborn babies, so delicately that at one point in time I was jealous of the attention you gave them,” you can’t help but giggle at that, and she smiles. ”I used to get so excited when I thought about you growing up, I wondered what you’d be like, would you love me back? And then when I was sent here I gave up on the idea. It didn’t seem like I was meant to be loved by someone like that.” 

You move one of your hands away from the stack of papers and gently cup her cheek, she leans into your touch. Her heart swells when she feels your thumb gently graze her cheekbone. 

“I didn’t make anything easy and I think that was partly because I believed you were too good for me. I felt like a fraud at times but you’d always pull me out of my thoughts.” 

“You’re the only person who can do that. I think I’ve remained sane for so long because of you and I know if you weren’t there I would have gone through with my plan. I don’t know what would have happened but I know it wouldn’t have been anything good.” 

She wets her lips. “I love you even though you over-salt your food, even if you snore into my ear at night.-” You flush in embarrassment, your face tilting down, but she needs to look into your eyes for this, they help calm her. So she gently places her finger under your chins and lifts your head back up.

“You might be a bit messy or destroy our books, turn the music up too loud at times or drag mud through the kitchen but those are the kinds of things that make you who you are. Even if they drive me up the wall at times I still love them because you wouldn’t be the woman you are if you didn’t…. Take up most of the couch when we’re sitting together.” 

You can’t help how nice it feels to stretch your legs out, you think. By now there is a stream of tears racing down your cheeks and dripping off your chin. 

“I love you because for some reason, despite me pushing you away all those years you’ve stayed. Everyone else ran away when it got tough but you didn’t even though you should have.”

“I don’t think I’ve mentioned how grateful I am that you’re giving me a second chance and I hope you know that I really am trying. Not because I want things to go back to the way they were or because I want specific things from you,” like sex,” but because I love you.” 

You can’t speak right away, that lump in your throat keeps you from forming any words as you continue to quietly cry. You know your face is probably red from crying and that you are such a mess. Reluctantly you set the stack of paper down to wipe away the tears. You take a deep breath to try and calm down, it works, sort of. 

“I know you can’t say it yet and that’s okay, but I wanted to tell you this and…'' one of Kuvira’s hands slid down to yours, she laced her fingers through yours and offered a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry for being a piece of shit for so long, and I’m sorry it’s taken me four years to give you a decent birthday.”

“It’s okay…” you choke out. 

“No it’s not,” she quickly replies. Kuvira knows how you don’t like to hurt other people’s feelings, including her own. Sometimes you’ll swallow your own feelings down for other people, she’s witnessed it far too many times. 

You guys sit like that for a few minutes while you calm down, spirits you’ll have to put a cold towel on your face after this. She breathes in time with you in hopes of helping you calm down, it helps as she exhales with you then inhales. You could have used this all those years ago during one of your breakdowns on the train. 

“I do…” love you, ”and one day I’m gonna say it back but right now just know that I do.” 

It’s all you can offer, your voice is scratchy since your throat hurts from crying so much and it makes you cringe a bit to hear. Kuvira nods, she understands. That selfish, impatient part of her is internally yelling to finally hear it again, but she squashes it down. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent in each other’s arms, you fall asleep at some point and awaken to Kuvira gently cupping your cheek. When she tells you your parents are in the living room it surprises you, she lets you slowly get dressed as she leaves the room to go back to cooking with your father. When you look in the floor-length mirror in the bedroom you let out a content sigh as you brush your hand over the sundress you’ve chosen. Your hair is a bit frizzy, but it’s nothing your parents haven’t seen. 

When you finally leave the bedroom your parents cheerfully greet you with bone-crushing hugs as they rejoice at your presence. Both of your parents immediately keep up the tradition by retelling the story of your birth which has Kuvira awkwardly staring at the cutting board as she tries to bite down a chuckle at the funny parts. 

Wine glasses are pulled out, bottles popped and when the food is finally ready you move to the dining room table. It’s loud and boisterous and very similar to Winter Solstice except now the topic is solely you. It has you blushing, your head in your hands as Kuvira gets to find out about all of your embarrassing toddler stories. 

“How old was she?” 

“Four.” 

“She was four when she got a toilet seat stuck around her neck.” Spirits, you gulp down some wine. You can’t be too mad though because Kuvira is laughing, there’s a massive grin on her face. She loves this and hopes your parents never run out of stories to tell her.

 As they begin to tell the story of your first day at school your eyes meet from across the table. Their voices slowly fade away as Kuvira offers you a loving smile that you easily return. 

One day you’ll say it back, it’ll just take a bit more time. And at this moment you have a hard time not mouthing the words to her, but you’re not ready. You won’t push yourself again, so instead, you simply enjoy this moment, this quiet bubble you’ve momentarily created.

Today has been so perfect, it feels like one of Kuvira’s drawings, like it can’t be real. If you blink it’ll be gone, so you simply enjoy the moment with all three of your favorite people surrounding you. 

She may have messed up your past birthdays, but today might just be the best day of your life and you didn’t even have to leave the house for it. All you can do is hope for more mornings spent laughing in each other's arms and days where you can simply be lazy, especially as a major change comes barreling towards you.

[thewritinggrindstone]

Identifying Harmful Repetition in Your Writing

Something I’ve encountered ad nauseam over the last few projects I’ve edited is a relentless repetition of words, phrases, and ideas. One of the most frustrating and confidence-destroying issues a reader can encounter is poorly executed repetition, which can stem from different problems, including:

Too much reliance on your natural stock phrases.

Limited vocabulary.

Not proofreading close enough or editing thoroughly enough.

Lack of confidence.

Not writing with the reader in mind.

I want to preface this with the fact that obviously certain types of repetition aren’t bad. Repetition is an incredibly powerful tool when used effectively, and what’s effective is subjective per book and per reader. That’s a massive topic for another time. This post is specifically about egregious uses of repetition, the types that any good editor or beta reader will point out as in need of fixing.

Stock Phrases and Words

Every person has their own unique lexicon, a repository of words and phrases they naturally will draw upon when they speak, write, and even think. There’s a reason clichés are prevalent, and that’s because the brain likes the path of least resistance. It’s easy to mentally grab those words and phrases that are constantly in arm’s reach, those words and phrases that are comfortable and familiar, but constantly doing this while writing and then not changing them can result in overuse that is noticeable on both stylistic and technical levels. It can also lead a reader to the understanding that you haven’t thought critically about what you’re writing, which can and will undermine their confidence in you.

If you’re writing a first draft, don’t worry about this too much. You probably just need to focus on putting words down, not exactly what those words are. Repetition is an issue that can and should be intentionally fixed during the revision process.

If this is a problem that bugs you even when you’re drafting, there are different ways of dealing with it. I tend to be highly aware of most repetition within my work, and because I constantly edit as I write, backtracking to add/move information as I go doesn’t tend to interrupt my workflow too much. If I know I’ve already used a word and can’t think of something better after several seconds’ thought, I’ll use the repetition and immediately flag it somehow—usually with a “repeat” comment—so I can deal with it once I’ve completed the draft. Opening a thesaurus or dictionary tends to be more disruptive during drafting than it’s worth, but sometimes it isn’t, and you will need to determine what works best for you according to your own style.

Once you’re ready to target the issue of repetition, you will need to work hard, think hard. Don’t settle for the easy word, the stock phrase, the cliché. Discard the timeworn, the tired, the used-before. Play with language—try to come up with new phrases, unique descriptions. Get silly, flip rocks over, dig around under them, push things as far as you need to create something different, then go back and edit again, refining what you’ve written until you’re satisfied.

It’s going to be a process. It’s going to be difficult. It won’t be natural at first; you’ll need to form new pathways in your brain, just like when you learn any new skill, and that’s uncomfortable, but if you persist, your writing will be fresh and alive and won’t be as prone to being bogged down by reader-infuriating repetition.

Limited Vocabulary

Tying into the idea of your personal lexicon is the size of it. No matter how much you pay attention to precisely what words or phrases you’re using, you won’t have much in the way of options if you don’t have at least a good-sized repertoire to draw from.

Increasing your lexicon is something that just takes dedication and time. You can’t rush it, you can’t force it, but you can be deliberate in growing it. Read broadly, maybe bookmark or sign up for your favorite dictionary’s word of the day, or keep a word cache of interesting words or phrases you like.* I have a document titled “word hoard” in Dropbox where I keep all unusual, unfamiliar, or beautiful words I encounter as well as their function(s) and definitions. Most of these words haven’t properly entered my own lexicon yet, but actively being aware of words that are anywhere from slightly to completely outside what you usually use will help you become a more mindful writer.

* I got this idea from Barbara Baig’s Spellbinding Sentences, which is one of my favorite books I’ve ever read on writing.

Lack of Proofreading/Editing

The identification and elimination of repetition hovers somewhere between content editing and technical editing. It’s an easy problem to skim over, especially when you’re the writer because you’re likely too familiar with every word you’ve put down, and issues like this tend to fade into the background. This is particularly true of writers who have reworded or reorganized a given piece of writing, since repetition can easily become lost in the jumble.

If possible, set your project aside for at least a few days—preferably a few weeks or even longer—then come back to it and read it with fresh eyes while intentionally noting and commenting on or highlighting all uses of repetition, big and small. If you aren’t sure if it’s something you repeated, flag it anyway—you can always check later.

If you don’t have time to set the project aside for a while, read your work aloud. If you can’t bear reading your work aloud or you aren’t able due to circumstances, listen to the document instead. Word has a read aloud function, and there are many online text-to-speech websites where you can paste a piece of writing. The unnatural cadence of the artificial voice might be weird and awkward at first, but listening won’t fully engage the “reading” portion of your brain, and you’ll likely find it easier to notice uses of repetition, among other problems. While writing this post, I have listened through it three times, tweaking phrasing and eliminating repetition—and deleting some of the harsher statements—as I go.

If you’re feeling really brave, have another person read your writing back at you. Nothing like being uncomfortably hyperaware of every word you’ve put down to recognize pretty much every single problem within your work. Just do not overcompensate and decide that nothing you’ve written has any value at all (it does), or that you’ll need to change everything (you don’t). If you approach this method with the understanding that it’s going to be awkward but are nevertheless determined to get something useful out of it, you’ll benefit, especially if your reading partner is willing to help you with any areas you feel you need assistance in.

When editing for repetition, if possible, pay attention not only to noun/verb/adjective usage. Go deeper. What types of repetition are you prone to using? Do you begin a significant portion of your sentences with conjunctions? Are there certain conjunctions you use more frequently than others? Do you reiterate entire sentences two or more times with only slight variations in wording? Do you return to the same idea numerous times? What about tone, do you use lots of rhetorical questions? Sarcasm? Self-deprecation? Self-boasting? Do you frequently return to the same imagery or settings or use of metaphor? Or grammar—are there certain punctuation marks or grammatical conventions you use more than others? Do you have a sentence construction you consistently fall back on?

Again, some of these questions might require an outside opinion for you to find suitable answers, but becoming self-aware of not just what you do but why you do will help you recognize these patterns, which in turn can help you mentally eliminate repetition before it even makes it past your fingertips.

Lack of Confidence

Widespread repetition of sentences and ideas is often a major symptom of a writer who isn’t confident in their abilities to communicate what they’re talking about. “If I just tell you this fact again, surely you’ll believe me this time. I’ll make you believe me. Do you believe me now? What about now? Now? Now?”

The painful truth is... no.

Encountering mindless or fear-based repetition is extremely frustrating for readers. Inevitably, without fail, every single time I edit a book by a writer who has repeated themselves over and over and over again, with every single repetition, I increasingly doubt both their credibility and their ability to pass on important knowledge to me. I feel either patronized and insulted, or I feel annoyed because it seems like the author threw their thoughts down on paper in whatever order they came out and then hit publish with

no regard for how those thoughts will be perceived by others, and

no regard for how they are wasting the reader’s time.

Please, please do not undermine your credibility by repeating yourself. Readers usually only need to read information one time for them to absorb it, maybe twice, so trust your readers. If the reader needs to come back to information, they have that ability. Do not force unnecessary repetition in their faces. Always assume readers are at least as smart as you. If you don’t need the information repeated, give your readers the same respect.

Increasing your writing confidence will once again take time and effort. You’ll need to determine why you’re not confident and then seek out methods of correcting the issue(s). In general, fear of not being heard or understood tends to be the underlying cause of repetition, so learn how to be deliberate in your writing. Say what you mean to say. Say exactly what you mean to say. Understand that you have something important to share with the world, so share it—then stop. Readers will appreciate you for not wasting their time.

 Writing for Yourself

Yesterday I finished editing a project just over 88,000 words. Nineteen chapters. Almost 250 pages.

I hated every word, and I learned nothing.

If it had been a line edit, I could’ve cut the book’s word count down below 50K merely by eliminating all of the repetition. This author is infatuated with the sound of their own voice, talked on and on and on merely to hear their own self-revelations and how special they are compared to everyone else stated again and again in near-identical sentences.

I’m editing another book right now that is less self-important and is far more interesting on the whole (and is thankfully over a hundred pages shorter), but again, the author has repeated themselves sometimes three or four or five times, with some phrases appearing over fifteen times, and I can feel my resentment growing. If an author isn’t going to take the time to put forth a thoughtfully crafted piece of writing, why should a reader likewise invest in it?

There is absolutely nothing wrong with writing for yourself. You should—you’ll learn a lot about yourself as both person and writer, and you’ll enjoy writing more, and you’ll (hopefully) be able to refine your skills.

But if—if—you intend to share your writing with the world, if you actually have something to say, you need to be aware that you have a duty to make yourself understood without wasting people’s time. Do not make people regret having picked up your writing by being so in love with the sound of your own voice that you are no longer courteous to others.

Love your writing. Love it fiercely and passionately and with reckless abandon, but reach a place where you know how your writing is going to be perceived at large. Use as many words as you need to get your point across and no more.

In Closing

If you’re still having difficulty identifying repetition within your own work, ask someone who is skilled at recognizing this issue to look over your writing. It’s always easier to recognize repetition when you haven’t written it, so fresh eyes can give you the insight you might not be able to see yourself.

Know your audience. A children’s book will require a different level of repetition than an instruction manual or a sci-fi novel or an autobiography. If you’re reading a recipe, you’d be annoyed and confused if the author told you to add the same ingredient twice due to shoddy proofreading. Write and repeat accordingly.

Whatever you’re writing, make a point of intentionally performing at least one round of editing with the intention of eliminating unnecessary repetition. Your readers will appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.

[kitkat1003]

Where the Sea Meets Earth

Ao3 Link

Summary: 

Tang's life has fallen into a steady, comfortable routine, one he feels no need to change.  

So he doesn’t.

Until he has to.

Note: Hi!  Lowkey used an idea from @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off  when it came to Pigsy's rival.  They make great content, give them a look!  As always, shout out to my beta reader, @imnotcameraready, the most kind and patient editor out there.  She edited this all in one night, the mad lad.  Send love her way!!  She goes by UncrownedKing on Ao3, check out her stuff!  Anyway, have fun!

Tang’s routine is simple.  Get up, watch Pigsy make breakfast.  Steal an egg or two that Pigsy definitely didn’t make in preparation for such thievery.  Follow Pigsy around as the noodle shop is set up for the morning.  Listen to the hiss of oil in a hot wok, water bubbling in a tall pot, knife against the wooden cutting board, each slice precise with practice.  

Admire the way Pigsy’s arms bulge with muscle as he lifts heavy boxes of spices, meat and vegetables.  Watch the sweat on his brow build up as he tosses the ingredients in the wok, stirs the broth, sticks a pinkie in before pulling it out to taste the concoction, tilting his head to the side in thought every time before reaching for a different spice—

Chuckle when MK scrambles down the stairs, a second before being late.  Wave back when MK greets him enthusiastically.  Listen to Pigsy bark orders.  Watch MK vanish out the store door, listen to the sound of the delivery cart starting up.  Wait for the customers to come in.

Sometimes, between the breakfast and lunch rush, he will vanish into the town.  He’ll peruse the shelves of a bookstore, maybe get a book or two.  Then, he’ll come back to the restaurant and watch Pigsy work until closing, with the occasional interruption from MK or Mei.  Pigsy will make dinner, and they’ll eat while watching TV before ending the night, asleep next to each other.

It’s a steady routine, one Tang feels no need to change.  

So he doesn’t.

Routines are brought on by repeated motions and consistent action.  He finds himself considering them more and more, these days. Tang follows the lines back, through time, to trace where each routine began, as Pigsy yells at MK to get going.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He lives off a trust fund from his late parents, as well as a few checks from his work in historic preservation.  His family has passed down the stories of old for years, and he knows them well and by heart, because at 18 his memories had come flooding in, and suddenly he was older than time itself and yet just old enough to have sake enough that creating books and speaking on historical inaccuracies is easy to turn into a living.  

A few years ago, he gave it up because it hadn’t seemed important to bother anymore after his parents died.  The next year he’d wasted time coasting through town after town, sharing random tales for a meal, trying to forget that he was alone, until….

Two years ago, he watched Pigsy throw a customer out of his shop, threatening the unruly guest within an inch of his life, and thought Well then.  Something interesting.

Tang had actually gone to the rival noodle shop first. It seemed a bit more inviting.  Pigsy, for all his culinary achievements, is still very closed off, and his shop certainly reflects that.  Sometimes, Tang wonders if Pigsy would get more customers if he’d change his attitude, but he never brings it up, because what would Pigsy’s Noodles be without Pigsy?

He watches from afar a few days, until the Pigsy’s rival shop owner not so subtly nudges him over, and the moment he walks in, he’s knocked to the ground by a very exuberant noodle delivery boy.

“Oh my gosh!  I’m so sorry—are you alright?” Tang sits himself upright to the sound of frantic apologies, seeing a kid no older than 18 fretting over him as if he’d been stabbed instead of simply knocked over.  

“It’s fine,” he starts, a little annoyed but not rude enough to make the boy more panicked than he already looks to be.

“MK, what did you do?!” Comes the familiar gruff voice from the kitchen, and the boy—MK, Tang has gathered—helps him stand as the chef walks out of the kitchen, hands on his hips.

“I didn’t notice him coming in—I just knocked into him—it was an accident!” Tang worries, then, because MK seems scared, but those worries are swept away when the chef takes a deep breath and slowly, his stance relaxes.

“It’s fine, kid, just get those deliveries out, ‘kay?” his voice is so gentle, Tang remembers now he was taken aback. Now it feels so natural for Pigsy’s voice to be gentle.  “I’ll take care of this.”

MK nods to that, jittery and anxious, and walks out with a forced slowness that Tang can tell is from worry and guilt.  Once he’s left, Tang turns back to Pigsy, who lets out a breath and mutters something about how ‘this kid is gonna be the death of me’ before looking up at Tang with what Tang later learned is his customer service expression.

“Alright, c’mon in.  Welcome to Pigsy’s Noodles, home of the longest noodles.” 

At that, Tang has to snort.  He saunters over to the barstools and sits as Pigsy goes back behind the counter, into the kitchen.

“I don’t know if long is the metric you want to brag about,” he snarks, settling easily.

Pigsy grunts in reply, already back to cooking.

Two minutes later, Tang gets a bowl of noodles placed in front of him.

“On the house,” Pigsy grouches, before Tang even thinks to reach into his coin purse.  “For the trouble.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very sound business practice,” Tang laughs, taking a sip of the broth after it cools a little.  

It was the best he had ever tasted.

“Don’t get any ideas about it.” Pigsy fidgets with his chef’s hat, face settling into a scowl, and yet Tang can tell it was all bluster with no substance.

He pulls a pair of chopsticks out of the free container, snaps them apart, and eats as customers flit in and out of the shop.

Despite the fact that he never stays in one place for too long, Tang finds himself sticking around more than just a few weeks, trailing through the streets and eventually finding himself back at the noodle shop.  The noodles are delicious, cheap, and he finds the company of the chef a comfortable one.

Things get far more interesting when the delivery boy, MK, comes down late and gets an earful for it.

“Sorry—I stayed up late drawing the autobiography of Monkey King and I missed my alarm!” MK bows in apology, frantic, and Pigsy runs a hand over his face, pointing MK to a dirty table to clean.  

MK gets to work quickly, but Tang turns to him with a curious expression.

“You like Monkey King?” he asks, and he hears Pigsy groan from the kitchen.

“Here we go,” Pigsy mutters, but he does nothing to stop MK from turning to face Tang with a wide, blinding smile on his face.

“Do I!  He’s so cool, and strong, and handsome, and interesting!  I’ve watched the animated series like, fifteen times!” he rushes up to Tang, pushing a very worn, bound together book.

Tang flips through it, more out of politeness than anything else, and finds himself pleasantly surprised by the intricacy of the sketches, the love poured into pages, notes on the stories themselves scrawled out next to the drawings.

“This is...surprisingly accurate,” He glances over at MK, who preens at the praise.

“Thanks!  I’ve been drawing these, since, like, forever!  It’s going to be Monkey King’s autobiography.  Uh, unofficially, anyway,” MK rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.  Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s always nice to see the younger generation so interested in history,” Tang grins with pride as he adds,  “You know, I know essentially every Monkey King story.  I even wrote an academic paper on them.  Published.”

He watches MK’s excitement grow. “Really?!  Oh my gosh, that’s so cool!  Can you tell me one?  Pretty please?!” He’s bouncing on his toes, and Tang can’t help but chuckle.

“I could tell you a tale or two,” he starts, watching as the shine in MK’s eyes grow.  “But I need something in return.  A bowl of noodles, perhaps?”

MK’s smile drops, and he fidgets.

“I don’t know if I have the money…” he mumbles, mostly to himself, and then he turns to Pigsy, a question in his eyes.

“No,” Pigsy says, immediately. 

Tang has never seen someone use puppy dog eyes like a weapon before, but MK pulls them off like a pro.

MK’s hands are clasped together. “Please?”

“I got bills to pay, kid!  I can’t be giving free meals to strangers!”

“Well, I’m hardly a stranger,” Tang teases, smile widening when Pigsy reddens.  “We met yesterday, remember~?”

“Shut yer yap,” Pigsy grinds out, but Tang has seen Pigsy far angrier, from his reconnaissance days at the shop across the street, so he isn’t worried.

Pigsy turns back to MK, mouth clearly open to rebuff the kid, but MK’s puppy dog eyes have been turned up past 100%.  Tang watches as Pigsy crumbles beneath their gaze.

“Fine,” he grits it out between clenched teeth.  “But this is a one time thing!  I don’t have time for freeloaders around here.  And not now!  I got ten orders to make, that you have to take out,” he points to MK, who is nodding his head so quickly his face becomes a blur.

“Okay!  So, in like an hour, okay Mr.Tang?” he turns to Tang, who grins, calm as ever.

“I’ll be here,” he responds, voice even, and MK busies himself with cleaning up the tables before Pigsy hands him the orders.

When MK disappears, Pigsy sighs.

“You know, pretty sure it’s rude to use kids to get free food,” he says, and Tang can only chuckle again.

“I’m not sure what you mean.  I’ve used my knowledge to score many a meal before, this is no different.  You’d be surprised what people will give for an interesting story.”

Pigsy snorts, at that, and rolls his eyes.“You a good storyteller, at least?” he asks, and Tang puffs out his chest proudly.

“The best.” After all, his papers got him a pretty good amount of wealth, so he’d hope he’s good enough to earn that.

Pigsy turns back to his prep work, shaking his head, but Tang sees the barest hint of a smile, before Pigsy turns away.

Despite protests from Pigsy, Tang comes back the next day with another story and receives the same free bowl of noodles.  He doesn’t get noodles every day, not stupid enough to think that Pigsy could afford to give him one daily, but he appears at the noodle shop every day regardless, if only to watch the hustle and bustle of the place, watch Pigsy work.

Pigsy works with practiced motions, not a single measuring cup or spoon appearing in his hand.  Pinches, handfuls of colorful spices thrown in with fresh vegetables.  Tang watches him string out the noodles from fresh made dough, dropping them in the broth, stirring, always test tasting, constantly adding something else, another pinch of spice, until he’s only somewhat satisfied.

It’s a familiar feeling.  The need to constantly make better, the chase for perfection.  Is it any wonder, then, that Pigsy’s shop thrives?  Customers learn that deliveries are often better than eating in, because Pigsy’s attitude is abrasive and he’s loud in the kitchen. Regardless, he runs a big enough business and makes good money, enough to keep MK as an employee despite MK’s many missteps.

Tang learns, through snippets of conversations, that MK lives upstairs.  Pigsy gave him the job and the room.  MK doesn’t talk of his parents, or any of his family really, but he has a friend, Mei.

Mei is as loud as MK is, and she’s familiar in the same way Pigsy.  These people he meets at the noodle shop who come for company just like he does, lives slotting into each other with ease.  Talking to them is like picking up a conversation left off a thousand years ago, stumbling only for a second before falling into the familiar groove.

Tang slowly learns the group dynamic, learns that MK’s parents haven’t spoken to him since he was kicked out, that Mei stays as far away from her home as she can for as long as possible, that Pigsy has nothing to his name besides his shop and himself.

Sees the family, the foundation, centered around the little hole in the wall restaurant, and keeps himself rooted, just for a little while.

The shop is closed every third Sunday of the month.  That is the only day that it is consistently closed.  Pigsy works seven days a week, twelve hours a day, without fail, except for that third Sunday.  Tang forgets, one month, and catches Pigsy heading out in the early morning.

“What, forgot you can’t steal food today?” Pigsy greets him with a frown that softens into something like a smile.

“Maybe I don’t come for the food,” is Tang’s snappy reply, and he watches with satisfaction as Pigsy pauses, thinks, and then turns a dusty rose color.

Turns out, Pigsy’s ears blush with his cheeks.  “Anyway, going on a walk?  I might join you,” he turns.

Pigsy stares at him, as if he can’t tell if Tang is serious or not, before he sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking.  “I’m going shopping.  Don’t get in my way,” is the response, and Tang takes it for the acceptance of the company that it is, and catches up to Pigsy with ease, stepping in time with him.

The perks of having long legs.

Tang watches as Pigsy charges his way into the market, eyes sharp for the best ingredients, the ripest vegetables—or, the vegetables soon to be ripe, to save for the later weeks.  He gets a practiced amount for every ingredient that goes into his food.

“Have to get the meat weekly, but the produce can last if I make it,” Pigsy explains, and Tang nods.

“That makes sense.  I never notice a drop in quality, regardless of the week,” he comments.

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure anything tastes great to a freeloader,” he grumbles.

“I’ll have you know I have a refined palette,” Tang huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Pigsy laughs then, raucous and loud, a sound Tang has never heard from him before.  His heart pitter-patters quickly in his chest, and he thanks everything that his scarf hides his face and that Pigsy is short enough to not be able to spot his blush.

“Okay, wise guy,” Pigsy’s voice draws him back in.  “You ever cooked yourself a meal before, then?” He elbows Tang gently, or as gentle as Pigsy is able to be, and Tang stumbles a bit before replying.

“Well…,” his voice alludes to the obvious answer, and Pigsy laughs at him all over again.

Tang decides he likes the sound.

A few months after Tang has cemented his spot at the noodle bar, Pigsy goes to usher him out of the shop one evening as he closes for the night and stops, right before heading up the stairs. He turns to Tang with an unplacable look.

“Where are you even staying?” Pigsy asks.  “Not a resident, I think I’d’ve noticed a newcomer that was moving in.”

Tang shrugs at the thought. “Wherever.” 

Typically, he’ll head out to a busy bar and ingratiate himself to someone, convince them to let him join their party, and sleep on a random couch.  He’s always gone before anyone wakes up, to be sure he misses the questions that would come from the house’s inhabitants.  If he can’t manage that, well, he’s not above sleeping on a bench somewhere.  It isn’t cold out yet, so he doesn’t worry about it.

Tang very well could get an apartment, with the amount of money he has saved.  He could, but then he’d be trapped.

He’d have to say that he’s settling down, that a place is going to become home.  And no place has really been home, not since his parents died and he walked through empty hallways and empty rooms that once meant something and now meant nothing to anyone besides himself.  He’d sold the house, stored the memories away, burned the rest and ran before the smoke cleared.

How could he stay, when there was nothing left? He’d settled in for the long hall, cemented himself as something soft like the earth, and then it had been ripped away from him like roots, tearing up the soil and leaving a mess in its wake.

So he became stone, and left without a word.

Pigsy stares at him, something almost like concern on his face.  Tang watches Pigsy’s eyes glance up towards the stairs, and then back to him.  Deliberating.  Tang tilts his head to the side, ever curious about the concern.  He knows Pigsy cares, and he knows Pigsy, beyond the gruff exterior, is pretty soft, but he’s surprised by this development.  He didn’t think that care would be extended to, in Pigsy’s words, a freeloader.

Then, Pigsy sighs.

“I’ve got a couch, if you’re interested,” he says, and Tang

Tang just follows Pigsy up to his apartment.  There’s a hallway at the top of the stairs, a door they pass by that Tang can hear pop music playing in.

“MK’s place,” Pigsy says, before Tang can ever ask the question.

They reach Pigsy’s apartment door, at the end of the hall, and head in.

It’s a cluttered space.  Well, everything save for the kitchen is cluttered.  The kitchen is pristine, so much so that the rest of the apartment pales in comparison.  It’s not dirty, there’s no trash or dishes left out, but there are just random items, magazines, cookbooks strewn about the rest of the living space.

“Sorry about the mess.” Pigsy says as he pulls off his chef’s hat and coat, hanging it up by the door. He takes off his dress shoes, and pulls out a pair of slippers from a bin, putting them to walk on the carpet.  He glances back at Tang expectantly.  Tang pulls off his scarf and hangs it up.

“It’s no problem.  I wasn’t an expected guest, I’m guessing?”

Tang takes off his shoes and pulls a pair of slippers from the bin.  He isn’t surprised by the kitchen being clean, but he is a bit confused by the clutter.  Pigsy takes care to keep his work space pristine, scrubbing it to sparking at the end of each work day.  Perhaps this is a product of that, and Pigsy just is too tired to care as much in a space that is more his than it is his profession.

Somehow, that makes Tang concerned.  He can’t pinpoint why.

Pigsy pulls off the random items from the couch, throwing them aside but scattering them further.  He grunts in response to the rhetorical question.

“I’m gonna get a pillow and blanket.  Don’t break anything.”  Pigsy trudges off, and Tang looks at the clutter, and then at the perfectly good, half empty bookshelf.

By the time Pigsy gets back, Tang is sliding the last book onto the shelf.  There’s still the other items that are less easy to categorize, but Tang would be remiss if he left perfectly good reading material to collect dust on the floor.

Pigsy opens his mouth to say something, and then abruptly closes it.  He tosses the pillow and blanket on the couch.

“Uh...bathroom’s down the hall on your left.  Night.” 

Then, he vanishes into his room.

Tang finishes cleaning, and then goes to bed himself.

It becomes part of the routine.  Pigsy never demands he come upstairs, but he never shuts the door on Tang, either, and Tang will never shoot down a free place to stay.  Pigsy gets used to him, even.  Sees Tang sitting on the couch, makes dinner, hands Tang a plate whatever it is and drops down on the couch to watch TV.

If it isn’t making fun of trash TV, Pigsy screams at cooking shows.

“You can’t just throw onion in it and expect it to work out!” he shouts.

Tang laughs.  “Very bold from the guy who only serves one type of dish.”

Pigsy turns red.  “I can make other food!” The argument is sound.

“I know,” Tang assures him, taking a bite of the steak salad Pigsy prepared.  It’s the best he’s ever tasted.  “You just choose not to, which I don’t understand.  Why only noodles?”

The question throws Pigsy off guard, and Tang waits patiently for him to collect his thoughts.  Finally, Pigsy sighs.

“They’re what I like to eat, I guess.  Besides, if I made a full scale restaurant, I’d hafta get more cooks, hire waiters, ugh,” Pigsy looks disgusted just thinking about it.  “The kitchen’s my place, I don’t trust any two bit cook to get it.  I mean, just look at the ones on TV!” 

He gestures to the television, as if Tang hasn’t been watching. Tang nods, glances at the screen anyway.  “I like how the shop is.  It’s small, but it’s good.  Bigger doesn’t mean better.” 

At that, Tang has to laugh.  “You would think that,” he responds, and at Pigsy’s confused look, he gestures to Pigsy’s stature.

“Shut up,” Pigsy says with a blush. Tang can’t stop laughing, and Pigsy cracks a smile.

Living with Pigsy, Tang finds out, means dealing with all of Pigsy.  This includes the moments where Pigsy can no longer keep a lid on his already hair-thin temper.

The clutter of the house suddenly makes sense when he comes up to the apartment to see Pigsy throwing books around the room, raging face red and pained and furious in a way Tang has never seen before.

“Bastards!” Pigsy shouts, voice hoarse.  

He’s been clearly shouting for a while.  His knuckles are bruised, and Tang spots a few dents in the wall.  

“I’ll kill em!  I-,” He freezes, upon seeing Tang standing by the door.  

Tang watches as Pigsy reigns in his rage, somehow, forcing his shoulders to drop, standing up straight, letting out a breath.  It looks painful.

“I see something’s bothering you,” Tang comments, direct and gentle as one can be when trying to talk to someone on the precipice of blind rage, as Pigsy breathes heavily.

“Leave.” Pigsy spits it out with a vitriol that is not aimed at Tang, but at something Tang isn’t a part of.  

Tang knows this, and he won’t let Pigsy drown in it.  He stands still, as the storm rages in blue eyes.

“No,” he is stone, hands clasped together.  Pigsy grits his teeth, clenches his fists.  The wave rises and crashes down.

“GET OUT!”

It’s loud enough to make Tang wince, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

At that, Pigsy goes boneless, slumping down on himself.  Tang steps forward, carefully, quietly, and directs Pigsy to the untouched couch.

Untouched because it’s Tang’s bed, Tang’s space.  Because Pigsy would only destroy himself and his things, would only rage at the things he deems worthy, and Tang wonders, why does Pigsy think himself worthy of this hatred, the anger that sits in Pigsy’s heart?

Pigsy sinks into the cushions.  Tang takes his bruised hands and holds them, letting Pigsy breathe.

“MK’s folks,” Pigsy finally spits out.  “They found out the kid’s got a good job and an okay place, and now they want a cut of his earnings.”

The tone of Pigsy’s voice is nothing short of derisive, and Tang understands the fury now.  It’s funny, that he knows Pigsy enough to tell the difference between rage that’s performative and fury that’s real, but it’s not that hard for him.  

Fury like this comes from care, and there is no one Pigsy cares more about than MK.  MK, the boy with the sunshine smile who likes Monkey King and drawing and will work himself to death for anyone’s approval.

“I’d have told em to shove it, but MK’s got a soft heart, and they told him it was paying back for all the trouble they had raising him.” Pigsy laughs, and it’s very, very bitter.  “Like they raised him.  Mei probably was a better parent than they were, and she’s his age.  Bastards.”

Tang swallows the information, takes a deep breath.  He wouldn’t consider himself easily angered, but this?  This makes him furious.  He doesn’t express his fury like Pigsy does, isn’t destructive, is cold and quiet and deadly.  But he saves that for later, for when he can look up MK’s parents and figure out how to ruin them when it comes to their jobs, their social standings, their lives.

“Technically, that could be charged as harassment,” he suggests. 

Pigsy snorts at that, at least.

“Yeah, but MK’s only 17.  He’s turning 18 in a few months, but until then they could drag him back, charge me with kidnapping, ruin his whole life just because he isn’t their fucking lap dog,” The rage returns, and Tang watches as Pigsy carefully clenches his fists, as if he were too quick about it he could hurt Tang. 

It strikes Tang, then, that he has never been afraid that Pigsy would hit him.  It never crossed his mind.  Because how could it?

“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Pigsy mutters.  

Tang snickers.  “I’ll drive,” he responds.  

Pigsy looks up at him, and Tang hopes the expression on his face bleeds the sincerity he feels.

“As if I’d let you anywhere near the driver’s seat of my car,” Pigsy smirks as he says it, and he relaxes a bit more, the anger draining out of him like water through a sieve.

Tang wasn’t aware that he was tense himself, but he relaxes a bit, too.

“But you’ll get blood on the steering wheel.  And besides, it’s no fun not having a criminal record.  I ought to start it sometime, right?”

“You don’t know anything about me, if you think this’ll be the beginning of my record,” Pigsy half laughs.

Tang shrugs. “You’re right.  But, I’d like to.” 

Pigsy looks up at him, then, the red in his face smoothing to something dusty and rosy and beautiful.  Tang looks away first.  “But, first, you need some ice and bandages for your hands.”  He gets up to grab it.

When he comes back, Pigsy tells him all about the boy who would come in with exact change for the cheapest bowl of noodles, once a week every Friday.  How the boy would ramble on and on about everything, and Pigsy would listen out of politeness, and somehow that turned to a fondness he couldn’t shake.  How that boy came rushing in, half soaked in the rain, hiding out just for the moment before he was going to keep running. How Pigsy had thrown caution to the wind and moved mountains to get the kid to stay.

Tang listens, disinfecting the areas on Pigsy’s knuckles that are cut instead of just being bruised.  He wraps them, gentle, and places ice on both.  Even then, he doesn’t let go of the hands, lets them settle in his grip like they’d always belonged there.

“You’re a kind person, you know,” he says, when Pigsy is done.  And he means it, too, thinking of MK alone on the streets, thinking of MK turning out like he did but without the funds to support him, a drifter with nothing and no one.  It makes his stomach churn.

“Nah,” Pigsy shrugs his shoulders.  “Just had a lot of time to get into practice with it.”

He doesn’t elaborate.  Tang lets the conversation end, and turns on the TV.  He cleans up the room when Pigsy falls asleep.

Pigsy makes him noodles the next day, without comment.  Tang smiles and eats.

A lot of people miscategorize Pigsy as fire.  Tang would like to propose a different point of view.

When he sees Pigsy, he sees the sea.

The ocean is never calm, but it can fall into a rhythm.  Small waves, rippling waters.  Crashing against the obstacle that is land, constantly pushing, constantly trying, constantly moving.

Pigsy will rage like a storm, he will shine like water in the sun, and he will fall into a rhythm as he works.  He will push back against the rock that is indifference, and, like the ocean, he surrounds anything and everything, connecting every person he comes into contact with, as if they were the continents themselves. He ebbs and flows, forcing himself into the issues that plagues those he cares about, and yet pulls back and gives them space, never demanding anything other than their time, if they could give it.

The ocean is not harsh, nor is it merciful, but it is a force of nature all the same.  And, if you weather its storms, it will carry you wherever you need to go.

And Tang sees a man who gives MK a reason to stick around when all MK wanted to do is run, Tang sees a man who never lets Mei skip a meal regardless of her status and wealth, Tang sees a man that makes sure Tang has a warm and safe place to stay, and sees the ocean carrying battered ships to shore.

Learning about MK’s family has opened up certain topics.  Tang knows it’s only a matter of time before Pigsy asks about his life.  That doesn’t stop him from stiffening, from going stone faced, when Pigsy finally brings it up.

“I don’t hear you talk about your folks,” Pigsy mentions offhandedly.

When he turns around and sees the expression on Tang’s face, he frowns.

“No,” Tang responds. 

He says nothing else.  Pigsy doesn’t press.  Just turns back to making dinner.  And Tang stares at his reflection in the teacup.  He takes a sip.  It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t feel it.  

“They died.  Nearly two years, now,” he finally says, and it’s like dropping a weight off of his shoulders.  

Pigsy grunts in acknowledgment.  Doesn’t give him the sad stare, the ‘oh I’m so sorry’, he just glances back with something softer than pity and closer to empathy.

Somehow, it lessens the dull ache in his chest.

“They good ones?” Pigsy asks.

Tang smiles, just a little.  “Yes,” he breathes, and it hitches, thinking about how they pushed him forward, how they never demanded but always encouraged.  Tang wasn’t good at making friends, not close ones anyway.  But that never mattered, because his parents were there.

And now…

“Mine are gone too,” Pigsy says, after some time and mostly as an afterthought.  “It ain’t easy, dealing with it.”

Tang huffs a wet laugh, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes.“No, it isn’t,” He responds.

Pigsy slides a bowl yanduxian soup, with some some skewers of meat, and sugar coated haws for dessert.  Quite the array of a meal.  Pigsy sits across from him, and starts in on his own meal.

Tang eats.  It’s the best he’s ever tasted, as always.

Looking up at Pigsy, something in his chest warms.  He thinks about his parents and it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

“I think they’d have liked you, if you’d met them,” he says, softer than he feels, because he’s never said anything about love but this is as close as he can get.

Pigsy looks up, cheeks glowing, and he smiles and Tang melts, just a little. 

The apartment becomes lived in.  During one of their shopping trips, Pigsy gets Tang a different outfit, muttering something about Tang needing something to wear when his clothes are being washed.  Two outfits becomes three, becomes four, all hung up right beside Pigsy’s sleep shirts and chef coats.  Tang gets his own toothbrush.

He buys himself books and they fill up the empty space on the bookshelves.  He buys alcohol, stores it in Pigsy’s fridge and laughs off the comments about his poor taste in baijiu.  He was never one to settle in, he never thought he could again, but slowly Pigsy’s apartment becomes their apartment and the change in his mind as he thinks of it leaves him wide eyed and spiraling.

Pigsy takes it all in stride, greeting Tang in the morning with something on his face that looks...pleased?  Tang doesn’t understand it, and yet it makes his face feel warm when he thinks about it.

The winter months roll in, because while they have a weather tower to regulate weather it does not mean that they can ignore the need for seasons, and the apartment becomes colder.

“Do you not have A/C?” he curls up tight, beneath his blanket, and still shivers.

Pigsy rolls his eyes.  “Maybe if you didn’t freeload all the time, I could afford to use it!”

Later, Tang will find this all as a facade.  He knows Pigsy would never blame him for being without the funds to pay for heating.  In fact, the noodle shop does better in the winter months, because of the desire for warm, filling food to combat the chill.  He will later find out that Pigsy forgoes the A/C in his apartment to save up money to give MK a yearly Christmas bonus, both as a present and so MK can heat up his room.

In the moment, however, he just turns away with a huff.

Pigsy sighs.  “The bed’s warmer,” he says. 

Tang stares, blankly, until it finally hits him what Pigsy is suggesting.  “Why, you cad!  Trying to bed me when we’ve barely courted!” He leans back on the couch dramatically.

“Shut up!” Pigsy looks very flustered, and Tang grins, leading Pigsy to snap some more.  “You were the one complaining about being cold!”

Tang sips his tea, and shrugs.  Pigsy turns back to dinner to hide his blushing face.

That night, he moves to sleep in Pigsy’s bed.  It’s a pretty large one, it isn’t as if there isn’t room for the both of them.  The move is purely practical, after all.

Pigsy sleeps in a tank top and boxers.  Tang wonders if the tank top is for his sake.  They both get in the bed very stiff, neither wanting to acknowledge what’s happening. Tang curls up under covers, back to Pigsy.  The bedroom is indeed warmer.  Tang imagines the small heater sitting in the corner is likely the reason.

He turns his head.  Pigsy is already asleep, trails of light from the outside signs segmenting his face.  He’s snoring.  He looks calm.

Tang stares for longer than he thinks he should, before he lets his eyes slide shut.

It becomes routine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As whole, as Tang reminisces on the moments bringing him to his position, he’s quite glad he decided to stick around.  It’s a strange place, this city, full of danger and mystery, now that MK is the monkie kid, now that the demons are free, but at the same time little has changed, and that is something Tang can appreciate.  Every morning he settles at the noodle shop and lets life continue, predictable, comfortable.

And maybe that’s his mistake.  That he thinks he can coast forever.  The sea is many things, but predictable is not one of them.  

The downfall starts when Mei mentions that one of her aunts has been trying speed dating.

“She made the mistake of signing up for the straight couple’s night.  She told me that when she realized, she left faster than the speed date itself!” Mei taps her fingers on the noodle bar, giggling along with MK at the thought.

“Speed dating doesn’t make sense.  I mean, how can you figure out if you like someone in a minute?” MK crosses his arms over his chest and ponders.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I knew I liked you in sixty seconds,” Mei boops Mk on the nose, and he laughs, before making a face.  There’s a mixture of emotions there—disgust, confusion, fear?

“Yeah, but that’s different.  We’re friends,” he stresses that last word, looking at Mei expectantly. “Just friends.”

“Well, duh!  I was just saying,” Mei rolls her eyes.

Tang watches the tension roll out of MK like a breeze.  He wonders...but will never waste an opportunity to snark, so he sets the thoughts aside for a moment and leans back on the counter.

“I’m sure I could charm anyone in sixty seconds.  Where is this happening, exactly?” he asks.

Mei gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure speed dating isn’t for people who are already taken,” she tells him, and Tang blinks, confusion painting his features.

“What do you mean?” he asks.He jumps when Pigsy’s knife slams hard against the wood of the cutting board, harder than normal.  

Tang frowns. “Pigsy, you alright?”

“Peachy,” Pigsy growls out, from the kitchen.

Tang stares, before shrugging it off.  Pigsy’s moods aren’t entirely predictable, after all, and it isn’t as if anything terrible has happened today.  Pigsy’s cooking smells as heavenly as ever.

He turns back to Mei and MK, but they’re disappearing out the door, MK with the next batch of deliveries in hand.  Tang tilts his head to the side in confusion, before shrugging.

Oh well.

Pigsy is still stilted, when they head upstairs that night.  He’s quiet during dinner, quiet after dinner, and instead of watching TV he goes back to the kitchen to make a dessert.  Tang follows, sitting at the kitchen island, watching how Pigsy shuffles about, glancing occasionally at a recipe.  Cocoa powder, flour, eggs, different ingredients come out.  The oven is preheated.

“Something’s clearly bothering you,” Tang says, finally.

Pigsy stiffens.  Runs a hand down his face.  Sighs.  

He keeps working, throws the dessert in the oven, sets a careful timer.

Tang waits, and waits.

The kitchen is silent, save for the ambience.

“What is this, Tang?” Pigsy’s voice is hard, hands resting on the kitchen counter, shoulders hunched as he finally speaks up.  He sounds exhausted, from days and days of work.  Tang frowns.  “You steal food from my shop, you sleep in my house—you live with me, for pete’s sake, you—what is this that we have?”

And Tang, Tang doesn’t know what to say.  

“Is this even something?” 

He’s basked in the freedom to be himself, with Pigsy.  A label defines, a label makes you inseparable.  Tang comes and goes as he pleases, he doesn’t get pinned down, he’s one and alone, with Pigsy by his side.

He has called himself a ‘father figure’ to MK, but that is inherently different.  There’s a degree of separation, with that label.  He can still leave, and MK will not be too bereft.  MK has others, Tang is just one.  Pigsy wants more than that, he doesn’t want the separation, and Tang is always unsure.

“I just—” And there’s something quiet and breaking in Pigsy’s voice.  

Tang says nothing.

“Whatever you want from me, Tang, you have it.  I’ll-I’ll give you everything, just—” 

Blue eyes, like the constant tide of the ocean, meet earth in Tang’s brown ones.  

Tang is afraid he could erode.

If he stayed.  

What would he become, if he shifted his foundation?  

“Is there a point to this?” Pigsy asks.  “Or am I just something you keep around?  To say you have one?”

Tang knows that he is a man of words, of stories, knows he is Triptaka, is Tang Sanzang, and myriad others placed in the body of a single man, knows he has more knowledge in an inch of his brain than most gain in their entire lives, but he has nothing to say now.  

His thoughts halt at the wounded expression on Pigsy’s face.

More than just anger and softer than just hurt, settled between an aching heart and a broken one.

“I…,” he starts, and then his mouth clicks shut, because he is, before and now, a coward eventually.  

Whether he is captured by demons or putting his foot down against others’ bad behavior, he falters.  And he is terrified, because the swell of his heart, the affection that warms him enough to burn, is too much to bear, to articulate.

So instead, he says nothing at all.

And he knows he’s erred, because Pigsy turns his back as the timer dings.

He pulls the set of mini cakes from the oven, sets them down on the counter with forced gentleness.  Tang flinches at the harsh bang of the oven closing.  Watches Pigsy’s chest rise and fall with harsh breaths that hitch with an emotion Tang can’t place, before Pigsy swallows, steels himself, stills.  Clenches his fists as if readying himself for a fight.  Tang doesn’t know what the battle is, wonders what side he’s on.

“Forget it.” He hears, finally, and Tang feels his heart jump in his throat.

The words sound like a relent, like something giving way.  It strikes him like a spear through the chest, and he suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

The mini cakes cool in a few minutes, but it may as well be hours with how silent and still the kitchen is, and Pigsy sets one on a plate for Tang, placing it in front of him with a fork. Chocolate lava cake, something Tang had mentioned off handedly as an interesting dessert to try.  Of course Pigsy remembered.  Why wouldn’t he?

Pigsy vanishes into his room.  The door slams shut.  Tang eats.

It’s the best he’s ever tasted, like always.

He sleeps on the couch.  It’s cold.

Pigsy doesn’t open the shop, the next day.  Tang leaves early in the morning, before breakfast, to give him some space, and comes back from his leisurely morning walk to a closed sign hanging on the door.  Unlike the last time, MK waves at Tang, hopping down the stairs excitedly.  Pigsy gave him the day off, because Pigsy isn’t feeling well, apparently.

Tang sees the worried lines in MK’s expression and promises he will make sure Pigsy is okay.  MK runs off, to meet Mei at the arcade, and Tang heads up the stairs.  He passes MK’s apartment door and stands in front of Pigsy’s door.

He knocks.

“Pigsy?” He calls, loud enough that he can’t be missed.  “It’s me.  Can I come in?”

Silence.

Tang doesn’t know how to handle rejection, didn’t think it possible, from Pigsy.  In the two years they’ve known each other, he has never been rebuffed.  Has never been told, in no uncertain terms, to leave.  Pigsy has shouted it without heat, before, but it has never rang true.

He stands outside the door for twenty minutes, trying to swallow something akin to fear crawling up his chest, as he slowly realizes the door isn’t going to open.  He waits another ten minutes after that, processing the realization, the pain in his chest.

“Alright,” He says, finally, and he prays Pigsy doesn’t hear how his voice shakes.  “Get well soon.  I’ll see you in the shop.”

He should demand to be let in.  He should kick down the door, do something.  Be bold, be brave, courageous.

But he never was a fighter, so he turns on his heel, and leaves what is left of their relationship on the welcome mat.

He walks through the city, again, because he has nothing better to do now.  There is no comfort from stepping into the noodle shop and feeling like home.  There is no barstool with his name on it, no random bowl of noodles appearing at his seat inconspicuously, no begging for a story from MK, no fond looks from blue eyes in the kitchen.  

Tang had settled into routines and expectations.  The rug has been pulled from beneath his feet as he tries to grasp the idea that the comforts have crashed into dysfunction.  He tracks every minute of the two years he’s spent here, tries to trace the beginning of the end like a true crime investigator, and still, he can’t decipher why the equilibrium shattered.

Change is a product of existence, Comes a memory from his days as a monk.  You must let life flow like a river, accepting the directions it will take.

But Tang isn’t a monk anymore, and he is not flowing like a river or any such nonsense that sounds far more like what Sandy would say.  He is analytical, he is intelligent, he is knowledgeable.  Despite all of that, he is stumped by this situation, by what he is to do.

The answer, of course, is the simplest, but Tang is pretending not to be ignoring it, because acknowledging the solution means making a choice he can’t undo.  To decide if he wants this to be set in stone.  Can he tie himself down like this, can he make that choice to stay, forever if it comes to it?

At the same time, hasn’t he already?  Just a day without being able to go into the noodle shop leaves him aimless.  A day without Pigsy and he is lost, without much to do or see.  He has centered himself about the warm air of noodles and the gruff smile of the chef making them.

And that is so, so terrifying.  When you give everything, when someone is your everything, what happens when they leave?  He’s dealt with that enough with his parents, and to become a pair, to be a part of something, he doesn’t think he has the strength for it.

But Pigsy gives and gives, and promised Tang everything, if only Tang would stay.  And Tang is a coward, but not enough to ruin something so simple, so kind, and so honest.

He makes a decision, and heads to the bank.

The next day, the noodle shop opens.  Tang is there when it does, settling into his barstool without fanfare.  He follows Pigsy’s movements with sharp eyes, notes the rumpled form of his shirt, how his pants aren’t tucked into his dress shoes, how his feet shuffle against the tile instead of stomping with purpose.  Pigsy moves slow, turns to look at Tang and has bags under his eyes—or could they be red from crying?  Tang isn’t sure.

His heart aches, as Pigsy regards him with something like heartbreak.  Pigsy says nothing, turns back to his work, and Tang watches.

Step one.

He heads to the market between the lunch and dinner rushes, picks out the ingredients from memory.  He’s walked with Pigsy enough times to know what it is that he has to get.  He comes back to the shop with an armful of grocery bags, heading upstairs to their apartment.  Pigsy never locks it during the workday, and Tang uses that fact and knowledge to his advantage.

He has no idea how to do this, but he chops the vegetables and meat and sets the water to boil.  Brings forth the memories of two years of watching Pigsy make the same thing over and over, and maybe looks up a recipe or two on his phone for reference.

By the time Pigsy comes upstairs, when the shop closes, it’s ready.  Tang pours the servings into two bowls, and nearly jumps and drops everything when the door opens.

“Welcome home,” he says, braver than he feels.

Pigsy stares at him, at the bowl of steaming broth, and sets his chef’s hat on its hook.  He pulls off his shoes, puts up his chef’s coat, leaving him in a t-shirt and slacks.

Tang watches Pigsy’s movements instead of thinking about how to approach the situation.  He gets a little distracted, until Pigsy hops up onto one of the island chairs, pulling a bowl towards himself.  Tang sits across from him, waiting for Pigsy to take a sip.

Pigsy takes the chopsticks offered, as well as the spoon.  He takes a sip.  His face remains carefully neutral. 

Tang takes a sip a few moments after.  He promptly sputters into his bowl, and laughs.

“God, this is terrible!” he can’t stop laughing, and he can see a smile peeking at the edges of Pigsy’s mouth.  “I tried to make it like yours, but I guess I’m coming up short,” he glances at Pigsy, looks him up and down.  

Pigsy’s face is dusted with a pleased blush.  “Shaddup.  And hey, it ain’t worse than my first attempt at cooking.” 

Tang snorts at that one.  “I doubt that.  But, do tell.  I don’t think you’ve ever told me why you decided to become a cook in the first place, anyway.”

This is the start.  Tang makes Pigsy a meal, and Pigsy tells him a story.

That night, he sleeps next Pigsy, like usual, and traces the way the moonlight sets upon Pigsy’s face.  He needs to do more.  He needs to be more, and he’s pretty sure financial support would be somewhat helpful, so he schemes.

Step two.

A few days later, as the air between them settles into something like normal, he appears one afternoon, change in his pocket and bills in his wallet.

“A bowl of noodles, please.” He sets the money on the counter.  It’s enough for at least three bowls of noodles, but that’s by design.  

“Keep the change.” He evene winks, like it’s a joke

Pigsy eyes the money and then gets the most offended look on his face, as expected. Before he can make a move to either argue or even respond, Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and explains.

“Didn’t you know?  This month is my charity month.  I go to different establishments and pay to keep them afloat.”

Pigsy rolls his eyes.  “Pshh, I don’t need your charity to keep this place runnin’!  Pigsy’s Noodles is a thriving establishment,” he rebuffs.

“So you’re refusing my service?” Tang responds, like a challenge.

He raises a brow, and watches as Pigsy gets redder and redder.

“One bowl of noodles, coming right up,” Pigsy manages through gritted teeth.

Tang hides a laugh behind his hand as Pigsy scoops up the money and grumbles, shoving two of the bills into the cash register and one into the tip jar.

Because MK had been bemoaning a lack of sketchbook paper, a lack of money for replacing such, and just like every time MK talks about something he wants, off handed or to complain because that’s how he deals, Pigsy will take some of the money that should go to the shop into the tip jar when MK doesn’t look, smiling to himself when MK excitedly realizes that, thanks to the tip jar, he can get what it was he thought he couldn’t—

Because Pigsy gives and gives and gives, pieces of himself scattered across and holding together the people he’s chosen to keep close, regardless if Pigsy is the one who ends up falling apart in the end, and Tang wants to fill up the spaces that Pigsy has lost from his generosity.

Tang takes his bowl of noodles and smirks, like he’s won.  That night, when they’re sitting on the couch and watching TV, Pigsy leans his head on Tang’s shoulder.

“You coulda just said you wanted to start payin’ rent,” he mutters.

Tang snickers.  “Where’s the fun in that?  You got so red, I thought you were going to become a tomato.”

At that, Pigsy sits up.

“I’ll show you a tomato—c’mere!”

Maybe it’s a bit dangerous to challenge someone who knows all of your ticklish spots.  Tang laughs until he cries, and concedes to Pigsy’s victory. 

Step three doesn’t really register.  He doesn’t think about it, because the first two steps have brought him back into that comfortable routine.  Maybe he might have fallen into the same bad habits, if not for his hyperawareness of Pigsy’s moods in the following weeks.  He doesn’t want to miss something, like he did before.  He wants to be attentive, be kind.

He wants Pigsy to never again think of or ask the questions he did, that night.  He wants Pigsy to know, immediately, what they are.  Even if Tang is afraid to define it.

It’s a typical day at the shop, but Pigsy is a bit more tired than normal.  Some days, this happens.  Pigsy would never hire another chef, even though he has enough business to afford it, and being the only cook in a bustling restaurant means little breaks and consistent exhaustion.

Tang still makes them dinner, most nights.  He tries a new recipe each day, because why not?  Pigsy takes to each one like a food critic, and his descriptions have Tang in stitches every time—

“I never thought you could turn broccoli into soup.”

“Okay, so I cooked it too long!”

“You liquified a vegetable!  Without blending!  That’s like...did you use magic on this?  Tang, did you use magic on this.”

—He’s not a very good cook, yet, but Pigsy eats anything he makes anyway.

Today, Pigsy is already tired, and he clearly doesn’t have the energy to deal with an annoying customer.

He has to anyways.

“This isn’t what I ordered last time!  I ordered your original noodle bowl two weeks ago, and it tasted far better than this!” The irate woman slams her empty bowl on the counter.

Tang wonders if she understands the irony of complaining about a meal she finished.

“Ma’am, I make every bowl of noodles the same.  I’m the only cook here.  You either ordered somethin’ else, or your taste buds changed in two weeks.” Pigsy isn’t polite to customers like these, but Tang has to commend him for holding back, for still calling her ‘Ma’am’.  Tang has a few different names he’d call her.

“I know what I ordered, and my tastebuds didn’t change.  You clearly made it wrong!  I demand a refund immediately!” She shouts in his face.

Pigsy goes from pink to red.  “Look, lady, you finished your meal.  I ain’t giving you back the money for shit you ate.” He spits, and she leans back, aghast.

“The nerve!” She leans back, aghast.  “I don’t know what I expected from a pig—” 

She freezes as a pair of chopsticks sticks its way between the two angry faces.

“Excuse me,” Tang starts.  

His glasses flash, and he doesn’t bother standing.  His arm divides the space, as he leans back in his chair with a bowl in his free hand.  He pushes her back, ignores the look of confusion on Pigsy’s face.  “I suggest you get over yourself.  This behavior certainly isn’t doing anything for your looks.”

The woman leans back, crosses her arms.

“And you are?” She hisses.

“I’m his partner,” Tang says, and surprises himself with how easily the title falls out of his mouth.  “And you don’t get to talk to him that way.  If anyone is acting in poor taste, it’s you.”

Pigsy’s face is slack, his eyes are wide, and the red of anger on his face has given way to the dusty rose Tang has come to expect as Pigsy’s blush.

The woman opens her mouth, finger raised.  Tang raises his eyebrow in waiting.  But then she huffs, turns on her heel, and leaves.

Tang doesn’t give her a second thought, turning back to his own bowl of noodles—which have tasted the same in the two years he’s been eating here, so she’s full of it, clearly—before glancing over at Pigsy, who is staring at him with eyes full of something.

He has never seen Pigsy’s eyes shine like that before.

His face warms, and he buries it in his scarf and bowl.  Pigsy smiles, and turns back to work.

That night, they’re sitting on the couch after eating another concoction that could barely be called food— “You’re getting better at this.”  “You don’t have to lie to me.”  “Bold of you to assume I would spare your feelings when it comes to your cooking skills.”—and Pigsy’s hand slides away from his lap and rests on top of Tang’s.  Casual.

“My partner, huh?” Pigsy says over the buzz of the television.  

Tang flushes. “It seemed an appropriate word to use.”

“Sure.”

Pigsy’s voice holds a laugh, and Tang could leave it here, he could.   It would be far too easy to settle, to let it fall complacent.

But Tang has let the ocean lap at his heels, and now all he wants to do is dive.

“Hey,” he turns Pigsy’s face towards his, and—

Pigsy’s lips are warm.

Pigsy’s eyes are blown wide, and Tang closes his quickly, worried about the response, worried about Pigsy’s reaction.

Dimly, in the back of his head, he thinks ‘It’s the best he’s ever tasted’ and he has to squash the laugh that bubbles up his throat, because it isn’t appropriate right now.  Pigsy's snout practically crushes his nose, and the sharp hairs on his face prickle Tang's skin. 

He breaks away.  Pigsy’s smile is blinding, a rare event.  His face is flushed, both of them are flushed and Tang fidgets with his glasses.  There’s a beat of silence, as they stare at each other, before they both turn back to the TV to avoid the ever so awkward eye contact.

They watch whatever’s on, for a minute of crushing silence.

“Alright,” Pigsy finally sighs, long sufferingly fond, and he leans against Tang as if tang were his rock.  The ocean crashes against the sea, and the rock stays steady.  “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

Tang inclines his head so it’s resting on top of Pigsy’s.  The rock erodes, and becomes something new.  Moves with the ocean, given enough time.

“Where else would I get free food?”

Pigsy laughs.

[theydontknowaboutusimagines]

Valentine’s Day Surprise - Harry Styles Mini Series (Part 4)

Part 1 

Part 2 

Part 3 

As soon as Harry got out of Jeff’s car, he went straight into the airport. He still had about an hour to kill before his flight took off, but luckily he would be able to board sooner. He went through security and was now waiting for them to call his flight. Taking out his phone he scrolled through his social media accounts. Just because he didn’t post on it very often, didn’t mean he didn’t check it. 

Harry didn’t know why he felt nervous or anxious, but he did. Maybe it was because he couldn’t wait to see you or he was worried something would go wrong. He really needed to figure out what he was going to get you. Of course, he should have thought about this weeks ago, but he was distracted. He couldn’t believe he was one of those guys who waited until the last minute to get their girlfriend a present for Valentine’s Day. 

But then again, he was currently the guy who waited until the last minute to actually go see his girlfriend in person. While he was waiting, he decided to head into one of the airport gift shops to see if anything caught his eye. He really didn’t want to get you something from there, but surely if it was worth getting did it really matter where he bought it from. 

Everything in the gift shop was your typical gift shop items, LA merch, keychains, t shirts, and other random things. He sighed shaking his head as he grabbed some snacks to snack on while he waited. As he was checking out, he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. He saw Jeff’s name appear on the screen, so he answered it while he handed the clerk his cash. 

“What’d you forget to tell me?” Harry asked. 

“Don’t get on the plane!” Jeff blurted out. 

“What? Why? What’s wrong?” He asked. 

“Y/N’s here!” Jeff said. 

“What?” Harry grabbed his change and his snacks before heading out into the lobby. 

“She’s here. In LA... at the airport,” he breathed out. “Don’t get on the plane.” 

“The fuck, you better not be playing with me, Jeff,” Harry said. 

“I’m not... just... meet us at the door,” Jeff said quickly. 

Harry didn’t need to be told twice before grabbing his things and booking it through the airport. 

**

You and Jeff quickly ran into the airport, but of course, you could only go so far without tickets. 

“Do you see him?” You asked, standing on your tip toes. 

“No,” Jeff sighed. “Even if I did, he wouldn’t hear us.” 

“Maybe we should try his cell, just in case,” You said. 

“Already on it,” Jeff said putting his phone to his ear. 

“Don’t get on the plane,” he blurted out. 

“Y/N’s here,” he said again. 

“She’s here in LA... at the airport,” he breathed out. “Don’t get on the plane.” 

“I’m not, just meet us at the door,” he said before hanging up the phone. 

“You got him?” You asked. 

“Yeah, don’t know where he’s at, but hopefully he’ll be here soon,” Jeff said. 

Hearing that, you’re stomach filled with butterflies. Your legs bounced with excitement as you tried looking through the crowd for your boyfriend. There were a lot of people heading past security, but surely you would be able to notice him as the only person walking the opposite direction of everyone. 

“Come on, come on,” you mumbled. 

It literally felt like an eternity, when in reality it was probably only like ten minutes before you finally saw his big head peeking up in the crowd. A smile grow across your face and you wanted nothing more to run to him like you were in a romance movie, but the scary security guards were certainly prevent from your moment. 

Harry didn’t see you until he got closer and as soon as he did, he picked up his pace. Once he was passed security, you ran to him, wrapping your arms around him and jumping into his arms. 

“Oof,” he laughed wrapping his arms around you to hold you against him. “What are you doing here?” 

“I uh... came to surprise you. Had I not called Jeff when I got off the plane, you would have fucked up my plan,” you said. 

He laughed, “Sorry,” he said. 

“Um, guys, hate to uh, break up this lovely moment, but we should probably get going,” Jeff said, looking around at all the people standing around. 

“Oh, right,” you said, jumping down. 

Harry grabbed your hand and the two of you follow Jeff to his car. You both get in the back and as soon as Harry’s in behind you, he pulled you in for a kiss. You giggled against his lips while Jeff shook his head. 

**

When Jeff pulled up to the house Harry was staying at, Harry got your bags and his own before waving Jeff goodbye. 

“Be safe!” Jeff smirked out the window as he backed out of the driveway. 

You giggled following Harry inside the house. Once you both were inside and the door was shut, you heard bags drop to the floor and felt arms wrap around you. 

“I can’t believe you’re here right now,” he smiled into your neck. 

“I know. I can’t believe you were about to flying to England when you already told me you weren’t going to go,” you laughed. 

“Yeah, that slight change of plans literally happened this morning,” he winced. “Jeff got some things rescheduled last minute.” 

“So, that means either way you have the next few days completely free, right?” You smiled. 

“It does,” he smiled. “What about you? How long are you going to be here for?” 

“At least the week,” you said. 

“I love you,” he smiled, pressing kisses all over you face. 

You laughed turning around in his arms to face, “I love you, too.” 

“You must since you came all the way here,” he smiled. 

“And you must since you were willing to go all the way home and back,” you smiled. 

“Guess we’re just made for each other, huh?” he smirked. 

“Yep,” you nodded, jumping into his arms and wrapping your legs around his waist. “Now, I do have one request.” 

“And that is?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“Feed me. I’m starving,” you laughed. 

He laughed, “I’m sure I have some thing I can whip up in my kitchen.” 

“Thank you! I had this whole plan of going grocery shopping or getting take out on my way to meeting you, but that got fucked up thanks to you,” you joked. 

“Well, this is one way for our first Valentine’s Day together to be memorable,” he laughed carrying you into the kitchen. “Speaking of, do you have anything else planned since you were the one to make the trip here?” 

“You’d think, but not really. I thought maybe it would be better for us to make a plan together, plus I wasn’t sure if you would the day off,” you said. 

“I do,” he smiled. “I’m not needed on set until later this week and since it’s the weekend, I don’t have any of my meetings until Monday.” 

“I thought you said your meetings got rescheduled?” You asked. 

“Some did,” he said, looking through the fridge and pantry. “But the ones that weren’t, I’m doing on zoom.” 

You nodded. “So, I probably shouldn’t walk around naked then?” You joked. 

“I wouldn’t go that far, love,” he winked. “Just stay clear of the camera.” 

You giggled, nibbling on some fruit he took out. 

“Anyway, what about you? Do you have any work shit to do?” He asked. 

“Other than checking in with my beta readers and editor? Not much,” you said. “I finished my other draft before I left, so I can’t really do much with it until I get all the feedback. I do have some other things I can look over, but nothing too pressing for a deadline.” 

“So, what you’re saying is, we technically have a lot of free time together over the next few days?” He asked. 

“Yep,” you smiled. “So much you’ll probably get sick of me.” 

“Yeah and by then you’ll be on your way back to London,” he joked. 

“Fuck you,” you laughed, throwing a strawberry at him. 

“Hey, I’m more than willing to take you right here and now, but I’m trying to be a gentleman and feed you first,” he smirked.

“My hero,” you laughed. 

“Anyway, back to our plans,” Harry said. “Would you mind if I was in charge of them?” 

“I don’t mind,” you smiled. “If that’s what you want to do.” 

“It is,” he smiled. “You came here, so I want to make it special.”

“We’re together, so it’s already special,” you said. 

“Then that means I don’t have to worry about too much,” he joked. 

“Ha, ha,” you laughed. “But seriously, you should know me. I don’t care about fancy dinners or anything. I’ll be grateful and happy with anything you plan.” 

Harry smiled kissing your head as you wrapped your arms around his waist. You smiled leaning into him because your actual Valentine’s Day celebration hadn’t even started and it was already your favorite one. 

**

Part 5 will be the last part! Let me know if want anything included for Valentine’s Day! 

[x-reader-theater]

My Days Are Numbered, but so Are Yours {2}

Relationship: Geralt of Rivia X Male!Disabled!Reader

Summary: You still remember your healing. And the stories you shared. 

Warnings: Cursing, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Word Count: 1132 words

A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome back! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Here’s where we get to talk to Ciri! I promise Geralt will wake up next chapter. Again, I just want to thank my lovely Beta Reader/Editor @mystic-writes​! They’ve been so helpful throughout this whole thing, and we’re working on more stuff as we speak! Please like, reblog, and comment! It really helps me continue writing. Also, I have a Kofi! If you want to support me, help me continue writing, please help out! Don’t feel like you have to donate, but this helps me stay on my feet, and continue doing the things I love! [Donate] Now, without further ado,  My Days Are Numbered, but so Are Yours chapter 2. 

Take a Chance for the Nights are Short (Book 1) [1]

Hold me Tight for the Days are Long (Book 2) [2]

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

Chapter 2: Fireside Chats are Always Insightful

You and Ciri get Geralt out of his armor and down onto your bed so you can get a better look at his wounds. You take your lantern from your hip and place it on the bedside table. "There should be some firewood outside. I just finished cutting it. Grab it. Start a fire." 

She nods and hurries out of the room. You sigh and sit on the bed next to Geralt, reaching out and moving a strand of hair away from his face. "Oh Geralt. What have you done now?" You sigh and stand up, going to the chest in the corner of the room. You move the maps and trinkets from the top and open it, grabbing whatever medical supplies and potions you have. You walk back over to Geralt and start dressing his wounds. 

You hear the back door open and Ciri's voice filters through. "Where do you want this?" 

"Here! In the bedroom!" You call back to her. 

She walks in carrying an armful of firewood, making her way over to the fireplace. She sets them down, lining them up to set them alight. You go back to helping Geralt, rubbing the healing salve you made a while back on his wounds. You could tell it hadn't gone bad quite yet, but another week and he would have been shit out of luck. You wrap him up as Ciri speaks. "Okay. I think I've got it. What do you need me to do now?" 

"Get the kettle. Boil some water," you say, only half paying attention to her. Your focus is now on Geralt, and his well-being. You uncork your last vial of Swallow, and pour it down Geralt's throat in between his breaths. You listen as Ciri does as told. The last of the viscous liquid is poured down Geralt's throat and you see his face returning to a more natural pallor. He's still pale, like he was when you knew him, but he's not as pale as he was a moment ago. You can’t help but place your hand on his cheek, where he seems to have grown a rather striking beard. 

You get up and walk over to Ciri, who's standing awkwardly by the fire, tapping her foot. You grab the mugs you left last night near the fireplace as well as the box of herbs you use to make your tea. 

"Is he going to be alright?" She asks as you sit in one of the chairs in the bedroom. 

You nod as you watch the kettle. "Yes. He should wake up in the morning. He'll still be in a lot of pain, and I'm sure he's going to be carrying some new scars, but he'll be alright." You look up at her as you say the last part, and she looks conflicted for a moment, before huffing and sitting down in the chair across from you. You grab some of the leaves and put them in each of the cups, before giving Ciri one of the mugs. 

She takes it and watches as you lean forward, putting your mug in your lap, and grabbing the handle of the kettle. You pour some water into her outstretched cup, and she takes the kettle from you, pouring water in yours when you pick it up and present it to her. She sets the kettle down on the stone next to the fire, and you blow on your cup, trying to cool the scalding water. 

"So, you know Geralt?" Ciri asks. Her voice is refined. She’s not from one of the neighboring villages. She’s from further away, a wealthy house you have to guess. She says some things like someone from Cintra would, though you admittedly don’t know many of the major houses of Cintra. 

You smile, forlorn. "Yes. Long ago. He probably thinks I'm dead now." 

Ciri just keeps looking at you as you try your hardest to look anywhere but at her. "How long ago was that?" 

"I don't remember. It's hard keeping track of time…" You wave her off with your cup, some of the tea sloshing out onto the wooden floor of your cabin. 

Ciri leans forward and says, not accusatory, but curiously, "You're the Silver Jakal, the one from the songs!" 

You snort in disbelief. "He wrote more than one?" Ciri shrugs as you look at her. "Yes. I guess you could say that. Some people called me that when I was working, but it usually didn't bother me. It was a good alias if I wanted to stay under the radar. Soon enough it didn't matter. I moved out here, had Triss help me build this place, and I haven't talked to anyone else since. Besides Triss of course. She can never leave me alone." 

"Until now," Ciri says. 

You sigh and look forlornly toward Geralt. "Until now. You take a sip of your hot tea. It's cooler now, but still hot. You look over at Ciri. "I didn't realize Geralt had a child." 

She looks at you, as if she's about to laugh, but she doesn't. "He didn't. I'm not his biological child. He can't have children anyways. I'm his by law of surprise." 

You nod knowingly at that. "So he's your father." She nods. "Good, because if you were his wife, well… I'm not one to be jealous but in this case, with this man… I might be." You say this with a smirk and a little laugh at the end. Ciri joins you in your mirth as you take a drink from your tea. She hasn't touched hers. You sigh and lean forward, placing your mug on the floor, taking her hand in yours. She looks away from you at Geralt on the bed. "Ciri," you say in your most comforting voice possible. It seems to have worked because she looks at you with sadness and worry in his eyes. You squeeze her hand. "He's going to be alright. I promise. And if he isn't, you can kill me too, alright?" You say this with a smile and she smiles as well, nodding. You stand up, making sure not to knock over your mug as you do. "Why don't you get some rest? I'm sure you can attend to your own wounds, but I have some more bandages in the kitchen, in the cupboards. There's a chair in there you can sleep in, and some blankets you can use if you want." 

She smiles and squeezes your hand. She walks out of the room. You sigh and slump into your chair, grabbing your mug from the floor and saying to yourself as you look at it. "What have I gotten myself into now?" 

You down the rest of the tea.

[jdeowrites]

Baby’s First Book Deal

Sooo… about that YA contemporary I’ve been working on.

(x)

As a young teen, I devoured countless books, TV shows and movies where girls living in fantasy worlds were forced into skin-revealing dresses; where girls in dystopias and apocalypses shed clothes for romantic scenes; where girls in contemporary settings changed into swimsuits for an impromptu swim, all without any warning beforehand. And I couldn’t help but wonder, didn’t they ever worry about their body hair showing? Did they get waxed in between chapters and it just wasn’t worth mentioning by the author? Or was this something that didn’t matter to most people? Or did these girls just not have body hair? I remember reading The Hunger Games and thinking it was a breath of fresh air when Katniss was waxed and plucked to be deemed pretty for the Capitol. Finally it was on the page. So maybe it wasn’t all in my head after all. 

But I knew it wasn’t just in my head, because the only other time I saw body hair on femme people was when it was played off for laughs. Understandably, this all really screwed with me growing up. So maybe it’s no surprise that eventually I would decide to write a book about it.

Fast forward to early 2019: I emailed my agent with a couple of new book ideas including: “high school debaters (I used to be on the debate team and there's so much potential drama!) and body hair beauty standards for girls. Possibly both in the same book?”

I held my breath when I sent that. I needn’t have worried; she was really into the idea. I started writing it in June 2019. Which was also the start of what I suspected was going to be a very challenging school year (I was right about that for more reasons than I knew at the time). I did this on purpose because I thought it would be a light, fun book to escape into. I was partially right. It was really fun to write all the high school drama, debating, and romance. It did help me through some hard times. But it was also unexpectedly painful.

Because it was so personal. In order to confront the issue of body hair, I had to confront the shame and stigma and subconscious biases drilled into me my whole life. I had to analyze my own concept of what beauty is, and its significance to a person’s self-worth, their worth in the eyes of others, and how those things overlap. And digging so deep into my own trauma was excruciating. I had to force myself to do it sometimes… and to write it without a filter. There were times that I’d re-read a passage and think, "This is too much. I should tone it down a bit." But those were the times it was most important to me to keep going. 

It was March 2020, the early days of the pandemic, when I had a draft I had run by betas and felt good about sending to my agent. I was so nervous. Was the subject matter too cringey? Would it be too unrelatable for most people? Was it even marketable?

Well, my agent loved it a lot. She said it made her cry. Which made me cry. It was just such a relief to know that someone else could identify with this book I had been so honest in, that I had poured some of the most personal parts of my soul into.

We went on submission that summer (for the uninitiated, that means your agent submits your book to editors at publishing houses. AND THEN YOU WAIT.). I had a good feeling about it, but as always I tried to manage my expectations. That didn’t stop me checking my email every 5 seconds but, you know. An effort was made.

We were nearly two months into sub when It Happened. I won’t bore you with the details of my life, but I was in the middle of a 26 hour shift when I got an email from my agent: “Call me!” Is all she said (oh the suspense). I sort of knew at that point. I stared at that email for quite a while, debating whether to wait until the next day when I was off work to get in touch, because as it was I knew I could become busy at any moment. But I couldn’t wait, of course. Patience? I don’t know her. Anyway, I called my agent. 

She told me we had an offer, and proceeded to read it out loud. Cue me crying silently in a tiny windowless room. Literal happy tears dripping down my chin as she talked, which has never happened to me before. I didn’t know how to process it. It was a surreal night after that.

Then we let other people who had the manuscript know, and suddenly there were more editors from different houses who wanted to talk! The next week was… a lot. Along with having a series of calls with a bunch of editors, all of whom I loved to pieces, I was also dealing with a 50+ hour work week, prepping for an exam, writing the exam (in the middle of which a preempt offer came in), an 11 hour road trip, and moving to a new city. I’ll probably remember that week for the rest of my life for the utter chaos it was… but hey, it all worked out. (also, funny thing: my deal announcement came out in the middle of a cross-country road trip. publishing stuff only happens when I’m busy, apparently!).

And now I get to say words I’ve only dreamed of: My debut novel will be published in summer 2022 by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House! Although it’s been a long time since I received this news, every so often I remember that it’s HAPPENING—that I get to go on this journey of publication, of being a debut author—and it feels brand-new and exciting all over again. There’s so much to look forward to! And I have so many more stories I’m excited to tell.

But I’m glad this book will be my debut. Somewhere along my process of research, writing, learning, and discussing with others, this story changed the way I viewed myself. I had not thought that would happen—I set out to write this story for other people, not for me. But it happened anyway.

My singular hope for my debut novel is that it can do that for someone else. If just one hairy girl picks up this book and understands there was nothing ever wrong with them, everything was worth it. Everything. I hope that happens. 

And if not, well, this book has already changed one person’s life: mine.

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[littlelambdrgnfly]

I know I’ve said this like a dozen times at this point, but I really need help with this George fic! I’ve literally written the first two/three pages four times now and I’m still unsatisfied. At this point, I’m beginning to think that I should scrap the whole idea and come up with something fresh, but I’ve had segments of the plot in my head for years, so I don’t really want to do that. I really love stories being a surprise, so I didn’t want to share the whole thing with y’all, but if one or more of you can help me construct it in an enjoyable way, it will be worth it!

The beginning is what I’m having the most trouble with. I want it to take place a few months after their first playdate, so late 1965. It would be George’s POV, and the impetus for the story is that he’s going to propose to Pattie, but he wants one more weekend with John and Paul first. John has been rather distant towards him since their last playdate, like he thinks that George will tell his secret. I guess I’m really having difficulty processing how George would feel towards both John and Paul! I’m more of a P/G shipper than J/G, and I want George to desire Paul more strongly than he does John, but I’m not sure it’s working. I’m trying to portray him with mixed feelings about John, like he has a crush on him but he’s also kind of exasperated with him, and because of another plot point that comes up later, John and Paul are also having relationship issues, and I’m struggling to capture that! Right now, I’m trying to start the story at the studio, George tells Paul about his plan to propose to Pattie and about the playdate on the roof, and ugh, it’s honestly so boring, and I keep writing, “WRITE MORE HERE” every few paragraphs because I just don’t want to fucking write it. T.T

Where the fantasy has always started in my head is when George arrives at Paul’s house. Initially, I was just going to start it here, but I don’t know if it’s really where the story starts? That’s an issue you see with a lot of movies, they either start too early or too late into the story. Important writing tip: all action is reaction! Your story doesn’t start into motion when the action starts. For example, if your story is about someone finding a million dollars in a dumpster, you’ve got to have a reason why they were in the dumpster in the first place (and a better reason than “Oops! Dropped my wallet because I’m super duper clumsy!”). Your story doesn’t start with them in the dumpster, maybe it starts with them starting a new job, and the other employees are mean, so maybe they steal MC’s clothes from their locker and throw them in the dumpster. Maybe MC is established to be really lonely but really kindhearted, so when they hear a little kitten meow from the dumpster, of course they’re going in. Sorry, this is so off-topic, but it’s so important!!! Anyway...

Maybe they’re coming straight from the studio, and John’s in a bad mood, so they listen to records and smoke before they start any sort of play. After some cuddles, Paul feeds him a bottle and that really helps John get into littlespace. They’d watch a movie together later and Paul would encourage George to piss into John’s nappy before doing the same himself, and then George would fuck Johnny in the nursery while Paul watches. John gets put to bed before the grownups, so George and Paul drink and talk late into the night. Paul confesses it hasn’t been great between he and John recently because John had told Paul that he wanted to divorce Cynthia and go public with their relationship, but Paul convinced him not to even though he really wants that, he just knows it’s a bad idea. George confesses that he really wants to try being a baby, even though he’s kind of scared of it, and they end up fooling around together. Paul dresses him up in one of Johnny’s onesies but not a nappy because George isn’t ready to go that far yet, and they join Johnny in bed.

When John wakes up in the morning and sees George in his onesie, he immediately knows what happened last night and starts freaking out, screaming and trying to hit Georgie. George and Paul wake up quickly though, so John doesn’t do much damage, but George is kind of freaked out, and Paul is so angry. He gives John a bare-bottom spanking right there, but John ends up wetting himself over Paul’s knee. Now he’s humiliated, crying, and still furious, so when Paul tells him that they’re going to spend the day with Johnny’s new big brother George, he can’t handle it, going into a crying fit and demanding to know why George is the big brother. George would be feeling pretty angry and embarrassed himself now, so he would reveal how he knows Johnny messes his nappies, something Paul had accidentally revealed last night that John begged him not to tell. John would feel so utterly humiliated and Paul would be visibly pissed at George, so he takes Johnny to the bathroom alone to put him into a bath. George would feel very disappointed in himself and bad for Johnny, so he makes himself wet his pants right where he’s standing and wait for Daddy to come back. Once Paul returns, he’s shocked by George’s accident but he immediately understands what his new little boy is doing. He pops George into the bathtub with Johnny and after he leaves them alone, they have a heart-to-heart and they end up making out and rubbing their cocklets against each other in the bath. :3 Afterward, Paul gives George a hard spanking for being so mean to his little brother and puts him into a nappy because he had an accident. John on the other hand, is given a suppository so he can show his big brother exactly how much of a baby he really is.

I know I write smut, but I do try to have overarching themes and meanings behind my stories for the most part! With this one, I really want to explore what it means to be grown up, and how a lot of us simply do things because we’re supposed to, like getting married or having kids or getting a “proper” career and all of that. George worries about his maturity being negated if he lets himself indulge in being little, and that he has to get married if he’s going to be a real adult. John obviously worries about his maturity because of his fetish, but he’s old enough now to know what he really wants, only to be told that he’s wrong. And then there’s Paul, who thinks he is being mature, but ends up making the wrong choice with John because of it. I really need a beta or an editor or someone to help me with this! Idk, I feel like my creative brain is just zapped. I even wrote a few paragraphs of the Harry fic today and they just feel so uninspired that I’m almost embarrassed that I wrote them. I think I need to make myself write for an hour a day, no matter what, but I’ve said that every year since 2012 so I have extreme doubt that would ever happen.

So yeah, if y’all can come up with any ideas or storybuilding elements, I’d love you so much!

[stayextrafrosty]

I am Your Future, I am Your Past: Chapter 5

A Roswell New Mexico soulmates AU

Note: I know I said I would have an update for every day of Malex week but things happened. I was sick then my computer had issues that forced me to rewrite pretty much this entire chapter. The story is now going in a slightly different direction than originally planned but I hope you like it anyway!

Also please be gentle about misspellings and typos. I do the best I can with editing and don’t have an editor/beta. 

Read on AO3

-

Michael tapped his fingers on the car door, nerves getting worse with every mile marker they passed. Alex was in the van with Forrest, following behind them. Max sighed.

“Look, if you’re just going to overthink it, why didn’t you just ride with Forrest as opposed to Alex?”

“Why would I care?”

“Then would you stop with that fidgeting?” He stopped the tapping and clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. That wasn’t what he was nervous about. “Remember Alex feels the echo of your emotions.” Max was right. He needed to try and calm down.

The night sky became clearer as they got farther from the town. Max turned onto a dirt road. This was it. He scrolled through his contacts, calling Alex. It rang a few times before he picked up. He was usually faster at answering than that.

“You’re on speaker, what’s the plan?” Michael grinned at the professionalism.

“Well, unless they’ve been cut down, there’s a group of trees on the edge of the property. We’re going to stop there then walk the rest of the way. Forrest, we’re going to need that thermal imaging you were talking about. Alex, make sure you have the vest on. Don’t need anyone in the hospital tonight.”

“Shouldn’t you or Max follow behind in the car in case we need a quick getaway,” Forrest asked? He looked over at Max. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I’ll follow behind,” Max said.

“Right so, Forrest, you said you’d offer up Alex. I’ll sneak off to the side of the barn and try to get the jump on them from behind,” he continued.

“And what if this person has back-up or military training like we think,” Alex asked?

“We all have weapons. Someone will have a clear shot. And I’m not exactly easy to take down like you imply, private.” Silence followed. He cursed in his head. The nickname might have been too much.

“Fine. Everyone stay safe. Like you said earlier, don’t need anyone going to the hospital.” He didn’t hang up, in case something changed in the next two minutes of driving.

He could see the lights on top of the barn. Pointing off to the side, the group of trees still stood tall. He wondered if Alex remembered all the time they spent under those trees when it got too hot to do anything else.

But he couldn’t think of that right now. He had to focus on keeping him safe, and by extension, himself. Even if he took on the injuries, that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the temporary pain. Michael’s stomach turned at the though of anything hurting him that way.

Max parked the car as the van pulled up next to them. He hopped out, moving to the back to help with anything that needed setup. Forrest unlocked the doors before joining him. Michael stood for a moment in awe of the amount of technology and firepower that was packed into the van.

“Grab that pistol for me,” he said, pointing to a case with a few different handheld guns. Unclipping the gun, he grabbed it by the barrel before handing it over.

“Mind if I borrow that,” Michael asked, nodding to a revolver. Forrest grinned and waved his head, signaling he could take whatever. Alex came around back pulling his button-down off. Michael averted his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t stare. Better to not let himself look at all.

But Alex reached past him, brushing against his arm and shoulder to grab the bulletproof vest. He managed to control his breathing. Was he doing this on purpose?

Back at his house, Alex had called him out. But he wasn’t lying. Everything he said was true. Relationships were complicated now. Whatever Alex felt, it wasn’t him lying. He racked his brain, trying to think of what it could possibly mean. He had told him that it works both ways, but Alex had been nothing but honest since he’d gotten back.

“Hey Manes, need help?” Forrest moved over to where Alex was. Michael forced himself not to look over.

Michael slipped extra ammo into his pocket, on the off chance he missed his shots and needed it. He needed this to be over fast. Because if this really was another trial, he wasn’t sure he could afford another hospital visit. His arm was already complaining about the extra work. But he needed everyone to believe he was fine. It was the only way he could protect Alex.

Forrest returned, grabbing something that looked like a tablet, though it was much bulkier and some wires poked out in places. He flipped a switch and the thing beeped to life. He tapped a few buttons and the screen turned blue. Turning toward him, he moved the tablet up and down, like he was scanning him.

“Alright, the thermal camera is ready to go.” He walked over to where Max stood by his car, readying his own weapons. Michael shut the doors of the van, glancing at Alex who leaned against the tree, watching him. He moved over to stand in front of him, just out of arms reach.

“You be careful. Understand?” Michael chuckled and shook his head.

“I think I’m supposed to be saying that to you,” he retorted.

“I know your arm isn’t healed. But you’re refusing to give it time,” he scolded.

“Unfortunately, time isn’t a luxury we have right now. You wanted to go in as bait. We need the element of surprise which we don’t know if we have or not. Best to get this done and hope we take the asshole alive for questioning.”

Alex looked away toward the illuminated barn. He ran a hand through his hair, not having a comeback. Michael looked at the ground, moving a rock with his foot.

“Guess this isn’t the place it used to be,” Alex said softly. He almost didn’t hear it. He let himself grin, but only for a second.

“Hey, the memories are still good.” Alex smiled, glancing at him.

“Hey, we’re going to move in. Let’s go!” Max called over to them. Alex pushed himself off the tree, his shirt stretched across the vest.

Michael grabbed his arm as he brushed past, forcing him to stop. The feel of his skin under his fingers sent electricity through him.

“I will protect you. I’d sooner die than let anything happen to you.” Alex didn’t say anything in return. He let his hand fall, running down his arm and pausing at his palm. He wanted to take his hand, but it wasn’t his to take anymore.

He felt Alex’s fingers wrap loosely around his momentarily. Then he was gone.

-

Alex walked beside Forrest, Michael slightly behind and quickly veering off to the right. Max was following behind in the car thought he couldn’t get close without being spotted by the floodlights surrounding the entrance of the barn.

He looked around, not seeing any people. There was an old tractor parked off to the side but otherwise, there were no cars either. Unless they were parked somewhere out of sight.

“What are you thinking, Manes,” Forrest asked quietly.

“Something feels off,” he said hesitantly. He let a hand rest on the gun at his hip.

“Do you want to pull back?” Alex shook his head.

“It’s not ‘off’ in that sense. Just that I feel like no matter how prepared we are, we will never expect what’s coming out of that barn.”

They continued up to the front area. Max had stopped a while back. Alex glanced behind him and could just barely see the outline of the black vehicle. They slowed their pace as the details of the barn came into focus. He had lost sight of Michael, though he guessed he was moving behind the tractor.

“You ready,” he asked, holding out handcuffs? He nodded placing his hands behind him. He left them loose enough that he could escape if the need arose. Alex’s nerves still kicked into high gear at the idea of being restrained. They walked further, into the full view of the lights.

“Hey! Whoever’s here, we have him! Now come out and we can make a deal!” Forrest held him firmly, but it was more like he was providing stability than handing him off to some sick terrorist.

They walked toward the large doors, noticing they were cracked open. No one had shot at them yet. Alex looked around but saw nothing. It was almost silent except for the hum of the lights and crickets. His shoulders relaxed as Forrest released him. He waved his hand and Michael stepped out of the shadow of the barn.

“You know of any other cattle ranch on the edge of town,” Forrest asked him? He shook his head.

“The rest are still in use. This hasn’t been active in years,” Michael said, worried. “I’ll check out inside.” Before Alex had time to turn down the idea, he was looking through cracks in the door, pulling it open as quietly as he could.

He slipped in the doors as Forrest released him from the handcuffs. The two of them shared a look.

Then the shooting started.

Alex didn’t hesitate when he stormed through the doors. Even Forrest yelling for him to stop didn’t process. Michael was in danger. He needed to save him.

He scanned for cover, jumping behind a rusted horse trailer. He looked through the slots. He needed to see Michael. Needed to know he was ok.

Bullets ricochet off the trailer, forcing Alex to duck for cover. He yanked his gun out of its holster, taking aim at the figures in the rafters.

Wood exploded behind him. He would not back down. He would not let them hurt Michael.

He fired off three shots. All he could see was the figure he was aiming at. Who they were didn’t matter. They attacked first.

One fell from where they had been crouched. Bullet hitting them in the leg.

Another had a barrel pointed at his head. He fired first.

And the last one wasn’t focused on him. He followed their line of sight. Michael was unconscious on the ground. Bleeding from the injury he had received from him a few days ago. Alex fired. No one was going to hurt him.

“Manes!” Forrest called as he stormed through the door, Max right behind him. More gunfire rattled the old barn. He army crawled toward Michael. He had to move him. Get him out of the range of fire.

He looked around, determining none of the other shooters were focused on him. He jumped out from cover, stumbling and falling onto Michael’s chest. He groaned and coughed from his weight.

“Guerin come on. Wake up!” he maneuvered around to grab under his arms, pulling him behind a pillar. Wood exploded again and he cursed. They had noticed him. His arm wasn’t bleeding heavily but it was enough to be concerning.

“Damnit.” Alex nearly dropped him when he heard his voice. He pushed himself to keep moving until they were behind the trailer again. “Well my arm hurts like a bitch. And just about every other part of me,” he said trying to sit up from where Alex had laid him.

“Please just shut up and don’t move,” he begged. He rested a hand against Michael’s face, brushing a loose curl out of the way. “I’ll be back.”

He stood as fast as he could, rushing to join Forrest and Max. Whatever plan they had was thrown out the window. Now there was only damage control.

Max and Forrest stood back to back, working their way through the shooters. No one jumped out as a leader but that didn’t mean they weren’t around.

Suddenly, all the firing stopped. Alex couldn’t move. He tried to turn his head, but it was as if the whole space had been filled with jell-o. Things moved at a fraction of the speed they should have. No one seemed to notice but him.

A black figure threw Forrest and Max to the ground, removing the weapons from their hands. Then all the shooters were gathered in a pile, tied and unconscious. Alex could hardly register what was happening. Nothing moved like it was supposed to.

Suddenly he stared at the ceiling, black creeped in around the corners of his vision. He didn’t feel his weapon. He couldn’t feel anything. He felt weightless.

“Alex. I’m sorry.”

Then nothing.

-

Everything was white. Sometimes a shadow passed over him, but he was never quick enough to see what it was. Alex lifted a hand to his chest, surprised to find he didn’t have a shirt on. He looked down, praying this wasn’t a “wake up in school naked” dream.

He wore pants but something was different. He could feel his leg. He crouched down, finding it fulling intact.

“Alex!” A voice in the distance. He jerked his head up, searching for the source. He needed to find them.

“Where are you,” he called back?

He ran in the direction of the echoes. His thighs burned as he pushed himself harder than he had in months. He didn’t even know what he was running toward. Just that his heart and every other part of his body told him he needed whoever the owner of that voice was.

-

Michael called again and again. Nothing but white extended for miles. Maybe forever. He walked in a random direction. He needed to find Alex. He was in danger. He wanted to turn around. His heart told him to turn around. But if he turned around, he would never find him.

He had to keep moving. Sitting and waiting did nothing.

“Alex!” He raised a hand over his heart where the mark was. Why couldn’t he feel him?

“Stop running!” Michael stumbled at the voice. That had to be Alex. From behind him?

He turned around slowly. A figure in the distance sprinted toward him. He stepped backwards. What if it wasn’t him? What if this person hurt him? What if he left again?

Michael planted his feet. He wouldn’t know unless he waited to find out. He wanted to run. But he didn’t know which direction called to him more. Towards the voice? Or away from it? The figure slowly got bigger.

Michael took a step forward.

Suddenly Alex was right in front of him, crashing into his arms. He grabbed at him, pulling him close and burying his face in his neck.

“Alex,” he whispered. It was the only word he could manage.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he whispered back, holding on just as tight.

When he finally got the courage to pull away, he stared at Alex. He was younger. Smudged eyeliner circled his eyes. He moved his hands to rest on his cheeks. His hand wasn’t smashed like it should be.

“It’s you. It’s always been you.”

-

She watched them both from a distance. Maybe she wouldn’t have to do more pushing after all. She was tired of these games. The others would punish her for meddling, but she needed to redeem herself. All those tragedies she caused. Her involvement in the prolonging of this curse was over.

The doppelgangers were always meant to be the end of it. But the gods refused to let go of their entertainment.

Those two had taken control of the dream she planted. They would find their way back to each other. They’ve known they belonged together since they first met. They can fight it all they want.

There was no fighting the cosmos.

-

Michael gasped awake, head spinning as he tried to look around the pale white and blue room. The stiffness in his body told him exactly where he was before his eyes had time to adjust completely. The itchy hospital gown hadn’t gotten any better than it was three days ago.

The sudden panting from the bed next to him made him jump. Alex sat up, hand over his chest, eyes wide. Michael would bet anything they just had the same dream. He could feel Alex’s heartbeat. He wondered if it was just a side effect from the dream that made it race.

He looked around slowly. Then his eyes met his.

He didn’t know what to say. Whatever happened in the dream was just that. A dream. The problem was that he felt like he was in full control.

“Did you… have that dream too,” Alex questioned. His voice shook, adrenaline still running high. Michael nodded. He went to sit up himself, but pain shot up his arm. His arm had been re-stitched and placed in another sling.

After Alex pulled him to safety, the rest of the night was a blur. He thought he was conscious but all he could remember were random colors and shapes. He moved again, slower as to not jerk his arm around.

“Do you remember what happened?” Alex ran a hand through his hair, eyebrows drawn together.

“Not really. Just that it was like everyone stopped moving, then I was in that dream. And now I’m here.” He looked around, then grabbed at his leg, feeling for his prosthetic.

“It felt real, didn’t it?” Alex looked back at him, not being able to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. There was something about these dreams. Why were they so vivid? Though he understood why the former couples didn’t talk about their shared experiences, it made things harder to figure out.

“You kept running away,” he mumbled. “You called to me, then ran away. Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought I was looking for you.”

“You could feel me, Guerin. You didn’t have to look.” Michael looked away from him, resting his head on the pillow. He didn’t have an answer.

His eyes widened for a second, remembering the mark on his chest. He looked down, moving the hospital gown to the side. An empty spot where a petal used to be. But something wasn’t right. This wasn’t worse than being shot. Something happened.

“That was a trial,” Alex asked?

“I guess so. Didn’t feel like it.”

A quiet knock at the door made them both turn. It pushed open and Max poked his head in, seeming to check if they were awake. Seeing they were, he opened the door wide and Isabel followed behind him.

“Welcome back to the land of the living you two,” she said. Michael raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh, you both have been out for a couple days.” The way she said it sounded like she was telling them she had gone to the grocery store.

“A couple days,” Alex exclaimed?

“You kept calling for each other so we figured it’d be best to keep you away from others. Hence you’re in a room together.” Michael looked over at Alex to find him staring back. It lingered until a blush rose on Alex’s face.

“So why weren’t you knocked out like we were,” he asked? Max shrugged.

“It’s not clear. Forrest and I woke up to all the shooters tied up and you two pretty much writhing on the ground and calling for each other. Not often but it was startling, that’s for sure. I assume it has something to do with the curse. And what ever knocked you guys out had to do with it too. I noticed part of the mark faded.”

“What did you tell Forrest,” Alex asked?

“Just that you two were close. I couldn’t say much given my suspicions.” Michael wasn’t sure if the ache in his chest was him or Alex.

“Maria has been around. Cursing you out. Not that I blame her. You did run headfirst into danger without telling her,” Isabel said, crossing her arms. Michael sighed. He had tried to call her, but she must have been busy with either the Wild Pony or her mother. After they left, he had shut his phone off so it wouldn’t accidentally give him away. Not that it had mattered.

“So what happened with the shooters then? Was the person who wanted me with them?” Alex looked between the two of them. Max shook his head.

“No. But they were all from various divisions of the Military. Mostly Marines. They won’t talk and were all ‘following orders.’ They believed you were somehow a danger to the security of the country,” he said. Alex clenched his fists. His nose twitched, one of the few mannerisms he picked up from his father.

Michael watched as he processed the information. He was a good soldier. But if he was being accused of being a terrorist, he would be dishonorably discharged. Then the loss of his leg would have really been for nothing.

“So now that we’re up, can we just go? Or do they need to check vitals or something?” Michael wanted to figure out what was going on. He needed to question the soldiers himself.

“Oh no you don’t. You already tore your stiches once. You do not need to be getting into fights with highly trained marines,” Isabel scolded. He half laughed and shook his head.

“You know I’m amazed you and Maria don’t get along better. You sound just like her sometimes,” he teased. She rolled her eyes, a look of disgust passing over her features.

“She’s just too much. Look I get your whole thing about liking a strong woman but geez.”

“She is my best friend, can you two not talk about this here,” Alex said, face scrunched like he just ate something sour.

Isabel shrugged and left to get whatever doctor had been taking care of them. Max moved to the closet across from Alex’s bed. Opening the doors, he pulled out his prosthetic, placing it on the ground next to his bed.

“You should be fine to leave once the doctor gets back. It’s been cleaned. Dirt and blood had gotten on it.” Alex nodded.

“Thanks. Though I’m not super comfortable with people I don’t know touching it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Forrest offered and I figured it would be ok. Won’t happen again.” He watched Alex’s face. A small smile snuck out but was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Don’t worry about it. I trust him.” Michael had to look away. He trusted him? After knowing him for a day? He had to take a few deep breaths to not call out what a stupid decision that was.

A few short taps on the door called their attention. Kyle stood there, looking almost annoyed. Does this guy ever take a break? Michael wondered.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this. The more you rip those stitches, the more we have to see of each other.” He walked past Michael to stand next to Alex.

“I’m just going to double check some stuff then I’ll let you go. Arm.” Kyle rolled up the sleeve of the hospital gown, wrapping his arm to measure what he assumed was his blood pressure.

Max came to stand by Michael, looking over his shoulder at the other two. Then he leaned in close, whispering.

“Forrest is asking questions. He only follows my orders so much. If he starts digging, who knows what he’ll find. Unlike Maria, he has resources.”

“Don’t tell me you think we should let him in on it,” Michael asked.

“It’s damage control at this point Michael. Either you or Alex needs to give him some version of the truth so he backs off.” Michael glanced over at Alex. He watched as he took deep breaths with Kyle listening through his stethoscope.

Max shot him a look and moved back towards the door. This was exactly what he didn’t want to happen. It was Max’s idea in the first place! And now he had to deal with the mess. Alex caught him staring. He looked away quickly, knowing full well that made it more obvious.

“Alright. Everything looks good. I don’t know what caused you to sleep for two days but you seem fine now. You should either go to your general practitioner to get some medication or if something feels wrong in the next week, just come back here and we’ll look into it.” Alex nodded.

“Thanks,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Kyle smile at him. He disconnected the tubes from his arms before turning toward him. He slowly removed the sling from his arm, checking how the stitches were healing.

“Don’t strain it so much this time. Just let it heal. Read a book or something.” He moved to the other side of the bed. “Arm.” Michael offered up his left arm as Kyle went through the same steps as he did for Alex.

He looked over at him again. He sat on the side of the bed, leaning over to put his prosthetic on. Bits of skin peaked out from the hospital gown and he had to fight to not follow the path down. Not that he had time as Alex stood and moved to the closet to collect his clothes.

Michael hadn’t seen the full prosthetic yet. He considered that it was probably rude to stare but watching the way the muscles flexed just above where it attached made him sad. He wished he could have saved him, even though that was never possible.

Alex never complained about it. He was still strong and refused to just sit on the sidelines. He admired that, even if it made things more difficult than they needed to be sometimes.

Michael sat up, letting Kyle listen to his breathing as he moved past him to the bathroom to change. The door clicked shut almost quietly. He removed the stethoscope and began removing the tubes from his arms.

“Same story with you. If something feels—”

“Michael Guerin! You have some serious explaining to do,” Maria demanded, storming into the room. A frantic nurse and annoyed Isabel followed in behind. Kyle jumped at the interruption but he maintained a steady pace as he pulled out the needles.

“Deluca, I told you it’s not a good time. No one needs your overreaction right now,” Isabel said, trying to step between her and Michael

“Did I ask you, miss I’m-so-perfect? Butt out.” She pushed past her; Isabel’s mouth hung open in surprise.

“I’m sorry Dr. Valenti, she refused to wait,” the young nurse rushed out. Must have been new.

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just give them their privacy.” He guided the nurse out of the room, shooting a worried glance back over his shoulder. Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching as much as he could with an arm in a sling.

“Look, Maria I will explain but can we not do this here. Please?”

“Why would you think it’s a good idea to do some solo mission that’s going to get both you and Alex killed? Please, explain the logic to me,” she scolded.

“I mean technically I would be the only one that would die,” he mumbled. Her eyebrows drew together.

“What are you talking about?”

“The curse. If Alex is hurt, I take on his injuries.” Michael was too tired to come up with any more explanations. Maria was silent. Isabel threw her hands up in exasperation and walked out of the room.

The door to the bathroom opened and Alex looked between the two of them, though he didn’t say anything. He tossed the gown on the bed he was using before standing next to Michael.

“And you two are just… ok with this,” she asked softly?

“I mean. That’s why it’s a curse. Neither of us are ‘ok’ with it,” Alex pointed out, glancing down at him.

Maybe he held his gaze for too long. Maybe it was the way his fingers ached to hold his hand. Maybe it was because he was ok with it, as long as Alex was safe. Maybe it was the way Maria had to clear her throat to get his attention.

“The thing is, you don’t have to worry about Alex. Because my first instinct will always be to protect him. At this point, my entire life is about him.”

He didn’t know why the words come out of his mouth, though not one of them was a lie. He couldn’t pick out the emotions that passed over her face when he said it. There was an echo of emotions coming from the boy next to him. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Maria.

Then she smiled.

“Well I’ll still help you find a way to break this stupid thing. Get dressed and let’s go!” She spun and walked out the door, leaving him and Alex in silence.

“Why’d you say that,” he asked quietly?

Michael didn’t have an answer for him. His heart fluttered and he lifted his hand up over the mark. These emotions were all him. All real. He couldn’t focus on anything but Alex. Forgetting him was never an option. His entire body wanted him. He knew the symptoms of withdrawal and addiction. And Alex was one hell of a drug.

“You’re the one habit… I just can’t seem to kick.”

[imaginethathaikyuu]

as a fellow akaashi whore, may i request s/o being the manager nd dating him in secret or something?? idk just fluff i just love him

sooo…. when you requested this you probably expected a short little scenario, but… uh… take a look at that word count yikeslook, idk what happened but this scenario has taken over my life for a week now. and here are the results. (oh, and, spoiler alert: his s/o isn’t the team’s manager… uh… oops? also, akaashi whores UNITE) 

most importantly: round of applause for my beta reader, editor in chief, very good friend who has way too high of a tolerance for my bullshit and dumb ideas, @heichou-in-my-head, better known as pip. i don’t know how you do it, but holy shit is this honeybun grateful for you pippy. sorry my trouble with tenses gave you a hard time with this one, but what else do you expect from me? (seriously, thank you for all you do for me! ^_^) 

without further ado….. word count: 7883fem reader

-

“This is Akaashi.”

Back when your parents told you they’d be hiring a new gardener, you’d expected someone just as old as your last one. It appeared they’d managed to find a college student who was the same age as you instead.

“You can call me Keiji, if you want to.”

And it was weird - your parents quickly accepted the boy into your family. You recall feeling as though they expected the two of you to develop a relationship resembling something like siblings.

But after two months of him working for your family, you’d done nothing but embarrass yourself in front of him.

Even the other morning, you’d walked into the kitchen wearing what you’d slept in - a t-shirt and your underwear - toothbrush in mouth, bedhead out in full force, just about to grab a bottle of water from the fridge when you noticed: the boy was standing at the sink washing his hands, eyeing you with vague amusement. You remember gratefully noting that he didn’t glance down to your lower half.

How polite.

The snicker he gave you wasn’t very polite, though.

“Good morning,” he said, “sleeping beauty.”

You pulled your toothbrush from your mouth with a scoff.

“It’s not that late,” you mumbled, grabbing the bottle and beating a hasty retreat to your room.

—

Akaashi ended up doing more than just gardening work; observing his competence and willingness to do just about any task they could come up with, your parents immediately decided the entire house needed some work done. And there was no job Akaashi couldn’t do! He built shelves, painted walls, repaired fences - you’d even seen him under the hood of your dad’s car. He added these uncomplainingly to his main tasks of mowing the lawn, tending to the flower beds and bushes, weeding and re-potting, and occasionally working on the garden furniture. It was a wonder he had any time for school.

You stare at him now; he’d just knocked on your door, pulling you out of a deep Youtube video hole, and greeted you with, “I’m supposed to take down your curtains.”

“…what?” You glance back at your window confusedly.

“Your curtains - I’m supposed to take them down. And put these new ones up.”

“Oh.” You’d assumed your dad would change your curtains, but at this point it’s a given he’d get Akaashi to do it. “Uh… sure, okay.”

You settle back into your bed while he brings a step stool and a few tools in. The silence as he works is awkward, even tense, and it doesn’t seem like Akaashi’s going to break it - you decide you’ll have to do it.

“So, do you only own dark blue t-shirts?”

“Do you own pants?”

Damn. You’d hoped all those times you’d walked around in just your underwear had gone unnoticed by him.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” you shoot back, trying to mask your embarrassment. “You know, I used to be able to roam freely before my parents adopted you.”

He snorts. “Adopted?”

You sit up to get a better look at him. “What, you don’t feel like they’ve adopted you?”

“Considering I go home at the end of the day, no.”

“That’s the next step, Keiji - we have a spare room!”

He chuckles, instantly lightening the tense atmosphere. You realise this is the first time you’ve seen him smile genuinely and not just out of politeness - the old curtains are now down and the golden sunlight shines on his face, enhancing his features softly. For some reason you can’t take your eyes off him.

“I don’t think my own parents would appreciate me getting a new family.”

“I guess that’s true,” you laugh. “What do you have left to do today?”

His tongue sticks out just a bit as he focuses on twisting a screw into the wall. “Mow the lawn.”

“Perfect excuse to make lemonade then, don’t you think?”

Akaashi takes a step back to judge his work. The curtains are up, they’re even, and they look nice.

“Cliche,” he says, looking over to you. “But I agree.”

—

The summer sun is hot. Much hotter than you remember it being last year. And the best place to get away from that heat? Your air conditioned bedroom, obviously.

Your mom isn’t inclined to agree, though.

“Why don’t you get out of bed?”

“Mom…”

“Y/N, you’ve had two weeks of summer break and you’ve spent the whole time cooped up in this room. Your father is worried sick!”

You groan again. “I’m relaxing!”

“Well, you need to get some sun,” your mother continues. “Akaashi is outside painting the fence. I told him you’d be joining him. Get going!”

She leaves your bedroom with a huff, and you force yourself to roll out of bed. You put on appropriate clothes for painting and head to the backyard.

Akaashi’s wearing his trademarked blue t-shirt, paint supplies on a tarp next to him.

“Nice to see you out of that cave,” he says without looking at you.

You roll your eyes in response, crossing your arms and waiting for him to give you instructions.

“You actually want to help?”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” you reply, turning around to see your mother watching you from inside the house. You wave at her dramatically, and she waves back before walking away from the window.

He kneels down to prepare the paint. “I’ve already cleaned it and applied a primer,” he tells you. “So we can start painting now.”

You’re not sure what primer is for, but the quicker you finish painting, the quicker you can get out of this heat - you’re not going to bother asking.

He hands you a large brush and a tin can of white paint, and then walks away.

“Is that it?”

He laughs. “It isn’t rocket science! Just start painting!”

As it turns out, Akaashi had way too much faith in you. You’ve only finished painting about a third of the fence when he stands next to you, having already finished the other two thirds.

“Someone likes to take their time,” he says, painting the last panel.

“You’re just too fast!”

“You didn’t have to be so meticulous.” He takes the paint brush and can from you. “But thanks for the help.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before we started?”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

“Hey, it looks good!”

Both of you turn around to find your mother judging the paint job.

“How did she do, Keiji? Be honest!”

The boy looks over at you with a smile. “She didn’t do half bad. It was nice having company.”

“She’ll have to help out more often.”

After that, your parents jump at any chance to have you help Akaashi with his work. Without giving you payment, of course.

“You could learn a lot from the boy,” your dad says later on. “You need to learn how to do some hard work.”

“I think we managed to hire a trustworthy boy,” your mother chimes in.

“He can teach you about taking care of yourself. At least until you find a man like him to do it all. Someone with deeper pockets, hopefully.”

For some reason you’re really not a fan of the tone of voice your father uses, but at the same time you don’t really know what he means by it. Rather than being offended for Akaashi’s sake, you continue the conversation.

“Can’t I just hire someone like you guys?”

After a moment of thought, your mom speaks up. “Of course that’s an option! Maybe Keiji will even be around to work for you.”

You nod, not really knowing how to reply. You couldn’t genuinely see Akaashi working for you - but maybe working the whole summer with him wouldn’t be so bad, if it meant getting to know him better.

—

A knock on the front door pulls you out of the movie you were watching. When you answer, you find a familiar face.

“Is your dad home?”

You shake your head. “No, he’s having a late night at work. Won’t be back until early in the morning.”

“What about your mom?”

“On a trip,” you reply, bringing Akaashi inside.

“Well, do you have any idea why your dad called me here, then?”

“Oh, probably for me, sorry.”

His brows furrow, and the smile you sent him only confuses him more.

“My bathtub’s drain was clogged, but I told him I’d figure it out myself. I guess he didn’t trust my plumbing skills.”

“Did you fix it?”

“I…tried!”

He sighs. “Which bathroom?”

“The one in my room…”

You have no idea how he plans to fix the clog with no tools, but you don’t stop him as he makes his way to the bathroom. You sit at the kitchen table and wait for him to come back.

It takes much less time than you expected, and he’s drying his hands with a towel when he walks into the kitchen.

“Did you fix it?!”

He nods, wiping his brow. “Maybe I should’ve used that as a teachable moment for you.”

“No thanks. I never want to look at a drain again - I tried looking up instructions, but nothing would work. I tried for at least thirty minutes!”

“It isn’t that hard,” he replies under his breath. He sits across the table from you. “What are you doing home anyway? Don’t you have friends to keep you company? You know, instead of your gardener.”

“Are you implying I told my dad to invite you here on purpose?”

“A clogged drain isn’t that dire, but your dad definitely made it out to be.”

“Whatever,” you scoff. “I was going to make dinner, and since you’re here, you can help.”

“I’m a gardener, not a chef.”

You stand and begin pulling ingredients out of the fridge. “That’s what recipes are for - I won’t let you mess anything up, don’t worry.”

“Fine - don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Thirty minutes later the entire kitchen was filled with smoke.

“How did you burn rice?!”

“I don’t know - all I did was pour it into the pot!”

“With or without water?”

“…shit.”

—

Akaashi was hopeful that when fall came around, it’d mean less work. He was very mistaken. You’d even told him, “knowing my dad, he’ll find something for you to do.”

And the man did. For a month, Akaashi had to rake leaves once a week - which included cleaning the gutters - and when he wasn’t doing that, he was cleaning old tools that had been in your garage for years.

The first day he does the raking you watch him through the living room window in agony, waiting for him to get a big pile collected.

And as soon as he turns his back…

Your giggles were the only warning he had before he saw leaves go flying.

“My dad told me to help, so I thought I’d give you more work!”

“Y/N,” he says with a groan, but your laughter forces him to laugh with you. “That took half an hour!”

“I’ll rake them again! Help me up.”

He grabs your hand - only to be pulled down into the remaining leaf pile beside you, making you laugh even harder when he groans.

“Isn’t it fun?”

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid,” he says. But you notice that as he stands up and pulls you with him, he doesn’t deny it. “Once I jumped in a pile of leaves my dad was raking, and he was so pissed,” he admits with a laugh, looking happy at the memory.

“Did you have to rake them up after that, like I have to?”

He answers by handing you a rake. “I had to rake them for the rest of the season. For everyone in our neighborhood.”

“God, that must’ve sucked.”

“It paid well,” he replies. “I was able to buy my parents Christmas gifts that year because of it.”

“That’s sweet, Keiji.”

“Enough ass kissing, get to work.”

He walks away while you scoff, leaving you alone to rake up the mess you made - but you both have smiles on your faces.

—

As winter approached, Akaashi was spending even more of his time with you when he was meant to be working. You’d call him into your room for his opinion on an outfit or make him stay an hour longer so he could have lunch with you; you even often texted each other. Your friendship flourished, and the two of you felt more than comfortable around each other now - a stark comparison to nearly six months ago.

He was at your home every Monday and some Thursdays ready to work, without fail. They quickly became your favorite days of the week.

This Monday the wind was roaring outside as you curled up on the couch, fireplace ablaze to keep you warm. You were sure Akaashi wouldn’t come today - the last time you looked outside everything was covered in snow, even parts of the road - so when the doorbell rings it makes you jump a little.

You open the door, knowing Akaashi would be on the other side. “You’re late!” you say before hurrying back to your spot on the couch.

He pulls his beanie off, letting his messy hair free. “I know - the snow was getting bad. Had to shovel my driveway.”

“Tardiness is unacceptable, Akaashi.”

He scoffs at you. “Tardiness is next to godliness -”

“That’s timeliness.”

Your dad walks into the room from the kitchen, interrupting your conversation. “Akaashi, what’re you doing here?”

“Wasn’t I supposed to work on something in the attic today, or… something?”

He takes off his scarf as he speaks, and you stare at his rosy cheeks. His skin must’ve been flushed from the cold - you think he looks absolutely precious.

He catches you staring at him, but you didn’t look away. Before you probably would’ve been embarrassed to be caught eyeing the boy, but now you were looking forward to him teasing you for it.

“Well, yeah, but have you seen the weather? I didn’t think you’d bother showing up.”

Of course he’d seen the weather - but he also hadn’t seen you in a week. And for some reason, he missed you - so he made a point to get to work today.

“I appreciate the work. Especially since the holidays are coming up.”

“Alright…” your dad says with an understanding sigh. “Come on, then.”

You assume your dad leads him to the attic. Before walking away, Akaashi pulls his hoodie off, giving you a good view of his toned stomach when his shirt raises up. And instead of hanging it on the coat rack, he throws it at you with a smirk.

“Hey!”

“It’s to keep you warm!” he laughs before quickly catching up with his boss.

You don’t see him again until you’re having dinner. Your mother invites him to stay and eat, and when he sits across from you, you make sure to give his leg a playful kick.

“Shouldn’t you write Keiji up for being late today, bossman?”

“I had an excuse,” the boy argues.

“But you were a good four hours late.”

Keiji finally kicks your leg back, rolling his eyes.

“At least I showed up at all,” he replies. He looks down at his watch and half-gasps at the time. “I should get home, though - thank you for the meal.”

He stands up and your mother follows him. “Are you sure the roads are safe?” Nobody responds as she walks over to a window, seeing nothing but thick snow falling from the evening sky. “The road’s completely covered! I don’t want you driving in this weather. You should stay here for the night.”

“Keiji, we get to have a sleepover,” you tease.

“I couldn’t impose -”

“I insist,” your mom says. “You can sleep in the living room. Help him feel at home, Y/N.”

“Sure,” you reply. You would’ve given a sassier reply just to tease Akaashi even more, but you were busy wondering about his worried expression.

“Maybe the snow will lighten up soon,” he says.

“I doubt it,” your father says to him. The man stands and puts a hand on Akaashi’s shoulder. “Just stay here until the morning, don’t bother risking the drive. Y/N, don’t pester him too much.”

“I’ll try.”

After wishing you goodnight, your parents head off to their bedroom for bed.

“Do you want me to get the futon out for you?”

“If you don’t mind,” Akaashi says as he pulls out his cell phone. With a sigh, he continues. “My brother is going to be pissed.”

“You have a brother?” you ask, making your way to the closet where the futon and blankets are stored.

“Yeah, he’s 7.”

You had known Akaashi for what felt like a long time, and you thought you knew him well. But even after all this time, and after learning so much about him, you knew almost nothing about his home life.

Wanting to know more, you ask, “what’s his name?”

You turn your head to find him with his phone pressed to his ear.

“Hey, can you put Koichi on? Yeah, thanks.”

You turn back and focus on setting up his futon in the middle of the living room, but you can’t help overhearing his phone call since he’s only standing in the doorway.

“Hey, kid. I know I was supposed to be home before it got dark, but… no, playing in the snow is going to have to wait until tomorrow… I know I promised, but I have to stay here - no, the roads aren’t safe to drive…”

You find yourself feeling very curious about what Akaashi’s brother is like, what their relationship is like; you just want to sit and talk to him about his life and family, learning everything about him. But you’re sure he’d feel uncomfortable with that. It’d probably feel more like an interrogation to him.

It does seem unfair though. He knew virtually everything about you and your family. Would you have to become his handyman in order to learn more about him?

“Hey, you didn’t have to do all that for me.”

You look up and see he’s now back in the living room with you, phone call completed. You were already done setting up his futon as well as spreading out the bedspread.

“It’s fine!” you say. “I’ll get you an extra blanket, too.”

“Thanks, Y/N.”

“No problem, Keiji.”

You get the blanket for him and decide to turn in early, heading back up to your room with a cheerful ‘good night’.

When you wake up, the first thing you think is how cold you are. It’s unbearable; you curl your limbs into your body, pull your blanket up to your chin, but it’s no use. It feels like the blanket is only making you colder.

You open your eyes to check the time; you expect to see the sun shining through your window, but it’s still dark out. You click your phone on and are surprised to find that it’s only 1 am - and also that your phone isn’t charging, even though it’s plugged in.

You switch your bedside lamp on: nothing.

“Huh.”

The snow must have knocked the power out. That would explain your room’s temperature.

There’s no way you can fall asleep in your cold bedroom, so using your phone as a flashlight, you make your way to the living room, with thoughts of the fireplace and a certain boy and the warmth both of them can offer.

You’re excited to see Akaashi already has a fire burning in the fireplace, and he’s sat up in the futon, the hood of his hoodie pulled up over his head.

“Keiji,” you whisper before sitting next to him. “I need warmth!”

“You’re in the right place, then.”

You sit down next to him in front of the fireplace, sitting much closer to him than you first intended.

“You’re shivering,” he says with a laugh, pushing his hood down. “Are you really that cold?”

You nod, pulling your knees up to your chest and hugging them close.

“Here,” Akaashi says, pulling his hoodie off and handing it to you. “It’s warm.”

“Won’t you be cold?” you ask, pulling the sweatshirt on. You immediately feel warmer, and the scent of Akaashi’s cologne quickly takes over your senses.

He shakes his head. “Not if I’m under a blanket,” he says as he scoots up, getting under the two large blankets. “Do you want to lay down with me?”

Instead of answering, you just crawl over to him. He holds the blanket up for you, inviting you under, and you gratefully accept.

“Do you feel better?” Akaashi asks after you get comfortable.

“I’m so warm,” you say, almost in disbelief. You open your eyes and give him a wide, content smile. “Are you warm?”

He nods. You’re sharing a pillow; his face is quite close to yours. But not uncomfortably close. You like laying next to him like this.

“…are you still worried about your brother?”

“A little,” he says with an awkward laugh. “He wanted to play in the snow together.”

“He’ll be okay, I’m sure,” you say before yawning. “I didn’t know you even had a brother. Does he look like you?”

Akaashi smiles. “Basically identical.”

“I’d love to meet him.”

Your eyes are closed now, and you can feel yourself falling asleep, but you try to hold it back.

“I’d like that,” Akaashi replies, and his voice is much quieter than it was before.

He closes his eyes too, but he’s nowhere near falling asleep. He isn’t even tired. How could he manage to fall asleep while you’re laying right next to him?

So he opens his eyes again, and lets himself look at you. The fire lights up the room with an orange glow, gently cascading on your face. And he’s gone; his heart is beating fast, he’s smiling for no reason, his entire body feels warm - and he’s sure it isn’t because of the fire.

He wants you to wake up. He wants you to look at him like he’s looking at you. He wants to keep talking to you, to tell you everything about himself.

But at the same time, he loves how peaceful you look. He never thought he’d get the chance to see you sleeping - and he kind of feels like a creep for watching you, but he figures that just this once, it’s okay. After all, you did crawl into bed beside him.

You snuggle into the pillow and your hair falls into your face, and Akaashi takes a chance and brushes it away. His touch is soft, he’s sure, but when he pulls his hand away your eyes slowly open.

“Are you cold?”

He shakes his head, but you scoot closer to him anyway.

“I can keep you warm,” you say softly, wrapping your arm around his waist and pressing your face against the top of his chest. “I haven’t cuddled in so long…”

“Me neither,” he replies. He’s trying to relax, because he’s sure you can feel how tense he is.

“Then we should cuddle more often.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He swears he’s going to pass out, because he’s holding his breath and his heart is beating so fast and his mind is racing.

He’s not sure if this is appropriate - in fact, he knows it isn’t. He feels dizzy just thinking about what your father - his boss - would say if he knew the two of you were here in each other’s arms.

But maybe that doesn’t matter for now, and maybe he could get away with doing this just once.

So he relaxes and he breathes and he closes his eyes, but he doesn’t fall asleep for a while - he has to keep an eye on the fireplace, anyway. He lays there with your body pressed against his, your arms wrapped around him, for what’s probably hours. And he’s never felt more comfortable.

—

Even though it wasn’t his intention, cuddling together turns out to be more than a one-time thing.

For the rest of the winter you made a habit of inviting him to your room, always to keep you warm. And he never really had any complaints until the day you expressed that you want to do more with him.

It was overwhelming. So much so that after you had that conversation with him, he had to avoid you. It was hard to avoid someone who lived in the house he worked in, though, so his attempts were unsuccessful.

One day he’s in the kitchen washing his hands when you come into the room and pull him out into the hall.

“What’s up?” he asks as you lead him around the corner, holding his hand behind you. “I’m not done working -”

You stop and turn to him, leaning against the wall behind you. You pull him closer and take a deep breath, remembering the conversation the two of you had a few days ago, when you expressed your feelings and told him how badly you wanted to be closer to him - and when he told you he feels the same way.

“You already know.”

He tries his best to hold back his reaction. He knows what you mean. But still, he shakes his head.

“I want you to… kiss me.”

He’s avoiding eye contact with you now, and you squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.

“What?”

“Don’t you want to?” you ask. He doesn’t reply. “Keiji…”

For the first time that evening, he looks at you in the eye. “Don’t… say my name like that.”

“Why not?”

Blue eyes bore into yours. You know he’s trying hard to keep that exasperated look on his face. You’re trying hard to swallow the lump forming in your throat. Had he lied when he said he wanted you too?

“Keiji… you said you want to.”

His eyes close, his hand squeezes yours tight.

“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “If your parents found out -”

“No one has to know.”

“They’ll know,” he replies.

“One kiss,” you say, looking at his lips. The curiosity was eating away at you now. “It’s harmless.”

Akaashi knows that isn’t true. And if you genuinely believe that then his feelings are already hurt. Because this isn’t harmless - especially if it really is just one kiss.

You’d spent the last few months being forbidden fucking fruit - one taste wouldn’t be enough for him. He knows that. You should too.

So he shakes his head again, letting out a breath that sounds like a groan, and he keeps his eyes squeezed shut so he doesn’t have to look at your tantalizing lips again.

“I… I can’t.”

Being rejected isn’t something you expected to happen. So you look down to your feet. You drop Akaashi’s hand. After getting used to your touch, he misses the feeling already.

“Okay…” you reply. It’s hard to speak to him now, knowing that he didn’t mean what he said before, and you’re embarrassed.

You know your next words will sound pathetic, but you can’t hold them back. “If you… change your mind, you know where to find me, I guess.”

And then you walk away, knowing both of you would regret your actions that day.

—

After that, the two of you were back to square one. You remember feeling as if the last few months hadn’t even happened - you stopped talking, you stopped cuddling, you even stopped looking at each other.

It was hard for both of you. Akaashi was convinced that after he rejected you, you started purposefully walking around the house scantily clad even more than before. It’d been two weeks since then, and it was driving him fucking crazy.

He could deal with it, though.

That day, however - that day was the last straw.

He’d walked into your house - at this point, your parents had told him to just let himself in. And the sight he walked in on was something he’d never get out of his head.

You were on the couch…and you weren’t alone. You were lying with someone else on top of you, your lips attached to his. To make it worse, it was a guy Akaashi was sure he recognized from his high school volleyball days.

It was like walking in on a car crash. His heart sank into his stomach, it felt like he was going to throw up, he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to pull his hair out, he wanted to yell, to cry. But all he could think to do was run out. He forgot about the job he was meant to be doing today.

And then he sat alone in his car for awhile.

He hoped you got what you wanted - because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to walk into that house again.

—

“Long time no see,” you mumble when you walk into the kitchen. You see him stiffen at the sound of your voice.

Akaashi had taken a two week “vacation”, according to your dad, but you knew the real reason he’d stayed away.

“Wonder why,” he replies, his sarcastic tone matching yours. He definitely wasn’t happy to be speaking to you.

“Yeah,” you say. “I wonder.”

Akaashi can’t take it anymore. Not only is your tone absolutely unbearable, but the way you’d been treating him - even before he caught you with another guy - was nothing but disrespectful.

“Do you get off on hurting my feelings or something?”

“What -”

“You know what you’re doing. Don’t act innocent.”

He turns to look at you, clearly feeling confident. You don’t feel the same.

“I didn’t mean for you to walk in…”

“We both know that’s bullshit -”

“No it isn’t.”

After a beat of silence, Akaashi asks a question that he’s been dying to ask for two weeks now. “What, is he your boyfriend or something?”

“No.”

The truth is you did hate yourself for being caught like that, if only because you were sorry it hurt Akaashi to see it.

“You don’t want to kiss me. But he did. So I kissed him.”

That had been a bad choice - you knew it the moment you invited the boy over. It wasn’t helpful to anyone, particularly the guy whom you had no feelings for.

“And I don’t understand why you’re so upset when you never wanted me in the first place -”

“I wanted to kiss you!”

“Then why didn’t you?!” You know you shouldn’t raise your voice, but Akaashi doesn’t seem fazed by it.

“Because I could lose my job! And I wouldn’t be able to stop myself - it wouldn’t just be one kiss, but you don’t - you don’t understand that!”

You take a while to reply. Akaashi takes that chance to look away from you, to run a hand through his hair, to realize what the fuck he just said.

“What if I don’t want you to stop?”

“Don’t say that.”

“I still want to kiss you, Keiji!” you say loudly, glad your parents are at work. “Even after you rejected me - and you can do it again! I don’t care!”

Then kiss me - he’s so close to saying it. But he can’t open his mouth.

“I’m going to my room. Go do your work -”

“Wait -”

You stop in your tracks and wait for him to continue.

“If I lose my job for this -”

“You won’t.”

He walks closer to you, ignoring what you said. “If I lose my job for this, you’re buying my brother’s birthday presents.”

“You aren’t going to get fired, unless you’re a bad kisser and I make my dad fire you so I never have to see you again.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you want me to kiss you or not?”

You don’t bother replying, because Akaashi puts his hands on each side of your face. He pulls you close, but he goes slow, as if he’s working up the courage to do it.

“Is this your first kiss?”

“Shut up.”

And then he kisses you - it’s sweet and soft and gentle, and while you expected all of those things, fireworks don’t fly like you thought they would. You don’t feel sparks of electricity across your whole body. Maybe it’s because it’s not rushed, or because it isn’t spontaneous.

But the way his hands are holding your face feel perfect. His thumb grazes your skin carefully, and his hands are gentle despite being rough and worn from countless hours of hard work.

It doesn’t last very long; he pulls away before you can even move your lips much. And when you open your eyes, his are still closed - and he’s smiling so wide.

You know kissing is supposed to lead to more, in fact you assumed you’d be taking each other’s clothes off by now, but all you really want to do is cuddle with him for a while.

“When will you be done working?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“Because I want to take a nap.”

“We can take a nap,” he laughs.

“And I want to kiss you more.”

He nods. “I’ll kiss you more. As much as you want.”

—

You think back on the period that followed with great affection, the blessed honeymoon phase. As spring approached and the weather started to get warmer, your relationship with Akaashi blossomed along with the wild daffodils in your backyard. Even though he was nervous about your parents finding out, requesting that you keep your relationship status a secret so he wouldn’t risk losing his job, you both felt very happy with how things were going. You were comfortable with him, and he absolutely adored you.

When you informed him of your love of spring flowers he demanded you help plant some in the flowerbeds. He told you he’d plant whatever you wanted, even taking you to a flower shop so you could pick them out.

You decided on red marigolds. Akaashi planted the seeds with tender care, and you made sure to water them on the days he wasn’t working.

The two of you bonded over waiting for the flowers to bloom - you were impatient, and Akaashi was worried they wouldn’t grow.

But they did - the two of you were over the moon when they sprouted, you remember fondly, sitting on the edge of the porch with him, both looking at the flowerbed.

“I’m so excited for them to bloom,” you say.

“Me too.”

You turn your head and look at Akaashi. He gives you a small smile, and you feel your heart speed up just looking at him. He’s so cute that it hurts, but you can’t even look away from him.

But you have to; you look around, making sure no one just so happens to be looking, and then you quickly steal a kiss from him.

“What was that for?” he asks.

You shrug. “You just look cute, that’s all.”

Akaashi looks around in the same way you had, before kissing you again quickly.

“Right back at you,” he replies, before letting his hand rest on yours.

You lean your head against his shoulder and smile wide as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. You flip your hand over so you could lock your fingers together.

Akaashi feels something he’d never felt before, not with anyone else or even with you, until right now. He’s so comforted by you; this moment is cozy and relaxed and tranquil and every other word like that he can think of. He wants to be with you, right there, for as long as he can.

He squeezes your hand. He wants more of this - more of you.

“Y/N,” he says quietly, and you pull back to look up at him.

He smiles again before ducking down to kiss you one more time. This one lasts longer, he kisses you hard and makes the most out of the short time before he has to pull away.

He doesn’t want to pull away at all, but he’s glad he did - because the door behind you opens right then.

“Keiji, I’m glad I caught you before you left -”

Your mom is none the wiser, or at least it seems so. Akaashi pulls away from you quickly, praying she didn’t see anything.

“We’re having a little neighborhood get-together tomorrow here at noon, and I thought it’d be fun for you to come!”

He nods, looking back at her. “Sure, I’ll be there.”

“Great! Oh and Y/N, the neighbor’s son is home for spring break and we’ve invited him too. You’ll have to wear something nice.”

You nod in response and Akaashi stands. “Well, I’ll see you guys tomorrow. I better get going.”

With that he walks to his car, and you stand to face your mom.

“What were you two doing?” she asks.

You shrug. “Just talking.”

“He’s a nice boy,” she says with a knowing smile. “But, you know, the Kindaichi’s son has been away at university at Cornell. You know, your father’s old alma mater. And he’s on the road to joining your father’s company.”

“That’s nice,” you hum, trying your best to avoid the conversation altogether.

“I’m just saying, that’s the kind of man your father and I want for you. So we think you should give Yutaro a chance, okay?”

You simply nod along as she speaks, trying not to blow your cover and expose your and Akaashi’s relationship. This appears to be good enough for her as she retreats back inside soon after, leaving you to ponder.

You aren’t thinking about your future or what kind of man you want for yourself right now. At this point, the only thing you know is that you want to date Akaashi - even if your parents don’t approve. Their opinion of Akaashi isn’t really clear to you, but what you do know is that in some way, they judge his home life.

He doesn’t share much of it with you, but you know his life isn’t easy. He doesn’t have much, and everything he does have is the product of hard work. He definitely isn’t away at a prestigious school and there would be no well-paying suit-and-tie job waiting for him in a few years, either, no handy contacts to help slide him into a junior partner position at a family friend’s company.

But do those facts make him less desirable than someone with more money in their pockets?

You know your parents have good intentions, they mean well, they only ever wanted the best for you. But to you, the best has never meant smart or rich - the best always meant down to earth, caring, personable, supportive and encouraging. Akaashi is all of that plus more.

Even so, you know you have to put on a show for your parents’ sake - or rather, for Akaashi’s sake.

And the next day, that’s exactly what you do.

You aren’t able to talk to Akaashi much at the party because your parents are too busy basically trying to sell you to the Kindaichi’s, but after about an hour or so you’re able to get away from them. You grab Akaashi and make a break for it, trying your best not to get spotted.

You bring Akaashi around to the front porch and sit in the same places you sat the day before.

“This is the worst,” you say, covering your face with both hands.

“At least you look nice.”

You sigh. “Mom forced me to wear this dress. Apparently red is Cornell’s school color or something.”

“He really goes to Cornell?”

“Yeah. And it definitely shows in his bland as fuck personality.”

Akaashi nods. “Are you considering…”

“What do you mean?” You look over at him. “Not in a million years. I don’t care how much money he has.”

“Your parents seem to like him, though.”

“Well, we both know who I like. And he doesn’t go to Cornell. And I’m going to tell them that.”

“You’re what?”

“Y/N - there you are, I’ve been looking all over. Aren’t you going to tell Yutaro goodbye?”

You turn and look at your dad. “Do I have to?”

“You need to make a good first impression -”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”

When your dad reluctantly walks away, Akaashi grabs your arm.

“You can’t tell them -”

“Why not? You’re great at what you do, if they fire you then you can get a job almost anywhere else - and if they don’t approve, I don’t care.”

“Y/N -”

“Keiji, I want to take us more seriously.”

Akaashi closes his eyes and shakes his head. And you don’t want to stress him out with this - you know he already has a lot going on.

But if he doesn’t want to tell them now, will he ever? Will he choose to keep your relationship a secret forever? And will you always have to settle for it?

You don’t know - nor do you really have the time to think about it right now.

“Okay. Sorry. I won’t tell them anything.”

With that, you get up and go back to the backyard where your parents are waiting expectantly. Akaashi isn’t far behind you.

He’d been feeling awkward the entire party. And having to watch you, dressed up nicely for another guy, faking interest and forcing smiles - it just makes him feel shit, especially because if he could just get over his fears of judgement then you wouldn’t have to deal with this stupid charade.

But he also has to admit to an even more powerful emotion: he’s jealous. He realizes that he wants to be the guy your parents are rooting for, he wants to be the one they believe could take care of their daughter, he wants to be the one you dress up for. But he doesn’t even know if his community college had school colors. And he does know that your parents would never accept him as a match for their daughter.

But he’ll be damned if he’s gonna lose you to some goofy-looking guy whose most interesting characteristic is that they go to a prestigious school - and just watching the boy awkwardly trying to touch your shoulder pisses him off. Can’t he see you shying away?

‘Cornell’ tries again; Akaashi sees you flinch.

That does it.

“It’d be a nice day for a drive, don’t you think?” he hears as he approaches you both.

“…yeah, sure,” you reply, brushing your hair behind your ear. You aren’t even making eye contact with the guy - Ivy League apparently isn’t smart enough to take the hint.

Once he’s close enough, Akaashi puts his hand on the small of your back. “Hey, Y/N.”

You send him a grateful look for the interruption, but the guy in front of you only looks annoyed.

“Excuse me - who are you? I don’t think we were introduced.”

The guy’s fake politeness only added fuel to the fire.

“Akaashi.”

“You can call me Kindaichi - or Yutaro.”

He holds his hand out, and Akaashi doesn’t shake it.

“Look, no offense, but I don’t think my girlfriend is all that interested. Try not being so oblivious.”

With that, he takes your hand and leads you away over to the empty patio.

“Were you jealous, Keiji?”

“Shut up.”

“Just admit it!” you laugh.

He rolls his eyes and refuses to admit anything - even though he knows you’re right.

You tug on his hand; he turns and looks at you slowly. You see the exhilaration mixed with anxiety in his eyes. It matches what you feel in your heart.

“That’s the first person we’ve told about our relationship, by the way.”

–

Later that night, Akaashi texts you and tells you he’s done keeping things secret - he’s ready to be more serious about the relationship, too. You agree to tell your parents the next morning.

Akaashi proceeds to demand that you call him when you’re finished with the conversation; when you do finally call him, he spends at least two minutes anxiously asking questions - you can’t get a word in.

“…are they disappointed? Do they want you to date someone better? With more money? Shit - do I even still have a job?”

“Do you want an answer, or do you just want to keep asking questions?”

His answer is a sigh, and there’s a long silence before you tell him how things went.

“…you know they already knew?”

“They… what?”

“We didn’t do a good job at hiding things, apparently,” you laugh. “And they both talked it over last night, and they agree you’re probably better for me than anyone else.”

“You mean I was worried for nothing?”

“Yeah, babe. Oh, also, dad says you have a lot of yard work to do Thursday, so you should get here early.”

“Sure.”

“Wait - get here extra early, and we can have breakfast together.”

He snorts. “By early, you mean noon, right? I know you like getting your sleep -”

“Shut up!”

—

That Thursday, you wait impatiently for your boyfriend to arrive - you stand at the door to keep a look-out for him. When you see his car pull into your driveway, you quickly run outside.

“Keiji, they bloomed!”

“The flowers we planted?”

“Yeah, come on, you have to see them!”

You pull him around the house to the flowerbeds, where dozens of red and orange marigolds are freshly bloomed.

“You were worried about them for nothing,” you say. “Growing flowers is easy.”

“We all know I worry too much, you don’t have to bring it up anymore.”

His words make both of you laugh, and you stand there together looking at the flowers for a while.

“Aren’t they pretty?”

“They are,” he replies. Standing behind you, he wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder so he can still see the flowers.

“What should we plant next year?”

“Hm… something bigger. A bush, maybe?”

You nod in agreement before leading him back inside to have breakfast - your parents will be joining you, after which he’ll get on with his chores for the day. He’s surprised at how comfortable he feels around your parents, how nothing feels different. He was worried for nothing - he’d have to remember to stop worrying so much.

But next year, when the two of you plant rose bushes, he can’t stop worrying about whether they’d bloom or not - they took a while, much longer than the marigolds. But all that worrying was worth it for the day he came over to find you sat on the porch, holding a red rose.

“I think all your worrying helps them grow.”

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes he replies, “I think you’re right. For once, anyways.”

He decides marigolds are easier, though. And that’s what you’d go with from now on.