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ladamedusoif · 4 months

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able

(Joel Miller x disabled F!Reader)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Disabled F!Reader

Summary: "I just don't think she'll be able for patrol". But then it's just you, Joel, and your trusty walking stick in the middle of nowhere...

Content/warnings: Reader is disabled (she has rheumatoid disease/arthritis in addition to panic attacks, she uses a walking stick as necessary); Reader had a sister; Reader is an art teacher; strong violence; blood; description of panic attack; references to impact of chronic illness and disability; references to medication; references to disease and death; non-canon compliant; Jackson!Joel; strong language; ableist language and abusive language

Rating: Mature; 18+ MDNI

Word Count: ~3.7k

A/N: After making a plea earlier in the week for people to actually write disabled Reader fic, as opposed to forcing writers to feel they have to tag literally everything in an able-bodied Reader story, I knew I had to put my money where my mouth was as a disabled, neurodivergent writer with various mental health things going on here and there. And this one-shot is the result.

This one is a little personal. I was diagnosed with rheumatoid disease about ten years ago, and Reader’s experiences are informed by my own (though, thankfully, I haven’t had to contend with an apocalypse that meant I couldn’t access the medication that has kept me going). She’s also inspired by @agentjackdaniels, who acted as consultant extraordinaire on walking sticks and panic attacks, and suggested the Joel picture for the moodboard. Thank you, Luce, for this, for fighting the good fight for representation in fic - and for beta-ing the story.

(A note on terminology: rheumatoid disease/arthritis are sometimes used interchangeably. ‘Arthritis’ often sounds like it’s ‘just’ osteoarthritis to people who don’t know the difference. Rheumatoid, unlike osteoarthritis (which is shitty in its own ways), is a systemic, lifelong, chronic illness and an auto-immune disorder that affects the entire body, not just bones and/or joints. So personally I use ‘rheumatoid disease’ as it conveys more of the impact of the condition. It's also often seen as an 'old person' disease but this simply isn't true - not that this stops mobility aids being modelled by people in their 80s all the time...)

Please follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to stay up to date with my work.

Dividers by @saradika - moodboard by me

You weren’t supposed to make it.

Twenty-odd years in the apocalypse with your fucked-up joints and no steady supply of the meds that kept you going, pushing through the cycles of fatigue, and fighting off your own goddamned immune system as much as you were fighting clickers and raiders.

You really weren’t supposed to make it. But you had Annie.

You were sharing an apartment when the outbreak happened, a quirk of shitty personal circumstances - she’d just broken up with her long-term boyfriend - that probably helped save your life. Annie was the all-action sister - the kind of person who thinks there’s nothing weird about spending your weekends doing triathlons and “Tough Mudder” challenges, who had a perfect bill of health your entire lives, who bounced out of bed in the mornings while you cracked and creaked and stiffly manoeuvered yourself into being.

The good days generally outweighed the bad in the years between your diagnosis with rheumatoid disease and the initial outbreak - or maybe you had just gotten used to the aches and pains and the occasional flare-ups of fatigue. You invested in a walking stick to help on those days when mobility was particularly bad: solid, heavy, and carved in a pale yellow wood. It felt like a comfort in your hand, more a sign of strength, to you, than of weakness.

Annie helped you through the panic attack that consumed you on outbreak day, working with you to regulate your breathing and relax your tense muscles until you could finally say what was on your mind.

“My meds. What am I going to do without my meds?”

Nothing a quick smash and grab at the local pharmacy couldn’t fix. It was the first of many, stockpiling the little yellow tablets you relied on and taking as many packs of over-the-counter painkillers as you could carry. Useful currency in the apocalypse, as it turned out.

All-Action Annie was never going to cope with life in a QZ. She got the two of you out after months of planning, nights of whispered talk about a town out west that was normal - or something close to it, anyway. She hadn’t entertained your protestations about you slowing her down, holding her back.

“You think I’m leaving behind a girl who’s so handy with a weapon?” she’d teased, pointing to your walking stick. “Be real. We’re busting out together.”

The infection took hold in her about three days from Jackson. Fuckin’ barbed wire, tearing a jagged line through Annie’s hand and leaving behind an old-fashioned kind of threat to life, the kind penicillin had mostly dealt with. But that was then. This was now.

She died in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, you holding her hand until the end, talking to her about your childhoods and trying to keep smiling until she closed her beautiful eyes.

It took all your strength to dig her grave. And then, somehow, you found more.

You weren’t supposed to make it. But you did.

Jackson stands before you.

He sees you for the first time in the community dining hall, talking animatedly to Maria as you hungrily devour the food set in front of you. Eyes wide, face grubby, clothes ragged. Half-wild, he thinks, like most of the new arrivals. Like him and Ellie, once upon a time. He returns to his bowl of soup and his own thoughts - at least, until he’s interrupted by Maria.

“Joel? Want to introduce a new member of the community, just arrived.”

He doesn’t quite know why he’s surprised when he realises you’re leaning on a sturdy hand-carved walking stick in a solid, light yellow wood. Maybe it’s because he knows how physically hard it is to get here. Maybe he just assumed folks who needed a stick wouldn’t have been able to manage the journey.

For a second he can hear Sarah’s voice in his head, chiding him for focusing on what a disabled person can’t do instead of what they can.

“Joel?”

He snaps out of his reverie and looks from Maria to you. “Uh, hi. Sorry, just…sorry. Forgot my manners.”

“I was just saying how glad we are to have someone who can offer some art education in the town, isn’t that right, Joel?”

Your eyes are warm and mischievous as you meet his gaze, silently conveying your amusement at Maria’s rather brusque manner. It’s all Joel can do not to laugh.

“Sure is. You’re an artist, then?”

You shake your head. “Not a real one. I was an art teacher, before. Long time since I created anything, though, so I hope I remember how.”

He smiles softly, his gruff exterior receding a little. “Bet it’s just like riding a bike,” he says, before his face falls as he looks at your walking stick. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean… Shit. Hope I didn’t offend.”

“As it happens, I can ride a bike, Joel. The apocalypse just doesn’t give me much cause to.”

You leave him with a smile and a wink as Maria ushers you to meet other townsfolk. He watches you as you walk away, the tap-tap-tapping of your stick beating out a new rhythm in the heart of Jackson.

You think of Annie every morning when you wake up in the little house you’d been assigned. Sometimes, as you potter around the kitchen, still revelling in the novelty of making yourself morning coffee for the first time in two decades, you even talk to her. You tell her about the town, the townsfolk, your work in the community vegetable garden, your art classes.

“Honestly, An, you wouldn’t believe how popular they are,” you tell the Annie who, in an alternate universe, is sitting at the kitchen table with her own mug of coffee. “I’m setting up extra sessions to cater for demand.”

There’s something uplifting in how hungry the people of Jackson are to make art, no matter their experience or existing skill level. They’ll draw stuff from memory, they’ll dutifully work on a still life, they’ll even traipse outside with you, wooden sketching boards in hand, and make rapid-fire sketches of the goings-on on Main Street.

Joel doesn’t join a class - but the teenage girl Maria refers to as “Joel’s kid” does, all potty-mouthed and enthusiastic and pretty damned talented, to boot. Ellie tells you how she’s pinned up the drawings she’s proudest of in their home, “like our own fuckin’ art gallery or some shit.”

You pull up a tall stool and sit beside her, resting your stick over your thighs. “Joel’s got his guitar and those dumbass model figures he paints,” she continues, leaning around her easel and squinting at the woman who’d volunteered to act as a life model for this week’s classes. “But this shit? This is real art.” She adds a little highlight to the woman’s sweater and leans back to assess the work.

“You probably got exempt from patrols, I’m guessing. On account of the stick, an’ all.”

“Maria asked, and I signed up happily. I got all the way here, didn’t I? I’m sure I can manage patrols. And it’s the least I can do - they’ve even found me some of the medications I need.”

Ellie nods, somewhat convinced, and returns to sketching out the contours around the model’s jaw.

The day of your first patrol arrives. You bundle up and set out early for the stables, allowing extra time to get there on account of the flare-up you’d been experiencing the day before.

You arrive early - just in time, in fact, to overhear a heated conversation between Joel and Maria.

“She’s doing enough, ain’t she? I just don’t think she’ll be able for patrol.”

“You’ve seen her out and about, Joel. She’s mobile. She’s competent. She’s good with the horses. She got all the way here, the last stretch on her own. What more proof do you need?”

“You’re seriously gonna send a woman with a walking stick out on patrol?”

“I seriously am. Sent you and your bad back out, didn’t we?”

“That ain’t the same and you know it.”

“Just saddle the horses, Joel. And, in case you’re wondering - yes, I paired you together deliberately, just until she gets settled.” You hear her footsteps recede as she leaves him.

You had misjudged how much your already-limited grip would be further impeded by the gloves you’re wearing. The stick clatters to the ground.

“Who’s there?”

You emerge from the shadows. “Me. Sorry.”

Joel rolls his eyes and gruffly points out the tack and supplies.

The first patrol passes in silence. You wonder what happened to the softer man you’d caught a glimpse of the first day you arrived.

On the second patrol, you ask him questions about himself. On the third patrol, he asks (fewer) questions about you. By the fourth, you’re having something approximating normal conversation.

“Sarah loved to make all kinds of stuff,” he ventures, leading the way on his chestnut horse. “Those beaded bracelets, that girly Lego in the pink and purple, all of that. My girl had enough Magic Markers to supply a whole elementary school. Maybe two.”

You can hear him smile, even without seeing his face. His shoulders relax a little as he recalls the memory.

“So she was a creative kid?”

“Creative, sporty… she could do anything. Made the school soccer team, she was so proud. Just a…” He pauses. “A great kid.”

There’s a few beats of silence, punctuated only by the sound of the horses snickering and the steady rhythm of their hooves on the ground.

“What about your sister, was she arty like you?”

You’d told him about Annie on the last patrol. This was the first time he’d asked about her explicitly.

“She was the sporty one. I think that’s why I survived so long, truth be told. She was so strong and fast and tough as fuck.”

He chuckles, the burr of his voice resonating in the cold air. “Sounds like a good balance, though.”

“It is - it was. Was.” Your voice grows quieter as you repeat the word to yourself, chest starting to tighten. The horse slows, responding to the tension of your body, as Joel continues to trot on, not realising you’ve come to a halt behind him.

And then the tell-tale snapping of a twig, the sound of footsteps, and the realisation there’s someone else there, emerging out of the woods. Two someones.

Raiders.

The panic attack that has been building inside you gives way. An innate fight or flight response kicks in as you roar his name.

Joel turns and charges back towards you, just in time to see you take out one raider with a crack shot from your pistol. He slows the horse and readies his rifle, staring at the other man who is now trying to haul you off your mount.

“Get the fuck off me, motherfucker!” You flail against him, desperately shifting your weight to the other side of the saddle to try to shake him off.

Joel takes aim.

You think you’ve kicked the raider off. And that’s when you hit the ground.

He can’t take the shot now, not with her half-hidden from his view and audibly fighting off the man who’s dragged her to the ground. Joel is still a little distance away, slightly too far to see exactly what’s happening.

Why didn’t he hear her slowing? Why didn’t he realise she was further behind than she ought to be? Why did she slow in the fuckin’ first place?

Joel quickly dismounts, rifle in hand, moving closer so he can get a clearer shot at the guy who’s now standing over her. The horse’s elegant neck obscures the raider’s hands from Joel’s vision - he has no idea if he’s pointing a gun at her or not.

He thinks he has a clear sight on the guy’s head, provided he stays in the same position. He readies the rifle.

Suddenly, the raider disappears, letting out a primal roar before he hits the ground.

“You fucking cunt!”

Joel can see she’s standing now, the man prone before her. As he rounds the horse he sees her lift her cane, hands securely gripping the pointed end of the stick.

She brings the solid, weighty handle down on the raider’s leg with a sickening crunch. Even Joel recoils a little at the sight and the sound.

“F-f-fucking…c-c-cunt!”

Thwack. The other leg.

Fuck. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

”Keep calling me that, and I’ll keep the blows coming.”

Holy fuck. Who is she?

”C-c-c-cripple.”

”Excuse me?”

The raider props himself up on his arms. “I said, cripple. Fucking crippled cunt.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth.” Joel cocks his rifle.

The stranger sneers at Joel. “Awww, he’s actin’ the big man now. Weren’t too quick gettin’ back down here to save your cripple woman, were ya?”

Before Joel can react, she swings her stick over her head and brings it down on the man’s skull with a furious scream that seems to come from the very depths of her being.

She screams and screams as she hits him, over and over, eyes wild in her blood-spattered face. Joel recognises this: in himself; hell, in Ellie. It’s the moment when the floodgates open and all those years of pain blend together and zone in on this convenient target, an avatar for everyone and everything who had forced loss and trauma upon you.

He roars at her to stop, but knows she can’t hear him. It’s just her and the raider, now: her rage and fear and grief finding their expression through a walking stick turned cudgel.

A single shot ends it. She turns sharply, as if snapped out of a trance, and sees the smoke leaving Joel’s pistol.

“Hey. Hey. You alright?” His broad hands grip your biceps as he looks into your eyes.

Yes, you tell him, yes. You’re fine. But Joel keeps asking.

“Talk to me. Are you okay? I’m worried about you. Please, just talk to me.”

You are moving your mouth, but no sound is coming out. The familiar vice is tightening around your chest. You look down at your blood-stained hands and you struggle to breathe.

“‘M dying, Joel. Can’t breathe. All the blood. So much. Why can’t I breathe?”

Oh, he realises with a pang. She gets these things too. And I know how to help.

“You’re okay, you hear?” He’s rubbing your arms gently, keeping his gaze on you. “You’re alright. Breathe along with me, okay?”

It’s difficult to find the rhythm, at first. Joel’s hands find yours and squeeze them in time with his breath.

”In through your nose, that’s it. Slow and steady. Now out through your mouth.”

He can see your muscles starting to visibly relax. A wave of relief courses over him.

”Yeah, that’s it - you got this. You got this, good girl, you’re just fine. Gonna be alright.”

When he’s confident your breathing has settled and the panic attack receded somewhat, he gently guides you away from the body of the dead raider, one hand holding your horse’s bridle and the other holding yours.

“Why don’t you have a seat for a minute, huh?” Joel gestures to a long, low tree trunk lying near the forest’s edge and opens his saddlebags, rummaging until he finds a cloth, a battered hip flask and a bag of dried apple slices.

”Here.” He wipes the blood as best he can from your hands and proffers the flask, settling his substantial frame beside you on the log. “Have a sip or two, just to relax you a little bit more. Got a snack, here, too.”

You flinch at the taste of the liquor, but take a second sip regardless. The apple slices barely taste of anything in the afterburn of the moonshine. Joel nibbles on some jerky and stares into the middle distance.

You take a break from patrol, agreed with Maria, and a few days off your art classes. It was tempting to keep going, to return to the light and airy studio and to your students. But you feared a relapse.

And your body needed to recover physically, too. You ached from head to toe, fingers and toes puffy and swollen and movement seriously restricted. You ration out the supply of medication you’ve secured since getting here, and use hot water bottles and plenty of rest to try to ride out the flare in your arthritis.

Three days after the incident, there’s a knock on the door. You hobble to answer it, leaning on your trusty stick for support.

”Came by to see how you were doing. Got you some things if you needed ‘em.”

Joel is standing on your front porch, holding a jute grocery bag. He pauses, as if waiting for you to give him permission to say more.

”That’s so very kind of you, Joel. Come in, won’t you? I was able to set a fire so it’s nice and cosy.”

He watches as you lead the way into the living room, noting how much slower you were today. Guilt laps at his conscience. He said she shouldn’t go on patrol. He knew.

”You want me to bring these into the kitchen for you?”

“That would be a great help. Thank you.” He’s glad to see you smile, after the trauma of the patrol. “If you want a drink, I’ve got some tea and coffee in the cupboard just to the left of the sink.”

He pops his head back into the living room. “What would you like?”

“A tea would be perfect. Mugs are in the cupboard to the right.”

You wrap yourself back up in your blankets on the couch, making room for Joel when he returns with the drinks and a couple of cookies, sent over by Ellie as part of his care package for you. The mug feels like a comfort in your aching hands, its heat assuaging the inflammation ravaging your joints.

He sips his coffee and you sit in silence for a little bit, watching the flames dance over the firewood.

“Have you, uh - you been okay, doing okay, since…”

Joel stares into his coffee cup and then looks at you, a little awkward. You smile, hoping to reassure him.

”I’ve been okay. Just the physical pain and exhaustion, mostly. And - well, you saw it. The panic. It can leave you drained.”

He nods and takes another swig of his drink. “I know. I - I’ve had times like that, too. Real fuckin’ scary, when you’ve never gone through it before.”

You study his face for a moment or two, noting the little scar on his temple, the lines on his face, the stern expression completely undermined by the warmth of his deep brown eyes. For an instant, he seems so vulnerable, this strong, tough man sitting on your little couch.

“I haven’t had an attack like that in a while. But then, I hadn’t done anything like that in a while.”

This time Joel turns to look at you properly. “Not your first rodeo, huh?”

You giggle at the turn of phrase. “Not quite. Let’s just say my stick did a lot of work over the last twenty years. He wasn’t the first to feel the brunt of it.”

Joel nods, and you feel strangely relieved that he doesn’t seem surprised. “Doesn’t get easier, though, does it?”

“It does not. Which is why it’s better to avoid having to do it.”

”I agree. Gotta say, though, I - I was worried you wouldn’t be able for patrol, y’know?”

You arch an eyebrow at him. “I know. I overheard you, remember?”

He blushes. “Aw, shit. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t want anything happening to you, what with your - condition, and all.”

You sigh softly, not really noticing the affection in his voice. “Most of the time, I’m fine. Y’know? I’m slower, but I do okay. I get tired more easily, but I manage. I didn’t come here to be a drain on the community.”

”You aren’t.”

”I know, but I want to keep it that way. I want to pull my weight. I’m able, Joel.”

He huffs in agreement. “Not like I’m a perfect specimen these days, either. Knees, fuckin’ back, deaf in one ear…”

You chuckle. “And you thought I wouldn’t manage patrol? Anyway, you’re not doing so bad, are you?”

He gives you a little smile, but that constant sadness still haunts his eyes. He stares at his coffee for a moment.

“You knew what you were doing, though.”

”I did. But I didn’t feel like I could stop.” You sip your tea, swallowing hard. “And I’m scared that makes me some kinda monster. You know?”

Oh, he knows. He knows it too well.

”You aren’t a monster.” Joel resists the urge to put an arm around you. “You just… something snapped, I guess. All that - well, all that hell you’ve gone through. It… it changes you. But it doesn’t make you a monster.”

He realises you’re crying before you do, spotting the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. He finds a clean handkerchief in his jeans and offers it to you.

Fuck it.

“Can I - can I put an arm round you? Just for some support?”

Your eyes light up, tears or no tears, and you nod enthusiastically. Joel is warm and comforting, his broad chest and strong arms a kind of anchor in the emotional storm. You nuzzle against him, and he gives you a little squeeze on the arm.

”You’re a really brave woman, you know that?”

His voice is quieter, more intentional. You look at him quizzically from under your lashes, unused to praise of this kind. For an instant you think about asking him what he means. But the safety you’ve found in the broad arm draped around you is all you need right now.

You nuzzle a little against his chest, and watch the fire dancing for the rest of the night.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x disabled f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #soft joel miller #disabled f!reader #disabled reader fic #hbo the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedrostories

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 11 months

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Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested.

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights.

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly.

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort.

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly.

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it.

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty.

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside.

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him.

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant.

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?”

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm.

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time.

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet.

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :)

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email.

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection.

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out.

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely.

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner.

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table.

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair.

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you.

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve.

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up.

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction.

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning.

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk.

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily.

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where.

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly.

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly.

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious.

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root.

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you.

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine.

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it.

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing.

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement.

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you.

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.”

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you.

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh.

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod.

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest.

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response.

“Yes.”

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right.

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.”

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

“You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly.

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him.

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you.

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another.

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal

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noonblight · 1 year

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Nemona, Female Neurodivergence, and Good Representation

Spoilers for the plot of ScarVi ahead, but here’s my full analysis and breakdown of Nemona!

So, I know what you’re thinking, ‘Game Freak making an autistic female main character? You must be out of your mind. This is clearly projecting!’

I’d like to preface this gently by saying that this is obviously just my personal conclusion based on subtextual analysis, but also, I’d like to call attention to the fact that Japan isn’t like the west when it comes to neurodiverse representation, and there isn’t a lot of Japanese media that explicitly uses the word autism. It’s a little unrealistic to expect Game Freak to call it by name, especially considering they make games for children and topics such as neurodiversity are often viewed as a more ‘adult’ thing to discuss. You are free to disagree with me, but please be polite in the replies of this post, as I only wish to have a constructive conversation about a writing decision that has been made.

Anyway, on to the good stuff and I must apologise in advance for this post being long, but I wanted to be thorough!

I played through all of ScarVi and I’m actually very pleased with Nemona as a character. I feel like despite the game’s technical quality, there was a real effort made this time around to flesh out the named characters. Nemona is one of my favourite examples of this, because her arc isn’t solely about being autistic, but it’s clearly a large part of her character and affects her life in a lot of ways.

Nemona is a battle fanatic, and it’s very likely one of her special interests. It’s how she connects with other people such as the main character, and it’s something she devotes her entire being and effort to. She never says she does so in order to impress others, but rather because it’s something she heavily enjoys.

Right from the start, Nemona is a successful champion rank trainer and wants you to become a trainer who can rival her in skill, and feels like it would lead to a better friendship if you could do that. Nemona’s priorities always centre around battling, and doing as much of it as possible. She’s the one who asks Geeta for permission to bestow a Tera orb upon your player. She gives you tips about the battle courts at different gyms. She even raises a new team of Pokémon throughout the game just to have an excuse to battle you at your level and watch you improve.

Nemona even loves battling so much that she finds it a little strange when others aren’t as enthusiastic about battling as she is, below is a quote I found particularly interesting because it really does show that she can be socially oblivious at times when it comes to societal expectations about what is an appropriate place or time to have a Pokémon battle.

Accompanying this, multiple times throughout the game she exhibits impulsive or oblivious behaviour and asks you to have another battle with her straight after another battle you’ve just had, usually due to being excited. Sometimes other characters will need to remind her that your Pokémon require healing first, or that there are other things that need doing. She doesn’t always understand how things should be handled in a conventional manner, despite being an expert on the topic of battling! (Or, she gets too excited and can’t help herself.)

In post-game, there’s even a scene where she doesn’t seem to understand that another student is reluctant to battle her and makes an excuse to leave early because she’s so far from being a casual trainer that it intimidates him. This is, in my opinion, actually quite a sad scene. She genuinely continues to think that he will challenge her to a battle at a different time, not realising that her ‘unusual’ enthusiasm and skill has scared him away, and that he has no intention of returning. A situation I’m sure a lot of neurodiverse children would connect with because it so accurately depicts what it’s like when others don’t share your interests to the degree that you hoped they would. This scene also hints at Nemona’s trouble with reading the emotions and intentions of others.

Nemona’s final post-game scene (which please, I BEG of you to go watch, it’s so good) confirms this outright, and also gives one of the most relatable lines in media about what it’s like to be neurodivergent in any way, especially as somebody who is younger:

Something I like about Nemona is that despite being socially oblivious and pushy with her interests, she is still a very sympathetic and friendly character. Not only does she cheer you on throughout the game, but she doesn’t only do it for the sake of serving only her own interests! She’s genuinely caring about others around her too.

(Nemona, congratulating the player when they beat her at the end of her storyline after she goes full-out. She is thrilled that you beat her! I love this moment.)

Throughout the last chapter in the game, there’s a lot of great moments with Nemona that show how caring she is. I think the best moments however, are where she tries to understand and support a scared Miraidon, and where she tries to help Arven.

Initially, she is misunderstanding and expects that the second Miraidon will be friendly and that it will be a family reunion, but once she realises this is not the case, she immediately switches to trying to support your Miraidon in any way she can. Despite not understanding why Miraidon is so afraid of returning to the Crater and facing the other Miraidon, she can be observed multiple times attempting to encourage it during the final battle, and can be seen in the final cutscene of the game with her arm around it as the group walks back to the academy.

(Nemona, displaying an implied struggle with visually judging the emotions of others.)

Nemona is also the one who suggests after a very heavy story ending that everyone goes home, and that they take the scenic route back to town. She clearly doesn’t know what to say to Arven about what he’s just been through, but she attempts to make him feel a bit better regardless.

I think this makes for particularly good representation, because not only is she less feminine than previous female rivals with her more sporty style and interests (something very common with autistic women) it also shows depth. I’ve seen autistic characters before that fall into the stereotype of coming across as emotionally detached or cold, or far too over-reactive. But I think Nemona strikes a lovely balance of caring, emotional, and socially lacking.

Now, on to a smaller detail that I want to point out that I really like the inclusion of is that glove. I could talk about how Nemona displays memory issues at times or other smaller symptoms of autism, but I really want to talk about the glove. I made a post on this subject the moment Nemona’s design was revealed on the official website, but I like that the game content openly confirmed that Nemona has motor issues with her dominant hand.

(Nemona, needing to support her arm when about to throw a Pokéball, or when she is about to terastalise her Pokémon. The burst of energy from the tera orb must make things a bit more difficult for her. A lovely small detail in her battles.)

(Nemona, confirming that she has trouble with Pokéballs. Something her website entry also stated.)

Now I’ve saved this until last because this is, in my opinion, a smaller detail that they didn’t need to include to make Nemona read as neurodiverse, but I’m thrilled they did. Nemona is the only character who wears an arm brace, something I picked up on immediately in the trailers before the games released. No other trainers wear one for the terastalisation mechanic, unlike the Z-bands from Alola. And even though Pokémon battling is her bread and butter, she still struggles with certain aspects of it! Not only is this trouble with motor skills realistic, but it’s also a very accurate portrayal of motor dysfunction that a lot of neurodiverse people experience in their day to day lives.

To bring this all to a close, I think that even though it isn’t stated outright, I believe Nemona isn’t just representation of neurodiversity in women, but I think that she is also GREAT representation. She knows that she has problems, and tries her best regardless! She is kind, and caring, even though she has difficulties with reading the emotions of others and understanding social expectations. Her entire story may be about making friends with you through the medium of battling, but it’s also a story about how she’s struggled in the past to connect with others because of her love of that medium.

I truely do feel like she’s a lovely depiction to be in a children’s game, because she is a very positive depiction of something that a lot of kids go through, and in the end, she gets to be herself and she gets to be happy by being true to that self. She is never forced to change to make friends, and instead befriends you and the other characters simply by remaining as she is.

#I’m sorry this post is so long I actually could have analysed it scene by scene but I wanted to be nice to everyone #and have a semblence of conciseness!#pokemon 2022 #nemona #pokemon #pokemon scarvi #autism #pokemon scarlet and violet #miraidon #arven #analysis #character analysis #actually autistic #representation

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imagining-in-the-margins · 1 year

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Piece of Paper (S.R.)

Summary: Spencer and Reader discuss Autism evaluations.

Request: reader tells spencer "i think im autistic" and he’s like "wait you've never been evaluated/diagnosed??" and he helps her advocate for an evaluation or some other kind of support? A/N: I’m sorry if this isn’t exactly what you wanted, Anon, but this is the experience I would like to share as a person who was diagnosed as a toddler 🫶 Couple: Spencer Reid/GN!Reader Category: Comfort/Fluff Content Warning: Autism assessment/Anti-Autistic mentions, implied abuse/gaslighting, minor self-hatred, internalized ableism Word Count: 1k

MASTERLIST

The bullpen was as quiet as it ever was. The bustling crowds had passed through and returned to the comfort of their home. All that remained were those with deadlines, no date life, or neurodivergent tendencies.

You peeked across the desk to notice how Spencer’s hyper-focus had finally faded, leaving him now spinning in his chair while he stared at the ceiling.

“Hey, Spencer?” you called, “Can I ask you a kind of personal question?”

His chair came to a halt.

“Sure, but I’m not sure if I’ll have a satisfying answer,” he chuckled.

You floundered for a moment, struggling to come up with an appropriate way to ask your question. Yet, when you did finally speak, you were anything but eloquent.

“What was it like when you were diagnosed with Autism?”

“Oh!” he said excitedly, “I’ve actually never been assessed.”

Immediately, your face began to burn, and your stomach churned with the realization you’d just made a number of possibly rude assumptions.

“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry—“

“I’m not offended,” he reassured you with a smile, “I agree with your assessment.”

You smiled at the wordplay, but the intensity of his gaze drove your eyes back to the mess of paperwork on your desk.

“Can I ask why?” you asked.

Spencer didn’t seem to mind at all that you stared at the desk instead of him. He offered his explanation with his normal enthusiasm.

“My mom wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of psychiatrists.”

Understandable. Neither were you.

“Plus,” he trailed off. You turned to find him staring at the ceiling again. He rocked the chair back and forth as he said somewhat solemnly, “the world isn’t particularly fond of Autistic people.”

The words felt like a blow to your chest. Like your heart had turned to stone or something unbearably cold.

“Ah,” you sigh. You brought a hand to your face to try to hide the disappointment.

Spencer, still looking above you both, didn’t even notice the shift in tone.

“Why do you ask?”

“Nothing,” you replied, “It’s nothing, it’s stupid.”

Even he couldn’t miss the sadness in your voice, though. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, you heard the realization hit him with a gasp.

“Were you planning on scheduling an assessment?”

“I was considering it, but… I don’t know if I should.”

There were a lot of reasons why that was the case — self doubt, fear of the unknown, chronic gaslighting — but you didn’t want to go into all of that. Instead, you chose to sympathize with the plight he’d already shared with you.

“Because you’re right, other people are… not very receptive to the diagnosis.”

Some more than the rest.

Spencer paused for a second, even though you knew he wanted to say something. For a moment, he wrestled with the right words and the right tone to prevent his anger from projecting onto the wrong person.

“Would you be doing it for them?” he asked, “The other people?”

It seemed like a silly question… one you’d never really stopped to ask yourself.

“What do you mean?”

That time, when Spencer started speaking, you couldn’t find it in you to stop him. You stayed silent because you knew he was offering you his unfiltered thoughts on something personal to him.

“I mean… why do you want someone else to tell you? I don’t want to talk you out of something that would bring you peace of mind, but I would encourage you to ask yourself if that’s really the reason you’re doing it, because that piece of paper can make a lot of things much harder for you. Immigration, medical decision making, adoption, child rearing, hell, even your job… that target on your back will impact aspects of your life that you’ve probably never even considered it would.”

You sat there, soaking in the hopelessness of the moment. You begged your heart to slow down, but it continued racing along with your thoughts.

Ultimately, there was nothing left to be said but, “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Did I upset you?”

There was a subtle regret in his voice, but you knew it had needed to be said. That bluntness, that unfiltered honesty had been exactly why you’d asked him.

So, you managed a smile as you thanked him the best way you knew how; by telling him the truth.

“No, I appreciate your honesty.”

He responded with his own.

“Okay. I’m still sorry, though.”

“Thanks,” you said, although you’d meant ‘Me too.’

Spencer didn’t respond. Instead, he turned and scrambled to find a blank sheet among his notebooks. At first, you thought nothing of it. But once you heard him scribble something onto a piece of paper that was immediately ripped from its place, you turned to him.

His eyes remained fixed on the note he’d just written while he spoke.

“At the end of the day, no matter how badly we want to believe things will change… the people who don’t believe you now… they won’t believe a piece of paper, either,” he said.

Then, standing from his chair, Spencer closed the space between you, note in hand. He clutched it tightly between his fingers that were held against his chest.

“But if it helps, I believe you.”

Tears sprung from your eyes so quickly that you weren’t sure what to do with them. You decided to let them sit there, to soak in the saltwater reminder that you were not nearly as inhuman as the others made you seem. And when Spencer held out his hand to offer you the lifeline on lined paper, you took it.

He smiled.

“A doctor’s note, in case you ever need it.”

Spencer returned to his desk without another word. You set the piece of paper down and decided that, when you were ready, you would see what he’d had to say.

Then, when you were ready, you would find the handwritten message:

“You are the only expert of your life. You already know the answer.”

(Tell me what you thought about this piece here!)

Please also consider reblogging and/or commenting on fics you enjoy to help keep the fandom alive!

Looking for more fics with an Autistic!Reader? Check out my Rec List here!

P.S. Did you know Tumblr might be hiding some of my posts from you? Learn how to change this setting here so you can enjoy my more scandalous works (if you want), including my most recent one, which can be found here.

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atom-writings · 1 month

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tangerine with an autistic s/o

0.7k words ~ gender neutral headcanons

tw: mention of ableism and subsequent violence

a/n: its my account i write what i want

Being somewhere on the neurodivergent spectrum himself (don’t @ me,) along with his brother being autistic, it’s unlikely that Tangerine would end up with someone neurotypical anyway.

Constantly nicks you stim toys. It’s like a challenge to him since they’re usually bright and loud somehow.

He finds it so cute when you miss social cues, but he’d never say anything about it to you. He knows it can be embarrassing, and he doesn’t mind explaining what people mean.

He’s endlessly paranoid about the people he loves, so expect constant check-ins. Whenever you’re in public, he likes to hold your hand tight so he knows you’re safe (which is so, so nice when you’re in a crowd.)

When you’re on the verge of going non-verbal or having a meltdown, he notices immediately and gets you out of there. If anyone tries to say anything, he doesn’t even give them the time to do so.

“An’ who are you now? Nobody, tha’s right, fuck off.”

Whenever you talk about your special interests, he pretends he isn’t interested. He’ll sigh and make stupid snarky comments, but if you look closely, you can tell he’s still smiling a little. In reality, he doesn’t mind.

“Right, calm down luv, it’s really not tha’ big of a deal,”

“It’s a big deal to me!”

He sighs heavily and leans back in his chair before speaking again, “An’ by extension… me, now?”

“Yes!” Your ecstatic expression makes him groan, but he still has to cover his mouth to hide his smile.

But still, you might not notice he was really listening until he offhandedly makes a comment that only someone who had been paying crazy close attention would know.

He might even know things you don’t, just because he comes to associate whatever you love with you. It comforts him to engage with your interests when you’re separated.

As you already know, Tangerine is a prickly person. Normally, he’s quite prone to anger and fits; but with you, he does his best to always remain level-headed. He doesn’t want to hurt you, especially he knows how sensitive you can be to anger. But he can’t help it sometimes. He’d never yell at you, at least. Anything too harsh is apologized for quickly.

He’s working on it. You are one of the two most important people in his life, after all.

Speaking of which, expect to spend a lot of time with Lemon. Especially at the beginning of your relationship. He’s very nervous to make the wrong move and scare you off, and knowing that Lemon (also autistic) is there makes him worry a lot less.

Generally, he doesn’t take criticism very well… especially when it comes to his behaviour… but he does try to be as receptive as he can when you’re the one criticising him.

Ableists get the shit beat out of them. Every time. Without fail. He will not stop this even when you ask. Although, if it makes you cry seeing him do that, he might stop himself early just so he can take you home and comfort you.

Making you cry is the ultimate sin to him.

Even more “extreme” stims and tics don’t bother him. He just tends to tune them out like he does anything else.

He also might be even more vigilant about bringing along your comfort/accessibility items. Before you leave the house, he grabs you by the shoulder and checks you have everything. Again, paranoid.

Along with that, he may be a little infantilizing sometimes. He wants to always be by your side to make sure you’re alright, which can become… frustrating.

Like yes, it’s nice that he wants to drive you everywhere so you don’t have to worry about driving yourself or taking public transportation, but also you’re perfectly capable of doing those things by yourself (or if you’re not, I guess he’s just your knight in shining armour.)

If you’re otherwise incapable of doing some things, like speaking or cooking or whatever, he really doesn’t mind doing them for you. It makes him feel even more like your protector, which makes him so, so happy. As long as you pay him in affection, he won’t complain.

Actually, that’s not true. He complains about everything. But you’ll quickly learn what is “real” complaining, and what is just him being like that.

“Sweetheart, I wan’ you to know tha’ if anyone ever said anythin’ about you tha’s like- rude, in any way, I woul’ personally blow their brains out, understand?”

#not proofread at all #bullet train tag #tangerine x reader #tangerine x you #tangerine x y/n #bullet train x reader #tangerine tag

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dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice · 2 months

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The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 4

ANOTHER CHAPTER IN LESS THAN A WEEK. BRING ON THE GRINDDDDDD. I will warn that my motiviation for each of my fics comes in waves, so you'll probably get chapters in random chunks ngl. Enjoy!

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 4590

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Mentions of murder. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 >

PART 1: Chapter 4

Unconditional Violence.

Bambsquabbled (Definition): A 19th Century American slang word essentially meaning stupefied or confounded. (Adjective)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Wednesday, 18th December, 1929.

You had expected the additional Tuesday Mr LeBlanc had given you off to prepare yourself for the radio company to consist of you sleeping in until 11am. But dreams are short lived when you have an aunt who insists the ass-crack of dawn is prime time for everything.

You guessed it was fun to climb onto the roof of your relative’s vast home to collect the crystals you had both put out under the full moon, before the energy given to them was whisked away by the rays of the early golden hour. But when nerves settle in like the green spirals of nausea the night before, sleep takes the hand of another, leaving you to lay there with your over-active mind as it drags you through every possibility and event that could end up with you looking like an idiot in front of your new colleagues, or worse. Can’t think of much worse. But the universe will find a way.

It always does.

When Wednesday finally rolled around, it was barely 6am and you already couldn’t wait for it to be over. Your cousins had found you curled up on the bench swing, having dragged your duvet outside as you balled yourself up like a worm, sipping on the iced tea Agnes had bought you the day before in an attempt to settle your nerves. It did. A little.

And now here you were, the first half of your new workday having gone as smoothly as your awkward self could do.

Ethel, who’s desk was closest to yours, had dubbed you the quiet one after spending an hour running her mouth at you with barely a break for you to chime in. You had also already created quite a commotion on the third floor, a few people intrigued by the new ‘foreigner’. Well – as foreign as you can get when you’re from another English-speaking country, in the biggest cultural melting pot of a city had ever seen in your rural life. But they found you interesting enough.

The oddest thing you had experienced that day, however, was a strange request from your new boss – Mr Durham himself.

“I don’t suppose you know how to pull off a local accent?” he had asked when showing you the phone on your desk.

All you could do was blink at him. “I’m sorry?”

He gestured to the phone. “Since you’re my assistant, you’re gonna be filtering through the calls I get before passing them onto me. Now, there might be an issue if someone calls expecting to hear me, but instead find themselves speaking to a British girl on the other end. Some can be impatient and might end up putting the phone down before you explain.”

Memories of that one very unpleasant phone call flooded your mind. “Even if I answer: ‘Hello W.A.D Radio, this is Mr Durham’s assistant speaking’??” you replied monotonously.

“You’d be surprised.” He sighed. “But do you know how to anyway?”

Frowning, you recalled your time in the cities further in the North. “I guess..? A girl I rented a room from in New York insisted on teaching me for when we went into town, but I struggle to see how it’s important?”

The man put his hands together, pointing them at you in a prayer motion. “Just.. try it out? Talk like your colleagues when you see them, to see if you can get a hang of it – I’m sure they’ll be happy to help. Please?”

You gave him a wavering look, but sighed, finally giving in. “Fine, but they can’t make fun of me.”

He beamed, patting you on the back in satisfaction. “I’m sure they won’t! I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

And with that, you sat in your new chair, trying to pointedly ignore the sign at the other end of the room that pointed you to the fifth floor, and began your attempt to settle in.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Wednesday, 8th January, 1930.

There wasn’t much to celebrate when the new decade rolled around. Gone were the so-called ‘Roaring Twenties’, when you would join your parents at the parties and balls they were invited to – when it was acceptable, of course; those higher up in the class hierarchy still grasped to the dwindling standard that children should be seen, not heard. The year you turned eighteen ended up being quite interesting, when the older women who had turned snooty at the sight of your teenage self wandering around their stately homes, tried to attempt a 180°, as they congratulated you reaching adulthood with strained smiles. But you paid them no mind, too busy staring at the paintings or statues that lined their corridors – a stark contrast to the more barren and plain wallpaper that coated the walls you grew up in.

But now that was far behind you, the English garden parties in the spring and summer that you adored so much were now a mere echo in the distances of your mind. The noises of tiny forks clinking on fine china as the little birds twittered in the trees now replaced by the sputtering and groaning of automobiles as you gripped the pole of the tram, your arms tight against your chest as you tried your best to not let the swaying of the vehicle toss you about into the crowd of packed bodies around you.

Making sure the scarf was tucked safely around your neck, you grasped the small briefcase in your hand – mentally preparing yourself for you first day back at the radio station after the new year. Unfortunately for Mr Durham, a small hurricane had passed over during the holiday, and radio stations across the city were temporarily silenced as their mechanics desperately attempted to repair the damaged towers. And also unfortunately for you, only the hosts were offered a couple days off as things got back up and running, though some still showed to prepare for their shows; you, on the other hand, were still expected to show up like any other day.

So here you were, pushing open the (now familiar) double doors, giving a small wave to the receptionist, who’s name turned out to be Diana, and the woman barely raised her hand in response as she continued to tiredly shift through the concerningly large stack of papers on her desk.

You were just about to climb the wide staircase when you heard her call your name (something you were very surprised she knew, considering her tendency to ‘accidentally’ throw paperwork in the bin on the daily), and your wedge heels clacked against the tile flooring as you stumbled slightly, turning to face her as her nasally voice echoed around the large lobby.

“It’s best you stay in the shadows today.” She warned cryptically. “Trouble’s in, and the mechanic’s not happy about the damages – Durham’s getting the brunt of it, but you’ll end up in the crossfire unless you hide out during breaktimes.”

All you could do for a moment was stand and stare, a million thoughts running through your mind. Mostly about who ‘Trouble’ was, and why Diana thought you couldn’t handle the guy and the other mechanic. You did handle the radio man at the repair shop after all, and speaking of the radio, you were quite proud to say you had finished the it in time for Christmas, and had shipped it off with a very passive-aggressive note that hinted for the man to basically never return. Luckily, Mr Boudreaux hadn’t replied to any of your letters since you had begrudgingly accepted the object, but you had suspected he had called the shop once or twice, and you had left Mr LeBlanc to deal with it, mostly because he was quite terrified you would call another customer every name under the sun the second they tried to give you trouble.

Glancing back and forth between Diana and the stairs, you mumbled a slow “Oookay…” before nodding your head and turning on your heel to hurry up the steps. Reaching the third floor, you didn’t stop in your path as you neared your desk, instead dropping your briefcase onto the wooden surface as you dashed by, striding towards the door that had the golden plaque engraved with ‘Mr B. Durham’ onto it. Grasping the handle, you turned the knob, swinging the door open, only to stop in your tracks as you were met with a very empty office.

You frowned. It must be really bad if your boss was no where to be seen. Whipping around, you scanned the main room for him, but only saw a few of your colleagues, the rest still yet to arrive – you were normally expected to be in early to handle Durham’s work as soon as he began.

Throwing your coat and scarf on your chair, you strode back towards the stairs, readjusting the suspenders of your wide-legged trousers as you practically jogged up the steps, and ended up rolling the sleeves of your loose blouse to your elbows as you tried to catch your breath.

On the fourth floor, you spent a couple minutes checking all of your boss’s usual haunts or hiding places, even going as far as interrogating a couple of the workers there for his whereabouts. It wasn’t until some blonde guy that came wandering down the steps from the fifth floor that you got your answer, the man looking up to take in your slightly dishevelled and feral appearance with wide eyes as he stammered out that he was in one of the radio booths. To his further horror, you patted him on the cheek with a thanks as you rounded him, ready to take another flight of stairs to reach your – apparently – floundering boss.

Ignoring the embarrassed sputtering of the man behind you, you eye the sign nailed to the wall, the painted hand pointing upwards with a very bold ‘FIFTH FLOOR’ next to it.

“Don’t go up there until I say you’re ready, okay?” Mr Durham’s words echoed through your mind.

Buuuuut, he did say he wanted to discuss the stuff you brought in your briefcase ASAP.

Yea that’ll be your excuse. You can deal with his complaining later.

Reaching your heel-clad foot out, you took the first step, almost like you were expecting an axe to come swing down and impale your forehead. But when nothing happened, you shrugged, and simply continued up.

Recalling the path your boss had taken you on during the initial tour, you managed to find the dreaded corridor that supposedly housed your greatest nightmare.

Extroverted people.

Yeesh.

At that thought, you did consider turning around, but your urge to drag your boss’s arse back downstairs drowned that thought out, and you carried on.

Surprisingly, it was quiet, but at the same time not so much when you remembered that most of them were plating their somewhat wealthy behinds on their armchairs at home as the rest tried to fix the issues of the storm.

Reaching one of the lit rooms, you heard raised voices.

“–really expect me to know? –” “– supposed to be on in an hour! How is that –”

Cautiously, you peeked around the corner to try and witness the potential fiasco. And what a fiasco it was.

Wires, cables, and any other random parts that were used for radio technology were strewn across desks, tables and even the floor. Amongst these were two men, and there was only one you recognised.

Just like you had seen him every day for the past month, Mr Durham was stood in his washed-out blue suit and concerningly shiny shoes, and at this point one hand was on his hip, whilst the other rubbed tiredly at his face as whom you assume was the mechanic, was blabbering the poor man’s ear off as he ranted on and on about random parts and problems and he gestured frantically at said random parts and problems. Wait – nevermind, you recognised one and a half.

The man from across the street was here, with his back to you. Again. For fuck’s sake.

This time he was back in the seat you first saw him in, this time with a few strands of dark-brown hair out of place, curling slightly as if to rebel against the intense styling he had put it through. Peeking your head out slightly further, you managed to get a good look at him.

Well for one, he was a triangle. Stupidly broad shoulders that narrowed into a stupidly small waist (triangle), with lanky legs long enough that you could probably chop them off and fashion them into skis. Despite his face not revealed, you could see the semi-light tan on his hands, that were busy turning knobs and dials as he listened in to whatever was coming through the headphones on his head. He was dressed to impress, to say the least, in smart, dark-grey trousers, who’s ironed out edges looked as if they could slice through skin. His high collared cream shirt was tucked away under a relatively tight looking reddish-tan waistcoat, and to top it all off, you could see the back of the black ribbon that was most likely tied in a stupidly even bow.

You didn’t want this guy to sense your staring, so you opted to look back at the other two men who were still chuntering on about god knows what. Stepping into the light that flooded through the glass, you wave slightly to try and get your boss’s attention. A couple seconds passed, and you watched as the mechanic kept glancing at you and Mr Durham, until eventually he nudged the other man on the shoulder, pointing you out.

Turning his head, Mr Durham’s eyes met with yours, and you raised your hand with a questionable thumbs up to see if all was good, only to watch in slight confusion as his eyes widened, and he whipped his head rapidly between you and the faceless man sat at his desk, before marching over to the door and pulling it open a crack, sticking his head out.

“Hey uh,” he half-whispered, surprisingly nervous at your presence. “what’re you doing here?”

You lowered your voice to match his. “You said to come find you as soon as possible this morning, you know, to go over those statistics from that other station?”

Realisation dawned on the man’s face, and he reached up to drag his hand down the side of it. “Shit I forgot,” he cursed, and glanced over his shoulder before facing you again. “I’ll – uh… I’ll be down as soon as I get this sorted. Marty’s givin’ me a run for his money right now and the second Al takes his headphones off I’m gonna feel like I’m entering an early grave.”

Surprised, you eyed the man sat at the desk, who looked far too calm to be threatening anyone right now. “Ok… I guess it can wait. I’ll bring you some coffee up!” you chirped, and Durham went to call out that it wasn’t necessary, but faltered with a frown as he realised you were already halfway down the corridor.

Balancing the tray of cups and steaming jug the best you could, you reached the final step, retracing your route to the radio booth that your boss was probably getting murdered in. Walking up, you waited patiently until Mr Durham noticed you, and watched as he reluctantly trudged over to open the door.

Taking your first step in, you were hit with the very potent smell of strong black coffee, as if someone had some brewing every day, and you figured you had made the right call of fetching the same beverage as you placed the tray down on one of the tables.

The mechanic was still going off on one, and you watched out of the corner of your eye as you slowly began pouring the coffee into the cups, listening to the greasy-looking man speak.

“– there’s literally no reason that I can find that’s causing the local outage!” he spouted at your frowning boss. “The boys have already fixed the aerial, and David’s currently on-air and that’s working perfectly fine, so it has to be something in this room!”

During the man’s tirade, you noticed the rustling of papers, and looked over to see the faceless man again, still at his desk, but his hands were fiddling with no purpose, and his head was turned to the left slightly, showing his high cheekbone and the edge of his thin circular glasses.

Looked like someone else was listening in too.

Biting your smile down, you turned back towards the cups in your hand, only to have a glint of light pierce the corner of your eye, and you looked in the opposite direction to a large wooden box, with one of the panels removed, displaying the endless wires and springs that coiled and wound in every direction. But you weren’t looking at that, you were instead looking at the screwdriver that was very prominently glinting in the shine of the ceiling light. This must be the painstakingly obvious problem that the mechanic had painstakingly missed.

Giving a quick glance over at the men, you waited until they faced away, scrapping about the wire pile on the floor, and you reached for the wooden teaspoon on your tray, and inched towards the box. Knowing wood doesn’t normally conduct electricity, you raised your hand, testing it anyway against the hanging wires to see if they were live. Seemingly not, you stuck your hand further in, and began nudging at the tool, slowly loosening the wires around it as you dragged it along the bottom of the box.

When they had deemed your silence as suspicious, the mechanic and Durham turned round, only to see you elbow deep in some very expensive equipment.

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” the mechanic cried as he rushed over. “The hell are you doin’??”

Instead of jerking your arm back out and apologising to the man who was slowly turning purple, you gave the screwdriver one last flick, and the three of you watched as it dropped over the edge and fell to the floor with a clatter. Moments of silence passed as you all stared at it, until you decided to explain.

“It was tangled in the wires, which would’ve prevented the electricity flow,” you said plainly. “Plus, if you had tried to power it all up, it could’ve set the place on fire.”

All the mechanic could do was stare down at the tool, but Mr Durham had decided to approach, and bent down to pick up the tool.

“Nice one.” He complimented, turning the object in his hands. Though the warm smile he had put on for you quickly vanished, as his eyes set upon the name engraved on the wooden handle. He pointed at it. “This has your name on it Marty.” He said lowly, his blue eyes turning dark as he regarded the paling man with a look of thunder.

Seeing the outcome, you gestured nervously to the beverages on the table. “Coffee’s there, Mr Durham, I’ll see you downstairs.”

Just as you walked around him, he called your name. “Take ten minutes to yourself and grab some tea, whilst I deal with Marty here.”

Nodding, you curtly took your leave, swinging the door open as you power-walked out, failing to see the sharp pair of eyes following you from where they were sat at the desk.

You found the break room housed several curiosities that you were yet to explore in America. Apart from the atrocious fact that the tea station lacked the Yorkshire brand, you found yourself poking at what they called a teabag. Yes, surprise, surprise, the Americans invented something tea related before England or even China did, but you had to admit it was rather useful in helping you not gag at the slimy tea leaves that sat at the bottom of most of your beloved brews.

With the table to your right, you leant your hip against it, your back against the door as you rather noisily mixed the spoon around your large mug, making sure the sugar was dissolved properly before you went to strain the teabag. Lifting it carefully out of the boiling water, you gingerly held your other hand out below it to catch any stray drips from hitting the floor, scanning the room in front of you for a bin that you could chuck it into.

What you foolishly had failed to do however, was hear the footsteps that grew in volume from behind, and you hadn’t realised anything until a very uncomfortable prickle hit the side of your neck, as a very unwanted presence loomed over you. Though, that didn’t last long, as the presence decided to deafen you instead.

“So YOU’RE the new assistant!”

A banshee screech raised from your throat, the teabag flying through the air and onto the floor by your feet as you basically jumped three feet up. Instinctively, however, you didn’t realise what was happening until one elbow flew upwards, slamming into the nose of the man behind you, the other flying round to collide with his ribs. Teaspoon armed in hand, you spun around to face your assailant, only to step on the soggy teabag that was still on the floor, and you cried out again as you slipped and slammed into a very firm chest. Eyes screwed shut, you felt the two of you fall, though quickly broken by the table behind you.

Relieved that you were no longer falling, you swiftly blinked your eyes open, your dark brown ones meeting a pair of equally matching brown. Moments passed as you took in the scene in front of you, and you realised you finally had a face to put to the lanky man from earlier.

Said man was groaning as he rubbed at his nose, his lips twisted into a grimace as he checked for blood. What you noticed however, was the several poignant glances the man took to your right, and you followed, only to see you hand raised, teaspoon in hand, pointing down at him as if you had a machete, ready to stab the lights out of him.

A small gasp left your throat at the realisation, and you quickly pushed yourself off, pointedly ignoring the grunt the man let out as you knocked at his ribs. Taking several steps back, you distanced yourself from him. He had gotten close before, he wasn’t about to do so again.

You watched as he pushed himself up on his elbows, using the table as a support as he stood. To a disturbingly tall height might you add. Looks like you did just reach his nose after all.

“I’m uh,” you started as you eyed him, teaspoon machete still in hand, strangely, you instinctively used the southern accent you learnt – it was the one you used with strangers. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you to sneak up on me like that.” Reaching over, you snatched up a napkin, offering it to him. “Y’haven’t got anything…?”

Dark eyes flitting between you and the outstretched napkin offering, you watched as something seemed to switch in his demeanour, and a natural smile fell across his tan face as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s quite alright.” He assured, and you blinked at his prominent transatlantic accent. “I figured that wasn’t the best way to say hello to a stranger!” he laughed as he smoothed down his crumpled waistcoat. Reaching his lanky arm out whilst tucking the other behind him, he offered his hand out in greeting. “The name’s Alastor, my dear. And who do I have the most entertaining pleasure to be speaking to?”

You stared at his hand, then flicked your eyes up to him, scanning his grinning face with vigour.

Where, oh where, had you heard that voice before?

Your silence seemed to confuse this Alastor guy, however, and his eyes darted around in confusion as you continued to stare. From what you could see, he had come to a very wrong conclusion about your silence, and leaned over at you slightly, bringing his face level with yours.

“Cat got your tongue, my darling?” His growing cheshire grin reminding you of two very similar people. “You clearly must find me that dashing if your this speechless, haha!” he chortled, the condescension rolling off him in waves.

Oh, you knew exactly where this guy was from.

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinised him as you quietly muttered out a single word.

“Boudreaux.”

Alastor blinked, eyes darting around your face, before raising a hand to cup at his ear. “I hate to say but I didn’t quite catch that!” he exclaimed rather loudly.

You felt your brows begin to furrow, so you raise your voice slightly. “I said, Boudreaux.”

Oh you did it now. Sparkles seemed to glitter behind his chocolate eyes as he perked up with glee, straightening up to his full height. “So you do know me after all! I was starting to think you simply had nothing going on in that head of yours!” he simpered as he tilted his head to look down at you.

Despite his clear mocking, you remained quiet for a moment longer, until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

“…You work in a radio station.” You stated flatly.

Alastor looked around, acting as if he had just realised as such. “Yes I am quite aware!” he affirmed in an obvious tone. “Did you want an award for that observation?”

You had to refrain from gaping at this man’s audacity. “… Couldn’t you have just fixed it yourself?”

The man blinked at you. “Fixed what now?”

Oh, this was it. Stepping forward, you didn’t stop until you face was a hand-lengths away from his, and you watched with satisfaction as he shifted at your invasion of his space – talk about a hypocrite as someone who clearly loved to invade the space of others. Staring at the man dead in the eye, you fully dropped the southern accent, your Yorkshire one coming back through full force.

“Your mum’s radio.” You stated simply, raising your brows to regard him with a condescending look that matched his.

You had expected him to brush it off, laughing when he realised who you were. What you hadn’t expected for his pupils to blow wide, his eyes darkening as they narrowed, scrutinising your gaze with his own, and you suddenly felt a little uneasy.

“Oh,” he said lowly. “It’s you.”

Keeping your gaze levelled, you gripped the spoon harder in your hands. That is, until your name was called.

The two of you straightened up, you leaning to look around Alastor as he spun on the spot, the both of you facing Mr Durham, who was looking between the two of you rather nervously. He called your name again.

“C’mon.” he said, refusing to take his eyes off Alastor. “Let’s go over those papers you brought.”

Without a second thought, you darted for your mug of tea, grabbing it along with an almost empty bottle of milk to put in it as you strode around Alastor, feeling the hand of your boss as he put his arm around your shoulder as he quickly led you away, and the back of your head prickled, definitely feeling the sharp eyes on your retreating back this time around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ALASTOR'S HERE RAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Watch me disappear from the face of the earth for a week cuz of my executive dysfunction lmao (Blame my adhd not me she's a seperate entity at this point.)

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, see you soon for Chapter 5!!

Please let me know if you want to be added to the Taglist!

< Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 >

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#are you proud that i'm bringing on the grind for everything except my uni work?#they gave me 5 assignments again :/#also having a crisis that high school musical is turning 20 in the next two years #making me feel ancient #but not as ancient as lucifer #he's giving prehistoric #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor fanfic #alastor x you #alastor x oc

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skelswritingcorner · 2 months

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Assistance to Focus (A First Aid x Reader Fic)

With the encouragement of @lovenotcomputed, I wrote this little thingy. If y'all can't tell, I love First Aid a lot.

A/N: This is technically a UA (Universe Alteration), as the characters are written to be closer to G1 heights. Therefore, characters like Ultra Magnus are 20 feet tall instead of 40.

Warnings: Mentions of autistic shutdown, G/T

It was always a struggle to begin tasks, from those that need to be done to those that you wanted to do. That was something you always hated about yourself, even if you knew it was due to your neurodivergent nature. You're sure that the others on the Lost Light noticed this. Unfortunately, you're pretty confident neurodivergence isn't a thing for Cybertronians, so they might not understand.

The only exception was Rung, the psychiatrist of the ship. "Perhaps you need someone to just... push you along to get started." he suggested, "I remember Ultra Magnus told me about that shutdown you had when you couldn't get started on those files, yes? Maybe doing them with someone else at the same time would be beneficial.”

Right. That was certainly a situation that led to several members of the Lost Light panicking because your head was on the desk and you were sobbing and hyperventilating for an hour, tugging at your hair to distract yourself. Ratchet had to make everyone leave the room and have you brought to your habsuite afterwards, and informed Ultra Magnus that you’d be resting for a cycle or two. At least you didn’t hit yourself with a heavy object.

“I understand that, but I don’t know who I’d do that with,” you glanced at the window, “I’m the smallest person on this ship, and I don’t know anyone else other than the ones I interact with the most as the liaison.”

Rung tapped his digits on his chair, “How about First Aid? From what I’ve heard, you two get along quite well.” Oh. Would be a good idea except for the tension you felt around him sometimes, given how your mind goes haywire around him. He is, however, one of the few people that could calm you down from those shutdowns, so it might be your only option.

You sighed in defeat, “If he agrees to it, then yeah.”

Rung nodded thoughtfully, “I’ll ask him if he’ll be alright with that. Is there anything else you want to talk about?” You shook your head. “Well then, until next time.”

You left Rung’s office, walking in the large expanse of hallways to get to your destination. Fortunately, while almost everyone is thrice your height (quite literally, mind you), it’s easy to maneuver around them with a little verbal warning. Because of that, it didn’t take long before you arrived at the medbay.

The doors opened, and you peeked your head before walking inside. There weren’t many people there right now, Ratchet was talking to Drift about… something you didn’t know anything about. First Aid was at the desk, working on medical reports from what you could tell. He shouldn’t be too busy, right?

“Y/N?” Oh, that must be Ratchet. He probably wanted to check on you, given what happened a few days ago.

“Yeah?” you looked up at the red mech.

Ratchet knelt down to address you, “Are you doing alright? I’m sure you’re still stressed from what happened. Are you sure you shouldn’t be resting still?”

You shook your head, “I usually just need a day to recover from a shutdown. I’ll be fine.”

Ratchet squinted, clearly doubting your words. “I doubt that just a day would be sufficient, but alright. Do you need something?”

“Uhh, it’s based on something Rung suggested. He suggested that I have someone else with me to help me get started on the task.” you explained.

“I see,” Ratchet curled his servo, tapping his chin in thought, “Is there someone specific you wanted to assist you?”

You paused, contemplating if you should tell Ratchet. Did he figure out the thoughts you get about First Aid? Ratchet did comment that your face was red the first time you saw him without his mouthpiece at Swerve’s bar, and asked if you were alright. You doubt he realized that the redness was due to you getting flustered. Drift walked up to Ratchet, whispering, “I think Y/N wants First Aid to help her.”

You heard all of it, jumping a little bit. Drift smirked, and Ratchet chuckled, “Don’t worry about it, Y/N. I’ll ask him for you.” Ratchet walked to First Aid, exchanging a few words with him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one you could hear from where you were.

First Aid walked up to you after grabbing some datapads, “Rung messaged me about it just before Ratchet told me, you want me to help you?” A nod was the only reply you gave. “I’ll bring you to a quiet place. I’ll bring some of the paperwork that I can do.” You nodded again, and First Aid helped set you on his shoulder.

The both of you walked to your habsuite, and you grabbed the datapad with the document you struggled to start reading last time. After grabbing a set of ear pods, you and First Aid went to his habsuite. Fortunately, his habsuite was close to your own, so it didn’t take long.

“Are you sure we should do that in your habsuite?” you asked, “Isn’t this meant to be a place for rest?”

“I-” First Aid stammered, “I didn’t know anywhere else that would be without distractions.”

That’s understandable. This ship is pretty hectic, after all. “Well then, let’s do this.'' The both of you walked to the desk in the habsuite, sitting down on the chair together.

First Aid had you situated in his lap, servo splayed slightly on your own as he prepared his set of datapads. Putting in your headphones on a low volume, you played instrumental music as you looked at the datapad you held in your hand. It’s just documents on Cybertonian anatomy, it should be fine. Not like you don’t know anything about robotics at all, everything’s going to be fine.

It took a bit to start, but after some time you began reading the document. It was a bit intimidating, but that’s what happens when you first learn stuff, it’s always a little scary in the beginning. It helped that First Aid was ghosting circles into your thigh, it was minimal enough that it didn’t hurt or distract.

After some time, you finished reading the document. It took some time, but you knew this was the shorter version. A more simple explanation of Cybertronian anatomy, with comparisons between the anatomy of a Cybertronian and the anatomy of a human.

There were no equivalents for some organs, but what made you curious was that reproductive organs weren’t mentioned. It makes sense, Cybertronians reproduce asexually. It wouldn’t make sense for them to have those parts, right?

“You’re done?” the voice from above asked. It sounded a little… clearer than usual? You looked up, seeing First Aid… without his mouthpiece?

“I was surprised, once you began you quickly got in some kind of zone.” First Aid chuckled, “It was fascinating.”

If it wasn’t obvious enough already, your face was heating up. Did he know how flustered you got that time at Swerve’s? Was he using that to get you worked up?

“I, uh, tend to hyperfocus.” you stammered, unconsciously beginning to bounce your leg.

First Aid let out a chuckle, “I’m just teasing you. At least you were able to read through the document without any signs of stress. I didn’t feel you bouncing your leg until now. The most you did was shake them a little.”

Wait, he noticed that?! Well, you were in his lap the whole time, so he likely noticed you stimming?

“Anyway,” his mouthpiece moved back into place, “you’re likely tired from this, right? I’ll bring you back to your habsuite.”

You nodded quickly, grabbing your things before letting First Aid pick you up. After he confirmed that you were ready, the both of you walked to your habsuite. After exchanging goodbyes, you walked into the habsuite.

First Aid walked away, stumbling into Rodimus. “Hello, Captain.”

“Spendin’ time with the tiny liaison?” Rodimus wiggled his optical ridges, implying a possibility of First Aid and the liaison doing something else.

“We’re literally in front of their room, they’re going to hear you.” First Aid mentioned. He knew that, even though the sound insulation for the organic habsuites are pretty good, Y/N’s hearing is pretty sensitive. They could be listening in.

“It’ll be fine,” Rodimus drawled out, “I made sure the best sound insulation is in those habsuites! When I found out that one of the liaisons has super sensitive audials that can’t be turned down, I made sure that theirs especially got the sound insulation.”

All of that made First Aid squint. “Yeah, right. I’m pretty confident Ultra Magnus was the one who had to do that.”

“Oi!”

“But am I wrong? I remember he’s the one who told us Medics about Y/N’s conditions.” First Aid tilted his helm.

Rodimus grumbled, “Ugh, nevermind! We can discuss what I wanted to tell you about at Swerve’s bar.”

First Aid shook his head, “No need. Liaison Y/N and I did not interface, Rodimus. That wouldn’t be professional. Besides, Y/N just joined last week. I doubt that would be enough time for them to feel comfortable doing that.”

“Right. Anyway, we can talk later at Swerve’s.” Rodimus left, leaving First Aid standing there. Guess he can return to the medbay now.

However, while he wouldn’t say it for now, First Aid is catching feelings for the human liaison. They haven’t been there for long, but Y/N has a fond spot in his spark. It’s simply too early to try flirting or being romantic. Sure, he did mess around a little bit to confirm if his face plate without the mask on made them flustered, and it did, but other than that it’s best to be slow.

#transformers x reader #first aid x reader #transformers first aid #idw first aid #transformers drift #transformers ratchet #transformers rodimus #transformers ultra magnus #sfw g/t #g/t #giant/tiny

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maevearcher · 3 months

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...um, okay, so, @pennyblossom-meta, here is part one of my two cents. I...I actually decided to peruse the manga again, so I'd pay more attention to specific things instead of...just living it over and over again, and beyond... So, I've decided to split things into parts, so it doesn't get insanely long either. This first part covers up to the point where Misa introduces herself to Light.

…I never know how or where to start these things….

First things first, I want to be clear on the fact that this, everything that I’m going to say, comes from the perspective that I’ve held true to my core values over as many years as I remember, ever since I learned how to read, namely that the book is better and truer that the movie. That the original written word is the baseline truth on which I must build any interpretation that will not result in me falsifying the very essence of what I’m trying to understand.

On that assumption, in any analysis of the character of L, I always, but always refer back to the manga, with the anime serving as completion of details here and there, with the anime giving me the absolutely exquisite feel of actually hearing him (and for me, the English dub is the best, I love Alessandro Juliani’s low, vocal fry-ish rendition, I love his harsh tones here and there, which I find most fitting for the particular manga scenes they are constructed upon.

It is true that anime and musical and whatnot paint a much more….humanized, softened picture of L A rounder, more sympathetic, more socially palatable picture. An image of this lonely autistic genious, locked inside the confines of his ways, waiting for the right person to come along and save him from the banes of his solitary existence…until he meets Light and realizes there’s someone out there who he can relate to, for understanding and stuff. I personally don’t buy too much into that.

I am not going to debate too much whether or not he’s autistic, because I cannot presume to understand that kind of a mind, that kind of an IQ, and the emotional development losses that come with it (because nature doesn’t make presents, almost always a high IQ comes with a lower EQ, grain of salt added). However, I can see neurodivergent traits, such as preference for low-stimulation environments, perhaps sensory sensitivity (such as preference for one particular type of fabric or comfort in clothing style…. – or perhaps he simply can’t be bothered with style choices and all, and tee and jeans seem like a safe perpetual go-to option)….but these have been analyzed to death.

As for the Ryuzaki persona theory….from what I’ve read and from what evidence I can put together, I find it only partially correct. Excluding the autorial intent (or rather, lack of) from the equation, going completely in-universe and treating fiction as reality….it is true that he acts differently when he is alone, prior to meeting the task force. He stands up straight and sits differently, he even does yoga and meditation to think. But later he slips into this total weirdo of a person…but I think this is highly intentional. I mean, he doesn’t fake his personality when interacting with the task force, he blatantly exaggerates some behaviors, with the purpose of being underestimated, as well as to cover some of his tracks, which people can chalk off to him just being a weirdo. Another thing….I think he has a waaay better understanding of social norms and regulations than people usually give him credit for. I mean, he is not socially awkward, that would amount to making involuntary mistakes out of genuine ignorance of social norms, because one cannot figure out the appropriate response. However, I cannot see him doing that. He is blunt and sarcastic and mean because he’s sort of a jerk when he wants to be… and he has little reason to be otherwise in the little slice of his life we are shown.

What I believe he truly struggles with is an understanding of emotions apart from their motivational aspect. We always see him having a very fine understanding of behavior, but he’s always, always asking “why? what are they hoping to achieve? what are they after? what is their purpose?....” I don’t think he has ever been confronted with the possibility of having someone be kind, nice, affectionate towards him for the simple enjoyment of his company, without being out to get him, or get something from him. He sees people either as neutral entities, or as people who either will hurt him or will use him. (And I would soo much like to see more of his life outside this particular situation when adrenaline is through the roof both from the chase, the thrill of the game, and from the fact that he is , in fact, in very real mortal danger, much more so than the relatively risk-less situations he has been in in his previous cases.)

What he comes across at first is…extremely self assured, to the point of egomaniac from the point of view of a normal person. But…he HAS to be this way in order to do what he does, he has to over-believe in himself because if he were to second guess himself and waver, he would have self destructed years ago. At first, he acts from this higher ground vantage point, allowing himself to even show Light that he was unsure about the action plan, during the initial televised confrontation (how he was like “I…I don’t believe it…I couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes…”) Then, his choice of words, how he is always using his pronouns well (“Listen to me” instead of just “Listen”, “I want you to…” instead of “Please do…”) he is very assertive about his position of authority.

What I also love is that he’s sooo expressive through body language, especially frustration (fist slam to the floor, clenching fist, gritting his teeth in frustration, throws the stack of papers on the floor, especially before meeting the task force, when he can actually afford such transparency). That fades a little bit later, and is only apparent in him gripping his knees a little more forcefully and (what I imagine, with the help of the voice dub in the anime) slightly colder and more distinnctly pronounced words, these being the ways of conveying. frustration and anger.

However, that’s not the only emotion he is expressing. He is caring and considerate. He refers to the FBI agents as “precious lives”. He acknowledges the integrity of Soichiro Yagami (a man who earns L’s respect and keeps it throughout….) and allows him the privacy of secrecy over the surveillance footage from his home (and again, as my only concession to the anime, the warmth in his tone when he allowed him this privacy…). He repays transparency with sincerity - he tells Soichiro that the surveillance period of seven days will not be extended secretly, telling him that he has his word on this…. And you can feel the honesty radiating from him at this point, he's never being a jerk for the sheer hell of it, in a completely undeserved fashion. One can argue about the way he belittles Matsuda, but let’s not forget Matsuda screwed up majorly a few times, and I for one would have been harsher on him than L was, so…. Besides, I do think, as I said in a previous post, that L actually came to like Matsuda and was affectionately cruel towards him the way you make life hell for a younger sibling. Which in turn proves (a manner of) attachment from L, he certainly does not see them as pawns.

I love it how he proves himself to be soo far from the image of the recluse genius, working only from behind the comfortable shield of his computer, unable or afraid to face the world outside……no, guys, he is aggressive and decisive, both in his opinions and in his actions, he is dead set from the beginning on having Kira commit a murder in front of him so he’d find out how exactly Kira kills, therefore, being pushy and (almost) reckless in some decisions, he takes the step of actually meeting Light and forcing him to make his next moves….He’s being force-of-nature aggressive….while having this…strange duality between cynicism and idealism where he almost wants to believe in the normalcy of Kira’s psyche, how no one can be so absolutely cruel as to kill someone without batting an eyelash…..

Somehow, I don’t believe for a second that he’s as listless and apathetic as he sometimes wants to appear. There are all these emotions brewing under the surface, barely masked by the “please” politeness, almost like I can see the “go fuck yourself” underneath haha. But there are times when he breaks that stance, for instance when he is confronted with the possibility of the shinigami being real, which disrupts his whole thinking system. That’s what he’s reacting to, to the internal earthquake (which he quickly tries to rationalize away), not out of fear of the supernatural... Also, I love his instinctive spasm of a reaction in the manga, compared to the long-drawn panic mode in the anime (completely out of character and unjustified imo)....

Aand...the reason I fell in love with him oh so many years ago. I mean, not The reason, but the moment where admiration morphed into love. The moment where he basically bled right there, emotionally, for Ukita. Now, I don't see it for one lousy second how Aizawa was abusive in his touch (he was just...having a normal emotional reaction using normal male tools), AND I don't interpret it as aversion to be touched, on L's part, as he is shown to shake hands with Light and such normal human interactions. What's happening here is his desperate attempt to remain in some semblance of control, to not let this whole situation unravel into tragedy (as he actually says, in so many words), not to break down emotionally under the weight of the guilt....for a man whose blood is directly on his hands, as well as the "precious lives" of the FBI agents. He is basically shaking with guilt and sorrow, and, of course, a little fear (he's human after all).

To be continued...

#l lawliet #death note #l death note #death note l #death note analysis #death note meta

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zahmbie · 1 year

Note

Do you have any Toby x reader headcanons 👉👈

Boy do I!

General Ticci Toby x Reader headcanons

I don’t think there’s any warnings needed here? Let me know if I missed them!

He’s not even going to try to hide the fact that he’s a serial killer when you start dating him. It’s just a part of him you’ll need to accept if you wanna be with him long term. Plus, unless you two meet at a costume party or something it’d be kind of hard to hide it in the first place, he never takes the mask off outside the house.

He’s kind of proud of his status as a proxy, he feels strong because of it, but he honestly treats the whole thing like a day job.

Like yeah he’s a killer, he has his issues, and he shouldn’t be woobified, but there’s more to him than just killing people. He likes making art- though he doesn’t think he’s good at it, he likes to listen to music and garden, and he watches the birds out in the forest.

Speaking of art, normally when he gets you a gift it’s something stolen, unless it’s a romantic gift. If he needs something for your birthday, a holiday, or a just for fun gift he’ll steal something, for valentine’s day or an anniversary he’ll make something. Even though he’s shy about his art he’s really good at wood carving, and makes you little carvings of the wildlife he sees.

Having a partner is a level of domesticity he hasn’t had in a long time and he craves it. He comes home tired from a long day of killing people and he just wants to eat and cuddle you until he falls asleep.

Out of any mask wearing creep he’s the easiest to get to take it off. It’s never gonna happen outside of the house, maybe not even outside his bedroom, and It’s still gonna be a while before he does it, a couple weeks, maybe a few months on the high end. But in his mind if you haven’t made fun of him for his tics you probably aren’t going to make fun of him for his scars.

Very much a hype man for his partner. Everything you do he’s cheering you on, even if it’s stupid he’s behind you all the way.

I’ve seen some people say he playfully insults his partner and I agree but it’s got a hard limit. You guys might call each other bitch playfully but he can’t do actual insults, even as a joke he can’t take insulting someone he cares about or hearing them insult him.

Also a guard dog type partner. If anyone says anything even a little mean to you you’ll have to hold him back from killing them.

He does give compliments frequently, words of affirmation (and giving gifts) is his love language for giving and receiving.

Toby’s autistic (on top of his other neurodivergencies) and would prefer a partner who’s got disorders like him. It’s not a dealbreaker if you don’t have any, he just likes the connection there.

#creepypasta x reader #ticci toby x reader #toby rogers x reader #creepypasta headcanon #zombie writes #for reference his other art is mostly emo ball point pen drawings in old notebooks #Love this animal the Tiby #I have more but i wanna get a request out today #i brought it up as a joke but i really like the idea of the creeps going to a Halloween party

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chrysanthemumgames · 6 months

Note

hihi! i found your demo today and im already on chapter five? i think! maybe more im not really keeping track. i love it a bunch

you genuinely don’t know how much it means to me that you included an option to get overwhelmed in the first chapter (or prologue? i don’t remember) AND have it get HELPED by my wonderful husband hades who i’m gonna kiss. all over his face.

and the way that it’s not just like “i’m autistic” or “i have adhd” as one single choice and then cookie cutter options from there out. it’s like. customized?

and like. he’s so. pretty. beautiful man.

anyway this is getting away from me but hades has long hair right? i’ve been growing mine out and i noticed that ive been stimming with it a lot more than when it was short (twirling it mostly) and i also noticed that hades likes it when you run your hands through his hair (may or may not have read all the posts under #hades here) so in conclusion does hades ever stim w his hair?

on the topic of stimming that one scene where you hold his hand under the table and he taps on it. UGH. IM SO IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN i want to hold him gently for ever and ever and ever

I definitely wanted to stay far away from making a diagnosis a choice, first of all because, well, it'd be awkward to shoehorn the words for it into an IF about the ancient world. Secondly, everyone experiences things differently, and I didn't want to decide anyone's symptoms for them, honestly.

Lastly, well, people can stim even if they're not neurodivergent at all. So locking those options behind a choice like that just didn't seem right.

But yes, the stimming-hands scene was something I really enjoyed getting to write, too. I'd never seen anything like it in anything I've read (not that I've read everything, mind you), and so it was very much an instance of "getting to write what I want to see."

#ask #kind non anons

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bakubunny · 1 month

Note

My first on fridays we share with the class ask!! I haven't had anything but Kirishima and Bakugou on my mind recently, specifically fluffy comfort between an experienced Kirishima, anxious Bakugou, and neurodivergent reader. Bakugou is a rather loud person, even into adulthood, and he knows this. Bakugou also is somebody I personally see as not the best at comforting people. This always seems to cause Kirishima to be the one comforting reader when they need it. Bakugou never really minded this, he does wish he could comfort reader like the red head does though, just so they could be more comfortable around him. I have a feeling he'd be nervous about upsetting reader by saying something wrong or being too loud, so he never really gained very much experience in comforting them. So when reader ends up overwhelmed by something (ex.: schedule completely thrown off, an overstimulating situation, a very loud group of people, these are just ideas) he isn't entirely sure what to do. He goes to find Kirishima for help once he's sure reader is ok to be on their own for a couple minutes, and once Kirishima does come to help, he decides to teach Bakugou how to comfort reader without making anything worse (ex.: where reader doesn't like being touched, helping them calm their breathing, comforting words, distractions, also just ideas).

Sorry this is so long, and sorry if anything in this made you uncomfortable. Also sorry it's so specific, feel free to change anything if you do end up writing for this ask. This was written with an autistic reader in mind but it doesn't have to be specified. Thank you for your time, and have a nice Friday!!

this is so sweet 🥺 i like that you specified an autistic reader because that’s a perspective i don’t have; i typically approach nd!reader with an adhd mindset.

while i like to hc katsuki as someone who’s almost too observant for his own good and quickly learns what doesn’t work, i could see this, too, especially in his early 20s. he still fumbles quite a bit socially in some ways as he learns to let his guard down and show his soft side. sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with himself; he hates seeing you flinch a little when he yells and he tries so much to prevent it, even though you’ve told him many times it’s okay, it’s only because he was loud.

i think having a friend like eijiro around for him to ask questions or even just observe in the moments when it’s difficult for you to communicate what you need does a lot of good in bridging that gap until you can talk about it later. this would go even further in a krbk x reader relationship in that i think katsuki would pick up quicker than you might have assumed initially.

#on fridays we share with the class #bnha #mha #x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #aged up characters #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #neurodivergent reader #nd!reader

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unforth · 2 years

Text

How to Use Tags on Tumblr

I frequently see people tag their works things along the lines of “sorry I don’t know how to tag,” and I also frequently see people tag badly while at least appearing to know what the fuck they’re doing, so it’s been on my mind to write up a post like this for a while, and with the influx of Twit-ugees, now is as good a time as any I suppose.

Advance warning that I’m the most long-winded bitch up in this place and just neurodivergent enough to never know how much to cut/what details don’t matter so apologies that this just goes on and on and I just hope that if you bear with me you’ll learn a thing or four.

Also note that any time I say "A thing will work this specific way" that is always subject to Tumblr's spontaneous habit of breaking and I can never guarantee that things will actually work at any given moment.

(this is fucking 5,000 words about using tagging on this blue webbed site so. Read more it is.)

Tagging 101

Okay, I’m gonna start at absolutely baby, sorry. The first thing you need to know is where tags go. You don’t tag in the “type text here” box where you’re talking about whatever. This isn’t like twitter, where if I start going hey everyone I’m writing a post about how to #tag things on #tumblr, everyone will see it if they go to #tag and #tumblr. Nope, you gotta put your tags in the box thingy at the bottom if you want people to actually see them when they use tag-search-related options.

You can write #whatever in the body of your post til the cows come home and it won’t do jack shit unless you put it in that bottom #add tags box. So. Do that.

Once you know how to tag, the two most important things to know about tags are:

1. Anyone can see your tags. Everyone can see your tags. Not just your followers. Not just OP. Any random stranger who pokes around in a post can see them, AND they’ll appear in the OPs “new activity” notifications, AND they'll be in the "view all reblogs with comments and tags" button that anyone can select, AND, if it’s an original post and you’re the OP, they’ll appear in the searchable tags on Tumblr. Like. Seriously. We can all see you. So always bear in mind that anything you say in a tag is subject to public scrutiny.

2. If you use a tag on an original post, your post will appear in that tag search. Anyone can search by tag in Tumblr. You go to that bar up top…(note that I’m using MDZS as my example for this post, but you can easily substitute your fandom of choice). (Reblogs that use a tag do NOT, EVER, appear in the tag searches.) So yeah, you're searching for a tag...

…and you get three types of search results. The first, with the #, shows the tag-ified version of your search, and clicking that will take you directly to tag search (and therefore show you posts that have that tag, and specifically exactly that tag - if you go to #mdzs, you won’t see #mdzs fanart, because tag search is narrowly defined). The magnifying-glass marked searches are common and related searches, and will show you posts that have those words in their text AND in the tags, so a magnifying-glass search for MDZS will show you things tagged mdzs, and also #mdzs fanart, and any random-ass post that includes mdzs anywhere in the main text or tags. You’ll get a lot (and you’ll have the chance to narrow that search by top posts vs. latest posts, recent vs. ever, type of post - as in picture vs. text vs. video etc., etc., though note that these searches are always busted and always lean heavily toward recent stuff). If you know you want the tag, you can click #mdzs, but even if you go to search instead (for example, if you just hit “enter” it’ll take you to search, not the tag), you can still see related tags:

Now, see how that says 21k followers? On Tumblr, you can follow tags! Anyone can follow tags! Popular tags often have tens-of-thousands, and occasionally hundreds-of-thousands, of followers! What exactly following a tag means depends on how any given individual sets up their feed, but for many people it means that random posts from that tag will appear on their timeline. Which means that if you tag your original posts (NOT reblogs - this applies to posts for which you are the originator) with a given tag, anyone who visits that tags and/or follows that tag can see it and might even have your post appear on their feed even if neither of you knows or follows the other.

Anyone who visits a given tag will be able to see your post (or, well, almost anyone - a. if you have them blocked or they have you blocked, they won’t see - though if you block a main blog/side blog, and they post from a different side blog, you CAN still see - if you really want to block someone you’ll need to block all their alts too, which is often a challenge since people tend not to be super public about their alts; b. if the tag is in the last 5 allowed tags on a post - more on that later - it won’t show up, uh, basically anywhere, good luck with that; c. if the tag search is broken, which it basically always is at least a little, welcome to our duct-taped hellsite enjoy your stay).

If you want people to see your post, this functionality is fantastic! It gives you a lot of ways to get your content out there. If you don’t want people to see your post…well. It is absolutely critical that you understand that there is absolutely nothing private about tags, and that even though we all frequently clown in tags, you need to be aware of the potential consequences of that clowning, namely that people will see you clowning, including complete strangers, and so you might not want to clown quite that hard.

Personal Blog Organization

But, I hear you say, I want to organize my own blog! If I don’t tag my mdzs posts #mdzs to avoid everyone seeing them because I Don't Want That, how will I find them when I want them later?

Well, first, don’t expect to ever be able to find things easily on Tumblr, lmao. We do have search and tag organization options (more later!) but in the end always assume things you post might become unfindable; if you really want to be sure you can find something again, find another way to store it (I personally keep “things I don’t want to lose” in drafts; some people also use likes, or private side blogs).

That said, this is one of the main reasons a lot of people use personal tags to denote their own content. For example, if I want to post something but I don’t want it to spread too far, I will avoid using the fandom tags and stick to my personal blog organization tags. I personally use “unforth rambles” for my “whatever the fuck this is” kind of posts, “whine whine whine” if I’m complaining, “unforth writes” for my fiction, etc. Lots of people have a personal tag, and not only do they make it easier for you to find your own stuff, they also make it easier for other people to find your stuff.

Want to post about mdzs, want to be able to find it again, but don’t want it in the tag? Try “yourname’s mdzs thoughts” or something similar.

Do you create a thing, and want people to be able to actually find it if they come to your blog, instead of it getting buried under a billion other reblogs and shitposts? Try “yourname art” or “my yourfandom fic” or whatever. Trust me, as someone who routinely tries to find art on people’s blogs? People who have specific tags make it much, much easier, and believe it or not I guarantee there is SOMEONE out there who’d like to be able to interact with your stuff more easily, and if you make it impossible you’ll never even know they wanted to.

Likewise, of course, a personal tagging system can make things utterly unfindable cause sometimes that’s Goals. Take this knowledge and use it as you will.

Aside to the above: queue tags. If you’re on Tumblr for more than 5 minutes you’ll see that a lot of posts have tags like “my queue” or, more often, ridiculous “queue”-related pun tags (when I used to use one, it was “#q hoo hoo”). Why do people do this? Well, there’s surely a lot of reasons, but as far as I know the main one (my own reason, at least), was pretty simple: Tumblr has a messaging system, and a lot of us use it, and if we post something, people will think we’re online and might message us and then get upset that we don’t answer. Using a queue tag makes it very clear “this posted when I wasn’t actually present.” Then, you can (like me) go back to ignoring your messages for days and pretend you haven’t been on Tumblr until you’ve actually got the whatever to answer them.

ETA: it's been pointed out that, depending on what search settings someone is using, using "my thing tag" may still show up in searches, so if your goal is to keep your posts out of the main tags, you'd be better served to avoid using the same full text as the common tag(s).

Tag Limits

It’s also important to know that you don’t have unlimited tags, and they can’t be of unlimited length. Tags have a character limit (...I never remember how much it is, though, maybe 200-something?) and you can’t have more than thirty tags on a post. Conventional wisdom is that if an important tag (such as a fandom tag or character tag that you WANT people to be able to find) isn’t in the first ten tags, it won’t appear in search, though I’ve definitely seen things in tag search that had the tag farther down than that. That said, if you put anything in between Tag 25 and Tag 30, don’t expect to ever be able to find it again. Trust me. I’ve tried. Tag 25 to Tag 30 are a tag black hole, and anything in that range might as well not exist because it won’t be searchable. (Sometimes - but only sometimes - search will be able to find things in that hole, subject to all the bugs that normally make search nigh unusable). Note that on mobile, at least, Tumblr yells at you if you try to tag more than 30; on desktop I honestly don’t know if it does cause I always use XKit reblog features instead, lmao. (more on that later!)

A couple other tag limits include:

1. various punctuation breaks tags, though which has varied over time. For example, currently if you try to make a tag with quotes (#I told him “shut up”) you will NOT get a tag that says that, you’ll get two tags: #shut up and #i told him. And, they’ll be in that order - the tag in quotation marks will end up first, before anything else. For a long time, hyphens also just absolutely murdered tags; theoretically they fixed that recently though in practice I’ve noticed it being hit-and-miss, so if you want to be sure things work well don’t use a hyphen. Further, at least on desktop, a comma tells it “this is the end of the tag” so if you enter a comma it won’t put in a comma it’ll just end your tag and take you to the next one. Honestly, if you want to be sure that your tag doesn’t break your best bet is to stick to…not. Forget grammar. Surrender to the void. People will figure out what you mean…or they won’t. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ We never said this was a great site but you’re stuck with us now, lmao.

2. you can’t edit tags. They recently teased that they’d introduce tag editing, but at least as far as I’ve been able to tell it’s never actually been unrolled, or maybe it’s only been unrolled to some users (we often only get features for some folks, or only on mobile or only on desktop…). An addendum to this is the simple rule that no matter how careful you are you will inevitably make a typo in your last word, often the last letter, right before you hit enter. I’m sorry. It’s a law of nature. On the plus side everyone knows that tags can’t be edited so no one’s going to care if your spelling is janky. (ETA: just to be clear, since it was pointed out in the notes: you CAN delete a tag and retype it. so, it's up to you if you feel like doing that. I meant you can't go back and edit the text entered as a tag, you can only delete it and make a new tag)

Censoring Tags

Do not censor tags. ESPECIALLY trigger warnings. Sometimes people will censor letters intentionally so things won't turn up in the tag search options (for example, if they're saying something negative), and while I think that's valid I also think there are better ways to handle it (like just use a different fucking tag). But if you censor tags, and especially if you censor warning tags, you make it MUCH HARDER for people to consistently blacklist. Just call things what they are (except n s f w - more later), and tag accurately (so if you want to post anti use "anti thing" tags instead of censoring), and make it possible for people to ACTUALLY avoid things and blacklist. Please. I'm begging you.

Finding the Tag for The Thing You Want

Often, finding a relevant tag can be super easy, especially if what you like is common. If you’ve been in online fandom at all, even on other platforms or forums or wherever, you likely already are familiar with common abbreviations for The Thing, and those are usually a great place to start (for example, #mdzs, #mcu for Marvel movies, #spn for Supernatural, #lotr for Lord of the Rings, etc.). However, since people do often use multiple tags (like, they may tag #mdzs AND #mo dao zu shi, AND #grandmaster of demonic cultivation, AND #gdc) you can always try putting in The Full Name For The Thing, and then seeing what tags are on the posts that pop up. Then, once you see that, you can click through a few and check them out. Every tag’s page will have a box like this:

…and it says right there how often the tag has been used “recently” (no, I have literally NEVER figured out how “recently” is…recently). If you want to find the most popular tags for a given fandom, the easiest way is to just poke around in the tags people are using and see which ones have the biggest number in that “XXX recent posts” box. Those are the ones people love and use, and emulating them will lead you in the right direction (assuming you want people to be able to find your stuff).

On the other hand, what if you like something rare, something obscure, something that doesn’t have a consistent naming structure, etc.?

That can get a little harder, but the challenges can be cut through fairly easily.

1. search for every variation of The Thing that you can think of and look through the results until you find The Thing You Actually Wanted.

2. see how that post is tagged.

3. check those tags for more of The Thing You Actually Wanted.

4. keep doing this until you find the tag where people who are into The Thing You Actually Wanted congregate.

5. winning!

Creating Tags and Space

…okay but what if that last step 5 ended with losing instead? Well, BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD.

A lot of people on Tumblr use personal tags for their own blog organization…but many also use tags and tag-tracking to create a personal tag meant for publis use. So, source blogs (blogs that act as “clearing houses” of stuff for a specific fandom, character, ship, etc.) will say “we track #thisisourhashtag, use it so we can see your post!”

You can do that! If you really love something narrow and specific, you can at least try to get the word out. It takes a lot of work though - because you’ll need to get the word out yourself. “Hey, I love This Obscure Thing! Do you also love This Obscure Thing? Come join me, use #thisisyourhashtag!” is a start. But just “building it” won’t be enough - you’ll also need to do the leg work to find more of The Thing, reblog it, interact with the people making it, etc. Often on Tumblr, the difference between a really vibrant small fandom community and a small fandom that’s absolutely dead silent is one person taking the initiative to say “I’m going to do whatever I have to, community-building-wise, to find other people to talk to about this.”

(The best example I know of for this is the Daomu Biji fandom. Like seriously, they’re a fucking case study on how to take a tiny group of people who are Really Into A Thing and turn it into a vibrant, supportive community that is, frankly, a joy to be a part of. If someone wants more info on kinda…how this works…I think it’s outside the purview of this post but I’m willing to babble about it some other time.)

Navigating Tumblr, Your Own Blog, and Other People’s Blogs Using Tags

One of the cool things about tags on Tumblr is that every tag has a static, usable link, which - if your own blog or a blog you’re trying to access has a consistent tagging format - can make it much, MUCH easier to find things. ESPECIALLY because static tag links constant and consistently work about 80 bajillion times better than “search.” Posts that are unfindable using “search” WILL (usually) be findable using the tag’s link. (Exceptions include if the OP has blocked you or you’ve blocked them, and if the tag is in the 25th, 26th, 27th, 28th, 29th, or 30th tag slot; ETA: another exception is that in the PAST this wasn't the case; Tumblr has greatly increased the visibility of tags over the years, and may do even more in the future). So, how do you do this?

For all of Tumblr: the link you want is https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/(THE TAG)?sort=recent (or ?sort=top for them in order by most popular. Note that this is one of the cases where what’s after the ? ISN’T A TRACKING LINK ffs it’s not ALWAYS tracking you can’t ALWAYS delete it without consequences sometimes the internet is exhausting).

For your own blog: https://yournamehere.tumblr.com/tagged/thetagyouwant

For someone else’s blog: https://theirnamehere.tumblr.com/tagged/thetagyouwant

A lot of people use this for personal blog organization, and it’s especially common for source blogs to have very structured tag lists to help with navigation. For example, in the art sideblogs I run, anyone can look up any tag using links like this, and it’ll enable them to find every post with that tag. See? https://www.tumblr.com/mdzsartreblogs/tagged/mod%20post

NOTE: Tumblr, in the last few weeks, changed how this feature is set up. As you can see, the link is now structured differently than what I typed, BUT the original link formatting still works, just how it appears has changed. That said, because Tumblr can never change a thing without breaking it, there’s now sometimes a problem where if you type the link in, it’ll replace a space ( ) with a plus (+) instead of with a fake-space (%20 is how browsers classically translate spaces into Internet Speak so that the urls don’t break). If your space gets made into a +, Tumblr will say there are no results, so you’ll have to manually go into the link and change it back to a space and THEN it will work. Yes, really. No, I don’t know why. Also, if you try to get rid of the plus in the search bar instead it will NOT work correctly, because if you remove the plus, put in a space, and then hit “enter” on text written in the search bar, it’ll switch you from “show all posts with this tag” to a standard search (which will have all the bugs that standard searches usually have in Tumblr).

But, basically, once you know the tag that someone uses for a thing, or have established what tag YOU want to use for a thing, navigating your own or other people’s blogs to find Every Post Tagged With The Thing is really easy, and can be a great way to find niche content, a user’s own creations, or That Thing You Posted Two Years Ago That You Need Again For Some Reason.

ETA: Someone mentioned in the tags that if you add /chrono to the end of these links, it'll show you all the same info BUT it'll show the OLDEST posts firsts instead of the newest and I did not know that and that is A.MAY.ZING and thank you to the person who told me and now y'all know too.

Blacklisting Tags

You’ll see me talk a lot in this post about the ways that Tumblr is broken and how that can make it harder to accomplish whatever it is you’re trying to do. There is one notable exception to the brokenness. At least in my experience, and in the experience of basically everyone I’ve ever spoken to about it, Tumblr’s internal/built in blacklist works pretty darn well.

Don’t want to see a tag?

Go to Account Stuff -> Settings. Scroll down to “Content you see,” which is where Filtered Tags and Filtered Post Content are.

Filtered Tags will only filter The Thing if it’s literally #the exact tag you put in filtered tags.

Filtered Post Content will filter any post that mentions the thing.

Note that Tumblr blacklist is actually over assiduous. I personally ONLY use filtered tags, and I’ve found that it will often filter a post even if the current reblog of that post doesn’t HAVE the tag - like, if anyone has EVER tagged The Post with The Thing, it’ll get blacklisted. Also note that while theoretically, filtered posts will still show up as a box you have the option to show, in practice some will just. Not show. I’ve absolutely had blacklisted things just Not Even Appear. Which can be annoying, if it’s actually a post you want to see, but there’s no perfect system.

Also, never EVER let anyone tell you that “blacklisting is only for things you hate.” Look, you curate your own experience. If your bestie is posting about a fandom you’re not in, and it’s clogging up your dash, you’re not obligated to scroll through their 80 posts about that thing. Just blacklist it. It’ll make your experience using this website much happier. (if your bestie doesn’t tag the thing…you can try post content filtering. But yeah that’ll make it harder). I personally blacklist a fuckton of fandoms that I’ve got nothing against, I’m just not IN them, and seeing content for them is of zero interest for me, and if I blacklist them then I have more time to interact with the things I DO want to see.

And yeah I know I prefaced this section by saying blacklist actually works. Take this entire section as what my ten-years-on-this-site ass sees as “functional” on Tumblr.com.

Making Tumblr Actually Vaguely Useable

Do yourself a favor and download XKit. (It’s on Chrome too, but fuck Chrome. Y’all Chrome users can go find the link yourself sorry not sorry). XKit includes a fuckton of REALLY DAMN USEFUL functionality for making tumblr (on desktop, not mobile!) function better…

…and especially, Quick Reblog, Quick Tags, and Tag Replacer can help with tagging and tag management. Quick Reblog gives you the ability to rapidly reblog things without having to click through to the reblog window, and it gives you a box to type in all your tags when you quick reblog. Quick Tags makes all existing posts on your blog and sideblogs have an extra little button that lets you add new tags to it without having to open the edit screen for the post. Tag Replacer lets you swap a tag you no longer want to use for a new tag. Get XKit. It’ll help you. I promise.

Okay, so now you know something about how tags work, time to learn some tag etiquette.

The most important thing to remember when trying to figure out how to tag an original post is that people follow tags because they want to see The Things About That Tag. This has some obvious consequences, namely:

1. They won’t want to see things that Aren’t About The Thing.

2. They won’t want to see someone Hating The Thing.

So that leads to…

Tagging for Fandoms

DO: tag fandoms that are relevant to your post. Feel free to tag variations on that fandom - you can tag #mdzs and #modao zushi and #mo dao zu shi, or #spn and #supernatural. No one will mind.

DON’T: tag fandoms that aren’t relevant to your post. Yes, even if it’s a fandom by the same author (looking at you, people who tag #mdzs, #tgcf, and #svsss on every mxtx post you make, I see you and I seethe). Yes, even if it’s a different version/adaptation of your work. If you create a sub-fandom-specific work (for example, to stick with MDZS for now, if you create a work for The Untamed that includes the Yin Iron, don’t tag it MDZS; there’s no Yin Iron in MDZS, and while yes some people who follow the MDZS tag will want to see it, there will also be plenty who don’t. This is especially true when there’s a popular adaptation that a lot of fans of the original don’t like. People who adore the BOOK of the Hobbit? May be pretty reticent about seeing things about the MOVIE if they didn’t enjoy it!) Try to maintain awareness of this; it’s courtesy not to just tag Every Vaguely Relevant Fandom. You won’t make people happy they’re seeing your stuff. You’ll make them annoyed that you spammed irrelevant tags.

Tagging for Ships and Characters

DO: tag the characters ships that feature in your work. Doing variations of their name is fine as long as those variations are relevant. So, if you make a piece of “wei wuxian” for example, you can absolutely tag that “wei wuxian” and “weiwuxian” and “wei ying” and “weiying” and “mdzs wei wuxian” etc. But.

DON’T: tag every single iteration of a character. If someone is following a tag for a specific variation of a character (to stick with MDZS, maybe they follow the “yiling laozu” tag) then they want to see that variation, not…NOT that variation. So don’t post your, idk, fluffy Lotus Pier Wei Ying pre-canon thing to the “yiling laozu” tag. And I know this sounds like gibberish to people not in this fandom, but like. Just extend it to your own fandom. Lots of characters have different fandom nicknames or self-presentations for themselves at different points in canon. People who specifically follow the "pre-serum steve" tag isn't going to want to see "post-serum steve." That's the entire point of following a specific tag instead of an over-arching tag. So, when you tag your original stuff, stick to the ones that actually have something to do with your piece.

DO: tag the ship in your piece in multiple ways. Like, to use a non-MDZS example, does your piece have Destiel? Go ahead and tag Destiel and CasDean and DeanCas. It’s okay. WITH THE ADDENDUM THAT: in some fandoms and in some parts of the world, it is common that writing Character A x Character B is actually NOT the same as writing Character B x Character A. Especially for East Asian and Southeast Asian fans, people often list them in a power-dynamic related order. Whether you think that’s a good thing or not (I personally think it’s a silly but whatever, they can do them, it doesn't effect me) is irrelevant; you need to understand that if you tag every order of a ship, you might have people ??? you over it. (Yes, really. It’s happened to me.) And that doesn’t mean don’t do it! Just. You should know. Knowledge is power. Or something.

DON’T: tag ships that aren’t in your piece. I don’t care if Wangxian is the most popular ship in the fandom; if your piece doesn’t show Wangxian, people who like Wangxian don’t need to see it in the tags. You’re doing no one any favors. Often people will say “if your piece doesn’t feature a ship PROMINENTLY don’t include it,” but that one imo is a bit more flexible. It depends on what your work is “doing” with that ship. Which leads to…

Sharing Your Negative Opinions

Please. For the love of fucking god. Do NOT post hate in the main tags. Yes, it’s just your opinion. Yes, you are absolutely entitled to your opinion. But it’s fucking rude. People go to tags because they enjoy the thing being tagged. You’re just being a dick if you therefore use that tag to shit all over that thing.

Now, this is NOT to say “don’t post negative shit,” but rather more importantly: if you want to tag negative shit, find the tag that people use to tag that specific negative shit and use that tag instead. Like. if you hate Jiang Cheng from MDZS (you’re wrong and I will block you) you do you! But don’t tag your hate #jiang cheng. People follow #jiang cheng because they LOVE the angry grape. Instead, do a little tag research (see above on how to find tags for That Thing You Like, and yes it applies even if it’s “That Thing You Like to Hate”) and find out what tags people who Hate The Thing use. Often just “anti (thing)” is a good start, though commonly the biggest groups of haters/"popular" anti opinions will have a tag they favor that’s different (for example, “canon jiang cheng” and "grape hate" are the common anti-Jiang Cheng tags; “destiew” is a commonly used anti-Destiel tag, I’m sure there are loads more but those are the ones that spring to my mind after a decade on this hellsite).

Using an anti tag is a MUCH better way to handle your hate, anti-ness, negative opinions, etc. You can find other haters to wallow with, and everyone else (like me) who just want to enjoy our shit in peace can do so. And like, I’m personally very against antis, but I also absolutely respect the right of people to have negative opinions AND to share those negative opinions, which is why I’m explaining this. It really does help like-minded people come together, and also enables people who want to avoid the vitriol protect themselves. It’s a win-win.

Tagging Trigger Warnings and Other Warnings

Tagging triggers and other potentially challenging material (such as flashing images) is a courtesy. It’s not required, but it’s certainly polite. There are some standard rules (for example, don’t use “tw epilepsy” because it’ll show up on epilepsy-related searches which is the exact opposite of the point of tagging it; tag “tw flashing” or something similar) but there’s generally NOT a “one size fits all” tag system. Instead, most people just establish their own system and make it clear somewhere “this is the system I use” so people can blacklist. Alternatively, you can see what tags your mutuals are using, and use those. Alternatively, alternatively, people will sometimes put “please tag X tw” in their pinned posts or bios - though always remember that there are risks involved in publicly advertising what someone with bad intentions can do to hurt you!!!!

Standard trigger warning formats on Tumblr include: “tw thing,” “thing tw,” “thing,” “thing for ts,” “cw thing,” “thing cw.”

Note that tw - “trigger warning” - is usually used for things that are likely to be triggering (such as blood, gore, etc.) whereas cw - “content warning” - is often used more for things that some people may want to be aware of (such as flashing or depictions of food) but that isn’t necessarily a common “trigger” per se, especially in cases like food where even calling food a trigger can often itself be triggering for people who have are recovering from ED-related challenges.

Also as an aside, the “ts” is generally a sign that someone is a Tumblr Old, as it stands for “Tumblr Savior,” which is a blacklisting extension a lot of us used before Tumblr had built-in blacklisting features. So if you see “long post for ts” (which is when I see it most) it’s like seeing a fossil, a tag that’s become so standard for a type of post that a lot of people still use it even though the use of Tumblr Savior isn’t very common anymore (at least…I don’t think it is???)

When in doubt, if you want to respect people, listen to them - see how people are tagging The Thing you’re worried about, and follow those tagging conventions. Don’t reinvent the wheel if you don’t have to - someone who triggers to something will already have the most commonly used tags for it blacklisted (and may not follow you if you aren’t willing to also tag for it) - so you make the site more usable for everyone if you use “tw eye trauma” instead of “this is my personal eye trauma tw tag”.

Also also as another aside, don’t use n s f w. Don’t even type it in your posts. They’ll get buried. They’ll go where tumblr posts go to die, and none of us even know where that is, because they're that gone. They won’t appear in regular searches. They won’t be in tag searches. They won’t even be discoverable on your own blog. Yes it’s fucking annoying. Yes it makes it harder to avoid explicit material. But. Find another tag. “lemon” is a common one, as is “nsft” (not safe for tumblr).

Tagging Systems and Spoilers

For the most part, if anything has been out for a month or so, you should assume that no one will tag spoilers. Don’t get me wrong - a minority of people still will, definitely! - but if, for example, you’re in the first chapter of MDZS, and you don’t want MDZS spoilers…don’t go into the MDZS tags. Just don’t. You’ll see everything you don't want to see. (Unless like me you WANT to see spoilers, in which case HAVE AT.)

For fandoms that still have new content being released, spoiler tags are often determined by community consensus, and a lot of people will put up posts saying “this blog isn’t spoiler-free for Thing. Blacklist #spoilersforthething to avoid spoilers.” It’s generally fairly standard to have a spoiler tag be “#thing spoilers” or “#episodenumber spoilers.” When in doubt, yet again, look at what everyone else is doing and emulate that.

hoookay. 2.5 hours after I started writing this, I am finally done. I hope folks find it helpful, and hopefully I didn't miss anything obvious. Feel free to hmu with asks if you want to know more!

#unforth rambles #long post #no seriously like stupidly long post #tagging #tumblr tags #tagging on tumblr #resources #tutorials #hellsite (affectionate)#hellsite (derogatory)

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books · 10 months

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Writing Workshop Week 2: Paying Attention

Welcome back, writers of tumblr! I’ve loved reading your prompt fills for Week 1 and answering your insightful questions, and I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with for this next prompt.

Last week we talked about the things we love, the things we go and retrieve, that we can hold in our hands. This week we’re talking about loving the things that find us, the parts of the world that come into our gaze by happenstance. In other words, the anatomic matter of all art: observation.

Observation relies on attention, and our ability to attend relies on circumstance. It’s impossible to pay attention to everything at once, so the mind selects what to notice and what to ignore. Sometimes we attribute conclusions to our observations and move into perception. I think as children we make great observers, but when we grow up and gather enough experiences, we fall into the trap of mundanity. Things we’ve seen before and that we’ll see again, so they’re not worthy of note—eating breakfast, putting on your shoes, going to a restaurant and telling the host how many people are in your party.

The art of noticing, of curating all the rich details of life, is a fight against mundanity. To do that, you have to carry your inner child around with you, pointing things out that you’ve seen a hundred times before and allowing yourself to witness them with new eyes. As writers, newness is a skill we can always improve.

Airports are one way I practice newness. If I have to choose between a one-hour layover and a six-hour layover, I’ll always choose the latter. There’s no mundanity in airports. Aside from employees and people who travel frequently for business, everyone is doing something outside of their usual routine, and it’s so much easier to soak up the minutiae that we otherwise miss when we’re walking our usual daily paths.

On Love

Someone once told me, “Love is paying attention.” The person who told me this was an artist and her subject was her family. Portraiture of the people she loved was the closest attention she could offer. And I agree—you naturally attend to that which you love. When you love a person, you pay attention to the clothes they wear, the tenor of their laugh, their mannerisms, the things they carry in their purse or pockets. But I think it can also be expanded: the more attention you pay to yourself, the more you love yourself. The more attention you pay to the world, the more you love the world. This idea can be a two-way street: love will direct your attention; attention will lead you to love. In other words, if you practice paying attention, you will come to love things more than you already do.

A quick note about neurodivergence: some people attend to the world differently than others, in different patterns and with different guiding forces. Some people have the ability to shift attention quickly, and some slowly. Some people have more control over their attention than others. Some people attend more closely to certain senses (like hearing or feeling) than others. Wherever you’re at, whatever is driving your ability to notice, use it as a strength. There is no mode of observation that is inherently better or worse than another.

Many writers struggle with motivation to write. I have come to reluctantly agree that there is some discipline necessary in being a writer. I don’t believe in “butt in chair every day” mentality, but I do think any skill requires a patterned dedication no matter what your practice looks like. A self-promise. That promise is much more easily kept if you focus on love.

I don’t mean writing love stories (although that’s often what motivates me). I mean sincerely meditating on what love means to you. What you love, who you love. I’ve participated in so many generative workshops and there’s always a moment I receive a prompt and go, “I have no idea what to write about.” And then I ask myself, “What do I love?” Many things come to me, both big and small, abstract and concrete. I love my family and friends. I love to travel. I love holding a book in my hands and the satisfaction of turning its pages. I love parts of myself and I don’t love others, and this is something I’m working on.

When you ask the question, “What do I write about?” the answer can always be love. When I ask my students to write about what they love, some of them write about their relationships—the joy of a present relationship or the ache of a past one. They write about their hobbies and friends and interests. Once I had a boy write twenty pages of poetry about frogs. Some people write about passion that toes the edge of love and hate. Love is not always good. Love can be destructive. It can motivate people to cruelty; it can distort perception. Love can be complicated and weird. Love can lead to regret. But love is a strong feeling, and strong feelings drive creativity.

On Sharing

I think sharing the things you notice, the way you see the world, is an act of love. Carrying around your inner child to show them what they’ve never seen is a way to nourish yourself, replenish what you expend. You can apply this to any aspect of writing you want to work on. If you want to set a story where you live, you can go around your city pretending you’re showing it to someone who’s never been there. If you want to develop your characters, pretend you’re about to introduce a close friend to someone else, and you know they’re going to get along once they meet. If you want to better explore your themes, pretend you’re talking to someone who has no concept at all of your worldview, who maybe has an opposing worldview but is interested in learning yours.

People, especially writers, can be so afraid to put themselves into the world. To see and be seen. But when you begin to view sharing as an act of love, it becomes easier to listen, to bear witness and say, “Thank you for sharing that with me.” And when you say that enough to others, it also becomes easier to share yourself, in hopes that you’ll be met with gratitude.

Prompt time!

What I’d like you to do today—or tomorrow, if it’s late—is to notice three things. Three seemingly insignificant details, things you would otherwise forget or maybe not even see (or feel, hear, etc.). Bonus points if you write them down in a notebook, but the notes app on your phone will do.

Even if you don’t want to do it, simply by virtue of reading this, I think you’ll begin noticing things. If you’re a very observant person with a good working memory, maybe you can think of three things you observed earlier, and maybe that’s effortless for you. If this is you, your task is to write not just three observations, but three paragraphs of observation throughout the day.

Here’s an example: I am at this aesthetically pleasing coffee shop but I’m concentrating on the flimsy paper menu fluttering beneath a fan, held down with a ceramic plate. The tapping sound of my sister’s acrylic nails on her MacBook. My own self-consciousness that everyone has a better sense of style than I do. One of the baristas is a young man who looks like an ex of mine, and I’m wondering where that ex is, if his hairline has fully receded, if he still works at FedEx, if he ever married that nice veterinarian’s assistant who was way too good for him and always wore tye-dyed t-shirts for some reason, and I honestly liked her a lot, she seemed like a genuinely good person, and he knew it too and that was why he treated her well, so why had he treated me so poorly?

And now I have a narrative question: Why do people hurt some loved ones and not others? What is it about the chemistry two people make that causes this to happen? The only way to answer these questions is to either live it all again and take notes—and I’ve had too much therapy for that—or write a story about characters navigating this chasm I’ve found in my understanding of being human. And I got all that from sitting here on this uncomfortable stool in this nondescript coffee shop, hanging out with my sister on a Friday afternoon.

I recommend taking an entire day to find your three things. You’ll find many more than three, but for the purpose of this activity, I think focusing on the three most interesting or compelling ones is best. Once you have your three things I’d like you to work them all into a piece of writing. Here are some ways you can approach this:

If you want to write nonfiction, write about your day, focusing on building around your three things to eventually pull a story out of them, the way I did above. Follow the associations and memories that arrive to you.

If you want to write fiction, write those three details into a new story or the world of your current work in progress. If you’re not sure how, make the first your inciting incident, put the second in the middle of the story, and end the piece with the third.

If you want to write poetry, make a poem of your three observations, and note what happens to the meaning when you squeeze three disparate observations together.

If you want to do something experimental, convey your three things with a stylistic constraint of your choice. For example, write only in sentence fragments (by that I mean, no verbs).

A quick caveat: You might be thinking, but Betts, I write science fiction (or fantasy, horror, etc.) and so nothing in reality is of relevance to me. I would argue that everything you perceive in reality can be applied to all things that are created. You think they don’t have pretentious coffee shops in space? Well, maybe not. And definitely not in a magical version of medieval Europe. But there might be something akin to a nondescript strip mall in Midwest America with cracked asphalt, half abandoned, with some kind of sketchy dentist or urgent care in it and a vape shop. Every place, even places that don’t exist, possess some realistic texture, and when you render these images, that space becomes real to the reader. You could argue, even, that the goal of genre fiction is the highest possible suspension of disbelief. And the only way to do that is to make the world you build feel as lived-in as reality.

Questions? Ask ‘em here before EOD Tuesday so @bettsfic can answer them on Wednesday. And remember to tag your work #tumblr writing workshop with betts if you want her to read your work and possibly feature it on Friday!

And, for those just joining us: @bettsfic is running a writing workshop on @books this month. Want to know more? Start here.

#tumblr writing workshop with betts #writers' room #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing advice #week 2: paying attention #long post #long text post

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