#and ao3 was made so that women specifically. most of whom are in some way attracted to men

[yoshiyakiryu-archive]

Truly a mystery as to why the slashfic subculture posts so much slashfic on the slashfic website /sarcasm

[nats-bottom]

NR - I Never Get Jealous

Summary: Natasha gets jealous over Reader dancing with other women.

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, jealousy

Notes: Sorry this took so long for me to write! I had some writer's block, but I'm back now!

I saw Fly Me to the Moon last night, and it is such a good movie! I highly recommend!

I also have accounts on Wattpad and AO3! The users there are @ paige_vers

Please give me requests! You can submit them here or on my insta, @ scarlettsoutset

ᨖᨖೱᨖ⧗ᨖⴵᨖ🕷️ᨖⴵᨖ⧗ᨖೱᨖᨖ

Natasha POV

I took another sip of my drink. Me and my girlfriend, y/n were at another one of Tony's parties. He threw parties all the time, most of the time for no reason. This party was no different. Just a party for no specific reason, with random people that none of us knew. 'Us' being the Avengers. We were all there because one, Tony made us all come, and two, there was no way we could sleep in the tower with all the loud music. 

I'm taken out of my thoughts when I feel a hand on my thigh and hear y/n say she's going to go dance. I give her a quick kiss and watch her as she walks off towards the dance floor. I move to the couch area, where a bunch of other Avengers are sitting. I sit down next to Steve, who's sitting next to Bucky. They each have a beer in hand, and are casually flirting with each other, but won't admit it. I start up a conversation with them, internally laughing every time one of them blushes at the other's comment. 

After a while, I get a glimpse of y/n on the dance floor, dancing with two other women, neither of whom I know. I feel the anger inside of me rising as I see y/n grinding on one of them. I watch her for a few minutes, when Steve waves his hand in front of my face. 

"Nat? Are you there Nat? Earth to Natasha!" he says trying to get my attention.

"What? Oh sorry. What's going on?" I ask.

"I just asked you how many pop tarts you think Thor will eat tonight. But clearly your mind is somewhere else. What's up?" 

"Oh, um, y/n is just dancing a little too much with some other women." I say as I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. 

"Ohhhh, I see. Someone's jealous." Bucky says with a smirk.

"No, I'm not jealous. I'm just, um, observing." I reply, not wanting to admit to my jealousy.

"Yes you definitely are. You should see your face." Steve says with a chuckle.

"Fine. I guess I am. And I'm going to go do something about it." I say as I get up and set down my drink on the table. I hear Bucky and Steve try to stop me, but I just ignore them and keep walking towards y/n. I squeeze through other people in the crowd and finally get to y/n. 

"Nat! Wanna da-" but before she can finish I pull her into me and give her a big kiss on the lips. She acts a little shocked at first, but then melts into the kiss. As I let go for air, she tries to hang on to the kiss a little longer. I keep my arms around her waist, hers around my neck. "What was that about?" She said with a smirk.

"I just didn't like how you were dancing with those other ladies." The other women had walked away by this point, leaving once they saw me glare at them. 

"Oh, is someone a little jealous?" y/n asks smugly, and drunkenly. 

"Jealous? Me? I never get jealous." I replied.

"Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh. I saw the look on your face as you came over here."

"I was not jealous. You can dance with whoever and I won't care." I say, trying to get her to believe me when I say that I'm not jealous.

"Then why'd you scare those other ladies off?"

"Because I want them to know that you're mine and mine only." I say in a deep voice. I pull her off the dance floor and to a couch in an area with the other Avengers. I sit down first and put her on my lap, putting my arms around her stomach. She rests her hands on mine and she leans back into my embrace. 

We talk with the other Avengers about random things, from Tony's newest project to how fast everyone thinks Pietro can run. I'm not really paying attention to the conversation though, all I can think of is y/n. How pretty she looks tonight, how she was dancing, and how I wished she danced with me like that. I move her hair aside, and start kissing her neck. She tilts her head to the other side a little after letting out a small, barely audible gasp. I start nibbling on her neck, making sure to leave a mark. I suck on the bite, then run my tongue over it. I move over to another spot, doing the same. I look over the marks I made, satisfied with it.

I move my hands to y/n's arms, rubbing them up and down. I whisper in her ear "you look so pretty, all marked up. Showing everyone else that you're all mine." I feel her squirm a little in my lap. "You like that don't you, pretty girl." I say, now playing with her hair. I nibble on her ear a little and I feel her shiver. "You just want everyone here to know that, don't you. You want everyone here to hear you scream my name." I hear her gasp, and see her nod ever so slightly. "Meet me in our room in 10 minutes." I whisper in her ear. She nods and excuses herself from the party, saying that she's tired and wants to go to bed. About five minutes later I excuse myself, explaining that I have an early day tomorrow. 

I leave the party and head to my room. I open the door to our shared room and see y/n there on the bed, clad in a matching lingerie set. I close the door behind me and walk up to her, smashing our lips together.

[dawnexpanse-central]

Infrequently Asked Questions

What is the Dawn Expanse, and why does it exist?

The Dawn Expanse is an aroaceagender worldbuilding project created by @roguetelepaths.

It can best be described as an act of radical imagination— if we only ever see ourselves as outsiders in an allonormative, amatonormative, binary world, then we have no choice but to accept our marginalization. If we build worlds with ourselves at the center, we can become confident enough to center our own needs and aims in this world.

Queer worldbuilding projects of all kinds are important and often neglected tools of empowerment, and this blog would love to connect with others running similar projects.

What do you mean, "aroaceagender worldbuilding project"?

The Dawn Expanse can be loosely compared to Aristasia (though without the reactionary and imperialistic overtones of that project) — a femme lesbian subculture based around a fantasy country where femininity and relationships between women were considered not just default, but a fundamental law of nature. I should note that while this subculture has been made up of people with varying and often abhorrently conservative political positions, it no longer really exists and those I've seen talk the most about it these days are mostly left-leaning trans women. There is no real-world subculture based around the Dawn Expanse, or at least, there isn't one yet, however, the basic principle is the same. The Dawn Expanse is a world in which everyone is aroaceagender. More precisely, it's a world in which gender, sexuality, and romance never had a reason to exist, and therefore do not. The project aims both to provide comfort to those who have the specific experience I'm representing here and to explore the unique social structures of such a world.

So do you hate gender/sex/romance, or people for whom those things are important?

If this blog was devoted to cat videos, would you ask me if I hated dogs?

I'm not aro, ace, and/or agender. Can I read this?

I'm not a cop.

I'm not aro, ace, and/or agender. Will I enjoy this?

I don't know. Will you?

Are you some kind of aroaceagender separatist?

No. The number of different experiences under each of those labels, the incredibly small subcategory of people who fit into all three, and the even smaller fraction of that group that experiences their identities in the same way I do would make an honest to goodness real-world "aroaceagender separatist" position both a laughable one to take and an impossible one to execute.

I am, however, an aroaceagender person who prioritizes my relationships with those who either share my experience or are willing to show that they respect and affirm it.

If the Dawn Expanse doesn't have 🌶️🌶️ spicy romance 🌶️🌶️, what does it have?

Literally everything else? Idk man, is your world so narrow that you think a piece of art has to have that to be interesting? You've got BookTok, 99% of AO3, and many, many sites specifically devoted to written erotica if that's what you're after. Let the rest of us have one thing.

But to answer the question in more detail, the tone of the Dawn Expanse aims to be tonally similar to animated series such as Steven Universe, The Owl House, or She-Ra and the Princesses of Power in its approach to balancing interpersonal conflicts with higher stakes world events. Thematically, it aims to explore community bonds, sense of place or lack thereof, and the false dichotomy of order and entropy.

Can I write my own stories in the Dawn Expanse setting?

Yes! I'll be writing a more detailed post about what to consider when doing this at some point.

Can I run a tabletop campaign in the Dawn Expanse setting?

Absolutely. In fact, one of my eventual goals for this project is a system-agnostic RPG setting guide. (Though, knowing me, it'll probably be biased towards the Cypher System, my favorite do-it-all RPG ruleset.)

You're really mean in some of the replies to these imaginary questions. Why?

I'm tired. That's why. The good news is that if you actually take the time to talk to me in good faith, I'm not nearly this much of an asshole. So the rudeness is probably not directed at you.

[girderednerve]

ok i'm doing it, i'm fandomposting, my treasured mutuals may at this point look away, etc etc

stranger things

i actually think it would be fun if eddie strangerthings was trans. i like trans people and i want more trans people in stories so i'm not defending this viewpoint. i just think it would be extremely funny if steve had a whole figuring out he's bi over eddie thing, they get together & are happy together for a year or so, and then eddie comes out to steve as a woman, at which point steve gets to do an extremely funny "wait. wait. i'm straight again. i'm straight again? i'm so straight i knew you were a woman before you did? that's what happened?" i would just really like steve to be the kind of straight guy who actually, you know, likes women. not that he's never an idiot about it in this scenario which i have lovingly crafted in my brain, just that he actually really likes women and he's happy that he's dating a woman.

i did this with my partner, whom i started dating before i knew she was a woman: we then got to joke for a bit that when i thought i was a lesbian i was right! there was in fact no discontinuity! no thoughts on if that's actually true or like theoretically rigorous, but it's a fun & mildly affirming joke to make with your partner, and i think all of my life experiences should be explored through silly stories about made-up people from bad television shows or whatever. i never claimed to be deep. anyway

canonically, eddie spends all this time performing an extremely specific flavor of metal masculinity that is high-risk in context. people hate him and he leans into it when we see him. the fact that he's performing is a deflection to some degree; he gets to control what people are responding to, even if he can't control how they respond. transgressive gender performance is part of that, and it's compelling to me.

the scene where eddie's talking to chrissy, which i do think was meant to nod at the 80s movie freak+prom queen romance, is a moment of mutual recognition; they literally acknowledge each other's performances. chrissy's being crushed alive by the kind of gender performance she has to do. there's a cost to being a thin cheerleader, although i think we're all reasonably tired of hearing about how hard it is to be popular and conventionally beautiful. she's swamped by jason's letterman jacket & pigeonholed by his expectations of her, and she's frankly pigeonholed in the narrative: beautiful, self-loathing in a cliché way, condemned to die before the end of the first episode and then be invoked as a justification for a witch hunt. nothing but a martyred white woman, the most gendered kind. eddie & chrissy play off of each other in an interesting way, and i'd much rather they just be girlfriends, but what show did i watch? not that show.

honestly eddie & robin would be pretty cute too, but woe betide who first creates the ao3 tag, am i right? actually, while i'm dumping all my weird stranger things takes in here, i think steve and robin should fuck exactly one time because she's curious what it's like and he's willing to indulge her. they both go "huh. well, okay" about it and continue being friends. this does a couple things for me: one, it's funny. two, it suggests to us that men & women can have sexual relationships which are not gravitational, which i like. three, i'm annoyed by the fandom trend with those two being that they have an extremely intense, codependent friendship but the very idea that they have sex is outright offensive. two dudes giving each other a handjob which doesn't have to be sexuality-defining is like, a fandom trope! do we think that robin's identity is so fragile that she can't fuck around a little bit, in the interests of finding out?

[texanredrose]

Showing Off

Inspired by prompts submitted to @unsteadyshade on tumblr (here), that I reblogged earlier, or AO3 (here). Also, yes, I'm very much American but I decided to use the non-American lingo in regards to soccer here. Don't look at me expecting logic, my friends, I just do what the winds of whimsy tell me.

---

Blake pulled the hotel door shut behind her, following after her teammate and best friend who was further down the hall and carrying their tote bags. While she didn’t hold the same superstitious beliefs, Yang swore up and down they’d lose unless they brought along their ‘lucky’ practice ball; after going back to retrieve it, the woman seemed satisfied and started walking towards the elevator while Blake caught up. “This is ridiculous, you know that right?”

“Hey, don’t sass me; we’ve never lost a road game when we’ve had the ball,” Yang said, already wearing her keeper jersey, the material stretched a bit thin over her muscled frame. It had seen better days but, much like the ball, the woman refused to replace it, especially during their run up to the championship. “A little extra luck can’t hurt anyone. Except the other team, I guess.”

“It can make us late, though,” she said, one of her ears flicking back as one of the doors they passed opened and closed- had to be other patrons of the hotel, seeing as the rest of their team was already downstairs by the bus. “Which would mean we forfeit.”

“We’re not running that late,” Yang replied, throwing a grin her way. Then, lilac eyes were drawn behind them and lingered a moment before her lips pulled into a very specific smirk. Blake knew that smirk- it was the ‘oh, I’ve got an idea, you might not like it but you’re gonna do it’ expression, because aside from being one of the best keepers in the region, Yang Xiao Long was also ridiculously persuasive. Dangerously so, in fact. “Hey. Toss me the ball.”

“Your hands are full.”

“Wasn’t going to use my hands.”

Blake narrowed her eyes, vividly remembering the last time someone tried doing agility drills down a hotel hallway, and picked up on the subtle look behind them. After a few more steps, she turned to say something about the game to Yang as an excuse to glance behind them. And then, it all made sense.

A bit further down the hallway were two women, both of whom were dressed in sharp business attire, and the moment Blake returned her attention to Yang, she pointed at herself and mouthed the word ‘tall’ with a wink.

“C’mon, toss me the ball,” Yang said, coming to a stop.

Blake glanced at her watch and, although a touch reluctant, decided they had enough time for a little demonstration. Tossing the ball towards Yang, she stepped back to lean against the wall while the woman started juggling while still carrying both totes. With her best friend as a distraction, Blake could take a longer look at the women Yang was trying to impress, and realized a few things, chiefly: they weren’t just any business women following behind them.

They were the Schnee sisters.

Atlesian elites, borderline nobility, some of the richest and most powerful people in the world; the Schnee sisters were in the news for one reason or another practically every day. Blake was more familiar with the attitude and mentality of the younger sister, Weiss Schnee, because it was her actions that Blake, as a faunus, found most… interesting. All the way up until she assumed control of her family’s company, the woman didn’t seem much at odds with the stuffy, bigoted, narrow minded people found in her social circle. After, though, she not only did an unapologetic one-eighty in the other direction, she became so aggressively progressive that it created a wide schism in the highest echelons of Atlesian society. More than once, she’d deployed the surprisingly well equipped private SDC security forces to protect protestors from Atlesian police and military personnel, and paid an exorbitant amount of money to keep those protestors out of jail, either by paying off bonds or hiring attorneys. In a relatively short amount of time, she’d become a juggernaut for social changes, and the careful monopoly her scheming father had built became the ultimate tool for exacting those changes.

Blake could admire the woman’s sense of justice as well as her commitment to it.

The elder, though, she only knew by name. Winter Schnee stood on her sister’s side when it came to social issues and did something tangentially related to the SDC but, beyond that, the details were a blur. She’d never heard Yang mention either sister in anything more than a passing comment while they pursued the news together waiting for flights, certainly nothing she could recall that would explain why the woman wanted Winter’s attention specifically. However, it also wasn’t out of the ordinary for Yang to show off a bit for pretty ladies when presented the opportunity.

By the time Blake had made a decision herself, Yang had run through every trick she knew and had popped the ball up to balance on her chest. She motioned for the woman to pass the ball, which earned her a raised brow at first before lilac eyes twinkled and she popped her shoulders back to set the ball in motion.

Blake caught it before it hit the ground with her foot, stalling the ball’s momentum entirely for a moment before she began juggling herself. For her, it was less a skill she’d developed for showing off as one of honing control of her body and the ball, but she knew a few tricks, moving slightly away from the wall so she could juggle the ball in a circle around her while still facing Yang. It meant juggling with her heel behind her back briefly but she managed it without losing control and that prompted a low murmur from their audience. Impressively, she couldn’t make out the words, which made her think the speaker specifically didn’t want her to hear.

After transitioning between using her feet and knees, the faunus popped the ball up high enough for her head to get under it, her feline ears laying flat against her skull to prove she wasn’t using them to help her balance the ball in place, which earned a brief chuckle from Yang. Then, she began bouncing it atop her head while moving her head just so to get the ball rotating before allowing it to roll off her head so she could catch it with her foot.

With a glance to confirm Yang was prepared, Blake passed her the ball, and the two of them traded it for a while, trying to catch the other off guard to make the eventual save and pass even more impressive. It was a show of control and dexterity and, had they planned it, would’ve had a better end to the display. Unfortunately, a short pass from Yang resulted in both of them trying to save it, which sent the ball bouncing harmlessly down the hall until it came to a stop at Winter’s feet.

Then again, given the glint in Yang’s eye, perhaps that was her intention. “Oh, sorry about that. We’re just… warming up.”

With a jerk of her head, the faunus realized her friend was requesting some back-up. “Yes, we, uh… are on our way to a game. The semi-finals, actually.”

“We can probably get ya seats, if you want.” A nonchalant shrug. “You should come watch us play.”

The sisters exchanged a look then. The elder, questioning, and the younger… Blake couldn’t put a word to that look. It was equal parts goading and secretive, and perhaps something else dancing in blue eyes. She would need a lot more time to decipher that look.

And she found herself wanting it.

Then, without a word, Winter put her foot on top of the ball and rolled it back, popped it up, and… began juggling with just as much precision as they’d displayed. Except, unlike them- bedecked in jerseys, loose shorts, and tennis shoes- she was doing it in a form fitting pants suit and dress shoes, hampering her mobility somewhat though it hardly impacted her performance, executing all the tricks Yang had done. Then, she passed it to her sister, who, in high heels and a skirt, proceeded to do the same, keeping many of the tricks low so her skirt wouldn’t ride up. Which, of course, meant she had less room to manipulate the ball, had to move faster to get into position to execute each trick, and when she did a version of Blake’s around the world one, the faunus felt her mouth pop open in astonishment.

Once satisfied, Weiss passed the ball back to her sister, who caught it one handed.

“We appreciate the invitation. However...” Winter tossed the ball, hard enough that it hit Yang’s chest before the keeper thought to catch it. “We unfortunately have a prior engagement that requires our attention.”

The sisters began walking past the gobsmacked footballers and Blake didn’t miss the look Weiss directed her way as she spoke. “After you’ve won your game, perhaps you’ll join us in the hotel’s hot tub?”

Blake didn’t notice how close they were to their floor’s elevator until Winter reached over and pushed the button to call a car. “Unless, of course, you have your own post victory traditions that take precedence.”

Yang just shook her head while Blake managed to find her voice. “No. We don’t. Have traditions, I mean.”

“Excellent,” Weiss said, stepping into the car the moment the doors twanged open and hitting a button inside, smiling in a way that… well… Blake would call it seductive in another setting and found herself hard pressed not to call it that now. “We’ll see you there. Don’t be late.”

When the doors closed, both Blake and Yang were left standing in the hallway, both just… recovering from how mentally unprepared they were for their tricks to be used against them to great effect. After another moment, Yang turned to look at her, holding up the ball.

“Lucky. Ball.”

Blake resolved to not argue that point and instead focus on winning the game, ushering her teammate towards the stairs rather than waiting for the next car.

---

Weiss leaned back against the wall of the elevator. While they’d chosen to book this particular hotel for their business trip specifically because their favorite football team would be staying there, and they’d opted to not use the penthouse suite because they wanted a chance to catch glimpses of the team while going to and from meetings, neither expected to meet their personal favorite players in the hallway like that. Weiss had followed Blake’s career since college and, while responsibilities had prevented her from attending as many games as she would’ve liked, she always recorded them and watched them later. Up until the encounter in the hallway, that was how she and Winter had planned to spend their evening.

Now, though…

“Would it be inappropriate for me to bring her jersey to the hot tub in the hopes she’ll sign it?”

Winter made a considering noise. “Bring the jersey, leave a suitable pen in the room.”

“How would that accomplish her signing it?”

“Invite her back to the room.” Her elder sister smiled, and a twinkle in her eyes spoke to the crude humor of a former soldier. “I’ll be… elsewhere tonight.”

“Spare me the details,” she replied as they reached the ground floor. “... but thank you for the idea.”

As a general rule, Weiss was never overly fond of business meetings, but she found herself looking forward to the end of this one more than usual, if only to see where the night led.

---

Blake pushed out a nervous breath as she and Yang made their way towards the hotel’s pool area. The game itself ended in a shootout and while Blake had made the final goal that secured them a berth to the finals, she couldn’t relax quite yet. Post game celebrations usually involved Blake joining the rest of the team for a glass of champagne or a toast of some sort before the others prepared for a night on the town to celebrate the win. Most of the time, Yang went with them, leaving the faunus plenty of time to wind down with a book of her choice and a peacefully quiet hotel room. Even on the odd occurrence when Yang didn’t join the others, the blonde still found other ways of occupying herself that preserved Blake’s quiet.

So, rushing back to the hotel room to change into their swimwear before the hotel shut down their pool was a major break from their normal routine, and knowing they’d be going to meet two very beautiful and apparently incredibly talented women… well, she was just a touch nervous.

Unfortunately, her best friend didn’t share that anxiety.

“One piece or bikini?”

“What?”

“Which do you think they’re wearing?” The blonde shrugged, the tips of her hair brushing the back of her neck. Normally, Yang wore her hair down or in a thick braid for games, but seeing as she didn’t have the energy to deal with drying her hair again after the quick post game shower they’d rushed through. “I’m hoping Winter’s wearing a bikini or a two piece. She’s gotta have some abs, right?”

“You have an eight pack; what does it matter to you if she has abs?”

“It’s about the commitment.” With a smirk, she gestured towards her own abs, prominently on display thanks to her yellow bikini top. Along with a darkening bruise around her left eye, there were bruises along her ribs from a few sliding tackles that had almost sidelined the keeper entirely, but Yang was a bit tougher than their opponents expected. “It takes work to get these and keep ‘em.”

“And what’s the point of wearing a bikini top if you’re just going to wear swim trunks for bottoms?” She arched a brow, more comfortable poking holes in her best friend’s thought process than confronting reality as they neared their destination. While she, too, opted for bikini style swimwear, Blake had chosen a black top with matching bottoms and a light purple sarong around her hips. She might claim to be somewhat modest in comparison, but she was showing a bit more skin- which, rationally, she could justify because they were getting in a hot tub, not attending a gala, showing a bit of skin should be expected-

Blake shook her head, trying to calm her anxiety again.

“Gotta make her work for the goods,” Yang replied, either oblivious to or pointedly ignoring her nerves. Then again, perhaps she had a few of her own that she was hiding, considering the way she reached up to fiddle with her hair. “Besides, my bottoms always ride up. Trunks are more comfortable. Not all of us have an ass that won’t quit.”

“Not judging, I just think it’s… silly. To focus on what they’ll be wearing.”

“What else is there to think about?”

“How hard we’re going to flirt.” She pointed out, tilting her head thoughtfully. “What to say, how to say it… what result we’re hoping for.”

“Don’t overthink it, Blakey.” A laugh. “Let’s just have some fun.”

They came to a set of glass double doors that granted entry to the pool area of the hotel… at which point they realized the pool officially closed half an hour ago. Yang cursed under her breath as Blake’s shoulders slumped. They’d missed their chance, it seemed.

“Oh, Miss Belladonna? Miss Xiao Long?”

“That’s us,” Yang replied as a hotel employee approached them, already grabbing a key card attached to his lanyard and holding it up to a sensor beside the doors.

“Here. Both Miss Schnees are waiting for you.”

The footballers exchanged a look, surprised by the special treatment. True, they were quasi celebrities themselves, but this hotel handled all teams from the league, which meant they weren’t any more famous than the average patron. Then again, the Schnee sisters had quite a bit more clout than they did and could probably swing something like being given unfettered access to the pool area.

With a shrug and a smirk, Yang opened one door and they entered, spotting the sisters sitting in chairs beside the hot tub. Both were reading magazines, with fresh drinks on a table between them, and were… well… Blake found she couldn’t immediately discern their taste in swimwear because both sisters were wearing football jerseys. And not just any jerseys.

“I see you took us up on our offer,” Weiss said, getting to her feet and motioning towards the hot tub before reaching for the hem of the jersey to pull it off. At a glance, Blake could tell it was the special limited edition run from a few years ago, and her number no less. And while she would be sorely tempted to assume the woman had found one last minute, the careful way Weiss placed the jersey on the chair- not dropped or thrown carelessly- made her think otherwise. Only then did she notice the woman had opted for a light blue one piece with a single strap, leaving her upper back mostly exposed. “Splendid.”

“Congratulations on your win.” Winter also set aside her magazine and stood up, revealing she was wearing Yang’s limited edition jersey, and she took the same amount of care in removing it and setting it aside. Much to her friend’s delight, the elder of the sisters did wear a bikini of a darker blue and also sported some abs, though they lacked the definition of Yang’s. “A hard fought victory like that certainly deserves a celebration.”

As the sisters entered the hot tub, Blake looked over to Yang, who seemed equal parts excited and… intimidated- and that second one was hard. But what intimidated her ultimately evolved into a challenge and Yang never backed down from a challenge. For her part, the faunus just found herself wondering if, perhaps, they had a different idea of who needed to impress who than the sisters did.

Removing her sarong, Blake tossed it onto the chair Weiss had used and went to the hot tub, noting how the sisters had chosen to sit across from each other. She hesitated in entering, if only because she didn’t want to be too forward. Yang, of course, took the seating as a goading taunt of sorts, and settled herself in the tub hardly an arm’s length away from Winter. Probably closer than would be considered polite but neither seemed uncomfortable or surprised by the decision, so Blake opted to test the waters herself, sitting approximately the same distance away from Weiss but also across from Yang.

Almost instantly, she let out a sigh of relief; while focusing on getting to the hot tub, she’d done her best to ignore the lingering aches and pains from the game. Now, though, she could feel herself relaxing as the warmth began sinking into her muscles. Usually, she just focused on stretches before bed and had a tub of balm if that failed.

“Should probably do this more often,” Yang said, obviously relaxing herself. “Forgot how good hot tubs feel after a rough game.”

“Speaking of that, did you get checked out?” Winter gestured towards her eye. “You took a few nasty hits. I’m surprised seventeen didn’t get thrown out of the game.”

“The Vipers always play hard.” The blonde tried to shrug off the concern. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You took a few shots, too.” Weiss pointed out. “How’s your knee?”

“I’ve taken worse falls.” She gave a wry smile. “But I’m beginning to suspect you know that.”

“I’ll admit I’ve been a fan of yours since your college days.” The woman shrugged one shoulder, feigning nonchalance- and Blake only suspected it was a show because blue eyes didn’t meet hers as she spoke. “I hardly think that is remarkable. You’re one of the best strikers the league has ever seen.”

“Did you ever consider playing?” At the curious look she received, Blake inclined her head. “It took me years to develop those tricks, and you did them better. That speaks to a remarkable amount of skill.”

“Well, I’ll admit I entertained the idea a time or two. Ultimately, I chose my path, and it didn’t leave enough room to become a superstar footballer.” She shook her head. “I don’t regret it but, I suppose, part of the reason I practice those little tricks to keep the dream alive.”

Her ears perked up, catching something between the lines. “Part of the reason? What’s the other part?”

“Why, to catch your eye, of course.”

“My eye?” She couldn’t help the surprised chuckle that bubbled up from her chest. “You’re Weiss Schnee; you don’t really need to try to catch anyone’s attention.”

The woman’s expression faltered then. “Yes, well… unfortunately, the sort of attention I garner on my own is markedly less… impressive, by some standards.”

“I’d think those people have poor standards, then,” she said, opting to tip her hand as well. “You’ve managed to galvanize social changes that have taken some kingdoms entire decades in a matter of years. Comparatively, bouncing a ball’s hardly anything. Don’t you think?”

At that Weiss laughed, a bright, high, unrestrained sound that Blake rather liked hearing. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t be trying so hard to impress you, now would I? And you shouldn’t discount your own efforts outside the pitch.”

The faunus felt her lips quirk up in amusement. They’d been watching each other from afar all this time; the only thing she didn’t account for was the magnetic attraction that being in the woman’s presence seemed to engender. And, as she made an excuse of stretching to cover her moving slightly closer to Weiss, it seemed she wasn’t the only one feeling it. The woman, mysteriously, decided to move and dip her shoulders beneath the water’s surface long enough to bring out a lovely light pink blush to her skin, and when she sat back against the tub’s wall, she was a bit closer to Blake.

Surreptitiously, she snuck a glance towards Yang, if only to gauge how much teasing she would be in for on the flight back home the following day. She quickly realized her best friend wouldn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to teasing; somehow, Winter had coaxed Yang into her lap and was apparently giving the footballer a message. For her part, Yang seemed to be in a luxurious sort of heaven, eyes half lidded and with a silly sort of smile on her lips.

“Forgive my sister,” Weiss said, a sardonic smile on her lips. “I’m impressed she’s shown this much restraint.”

“I can hear you,” the woman replied, blue eyes flashing towards her younger sister. “But that can be remedied. Yang?”

“Hmmm?”

“I think this would work better if you were lying down.”

Lilac eyes widened as the woman tilted her head, glancing over towards Blake. With a small nod, the faunus made the silent agreement to avoid their hotel room for a few hours. Frankly, Yang had slept in a few lobbies over the years, when she’d returned too drunk to be quiet and not wanting to risk waking the faunus. She could spend a night elsewhere to return the favor.

“Yeah… I think you’re right.”

As the two got out of the hot tub and retrieved towels, Blake returned her attention to the woman beside her. “You don’t have to try, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“Impressing me. You don’t have to try.” Blake tilted her head, leaning back to brace her arms against the rim of the hot tub. “I think that’s the part I don’t like about being with the league. The mandatory press conferences and the rules- sometimes, I just want to get straight on the bus after a game and go back to reading my book, not sit and play twenty questions for an hour. It’s like… wearing an ill fitting mask.”

“You handle them remarkably well.” Weiss smirked. “But I suppose I say that because I speak my mind a bit too bluntly during press conferences. I admire your restraint.”

“I admire your candor,” she replied, very carefully laying one arm along the tub’s rim behind the woman. “I really liked the interview you did with the Atlas Economist. It looked like you were going to give that guy an aneurysm.”

“That would’ve been impossible.” A light chuckle as she moved closer, lowering her voice ever so slightly to coax Blake into leaning closer. “He would need a brain first.”

They both laughed, using their amusement to hide their shifting movements until Weiss was pressed into her side ever so slightly. They continued talking and laughing quietly until sitting in the hot tub started becoming uncomfortable. However, the faunus did her best to ignore it simply because she didn’t want to part ways quite yet. Weiss was… a lot of things- emphatic, sharp tongued, witty- but above all good company that Blake wasn’t keen on losing quite yet. However, she couldn’t ignore that the heat of the tub was taking a toll on them both.

“Your skin’s turning red,” she said, running a thumb over the ball of Weiss’ shoulder. “We should probably get out.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

They both stood and exited the hot tub, grabbing towels to start drying themselves off. While doing that, she wracked her brain for some excuse to continue their conversation but found herself coming up woefully empty. Every suggestion she could come up with either sounded ridiculous or… risque. It wasn’t like she could simply invite the woman back to her hotel room for some tea.

“Thank you for the invite, by the way,” she said, trying to buy herself some time. “A good soak after a tough game feels… fantastic. I don’t often indulge.”

Blue eyes lit up as the woman wrapped a towel around her hips. “I’m more than glad you accepted. However, if you wish to… pay me back… I’ve been meaning to ask for your autograph.”

Blake raised a brow. The request seemed… deceptively innocent, especially with the way Weiss was looking at her. “I can do that. You want me to sign your jersey?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.” The barest moment of silence, and then she tilted her head. “Unfortunately, the only pen I have is in my room.”

Blake took a step closer, pleased to see she actually stood a few inches taller than the woman when she wasn’t wearing heels, and lowered her voice. “Well… I suppose we’ll have to go to your room, then.” A pause. “And, maybe, we’ll think of something else I can sign along the way.”

Weiss smiled and donned the jersey, setting her hand in the crook of the faunus’ elbow. “Perhaps. Do you have any ideas?”

“I do.” As they started walking, she chuckled. “But I wouldn’t want to use a pen to sign something so… delicate.”

The woman hummed, pointedly looking at her mouth. “I believe I know of something else you can use.”

While outwardly Blake merely smiled a bit wider, internally she asked herself a question: just how far was she willing to go?

Before they reached the elevator, she’d decided that if she wasn’t officially dating Weiss Schnee by the time she boarded the plane tomorrow, she’d be disappointed in herself.

---

Weiss stretched luxuriously in her bed as the morning rays streamed in through the window. She was sore in places she’d forgotten existed- but the pleasant type of sore, the kind that eventually turned into an itch for more, and it took conscious effort not to reach for her scroll just then. It would probably do her well to show some restraint.

That mentality lasted all of thirty seconds before her scroll was in hand and she was admiring her new background picture, taken just before Blake put on her swimwear from the night before and left to return to her room. Nothing terribly suggestive or revealing, of course, just the faunus resting her chin on Weiss shoulder. An ordinary selfie. With her new girlfriend.

She couldn’t help the smile curling her lips.

The door opened and she looked over her shoulder, watching her sister strut into the room wearing her bikini with her usual air of complete and total confidence. Her jersey was held in one hand. Probably because she wanted to… show off. “You walked down the hallway like that?”

“Of course,” Winter replied, not even batting an eye at the words ‘Property of Yang Xiao Long’ written in marker across her chest and abdomen. “I’m pleased with the outcome.”

Then, a smirk.

“Please, don’t elaborate.”

“I won’t but I do hope you were as successful as I was.”

She glanced at her scroll as a message came through from Blake, a smile coming to her lips. “Indeed I was.”

Who knew giving in to her impulse to show off would have such wonderful results.

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 2/?)

Continuation of the E/R Bridgerton AU (chapter 1 tumblr | AO3) with all the shenanigans. And some fake marriage. Because why not.

This Author has long been of the opinion that there is nothing so dangerous during the season as a mother desperate to make a match for her daughter, especially when that daughter is plain, or comes without a substantial dowry. But this season may bring a danger even greater than a desperate mother of daughters: desperate mothers of sons, unable – or unwilling – to seal the deal.

While certainly families with daughters, no matter how titled or landed, stand to lose much if they are unable to find a suitable marriage, the prospect of title or land passing out of the family without a suitable heir is enough to drive even the most respectable of families to desperate measures. Especially in the case of the Marquess of Enjolras, who is approaching thirty without a suitable marriage match in sight.

It is rumoured that the Dowager Marchioness is at her wit’s end and determined that her son shall marry by the end of the season. She is even accused of going so far as to negotiate terms without her son’s knowledge. There were several reports of a great row coming from the elder and younger Enjolras earlier this month, with son and mother shouting at each other for the entire park to hear. 

The Dowager Marchioness finds herself in good company, at the least: the Duchess de Courfeyrac has long despaired to any who will listen that her eldest will never settle down, and the rumour is that the Baron of Pontmercy has proclaimed he is refusing to marry any girl save for young lady he caught glimpse of for but a moment at the Thénardiers’ ball (and whom he has never seen since, assuming she does exist). And of course, the landed gentry without titles find themselves in similar straits. Just take Mr. Grantaire, who, despite owning one of the largest houses bordering the park, has yet to find a wife, and as he is well past the age one would expect, his father has all but given up on him and retired out of the country.

Of course, with the exception of Baron Pontmercy, it is well known that neither Lord Courfeyrac nor Mr. Grantaire, nor most other young rakes who have yet to settle down, finds himself short of unsuitable women, but our gentle readers will know that unscrupulous women might warm a bed but will rarely walk down an aisle. And on a contrary note, the Marquess may well be a monk – there is not a single rumour that this Author has heard of any woman, suitable or otherwise, who has warmed his bed.

Then again, there is none who would ever think to bat the term ‘rake’ in the direction of Lord Enjolras.

But speaking of our notable rakes, this Author has learned that the Marquess of Enjolras has called upon Mr. Grantaire this past week. And our readers may remember that despite several seasons’ worth of acquaintance under their belts that neither man would consider the other friend, which causes this Author to wonder just what those two have to discuss.

Whatever they may be up to, this Author is certain it will bring nothing but more despair to their poor guardians. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 18  APRIL 1831

Grantaire blinked. "I beg your pardon?" he said, and Enjolras thought it was too his credit that he sounded only mildly baffled.

Still, Enjolras could not help the flush that rose in his cheeks at the absurdity of his request. "I am fairly certain that you heard me perfectly well," he said, a little stiffly.

"Heard you, certainly, but..." Grantaire trailed off. "You wish for me to help you get married."

"Correct."

"But you need that marriage..."

Again he trailed off, and Enjolras cleared his throat delicately. "To not be real, correct," he finished in what he hoped was a helpful way.

Judging by the look Grantaire gave him, it had not been. Still, Grantaire was silent for a long moment, taking several sips of whiskey before telling Enjolras, "I will not claim to be anyone's first choice to ask for help with any variety of matters, but I still never thought I would see the day when I would be asked by a marquess to assist him in committing fraud."

"And yet if memory serves, once upon a time, you offered me your help with anything," Enjolras said. "You even offered to black my boots."

Grantaire looked momentarily surprised. "I did not think you would remember that."

Enjolras shrugged. "It was not I who drank my weight in wine that evening."

Grantaire smirked. "True enough." His smile faded slightly and he finished his second glass of whiskey before standing and crossing again to the drink cart. "While my offer of assistance still stands, there is something I must know first."

Enjolras eyed him warily. "What's that?" he asked.

"Why," Grantaire said simply, pouring himself another glass. "If you wish for my help, I need to understand the circumstances that have driven you to this most desperate – and patently absurd – endeavor."

Enjolras scowled, though he had certainly assumed that Grantaire would not just blindly assist him without asking why. "Fine," he snapped. "If it will move this conversation along, then I will tell you." 

He waited for Grantaire to return to his seat with his whiskey before sighing and telling him grudgingly, "It's my mother."

"Your mother," Grantaire repeated.

"Yes," Enjolras said stiffly. "Do you intend on repeating everything I say? Because if so, this tale may never be finished."

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. "Forgive me, my lord," he said coolly. "Your statement merely took me by surprise, as I did not expect you to be a man who is cowed by anyone, let alone his own mother."

Enjolras sighed and drew a hand across his face. "No, it's you who must forgive me," he said, even more grudgingly than before. "I should not have snapped at you, but my mother..." He sighed again. "There is none who vexes me like she does.
"

"Not even I?" Grantaire asked, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Well," Enjolras allowed, "perhaps one other who vexes me like she does." Grantaire smiled, but it was too soft to be his usual smirk, and there was something in his expression that Enjolras could not quite place, but made him flush again, and he looked away, busying himself by pouring another cup of tea. "In any case, my mother is insisting that I get married so that my future bride's dowry can support the lavish lifestyle to which she has become accustomed."

Grantaire took a sip of whiskey. "And I suppose telling her no is off the table?"

"I have told her no many times," Enjolras said with a sigh. "And cut her off from the money I control to boot. But her only other assets come from some land she inherited in her own right, and she is threatening to raise levies on the poor people who work that land if she does not receive any additional funds."

"Like the fiefdoms of old," Grantaire murmured, a dark looking crossing his face. 

Enjolras nodded. "Precisely."

It took a moment for Grantaire's expression to even out, and he gave his head a swift shake. "So then, give her more of your money," he suggested.

"I cannot."

Grantaire's brow furrowed. "Why ever not?"

This, honestly, had been what he had been looking forward to least about having this conversation with Grantaire, in large part because he knew the man was liable to mock him with the reminder that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. "Most of my money is tied into trusts and investments to maintain the houses and lands, and to support infrastructure improvements in the village," Enjolras said. "And what remains is held in a trust by my solicitor that only I can draw on, and for specific purposes only."

"And let me guess, supporting your mother is not one of those specific purposes?"

Grantaire's tone was wry, and Enjolras sighed. "Indeed it is not. In fact, when I wrote the trust covenant, I deliberately chose to strictly forbid that type of use."

It looked as though Grantaire was trying very hard not to roll his eyes, but for once, Enjolras couldn’t really find it in himself to blame him. “So if you can’t use the money already under an existing trust, then you need new money, and the easiest way for that is…”

Grantaire trailed off and Enjolras nodded, relieved that Grantaire had finally caught up. “Some poor girl’s dowry,” he finished.

Grantaire pursed his lips, his expression skeptical. “You truly believe your mother would not just sell some jewels or something if the situation were truly that dire?”

“She might eventually,” Enjolras allowed, but his tone turned grim. “But I know my mother, and purposefully cruel is the kindest way to describe her. She would sooner squeeze every cent from her workers than suffer even a minor inconvenience, no matter the pain or destruction she leaves in her stead.”

“And you’re certain this is not simply a ploy to try to get you married off?” Enjolras looked affronted at the question and Grantaire held his hands up defensively. “I beg your pardon, but it had to be asked. Mothers are known for resorting to extreme measures in their desperation to see their children married off...or so Lady Whistledown would have us all believe.”

Enjolras wet his lips with his tongue as he contemplated his answer. “She might,” he said honestly. “I certainly wouldn’t put it past her. But I believe that if that were her true motive, she would’ve tried to force me into marriage through guilt over wanting grandchildren or a daughter-in-law, not going straight to the money angle.”

Grantaired nodded. “Well,” he said, “it’s good to know that you come by your manipulation tactics honestly, at least.” Enjolras gave him a withering look that Grantaire blithely ignored, asking instead, “What if you used some money from your trust to make a large purchase, a house or a tract of land, and then sold it quickly? Surely the profits from the sale would not fall under the terms of the trust.”

“They would not, but the trust—”

Grantaire groaned. “Do not tell me that you set up the trust so that you could not use it to expand your lands or holdings.”

Enjolras threw his hands up in frustration. “You know damn well I wish to be rid of these things!” he half-shouted, his irritation at the entire situation getting to the better of him. “Why would I allow myself the right to purchase more of that which I wish to depart from?”

“Because you really should have foreseen this becoming an issue,” Grantaire sighed, rubbing his forehead. He drained his glass of whiskey but to Enjolras’s relief, set it down on the table instead of getting up to pour himself another. “May I ask a question you will certainly find foolish?”

“Have you ever asked for my permission before?” Enjolras returned.

Grantaire half-smiled. “A fair question,” he said. “And I suppose I should not get in the habit now. Very well.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why can’t you just get married? Most marriages of your social strata are loveless, or at least start out that way, more business arrangements than unions, and most if not all have at least financial motivation.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “I would not do that to any poor woman,” he said, his voice low. “Even if they imagine they would be stuck in a loveless marriage, I would not take from them the chance at one, or at having a family of their own, neither of which they would get from me.”

For a moment, Grantaire’s expression was almost soft as he gazed at him. “I see,” he said slowly, and Enjolras frowned at his sudden change in tone.

“What?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Here I thought you might be waiting for true love.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes again. “Hilarious,” he said dryly.

But Grantaire just gave him a small smile. “I would suggest you do not dismiss the idea until you have tried it.: 

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’re not wed?” he asked snidely. “Are you waiting for ‘true love’?”

Grantaire’s expression didn’t so much as twitch but Enjolras still immediately regretted his words, or at least the tone with which he delivered them. “I am not wed because I do not wish to be. Now forgive me, but I believe we were here to talk about your nuptial problems, not my own.”

Enjolras nodded stiffly, not quite willing to apologize yet again for the crime of sticking his foot in his mouth, but luckily, Grantaire moved on quickly. “So then borrow money from one of us,” he suggested, tracing a finger idly over the brocade fabric of his chair. “Certainly I can give you the equivalent of a good dowry.”

“And explain it to my mother how?” Enjolras asked. “A dowry is a one-time cash injection that my mother knows will not come again, and she can plan accordingly. If she knows or suspects that I have borrowed money, she will not stop until I have bled my friends dry.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “I did not know that I was counted as one of your friends.”

“Do you really think I would ask this of someone I did not consider friend?”

Grantaire looked away, his expression unreadable. “Well,” he said, his voice a little strange, “in fairness, you do let Marius join us at the Musain, so.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he snapped. “I will not let my mother bleed dry my friends, acquaintances and occasional nemeses, then.”

Grantaire looked back at Enjolras, his usual smirk back in full force. “Occasional nemeses,” he repeated. “Oh, I do like the sound of that.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Enjolras asked impatiently.

Grantaire stood abruptly, but he didn’t return to the drink cart. Instead, he wandered over to the window, tucking his hands in his pockets as he stared out the window overlooking the park. Enjolras knew him well enough to know that he was thinking, and he stayed quiet despite everything in his nature wanting him to ask what was going through Grantaire’s mind.

After a long moment, Grantaire gave his head a little shake, still staring out the window. “It’ll be tricky,” he murmured, almost solely to himself, as if he had forgotten Enjolras was in the room. “We will need a plausible explanation, a suitable scandal...and of course, long-term…”

He broke off and stared out the window in silence for one long before turning back around, his troubled expression replaced by something like resolution. “Adélaïde,” he said, and Enjolras stared at him.

“I’m sorry, who?” he asked blankly.

“My sister,” Grantaire said firmly. “She is the solution. You will marry my sister for her dowry.”

Enjolras opened his mouth and promptly closed it again, completely taken aback by how this conversation had suddenly turned. “And dare I ask what you will say if I tell you that I have absolutely no desire to marry your sister, for her dowry or for any other reason?”

Grantaire didn’t look remotely deterred. “I can’t imagine she’d be too thrilled with the match either, but seeing as how she has no say in the matter…”

He trailed off as Enjolras recoiled, his expression darkening. “I did not think you the kind of gentleman who would think so little of his own sister’s consent.”

To his surprise, Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I think a great deal of her consent,” he said impatiently. “But she gets no say because she has been dead for almost twenty years.”

“Oh.”

Enjolras barely breathed the syllable, the word more an instinctive response less to what Grantaire had said and more to the pain he could see painted across Grantaire’s expression, even as his brusque tone tried to hide it.

Grantaire just jerked his head in what may have been a nod, a muscle working in his jaw, and Enjolras hesitated before saying, tentatively, “I am sorry. I did not know.”

“No one does,” Grantaire said quietly. “I…” He trailed off before shaking his head. “She and I were quite close when we were children, and after she died, it was simply easier to not speak of her.” He did not wait for any additional sounds of sympathy from Enjolras, instead straightening his shoulders as his tone turned businesslike. “But that works in our favor, as it means that no one in London knows that she is dead. It will not be difficult to tell a few key people about her, that I indulge my sister for nothing and that she has fallen in love with someone back in the country, the vicar’s son or something. And why should I subject her to the marriage market when her hand is already spoken for?”

He delivered this scenario as if it was one he had thought about before, and Enjolras shook his head slowly. But Grantaire did not let him interrupt. “Then you can come visit me,” he continued. “Just a friendly visit out to the country for a few days, mid-season. But we can stage a scandalous encounter between you and my ‘sister’ and leak the details to Lady Whistledown. A quick marriage without any of your family in attendance will be the best way to settle the scandal, and you can be ‘married’ with none the wiser.”

“Save for you,” Enjolras said faintly.

Grantaire considered it and nodded. “Myself, and likely my butler and housekeeper. I cannot imagine pulling this off without their assistance.” He looked at Enjolras expectantly. “So what do you think?”

Enjolras shook his head again. “It seems almost insane enough to work,” he said slowly, because he could not think of anything else to say. “But it’s also a ruse I cannot imagine keeping up for long, and while I might pray every day that my mother drops dead, I doubt this ruse would outlive her.”

“Ah, but you are missing the beauty of it,” Grantaire said. “As my sister is already dead, it’s easy enough to stage an illness and then her death.” Enjolras made an unconvinced noise and Grantaire added, “And besides, because of the nature of the scandal, it would make it only natural that she would not wish to subject herself to London, giving you plenty of time before she needs to grow sickly for you to carry on without any concern.”

“It certainly seems like you’ve thought this through,” Enjolras said, scrambling for some protest that would make Grantaire stop and listen, that would get him to reconsider this almost certainly asinine plan.

Grantaire smirked slightly. “I have,” he said simply.

Enjolras gave him a look. “Then I know beyond doubt that it will not work.”

Grantaire just shrugged unconcernedly. “It may not,” he said. “But what have you to lose in trying? And what other options do you possibly have?”

None, was the answer, and it was all that Enjolras could tell Grantaire, a little helplessly. “None. And I have nothing left to lose.”

“Good,” Grantaire said. “Then we have a plan.”

[waatermelon-sugaar]

Half-Priced Chocolate

Words = 2.8k

Summary = You hate Valentine’s Day. Nick tries to change your mind. 

Warnings = One swear word

A/N = Reader is described as a similar height to Nick, and taller when she wears heels. Also I didn’t mean to write this, it just sort of happened so sorry if it’s not very well thought out ahaha

Posted to AO3

Masterlist

***

“You know, I’d pegged you as the type of girl who would do anything to ensure she had a Valentine’s date.” This observation comes casual as anything from your boss, Mayor Wasicsko, as the two of you work together to build beds in the town hall. 

A combination of a lot of snow, an early thaw, and then rain, had resulted in flooding all around the city, many having to be relocated. And so here you were, on a night that most were celebrating with their loved one across an over-priced bottle of champagne, some heart-shaped chocolate and probably something red themed, in the town hall, setting up extra accommodation with Nick. 

Who you should probably call Mayor Wasicsko in your head. 

You’d been here for hours, first building the beds with other volunteers, all of whom had melted away as the night had gone on. All, apart from you and Nick.

“Yeah? Well I pegged you as the type of mayor to sit on his ass all day.” You snipe back, not thinking for a moment, before slapping a hand to your mouth in horror. “Sorry, Mayor Wasicsko, that was really unprofessional of me-”

You stopped your rambling, because … was he laughing?

You flip your end of the sheet the two of you are attempting to fit to the bed, successfully causing his end to yank out of his hands, flying up and causing enough of a breeze to dislodge his hair enough for a strand to flop onto his forehead. 

Not that you’d noticed. 

“I told you, call me Nick. And it’s ok,” he’s still smiling, annoyingly. “I just - you don’t have some annoyed boyfriend who’s sitting at home waiting for you?” 

You shake your head. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.” You finally tuck in the corner of the sheet at the top of the bed and move to the bottom. “And anyway, I hate Valentine’s.” 

Nick throws you a pillow and a case when you hold your arms out. “So you hate love? And happiness?” 

You roll your eyes at him, busy stuffing the case, leaving him to struggle with the duvet, gathering the new sheets for the next bed as you talk. “No. I just … I hate the commercialisation of it.” 

You wait for Nick to finish with the duvet, before attempting the next bed. “It’s like … so what? If my hypothetical boyfriend doesn’t get me flowers, and chocolate and some shitty card on this one specific day of the year, he doesn’t love me?” You scoff. “No thanks.” 

Nick tucks in his corner, thinking about his response. “I think it reminds people to be thankful for the people they love.” Oh God he’s one of those. As if he hasn’t managed to drop in the fact that he’s woefully single for the last two hours whenever the opportunity arose.

“Only romantic love,” you remind him. “And,” you continue, remembering more and more reasons. “It’s all over-priced anyway, and it’s just so couples can feel smug while they walk hand in hand down the street, trying to get a table to a restaurant, where the prices have been upped for two people, and so single people, specifically women, can feel shit about themselves?” 

You harrumph again, handing Nick the other end of the sheet. “There is good about it though.” He’s looking at you differently, and you’re not sure how, but maybe it’s because you’re having the first real conversation with him tonight, despite having worked for him for the last year. 

You’d talked before, of course, but it usually had something to do with politics, Nick ducking out of his office to ask your opinion on something, before returning back to his phone and papers. It had never been a two-way conversation like this, never nothing to do with either of your jobs. 

You raise an eyebrow, tucking in your corners as you wait for him to make his point. “What about the half-priced chocolate the next day?” And … he nearly has you. Until you remember a counter-argument.  

“So it’s back to its normal price?” 

Nick looks at you like he’s never seen you before in your life. But he changes tack, which you take to mean that you’ve won that particular battle. 

“And what’s wrong with celebrating love? Even-” He anticipates your response before you do, “-if it is just romantic love?” He grabs the pillow before you can, leaving you to struggle with the duvet this time. 

You’re smiling now, unable to help yourself, as you watch the Mayor of Yonkers, of all people, pick up a pile of bedding. He looks good like this, you think, shirt rolled up to his forearms, collar open, tie left behind somewhere with his jacket. Not that he doesn’t normally look good. 

You’ve become more relaxed too, you can feel it, as though every bed that the two of you have completed has shod you of another layer, making you feel lighter. Your heels are by the door, and you are a similar height to Nick without them, which you’ve never noticed before, either being taller than him, or sitting in his presence. There’s something weird about it, but also nice, in a domestic sort of way, as your stocking feet pad around the beds, occasionally catching on the wooden floor. You hope you don’t get a hole. Or worse, a ladder. 

But you know it’s your mind which has relaxed the most. Allowing you first to smile at his jokes, then joke back, the tension in your shoulders melting away. And now this. A deep conversation. Which you suppose was bound to happen, the two of you alone after the last volunteer had called it a night at 1am and gone home. But love? Really? 

“There’s nothing wrong with celebrating love. It’s just forced, somehow. Like you’re a bad person for not doing it, just because of some long-dead guy who’s now in our calendar.” You finish your duvet, and move to help Nick. 

“I think you’re wrong.” And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. “I think it makes sure that people take a breath and appreciate what they have.” 

He looks so hopeful, you stop the scoff in your throat, instead letting yourself consider his point. “Well it doesn’t matter, it’s …” You pause and check your watch, blinking in surprise. “Fuck. It’s four in the morning. It’s not Valentine’s Day anymore.” 

And then you look up. Properly. 

There’s one bed left. You turn around, admiring all the made-up beds. Ok they could be neater, but so what? 

“Well.” You turn back to look at Nick as he speaks. “Do you want to take advantage of those sales, or not?” 

You blink at him, even as he gestures at you to take the other end of the sheet, unsure if you’re dreaming now. 

***

When you exit the town hall, the sky is the cool blue of pre-dawn. Grey clouds still hang, heavy and angry over Yonkers, a precursor of the rain to come. It’s been a cold night, a glimmer of frost on the ground, but you can already feel that it won’t last the day.

You yawn, rubbing your eyes with one hand, while your other holds your heels. Nick’s thrown his blazer over one shoulder, the tie hanging out of his trouser pocket. “C’mon.” Is all he says as he walks towards his car. 

It takes a second for your brain to engage. “What?” Your voice has become hoarse from a lack of sleep.

“Can I show you something?” And how can you say no, when he leans against the car roof with one arm, opening the door for you, and looking like that?

Inside the car it’s warm, and tiredness sinks down on you until you can hardly keep your eyes open. Nick only asks for your address, which you give him, and then you’re asleep. You wake when he stops the car on the high street, but fall back asleep when he tells you he just needs to pick up some groceries. 

You don’t wake up when he comes back, nor do you wake up when he sets off again. You open your eyes when he gently shakes your shoulder. The sky is much brighter now, the sun peeking over the horizon and you blink, looking at your watch. It’s nearly 7. Which means Nick let you sleep for 2 hours. It takes a second for your surroundings to fall into place, green and brown surrounding you.

Nick’s sitting next to you in the driver’s seat. And in the back seat are his groceries. 

You blink again. Harder this time.

Praying your makeup isn’t smudged all down your cheek, you move to sit up straighter, where you’d fallen asleep against the window. “What … where are we?” 

Nick doesn’t answer until he’s grabbed one of the bags, clambering out and opening your door for you. “We are in one of the city’s finest parks.” He announces, using his Official Mayor Voice.

As far as you can tell, it’s a pretty basic park. The only notable point is the view. You can see the full scrawl of Yonkers below you, as the sun rises to your right, still fighting the storm clouds left over from yesterday. Funny. You’d heard there was going to be more rain. 

As you step out of the car, you put your heels back on, and wince a little. Nick hands you a blanket to carry and sets off towards a clear area without too many trees, and you follow him, spreading the blanket for the two of you to sit on. Nick’s put his blazer back on and you try not to be disappointed, reminding yourself that he’s your boss. 

He places the bag between you, and … it’s stuffed with half price Valentine themed food. Chocolates, champagne, even a small teddy. You can’t help it. You let out a laugh as the two of you sit next to each other, the bag between you. 

“I never knew the Mayor would be a cheapskate.” You’re only half-serious, and you think Nick knows this, catching the glint in his eye as he replies. 

“You’d rather I bought you this full price?”

You shake your head, grinning, but confused on the inside. You must be tired. Hearing that the Mayor, your boss, wants to buy you something for Valentine’s? You must be misinterpreting this. 

“And I’ll have you know, that everything in this bag came to less than what it would be in a normal month.” He winks and you groan, theatrical and over the top. 

So instead you open the chocolate, grabbing the first one you see and popping it in your mouth. “Nice though,” you mumble, without having swallowed your mouthful, savouring the sweetness of it as it coats your tongue, eyes closing as you lean back on the blanket, missing the way Nick looks down at you. 

“Yeah? Worth every cent, aren’t they?” You smile, shaking your head. 

“Yes, Nick.” You finally sigh, giving in. “Worth every half-price cent.” You squint open an eye, waiting for his reaction, glad when he laughs, propping yourself up onto your elbows so you don't fall asleep again. And then you look down, and your eye catches on a bottle of champagne. 

You reach for it, twirling it on the ground. “So Nick, seeing as how you’re the Mayor and my boss,” you start, sure you’re going to get what you ask for, “and we worked all night long, can we have today off?”

You look at Nick to see him watching your face, amused at the long winded way you’re going about this. Finally he nods. “Yeah I think we deserve the day off.” 

You grin widely then, sitting up properly with a burst of energy, and pop the cork. You take the first sip straight from the bottle, leaving a small ring of lipstick behind. You use your thumb to wipe it off before passing it over, the bubbles still tingling on your tongue, washing away the chocolate. 

Nick takes a healthy swig as soon as his hand is wrapped around the cool bottle, and you can’t help but watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows, wiping at a drop that escapes his mouth. 

You turn to the rest of the bag to distract yourself. There’s at least 3 boxes of chocolate, a pack of strawberries, and a small bear. All of them have the tell tale yellow half-price stickers in clear view. You pull out the bear, amused. “He’s cute.” 

Nick hands the bottle back to you, running a hand through his hair. “Got a name for him?” 

You think about it for a minute, before deciding. “Arthur the Fourth.” And you place Arthur at the bottom of the blanket, so he’s looking at the two of you. 

Nick frowns, looking between the two of you. “The Fourth?” 

You laugh, biting on another chocolate. “Yeah. Throughout my childhood, I have had three other teddies, all named Arthur. He will be the fourth.” 

“And you lost them all?” 

“No, I still have Arthur the Third.”  You wash the chocolate down with another sip of champagne, and when you go to scrub away your lipstick again, Nick’s hand stops you. He shakes his head, like he’s having a secret conversation within your public one. 

“Shame to hear about the first two though.” You let him take the bottle from you, watching as he - his mouth - touches your lipstick. You can feel your heart rate raise, thumping inside your chest like a drum. You can still feel the ghost of his hand, warm where it touched yours. 

You look down on Yonkers again, unable to cope. “Yeah, well. It’s how it happens in real life, I guess.” 

The two of you fall silent as the sun climbs pathetically further and further, finally disappearing behind angry storm clouds. Conversation is quiet observations, both of you feeling wrapped up in a bubble of tiredness. 

You lie back down, ignoring how the cold of the ground is seeping through the blanket now and closing your eyes as you take a chocolate from the box which you intend to be your last, and you can hear Nick’s smirk when he talks. “Chocolate’s not too bad then?” 

You just hum, pretending to think about it. “Yeah not bad,” you finally agree, opening your eyes and turning your head to watch Nick as he leans back on his hands, “But it’s not Valentine’s day so you haven’t changed my mind …” 

And Nick’s looking at you like that again, and you could never in a million years anticipate his next question. “So you wouldn’t count this as the best Valentine’s Day date you’ve ever been on?” 

You freeze, what? You decline in that moment to mention that it’s the only Valentine’s date you’ve ever even been on, and you also choose to ignore that it’s not Valentine’s Day anymore, shaking your head. You can’t quite believe what you’re about to say, heart beating faster than normal, blood thrumming in your ears. “I would count it as the best date I’ve been on.” 

And then you’re laughing at the look of shock on his face, quickly stopping when he ducks down to kiss you. 

Nick, your boss, the mayor of Yonkers, is kissing you. 

It takes you a second to respond, shock freezing you where you lie. But then your hands are on his neck, pulling him back down over you as he deepens the kiss, tongue exploring your mouth. His forearm is resting on the blanket next to your head, supporting his bodyweight, his other hand cupping your cheek. His moustache is tickling you slightly, but you don’t care. 

He tastes sweet, from the chocolate. But then, you can taste the bubbles from the champagne, you can taste how cold it was, you can taste the birds chirping in the trees above you, and you can taste how warm the sun’s rays felt five minutes ago.

It’s perfect.

Until the clouds open above you.

It starts gently, and you don’t feel it at first, and when you do, you ignore it, more interested in snogging Nick. Your feet are becoming wet quickly and the rain falls in large drops. 

Nick’s the first one to pull away, and you follow him, chasing his lips with your own, not wanting to open your eyes. When you do, you realise your feet are wet from the bottle of champagne falling over, and Arthur’s looking to be in danger of rolling away. 

You can feel the rain on your head, and the drops are falling faster. You snatch Arthur and the now-empty bottle up, Nick scrambling to get everything back in the bag. At the last second, you ball up the blanket, ignoring how it brings half the floor with it, and the two of you run towards Nick’s car, laughing as the rain soaks the pair of you. 

***

Thanks for reading! Reblog and comments mean the world to me 🥰🥰🥰

[ghost-flakes]

liminal

summary: you decide to sign up for what you think is a date night auction for some spare cash.

pairing: kurogiri/reader

word count: 2,665

notes:  AU, no specific setting. not beta read and different than how I’m used to writing. hope you enjoy!

★ written for the Citrus Dome Collab - check out other entries here!

★ also posted on AO3!

warnings: mentions of sensory overload (not related to bedroom activities), intimacy, no smut. 

The stage lights were blinding and hot. They seared into your skin and made the edges of your vision fuzzy.

You felt like the very act of existing was generating sweat and you prayed that your makeup would hold.

Not that you really wanted to be in this situation, now that the reality of it was setting in, but it was a matter of principle. 

You were looking for some extra cash on the side and a friend of a friend had mentioned an auction night that was coming up that paid handsomely. You had thought that it was a date night type of auction, but once you saw the auction location (a revamped warehouse), you weren’t so sure. 

You miiight have glossed over the details the event organizer had told you about in favor of speculating about where, how, and why he chose to go around in a purple suit. But somehow, he made it work?

Before you knew it, you had found yourself trussed up in sparse but elegant clothing, just this side of revealing. A hint of skin here and there, enough to catch the eye but not so much to compromise your modesty. (However much you had left at this point, anyway.)

You tried not to think too hard about how efficiently you and the other participants had been prepped, but trepidation clung to the edge of your senses like stubborn cobwebs.

As the auctioneer introduced you, you let your gaze travel across the room, taking in your potential companions for the night. They were a strange assortment.

The mildest seemed to look like salarymen - one man with a very long, pointed nose that was oddly familiar. A man wearing an accordion mask, whom you guessed must have had some sort of yakuza ties, as he was flanked by three others and the whole group was given just a little extra space. A couple of other masked men (seemed like there was a theme tonight), a lizard man, a stapled patchwork man. 

A rainbow of hair colors scattered far and wide.

Golden wisps streaked across the back of the room before your attention was stolen by a couple of women who were sharply dressed and no less intimidating than any of the men. 

The room’s overall vibe was barely restrained anticipation, but underneath that was a strong warning: fuck around and find out.

Oh boy, did you not want to find out. 

If their quirks were half as exotic as their looks, you’d be torn to bits in minutes. What a morbid thought for what should have been a lighthearted, wallet-fattening evening.

Sure, the house took a hefty cut, but the hope was that the winning bid would be high enough to make it worth it.

Depending on how this turned out, you’d either start buying lotto tickets weekly or swear off gambling for life.

You saw the auctioneer gesture toward you with a flourish of his hand. Showtime!

You smiled demurely and ducked your head coyly in an attempt to hide your expression. Paired with a measured bow, hands in front, held for just a little bit longer - you felt the air in the room shift as you put yourself in the care of the audience. 

The display of vulnerability was like blood to sharks. The room exploded into action, with a near constant fwip of rustling material as guests raised their paddles to bid and the auctioneer egging them on further.

You quickly became dizzy from the thought that so many people would be bidding for your time. The room suddenly felt far too small for the amount of activity going on, and you could only wait for the final bid to land.

The room was getting louder as the bidding became more heated. You heard the clatter of a chair as someone scrambled on top of a table as if it would help them bid harder. Other patrons cried out in protest, only to be quickly put in place by a sharp reprimand from the auctioneer.

This didn’t do much to keep the room from steadily approaching a fever pitch. 

The higher the numbers, the more pressure you felt.

You were still stuck in place, sweltering under the stage lights, praying that the highest bidder at least had a kind heart so you didn’t have to spend your earnings on therapy. Or a hospital visit.

It was slowly dawning on you that the crowd seemed more than a lil’ shady but it was far too late to back out now.

The auctioneer’s voice got louder as the bid got higher. Everything was moving too fast and you stopped actively listening in order to try not to get overwhelmed. 

You heard what sounded like the bang of a gavel against a podium (how absurd, this wasn’t a courthouse), before a disgruntled hush fell across the room. Looks like bidding was over. You saw the man who had climbed onto the table drop to an unhappy squat as he tossed his paddle on the floor in disgust. You would have laughed if you weren’t afraid.

You turned toward the auctioneer and watched his face as he spoke. You only caught part of his sentence  “-- come up and collect your date for the evening, you lucky man.”

You saw someone cross the room, followed by glares from the rest of the patrons. As he got closer, you could see that he seemed to be made of fog. Or was it mist? Either way, it was a rich purple, constantly ebbing and flowing to an unknown rhythm. 

He stopped at a polite distance and introduced himself, his voice calm and low. He already knew your name, thanks to the auctioneer.

He offered his hand to you and waited. You hesitantly approached, and placed your hand in his. It felt cool, but broad and firmer than you expected. You couldn’t place the texture - something between velvet and mist.

While you were mulling over the feeling of your hand in his, he opened a warp gate and guided you both through it.

What a way to reveal a quirk.

On the other side was the inside of a small house - traditionally built but with some modern accoutrements and a little worn around the edges - but most importantly, quiet.

It was a wonderful reprieve after the cacophony of the auction.

You both shucked off your shoes before entering the living room, where he guided you to sit at a low table. A teapot and cups were already waiting for you.

You watched curiously as he served you before himself, unsure what to make of any of it.

The auction, the man, the house, the tea. The sheer amount of money he had spent on a night with you. You could easily be set for a couple of years with how much he had shelled out, and yet here he was, hosting you with patience and care. 

You still had no idea what he wanted from you.

The steam from the tea lazily floated into the air. Kurogiri’s mist undulated at a different pace - a little faster - the plumes of his fog curling into each other at the edges, like small whirlpools. 

Was he nervous?

You looked at his eyes, and saw that he had been watching you just as intently.

Somehow, the connection was comfortable. It was rare to find someone you could sit in silence with without needing to fill the space.

You watched him curiously as you sipped your tea, waiting to see what would happen next.

He excused himself for a moment and left the room. Even the sound of the shoji door sliding shut sounded gentle.

You let yourself sink into the peace of the room while you waited.

Whatever would happen, would happen, but you could try to get some enjoyment out of it. Your practicality combined with your bouts of recklessness certainly landed you in some odd situations. Your good fortune let you slide out of potentially nasty situations just as easily as you got into them and you were sure someone out there was watching over you.

Some time later Kurogiri returned to the room and walked around the table to your side. He extended a hand to you again. You unfolded yourself from your sitting position and accepted his aid.

He led you out of the sitting room, down a short hall and to another room. You could smell moisture in the air as you approached, but couldn’t see past Kurogiri’s frame.

Once you got to the room, he stepped out of the way and gestured for you to enter.

You did so, and once you had crossed the threshold of the room, you heard the door close behind you.

You looked over the shoulder just to reassure yourself that the door was closed, before looking around at the rest of the room.

OK, there was a sink and a toilet, no surprises there. 

You moved into the adjoining room to discover a shower, accompanied by a large bathtub, filled with warm water and beckoning to you. There was a light fragrance wafting through the air, something earthy yet soothing.

There was a fluffy bathrobe laid out to the side.

Alright, you got the hint.

You disrobed and quickly showered, not wanting to waste any time that could be spent soaking in the tub. Once you settled in the tub, you felt your muscles warming up and all tension (and reason) escaping. You leaned against the back of the tub and let your eyes flutter shut.

You thought you heard Kurogiri enter and exit at some point (his passing only revealed by the sound of the opening and closing of the doors) but you couldn’t be bothered to look.

When you finally deigned to open your eyes, you noticed that your clothes were gone. Was he really going to wash them for you? Man, this guy’s hosting skills were above and beyond.

By now, the water had cooled off, so you slowly rose out of the tub, as if wishing could warm up the water. The tub had been the perfect size - no need for bathtub gymnastics or body parts sticking up out of the water like mountain tops, laid bare and chilled by the wind.

You reluctantly left the tub and dried yourself off before wrapping yourself in the bathrobe, which was the softest thing you had felt in your life. Would it be a faux pas to ask him where he had gotten it?

You saw that slippers had been left out for you and ignored them. You preferred to feel the polished wood of the floor underneath your feet.

You made your way out of the bathroom, and wandered out into the hall. Before you could venture too far out, Kurogiri approached from the opposite end. The streaks of his eyes were curved up a little. Was this his version of a smile? Combined with his vest, tie, and neck brace being gone, it made him look surprisingly vulnerable.

You got the impression that this was a rare sight and were both flattered and honored.

As he led you to yet another room, you noticed that you could feel no dust or debris underneath your feet. He or whoever had cleaned the house had done an impeccable job. The amount of attention that went into the care of the house and the graciousness that had been shown to you during your stay made something in your chest stir. Sure, this was an extremely odd situation to be in, but not a bad one, so far.

He stopped in front of another shoji door and slid it open carefully. You felt as if this would be your final destination for the night. Kurogiri bowed his head and then gestured for you to enter first. You beamed at him and then stepped into the room, wiggling your toes against the tatami. You heard him close the door before feeling his presence behind you.

A quick look across the room revealed an austere bedroom. A bed, comfortable and low to the ground, a couple of lamps, your clothes neatly folded and resting by the side of the bed. Somehow, seeing them there made you feel reassured.

“You may change if you like.” 

You turned around and looked up at him as you thought about what you’d like to do.

“I’m okay like this.”

He nodded, and you suddenly felt shy. Was it bold to stay in a bathrobe? Somehow, you didn’t want to change into your clothing - it felt like things would suddenly become more formal and distant.

He moved toward the bed and waited. You realized he was waiting for you to get in first. Your stomach clenched as you felt a bolt of fear pass through you and you took a slow breath in to steady yourself. 

You climbed into the bed and moved towards the center at the side farthest from the headboard to give Kurogiri room to maneuver and knelt. You watched him climb into the bed. The sight of him looming over you for a brief moment changed the fear at the bottom of your stomach into something else.

Kurogiri reclined against the headboard and patted the bed next to him. You noticed that the cuffs of his shirt were unbuttoned. His shirt was still buttoned up all the way.

You crawled up the bed toward him, careful not to let the bathrobe slip and reveal anything, and gingerly settled down next to him. You tentatively leaned against him, and he wrapped the arm closest to you around your shoulder. You settled in closer to him and your head ended up in the crook of his neck. The casual intimacy made your heart race.

You looked at the curve of his neck, watching his mist slowly form and rise up into the air before seeming to disappear. Could you disappear into him if you got too close? But no, that was a silly thought. His body, though lacking clearly defined edges, was definitely solid beneath and around you. He was both warmer than you expected and slightly cooler than you wanted.

You leaned a little bit closer, careful not to brush your nose against his neck and breathed in. He had a pleasant smell - it reminded you of a shrine in the forest. A hint of incense and trees, refreshing and sacred.

You felt his head lean against yours and did your best to relax despite the strangeness of the situation. His mist tickled against your hair. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the gold streaks of his eyes almost disappear. He slowly shifted to angle his body more toward you, and caressed the side of your body with his free hand. He was careful not to stray too high or low.

You felt something inside of you shift with the tenderness of the gesture. It asked for nothing more. You felt the edges of reality become a bit fuzzy, like you were somewhere between the waking world and a dream. You sunk deeper into this feeling and felt Kurogiri relax next to you, as if he were going through the same thing.

He continued to touch you gently - how much time passed, you did not know. You began to feel streaks of desire light up through you, like shooting stars passing gently across your body. You did your best to ignore them, not wanting the moment to end or change. Kurogiri’s hand stopped moving and settled against your hip. You knew his hand was bigger than yours, but it felt even bigger curled around your hip. You felt the warmth of his touch as it slowly bled through the bathrobe. You took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled as you willed yourself to settle down.

You felt Kurogiri shift as something in the air changed, but all he did was place a tender kiss on your forehead. 

[a-froger-epic]

The Queen fandom, Freddie Mercury and Characterisation

Or: Why are those anons like this? Why are those writers like this? Why don't we understand each other?

In this essay, I will-

No, I’m serious, I will. And this is an essay. It’s roughly 2500 words.

The friction, concerns and hurt in fandom around Freddie’s characterisation - most recently centred around a fic the author tagged as ‘Bisexual Freddie Mercury’, stating in the notes that they have chosen to write Freddie as bisexual - have given me a lot to think about. And if you have been asking yourself the questions above, this here might be of interest to you.

First off, why do I feel like I need to talk about this?

The answer is not: Because I’m so very influential in fandom.

I think my influence in this fandom has been vastly overstated by some people. If I were so influential, everybody would rush to read anything I rec or write. And trust me, they really don’t. My relevance is confined to a very specific part of the fandom. That part is made up of: Freddie fans, Froger shippers, some Roger fans, a handful of writers who like to support each other and like each other’s work, and people who are really into research.

There are many parts of fandom where my opinions are entirely irrelevant. Looking at the big picture, by which I mean only the Queen RPF fandom, I simply am not that important. Looking at the even bigger picture: the Queen fandom as a whole, the majority of which doesn't read or care about RPF - I am literally nobody.

Furthermore, everything I will be talking about here is in relation to the RPF-centred part of Queen fandom.

So why this public essay?

Because I have been deeply involved for two years in a divide of opinions concerning how Freddie ought to be written and how people think of RPF. I think this is in large part because I - like several other authors currently writing for the fandom - absolutely love research. It's my idea or fun. I love to dig into these real people’s lives. Not everybody does that and not everybody is comfortable with that. It’s a personal choice depending on people's levels of comfort surrounding RPF. But this does put me firmly in the camp of Freddie fans who like to explore who this man really was, and track down every last fact about him.

Freddie Mercury vs. Fictional Freddie

I’ll admit that I am one of those people who have the urge to speak up when they see somebody claim that Freddie was bisexual, and sometimes I will say: “Well, actually, we do know that he didn’t see himself that way, because…” For me, these have often been positive exchanges.

I think there is overwhelming evidence that Freddie Mercury identified as gay from his split with Mary to the end of his life (wonderfully curated here by RushingHeadlong). In the niche of fandom I have frequented over the last two years, as far as Freddie the real man is concerned, I have barely ever seen anybody argue with this.

But fanfiction and talking about real Freddie are not one the same thing, and they shouldn't be, and as far as I am concerned they don't have to be. Some writers like to put every last fact and detail they can find into their fic, in an attempt to approach a characterisation that feels authentic to them (and perhaps others), and other writers are simply content to draw inspiration from the real people, writing versions vaguely based on them.

But writing historically and factually accurate RPF is more respectful.

Is it? I've thought about this for a long time, and I really can't agree that it is. This, to me, seems to presume that we know what kind of fiction these real people would prefer to have been written about them. That, in itself, is impossible to know.

However, if I imagine Freddie reading RPF about himself, I think that he might laugh himself silly at an AU with a character merely inspired by him and may be really quite disturbed by a gritty, realistic take full of intimate details of and speculations about his life and psyche. Such as I also tend to write, just by the by, so this is definitely not a criticism of anybody. Freddie is dead. Of all the people to whom the way he is written in fiction matters, Freddie himself is not one. There is no way to know what Freddie would or wouldn't have wanted, in this regard, and so it isn't relevant.

Personally, I can't get behind the idea that speculating and creatively exploring very intimate details of Freddie's life, things he never even spoke of to anybody, is in any way more respectful than writing versions of him which take a lot of creative liberties. As I've said so many times before, I think either all of RPF is disrespectful or none of it is.

So who cares about Freddie characterisation in fiction anyway?

Clearly, a lot of people do. Freddie Mercury was an incredibly inspiring figure and continues to be that to a multitude of very different people for different reasons. There are older fans who have maybe faced the same kind of discrimination because of their sexuality, who saw Freddie's life and persona distorted and attacked by other fans and the media for decades, who have a lot of hurt and resentment connected to such things as calling Freddie bisexual - because this has been used (and in the wider fandom still is used) to discredit his relationship with Jim, to argue that Mary was the love of his life and none of his same sex relationships mattered, to paint a picture where "the gay lifestyle" was the death of him. And that is homophobic. That is not right. I completely understand that upset.

But.

These are not the only people who care about Freddie and for whom Freddie is a source of inspiration and comfort. What about people who simply connect to his struggles with his sexuality from a different angle? What about, for example, somebody who identifies with the Freddie who seemed to be reluctant to label himself, because that, to them, implies a freedom and sexual fluidity that helps them cope with how they see their own sexuality? Is it relevant why Freddie was cagey about labelling himself? Does it matter that it likely had a lot to do with discrimination? Are his reasons important? To some degree, yes. But are other queer people not allowed to see that which helps them in him? Are they not allowed to take empowerment and inspiration from this? Can you imagine Freddie himself ever resenting somebody who, for whatever reason, admired him and whose life he made that little bit brighter through his mere existence, however they interpreted it? I honestly can't say that I can imagine Freddie himself objecting to that.

This is the thing about fame. Anyone who is famous creates a public persona, and this persona belongs to the fans. By choosing that path, this person gives a lot of themselves to their fans. To interpret, to draw inspiration from, to love the way it makes sense to the individual. Please remember, at this point, that we are talking about how people engage with Freddie as a fictional character creatively. This is not about anybody trying to lay down the law regarding who Freddie really was, unequivocally. This is all about writers using his inspiring persona and the imprint he left on this world to explore themes that resonate with them.

This is what we as writers do. We write about things which resonate with us and often touch us deeply.

But don't they care about the real Freddie?

Yes, actually, I would argue that a lot of people care about "the real Freddie". It seems to me that depicting Freddie as gay or with a strong preference for men is what the vast majority of the RPF-centered fandom on AO3 already does. You will find very, very few stories where Freddie is depicted having a good time with women sexually or romantically. That he was mostly all about men is already the majority opinion in this part of fandom.

But another question is, who was the real Freddie? If the last two years in fandom have taught me anything, it is that even things which seem like fact to one person can seem like speculation to another. I have personally had so many discussions with so many people on different sides of the debate about the exact circumstances of Freddie's life and his inner world, that I must say I don't think there is such a thing as one accurate, "real" portrayal of Freddie. Even those of us who are heavily invested in research sometimes disagree quite significantly about the interpretations of sources. So that narrows "You don't care about the real Freddie" down to "You don't care about Freddie because you don't interpret everything we know about his life the exact same way I do". Sure, by that definition, very few people care about Freddie the same way you do.

The bottom line is, there are so many writers and fans who love him, people who are obsessed with him, people who care about him deeply. They might care about who they believe he really was or who he chose to present himself as to the world, the way he wanted to be seen. But ultimately, in my personal opinion, if somebody is inspired to write Freddie as a fictional character they feel that Freddie means a lot to them. And it is hurtful to accuse them of not caring.

But what some people write hurts/triggers me.

Yes, that can happen. Because the nature of AO3 is that everything is permitted. Personally, I am very much in agreement with that. You will also find me in the camp of people who are against any sort of censorship on AO3, no matter how much some of the content goes against my own morals or how distasteful I find it. Some people disagree with that, which is fine. We must agree to disagree then. Here, I would like to quote QuirkySubject from the post she made regarding this whole situation because I cannot put it better myself: “The principle that all fic is valid (even RPF fic that subverts the lived experience of the person the fic is based on) is like the foundation of [AO3]. The suggestion that certain kinds of characterisations aren't allowed will provoke a knee-jerk reaction by many writers.”

No matter how much you may disagree with a story's plot or characterisation, it is allowed on AO3. "But wait," you might say, "the issue is not with it being on the site but with people like yourself - who should care about "the real Freddie" - supporting it."

This is some of what I have taken away from the upset I have seen. And it’s worth deconstructing.

I've already addressed "the real Freddie". Moving on to...

The author is dead.

This is something others might very well disagree on as well, but to me the story itself matters far more than authorial intent. And what may be one thing according to the author’s personal definition, may be another thing to the reader. Let’s use an example. This is an ask I received yesterday:

This author thinks they were writing Freddie as bisexual. However, going by the plot of their story, I would actually say that it is largely very similar to how I see the progression of Freddie’s young adulthood. To me, personally, Freddie would still be gay throughout the story because he arrives - eventually - at the conclusion that he is. The author and I disagree on terminology only. And I think simply disagreements about terminology, given that some terms are so loaded with history in Freddie’s case, trips a lot of people up.

It seems to me that many people still equate bisexuality with a 50/50 attraction to men and women, when in actual fact many - if not most - bi/pan people would say that it is nowhere near that distribution. Some people are of the opinion that anybody who experiences some attraction to the opposite sex, even if they have a strong same-sex preference, could be technically considered bisexual. (However, sexuality isn’t objective, it’s subjective. At least when it comes to real people. What about fictionalised real people? We will get to that.)

Let's briefly return to real Freddie.

What I'm seeing is that there are several ways of thinking here, with regard to his sexuality.

1. Freddie was gay because that seems to be (from everything we know) the conclusion he arrived at and the way he saw himself, once he had stopped dating women. Therefor, he was always gay, it just took him a while to come to terms with it.

2. Freddie can be referred to as bisexual during the time when he was with women because at that time, he may very well have thought of himself thusly - whether that was wishful thinking and he was aware of it or whether he really thought he might be bisexual is not something we can say definitively. He came out as gay to two friends in 1974 on separate occassions, and he talked to his girlfriends about being bisexual. (Personally, I think here it is interesting to look at who exactly he was saying what to, but let's put my own interpretations aside.)

3. Freddie can be seen as bisexual/pansexual because his life indicates that he was able to be in relationships with both men and women and because there is nothing to disprove he didn't experience any attraction to the women he was with. Had he lived in a different time, he may have defined himself differently.

Now, I'm of the first school of thought here, personally, although I understand the second and also, as a thought experiment, the third.

I think all of these approaches have validity, although the historical context of Freddie's life should be kept in mind and is very relevant whenever we speak about the man himself.

But when we return to writing fictionalised versions of Freddie, any of these approaches should absolutely be permissible. Yes, some of them or aspects of them can cause upset to some people.

And this is why AO3 has a tagging system. This is why authors write very clearly worded author's notes. This is the respect authors extend to their readers. This, in turn, has to be respected. Everybody is ultimately responsible for their own experience on the archive.

Nobody has the right to dictate what is or isn't published under the Queen tag. As far as I am concerned, nobody should have that right. As far as I am concerned, everybody has a responsibility to avoid whatever may upset them. I understand where the upset comes from. I also maintain it is every writer's right to engage with Freddie's character creatively the way they choose to.

None of us can control how other people engage with Freddie or the fandom. None of us can control what other people enjoy or dislike about the fandom.

The best way to engage with the content creating part of fandom, in my opinion, has always been to create what brings you joy, to consume the content that brings you joy and to respectfully step away from everything that doesn't.

[princeescaluswords]

*puts on the funny looking hat of Fandom Logic* Lydia's banshee powers laid dormant so long and for why? Have you stopped to think how in that time, she suspiciously had Stiles obsessing over her? Knowing her measurements? That dastardly druid boy must have been siphoning her Banshee spark for years to try resurrecting his mom. And he never told her what she was! When he is a genius with a 200 IQ and an expert in all things Supernatural.

I look forward to your questions, because they always tend to make me smile.  This particular question demonstrates the same level of imaginative skill and, forgive me, projective paranoia that it took for various BNF to interpret Season 5B’s plot to mean that Scott conspired with Deucalion to trick Theo into murdering Josh and Tracy.  

You see, they can’t point to a single scene where Scott tells Deucalion to kill anyone.  They can’t point to a single scene where Deucalion kills anyone.  They can’t point to a single scene where Deucalion tells Theo to kill anyone.  They ignore the scenes where Deucalion mocks Theo for killing Josh and Tracy.  If you use the logic that Deucalion taught Theo how to take power, which is why Theo kidnapped him, and that makes Deucalion responsible, you still can’t connect that to anything Scott did or said.

You know what the difference is between your far-fetched theory of Stiles suppressing Lydia’s power and their paranoid fantasy that Scott ordered Deucalion to murder just Tracy and Josh, and not Corey or Hayden (with whom Deucalion was alone) or maybe even Theo?  Aside from canon characterization, canon plot, and common sense?  You don’t seriously mean it, and they do.

Oh, and the racism.  

On this post, all the usual suspects came and told me that not only are they not motivated by racism in their hatred of Scott, but they can’t be because Scott isn’t Latino.  Their argument?  Well, no one ever came out and declared that he was word-for-word on the show (though somehow the fact that Derek, Peter, Jennifer, Deucalion, Chris, Noah, Melissa, Stiles and Deaton all said that Scott is a good person and a True Alpha does not make that statement true).   

That’s all you need to see the racism.   Latinos must declare themselves as such, or they’re not.  The idea that to be a minority you must be written a specific way to be identified as a minority is in itself racist.  All you have to do is look and you’ll see the footprints of racism in this fandom, which they can deny and deny and deny, but the double standards are easily found and they show up in their meta and they show up in their fanfiction and their gifsets and their snide-ass comments they put in the #scott mccall tag on Tumblr.  There’s no other explanation for their interpretations but Scott’s not white.

I would love to hear the explanation of why it’s okay for them to write that Scott is responsible for Tracy and Josh’s death, while also writing that Peter cares for his family so much, especially when if you use their own arguments, Peter is responsible for Derek’s temporary death in Smoke & Mirrors (4x12).  Peter was in conspiracy with Kate just as much as Scott was in conspiracy with Deucalion and Chris, so it stands to reason if Theo, who was being manipulated by Deucalion, killed Josh so that makes Scott responsible, then if the Berserker, who was being manipulated by Kate, temporarily killed Derek, so that makes Peter responsible.  

You will most likely never hear this idea anywhere else.  You will most likely never read about Peter’s sheer disdain for his family.  Because while fandom likes to trumpet that it’s about exploring all possible combinations and deep reading, you won’t get this level of critical and accusative analysis about hot white men. 

To them, that’s not racism.  After all, Peter’s a villain!  And Derek and Chris are as well in the first two seasons.  The answer, of course, is to look seriously at the way they treat some hot white male non-villains.  

Let’s look at how these supposedly better white male characters treat women.  Stiles is prepared to make out with Lydia when she’s drugged up to the gills, shouts at her until she dances with him, spends an entire weekend waiting for her in a hospital, buys her a ridiculous amount of gifts for her birthday, among other expressions of romantic attraction.  Isaac, on the other hand, wants to kill Lydia because she turned him down for a date, assaults Allison on Derek’s orders, and becomes sexually attracted and romantically involved with Allison who hunted down his packmates and stabbed him a lot.  But I’ve never seen a single of one of these anti-Scott BNF call Stiles or Isaac ‘sexually obsessed!’  That’s only Scott  who embodies for them the Latin Lover stereotype and who is excoriated in fan fiction and on Tumblr for the singular and unheralded crime of paying attention to his girlfriend.

I don’t know what the difference is, but apparently, it’s not racism.

Or how many of the hundreds (if not thousands) of stories have you read where Stiles shuns, punishes, strips Scott of his wolf with his super-duper magical powers, or literally kills Scott because he demonstrated his disloyalty and unworthiness by not submitting to Derek and/or Peter?  Yet, there may be one or two stories in the nearly 120,000 Teen Wolf fanfictions on AO3 where Stiles reacts at all to Isaac abandoning Derek (and disliking Peter) and joining Scott’s pack.  If  fanfictions are transformative, and it’s only natural that they create stories where Stiles acts as the avenging angel for the poor widdle Hales, there would have to be stories where he avenges them against Isaac.  Wouldn’t there?

I’d bet there are less than five, but apparently, it’s not racism.  

And then there’s the terrible, terrible Neck Grab o’ Doom which is brought up again and again in fiction and commentary, which Fanon Stiles cannot stomach (even though canon Stiles argued for leaving Derek in the hands of his rapist).  To them he must end his friendship with Scott over this dastardly crime, motivated as it was by pure animus (which is what they’re calling the threat of Scott watching Allison’s throat get ripped out).  Scott was working with Gerard under duress, but to Stiles, that’s irrelevant.  They can’t be around each other anymore.  How many stories are there about this, do you think?  Now compare that to the number of stories where Stiles drives Liam from the pack for his beating Scott to the point of death while working with Theo.

I’ve never seen one.  Stiles is far more interested in who Liam is dating, but apparently, it’s not racism.

I can go on and on and on and on, and point out that these aren’t 40-60 splits.  The preponderance of stories where Scott is held reprehensible for actions that white characters take and ignored without comment are incredibly lopsided, overwhelmingly in favor of turning the Latino hero into a monster while Stiles, Liam, and Isaac are “baby” who must be excused for their mistakes.  

But Scott was written so badly!  These BNF cry.  Then where are the fix-its?  If the story was so unsatisfying, and fanfiction exists to give us what canon didn’t, where are the fix-its where the story is written to give us Scott as a hero they can get behind.   

Oh, they exist, but just with stories that approach white character’s misdeeds, they are in the extreme minority.  The vast majority of fix-its aren’t about correcting the mistakes the production made in the presentation of the main character, they are about saving the Hale family or making sure that Derek stays alpha or telling how Stiles dropped his life-long loyalty to his best friend and switched to either of the Hot White Hales, either the middle-aged serial killer or the young adult would-be serial killer, overwhelmingly.   And above all, Scott is put in his place - dead or unimportant or subservient or any combination of the three.

They don’t dislike Scott because he’s Latino, they’ll repeatedly tell you, even though he shares traits with every single white non-villain character on the show, even though the show is focused on his growth and the traits that he doesn’t share with them.  Not at all.  They dislike him because ... they dislike him!   And instead of fixing what they don’t like about him, they’re going to demonstrate how much they don’t like him by repeating again and again just how ... bad he was.  Remember, the transformative nature of fandom is to give us what the show didn’t.

And apparently, this is not motivated by racism. 

[niallloverontheloose]

https://princeescaluswords.tumblr.com/post/647720374839214080/puts-on-the-funny-looking-hat-of-fandom-logic#notes

@russianspacegeckosexparty: Lydia’s banshee powers laid dormant so long and for why? Have you stopped to think how in that time, she suspiciously had Stiles obsessing over her? Knowing her measurements? That dastardly druid boy must have been siphoning her Banshee spark for years to try resurrecting his mom. And he never told her what she was! When he is a genius with a 200 IQ and an expert in all things Supernatural.

@princeescaluswords:

I look forward to your questions, because they always tend to make me smile. This particular question demonstrates the same level of imaginative skill and, forgive me, projective paranoia that it took for various BNF to interpret Season 5B’s plot to mean that Scott conspired with Deucalion to trick Theo into murdering Josh and Tracy.

You see, they can’t point to a single scene where Scott tells Deucalion to kill anyone. They can’t point to a single scene where Deucalion kills anyone. They can’t point to a single scene where Deucalion tells Theo to kill anyone. They ignore the scenes where Deucalion mocks Theo for killing Josh and Tracy. If you use the logic that Deucalion taught Theo how to take power, which is why Theo kidnapped him, and that makes Deucalion responsible, you still can’t connect that to anything Scott did or said.

You know what the difference is between your far-fetched theory of Stiles suppressing Lydia’s power and their paranoid fantasy that Scott ordered Deucalion to murder just Tracy and Josh, and not Corey or Hayden (with whom Deucalion was alone) or maybe even Theo? Aside from canon characterization, canon plot, and common sense? You don’t seriously mean it, and they do.

Oh, and the racism.

On this post, all the usual suspects came and told me that not only are they not motivated by racism in their hatred of Scott, but they can’t be because Scott isn’t Latino. Their argument? Well, no one ever came out and declared that he was word-for-word on the show (though somehow the fact that Derek, Peter, Jennifer, Deucalion, Chris, Noah, Melissa, Stiles and Deaton all said that Scott is a good person and a True Alpha does not make that statement true).

That’s all you need to see the racism. Latinos must declare themselves as such, or they’re not. The idea that to be a minority you must be written a specific way to be identified as a minority is in itself racist. All you have to do is look and you’ll see the footprints of racism in this fandom, which they can deny and deny and deny, but the double standards are easily found and they show up in their meta and they show up in their fanfiction and their gifsets and their snide-ass comments they put in the #scott mccall tag on Tumblr. There’s no other explanation for their interpretations but Scott’s not white.

I would love to hear the explanation of why it’s okay for them to write that Scott is responsible for Tracy and Josh’s death, while also writing that Peter cares for his family so much, especially when if you use their own arguments, Peter is responsible for Derek’s temporary death in Smoke & Mirrors (4x12). Peter was in conspiracy with Kate just as much as Scott was in conspiracy with Deucalion and Chris, so it stands to reason if Theo, who was being manipulated by Deucalion, killed Josh so that makes Scott responsible, then if the Berserker, who was being manipulated by Kate, temporarily killed Derek, so that makes Peter responsible.

You will most likely never hear this idea anywhere else. You will most likely never read about Peter’s sheer disdain for his family. Because while fandom likes to trumpet that it’s about exploring all possible combinations and deep reading, you won’t get this level of critical and accusative analysis about hot white men.

To them, that’s not racism. After all, Peter’s a villain! And Derek and Chris are as well in the first two seasons. The answer, of course, is to look seriously at the way they treat some hot white male non-villains.

Let’s look at how these supposedly better white male characters treat women. Stiles is prepared to make out with Lydia when she’s drugged up to the gills, shouts at her until she dances with him, spends an entire weekend waiting for her in a hospital, buys her a ridiculous amount of gifts for her birthday, among other expressions of romantic attraction. Isaac, on the other hand, wants to kill Lydia because she turned him down for a date, assaults Allison on Derek’s orders, and becomes sexually attracted and romantically involved with Allison who hunted down his packmates and stabbed him a lot. But I’ve never seen a single of one of these anti-Scott BNF call Stiles or Isaac ‘sexually obsessed!’ That’s only Scott who embodies for them the Latin Lover stereotype and who is excoriated in fan fiction and on Tumblr for the singular and unheralded crime of paying attention to his girlfriend.

I don’t know what the difference is, but apparently, it’s not racism.

Or how many of the hundreds (if not thousands) of stories have you read where Stiles shuns, punishes, strips Scott of his wolf with his super-duper magical powers, or literally kills Scott because he demonstrated his disloyalty and unworthiness by not submitting to Derek and/or Peter? Yet, there may be one or two stories in the nearly 120,000 Teen Wolf fanfictions on AO3 where Stiles reacts at all to Isaac abandoning Derek (and disliking Peter) and joining Scott’s pack. If fanfictions are transformative, and it’s only natural that they create stories where Stiles acts as the avenging angel for the poor widdle Hales, there would have to be stories where he avenges them against Isaac. Wouldn’t there?

I’d bet there are less than five, but apparently, it’s not racism.

And then there’s the terrible, terrible Neck Grab o’ Doom which is brought up again and again in fiction and commentary, which Fanon Stiles cannot stomach (even though canon Stiles argued for leaving Derek in the hands of his rapist). To them he must end his friendship with Scott over this dastardly crime, motivated as it was by pure animus (which is what they’re calling the threat of Scott watching Allison’s throat get ripped out). Scott was working with Gerard under duress, but to Stiles, that’s irrelevant. They can’t be around each other anymore. How many stories are there about this, do you think? Now compare that to the number of stories where Stiles drives Liam from the pack for his beating Scott to the point of death while working with Theo.

I’ve never seen one. Stiles is far more interested in who Liam is dating, but apparently, it’s not racism.

I can go on and on and on and on, and point out that these aren’t 40-60 splits. The preponderance of stories where Scott is held reprehensible for actions that white characters take and ignored without comment are incredibly lopsided, overwhelmingly in favor of turning the Latino hero into a monster while Stiles, Liam, and Isaac are “baby” who must be excused for their mistakes.

But Scott was written so badly! These BNF cry. Then where are the fix-its? If the story was so unsatisfying, and fanfiction exists to give us what canon didn’t, where are the fix-its where the story is written to give us Scott as a hero they can get behind.

Oh, they exist, but just with stories that approach white character’s misdeeds, they are in the extreme minority. The vast majority of fix-its aren’t about correcting the mistakes the production made in the presentation of the main character, they are about saving the Hale family or making sure that Derek stays alpha or telling how Stiles dropped his life-long loyalty to his best friend and switched to either of the Hot White Hales, either the middle-aged serial killer or the young adult would-be serial killer, overwhelmingly. And above all, Scott is put in his place - dead or unimportant or subservient or any combination of the three.

They don’t dislike Scott because he’s Latino, they’ll repeatedly tell you, even though he shares traits with every single white non-villain character on the show, even though the show is focused on his growth and the traits that he doesn’t share with them. Not at all. They dislike him because … they dislike him! And instead of fixing what they don’t like about him, they’re going to demonstrate how much they don’t like him by repeating again and again just how bad he was. Remember, the transformative nature of fandom is to give us what the show didn’t.

And apparently, this is not motivated by racism

~*~*~

“Stiles is prepared to make out with Lydia when she’s drugged up to the gills, shouts at her until she dances with him”

Isn’t it curious that the rabid Scott/Posey Stans who accuse Teen Wolf fans of painting Scott as a rapist are the very same ones who systematically ignore canon and try to paint Stiles – a canonical neuroatypical character – as a rapist? It doesn’t matter than Stiles respects women (unlike Scott) and never shouted at Lydia until she danced with him, or that Stiles went to visit Lydia because he was worried about her and to investigate on the Alpha with Natalie’s permission, or that Scott is the one who wanted to leave Derek in his rapist’s clutches in canon. Antis will make shit up in order to paint the character they are obsessed with as a rapist to make Scott look “better”.

But let’s take a look at how Scott McCall, this supposedly better male character, treats women in the series, shall we?

• spies on Allison while she’s undressing

• tells his mom that she doesn’t care about her love life and that he’s going to get Allison back

• creeps into Allison’s bedroom without her or her parents’ consent to watch her sleep

• forces Allison to go out with Matt (her stalker) to get Allison’s mom off his back

• yells at Allison in the middle of a crowded club and makes her cry just because she prioritized innocent people’s life above Scott’s jealous fits and temper tantrums

• stares at Allison’s ass at gym class

• calls Allison psychotic for setting boundaries

• creeps on Allison in the showers (guess he was prepared to make out with her, too)

• pushes his tongue down Allison’s throat to convince her to to break up with him because “I know we are gonna be together

• physically assaults Isaac just because he dared to like and interact with his ex girlfriend

• pushes Allison against her bedroom’s door to prove how ‘strong’ and ‘right’ he is

• gets boners whenever he’s in close proximity with Allison

• lies to Kira to control her and then cheats on her with Malia

And these are only a few canon examples at the top of my head – feel free to add to the list if you want

Scott treating girls (and Stiles) like an exclusive property of his and being sexually obsessed with Allison (his password and username is Allison) is NOT a Latino thing: it’s a Scott McCal thing.

As for Scott conspiring with Deucalion behind everyone’s back to kill Josh and Tracy, that’s not a fanon theory. That’s Canon. Deucalion could have easily stopped Theo from killing Josh and Tracy if he wanted; but he didn’t. And we know Scott couldn’t care less about chimera victims, that’s why he patted Deucalion on the back for pushing Theo to kill his own pack.

[cindersandroses]

Digital Get Down, Chapter 1

AUTHORS: cindersandroses ( losille2000 and cinderella1181)

CHAPTERS: 1/?

PAIRING: Actor!Henry Cavill/ Plus-Sized OFC

GENRE: Romance/Fluff/HUMOR

FIC SUMMARY: When SuperHank met OrcPrincessPeach on the World of Warcraft message boards, it was love at first raid. Now, almost a year later, they’re ready to take the next step and meet in person. Half a world away from each other, both decide to meet in Atlanta for DragonCon, since she was already going to be there for her work as a game designer at Blizzard... never mind that she is a devout nerd. They both have to face the fact that reality is very different from a digital world.

RATING: Mature

AUTHORS NOTES: This idea happened while we were floating around our pool a few days ago. I don’t foresee this being very long, but as always, if you want more, we will write more.

Also on AO3!

Chapter 1

SuperHank: Hey girlie girl, I did it! I got the pass for DragonCon. After almost 10 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days, I’m officially coming to meet you!

OrcPrincessPeach: Yay! Are you sure you can afford it... and the airfare?

SuperHank: Dollface, for you, I would move the oceans and walk to you. I can’t wait. August seems so far away.

OrcPrincessPeach: Be still my beating heart, you sappy romantic. I can’t wait to see you.

SuperHank: Same here. I gotta go raid. I will talk to you later. I’ll text you before I go to sleep. Have a good day at work.

OrcPrincessPeach: I will see you later tonight!

Opal closed the laptop and smiled to herself, trying desperately to keep a squeal of delight from escaping her lips. Nothing ever made her feel as amazing as talking to Hank did, even when it meant little sleep and getting up well before the sun to do it. But Amber, her roommate, would be the first person to yell at her for making too much noise in the morning… especially since it involved Hank, whom Amber did not particularly like for some reason.

Nevermind that he and Amber had never actually talked to each other. And, in fact, Opal had only ever talked to the man herself, too. Well, “talking,” in so much that they called each other, texted each other, and chatted on the World of Warcraft message boards about everything and nothing at all. There was the one time, though, when she had been “talking” with Hank, that she may have gotten too loud during a little early morning (for her, anyway) phone sex.

So maybe Amber did have a point.

Opal’s cheeks heated at the thought, replaying the memory in her head as she pulled on her most adorable red peep-toe pumps. All the boys in her programming pod at Blizzard loved it when she wore them; they always made her feel like she could take on the world. Because, seriously, who was going to mess with a woman wearing sky-high red heels during the day? It was amazing what she could convince her fellow game designer nerds to do when she wore these heels with this outfit.

She smoothed her otherwise fairly normal navy blue sheath dress over her slightly rounded belly and wide hips. These clothes were her armor against the world, much like how her orc character dressed in the game. Opal and her orc both needed the image that they could take on the male-dominated World of game design, when in reality, she could very much be a shrinking violet. Especially when it came to her body.

Hence why she had only shared very, erm, specific photos of her body with Hank, and him with her… in the best light, angle and pose. He had an amazing body, and she, well, she didn’t have an amazing body. It wasn’t terrible, per se. It did the things she needed it to do, but she certainly could have spent more time at the office standing desks or in the employee gym. But her red pumps wouldn’t allow her to do either.

So she just had to hope--and pray--that when he saw her in the harsh light of day that he didn’t run away screaming. Because there certainly had been a few online boyfriends before this who had done just that.

Opal left her room and carefully made her way downstairs to get her bag together for work. Tycho, her rather large ragdoll cat, was laying on the back of the couch, half on the black bag and rubbing his chin on the rigid canvas handle. Clearly, the bag was his now, just like everything else in the house.

“Hey, you better move it, buddy. I gotta get to work so you get good gushy food.” She pointed at him.  “Be gone when I get back in here.”

Tycho rumbled a low meow in response and didn’t move.

“Freeloader,” she mused.

She headed into the kitchen with a huge smile returning to her face and butterflies making her slightly queasy. After almost a year, she was finally… finally… going to meet the boy she’d been dating online. Most people would take that as a sign that this was all it would ever be--online and still fairly impersonal.  To be fair, though, Hank had planned to come and see her once before, but work had not let him.  And it wasn’t like they were on the same continent, normally. They were halfway around the world from each other. But this time, he swore up and down that this was going to be it. They were going to cohabitate in the same hotel suite for a long weekend, and make good on all the very dirty promises they had made each other in the ten months they’d been “together.” Of course, she was well aware that he still may cancel, but for now, she was going to live in her dreamworld.

Amber was already in the kitchen as Opal made it into the room. Her roommate sat bleary-eyed at the kitchen table and stared at her cell phone screen.

“You already made coffee?” Opal asked.

The brunette nodded and motioned her head towards the almost full pot.  “Yeah, cause I didn’t have to get up at a stupid time in the morning to talk to my internet boyfriend.”

Opal rolled her eyes. “Amber, it’s not that bad.”

“Really, Opie? What time did you get out of bed this morning?” she asked, her eyebrow peaked.

Opal sighed. “Six.” Amber shook her head.  “It’s not normal. How long have you been ‘dating’ this dude?” she asked, emphasizing her point with air quotes and all.

“Almost a year, but he and I are finally meeting. We’re going to meet in Atlanta for DragonCon. It’s a halfway point between us, we figured it would be neutral territory,” Opal explained.

“Is Con really ‘neutral’? You’d live at a con if you could.”

Opal ignored her comment. As far as she was concerned, it was neutral… and certainly big enough to get lost in the crowd if things didn’t go well. She certainly didn’t want to bring him around her house if Amber planned to be there to scare him away.

Opal continued with a light, dreamy sigh. “It’s going to be super exciting. I’m ready to meet Hank. He is a fantastic guy; he is kind, funny, loves his family.”

“Sounds like you’re describing a labrador. Next thing, you’re going to tell me he is loyal and in love with you,” Amber replied, shaking her head. “You can’t be in love with someone you have never met in person.”

Maybe Amber was right, after all. How much could someone truly know a person from what they say alone? It’s merely a facet of who they are. Actions were also huge, and he had not yet proven anything to Opal in that category.

But still, Opal was sure Hank was different. She’d had a lot of online boyfriends throughout her life--her life revolved around the computer, so it was only natural. And comparing all the other examples with her current love interest, this just felt different. Like… it might actually be real.

“You can love their heart, and I adore him. He is pretty great. I’m just hoping he’s the one.” Opal grinned.  “We would have an amazing story to tell our kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids.”

Amber pressed her lips together into a terse line and returned to whatever was on her phone. “Well, when this all bursts in your face, Opie, you just come home to me and remember that I love you no matter what.”

Opal smiled. “I know, Amber. You’ll pick up all the pieces. But I don’t think that’s going to happen with him. I don’t know. He’s different.”

“Does he know?” Amber asked, the cup of coffee close to her mouth.

“Um... know what?” Opal asked.

“That you’re not some skinny bimbo?” Amber asked, motioning in her direction. Amber’s eyes scanned her body slowly, critically. “All the people on the internet have this idealized image in their head that the person they’re talking to is Giselle Bundchen, not Ashely Graham or Tess Holliday.”

“They are both gorgeous and many men are in love with them,” Opal defended. “And they’re both married.”

Amber shrugged. “I’m just preparing you for it, if it happens. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

This conversation, though, was hurting her. Hank wasn’t the direct cause of it, just a reason for Amber to start this. She knew Amber had her best interests at heart--no friend wants their friend to get hurt--but the way she achieved her goals, and the words she used, were not nice.

Opal sighed. “Look, he knows I’m fat. He knows I have curves and I’m not a size two. He and I have had several conversations about the fact I’m not some little skinny thing. He said he adores my heart, and he doesn’t care what kind of body it comes in.”

He also said he preferred thick women because he didn’t feel like he was going to break them when things got… athletic. But Amber didn’t need to hear that, either.

“My god, if that isn’t a line,” Amber scoffed.

Opal shrugged. “Amber, stop! Your thinly veiled attempt to fat shame me isn’t going to work. I’m going to go to Atlanta, I’m going to meet him, and I may even sleep with him.”

Amber rolled her eyes. “You won’t have sex with him. You’re a 32-year-old virgin.”

Opal shrugged. “You know, stranger things have happened.” She twisted the top on her thermos. “I’m going to be late for work, I’ll see you later.”

She walked back into the living room, removed the cat from his perch, picked up her bag and headed out the door to work. As she walked the block to the bus stop, she pulled her phone out and put on the playlist Hank had built her. She smiled as the songs began to play, each one having a special meaning to both of them. He was always adding new songs with little notes about why he added them.

These little love notes never failed to make her happy again. She couldn’t imagine what would happen if they ever stopped.

She knew what Amber said shouldn’t bother her as much as it did, but she was self-conscious. Her body had always been something that set her apart and had made her shy when it came to men. Of all the potential dates she’d had with online boyfriends, she had only been on three real dates in her adult life. All of them turned tail and ran once she said she was a virgin. So for those very few that were able to get past the body issue, those three considered her lack of experience to be insurmountable.

Hank didn’t make her feel like that. He didn’t seem to care, or if he did, it wasn’t a deal-breaker. If her lack of experience didn’t do it, there was a very real possibility that her other image issues would be the end of it.

When she arrived at the bus stop and sat down, Opal made the decision to push Amber’s nagging voice out of her head. She wasn’t going to let Amber break her confidence. Hank adored her, for who she was, and that was all that mattered.

She turned her music all the way up to block out the self-doubt and scrolled through her playlist, looking for her favorites. At the bottom of the list, added only a few minutes before, was a new song. Opal giggled and clicked on the song, closing her eyes to listen to the electronic 80s synth and Richard Marx croon, “Right Here Waiting.”

[go-go-devil]

The White Eye of Emeritus

Alright motherfuckers, it’s been too damn long since I last posted any Ghost headcanons, so here’s my own lore about the white eye we’ve come to know and love, specifically how it first came to be as well as the dubious origins of how the Emeritus “family” was created!

Since this is over 1,000 words I’m gonna submit this as part of Emeritober this year, since I quite like this one. Also available to read on AO3!

Strap in folks, this is basically gonna be a Demon Pope history lesson!

TW: Mentions of sexism and body horror

Of all the traits that each of the abbey’s unholy popes possessed, there are none as unifying and diabolical as that of The White Eye. Always on the left eye, always as pale as the full moon, it is the ultimate symbol for which one reveals their unyielding devotion to Lucifer and all the Great Demons that serve under Them, and it is through this property that each Papa is granted the ability to perform black magic in our mortal realm.

It was a gift first earned by The Original Papa Emeritus Nihil back during the Middle Ages, after the sacking of their original abbey in Florence. Even after the surviving Siblings of Sin were left without a home or leader (their first elected pope having been captured and subsequently burned at the stake), his devotion to the art of black magic and natural leadership skills played a significant role in helping the survivors make their exodus to the north. Upon settling in Linköping he found himself powerful enough to attempt a direct contact with The Olde One, asking for Them to grant him the magic of Hell itself as a means of assuring his people’s prosperity in this new land.

His request was granted. He used his magic given to him by The Eye to summon the first ghouls into our Earthly plane, and with their superior strength and elemental powers they helped construct the Unholy Abbey of Linköping for the Siblings of Sin to reside and worship in. With the further aid of these ghouls alongside the skills of many witches, he then weaved a dark mist to shield the abbey from discovery by those who fought for God, granting access only to those who wished to serve the Will of Satan. Those Christians back in Florence had mockingly named their previous pope “Papa Emeritus” after his forced retirement, so Nihil chose to keep the name to show how even death cannot stop one so devoted to the devil, and thus the unholy title of all future Papas had been born!

Now as to how The Eye can be earned, well… this is where things get complicated.

For a long time, there were no consistent guidelines for electing someone as the next Papa. Some were able to perform either the same or similar contact rituals that the original Emeritus 0 was able to do, those of which were always incredibly dangerous and could violently kill the seeker attempting spiritual communication with Hell. There were even others that had arrived  already possessing this white eye by some chance supernatural event, having instinctively searched out the Unholy Abbey through supernatural guidance, although these cases are significantly rarer.

As for gaining The Eye via rituals, the only criteria they had back in the olden days were that the person needed to have lived and studied in the abbey for at least 10 years and completed seminary, be highly skilled in the art of black magic, and needed to possess a penis (The Serpent with Which They Could Use to Deceive). Unfortunately, sexism in regards to leadership roles affected even the protofemenist teachings of the Satanic Church for the longest time, and nowadays the abbey is sure to teach of the multiple women & trans men of the clergy who most likely did possess the abilities needed to become Papa but were not allowed to.

Well to be fair, there were two Papas elected that were not cis men: an intersex person and a woman, those being The Original Papa Emeritus Secondo and Terzo respectively. Emeritus II was "traditionally masculine" enough to be allowed an attempt at the contact, while Emeritus III had come to them already possessing The Eye, and thus they could not ignore her rightful title (although they did still refer to her through he/him pronouns, stubborn bastards....).

And that's how it was for much of the abbey's history. Emeritus was merely a title to denote whichever random person was lucky enough to achieve it, nothing more. However, everything changed during the early 1800’s when a single idea dawned on the current Papa of the time. The previous two Papas before him had both happened to be his father and grandfather, so if that were the case, would that mean that the power of The Eye could be inherited?

Testing his Lamarckist hypothesis, he waited until both his sons had come of age and then forcibly subjected them to the contact ritual under the implication that their bloodline would automatically grant them access to this magic, which caused one to die horribly and the other to successfully be gifted with the coveted white eye. Through the combination of this “successful discovery” alongside a desperation to reclaim the earthly magic that was starting to disappear as well as the backing of an upper clergy becoming more and more corrupted with each passing decade, the title Emeritus had been officially morphed into a dynasty.

Perhaps there was some truth in the inheritable properties of magic, since more Papas were made from that starting lineage. Yet when put into perspective, the costs of this practice were truly far too great to justify the means.

Dozens upon dozens of teenage boys were subjected to these premature contact rituals and suffered disgusting, needless deaths at the hands of their fathers, all in the hopes of finding the one “worthy” heir to the Papacy. Harems, which were once simply a source of pleasure for a Papa, became a mandatory method of producing enough sons. These women were impregnated so often that many ended up dying from birth complications, and those who were able to successfully give birth either had to raise their daughters all on their own or risk seeing their sons bodies be twisted and shredded beyond recognition after an unsuccessful ritual.

Our current day Nihil had four brothers before him; three whom he never knew, and one he was forced to forget. They did prove to be failures after all, so why memorialize them? It truly was nothing short of a miracle that he was able to survive the ritual at such a young age. Once he got The Eye and all the magic it provided him, along with the aid of one Sister of Sin allied to his cause, he wasted no time in usurping his wicked father. To further emphasize his separation from his father's legacy, he reset his title back to Emeritus 0 as a symbol of how he was going to lead the Satanic Church into a new Golden Age, one where he would never subject his heirs to such needless destruction.

Ironic how he ended up accidentally achieving what his own father always dreamed of: three sons that proved themselves apt enough to survive the ritual and earn The Eye. Granted, he did forbid his children from attempting the contact until they had fully developed their knowledge of black magic and had completed seminary, but it is quite intriguing how he managed to produce this many heirs to the Papacy in such a short span of time.

Could an outside force had helped him in some way, possibly enhancing the heritability of his magic with supernatural means for the sake of their achieving their own ends?

…

Of course not! Who could possibly do something like that?

[thewritewolf]

In Due Time Chapter 1: Witch AU

Hello and welcome to my entry for Marichat May 2020 - In Due Time! Figuring out an idea for this fic was an exhausting journey and I must've gone through nine or ten different ideas before inspiration struck and I ended up with this one. I've very excited to tell this story, and I hope you will like reading it just as much as I did writing it.

@marichatmay

Enjoy!

Summary: For eight years, Chat Noir and Red Beetle have been fighting to bring Hawkmoth to justice. But after so many years with no progress to show for their efforts, there are rumors that the Red Beetle has given up crime fighting.

Alone and without even a partner to rely on and all the while facing increasingly more dangerous akumas, Chat Noir has to find someone worthy of taking up the ladybug miraculous.

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter 

Read on Ao3

Marinette stood in the bus with a handful of strangers, most of whom were sending her curious glances. That didn’t surprise her too much and she couldn’t blame them, even if it was making her a little self conscious. Paris might be a large, cosmopolitan city, but even so, someone dressed like a witch at sundown was sure to attract attention.

As she clenched her hands against her heavy skirt, Marinette was glad she’d at least designed her outfit to be practical. Having to endure all this scrutiny while freezing in the late October weather might have caused her to just head right back home before even reaching the party. And having to keep track of a purse while holding onto her prop broomstick would’ve been just awful. Another benefit to being a designer - she could add pockets to whatever she wanted.

It came as a huge relief when she got off the bus and started seeing more people in costume. At least she wasn’t sticking out in the crowd any more. Although now she was wondering just how many people were going to be showing up to Alya’s party. For all that talk about how Marinette went overboard with things, Alya could certainly keep up with the craziest that Marinete could pull and then some.

Maybe it was because of all the traffic the Cat Chat had been seeing. It had never really died down since those early years in lycee - the opposite, actually. The longer Hawkmoth’s war on Paris dragged on, the more that Chat Noir and Red Beetle were put into the spotlight and lauded. Or critiqued, Marinette admitted with a frown. That last article she had read had been scathing, but Alya had been quick to rip it to shreds on the Cat Chat.

As she stepped into the building after flashing her VIP ticket to the doorman, there was no doubt in her mind that the now infamous article was why there were so many people wearing costumes of Paris’s heroes today. Well - wearing costumes of Chat Noir, that is.

“Girl!”

Marinette looked around, clutching her broomstick tightly. She smiled when she saw Alya, wearing a female version of the Chat Noir costume, bulldoze her way through the crowded floor.

“Alya!” The two women kissed cheeks and hugged. “It’s been a few days, how have you been?”

“Crazy and frantic,” Alya said with a laugh. “But you know I wouldn’t have it any other way, girl.” She took a step back and walked around Marinette. “And look at you! You really went all out with this costume, huh?”

“What was I gonna do?” Marinette said with a smirk. “Not splurge for my bestie’s Halloween party?”

“I appreciate it, M. It helps the atmosphere.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Especially with how tacky some of these costumes are. But hey!” Her voice returned to her usual volume again. “I can’t expect everyone to have a snazzy outfit for the first annual Cat Chat Halloween party.”

“You’re obsessed.” Marinette giggled.

“Why shouldn’t we get to have some Halloween fun too? Trust me, this is the start of something great.” Alya glanced behind her and cursed. “Or at least it would if people would stop trashing things. Sorry for bailing, but foods over there,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder as she started edging away from Marinette. “Have fun! Socialize!”

And just like that Marinette was alone again.

Now, Marinette wasn’t a shy wallflower by any stretch of the imagination. But this was a perfect storm of eroded confidence that she had emerged into. The lingering stares on the bus. The press of people all around her. The fact that she knew literally no one here except for Alya. Which was surprising, at least until she remembered that Nino was busy today with a gig on the other side of town. He may not understand his girlfriend’s obsession, but at least he was supportive.

Regardless, it all piled up on her until she found herself floating at the edges of the party, using the big buffet table and the wall at her back as a buffer against the giant throng of people.

“Pretty big turn out, isn’t it?”

Marinette just about jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice just behind her, causing her pointy black hat to fall over her eyes. As she fumbled her broomstick and drink to try and fix it, she felt it be lifted and placed carefully back on top of her head.

“Sorry about that, little witch,” came the voice again and now she could see vibrant green eyes like shining emeralds looking down at her. Down because the person they belonged to was so tall, even lounging against the wall like he was. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No sweat,” she replied mechanically, her designer eyes already at work sweeping over his outfit. It turned out to be the sixth Chat Noir costume of the night, but she could hardly complain. It was leaps and bounds better than the usual cheap stuff that she’d been seeing all night.

“See something you like?” There was a teasing lilt in his voice. Her eyes rose back to his and she saw the flirty smirk he was wearing.

“Sorry, I was just admiring your costume. It is definitely the most accurate one I’ve seen all night.”

“Are you something of a Chat Noir expert?” He asked, an amused glint in his eyes.

“Well, I’m a designer so I have an eye for those sorts of things. Everyone remembers the ears and tail, and most people remember the bell,” she flicked his, delighted that it had a pleasant metallic ring. “Getting the size of the bell, the leather-like quality of the ears and tail - those are common mistakes.”

“Well, if I’m going to be Chat Noir, I may as well go the full distance, right?” Again there was a playful look in his expression, like there was a joke he wasn’t sharing.

“Yeah, but most people don’t even realize that the super suits are made up of tiny hexagons,” she said, pointing at the miniscule figures making up his costume. “How do they even do that? Heck, how did you?”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “You must be a really big fan then, huh? Like you said, most people don’t know that trivia.”

“It helps that my best friend runs the Cat Chat,” she said with a smirk, expecting him to be impressed. Instead, he snorted.

“Yeah that makes sense. If you’re Alya’s closest friend, you probably get sent all the articles before they’re published.” He patted her shoulder. “My condolences. Even I can’t keep up with everything she puts out.”

“Which reminds me-”

“Witch reminds you?” He said, looking very pleased with his pun.

Marinette chuckled, shaking her head. “Sure. Anyway, you haven’t given me your name?”

His smile widened. “You can just call me Chat Noir.”

“You might have to be more specific there,” she said with a glance to a couple of Chat Noirs nearby.

“Ah, trying to rely on my good manners to figure out my true identity. Very clever, but no, you’ll have to make due with just Chat Noir.”

“You really are playing the part, aren’t you?” Marinette rolled her eyes. “That’s fine, I suppose. But seriously, what’s your costume made out of?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I’ve always been curious about the real deal since I’m an up and coming designer-”

“In my experience,” Chat Noir interrupted with a grin. “‘Up and coming’ usually means ‘down and out at the moment.’”

She glares at him for a moment before turning away. Intending to get a refill of punch and some distance away from ‘Chat Noir’, she started walking away. He snagged her elbow - not tightly, but just enough to make her pause.

“Wait! Sorry, that was rude of me. This is the longest I’ve gone talking to a pretty lady for a while, please excuse me.” When she turned back around, he breathed a sigh of relief. “So, you’re a designer?”

“Yes,” she said, still feeling a little miffed but also feeling a boost to her ego from the pretty lady comment. “I actually made my costume for this party.”

“Really?” Chat said, surprised. “I thought it looked a cut above what everyone else was wearing. Do you mind if I take a look?” He smirked, but it lacked some of the cockiness from before. There was a slight shyness that was endearing. “I don’t want to just… oogle you without permission.”

She giggled. “Sure! I’d love for someone to actually appreciate the work that went into this.”

Setting down her drink, she held her broom and spun around slow enough that he could get a good look. When she was facing him again, he was wearing an impressed look.

“Its even better than I thought it was. Naturally, I realized it was excellent quality, but not many designers today would remember to balance comfort and practicality in addition to appearance. Plus,” he added as he ran a claw along a seam, “these stitches are expertly done. I bet you’ve been practicing sewing for a long time.”

“Since before lycee! I was making clothes and accessories even back then. In fact…”

Their conversation wore on for the next couple hours and it turned out ‘Chat Noir’ had more than just a cute face and a flirty tongue. He had a surprisingly good knowledge of fashion and the industry, even gave her a few tips for how to break into it.

As much as she tried to steer the conversation toward him and what he did, he always managed to expertly get her back into talking about her. It was almost as if he had plenty of practice doing it, but she was just glad to have someone new to talk to. All her work recently had left her without many friends to casually talk to. Which was no doubt another reason Alya had gone out of her way to give her a VIP invite.

Eventually, though, ‘Chat Noir’ left. It was only a few moments later that she realized she had forgotten to ask his name again, or at least ask for his number (he was a cutie after all). But by the time she turned around to look for him, he’d vanished without a trace.

Not that she had long to dwell on it. Just as she was frowning and searching the crowd, Alya stormed over to her. Her eyes were wide and she had that manic energy around her that Marinette had rightly learned to dread over the years.

“Girl! Do you know who you were just talking to?!”

“Some guy that wouldn’t give me his name and insisted I called him Chat Noir,” she said with a sigh. “Which sucks, but-”

“That’s because that was Chat Noir!”

“I get why you think that - it was a super impressive costume - but-”

“No, girl. Listen to me.” She put her hands on Marinette’s shoulders and stared her in the eye. “I’ve spent eight years running a blog with a cat pun in the name because of that furry. Eight years of studying Chat Noir and Red Beetle. I’ve interviewed him! If anyone can point out the real Chat Noir out of a bunch of lookalikes, its me.”

Alya shook Marinette in her excitement. “You just spent the evening flirting with Chat Noir, you amazing minx!”

Marinette smiled as Alya babbled excitedly, but in the comfort of her own mind she frowned. That wasn’t at all what she expected the bombastic, energetic hero she always saw on television to be like. With the party dying down, she headed back to Alya’s place to spend the night, still trying to merge the image of the larger-than-life hero of Paris and the shy boy asking her if she’d let him look at her costume.

There seemed to be more to Chat Noir than she had ever given him credit for.

[somedrunkpirate]

In the dark we travel (Geraskier Sci-fi au)

The witcher fandom yelled at me so hard more gays in space spawned, I love yall. Chapter 2 just got posted. 

Chapter 1 (Tumblr) | Chapter 2 (this post)|  Chapter 1 (ao3) | Chapter 2 (ao3) 

Though Geralt has been on large ships often, there is something about Garbagecrafts that looms over you when you enter. Walking over the edge of the doorway is akin to stepping into the maw of a creature, a cavernous space opening up before in a tunnel, leading only to greater open halls. The bowels of the beast with thin walkways crawling up walls that reach 20, maybe even 30 meters. 

The echo doesn’t help matters. Even though the first three halls they pass are almost filled to the brim with labyrinths of containers, the sound of footsteps ricochets off the metal floor and comes back multiplied a dozen times over. It disorientates Geralt, the echo overlaying with actual sounds to such an extent that it is hard to know where anything is coming from. It will be better slightly further down, he knows, where the walls taper off to a humble 15 metres. 

Every Garbagecraft is built the same way. You have the smaller, lower level, where engines reside on one side, and the dangerous and toxic wastes reside on the other, guarded and secured. Then you have the second level, the one they’ve just entered, where the majority of the trash is stored in those endless halls of space. Some elect to spend their time there, in between the containers— mostly those who are able to trance or hibernate in some manner or another. A way to biologically skip the time. 

But for those who need some measure of utilities, the best bet is to come as close to the third level as possible. The crew eats, drinks and sleeps there. If you’re lucky, there are bathrooms and showers just in between the second and third level, for the lowest of the workers to use. 

The crafts are made to be manned for long periods of time. Geralt has heard of people who have been on a single garbage run for over three years. They go from planet to planet, picking up specific kinds of garbage that can be reused or destroyed in other parts of the galaxy. This one seems to be most focused on fuels— biological, chemical, quantisable, Geralt can smell all kinds —though they always have some bays open for more general waste that can be discarded off anywhere. 

Theirs is a service that goes beyond borders or politics. There have been so many planets and societies either destroyed or corrupted by their own waste, that there is an understanding among the galaxy that the disposal of materials is something that must be done with equity and generosity. No society is too small to have the right to ask a Garbagecraft coming to their docks. 

And of course, with any service that is for the good of all and has no motive other than necessity, the ships are perpetually understaffed. 

This is how they can carry people, as well as waste. For all intents and purposes, they all just got hired. 

“Are you going to claim a bunk?” Jaskier is saying, forcing Geralt to realise that he’s still walking beside him. “You’d have the right to it.”

“Hmm.” 

“That doesn’t actually illuminate anything.” 

Geralt shrugs. 

“You’d have to right to it. This place must be hell for you.” 

Geralt doesn’t respond. It isn’t that he’s wrong, but Geralt has no intention to wade into the utter mess that is the bunk claiming process. If you could call it a process. The Sketh will likely get her way, she’s shown her willingness to use her blaster in any manner she sees fit on the platform. But despite Jaskier’s idealistic declaration, the art of getting a bunk is much more about status than merely intimidation. 

There are rules in places like this— lives like these. Who is supposed to interact with whom. Where you can sit with, who you can drink with. There are three sizes of it: species, role, influence. Jaskier is going to be high up in all— humans tend to have the unerring ability to elevate themselves above others, even if it is just through sheer annoyance. His role as a Bard will gather him many accolades, as few people have an ability that is actually of use during their stay. And well, on influence. He’s shown his mastery of that on the platform as much the Sketh showed her volatile nature. Jaskier will have no trouble getting a bunk, nor gathering food, drink, protection, companionship, and all else you might need. 

Geralt, on the other hand— 

There is little consensus whether Ancienthunters even should be considered a species, rather than an augmented experiment with admittedly, some use to them. Their trade of killing the worst the universe has to offer earns them less than respect.  Many believe even the proximity to those creatures leaves the hunters tainted and prone to corruption. Influence is a hilarious afterthought, not even worth mentioning. He could use his sword, or Roach, to be convincing, in some sense of the word. But there must be more than a hundred people down below, and the moment the crew hears of a wayward Hunter, terrorizing the people, he’ll be outside the ship’s walls faster than he can blink. 

He won’t get a bunk. That’s just the way it is. 

Jaskier is about to say something else when they turn a corner, and the last cargo hall opens up before them. 

“Oh, fuck yes.” 

The last hall is where most people congregate, only because that is where the main airflow system resides. The big blades of ventilators cast a damp breeze through the area. Horrible still, but marginally better compared to the labyrinths down the hall. The further wall also gives access to the third level, and with a measure of relief Geralt can see small neon signs of pointing arrows with shower and toilet symbols. 

But the best thing— the reason why Jaskier sounded so utterly delighted, is half of the hall is empty. There are a few containers stacked to the side, and three large piles of miscellaneous crap greet them besides the entrance, but other than that, they have about half a hover-hockey stadium all to themselves. 

“They must be planning to do a pick up at The Grand Station,” Jaskier muses, smiling. “Oh this is going to make it suck so much less. Look! There are even cots put out-- those military folding beds, and there is a bar! Made from empty fuel drums, but still. They must have had a lot of stowaways here before.”

“Running low on funds,” Geralt says. It's the only reason why they actually would be catering to their technically illegal passengers. It belies a sense of desperation. Geralt’s gaze casts around the area, wondering dimly if there are any repairs the crew has been procrastinating due to lack of cash flow. Last thing they need is for the water to stop running, or worse still, for the engines to. 

“Or,” Jaskier says, eyebrows raised, “They figured we would appreciate not sleeping on the ground.”

Geralt snorts. 

“Ah, you’re one of those. The world is never dark enough in your eyes, is it?”

“I’m not the one keeping you here,” Geralt says, low and without inflection. 

Jaskier laughs like he made a particularly good joke. “You say so, but there is something magnetising about that perpetual frown. How does he manage it? Is there a limit to one's ability to glare on a daily basis? Can you get stuck like that?” 

“If you are going to ask me to smile—“ 

“I have more self preservation than that.” 

Geralt tilts his head, makes a noise that could be construed as questioning. 

“She wouldn’t have actually shot me. Much too messy.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Risk assessment is something I am particularly good at.” 

And yet you insist on talking to me, Geralt doesn’t say. 

As they walk, they’re coming nearer the open space where some of the travellers have already laid claim to a few of the cots. The Pervuvians have gathered about a dozen, laid them out in a circle, and are guarding them like dragons on a hoard of gold. A group of humans have set up a few closer to the makeshift bar. Two women, one with tight braids piled on top of her head and the other with long blond curls that must be fake, are already pouring drinks and cleaning plastic shot glasses. Yur and Decalons have gathered together, the neighbour species sharing their space much as their planets do, some even preening each other’s feathers and making quiet conversation. 

There are other little groups scattered around the area, and Geralt knows not to approach any. He stops at the last row of sporadically stacked containers. There are two that come from the wall on either side of a ladder, that leads to a small square grate hanging like a small balcony over them. It must have been once connected to a larger walkway, but Geralt can just see the haphazardly welded edges of it— maybe someone was too enthusiastic placing containers and broke through it. 

In any case, the space between the container stacks will serve as a nice place for Roach to stay, and she’ll stand vigil before the ladder. The grate won’t be comfortable, but it hangs right in the shadow— the rows of yellow industrial lights barely miss it — and from that height, he’ll be able to keep an eye on things. 

It takes Jaskier a few steps to notice that Geralt has turned right. 

“Where are you goin— really? This is where you’re going to stay?” 

“Didn’t ask.” 

“My judgements are always unsolicited and free of charge, and I think this is bullshit. You’re going to fall off of there, or at least break your back on that grate.” 

Geralt ignores him and folds out a water tray for Roach. He should have enough hydration packages for a week or so before needing to get tap water in the bathrooms. 

“Is being stubborn something they teach you or is it something innate.” 

Geralt shrugs. 

“I won’t be here if you’re gonna complain about not being able to sleep.” 

Geralt turns to him, looks him in the eye and says, “Good.” 

Jaskier throws his hands up. “I don’t know why I even— You know what. Fine. I’ll come back once you’re less—“ He makes a vague hand motion that encompasses Geralt’s general form, “— this.” 

“Good luck with that.” 

“Would booze help?” 

“Hmm.” 

“I’m choosing to take that as a yes because I desperately need some at this point.” 

“Sounds like it.” 

Jaskier makes another exasperated sound and begins to walk away. 

Geralt hesitates for a moment. Roach stares at him and then leans in to huff a warm breath in his face. 

Fine. 

“Jaskier.” 

The footsteps halt at once. 

“Yes?”

“Stay away from the old timer. Blue uniform. Wrinkles.” 

“What. Why?” 

“Just do it.” 

There is pause. 

“You’re not going to give me a straight answer, are you.” 

“Hmm.” 

Another, longer, silence. Pacing, and then a sudden chuckle. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that.” 

Geralt takes a deep breath, sighs it out through his nose. 

He braces himself when Jaskier continues speaking, but what he hears is: 

“I’ve never met a man so interesting and yet so reluctant to be at the same time in my goddamn life and I swear to you, I will figure you out.” 

And with that, Jaskier leaves. 

Geralt has absolutely no idea how to feel about any of it. 

Roach looks at him knowingly, presses her snout against his shoulder for a moment, and then turns to drink some water.

Geralt rolls his eyes and begins to climb the ladder. 

Up above he can see the commotion as the last wave of passengers arrive and the people begin to out divide the cots. He should be keeping an eye out for conflict, keeping track of who is willing to fight, who is impulsive, who is calculated. But Geralt finds himself watching as Jaskier makes his way through the crowd, slipping through all designated areas in brash ignorance of any social rules. Somehow he’s never met with a fist as he does so. Instead, wherever he goes, he draws out the species’ best approximation of a bemused smile. They seem unsure what to do with him at first, but one by one, he manages to lead them to an easy and harmless solution: to have fun. 

It doesn’t take very long before laughter cascades the hall. Rounds are had, songs are sung. 

Geralt sits above, iron pressing cold lines into his back, and watches. 

He thinks that once or twice, Jaskier looks up, and watches back. 

The merry sounds only let off when the ship gives a roaring rumble, and familiar alarms go off warning everyone aboard to take hold and sit tight. 

There are no belts in this place, but as everyone hunkers down, holding pipes and walls and each other, the ship lurches into motion. 

Geralt closes his eyes, trying to breath through the building pressure without throwing up. 

The ship tilts, dives lower, accelerates. Beds and people alike begin to list to the side. 

But with a sudden burst of force, the ship rightens and stabilises. The walls behind Geralt tremble still as different parts of the ship move and interlock with each other— going from the standard dock positions to long void travel. 

One of the platforms that had been folded up now shifts away, and opens up a small window on the opposite wall. Most everyone’s eyes are drawn to it one by one, as they slowly watch Zevos’ many purple moons becoming smaller and smaller, before the planet itself is swallowed mostly by the light of its sun. 

They have four days before that too, will disappear entirely. 

Geralt heaves a deep sigh. 

The journey has truly begun. 

[romolite]

*Important FAQ*

Aka questions that pertain to what I usually post about or stuff I don’t like getting asks about but continue to get asks about regardless.

[Insert any invasive question about my ethnicity/race]

I’m Ghanaian American. My parents were born in Ghana and I was born here in the US. I’ve seen it more on twitter and tumblr, but Black Africans don’t like me because I’m American, and black Americans don’t like me because I’m African. So I’m stuck in the middle lmao. I’m what you’d consider a First-Generation African, my parents are Continental Africans, and if I have children, they will be considered Generational African Americans.

First Generation African: A black person born in the US to parents who were born in Africa

Generational African American: A black person born in the US to US-born black parent(s)

Continental African: A black person born in Africa to parents who were also born in Africa

Non is just a prefix, black people don’t have a monopoly on the term! I suppose you think nonbinary people are racist huh?

Yeah sure it wasnt coined by black people but the context it’s currently used as was predominantly used by black people. ALL people who are not black benefit from and contribute to antiblackness, even if they are marginalized themselves. That kind of dynamic doesnt exist in other contexts (unless we’re talking about transfem + transmisogyny, but that’s something you’d have to talk to someone who is transfem about. Plus they have their own word for  “non-transfem”). Using it in contexts outside of antiblackness is appropriative (Yall are annoying as fuck with the “non-aspec” “non-lesbian”(this term also has anti-bi roots btw) “non-bi” shit etc, stop it. You also can’t complain about the “replacement terms” lumping yall with oppressors when “non-x” does the exact same thing you’re so worried about. “Cis” puts cis gays with cis hets, cis disabled people with cis abled people, cis white people with cis poc, I could go on.) 

Plus we’re talking about marginalized groups here. Black people are a marginalized group. Binary people as a whole are not so the term nonbinary isn’t appropriate at all.  I dont take issue with terms like “nonamerican” or “nonwhite” because (obviously) whites + americans as a whole aren’t oppressed for being white or american.

Basically using "non-x” in contexts to talk about oppression bad, everything else good.

Follow up: If we can’t use non-[marginalized group], what can we use instead?

There are other words to describe the people you’re talking about

non-transfem- TME

non-LGBT- cishet, or people who aren’t LGBT

non-trans - cis

Black people don’t have a monopoly on the acronym nb! I’ll call myself nb if I want to!

At this point I dont really care, go on your antiblack crusade elsewhere and out of my inbox, I’m always gonna mean nonblack when I use the acronym nb. 

And yes, you’re antiblack as fuck if you think black people telling you “nb” stands for “nonblack” is the same as exclusionists claiming “aspec” is for autistic people.

Is x AAVE?

I have a tag dedicated to what is and is not aave and how harmful it is for nonblacks to use aave given its history. I know some things overlap with southern culture but others are specifically for black people. A lot of “stan twitter” language/slang is just repackaged AAVE. No, I can’t tell you how to stop using AAVE. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to stop using AAVE, I don’t want to hear it.

Why don’t you like the n-word being compared to LGBT slurs?

Race and Sexuality/Gender aren’t comparable topics because each deals with a different history of oppression. I don’t care about slur discourse that much because I don’t even use/reclaim any myself except the n-word.

I have a problem with nonblack LGBT people co-opting black culture and struggle(like they always do), especially for trivial online discourse.

And to be honest it goes deeper than slur discourse. Every other day someone is weaponizing the oppression of black trans women, or comparing “cishet aces/aros” in the LGBT community to white/nonblack people invading black spaces (you know, something that ACTUALLY takes resources away from the people who need it, see the cultural appropriation of Black African and Blac American culture in literally any nonblack community while black people get demonized for said culture), or tokenizing their black friends to get away with something blatantly racist. And that’s not even getting into how a lot of gay slang/stan culture is just repurposed AAVE/black culture.

And I’m not gonna lie, I’ve seen this more with exclusionist accounts than inclus accounts, but it’s still not excusable for inclus to do that either. We get erased as black gay/trans/queer/aspec people up until it’s time for discourse accounts to bring us up to one-up each other

Can you give me advice on x?

Most likely not, because I’m not an expert or an advice blog. I’ll try, but don't take my word for it. I’m also tme, able-bodied, not Jewish, singlet, etc, so I’m not able to accurately answer questions about transmisogyny, (physical?) ableism, antisemitism, “sycourse”, etc.

I might be able to give advice on school-related stuff since I just graduated high school, but remember that students are not a monolith, and what worked for me may not work for someone else.

Can I follow if I’m nonblack/a minor/cishet?

Nonblack and/or cishet can follow but watch your step, minors blacklist the #minors dni tag before following

Why do you hate Ao3?

*long sigh*

I don't, I have a problem with the fact that it allows racist and (frankly voyeuristic) pedophilic/abusive/incestuous content to exist on its platform. It’s a good concept overall, but the devs are complicit in allowing “underage” and “noncon/dubcon” fics on their platform.

And there's the fact that they somehow need donations every year despite exceeding their goal several times over each year?

What’s wrong with Hazbin Hotel/The Ships/Vivziepop?

[WIP, as I have to go into extensive detail about this and I currently don’t have the energy for it]

TLDR: Viv made a half-assed apology for supporting racists (one of whom did blackface [yes the mask was used to do blackface shut up] to mock black activist) and drawing gross content. Her current projects including Hazbin Hotel are full of anti-gay/trans/aspec (Angel Dust, Vaggie, Alastor), antisemetic (Mimzy), and racist (Vaggie again, that yellow cyclops character that I’ve forgotten the name of) content under the guise of humor. If you’re into that shit, whatever, just don’t follow me and don’t whine when I make posts criticizing it.

What’s wrong with Hamilton?

Aside from the fact that it’s very obviously glorifying slave owners and made people worldwide believe the founding fathers were good people, LMM, the creator, is nonblack. This isn't his story to tell at all. 

Can you tag x?

I have a list of things I usually tag because they come upon this blog a lot. I cannot do catch all tags, as I have way too many followers for that. The closest thing to that is the “ask to tag” tag when there’s something potentially triggering but I’m not sure what it is. Everything is tagged as “x tw”. If something is extremely triggering, I’ll tag it as “major tw”

Do you tag slurs?

I tag slurs I’m not able to reclaim at all (i.e., d slur, f slur, t slur) or slurs I can reclaim but are being used as a slurs. I don’t tag the n-word, as I reclaim that one. I always tag the r slur

Can I message you about something/someone?

Unless you’re a mutual, most likely no. My DMs are only open to mutuals.

Do you want to be mutuals?

I don’t usually follow back people who follow me, especially if you’re under 16 or post things I’m not interested in.

Why is it important to have byf or about?

1) So I know gross people aren’t following me. This is not up for discussion

2) So I know someone’s not speaking out of their lane, which tends to happen a lot. (i.e, someone refusing to disclose that they are tme when discussing transmisogyny, someone not having their race listed when discussing racism)

3) Some people don’t want to interact with people under 18 or over like 30 or something.

Yeah, yeah, people aren’t entitled to personal information and all that crap but I have a serious problem with people speaking on topics from a place of privilege. Not to say they can’t talk about those things, just perhaps add a disclaimer that you’re privileged when talking about these things and be open to criticism, and NOT blocking people of the said marginalized group when they tell you something you’ve said was problematic.

I also have a problem with people who are intentionally vague about their age. There’s a difference between interacting with someone who’s 20 and someone who’s 29. I don’t want to say it’s the opposite for minors but at the same time there’s a difference for saying something racist at 13 and doing so at 17, and keeping your age vague makes it harder to determine how to deal with something like that. (Not that 13-year-olds shouldn’t know better, it’s just I don’t feel whole ass callout posts and receipt blogs are necessary for someone of that age).

Also anyone under 16, I can't stop you from following, but keep your interaction limited, please. This isnt an 18+ blog but I do rb suggestive jokes from time to time

I sent you an ask and you never answered it!

It’s likely that

I never got it

You were blocked

I’ve already answered this or it’s been answered in my faq

It’s a random positivity ask (which I appreciate but not sure how to respond to those)

You were rude in your ask and I didn’t feel like answering

I forgot until it was too late, which happens when my inbox gets a lot of asks at a time.

You sent it to the wrong blog (I.e, sending asks about my ocs to this blog instead of @ochood )

Hey, the op is [insert post] is [someone on my dni]! I usually double-check myself, just to be sure.

Have you heard about [someone who is mutuals with someone I’m loosely connected with]?

Most likely, no. And unless they’re an immediate danger to someone or they’ve got my name in their mouth, I don’t care.

Do you know who [x person/group/thing] is?Most likely no. Not to sound like a hipster but I don't usually keep up to date with trends. If I do hear about something, it’s most likely from twitter or Instagram.

Why am I blocked? Check here.

Why do you continuously move mains/change URLs/update themes?

I’m inconsistent. And sometimes there are posts on my blog that I no longer stand by.

Can I tag you in posts I think I’d like?Of course!