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whattheheehaw · 3 years

Note

Hi! I’m sorry you’re getting shitty anons about this and you’re probably sick of it so I apologise for asking this but I’m genuinely curious what made you start actively disliking zutara? Like, considering how much excellent and insightful content/meta you yourself used to make/write? I get that interests change over time and you’re totally valid!! the anons sending you hate over it are really dumb, but if you’d be ok with sharing, I’d be really interested in hearing why you’ve done almost a complete 180 on the ship? Was is just burnout/end of a hyper-obsession? Or was it some of us in the rest of the fandom that turned you off? Or was it even something about the ship/characters themselves that you changed your mind about? xx

In short, it was a combination of burnout, dissatisfaction with fandom, and disappointment in myself that caused my disinterest for Zvtara.

I got asks similar to this one a couple of times before, but I never gave a comprehensive answer, mainly because I didn't know how to articulate my reasons why I don't like it anymore. But now that I've been out of ZK fandom for a month and have had some time to reflect, I think I can give a much more thorough response. Beware, this is long and I heavily critique the Zvtara fandom, so if you're a ZK shipper, keep reading at your own risk.

My first minor annoyance with Zvtara is that the fandom has a tendency to idolize certain fics and creators. And while there’s certainly nothing inherently wrong about that, I feel like the Zvtara fandom does it to such an extent that it influences the type of content that content creators make in order to get recognition. And to illustrate my point, I’m going to talk about one of the most famous Zvtara fics of all time: Once Around The Sun by eleventy7.

Don’t get me wrong, I love OATS. I think it’s a great fanfic and I think the author devoted a lot of time and effort to make it such an excellent fic. The plot, the development of the characters and their relationships to one other, and the messages about family and love were all brilliantly written. I mean, there is a reason why it’s regarded as the “Zvtara Bible”. This one fanfic had such a profound impact upon the ZK fandom, and I think the biggest impact that came from it is the dramatic influx of post-war Zvtara AU fanfiction.

Because so many people kept reading OATS and recommending it to others, I think there was an overall interest in ZK fics that take place in a post-war setting. And I think that all of the high praise towards OATS made more fic writers start to write post-war fanfics because of this demand for post-war AU.* I normally wouldn't complain about it because more content is more content, but in my opinion, 99% of ZK post-war fics are the same fic but in different fonts.

Like, there's at least 3 of these elements in every ZK post-war fanfic:

Ambassador Katara

An assassination attempt (usually on Zuko's life)

A healing scene between Zuko and Katara (usually Katara heals Zuko)

Aang and/or Mai is pushed to the side or vilified to some extent in order to make ZK happen

A private journey between Zuko and Katara to facilitate #6

S L O W B U R N (that's not really slowburn and more like "I love you and I very much want to be vocal about my feelings but #7 is in this fic" but the love story takes up like 30 chapters so I guess it's a slowburn?)

Zuko's advisers don't want him to get married to Katara because ✨racism✨

Ursa is found

Azula is in the fic because a) she's going to get a healing arc ft. Zuko and Katara and thereby helps them get together or b) she's the villain and thereby helps them get together

ZK wedding happens in the FN

After reading multiple post-war fics back to back, I could tell that the format was pretty much the same across the board, which isn't very interesting for me to read. My only other fic options in the Zvtara tag on AO3 are canon divergence fics which almost always take place during The Crossroads of Destiny or after The Southern Raiders. And to some extent, those stories are pretty much the same too. There's nothing really new or creative going on in the ZK fandom fic-wise, and because of that, my interest in ZK fandom started to dwindle.

My second issue with Zvtara is that it's a very old ship from a very old show. Because there's been 10+ years since the end of A:TLA, every nuanced point about shipping and the show itself have been talked to death.** There's just nothing new to say. It's the same arguments being rehashed over and over again in the tag because there's no other interpretation one can come up with.

For example, there's so many people who talk about why Zvtara as depicted in The Southern Raiders is not toxic and that's great and all, but I (and most likely many others) have read those same points about five times already. And for some reason, each time this happens, people act like someone just discovered the lost city of Atlantis when they bring up their new-but-not-new argument in defense of Zvtara. Honestly, I'm ashamed to say that I'm not exempt from being part of the group of people that reiterate old arguments. I've done it with one of my posts about The Southern Raiders and I've done it again with my Zutara/Omashu parallels post.

There's no new content to really dissect and analyze (especially considering Zuko and Katara are rarely in the same panel in any of the post-war comics), and because of this, people are just restating points that someone else made several years ago.*** And even if someone did have a different interpretation of an episode, their ideas would most likely be shut down because for the past several years, the same interpretation has been recycled through the fandom repeatedly and people are resistant to new perspectives.

This brings me to the third thing that I dislike about Zvtara: the insistence that there can only be one way to interpret The Southern Raiders. For the longest time, I've read take after take that said if Katara decided to kill Yon Rha, it would be ok because that's her grief to deal with and if she thinks that's the best way to mete out justice, then good for her. And again, I'm ashamed to say that I perpetuated that idea in a few of my own posts. I have always thought that "Katara killing Yon Rha is ok" is just a bad take in general, but I didn't want to vocalize that opinion when so many people—so many of the nice mutuals that I made—all shared that same opinion. Taking down a popular opinion of your own ship is completely different from taking down a popular opinion of a ship that you dislike. The Zvtara fandom is the first fandom that I was actually active in and I wanted to fit in so badly with everyone else that I just parroted whatever other people said, even if I didn't agree with those sentiments.

This leads me to my final reason why I don't want to be a part of ZK fandom anymore. I think I established myself as a "meta" person pretty early on and because of that, I constantly felt pressured to come up with new takes on the ship. And when people started flooding my ask box with stuff like "Can you write a meta about your thoughts on the idea that 'Zuko only took Katara on that field trip in TSR because he wanted her to forgive him'?" and "What are your thoughts about antis saying Zuko and Katara are toxic because of TSR?", I realized that I don't need to come up with new takes. People just want me to paraphrase something that 10 other people said about the same exact topic, because if I said what I actually thought about the subject (i.e. there is some truth in what antis say about TSR and it's not as much of a "Zvtara episode" that most people make it out to be), I'd probably get ZK shippers in the replies telling me that I'm wrong because x, y, and z or "you shouldn't tag this as Zvtara".

And that was pretty much how my love for ZK turned into disinterest. I was and still am disappointed that I didn't stick to my personal opinions. For as much as I talk about herd mentality on Twitter, I certainly don't practice what I preach. In all honesty, the only reason why I held on so long to ZK fandom was because I had so many nice mutuals there and we all shared this collective distaste for antis. I think I started to become more anti-Zvkka and anti-Kataang than pro-Zvtara, which isn't what I wanted to do when I made this Tumblr blog.

The thing that made me joke about becoming anti-Zvtara was the fact that some ZK shippers just like to send shitty anons to people whom they've reblogged countless different metas from. Sending shitty anons to people in the first place is wrong, but sending them to people who tagged their posts correctly and did nothing wrong is just disgusting.

*I'm not a fic writer and can't speak for fic writers, but it definitely feels like a lot of ZK fic authors are pushing themselves to write the next OATS, and by doing so, they are proliferating the tag with post-war fics that have very similar aspects to OATS.

**I think that as more people point out the same nuanced points about Zvtara, it diminishes the actual significance of those points. Like, it's hard to explain but the more people talk about the subtleties of the ship, the more those parts become glaringly obvious and I become numb to their actual impact on the characters and the show.

***At this point, if someone wanted to make a new argument about Zvtara, I think they would have to look very closely at every little detail in every single one of their scenes together to find a crumb of new meta material. And speaking from experience, it's not very fun trying to make a mountain out of a molehill. Whenever I post a "meta" like that, I feel like I'm reaching to make a point that doesn't exist.

#anti zutara #anonymous #ask and ye shall receive

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babbushka · 3 years

Text

The Shape of You (3/12)

Supreme Leader Kylo Ren x Reader

You do a good job of it, staying out of the way. You’re quiet, you’re unsuspecting, you’re practically invisible; just the way you like it. Until one sunny summer day in 1962, the government base where you work acquires an unusual asset, and everything you know is about to change. In the race to save this lonely, desperate, beautiful man, loyalties are shaken on all sides – and the bonds of true love are tested.

7.4k ; CW: mentions of injury, mentions of past torture, angst

Tumblr Masterlist | Available on AO3

----------------------------

When you wake, it is dark once again.

For a moment, you blink and stare at the ceiling, the phantom image of his face swimming in the inky black of night. Holding on to that face, you tentatively reach a hand out into the air, hoping to touch him, hoping to feel something.

In the end, it is nothing but empty air, and your hand drops.

“The only station for when you’re on the go, tune in to AM W-6-Z-O!” The swingin’ dancers on the radio blare once again, an official signal that the time for dreaming is over.

With this new encounter, this new…you don’t even know what it is, you can’t help but feel your pulse quicken. Everything is the same – you will get up to brew your coffee, Armitage will pound against the wall, you will share your breakfast and take three buses to work – but simultaneously, nothing will ever be the same again. Because possibly for the first time in many years, you do not dread the thought of going to work.

Not that you dreaded it, work, not really. It was a good job, an important job, a job that was part of something bigger, much bigger than yourself. But you could not deny the excitement that simmers just below your skin at the thought of it.

The thought of seeing him again.

“You’re chipper this morning.” Armitage scowls as he opens the door for you, a bright cheerful smile on your face.

“Haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean.” You breeze right past him, placing the percolator down on his pot-holder that he keeps on the counter just for this very occasion. Immediately going to his cupboards, you begin to remove the flour and sugar, giving him a knowing glance and asking even though you know the answer, “Pancakes?”

“Please, god knows I’m going to need something sweet today.” He groans, moves to sit at the table.

Sometimes, you can’t help but think how domestic this is. How your friendship had blossomed into a bond so much stronger than you had ever expected. You wonder if Armitage thinks it too, if he ever is reminded of a lifetime ago, when he was married to a beautiful woman and had a house in the suburbs, if when you pour his coffee and flip pancakes on the stove, his heart aches for that long gone time.

If he does, he says nothing about it, so you don’t bring it up.

“What have they done now?” You ask instead, knowing that this is a topic of conversation in which Armitage will always have something to say, always have something to complain about.

“It’s just these essays. Half the class it would seem, completely missed the point of the extra credit film.” He sighs, gesturing to a stack of papers once again sitting on the kitchen table.

“Oh that’s alright, at least Boris is happy.” Sliding pancakes off of the pan and onto a plate, you douse them in a generous helping of syrup and powdered sugar for the both of you, before moving to sit opposite him at the table.

Just then, the lights flicker on and off, making you both frown. The power had never had much of an issue before, what with the movie theater just downstairs needing those extra generators. You glance out the window, it wasn’t raining, and it wasn’t windy – both telltale signs of potential power failure.

“Do you ever worry about what will happen when he has to shut down the building?” Armitage grumbles, carefully and very specifically cutting his stack of pancakes into wedge pieces.

“No, because he won’t.” You shut that train of thought down at once within him, knowing that while he likes to pretend otherwise, your Professor has a proclivity for the dramatics unlike anyone else you’ve ever met. “He has renters for a reason after all, and the summer tourists bring in enough to make ends meet.”

Armitage thinks about that for a moment or two, before accepting the answer.

“You’re right.” He concedes, sounding resigned.

“I’m always right.” You wink, and the two of you finish your breakfast in companionable silence.

------------------

When you leave Armitage’s apartment and go back to your own, you cannot deny the rush that is the thought of seeing him again. It seems so silly, and of course it is silly, but something in you wants to look nice for him.

You fix your hair and pick out your cleanest most nicely ironed uniform, concerned for the first time about how it fits you, how it forms to your body. It is a modest uniform – you are a cleaning woman after all – but you find that despite the drab color palette and utilitarian shape, you look good. The clock chimes, and you realize that there isn’t much time to fuss, so instead of standing in front of the mirror, you pick a pair of heels off your grand shoe display, and hope that he finds the bright blue color appealing.

Dawdling had never been a trait of yours before, and now you understand why.

The bus is sitting and waiting at the stop when you exit your apartment building, and you run in those bright blue heels as fast as your legs can take you to make it just in time. The click-clack of your steps on the pavement alert everyone nearby, as you bolt towards the bus. Water on the ground from the night’s dew reflects the colors of the neon signs all around you, and when your foot splashes in one of the light puddles, a rainbow scatters around your ankles.

You make a beeline straight for the doors, which are open and welcoming you like a warm embrace, and only once the momentum of your body has thrown you into your seat, do you let out a long exhale.

“Thank you, I’m so sorry!” You could bury your face into your hands with how embarrassed you are, but your hands are shaking from the adrenaline of nearly missing the bus.

Missing this bus would have been bad, very very bad. It would have meant that you’d be late to work, and you have never once, not in the entire ten years on the job, have you been late for work. Such an irregularity would have raised suspicion, would have called attention to you – more attention than there already was. They wouldn’t like that, it would compromise your larger job, your more important mission -- you could not afford to be late. So, you sigh with relief and will your heart to stop pounding in your chest; all was well, you are on the bus, it did not pull away from the stop without you on it, you will be there on time.

“Good morning Miss (Y/N), no need to apologize, you know I’ll always wait for you.” Mr. Henry’s kind eyes glance at you with amusement through the rearview mirror, and you once again thank your lucky stars to have a friend like him.

Much like Armitage, you had never expected to befriend the bus driver. You had of course planned on being friendly and polite, but the extent to which you enjoyed the elderly man’s company had surprised you. And what’s more, you were constantly surprised by his willingness to be friendly with you in return. It reminded you that perhaps, there was a solidarity at the bottom – when there is no one to look out for the people like you and him, you look out for one another.

Could Mr. Henry have gotten in trouble by waiting for you? Would he be late to his other stops now? These were questions that you couldn’t help but think, but you have to wonder if they were questions he considered. Surely it would have been easier to simply leave you behind, but he hadn’t done such a thing, and you cannot express how grateful you are for that.

You resolve to thank him somehow, some way more meaningful than simply the words. It strikes you then, that despite speaking to one another every day, you still know very little about the man. You know he has a beautiful wife and a blossoming garden, you know he picks up a cup of coffee from the donut shop before starting his route, and you know which music stations he prefers to listen to. But beyond that, you have both remained relatively private.

He was not so different from you in that regard, you suppose.

Most people are not so different from one another, you suppose.

“For absolutely no reason at all, what is your favorite type of baked good, Mr. Henry?” You ask after a few moments, when the bus has left the stop and has continued its route, the Las Vegas strip a myriad of lights and colors, blinking and twirling in the night.

“Oh you don’t have to go doing all that – ”

“But I want to.” You insist, “Please let me?”

He looks up at you once again through the rearview window, and you see the sparkle of a smile in his eye. You wonder when the last time someone did something kind for him was, someone doing it just out of the want to see him happy.

“I may or may not be fond of those caramel brownies you make.” Sheepishly, almost as if he will be scolded for revealing such information, he confesses this to you.

You recall a time when you had to bring something to the company party, a holiday get together many years ago. You had been charged with bringing a dessert, and as a thank you to Mr. Henry’s continual kindness and hard work, you offered him one.

It makes you strangely emotional, to know that he had enjoyed it enough to remember it, after all these years.

“How very interesting to know.” You smile, and he smiles back, before he turns his attention to the next bus stop, and your window for conversation comes to a close.

She is waiting for you at the bus exchange today, standing and huddled in the large group of other passengers. It is chilly out in the desert tonight, and she has a beautiful black and white checkerboard coat wrapped around her body. In moments like these, watching the steam and fog of the bus exchange plume around her feet, Gwendoline reminds you of a movie star.

Perhaps in another life, her face would light up the screen, her silvery blonde hair and striking cheekbones commanding every man in the theater to fall head over heels in love with her. Sometimes she talks about it, about moving away from this city, about quitting her job.

Perhaps in another life, you might go with her.

Armitage would surely come too, wouldn’t he? He could get a job as a professor anywhere, he could pack up his apartment and join you and Gwen on a trip to Los Angeles, or New York City, or perhaps somewhere abroad – but you can’t, can you. You can’t leave.

And so, as selfish as it is, you hope that Gwen never leaves either, because you’re not so sure what you would do, were she to go.

This is especially true, as she catches sight of you politely making your way to where she is standing, and she smiles and throws a hand up to wave to you, as if you didn’t already see her. Gwen was, in so many ways, a beacon of color in the world of black and grey.

“(Y/N)!” She hollers happily to you, competing with the noise of the bus exchange.

The hiss and hydraulics of brakes and doors opening and closing, the sound of engines revving and radios humming, of the news playing on black and white screens behind a window of glass, of people talking and smoking and eating and laughing even though it’s too early for it all, still through this noise Gwen’s voice cuts through.

“Morning,” You smile back at her, offering a thermos as is your tradition every morning. “Coffee?”

“You’re a saint,” Gwen responds, accepting it as is her tradition. “Oh I love when you wear the blue shoes!”

She takes a step back for you to point your toe and extend your leg ever so slightly, the dazzling satin shining like sapphires in the artificial light of the fluorescent overheads. One of the men waiting in the crowd with you lets out a whistle when your skirt rides up just enough to show a little thigh, and you have to physically restrain Gwendoline from snapping her teeth at him.

“I really like this pair, I don’t know why I don’t wear them more often.” Chuckling just a little at your friend’s fierce protective nature, you draw her attention back to the shoes. It wouldn’t do to get into a fight just minutes before being in an enclosed crowded space together.

“Maybe because they’re the least practical thing for a janitor?” Gwendoline mutters, still shooting the man dirty looks. He has, thankfully, backed off – probably for his own safety. Rarely do men ever expect women to snap back, and oh how Gwendoline’s bite is worse than her bark.

“Maybe, but they are so beautiful.” You shrug, and this at the very least, Gwen can understand.

“Come, I think that’s our bus now.” She whispers to you so as to not draw the attention of the crowd around you, knowing how the rush of everyone wanting to get onto the bus and secure a seat can often lead to a mob.

Sure enough, as she pushes her way to the front and you follow her diligently, when the bus rounds the corner and the pushing and shoving begins, you two are already on your way to the back of the bus, coats and purses in your laps, a deck of cards ready to be shuffled.

In the back of the bus, you and Gwen hide your faces behind a hand of cards each, a game of Go Fish that you are sorely losing. You almost wish that the bus would hit a bump in the road, so that the cards could go scattering all over the floor and you wouldn’t be shamed with the loss, but then the thought of having to clean it all up makes you reconsider.

Gwen, for her part, doesn’t ease up on you one bit, a great big grin on her face as she claims yet another of your cards for her own little pile.

“I dreamt of him again.” You bring up, as nonchalantly as you can.

The bus has greatly reduced down its number of passengers, thankfully. No longer packed like sardines, you and Gwen have enough room to spread out, your belongings no longer piled up on your lap. Instead, they rest on the seat just across the little aisle, as you normally do. Still, it’s not entirely empty, there are quite a few stops to go before the bus pulls over into the dark of the desert and identification is requested.

All this means, is that while you can speak, it has to still be in hushed tones, lest someone from outside the building’s personnel overhear. Gwen hears you perfectly well despite your near whisper, and her face practically alights in the same way those flood lights search the sky.

“Please tell me there’s a face this time!” She abandons the cards to grasp at your hands.

For someone who prides herself on practicality, Gwendoline was incredibly invested in these dreams that you have. Every time you bring it up, she is genuinely and completely interested in hearing more, and you’re more than happy to indulge her.

“There is, and you won’t believe it, but it was, well, it was the Asset.” The last word is whispered so quietly that you might as well just be mouthing the words.

Upon hearing this, her eyes widen, mouth falling open ever so slightly.

“You’ve seen him?” Her shocked whisper makes you cast a glance around.

Good, you think, no one is paying any attention to you, everyone who is left has seated themselves at the front of the bus, knowing that they will be getting off soon and not wanting to have to shuffle through the narrow aisle.

“I – ”

“(Y/N) you didn’t sneak into the lab after all that, did you?” Gwendoline suddenly turns frustrated, exasperated with you. She hisses through clenched teeth, “After that creep Tarkin warned us specifically not to do that very thing?”

“I couldn’t help it Gwen, you can’t tell me that you’re not so curious to know what’s going on in there!” You explain, and she only scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“Of course I’m curious! But I also have some sense of self-preservation.” She looks down at where her hands are clutching yours, turns your palms over in hers. You look down, see how calloused and rough the both of your hands are from a decade of harsh chemicals and hard work. “What if that man is dangerous? What if he hurts you?”

“He can’t, he’s behind bulletproof glass, I don’t think he can even hurt himself with how secure they’ve got him.” You try reassuring her, and it seems that at least for the moment, she is convinced.

Chewing on her lip for a moment or two, eventually she relents to your assurances, and a great big smile spreads over her face once more. You have half a mind to ask her what lipstick she’s wearing, and there you go again, daydreaming about looking nice for this man…

“What does he look like?” Gwen snaps you out of your reverie, and you duck your head, bashful.

You’ve been thinking about him and the way he looks ever since you laid your eyes on him, on his incredibly impressive frame.

“He’s huge. Built like a refrigerator, tall and wide. His face was hard to see, he wears a mask that covers nearly half of it, but his hair is long and dark, and his eyes…” You can see it so clearly, there in your mind’s eye; can see his flexing biceps, the abs, the thick trail of hair that disappears behind those swim trunks they have him in.

With a knowing smile and a shake of her head, Gwendoline sighs.

“You’re going to see him again, aren’t you.” It’s not so much a question, as it is a resignation. She knew you well enough to know that once you’ve decided something, once you’ve put your mind to something, there was very little that could stop you.

If only she knew how deep that sentiment ran.

“I have to, I promised him that I would.” You say, that giddy excitement returning to you once more.

You know that the lab is going to be on your list, you and Gwen are the only ones with high enough clearance for it, you know that at some point in the day, you’ll be face to face with him once again. And that thought thrills you, it has your leg bouncing, your pulse quickening.

Gwen can feel it in your palms, and she lets go of your hands so that you can fiddle with something to keep those busy fingers satisfied.

“Just…just be safe, okay?” She whispers, “You know I’ll cover for you, but I need you to promise me that you’ll be safe.”

Much like Armitage, and even like Boris, or Mr. Henry, you find yourself once again wondering how you got so lucky to have friends so willing to look out for you. You would do the same for any of them in a heartbeat, of course, but something about the knowledge that Gwen would lie to Mrs. Parker, or even Robert – something that could risk her job – made your heart clench.

“I promise.” You whisper.

She looks at you hard, trying to see what thoughts are going on inside your head, before letting the conversation go entirely, picking up her cards once again, determined to beat you at a few more hands before pulling up to the shuttle stop.

------------------

The morning passes uneventfully, as the mornings typically do. Today though, there’s an undeniable pep in your step, a glow about you that the other janitors notice. It’s not that they hadn’t noticed you before, they had of course – but with Gwendoline around, usually she absorbed all the attention. It was flustering to be on the receiving end of it, listening as the boys in the halls got a little too chummy with you, thinking your smiles were for them. Things like:

“Lookin’ good (Y/N)!”

“Where are you off to with a smile that big?”

“Fancy a smoke with me and the boys?”

Are whistled and shot your way, much to your amusement -- funny what a little confidence and a pair of heels could do!

You politely reject everyone’s advances, diligent about getting your work done and doing it well. The sooner you finish everything on your clipboard, the sooner you can get to the lab. It’s on your list, as you knew it would be, but it’s so far down and comes after so many other tasks, that you feel as though Mrs. Parker knew you were eager to return to the tank and the man inside of it.

Thoughts of the man consume you, as you go about your list. Nothing was too strenuous today which you were grateful for, it wouldn’t do to be too exhausted to spend time with him. So, as you empty all the little trashcans and ashtrays, as you clean windows and glass panes in offices, as you take the great dust broom to the floors, you let yourself wonder about him.

What were they doing to him today? Were they going to hurt him again? Would he kill someone again?

The last time you saw him, he was wounded, and that bacta shit had healed him. Would they be wounding him further, or did they have what they needed? You wondered if the scientists in the lab would be so careless as to leave their notes out again. The boys back home would be more than interested in reading further developments, you were sure.

Reminded of the boys, you feel more determined than ever to figure out what’s going on with this man, why he’s there in the first place. Surely he must be Russian, why else would the government be so keen on keeping him as contained as he is? Although, you don’t recall ever seeing a plane like the one that was being dissected in that warehouse, so maybe he wasn’t.

Maybe he wasn’t human at all…the thought pops into your head, and you blink it away.

The stories of alien life in Area 51 were just that – stories. No matter how often you liked to joke about them with Gwen, that’s all that it was, just jokes. Still, that ion engine, the strange shape of the wings, the strange gel that seems to have otherworldly healing properties…it raised so many questions that you simply didn’t have any answers to.

As you sweep the floors, back and forth and back and forth with your big dust broom, you wonder if perhaps you’ll be able to speak to the man. Perhaps he could give you some answers, perhaps you could help him.

You have no idea how you could, but maybe if the two of you worked together, you could figure out a way. One thing was for certain, you felt something for this mystery man. A sense of protection, a bond of some sort. It didn’t have a name, didn’t have much to define it at all – but it was there. Much like the dream, that reoccurring dream, it was indefinite and blurred around the edges, but it was there all the same.

For a brief moment, you wonder what the man dreams about.

You wonder if he dreams at all, in the tank.

------------------

Time passes strangely, in the building. You’re certain that you’ve just gotten there, had just hopped off the shuttle with Gwen – but in the blink of an eye, it’s lunch time. Gwendoline very shyly lets you know that she’s going to be having lunch with Mary, and true to your word the other day, you’re nothing but encouraging.

Besides, it means that you could spend your lunch in the lab, it was the next place on your list anyway, no one could be angry with you for being there, no one could accuse you of being out of place. In the locker room though, you find yourself frozen, standing in front of the little metal locker that you call yours. There’s a compact in your purse, and you pull it out, look at yourself, really look at yourself.

You feel so foolish for all this, especially when you open Gwen’s locker and find one of her tubes of lipstick. She always keeps a couple in her locker for emergencies, something you found silly, but now are eternally grateful for. Picking out a shade that best compliments your skin tone, you apply it carefully. The damn thing is likely going to smudge anyway while you eat your lunch, but at the very least you’ll look put together when you first arrive at the lab.

He better be appreciative of all this, you think to yourself with a nervous chuckle, he better care about all the effort you’re going through. Gwen would tell you that men never care, but she’s not here right now, off playing footsie in the courtyard with Mary.

As you walk the halls down in the bowels of the building, you realize how utterly alone you are in here. Everyone is on lunch, all the scientists, the janitors, the management. Not a single soul is in these halls, the greenish bluish light no competition for the sunshine that waits them near the picnic tables outside. You don’t mind, not one bit, and in fact it thrills you, the thought that you might be with him all alone.

Swiping your keycard through the little number pad, the doors beep and slowly open. Three layers of bulletproof steel slide open, one set horizontally, one set vertically, and one set diagonally. This lab would likely be perfectly impenetrable, in case of an attack, but you recognize that as well designed as it is to keep things out, it is also designed to keep things in.

Things like the man, who finally, after what seems like a lifetime, you will get to see again.

The lab is, much like the rest of this wing of the building, empty.

Once again you are faced with the mechanical nature of it all, the dark grey metal walls and floor, the tables with all sorts of piles stacked high atop them. The lighting is dark, kept dim, even dimmer than the halls outside. You hold your breath as the doors shut behind you, as they lock time and time again, sealing the lab away from the rest of the world.

You park your janitorial cart against the wall, your brown paper bag lunch clutched in your hands, just for something to hold, something to keep your hands occupied so that they don’t shake.

"Hello?" You call out gently, hopefully.

The tank is on the far end of the lab, and you take care to approach it cautiously. There are a million bubbles filling the tank, the bacta gel having been disturbed, and recently. Those bubbles trap the air and make the gel look nearly white with all the foam. You have to get closer, have to approach the glass, straining to see inside it.

“It’s just me, I’ve come back to visit you.” You try again, this time speaking a little louder. Maybe he just couldn’t hear you, through the glass and the gel.

Bracing yourself for him to scare the shit out of you with a startling appearance, you nearly press your nose to the tank. But seconds go by, and there is no activity. A deep deep sense of disappointment and fear spike through your body – if he was not here, where was he? What had they done to him? Where had they taken him? Was he alright -- ?

The immediate string of questions is interrupted by a splashing sound coming from your left, and you whirl around, clutching the brown paper bag to your chest.

He is out of the tank, but he is still here, still in the room with you. For whatever reason, he has been moved from the tank to the pool, and you know this because as you watch with wide eyes, he rises up out of the water, standing up to his full height on his two legs, strong legs, powerful thighs that flex and carry his body towards you.

Remaining perfectly still, you do your best not to gasp. You had thought perhaps, the glass from the tank had distorted his proportions, maybe he wasn’t nearly as big as you had thought. But you’re wrong, he’s even bigger somehow, in the flesh, in front of you. He must be over six feet tall, and twice as wide as the normal man, or at least, twice as wide as any man you had ever seen.

But the most unexpected thing of all, is that he is not wearing the mask.

You have a clear, unobstructed view of his face for the first time, and it takes your breath away. He is utterly, completely, totally handsome. Your imagination could have never come up with the configuration of his features, never in a million years. His nose, so strong and proud looks slightly broken from the front, but when he shakes the water away from his hair and you catch sight of his profile, it is beautifully sloped and triangular. His lips have to be the most full and plush that you’ve ever seen, his ears are large as they poke out from the dark drenched blackness of his hair.

You’re staring, you know you are, but he doesn’t seem deterred. In fact, he’s staring right back at you, looking at you with soulful brown eyes that seem to be sharper than anything you’ve ever seen, eyes that seem to be taking you in with the same level of intensity that you do him.

“Oh!” You realize that he can hear you now, you realize that this is the chance you’ve been hoping for, so you reach out your hand for him to shake, and offer him a friendly, “Hello.”

The man’s eyes track the movement in a way that can only be described as predatory, as an apex creature focusing all their energy on their prey. Strangely though, you don’t feel like prey. Keeping your hand extended, you take slow even breaths, showing him that you mean no harm, showing him that you won’t hurt him.

You’re not like those men, those scientists, you won’t hurt him.

“My name is (Y/N). It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You introduce yourself, speaking as carefully and clearly as you can. “What’s your name? Can you understand me?”

The man simply looks at you, as if in a trance of some kind. You look around, check over your shoulder to make sure, absolutely sure, that no one is around.

Once you’re determined that the coast is clear, and this man continues to take in the sight of you, you move one step forward, closer to the edge of the pool.

“Can you understand me now?” These words come in another language, a switch of your tongue that would have you arrested on site if anyone had heard.

He frowns, confused, and you wonder if this is the first time anyone has tried being polite to him since his capture. You’re about to retract your hand, when suddenly, he lifts his own, his arm tensing as he reaches for you – only to be stopped by long chains that are attached to cuffs on each of his wrists, and to the metal collar he wears around his throat.

The man looks at his bindings, and strains against them with a strangled shout of frustration. His muscles bulge, but it’s to no avail, whatever he has been shackled in, is too strong for him to break through. You have to sit, your legs unable to support you for the moment as you take him all in. Settling on a step near the edge of the pool, you lean in enough for this man to do the same. He too sits, just on the other side of the edge, as close to you as the chains will allow.

Reaching your hand further, further, further still, the man freezes as you place a palm to his cheek. The skin of his scar is smooth, and you find that surprising, as you stroke his face. Eyes closing, the man lets out a shaky shuddering exhale, nuzzling into your palm. He reminds you of a bear trapped in spiked teeth out in the forest, or a lion in the cage of a circus.

“Why do they have you chained and collared like this, why are you here?” The Russian flows freely now, you no longer hold it back the way that you might have in front of anyone else.

Then, suddenly, the strangest noises come out of his mouth. You think that he might be in pain for a minute, but then you realize no, he is speaking to you, impassioned and desperate, his voice is deep, rumbling, coming from the depths of his chest, a baritone that vibrates down inside your bones.

This is the voice that you heard in your dream, you realize. The voice parroting your words back to you, now you know why it had sounded so strange, so off. This man didn’t speak English, and he had only been mimicking the sounds, not knowing what it meant. You’re not sure what this man speaks, and it pains you, it pains you to not share this with him.

“I – I’m sorry I don’t understand.” You have to cut him off, putting your hand over his mouth to interrupt him, to get him to stop. You’re not sure if he even knows what you’re saying, if he can understand but not translate it out of his own mouth, you don’t know. “I’m familiar with ten different languages but yours isn’t one of them, I’m sorry.”

The man looks so sad, devastated, and that at least feels like maybe he can understand you. All at once, you recognize that if he can understand you, there may be hope. Perhaps if you both learn to communicate in a way that doesn’t rely on words, perhaps if you can find a way, you can help him.

That will require some planning, great planning, careful planning.

The man is watching you, he rests his head on the ledge of the pool, his black hair slinking and sliding down the strong muscles of his back. It is as if he is telling you to not be afraid of him, the very same way you were trying to tell him not to be afraid of you.

It strikes you, for a moment, how human he is. Even if by some cosmic improbability he is an alien, he is human. His stomach growls then, loudly, so loudly that it makes you laugh, and you shut yourself up immediately, afraid of scaring him with the noise. He doesn’t go anywhere though, his eyes only widen, making you smile.

The man mimics the motion, smiling back at you, a small laugh of his own.

He has dimples, you think, as you only grow more and more attached to him, and his teeth are so crooked.

“Here, I don’t know what kind of shit they feed you, but you must be hungry.” You rifle through the little brown paper bag that you’ve been holding in a death grip this entire time, pulling out the first thing you see. The clementine fills your palm, you offer it to him cautiously, encouraging, “Go ahead, you can have it, I promise it’s okay.”

The man, wherever he has come from, must not have seen one of these before, because he takes it in his hand and immediately goes to bite through the rind. Your hand flies out and grabs his before he can do so, and despite it all, you laugh again.

He scowls, thinking you’re making fun of him, so you simply shake your head and demonstrate how to peel the hard outer flesh of the fruit away.

“Don’t make fun of me for the way I peel it, I can never get it to come off in one go.” You mutter, wondering wondering wondering if he can understand you.

Watching diligently and carefully, he sits patiently at the edge of the pool, his palm extended, resting near your hands. Piece by piece you peel the clementine, always trying to get it in one spiral but failing, as usual. Eventually, once the floor has been littered with peel and the clementine is bare, you pry the citrus into segments, and place one in his hand.

It looks so small, comically small in the man’s palm, even smaller as he raises the piece to his mouth and pops it in between his teeth, the juice squirting into your face, making you laugh once again. The man’s face lights up immediately, already asking with those strangled sounding words that you cannot understand, a language foreign to even your ears.

“It’s good right?” You hope that that’s what he’s saying, you hope that he likes it. Giving him the whole thing, you watch as he delicately pulls the segments apart. “Bright and sweet. It’s just about the only thing bright in this whole place, hm?”

Instead of eating the entire thing as you would have expected him to do, the man thoughtfully gives you half of the segments. You notice that they are the larger pieces, the ones that must be more flavorful, juicier. He is kind, you decide, kind enough to offer you the better of the halves at the very least.

“Why are you here?” You whisper, knowing he cannot answer. “Why do they torture you so?”

There are no fresh wounds this time, you are glad to see. Nothing healing or inflicted, just the smoothed over scars. You long to touch them, the pink lines that mar his flesh, but he is a person of agency, and you will not disrespect him the way that these scientists do.

So instead, you offer your hand out to him once more, and after careful consideration, the man presses his cheek against your palm. Your thumb rubs soothing circles against the little beauty marks and freckles that pepper his skin, and you sigh.

“I’m going to figure out a way for us to communicate. I don’t know how, but I will.” You tell him, tell yourself, “You won’t be alone, I’ll help you, I just need to figure out how.”

Out in the hall beyond the sealed off lab, a bell chimes, signaling that lunch is over. Regret and disappointment rise up in your throat like acid, you don’t want to leave him, you don’t want to go away from him. He has been in your dreams, all this time, it has been him, of this you’re now sure. But you have a job, you have a responsibility, and you cannot lose it now.

Pulling away, he makes a noise of protest, and this is a noise you can understand.

“I have to clean. You can watch me, if you’d like, but I can’t just sit here all day, or else they’ll be very angry with me.” You explain to him, willing him to understand, “And if they’re angry, then I can’t visit again.”

The man sighs, chews on the segmented clementine.

With that, you move to the other side of the lab where you’ve parked your cart. The only thing on the list is to mop the floors, and you find that you hate that, you wish there were more, wish that you could have more time. You never thought you’d think this, but you hate how efficient you’ve become, how they’ve entrusted you with the jobs they know you are quick at. It is a double edged sword, because if you weren’t good at it, then maybe they wouldn’t have assigned this lab to you in the first place.

Dunking your mop in the solution that you make yourself – vinegar and baking soda, and a little dish soap – you begin to work, the thing you’re actually there for. It is very obvious that he’s watching you, from his spot in the pool. He walks back and forth, almost stalking you, his hulking frame tethered to you by an invisible string. When you go to the right, so does he. When you double back to the left, he goes as well. You smile, hoping that he finds the incredible mundanity of it all not so mundane.

“You’re very handsome. I’m only saying this because I know you’ve got no idea what it is that I’m saying, otherwise I’d be dying of embarrassment. But you’re handsome.” You admit when your back is turned to him, swishing the mop this way and that, picking up the little stains and debris that have stuck to the floor in the time since it was last mopped. “I was wondering what your face looked like, without the mask.”

You continue to mop, and he continues to watch you.

In a strange sense, it is almost like a dance. The sound of the water splashing as he moves back and forth, as he creates little waves and currents, acts as a rhythm, a steady beat to which you mop. His breathing is calm, and he seems to be in a relaxed mood. Maybe he has been hypnotized by the repetitive motions that you make, or maybe, a hopeful part of you thinks, maybe he feels completely at ease with you.

The thought sours in the back of your throat, because you know that once you have finished this, you will have to leave.

You prolong it, you try your best, you really do. But eventually there comes a point in which you cannot procrastinate any longer, you cannot draw it out. The floor is mopped, your clipboard is checked.

Carefully, walking over the freshly mopped tiles slowly and deliberately so that you don’t slip, you sit on the edge of the pool once again, something painful like sorrow making your head hurt.

“I’m done.” You whisper, “I have to go now.”

He’s alarmed by this, the man. He seizes forward, rushes to reach for you with wide panicked eyes, but the chains around his neck yank him back, and he stumbles for a moment, nearly loses his footing in the water. You could cry, with the desperation in the words that he speaks, with the way he reaches for you with bound hands.

You lean as far into the pool as you can, your arms wrapping around him, nearly toppling over into the water with how far forward you are. You don’t care, so what if you should fall? You cannot bear to see him so sad, and so you pull him into an embrace. He holds you tightly, hands curling in your hair, breathing in your smell.

“I know, I know I’m sorry – I don’t want to leave you. But I’ve got more work to do.” Your voice wobbles, hating this, hating how he’s chained, hating how he’s going to be all alone, how he’s going to be tortured and harmed in your absence. You hate it, and he doesn’t want to let you go, you can tell by how strong of a grip he has on you as he talks and talks and talks in a language you don’t know.

There is nothing you can do today though, to help him. For the first time in your life, you feel overwhelmingly insignificant, in the way that you can’t do anything to help him.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, even if it’s not on the list, okay? I’ll come back, I promise.” Your hands cup his cheeks, looking at one another, your eyes boring into his. “I’ll always come back.”

You let go of him now though, and you turn your back to him, mopping up your steps so that the footprints do not give you away.

Swiping your keycard through the number pad once more, the doors open for you, and you do your best not to cry when you hear his pained shout muffled behind the steel.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren/you #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren reader insert #supreme leader kylo ren #shape of water au #sow au #my writing #kylo ren angst #kylo ren fluff #adam driver fanfiction #adcu

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baegarrick · 4 years

Note

idk if you've read/seen the book/movie but just... love, simon zukka au ?? sokka as simon and zuko as bram because blue spirit ( though if we r going for it personality-wise maybe switch their roles? idk ! ) — also in this one the friends are exponentially better

ok im so sorry I haven’t actually seen love, simon or read the book but.... I HAVE ACCESS TO WIKIPEDIA SO LETS GO

ok so I was considering Zuko as Simon bc of the musical thing/the loving parent (Iroh), the girl he sees Sokka (Bram) kiss is Suki.... but also bc I just love writing Zuko (maybe I’ll parse that out at the end)

BUT lets go with Sokka as Simon bc I also love writing the Gaang

Sokka is Simon

Katara is both Nora and Abby

Jet is Martin

Aang is Nick (but slightly also Abby)

Zuko is blue/Bram

Suki is Leah (but slightly also Nick)

Toph is Ethan (sorta)

Haru is Lyle

Ok so, obv this follows the plot of the movie/book. Sokka is a gay + closeted junior, not that his dad isn’t loving, but he’s in the military, and occasionally makes homophobic jokes, and Sokka feels like he has to be tough for him, esp. since his mom died. But he really likes making people laugh and so he joins the school musical, which is a comedy this year.

His best friend is Suki, who he’s known since he was a kid, but he’s kinda been withdrawing from her since he got to high school. He loves her, he really does, but everyone always thinks they’re dating, and it kinda makes him uncomfortable. He tried to like her, when they were younger, but he just... isn’t into girls. His friend group is Suki, Katara (his sister, and it was the two of them against the world since their mom died, but he’s pulled away from her too), Aang (a transfer freshman from out of state), and Toph (who spent up till 8th grade at a private school).

Also in the musical is Zuko, a hot senior who’s like.... super lofty. He gets really into theater, but he rarely interacts with people outside his friend group, like he’s better than them or something. (Mai and Ty Lee are also there, they’re Zuko’s friends.) Not in the musical, but in one of the other clubs Sokka is in, is Jet. He got kicked off the football team for being too rough with the other team last year, so he mostly just hangs out behind the bleachers smoking.

Sokka’s on the school’s tumblr one day (shut up, Katara, I don’t have a tumblr!!) when he sees someone posted an anonymous confession saying they’re gay but they really don’t have anyone they can talk to because of their family situation. Sokka gets their email (BlueSpirit) and start emailing (BoomerangDude) them for a couple of months. He learns that Blue’s family has really high expectations of him, and since he’s only a year away from college he can’t mess them up because if he does he’ll be cut off, and he can’t afford college if that happens. He’s got a sadistic little sister (who isn’t actually terrible, she’s just got her own shit going on, and if shoving Zuko in the warpath of their father takes the spotlight off of her, all the better) who would absolutely out him if she knew, a girl he’s pretty sure wants to date him (Mai), and an after-school job (the tea shop) thats cutting into his extra-curricular activities.

This is.... really similar to Sokka, actually, and he likes making Blue laugh (they switch to chatting online sometimes, like discord or some chat app), and Blue has a lot of insights on things Sokka likes (some of the same music,

Meanwhile, Sokka ends up going to this tea shop he heard about from Blue (it had been a slip, Zuko had NOT meant to say too many personal details, but he’d mentioned getting some kind of boba drink) and studying there with his friends. While he’s there, he’s surprised to see Zuko, who he’s never spoken to outside of the musical they’re working on!! (At some point, Zuko checks his phone and laughs, and Sokka’s like, oh no, I’m crushing on.... TWO DUDES???? BAD SOKKA). He starts to wonder if maybe.... Zuko is Blue?? it generally sorta fits, he knows Zuko is also a senior, and the tea shop Blue mentioned.... (to be fair, though, they see like three other kids from school there, so it’s not really a niche place)

Before Sokka can test out this theory, though, there’s a Halloween party which Sokka goes to with his friends. (They go as the Power Rangers.) He sees Zuko there (he’s in some some Kabuki costume), but with him is.... Mai from the play. They’re making out, and Sokka feels his stomach drop-- he’s not gay and Sokka’s crushing on a straight guy. He gets drunk. He throws up in the bushes outside, and Katara finds him, chews him out, and then sneaks him back home.

He emails Blue again, drunk, and says some stupid stuff like he wishes things were easier, and that he thought he knew who Blue was, but he didn’t. (Blue doesn’t reply.)

He’s checking his email on a school computer in the library when the bell rings, and he doesn’t log out properly, and Jet, who is skipping class, finds Sokka’s emails. He confronts Sokka about them, and says he won’t reveal Sokka’s secret... if Sokka helps Jet get with Sokka’s hot sister. Sokka hates the idea, but also, the idea of being outed is really terrifying. So he says yes, and tries to talk up Jet to Katara, who’s a little surprised bc while she thinks Jet is hot, Sokka was super against Jet whenever she mentioned it. Katara is involved in school politics, and convinces Jet to pretend to be interested to spend time with her. (he ends up running against her...)

Around Thanksgiving, with all their extended family there, ribbing him about getting a girlfriend (asking about Suki), Sokka leaves and goes to sit on the roof. Katara finds him there, and demands he spill whats up and why he’s acting so weird, especially about Suki. (she looks freaked out for a moment, and is like.... oh my god, sokka, is suki pregnant?????? sokka blanches at that) He admits he’s gay, and she hugs him, and they stay out there until their dad sticks his head out the window and calls them inside.

Feeling guilty about Jet, Sokka admits to Blue their emails might have been compromised. Blue starts to back away, taking longer and longer to answer emails.

At a football game, Sokka runs into Haru, who starts asking him stuff, and Sokka wonders if he’s Blue, but it turns out Haru is interested in Katara. Upset, again, that he doesn’t know who Blue is, he encourages Jet to “go big or go home”-- and so Jet asks Katara out by bribing the kid who does the scoreboard to switch out his campaign ad for asking Katara out. Katara is shocked, as she thought Jet was really interested in her campaign. She slaps him.

Mad that Katara wasn’t interested after all, and from the slap, Jet outs Sokka anyway, posting the emails on the school’s gossip site. Katara, who was mad at Sokka, instantly forgives him and is on a WARPATH against Jet, but Sokka just wants it left alone. Suki shows up a few hours later, and finds him on the roof. She admits that she had a crush on him, which was why she never said anything when people asked if they were a couple, but she knew Sokka wasn’t interested in her, so she never pushed it. She’s sorry she made it difficult for him to come out to her.

Blue is upset their emails have leaked, and deletes his account.

He comes out to his dad later, in the car, on the way to school on the last couple of days before winter break. His dad takes it well, and apologizes for all of the jokes he used to make-- it doesn’t make it right, but it was the kind of things he and the other soldiers used to say to each other. He ends up taking them to this tea shop he heard about (it’s Zuko’s/Iroh’s shop), and while there, he comes out to the owner of the shop, Iroh, as sort of..... practice. It’s liberating and also terrifying. Iroh is super cool about it, and tells them about his own son, who passed away a few years ago in an accident, was gay. It’s way later than Sokka thought, and when he looks up from the conversation with Iroh, Zuko’s standing in the doorway. not wanting to deal with people from school, Sokka leaves the tea shop without waiting for his dad to follow him.

The next couple of days at school are rough. His friends stick by his side, but Jet’s friends are obnoxious and loud, and Katara punches one of them. She goes to the school, but they’re eternally unhelpful bc.... what can tey do... its not a school website..... Later, Toph tells Sokka she’s a lesbian, and it’s not that she’s hiding it, but... it’s already tough enough when people treat her like she’s glass because she’s blind. They all go home for winter break, and when they come back, Sokka is refreshed and determined not to be put down by a couple of assholes.

He’s wildly surprised when Blue posts on the school’s tumblr that he wants to meet Sokka at the school’s carnival. This draws a crowd, which makes Sokka worried he’s gonna be pranked, but when he sits down on the Ferris wheel, he’s surprised that Zuko from the tea shop/musical sits down next to him.

Zuko says he’s sorry for ignoring Sokka’s emails, and he’s sorry that Sokka got outed to the school, and it wasn’t his fault that Sokka was blackmailed, and he should have reacted better to it. Sokka apologizes too, because Zuko shouldn’t have to be outed either, which... is why they’re here? Zuko blushes, and says he came out to his uncle, who’s letting him stay with him, since he’s tired of going home to his shitty dad, and that he might go live with his mom while he’s in college. He admits the Mai thing at the party was a drunken misunderstanding, and that he likes Sokka. He thinks he’s funny, and they like the same things (theater, music, strange taste in food...), and he’s hoping after this... Sokka might like him too? (they kiss on the Ferris wheel, and Katara takes like, 30 pictures.)

....

alternatively////

Zuko as Simon au-- bc I just wanted to write it out. he lives with his uncle, who’s the loving parent here, not Ozai!! (or his Mom/stepdad but I kinda forgot they existed for like 5 minutes)

Zuko is Simon

Katara is Abby (she’s his lab partner, and they have the same temperment)

Azula is Nora, but she doesn’t really play a big role (she’s an asshole, but also she’s 14 and is Going Through Things. she’s also in the closet and in love with Mai, but she doesn’t know it yet. it takes her a couple of years to figure that out.)

Mai is Leah

Aang is Martin (but less of an asshole. just the embarrassing + frustrated bits.)

Sokka is blue/Bram

Suki is the girl at the party Sokka kisses

Ty Lee is Ethan

---

I HOPE THIS WAS OK, like I said I haven’t actually seen the thing, but now I actually know what the plot is about!! <3333

#zukka #zukka au #love simon au

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ghostlyhamburger · 4 years

Text

There Was Only One Bed

Pairing: Adrienette

Warning: Highly NSFW. Basically smut.

Read on Ao3

I’m going to try this thing of putting my fics on Tumblr as well as ao3, pls enjoy

Marinette had been excited for a road trip across Europe, taking in the sights with her friends and enjoying a few weeks of just sheer fun before starting university. The group of four were all going to stay in Paris, so they would see each other, but it wouldn’t really be the same. This was going to be their last hurrah.

It was really a miracle that Adrien was allowed to come along. His father laid down some strict rules, of course, but it wasn’t much of a fight. Gabriel had been a lot more easygoing as Adrien planned for university, perhaps realizing his iron hold over the young man would be ending soon.

Privately, Marinette thought that the elder Agreste’s attitude change coming right around the time Hawkmoth stopped attacking was something to consider, but she didn’t want to worry Adrien with those concerns.

Which meant she never told Chat, either—the two had revealed themselves to each other, and while nothing seemed to change between them, they were better friends from that point, relaxed around each other and comfortable teasing and joking.

Marinette, Adrien, Nino, and Alya found themselves at a hotel in Lagos, Portugal. Adrien was the best at Portugese, so he talked to the check-in manager to book some rooms.

“It’s nice that Agreste Senior is paying for all our lodging,” Alya commented as the other three waited.

“Yeah, but too bad it was just so Adrien wouldn’t stay in a hostel with peasants,” Nino muttered.

Adrien returned with four keycards. “Okay, got the rooms.”

Alya snatched two of the cards out of his hand. “Dibs on sleeping with Nino!”

“No one was fighting for that,” Adrien said with a laugh. “So, Mari, I guess that leaves you with me?”

“Y-yeah,” she said, her cheeks turning pink. They were just friends sharing a room. There was nothing to read into that.

As Adrien opened the door to the bedroom, Marinette saw a problem right away.

“Uh—there’s only one bed.”

“Shit,” Adrien muttered. “They did say the hotel is almost sold out…I swear I said two people in the room, though.”

“M-maybe they thought we were a couple?”

Adrien glanced away from her, and said, “So, I’ll take the floor.”

“No,” Marinette replied. “You’ve been doing most of the driving today. Take the bed.”

“I’m not going to leave you on the floor,” he said. “You take the bed.”

She bit her lip, glancing at the bed again, noting how large it was. “We could share? I-I mean, we’ve been in tighter spots before…”

“Yeah,” Adrien said with a grin. “We’ll share. So, uh, do you want to take the shower first?”

Marinette nodded before darting into the bathroom. Once Adrien heard the shower running, he started to move the suitcases, setting them both at the end of the bed before lying on the mattress to see just how big it really was. There was definitely room for two people there, but it was going to be very close.

He’d stopped flirting with his partner after discovering she was Marinette. The poor girl never seemed quite comfortable around his civilian side, so he didn’t want to cross a line and lose the most amazing person in his life.

He stripped out of the clothes he’d been wearing all day and stood in the room in just his boxers, grabbing a fresh pair to change into after his shower. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that on just the other side of the wall, Marinette was naked and wet and…he focused on reciting the periodic table in his head instead.

The water stopped, and not long after Marinette emerged, a fluffy white robe wrapped around her body. She gave him a small smile and murmured, “I, uh, forgot to bring a change of clothes in there.”

“No problem,” he said, his voice catching half in his throat. He headed into the bathroom, praying that Marinette wouldn’t glance down below his waist.

There was no way he was going to survive the night like this—so he took some time in the shower to stroke his cock, letting his fantasies run wild for just a little while. He imagined Marinette slipping into the bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain to join him. Would she touch him with her soft hands, or move to her knees to wrap her pink lips around his cock?

He felt a little dirty thinking about his sweet friend like this, but he knew he’d feel even worse if he let his dick accidentally poke her in the night, so fantasy it was. Fantasy Marinette wasn’t going to judge him for wanting her.

He washed the evidence of his fantasizing down the drain with the soap suds and pulled on a fresh pair of boxers before leaving the bathroom. He didn’t see the need to sleep in anything different just because Marinette was there—and he hadn’t actually packed pajamas, anyways.

He was ready to go back out into the hotel room and face her again. Or, at least he thought that, until he saw her dressed in pink satin pajamas, a tank top and shorts both lined with black lace, sitting on the edge of the bed brushing her hair.

Of course, he wouldn’t know that she’d held onto this particular pajama set just for a moment like this, and her heart was racing as she was highly aware of just how much skin she was showing.

Her hairbrush hit a snarl and she whimpered as the brush tugged at her head. Adrien didn’t realize he was stepping towards her until he asked, “Do you want some help with that?”

“Are you good with hair?” she asked, but she handed him the brush.

He sat beside her, trying not to focus on how her wet hair made her shirt cling to her skin, her nipples poking against the fabric across her breast. He gently ran the brush through her hair, easing out a knot with his fingers. The still-wet strands slid across his fingertips like silk.

“That feels nice,” she murmured as he worked out the knot and pulled the brush through her hair. He pushed gently on her scalp, letting the bristles press against her head, and she moaned.

It was a soft sound, but enough to get Adrien’s dick to respond again. He glared down at his lap before handing the brush back to Marinette and saying, “Well, I think I’m going to go to sleep now.”

“Y-yeah, good idea,” she said, her heart sinking slightly at how quickly he moved away from her, practically diving under the covers. She stood to slip into the bed on her side, turning off the bedside lamp before crossing her arms over her body, trying desperately to avoid touching Adrien and make everything even more awkward.

As she started to relax, her hands slipped to rest beside her body, and she ended up with one palm resting on Adrien’s leg. She didn’t want to move it—she was comfortable, and his leg was a safe enough spot.

“Uh, Marinette?” he asked suddenly, his voice sounding strange. She reflexively flexed her hand and that was not his leg.

“Sorry!” she cried, snatching her hand away. “I—I really should just sleep on the floor.” She started to get out of the bed, but suddenly, he was holding her hand.

“Stay, please,” he murmured. “I’ll give you some more space.”

She glanced at him, trying to read his expression in the dim moonlight that streamed in through the window. “A-all right.”

She settled back into the bed, turning onto her side so she could face him.

“What is it?” he asked, also turning, towards her.

“I—um. It’s nothing. Never mind.”

“Marinette,” he murmured.

“It’s, um—is that, uh, because of…me?”

“Is what?”

“You know,” she muttered, her eyes flicking down, looking in the general direction of his dick.

“Oh,” he replied, his cheeks turning red. “I, uh—yeah—I’m sorry, this has to be too weird for you—”

“No, it’s fine, I shouldn’t have—”

Their eyes met, and they both started giggling, a small sound that soon turned to loud laughter.

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Adrien said.

She nodded. “That’s what I’m worried about too. I don’t want to touch you if you don’t like it—”

He tried to stifle another laugh. “My Lady, not liking it is the opposite of the problem.”

Marinette sighed, and shifted in the bed, moving closer to him. “Can we just get comfortable to sleep? And whatever happens with what your body parts or my body parts do—we can ignore it. We’re both adults, we can handle this.”

“Sure,” Adrien replied. He moved slightly, angling himself closer to her, letting one arm drape around her waist. Their legs were tangled together, his thigh resting between her legs. It was much more intimate, but it was comfortable.

She shut her eyes, and he watched her, the way her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks as her lips parted. He could stay awake all night, just watching her, knowing he was lucky enough to hold her close like this—but his erection was pressed awkwardly against her hip and he wanted so much more.

“Marinette?” he murmured, and her eyes shot open. “I—if you don’t want to that’s fine, but—can I kiss you?”

She smiled, but instead of answering, just pressed slightly closer to him, her lips so close to his, letting him close the last few millimeters.

He kissed her, finally, and her lips were so soft against his, her hand resting against his chest, her legs clenching, holding him tightly against her. One small, sweet kiss turned to two, three, and they were less sweet, more passion and more hands roaming, until she let out a soft moan.

“Make that sound again,” he muttered, his hands at her waist, slipping under the hem of her shirt. “Please.”

She gasped, and her hips rolled, the apex of her legs pressing against his thigh. “Oh, Adrien…”

He pushed up her shirt, and she shifted, moving to straddle him as she tossed the shirt to the side of the bed. He sat up so he could keep kissing her, lips on her neck, trailing down to her exposed breasts that he cupped in his hands, each small touch pulling more moans from her. His lips found her nipple, sucking at the peak, gently taking it between his teeth.

Marinette groaned, her hips pushing against him, and he could feel her heat against his cock through the thin fabrics that separated them. He moved his head, turning his mouth to her other breast, as his hands wandered lower, gently tugging at the waistband of her shorts.

His fingers rested there, unsure if he should push any more, until he heard her whimper, “Please, Adrien, touch me…”

He pushed his hand down into her shorts, and was instantly rewarded by the feeling of warm skin and the knowledge that she wasn’t wearing underwear. He brushed his fingertips over her folds and felt how wet she was, so wet that his fingers slipped inside her easily, making her moan loudly, beautifully.

“God I want you,” he murmured, lifting his head again to kiss her lips, her jaw, her neck. “I’ve wanted you for so long…”

“I’ve dreamed about being with you,” she admitted. “This is so much better...don’t stop.”

He wasn’t planning on stopping. His fingers curled inside her pussy, and she whined, her hips moving faster as she fucked herself on his hand. He watched her breasts bounce each time she rolled her hips, and he knew he could never go back to just imagining her again.

Her breathing picked up, and she kissed him hard before abruptly pulling back. “W-wait,” she managed to gasp.

“What is it?” he asked, pulling his hand back.

“I—I want to come with you inside me,” she said quickly, unable to look directly at him.

Adrien just smirked and casually licked her off of his fingers. “I think I can do that for you, my Lady.”

She moved her hips away from him, just long enough to shimmy her shorts down her legs while he kicked off his boxers. He turned with her in the bed again, moving to kneel over her as he kissed her.

“Please, Adrien,” she groaned between kisses. “I’ve wanted you for years, please don’t make me wait any more…”

“Years?” he asked, the new information suddenly catching him off guard. “My Lady, you know I’ve loved you since we met…”

Her eyes widened. “But—you stopped all that flirting after you knew who I was—I thought you didn’t—”

He cut off her words by kissing her deeply, trying to communicate years of love and want through his lips. “I didn’t want to lose you as a friend. You’re so important to me, Marinette.”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “Prove how important, then.”

He grinned as he gripped her hips, gently angling her so he could line up his cock with her entrance. He slowly pushed himself into her, watching her expression melt from the teasing smirk to a pleasured, wordless cry. He held her tight as he settled his cock into her, feeling her clenched tight around him.

“I love you,” she murmured, her head lolling back in pleasure. “Always loved you…”

He kissed her neck, his hips starting to move faster as he thrust into her. “My Lady, my Princess…”

She smiled, moving her legs to wrap around his hips. “Ohh, my Prince…”

Words were lost to them as they moved together, the only sound in the room their groans and the soft slap of skin against skin.

Marinette’s groans became whimpering panting cries as she clung tightly to him. “So close…Adrien…Adrien!”

He watched her as she came, searing her face and her moans into his mind, his own orgasm following soon after. He kissed her fiercely as he spilled into her, letting himself be completely enveloped with Marinette.

When they parted, she smiled at him softly before yawning. He chuckled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “We should sleep, huh?”

“Yeah,” she murmured.

“Can I keep you in my arms all night?”

“You’re so cheesy,” she replied. “But yes. Of course yes.”

#mlnsfw #miraculust #ml fanfiction #ml fic #adrienette

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starlocked01 · 4 years

Text

These Words are Knives

AO3

Masterpost- Previous- Next

Summary: Virgil doesn't like being a secret boyfriend. He honestly just wants his soulmate to be able to be himself at home and at work. But has Janus ever been himself with anyone? Remus probably. But Virgil and Remus don't know about each other and that's about to become everyone's problem

Content Warning: Unsympathetic Janus, Swearing, Fighting, Capslock, Emotional Abuse and Manipulation

Day 28 Anxceitmus- A sentence appears on your arm each night recapping something your soulmate said that day. Modified so that it only shows up after you've met them in person.

"If you love me, let me go If you love me, let me go These words are knives that often leave scars The fear, the fear of falling apart Truth be told I never was yours The fear, the fear of falling apart" -This is Gospel Panic! at the Disco

"Oh yes, my girlfriend and I enjoy true crime shows pretty often."

Virgil sighed, staring at the golden letters glowing on his skin. It stung a lot to see his soulmate lie like this every night.

He turned over in bed to face Janus, "I hate your boss."

"Mmhmm, me too," Janus replied flatly, not taking his eyes off the newspaper.

"I shouldn't have to see this. You shouldn't have to keep me hidden from your coworkers," Virgil felt anger knotting at the bottom of his stomach. It truly wasn't fair.

"If he finds out I'm gay, he will fire me. I'm not having this discussion right now," Janus declared with a tone of finality.

"I'm not asking you to out yourself, I'm just upset about the situation," Virgil twisted onto his back and stared at the ceiling, "what does yours say?"

Janus gave an exasperated sigh and made a show of rolling up his sleeve before reading the shiny purple text, "'Oh my god, that would definitely have killed me!' Honestly, Virgil, it was a mouse. Bit of an overreaction."

"Whatever, good night."

"Virgil?"

"What?"

"I love you."

"Love you too."

Well, it wasn't a lie, Virgil is far too trusting of him for him to not mean it when he says he loves him.

Janus could remember back when they'd first met, Virgil wouldn't even give him his phone number. It had been a tedious process getting the anxious man to open up, and it was more than worth it to Janus. The problems only started when he'd met her.

Remus had been completely unexpected; Janus had literally run into her on his way to work. He panicked that first night the neon green script appeared on his arm opposite the purple text. Remus was also his soulmate and unlike Virgil, she was eager to know Janus.

Janus had made his decision to keep his second soulmate a secret the moment he saw the text, and now he sat like a spider atop his web of lies.

Janus glanced over at Virgil as he lay there, clearly not asleep yet, and started humming a lullaby that usually helped Virgil relax. The tension in his shoulders started to ease and soon he was snoring. Janus folded up the newspaper and took the disposable phone out of his nightstand.

R<3: heyyyy sexy i wanna c u tomrw ;]

He smiled and responded, keeping an eye on Virgil to make sure he was still asleep.

J: I agree, at our usual place?

R<3: !!!!!!

He quickly shut off the phone and hid it again before turning off the bedside lamp and rolling over to fall asleep. ---- Truth be told, it was simply easier to talk about Remus at work because they went by multiple pronouns. It also helped that they didn't immediately get suspicious anytime Janus brought them up. Virgil’s concern could be overbearing and it was just easier to stay under the radar of homophobic coworkers who would no longer respect him if they found out.

He didn't feel good about lying; it was survival. But he was good at it.

"Jan!" Remus waved him over as soon as he arrived at the restaurant. He smiled and joined them at their table, "it's been too long, why are you avoiding me?" Remus asked with a grin.

"I'm not, I just don't want to interrupt your work," Janus smirked, taking a sip of his water.

"What? You don't think I could handle you trying to distract me?" Remus laughed happily, leaning over to kiss their soulmate’s cheek.

They laughed and joked all through dinner, gossiping about coworkers, generally having a good time. The time got away from Janus and it was midnight before he realized how late it had gotten.

"Oh! I want to see what your soul mark says today!" Remus beamed, excitedly rolling up their own sleeve.

"You do tend to have quite… entertaining quotes," Janus' smile hid his irritation but he obliged, rolling up his sleeve as well, "'Why don't we eat the babies and call it Swifting?' Really, Remus? Do I want context?"

"You remember 'A Modest Proposal' by Jonathan Swift, right?" he giggled, reading his own quote of the day, "'Honestly, Virgil, it was a mouse.' Huh…" Remus looked confused, "who's Virgil? You don't talk about him but I see his name come up pretty often."

"A coworker. He's not very pleasant to talk with but we often have projects together," the lie was smooth as silk. He knew this one would happen someday and had prepared.

Remus glanced over and saw a streak of purple along Janus’ wrist of his other arm, "what's that?" they grabbed Janus' wrist and pushed the sleeve up before he could protest. They read the words out loud, "'sup, fellow cryptids? I'm your host, Virgil Keir and it's time to talk about why you absolutely should run to the woods to date the Fae.' Wait…" Remus looked up knowingly, "Virgil is your soulmate, not your coworker."

"He can be both. Like I said, he's not easy to get along with-" Janus was sweating under his collar.

"I want to meet him!" Remus exclaimed.

"Why?' Janus was genuinely puzzled by their reaction.

"Hello! I love his youtube channel and you're my easy in! Plus he's your soulmate so he's gotta be important to you, which makes him all the more important to me," Remus grinned happily, "I swear I'm not jealous that you have two soulmates."

Janus let the comment slide past him, "I'll talk with him, but he's rather private. He may not want to meet you. I mean, he hasn't asked about you at all."

"Alright alright. Thanks, Jan!" Remus kissed him again, "wanna stay the night?" they asked with a wink.

"Not tonight, we both have work tomorrow and it's late enough already," Janus gave them a silvery smile while standing to pay the bill.

"Aw man, I can't wait to tell Stormy about this!" Remus pulled out their phone and was already texting with fire in their eyes.

"Who’s Stormy?" Janus asked hesitantly.

"Tumblr mutual. He's like the biggest fan of 'Mothman Mondays'. He'll be so stoked!"

"Ah- well have fun with that. Goodnight, darling," Janus left quickly. This needed to be contained. ---- Virgil stared at his phone in disbelief.

thotiestthoughts: stormy ull nvr guess!!

thotiestthoughts: my soulmate knows Virgil K!!!

Thoti was probably Virgil’s favorite fan, they messaged on tumblr all the time and had become quite good friends, but it was through his anonymous account not the official blog for his show. He debated how he would respond before typing back.

stormcloud07734: wow what a coincidence. r u secretly him? ;)

The best defense is a strong offense, right?

thotiestthoughts: !!!! im so excite!!!!!!

stormcloud07734: that means u must live pretty close to him

thotiestthoughts: u think hes in Orlando???

Virgil smiled. He knew he was in Orlando. But he had a better idea.

stormcloud07734: don't know about Virgil but im in Orlando. wanna meet up?

His heart was pounding. If this were anyone else but thoti he'd never consider it.

thotiestthoughts: OMG WHEN? RN?

stormcloud07734: how about tomorrow?

Virgil smiled at thoti's enthusiasm. They both picked a local cafe to meet in the afternoon and signed off for the night. Virgil didn’t even wait for Janus to get home before falling asleep. ---- Virgil got to the cafe an hour early. He could barely feel his own breathing as his heart felt like it filled his whole chest and stomach. What if he was wrong and thoti turned out to be a creep or stalker? What if he was never heard from again? He hadn't even said goodbye to Janus that morning. He tried to scroll tumblr to calm down, tried to research for his next episode, anything to distract himself from the anticipation and anxiety.

Remus couldn't wait to meet stormy and was practically bouncing around the back seat of xyr Uber. He'd given xem his phone number since they'd never shared photos and xe was trying desperately to not call before xe got to the cafe.

About a block away xyr phone started ringing. It was stormy.

"Hello?" Xe answered breathlessly.

An all too familiar voice answered xem, "hey, thoti, I know you're not here just yet but I have a bit of a confession to make."

"Virgil…" Remus was practically shoved out of the car by the driver as xe was paralyzed in shock. Xe looked up and saw the familiar pale face, purple hair with swooping bangs and dark eyeshadow smiling at him from a table in the corner, phone held to his face.

"Yup, sorry," Virgil hung up as Remus walked over, mouth agape.

"All this time?" xe asked, not ready to sit at the table with one of xyr favorite minor celebrities.

"Yeah, I kinda like participating in cryptid culture without being hounded about my videos," Virgil shrugged with a grin, "come on, sit down. I'm a lot more like stormcloud than I am like my videos."

"I'm Remus," xe stuck out xyr hand.

"Virgil," he snickered and pinched Remus' fingers with three of his own and gave a curt little shake. Xe laughed and sat down across the table, fidgeting with xyr hoodie strings. Virgil gave xem a long look over, "so your soulmate knows me?"

"Oh yeah, I kinda found out last night and asked him to ask you to meet me so if he brings that up, sorry. I just got really excited about it," Remus blushed in embarrassment, "hopefully Janus will be cool about it."

Virgil stopped mid-sip of a mocha latte, "Janus?"

"Yeah, our soulmate."

"You're his soulmate too? I don't believe you," Virgil shook his head.

"I saw both lines of writing on his arms last night, I'm sure of it!" Remus' grin began to falter, "but whatever, right? We're not here to talk about soulmates. I've been so excited to meet you."

"Hang on, how long?" Virgil demanded.

"How long what? My d-"

"How long have you been soulmates?" Virgil smacked the table.

"About 5 months," Remus looked down at the table. This was going terribly.

"Janus has been my soulmate for 2 years and he never brought up a second soulmate. I can't-" Virgil looked like something inside him was dying, "why wouldn't he mention you?"

"He- oh my god he doesn't want me around… and you probably hate me just for existing…" Remus looked up as Virgil laid a hand gently on xyrs.

"No. I don't hate you. We're going to get to the bottom of this." ---- Virgil sat in bed next to Janus who was preoccupied with a book. He didn't know how to bring up Remus and every moment he felt sicker and sicker in his stomach. The frequent fights, the talk at work about a girlfriend, the distance between them, when he thought about it he realized it had only really started 5 months ago.

Janus reached out to take his hand and Virgil instinctively pulled away.

"What's wrong, Virgil?" Janus asked sweetly.

"Don't touch me," he muttered just as the clock struck midnight. He glanced at the yellow text without bothering to read it, "I bet this one is a lie too."

"Virgil, what do you mean? You're acting suspicious," Janus’ mind was reeling. He'd forgotten what Virgil had said he was going to do that day and didn't expect him to be so hostile. He glanced down at the purple text on his arm and asked, "who's 'thoti', Virgil?"

Virgil started to reply when he saw a flash of green on his own arm. He looked and was surprised to find a second soul mark in a dark green scrawl. His phone was ringing and he didn't even need caller ID to know who it was, "are you seeing this too, Rem?" Virgil's eyes flicked over to Janus and narrowed, "a second soulmate, who could have guessed?" Janus kept his face impressively passive at the news and subtle accusation, "okay, see you soon."

Virgil hung up and glared at Janus who simply repeated, "who's 'thoti', Virgil?"

"You insufferable bastard! You know exactly who xe is, your 'girlfriend' our soulmate," Virgil scowled, ready to tear out a throat and leave the body for the wolves. He saw that Remus had texted him that xe was 10 minutes away. Janus had nowhere to run now.

"Her name is Remus. Why would I assume she was your soulmate or that you would give her such a disrespectful nickname?" Janus tried to steer the conversation in his favor.

"You're going to accuse me of disrespect? For the last five months, you have done nothing but lie to us and you're saying I'm the disrespectful one? You can't deflect your way out of this one, babe," Virgil felt his eye twitch. Remus better get there fast if he wanted both soulmates intact.

Virgil was screaming and beating Janus with a pillow when the doorbell rang.

"What the fuck? Is this a confrontation or a sleepover?" Remus burst in the door, finding it unlocked. He ran over and pulled Virgil off of Janus, getting a face full of feathers in the process.

"Oh just casual domestic abuse," Janus picked himself off the floor as Virgil struggled to get out of Remus' grasp.

"I'm going to make him pay, one way or another!" Virgil snarled.

"I don't know, Virgil, I think we can work this out," he blurted out.

Virgil stared at Remus dumbfounded, "you think what? Work this out? He's lied to you the whole time you've known him!"

"So did you," Remus looked down as if ashamed to say it out loud, "I thought you were stormcloud. I gushed about Virgil to you for hours and you never thought to tell me who you really were. I bet you even got content ideas from me and never had to credit them. So how is that different, if not worse, than Janus being scared of you doing exactly what you're doing right now?"

"You really think having an anonymous tumblr is worse than being manipulated for years? Is that what I'm hearing, Remus?"

"I think you're overreacting. I want to try and fix this relationship because we're soulmates and we should be able to make it work," Remus sighed, turning away from Virgil, "I'm not cutting anyone off."

"It's alright, Virgil. I forgive you. Let's figure this out together-"

"NO!" something snapped. Virgil squared up, facing the other two, "get out."

"Virgil," Janus took a step towards him.

"I said, Get Out."

"Oh, did you forget? The lease is in my name. I'm not leaving my fucking apartment. If you don't want to work with us then you can work on getting your own place to live," Janus’ look turned smug and cold as ice.

"Janus, don't kick him out," Remus looked as though he were about to spiral into a panic attack. If he'd just kept his mouth shut for once maybe-

"No, he's right. He holds shelter and food over my head to keep me in line so he can keep a secret fuck boy on the side and expects me to 'work it out' like I'm too scared to fend for myself. Fuck you," Virgil started to laugh with tears streaming down his cheeks. He turned and grabbed his backpack, walking to their room to grab as much of his stuff as he could. Remus followed him, holding Janus back from saying anything more.

"Virgil, please. I don't want to lose you," Remus pleaded softly.

"I thought you were pissed at me for being a liar on the internet," Virgil muttered.

"Maybe, but if I'm willing to forgive Janus don't you think I can forgive you too?" Remus held up his arm to block the door.

Virgil stopped with a heavy exhausted sigh, "I don't want your forgiveness. Remus, if you love me, let me go."

Virgil watched as a tear slipped down Remus' face and he lowered his arm. The rage that fueled him broke and he grabbed Remus in a hug. The other stiffened, uncertain, before relaxing and hugging Virgil back.

"I didn't want to leave you; I just can't stay with him," Virgil fought to keep his voice from trembling as much as his shoulders were shaking.

"I'll see if my landlord can add you on my lease… that way you don't have to leave?" Remus offered hopefully.

"That sounds like a thousand more nights spent screaming. Not a good idea," Virgil broke away from the hug, "thank you, Remus."

"You… you know how to find me if you need me," Remus laughed sullenly.

"Thanks. I'm sorry."

Remus only nodded as Virgil made for the front door.

"If you leave right now, you'll never see him again," Janus spoke from his place on the couch, wine glass in hand, and already half-empty in the short time Virgil spent packing.

"I know. Anything to keep me from fighting you, right? Just watch me find a way to be happy, asshole," Virgil spat before walking out without a second glance back. ---- "Virgil?"

"What?"

"I love you."

"No, you don't!" Virgil hissed, pushing himself away as hard as he could.

"Virgil, I know I'm not your soulmate but I am confident about my feelings for you," Logan looked confused and hurt but all Virgil could see was a cold, sly smile he'd tried so hard to forget. Reality started to blur and Virgil began to hyperventilate while the smirk leered closer, "Virgil, it's me, Logan. In for four."

Virgil focused on the calming voice and followed its instructions. After a few minutes, he could see Logan’s living room, feel the blanket tangled around their feet, the soft touch of his best friend pulling him back from the edge.

"Logan, I- I'm-"

"Don't apologize. There's nothing to apologize for," Logan held him close, resting his chin in Virgil’s hair, "you were clearly triggered. I did not mean to hurt you and your lashing out wasn't directed at me."

"But I know you aren't him, it's not fair for me to treat you that way," Virgil shuddered, pushing in to be as close to Logan as possible.

"Perhaps not, but I'm choosing to forgive it because I know this isn't easy for you," Logan smiled rubbing small circles on his back, "I will learn one thousand different ways to show you my appreciation and care if those three little words are ineffective and harmful to you."

"I don't deserve you," Virgil's voice was muffled as he buried his face in Logan’s chest to hide the tears threatening to spill over.

"No, you deserve so much more than I can give you, and you didn't deserve what happened in the past," Logan kissed the top of his head sweetly.

Virgil choked back a sob, "don't your soulmates hate me?"

Logan sighed, "no. They are happy together and I am happy for them. It has been a while since I've talked to either Patton or Roman, but I think they're okay with me finding you. Not every breakup is toxic, nor are all soulbonds romantic."

They stayed curled together like that on the couch for quite a while, the movie they'd been watching left forgotten on pause.

"Are you happy, Logan?" Virgil whispered, breaking the easy silence.

"With you, yes."

"Promise?"

"I promise I won't lie to you. I am happy with you, Stormcloud," Logan squeezed him tighter, trying to impart every ounce of his love with the application of force. He never wanted to be the one hurting Virgil, and if he ever met Janus or Remus, there was a baseball bat with their names on it in the corner.

Tag List: @stoicpanther @ifrickenhatedeverythingaboutthis @idontgiveafuckaboutshit @tsshipmonth2020

#tsshipmonth2020 #Soulmate September 2020 #toxic anxceitmus #toxic anxceit #unsympathetic janus #platonic analogical #angst #hurt comfort #emotional manipulation #emotional abuse #swearing #fighting #this hurt so much to write

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szopenhauer · 4 years

Text

Do you like Chanel purses? no

When was the last time you had Pepsi? ages ago

Do you know anyone with exaggeratedly big muscles? not personally

What is your favorite endangered animall? elephant

Can you name someone with the same last name as you? my parents

Who was the last person to scream your name? ...

By the way, that wasnt meant to be perverted. too late I have no idea why I thought about that - no one ever screamed my name this way and nobody ever will :x

Do you struggle to articulate your thoughts and feelings? it seems Name something that you are doing tonight. nothing and I realized that I don’t want to go to sleep more than ever before, I just don’t want to wake up tomorrow and yet I’m scared of dying (suffering)

Do you like the smell of a barbecue? nah

Would you date an 18 year old at the age you are now? too young for me Are you more likely to show affection through your words or your actions? words I guess Do you have an easy time falling asleep? I wish Are you a crier? crybaby Do you like to wear makeup? no Do you have a high tolerance for people? pfft Do you like your bed? why not How many times have you been to the ER? few

Are you wearing shorts? basically never

Do you eat randomly, just whenever the hell you want? ...

Did you have trouble getting up this morning? yeah What’s a few things that automatically make you go, “Awww”? cute little dogs Do you have soft hands? Do you like holding hands? do I? I like to hold hands tho What’s your opinion on perfumes that are REALLY expensive? dumb, I hate perfume but expensive - that is ridiculous! Have you ever really hated a teacher and practically made it clear you did? Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know. Are you a little bit cautious around horses? Do they scare you a bit? I’m just a cautious person in general If you could live next door to ANYONE, who would you want to live beside? love of my life, I mean - we can live together but for now it would be cool if we were neighbors at least, you know what I mean? Do you think your friends are pretty? Do your friends think your pretty? what friends... Are you currently worried about your parents finding out about something? maybe mom about that one particular thing that starts on S and ends with X

What is your opinion on air pollution? less cars!

Were you forced to read ‘The Odyssey’ in high school? from what I remember

Who was the last person to come visit you? M.

When was the last time you shaved your legs? recently

Do you own any superhero shirts? nope

What is your opinion on the “Team Edward/Team Jacob” shirts? I dislike Twilight

If you had to teach a class, what would you teach? if I really had to then art

How did your parents meet each other? personal

What profession do you think is the most under-appreciated? garbage collectors, those who clean the streets or hospitals, postmen etc.

Have you ever drawn on someone while they were sleeping? don’t do that

Does time really heal all wounds? Or is that just a trivial saying? trivial saying

Where is your favorite place to take a nap? I don’t do naps but my bed

Would you rather lose all your old memories, or never be able to make new ones? not be able to make new

Have you ever swerved off the road to avoid hitting an animal? I don’t drive

What’s a tradition you hope never dies out? it’s a secret

Do you have any exes you’d consider dating again? I’m dating my ex

Have you ever went a year without getting your hair cut? yes Do you think you could go a week without sugar? without sweets? I already do, I don’t even drink tea with sugar Would you be willing to go one day each week without meat? absolutely Do you feel comfortable telling people how much you weigh? whatever Are you any good at sewing? I know basics Have you looked at any old photos of yourself lately? this year Do you carry a calculator around with you everywhere? I don’t need it that often Do you like to plan things out or just go with the flow? plan but not strictly

Do you garden at all? If so, what types of things do you grow? I help my parents which I find pointless because there is always much more work than results Do you consider cooking to be an art? when done right How many pairs of sunglasses do you own? too many considering that I barely wear ‘em ^^” Are you a fast or slow reader? fast Would you ever spend $500 on concert tickets? hell no Do you know anyone who looks like you? there was a gal who was similar to me on tumblr but younger than me, I lost contact with her Do you get nervous when you go to the doctor? yeah :( Are you a short tempered person? oh well...

Does it take a lot to gross you out? I’m easily grossed out Last time you seen an ocean: never saw ocean in person Do you collect sea shells? not as much as I used to

What is one change you need to make in your life this month? lets not talk about it, ok?

Would you have sex with the last person you texted? done Are you planning on kissing anyone tomorrow evening? she’s gonna be busy working Do you require a lot of private time? yasss Have you ever told a guy you were a lesbian to get him to leave you alone? it’s because I’m a lesbian lmfao If you have a favorite television show, who’s your favorite character? in my most fav shows plot was more important to me than characters tbh, it’s hard to explain, I hope I’m not the only one who thinks this way haha but in Buffy I didn’t like Xander and Angel was annoying even though he was necessary, I wasn’t a fan of Faith and didn’t understand Riley existence in the universe, also Dawn changed a lot for worse but I swallowed it with patience, in Call the midwife I felt crappy when they took Chummy and Jenny away, I didn’t watch newest episodes so I have no idea who Lucille and Valerie are, I horribly miss sister Evangelina :(

What’s the best part about flying? don’t ask me, I’ve never been on a plane

Did you ever watch Sailor Moon? fragments

Chocolate or Vanilla ice cream? vanilla

If you had to get glasses would you wear contacts? I’d prefer glasses

Are mac’s really better than PC’s? I’m a PC gal

D0 y0u l1k3 t0 t@lk l1k3 a 5c3n3 k1d? *cringe*

When you were red and green clothes do you feel like a Christmas Tree? lol

What TV show has the best theme song? hard choice

New Year’s Plans? I don’t plan to live that long

Would you agree that Sex and The City is the best show ever? no way, I didn’t even care enough to watch one episode of it

Do you call your friends with red hair “ranga’s”? wtf

Have you ever been surfing? me? surfing? r u kidding?

Would you feel funny if you kissed somebody of the same sex? excuse me, I’m into women exclusively

Name a thing in your room that other probably don’t have in theirs: me ha!

What’s your best jacket like? comfy :3

What’s something you can cook or bake like a pro? nothing

If you could pull off any hairstyle, what would it look like? I have couple of ideas ;)

What is the worst thing that happened so far today? my failed appointment as I didn’t get any answers nor help for my heart condition and allergies and that was the last attempt, I have no other ways of fixing things to survive next months, my life;s officially over, I only have suffering and fear left, I’m a burden and I want to kill myself sooner than food or cardiac arrest

Did that ruin your day? it ruined my LIFE

What’s something good you’re looking forward to? sweet relieve of death?...

What’s something that you think is really cute?

*wish it was mine

Describe your feet: eww, why, better not

If you see somebody crying, do you start crying too? depends

How do you like your hoodies? oversized, without kangaroo pocket in front and/or a zipper, yuk

Is having to pee really badly worse than being really thirsty? it is to me at least

Were you a cute baby? I was a red haired potato

Are you talking to anybody right now? online

How tall are your tallest socks? I kept my rainbow knee high socks but I don’t use them anymore

Are you waiting for a phone call? at night?...

Do you look forward to swimsuit season, or get really nervous? I was skipping swimsuit seasons for over 10 years until this summer - I bought the cheapest and went to stand/walk in the water and sit on a beach despite my insecurities

If you could live for a year with any foreign family, where would you go? don’t wanna, scary

What do you wish people would pay you to do? browse the internet XD

Do you take good pictures? I try

Should you be doing something else right now? wash my hair, drink water, commit suicide - who knows

Did that question make you nervous? that question made me sad

Why don’t girls like porn? some enjoy it

Tell me a memory of this summer: this summer is all about romantic love, illnesses and nostalgy

Do you think it’s pretty when 100s of balloons are let loose into the sky? a waste but still pretty, sorry love, I know you’d be irritated so don’t worry - I will never do smth like that to ya

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yarnings · 5 years

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You’ll Have to Excuse me... I’ve Been Gone for a Month

Merry Christmas! Have some None So Scots. This is my first fic on Tumblr that wasn’t for @gotham-ruaidh‘s writing workshop, so be nice (not really. I still want to hear if there’s a huge plot hole, or if there’s something you find really troubling). Gotham still gets the credit of course. Don’t blame her for the fact that this story really hasn’t been edited enough. I don’t have the patience to wait long enough to edit it properly, especially since I like the symmetry of posting Thanksgiving dinner right after Christmas, having posted Christmas dinner shortly after Thanksgiving.

Towards the end of September, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser was lying in bed, in his apartment, browsing Macleans online, when his sister phoned him. Startled, he almost dropped his smartphone before answering.

“Hey Jenny, what’s up?”

“Nothing much, Jamie. I’m just calling to invite you to the farm for Thanksgiving dinner on the Sunday.”

Taken aback both by his sister’s tone and the invitation, he forgot about his resolution to keep his language at all times classroom appropriate.

“What the hell, Jenny? Since when do I need an invitation to eat Thanksgiving dinner at home?”

“How about since you moved out, and we’d like you to eat Thanksgiving dinner at Lallybroch with us?”

Jamie forced himself to take a deep breath and count to te-

“If you’re still willing to spend time with us, of course.”

-four. Four was a good number to count to.

“Janet. I know we discussed this during the summer. I’ve hardly moved out, I just have an apartment for during the week. Saves me from having to get up at 5:30 every morning.”

“Generally speaking, people who haven’t moved out, and are still planning on helping out around the farm, have spent more than one night since Labour Day at home.”

Breathing heavily (snorting, really) through his nose, Jamie ground out through his teeth “Perhaps this is a conversation we should be having in person, not over the phone. Since I apparently am expected to stay in the city next weekend, perhaps we can do it at Thanksgiving?”

“Can’t. You’re bringing a guest.”

“What do you mean I’m bringing a guest? Who might this guest be? Are they hiding under my bed? Nope, no one there.”

Jenny sighed heavily, the sound carrying through the phone’s speaker and filling the bedroom.

“Don’t be an arse. You know that mom’s doctor finally arrived? Mom invited her to come for Thanksgiving, since she obviously doesn’t have any family or even any friends here yet.” The new doctor wasn’t Ellen Mackenzie’s in the sense of Ellen being her patient. But when Jamie and Jenny’s mom had decided to start leaving more and more of the day-to-day running of the farm to Jenny and her husband Ian Murray, she hadn’t so much done less work as redirected the work she was doing. She had organised a physician recruitment committee, and directed it in the unusual direction of not trying to bring in a family doctor, but to hire a surgeon for the hospital. The committee’s work had succeeded, Ellen had managed to get all the visas in order, and the new surgeon had just arrived from England.

“I’ll send you the details about picking her up. And can I put you in charge of potatoes and cranberry sauce? We’ll do your usual pies for you, because they won’t travel well by car. The doctor is the only guest this year, so it’s us, mom, Murtagh and you in addition to her.” Barely giving Jamie time to confirm that he would bring the requested dishes, she hung up.

When the alarm went off, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp was lying on her new bed, not so much sleeping or even dozing as simply staring blankly at the opposite wall, exhausted and somewhat overwhelmed. Before this move she would have said that she was used to moving around a lot, and didn’t have any trouble adjusting to a new place. But this was her first time in a foreign country on her own, and to her surprise that made a big difference. Thankfully she didn’t have much to move; the household supplies that had been provided for her may very well have outnumbered her possessions. (Why on earth would anyone need that many pots? And three different vases? She was wondering if more than one recruitment committee member had taken it upon themselves to provide a full set of everything that they thought she might have left behind in Oxfordshire.)

She was feeling less and less certain about having accepted the invitation to dinner today. (“Well, we call it dinner, but it’s more of a combined lunch and dinner. We eat in the early afternoon. Come hungry.”) But at least it meant she wouldn’t have to cook. The takeaway options here were limited, and she didn’t feel like having to track down some groceries and cook for herself just yet. Putting on some nicer clothes and meeting some people was probably less work than that.

She stepped out the front door of the building just as a tall young man was approaching from visitor parking. He was a few years younger than her, approaching 2 metres, and had a head of red curls, just like Ms. Mackenzie had described her son.

“Dr. Beauchamp?” Unconsciously, Jamie shifted his accent towards a more international French, away from his usual, Canadian, pronunciation, in an attempt to impress the vision of loveliness in front of him.

“Je utilise la pronunciation anglais, c’est <<beech-am>>. Vous êtes M Fraser?” Claire blinked and realised what she had just said. “I’m so sorry, I’m a little tired and I guess I thought we were speaking French for a moment there. I was just saying that my name has a very English pronunciation – it’s ‘beech-am’.” Her accent sounded very cozy to Jamie. To his inexperienced ear it was neither working-class nor particularly posh, but beyond that he couldn’t tell. Not that he cared. All he knew was that it sounded perfect.

“Pas de problem. Je parle français aussi,” Jamie continued, switching to English, with a shy grin. “I teach the French stream for Primary – that’s the 5- and 6-year-olds – actually. It’s a change to be M Fraser to an adult instead of someone at waist height.” He waved at the car. “I’ve been told that you’re who Mom is dragging out to the farm for Thanksgiving this year. She delegated the dragging part to me though. Shall we?”

Claire walked to the door of the car, and only after opening it noticed the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I think I might be a bit jetlagged still.”

From where he was holding the passenger door open for her, Jamie grinned at her. “No worries. If you want to nap on the way I won’t tell on you.” As she came around the car, Claire looked at him with confusion.

“Wait, nap? I thought your mother lived close.”

“She’s not very far. It’s maybe a 45 minute drive.”

Claire’s eyes bugged out. “Bloody hell, that’s considered “not far”? I always thought that people were joking when they talked about distances here.” Jamie politely ignored her confusion, and walked around to the driver’s side to get into the car himself.

Despite the fact that she had never met him before, Claire found herself feeling surprisingly comfortable with Mr. Fraser, as if an instant friendship had sprung up in just the few sentences they exchanged. So comfortable, in fact, that in the companionable silence in the car she did end up dozing off. Reaching one-handed into the backseat, Jamie dug out an old plaid blanket he kept in the car for emergencies. Keeping one hand on the wheel and most of an eye on the road, he tucked it around her as they drove on.

During the drive to his family’s farm, Jamie kept stealing glances at the fascinating woman sitting in the seat next to him. Despite the popularity of holding Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday, traffic was light, allowing him this extended distraction. Apparently most people had either already done any travelling needed, or else were actually having Thanksgiving dinner on the day of. It occurred to Jamie that he probably should have asked around to see if any of his coworkers were on their own for the holiday, and maybe hosted a dinner on Monday. He mused on this for a while, enjoying the scenery outside the car almost as much as he enjoyed the scenery inside it. Eventually, he noticed that they were getting close to the end of the trip.

“Dr. Beauchamp? We’re almost there; you probably want to wake up now.” When she didn’t respond, he reached out and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. She started awake, and blinked at him.

“Lallybroch is just a few more minutes, I figured you probably wanted a bit of warning.” She screwed up her face, giving him a grimace that was probably intended to be a smile. They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither one wanting to shatter the fragile sense of intimacy that had grown out of her napping in his presence. But Claire’s curiosity got the better of her after a little bit.

“Lallybroch? That’s an interesting name.”

“It’s Scots Gaelic. Means ‘lazy tower’. My parents had to take the tower down for safety reasons when they bought the property, but they kept the name. Changing it would have been too many changes for the community to tolerate.”

Claire laughed at the mock-solemn look on Jamie’s face. “So you speak Gaelic as well as French then?”

“Not really. My mom has a fair bit more of it than I do. Some of her relatives, especially as they got older, weren’t very good in English, so she practiced it a lot. But knowing the name of the house you grew up in doesn’t take much.” As he explained this, Jamie smoothly turned off the road into the private drive, long practice letting him know where the rough parts where and how to avoid them.

When Jamie parked the car by the house and they got out, Claire insisted on helping him carry the food inside. “After all, you did the driving. I promise that I won’t try to take credit for it myself.” As they walked up to the door, Ellen opened it for them, saving Jamie from the dilemma of whether his sister would be more annoyed if he rang the bell (confirming that this was no longer home) or just walked right in (ignoring her accusation that he had moved out). It also saved him from having to decide whether he wanted to do the one that would annoy her more or the one that would annoy her less.

“Come in, come in!” Jamie’s mother called out, taking bowls from them and taking them into the kitchen. Arms free, Jamie and Claire took off their coats and shoes, leaving them by the door. Claire followed Jamie into what appeared to be the living room, where Ellen bustled out of a door that appeared to also lead to the kitchen.

“So nice to finally meet you in person, Dr. Beauchamp! I’m Ellen, as I’m sure you guessed.” She stuck out her hand to Claire. Her callused griped was firm, but she didn’t try playing any dominance games as she shook Claire’s hand.

““I really appreciate all the work you’ve put in to making my move here smooth. And it was so generous of you to invite me to your dinner. Oh, and please, call me Claire. And you too.” The last was directed to the room at large, starting with Jamie.

“Well then, I’m Jamie, Claire.” Jenny shot her brother a dark look at this, wordlessly saying You spent how long with this woman in a social setting and only now share your first name? She stepped forward, offering a handshake of her own.

“I’m Jenny, and this is my husband Ian, with our daughter Katherine” the tiny woman said, pointedly offering only first names as she gestured to the dark-haired man sitting in a plush chair, holding a baby who was industriously pulling at the bows in her dress in an attempt to remove them so she could eat them. Claire nodded to Ian, and cooed over Katherine. The last person in the living room, a wiry, somewhat disheveled man silently nodded at her.

“This is Murtagh Fraser. His grandmother was my late husband’s grandfather’s oldest sister, and he’s Jamie’s godfather. But close friend of the family might be a better description.” Claire shook Murtagh’s hand as she parsed the relationship.

“So you’re second cousins by marriage,” she said, pointing at Ellen and Murtagh. “And they’re his second cousins once removed,” pointing at Jenny and Jamie. Murtagh flashed her a quick grin, transforming his face for a brief instant. Claire had the feeling she had just passed some kind of obscure test.

Ellen invited Claire to take a seat, and almost immediately bustled back to the kitchen in response to a timer. She was followed by Jamie who wanted to check on the food he’d brought and it’s reheating, then Murtagh, who came back only to send Jenny in to confer with Ellen on the subject of turkey carving. Shortly afterwards Ellen herself returned, announcing that dinner was ready.

Once everyone was settled around the dinner table (except Katherine, who was playing with brightly coloured plastic in a playpen), Ellen said a prayer for the meal, and the feast began. In addition to Jamie’s cranberry sauce, the turkey was accompanied by gravy and a large dish of dressing (“And there’s more in the kitchen, so take as much as you want.”) There were rolls with butter, a green salad, Brussel sprouts and, to pair with the mashed potatoes, a dish of mashed rutabaga. This last caused some confusion, as none of the Cape Bretoners knew the name “swede” until Google was consulted for a picture. Claire found herself in a swirl of dishes being passed, leaving plates piled high with food in their wake. “If you need anything else, or want more of something, please, just ask.” Wine was poured, and water jugs placed out on the table, and everyone started to eat.

When Jenny had a half plate of food remaining, Katherine suddenly switched from happily entertaining herself to wailing. Jenny sighed, looking at her dinner and started to get up. Ian stopped her. “I’ll change her diaper first, you can have a bite more right now before you have to come in and nurse her.” He walked off into the house, carrying the crying baby.

Jenny took Ian’s advice and tucked into the food on her plate while it was still warm and she had company in her eating. Seeing the concern on Claire’s face, Ellen explained “Katherine isn’t fond of wet diapers. And she’s been up for a while, so she’s tired. Nothing’s actually wrong, she’s just not able to handle the discomfort. A dry diaper, a full belly and she’ll nap.” Claire smiled her thanks, not very used to interacting with small children, especially not healthy ones.

Once Jenny left to nurse Katherine, Ellen looked at Jamie and quietly said “Jamie, I’ve been wondering. You seem to be doing quite well in the city. How would you feel if moved into the granny flat, instead of you just storing your stuff there? You could have my old room as yours, so you wouldn’t need to be staying in a guest room every time you were home. And between Katherine, and the fact that you have your own place now, Jenny and Ian shouldn’t be having to live in my house. And it’s going to be my house unless I move out.” Not really having a choice, despite how his mother phrased things, and appreciating that she had waited until Jenny was out of the room to raise the issue, Jamie agreed.

“After dessert I’ll go see if there’s anything I want to take back with me today. But I can’t do anything about the majority of the books right now. Maybe I should come back tomorrow? Or I can come home after school. After all, I made the trip daily for a couple of years, I’m sure I can manage it for a few nights.” His mother raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not overly picky about it being done that quickly. Just so long as I don’t have to move all those books myself.” Jamie glared at his mother, but given the size of his personal library (at least the hard copy portion of it) he had no reasonable reply. Ian smirked a bit at this; having been recruited to help Jamie install the bookshelves, he was quite happy to have someone on his side about the excessiveness of the collection.

Murtagh grunted. “I’ll swing by the NSLC for you and grab some boxes. You might not be able to fit enough in your car if you do it yourself.” Ellen and Ian burst out laughing, and even Claire, who had been feeling slightly awkward while this not-quite-a-fight was going on snickered. Ian shot her a reassuring glance, understanding how she felt, as Jenny returned with a triumphant look on her face.

“Out like a light! Hopefully she’ll stay down, I never quite trust it when she falls asleep so quickly.” Fortunately Jenny’s worries proved to be unfounded, and the adults were able to enjoy the rest of the meal leisurely.

At the end of the meal, as the plates were being passed to Ellen to return to the kitchen, Claire offered another round of praise for the food.

“That was amazing. You’re all such good cooks. I’ve never had a meal like this one, and this was an amazing introduction.”

Jenny looked at Claire curiously. “I know that turkey is a New World food, and the cranberries, but the meal as a whole can’t have been that different from what English food is like.”

“I can’t really say, actually,” Claire replied. “We never really ate it. I was raised by my uncle, he was an archeologist. When we were out at one of his digs, he would hire a local cook. At home he tended towards curries. You have to remember that his generation grew up hating home cooking. He was 2 when food rationing started during the war, and 16 when it was fully lifted. So, once he got to choose, he stuck with a diet that didn’t resemble what he ate as a child.”

Ellen had grabbed the stack of plates to take to the kitchen. Claire grabbed a couple of serving dishes at random and followed her, to a disapproving shake of Murtagh’s head. In the kitchen, Ellen turned around and realised it was Claire who had helped out.

“Oh, Claire. You’re a guest, you didn’t need to do that. Here, I’ll take those. Why don’t you go and relax? I’ll have dessert out in a jiffy.” Claire rejoined the table in time for Jamie and Jenny to hop up with dishes to clear, leaving her at the mercy of the quiet members of the family. To her pleased surprise, Ian turned out to be perfectly capable of holding up his end of the conversation, as long as his wife and in-laws weren’t filling up all the spaces. Claire found herself immersed in his stories about shenanigans at Fort Mac. Before she knew dessert, in the form of pumpkin and apple pies, along with a bowl of freshly-whipped cream had appeared on the table.

“Would you like pumpkin or apple, Claire?” Ellen hovered her knife between two pies.

Seeing her indecision, Jamie leaned over to her and stage-whispered. “Both is generally an accepted answer.”

Claire blushed, but took Jamie’s advice. She felt less awkward when everyone except Murtagh (who asked for a larger piece of pumpkin instead) followed her lead. Unsure as to which pie she wanted to eat first and which one she wanted to save for last, she tried a bite of apple, followed by a bite of pumpkin, at which point she understood Murtagh’s logic. To her embarrassment, her appreciative moan was audible to everyone at the table. Even Jenny grinned at it.

“It appears that you’ve managed to make an acceptable substitute for my pie, Jenny.”

Claire ignored Jamie. “This is amazing. What do you put in it?”

“It’s a custard with pumpkin puree and basically mixed spice.” Jenny was quite proud of her knowledge of British culinary terms, and was thrilled to get an excuse to refer to mixed spice.

“Did you use my jar of spice mix, Jenny? Because if you did, there’s cardamom in there too.” Jamie was far less concerned with keeping his recipe secret than with taking credit for the pie’s success.

Not to be left out, Ellen piped up with her contribution. “And we used rum in the whipped cream instead of vanilla. Pairs much better with the pies that way.”

“Whatever it is you did, it’s great.”

Jamie and Jenny, however, weren’t listening, and kept verbally poking at each other for the duration of dessert, with the occasional comment from Ian and Ellen thrown in.

By the time the table was cleared again Jamie, who was still blaming his sister for the entirety of the argument over whether or not he’d moved out, as well as him having stayed in the city the last weekend and this one, realised that he was at a profound disadvantage from the assumption that Lallybroch was no longer “home”. Had it been agreed that he was living at Lallybroch, or even if he had been home for the weekend, he could have argued that someone else should drive Claire back, but as it was, clearly he was expected to drive back with her tonight. And, given that her nap in the car on the way here seemed to be wearing off, he really couldn’t join in the after-dinner drinks, as he would likely be making that trip soon. Irritated by this, he announced that he was going to his room to see what he could pack.

Jenny watched him leave with ill-concealed annoyance, and turned to Ellen, who was looking doubtful.

“It’s going to be so odd having an actual granny in the granny flat, eh mom?”

Ellen laughed. “Remember how upset Jamie got when we let him move out there in high school, but kept calling it the granny flat? He always said that since it was only him and Murtagh who had actually lived there that it should be the dude room.” She turned to Claire. “See, when Brian and I bought Lallybroch, pretty much every single building on the land was in disrepair. It ended up being cheaper to just tear them all down and replace them. Now, we were only able to afford the farm because the price was heavily discounted due to all these repairs. We were a bit tight for being able to rebuild everything. But we got lucky, and ended up with a budget – or rather something of a blank cheque – for building the house. Just the house mind you, so if we didn’t spend the money on it, it was gone. So we made sure there was everything we wanted. And after we had all the rooms I was willing to clean, we decided in a fit of optimism to add on a granny flat. We intended it as such, and always called it that, even when it was a glorified guest room, or an apartment for family who needed a place to stay. So Jenny’s right, when I move in will be the first time that the granny flat is used as such. Oh, can I get you some more wine?”

Claire looked down at this apparent non-sequitur, and realised that she had indeed finished her wine without noticing. Hmmm. Not a good sign if she was tired enough to not notice that she was drinking. While she had nothing against enjoying a few drinks on occasion, she was aware that there was a strong correlation between how much she had had to drink, and how much more blunt she got. And given that her usual tendency towards bluntness was exacerbated by being tired, too tired to notice how much she was drinking was not a good situation with people she didn’t know well, and really wanted to stay on the good side of. (Aside from lingering worries about making a good impression on Ellen, Claire found herself very much enjoying the company of the family, and held some vague hopes of seeing them socially again.)

Much to her relief, Jamie re-entered the room. They caught each other’s eyes, and spoke simultaneously.

“Jamie, I’m sorry, but I think…”

“I can take you back anytime you need, Claire. Let me know”

Murtagh let out a chuckle as Jamie and Claire paused to figure out what the other had said.

“Thank you so much Jamie. I don’t mean to take you away from your family, but the trip and time change are catching up with me.”

“No worries. I’ll probably come back later tonight or tomorrow anyhow.”

“That will make Katherine happy,” interjected Jenny. “She always likes to see you.” Jamie grinned at this, being as enamoured with his tiny niece as his mother was, and taking the olive branch from his sister for what it was.

A few minutes later, Jamie was backing out of the driveway. His leftovers were still in the kitchen, except for those parts of them that had ended up in the bundle of food his mother had handed to Claire as they were heading out the door.

Despite her fatigue, she stayed awake for the trip this time, chatting easily with Jamie, and watching the scenery out the windows. She found him more than able to share what he knew of local history, answering all the questions she had, and offering up the occasional tidbit of his own.

For his part, Jamie didn’t want the drive back to end. He found himself genuinely enjoying the time he was spending with Claire, and to his surprise was even happy that he had to do the return trip, as it meant he got more time with her all to himself. He enjoyed getting to share his knowledge with her, and as the trip back to the city wound to a close, he found himself more and more thinking of his father’s words, that when he found the right woman for him, there would be no questions, he would just know.

#Cape Breton AU #None so scots #Outlander #Outlander fanfiction #alternate universe #fanfic #if the title makes you groan I'm not sorry #And I will totally do it again #this is your warning

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deconstruct-e-v-o-l-v-e · 3 years

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the spaces between us.

I'm sure you've seen the experiment where matches are lined up next to each other and when the first one is lit, it's a cascading effect of passing the flame and they all set alight without much trying or trouble. It just happens. The second step in this experiment is when you take one match out of the line up. The flame will stay alive as it jumps from match to match, but, as soon as it reaches the gap left by the missing match, it dies out.

This came down on us like a thief in the night. It was unexpected. Here's the catch: it wasn't. The alarms have been going off for a while, and the dogs were barking outside and we just ignored it - it's nothing, right? Just the wind, maybe? The weather gets bad sometimes. Maybe it's just me imagining things - I've been really tired. I tried to wait it out, nothing happened. I tried to shh the dogs and go back to sleep. It didn't work. When I finally worked up the courage to go outside, I feel like you woke up as well, but instead of walking in the dark with me, because you know I'm scared, you stayed in bed, went back to sleep because you are tired as well and it's really important to you that you get enough sleep. But deep down you knew something was wrong, you decided to let me walk alone. This way you didn't have to do much, worry or be scared, or possibly be attacked, hit, hurt, or killed walking outside not really knowing what or who waits. You just said: "Here, take this," and handed me a sword-like weapon that looked all crusty, dusty and old - not really fit for modern battles.

It's probably a good time to start talking about the big issue we as a couple as currently facing, and to stop trying to put it off by using metaphors... I'm going to try my best to put how I feel in words, but I feel the best way you're going to understand what I see and feel is if I read you the sources. The focus will be mainly on purity culture, the harm it brings, a few reasons why it's horse shit and doesn't deserve any support in the modern day and how I'm feeling right now. I'm not going to talk about my spiritual journey, but I'll make notes on that and after we have one thing out of the way, we can talk about the church trauma and all things deconstructing - perhaps Q & A style. Sorry that I'll probably cry a few times - I love you so much, I'm overwhelmed, I'm really really scared and I don't know what to expect. I might not even cry that much, or at all - this is me feeling so much to the point where I'd rather feel numb than to make myself feel and look like a fool. This is me exhausted, but still fighting for you, but exhausted. I'm sorry that this may take quite some time, but I want you to know how much I'm begging you to understand me. I feel that you are not you any more, and I wish I could say that as a compliment, but I'm done watching you slip away from us and into the gripping hands of my abuser.

-> 3 online articles

-> tumblr summary

-> insta posts (?)

-> notepad

I that describes my logic and thinking behind the stance I'm taking in the best way possible. Now, some things to add in my own words in bullet point form:

-> You say you don't want to get married soon. We spoke about this quite a few times and we agreed on the fact that we both want some stability in our lives, ie incomes and such, we wanted for me to graduate with one degree at least first, we wanted to kind of have a clearer picture of the in's and out's of our life (like where we work, live, etc) and we wanted to grow closer together before saying "I do." We agreed that it's best to wait a bit, maybe a couple years, 2 or 3, figure things out, you know. But recently it felt like every time I jokingly talk about our wedding, or honeymoon, or the guest list and destination, or even if it's not a joke, if I show you pictures of dresses and rings I like with the intend of seeing your reaction and being excited and to dream with you, you're just...kind off...bland. Blank. Just "ja" and fill the air with awkward silence, which NEVER used to EVER happen between us, remember? I feel like you stopped dreaming with me. This makes me feel like you may not want to get married to me anymore, that you're unsure about our future together, that there's something you're just not telling me.

So you say you don't want to marry soon, like next week, sure, I can agree with that although I always wanted to get married at 23/24, have kids at 26/27, have them grow up to be at an age where they'll understand when Mommy will be gone for 3/4 months because she's going to walk on the Moon or go look at the stars while flying around Earth in an awesome space suit before I commit to the next stage of my career before it's too late. But we reasoned it out and agree with waiting, it makes the most sense.

-> Then you say you don't want to have sex before getting married. The last time we spoke, you were scared of judgement from the Lord, if I remember correctly. The Bible mentions "sexual relationship before marriage/ not between man and his wife" - do we not have a sexual relationship? We do. And you said you're more than happy with what we do, you don't feel uncomfortable, you don't see anything wrong with it, it's just the sex part... Eh? Okayyy? Recall the tons of articles to know how I feel about this whole purity culture thing.

But now, you expect me to wait and be patient until we are ready to write our vows (hopefully not on a private tumblr post at 1am in the morning like I am now, lol). I'm giving us time for that. But then you also expect we to wait until then to take the next natural step in our relationship? It's something we both been wanting to do for a while now, we're both adults, we're committed to each other, so uh...yeah.

It is extremely unfair to have left me in the dark, not telling me THE MOMENT you started having second thoughts. I am fucking devastated. How can you think that that is okay to do? Did you even think about me at all? I think I expressed myself over text pretty well so I won't repeat it here.

Just asking me to wait... eh I don't know how long? 1 year? 2? 5? 7? I just want to you think for a moment how that must make me feel, knowing how much I hate uncertainties (to this extent). Don't you agree it's really fucking cruel?

-> Some practicalities I want you to know about, that you might not have considered: On our wedding night, I want to celebrate us, to go to bed together and being like "Holy shit! We did that!", maybe we'll fall asleep in dress & suit and all because of how tired we are, even. I don't want it to be stressful and nerve wrecking. I don't want us to only try and figure out what we're doing with our bodies and it being kinda shit and then that being the vivid memory that will stick with us for the rest of our lives. I want us to know how we physically fit together, how we move together in a way that has become so normal to us, that we don't have to panic about how to this and where to do what, so we are just in that moment, together, as Mr and his Mrs Akkerman. We'll remember that, the excitement of the first time as a married couple (geez, look at us adulting! Suck it, world!). We'll remember how comfortable we were with each other and our selves. We'll remember how we'd already have the tricks, the nooks, the nitty gritty figured out and just...be.

I don't want to be hiding because maybe I didn't wax or shave or maybe someone looked at me funny and now I don't want you to touch or see my tummy or my neck or any other part of me because I'm scared you won't love it - you'll just have to like it because now I'm your wife.

I don't want to be in pain. I don't want to feel sore for maybe days after and that being the thing I think about all day as I have to manoeuvre around instead of just taking in every moment of pure bliss, no matter what we're up to or where we're exploring. I don't want to feel ripped open and maybe lay there and bleed and feel discomfort. I don't want to not do it for a while after that because it hurts and we would want to do it again and a lot because we've had to wait so damn long. I don't want it to maybe last 2 minutes, and be disappointed, you know? And then remember that about our wedding night. Don't tell me it's okay, it will be fine. No. I'm telling you, I'm not comfortable with any of that. Not even the idea of it.

-> I don't want us getting married being rushed by lust. I'm not saying it will definitely happen, but I don't want that to even play a role in when we eventually get married, not even a teeny tiny bit. I don't want want people to look at us and say that we're getting married only because we just can't wait anymore. You and I both know I normally don't give two shits about who gives their two cheap cents about me, but this is questioning our integrity as a couple. And I ain't with that.

About that specifically and faith in general: I feel like I'm being thrown around in this relationship, and that I'm expected to just be alright with it because the claim always seems to be from only a religious stand point. So how can I go against something so important to you? To this point I was okay to ruin myself, rather. I'm done with that. I don't feel heard. I also don't feel understood. I feel that my beliefs, because they are different, are looked down on, and seen as wrong, and just me "not knowing xyz about having a companionship with Christ." I've been feeling like an outreach project, not a life partner. We've agreed to take our own spiritual paths for now, but respecting one another in the mean time before we will naturally cross paths will be crucial although not enough. I believe, by talking about the differences in our beliefs, experiences, opinions, hurt, trauma, questions, answers, methods, that we will gain understanding, and we will learn from each other and we will change to accommodate each other's beliefs, because we want us to work, right? We will talk about this more in detail but I have a really good feeling about this going forward. I feel like I'm finally busy with something that works for me, that's sustainable and that makes sense. The ball is rolling and I'm already so excited to learn and live and love and to feel free. For the first time in a long time, I want to work on this every day. Actively seeking truths. Growth. This is not something I want to put off anymore. But, this will take a lot of time! We will have differences for the rest of our lives. And I think that's beautiful. Forever seeking, learning, wondering, questioning, helping and loving.

The immediate next step(s) for us as a couple are very clear: sex, physically, and getting married. You're not okay with either, so where does this leave me?

I think I want to finish this off by saying that having sex is no longer a mere decision between you and God. A promise or vow, if you will. No longer a spiritual decision YOU make, and that really I'm forced to make, by accepting that this is just how it is. This is turning into emotional pain. A lot. Heart break. A whole lot. Uncertainty about us. Loads. Stress, anxiety, frustration, anger, feeling abandoned and feeling like your second best. Not a high enough priority. I feel not good enough for you, not pure enough, not kind enough, not forgiving enough, not submissive enough, not smart enough, not loving enough, not religious enough, not intelligent enough, not beautiful enough for you. Just not enough, for you. For what you want and what you need and what you deserve. And this breaks me into so many little pieces. In the past it's gotten so bad that I would almost literally do anything just to get your attention. From complaining about a tummy ache or work way too many times to, unfortunately, more extreme things like not eating for extended amounts of times. To see if you'll notice if I get skinnier or look pale or have fatigue or just...anything. I need to be your love and feel like your love, again.

I miss the nicknames, the stupid little twirly thing I sometimes did when we're walking hand in hand. I miss when you used to play with my hair (even though I had to ask) and when you used to smell my hair and being like "sssssmmm, ah". I miss the little looks we exchanged, sometimes without the other noticing, but sometimes our eyes met and in that moment we'd just...be. I miss the cuddles, I miss dreaming together, but above anything else. I miss us. You.

I'm so sorry for not being a good listener, a good supporter. I'm sorry for making you angry, frustrated and irritated so much. I'm sorry for putting you in difficult situations. I'm sorry for the lack of compassion and understanding. I'm sorry for all my baggage you have to deal with as well because it gets too heavy for me to drag sometimes. I'm sorry for making your life so difficult and your thoughts so complicated. I'm sorry for not creating a space for you to feel safe and comfortable in so share your thoughts and feelings. I'm sorry for overreacting. I'm sorry for being so demanding. For caring too much, too deeply. Being jealous. Being scared. Having trust issues and so many insecurities. I'm sorry for making it hard to be patient, and kind. I'm sorry for all the times I made you feel not good enough, or that you're not trying hard enough, or that you're too this and too that and that you're always wrong and can't do anything right. The truth is that you are so much more than I deserve. I appreciate that you're there for me when I'm not even there for myself sometimes. I appreciate your goodnight messages and little touches. I appreciate your prayers. I appreciate that you still put in effort to spend some time with me, to be around me, because to me I'm someone I don't want around. I appreciate you sticking around and not giving up on me.

I'm sorry for holding you back.

I'm sorry that I'm making it really difficult to love me.

I'm sorry that I am really difficult to love.

I hope for, dream about and wish upon things quite often, sometimes even several times a day, however, I don't pray a lot. I don't know how to and I don't think I'm doing it right. But I pray that somehow you will still find it in your heart to continue to love me.

If we continue to make and live with spaces between us, our "twin flame" will die out when it can't ignite the spark between us anymore due to the voids we created - just like with fire matches. And just like the fire matches, we need to meet on the same level in order for us to keep the "fire" between us going. I always liked to play with fire (literally), so fight will I damn fight for my twin flame.

All the love,

Me. <3

Breathe!

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hydaelyn-arts · 7 years

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Of the indelicacy of Witch Hunts

This could have been a day like any other. One where I would sit at my computer once my coffee was prepared, ready for another day, beginning with a quick glance at my emails and private messages on various social media platforms as is customary. Then, I noticed there was a submission waiting for me which isn’t unusual and always makes me happy. After over year, Hydaelyn Arts is keeping its promise to be a voice for every artist within our community. Yet when I checked, the name of the contributor was unknown and odd.

I checked the links, read the witty comment “Anon ([email protected])” found necessary to add, and set aside my breakfast to write what will be the second message of this blog.

About “using references” and “tracing”

Each and everyone has their own point of view on referencing and tracing, which can range from “It’s alright so long it follows some rules.” to “I’ll submit art to Hydaelyn Arts because it doesn’t matter if it’s traced or referenced, this person deserves to burn in hell!” So while my eggs and bacon are getting cold, I’m wondering if “Anon ([email protected])” knows the difference between referencing, tracing, and when one or the other is appropriate to do in as an artist in a variety of situations or if “Anon ([email protected])” thinks both are big, bad boogeyman to be avoided at all times. Apparently not.

So instead of labeling references and tracing as evil in all situations outright, let’s demystify them a bit, shall we?

Using references

References are something which is accepted in the art community at large, utilized regularly by industry professionals who have directories full of references and should hopefully be used by every artist whenever it is needed. If an artist creates something without the use of references, it is usually because they have done multiple studies prior to creating a piece of artwork, to the point where they no longer need a reference to create the piece. However, nowhere in the professional art industry is it considered shameful or wrong to use reference when creating work.

To be quite frank, if you think references are taboo, it is a sign that you’re ignorant of what working in the art industry is like, have not been through any kind of formalized art training, never went to a museum to admire accurate portraits or watched a movie where people are asked to pose for an artist. Everyone from Da Vinci to Norman Rockwell to Disney used references for their craft. Entire films like Alice in Wonderland relied on live actors to perform for the artists so they could realistically get movements down as firmly as possible.

To consider using references as something bad is ridiculous.

Who hasn’t done a gesture to describe it properly in text? Who hasn’t looked at their hand to draw fingers properly? Who hasn’t done a google or youtube search to have a better idea of a movement before animating it? Using references helps artists progress, because who can draw or describe a Tacca chantrieri without having seen or heard of it before? Even if they have (heard of it), without having practiced it many times it’s unlikely an artist could pull all the details from memory. It is necessary for growth as an artist, to learn about the world in order to avoid things like this from happening:

Think of how much better the above artwork could have been if the artist just looked at some actual reference of what a real human woman looks like in a similar pose instead of just winging it.

Tracing

Ladies and gentlemen, ready your pitchforks, the evil word has been written. The one that’s caused several artists in this community to be pilloried, at times unfairly. Most of these people have deleted their Tumblr blogs, after a group has tried and convicted them for something they did (and sometimes didn’t) do.

The term tracing means what it says: to trace, one works atop another piece of art to make an exact copy. Like using references, it can be a useful tool for artists to practice and learn from (if they are using it in an ethical manner for study), but it has its limitations. Very easily, tracing can become a crutch, hindering an artist’s progression in the long term. This post isn’t about singing the praises of the virtues of tracing, however. What needs to be discussed here are the times when a piece of art is posted by someone, and others decide it has been traced, often without taking the time to double check to make sure that it is actually the case.

The important words in that last sentence are “others decide it has been traced”.

In some cases, the evidence of tracing is flagrantly obvious. In other cases, the lines literally and figuratively are blurred. If you weren’t there during the process, or if the lines don’t match perfectly, it can be difficult to tell if a work has been traced, if it was just heavily referenced, or if both artworks in question coincidentally have a similar pose. Yes, it’s true that many art thieves will try to manipulate images to hide their tracing, but where do we draw the line? How do we know for absolute certain the difference between someone who tried really hard to obscure their tracing efforts and someone who just happened to draw a head at the same angle?

As an artist, it is easy to get fired up about destroying a potential art thief with extreme prejudice and understandably so. No one wants to work hard and study hard, spending years and years refining their skills only for some asshole to stroll along and profit from that effort by tracing it all and passing that work off as their own. However, if we don’t take the time to carefully decide for ourselves, investigate things on our own, and see with our own eyes whether something was traced or if something less insidious was perhaps at play, we’re liable to hurt people that were undeserving of our rage.

Is this person always an art thief or is this surprising new behavior? Has this artist created multiple original pieces before now or do all their works appear potentially traced? Are significant portions about the artwork an exact match or is this potentially a case where someone malicious can rely on Tumblr to get up in arms the moment it’s implied someone is tracing without some rock solid evidence?

The easiest method to refute accusations of tracing would be for an artist to provide their references. But, given that references are often derided as a sin on par with tracing, many artists feel uncomfortable admitting they used any material as support for their work at all.

Tumblr “domino effect”

I want to be clear. I don’t consider one artist copying another’s work and claiming it as their own a good thing. Tracing artwork and passing it off as your own work is unquestionably wrong, but I have seen too many witch hunts on Tumblr based upon half-baked evidence to let myself get swept up in emotion now.

After all this time spent on Tumblr, a question we should be asking ourselves is whether a barrage of fury, harassment, hate mail, and cruelty is really what we want our first response to be when we encounter someone who is potentially tracing, or if we want to approach things calmly, through private messages and peaceful dialogue - until we’re absolutely certain we’re dealing with an unrepentant thief willing to profit off of their fellow artists without guilt or shame.

For me, the answer is the latter.

There’s enough rage on Tumblr already. And I believe that most people who are using this platform have already witnessed what happens when someone is accused of something. Even more when the topic is "tracing". Not only does the primary post spread like wildfire, but people instantly see red and reblog within a few seconds without taking the time to make sure that it is actually a case of tracing. Then suddenly more posts pop up, often with blanket statements such as “Tracing is bad” or “If You are OK with Art Thieves Unfollow Me”, bland generic statements which are often reblogged by people who aren't aware of the drama but agree with the sentiment. All of this is like a whole orchestra shaming the artist whose voice cannot be heard through the clamor. At this point, it doesn't matter if the artist actually traced or not. Even if it's not the case, the harm has been done and nothing can repair it. Nothing. Tumblr already judged them guilty as charged.

How do you expect this experience, justified or not, to not have a huge impact on the person who is the victim of so much hate? Ask yourself how you would feel in such a situation, how you would deal with it, and how you would recover, even if by some miracle someone proves that the statement was wrong and their voice was heard.

I saw the effect first hand as I have been swimming in the artist community for long enough to have met victims of the Tumblr mob. They are broken. Judged guilty before they were allowed to be proven innocent. Sometimes even abandoned by people they thought as being friends. Alone, against a whole community. If they disappear, it's not always out of shame, but because the experience they dealt with left a trauma, at times even leading them to stop their craft for some time or forever. Is this really what you want? If it's a first time for them, if the proof is really hard to see or if they didn't do anything, they don't deserve any of this rage. Posting such an accusation on Tumblr is like a train breaking loose that you can never ever again stop. No matter what they do in the future, there will always be someone to remind them of what they did, or didn't do, sometimes waking up the rumors for another time. I'm asking you again... Is this really what you want?

Until I’m positive of what I’m dealing with, and that the artist in question is truly a thief who felt no remorse about what they were doing and only seemed sorry when they were caught in the act, I want to treat people with the dignity they deserve. I want to avoid jumping to conclusions and getting caught by the wild self-righteousness that Tumblr is infamous for. And if it turns out they are tracing? I want to be that person who calmly tries to help this artist see what they’re doing wrong. I want to talk them into embracing and enjoying what art really can become if they do things the right way. I’m not here to be a destructive force, I’m here to celebrate art, share it with the community, and get others to love it just as much as I do.

Thus, “Anon ([email protected])” if you want to start a crusade, you will have to do it from your own personal platform, rather than as a submission to mine. Especially as you took the time to create another account to submit your request since this blog doesn't accept anonymous ones. If you are REALLY positive that tracing was absolutely going on here, then find your courage and post this to your own blog instead of submitting it to mine, hoping you can foist the responsibility on someone else.

I’m not here for witch hunts, “Anon ([email protected])”. I’m here for beautiful artwork of Hydaelyn and sharing it with the community at large. If I discover artwork that is unquestionably traced on this blog, I will remove the post in question, but I will never accept submissions like what you sent to this blog. Relevant or not. And even if the person throwing around accusations is right on their statement, the accused deserves a private message and a chance to explain themselves before being burned at the stake.

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thecrazydragonlady · 7 years

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“A Girl’s Night In”- A ML Fanfiction

Synopsis: Everyone knows that Ladybug, Volpina, and Queen Bee are the ultimate superhero team (despite some petty arguments every now and then). However, Marinette, Alya, and Chloe... not so much. A girls' night in is exactly what they need!

PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTE FOR ADDITIONAL WARNINGS!

Author’s Notes: Alright so I'm a light weight when it comes to my writing. You all know this. You've seen it. I marked this series as "T" to be safe because I wasn't sure what I would be writing and now I kinda know. So, fair warning, if you're squeamish like me (really, I'm 100% certain I'm stuffed with cotton at this point), heads up. There are some "Teen" rated questions in this short story. So my anon #2 on Tumblr, I hope you enjoy your request as well as everyone else!

Chloé Bourgeois slammed a hand down on the desk-table of Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Alya Césaire. Both girls, along with most of the class, jumped. She glared them down hard. “I can’t believe you two came to school wearing those outfits.” Alya looked down and then back up.

“Chloé, we always wear these outfits.”

She brushed her bangs back with a flourish, “And you always look trashy.”

Marinette stood then, “At least we don’t look like an over-ripe banana every day.” The class audibly gasped in unison. She was certain she heard Kim eagerly elbowing Alix in the side as the fight seemingly was about to escalate but Chloé, being smarter than some people actually gave her credit for, cut her losses, turned with a humph, and returned to her seat just as their teacher walked in to begin the lesson. Marinette sat back down.

When all eyes were off of her, the darker haired girl opened a white piece of paper left on the corner of her desk. It had a simple hand-written message on it that read:

Eight PM. Back door. I’ll be sure to let the two of you in. All snacks provided by me.

She slid the note over to her desk mate. Alya read it, nodded her head, and turned back to the lesson. Both girls had a soft smile on their face and the same thought on their mind, ‘As if we’re letting her provide all the snacks.”

*****

Very few people were on the streets of Paris around Le Grand Paris at eight PM. Some cars traveled past and every now and then they could hear honks or other noises in the distance but it wasn’t anything to worry about. In fact, Chat Noir promised he had patrol on lock for sure. He would call or get their attention somehow if an akuma started to attack. Tonight was just a girl’s night for sure. Marinette and Alya giggled with each other before the darker skinned girl raised her hand to knock on the back door of the hotel but to their surprise, it was flung open to a slightly flustered looking Chloé on the other side. She blushed.

“I-I wasn’t waiting for you two or anything,” she mumbled. Alya rolled her eyes.

“Sure you weren’t Chloé.” She walked past her into the kitchen of the hotel, “Just like you didn’t want everyone to know that you were actually inviting me and Marinette over for a sleepover tonight.”

“Think about it fox-brain,” she huffed, shutting the door behind the two girls. “We’ve hated each other for two years. What do you think everyone will think if we suddenly are buddy-buddy?”

“That you were finally given a human spirit?”

“Har-har.”

“Ladies, can we argue somewhere that isn’t the middle of a busy kitchen on a Friday night,” Marinette noted. She nodded her head at a couple of the assistant chefs that were staring at them highly confused. The two appropriately bowed their heads. Chloé led them to the service elevator; it was faster and more private than going back out to the main elevators in the hotel lobby. Like she pointed out, it probably wouldn’t be a good thing if too many people knew that they were talking very abruptly after two years of straight, close to bare knuckle, fighting with each other. She did, however, at least have the foresight to tell her father and the butler about the sleepover happening tonight.

The ride up was quiet. When the elevator dinged and opened the door, she led the way down to a pair of white double doors. Her butler stood outside. She made a request for some snacks to be sent up. He bowed, going to get them.

Alya and Marinette smiled at each other. She opened the door to her room and motioned them inside.

It didn’t matter how many times Marinette saw it, whether in the mask or out, it still amazed her at the sheer size of the other girl’s room. She was certain that about three or four of her own rooms could fit inside the space. Chloé motioned to the couch. “You can sit your stuff there.”

“Oh no no. We’re not going to be playing this game.” Alya pointed to the bed. “Go get your pillows.” Chloé balked.

“What?”

“Go get your pillows.”

“And the blankets,” Marinette chirped.

“And you might want to call for extras from your butler.”

“Oh! Change into your pajamas. We’re doing this. We’re having a legit slumber party!”

The blonde girl hesitated, momentarily looking confused, as Marinette gave her a playful shove to get her back in motion. She disappeared to her bedroom for a second to do as ordered. The other two took the moment to change into their own nightclothes and to start rearranging some of the couch cushions to make a comfortable sleeping area (if they ever got to that). Chloé came back with the requested covers and pillows, “Bentley’s bringing more … what in the world are you two doing to my room?”

“Pillow fort,” Mari cheered. Alya came up to wrap an arm around her neck.

“You’ve ever made one before Queen Bee?” Her face paled. She couldn’t look either girl in the face.

“Yeah… a long time ago… with my mom.”

They froze for a second. Chloé was sure she was going to cry until Alya gave her a squeeze around the shoulder. She looked up. The other girl was smiling at her with such gentleness that she was shocked into silence. Few people ever gave her such a look. If they did it was more out of hatred, out of spite. It was meant to be derogatory. Alya’s wasn’t.

“Hey,” she assured her, “Let’s make some new memories okay? Happier ones. Your mom might not be here but you definitely can count on me and Marinette to be. We’re your partners after all.” She nodded, quickly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as Alya took some of the pillows from her hands and went over to where the couch cushions were stacked around. Marinette took them from her, spreading them out and making a comfy looking tent. At one point, Alya dared to smack Marinette with a pillow which resulted in an immediate pillow fight which further resulted in at least two dead pillows, feathers everywhere, and giggles erupting from the throat of each them. There was a knock on the door. They were giggling too much for permission to be given so Bentley opened the door and was amazed to see such a mess in the room. Chloé righted herself quickly. She cleared her throat.

“Sorry Bentley. We’ll get it cleaned later.”

The man about had a heart attack. Instead, he smiled and provided the girls with their requested pillows and snacks before disappearing out the door again. They decided that that was enough of fighting. They finished the fort and crawled in.

Their kwamis came out of hiding. Trixx nuzzled up to both Pollen and Tikki before flying around all of their heads, settling in on a cushion nearby. Tikki grabbed a cookie that Mari offered from her bag before she slid out the other snacks.

“I thought I told you I ….” Alya put a finger on her lips.

“Oh no you don’t. Do you see these snacks?” She held up a carrot. “This is a sleepover not a health fest. One night of “bad” eating isn’t going to kill any of us. That’s why Mari and I so generously brought…” They dumped their bags out to reveal a mountain’s worth of junk food and sweets from the Dupain-Cheng bakery, “…the snacks!” Chloé stared them down. Eventually she conceded, taking a macaroon from Marinette when she offered it. Alya then opened a bag of chips and offered some to Trixx who took one. Pollen went for a honey-flavored candy Marinette offered to her. Once everyone was settled, Alya smirked. She pulled out her phone. “Alright girls, game time! Truth or Dare Marinette.”

“Why do I feel like this is going to be a dangerous game?”

“Truth or Dare.”

“Ugh… uh…. Truth.”

“Great. How many people have you had a wet dream about in our class?” Chloé nearly spit out her drink. Tikki, Trixx, and Pollen gasped. Marinette turned scarlet. Alya just continued shooting her a smirk. “Answer the question.”

Marinette buried her face in her hands. She mumbled something out but neither of it heard it.

“What was that?”

She sighed and held up a number. Four. Alya practically jumped her. “Their names! I want their names!”

Marinette shoved her off. “No way! The question was just for the number. Somebody else’s turn!” Alya sat back down and humphed.

“Fine but don’t think I won’t find out.”

She stuck her tongue out. “In your dreams.”

“Chloé,” Alya ignored her, “Truth or dare.”

“Ugh, I’m so going to regret this,” she groaned, “but truth.”

“Truth then… ah! Here’s a good one. Have you ever or would you consider ever stripping for anyone who asked?” Marinette gagged.

“Oh my god! Alya!”

Chloé raised a hand to stop the other girl. Looking at her with a straight face, she answered seriously with, “Depends on who’s asking.”

“Nuh-huh. It says anyone. You can’t exclude.”

“Well that’s ridiculous,” she huffed. “I’m not going to strip for just anyone.”

“But you would strip,” Marinette hesitantly asked. Chloé’s face erupted and she looked at the top of the blanket tent they were in.

“I mean… uh….”

“No need to get embarrassed now.” Alya poked her cheek. She slapped it away.

“Okay. Fine. Yes. I would strip but it would matter who asked and no I am not giving names.” Alya’s face twisted into a pout. Marinette chuckled and took her phone.

“Alright Alya, your turn. Truth or dare.”

“No way,” Chloé scoffed. “We did truth. She gets no choice. It’s truth.”

“That’s not how this is played Chloé!”

“To bad. We’re changing the rules.” The blonde crossed her arms defiantly and stuck her tongue out at the other girl. Alya growled lowly. Marinette, being the peace keeper, scrolled down on the list until she found a good question: “Have you slept in a bed with someone other than a family member?”

She laughed , “Of course I have.” The two girls jumped forward, eager to hear more but she tisked at them and sat back. “Oh no you don’t. I didn’t hear your secrets so you don’t get to hear mine.” They sat back disappointed, making the same noise and movement. This elicited giggles from all of them and the game continued long into the night until Marinette, who everyone knew was very fond of her sleep, demanded that they try to get a couple of hours at best so there wouldn’t be any grumpiness in her body the following day.

*****

Paris was pleasingly shocked by the dynamics of the new superhero team with the next akuma. There was no squabbling like in the past. They were quick, efficient, and above all, far closer as a team than anybody would have ever expected.

****

Like my work? Buy me a kofi. <3

#mlfanfiction #fox!alya #bee!chloe #Ladybug #Volpina #Queen Bee

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violetemerald · 7 years

Text

So the tumblr mobile app is really frustrating me these past couple of days but…

for this: http://luvtheheaven.tumblr.com/post/159203462757/jerseydevious-ricobrzenskas-hypocean

I got two asks. One I accidentally answered privately despite a really long answer I meant to have be public. Great. Stay tuned to see if I can get it back from the person I sent it to via copying and pasting.

And the other…

@traumacarriedsara asked me the other of the two “asks” I received about this… and THANK YOU. This was too much fun lol. (BTW I’d happily do this again and much much shorter once you catch up on Legends of Tomorrow…) I had a lot of fun with this, saved it as a draft, and… lost it. Maybe I sent it privately by mistake *again* just like the other, I don’t even know…

So… idk what’s going on but let’s just create a text post, shall I? I still have the whole post because of the magic of copying and pasting and me having prepared this time to maybe lose it... lol

Character Aaron Hotchner from Criminal Minds, you say?

Headcanon A: what I think realistically

Headcanon B: what I think is fucking hilarious

Headcanon C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends

Headcanon D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway

…

Well really, almost all my Hotch headcanons are some combination of the A, C, and D types.

I think they wouldn’t realistically call it that, but David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner are straight (albeit Hotch I think has a more specific type or might lean demisexual) yet they are clearly in a queerplatonic relationship with each other. I’m talking way beyond typical best friends. They have each other’s backs at work and for home life. They know each other’s secrets and hardships. Rossi helps out Hotch with practical things whether it be coaching Jack’s soccer team or helping him go into Witness Protection in the new season. In general Rossi has been painted as everyone’s protector on this show but especially Hotch’s because Hotch helps protect everyone else and doesn’t have anyone else to particularly look out for him. That being said, I like to headcanon that way more than on the actual show, there have been times when Rossi needed things and Hotch goes above and beyond to help him. There’s hints of it anyway but I imagine also that there are times when maybe Hotch has acknowledged to himself, even, however more difficult it is… acknowledged to Rossi! just how important Rossi is to him.

A headcanon that amuses me a bit that I often think about while rewatching the show is that Hotch is in love with JJ. Usually not heartbreaking although… I think if it is requited at all it’s mutual pining at best.

I believe Hotch and Beth wouldn’t have broken up.

I headcanon that until Beth, the only person he’d ever slept with was Haley. They met in high school after all.

I strongly headcanon that Hotch grew up in an extremely complicated abusive situation and only Rossi knows these kinds of details about his past, although the rest of the team are good at their jobs and have plenty of suspicions. It doesn’t work with canon exactly UNLESS I really force it but I’ve been taking notes in my rewatch and so many little things about Hotch add to my thought process about what could’ve happened to him, and I’ll try to write a Hotch fanfic at one point.

Part of what doesn’t work with canon is that his parents, either of them, abused him. Because of the way he talks about his father’s (contradictory two different causes of) death, and after Morgan prompts him in a season 7 episode, his mom too. (She made him good breakfasts and he serves the same to Jack.)

I have concocted an elaborate headcanon for myself in the meantime where Hotch’s father kidnapped, sexually molested, took out rage, and probably killed random kids and Hotch was “only” a helpless witness for some of this, his father’s main form of abusing Hotch was subjecting him to watching this happen to others. This man was the epitome of psychologically abusive to his own family, to his wife/to Hotch’s mom, to Aaron, to his brother Sean but maybe *only Aaron* ended up really knowing a large chunk of the horror.

By high school or so Hotch and Sean ended up luckily in a new home or perhaps separate homes. I forget the age difference between them but Sean is a lot younger so I’m thinking Aaron was in high school and Sean was… very little. The people Hotch chooses to consider Mom and Dad are his adoptive or foster parents. They might’ve been an older couple when they took him in which is why they died before the show started…

I imagine the horrible things that he watched happen to other kids but that didn’t happen directly to him make Aaron constantly feel that he’s lucky, that any trauma he’s endured is nothing compared to the horror others have had to survive or others didn’t survive at all. I imagine his extreme involvement in cases involving trying to rescue children from monsters is not just inspired by his own feelings of love for his own son but much more than that by many memories. I take little moments from the show for his character and interpret how they’d fit in with this, like the way Hotch is often the one doing CPR on children at the end of an ep if there is a child…

Since you, @traumacarriedsara, and I already discussed seasons 1-3 Hotch moments from angles of him being abused I’ll start with some season 4 ones. Hotch tells Morgan at the end of 4x01 that the fact that he’s alive, his own life, means a lot to him. It seems like a significant and oddly vulnerable moment. This is the aftermath of the explosion and an episode where Hotch tries so hard to save a friend’s life but unfortunately fails… and then the next episode, Hotch reacts to the bad news that his hearing problems could become permanent with almost no reaction. Doesn’t let it bother him. And he takes risks that hurt his hearing and cause him physical pain like going on the plane anyway, because his job is so important to him? Hotch is also the agent, of all the agents it could’ve been, to in this episode look into the dead baby’s nursery, Hotch takes it all in, then knows to look in the chest with the flowers on top and finds the corpse.

There are more moments I wrote down but I want to skip to a few more pertinent ones:

4x04 Hotch is upset he had talked to the unsub and missed the this was the guy they’d been looking for. He’s driving, rossi in the passenger seat,and Rossi reassures him that it could’ve been any of them. Hotch is still upset about it at the end if the episode though. He bows his head shamefully and Rossi tells him we’ve all been there. Hotch takes it so personally that he couldn’t tell.

4x06 there’s a lot to unpack but… skipping a little… he has to regretfully inform the parents of the kidnapped boy that they did find a preferential sex offender at the funeral but not the person who has their son. The mother asks how many of these people are out there and he sadly and solemnly answers “more than you want to know”. I think it’s interesting how much Hotch gets to be the one dealing with the emotional parents in this episode. Later, the mother grabs the phone from Hotch and tearfully begs thar her son not be hurt. He watches her sadly.

4x09 has so much… Hotch yells at Jordan for lying to a family during one of the worst times of their lives, lying about having a sister who died. He takes it very personally. As he leaves angrily, Jordan turns to Morgan 10:45 and asks him how badly she screwed up. Morgan says on a normal scale of 1-10 probably a 6, but on Hotch’s an 11. For some reason this is a particularly sore spot for Hotch. (This reminds me a bit of the serial killer on death row lying about his childhood and Hotch reacting especially negatively.)

There’s other things I took notes on while rewatching season 4 but I’ll slip just to the simple fact that in 4x17, when asked whether or not he believes in evil, he gives the in between answer between Rossi and Morgan. He mentions how he thinks we’re all capable of unspeakable things.

In 4x18, the first episode with George Foyet, Hotch chooses to make a pretty long trip to Boston when Shaunessy is on his death bed and it seems like that’s kind of what Hotch tends to do repeatedly, people he doesn’t know well, sometimes unsubs, he still wants to be a comfort in a dying moment if they have no one else. Hotch firmly states “we don’t let them get away with it” and what Shaunessy did was wrong. Hotch clearly and explicitly refuses to make a promise to the dying man that he doesn’t intend to keep. He will tell the victim’s families he’s sorry but not that he had no choice, because Hotch believes Shaunessy did have a choice. But by the end of the episode, after Foyet asks Hotch why more people had to die , trying to blame him, Hotch is strong enough to say “Don’t ask me, you’re the serial killer”. I think from the perspective that Hotch had lived through his father being a serial killer and maybe his mother letting the guy get away with a lot or even helping, a lot of types of scenes work in a new light. I love rewatching the whole show with this headcanon in mind.

Even 4x24 Hotch stays professional whole anthrax ep and can’t focus on Reid dying either, he draws a firm stance around protocol and around how if there’s nothing more that they as fbi agents can do for Reid, they need to focus on the bigger picture. And it’s practically cold and kind of a contrast to how he has acted in some other episodes, but at the same time I think it’s interesting that he’s got that kind of strength and focus and determination and ability to compartmentalize.

I didn’t want to go into later seasons because we’d be here all day but I do briefly want to mention 5x08, where the whole ep deals with families being murdered again. I find his argument with Emily about whether or not to show pictures of a dead 12 year old to a serial killer interesting. She says they’re not “just” images and he says that’s exactly what they are!! I could honestly see the scene reversed having worked too. Either character could take the practical, “these are pictures, they aren’t causing additional harm to real people” stance and either could be too blinded by emotion. But like.. considering how protective and viscerally angry Hotch is in cases involving kids… considering this headcanon of mine…

I feel like Hotch is focused on whatever it takes saving children. He stopped being a prosecutor because while putting away the monsters felt good, it always felt like it was too late. He wants to catch them earlier, be a part of literally saving lives in a less abstract way, and while it does upset him if a serial killer gets pleasure out of others’ pain, most of the time his focus is more on trying not to care about what the serial killer feels or doesn’t feel. He is extremely determined in wanting to *practically* figure out how to save the most future pain, save victims.

Now the biggest thing is that however much I try to make it work with canon, this extremely intense headcanon actually doesn’t work with canon, I just believe it anyway. It doesn’t make sense that it would never have come up. Especially with the whole Ashley Seaver arc… It probably doesn’t make sense that Hotch is this well adjusted, even. But… I like to believe it all anyway.

I am exploding with so many thoughts and feelings when it comes to so many characters on this show, really…

#criminal minds #hotch #aaron hotchner meta #criminal minds meta #fandom meta

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