#fanfics are not exploiting that trope nearly enough

[sinvulkt]

Look at the amazing Batman & Court of owl animatic I found ☆.☆

[stygianflood]

Like the Shoreline and the Sea (Ethan x F!MC)

Summary- Ethan is asked out on a date right after Miami in Book 1. Ethan’s PoV

Genre, rating, words- Angst, teen, 2k

Open Heart fanfic tropes- birthday, office.

March Challenge Day 13 prompt Someday; April Challenge Day 9 prompt Smell of the Rain 

A/N: nor’westers-  violent thunderstorms in northern plains of India, before the onslaught of monsoon.

Title inspired by Leonard Cohen’s Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye.

‘This will improve our understanding of adiposity and sarcopenia in this population, help identify thresholds predictive of metabolic risk, and ultimately prevent or ameliorate… ’

Better prevent than ameliorate.

‘...ameliorate the long-term impacts on health and…’ 

Twenty five years should be long enough.

Hers is a singsong voice, the warm, trilling kind. Mellow sun dances on the frills of her dress. The yellow one. 

The man at her side twirls her on the empty kerb. Dips and kisses her. Her laughter is all that is pure and golden.

A child follows them, embarrassed. She bends down to kiss him, and he is furious. 

The scene shifts.

The child is on the front porch, eyes set somewhere beyond the wild bergamot bushes. 

Tear tracks on pink cheeks mingle and dry with dust from his afternoon’s exploits. Something like a steely resolve troops in his eyes.

Ethan Ramsey has been staring at the same sentence for fifteen minutes now.

Whoever coined the term ‘nostalgia’ from the Homeric nostos and algos was speaking of anguish caused by an inability to return. But they failed to discern the inevitable tethering of reminiscence with habituality.

That is more or less the case with him. Louise Ramsey walked out on her husband, and eleven year old son some twenty five years ago right before his birthday. For a very long time now, home is not about apple crisps or kitchen gardens. 

About this time every year, a crevice in his mind he likes to call the amygdala dwells on the same days. 

Almost as a ritual. 

He is a scientist. A rationalist. And like every year, he reminds himself there is work to do.

Unless there’s a knock at the most unpleasant hour.

He never returns to the article. Never manages a come in. The distraction walks in, messy hair knotted with a pencil. Probably because she has lost another hair tie. 

He mustn’t be that aware. 

But she talks too much. 

‘Dr. Mukherjee.’ He sounds gruff. They’re supposed to be redrawing their boundaries, even if he is the only one making an effort. ‘I thought your shift ended-’

‘Two hours ago.’ Rigours of a sixteen hour shift mark her visage. Her smile is a little too conniving for his comfort. ‘I had work afterwards.’ 

She starts shuffling papers on his desk, permission be damned. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and manages an exasperated sigh. Since when have interns started walking into his office with… birthday cakes?

‘What do you think you’re- It’s not my-’

‘I heard rumours that Dr. Ramsey had to cancel a date.’ She sounds amused. He does not miss the split second glance she shoots his way before continuing. ‘On his birthday, too. Such a shame.’

He scoffs.

‘No one knows it’s my birthday.’

‘Oh, they do. They’re just too afraid to… ah, invoke the wrath of Dr. Ramsey.’

Of course, she is not one of them. She has absolutely no regard for the immutable drill he has observed for nearly four decades. And why must she, when her sole intent is to swivel the rusty axis of his life.

Ethan has never known the first shower of an Indian monsoon. It is sudden and torrential, just as it is feared and revered. It smells like summer, and mango blossoms. 

Ethan has never known one until this year.

‘I’m thirty seven, Rookie,’ He manages weakly. 

‘And I would’ve bought the candles accordingly if I knew that.’ 

The tealights she arranges look so much better, he thinks. The cake is a simple blue and white affair. Not the ones that have more icing than cake, he notes. Not the ones he disapproves of.

Happy Birthday, Dr. Terminator

‘I could’ve whipped something up without sugar,’ She rambles, suddenly starting to blush. ‘Or ordered one. But I only just came to know it’s your birthday. And there wasn’t a lot of-

‘Thank you, Apu.’ Tresses of warmth curl about his chest and the gravel of his voice.

Ethan has avoided birthday cakes for a decade now. Unless it’s Naveen’s birthday, he thinks with a pang.

In his time with Harper or his brief involvements in med-school, no one has ever convinced him to do birthdays. He checks himself. This is just an intern being kind.

But interns aren't kind to Dr. Ramsey, are they. 

She assures him the photos are not for social media. They settle on the couch, it’s his first birthday cake in over a decade. 

He is glad for an innocuous reason to look at her, laugh at jokes that in any other company would draw his scorn. She is oddly comforting. Unlike most interns who avoid his office at all costs, she moves about it as if she was meant to be here all along. 

He must have stalled birthdays worth twenty years only to spend it on a couch with her. 

The plates are disposable. It is nothing like the restaurants that come with his status, for there is an endearing simplicity about it. 

It almost feels like… home.

He steals occasional glances at her. It has been four agonisingly long days after their return from Miami. And for all his attempts to redraw their boundaries, it has been a non-return of sorts. 

Aparna drives him to distraction, flouts each and every one of his rules. Seeks him out in supply closets and muddled dreams. And every time he breaks her heart a little more, he finds himself floundering in his own squalor.

The German counterpart to the English ‘nostalgia’ is ‘sehnsucht’. Like ‘nostalgia’, it has the charm of what has been. But unlike it, it also has the enigma of what has never been. Miami will remain the swansong to an ideal that slipped through Ethan’s fingers. 

A surge of anguish ripples through him as he realises all of this is his for the asking, and he will have none of it. 

‘It wasn’t a date,’ He blurts out.

He wouldn’t tell her that if he wants her to move on. Not truly.

‘You don’t have to-’

‘She is Declan’s associate in Panacea. She suggested signing the contract with the Diagnostics Team over dinner tonight. So…  just business.’

Claudette Wilson is the most promising young face of Panacea, and Ethan needed less than a minute to know why. 

Sleek, dark hair styled at her nape played up her high cheekbones. The ruby of her pliant lips, almost risqué for a meeting such as this, always lingered a little longer on the rim of her coffee mug. Even the measured spoons of her laughter came with an all too enticing lilt.

Ethan has met the other type. Vacuous and synthetic. But the steely glint in her eyes came with a weighty intelligence. An unfaltering wit. And when a perfectly manicured hand brushed the contours of his cuff, he knew it was never meant to be just business. 

She was irresistible. And so was he.

That afternoon, the bitterness in his mouth had nothing to do with coffee. He learnt he would refuse Claudette even if her pay checks did not come from Panacea.

Aparna falls silent, almost as if discerning in his words everything he left unsaid.

They have run out of jokes and topics for a harmless chat. He is getting terribly comfortable with her again, he realises alarmed. And she is fidgeting with the ring on her finger.

She’s nervous too. He knows. He could define every twitch and turn of those fingers. 

Somewhere in their conversation they have edged so close that her knee juts into his thigh. The couch is surprisingly small for two people. Minutes pass, and despite himself, he does not want her to leave. 

His fingers rest on her flustered hands, it’s a deep-rooted reflex. Looking down, she weaves his hand in both of her own. Even as the adrenaline surging in his blood incites him to flee, the delirious part of him emerges stronger and more naive.

He thinks she is leaning in. Soaking up the mayhem in his eyes. The slight movement causes wisps of errant hair to slip from the messy bun. There’s new growth around her brows, a faded scar on her forehead. But it’s her eyes that still hold sway over him. 

They stroked him with a strange, silent awe on a balcony on the shores of the Atlantic.

She is nothing like interns that hover around him year after year. Sucking up for recommendations. Sometimes more. She can devour him, and just as easily cast him aside without batting an eye. 

And yet she is here. Snuggled in his office while her friends call it a night with cheap beer and rowdy escapades. 

But she is different tonight. The quiver in her eyes tentative, even wary.

His hand rises of its own accord, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. Inadvertently, it brushes her face, lingers a little longer against her cheek.

She caressed his face as the ocean crashed around him. It was like falling from the top of a precipice. Tumbling into the amorphous, a terrifying weightlessness. He waited.

‘It’s getting late.’

She smells like the hospital, muted shades of honeysuckle, and like herself. 

The cool breeze hummed a steady rhyme against the tumble of her midnight blue dress. Bits of the moon bounced off the dark curtain of her hair, plunging into her eyes. Ethan had never seen such fathomless eyes.

‘I should go.’ She leans into his palm, eyes fluttering close. 

‘You should.’ 

And then she caught him. It was the hollow of her neck. It was soft. Like the rest of her. 

Neither of them move today, silently imploring the other to charge. Or retreat. The battle drum in his chest is a dull ache. Throbbing and inconsolable.

The ridges of her collarbone bore traces of his ruin. Traces she covered every morning and stripped every night, like the rites of a godless liturgy.

His free hand is still laced in hers, the other drawing her face nearer. 

Her lips are inches from his own as he draws a languid finger across them. Her warm breath spills on his lips, warring and mingling with his own ragged ones. 

Her mouth was stained with wine. Numbing and inciting. He was battered, and bruised. Marooned at her side. And she was warm. So warm.

His hand traced the pummelling of her heart, kneading the softness of her chest. Her tongue jousted with his own as the ocean lapped at its shore. Tireless and persevering.

She was wild. Like her Gangetic nor’westers on a sultry afternoon. He was bewitched. She was doing something good to him.

Suddenly the air around them is ripped by the sound of his phone. 

It’s his father.

The two of them recoil to their own spaces, Ethan horrified that he let himself stray so far yet again. Silencing the still erring device, he faces Aparna bracing for another apology.

‘I know.’ 

Her smile is placid, all traces of vulnerability gone. He is vaguely aware of the gentle pressure on the hand still clasped in her own.

‘Happy Birthday, Ethan. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ 

She is gone before he can marshal his thoughts.

Ethan flops back into the couch, shivering and alone. The incandescent glow from the solitary lamp drenches the office in a soft, ethereal haze. She might not have been here at all but for the little things she scatters around him every time she forays into his life.

Today she leaves with him a caesura. It thwarts the cadence of a life he has been putting together since Miami.

After a minute, or perhaps a staggering nightmare, when he rises to pack the rest of the cake, he sees it. 

She must have forgotten her hair tie was in her pocket after all. 

It stares up at him from the floor, the silken, mute witness of his transgression. He gingerly picks it up, and turns it in his hand as though it houses some ancient sorcery. 

Laying it on his desk, he considers texting her. But scarcely does he scroll down to her name when he stops himself. And pockets it. 

Somewhere in the Atlantic, waves still crash upon the rocks, moistening, but never quite lingering. 

The waves are relentless. Someday, the rocks crumble into fine sand.

Thank you for reading this! Let me know if you’d want to be added or removed.

[not-delicious-milk]

yo I'm gonna be a coward. I've read fan fiction since middle school, and during that time I've read some truly cursed things. I personally have tried to avoid reading mentor/student relationships cause they squik me the f out. But I've always been more treat the immortals like they are their apparent physical age for shipping. So people trying to lewd the pre pubescent with the excuse that they're immortal are obviously full of shit. pt 1.

pt.2 but shipping like Rukia/ Ichigo is fine cause they're the same apparent physical age and act with about the same lvl of maturity. While shipping him with Yoruichi would be sketch. So full disclosure I don't ship Sukuna and Megumi, I don't really see them having chemistry, and no one has written anything good enough to change my mind. But it doesn't freak me out like Megumi and Gojo. Would you be willing to write why you don't consider the vampire rule to apply here?

i’m not completely familiar with the vampire rule, but i would assume you mean that apparent age trumps actual age when it lines up with mental and emotional development?

personally, i’m not a huge fan of that train of thought -- i agree that it’s important to consider mental age when it comes to immortals or very, very old entities, but actual age is still important. and that’s because of the whole reason why big age gaps are fucked up, i.e an imbalance of power that can easily be exploited. adults have more experience, influence, and physical maturity than children or teens do, which they can leverage to groom or abuse a younger partner. as much as i will admit to not hating twilight that much (breaking dawn made me want to give myself a lobotomy though) and honestly sort of liking the trope of “human girl in love with an ancient supernatural being” or any variants of that, there’s an important distinction that needs to be made with it so it’s not awful.

the answer has little to do with mental age. it has to do with power dynamics.

for a vampire romance (which i’m just going to use as a general term for these sorts of relationships) it is absolutely necessary for there to be some caveat in place to prevent the supernatural party from just taking advantage of the mortal one. usually we don’t even think about that when reading or watching vampire romances, because how could such a charming creature of the night stoop so low? 

but it’s important to note that vampires, in gothic literature, existed to fulfill a very specific role. the repressed victorians loved incorporating taboo subjects into their stories, for the steamy scenes i guess, but couldn’t easily do so within the confines of proper literature. one of those taboo subjects was r*pe, which they both found very hot in a forbidden sort of way and longed to explore in their writing without societal backlash, and if you cast an eye upon dracula or carmilla it’s quite easy to guess where those subjects ended up. 

so, for a proper vampire romance, it can’t just end in a straight up kidnapping or taking by force, both because that would be narratively uninteresting and morally corrupt. sometimes there’s a supernatural reason for it, like a protection that the mortal party has to prevent the immortal one from abusing their powers. for example, bella in twilight is immune to telepathy and later develops a shield power against all vampire powers, preventing edward from being able to take advantage of her or invade her privacy any more than he was already doing, fuck you stephanie meyer. sometimes the mortal party has a power of their own that, while relatively useless in situations where the immortal one can swoop in and save them dramatically, is very useful against said immortal party for whatever reason. for example, kagome’s status as the reincarnation of the priestess migoriko would theoretically prevent inuyasha from harming her; in a more explicit example, nanami from kamisama kiss holds absolute divine control over tomoe and could order him to stop if ever he tried anything she didn’t like. although there’s an age gap in those stories, it doesn’t feel like it, not just because of the immortal party’s mental age but because of their inability to take advantage of said gap.

can you see where this is going? 

megumi/gojo is absolutely foul -- there’s the grooming aspect, the fact gojo knew megumi when he was five and practically raised him as a father, and the implicit power imbalance of a teacher/student relationship. there’s no question as to why it’s so repulsive to think about.

megumi/sukuna is equally repulsive, but really only when it exists in fan works. in the canon, sukuna doesn’t have the opportunity to so much as interact with megumi most of the time, let alone take advantage of him, and yuuji would stop that before it ever happened. it feels like a classic vampire romance because the power imbalance should, theoretically, be nerfed by outside circumstances. of course this isn’t the case in any sukufushi fanworks, because it would obviously be boring for sukuna to respect megumi’s boundaries and also to not date a fucking 15 year old from inside the body of another 15 year old, jesus christ. in sukufushi fanworks, which as i’ve stated is the only place sukufushi even exists, there is always something cancelling out the restraints placed on sukuna’s power, whether it be that he has his own body, takes advantage of “enchain”, is able to take control of yuuji’s body on his own, yuuji lets him out for whatever reason, it doesn’t matter. 

there’s always something like that because sukufushi doesn’t exist as a vampire romance, it exists as something more like tentacle p*rn. 

that’s not a sentence i ever thought i’d write, but i think it makes sense? it’s not supposed to be an actual relationship, it’s more like wish fulfillment for people with degradation and pain kinks. in sukufushi fan works, sukuna wields absolute power over megumi and takes full advantage of the age gap and power gap between them. just like how tentacle p*rn strips away the right to refuse in the face of absolute alien power and a language barrier that keeps consent from being withdrawn, sukufushi strips away megumi’s right to refuse in the face of absolute curse power and sukuna’s inability to take “no” for an answer. this is why all explicit sukufushi fics end with megumi being r*ped or nearly r*ped. 

please don’t ask me how i know all of this. sometimes good fanfics have sukufushi scenes in them and i have to like, scroll past the paragraphs really fast to get back to the plot. it’s just that omnipresent.

in other words, megumi/gojo is more grounded in “reality” (not the reality of a functional teacher/student relationship, but the reality of a 28 year old man really being 28 years old) and absent of vampire romance justifications for the age gap. it feels gross because it is and also because there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be.

megumi/sukuna doesn’t feel that way at first, especially if you mainly see sort of canon compliant shipping of it. it’s really common and also never commented on when people joke about sukuna having a “crush” on megumi based on his lines of dialogue when he says he’s curious about him or whatnot. that obeys vampire romance rules, so it doesn’t feel weird. sukuna really doesn’t want to kill or harm megumi because he’s important to his plans later, so that’s out. yuuji would never let sukuna touch megumi with a 10 foot pole either, so that’s out. really their only interactions are hypothetical, besides that one time in shibuya, and even then literally nothing happened. sukuna didn’t want his pawn to break yet, that’s all. even when people overanalyze it they can’t really get any farther than “looks like someone’s got a crush on fushigurooooo” because that’s the farthest it can go. 

if you start looking into sukufushi fanart or fanfics, which is about 95% of the content for sukufushi anyway because again, it’s not supported by the canon at all, vampire romance is replaced unceremoniously by tentacle p*rn. which is why i hate it so much. 

thank you for coming to my ted talk

[outlyingoutlier]

Fanfic trope mashup: #32 and 55. My preference is for Clexa, but you are more than welcome to chose the ship.

Pregnancy and established relationship. I see you wanted to start off with a difficult one. You may think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Not at all. What are the difficulties here? Well, if you’re talking in-canon, this has already been written, and written very, very well by others. If you’re talking AUs, well… Let me fess up right here, right now. Pregnancy is a favored trope for me, but I can’t say that it’s necessarily a wholesome one. If we look back in time, tween and teen Outlier used to read a metric fuckton of romance novels. Harlequin, historical, those ones where there were blue stockings and rogues and many an accidental pregnancy. That’s where it’s at for me - accidental. If we trace this back to its root, my love of these is because they provide irrefutable proof that someone(s) have been up to some shenanigans they would have preferred for no one to know about. That’s right - it can’t just be an accidental pregnancy. It has to be one that reveals the torrid affair between the two characters that really, really didn’t want to get caught.

How do you accomplish that between two uteruses? Well, there has to be powerful magic, future tech sufficiently advanced to be indistinguishable from magic, possibly some kind of alien shenanigans, or someone has to have a dick (granted, this can also be a flare up of powerful magic).

I don’t think this particular combination specifies that the established relationship has to be a known relationship, and if it does, consider this me exploiting a loophole. We’ll travel back to my misspent youth, I think, for inspiration.

Lexa, more formally Lady Alexandra Woods of Woods House, is a bit of a boffin.

Society has no room for lady boffins, of course, but it doesn’t matter how many times her petition to join the Society of Natural History has been rejected. No one attends her lectures other than a few rather suspect suffragettes? That’s fine too. All that matters is that Lexa has peace and quiet and a reasonably well-stocked laboratory. She also needs a rather sturdy pair of boots, because the focus of all her of considerable mental energy necessitates tromping through the forest. (We won’t narrow that down, because it’s a rabbit hole and I won’t crawl out of it for days. Weeks maybe.) Nevermind, we need an object. It’s a bird. It’s a rare bird, and as someone who is not an ornithologist, I cannot exactly explain why it’s so very, very interesting at this exact moment.

Clarke? Well, let’s be honest. She’s a bit of an odd one. Her mother, you see, has a bit of a reputation. Do you have an illness the local quack can’t cure? I suppose you’ll need to sneak out to the not at all frightening, remote, somewhat rundown cabin and hope Dr. Griffin will help you. Keep in mind the rumors that she killed her husband for sins as yet unknown. You’re taking your life in your hands, but if no one else can make your baby stop crying or figure out what to do about that wound that’s starting to smell very, very suspicious… Well, maybe a little coin and proper deference will be enough to keep Dr. Griffin in check. Her daughter? A bit of a wild thing. When she does come to town, which is rarely, she has a habit of managing to nearly barter away your hearth and home for what you realize later is perhaps of questionable value, but when she’s there in front of you, it all seems to make sense.

No one knows what she does with her time when she’s not haggling them into poverty, but she always seems to have vials clinking around in the pockets of her cloak and bits of greenery stuck here and there. It’s best not to call her a witch to her face (or behind her back for that matter), but the evidence all seems to add up, doesn’t it?

Not that Lexa would believe in all of that poppycock, if she even knew who Clarke was. She’s too occupied with other things, notably the habitats and habits of the Red-Sashed MacGuffin. And lo and behold, she tracks an entire family down to what seems to be the oddest garden she’s ever seen, outside of a cabin that looks more like it crashed into existence than anything else. The incredibly belligerent young woman who appears to live there doesn’t seem all that interested in Lexa’s explanations about the scientific opportunities to be found if only she could set up camp there in its midst, sowing chaos with her well-soled boots. She practically mows down one of Clarke’s most valuable herbs, and no, Clarke doesn’t care if they look like weeds. They were important.

What’s that? Lexa claims that her family actually owns all of this land and Clarke and her mother are squatters? She’s going to evict them? All over a (honestly magnificent) bird? Their argument takes them deeper into the forest because Lexa doesn’t seem all that interested in Clarke’s angry rants and Clarke’s not going to have her life uprooted by an avian adventurer. The thing is - they’re not the only things in these woods. Legend has it they’re haunted by some kind of monster, something that’s called this forest its home for generations. Something from before, when the land wasn’t home to lady boffins and ragged possible witches, and it doesn’t take kindly to all of the bickering.

They make it out okay and find a comfy cave in which to hide, but that doesn’t really help the really rather ghastly slash Lexa has taken to the thigh. It’s bleeding an alarming amount, so much so that Clarke feels she has no choice but to administer one of her experimental new concoctions. Through careful research and some rather dodgy old tomes, she’s pieced it together. The miracle drug - it creates life. Lexa needs her skin to knit back together so that she doesn’t exit this mortal coil? Well, drink up, and sit back because the binding needs to be tight. There’s no need for modesty. It’s literally a life and death situation, and for all that it’s a lovely thigh, Clarke has other priorities.

Now, though, with Lady Alexandra Woods of Woods House mending in a cave and unable to move, the town is atwitter. Clarke stays out of it. How would she know where the Lady has gone? Besides, it wouldn’t do anyone any good to let them know that Lady Woods is recuperating quite well, thank you very much, even if it is in a cave and even if she is being tended by a not-quite-witch. Medicine isn’t magic, even though Clarke is very pleased to see that each phial sees a corresponding improvement.

There’s a certain intimacy to caring for someone, though. Bringing her food and water, making sure she’s safe from the elements, helping her down to the stream to bathe. Clarke hadn’t really wanted to get to know the imperious lady boffin, but she can’t help but appreciate her smarts and her logic and her… well, her less intellectual assets. So maybe Lexa unexpectedly kisses her in gratitude one day when Clarke brings her a special treat. So maybe Clarke’s fingers linger a little longer than necessary when checking the progress of the wound. So maybe there’s no therapeutic value in accidentally ravishing her patient. These things happen.

The town is beside itself when Lady Woods returns only slightly worse for wear with a tale of adventure battling the unseen creature haunting the deepest forest. (She’ll have to write a monograph when she has time. The Society can’t deny her entry with that in hand.) It’s surely no right thing for a Lady, all this tromping about, and look what happened to her. Not that Lady Lexa seems to care. She takes her picnic basket and notebook out with her every day, though the kitchens do find it odd that she asks them to pack lunch for two. And if the younger Griffin no longer comes to town to take the very shirt from their back, it’s probably a coincidence.

The problem? It isn’t long before lunch for two isn’t sufficient, and since when have these walks left her faint, Lexa wonders? Why aren’t her favorite skirts fitting anymore? She’s getting more exercise, not less, what with her daily excursions to visit a certain not witch elusive bird. What was it that medicine did again, Clarke? Stimulate life? And you got the formula from what book, exactly?

Well. This is going to be quite the conundrum, isn’t it?