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vivwritescrappythings · 7 days ago

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meum cor

marcus acacius x fem!reader

Your father had raised you for one purpose: to be a very rich man's wife someday. As it turns out, that man is Marcus Acacius, the renowned general himself.

a/n: Thank you for this lovely request! Instead of a princess I made reader the daughter of a rich merchant in Rome, but I hope you like it! I am on the fence about a part 2 right now.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Marcus, reader has long hair, social norms of ancient rome, vague description of a chariot crash, your imaginary dad is a misogynist, not proofread, Marcus may be poorly written.

word count: 5.1k

masterlist

Being born a woman in Rome was being born shackled. Your life depended on being a mother, a wife. The servitude of others would be your shining opus, the symbol of a life well-lived. It was hard to imagine, your mother passed away when you were just a babe.

In the privacy of your mind, you imagined growing up to become a soldier or a scholar like your brothers. The desire for independence itched beneath your skin. But that would not be your fate. You were committed to your loom and learning to run a household and being a good wife someday.

After years agonizing over who to marry you off to, your father had finally found a man suitable enough: General Marcus Acacius.

His decision was twofold: help your brothers get better positions in the Roman army and increase his influence by tying you to one of the most powerful generals in the empire.

It was no matter that he was nearly twenty years your senior–your father assured you it was a common match. There was nothing for you to worry about, it would be a great honor for your family for you to marry General Acacius. No use in arguing, or pouting, or fighting against it.

Your father’s word was law.

You ruminated over the mysterious General Acacius for weeks. All you could consider was what your future husband was like, agonizing about any scrap of information you could learn about him. He had spent most of the past few years fighting in battles: the conquest of Armenia, of Parthia, of Germania. A man obsessed with legacy. You could only imagine the amount of blood on his hands–how many people had he killed to aid the sprawling Roman Empire?

At his age he had never been married before. You had expected to be his second wife, men his age looking to marry were widowers more often than not. Perhaps he had been too dedicated to his military career to consider marriage… or you had heard stories of men who preferred the company of other men.

If anything, that could make him an amicable husband. Simply marrying you for your dowry and allegiance to a merchant, but otherwise left you to your own devices?

You could live a life that way.

The walk to Palatine Hill did not take you and your father long, the fall weather just starting to cool after a long summer. In truth, you had never even spoken to anyone that lived on Palatine Hill, let alone visited a domus there. Each one was more elegant than the last, elegant homes that exuded affluence with beautiful entryways and manicured grounds.

The amount your father was offering for your dowry must have been staggering.

Being a merchant had its benefits. You were sure your father offered access to the best imports and potential to take over a few ships if he wished to step down from his post as general.

Marcus’s domus was mixed in with the rest, your father nodding to the guards and stating his business. They let you pass without issue. Marcus had invited you and your father to visit his home and they would attend the chariot race that afternoon. It was the final step to securing his agreement to your marriage, ensuring that he deemed you suitable enough to take as his wife.

Your father had been frantically preparing you, training you in proper topics of discussion and how to answer any questions Marcus had. The strategy simply turned into allowing your father to answer any and all questions and smiling demurely in the background. Better seen, not heard.

The autumnal sun slanted into the atrium, shining off the impluvium and illuminating the space. It was sparsely decorated: reception benches positioned strategically around the space, a few tapestries hung on the walls. The most intriguing part of the room was the mosaic in the impluvium, an intricate scene of a gold octopus and colorful fish embedded in the tile. You stared at it for a long time while a servant ran to fetch Marcus from deeper within the household.

Before you realized, he stood before you.

You were surprised to see him dressed so simply—he did not look like the decorated general you had expected. The only indication of his status was the deep burgundy cape clasped over his chest, the clasp and embroidery shining gold. He was broad and tall, his head full of dark curls that were starting to go gray at the temples. His beard was going gray at the jowls. But his gaze was focused on you and your father, his deep umber eyes taking you in. There were a few scars on the tanned skin you could see, the permanent furrows of a scowl above his curved nose.

But he was handsome.

The thought caught you so off-guard that you nearly tripped on air, heeding your father’s beckoning hand to stand near him. You did not realize that you could find a man twice your age to be handsome, or even pleasing to the eye.

“Justus Acacius,” your father began, his voice booming through the atrium as he put on a show of joviality that he did not feel, “I am pleased to see you once more, and for you to finally meet my daughter.”

Your father gestured to you with a sweeping hand. You inclined your head politely, eyes downcast. “I am honored, Justus Acacius,” you murmured, keeping your gaze on the polished stone. The name felt unfamiliar on your tongue: it was the first time you spoke it aloud.

The weight of his appraising stare was palpable, you did all you could to stay still beneath it. The last thing you wanted was for Marcus to think you weak-willed. You forced yourself to stay calm, your breaths slow and even.

Then came approval in the form of a slight nod–nothing more than a partial lift of his chin. You glanced up, finding his expression unreadable. “Welcome to my domus, I trust the way here was not too taxing,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. You understood how soldiers could fall into line at his shout—it commanded attention.

Marcus turned to your father, clasping his shoulder in a firm grip that spoke of their familiarity. “Your daughter is a beautiful maiden, Tiberius. You did not over exaggerate.” You glanced at your father, eyebrows ticking up in question. You did not realize that he had bragged about your appearance–in your list of accomplishments he tended to leave it off.

“Come, let us retire to the triclinium. I have refreshments waiting.”

You followed dutifully, taking in the extravagance of his home. The build of it spoke of opulence, prim white stone forming the walls and meticulously carved columns. For all its grandeur it lacked the details, there were a few busts placed in alcoves and the odd tapestry on the wall. They looked old, the fibers slightly frayed–passed down from mother to son, most likely.

“It requires a feminine touch,” Marcus said, noticing how you were looking around. “Something I am certain my future wife will be able to supplement.”

Your father bristled at the way his statement was open-ended, no guarantee in sight that you would be that future wife in question. It seemed that your supposed beauty was not enough to secure a betrothal.

The triclinium was furnished with three low couches around a dark table, your father claiming the couch in the center and forcing you and Marcus to sit apart from one another. The table was littered with fruits, cured meats, and pastries, but you did not have the stomach for any of it. You took a fig to be polite, taking miniscule bites of it.

Your father and Marcus ate seemingly without concern, grazing as they spoke idly of politics and distant lands the Emperors wished to conquer. It all sounded frivolous to you, the impending doom of your marriage looming over your head like an executioner’s axe. You were so preoccupied in your thoughts that you did not realize Marcus had spoken to you until your father had cleared his throat.

“Tell me,” Marcus said, turning to face you as he handed your father a goblet of wine before pouring one for himself, “what are your interests? Your skills? I would like to know more about the woman I am to wed.”

He leaned against the cushions, the embodiment of relaxation as he drank. His arms crossed over his broad chest, the muscle moving beneath his tanned skin like snakes.

You took a breath, opening your mouth to answer before your father interrupted you.

“She is excellent with a loom,” your father proudly offered, the metal cup hanging from his fingers as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “She took over the duties of my late wife when she was just a girl, and, dare I say, the fabrics she weaves are even more fine than her mother’s.”

Your father did not even allow Marcus time to respond, launching into his next point with gusto. “She also is proficient with the flute and knows how to dance. My wife and I had wanted her to become a Vestal, but the goddess did not call upon her.”

“I assure you, Justus Acacius, she is well prepared to run a household in your absence,” he promised, wetting his lips with the wine to hide the anxious set of your mouth.

Marcus listened intently to your father’s praise of your skills, one eyebrow slightly arched. He took a sip of his own wine, the ruby liquid leaving a faint stain on his full lower lip.

“Raised modestly as well,” Marcus remarked, glancing at you with a hint of a smirk. The touch of humor surprised you, your cheeks warming as you hid your smile. You took a larger bite of the fig so you did not have to school your expression, the ripe fruit sweet on your tongue.

He set his metal cup down on the wooden table with a soft clink. There was a moment of pensive silence before Marcus cleared his throat, fixing your father beneath his penetrating stare. “I am pleased to hear of your daughter’s talents. They will serve her well as a Roman matron.” He paused, the weight of his words sinking in. “However, I would like to hear it from her. Tell me, how would you intend to manage a household in your husband’s absence?”

His cool gaze drifted back to you, dark eyes glinting with curiosity and a hint of a challenge. The pregnant silence held the expectation of your response.

It was unusual. Most men were comfortable to allow your father to speak for you, preferring women seen rather than heard. It was the first time a man had asked you for your own words. You found the image of him that you created in your mind rewriting itself.

“As for running a household–I am literate,” that simple fact already put you a step ahead of many women you knew, “my father went through the additional effort of hiring tutors to teach me grammar and how to use an abacus. Now that I am of age I have handled my father’s affairs a few times when he left on trading expeditions–both of my brothers are serving in the army so it fell upon me to manage the responsibilities.”

You paused for a moment, taking a breath as you looked up at Marcus. He was watching intently, holding a terrifyingly neutral expression. “As for running your household, I would study your previous ledgers and discuss your strategy of managing your assets before you were to leave.”

The silence of the room was deafening–you could hardly stand it. “If anything, I rather enjoy calculations with the abacus,” you said, babbling to fill the dead air. You could feel your father’s glare without needing to look at it. “At times I have done them simply to pass the time, seeing how much I can challenge myself.”

Marcus nodded slowly, dark eyes glinting with amusement as the corner of his lip threatened to turn up. He downed the rest of his cup of wine, clasping his hands together in front of him for a moment as his gaze dragged over your form.

“I find your honesty refreshing. It is clear you are well-equipped to be a devoted wife and manage a household of this size,” he said as he stood, towering over you and your father. You were holding your breath, waiting for the verdict as though you would receive your death sentence. “I believe this match will be beneficial for all of us.”

And you could breathe once more.

You looked up at Marcus, trying to reconcile that the man would be your husband. It had not felt real until he acknowledged the match. Part of you had assumed that he would change his mind upon meeting you, opting to marry some Senator’s daughter instead of the daughter of a merchant.

But he would have you as his bride. His wife.

Marcus turned to your father, broad shoulders squared. “Tiberius, have you ever sat trackside at the chariot races? I was planning for us to use my seats,” he said, taking a step back to leave the room. You knew your father would be pleased by his offer, sitting with Senators and dignitaries had always been his aspiration.

The sun was shining in through the arches leading to the courtyard, high in the clear sky. The races would surely start soon.

Your father accepted readily, the two of you standing quickly. He arranged for your cousin to meet you at Circus Maximus to escort you home–it was inappropriate for a woman of your social class to walk by herself through the streets of Rome.

“Tell me, my lady, would you care to join us? I have found that a touch of excitement and spectacle can be invigorating for the soul,” Marcus said, his words an open invitation.

You could not help but glance at your father for his approval–he had always considered the races too aggressive for the fairer sex. They had always intrigued you, the sheer size of Circus Maximus always caught your gaze when you were near. Sometimes you could hear the crowds cheering.

After a moment of deliberation your father nodded, albeit less enthusiastically than he could have. “It will be good for the two of you to spend time together in public, it will serve to announce the union prior to the ceremony.”

“Excellent,” Marcus murmured, holding his hand out palm up for you to take. There were callouses on his palm and fingers that spoke of training long hours with a sword and shield. The spread between his fingers was wide, your hand disappearing in his hold as he pulled you up to your feet. “Let us be off.”

–

Circus Maximus was a buzz as you took your seats, your breath stolen by the enormity of the track and the stadium surrounding it.

You had never seen so many people in one place, the stands roaring. Marcus’s seats were in the first row. Senators filled in the space around you, your gaze drawn to the broad purple stripes on their tunics. If you had known you would be meeting Senators you would have dressed differently.

It had already taken you far too long to weave the palla you were wearing over your crisp ivory tunic–a band of yellow following the hemline of the rich crimson fabric. Your father had insisted you wear the jewelry your mother had passed down to you, gold bracelets adorning both wrists and a matching choker clasped at your throat. But you still felt underdressed–you would have braided your hair more intricately or added a band over your bicep.

“My lady, are you alright?” Marcus asked, pulling you from your thoughts as you blinked at him for a moment. You could feel your cheeks warming, sheepish that you were caught in your reverie.

“Yes, General Acacius,” you breathed, a self-conscious smile twisting the corners of your lips. You did not want him to worry about your comfort. “I was simply gathering my surroundings–this is my first time inside Circus Maximus.I hope you do not take offense to my naivety.”

His surprise was palpable, dark eyebrows lifting toward his hairline and eyes rounding. Then his expression melted into a smirk, his head bending toward yours. “Well, I will find great enjoyment explaining the sport to you if you are willing to listen,” he said, just loud enough for you to hear him.

He was close enough that it felt like a secret between the two of you, a chill running up your spine despite the warm autumnal sun. You found yourself enjoying it.

“Of course, if it is not too much trouble.” Your entire life was dedicated to taking up as little space as possible, your father’s devastation over having a daughter known to you as soon as you were old enough to understand what his rebukes meant.

Marcus’s brow furrowed, his gaze tracking to where your father was speaking with some Senator before coming back to you. “My lady,” he murmured, voice a tick lower as his fingers brushed a loose piece of hair from your face, “you will soon be my wife. I intend to bring you to these events, and they will be more enjoyable if you understand the rules.” His hand cupped the side of your neck, warm against your skin.

You tried not to shy away from his touch, his skin rough against yours. A man had never touched you so intimately before. The frantic beat of your heart filled your ears for a moment, you were sure he could feel the hammer of your pulse against his hand.

“Alright, explain it to me,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek for a moment as you folded your hands in your lap. You twisted the fabric of your palla over your fingers, not sure if he expected you to return the touch or simply accept it. Perhaps you were thinking about it too hard–too worried about misstepping and causing Marcus to change his mind.

But he seemed pleased, releasing you to turn and face the track fully. “Those gates down there are where the chariots start,” you followed the sweep of his arm with your eyes, “they run around the center barrier, the spina, to reach seven laps around the track first.”

You listened intently, bracing one hand on the carved stone rail as you leaned forward. The spina surprised you with its intricacy, obelisks and statues decorating the center of it. There were water features mixed in with the artwork, gilded columns on each end of the barrier indicating turning points.

“Are there teams?” you asked, glancing at Marcus before looking at the track again.

He nodded, eyes seemingly lighting up at your questions. “Yes, today the Red and White teams will race,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees as his gaze drifted to your palla. “You are dressed aptly, for I support the Reds.”

“It must have been the goddess Fortuna guiding me this morning,” you said with a grin, almost looking smug.

Your father pulled Marcus’s attention from you, asking questions about which team he supported and if he had placed any wagers. It was hard to hear his reply, their voices getting lost in the din of the stadium.

Solitude amongst a crowd was something you were taught to be used to, your mind occupying itself with silly games. You counted the number of obelisks in the spina, the number of stadium sections you could see, the number of people in the lowest section across from you.

The thoughts of your upcoming wedding ceremony drifted into your mind–would your aunt take the place of your mother? Would she dress you the morning of the ceremony? Tie the Herculean knot at your waist in wool? You could hardly imagine Marcus taking you from her arms during the wedding procession–you and your aunt were little more than strangers. But she was the only woman in your family, the responsibility would fall to her.

“My lady?” You felt a nudge to your side. Marcus and your father were looking at you, you noticed a vendor standing in the aisle.

“Yes? My apologies, I was lost in thought,” you said amiably, crossing your legs at the knee.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked, so conscientious of you that it was almost frightening. You were thankful it was loud enough that the sound of your stomach growling was audible.

Despite your hunger you shook your head, waving off his concern with a polite smile. “No, I am alright.” you said softly. You could see your father’s satisfied expression and nod over Marcus’s shoulder. Refusing was the right answer. “Thank you, General Acacius.”

“Nonsense, you hardly touched the food before we left,” Marcus said, turning to the vendor and shouting a few orders. He had a keen eye… you were not used to scrutiny. He took two clay pots from the vendor, handing you one of marinated green olives so he could pay the vendor. “Eat, and do not be afraid to ask for anything you see that entices you.”

“You are far too generous, Justus,” your father said, squinting in the sunlight as he looked at you. His disappointment was clear. But Marcus did not seem to notice or mind, simply placing both bowls into your hands. The other bowl had toasted hazelnuts and walnuts, the clay pot pleasantly warm in your hands. You placed both bowls on the carved stone step between yourself and Marcus, picking from them idly.

It was enough to satiate your stomach, staving off the dregs of your hunger until you made it home.

Then your gaze was drawn by a magistrate walking onto the track, a white flag held aloft and shining in the sun. Marcus caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, sitting up straighter. “Once he drops the flag, the race will begin,” he said to you with a glance to make sure you were paying attention.

It was quick. As soon as the flag dropped the gates opened, each chariot being pulled by four horses. The thunder of their hooves almost rivaled the cheers of the crowd as all twelve chariots flew down the track.

You watched with rapt attention, studying the way the charioteers had the reigns of the horses tied around their waists. The first two laps seemed to only be used for gaining speed, the chariots staying in their designated lanes before chaos broke loose.

The gasp that pulled from your throat when you watched a charioteer whip another one that got too close caught Marcus’s attention, making him bark out a deep laugh. You had lurched to your feet with the rest of the crowd, the adrenaline getting to you. “They will try to make one another crash as they vie for a position closest to the spina,” he said to you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back. The press of his palm on your spine brought you a step closer to him.

You watched with wide eyes, the red and white robed charioteers careening around the track without abandon. The horses kicked up clods of dirt with every hoofbeat, spraying anyone that dared be behind them. You understood why they had been spraying so much water over the track–an attempt to keep down the dust.

The first crash was brutal, two sets of horses tangling with one another. One charioteer cut himself free of the reins with a curved knife, jumping from the chariot and into the greenery that adorned the spina. The other one was not so lucky, the sound of wood splintering and cracking reaching your ears as you clapped a hand over your mouth. The other racers had to dodge the mess, narrow misses of the pileup making you wince.

“It is alright, the charioteers are alright, my lady,” Marcus said, his nose brushing against your hair as he spoke into your ear. You looked up, seeing the other man pull himself from the wreckage to safety. It helped you breathe easier, a nod coming from you.

There was one more crash during the race, a chariot clipped one of the columns and spun out of control. Marcus had pulled you to his side as the laps went on, you could feel his excitement through the way his fist clenched in the loose, draping fabric of your palla. You pressed your fingertips to your lips, brow furrowed as you watched the final stretch.

The teams were neck and neck, the entire stadium tense until the Reds pulled forward at the last moment. You let out a sigh of relief, your eyes slipping closed for a beat. Then you could hear Marcus laugh, loud and raucous. “Why I believe you must be a priestess of Fortuna herself, my lady, for the Reds have not come out victorious in the past fifteen races,” he said to you, crushing you to his side in a way that made you chuckle.

You had not expected ease at his side, and certainly not praise. Warmth covered your cheeks and neck as a genuine smile found its way to your face, your gaze casting up through your lashes to meet his. He released you after a moment, clapping your father on the back as they animatedly discussed the race.

There were a few more races that day, each one as chaotic as the last–but they were all Red wins.

–

Marcus had insisted on escorting you and your father back to your father’s domus as the sun began to set on the horizon. Your father’s property was grand in comparison to that of your neighbors, but with respect to Marcus’s estate it was a simple home.

Your favorite part were the orange and lemon trees growing on the property, filling the air with the scent of citrus as the sky turned pink. Marcus had accompanied you up to the atrium, a soft smile on his face as he looked down at you. Your father had sent a servant to fetch wine, anxious to continue impressing Marcus.

“I must bring you with me to all the chariot races, my lady,” Marcus said, his dark eyes raking from your head to your toes. “It seems that your presence bodes well for my luck.”

You shook your head, flattered as you covered your smile with your fingertips. “I believe you are too kind to me, General Acacius,” you murmured, unable to hide your grin from your voice.

You felt giddy, your father and Marcus had spent the entire journey to your father’s domus discussing dates for the ceremony. It was set for three weeks from that day, it would give you just enough time to alter your mother’s wedding gown to your tastes and to set a menu for the feast.

“Tiberius,” Marcus started, deep voice booming throughout the atrium, “would it be alright if I had a moment of privacy with your daughter? I would like to give her a gift so she does not forget me within the next three weeks.”

He hesitated for a moment before obliging, saying he would be just down the hall if you needed anything. You knew he would be standing just beyond the door.

“You have pleasantly surprised me,” he said, a hand running down the bare skin of your left arm until he held your wrist. Goosebumps lifted on your flesh, a shiver running down your spine as your breath caught in your throat. “I had expected this to be a marriage of necessity, but it seems to me that it has the potential to be much more.”

He pulled something from the folds of his tunic, the gold catching the light of the setting sun as he brought your left hand toward him. You realized that it was a ring–an engagement ring.

“I wanted to see before I gave this to you, just to be sure,” he murmured, his dark eyes focused on your hand as he threaded the ring onto the third finger on your left hand. “Ah, perfect fit. I should not have expected any less from my priestess of Fortuna.”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you looked down at the ring. It was not as heavy as you had expected, sitting snug on your finger. It was believed that a vein connected your heart to the ring finger–but for some reason you had never imagined a ring occupying that space. It was simple, a design of two hands clasping on the center of the band. But the gold alone must have cost far too much.

“It is beautiful,” you breathed, a bit mystified.

Marcus’s hand clasped your chin, tilting your head up toward his. “It suits you,” he mumbled, dark eyes partially-lidded as he looked over your face.

His hand shifted, clasping the back of your neck. You were stretched onto your toes, leaning toward him with such fervor that you would fall forward if he stepped away. The air between you was warm, smelling of wine and roasted hazelnuts.

The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, so cautious. It seemed like he was just testing, treating you like glass.

You should have pulled away, bashful and flustered and told him that you would have time to continue on your wedding day. That three weeks was not a long time to wait–a mere twenty four days away.

But you did not, hesitantly placing a hand upon his chest for stability as you stretched further into the kiss. Marcus let out a soft groan, the kiss deepening as his mouth slanted against yours. His beard and mustache tickled your delicate skin, but you found yourself enjoying the sensation. The broad stretch of his hands cradled your jaw, guiding you through the clumsiness of naivety into the kiss.

Your hand fisted in his tunic, pulling him toward you with some urgency. He let out a muffled grunt, a hand finding the curve of your hip.

He then pulled away, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he took in air. You could feel his chest move beneath your hand with each heavy breath. A smile curved his lips, genuine in a way you already found yourself cherishing.

“I will see you soon,” he murmured, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips before untangling himself from you. “But I believe if I keep you any longer, your father will be suspicious.”

You let go of his tunic, nodding as you let go of him. He cupped your cheek in his hand, thumb running over your cheekbone before he bid you farewell, stamping another kiss upon your brow before leaving your father’s domus altogether.

The girlish giggle came from you before you could stop it, your hand covering your mouth as you looked down at the ring on your finger.

Bless the goddess Fortuna for your fate that day.

#marcus acacius x reader #pedro pascal x reader #marcus acacius #pedro pascal #marcus acacius x f!reader #arranged marriage au #reader insert #gladiator 2 #gladiator II #gladiator fanfiction

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goldenwoods · 1 month ago

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This post is about the gaiman situation.

Right off the bat, fuck him and his associates. It's rare for someone in a position of power to get what they deserve but I hope he joins that short list. And I wish the victims well. What a horrible situation to be abused by a man masquerading as a champion for inclusivity and human rights.

That said, I don't understand the vitriol put towards people who're trying to recontextualise their relationship to gaiman's media in light of the revelations. I'm talking about those posts and comments getting angry at people for grieving, accusing them of not prioritising the victims.

Which is such an unwarranted accusation. Obviously, if they're under a post or article about the victim's testimony and they go "my season 3 :(((" or "my poor characters don't deserve this :("in the comment section then yeah, they're pretty disgusting. But the same accusations shouldn't be levied at people trying to come to terms with the fact that their formative experience was written by a monster ON THEIR OWN BLOG.

This isn't putting fictional characters before victims, it's just that there can't be much said about such a black and white situation that isn't already said by a million other posts ("fuck gaiman, fuck his supporters, hope the victims get justice"), whereas how a reader themselves deal with the fall of someone they've put on a pedestal is a much more complicated and nuanced process that they have to think through. If anything, I think it's a sign of a healthy community who treat 'fuck gaiman' as common sense and not something that needs arguments about. I don't know if there are ways to help the victims yet beyond just showing support on social media (let me know if i've missed something), but I don't think going after any fan daring to talk about their own relationship to the text is helpful at all. And I can guarantee you those who're grappling with how they feel towards the text now –– those feeling betrayed and angry –– will be quick to rally to support the victims because they're only feeling conflicted because of how disgusted they are with the author.

(For context, I don't feel attached to Gaiman at all so this is not related to any personal stakes I have in this. I enjoyed GO the show, but never read or watched any of his works otherwise. I was planning to get a copy of GO the book but the allegations surfaced first so that didn't end up happening either. I am partial to David and Michael's acting but even then I'm just a casual fan and if they react in a disappointing way to the Gaiman situation, I feel like I could stop consuming their works without much emotional turmoil.)

EDIT: since this is getting a fair bit of attention, i want to summarise my midnight ramble a bit: the crux of the problem is that lots of people treat this blogspace as a mega-conversation, which is how the 'you're not focussing on the victims enough' accusation come up. Think if you're in a conversation about how person A had been hurt by B: OF COURSE your response should be 'gosh that's fucked up. hope A's doing okay', and if your response ON THE SPOT is 'ohhhhh shit i don't know how to feel about the fact that I used to really like B lemme monologue about my complicated emotions out loud' then yeah you're the problem. But if you respond compassionately but spend a sizeable amount of time afterwards in your own head ruminating over how you used to think B was a really good person? ...then you're just a normal human being with a moral compass. Tumblr is the latter and not the former. It's the collection of dumping grounds for people's thoughts, not an online forum that give you a measure of where people's priorities are.

#neil gaiman #good omens

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skellymom · 1 year ago

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@ventresses I meant to get back to you and say WOW great insight and post!

The Myth of Heroic Masculine Purpose, and How it’s Harming Men

youtube

This video is worth the time and at least listen (if you don't have time to sit down and actively watch). I was thinking of The Bad Batch's Hunter. Hunter wants to stay home and "do the laundry" settling on Pabu to raise Omega safely. He's done being a soldier. What he is doing is still worthy. Some in the fandom don't agree he should do that and denigrate his character for it. Not everyone can be an Echo or a Rex. We need some people to be on the home front to take care "of the laundry" as this video describes while others go to fight in the Rebellion. In our Earth history, there have been both, and it doesn't necessarily have to be gender specific.

#*puts my political science major & social sciences minor hat on*#honestly i'd love to go on and on about this #and then another normal response to this which Ahsoka and Obi Wan go for is exile & isolation #and ruminating on the past and struggling to move past their guilt and depression #Obi-Wan taking it to the extreme by apparently living alone in a cave for 10 years #long post #the bad batch

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remcycl333 · 2 years ago

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STEP 1 - CHANGE WHAT YOU’RE AWARE OF

notes from “the creative use of imagination” by neville goddard 🤍

step 0 is to decide what you want. maybe you want money, or a new place to live, or an sp, or physical appearance changes.

step 1: begin to observe those thoughts and reactions towards the thing you want to manifest.

“to arrive at a certain definition of self, you must begin by uncritically observing your automatic reaction to an event, for your reaction defines your state” -NG

throughout this post, I will use the example of physical appearance change.

maybe throughout your day, you see pictures of other people on social media that you view as more attractive as you, and your reaction to that is “I wish I looked like them, this isn’t fair why am i not as attractive as them, what do I need to do to look like them” etc.

or maybe you see yourself in the mirror and you think “god why do i look like that, why am i not attractive? why hasn’t my face changed yet?” Etc

if you were in the state of having your desired physical appearance, would you be reacting that way to your 3D?

the first step to changing our state is to first learn the way our old state behaves and reacts to things. it is our current dwelling state that is reflecting in our 3d right now, and when you stop and observe your reactions to things, it becomes glaringly obvious how they’re creating your 3d. if you’re ruminating on how ugly you think you are all day long, you cannot be surprised when you look in the mirror and are dissatisfied with what you see.

“If you react to that which is being objectified, you bind yourself to a certain level of awareness, but if you refuse to react, the thread is broken.” -NG

“Only by observing your reactions to life can you find yourself.” -NG

how are you supposed to know what state you are in if you don’t observe your reactions? And once you begin to observe your reactions, Neville says you will be shocked by how deceitful you truly are. but he always urges the importance of uncritical observation. you should not shame yourself for what you find, or even feel bad. these observations are simply meant to show you your current state, and the ins and outs of it so you are able to change it more easily.

“always examine yourself uncritically, for the moment you become critical, you automatically justify your reactions and associate yourself with the thing observed.” -NG

once you begin to observe your reactions, you will become more aware of them when they happen. they’ll grow to become uncomfortable and glaring. they will feel like they don’t fit you anymore. maybe before they were just knee-jerk, unconscious reactions, but now you will feel them take up the space in your head whenever they arrive. and because of this, you will be able to shift your awareness to what you really want your 3d to reflect. you will be able to let go of the parts of yourself you no longer wish to identify with.

“be transformed by the renewing of your mind by changing the ideas planted there, for you cannot change your thinking until you change the ideas from which your thoughts flow.” -NG

your state creates your thoughts, not the other way around. it is critical to understand this if you wish to change your dwelling state. your thoughts are not your enemies. if you constantly battle against your thoughts, without ever paying mine to your state, you will not have much success.

“accept an idea as true. identify yourself with it and it will out-picture itself in your world. but if you do not accept the thought and identify yourself with it through feeling, you are free from its results. you must become very selective and learn not to associate yourself with unlovely thoughts.” -NG

this is not to confused with the term “mental diet.” when you react negatively to something, you have two options. 1) beat the thought down and panic and tell yourself the opposite without believing it to be true, or 2) choosing not to identify with it. remind yourself that this thought is just a thought. it has no power over you, and if you don’t want it to be manifested into your reality, it will not. Neville says if you do not consent to a thought as true, it will not manifest into your world. if you don’t associate your inner being with that thought, it will not come to pass in your 3D.

“start now to consent only to lovely thoughts of fulfilled desires prior to their confirmation by your senses, and give up the animal instinct of suffering and bathing yourself in the feelings of hurt and self-pity.” -NG

ruminating in unpleasant thoughts where your desire remain unfulfilled can be comfortable, and even habitual, but at the end of the day it is a choice. a choice that you have to stop making if you truly want better for yourself. this is something I struggled with a lot at the beginning of my manifestation journey. there was some twisted pleasure and comfort found in picking at scabs in my mind, and feeling sorry for myself, and imagining what would happen if my desire was never realized in my 3d. but eventually I had to choose better for myself, and I had to choose to stop giving so much attention to mental conversations like that.

“control your imagination with steady attention and dare to stand and be heard.” -NG

YOU create the happenings of your imagination, and your imagination creates your reality. do not feel silly or foolish deciding better for yourself in your own imagination. and do not let the logical restrictions of the 3d to tell you what you can and can not give yourself in imagination. give yourself what you want in imagination and stand firm in that, even if your 3d shows the opposite. stop silencing yourself in your own imagination!

this is my thoughts and notes only on the first two chapters of “the creative use of imagination” so more may come as I continue my re-read! 🤍 just wanted to share this :)

#law of assumption #neville goddard #states

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kangaracha · 13 days ago

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QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 24

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pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

a/n hi. it's me. i'm back. i don't have any excuses to make.

please also check out daybreak, posting weekly from now on (yes i did write an entire smau instead of queenmaker and sit on it for almost six months)

previous | masterlist | next

---

Comeback approaches like a hurricane; it's there, developing in the corner of your eye just off the coast of your island, and then all at once it is here, and it is so all-encompassing that you're not even sure where here is anymore.

Comeback. Debut. The most important day of your life. One of those.

Time starts to fly by; schedules and practice and filming and every so often the chance to sleep or to grab something to eat with the others. It drags at your coattails, sticks itself to your feet and settles like a weight upon your shoulders, but you can't stop. There are performances to film, and then there is a concert that you are missing so much of the choreography for, and even when all of that is over, you are headfirst into award season and special performances and group activities for the company and-

First, debut. Second, everything else.

The camera sits on the table in front of you, staring with one dark, unblinking eye as a brush darts across your face, erasing all your imperfections. It fills your stomach with a funny kind of fear, small but poisonous, stinging when you think about turning it on - you've managed to put it off so far, waiting until your face was made up to at least avoid having to see your own naked skin reflected back at you in the viewfinder. No one else wanted to see that either, you're sure, after the things you've read and...well, the experiences you've had in the past. It's good to know your limits, after all.

That excuse is fast running out now though, and the time to go up towards the stage is drawing closer with alarming speed, and if you don't capture any footage before that happens, you're in some real trouble, no matter how loudly Seungmin and Felix are churning out hours worth of content on the other side of the room.

It takes real, deliberate effort to lean forward and turn that camera on once the makeup artist proclaims you ready, your hands delaying still as they fiddle with the angle and the focus, following the motions the manager that had handed it to you had shown you before he left. It gives you a little red light to say it is filming, and you swallow down the stone in your throat and sit up straight, looking around at the room to avoid the stare of its lense.

The first minute of your vlog is very boring. It's probably only the thought of some stranger sitting in a room later and watching you sit there awkwardly for a ridiculous amount of time that spurs you into saying anything at all.

"Hello Stay," you begin, because it seems the only way to begin. The words feel awkward in your mouth, your tongue stiff and undeserving of saying them, and your throat scratches and dries; you think, as you speak, that you do not sound like a singer at all. "It's nice to meet you...for the second time."

A noise rises up from behind you, giving you pause just as you run out of things to say - Han, running his voice up and down the scales as he begins to warm up. You've gotten used to that by now, the volume of the boys around you, but you're grateful for the excuse to pause in your self-rumination anyway, the precious seconds it gives you to figure out what it is you're saying.

Act normal, you tell yourself firmly as you turn back to the camera.

"I guess I should introduce myself, shouldn't I?" you say, your fingers twisting in your lap. "I'm L/N Y/N from Stray Kids, and today we're at [] for our first performance of Back Door, and I have just finished with the makeup..."

In the corner of the viewfinder, you notice a face hovering over your shoulder; Jeongin, waving a peace sign just out of your field of vision. You turn to look at him, shuffling over so that he is in full view for the camera. "What are you doing?" you ask and he leans in closer, automatically fixing the angle for the camera.

"I just wanted to see what you were doing," he says, refreshingly peaceful compared to the chaos that is building in the rest of the room. "Is this a vlog?"

"Mhm," you answer, and he smiles and waves again to the camera. "Are you dressed already?"

"Nearly," he says, glancing down at his white shirt and the black necklace that dangles around his neck. "You have time still."

You glance down at yourself; hoodie and cargo pants, neat but not show-ready by any means. "Mine is cold," you say by way of explanation, thinking of the skirt and thin shirt that wait on a rack in the next room, a far cry from the long pants the eight of them are wearing; and you really do like the look you've been given, but the thought of sitting around cold before you had to was less than enticing. "I was going to go and change in a minute."

"Maybe you should swap with someone," I.N suggests slyly. "I bet Changbin would look good in a skirt."

"Changbin's pants wouldn't fit me," you throw back, and he has to turn away from the camera to hide the ugly laugh that snorts from his nose. "He's too-"

Short, you don't say, your eyes tracking the boy in question as he passes by. He pauses in the back of your video when he notices your eyes on him, looks between you suspiciously, and then dances his way out of frame, having decided, you guess, that you aren't up to anything worthy of comment.

The look you share with I.N almost makes you laugh again. "I'm going," you say, scooping up your camera as you stand, "before he realises we're talking about him."

---

"Why do you look nervous?" Chan asks, a shadow that suddenly stands beside you as someone clips a mic pack onto his belt. You eye him in disbelief to avoid turning to look at the hallway that leads to the stage again, trying to figure out if he's joking or not.

"I can be nervous if I want to," you answer after a few seconds, in a way that definitely doesn't hide how anxious you feel at all.

"But you shouldn't be," he insists, "because there's nothing to be nervous about."

"You know that won't stop me," you scoff.

He cracks a smile despite himself. He almost laughs, except that he's busy turning to nod in acknowledgement of whatever the assistant behind him says on her way past. "It's going to be a good performance," he says, like the simple act of saying it is enough to manifest it into existance, like he would never believe otherwise.

"It's going to be good," you agree readily. "The concerts next week are going to be good too."

That smile flashes across his face again, his eyes lighting up. "You're excited?" he asks - and you almost feel guilty, that he would think that you wouldn't be excited, that you've worked so hard and put on such a stoic face that any of them might start to think this is a chore for you, rather than a dream coming true in front of your eyes.

"Of course I'm excited," you tell him emphatically, before he can get any ideas. "I can't wait to-"

"Y/N noona!" Changbin says as he strides across the room, stopping the thought halfway through. You turn to face him and the phone he waggles in his hand questioningly. "Take a photo with me."

"Right now?" you ask, looping your in-ears over your shoulders as if to demonstrate just how poor his timing is.

Changbin doesn't notice at all. "Why not now?" he questions. "I'm supposed to take a photo for instagram. Come and take one with me."

Beside you, Chan looks like he still has something to say, but when you glance at him, he only shrugs, turning away to fiddle with his own equipment. "Alright," you agree easily and follow Changbin, over to a bland enough piece of wall with decent lighting. You have a feeling someone has already scouted the room earlier for the best places to take photos, judging by how easy it is to find and how well it photographs.

It's a good distraction from the nerves for a few minutes, but it doesn't last much longer than that; especially not when Changbin barks and fusses over the angle and the faces, and then Hyunjin comes wandering over to take the camera out of his hand, and you realise that he's occupying you as much as doing what Skijigi have asked him to do. After that, you laugh and poke fun back at him with just the same vivacity, but it does nothing to assauge the anxiety that's planted deep in your gut, roots curling out to envelop you.

Somehow, when you're done, it is time to go up to the stage - and suddenly, you are engulfed within the group and walking that hallway you had been staring at what feels like moments ago, trying to swallow with a dry mouth and a stone in your throat and wondering if you'll actually be able to get any of the notes out at all.

Chan's hand touches your shoulder as you walk, appearing by your side in just the same way as he had earlier. You wonder if he can smell fear or something; or if you really are just that pale and drawn in the face, if your hands are shaking or something. Whatever it is, you're clearly not doing a very good job of hiding it.

"You still look nervous," he tells you cheerily, and if he's aware that he's reading your thoughts, he doesn't give any indication of it, not even as he pulls you aside as you reach side-stage and glances up at the huddle of boys that continue to the bottom of the stairs, eyeing them as if there's something he doesn't want them to hear.

"I got you something," he says, when he's sure there are no eavesdroppers, and lets his lips curve in a secretive, delighted smile.

Your eyebrow raises in surprise, almost certain that he did not forget, but rather has been looking for the right time to bring it up - but he doesn't notice the look of disbelief, fishing a small, velvet bag out of his pocket. He offers it to you on an outstretched palm, a bridge to form the gap between you.

With timid, shaking fingers you take it, noting the pink that stains his cheeks and the way he cringes away from meeting your eye as you pull the drawstrings loose. "I saw you playing with the ones at K-Con," he hurries to explain before you can even see what's inside. "And you - fidget a lot. I thought it might help."

A ring tumbles out of the bag and into your palm, the full stop to the end of his sentence. It's only a plain silver band, softly curved at the edges and gleaming where the light hits it - nothing ostentatious or gaudy. Just a simple band for you to twist around your finger, the letters SKZ engraved on its inner circle.

"Thankyou," you manage to say as you slip it onto your finger - and then fiddle with it, twisting it and forth to distract yourself from the nervous hum that seems to hang in the air between you.

"Oh, no." He waves you away before you can even get the words out, that pink flushing his face. "Look, it works already."

You glance down at your fingers and the twist of the ring, and feel the grin that bites at your face. "I like it," you admit, and try to breathe the nervous jitters out of your chest with the words.

He looks...relieved? You're not sure, when the music blasts on stage and then cuts off and the crowd roars in response, cutting him off before he can say whatever it is that now lines the back of his teeth. It looks like relief on his face though; as if he'd been worried you wouldn't take the gift or something. Wouldn't see the sentiment behind it even if you didn't like it. What does he think of you, if that's how he thinks you might react?

The thought sends another thrill of fear down your spine, one that the scrape of that ring on your finger can't quiet. So does the scream of that crowd - adrenaline rises from your chest, wrapping its hands around your throat; that wild, senseless energy tensing in your body like you're about to run from a fight-

A hand claps your shoulder. "Are you breathing?" Seungmin asks, balancing on one foot as he leans around you to frown at your face.

You have to inhale to retort, and he smirks. "That's what I was wondering," Chan says behind that grin - but the brush of his hand over the back of yours is much softer; questioning, rather than the jolt of contact from Seungmin.

"I don't need to breathe," you throw at them weakly. "I'm a robot."

"How do I turn you off, then?" Chan asks, and then laughs when you stare at him, surprised. Betrayed, maybe, when you would have expected such a thing to come out of Seungmin's mouth rather than his.

You're distracted by the call of a staff member, waiting to usher you onto the stage - and there, again, are your nerves, returned in two-fold. Debut, you remember again for the thousandth time today. Your dream. Your reward. Your life's work, the only work you've ever learnt how to do.

The group huddle together, say some quick words of encouragement that float past you with registering at all. Your hand is warm in the centre of all of theirs, crushed by the weight of someone's palm as eight hands go down and whoever is on the bottom goes up, ruining the whole thing. You know that you laugh, between the groans and cries of retribution, but it doesn't reach right into your chest. All your attention is laser-focused on the steps before you and the buzz of the crowd waiting beyond.

You are not alone in your daze, at least. Many hands pat your shoulders, smooth your hair. Felix throws an arm around you until you reach the stairs, a one-armed hug while he talks about something in your ear. He lets you go while you climb, and follows on your heels out onto the stage.

The crowd is smaller than K-Con, to your mercy, even if they scream and cheer just as loud as that massive crowd had. It seems like a stupid thing to find comfort in a moment later, when the thought hits you again; of course the crowd is smaller. This is only a broadcast recording, not the concerts that leer at your from the near future.

Some of the boys are already at the centre of the stage, waving and talking to fans. You join them long enough for the official greeting - and then melt away into the background when Changbin immediately commands attention. You find Han there with you, arms swinging by his sides in one last warmup, but you can't think of anything to say other than the tight grin that offers itself to him, no doubt writing all you nerves right onto your face. The smile he gives you in return is sympathetic, and devoid of pretty words to go with it; just a flash of teeth, a puff of air that blows into his cheeks before exhaling. It's a little comfort, at least.

The call to begin shatters any calm it pulls over you just as quickly as it arrives though, the stage a hive of activity as everyone finds their places. For a long moment, no one moves and nothing plays, the tense, still seconds ticking by at an excruciating pace-

And then the music starts.

And then you dance.

And then you sing, loud and clear and bright - and steady, even with the complex movement of your body and the increasing cry of your chest for air.

The finale rises and culminates with Felix's voice, standing at the end of the line behind you. You feel his weight bump against you as he shifts on his feet, hear the moment of silence and then the renewed cheer of the crowd when his ending fairy comes up on the screens. You can't see when it ends, so you count to five before you turn, ducking out of the line as requested and immediately finding the red light of the camera that was told to be waiting for you. Finger hearts, Felix had suggested backstage and Hyunjin had agreed, and so that is what you give them, angled just so by your cheek and the giddy smile that had been pulling on your lips before the music was even finished.

The stage goes silent, the few scattered beginnings of applause quickly throttled by the hands that remain in their laps. The seconds tick by at a glacial pace, the smile threatening to slip from your face. You glue it there with all the fire that remains in your veins.

You could swear the camera lingers, just to drink in your pain. Logically, you know it is the same time as Felix had. Somehow, the thought isn't comforting.

Finally, that lense clicks off and the boys move around you, giving the crowd something else to hawk and squeal at. Something they really want to see, you allow yourself to think acerbically, and carefully avoid looking any of them in the eye as you do your forced, casual wander off the stage. It is hard enough to achieve in your own bubble, to resist that urge to run, let alone if you catch anything like sympathy on their faces.

The first one below, you take one look at the playback monitor and excuse yourself to the staff, fleeing towards the bathrooms. You're dimly aware of footsteps behind you and the sound of your name, but they do not process and your feet won't stop - not until the heavy door slams shut behind you and the propel of your walk carries you in sight of the mirror over the sinks-

Beautiful, you'd dared to think earlier, staring vindictively at just the same image that looks back at you now. The careful fit of the navy shirt, the short skirt flattering the length and lines of your legs, the layered bangles and the diamonds that glitter around your neck...perfectly crafted to slip right in amongst the silk and patterns of the boys - and not unlike Midnight's dark queen concept either, the concept you hadn't had the right look for. You'd even liked your face, and the unearthly glow they'd painted into your cheeks, the perfect frame of your dark hair-

But something had displeased that crowd. Whether the look, or the dancing, or stupid, stubborn pettiness over girlish crushes - or all of it put together. It took a lot to silence an entire crowd. You knew that - you'd seen one refuse to be silenced before, but never nominally refuse to cheer. Never pass the sentiment around and come to an absolute mutual agreement.

It's a talent, to be able to do that by yourself, you think as you stare into your own eyes in the mirror; and you don't have it in you to deny the rush of feelings that wells in your chest this time, or the hot prick of tears in your eyes. Your thoughts are swept off in the storm, the questions clamouring, crying, begging for one answer; why, why, why, why. Why do they hate you, why are they so mean about it, why didn't you just go home? Why did you ever come to this country in the first place? Why id you think you were good enough to be worth their love?

A soft knock on the door precedes the tentative entry of an assistant; one of the girls from JYP that always travels with you on schedules. You know her name, but you should know her better; instead, you've just been keeping to yourself. Another point of failure, probably.

"Y/N?" she says, daring to put one foot through the door as you blink and nod in acknowledgement. "Sorry - we need to start heading back now. You can have another moment - if you need-"

"I'm coming," you hurry to say; and it is shame that colours your cheeks and gives you the strength again to swallow it down like a hard stone. The tears burn as you blink them away, as you stare at the mirror and decide that no more will fall except for the traitorous three that have already escaped. You'll have to go back on that stage - you won't go red-eyed and puffy, won't give them that satisfaction.

You'll have to do that ending again too, though. Weather that storm a second time. Well, you'll just have to make sure this take is perfect, and then no one will ask for a third. You'll be able to go home and hide.

Your moment is up. You know that, and so you turn yourself away from the mirror, to the girl that waits. She willingly averts her eyes as she steps out, holding the door for you until you grip the edge of it with your own hand and follow her.

Chan is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall and staring at nothing as he waits. There's a dark anger in his eyes when he turns, but it isn't for you - no, the tissue box in his hand is for you, offered like a bridge that spans the gap between you.

Warily, you draw one and turn aside to dab at your eyes and try to cool the burn in your cheeks. You want to cringe away from yourself and hide in the bathroom again, to put off facing him until he goes away - but if you do that, he'll know you're hiding, and the hovering assistant will bear the blame of not bringing you back, and those fans will think they know why it's taking so long-

Stupid. They already know that they've won. Chan can see you crying. There's no one left to make a fool of except yourself.

"Are you alright?" Chan asks - and just like you thought, there is none of that anger in the gentle voice that asks.

"It's fine," you answer, biting at your tongue agains the tears that threaten to stir anew. "Sorry. I just needed - a moment. I'm ready to go again."

"Take another moment," he tells you.

"I'd rather go," you say, and it comes out harsher than you mean it to - but it is only the tears that you are fighting, that horrible, gut-wrenching wave of emotion that wants to wash over you. "I'm fine. Really."

The tissue crushes in your palm. You wonder if the sceptical look he gives you is because of the makeup you've surely smudged, or if he just doesn't believe you. "Are you sure?" he asks, and you steel yourself as you breathe in.

"I will be if we don't talk about it," you tell him tightly, and then you take the lead before he can disagree. He falls into step willingly anyway, thoughtful or maybe brooding as you weave your way back to the stage.

"We're not doing the endings again," he tells you as you approach, right as the flock of makeup artists engulf you. Like they knew you'd be crying, you think acerbically, and then banish the thought before it can unbalance you again.

"Were there any notes for me?" you ask as a brush dusts your cheek. The dancing; that's the only thing you need to focus on. The performance. Do it perfectly, and you can escape. Subconsciously, you fingers find the ring, twisting it around and around.

"Not for you," Chan says. "Just try to enjoy it again, yeah?"

Several choice comments come to mind as you gaze at him, each one as dry and hurt as the last, but a look at the occupants of the room stills your tongue. Assistants and stylists and employees of the show - people that you shouldn't be caught speaking ill of fans or members in front of. You've read your contracts and the company ethics, seen the bill for your training attached to your name. You know how far fans and a good public image takes even the most insidious people.

"I'll try," you promise instead, firmly holding your tongue to your principals. No point complaining about hardships anyway. This isn't an industry that takes pity on those who are too weak to survive it.

Even so, the answer seems vapid and contrived the moment it spills out of your mouth. Chan doesn't have time to contest it; the others are already returning to the stage to entertain that undeserving crowd, and so you must follow too, side by side in silence. His microphone passes restlessly from hand to hand, even when you step on stage and his brow smoothes out. You wonder how long that rage will simmer beneath his skin.

Until he can do something about it, a little voice whispers to you with a thrill, watching his receding back.

The stage sweeps you away after that, Chan disappearing into the midst of the others with just one last glance over his shoulder to make sure that you're following. Seungmin replaces him, appearing unobtrusively in your shadow as Felix slings an arm back around your shoulders and bats his hand away from messing with your hair. They flank you until you drift into your position, and then the stage goes quiet so that the music can start again.

The dance flies by; chorus, verse, bridge, dance break. The fans cheer and chant along as dutifully as they had the first time, but the sound resonates hollow in your chest this time, the faces that you give the camera manufactured rather than brought on by the music. It's hard to forget, now that you know the truth, that those cheers aren't for you; only the boys that surround you, their bodies moving in unison with yours. Part of them, and yet set apart.

You'd come six years ago expecting to be the jewel in that kind of crown, you think. This crowd has made you the flaw, ugly and unmistakably out of place.

It's a relief when the song ends and you can let go, your shoulders slumping and your chin dropping to your chest as you stare at the floor and try to breathe. A hundred emotions sweep by you, there and then swallowed again by the storm that churns in your stomach; you flinch away from the crowd's laughter at something Han does, and then laugh when Changbin's face appears upside-down in your field of vision, his body contorted strangely in an effort to meet your eyes. There's still something hiding in Chan's eyes and Felix is openly angry, but Minho gives nothing away in the nod he gives you as he passes by. Changbin talks about what to get for dinner on the way back down the stairs, but the words just wash over you; you're not hungry anyway, after all of this, just hollow and restless and tired.

Your third filming trudges by much the same, correcting a small mistake by Han in the pursuit of perfection. The boy looks apologetic as he passes you by, but it's not him or the dancing that you resent. It's just a thing you have to do, until all nine of you are pleased, until you can finally leave that stage and draw the hoodie you'd worn here on a very different kind of morning back over your head and climb into a car to go home.

You don't win any awards. The boys hide their disappointment, but you know it is there. You know, too, where the fan vote went and why that trophy was stolen away from them.

You're not really sure what anyone expects you to do about it.

---

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids

@hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts

@puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night

@d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk

@minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification

@starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace

@amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002

@hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff

@splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit

@jabmastersupriseee @kayleefriedchicken @hynjinswrld @duhgurl @cheshireshiya

@keepswingin

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iwoulddieforher · 1 month ago

Text

Pondering Temperature | Casey Novak//&Alex Cabot

Author's Note:

First post ... I have absolutely no clue how tumblr works or how the tumblr social interaction is supposed to be, however, I am so obsessive about these two dumb gay lawyers I had to show up anyway.

No warnings & this is also partially a character study experiment for Casey ... I wanted it to feel like it was vaguely possible a scene like this could exist in canon.

Summary: One dumb gay lawyer has a rough time of it and the other dumb gay lawyer takes her for coffee and then they proceed to have a casual conversation with very gay overtones.

4.4k words, I think?

//Images stolen from either here or Pinterest

Like a breeze that exasperates an already cold New York winter, Alex Cabot made Casey Novak uncomfortable. Not outright agitated or irritable, but just enough of a nuisance that she couldn't push it out of her mind, and if she managed, she would be inevitably reminded of it shortly as the wind picked back up again, scattering snowflakes across her face.

For around a month, she and Cabot had been “sharing” SVU. She had returned from suspension, and Cabot had returned from wherever the hell she was, and the precinct wanted both of them so they just kept sharing caseloads. It should have made her thrilled- another ADA meant she could be even more hands-on in the active cases, be able to study each argument until she could perform all of her movements flawlessly. But with Cabot, it just didn't work right.

They said less than fifty words to each other per day, and none of them were ever in sentences. A quick, “another case came in- mine, or yours?”, “Olivia needs a warrant filled, so I’m going to the courthouse- did you need anything from a judge?” “Warner asked to see you,” “Olivia asked to see you,” “Cragen’s looking for you,” God. People were always looking.

The person giving the curt notice would never expect a response- if anything, a nod or a short “Yeah, on it”, and then exit immediately.

It felt ridiculously awkward. Warmer than greeting a defense counsel, because at least they were fighting the same fight, but compared to the warmth of connection shared by the rest of the squad- yes, okay, bickering was constant, but they cared about each other on a level hard for any outsider to understand- it felt cold.

Cold reminded Casey immediately of the teasing nickname the squad referred to Cabot with- ‘Ice Queen'. It didn't help that for the first months of becoming the Special Victims counselor, Casey was constantly fighting to fill the shoes of Cabot in the squad member's eyes- and now, that legendary blonde was perched casually in the office somewhere near her’s, her annoyingly cooperative naturally blonde hair flowing down her annoyingly straight, always squared back shoulders.

Fighting the squad's fiery rejection with her own fire of determination, setting everything ablaze in a stupid, unnecessary, inefficient inferno that Alexandra Cabot would never struggle with. Amazing.

“Earth to Casey.” Olivia broke through her thoughts, piquing an eyebrow at her and settling down at the chair across from Casey’s desk. The ADA casually slid her eyes down to the detective’s face, having mastered the art of not startling when people try to snap her back to active consciousness.

“Casey’s on Earth,” She hummed, tapping her pen idly on the desk.

"Sure you are." The detective snorted, shaking her head. "If you still had that red hair, I'd make a joke about you being a homesick martian."

Casey didn't have red hair anymore. She had blonde hair, like Alex. Except Alex's hair was a toned, icy blonde, while her own remained stubbornly warm no matter how much toner she tried to use to mask her original dark copper- at some point she quit trying, settling for a blonde so dirty it could possibly pass as light brown. That thought made her internally sigh with the level of rumination over that woman.

"What do you need?"

Benson dropped a case file on her desk, a grimace that reads of determined resignation on her face. "Could you get a warrant?"

Casey's brain clicked back over to work mode, sliding her finger along the side of the case file out of habit before freeing the pages from the bounds of a paperclip and skimming over the words. "This seems straightforward.. oh."

She blinked, slowly, glancing up at Liv without breathing. The police officer doesn't seem to notice anything wrong with her- thank god, sometimes Liv can be very unobservant- although she's very observant where it counts, so perhaps that's a rude musing to make- so she doesn't move to cover her hesitation.

"So, you want to pop the shrink?" She says, tracing the word 'schizophrenic' with the pad of her index finger.

Olivia nods, stiffening her shoulders in the sort of half-shrug motion that thinned her lips that Casey had come to identify with her. "We want to know more about his delusions to see if that matches up with what happened to this woman, but the good doctor just doesn't want to talk. He's also suspicious as hell, so..."

Casey huffs, squinting at a page. "I'll see what I can do."

"Well, that's your job, isn't it?" Olivia snarks, feisty but not overtly mean, just.. Liv-like. The toll of being a detective, Casey supposed, was her sense of urgency overriding politeness. That's fine. That's what she's grown used to, anyway. It doesn't stop Casey from gritting her teeth with a twitched eyebrow as Olivia stalks off.

It takes her a bit longer than she would've liked to prepare to take this into the judge on rotation's chambers. The affidavit was written, and sat unassumingly on her desk, while she tried to steel her nerves. If she's honest, she wished Olivia had chosen to take this to Cabot instead of her. Donnelly's leering eyes as she squinted at Casey around any mention of mental illness in perps made her immensely thrilled said judge was not likely to be inside said court today.

The judge who was inside the building, however, was not very sympathetic to the issue.

In all honesty, Casey doesn't really even understand how the argument happened. One moment she was walking up the steps into the polished, posh building and then she was walking down them, barely contained fury in her eyes and in the way she clenched her jaw.

"But you have to understand," she replays her own voice in her mind, the schooled, smooth tone, "doctor-patient confidentiality does not extend this far. If this man is genuinely a danger to himself and everyone around him, there's no reason this psychiatrist should be permitted to without vital information-"

The way the judge had raised a finger in her face, silencing her as one might a little irritated kid, "If this doctor thought that there was a genuine concern, then of course he would have. But these cases are sensitive, and I will not stand for the usage of these very personal admissions as shock value-"

"I assure you, any information found using this warrant will not be abused, Your Honor, and the detectives-"

"You don't have enough on him to guarantee him as a prime suspect, and could easily lead to a misdirection in the investigation and therefore in this court. Granting this warrant right now would be premature and lead too-"

"I understand and acknowledge what you're wary of, but I can assure you-"

"I don't think you can assure me of anything with a case like this, Novak." The judge had snapped, just shy of a scoff- but they followed it up quickly so it didn't come off too much like a personal jab with a "I see no reason why this is necessary."

Casey internally flared in response, standing utterly still for a moment as it felt like an engine ignition fumbled in her stomach, before exhaling and nodding. "Thank you for your time, Your Honor." She replied as a rehearsed courtesy and nothing more, turning to leave the judge's chambers.

The judge had raised an almost withered looking finger, denying her exit. "Novak, I want you to know, I'm watching your movements on this case. It's not your job to carry out personal justice as you see fit. I don't want a repeat of-"

"I'm aware I've made mistakes in the past, Your Honor, but I assure you I will not repeat prior incidents." Her voice had cracked almost imperceptibly at the end, a motion neither had acknowledged- perhaps the judge hadn't noticed, but Casey had- a sound like a wooden block in a fireplace.

The judge stared at her for a moment, and she had stared back, disguising the fire behind her green eyes with the practiced blanket of professionalism. The judge had then nodded, looking away from her, and she was finally released from the interaction. The sharp, curt sound of her heels on the marble floors as she stalked away had been her tether, fixated on the sound while schooling herself away from obsessing over the blazing anger.

And that led her to the stairs again, on the way out, where she stopped and stood blankly for a moment, staring into the street without registering anything. She ground her teeth against each other, trying her best to wrangle in her fiery temper before she impulsively sunk her teeth into something she could control-

"Casey?"

She jerked her head to the side, where a composed if not a bit concerned Alex Cabot stood, her head tilted just the slightest. Her cold blue eyes bore into Casey's face in a way that strangely was not uncomfortable.

When she didn't immediately grant that with any real response, Cabot followed it up with, "You okay?"

The beast of adrenaline-filled fire in her stomach flared out of her control again, pouncing and writhing in her organs. She wasn't exactly sure what about Alex at this moment had her infuriated, but god, she was.

Her years of experience in court, especially her time with SVU where she'd needed to control her emotions with an iron fist if not to fumble her arguments out of anger and easily-placed personal attachment, had taught her enough to respond in a way that didn't indicate her fury.

To the average person.

Unfortunately, Alex Cabot was not an average person, and her own years of experience allowed her to see right through the younger attorney, which did absolutely nothing for Casey's misplaced anger.

"Peachy," Casey started, before realizing she didn't have anything to follow that up with, so she left it with a curt, overtly controlled nod.

"Sure you are." Alex smiled, jerking her eyebrows up to indicate her sarcasm that definitely didn't need to be further emphasized, and Casey felt like she could deck her. She briefly wondered what Alex would look like beneath her on her floor, pale skin on cold concrete, before deciding that's not exactly an appropriate pondering of her coworker.

Cabot clearly intended for her successor-turned-ally to elaborate on the source of her grievance, but Casey did not particularly feel like explaining herself, so she simply bit the corner of her lip out of habit and looked away from her, tucking her hands in her coat pockets and squaring her shoulders.

If she was honest to herself, she didn't really know what to explain, anyway. She knew that after returning from something as appalling as her Brady-violation-censure, she'd need to work five times as hard to regain the respect she had thus lost, and it was in no way surprising she had gained a reputation for being loose with cases that could relate to her more personally. Alex could understand that, but saying that out loud was not only pathetic but also did not accurately encompass the feeling swirling in the pit of her stomach. And part of her anger, now, was simply due to the presence of the other woman, which she definitely could not verbalize either.

Alex was cool, calm, composed, and her demeanor reminded Casey of the layer of ice built by cold weather on the surface of a lake. Glassy and honest, and in all ways beautiful, but in a way that concealed whatever lurked beneath all that. You could look through it, sure, see the color of the water, but until it melted what you were really standing above was something you could only wonder about.

Standing next to her made Casey feel rather inferior. She had always felt things more strongly than peers, always pictured her anger and her righteousness as altruistic flame, and in the beginning of her career this untethered drive to fight for justice had been a valuable asset, something that drove her to snarl at wrongdoers in white collar in a way other attorneys simply could not. But in special victims? Where everything was so personal, so connected, so intrinsically human? Every spark became an inferno, every morning harder to struggle to leash herself than the last. Once the wildfire was over, everything was laid bare and burnt on the floor of whatever hill Casey had so chosen to die on. And cold, ever-composed Alex Cabot knew nothing of that.

The roar of fire in Casey's heart had no similarity to the tranquility of ice displayed exclusively by Alex. Perhaps that's why Casey would never be able to live up to the legend Cabot was regarded as. It made her feel disgustingly human- something this job did not allow her room for.

"We're getting coffee," Alex says suddenly, snapping Casey out of her internal monologue to herself for the second time. The natural blonde's words were snipped but not unkind, but that didn't stop Casey from raising her eyebrows, trying to muster the icy attitude she just didn't really have in her.

Before she can retort with anything of sustenance, she feels Alex's slim fingers on the back of her coat, right on the curve of her shoulder blade, and the taller woman beginning to lead her in firm strides that she without thinking copied.

"Alex-"

"Are we going to a cafe- perhaps the one down the street, the one with all the monsteras in the windows, so we can sit down, or are we going to the coffee cart over there so we can continue this discussion in the office?"

"What are we continuing, exactly?" Casey bristled, shooting her a look, which Alex met without her proper smile faltering in the slightest.

"My vote," Cabot says casually, "is for the cafe. I like the atmosphere there."

Casey can feel her anger ebbing, but just for the sake of spiting her she indicated with her jaw towards the shape of the coffee cart a hundred meters or so down the street.

She internally groans when she reads through the lines of Alex's brisk side-smirk and behavior to realize the blonde had, in fact, also preferred the coffee cart and knew Casey was going to try to jab in like that- but Novak doesn't change her decision, nor does that realization add to any sort of negative emotion. The fire-monster in her heart growled a soft, "well played," before creeping back into a crevice in her ribcage.

They walk in an odd silence, Alex's hand on Casey's back never relenting despite her now willingness to follow the older woman's direction. Casey doesn't want to admit to herself how she's started easing into the touch.

She misses it just slightly when Alex finally does let her hand slide back to her own side as they approach the coffee cart salesman, but she focuses on reading and contemplating the menu, reaching for her purse before being rewarded with the feeling of Alex's finger brushing her wrist in a way that firmly dismissed the assumption Cabot was going to allow Casey to pay for herself. She raises her eyes in mild surprise, only to find Alex already looking at her, eyes showing a degree of knowingness that makes Casey's insides turn with mild discomfort. In an effort to resolve that, she resigns to allow Alex to cover her.

"I'll have an iced caffé mocha, please," Alex starts, then turning to Casey, who after a blank pause finishes with "and I'll take a cappuccino."

After Alex finds her wallet with a significant lack of fumbling that makes Casey again irritated at her inability to have the most basic human struggles, and after the salesman hands over two paper cups, Casey spins on her heel and begins back towards the DA's office.

"Iced coffee? Really? We live in New York, Alex, it's freezing already." She critiques, although more so simply because it's the only thing she can formulate to say. She finds that she doesn't regret starting with that, though, as Alex wrinkles the tip of her refined nose playfully.

"God knows with our job I need the sugar," Cabot takes a sip, then gestures at the steam rising from the mouthpiece of Casey's coffee's lid, "and I don't have the patience to wait for my coffee to cool enough for me to drink it."

Casey snorts. "You? Without patience? And I just sacrifice my throat."

With that, she takes a defiant sip, soothed in an odd way by the feeling of the too-hot coffee in her throat, although as she was already aware of from the feeling of it in her palm it wasn't really *that* hot. Alex responds with a furrowed brow.

"I'm- I'm not quite sure you should do that, Casey."

"I'm not sure you're in a position to question what I do, Cabot," she snarked, riled up again, before catching herself with a huff and then a slightly shameful, "Sorry."

"It's okay-" Alex starts, and then immediately echoes at Casey's scoff, "no, seriously, it's okay. I snapped at you when I was literally your client, back when you prosecuted my case- remember? So I'll let that one go now. And besides, I do sometimes question what you do, so that's not unfair regardless."

Casey turns her head briskly, an indignant almost-glare of confusion on her face, which Alex responds to with a puff of air that almost sounds like a giggle.

"Not in the way you're thinking, Casey."

The younger woman pauses in her steps, and Alex looks up in mild surprise to realize they've already reached the DA's office. A twinge of fear signals in her heart at Casey's silence, especially because the woman is facing straight and thus Alex could not read her expression, but then Novak briskly says,

"Well, lucky for you, you actually have started a discussion I want to continue. So as per your previous suggestions, we can take this to my office if that-" she turns, and Alex is met with an unreadable expression that doesn't exactly soothe her nerves yet replaces said anxiety with the momentary stun that comes from meeting the eyes of someone beautiful, "is still acceptable with you."

Alex takes an extra millisecond to respond which causes a small crease to appear between Casey's eyebrows, but when she hears the older woman's, "gladly", she visibly relaxes and continues on her path.

They remain in silence, Alex allowing Casey to pave the way ahead of her despite knowing where her office was, until the door had clicked behind both attorneys and Casey was seated on the couch in her office with Alex perched across from her, mirroring the way they had composed themselves years ago when Casey was preparing Alex for trial.

"You said you question me," Casey began bluntly, prodding, "what did you mean by that?"

The younger attorney leans forward, elbow on her knee, short of entering Alex's space but enough that Alex's spine leans automatically backwards.

Alex clears her throat, rather enjoying the way Casey approached the given situation like a courtroom exchange, crossing one lithe leg over the other. Casey pretends like she didn't trace the motion over in her mind, keeping her eyes schooled on Alex's face.

"When you hear about the details of a case, your eyes light up. And I don't mean in the normal expression of, say, 'her eyes lit up in excitement', but your eyes look like a spark ignite behind them and it doesn't go away until you hear that guilty verdict."

"Alright, smooth-talker, that doesn't answer my question-"

"And I question that," Alex cuts in with a tilt of her head, "in the sense that I question how one can be that driven."

With that, the dynamic is suddenly shifted, Alex leaning forward intently while Casey, who is momentarily caught off guard, leans in the opposite direction, her back pressed against the couch, sharp eyes studying Alex's face.

"You sink your teeth into every case you prosecute like a lioness holding out for her own and there's something gorgeous about watching you pace in that courtroom landing blow after blow, until the jury is so sure of your own authenticity it makes every defense counsel seem subpar." Alex continues seamlessly, encouraged by the faintest flush on Casey's cheekbones.

Cabot lets out a sigh, then, "When I go out with the detectives to celebrate a case, I see something similar in their faces- that sort of fierceness, that... that fire. And if I'm honest, I.. I just don't relate."

Casey blinks blankly at her, and Alex shakes her head with a twitched eyebrow. "I'm driven to succeed, obviously. I'm not selling myself short, I really will do everything possible to ensure justice is served. But we're not only prosecutors, we also need to be politicians, and I know that especially because of my uncle being a judge- I ended up working in SVU as a strategic decision. I learned to love working here, to get invested on a deeper level that matters, but... somehow, in maintaining all of that in my head, I just- that personal enrapture with each case you have, I wish I had that. I question that- how you have that, when I can't. I think it makes you an exceptional prosecutor."

The younger ADA's jaw opened as if to respond, but then she bit down on empty air, eyes narrowing as she processed Alex's almost random confession.

"And, to my understanding," Alex started again, "in the beginning, you didn't even want this job. And yet you devour every hardship you encounter now regardless. So I watch you, what you do, how you approach things, and I question that, because I really want to understand."

They sit in silence for a short moment, Casey's eyes so harsh that anyone else would prickle, uncomfortable with the examination, but Alex barely shifts, still leaning forward.

"Jesus, Alex." Casey huffs, finally. "Here I was, jealous as hell of your ability to seem so... unfazed. Nonchalant, even."

Alex offers a small, apologetic smile. "Unfortunately that couldn't be further from the truth. I am very chalant- well, not as much as you, but I wish that I was. That I could be. Lose myself in the case and forget all about the facade."

"The fact that you don't," Novak murmurs, "is what makes you so admirable to me, though." Casey bites the corner of her lip, her eyes dropping to somewhere near Alex's knee, although it's obvious she's neglecting her sense of sight to focus on the mental weight of the conversation. Her voice, normally either curt or rough, sounds like a low hum that Alex decides she wouldn't mind hearing a lot more of.

Casey has the odd urge to divulge her struggles now onto Alex. Tell her about the constant comparison between them she had been faced with, tell her about the way exactly what Alex found interesting in her was what made her be known as a liability or a hazard, whine and ramble and lay herself bare. The last of the indulgent flames flickered to an end as she eased, the air she breathed out heavier as she felt tension leave her spine.

She doesn't really want to verbalize all that, though. And thankfully she doesn't have too, because stupidly attractive Alex Cabot is so perceptive that it's apparent to Casey the older woman had sensed not only the original stress but also the release of it, and Alex's demeanour shifted just slightly to reveal her own satisfaction with eliciting such a reaction from her compliments alone. It's enough, for Casey, though, to know now that perhaps her own scrutinizing comparisons may be more self critical than necessary- or, at least, that Alex seems to believe in her.

They sit there, in silence, for a bit longer than they could ever explain to anyone else, Casey still staring blankly off into space but in the direction of Alex while the latter woman stares very bluntly at Casey.

"So, the next time you get all fired up," Alex says slowly, watching Casey's eyes as they faze back into focus, "I hope you know that's something I appreciate about you. And if you wish, you can come find me, and we'll get coffee again."

"I'll pay, next time," Casey says hurriedly, glancing towards the coffee cups that had been more or less completely forgotten about on her side table. She hesitates, squinting as she tries to figure out which one of them had contained her's.

Alex picks up on the confusion and then becomes similarly conflicted on the coffee cup ownership, tentatively picking up the one closest to her and taking a sip before quickly shaking her head and putting it back down. "Sorry- the cup felt cold, so I thought it was mine. This one's yours, it must have just cooled while we were talking."

She slides it on the table towards Casey, who accepts it, taking a swig. Alex is right- her's had cooled down till it was room temperature, while Alex's had warmed up to meet it.

"You did that." Casey says softly, almost accusingly, using the coffee as an allegory for herself that Alex apparently does not understand based on the furrowed brow she got in response.

Novak waves her hand vaguely, and Alex shrugs to herself, choosing to resign herself from the confusion and instead internally celebrate the fact Casey had just agreed on a 'next time'.

"I've got arraignment, soon," Alex breathed, although something in her itched to stay just the slightest bit longer, to watch Casey's features for just an extra couple seconds, "but I'm glad we had this talk."

"It's given me a lot to think about," Casey responded smoothly, standing with a nod to herself. "Alex... thank you."

A small hint of rosy color graced Alex's smooth skin, and she smiled warmly in a way Casey would have previously doubted she was capable of. The older woman followed Casey to her feet, her hand finding Casey's shoulder again briefly as a goodbye, before Alex nodded kindly and turned to disappear out into the world once more, collecting her coffee cup before she left.

Casey watched her leave, green eyes studying her lithe figure for as long as possible before she really did vanish entirely.

In the back of her mind, she vaguely hoped that this arrangement would continue 'till the summer, because she could bet the cold breeze she had come to associate with Alex Cabot would feel wonderful in warmer weather.

And for now, apparently, she could count on her gorgeous coworker to warm up her day's experience with coffee.

#casey novak #alex cabot #calex #law and order svu #casey novak x alex cabot #law and order special victims unit #lgbtq #svu

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