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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years ago

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We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 2: The Middle Of Nowhere]

You are a Russian Grand Duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution (1917-1923) and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Lots of shouting, if you never learned about the Russian Revolution then here's your mini crash course, references to historical stuff like violence and disease, Kroshka the mule emerges as the only emotionally stable character.

Word count: 4.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen @okilover02 @adrenaline-roulette @youngpastafanmug @m-1234 @tensecondvacation @deacyblues @haileymorelikestupid @rogerfuckintaylor @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @im-an-adult-ish @someforeigntragedy @mo-whore

I wake up feeling harder, as if sleeping on the ground with all its stones and cool indifference has taught my spine to straighten, to endure. This is a welcome revelation. I will need to be resilient, for my family and for myself. I also wake determined to set things right with my rescuer. I am a perfectly charming person, Mother and Papa have always said so; I’m not painfully shy like Olga, or aloof like Tati, or rather dull like Maria, and I certainly don’t run around putting frogs in people’s shoes like Anastasia. I make for excellent company. Surely Ben will realize this and we will become inseparable travel companions.

Outside in the overcast brisk morning air, Ben is already busy tacking the mule. He glances over and tosses me an apple. It bounces out of my floundering hands and rolls off into the woods. This is not an auspicious start to the day.

“You’ll still have to eat that,” Ben says. “There’s no extra food. I was only able to ask for as much as I could justify needing myself.”

“Right.” I go fetch the apple—rummaging around in leaves and sticks and shrubs—and take a bite, even though it’s bruised and definitely tastes like dirt. I beam at Ben triumphantly. I am tough! I am daring! I am enchanting! I can pull my own weight on this journey!

Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He pats the mule’s thick brown neck and smiles fondly at her. “How are we feeling this morning, Kroshka? Hmm? Who’s a lovely mule? Who’s going to take us all the way to the Trans-Siberian Railroad without even one measly word of complaint? That’s right, you are! Yes you are!” He lands a smacking kiss on the velvety grey fur of her muzzle.

I attempt polite conversation; more than that, I endeavor to learn about my dashing yet evasive rescuer. “So, tell me Ben, have you worked for Sir Buchanan long?”

“Four years,” Ben replies curtly.

“And you are…” I think of his notebook. “A…writer of some sort for him…?”

“I’m his press attaché.”

“Ah.” I recognize the French word for ‘attach,’ but not its meaning in the context of employment with an ambassador. “I can’t say I know what that entails.”

“I handle Sir Buchanan’s relations with the Russian newspapers. Drafting statements and briefing him on local opinions and the like. And since his health has declined, I find myself delivering some of his particularly confidential correspondence.”

“Oh, I see. And he could spare you for this mission? It seems like a burden that would be better carried by a man with military or exploratory experience.”

“My Russian is passable. And I can tolerate rougher conditions than most.” He points to a pile of clothes he’s laid out on a tree stump. “Those are for you. There’s a stream out that way.” He flicks a thumb towards the east. “Get ready however you need to, but be prepared to leave in fifteen minutes.”

I examine the clothing: plain and practical undergarments, a heavy wool sweater, stockings, boots, and something unexpected. I hold them up with clammy hands. “These are…” I swallow noisily. “Trousers.”

“Yes. They’re travel attire. Comfortable and easy to maneuver in if we need to move quickly.”

“I’ve never worn trousers before.”

“I thought you were amenable to a…a…what did you call it? An adventure. A grand adventure.” He says this melodramatically, like there’s some humor in it. Like he’s mocking me.

“I suppose I am,” I mutter, still scrutinizing the trousers.

“Fifteen minutes,” Ben reminds me sternly. Then he begins to disassemble the tent.

I trudge off through the woods until I find the stream. I clean myself with ice-cold water, drink it down until my teeth ache, change out of my nightgown and into these strange new clothes—Trousers! Mother would lock me in church for a month!—and gaze up into the cloudy, pastel blue sky that peeks between the fingers of the trees. It is very still here, and cold, and deathly quiet. I try to remember the last time I was truly alone, without Mother or Papa or my siblings or servants or guards within shouting distance. There is none that I can remember; perhaps there is none at all. Out here in the Siberian wilderness I feel unmoored from civilization, diminutive, vulnerable, peculiarly inconsequential. I decide I don’t like being alone. By the time I return to our campsite, Ben is ready and waiting beside the loaded cart. His right hand is resting on a clunky metal monster with ‘Olivetti’ written on it.

“I’m a press attaché,” he says with a mischievous grin. “And you’re a typist.”

“A what?”

“You work for Sir Buchanan’s office as a typist. That’s our story, anyway. You came along to assist me during my audience with the former tsar, and now we’re traveling back to Sir Buchanan’s headquarters in Saint Petersburg. So if anyone happens to ask, that’s what you are to tell them. Oh, and you’re British. Your English sounds clean enough.”

“Alright,” I reply, still gaping at the metal monster like a black box with gnashing fangs. “But what is that?”

Ben’s jaw falls open. “You don’t…?” Then he rubs his forehead, sighing deeply. “Jesus Christ. You’ve never used a typewriter. Of course you haven’t. Great. Fantastic.”

“We always write by hand. My penmanship is flawless, Mother saw to that.” She’s still battling with Anastasia, but that’s a war that may go on as long as the one between the sun and the moon.

“Okay. Okay. This works out, actually. Because I’m not going to entertain you all day. So here is your assignment.” Ben slaps the back of what he tells me is a typewriter, and then waves for me to come closer. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and produces a British passport. Every line is filled out except for the name. He slides the paper into the machine and makes some bewildering adjustments. “So, you insert the paper, set the carriage—that’s this roller-type piece here—and type.” He taps forcefully on the keys until two words appear in the blank reserved for the passport holder’s name: Lana Brinkley.

“That’s me?” I ask doubtfully.

Ben smirks, amused. “That’s you.”

“So you could have given me a better name if you wanted to!”

“But then how would you learn humility?” He removes the fraudulent passport, shakes the paper until it dries, folds it into a neat little square, and slips it back into his coat pocket. “If you’re typing a longer message, the typewriter will ding when you’ve reached the end of each line. Then you use the lever to move the paper down, reset the carriage, and resume typing.”

I nod, but without much confidence. This seems complicated.

“You said you wanted a carriage,” Ben teases.

“Yes, one with magnificent draft horses and velvet seats and preferably no less than two servants. Not…whatever that is.”

“Well, if you’re going to pass for a typist, I’m afraid you must learn to type.” He finds me a stack of blank paper in his collection of bags and trunks, and then climbs into the front of the cart as I get into the back. The trousers, I hate to admit to myself, do make it easier to move around, although I’m not sure I approve of how much they accentuate the shape of my body. The thought of Ben looking at me in them gives me a plunging sort of feeling that is half-mortification and half-thrill…not that he has exhibited any interest at all. “Before we go any farther, do you have anything with you that I don’t know about?”

He means things like the heirlooms I have squirreled away in the large steamer trunk: the jewels sewn into my dress, the photograph. I can sense that he wouldn’t want me to have them, although I’m not sure why. In any case, I have no intention of giving them up. The jewels are the only thing of value that I have to trade if we find ourselves in a desperate situation. The photograph is the only string left that connects me back to my family, my home. “No,” I reply primly.

“Good.” He whistles at the mule and she tugs us through the trees and out onto the dirt road that leads, eventually, to the train station. As we ride joltingly along, the creaky cart wheels bumping over every rock and mound and muddy trough, I practice my typing: very slowly at first, and with only my index fingers. I read aloud as I go, gradually picking up speed.

“There once was a German princess born in the Duchy of Hesse. She was very beautiful but very shy. She had a wonderful talent for playing piano, but would run and hide if anyone asked her to perform in public. One day, when she was attending the wedding of her sister, the princess met a prince from a distant kingdom. They were only children, but they instantly knew they had found true love. They snuck off together and carved their names into a window pane. Over the years, each conspired to marry the other. They refused many suitors and wrote each other hundreds of letters. His family did not approve of the princess’s religion and lack of charisma; her family did not approve of the prince’s distant and troubled nation. But at last it became apparent to all that no earthly forces could keep the couple apart. Ten years after their first meeting, the prince and princess were finally married. And they lived joyously and peacefully in each other’s service for the rest of their days.”

Ben lights one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. The smoke doesn’t bother me; on the contrary, it reminds me of Papa smoking his pipe in his study, in the garden, as he read to us by the fireplace, as he danced with Mother in ballrooms back when she could still dance. It reminds me of home. “I’m not sure if you’ll ever give Shakespeare a run for his money, but I’ll admit I’m marginally entertained.”

I smile to myself, sentimental warmth rising in my face. “It’s Papa and Mother’s story.”

“Huh. I didn’t know your people were allowed to marry for love.”

By ‘your people,’ he seems to mean royalty, and there is some derision in his deep voice. “Well, surely duty must come first. But when love can accompany it, that’s a happy coincidence.”

“And what if duty compels you to marry a man who is, say, cruel? Or dreadfully boring? Or in love with another woman? Or who closely resembles a mole-rat?”

I resume my typing with a new exercise. For each letter of the alphabet, I type a French word that begins with it. “I don’t think that sort of thing happens very often.”

“But if it did.”

I shrug, not especially enjoying this topic of discussion. “Then duty comes first, as I said. But I believe most royal couples are perfectly content. At least nine out of every ten.”

“That many!” Ben marvels sarcastically. “Have you ever considered that your own personal experience, as pleasant as it may be, could be coloring your perception of how the world works?”

I ignore him and continue my typing. Attaché for A, bisou for B, croissant for C, doux for D…

After a moment, Ben says: “You aren’t going to regale me with another fairytale? I’m devastated.”

“I’m busy practicing my French now. Please don’t intrude.”

“You speak French as well as Russian and English?” He sounds impressed; for a split second anyway, just long enough for me to catch it like a firefly in my fist.

“And Italian, and Latin. And I’ve just started on Japanese.”

“But no German? That seems like it would be an easier beast to slay.”

“I’ve always purposefully avoided learning it, even though Mother’s family is German. I never envisioned myself marrying a German. I figured Maria could take that bullet. She doesn’t care, she’d marry anyone who could give her a castle and ten babies and a bulldog or two. I would say she was a milkmaid in a past life, but Mother’s heart would stop dead if she thought I subscribed to reincarnation.”

“Not fond of Germans?” Ben asks. “Well, who can blame you. Half the world isn’t fond of them at the moment.”

“I suppose they weren’t so awful before the Great War. But they’re rather boorish, aren’t they? They always sound like they’re angry. Like someone just stole their horse and they’re screaming at them from the front porch to come back or else.” I smile dreamily as I type. “I’ve always fancied the thought of marrying a prince from a glamorous, romantic kingdom. Maybe Italy or Greece. There has even been talk of me marrying Uncle George’s eldest son David. He’s rather beguiling. Tall and slim. Clear blue eyes like a lake. And he’s going to be the king of the British Empire one day, you know. We could holiday together in beautiful, sunny colonies like the Bahamas.”

“You’re still as important as all that? Important enough to make a marriage of that political significance, I mean.” Ben glances back at me and lifts one thick, dark, inquisitive eyebrow. “Seeing as your family doesn’t have a kingdom anymore.”

This is an insensitive thing for him to say. I frown down at the typewriter. “A wife almost always assumes the kingdom of her husband, so why should she require her own? She needs only sound breeding and a suitable temperament. And besides, we might yet return one day.”

Ben twists all the way around to stare at me, the reigns falling out of his hands. Fortunately, the mule seems to know her own way around. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It has been a brutal few years. The Great War, the supply shortages, the bad harvests…the people are frustrated, and understandably so. They lashed out blindly, at those who didn’t deserve it, at us. But the dust will clear. And when it does, I think the Russian people will come to their senses and realize that they want us back. That they need us.”

“Are you insane?” Ben snaps. “Are you utterly brainless? What’s floating around in that skull besides fiction and languages you’ll never use once you’re married off to some prince who only sees you as a broodmare?”

“How dare you! You can’t speak to me like this—!”

“For years, for a bloody decade, Sir Buchanan warned your father about what was coming. He tried to get him to moderate his views, to give the people more voice in government, to stop murdering them when they protested. And when none of that worked and the end was apparent, Sir Buchanan tried to convince your father to abdicate long before he did. Don’t you understand?! None of this needed to happen! Your family could have fled to Britain years ago, before the animosity against your father spread like wildfire across the globe, and Russia could have established their own parliament like Britain’s and negotiated a peace treaty to stay out of the war and none of us would be here now if not for your father’s selfish, pointless obstinacy—!”

“My father is a good man,” I choke out as hot, furious tears burn in my eyes.

“And he was a terrible ruler!” Ben shoots back like artillery. “He ordered protesters to be butchered, he sent untrained boys to die in some other country’s war, he clung to the throne for no one’s benefit but his own—”

“And what about my benefit?” I demand, still weeping, feeling monstrously like a child. “What about my mother’s and my sisters’ and Alexei’s? He must have feared for our futures if we were dethroned and left without any resources, any security, anyplace to call home—”

“He did you no favors,” Ben says harshly. “Half the country—the country that you obviously have not even a rudimentary understanding of—are moderates scrambling to secure the Provisional Government and disentangle themselves from the war while still somehow preserving their dignity and that of the millions of dead soldiers Russia has already laid on the altar. The other half are trying to instigate a wholesale communist revolution. There is no one, no one, who wants the tsar back. And you better pray to God that the communists don’t manage to seize power before King George gets your family out, or your father just might be guillotined on the steps of Saint Basil’s Cathedral.”

I bolt to my feet unsteadily, grip the side of the lurching cart, and leap out onto the dirt road.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Ben shouts after me.

I take off sprinting down the road, the wind whipping my face, sobbing as I run beneath the shadows of trees until my lungs are columns of flames and my legs feel wobbly and boneless. I can hear the pounding of the mule’s hooves approaching, the hurtling of wooden wheels, the slapping of leather reins. I am forced to slow to a vigorous march as my body betrays me, wheezing and aching and as ineffectual as a woman is so often assumed to be. The salacious trousers have come in handy once again. Who would have guessed.

Ben pulls up alongside me, reining in the mule to match my pace. “Hey! Get back in the cart!”

“I’ll walk the rest of the way to the railroad station.”

“It’s 200 more kilometers!”

“See you there.”

Now Ben jumps out of the cart. The mule, perplexed but not rattled, comes to a halt and waits in the middle of the road with her long ears angled in opposite directions. Ben rushes in front of me and leans down until we’re at eye-level, breathing heavily. I can smell smoke on him, and something else too: maybe cologne, maybe soap, maybe aftershave, maybe just the scent of a man in his prime. His lips are pink and full and soft-looking, I notice, as if for the first time. His cheeks are irritated and red from the wind; the ruthlessness of the climate here doesn’t agree with him. It is the only way in which I am stronger than he is. His green eyes are wide and blazing. “Get. In. The. Cart.”

“No,” I whisper, tears all over my face.

“You can’t just run off like that,” he pleads, less angry now. “Where are you going to go? There’s nothing out here except trees and…I don’t know…probably bears and wolves and maybe even Siberian tigers. You can’t get ripped apart by wild animals. Don’t you want to make it to London? To argue for your family’s liberation? They could find no fiercer advocate than you, of that I am convinced.”

“How would you possibly protect me from a bear?”

Ben unbuttons his coat and pulls up his white wool sweater to show me a pistol tucked into the holster clipped to his belt. “Just in case,” he says, smirking crookedly, lowering his sweater again. “Now I am keeping no secrets from you, and you are harboring none from me. We’re even.”

I nod, sniffling, thinking of my jewels and photograph hidden in the steamer trunk. My words are so strained I can barely hear them myself, my hands are trembling; hell, I’m trembling all over. The possibility is unimaginable. “Do you really think they’re going to kill Papa?”

Ben sighs, shaking his head. “No, I don’t,” he replies gently. “I think the Provisional Government will be able to keep the communists in check for now. I think they will leap at the opportunity to ship the former tsar off to Britain without the potential controversy of a trial and execution. And I also think we should get back in the cart and keep moving now.”

“I’m sorry your boss gave you this assignment and now you have to risk your life for a family that you evidently hate,” I lash out like a cornered animal, hissing and brandishing its glinting claws. “For a grand duchess that you hate. This must be an awful inconvenience for you.”

“It’s rather more complicated than that,” Ben says. “There’s some opportunity in it as well.”

Of course: his leather-bound notebook full of observations, his scrawled recollections to one day build into a famed article about our journey. An article full of what he truly thinks about me. I feel suddenly, violently nauseous. I feel horrified.

What happened to the grand adventure that I imagined? Where did it go?

And all at once, I can’t even remember how I pictured this journey unfolding; I can’t conjure up some rose-colored vision of me and Ben falling into an effortless friendship, flirting lightly and innocently, discovering new corners of the earth together, parting ways in London as lifelong confidants. Now I can only see Papa as he murmurs folktales older than Christianity with candlelight dancing on his smiling face, as he chases me and my sisters around the gardens with outstretched arms and sparkling eyes, as he carries Alexei from one room to the next when my brother’s joints are inflamed and excruciating and useless, as he never unburdens his mind to his wife or children but spends long afternoons chopping wood as the sun sinks into the west and the lines in his pale face grow deeper.

He couldn’t be responsible for bloodshed, for mercilessness. He’s not that kind of man. He’s never been that kind of man.

“We really should keep moving,” Ben prompts.

“Fine,” I fling back as I shove by him. I mop my tears away with the sleeve of my wool sweater, climb into the back of the wooden cart, and sit as far as I can from Ben with my bent knees hugged to my chest. I stare silently off into the forest as the mule drags us towards the Trans-Siberian Railroad, towards Moscow and Saint Petersburg and the Baltic Sea and London, towards the conclusion of this tenuous partnership and the redemption of my family. I am looking forward to soon never having to see Benjamin Hardy again, and yet I’m also not; and this is a difficult paradox to put into words of any language.

We don’t stop until it’s almost dusk. Ben hops down from the cart, leads the mule off the road by her bridle (and gives her an encouraging scratch on the forelock when she hesitates), and begins to set up camp in a small clearing encircled by heaps of frost grass. Dinner is loaves of bread again—even more tough and dry than yesterday—and metallic-tasting water from canteens. Dessert is a hand-rolled cigarette for Ben and a handful of honeyberries I found in the bushes for me. And when Ben grapples with the tent, I come over to help him with it just to prove I can.

Ben builds a fire, and we sit wordlessly on opposite sides of it with the reflections of flames in our eyes. Ben jots down today’s thoughts in his notebook, every so often glancing off into nowhere and tapping his chin thoughtfully with the end of his pen, biting his full lower lip absentmindedly as he sifts through the ocean of word in his head to fish out the right one. Meanwhile, I read my copy of Tarzan of the Apes. I stumble across a few English terms I don’t know—quixotic, cartography, constellations, ruminate—but I don’t ask Ben about them.

After a long time, when the moon and stars have emerged bright and ancient in the night sky, Ben closes his notebook and watches me. At first I ignore him. And then, eventually, I can’t anymore.

“What?” I ask irritably, keeping my place in Tarzan of the Apes with my pinky finger, which is nearly numb from the cold.

Ben’s words are calm, restrained, painstakingly chosen. Firelight is fierce and bloody on his face. “I had two infant brothers die of pneumonia, a perfectly preventable illness had they had access to good doctors and proper nutrition and a warm dry home, which they did not. I had a sister die in childbirth because there was no midwife available to attend to her. I have had friends come home from the war with limbs or half their faces missing, a fate which I myself am spared only because of my employment with Sir Buchanan. You have no idea what the world has been through while you were off playing board games and reading novels in greenhouses and lounging on lakeshores with your idyllic little family. You have no idea what life is like for the rest of us. And perhaps that’s not your fault, and it is unjust of me to resent you for it, and I must learn to temper this wrath I’ve been carrying around in my chest since childhood. But it’s still true.”

He stands, clutching his notebook with hands that are red from the savage Siberian wind, and vanishes into the tent.

#ben hardy fic #ben hardy x reader #borhap cast fic

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mintugiyuu · 4 years ago

Note

oh! its okay, i'll try to word it as close as possible to the first time.

may i please have the main group with a trans male reader who is stealth and kind of scared of how they'll react coming out to them?

(gosh i hope thats close enough, my memory is not the best,,)

thank you so much!!

thank you so so much for resending this!! I’m so sorry it got deleted the first time around, it was early in the morning and I wasn’t using my noggin when I was trying to draft it ;3;

for the kamaboko squad, I left it so it could be interpreted as romantic or platonic! for nezuko I did it more platonically, I hope that was ok! thank you for requesting and I hope these are enjoyable to read! I hope you’re well <3

꒰🌤꒱ — as it’s always been.

sfw scenarios + head-canons

➥ characters || kamado tanjirou, kamado nezuko, hashibira inosuke, agatsuma zenitsu

➥ warnings || none

➥ synopsis || the reader hesitantly comes out as trans to the kamaboko squad, nervous to what they’ll think and say; here is how they would react.

➥ kamado tanjirou:

- Tanjirou has a great sense of smell, so there’s no hiding your anxiety/nervousness about coming out. He’s most certainly going to ask you what’s wrong, nothing but concerned for your state of being.

- As you’re explaining and officially coming out to him, he’s very attentive; nodding and making sure you knew he was listening.

- He knows this must be very hard and nerve-wracking for you, so he lets you finish speaking before responding himself.

- Tanjirou, being the sweetheart he is, immediately reassures you that he thinks no different of you and still loves you through and through!

- If he’s honest, he’s a bit surprised. The boy definitely wasn’t expecting this, but regardless he’s very glad that you’re happy with who you are and honored that you trust him enough with this information.

- Expect lots of words of support and small actions of comfort/affection. Tanjirou immediately pulls you into a hug, rubbing your back as he tells you how proud he is of you, and how the information you told him will stay between you two (unless/until you tell the others; he knows it’s not in his place). He’d hold both your hands to his chest as he promises you that nothing has changed between the two of you, giving you his infamous gentle smile.

- Like he promised, nothing changes between you two. Everything is as it was before, and unless you want to talk about the topic at hand, he won’t even bring it up. It just goes to show he doesn’t mind what so ever and supports you all the way!

➥ kamado nezuko

- When it comes to Nezuko as a demon, she doesn’t really have a true understanding of anything that’s going on around her; she goes with her emotions and the emotions she’s picking up around her. Of course, she can tell when there’s danger and understand basic conversations. But other than that, all she really can understand is protect, sleep, and head pats.

- So you wouldn’t outright come out to her, knowing she probably wouldn’t understand regardless. It happens by accident, kind of.

- She spends her days in a dark room of the butterfly mansion as the others are healing, either sleeping or doing her own thing. You’re probably pacing around the room, trying to plan out how to officially tell the other boys and properly come out to them.

- Nezuko notices your distress from where she was playing with a handkerchief you gave to her after one of your missions.

- “Hmmmph!”

- In other words, she’s grabbing your attention, looking lost to why you’re pacing. In a “hey! what are you doing?” kind of way.

- When you didn’t notice her attempts, she huffs, hopping off the bed and making her way to you. She’s in her small form currently, trying to regain her energy but wanting to be awake to be in your company.

- You’d feel her tug at your uniform, making several muffled questionable noises at your pacing. If you tried to brush her off, telling her “it’s nothing”, she’s calling you out on your bull and tugging you to the bed.

- Sit criss-cross and watch her crawl into your lap as a toddler would do to an older sibling (for she saw you as another big brother), grabbing your arms and making it so you were hugging her.

- This gives you no room but to explain yourself, so you did. As you come out to her and explain how you’re nervous to tell the others, she’d.. not be the most understanding.

- Understanding as in she doesn’t comprehend what you’re telling her. But she does her best to listen, feeling how important this is to you and how anxious you’re reacting.

- She cuts you off of a nervous ramble of all the bad outcomes with a head-pat to your head, closing her eyes with a small “hmhmph!” coming from under her muzzle.

- Expect a good ole Kamado hug, tiny edition. And she’s not letting you go, not even when it was time for dinner.

- She calms you, knowing in your heart that even if she’s not completely aware, she still loves you and hopefully the others will as well (they will of course).

- Before you have to go, she grips onto your sleeve and pulls the muzzle off her mouth, giving you a sharp toothed smile. Before you can tell her to put it back on, that you don’t want anyone to see her with it off, but she gets one word out with the biggest beaming smile.

- “Oniisan!” (“Big Brother!”)

- .... and pats her head. She wants head pats too. Nothing’s changed, you’re still the best head pat giver she knows.

➥ !! spoilers for chapter 204 !! bonus: after the final battle, if you were to come out to a now human Nezuko, she’d react much like Tanjirou; just a lot more bubbly with more bright smiles. Unlike Tanjirou, she’d be more.. “aggressively” supportive. Basically, she wouldn’t hesitate to throw hands at anyone who says something purposely ignorant. It’s terrifyingly sweet; no one messes with her big brother.

➥ hashibira inosuke

- Inosuke has very sensitive skin, so he’s getting goosebumps from the anxiety your giving off. It annoys and confuses him, not understanding what’s going on for you to be so nervous.

- “Oi! You’re making my skin prickly!! Stop that!!”

- It’s his way of asking what’s wrong, wanting to know how to stop it.

- Your anxiety hits an all time high as you let it out, officially coming out to him.

- ... But he doesn’t know what “trans” means, so he’s confused. He stands there, blinking under his pig mask.

- “... What? What the hell is that?” He may sound brash, but he just hates not understanding things. He wants to understand more than everyone else, after all, so don’t take it personally.

- After a long bit of explaining it clearly to him, you two are sitting on the ground, Inosuke with his hands in his lap as he stares at you.

- He’s surprisingly silent the whole way through, and not being able to see his true facial expression just makes you all the more nervous.

- If you were to nervously ask him to take his mask off, you were expecting a hard no. What you weren’t expecting was for him to hesitate for only a moment before taking it off, setting it down in to his lap.

- Inosuke’s eyebrows would be furrowed, his mouth turned down as he looked at you closely. Bracing yourself, he responded.

- “So?”

- That definitely isn’t what you would be expecting.

- Now he didn’t mean this in any negative connotation at all. He fully understands what it means now and what you told him - and to note he’s completely fine with it - he’s just confused to why it’s such a big deal. (If anything he respects you even more, finding you extremely strong.)

- Inosuke doesn’t care how you were born or what you choose to be; at the end of the day you’re his favorite sparring partner! Plus, he has to keep you around. He wants to understand the warm fuzzies he gets in his tummy when you do nice things for him.

- “Doesn’t matter what you are, I can still kick your ass!!” He says as he tackles you to the ground.

- All’s well ends well, and much like Tanjirou, it seems nothing would change between you two.

➥ agatsuma zenitsu

- The high-pitched anxiety sound emitting from you is giving Zenitsu a headache; he’ll make sure to complain about it loudly so you know.

- If you apologized for it while fidgeting, he’ll soften his whining tone and ask why you’re so nervous anyways? It’s day, so it’s not like you have demons to fear.

- You hesitate, stuttering around the topic before officially coming out, explaining that to him and why you’re so nervous.

- Zenitsu.. definitely was not expecting that. He’d go wide-eyed, clearly shocked at the information.

- “HUH??? YOU’RE WHAT???”

- If you were to flinch at his shouts, he’d pause and look to you; watching how you curled up on yourself, scared you looked for a bad reaction.

- Instead he immediately goes to reassure you.

- “IM SORRY!! I-I didn’t mean it like that!! PROMISE! I just wasn’t expecting that!! I wouldn’t ever have guessed!!- I MEAN-!!” He’s talking way to fast for you to even understand, so the more you looked lost the more Zenitsu feared he messed up the trust you must’ve had for him in order to tell him that.

- Eventually he’d break down, getting on his hands and knees while bowing his head to the floor, gripping your pant leg all while begging you to forgive him.

- You’re the one who originally needed comfort here, not him. Smh Zenitsu.

- In all seriousness, reassure him that he’s ok. He meant no harm by his reaction, he just tends to be over-dramatic with his reactions and emotions.

- Once he’s calm, he’d sniffle and be sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder.

- Zenitsu gives it a few minutes before asking questions, making sure he’s understanding 100% and not getting anything wrong.

- The blonde-boy knows about how hard struggles in life can be; he’s struggled his whole life when it comes to finding a home and a place of belonging, being homeless for the first 3/4’s of the life he’s lived so far. He knows he can’t compare his struggles to the things you must’ve gone through, but he can clearly and easily sympathize.

- He reassures you that he thinks no different of you, if anything he admires the way you could be so brave about it.

- It’s a quiet moment between the two of you as Zenitsu continues his rambles (still scared he ruined whatever is between you two a moment ago), circling over the same couple topics; how he supports you, will support you through anything, that he sees you no differently and that nothing will change.

- Please place your hand over his mouth or he’ll keep going all day; his anxiety rambles are said to last hours.

- This has only made you two closer, the others finding you and Zenitsu sticking/hanging around each other more and more frequently. In the end, your happy you told him.

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pan-inc · 4 years ago

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SDR2 Boys +Chiaki Figuring Out Their S/O Is FtM

Blank (Aka Mod Rantaro) was working on part SDR2 and DRV3 of the boys when they have a crush on you, but she dislocated her wrist part way of writing them and insisted she finish them herself, so I decided to do some work and write this with some ideas from Blank since I’m not too good at making ideas ;;

I don’t think I was too specific on whether or not they’re FtM or MtF, so go ahead and change the pronouns if you need!

(I myself am not transgender and don’t know anyone who is, so I’m very sorry if I get some incorrect information on you guys) Non-Despair AU

Y/N- Your Name D/N- Dead Name

-Mod Chihiro

Spoilers under the cut

(Warning, there is a tiny bit of dead naming in this but not in a ‘them trying to be transphobic or rude’ way, just them not knowing your actual name yet.)

Hajime Hinata

Not even gonna hide it, I headcannon Hajime as FtM as well, so let’s just go with he hasn’t told you about how he’s trans either.

“YOU’RE TRANS?! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME BEFORE WE EVEN STARTED DATING D/N?!”

Him calling you by your now dead name made you flinch slightly, “I-Im sorry! I knew that you would be grossed out and stuff, so I-”

“Grossed out? Why the hell would I be grossed out by you being trans?”

“Y-You just got mad... Mad at me? And... A-And......” You are very confused, his mood switch from yelling to being concerned was a bit too much to deal with over the heart-pounding anxiety of coming out to him.

Your anxiety dies down a little and confusion rises through the roof once Hajime hugs you as tightly as he can, “I wasn’t mad at you being who you really are, I was just... A little upset that you didn’t trust me with this information earlier in our relationship, but I guess I have no room to talk.”

You hug him back while not processing the last part of his explanation, snuggling your face into his neck instead. “I also have something to tell you.” “Hm?”

“I’m also trans,,,,”

So after you two coming out to each other he takes a little bit to get used to your new name, and he promises to himself that he’ll buy you literally anything you need from The Store™ to feel comfortable once he gets a hang of your name.

If you feel ~dysphoria~ before then, he will not hesitate to let you borrow some of his baggier clothes and possibly even a binder if your body hates you enough.

Nagito Komeada

You wanted to talk to him about your transition, but he just started rambling on and on about hope. You were getting a little upset (so was Hajime, but a lot more than just a little upset.) but your anxiety about him not accepting you forced you to stay quiet and just let him ramble.

“God Nagito, if you’re not going to shut up for me at least do it to hear what D/N has to say.” Hajime snaps, shutting up Nagito.

“Y/N...” You whisper softly in an attempt to correct Hajime, but he doesn’t hear.

“Okay, what do you need D/N?” He seems slightly upset that Hajime interrupted his preaching, but lightened up when he started talking to you.

“Please call me Y/N!” You accidentally shout, quickly covering your mouth, “Sorry for yelling...”

Hajime, despite not knowing how to spell without help, clicked it in his brain what you were trying to say to Nagito, so he quickly excused himself and walks away.

“I’m sorry Y/N, what do you need?”

“I, uhm... You’re bisexual right? So, that means my transition won’t be too hard on you right?”

Nagito tilts his head to the side, but then quickly picks you up and hugs you.

“My wonderful Y/N is so amazing, don’t be filled with so much despair just because you want to come out to me!”

Honestly, what else would you expect. He’s insanely supportive of your transition and thinks of you as an even more special hope that he isn’t deserving of.

You might have to reassure him a bit more than you usually did, but it’s 100% worth it in the end.

Will totally lend you his jacket.

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu

To be honest, you came out to Peko before getting anywhere close to coming out to Fuyuhiko. You knew he loved you with all of his heart, but you were worried about if that would change if you transitioned.

Peko was really supportive, but she had let it slip a few times to Fuyuhiko.

Thank God Peko is smart enough to make a smooth recovery to make sure Fuyuhiko doesn’t find out before you’re comfortable with him knowing.

After a bit of encouraging and planning from Peko, you finally decided it was time to come out to him.

You walk up to Fuyuhiko, who was talking to Peko, and pull on his suit sleeve as gently as you could while still gaining his attention. “Huh? Yeah D/N?” “Can we talk about something?” You respond, trying to not sound too serious to try to not scare him.

Fuyuhiko looks at Peko, back at you, then back to Peko, as if asking for permission to leave the conversation.

“Go ahead Young Master. Our conversation can wait.” She smiles and walks away, leaving you panicking to yourself and a confused Fuyuhiko.

“U-Uhm... Does the Kuzuryu Clan support same sex relationships?”

“Huh? The hell? Why do you want to know that?”

“Because I am now the second leader of the Kuzuryu Clan, Y-Y/N! A-And now your.... Your b-boyfriend?”

“Well fuck, they better support gays and transgenders or they’re getting kicked out and fucking murdered.”

Peko smiles in strong Ally.

Kazuichi Soda

Big think.

Was he into guys? Before he got to know you, a gal (Sos if you aren’t), better he was enamored by Sonia, also a gal.

From what you know, he’s never liked any guys, so what if he wasn’t okay with dating you when you transitioned?

(Spoiler for later in this scenario, he’s bi-curious uvu)

You decided to come out to him using your knowledge that he taught you about making electronic stuff.

It was hard to hide that you were making something from him. but with a quick “I’m making a gift for you, you’re going to be so proud of me!” He (reluctantly) leaves you be to create whatever your creating.

After a long bit of working, you had finally finished.

Two little doll-like items (Kinda like Mini Maru) that looked like Kazuichi and the real you. The Mini Y/N was holding a trans flag and Mini Kazu had a blank flag that can be changed at a later time, and the two Minis had their arms intertwined.

“Kazu~! Look look, I’m done with my project!”

He turns and looks at your invention. “Oh, what is this D/N? Is that me? Who’s that?”

“It’s me and you of course!”

After a bit of his confusion, he understands and supports you greatly. Like a simp

Gundham Tanaka

After thinking about the pros and cons of every possible way to come out to G U N D H A M T A N A K A , you just decided to come out to him in a more straight-forward way after brainstorming with Sonia.

You run up behind the slightly embarrassed G U N D H A M T A N A K A who was being complimented by Sonia and jump onto him, almost making him fall over onto poor Sonia. After giving her the signal she excuses herself and makes her escape.

After getting off G U N D H A M T A N A K A ‘s back and calming him down from his extremely blushy state, you start panicking over what to do again.

‘What if he doesn’t like me because I’m a guy? What if he’s transphobic? Love isn’t the purpose of life, but he’s been such a huge part of me that I don’t even know how I’d be if he was gone. You’d be so lost without him-’

“Fallen Angel, are you alright? My skin didn’t poison you, did it?” He asks, obvious concern in his voice.

“Oh, no, it’s not that.” You take a deep breath, look up at him, and push your anxiety as far down as it can go.

“I-I don’t want to be your Queen a-anymore!”

“You... Don’t want to be my Queen?” There was a lot of pain in his voice and you realize what you said.

“T-That’s not what I meant! I want to be your Queen of the Underworld and Overworld, b-but I would...” You take a deep breath, “I would rather be your K-King!”

He pulls you into his arms and hugs you as tightly as he can, burying his face into your neck.

You hug him back, “Also, please call me Y/N.”

“Anything for my King. I will tell my Devas of this news so they do not make you uncomfortable.”

Sonia is very happy about the energy she has created in the studio today.

Nekomaru Nedai

I’m not very good at writing for Nekomaru so I’m gonna have to skip the coming out part, I’m very sorry if you wanted to read you coming out to him TvT

But anyways~

He isn’t the brightest light bulb, so he does his research.

If you wear chest binders he’ll panic quite a bit but after asking you and gaining more knowledge, he goes less hard on you when it comes to exercising.

Your binder is giving you troubles? Fucking take a break, take it off, B R E A T H E.

Oh, you want muscles to look more ‘manly’ like him? First, he will let you know that you don’t have to look ‘manly’ to be who you are. If you still insist then he will help with your want.

Teruteru Hanamura

Before you officially got together he would flirt with practically everyone no matter their gender, so you were pretty confident about him not leaving you because he’s ‘NoT gAy’. So uh

I’m horrible at writing him

So just know he’s supportive and doesn’t really mind that you transition.

Chiaki Nanami

“Hey Chiaki? Can I talk to you about something?” You walk into her room with your beautiful flag in your arms.

“Yes D/N?” Chiaki hums, not looking away from the screen of whatever she was playing.

You drape your flag over your arms and then wrap them around Chiaki’s neck in an attempt to hug her from behind, “Please call me Y/N.”

She looks over at the flag and after a bit of the wheels in her brain turning, it clicks in her brain what you mean. “Okay. Is there anything else you need, Y/N?” You smile at your names coming from her and sit next to her properly and nuzzle into her hair while using your flag as a blanket, “Just your support.”

She smiles softly, “You already have that bunny, you should know that already. Also, tell me if my nicknames make you feel uncomfortable.”

Very supportive, will get into the head of anyone who says anything mean to you about you being transgender.

But besides that she doesn’t really make a big deal of you being trans. A gud gorl.

Ultimate Imposter

He’s someone who can and will be the impostor of anyone no matter their gender (’Cuz that’s his whole ultimate) So he absolutely wouldn’t judge you for changing genders, right?

So I’ve rewritten this like 4 times, even with the help of Mod Rantaro, and neither of us know his personality very well so sorry about this.

Either way, he’d be very supportive and buy you everything you need to feel comfortable in your body.

Izuru Kamakura

Hm.

Oh, you’re trans?

Oh cool.

So who are we giving despair to today?

#SDR2 #headcanons #danganronpa headcanons #DR2 Boys #Hajime Hinata #nagito komaeda #Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu #Kazuichi Soda #Gundham Tanaka #Nekomaru Nedai #Teruteru Hanamura #Chiaki Nanami #transimagines #trans coming out #Ultimate Imposter #Izuru Kamakura

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splendidlyimperfect · 5 years ago

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Sting’s entire life changed when he was eleven years old and his best friend Rogue told a secret that he’d promised to keep. Taken away from the father who abused him and the best friend who’d tried to save him, Sting tried to start a new life with his uncle. But the trauma wasn’t easy to escape, and eventually Sting turned to drinking to forget the things that hurt.

Now he’s an adult, and he hasn’t been sober in years. But when drinking nearly kills him and a near-stranger saves his life, Sting has a chance to turn his life around, and maybe become the man that Rogue deserves to love.

Chapter Summary: Things get worse, and Sting tries to find ways to cope with his anger.

Chapters (9/?): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Natsu Dragneel & Sting Eucliffe, Sting Eucliffe & Weisslogia Characters: Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel, Rogue Cheney, Gray Fullbuster, Weisslogia (Fairy Tail) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Past Child Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Trans Character, Trans Sting, Friendship, Childhood Friends, Sting-focused story, Sting is a disaster, Natsu’s a great friend, Rogue tries to do what’s right, Tumblr: FTLGBTales Series: Part 2 of i’m still standing

**TW for underage drinking and sexually suggestive content with teens

-----

im·paired | \ im-ˈperd adjective : being in an imperfect or weakened state or condition

vii

spring age thirteen

After that, the nightmares start.

Sting wakes up crying in the middle of the night with blood under his fingernails from scratching at his arms. He can’t remember what the dream was about, but afterward, he can’t fall back asleep. His stomach hurts, and there’s a part of him that wants to wake up Uncle Wes and ask for a hug. But then he hears his dad’s voice, so he hides in the closet instead.

Grow up

Stop crying

Don’t be such a baby

Sting squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears, shaking his head and pressing himself as far back in the corner as he can. “Stop it,” he whispers. Everything is blurry and his head hurts, and all he can think about is shouting and broken glass.

The next day at school he can’t eat, and halfway through third period he gets a headache so bad that he has to run to the washroom and throw up. He manages through the rest of the day, and when he gets home, Uncle Wes tries to ask what’s wrong.

Sting ignore the question and hides in his bedroom, refusing supper and eventually falling asleep in his clothes. He wakes up in the middle of the night, crying and sweating and eventually throwing up again.

“You don’t look good,” Uncle Wes says the next morning when Sting drags himself downstairs for breakfast. “Do you want to stay home from school today?”

Sting can’t even look at him. Even when the police had showed up with Sting in tow at four in the morning, Uncle Wes hadn’t been mad. He hadn’t yelled at Sting for using his phone, or stealing money for the bus, or sneaking away to see his dad. Instead he’d thanked the officer, then pulled Sting into a hug and told him it was going to be okay.

Sting shakes his head, pushing away the cereal Uncle Wes made for him and leaving the house without a word.

It’s not going to be okay.

Continue reading on AO3

Things get worse.

The nightmares don’t stop. Sting’s stomach hurts every day, and food becomes a fight. He can’t pay attention in school, and nothing sticks because he’s never really there. When he starts failing tests, Uncle Wes tries to step in. He meets with Sting and his teachers and it’s just like when Sting had come out and they’d all talked about pronouns and bathrooms like he wasn’t even there. This time, the teachers look at him with pity instead of curiosity, and eventually Sting shoves his chair over and storms out of the room.

He doesn’t go back to school.

Uncle Wes gets him into this online program for ‘alternative learning,’ which Sting knows is a fancy way for saying ‘kids that are fucked up.’ At first, he tries because Uncle Wes is so good to him, and Sting doesn’t want to make him upset. But eventually, it’s too much. He can’t focus on anything, and he doesn’t want to.

Sting knows Uncle Wes is disappointed, but he never shouts, and sometimes Sting wishes he would. Nothing makes Uncle Wes mad, so Sting gets angry instead. He yells and slams doors and tears his notebooks to pieces, but it doesn’t help.

Sting never feels better, and he starts to think he never will.

The first time Sting gets drunk, he’s sixteen.

He’s sitting on the street in an unfamiliar town, staring up at the streetlights and trying not to cry. It’s been hours since he ran away from the guy he’d hitchhiked here with – hours since the words you owe me for the ride were accompanied by a hand around his wrist and a sharp stab of panic. Sting had never run so fast in his life, and now he’s desperately, terrifyingly lost.

Uncle Wes has probably realized he’s gone by now, but it’s the fourth time Sting’s taken off in the past two years, so he probably hasn’t even bothered to call the police this time. Part of Sting wants him to, wants to be found. The other part knows that he’s not worth saving.

You’re never gonna be anything.

Sting shudders. Fuck you, dad, he thinks, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling them close to his chest. It’s November and he’s freezing – he’s wearing two sweaters but the chill on the cement is soaking through his jeans and he can barely feel his fingers.

“If you stay there, you’re gonna get picked up.”

Sting looks up to see a guy a few years older than him leaning against the bus stop down the street. He’s got hard, dark eyes, and Sting thinks he should probably run away, but he’s just so fucking tired.

“Fuck off,” he growls, trying to sound tough. He’s sure he just sounds pathetic.

The guy shrugs, tipping his head toward the end of the street. “Cops tend to come by here. It’s too close to the fancy neighborhoods.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a step toward Sting. “You’re not from around here.”

Sting doesn’t answer. He pulls his knees closer to him, digging his fingers into his palm to keep himself from trembling. Last time he ran, it had been July, and he’d been able to sleep in the park for a couple nights. This time it’s freezing, and he has nowhere to go.

The sharp blip of a siren makes Sting jump. Fuck. If he gets picked up again, he’ll just end up being Uncle Wes’ problem again, and that’s the last thing he needs. Red-and-blue lights reflect off the wall further down the street, and Sting hears a door slam as an officer gets out of the car.

“You need a place to crash,” the guy says, and it’s more of a statement than a question. He reaches out a hand and Sting shies away from it.

“Why the fuck do you care?” Sting asks.

“I was there,” the guy says, shrugging. “We’ve all got sob stories. Look, it’s not the fuckin’ Hilton, but it’s warm and sometimes people have shit to eat. You look hungry.” Sting stares at the outstretched fingers, then slowly reaches out and takes them. “I’m Ryan,” the guy says once Sting is standing.

“Sting.”

“Interesting name.”

Sting doesn’t say anything, but when Ryan starts walking down the street, Sting grabs his backpack from the ground and follows him. It’s starting to snow, heavy flakes drifting through the dirty light of the streetlamps, and Sting shoves his hands deep into his pockets, shivering.

“Where you from?” Ryan asks as they walk.

“Not here,” Sting replies.

Ryan looks at him sideways, eyes searching Sting’s face before he says, “how old are you?”

“What difference does it make?” Sting snaps, staring down at the sidewalk. He’s tempted to just tell this guy to fuck off, to try and find a quiet corner to sleep in until he can figure out what to do, but Ryan doesn’t pry, so Sting keeps following him.

Ryan’s place turns out to be a shitty apartment in a building with a busted door and a broken elevator. Everything smells like cigarette smoke and the wallpaper is peeling, and when Ryan kicks the door to his apartment open, a cloud of smoke wafts out around him.

“C’mon,” Ryan says, grabbing Sting’s arm and guiding him inside. Sting immediately tries to pull away, but Ryan’s grip is tight, and he doesn’t even seem to notice Sting’s panic.

“Ryaannn!” Some guy from the living room calls out and holds up a bottle of beer from his spot on the couch. “Who’s the new kid?”

“Sting,” Ryan says, nudging Sting forward through the kitchen. “Grab him a beer, yeah?”

The next few minutes are a blur of unfamiliar people and names Sting won’t remember, and a low, thrumming panic in the back of his mind that whispers, get out, get out, you aren’t safe. When someone eventually pushes a beer into his hand, he stares at the bottle for a long time. All he can think about is his dad, sitting in the recliner in the living room, downing drink after drink until he passed out and it was finally safe for Sting to leave his room.

I’m not like him, Sting thinks, swallowing back tears. But then he remembers last night, when he’d been so angry that he’d thrown his plate on the floor and shouted at Uncle Wes across the broken pieces. The whole time, Uncle Wes had been calm and patient, and it had stoked the aching, terrified fury that was always boiling in Sting’s chest.

I’m just like him, Sting thinks, and takes a drink.

It doesn’t take long for Sting to start feeling it.

At first, it’s like bubbles. Sting’s cheeks flush and his fingers tingle, and the hurt that he’s been carrying around for so long starts to fade into a sort of numb haze. Then Ryan gives him a couple shots of something that tastes horrible, and then a cup of something pink, and after a while, Sting feels like he’s floating. Every time he blinks it’s like falling asleep – soft and hazy and a little bit unreal.

Sting’s not sure what time it is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. People come and go, laughing and drinking and making out with each other on the couches or against the walls. Every time Sting closes his eyes and opens them again, it’s like a shifting dream where everything’s out of sync and nobody is real.

“You okay?” A soft voice drags Sting out of his haze and he looks up. A girl that he doesn’t recognize stares down at him, and he realizes that his head is in her lap and she’s running her fingers through his hair.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, running his hand over the fabric of the couch. The sensation is wildly unfamiliar, sparks prickling on his fingertips as he explores a ragged cigarette burn on the cushion. Every time the girl touches his face, it’s electric, and he stares at her. “Your eyes are green,” he says, reaching up and running his fingers across her cheek.

“You’re wasted,” the girl giggles. “Why’re you here? You’re too pretty for this place.”

Sting stares at her for a minute, then shakes his head. His hands are tingling now, and he can’t feel anything except a deep sense of relief. The room around him is warped and fading, and he wonders why he’s never done this before.

“How’re you feeling?”

Sting looks up at someone vaguely familiar – Ryan, he’s pretty sure – whose face is swimming in front of the blurry living room lights. It’s like a halo around him, making him bright and warm and something Sting wants to touch.

He does, reaching out and running his fingers over Ryan’s jeans. The fabric is textured under Sting’s fingertips – it’s like he can feel every fiber of the denim against his skin.

“You’re wasted,” Ryan laughs, pulling the girl up and taking her place on the couch next to Sting. A tiny flash of panic runs through Sting when Ryan touches his hair, but the feeling starts to fade when Ryan’s fingers start combing through it. “Feels good, hey?”

Sting hums. He’s so tired, suddenly – keeping his eyes open feels next to impossible. Maybe if he sleeps like this, he won’t have nightmares.

“Y’know what else feels good?” Ryan asks, his voice dropping as he keeps playing with Sting’s hair. His other hand slides up over Sting’s stomach and starts to move in gentle circles there. Sting tenses.

“I don’t—”

“It’s okay,” Ryan says, sliding his hand a little lower until his fingers are brushing Sting’s belt. A jolt of panic makes its way through the haze in Sting’s mind and he pushes Ryan’s hand away clumsily.

“No,” he mumbles, forcing himself to sit up. As soon as he’s vertical, everything starts to spin, and he groans, putting his head in his hands.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Ryan says gently, putting his hand between Sting’s shoulder blades. “This your first time?”

Sting’s not sure if Ryan’s talking about drinking, or whatever he was planning on doing with his hands and Sting’s belt, but either way the answer is ‘yes.’ “I should…” Sting frowns, looking around the room for his backpack. Everything blurs together into a mess of light and color, and he sighs, leaning back against the couch.

“I told you that you could crash here,” Ryan says. His thigh is touching Sting’s, but his hands aren’t, so Sting lets it slide. “’s my fault you’re wasted.”

Sting wants to argue, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. “’kay,” he says quietly, leaning back until he’s lying on the couch again and staring at the water stains on the ceiling. He shouldn’t be here. His phone is in his back pocket, and Sting knows that if he called, Uncle Wes would come get him.

Ryan squeezes Sting’s knee and stands up, giving Sting an unreadable look and then heading away into the kitchen. The sounds of the party around him fade away, and Sting’s hand drifts down to his phone.

But then he thinks about the broken glass and the awful words he’d shouted, and he shakes his head, curling up so he’s facing the back of the couch and letting himself slip back into a numb haze.

Sting can survive on his own, and Uncle Wes is better off without him.

#fairy tail #ftlgbtales #ftlgbtfics #stingue #sting eucliffe #rogue cheney #fanfic #tw: drinking #new chapter #update #my fic

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thesundaymorningpost · 7 years ago

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The Sunday Morning Post

September 3, 2017 10th Edition

Current News:

Yuri on Ice: ShitBang

On August 31st, if you love Yuri on Ice, your feed may have blown up with stories and artwork created as a means for writers and artists to come together and work on a project together.

What is the Shit Bang you ask? It is an amazing event for writers and artists to come together and write and draw about the amazing anime we all love: Yuri!!! On Ice! But a little more than that this is a direct - non-hateful - response to THAT blog. You know the one I’m talking about. Yup. THAT one. - @yoi-shit-bang

The amount of stories and artwork has been astounding. From one-shots, to multi-chapters, all written by amazing authors. Then there is all the amazing artwork that has come with it, by some amazing and very talented artists.

Please keep in mind that many subjects may trigger, please read all tags before reading a story.

Story Recommendation: we have loved the stars too fondly by @thehandsingsweapon

“We live in a blue planet that circles around a ball of fire next to a moon that moves the sea, and you don’t believe in miracles?”

After an academic career at MIT and Oxford, Yuuri Katsuki eschews job offers at places like NASA and CERN to go work at the Very Large Array in what Phichit Chulanont lovingly calls The Actual Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, monitoring radio frequencies from light-years away. He's loved the stars for as long as he can remember, and the universe feels so big sometimes that Yuuri is sure it would be a cruel mistake for humans to be all alone.

Enter the latest scientist to join the staff of the VLA, enigmatic Russian genius Victor Nikiforov, around whom Yuuri’s entire universe seems to bend to make room, and the strange, recurring dreams Yuuri keeps having, where something like love carries him across the stars.

Does love travel faster than light? Do souls?

“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.”

"Yuri, on Stars!! This lovely short story will resonate with anyone that lives the heavens. Dreamscapes thought to be a figment of Yuuri's imagination turn out to be a more real than tangible science, and Viktor is patient with all his insecurities. With just the right amount of angst to give it depth, this vignette will take you into the endless cosmos!" - @darkrivertempest

Artist Spotlight:

we have loved the stars too fondly by @shadhahvar

Comic:

Good boy by @floccinaucinihilipilificationa (Click title to reblog)

Support:

This week’s Ko-Fi shout-out goes to Discoursemoth | @lowercasewrites (Click to buy coffee)

im sei! im a non-passing trans boy with unsupportive parents, and im using this account primarily to pay for things that could help me pass better, such as a packer and binder. you obviously dont have to donate but i would really appreciate it!

Patreon: YukiPri | @yukipri (Click name to become a patreon)

Hey there!! Thanks so much for visiting my Patreon. I'm Kazu, also YukiPri on Tumblr. I'm currently a freelance translator and illustrator who is HOPING to support myself primarily through art. My passion is telling my own unique stories through visual media, and I love world-building, costume design, and overall extensively over-thinking all of my stories. This patreon is a step towards hopefully better sustaining myself off of art so I can continue to grow as a professional artist and produce content that you can enjoy! I am unbelievably grateful to every patron who helps me continue to do what I love doing. My wish is for the majority of my work to remain public, but I also desperately need to support myself, and also have a variety of content that I'm not comfortable posting publicly for various reasons. As thanks for your support, my patrons will get access to exclusive content, including WIPs/sketches, previews, art progress/tutorials, higher resolution art, early access, and nsfw content!

Fun and Games:

10 Questions Every Fic Writer Secretly Wants to be Asked by @wyseink (Click Title to reblog)

There are a lot of fic questions that float around online, but rarely do they ever ask specific questions about the fics themselves. Ask any writer one or more of these ten questions to learn more about the fic and show support.

1. Of the fics you’ve written, which is your favorite and why?

2. Which scene was your favorite to write in [title of fic]?

3. Which part of [title] was hardest to write?

4. If you could change anything in [title], what would it be?

5. Did you make an outline for [title]? Did you stick to it?

6. Which scenes did you cut, and which were added in [title]?

7. Who was your favorite character to write in [title]?

8. Which came first, the title or the fic?

9. Which idea came to you first in [title]?

10. What are some facts readers may not know about [title]?

Story Prompt:

Monochrome by @diamondwinters An AU where people who are sad, down, depressed cannot hide it. Whenever you get sad, you start to loose your color. Your skin turns pale, your eyes loose their color, and turn gray or white, and your hair turns gray. Like an old black and white tv show, you loose all your color when you’re very sad. A little bit of sadness might dim your natural colors, but you wouldn’t loose them. It’s during a time when you feel heart broken, or very depressed that you go Monochrome. Such as a big break up, a death of a loved one, deep depression, etc. Monochrome is the medical term used by the doctors in this AU to describe turning gray in a world of color.

Some people who are unable to get happy, may use make-up, contacts, and hair color to hide the fact that they’re depressed, but eventually even those things will loose their color and will need to be replaced.

The best thing to do is to find your happiness. Be with friends, and family who can help you bring your color back. The brighter you are, the more vivid your colors are, the happier you are.

Art Prompt:

Imagine your OTP by @bumble-beany

Person A: Are you awake?

Person B: I am now

Person A: I was just wondering...

Person A: What do you think it'd be like to be a pregnant male seahorse?

Person B: Really?! You woke me up for that?

W.I.P. Motivation:

Liquor Stash by @severeminx

I want him.

When the full realization hit him, Yuri felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Detached and fleeting thoughts that had passed through his mind finally took shape in these three words at that exact moment. The I being himself, Yuri Plisetsky, age 17, a Russian figure skater with a list of impressive accomplishments to his name that seemed pretty pointless right now given the context. The want being desire, the need to bury himself, the thought to consume, but never actually act out except behind locked doors in empty beds or shower stalls. The him being the person standing across from Yuri sipping coffee from a take-away cup with creased brows, the low sunlight hitting his face just so to light up his otherwise dark eyes. Someone he considered to be his best friend, who came all the way from Almaty just to spend a week with him and who was blissfully unaware of the fucking turmoil Yuri was feeling in the pit of his stomach. Or at least, Yuri hoped he was unaware.

In which Yuri Plisetsky invites Otabek Altin over to stay with him in Saint Petersburg, freaks out over his feelings and delves into Lilia's liquor stash.

Please go read and support this artist. They are looking for kudos and comments to get them back into finishing this fantastic story!

Fandom Week: (Click each line to go to blog)

Zarkon Week! September 3rd - 9th.

Yuri on Ice Music Week! September 4th - 11th

NSFW Yuri Plisetsky Week! September 11th - 17th.

Guang-Hong Week! Voting will be Sept 15th - 21st

SeungChuchu Week! October 16th - 23rd.

Help Wanted:

Needed: Tumblr theme editor. Please contact Diamond Winters for details.

Story recommendations!! If you find a story that you absolutely love, and you want to see it get some recognition, please submit a link to it with a 2-3 sentence review of the story. This way it could get in the spotlight in a future edition of the SMP. Requirements are that it’s completed, or a one-shot.

Artist Spotlight!! If you find a piece of artwork that needs more love, please submit a link to it so it may be considered for future spotlights in the future.

WIP Motivation: Please send your support to these writers or artist to encourage them to continue their story or artwork. No good story or piece of art should be left unfinished. - If you know of a good story that hasn’t been updated in a while, and would like to offer encouragement to the author, please let me know, so that I can link to their story here.

If there is ever any section of the Sunday Morning Post that you feel you can contribute too, please send an Ask or Submit to either the SMP, or @d2diamond so that it has a chance at making in a future post. Thank you!

#The Sunday Morning Post #Writing #Artist #Fanfiction #Original Stories #Yuri on Ice #Shit-posting

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splendidlyimperfect · 5 years ago

Link

Gray hasn’t seen Natsu in years - not since he moved away with his boyfriend Joel and Natsu stopped texting him. A chance run-in at a bar brings Natsu back into Gray’s life, but the encounter puts Gray in danger when Joel finds out. Natsu quickly realizes that Gray’s stuck in a cycle of violence, and wants to help him escape. But leaving isn’t that easy, and sometimes loving someone might not be enough.

Chapter Summary: Joel gets angry again, and Gray has to make a decision.

Chapters (18/22): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Gray Fullbuster/Original Male Character(s) Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape Aftermath, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Natsu just wants to help, but Gray feels like he can’t leave, Non-Linear Narrative, Trans Character, Tumblr: FTLGBTales, ftlgbtpride2019, Coming Out, First Love, Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise

**Major TW for this chapter - serious verbal/physical abuse and attempted rape/noncon (if you’d prefer a summary, go to the AO3 link and check the notes at the bottom)

-----

i’ve still got the scars and they occasionally bleed

bro·ken | \ ˈbrō-kən adjective : violently separated into parts

xvii november .

As soon as Gray walks in the front door the next Friday night, he knows he’s in trouble. Joel is home. He’s supposed to be at work, but instead he’s sitting on the couch, leaning forward and tossing his phone back and forth between his hands.

Bella trots over to Gray and he reaches down to scratch her ears, keeping his eyes on Joel.

“Hey,” Gray says quietly, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his keys. “You’re home early. How was wo—”

“Don’t play stupid.”

Joel’s voice is hard and it stops Gray in his tracks. He stands at the entrance to the living room, one hand still on Bella’s head.

“What are you talking ab—”

Before Gray can finish, Joel is in front of him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shoving him against the bookshelf. Gray grunts in pain as the corner of the shelf digs into his back, and he brings both hands down to cover Joel’s.

“What did I say about lying?” Joel says, and his hot breath on Gray’s cheek smells like beer. “I told you not to fuckin’ lie to me again.”

Gray scrabbles at Joel’s fingers, trying to pry them off his shirt, but Joel slams him back against the shelf again. The back of Gray’s head connects with the wood and he groans as pain sparks behind his eyes.

“S-stop it,” Gray begs, blinking to clear his vision. He tries to shove Joel off, but Joel lets go of Gray’s shirt and grabs Gray’s throat instead.

“I found this,” Joel growls, and he holds up Gray’s secret phone.

Continue reading on AO3

Fuck. Gray’s heart stops, then kicks back into overdrive, rabbit-thumping in his chest as his brain scrambles to figure out how to get out of this.

“Joel, baby, let go,” he says softly, quitting the struggle and relaxing against Joel’s grip. Every part of him wants to try to shove Joel off him again, but Gray knows it’s futile. Gray’s best bet is to just do what Joel wants. “C’mon, let’s go sit on the couch and tal—”

“I’m done talking,” Joel says as he tightens his fingers around Gray’s neck. “You never fucking listen anyway.”

“Stop,” Gray gasps around the grip on his throat. Panic wells up and spills out of him and he tries to cry out, to scream so that someone will hear him, but he can’t breathe.

“Shut up,” Joel hisses, pressing harder. Gray’s starting to feel light-headed, and he kicks out at Joel’s leg while he tries to pull Joel’s fingers away from his throat. “You said you wouldn’t talk to him again.”

Please, Gray thinks, because he can’t suck in enough air to make the words. He’s suddenly certain that he’s going to die, and he pulls desperately at Joel’s hand, trying to break away from the tight grip.

A sharp bark breaks Joel’s focus and his fingers loosen just long enough for Gray to pull them away from his throat. Gray gasps in a deep breath as he looks down to see Bella standing there, growling at Joel. Gray is sure Joel is going to hit her, and he shoves Joel as hard as he can, putting himself in front of Bella.

“You fucking idiot,” Joel snarls. He takes the phone and throws it to the ground, grinding it under his foot until it cracks. Bella barks again and Gray tries to push her back, but she slips out from behind him and growls at Joel again.

Joel kicks her out of the way and grabs Gray by the hair.

“Joel, stop, please,” Gray begs, voice hoarse. Joel ignores him, storming toward the bedroom and pulling Gray after him. Bella whines at Gray, trying to follow them, but as soon as they walk into the room, Joel turns around and slams the door in her face.

“Shut up,” Joel growls, letting go of Gray’s hair and shoving him back onto the bed. “You don’t listen so I’m gonna have to show you.” His eyes are wild, and Gray’s not sure if he’s ever seen Joel this angry before.

“Sh-show—” Gray’s words are interrupted by Joel crawling on top of him and kissing him, hard. Joel’s breath is hot and sour, and he bites down on Gray’s lip until the skin breaks. “Get off me!” Gray shouts, pulling away from the kiss and pushing both hands against Joel’s chest.

Joel ignores him, leaning forward until he’s pressing Gray onto the bed, then grabs the collar of his shirt, tearing at it until the buttons pop open. Gray’s freezes for a second with disbelief – is Joel really...

Then the fear catches up and he squirms under Joel, trying to push him off, but he’s too heavy and it’s suffocating.

“Stop, please,” Gray begs, tipping his face away when Joel tries to kiss him again. “I don’t want—”

Joel growls and brings his hand down to Gray’s hip, digging his fingers in and then yanking at Gray’s pants. Gray’s brain has gone past panic into terror, and he writhes and twists under Joel, trying to get away.

Joel pops the button open on Gray’s jeans, and Gray can feel Joel hard against his thigh, so he does the only thing he can think of – he yells for help at the top of his lungs, then brings his knee up between Joel’s legs as hard as he can.

Joel grunts in pain, and Gray does it again, adrenaline burning in his blood. It still doesn’t get Joel off him, so Gray sits up as far as he can and headbutts Joel in the face.

Pain splits through Gray’s skull, but he ignores it because it worked. Joel’s disoriented, and Gray shoves him as hard as he can. Gray scrambles backward, looking around the room in blind panic before stumbling toward the ensuite bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him.

There’s silence in the bedroom for a second, then loud footsteps and a hand slamming against the wood.

“Open the door!”

Gray’s heart pounds in his chest as he twists the lock and backs away, pulling his regular phone out of his back pocket and holding it in his trembling hands. Joel keeps banging on the door, and Gray’s throat is so tight he can barely breathe.

“Stop it,” he whispers, wiping his hand across his face. It comes back bloody, and he turns to stare at his reflection mirror. A terrified stranger stares back at him – a boy with red marks on his throat and a split lip and a torn shirt.

He should call the police.

Gray looks down at his phone, fingers hovering over the ‘call’ button. He could do it – there’s nothing Joel could say, no way he could talk his way out of this. The police would take him away, and Gray would be—

“If your fuckin’ cop friend shows up, you’re gonna regret it,” Joel growls. He slams his fist on the door again, and Gray backs up further into the corner, pressing himself against the wall as his heart pounds in his chest.

“Fuck,” Gray whispers, unable to help the terrified whimper that escapes from his throat as he sinks to the floor. He closes the phone app and flips to his messages instead. Natsu’s name isn’t there, but Gray’s got his number memorized.

“Open this fucking door or I’m going to break it down.”

Gray closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath through his nose and exhaling as quietly as he can. He can hear Bella barking outside the bedroom, and the door handle rattles violently as Joel yanks on it again.

I need help, he types before he can change his mind, then hits ‘send’ and nearly throws up.

The answer from Natsu is almost instantaneous. are you safe?

No, Gray replies with shaking hands. He’s terrified – this feels so much worse than anything that’s happened before. Can you come get me?

yes. Natsu’s message is both terrifying and a relief. are you at home? i can have sting over there in 15 minutes, im already in the car.

Gray runs a hand over his face, pulling his knees tighter against his chest and shaking his head. Nobody can come right now, because Gray knows what Joel’s threat means. If Gray doesn’t listen, Joel will hurt Bella.

I have to wait until he's asleep, he says instead, flinching at Joel’s shouting and the sound of wood cracking. I’ll text you.

is he hurting you? i wont be there for 3 hours.

I’ll text you, Gray says again, ignoring the question.

gray, are you hurt? do you need me to call the police?

Please, don’t. That’ll just make it worse. Gray wipes at the tears on his cheeks and swallows hard, wincing at the pain in his throat. He'll hurt Bella. Please.

sting can help you, Natsu replies, and Gray can almost hear his voice, sad and desperate. i just want you to be okay.

Then wait, Gray says. Please, it’s not safe. I’ll wait for you. I’ll text you once he’s asleep. He stares at the message for a few seconds, then adds, trust me.

Then Gray deletes the entire conversation and tucks his phone under the bathroom sink, behind the rolls of toilet paper. He slowly pushes himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his head. “Joel?” he asks quietly. The banging has stopped, and Gray can just hear Bella barking in the hallway.

There’s a sigh from the other side of the door, and then a soft voice says, “I’m so sorry, baby.” Joel sounds so sincere and sad that for a second, Gray’s heart hurts for him, and he wants to apologize.

Then he looks back at his reflection; at his torn shirt, the red marks on his throat, his bloody nose, the tear tracks on his cheeks.

He did this, Gray thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his fingernails into his palms. It’s not my fault. The words don’t always feel true, but he pictures Natsu saying them, Natsu telling Gray that he deserves better, Sting saying that Joel shouldn’t hurt him no matter how angry he is.

Gray looks back at the sink where his phone is hidden, then lets out a shaky breath and leans against the door. Natsu will be here soon, and once Joel’s asleep, Gray can leave with him – run away and leave this all behind.

Until then, he just has to survive.

#fairy tail #ftlgbtales #ftlgbtfics #ftlgbtpride2019 #day 19 #gratsu #natray #gray x natsu #gray fullbuster #natsu dragneel #update #new chapter #prompt #tw abuse #tw noncon #my fic

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