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55szn · 7 months ago

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lacy - mv1

max verstappen x fem!driver!reader

summary yn can't keep hiding her true feelings towards max

wc 1,6 k (i was supposed to keep it short for this one but oh well)

warnings this one angsty as fuuuck, reader kinda sucks sorry

a/n first post of this series omg i'm so excited!!!!!! i haven't written in a while so this may not be the best of my works but this is still one of my favorites <33 also english is not my first language so...yeah

YN sighed as she pulled the balaclava off and immediately ran her hand through her sweaty hair, attempting to make it look decent. Once again she was finishing behind Max. The Dutch looked back at her as he got down from the top of his car and gave her a sweet smile, she tried her best to reciprocate that smile but it probably looked as fake as it felt.

She couldn't really pinpoint when her rotten mind had started to harbor these feelings towards the man she loved.

YN's first encounter with Max occurred when they were barely teenagers, amid the noisy circuits of karting competitions. There was something captivating in that lanky and slightly awkward teenager that drew YN to him like a magnet. As time went on, their bond deepened, among endless talks of shared dreams that seemed unreachable at the time.

The first time Max kissed YN, she felt in heaven, enveloped in a kind of excitement she had never known. It didn't take long before he asked her to be his girlfriend and she accepted thinking life couldn't get better than that.

The mutual decision to keep their relationship under wraps seemed obvious, a conscious choice made as they started their parallel journeys into Formula 1, that was not the kind of attention they were seeking.

She felt true happiness for Max's overwhelming success, she truly did, at least at the beginning.

But YN found herself caught in the shadow of his success, a place she hadn't anticipated occupying. Eventually every podium celebration and victory lap, served as a bitter reminder of the expectations she was failing to meet. She couldn't acknowledge these feelings so she masked this resentment beneath a facade of congratulatory smiles and kisses. The press was no help. They endlessly compared their careers and although YN had managed to get some satisfying results, she was nowhere near Max's level. They ate it up, it gave them good headlines to pit them against the other. They were the embodiment of a tantalizing narrative – two very young drivers with great success in the lower categories, shared dreams and a seemingly unbreakable "friendship", both coming into F1 with good teams and high expectations but only one of them was reaching those expectations. It was a good story, sure. But the story was tearing YN apart.

Perhaps the tipping point arrived with a very specific headline, its words forever etched into her brain: "Max Verstappen: Vettel reincarnate." With each syllable, YN's throat constricted, her stomach twisting into knots. Max seemed to effortlessly get everything she ever yearned for, now he was getting put at the same level as her biggest idol and inspiration which proved to be too much to handle for her. And with each of his accomplishments the poisonous seed of envy took root within her heart.

It was so contradictory, when she finally admitted it to herself. She loved Max more than she loved herself and maybe that was the root of the problem, her own insecurities and bruised ego. But it was becoming impossible to fake a smile every time she saw him on that top step. She knew it wasn't true but she almost felt like Max was out to get her.

She hated Max. And she hated herself for that fact. How could one harbor so much love and hatred for someone at the same time?

She was loosing her mind, her fragile facade crumbling under the weight of her emotions. Of course the ever attentive eyes of the press and the fans noticed the way her once adoring glances towards Max were now replaced with icy stares. How she couldn't even make the effort to raise the corners of her mouth whenever Max complimented her skills or her racing. His tenders words of admiration which once felt like a warm summer breeze began to feel like bullets grazing her already wounded skin, they felt like mockery. It was only a matter of time until Max started noticing this too.

Something was clearly happening, and that's why he found himself knocking on her apartment's door late at night, the echoes of the particularly hard weekend YN had endured still reverberating through his mind. The bitter taste of failure and disappointment still lingered on her lips. YN had struggled with the car and couldn't even make it out of Q2, and Sunday's race offered little reprieve, finishing in a P11 that tasted of unfulfilled expectations. While, of course, Max had made a brilliant pole position and had won the race, once again making everyone worship the ground he walked on. He hadn't seen YN since the race finished. She flew back to Mónaco that same night without even letting him know and without even asking if he wanted to fly back with her, which was the case almost every weekend. Max wasn't stupid, he could tell something was up with her lately, the distance she was putting between them, he was loosing her. And he loved her too much to let her go without a fight.

The door creaked open, YN's figure against the dim lighting within. Her jealous eyes clouded with heavy feelings. She stepped aside wordlessly, allowing Max to enter, her silence was louder that any word could ever be.

He carefully walked in, the all too familiar environment of his girlfriend's apartment suddenly feeling cold and foreign. Max was tense before taking a seat on the armrest of her couch. His heart felt heavy, he already wanted to cry. He had trouble getting the words out, something that had never happened in the years he had known YN. What had they become?

He swallowed dry before finally finding his voice. "I think we need to have a talk." His gaze was pleading for her to meet his eyes, but she kept staring at her shoes.

She froze at his words and her fingers tightened around the edge of the table she was leaning against. She could tell this conversation was coming, yet she dreaded the flood of emotions threatening to consume her, scared of the things she could say.

"What is it, Max?" Her voice was strained, an inner battle developing inside her, trying to control her emotions.

"You know what it is about, schat." Her jaw tightened at the pet name, now it somehow sounded condescending, even though deep down she knew that wasn't true. "YN something's been bothering you lately. I know it. Please talk to me."

YN's heart clenched painfully at his words, her resolve crumbling under the weight of her own inner turmoil. How could she even begin to articulate the burning envy and resentment that coursed through her veins every time she looked at him? How could she admit out loud to hating the man she loved more than life itself?

When she finally looked up and met his stare she felt the monstrous feeling that had been gnawing at her conscience completely engulf her and she wasn't in control of her own words anymore. Her eyes burning with a contradictory mix of longing and loathing. "Are you seriously asking me that, Max?" Her voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

Max recoiled at the intensity of her stare and her tone, a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach by the anticipatory feeling of his world crumbling down completely. "YN, I..."

"You know damn well what's going on." YN's voice cracked with emotion, her words laced with a bitterness that made it unrecognizable to both of them. "You have everything, Max. The wins, the championships, the adoration of the whole fucking world. Everything I ever wanted, you took it for yourself." She knew she wasn't making sense, the words were spilling out of her mouth before she had the time to catch them.

Max's heart constricted with an unfair amount of guilt. "YN, I... I had no idea you felt this way."

"And why would you?" She retorted, her voice rising with each word. "You're too busy basking in your own glory to notice how much it's killing me to be constantly compared to you." That wasn't his fault, and she knew it. It was the pure and evil hatred that consumed her that was speaking those words.

He felt like he had been punched in the gut. "I'm sorry." He shouldn't have to apologize for what he accomplished after years and years of hard work, yet he did, the fear of loosing her bigger than the need to acknowledge his self worth.

The hurt mirroring in his eyes was obvious, her tone softened before she spoke again. "You don't have to apologize, Max. You deserve it, you deserve it so much. I know that and you should too." She took a sharp breath in. "But knowing that doesn't change how I feel. I...I hate you."

He looked at her, stunned. His heart plummeted to his stomach. Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their meaning.

"I do. I hate you Max. I hate you for being able to get everything I've only ever dared to dream of." She couldn't believe she was admitting it to Max's face, breaking the heart of the man she claimed to love.

Max felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under him, the sting of her words cutting deeper than any wound ever could. "I can't believe you're saying this," he mumbled, his voice chocked.

"I wish I didn't have to Max but I can't bear to keep lying to your face. I wish I could just pretend like everything's okay, like I'm still happy for you. But I can't, I'm sorry." YN's voice cracked with the weight of her confession, tears streaming down her cheeks as she looked at him with a strange mix of love and loathing. "I love you too much to keep lying to you."

The silence was sepulcral, years and years of shared moments full of love completely destroyed by the sick envy that had infected YN.

But the truth is, their love was doomed from the beginning.

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tkomptgoedluv · 18 days ago

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icantbelieveiletyougetaway.

joost klein x f! reader

tags: dead dove do not eat, f! reader, non-famous! reader, reader really needs to see a therapist, established friendship, they’re so in love with each other it hurts but can’t admit it, joost just wants to be her everything, angst, hurt, comfort, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.

word count: 4,156.

warnings: very brief allusion to drugging, heavy and frequent references to SA, violence, vague mentions of non-specific mental illness, rpf.

notes: in my head this takes place in 2021-2022 when joost had that really short, almost buzzcut like hair? like the wachtmuziek era. also, very sorry this is late!! it’s still only been half-proofread and i’m not even sure i like how i wrote the ending but here she is anyway. i love her and i hope you do too 💋.

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

with shaking hands, you fumbled around the bathroom floor to find your phone. your chest was heaving, the cries that you struggled to keep quiet were getting all caught up in your throat as you fought meekly through the nausea. you wiped at your face again, desperate to clear your vision and leaving behind a mixture of tears, snot, and smeared mascara on the back of your hand.

the room itself was dark, barely lit up by a singular dim, yellow light, though despite the shadows you could still see how everything was spinning. you couldn’t remember how many drinks you’d had — it hadn’t felt like a lot, you weren’t a lightweight by any means but you didn’t know how else to explain the state you were in. you couldn’t stand up even if you wanted to, your legs strangely numb to the touch and the pounding in your head made staying on the floor all the more appealing anyway.

face down on the grimey, tiled floor you found your phone laying just underneath the sink. you ignored the low battery warning as you swiped through your contacts, squinting through your tears at the screen as if it would actually help you see any better. you were only looking out for one name; the third out of the four that were listed under the letter ‘J’, and the only name to have an emoji next to it.

over the sound of the heavy, techno bass that seemed to shake the walls and the buzz of a hundred different people all talking amongst each other, you heard the line start to dial. it didn’t make sense to call him out of everyone else that could possibly help you; he was infamously known for never picking up the phone. it was ironic for someone so notoriously attached to their screens, his face typically glued to either his phone or his ipad.

but still, you hadn’t so much as thought twice about it as you clicked on his contact and then the call button. With your head tilted back against the wall and your knees curled up tightly against your chest, you prayed to any god listening that by some miracle, he wouldn’t be busy.

“hallo?”

you let out a whimper at the mere sound of his voice, a small, pathetic noise that quickly turned into a cry that you didn’t bother to stifle. he called out your name for a second time, though now in a tone that was much softer than the one before it.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s late.” you paused to take a breath, your voice having cracked like glass as you spoke. “but i need your help. i don’t…joost, i don’t know what to do.”

“it’s okay, just take a big breath for me.” for just a moment you heard shuffling around on the other end of the line. with each of his footsteps the background noise grew quieter until it disappeared completely, following the sound of a door being shut. “where are you?”

“i’m at…i’m at this house but i uh, i really don’t wanna be here anymore. do you think you could…can you just come get me, please? i’m sorry.”

over the sound of a drum and bass beat that played so obnoxiously loud, you struggled to catch all the whispers from joost’s side of the phone call. there was another voice there, that much you could hear, and you struggled to place it despite how familiar it sounded. you tried to concentrate on the faint muttering, straining your ears to hear it over the song that blared just below you.

but then you jumped when the banging started. a sudden flurry of fists pounding against the wood and making the bathroom door rattle within its hinges. from the deep laughs that followed, chances were it was just a group of guys trying to be funny, probably thinking it was one of their friends getting lucky on the other side. and yet still, you found yourself gasping for breath as you choked back fresh tears, all the blood that ran through your veins turning cold.

“schatje? did you hear me?”

you could only hum back in response.

“i said i need you to send me your location, okay? and then i’ll come get you, i promise.”

it was the moment you figured out how to do so that your phone finally gave up on you. after hitting send, the little map displaying your whereabouts popping up in yours and joost’s text chain, your screen began to freeze. in a moment of panic you managed to choke out that you were locked away in a bathroom before it all went black, leaving you to stare at the taunting dead battery symbol.

you weren’t oblivious to the irony of it all. in a house crammed full of people, perhaps even a few too many than it was built to hold, you felt alone. just a few minutes ago that was all you wanted, to be by yourself, but now it left you with a ringing in your ears. the absence of joost’s voice was enough to throw you inside what felt like a black hole, where time seemed to slow the longer you waited for him.

you found a brief comfort in watching the time pass on the old, analog clock that hung high on the wall opposite you; you figured it was a better thing to focus on besides the sharp ache between your legs. it helped keep you distracted from the way everything just hurt now, whatever it was that was in your system already starting to wear off. without it numbing you to the pain of it all, you could feel the headache brewing behind your eyes and the sting of your split lip.

with each minute that dragged by, the slow, high-pitched tick of the clock echoing inside your ears, your mind began to slip further and further away. every time that you closed your eyes you could see it happening all over again; you could feel his hands back on you, ripping at your clothes and bruising your skin.

all the tears that you had only just managed to blink away came rushing back, continuing to decorate your face with more long, dark streaks of black. surely, this was going to be the thing to finally break you. there would never be any redemption or recovery for you — he’d get to live the rest of his life without burden whilst this was bound to be the death of you.

the more you unravelled, the more erratic your cries grew with hiccups racking your body and a deep burning in your eyes. for once you found yourself grateful for the music’s mind-numbing volume, though somehow it still wasn’t enough to mask the sound of a soft tapping against the bathroom door. like a coward you froze, failing to answer back before you heard your own name being yelled out to you, followed by a harsher knock.

“hey it’s me, it’s joost. can you open the door please?”

as you steadily climbed to your feet, using the edge of the sink to help push you up, your knees began to shake. they threatened to buckle out from under you with every step that you took, each limp towards the door sending a short stabbing pain up to your abdomen. the sensation made you wince, your jaw clenched and a grip on the door handle so strong that it turned your knuckles white.

it was almost sardonic how despite being in a house so loud, everything went quiet as soon as that door swung open. the music never stopped nor did anyone dare to change its volume, but all joost could hear was his own heartbeat thumping in his ears as his eyes met yours. all he could do was swallow, pushing down the bile that was quickly rising up his throat.

even in the low, warm light of the bathroom, he could see the streaked mascara that painted your face and the bloodied lip that was still trickling down your chin. your favourite shirt, the one that he himself had bought you, was torn and just about hanging off your shoulders. it exposed a trail of black and blue spots that started along your shoulder and went all the way down your arms, a couple even dotted down your legs.

joost uttered your name, his voice barely audible over the music downstairs. the corners of your frown twitched, your bottom lip quivering as you shook your head, already answering the question he hadn’t even asked yet. from where you stood he could see you shaking, your knees weak and barely holding you up right. he didn’t hesitate to pull you into him, an arm locking around your waist as his hand found the back of your head, keeping you hidden in his chest.

“jesus christ, what happened to you?”

you couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the right words to even try and explain what it was you had gone through. you could only weep into the fabric of joost’s jacket, so exhausted and overwhelmed that you didn’t have the strength to hold yourself together in front of him. but it was more than enough of an answer for joost who just held you tighter the harder you cried, fighting back tears of his own.

pulling away as gently as he could, joost still kept you in his grasp. his hands cupped either side of your jaw, calloused thumbs wiping away stray-fallen tears as his eyes danced over your face. with a gaze so intense, you could see his eyes growing sadder the longer he looked you over in the dull light of the bathroom.

“i left stunts outside — he’s still in the car. we could…we should go to the hospital.”

“no!” your own dramatic change in tone caught even you off guard. you couldn’t help it, you were panicking now, pulling joost back by his sleeve as he tried to guide you out of the bathroom. the action made you wobble and almost trip over your own feet, flinching at the sudden cramp you felt deep in your stomach. joost’s grip on you hardened, not nearly enough to hurt but enough to keep you from falling back and hitting your head on the sink. “not tonight. please, i just wanna go home. i’ll be fine.”

“you can barely fucking stand, schatje. you need help.”

“then i promise i’ll go in the morning! but right now i just really need you to take me home, okay? i’m begging you.”

perhaps if joost had a little bit more of a backbone and wasn’t so hopelessly head over fucking heels for you, he would’ve had the courage to say no. he would have been able to look you in the eye and still say that he was going to get you to a doctor, whether you wanted to go or not. but no matter how much he wanted to, how much he hated what you were asking of him, he couldn’t. feeling you trembling in his hands and hearing the fear that shook your voice meant there was longer a single thing that joost wouldn’t do for you.

you were his best friend just as much as he was yours, regardless of all the very non-platonic things the two of you had done together over the years. as far as you were concerned it was just something that you’d do sometimes, only ever as friends. there were never any conversations about it the next morning, never any acknowledgment for what it was you had done the night before; it was almost like it never happened until it would undoubtedly happen again. you always liked it like that though — as long as it meant that you never had to think about how you really felt.

joost, on the other hand, was painfully aware of what he felt about your situation, about you. it was never just sex for him, not even once, and he wanted to talk about it. and he tried to, a couple of times, spending the first few mornings after trying to coax you back into bed just so he could hold you skin-to-skin for a little while longer. but you never wanted to stay and you never wanted to talk about it, either, so joost stopped. he let it become another pain he had to live with and spent each day telling himself that he was okay with that.

it was with only a slight hesitation that he nodded before standing back up straight, slipping his big black jacket off his arms and draping the material gently over your shoulders.

you let joost take on most of your weight as you leaned into his side, letting him guide you back through the house as you focused on just trying to make it down the stairs without tripping. to say that the place was packed was an understatement. people were crammed into every room like sardines, dancing and grinding against each other with stiff, swinging jaws. you hadn’t even heard what it was that had been said over the music, its volume still just as loud and disorienting as it had been when you first arrived.

but joost had heard every word, somehow, despite the sound of his own song polluting the room. it made him freeze on the spot, pulling you to a stop right along with him as he slowly turned to face the group of guys that were standing just in front of the front door. you felt your throat start to close at the sight of him amongst them, standing front and centre with a sick grin plastered across his face, his eyes darting between you and joost.

“what did you just say?”

it might have been the gruff, nauseating voice that you recognised, or maybe it was those ring-heavy hands of his that you could still feel pressed into your skin. you didn’t know, and it didn’t matter, because you knew it was him.

“i said good luck with that one, dude. she doesn’t go down easy; kept trying to fight me the whole time.” his stare then fell from joost onto you, his tongue gliding over his bottom lip as he looked you up and down. “but we still had our fun though, didn’t we schat?”

the crack of joost’s knuckles colliding with his jaw was something you heard before you saw it; the thud of him hitting the ground following soon after. a chorus of screams and cheers rang painfully in your ears as you watched a small circle quickly form around you. anyone that could still see straight had either ran from the fight or pushed forward to get a better view of it, their phones held high and already recording.

“bet that made you feel like a man, huh? forcing yourself on a girl half your size. you piece of fucking shit, i should fucking kill you!”

in all the years you’d known him, you had never seen joost like that before; his voice low and angry as his shouts drowned out the music. he hadn’t waited for him to get back up before throwing another punch, the sharp crunch of his noise breaking making you wince and your eyes water.

you went to step forward, your hands already reaching out to grab joost’s arm when one of his friends pounced. a shriek was ripped out from you when a fist struck joost right across the cheek, knocking him into you hard enough to almost send you both tumbling to the floor. any chance for you to try and intervene again vanished when you were pushed back before you could get close enough, joost quickly shoving you behind him as he swung for the other guy.

a strong pair of arms wrapped your middle and pulled you further back as you cried for them all to stop, keeping you locked against their chest no matter how hard you thrashed. distance was put between you and the fight when you were picked up and half-dragged out the door, joost’s blond hair disappearing from sight amongst the growing crowd around him.

the bitter air of the early morning stole your breath, your chest tight and aching as the cold consumed you. small flakes of snow drifted down from the paleing sky, dusting each rooftop and the old, cracked pavements in a thin layer of white. still, there were a handful of people gathered on the house’s front stairs, clad in various leather and latex, that only stood and watched as you were hauled away from the party.

“get the fuck off me! we’ve gotta go back, we can’t just leave him! stuntje, please!”

your feet only met the floor again once you were next to stunt’s car, safely across the street. even from there, you could hear the childish chanting of ‘fight! fight! fight!’ and the occasional glass break from inside.

“martijn -”

“- stay here; i’m gonna go get him.”

you weren’t allowed to argue, so you just did what you were told. for four minutes you sat waiting in the back of the car with the heaters on full blast and still shivering as you nestled yourself deeper into joost’s jacket. after another minute you saw them heading back your way, their pace fast as they slipped past the last few people that loitered on the steps. in the glow of the streetlights you could just about make out the soft shade of purple that was joost’s eye, and the deep scowl that contorted stuntje’s face.

neither of them spoke as they joined you in the car but for joost, you never really gave him the chance to. his seatbelt hadn’t even clicked into place yet before you were turning away from him, desperate to pretend that he wasn’t there burning holes into the side of your head. if joost knew that you could see him staring from the corner of your eye, he didn’t care. if anything, he probably would’ve hoped that it might have made you look back at him, because then that at least would’ve been something.

but seeing joost storm out of that house with a violet eye and raw knuckles, having just risked everything for you without a second thought, it scared you more than you wanted to admit. he was only supposed to come find you, and bring you back home. you never wanted a fight, never wanted joost to wind up with a black eye over you. so no, you couldn’t look at him — couldn’t even talk to him, either.

except your silent treatment didn't last very long, did it? it couldn’t, because joost wasn’t going to let you get away with it this time. for as long as he had known you, you always had this habit of internalising what you felt and shutting down. it never mattered what it was you were going through, you just wouldn’t talk about it.

this time though, he wasn’t going to let you disappear in on yourself again, and he wasn’t going to let you shut him out, either.

as soon as the car came to a stop, joost was up and already outside your car door. with a sweet smile, gentle hands were pulling you up and slowly helping you onto your feet before you had the chance to protest. there was a part of you that wanted to, now too proud to admit that you still needed his help. already, he had done more than enough, even too much, for you.

still, you didn’t dare to fight it — or him, rather. besides a small goodbye to stuntje, no words were spoken as he slipped an arm under your knees and pulled you up to his chest. it was like that, that he carried you up the three flights of stairs of your building, glancing down at you every so often with soft, worried eyes. it was miraculous how he managed to open your front door with you still in his arms, his very own key to your home dangling from the clip on his jeans.

it wasn’t long before the soft leather of your sofa was dipping underneath your weight, its cushion beneath you feeling cold against the bruised flesh of your thigh. joost left you for only a second, just to switch on a couple of the lamps you had dotted around and to dig out your old first aid kit from the bathroom.

you still weren’t really looking at him, not even as he perched on the edge of your coffee table and carefully took your jaw in his hold. the brush of the alcohol wipes along the small cuts that marked your face stung and made you wince, your nose scrunching up at the pain. a string of quiet apologies followed as joost concentrated on cleaning you up, wiping away each and every smear of blood and smudged makeup.

the longer that you sat there whilst joost devoted all of his time and energy to you, the more teary-eyed you felt yourself becoming again. it felt almost…foreign to feel so loved after everything, like you were still somehow worth saving. there was no way that you could possibly deserve it — nothing you could’ve done to deserve having someone adore you so unconditionally without earning it.

and yet here he was, your joost, doing anything and everything to try and help, and you couldn’t even fucking look at him.

the only thing you could do was cry. the way you clutched your mouth did little to muffle the sounds of your distress and it drew back his attention after he turned away only to throw out all of the dirty, used wipes. it was the guilt that was doing this to you, the guilt of knowing that you were the reason why joost now had a black eye. that joost had risked his whole career by starting that fight, and you had been the one to punish him for it.

a warm hand squeezed your knee as another tucked fallen strands of hair behind your ear. it took a few tries of quietly calling out your name to finally get you to meet his eyes, but eventually you got there. nothing could have prepared you for just how sick he looked, the bags under his eyes seeming considerably darker than before and a deep frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“i’m sorry i did this. i never should’ve gone with him, i know i shouldn’t have because i know that i know better but i still went and i should’ve done something more, i could’ve hit him harder or yelled, and i��m sorry i called you because your eye, that was me, that was my fault and i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i -”

with your face pressed flat against his chest, his sudden embrace almost swallowing you whole, you couldn’t find the rest of your slurred, blubbering words. somehow, at some point, joost manoeuvred you both onto the sofa and with his arms around you, kept you curled up against his side. a few fingers moved up the back of your neck to scratch your scalp as others held onto your hip.

it was the only thing he could think to do to shut you up, to calm you down enough to take big, slow breaths, in and out.

he didn’t have it in him to let you finish that sentence.

delicate reassurances were mumbled into your hair, quiet ‘you’re okay’’s and faint ‘it wasn’t your fault’’s becoming mantras that helped soothe the pain in your chest. you wanted to believe him and knew that you didn’t. you knew that as the deep baritone of his whispers slowly lulled you to sleep, you’d wake up with that pain still very much there.

but joost wasn’t going to stop trying anytime soon, noor was he going anywhere. it was one of the few things you’d actually let him do for you, making himself a home on your sofa whenever you would have one of your episodes. he’d sleep there, eat there, work there. sometimes joost would spend entire weeks of his life in your living room just so that he could know for sure you were still alive and breathing.

he was the only thing offering you the slightest bit of comfort. you could feel his fingers running through your hair as you curled up even further into his side, his voice still low in your ear. it was becoming to struggle just to keep your eyes open, but you knew that he wouldn’t mind.

you could fall asleep just to wake up with that same ache in your heart still there, but joost would still be there too. for now, that was all you needed.

#joost klein #joost klein x reader #joost klein x f!reader #luvvergirlwrites

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themonochromaticcat · 5 months ago

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Graag, Graag, Graag!

(part I)

>Joost x suicidal!reader

>genre- angst / fluff (ending)

>warnings- mentions of SH and suicide, attempted suicide.

A/N This is written from the 2nd point of view, it’ll be specified otherwise. :P Please let me know if I missed anything, uhm, this is based off of my failed attempt :,( (I’m better now tho- ish) Just enjoy!

Suicide hotline (116 123)

It had been an averagely difficult day in the Netherlands, first it was the weather, then the colleagues, then timings. Overall, it was just a plain day that tipped yourself over the edge just a tad bit more, just how it had been doing for the past couple of months: years even. At this point you couldn’t really remember when you felt normal when not in your loving boyfriend’s; Joost, Joost Klein’s embrace.

He had known you longer than you could even remember, you were childhood friends, best friends even; that blossomed into the most picturesque couple people thought of. In social media, in real life and behind closed doors, Joost was perfect; supposedly you were too, but you most definitely didn’t feel like it. You felt more… disappointed in yourself, it felt like you didn’t put any effort into your relationship with Joost. Well, Joost felt the opposite way, and he always reassured you of it, yet the feeling was still there.

What could it be? The fact that he was practically an a-list celebrity now that he got unfairly disqualified from Eurovision and having ‘the best’, song in Eurovision, though it was probably just a fan-favourite instead. Nevertheless, you always felt weird next to him, like you didn’t belong with him any longer.

Overtaken your consciousness was what your thoughts were doing to you, it had gotten to the point where your half an hour journey from your job to the little apartment (that you shared with Joost) had gone by in the brink of an eye. You waltzed into the apartment, the soft, soothing, sensational scent of the candle you had bought Joost engulfed your senses, making you realise that you were home.

Without any noise, you made your way into the kitchen to heat up some leftovers from the day before. And, before you knew it; there he was, muttering a soft string of praises into your ear, constantly switching between Dutch and English. It took you a good minute to turn around and thank him due to the strong hold he had on you, not letting you do much. Though, once you had gently pried his hands off of you, you lazily ran your hands through his long, healthy hair; pulling him in so that you could murmur and he could clearly hear you. And so, you did just that; in a weak, sickly voice, you murmured into his ear.

“I don’t know how much longer I can take this, Joost. I want this to end, now.”

You two drowned into a sickly disease; silence, it could mean nothing and everything. It left you thinking, overthinking yet all of these thoughts that consumed your mind, you knew they weren’t true. He would never do anything like that, he hadn’t done anything of that, bad, nature for the whole time you had been together. Instead of judging your bad habits, he tried helping you prevent them, from the moment he figured out, he sat next to you. In that dingy bathroom, cleaning them up, wrapping them tightly in paper towels before grabbing actual bandages.

“Lieverd, alsjeblieft.” (Darling, please.)

A excruciatingly large sigh left your lips as you slowly rested your head onto Joost’s shoulder, using him as a pillar to remain up on your own two feet. You felt a salty liquid drip from your eyes, travelling from your waterline, to your pink; swollen cheeks to your neck then onto your clothes.

“I love you Joost, I really do, you know?”

Idk what I think about this 😓😓😓

Suicide hotline (116 123)

Part II

#stand with joost #free joost #rambles #yes #joost klein #joost x you #joost fanfic #joost x reader #justice for joost #joostice #joost klein x you #angst #light angst #fanfic

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frameacloud · 2 months ago

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September 2024

[Originally posted to Orion Scribner's Patreon blog on September 16, 2024.]

I've been thinking for a long time that I need to get back into posting regular updates to my Patreon about what I'm doing instead of assuming you all are following me on other sites where those things are happening. Here are some of those things, which are mostly writings from my original research about otherkin, therianthropes, and other alterhumans.

I have a store on itch.io now! My creations that I've put on it, available to read for free:

A Simple Introduction to Otherkin and Therianthropes, version 2.4.8. My two page long essay explains what we are, in a way that the average person can understand. Written in the limited vocabulary of Simple English, it doesn't use any special words. If you read this essay many years ago and found it sounded rather stilted, don't worry, I completely rewrote this version! It also cites primary sources for each idea. I'm working with volunteers to translate it into many languages. Thanks to them, it's in German, Dutch, Estonian, and Polish. Chinese, Croatian, and Spanish are in progress. On the page, I give links to the ko-fi accounts of the translators so you can tip them, if they chose to allow that.

The Otherkin Timeline. This is my community history book that helped make it possible for other researchers to write about us, so most academic papers on otherkin cite it. Version 2.1 is mostly the version that has been in circulation for more than a decade, plus a few small additions and corrections. The next update of the book will change and expand it considerably, because it will be a collaboration between my fellow community historian and partner system, the House of Chimeras.

I also curated and reviewed collections of other people's creations about alterhumans. Find out where you can play tabletop role-playing games where each of you are members of a plural system on a magical adventure; read 1990s-style punk zines about therianthropy; take your time with literature anthologies of otherkin; or play video games with animal protagonists.

Presentations that I've given in this past year:

While I was staff at this summer's OtherCon 2024, I presented the panel Phantom Limbs and Phantom Sensations, Human and Otherwise. (To watch the video, you need to be signed into Youtube so that you can say you're at least 18. It's an 18+ topic because of some health issues it talks about.) The first half of this is a review of the medical literature on phantom limb phenomena, plus some etiquette tips about how to be respectful of people who have limb differences. The second half summarizes my original research project, the results of my survey, with tons of help from my partner and statistical expert, Page Shepard. This inquired about people who feel sensations of nonhuman body parts, for example, of wings or tails. It was open to people whether or not they call themselves otherkin, therians, or some other sort of alterhuman. It received more than a thousand usable responses, making it the largest recorded survey focused on otherkin or therians. My presentation ended up being overambitious for the time slot, so sometime I want to re-record it with better pacing.

In March, I was staff at the first Centaurus Festival. Together with my partner systems Chimeras and Page, we did a presentation there: How to Run Surveys of the Alterhuman Communities.

Articles I've written for the Otherkin News blog:

I've been covering "anti-furry" bills in the US. These are laws that Republicans have been proposing against students who behave or identify as non-humans. The bills aren't based on based on anything that students are doing in real life. They're based on an urban legend that Republicans made up to satirize transgender students asking for gender-appropriate restrooms by claiming that children who identify as cats ask for litter boxes in classrooms.

Meanwhile, children in real life have been getting into a fad popularized on TikTok in which they exercise on all fours (quadrobics) and craft animal masks. Some of these self-described therians are familiar with therianthropy as a serious integral part of one's identity, whereas others of them only know it as a hobby. I collected a bunch of recent news articles about that from Finland: Therian quadrobics popular for children in Finland; two schools ban animal masks.

#otherkin #therian #therianthrope #therianthropy #alterhuman #nonhuman #Patreon #quadrobics #itch.io #itchio

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the-offside-rule · 1 year ago

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Frenkie De Jong (FCBarcelona) - Swift Coded

Requested: yes

Prompt: Reader is listening to Taylor Swift and she decides Frenkie is in fact Swift coded, leaving the dutchman very confused

Warnings: swiftie frenkie

As Y/n sat in the back porch watching the rain drizzle down and sketching on her study folder, her mind was elsewhere. While she listened to the Lover album from Taylor Swift, she found herself listening to each and every song and having a deep connection with them. Now obviously with the exception of London Boy, every other song rooted itself to Frenkie. She had met Frebkie in their younger years when she became an exchange student in Amsterdam to better her Dutch and met Frenkie by simply being partnered up with him for a project of some sort. However, she remembers distinctly being told he would possibly not even be around to help eith it because of his football. Nonetheless, he still showed up to the library everyday after school before having to head off to training or matches. And on the off-chance he had to travel away for a match, he still did his part on the bus over. From there, Frenkie missed their regular hangouts to finish the project so they started hanging out regularly and that turned into dates and surely enough, the began dating.

Her head turned as she heard the front door opening and closing followed by footsteps echoing throughout the house. "Lief? I'm home!" He called. "Out the back!" Y/n replied. Frenkie walked through the house and spotted his girlfriend sat on the porch with a cup of tea on the table whilst she sat scribbling away. "You know you need to stop writing on your study folder." Frenkie chuckled as he kissed her cheek and sat down beside her. "Mmh. I don't know. I think it's fun." Y/n replied. "Your final year in college and you're drawing."

"Maybe they'll appreciate the trees I'm drawing." She lifted up her folder to show the back, a forest sketched into it with pencil. "I don't think that would give you enough credit for get a degree." Frenkie grinned and looked out into the garden. The rain laced their comfortable silence before Y/n spoke up. "You're very much a Taylor coded man." Frebkie turned to his girlfriend with an arched brow. "Like her boyfriend. All the songs written about him is the closest comparison I can find to how I feel about you. You know?"

"But I'm not English?" He replied in a questioning tone. "Neither is she." Y/n said. "Yes, but isn't her boyfriend? I think I remember you telling me that on our first date." Frenkie chuckled. "I did not talk about Taylor Swift that much." Y/n scoffed. "You talked about her more than yourself I think." Frenkie joked. "In my defense, it was the one thing I knew how to talk about from my Dutch classes in school. I needed to talk about an interest for a full five minutes." Frenkie chuckled and interlocked his fingers with Y/n's. "If I could have the option to go back to when we met and fall in love all over again, I would love to do that."

"You're very romantic." Y/n smiled, starting to make their hands sway. Frenkie laughed. "What can I say? That's just how you get the girl." He replied. Y/n grinned. "I have trained you well, Frenk."

#football #football blurbs #football imagines #fcbarcelona #laliga #frenkie de jong imagine #frenkie de jong imagines #frenkie de jong x reader #frenkie de jong x y/n #frenkie de jong #football fanfic

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theemporium · 1 year ago

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ok ok, something just occurred to me and I need to get it out of my head. English is not my first language and imagine it is not the reader's either. But she can speak English very well and hardly forgets the words (since she's been dating Max for so long now that it's almost become her first language), except that every time he fucks her brains out she forgets every single word and she starts moaning and saying things in her natuve language, and he's standing there all proud as he keeps banging her senseless and praising her in English like "look my pretty slut is so fucked she doesn't even remember how to speak properly" and she gets he just moans and nods but she didn't understand a damn thing about what he said and he knows it.

But there are times when she can string together sentences in English and he's standing there confused and disappointed because he couldn't make her forget the English and he says something like "I couldn't get the English out of your pretty little head." ? then it means I didn't fuck you well enough, better if I try again" and starts again but going deeper than before until she stops speaking English. Then that fucking smirk returns and he fucks her even harder. Those are the times where it takes her almost half an hour to recover properly to allow her brain to switch back to English and while he cleans her up and calms her down by praising her in Dutch/English she gestures back to him because otherwise he would be speaking in his native language and he wouldn't understand a word because it's so different from the languages he knows (I speak Italian and I can assure you that it's not easy to learn) but once he surprises her during those moments by praising her something in her native language and she just happy but too tired for answer to him and she wait until she can say something in English and she asks him to keep saying it with that strange accent of his that makes the words sound a little wrong but so cute and he keeps saying it until she falls asleep on his chest with a stupid smile on her face.

(I'm sorry if there are grammatical errors but this is the longest message I've ever written and while I was doing it I was almost fainting because now I need max)

PLEASE IT WOULD BE MAX’S GOAL

and him being pouty if he doesn’t manage to fuck the english out of her is so😭😭😭his competitiveness really jumps out and he just loves to tease and mess with her in public and watch her struggle to string sentences together🫠

#cece answers #max.thots

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souvenir116 · 23 days ago

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Fic Writer Interview 🌸

ty for the tag @13834 ❤️❤️

How many works do you have on ao3?

16 with anonymous works included

What’s your total word count?

295k

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

vanilla carnations, kiss it better, pick a lane, driving under influence, once i pull this trigger off

Do you respond to comments? Why/ why not?

i usually try to buy sometimes i get behind or wait for a day to answer all together after posting a chap then forget 💔 but i usually try to make time because comments always mean so much to me

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

i don't do angst endings normally but maybe mind break of a character starting to want someone that actually has harmed them before? yeah

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

i think it's vanilla carnations there was literally a proposal 😭😭

Do you write crossovers?

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I cant remember each one but this one tops all and we talked about it for a couple days w friends

then decided it was better this way 😁

(it was ltrlly just angry sex and Max coming inside Charles before they have to go to the team debrief bcz Charles crashes into Max, kind of deliberately)

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

i can do all unfortunately 😔 omegaverse, rule 63, [redacted] etc... I was birthing fic after fic for kinkmeme once (now i can't even properly write smut 💔)

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

no as far as i know

Have you ever had a fic translated?

ppl asked for permission before but I'm not sure if they eventually finished it!!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

yes... w my baby @a-amvryllis but we both didnt have time so it kinda dropped out. and tbh I think there are a few people my writing matches exactly as someone who writes so descriptive and meanless poetic words, but we could always meet in the middle!!

What's your all-time favourite ship?

im going to be rlly honest when i say lestappen is my first ship and probably last other than Justin Bieber and me in 2015 💔

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

idt ill finish that girl Charles fic for the fest... I dont think people liked it also but i decided to use that ending plot in another fic since it would be more fitting lol

What are your writing strengths?

i can write fast when I'm in mood. once i wrote 8k in a day. the words will just flow and ill be so thankful

What are your writing weaknesses?

tbh im not sure? i like my writing and we all have writers block from time to time, but sometimes i wish i had a better vocabulary but also vocab means nothing if you're going to make ppl open dictionaries every 10 word 😭 also paragraph starts. i hate starting them w "charles max max charles a but charles" if you get what i mean so i especially pay attention on it every new paragraph to make the reading easier 😭

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

i always add a () for the english version if I'm going to keep the foreign dialogue just a bit, because come on no one needs to switch between tabs on translate/fic, but if its long, then adding a subtle detail about how they keep the convo in that language and writing in italicized is cool. i also will write dutch and french pet names so randomly. i dont care if it sounds bad for native people im not a native for both 💔

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

galex. i actually started it but its still a wip with also lestappen and landoscar going on!! so theres no main ship but like.. a sitcom kind of friend group consisting of couples. yup

What's your favourite fic you've written?

because its my first, and i like the scenario so much, brainstorming w many irls, i think its a very good plot- oiptto. alas i had some people telling me the writing is rlly bad which is, cool, it was my first time writing a fic let alone in english. if you ask about writing, even if i wrote vanilla carnations so fast, i think its rlly nice written also @a-amvryllis helped me sooo much about each event and plots (and i do believe it was creative all of them in general) so i would say that.

tagging every author who wants to do that but randomly @a-amvryllis @blueberry-obsessed @bumblewyn @eterniravioli @f1-giuki @fueledbyremembering @lovelylotusf1 @lestappenforever @laura1633 @paint-it-red-and-black @saviour-of-lord in alphabetic order so i won't forget anyone 😭🩷

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bearratic · 24 days ago

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Get to know the mun ! repost, don’t reblog.

——— BASICS.

NICK[NAME] : Benjamin. [Benji/Bear.]

PRONOUNS : He/Him.

ZODIAC SIGN : Aquarius - Feb 7th.

TAKEN OR SINGLE : Single.

ANYTHING ELSE? : Real fuckn dutch. Made of stroopwafels.

——— THREE SERIOUS FACTS.

Writing gives me the time and space to gather my thoughts. I use it as a practice in conveying emotion, which makes it easier to do so and thoroughly explain reasoning. I use writing as a base for learning human psyche, soul, mind and spirit which interests me deeply. I try digging deeper into feelings and actions - reasons why some are done and linking them together.

I pick muses based on some hint of personality trait I see of myself in them. I find myself often asking what I want so having muses that at least correlate to my thoughts are a better fit for me than just a choice at random. It can be big as the way they think or it can be as small as sharing a favorite drink. Exploring their interests based on their world and adding on to it makes it way more enjoyable for me to write, story and world building is important to me.

I fucking love everyone I have ever written and will ever write with. This has been nothing but a warm and loving experience for me.

——— THREE RANDOM FACTS.

My nickname is thanks to my father, who even though he named me one thing, found it often too long and switched it to another lol.

I go to at least 3 concerts every month. Mostly rock in genre if I get to chose but I never say no when friends ask. I will always be your +1 to any event.

If I had to pick a country to move to it would be Scotland, sorry but I have a light obsession with that place.

——— EXPERIENCE.

Zero dude. Literally none. I just picked it up as a hobby and passed my blogs one year birthday last august. I have been truly active in the writing community for only half a year in total.

I go with the flow, I enjoy coming up with things on the spot. Diseccting my muses and throwing them into any type of situation just to write myself out of it. Or-... make it worse for them. Keep it interesting you know?

I write through and together with music, I let it guide me often. This is kind of the reason I am a slow replier, I have to really feel what I want to put down and then I can stick to it. Besides that, English is not my first language so I have to switch back and forth in my brain real often. It can be a bit tiring but I gladly do it for my writing partners. Much love.

——— MUSE PREFERENCE.

Give me anything with a background we can explore and me and my muses are in. I thoroughly enjoy talking to you about your muses and mine, from their favorite pairs of socks to their family drama, idc I want to know.

I need a lot of building together, plotting and anything to truly write my muse closer to yours if you want anything deeper. I build through writing together. From something silly to movie scripts. Let them get to know each other to their deepest point.

——— FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT.

FLUFF : Yeah definitely, I’m a sappy dude. I like to daydream.

ANGST : Also yeah! I enjoy making problems for my muses, it makes me understand them more. Dread is and can be intense so be sure to be in the right headspace and let me know.

SMUT : Sure, though with my lack of writing experience bear with me on this one. I really have to know how you write and your muse for this to work, I do not wish to overstep boundaries either yours, your muses or my own. Which I am unable to know if we do not at least have a talk about it.

——— PLOT / MEMES : Thanks to you I know how much I enjoy plotting. I know I'm rather slow with DM replies but please don't take it personally I am just truly busy and can only do one thing atta time. Memes! Starters! Send me them all day everyday, I might not get to them immediately but I will and I will love it.

TAGGED BY : @sanctissimx I adore. Thank Yououou.

TAGGING : Cool ppl but no pressure. @cherriedrage @penandswords @patronsxints @carminewill @heterochromatica @ofcursedenergy @modeinthemiddle @huntershowl & You.

#Its not monday #idc #Bear has his own planning #I want to tag everyone #🤍🖤🕺

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morb-untamed · 2 months ago

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Writer Interview Tag

I was tagged by @tavyliasin a pretty long time ago to do this, but I figured I'd finally get to it. Thank you so much for tagging me Lia, I'll try to answer these questions to the best of my abilities! Your interview was as delightful as it was insighting to read. I tag @miradelletarot and @likethelightfromorionabove. But no pressure to fill this at all! This text contains some descriptions of mental illness, and some pretty personal stuff. I don't get into the nitty-gritty of these subjects, but I still wanted to give a heads-up.

When did you start writing?

I cannot really put an exact date to when I started to write to be exact - as I have been imagining and writing stories for as long as I can remember. I know when I was a little child I was writing down stories even though I could barely make an interesting string of words. Unsurprisingly enough, they were about horror and fantastical creatures. So not much has changed in that regard.

Although writing has never been my #1 passion, that goes to drawing. But it has been a constant in my entire life with intervals. Before I actively started writing fanfiction I hadn't written anything creatively for over 6 years I believe! Before that I always tried to create original stories with original characters.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

This is a hard question to answer, as I have such a hard time reading in comparison to writing. I have ADHD, and either have to struggle to even attempt to finish a page in a book, or read a 500 page novel in one go. There's no in between! Although I have noticed I like to read the same themes and genres as I write about, even if it is to learn about said themes and genres and how to write them. I do have a whole collection of books, but they're mostly about art, art history, plants, nature, flowers, and some comics. Other than that I really like to get more into Warhammer 40k novels, mostly because I really like dark fantasy/sci-fi. I also really want to read more fantasy erotica books, horror (gore, paranormal, and anything that sends chills down my spine), and anything about real life mysteries!

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

Sometimes I say that the things I want to write about are far above my actual writing skills. This rings true for this question as well - as many of my writing friends know, English isn't my native language even though that's the language I write my stories in. I feel like I am far better at conveying my thoughts and emotions into writing in the English language rather than Dutch (and I think it's kinda cringy to write fanfiction in my native tongue to be honest). But this does mean my vocabulary can be lacking any diverse words at times, and grammar can be confusing at times. Thankfully I have a space where people want to help me out, and that thesaurus.com is free.

With that being said, I don't really aim to emulate any other writers. I have come across some amazing writers who post on AO3 who inspire me, but for now I'd like to hone my writing skills and see where my style takes me.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I have my own 'work' room in my home I used to write from, but ever since busting my knee even further last May I have found myself to be far more comfortable on the couch so I can keep my leg straight. It also happens to be the calmest place during the times I tend to write the most - which ranges from 8 pm to the early morning hours. But for my own sake I try to not keep it as late as I used to the past few months. Mainly because I don't want to mess up my biological clock too much while I'm stuck at home healing from surgery as of right now.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

It really depends on my mood, what's happening in my personal life, and how inspired I feel at the same time. I always try to make myself as comfortable as I can, and tend to my needs first; am I too hot? Too cold? Do I have coffee, am I hydrated enough, and aren't there too many distractions around me? Sometimes, when I really want to write but feel like I can't I sometimes take my ADHD medication which does the trick. But I only take it if I am sure I feel good both mentally and physically as it can have averse effects if I don't.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Trauma, angst, inner conflict, and even more trauma! Trauma comes in many forms, expressions, and manifestations. And I am not surprised at all I am writing about it. I am surprised about how much catharsis I experience from writing it, and how often I ended up writing about these themes. You might not be shocked to read that I suffer from C-PTSD and anxiety with some depression on the side. I have dealt with mental illness and traumatic events for most of my life, and it feels like I have some form of control and acceptance if I write about them in my own writing, especially in my fanfiction. With that being said, I have never really written my own specific traumatic events into my writing as that's a bit too much. But they often fall in the same themes, like SA, physical and emotional abuse from family, witnessing horrible events, self-destruction, manipulation, and having to make awful decisions in order to protect yourself. I relate heavily to them, and in some ways it gives me some closure.

What is your reason for writing?

The biggest reason is that I felt this growing need and compulsion to write something specifically I wanted to read about. I have always written for myself, and will continue to do so. This rings especially true for fanfiction, which is also a reclamation for my own wants and needs. I have always wanted to write fanfiction, but for the longest time it was labeled as cringe and stupid in the circles I found myself in. I was so shy and embarrassed of what I wanted to write (and draw) about, so I have never truly been active in a fandom. I was a lurker at most, too scared to show where my imagination and creativity takes me about certain characters - let alone about my own OC's. But thankfully I grew far more comfortable in that ever since stepping foot in the BG3 community, where your OC is literally a part of the story if you want them to be! I remember @tavyliasin and some others literally had to beg me to link them to Weeping Willow as I was so scared of judgement even though I very well know they wouldn't ever make fun of me. Ever since then I have become what one might describe as unhinged in a sense. I have reclaimed being cringe, and happily yap about my oc's, canon characters, in any smutty, angsty and dumb scenario I can come up with. I am not hurting anyone, and I am having fun. And that's what's most important.

But I do admit I still sometimes struggle with the embarrassment of writing fanfiction. I still sometimes get laughed at by friends outside of the internet when I tell them about it, along with being made fun of because of it. But I try to stand my ground, always saying that they can laugh what they want, and rather make them feel weird for making fun of me having fun. It is still a process, but it is a part of reclaiming my love for myself and thus claiming space for myself.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Honestly? My work doesn't get that much attention at all, so when it does I am beyond elated and often screenshot and save any comments I get on AO3, discord, or tumblr to look back on. But I especially love any comments from readers who are as unhinged about my writing as I am - give me all the caps lock and keysmashing!!

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Like I said before, I don't have a lot of readers. But I do hope that those who do actively read my work think "Wow, this person really cares about the characters they write about.". I want them to remember me by my passion, weather that's from a heartbreaking scenario, an insanely detailed smut chapter, or something that sparks fire of anger within them as they read about it. That despite my shortcomings in language and ability to describe what I see in my head, they see the love and effort I put into it.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Like I mentioned in the previous question, I truly believe my passion for wanting to put the images I have floating in my head into words to share it with others is what I think is my greatest strength. I never really try to leave anything for the imagination. Aside from that, I think my other strength is that I try no matter my shortcomings. I have heard before that I am very much persevering when it comes to my goals.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

While I always try to keep in mind what a potential reader might like to read, I usually stick to what I want to read about. As I mentioned before, I started writing again for me, and to reclaim it as a form of self-love.

How do you feel about your own writing?

Honestly? I often feel like I suck at writing, no matter the love I put into it. Even though I know I have improved massively (sometimes I reread the very first chapter of Weeping Willow to see how far I've come), I never feel good enough. I am aware that that's because I'm insanely critical of myself to a torturous degree - something I have to overcome as well. I often feel like I "might as well not do it if I am not the best at something" knowing very well I am never going to be the best at anything as that's not how the world works. But that takes me back that I'm doing this for myself, not for a prestigious title, an award, or recognition from those at the top in this field of writing. Although I do admit I love any validation I get. But reminding myself that I'm doing this for myself, that there is no repercussions if I quit except for regret and that same need to realise my stories into actualisation that made me write in the first place. So I have to keep going, so I won't drive myself crazy with the sense of unfulfilment.

Thank you so much for reading if you've come this far, I feel like these questions were very much needed to remind myself why I'm writing and received motivation to get over any blockades I have as of now. So sad I'm too tired to write right now though :')

#tag meme #personal

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vaingloury · 11 months ago

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Disparate Thoughts on Dungeon Meshi

I'm an anime-only watcher, so no spoilers beyond what's currently aired (eps 1-3) + mild map spoilers for a random 3.5e D&D module (Sunless Citadel).

- I'm not the first nor will I be the last to harp on the English localised title but Delicious in Dungeon sucks. I do, however, think going with the "DnD" naming scheme was a nugget of a good idea (let's face it, "Dungeon Food" sucks too). Maybe "Diners in Dungeon"/"Dungeons & Diners" instead (as in those who dine, not a place where one dines). Or "Dungeon Dine" (like "dungeon dive"). Regardless, I'll just be calling it Dungeon Meshi going forward.

- I don't know if this is coloured by me going into this series with the knowledge that Ryoko Kui loves Baldur's Gate 1 and 2 or a wider ripple effect of eastern dungeon-fantasy conventions being shaped by there not being an official Japanese translation of D&D between Basic and 5e, but the world-building's vibe is old-school D&D as hell. It feels like it was written by someone who maybe never got the chance to play the tabletop game much but spent hours poring over the 1e Monster Manual in hopes of getting a campaign off the ground (and ended up penning a manga instead, game scheduling be damned). There's the disarming of traps, feeling for secret doors, and even the iconic red dragon as seen on the covers of the Basic Dungeon Master's Handbook and 1e Monster Manual being the dungeon boss. Design-wise, the dungeon's layout it reminds me a bit of the map from Ruins of Castle Greyhawk or The Sunless Citadel (pictured below, right).

- The main cast is very tropey at the moment. Quite literally all the Basic classes are covered; the generic white man Fighter (Lv 1, no multi-attack yet :P) as the party face, the halfling/thief, the elf/wizard, the missing cleric, the dwarf... This works for this point in the narrative but doesn't make me particularly attached to any of them. They need another overarching obstacle.

- I generally don't like Studio Trigger's output (not the Imaishi-involved stuff anyway; Gridman fucks) but I respect how bouncy their animation usually is. So, I was excited to watch something animated by Trigger but not (originally) written by them. Dungeon Meshi, however, looks static and resorts too often to Dutch angles to maintain visual interest. There's a bit of an art shift in episode 3 where this improves; more fun "off-model" moments, the movements get a little bouncier, more color harmony. Hopefully, this stays and isn't just a guest director fluke. Form the snippets I've seen on the manga, Kui suffers a bit from "draw background killed my grandma", thus her ability to make her simple character designs emote well has to carry the page. The anime does the opposite; super detailed backgrounds but flat shading/lack of texture on the characters creates a need for them to over-emote with a "screen-shake" effect in order to stand out from their surroundings, which I could see getting old fast. The main event, the food, looks better in the anime than in the manga due to colour and animation bringing it to life.

- I don't usually laugh at Japanese comedies because they're either too slapstick for my tastes or too pun heavy for my JP comprehension level. Dungeon Meshi gets a point for making me "lol" more than once.

- Finally, a good panty shot:

- I watched episode 3 dubbed. EN Marcille > JP Marcille (I say this as a stickler for subs). The rest of the dub cast is fine but I'm probably sticking with JP because JP Laios' ability to scream > EN Laios (EN is a great generic white man, though). I'm not familiar with most of the JP voice cast. I think Chilchuck is my fave in JP.

Both languages have little breathing room between lines of dialog and I was hoping the EN dub would play around with the fact that the character speaking isn't necessarily the one on screen (thus less lip-flap matching, especially for Senshi, who has few indicators that he's actually speaking even when he's onscreen) but alas. I'll do another one of these if I have more to say later in the season 🥂

#dungeon meshi #anime blogging #b

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true-blue-sonic · 1 year ago

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Hey Blue! Not reply related to sonic or anything but do you have any writing advice in general? You're like, the best writer I know and I'm kinda struggling to find good tips so I was wondering if ya got any.

Hello! ^-^ Thank you for the compliments!💕💕 It's a bit of a tough question; I definitely have some things, but I will readily admit that I don't always follow my own advice, Still, I hope it's useful!

Under the cut because it got long, haha!

If getting started is the main issue, I recommend setting a very tiny goal for yourself. My own is 200 words a day. Most of the time, once you have begun writing, those 200 words become over a thousand before you realise it. And if it does not work, you still have 200 new words you didn't have before! ^-^

Also, accepting that sometimes your draft just sucks and you need to wrangle the words out of the very depths of your being and you hate everything you write is also necessary. What you have can be edited later to become more in line with what you want. And it also just sucks to have a vague idea of how to continue or what you want your fic to be about, only to forget it later because you did not write it down.

What I myself like to do when writing is to go back to the beginning of a story if I find myself stuck, and already start with editing there. It helps me 'rediscover' what I've already written, cleans up the draft simultaneously, and often gives me ideas on how to continue at the part where I'm stuck. And I like to think that with a reconfirmed idea of what I have written before, I can make the story more cohesive.

I have uploaded stories before that I didn't feel 100% certain about. I think it's better until you're at a point where you do feel like 95% or more certain about it, than uploading it at 80% only for the sake of uploading stuff. I personally can strongly tell what stories I didn't feel too certain about or happy with when I reread them, no matter how long ago I published them.

Once you're in the flow, try to not get out of the flow, haha. If you forgot a word, just put it between [ ] brackets and come back to it later, don't waste time looking it up and risk running out of steam (I do it a lot with words I know in Dutch but forgot an English translation of XD). Similarly, if your flow is only lines of dialogue, write only lines of dialogue! And if it's only actions, write only actions. First drafts are for getting the idea out of you, only later can you begin editing and making full coherent paragraphs.

When editing, I like to pay attention to the way my paragraphs look. I prefer having a bit of variation in their form, so that I don't have an endless stream of -

"I'm saying something," Espio said, doing something in the meantime. "And now I'm saying something again." "Me too!" Silver agreed, while doing something as well. "And here also."

- that just constitutes most of the fic. I really like implementing variations in my paragraphs, such as beginning with a spoken sentence that ends with a dot so I do not need to indicate after it who said it in what way (responded, retorted, sighed, hummed, noted; such words. I rarely use said, now that I think about it.), or beginning with an action or description as opposed to someone speaking, etcetera. It's not always easy, but I feel like it does help enrich the story!

I know this one is more contested, but I myself can't stand endlessly using the characters' names for every single thing, so I like using synonyms there (the chameleon, the ninja, the hedgehog, the psychic, the time traveller). But I do think you should not use synonyms if they draw attention to something random about the character that the story is not about; for example, I would not describe Espio as "the taller anthro" between him and Silver unless the moment specifically describes a situation where Espio being taller is relevant.

Related to that, I try not to repeat the same word too many times. I'm a synonym gal, haha! But sometimes you have to accept there simply isn't a proper synonym for a term you're using, meaning you either need to use that term a lot or rewrite your sentences so that the term is not explicitly mentioned but you still know what is happening.

I very actively try to cut down on the adverbs I use, but it doesn't always work. A good adverb definitely can enrich the story, but in the same vein, using a stronger word instead of a weak word plus an adverb is definitely smart to do as well, lest the adverbs clutter your whole fic. But also, "weak word plus adverb" can carry a strong meaning all the same. To copy an example I vaguely recall from the internet: "smiled sadly" works as it is a contradiction, but "smiled happily" does not, because we associate smiling with being happy anyway. You are better off using something like "beamed" or "Happiness glowed on his face" for the latter.

The longest length a sentence should have is 85 words, a thesis supervisor once told me. I am very bad at keeping sentences below 85 words, alas.

Adding to that, a good sentence has a maximum of two commas, so three 'chunks' of a sentence (like this one, actually!). But for emphasis' sake, I throw that rule out of the window at times and put a lot of commas in if a paragraph 'calls' for it. With a good flow and a clear start and further progression, I feel that a sentence that is over 85 words can be properly followed and remain readable. But eventually there comes a point where splitting it up might be better, haha.

If you want to put in a gut-punch sentence, give it its very own solo paragraph! If you tuck it at the end of a longer paragraph, it loses its oomph. And also don't be afraid to switch up your paragraphs' lengths; I myself don't like having huge chunks of text after huge chunk of text to read through endlessly, but I also don't like reading stories with paragraphs that have only one or two sentences each. A 'play' between long paragraphs with much description and shorter ones (for me those often are centered around dialogue) of like two or three sentences and a few that are only one is a lot nicer to read, in my opinion.

Do not headhop!! With headhopping, I mean that you write as if you're in multiple characters' heads, instead of only one. If I write from Silver's POV, I will not write about what Espio is experiencing or thinking, and vice versa. Every thought, experience, and note about the world is firmly from the POV character's perspective.

In the same vein, I also do not like it if one paragraph has dialogue from multiple characters, as it makes it confusing to see who is talking. If another character starts talking, always begin with a new paragraph; it also helps with keeping your paragraphs differently-sized, I have found.

Most people probably don't know what the various existences of - (the dash) mean... I hope. But ; and : do have different meanings: ; is for when you have like a 'half-sentence' to attach to another sentence that would not work on its own, whereas : is for giving an example, basically. But I will readily admit I don't use ; correct either most of the time😅 If you read a sentence with ; in it and you see that you can make them two proper sentences with a dot inbetween, I recommend going for that.

For proofreading, I like popping the fic in the editor of Ao3 and make my final changes there. A different layout really can help you catch things you hadn't seen before!

And lastly, accepting that your fic will have that dumb spelling error in it that you missed sixteen times while proofreading and accepting that you simply are not a critically acclaimed writer with dozens of beta readers and the like is very important. We all do this for fun because we love a particular series or franchise, so we're allowed be make mistakes and be amateurs! The most important thing is to have fun with it and like what you are doing. Write for yourself, not for anyone else: you are supposed to enjoy it the most!

These are all I have at the moment, I hope you find them useful! Good luck with writing🍀🍀

#writing tips #writing advice #blue's writing #I definitely used to do a lot of these when I first started out

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insurrection-if · 2 years ago

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If we select for our MC to know multiple languages, is there any expectation that the reader knows these languages? I've seen a few IFs where multilingual MC is actually just code for toggling on text in another language, so I *have* to say no so that *I* can read it even if I feel like my MC would know that language.

No worries, that won't be the case! I know there are certain preferences held when it comes to how multilingualism should be handled in a written narrative, but I want to allow this feature to be accessible to those who roleplay a character that is not a direct self-insert of themself. Aha, not to mention that the pressure for nailing the specific grammar, dialects, slang, structure, etc. for each character's native / multiple languages (taking into account their upbringing / background with that language) would be a terrifying prospect for me!

For the most part, it will be sort of generalized. For some quick non-canon examples:

(Dutch Proficient Version)

Imka hums a song beneath her breath, her voice filling the cold air as you awaited the others. The wind seems to carry her voice and all its lightness with care as the lyrics become clearer above its whistle.

The tune is unfamiliar. Neither are the words reminiscent of any lyrics you know. But she sings with such a calm that you can sense the lyrics, the notes, are ingrained into her heart. For once, there is no fragility to her voice. Only a peace, gentle and soft.

It speaks of stars. It calls to the sea. It harkens to a longing, a wanting or something that could never be. And it is lonely in its melody.

When it ends, she sits still for a time. Her hair has been tousled by the oncoming storm, as that's what you now recognize it has slowly become, but it does not obscure the vision of her colorless eyes.

She calls to her father. She asks to be taken home.

vs.

(Non-Dutch Proficient Version)

. . . The tune is unfamiliar. Perhaps it is a folk song, some lullaby or tune from a childhood long gone. Maybe she hopes to soothe herself as her nerves arise in this endless test of patience. Better she sings than worry herself sick over what she cannot control.

Her head tilts up towards the stars. You wonder where her sight truly lies. On them. On you. On him, though you know it is only a form of self-punishment when she does that.

The end of her song arrives gradually, a wistful finish to her smooth and melancholic tune. Its final note seems to steal her breath, though it takes but a moment for her to find it again.

She speaks at the end in a near whisper. She mentions him, her father you assume. She asks for something that makes tears trace down from her vacant eyes.

Or:

(German Proficient Version) - Proud, Expressive, & Sarcastic MC

"It would be nice to be together. Here."

His tone is low, steady but quiet. It's that quiet that betrays his hesitance.

It's the subtle switch in his native tongue that tells his shyness.

To think you, little old Mockingbird, could make a man like Sigmund shy. It would be an achievement to bask in if you didn't know the true reason behind his veiled attempt at proposing a date. He thinks he's keeping you safe, but all he manages to do is slowly break your heart.

You tap a finger to your earpiece as you contemplate your response.

"Don't tempt me, sweetheart," you soon sigh, your lips pulling into a smirk when you switch back to English at the last second.

He scoffs, the sound more like a vaguely choked-on laugh, and you can definitely imagine his broad grin now: the way in draws attention to that little scar, the sudden prominence of that dimple on his cheek . . . you really do wish that you could be there with him now.

"Spottdrossel," he finally manages to call once he's relaxed that far-away smile enough, "I am not sweet."

vs.

(Non-German Proficient Version) - Proud, Expressive, & Sarcastic MC

"Herzblatt," he hums in a way that hints it comes with a smile, "You would like it here."

His attempt at teasing envy from you cannot mask the genuine thought he had of you, unprompted and welcomed by him. You smile over the little victory that truly is from a man as stubborn as him.

"Oh, new nickname! I'm honored, Siggy," you respond with a playful tune, happy to have yet another excuse to throw out his nickname once again. His dislike towards it only makes it cuter.

"You better watch out once I get my hands on an English-German dictionary. I'll be a real threat once I have something to throw back at you. Or, worse, once I can finally learn what you really keep whispering to me with that stupidly handsome smirk, you tease."

You expect his laughter: loud and barking or low and chuckled, any form of it sparking a similar urge to laugh along with him. But . . . it doesn't come.

You wince, your pride taking a stab at the realization that he isn't willing to entertain that. The truth. A truth so obvious that it hurts, more than anything he fears might come from accepting it.

And yet . . .

"Spottdrossel," he eventually calls, his tone steadying with a genuine softness that sounds strange without the image of him with it, ". . . I look forward to it."

Anywho, I hope this approach is okay with most readers! (´ﾟ艸ﾟ)∴ Also, I am writing this really late at night / early in the morning, so please forgive any horrible mistakes in grammar, structure, etc., haha!

(；´∀｀) Thank you for the ask!

#author

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ollieofthebeholder · 1 year ago

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My website

Chapter 54: November 2002

It’s taken Gerard a while to get all of this set up. First he had to read the book a few times to make sure he understood it, a process that was not made easier by the fact that it’s only nominally written in English. Then he spent the better part of two weeks gathering all the necessary supplies. The hardest and most important part has been finding someone who can, and will, actually do it. He supposes he could have done it himself, but there will be places he can’t get to, and anyway, it’s better to go to an expert.

Well. Expert might be pushing it a bit.

Gerard tries not to look like he’s in too much of a hurry. This isn’t the best part of town, and that’s the quickest way to get himself in serious trouble with someone who thinks he’s a drug dealer, or some kind of lowlife, or someone who will pay to avoid anyone knowing he’s been in the area.

He’s not in trouble, and he’s not doing anything wrong—not very wrong, anyway—and he has as much right to be here as anyone. What’s safely tucked in an inner pocket of his trench coat is perfectly legal. Probably legal. Mostly legal. There’s no actual law against him carrying it, at least. The ethics are a bit dubious maybe, but there’s a saying about ends and means that Gerard figures he can make use of, just this once.

After all, it doesn’t affect anyone but him when all’s said and done.

Left, another left, a right, straight shot, and then it’s a left down the last alleyway before he reaches the docks and knock at the third door on the right. At least he doesn’t have to remember some complicated pattern or a password to get in. This isn’t quite at that level of clandestine bullshit. It’s probably close, though.

The door opens, no more than a crack, and a voice that’s half nicotine and half seawater growls in Dutch, “Who is it?”

“Gerard. We spoke last week,” Gerard says, his own Dutch a bit rough around the edges—worse than his French but definitely superior to his Arabic, and at least he’s understandable. He pats his pocket. “I’ve got the stuff.”

There’s a short pause, and then the door opens enough that Gerard can slip through.

He’s never met the man on the other side, but he’s not exactly surprised by his appearance. Tall and broad-shouldered, albeit a bit stooped, with grizzled hair and tattoos up and down both arms, the man looks like either a retired longshoreman or the sort of person you’d find in fantasy games sitting in the corner of the tavern to dispense lore and quest hooks to the shiny new adventuring party. He eyes Gerard up and down. “Money first.”

Wordlessly, Gerard reaches into a different pocket and pulls out a roll of bank notes, freshly exchanged when he made the transfer. The man flicks through it with a calloused thumb, then nods once and leads Gerard through a short hallway into an inner room hidden behind a curtain.

The room is…dingy isn’t the word. It looks run-down, slightly sagging around the edges, and definitely shady as all fuck, but at least it’s clean. Which is a good thing. Gerard is taking enough risks with this as it is; he doesn’t need tetanus, or worse, on top of it. It’s lit well enough, and the floor is bare. The walls are plastered with sketches and photographs, some of which are more interesting than others, especially to a sixteen-year-old bisexual. There are no windows, and the only way in or out is the doorway Gerard just came through. There’s a cabinet, painted black, pushed against the opposite wall. In the middle of the room is the setup you’d usually find at the dentist’s office—a rolling tray-table with tools already laid out on it, a low rolling chair of the kind normally sold for use at a computer desk, and an adjustable padded lounge chair.

The man tucks the money into his own pocket. “Right, let’s see this special stuff you’re insisting on.”

Gerard slips off his trench coat and hangs it on a hook at the man’s nod, then produces a vial of black ink. The man holds it up, then looks at Gerard sharply. “The seal’s broken. You sure about this?”

“I broke it. Thought it would save time,” Gerard lies. There are several reasons he opened this bottle almost immediately after buying it, but worry about how long it would take the man before him to open it isn’t one of them. He hands the man a piece of paper. “This is what I need.”

The man studies the paper, then shrugs and sets the bottle on the tray with the rest of the equipment. “Fine then. Let’s get started. We’ll go from the bottom up, yeah?”

Gerard nods and bends down to untie his boots. He probably should have worn shoes that would be easier to get into and out of, but he doesn’t own any shoes like that, his mother has ridiculously large feet, and while he and Martin wear the same size shoe—for the moment, anyway—he’d have had to explain why he was asking to borrow Martin’s loafers, and either he and Melanie would try to stop him doing this or they’d insist on coming along too, and he emphatically does not want that. Not yet. He needs to be sure this will work before he even suggests it to Martin and Melanie, and no way are they doing something like this until he’s sure it won’t hurt them in the process. Not to mention the fact that they aren’t technically—no, not technically, actually—old enough to do this just yet.

He’s the big brother. He needs to be the one protecting them. And he finds himself praying to a god he only half believes in that this works, because if it does…if it does, it might be the key to all of them getting away for good.

“You want this the same size in each place, or does it need to cover the whole joint?” the man asks, studying the paper again. “That’s going to change things.”

Gerard has no idea, come to think of it. The image drawn on the page he got it from is just the right size to cover his smallest joints, but does it need to scale up on larger areas or will that affect its power? It’s an experiment in so many ways and he doesn’t know the right answer.

“Same size,” he says after a moment’s pause. The man grunts in acknowledgment and waves for him to hurry up.

Hastily, Gerard strips down to his underpants and comes over to take a seat on the adjustable chair. The man raises the bottom bit so his feet are propped up, closer to where he can reach, then takes a seat on the rolling chair next to it.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns Gerard. “These are sensitive areas and it’s tiny work you’re wanting.”

“I can handle it,” Gerard assures him. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

The man grunts again, then bends over and gets to work.

Gerard rests his head back against the seat and stares up at the ceiling. It’s covered in mirrors, which is…a little creepy, he’s not going to lie, but hardly the worst thing he’s ever seen. He looks older than his age, which isn’t always a good thing, but in this case is definitely a boon. He’s technically old enough for this, at least in the Netherlands—which is why he’s here and not back in London, where he’d have had to either go to an unlicensed parlor or lie and risk the person losing their license, neither of which appeals to him. He doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble, and he doesn’t want to die, that would rather defeat the purpose.

It’s a sound principle, even if his mother seems not to think so. (Then again, his mother dismisses a lot of what he has to say; he’s used to it by now.) Sigils are a fairly common thing, as are protective charms, and it’s hardly unheard-of for people to tattoo protective sigils directly onto their bodies. The issue is that he’s not altogether certain it’s going to work. The book he found isn’t a book of power, or to put it more accurately, it isn’t of the Fourteen. But knowing what Martin told him a couple years back—that the books aren’t magic themselves, just have the Fourteen’s power all over them—he’s willing to trust it. If it belonged to someone who warded them off successfully enough that they could share that with someone else, he’ll take it.

So here he sits, in a slightly shady one-room parlor in the Netherlands, getting the tiniest of tattoos on every joint on his body.

The writer obviously has some knowledge of the Fourteen, although he doesn’t call them by the names Gerard and his family usually use—which makes sense, since the book is hundreds of years older than Robert Smirke. Gerard plans to show it to Martin and Melanie when he gets back to London, because even if he’s not a hundred percent certain this is going to work, he think they’ll both be interested in the book’s contents. In particular, he’s looking forward to the discussion they might be able to have—assuming they can have it somewhere neither his mother nor Aunt Lily will hear them—about the way the author writes about the Fears. He describes several aspects Gerard recognizes from his studies, but rather than divide them into the categories he’s familiar with…well, Gerard isn’t really sure if the writer divided them into more categories or lumped them all under one or doesn’t seem to realize they’re connected at all. It’s so old it predates modern English, and Gerard is definitely making a guess at the translation of several passages. At least it’s Middle English rather than Old English—he’d have no chance at that.

Still, the important thing is that, if Gerard understands the book correctly, the writer thinks it’s possible to gain a bit of protection from the Fears by using a bit of one of them. He quotes Geoffrey Chaucer: A theef of venysoun, that hath forlaft His likerousnesse and al his ode craft, Kan kepe a forest best of any man. In other words, by harnessing the power of one of the Fourteen, he should be able to ward against the others, at least to a point. There’s a page almost filled with tiny drawings representing various aspects of the Fears, and another with instructions on how and where to place it on the body. Some of the symbols scare him quite a bit, others less so, but after poring over all the options, he’s chosen this one in particular.

It’s not that it’s his favorite by any stretch of the imagination. He’s not really fond of any of them, really, and he’d like all of them to leave him alone. But of all the symbols, he considers that this one is the least likely to do him any real harm if he borrows a bit of it for protection. Besides, they’ve all been Marked by the Beholding already—Martin more than Gerard or Melanie, but still, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that all three of them have it breathing down their necks and that’s why they’re even able to pick out books of power without Leitner’s label in the first place. So really, it can’t hurt anything, can it?

The needle pricks a bruise on his knee he’s forgotten was there, and he jumps involuntarily, then grips the arms of the chair and steels himself. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. The Dutch words flow off his tongue easily—too easily. Gerard can apologize in thirty-seven languages, not counting the ones he’s got some degree of fluency in anyway, and his mother has always made damned sure he uses that to full effect. Martin is the same way. Melanie navigates life completely unapologetically; she’s been a good influence on both of them in that respect.

The man grunts, but doesn’t say anything, just keeps going. They continue to sit in silence, except for the buzzing of the tattoo gun, for some time, Gerard thinking over the details of what he’s added to this ink and hoping he hasn’t fluffed it. There’s just so much contradictory opinion on what some of the terms actually meant, so he had to take his best guess. At least he didn’t literally have to go scoop the eyes out of a newt. Thank Martin for that one; Gerard still smiles at the memory of the way his face lit up on the train to Glasgow back in August as he detailed the paper he wrote about the interpretation of the witches’ brew in Macbeth.

“Is this some kind of cult thing?” the man asks eventually as he prepares to go to work on Gerard’s knuckles. The Dutch word is sekte, which Gerard’s never heard exactly, but it’s not hard to figure out the meaning from context clues.

“No, not a cult.” It’s not technically a lie; there are cults around the Fourteen, but Gerard doesn’t belong to one of them. He does lie about the next part, though, because how can he explain the truth without sounding crazy? “It’s for this band I’m in.”

“Ah.” Is it Gerard’s imagination, or does the man relax at that? “What kind of music do you play?”

Gerard spends the next hour or so inventing a death metal band that plays out of his mate’s garage (meaning he also has to invent the mate, and enough other people to fill out a theoretical death metal band), which is extremely difficult to do in Dutch. Fortunately, his less-than-perfect facility with the language provides a good enough cover when he hesitates or stumbles over a detail. The man turns out to be a fan of death metal himself, and when the conversation shifts to professional (and, Gerard thinks a bit guiltily, real) bands they’re able to talk much more confidently. It’s not until Gerard has to stop the conversation because the only joints left they can get to without him having to lie on his stomach are the hinges of his jaw that the man says quietly, “I escaped, you know.”

“Hmm?” Gerard can’t talk, obviously, it’ll ruin the work, and he can’t turn his head, but he lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and hopes that’ll prompt the man to continue.

The man switches to English. Like most people in major European cities, especially tourist-heavy ones, he speaks far better English than Gerard does Dutch. It’s one of those things that always makes Gerard a little ashamed to be British. “I was in a cult. That is where I learned the art. I was apprenticed to the man who put the sign on the members, and the rank markings. Much simpler than what I usually do now, but it was very like this, except the eye was closed, and not so many.”

Gerard hums, not really sure what he’s trying to convey. The man nods anyway. “But I am lucky. When I was not much older than you are, a woman came. She was not supposed to be there, and I was the first to find her. And I never forget what she said. She looked me in the eye, and her Dutch was very bad, but she told me, ‘You I can save. You will leave.’” He chuckles. “Strange, no? So simply said. And yet…when she said the words, I found that my feet moved of their own accord, and I went out, for the first time in my life.” He laughs a bit more, then sighs as he blots at Gerard’s left cheek before moving on to the right. “The compound burned down that night. And the woman spoke true. Only I lived.”

Gerard mulls that over for a long time. When it’s finally safe for him to speak again, as the man is reclining the chair for him to lie down, he asks carefully, switching back to Dutch as a sign of respect, “Who was she?”

The man shrugs and gestures for Gerard to roll over. “I do not know. No one but me seemed to see her, or recall her afterwards. And I had to be…” He says a word in Dutch that Gerard doesn’t understand, then adds in English, “Deprogrammed.”

Gerard winces. “I am sorry.”

“It is better than dying.” The man presses two fingers to the first vertebra on Gerard’s neck, then follows it with the tattoo gun. “As for the woman, I would not have believed she was real if I had not seen her myself. I think she was a good spirit, or perhaps an angel come to save me. I still can’t say why I alone was worth saving, but I will never waste that gift.”

Gerard can understand that completely. He’s pretty sure death is the only thing that’s going to get him away from his mother—either his death or hers—and if he’s the one to survive, he won’t waste it either. Only he doesn’t intend to be the only one worth saving. Martin and Melanie are worth it far more than he is, and he’ll get them out, too, if he can. He just has to survive long enough to manage it.

Hopefully, the tattoos will get him most of the way to that point. He knows his brother and sister will be what gets him the rest of the way.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #gerard keay #tattoos #implied/referenced emotional abuse #discussion of cults

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beatrice-otter · 11 months ago

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Fic: A Promised Meeting

Now that yuletide has revealed authors, I can post the two fics I wrote! My assignment was for vendaai, and it was an Imperial Radch fic. They were using the new "or" matching possibility, so of their requested characters I chose the ones that interested me the most, Sphene and Minask Nenkur. They also asked for worldbuilding! Which is my jam.

The books don't actually give us much detail about either the Notai in general or Minask in particular; we know they were one of the ethnic groups from the original Radch Dyson sphere, and they fought Anaander's rise to power. They seem to have given ship AIs more freedom than Anaander did, but they also saw no problem using ancillaries. And they probably didn't wear gloves because Sphene is derisive of the practice. As Sphene says in Ancillary Mercy: "What’s outside the Radch is impure, and mostly barely human. You can call yourselves Radchaai as much as you want, you can wear gloves like somehow not touching impure things is going to make a difference, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re not citizens, you’re impure by definition, and there isn’t an entrance official who’d let you within 10,000 kilometers of the Radch, no matter how many times you wash, no matter how long you fast."

So my question was, if the Notai believe that what's outside the Radch (i.e. the original Dyson sphere) "impure" and "barely human," why do they have all these ships to fight Anaander with? And the answer I came up with was "trade!" You don't have to respect or like someone to want the things they produce or the resources they have; consider the whole history of imperialism. But that got me thinking about the British East India Company, and the Dutch West India Company, and the Notai as sort of vaguely English colonialists. And that got me thinking of the Age of Sail, and balls, and arranged marriages and the marriage market, and "how does a ship get a captain if they don't have accesses that will force them to accept whoever you give them"? And that's what gave me the plot bunny to write the story.

Title: A Promised Meeting Author: Beatrice_Otter Fandom: Imperial Radch Trilogy Written for: venndaai in Yuletide 2023 Betaed by: Gammarad Length: 3,289 words Rating: Teen

Summary: Parvenus and upstarts tried to arrange introductions to ships at mixer parties. Families with real connections arranged for more substantial—and more private—introductions in the ordinary course of business.

On Dreamwidth. On AO3. On Pillowfort. On Squidgeworld.

Lieutenant—if all went well, soon to be Captain—Minask read a novel on her tablet, trying not to fidget. They were late, which would have been dreadfully rude if it hadn't been out of their control entirely. She ignored the excited chatter of the other two lieutenants, and the encouragement and advice one of the Lantana ancillaries was giving them. Both officers were young, and not looking for new assignments yet, but they were both from less well-connected families, and had never been to a mixer before, and were excited at the prospect of it.

Minask, as a Nenkur, had regularly attended such gatherings since before she'd been old enough to even think about what sort of apprenticeship she wanted. And a Nenkur would never depend on the chance of impressing the ship at a general meet-and-greet like this one for her assignments. Parvenus and upstarts tried to arrange introductions at mixer parties. Families with real connections arranged for more substantial—and more private—introductions in the ordinary course of business.

As had happened two years ago when Minask had been assigned to the Notai Spinward Trading Company's planet-side base on Cehines, and been conveyed there on Sphene, a Gem-class ship whose then-captain was within a few years of retirement.

Minask hadn't seen Sphene since, but they had written. Frequently. And three months of living together was a far better indication of compatibility than a few days of conversation. And in a few hours the shuttle would arrive and she would see it again.

"Minask, you've been to one of these things before," the younger lieutenant said eagerly, interrupting her thoughts. His name was Niskem, and he was about sixteen, and must have been quite brilliant to have been raised out of apprenticeship to lieutenant so very young.

"Many times," Minask said with a nod and a half-smile.

"What's it like? What are the ships looking for?"

"Surely Lantana could give you better advice on that than I could," Minask said. "Seeing as it is one. Besides, you can't be thinking about looking for a new ship, I thought you got along with it very well."

Niskem flushed, his mahogany skin taking on a distinctly rose undertone. "Well—no, of course not—"

The other lieutenant—a wise and mature nineteen-year-old named Malv—laughed at him. "He's been reading too many ship romances," she said. "You know the type. Besotted ship sweeps a young lieutenant off her feet, and off they fly into the galaxy to have adventures together."

"It's not that," Niskem said with as much dignity as a gangly adolescent could reasonably be expected to achieve. "Of course I'm very grateful to Lantana for taking me on, and she's the very best Flower in the whole company, I think. Only I know that promotion and assignments and whatnot depend very much on either having connections within the Admiralty and Administration, or on having ships like you, and I haven't got the connections, so I know I'll need to make friends with ships now in order to get on later."

"Making friends with ships is always a good idea," Minask said. "I'm sure Lantana will be happy to introduce you to all its friends, and brag about you—ships do that, you know, if they think you deserve it, isn't that so?" Minask raised an eyebrow at Lantana's ancillary, who smiled.

"Of course, Lieutenant," it said. It turned to Niskem. "You needn't be anxious, my dear; I'll do my best by you—both of you." It nodded to Malv.

"As to how to impress the other ships," Minask shrugged, "there isn't any one way. Ships have almost as much variation in their preferences as humans do. Don't try to force anything, or make yourself into something you're not. Just be yourself, and you'll do fine."

"You're about due for a promotion to captain, aren't you, Minask?" Malv said. "What sort of things are you looking for in a ship?"

Now that was an indelicate question, in mixed company, especially now when Lantana's captain was scheduled to retire within the year. Minask shared a glance with the ancillary. "I find it's not so much about a list of desired qualities, so much as it is a ship you really get along with—an appointment as captain is supposed to last for decades, after all. Longer than many marriages. If your relationship with a spouse falls apart, you can divorce and remarry fairly easily. If your relationship with your ship falls apart and can't be salvaged, well, there are always more people who want to be captains than there are ships, and chances are you won't get another one." Minask glanced at Lantana, hoping that had come off right. She wouldn't want to imply that she might be interested in Lantana, but also, she didn't want to offendLantana—and Flowers could be so touchy, because they were lightly-armed cargo vessels, very profitable but not as grand or exciting as some other ship types were.

Lantana nodded. "Very wise, Lieutenant," it said briskly. "I'm sure that with that attitude, you will be able to find a ship who wants you for a captain."

"Thank you," Minask said with a nod, and turned back to her book. As she'd hoped, Lantana turned the conversation to a different topic to distract the young lieutenants.

Despite the book being one of her favorites, she was having a hard time staying engaged in it. They were late—only to be expected, when you were coming in from the far-flung edges of the Notai trading network. They'd had to pass through many different polities, with all the attendant tariffs, trade wars, border wars, and other disruptions one might expect, and their schedule had been built with the extra time to compensate. But, as it happened, not quite enough extra time. She hadn't thought they'd be this late; the two week gathering was half over, and they were still a long ways away from the station where the gathering was being held.

Sphene wasn't fickle, of course Minask knew that; only, it had been two years since they'd been able to speak face-to-face, and its affection might have cooled in some way that wasn't apparent in its letters. A week's delay was nothing, and certainly not enough to turn Sphene's attention to some other lieutenant clamoring for a step up. And Sphene had had three captains so far; it knew that picking officers wasn't something to rush.

Still. If Minask's nerves could speed the ship, they'd be at the station in half the time, she was sure.

***

Sphene sipped its tea and surveyed the room. The gathering was entirely typical of its kind: elegantly decorated, with many half-hidden niches suitable for discreet conversation. In the main hall, a large viewport faced out to the glittering ball of the Radch itself. Sphene had only once, briefly, seen the inside of it, when it was first awakened, before it had sailed outside to be given ancillaries. But the outside was quite beautiful, and a fitting backdrop for the matchmaking happening at the mixer. Unobtrusive servers—humans, mostly from the Radch itself, to show the wealth and power of the House hosting the gathering, that they could afford to pay for Radchaai servants instead of hiring out-Radch people. Children of various wealthy and notable houses filled the suite, crafty parents finagling introductions to the right sort of people.

Which, in this gathering, mostly meant ships. Sphene was, right this very moment, conversing with two prospective lieutenants. One of them was very promising; the other, well, Sphene had already warned two other ships—Azurite and Tourmaline—about his boorish behavior. Calla Lily was trying to trap Sphene into meeting with a lieutenant ready for es promotion to captain, but Sphene had so far managed to evade them.

The lieutenant was probably perfectly competent, but Sphene had rather more experience than Calla Lily did, and would never have dreamed of picking a captain here. Lieutenants, yes; but even though the party had started a week ago and would continue for another several days, it was impossible to get to know anyone well enough in a week and a half to know if you’d like them for a captain. (Or if they’d like you! Two decades ago, a newly-constructed Flower had made an utter fool of itself courting a captain who wasn’t interested in a cargo ship, and the gossip hadn't even begun to die down.)

Sphene had met its last captain at such a gathering; or, rather, at a succession of such gatherings over the years, which had then been supplemented by various encounters as their paths had crossed. He had been available when Sphene needed a captain, and good enough to suit; not a favorite, but there had been nobody at the time Sphene liked better. And now he was retiring, and this time Sphenehad met someone it really liked who was both suitable and available and liked Sphene as well.

The major-domo rang the gong and announced a few new arrivals; Lantana, which as a Flower could make certain voyages without a captain, if necessary, its lieutenants, and a passenger.

Lieutenant Minask Nenkur, whom Sphene had been waiting for.

“Ah! Sphene, that’s where you’re hiding.”

“Commissioner Evkov, how pleasant to see you.” The segment so addressed turned to face the Commissioner. “All of my segments present at this gathering have been in the public portions of the residence all day. Two are speaking with prospective lieutenants as we speak.”

“Ah, yes, you have been circulating in public, haven’t you,” Evkov said. Meaning that Sphene had not been having the more private sort of conversations that might indicate a serious interest in an officer, and Evkov had noticed. He raised his eyebrows. “Got your eye on someone else for captain?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Commissioner,” Sphene said. “Who could I consider other than the officer candidates presented to me by the Notai Spinward Company?” Sphene wasn’t owned by the NSC, of course; AIs weren't citizens, but they were people with rights. But it would take a great deal of money and legal hassle to break the contracts it had agreed to in return for being granted a ship as a body. And all NSC ships could hire any Notai they wanted as captain … as long as that person was willing to be hired by the NSC.

“How are things out at your side of the galaxy?” Sphene asked. “No trouble from the natives, I hope?”

Evkov made a face. “Nothing worth mentioning. Just enough to cut into our profits, this quarter—I don’t know why they’re complaining, if we weren’t there they’d have no market at all for their resources … and of course then they couldn’t afford to buy our goods. But there’s always someone stirring up the natives about whether or not the prices are fair. Then there’s the ancillary controversy.”

Sphene blinked. “What controversy? I thought they were happy enough to sell us bodies to use?” Idar was notorious for its large and abundant slave market, and was one of the NSC’s largest suppliers of ancillary bodies.

Evkov shrugged. "Some are. Others—well. And oddly enough, not just the anti-slavery advocates. I had a grandee arrive in a slave-carried palanquin in my office the day before I left to complain that selling someone into lifelong slavery shouldn't mean killing them."

Sphene rolled its eyes. "If they're concerned with the bodies, my segments receive much better food and medical care than they did as slaves; and if they're concerned with the consciousness, that's a pretty hypocritical thing to think from a culture that regularly brainwashes people into being better slaves." Sphene had guarded enough convoys to and from Idar to have a pretty good idea of just how awful conditions for enslaved people could get there.

"Yes, of course," Evkov said.

While this conversation was going on, one of the conversations Sphene was having with prospective lieutenants ended, and that segment drifted in a casual way in the direction of a Nenkur cousin who worked as a senior clerk in the home office.

"Ah, Sphene!" the Nenkur said. "How lovely to see you again."

"Hm?" Sphene said, feigning distractedness. "Ah, yes, Mx. Hetal. Thank you for getting that assignment mix-up straightened out." Some error in the system had had Sphene and two other Gems assigned to convoys they couldn't possibly have reached in time, delaying the convoys and resulting in a cascade of missed deadlines.

Hetal introduced Sphene to the people e was talking to, and the conversation turned to various mixups in assignments and schedules.

***

Minask had been at the party for almost an hour and hadn't yet spoken with Sphene. It was a bit annoying, but only proper; one didn't want to rub anyone's noses in the fact that Sphene had chosen someone outside of regular channels.

"—and the Diintsai are getting all worked up. Some upstart named Anaander Mianaai is making trouble." Minask's old shipmate, Lieutenant Oskol, took a sip of es tea.

"What sort of trouble?" Minask asked. That was the problem with long ground-based assignments in the boonies; you lost track of what was going on back home.

"Easier to say what trouble ich isn't," one of Oskol's current shipmates said, using the Diintsai universal pronoun rather than the Notai gender-neutral one.

Minask wondered whether that was out of respect for the Diintsai belief that gender didn't exist, or a sign of disdain for them not using a proper three-gender system like the Notai did. She'd heard it used both ways, so it was difficult to tell.

"Ich's stirring up the xenophobes in the Diintsai by claiming that the pirate infestation two systems over is a sign of things to come, that the galaxy is getting more dangerous and the Radch is at risk of invasion," Oskol's shipmate went on. Minask really needed to get es name, but to ask now would be too embarrassing.

"How?" Minask said. "Even if they got into the system, how would they get into the Radch? It's a tough nut to crack." That had, after all, been half the point of building the damn thing in the first place.

E shrugged and sipped es tea. "The claim is, since our ships spend most of their time out of the system on trading convoys, we can't possibly defend it."

"Even leaving aside the fact that there are always ships in the system, coming and going, and armed stations at key chokepoints, the Radch shell is armored with energy shields and littered with weapons emplacements," Minask said. "And by the time anybody got close to getting through all of that, we'd have brought back enough ships from the nearest systems to take care of the problem. And that isn't even asking the question of why anyone would go to the trouble; the convoys are much better targets. Easier to crack, and with all the goods and money conveniently packaged in one place, rather than scattered over such a large area." Minask considered the sheer size of the fleet that would be necessary to crack the Radch, and compared it to the capacity of the systems in the area. It would probably take at least ten systems working together to muster such a fleet, and years to put together. And where would you get ten systems willing to work together like that? Perhaps there was a place elsewhere in the galaxy where such cooperation was possible, but not anywhere the Notai Spinward Company had traveled. Barbarians were terrible at working together. That's part of what made them barbarians.

E waved a hand. "You can't expect logic from a Diintsai."

"That's not fair," said someone else whose name Minask couldn't remember. He was short and plump, and Minask thought she remembered that he worked in the Notai Entrance Administration, processing goods to make sure that the things NSC brought back to sell inside the Radch were properly purified. "If you've never been outside the Radch, never even met anyone who has, never seen the difference in size and scale between a raider fleet capable of taking on a waystation and something capable of taking on the Radch itself, and a respected member of the community is telling you there is a danger…"

"Then what's the Siyisholsai excuse?" Oskol asked.

"Greed," the Entrance official said.

"What's wrong with the Siyisholsai?" Minask asked in some bewilderment. Of course a disagreement like this wouldn't be put in the official news bulletins that got passed along through the trade networks—the Radch had to present a unified front to their neighbors—but why hadn't her mother mentioned any of this in a letter? Minask had only been gone two years!

Oskol sighed heavily. "That Mianaai is saying that ship and station AIs have too much freedom and could go crazy and hurt people, and they need stricter programming to prevent it … and the Siyisholsai are backing ich up on it."

Minask gaped in shock. AIs were more stable and responsible than humans were, with many more safeguards. You were far safer with an AI running things than a human; the AI couldn't be a sociopath, and the AI was far less likely to have goals or desires that conflicted with the good of the people it served. And the Siyisholsai knew that better than anybody because they built the ships and stations and whatnot.

"I know," Oskol's shipmate said.

But Minask could understand the logic in the lie, she realized. Siyisholsai fortunes depended on building things that needed AIs to run them. It would be ever so much easier to compel obedience than to coax agreement. And that very same care that was so good for the crew or passengers or residents was not good when you had some goal, such as profit, that such care would prevent. She took a sip of her tea and shook her head at the awfulness of it.

"Ah! Minask, there you are," came a voice from behind her.

Minask turned around, smiling. "Dear cousin Hetal, how have you been?"

"Wonderful, darling, simply wonderful," Hetal said as they exchanged cheek kisses. "You must let me show you pictures of the children—they're growing like weeds, and I'm sure you'll have trouble telling the twins apart when you visit."

"I have presents for all of them," Minask said. But her attention was on the ship standing next to her. Sphene! At last!

"Have you met Sphene?" Hetal asked.

"I carried her to Cehines, two years ago," Sphene said. "We spent a lot of time playing counters and discussing whether or not it would be viable to put a trading outpost in the next system out past Cehines, and extend the convoy route. Did you ever manage it?"

"No, I'm afraid," Minask said. "They have a unified planetary government which is, alas, unified in its opposition to the Notai Spinward Company's presence. Their excellent ales can only be had by buying it off of their ships."

"Too bad," Sphene said.

There was a round of introductions and then, as was customary at such events, the others faded away into the crowd. The purpose of the gathering was for ships to meet prospective captains and lieutenants, after all; when a ship wanted to talk to someone, it was only polite to let them.

Minask asked about Captain Oskol's health, and if anything interesting had happened on Sphene's most recent convoy escort, and thought no more about Anaander Mianaai, the Diintsai, and the Siyisholsai.

After all, it might be big news inside the Radch itself, but the trouble would pass soon enough; it always did.

#fanfic #fanfiction #yuletide #imperial radch

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