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kcrabb88 · 2 years ago
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Fic Writer 20 Questions
Tagged by the lovely @foreverchangingfandomsao3!
1.) How many works do you have on ao3?
107
2.) What's your ao3 word count? 
1,383,112
3.) What fandoms do you write for? 
I've written for Les Mis, Phantom of the Opera, Black Sails, Captain America, Hadestown, and Star Wars.
4.) What are your top five fics by kudos?
Shoulder the Sky: My RoTS fix-it AU and the first installment in the series of the same name! Obi-Wan figures Palpatine out and gets stabbed and put on trial for his trouble. Anakin has to sort his way out of Palpatine's manipulations.
Les Hommes de la Misericorde: My first long fic in the Les Mis fandom, which is very dear to my heart! It established many long lasting friendships as well as my brand of "Valjean saves some or all of the Amis after the barricade"
Whispers From the Dead: The sequel to Shoulder the Sky, featuring undead Sith, lots of QuinObi, Obi-Wan whump, Anakin being the Jedi master he always could have been, really cute Skywalker twins, and Padme finally getting to be chancellor.
Conjuring Miracles: My OWK what-if, where Vader gets his hands on Obi-Wan at the end of episode 3.
Between the Soul and the Star: My Les Mis fic where I attempt to save ALL the Amis and put Javert through his paces :D
5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?
I like to! I don't always get to every one, but I do try and answer as often as I can, especially long comments--I like to thank people for that effort! Plus, I've made friends by talking in comments!
6.) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
I think that one goes to By Force of Friendship, my Les Mis Barricade Day fic where Enjolras watches each of his friends die one by one, until he reaches his end. I mean, blame canon for that! But still, it hurt.
7.) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
I dunno if I can pick one? I've written a lot of fix-it fics for various fandoms, although my Hadestown fix-it, As If it Might Turn Out This Time, might be the winner .
8.) Do you get hate on fics?
Hmm I got flames like everyone else back in the 'ole ff.net days, but the only hate I ever got was on my Les Mis pirate AU (long taken down and turned into my series of novels) and I wouldn't even call it hate so much as weird and aggressive.
9.) Do you write smut? If so what kind?
I do! I used to do almost entirely closed door/implied smut, but over the last few years, between my girl Raoul Phantom of the Opera AU and QuinObi fic for Star Wars, I write it a lot more! And I've really enjoyed writing it, too. Lot of character work that can happen!
10.) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
I wrote a Criminal Minds/House MD cross years and years ago, pre-Ao3!
11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I know of!
12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?
A couple of Les Mis ones, yes! Into Chinese.
13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?
Wayyyyy back in the day, pre-Ao3, but not since then.
14.) What's your all time favorite ship?
I write a lot of gen fic, but as far as romantic ships go, it's a tie between QuinObi and Raoul/Christine, both of which I'm feral over and have written the most shippy content for.
15.) What's a WIP you'd like to finish, but doubt you ever will?
Don't currently have any unfinished ones! Well, WFTD, but it's almost done and will definitely be finished.
16.) What are your writing strengths?
I think character-depth and character arcs are probably my biggest strength? It's what's most important to me as a reader, so that's where I tend to focus the most.
17.) What are your writing weaknesses?
God, blocking!!! Not even in action scenes, that I can do, but when people are just sitting in a room! Constantly have problems with that.
18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?
Sometimes I do! I've used French in Les Mis here and there.
19.) First fandom you wrote for?
Rurouni Kenshin, back when I was a tiny baby on Media Miner.
20.) Favorite fic you've ever written?
This is like picking a favorite child??? I can't pick, but I will say that I'm proud of how I've expanded my horizons and written new things in Whispers From the Dead!
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lacontroller1991 · 4 years ago
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Burnt Skies (Rick Flag x Fem!Reader)
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@h-hxgirl​
Requested by Anon: Saw this captain boomerang fanfic where he finds she's pregnant while they're on mission, I was wondering if you could maybe do something similar for Rick
Author's Note: He would be so protective of the reader fr fr, also this is gonna be angst angst angst so just beware
Warning: Death, pregnancy, language, blood, major character death, spoilers
“Hey (Y/N), you ready to go?” Rick’s voice echoed through the room before he halted, seeing you on the floor, head in the toilet.
“Yeah, give me a minute,” you replied weakly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and flushing the toilet.
“Are you sure? Are you feeling alright?” He asked, rubbing your back as you looked up at him with a small smile.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you there,” nodding his head, he walked out the door with guns strapped to his body on his tac vest. Looking at your reflection, you noticed a slight greenish tint to your face. Ignoring the wave of nausea, you made your way out of the base and to the plane. Walking up the ramp, you took a seat next to Rick who looked at you with concern in his brown eyes.
“Baby, maybe you should sit this one out. You aren’t looking too hot,” he whispered in your ear as you brushed the notion off. After all, you did have a really bad gut feeling about this mission.
“I’m here. I’m going,” you stated firmly as he looked you over one more time before shrugging his shoulders, knowing it was of no use to argue with you.
----------
The plane ride was hell. With the criminals being loud and Harley’s non stop chatter accompanying your periodic bouts of nausea, you were ready to get the hell off of the plane and right into combat.
“Alright guy, get ready to drop,” Rick shouted as the cargo door opened to reveal water beneath you. Once he gave the signal, you jumped into the cool water and began to swim your way to the mainland, waiting for the rest of the team to catch up to you. After everyone, save for the Weasel, had made it to the shore, you glanced over to your boyfriend who was laying next to Harley.
“Hey guys, it’s me. I’m the guy who called you and I brought my friends,” Blackguard shouted into the open, raising his hands while ignoring the shouts coming from the rest of the team and your boyfriend, Waller’s distant cursing ringing in your ear. Next thing you know, there was gunfire in every direction and things went to chaos. You quickly sought shelter behind a rock and shot off a few rounds into the woods, hoping to take down some of the Corto Maltese soldiers. “(Y/N), watch out,” Rick shouted at you as you turned to see what he was talking about, but it was too late before a large piece of debris from one of the trees knocked you out cold.
You woke up to machines attached to your body. Feeling the bile rise in your throat, you tried to get out of the restraints and look for a place to dump the contents of your stomach. Suddenly a pan was placed in front of you and that was all you needed to release the bile. Groaning at the light, you looked around the room and was surprised to see a cleanish room which plenty of nurses occupied.
“Ah good, you’re awake,” a voice commented as a rough hand pulled your head back, forcing you to look up at one of the generals you were tasked to take out.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” You asked, squirming your body against the bed, trying to loosen some of the restraints.
“Mi amore, we are treating you. Seems you have caught a parasite,” he replied before summoning the nurse over to you, carrying a plate of food and some juice, “you’re government must really be struggling if they’re sending pregnant women into the field,” he mentioned as your blood ran cold.
“That’s impossible,” muttering to yourself, your head went fuzzy at the concept of you being pregnant. With Rick’s kid.
“On the contrary, when we brought in your friend and you, we noticed certain things,” motioning down to your stomach only brought awareness to the fact that you were practically naked in a room full of the enemy.
“Let me go,” you pleaded, pulling your arms as much as you could.
“I think not,” he replied before nodding to one of the nurses who moved to turn on a machine and attach it to your head. Screams of agony soon left your lips, blocking out the sudden spurts of gunfire in the halls.
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Harley laughed maniacally as she gunned down multiple soldiers, enjoying the way they were dropping to the floor. She needed to get out of there. She needed to find the others. After the last one dropped to the floor, she moved toward the door before hearing a piercing scream echo down the hallway.
“Sounds like someone’s having fun,” she ran her tongue against her teeth before skipping toward the scream. Slamming open the door, she raised the guns in her hand, ready to fire, until she saw you laying on the table surrounded by nurses.
“No one messes with Flag’s girl,” she muttered to herself before unloading the magazine in the room. All of the nurses slinked to the ground, covered in a pool of their own blood. Rushing over to you, Harley unstrapped the restraints and head piece before taking out the IV and looked for your clothes.
“Where the hell are ya clothes?” She asked, searching high and low before she found a bag filled with your bloody uniform. Helping you sit up, she noted the way you looked super frail but practically glowing at the same time.
“Harley,” you whispered out to her before passing out on her shoulder. “Awww, this would be really cute if not for the circumstances,” she stated out loud to herself, peering out of the window and seeing a guy in a helmet run across the street with Flag. Wait a minute, Flag! Running out the door, she ran around the corner before stopping in front of the two men.
“Hiya guys! What’s up?”
“We’re here to save you, is (Y/N) with you?” Rick asked with hope in his voice as Harley nodded, wrapping pale fingers around his wrist and dragging him back inside and through the pile of bodies she had claimed. At the sight of you, Rick ran to your side and hugged your limp body.
“What’s wrong with her?” He asked, fighting the tears that were beginning to surface.
“Don’t worry puddin’, she’s just asleep,” shrugging her shoulders, she left the room as you stirred, fluttering your eyes open.
“Rick?” You questioned as he rapidly nodded his head, placing kisses all along your face.
“Thank God you’re ok. I thought I lost you.”
“Rick, the doctors found something,” memories of the conversation you had moments ago replayed in your brain. You’re pregnant.
“I’m pregnant,” you whispered, mind still not comprehending the fact that you were pregnant. After all, you had been infertile most of your life. Avoiding his gaze, you waited for his response.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to be a dad,” he whispered, causing your head to snap up and see a smile play against his face.
“You want this? I don’t know if it’ll carry to term. You know that I’m infertile.” Placing his lips against yours, he pulled you into his arms, hugging you as close as he could to his body. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you kissed back before a throat clearing interrupted you.
“This is sweet and all, but we have a fucking monster to kill,” DuBois stated as you looked up at Rick who smiled.
“Stay here, I’ll come back and get you.”
“I’m not leaving your side,” you replied as he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
“You’re pregnant. No way in living hell am I gonna allow you to do this. You’ll stay here and that’s an order,” you and he both hated when he had to pull his rank, but you realized it was necessary in cases like this.
“Just come back to me,” pulling his lips down against yours for what feels like the last time, you encoded this moment into your brain, remembering the way he tasted.
“For you? Always.”
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He should’ve known you were going to follow them into Jotunheim. Not only were you stubborn, but you still had that nagging feeling that something was going to happen. Sneaking past the military, you found a window and busted it open with your elbow before entering the building. Landing with a soft thud, you looked around the room and noticed Peacemaker going down a dark tunnel. Running after him, you made sure to stay hidden by the numerous pillars. Peering around the corner, you saw Ratcatcher standing next to Rick, however Peacemaker was pointing a gun at Rick.
“Nobody is saying what they did was right,” Peacemaker stated, hand unwavering.
“They experimented on children!” Rick yelled as more explosions went off in the distance.
“That information gets out and it causes an international incident. Keeping the peace is worth any price, including the life of a hero like yours, sir, so please. Don’t make me do this,” your stomach churned. You knew that Captain America wannabe was no good, and now your love might just pay the price. Suddenly, rocks collapsed all around you, obscuring your view of Rick and Peacemaker.
“No,” you whispered to yourself, picking up rocks and trying to make a hole for you to get your body through. Your efforts became faster the more you heard the two men grunting. After successfully digging a hole big enough for you, you crawled through as you heard something like porcelain shatter and choking.
“You mother fucker,” Rick stated through gritted teeth as you watched in slow motion, Peacemaker’s hand grasping a large shard.
“Rick!” You shouted out before tackling him off Christopher’s body, not getting out of the way soon enough as Peacemaker lodged the porcelain into your lower abdomen. “No!” Rick shouted as Peacemaker threw you off. In the distance somewhere, you heard a gun go off before hands wrapped around your body. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)?” Rick called to you but you couldn’t hear him, your mind venturing off.
----------
The sun lit your face through the blinds, dancing in your eyes and creating a multitude of hues, a warm body pressed against you.
“Morning sweetheart,” voice deep from slumber, Rick rubbed his eyes as he let out a yawn. Stretching in bed before your 5 year old daughter came running into the room.
“Mommy, daddy. It’s Christmas!” She squealed excitedly, waking up the baby that was next door.
“Yeah it is baby, you excited for your presents?” You asked as she rapidly nodded while Rick slid out of the bed.
“I’ll go grab little Digger,” he commented, kissing your forehead and your daughter’s head. Getting up, you went to grab a coffee before the doorbell rang. Moving to open it, you saw Harley’s painted face waiting for you with Nanaue, Cleo, Robert and Abner carrying presents.
“Merry Christmas dollface,” she exclaimed, pulling you in for a hug before running off to see her god daughter.
“Come in guys,” you motioned for them to enter as Rick rounded the corner, your 10 month old in his arms.
“So this is the little guy, huh?” Cleo asked as Sebastian waved a hand at the newborn, earning giggles from the baby.
“Yep, Digger Anthony Flag, meet your family,” Rick lifted up the baby’s arm, making him wave to everyone.
“I’m proud of you guys,” Robert commented, slapping a hand on Rick’s back as everyone shuffled into the living room, Nanaue taking up most of the space.
“Thanks man, it wouldn't have happened without you.”
“Alright, everyone ready for presents?” You asked the room with Harley by your side, Harleen in her arms. Rick placed Digger in Cleo’s arms before walking up to you and bringing you into his side.
“I love you, Mrs. Flag.”
“And I you, Mr. Flag.”
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Groaning, you felt an excruciating pain in your abdomen and a feeling of loss?
“(Y/N), baby, you’re awake,” his tired voice resonated in your ear as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, his hand not leaving yours.
“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” you commented as he sniffled, trying to suppress the tears that threatened to escape.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he noted, petting your hair and placing another kiss on your forehead.
“And leave our kid without a father? I don’t think...”, realization dawned on you at that moment. The sudden feeling of loss and the pain in that general area washed over you as you began crying. “Oh God, the baby is gone, isn’t it?” You asked through tears as he let a couple slip down his face, nodding and trying to smile through the pain. Choking back a sob, you turned your face away from him as tears continued to fall.
“Hey, look at me,” he whispered, squeezing your hand. Shaking your head, you refused to meet his hazel eyes, “(Y/N), look at me.” Turning your head, your eyes locked onto his as he continued to smooth down your hair.
“We’re alive. We’re both alive. That’s all that matters,” he replied, crawling into the hospital bed with you and pulling you against his chest as you cried into his shirt.
“What if I never get pregnant again?”
“We will. I’ll make sure of it. I’m done with the fucking task force. Waller can find someone else to puppet. But I’m done. You’re done. We’re gonna get married and have a nice house. I’ll get a new job and we’ll figure it out. I promise.” Kissing the top of your head, he wrapped his arms around you as you calmed down.
“I love you,” you whispered against his chest as he hugged you closer.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
Author’s Note: Well this was way longer than I intended it to be. But hope you enjoy!!
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pastafossa · 3 years ago
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Hey, Pasta! I have a sorta-dumb question, so feel free to ignore it. Soooo, I write fanfic-OC inserts a lot (Daredevil, TFAWS, Shadow and Bone, Daughter of Smoke and Bone), and I used to write the chapters - really more like oneshots - in a Gdoc and webshare it on Twitter because I hate plot and there was no need for any of that fancy fanfic page stuff. However, now that I'm on Tumblr, I have been told that the Gdoc method is insecure and troublesome (true) and that I should, if I may quote my sister, "Just post it in AO3 if you're gonna write so much."
I have the common writer's anxiety, so I've never been comfortable with sharing my work in such a public manner, but I decided that I may just make an AO3 account. But! I wanted the opinion of 1) a seasoned AO3er and 2) a writer I like and admire, so my question for you is: Is AO3 a site that you'd recommend/do you feel like there's a good community over there? Tysm!
This isn't a dumb question at all, and I totally get the anxiety to post in a more public way (and also thank you so much!)! So I've been on AO3 for about seven years now between my Pasta account and my old account. Before that I was a kid posting my first fics on ffn, I tried LiveJournal at one point, and I've obviously posted on tumblr, so I've tried a faaaairly wide variety of fic sites save for something like wattpad. And I have to say, even with its hiccups, AO3 is hands down my favorite fic site to write on, my favorite site to read on, and - imo - the best fic site out there for posting.
The tagging system is unmatched once you get the hang of it, and it makes it so, so gd easy for readers to find your fic based on whatever niche tropes or tags they might be looking for.
The way you can group fics together in a series is incredibly convenient.
They work hard to protect your fics and fic culture, defending it both from larger corporate entities and from puritans who believe fic shouldn’t exist - your content won’t every be swept away overnight like in the ffn purges of 2007 and 2012.
If your fic is plagiarized, they work fast. It took me less than 2 days to get a response from their team when dealing with the plagiarist last week.
No advertising, so not only are they not bound to rules by said advertisers, but your readers are free to read fic uninterrupted by ads (as always, consider donating if you can since they run on donations and are composed largely of volunteers!).
As the number 1 fic site, people will usually search for fics here first, so if you’re looking for readers or a community, this is the place to go.
As a writer, if you’re worried about troll comments, you can set each fic’s comment section to only registered users (so no guest comments). This weeds out the vast majority of trolls since most don’t want to go to the effort of making an account and waiting to get in. You will still sometimes get people willing to do that, or who’ll still go at you with their actual accounts, but I’ve found far less of an issue on AO3 than elsewhere - you can even set it, in that case, to ‘no comments’ or report the comments to AO3.
In my personal experience, the community is far friendlier on AO3 than on other fic posting sites. Probably 95% of my interactions and the reactions I see in other comment sections are positive, and the 5% is broken down 50/50 between either unintentional rudeness or actual trolls, which is manageable.
A few cons, in the interest of full disclosure, although ultimately I feel these are worth it for such a good site:
The site is mostly staffed by volunteers, and while they do their best, functionality updates can take considerable time. We only recently got a block button (preventing certain users from interacting on your fic), for example, and a mute button (so you no longer see fics from certain users) is still a ways off.
Comments are rare. I know there’s a ton of comments on TRT, and I am incredibly grateful for it and for the way it slides into comments on my other fics, but outside of big fics like that, interaction is a lot lower and it’s just something to know going in (although if you’re going from twitter into a fairly popular ship and/or large fandom, you might get way more interactions than from posting on twitter, so it’s all relative!). This is something I’ve found on most sites, and it’s the exact same way on AO3. Your hits will be highest, followed by kudos, and then comments. Generally speaking on oneshots, a 10% kudos to hits ratio early on (before repeat readers begin to push hits higher, since you can only kudos once but add a hit multiple times) is considered quite good. Lower that further for comments. After a bit, stop tracking the ratio because ultimately it’ll become meaningless, especially for chaptered fics where folks come back to read new chapters.
If you’re writing in google docs and try to copy+paste that into AO3′s form as is, you will learn very quickly that ao3 hates google doc formatting. You’ll get weird spaces where they don’t belong (especially if you use italics), the spacing will get fucked, all sorts of hiccups. I use the method from this tumblr post as a workaround. It’s a few extra steps but it’ll help you loads.
Speaking of: using their form to submit a fic definitely takes some getting used to. It’s a bit clunky I’m told, compared to other sites, but stick with it. My biggest advice here is, after pasting your fic in, do not post it yet. Use the preview function to see just how all the formatting is going to turn out. I’ve often found that it looks fine until I preview, and only then do formatting issues show up, which I can then fix. Again, extra work, but worth it for the pros listed above.
Honestly those are the only cons I can think of, and all of them are generally things you can either work around or adjust to as a writer posting there. They’re also absolutely worth it for such a good site, imo, and it’s the best I’ve found out of all of them. I have zero regrets posting on AO3 instead of another site. And I think you’ll come to love it, too, if you decide to join up!
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juleswolverton-hyde · 4 years ago
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Not by the Moon | 08
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Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU
Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader
Warnings: Mild swearing, eating disorder (personal experience, don’t be a bloody twat), heavy(?) angst, Werewolf!Jaebeom trying to be a normal boyfriend
Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.
Unchanging.
None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.
And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.
That is when Time truly started ticking.
Author’s Note: This chapter is from Y/N’s POV.
I am seeing a trend starting to develop where every chapter turns into a behemoth that makes me not want to edit it at all. Nevertheless, I pulled through on this one despite being in the middle of a 32-hour work week and being absolutely exhausted.
Summer holidays, you said? I only see extra shifts and little me-time nor writing time and inspiration. That said, though, be prepared for some heavy worldbuilding because the plot thickens.
Also, and this has been edited in the previous chapter, a new special someone makes his debut in this chapter. Is this also a hint about whose story is next?
Who knows?
I don’t know.
Previous Chapter / Next chapter
Masterlist
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“Jaebeom? Jay!” I nudge the big man’s shoulder to signal for him to step aside so I can turn the stove off before the burned pancake catches fire. “That’s the third one in a row.”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly. “I- I have a... I can’t focus.”
“Is it because of this morning?” If so, then that makes two of us. However, I tried to forget as best I could by working with timed productivity sprints instead of writing the article on Bruges in one go. It worked fairly well until lunch time came around.
That’s when I, too, couldn’t escape the claw mark.
The image of it flashes before my eyes once more, joining my thoughts with his if his blank look is anything to go by.
How did it get there? What did you do?
“Yeah. Morning. I... I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, this should be a nice evening. A cozy night in. You deserve my attention, for me to,” his breath tapers as he finishes the sentence, “be here.”
The quiver in his lips makes the roof of my mouth dry up and my mind empty save for gut-stirring concern, unable to think of a proper response. Nevertheless, I look for words to say what seems best. Like I did this morning when I went to get his medication. “How about I take it from here and bake the pancakes? You already made the batter and I can’t let you do all the work.”
“I like cooking for you.”
“I know you do, but it’s fine. Really,” I gesture at the couch by the living room window, which provides a glimpse of the small balcony, “sit down. I’ll call you once dinner’s ready.”
“Y/N,” he reaches out for my hand yet only dares to hold my fingertips, “I’m sorry I can’t be more.”
The crack in his voice breaks my heart. But its the vulnerability written across his normally stoic face which tears me apart at the seams. Whatever he means, it’s nothing to do with this morning. Rather, it’s about him as a person, the wonderful man he is. 
Throat blocked by something I can’t swallow, I scan his attitude for any hint about what he truly means. “What’re you on about?”
Let’s just forget about it for a little while and be a normal couple. I promise I won’t run away despite what happened.
Unfortunately, Jaebeom dismisses the question to make a point I wish he didn’t. “We both know what’s ahead. But, sometimes it’s as if you’re avoiding the inevitable.”
I let out a deep sigh, caught red-handed. “I’m not, because I know or, rather, can guess where this is going. I just don’t know how to respond at times. And I don’t want you to feel bad so I try to keep the mood high as best I can. To, well, keep us both happy.”
“Is your avoidance of food also part of that?” he asks, carefully formulating the question while keeping a close eye on any change in my demeanour.
“Yes.”
“I hate it when you don’t eat.”
“I know, but if you knew the reasons behind it, you’d understand why it’s difficult for me. Although, I want you to know that I’m trying to keep my promise to you and eat when you tell me to.” I cup his cheek, lovingly swiping my thumb to and fro over the tanned skin. “It’s really hard to escape your determination. You’re very insistent on things.”
“Too much?” Eyes dim and glistening with withheld tears, he nuzzles my palm.
“Sometimes.” I kiss the tip of his nose and smile, a sign of happiness that’s only half a lie. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Now, let me be a proper girlfriend and cook for you.”
Regardless of the wonderful sight of Jaebeom wearing an apron and being absorbed in his element in the kitchen, it’s equally as wonderful to have something to eat tonight. Secretly, I would rather have made a healthier and less calorie-rich dish, but we both need a bit of a reprieve from last night. Thus, for the sake of us both, I’ve decided to let go of my rules for a little while.
To enjoy something sweet.
As wholesome as the sight of the wolf man seated on the couch, knees pulled up with round gold-rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose as he reads the novel he apparently borrowed from my bookshelves. I should write a little note on the title page and give it to him as a present so he’ll have one of my books like I have his.
They’ll be on his shelves for as long as we’re here.
Be there even after he’s gone.
Then they will return to me yet still be his.
He will still be with me.
The pages filled with his love.
It’s everything that will be left of him.
His legacy.
His remains.
The thought leaving me filled with bittersweet affection, I cut the fruit to put on top of the pancakes while gradually using up all the batter. Were it not for the move to the cottage at the end of the month, I could easily be content here if he’d ask me to move in. Wherever we are, evenings like these might become a common occurrence, a splendid reward at the end of a long day at the office.
They could turn any place into our home.
The long road of the lone wolf would finally come to an end.
Because as long as he’s there, I’m home.
“Mind your head.�� Despite the warning, Jaebeom nevertheless puts a hand on my head while he opens the cupboard above to grab two plates.
“I was just about to say dinner’s ready.” I let out a breathless laugh, hardly hiding the sobs at the thought of one day having to live without his touch. “Talk about timing.”
For a second, a curious expression treks across his face. It passes by too fast to properly describe it, but it seemed to be triggered by the meaningless remark about his return to the kitchen.
When a dangerously short and sharp breath escapes me, he swallows it with a kiss. Perhaps it’s the sorrow of knowing a storm lies on the horizon that makes me delusional, but a soft whine rises in his throat each time he kisses a stray tear away as he peppers my face in small pecks. 
Satisfied he has taken the sadness more or less away, the corners of his mouth curl into a lop-sided smile as if nothing happened. Notwithstanding, it isn’t hard to figure the blissful ignorance is merely feigned. “Right. Timing.”
Our gazes lock and neither of us says a word until he perks up and motions for me to step back. “Fork and knife.”
Discombobulated by the shared confusion, I indeed set a step backwards so he can open the drawer. In the meanwhile, as Jay sets the dinnerware down, I put the final pancake on the stack and set it down in the middle of the table. 
Chest puffed out, I clap my hands. “Dig in.”
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Like yesterday, Jaebeom insists on doing the dishes while I settle down for the night. However, whereas I gladly did before, I now do with an uneasy mind. Arms wrapped around my knees, my thoughts run down a familiar dark path.
I ate too much. Maybe I should go home and do a workout. Then again, I really don’t want to even though I have to.
“Y/N?” The faint though surprising mention of my name breaks the imaginary stones weighing down my shoulders. I snap my head to the side, almost headbutting the wolf man who has appeared at my side. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Lips pulled into a wistful smile, I scratch him under the chin in hopes of distracting him to the degree he won’t be able to ask further questions. “I’m tired, that's all.”
Unfortunately, Jaebeom is like a guardian who somehow notices a lot despite his absent-minded demeanour. Henceforth, the topic is all but abandoned. 
Without warning, and as effortless as if he were picking up a book, he lifts me up from the couch to hold me in his arms. Instinctively, I clutch his loose black shirt to have a grip of something in case I fall. It’s an ungrounded fear since his arms are sturdy, but it’s comforting nonetheless to have something to hold on to.
My haphazard action elicits a low chuckle that makes my heart skip a beat, although it almost thumps out of my chest again as he rests his forehead against mine. “Let’s go to bed.”
“It’s only eight o’clock,” I sputter, chest tight and no breath sufficient enough to lift the sensation. “Besides, I- I don’t have any fresh change of clothes or toiletries or a pyjama.”
Did he turn the central heating up?
“Doesn’t matter. Can borrow. You. No, that’s not right. You… you can. You can borrow clothes from me. Also, I think I have a spare toothbrush somewhere around here.”
“Jay,’’ As best I can, I try to keep my tone steady though the words come out too fast and uneven regardless, ‘’I think I should go home.” 
If I don’t and I won’t get in some more exercise, I’ll gain weight and slowly go back to how I was.
And I’ll lose him.
Back to square one.
Loveless.
Despite the effort, I can’t prevent the crack in my voice as I weakly tug at his shirt. ‘’Let me go.’’
“No.’’ The gentle kindness has malformed into rough sternness, translated in a sound similar to a growl. ‘’You need to calm down.”
“I am calm!” I retort, more ferocious and sharper than intended though the equal harshness might help to drive the point home.
For a split second, he snarls and bares his teeth. Simultaneously, a flicker of a second personality passes across his mismatched eyes.
The calm ocean warps into a watery grave with high waves on a stormy night.
The hazelnut cracks to set that which it contains free.
His lashes abruptly flutter shut, as he lets out a pained gasp. Beneath my fingertips, his chest caves as if an imaginary fist has dealt him a blow in the guts.
And in mine as well.
Rippling flesh.
There’s… there’s no… Jay, what is happening to you?
I hold on tighter to the fabric, hyperventilating while trying to refrain from bursting out in tears.
There has to be something I can do! But what? What do I do? How can I make this stop?
How do I get you back?
Withal, shivering lips parted to beg for guidance, are interrupted by a shake of the head hanging low. Slowly, Jaebeom looks up, a light layer of sweat on his skin. Our gazes lock, but whereas the wolf man’s was filled with savage chaos, it’s now returned to the stern tranquility it held before the attack. Nonetheless, an uncomprehending whimper betrays the fact that whatever happened wasn’t experienced consciously.
The rage was beyond him.
Outside him.
Another’s.
Still breathless, he scoffs, the sound gruff and overtly disagreeing. “Let’s watch the moon and stars.”
There is no chance to ask any questions about the swift changes in demeanour since he promptly moves to the hallway and up the stairs towards his bedroom. The bedframe of the two-person bed also functions as a bookshelf which takes up the entire right wall, the shelves stacked with second-hand paperbacks in various conditions. An empty picture frame is placed on his side of the bed, a pair of glasses next to it.
Jaebeom puts me down on the navy wool blanket on the edge of the bed and leans in to steal a kiss, which is easy to do considering I’m too shaken to offer any protest. Nor do I feel the comfort of his lips. “Take your clothes off. I’ll go find you pyjamas.”
A tad reluctant, mind occupied by guilt and terror, I start to undress as he rummages through the wardrobe on the other end of the room.
Left only in my underwear, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Although he’s seen me naked once, I still wrap my arms around myself to hide my body. A shield to protect a fragile ego housed in equally as vulnerable body flesh.
Afraid of what might happen when those ripples grow out of control.
Terrified of who he will become.
Of who he is.
“Don’t.” Jaebeom turns around with a black hoodie and grey sweatpants in his hands, eyebrows drawn together. He closes the drawer, throws the clothes on the bed, kneels, and firmly yet gently grabs my wrists to break the walls I put up. And I let him. “Don’t hide from me.”
Not understanding where the shame originates from, he grows still as he scrutinizes my face for clues. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Instead of giving an answer, I change into the makeshift pyjamas. The hoodie is oversized yet comfortably baggy while the sweatpants hang disconcertingly low on my hips. Fortunately, any skin it reveals is covered up by the top.
Continuing to avoid his gaze without saying a word, I crawl under the sheets. Face turned to the window, I pull up the blanket he drapes over me and bury my nose in it.
A wild forest and cologne with a musty hint of pages.
It’s undeniably him.
I don’t know what else to do or say. So, I let the silence speak for itself.
A language he is fluent in too despite his oftentimes loud demeanour.
The mattress dips under his weight when he lies down and rearranges the sheets to cover us both. An arm wrapped around my waist and legs tangled, Jaebeom pulls me flush against him, his chest warm against my back.
A sob rises in my throat when I feel his lips place a kiss on my crown with a sigh of contentment.
I don’t deserve this.
Us.
Him.
The fear of losing him to whatever is happening inside.
Then again, Life isn’t fair. It deals everyone the same awful hand and leaves it up to the player to make the best of it.
I guess we’re both dealt a crappier hand than others. That, or we play them wrong.
Can we win at all?
“Talk to me.” As loving and happy as the casual intimacy of the embrace is, as forgetful it could make me if only I’d manage to fall asleep, Jaebeom’s oddly sweet cooing keeps me awake.
Staring at the moon.
A woman as fickle as me.
And infinitely more beautiful.
Funny how I, too, am jealous of a celestial body.
In love with the heavens. 
He continues when he notices I won’t be the one to break the silence, his intonation laced by a whiny undertone like a dog wanting something yet being denied what it wants. “You know what I’m dealing with. But...” he digs his fingers deeper into my hips, the grip iron-like without being painful, “I hope this is okay to ask, but what is it with you and food?”
The encouraging squeeze in my side almost has me bursting out in tears again. There has to be a price to pay somewhere in the shadows, the overwhelming sensation of being genuinely loved and protected must turn out to be as two-sided as the silver goddess in the sky. After all, Life is bittersweet.
“It’s only fair I tell you.” Especially after how open he’s been. Besides, there’s no opportunity to avoid the topic since we’d arrive at it sooner or later. And he deserves to know. In fact, I don’t want him to forget my brokenness the moment I tell him about it.
We both want each other to remember our own missing pieces.
So I sigh, turn over and bald my hands into fists to rest against the warm skin of his bare chest. As I speak up, I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I used to be quite a fat kid, to the degree the GP advised my parents to put me on a diet. Queue high school and social pressure which led me to perhaps work out more than is healthy and left me bordering on the edge of anorexia. There are still foods I won’t eat and days I’ll worry about my calorie intake, especially on the days I don’t work out.”
I can’t help the mirthless chuckle which turns into a rueful smile. “It’s the good old cliché. Just another soul broken for the shallow enjoyment and acceptance of others.” 
Lips pulled into a stern line, the wolf man remains silent. Notwithstanding, his eyes speak volumes when I dare to look up at him, the ocean and hazelwood alight with a watery sheen. Perhaps it’s the comfort of his nearness or the familiarity of those one of a kind eyes, but he inspires a confession which I never thought I’d make. “Nevertheless, I’m getting better and it’s partially thanks to you.”
Morgan spamming me with ‘Have you eaten?’ texts and Bam making sure I finish my plate whenever we go out for food either here or abroad help a lot too. Nonetheless, it’s mostly the bookish wolf who makes me want to try.
And be a little better than before.
“What do they feel like, those days?”
“The bad ones?” Jaebeom nods. “They’re ridden with guilt and self-loathing.”
He leans in, leaving only a few centimetres of distance between our faces. His breath is warm on my skin as he bumps his nose against mine. “You’re feeling that way now.”
“I am.”
“Don’t.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re still you. Beautiful as always. And I’ll love you regardless of how you look. I like your mind, which is as weird as mine. The way you hold my hand, as if you’re afraid I’ll walk away. How you unconsciously squeeze it when you need my protection more. How you feel in my arms, soft and warm as a bunny.” He hooks his finger under my chin and tilts it upward to run his tongue over my lips and nose. “Love you. A lot.”
“I love you too.” I turn my head to nuzzle his palm, my face perfectly fitting into it.
Please, no ripples. Let us have this moment. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Let me have him, just him as he is. At least tonight.
The secure affection of the touch transforms into something else when he glides the back of his hand over my cheek and folds his fingers over my throat. Testing the waters, eyes boring into mine to stop at the slightest sign of discomfort, he slowly closes off my access to air.
It’s funny how the body and mind react to certain situations. Whereas I normally would flinch and run in the direction of safety, there is no urge to run. In fact, the tingling in my chest travels down to rekindle a familiar heat between my thighs while my adrenaline-infused system aches for the wolfish lover. Henceforth, instead of jumping up from the bed, I spread my legs so Jaebeom can comfortably nestle between them.
“Let me prove it. Let me mate you.” The calloused fingertip journeying across the collarbone to the crook of the neck sends a pleasant shiver down the spine. Another electric shock follows at the coarse prickly sensation of his moustache rubbing against my skin as his soft lips kisses and nips at it. “It will only sting a bit, I promise. Please, the mark will look pretty.”
“No biting, Jay.” Reminded of our agreement this morning and the movement beneath his skin when his emotions seem to get the better of him, I pull him against my chest. Before he can protest I scratch his jaw exactly in the way he likes it, thus subduing his great ability to argue. “Not today.”
“It’s not... hm, k- keep go- What do- Bit higher. There. Like, hm, mhm, there. But... what normal-’’ Arms wrapped around my waist again and letting out a content hum, dark lashes flutter shut. For a moment, it seems he’s fallen asleep. However, his drowsy murmurs, while growing incomprehensible, still haven’t finished. “It’s not what couples do.”
“You’re learning,” I giggle, amused by the remark which sounds like a student recalling a piece of knowledge during a test and repeating it for himself.
Without understanding the knowledge completely. “What do they do?”
Staring at the ceiling, I run my fingers through his long dark manes as I try to come up with ideas about what we can do next. “Well, you’ve already given me your clothes. We could try jewelry next, maybe a promise ring. It’s an old-fashioned idea, but people who are promised to each other wear matching rings. 
‘’What mean? Promised?’’
I say nothing of the faulty grammar of his question. After all, speaking becomes harder once exhaustion overtakes the body and mind. I have yet to find a sleeper being able to form comprehensible sentences. ‘’They’re sort of similar to engagement rings, but without the immediate implication of getting married soon.”
“Let’s get en- enga- enge-’’ Jaebeom lets out a groan, frustrated by his lack of speech. Nevertheless, it doesn’t perturb him enough to completely give up on the effort to properly pronounce the word he’s struggling with. “En. Gage. Ment. Engagement rings instead.”
I let out a breathless chuckle, amused both by his determination and the absurd proposal. “It’s definitely too early for that.”
“It’s not!” He barks, shooting up with a pinched expression on his face.   
Scratching him like before, I manage to calm him down enough to make him lie down on my chest again. Nonetheless, his discontent shines through in the gruff scoff he lets out. “It is.”
“What if...” Prompted by the idea in his mind, Jay scrambles upright to face me once more. Lips parted, the feral sharpness in his mismatched eyes is replaced by a twinkle of barely contained excitement. However, the enthusiasm dims with a shake of the head and a low self-deprecating chuckle that ignites my curiosity. At the same time, it also tugs at the strings of my heart. “No, it’s wrong of me to ask.”
“What is?”
What were you about to say? Don’t keep it to yourself. Tell me!
“Never mind.” He lies down again, nuzzling my breasts as he snuggles up into me.
Then, he slips his hand under mine to lift and compare it to his. “Cute paw.”
Fine. Keep your secrets, you big burly bastard.
“Go to sleep.” I push him off of me, earning myself a disappointed noise which resembles a yelp. “On the other side of the bed, please and thank you.”
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In the days that follow, the movement like water set astir under his skin continues to haunt my mind. In fact, it does to the extent that even the keys beneath my fingers seem to flow rather than be pushed down, causing me to flinch for the third time in a row. 
For the past hour I’ve been trying to type out the notes on an interview with a chocolatier in Bruges and compose them into a coherent article. An otherwise simple task my mind won’t allow me to complete despite the attempts to remember the good moments we had recently. The video calls right before bed, the cuddle session a few days ago when we gazed at the moon, his enthusiastic texts about and photos of new recipes Jaebeom tried. None of it prevents the likely imagined terrible from destroying our happiness.
I’m going insane. He’s a normal person. Somewhat. I was jet-lagged and therefore not thinking clearly.
That’s why I thought I felt his skin move. I was delusional.
Drunk on him.
A buzz pulls me out of my reverie, the screen of my phone lighting up with a message.
Morgan: Starving! Found a new café thanks to a friend.
Y/N: Let me guess. I have no choice but to come along.
Morgan: There wasn’t a choice to begin with :)
Y/N: Of course not. What am I talking about, eh? See you in five.
Chuckling at the woman’s classic brashness, I shake my head, pack my belongings and head to the elevators.
Outside, regardless of the November chill, it’s pleasant. The sun shines brightly and the wind blows the little bundles of fallen leaves at the roots of the birch trees lining the street into motion, scattering them over the neatly swept pavement.
Winter is around the corner. God, I hate the cold. Hopefully, there won’t be snow any time soon.
I sit down on the bench under one of the birch trees, its branches already bare. 
Autumn is truly ending now. Shame. I haven’t even had a pumpkin spice latte and cinnamon roll yet. Maybe I should ask Jay out and find a nice coffee shop where we can get them. After all, if he’s there, we can share the pastry. He’ll be happy and I won’t have to eat the whole thing. A win-win situation.
Enjoying watching the people pass by, each stranger essentially a book with a unique story that is yet not entirely different from someone else’s. Withal, the world feels colder without him, the missing part embodied in the unoccupied spot next to mine.
A delighted sigh on the right makes me snap my head around, alarmed at the notion someone has appeared out of the blue on the empty seat. 
A woman clad in a white suit and matching fur-lined coat with pale skin and brown hair glowing copper in direct light stares contentedly up at the clouds. She’s in her very early twenties, although the freckles dusting her cheekbones and rosy cheeks might simply make her look younger than she is.
For a moment, taken aback and speechless, I cannot help but blatantly gape at the otherworldly stranger.
Wow, she’s like a goddess.
A stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach as a dark thought intrudes my mind. My throat dried up, I twist my wrists, the muscles stiff beneath my fingers.
Would Jaebeom like her? If he saw her on the street, would he... would he stop and stare? Prefer her over me or even try and give it a shot by introducing himself?
“It’s a bit chillier than I’d like, but at least it’s better than rain or snow.” The woman turns to face me, her features soft. “I hope spring will come again soon, though.”
I don’t get the chance to respond because a familiar voice calls out. Not that I would be able to form a proper reply otherwise. “You’re here already?”
“I happened to be nearby,” the stranger turns away to answer as Morgan comes to a halt in front of us, a puzzled expression on her face.
“I texted you fifteen minutes ago and you said you had to clean up. I thought you’d join us later.”
“The birth and after birth went faster than I thought so here I am.”
“I’m sorry, but what is going on?” More than a little lost, I look from one to the other in hopes of being given an explanation. “I didn’t know we’d head out with the three of us.”
“Right, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Brigid.” The dark-haired woman holds out her pale hand in greeting. “I work at the hospital as an obstetrician.”
“I’m Y/N,’’ I reply, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Lass,” wonder turned to a darker version of itself yet not saying anything, Morgan shifts her attention to me, “you look famished. Come on, let’s go.”
Offering a few muttered words of agreement, I get up and sheepishly tag along with the other women. As we walk out the street and round a corner, following the signs leading to the artist district nearby the university, I’m occasionally tempted to join the conversation. However, as soon as a short silence falls, I don’t chip in, unsure how to contribute to the small talk they seem to deliberately keep up in order to avoid a topic neither is keen to discuss. Thus I walk in urban loneliness, my train of thought displaced on my face as I let the ghosts of Jaebeom’s skin freely haunt my mind.
Right before the descent into the darkness of the rabbit hole, strong long fingers wrap around my wrist and hold it in an iron grip. The slightly painful squeeze interrupts my reverie.
Jaebeom?
I snap my head to the side to find Morgan standing there, leaning in a bit and her voice low. “We’re here.”
I don’t know how I’ve managed to ignore the bustle of students looking for a free spot on one of the terraces and loud conversations accompanied by the rustle of the paper bags hailing from the shops owned by self-employed artists. It’s also miraculous that I haven’t bumped into anyone by accident.
“Oh,” is all I say, looking at the café we’ve stopped in front of.
Wolf’s is spelled out in a modern font on the sign outside and above the door. A big window provides visitors with a view of the plaza. The interior is simple yet cosy, the white furniture warmed up by oak accents and the bare walls decorated with various art pieces, centered around wolves and various flowers. By the looks of it, they were all made by a single artist who likes to experiment with style every now and then. A few plants are dotted around the place as well to add a hint of free nature to the underlying strangely forest-like aesthetic.
A tall broad-shouldered man with short curly chocolate brown hair partially covering up the scar running over his left eye, strong dark eyebrows and a big koala-like nose stands behind the counter. Both of his arms and hands are decorated with various intricately designed tattoos. Whereas Jay is muscled yet lean, the tanned barista looks like a man who knows how to fight yet is a warrior in a society without combat.
As soon as we walk in, his lifts his head and turns to us. Playful lights illuminate the milky white of his left and raven dark of his right eye. A meadow of snow, its glimmer reflecting off of the smooth feathers of a wise bird. “Hi, welcome. Brigid, long time no see.”
Nobody seems to notice it, but his female colleague, a short woman with long flowy caramel brown hair tied into a ponytail who has her back turned to us and is busy extracting a shot, cringes at the merry mention of the woman’s name. Slowly, she steals a glance at us, hazel eyes sharpening when they fall on the woman in white. Nevertheless, she remains silent and quickly returns her attention to preparing someone’s coffee.
Looks like I’m not the only one envying her.
It is wrong to hate a woman for her beauty. Nonetheless, although it’s shameful, part of me refuses to associate with Morgan’s acquaintance out of a toxic mixture of spite and jealousy.
Such is the female nightmare.  
“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Brigid muses, nodding appreciatively while inspecting the coffee shop. “You’ve got a nice thing going on here, Rome.”
“Please don’t call me that anymore. It’s Christian now. Chris or Ian for short.’’ Muscled arms crossed, he grimaces and shakes his head while looking down. Notwithstanding, the stern attitude melts into casual friendliness as a bright smile forms on his lips. ‘’But I do, don’t I? However, it’s not just me running the place. I’ve had some help.”
He turns around and motions for his colleague to come over. For a second she doesn’t move, darting glances to each of us like an alarmed cat checking for danger. Notwithstanding, though clearly tense, she warily approaches and halts at the man’s side.
Her eyes nearly pop out of her head when Christian places a hand on her shoulder. “In fact, Gráinne here still helps me out every day. She’s basically the second owner.”
“I- I’m not,” she sputters in a soft Ulster accent, fumbling with her fingers and her cheeks flushed, “I just work here some days.”
“You’re a bit more than a colleague,” her co-worker remarks, shoulders lowered and his tone holding more affection than would be the case when talking to a friend. A warm glow seems to form around him, ignited by the fondness he harbours for her.
Funny, Jaebeom wears that same expression when he’s with me.  
“I’m not.” Gráinne stiffens, each word dripping with venom as she steps away, grabs a serving tray and puts the order she was preparing before being called over on it. “Get back to work.”
Lips parted, Ian watches her as she moves past us as fast and agile like a hunting cat without any further acknowledgement of our presence. I hadn’t noticed before, but beneath her apron, she is dressed in clothes reminiscent of the Victorian era. “I know she can be harsh and isn’t easy to get along with, but I’ve never seen her act like this.”
“Och, let it pass. She has every right to be pissed with you since you put her on the spot like that,” Morgan jokes though nobody goes along with it.
She likes him yet doesn’t see it’s mutual. Should I say something? Then again, this is their business, not mine. Furthermore, why would they believe me, a stranger?
So I remain silent.
And leave this to blossom however it is meant to in Fate’s hands.
The icy glare Gráinne gives Brigid behind her back sends a chill down my spine. Evidently, she is a woman not cross paths with once angered. Withal, as the fair beauty looks over her shoulder, the other woman restores her professional composure. 
“You okay?” Christian asks as he watches her retreat into the kitchen, done serving for now.
“I’m fine,” she says thickly, the next breath hitching in her throat. Her focus shifts to the moon-shaped amethyst pendant around his neck. The ghost of a rueful smile forms on her lips, but it fades as fast as it appeared. “It’s not like I’m having a vision or something. Help them.”
She waves her hand dismissively when he doesn’t move, lips parted to say something yet at a loss for words. Notwithstanding, although I can’t see his expression clearly, it’s evident her feigned nonchalance is hurting him. “Go on.”
He clears his throat and forces himself into a rigid posture, frowning as he shifts his attention back to us. Finger hovering over the tablet functioning as a till, he stares at the display with an empty and distant gaze, which is as dull as the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “What can I get you?”
We place our order and settle down at the table by the window, neither of us offering a word of solace or dedicated to his colleague’s behaviour. 
After a while, Christian comes up to us to serve the food and beverages. As he puts the plates with our sandwiches down, he and Brigid exchange looks like siblings telepathically conversing. Whatever it is they mentally discussed, it only leaves the barista a slight bit less worried though the grave expression plaguing him remains as he returns to the counter.
An expression which must be similar to mine since it prompts Morgan to speak up regardless of having her teeth sunk into sourdough bread, looking equally as somber. “What’s on your mind, lass?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head and stir my cappuccino with the vintage silver spoon next to the porcelain cup, smiling at my own silly assumptions of what happened now four days ago. “Everything’s fine.”
“Except it’s not.” The raven-haired woman cocks an eyebrow, far from willing to dismiss my worries. “Now tell me. Or, well, us.”
“It’s something to do with your lover, isn’t it?” Brigid remarks, head tilted to the side as she assesses me while sipping at her Irish Breakfast Tea. Her features soften when she notices she has hit a sensitive snare, evidently meaning no harm.
I pull back in my seat as I take a sip of my coffee, flustered and cursing myself for being an open book. There is no way out of this conversation since the current company is like-minded in their refusal to simply let the topic pass before it has been discussed.
I swallow, put the cup on the dish again and clear my throat. Fumbling with the spoon and eyes cast on the cappuccino’s silky milk foam, I tell them of what I think happened. The story sounds strange to my own ears, like a terrible fairy tale told by a chaotic storyteller who can’t tell it in a manner that makes sense regardless of how he manipulates the plot.
Afraid of their reaction, unable to fathom the slightest bit of sympathy and empathy, I look from one to the other. Fortunately, my silence can be excused by drinking the remainder of the coffee although it’s futile since the thirst has nothing to do with bodily needs.
“Sounds familiar.” The woman in white scrunches her nose in disgust as she glares at Morgan.
“He was different,” Morgan sneers through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.
“In essence, he was similar to her lover.’’ Brigid points at me though she remains focused on my best friend, her voice dripping with venom. ‘’Or should I say, is similar?”
“Since when does it matter what he is?” Thin lips painted plum purple curl into a mirthless smile, onyx locks shaking in discontent. “How hypocritical you’ve become. Forgetful of the past.”
“A past worth forgetting. It’s never too late to change your political opinions, Morgan.”
Great, now I’m the one to open Pandora’s box. I should have kept my mouth shut, changed the topic.
Desperate for help yet knowing he cannot do anything, I look for Christian among the other customers. Expression stern and standing as rigid as a statue, he watches our table from behind the counter. It appears he, too, feels the sense of danger increasing as the conversation carries on. Notwithstanding, as becomes clear from the apologetic shake of the head when our eyes meet, he also knows his hands are tied at the moment.
We are on the same boat, waiting to see how the situation will develop.
Playthings of Chance and Fate.
“We’re not here to talk politics,’’ the woman in question answers, covering her mouth with her hands while chewing on a bite of goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, ‘’but to have lunch like civilized and amiable women. To help our friend.”
“You’re right,” Brigid concludes. Nonchalantly, she pierces a piece of egg in her salmon salad and puts its on the bread provided with it, a bread called St Michael’s Bannock according to the menu. Then, she points her fork at me. “But the best thing you can do is leave him while you still can.”
“L- Leave?” Utterly confused, I look at the woman calmly eating her lunch. “Why would I do that?”
Who is she? What’s more, who is she to tell me to leave Jaebeom after what I told her? He needs help and support, regardless of what may or may not be there beneath his skin.
Unless she is on to something I am not and judging by the current circumstances, I won’t get an answer even if I dare to ask. Henceforth, if only not to snap, I clear my throat and swallow the vile words dancing on the tip of my tongue. 
“Morgan can tell you why. All I can say is that it’s better to avoid men like your lover in the first place.” She coughs and takes a sip of tea to wash down the salad leaf stuck in her throat while the woman with hair as black as night chuckles darkly. Luckily, it is only loud enough for me to hear and Brigid is too busy preventing herself from choking.  
“Sétan-, I- I mean Seán was the one to leave me, not the other way around. And we mutually agreed to part ways in favour of our own well-being.”
“Sure you did. Totally didn’t resort to throwing plates and other pieces of furniture because he rejected you.”
Morgan growls something under her breath, glaring at the woman seated next to me. However, Brigid doesn’t seem to notice the reaction she has provoked or is indifferent to it. “Or washed clothes at the ford where he so ‘happened’ to pass by. Funny how he died soon after.”
Ford? There are quite a few in Ireland, so where and most importantly, when was this? Then again, what are these two on about? Washing clothes in a ford, people dying, politics, lovers to leave. They’re like arguing voices from ancient times.
Moreover, there is the question of Seán’s life. Is he alive or dead? One moment she speaks of him as if he’s still here, but then why would Brigid remark he’s dead?
“You shut your whoremouth, traitor!” With a loud bang, Morgan slams her fists on the table. She stands up with an expression that makes me cower in fear despite not being the target of her wrath.
Behind the counter, Christian slowly comes into motion, carefully moving with the likely intent to inconspicuously circle our table and jump in if necessary. He flinches as Gráinne places a hand on his arm, holding him hard enough for her knuckles to turn white when he tries to escape from her grip in order to prevent the worst from happening. Notwithstanding, whatever the plan was, it goes to waste since he decides to listen to what his colleague tells him. Sighing deeply, he stands down although he continues to observe us.
Gráinne follows his gaze, which seems to be directed at the brown-haired woman in white, her personal target of envy. Her wolfishly fierce expression falters, growing as bleak as the ash of a great bonfire.
This time he doesn’t see how she comes apart at the seams.
Brigid calmly finishes her tea, daps her mouth on the napkin and stands up too. “Get over your crush. There’s no future for you with him. As for you, Y/N,” eyes oddly alight with motherly affection, she turns her attention to me, “and as a piece of advice from a friend, end this relationship while you still can. There’s only heartbreak ahead.”
“Thank you, but,” a wistful smile forms on my lips regardless of the urge to give into the savage nagging inside, “I can’t leave him because I made a promise to stay.”
“I see. Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong and the flowers will bloom in spring.”
And with those final cryptic words, she leaves the café after waving at the tattooed barista.
Or so Brigid intends, but her way is cut off by his colleague. 
While clumsily taking off her apron she storms outside, clenching it hard and shivering as if she’s on the brink of tears.
“Gráinne? Gráinne!” Christian runs after his colleague, pale and eyes wide with worry as he comes to a halt in the doorway. “Where are you going? Gráinne!”
Brigid places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a consoling squeeze. After giving him an encouraging slap on the back she sets off, leaving the man standing there like a defeated soldier.
“Poor lass,” Morgan whispers as she watches the female barista pass the window. Something in her tone hints at a level of familiarity between the two.
“You know her?” I ask, frowning.
“I don’t think she remembers me.” She glances at Chris, who has retreated behind the counter. He has his head bowed, smooth black locks hiding his face from the customers. Trembling fingers entwined to conceal his distress as best as possible, he resembles a man of religion fervently praying for forgiveness. “And neither does he. I saw him and his close friend, Finn, once in the woods. No, it was his brother, Jor… was it? When he came to the island. Was that… who was that?’’
A mist clouds her ocean blue eyes, lost in thoughts far removed from this world and time. ‘’He was there. As for Gráinne, we met… somewhere. There was smoke, a burning body. It was- It was at… where? Fuck, I can’t recall. I think it was at his fu-’’ she abruptly cuts herself short to correct herself with a strange undertone in her voice, “not long after I... saw them.”
‘’Morgan, are you alright? You’re looking awfully pale.’’ 
Instead of breaking free from the spell that has taken hold of her, the reverie only seems to deepen. Rocking side to side, she clutches her arms to her chest. Her skin, although naturally pale, grows sickly like a walking corpse.
‘’I- I’m supposed to remember. I’m one of the few that do. No, he and I are the only ones left that do. I can’t forget. If I do, everyone will. I can’t… I can’t!’’
‘’Morgan!’’ I stand up from my seat to rush to her side. Rubbing her arms, I try with all my might to bring her back to reality from the depths of deliria. ‘’It’s all right, Morgan, nobody is going to forget. Please listen to me and follow my voice, use it as a guide back to me from wherever it is you are. Please, come back to me.’’
‘’May I?’’ Christian has appeared with a glass of water, which he sets on the table before crouching down at the woman’s side as well.
Gently he grabs one of her hands and holds it, talking in a voice that is surprisingly steady and soothing in spite of what happened mere moments ago. It’s rougher and more gruff, making it hard to distinguish one word from another if you are not well-acquainted with the speaker.
In fact, it belongs to a completely different person. ‘’Morgan, as long as there are people who remember, there is nothing to fear. The past has taught us that what might seem like the end isn’t necessarily truly the end. We are still here. We remember because you do and you remember because we do. You’re safe and sound. Instead, return and help me make her remember.’’
‘’Why, of everyone, did you have to fall for her?’’ Gaze blinded by her mind, Morgan reaches out to tenderly run her fingers through the barista’s hair. ‘’What makes her special?’’ 
‘’She understands.’’ A similar fog veils the misty white and dark eyes, Chris or, rather, the stranger pulled into the same realm of consciousness as my friend. ‘’She broke the chains that bound me and doesn’t allow me to slip into the shadows of what I once was.’’
‘’You’re all the same, aren’t you?’’
‘’It’s rare to find understanding and acceptance in a world naturally turned against you. So, please help me. Help me find her.’’ His voice breaks, the begging words coming out  high-pitched like a whining wolf. ‘’Help me find my reason to stay in this world and not forget nor be forgotten.’’ 
The veil lifts, the spell broken with the whimpered plea. 
Christian falls back, but manages to catch himself before his head hits the tiles. Refusing every helping hand from the customers hurrying over, he scrambles to his feet. Fortunately, he accepts the chair I offer him when his dangerous swaying almost causes him to hit his head against the wall.
‘’Are you okay?’’
‘’Yeah, I’m only dizzy.’’ The hiss he lets out flows over into a sound akin to a growl. ‘’And a splitting headache.’’
Morgan has a better return to reality, completely fine aside from a dazed mind. ‘’What happened?’’
‘’You tell me.’’ I search her face for clues, a sliver of the knowledge she is lying. However, I find none.
She is telling the truth.
‘’I… I don’t know. It’s the first time.’’ She clears her throat, brow furrowed. As if having heard a noise, she snaps her head to the side. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Drink your tea, eat a sandwich and go home early from work.”
She hands the glass of water to Christian. ‘’And you, you drink this and stay seated for at least five more minutes until the dizziness has faded. Are you nauseous?’’
‘’No. Although,’’ he dry heaves, ‘’never mind.’’
‘’Make it ten. You look as pale as a banshee.’’
‘’Speak for yourself.’’
‘’You’d make a pretty one, though,’’ Morgan muses when she returns her attention to me. ‘’Beauty makes suffering leading to death easier.’’
Apparently, her return to reality has left her as mad as a hatter so perhaps it wasn’t as good as I initially thought.
“Why on earth would you say that? Besides, what kind of comparison is that, us and a banshee?”
“One based on truth. Now,” she shoves the remainder of her goat cheese and pomegranate sandwich to me, “eat, rest up and get cracking again. We’ll be in touch and visit the new café I found yesterday later, alright?”
“Hey, not so fast. Where are you headed off to?’’
She can’t be serious. There is no way she is unaffected by what happened. 
“Attagirl,’’ Morgan says as if I promised to heed her words, ignoring what I actually said. ‘’By the way, ignore what Brigid said and stay with your man. It’s plain to see how he makes you feel.”
“It is?”
“You’re glowing and you come alive when you speak of him. It reminds me of how I was with Seán.” She starts as if awakened from a dream, but tries to hide her awkwardness behind a sheepish smile. “Well, then, take care.”
“You too.’’ The two simple words, otherwise casual, are now carefully chosen in order to not to trigger another ‘attack’.
My gut tight and skin prickling thanks to her inhuman behaviour, I watch the raven-haired woman leave. I hold my wrist, my pulse too rapid to be healthy beneath my thumb.
Like I am at death’s door.
The next morning, there’s an article in the newspaper. A man’s been found dead at the edge of the bogs near town. The cause of his demise is unknown, but there are witness accounts who said they heard a high screech late the night before. In the days that follow, their names show up one by one in funerary advertisements.
A week later, none of the witnesses are alive. Moreover, nobody has heard the screeching since, though everyone remembers the description of the sound.
It was like the howl of a banshee.
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soulmate-game · 4 years ago
Text
Okay, I’m not sure if what I was trying to say in my last post was said very well.
I completely understand the tagging situation from the First Wave with the DC fans. That’s discourse that is mostly solved and we can’t do anything about those who are forever gonna be bitter or lazy. I’m not talking about that stuff.
The stuff I want to prevent/limit is the hate that comes after our fandom deliberately. And yes, I know I can’t stop it. None of us can stop bitter, antagonistic people from being bitter and antagonistic. None of us can stop people who just want to be angry.
I’m not talking about stopping them, though.
I’m talking about what we can do to protect ourselves as creators and consumers in this fandom. As people who love and appreciate what the creations and people in this fandom have to offer. In simplistic form, I’m saying we need to learn how to shield ourselves from bullies. And there are methods we can use to make ourselves less of a target to the people who go after us, and methods to cut their attacks off short. None of these methods are fool-proof, but they will work to filter out a good majority of the shit we would otherwise be showered by, like a big umbrella against Assholery. Sure, the wind might still blow some in our face and we might splash in a puddle or two by accident, but at least we aren’t soaked.
So let me list the various things that can help you shield yourself from hate/harassment/antis who might just be out to get you.
1) leave the fandom.
The most effective, but least attractive method possible. This is limited to being a last ditch effort, if things have just gotten too hard to handle. I’m covering it first though, because we have to acknowledge that it is a viable method. If you feel trapped, hated, bullied, I’m sure all of us in this fandom would prefer you take a break and leave us for a while in the sake of your own health and safety then stay where you are miserable. This is less of a problem for us though, because mostly this option is gonna be for fandoms where the discourse and attacks are internal. Maribat is largely a peaceful and supportive/healthy environment once you’re inside our little bubble, the main discourse comes from outside in. So let’s focus on the main point of this post— how to keep our bubble from popping.
2) Make it apparent right away that you are Unapologetic.
Whenever you post content or are approached by someone about the topic of your fandom, don’t you DARE ever apologize for liking what you like or posting unproblematic content. You need to make it clear right off the bat that you are not gonna be swayed, bullied, or shamed out of your fandom. Stand with pride and make it clear, but don’t be verbose about it. A simple “Don’t like, don’t read” is classic but sometimes if you’re posting/talking during a more confrontational period of the fandom, you need to up your game to reflect that. The funny thing is, people can easily be intimidated by swearing if it isn’t directed at them or clearly antagonistic. If you’re swearing in a joking, casual or even in a manner that shows you’re not taking yourself too seriously, people will usually avoid picking fights with you. For this, my favorite lines to use on my work include;
“Don’t like, I don’t fucking care. I fell down the rabbit hole.”
“Don’t bother reading if you’re not into this, this shit bitch-slapped me and dragged me along on it’s adventure.”
“I’m addicted to this fandom, don’t bother trying to save me. If it bothers you, I don’t give a fuck. Save yourselves.”
3) Don’t approach or interact
Unless someone comes at you first, never try to persuade someone away from hating us. That just makes you a target in an empty field, for the vultures to surround and gang up on. If someone approaches you with provocative but not overly insulting or intelligent language— I.e; trying to start a fight, vague insults not always relating to the fandom itself, trying to insult your character/judgement— do not respond. Delete the message, block the account, and surround yourself with fluffy good stuff to forget the wanna-be harasser. These people are often not brave enough to outright start a fight, and want you to get defensive first so they know the weak points in your armor to exploit. Defensive statements declare your own insecurities, don’t get defensive. It gives them a way to win without having to defend themselves or feel vulnerable— it’s like exploiting type differences in Pokémon. You wait for an unfamiliar Pokémon to expose it’s type, then snipe it with the moves it’s weak to. Then, you have a near sure-fire win even with under leveled Pokémon on your team.
Don’t be a proud Infernape that gets sniped by a weak-ass level 5 Piplup. We’re strong, don’t show them the chinks in our armor.
4) Have a support network. Even if they don’t know they are your support network.
The fandom as a whole serves this purpose, and this is mostly gonna be a tactic you use when the discourse is inside the fandom, but there can be uses for this in discourse from outside the fandom as well. If someone tries to act like they like your story/art “but...” they passive aggressively state things they “would prefer” or they try to make it sound like you made stupid mistakes (a tactic to make you insecure about yourself) instead of kindly pointing out errors or offering constructive criticism (ex: “you know you put your trigger list somewhere where it’s useless right? Love your story though.)—THESE ARE ALL PROVOCATIONS. They are trying to make you insecure so that you change things about yourself, your work, or jump through hoops to try to “make it up” to them when you did nothing wrong and there are no problems to fix. Do not fall for it! Instead, politely as possible, bring the issue into a public space where you feel safe/trust the people in that space to keep the bullshit from escalating. For me, I straight up explain my reasoning for the placement of my trigger list as if I’m advertising a particularly boring but important product that I’m selling, then offer places for them to bring the issue into a discussion with others. I send them to a discoed group or right here to my tumblr, and I immediately make the issue into a big discussion (do YOU think there is anything to change? Let’s ALL talk about it) so that I am no longer isolated and easy for them to harass. They might refuse to join the discussion and further try to pressure you, but do not cave. Merely say that a public discussion has been started, and if they are actually, legitimately concerned about the way you do things then they can debate it in a public setting. This way, you have back up. 9/10 people who try to target you this way will back off and never enter the conversation you started.
5) Do not fight back.
This sounds counterintuitive, but a lot of the time once discourse gets this bad, arguing/defending/ trying to prove your point only fuels their rage more. I have found that people hate very little in this world more than they hate being wrong. And people who hate being wrong will fight to the bitter death about their opinions, no matter how invalid or hurtful they are, in the favor of their blissful ignorance. Remove yourself from harmful discussions or those that seem to be going in circles as soon as possible, and try to surround yourself in your support group. Never let people make you feel stupid, your opinions illegitimate, or your likes/dislikes invalid or evil.
6) Try to learn how to recognize bullies in disguise
It’s too much for me to try to cover here, but you need to PLEASE look into how to spot gaslighting. Tactics of gaslighting are often used to attack others and try to make them feel like their own opinions are invalid or their mindset untrustworthy. People will often approach you in the guise of friendship/support/ “I am not into this, but...” and while this is not always a red flag, we have to keep our eyes open for any signs of this person or their approach being rooted in anything other than legitimate curiosity or kindness. Not all suggestions that say they are out of concern actually ARE. Keep an eye out for warning signs, and cut off interaction once things seem like they may lead to an argument or you being in a vulnerable position if you continue interacting.
(Brief mention of s**cide and threats in the section below)
7) If all else fails, BLOCK THEM.
No hesitation, we don’t need this shit. They make a second account? Block that too. Don’t respond, only take screenshots or reblog if it is directly harmful information that can/should be documented (words that encourage suicide, threats, insults that seem a little too specific for comfort) and give the evidence to someone you trust to look out for you. A therapist, a family member, or even the authorities if you deem that necessary. Just don’t handle it alone.
We are not responsible for other people’s actions, opinions, or anger. Take the steps to protect yourself instead of trying to reconcile. Sometimes, reconciliation isn’t an option. Both parties have to be willing to reconcile, and it is clear they have nothing in mind but hurting us. So raise your shields and protect yourself and your friends, we’re not gonna lose a war to petty jerks.
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wolveria · 5 years ago
Text
Feedback Loop
Pairing: Sixty x Reader
Summary: After breaking things off with Sixty, he shows up on your doorstep and reveals a side of himself that shakes you to your core.
Prompt: For @uh-kitty-got-wet​ ‘s birthday!! Happy birthday!
Chapter Warnings: Angst, Explicit sexual content, Happy ending
Word Count: 4.4k
AO3
Tumblr media
(Screenshots from @vrtuellereality on IG)
You were working at your terminal, oblivious to the low, ever-present murmur of the bullpen when a shadow darkened your desk. Your head jerked up, and for a moment you thought it was him.
It wasn’t. It was only Connor, though the way he crookedly smiled at you was certainly different.
“Hey, Con,” you said, pulling your hands off the keyboard. “Something I can help you with?”
He sometimes went to you for questions about a case, or just to say hi and see how you were doing, but he seemed to have something different in mind.
“Not exactly.” He sat on the corner of your desk, a lot like how he did with Hank, but his expression was decidedly more mischievous. “I just wanted to tell you that you look nice today.”
“Nice?” You blinked like the bewildered creature you were.
“Very nice.”
His smile grew, and oh dear. Oh dear.
“Are you free this weekend?” He looked down at the hands clasped in his lap and paused, as if his confidence was flagging. “I mean… it’s been a while since we’ve socialized outside of work. Ever since…”
Ah, yes. Ever since The Incident everyone was too polite to talk about. You were grateful for that, because it wasn’t anyone’s business, and the sooner you moved on the better.
“Yeah, I know.” You smiled a little. “You’re right. I’ve missed you, Connor.”
Now it was Connor’s turn to fluster, his LED spinning yellow as a pink flush crept on his cheeks.
“I—yes.” He cleared his throat unnecessarily, and you half-expected him to reach up to adjust his tie. “I’ll come by your place at 8 o’clock this Friday. Is that all right?”
“Sounds perfect.” Your smile grew, and you patted his knee. “Can’t wait.”
Connor looked like he might short-circuit at the touch, but instead he peeled off your desk, gave you an awkward little smile, and hurried away at a stiff, nervous gait. You would have laughed, but that would have been unkind; Connor was doing his best, even if he was still a goofball.
You watched his retreat, and another pair of brown eyes caught your attention. They stared at you with a dark, heated intensity. You quickly turned away and returned to your work, face hot and heart thundering like a jackhammer. You couldn’t focus on your work after that, and it was just as well, because another shadow loomed over your desk. This one much more foreboding.
“What was that?” spoke a voice that sounded just like Connor’s with a tone that couldn’t have been more different.
You ignored it. Even though your heart raced and you felt like you were suffocating, you ignored it. It was the only way to make him go away. Go back to pretending you didn’t exist, something he’d become an expert in the last few weeks.
“Really?” the voice sneered. “You’re going to ignore me after so blatantly flirting with my brother—“
You jerked your chair around and glared up at the android ruining your day. Sixty leaned against your desk where Connor had been a few minutes earlier, arms crossed over his chest as he peered down his nose at you.
“That’s none of your business,” you snapped, hating how good his long legs looked, one crossed casually over the other. While Connor was still awkward in body language, Sixty had mastered it to an unfair degree. “And I wasn’t flirting.”
“Yes, you were.” He leaned forward, giving you a nice view of his throat with the top button undone. “You get this shy little smile on your face, pretending your bashful while your eyes wander to places they shouldn’t.”
You rose to your feet, turning away from him to grab your purse. You’d forgotten to take a lunch, and right now was as good a time as any. Anything to get away from the android’s scrutinizing gaze.
“Your jealousy is not my problem,” you said, but when you tried to walk past him, he blocked your path. Sixty glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and then he pushed into your space, trapping you there with his hands on either side of you against the desk.
“Jealousy? I’m simply stating the truth.” He was too close, his breath hot on your lips, his eyes dark and dangerous. “Or did you forget I know what you look like when you want to spread your legs?”
You shoved him, hard. Perhaps too hard. You didn’t mean for him to stumble back so he lost his balance and hit the ground on his ass. You didn’t even know it was possible to catch him off-guard like that, being the advanced prototype that he was.
But you had. And for a split second, his LED was solid red and his expression was hurt. It passed so quickly it could have been wishful thinking, but you didn’t wait around to find out. With every other officer in the bullpen staring after you, you quickly left the station, grimacing as you wiped at your stinging eyes.
You’d email Fowler later to let him know you weren’t feeling good and you’d be gone the rest of the day. And while you were at it, maybe you could file for a transfer.
***
The email to the captain wasn’t a total lie. You felt like absolute shit as you lay bundled up on your couch, wallowing in misery and instant noodles. It was snowing outside fairly heavily, and you didn’t plan on going anywhere. Maybe for a while. You had vacation days saved up, and it might be a good idea to disappear until you could show your face in the station. What a humiliating day.
Connor would miss you, and so would Hank, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to stick around when he was always there. You sensed his dark eyes following you, but whenever you turned to look, Sixty always had his attention elsewhere, pretending you didn’t exist.
It hurt so damn bad even though you were the one who left him. You’d been miserable, Sixty’s ego always coming before your relationship, and eventually you’d had enough. Human or android, you wouldn’t put up with that shit from anyone.
But a part of you had hoped, maybe, he would try to be better. Make an effort to get you back. Instead, he’d given you the cold shoulder and acted as if you were a stranger, only for you to swear he was watching your every move like a hawk. Today seemed to prove that theory, and it was driving you crazy. Something had to give, and you knew your sanity would break far sooner than Sixty’s love of control.
When the doorbell rang, you almost ignored it, but your phone informed you it was half past eight. Maybe it was Connor, a few days early but worried when he heard about your confrontation with his brother. You had little doubt it would be the gossip of the bullpen for hours.
That thought finally dragged you off the couch and to the front door, where you opened it and for a moment thought it was Connor.
But you knew them both well enough by now to recognize the subtle differences. His posture, while stiff and uneasy, was still fluid enough to tell you it was Sixty.
Still, his expression was definitely un-Sixty-like. Half-melted snowflakes darkened his hair, his skin glistened in the hallway lights, and the shoulders of his jacket were damp. He looked like he’d been out in the storm for a while, and since he was deviant, he was probably cold and uncomfortable.
“Before you slam the door in my face,” he began, tone weary, “there’s something I want to say.”
“What do you want?” You maintained your grip on the door, the urge to shut it in his face very strong.
He released a breath, gazed down at his shoes, and mumbled, “Can I come in?”
You stared at him for a good long moment, debated the pros and cons of letting Sixty back into your apartment.
Pros: maybe he actually had something worthwhile to say.
Cons: It was Sixty.
“Fine.” You opened the door wider, allowing him entrance. “But only for a few minutes.”
His brows lifted in surprise.
“A few minutes are all I need.” The words were arrogant but his tone wasn’t, and he almost seemed nervous as he slipped past you over the threshold. That was strange. Sixty always covered his self-doubts with displays of bravado. That was kind of his thing.
But his confidence still hadn’t returned after you shut the door and followed him to the living room. He just stood there, hands hovering as if he didn’t know what to do with them, until he finally shoved them in his pockets. Over the white dress shirt he always wore was a windbreaker you’d bought for him months ago. You’d been worried the freezing temperatures would harm his biocomponents, and he’d laughed off your concern. He’d still kept it though, and the navy fabric went very well with his tight, dark wash jeans.
It wasn’t fair.
You stood a short distance away, arms crossed over your stomach in a gesture that was more protective than it was defensive. Seeing him here, in your house, it brought back so many memories and emotions you’d managed to lock away since you kicked him out. Now it was threatening to spill out all over again, and all you wanted to do was reach out and touch him. But you didn’t.
“Well?” you said, sharper than you meant to be. “What did you want to talk about?”
Sixty stared at the ceiling as if he’d find answers there. Or maybe he just didn’t want to look at you.
“I’m not… good at this,” he finally said. “I don’t know how to choose the right words and I’m pretty sure I’m going to make shit worse. But Hank said if I didn’t stop being a jackass and come talk to you—”
You blinked and walked around him to get a better look at his face.
“Hank? You’re here because Hank told you to?”
“No! I—“ He met your eye, his expression pinched and upset. His LED was bright yellow, but you didn’t need to see it to know he was struggling. “I’m here because I…”
He turned away from you but not fast enough for you to miss the flash of red.
“Six?” you asked, softer than the tone you’d used with him lately. “What’s going on?”
Moving toward him when he didn’t answer, your hand slightly trembled as you reached out and rested your fingers on his arm.
He whirled around, grabbed you by the shoulders, and pulled you hard against his chest. You gasped, startled and frozen, but Sixty only hugged you tight, burying his face against your hair.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he choked out. “I’m sorry I’m such an asshole. I’m sorry I sabotaged our relationship. And I’m sorry I made you so miserable that you had to leave.”
You didn’t move, couldn’t even breath as Sixty continued to tremble around you, holding on as if you were a lifeline. He’d never acted this way before, emotionally vulnerable and exposed. Almost… afraid? Where was the confident, arrogant android that had broken your heart?
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said so softly you could barely hear it. “I can’t lose you. I would rather feel nothing at all, go back to being a machine. I don’t want to be alive if this is what living feels like.”
“Six…”
That was all you said, your little nickname for him. Created at first to annoy and antagonize him, until it became a pet name, and then finally a term of endearment.
“I’m not saying this… to make you feel sorry for me.”
He didn’t need to breathe, but warm puffs of air tickled your throat. It was comforting and familiar.
“I’m not going to trick and manipulate you, even though that’s what I was designed to do. I just... had to see you one last time. Tell you it wasn’t your fault. And… apologize. For all the shit I did. I thought ignoring you would make it better. Make this-this feeling go away. It didn’t. I… fucked up.”
You slowly raised your arms and wrapped them around his waist, returning the hug, wanting to touch him, be close to him again despite the warning signs. Or maybe because of them. With Sixty, they came with the territory.
And the fact was, he was hurting. You were too. The way you’d been ignoring each other was pure misery, and you’d had no idea it had negatively affected him too.
You slowly pulled away, preparing yourself to tell him that while his apology was a big step in the right direction, it would take more than words to fix the damage he’d done.
But the words died in your throat. His eyes were large and glassy, brows turned up in worry or sadness, as if he was bracing himself for your rejection. It was unbelievably raw, and you’d had no idea Sixty could even make that expression.
Like a dam breaking behind flooding waters, you surged forward, capturing his lips with yours. He made a surprised sound, red cycling out of the corner of your vision before you closed your eyes. You fisted his jacket in your hands and pulled so he was flush against you.
Sixty was many things. Arrogant, haughty, with an ego the size of CyberLife Tower. But one thing he could never do was deny you, and with the hard bulge shoved against your hip, you knew he didn’t want to.
Sixty lifted you up, never breaking the kiss as he wrapped your legs around his waist, and he carried you to your bedroom, somehow without looking where he was going. Probably used his goddamn X-ray scanners.
He followed you down onto the bed, barely letting you draw breath as he lifted off your shirt and fumbled at your pants. Your bra was already gone, having been removed in preparation for your night in, and he hungrily groaned as he kissed down your collarbone to your chest.
You ran your hands through his soft hair, ruining his immaculate style, but he didn’t even notice as he finally tugged off your pants. His hands were everywhere, running along your stomach, your hips, down your legs as he yanked them open and settled between them. He was still completely dressed and you were almost naked.
Fingers fumbling, you tugged down his jacket zipper and tried to pull it off his shoulders, but Sixty was making things difficult, slowly rolling his hips against yours, torturing you.
“Damnit, Sixty,” you cursed, gasping when he nipped at your shoulder. He dipped his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear and practically purred at what he found.
“This all for me, sweetheart?”
In lieu of responding, you moaned and thrust your pelvis against his hand, but he only chuckled and held your hip down with his other hand.
“Now, now.” He pulled his head up to smirk at you. The loose curl of hair hung across his forehead, giving him an especially devilish look. “I want to hear you say it.”
Sixty loved being in control. He got off on the sense of power, and you knew part of that had to do with the fact he’d had none at the beginning of his short life. No power, no control, no choice. Just a thing to be used and thrown away.
Well. You’d have to show him that sometimes, losing control and being under someone else’s power could be a thrilling thing.
You grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand out of your underwear, earning you a surprised, disappointed expression. You almost smiled, but that would have ruined the ruse.
Maintaining eye contact, you took his long fingers, glistening with your juices, and popped two of them into your mouth. You closed your eyes partway and groaned around his fingers, your tongue licking up your own slick from the sensitive pads of his digits.
Sixty’s pupils went fully blown, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and when his LED shifted from yellow to red, your plan had worked. He rose off the mattress where he’d been kneeling and pulled off his jacket and shirt, giving you a full view of his pale, lightly muscled torso.
Next came off the shoes and jeans, yanked off clumsy in his haste, and you might have teased him if not for the large cock that sprang out of his pants, hard and flushed.
Sixty didn’t give you time to admire it; he grabbed you by the hips and dragged you to the edge of the bed. He tugged off your underwear, rubbed the head of his cock against your opening to make sure you were wet enough, and then pushed.
Giving you no time to prepare, you arched your back and struggled to breathe, fisting the sheets as he kept going. He was thick, and long, and the people who had designed him had apparently decided he needed to be well-endowed. Whatever the reason, you were sure enjoying the fruits of their labor.
“Fuck, oh fuck, Sixty.”
He didn’t laugh or even make a snide comment. You weren’t sure if he was even breathing, his brow creased in concentration as he gripped you tight, not stopping until he was fully embedded within your slick heat.
Only then were you able to fill your lungs, and then the next breath of air was cut off as he kissed you, hungrily and deep, his tongue plunging into your mouth as his cock twitched inside you. You moaned, digging your nails into his back, not afraid you would hurt him as you dug deep and wrapped your legs around his waist.
Normally, Sixty liked to draw out the foreplay, exploring all the ways he could take you apart. But not this time. It was like he couldn’t wait, too impatient and greedy as he began to move, hips jolting against yours as he set a hard pace.
You hadn’t been touched like this in weeks, not even by your own hand, and each thrust was a burst of sparks behind your eyelids. You broke the kiss and clung to him for dear life, whimpering when his lips attached to your neck, sucking mercilessly. You were going to have bruises all over you tomorrow for everyone to see, and you loved it. You wanted Sixty to make you his, to never leave you in a cold, empty bed ever again.
You groaned his name, tried to meet his hips as he set a brutal pace, but he had your thighs trapped open as he fucked you from the edge of the bed. You were getting close but you weren’t quite there yet; Sixty must have known, because he gripped your hips and pulled them up so he could thrust even deeper.
Tears pricked in your eyes as he hit your sensitive spot over and over, driving the pressure in your pelvis to new heights. You were babbling nonsense, a mixture of his name and pleas for him to never leave again. Sixty responded with promises that he wouldn’t while peppering desperate kisses all over your face and neck.
And then he said three words he’d never said before, low and throaty and right into your ear, and you came undone with tears running down your face and a cry on your lips. The pleasure was so intense you weren’t sure when you came down from it, only that he fucked you straight through your orgasm without stopping.
You squirmed and whimpered, oversensitive, and you moaned his name again and again, not sure what you were asking for. He snapped his hips forward and choked out a groan, burying his face into your neck as he throbbed deep inside you.
Floating blissfully, you sighed and petted his hair, pressing a kiss to his red LED and watching as it slowly downgraded to yellow and finally blue. Sixty turned his head away from you as he panted, his breath too uncomfortably hot for human skin as he attempted to cool his internal components.
Without a word he got up and went to the bathroom, returning with a warm cloth. He seemed almost shy as he cleaned you up, not speaking until he was done cleaning himself up as well.
“I suppose… I should go,” he said, avoiding your eye as he went to retrieve his pants. You stopped him by grabbing his wrist.
“You’re staying right here.” You tugged him back toward the bed and pulled back the covers. He didn’t get inside, his frown unsure. “Please?”
He didn’t move, chewing the inside of his cheek, and when you feared he might actually leave Sixty slid under the covers and pulled you in close. You hummed contentedly as you leaned your cheek against his chest.
“Plus,” you said with a smirk, “we still need to talk.”
Sixty groaned.
“Ugh. Talking.”
“Yes, talking.” You poked his side. “Babbling while you dick me down, doesn’t count.”
“Sure it does. I meant everything I said during the dick-talk.”
You ignored his attempt at a joke and pulled back to look at him.
“Everything?”
Sixty looked away, pressing his lips together into a thin line, but the adorable blush on his cheeks was answer enough.
“You love me,” you said, grinning. Sixty tsked and refused to meet your eye. “You really, really love me.”
Grumbling, he turned his head into the pillow. You didn’t know his face could even turn that shade of red. You grinned and rained down kisses on his exposed neck, merciless in your revenge.
“Sixty’s in love,” you sang, your fingers finding the spot just beneath his thirium pump regulator where he was ticklish. “Sixty wants to kiss me.”
“Shut up, no I don’t.” The effect of his words were lost by the fact he whined them into the pillow, drawing his limbs up so you couldn’t reach his tickling spots.
“You love me and you want to kiss me.”
“I-no-“ His voice warbled, glitchy with embarrassment, and this time you did laugh.
You also decided to grant him a reprieve and stopped tickling him, instead flopping half on top of him, taking advantage of the fact he’d curled into a ball. You could definitely get used to a softer, bashful Sixty, a side of him no one else got to see.
“So…” He cleared his throat like the suddenly awkward android he was. “Are you still going to see Connor on Friday?”
You broke into a wide smile. Oh, this was too delicious.
“What do you mean?” you asked, drawing a circle on his chest, dangerously close to the tickling spot of his regulator. “Do you think something would happen if I did?”
He managed to keep his expression closed, but the blaring red ring was a dead giveaway. You smiled and kissed him on the cheek, laughing when he made a face.
“You really are jealous.”
“I’m not—“
“Yes, I’m going to hang out with Connor. Because he’s my friend and I adore him. But that’s all it is, Six. Connor is not your replacement.”
That was his exact fear, and you knew that, because you knew him as intimately as you knew yourself.
He took a slow, steadying breath, and his LED finally cooled to a slow blue. You buried your face in his neck, smiling at first, and then letting the full weight of everything settle on your shoulders.
“I really missed you,” you said, suddenly quite serious. “I want you to stay. Not just for tonight.”
Sixty slowly uncurled his arms and looked up at you out of the corner of his eye. Hopeful but with a hint of wariness. You understood he had abandonment issues. His baggage with Connor and Hank, the manipulation by Amanda. He was terrified of letting people get close, and he compensated by being an insufferable jerk.
It was moments like these that revealed it was all a set of armor, made to protect him from being hurt again. It was one of the things you had to show him about living: being hurt was inevitable, but so was being loved, if he was willing to let it happen.
“I missed you too,” he said softly. The crooked little smile he gave was charming but also fragile. “And… I want to come home.”
He lifted his arm so you could snuggle back against his chest, and you did, breathing in that faint, silicone scent you associated with androids. It was one that used to make you happy, and lately had just brought you pain. You didn’t want to feel like that ever again.
“It’s going to take work. Real work,” you said. “We can’t just fuck our way out of it.”
His lips formed into a grin against your temple.
“We could always try.”
“Sixty.”
“Fine. Talk first, fuck you into a crying mess after.”
You closed your eyes and sighed, trying to pass off the sudden warmth between your legs as mild annoyance. Sixty could read you even without a scanner, so there was little doubt he knew the effect he had on you.
“And no more getting jealous of Connor.”
He grumbled like a puppy having his favorite toy taken away.
“And,” you raised your voice to be heard over his pouting, “you move back in immediately.”
Sixty flipped you on to your back, hovering above you with a grin like a shark’s.
“I agree to your terms. Shall we seal the deal?”
You nodded, unsure how he planned to do that. You were not disappointed when he leaned down and pressed his lips warmly to yours, one hand on your cheek while the other crept down your hip. Sixty smirked against your mouth as he dragged the tip of his cock against your entrance.
The bastard was insatiable, but at the end of the day, he was no one’s bastard but yours.
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unexpected-nightview · 4 years ago
Text
Spoiler-ish (technically the screenwriter backtracking and trying to fix that clownery)
Okay just to keep track of everything : post by the screenwriter + pic with translation about said post + translated text (via google bc I don’t speak chinese...) + original text all under the cut.
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1)Translation 
"Hate Your Lord Is Not Like Jiang Lou Yue" Finale 37-1 At the entrance of Yuzhitang Jiang Yuelou stands on the opposite side of the street, going back and forth across the street The flow of people and the glass windows of Yu Zhitang, watching the glass After Chen Yuzhi, the corners of his mouth rose unconsciously. 37-2 Within days of Yu Zhitang Chen Yuzhi packed the things on the table, ready to hit kind. Chen Yuzhi noticed a scorching gaze, Lifting his gaze, it was Jiangyue Tower. Jiang Yuelou raised an eyebrow at him triumphantly and gave him one Bright laugh. Chen Yuzhi smiled back and took off the white The lab coat, walked towards the door. 37-3 Outside the entrance of Yuzhitang Chen Yuzhi locked the door, Jiang Yuelou crossed the street Come. Chen Yuzhi; Didn't you say that the police station was handed over in the morning? Do you have a lot of work and are you busy? Jiang Yuelou: No matter how busy you are, you have to eat. Besides, Today's special day, Lantern Festival, not with me Over? Chen Yuzhi turned around and smiled gently: OK, together Over. 37-4 Jingcheng Street Niwai Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi walked along the street, talking and laughing With. The people on both sides of the street, some are cooking, some Playing chess, some are drinking tea, and some are living and working in peace and contentment. Look like. Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi comforted and looked at each other laugh. Jiang Yuelou: Our efforts were not in vain, they Finally can live a stable life. Chen Yuzhi: Yeah, finally, everything is worth it From time to time, someone greeted the two. Passerby: Doctor Chen! Passer-by: Section Chief Jiang! Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi nodded in response with a smile. Passers-by greeted warmly: Chief Jiang, come to the house for soup Round, we made it ourselves, don't dislike it. Jiang Yuelou laughed: No, we are also going to go back do. Chen Yuzhi was stunned, and after passers-by walked away, he asked: Are you planning to do it yourself? Jiang Yuelou; otherwise? Chen Yuzhi: I thought you meant to go to the house at the door Kunton stalls, her family will cook some glutinous rice balls every day Applicable. Jiangyuelou: Do it yourself, it has a special flavor. Smile of Chen Yuzhi: Okay, listen to you. The two talked and laughed and walked. Not far ahead, A man in a rickshaw driver's clothes raised his eyes slightly The line turned out to be Zhan Junbai who escaped from the dead. Zhan Junbai raised his gaze and looked at it with hatred. From a subjective perspective, Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi are getting closer Up. Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi didn't realize it was coming Danger, chatting. Jiang Yuelou: It’s been a long time since I rode a horse. This weekend, Go for horse racing? Chen Yuzhixiao: This time, I will definitely beat you. Jiang Yuelou is full of confidence: give it a try. While they were talking, the two had already arrived in front of Zhan Junbai. Zhan Junbai suddenly held a gun and shot at Jiangyuelou. He It is the one that was given to Yutangchun and then returned The gun in his own hand. Chen Yuzhi didn't hesitate to rush to block Jiangyue Tower In front of him, the bullet shot into Chen Yuzhi's heart. Jiangyuelou Want to block the future. Jiang Yuelou's unbelievable look, hold it fast with one hand Chen Yuzhi, who was about to fall, drew his spear without hesitation and charged Zhuan Junbai shot. The people scattered and fled. Zhan Junbai was shot, his body was shocked, crazy and terrifying Smiling and falling to the ground, he looked at Jiang Yuelou proudly. He felt no physical pain, he was immersed in revenge In pleasure. A string of beads on his hand broke and fell The ground, scattered around, that is Yutangchun's hand when he was alive Beaded. Zhan Jun white grinning smile: Jiang Yuelou, what I lost, you I can't get it either. He died, more painful than your death Right? Jiang Yuelou didn't care about Zhanjun Bai, nervously Pulling off Chen Yuzhi's jacket, he saw the bullet shooting through the inside The armor is almost penetrated, severely changed Fortunately, it did not hurt the body. Jiang Yuelou is anxious and worried: how are you, where did you hurt Is it there? Chen Yuzhi patted Jiang Yuelou's hand comfortably: I didn't thing. Jiang Yuelou annoyed Chen Yu's eyes: Both of us Go back and calculate! Zhan Junbai saw that Chen Yuzhi was not injured, and he was shocked. Unbelievable look; how is this possible?! Jiang Yuelou turned and walked towards Zhan Junbai, staring at him He: I've already gotten it right, you won't let it go, from I have been waiting since the day you fled, waiting for you come back. As Jiang Yuelou said, he opened his coat, and he did it too Protection: Zhan Junbai, I am different from you, you lose Go, I will never lose. Jiang Yuelou said, glanced at Chen Yuzhi, the two were right Depending on. Zhan Junbai was defeated and looked desperate. Jiang Yuelou raised his gun again, preparing to end Zhanjun White. Zhan Junbai moved his eyes from Jiangyue Tower to Chen Yuzhi, supporting With one last breath: Dr. Chen, can Can't help me Busy? Chen Yuzhi looked at him coldly: I won't help you intercede Yes, you deserve it. Zhan Junbai; it's not this busy...cough cough... Zhan Jun white mouth and more and more blood surges in the wound Out, dyed red beads scattered on the ground, like red beans. Zhan Junbai: Help me and him, be buried together... Chen Yuzhi's accident: You didn't sink him into the crab pond? Zhan Junbai smiled: I really sink him, how can I give up Got. If you don't say this, how can you hold the following people. Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi looked at each other, Chen Yuzhibai Mixed feelings. Chen Yuzhi: Where is he buried? Zhan Junbai; Chengdong. Xinglinli. Chen Yuzhi remembered Yutangchun telling that he liked it before he was alive Xinglin in the east of the city, I want to survive the spring and be buried in Xinglin One scene. Zhan Junbai; help me, okay... Chen Yuzhi shook his head: He was tortured because of you during his lifetime. After death, I definitely don’t want to have anything with you Ge. The only pleading look in Zhan Junbai's life; please You... Dr. Chen, please... Chen Yuzhi did not hesitate, turned and walked towards Jiang Yue floor. Jiang Yuelou raised the muzzle and ended Zhan Junbai's Raw. The picture is getting darker. 37-5 Jiangyuelou's home at night The door opened, Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi came in. Jiang Yuelou's complexion is not very good, he is angry, heavy Sitting on the sofa. Chen Yuzhi was a little guilty, took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves Zi: What about making glutinous rice balls? I'll prepare them. Jiang Yuelou stared at him, did not speak, his eyes followed Chen I walked around. Chen Yuzhi looked back: Don't do it now? Jiang Yuelou got up and strode towards Chen Yuzhi: What to do What do you do, settle the account! Chen Yuzhi: I was not injured... Jiang Yuelou is angry; this is a fluke, what if?! Me The armor is prepared for you to protect yourself, not for Let you save people! Chen Yuzhi: But that's you... Jiang Yuelou is fierce: No one can do it! Besides, I'm not without it, I need you to rush out to protect me Did you know that I was almost scared to death.. Chen Yuzhi: Sorry, I was in a hurry, I forgot Up. Jiang Yuelou was stunned: Did you forget about the armor? Chen Yuzhi: It was too late to think too much... Jiang Yuelou suddenly felt very heartfelt, touched and touched. Fear, his fierce face instantly softened, and he raised his hand Gave Chen Yuzhi a deep hug. Jiang Yuelou whispered: Yu Zhi, in my life, I don't Fortunately...but how lucky it is to meet you. Chen Yuzhi responded in a low voice: Me too, Yuelou. How lucky to meet you... For a moment, Jiang Yuelou let go and pushed Chen Yuzhi towards kitchen. Chen Yuzhi: What? Jiang Yuelou: Make glutinous rice balls! 37-6 black screen subtitles: one year later 37-7 A small courtyard in a countryside day (faint) inside/outside The dusk is groggy. With the door open, you can see that Chen Keying is holding a small Play freely in the hall. In the courtyard, Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi are sitting on a stone table before. There are some dried herbs on the table, Chen Yuzhi Pulling herbs. Jiang Yuelou held a newspaper in her hand, Newspaper headlines, Jin Dacheng became director, Jing Chengtai level. Jiang Yuelou smiled, put down the newspaper, picked up the tea cup, Make tea comfortably. Jiang Yuelou took a sip of hot tea and looked at Chen Yu Zhi: Alright, it's been an afternoon, and tomorrow Chen Yuzhi laughs: a few days later is the rainy season, so you have to take advantage of the sky Okay, just dry it thoroughly. Jiang Yuelou handed a cup of hot tea: no hurry at this time and a half Engrave, take a sip of tea slowly. Chen Yuzhi raised his hand to indicate, his slender fingers were touched Herb sap stained with emerald color. Jiang Yuelou simply handed the cup over, Chen Yuzhi low Head, took a few sips of water with Jiang Yuelou's hand. Jiang Yuelou: I have found the location of the clinic, what do I need Please leave the list empty, let's go buy it together. Chen Yuzhi raised his head and looked at Jiang Yuelou, making a cunning point Laughter: Everything else is easy to say, there is only one thing, I'm afraid it is It's not easy to buy. Jiang Yuelou: What is it? Come and listen. Chen Yuzhi: The original Yuzhitang plaque is pretty good Yes, it's a pity that I forgot to bring it when I moved. Jiang Yuelou: This is easy to handle, I will solve it. Chen Yuzhi laughed: What, the engraver of Yuelou, once Is it ripe for the second time? Jiang Yuelou froze for a while, reacted, you all know Up? Chen Yuzhi: Yes. Jiang Yuelou: When did it happen? Smile of Chen Yu: Secret. Jiang Yuelou raised her eyebrows: Secret? Then don't blame me Up. Jiang Yuelou said, got up, went to the hut and dragged out A plaque, carefully wrapped in cloth, Jiangyue Tower Raise your hand, the cloth flutters, revealing Yu Zhitang below Plaque. Chen Yuzhi laughed blankly. Jiang Yuelou smiled proudly. In the distance, the setting sun, crimson and yellow cross Jiang Yuelou stared into the distance, feeling: Yu Zhi, the sun It's down. Chen Yuzhi raised his eyes and looked along the Jiangyue Tower Go, the dusk is bleak. Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yuzhi stared at each other, tacitly agreeing Laugh, all affectionate, all affection, everything is silent in. The silhouette in the sunset gradually merged. --End of the whole play- Extraordinary ending Green poplar smoke is light outside, red apricot branches spring Noisy. In the Xinglin in the east of the city, one is well repaired But there is no tomb with a stele. In front of the tombstone, put some fresh Bouquets and memorial supplies. The camera pulls up, from the feet up, Jiang Yuelou and Chen Yu 之入画. The two stood side by side in front of the tombstone, looking at jade Tang Chun's tomb is silently missed. Flashback, the scene before Zhan Junbai died. Chen Yuzhi: Where is he buried? Zhan Junbai; Chengdong. Xinglin Li.. Keke (kee Blood). I didn’t engrave the stele, in case someone knows the body Fortunately, he was troubled by me, and he couldn't be peaceful after death. The flashback is over. Chen Yuzhi: I did not agree to his request, if you You know Izumi, surely he is unwilling, right? No one answered, the wind blows the flowers. Jiang Yuelou comfortably embraced Chen Yuzhi and rubbed twice Lower the neck; if you really promise to help him be buried together, That's what insulted boss Yu. Now it's good Up. Jiang Yuelou said, let go of Chen Yuzhi, and looked back The cliff not far away. On the cliff, there is no one Lonely grave with lettering. Because of the terrain, the lone tomb can be In order to see the Xinglin and Yutangchun tombs under the mountain, and The lone tomb is always in the back of Yutangchun's tomb, no Will get a glimmer of light. Chen Yuzhi looked back, feeling complicated, sighing sound. Jiang Yuelou; gone, let's go home for the rest. The setting sun stained the branches and willows of Xinglin, Jiangyuelou, Chen Yu Zhi crosses the Xinglin side by side, and the rest of the discussion spreads from time to time Come. Chen Yuzhi: Yuelou, you said, people have an afterlife ? Jiang Yuelou took a deep look at Chen Yuzhi: I don't know Tao, but I hope there is. Chen Yuzhi laughed; even if he had, he drank Meng Po soup, Probably also met and did not know each other. Jiang Yuelou: Leave a secret sign, how about? If you meet again See, you won’t miss it. Chen Yuzhi ridiculed: Isn't that necessary for generations to come Met you guy? Jiang Yuelou jealous: Listening to these words, it seems not very willing? Chen Yuzhi: If it were you, I would be willing. Jiang Yuelou was deeply moved, and the two smiled at each other. The shadow disappeared in the depths of the apricot forest. The mountain scenery is steep, Zhan Junbai stands on the cliff, but He didn't feel cold, he was just cold in his heart. Zhan Junbai stared deeply at a touch of the apricot forest ahead Back, his eyes cleared and disappeared. Zhan Junbai murmured: Do you have an afterlife? The mountain wind blows and blows, as if it blows this sentence to the mountain In the ears of people. Yutangchun faces the apricot forest and back to the cliff. For some reason, weeping and whispering slightly; I don't know Tao. Zhan Junbai; They have an appointment in the next life... If, I We also have an afterlife, will everything be different? Yutangchun Yuguang glanced back slightly, his eyes earning Tangle and sigh; if there is an afterlife, I Hope, never meet you again. Jun Bai. I hope Hope, for generations to come, never see each other... From Huawei memo @ 直好好的
=> so basically, the shooting happens but Yuzhi was wearing some sort of bulletproof vest and he didn’t get hurt. They hug and both go “so lucky to have met you”. All is well in the world, this is the canon ending and fuck the rest~ 
2)Original text (extracted from the pic)
《恨君不似江楼月》大结局 37-1余之堂门口 日外 江月楼站在街道对面,隔着街道来往 的人流和余之堂的玻璃窗,注视着玻璃 后的陈余之,嘴角不自觉上扬。 37-2 余之堂日内 陈余之收拾着桌面的东西,准备打 样。陈余之察觉到一股灼热的目光, 抬起视线看去,是江月楼。 江月楼得意地冲他扬眉,赠予他一个 明亮的笑。陈余之回以一笑,脫下白 大褂,朝着门外走去。 37-3 余之堂门口日外 陈余之锁门,江月楼穿过街道上 来。 陈余之;早上你不是说最近警署交接 工作多,很忙吗? 江月楼:再忙,也得吃饭啊。再说, 今天特殊日子,元宵节,不跟我一起 过? 陈余之转身,温和一笑:好,一起 过。 37-4景城街道 日外 江月楼、陈余之沿着街道走着,说笑 着。 街道两边的百姓,有的在煮饭,有的 在下棋,有的在喝茶,一副安居乐业的 样子。 江月楼、陈余之心中安慰,对视一 笑。 江月楼:我们的努力没有白费,他们 终于能过上安稳的日子了。 陈余之:是啊,总算,一切都值 不时有人向两人打招呼。 路人甲:陈医生! 路人乙:江科长! 江月楼、陈余之微笑点头回应。 路人热情招呼:江科长,来家里吃汤 圆啊,我们自己做的,别嫌弃。 江月楼笑:不用了,我们也准备回去 做。 陈余之愕了下,待路人走开后,问: 你打算自己做啊? 江月楼;不然呢? 陈余之:我以为,你是说去门口那家 锟饨摊吃,她家每到这天都会煮些汤圆 应景。 江月楼:自己做,别有风味。 陈余之笑:好,听你的。 两人说笑着,走着。前方不远处, 个穿着黄包车夫衣服的人微微抬起视 线,竟然是死里逃生的展君白。 展君白抬起视线,仇恨的目光看去, 主观视角,江月楼和陈余之越来越近 了。 江月楼和陈余之浑然不觉即将到来的 危险,聊着。 江月楼:好久没骑马了,这个周末, 赛马去? 陈余之笑:这次,一定赢你。 江月楼自信满满:试试看。 说话间,两人已经到了展君白面前, 展君白突然持枪,朝着江月楼开枪,他 拿着的,是那把曾送给玉堂春后又回到 自己手上的枪。 陈余之毫不犹豫地扑过去挡在江月楼 身前,子弹射进陈余之心口处。江月楼 想要阻拦未来得及。 江月楼不敢置信的神情,一手扶住快 要倒下的陈余之,毫不犹豫地拔枪,冲 着展君白开枪。百姓们四散而逃。 展君白中弹,身子一震,疯狂恐怖地 笑着倒地,他器张得意地看着江月楼, 身体的痛他毫无感觉,他沉浸在报复的 快感中。他手上戴着的一串珠子断裂落 地,四散开来,那是玉堂春生前不离手 的串珠。 展君白狞笑:江月楼,我失去的,你 也得不到。他死了,比你死了,更痛 吧? 江月楼顾不得搭理展君白,紧张地 扯开陈余之外套,看到子弹射在内里穿 着的护甲上,护甲几乎被穿透,严重变 形,所幸没有伤及身体。 江月楼着急担忧:你怎么样,伤到哪 里没有? 陈余之宽慰地拍拍江月楼的手:我没 事。 江月楼气恼地陈余之一眼:咱俩的 账回去算! 展君白看到陈余之并未受伤,楞住, 不可置信的神情;这怎么可能?! 江月楼转身走向展君白,死死盯着 他:我早就算准了你不会善罢甘休,从 你逃离的那天起,我一直在等着,等你 回来。 江月楼说着,撩开自己外套,他也做 了防护:展君白,我跟你不一样,你失 去的,我永远不会失去。 江月楼说着,看了眼陈余之,两人对 视。 展君白一败涂地,绝望神情。 江月楼再次抬起枪口,准备结束展君 白。 展君白视线从江月楼移向陈余之,撑 着最后一口气:陈医生,能 不能,帮我 个忙? 陈余之冷眼看他:我不会帮你求情 的,你这是罪有应得。 展君白;不是这个忙...咳咳.... 展君白白嘴角和伤口越来越多的血涌 出,染红了地上散落的珠子,宛如红 豆。 展君白:帮我和他,葬在一起... 陈余之意外:你没把他沉进蟹塘? 展君白笑了笑:真沉了他,我如何舍 得。不这样说,又如何镇得住下面的 人。 江月楼、陈余之对视一眼,陈余之百 感交集。 陈余之:他葬在何处? 展君白;城东.杏林里。 陈余之想起玉堂春生前诉说自己喜欢 城东杏林,想要熬过春天,葬在杏林的 一幕。 展君白;帮我,行吗... 陈余之摇头:他生前因你受尽折磨, 死后,定然也不愿和你再有什么瓜 葛。 展君白一生唯一一次恳求的眼神;求 你... 陈医生,求你.. 陈余之没有犹豫,转身走向江月 楼。 江月楼抬起枪口,结束了展君白的一 生。 画面渐黑。 37-5 江月楼的家 夜 内 门开,江月楼、陈余之进门。 江月楼面色不太好,生气中,重重地 坐在沙发上。 陈余之有些心虚,脱下外套,挽起袖 子:做汤圆的东西呢?我去准备。 江月楼盯着他,不说话,视线随着陈 余之走动而动。 陈余之回头:现在不做吗? 江月楼起身,大步走向陈余之:做什 么做,算账! 陈余之:我没受伤... 江月楼气;这是侥幸,万一呢?!我 给你准备护甲是让你自保的,不是为了 让你救人的! 陈余之:可那是你... 江月楼凶巴巴:是谁都不行!再说, 我又不是没有,用得着你冲出来护我 吗?你知不知道,我差点吓死.. 陈余之:对不起,一时情急,我忘 了。 江月楼愣住:你忘了护甲这回事? 陈余之:当时来不及想太多... 江月楼突然感到无比的窝心、感动和 后怕,凶巴巴的脸瞬间软化下来,抬手 给了陈余之一个深深的拥抱。 江月楼低喃:余之,我这一生,很不 幸...但又何其有幸,竟能遇见你。 陈余之低声回应:我也一样,月楼。 遇见你,何其有幸.. 片刻,江月楼松手,推着陈余之走向 厨房。 陈余之:嗯?干什么? 江月楼:做汤圆! 37-6黑屏字幕:一年后 37-7 某乡下小院 日(昏)内/外 暮色昏沉。 屋门开着,可以看到,陈可盈抱着小 自在厅内玩耍。 院子里,江月楼和陈余之坐在石桌 前。桌上摆着些晾晒的草药,陈余之 正在翻拉草药。江月楼手上拿着报纸, 报纸头条,金大成开任署长,景城太 平。 江月楼笑了,放下报纸,拿起茶杯, 惬意泡茶。 江月楼自顾自喝了一口热茶,看向陈 余之:好了,侍弄一下午了,明日再 陈余之笑:过几日是雨季,得趁着天 好,晒干晒透才行。 江月楼递上一杯热茶:不急这一时半 刻,喝口茶缓缓。 陈余之抬起手示意,他修长手指上沾 染了翠色的药草汁液。 江月楼干脆将杯子递过去,陈余之低 头,就着江月楼的手喝了几口水。 江月楼:诊所的位置找好了,需要什 么物件你空了列一下,我们一起去买。 陈余之抬头,看向江月楼,狡點一 笑:别的都好说,只有一件东西,怕是 不好买。 江月楼:什么东西?你说来听听。 陈余之:原来那块余之堂的牌匾挺好 的,可惜,搬家的时候忘带了。 江月楼:这个啊,好办,我来解决。 陈余之笑:怎么,月楼的雕工,一回 生二回熟了? 江月楼愣了下,反应过来,你都知道 了? 陈余之:嗯。 江月楼:什么时候的事儿? 陈余之笑:秘密。 江月楼扬眉:秘密啊?那就别怪我 了。 江月楼说着,起身,去一旁小屋拖出 一块牌匾,上面用布仔细包着,江月楼 扬手,布飘扬开来,露出下面的余之堂 匾额。 陈余之哑然失笑。 江月楼得意傲娇的笑。 远处,夕阳西下,绯红色和黄色交 江月楼凝望远处,感慨:余之,太阳 落山了。 陈余之抬起视线,顺着江月楼视线看 去,暮色苍茫。 江月楼、陈余之凝视彼此,默契一 笑,一切深情,一切情意,尽在不言 中。夕阳下的剪影,逐渐融合。 --全剧终一- 番外结尾 绿杨烟外晓寒轻,红杏枝头春意 闹。城东的杏林里,一座修葺的很好 却没有刻碑的墓。墓碑前,放了些新鲜 的花束和祭奠用品。 镜头拉起,从脚往上,江月楼和陈余 之入画。两人并肩站在墓碑前,望着玉 堂春的坟墓,默默怀念。 闪回,展君白死前一幕。 陈余之:他葬在何处? 展君白;城东. 杏林里..咳咳(咳 血).我没有刻碑,万一被人知晓了身 份,他受我连累,死后亦不得安宁。 闪回结束。 陈余之:我没有答应他的要求,若你 泉下有知,定然也是不愿的吧? 无人回答,风吹花落。 江月楼宽慰地揽住陈余之,摩挲了两 下脖颈;若你真答应帮他合葬在一起, 才是辱了玉老板。如今这样,已经很好 了。 江月楼说着,松开陈余之,回头看向 不远处的悬崖。悬崖之上,一座亦没有 刻字的孤坟。因为地势原因,孤坟处可 以看得到山下的杏林和玉堂春坟墓,而 孤坟则永远在玉堂春坟墓的背影里,不 会得到一丝一毫的余光。 陈余之回头望去,心情复杂,唱叹一 声。 江月楼;走了,余之,咱们回家。 夕阳染红了杏林的枝柳,江月楼、陈 余之并肩穿过杏林,讨论的余声时而传 来。 陈余之:月楼,你说,人有来生 吗? 江月楼深深看了眼陈余之:我不知 道,但我希望有。 陈余之笑了;就算有,喝了孟婆汤, 大抵也是相逢不相识了。 江月楼:留个暗号,如何?若再遇 见,便不会错过了。 陈余之调侃:那岂不是生生世世都要 遇到你这家伙了? 江月楼醋意:这话听着,好像不怎么 愿意? 陈余之:若是你的话,我是愿意的。 江月楼深深感动,两人对视一笑,身 影消失在杏林深处。 山风料峭,展君白站在悬崖之上,却 并不觉得冷,他只是心冷。 展君白深深凝望着前面杏林里的一抹 背影,眼神明了又灭。 展君白喃喃:你说,人有来生吗? 山风吹啊吹,仿佛把这句话吹到了山 下人的耳朵里。 玉堂春面朝杏林,背向悬崖,眼中不 知怎的,微微泛起泪光,轻喃;我不知 道。 展君白;他们约了来生... 如果,我 们也有来生,一切,会不会不一样? 玉堂春余光微微往后看了眼,眼神挣 扎纠结,一声叹息;如果真有来生,我 希望,再也不要遇到你. 君白. 我希 望,生生世世,不复相见... 来自华为备忘录 " @ 直好好的
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closer-stars · 5 years ago
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By Your Side - San
Member: San Requested: Yes @hoe9for9kpop Genre: Fluff Word count: 5k+ Content: Jealousy. Don’t forget to communicate ! San needs reassurance. Bit of angst. Wholesome stuff.  Note: this took... forever. I tried. I went through a bit of a writer’s block somewhere but I got through it. I hope it’s okay?
The male looks up from his computer upon hearing a few knocks against the door. “San-ah! Is it okay if one of my friends stays at our place for a week?” You ask simply. Your boyfriend looks at the phone in your hand then at your features. 
“Yeah, that’s fine. What’s going on, babe?” He asks before you return your attention to the phone.
“My friend needs a place to stay for some business thing but his company won’t cover his living expenses.” You return with a frown. He doesn’t say anything else but a nod, quickly returning to his game, yelling at Yunho to save him. He did make a mental note to ask you more about this after, right now he had to make sure he and Yunho last through the entire round. 
“Hey, babe. Who’s this friend of yours?” He asks casually over dinner. He doubts his memory sometimes, there were times where he doesn’t remember things especially when explained to him while he was tired. He notices how your eyes brighten up and how happy you look as you explain that they were an old friend since high school. Both of you kept in touch even if he moved elsewhere before the start of university. While you were in the middle of telling him stories, his phone rings. He gives you an apologetic look, seeing that it’s from the company. His schedules can start at the weirdest times sometimes. You don’t mind though, it’s part of his work. 
While you were cleaning up the dishes, he immediately returns to you after the call. “Are you sure we can still let my friend stay? I don’t want it to go in between your work.” You say as you put the plates in the cabinets. You were already devising a plan for your friend in case you had to retract your offer. He helps clean up the counters as he laughs softly at your concern. “Baby, don’t worry. Your friend can still stay with us. My manager just had to remind me of my early schedule tomorrow. We can still pick up your friend from the airport three days from now,  right?” He says, making it a point to show that he was paying attention to what you’ve been talking about. 
You couldn’t help but flash a smile of gratitude at him, and press a kiss on his dimpled cheek. 
“Love you, babe.” 
The following days moved by a lot faster than you expected and maybe it was because you were just excited to see your friend again. While San was at the company for preparations for their upcoming promotions, you stayed at home cleaning the place up along with the room your friend will be staying in for the next few days. Once you are satisfied with how your place looks, you immediately get yourself changed to get ready to go to airport. San messaged you a few minutes ago that he was near and once he freshens up, both of you could head to the airport to pick your friend up. 
The trip to the airport was a little endearing in his eyes. Your knee was shaking as you looked at the road in front of you. “Babe, we’ll get there in time.” San reminds you in between giggles. You look at him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry..” You mumble, embarrassed. He shakes his head, assuring you that there was nothing to be sorry about. He leans over to press a peck on your lips. “Anything for you.”
Both of you arrive at the airport with a few minutes to spare before your friend comes out. They’ve already told you what they were wearing and you to them, even telling them you brought your boyfriend with you. You lean your forearms against the railing, your eyes trained on your phone screen or on the door, trying your best to not look like you were about to vault through the door. 
“What are they wearing, babe?”
You open your phone again. “Black jeans, red coat, white shirt and his luggage’s navy.” 
San looks at you with a bemused look. “Are you sure that’s not Mingi?” 
“If it was, I would’ve just booked an AirBnB for him.” You joke in return. Just then, the doors slide open to let those who had arrived to head out after claiming their luggage. Both of you shift your attention to the people trickling out, looking for anyone who would match the description. 
“There!” You exclaim, waving at a male. San looks at the direction your eyes were set on. He didn’t know your close friend was another man-- well he never did ask, nor did you ever tell him. Oops. His chest tightens slightly at the fact you were so elated to see them again. He didn’t like this feeling either, internally fighting it out as you welcome your friend warmly. ‘He’s just a friend. I’m still the boyfriend.’ He reminds himself over and over as he slowly trails behind you. 
“Hwamin! This is San, my boyfriend. San, Hwamin.” You introduce them to each other, hoping that things go well with the two for the week. Polite bows were exchanged, along with other niceties. San doesn’t want to show his discomfort still, and tries to swallow his insecurities for the moment as he offers to take Hwamin’s luggage from him as they head to their car.  
“Thanks, San.” Hwamin says, a little relieved to have the tension in his arms be lifted after the hours of being in a plane and dragging his luggage. The trip back to the apartment was the same, you and Hwamin exchanging stories as you fill each other up on what the other has missed. San was on the wheel and for once he was thankful he was in charge of driving, just so he could avoid being part of the conversation. San kind of wishes he could get home quicker without risking a ticket, the sooner they get home, the sooner he can escape the conversation and his thoughts. 
They arrive at their apartment in one piece. “The traffic here hasn’t changed. It’s still better than America’s.” Hwamin says with a tired laugh. The two boys lift the luggage into the place, both of them huffing at the amount of effort they had to exert. 
“Just what did you pack…” San mutters in disbelief. There was no way a luggage that was roughly the same size as his usual luggage, could be heavier than what he carries in his months long tours. 
“Some snacks that they like, and for you. Also heard you were into plush dolls, so..” explained the other as he pushes the luggage into the living room for him to unpack what he can use for the night. 
“Hwamin, you can fix your things later. Aren’t you tired?” You ask as you bring the two men some food to snack on. It was already too late for any restaurant to be open unless they wanted to drink then that’s another topic. Just as he managed to grab his clothes for the night and the following day, he manages to toss a small packet of your favorite chips. It was a gift from the higher beings that you had quick reflexes to catch the packet mid-air.
“Don’t think I forgot, kid. To answer your question, I am but still riding that freedom out of a plane y’know?” was his return as he downs his water. San on the other hand, had front row seats to how the two of you talk. Is this how his friends felt when he and you would be that sickeningly sweet couple or worse? San manages to finish his glass of water before rising from his seat. He makes it a point to press a kiss on your forehead before bidding the both of you a good night. 
“I’ll see you two in the morning.” were his only words the entire night before he retreats to his room. Hwamin and you look at him slip away, one out of curiosity, the other out of concern.
“Is he okay?” Hwamin asks.
“He has a long day tomorrow..” You trail off. It was true but you don’t sound that convincing even to yourself. You shake your head and get up as well. “Come on, I’ll show you your room and where the bathroom is.” After having done as you said, you retreated into your shared room with San for the next few days. 
You peek into the room and already find him in bed. A sigh slips through your lips, quietly getting your sleep wear and slipping into the bathroom to clean yourself up after a long day. You then quietly slip into bed next to him, your arm lightly resting on his waist. 
What you didn’t know was that San was still awake the entire time. Instead of sleeping, he was on his phone while you were still talking to Hwamin, hiding his phone when you entered the room and doing the same when you slipped into bed. He hated how his emotions were slowly making him act out. He didn’t like how you looked so concerned over him when he hushed up as you and Hwamin conversed. He didn’t want to let you know how shitty his emotions were either. How many talks have the both of you exchanged in the past about his insecurities and jealousy? Even before being a couple, the both of you have talked about his jealousy streak and until now, it still affects him. 
If he was still going to be this jealous and insecure over your relationship, did he even deserve you at all? 
San woke up to his phone alarm buzzing. 5AM. He had to get ready for his schedules today. He looks to his side to see you, still peacefully asleep. If he was jealous last night of how you and Hwamin clicked so naturally, he’s jealous now of how you’re able to get a few more hours of sleep. He lets his lips graze against your temple, letting your arms now wrap around the seal plush toy a fan gave him. When he rises from your bed, you shuffle and whine slightly, slipping in and out of consciousness. San quickly hushes you, “Go back to sleep, babe.”. He quietly gets ready for his day, putting everything he needs for the day in his backpack. Just as he steps out of his room, he’s greeted by Hwamin fixing his luggage. “Oh-- hey, morning.” He greets, awkwardly. 
Hwamin looks up, smiling brightly at the male. Damn, how was it possible for anyone to be this smiley at this hour? He takes it as an effect of jetlag. “Morning, San! You’re up early too.” He says as he puts his things aside. Hwamin’s amber eyes finally take notice of San’s outfit. “Ah, right, they told me you were gonna have a long day today. Good luck with work!” San finds himself feeling awkward with such an open personality at this hour, rubbing the back of his neck. He bows to the male and makes his way to the door. 
“Oh yeah, they won’t be up until around three hours later. So if you’re hungry, be our guest and cook something if you need.” He calls out from the door, quietly slipping out. It’s only when the manager picks him up that he lets out the groan he’s been aching to let out. The manager hands him his breakfast for the day, letting the male rant what has happened in the past few hours. 
“San, if you don’t want to deal with him, just sleep at the dorm with the boys for the entire week.” The manager had a point. You wouldn’t have to deal with his jealousy fueled antics. Yet, he also knew that you’d want to have him and Hwamin interact. 
Taking the easy way out just wasn’t him.
He shakes his head as he starts to eat. “Hyung, I promised them I’d be with them this entire week because of their friend. Going back on my word isn’t me-like right?” That made the manager snort in agreement, remembering the days of trainee San making promises and actually keeping them no matter how crazy they were. 
“Okay but if anything happens, your room with Yunho is still there.” 
You wake up to an empty bed and a seal plushie smiling up at you. 8:30AM. You push yourself up and look at your phone. 
[ Sannie ] Don’t forget to eat breakfast! I’ll be home late today :( 
You send him a heart sticker as you start your day. You worked as an editor and writer for an online magazine so you were blessed to be able to work from home but for today, you had to give Hwamin a ride to his meeting. Maybe you could work on your articles there.  
You quickly get ready for the day but are slowed down by the smell of… were those pancakes? You peek out, already in your outdoor clothes. Hwamin was setting down a small stack of pancakes for the both of you in the living room. “Morning sleepyhead.” He teases, gesturing at you to take a seat.
“Since when did you know how to cook?!” You ask incredulously. The pancakes were topped with some fruits you still had in the refrigerator. “Since I started living with my girlfriend-- well fiance” He notes, casually. “Oh yeah, I didn’t make coffee for you since I don’t even know if you’re drinking coffee now also.. How do you even make your coffee machine work?”
You stop him quickly, putting a strawberry tipped fork at his face. “You’re what!?” Good morning to you indeed. “Also, yes I drink coffee! I’ll teach you the coffee machine later.”
He laughs. Clearly nothing has changed. He brings out his phone to show you the lucky girl. “Met her in one of my business classes. Dude, if I could just introduce the two of you..” He says with such a dreamy sigh. 
“You are telling me all of this later. Right now, we have pancakes to eat and an hour drive to your meeting.” You say with more energy than a cup of cold brew could give you. 
You spend the next few hours working on articles, making sure all of these were already good enough to be sent to the layout team. A few tables over, Hwamin was discussing deals with other heavy names in the industry. You decide to shoot San a message in the midst of your break. 
[ To: Sannie ] Make sure you get something to eat eventually! 
A quick glance at the time. He was going to perform in a few minutes so you decide to look for a live stream. You managed to find one just in time to see them step on stage and be in position. It didn’t take much of a brain to know that ATEEZ was a force to be reckoned with. You’ve watched San become who he is, through the ups and downs, and though you weren’t a performer, your eyes have become accustomed to understand the tricks and trades of their art. 
This time, your eyes catch sight of how San performs a little harder than usual. While to fans, this might look like he was embodying the entire piece, and to a degree that’s true. To you, you knew just how hard San can go when his performance is fueled by something personal. Today was one of those days and you were a little worried if something had happened prior. Despite that, you had to give the boys credit where it was due. 
[ To: Sannie ] you guys did well today! I’m so proud of you, babe. ^^
You tell Hwamin that you’ll be in the coffee shop next to this restaurant to continue with your work before scurrying away to not disrupt the meeting any longer. 
San on the other hand was breathing harder than usual, hunched over as he tries to get air into his aching lungs. Who knew performing such a strong song would aid in him dealing with his own personal issues. He’s winded from performing so hard while they still had another performance to go to that day. Performing with an unfocused mind was dangerous, he of all people knows this. They can’t risk another injury: Jongho was still recovering from his leg injury and Seonghwa could barely sit comfortably from his hip injury. If he were to get injured, it was going to be a bigger issue and a longer delay for their next album. 
“Hyung, are you okay?” Jongho calls to him.
The fox-like male shakes his thoughts away as he detaches the in ears and mic from his head. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He rasps out before taking small sips of water. The youngest doesn’t take his word for it but drops it. They had to get ready to bounce to their next schedule. Their staff has already packed everything up for them so all they had to do was get their personal belongings then bounce. San follows the rest of the members as he reads through your texts and it just makes his chest hurt more than it already does. 
Your words were genuine but why doesn’t he feel them to be so? 
The ride to the next schedule was quiet, everyone catching up on sleep after waking up so early for those five to eight minutes on stage. “Hyung, what time will our schedule end?” San mumbles to Seonghwa, his head resting against the window. The eldest looks over at the burdened male. From one look, Seonghwa already knew what was in his mind. 
“Probably 2 AM.. and San?”
“Yeah?”
“Same problem?”
That made him sigh in exhaustion. Besides you, Seonghwa was one of the most observant to the mood shifts among the members. Seonghwa didn’t need him to expound. He just needed to let San know that the members are there for them and that you weren’t going anywhere. As much as this guy was particular with how he speaks to people around him, he could be careless when it came to himself. 
“San, you really need to talk to them soon.” 
San knew what he meant by that. The last time he kept it to himself was horrific for everyone but right now, he just didn’t have the heart to do it. Not when Hwamin was going to be at home whenever he was too. He just nods at Seonghwa’s words but his thoughts swam with insecurities and constant comparisons he put himself against your best friend. He closes his eyes, trying to get some shut eye before they’ll be back on their feet for who knows how long. He falls asleep eventually but still his mind was clouded with thoughts and questions, all of which are baseless.
He knows this but he feels powerless to it.
Hongjoong wakes them up when they arrive at their last schedule for the day. He had to admit that having grown so much in a span of two years had its cons. One of them was having to perform in three different points of an entire concert. Being the opening, the middle and closing was to a degree a good thing but when you’re riddled by insecurities and less sleep. It’s just a bad combination for him. 
San finally arrives home and all the lights are closed to which he assumes that you and Hwamin are sleeping. It’s only when he enters when he notices the stray light that’s still on in the kitchen. He sees you. He sees you still on your laptop working-- or at least it looks like you’re still working. Without another word, he finds himself nuzzling against your neck, arms wrapped around your torso. 
“Welcome home, babe.” You murmur. Just as you were about to rise and get him some food, he tightens his hold around you. “Baby, it’s late.. You need to eat.” A gentle chide that had him whining against your neck but relenting to your concern. A quick peck to the top of his head was his reward for listening then he slips onto the chair next to yours. He doesn’t mean to but he catches sight of what’s on your laptop screen. Short clips of his performances today, along with what fans have been talking about. 
“You watched this performance too?” San asks, raising his eyes to your figure. Though he couldn’t see you nod. You do. 
“How can I not?” You say in return as you make sure the portions were enough for him. “I always watch your performances, babe. No matter how late or early they are.” There it was again. That pang in his chest that tells him you deserve so much better. So much better than a man who comes home and leaves home at odd times, who leaves home for months on end. He swallows all of it with the food you’ve made for him. He wants to cry but he’s too tired. 
“How was your day?” He asks after a few spoonfuls. Your voice lulls him to peace. You tell him about your day, joking about becoming Hwamin’s chaperone in his stay here. Even if your voice brings him to peace, his thoughts bring him chaos. Where your voice ends, the comparisons begin. How would it be if he did a “normal” job? Would things be better? Would he have even met you? 
Once he is finished with his late dinner (or was it an early breakfast), he waits for you. You raise the question of what his schedule will be for tomorrow. “Thankfully it’s not as killer as today’s but I still have a photoshoot for tomorrow and an interview.” He says through an exhausted chuckle. You look at him properly after washing the dishes. He looked so worn out. He hasn’t even removed his makeup. 
“Let’s wash you up and get you ready for bed, babe. It’s been a long day. I’ll wake you up for your schedule tomorrow okay?” 
He’ll take what he can get to put these demons away from his head. 
He wakes up to you gently shaking him awake. “Rise and shine, baby. I made you some waffles.” That was enough to get him to sit up. The bedhead makes you chuckle. “Go get freshened up. Your breakfast’s ready.” You say as you pat his hips before leaving the room. He rubs his eyes, and finds his hands free of any makeup residue. Did you help clean him up? The man looks at his phone. 10 AM. His photoshoot and interview were at 2 PM. Enough time for him to wake up and be a proper human being before facing society. He pushes himself out of bed, staggering to the bathroom to wake up. 
By the time he comes out of his room in a fresh set of clothes, he’s greeted by the scent of waffles and coffee. “Where’s Hwamin?” He asks, feeling a little odd even in his own space to the absence of your best friend. 
You slide his share towards him. “His business partners picked him up, earlier today. I think they’re meeting other potential brand partners?” You return with a shrug of your shoulders, business was never your forte after all. 
He nods, a part of him a little relieved to at least have the morning with you to himself. As he slowly eats, he finds his mind going back to these inner demons. 
10:45 AM.
“Babe?”
“Yes?”
“Can we talk…?” 
It’s crazy how three words can make your heart skip a beat. While the other three words makes either of you feel lighter, these three make you feel heavy. Your eyes tear away from your laptop screen, wondering what has been in his head. The look on his face made it easy to know that this was going to be one of those talks. You put your laptop aside and face him properly. 
“What’s been going on, babe?”
He picks at his food almost pitifully. The look on your face hurts him more than usual because he knows he’s at fault for putting such a look on your face. “I just…” he starts but he’s unable to find the words to properly articulate his turmoil. “It’s so stupid.” he continues out of frustration. 
“It’s not stupid, San. If it affects you this much then it’s something important.” 
His features morph into something like a plea. A plea to help him straighten his thoughts out, to save him from these demons that continue to fuel his insecurities. “Insecurities…” he trails off again, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. “It’s just, I have this small fear that you’d eventually leave me. I haven’t even known Hwamin properly but seeing how you two are gave me the idea that you deserve someone better. Someone who doesn’t come home or leave at the weirdest times. Someone who can stay with you through anything. His work’s more stable than mine too if you think about it.” The longer he goes on, the more his words sound convoluted and all you can do as he lets this out is to hold his hand. You listen carefully, letting him know that you’re paying attention to every single word. It’s when he starts to look like he’s about to cry that you sit next to him and have him wet your skin with his tears of frustration and exhaustion. The build up of stress from his work and the sudden presence of your friend and his insecurities had climaxed into this melt down. 
You let him cry quietly, his hands clinging to your shirt as if it were his life line. It takes a while before his breathing evens out and that’s when you peek at his features, wiping away the wet trail of tears on his cheeks. “Babe..” You start and you tip his chin to have him look at you in the eye. “Again and again. I will always be here to fight your demons away. I’m not going anywhere without you. You’re the only one I want and this life I have with you is miles better than a life with anyone else.” You say. Your lips press light kisses against his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his chin then his lips.  “Hwamin is simply my best friend. Nothing more. Even if your work brings you to the otherside of the world, I will gladly follow if you ask. Even if I tell you to not question how you deserve me or what not, I’ll be here to remind you every single time. It’s because I love you.”
He smiles. Smiles wide enough for his dimples to show and while it doesn’t make his eyes turn into small crescents, it’s wide enough to speak of relief. He presses his lips against yours again. “I love you so much.” He declares quietly, his forehead leaning against yours and you can’t help but giggle. 
“I love you too, babe. Now go eat! You still got a schedule later!” You tease him as you decide to feed this baby of yours before shooing him off to get ready. 
The next few days go by without a hitch. Hwamin’s meetings were already done and he was already flying back in two days. He and Hwamin have become friends as if they’ve been friends longer than you have with Hwamin. He found his insecurities to be a little childish considering him and Hwamin were now bonding over video games. Especially after knowing that he was already engaged to his long time girlfriend. If bonding can be considered as both of them trying to beat the other in a classic game of Tekken. You had left them alone for the rest of the day as you had to go on errands for your work. 
San starts to squeak in panic as he tries to avoid the final blow from Hwamin but all his efforts go down the drain as Hwamin takes the winning hit. 
“Rematch!!” 
“Nah, I won fair and square San.”
As they look through another arena, their conversation turns back to Hwamin. It felt all the more childish when he realized this guy was already engaged. “You’re getting married when?” San asks as he tries to choose a better fighter this time. 
“Next year but right now, we’re both focusing on our work.” He explains as tries to avoid the rapid kicks and tosses San tries to land on him. The two bounce from topics of relationships, you, health and work, almost acting like siblings. 
By the time you entered the room, they were still at it. Only now they were trying their own skills at playing dirty in a racing game. You couldn’t believe it really but you were happy. Two of your favorite boys in your life, being in good terms with each other to the point they were fighting it out through a video game. 
It was San who notices your presence first. “Hey babe!” He says almost in a hurry to try and beat Hwamin’s player. You watch the TV as the boys start to try and distract each other in order to win. San eventually wins with a few seconds on his side, causing Hwamin to groan in defeat. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a punk phase back in grade school?”
You stare at Hwamin and he looks away as if he hadn’t heard anything. “Give me the other controller. I’m making sure I beat both of you in this.” 
The three of you were at the airport. This time to drop off Hwamin. You had to fight the tears from spilling. It was a good week you had to admit despite the rough start, for it to end so quickly had admittedly made you a little emotional. No wonder you and San were an item. Hwamin pats San’s back. “Make sure to take care of them okay?” San nods with a determined grin. 
“Congrats on your engagement too. Can’t wait to see the both of you make it official.” 
Hwamin then gives you an almost bone crushing hug. “Beat his ass in Tekken for me.” He jokes. You roll your eyes at him and give him a playful jab at his abdomen. “On a more serious note, thank you really. You’ve grown well. I better see you in my wedding.” He says as he walks backwards, waving at the both of you. The both of you wave at him until he becomes a small speck. 
The two of you return to your car and San couldn’t help but steal a quick peck on your cheek. 
“What was that for?”
“Nothing. I’m just thankful for having you by my side.” 
“Always.”
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swampofiniquity · 5 years ago
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Warning Signs (Leon Kennedy x Reader
Part Two of Point / Counterpoint
Rated: Teen and Up
Word Count: 2,088
Cross-posted from AO3
Summary:  Leon calls you for a favor and your night devolves from there.
Part One
You hated driving through D.C.
It was always a nightmare of clueless tourists, reckless locals that had lost their regard for personal safety, and insane taxi driver’s that you swore must have all been taught by the same drunk asshole of a driver’s ed instructor. The lights never went your way, half the time a block or whole street would be closed for a parade or movie shoot or some other inconvenience. A couple of years of living in the city had taught you two things.
One - America needed to invest more in public transportation. And two - never try to drive anywhere in rush hour traffic.
The last of which meant Leon Kennedy owed you big time.
If any other human being had asked you to pick them up between the hours three and seven pm, you’d have laughed and given them directions to the nearest Metro station. People who you would otherwise not think twice about taking a bullet for either needed to wait until a more reasonable traffic hour, or find alternate transportation. But Leon was different.
While technically your superior at the DSO, he was also your best friend and a man that so rarely asked for help that his phone call asking you to come pick him up from the White House was practically the equivalent of spotting a unicorn running through the National Mall.
He had just gotten back from nearly two weeks of grueling back-to-back international peace summits with the president and apparently the pair had decided to celebrate their success by cracking open a bottle of executive bourbon. Now Leon needed someone with a high enough security clearance to come pick his exhausted, drunk ass up and take it the fuck home. You had the lucky distinction of being the first person he called.
And yeah, you kinda also owed him for watching your cat last time you had an out of country assignment. So, you hopped in the car, fully prepared to curse and rage your way through an infuriating hour or so of whiteknuckle fun.
Mercifully, Leon was waiting for you outside when you finally made it through the security gate. He was wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses you had never seen before, despite the sun having gone down at least an hour ago, and was leaning crookedly up against a wall like he was fighting gravity on a sinking ship. It was somehow both alarming and utterly hilarious. You couldn’t remember the last time you'd ever seen him so out of sorts and had to fight the urge to document the moment for posterity. Or blackmail.
You rolled the window down as you pulled up beside him. "Hey sailor," you sang, as he struggled to push himself upright. "Need a ride?"
"Why am I already regretting this?" Leon grumbled, his scratchy voice about a whole octave lower than normal. Despite clearly being wasted he managed to shove himself and his duffel bag into your car without incident.
"Oh please, you missed me and you know it." You flashed him a cheeky grin, that he subtly returned.
"That’s presumptuous." He fumbled with the seat-belt for a moment before finally managing to get the latch to click.
You leaned across the console and pinched the meat of his arm through his jacket in retaliation, before pulling him into the closest approximation of a hug you could manage with the seat-belt pulling you back. It had been more than a month since you'd been this close to the man and seeing him again, alive and whole, made your chest clench unexpectedly.
Leon hummed and returned the embrace, burying his face in your hair. He was so warm, but a shiver still went up your spine as you felt his breath on your neck. "Good to see you too, gorgeous."
It was something he had always called you, a leftover from the early days of your relationship when Leon tried relentlessly and futilely to seduce you into bed with him. Something you had heard more than enough times to render it practically meaningless. And normally, it wouldn't affect you in the slightest, but the fact that you were in his arms and could feel his words as clearly as you could hear them, made the pet name seem so much more intimate.
You cleared your throat and pulled back, praying you didn't come off as awkward as you suddenly felt. "Yeah, well uh good… let's get you home then."
_________________________________________________________
A dark, humid night had long since set in by the time you pulled up to Leon’s building just outside of the main metropolitan area and only about a ten minute walk from your own apartment. After a very graceful and coordinated trek up the three flights of stairs to his door, you used your key and let yourself in, stepping aside for Leon and his duffel bag to slink past.
“You want me to order you some food or something? That new pizza place down the street finally opened up while you were gone.” You flipped on his living room light just in time to see Leon go limp and flop face down on his couch.
He let out a dramatic groan and went still.
“You dead?” You asked, fighting back a smile. He hadn’t even bothered to kick his boots off, opting instead to rest them on a throw pillow like an animal. “After all that effort to pick you up across town and bring you back here...”
“Mmmmphm,” he grumbled into the cushion before turning his head so you could actually understand him. “Yeah, very dead, sorry.”
“What am I going to tell your boyfriend, the president?” You bent down and removed his shoes, tossing them vaguely towards the door before lifting his legs and taking a seat beneath them.
There was a lot of very dignified flailing and wriggling as Leon turned himself over onto his back to level a glare up at you. “Not boyfriends.”
This was one of the reasons why you loved drunk Leon. Normally, he’d barely acknowledge your stupid jokes and attempts at teasing, but give the man a few too many drinks and he became the perfect target for a little friendly ribbing. You couldn’t help yourself. “You’re right, I forgot he’s married. So that’d make you his side piece.”
A pillow grazed the top of your head as it soared past you. “Rude.”
“Sorry, work wife?”
Another pillow, this one aimed a little better, hit you in the shoulder and bounced off onto the floor. You laughed. “Hey, just because he is never going to leave her for you doesn’t mean you can just throw things at me!”
“I’m out of pillows anyway,” Leon responded. Then he raised one of the socked feet on your lap up, nearly touching your nose. You squealed and grabbed his ankle, trying to save your face, but despite your efforts you still caught a whiff of the not-so-pleasant aroma of a foot that had spent most of the day stuck in a boot during international travel.
“That is so gross.” You glared at his smirking face.
While you were distracted, Leon snuck his other foot up and managed to gently caress your cheek. Squealing again, you jerked away. “Oh I’m going to make you for real dead, Kennedy!”
He laughed as you slipped out from under his legs and snatched one the pillows he had thrown at you off the floor. You stood over him, just out of his reach. “Apologize,” you demanded, pillow raised threateningly.
“Ha, you first.” Leon sat up, folding his arms across his chest.
You cocked your arm back and brought the pillow down hard, aiming to hit him in the stomach, but even drunk Leon was too fast. He caught the pillow and jerked it back, bringing you toppling down onto his lap. At the last second, you managed to brace your hand on the back of the couch to avoid knocking foreheads.
“Careful now.” Two strong hands latched onto your hips to still your squirming as you tried to right yourself. “Watch your knees down there.”
Your skin felt flushed as you caught his meaning. “Sorry,” you muttered, feeling embarrassed around him in a way you hadn’t in years. You gingerly adjusted your knees that were dangerously close to his crotch and moved so they were on either side of his thighs.
And boy was that position just so much worse. You resisted the urge to hide your hot face in his neck. Your brain was working overtime, rationalizing that the only reason you were this affected by straddling your best friend had to be the current dry spell plaguing your love life. That was the only plausible explanation for the sudden awareness of all the places Leon’s body was in contact with your own.
“That’s better,” he said quietly, warm hands still firm on your hips.
The air suddenly felt heavy, thick like you were trapped under a woolen blanket in the summertime. You could practically hear the alarm bells going off. This was dangerous territory.
Fighting back panic, you lifted your head up to face him, fully intending to crack another stupid joke or make fun of him, anything to ease the tension that had fallen. But the look in his eyes made the words stick to your tongue like a carpet tack.
Leon slowly gathered a lock of your hair that had fallen into your face and tucked it behind your ear. His hand lingered on your neck. “Hey there.”
“Hi” you breathed, heart beating double time in your chest. You were frozen, completely unable to move even if you had wanted to.
“You’re so soft,” Leon’s voice rumbled out, as he ever so gently ran his hand across your neck and under your chin, the calluses on his fingers catching on your skin like fine grain sandpaper. Goosebumps erupted at his touch and you bit back a contented sigh.
“T-thanks,” you muttered, closing your eyes and tilting your head back as you let him explore your skin. It felt so good being touched so tenderly, so affectionately, that it didn’t matter who was behind it.
A gentle yet firm hand on the back of your neck brought you closer, the fingers tightening as Leon pressed his lips against yours. You shuddered, your body wound so tightly that you were afraid you’d snap at any moment. This was a bad idea for more reasons than you could count, but you were finding it impossible to care in the moment.
It wasn’t until the kiss deepened, when you parted your lips and tasted the bourbon on Leon’s tongue that you came to your senses. He was drunk and you were sober. What the hell was wrong with you?
You scrambled off his lap, feeling your stomach churn with shame and embarrassment. “Oh god.”
Your sudden movement must have jolted Leon back to some semblance of normal as well because he cleared his throat, looking sheepish. “I’m a drunken asshole. I am so sorry. ”
“No, I shouldn’t have-”
“But it was clearly my-”
You both started and trailed off, stewing for a long moment in your collective chagrin. Neither of you had a protocol for accidentally making out with your best friend. The only sound in the room was the distant droning of cicadas in the humid night outside before you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Um maybe we forget this happened?” Your voice sounded so small to your own ears.
Leon perked up. “Yes, good. Nothing to talk about because it never happened.”
You nodded enthusiastically, trying not to let how quickly he latched onto the idea sting. You recommended it for fuck’s sake. “Exactly.”
Leon let out a huge breath and slumped back into the couch. “I either need another drink or to sleep for ten years. Or both.”
“Well, best of luck with that. I’m going to head out.” You made a show of patting your pockets for your car keys, still feeling horribly awkward.
Leon frowned, but otherwise didn’t move from his prone position. “Okay. Wanna catch lunch tomorrow?” He asked, finishing the question around a yawn.
“Yeah, call me.” Normally you would have hugged him or kissed his cheek, but the thought of getting in his personal space again made your skin feel too tight, so you settled on a halfhearted wave. “Goodnight, Leon.”
“Night gorgeous.”
You spent the whole ride home fighting the stupid grin that kept trying to creep onto your face.
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missingartist · 5 years ago
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The Witcher’s Mate- Chapter 20
In his 350 years, he had thought he had seen it all. Vesemir the unofficial head Witcher had spent years traipsing up, and down the country, he knew every path and detail of any town worth knowing to a Witcher. However, in his lifetime he did not foresee having to deal with a Witcher’s mate. Barmin, his master had glossed over it in training, dismissing the idea of it being any use. In his training, he and other fledgeling Witchers had become intrigued with the concept, but the master had been dismissive enough to toss them a copy of The Witcher- A History. With a whole chapter dedicated to the Witcher’s Mate. Being privileged enough to witness the building of the Witcher home he knew every book placed in the library and this battered copy preserved the only mentions of soulbonds in the entire Witcher section of the library. Barmin had mentioned that it was a Witcher’s Curse to be bound to another who would wither and die or who would face dying of a broken heart as the life of a Witcher was a dangerous one before placing the book back on the shelf where it gathered dust for the past 300 years. Till now that was.
Making his way up the gritty staircase, books wedged underneath his arms, he let the soft glow of the candlestick light his way from the archive and through the winding halls. Mermaid literature held little room in the main library; Witchers had no dealing with Merfolk for 400 years, he himself only met two. The first was a stunning female, long green hair and pale olive skin, a tail of metallic blue scales, pulling the fresh Witcher from a stormy sea when drowners pinned him down in the murky depth. She had all the makings of the predator, savage and vicious yet in the cave which she dragged him, she had all the tenderness of a maiden. She was inquisitive and powerful, and to the newly made Witcher, she was direct in her wants, spending the night and day making very extensive use of his body. A smile stretched across his feature, and he remembers the dalliance of his youth. The other had been a Trition, the male of the species, while not a beautiful as the female he had been majestic in his airs. He had been just as predatory as the female but seemed to lack in power of the female, it did not have the sharp barbs of teeth, or the ability to walk on earth demanded help to free a water sprite from a tree curse. If indeed the Adva girl was a mermaid it would cause a lot of difficulties. Mermaids where predators plain and simple, with very complex social structures and even more complicated mating rituals, one that they kept closely guarded. This was going to be near impossible. Witcher bonding was going to be difficult enough to get their heads around it didn’t really need the extra stress of figuring how a mermaid bonded.  He envisaged many nights slaving over a manuscript.
The library fire is dying. The low flame dominated the dwindling wood giving the room a soft light. He had, on being regaled with all the details excused himself to the archives, Barmin having moved all the Merfolk down there to add a room to the main collection. It had taken the best part of the afternoon to weedle through the mass of papers and books that had chaotically thrown into to achieve with no accord. Dropping the various scrolls and manuscripts, he settled himself into his leather-bound seat and placed the candlestick back in its holder—the soft flare of flame illuminating a slim figure perched on the window ledge.
‘Dove, I thought you would be in bed.’
‘Not sleepy…been an eventful day.’ Ciri rolled her shoulder, standing.
Moving from her perch, she fed the fire three thick blocks of wood, watching as the room was lit up with the roaring orange flame. The food she had gathered of dried meat, cheese and wine still sat untouched, Jaskier had tried to tempt Adva with the cheese and wine to no avail. Picking up the jug, she poured two generous helpings into the spare goblets and sat opposite the master Witcher.
‘I don’t think I would be able to sleep if I had seen Geralt finally put it to Yennefer. I would have properly celebrated so hard I would be drunk for a fortnight.’ The older man laughed picking up his goblet and throw back his contents, red droplets staining his white beard pink. ‘It would be Geralt that got mixed up with a soulmate who had to be a mermaid. He can’t live simply, even as…Has someone fixed the wall.’ Vesemir gawped at the wall by the window. The peeling stone wall had been replastered and the drafted that has previously whistled through the library on a cold night was no more. He had meant to repair it for the last fortnight, but the north-west staircase was in need of refurbishing, the barn needed to be mended, three chimneys needed sweeping and renovating and the long list of other restorations.
‘Adva and she reputtied the windows.’ the answer was tense and dry as she brought her cup to her lips and took a sip of the strong liquid.
‘She’s been her ten hours, and she replastered a wall and fixed a window? At least Geralt has the brains to pick a useful mate; I wonder if she does roofing.’ Vesemir gruffed, filling his goblet and downing it once again.
Ciri could feel annoyance rise within her, Vesemir was always dismissive and so distant from his emotions he couldn’t understand her concern. Since arriving, Adva had used the plaster in the hallway, despite their protest she spent most of the day fixing the wall and cleaning, Jaskier had tried to pull her away, but she looked near tears and battered their concerns away. Both Jaskier and Ciri sank back and watched Adva flit around the room, dusting, mopping and polishing. Ciri had never seen the library look so clean. In the space of ten hours, she had fixed the library and cleaned three full rooms before her eyelids began to droop, and Jaskier scooped her away before she could protest and tucked her tightly into a bed in one of the many rooms while Ciri searched through many garments that had cluttered up closets and chests from long forgot herbalists and Witchers that had come and gone to replace her outfit.
‘Vesemir! I am worried about Adva; a person doesn't start repairing buildings when they learn that they are a Mermaid and a Soulmate.’
‘And you know the extensive guide on how someone needs to react when they discover they are a Mermaid or a soulmate, was hardly worth me spending all day in the archives with such an expert already here.’ Vesemire scoffed, his eyes glancing against the bundle he had gathered with some concern. The few books that he found would have little in them to help with their… unique situation.
‘That not what I meant.’ the young woman sulked, pushing her bottom lip out as far as it could go.
‘Do you remember when you discovered your bloodline? It took us three weeks to stop you hacking the dummy to bits. People cope with things differently. If I had to meet Yennefer again, I probably devote myself to fixing the whole castle. You care a lot about Adva, don’t ya? Empathy is the downfall of a Witcher.’ Vesemire scolded. He didn’t know how many time he had tried to drum that into her and Geralt.
‘I…I do I see a lot of myself in her. Alone and confused, betrayed and powerful but scared about it.’ Ciri sighed.
It hurt to admit; it was traumatic. The early years of her life had been so lovely, but the last decade, wave after wave of people had tried to claim her for themselves. Kings seeking power, Witches seeking power, Cults seeking power. They were all the same, trying to imprisoner, impregnate or kill her. It left her feeling insecure and uncertain; she had been betrayed so many time she had lost count. That unlimited power made her a target for every crazed group that emerged from the shadows, but it also made her scared, the power within her had a fine line between chaos and control, and with that enormous pressure to remain in control. Her deepest fear was herself, and what she could do or become, she sensed that same fear in Adva.
‘You have only just met her, don’t get too attached. Yennefer will find a way to get rid of her if not that she’ll turn into a she-daemon knowing Geralt's taste in women.’ Vesemir scoffed dryly.
Geralt was the son he had never had, but his taste in a woman was shocking, there had been that redhead succubus who tried to eat him. The doomed princess in the tower, Renfri. Three herbalists, Triss and Yennefer. He should just stick to a whore like everyone else, it would save a lot of time and effort, and the damage Kaer Morhan would be minimal, the amount of time Yennefer had destroyed something because of a petty argument was unbelievable. Ciri stood abruptly and started to pace.
‘Dove, what troubles you?’
‘I…Yennefer has been….I dunno. She has been difficult…’
‘Yennefer difficult? Never?’ The laughedffff trickled from the witcher lips.
‘Before they…parted. Yennefer did something….horrid and tried to get Geralt to finish it… he refused, and Yennefer was vicious, and then the spell broke and….’
‘Went batshit?’
‘Batshit is an understatement…. I thought Geralt was wrong… that he should have but I dunno; I was so angry I was blinded.’ Ciri winced at her confession.
For the most part, she never admitted when she was wrong; she was too stubborn for that; her pride would not allow her the humiliation of accepting it. But there were times, time like these when things became a cluster fuck that she could admit it. Her love for her mother figure, her nurturer and teacher had blinded her to the sheer despicable nature of Yennefer plan, so much so it had made her hate Geralt. But with every passing day, she realised how stupid she had been.  Looking back made her wince with shame as she recalled all the unpleasant thoughts that went through her mind and the things she said. Ciri felt ashamed of herself, more so now she was in the Witcher’s Fortress where the memories of their relationship[ resurfaced, all the times Geralt had protected her from the violent tongue lashing of Vesemir for wondering off and training on her own. The times when he gave her a silent hug because he knew what she needed.
‘Don’t blame yourself, Yennefer has a knack for playing on one's emotions.’ The master witcher soothed in his gruff voice.
Looking up, she felt herself smiling. For all his stubborn grumpiness Vesemir was the kindly grandfather figure she needed. The bias spectator, guiding her through Geralt and Yennefer many, many arguments with a scoff and an eye roll.
‘I worry about what she will do to Adva. She already seems resigned to being cast aside, and Yennefer will play on that.’
The confession was not something she needed to say out loud; all of them were worried about what Yennefer would do; even Adva could sense it. Yennefer was capable of being truly malicious especial again those who had wronged her,
‘Maybe that is for the best. A Witcher’s life is one fought with danger having a soul mate would be even more so.’
‘You should have seen the way Geralt was with her Vesemir. The way he looked at her was…’ Ciri paused for a moment in thought ‘it was worshipping…I don’t even know how to describe it and when she flinched away from him, I thought he could break down. When she went through the portal, I thought he was going to roar in after her. I love Yennefer, I always will, nothing and no one will change that, but at the minute I don’t even what to be near her.’  
A dull pain began to throb in the corner of his left eye; there was not enough ale and wine in the whole of the castle to get him through the next couple of weeks. Damn Geralt. First, he had brought Yennefer, who destroyed every room she stayed in and threw furniture carved by their Witcher founders out the window. The elder had lost count of how many times in the past decade, Geralt had found himself at the end of a difficult situation. And this situation was the worse; soulmates were messy, and for Witcher, mates were rare and unpredictable. Geralt would be a muscle-bound mess of raging hormones, worse than when he first mutated and with Yennefer roaming around, lurking in every corner, he could feel the annoyance and irritation begin to build.
‘It will work out, for better or worse. But from what I know about soul bond, they are very powerful, and it would take more then Yennefer to do that….besides if she is that good at repairs, we need to keep her around.’
If he survived this, it would be a miracle.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Kaer Mohen was beyond anything that she had ever believed. Nestled in the middle of a vast valley, built into a mighty mountain, the almighty structure was awe-inspiring. Surrounded in greenery and limpid pools as far as the eyes could see, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. Inside did not disappoint; it was elegant, chequered marble flooring, latticed woodwork, majestically carved furniture, and rugs that while worn and dusty were exquisite. However, it was sure that the castle had seen better days, gaping holes in the roof leaked into the rooms letting in the local wildlife. Plaster was coming off the wall in large chunks, and a sharp draft came whistling through the castle. Still, it the most amazing place that she had ever seen. The library included. The vast collection of books held in sturdy mahogany shelved held behind thick sheets of glass, it was an extensive collection, most in languish she had never seen before, and the desire to pull each one out and read was overwhelming. The library seemed sadly empty just one large table and one comfy chair perched in the middle, books and quills surrounding the work area.
Vesemir seemed to be making the most of her, giving her a list of chores in the morning and then after their midday meal they would group together and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in the library. In all honestly, that was fine with her, she didn’t want to think about soulbond or Geralt. A sickness bubbled in the pit of her stomach. Waking up in the bed in a musty room brought back that only the day before she woke in the warmth of the Witcher. At least the chore distracted her from the churn of emotion that built inside of her and the anxiety that came with letting her mind wander.
‘How can you read this.’ Ciri slipped down next to the women who was engrossed in a book that contained mostly scribbled lines and dots. Just looking at the page was enough to give the former princess a headache.
‘Lunch’ Vesemir called slamming what could only be loosely described as a strew on the table. Four clay bowl slide into the various place, as they stared down at the brown slop. ‘That is my famous stew.’
The elder Witcher glared at the bard who grimaced at the pot in front of him. The mixture was brown and gritty, whatever meat was unrecognisable, the smell of a mixture of fermented broth and fried meat, it was not unpleasant, but it was not particularly appetising especially with strange unknown bits floating on the top. Jaskier twisted his face in disgust as he poked at it with his wooden spoon.
‘Famous because it kills anyone who eats it?’ Jaskier question letting the food slide off his spoon with a spatter.
Vesemir stared daggers at the bard as he is inhaling another spoonful of stew, most of it coating his beard.
‘Don’t you have any more books on Merfolk Vesemir?’ Ciri asked, leafing through the pile of red books scattered over the bench.
‘Mermaid isn’t the sort of thing Witchers deal with.’
‘But aren’t they supernatural creature.’ Jaskier retorted his right eyebrow inching up his forehead.
‘Aye, bard they are but never given us cause. Merfolk sticks to deep water and out the way of humans and creature alike. Humans have tried to wage war on them in the early days, but it futile. You aren’t ever gonna win against a creature that can sink whole fleets of ships in one go.’ Another heaping spoonful of stew smeared across his mouth. ‘Time from the time they appear near land but never bother anyone; it does not like they would abandon one of their pod on land…especially a child. I will have enough look in the archive but the literature of the Merfolk in rare. Not many have ever got close enough. I know a while back Geralt helped some duke marry Sh'eenaz, a mermaid, but she became sad, and the couple went back to the sea kingdom.’
‘So we have no idea about anything.’ Ciri spoke, slowly eyes resting on the deflated other woman.
‘You are more than welcome to search down in the archive,  but most merfolk literature is hoarded by private collectors.’
‘So we don’t know anything.’ Ciri bite out and throw a thick book across the room, pages fluttering across the marble floor.
Jaskier reached a hand across and took Adva’s giving her a reassuring squeeze. The brown-haired woman closed the book, shoulder sagging.
‘Adva If you promise to cook from now on I will go in the archives myself and battle the army of spiders in search of anything else.’
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Vesemir brought down the axe forcefully as he broke down the log and tossed it into the giant pile of firewood. From his place on the verge, he watched Adva.
Though, not the most skilful and hone in her technique Adva was accomplished. For a simple kitchen, she had a strong stance which made it hard for Ciri to break through her defence. There was no obvious contest between the two, Ciri was the more skilled and her magic more adaptive, there had been several points in which his young ward had the upper hand, but Adva managed to put on the defence, which she played well. The master Witcher didn’t see that predatory creature that he had met in his experience, just a determined young woman, strong and sweet. He found it hard to believe that she could be a mermaid. Her ability with water being the only real characteristic that they shared. There was no killer insisted, no savage passion within her, no flailing tail or hissing fangs, just a scared little girl that he now had to keep safe.
Slamming the axe down Vesemir took himself to the side to watch the pair closely. Ciri seemed to tire of being pushed back, stepped up her attack by using her blink power, teleporting her way around her. The gruff Witcher couldn’t help but smile, the little girl who would sneak off to practice on her own was no a skilled warrior. Adva’s movement became panicked and jilted as she dodged the attack, frustration ebbing in her every movement. Collecting his roofing tools, he made his way across the stall and once against back to the field to collect the ladder. This time Ciri seemed to be on the back foot. Adva’s attacks were precise and direct, one after the other. A water blast threw the young Witcher off her footing, causing her to stumble back, and whip of water then appeared out of nowhere lashing itself across her side and wrapped itself around her wrist slamming her into the dirt.
Vesemir stilled, his body is tensed his eye trained on the pair, grabbing for the axe he embedded in the tree stump. He saw it, the killer instancing, the way her eyes shone that little bit brighter. Ciri recovered well, shifting her body to the left in a blur of blue light escape the confines of the water vines before rolling up on her feet and brushing the dust off.
Adva blinked, several times swallowing heavily as she took a step back as she felt the adrenaline still racing through her vein.
‘Good attack. Never really seen anything like that.’ Ciri smiled, standing to her full height. ‘Next time I won't go so easy on you. I better go see how Jaskier is doing. The spiders have properly cornered him in archives. We will pick this up again tomorrow…but you are going down’ Ciri smirked, nodding at Vesesir before ascending the step of the balcony.
‘I see Ciri found you some clothing, more practical for doing maintenance. You can help me patch up the roof, get the tar and meet m by the ladder.’
Looking down, she pulled at the outfit she had been given from a large box of items left by the various people that passed through. The bottoms were a pair of duelling trousers made from a shammy leather material, making them soft and stretchy, that held her tight across the arse and allowed for free movement. They were at least 50 years old but kept pristine by the mothballs packed in the trunk of clothing. The deep red material suited her and at least didn’t show the dirt from the unkept castle. The top was an oversized tunic that fell to mid-thigh; it was thick enough to keep the chill that had started to cling in the air. A cracked old belt clinched tightly around her waist to keep the oversized garments from slipping off her body completely.
Pushing her way up the steep bank to the courtyard, Adva pulled the bubbling tar from its fire. The courtyard held the shed and the stables it was up at the top of a sharp incline; it leads all the way round to the training grounds which Ciri had been handing her ass to her for the best part of the day, a sense of pride swelled within her as she laid the foul-smelling tar into a bucket. She had managed to keep upright and had a few good hits, she was improving, and her powers had developed in the passing weeks with Triss. Training with Ciri proved that.
When the bucket was full, tentatively she pulled it up the ladder on top of what she thought was a storage shed beside the kitchen. Vesemir was already hard at work, hammering in think sleet slate into the missing patches. Wordlessly, the master witcher tossed her a tarring brush, a thin stick with a rag attached to it and nodded toward the slates. Between the old tiles was a thick layer of tar, filling any minute gaps in which the water to seep through and flood the room beneath. Adva swilled the brush into the thick liquid and plastered around the edges of the shingles.
The height was not her favourite, the mere thought of going any higher made her head spin. They worked in silence for the best part of an hour, as soon as he finished one, she would swoop in and slather the thick goop on the slabs. It was clear to see where Geralt got his mannerisms, the way they both puckered their brow when they were concentrating. The way their eyes shifted as they worked, head shifting at every noise. These features were not different that Geralt could not pass for his son, but Adva had made a deep study of Geralt, his features where sharper, more defined. Both men had strong physic, after years of training and monster hunting, but Geralt's frame seemed bulkier, shoulders broader and arms solid with muscle.
A deep wave of shame consumed her. She had promised herself she wouldn’t think of him, but he crept into her mind. A melancholy fell over her, it was a numbness, at gnawed at her core.
‘Next is the west staircase, I will teach you how to tack and shave down the boards.’ Vesemir grunted as he threw the hammer into the dirt as he made his way down the ladder. Holding out his hand to help Adva down, grabbing the bucket and brush and tossing it to the side.
Adva nodded, thankful for something to do.
‘Never thought a little girl would be much good a roofing you are a strange little thing.’
Adva laughed awkwardly, wiping her hands on her piny. ‘You know what brothel is like, all hand on deck. I cooked, cleaned, mediated, fix roofs, walls, beds.’
‘Not much of a life for a little girl.’ Vesemir stared down at her; it was an uncomfortable gaze, that pierced through her.
The master witcher looked at her, his medallion didn’t vibrate, but there was a warmth to it, just enough to heat the skin beneath the wolfs head. He wasn’t sure that she was a Mermaid, but there was something. Something strange. Something different that he could put his finger on. But now she looked like a scared little girl, a girl being dragged from one bad situation to the next. Tough and hard-working but most of all, frighten of that power within her. It bubbled under the surface, threatening to rear its head.
‘Last time I check I was a woman…well, Mermaid.’ Adva shot him a steely determined look. He wasn’t sure what she was determined about, but it made him give out a snort, it reminded him of Ciri when she first stumbled into his home.
‘Well, Mermaid…we better get back. I think Jaskier is dying for more of my cooking.’ The older man gave her a small smile as he guided them through the courtyard.
For once, he was as near as excited as a Witcher could be to see Yennefer again, as he could tell that sweet little maid was going to give her a run for her money. A deep smirk set into his features, if he had anything to do with it, Yennefer would definitely have a run for her money.
This was supposed to be out last weekend, but drama has got real. I work in a school, and it’s a mess. I have been trying to sort out all my evidence for a qualification I have been doing, which is draining, and family are having health issues. But I am happy to announce that smut is insight. I have been planning out future chapters, and they are looking good.
For those of you who are confused about Adva’s coping strategy, I sort of based it on me. When I get stressed or anxious I turn into a clean freak.  Recently, I got so stressed I actually put up several shelves, despite not having anything to put on them. I thought it would make her a little more realist. 
I am also having flashes of inspiration for a GeraltxOCxEskel story if anyone is interested. I love Eskel he is like a giant cuddly teddy bear! It properly won't be out till I finish The Witchers Mate, but I am also playing with a squeal which is just a series of one-shots.
Please let me know what you think!
@threepupsinapuddle @broco8 @introvertedmouse @luxyash @vikingsbifrost @pastelblogsposts @wastingmypotential @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @fandom-lover-4 @sageandberries-png 
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asterekmess · 5 years ago
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I've started reading Sterek fic again after years away from fandom (purely because of your posts btw) and there is an alarming number of Stiles being pushed/kicked out of the pack and treated horribly but he still goes out of his way to help and forgives all with random Sterek thrown in at the end. I did not miss that nonsense at all. Why is that so popular?
That’s very sweet of you, and I’m happy that you’ve found a love of fic again!
So, this trope. I...I love this trope. A lot of fans do, obviously.
I’mma put this under a read more, just because I tend to ramble.
First off, I’m sure you’ve noticed that there’s a lot of...side-splitting within the sterek fandom? At least, for those of us who aren’t fans of Scott. You see a lot of “Hale Pack” versus “McCall Pack” stuff. A lot of that comes about because people don’t like that Derek lost his Alpha status (I definitely don’t like it) but also because Derek never actually joins Scott’s pack. He is always on the fringes, whether because he gets put there or because he puts himself there. It’s not hard to separate him from Scott’s group, because he was never a part of it to begin with.
For Sterek shippers, we usually want Stiles to be in Derek’s pack (some people who don’t mind Scott, or even like him, also like to make Stiles a sort of bridge between the two packs? Belonging to both and neither at the same time?) but that is kind of difficult to make when it’s so much more specific in canon about Stiles being in Scott’s pack.
I’ve seen lots of people argue that Scott never had an actual ‘pack’, just a group of friends, or that Lydia and Stiles were never part of his pack, and I don’t know enough meta to say whether that’s right or not.
I do know that throughout the show, Stiles (whether we like it or not) considers Scott his best friend. Many fans of Derek can’t reconcile Derek and Scott ever being close friends because of their history together, and that creates a sort of break. How can Stiles be friends with someone his partner hates, and how can he date someone his best friend hates?
So, writers do their best to separate Stiles from Scott’s pack within their fic. Sometimes it involves the rest of the pack also dispersing and Scott getting left alone, and sometimes the rest of the pack sticks with Scott and Stiles and Derek go off to be their own pack.
When it comes to Stiles getting ‘kicked out’ of the pack, I think it’s important to note that part of that is just the hurt/comfort of it all. How many of us have been cut out of friend groups, or family groups, and had to make our own way and wished there was someone on the outside who would take us in? So, we write that happening, giving Stiles that dream we wish for by having Derek help get Stiles back on his feet, or support him so thoroughly that he never hits the ground in the first place.
Another part has to do with how much more difficult and convoluted it can be to write him peacefully leaving Scott’s pack (since we’ve already established that in these situations, Stiles staying in Scott’s pack is a no-go). There’s so much more to explain when he’s still buddies with everyone and just...leaves anyway? Of course, it can be (and has been) done, but a lot of writers don’t want to put in the extra effort (I am one of them, tbqh).
Another part has surely come about from that scene in the rain. For a lot of Stiles fans, this was the absolute breaking point. Stiles had been kicked out of the pack (I haven’t seen the actual episode myself, so I try v hard not to bring it up in meta, bc I don’t know what the fuck I’m on about) and it became a catalyst for a lot of fics that show Stiles getting shoved away, put on the edges so much like Derek had been, and the two of them finding each other instead.
Now, on to the point of your message. The cases where the trope ends with Stiles forgiving Scott and whoever else was involved in him getting removed from the pack. Obviously, this would be a case by case basis. Every writer has their own reasons and we can only speculate most of the time about why they wrote something a specific way.
Some people like Scott, and want to see him grow. So they use the fic to work out their frustrations with his and Stiles’ uneven friendship, and end it with some forgiveness and leave the characters with the chance to grow back into better friends. Some people like those around Scott and don’t want to have to leave them out of the rest of the story just because they’re part of Scott’s pack and Stiles has left. So, even if they don’t particularly want Scott to be Stiles’ Alpha, they still want Stiles to be able to be close to and interact with Scott’s pack, which requires a bit of forgiveness. Another option, is related to how people perceive Stiles himself. We all project on Stiles’ character a lot, I think. Whether it’s projecting our own personality or just the personality we wish we had, we all do it, so we’ve all got very different perceptions of Stiles’ personality and behaviors.
Some see Stiles as ruthless, take-no-shit badass who will destroy you if you piss him off. The kind of genius who would hack into the local police department and screw with your permanent record. Most of the time, those ‘kinds’ of Stiles’ don’t do any forgiving, and usually they get some kind of revenge. Some see him as a really sensitive, broken, love-starved guy who just wants some fucking friends, damn it. Who would give anything for them and is always willing to help others, even strangers, because being helpful is just so integral to his character. Those ‘kinds’ of Stiles’ usually go running back into the fight to save people who’ve screwed him over, they forgive and they forget because they don’t know how to do anything else. Some people (myself included) see Stiles as a very broken and insecure guy. Not insecure about his body (though, yeah, I’ve written some stuff where he is) or about his own intelligence, but insecure about his relationships with other people. Also, as someone very loyal, to the point of immorality. They see Stiles as a guy with a select group of people that he actually gives a fuck about, and for those people? He is ride-or-die, with you to the end of the line, step into gasoline for you loyal. In those cases, Stiles often forgives people because he can’t bear the thought of not having this person in his life anymore, he isn’t capable of letting go, even if it’s for good reason. He helps them because they’ve been burned into his heart and he cannot watch them hurt or suffer. They are family, and he will burn the world down for them, even if he also kind of hates them?
So, there’s lots of reasons that he would do that, but I understand how frustrating it can be to see it over and over again, especially when you’re really displeased with certain characters (ethan or aiden or scott or peter, etc). The best I can suggest is to block certain tags. Using Scott as an example, rather than searching only for “Scott is a bad friend”  or “Scott is a bad Alpha” fics, which would massively cut down on the available fics for you, while also missing ones that may have that content without it being tagged, instead try blocking the opposite tag, so that at least you won’t be getting the fics that have “Scott is a good friend” or “Scott is a good alpha” as a main point of the fic. Again, this will definitely miss some, and you’ll still end up with untagged instances of it, but it will definitely cut down on it. Took me ages to actually think to do it, but I’ve been much happier reading fics since then.
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ikesenhell · 5 years ago
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Heatwave
You can find all other IkeSen works of mine on my page under the Masterlist. NOTES: Thank you so much to the wonderful folks who came out and hung out with me as I wrote my first Ikesen piece since ‘American Dream’ in ages. I’d been batting around this idea at the lovely @a-shout-to-the-void and finally buckled down and did it. TW: torture, abuse mentions and descriptions, blood, painful injuries. A lot of descriptions and references to Ieyasu’s childhood with the Imagawa Don’t worry, no one dies. It also somehow has a good ending? Idk man. Also, hello to my first piece with Yoshimoto in it whatupppppp
----
It was three months after the second disappearance of the Takeda, and the main hall was deathly quiet. All were assembled--Nobunaga lording on his dias, his allies gathered close--and no one spoke. 
Ieyasu wished someone would. 
“He wasn’t difficult to bring in at all,” Mitsuhide commented, as if it were the weather. Clouds from the shoreline--perhaps it will rain. 
(Funny, they could use some of that. The summer was stifling and showed no signs of abating, even as the seasons turned. The crops weren’t going as well as expected, and Azuchi was a cooker. They’d slitted the screens open, but even then, Ieyasu could see sweat beading on Hideyoshi’s forehead. Even Mitsuhide, usually pristine and inhuman, sported small pools of darkened silk in the underlayers that peeked through.)
Masamune almost smiled. “Do you really think he was stupid enough to come here on purpose? He’s got guts.”
Nobunaga’s perceptive red eyes flickered in Ieyasu’s direction. 
“Perhaps.” Mitsuhide allowed a smile. 
“Probably to try his hand at Nobunaga.” But even Hideyoshi seemed unconvinced. “Maybe the last ditch effort of the Takeda before we destroy them.” 
Ieyasu hated that he glanced at Mitsunari, looking for something in the way of understanding, anything he hadn’t guessed at already. Even if that stupid puzzled expression was there, it was something. No luck. Mitsunari had the hard, calculating stare of a man who already knew the score. 
Damn it all to hell. 
“He no doubt knows where Shingen and his ilk have scattered to. Until we have found them, they remain a threat.” With a subtle nod of an imperious head (the fine sheen of sweat glittered on his neck), he motioned to Mitsuhide. “Do what you must.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” the other man noted, “I believe there is someone else here who might be better suited to… gathering the information you require from our latest guest.”
His hands were cold. His hands were cold and they were all looking at him. Ieyasu balled his fingers into fists and willed them to stop trembling. 
(Was he angry? Furious. Incensed. They needed rain in Mikawa and the crops were a concern and in the vacuum that the Takeda left there were a thousand bureaucratic things to consider and he was never not angry, only three steps away from it where he could look at it from what he liked to think was a cool remove when it was really like a fiery tornado. They’d taken so much from him and here he was again, to take more with a smile, and he couldn’t do a damn thing without destroying it anyway.)
Nobunaga just stared at him. “Well?”
And he was the best man for the job. 
Ieyasu nodded, his face as porcelain-still as he could force. “Of course.”
---
The first time he met Imagawa Yoshimoto, he only said one word. 
Ieyasu was only a child, still in the hands of his enemies. He had bruised banding around his legs from switches and cut knees, hair that went every which way and eyes that still welled traitorously with tears when struck. Illusions of fair treatment were gone. All he had was will and a directive: this is what you can do for Mikawa. If being beaten saved Mikawa, that was his responsibility. 
Wasn’t it?
There was a banquet and the Imagawa wanted to show him off like a prize pet. Ieyasu was quiet, not stupid.He smiled politely and remembered all of the tiny details of court manners, the little things that would help him (Mikawa) survive. They’d put him into a finer haori than the one they usually allowed and seated him where all the other nobles could spy on the little waif from a nothing place. 
Yoshimoto, he later learned, was the beanpole teen sitting perfectly only a few spaces away from him. Dark hair, a charming smile, pretty eyes. Ieyasu hated them all on reflex. Whoever he was--that didn't matter. Ieyasu smiled with thanks to one of his benefactors and imagined stabbing him between the eyes. 
How would he do it first? Who would go? It made sense to start with the Imagawa head--of course, that was only the correct order of things--but he could also trap them all in the hall and set it ablaze, let them scrabble over each other like rats. He could pick off their families one by one. He could--
Someone set a sake cup heavily in front of him, only half-poured. Ieyasu blinked rapid-fire up at the teen smiling down at him. 
“Smile,” he instructed, fluttering a fan entirely-too-close to both of them. And then he rushed away.
Ieyasu glanced down at the cup on his table and realized two things: one, he’d allowed his polite facade to slip. He could feel the stormcloud in the grit of his teeth. Two, the Imagawa teenager had blocked him from view with the fan--and probably spared him a beating. 
Only later did he learn his name. 
---
The dungeon stairs were slick. Every once in a while, someone came and cleaned the mold and mildew from the flagstones, but that was a lost cause. It seemed like the only moisture in Azuchi had escaped to its basements. Wet-blanket heat settled foul in the belly of Mitsuhide’s workspace, the little light lancing from narrow windows illuminating hazy curls of breath-sucking humidity. Ieyasu disguised his disgust at the foul smells the way he knew best--frowning. 
Their prisoner was moved to the very last cell, the ‘interrogation room’. Mitsuhide’s gentle words didn't disguise its purpose. It was an execution chamber and torture cell. Ieyasu never went in to discover its secrets. What he did was in the open, precisely where everyone could see it. 
(Because if you were going to hurt someone, you did it openly, he’d decided. Cowards hid abuse. If you raised the sword, you showed the sunlight its deadly glint and let heaven know your intent. Violence couldn’t be wrapped in a silken kimono and paraded before leering eyes--)
The door was shut. Ieyasu didn't waste the time to reflect on it. No interior monologue did him good here. Shunting thoughts and the heavy latch to the side, he stepped in. 
Their prisoner was kneeling. Mitsuhide prepped well. His knees were tied to those uneven slats the other man so preferred, jagged, uneven boards guaranteed to end with shattered shin bones if left long enough. He’d been stripped of his fine armor and things, reduced to a (still beautiful, dark grey and blue silk) final layer of kimono. Unkempt, shiny dark hair spilled loose on his shoulders. As Ieyasu stepped inside, those gold eyes met his. 
Yoshimoto had the audacity to smile. 
“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, light as a feather, his voice already hoarse. Like commenting on the weather. Awfully hot, isn’t it? It should have rained by now. “I didn't expect to see you here.”
All the anger he kept so tightly coiled unfurled, the head of it raring like a threatened snake, and Ieyasu bared his fangs, too. “You should have. Why did you come?”
It was a stupid question. They both knew that. Yoshimoto just smiled that serene, sad, painter’s smile. Maybe, Ieyasu thought, if he had half of Yoshimoto’s artistic eye (the way he’d never had Mitsunari’s reflex genius or Masamune’s slick tongue or Nobunaga’s command or--), he could take the scene before him and transform it into a painting. The light cast over his prisoner’s back in sharp relief, all of the folds of silk and linen and hair akin to one of those Portuguese paintings they tried so hard to pawn off on them. 
“Are you going to answer?” Ieyasu demanded. Cold, cold, cold. His hands were cold. 
Yoshimoto dipped his head silently. “You know why I came, and you know why I won’t leave.”
Ieyasu sucked in his breath--like that would crush the flames of anger twisting, tornadoing in him. It burned in his throat. First, he’d get Yoshimoto off those planks. Those would come later. 
---
When he emerged several hours later--without anything to show for his efforts, just blazing fury and frustration renewed and a respect that clawed at his spine--Ieyasu blinked in surprise at the Chatelaine standing just outside the stairwell. He almost missed her. The sun was gone by now, the moon rising in its inconstant arc over Azuchi’s peaks, long lines of moonlight as gentle as the flickering torch light below was ominous. 
Of course she was there. Of course.
“How is he?” She asked, and Ieyasu wanted to scream.
“How do you think?” He snapped. “Go inside.” 
She didn't move. Instead, she produced a cold cup for him, shoving it into his hands. 
“What’s this for?”
“It was hot today. You must be thirsty.”
He stared at the cup in his hands, the silvery liquid inside glowing like moonbeams. “How long have you been here?”
“A while.”
What did that mean? How long had she waited here in the fading dusk, listening to the muffled sounds below, with a cup for him? Was it even for him? How could she give him this when only moments before, he’d washed away the blood of her--her--
Gods, he still couldn’t say it to himself. 
“Who told you?” He finally asked, his voice sharp. 
She folded her hands over her skirts instead of answering. “Is he alive?”
Of course this was about Yoshimoto. Of course this was. Even the cup was in the interest of getting information. Icy, crawling hatred slithered down the small of his back like sweat. Unceremoniously, Ieyasu dumped the contents of the cup on the ground. 
“Ieyasu--!”
He contemplated breaking it. But that wasn’t fair to her. None of this was. None of this was fair to her, just like none of it was fair to him. So instead he shoved the little mug back into her hands and stalked inside, as if moving fast enough would leave all of that behind. 
---
For the rest of his captivity, Yoshimoto was less a person and more a concept. Ieyasu saw him sometimes, fleeting glimpses of a young man blooming handsome. What kind of a life did he lead, Ieyasu wondered? It must be the opposite of his plight. No doubt he had enough to eat. No doubt he had clothes that fit, people that cared whether he lived or died, someone to spare a smile at him. No doubt he could sleep at night without a burning hate clawing up his throat and threatening to choke him. 
It was hot that summer--sweltering, relentless. Ieyasu’s room had no screens to the courtyard and so he tossed and turned fitfully at night, too uncomfortable to sleep. Sometimes he dreamed of Mikawa and home, home with the people who relied on him to be strong, people who allowed him to step down from his endless responsibility of strength for a day and be a young man again. 
They exchanged words only briefly once more, before Ieyasu went home and returned again and razed them, burned their houses the way he’d always dreamed, released all the untamed hatred raring in his heart and finally did for Mikawa what his endless abuse at the Imagawa had never done. They passed in the hallways and Yoshimoto stopped him, a small retinue at his side. 
“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said lightly. Yoshimoto said his name like a name, not a curse, not a burden on a household already determined to hate him. “How are you today?”
What could he say? A thousand callous things spiraled through his mind, each one more vile than the other, until he couldn’t think of a single nice word. He simply shut his mouth and nodded slowly, safely, feeling thick and stupid. “It has been quite hot lately.”
Those gold eyes stared right through him. And at long last, Yoshimoto nodded. “It certainly has. I hope it rains soon. May you have an excellent day.”
When he returned to his room that night, there was a small, beautiful fan sitting in a neat package before his door. Ieyasu let the slow, languid sound of its fluttering lull him to sleep, its cool breeze the first reprieve in months. 
---
He didn't think about Imagawa Yoshimoto for a long while after, not even when he served as Imagawa's puppet ruler. That chapter of his life was behind him. Ieyasu had exacted his revenge on Imagawa. That was over. 
It was, at least, until the Chatelaine. 
---
“Why are you here?” He demanded. 
She was waiting for him again in front of the dungeon steps, a small package wrapped in her hands. Her kimono was a soft blue with little white details, modest and cute and practical and perfect. She worked so hard. Everyone knew that. He knew that. 
“You didn't have anything to eat this morning,” she answered. The sun wasn’t yet at its peak, but already he could see the waves of heat rolling across the fields behind her, the bronzed backs of villagers in its orange glow. “You almost never miss breakfast.”
“Almost,” he pushed, as if that word made all the difference. Damnit. Damn it all to hell. This was why he had to hate people like her and Mitsunari (and Yoshimoto). The second you saw anything different in them, they pried you open like oystermen searching for pearls and only recoiled in disappointment when they discovered nothing but sand and salt. “You know that this won’t bribe me, right?”
Her cheeks flared white-hot. Good. Hate me. Hate me like I have to hate everyone else who wronged me. 
“You do know I like you, right?” She snapped. “I’m your friend. I’m not doing anything to bribe you.”
“Yeah?” Ieyasu sneered, too angry and confused and bitter to stop himself, “Just like you like Imagawa Yoshimoto? Should I expect a love letter--”
She flung the package into his hands (he caught it, barely) and marched away, her shoulders knit tight together. 
It still smelled of bean paste when he arrived in the last room of the dungeon, Yoshimoto already prepared and silent for the day. He looked well, for a man who now sported a bruised eye, crusted lip, and a slightly jagged shoulder. 
“Good morning, Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he announced, hoarse but polite. 
Ieyasu unwrapped the breakfast and examined its contents. There was a little more than usual. 
“Your woman,” he announced, (and why was it so hard to sound angry and impassive, why did he want to sound sad?) “Apparently gave me extra food under the impression I might give you some.”
No doubt the prisoner was starving. He’d barely had enough to eat to sustain himself, let alone under the pressure of the torture. But Yoshimoto straightened.
“Is she well?”
No mention of the food. No weakness. Just that endless reservoir of hope that Ieyasu resented, resented because he couldn’t find it anywhere inside himself. Didn't he deserve that kind of serenity? 
Silence. Ieyasu considered his words. Yoshimoto, no doubt, was wondering what had become of her, if Nobunaga had exacted on her the same fate that awaited him. The uncertainty was doubtless crushing. A thousand lies presented themselves.  
“Yes,” he finally allowed. “She’s fine.”
Yoshimoto smiled. Even through the bloodstained teeth and greasy hair and bruising and marks running roughshod over his arms where everyone could see, he still glowed. “Good.”
---
Ieyasu still dreamed about being with the Imagawa. 
Usually it was just the shape of things. The oppressive hot of his bedroom, the rolling waves of contracting pain in his muscles, the crushing emptiness of a room with no sunlight. 
Sometimes Ieyasu considered them a mercy. It wasn’t the same as the real thing. He didn't have dreams about how the men decided to test how far his stone expression went, applying hotter and hotter blades to his skin to see if he’d cry. They finally applied a white-hot wakizashi to the tender flesh of his thigh and he screamed so loud he couldn’t talk clearly for a week. 
Where was Yoshimoto during all this, he wondered now? There was no way he couldn’t have known. He had a reputation as a lush, but Ieyasu also knew from first-hand battle experience that more lay beneath that pretty exterior. He was like his Takeda cousin: he knew how to play a good game. Had he known just the hint of Ieyasu’s abuse, or had he understood the full spectrum of it? Surely the men of court talked. No doubt they made it a game. 
Yoshimoto had to know. 
She was surprised when he confronted her in the courtyard. She was hanging up some silks she’d washed, their bright colors like cavalry banners. Her stone-face was good, too, but not as good as his. He could see the thin lines of worry and sleepless nights stretched in the fine skin under her eyes. 
“Why him?” Ieyasu demanded. 
The chatelaine blinked at him, registering his question. No immediate answer. That was wise. “Why do you want to know?”
“Do you know what the Imagawa are like?” He hissed. “Do you know what they did? Do you have any idea?”
(It was hot out, so hot that he could see the wet silks drying already. No breeze lifted them. They hung like corpses strung out as an example. The remains of the burns on his thighs and arms, even now, stung superheated. The prickle of sweat against them was agonizing and he’d learned to live with it.)
Slowly, she dipped a hand into the cold water of her wash bucket and took his fingers in hers. Sweet relief! Ieyasu tried not to unbend under her gentle touch, the kindness, tried to convince himself that this was for someone else’s benefit and not his. History said otherwise. Long before she’d met Yoshimoto, she’d been like this. 
“No,” she said at last. “I don’t know much about who they were to you, just the vague details you’ve shared.”
“Then why him?” Ieyasu groped for his real question. It was that simple, wasn’t it? Yoshimoto wasn’t just on the wrong side. He was on the worst side. Even Uesugi Kenshin was better than an Imagawa. 
“Well…” She dipped her hand back in the bucket, splashed more water on his arms. It clung to the silk of his sleeves and cooled the worst of his burns. “There’s a lot to like about him.”
Of course there was. Yoshimoto was intelligent and clever. He had excellent taste and was handsome and diplomatic, even if he had a reputation as a useless leader and a lush. He’d never been anything but kind, and Ieyasu hated that. 
---
Yoshimoto hit the floor with a thud and a yelp, but an unsatisfying one. Ieyasu prowled around him. 
“You know what Nobunaga wants.” The sun shot unrelenting into their chamber, superheating everything. Ieyasu was sweating like a madman and refused to cede even a single article of clothing. He would not reveal the testament of his failures hidden underneath. “Just give me where Shingen went.”
The other man laughed miserably and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Ieyasu kicked him back over. 
“He would have told you,” Ieyasu snarled. “That was your plan. Your plan was to come here, get her, go back into hiding with her and the rest of the Takeda. Wasn’t it?”
For once, Yoshimoto sighed and shut his eyes. “Why would I do that?”
“Giving us his whereabouts--”
“Ieyasu,” Yoshimoto interrupted wearily (and he still said his name like a name, goddamnit, not a curse or a burden or an evil thing, even after all of this), “She hates war. Why would I bring her straight into one?”
Outside, heat thunder rolled. No break in the heat yet. Its siren song drove the farmers and townspeople mad with hope. Hideyoshi had looked out sagely that morning and declared that it wouldn’t rain--not today--but it might later that week. They usually trusted him with that kind of thing. Right now, Ieyasu wished that it would come pouring down and drown them both. 
“That has no relevance to where Takeda Shingen is,” Ieyasu finally responded. 
“I don’t know where Shingen is.” Yoshimoto laid his head on the cool flagstones, eyes still shut, blood flecked over his hair and the filthy silk of the kimono he’d worn the first day. “He wouldn’t have told me.”
Cold, cold, cold hands. “So you’ve said. You’ve said that at least a dozen times.”
A pause. Yoshimoto’s chest heaved a slow, jagged tempo. “He wouldn’t tell me because of her. Because of us.”
Ieyasu wanted to scream again. He could feel it bubbling in his throat, like the ghost of that white-hot blade pressed to his skin. 
They were too nice too nice too nice, they both knew what he was doing to him and still she washed his hand and still he said his name like a friend and still there was no damn rain and still she didn't hate him he didn't hate him why couldn’t they just hate him
“Why?” He finally managed, his voice a twisted blade that tore at him the whole way out. “Don’t you hate me?”
Yoshimoto opened his eyes, still gold and pale against the gray walls, still handsome and bright and sharp. 
“You’re doing what you have to do,” he managed at last. “And I’m certain you hate me. I probably deserve it.”
Burning burning burning cold hands. The sweat seared him. “Did you know? Did you know the whole time I was there, and did you ignore it?”
At last, they were down to the crux of the whole thing. Yoshimoto wriggled like he meant to sit up (as if they were peers in this moment, just sitting and listening to a friend share their worries) and when his body failed him, he slumped over as best he could, eyes locked and gaze unwavering. 
“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, “You do know I was thirteen?”
That wasn’t an answer. 
“I knew there was something wrong,” he answered at last. All the words sounded labored. “The details, I never knew. Just the hot room and that you looked ready to kill half of us if given the chance from time to time. I never would’ve known anything specific unless it came from you.”
(He was angry. So, so, so angry. A free-wheeling, blistering summer, crop-killing, volcanic kind of anger that threatened to overflow and kill everything in its wake.)
Ieyasu curled his fingers so tight that his knuckles creaked. Yoshimoto slumped his head back to the floor, shut his eyes and took another labored breath. All of his bruises were out in the open, where everyone could see them. There were no hidden marks, nothing easily covered in the painted facade of a silk--like desecrating a pretty vase, Ieyasu thought. 
“Did you know that your uncle--I think it was your uncle--burned me?” He announced. “My arms, my legs. He held a knife over a fire and waited until it glowed, then tried to see if I would scream. He only stopped when I finally did. I’ve still got the scars.”
Yoshimoto’s eyes were open again. There was no stone face--just a well of confusion and relentless sorrow. 
“I’m sorry,” he said, and Ieyasu instantly wanted him to take it back. “That should never have happened.”
Outside, the thunder rumbled again. They’d both been kids, once. Kids who barely knew each other, who lived in the same place and entirely different worlds and never once knew what lay beyond their circle. There was a faint scar just above Yoshimoto’s collarbone. Ieyasu wondered what it was from.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Ieyasu said. “You couldn’t have stopped it anyway.”
---
No one was completely sure when she and Yoshimoto met, though Ieyasu suspected that the Takeda had spies in Azuchi for a long time before the battle. It was likely in their own marketplace. They had fine fabrics and he knew that Yoshimoto, otherwise an unremarkable daimyo, wouldn’t have stood out. He’d noticed her disappearing off to the stalls for supplies more frequently, but her business was also thriving. Everyone wanted her wares. 
Mitsuhide found the letters first. 
The only thing that saved her from Nobunaga was that she’d revealed nothing treasonous. It was love, plain and simple. His fine calligraphy lay neatly on thin mulberry paper (an artistic touch and beautiful in its own right), every character reserved entirely to her wellbeing and their budding affections. No mention of armies or war. No hatred, no grandstanding. Just love--love, plain and simple and innocent and complicated and all-encompassing and blinding. 
But all that meant was she was safe. 
And the match made sense, as much as Ieyasu couldn’t stand to admit it. They were both art lovers, convinced of its importance as much as warfare, certain that without it, what kind of a world existed to fight for at all? They used entire leaves of paper discussing dyeing techniques and exchanging book recommendations and talking about their homelands. 
(And honestly, Ieyasu hadn’t needed the letters to cement what he already knew. She’d spied Yoshimoto on the battlefield and he saw her whole body light up, eyes blazing with the kind of need he’d never seen in her before. He already knew then. He’d just hoped he was wrong.)
Nobunaga wouldn’t let some traitor daimyo run off with his lucky charm. Not in a thousand years. 
Ieyasu rapped on her door late that night, and she opened the screen, bleary eyed from fatigue. She’d barely slept in a week. The red rim of her eyes betrayed every tear she couldn’t shed in front of them. 
“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled. 
“Where are we going?”
“Shut up.”
The silly woman somehow still trusted him. Ieyasu dragged her quietly down the stairs, past the main hall, through the courtyard and out the front door. She wasn’t dressed to be in public and still didn't question him. Without ceremony, he reached the dungeon door and yanked it open, its hinges silvery in the moonlight and depths impenetrable. 
She stared at him. “What are we--”
“I said shut up.”
One step at a time, he lead her into the darkness. The stairs were almost dry, the unnatural heatwave baking it clean. Still he was cautious. They reached the bottom and he fetched a lit torch, motioning at the guard on duty to leave without a word, and fetched the key ring. “Lift your skirts and follow me.”
Yoshimoto was back in his holding cell. He was still holding his left shoulder slightly jagged, his breathing shallow but even, his split lip now clear and the grime of his face washed clean. Apparently he’d used his drinking water to do that. He peered intently around the corner at Ieyasu. “Tokugawa--”
Then he saw her, and he fell completely silent. 
“Here.” Ieyasu fumbled with the keys (he’d never had to unlock the cell doors) and finally found the right one. “You don’t have long.”
Yoshimoto struggled to rise and failed to get up. He didn't need to. The second Ieyasu cracked the door, she flung herself inside and her arms around him, their bodies bound so tight together that he wondered if they’d ever been separate at all. Her voice cracked, slurred something in her native tongue, the beginnings of a sob rolling through her back. 
“Shh.” He lifted his arms with effort, wound his fingers in her hair, kissed her forehead, her head, her eyes, clutched her to him. “Hush, darling. Hush. It’s okay.”
It isn’t, Ieyasu thought. It really isn’t. But they just sat there in silence together, her tears muffled into his chest and his body emanating love like sunlight. And he wondered (as he’d wondered a million things about Imagawa Yoshimoto lately) how a man who’d barely been able to get up this afternoon could summon the strength to smile and hold her so tight. 
---
“He doesn’t know anything.”
Nobunaga and Hideyoshi cocked the opposite brow at the same time, which might’ve been comical were it not so deadly serious. 
“Is that so?” Nobunaga remarked. It was the tone of voice that let him know this was not a question. 
“Shingen didn't divulge where he was going to Imagawa expressly because he knew about the attachment to the chatelaine.” Ieyasu inhaled. “So when he left, he was effectively spurring Imagawa to leave the fight too.”
Mitsunari frowned. “That is a valuable ally to excise for sentimental reasons.”
Mitsuhide smiled. “Practically cutthroat of you, Mitsunari. Color me surprised. As it so happens, I’ve obtained similar intelligence.”
Hideyoshi’s surprise translated loud and clear. “Really?”
“So it would seem. The thorn in our side still has a few petals remaining.”
Nobunaga’s gaze fell back down on Ieyasu, searching him. He’d grown used to most of those inscrutable expressions: contemplative, frustrated, puzzled. Now it was just the brotherly stare he got after some of his worst days on the battlefield. 
“How is our prisoner?” He asked. 
“Yes indeed,” Mitsuhide purred. “Is he still alive?”
“He’s alive.” Ieyasu paused. “He’s… relatively okay.”
The Devil King’s eyes never wavered. “And what would you recommend we do with him?”
---
Yoshimoto was allowed medical attention and to rest for one week, the meagre possessions he came with restored to him. Even with the fresh scar on his lip and a slight catch in his shoulder (Ieyasu was relatively certain it would smooth out over time), he was still regal and handsome. The cold grey of dawn greeted them with a blinding lightning bolt and a torrential downpour. It soaked through the cracked earth and ran muddy and wild over the fields. 
Ieyasu affixed the last of Yoshimoto’s things to the saddlebag himself. “That’s everything.”
Imagawa Yoshimoto smiled at him, despite everything. “I appreciate that.”
The chatelaine lingered in the stable. She’d snuck out to see him off, despite all of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi’s disapproval. Her eyes were puffy with new, unshed tears. “You’re just going to put him out in the rainstorm?”
He glanced out the stable door. It came down in thick, obscuring sheets. “Yep.”
“Come now.” Yoshimoto gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be just fine, love--”
Ieyasu snorted. “Of course you two will.”
The lovebirds started. He relished the look of surprise. 
“What does that mean?” She said. 
“You idiot, the rain will keep anyone from seeing that you’re gone for at least twenty minutes.” Ieyasu checked it again. “No one on lookout will be able to tell the difference between one rider and two. If you time it right, you can clear the Azuchi fields by the time it lifts. Yes, you’ll get soaked--”
“--It’s perfect cover.” Yoshimoto finished, breathless. 
“Ieyasu.” She dashed to his side, catching his hands in hers. They were so warm that it melted through her fingertips and into his--a comfortable, gentle heat. “Ieyasu.”
“Go.” He pointed at the saddlebags. “I smuggled in some of your things. Your weird bag, sewing stuff, some goods. Mitsunari helped me grab extras. No one questions if he takes things. Now get out of here before anyone realizes you’re gone.”
The chatelaine smiled at him--a blazing, beautiful smile--and leaned in and kissed his cheek hard. “Thank you.”
He was going to miss her.
“Go,” he repeated instead. “Go now.”
Yoshimoto and him helped her into the saddle first. Afterwards, Yoshimoto mounted up behind her, wrapping his cloak and body around her as best he could. “Thank you, Tokugawa.”
“If you don’t do right by her,” Ieyasu warned, “I’ll definitely kill you next time.”
“I take that under advisement. Thank you.”
A jerk of the reins and a kick, and they bolted out of the stables and into the pouring rain. Within seconds their figures swam into a vague blur, melding together in the shifting faraway. Only moments later--gone. 
Ieyasu stood there alone in the silence, his hands warm, his thoughts swirling like lazy koi in a fishbowl, aimless and unbothered. Without thinking, he stepped outside and stretched out his arms, letting the cold droplets run down his sleeves and cling to his skin. 
135 notes · View notes
domesticbucky · 4 years ago
Text
Summer rain in Brooklyn
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader (Y/N)
Words: 3.6 k
Warnings! 18+ : Smut (soft smut, face sitting, praise kink, kinda sub!Bucky, handjobs, blowjobs), a hint of angst, 1940s Bucky in love 🤧
Summary: Bucky and Y/N get caught in the summer rain on their way home from work.
AU where Bucky survived the train, and went on to live in Brooklyn and work at the docks.
Notes: Hi! This is the first fic that I post online and it is entirely self-indulgent (and also my first smut!). English is not my first language, so please excuse any mistakes. Please give me back some form of feedback if you feel like it! Or don’t, I’ll be around anyways (hopefully). If you are not 18+, go away now!!! Go have a juicebox, idk.
Enjoy!🥰
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June 1946
The smell of rain makes Bucky pick up his pace as he walks through the familiar streets of Brooklyn. It had been an exhausting day at the docks, carrying crates and moving boxes until his shoulder ached and his soul longed to come home. Breathing out the last sea and motor-oil scented air, he turned to 7th Avenue and smiled to himself; a few more blocks and he’d finally get to see her.
Y/N had taken a part-time job at a bakery in South Slope for the summer. It had been almost a year since the war had ended but the owner’s son still hadn’t returned. Bucky admired her for her diligence and compassion, the way she never hesitated to help others, simply because she believed it was the right thing to do. Her salary was meager at best, but the old baker would always give her whatever loaves and pastries didn’t sell that day to take home with her, and she liked listening to his stories from when he first came to New York, so many decades ago. Bucky liked to think of him as a father-figure of sorts, a man that gave away his little pieces of wisdom, acquired over the years, the same way he gave away misshapen loafs of bread to soldiers too beaten up by the world to make their own.
A draft of cold air goes through his sleeve and reminds him of how beaten up he is. Carved on his left shoulder is the physical reminder of what would have surely been a deadly drop into an icy ravine in Italy, had Steve not managed to grab his arm and pull him back into the train. His left shoulder had become one with the wrecked metal casing of the train for a few moments, but he was grateful and almost happy that he had lived to tell the tale, even if it meant that he would carry those metal fragments in him forever. The slight ringing in his ears, the underlying feeling of his body feeling unusually stronger, and the nightmares were a different story, though. He would have gladly left those things back in that war-ridden continent, instead of bringing them to his home, with the rusty fire-escapes and familiar faces and the smell of freshly-baked bread…
He is just outside the low bakery door when he sees her grabbing her bag and giving the old baker a kiss on his wrinkly forehead. He briefly wonders if she will one day get to kiss him as an old man, if whatever experiments that Swiss bastard run on him will ever let him grow old and wrinkly, but his mind never finishes that thought because she is suddenly throwing herself in his arms.
”Hey Sarge, missed you”. Bucky shivers, not from the cold breeze that promises gentle summer rain, but from the feeling of her in his arms, after being apart for the day. Y/N’s hair smells of fresh bread and sugar, and for the few seconds their embrace lasts, Bucky feels like he’s home already. They pull apart to gaze into each other’s eyes lovingly. Home, he thinks again, before tugging her close again and whispering his affections into her ear. It’s Y/N’s time to shiver, and Bucky, delighted in her reaction, gives a smile and a wave to the old baker, and tugs Y/N towards the direction of their small apartment.
”C’mon Sweets, we gotta hurry or else we’ll be soaked faster than Stevie finds trouble”, he says decisively, the countless times he’s saved his little (now enormous) friend flashing through his mind as Y/N giggles. She intertwines their fingers as they walk, her palm soft in the way hands get after kneading dough and mixing sugar with spices all day, his hand ragged but invitingly warm. She lifts their intertwined hands to place a loving kiss on his worn knuckles, bruised from the day’s work, and a wave of emotions hit him in the chest. He is now even more eager to reach their little home, where the cheap curtains shield them from nosy old ladies, where the pillow cases have their initials embroidered on the side, where he can love her all he wants and the way he wants, without shame or pretended innocence. Because at this moment, he is hungry for more than fresh bread.
The first drop catches him off-guard, thoughts of how he will love her once their rickety old door closes making him tune out everything that isn’t Y/N. The second and third come in quick succession, and Y/N notices too, pausing from telling him about the little joys of her day to let her eyes follow the path of a droplet as it travels from his high cheek bone to his strong jaw, then dipping low to continue on his pretty neck, and finally disappear on the hem of his worn shirt. There’s hunger in her eyes, but it quickly turns into surprise, as the next few drops bring a myriad more, until the droplets of water running down both of them become one with their skin and clothes.
”Dammit, I thought we were gonna make it home before it started”, Bucky says in mild annoyance, as Y/N lets out a giggle.
”Laugh it up doll, but I think we are gonna be soaked before even making it past the next corner. And then you might catch a cold, and I hate seeing you sick”.
Y/N pulls them in a back alley, underneath what looks like a homemade roof extension to the balcony above them, and pulls Bucky for a hungry kiss.
”But you’ll take care of me, right baby? Give me those special kisses and love me ‘till I get better, right Barnes?”
Her voice is low and dangerous, but there’s vulnerability in it too, and Bucky can’t help biting his lip to stifle a groan.
”I’ll do anything for ya, dahlin’, feed you, bathe you, carry you and kiss you until you feel good as new, better than ever before, and then I’ll kiss ya some more ”.
It’s Bucky’s turn to lean in for a kiss, and he tastes soft summer rain and longing for more on her lips, so he gently licks along her plump flesh, silently asking for more. Y/N gladly accepts his warm tongue, gliding hers along his and softly sucking the wet muscle until Bucky lets out a sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and his hips move forward to find her figure.
He pulls away to stare into her eyes, pupils blown wide, and the rain doesn’t matter anymore.
”Honey, doll, sweetheart, let me take ya home”.
He is panting like crazy, his voice desperate as Y/N places her hand on his jaw, squeezing his chin and dropping her gaze to his lips every few seconds.
”You’re gonna be a good boy for me, kid?” she responds, her hand on his chin gripping him steadily, as her other hand moves upward to brush back a few strands of wet hair sticking to his forehead.
He manages to utter ”yes, my love” through parted, kissed-out lips, and she drops the hand previously clutching his chin to pet his sternum.
”Then take us home, Barnes”.
Bucky lifts her on previously weak knees and throws her over his right shoulder, a day’s worth of strain doing nothing to spoil the moment, as he takes off in the rain to their direction of their tiny home, with her laugh echoing off the brick buildings of Brooklyn.
----
By the time he reaches their building he is laughing too, caught up in the euphoria of sharing such a special moment with her, free of worries and anxieties, free to be playful in the gentle summer rain.
He drops her on her feet, his hand rummaging through his worn-out trousers, looking for the key. Y/N’s eyes gaze at him appreciatively, from his long legs to his broad back, his plush lips and the gentle turn of his nose, down again to his pretty neck, the curve of his waist, his thick thighs and, finally, the strain of his arousal against the fly of his work pants, the outline of it visible as Bucky searches deep in his pockets. His hand emerges with the rusty old key and he lifts his gaze from their frayed doormat to focus on the next task at hand, getting them inside as fast as possible.
Y/N pulls him from the collar of his shirt as soon as the door is locked, and drags him to their bed, repaired over the decades to provide comfort to the newest generation of Barnes’, dressed in sheets his ma’ gave him a few days after he returned from the war, embroidered by Y/N to ”make this place feel like home”.
The moment his back hits the familiar sheets, his day of labour comes crashing on him, Y/N’s warm and wet figure providing comfort and security but not quite healing his tired body. Running through the dear-old streets of Brooklyn with her in his arms had been fun, but he is afraid that standing up again is an impossibility with every press of Y/N’s lips on his collarbone.
Y/N notices his tired demeanor and the way he doesn’t respond as enthusiastically to her ministrations as she’s used to. A look to his face and the dark circles framing his still hungry eyes tells her exactly what Bucky needs tonight.
Bucky still makes an effort to sit up and meet her lips, but her hand is quick to press against his chest, his shirt wet, still, with gentle summer rain, and stops him.
”Sit back baby, let me take care of you”.
Bucky plops back down on the bed and the old thing moans with the added strain of his weight. There’s appreciation in his eyes, and they have gone glossy with all the love and adoration he feels for her. She smooths her fingers over his dark circles, before her fingers slowly card through his messy wet hair. He visibly sudders and closes his eyes, content to have her touch him, even if he craves so much more.
Slowly, Y/N sits back on his lap and starts undoing the buttons of her dress. Bucky runs his hands over the sides of her thighs, feeling the goosebumps that rise on the wake of his touch. The summer heat combined with the shortage of nylon due to the newly-over war had left even some of the most conservative ladies in the streets of Brooklyn no choice but to forego stockings, and Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate the feel of Y/N’s skin underneath his fingertips.
Y/N tugs her dress over her head, and Bucky wastes no time to move his hands higher and squeeze her hips, as he takes in her figure, glistening with the remnants of the rain that soaked through her clothes. Her undergarments are worn and plain, but Bucky thinks that she looks like a dream, the weight of her resting on his hips, her most private parts wrapped in silk.
Y/N shifts to hold on Bucky’s forearms as they explore her, while she gazes down at him from her spot on his lap. Soft wisps of light brown hair peek from the unbuttoned collar of his work shirt, and the droplets of water that hadn’t been lapped up by her mouth make his neck and collarbone glisten. She moves her gaze to his mouth, so full and plump and rosy, and as he squeezes her hips again and subtly grinds his hips up on hers, and she is overwhelmed with the need to touch him. She grabs his chin, resting her thumb on the valley between the soft muscles and rubs it between her fingertips.
”How tired are you, baby? Ok with you if I ride that pretty mouth of yours?”.
Bucky’s lips part a little more, as he lets out a responding gasp at her foul words, not quite used to the things she says in moments like this, but loving it all the same. If he was honest with himself, he loved her filthy words almost as much as he loved her praises.
”Please” he manages to blurt out desperately, the sight of his upper lip, curving as he utters his plea, making her throb in her undergarments.
Y/N shifts until her knees rest on either side of Bucky’s head, his cold, wet hair contrasted by the way his eyes stay obediently fixed on hers, and the feel of his warm breath as it hits her core with every heavy exhale.
She examines the way the late afternoon light coming from their small bedroom window catches on his glistening lips and pretty eyelashes, before she tangles her hand through his messy hair and gives him a nod of approval.
Bucky follows her silent request, and places soft kisses on her covered mound as she lowers herself on his chin. His tongue darts out to taste her through her silk underwear, and soon his kisses turn sloppy. His teeth snag on the garment, wet with rain and her arousal, and he keeps it in place as she lifts her hips upwards in order to remove it. Once she’s out of it, she takes it from Bucky’s mouth and gives him a loud and sloppy kiss on his lips, before she resumes her previous position.
”Such a good boy for me”. Her hands run through his jaw one more time before she lowers herself on his mouth again, and Bucky groans as his cock throbs in his trousers at the first real taste of her. He’s spent many times between her legs like this over the past few months that they’ve been together, but there’s always something so thrilling to him about the way she reacts to his ministrations. He loves to please her, and takes pleasure in seeing her feel good. He loves the way she tastes, the way she moves and the sounds she makes, and he loves being good for her.
Y/N tugs at his hair harder, as his mouth grows bolder. His open-mouth kisses against her core have turned into full on french kissing, and she is left breathless as she recalls all the times he has kissed her mouth that way. He proceeds to suck her clit every once in a while, but focuses his efforts into getting his tongue lower, where her taste is stronger and her moans come out lower. He is now painfully hard in his confines, and there’s an embarrassing amount of precome on his underwear.
His nose bumps against her clit with every movement of her hips. Her climax fast approaching, Y/N grinds on Bucky’s mouth harder than before, as he lays obediently on their embroidered pillows, groaning and moaning, and takes it. His enthusiastic actions have ceased, as he opts to keep his mouth and tongue in the best position for her to get herself off. With a final tug at his locks, Y/N grinds down hard on his mouth, and Bucky feels her gush her warm release on his tongue. He laps at her gently, as she comes down from her high, holding her steady as she pants above him.
He places a final kiss on her mound as she pulls herself off him, and plops down on the bed next to him, spent and satisfied. She takes another minute to catch her breath, turning her head to look at the way his chin glistens as he licks his lips.
Y/N glances at his crotch, the bulge there prominent as ever, and feels a new wave of arousal at her lower stomach at the sight. She turns to her side and straddles him once more.
Bucky lets out a grasp as she presses down on his hips again, his cock finally receiving some sort of friction after a long time, and his hands fly to her bare hips again. Y/N is busy unbuttoning his shirt, the clarity provided after receiving a release allowing her to work on the buttons much faster than he would. He shivers as the shirt is removed from his torso, the late afternoon breeze, cooled by the ongoing rain, caressing his flushed skin. Y/N’s hands are appreciatively gliding up and down his chest, making him release high-pitched whines when she passes over his nipples, hard from arousal and the cold air of the room.
”So pretty...” Y/N mumbles before she leans down to capture his right peak into her warm mouth. Bucky’s responding moans grow louder as she moves to suck and gently bite the other nipple. He whines when she lifts her face from his chest, and Y/N places a finger on his pouting lips.
”Hush, kid, let me do this for ya”, she says while gazing at his pleading eyes. Y/N knows that Bucky must have reached his limit by now, so she deftly unbuttons his pants and reaches her hand inside his boxers, finding him hot, heavy and slick.
Bucky groans loudly at the feel of her hand on him, and throws his head back as she lazily strokes him a few times.
”So hard for me” she says appreciatively, her grip a little firmer.
”It’s all for ya, dahlin’, baby-” he gasps back, the ending of the word baby choked off as she squeezes his base, and Bucky almost panics, as he feels his climax just around the corner already.
”Sweetheart, my honey, love of my life, dearest girl, please-”. Bucky is incoherent at best, but Y/N is swift to hush him once again. She takes him out of his boxers completely, and expertly twists her wrist as Bucky’s slurry words escape his parted lips, deep red and chewed raw.
”It’s ok, baby, you can let go”. She picks up her pace, her other hand leaving it’s place on his abdomen to cup his balls and tug them in time with her twists.
Bucky’s hands desperately clutch the sheets, his groans and the slick sounds of Y/N’s hands on him drowning out the sound of the rain against the half-open window. The way he’s twitching on her hand tells Y/N that he is close, so she lets the hand working on his cock move to clasp one of his hands as her mouth takes over, the hand on his balls squeezing encouragingly.
Bucky gasps as his hips move from the bed to buck in her mouth, one hand grasping the sheets and the other holding on Y/N’s for dear life. She feels his balls tighten and his cock throb violently before his release floods her mouth in spurts. She savours the taste of his release on her tongue, sucking him dry gently before moving her mouth to leave kisses all over his spent member. She gently laps at his balls and leaves a few kisses on his thighs before moving higher up, to press her lips against his left shoulder, lovingly, conveying all the sweet emotions she feels for him. She finally lifts her mouth from the scars littering his left arm to press one final soft kiss over his heart, feeling the muscle beating wildly inside his chest.
”You were so good for me, baby” she whispers in his left ear, and feels him shiver as she presses a soft kiss there as well. She leans back to look at him, finding his flushed face, his cheekbones glowing from sweat, and finally his eyes, glossed over from both the events that took place moments ago, and his love for her. Lips parted, still fighting to find his breathing, expression relaxed but unreadable.
”You okay, kid ?” she asks, concern joining on the affection evident on her own features at his lack of answer.
”You make me feel like the luckiest damn fool on this planet, sweetheart. I love you so much.” he manages, his eyes holding her gaze as she breathes out a chuckle of relief.
”Wait ‘till I make you my famous cornmeal pancakes, you can shower me with compliments then!” she says through giggles. They are both too giddy to stay serious for long, but Y/N gives Bucky a smooch on the lips before taking his chin on her hand.
”And I love you, James Barnes.” she says, kissing the tip of his nose as he smiles, and climbs out of their bed to find one of Bucky’s shirts.
----
There are syrupy giggles and the smell of pancakes in the air of their cramped apartment half an hour later. Bucky is wearing his most comfortable pair of pants, one suspender on his right shoulder while the other sits bare in the remnants of the early evening light filtering through the living area balcony door. Loose, striped socks on his feet and a smear of syrup on his chin the only other things on his body, and Y/N thinks it just might be one of his best looks. His hair had been washed and combed hastily while Y/N was making the pancakes, and finds her fingers itching to mess it up again.
Bucky catches her staring, and gives her a shy smile, her intense gaze framed by the glow of the oil lamp on their coffee table. He is sometimes self-conscious of his scarred shoulder, his changed body, himself, but Y/N keeps looking at him like he is the sun itself. He disagrees of course, but he wants to do everything in his power to make himself worthy of her love. He knows, more than anyone, that life and love are precious things that can be taken from you in the blink of an eye. He knows that he will always doubt himself, but he wants to live, and love, with you.
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I don't own any of the characters in this fic!
Let me know what you think and don't hesitate to message me!
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phoenixfell · 5 years ago
Text
Protecting Yourself & Creating a Good Experience
An unfortunate post necessitated by recent events.  The unfortunate truth of reality is that we, as non-psychic human beings, are unable to determine with certainty the motives of other humans around us.  If someone claims to have good intentions but are hurting you, are they simply presenting themselves poorly or are they lying entirely?  This is a question you can never truly answer, but here I will guide you through some ways to protect yourself while being kind to yourself and others.
You may reblog this if you’d like.  
Although this post was created specifically in response to the turmoil in the Avatar: The Last Airbender fandom, it’s not specific to this exact situation and the purpose is not to take a side.  The purpose is to encourage everyone to do their part in ending hateful behavior and crafting a good community.   
Contents:
0.  Don’t send mean asks to people 1.  Install an IP Tracker on your blog. 1.a (How to) Install an IP Blocker on your blog. 2.  Curating your Experience 3.  Making First Contact 4.  Analyzing a Message 5.  Fiction as Fiction VS Fiction as Reality 6.  The Author’s Duty 7.  Echo Chambers & Lateral Thinking 8.  Accepting Differing Opinions 9.  Good Intentions (Pave the Road to Hell) 10.  Being Mean is Fun (so do it in non-harmful ways) 11.  Morality (Personal, Community, and Legal)
0.  Don’t send mean asks to people.
You know, I saw a post some time ago on the internet that basically said:  Why do we see so many posts teaching people how to avoid being raped and virtually nothing telling people not to rape others?  So, as obvious as this may sound, I’m going to give you a gentle reminder to not send mean asks to people.
Perhaps you are angry.  Perhaps something else is bothering you.  Perhaps you honestly feel like you are doing the right thing.  These feelings are entirely valid and I understand.  However, being mean to someone else on the internet is not going to solve anything.  At best, it’s going to get you ignored and at worst, it’s going to actively escalate things.  
If you feel down, depressed, or upset, consider this service:  https://www.crisistextline.org/
US and Canada: text 741741 UK: text 85258 | Ireland: text 50808
It’s a confidential service that will help support you.
On the other hand, if you feel like you genuinely have a bone to pick with someone, take a step back.  Get a cup of coffee, or tea; watch a YouTube video, and later on in this post we’ll discuss cooperative problem solving, the importance of word choice, and how to deescalate a situation.  
1.  Install an IP Tracker on your blog.
This is a very simple and completely legal process.  The easiest way to do so is to sign up for Statcounter.  This is a website for market and visitor analysis, but it does IP tracking for free, which is what we’re looking for.  The site will even guide you through installing it.  However--do not post it into the description.  In my experiences, this does not work.  Instead, click Edit HTML, search for <body>, and paste it directly underneath that.
Tumblr media
For this to work most effectively, make sure that you have the Timestamps extension enabled within the inbox in XKit.  If you do not have XKit installed, you can find directions on their Tumblr page, here:  https://new-xkit-extension.tumblr.com/
1.a.  (How to) Install an IP Blocker on your blog.
Although Tumblr claims to give you the ability to IP Block through the inbox by blocking anonymous asks, many people have expressed doubts that it actually works.  Therefore, here’s an explanation showing you how to do it yourself.  There are three steps to this, all taking place in the Edit HTML section we’ve left off in last section.
1.
Directly below where the web analytics code above ends, paste this:
<script type="text/javascript" src="https://l2.io/ip.js?var=userip"></script>
2.
Directly below the previous command, paste this:
<script>
function ipBlock() {        var ip = userip;     //example: "0.0.0.0", "5.5.5.5", "3.3.3.3",     var bannedips=[         "155.555.55.55"     ];     var handleips=bannedips.join("|");     handleips=new RegExp(handleips, "i");            if (ip.search(handleips)!=-1){ 
                window.location.replace("http://www.tumblr.com");        } 
} </script>
You can customize this script in a few ways.  First, bannedips needs to be the ip(s) you wish to block.  You can add more by separating them by commas and enclosing them in quotes, as the example shows.  Secondly, in the window.location.replace line, you can insert any valid address.  Here are some suggestions I give people:
Tumblr homepage.  Basic and effective.
A link to a Google search of something, e.g. How to not send mean asks on the internet
Your own tumblr blog, so they get stuck in a refresh loop
A similarly spelled but nonexistent blog, to give the illusion you deleted/moved 
3.  
Finally, add onload=“ipBlock()” to your body tag:
<body onload = "ipBlock()">
That should be everything to get it working.  If you want to test it, click the link in step two, copy and paste the IP address that is displayed into the bannedips, save, and visit your blog.  If it’s working right, you should get thrown off.   
If you don’t want your IP Block active, just remove step three and return your tag to <body>.  
2.  Curating Your Experience
Although Tumblr itself does not allow the functionality, there are ways to ensure that certain words do not appear on your dashboard.  XKit has a blacklist feature which will hide posts containing certain words.  Also of note is the wildcard feature, which is accessed by adding an asterisk after the word, ex.
nsfw   ->  Only blocks exactly that word and that tag nsfw*  ->  Will block any word or tag containing that phrase
However, I would like to gently notify you that there is significant research that actively avoiding content does more harm than good!  Only you can know what is best for you, but there is a such thing as excessive avoidance.  
3.  Making First Contact
If there’s anything you take from this post, please let it be this one thing:
Always be kind.  At first.  Then tear them a new one if necessary.  
The inevitable happens.  As far as you can tell, you’re minding your own business on your blog.  Your ask box lights up and you perk up, wondering which of your friends is reaching out to you.
Instead, the message is nasty, condemning you for your support of your favorite ship and the theme of your blog.
You’re upset, of course!  And you have every right to be!  You put a lot of time and effort into this blog and your ship, and to have someone so coldly butt in--you can feel the frustration mounting!  Tears are glistening and your body trembles as you type up a strongly worded essay and--
Stop.
It’s okay.
Take a deep breath and step away from your emotions for a minute.  Your emotions are valid-- but so are the sender’s.  
Instead of starting a fight, be kind.  It may hurt.  You may not want to be, but I promise you it’s worth it.  Here’s a template response:
Hi, anon.  I’m really sorry that you feel this way about [thing] and will gladly take it into consideration in the future.  Could you please tell me more about why you dislike [thing]?  If you’d like to take some time to gather your thoughts, I’d be happy to discuss this issue with you.  
Let me confess something.  I don’t suggest this out of pure kindness.  I suggest this because their response will tell you what you need to know.  Remember how the intro talked about how people’s intentions are incredibly hard to figure out?  This is a little trick I like to use to get them to play their cards.  
There are three possible responses:  They respond angrily, they respond kindly and respectfully, or they don’t respond at all.
In the first case, you may get something that resorts to expletives.  They may call you names.  They may tell you to delete your blog or any other amount of nasty things.  It’s very likely that your very attempt at kindness will anger this person!  This is a troll/bully whose sole interest is to get you upset and get themselves attention.  At this point, you can safely delete and ignore the messages without any guilt.  
In the second case, you have a person with a genuine grievance who just happened to address it poorly.  Both of you have a duty to humanity to resolve the problem respectfully and politely.  You’ve avoided escalating the conflict, you may learn something new and you may even make a new friend!
This also applies to reaching out to someone for the first time.  You see someone doing something you don’t like.  Oh, it just makes you blind with rage!
Again.  I’m going to advise you to stop. Take a deep breath.  No one responds well to name-calling and being condemned.  There’s a few techniques you can use (see if you can spot them in the template message):
Listen to their opinions
Actively ask to hear their opinion
Ask for clarification
Validate the way they feel
Avoid casting blame 
(These techniques work a lot in real life, too!)
Again, there are some genuinely scummy people in life!  But, there are many, many more ignorant people.  A gentle pointer goes much further than yelling and screaming.  
4.  Analyzing a Message
We’ve all been there.  We’ve gotten a message and we’ve panicked--do they hate me now?!  Is this a troll message or genuine criticism?!
Again.  Relax.  Push aside your emotions and focus on the logical words as they appear before you.  Ask yourself if you are reading a tone that doesn’t exist.  For example, not everyone puts active thought into choosing between “ok”, “Ok”, “okay”, “Okay”, “ok.” etc.  Sometimes an ok is just that.  An ok.  
Break the message into parts.  Find the logical structures and decipher them piece by piece.  Someone who throws some very hurtful words into a message may indeed have a point, despite coming off as very crude.  Accept that different parts of a message may mean different things.  The world is very complicated and multifaceted.  Try to avoid sticking labels to things.  
5.  Fiction as Fiction VS Fiction as Reality
I’ve seen a lot of arguments floating around recently that seem to think that these two ideas exist in a vacuum.  It’s simply not true.  The ideas are entwined intrinsically--Fiction is both fiction and reality.  Fiction was created to mimic reality yet extend it far beyond what can happen in the confines of reality.  What happens in reality impacts fiction and what happens in fiction impacts reality.  
This is undeniable.  
Both of these ideas exist, and as the author it is your duty to figure out what that means for you.
You cannot hide behind Fiction as Fiction to ignore your responsibilities as an author.
You cannot hide behind Fiction as Reality to promote censorship.  
Both of these ideas are far too simple for the complicated world we live in.  A complicated concept requires complicated solutions.  
Every word you write has an impact on the people that reads it.  This is the very definition of writing.  We use writing as a tool to share emotions.  Extend empathy.  We use writing to make people cry, to make people laugh, to make people angry.  
To deny that this impact exists is to deny what writing is.  
But censorship is not an option.  Censorship prevents these stories from being told, and quite frankly, no one should have the right to decide what story should and shouldn’t be told, regardless of what is in that story.  
What is the solution then?  There is no easy answer. 
6.  The Author’s Duty
When you put words before another human being, it becomes your responsibility as a moral individual to give your best effort into ensuring that those words have a positive impact on the individual.
This doesn’t mean not making them cry.  Or not making them upset.  It means ensuring that the morals you impart on them are sound and logical.  
How one achieves this is up to you.  
In general, tone makes all the difference.  Writing murder in a positive light versus writing murder in a negative light can drastically alter how the audience perceives your scene.  
Empathy, too, can help sway your audience.  If your writing must involve racist police officers stopping a young black man, make sure you delve into how unfair this is, how terrifying it is, how this needs to change.  Do not normalize it.  Do not let it go by without a somber note indicating your awareness of the topic.  
Sometimes, the solution is to simply avoid the issue.  There are certain topics that only some individuals should write about, and that’s just how it is.  This isn’t to say that you can’t write about it, but keep that writing private.  
Most importantly, do your research, and ask for help and keep an open mind.  It’s a grave responsibility and you may not do it right and that’s okay!  Everyone is capable of learning.  Everyone is capable of changing.  
7.  Echo Chambers & Lateral Thinking
An echo chamber is a phenomenon where an individual’s exposure to certain topics becomes self-enforcing because they don’t see, or actively avoid, differing opinions.  
Echo chambers are also exactly what happens when a rift this massive opens in a small community.  
When Orange blocks Green and starts posting about it, all of Orange’s friends decide whether they agree or not.  The overwhelming majority, due to peer pressure, will agree.  Many of them will then block Green and the users directly associated with them.  In retaliation, Green will defend themselves.  Because Orange’s group had already blocked Green, Green’s friends only seen Green’s point of view and will rise in response to the perceived slight.  
What results are two heavily biased groups of users that refuse to communicate with one another and many individuals swept into the mess because they don’t wish to be isolated.   
Even worse, it turns a complicated and multi-faceted issue into a binary issue.  Either you agree with Orange or you agree with Green.  The world is not this simple.  
Instead, I would encourage everyone to practice lateral thinking of their own accord.  I would encourage you to make your own decisions, rather than blindly supporting or condemning the people around you.  Everyone has their own opinions about what is or isn’t okay, and that’s perfectly fine.  Even your closest friends will have different opinions than you.  
8.  Accepting Differing Opinions 
Once you’ve accepted these different opinions (good on you!) what do you do now?  Simply put, the choice is on you!  There’s a few options:
Quietly accept it
Respectfully debate it
Avoid it
Escalate it
The first two are pretty obvious, and the third one is where blocking people and the blacklist comes in.
The fourth one is extreme and only recommended for activities causing active, known, measurable harm to other people.  
This involves actively seeking a legal entity to handle the issue.
Being mean to people on Tumblr is not a solution.  Tumblr is not a place to pursue a justice agenda.  There are bigger issues in the world, and I encourage you to find ways to make a difference that will actually be fruitful.  Donate to charities.  Extend yourself as support to victims.  Contribute to research.  
Changing the mind of strangers on the internet is not a good use of your time.  
9.  Good Intentions (Pave the Road To Hell)
This has been a phrase for a very long time.  
What does it mean?
Well, I’ll offer my own interpretation.  
It means that people often become absorbed with the idea that they are doing the right thing and forget to be mindful of the true consequences of their actions.  
It doesn’t mean to not do good things.  It means that good is relative and not everyone will find your actions good.  It’s important to keep an open mind and realize that just because you think something is good, doesn’t mean everyone agrees.  
10.  Being Mean is Fun (so do it in non-harmful ways)
Yeah.  
It’s okay.  You can admit it.
Being mean is fun!
If it wasn’t fun, people wouldn’t do it!  In fact, this very blog was created because I found that writing the character being mean was very enjoyable and cathartic!  
So, if you find yourself tempted to be mean to people in your life, maybe find another way to get those emotions out.  Hell, people on tumblr just might appreciate you taking up a nasty, villainous character that’ll tear their character up...
People love angst.  You can take this bad thing and twist it into something good.  
11.  Morality (Personal, Community, and Legal)
Bringing this long post to a close, I would like you all to end by thinking about what morality really is.  In particular, I’d like you to think about morality on three different scales:  Your personal morality, the morality of the community you’re in, and morals as described by laws.
You’ll find that these morals don’t overlap.  
Or, at least they shouldn’t. Please revisit section 7.  
Being aware of morality in these three ways may help you determine how to proceed when going forward.
Do I personally agree with this? Does the community I’m in agree with this? Do the laws have anything to say about this? 
None of these are right.  Everything has different morals, and it’s up to you to find the exact opinions that fit you.  
Don’t let people blindly tell you how you should and shouldn’t feel about a topic, and don’t let people bully you into changing your morals to fit into their perceived moral high ground.  
But at the same time, be open.  Extend yourself to new ideas.  If enough people tell you that something is wrong, it just may be time to listen.
Be you.
Be unique.
Be safe.
And above all, be kind.  
Have a nice night, everyone.  I hope we can all work to a brighter future.  
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antimatterpod · 4 years ago
Text
Transcript - 72. What About Manperson?
This transcript is SO LARGE that the first eight attempts to share it broke Tumblr. (Tumblr, sweetheart, it’s a plain text file, if Usenet and dial-up could handle it, I’m sure you can cope.)
You can listen to the original episode here.
Anika: Welcome to Antimatter Pod, a Star Trek podcast where we discuss fashion, feminism, subtext and subspace, hosted by Anika and Liz. This week, we're taking a trip back to 1977 to discuss a write up of a panel on 'feminism in Treklit'.
Liz: And I pushed for this one because I promised us [an episode about] zines, and I had misremembered where the zine archive was. And then I stumbled across this essay, and it was so interesting and wild, and I figured we could probably get some discussion out of it.
Anika: Absolutely. I just want to start by saying that 'Treklit' is the cutest little word ever.
Liz: I know!
Anika: 'Treklit'. I love it so much.
Liz: And there's no, "Oh, no, we mustn't call it literature. It's just fan fiction" about it. Because there were no tie-in novels back then, there were just a handful of novelizations and so forth. So go for it, ladies!
Anika: Really bad ones, too.
Liz: Yeah, yeah.
Anika: I've read those. They're bad.
Liz: The panelists in this discussion were Sharon Ferraro, who was a zine publisher, fic writer and con organizer, and Jean Lorrah, a fic writer, novelist and editor, who would go on to write tie-in fiction, including The Vulcan Academy Murders and the TNG novel Survivors, which we discussed in our tie-in fiction episode. And this panel took place at SekwesterCon in 1976. It was tape-recorded by one fan and written up by the [convention] organizers for a zine.
Anika: Which is also adorable.
Liz: I know! And it sounds like just the whole room got into it. And it was so interesting! I can only imagine the drama if this panel was held today, because they sit down and start calling out authors and fics by name and title. And one of the authors stands up and argues back. And it's just wildly interesting, and a snapshot of fandom, and fic writing fandom, at the time.
Anika: Amazing. You put that note, you know, "Can you imagine if this panel was held today," and I was thinking about it, I was like, it sort of is, but it's in social media and in comments.
Liz: Yeah.
Anika: But like, even there, there's not really so much of a -- there's a lot of discourse, you know how we use that word now, "discourse", sort of to mean something completely different than what it actually means.
But if there's that there's still sort of this, etiquette to it, I would say. If someone leaves you a nasty comment on a fic and you didn't ask for it, everybody will come in and say, "That was inappropriate, you shouldn't have done that."
And even online, if you're going to say, "Oh, I've just read this horrible Star Trek fan fiction, it was so bad and so ridiculous," like you don't use the names and you don't link to it. You protect the anonymity of the person. And so it's sort of like, yeah, even even though we can still be just as vicious and just as critical, there is sort of this accepted way of doing things.
Liz: Yeah.
Anika: That this discussion sort of flies in the face of, which is interesting, it's like, huh, you know, they can you can go both ways on that. That has pros and cons.
Liz: Yeah, there was a discussion on Twitter a few weeks ago about racism in fandom and on AO3. One person cited a very specific Michael/Lorca slavery AU, and I knew exactly which fic she was talking about. And I have shared her opinion, and that fic is vile, and I hate it. And I hate that it's on AO3 and there's no way to block it when I search for Lorca fic.
But no one was linking to it. No one was saying this to the author's face. Apparently people have tried to go, "This is a very bad idea for a fic," and she's just like, "LOL, whatevs!"
We are critical. But there's also just too many people in fandom to get all of us in a room or on one mailing list to be part of this discussion.
Anika: It's so interesting that you mention mailing lists, because I was there for the mailing list, um, Trek stuff. And I do remember, you know, there was a lot of -- I guess it was like camps, you know, people who would be on one side or the other of a discussion. And that could get pretty intense sometimes. I don't have any -- it was sort of the end of it when I was involved, so I feel like I witnessed the move from email list to online, I don't know--
Liz: Blogs.
Anika: Yeah, like blogs and all, your own space, I guess.
Liz: Yes.
Anika: As opposed to -- we would like email each other our fan fictions, and they wouldn't go anywhere else, it would just be on this email list, and the copy of the email list that was in Yahoogroups, or whatever.
Liz: And if you were, for example, part of a Janeway/Chakotay group, you weren't necessarily with your friends or people you knew. Certainly for me, my first mailing group was JetC22, and I just signed up and was allocated to this particular group. And there were some people there that I liked very much, and there were some people there that I really, really disliked. And--
Anika: Right.
Liz: --from there that gave me a foundation to go to the people I did like, "Hey, let's start our own group with hookers and booze."
Anika: Right. It's amazing and crazy to think, "Oh, we could just all have a conversation in one room and discuss it all." And that was cool.
Liz: I'm sort of glad that we don't have to go back to those days, but at the same time, like, I like to think that these ladies would look at my fic and go, "Oh, yeah, she's totally feminist by the standards of 1976."
Because the essay starts off, "Feminism in much of Treklit can be regarded as non-existent, particularly in GRUP type stories." And GRUP was an adult content zine which took its name from the slang for grown ups in the TOS episode "Miri. And I'm like, I can't think of a worse thing to name your smut zine.
Anika: I know! That's so, so bad. I'm turned off immediately, but that's just me here in 2021.
Liz: Right. And it's interesting that they're complaining here that the smut fic was very much generic, which I think is still a complaint these days. Sometimes you read a fic and you're like, "I don't think that really taught me anything new about the characters, I have no insight into how this author feels about them, save that she's sort of mashing her action figures together." Which is not a bad thing, but it's not what I enjoy in fic
Anika: Right, it's definitely not what I enjoy in fic. I think that my interests are very well known at this point, and it's pretty much never sex.
Liz: No.
Anika: So. Oh, well!
Liz: It goes on to say, "Some stories are anti-feminist in that women are segregated out of them. Action is all concerned with the male characters. And the implication is that women are not liable to participate in such matters." I like to think that fandom has moved on.
Anika: Well...
Liz: Yeah.
Anika: Yes. Yes, fandom has moved on, but has society?
Liz: Well, no. I think what's notable here is that they're not specifically talking about slash fic, they're probably talking about, I guess what in the X-Files fandom was called case files or casefics, where it's basically, "I'm writing a Star Trek episode, but in prose format." And they're sort of reflecting The Original Series in that it is very dudely.
Anika: Yeah, absolutely.
Liz: You know, we say, "Oh, fandom is so subversive, fic is about reclaiming the narrative." But honestly, some people write fic because they like the narrative and they want more of it. And there's nothing inherently wrong with that, but if you're not applying a critical eye to your source then maybe you're reproducing its problems.
Anika: Hmm, it's interesting. I mean, I just said I, I have very specific likes and dislikes. And there's a lot of stuff like -- casefic, I don't really need, because I can watch the show for that. But curtain fic, which is, like --
Liz: The domestic...
Anika: -- the characters just, like washing the dishes or arguing about Netflix, like that. I eat it up. That's my favorite thing. There's no saving the world, there's just, "We saved the world, and now we're going home to relax and, and decompress--"
Liz: Yes.
Anika: "-- and do whatever we want to do." Like, those are the fics that I like.
Liz: And "what happens after you save the world?" is a good story.
Anika: It's not subversive, but it is something that's not in the fiction as it stands.
Liz: I think it is subversive in a small way, because you're adding the domesticity which has been excluded from the primary narrative, and in doing so, highlighting that it, too, has value.
Anika: It definitely has value.
Liz: I really like casefic that's character-driven, that's about the people. And I used to have that itch scratched by tie-in fiction, and it doesn't so much anymore -- Una McCormack, thank God, she exists. But, yeah, it's not really something we see so much now that tie-in fiction exists.
And also, I think there's a stronger impetus to file serial numbers off and turn a fic into an original work. And if you're going into all the effort of writing a plot anyway, just throw in that little bit more effort and make it original. I feel like there's less need for casefic.
Anika: Yeah, I agree. But I don't search it out, so maybe it's there, and I just don't read it.
Liz: Yeah, possibly. I have this idea for a Lorca/Cornwell casefic, where they're in their thirties, and they have to go undercover as a married couple on, like, a human settlement that's outside of the Federation. And the reason I haven't started writing it is that I'm like, well, it's not very shippy, so where's where's the hook?
Anika: "Right. So why am I doing it?"
Liz: Yeah!
Anika: I get that.
Liz: The essay goes on, "Other fics concern women, but in a very negative light," and they go on to discuss two fics in particular. One has the rather spectacular title of "Murder, Rape and Other Unsocial Acts". And it's -- I looked it up, it has a Fanlore page of its own. -- it's about a Klingon family, and there's a lot of comedy rape because it's the '70s. And ... yeah, it seems like something that would not really fly these days, and obviously, it was subject to criticism at the time.
And the other fic is titled "An Abortive Attempt", in which a human gynecologist is effectively extradited to Vulcan to face charges for performing an abortion on a Vulcan woman.
Anika: Amazing!
Liz: This is such a specifically 1970s concept. And I have to disagree that this is not a feminist story. This, to me, is a wildly feminist story. Just because something bad happens to a woman -- I'm guessing that this -- I couldn't find it online, but I'm assuming that this is not actually pro-life propaganda, and therefore it is a feminist story, defending choice. I guess? Probably?
Anika: I guess. It's amazing that -- just thinking about, you know, what do Vulcans think about abortion is like -- oh, my goodness! What a great thing.
Liz: Because we would go, "Well, obviously reproductive rights and controlling fertility down to the micro level is very logical." Pardon me, I'm losing my voice. We would think that extreme reproductive rights and micromanaging fertility is very logical.
But then you think, "Well, they've got these arranged marriages, and it's really hard to get a divorce, and Spock is actually quite sexist in The Original Series." He's sort of the logic over feelings guy, as opposed to feminist Jim Kirk, who's like, "But feelings, Spock! They have their place. Women! They're so beautiful!" So, for the '70s, it's a logical extrapolation of Vulcan culture
Anika: Of pro-life Vulcans?
Liz: I guess?
Anika: I mean, yeah, I get it, I get it, but it's also -- I can't imagine it would happen very often on Vulcan, just because they know their cycles so well -- that sounds so weird. And so, if something came up, I feel like there would be a logical reason for it to be needed. I don't know. I just I feel like you could use logic to come up with [a reason] why you should have an abortion easier than why you shouldn't.
Liz: No, I agree. Like, I kind of perceive the Star Trek universe as being a lot like Lois McMaster Bujold's future, where we just control fertility so well and we have extra-uterine gestation anyway, so unwanted pregnancies aren't really an issue for people very often?
Anika: We can only hope.
Liz: It's a nice idea. But it's just interesting to me that this fic is such a reflection of the time in which it's written. And in twenty years, will people be looking back -- on their podcast that's broadcast straight into people's brains -- and going, "Wow, there were a lot of fics about gay marriage back then. Gosh, that's such a product of its time."
Anika: Oh, my goodness. I mean, again, we can only hope.
Liz: Yeah.
Anika: I would love for our progressive future to actually be progressive.
Liz: Yes, yes! I would love to do a thesis on something or something about tracking social progress through issues in fan fiction and depictions in fan fiction. One day, when I have time to do a PhD, and can also go to Iowa to go through their zine archive.
Anika: Cool.
Liz: Then we get to the discussion of specifically anti-feminist stories. And here they discuss a fic called "How About a Raffle?" in which -- it's a Kirk/Uhura fic, and Kirk accidentally sells Uhura into slavery.
Anika: Yikes. I don't think that just happens. Like I was gonna say it happens, but no. No, that's not not true. It doesn't just happen.
Liz: They're dealing with some Orions, and Uhura enters a dance contest, but it turns out that the winner is, like, the top slave or something.
Anika: Oh my God.
Liz: It's still racist.
Anika: I like the attempt to world build for the Orions
Liz: Don't get carried away. Mary Louise Dodge, the author, quote, "Rose and astonished the floor by stating that they were anti-feminist, and anyway, the Orion dancers were only humanoid, not human or intelligent."
Anika: Big yikes!
Liz: Big yikes indeed!
Anika: That is straight up from, you know, stories about masters--
Liz: Straight up slavery?
Anika: Yeah. Like, you know, and, yeah, bad. Bad. Don't ever go there ever. [laughs] I don't want to be an anti...
Liz: Well, it's interesting! I looked up Mary Louise Dodge, and she was involved in fandom for a really long time. She was on the Welcommittee, she ran the mailroom, she organized cons. She wrote a lot of fic. And I feel like we would have crossed paths, had I been in fandom at the time, because she was very much a het writer. And she wrote a lot of Kirk/Uhura, which I probably would have shipped back then.
And she was very vocally anti-slash and anti-porn. I've actually put a note here, that I guess you could call her fandom's first anti. After one con, she wrote a famous letter to a bunch of zines, complaining that there was smut -- smutty zines and smutty art openly displayed on the floor and in the art show. And, you know, "why can't we get back to the good wholesome values of the 1960s?"
Anika: Yay for concern trolling having a deep history.
Liz: You know, I do think smut should be opt-in. And certainly, she is the person responsible for, like, age statements in zines and stuff. And there were a lot of things in fan culture at the time that wouldn't be acceptable today, like dressing up as Spock and Kirk's erect penises. Can you imagine going to, like, Comic Con in that costume?
Anika: And seeing that?
Liz: Yeah, yeah. But at the same time, like, she's not talking about consent, she's talking about -- she just hates smut and hates slash, and is quite deeply homophobic.
Anika: Right.
Liz: And doesn't apologize, which I enjoy, but I've sort of started thinking of her as the Phyllis Schlafly of fandom.
Anika: You're Wrong About, the podcast, just did a deep dive into Tipper Gore versus, you know, like heavy metal, basically,
Liz: It's sitting in my podcast feed, but the Reply All expose on Bon Appetit came up and took precedence.
Anika: I understand your priorities. But it really reminds me of all this stuff. Not just what we're talking about here with Mary Louise, but also with the whole anti culture now.
Liz: Yeah.
Anika: And even in academia, the idea that should you put a content warning or not on your syllabus? And there is a difference between opting in, like, having it having it be clear what something is, versus censorship.
Liz: Yes!
Anika: And it's like, we've been talking about this for fifty years, and we still haven't figured that out. And it's just really interesting.
And the issue is that if you look at what Mary Louise has problems with, versus what Tipper Gore has problems with, versus what the whole anti-Reylo crowd have problems with, it's like the bar shifts, but what it comes down to is, "I don't like this, and therefore, it shouldn't be a part of society."
Liz: Yeah, as opposed to, "I don't like this, therefore, I don't want to see it."
Anika: Right. Which is the whole argument for, you know, using tags.
Liz: Yeah.
Anika: And using databases and having the little sticker that says explicit lyrics. It's not hurting anyone. But if there was like -- they wanted the occult stickers, and it's like, guys, you can't just go around saying, you know, "This is the occult." There are certain things that are subjective, and you can't decide to have a label that has that level of subjectivity.
Liz: Yeah. Yeah.
Anika: That's a slippery slope towards, you know, "Oh, now we're gonna have Muslim stickers, or we're gonna have Jewish stickers." You know, it gets really bad really quickly.
Liz: And there are certainly parts of America where Catholicism would get an occult sticker.
Anika: Exactly. So it's just really -- there are levels. And this is a conversation that, like I said, we've been having for a long time, and I think we're going to continue having for a long time.
Liz: I think it's good that we keep having this conversation, because the context is always changing. And we need to keep examining it.
Anika: As much as we were talking about the Lorca and Michael slave fic, that I'm not going to read and I'm not going to encourage in any way. But I also am not going to say she can't write it or post it. I just want to opt out.
And the same with Mary Louise and her "Let's accidentally sell Uhura into slavery." Like, that's nothing I ever want to read, and I'm kind of upset hearing about it. But okay, you're, you're allowed to do that. I don't want to read it. And I want to know that it's gonna happen so that I don't have to read it.
Liz: And, you know, the problem with AO3 is that there is no way to block this author, or to stop this fic from appearing in every single tag that the author applies. And I think particularly blocking someone is an option that they really need. When you look at zines, it's much, much harder to avoid -- unless you only subscribe to zines whose editors won't publish Mary Louise Dodge. And I'm sure that there were some, she seems to have been incredibly polarizing. But what if you want, you know, Nice Hetfic Zine issue three, and it has five great stories and one Mary Louise Dodge?
Anika: Right, exactly. The reason that we keep talking about it is there's no easy answer. There's just compromises. And it's hard. It's a thorny question.
Liz: And for the record, I would have subscribed to Nice Hetfic Zine issue three. And then I would have written a snarky letter to its letter column complaining about Mary Louise Dodge and her terrible fic, because that was acceptable at the time.
Anika: Exactly. That's the other thing. It's so interesting.
Liz: Yeah!
Anika: It's so interesting. And then, you know, comments on AO3 are like I would say at least eighty percent positive.
Liz: Yeah. And I think that's because comments are for the author. Whereas this is a review culture rather than a feedback culture.
Anika: Oooh, that's good.
Liz: So the discussion is less -- it's more readers talking to readers, than readers talking to writers.
Anika: Yes. That's another thing that I kind of wish we still had, fanfic treated as -- like, I would love to read some reviews or a deep dive into one author's recurring themes, or something like that. I would be super into it. I understand that people wouldn't like it -- the authors. But I would love it. And honestly, I wouldn't mind if people did it for me.
Liz: I was just going to say, the themes of domesticity -- and you write a lot of baby fic, but it's not because [you're going], "Oh, babies are so cute. I love children!" I'm sure you do, babies are cute. But it's about, "What do we, as flawed parents, pass on to our children? And how do we make them better than -- how do we make their lives better than what we've had?" And this seems to recur in all of your fics that I've read in any fandom.
Anika: So strange that I'm obsessed with the relationship between parents and children and their parents! Mm, so strange. And trauma. I know the things that I focus on. I focus on adoption, I focus on identity. I focus on sibling relationships. Like, these are things that are -- I think I've said before that everything I write is actually about me. I don't have to put a Mary Sue in anything, a nd I don't have very many original characters. But I one hundred percent give Katrina Cornwell my own backstory.
Liz: Right. And I've seen that in your fic. She -- often in your fics, she has lost a parent at a young age, and is dealing with that even into adulthood. But it doesn't feel like, oh, yeah, that's just Anika putting her own thing on Kat. It feels like exploring.
Anika: Yeah. Yeah, at least that's my intention. But yeah, so I would love to be even a part of like, a book club, or something where we meet each other and talk about it. Like, I think that would be so fun. And I'm sort of sad that that culture doesn't exist anymore.
Liz: It's sort of like how bookmarks on AO3 are for readers rather than writers. And sometimes, like, there's a piece of feedback that was attached -- it wasn't feedback, it was just a note attached to a bookmark of one of my fics that said, "really good handling of disability." And I was like, "This is the greatest feedback I have ever not really received."
But the other thing is, quite a few years ago, in Doctor Who fandom, I created a sock puppet and started reviewing the fics that were nominated for an award. It started out as a very mean, bitchy sort of thing to do, because I thought that the fics being nominated were not award-worthy -- note my own fics were nominated. So I was not a neutral observer.
But I wound up finding like it was a really interesting way of reading outside of my usual field and going, "Okay, well, this is a Ten/Rose fic, and I don't ship that. And this fic is almost entirely made up of things that don't resonate with me at all, and now I understand why I don't read this fit this sort of in this genre. But this is actually a really good fic, and I think that if you were a Ten/Rose shipper, you would really like it."
And then, you know, one of my so called friends revealed my identity on an anon meme, and there was wank, and people still think I'm one of the worst people in Doctor Who fandom which, yeah, it was a whole thing. I don't recommend doing this. It was not great. But in terms of reviewing fics as pieces of literature, it was a really interesting experience. And I actually had people say, "Hey, will you review my fic?"
Anika: I don't use beta readers very often, because I have a very particular way of writing, and I like my style, and I don't want to change it. So I don't give it to people and say, "Does this make sense? Did I forget something? You know, is this good?" I just don't need someone to tell me that before it's published.
Liz: Yep.
Anika: But once it's published, I would love someone to read it and critique it. I don't know why.
Liz: You are flying without a wire!
Anika: I just don't want to change it while I'm writing it. But I would love to know what people think of it after the fact.
Liz: That's -- that's very interesting!
And I do use a beta reader -- hi, I know you're listening -- because I have this problem where I don't close quotation marks, and she's very good at finding stuff like that. And she also knows when to tell me that I'm disappearing up my own butt, and when I am doing something really cool that she's enjoying, and I appreciate that. I appreciate you a lot.
Back to the essay, Jean Lorrah replied that it was not the treatment of the Orion women that was irritating, but Kirk's condescending good old boy attitude, "the cute little girl is drunk," and that that attitude coming from the female characters was unfortunately common in Trek literature. "Do my thinking for me."
Anika: Yeah.
Liz: They sort of move on to original characters. And apparently there was a trend of pairing off McCoy with a sweet, innocent eighteen-year-old girls.
Anika: Again, I don't want to be an anti. But why? What is that about?
Liz: Yeah, it's not the sort of thing that I find appealing.
Anika: My note here is just "yikes". I mean, doesn't McCoy have an eighteen-year-old daughter?
Liz: Yes. And according to Mary Louise, there was a lot of fic where he slept with his daughter. And I know--
Anika: No, no.
Liz: But because I don't fully trust Mary Louise is a source, I'm like, is that one fic she saw and it was an outlier and probably written to shock, like the notorious Draco/Lucius skullfucking fic, or was it an actual trend? And I'm pretty sure I really--
Anika: I'm disturbed. But I'm also like, wow, what was going on? What was that about? I'm very curious. I mean, I guess because McCoy is the oldest, and is the most paternal, but he's also the most, like, I don't want to say feminine, but, like, feminine.
Liz: He's a very caring person.
Anika: And so it's interesting. It's very interesting, you know, and I could definitely imagine being an eighteen-year-old girl, and deciding that I wanted to date, McCoy. Or like, I could imagine, of all of the people in Star Trek, he would be the best relationship, I can sort of see it going that way, and ending up with this crazy fic. But if it was a trend ... I'm just so interested. It's so weird.
Liz: And the thing is, these weren't eighteen-year-old girls generally writing these fics, these were, like housewives?
Anika: Yeah, housewives.
Liz: Yeah, adult women.
Anika: It's like the whole "Twilight is read by teenage girls and their mothers" thing.
Liz: Yes.
Anika: This is what it sounds like. To me.
Liz: This is not to disparage either housewives or mothers who read Twilight, because I feel like housewives, stereotypically, and middle aged women are as dismissed as teenage girls. But it's just interesting.
Anika: And they don't make anybody any money.
Liz: There's a very nice remark here. "Some of the reasons for badly drawn female characters is simply bad writing, and male characters are just as unrealistic, but this can improve." And then they talk about a specific series again, it looks like a series, like, pairing Sarek with a lady named Lorna. So Sarek gets his own Mary Sue.
Anika: I have to go off on a tangent on this because Lorna is a very specific name. It's pretty old fashioned at this point, like now, but my last name, Dane, is taken from Lorna Dane, who was an X Men character created in 1968. She was introduced in 1968, but then she joined the team in the late '70s. So Lorna Dane is Polaris, and she is Magneto's daughter, at least seventy-five percent of the time.
Liz: Right. His kids seem to have fluctuating identities.
Anika: And she's my favorite X Men, X Men, X Woman, whatever. X. My favorite X. So when I was published in a book of comic book essays, I was published under the name Anika Dane Milik. And so when I got divorced, and I changed my name, I just went to Dane.
Liz: That makes sense. Yes.
Anika: But it's like, it's Lorna, it's Lorna Dane, that's who it is. And this idea that this character that was created in the mid to late '70s, as Sarek's wife after Amanda died, I'm like, so, Sarek is now a part of my identity. And I am really excited about that! And apparently, Lorna's last name is Mitchell, so it's like Gary Mitchell's daughter, Lorna. But she's from the past. Everything about it is amazing. Everything about this, I had to look it up, and I'm so excited by the whole idea.
Liz: This sounds fantastic.
Anika: I love it. I love it, and now I get to be, in some universes, married to Sarek.
Liz: I am deeply sorry for you.
Then they go on to remark that from Lorna in one fic to Lorna in another, "there has been a vast elevation of consciousness". And it's like, as I read that, like my clothes turned into flares and my hair centre-parted... just peak '77
Anika: Yeah, you started hearing … what's that song from Hair.
Liz: Oh, I was dreaming about Hair last night.
Anika: It was like in my head. But, you know, the morning song.
Liz: Yeah, yeah.
Anika: "In the... nah, nah, nah." That song. Anyway, you start hearing that song, I start hearing that song, just can't remember the lyrics.
And that sentence is also so supremely Lorna Dane. The reason that I love Lorna Dane so much is that she's completely different every single time you meet her. She has all of these like, weird relationships with her parents, both Magneto and then her adoptive parents. Her relationships are all crazy. And she never feels good enough, and she's an only child, and all she ever wants is siblings. And she's -- there's so much. And it's literally crazy. I mean, everything in the X Men is crazy. But she is, by far, one of the most -- like just the fact that every other story she's either Magneto's daughter or not is enough.
Liz: Honestly, I'm getting very powerful Wanda Maximoff vibes from this?
Anika: Oh, yeah, exactly.
Liz: I find it interesting that Magneto's daughters tend to be sort of very fluid, dynamic characters whose personalities and backstories are always changing.
Anika: And going back to something we were just discussing in this essay, there's this sort of idea that Magneto can be super powerful, and be able to destroy the planet at a whim, and he is very serious and sad, and we have a lot of respect for him even if we don't agree with him.
Whereas Wanda and Lorna have the same amount of power and can destroy things, and they are crazy. And they need to be, have to be--
Liz: They're unstable and they need to be stopped.
Anika: --locked up, and are a danger to themselves and others. And it's like, okay, so Magneto definitely tried to take over the world four times, but he's not a danger to himself or others? You created an entire prison for him that no one else would ever need, yet he's not considered crazy or unstable or dangerous the way that Wanda and Lorna are.
Liz: Yeah.
Anika: That's a thing.
Liz: The next note in this essay is that a common theme in feminist Treklit is responsibility, and stories about women being given responsibility and handling it properly, or needing to learn responsibility and doing so.
My note here was, "Are women people?" but it turns out that this is a story that the comics and superhero genre, at least, is still grappling with, and I think WandaVision is doing it in a really interesting way. And Wanda's allies are Monica and what's her face? Darcy.
Anika: Darcy
Liz: Yeah. And Jimmy Wu, and to a lesser extent right now, Vision. But these, with one exception, are not white people -- sorry, not white men. And--
Anika: And Vision is played by a white man but I don't -- like he's one of those on the line kind of people.
Liz: Yeah, I'm just -- Paul Bettany...
Anika: He is a white man but he's also not, in the context of the story.
Liz: My feelings about Paul Bettany are very complicated for Johnny Depp reasons. So I'm lukewarm on wanting to see him, ever. But his performance is great, and all. And I just think it's depressing that this [storyline] is still something that media struggles with.
Anika: And it one hundred percent is. It's something that -- I mean, look at Rey.
Liz: Yes. So--
Anika: That's gonna be my answer to everything. Yeah, women are not people is generally the key. Women are vessels that we can put ideas onto, I guess, is the way it goes.
Liz: Yeah. And then the other issue they discuss is issues that are of specific concern to women, or of special concern to women, rather, and they talk about a fic where, quote, "a rape case threatens to obscure the issue of a female officer's rights by triggering an overprotective reaction".
Which, again, going by TOS alone, seems like a pretty valid basis for a fic -- look at look at all those episodes where Janice Rand is attacked, and the only people she has to go to about it are Kirk, Spock and McCoy. Even if it was Kirk's evil double that attacked her.
Anika: It's just bad.
Liz: It's -- yeah.
Anika: Again, I'm really interested in this idea that they wrote -- they were writing stories about rape, and not -- I mean, I haven't read the story, but it doesn't seem like it was sensationalizing rape. It seems like it was, "Hey, this is a thing that happened in canon that didn't get the treatment that I want. And so let's talk about that."
Liz: Yes. "And let's talk about how, not not the rape itself, but the reaction afterwards impedes justice, and recovery." That's super interesting, and still contemporary!
Anika: And still contemporary.
Liz:   And then they talk about Mary Sue, and, you know, everyone on the Enterprise is extraordinary. But if you create a woman who is extraordinary, then she's a Mary Sue. And they debate, you know, do you write a male character and then make it female? Or do you try and create a three dimensional woman? 
And I still see these discussions now, and I'm like, whatever gets you to a good character is a valid technique.
Anika:   A couple of things really jumped out at me. One was "showed some problems Spock could have if he had been female, as well as first officer."
Liz:   Yeah!
Anika:   I'm very picky about gender swap fic. Because it can be done so poorly, so easily.
Liz:   Yes.
Anika:   But that's a really interesting question. If everything was the same, except Spock was a woman, what would that mean? I'm interested in that. And if it was done well, then it could be a really amazing story.
Liz:   Right?
Anika:   So I love that they're bringing these questions up. And then another one was, "when one writes a female officer onto the ship, and part of this usually lies with her occupation: what does she do? Why is she on the ship, and what is her function when she is sent down to the planet?" 
And I'm just like, uh, I'm pretty sure you'd have to ask those questions about any original character that you made up?
Liz:   Yeah. Men can have jobs too!
Anika:   And so what it comes down to is that -- it goes back to the earlier comment about how there weren't women in the show, and the women that were in the show didn't get to do what the men did, that Uhura got to take command once, ever.
Liz:   Yes.
Anika:   And it was too late, basically.
Liz:   And it was in the animated series. Which to an extent--
Anika:   Which, who even watched?
Liz:   Yeah, I don't want to say it doesn't count. But it's only just now being treated as a serious and valid part of the Star Trek universe. Aside from "Yesteryear".
Anika:   So really, it's really interesting that they were sort of asking these questions seriously, amongst themselves, you know, and treating it with any kind of gravity, 'cos (a) I think the answer is obvious.
Liz:   Yes.
Anika:   And (b), we shouldn't have to answer this. What it's just the whole thing of "let's create a male character and, and write it as a man and then switch it at the end." Like, yeah, sure. And if you're not going to do that, which is fine, because gender does have an impact -- or you know, can, I should say can have an impact -- it's okay for someone's gender to have a meaning to them. But you shouldn't have an emotional and intellectual quandary about why this woman is on this ship.
Liz:   If you wouldn't have that same quandary for a male character, why are you having it for this lady?
Anika:   Right! They belong on the ship. That's my answer.
Liz:   She's on the ship because that's her job. It's where Starfleet told her to be, the end.
Anika:   Finally, the one that really, you know, just made me smile. "One dead giveaway of a Mary Sue is when everyone on the ship loves her except Kirk." That is my favorite fun fact that I've never heard before.
Liz:   No, me neither. I've seen Mary Sues where Kirk loves her and Spock doesn't. And I've seen all sorts of Mary Sues, and they're all great.
Anika:   It was just amazing. I I loved that idea. The idea that people are reading a story, and all of a sudden Kirk doesn't like someone, and they're like, "Mary Sue!" And that's it, that character is tainted and you can't see that character as anything other than a Mary Sue. It's just crazy. But amazing. And I'm not saying that it's not true. I just think it's hilarious.
Liz:   I don't think it's a data point that became universal. Like you don't see this in Star Trek Mary Sue litmus tests. Remember litmus tests? Wow. Speaking of fandom history!
Anika:   They were like 80 questions long.
Liz:   I know!
Anika:   And you had to put it in, and then it would tell you if your original character was a Mary Sue or not. And I will tell you, I don't write a lot of original characters, like I said, I never put in any original characters. But I constantly put in my version of canon characters. And the thing is that more than fifty percent of my answers were canon. I wasn't making things up about these people.I was reading the canon, when I was answering the question as my interpretation of the character that I saw on screen.
Liz:   No, this makes perfect sense to me because -- I think it's Seanan McGuire who had an essay on LiveJournal, pointing out that "Mary Sue" is just another word for protagonist.
Anika:   Exactly. So usually I would get, "You are close to the line of crossing over into Mary Sue-dom and you should take away at least one flaw," or, you know, something like that. It's just like, okay!
Liz:   Whatevs!
Anika:   I will tell Gene Roddenberry?
Liz:   Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry, I need to summon the ghost of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to tell him that Sherlock Holmes is a Mary Sue.
Anika:   You know who's a real Mary Sue? Watson.
Liz:   Yes!
Anika:   One hundred percent a Mary Sue.
Liz:   I feel like Holmes is the idealized Mary Sue and Watson is the self insert Mary Sue.
Anika:   Mm, I can see that.
Liz:   "The panel then fled from Mary Sue stories."
Anika:   As did we all.
Liz:   And they talk about how it's difficult to create a good female character, because there aren't many templates to draw from in Star Trek. And--
Anika:   Like I said.
Liz:   Yeah. "There are plenty of strong masculine characters to work from, but very few women."
Anika:   And that's the thing. Again, here in 2021, every woman in Star Trek has been called a Mary Sue at least once.
Liz:   And honestly, most of [the women in TOS] are pretty interesting. Like, they're not necessarily strong people. But generally, they're more complex than we give credit for.
Anika:   Right. So it's --first of all, just stop talking about Mary Sues and let it go. That's that's my take number one. And take number two, just because a woman is a woman and a new character in an old fandom does not mean that they are a Mary Sue automatically.
Liz:   Yeah. 
Then they talk about -- it's sort of a digression, which obviously we're familiar with  here. "Most blonde women were dependent and ineffectual, well, brunettes were usually forceful, and control their own destinies." And they give the example of Majel Barrett, who goes from Number One to Chapel. 
I had never thought of this, and I think overall, as a pattern, it holds for The Original Series. But I also think that there were, you know, existing stereotypes about blondes versus brunettes.
Anika:   Yeah, I don't think that Star Trek--
Liz:   No.
Anika:   I don't think Star Trek created that idea.
Liz:   No, you know, [in] Marilyn Monroe movies, she always has a brunette offsider, who's a lot smarter and more together than she is.
Anika:   So strange, it's like, blondes are more beautiful and have more fun, and people are more interested in them. But the brunettes are the smart ones. And the ones with depth. That is just -- like, this is weird, okay?
Liz:   Unless you get the sort of Hitchcock blonde who is terribly intelligent, but also cold and damaged. And that's Seven of Nine.
Anika:   Yes.
Liz:   But it's also interesting that they cite Chapel, because the whole reason that I wanted to do an episode on zines is that I have a paper copy of issue 25 of T-negative, which has a wonderful essay about Christine Chapel, basically saying, everyone writes her off as a dumb blonde with no agency who's only in love with Kirk. [Obviously I meant Spock, don't @ me…] And actually she is a really, really interesting character. And then the author goes on to discuss Christine in both canon and in fiction. 
It was a wonderful essay, and I was going to cite it -- we talked about doing a Chapel episode, but Women at Warp had just done one. Justice for Christine Chapel, who's not even a character I really care about. But this essay made me want to.
Anika:   Right, that's my take on a lot -- you know, there's the characters that I really, really, really care about, and everybody who listens to this podcast could name them. And then there's all the other women characters who -- like, I will meet you in an alley and punch you--
Liz:   Right?
Anika:   --to protect them, I will one hundred percent go to battle for every woman on Star Trek.
Liz:   Yes. Even the ones I don't like
Anika:   Because all of the arguments against them are sexist. That's where I'm at.
Liz:   One day, I'm going to present the argument that Lwaxana Troi is narcissistic, and not necessarily fully abusive to Deanna, but she is not good to Deanna. And that's the only argument that I will accept against Lwaxana.
Anika:   And the difference is that that is a critique of Lwaxana as a person, which is totally fair.
Liz:   It's not just "she's middle aged and thinks she's sexy."
Anika:   Right, we shouldn't put women on a pedestal, either. But the critiques aren't critiques, they're just, "I don't like" -- again, it's, "I don't like this, and I'm going to write them off." I just watched Star Trek 2009.
Liz:   You did!
Anika:   And I am so ready to go to battle for Uhura. Like, it's upsetting to me. I've seen that movie many times now. You know, like a dozen, let's say, -- I don't know.
Liz:   I've seen it twice!
Anika:   And I can just hear all the negative comments as I'm watching the show. Like, I'm sitting here and I'm watching the movie, and I just hear all this chatter. You know, Uhura is telling Spock to put her on the Enterprise, and there's eight hundred voices in my head saying how she's a nagging girlfriend. And I just like, "No, no, she is not!" She is standing up for herself the way that any person should, and the fact -- their relationship is a wrinkle to it. It is not the reason for it. And if Kirk did exactly the same thing, people would be applauding him.
Liz:   Yes, yes.
Anika:   So I can't. As I was watching the movie, every single thing that Uhura did, I imagined Kirk doing it, and having all of the people like you know, saying "Oh, he was the best version of Kirk." I was just like, ugh! And I know I'm saying that as someone who thinks that Chris Pine is the best version of Kirk...
Liz:   You know, there are credible rumours that Strange New Worlds is going to feature a young Uhura. There's a casting call for a young African American woman to play a comms officer, whose name in the casting call is African, just as Uhura is based on the Swahili. 
And I see people going, "Oh, good, Strange New Worlds is going to fix Uhura, they're going to do her properly." And I'm like, no, they're just going to do her differently. Peck!Spock is not better than Quinto!Spock. They're just different interpretations of Nimoy!Spock.
Anika:   Mm hmm.
Liz:   Anyway.
Anika:   Yeah, so sorry, tangent, but I just get super defensive of these women characters because people are against them for really silly reasons.
Liz:   Moving on, we hit a marvelous piece of fake news. "Another problem with female characters is that feminism can become too much an issue."
Anika:   Oh, dear. I love this because literally like two paragraphs before that, they're saying that feminism is the reason like -- that the lack of female characters is the reason that it's hard to write female characters. It's like, guess what, guys, you're being feminist in that argument. And so now, these women are saying that there's too much feminism in my Star Trek, and I -- again, I'm pretty defensive.
Liz:   They cite this amazing sounding fic when Number One is now -- it says in this recap, she is now an alien ambassador. But according to the Fanlore page for the fic itself, she is the captain of the USS Hood. And any Friends of DeSoto can just take a moment to say, "Best boss I ever had." 
She sits down with a Romulan commander and they both, quote, "bitch interminably about being trodden on by the men in their lives, losing the plot amongst the complaints." 
And like, maybe the fic is sort of hijacked by this, and the story it promised to tell is not the story that eventually came out. I just really, really want to read this fic.
Anika:   I really want to read it too. And that's what I'm saying, that is the kind of stuff that I love to read and write in fic, which has absolutely nothing to do with the plot, but is all about their feelings and their lives and their interpretation of what's going on.
Liz:   And I just love the idea of Number One and a Romulan, comparing notes. I'm just saying, the Romulans had women in command before the Federation.
Anika:   Yeah. I ship it.
Liz:   And they note that the theme of women cooperating with women is a good one, and just beginning to develop. And, you know, I still get a weird warm, self-righteous glow whenever I write that in my fic, so I'm glad it's still a thing. I wish it was more of a thing. And then they move on--
Anika:   This is the best.
Liz:   --to the most important question. What about the men?
Anika:   Okay, so again, I have to tell a story about today. My most popular fanvid on YouTube is a vid about the animated women in Star Wars. So it's all animation, Rebels and Clone Wars. And that's -- actually, I made it before Resistance. So that's it, Rebels and Clone Wars. And this one is what I'm one of, if not my best -- and it's my most popular, right? And it's ages old now. Like I said, pre the last season of Rebels. 
And I still get comments all the time, because, again, it's the one that shows up in the algorithm or whatever. And today I got this amazing comment that was just one question. Four words. "What about man person?"
Liz:   Man person!
Anika:   Man person! And I just started laughing and laughing. I was like, Okay, I'm designing a T-shirt that just says, "What about man person?" and I'm buying one for all of my friends, because that is an amazing comment.
Liz:   I think that we need to release stickers on RedBubble that say, "What about man person?"
Anika:   "What about man person?" Like, that -- it was just so good. That's how I ended up with "social justice Klingon warrior" in my Twitter bio, because somebody accused me of being a social justice warrior for Klingons, and I was like, yup, yes I am. 
Liz:   Well, we've found this episode's title.
[I realise that Anika specifies that it's four words, and then I used three in the title, but, ummmmm, anyway, changing these things post-release is a pain.]
Anika:   What about man person?
Liz:   What about man person?
Anika:   Like, okay, dude, this video is literally a celebration of women. That's, that's the title. That's what it says, Star Wars: Women. I made one for Star Trek, too: Star Trek: Women.
Liz:   But, Anika, what about man person?
Anika:   Go watch Star Trek! Go watch, literally the entire original trilogy and most of the rest. And you can find all the man person you want.
Liz:   So the discussion here, what about man person? Why aren't men writing Trek fic? "There are many males in Trek, why aren't they writing? One suggestion was that men can't take criticism very well. And women are used to it."
Anika:   I mean, every answer that they come up with is actually kind of great.
Liz:   It is! But I'm like, people call us misandrists, and look at this! 
"Criticism is a good tool. The Star Trek world would seem to appeal to males. One expects Marty Sues but gets Mary Sues. But many male Trekfen don't want to write about it, instead want to be in it." 
And I think this is really interesting, because if you look at the fanworks which are dominated by men at the writing and production level, it's fan films. And there's the perennial post on the Star Trek subreddit, "Hey, I just wrote a Star Trek novel, how do I get it published?" And they never want my AO3 invite.
Anika:   Yeah! I mean, I think that this is actually a really amazing insight that is absolutely true. Like, in, in all fandom--
Liz:   Yeah. And I think--
Anika:   --men--
Liz:   Go on.
Anika:   Do that. Like women -- I think we've discussed before how there's the transformative versus, like, critical or or--
Liz:   Collecting?
Anika:   Collector, yeah. Yeah. And, again, we just said there aren't enough women doing stuff in Star Trek in 1977. And so they were, they were saying, "Hey, I'm going to create a woman character who does something." And whereas the men are like, "I'm going to, you know, make a movie where I play Captain Kirk."
Liz:   Yeah.
Anika:   And somehow, they don't see that as fanfic?
[Note from Liz: it's not that there's anything wrong with that approach! I just find it weird how things like Star Trek Continues are treated as semi-canonical, whereas fic mostly … is not.]
[Oh no, do we need to start doing eps on fic the way other podcasts do eps on fan films?]
Liz:   No, no. A few years ago, pre pandemic, I saw the play Puffs, which is essentially a Gary Stu fic in the form of a play. And it's a professional piece of theatre! You can see it on Broadway Online or something, and I highly recommend it. It was a good evening. I have very mixed feelings about Harry Potter these days, but it was a lot of fun. 
But it struck me that "the ordinary kid gets his Hogwarts letter and goes to Hogwarts and is on the periphery of the events of Harry's school years" is a fic that I have seen many, many times. And the difference is--
Anika:   So many times.
Liz:   The difference is like those fics were mostly written by women. And this guy was like, "Oh, yeah, that's a valid idea. I'm going to write a play, and I am going to make it enough of a parody that it is a professional endeavor." And it's just interesting that men are more--
Anika:   Willing to do that.
Liz:   Yeah! And I think it's -- I love fan fiction, and I love that we have this community of amateur writers who love something, but do we, as the women and marginalized people of fandom, need to be more open to also being professionals? Or does something get lost in that?
Anika:   Yeah. It's a really good question because I am very much of the opinion that if all you want to do is write fan fiction, more power to you.
Liz:   Absolutely.
Anika:   That is absolutely valid. That is you're still a writer. You can call yourself a writer. You are a creative. You are coming up with something that someone else didn't do. Your fic is original, even if it's fanfic.
Liz:   Right, and even if it's using tropes and ideas that have been used before, unless you are literally copying and pasting from someone else's story, it is still unique.
Anika:   Right.
Liz:   They speculate that boys aren't interested in writing. "It's cute in girls and effeminate in boys in the high school years, and boys should go out and do it, not daydream." And I think there might be some level of truth in that. Or certainly, there may have been then. And, you know, toxic masculinity and all of that.
Anika:   So here's what I wrote after I copied that over into my notes, that sentence, "writing is looked upon as cute in girls, effeminate in boys". And the sentence that I wrote is, "Hey, is it possible that this nonsense is why we have so few women writing trek novels right now?"
Liz:   Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.
Anika:   Just an idea. Just a thought.
Liz:   They do go on to note, "most SF writers and men, but that that isn't Trek."
Anika:   And also, that's not true.
Liz:   Yeah. Even back then that was not true.
Anika:   Sorry. That definitely wasn't true in the '70s. There were many women writing science fiction in the '70s.
Liz:   This was the age of McCaffrey and Butler and Le Guin. And more. Those are just the ones we remember!
Anika:   Literally everything I read in the '80s was written in the '70s. So that's just wrong. 
Liz:   Joanna Russ was writing Kirk/Spock fic and also science fiction novels.
Anika:   Exactly. It's society. It's not us. It's not me and you who's keeping Una McCormack as the only woman allowed to write Star Trek right now.
Liz:   Right, right.
Anika:   Like, it's the people in charge. And the people in charge have decided that science fiction should only be written by men, and they are going to like, make that happen.
Liz:   Right? And so it's interesting that men seem to self exclude from fan fiction. I think that's less true now than it was then. But it's certainly interesting because they go on, there's a bit down here, "at least a third of Trekfen are male." [laughs] I died! 
But they speculate that "perhaps the dearth of men in zines is self perpetuating, since male writers are reluctant to submit their precious manuscripts to female criticism."
Anika:   That is true. Like, I will say, I know some male writers who have not submitted their manuscripts because they don't want to hear it. And I said a while ago that I don't have a beta reader for the same reason, so I'm not saying that they shouldn't be like that. But it is a thing.
Liz:   No, no. What struck me was that with the internet, like the gatekeepers in the editorial process disappeared for fan fiction and we see some more men now than we had then. But still not that many. And it's like it's a mystery to me.
Anika:   I don't know any.
Liz:   Writing fan fiction is great. Why would you not?
Anika:   There aren't any men in our Kat Cornwell discord. There are a couple of non binary people, but no men?
Liz:   Certainly no cis men. Is it just not a community that's appealing to cis men?
Anika:   And why? Is it because they're not paid for it and you have to like, you know, "I hunt and gather and bring everything in"? Again the patriarchy is bad for everybody. Capitalism is bad for everybody.
Liz:   There's a very strange and amusing digression here: "Cogswell and Spano ((MAY SLIME DEVILS INFEST THEIR TYPEWRITER)) were mentioned as trotting around at cons, getting opinions for Spock Mess--but again, those are pros ((SUCH AS THEY ARE))." 
And I assume that Cogswell and Spano are nicknames. I don't know what Spock Mess is. I didn't really get any useful Google results. It might be a zine. 
I was wondering if maybe they were nicknames for Harlan Ellison or Isaac Asimov or David Gerrold, who were all part of the fan community and were certainly known as people who trotted around at cons. Gerrold was deeply hated by a lot of women in fandom because he's a complete donkey, and was not able to say "I don't care for slash" without also saying, "slash is written by fat ugly housewives who need to get laid."
Anika:   Ugh. Yeah, so--
Liz:   Thanks for the tribbles, mate, you can just move along.
Anika:   Again, fine, you don't have to read the slash. But that's just "I don't like this thing...."
Liz:   If anyone out there knows who this aside refers to please, tell us because I require much gossip.
Anika:   Also, I kind of want to have an opinion on Spock Mess.
Liz:   Yeah, I would very much like to know what it is so that I can have an opinion on it.
Anika:   I'd really like to have an opinion about it. So let me know what that means.
Liz:   "It's a waste if we can get mediocre rotten and fairly good ideas from female authors, why not from male?"
Anika:   Okay, look, I don't actually need men to have a bigger footprint in fandom, because they have reality.
Liz:   It's true. It's true. But fandom was so female dominated back then, "at least a third of Trekren are male," that I understand why, in these formative years, it would have been nicer to have 50/50. 
And then it goes, "Masculine domination of straight SF was brought up again, with the observation that SF is written by and large for adolescent males." 
No, that is not true! That was not true in the 70s! 
"And that the field has been changing to human relationship or alien relationship stories, largely on account of the female writers." Who did exist! 
And I love that they discuss original SF alongside fic. "Treklit."
Anika:   Yeah, that they're basically talking about them the same way. Like, these are both forms of science fiction writing.
Liz:   Right. And like I said, Joanna Russ was writing Kirk/Spock fic. And these days, Naomi Novik is the founder of AO3, and also writing acclaimed novels, which I personally do not care for, but I don't read them and don't complain that they exist.
Anika:   Because there's a lot of stuff that I don't read and don't complain that it exists. I'll just put that out there.
Liz:   Because I'm sort of in the con organizing scene, I pay a lot of attention to like Hugos, and I nominate and I try to read as many of the nominated works as I can. And sometimes I'm like, No, no, this is a bad year for works specifically designed to appeal to me.
Anika:   I probably read more fan fiction than published science fiction. I'll be honest.
Liz:   A lot of people do.
Anika:   Partly because it's free. Partly because it's about characters I already love.
Liz:   Yeah. And it is so hard to care -- like it takes real skill to create original characters that other people care about. It's hard!
Anika:   That is true.
Liz:   It's a real skill!
Anika:   That is very true. And even when you do -- like, let's take Daenerys Targaryen--
Liz:   Alas.
Anika:   George R R Martin created her, right? Whatever. Him
Liz:   Yes. He made you care about her.
Anika:   I guarantee that I care more about Daenerys Targaryen than he does. And I also guarantee I care more about Daenerys Targaryen than DB or the other D.
Liz:   I don't know about GRRM, but I absolutely agree with you on that. You win that easily.
Anika:   So that's why I'm gonna go read fan fiction about Daenerys Targaryen instead of caring about when Winds of Winter ever comes out.
Liz:   But also, you know, you're entering into a contract with a fic writer where they're saying, "Look, I love this character, and I care about them too." And you're like, "Cool, I'm gonna sit with you and we're going to care together."
Anika:   Right, we're gonna care together, I'm -- we're going to fix -- like, you know, fix it fic is like a really popular tag for every fandom because every fandom needs to be fixed for someone.
Liz:   I was very against the idea of fix it fic as a concept because I'm like, Sure you can change and you can alter what the show does, but ultimately, you know, what I love is canon. And then they blew someone up and I am very pro fix it fic. I am a Cornwell denialist.
Anika:   It's interesting. This is where my love of alternate universes comes in, where I can -- like a fix it fic is just an alternate universe, it doesn't mean that the canon didn't happen. It's like, here's a different way it could have gone. 
And I love that, because characters who are thrown into many different plots and many different situations and circumstances and the way things went, seeing the similarities, the throughlines, and their strengths and their skills and their innermost being, like, how it comes out? That's what's interesting to me, that's the identity stuff that I'm always talking about. That's like, this is what matters to this character.
Liz:   And there's a really interesting writing trick where, if you're not sure you understand your original character, you should go and write an AU of them. So if you're trying to write a fantasy, go scribble out a coffee shop AU and see, see what is actually essential to that character.
Anika:   Exactly, yes.
Liz:   And now I'm wondering, is the reason for the whole Mary Sue discourse, and this whole discussion about original characters in fan fiction, because a lot of these writers were novices and didn't have the skills to make people care about their original characters?
Anika:   Absolutely! I still have some of my fanfic that I wrote when I was 13. And it is bad. Even -- there are two Voyager fics that I wrote way back when that I put on my AO3, because they're the two that I think are acceptable, and they are still bad.
Liz:   Oh, yeah.
Anika:   They are … like, I put them up because I'm proud of them. But I'm proud of them twenty years ago. You know, it's like, thank God, I have improved since this time.
Liz:   The first fic I actually finished was a Savage Garden songfic where Q watches Janeway and Chakotay dance. It is not good at all. But in my defense, I was 14 years old.
Anika:   Exactly. And I think that that's, that matters. One thing that I really love about fanfic, and that I love about having a profile on Archive of Our Own, is that I can go back to this stuff that is fifteen years old, and I can say like, Oh, this is like, I'm telling this, this story again, in this new fic. But look at how much I've improved, look at how I've been able to, like, tease those ideas into something so much like -- into so much more of a blossom.
Liz:   And with these women who are writing fic in the '70s -- you know, the general profile of a Trekkie back then was a middle-aged, college educated woman who had married straight after college, had children. Maybe she had a part-time job as a receptionist, or a secretary or something like that. But this was her first creative outlet in decades. And her first writing work in decades. And it is the work of intelligent, educated but untrained writers who are practicing. And - - -
Anika:   Exactly, practicing. 
I love that fanfic doesn't have to have a beginning, a middle and an end. You don't have to waste time on telling them about the character, you can just tell them about what the character is feeling right now, because I already know who Spock is. 
So you don't have to tell me who Spock is. You just have to tell me what Spock is doing right now, and how it makes him feel, and how it's different from what he feels in the episode I just watched. 
It allows you to hone your skills with a very low like bar. You don't have to prove anything. The worst thing that happens is someone doesn't like your fic.
Liz:   And we talked at the beginning, and I guess this brings us full circle, but we talked at the beginning about how the criticisms in this panel were not the sorts of things that would fly today, and people could be really upfront about not liking stuff. 
But I read some of the letters of comment for big fics around this time, and there was one, and it's a very well known writer, and I cannot remember who she was - possibly even Paula -- no, not Paula Smith. 
Anyway, the letter of comment was basically, "You need to slow down," or, no, "she needs to slow down," it was a letter to the zine, not to the writer. 
"She needs to slow down and consider her pacing and really take time to settle into a scene and let things unfold. Because she is not a bad writer now, but she is going to be really, really good when she's comfortable enough to take her time." 
And that's really, really fantastic feedback. And put really kindly And so yeah, fandom hasn't changed that much.
Anika:   You know, you can go to college for literature, or whatever, and mostly you get beaten down. And you get told, you know, this is what you're doing wrong, and this is the way you need to do better. 
And fanfic is the opposite, where it's like, they're not going to tell you how to fix things necessarily. They're gonna encourage you, and even when they say something negative, it's in an encouraging way. And I think that the balance of both is the perfect, you know, that the best way to make a writer is to have both.
Liz:   Absolutely. 
Are we done? Should I outro?
Anika:   I think so.
Liz:   Okay. It's really hot here. I need another shower.
Anika:   I'm sorry.
Liz:   I'm sorry for Texas!
Anika:   It is. Yeah, it is cold and snowing here.
Liz:   If I could send you my excess heat...
Anika:   And I'm not Texas. Thank God.  
Liz:   Thank you for listening to Antimatter Pod. You can find our show notes at  antimatterpod.tumblr.com, including links to our social media and credits for our theme music. 
You can follow us on Twitter at @Antimatter Pod, and on Facebook, because as far as Facebook is concerned, we are not a news source. That's a bit of Australian humour for you. 
If you like us, leave a review on Apple Podcasts or wherever you consume your podcasts. 
The more reviews the easier it is for new listeners to find us and join us in two weeks, when we'll be discussing bisexuality and Star Trek.
Anika:   It will be great!
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its-ashleyreads · 4 years ago
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Finished: 27/03/2021
The Burning God by R. F. Kuang
They would take back the south with sheer numbers. The Mugenese and the Republic were strong, but the south was many. And if southerners were dirt like all the legends said, then they would crush their enemies with the overwhelming force of the earth until they could only dream of breathing. They would bury them with their bodies. They would drown them in their blood.
Rating:  ★★★★☆
Summary:
After the Dragon Republic’s betrayal, Rin returns to the south to raise an army and fight for herself and her people. But the Southern Coalition isn’t much better than the Republic, there are enemies everywhere Rin turns and while they may have the numbers, they don’t have the time or the training to win the war. But there is more than one way to win a war, Rin knows firsthand how easy ending a war can be, if you only have the right weapon…
Review:
This review has been a long time coming. I finished The Burning God over a week ago but even after talking it out with my book club, I’m still not entirely certain about how I feel about what happened. The first thing I want to mention though, is that while this was definitely my least favourite of the trilogy and didn’t leave me feeling totally content with the ending, The Burning God was a very good end to this series and I can at least sort of understand why certain decisions were made, even if I don’t agree with them. That being said, on to the review!
To start off with the things I liked, Venka, Kitay, the little nods to moments from the other books in the series, the characterization, some of the battle scenes.
Things I didn’t like, the boring trek scenes that took up approximately 50% of the book, the Hesperians and their gadgets (which were always mentioned but never explained), Nezah, the trifecta, the exact same thing happening for the third book in a row where Rin trusts someone and they stab her in the back, especially since at the beginning of the book she had a whole monologue about how she wasn’t going to let herself be used as a weapon and was going to fight for herself this time. And last but certainly not least, the murder of my innocent babies, Venka and Kitay.
This third installment of the series felt really rushed to me. Although there was roughly three-hundred pages dedicated to Rin making her way somewhere, all of the battle scenes and important moments between characters felt rushed. That whole thing with the trifecta took over half of the book but was over in two short chapters; Rin racing down the mountain after the temple was blown up took longer than the scene with Riga rising from the dead or whatever. Like, I understand that plan not working out, I do, but for how much time and effort was invested in that storyline it really should have amounted more to one boring fight. I personally think that that storyline should have taken a full book and then they could have dealt with the aftermath of Riga in another one but whatever, I’m not the author. Not to mention that Daji and Jiang both felt really weirdly characterized to me. I could tell that Kuang wanted the reader to feel some sort of sympathy toward Daji, and some sort of trepidation towards Jiang, but after two previous works making us think of them one way, it’s hard to make the reader reverse their feelings of them like that. And that’s what’s so disappointing, because Kuang did that. When Nezah betrayed Rin in The Dragon Republic I changed my mind about him so fast I got whiplash, but it just didn’t land with Daji and Jiang.
That scene where Riga is awakened was made all the more odd by the fact that the Hesperian’s just happened to show up? Kuang tried to explain it away by using Kitay and Rin to imagine what Nezah must be thinking but it just doesn’t make any sense, especially when later when they fight Nezah in battle and try to think of all the things he might do, Nezah outwits them? Which is it; are Rin and Kitay mind readers or dumb as bricks? Hesperian equipment was also so advanced and sophisticated but Kitay was able to figure out how all of their stuff worked in just a few minutes, even the weird gold bracelets that Nezah wore, Rin and Kitay seemed to figure out but was never explained to the reader? At least the other stuff Kuang gave half-hearted explanations to. The Hesperians in general were always mentioned but never actually showed up except for in the city where they found Kitay that the Hesperians had essentially converted into a Victorian steampunk city in less then six months. And I think that’s one of the big faults of The Burning God, that there’s not really any villain. I know that the first two in the series are morally grey by the ends of them, but during The Poppy War and The Dragon Republic there is a clear enemy, it’s only after that everything becomes muddled. With The Burning God, yes the Republic and the Mugenese are the enemy, but it mainly just feels like there is no enemy which I also blame on the long trekking sequences; I got so bored at some points I forgot who they were supposed to be fighting.
The real enemy of this book, however, was well and truly, R. F. Kuang since she murdered Venka and Kitay. I have spent all week trying to understand why she did it, but I just can’t. Venka, a survivor of brutal sexual assault, turned general had no reason to die in that way. I could maybe understand if Rin’s paranoia had her kill Venka with her own hand or something, but the fact that she just kind of died felt wrong and disrespectful. It was like the miscommunication trope, something dumb that could’ve been avoided but the author got lazy. Then there’s my sweet, sweet Kitay. Kitay was used and abused by Rin this whole goddamn series. He was apparently a pro strategist, but Rin always did her own thing and never seemed to listen to him. She caused him immense pain every time she called the Phoenix but did it on the reg anyway just to show off. (The scene where she calls more fire than she ever has, so much that it should have killed Kitay and neither of them ever mentions it. Also, what ever happened to Rin’s brother who Nezah may or may not have held prisoner and may or may not have killed? We’ll literally never know). But then Rin started losing her shit. I can understand why she ended up this way, after all of the betrayal this girl has had to face, I more than understand. But once they’re on Speer and she realizes what she has to do, Kuang could have found a way to save Kitay but she didn’t, and that’s what pisses me off. Rin’s story was done, but Kitay’s was not. As the author, Kuang could have had Rin even attempt to release Kitay from their bond but she didn’t even try. And the fact that their deaths happened simultaneously with only Nezah to witness it meant that most of the focus was on Rin, since he loved her. Kitay was given a few measly lines at most and I HATE IT. Chen Kitay deserved better and that is all I have to say about that.
While I seem to have focused on only the bad stuff in this review, I did really enjoy the characterization of Rin and a lot of the earlier stuff in the book. I feel more like I’m going to block parts of this book out of my memory but overall, this series was fantastic and I would highly recommend giving it a read.
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