#they’re so self-centered and check-out and it’s so clear that they can’t even be present in a single conversation
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#it’s really seems impossible to make friends who are on my level#i have career and life goals that i’m actively working towards and doing#i’m living a beautifully created life instead of just dreaming about it#i’ve been through unspeakable levels of trauma and abuse#i was pushed through so many levels of rock bottom due to no fault of my own#i crawled my way out and healed and recovered into something so very incredible and rare#but rare is the problem#most people haven’t even gone thrown a quarter of what i’ve been through#so how could they possibly be on my level?#despite all that i’ve been through and being lucky enough to even be here; i still have things to do places to be and people to see#i just simply don’t give up on life or things and i have so much kindness and clarity on what kind of person i am#but so many of the people around me are just spineless; insecure; directionless losers#and it sucks have no one to relate to or do confide in#people will dismiss me for being petty or what not without actually really listening to what i’m saying#they’re so self-centered and check-out and it’s so clear that they can’t even be present in a single conversation#like ??? this is all that humankind has to offer ???#i just really notice the vapidity; the superficialness; the low self-esteem; the no confidence; the fakeness of all the people out there#and it’s fucking demoralizing
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⤝Writober - Day 1⤞
▶Writober Day 1 “This is the sign you’ve been looking for” [Silco]
↠English is not my first language ↠No use of "y/n", fem reader ↠TW: SFW, implied violence, implied romantic relationship ↠Character/s: fem reader, Silco, Sevika, Finn, chem barons ↠wc: 1.1k
▶“This is the sign you’ve been looking for”
The devil smiles, ruthless, letting the lips marked by time and hate barely uncover the chipped teeth.
You remain motionless, impassive, while the chem barons swallow loudly to that unexpected and out-of-place reaction from the man: Sevika quickly looks at you moving her gaze only, taking advantage of their distraction to check on you, and you don’t know exactly if she fears that you can do something inappropriate or if she’s simply uncomfortable since she usually acts alone, but you try to don’t give it too much importance. You know you have to be docile.
"So I wonder, why do you insist on wasting my time?" Silco places his palms on the table surface, leaning slightly forward, letting his voice warm as a caress and sharp as a blade reach everyone in a clear way, in a veiled threat.
His two-tone eyes scrutinize one by one the faces of the twelve present sitting at the table, with the security and superiority worthy of a king without a crown, aware that in that haughty room of power-hungry cowards no one will dare answer.
Yet, despite the tension has saturated the air, you cannot help but feel on the skin the icy and judgemental gaze of some who sits at the table; someone who despite the drastic situation finds time to wonder about who you are: they probably think they’re gonna get out of that room alive, which is why they’re mentally preparing to take you as an hostage or as a blackmail source.
And it’s a probability that you took into account when you agreed to be an accomplice in that meeting, certain that if you really are a weakness for Zaun’s Kingpin then presenting yourself to them meant being the face of the conviction.
No one speaks, only the man sitting at the head of the table on the opposite side of the room seems to exempt himself from the air of fear that the mere presence of Silco brings to the room: he plays carelessly with a lighter, turning it between his fingers, following it with his eyes, covering and uncovering the flame with its golden lid.
If hubris had a face, its irises would be green and its skin covered with ink.
"You know, the girl behind you is really pretty, Silco." His voice breaks the silence like a bolt from the blue, making your heart jump in your chest. Insolent. Self-centered. Devoid of common sense. You’re pretty sure that the one who just opened his mouth is Finn.
"Yet, she seems rather delicate to be a henchman. Is she your collaborator? Your secretary? Or maybe..." He goes on, his voice takes on a mocking note, slightly sharper as if he had to hold a laugh.
Sevika stiffens while the man involved seems not to be disturbed by his arrogance, nor by the transparent provocation. Rather, he straightens his back and raises an arm, inviting you to approach with a gesture of his hand.
"Oh, I see. Are you interested in her?"
"I can’t believe how a sick old man like you has so many pretty faces around"
You get closer to Silco, the sense of nausea grows more and more.
You wouldn’t know exactly if it’s the anxiety, the awareness of how slimy every single rat in that room is, or the absolutely disgusting way the raven-haired man looks at you, but you decide not to investigate more.
Silco puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it imperceptibly as if to reassure you that that pitiful show is about to come to an end.
And you will never admit it aloud but it’s not describable in words how attractive is the way he doesn’t waver even to so stupid but objective provocations: it’s not the wrinkles around the eyes nor the scarring that disfigures the face to make him feel at fault; he certainly knows there are younger and more attractive people out there than an old man who’s irretrievably disfigured, but that’s not his problem.
Probably Finn himself knows that it’s useless to try to attack the physical appearance of a man who grew up in the Sump, but you’re almost sure that he intends to use something so irrelevant to make him not only feel insecure but even humiliated.
And God alone is a witness to how pathetic he is as he shrugs lightly as if his foolish words had to trigger who knows what reaction.
Silco lets go of your shoulder and lightly runs two fingers along your spine and Finn makes his gaze dart towards a woman sitting on his right.
This is the sign you’ve been looking for.
You were warned by Sevika that at the table sat the one who wanted to betray the Kingpin, but there was no certainty if Iscariot was alone or in league with someone. For that reason, as a total outsider, you were asked to attend that meeting that was requested with a little too much urgency.
Your rule, as a hunter, wasn’t only to find out who would betray him, but also with them who, in search of power, would turn their back on the man.
You approach the man with the golden jaw and drop a bag on the table that, when it hits the wood, lets out gold coins.
He looks up perplexed, first at you, then at Silco.
"What does it mean"
"That’s 30 gold coins." You try not to let out any emotion as you speak, and it’s almost ridiculous how your heart does somersaults in your chest when you notice it out of the corner of your eye in Silco’s small grin.
Finn snaps to his feet and slams his hands on the table, stupid and embarrassing exactly as he were described to you: the moment he’s unable to understand something he screams and wiggles like an toddler.
He screams words that you ignore, intent on accomplishing your only task. With one hand you reach for his face to turn it towards you, and before he can grab your wrist to break contact you leave him a quick kiss; then, you place a nail in front of the woman, looking into her eyes without hiding the sadistic vein that accompanies your action.
You have exactly fourteen seconds to get back behind Silco, fourteen seconds before the ruckus breaks out and that room, that until a few moments before was shrouded in silence, turns into hell on earth.
Some understand your signal and get up, others blink their eyes in confusion, others still turn looking for an escape or shelter, while Silco offers you a hand, closing your fingers between his and the palm, leaving a light kiss on the knuckles in a gesture that finally breaks the mask of coldness and tears you a smile.
"You did so good" is just a whisper, but you can’t help but giggle as you squeeze yourself between your shoulders as you leave the door behind.
#arcane fanfic#arcane writing#arcane silco#silco x female reader#sevika#silco x you#silco x reader#silco arcane#arcane writober#writober#writober 2022#pumpNEON#henchman reader#arcane sevika#arcane finn
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fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom
there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”
people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?
the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all.
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fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see—and the types of fans we tend to care about—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!
so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.
you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.
folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.
she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.
notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century—hundreds of years after their arrival in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.
interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.
so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.
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victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.
it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.
but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.
this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.
i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this—i checked!
but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.
things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.
in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here—not because all fans are white—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.
i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.
it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.
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it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume—or create their own versions of—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.
this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.
now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.
there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.
the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.
beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.
it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.
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japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.
it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.
zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:
alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.
this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.
white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.
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i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.
first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you.
consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances.
consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves”
these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.
second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women.
consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.
what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other.
third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.
consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how:
It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.
referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers.
at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese?
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finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power.
here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.
there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.
bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.
meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry.
he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition.
i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.
but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.
at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people?
as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?
i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game)
i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects.
we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too?
i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.
if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it?
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some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood!
i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.
i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them
the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique
please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.
please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :)
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Thinking about how both Touya and Shouto began to freeze other people out after a traumatic childhood incident in which they were burned. How both used it as a form of self-defense and to sever their ties to people, after the pain these connections caused, not only physically but emotionally.
As a child, we see Touya express his emotions without restraint. He’s loud. He’s boisterous. He cries openly and wears his heart on his sleeve.
It makes sense that he would be taking cues from his father, who he spent the majority of his time with when he was younger, and who is also an expressive person (although this is often to the detriment of those on the receiving end of his emotions). Not to mention it was his father’s quirk that Touya inherited. Since his emotions fuel his flames, it is likely Endvr encouraged his exuberance for the purposes of training. By Dabi’s own reckoning, his father “only ever taught [him] to turn up the heat.”
Which might be the approach you take when training a hero to control their fire, but it isn’t one you should take when raising a child. Children need to be taught to regulate their emotions and express them in a healthy manner. Something that it was clear Touya needed guidance on the moment he started to hurt himself with his quirk and for sure when he tried to attack Shouto.
No matter how loudly or plainly he expressed himself, however, Touya’s feelings were were never properly addressed by the adults in his life.
He was brushed aside, rather than taught how to deal with his feelings, or how to “cool down” when needed.
Instead of receiving the support and guidance he needed, the neglect culminates in an outburst that “kills” him and leaves the majority of his body horrifically scarred.
Compare how he acted in his childhood to when we meet Dabi in the present, where he comes across as cold and detached.
Initially, it is hard to get a read on what exactly he wants or feels since he purposefully keeps that distance. Remind you of anyone?
He went from one extreme (and one parent’s example) to another -- letting all his emotions pour out without restraint vs repressing everything to the point where he claims he can’t feel anything. Obviously, this isn’t actually the case, because the destructive strength of his flames continuously indicates the depth of his emotions. Touya never stopped feeling as deeply as he did as a child, but he began to repress them in order to prevent himself from being burned again, physically or emotionally.
The way he disassociates from himself is contradictive in itself, as it is both a method of survival and a self-suicide. He conceals his true identity from people while denying he is that person anymore. His past is his motivation for all his present actions, even as he claims to have cut ties with those from his past.
It is quite the parallel to Shouto’s own struggle between the duality of his quirk. Like with Touya, the snippets we see of Shouto as a child show that he was once more expressive, too.
Unlike his older brother, Shouto has an equal amount of fire and ice at his disposal, and where Touya overextended his flames in his desperation to be acknowledged, Shouto refused to use his flames because he associated them with his father. He lost his mother, the single person who he was ever able to form a connection to, because of his father and because his father had passed along those parts of himself to Shouto.
Rightfully, Shouto recognizes his father as the one to blame for his mother’s breakdown and the scar she gave him. However, his decision to only use his ice quirk from that point on implies that he holds the half of himself that resembles his father accountable for losing his mother, too. It is still a form of self-detriment. Why else would he suppress what is his power, no matter where it came from? This is why his growth is sparked by Deku’s reminder that it is his power, his choice to do with it what he wants. It is why Shouto’s story centers around reconciliation, both with his family and with the parts of himself he once found detestable.
Honestly, what makes the Todoroki family so compelling is if you strip away the quirks, the superheroes and the villains, you have a story that revolves around the baggage you inherit from your parents and how it affects your relationship to yourself and to other people.
Although Rei’s breakdown was 1000% spurred on by her husband’s abuse, she hurt Shouto because she looked at him during her breakdown and saw only his father, which is why she lashed out -- to her immediate regret and horror. But you can very clearly see how after this incident, her baggage gets passed on to Shouto, who consequently has a difficult time separating his own self-image from that of his father.
Lashing out at the reminder of her husband fits, too, when you remember Rei never truly wanted to marry Enji. She may not have even wanted children and it definitely seemed like she didn’t plan for any after Fuyumi. She thought it was something she could grin and bear, that her feelings were something she could repress and endure, until it escalated beyond her control.
Similarly, Enji abandoned Touya because he inherited too much of Rei, going so far as to say he was born with her “weak constitution.” He looked at Touya and saw too much of her, the ice quirk user he never truly wanted to marry -- he never even wanted to start a family. All he wanted was quirk that would enhance his own, so he could build a better version of himself. But he didn’t get it on the first try, he got it on the fourth, and subsequently had three children he was responsible for when he obviously didn’t know what to do with them. Ignoring his “failure” children, Touya in particular, checks out since it aligns with his own baggage.
Just as it checks out when Touya inherits this baggage, believing his entire existence to be a mistake if he can’t achieve the expectations Endvr wanted met in his chosen child. And when Touya continued to defy his wishes and train despite the toll it takes? How did he lash out?
With a loud, aggressive outburst that showed no restraint towards whoever it was unleashed on.
You can see both of their parents in how Shouto and Dabi interact with / react to others. They bottle everything inside until they reach a breaking point (like their mother) and once they’re over the precipice, they overflow in the form of a destructive outburst (like their father).
It isn’t a healthy manner of expressing themselves, because they need to find a balance of “hot” and “cold” -- allowing themselves to express and feel, without doing harm to themselves or others. Neither fire nor ice are inherently good or bad, it depends on how they’re used. Fire can burn and blister, but it can also warm and thaw. Ice can soothe and balm, but it can also freeze and distance.
Likewise, what they inherited from their parents has no bearing on whether they’re good or bad, hero or villain, worthy or a failure. Shouto isn’t deserving of scorn for being half of his father and Touya isn’t undeserving of love for having a fire quirk incompatible with with his mother’s constitution. It is merely a fact of their existence.
#bnha#touya todoroki#shouto todorki#dabi#rei todoroki#bnha meta#could honestly expand on this more it’s so fascinating#but I really wanted to finish this lol
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Ok I have to go off about Luisa’s look for a minute because I’ve been watching Encanto daily (sometimes twice a day) in that honeymoon phase of wanting to see every detail and I’m quietly taking notes on her outfit so I can make it for myself and I have a lot to say about it
So it’s clear her whole look is about practicality, right, she’s sweet, she’s femme, but she has a lot of manual labor to do on the daily and her whole self-worth is riding on doing it well. So everything she’s got going on is supporting that goal!
Her hair: gorgeous, I would pay so much money to see it down, but she can’t afford to have it in her face or in the way. So she’s got it braided on the side, which is pretty and decorative but also a braid can sometimes hold onto your little short tendrils that would pop out of a regular ponytail, and we know she has some little tendrils!
Also, the bun! It bounces like it’s not super tight, so probably she’s not taking a ton of time in the morning to get it precise--again, it’s a practical choice, she’s working out before the coffee’s even ready. A quick bun is up off her neck, out of her face, nothing dangling that’s gonna get caught on the bottom of a church or whatever. She has a nice thick ribbon for it too, because all that hair is probably pretty heavy.
While I’m on this screenshot, her earrings: plain gold studs, pretty small! The Madrigal women overwhelmingly have dangly earrings, but once again, Luisa’s gone for something more practical that’s not going to get caught on anything.
Also while we’re here, her bracelets! Here’s where I’m treading lightly and doing a lot of googling, because I have no particular knowledge of Colombian textile arts (so if somebody reading this does, please feel free to correct me!). Based on some searching (specifically what I found here and tried to cross-check a bit), I think these cuffs are modeled after ones woven from cane fiber, like the Zenú vueltaio hats we see here and there in the movie and which have been mentioned in some of the talk in blu-ray extras and online about Colombia-specific details.
And each side is one bracelet, all the rings attached to each other! Another practical choice. If cane fiber hats can stand up to the elements, then so can these cuffs. They fit snugly and don’t dangle, and they don’t look fresh and new either, she’s been working with these on for a while.
Okay, back to this screenshot for a sec to talk about her top
IL OVE THAT THEY EVEN PUT IN THE SEAMS! A seam down the center back, including the collar, and seams where the sleeves attach! And look at the beautiful texture of that fabric, it looks like linen (or maybe cotton) to me, which is another great choice for hard work in a warm climate. It breathes, it’s hard wearing, and it’s white so it’s easy to bleach stains out of. Also the embroidery and ribbon on the trim around her collar really gets me, what a beautiful little textural detail, geometric shapes just like on her bracelets and her skirt along with a lil pop of color. Like all the Madrigals’ clothes, this was made specifically for her and with care, and it’s another place where she can get in a bit of decoration without it feeling too frivolous for her work.
This piece also has very subtle little buttons on the sleeves which sent me over the moon when I noticed! Given the probable time period (around 1950) and how cut off the encanto is from the rest of the world, it’s safe to assume there’s no stretch fabric and maybe no elastic at all. Luisa’s got bigass muscles, and when she’s using them they’re gonna bulge in different ways depending on what she’s doing! The button on the sleeve gives her space to open that cuff if she needs to, but also gives the sleeves a sweet, subtle amount of pouf. Again, this girl’s a femme and I love her for it.
The longer I go on the more I feel like I must seem bananas but let’s keep going. She has darts!
Darts are these little pleats in the fabric, present in a lot of clothing intended for people with boobs and/or other curves. In this case, it’s a straightforward way to negotiate the difference in circumference between the fabric at the collar and how much she needs to fit around her chest. For a lot of folks with breasts, you need more space in the front than in the back of your shirt, and the darts create that space. Anyway, it’s a glorious detail, pretty and practical for her shape, and keeps the trimmed neck lying neat and flat against her upper chest where it won’t gape open too much when she’s bending down.
Ok, moving on!
Her waist! Here we get a little more understated decoration in the form of embroidery and I think some lace, and gather up that extra fabric she needed for her incredible pecs into a slightly narrower waistline. I’d love her without an hourglass, but also as I’ve said a hundred times now, it delights me that she’s huge and muscular and also femme. So we’ve got a little bit of pouf again here, some room for her to move, but also an emphasis on her natural waistline. Also look how pretty the waist is in detail, I’m crazy for it:
Ok, going on. Here’s where I’m once again relying on my own experience of clothing on a bigger than average body, amateur costume making, and very basic knowledge of European and North American fashion history. I don’t know how any of that maps onto Colombian fashion history, though I’d like to find out! So that said, It seems like a brightly colored skirt and a lighter blouse is a common clothing choice for the Madrigal women and lots of background folks in the encanto, but I don’t think Luisa’s top is a blouse. She’s got a white slip on under her skirt and over the bloomers (don’t worry I’m gonna get to the bloomers I’m obsessed).
It seems the most sensible to me for the top and the underskirt to all be one piece! A chemise, or the equivalent. More carefully crafted for daytime wear than say, Mirabel’s nightgown:
but basically the same item. MUCH simpler, when you’re hauling and bending and twisting and lifting and running flexing, to not worry about whether your shirt is still tucked in or whether your slip is getting twisted around or creeping up your ribs. Especially when you’re 19 and constantly stressed out and your body is pretty different from the other women in your family. If it’s all one piece, you just stick your bloomers on under and your skirt over and ta da, you’re dressed.
Now, the skirt! This is where the most obvious details are, her signature geometric shapes and weights embroidered on. The embroidery has a gorgeous kind of shiny texture, animation is so wild wtf--
and the skirt is long enough to cover her underskirt and bloomers but short enough to not be super in the way when she’s bending to lift things.
Also, the waist has a seam in the center back, which I’m guessing (and when I make it for myself, I will ensure) has hook and eye closures so she can get it on over her magnificent thighs and then get it snug around the waist so it’s not moving around all the time.
Also, her skirt is a really practical shape overall! It looks to me like a half circle, which gives her plenty of room to move without being so full of fabric that it gets in her way.
A half circle skirt means that, if you cut it open along the seam and laid it flat, it would make half a circle shape! So when you close it up and put it on, it makes a silhouette like you can see above, sort of a quarter of a circle when it’s open. I would guess it’s probably also linen or cotton, and probably decently heavy so that it’s durable and doesn’t go flying around too much! The animators gave it a nice weight, it hangs really beautifully, and that makes me think it’s fairly thick.
NOW LISTEN. HER BLOOMERS.
I’m so in love. I have nothing smart to say about them, except that they’re the crucial period-appropriate item for her to be able to work without worrying about flashing people. Love the lace trim and delicate scalloped edges, love the purple ribbon, love that she gets to have another layer that’s practical and pretty at the same time, also love that they put the seam along the side of the leg??? The attention to detail is so wild!!
And while we’re here, her shoes! Espadrilles, which I only know anything about because they made it into North American fashion at some point. They likely have rope soles, nice and flexible, and canvas or some other sturdy fabric uppers, and those handy straps to keep them in place while Luisa’s running around rerouting rivers and whatever. Lightweight, partially open, nice for the warm/mild climate we see in the encanto. They’re also embroidered with her signature pattern, which is super cute to me.
At last we’ve reached the end this post with a lot of details that possibly only I care about, but at least it’ll be a good reference for me when I start actually constructing all these pieces for myself. Let’s have one more look at Luisa because she’s wonderful and deserves every good thing:
I love her so much
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Room 3 | PJM
summary: it’s just another normal day for you at the wellness center until it suddenly isn’t. note: standalone for now! part 2 is semi-written but no solid plans atm. note 2 (june 7th, 2021): this will be revamped in the future! i really enjoyed this premise so i won’t get rid of it completely. pairing: idol!jimin x massage therapist!reader genre: fluff word count: 9,188
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Thirteen.
The sidewalk underneath your feet has thirteen cracks in the little square you stand in. Sliding a small rock into one of them provides you with something to do until you hear the squeaking, screeching brakes of a bus struggling to a stop in front of you.
You adjust the strap on your shoulder as the doors open with a hydraulic hiss, and you give the driver a small smile before finding a place to stand. There aren’t many people commuting today, so it’s a pleasant surprise that you get to sit down for a change.
It was just another day in your life. You got up this morning and did your routine, listened to your wake up music on repeat, and checked that you had your wallet, phone, keys, and earphones before heading down to the bus stop. The very same earphones are still on as you now have your library on shuffle, and you hum along to the “na na na’s” of the current tune.
Living in Seoul for about a year now, you were pretty settled in. The people were accommodating, the quality of life was much better than where you were before, and you felt like you could live here for the rest of your days. It was insanely tough at first, but the initial culture shock and feeling of loneliness lessened as you made friends and befriended coworkers. You don’t have many people close to you here, but you can count on the ones that are.
You turn your head to gaze out the windows. Shimmering glass buildings tower over you, shops and street signs whiz by, and people look like they’re walking in slow motion as you follow them with your eyes. Blips of pastels and bold colors mingle together and you look down to observe your own monochrome uniform. For the place you worked at, you didn’t expect the clothes to look luxurious, but they’re actually designed very well. And they’re soft.
That’s enough for you.
Your stop is next, so you hook your arm around the nearest pole to prep. The steel has a coldness that seeps into your sleeve, but your only thought is wondering what you should eat for lunch.
-
Why do you feel so tense?
The sign right above you emits a sense of relaxation, but there’s a tightness in your shoulders. Odd. You lock your phone with one hand and grip the strap of your pack with the other before taking a deep breath. You count down from three before letting it out.
The hiss of your exhale mingles with the standard sounds of the city, and you concentrate on the flow of life both inside your body and the environment around you. You did this often when you felt out of place, and it served to recalibrate you and your thoughts. Storing your phone away, you make your way inside the frosted glass doors.
Working at one of Seoul’s prestigious wellness centers was definitely something you were proud of. If there was one thing you’ve wanted for years, it was for a way for you to massage yourself. Everyone seemed to love your massages, but no one knew how to massage you. That is, until you came here. You’ve never experienced people knowing exactly where you were hurting and effectively working out all of those kinks during one session. It was magical.
What is even more magical is the fact that you joined the ranks of those same angels from above. You love them, and they love you.
“Good morning! I hate you!”
Well.
“Morning, Yoon,” you respond lowly as you take your earphones out and store them. “Love you, too.” As you walk around front reception, Yoon smiles at you and comments,
“No, really, I think you legitimately repulse me now.”
You shoot her a look of pure terror. “What the hell did I do?”
“Nothing,” she sighs, dropping her eyes to the papers in front of her.
In a state of panic, your mind speeds through any events that happened since the last time you saw her. Did you accidentally ignore her once? Look at her funny? Yoon was big on body language.
You didn’t realize you were still staring at her until she tapped the glass counter between you two. “Hey, I’m sorry. I know you’re nervous. I just thought jokes would help.”
What?
“I’m not nervous, just tense for some reason. Although, you definitely made it worse,” you admit, “I might need to take a longer break today and somehow get Jay to rub my shoulders. Maybe I can bribe him with samgy--”
“--Uhh, forget him; have you even checked your client list for this week? I’ll do anything if you switch your schedule with me.”
Double-what?
“Okay, now you’re just being weird,” you chuckle, “But also, no, I haven’t checked yet. It’s Monday!”
In a sing-song manner, Yoon warns, “You better check your schedule before I snatch it...”
You laugh again and wave her off, but her words only mess with your head. As you make your way to the back room, you fidget and check your phone for any notifications you missed between when you exited the bus and now. You don’t know what you expected: still nothing.
As if you feel the weight of eyes on you, you glance up and notice some people are giving you looks.
What in the hell is going on? It’s 7am on a Monday and therefore way too early for people to be this upset with you. Yoon may have said she was joking, but by the looks of everyone else...
A hand claps onto your shoulder, causing you to yelp and feel like you rocket right into the ceiling. Only the hearty laugh beside you clues you in on who you were getting revenge on later.
“Geez, someone’s not looking forward to today.”
“You better sleep with one eye open tonight, Jay,” you seeth, hands rubbing your temples as you struggle to steady your heart rate. “Also, what’s so special about today? Yoon was being strange just a second ago, too.”
Your coworker looks at you like you have seven heads. “Okay, first off: if I had the amount of adrenaline in your body right now, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all. And second: you didn’t check your schedule yet?”
They didn’t know it, but they were going to be the death of you.
“No, I ha--It’s a Mon--you know what, I’m going to check now; you guys are killing me.” You leave Jay in a rush and race to the employee lounge. The anxiousness in your chest is bubbling over.
Jay’s on your heels, whispering loudly, “I can spoil it right now if you want!”
You respond in a low voice, “Don’t you have a client to see?”
“Nope!”
You round the corner and see the back room door is already open, so you power through and head straight for the docking table on the other side. Everyone working here has a personal tablet, and you unplug yours from the charging port. Pressing through the menus as quickly as the tablet allows, you feel a thin layer of sweat on your skin. Touch ID. Login. Main Menu. Scheduling. Weekly Outlook. Confidentiality Prompt.
Shit.
Confidentiality Prompts are for the therapists that have huge clients scheduled. They’re put in place for celebrities and business executives to have guaranteed privacy.
With a start, you wonder why the hell Yoon wanted your schedule. Everyone here is wary of high-profile people. It’s a whole different experience since they basically hold your life in their hands in each session. You recall a horror story that happened when you first started working there, and still don’t know where that employee ended up.
Your only problem is that you’ve never had to deal with this before. Jay, Yoon, and a bunch of the veterans have, but this is going to be your first.
“Damn, yours is longer than mine was,” Jay observes before you squeeze your tablet to your chest. “That looks intense.”
“Umm, snoopy much?” You shift your body away from him and speed read through the very long, very wordy window. When you hit Accept, another window pops up that you have to read through. This one is even more fine print. You suddenly realize something and dart your eyes up. “Wait, you got one, too?”
Jay nods and looks away, and he actually looks nervous. “Yeah, we all got them this time.”
Now that is alarming. This client must be something else.
Window after window comes up and you wonder if you should probably read these in earnest. It’s starting to genuinely scare you.
If this is that big of a deal…
You banish that thought from your mind as soon as it appears. Elephants would have to fall from the sky before you believe someone from that group is booking you here.
You hit Accept before you realize you didn’t actually read and instead mindlessly scrolled through the prompts. As the screen buffers, you bite your lip.
The screen goes back to normal and presents your schedule for today. Your coworkers are living their normal lives, putting their stuff in their lockers and getting materials ready for various sessions. Jay is being completely normal as he can’t stop laughing at your expression.
And your life is anything but normal anymore because elephants are dropping from the clouds and the words Monday, 8am, Park Jimin are staring you right in the face.
-
“You mean to tell me that you cleared your morning schedule just to see my reaction?”
Jay laughs in earnest. “Yes, and it was so worth it.”
You are failing to stop bouncing your leg as you wait at one of the tables in the employee lounge. There’s a cup of coffee in front of you, but you already know you aren’t going to drink a drop of it. You are about to be in close quarters with the equivalent of a royal family member, so coffee breath is out of the question.
Suddenly self-conscious, you ask, “Do you have a toothbrush I can borrow?”
“I actually do. Let me grab it.”
As your friend gets up, you scrutinize the table in front of you to avoid peoples’ lingering stares. How everyone somehow knew your upcoming client before you did was a mystery, but you don’t really care enough at the moment to find out.
Jay hands you what you asked for and you thank him before heading to the bathroom to freshen up. After you brush your teeth like a madman, you check your face for discrepancies and sigh at your choice of almost no makeup today.
You can’t help but wonder if the thirteen cracks in the sidewalk are laughing at you at this very moment.
Checking your smart watch, you realize you have either the longest or shortest 30 minutes of your life left before your appointment with Jimin.
You huff out a laugh at how ridiculous that sounds. You refuse to believe this is real until you physically see him in the room. Confidentiality forms or not, the name Park Jimin or not, you still can’t wrap your head around the situation.
Speaking of the forms, you assume that they were printed out for company records as soon as you submitted yours to sign. You decide to head back to the front desk after throwing Jay his spare toothbrush, to which he responds with pure disgust.
-
It was like Yoon was waiting for you because as soon as you open the glass doors, she’s hounding you, “So what did you do in a past life? Did you save an emperor? Rescue a prophet?”
“I don’t know about a past life, but I did save a turtle when I was five.” You tap your fingers on the reception desk and stare at the orchids on the counter. “Or at least I thought I did. I probably just made his life harder. Can I see a copy of the forms I signed?”
“I’m gonna go with the saved prophet. Which one was it?”
“Yoon,” you beg, desperate as you glance at the abstract clock above her and see that you have 20 minutes left. A mere 20 minutes until he is supposed to arrive to check-in.
“Okay, okay! Hold on,” she chuckles and rolls her chair away from you and towards the printer. “By the way, if I wasn’t the one checking him in, I would’ve hijacked your entire day already.”
Her words are garbled since you are laser-focused on rubbing an orchid petal between your fingers. Its soft and supple touch is calming you, and just for a second, you are able to clear your thoughts.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when Yoon hands you the forms. The paper is still warm as you thank her and head towards the doors.
“Oh, wait,” Yoon calls behind you, and you turn to see her grabbing another small stack of papers. When she extends them over the counter, she explains, “I was waiting until you saw your schedule to hand these over. Read through them carefully.”
“Thanks,” you whisper, even more anxious than before.
-
Your heart jumps into your throat when you see what Yoon handed over. You don’t even remember the walk to the back lounge and to one of the secluded tables; all you can focus on are the papers in front of you. They look like they were written on and scanned before being sent over to the wellness center.
It’s Jimin’s handwriting.
You’ve seen his penmanship before. There is no mistaking the neat, determined strokes. Even the way he checked the boxes and circled the pain points on diagrams proves very... well, him. Any other uncertainty dissolves after you see his birthday filled in, as well.
This is really happening.
You gently slam the papers on the table and hunch over to commit the information to memory. Months and months of schooling have sharpened this ability of yours, and you are determined to imagine this as just another client you have to memorize.
Light to medium pressure. Avoid anything above light pressure around the spinal area and lower back. Shoulders, calves, and feet are pain points. Facial area priority.
A trip to the countryside right at this very moment sounds like a fantastic idea.
Jay plops into the seat in front of you, and that thought bubble bursts. “This color on your face suits you. Reminds me of what’s-his-name, Edward.”
“How much time do I have,” you question, not even acknowledging him.
“Seven minutes.”
“Of course,” you mutter before standing, the irony not lost on you. “I’ll go prep now.”
You don’t see Jay waving you off. “If you survive, I’ll see you on the other side!”
A laugh escapes you. Personally, your only goal is to make it through five minutes. If you pass away after that, you would have no regrets.
-
You stand behind the reception doors with your tablet to your chest, staring at the wall across the way. The subtle wallpaper pattern is a great choice for this place, you decide.
Indescribable anxiousness and fear aside, you have a job to do. As long as you keep your outside actions professional, your inner turmoil can be whatever the hell it wants. You’ve been in this profession long enough and you know you’re ready to do this. You’ve seen the whole spectrum of human emotion in this line of work. No matter how well of a job you do, there are still people that are never happy. As long as you focus on keeping the client’s wellness and health in mind, you keep your consciousness clear.
Then again, you haven’t had to deal with a client like Park Jimin before, let alone a high executive or well-known actress.
A muffled “Good morning and welcome” reaches your ears and you push yourself off the wall. The frosted glass only allows you to see so much, but you can make out a few guys standing in the front area. Two are taller and only wearing dark clothes, and the other is a bit shorter. The latter is looking to be wearing a beanie, light colored top, and dark pants.
You can’t hear anyone talking other than Yoon, but suddenly the shorter one makes his way to your doors.
It’s him. You’re absolutely sure.
Steeling your resolve, you pull your side open. With a smile, you look straight at your client’s sunglasses-and-mask-clad face and greet him just like you would anyone else, “Good morning and welcome. Am I speaking to Mr. Park?”
He stills for a second before he nods.
“Nice to meet you. We’ll be in Room 3.”
-
Jimin bows to you slightly and whispers a thank you, and you follow him to your room. Your heart is rattling nonstop as you note the height difference between the two of you. It isn’t as bad as you thought it was.
The door to Room 3 is already open, and when Jimin enters you stop at the entrance.
You lied earlier. None of this feels real. He’s physically in the room, and you still don’t think this is happening.
You let Jimin put his bag down on the corner chair before gliding into the formal greeting, “Since this is our first session, please let me know if there’s anything you need. I did go over your forms, but if there was something that wasn’t specified, feel free to ask. I want to make sure all of your needs are met today.”
“Your name?”
You falter. “What?” Did he just...
Jimin takes off his sunglasses, and you feel all oxygen leave your body. He’s still wearing a mask, but you can see that his eyes are creased just a tad. “It wasn’t specified on the forms. Your name?”
A part of you just chalks this up to being standard Jimin behavior, but the other part of you wonders if he really didn’t know whom he was getting a massage from. Did Yoon not tell him? Check-in is supposed to confirm your specialist.
You also note that his voice is infinitely softer in person. TV and recordings did not do this man justice.
Keeping it professional is all you must do. You tell him your name, apologizing for not introducing yourself already. It’s also on your tablet, so you show him while you talk.
Jimin leans forward to read it and smiles again. “Ah. Pretty.”
Are your five minutes up? Can you pass away now? He’s a mere six feet away from you but it feels like his presence is engulfing you.
All that escapes you is a tiny thank you. “So, mhm,” you clear your throat and yell at yourself to get it together, “Go ahead and undress down to your comfort level and lie down on the bed with the sheet on top of you. That remote there is connected to my tablet, so just take it off the charger and bring it to the bed. You can press the green button whenever you’re ready.”
Jimin looks towards the console table next to him and sees the white remote. It’s docked in a sleek charging port and stands out against the light wood. He nods, and you give him one last smile before reaching out and closing the door.
-
The only words your brain can process at the moment are not work appropriate, so you just go on autopilot to the employee lounge. You expected Jay or even Yoon to be chomping at your heels as soon as you left Jimin by himself, but neither of them are around. That was completely fine: employees aren’t allowed to divulge anything that goes on in client sessions unless it’s dangerous to either of you.
You help yourself to a cup of water and down it before pouring another. The fruit flavor for today is strawberry, and you watch the fruit and ice swirl around as you stir the big glass container. There are pastries and assorted breakfast foods calling your name in the clear cabinet next to you, but you refuse. Your adrenaline is hindering your appetite.
People are still giving you daggers for stares, but after seeing Jimin in person you really can’t blame them. Even when you couldn’t even see his face, you felt his presence. His aura filled up that entire room and he only spoke around ten words. It would be a lie to say that you aren’t intimidated. You can already count the number of times you almost bolted out of the room on two hands. But you made yourself proud: as long as you keep your outer actions calm, you can get through this. Your voice was fairly level for someone whose heart was bouncing out of their ribcage. In the end, you want to make him feel comfortable and safe. Emotions cannot exist right now.
Self-deprecation comes into play as you wonder if this is a huge mistake and if Jimin is already out the door to find a better therapist.
Oh, well. At least he said your name was pretty.
Your doubts are casted aside as your tablet dings.
Jimin’s ready for you.
-
When you enter the room, you can see that your client followed your instructions completely. You glance at the corner chair and see that he even folded his clothes and set his jewelry neatly on the thin, long table. Since Jimin can’t see you from his position, you allow a warm smile to grace your features.
You close the door as softly as you can. The way the room is designed, the clients lie down so that their head is opposite the doorway. It takes you a few steps until you reach the head of the bed. You gingerly take the remote from where Jimin placed it next to his neck and turn around to redock it, and start to dim the lights with your tablet. Per standard, you ask, “Mr. Park, is this okay, or would you like the lights lower?”
His voice is projecting straight towards the floor, but it still sounds so light, “This is good, but please, call me Jimin.”
That’s definitely not what you expected, but you are touched. You nod before realizing that he still can’t see you. “Do you have a music preference for today?”
“Whatever you prefer is fine.”
Jimin is being so agreeable that your nerves start to dissipate. You were expecting him to at least be a little particular at some things, but he is being really easy to work with. The atmosphere starts to feel safe enough for you to joke, “Well, it does depend on my mood, so for now I’ll play Standard Spa Chord Progression, No. 5 instead of No. 3.”
The small chuckle you hear melts your heart. “Ah, is that the one with the harp?”
“No, that’s Spa Concerto, No. 4. We don’t have that one in our library, but I think it’s terrible anyways.”
Jimin’s head lifts from the table in an earnest laugh, and you can’t help but laugh with him. It’s infectious.
You select a random song on your tablet, and you weren’t lying when you said it was standard. The song is less of a song and more like a bunch of reverberating chords in slow succession. That’s one thing you noticed about this place: modern tech but very outdated music. Get with the times! At least have some nice piano covers to choose from.
“Not having Spa Concerto, No. 4 may be a deal-breaker for me,” Jimin comments, a hint of a smile in his voice.
You’re still tapping on your tablet to get to his file, and you make your way back to the door. There’s a clear slot on each room’s door to hold employee tablets, and as soon as you store yours, you can finally start. “I don’t blame you, even though I think it’s awful, that one still topped the char--Oh, shit!”
You aren’t watching where you’re going, so you don’t see the shoes in your path. It’s so dim in the room and his shoes match the floor color but none of that matters because right now you are falling and you are falling fast. Your first instinct is to grab the table, but that would risk pulling the blanket off of Jimin and you would rather die than do that to him.
So, floor it is.
Your hand not holding the tablet breaks some of the fall, but your face definitely makes contact with the ground. You can feel the slight burn on your nose and hand, and a sharp lingering pain follows.
Okay, now can you pass away. Someone from the heavens can come claim you now.
Drowning in shame, you don’t help yourself off the floor right away. Not only were you breaking your rule and joking around, you also weren’t paying attention and now possibly ruined Park Jimin’s shoes.
You’ll look up good resigning practices later tonight. You have enough money saved up to make it a couple months without a job, you reckon.
When you finally lift yourself off the floor, you turn around and see Jimin pushed up on the table. His whole upper body is bare and twisted towards you, and this is the first time you see his entire face. It’s more beautiful in person, you conclude, even though it conveys nothing but concern right now. “Are you okay?”
You nod furiously and stand up completely. Your voice is shaky as you apologize, “I am so sorry. One moment.” Before checking yourself, you check your personal tablet. To say it was worth more than you isn’t that far of a reach. No scratches, though. Praise be.
“Don’t apologize… Did you trip on my shoes?”
Embarrassment washes over you as you nod, not looking at Jimin. Placing your tablet gingerly on the console table, you dust your uniform down and inspect your hands and feel your nose. Luckily, there’s no blood, only slight rug burns. If there was blood, you would have to postpone the appointment until you effectively sanitized. With what you have, you just need to go wash up.
Jimin is still watching you intently, which makes your face burn even more. What a mess. He’s probably second-guessing this whole thing.
You bow, feeling tears at the corners of your eyes. “Mr. Park, I am so sorry.”
“Jimin.”
“I’ll just need to clean my hands and then I promise we will start as soon as I get back. I know your time is valuable so I’ll make up for the minutes we lost.”
“I… Okay. Thank you.”
You make your way out of the room, still courteous enough to shut the door quietly. Rushing to the nearest sink, a small sob leaves your throat as you wring your hands under the water. Life is kind to you at this moment because no one is around. You would never live it down if someone saw you coming out of Jimin’s room crying.
After splashing water on your face and drying it, you take out a cotton pad from one of the glass containers on the counter. You press it onto your eyes, decreasing the evidence of your current state.
So much for making Jimin feel safe and comfortable. You’ve only made it awkward.
-
With a deep breath, you enter the room.
Jimin turns his head and puts it in the crook of his arm to look back at you. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t help you…”
You go over to his shoes and move them under the chair, wincing when you see visible tears on them. Guess you’re withdrawing a chunk of your savings to pay Park Jimin for damages.
“I assure you, I’m fine,” you state firmly, but soften, “But I’m really sorry about the shoes; I may have torn them. I can pay you back.”
You hear sheets shuffling, and when you face him, Jimin’s fully on one elbow and turned towards you. “No, please, don’t worry about those. I should’ve put them out of the way. I feel bad.”
“It’s definitely my fault,” you countered, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jimin uses your name, which stops you in your tracks. “Everything’s okay, I promise.”
You should feel many different things, like pride in getting to see this man in person, or happiness from him actually addressing you by name. But all you can think about in this moment is how disappointing you’ve been to another human being, and you sigh.
You nod, but still plan to pay him back. You know enough about designer brands to know those aren’t cheap, and they’re shoes you’ve seen him wearing a lot in photos.
“It’s okay to lie back down,” you say softly, unmoving.
Jimin searches your face one more time before settling back face-down on the table.
It’s a normal day at work, you tell yourself. Go through your routine.
Launching yourself into action, you move to the far end of the console table. Grabbing a bottle you’ve clutched so many times before that its label is wearing down, you uncap it and oil your hands and wrists. You also unstopper a bottle of lavender oil and pour a few drops into the nearby bamboo diffuser and start it.
You make your way to the head of the table and grab a rolling stool from a corner of the room. The wheels on your chair don’t make any noise, which you fixed up yourself. This day isn’t any different - it’s still silently gliding on the carpet. Plopping your devastated self onto the cushion, you scoot towards Jimin’s head. You’re about to place your hands onto his bare shoulders to start, but you whisper,
“It’s also okay if you want to cancel and reschedule with someone else, Mister--Um, Jimin.”
You can’t believe you just gave Park Jimin a way out of a whole 60 minutes with you. Where did this conviction and restraint come from? Is this going to be the regret of your entire lifetime?
After a long silence, Jimin answers with his face in the headrest, “If you call me Mister Jimin again, then I will.”
You huff out a laugh at his unexpected answer, and your shoulders finally relax. It seems like he’s still fine after everything that’s happened, and you thank any deity you can think of for this second chance.
-
Light to medium pressure. Avoid anything above light pressure around the spinal area and lower back. Shoulders, calves, and feet are pain points. Facial area priority.
You aren’t a fan of light pressure, but you understand why people prefer it. Not everyone can handle the deep tissue or harder pressure massages.
Jimin’s shoulders are incredibly tense, though, so you feel bad that you’re limited in what you can do. You allow some medium pressure to the worst spots, and when you approach the insides of his shoulder blades you lessen the intensity.
Gliding your fingers back to the ridge between his neck and shoulders, you feel that his right is still tight. You use your left elbow to work that knot, careful to press even lighter than you would with your hands.
Jimin grunts, and you still. “Is that too much?”
“No, I like that.”
You keep that in mind as your hands travel over the rest of his upper back area. From time to time, you reapply the oil to allow for less friction. It lets your fingers slide deftly across muscles and quickly work any troublesome areas, which Jimin has a lot of.
It makes sense: you can’t even imagine the amount of pressure all of the boys were constantly dealing with. There was a lull in their activity recently, so you knew something was in the works. Between recording songs, shooting music videos, fulfilling their brand contracts, and whatever else they do, you’re surprised you don’t feel more knots under Jimin’s skin.
The soft chords of the next song float around the room, and you lose yourself in your movements. You can’t see his face, which makes it a lot easier. You worked through his whole upper body, neck, and upper arms area so naturally that you were admiring his wrist tattoo before remembering who you were massaging.
For the seven hundredth time that day, you cannot believe this is happening. You really hope Jimin does feel safe here despite your whirlwind of thoughts. Have you kept it professional enough? Neutral enough? He seemed to be fine with your joking earlier, and he didn’t seem upset about the shoes in the least.
But still… Maybe he was just tolerating you because it’s the same situation for him, different place and day. Putting yourself in his shoes, you would feel pity for you trying your best to accommodate him. The pressure over everyone everywhere you go had to be exhausting. It couldn’t ever be normal.
Your shoulders suddenly slump under the weight of what you feel for him.
And Jimin seems to notice. “Really, it’s okay about the shoes. Those were getting pretty worn anyways.”
You still. Of course he thought you were still fussing over the shoes and not over his life. His unending consideration was like a burning hearth: it made you feel so warm.
“Okay,” you respond softly, “I understand.”
“Good. If you worry about them again, I’m walking out barefoot,” Jimin says sternly, even though you know he’s kidding. “And don’t test me, I’ve done it before.”
Your words leave you before you think. “I don’t believe you.”
“Oh?”
Jimin puts his hands on the table and you yelp, “Okay, okay, stop!”
He laughs and plops his arms back down flat. You lament as you still can see how his muscles bulge in your mind.
You shake your head and sigh before rolling to his left and softly taking his arm. His skin is so soft you don’t even need the oil, you notice. You work his forearm before moving down to his wrist and fingers. Thinking about Jimin’s threat, you are pretty curious. “Be honest: did that really happen?”
“It didn’t,” he responds immediately, “But I thought about it once. My shoes were killing my feet so I thought about walking without them until I found a shoe store.”
It sounds so childish to you that you chuckle. “Where was this,” you ask, completely intrigued now.
“Ah, I honestly can’t remember. I think somewhere in Europe.”
“...Did you just pick an entire continent because you couldn’t remember?”
“...There’s seven continents and one of them is Antarctica! Picking one out of six is easy.”
This man is something else. You finally finish off his right side, and you gingerly set his arm down on the table. With a mental pat on the back, you get ready for the next part of the routine. In your softest therapist voice, you instruct, “Okay, go ahead and turn over and slide down until your head is on the table.”
Jimin obeys right away, shifting over and moving down. The white sheet slips down his body a bit, and you diligently pull it up until it’s covering everything up to his neck. During this, you feel rather than see his eyes on you, so you don’t dare yourself to look.
You go back to your plethora of containers to re-oil, and roll your chair to the foot of the table. All that time, Jimin thankfully has his eyes closed.
You were equal parts dreading and looking forward to this part of the massage since his face was going to be visible. This way, you can’t escape the reality of the situation.
But you decided to follow the flow of the conversation. You learned the subtle nuances of human communication throughout your experiences: when people wanted to talk or stay quiet, if they were liking the conversation or not, etc. Jimin seems to be fine with talking despite your assumption that he was going to be quiet for the most part. It has definitely made this easier for you, though.
“I want to visit all seven continents one day,” you decide to admit.
“I do, too,” Jimin responds, eyes still closed. “How many do you have left?”
You start on his feet, working along the smooth skin.
“Uhh, well,” you whisper, “A good chunk. I’ve only been here and back where I’m from, and I just moved here around a year ago.”
After you tell Jimin where you were before, he sounds amazed, “You seem like you’ve lived here for so long. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
He’s definitely being nice. You are just now getting decent at the language and customs, but there is still a lot you have to learn.
“But, I do want to start traveling again for a specific reason,” you divulge, sighing to yourself as you think yet again about your lofty dreams.
“Which reason is that,” Jimin asks, and you somehow know his eyes are open now.
Your own eyes betray you as you connect your gaze with his. “I want to experience different techniques in person.” You don’t know he can feel the fire behind your eyes. “There’s no better teacher than experience, at least to me. I know I’m good at what I do currently, but there’s so much out there that I want to learn and get better at.”
You debate whether to keep going or not. Jimin’s eyes are alight with curiosity, so you take that as your cue. It’s surreal that you get to talk about your dream with him of all people, so you strive to make it count. “Take music, for example: everyone agrees that music is healing, therapeutic. But, there’s so many genres, so many ways to create it. I see massage as the same way: therapeutic, but many different ways to make people feel better.”
Jimin is silent as he tears his gaze from you to look at the ceiling. You concentrate on his ankles, working them as delicately but effectively as you can. A part of you wants to keep talking, but you don’t want to push it. You may have said too much as it is.
The next song has soft chimes to accompany the rippling chords. Lavender wafts through the air and quells your nerves. You continue to Jimin’s lower legs and glide your fingers along the flow of his muscles. When you feel a break or disturbance, you stop and tend to it until you feel it’s balanced. After his lower legs are done, you move on to his thighs. You feel tightness all over, and you apply medium pressure to these areas because of how much muscle they contain.
Jimin’s legs are a work of art on the outside, but so chaotic on the inside. The chakra highways are disjointed, and you have worked through so many kinks in the roads. If you imagine yourself as someone walking down a path, you are stopping every 10 steps to smooth over a pothole or breakdown a hill in the way. You can’t see how this person can even walk, let alone perform on stage like this. All of them never cease to amaze you.
“Where would you start?”
Jimin’s sudden inquiry throws you. You swear he was silent for a good ten minutes. “What?”
His eyes are glued to the ceiling still. “Which places do you want to visit? Like, where would you go to learn?”
“Well…” You are almost too stunned to speak. He has been thinking about what you said this whole time? Aren’t there plenty of more important things he needs to be thinking about right now? “There’s this technique called amma that originates in Japan, and there’s an American technique called esalen that I want to learn, too. I think that one is from California.”
On a high from Park Jimin’s interest in your life, you ramble about a few more, your voice getting more animated the more you talk about different things. It can’t be helped; you’ve been passionate about traveling and learning for so long. You’ve just never been able to really try it since money was part of the equation. Or more so out of the equation. In addition, you didn’t really get to talk about it with anybody. No one’s actually asked. But somehow, Jimin did.
When you realize you actually stopped massaging his thigh, you look up in horror to apologize, “Oh, I am so sorry - I didn’t mean to stop.”
Jimin’s head is turned to the side, his hair falling into his eyes. The smile gracing his face is soft. “It’s okay,” he assures you, “I feel much better already anyways.”
Your cheeks flush before he even stops talking. “That’s good,” you whisper, “We’re almost done so I would hope so.”
“What!” Jimin’s eyes dart to the clock on the table. It’s already 8:50am.
That saddens you a lot more than it should.
“On second thought: I feel tense in my hand, I think you need to go back and redo it. Here.” He’s extending his right hand towards you as if to shake hands, and you laugh.
“Nice try, Jimin,” you say, “But I do need to work on your face for the last part. Close your eyes for me, please.”
He stares at you for a second before obeying. The smile from earlier makes a return.
You roll your chair back to the head of the bed and plop down. Jimin’s face is angelic even upside-down, and you pray to the heavens that you massage it perfectly.
When you start, you quip, “See? You’re so happy we’re almost done.”
“No, no!” Jimin laughs. “That’s not it. You just called me Jimin - it was nice.”
“Oh.” You swear steam is billowing from your head. How can he affect you so intensely? And how were you keeping yourself together?
With the resolve of a thousand emperors, maybe including one you probably did save in a past life, you steady your hands on his temples. Rubbing in delicate circles, you start the last segment.
Face massages are your favorite. Even the smallest movements are invigorating, and you feel very refreshed after one.
“When I come back, Spa Concerto, No. 4 better be available.”
You smile. There’s no way Jimin will be back, but you appreciate his friendly nature.
“It’s not even all that great, but I’ll let them know,” you play along. “I’m more of a piano person, though. There’s a lot of piano covers saved in my phone that are way better.”
Jimin’s eyes flash open at the same time he proclaims, “Ah, I love piano covers! Especially on rainy days.”
“Mm,” you hum in agreement, “I can listen to those all the time.”
Your heart drops like a stone as you glance at the clock and see your time is up. The hour absolutely flew by. Dropping your eyes back onto Jimin’s face, you take your hands off his cheeks and say, “Okay, that’s the end of our session today.” You get up to dry your hands and lower arms with a cloth while going over the last steps, “I’ll leave you to get dressed, and I’ll come back to the room to give you water and some stretch and wellness recommendations moving forward. Just press the green button on the remote when you’re ready, like last time.”
When you turn back to him, Jimin’s fully propped up with his hands behind him. The blanket over him is draped across his body, just enough to cover his ribs. He’s smiling right at you as he speaks, “Thank you. You’re really good.”
You bow in thanks, face lighting up like wildfire. “You were great, too,” you comment in return, immediately cringing inside. “I’ll be back when you’re ready for me.”
-
Right after you leave clients is when you start filling out their evaluation and wellness recommendations on your tablet. You just worked on them, so the memories are fresh. The forms are a mix of multiple choice and fill-in, and you recommend some specific stretches and deeper pressure for Jimin.
This time, Jay is in the employee lounge when you come in to wait. His legs uncross and he pops up from one of the modern loveseats that are just as firm as they look. “She’s alive!”
You roll your eyes but can’t hide the flush in your cheeks. “I’m here, but barely,” you chuckle, your tablet dangling in your hand by your side, “I still can’t believe that actually happened.”
Jay leans in so that no one can hear what he has to say, which makes you suspicious since there’s no one around you. In a low voice, he reveals, “Yoon and I made a bet.”
“Wonderful,” you drawl, “I’m gonna walk away now.” You can already tell this is one-hundred percent not in your favor.
“No, wait!” His whisper is loud. He bounces after you to the water and food station. While you fix yourself a cup, he continues, “Yoon thinks you’ll get done with the appointment unscathed, but I think you’ll come out of it with a problem.”
Jay’s words remind you like alarm bells.
You need to pay Jimin for damages.
“Oh, shit, I need to get something,” you say in a rush, grabbing your tablet off the food station and scurrying to the locker room. In the wellness center, the employee lounge is in the back, and the locker room is in the back of the lounge. You think you still have time before Jimin is ready.
There’s a notebook you keep in your bag along with a pencil case. Tearing a sheet from the notebook, you write down what you think is a good estimate for the shoes. Before you write anything else, you pause.
You only skimmed through the confidentiality prompts, but you do remember a section about personal information. Therapists aren’t allowed to give out their personal information unless specifically asked, and there has to be solid intent behind the client asking. Jimin didn’t need to ask you for yours; he just said not to worry about it.
After a good thirty seconds of your pen lingering above the paper, your tablet chimes.
A split second decision has you crumpling the paper and chucking it in your bag. You tear out a new sheet and tuck it with the pen under your tablet as you head back to Room 3.
-
You get to the room with a paper cup of water you grabbed on the way, and since you have things in both hands it’s a bit difficult getting the door open. You try the handle but it only jiggles a bit. One more try has you pushing the door right as the handle gives, and it works.
Jimin goes to you immediately when he sees your hands full, and you almost reel back from having him so close. Which should be odd, since you were literally just with him for a full hour, and he was not fully clothed. In the end, his presence alone is enough to affect you no matter the situation.
You extend the cup to him and he grabs it with a small thank you.
“I filled out your evaluation and it should be printed at the front already. Make sure to drink more water after you leave,” you say with a smile, your chest heavy. This was most likely the last interaction you would ever have with him.
Jimin nods, his mask covering his smile but not his eyes. He doesn’t say anything more.
You almost leave it at that, but something in you doesn’t want this moment to end, so you take your chance. “And, umm,” you stutter as you fumble with the pen and paper. You just lay your tablet on the massage table to free your hand, and click the pen open. “How much should I pay you,” you ask, your gaze ironically on the very shoes you tripped over earlier.
Jimin sets his cup down on the console table before taking the paper and pen from your hands. You watch him write something - a price in Won most likely - as you explain, “I’m a big believer of making things right, so please let me pay for your shoes. I should’ve seen them on the ground.”
He folds the paper and hands it back to you with the pen. “If you insist. But don’t check this until you get home.”
“What, why?” Your eyes dart to his face.
Jimin stares at you before responding, “Nothing bad. It just might shock you.”
Immediately, your gaze lowers. If you tell anyone how your day went today, you would think they were weird if they believed you. If you tell anyone why you’re suddenly broke come this Wednesday, they would be lying if they just went with it. “Okay, I won’t,” you assure him, and you’re telling the truth. You are equal parts surprised and nervous that he’s allowing you to pay him back.
With a deep breath, you give Jimin your best soft smile. Your heart is hurting as you send him off, “Well, it was a pleasure. Have a great rest of your day, Jimin. Until next time.” You catch yourself in a sea of emotion as your words die on your tongue. The boys have schedules on schedules, so the likelihood of him stepping foot inside this wellness center again is minuscule at best.
If anything, you’re grateful that you get to address him by name, and you succeeded in making this as smooth and safe as possible for him. At the expense of a scraped nose and hand, but rather you than him.
Jimin hoists his bag on his shoulder, the water cup you gave him already in the trash bin. He walks right up to you and stands there, and you swear both of you can hear your heart beating. One of his hands comes up to his masked face, and he speaks softly as he advises, “Ointment will help your nose if it still hurts.”
Warmth blooms in your chest and cascades all the way to your fingertips. Mirroring him, you bring a hand up to your nose and nod. Your words tumble out, “Oh, yes, you’re right. I can check if we have any in the back.”
Satisfied, Jimin nods. “Until next time,” he offers, his eyes creased and warm.
You smile again and bow slightly. He puts on his shades before heading out the door frame and into the hall, and you feel emptiness in his wake. The world is fuzzy around your vision and you are trying so hard to commit everything that just happened to memory.
Until the doors to front reception close, you watch Jimin’s retreating back. When the frosted doors close shut, you close your own door to Room 3 and lean against the wooden frame. The scrap of paper is creased in your hand as you clutch it to your hammering chest.
“Holy shit,” you whisper to yourself. It takes a good minute for you to compose yourself before pushing off the door and getting the room stripped and ready for the next session. The whole time, you replay everything in your head.
Jimin was just as nice as you have seen him through the lens of cameras. If that was the case, all of them had to be the same way. You are proud to like these wonderful people.
You’re so happy you got to actually spend all this time with him, but that just magnifies the sadness you feel when it’s over.
-
The room is done and cleaned up, and you go through the rest of the day on autopilot. Not even Jay’s constant teasing could free you from your euphoria-numbed state. The only thing that throws you back into focus is Yoon, and it happens at the very end of the work day.
You push open the doors to front reception, and smile big at your friend behind the counter. She’s beaming right back at you, and she puts her chin in her hand and shakes her head.
“That must’ve been one hell of a message,” she says through a barely contained smile.
Your hand flies to your forehead and you nod. “I can’t believe that happened, Yoon. I mean, it was really him. Opportunity of a lifetime… I just hope he enjoyed the whole thing.”
“You could say that,” she chuckles, “Enough to book you again, at least.”
What?
“He did?” Your breath leaves you in a rush. “If you’re joking with me, I’ll--”
“--He did. It’s not for a long time, but he asked for you specifically.” Yoon gathers papers in her hand and starts to organize them in the containers behind her. “You really piss me off, you know that?”
“Love you, too,” you whisper, your head completely above the clouds. You grab your phone and start checking your schedule from the wellness center app you have installed. Grabbing the door handle, you absentmindedly wave back to Yoon and call out, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The sun emits a golden glow at this hour, and the glass buildings along the street bask in its shine. You head towards your bus stop while skimming your calendar for Jimin’s next appointment, but you’re already four months out and see nothing. Not losing hope, you keep going and see a booking six months in advance. Your heartbeat skips as you click on the appointment, and almost skids to a halt when you see his name written down.
-
As soon as you enter your small apartment, you head straight to your bed and drop your bag on the comforter. Your whole body bounces as you plop yourself down next, and you stare straight at the ceiling.
Your life is still normal, right? Sure, you were able to spend an entire hour with Park Jimin, but that didn’t mean you aren’t still completely and utterly average.
You close your eyes and go back to Room 3. The scent of lavender fills your nostrils and you can still see his number tattoo as plain as day as you massage his wrist.
In all honesty, it still feels like a fever dream. That was someone else’s life you were able to live, someone else there with Jimin and you just decided to hitch along for the ride.
But that was real, and so is the amount of money you still need to withdraw from your bank account.
With a sigh, you reach into your bag and take out the piece of paper. You were dreading this moment all day since he left. Unfolding it, you prepare for the worst.
But all you can do is stare.
Jimin didn’t write down a price at all.
Your name is at the top, and the rest is as follows:
Save your money for traveling and learning new things, not on me. I can’t wait to see what you’ve learned when we meet again.
-
-
a/n: thank you for reading! if you guys have any comments or feedback, please feel free to let me know!
#text#jimin x reader#jimin fluff#bts fics#jimin fics#room 3 jimin#room 3#ryen writes#member: jimin#long post#grammy nominated singer fic!!#ryenwrites
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(whoops this got loooong I have OPINIONS. If you wanna skip the leadup, my main point is in the paragraph after the tiny text.)
So I honestly thought the biggest make-or-break issue for whether or not I’d watch rnm s3 would be whether Michael and Alex get together or at least seem to be working toward that, and also the character dynamics in general. I am a character-focused consumer of media. Plot is generally secondary for me; mostly I care about the people.
But as it turns out, the plotting and overall narrative structure of s3 are offending me on, like, a deep spiritual level.
Other people have done a better job than I could pointing out the pacing issues, but in general it comes off like someone writing a WIP without any kind of plan and getting brand new plot ideas every chapter and running with them without bothering to revise anything that came before. I don’t know enough BTS stuff to say whether that’s likely due to time pressures or to Hollier being new to show running (has he done it before?) or to something else entirely, but SO MUCH about this season makes NO SENSE.
What the hell was the sequence of events during Kyle’s kidnapping, and why do none of the accounts given line up? Was anything actually changing in the vision? Was it even about Kyle, and if so, was that the case all along? Why is the audience just left to wonder whether that’s been resolved, or even whether the characters think it’s been resolved?
How the fuck did Liz drive from California to Roswell and then back and then back again in what, three days? And still have time to do literally anything else?
And on a thematic level! Why set up a “Kyle is underappreciated” thread at the beginning and then show nobody worrying about him being missing? What was even the point of the Wyatt storyline, and is that just done now, or is it coming back at some point in the 4 episodes remaining? Why bother bringing Greg back if they were going to retcon his previous characterization and only let him talk to Alex once so far? Why set up a throughline of “characters being called out for their flaws/mistakes” and then exclude Maria from that while inexplicably centering her in the whole season so far?
(And side note, speaking of Maria and flaws, I was trying to think last night—does she even have flaws that the show is willing to acknowledge? Like Liz has her science ethics issues, Max can be heavy-handed and self-righteous, Isobel has her alpha bitch tendencies, Michael is an emotional fucking disaster, Alex is closed off and controlling, Rosa has her addiction issues (and, you know, that whole impulsive teenager thing), Kyle… is a goddamn delight but i think still struggles with his high school self, and also is too easily led by Liz at times. What’s Maria’s flaw? The closest I can think of is being too singleminded about the vision thing early in the season, to the point of risking her own health and Max’s life, but was she ever even shown to be wrong about that? I can’t tell how the show expects us to feel about it! And then that was dropped along with the rest of that storyline, and now she’s the one telling Isobel that she’s too singleminded, which could have been some nice character development if that particular flaw of hers was addressed instead of just completely ignored. Like, I am checking myself, I don’t particularly like her character and I am examining whether it’s a race thing or a “but muh ship!” thing or what, and the thing I keep coming back to is that she is never allowed to be wrong according to the narrative, even when her actions as shown might raise some eyebrows. And flawless characters are boring, but flawed characters who are uncritically presented as flawless are infuriating. And making such a character so prominent in the season’s overall storyline is… A Choice. (Am I forgetting something? Can someone tell me what her narratively acknowledged flaw is supposed to be? And I mean an actual flaw, not a job interview “cares too much”/“works too hard” kind of flaw.))
And that’s not even my main point, just a tangent. My biggest issue with s3 is a corollary to the “characters are written characters, not real people” post I’ve seen going around—the narrative is a written narrative, not real events that happen and a camera just happens to be around to capture some of them. But they’re doing this thing where important events and character moments keep happening offscreen and the audience is just supposed to assume they happened. Why wasn’t Kyle or Max waking up shown onscreen? Why didn’t Rosa even mention her brother when he was missing? Why haven’t Michael and Alex even mentioned Forrest, if only to clear up that Alex isn’t still dating him? What did Michael even do between finding the Deep Sky building at the end of 3x06 and whatever he did the next episode? Did Alex ever tell the others where Kyle was, and that’s why nobody seemed worried? And I’m sure there are other things I’m not thinking of because, again, I’m not actually watching s3, just spoiling the shit out of myself. But from everything I’ve read, this season just has zero sense of narrative and thematic structure. Even malex FINALLY getting together falls somewhat flat in the overall context of the season, because it just… happens. I mean I’m glad it happens, and maybe it’s realistic for these two characters to just say “fuck it, we’ve wasted too much time, let’s do it,” but then we’re back with the issue that these aren’t real people or real events, they’re written characters in a written narrative. And from a storytelling perspective, you don’t spend two and a half seasons setting up an emotional arc just to resolve it with “fuck it.”
And… okay, let’s be real, all of the above is probably still not going to keep me from watching (though I will wait for the season finale at least). But it offends me. They have this amazingly diverse and (mostly) well-developed cast of characters, they have a surprisingly compelling overall storyline, they do such a good job establishing a distinct sense of place, but the one thread that’s supposed to tie everything together—the narrative structure—is a goddamn mess.
I love this crack show. But it could be SO MUCH BETTER.
(edit: in retrospect the tiny text should probably be its own post [hence the tiny text] but fuck it, I’m running with it. Not entirely unlike the s3 writers hey-o!)
#rnm s3 spoilers#rnm s3 clusterfuck#roswell nm#rnm#rnm meta#…i guess?#mostly rnm How Dare You Waste Your Potential Like This#rnm salt#rnm s3
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#3 What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)
Fun Meta Asks for Writers
Adding the link to the ask game at the start this time, 'cause this is gonna be a long one, y'all. 😂
Where do I even begin? First of all, @angie-leena, thank you so SO much for sending me this ask! It was the kick in the ass I needed to get me to actually write this scene, and for that I’m extremely grateful. I still don’t know if I’m entirely happy with the finished product, but it exists now, and that’s something.
So some of you may remember (if anyone actually follows my ramblings, haha!) that I’ve been simultaneously complaining about and obsessing over this gigantic WIP I’ve had since fucking March 2019. Nearly two and a half years have passed since I put the first word to paper, and oh how I’ve loved to cry out in frustration about how I have about 12k written on the stupid thing and yet not a single scene finished.
AT LEAST
NOT UNTIL TODAY
YES, I’VE DONE IT. I’ve finished a scene on this amazing, wonderful, and incredibly stupid WIP, and I could just cry.
FYI for anyone who doesn’t know what the fuck I’m talking about (which I’m sure is everyone, ‘cause I don’t expect anybody to remember this insane thing I’ve been shouting about all this time, LOL): this is the Slytherin My Gryffindor WIP. Yes, that is a working title. 😅 I will find a better one.....some day.......Ron/Draco is the main pair, but there will also be plenty of others sprinkled in the background.
Anyway, about this ask and that context I haven’t been arsed to write yet...
Context required in order to understand this scene 😂:
Fred Lives AU
The Muggle world and the Wixen world has kind of mixed in recent years, and it’s very common for magical people to be using Muggle technology
The Weasley twins have opened a second shop in Diagon Alley...selling sex toys (yes, really)
Their first original product line issssssss..........dildoes shaped like the Weasley brothers’ own dicks (and a fleshlight kind of thing for Ginny)
Yes this is crack!fic (but, like, also not???)
Ron has been made general manager of the shop and is there all the time, as they’re incredibly busy
Draco wants 👏 that 👏 D 👏, but is worried about Ron finding out, so keeps coming into the shop randomly hoping he won’t be there (and of course he always is)
Eventually there’s a day where Ron’s in the backroom, Charlie’s visiting and helping out at the register, and when Ron emerges, Charlie informs him that Draco Malfoy has just run in and bought Ron’s dildo
Cue Ron being incredibly turned on by this notion
So that pretty much brings us up-to-speed for this scene - it’s been a few days now, and Ron’s been trying to figure out a way to contact Draco to talk to him about the whole thing, since they never became friends or anything after the war and don’t regularly talk unless they’re just seeing each other around
The fic is meant to touch on, like...fame in the aftermath of the war (i.e. why anyone would be interested in sex toys modelled after the Weasley siblings in the first place)
Ron has evolved from his teenage self and grown to hate the fame - it prevents him from being able to date, because the press can never let him keep anything private
After this scene, the fic will focus on Ron and Draco developing a sexual - and eventually romantic - relationship (originally under the guise of “testing out” other products from the shop together)
They will try their best to keep their relationship a secret, but, like...everyone knows 😘😘😘
Also Draco is a model in this one (not important for this scene, but just thought you might want to know 😂)
In addition, some warnings/content to make note of before reading:
NC-17 (smut incoming!)
Technology circa 2005
Phone sex
Semi-public sex
Sex toys
Both Ron and Draco are a little drunk (but very consenting!)
Crack taken way too seriously
Of course, this hasn't been betaed or Britpicked, so I apologize for how very rough it is right now, lol. It will likely be a little (or a lot!) different if I ever actually finish this whole fucking fic and post it later on. I am treating this scene like a “sneak peek” of the fic, because I definitely do still want to try to finish it someday...
HOLY SHIT, I had a LOT more to say about it than I thought. 😅 So anyway. Scene under the cut.
Friday night at the Dragon's Head was packed. It took a bit of initiative, but Ron, Seamus, and Dean finally managed to snag them all a table in the back corner, hoarding the extra seats till Harry and Neville finally arrived, trailed closely by Ginny and Parkinson ― who were curiously short one blond wizard.
Ron tried not to think about it. He bought the first round with Harry, listening to him chat about the recent Puddlemere match against the Magpies. They ordered nibbles for the table. Ron munched on chips, his heart skipping every time the door opened across the room and another few patrons trickled in.
He was on his third pint of the evening when he started getting antsy. He sipped his Simison, using the light smoke curling around the rim of the glass to discreetly glance around the pub, hoping to spot a familiar head of blond hair in the crowd. His foot tapped impatiently on the floor.
"Is he coming, then?"
Ron's head snapped to attention. Ginny checked the door as well before turning back to Parkinson.
"Who?" Neville asked, snagging a vinegar-soaked chip from the bowl in the center of the table.
"Malfoy," Ginny said, craning her neck to see her girlfriend's screen.
Parkinson tapped away on her mobile, shaking her head. "No. Says he's already curled up with a bottle of wine and a good book, and doesn't fancy getting all done up."
Fucking hell. Ron drained the dregs at the bottom of his glass. It wasn't often Malfoy joined them on a mostly-Gryffindor outing ― not unless Parkinson could convince him. Somehow, Ron felt he should've known it wouldn't be in the cards tonight. Conversation pivoted again, and Ron ran his fingers up the sides of his empty pint, thinking.
At some point, Seamus and Harry set off to get another round, and Ginny hurried away with them after a quick peck to Parkinson's cheek. Neville and Dean had gotten into a chat about proper Mimbulus mimbletonia care, and Ron saw his chance. He could feel his heart start to thud in his chest as he cleared his throat, raising his voice to catch her attention.
"Parkinson?"
She turned back from watching Ginny leave, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yes?"
"Think you could give me Malfoy's number?"
The smirk she gave him in response made his hands shake a little as they drummed against the tabletop.
"Whatever for?"
Ron stared her down, knowing full well any excuse he told her would never be enough. Parkinson's expression was predatory ― as if she already knew the answer anyway. He waited for her to comment, bracing himself.
To his surprise, she instead dug her mobile back out of her handbag.
She turned the screen towards him, and he typed the number directly into the dialer on his phone. He waited a few minutes until everyone ― Parkinson included ― had moved on to other things and forgotten about him, and then slipped from the table.
Ron shouldered his way through the crowd to the loo, pushing inside and locking the door behind him. It was a small room, hardly bigger than a broom closet. There was a toilet and a sink, a grimy mirror hanging above it, and a dim ceiling lamp that barely lit the space.
Ron backed up to one side of the room and slumped against the wall. He gripped the phone in clammy hands. Those pints had picked a perfect moment to hit him all at once. Ron blinked away the creeping dizziness, staring down at the numbers glowing dauntingly on the tiny screen. He'd been unable to get it out of his mind for days ― the image of Malfoy riding his dildo ― and now that he had a way to contact him, he was frozen. The leaky faucet dripped, the sound maddening as it mingled with the rush of blood in his ears. This was stupid. This was so bloody stupid.
He hit call.
Ron held his breath, cupping the phone to his ear. The line rang and rang, until he started to realize he didn't have a plan B. What if Malfoy didn't answer? What if he had to leave a voicemail? What would he even say? He should've just texted him, damn it.
Then, suddenly, the ringing stopped. There was rustling and a mumbled, "Bloody useless thing." Then, louder, "Yes?"
"Malfoy?"
"Yes, this is ― Weasley?"
Malfoy sounded surprised. Ron breathed out gradually, his heartbeat slowing with it. Malfoy's voice was clear and present on the other end. No looking back. He tried to think of something to say, and only came up with one thing.
"Haven't seen you round the shop yet this week."
"Don't tell me that's really why you called." Malfoy sighed, trying to sound put-upon, but Ron could hear the hint of nerves underneath. "If you must know, that would be because I found what I'd been looking for."
"I know."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. For a moment, Ron thought Malfoy might hang up. But then he cursed quietly. "Damn that brother of yours. Incorrigible."
So it really was true. Charlie hadn't just been taking the piss. Ron felt a warmth flare up in his belly, spreading down to the tops of his thighs.
"Try growing up with him. And the twins? Now that's a real nightmare."
"I was trying for discreet, but you were always there."
Ron leaned further back against the wall, staring up at the dark ceiling above. He thought of all those times Malfoy had dropped in at the shop, only to hurry out again if Ron ever came too close. Malfoy had jumped at the chance when Ron had been called away to the back that day.
Malfoy cleared his throat. "Well. You know. So what, then? Looking to mock me for it?"
"You always assume the worst with me. Why is that?" Although Ron couldn't exactly blame him. He hadn't given Malfoy much else to go on in years past. Neither of them had. "No. No, I was calling because…" Why had he been calling? It had seemed such a natural thing when he'd asked Parkinson for Malfoy's number not five minutes ago. "I was curious. If there was, er." He waved his free hand, searching for the words. Nothing sounded right. "Any particular reason for it."
Malfoy laughed ― a short bark of a sound. "I mean, obviously yes. It's a sex toy, Weasley."
Ron snorted, taken aback. "That's not ―"
"Actually, I thought it'd make a nice statement in the middle of my dining table. It would be an excellent conversation piece for dinner parties."
"For fuck's sake, Malfoy, I didn't ―"
A chuckle rumbled through from the other end of the line. There was that snark again. Merlin, it made Ron hot, his skin blooming from his collar up to his ears. He chewed his lip, pulling back the grin that threatened to spread across his face.
"I only meant ― was there a reason? That you'd picked mine?"
The line suddenly went quiet. Ron had to check his phone just to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
When Malfoy finally replied, his voice was soft, uncertain. "What would possess you to call and ask me that?"
Ron breathed in slowly, his hand tapping an incoherent rhythm on his thigh. "Well, I'm a bit pissed, to be honest," he admitted, still feeling the slight burn the Simison had left in his throat.
Malfoy didn't say anything more at first. The lamp above buzzed as the faucet continued to drip. Ron could hear the noise from the pub pressing up against the other side of the door.
Then, Malfoy said, "Maybe there was."
Ron felt his heart jump into his throat. "Was what?"
"A reason why I bought it," Malfoy said slowly, deliberately. "Figure it out, Weasel."
Oh, bloody hell. Ron took a shaky breath. Every nerve felt like it was on fire.
"And...how was it?" Ron heard himself ask as if from very far away.
Even over the din of the music beyond the bathroom door, he could hear Malfoy swallow. "It was good."
"Oh, ta." Ron chuckled despite himself.
"No, I mean...Bugger." It was nice hearing Malfoy so flustered. A rare occurrence, and one that the little fluttering pixie in Ron's stomach very much wanted to repeat. "It was brilliant, alright? Happy?"
Brilliant. The word tingled down Ron's spine. For some reason, he couldn't wipe the smile from his face. Bloody hell, was this really happening? He thought of fleeting insults thrown in the school corridors all those years ago ― then he thought of a night just a few months ago, the look in Malfoy's eyes as Ron told him about the shop.
"You wrote a song about me once, if I remember correctly," Ron said, feeling deliriously happy.
"I suppose I did." Malfoy sighed.
Ron's eyes flicked to the door, to the noise of the crowd beyond. "Why didn't you want me to know?"
"Oh, please, Weasley," Malfoy said bitterly. "Pick a reason."
"I know, but ―" Ron tried to argue, but Malfoy cut him off.
"You don't owe me anything. It would be incredibly unfair for me to expect you to be interested in return."
Ron supposed that was fair enough. He'd had similar feelings towards Malfoy until very recently.
"I would be, though. I mean ― I am."
Saying the words out loud gave them a weight Ron hadn't felt before. He let them roll off his tongue, flattened the tip of it along his lips as he thought about flashes of icy blond hair, high cheekbones, and long fingers swirling around the rim of a glass. He thought of the moment he'd finally realized Malfoy had been looking back.
"Oh." Malfoy paused, seeming surprised by that revelation. "Good to know."
Malfoy fidgeted. Ron listened intently, hearing the breath he released and the scrape of his fingers against his mobile.
"You wouldn't ― ah." Malfoy caught himself, and Ron waited for him to continue, his ears ringing. "Would you want to…?" Malfoy trailed off, finishing his thought with a scoff.
"Would I want to what ― oh."
Oh.
Ron swallowed hard. He wanted to believe Malfoy was asking him what he thought he was asking him, but even after everything, it was almost too good to be true. The long stretch of awkward silence on the other end told him he was right, though, and that made him jittery, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck.
"I could be reading too much into this," Malfoy muttered.
"No, no, definitely not. I mean." Ron licked his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling far too dry. "I just don't want you to think I expect this."
Malfoy made a sound, and Ron could practically feel him rolling his eyes on the other end of the line.
"Oh, so you don't ring up every person who buys a model of your cock and ask them how they enjoyed it?"
"What? No, of course not!" Ron stopped, realizing, and laughed at himself. "You're joking. That was a joke."
"Terribly clever, this one."
A sudden jiggling of the door handle made Ron jump, almost dropping his mobile in the process.
"Occupied!"
He fumbled with the phone, his heart thudding wildly. When he put it back to his ear, Malfoy was laughing. The sound made Ron feel weak in the knees.
"Where are you?" Malfoy asked, still snickering.
"In the loo at the Dragon's Head."
"Oh, of course." Malfoy sucked his teeth contemplatively. "Hang on. Is there anyone in there with you?"
Another frustrated turn of the door handle.
"It's a single."
"Good." Malfoy lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Do you want me to use it?"
Ron pressed his hand flat against the door, waiting until he heard the bloke give a huff and storm off. "Use what?"
"Your dildo, Weasley."
The silken drawl of Malfoy's voice spread like gooseflesh across Ron's skin. "Right now?" he asked incredulously, although he was already half hard at the thought.
"I could give you an exclusive product review. Unless you don't want to."
"No, I do!" Ron replied quickly, and Malfoy laughed again, making him blush.
"Eager, are we?"
"Yes." Ron passed a hand over his face, trying to laugh as well, but it came out shaky. Merlin, it had been all he could think about for the past few days. Still, he'd never imagined Malfoy would offer it outright. "Just didn't take you for the phone sex type."
Malfoy hummed. "You caught me in a randy mood. Now how do I ― ah, right."
Ron assumed he'd been put on speakerphone, as there was now an echo. He dug out his wand for a moment and cast a quick Silencio on the bathroom. It was a wonder how he had the brain power to spare, when all the blood in his body was suddenly rushing to his cock. He could hear Malfoy fumbling for something on the other end.
"Where are you?" Ron asked in return, trying to distract himself from the heady thrum of anticipation.
"In bed. Naked," Malfoy added with a hint of a smirk in his voice. Ron groaned, shutting his eyes against the image of Malfoy stretched out on soft sheets, hard and waiting for him. Merlin, had he been naked the whole time they were talking? Ron pressed the heel of his palm to the crotch of his jeans.
Malfoy went silent for a moment, until there was a faint intake of breath. His bed creaked distantly in the background.
Ron licked his lips, cupping his hand around the solid, hot line of his cock under his trousers. "Are you prepping yourself?"
"Of course." Malfoy breathed out steadily, the bed creaking again. "You're bigger than I thought you'd be. Although I'd always wondered."
Fucking hell. Ron arched against his hand. Was he really going to get his cock out in a pub toilet? The last shred of his resolve melted away when he heard Malfoy moan, low and guttural, a sound that shot straight through Ron, all the way to his toes. He imagined Malfoy laying back, his knees bent up, and slick fingers down between his legs, pressing in and out of his puckered hole. Ron was switching the phone to his left hand before he could give it a second thought. He flicked open the button on his jeans and pushed his pants down to hook under his balls, taking himself in hand.
Ron rolled his hand down over his length. Malfoy's breath hitched, and he cursed, the bed shifting with him. Ron caught his lip between his teeth, wondering how many fingers he had in him. He imagined himself leaning over Malfoy on the bed, licking a hot stripe along his neck as his hand worked him open, his thighs falling open as he settled between them.
"Fuck, I needed this," Malfoy breathed. Ron moaned, pulling his foreskin back and rubbing over the weeping head of his cock.
Malfoy muttered a Cleansing charm, and then a drawer was pulled roughly open nearby. Ron heard Malfoy pick up the phone, moving and setting it down again as he bounced on the bed, adjusting himself.
"Are you ―?" Ron wanted to ask, but he couldn't finish the thought, left hand gripping the phone hard as he tried to steady himself.
"Yes, gods."
Ron paused, listening as Malfoy shifted and panted on the other end. He didn't have to ask when it was fully in. He knew the moment Malfoy's breath faltered, the gasp he gave sending shivers down Ron's spine.
Malfoy huffed, the sound so loud to Ron's ears as the whole world funneled down to a point, to this moment as he listened to Malfoy move the toy inside of himself. He moaned, and Ron thought he could hear the squelch of lube on the other end of the line as it entered him.
"Talk to me, Weasley."
Malfoy sounded wrecked. It was enough to make Ron's toes curl just to hear it. It was almost too much to handle ― the idea of Draco Malfoy being thoroughly fucked out by a dildo modelled after Ron's own cock. Ron's head thunked back against the wall. His hand trembled a little as he began stroking himself again.
"Get on your knees for me," he said softly.
Malfoy swore. Ron heard him flip over, his panting breaths suddenly closer to the receiver. In his mind, he could see Malfoy bent over the bed, arse in the air and cheek pressed against the mattress, lips rosy and parted. He imagined himself knelt behind Malfoy, hands gripping his slender hips.
"There's, uh." Ron swallowed. "There's a self-shagging feature. If you want. The spell's ―"
"Oh, we're well acquainted."
"Fuck," Ron moaned. No way he was going to last like this. He rocked his hips, thrusting into the tight circle of his fist. Malfoy sounded like he was trying to collect himself, even as his voice broke on the last word. Ron couldn't begin to explain why that aroused him so much, but he didn't care, already speeding up his hand as it flew over his cock.
Malfoy cast the spell, and Ron felt his cry as the toy began to move on its own. The bed gave a jolt under Malfoy's weight. He gasped again, and Ron heard his fingers scrambling across the sheets.
Ron could almost see it. He imagined Malfoy's bowed back, his knees slipping and spreading apart, his toes curling. The bed creaked with each movement. A dildo of Ron's own making, Malfoy arching back onto it as it fucked him down onto the mattress. Merlin, he should've known Malfoy would take it so well, his eyes rolling back as he listened to the sounds Malfoy made as it thrust into him.
Ron closed his eyes and felt like he was sitting in the room, watching the whole show, watching a copy of his cock pound into Malfoy again and again. The pub outside the bathroom door fell away from him, and all he could focus on was Malfoy's voice and his hand on his own cock.
"Tell me how it feels," Ron choked out, wanting to hear it, see it, touch it, to watch Malfoy unravel under Ron's hands and cock, to capture each cry with his tongue.
Malfoy groaned. "So ― good ―"
"Tell me," Ron rasped again, thrusting his hips forward into his hand. "Tell me ― ah ― how good it is."
"It's so ―" Malfoy cried out, his hands skittering over the sheets. "So good ― so big ― I ―"
"Fucking hell, Malfoy."
At that point, Ron didn't know if he wanted to be watching the toy fuck Malfoy or if he wanted to take over for it. Was he really getting jealous of a dildo? He wished he was there. He wanted to tell Malfoy as much, but he couldn't manage it, instead moaning loudly as he felt his balls begin to draw up against him.
"Fuck, Weasley, you're gonna make me come," Malfoy whined, his posh accent slipping.
Holy shit, and that was what did it. Ron made a gut-punched sound, his wrist flicking over the head of his cock. He was coming almost before he'd even realized. He barely had the presence of mind to do anything about it before the first spurt had dribbled onto the floor. He pushed off the wall and lent forward, pumping the remainder into the sink. He heard Malfoy swear, and Ron slumped back against the wall again, listening as he came apart with a shuddering cry.
The line went quiet once more. Ron rested his head on the tiles behind him, closing his eyes, holding his softening cock. For a long time, all he could hear was Malfoy breathing on the other end, his own heartbeat equally loud in his ears.
"I liked that. A lot."
Eloquent as always. Ron half expected for Malfoy to say just that, but instead he heard a very soft chuckle ― and then, quietly, "So did I."
Now that his heart rate was gradually slowing, the noise of the club outside wormed its way back in, reminding Ron of where he was, and what he'd just done. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably, glancing at the door when he heard a chatty couple pass by. How long had he been in there? Were the others looking for him?
Another person suddenly banged on the door, and Ron started, pushing off from the wall and quickly withdrawing his wand, disabling his Silencio and spelling himself clean.
"Right." He wanted to say more. Merlin, he did. But instead all he said just then was, "Well, I should probably, er, get back to it. You know?"
"Of course." There was rustling on the line, and then Ron was off speakerphone, Malfoy's voice close and intimate again in a way that made him shiver. "Have a good night, Weasley."
"You too, Malfoy."
Ron exited the bathroom, ignoring the irritated look the other patron gave him as he slipped past.
The entire way back to their table, he felt like he was floating on a cloud. Harry gave him an odd look when he slid into his seat, pulling the fresh pint they'd bought him an indeterminable amount of time ago towards him. Ron couldn't even begin to catch up with what they were all talking about, his mind drifting to thoughts of Malfoy, his mobile a leaden weight in his pocket as the night wound on.
#writer asks#dron#ron x draco#ron weasley#draco malfoy#harry potter#hp#fanfiction#harry potter fanfiction#hp fanfiction#fangqueen writes fanfiction#fangqueen speaks
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Could you do Himbo king Riptide with the oxygen loss?
Yes
But first
Thank you for giving him the best possible nickname and bestowing upon him the GREATEST of all titles he is forever the Himbo King in my heart oh my GOSH.
Part One: Here!
Part Two: Here!
Part Three: Here!
Part Four: Here!
Part Five: Here!
Part Six: Here!
Part Seven: Here!
Part Eight: Here!
Part Nine: Here!
Part Ten: Here!
Part Eleven: Here!
Part Twelve: You're Here!
Riptide
��Having often been dismissed or even mocked for his struggles understanding things that come so easy to others, he was relieved when you met him and were entirely accepting, turning his curiosity for earth to fondness for you in particular. For your part, you simply found his sweetness absolutely charming from the very beginning. While he also has a bit of a mischievous streak, that only contributed to the appeal, and the aquatic Autobot had you smitten fast. Now you're inseparable and everyone knows it. Today you're hanging out by the oil reservoir to chat, complete with some drinks to enjoy as you do so, though they're somewhat forgotten by the snuggle happy Riptide. Not being one for quiet contemplation doesn't stop him from enjoying mostly wordless cuddling sessions in the peaceful chamber.
·You're gaining a static charge thanks to his enthusiastic and cat like nuzzles against you, but you couldn't care less, especially because you know silent affection means he's quite content. A little kiss on his nasal crest earns you a growling purr, and when his optics meet your eyes you can see he's trying to think of something suave to say. The effort alone is sweet enough for you to willingly wait as long as he needs. Unfortunately, he doesn't get the opportunity to finish. There's a very mood ruining tremor that turns into a ground shaking quake, one that sends the reservoir turning over until a wave of oil is sent your way. Thankfully the bot you're dating is able to react on the spot, transforming into a boat and balancing you on his back until the ship grows still and the wave returns to the tank, at which point Riptide reverts to bipedal mode and holds you above the mess.
·Knowing that things aren't supposed to just tumble about, he tries to message someone for an explanation but finds he can't reach anyone. That immediately worries him, but not for his own sake. On instinct, he looks to your tiny form in his hands, knowing that any trouble will prove disastrous for your squishy self. Even if this is just a technical problem, you might get hurt, and he can't let that happen! He has to get you somewhere safe... The challenge of figuring out where is what's difficult, as the entire ship could be dangerous, and he's not accustomed to going away from potential trouble... You can see the panic growing on his face as you catch your breath, and a reassuring request to share the problem coaxes him into speaking.
·You listen diligently as he lays out the problem, his optics growing more worried as he explains the need to assist clashing with his priority to you, and admittedly the concern is touching. Had he been by himself, no doubt he'd have just fearlessly charged for the problem to help. Putting your own mind to the predicament, the possibility of a solution to all present issues becomes clear; the medical bay. No sooner have you posited the destination than he begins acting on it, cheerily praising the sense of it as he holds you close and starts moving. Despite being your proud protector, he doesn't mind leaving planning like this to you, as in fact it makes you and him a kind of dynamic duo. Now that the plan has been set, it's his job to be the muscle and keep you safe...
·There's a kind of comfort to be found in Riptide's arms, even with everything being so tense and quiet around the ship. Between his speed, strength and dedication, there's very little in the universe that could threaten you in his company. It makes you appreciate every moment being held so close to his warm frame. The big bot certainly notices you snuggling close in the silence, and he fights the urge to be talkative as he holds you closer, letting your small form settle naturally against his spark. Somehow he doesn't feel so on edge with you nearby. In fact, not much is scary at all with you in his life, and as an MTO he's spent a lot of time afraid. There's been so much fighting and death from the first day he awoke, and now he feels there can truly be something else for a change, even in moments like this.
·He knows enough about irony to realize that the ambush he walks right into is very ironic. Thankfully, he's honed his reflexes more than well enough to both dodge the first incoming hit and to move into a protective stance around you without hesitation. Outnumbered, he moves swiftly from the center of the circling aliens, each as big as he is but far slower. Shoulder checking one to facilitate an escape, he has just enough time to spot a little alcove a small distance ahead, and for your sake he makes an immediate decision. With a command for you to run, he releases you from his cupped palms and turns to fight off the attackers. All he can do is hope you understand and that he can fight off this many bad guys at once. Knowing that he has to, for both your sakes, doesn't help him as much as he thinks it should.
·Though you're more than a little rattled by the rush of action, you've learned enough in the past few months to recover from such things quickly, and the command for you to run is all you need to get moving. Loud sounds of combat fill your ears as you take off, but you don't stop. Cover is needed before you can check on your partner, instinct tells you. A shot from an energy weapon nearly takes away your hope of seeing him again when it hurls dangerously close. Heat singes your hair and makes you stumble, but you still manage to hobble behind a corner and into a human sized alcove. Only then, burned to a very uncomfortable but not dangerous degree, do you look back at Riptide. To your relief, he's managed to turn the tide of battle and is finishing off the last enemy with his bare hands, sharp dentae bared as he fights like a bot twice his size.
·From his own perspective, Riptide thought everything was a blur after he saw you stumble from a close encounter with blaster fire. Uncertain if you'd even gotten up, or what injuries you might have suffered, he'd gone into a rage assuming the very worst. The alien who'd taken the shot had been the first to go, their weapon crumbling in his servos to burn them with its acidic ammo, but pain hadn't been much of an obstacle in the face of worry. It had almost seemed like one blink of his optics had been all that passed between the start and end of the bloodshed. As soon as the last threat had been dealt with, his focus had shifted fearfully back to you, or at least where he'd last seen you. His spark almost sang to see you looking right back at him. Wincing from injuries he had been too preoccupied to feel before, he smiled through it all before kneeling to welcome you back to his arms in a careful embrace.
·Despite the burning afflicting your arms and face, bright pink blood was your first concern, especially that which dripped from a fist sized crater in his chest. Fussing over him without a care for yourself, you were lifted in a gentle hand as he tried to walk while reassuring you. Frankly, the discoloration to certain parts of your skin seems far more pressing a concern from his perspective, as he's never seen it look so flushed or give off so much heat. Suggesting that you take it easy the rest of the way to the medbay, he points out your still rapid breaths as a sign you need to relax. Even if he doesn't understand "breathing" he's seen it often enough to figure out you only speed it up when stressed. You find yourself surprised upon realizing you are indeed quite out of breath even now.
·Something lurches in his spark when he sees a disturbing slouch to your entire body, as if the adrenaline has finally faded and something awful is hitting you without its shield. Dizzy and quite exhausted, you lay yourself down in the palm holding you gently to try and regain some semblance of concentration, but find the allure of sleep to be growing by the second. Your brush with death must have taken a lot out of you... It's impossible to ignore how nice it is to relax and close your eyes. Even the pain of your injuries is so much more bearable when consciousness slips further away, and you suddenly can't think of many reasons to resist, even as your partner starts insistently asking why you want to sleep.
·Riptide goes right back to panicking as you start to power down in his arms no matter how he requests you stay awake. Tears start dotting his optics as the worst of possibilities run rampant through his mind, forcing him to run despite his own injuries to get you help before it's too late. What if you suffered some human injury he didn't know was possible during the fight? What if he couldn't get you to help in time? What if this was all his fault? Pleading for you to stay awake, he ignores the pain in his body as he continues to make himself run, half uncertain he's going the right way in his panic. Thinking borders on impossible with the hurt and grief warring inside of him. All he knows is that he can't lose you, and in the back of his processor a wicked bit of loathing taunts him for messing up in ways that a smart bot never would have.
·Limping into the medical bay, he brushes off immediate concern for his own injuries to hold you up and plead for somebot who knows how to fix you. The medics react quickly, having trained to treat humans with you on board, and First Aid informs him of a breakdown in the ship's atmospheric controls. Not understanding the finer details of the issue, he's nevertheless able to figure out you were in a kind of danger he wasn't even aware of. Seeing you be stabilized and bandaged makes him happy for only the shortest of moments. It hardly seems any of this could have happened if you had been with a bot who was smart enough to grasp these things. From the ambush to the delay just in getting you here, it isn't hard to conclude he's responsible for your suffering...
·Having not truly lost consciousness until the medics put you under to recover, you know where you are when wakefulness stirs your limbs, but that doesn't stop you from feeling a touch confused. Accustomed to waking in the presence of one particular bot, you stretch out your hand in a blind search for a familiar presence. A warm digit presses into your palm without delay. Opening your eyes to a beloved face partially obscured by an oxygen mask, you're relieved to see the injuries he endured protecting you have been patched up to the best of Autobot medical ability, leaving little more than a few bandages to mark their presence. However, the usually perky bot is looking absolutely distraught. Grey optics make it clear to you he's been crying. Without a pause, you ask him if he was hurt worse than initially thought, or if something terrible happened to someone else.
·At your concern he sheds more tears, both touched by your words and feeling wholly undeserving of their compassion. He can't help but say how all of your troubles are his fault, as anyone who was actually smart would have taken you here right away. They also would have been able to avoid walking right into an ambush, something only bots as slow as himself would do, because he's just so dumb. At his last word you grab his digit insistently, unable to stand up and stop such talk as you usually do when teasing gets to him. Hearing you say that such talk simply isn't true, that you adore him and he made the decisions that likely saved your life in addition to fighting off a team of aliens... Your words help, as they always do. Though he's still quite rattled at the idea of nearly losing you.
·Gesturing to his still healing wounds, you assure him that you're afraid as well, because there's a lot out there capable of hurting you both. But, together, you stand a chance. That gives him pleasant pause. Recalling how he'd compared the two of you to a kind of dynamic duo, he smiles and leans in to you as he does when seeking cuddles. Careful of your own bandages, you let him snuggle close and pet his crest just the way he likes, encouraging him to relax. Forming a protective wall around you, he's able to get some much needed rest alongside you, looking far more peaceful at the prospect of always having you beside him.
#transformers#maccadam#mtmte#more than meets the eye#lostlight#lost light#ll#idw#tf#my writing#my asks#anon#requests#riptide#riptide x reader#HIMBO KING
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Hey, d'you have any French book recs? I'm trying to work on my French, and rn I have downloaded one of my favourite book series' French translations, but I figured maybe books already written in French might work better? Also have you read the Ranger's Apprentice series? 1/2
RA's def flawed - the books' narration does like to point bright arrows at the protagonists' intelligence, and the last few books def have the tone of 'old white man trying to write feminism', although at least he's trying? - and it's aimed more to the younger side of YA, but it is still a very fun series, and I can ignore the flaws fairly easily, at least partly due to nostalgia? This rather long lol but I'm wordy.
I'll start with the second question: no, although every time the series is brought up I have to check the French title and go "oh, right, I've seen these books in stores". But I've never purchased or read them. It sounds like something I probably would have enjoyed as a teen but I just missed the mark, and these days I'm trying to drown myself in queer books, so that probably isn't happening.
As for your first question, geez, I haven’t read a French book in years, so this is gonna skew middle grade/YA, though that may not be so bad if the point is to learn the language. I will also say that as a result, these may read a little outdated.
I'll put it under a cut, even if Tumblr has become really bad with correctly displaying read mores. Sorry, mobile crowd.
It's also likely that old readers of the blog will have seen me talk about most of these. I don't feel like going through old posts.
One last thing: while I was curating this list I took the time to make a Goodreads shelf to keep track of those.
The Ewilan books by Pierre Bottero
(It's a testament to how long ago I read these books that these are not the covers of the edition I own, and I can't even find those on Google. I'm settling for a more recent cover anyway since it'll make it easier to find them, presumably)
There are at least three trilogies (that I know of) set in the same world.
The first trilogy is essentially an isekai (so, French girl lands in parallel fantasy world by accident) with elements of chosen one trope, though I find the execution makes it worth the while anyway.
The second trilogy is a direct sequel, so same protagonist but new threat, and the world gets expanded.
The third one is centered around a supporting characters from the previous books, and the first couple of books in it are more her backstory than a continuation, though the third one concludes both that trilogy and advances the story of the other books as well.
Notably these books have a really fun magic system where the characters "draw" things into existence. It's just stuck with me for some reason.
A bunch of stuff by Erik L'Homme
I have read a lot of this man's books, starting with Le Livre des Etoiles.
They also skew towards the young end of YA, arguably middle grade, I never bothered to figure out where to draw the line. They're coincidentally also using the premise of a parallel world to our own (and yes, connected to France again, the French are just as susceptible of writing about their homeland), but interestingly are set from the point of view of characters native to the parallel world.
It also has a very unique magic system, this one based on a mix of a runic alphabet and sort-of poetry. I'll also say specifically for these books that the characters stuck with me way more than others on this list, which is worth mentioning.
This trilogy is my favorite by Erik L'Homme, but I'll also mention Les Maîtres des brisants, which is a fantasy space opera with a pirate steampunk(?) vibe. I think it's steampunk. I could be mistaken. But it's in that vein. It's also middle grade, in my opinion not as good, but it could just be that it came out when I was older.
Another one is Phaenomen, which was a deliberate attempt at skewing older (though still YA). This one is set in our (then-)modern world and centers a group of teens who happen to have supernatural powers. I guess the best way to describe it is a superhero thriller? If you take "superhero" in the sense of "people with individualized powers", since they don't really do a lot of heroing.
...I really need to brush up on genre terminology, don't I.
The Ji series by Pierre Grimbert
This one is actually adult fantasy, though it definitely falls under "probably outdated". It is very straight, for starters, and I'd have to give it another read to give a more critical reading of how it handles race (it attempts to do it, and is well meaning, but I'm not sure it survives the test of time & scrutiny, basically).
If I haven't lost you already, the premise is this: a few generations ago, a weird man named Nol gathered emissaries from each nation of the world and took them to a trip to the titular Ji island. Nobody knows what went down here, but now in the present day, someone is trying to kill off all descendants from those emissaries, who are as a result forced to team up and figure out what's going on.
I'm not going to spoil past that, though I will say it has (surprise) a really unique magic system! I guess you can start to piece together what my younger self was interested in. Which, admittedly, I still am.
Once again, this one also has a strong cast of characters, helped by rich world building and the premise forcing the characters to come from many different cultures (though, again, I can't vouch for the handling of race because it's been too long).
The first series is complete by itself, though it has two sequel series as well, each focusing on the next generation in these families. Because yes, of course they all pair up and have kids. Like I said: very straight.
A whole lot of books by Jean-Louis Fetjaine
OFetjaine is a historian, and I guess he's really interested in Arthurian mythos especially, because he loves it so much he's written two separate high fantasy retellings of them! I'm not criticizing, mind you, we all need a hobby.
The former, the Elves trilogy (pictures above) is very traditional high fantasy. Elves, dwarves, orcs, a world which is definitely fictionalized with a pan-Celtic vibe to it. The holy grail and excalibur are around, but they're relics possessed by the elves and dwarves with very different powers than usual. Et cetera.
Fetjaine also really loves his elves (as the titles might imply), and while they're not exactly Tolkien elves, there's a similar vibe to them. If you like Tolkien and his elf boner, you'll probably like this too. And conversely, if that turns you off, these books probably also won't work for you.
This series also has a prequel trilogy, centered around the backstory of one of the main characters. I...honestly don't remember too much about it, but I liked it, so, there you go, I guess.
I said Fetjaine did it twice. The other series is the Merlin duology, which, as the title implies, is a retelling of Merlin's story. Note that Merlin is also in the other trilogy, but it's a different Merlin; like I said, completely different continuities and stories.
This one is historical fantasy, so it's set in actual Great Britain, and Fetjaine attempts to connect Arthur to a "real" historical figure...but, you know, Merlin is also half-elf and elves totally exist in Brocéliande, so, you know. History.
Okay, that's probably enough fantasy, let me give some classics too.
L'Arbre des possibles et autres histoires - Bernard Werber
Bernard Werber is a pretty seminal author of French sci-fi and I should probably be embarrassed that the only book of his that I read was for school, but, it is a really good one, so I'll include it anyway.
It's a novella collection, and when I say "sci-fi" I want to make it clear that it's very old school science fiction. It's more Frankenstein or Black Mirror than Star Trek, what we in French call the anticipation genre of science fiction: you take one piece of technology or cultural norm and project it into the future.
It has a pretty wide range of topics and tones, so it's bound to have some better than others. My personal faves were Du pain et des jeux, where football (non-American) has evolved into basically a wargame, and Tel maître, tel lion, where any animal is considered acceptable as a pet, no matter how absurd it is to keep as a pet. They're both on a comedic end, but there's more heartfelt stuff too.
L'Ecume des Jours - Boris Vian
(no cover because I can't find the one I have, and the ones I find are ugly)
This book is surrealist. Like, literally a part of the surrealist movement. It features things such as a lilypad growing inside a woman's lungs (and, as you well know, lilypads double in size every day, wink wink), the protagonist's apartment becoming larger and smaller to go with his mood and current financial situation, and more that I can't even recall at the moment because remembering this book is like trying to remember having an aneurysm.
It is also really, really fun and touching. Oh, and it has a pretty solid movie adaptation, starring Audrey Tautou, who I think an international audience would probably recognize from Amelie or the Da Vinci Code movie.
I don't really know what else to say. It's a really cool read!
Le Roi se meurt - Eugène Ionesco
Ionesco is somewhat famous worldwide so I wasn't even sure to include him here. He's a playwright who wrote in the "Theater of the Absurd" movement, and this play is part of that.
The premise of this play is that the King (of an unnamed land) is dying, and the land is dying with him. I don't really know what else to say. It's theater of the absurd. It kind of has to be experienced (the published version works fine, btw, no need to track down an actual performance, in my humble opinion).
The Plague - Albert Camus
You've probably heard of this one, and if you haven't, let me tell you about a guy called Carlos Maza
youtube
I'm honestly more including this book out of a sense of duty. The other three are books I genuinely liked and happen to be classics. This book was an awful read. But, um. It's kind of relevant now in a way it wasn't (or didn't feel, anyway) back in 2008 or 2009, when I read it. And I don't just mean because of our own plague, since Camus's plague is pretty famously an allegory for fascism, which my teenage self sneered at, and my adult self really regrets every feeling that way.
Okay, finally, some more lighthearted stuff, we gotta talk about the Belgian and French art of bande dessinée. How is it different from comic books or manga? Functionally, it isn't. It really comes down more to what gets published in the Belgian-French industry compared to the American comics industry, which is dominated by superheroes, or the Japanese manga industry, which, while I'm less familiar with it, I know has some big genre trends as well that are completely separate.
The Lanfeust series - Arleston and Tarquin
This is a YA mega-series, and I can't recommend all of it because I've lost track of the franchise's growth. Also note that I say "YA", but in this case it means something very different from an American understanding of YA. These books are pretty full of sex.
No, when I say YA I mean it has that level of maturity, for better or worse. The original series (Lanfeust de Troy) is high fantasy in a world where everyone has an individual magical ability but two characters find out they're gifted with an absolute power to make anything happen, and while it gets dark at times, it's still very lighthearted throughout, and the humor is...well, I think it's best described as teen boy humor. And it has a tendency to objectify its female characters, as you'll quickly parse out from the one cover I used here or if you browse more covers.
But still, it holds a special place in my heart, I guess. And on my shelves.
The sequel series, Lanfeust des Etoiles, turns it into a space opera, and goes a little overboard with the pop culture reference at times, though overall still maintains that balance of serious/at times dark story and lighthearted comedy.
After that the franchise is utter chaos to me, and I've lost track. I know there was another sequel series, which I dropped partway through, and a spinoff that retold part of the original series from the PoV of the main love interest (in the period of time she spent away from the main group). There was a comedy spin-off about the troll species unique to this world, a prequel series, probably more I don't even know exist.
Les Démons d'Alexia
Something I can probably be a little less ashamed of including here.
Some backstory here. The Editions Dupuis are a giant of the Belgian bande dessinée industry, and for many, many years I was subscribed to their weekly magazine. That magazine was (mostly) made up of excerpts from the various books that the éditions were publishing at the time; those that were made of comic strips would usually get a couple pages of individual scripts, while the ongoing narratives got cut into episodes that were a few pages long (out of a typical 48 page count for a single BD album). Among those were this series.
For the first few volumes, I wasn't super into this series, probably because I was a little too young and smack dab in the middle of my "trying to be one of the boys" phase. But around book 3 I got really invested, to the point where I own the second half of the series because I had canceled by subscription by then but still wanted to know more.
Alexia is an exorcist with unusual talents, but little control, who's introduced to a group that specializes in researching paranormal phenomena, solving cases that involve the paranormal, that kinda stuff.
As a result of the premise, the series has a pretty slow start since it has to build up mystery around the source of Alexia's powers, but once it gets going and we get to what is essentially the series' main conflict, it gets really interesting.
Plus, witches. I'm a simple gay who likes strong protagonists and witches.
Murena
There was a point where my mtyhology nerdery led me to look for more stuff about the historical cultures that created them, and so I'd be super into stuff set in ancient Rome (I'd say "or Greece or Egypt" but let's face it, it was almost always Rome).
Murena is a series set just before the start of Emperor Nero's rule. You know, the one who was emperor when Rome burned, and according to urban legend either caused the fire or played the fiddle while it did (note: "fiddle" is a very English saying, it's usually the lyre in other languages). He probably didn't, it probably was propaganda, but he was a) a Roman Emperor, none of whom were particularly stellar guys and b) mean to Christians, who eventually got to rewrite history. So he's got a bad rep.
The series goes for a very historical take on events, albeit fictionalized (the protagonist and main PoV, the titular Lucius Murena, is himself fictional) and attempts to humanize the people involved in those events. Each book also includes some of the sources used to justify how events and characters are depicted, which is a nice touch.
It's also divided in subseries called "cycles" (books 1-4, 5-8 and the ongoing one starts at 9). I stopped after 9, though I think it's mostly a case of not going to bookstores often anymore. Plus it took four years between 9 and 10, and again between 10 and 11. But the first eight books made for a pretty solid story that honestly felt somewhat concluded as is, so it's a good place to start.
#pierre bottero#la quête d'ewilan#erik l'homme#le livre des étoiles#phaenomen#pierre grimbert#le secret de ji#jean louis fetjaine#la trilogie des elfes#bernard werber#l'arbre des possibles#boris vian#l'écume des jours#le roi se meurt#eugène ionesco#albert camus#la peste#the plague#lanfeust#arleston#tarquin#Les démons d'alexia#ers#dugomier#murena#dufaux#delaby#ask#anonymous#st: other posts
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Isn’t she just delightful?
Catherine of Aragon has one of the more fascinating media legacies of anyone in the Tudor period, not in terms of how her image has fluctuated over the years, but because of how notably it hasn’t. Other hardcore Catholics of the Henrician court are inevitably vilified in stories from Protestant perspectives - Thomas More, Cardinal Wolsey, Jane Seymour and above all else Mary I, to name a few. “Protestant perspectives” doesn’t just refer to reformation texts, it includes books from the perspective of Protestant figures; usually Anne Boleyn or Elizabeth I, and more recently Thomas Cromwell with Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall books. Despite her unwavering faith in both the Catholic Church and her own position, Catherine’s reputation has, up until the past twenty years or so, remained close to stellar; her marriage into the English monarchy at a young age did well to divorce her from her parent’s religious persecutions, and her death some fifteen years or so before her daughter took the throne kept her from being tarnished by association to Mary’s resurrection of medieval heresy laws.
As a Tudor queen, Catherine has largely gone down in history for her irreproachable conduct, even after that history began to tilt towards the side of a religion she opposed - she is known for her charity, her piety, and her belief in her husband’s good nature no matter how vile his behavior grew to be, even at the expense of her own self image. According to Chapuys (who in this case there is no reason to disbelieve) she went to her grave questioning wether Henry’s actions after their divorce was her fault, wondering wether, if she had given him what he wanted, he may not have felt the need to break from Rome, mistreat their daughter and execute two men - one a long term friend and one his own grandmother’s religious advisor. Catherine is a noble figure, she is a tragic figure, she is most of all a dignified figure, and in Tudor media she is always given at least a sympathetic nod if not a complex or three dimensional portrayal.
The key phrase there, though, is as a Tudor queen. Whatever else she was, Catherine was decidedly not a modern woman, just like all of her female peers living five hundred years ago were decidedly not modern women; her unflinching religious beliefs, her many attempts at producing a male heir and her devotion to her marriage are admirable traits of a female noble of the sixteenth century, less so of a twenty first century wife or businesswoman. She was a product of her time, and modernized or semi modernized Tudor media’s attempts to portray her - specifically the brand of modern Tudor media that sets out to depict Anne and Henry’s relationship as one of Sexy High Romance - always end up turning Catherine into a misogynistic caricature of herself, historical legacy be damned. The blog anneboleynnovels describes it best:
“Catherine’s greatest hurdle has been not Protestant novels, but modernized ones. These are the one subgenre in which her character at best is severely degraded and at worst is completely unrecognizable. It’s not surprising that it should be like this — finding modern corollaries to Anne and Henry, whether in an office, a Hollywood mansion, or a high school, is doable. As for most of the people who surrounded them, while some some people are harder to wrench into modern poses than others, it’s relatively easy to cut and alter those characters to make them work better in a modern setting. Catherine, however, is completely lost here. She needs to exist, or else the central conflict disappears — but she simply doesn’t have a real modern equivalent, at least not in the kinds of societies that modernizers write about; her determination that God had put her in her position and that she had to safeguard her daughter’s legitimacy, and thus her inheritance, is impossible to convey fully, especially since Henry’s historical behavior — taking a presumed inheritance from Mary, forcibly separating the two women, and confining them in residences of his choosing — can’t be precisely replicated in a modern novel without making him at best a creep and at worst a criminal. In neither case would that Henry be an appealing love object for a modern Anne, so his behavior is inevitably made more standard — he’s simply a wealthy man divorcing his wife of twenty years, and instead of taking her settlement and moving on, his wife just refuses to let go.”
As the post on Catherine’s fictionalized history points out, attempts to judge her through a modern lens, particularly in stories that center around that grand, not-at-all-murderous love affair of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn inevitably fail to produce a balanced assesment. Susan Bordo’s highly modernized study the Creation of Anne Boleyn treats her like a footnote at best and a self righteous fool at worst, while the Catherine of Suzannah Dunn’s The Queen of Subtleties is disgustingly nicknamed “Fat Cath” (stupid cow, how could she let herself go like that after six pregnancies?) and features its leading lady, another ahead-of-her-time portrayal of Anne Boleyn, going out of her way to condescendingly paint Catherine to the reader as vengeful and delusional. Anne of Hollywood and Anne and Henry present the worst portrayals, one a hideous, deliberately unsympathetic drug addict and the other a teenage psychotic forced on Henry by his father, leading her poor, brow beaten boyfriend by the hand.
That’s not to say it would be impossible to write a well rounded modern Catherine of Aragon, but most modernized Tudor novels simply don’t care to try and make her well rounded; she exists solely to be the convenient road block to Anne and a whitewashed Henry’s happiness, a flat example of the Hysterical Woman trope rather than a Queen, a mother, or a politician. It isn’t Anne Boleyn’s fault that this happens (she can’t exactly object) but this version of Catherine never fails to rear its ugly head in Tudor media that aims to portray Anne, literally or figuratively, as a “woman of the future.” Since that reading of Anne has gained momentum over the years, this Catherine inevitably does so too.
What makes the Spanish Princess so unbearable is how blatantly Emma Frost is trying, and egregiously failing, to flip the script on this. Whatever her personal dislike of Anne Boleyn, she is very obviously trying to take this fictitious version of Anne Boleyn that has sprung up over the past few decades - that of the rebellious, sexy, pseudo feminist Modern Woman™ - and apply it to Catherine of Aragon, who was neither rebellious, a feminist or, after six pregnancies, five infant deaths and a battle with heart cancer, all that sexy. The intimacy and very real affection she and Henry shared in the early years of their marriage is stilted and unemotional, replaced by an absurd number of sex scenes and a very out of place “warrior kween” nickname. It isn’t enough for Catherine to organize a massive military campaign and give a speech to an assembly of soldiers while heavily pregnant, real life accomplishments of hers which have gone largely unacknowledged - no, the Catherine of the Spanish Princess needs to literally fight in battle, pregnant belly armor and all, subtly implying that her many miscarriages were the result of her own behavior, never mind the fact that Henry’s later wives had miscarriages as well. The deeply devoted friends Catherine actually had, one of whom served her for decades and risked royal punishment to be with her on her deathbed, are either erased entirely or put into invented conflicts with her. Her relationship with the only one of her children that survived infancy is perverted into a cold, uncaring motherhood, marked by disappointment and a refusal to even hold her daughter, let alone personally teach her Latin, commission scholars to write books for her, and request those same scholars take charge of her education.
In place of all these details, the things that make the historically minded audience love Catherine in the first place, several sordid aspects of Anne Boleyn’s fictional representations are assigned to Frost’s Catherine of The Upside Down: the ~unnatural~ blowjobs and poorly designed French hoods, the general air of cattiness, the excessive nudity, the hatred of her daughter, the inability to sexually please her husband, and the weird sense of anger at all the women in her life all stand out as hallmarks of Anne Boleyn’s less flattering portrayals, but so too do the clear attempts to pander to a feminist audience and sell itself as new age and progressive.
The fouler examples of Catherine as a modern woman aren’t yet the prevalent perception of her; a gaggle of misguided twenty first century books isn’t enough to erase the near spotless reputation she’s maintained for half a millennium. But the Spanish Princess fails to depict a more positive modernization of Catherine because it’s lazy in the attempt - it sees the habit of trying to turn sixteenth century queens into anything but sixteenth century queens and tries to replicate it by taking a handful of theatrical trends and having their protagonist perform them. Those trends have been apart of Anne Boleyn’s portrayal in the media for so long it wouldn’t be that strange to see her acting that way on screen, no matter how historically inaccurate they may be, but to assign them to someone with such a vastly different public history as Catherine is just jarring. She wasn’t like that, nobody thinks she was like that, Tudor media has always known her as being not like that, and the result is something that’s confusing at best and outright offensive at worst. It’s not fun to watch, but it’s interesting to examine, broader context in mind.
(Also credit to @queenmarytudor for that image of Meg and Mary, and seriously, check out anneboleynnovels. They’re great.)
#the spanish princess#Catherine of Aragon#the Tudors#henry viii#also I should say that I am not in any way a historian and you should take what I say with a massive grain of salt#this is just what I think
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Because I have no patience, here’s the first chapter of my three part Reverse Little Mermaid Winteriron AU
while we're devoting full time to floating chapter one: floating in a blue lagoon
Rating: T (for now) Word Count: 3.5K Relationships: Tony x Bucky, background Natasha x Wanda Warnings: Prejudice against Merpeople, Steve’s kind of an ass, boat violence, magic use Read on AO3
Chapter One | Chapter Two
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Spring-time has broken— making way, quickly, for a blazing summer. Celebratory music carries from the interior of the city, echoing from the palace in the center all the way out to the surrounding villages, drawing citizens closer— like moths to a joyful flame. Heading in the opposite direction, unseen by guards and villagers, two silhouettes slip toward the shoreline.
Up ahead is an expansive boathouse, accessible only by royal decree and permission from the crown. Bucky lifts up on his toes to check through the window for officers or other sailors— no one in sight. His key easily unlocks the door and he holds it open for Alpine to sprint through.
Bucky pads across the dock, heading for his humble fishing boat and checking for guards, whistling low between his fingers to call his Border Collie to his side. Alpine comes bounding over, shaking out her pure white coat, and pants, eyes wide with excitement.
“Quiet, Alpine,” he hisses, motioning to stay low, “almost there, girl.”
Towards the end of the dock, he can see his boat. Restored over years of hard work, The Widow sits proudly at the end of the line, beckoning him to sail away. He helps Alpine climb inside and makes haste to cast off, pushing away from the dock and dipping his oars into the gentle waves.
The sun is hot, but Bucky doesn’t mind it. His gaze is locked ahead and his focus is sure. The waters are quiet as he rows out into the open ocean, letting the current push him parallel to the coastline and away from the village.
It’s not like he’s running away— no. He just knows his brother would stop him if he knew, and it’s far too close to migration to wait another day.
After a while, he sees the cove— his favorite spot, sheltered under a familiar rocky cliff— and steers towards it. Once he’s close, Bucky tethers the boat to a nearby boulder. He helps Alpine out and climbs up the jagged rocks, settling over the water.
Here he adjusts his covering and removes a few flat stones, revealing provisions he stored long ago in a discreet iron box. Bucky lays on his belly, wiggling until he can peak over the edge.
Then he waits.
It doesn’t take long. With lenses pressed to his face, his enhanced view picks up movement below. Three large figures, cutting gracefully through the crystal clear water, swim into focus. Bucky holds his breath, taking only a moment to scrawl a few details onto his journal pages. Remarkable.
He watches the Merpeople hesitantly explore the cove underneath and talk animatedly between each other. Bucky only hears snippets of conversations as they surface, and it seems like a dark haired, red-tailed Mer is their leader. The other two— the first with bright red hair, and the second with darker skin— follow the red-tailed Mer around the shallow waters, inspecting rocks and plant life, talking distractedly about a settlement nearby.
“These waters are clear, no remnants left from past colonies.”
Bucky knows this already. He’s been observing Mer migration patterns for years, and none of them ever stay long enough to impact the nearby ecosystems. Still, he jots down a note about their self awareness.
“Still, the access to resources and deeper waters is desirable in this area.”
This Bucky knows as well. Outside of the cove and the surrounding reef, there’s a steep drop off down into unexplored waters. He’s tried to swim down a few times, but hasn’t yet found the floor.
Finally the red-tailed Mer speaks, he voice deep and alluring, causing Bucky’s head to snap up in surprise—
“I’m sure the King would be thrilled to hear of this discovery,” he drawls, and something in his tone convinces Bucky that this King would decidedly not be pleased. “Take a few samples, keep them close. I’ll study them in my lab when we get back and present them to the King myself.”
Bucky has to stop himself from chuckling. He understands exactly how this Mer feels about his King, and he’s instantly endeared. He can’t, for the life of him, tear his gaze from the red-tailed Mer. The man is striking, beautiful and full of life, and Bucky has never seen one like him before. His body is lean and toned like most Mers tend to be, but something about his posture screams authority and importance. He sighs, knowing the three of them will probably move on, migrate further south and into warmer waters.
He pulls away to take a drink from his water flask and sees a flash in the corner of his eye. Something approaching— fast and dangerous. The Mers below are oblivious, and the next thing he knows, they’re being circled and cornered by three, large Tiger sharks.
Bucky gets to his knees, gripping the rocks as he watches the sharks close in, forcing the Mers to press together a few meters in front of the cove.
The largest shark attacks. It’s a flurry of motion and violent waters as the other two follow suit, converging on the Mers from all sides. It seems as though each Mer fights a single shark, and they draw vicious, serrated weapons to slice through the water.
But the Tiger sharks are quick. The largest one whips, lightning fast, and catches the red-tailed Mer in the chest, sending him careening into the rocky wall. The other two Mers are chased away. They dodge and swim through the shallow waters and disappear out of sight to avoid the close pursuing sharks. Bucky glances down, watching in horror as the largest shark closes in on his prey below.
The red-tailed Mer isn’t moving, and the shark is swimming closer. Bucky scrambles, picking up his own hunting knife, and stripping off his shirt and boots before diving off the cliff.
His attack takes the shark by surprise, and Bucky plunges into the water, striking clean and slicing through the predator. Blood pours out of the open wound and Bucky has to surface, gulping in air as he watches the shark retreat.
He sheaths his weapon and turns, looking for the injured Mer. Bucky dives down and sees him drifting against the rocky wall, propped up and unconscious. When Bucky gets closer he finds blood, fresh and urgent, seeping out of the Mer’s wound— dead center on his chest.
Without hesitating, Bucky pulls the Mer up to the surface. He swims, slowly but effectively, back to the cove and rests against the rocky shore, letting the vibrant tail hydrate in the water.
“Hey,” Bucky looks into the man’s face, gently pushing back a thick strand of dark hair, “wake up, please. C’mon, I need you to wake up.”
The wound is still bleeding, slower than before, but persistently trickling down into the pool of water.
“Okay, okay… dammit,” Bucky curses, “stay here,” he instructs, mostly for his own sake, and sprints out of the cove, climbing the rock face to retrieve his shirt and a few supplies. Herbs and spices can usually make a good potion, even for inexperienced users— which Bucky definitely isn’t . He rubs a few together in his hands as he ducks back into the cove, kneeling next to the unmoved Mer. Gently, so gently, Bucky presses his fingers against his skin to rub the potion into the wound, wrapping it tenderly with strips of his own shirt after.
The Mer groans, hunching in to protect the wound instinctively.
“No, darling, let me heal it,” Bucky begs, laying the man down again while he works. He looks around. It would help if there was...
Aha! A golden ring dangles from the Mer’s neck, a perfect vessel for a healing spell. Bucky slips the ring on his own finger, taking a deep breath before performing the spell. It’s taxing. It hurts. But Bucky can see the ring glow and flex on his finger, accepting the enchantment and waiting for it’s impending assignment.
The ring is laid back on the Mer’s chest, still attached with the delicate chain, and Bucky is satisfied when he sees the wounds rapidly closing. He sighs in relief, holding the Mers hand and feeling the delicate pulse even out. He wishes he could see the man’s eyes, at least once. Damn the King and his stupid laws.
Movement, stirring from the Mer, and Bucky knows he must go. He can’t help but lean closer, studying the breathtaking features of this man’s face and pressing a lingering kiss onto his temple, before withdrawing and racing for his boat. He whistles for Alpine to join him, and takes off for the village. He’s been away far too long, and the King is bound to have noticed his absence.
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“Do you know what you have done?”
The King, his brother, is fuming— full of violent rage that even Bucky shys away from. He had pulled Bucky off his boat the moment he returned, ordering the guards to seize him and The Widow for crimes against the crown.
“And to see the Merpeople again, I should have known. How could you, Buck? Openly disregarding my decree and putting all of our people in jeopardy— for what? Research?”
“He was dying!”
“Better him than another one of us.”
Bucky recoils, “You don’t mean that. The Mers have always been peaceful—“
“And that’s because they are ignorant of our existence— dammit Buck! What if he had seen you?”
“He didn’t.”
“And he won’t.”
“What does that mean?” Bucky asks, daring to look his brother in the eye. All he finds is cool indifference.
“It means that until further notice, I’m confiscating your traveling privileges. You will serve in my court and retire to your chambers, guarded as to not leave the grounds— is that clear?”
“Steve, what the hell—“
“You may keep the company of your dog,” the King, his brother and best friend, sets his jaw and points towards Bucky’s beloved boat, “but as a consequence for disgracing your King and country, my guard will take care of your transportation.”
“No!” Bucky cries, fighting the strong hold on his arms as two members of the royal guard unceremoniously drop a torch into his boat, setting it on fire. “Damn you, Steve!”
They let him struggle, thrashing and yelling to no avail, and the crowd watches as his most prized possession is burned to ashes. Bucky falls to his knees, speechless.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the King retreat, walking out of sight without even the courtesy of a dismissal. His vision blurs red.
Steve never listens.
The guards haul him up by the armpits, but Bucky barely even notices. He lets himself be dragged away and led back to his quarters, collapsing onto his bed with a sob as they lock the doors behind him. He feels Alpine crawl up next to him, and he holds her close, soaking her fur with heaving, furious tears.
When the sun goes down, Bucky packs a bag. It’s not an issue to find a way out of the palace— he’s been doing that for years. The issue is tracking down his contact, making sure she still lives across the bay, and convincing her to help him. Her allegiance is strong with the King, but he thinks he might have the upperhand to a few of her debts.
Bucky drops a quick kiss to Alpine’s head, tying a note around her collar. It won’t help to have her starving and the kingdom torn apart in his absence, so he quickly charms the letter to sooth and calm it’s readers. That should give him enough time to evade any search and rescue.
From there, it’s a simple shimmy out the window, a well-timed jump across a few balconies, light-footed paces through empty streets, and then, thankfully, a straightforward hike out of the city. The sun has long since set. Bucky pushes forward, ignoring the increasing chill as he climbs in elevation— his destination is just up ahead.
Before he crosses into her wards, Bucky comes to a stop. He searches the ground for… yes! A small ring of stones lies around her cottage, strengthening her security and vigil over her land, and Bucky kneels in front of them, gently laying his fingers on the ones nearby. It only takes a moment of letting his walls down, power flowing down his arms and into his hands, and he smiles to feel a warm thrum in response. The wards accept his familiar presence, and he stands to make his way to the cottage that lies behind the tree covering.
“You had better have a good excuse to be here, James.”
He hears her greeting before he spots her in the doorframe, curves silhouette tantalizing and a stark contrast from the light within the house. He smiles, picking up his pace and running forward, “Oh, Nat. Damn, if it isn’t good to see you.”
Natasha lets him swing her up into his arms, but gives a stinging flick to his ear.
“I’ve already heard of your transgressions, James. When will you just accept your brother’s rule, and learn that his word is law?”
Bucky sweeps into the cottage and leads the way to her personal rooms. It seems as though someone else has been living in this space— there’s another, strong, trace of magic intertwined with Natasha’s. He ignores her implications and raises an eyebrow, “Who are you hosting, Nat?”
The grin Natasha throws him is downright feral, and Bucky almost regrets asking. She brings her fingers up to her lips and whistles, brief and sharp.
“Her name is Wanda, she will join us momentarily,” Natasha pours him herbal tea, gesturing for them to sit in the living space. He allows himself to put his bag down, but he lets himself fidget a little bit— cataloging his urgency to his friend and trusting her to pick up his unspoken needs. “Tell me, pretty Prince— why are you seeking me out after such drama, at this time of night?”
He frowns at her moniker, but decides to give it to her straight, “Steve’s bias has gotten out of hand. I witnessed an exploration party of three Mers out by my cove, and there was a shark attack. The leader of their party was knocked unconscious, so I intervened to stop the shark from killing him. I had to swim him to safety, Nat, and I enchanted his ring with a healing spell. I left before he could wake up, and when I got back…” Bucky breathes, breaking his eye contact with Natasha, “well, it sounds like you’ve heard the rest.”
Her face falls in a genuine show of regret, “I’m really sorry, James, I know how much—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts her off, “I just need help convincing Steve that Mers are worth protecting. He just sees them as a threat, and he hates their ignorance about us. He doesn’t trust it. But they’re incredible, Nat, honestly. And this one I saw today… damn.”
Her eyes gleam, mischievous, “Oh? You have a crush on the Mer you saved and healed with your magic— how surprising.”
“Shut it, Nat,” he hisses, rolling his eyes as she cackles, “I’ve never seen a man so beautiful in my life. And, I don’t know, something about how he spoke, his voice and his humor—”
“James, I hate you.”
“— excuse me?”
“I now owe Clint a very large sum because of you.”
When Bucky fails to react, Natasha just sighs, “He bet you’d fall in love with a Mer. I just didn’t think you were that stupid.”
“Hey! I’m not in love—”
“Sure, Jay,” she laughs, turning to face the back stairwell as Bucky throws a pillow at her, “oh! Wanda! Please, come in and meet James.”
Standing at the bottom of the staircase is a petite girl, maybe a few years younger than Bucky himself, with auburn hair that rivals Natasha’s in brilliance. He can feel her power from here. A shiver runs down his spine.
She’s careful to walk into the room, as though any sudden movement may set off a catalyst of magic strong enough to rip the room apart. And he honestly doesn’t doubt that could happen.
“This is Wanda,” Natasha introduces them, and Bucky reaches to take her tiny hand in greeting. She looks one part terrified, and another part… angry? She still shakes his hand and mumbles a pleasantry. He knows that if Steve were here, she would probably be arrested for insolence to the crown or something comparable.
“It’s nice to meet you, Wanda. You can call me Bucky, everyone besides Natasha does.”
The look on her face says she will most likely not be calling him Bucky.
“Well, why don’t you spend the night here, James?” Natasha asks, standing to her feet and gliding into the kitchen, “we have a spare room, and can talk strategy in the morning.”
“I’d rather—”
“I insist,” Natasha cuts him off. She pours him a glass of water and pushes it into his hand, “I’m going to sleep. You know where the guest room is.”
“Isn’t…” he awkwardly motions towards Wanda, confused about the sleeping arrangements until he sees the flush in Wanda’s cheeks, the salacious grin on Natasha’s face.
“You don’t worry about us, our arrangements work just fine. Get some rest, James,” and with that, Natasha disappears up the staircase with a small kiss to the top of Wanda’s head. To his surprise, Wanda doesn’t move a muscle. She’s still staring at him, and it starts to get uncomfortable as they sit in silence.
Bucky clears his throat, “So, how did you—”
“I can help you with your problem.”
He does a double take, “— get… uh, what? Which problem?”
Wanda takes a seat across from him, but her posture is anything but relaxed. It’s her facial expression that makes him freeze— not just anger and fear, but knowing. Understanding. He curses himself because instead of scaring him, the knowledge in her eyes draws him closer.
She tilts her head to the side, slightly, “With your Merpeople. And with your brother. I’ve seen the conflict and I witnessed the shark attack. I know how your heart thrums in time with this red-tailed Merman, and how you long for it to beat in time with your brother, the King.”
“How do you—”
“You assume Natasha told me, but rest assured, my power and devices stretch far beyond her secret spies. I have a deal to offer you, and in return, you will earn the ear of the King and the heart of the sea.”
Bucky gives her a suspicious eye, but in reality, his heart is pounding. This girl, barely old enough to inherit land, is offering him the depths of his desires. But he knows mages, understands their loopholes and caveats.
“Tell me, Wanda— what is your scheme? What would be my payment?”
“Simple,” she answers, gaze going distant, “I’d first give you access to the King of the sea. Through the Mer you saved, his only son, you will forge a treaty between land and ocean. I will give you a way in, but in turn, you will have to enter the same spell all Mers are under: to forget and lose humanity. You will still remember names and faces and stories, but all will be in a cloak of ignorance. Like them, you will have no knowledge of the world above.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, “How am I supposed to forge a treaty between the two worlds if I can’t remember the one I’ve come from?”
“A royal alliance will break the spell. Marriage or covenant between the Prince of the land and Prince of the sea will not only break the cloak of ignorance on your mind, but also the ignorance of all who live in the Mer kingdom.”
His mind is racing. On one hand, he’s never easily put his trust in a strange mage, even one who seems to be… intimate with Natasha. On the other, he’s been looking for a way into the sea kingdom for years. Her spell could be the bridge that brings everything together.
“Oh, but there is one catch, James.”
“I knew it.”
“If you cannot get the Prince to fall in love and wed you, the enchantment on your memories will keep progressing. You will not only forget humanity, but you will completely forget yourself as well.”
“Does Natasha know you’re offering me this deal?”
“She knows we’re discussing it, yes.”
“How long would I have until my memories start to fade?” Bucky asks. He can’t believe he’s actually considering this.
Wanda seems to consider it, “No less than a month, no more than three.”
“So I’d give up my humanity, get this prince to fall in love with me, and break the spell over their kingdom. If I can’t do it, I’m lost to the sea forever— sound about right?”
Her mouth quirks up in a smile grin, “That’s about the gist of it.”
He thinks about Steve. About his life in the city— all the people who would miss him, and about Alpine and Natasha and even his royal guard. He thinks about the stunning, striking Mer from this afternoon. His ruby scales and cutting wit. Bucky desperately wants to see his eyes.
He looks down at his hands and sighs, straightening his back in determination.
From there, the decision isn’t hard.
#winteriron#Mer!tony#Mage!Bucky#tony x bucky#tony/bucky#fanfic#wip#bucky barnes#tony stark#King!Steve Rogers#kind of violent shark attack#magic use
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“Stars Aligned,” Ch. 4
A/N: fanfic is on my wattpad @/ xTodorcki
Word count: 2024
Warnings: none
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
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It's been a few days since the incident that occurred with Bakugou. You two haven't spoken much, except him calling you dumb nicknames or talking about how powerful he is.
But the day came to where it was the UA sports festival and you weren't all that excited about it. For one, you hated sports and two, Aizawa made it clear that class 1-A will most likely get most of the spotlight and being the center of attention especially on tv made you uneasy.
You made up many excuses in your head to get you out of this situation but it was of no use. Your father made it clear how excited he was to come and watch you and that made you even more terrified. The overwhelming eyes of your father watching you made you shake at the thought of it.
He was very judgmental, even a slight mistake and he might turn it into a lecture once you get home and you weren't prepared for that.
All of class 1-A stood around the waiting room in their gym clothes. You had spoken to Midoryia a few times about how you didn't want to do this but he had reassured you it would be easy and fun.
The amount of anxiety you felt built up inside of you was begging to explode and send you into a full meltdown but you held yourself up and tried to convince yourself to stop being so dramatic.
Bakugou had noticed how uneven your breathing was, it kinda made him chuckle.
"Quit being a baby, newbie." You scoffed at his words, looking away from him and heard Present Mic shouting.
You wanted to just crawl in a hole in the ground and lay there. How did you manage to even let your dad force you to attend this school?
Your face started to grow red as you stepped outside in the middle of the arena with your classmates, trying to hide yourself behind Todoroki considering he was much taller than you and nicer at that. Your eyes managed to look up for one second and met your fathers gaze, a stern look on his face and you knew if you disappointed him out here, it'll be a tough time for you later.
"Don't overthink it, you'll do fine— your quirk is better than most of these kids anyways." Todoroki mumbled from in front of you, noticing how much you were trying to hide and moved aside as he put his hand on your shoulder.
The last few days, Todoroki and Deku have both been really supportive after the event of you and Bakugo. Everyone else seemed too terrified to even talk to you longer than 10 minutes but the two boys have stood by and made sure to hang out with you after class and even help during training days.
You three even have hung out after school a few times by grabbing a bite to eat or just going to the study hall. Ashido and Uraraka have joined once or twice to be there for you as well but it seemed like everyone else was keeping their distance.
You took a deep breath in, closing your eyes to think about everything and build up the self confidence. Your quirk is great, you can do this, you can make it up on top, you're overthinking it. You repeated to yourself over and over again until it was time to do the first event.
An obstacle course, great.
You heard that we can use whatever we needed to, quirk and all. Everyone was on their own and they had to make it to the finish line in order to get to the next level.
Once the alarm was blasted. You managed to start running and luckily for you, you were pretty good at it but you obviously used the boost of the your weather quirk and breeze you through most of the students with the wind.
Bakugou had noticed you when you caught up to him and a few others. He wanted to make sure he was number 1, to prove to everyone that they're beneath him and he was practically the King at UA.
"Fuck off, Y/N." He tried to blast you back and you glared at him for trying to play dirty but you expected nothing less from him.
As much as you hated this stupid sports festival, seeing Bakugou's ego get trampled on a little will definitely make you happy and make this festival worth doing. You couldn't help the laugh that escaped your mouth from the thought of it.
"Sorry, Katsuki but I'll make sure you're behind me today." You winked at him and made the wind much stronger to push you past him and his face turned red as he pushed his limit.
Todoroki had done the same and it was now down to the three of you but Katsuki and Shoto were too busy with each other to even realize Deku blasting his way through past all three of you at such a intense pace.
You were impressed but this had pushed you to try to use your quirk at its full advantage. The two boys behind you did the same and all of a sudden, the race was over. It was down by an inch but your eyes widen hearing your name through Present Mic.
"What the hell?!" Katsuki yelled, seemed like steam was coming out from his ears and you looked over at him.
"Can't handle losing to a girl, Kacchan?" You used the nickname he didn't really like, that made him more angry and he started mumbling under his breath. All you managed to hear was, 'fucking newbie'
As the day went on, the sports festival had finally ended and you came in too short. Third place. It wasn't terrible for someone who didn't want to be here but Bakugou was angry for winning in a way he didn't want to.
As the class gathered back in the waiting room they were in before the festival, the room was just filled with complaining coming from him. Yelling and screaming at Todoroki and the whole class just stayed quiet, including you.
Bakugou was a confusing character to know. One minutes he wants to destroy everyone and the next he's mad because he won first place. You never know what's going on inside that thick skull of his but the constant bickering and yelling at everyone for something no one could control is a bit ridiculous.
After changing back into school uniforms, Bakugou had simply vanished and your mind had wondered where he went considering how upset he was. You stepped outside by yourself, you were supposed to wait for Midoryia and Todoroki but you felt as if you needed to check on him before he ends up exploding something.
You finally seen him from afar, near the training grounds the students used on training days. He walked inside the room and you hesitated before walking to him. You clung onto your school bag and walked inside the building, watching him hit the punching back that sat in the coroner of the room.
You opened your mouth to say something but no words came out, deep down you were a bit scared even though you did manage to handle him and keep him on his toes when he annoyed you.
His back was facing you, he was still wearing his gym clothes which you found quite odd but he continued punching the back over and over until suddenly he used his explosion to rip the bag apart and watched it drop on the floor and make a mess throughout the room.
Suddenly his eyes met yours, he looked a bit shocked but still was angry behind it. He scoffed when he seen you, looking down at the punching bag and back to where there was another one.
"Are you going to destroy that one too?" You questioned, your feet making their way over to him once he started to punch that one too but he stopped to look back at you.
"If I have to, yes. It's better than beating Todoroki's face in." He admitted, shaking his head to try to get rid of the thoughts of the sports festival.
He was beyond angry and frustrated. He worked so hard to come up on top and when he ends up winning, he doesn't want to accept the way he won. He was better than that, his training was better than that.
"Maybe talking about it could help?" You knew it was a stupid attempt, Bakugou would never talk about his feelings nor would he even talk at all.
"I mean- I still consider you a friend, ya know. You can always rant if needed." He glared at you once you mentioned the word, friend. He barely had any and he never considered his classmates his friends. Maybe Kirishima but even then, he still gets on Bakugou's nerves.
"I don't have friends." He stated coldly, his hard stare felt as if he was seeing right through you and you closed your mouth as you thought about something else.
"Even though you hate to admit it, Katsuki, you have friends. Stop with the tough act like you're better off alone, it'll just end up hurting you in the long run." You shrugged, picking up your school bag off the floor and dusted off your uniform skirt and turned to walk out the door.
"Hey, dumb ass." He spoke before you could walk out the door and you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes softened up a bit and he seemed less angry. You were hoping you calmed him down even just a little.
He stood there, he wanted to say something but then again he didn't want to say anything at all. He was a mixed signal, you didn't know how to read him or how to tell his emotions apart except for his temper and his anger.
He was a pain, has been for the few weeks you've been here but you couldn't help the sudden urge to help him when you feel like he needs it. Even though he hate to show emotions and his feelings, you knew when he needs at least someone to help him out of his deep hole of anger and rage.
"It's okay, I get it." You understood what he wanted to say, maybe it was a thank you or maybe it was something along the lines of the weird friendship you both had.
You waved goodbye at him, walking out the training room and towards the front gates when Midoryia and Todoroki stood, still waiting for you.
"What took you so long?" Izuku spoke, excited once he seen you walking towards them.
"Oh, I had to do something sorry! Are we going to go eat? I'm starving."
"Let's go to that place in town?" Izuku said excitedly, walking beside both you and Shoto.
"We went there a few days ago!" You protested, the obsession he had with this restaurant was insane but you couldn't deny that it was good.
Bakugou had looked outside the door, watching you walk away with the two boys and he had a sense where maybe he wished you stayed a little longer. He would admit, not out loud, that you could understand him in ways nobody else would. I mean, you did come search for him after all- knowing he was angry and unapproachable.
Deep down he hated the sense of being alone and as if he had no one to really rely on. The tough act he put on was to hide the fact he never had any friendships where he felt okay and safe to fully express himself.
He hated you though, he hated the way you would test him and challenge him. He hated the fact you weren't scared to one up him, to defend yourself or anyone else against him. He hated a lot of things about you but he also hated himself deep down because he might considers you a friend.
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• Main Masterlist •
#bakugou imagines#bakugou fanfic#bakugou headcanons#bakugou imagine#bakugou x reader#katsuki bakugo imagine#katsuki bakugo#katsuki Bakugou imagines#bakugo imagine#bakugo imagines#bakugo x reader#bakugo fanfic#mha fanfic#mha x reader#mha imagine
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Tbh, I believe some of the reaction to Steve’s ending is an overreaction and, mostly, nothing to do with Steve or the point they are defending. I want to stress that I am saying some before people mistake that as well. And if you disagree, that’s fine.
1. In MY experience, because I’m not going to pretend ive read most takes on Endgame or read every crevice, people only talk about the timeline being ruined when it came to what Steve did and NOT how other timelines were meddled with. Someone could argue that Steve intentionally meddled, but according to the rules of time travel, intentionality doesn’t matter.
Who knows the unforeseen consequences behind knocking out Tony’s reactor. Who knows what happens with old cap after encountering endgame cap and not only fighting him, but hearing the name “Bucky?” Who knows the consequences of thanos and quo being transported 9 years into the future. Or what about the lady that spots Steve and Tony? And how Tony conversed with his dad.
We’re told or it’s implied that any interference can have devastating consequences, yet only Steve’s last decision is obsessively discussed.
2. Peggy’s agency allegedly being undermined. Sure, people could argue by the sheer virtue of going back in time and talking to her he’s undermined her agency, but we don’t even know how their original discussion went. We do not know what went down and people are robbing Peggy of her agency by essentially stating that Peggy had no choice in the matter.
Are we forgetting how intelligent Peggy is? That Peggy potentially asked Steve how was any of “this” even possible and the implication of his actions. And if it come off as condescending or patronizing, I apologize, but imho, it appears that some people, generally speaking, believe that because they dislike something that’s the same as it being bad. Other than, they just dislike what was given to us.
But, how does this undermine Peggy’s arc or rob her of her agency? How? I think some people want it to mean that her arc was undermined to prove Steve shouldn’t have went back to the past. And do people actually care about Peggy’s unnamed husband whose face we never see? Do they really care about her kids?
3. Bucky. People often cite the end of the line remark, but honestly, I think that’s being seen through a shipper lens. Steve and Bucky will clearly fight for each other to make sure the other is safe when they’re in present danger and will advocate for each other if necessary, but they’ve never been joined at the hip.
These are two people who are close who not only regularly acted independent of each other pre serum, was fine going long stretches without being around each other. I’m not even sure if they wrote each other letters. But, they most defintely love and care for each other.
So, pre serum Steve and Bucky are close, but aren’t around each other all of the time. They are fine going long stretches of time without communicating. And, even when reunited after Steve stormed the base solo, they still largely do their own thing. But, even back then, they’d die for each other.
When we get to winter soldier, Bucky’s death was still fresh for Steve. It’s only been a “few” years for him. He still feel responsible for not being able to save Bucky. But, not only that, Bucky was experimented on, was brainwashed, and a POW of Hydra’s—not only is Steve going to take that personally, he wasn’t going to give up on hydra even if it killed him.
Post destroying the helicarriers, Steve wants to look for Bucky after the film concludes to make sure Bucky is safe and has everything he needs.
In civil war, Steve’s mission goes from checking in on buckys well being to making sure Bucky isn’t murdered for something he was forced to do. When Bucky was originally arrested unharmed, Steve was fine. He’s not obsessing over Bucky. Then, when Bucky is brainwashed again, Steve refuses to leave Bucky to his own devices.
After civil war, Steve drops Bucky off in Wakanda and doesn’t think twice about it. Bucky is safe and has the proper resources to heal. They spend two more years apart; they largely haven’t spent any significant time together since Bucky regained his memory. Steve might have called Bucky via T’Challa.
And, just to be clear, I’m not arguing against stucky, it’s not my ship, but people can ship whatever they like, it’s the fact that we’re consistently shown that Steve and Bucky aren’t dependent on each other. That their lives and decisions do not revolve around one another. The idea that Bucky needs Steve or that Steve is abandoning Bucky is absurd.
4. Steve’s ending being a regression. People argue that Steve’s storyline is about moving on all while overlooking the fact that he consistently struggled with doing it.
In winter soldier, nat tries to get him to go on dates and Steve points out that is hard because the lack of shared experience. He clings to both Peggy and Bucky in different ways. They are both living, breathing pieces of his past that he was “taken” from.
Instead of having Sharon kiss him and this go no where (because it was poorly developed), they should’ve had Steve reflect on what Peggy’s death mean to him personally and moving on with his life. I guess her death and the kiss was supposed to signify that, but we don’t actually explore the character. We don’t allow him to sit with it. These things are done to shortcut the storytelling without actually exploring it in the world. But, Steve doesn’t talk about moving or and none of his actions support this in the overall story. Again, what we do see is for the benefit of the viewer and not Steve.
But, the biggest thing is: why do people conveniently ignore that what happened in infinity wars could lead to a huge regression? People talk about how Steve was “moving on”, but ignore the five year hell of post snap and him admitting that they “the avengers” couldn’t move on. That their failure would leak into other parts of his life as well and make him reconsider things?
5. Found family. It’s quite clear that the avengers, most of them, largely do not hang out together. They aren’t around each other unless they’re saving the world. Steve did not abandon his family or the avengers. They got along, but they all lived their own lives. And, it’s quite self centered to think you can’t ever leave a group because they can’t function without you. There were more avengers apart of the team then when Steve originally joined, some are powerful than he is and others have shown that they are just as capable leaders as he was or can grow into the role like he did.
But, the idea that Steve “abandoned” the avengers when they needed him most is absurd. His job was to prevent and protect NOT rebuild society. In infinity wars, he fathered the avengers. When the snap happened, he stayed and fought whatever threats popped up, but also ran a support group. Steve stuck through the worst of it. Steve didn’t give up on anyone despite being mentally exhausted. He unselfishly supported humanity as much as he could during that time.
Most of these criticisms ignore that Steve was always sacrificing and living for others. He was always a soldier first. And part of the reason he was so dedicated was because he couldn’t move on.
Many of these criticisms are so spiteful and most of them aren’t even because these fans care about Steve. They care about a found family that doesn’t exist. They care about a ship or ships that are now sunk. Some are upset that Steve lived and Tony died. But, many of them aren’t actually about Steve.
Nat doesn’t get shit for being willing to run away to be with Bruce in age of ultron. Tony doesn’t get shit for abandoning the avengers for five years because they “didn’t listen to him.” Others are allowed to make selfish decisions and put themselves first, but when Steve does it “what about found family??? What about the avengers???”
Almost everyone gets to live their lives MINUS Steve. Clint retired. Tony considered retiring before civil war. Like, minus going to the past and staying there, almost every criticism thrown at Steve can be found in another avenger who received little to no criticism in comparison.
Lastly, I’d also argue that Steve’s selfishness IS a sign of growth. People are allowed to be selfish at times. People are allowed to put themselves first.
At the time, it was important for Steve to move on because he couldn’t change the past. He had to live in the here and now.
But, then an opportunity was presented to him.
“I can go back.”
Steve living in the present was coping. He barely lived his life for himself.
People don’t have to like the ending and the time travel stuff doesn’t make sense from any perspective, but most of these angry takes aren’t about Steve at all.
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A Step Through Time Ch 5: Promises
Synopsis:
The one where Felix is done with his younger self being a stubborn asshole and Sophie is determined to treat her fathers equally.
OR
In which Felix confronts his younger self and have a much needed chat while Sophie, who really should never be left alone, makes a not-so-great choice. Pairing: Sylvix
Chapter Index
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5
If you had asked Ingrid a month ago if Felix would ever willingly allow someone, anyone, to touch him in even the most casual of ways, she would have laughed first, then immediately sent for Manuela because no one in their right mind would ever think such a thing.
So understandably, to say Ingrid is extremely shocked as she watches the older versions of Felix and Sylvain interact with each other is the understatement of the century.
“They’re disgustingly adorable in their own way,” Dorothea snickers from her seat on the dining hall bench beside her. “I don’t know whether I want to coo or puke.”
Ingrid wholeheartedly agrees.
Clearly fatherhood and marriage, or maybe it was being married to Sylvain of all people, has changed Felix – has made him more… domestic. The Felix and Sylvain of her timeline are already joined at the hip, regardless of how much they deny it, but married Felix and Sylvain are in a league of their own.
Everywhere Felix goes, Sylvain is always there beside him with the shorter man’s battle scarred hand tucked neatly into the crook of his right elbow, his left hand gently securing Felix’s own while also proudly showing off the glittery silver ring adoring his ring finger (his engagement ring, Ingrid reminds herself, as Sylvain had made very clear when he decided that the dining hall was a perfect place to scandalize the entire army with a borderline inappropriate kiss). And if little Sophie is with them, it is like an invisible thread ties them together, ensuring that he is standing no further than a hairs breadth apart from his husband with his daughter in his arms, or placing a hand on Felix’s lower back while he carries their little spitfire.
“I know that couples inevitably begin to adopt some of their partner’s characteristics and habits, but this is almost too much.” Ingrid frowns, finally bringing her forkful of food to her mouth after being frozen in place as she blatantly stares at the happy family. “It’s like Felix isn’t even Felix anymore.”
Across from her, Annette hums her assent. “It’s a bit unsettling, but it’s still really nice to see how happy they are. If you ask me, the really creepy thing is Sylvain’s stare. Have you seen it, yet? It’s like an exact copy of Felix.” Bits of buttery crust go flying from her fork as she waves it around to emphasize her point leaving Mercedes to pull out a handkerchief and mop up the stray crumbs that have found their way onto their once pristine table.
It’s true. Although Ingrid has not been on the receiving end of Felix’s (or Sylvain’s now, for that matter) deadpan glare for a long time, she has seen it directed at others – especially when it comes to anything regarding Sophie who is, clearly, extremely doted upon by her two fathers, even while they try to cajole her into finishing the rest of her vegetables.
“Sweetheart, you know you have to finish your meal first before you get your dessert.” Sylvain’s tone is low and chiding, but the softness of his expression very nearly undermines the authority of his words.
“I don’t wanna,” comes the sad whimper complete with puppy eyes and a wobbling lower lip. “It tastes yucky.”
“Aww, cut her some slack, guys!” Whatever else Balthus is about to say from across the table next to theirs is immediately swallowed back down when not only Felix, but Sylvain as well, levels him with a look so equally unamused that even Ingrid can feel the shiver run down her spine.
“Sophia Gabriella Fraldarius-Gautier. You know you cannot leave your seat until you’ve finished your plate.” Felix says, more stern than his husband sitting on the other side of Sophie, but still bordering the line of fond exasperation. With a grimace himself, Felix spears a few of the sprouts on his own fork and shovels them into his mouth.
“Papa is also eating them too, see? You can be a good girl and finish your food too, right, Princess?” Sylvain smiles affectionately but his voice is strained. It’s been the better part of an hour now that he has tried bargaining with his daughter and even the most patient of fathers has a limit. His eyes meets Felix’s briefly as an unspoken message flits between them before Felix nods stiffly and chimes in again.
“If you promise to be good and finish your vegetables for the rest of this month, we will think about letting you go see the market that is passing through town.”
Clearly, it is an effective bait and Sophie’s eyes light up like it’s Yule and her birthday all rolled into one.
“Really?!”
This is news to Ingrid. The last time Annette and Mercedes had mentioned it in passing to future Felix and Sylvain, testing the waters to see if they would be amenable to allowing them to take Sophie, it had resulted in a resounding ‘no’ and one teary child.
“This is war, Annie.” Felix had said in a no nonsense tone after a sniffling Sophia had been carted off to check out the pastries fresh from the kitchen. “She has only known a time of peace. Sophie doesn’t understand how dangerous it can be going out somewhere even as simple as a market in times of unrest.”
“But it’s not like we’d let her go by herself!” Annette argued. “We would be with her the whole time!”
“It’s not your babysitting skills that we’re worried about, Annie.” Sylvain said. His lips quirked upwards in a small smile that did little to lessen the gravity of his expression. “Sophie has a tendency to be ah, a bit of a curious child.”
Felix snorted. “Like someone I know,” he muttered under his breath.
“And so,” Sylvain continued, completely ignoring the barb from his husband even though he knows that later on in the privacy of their own room, he’ll get into how the curiosity may have come from him, but the utter fearlessness and stubborn will to do her own thing one hundred percent came from Felix. “Sophie has a bad habit of wandering off. Goddess knows she’s done it loads of times whenever Felix or I take her down to our local market. The only difference is that everyone there knows who she is and at the end of the day, nothing bad ever happens to her and she comes home with a treat or two and a pat on the head.”
“Well then, we can just hold her hand!” Mercedes says like it is the simplest solution in the world.
“We’ve tried that. We’ve tried literally everything under the sun short of actually tying her to us physically with a rope.”
“But what about-“
“No means no, Annette. We will not argue with you about this. It’s not safe.”
“But Feeelix-!”
And that was the end of that conversation. At least, until now.
But then again, Felix willingly reopening a topic he had previously considered closed is probably one of the lesser odd things that have been happening recently.
“Nuh uh, little missy. All your vegetables means all of them.” Sylvain scrapes the larger bits and pieces of vegetables dotting Sophie’s plate to the center, much to her dismay. The scraps amount to a decent pile of greens and not for the first time, Ingrid realizes just how wily and intelligent Sophie really is.
Raising a daughter with the will of Felix and the looks and intelligence of Sylvain will surely be a trial in itself, but that’s not a problem for Ingrid to worry about. Right now, she just has to worry about making herself scarce when Sylvain and Felix approach Mercie and Annie before she gets dragged into it as well.
----
“Why can’t Daddy come with us?” Sophie asks. Her eyes are wide and sad and Felix will never get used to how it makes his heart wrench. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Sylvain crouches so that he’s eye level with his teary daughter. “Daddy has to go to an important meeting with Uncle Dima, Uncle Claude, and Auntie By. But I’ll come find you and Papa if we finish early.” Sylvain smooths back the unruly crimson curls that are already starting to come out of the half updo that Felix had put in this morning. After years of doing his daughter’s hair, Felix has resigned himself to always fixing it halfway through the day lest it becomes a true bird’s nest at night after the wild adventures to be had.
“Promise?” Her lower lip is wobbling and Felix is starting to think that perhaps Sophie is a lot more aware of her influence on others than they think she is.
“I promise, sweetheart.” Sylvain smiles at his daughter before turning his eyes to Felix, a mischievous glint shining through. “Your Papa can vouch that I never break a promise.”
The wink Sylvain throws at him is met with an eyeroll and scoff, but Felix cannot stop the small quirk of his lips. Sylvain has always come through with his promises, both to him and to their daughter. It’s one of the things that Felix loves so dearly about Sylvain after all – there is nothing in the world that he values more than the trust of his family and friends.
“Sophie, go check to make sure you’ve packed your coin purse and a snack. I need to speak with your father for a bit. I’ll meet you at the gates with Auntie Annie and Mercie, okay?”
Sophie doesn’t need to be told twice. She is already vibrating off the walls, eager to get going and visit the market that she has been dying to see. “Yes, Papa. Daddy, I hope you come soon! I’ll buy you a present, so make sure you hurry, okay?”
Felix and Sylvain both watch as their daughter scurries away, red hair flying behind her as she weaves through the mid morning crowd to join Annette and Mercedes standing at the foot of the stairs leading to the Entrance Hall. When she arrives with a hop and skip, Felix finally feels the knot that has been building in chest since that morning abate slightly.
“Hey.”
Felix jolts at the warm hand that cups his elbow. “It’s okay, Fe. She’ll be safe with you. We’re not going to lose her.”
“I know.” Felix huffs, taking a step forward so he can rest his forehead in the dip of Sylvain’s collar. “It’s just... I can’t help but worry.”
Sylvain chuckles, “I get it, Fe. She’s certainly got enough mischief in her to always keep us on our toes. I don’t think she’ll ever grow out of it, to be honest. Goddess knows I dread the day when I’m going to have to beat back suitors and stop her from sneaking out to gallivant with stable boys.”
“There will be no gallivanting with anyone. Period. I would prefer not to stab someone less than half my age.”
“Oh, but baby you look so hot when you’re all riled up and murderous.” The shiver that runs down Felix’s spine is undeniable and after a lifetime together, Sylvain would know the effect he has on his husband even if it weren’t for the hand sliding to wrap around his waist and the other reaching up to cup a smooth, pale cheek.
“Fuck you.” There’s no venom behind his words. Only the breathy whisper of comfort borne from unshakeable trust and love.
“Gladly, but alas I have a meeting to get to.” The red head lets out a full belly laugh and ignores the half-hearted smack from Felix (which still smarts, because Felix at half strength is still stupidly strong with his damn training regimen). “Are you going to talk to your younger self today?”
The atmosphere takes on a decidedly more sombre note, but it’s a necessary topic.
Felix nods. “Yeah. Annie convinced him to come with us to the market to check out the blacksmith.”
“I’m sorry I can’t come. It would be easier if I were the one to talk to him, but…”
“It’s fine,” Felix shakes his head. “The next battle at Fort Merceus is important and you were a big part of the strategizing. You need to be there to make sure they make the right decisions.”
“Even still. Talking to your younger self about feelings is going to be like pulling teeth. I should know. I’m your very own Felix-whisperer after all.” Sylvain closes his eyes and lets his forehead drop to rest against Felix’s; his soft breath tickling the midnight bangs framing his husband’s visage. “Our younger selves need all the help they can get. Sothis… I don’t remember us being such a disaster.”
“Neither do I, and yet here we are stuck trying to convince our younger counterparts that the other is very much interested.”
“For the record,” Sylvain smirks. The hand that was previously wrapped around Felix’s waist is now slowly drifting lower. “I’d like to say that I’m still very much interested.”
“Pinch my ass in public and you’ll lose your hand.”
“Aw, Fe. You’re no fun!”
It’s the twitch of Felix’s cheek that betrays his amusement. “Tch. Insatiable.”
----
Awkward.
That’s the only way that Felix can even begin to describe the odd, tense energy that weighs down their group as they walk leisurely down the long winding roads descending from Garreg Mach.
To be fair, most of the awkwardness is in part due to Felix’s refusal to speak to his younger self, instead choosing to contentedly watch Sophie hop and skip around the flowers dotting their path. Ever since Sylvain’s decision to completely disregard time travel etiquette, the younger Felix had made himself scarce, pointedly avoiding him and his husband as if afraid that he would catch feelings simply by being around them.
Ha. That fucker was already head over heels in love no matter how much he denied it.
“Sophie, when we get to the market, will you go with Annie and Mercie while I visit the blacksmith please?” Felix says it quiet enough that it sounds like it is a private conversation, but in the silence of the forest around them, it easily carries.
Sophie blinks, confused, but acquiesces. “Okay.”
Felix smiles and pats her head. He can practically feel the suspicion and irritation rolling off his younger self in waves, but he can’t really bring himself to care.
He needs to address this issue now because Felix knows better than anyone else just how obstinate he can be, and if he’s right, there’s a very good chance that this younger version of himself will take his feeling for Sylvain with him to the grave out of pure stubbornness.
So when they finally arrive to the market, Felix doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he wants to talk to his counterpart – alone. He kneels and gives Sophie a quick hug after he makes her promise again to not wander off by herself before standing off to the side in the direction of the blacksmith, his arms crossed and waiting patiently while he watches young Felix scowl at the sheer number of people around.
A brusque nod from young Felix and suddenly they are face to face, and there is no denying the discomfort starting to roil in his gut.
Maybe he should have waited for Sylvain to talk to him after all.
“Well? Spit it out.” Despite asking Felix to talk, his younger self pushes past him roughly and begins stalking towards their destination.
“Stop being so stubborn.” Young Felix whirls around at him with a look of incredulity.
“Being ‘stubborn’?” He glowers. “I’m not being stubborn. I’m not being anything except for a pawn of fate apparently because my whole damn future has already been decided for me!”
Ah. So that is the core of the problem. “Your future hasn’t been decided. That’s the whole point of me being here – so that we can make sure that things do happen as they originally went.”
“Oh, so I’m just supposed to accept the fact that my life becomes sickeningly domestic –“ he all but spits the word out like poison, “- and I’m trapped in a life that I never wanted?”
Felix narrows his eyes. “So you’re saying you don’t want this life? You don’t want peace for Fodlan? You don’t want to actually feel happy for the first time your goddamn life since Glenn died?”
“Who the fuck are you to say whether I’m happy or not? I’m happy when I have a blade in my hand, not when I’m being carted around like a… like a stupid trophy wife!”
“First of all,” Felix is proud of how level his voice comes out despite his urge to throttle the man in front of him, “I’m you, so of course I know what you want. I lived that life already.”
He pauses for a bit and then decides to go for a different angle – one that he knows has always worked with him when Sylvain tries to talk him down from stabbing some of the more pompous nobles during trade talks.
He takes a deep breath to ground himself. “But you’re still you. I can’t say I know exactly what you’re feeling, but I can imagine because at the core of everything, I know what I used to be like back then. And I also know that no matter what timeline I exist in, there will always be one thing that remains constant.”
It’s true. There is one truth that Felix knows will span the test of time and space no matter what version of himself he is dealing with.
“…Are you ever going to tell me what it is?” Young Felix mutters angrily, breaking their brief standstill.
Marriage really has made him soft, Felix thinks as he feels the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile. He can practically hear Sylvain in his head telling him about how he probably has his ‘dopey love face’ on right now and his eyes are all ‘melted amber’. What a sentimental fool.
“I think you know.”
“Ugh,” Young Felix scowls and turns away to glare at the bucket of swords in front of the blacksmith’s stall. It’s an admission if Felix has ever heard one, and he knows that his younger self does know.
Despite what the majority of Fodlan thinks, Felix is quite capable at reading people’s emotions. He knows when people feel uncomfortable or when they might need a kind word, but for the most part, he just doesn’t care enough to coddle them because he knows it will only do them more harm than good. Which is exactly why he decides to jump straight to the truth.
“It’s okay to love him, you know.”
Young Felix freezes. The stiff set of his shoulders hunch up almost protectively and he stubbornly stays facing away from him.
“I know…” Felix swallows the lump in his throat, “I know that it’s hard to even think about letting anyone in after Glenn – how hard it is to trust someone enough and believe that they won’t just leave you like everyone else inevitably does.”
Felix touches the obsidian ring on his left hand. He spins it absently and the smooth slide of the black band against his hand grounds him.
“Mother… Glenn… and then Father…” Felix has long made his peace with his father’s death, but there is still the faintest of stings in his heart when he thinks about it. “They all left us. But Sylvain has always been there. He was there when Mother died. He stayed with us for weeks after Glenn died. And he never pitied or babied us when Father died. He was just there.”
It’s a bit hazy, most memories from the war blur together honestly, but Felix does remember the days after the battle at Gronder with crystal clarity – those few painful days after his father’s sacrifice. No matter how many times he told Sylvain to leave, no matter how he yelled at him or tried to chase him away, Sylvain stood by him, steadfast and most importantly, without judgement.
He simply let Felix be.
And that was exactly what he needed.
“He’s the biggest idiot in Fodlan, but you and I both know that Sylvain does everything in his power to care for his friends and family.” Felix says it like it like he’s stating the obvious. “He’s also irresponsible and completely reckless, and Goddess knows that moron wouldn’t sustain half of his injuries if he just trained more, but he does remember our promise. And he’s doing his best to keep it while also making sure we stay alive.”
Felix steps forward so that he’s now standing side by side with his younger self. From his peripheral vision, he can see the furrowed brow and tightly pursed lips that he knows only happens when he begrudgingly agrees.
“I know you don’t believe in a fated future. Honestly, neither do I. But if there’s one thing I can tell you for certain, it is that loving Sylvain, and being loved in return, is the best thing that will ever happen to you.” Felix allows the warmth in his chest to bloom. While that feeling may have scared him once upon a time, he’s learned to become fond of it because he knows that the only reason he can feel this way is because he has come so far and conquered all his demons along the way.
“You’re disgustingly sentimental.”
“Maybe so, but I can still kick your ass.”
Young Felix snorts, “maybe then I’d actually have a good spar for once that isn’t against the professor.”
Felix laughs quietly, the heavy weight on his chest lifting just as the tension eases out of Young Felix’s stance. The truth is out there, and at least his younger self isn’t denying things anymore, but ultimately it will be up to Young Felix to decide the path he wants to take.
Felix Fraldarius is many things, but most importantly he is not a coward, which is why despite not having verbally settled the matter with his younger self, he knows with absolute certainty that Young Felix will never turn away from Sylvain, especially not when he’s been given permission to chase that happiness that he’s longed for.
----
Sophie decides very quickly that the market is her new favourite place. Forget the kitchens and all their yummy baked treats, the marketplace has all that and more.
Everywhere she looks, there is something new to see. Stalls upon stalls are lined with various treasures and fancy looking things that no amount of tears would help escape the wrath of her fathers if, by some stroke of bad luck, she is unfortunate enough to break them.
“Auntie Mercie! Look, Balloons!”
Sophie tugs on the healer’s hands eagerly, careful not to let go and wander off though there is a tiny whisper in her heart that tempts her so. The large inflated animals sway merrily in the breeze, and with the hustle and bustle of the environment around them, it almost looks as if they are dancing with excitement.
“Oh, aren’t they adorable? Would you like one, Sophie?” Mercedes claps her hands together, looking just as delighted as Sophie feels and soon, the trio of females is making their way through the surprisingly large crowd that has gathered for this lively gathering as a reprieve from the war.
“The fox,” Sophie pulls on Mercedes’ hand even more urgently the closer they get. “I want the fox, please, Auntie Mercie!”
“What about the cat, Sophie? That’s one is pretty cute.” Annette giggles. The red headed mage ducks and peers left and right at the variety of floating animals attached to the belt of the balloon vendor. There is already a gaggle of children forming around the man as he hands ribbons off to parents in exchange for gold, and although Sophie feels like she might burst if she has to wait any longer, she knows to wait her turn for the man to address her.
“Hello there, young miss. And what can I get for you today?” When the man finally turns his kind face towards her, Sophie cannot tear her eyes away from her goal. “Perhaps a bird? Or maybe a puppy?”
Sophie’s voice comes out breathy and excited. Reaching a hand up, she points eagerly, “the fox please. Can I have the fox?”
“Of course! Why don’t you reach out your hand for me and I’ll tie it to your wrist?”
Obediently, Sophie sticks out her left arm and watches, enraptured as the white ribbon loops delicately around her wrist, loose enough that she can slip her hand out if she really wanted to, but tight enough that the balloon will not fly away. Reaching into the small coin purse attached to her hip, Sophie carefully counts out the appropriate amount and hands them over.
“Thank you!” Sophie calls out after the vendor as Annette and Mercedes begin leading her away from the throng. It’s much too crowded now, but the little Fraldarius-Gautier cannot help but feel comforted by her floating guardian. Papa did always say that her Daddy was ‘sly as a fox’ after all, and it feels like her father is there with her when she sees it.
“Do you think Daddy will like it?” Sophie mumbles shyly when they’ve walked far enough that the screams of delighted children are nothing more than a whisper in the distance.
“I’m sure Sylvain will love it!” Mercedes says sweetly. The healer looks at Sophie with a mixed expression, almost like she is trying to solve a puzzle that she can’t quite figure out, before Annette interrupts her with a gasp.
“Mercie, there’s the sweets vendor that we’ve been looking for!”
Sweets? Sweets are good. That sounds like something Sophie is definitely interested in.
“Come on,” Annette urges. She grabs Mercedes by the hand and by extension, also Sophie, who is clutching onto her other one, and she drags them with haste towards a brightly colored stall laden with pastries and sweet treats of all kinds.
The saccharine smell wafting from the baked goods makes Sophie’s mouth water, but her eyes dart from one flamboyantly decorated cupcake to another, helplessly unable to pick a favourite.
“Hey! I remember you two!” The friendly looking lady behind the counter smiles as they approach. “You ladies came by my stall the last time I was in town, didn’t you?”
Annette flushes and nods. “The sweets were so good, we just had to make a return visit and pick up some more!” Despite her embarrassment, she is already reaching out to grab a fluffy looking cream pastry that looks more like a cloud than anything else.
“I’m so glad you like them, miss. Business has slowed down recently because of the war. Not much extra money to go towards frivolous things like sweets anymore, you know?” Sophie frowns. War? What war? “Regular patrons like you are always appreciated.”
“Oh, and look at you, you sweet little thing,” Suddenly the attention is turned towards Sophie and any lingering confusion flies out the window. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Sophie!” With her fathers’ voices in the back of her head telling her to mind her manners, Sophie flashes her brightest smile and bobs gracefully into a quick curtsey. “It’s very nice to meet you. Your sweets look so yummy!”
“They’re the best in all of Fodlan, that’s for sure!” The kind looking lady proudly puffs her chest. “Have you ever tried some, little miss? Since it’s your first time, why don’t you go pick one and I’ll let you try it on the house.”
“Really?” Sophie’s eyes round with excitement. Daddy was right – being well mannered really does bring good things!
There are so many choices to choose from that it feels a little bit overwhelming, but eventually a beautiful deep red velvet cupcake topped with a mountain of chocolate frosting and a small candied cherry catches Sophie’s eye.
She likes cherries. She likes cupcakes. That’s two in one, isn’t it? It’s a perfect deal.
“Good choice, little miss. That’s our red velvet cupcake with black forest icing. It’s one of our more popular cakes; especially with the ladies.” The sweets lady holds out the cupcake to her and Sophie quickly lets go of Mercedes’ hand to receive it.
The monstrosity of a cupcake is so large that it takes Sophie both hands to hold it, taking great pains to not drop it nor smear any icing on her dress. She still remembers the scolding Papa had given her over the grass and mud stains in her dress a couple of weeks ago and is not eager to repeat that experience.
Above, her red fox sways gently to and fro, moving every time Sophie maneuvers her hands to nibble away at equal parts frosting and icing. She has long since tuned out from the conversation between the nice sweets lady and Mercedes and Annette, instead choosing to savor and enjoy her treat while it lasts.
Sophie is halfway done her cupcake when a raucous of children shrieking with delight steals her attention back in the direction of the balloon man. There, in the middle of a cluster of children stands a rather short and odd-looking man carting around a small trolley packed with stuffed animals, and at the very bottom, shoved against a dopey looking tiger and a rather ferocious lion is a black cat stuffy, complete with slitted golden eyes stitched painstakingly above some wiry whiskers and a kitten pout.
It’s the most wonderful stuffed kitty Sophie has ever seen. She has a present for Daddy, but what about Papa? Surely Papa would also like a gift – it’s only fair since Daddy gets one, right? Right. Her fathers had always taught her to treat everyone equally, and Sophie feels like that must include her family as well.
Annette and Mercedes are still engrossed in conversation with the Sweets Lady, but now their arms are full of bags laden with goodies they are no doubt brining back to the monastery. An itch like no other claws its way up Sophie’s chest and she really, really wants to ask for permission to go see the toy merchant, but she doesn’t want to interrupt what looks to be a very lively conversation.
One quick glance back makes the anxiousness double as the man begins to move towards an intersection across the courtyard from them. If he goes any further, he will turn the corner and Sophie will lose sight of him.
The gleeful squealing of laughter is getting farther and farther away now. She really should tell Mercedes and Annette where she is going, but she’s running out of time and Sophie will be absolutely heartbroken if her Papa is sad that he did not get a gift from her as well.
It will only be for a quick minute. She isn’t going very far. All she will do is go up to the merchant and buy the cat stuffy and return back to the sweets stall in no time at all.
Right?
.
.
.
In that split second, Sophie makes a decision.
She turns back towards the bustling market square and runs.
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I'm so sorry for the delay with this chapter! I wanted to post it during my xmas holidays but I got so caught up with other things (read: sleeping) that I didn't get any writing done at all. I hope you all enjoy the chapter. Thank you again for being so patient with me and reading up until now. Things are about to get rocky so I hope you're all prepared.
The SylVix PDA thing was actually inspired by art from @emilyliuwho on twitter. You can see the post here.
If you would like to be added to a tag list, please PM me!!
Tag list: @pato-social
#sylvix#felix x sylvain#sylvain x felix#sylvain jose gautier#felix hugo fraldarius#SOFT FELIX#domesticity#alternate universe#sophia gabriella fraldarius gautier#a step through time#popo writes#fire emblem#Fire Emblem Three Houses#fire emblem 3 houses#fanfiction#fire emblem fanfiction#ongoing fic
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Of The Standard Of Taste: Logan and Memes
Pairing: Ride or Die | Ellie x Logan Summary: Logan has a terrible taste in memes and Ellie wants to help him. (A very loose continuation of Communication Degree. But if you don’t want to read that, all you need to know is Ellie and Logan live together and Ellie has a Professor that she hates.) Word Count: 1,924 Warnings: None. Just the buffoonery that I come up with. This is terrible and self-indulgent because I just want some stupid domestic fluff for my two idiots. A/N: I feel like Logan’s relevant character flaw has to be that he’s probably not too knowledgeable with pop culture and memes (on the run most of his life, has no real need for it, etc) so...here you go. I also reread Hume’s “Of The Standard of Taste” just in case I get into a tussle with Philosophy nerds over my usage of the title (you can fight me but I’ll lose, I didn’t understand much). Also, please forgive me for my poor editing, I may be a millennial but I run on boomer batteries. Happy RoDAW everyone! @rodappreciationweek @troublemakerinspace ~*~
In the silent space of the Langston library, Ellie’s phone pings on her desk and her eyes flit to the device. The name on her screen immediately pulls a wide smile on her lips as she picks up the phone and checks to see what he has sent her. Once she sees the picture, her face falls and she immediately groans before she puts the phone back on her desk.
“Woah, bad news?”
Ellie turns to look at Brooke, her friend and partner for the paper they’re currently working on, before Ellie shakes her head with a small sigh.
“It’s Logan.”
Brooke furrows her eyebrows, squinting lightly at Ellie. “And that’s bad because…?”
Ellie sighs before she picks up her phone and hands it to Brooke. Brooke raises a curious eyebrow before she takes the phone and looks at the screen. Her face morphs into a string of emotions—shock, laughter, cringe—before it settles into pity. “The boy’s taste in memes are terrible.”
“It’s not his fault,” Ellie quickly defends, taking the phone back and staring at the picture that Logan sent her.
“It’s his first Pictagram account and he’s still figuring things out,” Ellie explains as she gives his picture a heart. “You know, developing his standard of taste.”
“From what? The 2010’s?” Brooke cackles as she takes Ellie’s phone, scrolling up their conversation before she bursts into muffled chuckles. “Look at your replies! ‘That’s great baby, it’s really funny’, you sound like his mom!”
Ellie scowls and snatches back her phone, putting it face down on the desk. “He’s trying okay? I think it’s sweet that he sends me memes he finds funny.”
“Uh huh, keep telling yourself that,” Brooke snickers before she rolls her eyes at the annoyed look on Ellie’s face. “El, just like…send him better memes. It’s not that hard.”
“I tried!” Ellie groans again, pushing her fingers to her temple as she stares at the wooden surface of the desk in dismay. “But memes nowadays need so much context! How will he understand when he’s still catching up on so much of pop culture—” Ellie pauses, an idea swirling in her mind. “Unless…”
“Unless what?” Brooke frowns, furrowing her eyebrows. She is scarily aware of Ellie’s face when she starts to plot. “Unless what El?”
“I have an idea,” Ellie declares, quickly gathering her things and dumping them into her backpack as she grabs her phone off of the table. “I’ll send you my part tonight, bye!”
Ellie quickly throws a wave goodbye at the confused looking Brooke as she heads back to the apartment before Logan arrives. Her mind already turning and plotting on how she’ll efficiently enact her plan.
~*~
Logan carefully balances the bag of groceries in one arm as he walks up the stairs, his eyes glued to his phone. He knows he should be more careful, Ellie has already chastised him about using his phone while walking up the stairs to their apartment, but he finds it difficult to pull his eyes away from the endless scroll of memes on his Pictagram feed. Many of which he’s already saved because he plans to send them to Ellie sometime tomorrow during his break.
Logan gives one last double tap of his phone screen to a particularly funny meme when he reaches the door of their apartment before he places his phone in his back pocket. He moves the grocery bag to his other arm before fishing out his keys and inserting it into the doorknob. He hasn’t even fully opened the door when he hears Ellie calling out his name from the living room. A smile pulls at his lips at the sound. Even if it’s been months, he still can’t shake the feeling of utter content at the reality of her waiting for him in their apartment. A scenario he’s only ever imagined in his most indulgent dreams.
“Just a sec trouble. I’m taking off my shoes,” He calls out toeing his sneakers off and kicking it to the side before he walks to the living room with a wide grin. Ellie excitedly greets him with a hug and he easily returns it with a one arm hug.
“Welcome back,” She greets, leaning up to kiss his cheek before she takes the grocery bag in his arm and whisks it away to the small kitchenette in their apartment.
Logan follows behind her, the wide grin still present on his face, as he leans on the refrigerator. He silently watches her place the bag on the counter, start to pull out the groceries and flit by cabinets and shelves to put away the cans and bottles. His heart feels full and sated, the picture of her seeming to bring about emotions that’s both strange and welcomed. Strange in a way that he never thought that this could be his life and welcomed in way that he’s grateful that this is his life.
Ellie pulls out the carton of milk and turns to him, grinning in amusement at the soft and warm look so prominent on his face. An expression she’s seen on him a multitude of times in the time they’ve started living together. She quickly shoos him away from the refrigerator door and Logan merely chuckles as he moves away, placing a passing kiss to her temple before he makes his way to the living room.
His eyes immediately latch on to the papers and books scattered on the coffee table (not an unusual sight) as her laptop lay on the center of the couch. He gently pushes the laptop to the side, careful not to accidentally move anything from its original place as he drops down on the couch and pulls out his phone.
“Are you making another report for Professor Hardass, El?” Logan calls out, absentmindedly scrolling through his Pictagram feed.
“Huh? Oh…no. Actually,” Ellie answers back before she walks back into the living room. She grabs her laptop, balancing it on one hand, as she scrolls up and starts the presentation. “It’s for you.”
Logan pauses before he looks up at her in confusion, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Me?”
“Yes,” Ellie plops down next to him and sets her laptop on his lap, angling the screen to him as the title ‘Important Points in the History of Pop Culture and its Relevance on Memes’ flashes in big black text and stares back at him.
Logan blinks once, twice. His brain frying as he tries to decipher what she just presented him. “I don’t understand Ellie.”
Ellie nods, expecting this reaction before she clears her throat. Her voice takes on the tone she always uses when she presents her reports as she starts the plan that she has been preparing for since she arrived in the apartment three hours ago.
“You see Logan, I love you and I care about you a lot—”
“—this sounds like a break up speech.”
“And,” Ellie emphasizes with a grin, lightly hitting his arm as he looks back at her with a teasing smile. “And I want you to get a better sense of what memes are popular and funny right now.”
Logan opens his mouth, closes it and frowns. Finally picking up what she’s hinting on. “The memes I send you aren’t funny?”
“Oh baby they are,” She leans forward, placing gentle hand on his arm as she tries to keep her voice loving and sympathetic when she delivers the devastating truth. “But like…funny if its ten years ago.”
Logan blinks, pausing for a moment, before a burst of laughter escapes him. Ellie frowns at his reaction and he shakes his head, turning away from her as he muffles his laughter behind his hand. He really didn’t mean to laugh. But the image of his girlfriend, the love of his life, hunkering down and taking a considerable amount of her time and day just to create a presentation to teach him about memes of all things creates a feeling inside him that he’s never felt before.
In his most vulnerable and loneliest nights, he went through a list of the most domestic and romantic what-ifs with her—already resigned that they would never be his reality—that ranged from the simple to the ridiculous but sitting down on the couch of their apartment learning about memes through a PowerPoint presentation from her was something that never crossed his mind.
But somehow, this is the one that hits him the hardest. This is the one that makes him imagine a life beyond their tiny apartment. A house, a dog, kids’ maybe…all of it. If it’s with Ellie Wheeler, he’s ready to want it all.
“Okay troublemaker,” He finally says, turning back to her with a wide grin. “Or should I call you professor now?”
“Behave,” She admonishes playfully before she scoots closer to him and lays her head on his shoulder. He easily wraps one arm around her waist, his hand settling on her hips as he leans his head on top of hers and waits patiently for her presentation.
Ellie immediately launches into her first slide and Logan listens intently, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing nonsense circles on her skin over her pajamas.
As the minutes pass, it leaves him in awe at how much effort and love has gone into this presentation just for him. There are pictures, gifs, and videos all for him and he’s willing to admit that his feed seems to pale in comparison. She goes through the resilience of SpongeBob memes and the “rickroll”, the diversity of Kermit the frog memes, and the brief and fleeting existence of Vine memes. And she laughs and cringes at the particularly older ones and he laughs and takes note at the particularly funny ones as the late afternoon slowly stretches into evening.
By the end of it, she’s cuddled up next to him, her laptop laying open on top of her books on the coffee table, as they both scroll through a better array of pages for him to follow on Pictagram to broaden and expand his taste of memes. They laugh, talk, and tease each other under the dim lights of their tiny apartment and Logan can’t help but feel the kind of warmth and happiness that settle and seep right down to his bones.
~*~
Brooke bursts out in laughter but quickly clamps her mouth shut to avoid disturbing the other students in the library. “I can’t believe you did that! You gotta give me the file!”
Ellie smiles in triumph, crossing her arms in front of her as she leans back on her chair. “Laugh all you want. If it worked then I’m the real winner here.”
Brooke shakes her head in amusement, looking at Ellie with a teasing look. “If? So you haven’t seen the results yet?”
Ellie opens her mouth, ready to reply, when right on cue her phone pings on the desk next to her books. She picks it up when she sees the flash of his name on the screen and she smiles. Her eyes land on the latest picture he’s sent her, her heart squeezing in an ache so powerful she clutches the phone to her chest as she falls forward on the desk with a helpless groan and a silly smile. Brooke sees her reaction and chuckles before she reaches out her hand.
“Give me, I wanna see too.”
Ellie hands the phone to her and Brooke’s eyes land on the picture and she grimaces.
“Now he’s just being cheesy,” Brooke comments dryly.
“He’s too good,” Ellie laments helplessly, lifting her head off of the table with a huge grin. “I made him too powerful.”
Brooke rolls her eyes as she hands Ellie her phone back. “Can we please just finish this paper today?”
“Fine, fine,” Ellie takes her phone back and quickly types out a message and finds a photo before she hits send. She places the phone back on the desk and goes back to working on her part of the paper with a smile she can’t seem to wipe away even if she tried.
#rodaw#rod#logan x mc#logan x ellie#i wont sit on my high horse and mock logan#because i too unironically loved these memes in the past#choices rod#my writing
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