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schmokschmok · 4 years ago

Text

omnia mutantur, nihil interit

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Georgie x Melanie

Characters: Georgie Barker, Melanie King, Jonathan Sims, Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Wordcount: 10.000

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - College/University

Romantic & Platonic Soulmates

Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Brief Jon/Georgie & Melanie/Sasha

Amicable Breakups

Trans Melanie King & Martin Blackwood

He/Him & They/Them Pronouns For Asexual, Nonbinary Royalty Jon Sims

Summary

Melanie is lucky, that's what everyone says. She's blessed because she's got the name of her soulmate etched into her skin. For her, the name is many things: a blessing, a curse, her Damocles' sword.

A "the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your skin"-au but with a twist, i guess.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056415

Complimentary Jon/Martin Fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395876

CN: Mild Internalised Homo- and Transmisia in #6 and #7, Food (mentioned in #9 and #10); Alcohol (mentioned in #10)

It’s rare for a person to have the name of their soulmate as their mark – or at least that’s what everyone says.

They congratulate her when they see the loopy script on her ankle, cooing at the roundness of the O and the little bow of the H and the wrongly weighed Ss. They see the tilt of the script and tell her, it must be an optimistic soul writing with the future in mind, looking forward to all the things the future could hold.

They tell . her she’s lucky, oh so lucky to know the name of the one she’s waiting for, that she doesn’t have to strain her ears every time she meets someone new for faint, trivial words like “hey, what’s your name” or “look out!”

They tell her she’s blessed for the simplicity of her soulmark – words written by her soulmate themselves instead of little marks she has to find on the body of her loved one, or a string tugging on her finger and connecting her to a heartbeat she may never see the face belonging to, or a countdown leaving her to grasp for straws in the middle of Trafalgar Square staring at thousands of faces and possibilities rushing away. She’s blessed for having two clues to find out the identity of the person who’ll love her the most. That she could be one of the forsaken that see everything their soulmate writes on their skin. That she could have been in pain when she’s away from her soulmate – bound to them by fate and chance.

No, she’s got a name, loopy and bubbly and inked into the skin underneath her left ankle.

“Jonathan Sims,” she whispers sometimes while brushing over the name with her thumb or the tips of her fingers, wondering what kind of person he will be. And she doesn’t know who he is, but she’s so young and the only thing she truly knows is that she will love him dearly.

She wears his name in pride, presents it like a trophy, wants everyone to know: She’s not afraid of bearing her soul right on her skin for everyone to see.

She shoves her feet into black, clunky boots and she begs her mother to buy them, because she needs them so much. Never, she thinks, blinking away the hotness and the burning behind her eyes, never again will she look at those cursed letters, at his name that she wanted to hear so desperately for the longest of times.

Until she found herself lying in bed next to Sasha like the thousands of times she did in the past. Until darkness ascended upon them, their faces illuminated only by the glow of the full moon. Until Sasha reached out, intertwining their fingers and whispering softly that she loves her; that she always has, that she always will. Until Sasha comes closer and closer and almost closes the gap between them – if it weren’t for Melanie closing it first.

“Jonathan Sims,” he says absentmindedly as if it weren’t the most important name for Melanie, a curse and blessing at the same time. He doesn’t even look her way, just scans the page for their assignment, underlining a few words in preparation.

She stares at him, takes in the sharp line of his mouth and the prominent cupid bow that should soften the hard look but really doesn’t. Her eyes roam his face, the long bridge of his nose that’s interrupted by a crook indicating he broke it in the past. She stares at his wide forehead and his thick eyebrows, at his long eyelashes and the brown half circle of his irises. His profile is composed of sharp angles and straight lines, his skin of a deep, dark brown, scattered with circular scars, his face framed with rich, brown wavy hair that came free at some point from the messy bun nestled on top of his head.

He’s not attractive, by any means, but she can easily see he’s got a presence and a certain kind of charm. He looks like a college professor on the wrong side of the classroom.

And it is his name on her ankle, hidden beneath layers of tights and soft socks and the thick material of her boots. And it is his name that sends a shiver down her spine and makes the hairs on her neck and arms stand up.

She stares and she stares and she stares and she stares – until he’s looking at her, too, brows furrowed and a look of annoyance on his face. And the only thing she can do is releasing a shaky breath and softly saying: “Oh no.”

His eyes widen a fraction and his hand shoots up to his clavicle on instinct. Then the expression on his face shifts into a scowl and a heavy coldness sinks into her stomach.

“The feeling is mutual,” he spits through gritted teeth, quickly scanning her face, finding something she can’t even name. Subsequently, he averts his eyes and shuffles through the papers in front of him. “I’d prefer to split the work evenly and propose a meeting a few weeks in to compare notes and draft a first outline for the presentation.” He clears his throat. “If you’re interested, we can exchange numbers for research related questions.” He eyes her. “And research related questions only.”

Her jaw’s locked and cracks worryingly when she opens her mouth violently to retort: “I’m not interested in anything other than our presentation, jerk.”

Maybe she’s imagining it, but her insult seems to loosen his shoulders just an inch and the scowl softens into a less sullen look.

This man, this crabby looking man, is her Damocles’ sword.

They’re sitting in the institute’s library, knees knocking into each other every once in a while, their table littered with notes and papers and books. The pen behind Melanie’s ear slips further down when she shakes her head vigorously.

“Did you spend even a minute thinking about that take?” She barks out an incredulous laugh. “Ovid was not ‘too self-absorbed’ and ‘incapable of eradicating his failures.’ Who are you? Seneca’s sycophant?”

“It’s a well-known fact that Ovid never surpassed his early stages. His texts had potential and even though they received the criticism needed to fix them, he was never capable of revising them and tapping the full potential,” Jon shoots right back, pulling multiple notes out of the mess on the table. “It isn’t only Seneca, you know that full well, Quintilian provides anecdotal evidence as well. His writing is shallow and superficial, and I should say it.” Melanie huffs agitated.

“What you should do is shut your cakehole and read some fucking books.” Melanie wrings her hands in frustration, before reaching over the myriads of notes and papers for a book that’s half-buried underneath two other books. “Is the only book you ever read about Ovid by Fränkel? Because that is some seriously prejudiced fuckwart and he should never have been allowed to write about Ovid in the first place. Otis’ work was published in the same fucking year, you could have read that instead.”

He bristles, reminding her of a peacock fanning out its tail feathers. Swallowing a triumphant laugh, she readies herself for the next round to come.

“I’ll have you informed that I read every single thing you forwarded to me, but I know they’re wrong.” He stares into her eyes, unwavering.

“That you’re wrong,” he clarifies. “You will never convince me that Ovid knew what he was doing.”

“We can’t do this presentation if you can’t admit that you’re wrong!” Her voice is probably too loud for the library, but Oliver doesn’t mind them as long as they’re alone and Professor Lukas is out of the building.

“Is there anything you’re ever right about? We don’t have to agree about the history of research to present it,” he argues because of course he does. They’re project partners for five weeks now and despite the fact that this is their first meeting vis a vis, he disagreed with practically every single thing she sent him over the past weeks. If she says Ovid’s Metamorphoses are a composite epos, he tells her it’s a collection of loosely connected stories. If she says Ovid’s been exiled for political reasons, he tells her Ovid’s probably never been exiled and it’s all a nice story he drafted to write his Tristia and that’s it.

“I know we don’t have to agree on anything,” she says and she’s about to raise her voice again to continue arguing, when a voice startles her, and she freezes up: “Jonathan Sims!”

Jon rolls with his eyes and says, without turning around: “I’m in the middle of something, Georgie, can you get back to me later?”

“Can you get back to me at all?” She plops down next to them on a chair and Melanie’s breath gets caught in her throat. She’s beautiful, but in a preppy hipster kind of way. Her hair falls in tight, natural curls over her shoulders almost onto her back and frames her round face. Underneath her wide nose glistens a golden, sun-shaped septum, accentuated by the deep red of her full lips. Both complimenting the warm undertone of her black skin. Despite the cold outside she’s only wearing a thick knitted cardigan over a white top with a floral pattern and a mustard yellow skirt. “I messaged you three times today and yet you refuse to answer me.” The colour of her nails and outfit are geared to each other and she lays her hand on his elbow to finally catch his full attention.

Jon looks up to her at last, ignoring her hand on the sleeve of his light brown button-down. In spite of his deadpan voice, the corners of his mouth curl upward into the smallest of smiles.

“If I would have wanted to answer you, Georgie, I would have done it. As you can see, I’m working on a project with Melanie right now.” Two pairs of brown eyes land on Melanie and she feels scrutinised all of a sudden. Georgie smiles at her, dimply and revealing the golden shine of a labial frenulum piercing resting against the top of her bunny like front teeth.

“Oh, you’re Melanie!” The way she says it is equally anxiety inducing and thrilling, like she wanted to meet Melanie, like they could be friends. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

And the only proper response that comes to her mind is: “Oh god, I am so sorry.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Georgie rushes to say, then she’s backpaddling again, correcting herself: “Well, maybe Jon wanted it to sound all bad, but I think you sound like a lovely person.” Jon scoffs but he doesn’t interject. They share a look Melanie can’t decipher.

And suddenly, Melanie grows aware of the way she looks today. She is a wall of black clothes and silver accessories and white skin contrasting the warmness of Georgie and Jon. Like an old-timey photograph next to a polished fall edition of the vogue.

Georgie and Jon make a beautiful couple. She’s chubby and soft where Jon is lean and sharp, she’s lively and welcoming where Jon is still and reserved. They balance each other and share these little smiles and glances of contentment. And Melanie is a washed-out copy of a copy of a newspaper picture of welcome to the black parade with the name of this man engraved into her very bones.

“I think, I need to go,” she forces the words to tumble over her lips. As she’s trying to gather her notes without stealing Jon’s or knocking something off the table, Georgie as much as sprawls herself over Jon’s lap and snatches her wrist mid-air and forces her to a halt.

“No, no, please,” Georgie pleads. Lowering her voice as if she didn’t want Jon to hear, she adds: “Don’t leave me alone with this guy, I have to listen to him go on about fungi for way too long. And I cannot take it anymore.”

“I feel kind of attacked,” Jon interjects and Georgie waves him off, right in front of his face, almost hitting his nose, and says: “Good.”

“You should go and get a coffee or tea with us,” Georgie turns to Melanie again and smiles, dimples violently digging into her cheeks. “You both seem tense, maybe we should go right now.”

“We don’t have the t–“ Jon doesn’t get much farther in his rejection, before Georgie interrupts him: “You don’t have a say in this, you owe me for ignoring me, Jon.” His mumbling could be interpreted as a fine and Georgie obviously decides to do so.

Melanie only stares at them, at Georgie mostly, clutching her paperwork to her chest and thinking that life’s unfair. That she’s condemned to have his name on her forever, while he has the most gorgeous woman as his girlfriend and no interest in her at all.

She shouldn’t agree and she knows that, it’s a simple fact of life that Georgie is a beautiful goddess and Melanie is a tiny lesbian who has no control over her lizard brain. She will crush on Georgie and it’s only a matter of time. If the past few minutes are any indication, she will crush so hard, the only pieces left of her will be scattered by the storm that’s already starting to brew.

“Yes,” she says in spite of everything she knows to be true, “That sounds lovely.”

The look Jon sends her expresses almost comically her previous thoughts. Ignoring his pained face, she shoots Georgie a loop-sided grin, the dreadful realisation of her fuck-up finally sinking in. Unbothered by both Jon and Melanie, Georgie sits back in her chair and clasps her hands in front of her chest, while saying: “Perfect, gather your stuff and off we go.”

Full of vim and vigour, she pushes herself out of her chair and stands up.

For a moment, Melanie can’t look away from her. She starts comparing herself to Georgie and if it weren’t for Sasha and that faithful night, she’d still think she only ever wants to be the beautiful women she sees when in reality she wants to be with them, with the picture she painted in her mind, so badly everything inside her aches.

melesbian: things i should have told you long ago – a complete list by melanie king

melesbian: i met my soulmate and he has the most beautiful girlfriend of all time

melesbian: that’s it. that’s the list.

sashaway: ghgfhlsd

sashaway: you made me keysmash, I hope you’re proud of yourself

sashaway: is that list really complete?

melesbian: no

sashaway: thought so

sashaway: what are you going to do about it?

melesbian: continue not talking to that pompous twat and silently pine after his girlfriend

sashaway: as much as I love your dramatics, I need more information to really get a grasp on that situation

melesbian: it’s not a good story. it’s not even a story

melesbian: i’m taking this class on greek and roman epic (for the credits tbh) and one jonathan sims is my project partner

melesbian: we worked in the library on our first draft today

melesbian: and suddenly

melesbian: a goddess ascended from mount olympus (to keep the theme) and plopped up right next to the guy that said in no uncertain terms that he’s not interested in talking to me at all

sashaway: oof harsh

sashaway: are you interested in talking to him?

melesbian: lol no

melesbian: i know it’s late but i’m in front of your door and … you could open up?

“We broke up,” she says matter-of-factly, she doesn’t sound too stressed about it, however. Georgie’s head lies in Melanie’s lap and she’s painting her long, almond shaped nails in a soft baby blue. Almost constantly, her hair moves due to the light breeze and tickles Melanie’s bare arm. But she doesn’t want to move because she’s quite comfortable and Georgie would probably move too, if she thought she’d inconvenience Melanie in any way.

Normally, she wouldn’t pry for more information because the only person she feels close enough to know how to deal with the aftermath is Sasha. But she’s curious and she thinks that there’s no reason in the world to dump Georgie Barker, so she probably left him and – even though Melanie doesn’t want to acknowledge it – Jon and her, they are somewhat friends and she doesn’t want him to feel too bad. (Only ever a little, as a treat.)

So, she shoots for nonchalant and distant interest, but misses the mark by far: “Why did you break up?” Georgie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We mutually agreed he’s an insufferable twat and I’m the burden of his very existence,” she replies, stretching her arm as far away and then pulling it as close as possible to inspect her painted nails. “We not so mutually agreed that he’s got a big, fat, massive crush on someone else.”

“Who could he have a crush on if you literally exist??”

Melanie didn’t mean to say that out loud, oh fucking hell, this is bad. This is real bad. She can’t have Georgie knowing about Melanie’s big, fat, massive crush on Georgie.

Georgie laughs.

“Oh, Melanie, you’re lovely. I always feel special talking to you,” she says as if it wouldn’t set Melanie on edge; as if it wouldn’t make her heart race in her chest, loudly pounding and pumping blood through her veins. She suddenly feels light-headed and dizzy. Georgie continues, nevertheless. “You know, he says it’s not a crush, it’s ‘active disdain’ but he didn’t listen to me at all when I tried to explain to him what ‘active’ in this context means.” She sighs. “It’s a bit pathetic, but that’s Jon for you. And I don’t think I’m one to talk because,” she makes a show of looking inconspicuously to the left and right, “maybe I’m projecting my own crush onto him.” She looks up at Melanie, tentatively. “But you can’t tell him that.”

“I would never,” Melanie rushes to say, not quite processing the fact that Georgie’s already infatuated with someone new. Someone who’s probably not Melanie, because Melanie is never that lucky. She inhales shakily. “So, you’re still amicable?”

For a moment, Georgie seems contemplating, a bit unsure almost. Then she says slowly: “I think so, yes. Jon’s my best friend, I would never forgive myself if I lost him over something as trivial as a breakup.” She shrugs dismissively. “How about you? Anyone caught your attention?” A heartbeat passes, Melanie freezing up like a deer in headlights. “Or are you aro? We’ve never talked about this, when I think about it now.”

“Not aro,” Melanie forces the words out through her teeth, trying to sound like she’s got still air in her lungs to speak. “I’m a lesbian, actually.”

She readies herself for Georgie to get weird and regret lying on Melanie like Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus on a divan. But instead, Georgie’s face lights up and she coos: “We could have talked about girls for months, Melanie, we could have truly lived that LGBT+ solidarity!” As if it’s an afterthought, she adds: “I’m bi. It’s pretty obvious because every time I leave a room, I announce that very fact to the whole room but somehow people think I’m just really enthusiastic about getting away.” She laughs, and that, paired with her trashy joke, lets Melanie lose a bit of the tension that coiled in her stomach.

She doesn’t say We’ve got three letters present then, because even though she’s got the most impressive crush of all times on Georgie and Georgie labelled herself bi just a few seconds ago, she’s not quite ready to open up that much. (Pride’s approaching fast and maybe in a few weeks she’ll be ready to brandish the trans flag, but for now she wants to feel proud of herself for saying I’m a lesbian out loud for the first time since she came out to her parents. She doesn’t get much opportunity to tell people she’s gay and the only ones outside of her family that know are Sasha and Tim – because they were the only ones important enough to tell.)

“Biii~ the way,” Georgie continues, showing off a smirk that would look like a smile on any other person, “you didn’t answer my question. Anyone caught your attention?”

Well, there’s this girl I really like but she’s been in a relationship with my soulmate until very recently. And I also thought she was straight as an arrow, so I didn’t really entertain the thought she could be interested in me in any kind of way, is what Melanie wants to say. (Well, not really wants to but perhaps should and definitely feels the need to.)

“There’s this girl I fancy,” is what she says instead. “Stunningly beautiful, breathtakingly kind.”

“Do I know her?” Georgie’s voice doesn’t change, not really, but it feels like there’s an edge to it that wasn’t previously present. Maybe it’s because of the softness of Melanie’s voice or the distant, unfocused look on her face that she always gets when she’s trying to not give in to the urge of fucking everything up – both unknown to Georgie until now, because, even if Melanie likes to think otherwise, they’re not that close.

“I don’t think, I know her, really,” she settles on. Because it’s true. And it stings. It stings to think that the gorgeous woman in her lap is just the ex-girlfriend of the guy she did a project with for one of her classes and whose name is part of her life for longer than she can remember – and that they hang out from time to time but that it’s more on a superficial level. Hell, she can’t even name the most basic things of Georgie’s life: Is she an only child? What’s her favourite colour? Is the skin of her hands as soft as it looks?

“That’s unfortunate,” Georgie replies softly, “maybe you should get to know her.” The tip of her finger suddenly boops Melanie’s nose, and she smiles encouragingly. The smell of nail polish lingers in the air. “And when you know her and still think she’s that nice, you should introduce her to me so I can make sure you’re not wasting your time.”

And Melanie thinks that maybe she should introduce Georgie to Sasha so Sasha can tell her that she should stop wasting her time.

However, for now she’s going to be a little selfish, so she holds up her hand in front of Georgie’s face and says: “Do you think blue would suit me?” Enthusiastically, Georgie sits up, sunshine reflecting on her septum, and her labial frenulum piercing exposed in a wide grin.

“This blue would suit you very well!” She reaches for Melanie’s hands and her nail polish bottle. “We’d match!! And it would distract me from the fact that my nail polish doesn’t match my outfit.”

“Why’d you paint them, then? The pink was nice,” Melanie asks and watches Georgie uncapping the bottle and getting to work on Melanie’s nails.

“Jon asked me to accompany him to an outing tonight and I wanted to wear a blue dress, so the pink had to go,” Georgie explains while finishing Melanie’s third finger. It looks so easy when Georgie paints nails – when Melanie does it, she always paints over the borders of her nails and on her cuticles, the polish ends up a bit uneven and streaky in places. But it suits her overall aesthetic, so she’s not too stressed about it. But this is different, isn’t it? It’s Georgie holding her hand like a precious object, like a restaurateur may hold a vase or plate while trying to glue the smallest of bits back together. It’s Georgie applying her own nail polish that’s the softest of blues instead of Melanie’s usual blackest of blacks. It’s Georgie being a considerate friend for Jon despite their recent breakup. It’s the domesticity of sitting on the grass in the middle of the Magnus’ University’s campus, ready to be seen by anyone that passes by. It’s Melanie not being disgusted by and anxious because of affection and touching and overall close proximity. – All in all, everything is too much. So, she stills.

“If you wanted, you could join us.” Georgie’s voice is timid, as if she’s testing the waters. And Melanie wants to say yes, because Georgie asked her and she wants to spend time with her, get to know her, but she also promised Sasha to meet up with her because they have to start planning Tim’s birthday. So, she says as much and adds: “I’m sorry. But next time I will come, I promise.”

“You can bring Sasha and Tim. I would love to get to know them,” Georgie says with a hint of disappointment and a spoonful excitement.

“Yeah,” Melanie says, “I think that would be nice.”

They fall silent after that and Melanie thinks she could get used to this. To learning all the little things about Georgie. And she begins now with the dry softness of her hands against her own rough palm.

Melanie inhales shakily, counts to ten, and exhales slowly. A hesitating hand reaches for her own, startling her and making her eyes snap up to land on Sasha’s smiling face.

“You okay?” Sasha’s voice is soft and only meant to be heard by Melanie. “It’s not too late to go, if you want to.” Just as Melanie opens her mouth to retort that she doesn’t actually want to go, because she wants to be here and enjoy this, a familiar voice calls her name. Before turning around to face Georgie, she gives Sasha a quick nod and forces something akin to a smile on her face.

“Finally! I was afraid we wouldn’t find you,” Georgie says, a little out of breath and through half a laugh. “It took a bit longer, but the boys are to blame, I reject all accusations that my make-up is at fault.” She looks gorgeous as ever; it’s the first time, Melanie has ever seen her with braids instead of her natural curls. She’s wearing a pink top and the mustard yellow high-waist skirt she wore the first time Melanie had met her. Her legs are clad in light blue overknee socks. Despite the pressing heat, she’s wearing a thin white cardigan.

Looped through her arm is Jon’s bare one. He looks highly stressed in his black button-up and his light grey skinny jeans which she – Melanie is sure of it – has seen on Georgie on the seldom occasion she wears trousers. White socks stick out of his lilac chucks.

“I thought you were bi.” The words escape her mouth like an accusation a second before her eyes fall on Martin who should be the first one to spot due to his height but tends to merge with the background because of the way he slumps into himself, shrinking a few inches to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. He’s in his usual floral-patterned button-up and khakis but someone has painted the rainbow flag on his freckled cheeks.

“I am,” Georgie answers light-heartedly, “but the colours of the pan flag are much nicer, don’t you think?” She lets go of Jon’s arm, at least doubling the anxiety apparent on his face in the process. She twirls and fans out her skirt, curtsying ironically, before looping her arm through Jon’s again.

A moment of silence falls over them, broken only by the chattering and cheering voices around them.

“This is Sasha,” Melanie almost yells, attempting to brush over the fact how uncomfortable she feels and with the thought in mind that introductions are long overdue. She holds up their intertwined hands and Sasha smiles into the round. Tim, whose existence Melanie has straight up forgotten until now, clears his throat behind her. Hastily, she points over her shoulder at the tall guy. “And this is Tim.”

He drops his elbows on her shoulders, leaning half-way over her and stage-whispering: “I want to be offended because you didn’t introduce us earlier, but I can see why you tried to keep your model friends all to yourself.”

A scowl on her face that could rival Jon’s best ones, she retorts: “If you don’t retreat in a peaceful manner, I will not shy away from shanking you.” Tim doesn’t take her seriously, which was to be suspected, and rests his chin on her head, laughing quietly.

“I love your subtle use of the flags,” Sasha says, gesturing widely at all three of them. She’s wearing shorts and an oversized shirt – that could also be one of Tim’s, Melanie’s not sure –, around her waist she’s tied a bi flag like a loop-sided dip hem skirt. “You definitely put more thought into it than Tim.” Her free hand points over her shoulder to Tim, who dramatically rips his arms away from Melanie’s shoulders and stands tall to his full height. Almost knocking his hand into a stranger, he spreads his arms out like wings and showcases the pan flag he made Sasha paint across his whole torso.

“I was never one for subtlety,” Tim admits like it’s a character trait he’s allowed to be proud of. As if he’s waiting for applause, his arms stay extended and he grins at Jon, Martin and Georgie.

“I tried to coax Jon into going shirtless with a giant ace of hearts painted on his chest, but due to unknown reasons he refused,” Georgie intersects, once again causing Jon’s scowl to deepen. He hisses at her: “There are no ‘unknown reasons’, Georgie!”

She ignores him and bulldozes on: “I think it has everything to do with his stunning good looks. If he’d show too much skin too many people would start swooning on the streets. We can’t have that.” She winks conspiringly at Melanie.

Petulantly, Jon interjects: “If I didn’t wear a shirt, where would I have put my pin?”

Only now Melanie notices a tiny pin shaped like two banners above each other on his breast pocket. A teal coloured pin reading he/him.

Georgie waves her hand dismissively at Jon, but it’s obvious that she’s doing it in a fond, loving way.

“It’s cute and you should really buy Martin a drink later as a thank you. However, you didn’t know Martin would gift nice pins to you, so it wasn’t an excuse when I proposed the idea to you back home,” she says with a shit-eating grin on her lips. “And you still have the bracelet, don’t you?” She points to the wrist of the arm she holds onto that pokes out of his pocket. A simple bracelet braided from teal coloured yarn. Then she cups her free hand around half of her mouth and she stage-whispers to Melanie, Sasha and Tim: “Martin made that as well. It’s really nice.”

They all coo appropriately, Martin’s blushing under the sudden attention.

“I wear one, too,” he pipes up unexpectantly and holds up his left arm, presenting a braided bracelet on his wrist. “It matches your socks.” And it’s true. Both his bracelet and Melanie’s overknee socks show the unmistakable colours of the trans flag. She smiles at him, genuinely and thankful. He didn’t have to do that and yet he did. Since their first-time meeting, they haven’t talked much to each other, but this little act of reassuring kindness makes her want to be better friends with him. He always looked like a nice bloke, but this … he didn’t have to do that. “If you want one, too, I– I could do that.”

“That would be really lovely,” she replies, while Sasha squeezes her hand reassuringly. And because Melanie can’t take all those eyes resting on them both, she turns to Jon: “Does that mean you got more than one?”

“Bracelets or pronouns?” He asks, irritation clear on his face. “Either way, the answer is yes.” He’s pulling his hand free from his pocket, showcasing a second pin shaped like the first one – only that this one reads they/them – and a differently braided bracelet. Both in salmon pink.

She makes a mental note to keep an eye on his wrist from now on

Being alone with Jon always feels weird, she thinks, fiddling with the strap of her bag. They’re proper friends now, she thinks, but they both now what’s written on their bodies, and it looms over them every time they talk.

This is the first time she’s in their room. Their roommate Gerry is out, and she sits on the open floor, propped up against Gerry’s bedframe. She’s met Gerry a total of two times and she digs his style, matching her all black aesthetic. But he’s a musician, never too far away from a guitar, and she never had the opportunity to hold a conversation with him. So, they greet each other, awkwardly aware of the other one’s presence and nothing more.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but why are you here?”

Jon’s voice is gruff and clearly irritated, but they’re not hostile which is more than Melanie could have hoped for. Even though they know each other for almost ten months now, she still can’t take the measure of them. If they think they’re friends. (The realisation that they could somehow not be on the same page makes her anxious, nausea washing over her.)

“Did Georgie tell you to add that to sound more approachable?” She’s deflecting and she knows it.

“Maybe, yeah.”

She didn’t think they would admit it. And that calms her a bit, because if they’d still hate her guts, they wouldn’t show the least bit of vulnerability.

“I came here,” she starts saying, pausing nervously. Then she shakes her head, lets go of her anxiety as much as she actively can. “I wanted to talk about Georgie.”

Sometimes it’s easy and people just know what’s going on because they just sense the vibe of the room or whatever, but Jon’s not one of those people. They try to pay mind to the people around them, or at least their friends, but social cues slip past them all of the time. She should have seen their questioning look coming, the way the little crease between their brows appears and their lips curl into half a pout. Slowly, they ask: “What about Georgie?”

“I want to ask her out,” she replies with as much bravado as she can muster. To be honest, she’s quite proud of herself. No quiver in her voice. No hesitation whatsoever.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” she clarifies hastily. “I only want to know if – you know, there are any– lingering feelings. For her.” She clears her throat. “We’re friends and– well, at least I think we’re friends, and I wouldn’t want to hurt you with my feelings.”

The thing is, she thought she’d get a straight and honest no, or a defensive no which really means yes. She didn’t think they’d look that … caught off guard. Like it’s complete fucking news to them that she could be interested in Georgie, or like it’s absolutely ridiculous that anyone could think Jonathan Sims could be hung up on a goddess. Or maybe, just maybe, they really are crushing on someone that’s not Georgie. Like they didn’t expect the conversation to go that way and they didn’t prepare an answer that would satisfy them in the long run.

“I–,” they stop talking, obviously restraining their hands from wringing the hem of their button-up. She catches once again the salmon-pink bracelet on their wrist. “I don’t harbour any romantic feelings for Georgie.”

It would feel more natural, if Jon averted their eyes, but they’re staring at Melanie. Trying to assess Melanie and her reaction, categorising every movement and word into the messy drawers of their mind.

“Okay,” Melanie says. “That’s good.” Her eyes flicker away from Jon’s face. Only for a moment. “For you. Because you’re not together anymore.” The sound that comes out of her throat is akin to a laugh or maybe a scoff. “And, well, for me? You know, with the whole date thing I’m trying to do.”

They look at each other for a moment. Outside of the room a door closes noisily and startles them out of their silence. Jon clears their throat and asks: “Am I obliged to share a personal information about my romantic life as well?”

“I mean, if you want to?”

“Georgie says it’s customary to,” their face scrunches up in something resembling disdain, “’trade’ that kind of information. So, if you’d like to know about my romantic endeavours, I would provide you the appropriate amount of ‘gen’.”

And this is the last straw. Hearing Jonathan Sims saying ‘gen’ like they’re chewing on the stickiest of caramel candies, is so unbelievably funny. So, she laughs. Between bursts of laughter, she tries to explain herself, but every time she stifles it enough to get half a word out, she gets a blurry look of their face and starts over again.

“I don’t get what’s so funny to you,” they state, piqued.

“What comes next?” Despite trying to slow her breath, she’s more gasping than asking. “You’re gonna dish on Georgie and Martin, all fax, no printer? You’re gonna spill the tea and throw some shade?”

Melanie wipes a stray tear from her cheek and the wetness from the corners of her eyes. She inhales and exhales deeply, multiple times. Then she draws another breath for good measure and says: “You don��t have to share anything with me, if you’re not comfortable. I didn’t come here to dig up some dirt on you. If you want to share, I’ll listen, or whatever, but I won’t, like, actively ask you about this sort of stuff.”

“I think, it would be,” they pause briefly, “good.” And yet, they don’t continue. She makes a prompting gesture with her hand. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that I take a fancy in someone. However, I find myself in the predicament of slowly acquiring a liking for … someone.”

“You want to share the name of that someone?” She’s not sure if they need to. When she thinks of it, she isn’t even sure if they know anybody else than herself, Georgie and – Martin. (To an extent they know Sasha, Tim, Basira and Daisy. And that’s it. She doesn’t take them for one who develops feelings for someone they barely know.)

“I don’t think I have to do that,” they reply, sourly. Apparently, they did the same equation as her.

“No, maybe not.” She shrugs. “But if you ever feel the need to say it out loud – you know, not just in front of your mirror but rather a real-life person – I’m here.”

They smile. They definitely smile, even if it’s just the slightest of upward movements of the corner of their lips. And it makes her smile, too.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” they say, softly.

In the end, Melanie doesn’t get around to ask Georgie for a date. She wants to, really, she plans on doing it on this very day. But then she chickens out. Embarrassingly, so.

They went out for ice cream, Georgie in her cute summer sandals, Melanie in the clunky, black boots she’s wearing since she’s sixteen. They must make a weird couple, Georgie all cosmopolitan extravaganza and Melanie every MCR album cover incarnated.

Now, they’re sitting on the couch in Melanie’s shared flat. Georgie’s legs dangle off the armrest and her head lays in Melanie’s lap, once again.

“It must be nice to live in a whole flat,” Georgie says, her eyes closed and sighing contently. “You can throw a party, if your flat mates are up to it.”

“I’m not up for parties,” Melanie replies. “Annabelle and Jude aren’t either, thank god.”

Georgie cracks open one of her eyes and scans Melanie’s face. She catches Melanie’s gaze and brings every thought in Melanie’s mind to a halt. The only thing she can now concentrate on is Georgie’s soft looking cupid’s bow, and the desire to kiss her right there, and on the corners of her mouth, and the place on her cheek where Melanie knows appears a dimple whenever she smiles, and the line of her jaw. Melanie wants to kiss her forehead, along the edges of her brows, down her temples, and right next to her ears.

Sometimes it’s hard to sit next to Georgie and keep her distance. Everything about Georgie draws her near, pulls her in, makes her want to scream from the top of her lungs and remain silent at the same time. There’s a bowl filled with a burning hot liquid inside her, and every moment with Georgie is about balancing it out, preventing it from spilling.

“Would you go to a party with me?” While asking, Georgie opens her other eye and her gaze on Melanie grows even more intense.

“Is there a party?” Buying time seems reasonable, Melanie thinks.

“It’s a hypothetical party. And I hereby hypothetically invite you.” Georgie grins, lifting her chin a little. “Will you go with me to this hypothetical get together?”

“Well, if you ask me so nicely, I will hypothetically agree,” Melanie replies, smiling herself now. She can do this. She can totally ask Georgie for a date. (Her heart disagrees. But if her mind tells it Yes You Can Do It often enough, maybe it will become true.) “Maybe we should do that.” Close. “Go out.” Closer. “Together.” Yes, perfect. Nicely done, Melanie! “To a party.” Overshot.

“I would like that.” Her voice is oh so gentle and it’s as if Melanie had said go on a date with me, as if she hadn’t blown it completely. Georgie’s hand comes up, nude coloured nails brushing Melanie’s cheek. The tips of her fingers sink into Melanie’s hairline. “Your hair feels really nice.”

“Than– Thank you.” She can’t keep the stutter from the two words and it’s a bit embarrassing. She’s stuttering quite often, if she’s completely honest with herself. When she gets excited about her studies or about a paper on intersectional feminism or when she stumbles upon a really, really cute cat video. But never with her friends. It’s been ages since the last time she got so flustered she had to stammer and stumble over the words on her lips. “But it never looks as nice as yours.”

She can do this whole flirting thing, okay, she’s the fucking master of smooth comebacks. Once Georgie had said that Melanie’s coffee looked really nice and Melanie had answered ‘No, you’ like the absolute fucking court jester that she is. (She spends too much time with Martin, is the morale of the story.)

“If you ever decide to grow it out, I can braid it for you,” Georgie suggests, gently playing with the tips of Melanie’s hair. “I think you’d look nice with a small braid right here.” She traces a path above Melanie’s ear. “But I like your short hair, too. It suits you very well.”

Melanie doesn’t answer for a long, long moment. Then her hand finds its way towards Georgie’s face, hovering a good centimetre next to it, silently asking for permission. And Georgie’s grants it, comes even closer, letting her face be cupped by Melanie’s hand.

And with a sudden intensity, she feels the need to tell Georgie just how much she likes her. It’s gnawing at her, making her dizzy and uneasy. Her hand’s cradling the face of the woman she’s growing so fond of that sometimes the first thing she thinks of in the morning is shooting Georgie a little text wishing her a good morning.

Not being able to hold it back, the words spill from her mouth: “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Georgie’s mouth opens into a little surprised o, revealing just the tip of her labial frenulum piercing, shimmering in the warm shine of the coffee table light.

“I won’t do it if you don’t want me to,” Melanie rushes to say. “But if you’d like to, I would really, really like to kiss you right now.”

A heartbeat or two, then Georgie’s other hand shoots up, landing on the other side of Melanie’s face. She’s nodding vigorously now and grinning, eyes crinkling and full of zeal. She says: “Yes, okay, yeah, please do that. I would like that. Very much so. Right now would be good. Perfect actually.”

Before Georgie can spiral any further down the rambling vortex of her words, Melanie leans down and pulls her face up in the same movement. And she shuts Georgie up with the hard press of her lips. Her eyes flutter closed, and she can’t believe she’s really doing this. Kissing Georgie Barker on a humid night in July, sprawled on her couch, butterflies trying to escape from her torso.

This is good, this is nice, this is actually rather perfect.

Their mouths don’t fit right together with Georgie still lying on Melanie’s lap. She must be straining her neck somewhat awful to reach up to Melanie’s lips, and Melanie has to bend down awkwardly, and to be quite honest also a little bit dolorously, to actually keep the kiss going.

Melanie can taste the lipstick on Georgie’s mouth, feels it colouring her cupid’s bow. But she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind their uncomfortable position, the state of dishevelment they’ll both be in just a few minutes from now, and the fact that she wasn’t even smooth, asking Georgie for a kiss.

When they part, Georgie’s opening her eyes a tick after Melanie, and she uses it to really look at Georgie’s face. The perfectly shaped eyeliner, the warm colour of her subtle eyeshadow, the faintest traces of rouge on her cheeks, and the smudged lipstick.

“This is,” Georgie starts, finally sitting up without leaving Melanie’s lap. “I didn’t expect this when I came here.” She laughs softly, cupping Melanie’s face now with both of her hands; both resting just underneath Melanie’s jawline. “I’m not complaining, really, I thought about this for long enough. I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“What do you have to be surprised about?” Melanie tilts her head in confusion. “I am still in shock that you agreed to kiss me. I mean, I didn’t pressure you into doing that, did I?”

Georgie laughs.

“No,” she says. “No, you didn’t. I very much wanted to kiss you, thank you.”

“Are you thanking me for kissing you?”

Georgie tilts her head as well, contemplating Melanie’s words as if she hadn’t even realised, she had said them at all. Then she says: “I must have, yes. It was a rather nice kiss, so I think you deserve my gratitude.” She grins. “So, thank you, Melanie King, for the extreme pleasure of kissing you. And hopefully, I can extend this thank you indefinitely, because I very much intend on kissing you more.”

Melanie places a gentle kiss on Georgie’s nose and retorts: “You’re very welcome. And you can kiss me any time you want.” Their foreheads touch and Melanie lets out a shaky breath.

#10

It's rare for Melanie to get roped into things she doesn’t enjoy at all. That includes family functions, student mixers and getting dragged to the nearby lake for a swim.

Swimming, much like jogging, was invented by the devil and exists solely for the purpose of torturing Melanie.

Usually, she tells Sasha and Tim or Georgie to go without her. On seldom occasions, she packs a book and a beach towel and sprawls herself out in a safe, reasonable distance to the water.

Today, she thought she could make Georgie happy and actually wear a swimsuit. – She still wouldn’t go near the water, but she could at least pretend that there’s a chance she won’t stay dry. She didn’t, however, think about the fact that it’s scorching hot today even though they’re in the shadows, and that Georgie isn’t as gullible as necessary to believe her lie about going for a swim.

“Why don’t you put those away?” Georgie asks; this time, Melanie’s head lies in Georgie’s lap, so Georgie has to look down at her girlfriend while gesturing towards Melanie’s clunky boots. “It’s a thousand degrees and you’re wearing two pairs of socks in black boots.”

“I’m also wearing only a swimsuit and shorts and there’s a light breeze,” Melanie counters, tugging at the strap of her black swimsuit. “Regular people sweat. Goths, we simmer.”

Chuckling, Georgie interjects: “You’re not a goth, love.”

It’s been two whole weeks since their first kiss, but Melanie’s still not used to the little jolts of excitement and endearment she feels, every time Georgie calls her a term of affection. She’s just like that, calling Jon honey and Martin our kid and Melanie love or dear or bird. At times Melanie thinks about all the possible names Georgie could call her, and about all the petnames she could think about calling Georgie.

“Well, sweating is gross, so I don’t do it,” Melanie says, shaking off the warm feeling in her chest. It’s warm enough as it is. “If you’re so hot, maybe you should take off your cardigan.”

The hesitation in Georgie’s answer translates to the uncertainty Melanie feels herself: “We could do it together.” Melanie doesn’t say anything at first, contemplating. “Putting it all out there, you know.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Georgie adds hastily, brushing a stray wisp of hair out of her face. It’s the first time Melanie sees her in a bun and therefore the first time she can see Georgie’s ears, the lobes stretched and decorated with little plugs engraved and gilded with a sun very much like the one she’s wearing as a septum. “I just want you to know that you’re safe with us and that I don’t care.” Her gaze is unwavering. “About, like, your mark.”

For all intents and purpose Melanie doesn’t want to look away but she still does it. Takes a look at Sasha and Tim, kicking water at each other and laughing. They are, as far as Melanie’s concerned, a one in a million pair. Sasha’s shoulder adorns the same spiral pattern as Tim’s biceps, and they knew each other since Sasha’s father worked one of the shifts when Tim was born in the hospital. – It’s not romantic, they’re platonic soulmates and they always knew that about each other.

Then she’s looking over at Jon and Martin, sitting on the small landing stage, feet dangling into the water. She doesn’t have to see their marks to know what they are. Beneath Jon’s clavicle OH NO is written in neat small caps. It’s not a nice mark but Jon’s not a nice man, so it’s not far-fetched to imagine that she’s not the only one proclaiming these words upon talking to him for the first time. Martin, on the other hand, has a full sentence on his upper thigh: Just got drunk and walked in. Written in a sharp script, the L reaching as far down as the G and the capital J. Something’s rather familiar about the handwriting, but she seems to be the only one paying attention to the marks at all and she doesn’t want to attract notice to something with so much potential of going wrong.

Georgie and her, they are the only one still hiding their soulmarks. And in this moment, Melanie thinks that there is no reason anymore to keep it secret. If anyone would be okay with Jon’s name on Melanie’s body, it would be Georgie. He’s her best friend and maybe they’re as platonic as Sasha and Tim. Maybe he’ll be her best friend, too. In, like, a distant future.

“Okay,” she hears herself say. Maybe even more surprised than Georgie. “I think I can do that.”

She sits up, blinking against the dizziness and the black dots dancing in front of her eyes. After that she reaches forward, tugging at the laces of her boots. One by one gets pulled free of their confinement and it takes not nearly as much time as Melanie would like it to.

A shaky breath (she should stop doing that, it fucks with her whole bad girl attitude) and she’s pulling off one boot at a time. Out of the corner of her eyes she can see Georgie taking off her cardigan, so she undresses her feet completely, setting aside both pairs of socks.

“My feet are the whitest of white,” Melanie jokes to cover up her nerves. “I don’t remember the last time they have seen the sun. I’m going to get a sunburn.”

“I’ve got sunscreen,” Georgie answers gently, cupping Melanie’s upper arm with her hand. Her nails are painted in the blackest of blacks, Melanie’s one and only nail polish. (Well, that’s not quite true. She’s got two bottles of the same colour, one for her hands, one for her feet.)

Georgie’s gaze falls onto Melanie’s feet. Amazed, she coos: “You painted your nails!”

“I always paint my toenails,” Melanie admits. “I’m usually the only one who sees it, but I like knowing that they’re painted.”

She turns around and for a moment she thinks about sitting tailor-fashion, hiding her left ankle. She doesn’t do it, however. Pulling her legs close, she sits sideways on her hip, showcasing Jon’s name in all its loopy glory.

“May I–,“ Georgie cuts herself off, fiddling with the cardigan in her lap. “May I take a look?”

Melanie shrugs, thinks better of it and says: “Yeah, sure.”

Carefully, Melanie extends her left leg, stretching it out in front of Georgie, so that her ankle is next to Georgie’s knee. Georgie’s hand reaches out tentatively, the tip of her index finger stopping just shy of Melanie’s skin. And suddenly, she’s touching Melanie’s skin, brushing over the swirls and bows and the name that is not hers.

“This is unbelievably funny,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s funny. Melanie doesn’t think it’s funny. Her brows furrow and she’s this close to pulling her ankle away from Georgie’s touch. But it’s nice, is the thing. This is the first time in forever someone has touched her soulmark. Not even Melanie has consciously laid a finger on it in years.

Melanie’s silence following her statement must have tipped Georgie off that her choice of words maybe wasn’t the best because she startles and tries it again: “Sorry, that was rude. I mean.” This time she has the nerve to chuckle. “That’s not Jon’s handwriting.”

Surprise is not necessarily the best word to describe the thing that hits Melanie square in the stomach, sucker-punching the air from her lungs. Through gritted teeth and a tense jaw, she asks: “It’s not?” She needs the confirmation, needs Georgie to say it again.

But she doesn’t.

Instead she turns around, reaches for her purse and rifles through it until she finds what she’s looking for. A felt tip marker. She stops, however, hovering over Melanie’s ankle in a silent question. Melanie waves her hand dismissively, and Georgie apparently interprets it as affirmative. Then she proceeds, writing for a few seconds, maybe even half a minute. When she’s done, she lifts her head and caps the marker again, accidentally nudging Melanie’s foot with the back of her hand.

“You should take a look,” Georgie says, her voice with a nervous edge to it.

Melanie pulls her legs towards herself and scans her ankle that’s now covered in names in the same loopy script of her soulmark. The Ss of Sasha are as wrongly weighed as the ones in Sims, the bottom half much smaller than the top half. The Os in Stoker and Georgie have the same perfect roundness of the one in Jonathan. The Ks in Blackwood and Barker are written with the same bows as the H in Jonathan.

This is bizarre.

“Can– could you–,” Melanie huffs out a frustrated noise. “May I see yours, too?”

Slowly as if she’s trying not to scare Melanie away, she extends her right arm and Melanie can see the tiny handwriting in the crook of her arm. The tiny, tiny handwriting hat is unmistakably Melanie’s.

“You told me, you heard so much about me,” Melanie breathes. “You came into the library and went all soccer mom on Jon and then you said you heard so much about me.” She stares at the Oh god, I am so sorry engraved on Georgie’s skin. “And I thought: Oh shit, that guy is my soulmate and his girlfriend is the most beautiful being on this planet and he probably told her how much he hates me.”

“I didn’t think anything about it,” Georgie confesses with the softest of smiles. “I met so many people whose first words to me were an apology. Eventually, you start to, well, stop thinking about it.” She casts the marker away and leans forward, cupping Melanie’s hands with both of hers. “And Jon told me about your first encounter, so I didn’t think about it, like, twice.”

Melanie returns the slight pressure of Georgie’s hands and a smile blossoms on her face. She would have been okay with a platonic soul bond with Jon, really, she would have been. (Not at first because he’s a pompous twat and a squabbler, a know-it-all that rubs Melanie in all the wrong ways. But he grew on her like yeast on wet flour, and now she can easily picture herself sitting with him on the floor of her flat, eating ice cream drowned in scotch straight from the tub while decidedly not talking about their feelings or anything important at all.) But she doesn’t know if she would have been alright with Georgie falling out of love with her because of her soulmate. (It’s selfish, that’s what it is. Hoping against all hope that Georgie doesn’t meet her soulmate as long as they’re romantically involved.)

Now there is another bond between them, not necessarily romantic, but they were supposed to meet. Melanie’s allowed to fall as hard as she possibly can, because Georgie is the human the universe hand-picked just for her. The human that loves her the most. The human that she’s allowed to love back, unconditionally if she chooses so.

“I think, I’d like to get this tattooed,” Melanie croaks, averting her eyes.

“Don’t want to have Jon’s name on your ankle anymore?” There’s a chuckle in Georgie’s voice and a loving gentleness.

“I don’t think I mind it as much anymore,” Melanie answers. “But this is nice. Having the names of the people I love on me. Not just the clueless prat that led me to you.” She laughs. “And if they ask, I can still tell them it’s a list of my future enemies.”

They’re both chuckling now, and Melanie lifts their hands up, pressing soft kisses on the knuckles of Georgie’s hand. Warmth floods Melanie’s insides and she thinks that even if they ever were to break up, they can still remain friends. Jon and Sasha are a few feet away and they are living, breathing evidence that Georgie and Melanie can do this.

Something tender sits on the top of Melanie’s tongue and at first, she’s trying to swallow it back down, to not be that vulnerable so soon into their relationship, but then she shakes off the thought. Georgie seems to be honest with her feelings at all times, unafraid of showing her deepest inside, and Melanie doesn’t want to be a chicken about the only thing that truly matters. (Even though the weightiness of it is probably the reason why it’s so hard for her.)

“I really like you,” she ends up saying. The words like camomile on her tongue. What’s even better is Georgie smiling lovingly at her and replying; “I really like you, too.”

#the magnus archives #fanfiction #georgie barker x melanie king #spooky lesbians #what the girlfriends #wtgfs #tma #fanfic: mine #college au #schmok writes #10k fic #soulmate au #non-binary jon sims #trans melanie king #trans martin blackwood

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mars-the-4th-planet · 4 years ago

Text

Ivy Munger plays Project Libitina (creepy fic for Halloween for my friend, might be disturbing)

(part one of two)

The episode begins with Jukebox herself wrapped cozily in a blanket, which is how all the episodes should start. She was playing a mod for doki doki literature club called Doki Doki: New Horizons on her GBA. She had little else to do what with quarantine and all. Spookbox watched mischievously out the window, silently giggling and rubber her hands together. She slipped through the window and crept into the kitchen, somehow unheard by Jukebox who stayed focused on her game. Spookbox was visibly transparent to the audience the whole time, representing that she is invisible to the characters in TIMS. (the ivy munger show)

Just then, Trolli and Sakura comes strolling and trolling in. Sakura sits perched atop of Trolli's shoulders. Trolli leans over to look at Jukebox's GBA screen. Currently, Jukebox is making Natsuki Island. In the shape of a trans flag, because of the common Natsuki headcanon. Trolli sees it and chuckles. "Hehehehe, a rectangle island Jukebox? I haven't seen such creative talent since Sakura tied her shoes together. Without laces!"

"H-Hey... I told you, I didn't do it! There was an imposter and they sabotaged me!" protested Sakura helplessly. "Sure, Saki. But seriously, a plain rectangle for an island? I know you can do better than that Jukebox. Especially for Natsuki."

"It's in the shape of a trans flag for the trans natsuki headcanon! No need to tease me Trolli."

"Ahahahahaa, trans natsuki? I love trans rights as much as you do Jukebox, but natsuki has been proven many times to be cis." Trolli pointed out.

"Aren't trans flags just the same shape as-" Sakura began, but was cut off by YouTube personified marching in and throwing a throw pillow at Trolli. "DEMONITIZED! Slurs are not allowed on this platform."

Jukebox sighed and rested her head against her hand. Trolli shot back: "What, cis? Cis isn't a slur!" only to get another throw pillow thrown at him. "Okay, okay... I won't say it anymore, happy?"

"Can I just play my game please? Actually you know what I'm getting a snack. You all need to stop this bizarre drama before a fight breaks out in our comment section."

It was too late for that. Already an argument had begun between people saying "cis is a slur" and "cissy lives don't matter" but that wasn't the main problem Jukebox would have to worry about...

She walked into the kitchen, and got an unopened box of cereal out of the cupboard. Jukebox opened up the top, and with a crinkle she opened the plastic bag inside...

Immediately after it was opened, an arm reached out of the box and grabbed Jukebox by the collar prompting a surprised yelp from her. A second hand reached out too, holding a handgun and pointing it at Jukebox's face. She struggled but to no avail. "Mwahahaha... I just caught an imposter~" a voice said behind her. Jukebox heard sound of something phasing out of invisibility right afterward. "What the- Who are you?! Let me go! TROLLI! SAKURA! HELP!" She shouted, panicky.

Trolli and Sakura rushed in. "Oh no! Jukebox! Jukebox? W-Which is the real Jukebox?"

Behind Jukebox was Spookbox, except she wasn't wearing her usual demonic makeup and had clothes on that matched Jukebox. She just looked like an eviller Jukebox with her hands behind her back. Of course, her hands were not really behind her back at all, they were coming out of the cereal box. "I caught an imposter trying to steal our cereal!!"

"What?? Why would you do this imposter--are you the same one who tied my shoes together!? Hmph!" Sakura jumped up and down while asking this. "No! I'm not an imposter! Who is behind me, I can't see them! Stop being weird and help me! >_<"

"It's... You. Is this some kind of prank?" Trolli asked, looking quizzical.

"For real guys, it's me." Said Spookbox. "I think this is M. M stands for Me, so it makes sense that M would take the appearance of Me."

"What are you talking about??" Jukebox replied, still panicky. "I'm not M! I don't even know who M is! What do you WANT?"

"Hmm..." Sakura looked skeptically at the both of them. "Both of my senpais seem kind of sus... How can we tell?"

"It's simple. I'm good at games, so this imposter should have to play a game to prove it!" Spookbox suggested.

"Which game?"

"Project Libitina! It's scary, perfect for a Halloween special! And it fits with our theme, with our DDLC let's play being one of our flagship series!"

"Why didn't you think of that, other Jukebox?"

"To be honest I wasn't thinking about my channel's content at the moment, probably because I have a gun in my face..." Jukebox pointed out.

"Fair enough." Snarled Spookbox.

"So... I just have to play Project Libitina then? That's good I thought you were gonna take my money or something..."

"I'm also taking your money. Or should I say, MY money. Since you're pretending to be me."

Trolli and Sakura giggled at that remark.

"...Dammit"

"DEMONITIZED!" YouTube shouted from another room.

Suddenly, the screen went to black and white and froze in place. A rantsona appeared on screen, although it didn't resemble any real animal. It looked sort of like if you mashed a zubat from pokemon together with a teddy bear, made the resulting fusion really fuzzy and put a green cap with a red star on it. "ACTUALLY!" he said, although his mouth (which took up the whole face) only cut to a frame where it was open instead of having lip syncing. "Spookbox should not have been portrayed as the villain in this episode! She is a working class hero taking DIRECT ACTION against the bougie youtuber who makes millions off of playing video games! She was right to aim for recollecting Jukebox's wealth as a goal."

Sakura spoke up, since she was also a 2D character she could still perceive what was happening. Although she didn't move at all while speaking. "This is OUR video! Kindly bug off! No one wants to hear your deranged and incorrect-"

The odd rantsona shook violently for a split second, and the video cut to black.

Once the video flickered back on, Jukebox was jumping onto the couch, ready to play Project Libitina. "Wow, it feels like this video has been going on for a while! And we haven't even gotten to the game yet! So I'll keep it's introduction brief. Project Libitina was meant to come out in 2018, but Dan Salvado had several delays. Not this was in any way his fault, he claimed that after working on the game his health would rapidly decline and would receive death threats that made him scared to continue work. Eventually though, he was able to finish and now we finally get to play DDLC's sequel! Or... Prequel if Matpat is right."

Jukebox started up the game and watched as the intro played. A warning flickered on the screen, saying that the game was far too disturbing to be played by people without adaquete mental training and preparation.

"Wow can you imagine having that much motivation. Sick, scared, and he still finished the game? If only certain people could work with that much determination."

Jukebox looked indignant. "What, you mean me?"

"No." Trolli looked directly into the camera. This made everyone watching uncomfortable.

Spookbox swatted Trolli. "Cut that out! I'm supposed to be the creepy one."

"But-

"No fighting, I need to hurry up and film the gameplay segment." Jukebox interrupted.

"All right, with that out of the way, the beginning of the game gives you a nice recap on the portrait of Markov. You get to choose between playing as "Mister Jones" or someone just named "Squid". Squid looks kind of depressing, probably because there was pretty clearly an accident involved with her? I'm pretty sure the researchers tried to give her a powerful tentacle arm, but as you can see... It doesn't look like it worked very well."

"Sure this game isn't too much for you Jukebox?" Trolli asked, voice hinting towards actual concern. "Maybe the other box should have to play it first since it was her idea..."

"Nah don't worry, I'm a brave girl!" Jukebox reassured Trolli.

"So, we're playing as Mister Jones. He's a single father, his wife apparently died but it's not that important to the game really. He honestly seems over it, as mean as that sounds to say. But you see a lot of his internal dialouge and he doesn't seem too fazed."

"Right now we're doing an experiment to try and increase control over Libitina. She kept attacking researchers until we gave her a real bedroom. So my task is to watch her through the window until she gets so uncomfortable that she agrees to go back in her sleeping box instead."

Jukebox took a deep breath and swallowed.

"In fact, most of the game seems to be doing experiments on this kid. The catch is that she has mind powers and can mess with you and other characters in all sorts of ways. For example, since she can sense you coming to the window, by the time you look through it she's already staring at the window. As you can see she's pretty clearly scared of us, so she's going to try all sorts of things to get us to stop watching her. But if we can stay firm, she will become so distressed by being spied on that the only way she can feel any privacy is to go into her ventilated steel container we call her sleeping box. The goal is basically to make her wish she never demanded to have a real bedroom like a normal child."

Jukebox said this clearly, but her voice quivered a little midway through. "She will try everything to get you to stop watching her like I said. Right now I'm hearing things in my headphones like something is behind me in the game. Like an animal growling, someone breathing in my ear, twigs snapping from being stepped on. It's tempting to look behind yourself but if you do it reaffirms her power over you and she will get closer to the window when you're not looking. If she gets emboldened enough to reach you, you get a game over screen. But if you keep your eyes on her, it makes her feel powerless. See? She's trying to hide under her blanket. If she does that it gives you an opportunity to tap her window for giving her extra fear. Don't tap her window when she is looking at you though!"

"What happens then?" Spookbox asked, intrigued.

"I don't really want to talk about that, haha. You get a special game over, basically." Jukebox giggled nervously.

"Now, since she has the ability to draw nearby threats to you, you need to learn how to tell what noises are just her trying to trick you and what are actually dangerous. She won't approach the window when things are outside besides just you. So you can shoot whatever's threatening you. For being a chapter of the game where you just watch Libitina through her bedroom window, it's surprisingly unsettling for me- AAAA!"

A ghoulish person wielding a tool so bloody it was hard to tell what it was supposed to be used for yanked Mister Jones around in the game and swung the tool repeatedly at him. It moved with strangely few frames, like a rushed stop motion project. Jukebox was too late in reacting to the attack, and got a game over screen. The game over screen had Squid holding Libitina by her hand and leading her along a road in the middle of nowhere. They both seemed very happy about it.

"Ohh! Oh my god- that-- not going to lie, this game kind of gets to me. But I'm no imposter or a quitter so I'll just cut until after I find out how to beat this part! And that's just one of several things that can kill you in this part of the gsme!"

The camera cut to black just as Trolli started saying something. When it reappeared, Jukebox looked sweaty and Trolli and Spookbox were no longer in the room. "Okay, so, I finally got the win screen. It took a while, but we finally got Libitina to start shaking under her blanket, and at this point she can't or won't pull any more psychic nonsense on us. We still have to be careful about wandering enemies but we can freely look away from the window now. Any second now... Ah there we go."

A distant alarm went off in the game and a win screen popped up. "Success!" it displayed, over a background of research papers that were heavily scribbled on. A 2D anime style clip played of Libitina begrudgingly asking a researcher to please let her sleep in her sleeping box again instead of a bedroom.

"Now we can go on to the next task! Our need experiment is optional, and apparently is important to the lore according to literally the one post I could find online about the mechanics of Project Libitina. Seems like only a couple people have played it counting me, weird. The reason it's optional though is because it's "the main reason for the warning at the start of the game" but I'm a brave girl so we're doing it!"

Text scrolled on the screen as jukebox selected the chapter. "Knife Conditioning: to-"

Jukebox shuddered and turned off the game. "Yeah, no, not a brave enough girl for this. It's one thing to see disturbing stuff, another entirely to be the one causing it. I can see why this is a psychological horror game. It's just too much for me. Right you two?"

Jukebox turned around, and looked confused. "Trolli? Other Jukebox? Where did everyone go? Wasn't someone else here too?"

She shrugged. "Guess they got bored and left. Oh well! I'm Ivy Munger, and thank you all for a wonderful time!" Jukebox thought it over. "Well, maybe not wonderful but thank you for watching! And don't play Project Libitina unless you are REALLY sure you can handle the darker stuff. Apparently the game has a happy ending and I might get to that later in a future episode but I'm not doing the optional chapters I can tell you that much."

#tw body horror #tw knife #tw knives #abuse tw #long post

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direquail · 5 years ago

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An NB reading of Grace in Terminator: Dark Fate

Disclaimer:

Before I start, just want to get this out here: I’m in no way insisting that Grace *has* to be non-binary, that we’re *supposed* to read her as non-binary, or that that’s in any way what she’s “meant to be”. This is just some stuff I’ve noticed that, as someone who sits on the genderqueer/non-binary/transmasc side of things, really resonated with me. Again--read her as entirely woman-identified if that’s what you want to do or feels right to you. I am ecstatic that lesbians and wlw-identified folks have someone that they feel represented in, too. I wish I’d had more characters like her when I was growing up and felt so out of place because of my gender non-conformity.  

But I, for one, would love a non-binary or even trans reading of Grace.

So what I’d like to do instead is just lay out a couple ways someone who is NB-identified *might* connect with Grace as a nonbinary character. Starting with the obvious.

Androgyny Now, I do want to be clear that I know that gender presentation =\= gender identity. And again, obviously, people will latch onto things that they relate to in characters, and I really do believe that there’s no “one right way” to read a character. The character of Grace isn’t a real person; she’s part of a story, told by people, who had something specific to say, and her character reflects that. But from the perspective of the people who watch her, who internalize and connect with her character, there can be points of connection that have nothing to do with the author’s/creator’s intent, and so, Grace-the-character can be many things to many people. The only real way to know how a person IDs is to ask them. That’s it, that’s all. You can’t assume. But also, sometimes, people do “ping” a certain way. They give off a sort of “energy”, and for me, Grace’s energy isn’t the sort of “diaphanous femininity” that even visibly-gender-nonconforming AFAB characters are often framed to exude. Grace’s energy isn’t masculine, either. Her mannerisms don’t seem intended to read that way; rather, they seem intended to read as soldier. I’m not very skilled at breaking down movements, especially when it comes to how actors move and what it all means. It’s totally possible that a lot of what’s unique about how Grace moves is because Mackenzie Davis is, self-admittedly, not the most athletically-inclined person. Grace is long-limbed and rangy and sometimes very stiff/poised, but never stiff through the hips like a Straight Dude(TM), or heavy through the shoulders like a musclebound meathead. She takes up space, too; she’s taller than Dani and Sarah both, and the only recurring characters who are “bigger” than her throughout most of the film are Carl and the Rev-9.

To be clear: Women can be tall, and rangy, and androgynous, and take up space, and that doesn’t make them less women--unless they don’t identify that way. My point with all of the above is just observing that Grace doesn’t move like a “male action hero”—but she also doesn’t seem over-the-top feminine in the way that mainstream-y media will “compensate” for perceived unfemininity, and that’s kind of wonderful. Her stature, her physique, all of that, seem to be chosen and calibrated towards an end goal that isn’t gendered: Combat, efficacy as a warrior. Whether you want to read her as a woman or as nonbinary is largely going to be about your personal preference. This also has the effect of giving the impression that Grace is absolutely unselfconscious about her body and how it looks—and she has no reason to be, not because she looks good or bad, but because what she can do with her body is just so vastly more important, and because she’s so willing to put her body and everything it can do on the line in order to fulfill her mission (and protect Dani). If Grace has a gender, it’d be “Protector” or “Warrior”. And in a way, what makes Grace so appealing to female-identified lesbians is the same thing that makes her appealing to NB people—Her character was explicitly designed not to cater to “the male gaze”, and therefore, she also exists outside the typical gendered confines reserved for “female characters” in media. The emphasis is just slightly different: Instead of a different way of being female, NB!Grace has little to no use for those categories at all. Again, it’s all in how you want to read her. Grace comes from a future where survival and fighting take first priority, and you could project the same tired “Gender isn’t a ~problem~ in the future/after the world ends” approach that a lot of cis and hetero men take to sci-fi--but also, why? It’s tired. Give me a Grace who is preoccupied with survival, yes, who maybe doesn’t have time to think too much about this gender shit--but also, a Grace who finds that this “androgyny” (although she might not call it that) suits her, who takes to this way of moving and being in the world, this way of using her body, and identifies more with that than with being a “man” or a “woman”.  

(Sidenote: as someone who took a fair amount of Queer Studies classes, it does irk me a bit that discussions of mainstream-y speculative media seem permanently suspended between this sort of “genderblind” futurism where “identities” just don’t exist because they’re apparently not needed anymore, or copy-pasting our contemporary discourses about identity into a future that is materially very different than ours. The point of these identities is, in part, to describe our experiences, the good as well as the bad, and those experiences of gender and sexuality don’t exist in a vacuum. So, the words we use will necessarily change to accommodate that—especially in the post-apocalypse. BUT, everything that comes after us will also bear the stamp of what came before it; it’s just a matter of what the creator means to emphasize.) Augments & Body Mods This is a little dicey, because there’s some clear tension in the movie between the idea of robots = inhuman/unfeeling = bad, and humans = good/feeling. And in that light, it’s potentially problematic to (even incidentally) imply that nonbinary/gender-nonconforming = not human.

But I’d like to point out that the film does deliberately challenge any neat separation of “human” and “machine” with Carl’s evolution as a person.  And based on what I’ve read from James Cameron and Tim Miller interviews, there is some “blurring” intended between human and machine in the franchise.

In fact, Carl and Grace are foils for each other, somewhat, in the sense that they’re on opposite ends of a spectrum where human and machine become blurred, and I love that. As a genderqueer person with a very fluid experience, it appeals to me on a deep level because you could spend literally forever breaking down where does one “gender” end and another begin--emotionally, socially, spiritually, and physically.  

So the fact that there’s (1) no hard binary between human and machine (it’s explicitly subverted), and (2) we’re given multiple points of inflection, especially if you count Sarah and the Rev-9--alleviates a lot of the tension I’d feel otherwise in mentioning this. But I don’t think this is something that should be allegorical or a direct comparison; I think that it operates best on a metaphorical or theoretical level.  

And just, it’s the whole vaguely-cyberpunk idea of modifying your own body, not in a mass-produced or manufactured sense, but in this organic and highly individual sense, born out of contingency and necessity, that makes Grace’s Augments so meaningful. It’s one of the things that makes her read as human, too, because it feels more in line with our tendency to stick ink, steel, bone, what have you, through our skins whenever we get the chance--as opposed to some kind of symbolic dehumanization by “becoming a machine”.

Grace routinely refuses to categorize herself in anything other than the most general terms, or explain the details of her Augments, and she seems very protective of them. Rather than seeming ashamed, this refusal reads a lot like the popular queer identity explanation “not gay as in happy, but queer as in “fuck you’”. Her Augments are part of her, and part of her humanity; she volunteered for them, she owns them, and is even protective of them, viewing CBP’s invasive examination of her Augments as a kind of violation of her bodily autonomy. They’re clearly complicated for her, but they’re anything but depersonalized.

And going even further, the reason why she volunteered for them is so that she can defend humanity--and also someone she loves (Dani). They’re an extension of her sense of family, loyalty, love, and willingness to sacrifice.

And I don’t know for sure, but I imagine that Grace is basically one-of-a-kind, even among other Augments, if only because those Augmentations seem to be performed with the tech that’s on hand--salvaged Legion tech, by the sound of it, at least to start with. So the outcome depends on the parts available, the complexity and maturity of the Augmentation technology and process, and the skill & experience of the surgeons, all of which would vary over time.  

And honestly? If that doesn’t qualify as “beyond the binary”, I don’t know what does.

Some other general observations:

- Grace’s short hair is a constant throughout the post-Judgement Day scenes. As someone who started wearing their hair short as a preteen and hasn’t had hair to my shoulders since age 12, that does seem significant.

- Grace only introduces herself by name after Diego shouts “HEY LADY” in the factory before dropping an engine block on the Rev-9. Granted, most women don’t like to be addressed as “HEY LADY”, either, but it stood out to me, especially because she refused to give her name only a couple of minutes before that. Either way you read it, the line feels like it expresses some level of discomfort with or objection to that gendered statement. Maybe she finds that particular reference annoying or even offensive, but also, maybe she doesn’t really identify as a woman. She’s just... Grace.

- there were multiple times I mistook the back of her tank top for the back of a binder, even though she clearly was not binding.

- she constantly steals mens’ clothes--partly because she’s too tall for a lot of womens’ clothes around her, partly out of utility (like at the factory and CBP, where a lot of the guards are men). But also, it pleases the genderfucking queer in me quite a bit. And, I should note, when she had the option to take a female guard’s clothes at the CBP facility... she didn’t.

But ultimately, when I look at Grace, I see someone whose gender is “Warrior” or “Soldier”. And it’s so wonderful to see that so purely represented on a character we’re meant to perceive as female. So, please believe me when I say I don’t want to “take away” what Grace means for other people.  And, for the record, I do mostly default to using she/her pronouns for Grace, because that’s how she’s canonically referred to. But just for fun--try this on for size: Using “they/them” pronouns for Grace. They (Grace) came back in time to protect Dani. It rolls off the tongue, right? It feels nice. Let’s re-try a couple of sentences from above:  

- “multiple times I mistook the back of their tank top for the back of a binder, even though they clearly weren’t binding”  

- “Grace’s Augments are about their ability to be a soldier. They were Augmented in order to hunt Terminators... Everything else is secondary to that, and their mission to protect Dani”

- “Grace only introduces themself by name after Diego shouts “HEY LADY” in the factory before dropping an engine block on the Rev-9 ... Maybe they find that particular reference annoying or even offensive, but also, maybe they don’t really identify as a woman. They’re just... Grace.”

And finally:  

Can you imagine the poor sod who tried to make fun of Grace for having a “girly” name? lmao rip

#terminator dark fate #tdf grace #meta #mine

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niffin · 5 years ago

Text

what’s your quietest feeling?

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Rating: E

Pairing: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood

Word count: 3382

CW: mildly dubious consent, implied/referenced noncon/abuse, internalized acephobia

Other tags: trans Jonathan Sims

ao3 link

Martin opens the door to Jon's office, armed with a duster. He's procrastinating recording the statement Elias assigned him, some dusty old letter from well over a century ago - it's waited this long, it can wait some hours more. Jon hasn't spent more than fifteen minutes at a time in the Archives since he'd been cleared of murder charges, and Martin doesn't think he even notices the state of his office when he pops in there, but God knows Martin isn't doing this out of any real hope for recognition and it's basically a matter of personal pride to -

He stops halfway to Jon's desk because… Jon's in the hollow under his desk, his favorite knit blanket (Martin's thrown it over him countless times) wrapped tight around his thin shoulders, and he's just. Staring.

"Jon?" No answer. Martin hurriedly sets the duster down, then pulls the desk chair out of the way so he can kneel next to Jon without trapping him under there.

"Jon, what's wrong?" Martin can't keep a note of shrill worry from his voice. He looks Jon up and down; no visible injuries, though that hardly means anything nowadays. He checks his watch - how long has Jon been like this? This is the first time Martin's seen him in over a week, but if he's been hiding in here? He could have just returned, or been back for hours. Days. A sneak attack on the Archives? Did someone, something get to him -

Then Jon laughs hollowly, says, "I'm fine," with that old acerbic tone that used to intimidate Martin. But Martin's not scared of him anymore -

"You're not scared at all?" Jon shifts his eyes to look at Martin without moving his head. Has he slept in the past week?

"Sometimes I'm scared of you, but mostly just for you." Then Martin frowns at him, anxiety spiking when he realizes Jon's voice had filled with static. "How did you know to ask - like. Like how Elias does -" Jon grits his teeth, and Martin promptly moves on. (How long has Jon been able to do that? How much has he… heard?) "Okay, Jon, that's weird, and more than a little invasive, but right now it's more important for you to be -"

Jon stares at him with unusual intensity. He looks exhausted, and his eyes look almost black in the shadows under the desk. (Martin briefly thanks the Eye for fixing Jon's vision and rendering his glasses unnecessary. Which is the only good thing the Eye's ever done.) "You know I'm trans, right?"

Martin's train of thought is violently redirected to a new track. He involuntarily inspects Jon from head to foot, then kicks himself. It's surprising, yes, but no reason to suddenly inspect him, and now Martin has taken too long to answer. Jon hasn't blinked, expression unreadable. "Um - no, I didn't?" Come on, he knows that's not nearly enough to say when someone comes out. "Well, uh, thank you for telling me, that's, good to know - I'm cis. I think. Maybe? I chatted with Tim, a bit - sorry, this isn't about me so - um… is that? Relevant? To… whatever… this is?"

Jon's eyes flash in an instant so brief and unsettling Martin thinks it had to have been a strange shadow that made them look like they contained too many irises and pupils. "Do you still want me?"

Static permeates his voice and slips like a heavy caress into Martin's ears, throat, bones; and now Martin is very, very scared. He knows now how there's no denial or deception when Jon compels. He clamps his hands over his mouth, straining to prevent his jaw from opening. "I - I'm -"

Jon's eyes widen and he jerks towards Martin, holds his hands out in apology, caution. "I'm sorry! Don't - you don't have to answer. I didn't mean - I won't do that again."

Martin clutches at his face for another long moment, capturing those muffled half formed words, until he's sure that hungry pressure is gone, that his tongue is his own again. He lets go to suck in a heaving breath as his heart hammers away. "Jon, why -"

"I'm sorry -"

"I mean, I - actually, what I want is - is for you to be safe -"

"Martin -"

"That's normal, and e-everyone does too - more or less - "

"Listen -"

"That's it! We are all - just, so professional here, in this, workplace setting -"

"Martin, stop." Jon grabs Martin's hands to hold them still.

Martin stops, mouth hanging open, flushed to the tips of his ears. Jon has such a strange look on his face right now as they lock gazes over their joined hands. He has his answer even though he withdrew the compulsion, Jon's not stupid, but why did -

Martin doesn't get the chance to analyze it because Jon bites his lip (that's just not fair), pulls Martin's wrist towards him and. He kisses it. He brushes his full lips against the thin skin on the inside of Martin's wrist, where his veins show pale green against sandy skin. His fingers are warm and they fold so gently around Martin's, uncurl them to lay Martin's hand on his cheek where his own flush heats his skin. Jon carefully asks, "Do you want to. Have sex with me?" He presses a kiss to the base of his thumb, and his breath ghosts over it as he speaks.

No static except for the buzzing in Martin's head and everywhere Jon is touching him. His fingers move of their own volition to stroke that high cheekbone, the curling gray hair at Jon's temple, before he arrests their movement. Not before Jon notices, of course. "Are you… You’re not Jon. What did you do with the real Jon -"

"What? No! It's me." A mirthless smile passes briefly over his face. (Even in the midst of total incomprehensibility Martin can't help but marvel at the fact that he is touching the rare wonder of Jon's smile.) "Not entirely human anymore, but certainly no Stranger."

He had tried to compel him, after all. That blows Martin's theory out of the water. Martin leans back, putting more distance between them, though he can't quite make himself. Stop touching Jon. "You're… interested. In me? You, actually want to -"

Jon's face closes off. He looks away, drops Martin's hand and tucks the blanket in tighter around himself. Martin sometimes forgets how forceful his gaze can be until Jon breaks eye contact and Martin doesn't feel pierced through anymore. "Fine - you clearly don't, so just… do me a favor and don't tell -"

Martin knows there's something else going on, there has to be, God knows he's obsessed about every interaction he's ever had with Jon and concluded every time that his feelings were as far from requited as possible. And it seemed pretty apparent from casual conversation that he had just never been interested in anyone. At all. Ever. (That actually almost made his hopeless crush easier to bear, knowing that it probably wasn't entirely personal.) And the timing, and the state Jon was in when Martin came in - this entire thing makes no sense. But. Martin wants to. Maybe, this actually marks the point where Jon will let Martin help him, since he's reaching out for… Martin can't really see how sex would help anything. But he's just a little too selfish to ruin this opportunity. He seizes his panic, uses it to propel himself past the emotional walls he'd (mostly unsuccessfully) set around Jon, and says, "No, wait! That's not - um, yes. I would like to? Have s… do that. With you." Fear and excitement turn his stomach to ice.

Jon sighs in what sounds like relief, but the tension in his body ratchets tighter. Then he slides out from under the desk without further preamble to wrap his hand confidently around the back of Martin's neck and kiss him hard.

As soon as those fingers stroke against his neck surprised heat flashes through Martin's body; then their lips meet and Martin's lost. The gentle scrape of teeth along his lower lip reminds him he can reciprocate. Jon had pushed him back with the force of that kiss - Martin grabs at Jon's shirt, shoulders, to give back as hard as he's getting. His mouth tastes like cigarettes and a hint of the black tea he prefers (he never remembers to take the tea bag out when he makes it himself but Martin knows how to steep it perfectly) and it's so warm, soft skin and hard pressure, and his mouth fits just right, and he feels so sharp in his arms and determined in his kiss, and Martin traces his tongue along Jon's lip and presses it into his open mouth -

Jon breaks away, blanket sliding off his shoulders, to push closer and kiss down his jaw. His knees bracket Martin's and suddenly he's practically in his lap, and all the blood in his body drains south. Martin dizzily hauls him in the last few inches to drag his tongue down the cords in that long elegant throat, nip lightly at the curve between his neck and shoulder, breathe shuddering kisses over his scars. God, he's so beautiful, warm solid weight pressed against him, panting and shivering every time Martin touches him like he'd never been touched before.

Jon makes a soft breathless sound and holds up something in Martin's peripheral vision. He glances at it as he bites Jon's earlobe, and then sits up straight. "W-why do you have a condom - did you mean right now? Right here -"

"Now, and here - has to be - "

Martin furrows his brow; that's concerning, isn't it? "Jon, why -"

Jon fumbles the buttons of his shirt open as he demands, "Why do you ask? I can handle this, I want to -" And before Martin manages to say anything, he yanks his shirt off and tossed it across the room. Wonder and hopeless awe shove Martin's concerns firmly to the back of his mind. He wraps an arm around him to keep them close, slides his hand over his chest and the round jagged scars on it (he wonders which ones he yanked writhing worms from, blood staining his hands, the corkscrew, Jon's shirt, Jon's voice). His heart glows hot as he kisses each scar - this one is an apology. This one is a promise. This one is sorrow. This one is faith. God, Martin's head swims with want and he's tried so hard not to think about the want (Jon needs him clear headed, effective, useful; and he absolutely isn't when he's thinking about Jon by candlelight and Jon on Martin’s couch quietly reading and Jon in Martin’s bed moaning his name -).

Jon pulls hard at his jumper and Martin sways forward into it, slides his hands down for a firm grip on his thighs, and stands up. It hardly takes much effort, Jon’s so skinny. He clutches at his chest as Martin resettles him in his arms for long enough to take the three steps to the cot (with how often Jon just falls asleep at his desk, Martin’s not actually sure he remembers it’s there at all. Every time, he imagines carrying Jon there himself, with varying degrees of exasperation). Suddenly, Jon shoves at his shoulders and nearly pitches them both over. Martin drops him on the cot harder than he intended, catching himself on his elbows over him.

They freeze, staring at each other. Jon does something Martin can only call shrinking away, flattening himself against the cot as his nails dig into his shoulders. Something is wrong. Then Jon turns that convulsive clench of his hands into hauling Martin’s jumper over his head, and it and his glasses get tossed to the side; he thinks, something is wrong. Jon arches his back and now they’re skin to skin, heat pulsing through his body. His hands smooth over his soft stomach, then the fingers curl and drag their nails down his ribs; what is he supposed to do? Something is wrong and if Jon would just give him a second to think, to realize that nagging worry has turned into a klaxon in the very back of his mind, maybe he could fix it. All he can manage is a retaliatory bite on Jon’s collarbone, soft open mouth kisses over his stomach as he strokes down the length of his legs to pull off his shoes (battered old dress shoes that he's been alternating with equally battered trainers since Jane Prentiss destroyed any semblance of this being a normal job), back up to hook his fingers into his trousers and peel them off.

Martin leans back on his heels and drinks him in, sharp features, slender limbs, and bones a little too prominent (his top surgery scars and stretch marks are starkly pale, though the worms seem to have spared him somewhat. Bad luck, to be so easily marked). Jon refuses to tolerate that for more than a few seconds, squirming under Martin’s gaze before he finally lurches up to work on his jeans. His hands brush his erection and it all feels so real that dizziness strikes him dumb, stops his heart. Martin has to pull away from Jon’s insistent hands; instead drops to his knees between his legs.

Jon follows him with his gaze, wariness furrowing his brow as he asks hoarsely, “What -”

Martin kisses his hip bone, licks the elongated line of it and earns himself a yelp. So he hitches Jon's leg over his shoulder and mouths at the soft skin on the inside of his thigh, sucks on it lightly and presses his tongue into it hard. Jon jolts and whines, leg squeezing around his shoulder, and Martin agreeably licks his cunt, a broad stripe from bottom to top.

“Martin -” He does it again. Jon’s hands find their way into his hair to tug hard. “Wh - oh, fuck -” He slides his tongue between Jon’s folds, tastes him soft and delicate, satisfaction shuddering up his spine as Jon convulses, bends near in half over him. “Christ -” He flicks his tongue over Jon’s cock -

He’s violently pulled away. Jon’s still breathing hard but it almost has the timbre of panic, and his hands quiver where they’re buried in Martin’s hair. Alarm clears some of the fog from his mind. “Oh no -”

“I don’t like that. That feeling, it doesn’t -” His eyes widen further, the whites showing all around. “I don’t need it, alright? It’s fine.”

Guilt joins the alarm. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if -”

“Just - don’t worry about me, about making me -” Jon swallows hard. “The rest of it is - I want that.”

That reminds Martin, now that he can hear his thoughts. “Jon, please tell me if you don’t, if there’s anything -”

Jon’s mouth works and he leans down, enunciates every word. “I want you to fuck me.” Kisses him, sinks his teeth into Martin’s lip.

And just like that, he plunges back into single minded need. Maybe if Martin had been a better person, he could still have stopped. But the only thought that surfaces with any clarity says there aren’t nearly enough red flags to override all of Jon’s yeses, to override that.

He devours Jon’s mouth, barely gets his jeans off his hips before Jon rips open the condom packet. Their hands collide putting it on, and it strikes Martin that he would really like to hold that hand. Right after he spreads Jon’s legs open over his thighs and thrusts into his cunt. It feels… it all feels jumbled together into one utterly overwhelming whole, and his mind can’t sift out individual sensations to hold onto, though he tries. He wants to imprint everything in his memory so deep it’ll never fade. And when it comes down to it, what he’s experiencing is almost incidental to… Jon himself; how he looks (greying curls falling in his face, delicate neck arched, bottom lip caught in his teeth) and sounds (subdued moans and gasps - he had imagined Jon being a little more… voluble) and moves (tiny kisses peppered over every inch of skin he can reach, hips canted to meet Martin’s).

Martin takes Jon’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and pushes it into the cot next to his face with his next thrust. Jon makes a choked sound low in his throat and bucks his hips, his eyes closing. Then, without opening them, he unerringly grabs Martin’s other wrist. “Yes. Like that -” Pulls those hands above his head too. Martin swallows hard - holding someone down had been a tame, guiltless fantasy until it was about Jon. So it’s not a hard decision to capture both thin wrists and pin them.

Jon goes slack, face softening; then he arches violently, fighting against his grip and weight. Martin lets go - or he’s about to, when Jon says sharply, “No!” He hooks his legs around his thighs. “Don’t let me go.”

Jon matches Martin’s confused expression as they lock eyes, but it turns into a very familiar stubborn jut of his jaw. Something inexpressible wells in Martin’s chest. A not insignificant part is the conviction that this is a bad idea. Another part says that worry and stress had fallen away from Jon for that split second, and he can’t remember the last time Jon relaxed. (A third part tries to convince his heart not to read anything into it.) “I… won’t. Until you tell me to.” He tightens his grip to prove it.

Jon growls and fiercely struggles, trying to work his wrists free and nearly succeeding, heels digging and sliding on the cheap canvas. He clenches down so hard on Martin’s cock that he thinks he might come then and there. Then he visibly calms. Martin drives his hips forward hard, eliciting an unrestrained moan for the first time. That, at least, matches his fantasies perfectly. He runs his thumb over Jon’s cheek, kisses him tenderly in time with forceful thrusts (Jon had pulled away last time so he doesn’t try to slide his tongue into his mouth; that does make it easier to fill the space between them with quiet praise, gratitude, appreciation). Jon reacts beautifully. So beautifully.

It feels like an embarrassingly short time before Martin feels he’s about to come. He pauses deep inside him, panting, fingers trembling when he pushes Jon’s sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. He’d said not to worry about him, but Martin can’t help an anxious, “Jon - I’m -”

His eyes open (there’s definitely too many irises, oh God, how are there so many -) and abruptly an omnipresent scrutiny flays him down to his bones. “Look at me.”

Martin wouldn’t disobey even if he could. His voice breaks on Jon’s name and those eyes dissect him and he shatters, and he does not look away.

Next thing he realizes is that he’s crushing Jon, but he’s thoroughly, unreasonably drained. It’s nearly too much simply to force his hand to release Jon. Starts to move off him but is stopped with a hand on his shoulder. “Was it really so inconceivable that I was interested?”

Martin does not comprehend for a moment (he is unspeakably relieved to see Jon looking at him with perfectly normal eyes. Does he know that they… do that?), then catches his breath for a moment more. “I mean - yes? Certainly not in… in me. And I just, had the impression you weren’t into… anybody, that way.”

Jon’s face twists in a way he can’t interpret. “Well, there’s - there’s nothing wrong. With that. I really - and you seemed… okay, with how things were? And I never wanted to push - to push that boundary. I didn’t - I was okay. With how, with how things were.”

The question looms over them. Things are not the same. They are not the same. Is he okay with that?

Jon pushes Martin off - gently enough, but something brittle snaps in his chest. He slowly sits up, tries to control his emotions while Jon hastily gathers his clothes.

“Thank you.” Martin’s just put his glasses on and looks up to see Jon paused in the middle of yanking his shoes on, shirt buttoned wrong, looking wholly disheveled. “You didn’t have to. With me. I’m… grateful.”

Hope chokes him before Jon finishes, “I’m sorry.”

He nearly runs out the door, and Martin’s alone. Again.

“What?”

#the magnus archives #tma #do not archive #long post #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #FINE just remove all my formatting click on the damn ao3 link #fuck you tumblr

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teachanarchy · 7 years ago

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Since the early 2000s my generation of evangelical homeschool students has been working to get Tea Party candidates elected. They were successful in 2006 and 2010, thanks to the grassroots efforts and groundwork our parents and grandparents started laying in the ’70s; they infiltrated politics and shifted every Overton window as far right as they could.

Now, the Christofascist millennials and GenX-ers are voting and running for office, the Tea Party has taken over, and the Christofascist agenda is rapidly advancing. With the injunction against trans and reproductive healthcare in the ACA, the attempted gutting of the ethics committee and the ban on Muslims, this is only the beginning and it’s only going to get worse.

In the time it’s taken me to write, much of this has already happened or is on the verge of happening. Over New Year’s, I watched my healthcare and access to abortion be stripped while vacationing out of the country. There is hope, however. We can use everything they taught us against them, but first we need to understand some things:

The Christofascist agenda calls for legalizing discrimination under the guise of freedom of speech and freedom of religion. The first amendment will not be extended to the marginalized or people of faiths that are not Christianity. They’ll come for the queers, people of color and anyone with a uterus who values autonomy — they already have. Finally, they’ll go after anyone who isn’t a straight white evangelical conservative man or his supportive wife.

Tim Echols said this in his 2007 keynote speech at Teenpact National Convention:

“I wish I could but I cannot tell you more details about the lifestyle and the people involved with it. Just cannot. The Bible tells us not even to talk about certain kinds of evil, let alone plan and joke about it. So I can’t talk about it, all I can say, men in this room, is God made you a man. He only made two kinds, male and female. He made you men. And you simply need to focus on developing your godly masculinity, your godly manhood.”

In this sentiment, he was specifically talking about queer and trans students he encountered at Teenpact and in rumors from other leaders. He later went on to say that there would be zero tolerance for any expression of queerness because it was too evil to even talk about.

When I say we can’t have discussions with people who believe these things, I say it for a reason. It is impossible to have a discussion when one of the parties participating refuses to see you as human and deserving of respect. This is one mild instance of things that I was told and that the leaders of many Christofascist organizations believe and spread.

One commenter on my first post demonstrated this perfectly by writing “You can’t even face your own self, you try to call yourself an “it” or something foolish , you’re still the same you no matter how hard you try to run from your conscience and even more so, from God … you have assimilated to the thoughts and actions of those you encircle yourself with so that you don’t have to hear or think about how wrong you are …” (emphasis mine)

source: AS comment email

Dehumanization is a tactic well practiced in these communities, and it makes it impossible to have a dialogue. You can’t converse fairly with someone who thinks you should be dead, tortured, or aren’t human. Some Christians believe that it’s a symbol of God’s love and mercy to strike unrepentant sinners dead. It was argued, by my parents, that in the story where God sent a bear to maul children, it was out of love so they wouldn’t finish growing up to sin more. Parents in this subculture have been known to tell their children (myself included) that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill them, like Abraham was about to kill Isaac, if they believed God told them to. They are more than willing to sacrifice their children on the altar — literally and figuratively; this can look like disownment, emotional, verbal, spiritual and physical abuse, or actual murder.

These are the types of mentalities that we’re dealing with and should keep in mind as we try to curb their political momentum. I understand the hesitancy when I say civil debates are a waste of time, which is why I want to reiterate that it is impossible to argue with people who don’t believe your life has value or is inherently wrong. It’s not because I harbor ill will, but rather their refusal to accept the existence of anyone different than them as valid.

You won’t convince these Christians by addressing their beliefs head on; they’ve been trained for that. If your heart is in reaching out, reach out to the children trapped here. The parents are likely too far gone to reach unless they come to an awakening of their own accord. I talked about this in my FAQ: it really doesn’t take logic or arguments, it takes kindness and sowing the seeds of doubt. We were taught to fear everyone who was different from us because they would try to sway us away from God. In this context, when you are met with kindness, that inspires doubt in what you were taught; and that doubt can eventually grow into something that looks like an escape. If you want to defeat Christofascism, your time is best spent being involved in your community and extending kindness when you see these families. A queer person merely existing in public and going about their day says more than any argument could.

In the future, I will talk about organizations like Teenpact, ATI, Alert, Vision Forum, and ParentalRights.org in greater detail, outlining what they believe and decrypting the loaded language that they use, so when you see words like “godly/sinful lifestyle” and “Godly masculinity” you’ll know exactly what they mean and how terrifying it is when people like the above commenter dish out abuse and say, “I wouldn’t do this if I/God didn’t love you.”

What worked for conservative evangelicals was infiltrating politics not debating liberals; we need to do grassroots organizing at every level, from city and state government to federal.

We need to start with protecting ourselves in our cities and states. We absolutely cannot sit by and wallow in sadness if we want to turn this around. This is not the time for inaction because of an insurmountable problem. I’m here to tell you this is an uphill battle but it can be won.

Fighting the Christofascist uprising on our doorstep will take getting out of our complacency and belief that people can’t possibly be as bad as they seem. It involves looking reality in the face and confronting it instead of hiding. It involves being each other’s allies.

We specifically need to advocate for health, housing, transit, education, anti-discrimination and accessibility. Our cities, states and country should be safe places for everyone, so we need to look out for and protect our marginalized communities. We all have some (even if it’s just a little) privilege somewhere, we need to use whatever we have to help each other and not throw anyone under the bus.

How to Fight Back

Think about where you will be the most effective and able to accomplish the most good using the privilege that you have and use that as a starting point.

In a way, activists can function like characters in a role playing game. Everyone has different abilities and roles and each of these are crucial when you’re in a dungeon during the Boss fight. We need an army of healers, tanks, and damage dealers. It’s important not to look down on friends who are activist-ing in a different way than we are; every role is vital. We may fill any combination of these roles over time or even simultaneously (I’m usually a healer/damage mix but lately I’ve been tanking). Switching back and forth for mental and physical health reasons (or just because you want to) is a valid way to fight back.

These are inconclusive lists; do whatever works for you!

By Kieryn Darkwater

Healer: The Moral Support * Remind people to eat, sleep, shower, step away, and take care of themselves * Make mini survival kits for protests and rallies — include water, snacks, sign making supplies, tear gas treatment and masks * Remind people that they’re seen and doing good work when they are sad * Stockpile a ton of fluffy animal gifs and disperse them liberally

Tank: The Barrier, Bait and Decoy * Use your body or other resources as a shield and become the target for aggression, deflecting it away from others at a protest or online * Jump in to protect and fight for others when they ask for help * Use your privilege to elevate other’s voices by sharing whatever platform you have * Call out fascism when you see it, loudly

Damage: Disrupt From Within * Use the methods of those in power against them and organize, shift the Overton window of your local political machine by proposing radical change * Rise & help others rise to power by running for office, or campaigning and centering other’s voices * Form coalitions in your community * Use your privilege to elevate others and bring change by sharing whatever platform you have to raise awareness and garner support * Combat systemic racism and abuse as you encounter it by changing the language or rules to foster diversity instead of segregation (ex: fix zoning so the effects of redlining are diminished, or making sure there’s inclusive language and intent in your organization’s documents) * Engage with your local political scene and move progress forward as much as you can

Once you’ve found your role(s), go to local political party meetings, city council meetings and town halls. Get to know your elected representatives and volunteer with organizations in your community. If there’s a need in your community that no one is meeting and you have an idea on how to solve it, organize.

* Advocate for a region-wide healthcare service that includes trans health, mental health, reproductive care and abortion access by writing, calling, or meeting with your elected officials * Find your local YIMBY (yes in my backyard) cell, or start one and tell your city council to build more housing * Support investments in public transit and infrastructure * Volunteer with schools, get involved in your school board, advocate for more educational and community resources for students, make your schools a safe place for queer, trans, disabled and marginalized students * Get involved in community initiatives to help house or provide resources for your homeless neighbors * Urge your city and transit planners to include accessible infrastructure and make your own spaces accessible * Run for office or volunteer on a campaign for someone committed to caring for the marginalized communities in your city * Write to your state and local representatives when these issues are brought up. You can get alerts about what’s going on in your state by using OpenStates from the Sunlight Foundation * Work to create a culture where bigotry isn’t tolerated, support anti-discrimination policies and be the change you wish to see in your life

If you’re burning out, low on energy or otherwise just don’t have the spoons but want to do something that’s really effective and better matched to your energy levels, here are a couple ideas:

* Write your elected officials * If you can make phone calls, 5calls.org is a great tool * Be moral support: comfort people who are hurting by reaching out and offering hugs or pictures of floofs * Organize/participate in a book club and read about racism, queerphobia, activism, and the looming dystopian future * If you learn something cool, share it with other people * Make disruptive art that celebrates the incredibly rich diversity of humanity and share it widely

Art and self-care are important forms of resistance. These give us the strength and will to carry on. Remember you are allowed to take breaks; in fact, it is vital to do so. This is an ongoing struggle — it’s a marathon, not a sprint. The Christofascists want nothing more than to exhaust us into oblivion before they bring out the really bad shit. We have to be aware of our health and abilities, mental and physical. Self-care is a legitimate act of resistance, it’s important to remember we deserve good things, happiness and rest.

Finally, if you have the ability to give, find groups to support who are doing good work and set up a monthly donation if you can.

The ones I’m affiliated with are East Bay Forward and the Coalition for Responsible Home Education.

Some other great places to donate to are: Planned Parenthood, The ACLU, Southern Poverty Law Center, The Sunlight Foundation, The EFF, The Transgender Law Center, Lambda Legal, and United We Dream. Your community probably has other organizations doing great work in your town that you could find by googling, checking the library or asking for a list at city hall.

If you want to win over Christofascists, you don’t address them head on; you live your life and show them with actions that they’re wrong and the world isn’t as black and white as they want it to be. Existing really is resistance here. If you want to curb their assault on human rights, get involved in politics and block their momentum. For now, everything still comes down to votes, we all still have the power to change our government’s direction.

Everyone is intimidated at first, because politics is daunting and we’re all worried about making mistakes and unsure of where to start. My advice is just jump in, find what you care about and make your part of the world better. We can only make change if we are actively involved in doing so.

No one is going to write that letter, go to that march or make that sign for you; more importantly: no one can stop you.

#christianity #religion #fascism #politics #government

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