#only reading fanfiction. and mocking the language used to discuss it. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

captainsimagines · 3 years

Text

To Topple A Giant || Chapter One

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 1 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Trope: ‘Enemies to Lovers’; mainly angst, mutual pining, fluff, and eventual smut

Warnings: This story contains mature themes and discussions such as extreme canon violence, strong language, emotional angst, mentions of Endgame deaths and recoveries, sexual situations, and emotional/physical abuse. All trigger warnings will be listed before the chapter. This is purely fanfiction.

Word Count: 4000+

A/N: Ooo, let’s hope this does numbers! I love myself some ‘enemies to lovers’ tropes. It’s been a while since I’ve written Steve fanfics. :)

Wakanda, 2018, 4:04 pm.

The flash of bright white light temporarily blinded you, sending you back to the ground and cupping your face in self-defense. But as quickly as the initial crack, it was over. Eerily silent and loud at the same time. The birds whistled their same tune, some higher-pitched than others. The wind seemed to blow louder, rustling the leaves from the trees and landing all around you and your teammates.

“Thor?”

You lifted your head at the sound of Steve’s voice and checked if the coast was clear. All that remained of the evil was a new blood-stained hammer - a hammer that Thor was watching intensely, as if the answer lay hidden there. It was the only remnant left and your mind was already wondering how to use it to bring that evil back to finish a fair fight.

“Where’d he go?”

The birds stopped singing.

“Steve?”

You whipped your head around at the sound of Bucky’s confused voice, watching as one of your best friends dropped his gun and looked up at Steve as his hands began to disappear. In a matter of seconds, Bucky - or what became of him - fell to the dirt below. No one spoke, and you watched as Steve tried to control his breathing as he took a knee to place his shaking hand over his best friend’s ashes. A life and mind brought out of the darkness to finally amend those knots he had twisted, now ceasing to exist. In the distance you could hear Okoye shout in turmoil and Rocket begin begging.

“What’s happening?” you finally choked out, turning just in time to see Wanda lift her head to the sky, defeated and out of will, and succumb to the same fate. “No!”

You ran and fell beside Vision’s now gray and decaying body, reaching over and palming through Wanda’s ashes. You rubbed them between your fingers, inspecting them, and brought your hand to your chest. The pit of your stomach churned as you sat there, immobile and numb.

“Sam!”

So many names were being called but soon everyone who remained fell silent. The trees were still guiding the wind, leaves falling into the ashes of your friends, a sign of a new and unwanted chapter. You felt Steve drop beside you, turning Vision around to see the damage to his body. You winced when you saw the gaping hole in his forehead.

“What is this? What’s happening?”

Natasha ran to where you were seated, hand over her stomach as if she was ready to vomit. And once she took one look at Vision, that’s exactly what she did.

You removed your hands from your chest to look at them, the ashes still there and practically mocking you into finally believing this as reality. “Did we just lose?”

Steve was moments away from a full-blown panic attack. He simply looked up at the trees, watching the way the sunlight still burst through with no disruption. “Oh god.”

You caught Steve as he tipped his upper body toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding onto something real. He had to believe you were real. Anyone. And you were the closest person to him. You shut your eyes and held him, running your hands through his hair, wincing when you realized Wanda’s ashes were now on him.

You held him tight, praying to any God you chose to believe in at that moment, that Steve wouldn’t disappear too.

Unknown Location, 2025, 1:07 pm.

The air was incredibly musty, as if each person who struggled for breath in this room at one point or another left a piece of their soul floating in search of last minute penance for their sins. And the man in front of you was no different, choking on the purple blood that dripped down his neck and onto his now unbuttoned, white dress shirt. His chest was rising and falling, his breathing becoming less labored with each blink of the eye. His hands were tied behind his back and to the chair he sat on, a flickering light in the corner of the dark, concrete room somehow mocking this man’s last remaining seconds of life.

“I’m not an evil person,” you started, kicking one of the legs of the chair to startle the poor man. But your guilt was minimal - it’s not like you wanted to do this - but knowing this man did exactly what everyone said he did, hands red and dripping with young blood, you selfishly took pleasure knowing this man would look at you when he died. “It’s just my job as third in command.”

You gave the man a small smile as you bent down to his level, head hanging in shame, slow breaths now pausing in between each intake. You looked to the other party in the room, handing them the gun in your holster, and walked out the room as the sound of two gunshots rang out.

Left twist. Sting. Breathe.

You washed away any smell from that godforsaken room, giving extra attention to the roots of your hair and under your fingertips.

Scrub. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

The crack of your neck frightened even you, and you stood under the burning shower for a few more minutes before deciding the sting was enough. You changed into the most comfortable sweats you owned, surprisingly calm for such a gruesome morning you had, and took your time with your skin care routine.

Circle. Wash. Dry.

Soft music played in the overhead speakers, the classical sounds vibrating from one wall to another and surrounding you with something tranquil - something still. There was nothing to expect from such a sound, only the next repeated chorus, no words or drops - just tranquility. You could barely hear yourself breathe but you were at peace - or mostly - and ready to sooth your growing headache behind the eyeballs with more than just music. You slipped on a pair of comfy, forest green socks and bent them at the ankle to achieve an even fluffier look. You applied your favorite perfume, lotioned up your hands, and donned your tacky friendship bracelet.

One for you. One for Bucky. One for Peter. And one for Wanda.

You hummed the whole way to the common room, waving at the morning staff as they fixed lightbulbs, covered holes in the walls, and swept the floors. One muffin and a cup of coffee later, you were resting with your head in Wanda’s lap as she filled your thoughts with your chosen sceneries.

“I can make you see anything you have already seen, so yes.”

“A miniature golf course, Peter’s high school graduation, a field of all kinds of flowers, and Natasha.”

Wanda stilled her floating hand, smile faltering for a moment before she nodded. “Okay… okay, I can do that.”

They were images well-drawn out, slow and steady to make the atmosphere similar to when you were actually there. They seemed to float across your vision, comfortable in their positions and radiating the same warmth you had felt the first time around. A moving picture. Wanda really had excellent control of this.

“I won!” Sam leapt into the air, pointing at a disgruntled Bucky, who stepped off to the side to not throw Sam over his own head. “I won!”

“How is it possible for you to get a hole-in-one each fucking turn?” Bucky groaned, moping in Wanda’s shoulder as she held him and struggled to keep herself standing from her own intense laughs.

“I think we got a cheater on the loose,” Steve grinned, pointing at the ring Sam was trying to discreetly tuck back into his pocket. A friendly gift from T’Challa, no doubt.

“Nuh-uh, give me the fucking proof, Wilson!” Bucky roared, wrapping his arm around Sam’s neck and tugging him forward. “I will not admit defeat if there was foul play involved!”

Sam escaped the hold, climbing onto the rock located to the side of the flag and a sign that read ‘do not climb on rocks’.

“It just helped me calculate all things geometry, Barnes. We’re good.”

Bucky looked as if he was going to leap on him again, but before he could even finish that thought, Sam slipped on the wet surface and plummeted into the rushing little river.

Laughter erupted and did not cease until you were escorted out of the fairgrounds by four security guards.

A flick of Wanda’s wrist and a new memory began forming, colors blending like an oil painting, dried and covered with a glossy varnish, ready to hang.

“Don’t trip on your way up, kid.”

Peter swatted Steve in the side as the super soldier left the room, leaving Peter alone in front of the full-length mirror. He adjusted his tie and tried to lay that pesky dangling strand of hair over the top of his head.

You got up from the couch and made your way over, wrapping your arms around Peter and resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’ll do great. We’re all so proud.”

“It’s just high school…”

You frowned and turned him to face you. “No, you should already be in your second year of college. This is seven years in the making. We are all so proud.”

Peter could feel the slight burn at the corner of his eyes but he swallowed it down, giving you a small smile and a hug.

“And can you trip? Don’t you stick to all surfaces?”

Peter scoffed and pushed you away, his tiny smile never faltering.

You could feel Wanda shift her legs underneath you, searching for the most comfortable position as she continued her work. You sighed, already feeling the therapeutic effects.

“They’re all so pretty!” you yelled cheerfully, running through the field with your arms extended to the sky. Bucky and Steve followed close behind, leaning down every so often to pluck the flower of their choosing and adding to the bouquet in their hand.

“Which did Tony prefer?” Steve asked, snapping you from your pollen-filled, ecstatic state.

“Aesthetic beauty, Rogers! Natasha was a sucker for anything pink and sunflowers.”

Bucky nodded, seeming to take that information into consideration as he plucked the yellow and pink flowers only. Steve chose the most healthy looking flowers, his hand struggling to hold them together as he reached the two dozen mark.

“I think we’re good. These are good.”

You smiled at both super soldiers and admired their bouquets, leaning over to sniff their masterpieces. “Awesome.”

Wanda sighed as she neared your last vision, debating on showing you your chosen moment instead of another one. This moment always hurt Wanda as she wasn’t there to witness it, but it was special to you. There were so many others to choose from, but you insisted this was the one you always wanted to see. And Wanda was always hesitant at first - but when she lifted her hand slowly and dropped the memory back into the front of your brain, she couldn’t help but smile.

“Are we ready?”

Everyone was practically bouncing on their heels, both excited and terrified. Time travel was new to humanity and you were to be one of the first to experience such a thrill. You were going to get everyone back.

You squeezed Natasha’s hand once more before you walked back over to Thor and Rocket. You all nodded to each other, saying ‘goodbye’ and ‘good luck’ with your childlike expressions.

“See you in a minute,” Natasha grinned, her cheeks reddening with a friendly blush as she looked over at Steve. Her hair was pulled back into a braid, a braid you had helped her make, and she was carrying an extra pair of socks in case of a long hike.

Then a blast of color surrounded your body and the smell of peaches as you landed on Asgard filled your overstimulated senses.

You opened your eyes and smiled up at Wanda. You didn’t want to see old memories with your friend, but the most recent. It was like you were grasping onto that last memory of her, not wanting to change anything about her last smile, her last laugh, her last shred of existence. It was oddly calming, and so you hoped Wanda would understand.

You thanked her again and proceeded to the kitchen. It was bigger than the one before, the soft forest green color of the walls a nice contrast from the blue ones before. You laughed to yourself and your conscience as you silently thanked the explosion that obliterated the horrid blue walls, quickly backtracking at your dumb thoughts. Still, you chose to joke about everything that happened before to avoid falling deeper into yourself. The kettle started howling, smoke circling around the tip. You poured your tea, dropped two cubes of sugar in, and added a little milk.

It was quite bizarre how quickly you could bounce back from the morning you had. A very bloody, order-filled morning. When one order was given, you had to come up with a plan on how to not disregard the other. You had to listen to Fury and your father, gaining a few feet on each side without toppling the other. Still, it took a physical toll on you. But with Wanda’s help in easing your mind and the very sweet tea you nursed, your emotional baggage was pretty minimal. It sometimes scared you how easy it all was.

Your morning carried on quietly as you sat on the concrete curb, happily sipping your tea in your sweatpants. You could hear Sam and Scott arguing about something a few feet away from you and Bucky taking his afternoon jog around the track. Quite distracted, the sudden ‘thwip’ and superhero landing of a certain teenager scared you enough to spill a little of your tea.

“Goddamn, dude!” you whined, looking up at Peter as he tried to control his laughter.

“I’m sorry, I thought you saw me!”

“Excuse me for being distracted by the hot super soldier just over there,” you joked, pointing over at Bucky.

Peter rolled his eyes and sat next to you, immediately reaching over to take the tea from you and take a sip himself. You let him, as you had no other choice, rolling your eyes anyway.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had classes today?”

Peter handed back your cup, “Nah, I’ve only got classes every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Ugh, that sounds great. I remember I scheduled my classes for every day of the week just to have more units,” you sighed, taking another sip of tea.

“Stupid.”

You pushed Peter’s shoulder playfully, both your laughter catching the attention of Sam and Scott. But as quickly as you had distracted them, they ignored you and went back to bickering.

“I’m just here to see my friends, sue me!”

“Nope, you’re always welcome,” you smiled, holding out your wrist and bumping your bracelet with his. “How was your week otherwise?”

“Eh, nothing major. Just trying to navigate the world now that they know who's behind the mask.”

You gave Peter a look of sympathy, still mad at the sudden manipulation of the kid after such traumatic events. You had promised him you would protect him by any means possible, as did the rest of the team, but he seemed to be navigating the situation just fine. Staying away from reporters, scheduling his classes during the most isolated gaps of the day, and signing dozens of forms that promised to protect him, give him royalties, etc. After you had brought everyone back, it seemed the least the new management/orders could provide for you all.

“We all have our days,” you muttered, handing your tea back to Peter. You two sat there for a while longer, enjoying the slight breeze and taste of sugar.

An agent rounded the corner and spotted you, jogging up and handing you a yellow folder that was sealed in plastic. “For you, from Fury, from whoever before that.”

“Um, thank you?” you said as the agent walked away. You inspected the folder, turning it over in your hands and playing with the thin plastic.

You lifted it up to Peter’s face, “Here, smell it and tell me if there’s poison.”

Peter scoffed, “I can’t do that!”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

Peter muttered to himself as he took the folder from you, sniffing it awkwardly. “Smells like paper, dude.”

“Cool, thanks.”

You ripped the plastic off and unhooked the folder, dropping the single item onto your lap. Peter just sipped your tea and watched you open it.

It was another envelope, but this one was white with custom-printed indents that swirled across the front and a big, red blob of wax smushed- with your initials- sealing it. You ripped it open and pulled the invitation from inside. You must have read it a thousand times, eyes rapidly scanning the small page with secret meanings.

“You got invited to a wedding?” Peter asked, taking it from you and reading it himself.

“Yeah, but this is so much more than that,” you said, snatching it back and standing up from the curb. You quickly went back into the compound, searching for the one person who needed to read it also.

You seemed to find everyone before you found the super soldier who wasn’t out for a jog, a line of somewhat concerned superheroes following behind you from room to room. Eager minds and yet, inflexible rib cages full of anxiety and worry, all ready (and quite not) to tackle the new evils of this new world. And whether they followed you blindly or with functioning minds, they were prepared.

With the rest of the team behind you, you burst through the second floor with the invitation held over your head. Steve stopped mid-bite, milk dripping from his bottom lip as he stared at everyone in confusion. “Um…”

“It’s time-” you started, pulling the stool from next to him and sitting down.

“Time for what?” Steve interrupted, his mouth still full of cereal.

“Time for this,” you motioned to the envelope you were handing him. “-to finally end.”

Steve read the invitation word for word, the wrinkles in his forehead becoming deeper as his mind worked. You couldn’t quite discern the feeling in the pit of your stomach, twisting and spinning into a tight coil, seeming to spread to the others as it grew in pressure within you.

“All three?”

“All three,” you confirmed.

Peter pushed through Bruce and Rhodey, “What’s happening? What’s gonna end?”

You looked over at Steve, his bowl of cereal now forgotten and soggy.

His eyes were distant and rather cold, hands extended on his knees as if he was drying the accumulating sweat, shoulders building tension.

“Steve, we can finally end this. We have to tell everyone. It won’t be enough if it’s just you and me.”

He wanted to explode, in both anger and anguish, to stumble over his intact persona and leave it behind - someone he hasn’t known for a long time. It ate away at him each day since Fury notified him of your selfish choice, burrowing into his now tarnished soul in the most sadistic way. But the prospect of finishing this chapter - a chapter that was unexpectedly halted when half the world disappeared - was considerably euphoric. A chance to move on.

“Okay.”

Rhodey already had knowledge of your background, recruitment, and family but Steve’s initial involvement - the start of it - was still a mystery. You sat everyone down in the living room, making room for the others who arrived later, and clapped your hands together. “Story time!”

Steve groaned, face already pressed against a throw pillow. “Just tell them.”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“You know whose spawn I’m from,” you began, snickers from your amused friends encouraging you. “To better transport their product, they sent me over to the states to attend college like the good little girl they think I am.”

Sam cracked open a beer and lifted his legs up onto the couch, sitting back with a massive smile on his face as he got comfortable for your story. He handed another beer to Scott.

“Wait, product?” Scott asked, taking a sip from his drink.

You smirked at him and tapped your nose twice, amused by his ‘O’ reaction. “Anyway, by then I already knew that I wanted out of the game. I didn’t like that life, I didn’t like the violence, I didn’t like my family.”

Steve knew that was an understatement, a cruel and restrained statement from your part, and he wanted to tell everyone just how justified you were in your words, how real you were being, and how much help you would certainly need for this. But like always, he remained silent.

“But Fury got to me before I could leave. So, we made a deal. I would train as a field agent and he would promote me every other year to lessen suspicion on this whole ordeal. The deal being I would play both teams.”

By now, your whole team was intrigued.

“I would do what I could for my father and still have my family’s trust, while feeding the information to SHIELD and our lovely star-spangled man over here,” you pointed over at Steve. He gave you a tiny but forced smile.

“But after the collapse of SHIELD, my father only became more violent, more hard-headed, more suspicious. He- uh-” you stuttered, flashbacks suddenly filling your head. Wanda watched your eyes dart rapidly, sensing the rush of blood to your legs and tips of your fingers.

“He was power hungry,” Wanda said, immediately feeling your heart rate lower. Although you never actually said it, she could tell you were grateful for her intrusion.

“Yeah, exactly,” you cleared your throat. “But Steve’s involvement all started when Fury asked me who would be the best front - the most reliable front.”

“So, with only Fury and the bad guys knowing - Y/N named me as her partner in crime,” Steve explained, head hanging low as if it was such a disgrace to do what you openly did. You knew his troubles with coming to terms with such an offensive role were multiplying daily, but you were now this close to stopping every bad force involved.

“So, Captain America is the ultimate drug smuggler,” Scott spoke, somehow trying to comprehend the information all at once. You and Steve both nodded in confirmation and avoided the wide and questioning eyes looking back at you.

“Yeah, he’s essentially the top boss.”

“Y/N-,” Steve interjected, but you beat him to it.

“And here we are! Him and I both invited to the wedding.”

Wanda stretched out her words, “The wedding?”

“Yes, the wedding - where three of the most famous and powerful drug lords south of the border will be attending and ready for our taking - including my father.”

Steve stood from his seat, posture straightening as he spoke to the group. “The invitation reads like a threat. No cameras, no plus-ones besides those listed specifically on the card, no speaking to reporters before or after. The trust Y/N has gained would unknowingly make us the contraband of the party.”

After going through more specifics about the whole situation, Bucky finally raised the question eating away at his mind this whole time. “Whose wedding is it, anyway?”

You grinned that stupid little grin Steve always prepared himself for. It was the grin you would display whenever you were going to make a serious matter a joke, or brush something serious off your shoulder as if it didn’t bother you. The sarcastic grin he always wanted to wipe off your face as you defied orders.

“My lovely little sister’s.”

Rhodey stepped forward to take the invitation for personal inspection, “When is it?”

“A week from tomorrow,” you beamed. “Which means I got to get shopping for a wonderful little, red number!”

“Please, be more excited about this,” Steve groaned, sarcasm dripping off each syllable.

You flicked your right hand up and in position to flash your charming little middle finger at him, a river of fluffed ego and delight flowing to your cheeks as he huffed and left the room in a stumbled march.

“So…” Scott’s voice ripped through the awkward silence. “We’ve been secret drug smugglers this whole time?”

Please let me know what you think! I listened “The Archer” by Taylor Swift and I was like... yes, I see this, lmao. Tell me if you would like to be tagged in later updates! xxMoni

217 notes · View notes

sophfic27 · 4 years

Text

Questions (Have You Ever Wanted to be a Fly on the Wall?)

Summary: By now, you probably know the drill (his name is Bill), on their tenth birthday, the first words a person’s soulmate will say to them appears somewhere on their body. The word "hello" is one of the most common phrases in the world, so when Roman ends up with it on his wrist he decides to get creative. Everyone he meets who greets him with a "hello" he asks them a question. And he'll keep doing this until it's on someone's arm. This is literally my first ever fanfiction that I've finished and posted, so here's hoping you like it.

Pairings: Prinxiety, Logicality (background-ish), Dukeceit (background)

Word Count: 2870

Warnings: One instance of an F bomb, I think that’s it, let me know if it’s not

Notes: I got the idea to write this after scrolling through soulmate POVs on TikTok with my sister for fun. We discussed how one could solve the problem of having a really common phrase, and she said "I'd just ask weird questions, because I'm really good at that." So I decided to write this. Most of the questions Roman asks in this I stole from my sister, because, yes, she really does randomly ask these wackadoo questions unprompted. She's great. Enjoy.

Read on AO3

If anyone was going to describe Roman as anything, it was fanciful. Of course most kids were excited by the prospect of getting their soulmark and meeting their soulmate, but Roman had very big plans for how he was going to meet his soulmate. He grew up with Disney movies telling stories of soulmates and star-crossed lovers and found himself mesmerized by the power of soulmates. The lovely tale of the Little Mermaid, and Ariel trying to somehow convey to the prince that he was her soulmate when she had no voice. The story of Aladdin doing all he could to survive and be worthy of his princess soulmate. When he was eight, he saw Anastasia, a story of soulmates who met before their words appeared. When she lost her memory, she couldn’t have known the boy who saved her was her soulmate, and he knew but thought that she must have died until fate brought them together again. Roman was amazed. With only two years until his words appeared, he fantasized about all the ways he would meet and woo his soulmate, what unique phrase would change his life forever. Maybe he already knew his soulmate and just didn’t know it was them! Roman counted the days until he got his words with impatient anticipation.

Roman was younger than his twin, Remus by seventeen minutes exactly. So there they were, huddling on the bottom bunk with flashlights at 3:11 am only two minutes left until Remus is exactly 10 years old and he receives his soulmark. “It’s going to be something really lame, like ‘you’re annoying’ or something,” Roman insisted. Having grown up with Remus, he found it hard to think he could even have a soulmate, but they both knew he was just giving him a hard time. “Nuh-uh,” Remus squawked in a mocking tone. “Yuh-huh,” came Roman’s equally childish reply. “NUH-UH!” “Shut up, or Mom and Dad will yell at us again!” Roman socked his twin with a pillow. He tapped the screen of the tablet they had snuck into their room from the living room. 3:12:31. They’d been checking the time obsessively, but now there was only half a minute left. They exchanged a sort of giddy look as the clock ticked closer and closer. “10, 9, 8” Remus started to count as the time came upon them. Roman joined quickly, “7, 6, 5, 4.” “3.” “2.” “1.”

They watched as two words drew themselves onto Remus’s wrist: “Um, wow.” The twins blinked at the words for a minute, until Roman broke the silence, “nice going, doofus, you’re going to weird out your soulmate immediately.” “You don’t know that! Maybe it's a good ‘um, wow,’” Remus protested. “How would that be good? ‘Um, wow, you’re so handsome, ooooh,’” Roman made a mocking kissy-face and was promptly knocked over by another projectile pillow. He laughed, “face it, you’re a weirdo, ‘um, wow’ is not a good thing.” The door swung open with a whoosh and their mother stood there, staring at them. Roman covered the tablet with a pillow to hide the stolen device, and Remus scrambled off of the bunk. “I told you boys NOT to stay up like this,” Carla snapped. Her hair was up in curlers and she had hastily pulled a bathrobe over her pajamas. “But, Mama, our soulmates!” Roman whined. “Yeah, I got my words,” Remus waved his arm around even though the light was too dim for their mother to read the words and she was too tired to humor them. “That’s nice, Remus, but I told you, Papa and I have to work tomorrow, you can’t be keeping us up like this, I told you we’d look at your words in the morning,” she rubbed her eyes, still bleary from the sleep she wanted desperately to return to. “But it is morning!” Roman cried indignantly. Carla fixed her son with a pointed glare and he looked down and climbed under his sheets. Carla sighed, “thank you. Now, you can tell me what your words are in the morning when Papa is awake, but right now I need you, boys, to go to sleep, okay?” “Okay, Mama,” the twins replied in unison. Remus climbed back up to his bunk and got under his covers. Carla nodded and departed the room for her own, her slippers making light scuff sounds down the hall. As soon as the door clicked closed at the end of the hall, Remus poked his head over the edge of his bunk and looked down at his twin, “how much time is left?” he whispered. Roman uncovered the tablet and woke the screen, “ten minutes,” he whispered back. The next ten minutes crawled by painfully slow. Roman lost track of whatever his brother was saying as his thoughts turned to what his words would be. He was pulled out of his trance when Remus broke his silence to ask “how long?” again. This time, when Roman woke the tablet, he saw that it was 3:29:22, and he became overwhelmed by the fact that there was less than a minute left. He reported to his twin and went back to staring intently at the digital clock. Each second felt like an eternity, but they dragged him eagerly forward until- The grandfather clock down the hall chimed the half-hour, and Roman tugged his pajama sleeve down excitedly and turned the flashlight onto his wrist. There a beat of silence until, “so? What does it say?” Remus asked eagerly. Roman sighed, “it says ‘hello.’” Remus stayed quiet for a second, “that’s going to be hard to find,” he offered. Roman collapsed back into his pillow. “Well, I’m going to sleep. Night, bro,” Remus mumbled from above. “Night,” Roman murmured. He looked at the singular word again and switched off the flashlight. “Hello” was one of, if not the most common soulmark in the world, because it was the most common greeting, regardless of language. At least there was that, Roman considered, his soulmate probably spoke English. But that wasn’t helpful. Remus was right, it was going to be hard to find his soulmate. Roman sighed and turned over onto his side. Okay, thought Roman, then I’ll just have to get creative.

It was common practice to try to use unique and specific greetings when meeting someone for the first time to cheat destiny and ensure an easier time finding their soulmate, but with as common a phrase as “hello”, Roman had to scrap all of his fantasies of grand romantic gestures and fairy tale meetings in favor of a way to guarantee his soulmate would recognize him. The plan was simple, if he was talking first to someone new, he stated his name first and foremost. Anyone he approached first, he greeted with “my name is Roman, nice to meet you.” The part where he got creative was with anyone who approached him first by saying “hello.” “Hello!” chirped his friendly new classmate in sixth grade. “If you were an insect, how long would it take you to die?” Roman asked immediately. The girl stared at him before replying shyly, “I don’t… know?” “Darn.” He always made sure to explain his tactic after using it to avoid further alienating new acquaintances. And thus he continued this way with every new person he met, always with a new and random question.

“Hello.” “If you could time travel, who would you meet?” “…Abraham Lincoln.” “Okay.”

“Hello.” “If you could make a new type of snowman that wasn’t made of snow, what would it be made of?” “Uh. Oranges?” “Cool.”

“Hello.” “If a bat flew into your house speaking with the voice of a cartoon, but claiming to be your best friend, what would you do?” “…What?”

Sophomore year, Roman and Remus were fifteen years old. Remus had already met his soulmate, Janus, and naturally, “um, wow” had been a response to Remus weirding him out, in addition to the realization that Remus was his soulmate. Roman, on the other hand was still trying to find his soulmate with random questions, but to no avail. The second semester had begun and Roman’s physics class was changing seats. Roman collapsed into his new spot next to a boy he knew to be Patton, but with whom he had not actually talked yet. Patton was wearing a blue t-shirt with a repeating cat pattern across it. His honey-brown hair was lightly curled, and a pair of round glasses were balanced on his freckle-covered nose. He smiled warmly at Roman. The teacher finished giving his instructions and let the class go to meet their new partners and get to work on their assignments. And thus the cycle began anew. Patton turned to Roman with a grin, “hello!” Roman huffed slightly as he quickly summoned a new question, “what’s your favorite musical?” he asked in lieu of a real greeting. Patton stared at Roman for a beat before raising a hand to his chin thoughtfully, and Roman knew that the boy probably didn’t have his question on his wrist. “Mamma Mia,” he answered finally. “ABBA. Good choice,” Roman chuckled. Patton giggled back, “Why do you ask anyway?” Roman showed Patton his wrist, and he nodded wonderingly, “I get it, you’re trying to have a unique greeting, because yours is so common.” “Bingo,” Roman said, slightly relieved that he didn’t have to explain it all again. “I’m guessing you don’t have my phrase, right?” Patton’s hair bounced as he shook his head. He presented his own wrist, marked with the word “Salutations” in unusually crisp font. “Ooh, you have a fancy soulmate,” Roman said, “that, or they’re a nerd. I’ve never seen such a professional-looking font.” “Me neither,” Patton giggled again. “At least ‘salutations’ isn’t a very frequently used greeting.” Roman nodded, “yes, a nerd like that will be easy to spot,” Roman joked. “I’m Roman by the way,” he said, suddenly unsure if Patton knew who he was or not. “Patton!” he replied with a quirk of his head and a broad smile. “Nice to meet you,” he was aware of the teacher surveying the class to see who was working and quickly added, “maybe we should get started.” Patton nodded and they set to work reading instructions and becoming friends.

Half-way through the first semester of senior year, Patton introduced Roman to his recently discovered soulmate, Logan. Upon meeting him, Roman remarked that he was exactly the kind of nerd he had expected when he had seen Patton’s “salutations” soulmark. He then lamented that he was once again left surrounded with people who had soulmates when he didn’t, at which point Logan informed his that “statistically speaking, most people meet their soulmates in their twenties or thirties.” “Thanks, pocket-protector, but that’s barely comforting. I have the most common phrase in the English language,” Roman complained. “Actually, according to most studies performed in the last 20 years, the most common phrase currently is ‘hi,’” Logan corrected him with a push of his glasses. Roman stared at him in disbelief and Patton giggled at his side.

“I’m telling you Roman, he’s actually really nice,” Patton assured him as they walked down the path towards Roman’s house. Both boys were bundled up in coats, their hands stuffed firmly in pockets to protect against the biting winter wind. Roman had a Christmas party coming up in a few days, and Patton was trying to convince him to invite the fairly anti-social kid who never got of his emo phase, Virgil. In all honesty, Roman didn’t care if Virgil came or not, plenty of Remus’s friends, who he didn’t know, were going, but Patton was determined to make Roman and Virgil friends, and as it was, Roman didn’t think he had anything in common with the emo. “I’m sure he is, Pat, but…” he hesitated, searching for some way to appease his friend without giving in. “But what?” Patton pressed, meanwhile physically pressing against his shoulder. “But you get along with everyone, and everyone loves you. You can find something in common with anyone no matter what,” Roman stalled. Patton’s eyes bore into him. “I on the other hand, don’t think I have anything in common with Virgil. I mean, he’s all surly and dark, and I’m a theater kid straight out of High School Musical,” he gestured grandly before his hand quickly retreated to the warmth of his pocket again. “Have you ever even talked to the guy?” “Well, no, but-” “Then how do you know you have nothing in common?” Patton’s voice lilted. He always gave off the vibe of a dad trying to get his child to try a new food or something. Roman shot him a side-eyed look, and Patton continued, “you like Disney, right? Well, it just so happens Virgil is into Disney, too! See? There is something you have in common?” “Yeah, sure, but… I mean, who doesn’t like Disney?” Patton just shrugged. Roman was being stubborn, but Patton knew he’d practically won. “All I ask is you let me introduce you to him at the party, okay? Just let him say hello. You can even ask him one of your weird questions.” Patton waved a gloved hand vaguely. Roman was suddenly aware that he seemed to know something Roman didn’t, but he ignored the feeling in favor of a childish groan. “Fine, you can bring him to party and introduce him to me,” defeat dripped from his voice, and Patton clapped in delight and cheered as they arrived on the doorstep of the house.

Some pop rendition of Jingle Bells played through the house as Roman made his way to the snack table. The table was draped with a festive table cloth covered in reindeer and sleighs, and it featured an impressive array of cookies and cupcakes and other holiday-themed treats. Most claimed that Roman and Remus overdid the party thing, but in truth it was mostly Roman. Classmates and friends milled around dancing, eating, and chatting happily. Roman picked out a tree-shaped cookie that he had made and started to make his way into the living room when he heard someone call his name. Roman turned to see Patton dragging a boy toward him, a broad grin decorated his face and, as usual, outshone the blinking Christmas light necklace he was wearing. They met just to the side of the entryway into the living room. “I know you said you hadn’t met yet, so Roman, this is Virgil,” he gestured to the boy standing next to him. His dyed purple bangs draped just down to his eyes, and he was wearing a dark purple sweater in place of his usual patchwork hoodie. Virgil watched Patton carefully, only looking at Roman when introduced by name. Virgil gave a wave so slight, Roman would have missed it if it was any smaller. His low voice was soft, and yet carried easily over the din of the party, “hello.” “Have you ever wanted to be a fly on the wall?” Roman said. His response was automatic. Replying to “hello” with a question had become an unconscious habit after doing it for so many years. Virgil stared. That was a standard reaction to Roman, he had hardly registered the question that had come out of his mouth. Patton’s further widening smile, however, was not a standard reaction. Roman then realized that Virgil’s stare was different from others as well. His gray eyes shone with shock instead of the confusion Roman was accustomed to. Suddenly becoming uncomfortable with the silence, he said “… What?” “… I’ve always wanted to ask, and I mean this sincerely, what the fuck kind of greeting is that” Virgil said finally as he started to tug down his sleeve, revealing the words on his wrist. Roman’s face lit up with astonishment and excitement. “No, I’ve never wanted to be a fly on the wall, but thanks to you, I’ve thought about it bordering on obsessively for almost eight years.” Roman finally broke out of his trance. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it worked,” he exclaimed as Virgil stared quizzically at him. Roman showed him his own wrist and explained the logic behind his seemingly random question. Suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he whirled on Patton. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” He shrugged innocently. “I knew that Virgil had a weird question on his wrist and that you have a tendency to ask such questions,” He grinned slyly, “I couldn’t be certain, but it was a pretty fair bet.” “You’re a mad genius,” Virgil cocked his head at Patton. Patton smiled brightly again, “I don’t know what you mean, kiddo, I’m just helping out where I can.” Roman shook his head and laughed, “alright, Pat, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” “That’s fine, Roman,” Patton clapped him on the shoulder, “I’ve got to go find Logan, so you guys get to know each other,” Patton waved as he stepped away. Roman and Virgil turned to face one another and stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Roman wracked his brain for what to do next, and all he could come up with was, “So… Disney?”

172 notes · View notes

stefciastark · 3 years

Text

Scars ~ Webpril Day 6

A/N: Here is the final part to the "The Mines" mini story arc :) I hope you enjoy this little chapter of IronDad fluff. It's definitely a topic I want to expand more on with IronDad, and I definitely didn't address it enough in this fic (it's nearing 2a.m so I had to wrap it up somewhere) BUT if it's something you'd like to see, just let me know and it may just become its own fic :)Thank you to everyone who's been leaving comments and kudos as well. It's my first proper return to the world of fanfiction and your support and feedback means the world, so thank you!! xx

~Read it on AO3

~Read it on FFN

This was the second time in…too soon, that Peter had to make a return to the realm of the ‘awake’. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to. There was an intense throbbing behind his eyes that pounded to the percussive beat of Pomp & Circumstance; it was a tune that he had been forced to sit through every year since he was a freshman as they gathered in assembly to wave the upperclassmen goodbye as they left for the real world. He decided that if he survived until his own graduation, he would petition for a drastic change of the ceremony music. ‘I Lived’ by OneRepublic seemed kind of appropriate.

He couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped his lips as the throbbing in his head shifted from the right to the left as he turned his head to the side. He felt smooth satin beneath his cheeks, a pleasant contrast to the rough gravel and dust that greeted him last time.

Sleep tugged at his consciousness, beckoning him away from a world that had so far greeted him with pain and uncertainty. Just his luck though that a pair of fingers began to snap repeatedly in front of his closed eyes.

“No, none of that ‘going back to sleep’ stuff, kid. Time to get up.”

Peter waved his hand in front of his face, trying to shoo away whomever dared invade his personal bubble. “G’way…”

“Ouch…Is that how you thank me for saving your life?”

Peter’s eyes finally cracked open, ready to give his speaker the biggest verbal whooping he could muster – which Peter faced it, he wasn’t going to sound particularly convincing either way. It was then that his mind finally caught up with what his eyes were seeing; Tony was sitting on the occasional chair to the right of the bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands locked together. His knuckles were white, and that tension bled into the expression on his face. Dark circles that looked like bruises shaded the underneath of his eyes, frown lines gently creasing his forehead.

Now that he had a moment to register the rest of his surroundings, he noted with relief that he wasn’t laying in a hospital bed, and there was no accompanying beep of the monitors that usually accompanied infirmary-esque surroundings. In the end, it was Peter’s view of the half-open sliding closet door that told him his answer; he was in his personal bedroom at the Avengers facility. A T-shirt Ned bought him for his last birthday that he’d been looking for for weeks hung at the front. It was the one with a pun that first made him cringe, but eventually grew on him until it inexplicably and unironically became one of his favourites. It had a large picture of a Spiderman mask, surrounded by text that said: “What does Spiderman do for a living? He’s a web designer!”

Thinking of Ned, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something…

Tony saw the second Peter’s eyes widened in panic, and he quickly leaped off the chair to press Peter back down onto the bed as he tried weakly to get up. The pain in Peter’s right ankle that had gone unnoticed until that moment flared up, eliciting a small cry that was a mixture of pain and surprise.

“W-where’s Ned, is he okay? He was with me in the – in the mine and he wasn’t waking up and -” Peter’s chest rose and fell rapidly, panic flooding his senses, the weight of Tony’s hand on his shoulder doing nothing to ground him, only making him feel claustrophobic as the memories of being stuck under rubble bubbled to the surface.

Tony immediately retracted his hand from Peter’s shoulder. He knew when Peter needed to be left to himself. As much as he wished he could hug the kid’s troubles away, the aftermath of Vulture left Peter with psychological scars. No amount of comfort, exciting new tech projects or keeping busy would undo what had happened, and it was something that Peter needed to confront on his own time and in his own way. Of course, Tony would be there. He would always be there.

“Ned’s okay, just a moderate concussion, some bruises and understandably a little freaked out.” Peter visibly relaxed at the update, glad to at least hear that his best friend wasn’t lying in a hospital bed somewhere, fighting for life. “You know, you’re lucky you’re the same type of super-freak like Rogers.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t he like,” Peter imitated a needle going into his arm and finished with a ‘fshhhhh’ as the imaginary needle plunger was suppressed.

“No, no, I mean he’s an entirely -” Tony stopped himself, dragging his hand across his face, not quite sure how to go on without trailing Cap in the mud. He didn’t particularly want to open that can of worms. Contrary to public opinion, he was trying to play nice. “Look, I’m tired, and that’s not what I meant,” he sighed. “I just mean you got very lucky, kid. Being strong and being able to heal like that is what saved your ass.”

“I’m pretty sure you saved my ass.” Peter’s breathing had slowed down, and he had sunk back into the mattress, eyes no longer looking like he was a deer stuck in the headlights. Tony mentally sighed with relief - crisis averted.

“First of all, I know, I was just being polite. Secondly hey, watch your language. I’m the adult, I get to use those words.” He raised a mocking eyebrow in response to Peter’s expression of light-hearted indignation. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not the one who makes the rules. I don’t want your aunt coming after me after you go home sounding like ‘The Dude’ Lebowski.”

They both entered an unspoken staring contest that was soon lost by both parties as Peter couldn’t refrain from sniggering after no more than five seconds, and Tony broke into a smile not long after.

Peter’s expression turned serious once more. “Wait, how long have I been here? Does May know? Crap, I should text her, she probably thinks I’m dead, she’s going to freak.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y took care of that when you got here,” Tony looked down to check his watch, “nine hours ago.”

A pregnant silence fell on the room. Peter’s eyes were cast down, staring studiously at the various scrapes and cuts along his arms; his souvenirs from Sterling Hill. Tony could see the gears turning in Peter’s head, and he wasn’t surprised in the least when Peter posed him a question.

“I know I can’t scar because of...y’know,” he swallowed, fingers clenching and unclenching the sheets as he refused to look at Tony. His voice was small when he asked, “But what do you do about the scars you can’t see?”

Tony paused for a moment before responding. He’d known this question was coming for some time, yet he didn’t really have a response. “I still have nightmares about New York.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Point is, at the end of the day, I try not to let things I can’t control get to me. You did all you could, kid, don’t kick yourself for it.”

Tony wanted to say more than his little anecdote but couldn’t quite find the words. Years of ‘tough love’ at the hands of his father didn’t exactly give him an ideal arsenal to deal with the sensitive nature of the topic, and the last thing he wanted to do was give Peter the same ‘Stark men are made of iron” ‘golden’ advice he got from Howard as a boy. He felt like an elephant in a porcelain shop, and he was afraid that one day Peter would break.

As Tony rummaged through the manila folders in his brain for the right thing to say, Peter yawned. “Thanks Mr Stark,” his body and mind still in recovery mode after the previous day’s events.

“Get some rest, Spiderman. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He ruffled Peter’s hair and turned to leave, the kid already snoring quietly seconds after his head hit the pillow.

Tony returned to his lab; he had some important unfinished business to take care of. Hours later, he had fallen asleep, head resting on his arms over his glass-top desk. The monitor above him glowed faintly in the darkness, thirteen separate tabs open ranging from ‘Supporting Your Teen’s Mental Health’, to the one that was currently displayed: ‘How to Be a Good Father’.

A/N: Ah Tony, paranoid about wanting to be the perfect father figure to Peter and not wanting to repeat his own father's mistakes. Either way, the (alluded to) topic of this concluding piece is something I want to maybe dedicate a longer fic to. I didn't really feel as if I could give it the attention and in-depth discussion that I wanted to. Unfortunately, juggling university, life, and writing these daily as they come because of the nature of the challenge (and I'm super scared of falling behind with the prompts) means that a lot of these aren't as fleshed out as I'd like them to be, and I'd love to give some of these some more love once the challenge is over. ANYWAYS, long rant aside, hope you enjoyed the small concluding piece to 'The Mines', and thank you for your continued support :) xx

#webpril day 6 #webpril 2021 #irondad fanfiction #marvel #mcu fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #angst #h/c #h/c fanfiction #emotional h/c #fanfiction #writing prompt #writing challenge #fluff

3 notes · View notes

ex-terfs · 5 years

Note

I’m curious about how you were introduced to trans exclusionary ideology, and when you realized how toxic it truly is. I’m genuinely curious.

Hello! Sorry for the hiatus.So this is my story & long rant post.I've been among TERFs/Radfems (AKA the Conservative side of "feminism") since 2015. In mid-2016 — with the dangers of having Trump as President — I started getting critical of everything going on in the community, deleted older posts, & stopped reblogging "trans-critical" stuff. In 2017 — after seeing TERFs celebrating that the 'Everyday Feminism' site was facing a financial crisis & after paying more attention at what our "enemies" were trying to say — I unfollowed all the bullies, & eventually started to despise seeing "trans-critical" stuff. Their hatred towards the "big scary Libfems" is what made me rethink my priorities.

Many parts of their ideology had peculiarly attracted my attention back in 2015. As a GNC person who celebrates gender nonconformity, their gender abolition theories seemed very interesting (& I later found out how bigoted they are towards GNC men & GNC people with different identities/pronouns). When I was a sex-repulsed person, their porn-critical & sex-negative theories also seemed very interesting to me (I later found out how bigoted they are towards sex-repulsed people — upholding heteronormativity & saying things like "Haha, nobody loves you", "If you're a man/bisexual/lesbian, you must perform oral sex on your gf"; but still, I'm NO longer in the sex-negative/SWERF community). People sending them death threats was also one of the reasons why I had joined their movement.

It always begins like this. Step 1: you begin exploring anti-kink/anti-porn stuff; Step 2: you begin exploring anti-"MOGAI" stuff; Final step: you turn into a transphobe. That's how I got into this mess.

Second-wave theories originally had a critical focus on the social construction of gender & sexuality, monogamy, submission/masochism, natalism, the family structure, the fear of nonconformity, emotional/economic dependency, religion, & violence.As a feminist, yeah, I still agree with most of these analyses. I love reading academic books. But there was something different about terf/radfem tumblr. & this is all I've noticed over the years.

TERFs treat their word like holy truth.

TERFs use Right-wing "sources" to back up their transphobic & sex-negative arguments (& often associate themselves with conservative groups).

TERFs claim that all men are "biologically/physically the same".

TERFs contradict themselves all the time: claim that sex-repulsed AroAces are "usual straights", mock people who just want to remain single, & at the same time still say that if you don't want to have sex with men, then "you're a lesbian"; they say that people don't owe you sex, & at the same time say it's "not okay" for men to sexually reject a woman for "bad reasons".

TERFs claim that lesbians who are anti-TERF or who don't believe in the "born-this-way" theory are "fake lesbians".

TERFs are against the idea of removing your secondary sexual characteristics; & if an AMAB person doesn't like their "secondary sexual characteristics", then they must be a "delusional fetishist" (srsly I identify as a woman, but I still wish I could remove my uterus & have a breast reduction surgery; & it's not for sexist reasons! Shocking, I know!).

TERFs claim that men can't be raped/abused by women (not all TERFs believe this, but I still see them quietly following the ones who do).

TERFs have definitely never read a book with a different perspective/purpose, yet they will act like total experts on any subject (TERFs act like they're experts on Postmodernism & Queer Theory, but they have no idea what these theories are actually about. These theories are both very complex & don't have only one definition! Shocking, I know!).

TERFs will assume you're a trans woman if you don't disclose you're actually AFAB (& they could still have doubts).

TERFs are very manipulative & use brainwashing tactics. If you're AFAB & anti-TERF, they will say it's because of your "internalized misogyny" & will try to guilt-trip you. Because how dare someone has a different opinion! If you're AFAB & proudly calls yourself 'genderfluid' or 'non-binary', TERFs will get offended.

TERFs claim that asexuality only exists "because of the prevalence of porn" (Aces & sex-repulsed people would still be here even if porn didn't exist! Shocking, I know!).

TERFs claim that men who call themselves 'feminist' are "all predators".

TERFs would rather include transphobic men in their spaces than "those evil libfems" (those women are enemies).

TERFs claim that radical feminism is the "only true feminism", & that all second-wave feminists were "radfems".

TERFs claim that GNC men are "fetishizing" femininity (but according to TERF logic, masculine men are not fetishizing masculinity).

TERFs are extremely bigoted towards sex workers, polyamorous people, people who don't want commitment, people who are sexually experimenting or who are promiscuous (which is also one of the reasons why I left the sex-negative community; their views on sex/lust/love are similar to the Christian conservative perspective).

I can definitely assure you I still very well remember most of their URLs & blog content. There are many TERFs who hide behind aesthetic blogs, & use subtle TERF language & comforting rhetoric — which you might not even notice if you don't know much about their specific type of language & tactics (e.g. complaining about the "neoliberal postmodern identities" & about people "erasing females"). This type of TERF also may follow a bunch of (trans-inclusive) anti-'MOGAI' & anti-kink blogs. If you're trans-inclusive & TERFs follow you, it's likely because your blog content doesn't make them uncomfortable.

Their blatant transphobia is absurd & paranoiac, & they don't hide it. Anyone who disagrees with them gets called a "handmaiden", "lesbophobe", "male", "genderist", "liberal", "libfem", "special snowflake" (I no longer consider myself a radical leftist, but I don't consider myself a centrist either). TERFs call trans women as a group "fetishists", "delusional", "mentally ill", "sociopaths", "narcissists", "pedophiles", "necrophiles", "incels", "genderfucks" + slurs like "tr*nny", "troon", "tr0n", "transes". They say that the trans movement is "coercing children to transition" & "forcing lesbians to have sex with penis". It's pure fear-mongering. Their views on trans men are also contradictory — there are times they claim that trans men are "straight girls who are trans just bc they read fanfiction & watch gay porn", & there are times they claim that trans men are "brainwashed butch lesbians" (Pick a side!).

I live in a very religious Latin American country. The majority of the population here is not educated on gender/sexuality issues. I got the chance of educating myself better only after I've learned English. And then some terfs had the gall to say "academic fields such as Gender & LGBT Studies & philosophy are oppressive & pretentious". In a country like mine with a dark history of military dictatorships, censorship & anti-intellectualism, being leftist means protecting the social sciences in education & freedom of the press.

So yes, I left the terf community bc unlike them, I think for myself & I hate bullying (i was in fact heavily bullied for years in school, & only bullying victims know how it truly feels like). My terf blog is now inactive; I had 1000+ followers. I'm a very quiet person irl & online; I was never vocal about my real opinions bc I don't like getting into heated discussions & I didn't want to be featured on that gross radfem-gossip blog.I was very transphobic back then. & now it's quite possible terfs will say to me "You were never one of us". I followed & liked their blogs, just like they followed mine. I was loyal & obedient. Now not anymore.

#Ask #transphobia

2K notes · View notes

schrijverr · 4 years

Text

Behind the Scenes

This is a story that developed from a small peek into my brain whenever I write the stories you read into a thinkpiece about writing and posting fanfiction.

On AO3.

Ships: none (unless you wanna ship me with my keyboard lol)

Warnings: none, I suppose, but it does get a little down in the end, I was having a rough day when I wrote this, sorry.

~~~~~~~~~~

I sit on my chair before my laptop. I’m curled into myself as my fingers glide over the keyboard and my thoughts flow out of my fingertips onto the screen.

It isn’t all that late, just past midnight, but it’s already dark outside and in order to see the keys properly I have to turn on the lamp I have on my desk. With the light it’s kind of cozy here in my little nook of the world.

I look to the screen and try to make sense of my own words. I don’t have a fully fledged idea yet, but a vague idea that floated through my brain at some point during the day has inspired me enough to open a new document and start typing.

I now know how this story begins and I see where I am going and how it will end, but the question of how I get there sits heavily on my mind.

I stop typing for a moment and think. If I introduce this character now, it might set some other things in motion and that’ll be good for the plot, but I don’t know how to write that character at all and I’m afraid that if I do it wrong, people won’t like me or my story.

I sigh and realize I’ve started almost every new paragraph with the same word. I hate it when I do that. The story starts to feel repetitive and as a non native English speaker I want to prove that I have a bigger vocabulary than that.

How to proceed?

A synonym, maybe? But I’ll have to look that up and I don’t think there is a good synonym for I. Sighing again I scan the page and think. Maybe I could start with a verb to shake things up a bit or a question. No, not a question that would feel out of place here.

Now I’ve written a few paragraphs again, so I could use the word I used before, but since I used it so many times already I want a bit more space between now and the next time I use it. So a synonym it is, I guess, I think as I open my browser to look one up.

…

There is no synonym for I.

Goddammit, I think. Well, it’s no use now anyway. I’ve decided to write this story in the first person, despite knowing I’m horrible at it, and now I have to deal with the fact that I don’t have another word for I.

I start my next paragr- no that’s not right. Backspace, backspace. Moving on to the next- No, not that either. Backspace, backspace. I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t, hmm, what’s a good word there?

I know I have a good word in Dutch ‘voortborduren’, but when I translate it, it gives me elaborate, which doesn’t fit in the sentence at all. Mentally groaning I recline in my chair as I try to think.

Maybe it’s the sentence itself? Lets see what did I write again? Oh yeah: I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t- and then I need to find a word. Hm, funny, I don’t know how to go on by the sentence about not knowing how to go on.

‘I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t’, I whisper it to myself in the hope the right word comes to mind.

First there is nothing, but then! Expand! Not perfect, but it fits, which is good enough for now, maybe when I proof read it a better word will come to me and I can use that.

So, expand. I wonder why I wrote something I can’t expand upon.

Fuck, I’ve spend so much time finding the right word that I have forgotten what I was talking, well writing, about in the first place. Softly swearing under my breath I scroll up and read what came before the sentence with the stupidly hard word to think off.

Ah yeah, it was about the other stupid thing, namely that I am writing this in the first person, which I still cannot do, no that skill has not come to me in the time it took to look up a word. What a pity.

But I have started the last few paragraphs with something other than I from time to time. That at least is something. Wait, should I add punctuation there? That, at least, is something. Looks better, but maybe that is just my love for commas talking. I mean, why write a boring sentence with a dot in the middle, which makes it short and doesn’t give you enough space to play with it, when you can also add unnecessary punctuation, so that you can play with the cadence of how something is read out loud or in someones mind?

Whoops, now that whole paragraph is long, if I want to make this story easy to read I’ll have to make this one shorter. Hmm, is this good? Yeah, probably. Enter.

Now, I’m suddenly wondering, if paragraph is even the right word. In Dutch the word is ‘alinea’ and the word ‘paragraaf’ also means chapter, but not really, only in a school book. It doesn’t really make sense, because you also have a chapter in a schoolbook and that’s divided in paragraphs and each paragraph has ‘alinea’s’

Aaand I’ve distracted myself by thinking about the differences between each language instead of looking up if paragraph is actually the right word and it means what I think it means.

I look it up on Google translate, not the most trustworthy source for sentences, but for lone words it’s alright.

It is the right word, along with indention, but I’m not really familiar with that word, although I can see where it comes from with the paragraphs creating indentions in the text. Still, I decide to stick with paragraphs, cause “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” and I live by that.

Looking back to the clock in the corner of my screen I realize that I’ve now been writing this for 40 minutes. It isn’t all that long, but I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore. I had a point when I began and now I’ve forgotten it.

I stretch my arms, by pushing away my chair, leaning forward until my shoulders are at the same height of my desk is. My right shoulder cracks, it has always done that, but the sound snaps me out of my musings and makes me pay more attention to my surroundings.

It is raining outside and I hear people screaming. They sound happy, probably celebrating something and drinking, but I still wondered what they’re doing up so late (ignoring the fact that I am still awake too.)

Right, my word document. I was trying to remember what my point was. No wait, not remember, recall sounds better. I double click remember and replace it with recall: I was trying to recall what my point was.

Although I have found a nice sentences with the best word to describe the action, I still don’t know what comes next. I suddenly begin to doubt myself. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe I’ve read this somewhere before and I am unconsciously copying someone. Maybe I should just delete this and move on to something else.

I mean, come on, who wants to read this? No one. I’m just going to post it, knowing that no one cares and no one will read it. People don’t go to AO3 for original works, you don’t, so why would anyone care about it? It’s going to get five hits tops, with maybe two kudos, three if you’re lucky.

And now I have accidentally switched to a second person perspective, can’t even stay consistent. Maybe if I play it off as an introspection or and internal dialogue no one will notice or think it’s an artistic choice.

Pff, artistic choice. You can hardly call what I’m doing artistic. It’s just fanfiction, a hobby. Yeah, I know that is still good and can be great, even amazing and artfully written, but this isn’t. I have a too direct writing style for that. I’ve only been getting English education for six years and it’ll take so much more practice until I ever reach that level.

I’ve gotten off track completely now. I faintly remember that this started out as a mock internal dialogue of what happens when I write a fanfic, but now it turned into a self deprecating shit parade.

I blink long and hard, trying to get my head back on track and write something better, or at least more consistent.

Realizing that in order to do that I should probably scroll up and read (lets be honest scan) how I started. I don’t have the energy for it, but I force myself to do it with a sigh.

Scroll, scroll, scroll.

Ah, yeah, I began with where I was and then that discussion about language and looking things up. Oh, but I’ve also reflected on what I’ve written before, well, before. Then it was about re-finding what I was doing after I had to look up a word and now it is desperately trying to remember what the actual fuck I was doing in an attempt to make something cohesive, but still. I decide to not do that again.

I still don’t know what my point was when I started this, but I’m making a new one up right now. I think I’m going to call the work ‘behind the scenes’ or ‘the thoughts of a writer’, since I have now decided that this is a way to get readers a peek behind the curtains.

As a reader, I can respect people so much for all the work they put into a story. And of course I’m not saying you can’t do that if you don’t write, no, that would be pretentious, but I do have more respect for them than before I started writing all those years ago.

It is really easy to forget that something you read in a few minutes has taken hours to write. This is not even 2k words long right now. I know I can read that in a few minutes, not even blinking and mostly forgetting, before moving on to the next story, but I have been writing almost nonstop for over an hour now.

I am lucky that I can usually keep the words flowing long enough to make some bullshit up that I can reason into a coherent story in the end, but that has taken practice. A lot of practice.

In order to become a good in writing a story you have to do it so many times and you won’t even notice you’ve gotten better until much later. I know this, because I recently went through all my works and made them better. Got all the typos out there, I fixed vague sentences and I made the lay out better. I also cringed a lot.

Well, I think I have to go with a ‘behind the scenes’ now, because I don’t think I can claim this is my internal monologue when I’m writing. Instead this has turned into a think piece about writing and appreciating it or something.

I don’t even know anymore.

I recall I had a point when I started this, probably thought it out and then my brain decided to throw it away and throw up this garbage instead. It is interesting, I suppose, but not at all what I was going for in the beginning.

Oh well, maybe I can fix it when I proof read it, because I am tired and I think I’m going to bed. I have half the mind to just fuck it and throw it on AO3 without glancing over my own words even once. It’s very tempting to leave others to deal with these honest words and pretend they aren’t mine, but I don’t.

However, I don’t think I will edit this that much, because it was nice to get some frustrations on, well not paper, but on screen. Just order my thoughts, you know?

It is hard to stay motivated when it seems that everyone around you is doing so much better than you. It is disheartening and it makes you want to stop.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Writing is what I do, it helps, it’s nice. I love writing and I don’t think I will stop loving it. But one of the reasons I love writing is because it can get the constant thoughts and ideas to stop swirling around in my head.

Today I needed it to stop, so that I could just go to sleep properly and I feel like this helped. It was honest and I feel better now. Tomorrow can come at me and I will face it like I did today. Maybe my last few fics weren’t to everyones taste and that’s okay, they were my taste and I love them and I am proud of them. For me that’s enough.

I would apologize for ranting, I usually do, but since you could stop at any time and leave, I don’t think I’m going to do that, what I am going to do, is thank you.

Thank you for reading this, despite the fact that it is not a fanfic. Thank you for allowing me to just dump all these thoughts on you. And thank you for being here and clicking it, your support, even if it is only an extra number by “hits”, means so incredibly much to me and I cannot put in to words how grateful I am that you are here.

Since it is now 01:18 and if I recall correctly it was 00:02 when I started, I think I am really going to stop now. Goodnight, or good-whatever time a day you’re reading this!

Goodbye :)

#RR writing #just me thinking #think piece #internal monologue #writing fanfic

7 notes · View notes

thepapergirlandthespiegelman · 4 years

Text

Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality: Initial impressions

Titles can be deceiving.

CW: child abuse, childhood trauma, mental illness, depression, anxiety

I think I can recall hearing about Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality at some point in the fairly distant past, though I can’t be sure. What I can say with relative certainty is that if I did encounter it, I probably wasn’t very likely to read it. I probably assumed that HPMOR was one of those obnoxiously misguided and pedantic critiques of fiction by scientists who neither know how to utilize suspension of disbelief, nor understand the basic nature of symbolism. At best, I might have imagined it to be a piece attempting to discover or construct a coherent logic from the magic within the Harry Potter universe, just for the pure amusement value, the absurdity of attempting to apply logic to that which defies it. I could see the appeal of that, but probably not 122 chapters worth of it.

After actually reading the first ten chapters of HPMOR, however, I can say that my first guess was incorrect, and my second guess was insufficient. HPMOR does capitalize on that humorous absurdity, but that’s hardly the core of the story.

One major reason for my misperceptions was a lack of familiarity with the difference between science and rationality. In layspeak, we often use these terms near interchangeably, and while they do go hand-in-hand to some extent, they’re not the same. Science is a method of obtaining knowledge. Rationality is an approach to living life, which dictates utilizing philosophy and science to obtain desired outcomes. You can be a scientist and be completely irrational, which actually reflects back on my initial concern; there are some scientists who will attempt to use the theory and language of science to denigrate works of art, completely ignoring the point of art.

HPMOR itself deals with this problem, not only the conflation of science with rationality, but the conflation of science and rationality and aptitude and general intelligence. The very first chapter highlights how AU Harry’s (Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, HJPEV for short) father is a professor, knowledgeable about science, presumably quite intelligent, and yet behaves incredibly irrationally. Rather than attempting to settle the dispute about the existence of magic objectively, he refuses to entertain the idea on principle, saying, “Magic is just about the most unscientific thing there is!”

And here’s where the real story begins to unfold. What makes HPMOR hit hard, at least for me, is not the discussion of science and rationality in the abstract, or even the very useful, illustrative scenarios, but the emotional struggle of trying to be a rational person in an irrational world, especially when you’re a child. In so many ways, HPMOR is a story about the trauma of growing up as a so-called “gifted” child. Almost every chapter that I read was painfully reminiscent of my own childhood:

Seeing my parents speculate and argue endlessly over things that could be proven;

Attempting to reason with them only to be shut down;

Having my value in their eyes dependent on their perception of my intelligence and academic performance, being praised for when I was perceived to have succeeded in these matters, while at the same time having my perspective completely ignored when it came to anything that mattered;

Being mocked relentlessly for things I did when I was younger, ignoring the incredibly rapid growth that defines childhood;

Constantly feeling as though, as HJPEV puts it, I was being treated as “subhuman,” my feelings, thoughts, and opinions all invalid because of my age;

Feeling so, so frustrated that the people who were supposed to protect me were so absurdly, ridiculously, unfairly, woefully, tragically ill-equipped to do so.

I became hopelessly isolated from my parents, and my self-esteem became self-degrading. Being told over and over again how what I felt or thought didn’t matter because I was only a child made me doubt and disrespect my own emotions and doubt my very sanity. I don’t think that my parents meant to gaslight me, but that’s exactly what they did. For years, and years, and years, and it hurts. so. much. It...I cannot express how much it hurts.

And I am left with all of this damage, these lines of irrationality programmed into my brain, this obsessive need to to be perceived as intelligent in order to believe that I could be loved, in order to merely function, this irrationality that I hate so much because it hurt me so much is now encoded into my very being and it fills me with existential horror to this day.

It was difficult for me to get through as much of HPMOR as I did, and I genuinely wonder if it would be detrimental to my mental health to go on. It triggers both the suffering that comes with remembering past trauma as well as the compulsions that have resulted from that trauma. Hearing HJPEV list all the books he’s read sends a bolt of anxiety down my spine, knowing that I will never measure up to people like him, I will never have read enough, I will never be smart enough, I will never...be...enough—

Enough. I know when to stop torturing myself.

I was shocked to see how quickly HPMOR itself comes to the conclusion that what HJPEV has endured is a form of child abuse. It took me years to become comfortable using the words “abuse” and “trauma” to describe my experiences, and HPMOR introduces the word “abuse” in Chapter 6! I give HPMOR’s McGonagall much less credit than HJPEV does, but even so, it’s kind of astonishing to me to see an adult pick up on the existence of abuse in a so-called gifted child, even in fiction. I find myself wondering how I might have turned out differently if I had had someone like McGonagall in my life, or someone better than McGonagall in my life, who had told me in no uncertain terms, “What is happening to you is abuse, it is not okay, it is not your fault, and while I’m unable to legally extricate you from your unfortunate circumstances, I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

Because that didn’t happen. No one told me that I was abused or damaged. They told me that I was “smart,” “gifted,” “advanced,” or “mature”; and if they noticed anything odd about my behavior, it was because I was just “quiet,” “shy,” “introverted,” or “diligent.”

I also find myself wondering if I might have been a little different if I had read HPMOR when I first had the chance. But then again, I don’t know if I would have understood it as I do now, after years of studying psychology and working to heal myself.

God, seeing it all laid out so starkly, things I worked years to understand, in a few short chapters of someone’s fucking fanfiction*...I sure do feel like an idiot.

But then, this whole conversation has primed me to feel those feelings.

I must not undervalue myself. I am not playing that game. That game is the problem.

One thing does irritate me, though. Putting aside my misconceptions about HMPOR specifically, there’s this huge barrier to entry to the rationalist community in general. I think people perceive (correctly, as far as I can tell) that it is a community of highly intelligent people, who are highly skilled in STEM disciplines, particularly math. The one friend who could have introduced me to all this was someone who I saw as hopelessly more intelligent than I, and that perceived disparity made it incredibly difficult to approach him even as I admired him, envied him, and desperately needed the things that he could teach me. (I don’t know what things were like on his end. I still don’t.)

We’ve already seen that someone can be highly intelligent and completely irrational. I wish we could take that logic a step further and really make clear that rationality is not something that requires high intelligence. As with learning anything, intelligence helps, but intelligence can’t be a prerequisite for this skillset, because literally everyone should have it. I guess this might be controversial, but so far as I can tell, rationality is just the best way to go through life. And of course, knowing the best way to move forward is especially critical for those of us leaving behind dark pasts.

For fuck’s sake, this doesn’t have anything to do with quarks or discrete math or machine learning. It has everything to do with reducing human suffering.

And I wish...I really wish that there was a way to share this world with my friends. The only reason that I made it here is that I’ve constantly existed on the borderline, wavering around the threshold of what is broadly considered intelligent, attempting mastery of both STEM and humanities, science and art. As much as I doubt and denigrate myself, I am able, if I really want to, under certain favorable circumstances, to convince myself that I belong here. Not all of my friends have the same privilege. I have friends who have lived their whole lives believing that they just aren’t that smart, or that they aren’t any good at math or science. Maybe they decided early on that that stuff wasn’t for them, or maybe they tried and felt like they failed. I know that, for many people, academic language is frustrating, triggering, or otherwise completely inaccessible. I know that many people will find HJPEV absolutely insufferable and most of what he says incomprehensible.

And I’m really not sure what to do about that. I’ve not sure how to convince people that striving for rationality is both possible and worthwhile for everyone, and if I do convince them, I’m not sure what to actually show them that will make any sense to them.

I don’t know. Maybe it does have a bit to do with math. Because a lot of what I get from rationality, I can get from other places, be that art or psychology or witchcraft, but the stuff that is unique does tend to be the mathematical and statistical thinking. And philosophical thinking, academic thinking. Talking about things with precision...That’s always been my problem with trying to translate the academic into ordinary speech, it feels like all the precision is being lost. To be precise, you need unique words, and unique words tend to be obscure, and people find obscure words upsetting.

Obviously, this isn’t a problem I’m going to solve in this blog post. But it’s something to think about.

So, I guess that’s my review of the first ten chapters of HPMOR, if you can call it that. If one of the purposes of fiction is to unlock a bizarrely intense cocktail of existential horror and unadulterated wrath deriving from the wrongs of one’s childhood—and I certainly believe it is—then HPMOR succeeds spectacularly.

*Edited to add: In my unfortunate compulsion to drag myself down, I often drag down other things or people too. I shouldn’t trivialize the value of fanfiction. And, quite honestly, I really shouldn’t be surprised that it could be a source of profound insight. After all, writing fanfiction has been one of my own ways to cope with and sort through my emotions and illnesses for a long, long time.

8 notes · View notes

tragedybunny · 4 years

Text

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 14

Happy Valentine's Day! I have been pushing myself to get this chapter out on the day of love! As always your playlist song:

Like A Prayer

❤TragedyBunny❤

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

Thunk. The dagger hits the target, perfectly dead center. I’m hanging upside down from a ceiling rafter, throwing at targets scattered around the room, concentrating despite the dizziness starting to make my head spin. Behind me, I hear the whine of the opening door. None of the servants would dare interrupt me, not even Gwen. “Kitten, are you still not talking to me?”

I listen to his steps as he draws closer to me. I glance to my right and let a dagger fly in his direction. It buries itself in the wall next to him, he doesn’t flinch. “I’ll take that as yes.” We both know that I wasn’t actually aiming at him. He sighs, now the negotiating starts. “How about we go to the theatre tonight and then to that little cafe you like so much?”

I throw a blade at another target and ignore him. I want to see what concessions he’s willing to make. “I’ll buy you something shiny.” Hmm, there are a few pieces at the jeweler’s that I’ve had my eye on.

I throw again, another perfect hit. “Fine, do whatever you want to do with the blasted garden.” He almost sounds pained saying it. I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, I hadn’t expected to get exactly what I wanted. That’s what the whole argument had been about, he’d been staunchly against the expense.

“All of the above.” I sit up onto the beam and drop down next to him. I almost let out a gasp when I get a good look at him, he looks so very tired and worn. He’d left before the sun was even up this morning. I’d barely fallen asleep after chasing a target most of the night when I’d felt him stir beside me. There’s been growing unrest in the south, sparking bands of rebels to spring up and need to be put down. I feel a bit guilty for all the theatrics just now. I lean up and brush my lips against his while wrapping my arms around his neck. “Darling, we don’t have to go out.”

I watch his eyes stray to the now faded handprint on my wrist. The past couple of months since that terrible night he’s been overly indulgent, giving into nearly every request or whim of mine. It’s bittersweet, I no longer believe what we have means nothing to him, but he still will not tell me otherwise. Is it pride, fear, or am I imagining things? He leans his cheek on the top of my head. “No, it’s fine.”

The way I’m pressed against his chest I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, strong and reassuring. “I'll leave it up to you.” I feel his arms tighten around me. I’m tempted to say more, but it’d make him cross if I fussed over him.

When we first started going to the theatre we were the subject of extreme interest. Those same whispers that followed us at the Solstice revels consumed the theatre crowd. Winter was fading away and we were falling back into a routine after what happened, he found me idly sketching and stated he was bored and we should go out. I told him he never wanted to go out, which earned an annoyed huff. I’d had to kiss away his irritation before he’d let me agree to his suggestion. It became a bit of a regular occurrence as spring arrived full force, the two of us, ensconced in his private box, bantering and debating in hushed whispers, trying to keep as quiet as possible. As if anyone would actually admonish the Grand General for not keeping quiet at the theatre.

“You really are spoiling me.” I twirl and show off the latest of his gifts, black lace and tulle, voluminous skirt yet somehow very revealing.

“I would say it’s worth it.” His gaze roves over me appreciatively before his hands close around my hips and he pulls me close. “You’re stunning.” The way his voice drops low and he whispers those words in my ear, I can almost feel my cheeks going crimson. I hate it when he does that.

“We will be late if you continue this.” I hesitate for a moment, we could just stay home. Eventually, I pull myself from his grasp and climb into the waiting carriage. “You may further compliment me when we return.”

It’s opening night for some unheard of playwright who’s managed to get the backing of a noble family. These productions that buy their way into a theatre are usually vanity pieces for their patrons and almost always end in spectacular disaster. Tonight is no exception, an overwrought affair based on an old myth, with glaringly obvious current parallels. “Really? Comparing me to Mordekaiser. I’m not sure if I should be insulted or flattered.”

“I would say flattered, but the dialogue is so insipid I’m going to go with insulted.” I make a mock gagging noise.

“We could just leave. That would cause a bit of a stir, walk out right now.”

“Tempting but whoever bankrolled this would probably think that was a victory. Oh, I know, let’s ask to meet the author. I heard he’s here. That will terrify him.”

“That is evil. How do I sleep next to you at night?” He puts his arm through my mine, bringing us closer.

“I always assumed very lightly.” I lean my head on his shoulder, relishing the moment.

He laughs in that subdued manner that’s typical for him, control to him is everything, and then squeezes my hand ever so slightly. I’ve come to know that gesture for what it is, his way of asking for affection, even if it is more proof of that constant need for control. I tilt my head up and brush my lips against his cheek anyway, I’ll not deny him. “I’m glad we came out tonight.” I’m taken aback at the unexpected honesty. I return my head to his shoulder and feel him ever so lightly kiss the top of my head.

“Me too.” Some intuition grips me and I realize there’s something he’s not telling me. I can feel the tension in his body as I lean against him. Between that and the tiredness lingering in his eyes, I’m troubled.

I don’t really pay attention to the remainder of the theatrical debacle playing out before us, instead, we whisper back and forth and exchange soft kisses when we run out of words. When the whole dreadful thing has finally concluded neither of us is invested in our malicious scheme from earlier. We attempt to slip out of the theatre quickly before any of the high society crowd can attempt to small talk to us. “Madame Katarina, Grand General!” Coming around a corner into an open foyer we almost run down the owner of the cultured, smooth voice.

“Rowan!” We stop short and I lean in to give them a quick peck on the cheek. “What a wonderful surprise.” I hear Jericho very quietly huff behind me, he knows why I'm so elated at the coincidence.

“Am I missing something?” They clearly sense the opposing forces at work here.

I met Rowan at a gallery show for Alrich about a month ago, we ended up deep in conversation and kept in touch after. It was only after our first meeting that I realized they were, in fact, the newly elected Head of the Mage’s Council. Jericho referred to it as quite a fortuitous connection, always politics with him. “Since you asked, there’s a small favor I need to beg of you.” Gardens don’t really grow in normal Noxian soil, you either import it or have it enchanted or better yet, both. “Could you recommend the best green mage of your acquaintance?” I give deep emphasis to best, the cost isn’t a concern.

“Planning to play in your garden a bit?” They give me a wry smile, they’ve heard my ambitions on this subject before. “I’ll see to it as soon as possible my dear. I hope you'll forgive my haste but I'm late to an engagement." He inclines his head politely to Jericho. "Grand General, always an honor, Sir. And do stop by sometime, the both of you, I owe you a tour.”

“We’ll look forward to it.” We kiss cheeks again, Jericho returns their nod, and they fade into the now pressing crowd.

Pushing through to the exit we finally find ourselves out in the mild spring night. I take his arm as we walk the short distance from the theatre to the cafe. “What’s troubling you, and don’t tell me nothing, I know better.”

“You are spending too much time with me. I had planned on having a discussion with you shortly. But first, other pressing matters. You are aware there is an intelligence briefing tomorrow, correct?”

“Yes.” This again, I keep my tone purposefully terse.

“And you know what time it is set to begin at?” I nod silently. “Then don’t be late again. Veera already thinks your position should be rescinded, stop giving her excuses. And please actually try to be in uniform.”

“She’s never going to like my being there anyway.” This is really the last thing I want to talk about.

“I’d imagine that has something to do with you breaking her nose up north.” His tone is flat.

I pull away from him to gesture wildly. “You know what she said! How was I supposed to know she was Intelligence.”

“You could’ve not let her bait you like that. However, she’s your Superior and you will have to deal with her for now.”

“Until I’m promoted. That’s what you’re planning on, isn’t it?” Thinking of fucking Veera and High Command has me silently seething. I didn’t even want this position in Intelligence, it was regretfully forced on me as soon as I became Guild Commander. “Remember when she had the nerve to ask if I could even read High Noxian like I’m some sort of uneducated child. The Grand Whore apparently can't understand our official language."

He surprisingly chuckles quietly. “You spent a whole meeting only speaking to her in Old Noxian. It was quite impressive actually, I didn’t even know you spoke it.” Now he finds it amusing, he was irritated at the time.

“I suppose it’s typical. People usually think killing is all I’m good for.” With that thought, melancholy starts to bleed into my rage. I trudge on in silence but he catches up and takes my arm again. He doesn’t speak though, giving me a moment until we reach our destination on the edge of an open plaza. There are a few cafes scattered amongst the now darkened shops that remain open for the crowds coming from the theatres, opera house, and galleries, but there’s one in particular I favor.

We’d started coming here shortly after we began having theatre nights. I’d frequented it before on my own, but one night we’d both needed sobering up and weren’t ready to go home. There had been a painfully boring diplomatic dinner that had impelled us both to decimate our host’s wine cellar. Well, impelled me anyway, I may have drug him along with it. It makes me smile a little to think of myself being a bad influence on the Grand General. We’d scared the owner Tavi, a Shuriman immigrant, half to death. He had no idea what to do with Jericho seated at one of his outdoor tables, sipping coffee with his mistress. He has since thankfully calmed down a bit when we show up.

We find our usual table, tucked into a darker corner of the veranda, affording us at least some privacy, as Jericho prefers. Sahar, one of Tavi’s daughters brings out coffee with a polite greeting before we even ask. They always have the best Shuriman brew here. You can tell by the number of Tavi’s fellow immigrants clustered inside, looking for a taste of home. Moments later Sahar reappears with a smile and one of Tavi’s famous flaky crusted pastries. “I saved one just for you, Madame, I know you are fond of them.” She’s a flatterer, but that’s what I pay for.

“Many thanks, Sahar. ” The scent of strawberries and roasted nuts wafts up to me and as soon as she’s out of sight I ravenously stuff a large forkful in my mouth.

Jericho smirks at me from across the table. “If only I knew before that all it took to mollify you was a decent pastry.”

I feign being indignant “It’s the strawberries, they’re my favorite, and someone wouldn’t let me have them all winter.”

“No, he said stop spending a fortune on them when they have to be imported.” He pretends to be stern with me.

I play the brat and pout. “You were mean about it and I didn’t get any.”

“My poor Kitten, that must have been torture. Although I know full well you had Cress buying them and hiding the cost. How many bottles of wine did it cost me for you to bribe him?” He sits back looking triumphant, he’s won our little back and forth.”

“No fair, you always know everything.” I blow him a kiss and finish enjoying my pastry. With the last bite dispatched I turn my attention back to what’s bothering him. The silence that’s stretched between us seems to be alive with whatever it is, it’s heavy and oppressive, erasing the pleasantness of a few moments ago. “So.”

“I suppose I owe you that discussion about what’s been on my mind.” I nod, hoping to just get it over with. My every sense is telling me to dread his words. “You know there’s been unrest in the south. Thus far the forces sent have failed to stamp it out entirely.” He pauses and once again tension fills the space between us. “I intend to go settle it myself.”

My heart freezes, I forget to breathe. He’s going to war. Part of me cries out to beg him not to, but that’s not the Noxian way and he’d despise it. Instead, I steady myself and bury that impulse. “Do you want me to go with?” That would be acceptable, I could make myself of use, like in the North.

He shakes his head. Of course, he won’t want it construed that he needs to take his little pet everywhere with him. “No, but the situation has given me much to consider and there is something I need to ask of you.” Another moment of terrible silence. I stare down at the cup in my hands that I hadn’t realized I was clutching tightly. Will he just get this over with? “It occurs to me I could use someone to watch over my interests while I’m away. Not with official power, of course, but to keep my allegiances strong and prevent my enemies from growing too bold.”

“And?” I urge him on, gesturing impatiently.

“I would want you to have the respect due to you while acting on my behalf. And I’d like to make it clear in that case that anyone acting against you is acting against me as well.” I take a sip of coffee, completely lost. “All this is to say, I think we should get married.”

A raspy cough escapes me as I choke on my coffee. “What!?”

“You and I, we should get married.” He says a bit more slowly as if it somehow makes it any less absurd.

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised you’re even bothering to ask and not just ordering.” The shock leaves me defensive and lashing out. Get married, be his wife, this is lunacy.

Now he’s the one who turns his eyes away and contemplates his cup. “Fair enough. Although I would argue things have changed over time.” He reaches out to take my hand, thumb running along my knuckles. His voice drops into that soft tone that always persuades me to his point. “You would agree, right?”

Damn him for being charming. “I suppose they have a bit.” I give his hand a soft squeeze.

“You have to admit it is a solid notion. I know Darius can be depended upon and Argos is very capable but has not been in his position long. And soon enough we’ll have a new Commander of the Capitol Guard.”

“I didn’t realize she was finally retiring.” I interrupt.

“Not quite.” The insinuation is unmistakable. “I’ll need you to see to it personally. Back to the point, I’ll get what I need while I’m gone and if I should not return, you’ll be a very wealthy widow.”

I roll my eyes at that last bit. “Don’t be ridiculous, something’s far more likely to befall me than you.”

He looks up brows furrowed. “Don’t say that.”

“Can I think about this whole thing?” I’m at a loss. All my work to accept the way things are between us, and he wants to complicate it all over again.

“If you insist, my Warbands have been summoned though, and I plan to leave within the week.” Why am I the last to know about this whole thing? “Keep in mind, we can always get divorced if you find it disagreeable. In fact, since you have no assets of your own, I’m technically the only one at risk.”

It’s such a clerical way of looking at it, just what I’d expect from him. I almost wish it hurt, but I’m too used to how he is. So instead I simply rise and stretch. “I’m ready to go home.” I start walking away before he’s even out of his seat.

“Right.” He leaves some coin on the table and hurries to catch up with me. I feel the weight of his coat drop around my shoulders and inhale the scent of him that clings to it, leather and parchment and that cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. “There’s a chill in the air.” There’s not but it’s an unusually soft gesture so I let his little lie slide.

“Still trying to persuade me?” I slow my pace a bit so that we fall into step with each other.

“Perhaps.” He takes my hand. “Is it working?” I only roll my eyes at him again, this time with a smile though.

Thankfully he lets the subject drop the rest of the way home. Once Gwen has helped me out of my dress, I slip on my robe and take a precious few moments to think while running a brush through my hair. How can I even begin to contemplate marrying him? It’s absolutely absurd, and he’s arranged it all with the same cool detachment of ordering his soldiers into formation. And yet he asked, admitting when he did that things are not as they once were between us. With that admission comes the stinging awareness that for whatever his reason, he’d rather it remain unacknowledged. As usual, I’m expected to obey his wishes and follow along with his silence. But isn’t that what I’ve accepted time and again?

Nothing is clarified by the time I slip next door to find him hunched over his desk, pen in hand. “Are you seriously working right now?”

He puts a hand up. “I’ll only be a moment.”

I stalk over and drop myself into his lap, he doesn’t get to propose to me and then spend the rest of the night obsessing over the Empire. “No.” He tries to write around me. “I want your attention.”

I lean in and kiss his jaw just where it meets his neck, he shudders. My lips travel upward, I nip and pull his earlobe between my teeth, sucking for a moment. He gasps, pen clattering down onto the desk. “You are insistent on making a nuisance of yourself, aren’t you?” He wraps his hands around my hips.

“If that’s what it takes to get what I want.” I can feel that tension in him again and I’m reminded of the reason for his proposal. There must be some concern about this rebellion within High Command if he’s going to take on the task himself. He still hasn’t rooted out the conspiracy he knows is working in the shadows, no doubt that weighs on him as well. I kiss his neck and let my teeth graze it, he digs his fingers into my hips and thrusts lightly against me. I feel the heat of desire build inside me. “You’re so tense though, let me take care of you.”

I push his hands away and slide down to the floor between his legs. I trace my fingers along the growing bulge in his pants, causing more small noises from him, before opening them. He sighs when I grasp him and work my hand up and down his length. I feel his fingers dig into my shoulders when I run my tongue over his head and take him into my mouth. His hand grips my hair, pushing me forward, urging me to take all of him. Tongue pressed against him, lips tight, I move up and down, listening to his soft moans. When he can no longer stand my deliberately slow pace, he holds me still and drives into me, relentlessly using me.

I hear his rapid breathing and know he’s taken himself close to the edge. I break away, clambering back into his lap, straddling his hips. I let my robe fall to the floor and lean down for a rough kiss, my hand once again wrapped around his cock. “Don’t tease me.” He growls.

“Never.” Wet and aching for him, I impale myself on him and moan as his hips buck up to meet me. Again I start slow, rocking my hips against him, taking him as deep as possible. His hands hold me loosely, a sign he's given over control to me. “You feel so good inside me.” I quicken, moving with urgency, breath coming rapidly, feeling the bliss of being filled with him. I feel myself tighten around him, pleasure exploding inside me, crying out as I’m spent. I’m pliant as a moment later he pulls me down roughly, taking back that control, and finishing with a few deep thrusts.

I lean my head onto his shoulder, suddenly exhausted, and feel his arms wrap around me. He means so much to me, will I lose him if I don’t do what he asks? Will he find someone else to play the part? I’m out of choices again it would seem. “You’re right, it’s a good idea.”

I leave it at that and wait for him to respond. “Look me in the eyes and tell me yes, if that’s your answer, Kat.”

I oblige and sit up, staring into those unyielding dark pools. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” I brush my lips lightly against his to seal my promise.

#swain #katarina #swain x katarina #League of Legends #league of legends fanfction #jericho swain #katarina du couteau #the blade's edge

7 notes · View notes

plantveined · 4 years

Photo

A study regarding the reception of published fanfiction by male and female authors

How is male- and female-written fanfiction received when it gets legitimately published? That is the question I wanted to tackle with my project. I was curious: much of the fanfiction I’ve come across in my life has been written by women and while most have been positively received within their respective communities and fandoms, fanfiction as a whole has always been rather shamed or ridiculed. My limited exposure to male-written fanfiction meant that I had no idea about the other side of the spectrum, so I wanted to find out if gender bias actually did play a role in how fanfiction is viewed. I thought this was an important inquiry to make as this could reveal or debunk any apprehension on behalf of young writers such as myself wanting to make that leap from fanfiction to published novel.

I learned that the reception of male- and female-written fanfiction is biased in more ways than I realized and in ways I didn’t expect. From looking at the language used to discuss them to how much they are discussed, I learned the different values assigned to these types of stories and authors.

My findings could change the literary world—it reveals the gendered hypocrisy behind newly published stories and their non-traditional starts. This could get readers to re-examine their personal biases before they actually read those kinds of books. It could raise awareness towards the treatment of upstart female authors and help widen the avenue of new fiction to include legitimized fanfiction, as my findings show that male fiction with roots in fandom can be well-received despite of that.

Before I could collect any data, I had to figure out my list of authors to examine. I wanted authors that had previous experience writing fanfiction, or that had a reputation for having published stories that began as fanfiction. I defined fanfiction as any piece of fiction with origins from a previously published other work. I counted alternate lives of real life people as fanfiction. I read through the lists of authors that fit this criteria and came up with 7 female authors and 7 male authors. I then searched for 5 reviews of each author on their books that had been associated with fanfiction beginnings. I edited my list a few times because I only wanted to focus on modern books.

Once I picked out all 70 reviews total, I organized them by author and read through each review once before going back to tally for any instance where the words “fanfiction,” “fanfic,” or “fic” was used and then classified their usage as either positive, negative, or neutral. After that, I read through the reviews again. This time I was codifying for any instances where the books were being discussed by pure literary elements. These included tone, pace, characters, setting, plot, theme, and writing style. I considered dialogue to fall under the same category as character. I added up all these instances for each author and then found the average amount of times these literary elements were assessed per review. Then I found the average length of each author’s review, measured by its amount of sentences, and divided the average amount of literary assessment by the average review length to find the average percentage of how much each author’s review discussed what I considered relevant opinions regarding the books themselves. All of these calculations were represented in tables and graphs so that I could better analyze general patterns. I also noted recurring words used within the reviews for female and male authors.

Upon conducting this project I discovered that while all those books could be classified as fanfiction or started as fanfiction, “fanfiction” was only used to describe the works of 6 out of 14 authors and most often with the female authors. I wasn’t surprised by that, but I was surprised that in the case of male authors, “pastiche” or “homage” were used instead. That coded as a double standard. Pastiche, homage, and fanfiction all center around roughly the same concept of further exploring a pre-existing work by applying your own ideas. The difference between these words are their individual connotations. A homage can be seen as an act of admiration for the original creator that classifies the fan’s work as acceptable to the public. A pastiche is generally associated with a style of art defined as a celebration of the original. Both pastiche and homage hold associations of respect. Fanfiction doesn’t hold that universal association. In fact, the reviews that did mention fanfiction tended to do so in mainly negative or neutral light. The only male mention of fanfiction was positive. This shows that fanfiction—especially when associated with women—tends to be mocked, whereas when associated with men is often celebrated.

This negative gendered connotation with “fanfiction” further extends to the reception of a book it spawns. Although the female reviews seemed to spend more time discussing the literary merits and pitfalls of these books, much of the reviews tended to focus on character and writing styles. Attacks on character design opened the playing field for comparisons with the source material, something relished by many of the Anna Todd and E.L. James critics. For example, in one of the reviews for E.L. James’ book 50 Shades of Grey, the critic writes:

“It is entirely obvious to me that this used to be Twilight fan fiction because James manages to capture the vibe of the original: the shoe-gazing, eye-gazing, pseudo-angst of Bella and Edward’s tumultuous love affair. Yes! It’s all there from the zero conflict to the zero chemistry! However, as it turns out—and believe me I’m as surprised to be saying this as you are to hear it—Twilight turns out to be the more sophisticated version.”

Character development is a valid criticism of any novel but what stood out to me was the phrasing of the first line: “It is entirely obvious to me that this used to be Twilight fan fiction.” The critic could have voiced their distaste of James’ protagonists without negatively reviewing 50 Shade of Grey’s past as Twilight fanfiction. Instead, the critic opened their opinion with that phrased as if you can automatically write off a book just because it has roots in fanfiction. Another negative instance where “fanfiction” was mentioned was in regards to Anna Todd. One critic writing for Medium stated that their issues with Todd’s book After was “not just that it’s basically Fifty/Twilight with a thin coat of peeling paint and carries with it the dangerous relationship dynamics (more on that later), but it’s also clearly written to exploit the 1D fandom.” Here, the idea of a fan writing fanfiction stories for other fans is seen as exploitative of the original material. None of those previous connotations of respect can be seen. Contrast that with the reception of male fanfiction: whenever “fanfiction” was mentioned in a review for a male author, it was never presented as a drawback of the piece. Rather, the fact that the book was published by a fan for fans was often cheekily praised. One review title for John Scalzi’s Redshirts referred to the book as a “love-letter to fans.” The same critic said again at the end of the review that Redshirts was:

“A dramatic remove, yes, but it's deeply fitting that a book so centered in the fan experience should contain fan fiction; the codas provide a further look into the lives of characters only glimpsed in the main narrative, a comforting meta-redshirt hat-tip that, like the novel itself, is a love letter to fans of the fannish.”

What a double-standard this revealed!

These results matter most to writers, publishers, readers that enjoy new fiction. Writers should take from these findings that fanfiction can be a productive way to transition into a published author. A review from The Atlantic even said about After, “Multiple literary agents reached out to [Anna Todd], but [Anna Todd] dismissed them as ‘crazy people,’ figuring no legitimate professional would seek out One Direction fan fiction.” Turns out, they did! Their publications may not always be severable from their fanfiction past, but that can be seen as a positive. Publishers should explore these fan-lead routes that give way to new books. These reviews show that people do pay attention and often have a lot to say about their literary elements; fanfiction is not merely frivolous and self-indulgent. Readers should see that new stories can sometimes come from offshoots of pre-existing stories (much like they always have in the history of story-telling). They should be more aware of gender bias that surrounds the fanfare of a new book, especially one that may not have been published if not for fanfiction. Fanfiction has genuine merits helpful for creators and consumers of the literary world, and they shouldn’t be overlooked before the story is told.

14 notes · View notes

emma-nation · 5 years

Text

Thinking Of You (Mona x MC Fanfiction) - Chapter 10

You said move on Where do I go? I guess second best Is all I will know

Summary: Years later, Allison has everything she wants, a brand-new internship as a doctor, a handsome boyfriend… but her first nightshift won’t go as expected…

Genre: Romance, Angst

Tag list: @zoe6111, @simsvetements, @whoinvitedalx, @abunchofbadchoices, @kamilahmademedoit, @talkinlikeateen, @eagle-one-1, @andreear17, @monagf, @fal-carrington, @crazzyplays, @honorablebicycle, @teja-desai, @iam-the-fuckin-queen

Notes:

- English is not my first language, forgive me for any mistakes.

- My apologies for taking longer to update this week. As I mentioned previously, I had issues with my internet service. Also, I re-wrote this chapter as the original version had gone to angsty and dark. I hope you like what I did :)

- I’m having issues to tag people on my posts, please forgive me if it doesn’t show in your notifications. I re-typed the tag list and if your name has been removed is because Tumblr didn’t let me tag you.

“Dr. Carlson, Griffin,” Allison gulped. “What are you both doing here?”

She needed to act naturally. Two extremely dangerous criminals were standing in front of her and if they suspected she knew the truth, they’d be capable of anything.

“There she is!” Mr. Wheeler emerged from the kitchen, for her relief. “Allison, darling, where were you? Dr. Carlson and Griffin have been waiting for over an hour.”

“I’m sorry, dad. Mona and I… we spent the night with her mom.”

She discreetly gave him a signal, indicating what they had been up to.

“Oh, her mom. That’s true. Is she doing well?”

For her luck, he understood.

“Better than expected,” she proceeded with the lie. She looked at the Carlsons, with a fake smile on her face. “My friend’s mother is a little bit sick. I spent the night watching her.”

“Doesn’t she have a heart of gold?” Dr. Carlson grinned. “Just like my son, here. This is why Allison is more than welcome in our family.”

“She is, my girl is exactly like her mom,” Mr. Wheeler started serving breakfast. “Always helping everyone around her.”

The door clicked open. Allison’s heart leaped inside her chest. For a minute, her anxiety made her forget Mona was outside, only placing her car in the garage. If she didn’t play according to the plan, she could put them all in danger.

“Allison,” she entered with a scowl on her face, “is there anything wrong in there?”

“Mona,” Allison rushed to her side, “no… it’s only Dr. Carlson and Griffin, dropping by for a visit.”

“Wait,” Dr. Carlson observed her, “I think I know you.”

“I know you too, Doc.”

Mona crossed her arms, looking at him in a threatening manner.

“You do, Dr. Carlson,” Allison tried to fix the situation. “Mona was my first patient at the hospital and we kinda became friends. It was her mom I was checking.”

“The criminal, dad,” Griffin added. “She served a lot of time in prison.”

Mona let out a sarcastic laugh.

Allison discreetly elbowed her.

“Right that’s me,“ she stopped. “The most dangerous criminal in LA.”

An uncomfortable silence settled all over the living room until Mr. Wheeler invited them all to sit. Allison called Mona to the corner of the living room.

"Go to my bedroom,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

“No way I’m leaving you alone with these two…”

“Mona! We need to act carefully. Go.”

After Mona agreed to obey, Allison joined the Carlsons at the table. She had breakfast completely quiet, only listening to Dr. Carlson to brag about his accomplishments to her dad. By her side, Griffin wouldn’t stop staring at her left hand, where her engagement ring was supposed to be. When she finished eating, she was finally ready to put an end in that situation.

“Griffin, I wanna talk to you. In private.”

“Sure, but…” it was the first time Allison noticed the coldness in his voice, “your bedroom is taken.”

“No problem,” she said. “We can talk outside.”

He followed her to the front door. Allison started feeling nervous, unsure of how he’d handle the end of their relationship.

“What’s going on, Allison? Where’s your engagement ring?”

“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. I don’t wanna get married anymore.”

“This is okay,” Griffin calmly said, stroking her arm. “We can wait a little longer. We’re leaving to New Zealand in a couple of days and maybe, coming with us, you can change your mind.”

“I don’t think you’re understanding me,” Allison insisted.

“Of course. I should’ve known…” he shook his head in denial, smirking sarcastically. “It’s about that dirty little criminal, isn’t it? I saw it in your eyes as she walked in the house.”

“She has absolutely nothing to do with it! I’m breaking up with you because I no longer have feelings for you. Deal with that, Griffin. I’m not one of trophies to be collected.”

Allison finally could see all the malice and evilness behind her perfect boyfriend. The one she trusted for eight years. For a second, she felt Griffin wished to hurt her physically. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

“You have changed, Allison,” he recomposed himself and told. “Now it’s me who don’t want to marry you anymore.”

“Good,” she gave him a confident look, “I’m glad we’ve reached an agreement. Like the two grown up adults we are.”

He didn’t say anything else. He entered the house, calling his father to leave.

Allison let out a weary sigh. Half of her was relieved, but the other half worried that Griffin wouldn’t accept this loss so easily.

———-

Mona remained silent in Allison’s bedroom, listening carefully to any noises that could be coming from the kitchen or the living room. In one hand, she had her cell phone, ready to dial 911 in case the Carlsons decided to show their true colors. In the other hand, she had a pocket knife she bought at Gramercy Park for self-defense. She never knew if any old enemies from her past would come back for revenge. The only voices she could hear were the detective’s and Dr. Carlson’s. She couldn’t detect any signs of Griffin or Allison. Was she finally cutting the rope, or she would wait until he was locked in a cage? She grinned, hopeful. Minutes later, she heard the front door being opened and then closed. “Allison, what did you tell Griffin?” Mr. Wheeler asked. “The poor boy was so upset when they left.” “I broke up with him, dad,” Allison told, making Mona celebrate in silence. “Our engagement is over.” “What?! Why? What are those markings on your neck???” Mona muffled a laugh. “Sorry, pops. That’s my way of calling dibs.” “Were you really with Mona’s mother last night or this is what I’m thinking it is? Allison, how could you? D-Did you… with HER?!” “Dad! Can we talk about this later? I have important things to discuss with Mona.” “Leave the bedroom’s door open!” Mona started laughing again, but stopped as Allison entered. Her cheeks were shining pink in embarrassment. “Next time we see your mom, I’ll make sure to let her know too,” Allison playfully punched her shoulder. “You didn’t complain much last night.” “I had forgotten about my dad. I spent eight years living away from him, I got too comfortable.” “Speaking of…” Mona cleared her throat, making sure she didn’t say the wrong name on purpose, “Griffin. What was he doing here with his psycho dad?” Allison sat down at the bed, with a serious look on her face. She invited Mona to join. “He returned earlier from Africa. They’ll be leaving to New Zealand in only a couple of days.” “Escape route.” “Exactly,” Allison continued. “Griffin wanted me to go with him. He had everything set for our wedding.” “And?” Mona raised her eyebrows, expectantly. “I broke up with him, of course. I told him I no longer have feelings for him.” Mona grinned ear to ear. “Aaaaannnddd???” “And… we’ll talk about this later. There’s my dad and the investigation. Making sure they’re both arrested before they leave to New Zealand is our main priority right now.” “Okay,” Mona plugged the flash drive on Allison’s computer. “There we have it, footage of Krista leaving the basketball player’s room, the proof she’s related to Dr. Carlson…” “No,” Allison bit her lower lip. “We need more than that before telling my dad. He’ll never believe us without something more concrete.” While Allison was taking a shower, Mona did a research. She connected news from the past few years, of students who died under the same mysterious circumstances, with places Dr. Carlson worked. She called the East Coast police for confirmation. Indeed, they were starting to suspect him at the time he decided to move to California. “Is it enough to build a case against him yet?” Mona asked, after she finished reading. “I don’t know… I still feel we need more.” Mona sighed frustrated and while she was taking a shower herself, she had the most brilliant idea. When she returned to the bedroom, she announced: “We’re going to Krista’s meeting tonight.” ———- “She’s never accepting you in her studies,” was the first thing Allison said about Mona’s idea. But that was before she heard the rest of her plan. Neither of them would be attending the study, Brian was. Being a football player, he’d be easily accepted into her possible drug dealing party. With a hidden camera, he’d be capturing footage straight to Leon’s computer. Allison would provide them money for the camera and ear pieces for communication and Mona… her Halberdier would be easily recognized by Krista and her fancy neighborhood. They’d need a new car. “W-We aren’t going to…” “No, we’re doing worse.” Her father’s dealership was the last place in the planet Mona wanted to be, but there they were. David opened his usual false grin when he saw them. “W-What are you two doing here? I’ve already proved my innocence.” “No need to piss your pants, David,” Mona mocked him. “I need to rent a car, for a few hours.” For some reason, he looked pleased to help, showing them some of his models and talking about their features, giving Mona the pleasure of correcting him all the time. “Really? Don’t you have anything better?” “Mona, just pick one,” Allison rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to buy it. We’re only using it for tonight.”

“May I ask what will you be using the car to?” David asked, looking suspiciously to Mona. “Business,” she answered. “What kind of business?” “The dangerous kind, but no stealing involved.” After letting a small laugh, he told: “Then come with me.”

They walked to the back of his dealership, in a highly-secured warehouse where a few cars were hidden under dust covers. Mona wondered if they were obtained legally or if she had more in common with her father than she imagined. He lead them to the very end of the room, to the last car. “Whoa,” Allison exclaimed as David removed the dust cover. “Double whoa,” Mona traced with her fingers the glistening black painting of the Japanese vehicle. “Who’s that beauty?” “The new Santagata model,” David told. “They haven’t released for sale yet. They sent me one for a test drive, but I’ve been kinda busy. Would you like to take her for a ride?“ “Hell yeah!” Mona grabbed the keys he tossed her and entered the car. The panel had all the technology they needed. She’d be able to connect her cell phone and the hidden camera. While Brian secretly filmed the meeting, Leon would be capturing all the footage on his laptop. The best part, no one would be able to see them behind the tinted windows. “Take down that Carlson bastard,” her father told before she left. “I never liked that man.” “You can be sure I will.”

———-

The study was set to begin at 7pm. After getting all the equipment they needed and convincing Brian and Leon to join their plan, Mona drove the group to West Hollywood, where Krista’s family had a small mansion. "Remind me of why I’m doing this again?” Brian asked. “You owe us,” Allison answered. “We all know your little… secret, remember?” “I don’t,” Leon commented with an interested look. “What’s is Brian’s secret? If he’s gay, this car is the most comfortable place he could ever been.” “Leon, trust me,” Mona laughed, “you don’t want to find out.” “See? Now shut up, nerd,” Brian angered at Leon. “What did we talk about showing more respect?” Allison frowned at him. “That was right after talking…” she cleared her throat, “about malfunctioning things.” The football player scowled and stared at the window. Allison turned on the radio with a special playlist she made for the night. She and Leon started to sing along, while Mona drummed her fingers on the wheel following the rhythm. “You guys are fun to hang out with,” Leon told. “Are you sure you’re really cops?” “Me?! A cop?!” Mona shouted. “Babe, this neighborhood must have wanted posters with my face until this day.” “Because of wild parties you threw?” Brian looked at her intrigued. “No, because of the fancy cars I boosted. But yeah, sometimes we attended the parties to study the territory.” “So it’s really true, huh?” “Twice, actually. I’ve been in a jail twice.” “Wait, this car we’re riding…” “Relax, this is my dad’s. The only thing I’ve stolen recently was Griffin’s fiancée.” She glanced at Allison, who blushed a little. She had never seen Mona looking so happy and relaxed before. Allison couldn’t wait until all of that was over, so they could really enjoy their time together. She didn’t know if she’d continue her career as a doctor, or if she’d try something different, all she knew is that she wanted Mona by her side. Whether was in LA or anywhere else in the country. Allison smiled and placed a hand on Mona’s knee. “What about you, Allison?” The boys wanted to know. “I’m the detective’s daughter. I was bored with my life, so I decided to join Mona in the investigation.” “The detective’s daughter falls in love with an ex-criminal. You two sound like a 90’s romantic comedy,” Leon said, making Mona roll her eyes.

“This is a compliment, I guess?” Allison laughed.

“The question is, darling. Will you get your happy ending this time or you’re going to break this Bad Girl’s heart again?”

Mona frowned at him, with her cheeks turning a little red.

“Leon,” Allison asked. “Approach,” she whispered the answer in his ear, without letting Mona know what it was.

“What did you answer?” She wanted to know.

“Keep watching to find out,” Leon winked at Allison and they high-fived.

“Morons,” Mona playfully rolled her eyes again.

Only a couple of minutes later, Brian announced they had arrived. After recapping the plan, he attached the camera to the button of his shirt and placed the ear piece to communicate with the rest of the group. He left the car and walked a few steps, headed to Krista’s front door. Mona gave him a sign she could see him on the car’s panel display.

“Can you hear me too?” He asked, testing the ear piece.

“Positive,” Mona answered.

As Brian rang the bell, Krista showed up at the door. Not letting he see much of the inside.

“Brian,” she greeted. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join our weekly studies. Do you know what verse we’ll be studying tonight?”

“It’s a test,” Allison concluded. “A password to let him in.”

“Good one, Allison,” Mona told, remembering the list she saw on Krista’s desk. “Brian? The answer is Proverbs 8:35.”

Brian repeated and Krista let him in. She conducted him to a small office on the back of the house, where a few more students were waiting. Brian sat on a couch and waited for the next happenings.

Krista went to the desk and cleared her throat.

“We’re here tonight for our weekly study. Did everyone bring your Bible?”

The students said ‘yes’, showing their Bibles.

“I-I… don’t have one,” Brian told.

“I’m giving you,” Krista grabbed a Bible from the shelf and handed him.

As Brian opened it, he discovered the middle of the Bible had been removed, creating a secret space to hide stuff.

“Holy shit!” Mona shouted.

“Mona!” Allison reproved her.

“What? She’s the one using a sacred book for… non-christian purposes!”

They turned their attention back to the display. One by one, the students walked to Krista’s desk, taking money from their Bibles and receiving drug syringes in return. Two of them delivered her money, receiving a payment in return and more drugs to be sold. A female friend, who was always with Krista, and Doug, the student who helped her to erase the camera footage.

“Are you capturing this?” Allison asked Leon.

“Straight to your flash drive,” he assured.

“Make copies,” Mona ordered, handing him three other flash drives. “Only to be sure.”

It was Brian’s turn to buy the drug. Krista took the money and gave him one sample of the performance enhancer.

“Only one?” Brian questioned. “Come on, the trainings have started and I want to be in perfect shape for the season.”

“You need to start with a small dose,” Krista explained, keeping her head down and never looking at him, “otherwise your body won’t handle it.”

“And I’ll end like those other students?”

“Possibly. Some died for overuse, so we need to control the amount we sell.”

“The others?”

Krista went quiet for a second.

“Godfather is still studying what went wrong with them, some kind of sensibility.”

“So this is what kills them? Overuse and sensitivity?”

“You’re asking too many questions, Brian.”

“Sorry, I gotta know what I’ll be doing.”

“No problem.”

As the students finished taking their drugs, they started leaving the house. Brian though, was determined to stay until the last second.

———-

“Hey, get out of there,” Mona demanded. “We’ve already got what we needed.”

“Okay,” Brian answered.

As he said goodbye to Krista, another car parked in front of the house. One Mona and Allison were very familiar with.

“It’s the doctor.”

“And Griffin,” Allison added, seeing the two figures leaving the vehicle.

“Brian,” Mona made contact again. “You better hide. The two psychos are getting into the house. Now. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to leave.”

Brian agreed, hiding behind a couch in the living room. He placed the small camera in a strategic position. Minutes later, the Carlsons, followed by Krista, entered the room. Dr. Carlson was extremely angry, while the girl was in tears.

“Know who I spoke to this afternoon? One member of the University administration. He told me the police is THIS close of obtaining the camera footage back!”

“I… I didn’t know! Doug assured me had erased everything, Uncle Em. I swear!”

The man grabbed her by the shoulders, making her look right into his eyes.

“You’ve became a liability, Krista. And you remember what I taught you? What do we do with liabilities?”

“W-We… get rid of them.”

Griffin handed her a gun.

“Do it,” he ordered. “By the time the police comes after you, you’ll have ‘committed suicide’.”

“W-What?!” Krista yelled.

“Fuck!” Mona punched the wheel, unable to believe what her eyes were seeing. “Are you recording this, Leon?”

Leon didn’t answer. His eyes were closed shut and his hands were covering his mouth.

“I-I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Not in this car. Allison?”

Allison’s eyes were wide and paralyzed upon the scene. Mona squeezed her hand.

“I can’t watch this anymore,” she turned her face away from the screen and grabbed her cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“But until they arrive… Brian!”

As she turned her attention back to the display, she watched as Brian lunged at the Carlsons, getting in physical combat with them.

“Run!” He told Krista, while pushing Griffin against a shelf.

The girl took the opportunity, leaving in a hurry through the front door.

“Get out of there!” Mona yelled, starting the car engine. “They’re going to kill you.”

As the older man was stunned by a strong punch on his face, Brian ran away, followed by Griffin. Leon opened the door, allowing him to enter the car as Mona started to drive. She looked at the rearview mirror, Griffin was coming after them.

“Ha! Jerkin doesn’t know who he’s up against.”

Griffin increased the speed, being only a few inches away from the Santagata. Mona narrowed her eyes and rolled down her window.

“What are you doing?!” Allison questioned. “He’s going to see us!”

Mona extended her arm outside, showing the middle finger proudly. Then, she stomped on the pedal, reaching the maximum speed the car had to offer.

“Take that, asshole.”

When she thought they were finally safe, Leon let out a sharp scream.

“Guys! H-He’s aiming his gun at us. He’s going to shoot!”

Mona easily dodged Griffin’s bullets, yet the entire group was in panic.

“Oh my god!” Allison said. “I-I didn’t even know Griffin even had a gun.”

“Oh darling. You need to change your type, because criminal never ends well.”

“Hey,” Mona angered, “watch out the c-word. I’ve paid all my debts with the society.”

Mona passed all the red lights, her car cutting the Los Angeles traffic like a thunderbolt. Griffin was following right behind.

“I don’t wanna die… I don’t wanna die…” Brian kept repeating to himself, crouched on the backseat. “I’m too handsome to die…”

Though he was having difficult to keep up with her pace and skills, Allison’s ex fiancé wouldn’t give up. Mona quickly thought on an alternative to lose him.

“Uhhhh… everyone has seat-belts on?” The group agreed. “Good. Because we’re taking a shortcut.”

She drifted, making the car spin in 180° and changed the direction, following to an overpass.

“Oh no,” Allison said. “You’re not going to do what I think you’re doing…”

“Relax, gorgeous. It’s me who’s in charge of this beautiful machine.”

“It has been years since you…”

It was too late, Mona accelerated. In a dangerous move, she smashed a barricade and jumped off the overpass, sending the car flying in the air. The rest of the group didn’t stop screaming until she landed safely on the freeway. She turned off the car for a moment, taking a relieved breath.

“Is everyone okay?” She asked, panting from the adrenaline. “That coward certainly won’t be coming after us now.”

“I never thought I’d be doing it again,” Allison told. “But I’ll be.”

“Guys?”

Mona looked at the backseat, where Brian nodded and Leon hyperventilated.

She needed to take Brian somewhere safe, after all he was seen by the Carlsons. She couldn’t think of anywhere better than Gramercy Park, where she had some contacts that would ensure him protection for the night. Leon followed along, even if his life wasn’t in any danger.

“Home sweet home,” she said, looking at her surroundings. Allison was still quiet, leaning on the car’s hood. “Up for a walk, to relax?”

Allison forced a smile, wrapping an arm around her waist as they walked together. Mona tried to cheer her up, telling old funny stories about the place and Kaneko’s crew. Then she lead her to the rooftop of an abandoned building.

“For our luck this landscape is still here.”

“What’s is this place?” Allison wanted to know.

“I used come here to clear my head and stargaze. I always wanted to share it with you but… we didn’t have an opportunity last time.”

“It’s different now, Mona,” Allison embraced her tightly. “We’ll have all the time in the world to be together.”

“So,” Mona gazed at her with a suggestive look, “it has been 24 hours and no one was shot, kidnapped or arrested. Is it too soon to ask the question?”

“I thought you may wanted to save it for a special celebration, after Dr. Carlson and his son are in jail.”

“You’re right. Let’s make it special.”

Mona softly pressed her lips on Allison’s.

———-

Still holding Mona’s hand, as she drove them home, Allison couldn’t put off the smile from her face. They were making plans together and talking about the future, everything she always dreamed of having.

“I was doing some research online,” she told. “You still could apply to college.”

“They’d hardly accept me.”

“Come on, you’re such a genius. I was reading your essay and homework.”

“Allison, that’s okay. As long as I find a decent job and a place to live, I’ll be fine.”

Allison cleared her throat. She knew it could be a big step, but after spending eight years apart, she didn’t want to be a day without Mona. Inviting her to move in to her new apartment sounded like a perfect idea for a new beginning together.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about it. Would you…” the phone buzzing inside her pocket interrupted her. “It’s my dad. He had to rush to the precinct and he wants to see me. Alone.”

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Mona told.

“No, go home. It isn’t safe for you to be alone on the streets, especially with this car. You know what I mean.”

“True, but… be careful you too, okay?”

Mona dropped her at the precinct and they shared a long kiss, before saying goodbye.

Grinning ear to ear, Allison was walking headed to the precinct when she felt a hand on her shoulder. A strong and heavy hand.

“Hello, Allison.”

“Dr. Carlson,” she felt a notch on her throat.

“Do you have a minute for a conversation?”

#ride or die #mona #mona rod #mona x mc #playchoices #choices stories you play #ride or die fanfiction

34 notes · View notes

notsosmartbutcute · 5 years

Text

HAUNTED MANSION

A/N : Hi! It is my very first fanfiction, I hope you will like it! Thank you to @eideticreid for proof reading my work and always answering my questions:) (also keep in mind that English is not my first language)

Summary : You have been on the team for 6 months now. You quickly became close to Spencer who takes you to an horror mansion during the evening (a lot of fluff and a bit cheesy) / one shot

Spencer x reader

word count : 1210

“Are you taking me to an amusement park?” You ask Spencer, a bit disconcerted while he was busy parking his car.

“It is not just an amusement park,” He answers, “It is a flower of theme parks.”

Suddenly, it hits you. The cranes on the fences, the dark ambiance, the screams in the distance… You are in a Halloween-themed park.

A look of terror crosses your face as you try to hide your discomfort.

“Oh no… You don’t like that, do you?” Spencer enquires.

“No, it is perfect! I like the creepiness of it, it’s just that I am very easily scared. Seing a monster will not make me blink, yet being surprised by a monster will for sure make me jump. I hope you can cope with this.” You try to reassure him with a smile.

Once you both got out of the car, you notice that the crew member at the entrance is a pretty frightening hunchbacked character. You almost reach for Spencer’s arm before recalling how old you are. You are all grown-up, you must be able to calm yourself down.

Inside the park, you realize that accepting to come was no mistake. Seeing Spencer this excited is overwhelming, and his smile does not seem to fade away as you are walking next to each other.

“Do you want to go to the Haunted Mansion?” He asks you, pointing at the attraction.

In front of it are several fake zombies, who are mostly just crawling themselves near the waiting line. No big deal, you think to yourself while nodding your head yes.

Spencer takes you by the wrist and guides the both of you at the end of the line. The waiting time indicates ten minutes.

“Do you often come here?” You wonder.

“A few years earlier, yes.” He says. “The park was closed for a whole year because someone got murdered in one of the spooky houses, so it kind of broke my habits.”

The terror is so obvious on your face, it makes him burst into laughter.

“Y/N, breathe! I am kidding, it is a made-up story.” He grins.

As soon as he finishes his sentence, you feel a draught on your neck and deduce the presence behind you. You have not even turned your head yet, and you are already burying your face into Spencer’s chest. You risk a look towards the culprit. A disguised zombie is standing in front of you, his face stained with fake blood and body paint. When he shows you his split tongue, you can’t repress a weak whine. Spencer holds you a little tighter, which makes your heart flutter.

“Everything is fake, you know that.” He softly tells you.

When you pull yourself away from him, you feel your cheeks getting warmer.

“I’m sorry,” Is all you are able to say after this emotional rollercoaster.

Spencer’s eyes are glued to yours when he finally decides to speak.

“I did not know you were this sensitive.” He smiles. “You work on a field with armed criminals and face way more dangerous situations.” He kindly mocks you.

“It is because of the costume! Human beings are a real thing, yet zombies? They belong to nightmares, where they should stay.” You defend yourself.

“Are you sure you want to go inside the house? There’s still time to go back.”

“Yes. I may have strong reactions, but I am no chicken.” You reply with aplomb.

“Pride is a sin, Y/N.” He laughs.

Moments later you finally enter the mansion. There was no wagon as you hoped, instead it was a walk-in attraction. Your first steps inside are uncertain, nevertheless Spencer feels your fear and takes your hand to help you move forward into the obscurity.

After a few meters, you get your first jump when an automatic clown bursts out of a large door.

“I saw it coming.” You tell Spencer.

He responds with something but because of the noises in the mansion it is impossible for you to hear him. That is why he pulls you closer and puts his mouth only a few inches away from your ear. “It is only the beginning.” He is challenging you, yet you don’t pull away from him this time. You don’t mind feeling his arm around your waist while preparing yourself to face another frightening experience.

You both make your way into what appears to be a child room. A woman is rocking back and forth on a chair in a corner of the room while crying and whining awkwardly. You know they are only actors yet you still find them incredibly good at their job. As you walk towards the exit of the bedroom, a small creature suddenly comes from under the bed and starts to run in your direction. You let out a scream before running for your life, Spencer following you. Once out of danger, you face your friend with wide-opened eyes and rosy cheeks.

“What was that?” You ask him.

“What we paid for, obviously.”

The corridor you were in leads you to a spooky dressing room. There was used mirrors all over the walls, make-up spilled on the floor, some old clothing rails with costumes still on them, and blood everywhere. Lots of blood. Spencer anticipates your reaction by embracing you in his arms, your back against his chest. At this point you are almost crying. Suddenly, the lights go down and a simple ‘Run’ is displayed in red on the mirrors. You are about to obey but Spencer’s hands are keeping you still.

“Stop panicking like that, remember it is all fake.” He says.

The rest of the mansion went as it began, and that’s to say horrific. At the exit, you take a deep breath of fresh air, in an attempt to slow your heart beats. Your eyes are watering and you even have a few tears rolling down your cheeks. You curse yourself for being so dramatic.

When Spencer pulls you against his chest, you let him. “I have never seen someone as stubborn as you.” He says.

“I hope it did not ruin your experience inside.” You respond, a guilty expression on your face.

“Are you kidding me? A girl with such a high-pitched scream is a total turn-on for me!” He jokes.

You rest your head against his chest, suddenly tired of all those emotions. You feel a small kiss on the top of your head.

“For real, it is the cutest thing I have ever seen.” He resumes, lifting your face from his chest.

The sudden declaration makes you blush, yet you don’t look away. You believe looks have their own language. While his seems to be asking a question, you find the courage to answer it by placing a soft kiss on the corner of his lips, before truly kissing him.

Going to this Haunted Mansion was the best choice you made, and Spencer Reid was not going to discuss that.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #fanfiction #Criminal Minds #one shot #halloween #fluff #spencer reid x reader

38 notes · View notes

aroworlds · 6 years

Note

Hey super big question , I feel like we’re about to be slaughtered this December because Grindlewald is Aro Gay And I’m worried that jk is going to completely dehumanize him with Jonny Depp and that she chose Jonny because of his ability to play dehumanizing characters and the writing and his portrayal combined is going to be horrific for us and I can’t stop stressing about it , and asshole allos had to bring up Grindlewald is Nazi metaphor and then I just read the wiki on Hitler, he was ace fml

I said on the weekend that we should be allowed to connect to characters who are not good representation and express that connection, and that’s absolutely true. This said, it is also true that our connection does not mean other people cannot discuss the problems with that character and story. I can express a connection with Clariel; other people have the right to discuss how her position as series antagonist situates her as another loveless villain and her message is, consequently, damaging. Both approaches are important.

To deny people space to talk about the problems, parallels and metaphors in a work or character because of our connection is as silencing as their denying us space to speak of our connection. There are specific spaces where it isn’t appropriate to discuss some feelings in that space (a fanblog where folks gush about Clariel isn’t the best space to argue that she’s dreadful aro-ace rep) and this should be respected. On your own blog, you can certainly put up boundaries on the conversations you prefer not to see. But in broader, general community spaces, the risk is that people will have differing viewpoints and that many of these viewpoints can be hard for us to take, especially if our connection to a character or work is deep and intense.

As an autistic, it can be difficult to see people have a differing opinion about a special interest. It bothers me if they don’t like something I like; it bothers me even more if they like something I consider terrible! It feels like a personal judgement, and it’s hard not to get extremely defensive in response. When it’s tangled up in questions of representation, erasure, marginalisation and identity, it becomes even more complicated, and my connection to my special interest is such that seeing differing attitudes and evaluations of it that hurt me provoke depression, defiance or anger. Those feelings don’t make for easy conversation about it with other people.

One thing I’ve found as an answer, at least in the realm of a work I connect to being dismissed, is analyzing works myself. Yes, I like it, but what does it mean? What’s the context of this character? What are the themes and how do they relate to real life? How might these themes cause harm to others? What does the context of this character say about identity? What lead them to develop this viewpoint? Is it one I should keep? This allows me to continue to engage with a special interest topic while having desensitised myself to viewpoints that aren’t mine, because part of how I now connect to it is thinking about it from lots of different angles. But this took me years to develop and you may not be yet in a position to approach things this way. It also doesn’t work for attitudes and evaluations of a work based in out-and-out hatred or bigotry; you need to be prepared to dismiss them without being overwhelmed by them, and that’s also an ability that takes time and self-awareness to gain.

I do recommend exploring the idea that a special interest doesn’t need to be perfect to have value to meand that a special interest doesn’t need to be perceived the same way by others to have value to me. Your connection to a work is about you and you alone. That connection is not diminished or erased by someone else’s opinion, someone else’s actions or someone else’s response. This applies for disagreement about character arc or idealised representation, and it applies to erasure and antagonism.

I know nothing about Hitler being ace, but so what if he is? Seriously, so what? There’s plenty of lesbian TERFs. There’s heaps of binary trans truscum causing harm to non-binary people. What of Milo Yiannopoulos? Does that mean all lesbians, all binary trans people and all gay men are irredeemable? Of course not! Being of a marginalised identity does not preclude one from being harmful, dangerous, cruel, malicious or damaging. There are aromantic people out there who are dangerous to me. That doesn’t make them less aromantic or less dangerous. It just means all kinds of people can be aromantic, including those I think morally reprehensible.

Anyone who declares all gay men dangerous because of Milo Yiannopoulosis a heterosexist bigot, and the same applies here. You cannot spend your life worrying that an awful person is gay/ace/aro/trans/autistic (etc) and what that means or if people will use that against you. If you do, you’ll never be able to breathe. The only person you’re harming with this worry is you, and you deserve better than that.

If other people use someone’s existence to dismiss your community, as has happened so many times in antagonistic conversations over the last couple of years, handle it like you handle anyone else hateful. Block them. Report vile hate speech to Tumblr. Move on to more constructive creations and conversations.

The majority of fictional and creative media is at least unthinkingly amatonormative, ableist and cissexist. I rarely get to pick up a book that respects me as a trans, autistic aro, and I have to acknowledge this risk of being hurt every time I start something new. This isn’t right or fair, but it is our reality. This movie is going to be no different on that regard, no different to the rest of the media that hurts us. The difference here is that I think this is a property you care about, one that you deeply connect to--and that’s perfectly right and normal! But that connection makes it harder to see that this is the same thing the a-spec community has been enduring for years and years. We’ve weathered everything that’s come before and we’ll weather this, too. You’ll weather this, just as you weathered every other instance of erasure and antagonism in a fictional work.

You can’t change what track the film takes or how people respond to it. You can’t control other people’s coding. You can’t control other people’s hatred, dismissal and erasure. Worrying does nothing to change the situation; it only causes you unneeded distress. Rowling has supported Depp’s casting despite wide condemnation, so what else can you do? You either see the film anyway, knowing the risks, or you don’t--and not seeing it is a valid and reasonable option, one absolutely worth considering.

Under the cut, I talk about therapy and self-care for handling anxiety:

Given your distress, I do feel it a requirement to say that I think you should look into psychology and therapy services for your anxiety. This ask goes a little beyond the scope of what I can reasonably and ethically offer in validation and support. As someone with severe anxiety myself, I swear to you that worrying about something like this, a situation you cannot change yourself, is a problem that is causing you unneeded distress and harm. I don’t know where you live or what your options are, but there are blogs that detail support options. I genuinely believe that you need professional support here and encourage you to consider this in whatever options available to you.

(If you are already in therapy or treatment, I take this post as an indication that your current approaches are not best supporting you and it may be worthwhile to discuss this with your care providers.)

I’ll finish by saying that you can handle the situation, if you feel that you cannot bear the finished film and conversations about it at all. Blacklist tags relating to content you don’t wish to see. Unfollow people who post content you don’t wish to see, especially if it’s most of their content or they don’t tag. Don’t go searching tags. Follow blogs you trust. Quietly block anyone who annoys you. You don’t need to engage in arguments on something you disagree with; you can block users and, if you really need to get something off your chest, make new posts about it on your own blog, in your own space. Turn off anon asks if you think you might be harassed for your opinions; restrict private messages to only blogs you follow.

I’d strongly advise not engaging in discourse and arguments with people who disagree with you. Block, make new posts on your blog if you must talk, reblog folks who are making points that resonate with you. You don’t have to convince the world of what you know or how wrong they are. You don’t have to engage in activism here. Just block and move on. Getting yourself caught up in arguments with people who aren’t disposed to hearing you will only cause more stress and harm to you. Some people can constantly engage in discourse without losing themselves in anger and aggression, but I’m not one of them, and I suspect you’re like me in this regard. Our activism is healthiest for us when directed into community building and validation, not fighting those who won’t listen.

Likewise, you can prepare for any self-care you need should the above fail. Have go-to media like books, films and music you need to distract yourself. Have a list of activities you enjoy that you know that calm you and work through them. If you have a friend or two you can trust to talk with you or distract you, contact them. If this is in your ability, go outside, go for a walk, go to the shops--away from your computer or phone. Watch a YouTube craft video and attempt to follow it. Play games. Write unrelated fanfiction. Keep a list of Calming Things You Can Do by your desk and on your phone, and work to develop a habit of reaching for that list when even slightly overwhelmed or stressed. Again, this is an area where a mental health professional will help you in identifying and using the interests and tools you already have to cope, particularly in working with your own interests and needs, so if you can’t put this into action on your own, this is another sign that you need a psychologist or therapist on Team You.

It’d be irresponsible of me not to suggest that you, and any other aro-spec who feels this way, seek professional support. That you’re turning towards me says you’re not currently getting what it is you need elsewhere, offline and off. That’s not a criticism on you: you deserve to be supported. It’s in no way a crime to want someone to help shore you up in the face of dismissal, erasure, antagonism and hate; it’s in no way a crime to want support from a fellow community member in the face of the antagonism we are so often dealt.

But right now, I do believe–again, as a person with severe anxiety myself–that you’re in need of professional support to cope with the things you’re finding difficult, much more support than I am ethically able to provide. I know first-hand that finding good mental health care is far from easy for many of us, but if anything is available to you, I hope you’ll consider seeking it out.

17 notes · View notes

plutoandpolaris · 6 years

Text

An Open Letter to All of Us

Hello everyone.

While this letter was inspired by @no-strings-puppet's Open Letter to Mark’, mine is going to be a little different. I touched on some of these topics in the ‘My Hiatus Experience’ post, (linked here if anyone cares to read it: https://plutoandpolaris.tumblr.com/post/170124481611/plutoandpolaris-my-hiatus-experience-take-this) but not as thoroughly as I had meant to. Thus, here we are. This letter is mostly for my own benefit, to put all of these thoughts somewhere so they’re not cluttering up my brain.

To begin, lets touch on the cult. Again. Yeah I know that I talk about it constantly at this point but it’s important to the whole. Here’s the facts first: Mark created a cult for his own entertainment. The cult was mostly spreading “positivity” in a creepy and off putting tone. There were a lot of unintended consequences to this cult. Several people took it too far and roped Jack and Ethan into it. Mark has made no comment.

Now for the opinions, (mine, to be more specific.) Was this entirely Mark’s fault? No, of course it wasn’t, that’s absolutely ridiculous. No man can effectively monitor 19 million strangers, especially considering he was on the road at the time. However, he could have handled it much better. Mark’s community is notoriously excitable, if I had to choose a word for it. While that’s certainly not a bad thing, Mark fails to set enough clear boundaries. If you don’t put your sheep in a pen, they’re going to get out, wander around, cause trouble and probably get eaten by coyotes. This was a lesson of self control on our end and responsibility for your flock on Mark’s end.

Not only that, but it caused a clear rift between Jack’s community and Mark’s community after Jack liked a post stating that the cult was a purposeful jab at his “PMA” movement. Do I think this is true? No, no I don’t. I don’t know Mark, but from what I do know of him, (or the side of him he makes public), he’s not that mean spirited and downright nasty. He can come off that way, but I doubt that it was on purpose. This, like another event that I will bring up later, was most likely the product of boredom that got blown way out of proportion and caused a lot of unnecessary backlash. In the following days from the incident there was a lot of bad energy in the communities. No outright hate, but it felt like two hissing cats on opposite ends of the room staring each other down. However, much to my relief, the cats never actually pounced, and things settled down.

For awhile.

Now, to take a small detour into the cesspool that is my brain. Thus far I’ve been attempting to be rational and focus on what we know for sure, but now were going into a place where rationality doesn’t exist and there's nothing but constant anxiety covered up by a thin veil of nihilism. Ever since the Melanie Martinez incident, I’ve been paranoid that the people I love aren’t who they say they are. I’ve seen people get “cancelled” before. The hashtags and the instagram spam and the milelong tumblr text posts telling you in 70 languages why the person is trash. It casts a cloud of hatred over the entire internet for about a week, and after that you seldom hear of the ‘cancelled’ person ever again. It’s actually quite horrifying, but most of the time the people deserve it and most of the time it’s never someone I personally knew. Until the #melaniemartinezisoverparty happened. I loved her music, I bought the entire crybaby album, I had a pin, she was one of the first artists that I ever truly loved. Then it was ripped out from under me in the span of 12 hours. I spent that time deleting all of her music from my playlists, basically sponge washing her from my life, but I didn’t feel better afterwards. I didn’t feel like I was doing a good thing, “ giving a horrible rapist what she deserves” so to speak. I just felt awful, and, ever since then, I’ve been followed by an intense fear that it could happen again with someone like Mark or Jack.

Especially Mark. Every time there’s a new drama around him the paranoia comes back, the fear that everything he’s built is a well crafted lie. That he paid teamiplier to be his friends, that all of this was just a ploy to gain fame when he’s actually a horrible, irredeemable person. That someday 25 years from now, his “friends” will come forward and tell us that the real Mark was awful and that they only worked with him for money. Is this completely ridiculous? Yeah, it sure is, but I told you that we’ve left the realm of the rational.

The worst part is that the rational part if my brain isn’t coming up with any better options. Realistically, he’ll just start making mistake after mistake, slowly pissing off his fandom so much that they all leave and the Markiplier legacy fades into youtube obscurity like Fred or TobyGames. Then, when we’re all in our fifties we’ll look back on all of this and say

“Remember that Markiplier guy we used to watch as teenagers?”

“Yeah, what an asshole. Wonder what he’s doing now?’

“Eh, he’s probably dead.”

To some of you that may not be all that bad, but to me, having all of this slowly fade away and there’s nothing I can do about it? That’s horrifying. I can’t do anything. I’m a goddamn 15 year old from the middle of nowhere. I can’t hold a shotgun to Mark’s head and force him to address this, I can’t put back all of the pieces myself. Hell, this letter is most likely useless considering no one reads posts this long. I’m throwing this out there just to get rid of all of these thoughts, because these are the kinds of things that keep me awake at night, (among other things. My own inescapable death, the threat of nuclear war, the economy, my own deteriorating mental health, the fact that getting a job with a speech disorder is extremely difficult and that I’ll probably die under a bridge with no money, normal stuff.)

We have arrived back in the rational part of this letter. For those who weren’t scared off by our little trip through paranoia lane, congratulations. You have a stronger will than I do. Now, I’m going to discuss the newest drama nugget in the 5 piece meal that was the month of January. (That was officially the strangest analogy I have ever used.) The fact that the entire hullabaloo around Dark and Wilford’s ‘death’ was nothing but Mark setting us on fire for the fun of it. Many people see this as him mocking the community’s dedication. Do I see it this way? It’s complicated. To start off with, I’m used to feeling unappreciated and laughed at by youtubers, I’m a fanfiction writer. We are completely ignored by our inspirations and when aren’t it’s because they’re making fun of us. ‘Let’s pick a really weird and creepy fanfic and laugh at it while indirectly mocking the rest of the fanfiction writing community.’ I know they do it for laughs but I’m just imagining what the writer feels in that moment. Completely different topic, I digress.

I do agree that it was not cool. We put work into these theories, we pour so much love into these characters, and when it feels like a youtuber doesn’t appreciate it, that hurts. Plus, while it was fun for him, it hurt a lot of people. The aftermath isn’t worth whatever entertainment he got out of it. Sure, watching a house burn down may be fun, (in a morbid sort of way) but that doesn’t mean that the people trapped inside don’t get burned. When you’re the figurehead of 19 million people, you need to step up and be a leader. When you hurt someone, even on accident, you apologize at the very least. At the end of it all, I can’t force Mark to address this. I can’t do much at all, really. What I can do, however, is talk to all of you. Don’t make it worse. Treat each other and Mark with respect. Take responsibility when it is your fault, because maybe then Mark will do the same.

-Pluto

@hufflepufftrax @lum1natrix

#markiplier #jacksepticeye #pluto's rambles #mark fischbach

55 notes · View notes