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adiffident · 1 year

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I am once again reading fics from recommendation lists and honestly no shade to the writers but if your writing about other cultures don't you do your research?? because it's very painful reading ships were one person is supposed to be german-ish or multilingual and you just have to put it down because it's painfully inaccurate

public transportation in Germany is generally pretty shitty, nothing's on time and trains also just sometimes don't arrive

Honestly if your character is a professor from a german university town he will not praise the efficiency of the U-Bahn in comparison to the New York subway because his city doesn't have a U-Bahn??

Some people think germany is digital heaven but that is not the case. It's very far behind in internet speed and digital equipment in schools and unis

Your professor cannot complain about blackboards 😭, especially if he teaches poetry. No, white boards are not more common. Like I'm a comp sci major and we have white boards in our building but all other lecture halls have blackboards and if I have my classes in the humanities or math department there's just blackboards??

Of course the equipment of the schools and unis is also dependent on state funding, donations and location but come on

People speak English, good English. Pretty much every non-British/American/Canadian/Australian etc. person speaks English, so keep up

Sometimes I try to force myself to keep reading because of the time period but no, making someone practically infantile while speaking English is fucking weird

Also just writing accents into the words is fucking weird and the way in which they're written doesn't make sense

(I also read a fic where the "Russian" accent just was german?? Google translate is free?? And also as a slavic person: what the fuck? There is a difference between da/ja and @ the people thinking slavic languages and german are equally harsh gibberish my relatives think my accent is "harsh" because I have a german one)

Also @ people incorporating german snippets into fics don't use the formal "you". I guess Americans don't learn different languages but formal pronouns are actually pretty common in most languages

Dirty talk in german is not sexy. It just isn't

Writing a modern AU with a German jew is very funny(but also very much not) because there are so few few jews in Germany today.. ever heard of the holocaust? Yeah european jews faced genocide and not just the German ones. I guess as an American it's pretty common to meet jews but that literally has a reason(!!!)

German people are also as a majority atheists or just christian-ish. Making someone fanatically catholic is weird (but more accurate if they're from Bavaria). Generally evangelism is more common

If you make someone speak another language *like so* using English idioms doesn't make sense (I always translate in my head and it doesn't work)

And accidentally "switching languages" like in fics doesn't happen or just if you are in an environment where you have to constantly switch between and translate multiple languages and are very tired but you realize mostly immediately

Knowing all vocabulary isn't realistic. Your vocabulary is dependent on the context for which you use those languages, so you can translate some stuff immediately but I mostly know the meaning of vocabulary separately but can't translate on the spot

...

Yeah I just can't read most fics ... :/

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writingintheocean · 2 years

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Bonus Chapter

Remember how I said forever ago I was gonna write more Nightangel? Here’s a bonus chapter (that I definitely wrote while sick oof) for Go Slowly.

AO3 link: Between 9 and 10 [1,672 words.]

{If you can't breathe through your nose, how are you supposed to kiss you boyfriend on the mouth? You don't. You isolate and sleep and cry.}

Kurt is facedown on his bed, fingers kneading the spade-tip of his tail, when the knocking starts.

He cracks one eye open, drags his tongue across dry and cracked lips. Still no use breathing through his nose, unfortunately. Jubilee had told him they’d take care of everything: getting Jean to psychically broadcast the quarantine notice, sending Scott on a supply run (which he insisted was more of a ‘joyride’), having Ororo come around once a day to make sure the humidity levels in his room were balanced.

The knocking turns into banging.

He gropes for a pillow and squashes it over his head, moaning as it becomes even more difficult to breathe.

“Go away! Please!” Kurt coughs.

The response, muffled through pillow and door is [“Babe!”]

Ah. Kurt smiles to himself. Of course Angel wouldn’t listen to a thing Jean said.

The banging turns into pounding.

He teleports to the door, uncharacteristically unsteady and gripping the doorknob like a lifeline. “Liebling, I cannot open the door. You know this.”

[“Bull fucking shit.”]

Kurt’s laugh strains his throat into hacking up more phlegm. He leans against the door, trying to conserve what little energy he has, and feels the knob in his hand jiggle from the other side. “I do not want to get you sick.”

It’s easier to hear his boyfriend with his face smushed against the door.

“And I don’t want you to be sick without me. Open up.”

“Not happening.”

“Kurt.” It’s soft, not a shout. Kurt imagines Warren leaning against the other side of the door, their foreheads pressed together in that lipless kiss he’s come to associate with Angel. “I’ve already got your germs. I am out here infecting people as we speak.”

“Or you are just fine and not sick at all.”

“You really want to be alone in there for a week?”

“No.” Because no, he really doesn’t. It’s the last thing he wants– to be shut away from all his friends while he goes through a year’s worth of tissues. “But if I have a chance to keep you healthy I will take it.” His throat punctuates this last sentence with another fit of coughing, his shoulder rocking against the door with every heave of his body.

Then silence.

Kurt clears his throat. “Warren?”

Two light taps on the door and then– “I’ll see you later, babe.”

“What?” But he can already hear combat boots retreating down the hall and Warren shouting for people to move and it’s too late to stop him and he’s far too tired to try.

There’s the miniature burst that always accompanies Kurt’s bamfs and he’s back across the room in bed, sipping pitifully from a cup of water. His boyfriend was usually a welcome headache but this– Kurt buries his head in the sheets to groan –was an extremely unwelcome bonus headache.

His whole body feels like a lump of unmolded clay– heavy and slightly damp from fever. At the Munich Circus, the treatment for all illnesses was the same: spicy sausages and a brisk walk. But here at school? Tea and wet washcloths and being locked in his room to ‘sweat it out’. The American method was much lonelier, much more filled with sad and boring naps to pass the time between when he needed to blow his nose. He turns over to stare at Scott’s empty bed, vacated a couple days ago so he wouldn’t catch his germs. Scott had insisted it was fine, that he would sleep with Jean with a wholly unnecessary wink and a nudge—we get it you have sex—but leaving Kurt truly isolated.

A tear slid down his nose until it was a single dark spot on his pillow.

Maybe he should have let Warren stay.

It’s the large bird smashing into his window that jolts Kurt awake, falling out of bed with a squawk and nearly taking the tail-tangled sheets with him. He coughs once, twice, before struggling to stand. The bird (the bird?) continues to bang on his window, maybe caught on one of the metal ornaments that decorated so many of the windows in this old mansion. A pretty hazard to have, pretty stupid as Jean would say.

He fingers the window latch, dedicated through his exhaustion, until it releases and he can give the panes the saddest push in the world.

His Angel appears and crouches down to kiss his head.

“Hey Blue. Am I late?”

Kurt’s awake NOW, teleporting back near the door and then all over the room to find a spare shirt or pants or SOMETHING to cover up with. He should have expected the blatant breaking-and-entering, it was one of Warren’s favorite ways to surprise him but sleep and sickness had drained all the sense from his head.

“Warren!” Kurt hisses, defensively positioning himself as far from Angel as possible. “What are you doing here?”

Angel maneuvers himself into Kurt’s room about as gracefully as he can between his wingspan and the backpack strapped to his front like a baby. Kurt recognizes the faded Metallica shirt underneath that he’d given him for Christmas, modified with the usual back slits from wing-to-waist that made putting on and taking off (oh, Kurt knew about the taking off) as easy as buttering toast.

“I’m saving you, obviously.”

“Saving me from what?” Kurt sucks– no, snorks a single horrid breath of air through his nose. His mouth feels like the dry side of a beached ship.

Warren smirks. “From boredom” He drops the backpack on the floor and starts to empty its contents: a projector (stolen from the TV room), a VCR player (stolen from the TV room), and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (stolen from the TV room).

Kurt sighs. “You stole these from the TV room?”

“Didn’t steal shit– we live here. It’s ours to use.” Warren unplugs Scott’s alarm clock and tosses it away.

“Warren, I asked you to not come in. You need to leave.” Kurt can see how Warren tenses up at his words, ignores the planes of his back that can be seen between the cuts in his shirt. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“And I’m trying to help my boyfriend. Let me be nice. I’m not a nice guy normally.” says Angel.

Kurt coughs at that. “Not nice normally, says the career superhero.”

“Fuck you!” Angel’s wings flap once, twice. “This is just community service. I’m helping you guys out.”

A blush and a smile creep across his face at the same time. “Ah, I get it. That is all I am to you– just penance.”

“If sucking your weird dick is how I repent then call me a sinner, babe.”

“Not while I’m sick,” Kurt whines. His head hurts. His throat hurts. If Warren keeps talking about his dick, that’s going to start hurting too. “Leave me alone to die here.” He slumps against the door and slides to the floor.

Angel’s expression softens, goes from indignant (and probably more hurt than he let on) to that look he gets when some of the third-graders ask him to catch them jumping off the roof. “Hank says I have fancy blood, I don’t get sick like a normal person would. So whatever bug you have won’t take me down.”

“I could take you down.” Kurts teleports to Angel’s side, ducks the wing intended for his head and takes a nip at Angel’s neck. Then his lungs catch up with his body and he’s falling back on the bed, coughing. He keeps his eyes shut. “There. You are dead.” Oh holy Mary, his head hurts.

The bed dips as Angel leans over him. “You can kill me after you catch your breath, Blue.”

A kiss to his cheek and Kurt’s alone again. There’s the sound of water running in the bathroom, a full cup pushed into his hand. Another kiss, and more things are falling to the floor. By the time Kurt opens his eyes, Angel’s got the projector balanced precariously on a pile of textbooks and both feet on Scott’s bed, boots abandoned on the floor, while he untacks the last of his roommate’s posters from the wall.

“I’ll put them up when the cyclops comes back. Until then,” He jumps down, the downdraft of his wings causing errant papers and underwear to stir on the floor, “Personal drive-in.”

“You’re very sweet.” Kurt’s heart kicks as Warren’s wings, always more honest than he was, twitch. He scoots over on the bed, lining up pillows against the wall so they can face the makeshift screen. “God, my head hurts.”

“I got you water. Drink the water.” Warren slides the tape into the VCR and himself next to Kurt, wrapping him up in one of his wings.

“You ought to be wearing a nurse outfit, if you’re going through all this trouble.” Kurt settles his head onto a blushing Warren’s lap and soft fingers make their way into his hair, keeping his bangs back. “What time is it, schatz?”

“Scott’s clock said it was like 10.”

“What is ‘like 10’ to you?”

“9:48.”

“Mm. I slept for a while.”

“You’ll sleep a little more. After we watch Indiana Jones.”

“Are you spending the night?”

Angel doesn’t answer immediately.

“Do you want me to?”

He can feel the warmth coming off Warren’s thighs, knows how strong they are from all the training they do, watching him leap and run along rooftops, from feeling them tense in his own hands the one time in the last four months Kurt had gotten on his knees for him. If he doesn’t have to suffer through any illness without being able to reach and feel that warmth, that safety, he doesn’t want to.

“I want you here.” He takes the hand that isn’t stroking his hair and threads his three fingers through Angel’s five. “I sleep better with you.”

Angel’s wings shudder, and Kurt doesn’t say anything. He breathes through his mouth and lets himself love the comfort of being cared for.

#x men #x-men #Warren Worthington III #Kurt Wagner #nightcrawler #nightangel #fanfiction

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