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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity)#my writing #my fic

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blessedarethebinarybreakers · 3 years

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I have a theodicy-adjacent question if that's alright. How can I offer prayers of thanksgiving without implying that God "likes me better" than They like other people? For example, I often want to thank God for keeping my loved ones safe through this pandemic, but it feels weird when so many have lost dear ones. I've learned a lot about how to wrestle with God through your ministry, but how to bring your positive feelings to God without toeing the line of a prosperity gospel-esque mindset?

Anon, I feel you! Some point a few years ago I had a similar unsettling realization. I knew that gratitude is important not only for our relationship with God, but for our psychological wellbeing — yet I felt so guilty for thanking God for things i knew others didn’t have. Did attributing the good things in my life to God imply that God wasn’t with those who lacked those good things?

I brought that guilt and discomfort to God (and still do, whenever it arises anew). asked Them to help me sit with it, accept it, and then transform it into something more fruitful.

guilt transformed to motivation. discomfort transformed to commitment. what i was left with was an understanding that i did not need to stop my prayers of thanksgiving, but to expand them.

i take time to really feel and express my gratitude for the abundance i experience. and then i ask God to help my gratitude move me to a desire for others to experience that abundance too. I ask for guidance in how i can help make that abundance happen in the the lives of those around me and far from me.

___

i also make time for lament. many of us are taught how to ask God for things and how to thank God for things, but grief and lament are not taught. however, thanksgiving and lament are not opposites, but work together. they enrich one another. we need to take time for both.

a book that helped me embrace lament was Barbara Brown Taylor’s Learning to Walk in the Dark. You can read quotes and whole passages from it in my tag over here.

one of my favorite songs/psalms to sing/pray in lament is this one. The psalmist empowers us to question God, to ask why and how and when? and then the psalmist leads us to praise God anyway — to praise in spite of and with our doubts and our questions.

when we look at all the pain in the world — in our own lives, the lives of loved ones, the lives of those we don’t even know, and in the struggling pulse of all Creation — we feel all sorts of things. Distress, despair, anger, grief. But some of us are afraid to bring those feelings to God. We’d rather avoid the feelings in general, repress them, not sit inside them for a while. (And certainly, we should not wallow in the bad all the time.) Bt when we dare to assign intentional time to sit in those feelings, God sits in them with us.

And there is a strange thanksgiving in there, too — that we aren’t alone in the lament. We come to see that it is true that God does not will suffering upon any one of us — that the fact that sometimes i experience blessing while you struggle, or you find success while i go without, is not because God is choosing which happy few to bless that day. God really does will abundant life for all, and grieves when sin (individual, systemic, the rot that eats at this world) blocks that abundance for anyone.

___

in continuing to make time to feel and express gratitude, and then to make time to lament and to both desire and participate in abundance for others, thanksgiving does not elevate me above others as “better” or “more blessed” than they are. instead, gratitude reminds me of how interconnected we are with one another. In the Body we all share, “If one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; if one member is honored, all the members rejoice with it” (1 Cor 12:26).

___

When abundance wins out in spite of sin, we rejoice! When it is we who enjoy that abundance, our gratitude should not lead to smugness or self-congratulations, but to humility. it should shape us, move us to bring similar abundance to others.

A book that has really helped me understand that concept is Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass (which you can read online for free).

Christian texts have told me that the appropriate response to all God’s gifts is gratitude, but it’s Kimmerer’s book that helped me digest and embody just what that means. We acknowledge abundance, and we use that gratitude to connect us to the giver, and to others to whom that giver would also share Their gift.

Here’s one passage from her chapter “The Gift of Strawberries,” starting on page 33 of the webpage linked above:

Even now, after more than fifty Strawberry Moons, finding a patch of wild strawberries still touches me with a sensation of surprise, a feeling of unworthiness and gratitude for the generosity and kindness that comes with an unexpected gift all wrapped in red and green. “Really? For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have.” After fifty years they still raise the question of how to respond to their generosity. Sometimes it feels like a silly question with a very simple answer: eat them.

But I know that someone else has wondered these same things. In our Creation stories the origin of strawberries is important. Skywoman’s beautiful daughter, whom she carried in her womb from Skyworld, grew on the good green earth, loving and loved by all the other beings. But tragedy befell her when she died giving birth to her twins, Flint and Sapling. Heartbroken, Skywoman buried her beloved daughter in the earth. Her final gifts, our most revered plants, grew from her body. The strawberry arose from her heart.

In Potawatomi, the strawberry is ode min, the heart berry. We recognize them as the leaders of the berries, the first to bear fruit.

Strawberries first shaped my view of a world full of gifts simply scattered at your feet. A gift comes to you through no action of your own, free, having moved toward you without your beckoning. It is not a reward; you cannot earn it, or call it to you, or even deserve it. And yet it appears. Your only role is to be open-eyed and present. Gifts exist in a realm of humility and mystery—as with random acts of kindness, we do not know their source.

...Gifts from the earth or from each other establish a particular relationship, an obligation of sorts to give, to receive, and to reciprocate. The field gave to us, we gave to my dad, and we tried to give back to the strawberries. When the berry season was done, the plants would send out slender red runners to make new plants.

Because I was fascinated by the way they would travel over the ground looking for good places to take root, I would weed out little patches of bare ground where the runners touched down. Sure enough, tiny little roots would emerge from the runner and by the end of the season there were even more plants, ready to bloom under the next Strawberry Moon. No person taught us this—the strawberries showed us. Because they had given us a gift, an ongoing relationship opened between us.

...It’s funny how the nature of an object—let’s say a strawberry or a pair of socks—is so changed by the way it has come into your hands, as a gift or as a commodity. The pair of wool socks that I buy at the store, red and gray striped, are warm and cozy. I might feel grateful for the sheep that made the wool and the worker who ran the knitting machine. I hope so. But I have no inherentobligation to those socks as a commodity, as private property. There is no bond beyond the politely exchanged “thank yous” with the clerk. I have paid for them and our reciprocity ended the minute I handed her the money. The exchange ends once parity has been established, an equal exchange. They become my property. I don’t write a thank-you note to JCPenney.

But what if those very same socks, red and gray striped, were knitted by my grandmother and given to me as a gift? That changes everything. A gift creates ongoing relationship. I will write a thank-you note. I will take good care of them and if I am a very gracious grandchild I’ll wear them when she visits even if I don’t like them. When it’s her birthday, I will surely make her a gift in return. As the scholar and writer Lewis Hyde notes, “It is the cardinal difference between gift and commodity exchange that a gift establishes a feeling-bond between two people.”

That is the fundamental nature of gifts: they move, and their value increases with their passage. The fields made a gift of berries to us and we made a gift of them to our father. The more something is shared, the greater its value becomes. This is hard to grasp for societies steeped in notions of private property, where others are, by definition, excluded from sharing. Practices such as posting land against trespass, for example, are expected and accepted in a property economy but are unacceptable in an economy where land is seen as a gift to all.

Lewis Hyde wonderfully illustrates this dissonance in his exploration of the “Indian giver.” This expression, used negatively today as a pejorative for someone who gives something and then wants to have it back, actually derives from a fascinating cross- cultural misinterpretation between an indigenous culture operating in a gift economy and a colonial culture predicated on the concept of private property. When gifts were given to the settlers by the Native inhabitants, the recipients understood that they were valuable and were intended to be retained. Giving them away would have been an affront. But the indigenous people understood the value of the gift to be based in reciprocity and would be affronted if the gifts did not circulate back to them.

Many of our ancient teachings counsel that whatever we have been given is supposed to be given away again. From the viewpoint of a private property economy, the “gift” is deemed to be “free” because we obtain it free of charge, at no cost. But in the gift economy, gifts are not free. The essence of the gift is that it creates a set of relationships. The currency of a gift economy is, at its root, reciprocity. In Western thinking, private land is understood to be a “bundle of rights,” whereas in a gift economy property has a “bundle of responsibilities” attached.

...

In material fact, Strawberries belong only to themselves. The exchange relationships we choose determine whether we share them as a common gift or sell them as a private commodity. A great deal rests on that choice.

For the greater part of human history, and in places in the world today, common resources were the rule. But some invented a different story, a social construct in which everything is a commodity to be bought and sold. The market economy story has spread like wildfire, with uneven results for human well-being and devastation for the natural world. But it is just a story we have told ourselves and we are free to tell another, to reclaim the old one.

One of these stories sustains the living systems on which we depend. One of these stories opens the way to living in gratitude and amazement at the richness and generosity of the world. One of these stories asks us to bestow our own gifts in kind, to celebrate our kinship with the world. We can choose. If all the world is a commodity, how poor we grow. When all the world is a gift in motion, how wealthy we become.

#gratitude #prayer tag #prayers of thanksgiving #prayers of lament #thanksgiving #lament #pandemic mention #braiding sweetgrass

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shigerussato · 1 year

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(FINAL) PALLETSHIPPING WEEK INFO!!! PLEASE READ + (Reblogs Appreciated!!!)

hi everyone ! we’re legitimately a month away from palletshipping week my goodness does time fly haha.

here’s some info you may know, as well as additional information i’ve added since i’ve gotten dm’s and inbox questions for my event so just so it answers questions that ppl may share. i’m highly encouraging you all read if you’re entering i added a certain aspect that i think is most important for this event. thank you so much for the ones who will be celebrating this pair with me and can’t wait to read all your pieces ! 🤍

DATES! :

Palletshipping Start Date : March 29th

Palletshipping Week End Date : April 4th (Palletshipping Day)

you can start posting your first writing piece whenever it is March 29th for your timezone. that writing piece must be for Day One of palletshipping week. so please post these as the chronological order i have organized them.

YOU ARE NOT OBLIGATED TO DO ALL SEVEN DAYS ! :

tbh i’ve seen ppl entering my event saying stuff like “ugh it’s too much to handle” “oh i hope i finish all seven on time” “ugh i have up to three days only” and in the most sincerities way, it hurts me that ppl are pushing themselves and making a literal chore to finish all seven days.

this is for you to have fun writing, and to share your passion for shigesato, not homework. and maybe i should’ve done a better job as the organizer and mentioned it from the start that you’re not at all in your obligation to do all seven days.

so please only write what you can and topics you are more comfortable and find more inspiration to write for.

if you write for certain days just post your fic for that certain day and it’s appropriate date for posting on that topic on. thank you.

(that also goes for the potential artists that will be entering as well)

POSTINGS/TAGS :

When posting your pieces PLEASE try to specify that it’s for palletshipping week ! weather mentioning it on a note or tag under “Palletshipping Week”

When posting your writing pieces you have two options :

You may make this as a chapter book, example “Day One - Chapter 1 etc etc.”

Second Option you may make it as a ‘Series’ Ao3 users you may be familiar with associating a fic to another as a part of a series so that’s a second option!

as i mentioned other platforms are welcome, but since i only use Ao3 i don’t have familiarity with how others work so as you’d like to organize on other platforms is up to your preferences and knowledge.

Also when posting your pieces please specify “Day One - Childhood Memories/Rivalry/Bickering/Teasing” you may just title it with the topic you chose to do with the piece.

NOTE : your fics do not have to be named after the specific day topic you may make your own title but just specify (as mentioned) that it’s an entry for palletshipping week and the day the fic is associated for.

OTHER INFO :

to promote your fics on here or other social media platforms you may use the tag “palletshipping week” to do so.

ARTISTS ARE ALLOWED !

these topics aren’t only potential for fics but art as well ! so feel free to post and tag under “palletshipping week” and specify the days the art is for. 🤍

i will be reblogging and sharing fics, art, edits that are made for palletshipping week so if you’d like to get it shared just tag it under “palletshipping week” as i specified !

NOTE :

everyone and anyone who loves palletshipping is allowed to participate. you don’t need to be following me, be moots with me or any way associated with me. you’re allowed to have fun and do this if you’d like, me being the organizer has nothing to do with you not being able to do so.

again, feel free to ask questions under this post, inbox or dm’s ! thank you and have fun with this, i’m very excited !! 🤍🤍

Topics Listed Below :

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ack3rlady · 3 years

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The Universe Had His Back - Chapter 6

Sunshine

Summary: Reader finally goes back home to meet Levi & Luna and discovers the true reason behind her fallout with him.

Chapters: Five | Six | Seven

Master List

Warnings: Fem! Reader, Fluff, Spice - non-explicit , Modern AU

Word Count: ~ 2.7k

Inspiration: Shall We - Chen

Tags: @sooibian, @queenofcurse, @red-n-tall, @badbitxhbuckybarnes , @sweet-assh0le ; Anyone else who'd like to be tagged, please let me know!

Being at the patisserie today was difficult. You were exhausted after staying up all night in anticipation of how the day would go. The thought of returning to your old home that evening to see Levi and Luna combined with the revelation bombs that Hange had dropped on you yesterday had your heart in your throat for a good part of the day.

You were so distracted that a dozen eggs went flying from your hands when Miche tapped on your shoulder from behind during one of his usual visits, causing a huge mess on the kitchen floor. You had blown up at your new assistants Reiner, Bertholdt and Annie for looking at you wrong when they rushed to help with cleaning up the mess, after which Miche had officially ordered everyone to stay out of your way.

Your head rested on his shoulder, as you ate a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich, sat in the breakroom during lunch hour. Mikasa sat opposite you, quietly analyzing your body language, contemplating whether breaking the silence would be the correct choice to make. The television news anchor’s gibber-gabber played like white noise in the background while you chewed on the dry bread at a frustratingly slow pace, your eyes glued to the Aztec patterns on the ceramic backsplash beyond the sink. After hearing you sigh for the fourth time in three minutes, Miche decided to finally speak up.

“You do realize you’re not going to war, right? It’s just your little girl, not a titan. What has got you this terrified?”

He was right. Why were you overthinking this? Luna was your own daughter. She could never hate you, could she? Would she despise you for not being there for her for the last two months? What if she refused to see you today? What if she refused to see you at all? Your breathing began speeding up again.

“Oi!”, Miche jerked his shoulder and shook you out of your thoughts. “Stop worrying, will you? It'll be just fine.”

This resulted in another sigh from you and an eyeroll from the two.

Hours flew by in a matter of what felt like seconds. It was already time to leave for the much-awaited reunion. You assured Miche that you were okay to drive when he offered you a lift. Upon beginning on the familiar route you took every day for the last five years before you moved, memories of the long periods you spent stuck in traffic, longing to see your family after an exhausting day at work flashed before your eyes. Unlike then, you were hoping to be stuck in it today, just so that you could buy more time to prepare yourself.

But obviously, life had other plans. You zoomed past surprisingly empty roads and didn’t have stop at many red lights. And before you knew it, you pulled up on the street outside the house, your house, within fifteen minutes. You sat in your car frantically shaking your leg and running your hands through your hair, looking at the little home where you had spent both the best and the worst days of your life.

Light emanated from the large windows, the Prussian blue front door that you and Levi had painted yourselves, was closed, the lawn was freshly mowed, and Luna’s swing set sat on the grass just like it did while you still lived there. The sight made your heart warm, but you couldn’t get yourself to walk towards it. You gripped the steering wheel and laid your head on it, trying to calm down, until a knock on the window caused you to jump. You looked up to find Levi hunched over and motioning you to step outside.

“Oi! You’ve been parked here for thirty minutes. Are you coming home or what?”, he asked when you lowered the window.

Home?

You decided to finally leave the comfortable confines of your vehicle and slowly made your way to the house, your heart beating rapidly. Levi’s hand found yours; the warmth from his fingers intertwining with yours made your breath hitch.

“It's going to be okay. She’s really excited to see you.”, he assured you when you met his eyes.

Inhaling deeply, you stepped inside the house. Everything looked exactly how you remembered it. The sheer white curtains lining the French windows were gently blowing with the breeze, the rich cherry-wood grandfather clock that stood ticking away at the far end of the living room, books were lined neatly on shelves, family pictures were mounted on the wall, warm yellow light from the lamps illuminated all these features - it was all unchanged. You were instantly drawn to the pictures. Letting go of Levi’s hand, you moved to stand in front of the wall, softened gaze roaming through them and reminiscing the happy memories they brought back.

“Mama!” You were roused from your reverie by a voice you yearned to hear for the last two months. Immediately, Luna had clung to your leg like a koala bear.

“Loonie!” you squealed, picking her up and pulling her into a solid embrace.

“I missed you, Mama!”, she reciprocated with an equally tight hug.

“Oh, I missed you so much more, baby girl!”, you didn’t realize when you began sobbing.

Levi, who was happily watching your reunion from a distance, walked closer and placed his hand on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze as a reminder for you to stay strong.

“I’ll get dinner ready. Moon beam, why don’t you take Mama up to your room?”, he drew Luna’s attention as you stole some moments to compose yourself. The little one zealously tugged on your hand and guided you upstairs yapping in excitement the whole way.

You watched in awe as she told you story after story about everything she could possibly remember since the day you last saw her. Her angelic voice was like cool water to your parched ears. What took you so long to come back here? All the fear of rejection vanished in thin air as Luna modeled the new dresses you just gifted to her, and showcased the toys and books that her doting Papa, uncles and aunts bought. She insisted that you tie her hair into two space buns like you always did before because apparently, “Papa never gets it right like you do.”

Levi leaned against the door frame and smiled at the sight of Luna theatrically narrating an especially thrilling story about her encounter with a ladybug in the backyard. He clicked a mental picture of his little girl's dramatic oration while you marveled at her as if she sprinkled the stars up in the sky. As soon as she was finished telling how the polka-dotted bug landed right on the ridge of her nose, she spotted her father and announced that the three of you were to immediately commence with a tea party.

Akin to the rest of the evening, Luna insisted upon sitting on your lap as you sipped on hibiscus tea that Levi brewed while she drank the warm turmeric latte that she requested you to make. You peppered the top of her head with kisses as the walls of your home reverberated with more tales about her day at the park, and about a puppy that tickled her fingers by licking them. At 8:00 PM sharp, Levi declared that it was time for dinner when you finished your respective beverages.

His signature dish, Tonkotsu ramen was on the menu that both you and Luna gobbled it up in no time. For dessert, you brought her favorite strawberry ice-cream mochi that you made yourself at the patisserie. You two ladies chatted away and Levi participated every now and then. You couldn’t help but think how perfect this felt and going by his serene expression, Levi seemed to be mirroring your thoughts.

Bath time after dinner had been a routine as the three-year-old was still learning to eat by herself and more often than not, made a big mess. You volunteered to bathe her while he cleaned up. He slet out a content sigh when Luna’s laughter accompanied by yours echoed through the house as you splashed her with water while she played in the tub. Even the most beautiful music in the world did not hold a candle to this harmony that was falling on his ears.

When it was finally time for bed, Luna was in deep slumber within minutes, drowsy after a warm bath and a fun-filled evening. You reclined on the bed by her side, caressing her hair and listening to her mellow snores, and Levi sat on the armchair by the bed, catching up on some reading, occasionally glancing at the pair of you.

It was tranquil. The light from her moon-shaped night lamp dimly illuminated the room. The dream catcher that you made for her swayed over your hear. Nothing but sound of the soft breaths of your baby and of Levi occasionally turning the page of his novel filled the air. There was no stress, no negativity, only peace of mind. With closed eyes, you took it all in, this life you missed so much.

You had been entranced for a while before feeling a soft tap on your forearm. Levi signaled you with his neck to head outside. Right as you tried to get out of bed as gently as possible, a little hand gripped yours tightly.

“Mama, don’t leave.”, the melancholy in Luna's sleepy voice tugged on the strings of your heart. You opened your mouth to respond, but words refused to spawn.

“Moon beam, Mama will be back home with us soon.”

Levi was now on the bed beside you, caressing Luna’s hair with one hand and clutching yours tightly with the other. It was hard to decide whether the sudden flutter in your heart was a result of bewilderment, or from the warmth of his words.

Making sure she was really asleep this time you both lightly kissed the snoozing baby, snugly tucked her in and made your way downstairs.

“Tea?”, he offered while entering the kitchen. You obliged, making yourself comfortable on the couch, not ignoring the sudden Deja- vu that dawned upon you.

He soon returned with two steaming cups of fragrant chamomile tea and sat next to you, stretching his arm on the backrest. He absentmindedly twirled strands of your hair between his fingers as you both sipped the hot beverage in a serene silence.

“I owe you an explanation.”, Levi finally began.

You turned to face him, with your back now resting against the arm of the couch. Poles apart from his usual calm demeanor, he looked... fidgety. His puffed the already plump pillows beside him, eyes glancing over everything in the room but you. Your continued silence was enough sign for him to go on with what he wanted to say.

“Uh... You are the first person I’m about to tell this to. In fact, I have never even uttered this out loud before. I only just came to terms with it myself.”, he exhaled sharply.

“What is it, Levi?”, you urged.

"Okay. Here goes. Something in me changed on the day Luna was born. I knew that as a father, I was expected to be her protector; that's what I was told a father should be. But- But I was too afraid for her. It was an obsession, almost blinding. It started with keeping the kid out of harm's way at all costs. But it just deteriorated from there. As she grew up, she wanted to try new things and explore. And you, like any parent would, encouraged her to do just that. It makes me sick to even say this, but my urge to shield Luna got so bad that I started to perceive you as a threat to our own daughter. I got these splitting headaches and I’d black out and lose track of what I was saying or doing every time things didn’t go my way. I didn’t even realize when I pushed you far, far away until it was too late.”, he sighed, his gaze locked on the blank television screen in front of him.

Your stomach was in twists, horrified face exuding your inability to grasp what you just heard. There was a long, pregnant pause as he waited for you to say something... anything.

“How could you?”

Levi and you had been together for a long time even before you married. You were offended that he could feel this way about you. It made you furious that he put you, Luna and himself through so much pain. Neither of you could control tears from being shed as he continually begged for your forgiveness.

"I knew I had fucked up, the moment I signed those papers. I turned our whole world upside down with my own hands. My mind felt like a prison that I could not break out of, and instead of letting you help me, I abandoned you.", he despaired.

Your rage started to evaporate when he described how lost he felt the moment you were gone; how he had hung on to Luna like his life depended on it, just to maintain his sanity. He was barely sleeping and the frequent nightmares he had were only making things worse. He told you how he had been working hard on controlling his impulses - starting by trusting Furlan, Isabel, Hange or Erwin with taking care of her in his absence.

“I can’t express how much I regret letting you go, love. I wish for every second of every day that I hadn't done it.”, He was breathing raggedly, as if trying hold back another wave of tears.

You quietly stared at him, unable to think of anything to say to him.

“It is getting late. I should leave.”, you sniffled as you began to gather your things.

Your mind was in scrambles; the heartache threatening another breakdown. It was almost midnight, the tea had done its job and you were exhausted, causing your feelings to be much more amplified than they would be otherwise. The last two days had been too much to process.

He nodded in despondency and watched you walking to the door.

It reminded him of something.

This.

This was his nightmare coming true. Again.

In his dream he was stuck to the floor, robbed of his voice, his limbs frozen. He couldn't let that miserable dream win this time. He needed to stop you. He had to have you back. He couldn't let you leave.

Not again.

Just as you were about to step out, he called out your name and reached out for your hand.

“Stay.”, he whispered, almost too softly.

“Levi, I have to be at work early tomor...”

“Why are you such a dumbass? Do I really need to spell everything out for you?”, he interrupted.

“You’re not helping your case right now.”, you raised your brow.

“I love you, you idiot. I let you go once, and I don’t want to do it again. I wont survive being away from you any longer. I need you. I horribly failed at being a good husband. But I promise I’ll make everything right if you give me another chance. Please.”, he begged, the lone tear running down his cheek shone in the dim luminescence of the room.

Dumbfounded, you gaped at his anguished face. You were wordlessly taking in what he had just said when he mistook your silence for rejection and turned around, looking dejected.

“Levi!”, you clutched his hand and pulled him towards you.

Your bodies collided, faces just a few inches away from each other's. Reaching for his face with your other hand, you wiped the tear away with your thumb.

“Kiss me.”, you breathed.

He looked... befuddled, unable to comprehend the words that just left your tongue. Getting impatient, you took it upon yourself to close whatever little distance that remained between you.

And like pieces of a puzzle, your lips met; perfectly merging together as if that’s where they always belonged. The stars that twinkled in front of your closed eyes accompanied were by ecstatic explosions in your heart and butterflies in your stomach. His lips tasted like sweet chamomile tea, with hints of the tangy strawberry from earlier. His touch was so gentle that you were transported back in time to the balcony of his old apartment where a shy Levi took all evening to muster up the courage to kiss you after your first date while it snowed outside.

The tenderness soon heightened into fiery passion when his hands wandered down to your thighs to pick you up and pin you against the door, slamming it shut. Waltzing tongues, heavy breaths, frisky hands; you were like two starving animals who were just presented with their favorite meals, hungrily grabbing the other and moaning into each other's mouths. He began to fiddle with the hem of your shirt, pulling it up with one hand as the other held you firmly against the door.

“Oi! What the fuck?”, Levi resembled a child who dropped his ice-cream on a hot summer day when you swatted his hand away.

“Slow down, Tiger. What’s the rush?”, you smiled coyly while wiggling out of his grip.

“I-I uh...”, He looked dazed, unable to form sentences.

“I love you too, Levi. I never stopped. But I don’t want to get hurt again. It has only been a day since we reconnected. Can we take this slow?”, you sighed, smoothing his hair and straightening out his shirt.

“We’ll go at whatever pace you’d like.”

A/N: So, did you ever expect to be Levi's Modern AU Zeke Yaeger? 🙊😬

Chapters: Five | Six | Seven

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman x fem!reader #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman angst #levi ackerman fic #levi ackerman imagine #levi ackerman headcanons #domestic levi #dad!levi #aot fic

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tinacentury · 2 years

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Fanfiction Year in Review: 2021

I’ve been relatively quiet on tumblr this year, but this is one of my favorite reflective traditions that I think fewer people have done this year than in years past. I didn’t write much this year, but I’ve still got a few things to reflect on.

This was the first year I worked off of prompts, which was a lot of fun, and actually produced some writing I’m happy with. It was also a year in which I tried to really be ok with how I choose to engage with the fandom. I’m also happy to say that, on the few occasions I did write, I had fewer moments in which I went into a self-critical spiral about reviews and recognition (had enough of those spirals with the dissertation, heyo). I don’t say this about myself often, but I felt like, in some ways, I got a bit more confident this year.

This one is tricky, but I also tried to let go of a sense of obligation with leaving comments and reviews. I didn’t read much fic this year, but when I did, I did ok with not feeling like a review wasn’t good enough if it wasn’t a 4-paragraph soliloquy or even not leaving one at all. Reviews are wonderful, I’m very much for supporting authors, and writers (me, a hardcore words of affirmation person, included) love them, but when it gets to the point where you’re not reading fic because you’ll spend the entire time thinking about what you’re going to say in a review or you’re forcing yourself to read a fic that doesn’t interest you because you feel obligated to, things get a lot less fun. That balance between supporting other authors and maintaining my own boundaries is probably always going to be a little bit of a struggle, but it’s been helpful for me to reframe a lot of my thoughts around it as both a reader and a writer.

A lot of the boundaries I put in place in order to finish my dissertation were super helpful even just for actually writing when I wanted to, so next is figuring out how to navigate that going forward and continue not feeling guilty about how I engage in the fandom 😅/remembering that it’s a fun hobby and that when it becomes stressful, it’s maybe time to step back a little.

Anyway those are my word vomity reflections for 2021. I tag anyone in the fandom who wants to share theirs.

List of Fics Completed this Year (In the order they were finished):

(All prompts linked here)

-Prompt: You Look Hungry

-Prompt: Post-battle kisses

-Prompt: Ice Cream

-Prompt: I Thought You Knew

-Prompt: Coffee Date

-5 Years

Number of Words Written: 13,819

Your Most Popular Fic: 🤷‍♀️. Probably the you look hungry, post-battle kisses, and I thought you knew prompts.

Your Personal Fave: 3 way tie between the post-battle kisses, I thought you knew, and coffee date prompts

You Fav Scene: I mean my prompts are basically scenes, so see above.

A Fic or Scene that Challenged You: Ugh. 5 Years. I have a love/hate relationship with that thing.

A Line of Writing You’re Proud Of:

“Usako,” her name came out in a moan as he pulled away and pressed his forehead to hers. “I…we…shouldn’t.”

She pouted up at him. “Has that ever stopped us?”

His surprised expression was quickly replaced by a grin, and Usagi was reminded of the Earth Prince with the reckless heart, the one who used to sneak onto the Moon just to see and touch and taste her, consequences be damned. (From the post-battle kisses prompt)

A Comment that Touched You: Truly, any of them, giving my limited participation this year. Specifically, the reactions I got to the prompts I wrote still make me very very happy 😊. But this comment from @chipnfry on 5 Years really got me, especially given my complicated feelings on the fic: “Every so often you read a story that completely changes your view of the canon and completely gets the under your skin. This is absolutely that kind of story for me. I lie awake in bed thinking about this world and feeling like I am drowning in their joy and sorrow….Your prose is just so utterly beautiful, it puts us right in the scene , as if we are right there when he throws himself in front of her. The textures, the colours, the emotions...are all so effectively woven together. I will be coming back to this story again and again.” Thank you again for that 😭😭😭.

Something that Inspired Your Writing: Having to wait for my dissertation IRB approval…that’s when I wrote the prompts 😅.

Your proudest accomplishment (that one scene; finally finishing that one fic; posting your first fic; etc): Finishing 5 Years.

Do You Have Any Writing Goals for Next Year? I’d like to participate in another exchange; it’s been a while for me! I’ll probably also mess around with prompts some more; I’ve still got a few from the summer. Finally, I’ve been slowly writing a new chapter for Lemonade Stand, so I’d like to finish and post that.

And finally finally, my eternal thanks to my wonderful beta, @kasienda. I didn’t write much this year, but she had my back when I did 😘.

#fanfiction year in review #sailor moon fanfiction

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spideychellesecretsanta · 3 years

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Welcome again to the Spideychelle Secret Santa Gift Exchange! 2021 Edition!

We’re back with year three! Last year was so much fun, and I don’t know about you guys, but I am excited to get started! If you’re interested in participating, keep reading!

To sign up, fill out this form.

If for some reason that doesn’t work, feel free to send a DM!

You’ll need to provide an email, but if you are uncomfortable sharing that, you can create a temporary one just for this event

Sign ups will be open until August 31st 11:59:59 PM EST. After this day, SIGN UPS WILL BE CLOSED, as it is impossible to add anyone after the assignments are sent!

Once you have received the assignment on or around September 1st, (check your spam just in case!) I will also send a link to the Secret Santa Discord server! Here, there will be announcements and other things related to the event.

Write your wishlist and make sure to check your person’s. Snoop around their blog, even!

If you’d like to make things a little easier for your Secret Santa, enable anons here on Tumblr.

Beginning on Dec. 25th, we will start posting through the week until January 1st!

If for some reason you are unable to make that deadline, don’t hesitate to DM me, and to let your person know that you’re their Secret Santa

NEW THIS YEAR: there will be 3 check-ins (October 1st, November 5th, and December 10th) to see how the gifts are coming along, if you need help, etc. If you don’t have anything by the third check-in, we will discuss your options going forward.

A full FAQ post and a Rules post will be going up soon!

Tag your giftee!

Tag @spideychellesecretsanta

use the tag #SpideychelleSecretSanta2021

Post on the AO3 collection!

The deadline for having your wishlist in is September 10th!

You won’t have to worry about this until the actual invites are sent out on Sept. 1st, but keep it in mind!

What genres you like (fluff, angst, etc.)

What tropes you like (fake dating, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, etc.)

What AUs you like (Mob!AU, College!AU, etc.)

Specify whether or not you’re okay with receiving smut/n*fw art.

A NOTE: if you are an artist/writer and you are not comfortable drawing/writing smut, then you are not obligated to, even if it’s on your giftee’s wishlist. This is simply just so that the Secret Santas that are comfortable know what their options are.

Also, make sure to put some things that you don’t like!

This is pretty self-explanatory, but DON’T TELL ANYONE WHO YOU HAVE! It’s not a secret if you do! Keep it secret! Keep it safe!

Remember that this is an exchange. If you are expecting to receive something, you must also expect to give something in return.

Dropping out, no matter how last minute, means that you will not receive a gift.

Know that you aren’t guaranteed a specific gift, even if you specify it in your wishlist. So be kind!

Depending on who your Secret Santa is, you will either get a fic, art, a moodboard, or some other creative work.

Along that note, GIVE FEEDBACK!!

No talking about your gift/giftee publicly.

For writing fics, shoot for around a minimum 1-1.5k word count.

Write a wishlist after you’ve received your assignment and before the deadline! It will help your Secret Santa get to know you and get ideas for what to make for you!

When filling out your wishlist, do not only put smut, as there are minors in this fandom. Give other ideas!

and the biggest rule of all DO NOT FORGET THIS:

You made it to the end! If you read all of that, and you’d still like to sign up, fill out this form! If you have any more questions at all, feel free to send me a message or an ask! 🎁

#spideychelle #petermj #peter parker #michelle jones #peter parker x michelle jones #petermjane #mj is mj #spideychelle secret santa #spideychellesecretsanta2021

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captainkirbypunch · 3 years

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My love has left tumblr once again.

As many of you may know, the account under the name MDZADR, has left tumblr. They felt unsafe in their fandom, and as such have deleted their tumblr and AO3 account due to the bad memories linked to them.

As a part of their departure, they have asked me to post something in their name, as follows.

If you want more details about how I came to this realization, continue to read. If not, here is your summary:

TL;DR: For the safety and health of this fandom, I wanted to spread the word that Mooping-10 is filled with people who absolutely cannot be trusted, creating a very hazardous environment for the zadr community, and MelodyoftheVoid is connected to all of those people, living a double life amongst those of us that don’t “ship zadr correctly.” She has plenty of friends her inner circle knows nothing about, and nobody on either side knows who she really is.

Full story below.

I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. Nobody did anything to me today, but this just wasn’t worth it.

My AO3 and tumblr are both gone. I didn’t say goodbye because I didn’t want to look like an attention seeker.

Here’s the thing. I wasn’t going to name drop, but you guys need to know the truth. I’m instructing my boyfriend (hi y’all) to turn asks off for his own safety after this because this is going to be a nightmare, but... allow me to tell you the full story. I’ll try to break up the text so it’s less difficult to read, but this is important. I’m sorry to air discourse so publicly, but please... I need you to listen to me.

I’ll start from the beginning, without being vague anymore about who “she” is. I request that you please read the whole thing and not skip parts of it. The whole story matters.

I finally returned to the fandom about two months or so ago. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t do well in my thoughts while left alone too long, so I posted saying I would stop messaging people I knew because I didn’t want to bother them. There were only two people I was talking to at the time, but one of them is famous so I didn’t want to message her directly saying that. Doing so would have put her in a position of feeling obligated to say “you’re not bothering me” rather than just simply being able to sigh with relief from no longer being contacted.

But the first person to contact me was the famous person, and she asked if I was okay, and told me she liked talking to me.

God, I actually cried.

But, that’s just her. Melodyofthevoid is the type of person to talk to people in the fandom, totally unaware of her demigod status. She comments on stories, interacts on posts, messages first... a pillar of kindness, so it seemed.

But let the story continue.

Over time, we were talking more often.

Mostly sending memes (cause everyone I knew, myself included, aren’t exactly great at holding conversations. No shade. Memes are a love language). I was still in the hero worship stage of our relationship, so my view of her was that that was perfect.

Now, let me bridge a connection with a new story idea I got around December 28th or so, and my thinking she was perfect.

I had recently finished watching Madoka and questioned “If I had magical powers, what would they be?” It then turned into its own story idea, basing creators’ powers around the strengths and weaknesses in creations. I actually realized “oh fuck. My stuff is incoherent. My friends’ works aren’t too different...”

Thus spawned the name “Incoherent” for the project.

What does that have to do with this? Well, here’s the thing that really fucked everything up quickly.

This was not on purpose, because originally the project (which I had told nobody of yet at the time) was all about improving your works, making platonic friends, dressing our personas in cute outfits, and writing fun magic.

While listening to music and thinking of the story one day, my brain accidentally shipped my persona with hers, and I couldn’t unsee it. And I’m lousy at keeping my own secrets (other’s are different) so she found out on probably day one or two about my weird crush because of an ask meme of all things.

She didn’t try to put me off any, which was another problem for future things to come, and so I decided that since Incoherent was finally making me feel alive again and feeling the euphoric feelings of love wouldn’t hurt anything (I figured they’d mellow out on their own eventually because that’s how infatuation works) since they helped fuel my inspiration, and then we would just continue from friends to better friends one day and this part of our lives would be over.

Besides, the forbidden is attractive somehow, and makes stories more entertaining. She’s aro/ace, so I had no chance anyway. Someone safe to crush on, in her own way.

This isn’t a story of a love betrayal however. There was no such thing. But it’s important to the story because Incoherent is where my mistakes were made, and hers brought to light.

By this time, I had a handful of people I was talking to, and I created a discord server for the project. Only my boyfriend (hi!) and I were in it at the time. I was not-so-subtly asking my friends what they’d look like if they were a magical person, what their names would be... I thought I would have had to lure Melody in to make her want to join us, but I managed to get her in very easily. Everyone was happy and excited! It was a no obligation, no time limit thing for us to enjoy, a little sandbox to play around in.

Sure there were plans to make it bigger and I was working on art to the best of my ability, but it was gonna be a fun thing mostly. No pressure on anyone.

And how things started becoming a problem was that the rest of us posted publicly about the project and interacted with each other’s posts relating to the story, but she had started to interact publicly less and less with our things, and everyone noticed it.

It wasn’t because we were greedy and wanted the popular girl to reblog our things. It’s because we had a feeling she was ashamed of being seen publicly with us. The reason we were worried before then and started making that connection was because I mentioned I was going to ask another user if they were interested in joining Incoherent. Melody was the only one that seemed uncomfortable, and I messaged her asking about it. We agreed I wouldn’t invite that person but I knew things were off about it.

That person is like me. How long until Melody didn’t want to talk to me anymore? A few days ago, the other shoe finally dropped. A member of our little group and I were talking and (let’s call them Friend for simplicity. They asked to not be name dropped here) Friend was worried they had made Melody upset by tagging her in a meme picture they drew of her persona, and the two had agreed that Friend remove the tag. This spawned an anxiety-filled conversation where Friend and I expressed our concerns about Melody not interacting with the project, or us.

So since I wanted reassurance that that wasn’t the case, I messaged Melody with my concerns. I told her I had the feeling she was ashamed of being seen in public with us because of her friends, and she didn’t refute me. She simply told me to go get some rest. I messaged back with “I’m right.”

I deleted Discord off my phone for hours and nearly deleted my Tumblr, AO3, and the server after my boyfriend helped pass messages between us. Melody confessed that was the case because her friends expressed discomfort with my works, and she was playing both sides.

Her words, not mine.

Melody told me she would be withdrawing from the Incoherent project because it wasn’t fair to us if her heart wasn’t in it.

She didn’t stand up on my behalf when they said things about me. Her friends are the type who talk behind creators’ backs for shipping zadr “incorrectly.” Worse than antis because they actually participate in the “pro-shipping” side of the fandom. I broke that day and messaged her at 3 am.

We finally spoke at 3pm. We both missed each other. I tried to understand more. I wanted it to be more like a conversation rather than an interrogation. It was only one-sided however, and she never opened up further. And I made some mistakes and poor choices of words, and we ended up parting ways permanently right there.

I nearly deleted everything, but much like a coma patient attached to many machines on a hospital bed, my blog was kept alive a little longer by people sending kind words in droves. I was briefly fuelled by spite, wishing to watch the world burn by making everyone on the "correct" side of the fandom upset by posting the worst, most vile content this fandom has ever seen.

I was also welcomed with open arms by a very kind server with fellow degenerates, all of them screaming and crying and partying when they managed to get me in their server. It was so heartwarming...

But as I spoke to others about my situation, I realized something. A disturbing pattern.

People telling me horror stories about how Mooping-10 was cult-like. How the people running it were antis. I was even told once that they have a secondary server where they go to have their talks and do their work, likely the place where the real bashing is held.

The server itself has rules against such behavior, but I suppose it's different when they do it.

One person (and this is the most unnerving part for me, personally) told me Melody actually set off alarm bells in their head without having even done anything yet, and the most disturbing part of the story was that one of the moderators was afraid and upset because they got Covid, and received basically no moral support at all. Only getting told "spoiler that. Sorry you got Covid".

I was horrified. That server has 100 people in it. How many of them are the same? They act like popular kids in school who picked up an unpopular main character and then bash others, and the main character joined in because they don't want to be left behind by their new "friends".

To put it short, back to my point:

TL;DR: I simply only wanted to spread the word that: Mooping-10 is filled with people who absolutely cannot be trusted, creating a very hazardous environment for the zadr community, and Melodyofthevoid is connected to all of those people, living a double life amongst those of us that don't "ship zadr correctly". She has plenty of friends her inner circle knows nothing about, and nobody on either side knows who she really is.

#Invader Zim #zadr #tagr #rapr #zagr #mdzadr #MelodyoftheVoid

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sweater-daddiesdumbdork · 3 years

Text

Twenty First Lines

I was tagged by @sagechanoafterdark, thank you for the tag Lovely 💚

Like Sage in her Post, Im might do a extra line or two to give a real feel for it. Im also going to do it random, not just my latest ones, because to be honest, I dont know when I posted some things and in what order.

I have forgotten about some of these! It was fun seeing them again.

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag some of your favorite writers!

The cold steel of the pole easily slicked along your heated thighs as you spun around it, your head tipping back as the rush of the club’s sultry lights turned into blurs will you easily landed on your toes. You Can Be The Boss- Mob!Steve x You x Mob!Bucky

The family settled and a few weeks later, morning started out normal for the rest of the household , but didn’t start that way for Andy. His coughing never seemed to break and he was covered in a light sheen of sweat. Home Sweet Home: Catch ‘Em Andy Barber x You

You unlocked the apartment door and stepped into the blessed warm house, sighing in relief at the smell that hit your senses. “God Sam, that smells so damn good.” Go Relax Sam Wilson x You

“Fuck!” He hissed above you before collapsing over you, his words muffled in your shoulder, and you, with your ankles hooked together, heels digging into his ass cheek and purring underneath him, nuzzled his shoulder with a satisfied sigh, your hands smoothing up and down his back in a loving gesture, was how you found yourself in a slightly lightning room. “The Barnes Special” Bucky Barnes x You

Early morning light streamed across Curtis’ face, and he slung his arm over his eyes to block out the light with a groan. But he still had a grin, cause for 17 years there was no significance to day and night. Just This Forever Moment Curtis Everett x You (Life After Snowpiercer)

They had to make fun where they could, You would make up games with a die you still had, your younger brother, Matt sitting cross legged across from you on the bunk and a 4 year old Edgar in your lap, leaning over as much as possible without falling out of your lap. Taken (Early Years) Curtis Everett x You (Life After Snowpiercer)

After you two came to a stalemate, you insisted on heading back outside and helping the remaining wolves. Attack Of The Winter Wolf: Salvaging The Lost Alpha Steve x Little One

“Weekend plans?” Sam asked Steve while they waited for the logs to be unloaded from the back of the truck to be sent into the mill to be filed down and then Steve could arrange to have them shipped out to buyers. The Pack: Heated Petals Alpha Steve x Little One

Ransom perched his sunglasses on the end of his nose as he peered over the frames to the quaint storefront you had him stop at. Surprising Finds Ransom x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

“Come on Baby, just one more.” Ransom hissed against your ear, his tongue swiping over the shell of your ear while tightening his hold on your throat, your sobs coming out half strangled from needing to come on his cock that he kept pounding into you. You Can’t Get Better Then A Thrombey Ransom Drysdale x Reader

“Baby wake up.” You heard a husky whisper in your ear as well as a rough scrape against your shoulder from Franks cheek as he pressed in close to your back, the soft hairs of his chest pressed into your sleepy warm skin and you muttered a no into your pillow as you hid your face into the cotton covers. Remember? Frank Adler x You

“Don’t start Y/N” Frank snapped a bit while glancing at you. Oppressive Frank Adler x You

Mike’s hand rubbed against his chin as he parked his rundown truck, the vehicle shuddering to a stop. Taking The Risks Chapter One Mike Weiss x You

You rolled in bed and was not surprised to find Paul’s spot slowly cooling. Although a glance at your bedside clock showed 7:30 am, which for you was early, it was sufficiently late for Paul. Moments Of Bliss Paul Diskant x You

“You came from where?” Sam questioned with a tilt of his head, arms folded across his chest as he raised a quizzical brow at the man in all red. This Is Still Marvel, Right? Deadpool x Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes x You

As you were dragged away, you could hear the cheers echoing off the steel walls. Wilfords Demands: Separated Curtis Everett x You

“We’re not dropping the money! Push it, it can go over that ridge.” Recovering Your Catfish: Changes Frank “Catfish” Morales x You

You pick up a flute glass from a bypassing waitress and bring the bubbling liquid to your lips. The fizz tickled your nose as you sipped while glancing around the room, another social obligation that Sue and Reed’s were throwing for the science community. Feeding The Flames: Take A Seat Johnny Storm x You

“You are sure about this Johnny?” You asked as he ducked his head out of the riders changing room, glancing around at the semi darkened arena. Feeding The Flames: Wild Ride Johnny Storm x You

Bucky did just as he promised, he read until it was later in the evening, and then when he checked the time, he snapped the book shut and set it aside. The Perfect Life Part Four Dark!Steve Rogers x Dark!Bucky Barnes x You

“Okay Brian, you want this rom com to deliver.” Mike cracked his knuckles and let his fingers lower over the keys, starting to type out the main character’s opening scene, picturing the actress Brian described as standing just behind him, sitting at your kitchen table your grandmother gave you, picking at plates of food. Sweet, Spice and Hot Water Is Always Nice (Playing It Cool AU) Mike (Me) x You

SNEAK PEEK STORIES

Ransom could only begin to guess what he would be walking into while he made his way up the steps to his front door. It was Christmas after all and you were in full holiday mode. Holiday Ransom Special Ransom Drysdale x You

<You are the one who let her go in there.> The Silver Alpha snarled out agitated while Steve paced nearby, wearing a path through the grass, trampling it down till it tore the delicate blades, leaving the scent of green vegetation in the plant's distress. Attack Of The Winter Wolf Chapter 5 Alpha Steve x Little One

“But Steve!” You whined as you crawled across the bed, pouting your perfect painted red lips at him, daring to dart the tip of your tongue out the corner as you looked up at him from under your lashes. “I really want to see you when you fuck me.” Sinfully Sweet Kinktober Special Mob!Steve x You x Mob!Bucky

“Bucky, I will behave. Whatever you want.” You cried into his shoulder as you felt the barn's darkness swallow you whole. The Perfect Life Chapter 5 Dark!Steve Rogers x Dark! Bucky Barnes x You

Tagging some awesome writers I know- @that-damn-girl @jtargaryen18 @what-is-your-plan-today @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @slothspaghettiwrites @myoxisbroken and anyone else who would like to participate.

#tag games #amber writes #sweater writes

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griimhilde-a · 3 years

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if you know, you know.

——— a response to those who refuse to move on.

EDIT: after some encouragement and realizing that, while i tried to be respectful and private about this situation, i was not given the same treatment, i’ve decided to be upfront and filterless. here is a link to my page of receipts that i did not provide in this post.

i would like to point out that when i made the DNI, it was buried and sandwiched in my super long rules purposely so that it wasn’t explicitly visible and drawing attention. it was specifically put there for mutuals to understand my boundaries for the new blog, and as soon as i moved blogs, my guidelines underwent heavy reconstruction and the DNI section was removed overall ( i don’t like DNIs for myself ), as well as on this blog. all statements made in the DNI were what i felt to be true and based off of not only my experiences, but others’ as well, backed up with evidence i have saved that i didn’t feel the need to provide because it wasn’t meant to be a big deal, but i also felt i needed to explain why this person was on a DNI and that it wasn’t done out of malicious intent. again, if something sounds bad it is because “bad” things were done and i can’t control that.

reading the call-out had me ( and others ) confused on where it was i had bullied her, when i had her blocked since november, where it was i had manipulated her, and so forth. i’m always wanting to be a better person, so i was extremely confused on where i had done anything wrong. i also didn’t appreciate my new blog url being attached to it as it had nothing to do with it and i was trying to move forward, and it read very much like an attempt to blacklist. despite everything, i never wanted it to be a spectacle. the pinned, public call-out by this person doesn’t read to me as someone wanting to move on, but wanting to drag things further. this is not a call-out post, this is me defending myself. i will not name drop. if you know who this is about, i ask you just read this to understand the full story.

this is going to be a long boi ( i really tried to keep it short but alkfjdklfksldf nope ). i would also like to apologize for any dryness here, but i am aiming to just state facts as they are. it feels ---- ridiculous writing this all out because it’s something that could and should have been handled privately. but, here we go !!

everything on the DNI is true. i will not post or reveal the sources because one, they are not my stories to tell, and two, i am not going to give her the excuse to bother them. they deserve to be safe, and i am walking proof of what happens when you speak out against someone like her. if i have to bear that burden, then so be it.

it stopped being about “just a url” a long time ago. it became more about how i was treated in that interaction, and how i was continued to be treated afterwards. not to mention the increasing tension within the rpc and having to second-guess whether or not i was truly wanted. it was about how it was affecting those around me, my time in a hobby i love, and my mental health. the amount of times a mutual has tagged me by accident when they meant to tag her is insane. it most definitely did not feel good !!! if that kept happening, it was a problem. i also had to shut off the anon feature because of the amount of anons i was receiving. some had good intentions, but others had resorted to hate.

regarding the messages on discord --- i stand by them. i thought if you were friends with someone on discord and have previously talked over time, it was okay to message, otherwise what was the point of discord? i didn't realize it would make her uncomfortable to do so, and i’m more careful about how i approach people now !!!

regarding the messages: there was no change in tone other than that i grew exhausted and extremely anxious ( shaking !!! palms sweaty !!! knees weak !!!! mom’s spaghetti !!! ) and wasn’t in the proper mindset to sound happy while i was being invalidated to my face. i have even apologized there if i came off as mean. i don’t “present myself” in a way. that’s just how i talk, i prefer communicating one-on-one and i try to alleviate tension that arises no matter what because these types of conversations aren’t always a walk in the park. i wanted things to be good and not stressful for all parties involved. i’m sorry my tone came off as insincere. after being in desc rpc for a year, i was a little surprised seeing a near-identical url so i think it was fair for me to message her about it. she made the decision use it, and i was allowed to react. it was said misspellings in urls made her anxious so i wanted to help and i was shot down and vilified, essentially told i made her feel unsafe and shouldn’t have messaged. if it wasn’t okay to claim i felt “unsafe” and “paranoid”, why was it okay for her to claim the same based on a choice she made herself, but not me to feel anxious about those choices?

i have never told a blog to block her. i have never initiated conversation about her, nor have i spoken negatively about her as a person. ever. i have, in fact, even stated that i didn’t want anyone blocking and that it would be okay to interact. here’s one example after i was approached about her. i cannot control what other people do.

hardblocking her on my end was to avoid seeing her on dash as much as possible.

i am allowed to softblock / unfollow people who interact with her after months of trying to be okay with it. what kickstarted this process was someone i thought was a close friend had dropped me and suddenly i realized i didn’t need to sacrifice my comfort for the sake of keeping a mutual. if they could do it, so could i. while i adore the descendants rpc, the rpc is not a family, we’re not obligated to interact IC or be mutuals with every single person in the rpc. it’s not causing a rift when we don’t interact on dash. i have even emphasized that i would love to stay in contact via discord and write there if possible !! why am i being vilified for trying to make my blog a safe space for me?

regarding the “vagues”: they were all responses. a mutual wrote the post, i reblogged it, my tags were in response to the post ( said mutual’s url wasn’t even blocked out so ... ). if it felt like a vague, i can’t control that. the meaning behind the url post was circulating on dash, i didn’t see any vaguing in it other than me recounting my process of choosing this url, which was true ( was i not allowed to participate?? ). the shrek meme was in response to a public dash event ( which i originally thought was a joke ) that had received copious amounts of criticism for. it wasn’t a vague and it was explicit on what it was referring to, it was meant to be silly dash commentary, nothing deep.

this is in my rules but i have explicitly stated that my headcanons about my characters are not a vague if they differ from yours. the talk about hair styles was actually initiated in a conversation with my friends in private. it had absolutely nothing to do with her. if it sounded like a drag, i encourage everyone to look at how i’ve “dragged” many other things including the original outfits for descendants, evie thinking mermaid dresses are ugly, evie not liking wine, and so forth. my portrayal of evie =/= other portrayals of evie. while she may never do so-and-so, it doesn’t make it wrong for another portrayal to do it. ( why was my blog being kept tabs on and compared with, in the first place? that’s not duplicate friendly ).

regarding sex week: i've stated it was an inappropriate event because the descendants rpc had been heavily criticized for smutting and felt it wasn't the best response, nor was it the best way to promote sex positivity. it was insanely uncomfortable to witness, as someone in this rpc. it doesn’t matter if the people or the muses involved were adults, i would still call it inappropriate had it happened in any other rpc. it wasn’t a “block and move on” situation. i’m also allowed to defend myself because i didn’t want to be associated with something she posted. i didn’t want it tied to my url. i would like to clarify that when i said "embarrassing" in the responses under that anon, it was directed at the anon for misreading the url, nobody else. ostracizing occurred when the descendants rpc was being added to DNIs because of sex week / smutting, which was posted by this person ( if you post it, you start it. simple ). i had been blocked simply because i am a descendants blog and that had never happened before.

i was also notified that people uninvolved with this have been namedropping me on dash in an attempt to have me “written off” ( their words, not mine ) because my rules stated that i was open to exploring evie’s sexuality. below is a screenshot of my rule regarding smut. i deleted the rules page from this blog when i moved so i snatched it from my other canon descendants blog that i reuse on all blogs. the second is my elaboration on sexual content in my new evie rules. the third is what’s on my google doc, a condensed version of my rules. there is a major difference between smutting and posting a public dash event dedicated to sex versus being open to explore sexuality as a topic. they are not the same. also, me not choosing to smut does not dictate my opinion on smut, so do not make assumptions about that either. if you want to move on, why are you still talking about me on dash, especially when unprompted? if you just want to move on, why are you upset that i’m not “written off”?

this person has vagued me multiple times ( which they conveniently did not show in the call-out ), this person has been shown to talk badly of me in private ( and now, publicly as well ) ---- all of which i have not done. i have screenshots sent by others to show for it, but do not feel it’s relevant to share because this is not about her. this is just about defending myself.

i have spent three months apologizing for feeling things, apologizing for reacting, apologizing for things i should not have been apologizing for. i have spent so long accepting blame because i felt it would help. i’m done doing that. i know what i did and what i didn’t do. people know what i did and didn’t do.

all in all, i am confused on why a call-out was made when the content provides nothing other than catty remarks meant to air out personal drama. the messages exchanged only show how i tried to remedy things. the screenshots of my “vagues” were just responses, and most of which had nothing to do with this person. my initial silly dash commentary and later discomfort over a sexual dash event posted by this person is not a vague.

if you ( referring to maker of the call-out and others who partook ) are upset about people not talking about me in regards to the “rest of the call-out”, maybe consider the fact that there was nothing about me in it that warranted a call-out in the first place. people saw that i did nothing wrong. the only thing of substance in the call-out was something the maker themselves did : the public, sexual dash event. people are allowed to identify that as a more prominent issue as opposed to how my messages or public posts could be perceived through basic, biased narrative manipulation.

me deciding to unfollow / softblock blogs that interact with this person =/= involving the descendants rpc or making it public. i am allowed to softblock whoever i want to cultivate my dash experience. most people i know have it in their rules that they are okay with people softblocking for their comfort and that it won’t be taken personally. you know what IS making it public and involving the entire descendants rpc? this person messaging a descendants server and name dropping me in the server, reducing the situation to just being about a “url” and publicly announcing it in the server. here are the facts to consider: her message was sent jan. 21. my DNI went up feb 2.

so, regarding the call-out: there was no bullying, no manipulation, no harassment, no gaslighting, nothing from my end, and the call-out shows precisely that the claims are just that: claims. whatever was felt is valid, but feelings =/= gravity of the actual action itself - the most common thing pointed out in therapy: feelings are valid, but are they justified? call-outs should be reserved for people who cause actual harm, not because someone wants an excuse to blacklist. if i am a “bully” for unfollowing blogs for my own comfort, then i think the rpc really needs to reevaluate what these terms mean because the misuse is harmful.

here are the things i did do: treated everyone i talked to with respect. approached things civilly. communicated. tried to accommodate for others. attempted to make a safe space for myself. did not involve the entire rpc by announcing it in a server. did not make a call-out post nor pin it. did not continue to name drop afterwards despite claiming to want to move on.

this entire situation is absurd and should have never been public, much less made a call-out for !! while this was meant to defend myself and state facts, i understand it may not change minds. a friend has told me that people will hate me because they want to hate me, no matter what. and i can’t do anything about that !! all i have to say is that holding hate in your heart never ends well. i hope everyone can find peace at some point.

so please, let me move on. let me write with my friends. let me unfollow / softblock people to keep my dash comfortable. let me take a break from descendants while also having the choice to return at anytime. please stop talking about me when i’m not even giving this another thought and haven’t since i moved blogs. please stop name dropping. stop keeping tabs on me, stop stalking my new blog. please leave me alone. i hold absolutely nothing against anyone i may have softblocked / unfollowed or am not currently interacting with on my new blog. my IMS / discord is always available, you will not be violating my safety by messaging me, everyone is welcome, but i also understand if you feel the need to separate yourself !!! as for those of you who have interacted with the call-out post, i wish you the best but i hope you understand why i do not want to interact with you by any means in the future.

i’m hoping this post lays everything to rest, seeing as my first one did not. honestly, what are you trying to prove if you still have to post about this? it helps nobody. this back-and-forth is exhausting and unneeded. no more. let’s be better people, yeah?

i hope everyone takes care of themselves, i hope you all have a great day / night !!! thank you for reading this long boi !!

#this is a long boi.#thank u to everyone who's offered their support these past few days!#i refuse to let people push me out with baseless claims !!!#so here are all the facts #i really don't want to talk about this anymore but if u need proof of the things this person has done u can msg me #otherwise. this ends here.#pls don't reblog!

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