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#this is inspired by me switching to french every time I didn't know how to say smth in spanish when I was trying to learn it
quoththemaiden · 28 days
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@mrghostrat This is now the third time since December that I'm writing about your middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man problems (1, 2). Please come collect them, because they're causing a disturbance.
Or, if you aren't able to wrangle them, then please enjoy this scene inspired by Chapter 10 of Big Name Feelings.
For everyone who hasn't already seen the top portion of this on Discord, know that this is set sometime after the con but before the big bang.
"I think your hair might be getting long enough to braid now."
Crowley's eyes snapped over to him. "Braid?"
Aziraphale blinked at the sharp question. "I didn't mean anything by it." He'd still never figured out quite where Crowley's gender identity lay, or if it changed day-by-day. He suspected Crowley's public presentation of his gender was either "whatever's simplest for everyone involved" (around people he didn't know but generally liked, like at the con) or "whatever causes the most problems for everyone involved" (like with a particularly annoying security guard that had left Aziraphale remembering that being middle-aged, white, and extremely stuffy in appearance was its own form of armor). Aziraphale's own perception of Crowley's gender was just "Crowley." What Crowley felt about it was something Aziraphale had never quite managed to parse out. "You can do whatever you like—"
"Do you know how?"
"How...?"
"To braid hair." Crowley's tone was oddly urgent. "Like for your nieces or cousins or—"
"—for crafting, yes. Tassels for bookmarks and such. You want me to—" Crowley practically flinging himself down onto the sofa next to him was answer enough. "Oh."
Crowley's hair really was barely long enough to braid, Aziraphale decided as he gently freed it from its elastic band. He ran his fingers through it slowly and carefully, easing out the light tangles from a day's confinement. Crowley slumped forward in boneless contentment, and Aziraphale had to switch to prickling the top of his scalp with his fingernails to get him to sit up straight enough for Aziraphale to work.
Aziraphale determined his gameplan, then, and gently eased up a few locks of hair at the crown of Crowley's head, smoothing down the top with the flat of his palm. He started working the strands into a French braid, taking it tiny piece by tiny piece to ensure every section was balanced in size. If Crowley were doing it himself, he suspected he'd get it done in just five messy joins, but every strand he brought in gave Aziraphale another excuse to run his fingertips along Crowley's scalp and he luxuriated in each opportunity. "Has anyone ever told you your hair is unreasonably thick?" he murmured, his voice huskier with fond affection than he'd intended. Crowley spared him from a tease by being too utterly sedated to manage more than a vague hum in response. Aziraphale smiled at that and kept his progress blissfully slow and methodical until he had no choice but to tie the braid off at the nape of Crowley's neck — half a French braid, half a ponytail made bushy from having had waves worked into it. He placed a soft kiss to the back of Crowley's head, padded by the thickest part of Crowley's braid and somehow all the more intimate for it. "All done, love."
Crowley leaned back against Aziraphale's chest, tilting back his head to look up at him with eyes made impossibly soft with contentment. "I'm never putting my own hair up again. Just hope you know that."
Aziraphale chuckled softly, just as fond. "I'll manage somehow, I suppose."
Crowley's boneless appreciation of the hair braiding had turned into boneless napping, and while Aziraphale enjoyed having Crowley fall asleep against him at certain times of day, he had never been one for naps himself and there was a limit to how long he could stay motionless sans entertainment before even he got antsy. He eased his way out from under Crowley, grateful the other man was a heavy sleeper even during the day, and was left deciding what quiet amusement he could pursue until whenever Crowley woke up and started making noises about dinner. He could always read some fanfics, of course, but his eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards his favorite muse.
His muse who had, he recalled, tempted him into joining a rigged bang and had talked him into getting a digital tablet. Aziraphale still planned to do his official art for it traditionally, because he was sure Crowley's writing would deserve no less... and, if he was allowed to be vain in the privacy of his own mind, because he still remembered the feeling he'd had when Crowley responded to his scans with barely coherent keysmashing. He wasn't in deferential awe of Crowley anymore, although he still loved his writing just as much, but part of him still hoped that Crowley might respond with just as much enthusiasm at getting to see the finished piece in person, textured paper and unprocessed colors and all. Well, assuming he could be gutsy enough to actually give it to him in person instead of just leaving it on the drafting table for him to find, which was really the more statistically likely result. But anyway.
But anyway.
His muse was sleeping in front of him, and a stylus on an iPad would make hardly any noise at all. And if he got good enough at using it, maybe he could draw some extra digital art to celebrate the fic as well.
In any case, sketching Crowley while he slept was one of life's little joys. He didn't think Crowley knew how often he did it, and that was probably for the best. If he did it all in his notebook, it would have been too easy for Crowley to flip through and find the sketches (and removing sheets would have felt damnably like a guilty conscience). With his iPad, however, he was safe to sketch as much as he liked and there was no real way for Crowley to stumble across it. Aziraphale willfully shoved aside the thought that that didn't really sound any less guilty and started setting stylus to screen. It wasn't long until he'd settled into a comfortable rhythm, his eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and where Crowley was lying face-down on the sofa, his new braid highlighted in a beam of afternoon sunlight.
Something Aziraphale did appreciate about digital art was that white could be layered on top of other colors and be shockingly vibrant, which wasn't an effect he could get easily with his beloved watercolors. Something else watercolors didn't give him was the ability to pick out very fine details, and as his sketch started coming together, he found that was exactly what he wanted to do now. While Crowley's hair was a vibrant red in his selfies or on stage, when he'd had the opportunity to run his fingers through every strand, he'd found that Crowley's hair was showing his age just as much as his own was.
The first day Aziraphale had found a grey hair had come as a shock. He'd naively assumed that with his hair being as pale as it was, even if it started greying, he might well never know. Instead, he found that the grey hairs' texture was frustratingly different from the strands that were still blond, and until they reached a critical mass fifteen long years later, they had an unfortunate tendency to stick out unattractively if his cut was anything less than perfect. He had become quite a regular at his barber's.
With Crowley's hair being as long as it was, his grey hairs had worked smoothly into his braid. From even the small distance from couch to armchair, they melded into the red strands perfectly... but Aziraphale had just spent long minutes twining them into neat twists and didn't need to see them now to know they were there. Aziraphale zoomed in close (another marked benefit of the digital display) and set his pen to a thin, sharp line, layering sleek silver strands into the red braid he'd drawn. Following the way they weaved around each other and dipped in and out of view felt delightfully meditative.
Eventually, Crowley made a soft snuffling snort-groan as he roused from his nap, slowly turning to unbury his face from the pillows. "Wha' time'zit?" he mumbled, patting around blindly for his cellphone.
"Coming up on 5:30 now," Aziraphale replied softly, trying not to startle him into full wakefulness too quickly. He rose and fetched Crowley's phone, placing it gently into his fumbling hand. "There you go."
"Mmrrr. Don't need it now." Crowley tucked the phone under his side in what Aziraphale would have guessed would be a very uncomfortable fashion but which Crowley did without even thinking. At least it wouldn't be going anywhere from there, Aziraphale supposed. "What're you doin'?" Crowley made grabby hands at the iPad Aziraphale had brought over with him.
Aziraphale handed over the iPad without even one thought, much less a second. "Oh, I was just waiting for you to wake up, really."
"...Angel." Crowley had zoomed out on the picture (with a completely unsurprising lack of propriety) and was now staring, frozen and much more awake, at the drawing of himself. "You aren't going to post this on Tumblr, are you?"
Aziraphale laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that, despite the ripple of shock Crowley's tense tone had caused him. "Come, now. When have I ever posted a drawing of you, my dear?"
"When have you ever made a drawing of me?" Crowley retorted. He waved vaguely at the screen, accidentally sparing Aziraphale from having to answer. "I don't mind being old, but I don't want the world knowing my boyfriend thinks I'm old." His frazzled waving turned a little more flaily.
"Crowley..." Aziraphale gently took the tablet back from him and set it down on the floor so he could take Crowley's hand in both of his. "I assure you, I'm not the kind of artist who spends my time drawing things I don't think are beautiful. And that includes every detail I put in."
Aziraphale would have hoped that was obvious, really. The strands of hair he had drawn weren't brittle grey; they were molten silver. They caught the light like a precious metal woven like a ribbon into cinnabar-red hair. Crowley could have been a queen, fallen asleep after a long day in her finery. He could have been a fae whose very essence was beauty, sleeping with no fear that it would be stolen away because it couldn't.
He could have been an ordinary man, who was so deeply, truly loved that even his grey hairs seemed to shine like the soft gleam of a newly-forged star when they caught the last strong beams of afternoon sunlight shining in through the windows.
Aziraphale hoped Crowley could see it, too.
Crowley made a grumpy noise. "I still don't want it on Tumblr. — Not that I can tell you what to do with your art, but—"
Aziraphale interrupted him with a warm smile. "I don't want it on Tumblr, either. I drew this just for me."
"...really? Even though...?"
"Just for me," Aziraphale whispered in confirmation, his eyes seeking out Crowley's and saving him from having to finish that sentence. "I've only ever drawn you for me." I love you to the point of creation, his heart sang. It wasn't quite how that quote went, he knew. It was the only way it had ever gone, for him.
"Hn..." Crowley shifted to look at the iPad where it lay down on the floor. "I suppose... Well. Despite the subject matter, you drew it well, at least."
"Well, thank you for that," Aziraphale jibed back lightly, completely devoid of malice.
"Ngh, you can't blame me for feeling self-conscious about my greys when you haven't got any."
Aziraphale let out a huff of a laugh. "Oh, Crowley."
"What?" Crowley looked defensive, then abruptly switched to looking shrewd. "Wait. Do you dye them??" He leaned forward eagerly, like this was taboo knowledge.
"Oh, where was that compliment two decades ago? No, not at all. Do you know how long I spent getting over feeling self-conscious about them, and now for you to not even realize I have them?"
"No way. You've been holding out on me!" Crowley's eyes had a light in them that Aziraphale had seen sometimes — the look of someone who has been wanting something very much and thinks he's just figured out how to get it. Aziraphale drew back instinctively in trepidation. He had no idea what Crowley could possibly be wanting, though a fluttering feeling in his chest suggested that it was, in some way, him.
Ridiculous. As if they hadn't had sex already.
"I'm going to go get dinner started."
Crowley let out a whine that cut off abruptly enough that Aziraphale suspected he actually hadn't intended to make it.
Aziraphale paused. "What?"
"Ehhh... just envious, s'all."
Aziraphale took a moment to muse about whether Crowley knew the difference between "envious" and "jealous" and decided, firmly, that he had faith that he did. "Of what?" he asked with an incredulous laugh, since he still had no idea what "envious" could possibly apply to here.
"Negghhh, you've gotten to play with my hair enough to know I have greys, and I haven't gotten to touch yours once."
Aziraphale blushed darkly at that, remembering some choice occasions in which Crowley had gripped his hair tightly enough to hurt. He cleared his throat and opted not to mention them. "That feels much more like your fault than mine."
"Just... tryin'a respect your boundaries, angel."
"Why would that be a boundary?" Aziraphale asked, baffled.
"I asked for it and you haven't."
Aziraphale didn't quite remember it that way, but it was a fair enough interpretation from Crowley's point of view, he supposed. "Well, no. It sounds perfectly nice, but I'd hate to bore you with it. I know you're much more fidgety than I am."
"Not bored," Crowley insisted, his eyes urgent. "Never bored when it's you, angel. Siddown."
Aziraphale laughed breathily. "Too late. I'm already up to cook dinner."
"Angel."
"You'll just have to wait," Aziraphale teased in a singsong lilt, casting a smile back at Crowley over his shoulder.
Crowley flung himself back on the couch with an impatient whine, leaving Aziraphale feeling very smug about his attempt at whatever the romantic equivalent of foreplay was. Crowley sounded very much like he was being left with blue balls. "Bastard."
"Only as much as you deserve, my dear," Aziraphale sang back as he went into the kitchen, acutely aware of Crowley's eyes following every step.
It wasn't really in question, at all, that Aziraphale would end the evening snuggled on the couch with Crowley's hands in his hair. There was also no question that he'd enjoy it thoroughly, and he also knew it wasn't the kind of thing that was likely to lead to anything more. So, instead, he just relaxed into it and let his thoughts drift.
"...do you really think I'd mind if my red fox turned into a silver fox?" he mused. The thought was languid, easy, relaxed. Crowley spluttered in incoherent surprise anyway, and Aziraphale laughed softly. "Yes, I know. There's a reason I'm not the writer of the pair."
"Y'are, though. Don't think I've forgotten that you are."
Aziraphale blushed a little at that. "Oh."
Crowley's hands resumed their meditative motion through Aziraphale's hair. "But... yeah. I'd rock it, wouldn't I?"
"You would," Aziraphale murmured with a smile. "And I'm quite looking forward to seeing it someday, my dear."
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madnessmadness · 5 months
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[20 Question Fic Writer Tag]
tagged by @krankittoeleven you change your username and I had a small panic haha
How many works do you have on AO3? 27
What is your AO3 word count? 498,249
What fandoms do you write for? Trigun and formerly Arknights
What are your top five fics by kudos? Becoming Eden [It's me I'm trees] (Trigun) Guns (Trigun) The Exquisite Terror of Pretending This is Fine (Arknights ) Becoming Eden [The Whole Damn Forest] (Trigun) Light (Trigun)
Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I used to respond to every comment but then it started to feel like emails at work. I respond to questions and will clarify things as a priority. I am not great at taking compliments so I get shrimp emotions easy.
What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Inglorious I killed Meryl, never gonna top that.
What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? The Body Is a Temple.exe (arknights) the protagonist really starts a miserable pile of robot parts and ends with his life in order, he gets his girl back, he makes friends, he settles internal struggles, he breaks ancient cycles. I think my other arknights fic also has a happy ending but this one has a sense of permanence to it that the other one doesn't.
Do you get hate on fics? Yes, I have gotten some buckwild anons about Becoming Eden.
Do you write smut? If so, what kind? I have just started exploring this genre. I've been a 100k+ genfic writer for most of my fandom career so it's been fun to learn something new. Some of them are really bad, like Hog Wild, don't read that. And some of them are really fun like For All the Marbles, read that one.
Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? I wrote Trigun/PacificRim! That's the only official cross over though. I feel like I take so much inspo from other things when I make a long fic that I inevitably have two or three inspired by tags. Annaihilition, the locked tomb, Sense8 and Murder Bot Diaries and Lilliths brood are my biggest influences.
Have you ever had a fic stolen? Hope not?
Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! Shout out to @coffee-without-anesthetics
Have you ever cowritten a fic before? Yes! @beelzebby666 And @what-immortal-hand-or-eye and I have an Modern Ikea Trigun AU we're working on slowly.
What's your all-time favourite ship? I live in rare pair hell... I love Milly Thompson and I wanna see her smooch anyone. Favorite to write is MillyKnives crack fic.
What's a WIP you'd like to finish but doubt you ever will? Hold Me Like a Grudge I worry for this fic, some one commented and said it felt like an 80k slow burn and I realized they were right and got nervous.
What are your writing strengths? I finish things. wich is funny to say just after the question that I'm like ooh, uh, worried about this one fic here. But I really do take it seriously to finish stuff.
What are your writing weaknesses? Em dashes, run on sentences ect. I have written so much in 1st person present tense that switching to past tense can be a chore.
Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? So in my last fic the saverem twins spoke French occasionally and I'd just drop that in untranslated. They were never saying anything too important and most of the time the person eavesdropping didn't understand them I also had phonetic french sometimes when the person didn't even know what language it was. But then again this fic also had Webdings, ascii art, a choose your own adventure chapter, black out text and the narrator would ask the reader to google things for him sometimes so I may be spiders George here.
First fandom you wrote for? Oh man. Okay. Jak & Daxter.
Favourite fic you've ever written? Becoming Eden. I am so mad there is no way to file off the trigun vin numbers and make it original. I really put too much effort into it.
Tags with zero pressure to @beelzebby666 @what-immortal-hand-or-eye @procrastinating-bookworm @eezybree I can't find Kuro in the drop down- also anyone who wants to play mwah
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sapphicscholar · 2 years
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Please write a fic about the Alan Alda inspired Hacks meet cute. I need it.
hahah alright, you caught me when cramps are bad enough i can't sleep but don't have it in me to do more work. Short, sweet, only a one-shot
(Based on the tags I left on a reblog earlier today re Alan Alda's meeting his future wife)
---
It's a catered party. A formal, black tie affair. There is no scarcity of food, no concern that one abandoned cup or plate will mean one too few when dinner's served.
Ava knows this. Surely, she must understand it by now. She was at DJ's birthday party. This little New Year's soiree is no different. Well, it's actually costing tens of thousands more than the birthday dinner (Deborah's social circle is quite a bit more extensive than DJ's, after all), but that isn't the kind of thing Deborah willingly mentions to Ava unless she's ready for a lecture on the evils of conspicuous consumption. (And she is never ready for that lecture.)
So there's absolutely no reason for Ava to dive to the floor after a fallen chocolate cake like some sad orphan in Les Mis.
"You don't have to—"
"Your sacrifice won't be in vain, buddy," Ava declares, her voice veering into the melodramatic, as she fumbles around the counter for a fork.
Deborah watches on in horror as Ava scoops as much of the cake as she can back onto a plate.
"Serve that over my dead fucking body," Deborah says, pointing a threatening finger at the caterer, who lifts his hands in the air.
"Wouldn't dream of it." He gives Ava a confused look before shuffling over to grab one of the many other dessert platters to bring out to the table.
"You want some?" Ava asks, a bite of cake already hovering in the air between them.
Deborah arches a single eyebrow.
"Oh relax, I didn't get any of the layer that touched the floor." There's a glint to Ava's eyes and a twitch at the corners of her mouth that have Deborah rolling her eyes.
"Enjoy your food poisoning."
"Please. As if Josefina would ever let the floors get that dirty."
"Don't think I didn't see you stomping through here in your chimneysweep boots just this morning."
Ava just wraps her lips around the fork and hums, her eyes fluttering shut as if in genuine pleasure.
Deborah ignores the heat that sweeps through her at the sight of Ava eating cake from the fucking floor. God, she needs to ease off those estrogen packets again. Clearly the side effects are finally coming for her.
Ava pushes herself up onto the countertop, letting her legs fall open as much as the dress allows and slouching over her plate. "This is seriously good."
"I've heard you say that about McDonald's french fries," Deborah scoffs.
"One: I was high. Two: sometimes the human body wants garbage food, okay? Who am I to deny my body what it wants?"
"Part of being human is knowing how to say no to things we want but shouldn't have," Deborah snaps.
Ava's brow furrows, like she knows this isn't just about food anymore. (Though it's about the food, too; of course it is.)
It's just that every so often, Deborah finds she needs to be reminded of all the reasons why Ava is off limits. And tonight, with too much champagne making those reckless impulses feel closer to the surface than ever, with too much time spent telling jokes to a whole room but only listening for one specific laugh, that reminder feels more important than ever.
"If you'll excuse me, I have guests eating food that never touched the floor to entertain."
"Yeah, yeah, go enjoy the bougie people."
"I'll be sure to have them switch your champagne out for some bottom-shelf white wine. Can't have you drinking with the 1%."
"Okay, okay, let's not be hasty now!"
Deborah can only roll her eyes as she pivots on her heels and heads out to the party again.
It isn't until later that night—sometime after dessert but before the midnight countdown—that an old memory unlocks. She's gotten swept into one of those "walk down memory lane" conversations that's really just a contest over who can name-drop the most people in a single story when Jo mentions Alan Alda's birthday party. He'd told the story then about the moment he first fell in love with his wife: a party, her laugh ringing out down the table at a story he'd told, a fallen cake they'd shared in the kitchen—not yet too good for floor food.
It was so simple, so straightforward; Deborah, fresh off a messy divorce then, had yearned for something just like it. And now…
Deborah swallows hard and excuses herself, taking a few minutes upstairs in her private bathroom to collect herself.
Ava is, of course, perched on the edge of her bed when she comes out.
"What are you doing here?"
Ava shrugs. "You ran off pretty quick. Wanted to make sure you were okay."
Her traitorous heart pounds a little harder. "I'm fine."
"You almost missed the countdown." Ava inclines her head in the direction of the door, and Deborah cracks it open just in time to hear them starting at "ten."
She's always hated this ritual. As if time passing by was anything to celebrate. Another year and nothing to show for it.
Well, that might not be wholly true this year, but still. She doesn't sing Happy Birthday, and she won't chant along to a countdown clock.
"You going down there?"
Deborah knows what will happen if she does. "Far be it for me to upstage the ball."
Ava's lips quirk up into a grin. "If anyone could get a million drunk people in Times Square to pay attention to something other than the fireworks…"
"It's not that hard. You should've seen it in the 80s."
Ava lets out a loud bark of delighted laughter—Deborah's audience of one—and it's headier than any champagne could ever hope to be.
"...two...one...happy New Year!" Loud cheering erupts from downstairs.
"Happy 2022," Ava whispers. It's quiet and simple and the only kind of acknowledgment Deborah wants of another year gone.
Deborah's ready to find something generic enough to say back when Ava pushes up to her tip-toes and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Deborah's cheek, just close enough to catch the corner of her mouth.
Ava smiles to herself as she drops back down to her heels. "Yeah...I think it's gonna be a good one."
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vespersposts · 2 years
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Wildchild [1]
Good afternoon you all! Inspired by the amazing works of my mutuals here on Tumblr, I wrote something (I'm blushing). It's gonna be a pretty long story, mainly focused on you, Akashi, Aomine and some great music. I'm gonna label delicate content if the story will interest anyone, this is a first attempt, so I might decide to put it down, but hey, fell free to send me all your opinions, critics and doubts. I apologize for every grammar/typing error, but English is not my first language. Let me know what you think.
dividers by: @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
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The familiar sight of Earl grey tea, its deep orange warmth, the delicate smell of bergamot filling your nostrils as the waitress smiles at you, gracing her way of serving you the perfectly blended drink.
A small moment of pure bliss.
"It won't need sugar, will it?" he says, in that gentle tone that wins everyone's heart, and, after those crazy years, maybe yours too.
You smile at him and nod, thanking the girl who leaves you alone at the breakfast table of the beautiful manor house. 
"I'm going to miss this garden so much," you acknowledge, turning your gaze to the French window that leads directly into that corner of paradise where the two of you usually spend your free time discussing art, music and life. 
“Stay then”, he suggests with a small smile on his lips, because he knows how inflexible your resolutions are once made, but he still loves to tease you, sure he can easily turn the tables on you if he really needs to.
After all, he has chosen you since Teiko's time to be his muse not only because of your impeccable demeanour and undisputed musical talent, but mostly because he couldn't tame or understand your way of thinking.
"I'll miss you too Seijūrō" you smile faintly, returning your attention to him.
The handsome boy shakes his head lightly as his magenta gaze reaches the right page of the morning paper, where his father's company has announced the annual program of the "Shiori Akashi Foundation" gala night. 
"Has he accepted our final project?" you ask, closing your eyes briefly as you sip the delicious drink, ready to listen to his smooth voice.
Akashi's expression switches from a slight frown to something undetectable, a mix of so many emotions alternating in his mind that even he, the king of self-control, got lost in the translation process.
He blinks twice, his hands letting go of his grip on the thin inked paper falling onto the table, then he covers the smirk on his face with one hand as he stares blankly in your direction.
What the hell is going on? 
Why are his eyes suddenly burning with that sinister light again?
"Sei" you call back to him, intertwining your pale fingers with his long ones and under your tender touch he seems to rejoice, the ghost of his dark shadow being chased away like leaves in the warm spring breeze.
"Ma fille prodige!" he announces, letting go of your hand and coming closer to show you the result of your plan. You almost choke on your tea as his sensual scent reaches your core, your skin can feel a sudden weave of heat caused by his proximity: sensations you've learned to master over those years of rehearsals  and confidential talks but at the same time vibes you can't deny or get used to. 
"Here, darling," his gentle voice invites your eyes to read the paper, although they don't want to follow anything but the bright expression on his face, his velvety red pools full of unanticipated joy, his lips curved into a playful, almost childlike smile. You lean back just to get closer to him as he puts his right hand on your shoulder and drags the chair close to yours, still focused on his target.
"I think you were right... He couldn't treat you the way he treats me, that's why we're going to have our concert just the way we imagined it," he announces, still stunned by the result of your previous encounter with his powerful but intimidating parent.
"I didn't do anything special," you reply, "I just told him that celebrating your mother's life through her son's happiness is one of the highest forms of love, and I mean that, so basically I was just being myself. No need to thank me, you see?" you stumble over your own words, as your brain refuses to function properly now that he's a breath away.
" It's you, it's all because of you my precious" he breathes softly "Thank you with all my heart, it means a lot to me," he continues, taking your hand in his, squeezing it a little to seal the moment, enjoying the sight of your flushed face.
"Sei I..." you hold your breath as he lifts his hand to your temple to caress your head gently, unaware of the risk he's taking. 
Your lips curve upwards, your eyes widen and the sudden idea of grabbing him by the back of the head and locking his lips into yours was more than real in your intentions, if it wasn't for a double knock on the door that broke the spell.
"Come forward!" he raised his voice, not moving from his position.
"Young master, Miss, good morning," the butler announced himself  "The car to the train station is ready at any time," he concluded, closing the door behind him.
"Time to go back to Tokyo and get your award" the young man points out, putting some space among you to scan your emotionless expression for some clue.
"It's just a graduation ceremony," you huff, leaving your chair and walking towards the window  to carve the image of the flowering garden in the clear morning light into your mind.
You hear his footsteps as he approaches, his gaze fixed on you.
"Did I say something wrong ?" he asks, leaning his back against the window pane to make sure he has your full attention.
“It's just that I really, really don't want to go home," you answer reluctantly, tightening your shoulders.
"You have a chance to inspire someone to be like you, and people like me need people like you" he smiles, ignoring the knocks on the door.
"Sei, don't use your charm on me, you know being good at music is hardly a point" you smile crossing your arms over your chest, casting a resigned glance at the door.
The young man looks deeply into your eyes and reduces the distance between you two, lowering his voice, his warm lips so close to your skin it makes you shiver.
"Come back soon, that's the point," he finishes quickly, whispering in your ear as an embarrassed butler coughs to disclose his presence in the room.
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measuringbliss · 2 years
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you can't drop something that sounds as sick as cruciverbalist without explaining to me everything about the oc.
I might disappoint you since there's not much to say. He's an OC from April 2018, so at the time I was still... involved... in the D*ng*nr*np* fandom...
Anyway, let's talk about my cringiest era!
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Bae-Je Sorel, half-Korean, half-French. Bae-Je (배겋 probably?) stands for... I have absolutely no idea, and it appears that it should be read Bae-Geoh so really, I'm just as confused as you are. Like, I apologize to anyone who vaguely knows Korean, this is... I don't know. ANYWAY.
"Sorel" comes from Julien Sorel, the protagonist of French classic novel Le rouge et le noir (The Red and the Black) by Stendhal, which I *haven't* read. I have no idea what this novel is about. I just thought (and still think) that "Sorel" is a nice sounding name. I think that's basically it. "Sorel" is pronounced just the same as "sorrel", which is a color similar to chestnut, hence the color being present in the pic above. Maybe there was also a link to "saumure" (brine) but... eh.
Basically, Bae-Je Sorel is what happens when you've been doing [insert cursed fandom name] roleplays for a while and you want to play again but, eh, maybe not, you don't feel motivated and years later you'll figure out that it's linked to your ADHD but for now, in 2018, you just... eh. That's it. So you stumble upon an interesting activity (creating crosswords), figure that it's fun and nobody else will pick *that* as the talent for their OCs (every D.R RP OC needs a specific talent).
Well, I don't even remember how much I roleplayed him. I half-assed his backstory and I just *know* I wasn't that interested in him.
Fun fact, here's the list of my D.R RP OCs by talent: Ultimate Suicidal Guy whose sprite was a modified version of a canon character, it was my first time doing sprite edit (the idea was that in a universe where characters killed each other, people were supposed to think he'd finally succeeded at doing it but surprise! actually he was murdered), Ultimate Opportunist (I played the previous guy and him at the same time because having your character murdered meant you couldn't play anymore, so we were allowed to have two of them which meant I had to juggle different devices because at the time Discord didn't really exist so we used SKYPE and it was A MESS. A BIG MESS. I'm talking "at first, use the same phone and just switch between two accounts anytime those characters do something, but the switching accounts takes a small while and by the time you're back, 150 messages have flown by" and later, "you use your Playstation Vita so that it's easier but it's still A MESS" let me tell you the Bliss of that time was SOMETHING) whose sprite was a barely modified version of Battler Ushiromiya, I think he actually had another, more official talent but I can't remember it but "Opportunist" was a ~secret talent~, I think after that I had another guy but I can't remember his talent for the life of me, I took his sprite from an unknown Japan-only PSP visual novel, then I had another guy who, this time, played a nice part in a RP, I used a fanart of Zen from Persona Q. That last character was a manipulator and I intended for him to be a killer from the start. He has, like, weapons or something in his watch. I think I got inspired by Light Yagami lol. Ironically, I think he was a victim. Oh well.
So I'm pretty sure Bae-Je was my last D.R RP OC. Or maybe the penultimate one.
I do have other OCs, because I worked for about 4 years on a fangame for that same universe, but I eventually officially gave up on making it in 2021, I think. The characters were much better than all of those above, thankfully lol
Oh, by the way, his pose imitates the one a character does in an anime opening of D.R. You see those characters fall and I thought it was a very striking image. Actually the whole OP is amazing so if you're curious, here's a link for the first version and for the second version (actually there's 3 versions from what I remember but it's about small changes).
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...Dear Lord, didn't expect to write all that. Oh well.
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bittysthesis · 3 years
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who intentionally pisses off jack by pretending that spanish and french are the same language?
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Ok here me out, Marinette Project runway winner
This is for @ozmav @mindfulmagics @maribat-archive @realrandomposts for inspiring me to do this even though I’m probably annoying you people.
She moved to Gotham after defeating Hawkmoth to study abroad
During this time she begins her time on Project runway
Even after having commissioned her work to celebrities such as Clara Nightingale and Jagged Stone she is out in the bottom 3 in 2 occasions
This causes her to work even harder to win
Marinette creates looks based off of Ladybug, the miraculous team, and the heroes of Gotham (Chat’s Miraculous was taken long ago, before defeating Hawkmoth)
Her Robin look was the one that made her the win (it was a simple, but elegant black blazer with a small robin embroidered on the right breast pocket, a white-based shirt with prints that resembled a bird making its nest, black slacks, and brown dress shoes).
The judges loved her craftsmanship, “You have magic in the tips of your fingers!”
“The embroidery is so detailed, how did you have time for that?”
“I love it! Marinette Dupain-Cheng you are Project Runway’s 20XX’s winner!”
*Cue Marinette being so happy she burst into tears*
After this, she begins working on building her brand. She began shipping her clothes internationally. Her work becomes huge in Asia and blows up, K-pop and C-pop idols love her. BTS was once caught using her clothes as airport fashion. Jackson Wang and BOYSTORY are always wearing her clothes.
Because of this Marinette’s celebrity clientele, just became a heck of a lot bigger.
Jagged now brags about her work at every red carpet event he goes to (if he didn’t already).
“Jagged, please. Jagged no. Jagged why?”
Clara does the same, but not to Jagged’s extreme.
Marinette is constantly embarrassed by this and try’s her best to give credit to the other contestants she met on the show. They all loved her and were as happy as they could be when she won.
All of this leads to Jagged introducing Marinette to Bruce Wayne.
“I hear you’ve been Jagged’s exclusive designer since you were fourteen? That’s impressive.”
Marinette waves it off, “I was just trying to help a friend.”
“I was wondering if I could commission you to create mine and my sons’ next charity gala suits. I’ve seen your work and it is very practical, most of the designers sacrifice functionality and practicality for aesthetic. But you seem to know that there is more to it then looking nice, your work seems to be able to be on the go as well.”
Of course, Marinette agrees, “Y-Yes! I would love to!”
This leads to a later fitting session at the Wayne Manor to get their measurements.
“Ah, Ms. Dupain-Cheng, you’re early,” Alfred points out while Marinette waits for entry.
Alfred allowed for her to get inside after a moment.
“On time is late and early is on time, Mr?”
“Pennyworth, but you may call me Alfred. That is exactly what I always say, Madame.”
“Well, in that case, you can just call me Marinette.” She smiles at the well-seasoned gentleman.
The well-mannered man shows Marinette to the living area to wait on Bruce and his sons.
What she wasn’t expecting was for two men to come barreling down the stairs, locked in combat over a trivial subject. “Take it back, Todd!”
“Not a chance, Demon Spawn!”
“I’ll break every bone in your body so badly, that not even the Lazarus pits could undo the damage caused!”
“When you say things like that, you just prove my point!!”
Marinette silently watched as the two continued their squabble. ‘What’s a Lazarus pit? I’ll have to ask Master Fu.’ (After defeating Hawkmoth, Master Fu retrieved Tiki. But that didn’t stop her guardian training.)
Eventually, the two boys got physical and Marinette decided it was time to intervene.
“Say it AGAIN!”
“You are JUST like your grandfather! You bra-”
“Umm, excuse me... Who are you two?”
The two stop to see a small, French woman physically keeping the two apart. The boys look completely gobsmacked.
“The better question is who are you?”
“I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng, I’m here to get Bruce Wayne and his sons’ measurements for a piece he commissioned me to do. I’m a designer,” She said smiling, extending her hand.
Jason takes it before Damian, “I’m Jason Todd-Wayne, nice to meet you.”
Damian scowls, “How polite of you...” he murmured to himself.
Marinette looks to the boy who has yet to introduce himself, “And you are?”
Both Damian and Jason’s jaws dropped, she really didn't know who they were. She was in their house for Pete’s sake, “I’m Damian Wayne.” Damian took her hand and gave it a kiss for added effect.
“Show off,” could be heard from Jason’s direction.
Marinette didn’t care for what the peanut gallery had to say, she was bright red after Damian did that.
At this moment, Dick, Tim, and Bruce walked in at the same time.
“Ms. Dupain-Cheng, you’re early,” Bruce said walking to greet her.
“I didn’t want for you to wait for me, also you can just call me Marinette. It feels weird when someone older and with a much more esteemed reputation calls me Miss.”
Once she finished speaking, Tim basically ran to her at the speed of light. The Flash, who?
See all the boys enjoyed Jagged’s music, but Tim, Tim was the grade A fanboy that everybody at least knows of. He’s watched every interview, heard every song, bought every album, poster, t-shirt, and every bit of merch he could get his hands on.
Needless to say after all the praise, Jagged gives to his personal designer, Tim knows exactly who she is.
“It is an honor to meet you Ms. Dupain-Cheng, I am Tim Drake-Wayne. I’m a big fan of your work.”
“You like fashion, Timmy?”
“I’m interested, sure, but Ms. Dupain-Cheng has done work for Jagged Stone. Since. She. Was. Fourteen. Her work has won awards since she was fourteen!” Tim said, disgusted by his brothers’ not knowing who she is.
“Please, it was completely by chance I met Jagged. Plus, I wasn't the only designer he’s ever had.” Marinette tried to take the attention off of her achievements.
“You just the only one who has made Jagged look like something other than an eggplant. I love the guy’s music, but his outfits before you... they looked cheap.”
Dick moved to speak, “It’s true, looking back at his old ensembles, there was a dramatic shift in craftsmanship. I’m Richard Grayson-Wayne, but you can call me Dick.”
Marinette’s face rivaled her old Ladybug costume. “Please, it was nothing. I made a million mistakes when I was designing back then. Anyway, let’s talk about what’s happening today. Your measurements for your suits. I assume Mr. Wayne has more important things to do after this.”
This got the boys to get down to business (to defeat the Huns) and shapes up real quick at the sound of her “serious” voice. The same one she used to use when Chat Noir used to flirt in the middle of an attack.
She when in order of oldest to youngest. Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Tim, were all done. Damian had been waiting patiently for his turn, watching her work. 
Marinette had this habit of sticking her tongue out whenever she was hyper-focused, Damian found this endearing. While she was getting his measurements, he was staring hard. This did not go unnoticed by the Batfam. 
After she’s finished, it’s kinda late. Alfred invites her for dinner and Marinette graciously agrees. Marinette helps prepare the dessert, Alfred repeatedly told her she didn’t have to, but she insisted. 
During dinner, the Batfam began to ask about her personal life, “So, are you seeing anyone?” 
“Master Dick, that is not appropriate to ask a young lady!”
Marinette almost chokes at the question, “That’s... um... I just got out of a controlling relationship. I... um... really don’t feel like talking about it.”
Adrien had done a number on her mentally, once he discovered she was Ladybug he wanted her and him to get together immediately. She agreed after some time, but Adrien was always pushy. He always pressured her into doing something that she wasn’t comfortable doing.  One day she had enough, she told him that she was done. Let’s just say that didn’t go over well. Marinette shifted in her seat as she recalls that night.
Damian seems to notice this and tells her that she doesn’t have to say anything if she doesn’t want to, Marinette appreciates this and thanks him. 
Quickly Marinette switches the topic, “I really like that Gotham has heroes, that protect the city. They make me feel safe like I'm back in Paris.”
This gets all the boys’ attention, Bruce asks her why.
“In Paris, there were heroes to protect them from a magical terrorist, named Hawkmoth. He possessed people who were at their worst and turned them into these things called, Akumas. Ladybug and Chat Noir were the heroes. After he was defeated, Ladybug and Chat Noir retired.”
Damian was baffled by how the league did not know about this, “Why haven’t we heard about this?”
“Mayor Bourgeois kept everything quite to keep tourism flowing, but if you really want to know about it there’s a blog. Be careful though not everything on there is reliable.”
Tim makes a mental note to check it out later. 
By the end of the meal and time to go home, all members of the Batfam+Alfred give and get Marinette’s personal contact info. 
They gained a friend and a new designer. 
Let me know if you want more because then and only then will I do more. This is my first time posting my writing, so please be nice. Thank you for taking the time to read it though! :)
Edit: here’s the ao3 link https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F20572886&t=MGFkNWY5ZDVjOTcwNmIyOTU3YjM0OGQwOTc1YTU5MWZkNDlkNzliYSwwZjg5ZTA1ODIyY2M5MGUyNWYxY2YyMzYyZTY3ZjY2NmNjNzIwMDg5
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good--bye--binary · 5 years
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How Splatoon 2 Helped Me Understand My Queer-ness
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With Splatoon 2 ending its schedule of updates with the final Splatfest (aka the Splatpocalypse) this weekend, I took some time to reflect on one of the things that makes this game so important to me, and perhaps some others like me.
Splatoon 2 will undoubtedly remain on my most important personal video game list for many years—possibly forever. My partner bought me a Switch for Christmas in 2017 and with it Mario Odyssey. Of course the first main-line Mario game would be the first game I would play on my new Nintendo console, and while Splatoon 2 probably wasn't even the second game I played on it (I would guess it was fourth or fifth?), in my mind it eclipses every other memory I have about my first few months with the Switch. It feels like my first Switch game, even though I know it wasn't.
While I enjoyed the Wii in its hay-day, I have a pretty small catalog of games for it, and like a lot of folks, I never bought—nor did I have any interest in—a WiiU. However, anticipating that the Switch would reignite my love for gaming (which it most definitely did), I signed up for the by-mail video game rental service GameFly. I knew I wanted to try a lot of Switch games, but I didn't want to shell out $60 too early in the system's life. That's how I first tried Splatoon 2.
I was a bit uncertain when I added it to my GameFly wish list, but again, I was hungry for any content the Switch was offering in its first year. I really don't like shooters and online multiplayer features are usually a second-thought to me. However, the art style and whimsical tone lured me in for a try. After getting my feet wet in the first couple of hours, I was hooked...puns definitely intended.
I had also just seriously begun grappling with my gender identity beginning in October/November of 2016, and by the end of 2017, I was well into my transition as a non-binary, transfeminine person. I should note that those are the terms I use to define my gender identity now in 2019. From the end of 2016 through a lot of 2017, I was actively repressing using the word “transgender” to describe myself; not that I harbored any type of transphobia, but rather that the idea of being anything but cisgender seemed like something I would never be able to “pull off..” I didn't hate the idea of being trans non-binary, I just didn't believe that I was “good enough” to call myself trans. There was a lot of soul-searching going on at that time as I experimented with pronouns, names, my wardrobe, and use of make-up that brought me to a much happier, more authentic place with my gender identity, but I would be remiss to not also acknowledge my obsession with Splatoon 2 at the same time.
Starting up the game for the first time, I was prompted to create my Inkling avatar character. Like always (as in even before I began my gender-identity journey), I chose a female character model, assuming that I would like the available costume and hair options more than a male character. Wanting her to look slightly queer, I chose the Inkling equivalent of the shaved-on-one-side, long-flowing-on-the-other haircut that is commonly associated with trans women and non-binary transfem people (including myself now). “She's so cute,” I thought, seeing in her a highly-stylized ideal of how I wished I looked; feminine, but with a slightly butch edge. “Futch” as many in the LGBTQ+ community call it.
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As I played and absorbed myself into Splatoon 2s lore and aesthetic, Inkopolis, the epicenter of Inkling culture and life in the Splatoon franchise, quickly came to represent a type of gender-inclusive utopia to me. As I logged on religiously multiple times a day every day to see what new clothes and accessories I could buy to customize my Inkling doppelganger as well as taking note of how the other players were dressing both their male and female characters, I noticed that the game didn't make a distinction between “girls clothes” and “boys clothes.” All the same shirts, shoes, hats, glasses, everything was available to everyone.
And yet, I didn't feel like the Inklings were genderless. When you start Splatoon 2, your character begins in a basic t-shirt, a decidedly unisex, non-gendered article of clothing even in the human world. However, as my Inkling's wardrobe expanded, I found her just as cute (and found myself just as envious) in a ska band appropriate white dress-shirt and skinny black tie, a polka dot button up, and a New Wave French cinema-esque white shirt with thin horizontal black stripes. She could wear clunky black combat boots ala Daria Morgandorfer, brown penny-loafers, and neon green Chuck Taylor-inspired hi-top sneakers. However, I never felt like any of these or the literally hundreds of other clothing and accessory options in her virtual wardrobe invalidated her gender. There were some items I liked more than others, of course, but she was always that cute, spunky, confident futch girl that I had longed to be for years.
There's a common misconception, particularly among cishet people, that transfolk want to do away with gender entirely, that we imagine a gender-neutral world were there are no men or women, but of course that isn't true. What we DO want is a world were the gender-binary, where everyone is either 100% a man or 100% a woman, isn't the expectation. To me, that's one of the things that the world of Splatoon 2 represents. It isn't a gender-absent world, it's a gender-inclusive world.
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It may sound silly, but dressing up my Inkling and seeing her in this world played a huge part in helping me overcome the expectation (and admittedly some internalized trans misogyny) that if I didn't want to look like/be a cis man, I had to “look like a cis woman.” I put that phrase in quotes because of course it's a very loaded phrase that suggests all cis women have to adhere to a strict gender-binary and wear dresses and makeup 24/7 to be considered women, hence the misogyny. Just like my funky little head-canon queer Inkling avatar, I feel more comfortable knowing that I can wear whatever I want, even “mens” clothes, without being a man.
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