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[seiwas]

cw: suggestive, just iwaizumi being hot in a muscle tee, use of 'baby', sweat, unedited sawry (this is my pure carnal desire for this man)

iwaizumi hasn’t worn a muscle tee in years—

it hangs off him like a singular piece of cloth, haphazardly cut to show off as much skin as possible. slutty, the way mattsun and makki had intended for it to look when they gifted it to him in his third year of college.

which, to be fair, maybe he was one—a slut, that is. whoring himself out completely with those ‘subtle’, ‘lowkey’ thirst trap instagram stories on his fitness account. the way his skin flushed a darker peach after your joint gym days was always borderline inappropriate, the strands of his hair sticking up in what you could easily mistake as sweat-matted sex hair.

iwaizumi’s muscle tee days are well associated with him being the image of absolute sin.

but it was all for you anyway: the instagram stories he set on ‘close friends’ only, the hours he kept free so he could align his gym schedule to yours—

“oh! that’s perfect!” you beam at him, your smile completely unaware.

“yeah. it all worked out…” he casually brushes it off.

—it was oikawa's idea in the first place.

"you have to sell yourself better iwa-chan," the brunet whines over the phone.

and so he did; followed every embarrassing idea oikawa came up with, posed and posted in ways extremely un-iwaizumi, and stocked up on muscle tees. a lot of them. only for him to be called—

"simp," oikawa snorts on the call. iwaizumi groans, rolling his eyes.

—"baby," you stop dead in your tracks, your breath on hold.

yeah, he thinks, it was all worth it because this is what you call him now.

"is that—?" you inch closer, mouth falling slightly open. he thinks there are stars in your eyes as you ask, "are you wearing—?"

oh.

iwaizumi looks down at the muscle tee hanging off his body and feels a little bit exposed. he just came from the gym and he hasn't worn a muscle tee in years, his collection of them having dwindled over time. the only reason he kept this one is because of its sentimental value, and the fact that it came from makki and mattsun.

compression shirts are his thing now, which you approve of very much, but you're both in the middle of moving, and some of his clothes are still in boxes.

you approach him slowly, "is this a comeback?" the smirk on your face grows when you reach him, your hands fiddling with the fabric.

this is the same muscle tee he was wearing the first time you told him you loved him.

he moves away before you can come any closer.

"sweaty," he scrunches his nose as he takes your hands into his, kissing your fingertips.

you scoff, pressing yourself right into his chest, "even better."

your hands cling to his sides, slipping underneath the damp cotton of his muscle tee as you rake your fingers down planes of taut muscle. he shivers, breath hitching as the heat travels up his body, flushing the sides of his neck deep peach.

you peer up at him and grin, placing small pecks at the areas of his collarbone that peek through.

fucking—

his hands grip your waist, keeping you in place as he tilts his head low, lips grazing just the tip of your ear.

"don't tease," he warns, voice low and hoarse, but his hands show no signs of moving away.

notes: i would like to thank @pastelle-rabbit for asking me the hardest question of all time, otherwise this little blurb wouldn't exist

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

Pinch Me

Gally x reader summary: Gally isn't dead after all. In fact, he's very much alive. And so is that weird feeling in your stomach whenever you look at him.

a/n: god the lack of maze runner fics on my blog is unbelievable!!! needed to change that desperately

maze runner masterlist | main masterlist

You eye Gally carefully from the side as you wait. There's only one telescope and it's not like you're gonna line up behind Thomas to use it - no, you take the time to sit down on the ground and narrow your eyes at the newly un-dead glader next to you instead.

He's taller than when you'd last seen him. You'd noticed how much he'd grown the very first second you'd lain eyes on him. But he's got broader, too. He looks older, much older. More like an adult now. And that hoodie suits him. A little too well, actually.

"You're staring", Gally says, pulling you from your silent assessment of him. He doesn't even turn to look back at you. Some voice in the back of your head pipes up, tells you that you should probably feel embarrassed that he's caught you - but you don't, somehow. Instead, you hum in agreement. Yeah, you had been staring. You are staring.

"Are you trying to check if I'm real or what?", he asks with a chuckle, one that's surely supposed to cover up the fact that he sounds quite a bit nervous underneath. It doesn't really help. You hear the shake in his voice anyway.

It has you grinning just a little.

"Honestly?", you smile, trailing your eyes along him once more. "I kind of am."

He looks back at you then, finally, turns his head to yours and meets your eyes.

"You wanna pinch me to make sure?", he asks, seemingly serious with his eyebrows raised, but with a twinkle in his eyes that you've rarely seen in them. Your grin widens even further.

Without another word, you lean forward and pinch his arm. Just like that.

He doesn't even flinch.

He's warm under your fingertips, warm despite that thick, woolen hoodie he's wearing that looks so comfortable you honestly want to steal it from him. You pull back with a satisfied grin.

"Very much real", you approve, and then the corners of his lips tug up and you almost black out. Your heart really skips a beat. Just because he's smiling back at you. Oh, lord.

You settle a little further back and let out a breath.

"I'm glad you're not dead, Gally", you mutter, trying to keep your voice down so Newt and Thomas won't necessarily hear you. It's not that you want to keep it a secret, you just want to keep it private. It doesn't concern them. This is something between you and Gally. Something personal. Something that tugs at you and pulls you to him.

You don't know what it is exactly.

Maybe just relief, relief that at least one other glader is alive after you've already lost so many others. Maybe it's happiness, happiness to see an old friend. Or an old acquiantance? An old.... God, you don't even know what you and Gally were back then. Two people who threw glances at each other, who smiled at each other, who... Did barely anything else for the three months you'd spent there before Thomas had come up the box. Two people, three months and absolutely nothing that happened.

Ever.

But now he's back. And that something that never happened? That's back now, too.

...

You're nowhere near safe, really. You're anything but safe. You're the absolute, complete opposite of safe. You're running through a city on fire, your legs burning, burning, burning with the strain of carrying yourself- Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You can see the aircraft already. It's right there, you just need to run a little faster. If you had any oxygen left in your lungs, you'd shout for Minho and Gally to check if they're still right behind you - but you don't have the oxygen and you don't have the time either, so you push on, on and on until you're close, closer and closer and then, finally, inside the aircraft. You collapse onto the floor and gulp down what feels like a litre of air.

"Serum", you wheeze. "Serum. Newt."

You hear a body collapsing close to you, then another. You force your eyes open and turn your head to one side - Gally, his chest heaving and his eyes squeezed shut as he tries to calm down.

You're safe.

He's safe.

And you're both still alive.

Your ears ring so loudly that you barely hear how Jorge starts the aircraft. You don't care, either.

You're safe. And alive.

For the moment.

And that's all that matters.

So you steady a palm against the floor, heave yourself up and reach over him. Your hand comes down next to his head just as he opens his eyes.

Fuck.

Your heart is racing. You don't know if it's him or the adrenaline. You're not really bothered to think about it either, to be honest. He's too close to think. So close. Closer than ever before.

And you truly are drunk on adrenaline. Which is definitely the only goddamn reason for why you lean down, just like that, and press your lips to his.

You catch him off guard. You catch yourself off guard, too.

He tastes like sweat and blood, bitter and metallic and absolutely perfect considering you're still very much in a life-threatening situation, blood rushing in your ears and minds reeling with the heaviness of everything that's happening.

You shouldn't be kissing him. You shouldn't be planted half on top of him, with your hands shaking and your body so heavy you almost collapse. And then his fingers close around your waist and you do collapse, right on top of him.

He's broad and tall and most definitely more comfortable than the floor. Fuck, his hands on you feel so good. They're so wide and big and he's such a good kisser, his lips against yours so perfect.

God, how have you never done this before? He's always been right there, you've always felt that tug. And now that you've given into it, you never ever want to stop again.

He's heavenly. And he's holding you so firmly, so easily on top of him. He's so broad and tall and comfortable and firm and perfect and-

"Shit!"

Jorge's voice startles you so hard you flinch away from Gally, your head jerking up, your eyes searching the inside of the aircraft -

Everyone's staring at you.

Absolutely everyone.

Oh, god.

Oh, lord.

Oh, fucking hell.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. With a start, you push off of Gally and turn onto your back again. Your eyes squeeze shut as your breath evens out. Slowly, but steadily. Ever so steadily.

You can't think.

You're exhausted. Simply and just exhausted. This entire day has been too goddamn exhausting. And it's not even over yet. It's nowhere near over.

But as Gally reaches out for you, as he slips his hand into yours and interlocks your fingers... Yeah, you'll be fine. You'll be just fine.

[badboydevotee]

Highway to Home: A Birthday Surprise

The campus was quiet on a Saturday afternoon, with most students scattered across campus or lounging in their dorms. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the sprawling lawns. You had taken this rare opportunity to do something special—something for Sho, whose birthday was today.

Sho was known for his cocky attitude and his less-than-welcoming demeanor, but you had seen another side of him—one that was more complex, more human. As a friend of Leo and Sho’s, you had been exposed to the softer, hidden facets of Sho’s personality. And while he might act like a stereotypical apathetic delinquent, you had come to appreciate the occasional glimpses of his heart beneath the tough exterior.

The crowning jewel of Sho’s personality was his cooking. His food truck, "Highway to Home," had become something of a legend on campus, earning rave reviews from students who were fortunate enough to sample his culinary creations. And although you weren’t quite in Sho’s league when it came to cooking, you were determined to make something special for him today. You had spent the entire morning in your tiny apartment kitchen, trying to replicate one of his simpler dishes—a creamy risotto, with the hope that it would convey your appreciation and affection.

With a final sprinkle of parsley and a dash of freshly cracked pepper, you finished plating the risotto and set it carefully in a box. It wasn’t perfect, but it was made with genuine care. You had also picked up a small, thoughtful gift—a vintage keychain that matched the aesthetic of Sho’s dark blue bandana.

You approached Sho’s food truck with a mixture of nervous excitement and determined resolve, your steps purposeful as you neared the truck. Inside, Sho was busy cooking, his focus entirely on the sizzling skillet in front of him.

As you reached the window, Sho looked up, his blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of curiosity. He raised an eyebrow, his typical smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What’s this?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel as he leaned against the counter. “Did someone order a special delivery?”

You held out the box with a shy smile. “I made you something for your birthday,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I know I’m not as good as you, but I thought you might like it.”

Sho’s expression softened, and he took the box from you with a gentle touch. He carefully lifted the lid, and his eyes widened slightly as he inspected the risotto. There was a pause, and then he looked up at you with an amused glint in his eye.

“So, you’re gonna celebrate my birthday, huh?” he said, his tone half teasing, half genuine.

You nodded, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. “Yes, I am. And I also got you a little something.” You handed him the gift—a small, wrapped package.

Sho accepted the gift and opened it with a mix of curiosity and surprise. His fingers brushed over the vintage keychain, and a rare, sincere smile spread across his face. “Well, this is pretty cool,” he said, his voice softening. “Thanks.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, feeling a warmth spread through you. “You’re welcome. I hope the risotto is at least edible.”

Sho chuckled, a genuine, unguarded sound that seemed to come from deep within. “Alright, let’s see if you’ve managed to make something that won’t get me food poisoning.”

He took a spoonful of the risotto, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he tasted it. The moments stretched out, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, awaiting his verdict. After what felt like an eternity, Sho’s expression relaxed, and he looked at you with a mixture of surprise and approval.

“You know,” he said, still chewing thoughtfully, “this is actually pretty damn good. I might have to add it to the menu, just so I can get some of this more often.”

Your face lit up with a mix of relief and happiness. “Really? I’m glad you like it.”

Sho nodded, his gaze lingering on you with an unfamiliar tenderness. “Yeah, really. And for the record… thanks for making my birthday a little more special.”

There was a quiet moment between you two, an unspoken understanding settling in the air. Sho, despite his usual bravado, seemed genuinely touched, and you felt a flutter of warmth at the connection you were building.

“So,” Sho said, his playful smirk returning, “what do I want for another birthday present? Hmm… I suppose I’ll take you. Just kidding.”

You laughed, a genuine, happy sound that seemed to surprise even yourself. “You’re impossible.”

Sho grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yeah, but you like it.”

As the sun continued to set, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange, you and Sho shared the evening together, the warmth of the risotto and the shared laughter creating a cozy, intimate moment. For once, the tough delinquent seemed less like a hardened rebel and more like someone who had found a small, unexpected treasure in the middle of his ordinary day.

AO3 vers.

[the-broken-truth]

Twisted Wonderland Nonsense [5]: The Prefect's Side Hustle

Note: [Male Yuu With Tall Muscular Build]

Rook: Trickster! (Walking over to the First-Years' Table during Lunchtime) I require your services once again, Mon Créateur!

Yuu (Looking up from his food): What can I do for you, Rook?

Rook (Dramatically): Your previous work was splendid, tout simplement magnifique! I am in dire need of those services once again to magnify the beauty that is Roi Du Poison! Will you aid me, Trickster?!

Yuu (Wiping his mouth with a napkin): Depends. What do you need to be done and when do you need it done? Depending on these factors will determine how much I am going to charge you.

Rook (Pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Yuu): Here, Mon Trickster! This is the visage Roi Du Poison has!

Yuu (Looking at the picture - holding it to wear the others can't see it): This can be done, but I need at least 3 weeks to get this done and I will charge at least 10,000 Thaumarks for this.

Ace & Deuce (Jaw Dropping): 10,000 Thaumarks?!

Rook (Smiling): Of course, Trickster, such a cheap price for your services! The time frame is most convenient as well! Do you wish to be paid in full now or upon completion?!

Yuu (Folds the paper and puts in it in his pocket): I'll take half as a deposit and the other half upon completion. In Cash, please.

Rook: Of Course, Mon Créatif Trickster! I shall be around Ramshackle after schooling is done with the first installment! Until then, Au revoir! (Walks away)

[Ace & Deuce look towards Yuu, who decided to go back to his food as if that didn't just happen.]

Rook (Bursts into Ramshackle with an envelope in hand): Mon Trickster! I have arrived!

You (Sitting on the sofa - a small cash box on the table in front of him on the table): Just on time, Rook; do you have the deposit amount we agreed on?

Rook (Handing Yuu the envelope): Of course!

[Yuu opens the envelope, pulls out the stack of cash, and starts counting in while Ace and Deuce are watching with wide eyes.]

Yuu: This is the correct amount. I'll get started tonight and have it done in 3 weeks or soon. If you want to make any changes, let me know; just know that it's going to cost you extra.

Rook: Of course, that is only fair! Until next time, Trickster! (Leaves Ramshackle with a smile)

[Ace and Deuce watch as Yuu opens the Cash Box, which is already overflowing with cash, and puts the new money in before locking it after forcing it down.]

Yuu: I'm gonna need a new cash box.

[2 Weeks & 3 Days Later]

Rook: You finished it already, Mon Trickster! You are truly a wonder!

Yuu (Pulls the sheet off the body mannequin - revealing a very elegant outfit in Pomefiome's Colors): Thoughts?

Rook (Examining the outfit from all angles): MAGNIFIQUE! SPLENDIDE! UN DÉTAIL TELLEMENT ÉLÉGANT ! PAS UN SEUL ÉTIREMENT MALPLACE ! CECI EST LA PERFECTION! LE ROI DU POISON VA ADORER CELA ! MERCI, MON CRÉATIF TRICKSTER!!!

Yuu: Glad you approve. May I have my payment so I can package the outfit for you?

Rook (Hands Yuu another envelope): Here you are, Trickster!

[Yuu counts the money, removes the outfit carefully from the mannequin before folding it and packing it in an air-tight plastic bag before handing it to Rook.]

Yuu: A pleasure doing business with you, Rook.

Rook: With you as well, Trickster! Hopefully, we can do business again soon. Until then. (Leaves Ramshackle)

Ace:...

Deuce:...

Yuu (Counting Cash): Yeah, Papa Crewel taught me about fashion and sewing. Clothes aren't the only things I make.

Deuce: What else?

Yuu: I have...other wares.

[END]

[igottatho]

It’s been about one month since Aaron Bushnell, active duty serviceman, immolated himself in front of the DC Israeli embassy.

Today the UN called for a “non-binding” (qualifier added by US) ceasefire for the remainder of Ramadan (~two weeks). Meanwhile, yesterday Biden unilaterally approved another 3 billion dollars to be sent to Israel, begging the question, will Israel truly abide by a ceasefire?

In the past (years, not since Oct 7) ceasefires have been enacted, which Hamas and Palestinian Authority have respected, but Israel meanwhile would continue to control Gaza’s water, food & medical access, and yes, inflict violence upon Palestinian peoples. Knowing this, what is the incentive for Hamas to abide by a false ceasefire? when Israel now continues to murder children, rape women and cripple a population indefinitely.

Today I found my first real bit of info re: the Arab Spring of 2011. I worked within a large box bookstore at this time and through my years there, I was unable to find any literature on this topic. It’s been about 6 years and this may have changed, but typing “Arab Spring” into the billion dollar search function, there were NO RESULTS. This doesn’t mean the info wasn’t out there, somewhere, only that access wasn’t condoned, and academic thought was likely restricted (or … that’s how I understand it).

This is the podcast I found today and learned from. The show “Throughline” is really worthwhile in its entirety, but this episode shows us the power of social media and organizing dissent. On this near- anniversary of Aaron Bushnell political and radical act, I think a lot about the man in Tunisia who self immolated in January of 2011. His name was Mohamed Bouazizi, and his death sparked the Arab Spring,

Find it here.

[sethshead]

My big complaint about contemporary gender discourse is that the Butlerian presentation-is-gender has become prescriptive. It seems as if, for many, gender can only be a straitjacket conforming to the most rigid and stereotypical roles and expression society can devise. To reduce gender to presentation is equally simplistic as is reducing it to anatomy.

A woman is assertive? This makes her a “they”. “I’m too good at math to be a ‘she’”. To have the confidence to buck the latest influencer cosmetics and fashion trends, a woman must un-“she” herself. Conversely, some men have expressed that they cannot dismantle their toxic masculinity while being “he”. They cannot be soft or tender or vulnerable or colorful in their attire without sacrificing their maleness.

Now of course I do not write about any person in particular. I cannot know what precisely is going on in anyone’s mind, or in that mind’s relationship with the body in which it resides. I speak exclusively of a social phenomenon, and the above anecdotes are based on a composite of many sources. But the overall gist is that it is no longer considered possible to be a well-rounded human being while male or female. This is a pathology, and it is tragic.

There should be room for all manner of gendered and non-gendered expression within a given gender. A woman is not less a woman for being butch; a man can wear a dress or an entire drag persona while still being entirely male. Trans people, non-binary people exist, but so do crossdressers and the gender-nonconforming. The transing of people who are not trans, especially the posthumous transing of people who in their own times identified as cis, is presumptuous and no less conformist than is general cisnormative society.

Granted, people in the past who identified as transvestites or as cis-in-drag (such as, famously, Marsha Johnson) might simply not had the verbal or phenomenological conceptual vocabulary to identify as trans or non-binary in a way we’d understand it today. Were they still alive, they might well adopt these identities. But that is not our decision to make. They led their lives as who they knew themselves to be, and that must be respected.

Likewise, my peers who explain their pronoun usage in ways that, to me, reek of internalized misogyny, internalized homophobia, and internalized toxic masculinity, might simply be struggling to articulate feelings and sensations for which there is no standardized explanation. I can criticize the discourse, but I don’t want to stuff those who employ it into constricting binary boxes of my approval and disapproval.

Which gets me to the gender-critical radical feminists at the Genspect conference. Just as radical and illiberal trans activists seek to dictate others’ identity based of superficial criteria, so too did the illiberal radical feminists who tried to restrict greatly the spaces and motivations that might justify a man wearing a dress (not to mention a transwoman wearing a dress). While I will admit that biological sex is more closely correlated to gender identity than is whether one’s lower garment has separate tubes for each leg (shoutout to all the sarongs, kilts, thawbs, and all the women’s shorts and slacks in the world) the two are flip sides of the same coin.

I’m not really a liberal. I’m not so much the individualistic “live and let live” as I am “social cohesion is imperative, but it can only be achieved by buy-in, not exclusion”. As I say, I am a left-of-center conservative. But we will all live happier, better lives if we all stop defining others (especially those outside our narrow identity groups) and telling them where and how they can be themselves.

[yellowmagicalgirl]

an icy hand at the back of all of us

After the Lonely, John and Martin go to Martin's flat. John makes a mistake.

This was originally written for the Hurt Comfort Exchange 2024 on AO3 for thursdayinspace.

AO3

FFN

SquidgeWorld

Leaving the Lonely didn’t fix everything. Even when John could no longer smell the salt and sand of the Forsaken beach, the fog still clung to Martin like a heavy miasma, threatening to smother all the light that made Martin Martin.

John couldn’t let that happen, but he didn’t know how to fix this. He broke everything he touched and hurt everyone he cared for. It was a miracle that John hadn’t started the apocalypse on accident by now.

“You…” You’re wonderful and far more than I could ever deserve. John swallowed and restarted. “You said that your flat is down this street, yes?”

Martin nodded, but he didn’t say anything. Everything about him was still muffled, even if the echo was gone. The two of them continued down the street to Martin’s flat, and as Martin fumbled with his keys they, too, were muffled. The jingling noise as he tried to find the key to his flat was damped, like they were metal plated instead of actually metal like John Knew they were. He Knew that Martin’s landlord used cheaper keys made of aluminum instead of a stronger material like brass, even though the landlord could afford to use a stronger material. Considering that the landlord had once had an encounter with the Slaughter, he really should have used better keys.

John squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, he focused on the color of the door so his mind wouldn’t wander with unwanted thoughts. It was a mulberry color, a very un-yellow that John felt was comforting for a door. It wasn’t a door that wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t sure what he would do if the Distortion showed up right now. Helen had refused to help, and John still didn’t know why. He just wanted Martin to be safe, and even though Peter Lukas was dead, Martin wasn’t safe. Hopefully Martin wasn’t afraid of John.

John hoped that Martin enjoyed the color of his door. John didn’t ask, though, he just let Martin push the door open and lock it behind them.

A lock wouldn’t be able to stop the Hunters. It could at least stop Elias, no, Jonah, based upon the tape that John had listened to. He had listened to it over and over, just to listen to something Martin had said that hadn’t been part of a Statement.

“I’m going to go change,” Martin mumbled as he walked towards a hallway. “Get the sand off my trousers.”

John didn’t want to let Martin go, but he did anyways. Martin was speaking without an echo, which was good. And besides, why would he want to be around John? John had been a prick before, and now he had killed someone in front of Martin. Killed him to save Martin, sure, but maybe there was a better solution to the problem that was Peter Lukas. A solution that Martin would approve of. A solution that John hadn’t thought of. He hadn’t really been thinking of anything, not even whatever plans Jonah may be even in this very moment winding around John’s hands and legs like puppet strings or strands of webbing. All that John could think of was saving Martin. He hoped he had done that properly, at least.

John walked through the kitchen, noticing the layer of dust on the counters. Martin likely hadn’t been back to his flat in the past two, three weeks. Had he even left the Institute before today? John grabbed the kettle and rinsed it out, throwing out the stale water, before putting it on the stove. He had honestly expected Martin to have an electric kettle, like the one in the Archives, before he walked over the tea and investigated the boxes. There was a loose-leaf Earl Grey that John immediately passed over. He wasn’t sure what to do with a loose-leaf tea; he had only stopped microwaving his water with the tea bag in the mug when Martin had begged him to stop. John still couldn’t taste the difference between microwaving the water with or without the tea bag, but, well, John wished he could say that he had wanted to be in Martin’s good graces. At the time, though, he had just wanted his subordinate who actually had archiving experience to stop whining and lecturing John on yet one more thing John was unqualified for compared to Martin and all of his expertise.

The two boxes of tea bags that Martin had were a mostly full green tea and a mostly empty rose tea. John couldn’t remember which of the two Martin had more frequently drank, back when he was still in the Archives. Was the green tea mostly full because he didn’t drink it often, or because he often resupplied?

The Eye wasn’t giving John any helpful answers, just the knowledge that Martin used to keep one oolong tea bag that he just in case his mother ended up coming home because something had happened to the care home. Even after she died, he had kept it up until he had agreed to work for Peter Lukas.

Out of the corner of John’s eye, he saw steam. That was odd; it was too early for the kettle to be ready.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no. What had he been thinking?

John barely had the sense to turn off the stove – because that would be just their luck, to survive Prentiss and the Unknowing only to die in a house fire – before rushing to where Martin said the bedroom was. The fog in the kitchen had been warm, but as John got closer and closer to the bedroom, the fog grew colder and thicker. It clung to his skin and hair, muffling even the sound of John’s breathing.

And the sound of sobbing coming from within the bedroom.

“Martin?” John pushed the door open and knelt by the cloud sitting at the foot of the bed.

Are you okay? Is everything alright? John didn’t need to compel Martin to know that the answers to both of those questions would be no.

Slowly, scared of accidentally sticking his arms inside of Martin’s body, John wrapped his arms around the fog. He Knew that the last time that Martin had been hugged had been an awkward side-hug from Melanie.

The time before that had been before the Unknowing.

John had been the second-to-last person to hug Martin. It felt so wrong to think that – John had never been a person good at comforting people. And yet, it also made too much sense. He wasn’t good at comforting people, but he was what little that Martin had.

“I’m here,” John found himself saying in a voice so soft it was just barely above a whisper, or at least that was how the fog made him sound. “It’s going to be alright. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” He didn’t know if time would prove him a liar, but John would try his best anyways.

“But for how long?” the fog said back.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

“You can’t promise forever.”

“Then for as long as I live.” That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because the fog began to shudder. John made soft shushing noises as he stroked where he imagined Martin’s pearl-white hair to be. “It won’t come to that, not any time soon. I’m getting increasingly hard to kill.”

The fog huffed in annoyance. John hoped that was a good thing, that Martin was coming back to himself.

“I won’t leave you. Not again,” John said. “For better or for worse, wherever you go, I go. Deal?”

“Deal,” Martin said, a distinct echo to his voice. He wrapped his arms around John, gingerly at first, like John was still as fragile as he had been when in the coma. After a moment, he squeezed John more tightly, the fog fading away. His fingers dug into John’s shoulders with desperation.

“I’m here,” John said. “I’m here, and I love you, and I’m sorry I ever left you.”

They stayed like that for several minutes, John murmuring promises as he rubbed Martin’s back. Eventually, Martin’s tears subsided, and he pulled away. “What you said earlier,” Martin said, voice still hoarse from crying. There was still sand on his trousers. “That sounded a lot like a wedding vow.”

“Well, how do you feel about eloping to Scotland?”

[princess-of-the-corner]

Toontown: Rewritten Recap: March 2003 (Confusion and Delay)

March 15, 2003

30 minutes after the scheduled posting time, Alec Tinn announced that he was finally done recounting the votes, and had bolted down the ballot box to make sure the Toon Troopers wouldn’t tip it over again.

He then ranted a bit about Sir Max delaying the election again, complaining that it was supposed to be that very day, but apparently working the Toon Troopers for over 24 hours a day was both inhumane and against the laws of the Tooniverse.

Regardless, Flippy Doggenbottom and Slappy Quackintosh would be working twice as hard for the next week, and 6 more Alpha Keys were going to be given out.

He then stated that the official, and FINAL date for the Toon Council Election would be March 22nd at 2:00 PM Toontown Time (PST), 21 Days after it was supposed to occur!

He also revealed that the Toon Troopers would then be put back to work on getting a Super Sunday Update out, followed by going back to the “Daily Alpha Update” cycle, laughing at the fact that the Toon Troop thought they’d be getting a break after the election.

Regardless, he at least didn’t exempt himself from the busywork, holding himself to the same “work ethic” as his workers, and thus got back to work setting up decorations for the election, hoping to make things silly enough to TRULY animate the campaign stands.

March 17, 2003

The polls were closed. The votes were being counted, but Flippy was still baking pies for his stand and Slappy would continue to give rides on his hot air balloon until Election Day.

But Flippy had found something to celebrate: Six tons of fireworks left over from New Years.

First, he made sure the fireworks wouldn’t get in the way of Slappy’s hot air balloon, and then he passed on Slappy’s announcement that he could probably even take toons flying DURING the fireworks shows (man I’m so mad that I missed that), and finally came the best part.

When Flippy launched the first firework, it went haywire, flying across the playground and towards McQuack (while he was working on something for Alec Tinn). The firework hit McQuack and rocketed right up into the sky with the unfortunate duck in tow, until…

KABOOM!!!

The firework blew up McQuack, the silliness of the entire situation being JUST enough to fully animate Flippy’s Campaign Stand, bringing it to life.

And unlike the MANY false starts from the past few weeks, it DIDN’T immediately go static again. Doctor Surlee got to studying it and murmured about installing the now-iconic Silly Meter into Toon Hall, something Flippy absolutely intended to approve if he won the election.

He gave out the next two Alpha Keys to the next two winners before signing off.

Also, aside from Flippy’s Campaign Stand now being alive, the fireworks shows had returned. Once an hour, every hour, in every Playground.

March 19, 2003

Slappy was back, and commented on how voting was over and how Alec was working his gloves off both tallying up votes and preparing some games for the election. He has a slightly more positive outlook on the election being delayed than Flippy did, seeing it as evidence that the fun is only beginning.

He then gave out the next two Alpha Keys, and reminded everyone that there were only two openings left. He suggested that the rabbits rub their lucky paws, while everyone else should either look into a species change or get a new job as a leprechaun.

This segued rather nicely into his next topic on where toons could go to get a little green for that line of work: Literally anywhere in Toontown.

The reason?

The birthday cake powering Slappy’s balloon was actually an Un-Birthday Cake. This wouldn’t be a problem, if not for the fact that unbirthday cakes have explosives in them. As such, Slappy was forced to dispose of it, by throwing it somewhere else so he wouldn’t be in the blast radius.

Meanwhile, McQuack had been released from the hospital, having finally recovered from getting blown up by a firework rocket, completely convinced that he was safe from explosives, and unaware of the highly explosive unbirthday cake flying at him until seconds before impact.

KABOOM!!!

The explosion got green goo all over his campaign sign, and the silliness brought Slappy’s campaign stand to life. Either that or inanimate objects just REALLY like seeing McQuack getting blown up.

Either way, the campaign stand could now use the green goop from the exploded cake to turn toons green for an entire day when interacted with. Not just the fur/feathers, but the snouts/bills as well!

March 21, 2003

With 24 hours until the election, Alec Tinn announced that Sir Max would be livestreaming the event (with Hawkheart handling the cameras), with Slate Blue Rabbit and many other members of the community streaming their own POV’s of the election.

With only 24 hours until the winner of the election was declared, Alec gave out the final two Alpha Keys, and announced that there wouldn’t be any more keys until Toontown entered the “Beta” phase of construction. With that, there were now 320 Alpha Testers, and thus a maximum of 320 Toons who could attend the main event in person.

The Toon Council Presidential Election was scheduled for 2:00 PM sharp, Toontown Time. He suggested that everyone who planned to attend in person log on at least an hour early so everyone could get sorted into different Districts (servers) and avoid too many people crowding into one place.

The people watching over Livestreams were recommended to hop on 15 minutes before the main event instead.

The moment the entire Alpha phase had been building up to was just around the corner!

March 21, 2014

At 7:00 PM, 5 hours past the event’s scheduled start time, the TTR team announced that they were delaying the Election AGAIN due to technical difficulties.

They were all burned out from all the hard work they’d been pouring into this, and thus weren’t able to resolve the server issues when 320 people logged in all at once, in addition to the dozen or so staff members’ toons (Sir Max, Hawkheart, Shockley, Slate Blue Rabbit, Goshi, McQuack, Fat McStink, Roger Dog, Too Many Secrets, etc.) meant that our sleep-deprived hobbyists could NOT get the servers to cooperate.

As such, they’d be taking some time to rest, and try to put all their focus on making sure the event would run properly.

Thus, they’d be rewarding 100 players with Beta Keys as an apology (just… AFTER Beta started, for obvious reasons).

And so, the Toon Council was still without a president.

March 22, 2003

24 hours later, we’re back in the Tooniverse, where Sir Max had an update.

He’d gotten some sleep, ate some of Flippy’s pies, and had nothing.

Thus, he instead announced a livestream (hosted on Slate Blue Rabbit’s YouTube channel) where he’d be answering various questions from the playerbase, a chat channel were fans can help them find bugs (even if they can’t play the game personally), and an MMOCentral Forums post where Joey (the real life human being who plays as Sir Max) answered some questions about a then-recent event.

Unlike with the previous delays, he did not have an exact date for the election pinned down, mostly because he didn’t want to make any promises until he was absolutely CERTAIN the election would be happening.

And so, March’s election arc concluded.

Next up…

The Elephant in the Room.

-

I know I said it last time but this is still less of a mess than irl elections.

[lepartidelamort]

Taliban Fully Bans Women from Speaking, Showing Faces in Public

Andrew Anglin

If you thought this was the law already, that would make sense, given that it was being widely enforced already.

But apparently there were still some women in Kabul showing their faces and trying to talk to people. So the issue has been fixed. No more of that crap in Our Afghanistan, The Greatest Country on Earth.

They do not have a birthrate problem in Afghanistan. I can tell you that much. This much, my friend, I can indeed tell you: women are having kids in Afghanistan. And it’s a very poor country. Very poor. They’re recovering from a massive war. Gay retards invaded them and occupied their country for 20 years before surrendering and slipping away. It’s a poor country, ravaged by war, and yet they are having a lot of kids, because the birthrate has precisely zero to do with economics.

Someone needs to call South Korea and tell them about this. I don’t think they know about the Taliban and how women get pregnant in Afghanistan. Those gay retards in Fake Korea think the birthrate is an economic issue.

The Guardian:

New Taliban laws that prohibit women from speaking or showing their faces outside their homes have been condemned by the UN and met with horror by human rights groups. The Taliban published a host of new “vice and virtue” laws last week, approved by their supreme leader Hibatullah Akhundzada, which state that women must completely veil their bodies – including their faces – in thick clothing at all times in public to avoid leading men into temptation and vice.

Yeah, that’s something Western men don’t understand: if you don’t have to look at women all the time, you don’t feel constant sexual pressure. It is women being in public that creates all of these sexual problems for men.

We need to bring in Taliban advisors to assist us in establishing new norms in America.

We have to shut it down.

Women’s voices are also deemed to be potential instruments of vice and so will not be allowed to be heard in public under the new restrictions. Women must also not be heard singing or reading aloud, even from inside their houses.

“Whenever an adult woman leaves her home out of necessity, she is obliged to conceal her voice, face, and body,” the new laws state. Men will also be required to cover their bodies from their navels to their knees when they are outside their homes. From now on, Afghan women are also not allowed to look directly at men they are not related to by blood or marriage, and taxi drivers will be punished if they agree to drive a woman who is without a suitable male escort. Women or girls who fail to comply can be detained and punished in a manner deemed appropriate by Taliban officials charged with upholding the new laws.

The Taliban covers all bases.

They don’t let these whores in the school.

They don’t let them do anything.

Full lockdown.

That is, of course, the most obvious way to deal with the woman problem.

That said: if you just want to force women to have kids, you don’t really have to do all of that. You just have to box them in. You can’t give them options. If they have options, they are not going to choose marriage and kids (at least not until they are 28 or so, at which point they are mostly useless for these purposes).

Anything you can do to close off women’s decisions is going to change the dynamics of society that exist now, where women have the ability to make all of the bad decisions they want.

If you don’t want to lock them down, you at least have to box them in. Make it so not getting married is more difficult than getting married and the majority of these mindless hoes will just go along with the flow.

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[trivalentlinks]

I made some (un-beta'ed) Discount Tumblr Bells as a Firefox Add-on!

EDIT: Temporarily making this post unrebloggable, because I think I might have figured out how to actually put them on the dashboard.

It hasn't quite finished Mozilla's Review Process yet, but if anyone wants to test it as a temporary extension on an instance of their browser (meaning you open a Firefox browser and load the add-on to that browser, but it goes away the moment you close it) and give advice etc, I'd be grateful!

This is how to test it:

Download the zip file here:

(You do NOT need to extract the file to try the add-on, but if you want to, you can unzip the file and look at the code, almost all of which is in the folder called "popup". I largely cribbed the structure of the code from beastify, which is Mozilla.Org's 2nd demo extension, aka Your Second Extension.)

Then open a firefox browser (or go to a new tab if you have one open), put

about:debugging

in the url, and go to that page.

Then, on the left panel, click "This Firefox" and then "Load Temporary Add-on". Then you navigate to wherever you downloaded the zip file and select it.

Now there should be a little blue bell icon to the upper right (next to the Firefox hamburger menu icon) that looks like the following but much smaller:

Click the icon and it should pop up something that looks like:

Unfortunately, they are overlaid on top of, and not actually on your dash the way tumblr bells are. This is because I am BAD at javascript and html; this is literally the second web extension I've written in my life, after PlusEqualsQWAT, which was an order of magnitude simpler than this one.

(I tried to get the bells to end up on the dash like tumblr bells were, but could not get the code to work that way. If you do know how to do this and are willing to offer advice I would love that and be very grateful!)

Also I know this is not how the tumblr bells looked, but I don't actually remember how they looked well enough to draw them, and these bells were in the public domain.

Anyway, when you hover over a bell it should turn blue like this:

And it should play the bell sound.

The bell sounds are vibraphone sounds. Tumblr bells were jingle bells, but I started this add-on long after tumblr bells were removed, and I couldn't find jingle bell sounds in even one full octave, much less two.

(So, yeah, they unfortunately don't look OR sound how the tumblr bells did, and also don't appear on your dash; I'd love help on any of these fronts, but in the meantime, this is why I called them Discount Bells.)

Typing a number from 1-8 or a letter from Q,W,E,R,T,Y,U,I, also plays a relevant bell sound. (It is Not case sensitive with the letters.)

'q' though 'i' is one octave down from 1-8. Note that this means 'i' and '1' are actually the same note, that's why there's no bell for 'i'.

(You get two octaves. Tumblr Bells only had one octave, but I prefer two, sorry.)

You can also type into the "To Play" thing, which is also not case sensitive.

In the To Play textbox, anything that is Not a letter among q,w,e,r,t,y,u,i, and also not 1-8 gets treated as a rest.

You can also set the tempo of the To Play box, which is defined as the number of milliseconds between notes, so for the default, which is 500, this means two notes a second. (In particular, larger tempo means Slower music, which is not how music works, but as a non-music person I totally forgot what 'tempo' meant until after I submitted the add-on for approval, and approval takes hours if not days so I can't change that.)

For example, my best approximation of Hallelujah (both verse and chorus) is:

et,tt,ty,yy,et,tt,ty,yy,ty,yy,yy,tt,et,t,,,,,,,,et,tt,ty,yu,ti,ii,yi,12,12,22,23,33,21,1,,,,,,e,ty,,y,,,,,y,te,,e,,,,,e,ty,,y,,,,,y,te,,,rew,,,,qq

With Tempo set to 250 or 300.

When you hit the Enter key, it plays at your specified tempo (unless your specified tempo contains letters or other non-digit characters, in which case it sets to the default of 500).

I'd appreciate any comments!

EDIT: Temporarily making this post unrebloggable, because I think I might have figured out how to actually put them on the dashboard.

[speedyposts]

In legal no-man’s land, refugees in Malaysia struggle to eat, pay rent

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia – It is late afternoon in Kuala Lumpur and in the harsh heat, Zabi* concludes his third visit to the doctor in a month, still unsure of what is causing his excruciating stomach aches despite all his reports being normal so far.

He worries about paying for the doctor as, being a refugee, he does not have much money or any medical benefits.

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When Zabi came from Afghanistan to Malaysia as a teenager five years ago, he had no choice but to fend for himself. His family had only enough money for one of them to flee.

“I know it’s illegal for a refugee to work in Malaysia. But I have no choice as an orphan, as I have no trace of my family at the moment. I work around 18 hours a day and I hardly get paid four ringgit ($0.88) an hour,” the 18-year-old told Al Jazeera.

Zabi is working as a housekeeper in a Malaysian-owned hotel in Kuala Lumpur but because he is a refugee and not officially allowed to work, he has no written contract.

He has had a series of other jobs – as a security guard, in restaurants and in customer service – and lives a precarious existence, struggling to make enough money to pay his 500 Malaysian ringgit ($106) monthly rent.

“After extremely exhausting long working days, Maggi instant noodles are something I eat most days,” he said.

Malaysia has no formal framework for refugees, which means they are left in a legal no-man’s land where they are vulnerable to exploitation by those who do employ them. Under Malaysian law, refugees are also no different to undocumented migrants who are often targeted in official crackdowns.

Asked about refugees at the United Nations last month, the Malaysian representative defended the government’s approach and indicated that there was no room for change.

“Who is the deserving refugee? Who is a deserving asylum seeker? Who is an economic migrant? Who is to determine them as such?” Foreign Affairs Ministry Deputy Secretary General (multilateral affairs) Bala Chandran Tharman told the Universal Periodic Review (UPR) in Geneva, according to the Malay Mail.

While Malaysia is a member of the UN, it has never signed the 1951 Refugee Convention and there are no laws (PDF) in place to recognise and provide for those fleeing persecution and conflict.

Refugees also have no right to work, attend school or access medical care.

Registration with the local office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) provides some measure of protection and support, including limited access to healthcare, education and other services provided by the UN and its partners.

“This is only an identity document and has no formal legal value in Malaysia,” the UNHCR website notes of the card given to all those registered with it.

In 2022, the Malaysian government said all asylum seekers and refugees would need to register under the government’s Tracking Refugees Information System (TRIS), which was launched in 2017.

The TRIS website talks about safety and the risk of social problems linked to the influx of refugees but suggests registration may allow cardholders to work in some, mostly unskilled, areas.

“The lack of legal protection forces refugees to work illegally, and most of the jobs that they find are 3D jobs, the ‘difficult, dangerous, and dirty’ kind of work that Malaysians try to avoid,” said Jana Stanfield, the co-founder of Together We Can Change the World and founder of the Refugee Film School in Kuala Lumpur.

Without legal protection and proper contracts, many do not receive Malaysia’s national minimum pay (introduced in May 2022) of 1,500 Malaysian ringgit ($329) per month or 7.21 Malaysian ringgit ($1.64) an hour.

Zabi, who spent five months learning English after arriving in Malaysia in 2018, says the boss at the security firm where he once worked had agreed to pay him about 1,000 Malaysian ringgit ($219) a month but never did.

Even now, he is forced to do overtime, which is unpaid, and work in other roles to meet his employer’s needs. He told Al Jazeera he has to agree to these conditions, having no alternative.

More than 70 percent of the 185,000 refugees in Malaysia registered with the refugee agency are of working age. According to information gathered from refugee communities, most make a living in restaurants, retail and other service jobs as well as agriculture and construction.

“It is a ‘win-win’ for Malaysia, as it would take into consideration both the humanitarian needs of refugees, whilst also benefiting the Malaysian economy as it recovers from the social and economic impact of the pandemic,” UNHCR spokeswoman Yante Ismail said in a statement to Al Jazeera about allowing the community to work legally.

Malaysia has allowed certain groups of refugees to join the workforce in the past.

In 2015, some Syrians were allowed to work and send their children to school under a scheme based on an initiative in the early 1990s for Bosnians fleeing the Balkan wars.

“Malaysia can allow refugees to exercise their right to work under an existing legal framework … and then this can be expanded to include education and healthcare,” said Mahi Ramakrishnan, an investigative filmmaker and activist based in Malaysia. “The question is whether the government has the political will to do so.”

In 2017, a pilot project allowed about 300 Rohingya refugees with UNHCR cards to work legally in the plantation and manufacturing sector, but was not adopted.

In October, the Human Resources Ministry said refugees might be allowed to work officially in the so-called “3D jobs” amid shortages of workers who are usually brought in through government-backed arrangements from countries such as Bangladesh and Indonesia. Those schemes are currently under review as Malaysian seeks to regularise its policies on foreign workers.

Ultimately, refugee advocacy groups say the government needs to take the lead on any policy change.

“To grant refugees the right to work is to ensure that they are able to have access to livelihood that is safe, decent and dignified,” Hui Ying Tham, the executive director at Asylum Access, told Al Jazeera. He stressed that the implementation of this “requires a multifaceted approach with the government leading, in consultation with refugee communities, the changes in laws, policies and attitudes to create a framework that recognises and supports the rights and potential of refugees.”

Tham added that work should also recognise the skills and experience of the individual refugees as it does with any other member of the workforce.

Abolfazly*, an Afghan refugee school teacher whose village was burned down by the Taliban, agreed.

“We had a life before taking refuge in another land,” he said. “We’re educated, we’re resourceful. Host countries like Malaysia can use us – not only in agriculture but in their socioeconomic development,” said the 28-year-old, who is working on finishing his PhD in law.

The UNHCR remains hopeful that there will eventually be a resolution, although the latest comments at the UPR suggest that might not happen soon.

For refugees like Zabi, that means continued struggle.

“I want to go to university. I love learning new languages,” he told Al Jazeera. “Right now, my life is all about eating, sleeping and working. I have no plans for the future because I know none of the plans will work. But I’ll still keep trying – like I always do.”

*Pseudonyms have been used to protect the refugees’ identity

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[bellshazes]

do it again directors commentary part 2

He and Etho had shown up at her favorite diner for takeout midnight breakfast while she had been hanging out at the bar, chatting with Scott, and without even thinking about it she’d joined their argument, switching sides periodically to keep it going. Years enough have passed that she can’t remember now what it had even been about, but she remembers Bdubs’ instant adoption of her as an ally and the wounded look he gave her when she conceded Etho had some good points, too. Etho had smiled brightly with his eyes and given her the faintest nod of approval, opening up the takeout boxes and settling down on the seat next to her.

this is very explicitly inspired by all the times i've gone to waffle house and the encounters i've had meeting old friends there who i never expected to see again. it's about the familiarity but also the capacity to shift and surprise and change the dynamic if it's funny. so it goes

Bdubs smiles knowingly at her. He heard all the goings-on of her tabletop campaigns and knows exactly what happened to her old D&D group. He’d been an exceptionally good sport about it, showing up for many late-night dinners to let her vent, as if it were a recap of his favorite TV show.

this and other things allude to the cleo-big b breakup that i never found a good place to make more explicit. i like the idea of it being some nebulous D&D situation partially because i despise D&D and because i think it's fun that since cleo continues to care that big b betrayed them, it should show up in silly ways, because it's fundamentally a betrayal in the specific context of a game. but it matters, what we did or didn't do, etc.

Cleo pauses and holds eye contact. For half a second she imagines a red bandana around Bdubs’ head, but it’s only the force of Bdubs’ belief that snares her.

another thing i never quite made explicit but is true: cleo received an unusually high number of lives, as did bdubs, and it's that fact that makes her more susceptible to remembering. if i had got to make it more explicit, i could've got into the exchange of lives as memory and as permanency, as debts and owing and relationships built across lifetimes... but I didn't. so this is what you get.

“That is a lot to ask of a guy, Cleo,” he says, but he stands up when she does. “If I for some reason am prevented from talking to Etho by such things as him being asleep all day, or un-overcomeable anxiety -”

i hate this line? i think i nailed bdubs' voice in the first half but i've spent so long trying to come up with something better than "un-overcomeable anxiety" and never did. i think he says things in super fucking weird ways but that's not right. it was worth leaving because i do believe in the dynamic of cleo playing mediator insofar as it's funny to them, and in cleo chastising bdubs, and their back and forth.

“Bdubs,” he says. “Hey, Bdubs.” He squeezes his hand again. “I wanted you to know. I’m so glad you were my partner.”

this whole Death Coffee Incident is borrowed wholesale from opera25's mll au, but it was fun making something kind of fantastical work. etho never was given any lives, and only gave one up to tango for the you bet your life game; he remembers here solely due to the life-threatening duress of consuming wayyyyyy too much caffeine. it was fun to write but also the pivotal moment in bdubs becoming convinced etho always had remembered and thinking then that the only reason he'd behave the way he did if he remembered was out of bloodlust... not that bdubs had yet unlocked memories of enjoying that murderousness and play back and forth.

there's a level to which this misunderstanding is a satirization/playing with fandom conceptions of if you view LL in a vacuum you get some crazy interpretations. but as they both learn, the threats were fun BECAUSE they had history and both enjoyed it. four more chapters for that to sink in though.

The process of checking into the ER is as onerous as he expected – trying to fill out the paperwork for Etho, who is still more out of it than Bdubs was when he had a head injury, having to put his foot down that he’d like to stay with his partner as much as possible and yes he had the paperwork to back him up, because Etho had made him keep a copy of important things in his wallet after he fell of the roof in case of something like this.

this part is in spite of my severe medical phobia, but also because of me working in insurance-related fields for the last 4 years. this document is called an advance directive or living will and if you live in the USA you should complete one by searching "advance directive [your state]" and filling it out and filing it according to the directions on your attorney general's website or whatever. it's genuinely imporant esp if you're not married and queer in any way. this is my one genuine PSA of the fic. but also they would. etho requesting to dot Is and cross Ts bc he thinks bdubs will be the one who needs and and then needing it himself... well. anyway.

He remembers fragments from his last death: that he had made some promise that didn’t save him, that cost him his last life. That he died calling Etho’s name, calling out to an Etho who took great joy in menacing him and making him paranoid, who had attacked him in that long dark stairway. It does not comfort him to know Etho thinks he’s responsible for whatever happened.

this chapter ends with bdubs trying and sort of succeeeding in believing in etho, but that last sentence is the lynchpin of what comes after: etho feeling even a little responsible for bdubs permadying - esp when bdubs remembers being a ghost for session 7 but was not present for etho's permadeath in session 8 - makes him think etho knows more than he does, and holds him accordingly responsible. the metacommentary is there but it wasn't the point; it's true, but incidental. the reveal eventually is that the trust was there, and that bdubs' permadeath was stupid and willing because it's about the novelty and the endless beginnings. spoilers but whatever if you're reading this you must not care by now.

chapter 4

He can feel his heart beating in his chest, and he has a sense-memory of falling down with all the vivid, terrifying sensation of jumping from the height of a swing in the park as a child, down to the faint awareness that the intervening years meant it was no longer quite the same body, that something had been knocked out of alignment by time.

it's a little tonally dissonant, but i'm still proud of this. you can tell later on i floundered for plot in this chapter, but the image of being both in the past and in the present and the overlay is important to me. it's very poetic.

Etho snagged a nametag off the apron that had been draped over the drinks counter, presumably in a now-ruined hope of ending the shift quickly, and slipped it into his pocket before turning back to smile placidly over Bdubs’ shoulder.

etho stealing the nametags is another MLL AU concept i stole and can't take credit for, but again trying to find a plausible concrete explanation for it was really fun and was the impetus for this whole chapter. grateful for it, and he's an ass and also nosy like that. he would.

Etho punched the crosswalk button and tried to remember that conversation but couldn’t. He remembered getting coffee, and that he’d almost finished it off by the time he’d gotten home. [...] “No,” he said, sounding strangled. “That hadn’t come up, actually.”

the limited alternating third person POV is restricting at times, but i really enjoy the contrast between what we already know of bdubs' perception of the Death Coffee Incident re: etho's knowledge and etho's POV making clear he doesn't know jack shit, but he cares. bdubs is reacting this way because etho saying he took the crazy coffee to stay up to see bdubs sounds like a threat, but it's also an expression of caring and not knowing how to bridge a distance.

if theres anything i believe it's that these two motherfuckers don't capital-T talk. they exclusively communicate through threats and shenanigans and team-ups and every time they mention talking outside of Events it shocks me. and yet their friendship persists over more than a decade! what miracles.

“You can’t take dreams too seriously,” Etho said, cat purring loudly under his hands, a soothing anchor. “It’s just your brain picking up on whatever’s going in your life and making up stories about it. No good worrying too much about them.”

this is mine own opinion on dreams, despite my sincere involuntary belief in signs and omens, but more importantly it is another point at which bdubs is implicitly in his own POV goign oh my god this son of a bitch is manipulating me. miscommunication for ages.

 He spends a few nights on the couch, methodically trying to rule the variables out: the quality of moonlight through his bedroom window, some oppressive sense of confinement, embracing the possibility his roommate is testing him and trying to prove to his subconscious that fishing rods are nothing to be worried about.

etho being experimental and scientific about this all is important to me. almost as much as half-remembering bdubs misinterprets this exacting need to know as being meaningful and knowing when it's not, especially when he was trying to elicit some response. guy gets a response and thinks the worst even though he's causing his own problems? there's a thesis in that

Etho bites back a comment about Bdubs’ dedication to sleep schedules and waves the criticism off instead. “I’m trying to sleep right now,” he lies. “Not my problem if you want to haunt me.”

if i ever let myself revise this chapter (and this chapter is the one i want to revise most) i want to include the detail from beau's comic of this passage of etho having his glasses on when he says this. my dude was definitely not tryign to sleep AT ALL and i forever wish i'd thought of that indicator myself.

When he sits down to start his own work for the day, he thinks about the drawing and decides then and there what his plan is to fix all this.

i wrote this line bc i have such a sense that chapter endings, like the endings of short stories, should have a paritcular cadence and effect - but neither etho nor i knew how "to fix all this" and in fact the subsequent chapters indicate he definitely was not laying his final plans yet. i've let it stay because putting this line in let me move on to write the rest of the fic... but it's untrue and a red herring and i hate it. i will fix you eventually. but not yet because i still dont' know how to satisfyingly transition.

etho doesn't get his next POV chapter until the second half of chapter 6 at the diner with cleo, where he finally confronts that his dreams might be real enough to have to deal with, and even then he goes through great lengths to validate cleo's theories by messing with tango... so who knows. but it's fine. it's fine. i hate it. it's fine

[supermediabrothers6]

So I wrote a short story about the First Doctor to submit to the Big Finish writing contest this year and I was rejected. Since the story won’t be turned into a Big Finish audio it’s now just a fun little fan fiction. Therefore I’m posting it here for your amusement :) enjoy!

“A Step Too Far” By Billy.

The Doctor was young. Their current body was wearing a bit thin, but that was practically nothing to a Time Lord. It was their first body. The only one they’d ever known. The Doctor’s people cycled through a little over a dozen over the course of their life span. Of course, if they were honest with themselves, they were quite nervous about renewal (The process by which a Time Lord exchanged an old body for a new one). They acknowledged this fear as irrational. Billions of Time Lords before them had regenerated successfully to the point where it wasn’t worth remarking upon. “But,” the nagging voice at the back of their mind said, “you have never done it.” The Doctor’s subconscious, played on their own prized feelings of individuality to undercut their confidence. The cheek… It was a good thing then that the Doctor was almost never honest with themselves, or anyone else, about anything.

Portraying a confidence so real they almost believed in it themselves, the insecure youngster who called themselves the Doctor strutted into the control room of the TARDIS that they had the audacity to call theirs.

While the Doctor was young, next to the individuals who met them there, they were a corpse several times over. Ian Chesterton, and Barbara Wright, looked an awful lot like Time Lords, but they were in fact alien intruders from a strange and barbaric world known as “Earth.” “Earth,” the Doctor thought, sounded like a word one would say while trying to move a heavy object across the room. “URTH!” Ian was humanoid, generally speaking, but strangely box-like. He had a rectangular body, rectangular features on a rectangular head, and two rectangular arms that ended in cuboid fists. Even his sense of style added to the effect. His constant frumpy sweaters, rectangular ended ties, and his haircut angular and semi symmetrical. Barbara’s fashion sense the Doctor approved of much more. Her hair was worn in a big, almost spherical, shape. She also wore mostly sweaters, but hers were much less boxy than Ian’s, and the collars were often rounded like the collar of a spacesuit, which the Doctor found amusing. The last of their companions, however, was no savage alien creature, but their own granddaughter. A charming young woman who had become so interested with the culture of Earth that she also dressed in an earth style somewhere between Ian’s and Barbara’s. Nice sweaters, and a high and tight haircut. Annoyingly she even insisted on being called by an Earthling name: “Susan.”

The Doctor could hardly blame Susan for being so interested in the blue-green speckled world. They admitted to also being intrigued by it for several key reasons. First and foremost being of course that they couldn’t seem to escape the bloody place. The day they and Susan had “borrowed” the TARDIS from a scrapyard on their home planet they’d set course for the wonders of the universe, and landed right away on the blasted thing. Ever since it seemed every other trip they took it was another random visit to a culture or historical period on the planet Earth. Another reason, of course, was the fact that the Doctor had two abducted Earthlings living on their ship.

It was all Susan’s fault. The Doctor had landed for a time in London on Earth in the mid 20th century for reasons of their own. Susan had insisted on participating in the local schooling system. Perhaps inevitably two of her so called “instructers” at the institution she had attended noticed something suspicious about her, and had followed her home, discovering the TARDIS. In a move spurred by absolute panic, the Doctor had taken off, abducting these two earther subjects, and dragging them all across the universe. Ever since then, they’d spent even more time on Earth than before as the Doctor tried everything they could to find a way back to the time period from where Barbara and Ian used to belong. To make matters worse it was on that same disastrous trip that the ship’s chameleon circuit had stopped working. Trapping the ship in the shape of a “Police Public Call Box” whatever that was. Ian, Barbara, and even Susan had tried to explain it to the Doctor multiple times and they still weren’t sure they fully understood.

So maybe it was only because of the sheer amount of exposure the Doctor had had to the earth and its people. But the Doctor also found themselves absolutely fascinated by the earth and its people. When arriving on earth, on the voyage that resulted in the alien invaders on their ship, the Doctor had adapted to wearing earthling clothes to blend in. Now their earth style wardrobe had become the only items out of their expansive closet that they ever wore. They had not sunk so low as to wear the dull sweaters their companions did, but instead wore a jacket with tails, a waist coat with a watch chain, a flowing cape, and a series of colorful patterned ties. Fashion had been a passion awakened in the Doctor by their travels. At home, everyone wore the same drab robes, with only minor differentiation based on ranks or certain professions. In many other places in the universe clothes were used as an expression of the inner self. There was an art form in choosing the right clothes to leave the right impression in the minds of the people around you. Today, as on most every other day, the Doctor wished to create the impression of maturity, near omnipotent wisdom, and supreme confidence.

The Doctor stood at the console of the ship and placed their hand, in what they hoped was a masterful way, on the control panel. “Ms. Wright! Mr. Chestermum! You’ve made no secret of your casual disrespect and disregard for me and my ability to control this vessel. As if the man who built this great craft would not be its master!” They hesitated somewhat after that. Concerned that Susan would call them out on their flagrant fib, but as always she left them un-challenged. They continued: “But I promised you that I would indeed bring you back to your own time and your own planet, and I as always, am a man of my word. So, if you would be so kind to observe the scanner!” With a flourish the Doctor flipped the scanner switch and pointed dramatically at the screen overhead, keeping their eyes on Ian, and Barbara’s faces. Sadly, rather than the looks of excitement, gratitude, elation, or even shame, that the Doctor expected, their faces had a look of bemused condescension. Angry, and confused the Doctor looked back at the scanner, only to see the screen buried in static.

Susan piped up hesitantly, trying to be helpful: “It must have developed a fault grandfather.” “Nevermind!” said the Doctor cutting her off. Their self confidence was rapidly depleting. They needed to do something fast to save face. “We don’t need the scanner after all” they said as they moved as casually as they could with how hard their hearts were beating towards the door controls. “Now hold on Doctor.” Ian interjected “Just a minute! You haven’t even checked the environmental readings yet!” The Doctor was feeling heat rising in their head. In their state of shattered hubris, Ian’s words, meant as a friendly reminder, instead felt like a cruel insult. The heat in the Doctor’s face boiled over and exploded outward “FOR THE LAST TIME CHEDDARBIN! I AM THIS VESSEL’S MASTER! I am sick to death of your insinuations, and insults sir! Once and for all I will tell you this: I am the Doctor, and I know what I’m doing!” they then wrenched the door control a good deal harder than necessary, stormed through the slowly opening inner doors and grasped the door handle of the police box shaped outer doors. They took one extra second to look back at their companions, probably to finally get the reaction they had initially hoped for, and flung open the doors. They then immediately, and quite against their will, flew out the door, and into the vacuum of space.

In the briefest millisecond after the Doctor realized they were about to die, a series of thoughts passed through their mind at a speed that surprised even them. Their earlier insecurities about the concept of renewal of course sprang immediately to the forefront of their mind. They were almost grateful. The lifespan of any individual’s body was always hard to gage. Though their current body looked, and felt, to be near the end of its tether, they could be living with their fears and trepidations about the end of their first life for another year, or another hundred years, or another thousand. As unpleasant as a sudden violent, or accidental death might be, at least it would be over. They would know what it was like, how it was done, and could live the rest of their lives without ever having to worry about it again.

They wondered what they’d look like when it was done? What they’d BE like when it was done? Renewal wasn’t just a new body after all, it was a full body and mind metamorphosis! What if they decided they didn’t like their clothes anymore? What if they ended up as an incredible bore who decided to be mature, and responsible, and take Susan, and the ship back home? They could never go back. They simply couldn’t, even if they wanted to. Even if they could, outsiders would not be permitted. What would become of Ian and Barbara?

They had always assumed they would go through this alone, or perhaps with Susan by their side. They’d never thought of the possibility of their first renewal being observed by two strange, savage, aliens. They couldn’t help but be greatly amused at the thought of the human’s reactions to seeing the process take place, and the result of it. If they had failed to impress them with their ability to pilot the TARDIS at least they’d finally wow them using basic time lord biology. They wondered if they’d be able to see their faces as they changed. They tried to think about where they were in relation to them so they could turn their head towards them again.

They then realized as the shock began to wear off, that they were spinning through space into an endless void. They would either asphyxiate, freeze, or explode from decompression. Regardless there wouldn’t be enough living cells in their body left to start the process. They were going to die, really die, pointlessly, and very far from home. Instead of impressing their companions, they’d shown in their final moments to be a blustering preening idiot. They’d traveled with these people, as alien, and irritating as they often were. They’d fought with them, laughed with them, cried with them, and now because of their own ego, their own insecurities, they were dying alone. Despite all they’d been thru together, the last memory they’d have of them was them shouting like the petulant spoiled child they were.

It was finally at this moment that the Doctor was broken out of their thoughts by incredible pain in their arm. They’d never taken their hand off the door handle after opening it. They’d flown out the doorway, and their arm had just snapped taught like a rope between them and the TARDIS’ outer door. They flapped like a leaf on a breeze, barely hanging on to its mother tree in fall. Despite the impression of wind, it was eerily quiet as the Doctor was buffeted about. “Of course!” The Doctor thought, “sound doesn’t carry in space!” Almost as soon as they’d had that thought, they impossibly heard the sadly familiar noise of their granddaughter in great distress: “Grandfather!” she shouted. With effort, the Doctor looked up at the open TARDIS door. Susan was just standing there, in the TARDIS doorway, in almost the same spot the Doctor had stood when they were flung from the ship! Yet she showed no sign of being sucked into the void with them. Barbara stood behind her, she looked as if she had rushed forward to prevent Susan from falling out, only to realize the same strange fact the Doctor had.

There was a moment of impasse where neither Susan, nor Barbara wished to abandon the Doctor, but neither could figure out how to reach them without leaving the TARDIS. The moment lasted just long enough for the Doctor to realize despite all logic that they were still able to breathe. The moment concluded as Ian came to the rescue. He approached the doorway of the TARDIS brandishing the heavy wooden coat stand from the console room. Barbara and Susan, understanding what he was trying to do, moved to brace him as he extended the stand longways out towards the Doctor as a lifeline. The Doctor gratefully grasped it, thanking their lucky stars that their artificial hand was holding up so well.

After tense seconds that seemed to stretch on for eternity, the Doctor was safe on the solid extra dimensional ground of the TARDIS interior. They felt their frail, and worn body threatening to drift into unconsciousness but they were unable to allow that. Their companions dragged them bodily within the interior doors. “Shut the doors!” barked Ian. Susan rushed to the control panel and obeyed. The doors hummed shut. The serene buzz of the machine was rendered irritating in relation to how hard the Doctor’s heart was pounding. The Doctor struggled to their feet, and moved to the controls. “Are you alright grandfather?” Susan asked. “You should rest” said Barbara. “Hm? What? Oh no no no no no, quite out of the question.” The Doctor muttered almost to themself. “Susan, check the fault locator.” Reluctant to leave her grandfather’s side, Susan nevertheless obeyed. “Everything is reading normal grandfather.” “Not possible.” The Doctor sputtered. “Surely at least it’s reading a fault in the scanner?” As they spoke they checked the scanner switch. The scanner worked perfectly, showing a frankly breathtaking view of the world beyond. The Doctor also noticed rather ruefully that even when the TARDIS had landed in empty space, from the positions of the stars, they appeared to be only a stones throw from Earth.

Eventually the Doctor was able to get a rough idea as to the sequence of events. Apparently the moment the Doctor was thrown from the TARDIS door the magnificent ship had extended a kind of protective barrier that contained enough oxygen, pressure, and heat to protect the Doctor and their companions from serious harm. “What a marvelous safety feature!” the Doctor exclaimed without thinking. Recovering quickly they sputtered: “Silly old fool that I am, I quite forgot I installed it! Hehe! The only part I don’t understand, If I understand, I mean, if I remember correctly, how this feature works, as it was working even before the door opened, there should have been no explosive decompression when I opened the doors.” “There wasn’t.” said Ian. “What do you mean my boy hm?” snapped the Doctor. “Do you think I flung myself out the door in a fit of peak hmm? Do you imagine I’ve lost my wits completely?” Their companions exchanged a glance. “Doctor”, said Barbara, “If there had been explosive decompression we all would have been sucked out too. When you opened the doors the ship pitched violently. It almost felt as if the ship was being shaken in such a way specifically to push you out the door.”

The Doctor felt a chill shoot through them. The fact was that when they left their home planet they’d had next to no experience with these machines. They’d heard stories but they’d assumed that people who spoke of TARDIS as if they were alive were engaging in romantic exaggeration. But between this instance, and the incident with the fast return switch…

The air corridor had been in place before they’d been ejected. They didn’t believe the ship meant them harm, but they did think they were being warned. What was it they’d said before the ship had thrown them out? “This ship is mine!” “I am the master!” They’d started believing their own lies, and the ship was fighting back. Warning them not to take it for granted. The Doctor felt then the true enormity of the situation. They stood not in the control room of a space-time vessel, but in the belly of a great creature. A creature that could expel, or potentially swallow them, at any time. The Doctor decided to keep this information to themself. One more lie would have to be acceptable if it meant allowing their companions to sleep at night. They would simply have to be more careful to live in harmony with this beast, this ship, this being, that they had begun to think of as home.

The Doctor turned to their companions, “Oh Susan!” They said. “I wonder, have you been keeping up with your lessons child?” Susan looked bewildered, “Well, no grandfather.” “Oh dear, dear me. We left Coal Hill school quite a time ago now my dear and I’m afraid you’ve fallen quite behind. What good fortune it is then that we have two of your teachers here to help.” “Doctor…” Ian seemed about to interject. “cha cha cha!” The Doctor said to interrupt, “I will not have a juvenile delinquent in the family, now go with Ian and Barbara and they’ll fill you in on what you must have missed in the time you’ve all been gone.” They shuffled Ian, Barbara, and Susan towards the door to the rest of the TARDIS. “What are you going to do Doctor?” Ian asked. “Work on figuring out what went wrong?” “What? Oh no no no no.” The Doctor said. “It was nothing my boy. Just need to give the old girl some over due maintenance that’s all.” As soon as their companions were out of earshot, the Doctor set about giving the console room the most thorough cleaning it had ever received. They resolved that from then on this would be the best cared for TARDIS in all of time and space.

If you were to ask her, the TARDIS would not answer of course, but inside she would think, that while this promise was not always kept, the intention, and spirit of the thing was what meant the most.

The End

[thegreatzombieartisan]

A Brief Swim Into Adaptations, Fan Fiction, & the Tolkien Fandom

To cut to the chase: adaptations are separate entities from a book. Different mediums demand adjustments to storytelling. If an adaptation is technically well-executed, then I theorize that viewer approval largely hinges on how much they expect the adaptation to match their reader experience.

Personally, I don't want to sit through 12 hours of predictable film nor 5 seasons of TV. And other Tolkien fans demand it. To each their own.

It's a common saying that adaptation is fan fiction. It can have large overlaps for sure. To me, it boils down to intent. Adaptation seeks a faithful translation of source material. Fan fiction creates a story from source material with discretion to faithfulness. Adaptation = Galadriel as a warrior. Fan fiction = Galadriel as a Nazgul (I’d watch it).

Adaptation decision-making is a combo of creative vision, practical production needs and politics. Many fans don't consider this when faced with changes. Example: in the PJ's LotR, Glorfindel got axed. Arwen rescued Frodo instead. A decision related to time, importance, and politics. Plus, in 2001, a major film without female roles would be accused of sexism and limit audience appeal. Both would've impacted box office numbers & award nomination. With Glorfindel axed, Aragorn’s backstory changes and so does his character arc somewhat. So on and so forth. None of these changes stemmed from PJ's own preferences.

The Tolkien fandom is notorious for a strain of pedantic and vocal desire for purity. I could go much deeper into Tolkien fanboys. But for now, I’ll focus on one big component: Tolkien left readers with the literary version of the Winchester Mystery House. Per his prerogative, massive (un/intentional) blank space open for interpretation. Particularly in deep lore, which isn’t novelistic, but rather, synopses. People fill in blank spaces differently. Also, what other fandom requires readers to study the author for interpretation of said blank spaces?

Another factor is a fan’s goal for consuming the adaptation. Is it for entertainment or communion? All in all, the Tolkien fandom is a tough crowd to please.

Studio-produced adaptation relies on fandom money and/or time. People deserve to get what they “paid” for based on communicated expectations. If film producers/show runners claim it’s Tolkien then the work would, at minimum, reflect aligned themes, motifs, and symbolism in storylines, dialogue, and visuals. Moreover, devout Catholicism aligned. I do think RoP does a good faith attempt with Tolkien’s own intentionalist views through Galadriel. Otherwise, call it Tolkienesque.

However, while compelling, the show’s “touching the darkness” theme reflects show runner JD Payne’s Mormon’s beliefs more than Tolkien. So if Galadriel doesn’t eventually feel pity for the orcs she expressed genocidal rage toward in the next 4 seasons, it’s arrogant fan fiction. I sat through 8 hours of time and I get to call it out. Beyond that, creativity in blank spaces is fair. Case in point, Disa singing.

Technical execution is a separate area. Even fan fiction demands narrative logic and flow is valid. If nothing else, make it make sense within the context given.

More another time.

Thank you for reading! Your likes and reblogs are appreciated. Got feedback?

What did you like? Got theories or insights to share?

Disagree? I love good faith debate and sparring!

Need clarity around points? Got feedback on readability?

Spot an inaccuracy? Hey, Tolkien's work is complex. Drop it in comments or DM.