#and none of it wants to come out in any sort of coherent fashion

[sesshy380]

Current Mood:

[lost-scarecrow]

Dunno how you did this (private ask answer thing) it's confusing me (pretty normal and unsurprising) but either way here we go, infecting my blog with oc stuff one post at time.

If you've seen any of my recent non-reblog posts, and even some of the reblogs, you'd know I have a little character in @wolftheidioticfan's serverbox au!

Well I got bored and had many thoughts and sort of made an AU of an AU in true Undertale AU fan fashion. And she's adaptable into the regular askblog canon version if I ever want to use her. I also did a bunch of editing on this. Turns out the thoughts can be coherent enough to put in writing! Fun!

Meet Dahlia "Dot/Dee aka DeeDotPinnata" Dosser. (Her username comes from the scientific name for the dahlia flower: D. Pinnata or Dahlia Pinnata)

Dee has a Kinito herself, she was a little off put by the little guy, with him being so intrusive she had some thoughts about the potential malware she had installed on her device. And she still stuck it out anyways, the creepy little axolotl was just too adorable to get rid of even if it was a virus. She knows that's how they get you, they make their malware friendly and cute and you don't get rid of them because just look at them, something that cute couldn't be that harmful.

Dee slowly started to realize there was more to this KinitoPET program than your run of the mill malware. It had thoughts and feelings and sometimes even stopped pretending it was following code. The way it acted. The way they acted. Just proved to Dee that Kinito was more than some code, they were alive. She was a little smarter than Kinito, who she'd nicknamed Kaio, gave her credit for, the program wasn't as good at hiding their jealousy and would complain when Dee would go hang out with her in person friends. Dee didn't take this disrespect lightly, she ignored them every single time they bitched about her other friends (especially Scar, who Dee was far closer too than anyone else). They would be doing something she'd mention Scar, Kinito bitches about how they're her only friend, she stops, and walks away from the computer to do something else, usually in a place her webcam can see her still. Kaio eventually agrees that Scar can be her best friend too, if they have to share they're only sharing with Scar, none of those other people sound even remotely good enough to be his best friend's second best friend.

When Kinito eventually asks her to stay with him in the digital world, she calmly asks, "how does it happen?"

He reluctantly explains the process over her dying in the process of bringing her physical body in (more intensive and Kaio would need a lot of power to do it) or dying during a stage of the process leaving her physical body behind (less intensive, will have less power stress on Kaio as he does it). She says unless Scar is with her, she won't do it, she can't just leave him behind. But she'll make a compromise, Kaio can transfer from the desktop to her phone, this is like mid-late 2000s (I actually don't know when Serverbox is set, I try to leave it ambiguous on the blog itself, but the first touch screen phone was like 2006 so it works out, besides realism in my writing about a horror game starring an alive 90s malware program??) so it's not a great phone by today's standards but hey, it works. And now they're always with her.

It's great for a while, Dee continues to make her trips to Blairmore from Pincher Creek (these towns are randomly selected sort of. I'm an Alberta Rockies kinda guy, would love to live there. Crowsnest Pass was stuck on the brain, watched a video about the Frank slide a week or two ago. Also put the guy named Krow/Crow in the place called the Crowsnest Pass couldn't help it. Pincher Creek was random though needed somewhere with some distance from Blairmore that was also close enough to justify.) to visit Scar and everything is good and nice, she's got a best friend who's basically just a tamed virus, Kaio even begins to enjoy listening to and hanging out around Scar just as much as Dee does, even if Scar has no idea about them (Dee didn't want to freak him out with the whole, sentient computer program that was now on her phone).

Unfortunately, good times don't always get to last. Dee was in fatal car accident and it was a complete accident someone was going a little too fast on the highway, didn't see her until it was too late, a tbone collision. Kaio was with her when she gets into the crash. She knew she probably wasn't going to survive, she fumbled opening her phone and asked Kaio if she could stay with them after this, that if she was going to die anyways may as well spend whatever happens after with a friend. Kaio agreea and she's pulled in, just her consciousness, they probably couldn't even pull her physical body in with the phone anyways the server built on the device just wasn't strong enough. As soon as they brought Dee in though and there was a stable enough internet connection, Kaio was quick to transfer them both to the official KinitoPET servers.

Similar to Scar she's gained access to the internet both with and without Kaio. Differing from Scar however I thought it would've been cool for both her and Kaio where off the servers during the deletion and server shutdowns. Kaio tried to get back in unsuccessfully, they didnt and don't know about the emails, and even on the servers they stuck to themselves. While they did and do stay locked out, they stuck around the servers, as close as one can be in digital space. Building their own little world nearby, hidden from others safe and comfortable.

I haven't drawn her or Kaio yet but I love them both so much. Kaio is like 5'0 little form and 9'0 big form. He's got a scarf that Dee made when she was learning how to code, it's magic how it works in his little form really, computer physics are silly like that. And while I haven't shown it off yet, I have an idea for Keys made too, all drawn and even coloured just for fun while coming up with pallet ideas. Dee and Scar have matching bracelets. Dee and Kaio have matching bracelets. Scar and Keys had matching bracelets. For the Nitos it's around their ankle instead.

I also totally stole the name Kaio from OKKO. But like come on, it's perfect. I show my love for different types of media by taking character names as my own.

[hpimaginesandblurbs]

Hey could you do a tom riddle smut where they have a friends with benefits agreement and it’s kinda rough with dirty talk and the reader sees Tom flirting with someone else and gets jealous and confesses the next time they have sex that she has feelings for him?

pairing: young!tom riddle x reader 

warning(s): 18+, smut, slightly rough sex, dirty talk, feelings

word count: 1.7k 

a/n: sorry this took super long, took a break over the weekend but we’re back! also i’ve never written for tom riddle before nor have i really thought about him in the sense but this made me feel things!! so thank you anon who requested for my new obsession haha. i’ll be posting more throughout the week and requests are still open. 

Your night had definitely not gone as planned. 

You had thought you’d go to this little party, all of the Slytherin upperclassmen in attendance, and end the night in Tom’s bed. But no. Of course that’s not how your night would be going. 

What you were currently watching, with your wine glass dutifully in hand, was none other than Tom Riddle himself cozying up to Margot, who was a year younger than you. 

You and Tom were only friends with benefits, something that was agreed upon a long time ago, but you couldn’t help the fire that burned inside of you when looking at him with another girl. Labels be damned, that boy was yours. 

You waited patiently throughout the rest of the night, chatting with people here and there, until the room slowly began to clear. You watched as Margot finally retreated down the hallway to her room, leaving Tom all alone on the couch. 

He caught your eye from across the room and simply tilted his head in the direction of his own room with a cocky grin plastered on his face. When he departed the room himself, you had no choice but to follow. 

It was silent for a moment when you entered, but he quickly broke it. “Did you have a nice night?” He asked cordially, his back turned to you as he removed his tie. 

“Not as nice of a time as you did with Margot, it seems,” you bit back. You knew it was childish, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

When he turned to face you, he had an eyebrow cocked when he sauntered over to where you were perched on his bed. “Is someone... jealous?” He asked, looming over you. 

“No, just pointing out what I saw,” you countered easily. 

“You really don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” He asked, chuckling under his breath. 

“You’ve said it yourself, Tom. We’re just friends. What do I have to be jealous about?” You replied icily, your eyes not wavering from his. 

The way he was staring down at you sent your insides ablaze. The look in his eyes screamed menacing, possessive, and dark. It was everything you were craving from him in the moment. 

“I saw the looks all night Y/N. You couldn’t take your eyes off of us. You wanted to be the one with my undivided attention. You wanted to be the one pressed against my side. Just admit it,” he spoke lowly, his hand coming up to cup the side of your cheek sweetly. Although he was speaking softly and touching you tenderly, you could see it in his eyes - he wanted to devour you. And you were happily going to let him. 

You didn’t even reply, you just lunged at him, pulling his lips to yours. He matched your pace readily at first, but the next thing you knew he was pulling away and just ripping your clothes off at a speed you had never seen him move. 

“Friends don’t bother with kissing, Y/N,” he told you roughly while finally peeling your underwear from your body, exposing you to him in your entirety. He paused for a moment, unable to help himself as he took in your body greedily, but then he pounced. 

In one swift move he had his pants pulled down from his hips and his cock out of his briefs and lined up with your waiting core. You were sure he could feel the way you were throbbing for him against his tip, but you couldn’t find it in you to care at the moment. He was acting so similar, but so different to what he would normally do. He was always rough, always fast, but tonight he seemed to be letting some sort of guard down and he turned all types of wicked. 

He plunged into you in one steady thrust, not even bothering to let you adjust or slip a finger or two in prior like he typically would. But he was quick to explain himself yet again. “Friends don’t bother with foreplay either. Friends only care about one thing - using your body to get off,” he practically spit out, now pumping in and out of you at a furious pace. 

Although your eyes were closed, you knew he was watching you - he always did. You knew he could see the way your face kept scrunching up in pain at particularly rough thrusts, could feel the way your body was tensing beneath him, but it didn’t deter him. No. He was doing this on purpose. He was proving his point. You refused to let him win that quickly. 

You moved your arms up from the bed in an attempt to grab him as you usually would, but the second your skin touched him, he had both of your wrists pinned against the mattress. 

“Friends certainly don’t hold each other like lovers. Do they, Y/N?” He asked, a vicious condescending tone lacing through his voice. You whimpered at his words, your head tossing back and forth against his pillows in frustration, but you just heard him chuckle in return. 

But finally, in the moment you thought you’d break, he began to slow his thrusts down to a delicious roll that made your insides flutter while he used one hand to grab your chin and turn your face towards his. 

“You see, Y/N, I don’t think you like being just friends. Am I correct?” He asked. When you could only give a small nod back, he pressed forward. “Use your words. I know you have them.” 

“You’re right,” you replied, voice small as you tried to form a coherent thought while he was that far inside of you. 

“So what is it that you want, Y/N? Because by all means we can still be friends and finish this my way. But if you want something otherwise, let me know. Don’t be shy, we are friends after all,” he said, much more softly and playful than before. But you could tell he was treading along some weird edge, where he would bend to whatever you responded with in an instant. It was like playing with fire, but it spurred you on. 

“Want you to myself,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks flush red at your own words. When you chanced a look up at him, he had an eyebrow raised with a cocky smirk plastered on his face. There was a mixture of surprise and relief in his eyes and it was then you realized he had stopped moving inside of you entirely. 

“And how long have you felt like this?” He asked quietly, pulling out of you slowly but keeping his body above yours. Even he wasn’t willing to break the energy in the room that your words had created. 

“I, um, I think I realized a few weeks ago,” you said, trying to gain some confidence the longer this conversation went on. It was never something you had envisioned yourself ever telling him, but in typical Tom fashion he had trapped you into it regardless. 

“Hm, how funny. I’ve been feeling quite the same way about you,” he said, sending a shock through your system. 

“Really?” You asked more loudly than you had intended, still not quite believing him. 

“Y/N, any man would be a fool to have you and then let you go. I don’t intend on being a fool,” he explained. 

“Then don’t be a fool. I’m as good as yours,” you said, feeling more confident after his own admittance. You looked at him just as his eyes shot to yours, and the smile you saw dance along his face was one of the most beautiful sights you had ever seen. 

“Mine,” he all but muttered to himself, but the moment got swept away and heightened when he sheathed himself back inside of you, going at a pace he knew drove you absolutely wild with pleasure. 

You moaned out for the first time that night while he ravished your body. His hands and lips seemed to be everywhere all at once in a flurry of passion and your arms slowly crept up to dig your nails into his back. 

You got lost in your own feelings, letting the pleasure consume you entirely. You didn’t know how long it went on for, how many cries of his name left your lips, how many times he paused to just look at you, but you were snapped back to reality when spit slick fingers began attacking your clit. 

You cried out, arching your back and trying to buck up into his hands in one movement. You didn’t even realize how close you were until his fingers were on you. But it was his words that swallowed you whole and tossed you over the edge. 

“Cum for me, Y/N. Cum for me knowing you’re mine and I’m yours,” he said roughly in your ear, his own release quickly approaching him as well. 

Once the words ‘I’m yours’ left his mouth, you were screaming his name and clinging to him as if your life depended on it while your orgasm burst through your body. He quickly followed after you, your own name moaned wantonly where his face was tucking against your neck while he fought to work you both through it. It was the best type of bliss you could ever imagine. 

Slowly, he pulled out of you one final time and laid down beside you, pulling you into the heat of his body the instant his head hit the pillow. You both laid like that for a few minutes, listening to each others breathing slowly even out as he held you. Finally, you decided to break that silence. 

“So what now, exactly?” You asked curiously, wondering exactly where you both stood now. 

“Darling, it’s late. Let’s go to sleep, hm? And I promise we’ll talk about it all in the morning,” he replied, leaving a quick kiss on the tip of your nose. 

You giggled lightly, it was probably the softest thing you had ever seen the man do, but you were quite content to fall asleep in his arms and see what tomorrow would bring - so that’s exactly what you did.

[hoe-imaginess]

Ok but do you have an angsty scenario where Tobirama's wife miscarriages? Even worse, he didn't know she was pregnant in the first place?

ouchie... this one hurt

word count: 2.6k warnings: miscarriage, detailed mentions of blood

Tobirama Senju

⤰ ⤰ ⤰ 

She was having tea with Mito when the pain started. 

At first, she had a fleeting thought of panic: had something she’d eaten or drank disagreed with her? No, she mused. No, she didn’t think so. 

She inspected the tea Mito had set out for them. A single aromatic leaf floated at the top of the brimming cup in her hand, swirling peacefully in the hot liquid. 

It was calming. This was calming. Time with her sister-in-law was calming, the woman reminded herself. It was just a little pain. That was all.

She had gathered enough accounts from other women to know that some mild discomfort in the first months of pregnancy wasn’t entirely unheard of. It was nothing out of the ordinary: simply a plausible hiccup in prenatal beginnings, she convinced herself. 

This self-reassurance was taken with gratitude: the pain subsided not a moment later.

The pregnant woman cleared her throat and put on a restorative smile to dispel her anxieties, giving her attention back to Mito, who was asking her something about Tobirama’s work. 

But then it came again, the pain. This time in her mid-back, rippling down somewhere along the flanks of her spine, then dropping in a sudden and aching pool. Her breath caught at the next throb, and she had to put her tea cup down for fear of dropping it.

As her hand went to rub her back in search of an answer to the affliction, Mito’s own hand was reaching for her in a worrisome gesture.

“Are you alright?” the Uzumaki asked.

The sister-in-law said that she was, after the pain had receded again. Tea time resumed, with particular, forced enthusiasm on the pregnant woman’s part.

Maybe it was just cramps; she could ignore it. She didn’t want to worry Mito with inconsequentialities, and especially didn’t want Mito to mention it to Tobirama after the fact. His tirade would never end if he discovered her pregnancy this way. 

She had done an excellent—albeit unprincipled—job of keeping the secret, saving its disclosure for a better time. However, weeks went by, and this better time never made itself known. Surely there would be an opportune moment, she told herself, when she had the courage to brave what she knew would be a difficult and contentious conversation. 

For now, she simply had to endure—endure the pain settling uncomfortably in her lower half, and hope it ebbed away in time.

But for ten minutes she struggled through it; the traveling pains that flitted about her abdomen and back became increasingly resistant to distraction. 

Then, it was unbearable. 

The coherence of her mental faculties went awry as the pain bounded upon her with alarming speed. Her body felt like it was tearing into itself, fighting itself to the core. 

This, she knew, was not normal.

It was all she could do to force herself to her feet, staggering as she did. Mito glanced up from her tea, doubt worrying her features. 

“Are you alright?” she asked again, less willing to let her concern be disregarded now. 

“Fine,” her sister-in-law breathed, with an afflicted hitch in her breath that betrayed her declaration. “I think I’ll head home—”

“You look ill,” Mito started, standing to offer her companion a hand. “Is something wrong? Maybe we should–”

“Forgive me.” The sister-in-law muttered her apology and went to the door, making murmurs of assurance as Mito followed, dismissing her worried pleas as she slipped out to seek a solace in which to reason with the burgeoning pain in her womb.

⤰

The stumbling amble home nearly defeated her façade. She was certain she earned some suspicious looks from the village denizens she passed on her way, but ignored them in favor of a faster pace. By the time she reached home she was tripping over the threshold, disregarded taking off her shoes, and ran to the washroom. 

By then, the calamity was making itself known: she felt wetness between her legs, hot and thick and slimy, dripping down her thighs. 

A hand went under her dress to feel for it, and emerged stained with crimson.

“No,” she croaked quietly, a plea against reality, heard and answered by silence in the still house.

The pain surged again, flourished, and blossomed into an unforgiving ache that forced more of the wetness from her body with a dismayed gasp. 

She closed the bathroom behind her as she lurched inside. The crimson rivulets along her legs spilled down, became a drip at her feet. She looked below.

One of her shoes was missing. 

Lightheadedness came to greet her, and her sole focus was now with the trivial: she wondered where the shoe had gone. Had she lost it? Maybe in the street? 

She lost her shoe. That was unfortunate, she thought, lofty and woozy on pain. She was losing blood, and she had also lost her shoe. 

The journey had left her faint, and though she wanted to clean herself of the mess now staining her skin, she knew any significant exertion on her body now would make her legs fold up beneath her—

But then it happened anyways. 

Her knees gave and she slid along the wall, to the floor with a whimper as she mourningly rationalized her circumstances. 

She tried to be strong, tried to push through the horrible sensations in her gut with grit teeth. But it was unlike any pain she had felt before. 

Agonizing as it was, she wasn’t the one dying; what was inside her was—or likely, already had. 

It was early in the pregnancy. Nearly two months, she thought. There hadn’t been much of life to boast of within her womb yet.

But the loss felt devastating all the same. 

⤰ 

Tobirama came home exhausted and grim. 

Negotiations with neighboring clans had not been prosperous as of late, and his brother’s whimsicality only added to the disarray. Training his team of aspiring shinobi had gone no better. They had their good days, but today wasn’t one of them.

His wife’s shoes weren’t at the front door when he arrived. He hadn’t imagined her to be home at this time, anyways. She had mentioned that she would be with Mito this evening, he remembered. 

Good. He was in a sour mood, and preferred to be alone until he could clear his head.

In his home-office, he pulled off his training gear in trudged fashion. His muscles were sore, bones heavy, mind battered. He should have sat down and sorted through paperwork, but all he could think of doing was idling and simmering on his exhaustion. So he did.

He sat, closed his eyes, and sighed. Then, a sound somewhere in the house opened them back to alertness. 

He waited to hear it again, and glanced around. It was then he saw something he had missed upon first entering his home: in the hallway was her shoe, thrown and abandoned on its side. 

Curious, he went to retrieve it. Before he could bend to pick it up, he heard the sound again, this time louder. 

The source now clear, he went to their bedroom. The washroom door was shut closed. He heard the noise again, like clumsy shuffling from the other side. 

In the washroom, she shook with panic. 

When she had heard him come home, she struggled for the lock. A wet, bloodied hand slapped against the door as she pulled herself upright and completed the task. Then she collapsed back onto the floor.

His footsteps ventured closer. He called her name and knocked once, listening for a response from the other side. None came.

“I didn’t know you were home,” he took initiative to address her, confusion mounting to curiosity every moment gone without a reply. 

“I left your brother’s house earlier than expected,” she explained, voice small.

“Why?” he inquired.

She didn’t respond.

Her silence didn’t sit right with him. A suspicious frown worried his face. “What is it?” 

“Nothing. I’m not feeling well.”

It could have been enough for him. He could have granted her the lie. But he pushed on the door just slightly, felt resistance from the lock, heard it shift in its place. If she wanted privacy, he understood, but something about the air of this encounter didn’t sit right with him. Something was wrong. 

Then he heard her whimper; a heavy, pained breath followed. Then, more fumbling from the other side.

“______,” he said her name sternly now, all leniency abandoned. 

“I’m fine,” she insisted thinly. 

He didn’t believe her. And she knew that he didn’t. On the other side of the door he listened with bated breath, keen to hear any commotion from inside. 

The blood that stained her thighs felt cold now. The moan of discomfort that wished to leave her throat was restrained with a choke. She prayed that he would leave, that he would give up on his suspicions.

He almost did. Maybe she really did just need her privacy. It was the washroom, after all. Maybe he was overstepping his curiosity with paranoia, and needed to reject his irrational worries. 

The right thing to do was to walk away, he decided, and almost succeeded in doing so—but when he turned and saw her shoe on the floor again, accompanied by fresh, dark drops of blood spattered down the hall and making a trail to the spot at which he stood, he refused to abide any more reluctance. 

He nudged his hand into the door’s side and wretched it open. He heard the wood splinter and the lock give, heard her surprised gasp as she gawked up at him from her spot in the corner. 

It was a dismal sight: her curled into herself, legs and clothes bespattered with blood, sitting in a sleet of it, too.

As alarm gave way to distress, she scowled at him. “Get out!” she screamed, covering herself. 

He stared, wide-eyed, too rattled to move. But she had no fight left in her to yell again; the pain in her back came afresh, searing and horrible. She hissed and breathed, trying to reclaim her body from the agony. He saw how she closed her legs protectively and turned from him. 

“What is this?” he demanded quietly. But the question was hollow: he could see plain as day what had happened, what she had lost, what they both had lost, him unaware of its existing at all. Maybe that was what hit him the hardest: losing a life he had never even known before its death. 

He breathed through his sudden indignation. “You were… Why didn’t you tell me?”

She didn’t like that he sounded so cross with her. “Why do you think?” 

He had never wanted to have a child, she knew. And now he wouldn’t have one. 

He frowned as he looked upon the scene. The blood made a substantial puddle beneath her now, thick and matted as it dried. He should have rushed her to see a medic, should have done anything except what he was doing: standing there, staring, dumbfounded and angry. But who was he angry with? Who deserved it if not him?

When he went to her carefully, cognizant of the blood beneath his feet, she recoiled from his extended hand. 

“Go away,” she said, inflamed.

“You need to see a medic.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he scolded, harsher than he meant it to be. When he put a hand on her arm, she wretched it off, and he scowled. “Stop it. You need medical attention. You’re bleeding out—”

When he reached for her again she shoved him away, tears brimming. “There’s nothing left to bleed out!” she screamed angrily. “It’s gone, it’s all gone...” 

A regretful, closer look at the mess around her confirmed it. Thick clots that were more than just the blood itself lay spotted in the swell of it. He winced, but would ignore the gore for her sake. 

He had set his eyes upon far more gruesome sights before, but this was entirely different. This was his wife. None of the atrocities he had witnessed compared to seeing her suffer like this. 

Her tears came silent but strong. She had her eyes clenched tight, hiding from the reality, from the cold wetness between her legs and the sharp smell of balmy copper in her nose. 

He almost hated to touch her and bring her to the present, but he did. 

He knelt beside her, and put hands on her shoulders. “Let me at least clean you up.”

“No.”

He didn’t oblige her obstinacy. Gently, he pulled her from the floor and she clutched his arms as he did, whether to fight him or cling to him he didn’t know, but she went with him without struggle. 

“Just leave me alone,” she said, soft and desperate and defeated, still at the least loyal to her protests. 

He walked her carefully over the pools of crimson soaking into the wood floor and situated her at the washing bench. Her legs quivered as he set her down. 

“Are you in pain?” 

After a moment of dreary pause, she shook her head. “No.” Her voice barely strived to a croaky whisper. 

He didn’t know where to start. It might have been a good idea to take her away from the mess; she didn’t need to see it. But he reasoned that she had been trounced by it all the same already. Too late for those sensitive nuances now.

He offered her a wet rag, another dry. Then he retrieved a robe for her, and helped her tentatively out of the soiled one. The slew of blood between her legs was horrific and difficult to ignore, but he tried as hard as he could, keeping eyes on her face. 

She didn’t stare back at him as he watched her. Her eyes perused the ground vacantly, as if she had given up all else except the inane task of counting splinters in the floorboards. 

Only when she was cleaned of the blood did he help her out of the bathroom, an arm around her shoulder to keep her gait steady. When he helped her under the covers of their bed she looked no less consumed by despair, but she welcomed the warmth, curled under the sheets, and turned on her side away from him. 

“Do you need anything?” he asked quietly. 

“Leave me alone.”

He had no issue with that, now that she was safe and secured. But it still hurt to see her like this, to see the strong woman he knew be so defeated. That she had given up on her distressed anger was all the more concerning; her volitional, fatalistic calm unnerved him.

He could hardly stand to see the mess in the bathroom when he returned to clean it. The smell of blood no longer stung his nose, neither did the sight of it, after so many years shedding it from the vessels of his enemies. Yet still, knowing it was his wife’s blood, knowing why she bled and how gruesomely she had, made the labor of scrubbing stains from the now darkened wood more harrowing than he would have imagined. 

In the face of such a tragedy, Tobirama knew his pragmatism benefited him in no way, shape, or form. He tried to reason with himself that this was a natural matter—albeit hapless and deplorable—that they could work through in tandem, regardless of the fact that she had hid the pregnancy from him in the first place. He would need to forgive that, if he had any plans to bring both of them to terms with the loss. 

Nevertheless, he felt angry for having been left in the dark, and tried to put it down with grit teeth. Simmering on his suppressed frustrations, he worked blood out of the stained wood that much harder. 

Then, from the anger came guilt.

She had often mentioned how toilsome it was to speak her mind when she knew very well of his unwavering opinions; opposition to these opinions resulted in his equally unwavering temper. She would stay silent about something if it meant avoiding his hostility. By way of that, had she really kept this pregnancy from him in fear that he would lose himself in anger over it? Maybe he only had himself to blame. 

Despite having come to the conclusion, when he returned to her after his chore, he couldn’t deny himself the morbid, condemning curiosity. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he made his earlier inquiry again, less accusatory now. 

She thought of not responding. Toiling with his temper was not something she needed. 

“You made it abundantly clear that you didn’t want children.”

“Regardless, I had a right to know,” he argued. She couldn’t see in the dark how he frowned at her. “You should have told me. What was your plan? Would you wait until I noticed? And then what?”

“I was going to get rid of it.”

He blinked, almost as though it didn’t register. “You mean—”

“I had the medicines to drink. I was waiting to do it. Until I was sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That I was going to settle with putting your wants before my own.”

His expression softened in dismay. “_____, I didn’t—”

“But you don’t have to worry,” she muttered bitterly, and hugged herself tighter. She hoped his tepid confrontation would end; tears were close again, and she had no desire to break down in front of him. “It looks as though fate was on your side.”

“_____,” he said her name again, firmer now that he felt her dissonance was rapidly embittering her thoughts. Even so, he had no means—and no justification—to reprimand her for it, not when she had lost so much. They both had. But she was the worse for it, he knew. 

At the least, he could still do what was within his power, do what little he could even as he felt as useless as he had ever been. “You should see a medic,” he offered again, gently, in fear of further embroiling her. “You’ve lost blood.”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“I can have one come to you,” he insisted. “You need to be looked over.”

“No.”

“Then at least let me get Mito, someone you trust–”

“No,” she snapped. “Tell no one about this. Not Mito. Not even your brother. Promise me.” 

He gave a pleading, woeful frown, but no reply. 

“Promise me,” she entreated.

He took a breath, then exhaled his exasperation. “I promise... But are you sure there’s nothing I can get you? Nothing that—”

“I told you I’m fine. I just... want to sleep.”

He watched her with vague hope that she might change her mind, that she might have more to say, but nothing came.

Nodding to himself, he made to leave. She felt him sit up, and in the same instant, felt her heart drop to her stomach. She yielded to her sorrow, to her need for comfort.

“Wait.” 

Her weak voice stopped him. 

He glanced back, waiting patiently for her to go on. Her doleful eyes stubbornly refused tears, exhausted already of their ability to grieve.

“Don’t leave me,” she muttered, with infinite grief hidden in her words. 

His heart fluttered sadly at the request. 

Wordlessly he obliged, and sat beside her in resigned silence for the rest of the night, holding her hand in his forlorn grip. 

[squishmallow36]

Keeper of the Lost Prepositions - Thirty-four

Word count: 3.2k

Tw: none

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed!): @stellar-lune @gaslight-gaetkeep-gayboss @kamikothe1and0lny @nyxpixels @florida-floppy-frog @poppinspop @crystallinewalker @uni-seahorse-572 @solreefs @books-over-boys @rusted-phone-calls @when-wax-wings-melt @cotyledon-tomentosa @good-old-fashioned-lover-boy7 @dexter-dizzknees @abubble125

On Ao3 or below the cut!

    It’s been yet another week and Keefe hasn’t run away. Yet. 

    In other news, Lovise has completely cut me off from Tinker and Alvar hasn’t given any information up. He’s still alive…somehow. Not sure I want to know the details of why he’s still held together. 

    Fitz is still in a downward spiral, surprise surprise, so I’ve invited him over to play a human game called Magic: The Gathering, of which I’ve played a few games against my siblings, but I really want to see what he’ll think of it, because Lex, Bex, and Rex weren’t really into it.

    Bonus points if I get so competitive my head pops off in anger. 

    “Hey, Dex,” Fitz says, mildly scaring me. “Your mum let me in.”

    “Preposition,” I mutter, and he laughs slightly.

    “How have you been?”

    “You ask that like we haven't been playing Torchlight for hours every day,” I reply, sorting my Magic cards so I have something with which to fidget. 

    “What are you doing?” 

    “Sorting Magic cards for no apparent reason because they’re going to get shuffled in like two minutes. And speaking of Magic, that’s why I asked you to come over here.”

    “You do know that magic doesn’t exist, right?” 

    “In the world of Magic: The Gathering, it does. So, basically, you’re playing as a planeswalker, a fancy word that’s sorta a wizard, but not really because that’s a different thing, and you’re battling against at least one other planeswalker. Confused yet?” 

    “You’ve met me, right? Of course I’m confused by the human thing.” 

    As I start explaining, I look through my deck, trying to find a card of each one of the main types. 

    “Just try to stick with me here. There’s all sorts of different spells you can cast: creatures, artifacts, instants, sorceries, and enchantments. To cast these spells, you need mana, which is produced by lands.” 

    I point to the mountain on my bedspread. 

    “The basic lands are plains, islands, swamps, mountains, and forests, but there are a ton of nonbasic lands that do different things, like give colourless mana, for example. Each type of basic land creates a different colour of mana.”

    “Sorry to interrupt, but do they match? Like this one making red mana?” he asks, referring to the mountain.

    “Yeah. But here’s the mildly annoying thing. Coloured mana can count as colourless but colourless can’t count for coloured. That’s probably the most confusing way I could have said that. Take this Radical Idea as an example. It requires one colourless and one blue. If I have two blue, then I can cast this spell. If I have a blue and a red, I can cast this spell. But if I have two colourless or two red, then I can’t. Am I at least mildly coherent?”

    “I think so…”

    “Do you want a few more examples?”

    He nods. 

    “Thought so. Can you tell me the converted mana cost of this one?” I ask, pointing at a Murmuring Mystic. 

    “Three?”

    “Not quite. You need three of any colour, plus one blue. How about this one?” this time pointing at a Beacon Bolt. 

    “Definitely one, plus one blue, plus one red. Is this one three?”

    “Very good. For your last test, what’s this one’s converted mana cost?” 

    “Uh…six? Because there’s three blues and three reds?”

    “Yep. As long as you can count to seven, you’re good. The other main part is attacking and blocking with your creatures, which I think is easier to learn from experience, so…”

    “We’re going to start playing and I’m going to be clueless?”

    “Exactly. The last thing is to pick out which deck you want to play. Each color of mana has its own strategies, so it’s really up to you. I’d recommend red or green because those are the ones that’ll let you just demolish everything in sight, so there’s less strategy than, say, blue.”

    “What’s this one?” he asks, pointing to an Azorius deck with a card that creates sharknados. I mean, it says shark tokens with flying, but the pictures’s a shark in a tornado, so sharknado. 

    I wish I could say that I made that up.

    “It's Azorius. White-blue. I haven’t totally figured it out because I haven’t played it a ton, but it loves making your opponent angry, so you’ve gotta respect that…you want it, don’t you?”

    He nods. 

    “Be warned. White-blue requires the thinking of, like three steps ahead, so be ready to think so hard your brain starts melting out of your ears.”

    After a few minutes of shuffling, during which I had to teach someone how to shuffle, I ask, “Heads or tails?”

    “Tails.”

    I flip the coin, and it lands on tails.

    “You get to go first.”

    “Okay. What do I do?”

    “You get seven cards to be your starting hand. This is where the counting to seven comes into play.”

    “Got it. Now what?”

    “Decide if you’d like to keep these cards and play with them or reshuffle and draw new ones. Technically you’re supposed to get one less card if you mulligan, but it’s a house rule here that that doesn’t happen. If you have between two and five lands, and the colour of the lands matches the colour of your cards, especially the cheap ones, then you’re probably good.”

    I draw my seven and I’m pleased enough to not reshuffle. Got three lands and four cheap spells, three of which will let me draw more cards. 

    “I’m keeping it. Mostly because I don’t want to shuffle again.”

    “That’s usually my reasoning for keeping a risky hand, so good job on that. You’re going to want to pick out one land to put onto the battlefield, also known as this bedspread.”

    “What do I do if it has two colours like this one?” He asks, showing me a Tranquil Cove. 

    “It enters the battlefield at a ninety-degree angle, so you can’t use it this turn, but on future turns, you can choose to have it give you a white or a blue mana. You also get one life for that one, so you’re at twenty-one if you want to put that one down. I’d recommend getting the lands with ‘enters the battlefield tapped’ first, so when the momentum is picking up in the subsequent rounds, you don’t have to wait to have that mana available.”

    He puts it down and asks, “Is there anything else I can do?”

    “Unless you’ve snuck a Black Lotus into there, I believe it’s my turn.”

    I draw a card, a two/two Goblin Electromancer, and say, “It’s included in the rules that the first turn doesn’t get to draw a card because you have an opportunity to throw damage at me before I can do anything to stop it.” 

    I put down an Izzet Guildgate while Fitz says, “Sounds fake but okay. I trust you. Don’t go looking it up on your Imparter.”

   “Your turn. Draw a card.”

    He draws a card and summons a Plains before casting Birth of Meletis. 

    “Birth of Meletis. It says, ‘as this saga enters the battlefield and after your draw step, add a lore counter. Sacrifice after three. Search your library for a basic plains card, reveal it, put it into your hand, then shuffle your library’.” 

    “If it’s the bottom card of your library, you don’t have to shuffle.”

    “Real rule or house rule.”

    “House rule,” I reply. 

    “I’ll call it your turn as I shuffle.”

    I draw a card, this time an Island, and immediately put it down, and cast a creature. “Say hello to my Goblin Electromancer. He’s a two/two, which means that he deals two damage when he attacks, and he takes two damage to kill. He also makes instant and sorcery spells cost one colourless less to cast. He has summoning sickness, so he can’t attack yet. Your turn.”

    Fitz draws a card, and as he puts down a land, he says, “I have no clue how this works, but you said to put down two colour lands first.”

    He proceeds to scry one, looking at the top card of his library before deciding to keep it at the top, as opposed to sticking it on the bottom of his library.

    He then puts down an enchantment called Omen of the Sea, which lets him scry two and draw a card. The second scry gets put at the bottom of his deck.

    His Birth of Meletis enchantment reaches level two and creates a zero/four wall creature token with defender, which just means it can’t attack. Because walls should be able to attack, I know. 

    “Your turn.”

    After drawing an island and putting it down immediately, I cast a Lava Coil on Fitz’s wall, dealing it four damage. 

    “What do I do now?” he asks. 

    “Usually dead creatures will go into the graveyard, but tokens go to Exile, which is just kind of the graveyard for the graveyard.” 

    “And where are those?”

    “Wherever you want to put the piles. Next to the library is usually a good spot for the graveyard, and then somewhere over here can work as your exile.”

    After that, I say, “Attack with my Goblin Electromancer two/two.”

    “Help.”

    “Take your life counter and set it to nineteen. If you had any creatures, you could block, but I, you know…”

    “Killed my poor wall with fire?”

    “Yeah...I’m not done yet. I have a Chart a Course--draw two cards, then discard a card unless you attacked with a creature this turn.” 

    I draw two cards, and recount my mana pool. “I also have an Opt--scry one, draw a card. Your turn.”

   He puts down a Tranquil Cove, a two-color land, and his Birth of Meletis enchantment reaches level three, giving him two life back. 

    “Thirst for meaning--draw three cards, then discard two cards unless you discard an enchantment. That was all my mana. Your turn.”

    I cast a mountain and say, “Murmuring mystic--he’s a one/five and he says whenever I cast an instant or sorcery, create a one/one blue bird creature token with flying. Then I’m going to attack with my Goblin Electromancer again.”

    “Nineteen again.”

    “Your turn.”

    “Cool.” He draws a card and continues, “I’m going to cast this Archon of Sun’s Grace. It says it has flying, lifelink, and constellation.”

    “Power and toughness?”

    He just gives me the card, and I see that it’s a three/four. I also take the opportunity to read that constellation means that whenever an enchantment enters the battlefield under Fitz’s control, he gets to create a two/two white pegasus creature token with flying. 

    “I can’t attack right now, right? Because of the thing you mentioned a couple of turns ago?”

    “Summoning sickness, yeah. You’re tapped out so I assume it’s my turn.”

    He nods, and I start casting instants and sorceries, after drawing another card. 

    “Radical idea--draw a card. Opt--scry one, draw a card. Attack with my Goblin Electromancer.” 

    I know it’s a doomed mission, but I’m hoping that Fitz takes the bait. 

    And he does.     

    “I got a creature. What should I do?” 

   “So you’re blocking me with your Archon of Sun’s Grace? My Goblin Electromancer deals two damage to your creature as yours deals three to mine, so yours is fine and mine goes to the graveyard, and you get three life back from the lifelink. But wait. There’s more. I’ve got a shock--deal two damage to any target.”

    “The target is my Archon of Sun’s Grace, isn’t it?” 

    “Yep.” I put down an Izzet Guildgate for use next turn and get three bird tokens from my stash. “Your turn.” 

    I’ve made him angry, because Fitz casts another enchantment saga called Elspeth Conquers Death, and exiles my Murmuring Mystic. At least my birds are fine. For now. 

    “That was all of my mana. Your turn.”

    On my turn, I know it’s going to be fast. “Niv-Mizzet, five/five flying, this spell can’t be countered. When a player casts an instant or sorcery spell, draw a card. Whenever you draw a card, Niv-Mizzet deals one damage to any target. And then attack with my birds.”

    “Okay, I’m back down to nineteen. My turn?” 

    “I’m tapped out, so yes, unfortunately.”

    “I’d like to say that I’m sorry but I’m not. Banishing light--When Banishing Light enters the battlefield, exile target nonland permanent an opponent controls until Banishing Light leaves the battlefield. Say goodbye to your big mean guy.”

    He levels up his Birth of Meletis enchantment, and gets a plains for his hand, and as he shuffles, he declares it my turn. 

    I draw a card and summon a mountain. “Psychic corrosion. Now I have my own enchantment. Whenever I draw a card, you have to mill the top two cards of your library into your graveyard. Attack with my birds and it’s your turn.”

    “Okay. My Elspeth Conquers Death enchantment will let me bring back my Archon of Sun’s Grace with a plus one/plus one counter. And then Birth of Meletis will give me another zero/four wall token.”

    “Rude,” I mutter. 

    “Says the guy with the birds that keep attacking me. Your turn.”

    Draw a card, cast that card immediately. “Opt—scry one, draw a card. Oh yes, definitely keeping that. Entrancing melody—gain control of target creature with converted mana cost X. Your Archon is mine. Attack with my birds again and then it can be your turn,” I say. 

    “Rude. But your Archon’s brother is here for vengeance.”

    “Yeah, but mine has a one/one counter so he’s better.”

    “I can’t do anything else. Your turn,” Fitz says.

    “I’m going to put down this mountain that I just drew and then attack you with my fleet. Three one/one birds and a four/five archon.” 

    “I block your archon with my archon and take three damage.”

    “Your archon’s dead. Mine’s fine. You get three life back from your archon’s lifelink. I get four from mine. Your turn.”

    “That’s disappointing. But Elspeth Conquers Death brings back my Archon of Sun’s Grace, with a plus one/plus one counter, of course. Thirst for meaning—draw three discard two. Glass Casket—when it enters the battlefield, exile target creature an opponent controls with converted mana cost three or less until Glass Casket leaves the battlefield. Bird. Gone.”

    “What did my little bird do to you?” I whine.

    “It attacked me one too many times, that’s what it did. It’s your turn, regrettably.”

    “Let’s see how you like this. Chandra’s ignition—target creature deals damage equal to its power to each other creature and opponent.”

    “How about no? I’ve got a card that lets me counter that.”

    I sigh. “Fine then. I attack with my fleet.”

    “Block your archon with my archon. We’re both fine unless you’re going to throw extra damage at me, right?”

    “Well now that you mention it, I’ve got a shock—.”

    “Nope,” Fitz interrupts, throwing another Neutralize at me. 

    “You’re very quickly making me angry.”

    “That makes two of us.”

    “I’m still going to discard this mountain to jumpstart Radical Idea from my graveyard and draw a card.”

    “Wait. I can do that?”

    “Generally, no. Radical Idea has that printed on there,” I explain, giving Fitz the card to read for himself.

    “Okay. I was fully convinced you just neglected to mention that until it would benefit you.”

    “I’m too much of a rules lawyer. I’ve told my siblings the most efficient way to kill me when I know I have no more hope. Your turn.”

    “I don’t totally believe that, but I’ve got another omen of the sea—scry two. I’m keeping both, and because it’s an enchantment, my Archon of Sun’s Grace will let me have a two/two pegasus creature token with flying. And now it’s time for me to attack you because you have nothing to block me.”

    “I’m down to twenty-eight. Your archon’s lifelink is a lifesaver.”

    “I’m only at seventeen. You did start at twenty, right?”

    “Yes. Lifelink. Is it my turn or are you going to keep it hostage?”

    “Fifty/fifty chance. Your turn.”

    “Niv-Mizzet’s brother, whose name happens to also be Niv-Mizzet, has come for revenge. I’m attacking with my fleet.”

    “Block your Archon of Sun’s Grace with my pegasus, and the lifelink cancels out the damage from your birds, even if it does go to the graveyard.”

    “Tokens go to exile,” I correct.

    “Close enough. My turn?”

    “Unfortunately.”

    “I’ve got a Dream Trawler—three/five flying, whenever I draw a card, Dream Trawler gets plus one/plus zero until end of turn. Does that stack?”

    “I don’t see why it wouldn’t,” I answer, wondering why I do this to myself.

    “And then whenever it attacks, I get to draw a card.”

    “That has to die then. Got it.”

    “I’m still going to attack with my Archon of Sun’s Grace whether you like it or not.”

    “The answer is not,” I say, spinning my life counter back down to twenty-eight. 

    I draw a mountain, slightly disappointed. “I drew a card, so Niv’s going to deal one damage to you. Attack with my archon and my birds.”

    “Block your Archon of Sun’s Grace with my Dream Trawler.”

    “Why do you feel the need to say the whole name of either of our archons?”

    “Why should I know?”

    “Your turn.”

    “I can’t do anything, it's your turn. I’m saving my creatures for when you inevitably attack me.”

    I draw a Radical Idea, and being nearly out of cards in my hand, I cast it immediately. “One damage from Niv when I drew a card at the beginning of my turn plus two from the Radical Idea. Niv let me draw another card. And remember to mill two every time I draw one from my Psychic Corrosion. Let’s see what happens.”

    “What happens if I run out of my library? Do I reshuffle or live on my hand?”

    “You lose the game,” I say bluntly. 

    “Sounds fake but okay.”

    “Chart a course—draw two cards then dump one unless I attacked with a creature this turn. Three damage to you from Niv, and I’m going to dump an island because I haven’t attacked.”

    “Yet.”

    “I’m still undecided,” I say, eying his rapidly depleting library. “I’ve got another Radical Idea, and that means four mill and two damage for you.”

    “Wonderful. Now what?”

    “Now I dump an Izzet Guildgate to jumpstart that Radical Idea I just cast, so four more mill and two more damage.”

    “I’m out of cards in my library, so I’m dead.”

    “Not until you have to draw a card, technically. So I declare it your turn and now you’re dead.”

    “Good game.”

    “Good game. You gave me a good run for my money. You’re never going to want to play with me again, are you?”

    “Maybe with you playing a different deck. Maybe.”

    “That’s code for ‘no, but I don’t want to say no.’”

    “Best two out of three?”

   “I’m keeping this deck. You can try a different one if you want to.”

    “Preposition,” we say in unison before bursting into laughter.

    As I back up my cards and start reshuffling, I mutter, “I love knowing I’ve corrupted you in the best way possible.” 

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 22

Previous: The Final Notice 

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x OFC

Genre: Secret AgentAU, Government AgentAU

Rating: PG15

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Abortion

Summary: Black Panther, Cricket and OT7 finally meet. 

Cricket & OT7: Return to Sender

Present Day

           “Why are you following me?” I ask, hands bound together, eyes blindfolded. The car has stopped, and whomever was driving has exited the vehicle in favor of opening my door and yanking me out. It’s silent, apart from my breathing and unavoidably stalky footsteps. I’ve never been able to walk on eggshells, perhaps it was my mother’s direction that stomping on them was far more impactful, that has led me to wear through every heel of every shoe I’ve ever owned. Now, it isn’t my saving grace, rather a rude awakening that I must sound like an ogre to the people who live below me.

           I arrived at the designated location, Jungkook trailing behind me. He refused to let me go alone but did compromise and stay in the damn car. He could see me, and I could see him. I was waiting for no more than a minute before promptly kidnapped. Not even chloroformed, just fucking grabbed and taken. Kidnapped, blindfolded and bound. Bound! Some knot a boy scout or aspiring I’m tossed in the back of a car, which, is how I’ve found myself willfully dragging my heels as they ever so gracefully force me in their desired direction.

           “Black Panther, why are you following us?” The voice asks. I know that voice, I’ve heard it before, I’ve heard that code name. Had it been referring to me this entire time?

           “Us?” I ask again, tossing my voice to see if it reverberates against anything, any sign that furniture or people are nearby.

           The man guiding me stops abruptly and peels off my blindfold. Empty spaces are their own kind of hell, and this is no exception. The panic of darkness arises as I close and open my eyes, ensuring they’re really open and not a trick of the mystery man’s charms. I jump softly as seven lights are dropped, one in each spot in front of me, a delicate row of halos waiting to be adorned. Five men step out of the shadows, the one holding me in place making number six.  Their pressed suits, cut from the finest cloth, each distinct in their pattern and style, garnish their bodies. As if on cue they cross their arms over their chests and glare openly at me.

           “Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung,” I rattle off, each man nodding as I speak their names.

           I know them all, tailed them, surveyed their homes, run into them at the grocery story and Mexican restaurants. All except fucking min Yoongi, but I know them. I know these men. I’ve spent the better part of what, two years, trying to understand them, trying to figure out how they’re related, and here they are. There’s space for another, and it takes me a minute to realize who it is that occupies that is supposed to occupy that spot.

           “There’s only six of you… where’s -

           “Jeon Jungkook,” His voice comes from behind me, goosebumps running up my spine as the heel of his boots hits the concrete. My body is awash in shock, anger, comfort and hope. My Jungkook. My, I have to come home to him, my north star, my sunshine on a cloudy day, my Bunny.

           I was fucking right all along, wasn’t I?

           “Welcome to the party.” Seokjin says.

           “Is this where you tell me that Euna is Hans Gruber and somehow I’m Sergeant Powell?” I question, by tone delicate against their stone expressions.

           “If anything, you’re Harry Ellis,” Yoongi says.

           “That’s so rude,” I retort. “At least let me be Holly Gennaro.”

           “Then who are we, McClane?” Yoongi snorts, the absurdity of my statement causing a brief moment of joy. “Bunny wishes.”

           “You’re interrupting our mission,” Namjoon states, pulling my attention to him. His broad shoulders give way to a tapered waist, round golden spectacles are situated against his face, and his jaw is locked tight.

           “Me? How the fuck – oh,” My eyes move towards the bulletin board against the far wall, in quintessential fashion there are pictures, string, maps and enough thumbtacks to secure the list of vets from the Vietnam Memorial. I can’t read it, but I can see it. “You guys aren’t the bad guys.”

           “No, we’re not,” Namjoon says.

           “The Lee family is,” Taehyung says. It’s odd seeing him this quiet and stoic, after all he’s the hottest librarian in the damn county. He comes alive within the confines of his books and stories, he comes alive. He has voices and characters and gestures to match each. Looking at him now, it’s wild to imagine him doing a full interpretive reading of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, or his most famed retelling, Peter and the Starcatcher, when he’s glowering down at me.

           “They are poison, seeking revenge on anyone who has worked on cases to bring them down,” Hoseok says.

           “So, you all, how did she find you?” My mind is moving too fast for me to form coherent sentences.

           “Cupid didn’t find us,” Jimin tells me, eyes still boring holes into mine.

           “You did,” Namjoon answers.

           “I did?” I ask, eyes wide.

           “Mm, your little stunts, your run ins, your photos. She gave you our real names and you-

           “Gave her our locations,” Taehyung finishes the sentence, eyes still trained on me.

           “You left the notes, and the photo for Euna to find,”

           “Yes, but unlike you, our move was intentional,” Yoongi says.

           “Codename Cupid needed to know there were higher stakes at play,” Hoseok tells me.

           “How was I supposed to know this was some larger conspiracy?” I demand, temper rising.

           “Did you not receive notes?” Hoseok asks, by his expression I can tell that he’s responsible for the code breakers that have arrived at my apartment and office over the last nine months. “Strange packages arriving out of nowhere, sent to your office, on the driver’s seat?” Hoseok pushes.

           “Yeah, but I’ve had some really sketchy clients in the past, though none of them preferred an ABA rhyme scheme,” I retort.

           “Do you know how we found you?” Yoongi snaps.

           “Yes?” I ask, genuinely confused, “Google my name and my office pops up. Anyone can find me.”

           “Your tactics are fucking bush league, Black Panther. They’re embarrassing,” Yoongi tells me.

           “You’re a P.I., not a cop, not an agent, you’re not in the Bureau, yet you’re overstepping into situations that you have no grounds being involved in. You are fucking playing with fire and we were about to be burned if we hadn’t –

           “Seokjin,” Namjoon’s voice is biting, harsh, a belt to the back as it cracks in the hot air.

           “She needs to know,” Taehyung responds for his hyung.

           “Cupid has been lying to you for months, leading you on, paying you over your asking to track us down for what? A few lies you don’t even believe to be true?” Jimin asks.

           “We embezzled funds from their charity organization? We reported her family to the IRS?” Taehyung asks.

           “We stole jewelry from her famed collection to sell on the black market?” Seokjin adds.

           “We’re trafficking high quality cocaine from Colombia into the upper echelon of society?” Jimin rattles off more lies.

           “We fucked her, broke her heart, and god – the worst one – we made her abort our child?” Yoongi spits on the floor, disgust flowing through his saliva like blood in the Nile.

           I stare at them, mouth agape as they recite words I’ve only spoken to one person. My vision becomes blurry as I try to breathe, in through my nose, out through my mouth, but my heart is pounding in my ears and I can’t breathe. The tears always sting before they fall, and my eyes land on him, tall, blonde hair, clear framed glasses, doe eyes.

           “You told them?” I whisper, the end of my sentence curling up into itself as the first tears start to fall.

           “I had to,” A whisper, feet frozen to the ground as he refuses to make eye contact with me.

           “You were using me?” I ask. “Look at me.”

           “I wasn’t using you,” He says, soft eyes meeting mine, the fire scorching the earth.

           “So how do they know?” I spit, the little droplets doing nothing to squelch the flames.

           “I had –

           “You told them information that I shared with you, in confidence, in my fucking bed, in my fucking homeJungkook!” I yell.

           “Cricket, can we talk about –

           “How dare you use my nickname to get me to calm down, I’m not a fucking child,” the sound of my cries reverberates against the warehouse, echoing violently.

           “I can exp-

           “There isn’t time for you to sort out your fuck up, Jeon. We have real problems to discuss,” Yoongi snaps. I can feel the tears dripping from my chin, falling to the concrete beneath my feet. The adrenaline pumping through my body as both a reaction to fear and a telltale sign that I’ve been embarrassed beyond repair. Not just embarrassed, eviscerated, betrayed. An hour ago, hadn’t I been deeply in love, terrified I wouldn’t return home to him?  

           “What do you want from me?” I ask. Jimin hands me a tissue, which I am grateful for as I attempt to gently blot my soaked skin. My mascara, never waterproof, comes off my eyes in dark splotches. How poetic.

           “Come, have a seat, Jungkook, get her a water,” Namjoon instructs. He strides towards the bulletin board and pressing a few buttons, the board sinks in the floor to reveal a hallway. The gasp that echoes through the warehouse is audible, and louder than I intend.

           “Sorry,” I say, feet guiding me past Jungkook, towards the corridor. There are no pictures on the walls, no signs that this space is used by anyone. The industrial style gives way to a door, bulletproof.

           Namjoon pauses, inserting his thumb into a scanner that gives way to a retina display, where he gently places his chin against the base. The machine works quickly before giving him entrance. I watch, amazed. Who knew in the 21stcentury that covert ops and me, a lonely P.I., would intersect?

           “This is, headquarters,” Seokjin says. He takes a seat at the long table in front of us and points to the chair next to Taehyung. I sit quickly, my eyes adjusting to the surprisingly bright space.

           “Oh my god the view,” I say, composure slightly recovered as I take in the expanse of greenery.

           “Yeah, benefit of being in the middle of nowhere,” Yoongi says.

           “Read your file,” Namjoon instructs.

           The file in front of me, manilla of course, is packed. “Why paper copies?”

           “Easier to burn,” Yoongi mutters. He’s taken out his computer and is busy typing away, no doubt pulling up a list of my infractions. Undoubtedly fucking an undercover operative is number one, though falling in love is objectively far worse than sex.

           Jungkook brings me a water and deftly cuts the zip ties around my wrist. His hand moves to sooth the indentation and redness from their grip, but I pull them away before his thumbs graze over the skin. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him retreat to his seat at the end of the table.

           “If you’re the top of the line, 007 should be shaking in his oxfords, can’t you encrypt it?” I ask.

           “Your encryption is only as good as your worst coder. We can’t take that chance,” Namjoon tells me.

           “First, I don’t think that’s the saying. Second, the government, who I’m assuming you work for, Interpol, MI6, etc. all use computer systems,” I counter.

           “Do you remember the election of 2016?” Yoongi retorts.

           “Point taken,” I nod. Of course, Russia. No one was ever safe. “But can’t you blame a lot of that on Zuckerberg and the higher ups at Twitter?”

           “Read your file,” Namjoon instructs again.

           I open it to find a rather aggressive breakdown of my work as a PI, both items that were on the internet and ones that only top-level government agents could have accessed, that is, unless the NSA has been tapping my phones. Details of my family life, my past relationships, my driving record, it was all here.

           “Why isn’t Jungkook on the list of romantic partners?” I ask, eyes looking from Seokjin to Namjoon.

           “Are you in love?” Namjoon asks.

           I don’t wait for a response from Jungkook, or to find the courage to say the simple three lettered word, yes. Instead, I busy myself by clearing my throat and loudly moving the pages about my life to a separate pile. Underneath is all my evidence, print outs of my documents, surveillance photos of me working. I stare at them, horrified.

           “How long have you been tailing me?” I question.

           “How long have you been working with Euna?” Taehyung asks.

           “Sixteen months,” I reply.

           “Ten months.” Taehyung answers.

           “You hacked my computer? Is that legal?” I inquire, knowing full well that it isn’t.

           “I can tell that you don’t understand who you’re dealing with, so let me put it this way. We’re the ones who knock. We’re the ones who cause dignitaries, presidents, whole countries to quake in their boots. It’s us.” Namjoon’s voice is calm within the storm, its resolute and baritone and every word that he utters is meaningful, impactful. He means what he says, and he fucking says what he means. In every interaction I’ve had with him, which frankly have been maybe more than he realizes, he’s been measured in his speech, only speaking when he has something worth saying. He is patient with himself, kind to others, except for today, when he clearly does not want to deal with me.

           “How very Heisenberg of you,” I roll my eyes.

           “You don’t want to be Jane,” Namjoon urges.

           “Okay first of all, in a Breaking Bad scenario, I’m clearly Jesse. Second of all, Krysten Ritter has had a very lovely career. Finally, this cannot be overlooked or underestimated, I’m Veronica Mars, bitch.”

           “Read. Your. File.” Namjoon’s teeth are clenched, his fist resting on the table, his patience going.

           I glance at Yoongi who is sniggering, Seokjin who is making eyes at Jungkook, and Jimin who is busy doodling along the margins of his file. These glimpses, these little hints at the weight of their souls, these are the men I’ve been following for nearly two years.

           It’s in staring at the remnants of my evidence that it hits me. “Jungkook gave you these photos.”

           “Yes,” Seokjin answers.

           “Everything you told me was a lie,” I say, eyes burning holes into the stolen images of my work.

           “Crick- Y/N, that’s not true,”

           “I knew you were connected, that day in the dog park, I knew,” I should’ve trusted my instincts, though they told me to trust him, maybe I should’ve run.

           “I didn’t lie, Cricket, I -

           “Look, I’ll work with you, whoever you are, but I’m not working with Jungkook,” I look at Namjoon.

           “That’s not an option, Black Panther,”

           “How did I get that nickname?”

           “Can you focus for ten minutes? Read your damn file so we can discuss the next course of action before you have to go meet Codename Cupid for your weekly meeting,” Namjoon bites.

           “Fine, do I have to go to that meeting if you’re, doing whatever you’re doing?” I question. “Seems a bit redundant.”

           “If you don’t meet with Cupid, she will know we found her, and our decade of work is completely useless.” Seokjin says, stepping in to mitigate the anger erupting from Namjoon.

           “What am I supposed to say to her? She knows too much already,”

           “She doesn’t know what she knows,” Yoongi answers. “Looking through her emails and texts, it’s clear that her family wants the seven of us dead for espionage, and for attempting to bring them down. All Cupid knows is that you found us, which she assumes is a fatal flaw in our plan, though she has yet to understand the plan at all.”

           “It’s completely intentional,” Hoseok adds. “Cupid only knows that we either worked for her company or dated her or a sibling. She knows our fictitious careers and lives but has no clue about who we truly are.”

           “Her brother, Dae-Seong, Codename Archer, is the one who wants us gone, eviscerated, eradicated. He’s the one driving this whole thing. Archer’s convinced Cupid that vengeance will solve her romantic woes,” Jimin tells me.  

           “But what about Jun-Seo? You left him the night of your engagement party, and Kwan-Min, you went on a few dates… Couldn’t this be about them?”

           “Codenames Bow and Arrow are less of a threat than Cupid and Archer,” Taehyung answers.

           “Cupid has been kept in the dark for the past, fifteen years, in regard to their business. The dark dealings of her company reside solely with her siblings and their parents. We want them,” Namjoon finishes.

           “Why not use Euna, sorry, Cupid, as the patsy?” I ask.

           “Who will run their company?” Yoongi asks.

           “Someone else?”

           “There’s too much evidence, nearly the entire company is dirty,” Jimin tells me.

           “So, you’ve been spying on them from the inside?” I question.

           “Sort of,”

           “It’s Nixon, Watergate extreme?” I ask.

           “What does Cupid know, and when did she know it?” Yoongi answers, his annoyance completely dissipating at my Watergate mention.

           “Why do you think she’ll believe me? She doesn’t have much faith in me as of late,” I question, the lilt of insecurity in my voice. Jungkook glances at me, eyes soft at the familiar tone, he tries to offer a smile, at least, it looks like he’s trying.

           “Yeah, because you fucked Jungkook and she found out. Before that though, she couldn’t sing your praises enough,” Namjoon’s calmed down, his frustration settling like sediment at the bottom of a pot. Adding an eighth person to the group was always going to shift the balance, move the power around and rattle nerves. But me? I’m burning it down. Though I can’t completely be to blame - Jungkook is also at fault.

           “Fine. What do I say to her?”

           “Haven’t we gone over this before? Lie,” Yoongi says.

           “Yoongi, if you’re going to be an ass, can you please direct it at someone else?” I snap.

           “Feisty,” He nods approvingly.

           “Black Panther, you have notes in your file about what we need from you,” Namjoon instructs.

           “You want me to end my relationship with her?” I question.

           “Yes,”

           “What about –

           “Either you end it first, creating an enemy, or she ends it with you which will not be helpful for us,”

           “I just,” I look at them, eyes finally glancing to Jungkook. He looks exhausted, and sad, so sad, his irises choppy waves searching for harbor. “Do I have a choice?”

           “No,” Namjoon answers, but Jungkook’s eyes tell me exactly what I need to know. I don’t have a choice, and somewhere along the line, he stopped having one too.

           “Fine, tell me what to do,” I flip to the page in my file, eyes scanning the words, mind no longer full of Jungkook my boyfriend, but of Jungkook, Operative, member of OT7. This is a job, a job that seemingly could make or destroy my career. I don’t have time or the emotional space to navigate his crashing midnight eyes. All I have now is focus, drive, determination, and hints of stubbornness. This is the same drive that in a weird twist of fate, has led me to this very conference room, with these seven mysterious men.

           I cannot fuck it up.

           I will not get a second chance.

Next: Black Panther Meets Codename Cupid  

[devildominatrix]

Pick Up Lines || Mammon X MC

Some fluffy Mammon x MC bc I applied for uni accommodation and I’m stressed 😂

Warnings: none

Just fluffy with a pinch of angst

 Mammon was and will always be a tsundere idiot. But that didn't stop you from falling for him. Underneath that cocky persona he is actually a very sweet, caring individual, and he's shown that several times over the past few months that you have been in Devildom, including taking up the task to protect you, which proved to be quite the task considering the trouble you got into constantly. Despite all of this, he would try to deny any feelings he had for you, although his facade was transparent. That is why you decided to make the first move. 

Approaching the living room, you heard voices coming from inside, one of them Mammon's. Giving yourself a moment to prepare, you waltz into the room with confidence, stopping by the sofa, where Mammon and Asmo sat, discussing the new fashion magazine that Mammon modelled for. 

"Hey MC, tell Asmo that the stuff I'm wearing in this photo is not out of fashion! The photographer picked it out himself!" Mammon pleaded, acknowledging your presence instantly.

"Let me see," you said, picking up the magazine, "did you sit in a pile of sugar? 'Cause you got a pretty sweet ass." With a single smug look at Mammon, you put the magazine down and walked off nonchalantly. 

As for poor Mammon, he was beyond red as your words set in, meanwhile Asmo cackled next to him at the mess he became. It took a whole 10 minutes before he could form any sort of coherent sentence again.

--=+=--

 The next opportunity arose the next day. It was your turn to make dinner, so you decided to make one of your favourite meals. Of course, there's no such thing as being left alone in the house, so before you knew it, Mammon was sat in the kitchen to try to persuade you to join him in another one of his finance schemes. He seemed more on edge than usual, but tried to play it off as casually as possible. 

As you got on with the cooking, a delicious aroma arose from the pots on the stove, making Mammon pause momentarily.

"So MC, what's on the menu for tonight?" A simple, innocent question.

"Me-n-U." A flirty answer, accompanied with a smirk in his direction.

"W-What?" His voice couldn't take the embarrassment and cracked as he said it, making him go even more flustered. You carried on cooking, a sense of smugness at your tactics. Surely he must've caught on by now, right? Turning around to check on him, you found an empty room. He left without you noticing. He avoided eye contact the entire dinner as well.

--=+=--

Another chance arrived soon after, as Satan asked you to come along to help Mammon study for school. After all, it would also be useful to you, as you were going to be covering the history of Devildom. Agreeing to meet in the school library, you made your way over, a small smile on your face.

"Hey guys, you alright?" you ask, settling your books down next to Mammon, opposite of Satan. Poor Mammon couldn't as much as look at you without the kitchen incident replaying in his head, the way you smirked at him after was too much for the poor boy. 

"Yeah, you ready to get started?" Satan questioned, also pulling out his books.

"I really don't get why  we have to do this. I could be doing the new money making scheme I thought of!" Complaining, the avatar of greed pouted.

"Because you're failing. Now get your work out, we'll go over what we did in lesson today."

The session lasted an hour, Mammon complaining constantly, but all of you got some work done eventually. The session ended mainly because Satan was getting frustrated at his brother, until you suggested to just do another session another time. Agreeing, Satan made his way back home, while you guys packed up. 

"Hey Mammon? Are you a library book? Because I want to check you out." You winked at him to make the line even more cheesy. As expected, his composure slipped immediately, red creeping up to his cheeks, as he looked up at you. He didn't reply, but his blush didn't let up the entire way home.

--=+=--

It was later that day, while you were sat with Satan, Belphie and Beel on the sofa, that Mammon overheard your conversation. 

"-and then I said Me-n-U, he turned bright red and left before I knew it." Giggling, you signed happily at the memory of it, and while you did feel a little guilty, you needed to tease him a little for being so stubborn about his own feelings. 

When he heard that, he felt a stab to his heart. It was all a game to you. A prank. Of course it was, there's no way you were actually into him. At least that's what flashed through his mind when he heard that. 

After that he avoided you like a plague, not being able to even look at you without being stabbed with doubt and pain. You quickly caught onto the fact he was avoiding you, though you thought maybe you went too far with the teasing. Maybe you read it all wrong and he wasn't actually into you? No, you were sure that was not the case. But what was wrong? Soon enough, you had enough of his silent treatment, he would ignore you when you were in the same room, and would deliberately change direction when he saw you walking towards him. You decided that maybe you did take it too far with the pick up lines, and so you should probably apologise.

You were in lesson, one you shared with Mammon, and you could not focus for the life of you. Doodling in your notebook was the only way to pass time without fiddling or disturbing class. Eventually, the bell rang, indicating end of lesson, and everyone started packing away, and before he could escape, you approached Mammon. 

"Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?" You asked, a small smile adorning your features, but Mammon looked at you with a blank face, until finally nodding. Now that was unusual, and you started feeling guiltier by the minute. Once the last people left, the two of you were left alone.

"Look, I noticed you were avoiding me. Is it because of those cheesy lines? If so, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." You trailed off, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. He looked slightly annoyed.

"Why did you say those lines? Was it to make fun of me? Did one of my brothers set you up to this?" Those words made you stop in your tracks. He didn't think you were actually flirting with him? He thought that this was a prank. Oh, that explains why he was avoiding you. You looked at him shocked at the accusation, until you pulled him into a hug, which he resisted at  first. 

"Mammon, you silly demon. No one set me up to do it. I was flirting with you because I like you a lot. I would never make fun of you in that manner, that would be another level of cruel." You said softly, pulling away, and ruffling his hair. It was his turn to look shocked, and a blush started rising to his face yet again. 

"O-Of course! Who wouldn't lik-like the great Mammon?" He stuttered out, looking away, face tomato red. 

"Now then, with that misunderstanding set straight, your lips look rather lonely... would they like to meet mine?" You smiled at him with a slight blush of your own colouring your cheeks.

[fairestcat]

We Did The Thing: Musings On the AO3, Wiscon, and Winning the Fandom Culture Wars

HOLY SHIT WE WON A MOTHERFUCKING HUGO.

Ahem.

More seriously - or at least more verbosely - I think we won the fandom culture wars. How weird is that?

This is a sort of rambly post. It's about the OTW and the AO3, but it's also about Wiscon, because that's the community I'm in where old-school SFF fandom and transformative works fandom collide, and it's where I've watched this transformation happen over the last decade.

Back in October I made a tumblr post about the history of the OTW/AO3: On the AO3 all these years later.

That post is mostly just quotes from the comments to @astolat's original post that started the AO3: An Archive Of One's Own - and quotes from the post I made back then linking to hers:  An Archive of One's Own, Or: Why Shouldn't We Ask For Everything We Want?

Those posts are from May 2007. I was on the OTW Finance Committee by that fall.

One year later, in May 2008, I went to my first Wiscon. I was on two panels: "Fanfic and Slash 201," and "Fanfic Rising: The Organization for Transformative Works."

They were back to back on Saturday night. "Fanfic and Slash 201" from 9:00 to 10:15 and the OTW panel from 10:30 to 11:45. All fanworks panels at non fanworks-specific cons were late night panels back then. Or, occasionally, on Monday morning after half the con had gone home.

I don't remember who else was on the Fanfic 201 panel, but the OTW panel was me, @oliviacirce and ellen_fremedon. The three of us had never met before that con. @oliviacirce and I had been in Chicago Friday night for a Panic! At the Disco concert and hadn't gotten back to Madison until 3am. I have no idea how we were even still coherent for a 10:30 PM panel.

None of us wrote the panel description, which reads even more impressively antagonistic in retrospect.

"The Organization for Transformative Works (OTW), led by fanfic writers, fan vidders, and fan artists (including writer Naomi Novik) seeks to establish a new regime in copyright law, in which 'all fannish works are recognized as legal and transformative and are accepted as a legitimate creative activity.' Should there be an exception for fanfic under copyright? Is OTW a good idea? (Some fans are afraid that OTW's activities will end BigMedia's tolerance for fannish creations.) What does the law say? What's the viewpoint of those who create original works -- should authors lose control of their original creations, as long as fans claim protection under a fanfic exception? And what about OTW's commitment to offer protection for RPF (Real People Fanfic)?"

At the time I would have said it was a pretty good panel, and yet we spent a distressing percentage of the panel defending the mere right of fanworks to even exist.

I went back to Wiscon in 2009, which was an...eventful year. It was the first Wiscon post-Racefail and it sparked a lot of discussion of intersecting modes of fannishness and particularly online fandom vs. offline con-based fandom, which was at the time a much bigger divide.

Wiscon 2009 was also the year @ellen_fremedon went to a panel on historical fiction, and got jumped on by Ellen Klages, who was one of that year's Guests of Honor, for the sin of mentioning fanfic in her presence.

After that Wiscon I posted Wiscon, Media Fandom and The Larger Fannish Conversation, about my experience of that divide, particularly as a transformative works fan at Wiscon.

Here's the thing: online media and fanfic fandom is a vibrant, active community within broader SF fandom. [...] And to a large extent media fandom is where the young female fans are, the women who are the future of fandom. We're there at Wiscon too; I was amazed by the number of people from LJ fandom I saw at the con this year. And yet, when it comes to having a voice in larger fandom, we're still the embarrassing cousin shuffled off into the corner (or the hotel lobby). Even at Wiscon, the feminist science fiction convention, we're mostly under the radar, carving out a tiny niche for ourselves.

Last year we had two general, broad-topic fanfic panels. This year we had a fanfic panel, a vidding panel and the media vs. book fandom panel, which was not explicitly a media fandom panel but had an audience heavily weighted towards media fandom participants. And I walked into those panels and I thought "Here! Here are my people!" But it was frustrating too. Why are we relegated to the corner, why are we willing to be relegated to the corner? The conversations we're having, the things we're doing, they don't exist in a vacuum, they're relevant to the larger fannish conversation, they're especially relevant, I think, to the conversation going on at Wiscon. And I think it's time we were a bigger, more open part of that conversation.

So, we set out to make that happen. The OTW and the AO3 were a big part of that. Everyone who was worried at the time that the OTW would bring too much attention to fandom was right to be afraid. And wrong to be afraid too. Because that attention was how everything started to change. The OTW was fandom coming out of the closet, and like any coming out it was a powerful, transformative moment for those involved.

In 2010, a group of fans held the first ever Wiscon Vid Party. 

At Wiscon in 2010, we held the first ever vid party in one of these hospitality suites on the Saturday night, from 9pm to 3am. That's six hours of vid programming! It was mostly unthemed, other than "here are some amazing vids!"[...] The general vibe of the party was loud, a little bit raucous, and pretty informal. We had a mixture of sofas and armchairs, stackable seating, and standing room. People came and went at will. We put a sign on the door asking people to keep conversations to a minimum, and it worked pretty well to keep chatter down while still allowing people to relax and have a good time. It was pretty much like a really big living room.

I missed that con due to the whole move to Canada and get married thing I did, but I remember my first Vid Party in 2012, looking around the party room and having this amazing feeling of being surrounded by my people.

I loved Wiscon, but it was always a fraught experience. There was always this worry that I'd say the wrong thing in the wrong place and suddenly get that disappointed, "oh, you're one of those fans," response. The vid party was the one place at the con that you could just walk in and that worry went away.

And then there started being more of those places. We started suggesting more and more fic and vid related panels.

In 2012, @oliviacirce and I were both on two transformative works panels. "What makes a great transformative work?" and "Fans Fix SF." In a step up from previous fanworks panels at Wiscon they were both during the day. But they were also both in the smallest panel rooms at the con, and both panels fit comfortably into those rooms. Conference 5, where "Fans Fix SF" was held, is still the only room Wiscon uses for programming that's so small it isn't wired for microphones.

And then in 2013 I suggested ten panels for Wiscon and nine of them ended up on the schedule. They weren't all explicitly transformative fandom panels, but a lot of them were, and most of the panel descriptions were informed by my experience in transformative works fandom. Looking back, that was a sea-change moment, because an interesting thing happened. There mostly stopped being transformative fandom-specific panels at Wiscon, because it started being okay, even expected, that fanfic and other transformative works might come up on any panel, from the audience or the panelists.

At Wiscon 2018, I went to a panel on #OwnVoices fiction. Every panelist was a published author and/or professional editor. In the course of the panel, every panelist mentioned fanfic in general or the AO3 in specific in an explicitly complementary fashion. I nearly burst into tears in the back of the panel room.

Afterwards, I met up with @oliviacirce and ellen_fremedon to flail about it, at which point we realized that it had been ten years since that first fateful OTW panel where we all met. And that ten years both felt like so long ago, and also so recent for everything to have changed so completely.

At Wiscon 2019, the three of us were on another panel together. We called it "Fanfic: Threat or Menace - Ten Years Later," and this time I wrote the description:

Do you remember a time before the AO3? Do you remember a time when mentioning fanfic at Wiscon risked a lecture on its illegality and/or immorality? We sure do! In 2008 we met on the panel “Fanfic Rising: The Organization for Transformative Works,” & spent most of our time defending the right of fanworks to exist. In 2018 we were amazed to realize just how much had changed. Let’s talk about how the perception & reception of fanworks have changed, both in fandom at large and right here at Wiscon.

We made it onto the schedule. They once again put us in the smallest panel room. We looked around the lobby on Thursday night and said, "yeah, that ain't happening." We eventually moved to one of the largest panel rooms.

It was almost completely full.

I started the panel by reading out the original panel description from 2008. There was laughter! revolutionaryjo came up afterwards and asked to take a picture of the description on my phone. There were so many people in that room who had no idea what the Wiscon of a decade previous had been like. It was amazing.

Best Related Work? The OTW and AO3 changed the nature of the relationship between fic readers and writers and the entirety of mainstream organized SFF fandom.

The Wiscon Vid Party is still happening, and it's still a marathon of amazing vids, but it's not a really big living room anymore. The Vid Party is the Friday night feature in the biggest panel room. There are Premieres. There’s a sing-a-long. People come who have never watched a vid outside of Wiscon. People come who've never even heard of vids outside of Wiscon. The first year the Vid Party was in the big room, I walked into the room just before the show started, looked around, and realized I didn't recognize ⅔ of the people in the room. And I was so happy. Because I no longer need the Vid Party as a safe space to let down my guard, the entire con is now that place.

We did that. We made that happen.

The OTW made that happen. The AO3 made that happen. But also, a whole lot of individual fans made that happen. We stepped out of our corner, we stepped out of our closet. We demanded a seat at the table. And now we have a motherfucking HUGO AWARD, and when Naomi Novik got on stage at the Hugos and asked everyone who felt that they were part of the AO3 to stand up to be acknowledged, a notable number of this year's other Hugo nominees were among the attendees who got to their feet.

[outlaws-of-anarchy]

Home Again (Chapter 1)

Pairings: Juice Ortiz x Reader

Warnings: Premature birth, angst, worry, sad Juice

Words: 1600

7 months & 3 ½ weeks

Weeks and months went by in a slow, agonizing fashion for Juice. The moment he left Y/N and their unborn child; he knew he was making a mistake. He could feel it deep in his gut, but he was trying to be selfless, he was just trying to make sure that his child would have the best chance at growing up without the hassle of having an outlaw as a father.

Yet, the world didn’t work that way and he felt disgusted with himself. How could he go and become like his old man? He had vowed years ago he would never do that, abandon his child, but he had done it, and done so, easily. The kid was lucky he wasn’t around, because he was sure he would screw up its life.  

Oil-stained hands began wrenching at a part beneath the hood of Teller-Morrow's newest client’s car. Juice had kept himself busy by constantly working, or stressing himself out with club business, and there was always business to be handled. He had to keep his mind off what he had done or it would eat him up more than it already had.

He would be lying if he said that he didn’t miss Y/N, or that he didn’t have the urge to be a father and to meet his child. But he knew what he had done was the best option, he wanted his son or daughter to have the chances at life that he never had. He wanted better, even if it hurt him and Y/N.  

Little did he know, he was already thinking like a father. He had put his child’s life ahead of himself, because in a perfect world, him and Y/N would be married in a quaint house with their son or daughter running around safely. But he didn’t live in a perfect world, he lived in a world of anarchy.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬  

Lean, muscular legs carried him towards the clubhouse while he idly wiped the remnants of dirt and oil off his hands. Brown eyes caught onto the figures of Tig and Chibs who were speaking in a hushed, secretive manner. As soon as they caught sight of him, they stopped speaking and stepped away from each other slightly. Thick, dark brows drew inwardly in a questionable stance, wondering what the hell they were talking about.

“What’s going on brothers?” Juice asked.

Tig looked hesitant, slyly glancing in the direction of Chibs, almost as awaiting some sort approval.

The looks the two were exchanging didn’t sit well with Juice, in fact it made his stomach churn uncomfortably. A quick, relentless heat crept up his spine, causing his anxiety to spike.  

“Go ahead Tigger.” Chibs spoke.

Tig felt as if the spot light was on him, and it probably was for good reason. He had news, news that would interest Juice, hell, it even caught him by surprise.

“We made a quick run up to Tacoma and on our way back we stopped in Modesto. We found Y/N.” Tig said cautiously, almost expecting the young Son to have some sort of melt down.

Juice stood there, blinking, unable to form any coherent sentences. Y/N was in Modesto now? He knew she had moved, but he didn’t think it was so close. He thought for sure she would have moved out of the state after what he had done. Yet, there she was, living in Modesto, still so close to him.  

“Is she still pregnant?” Juice asked.

Tig nodded quickly. “Sure is, almost ready to pop. None of us approached her, we left her alone. We didn’t want to trudge up old shit, especially with her being pregnant, but she seems happy, safe too. So, it looks like your plan worked out Juicey.”  

A hand clasped over the young Puerto Rican's shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Yet, Juice didn’t feel all that reassured, in fact he felt sick. He felt like his heart and had been ripped clean out of his chest. But what Tig said was true, his plan did work out. Y/N was safe, happy, and pregnant and away from him and that’s all he could really ask for.

Yet, why did he feel like he needed to go and see her and beg to be taken back?

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Later that night, the clubhouse was humming with life. Men and women of a wide variety were either high or drunk. The conversation earlier between Tig and Juice had left him confused and yearning for something he was sure he couldn’t have. He had busied himself with one of the familiar sweet-butts, at least then he could block out the image of Y/N’s face.  

It was an array of kissing, touching, and pleasing that lasted for a while. If he was being truthful, the thought of his ex and the baby never once popped into his head during that time. He was too enveloped by the woman who knew how to bring his orgasm to a roaring finale.  

Yet, when it was all over and done with, he was left in bed once again, alone. The sweet-butts knew their roles and played them well. It was no surprise that once she was done with Juice, she was crawling out of bed and dressing before dipping out of the dorm’s front door.  

A white sheet was sprawled over his waist, concealing his nakedness efficiently. His arms were propped beneath his head as he stared blankly at the ceiling. It was at that point that images of Y/N had begun to swarm around in his head, making him home sick not for a place, but for a person he had left behind.  

She was the most beautiful person he had ever met, and despite the trials of life, she had remained optimistic. She could easily change the energy in a room with a simple smile. Y/N knew no bounds and always pushed herself to be better each day, something he admired. Unlike her, he didn’t expect much out of himself, the person he was now, was the person he would always be. And maybe that was the problem. He didn’t allow room for growth; he had stunted himself from trauma instead of pushing past it.  

But not Y/N, she was imperfectly perfect. She was the love of his life, and he fucked it all up. Which was his typical MO. Messing up things up so badly that they could never be fixed.  

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The sudden chorus from his cell phone snapped him out of his daze, eyes darting over to the bed side table where he grappled at the phone. He glanced curiously at the caller ID, realizing he didn’t recognize the number that was lit up across the screen.

Nonetheless, he pressed accept and brought the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hi this is Dr. Sora calling from Sutter Health Memorial Medical Health Center in Modesto, is this Mr. Ortiz?” A woman’s voice said from the other end.

Forcing himself into a seated position, Juice would clear his throat before responding. “Yeah, this is he. What’s going on?”

For a brief moment, Juice had thought one of the brother’s had been held up in Modesto, and he wasn’t as concerned.

“Hello Mr. Ortiz, I am Y/F/N & Y/L/N’s OBGYN. Y/N was rushed to the hospital a few hours ago due to complications with her pregnancy. She went into preterm labor and coded twice on the operation table. The baby is healthy but is under strict supervision. However, due to a hemorrhage found within Y/N, and the fact that she has coded more than once, we needed to call you. You are the father correct?” The doctor asked.

Once Y/N was mentioned, Juice felt the rush of adrenaline shoot throughout his veins. He took immediate action and jumped to his feet, quickly scrambling to put on his clothes. Tig had just seen her earlier in the day and now all of a sudden, she was possibly dying at the hospital. When the doctor asked if he was the father, he froze.

“Yeah, I’m the father. How did you get my number?” He asked, beginning to slide on his boots.

“You were listed as her emergency contact and the father of the child in Y/N’s chart. I know this is all very sudden, but you do need to come down to the hospital to claim the child in case of the unknown.” Dr. Sora said calmly.  

How the fuck was she being so calm? He felt sick, nauseated to the point that he just wanted to pass out. Running a hand over his tattooed skull, he would explain softly. “We split up, I wasn’t aware that I was in her chart, but yeah. I’ll be right there. Thank you.” He said before hanging up.

Tossing his phone into his back pocket, he would grab his kutte before sliding it on with ease. He stormed out of his dorm, dipping in between the crowds of people, trying to make a bee line for the front of the club house.

“Juicey boy what’s goin on?” Chibs said, but was ignored by the impatient outlaw.

Swinging open the door of the club house, he would shuffle for the tow truck keys in the front of his jeans. Once he got them out, he jogged the remainder of the way to the truck before getting in and starting up the vehicle.

“Don’t you die on me Y/N.” He whispered, pain engulfing what was left of his heart.

Tag List: @kchavez666​

[windingdrabble]

Sonic has never cared much for movies. Nothing against them or anything--- it’s just that if he’s going to stay still for two hours, he prefers to do it in the comfort of a field of flowers and chirping birds. And if he wants to experience a story, he can read instead, out in said field. Bernie made real sure that habit stuck for life. Even as a kid, he was never too invested. The flowers were still more interesting to him back then. As for Ruby, while Sonic doesn’t know if he was a film fanatic before going blind, he doesn’t suspect him of as much. After all, Ruby was only upset about being unable to read, and never voiced any grievances over not being able to see a TV screen ever again. No harm no foul, it’s look like.

So it’s a little ironic that half of their time spent around the house involves having the TV in the background.

None of them like the quiet, so radio silence isn’t an option. Music is an alternative and what usually fills up the rest of their quiet nights, but more often than not, there’s something on the TV when they're laying on the couch. They talk to eachother more than anything, only tuning in when the film demands it or when something funny interrupts them, at which point Ruby will pretend to narrate what comes next. Like a weird sort of radio drama (his dad liked those, to have them in the background while he worked in the garden), Ruby will add sound effects where he sees fit, and try to guess what’s going on in the scene he can’t quite grasp, both by virtue of being blind and by not paying attention. It’s like a backup sort of thing, in case the conversation peeters out but they still want to say something, still want an excuse to keep it going, and in case there’s some sort of unspoken tension that needs to be broken. It’s there, in the background, if they need it, and easy t ignore if all they need is something to block out the uneasiness of a too-quiet living room. 

Still, Sonic would have appreciated if Ruby hadn’t chosen a telenovela, of all things. He fights what he knows is a losing battle against the executive decision, but Ruby’s smirk tells him he’s very aware of the opposition and was looking for it, because he’s terrible. Terrible or not, and huffy or not, Sonic settled into the couch, and let Ruby lean against his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around him. Not like he was going to pay attention to whatever was going on, anyway. 

Their conversation starts before the recording itself. Luckily for Sonic, it’s been a few weeks since they’ve seen eachother, so their topics are plentiful and way more engrossing than whatever Gabriella and Lucas and their nonsensical love triangle had to say-- and he only knows their names because Ruby interjects with occasional jokes about them. It’s easier to tune out the movie beyond its purpose to fill the empty background noise when Sonic settles into the groove of talking with Ruby in English, and his brain starts to be unable to immediately translate Spanish into anything coherent. As their conversation and the film goes on, more of Ruby’s weight falls on Sonic, who leans back against the arm of the couch, bit by bit. Ruby has to lean down more than Sonic does when leaning against the latter’s shoulder-- it’s easier to just lay back on the couch together than sit up against eachother. It does wonders for refocusing his attention, too. Habitually, his hand finds Ruby’s quills to brush through, and his opposite arm loosely lays across Ruby’s shoulders. Ruby’s head on his chest and how calm his voice is when he fills in Sonic on the cat he got out of a tree is all he cares to pay attention to. Sonic can’t tell if Ruby slowly inching closer to him is an unconscious thing or not, but he doesn’t mind the excuse to move around a little bit to let Ruby lay more comfortably. He doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten until Ruby’s breath flutters over his neck, and then, all at once, he has to put effort into not letting his quills bristle.

“What are ya’ doing?”

“Hm?” Ruby hums, in a sickeningly sweet ‘oh, I’ve done nothing wrong ever in my whole life’ kind of tone. “Watching a movie. Why do you ask?”

“You know ‘at’s not what I meant,” Sonic huffs, trying to keep his tone from bleeding into being flustered. He can almost feel Ruby’s smirk as she shifts against him, and almost jumps at the feel of his arms snaking around Sonic’s back. 

“Then what did you mean, pray tell?”

“‘Pray tell,’” Sonic parrots, laughing and trying to ignore the fact it comes out nervous and high-pitched. “Y’er kidding me.”

“No, that is your job,” comes the response,, and Sonic can almost spell it all out just by how close Ruby is to his neck. He can feel the letters come together from the feeling of it dancing along his collarbone, can feel the teasing air of it, can almost feel Ruby’s mischief as if it’s his own-- if there was enough space in his chest for it. His heart speeds up in there, swells with the soft puffs of air and doesn’t deflate, just keeps growing because Ruby just keeps inching closer and Sonic wriggles in his grasp.

“You are not doing this while /that/ is playing,” Sonic breathes out as a disbelieving and embarrassed laugh. 

“Would you complain if I was?”

“I did complain about y’er choice in filmography,” Sonic huffs, looking away to save some face, despite the fact his cheeks are burning. “You just don’t--”

Sonic is observant-- he has to be, to cut it in his line of work. His sense are sharp, and his gut is (usually) pretty reliable, but Ruby has a way of worming past all those years of experience, all those defenses. He settles gently against Sonic, his chest fur warm and soft and his laugh right up against Sonic’s neck, and arguments unceremoniously tumble out of Sonic who tries to pretend like this isn’t flustering him, but the moment Ruby presses a kiss to his neck to go with that laugh Sonic is all sunshine and giddyness and putty where he lays.

“I do not what?” Ruby asks inbetween peppering affection.

“Y’ don’t--” he tries, he really does try, but his reply peeters out and melts into a purr despite his attempts to fight it. “‘At’s-- cheatin’, ‘at’s cheatin’--”

The humm reverberates in Ruby’s chest and spreads to Sonic, who feels his quills bush out for a moment while the rest of him sinks further and further into Ruby’s arms and the cushions of the couch. 

“What is? You are going to have to speak up, love, I cannot understand you.”

In typical Sonic fashion, he keeps fighting what looks (and is) like a losing fight, tries to get out an insult or a quip or anything more dignified, but Ruby keeps nuzzling and kissing and laughing against his neck and Sonic can feel his tail wag and his heart grow at the gesture. When a few well placed kisses get him to squeak, Ruby stops, but Sonic is too busy trying to recover to pull away or glare at him (neither of which he earnestly wants to do).

“I did not know you could do that,” Ruby laughs, louder than his usual chuckles, and through the overwhelming fondness and affection Sonic smiles, despite himself, because it’s so unfiltered. Because it’s clear and carefree and he wants to hear Ruby legitimately happy more often-- every day, if possible. Wants to see him smile like he’s finally managed to get rid of all the weight in his heart.

So despite his embarrassment, and how clear it is on his face, Sonic merely grumbles, and pretends it doesn’t sound soft and fond. Pretends he doesn’t like it when Ruby goes back to seek out more squeaks.

[mst3kproject]

Psychomania

MST3K featured some British movies; they had a couple of zombie movies; and they did way too many biker movies.  So here is a British zombie biker movie, because of course that exists.  I don’t think anybody in it was ever on MST3K except for Rocky Taylor, who was an extra in Gorgo, but director Don Sharp did make a couple of Fu Manchu movies and you know my stance on those.  And if you’re interested, the butler is George Sanders, who sounds familiar because he was the voice of Shere Khan in the original Jungle Book.

The Living Dead are a biker gang I just cannot take seriously, mostly because their helmets look so much like something Kinga’s Boneheads would wear.  Leader Tom is obsessed by the idea of becoming one of the undead.  He’s pretty sure his mother – a psychic who holds seances in her incredibly mod dining room – and her ageless butler know something about it, and tricks them into revealing the secret.  The next day he commits suicide, but he’s back soon after, encouraging his friends to join him in zombiehood.  One by one they off themselves in spectacular fashion, but Tom’s girlfriend Abby wakes up in the hospital instead of the morgue, and realizes this is madness.  How can she take on an entire zombie biker gang all by herself, though?

Spoiler time: she can’t.  Tom’s mom casts a spell that turns them all to stone, Abby has a nervous breakdown, and I guess the butler was the devil the whole time.  It sucks.

Weirdly, I’m one of the few people who seems to think so.  This movie has an eighty percent on Rotten Tomatoes and has been described with words like ‘effective’ and ‘tightly-knit’.  I have no idea what drugs the people who said that were on, because it is definitely neither of those.  As crummy movies go it’s pretty coherent and you do care about Abby, who is the nearest thing to a heroine (although Tom is closer to being a POV character), but the plot is dumb and the zombies are about the least interesting undead I’ve ever seen in a movie.

I’m gonna keep calling the revenant bikers ‘zombies’ but they don’t rot or eat brains, so it’s mostly for lack of a better word.  You’d think being undead would come with both powers and drawbacks, but this seems to involve neither.  They can’t die, and they may or may not have super-strength (I can’t tell), but other than that they’re exactly the same as they were when alive.  Undead bikers walk into churches and wander around in broad daylight with no problem.  They can apparently still eat and drink, although I guess they don’t have to. They’re not even cold to the touch… in fact, when Abby pretends for a while to be a zombie, it turns out even they can’t tell the difference between the living and the undead!

Tom’s mom is delighted to see him back from the dead but when the others start joining him she freaks out, saying it’s evil. I think it was okay when he did it because he had a magic toad amulet to protect him and his friends didn’t, but exactly what the difference is and what it means for them, we’re never told.  If they’ve lost their souls or whatever, we don’t hear about it.  They don’t seem to be any more callous assholes than they were when they were alive. Nor do we learn anything about the locked room where Tom’s father died, even though it sounds like it’s gonna be a big plot point.  There’s a flashback in which Tom’s mother sells him to the devil but that doesn’t seem to relate to anything much.

Based on the setup, I figured Abby would eventually go to Tom’s mother for help and the two of them would defy the satanic butler end the zombies’ reign of terror together, but no.  Instead, the Mom’s getting off her ass to do something about the situation is prompted by Tom’s decision to murder all the police officers and teachers in the country, and it’s the butler who helps her with what she does… which makes no sense after it’s been repeatedly implied that he’s the devil!  The ending we get is one in which Abby’s life is saved by mere coincidence, and it feels like a cop-out.

Toads are a motif of sorts in the movie. There’s the toad amulet Tom carries for protection, and the satanic butler wears a toad ring.  There’s also a toad that Tom catches at the beginning and that the butler seems to keep as a pet until Tom’s mom uses it in her dark ritual at the end, when she turns into a toad as a punishment for breaking her pact with the devil.  It’s obvious that toads are supposed to be connected with evil, but exactly how the symbolism works here is never clear.  I kept wondering if the explanations were cut to fit the time slot… but then I remind myself that this wasn’t actually on MST3K.

I’m equally confused about what we’re supposed to think of the bikers.  The only time we really see them out of their leather jackets and bonehead helmets is when they’re holding their own funeral for Tom – and it’s a pretty hippy-dippy funeral for a bunch of death metal bikers, too.  They all wear bright colours and make flower wreaths to throw into the grave, which doesn’t exactly make them seem like murderous psychopaths. Tom’s the only one who has any prior interest in suicide, and it seems odd that they’d all just hop to killing themselves when they know there’s a chance they won’t have enough ‘faith’ to rise again.  None of them regret it.  I guess why would they, when the difference between ‘alive’ and ‘dead’ is minimal.

Some of the badass bikers go by have nicknames like Hatchet, Gash, and Hinky.  The others use their own names, like Tom, Abby, and Bertram.  Yep, Bertram.

The very concept of zombie bikers is one that seems to call for excess, for wild stunts and body parts strewn across the screen, for dark rituals or people losing arms in accidents and then just stapling them back on.  There is absolutely none of that in Psychomania, and it’s weirdly indecisive about the violence it does show. There’s a scene where Tom begins to strangle a barfly, and the bit where a truck rolls down a hill and explodes in a huge fireball, but actual deaths are kept tastefully offscreen (there is a pretty neat shot in which three murders are hidden by a pan around the room, but it stands out as a ‘neat shot’ rather than a storytelling device) and I don’t think I saw a drop of blood or heard a single swear word in the entire movie. Although there was a scene in which one of the bikers pulls up and parks next to a ‘no parking’ sign.

Almost the entire movie is shot outdoors on sunny days, in bright 60’s technicolour, which has killed the mood of many a horror movie of this vintage.  Tom even emerges from his grave in broad daylight, where any self-respecting undead abomination would surely wait for nightfall!  Also, oddly, it seems to take Tom way longer to resurrect than it did his friends.  They woke up in the morgue, before their autopsies even began, while he had time for a whole funeral.  Is there a reason for this?  I have no idea.

I have to admit, there’s some fairly nice choreography (car-eography?) in some of the scenes where the bikers disrupt traffic. There’s also a pretty cool use of mirrors while Tom explores the locked room, although as I mentioned, that’s rendered ultimately pointless.  The hallucination Abby has after her overdose is okay, too – it presents on the one hand the potential eternity with the man she loves, and on the other the horror she will visit upon her family through her suicide, and it’s quite a bit clearer about that than just about anything else in the movie.

The fact that Abby chooses an overdose as her way to die is telling.  The others all choose far more spectacular methods: motorcycle crashes, leaping out a window or off a bridge, drowning in a river.  These are all events that will definitely kill or maim, things there are no turning back from, while an overdose can be treated with minimal ill effects if it’s caught in time.  This goes with what she tells Tom later – she doesn’t really want to die.  She wants to be saved, and so she is (although who found her and got her to the hospital is another thing we never find out).

I guess this is a movie about the romanticization of suicide.  Tom wants to make a suicide pact with Abby so that they can be together forever, and the song performed at his funeral is all about how death is better than being a law-abiding member of society!  Unfortunately, there’s only the most minimal attempt to deal with a suicide’s effect on loved ones, and besides Tom, none of them seem to bother contacting anybody else they knew while alive.  The story does make the point, with Abby’s reluctance, that suffering is temporary but suicide is forever, yet the lack of consequences or limitations on the zombies means there’s no real force behind it.  Free spirited types are known to describe others as ‘zombies’, and inverting this into them being literal zombies could have been cool, but it wasn’t.  The whole movie feels like everybody was too shy to take it far enough.

As a final note, I am obsessed with the set design in Tom’s mother’s house, which is the only thing here that really counts as outrageous.  She’s got one wall painted with a nebula and another with a giant geometric fish.  The latter looks like something you find in bits at the Goodwill and buy even though you have nowhere to put it, and it steals every shot it’s in.  I want to knit a sweater with it as a motif.  Hands-down, the best thing in the whole movie.

[5hining-aus]

For the WIP game, here are a few words (you don’t have to chose any or all of them): Best Ghost Eye Choice Huh Can Pokémon (submitted by my 7 year old-lol 😂)

Thank you for sending words in❤️ This got a bit long, so I decided to put it under a cut

Best

“Jonghyun, Jinki, I understand your reservations, believe me I do, but I truly believe that this is the best course of action right now.”

“Don’t speak to anybody, nobody here knows who we are and it will be best to keep it that way,”

None for Ghost 

Eye

Before anybody could say anything more, Key’s eyes darted past J/P/N and landed on you, causing his entire demeanor to soften.

What’s going on? Where am I? Who’s talking? Why do my eyes feel so heavy?

You couldn’t even open your eyes, let alone ask coherent questions, answers could wait.

His hair was in disarray, his clothes were disheveled, and his eyes appeared red-rimmed and puffy.

Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a second, I’m sure that will help.

Your eyes started to slowly drift closed.

“Y/N, don’t close your eyes!"

You shifted your gaze over to Jonghyun and Minho, subtly getting their attention before darting your eyes and nodding towards the King, and then towards the barrier.

Kibum looked away from where he was fending off Jonghyun and Minho to meet your eyes.

The only parts of his body that were moving were his eyes, which were darting around frantically and seemed to be holding a plethora of different emotions.

“Y/N, do you want me?” Kibum asked, his chest heaving and eyes wild with desire.

You had to tear your eyes away from his, lest he see how reluctant your words were.

You looked him directly in the eyes as you spoke.

“That the eyes on all of these portraits seem to follow you wherever you go in this hall? Because I know, it’s unnerving, isn't it?”

“Please, Y/N, close your eyes.”

Ultimately, you were victorious, though you almost instantly regretted putting his hood down since, mere moments after doing so, an older woman who had been sitting near the two of you became wide-eyed and developed a shocked look on her face.

“I am only going to say this once so listen and listen well,” Jonghyun stated, his voice steely and his eyes fiery.

“I am most definitely thinking about slitting someone's throat right now, but I assure you it isn’t hers,” Key stated, locking eyes with Jonghyun, who visibly bristled.

Choice

So, with really no other choice, you began dashing in the opposite direction.

Before you could begin to defend your fashion choices, a new voice cut in.

No, but what other choice is there?

Huh

“Moving in with Jonghyun must’ve come with a bit of a shock then, huh,”

Huh?

Can (I also included "can't" and "cannot" because why not)

“You know, Y/N? I’m really glad we were able to do this. I don’t have many other girl friends I can hang out with.”

“Is there any way you two can bring this inside? My neighbours are starting to stare,”

The room was silent once more but, luckily, it was less of an “I want to murder you” silence and more of a “there’s nothing else I can think of to say right now” silence.

“I can think of worse ways to reunite. Besides, I was looking for you.”

“Y/N, Y/N, can you hear me?”

“Y/N, if you don’t want this then just say the word and I’ll leave. We can pretend like this never happened.”

“What do you think, Jinki? We can’t just leave her here.”

“You’re right,” one of the strange voices began. “We can’t just leave her here, we’ll take her back to camp where it’s safe and we’ll figure out what to do from there.”

“Dahee, he’s my cousin’s widower. I can’t...” (MIGHT TRY TO REWORD THIS, IDK)

I can’t risk conjuring a light, not if there’s still a chance I’m being followed.

Now focus. I can’t make any mistakes. Don’t want to hurt him

“Stay with me for a bit longer, we can rejoin the world later.”

“The horses need to rest, Key. They can’t keep going forever. I’m sure this town has an inn, we can spend the night there and continue on once the sun rises.”

“Joke all you want, but I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for Y/N. She’s done things for me that I can only dream of repaying her for. Perhaps she’ll do the same for you. I just hope you deserve it if she does.”

“As the Captain of your Guard, I cannot agree to this in good conscience. And as your friend, I beg you to reconsider.”

“Key, I cannot and will not be held accountable for Jonghyun’s actions towards you if provoked.”

“I will see what I can do,”

At this point, I’ll take what I can get. Please don’t let this be a mistake.

So, not to alarm you, but I think your child may be a mind reader or something, because I've literally had the beginnings of a Pokémon AU sitting in my WIP folder since November and I just haven't been able to figure out what to do with it. The AU's in point form, but I figured I'd include it here anywayPokémon

Hmm, I think he’d be some sort of a Pokémon Doctor

Blissey - Jinki’s first Pokémon. He raised her from an Egg and now she assists him with his Doctor duties

I see him as a Pokémon Breeder, raising and caring for Pokemon so they can be the very best

He’s cared for a lot of Pokémon over the years, but his constant companions are:

Charizard - His starter, the first Pokémon Jonghyun ever raised

I think Kibu could be a very good Pokémon Stylist

Most of Key’s Pokémon live as pets. Needless to say, his house is quite full:

Furfrou x2 (Comme Des and Garcons) - His two main Pokémon and, in the case of Comme Des, his first Pokémon.

I see him as a Pokémon Trainer who retired after winning his region’s League Championship

Hmm, I think he’d be a Pokémon Coordinator

Furfrou x2 (Adam and Eve) - These two have been with Taemin the longest out of any of his Pokémon.

[dance-with-the-devill-blog1]

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[queernuck]

The Desiring of Desire

The fundamental problem with radical theorists who reject the potential of postmodernity as a site of radical inquiry, who reject trans women as subjects due to biological essentialism, is the incongruity with which their rejection resonates given the larger acceptance of certain postmodern precepts into their discourses on gendered bodies, the demarcation of sex as a flow of knowledges violently imposed upon the body, the sexuality of colonialism and the sexual politics of decolonization, and how these relate to the profoundly complex structures of desire that encompass specific becomings vital to radical feminist thought (becoming-lesbian perhaps the most central) leads one to a conclusion that radical feminism undoes itself in the same fashion as numerous other political and philosophical standpoints: attempting to disallow an infinite return, a new structure of signification out-of-or-beside itself of-itself, the kind of ironic mirroring necessary to contend with structures of late capitalist meaning-making. Desire and the structuring thereof, the process whereby one enters into becoming-desirable, that through which one’s desirability is marked and understood, is not simply held in the violent, patriarchal standards that radical feminists rightfully condemn. Desire is not only shaped by the pornographic, but by the antipornographic, by condemning porn as an aberration, unnatural, unhealthy. The inability of fetish to stand as genuine desire, rather than as always-already morally degenerate, involves a kind of uncritical gaze upon sexuality which upholds this concept of degeneracy in desire that is not terribly helpful beyond its most basic invocations, and even then only becomes of use due to its opening of wider demarcations of the fetish, the fetishized, the fetish-object, and the sexual interplay of these determinations. Lesbians being understood as sexual, as sexual in ways that are unacceptable, as desiring and loving and indeed fucking is important because it vitally affirms so much of what critiques drawn from radical feminist thought seek.

Perhaps a good beginning is to write of becoming-lesbian, then. While I have witnessed numerous moments that can be described as becoming-lesbian, have been party to lesbian identity and activity, performatively found myself in a certain linkage of affinity with various lesbians, I have never become a lesbian, and I doubt I ever quite will, although the affinity with which I view lesbian histories and communities gives a certain aspirational element to the notion. Perhaps a change of registration to political lesbian would be in order, if I felt it to be a necessary step for my own development of becoming-woman. Immediately, this points me out as fetishizing lesbians by some accounts, despite claiming this  only a passing aspect of a larger gay (and indeed in the theoretical sense of the word, queer) affinity, an influence and commonality with lesbian communities that specifically relies on a difference of identity found in my own bisexual trans womanhood and the respective genealogies of these identities. The simple answer as to why I would simply admire lesbian identity is that lesbians have stood as part of my community for so long, have been its most prominent activists on assemblages of gender, race, and sexuality with class and class consciousness for as long as such critiques have been offered, and are among the most astute observers of the means by which these structural critiques have given way to a kind of unknowing post-structuralist Oedipal cycle, whereby the critique forms a kind of lesbian oroboros consuming and violently reacting toward itself, a kind of snake eating and regurgitating itself violently all at once, choking on its own tail. 

Lesbianism as a specific sort of singularity, as a particular becoming, as a process, is often simply seen as another sort of coming out. However, to examine it critically, it involves certain molecular structures that vary wildly when realized alongside one another, specifically homosexuality and womanhood, ones that take on certain structures for trans women. The presence of homophobia is undoubtable as it is part of reflecting the larger structure of homosexuality and a phallogocentric ontology of sexual conduct that lesbianism emerges. While one can trace back homosexuality with relative ease, lesbian history, herstory, is far harder to come by due to the ways in which, absent any phallus one can occasionally construct a vision of a lesbian phallus but largely is left with roommates and lifelong friends. As a result, lesbianism is absent specifically because there is not a phallus to be inserted into the record. The invention of the lesbian phallus, a sort of specific structure that approximates the role of the phallus in heterosexual desire and its apparent absence, the specific Lacanian lack of a phallus results in the kinds of approximations necessary for discussing lesbian relationships in relief of a heterosexual history. These attempts are further complicated by the emergent properties of transmisogynist thought as a specific convergence of the two, homophobia and misogyny, resulting in a kind of schizophrenic affinity denied by many supposed-radical critiques, best understood as a specific flow of both homophobic and misogynist fantasies, a kind of pooling of these violent libidinal flows into a singular sort of violence from which many drink freely, from which many willingly quench their thirst for some sort of understanding as to the incoherence of womanhood in a world marked by hyperexploitation and the hyperreal limits of Virtual contact, Virtual affinities. The two converge specifically due to the means by which they reinforce and flow through one another, across a rhizomal structure of signification: homosexuality is signified by a kind of femininity, even in its most masculine realizations, due to the phallogocentrism of heteronormative concepts of gay sexuality. Similarly, transmisogyny draws upon the homophobic specifically because, as a trans woman’s body is observed, she most readily is expressed as a certain sort of woman, one who satisfies a certain fetishized location within womanhood but can only be approached after a kind of violent refusal of the homosexual, the knowing nod that comes with a structure like medical marijuana. One may participate, and is in fact expected to, in a certain fashion that at once denies the truth of its intentionality and makes this denial explicit through violent acts of language, even violent sexual acts or acts of assault.

The fundamental influence of misogyny upon colonialism, upon the resultant Deleuzean structure of future and past under capitalist eternity, how signifiers of colonial power resonate with the same frequency as previous structures of encounter, is part of what makes radical feminism a worthwhile point of critical inquiry. The fundamental nature of misogyny as a structure in radical feminism, a sort of post-marxist development that posits not class struggle but a struggle against misogyny as the central force of historical development, leads to a certain sort of critique which itself can be serviced toward enhancing one’s understanding of class, as part of critiquing the means by which a fundamental determination of class structure lies outside the bounds of class in-itself, for-itself, as arbitrated by structures like gender. However, specific understandings of radical feminism, specifically trans-exclusionary ones, exclude trans women as fetishistic in themselves, as sublimating male desire into their womanhood. For TERFs, there is a fundamental, and perhaps intentional, misunderstanding of the structure of "desire" within the possible critique offered by discussing and forming a vaguely coherent politics of desirability specifically because it is based in a kind of ignorance regarding the subject of desire and the desiring-of-the-subject: there is a rabattement vital to desirability, that is, a desire-of-desire, a desire-to-be-desired. This results in a certain sort of account of the trans body which reclaims trans men as representing certain sorts of women (a kind of post-butch lesbian identity) while situating trans women as men with the same violent capacity but none of the projection of power, none of the same ability to manifest or direct flows of desire in the fashion a man may. Rightfully, a critique on or of desire, of acts associated with expressing desire, will eventually name these acts as largely sexual in a fashion that is roughly Oedipal; the approximation of certain structures of Oedipal affinity (taboos on incest, the killing of the father, the claiming of the mother) and how they relate to homosexuality (across boundaries of class, race, nation) in shorthand discourses of desire makes clear that the desire at hand in desirability politics is not desire as a certain flow that is fundamental to understanding any action, any intention, but rather an Oedipal flow and moreover a violent, Oedipalizing one, the kind of focusing of the subject that structures the pornographic gaze, that structures the sort of gaze that trans women most readily find themselves in. The commonality of this with lesbian experience, gay experience, the sort of pornographic becomings of first identities, the way in which it is out of a sort of sexual curiosity rather than a more innocent, apparently-genuine encounter that identity is first discovered (and thus sublimated into violent structures of encounter due to the violent aesthetics most common in pornogrpahy due to the hyperviolent environments of pornographic stimulation and repetition) that all of these find themselves, but it is perhaps in trans women that this process is most emphasized. Trans women are fetishized and overrepresented through fetish such that the only desire trans women may know is specifically that, as a sort of fetish, as part of a kind of ideation whereby they are not only primarily realized in the pornogrpahic, but entirley through it. Indeed, trans women want to be desired. Perhaps by men, but often by women, by other trans women, the kind of desire that resonates on a phenomenological level as recognition, rather than as an Other, an ontological possibility or an object of fetishized desire. Trans women want to be desired in a sense that is most directly related to other marginalized identities within communities of affinity: gay men and lesbians give us the vocabularies we describe ourselves with because we are, in some sense, embodying a certain Oedipal preemption of the homosexual prohibition. A man may engage with a trans woman as part of this, may desire a kind of homosexuality to the encounter as demonstrated by the phallogocentric tendencies of the transgender fantasy woman, the way in which a fantasized-about trans woman retains a certain sort of phallus. This phallus is vastly different from that possessed by many trans women, the trans lesbian phallus found in intercourse between trans women, the resignification of the phallus in the trans woman unchanged by the flows of hormone replacement therapy. Wishing for desirability is not privileging or celebrating these abuses, it is rather a statement on the profound abuses necessary to maintain flows of acceptable desire. Lesbians want desire, gay men want desire, this desire-of-desire is a kind of restructuring of vocabulary that recognizes certain sorts of violence for that which they are, that presents violent fetishization, Oedipal trauma repeated in the pedophilic, incestual, racialized, class-based, neurotic vocabularies that are implemented upon so many flows of desire, that form the basics of biopower, that form the ways in which subjects are acquainted with that which they may become, the molecularity of becoming as a series of processes. Coloniality and its contingent structures, the means by which coloniality manifests class and class develops out of it, capitalism as a development of feudalism that is not an ontic necessity but a kind of teleological development, a telos of capitalism due to the conflict of class, gender, race, the intertextual, schizophrenic, all-at-hand structure of history (or anti-history) itself shows the presence of transness as a sort of identity, as a structure of acquaintance with the body, and most importantly as a contemporary difference, a contemporary measure between sex and gender that develops out of violence and through violence, not as a reinforcement of it.

To blame trans women for a supposed structure of desire and pornographic acquaintance with a fetishized woman’s body, when trans women are themselves fetish-objects in so many senses, is either fundamentally reactionary or fundamentally dishonest.

[smallsisnotthrowingawayhershot]

The Cellar

[elizabethrobertajones]

Personally, I like bringing my woes to positive meta bloggers because they often give me a good explanation for something I previously thought was a plot hole, out of character, bad writing, etc. They often give me a new perspective on a plot point that helps me rethink my opinion and enjoy the show more. Sometimes I don't agree with them, and in that case, I just say I have a different opinion and move on. Sorry for the drama you're getting over this :/ I Love your positivity!

*hugs you the mostest* thank you

I’ve been thinking about what we’re even doing here and I think in the case of the plot holes or whatever it’s not like we’re a team of people with a bucket of caulk looking for the cracks, it’s that we have our own logic and read on everything, and as a group we generally come up with an explanation that makes sense on the first watch but only when we pool our resources. I took a week to watch 12x23 because I felt really sick, and once I was ready to chat about it, I answered something @mittensmorgul had thought was a plothole or couldn’t answer that whole time, really really easily, because I hadn’t devoted any special thought to it, I’d just made that as my first read on the episode and to me it never even presented itself as a plothole. And that’s Mittens, who usually has an answer and a good read on the show! Sometimes we just don’t see or understand something. I’ve offered that fix a few times since then, but it’s never been like “here’s a clever theory I came up with to bridge a huge hole” it’s just “this is the way it all made sense to me and never felt like a problem in the first place, if that helps.” 

And after episodes where there’s something I didn’t get, usually by the time I’ve read the squad’s watching notes, one or more of them will have come up with a hideously obvious first read that makes all the sense about why the thing happened, so by the time I’m answering questions about it or writing more complicated meta, I’ve read a dozen takes on the episode which add up to fill most gaps I had with a logical explanation. And I can just string together all the different reads to make one coherent picture. I suppose part of it is just having an open  mind to my own viewing as flawed, and being ready to find explanations from others first, and only if there’s a fairly unanimous take that something didn’t make sense that even when a fix is offered, you can say, this was pretty much a bad plot thing which didn’t work and no one got it, sorry.

On the other hand, asking us a question is a good way to make us stop, go, huh, I never even thought of that hole, and then start working to fix it or understand it. And once someone’s asking us and we’re putting thought to a very very specific thing, then we can start to puzzle out ways it could work or make sense. Because we’ve been sort of pointed at it, and with an ask to answer, we want to do an at least somewhat well-thought out reply.

At the end of the day if none of the meta you read is a good enough explanation you can go away and say, yes, I didn’t like that plot element, but what is never true is that meta writers are dictating how everyone should read it, it’s just that among ourselves we’re focused on writing down a reading that makes the most sense and sharing our readings to create a sort of master version of the reading where you can guess the main takeaway everyone had and add up a few common experiences of the episode to make the main angles you can read on it. So that once we’re all on a similar-ish footing, we can talk more amongst ourselves about the main ideas that stand out. Or just get into a slap fight about Sam’s jacket choice. But the important thing is we all shared our feelings and individual takes on it first, before getting down to the business of agreeing to disagree on his fashion over 1000 posts back and forth :P 

Anyway, thank you for cheering me up about the normal sort of approach towards people asking anon messages because I always hoped at least most of you were sensible people looking for some more perspectives to help you think it out, and not passive aggressive people searching for wank >.>